images generously made available by the internet archive/american libraries.) [illustration: cover: mrs. leslie's bible pearls.] the pearl of peace: or, the little peace-maker. _by mrs. madeline leslie._ "blessed are the peace-makers; for they shall be called the children of god." matthew : . boston: published by a. f. graves, cornhill. entered according to act of congress, in the year , by rev. a. r. baker, in the clerk's office of the district court for the district of massachusetts. j. e. farwell & co., printers, congress street. to frank randall, ruth, may, randolph morgan, and james waldingfield, children of d. f. appleton, esq., new york, these "bible pearls" are affectionately inscribed by the author. mrs. leslie's pearl series. series for girls. vol. i. the pearl of faith. " ii. " " " diligence. " iii. " " " meekness. " iv. " " " forgiveness. " v. " " " contentment. " vi. " " " peace. mrs. leslie's pearl series. series for boys. vol. i. the pearl of love. " ii. " " " charity. " iii. " " " obedience. " iv. " " " penitence. " v. " " " hope. " vi. " " " patience. contents. chapter i. the quarrel, chapter ii. sallie's home troubles, chapter iii. hatty's peaceful home, chapter iv. the peace-maker, chapter v. matilda's conscience, chapter vi. the quarrel settled, chapter vii. the sick girl, chapter viii. the peaceful death, the pearl of peace. chapter i. the quarrel. "she's the meanest girl i ever saw! if she is my cousin, i'll say so. i wont speak to her again this term; see if i do!" sallie munson was greatly excited, and walked in quick jerks by the side of her companion. matilda had been repeating to her, with some exaggeration, the remarks of cynthia manning, concerning her dress; but matilda did not expect or intend to excite so much anger, and was almost frightened at sallie's warmth. "what are you talking about?" called a cheerful voice from behind. "i've been running my breath all away, trying to catch you; but i couldn't make you hear my call; i could only see sallie gesturing away, as if she were practising her exhibition piece." matilda had only time to whisper hurriedly, "don't tell her a word of what i said," when harriet maynard joined them. one glance into her good-humored, serene face, would have put sallie's anger to flight, if it had not been for a sly pinch matilda gave her arm. "did you ever see the brook look so lovely, girls? i should have overtaken you sooner, only that i stopped at the bridge to see the water dash over montworth falls, as i have named that pretty cascade. i threw in a piece of wood, and over it went among the foam just like that boat we read of, over niagara." she rattled away in a gay tone, looking as smiling as a may queen; but at last she could not help noticing that neither of her companions were in good humor. "why, what's the matter, sallie?" she asked, affectionately. "you look as if you were in a high fever, and matilda, too, is as solemn as a church. what is it?" there was no answer; and, presently, a shadow crept over hatty's smiling countenance. "sallie, matilda," she exclaimed, eagerly, "you must tell. have i done anything? have i hurt your feelings?" "no; oh, no, indeed!" answered sallie, turning quickly to her friend. "it's nothing that you have anything to do with." she cast a quick glance down at her own dress, eager to know whether hatty had also condemned it as low and vulgar; but her friend said, still more earnestly,-- "tell me all about it, can't you? do you know i begin to be jealous of matilda? you have told her all your troubles." "no, indeed! matilda told me,--i"-- there was another pinch of the arm, and she stopped suddenly. "well, good-bye, then; i wish you were going my way: but i have the brook for company." then she laughingly waved her adieu, calling out after they were at some distance, "i've finished all those hard sums." "what a girl hatty is," exclaimed sallie. "i wish i were always as happy as she is. i don't believe she ever cried in her life." "yes, she's gay," answered matilda, "and good company; but still i do like people that have some feeling. she laughs a good deal. she knows that's her best look. she's awful proud of her white teeth." "now, matilda, that's too bad! i don't believe she ever thinks of that in all her life. she laughs because she's happy; and, as for feeling, i think she has more than any of us. she's the best friend i have, any way. i never get angry when i'm with her." "i didn't mean to say a word against her, i'm sure. i like her first-rate." "well, i shouldn't think you liked me first-rate, if i heard that you called me unfeeling and proud." sallie drew her arm from her companion, and walked on by herself in a dignified manner. before long, matilda reached her own home, and, with a pleasant good-bye, ran inside the gate. when sallie was left to her own reflections, her face grew more flushed and serious than ever. she was very angry with her cousin cynthia, for criticizing her dress. she was angry with her mother, for obliging her to wear a gown that looked as if it came out of the ark. she was angry with matilda for repeating her cousin's ill-natured remarks; and she was angry with herself for listening to them. it was only when she thought of hatty, sweet hatty maynard, with her gay tone and pleasant, placid smile, that her forehead relaxed from the deep frown which had gathered upon it. "i wonder," she said to herself, "why hatty is so much happier than anybody else i know. she's real poor, and has to wait on that cross old uncle, and her deformed sister; she dresses old-fashioned, too; only she never seems to care. when she has on anything odd, she just laughs the more, and says, gayly,-- "'you know my dressmaker doesn't visit the city often.' well, i suppose it's her way, and i wish 'twas my way, too." chapter ii. sallie's home troubles. sallie munson was the daughter of a man who had sailed as captain of a schooner, bound for the west indies, more than five years before the date of our story. he left a wife and seven children, of whom sallie was the youngest, and the only daughter. at the time he left home she was just past six, and was therefore now eleven. five long, weary, waiting years of watching, suspense and anxiety, had left mrs. munson careworn and old before her time. her eldest son was married and settled at a distance; the second had gone with his father as a sailor; the sixth boy, her darling, blue-eyed jamie, was buried at the end of her little garden; leaving four children dependant on her labor for their support. to be sure, abner, the oldest at home, was nearly seventeen; but though steady and honest, he lacked energy and thrift. when away from home he was the butt and laughing-stock of his more shrewd companions; and so his patient mother obtained what employment she could for him, under her own eye, and sent his brother joseph, a stout, fun-loving lad of fifteen, to work in a neighboring tan yard. edward and sallie went to school during the short sessions both in summer and winter, though the care and pains it cost their mother to fit them out in clothes and books, i can hardly describe. once a year mrs. barnes, the captain's sister, came to the sea-shore to spend a few days, and always brought with her a bundle of half-worn clothes, out of which the widow made useful, if not fashionable, garments for her family. it was shortly after one of these visits, that sallie wore to school a dress, made from one given her by her aunt. it was a bright plaid, and with great pains had been made to fit her neatly. whether the boddice and sleeves were in the prevailing mode, she was ignorant, until informed by her school-mate, matilda. this young girl had some good traits of character. she was diligent in her studies, and prompt in obliging a friend. but she had one terrible failing; a love of gossip or mischief-making, which rendered her dangerous to the peace of those with whom she associated. this habit often led her much farther than she anticipated, and betrayed her into sundry exaggerations which she sometimes keenly regretted. at recess, cynthia manning refused to lend a new book to matilda; and to show her spite, she determined to make a quarrel between the cousins. the two girls lived not far apart, and usually walked home together in company with hatty. this time matilda hurried her friend along, and began at once to say: "it's strange you can't have anything new, without cynthia being so envious. just because you've got a handsome new gown, she's so mad, she can't say enough against it. she made all manner of fun of it behind your back, and called it real dowdy. 'i do declare,' she said, tossing back her head, 'for all sallie is so set up with her new dress, i wouldn't be seen wearing such a vulgar-looking thing.'" this was what had made sallie exclaim in anger against her cousin. the reason matilda was unwilling her companion should explain why she looked feverish, was because she well knew hatty's character as a peace-maker; and her conscience loudly whispered that she had told much more than was true. after the girls parted, and she went into her own home, do you think she was happy? are quarrelsome people generally so? we shall see. matilda was the eldest of five children. the baby, as master tom, a sturdy little fellow of two years was called, was playing near the steps as she walked up the path from the gate. he gave a shout of welcome; but she pushed over his pile of stones with her foot, laughed at his cry of disappointment, and opened the door, with a frown on her face. it was wednesday; and the afternoon was a holiday. she felt quite sure there would be no play for her, and was resolved to show her displeasure at once. she threw her pile of books into a chair, tossed her hat on another, and, passing through the common sitting-room, asked in a complaining tone,-- "isn't dinner most ready?" "oh, matilda!" said her mother, "you're just in time; run back as quick as you can to the store, and ask mr. pratt to cut you a thick slice of ham. your father will be home in ten minutes, and be angry if dinner isn't ready. there, catch up your hat, and run quick." "it's always the way," pouted matilda, snatching the plate her mother held toward her. "i wanted to eat my dinner, and go nutting; but i never can do any thing." she did not hurry in the least; but, just outside the gate, met her two brothers, who were quarreling about a jack-knife, one of them had found. instead of trying to make peace, she entered into the quarrel, and soon had both of them railing at her. when her father came from his toil, hungry and impatient for his dinner, his wife was fretting; and his daughter nowhere in sight. chapter iii. hatty's peaceful home. now, let us follow hatty as she ran gayly up the narrow lane toward her humble home. the brook, she loved so well, tumbled on over the stones and pebbles at her side, dancing and sparkling in the sunlight, as happy as she. "oh, how pretty these everlastings are!" she said to herself, stopping to take a nearer view of the late fall flowers; and there's dear esther sitting at her sewing. "am i late?" she asked, running into their one room, which served for parlor, sitting-room and kitchen. "oh, no, dear!" there was an affectionate kiss between the two sisters, and then hatty, after hanging up her school hat and sack, laid some fresh sticks into the stove, filled the tea-kettle, and put some potatoes already washed into the oven to bake. then she proceeded to lay on a cloth very coarse, but white as snow; and to set out the common plates they used, her tongue running merrily all the while. "oh, esther! i wish you could see montworth falls. the water foams, and dashes, and sparkles so beautifully, i stood a moment to look at it; and then i had to run to catch the girls." esther smiled; a patient, calm face hers was, almost always lighted with that trusting, placid smile. "i can see it," she answered, "almost as well as if i were there. you are my eyes, you know." "oh, sister!" hatty went on, after bringing from the cellar a dish of cold meat and a plate of large cucumber pickles, "the girls are going nutting. do you suppose i could go? ethel frost says chestnuts and shagbarks are ever so thick. there's one reason, specially, why i want to go to-day." esther quite laughed this time. "you know i tell you everything," hatty went on, her face growing a little anxious. "sallie munson is in trouble. i want to make her feel better; and i guess i can." "well, my dear peace-maker, you can go as well as not. you know uncle oliver likes nuts in winter. they remind him of old times. you'd better carry them up stairs and dry them, and then give him a pleasant surprise." "so i will!" hatty peeped into the oven to see how the potatoes were coming on, singing a line of her favorite hymn:-- "oh how happy are they who their saviour obey, and have laid up their treasure above, no tongue can express, the sweet comfort and peace, of a soul in its earliest love." just as the tea was drawn (uncle oliver was as set in his way as an old smoker, and declared that he couldn't live without tea with every meal), the old man made his appearance. he was bent a good deal with rheumatism; his face was wrinkled, and his hair grew low down on his forehead. his shaggy eyebrows nearly met over his nose, and his deep grey eyes looked cold to a stranger, but, notwithstanding all this, his nieces loved him. years ago when his only sister, who was their mother, died, he promised her, that as well as he knew how, he would be a father to her daughters; and faithfully had he kept his word. he had only a little money; but that little was freely given for their necessities. when they first came to live with him, people called him hard and crusty, an odd stick; but esther and hatty had crept into his heart and made it soft and tender. for their mother's sake he had allowed hatty to attend church and sabbath school; and in this way a blessing had come home to all of them. hatty was not only eyes to her deformed sister, and described to her the beauties of nature which she seldom saw herself, but she was ears to both of them. every word she could remember of the sunday teachings was stored to be repeated at home; and thus both the old man and his deformed niece had learned to love the sacred truths of the bible. indeed a blessed peace had settled on the whole household, a peace and contentment at which many of their neighbors wondered. when hatty heard her uncle's step, she ran to the door to welcome him. if he had been the handsomest man in america, she couldn't have looked more lovingly in his face. she playfully took off his hat, hung it on its hook, and then seated him at the table. "come, esther," she exclaimed, "dinner's ready; and here's your chair." it was no wonder uncle oliver smiled as he watched her flitting about, first to lay esther's work on a small table away from harm, then to push up her chair before her plate, snatching a kiss for her pains, and last seating herself demurely while the old man said grace. it was no wonder at all that he asked god to bless every one of them, and continue life and health to the child who was the joy of their hearts as well as the delight of their eyes. [illustration] chapter iv. the peace-maker. hatty had a special reason for hurrying through her after-dinner work. she did not think it right to tell even esther that her school-mate had tried to make hard feeling between cousins; but she did tell her heavenly father, and asked his blessing on her effort to make peace between them. then with a parting kiss to esther, who sat patiently at her sewing, she ran off to call for sallie before matilda joined the party. "i've come begging," she said, laughing gayly, as she found her friend lingering over her afternoon task of picking beans for her mother to bake. "here, let me help you; and i'll tell you what i want. you and i are just the same size; and i admired your new dress so much i'm going to get esther to cut mine just like it. i want you to wear it over to our house, and let her see it; and then i can try it on. if it does fit me, and i'm sure it will, i can borrow your mother's pattern, and that will make it so easy for esther, you know." sallie's cheeks grew crimson. she thought at first that hatty must be joking. she had begun to hate that dress, but then, if hatty liked it, it must be pretty, for every one in school acknowledged hatty's good taste. she sat thinking of this, while her friend took up handful after handful of beans, and put them into the pan. "i'm going to try, and make it all myself," she went on gayly. "i am old enough now; and esther has so much to do." "mother will lend you her pattern," answered sallie, "but now really, hatty, do you like my dress?" "yes, indeed; or i wouldn't wish mine like it; and i heard ever so many of the girls say how prettily it looked. cynthia said those bright colors were very becoming, you're so pale, you know." "cynthia! did she say that?" "yes, she didn't like the tight sleeves at first; but i told her i did; and besides it's the fashion. you know," she added with a merry laugh, "when the fashion is a sensible one, we ought to follow it." "but hatty, matilda says, cynthia talked horridly about my dress. i got awfully angry about it, and said i wouldn't speak to her again this term." "oh, sallie! that would be unkind and unforgiving, even if she had done all that matilda says; but i do really think, matilda is mistaken; i heard cynthia praise the dress myself." "no, she was not mistaken," cried sallie in great excitement. "she meant to make a fuss. she's always trying to get people into a quarrel. there, the beans are done; and i'm going right to her house to tell her i've found her out; and i want nothing more to do with her." "but sallie, it's time we were going to the grove. the best nuts will all be gone; and i want to get good ones for uncle oliver." "come on, then, i'm ready. mother, is edward going with us?" "he's been gone with ethel for an hour. he has a chance to sell a bushel, if he can pick them." "i hope matilda wont be there," said sallie. "if she is, i sha'n't speak to her." "i shall," added hatty in a decided tone; "because, though i'm afraid she's done wrong, i don't think that would be the way to cure her, i think it would be best to let her see that we all love each other too well to allow a few hasty words to make us quarrel." "i hate people who are always making a fuss." hatty laughed. "matilda can't make a fuss with me," she said, showing all her white teeth. "she tried to," answered sallie. "she called you proud, and said you laughed to show your handsome teeth; but i wouldn't hear you talked against; and i told her so. after that she shut her mouth pretty quick." "i'm afraid i do laugh too much," said hatty, blushing crimson; "but i'm so happy, i can't help it. i hope i'm not proud, though i try to be thankful." "you're the dearest girl in the world," exclaimed sallie, putting her arms tightly around her friend's neck. "if it hadn't been for you, i should have had a quarrel with cynthia; and mother would have worried awfully about it, for we're own cousins, you know." "well, dear sallie, for my sake, forgive matilda too. she was to blame for what she said; but we must pity her. i don't think matilda is very happy." sallie shook her head, but presently asked,-- "what makes you always want people to forgive? i don't see how it will make you any happier." "oh, yes indeed it will! it seems dreadful to me to see two school-mates feeling unkindly to each other; and then, you know," she added with a deeper blush, "who has said, 'be of one mind, live in peace, and the god of love and peace shall be with you;' don't you remember what a blessing is promised to the peace-makers?" "no, i don't." "why, sallie! the minister preached about it last winter. i remembered ever so much of the sermon for uncle oliver and esther. you know i have to preach it over again to them. esther says, she thinks it's one of the most beautiful verses in the bible:" "blessed are the peace-makers; for they shall be called the children of god." sallie remained silent for a few moments. when they came in sight of the grove, she caught her friend's hand and said earnestly,-- "oh, hatty! i wish i were like you, and could claim that promise. i see now why you're always so happy. you--" "'thou wilt keep him in perfect peace whose mind is stayed on thee,'" added her companion, with a reverent glance upward. chapter v. matilda's conscience. matilda did not make her appearance in the grove. her father was so angry at her tardiness in bringing the ham for his dinner that he forbade her the pleasure. she passed the afternoon in a very unhappy state of mind, continually quarrelling with her brothers and sisters, and stirring up strife in the whole household. from her chamber window she saw hatty and sallie walk on, arm in arm, swinging their baskets; and conscience whispered,--"they will talk of you, and you have no one but yourself to blame for all your wretchedness." disgusted with herself, she still sat gazing from the window, when serious thoughts began to arise. "why can't i be happy?" she asked herself. "i have a better home than either of those girls. that is, the rooms look better, and father has more money. but things never go right. mother always wants errands done so quick; and father gets angry and cross; and the boys are so touchy,"-- "and matilda, the eldest daughter is worse than all the rest; for she might be a help to her mother, a comfort to her father, and an example of love and peace to the whole family." this was what conscience said; and conscience this time was determined to be heard. "you hate yourself now," the inward monitor went on, "but not so badly as you will by and by. every day that you indulge in these evil passions, you will grow worse and worse. try to reform. begin to-day, and take this verse for your motto: 'if it be possible, as much as lieth in you, live peaceably with all men.'" "that is hatty's rule," exclaimed matilda, starting from her seat. "i'll try it. i'm sorry now, i told sallie that cynthia didn't like her dress. i'm afraid there'll be a fuss about that. sallie wont speak; and her cousin will find out what i said, and then the blame will all come on me." "where it belongs," urged conscience again. "well, i'll never tell tales again; that is, if i can help it. i mean to try and be like hatty. father and mother will wonder what has come over me; i wish i knew what i ought to do first." already she felt happier than for a long time. she ran down to the sink, bathed her face and eyes; then back to her room and combed her hair, confining it in her net, after which she joined her mother in the sitting-room. "where's that little apron," she began, "that you cut out yesterday? i'm going to make it." mrs. manning glanced up from her work in surprise. "what has happened?" she asked herself; but she smilingly directed her daughter where she might find the apron. before her needle was threaded, baby tom fell from the steps and began to scream with all his might. mrs. manning started up, letting her sewing fall to the floor. "i sha'n't sew a stitch at this rate," began matilda impatiently; but recovering herself, she exclaimed,-- "come here, tommy. i'll show you the bossy;" and they trotted off together to the barn. the other boys were there playing in the hay, and at any other time matilda would have begun to quarrel directly; but with her good resolves fresh in mind she began to coax them to come off the hay, and show her how to make bossy stand on his feet. her tone was so pleasant that they came at once, wondering at the change; and for the next half hour they had a merry time together. then she returned to the house with the baby mounted on her back. when her father came home to supper, he evidently expected to find her cross and impatient at having been kept from accompanying her companions to the grove. he heard her singing before he reached the gate, and was not a little delighted to find his wife sitting at her sewing, and matilda putting the last dishes on the table for tea. "well, now, this is as it ought to be," he said heartily, as they drew their chairs about the table. "wife, you said you wanted a new gown, and here's money to buy cloth for you and matilda, too. i'm always ready with the cash for good daughters." a few hours later, when the young girl retired to her bed, she said to herself,--"it isn't so very hard to do right after all. how pleased father was. now if i only knew that sallie wouldn't say anything about what i told her, i should be happier than i have been for a month." i wish hatty had been there to remind her that she ought to thank her heavenly father for help to keep her resolutions, else she could not have done one right thing. as it was, hatty was giving uncle oliver and esther an account of her call at mrs. munson's; and they were thinking,--"what a blessing our dear girl is to us, and how lonely our cottage would be without her." the nuts, a peck of each, were safely stored in the attic to dry, before the old man came home to supper; and then hatty had time to run to a neighbor's with the vest esther had just completed. in the evening they had family-prayers, a service the two girls commenced by themselves, but which uncle oliver soon joined; and then after hatty's account of her afternoon, they retired to rest for the night, the blessing which god has promised the peace-makers resting upon them. [illustration] chapter vi. the quarrel settled. it was scarcely a week after the nutting party, when one morning sallie was missing from school. this was so unusual that the teacher inquired of the scholars whether any of them knew why she was not in her place. but no one had seen her that day; and as her brother edward was also absent, nothing could be ascertained till night. when the teacher called, she found the family of mrs. munson greatly afflicted. three of the children were in bed with fever, and the widow was scarcely able to drag herself about. "i've had trouble on trouble," she said, sighing. "month after month, for five long years, i've stood at the door where i could see the ocean, and watched for the ship that never came. i've laid one child beneath the sod, and now it's likely three more will follow. still i can say,--'thou wilt keep him in perfect peace whose mind is stayed on thee, because he trusteth in thee.'" at school, both edward and sallie were greatly missed, the first question in the morning being: "have you heard from mrs. munson's? is sallie better?" hatty went about her studies with a sad countenance. she was much afraid that her friend would die without having given her heart to the saviour. one day, when she was going home from school, she passed two boys who were quarrelling terribly about a book one of them had lost. the young girl lingered near them for a few moments, wishing, yet scarcely daring to speak. at last she said,-- "oh ethel! how can you quarrel when one of your companions is so very sick? think if you were to be taken down with the fever, how sorry you would be that you had called any one such hard names." the boy hung his head, somewhat ashamed, but then said,-- "it's too bad to lose a new book. i'm sure bill took it home with him." "i didn't. i haven't seen it since ethel showed it to me at recess. i don't see why he need to lay it to me." "at recess?" murmured ethel. "oh dear! bill, wait a minute." he was off without a word, and in ten minutes more he came running at full speed, shouting,-- "i've found it. here 'tis, all safe. i left it on the rock when we were playing ball." "and now you're sorry you charged bill with carrying it home," exclaimed hatty, eagerly. "yes, i am. as soon as he spoke about recess i thought where i laid it." "don't you think it would be a good plan to ask him to forgive you?" inquired the little peace-maker, drawing him aside. he made a wry face and hesitated. "you know, you said some awful hard things," she urged. "i thought then he was pretty good-tempered not to take offense." she looked in his face so eagerly that he laughed outright. [illustration: "look here, bill, hatty thinks i ought to ask your pardon." vol. vi, p. .] "well," he said, "for your sake, i will. you always have everything your own way, you know." "look here, bill," he exclaimed, walking back to the fence where his companion stood, and holding out his hand, "i was wrathy and called you names you didn't deserve. hatty thinks i ought to ask your pardon." "oh, ethel! don't tell him that. you owned you were sorry first." "so i am; and if bill will say quits, i'll do him as good a turn some other time." "all right," said bill, giving his hand. "here, hatty," cried ethel, "you must shake hands too. you're better than squire morse to settle up quarrels." she laughed and blushed, giving her little hand first to one, and then to the other. "now promise me," she said, "that you'll never quarrel again." "that's pretty steep. i wouldn't dare venture," cried ethel, growing very red. "oh!" urged hatty, "i always thought you two the bravest boys in school. such good scholars ought to be brave." "i promise to _try_ to be peaceable," answered bill. "and i'll agree to think of you, hatty maynard, when i want to call hard names. i guess that will cool off the hot blood." "you must think of somebody better than i am," she urged, growing very serious. "don't you recollect what the minister said, about living in peace? and the bible tells us, to 'follow peace with all men,' to 'follow after the things that make for peace.' esther says that means, we must be kind and affectionate, one to another; we must show our companions that we love them; and if we ever do wrong, we must ask forgiveness as you did, ethel. i think bill was real generous to forgive so quick; but i knew he would, if you told him how sorry you were." "come on, bill," exclaimed ethel, laughing. "i guess we sha'n't be fighting again in a hurry, after all the compliments we've had to-day." the next morning, when hatty went down from her unfurnished attic to make a fire in the stove, she found a string of nice, fresh fish laid on the kitchen table. there was a small piece of soiled paper tied to the end of the string, on which was written in a school boy's hand,-- "for hatty maynard, peace-maker to the town of shrewsbury; from ethel and bill." "'blessed are the peace-makers, for they shall be called the children of god,'" repeated hatty, tears gushing to her eyes. "i do love to make peace; and i may call myself his child." she was so full of joy that she ran up the steep stairs again to her low couch, and there kneeling down, she asked her heavenly father to make her indeed his own child, and by and by to take her to dwell with him in heaven, where all was peace, and love, and joy, forever and ever. [illustration] chapter vii. the sick girl. day after day went by and still sallie lay in bed. edward and his brother were able to sit up for a few hours, and take a little broth; but their sister was very, _very_ ill. one afternoon a neighbor knocked at mr. maynard's door and asked for hatty. "i have been watching with poor sallie munson," she said. "the widow is clear worn out; and i couldn't refuse. sallie has come to her senses. she thinks she's going to die, and she wants to see hatty." "why don't they send for the minister?" asked uncle oliver. "they have sent; but he wont be at home till to-morrow." esther's countenance changed, and at last she said,-- "i'm afraid to have sister go; the fever is very contagious." "well, i wont deny that; but perhaps if she ties a bag of camfire round her neck, she wont catch it, i've got one round mine this blessed minute; and i've made sarah ann wear one ever since the fever come into town." "hatty'll want to go," suggested uncle oliver. "'twill be just like her not to think a mite of herself. it's 'stonishing what harum-scarum creaters girls be. they don't valley their own lives a mite, if they want to do anything." "well, if you just heard sallie a calling, 'hatty, dear hatty, do come, i'm going to die. come and tell me what i must do,' you'd say 'twas heart-rending." "i suppose she will go," faltered esther, growing very white. "i'll tell her as soon as she comes home from school." "tell her, and let her judge for herself," muttered the old man. "i'd rather give every cent, i'm worth in the world than to venter her there; but god can keep her from all harm. she's a good girl, hatty is, and knows a sight more'n some folks." esther did tell hatty, and the consequence was that she went; but not until she had kneeled by her straw couch once more to ask god to bless her endeavors to do sallie good. she did not think of herself. she felt sure her heavenly father would take care of her. if he wished her to live longer, he would preserve her from the fever. if he meant to call her home to heaven now, she was ready to go. in her soul all was peace. but for her dear companion, she was troubled. as she hurried along, she thought how they had loved each other; that never a word of unkindness had separated them; and she put up a little prayer to god that if consistent with his will, sallie might be spared to her mother for many years. mrs. munson saw her running toward the house, and met her at the door. poor mrs. munson! how hard during all these weeks of anxious care, had she tried to say, "it is the lord; let him do with his own, what seemeth to him best." "sallie wants you badly, dear," she said, after kissing the child; "but aren't you afraid you'll take the fever? you know cynthia came down with it yesterday." "no, i hadn't heard." hatty's chin quivered, and the widow noticing her agitation said softly,-- "i wouldn't urge you for any thing. the minister'll be home to-morrow. may be sallie'll forget it again." "hatty! why don't hatty come?" called out the sick child. "i'll go now, ma'am. is any body with her?" "nobody but edward." "will you please call him out? i'd rather see her alone." hatty was only thirteen years old; and you will not be surprised that when she saw her companion's pale face and wild, protruded eyes, her heart grew faint within her. she sank into a chair, and covered her face with her hands. "i knew you'd come, i knew you'd be sorry for me," began sallie, talking with feverish excitement. "did mother tell you i am going to die?" "no one but god can know that," murmured hatty, slowly rising and approaching the bed. "esther told me you wanted to see me, and i've come." "yes; i called you all night; but nobody would go. i'm afraid, hatty; i don't want to die. oh, i wish i was good." "the bible says nobody ever was good enough to go to heaven." "what do you mean? tell me quick!" "i can't explain very well. i mean that if we're ever so good, as you call it, we couldn't get into heaven without jesus. our goodness is badness in god's sight, because he is so much holier than we are; but if we love jesus, for his sake, god will forgive our sins." "how can i love him? mother has been telling me i must accept him as my saviour, but i don't know how. oh! i wish somebody would tell me! i'm dying, and i can't find out anything." "sallie, listen to me a minute. in my last sabbath school paper was an account of a little heathen girl, who felt as you do. she wanted to love christ, but she didn't know how to give her heart to him. the missionaries talked to her and prayed with her, but she only cried the more. at last one said, 'jesus never sinned; but you are a great sinner.' "'yes, yes! i understand that.' "'well, you have offended god, and he has threatened to punish you; but now jesus promises to receive the punishment for you, and for that he died on the cross.' "'oh, yes! yes! yes!' cried the heathen girl. 'i understand now. i must make a bargain with jesus. i will give him all my badness, and he will give me all his goodness. oh, i see! i see!! i do love him. oh, how good he is!'" sallie folded her hands on her breast and closed her eyes, though her lips moved as if she were praying. presently she said softly, "i understand now, hatty; but will jesus make a bargain with me?" "yes, yes, he will; he says so in the bible." "don't stay any longer, hatty; but come again if esther will let you. i'm going to pray now. shut the door tight." hatty walked through the kitchen without speaking. mrs. munson had sat near the door and had heard every word. she asked god to bless his own truth to her dear, dying daughter. it was scarcely light the next morning before abner, sallie's older brother, knocked at the door of uncle oliver's house. "i've come with a message for hatty," he explained. "she's happy now, and sings all the verses she can think of. she wants me to say, she's made a bargain with jesus, and she isn't afraid to die." "tell her i'll go and see her before school," hatty answered, her eyes full of joyful tears. she did go, but the sick girl was quietly asleep, and, more than this, the doctor said her symptoms were a great deal better. [illustration] chapter viii. the peaceful death. in three days sallie was out of danger, and from this time she recovered rapidly. the minister and her sabbath school teacher visited her often, but she wondered hatty did not come. at last, one day when she was able to sit up, her mother told her hatty had taken the fever the day she visited her, and now she was very sick. "who will take care of her?" asked sallie, beginning to cry. "they sent for her aunt, who has never been near them since their mother died, and she's there now. she has money, and she says the poor child shall not want for anything that money will buy." "oh, mother! to think that i have killed her! i feel almost sure she will die. she's so good, i used to tell the girls, she ought to go to heaven; but it is dreadful that i killed her." sallie sobbed so violently that her mother became alarmed; but for some time she tried in vain to soothe her. "they'll all blame me. i never shall dare to see uncle oliver or esther again. they can't live without her. oh, oh dear! i wish she never had come. mother, do please go over there quick, and tell them how very sorry i am. hatty taught me to love the saviour, and how can i let her die?" to please her child the widow went. hatty lay in the bedroom adjoining the sitting-room, which was usually occupied by uncle oliver. close by her side sat esther, looking pale and wan as if months instead of hours of racking anxiety had passed over her. mrs. foster was preparing some medicine near the window, while the old man, with a heart almost broken with sorrow, was cutting up wood at the side of the house farthest from the chamber. as the widow entered the room, hatty turned her eyes to the door and recognized her. "are you in much pain?" she asked, greatly moved. "jesus helps me bear it all." this was said with a gasp. "she never complains," faltered esther, with quivering lips. "sallie, how is she?" murmured the sick girl. "much better, if she were not so distressed about you." "i am safe with jesus. he gives me perfect peace." her aunt began to weep. "don't cry, dear aunty," she said caressingly. "you will come too; you and esther, and uncle oliver. we shall all be there. mother will be there, too, for esther says she used to pray." she paused for a moment, quite exhausted; but presently looked up with a smile and added, "i shall see mr. munson and tell him about sallie. wont he be glad?" the widow was quite overcome but tried to control herself. "tell him," she said, "that i'm almost through. i'm trying to bear his loss with patience. tell him god has been true to his promise: 'as thy day is so shall thy strength be.' i trust we shall meet soon and never be parted again." she stooped silently over the sick child, kissed her, and was going out when hatty whispered,-- "tell sallie good-bye. it's all peace here," laying her hand on her heart. "i'm not afraid to trust my saviour." mrs. foster followed her to the door. "it's a scene i never shall forget," she said, sobbing. "such a lesson as that child has taught me. oh, if i'd only done my duty, she might have lived for years." "jesus loves her and wants her with him," answered mrs. munson. "you know he prayed his father that those who loved him might be with him where he is, that they may behold his glory. think how happy she will be." as hours passed on, that room became almost like heaven. an indescribable expression of peace was stamped on the pale features. heaven had indeed come down into her own heart. for hours she lay in a kind of rapture. once or twice she sung a part of her favorite hymn, repeating over and over the lines, "no words can express, the sweet comfort and peace of a soul in its earliest love." through this day and the next the house was thronged with schoolmates and friends, come to take a last look of one so dear. matilda and cynthia, ethel and bill, pressed forward to thank her for the example she had always set them. "what shall we do," cried ethel, sobbing aloud, "when our peace-maker has gone?" with a heavenly smile she replied, "you shall be peace-maker. see how god keeps his promise to me. 'they shall be called the children of god.' "ethel," she went on, "you've always been like a real brother to me. for my sake will you be kind to esther?" "yes, i will." "and i too," sobbed bill; "but we shall miss you dreadfully." "give your hearts to jesus, and 'twont be long before we shall meet again." the end came at last. hatty's sufferings were nearly over. she lay propped up with pillows, her head resting against her aunt's breast. esther sat near, holding her hand, which she continually covered with kisses. uncle oliver sat in his arm-chair, at the foot of the bed, his face shaded with his hands, his breast heaving convulsively. the minister stood where hatty's eyes rested on him. he was reading from the twenty-third psalm: "the lord is my shepherd, i shall not want.... yea, though i walk through the valley of the shadow of death, i will fear no evil, for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me." "yes, yes," murmured the white lips. "he is with me. i'm not afraid. he has pardoned all my sins, and washed me in the fountain filled with blood; i'm--going to be--with him--forever,--i'm so--so happy!" she lay so quiet that all feared her soul had fled away; but presently, with a bright smile, she murmured,-- "i--i'm going now--good-bye--all. he gives me peace--perfect--peace;" and then fell sweetly asleep in jesus. "he giveth his beloved sleep," repeated the kind minister. "look at her now! the peace of god which passeth all understanding dwells in her now and forevermore." the next sabbath her body was carried to the church, where a sermon was preached from her favorite text,--"blessed are the peace-makers for they shall be called the children of god." the clergyman reminded the children of her who had so truly and earnestly been a peace-maker, and entreated them to follow her example, that they might have peace in life and triumph in death. the influence of hatty was long felt. by her entreaties on her dying bed, her aunt and uncle oliver, long estranged, were brought together, and ever after lived as she would have had them, caring tenderly for poor esther, till her own peaceful death, two years later. my dear little reader, will you not try to be a peace-maker? * * * * * transcriber's notes: text spells the contraction "won't" without the apostrophe (wont). this was retained. obvious punctuation errors repaired. page , "peacably" changed to "peaceably" (peaceably with all men) the crofton boys, by harriet martineau. ________________________________________________________________________ crofton is the name of a boarding school which takes in boys aged from eight to perhaps thirteen. such a school is known in the uk as a prep school, and it is normal for well-bred boys to attend such a school, as i and my brothers all did. hugh is packed off to school from his comfortable home in the strand, london. his older brother is already at the school, and can give him some guidance, but on the whole he is on his own. boys can be very cruel to one another, and hugh gets his fair share of the bullying, the fights, the unfair masters, and the small squabbles over borrowed money. one day in the playground there is an episode which little hugh tries to escape from by climbing over a wall. he is pulled back, and the very heavy loose coping stone on the top of the wall falls from onto his foot, crushing it so badly that it has to be amputated. that's about half-way through the book. how hugh endures the operation, recovers, and rebuilds his life with the other boys at school, his family relations and the school staff takes up the rest of the book, which is well and sensitively written, coming as it does from a talented authoress who is no stranger to personal problems. ________________________________________________________________________ the crofton boys, by harriet martineau. chapter one. all the proctors but phil. mr proctor, the chemist and druggist, kept his shop, and lived in the strand, london. his children thought that there was never anything pleasanter than the way they lived. their house was warm in winter, and such a little distance from the church, that they had no difficulty in getting to church and back again, in the worst weather, before their shoes were wet. they were also conveniently near to covent garden market; so that, if any friend dropped in to dinner unexpectedly, jane and agnes could be off to the market, and buy a fowl, or some vegetables or fruit, and be back again before they were missed. it was not even too far for little harry to trot with one of his sisters, early on a summer's morning, to spend his penny (when he happened to have one) on a bunch of flowers, to lay on papa's plate, to surprise him when he came in to breakfast. not much farther off was the temple garden, where mrs proctor took her children every fine summer evening to walk and breathe the air from the river; and when mr proctor could find time to come to them for a turn or two before the younger ones must go home to bed, it seemed to the whole party the happiest and most beautiful place in the whole world,--except one. they had once been to broadstairs, when the children were in poor health after the measles: and for ever after, when they thought of the waves beating on the shore, and of the pleasures of growing strong and well among the sea-breezes, they felt that there might be places more delightful than the temple garden: but they were still very proud and fond of the grass and trees, and the gravel walks, and the view over the thames, and were pleased to show off the garden to all friends from the country who came to visit them. the greatest privilege of all, however, was that they could see the river without going out of their own house. there were three back windows to the house, one above another; and from the two uppermost of these windows there was what the children called a view of the thames. there was a gap of a few yards wide between two high brick houses: and through this gap might be seen the broad river, with vessels of every kind passing up or down. outside the second window were some leads, affording space for three or four chairs: and here it was that jane and agnes liked to sit at work, on certain hours of fine days. there were times when these leads were too hot, the heat of the sun being reflected from the surrounding brick walls; but at an earlier hour before the shadows were gone, and when the air blew in from the river, the place was cool, and the little girls delighted to carry their stools to the leads, and do their sewing there. there philip would condescend to spend a part of his mornings, in his midsummer holidays, frightening his sisters with climbing about in dangerous places, or amusing them with stories of school pranks, or raising his younger brother hugh's envy of the boys who were so happy as to be old enough to go to school at mr tooke's, at crofton. the girls had no peace from their brothers climbing about in dangerous places. hugh was, if possible, worse than philip for this. he imitated all philip's feats, and had some of his own besides. in answer to jane's lectures and the entreaties of agnes, hugh always declared that he had a right to do such things, as he meant to be a soldier or a sailor; and how should he be able to climb the mast of a ship, or the walls of a city, if he did not begin to practise now? agnes was almost sorry they had been to broadstairs, and could see ships in the thames, when she considered that, if hugh had not seen so much of the world, he might have been satisfied to be apprenticed to his father, when old enough, and to have lived at home happily with his family. jane advised agnes not to argue with hugh, and then perhaps his wish to rove about the world might go off. she had heard her father say that, when he was a boy, and used to bring home news of victories, and help to put up candles at the windows on illumination nights, he had a great fancy for being a soldier; but that it was his fortune to see some soldiers from spain, and hear from them what war really was, just when peace came, and when there was no more glory to be got; so that he had happily settled down to be a london shop-keeper--a lot which he would not exchange with that of any man living. hugh was very like papa, jane added; and the same change might take place in his mind, if he was not made perverse by argument. so agnes only sighed, and bent her head closer over her work, as she heard hugh talk of the adventures he meant to have when he should be old enough to get away from old england. there was one person that laughed at hugh for this fancy of his;--miss harold, the daily governess, who came to keep school for three hours every morning. when hugh forgot his lesson, and sat staring at the upper panes of the window, in a reverie about his future travels; or when he was found to have been drawing a soldier on his slate instead of doing his sum, miss harold reminded him what a pretty figure a soldier would cut who knew no geography, or a sailor who could not make his reckonings, for want of attending early to his arithmetic hugh could not deny this; but he was always wishing that school-hours were over, that he might get under the great dining table to read robinson crusoe, or might play at shipwreck, under pretence of amusing little harry. it did make him ashamed to see how his sisters got on, from the mere pleasure of learning, and without any idea of ever living anywhere but in london; while he, who seemed to have so much more reason for wanting the very knowledge that they were obtaining, could not settle his mind to his lessons. jane was beginning to read french books for her amusement in leisure hours; and agnes was often found to have covered two slates with sums in practice, just for pleasure, while he could not master the very moderate lessons miss harold set him. it is true, he was two years younger than agnes: but she had known more of everything that he had learned, at seven years old, than he now did at eight. hugh began to feel very unhappy. he saw that miss harold was dissatisfied, and was pretty sure that she had spoken to his mother about him. he felt that his mother became more strict in making him sit down beside her, in the afternoon, to learn his lessons for the next day; and he was pretty sure that agnes went out of the room because she could not help crying when his sum was found to be all wrong, or when he mistook his tenses, or when he said (as he did every day, though regularly warned to mind what he was about) that four times seven is fifty-six. every day these things weighed more on hugh's spirits; every day he felt more and more like a dunce; and when philip came home for the midsummer holidays, and told all manner of stories about all sorts of boys at school, without describing anything like hugh's troubles with miss harold, hugh was seized with a longing to go to crofton at once, as he was certainly too young to go at present into the way of a shipwreck or a battle. the worst of it was, there was no prospect of his going yet to crofton. in mr tooke's large school there was not one boy younger than ten; and philip believed that mr tooke did not like to take little boys. hugh was aware that his father and mother meant to send him to school with philip by-and-by; but the idea of having to wait--to do his lessons with miss harold every day till he should be ten years old, made him roll himself on the parlour carpet in despair. philip was between eleven and twelve. he was happy at school: and he liked to talk all about it at home. these holidays, hugh made a better listener than even his sisters; and he was a more amusing one--he knew so little about the country. he asked every question that could be imagined about the playground at the crofton school, and the boys' doings out of school; and then, when philip fancied he must know all about what was done, out came some odd remark which showed what wrong notions he had formed of a country life. hugh had not learned half that he wanted to know, and his little head was full of wonder and mysterious notions, when the holidays came to an end, and philip had to go away. from that day hugh was heard to talk less of spain, and the sea, and desert islands, and more of the crofton boys; and his play with little harry was all of being at school. at his lessons, meantime, he did not improve at all. one very warm day, at the end of august, five weeks after philip had returned to school, miss harold had stayed full ten minutes after twelve o'clock to hear hugh say one line of the multiplication-table over and over again, to cure him of saying that four times seven is fifty-six; but all in vain: and mrs proctor had pegged her not to spend any more time to-day upon it. miss harold went away, the girls took their sewing, and sat down at their mother's work-table, while hugh was placed before her, with his hands behind his back, and desired to look his mother full in the face, to begin again with "four times one is four," and go through the line, taking care what he was about. he did so; but before he came to four times seven, he sighed, fidgetted, looked up at the corners of the room, off into the work-basket, out into the street, and always, as if by a spell, finished with "four times seven is fifty-six." jane looked up amazed--agnes looked down ashamed; his mother looked with severity in his face. he began the line a fourth time, when, at the third figure, he started as if he had been shot. it was only a knock at the door that he had heard; a treble knock, which startled nobody else, though, from the parlour-door being open, it sounded pretty loud. mrs proctor spread a handkerchief over the stockings in her work-basket; jane put back a stray curl which had fallen over her face; agnes lifted up her head with a sigh, as if relieved that the multiplication-table must stop for this time; and hugh gazed into the passage, through the open door, when he heard a man's step there. the maid announced mr tooke, of crofton; and mr tooke walked in. mrs proctor had actually to push hugh to one side,--so directly did he stand in the way between her and her visitor. he stood, with his hands still behind his back, gazing up at mr tooke, with his face hotter than the multiplication-table had ever made it, and his eyes staring quite as earnestly as they had ever done to find robinson crusoe's island in the map. "go, child," said mrs proctor: but this was not enough. mr tooke himself had to pass him under his left arm before he could shake hands with mrs proctor. hugh was now covered with shame at this hint that he was in the way; but yet he did not leave the room. he stole to the window, and flung himself down on two chairs, as if looking into the street from behind the blind; but he saw nothing that passed out of doors, so eager was his hope of hearing something of the crofton boys,-- their trap-ball, and their saturday walk with the usher. not a word of this kind did he hear. as soon as mr tooke had agreed to stay to dinner, his sisters were desired to carry their work elsewhere,--to the leads, if they liked; and he was told that he might go to play. he had hoped he might be overlooked in the window; and unwillingly did he put down first one leg and then the other from the chairs, and saunter out of the room. he did not choose to go near his sisters, to be told how stupidly he had stood in the gentleman's way; so, when he saw that they were placing their stools on the leads, he went up into the attic, and then down into the kitchen, to see where little harry was, to play at schoolboys in the back yard. the maid susan was not sorry that harry was taken off her hands; for she wished to rub up her spoons, and fill her castors afresh, for the sake of the visitor who had come in. the thoughtful jane soon came down with the keys to get out a clean tablecloth, and order a dish of cutlets, in addition to the dinner, and consult with susan about some dessert; so that, as the little boys looked up from their play, they saw agnes sitting alone at work upon the leads. they had played some time, hugh acting a naughty boy who could not say his latin lesson to the usher, and little harry punishing him with far more words than a real usher uses on such an occasion, when they heard agnes calling them from above their heads. she was leaning over from the leads, begging hugh to come up to her,--that very moment. harry must be left below, as the leads were a forbidden place for him. so harry went to jane, to see her dish up greengage plums which he must not touch: and hugh ran up the stairs. as he passed through the passage, his mother called him. full of some kind of hope (he did not himself know what), he entered the parlour, and saw mr tooke's eyes fixed on him. but his mother only wanted him to shut the door as he passed; that was all. it had stood open, as it usually did on warm days. could his mother wish it shut on account of anything she was saying? it was possible. "o hugh!" exclaimed agnes, as soon as he set foot on the leads. "what do you think?--but is the parlour-door shut? who shut it?" "mother bade me shut it, as i passed." "o dear!" said agnes, in a tone of disappointment; "then she did not mean us to hear what they were talking about." "what was it? anything about the crofton boys? anything about phil?" "i cannot tell you a word about it. mamma did not know i heard them. how plain anyone can hear what they say in that parlour, hugh, when the door is open! what do you think i heard mamma tell mrs bicknor, last week, when i was jumping harry off the third stair?" "never mind that. tell me what they are talking about now. do, agnes." agnes shook her head. "now do, dear." it was hard for agnes to refuse hugh anything, at any time; more still when he called her "dear," which he seldom did; and most of all when he put his arm round her neck, as he did now. but she answered-- "i should like to tell you every word; but i cannot now. mamma has made you shut the door. she does not wish you to hear it." "me! then will you tell jane?" "yes. i shall tell jane, when we are with mamma at work." "that is too bad!" exclaimed hugh, flinging himself down on the leads so vehemently that his sister was afraid he would roll over into the yard. "what does jane care about crofton and the boys to what i do?" "there is one boy there that jane cares about more than you do, or i, or anybody, except papa and mamma. jane loves phil." "o, then, what they are saying in the parlour is about phil." "i did not say that." "you pretend you love me as jane loves phil! and now you are going to tell her what you won't tell me! agnes, i will tell you everything i know all my whole life, if you will just whisper this now. only just whisper.--or, i will tell you what. i will guess and guess; and you can nod or shake your head. that won't be telling." "for shame, hugh! phil would laugh at you for being a girl if you are so curious. what mamma told mrs bicknor was that jane was her right-hand. what do you think that meant exactly?" "that jane might give you a good slap when you are so provoking," said hugh, rolling over and over, till his clothes were covered with dust, and agnes really thought once that he was fairly going over the edge into the yard. "there is something that i can tell you, hugh; something that i want to tell you, and nobody else," said agnes, glad to see him stop rolling about, and raise himself on his dusty elbow to look at her. "well, come, what is it?" "you must promise beforehand not to be angry." "angry! when am i angry, pray? come, tell me." "you must--you really must--i have a particular reason for saying so-- you must learn how much four times seven is. now, remember, you promised not to be angry." hugh carried off his anger by balancing himself on his head, as if he meant to send his heels over, but that there was no room. from upside downs his voice was heard saying that he knew that as well as agnes. "well, then, how much is it?" "twenty-eight, to be sure. who does not know that?" "then pray do not call it fifty-six any more. miss harold--" "there's the thing," said hugh. "when miss harold is here, i can think of nothing but fifty-six. it seems to sound in my ears, as if somebody spoke it, `four times seven is fifty-six.'" "you will make me get it by heart too, if you say it so often," said agnes. "you had better say `twenty-eight' over to yourself all day long. you may say it to me as often as you like. i shall not get tired. come, begin now--`four times seven'--" "i have had enough of that for to-day--tiresome stuff! now, i shall go and play with harry again." "but wait--just say that line once over, hugh. i have a reason for wishing it. i have, indeed." "mother has been telling mr tooke that i cannot say my multiplication-table! now, that is too bad!" exclaimed hugh. "and they will make me say it after dinner! what a shame!" "why hugh! you know mamma does not like--you know mamma would not--you know mamma never does anything unkind. you should not say such things, hugh." "ay, there! you cannot say that she has not told mr tooke that i say my tables wrong." "well--you know you always do say it wrong to her." "i will go somewhere. i will hide myself. i will run to the market while the cloth is laying. i will get away, and not come back till mr tooke is gone. i will never say my multiplication table to him!" "never?" said agnes, with an odd smile and a sigh. "however, do not talk of running away, or hiding yourself. you will not have to say anything to mr tooke to-day." "how do you know?" "i feel sure you will not. i do not believe mr tooke will talk to you, or to any of us. there you go! you will be in the water-butt in a minute, if you tumble so." "i don't care if i am. mr tooke will not come there to hear me say my tables. let me go!" he cried, struggling, for now agnes had caught him by the ankle. "if i do tumble in, the water is not up to my chin, and it will be a cool hiding-place this hot day." "but there is susan gone to lay the cloth; and you must be brushed; for you are all over dust. come up, and i will brush you." hugh was determined to have a little more dust first. he rolled once more the whole length of the leads, turned over jane's stool, and upset her work-basket, so that her thimble bounded off to a far corner, and the shirt-collar she was stitching fell over into the water-butt. "there! what will jane say?" cried agnes, picking up the basket, and peeping over into the small part of the top of the water-butt which was not covered. "there never was anything like boys for mischief," said the maid susan, who now appeared to pull hugh in, and make him neat. susan always found time, between laying the cloth and bringing up dinner, to smooth hugh's hair, and give a particular lock a particular turn on his forehead with a wet comb. "let that alone," said hugh, as agnes peeped into the butt after the drowning collar. "i will have the top off this afternoon, and it will make good fishing for harry and me." agnes had to let the matter alone; for hugh was so dusty that she had to brush one side of him while susan did the other. susan gave him some hard knocks while she assured him that he was not going to have harry up on the leads to learn his tricks, or to be drowned. she hardly knew which of the two would be the worst for harry. it was lucky for hugh that susan was wanted below directly, for she scolded him the whole time she was parting and smoothing his hair. when it was done, however, and the wet lock on his forehead took the right turn at once, she gave him a kiss in the very middle of it, and said she knew he would be a good boy before the gentleman from the country. hugh would not go in with agnes, because he knew mr tooke would shake hands with her, and take notice of anyone who was with her. he waited in the passage till susan carried in the fish, when he entered behind her, and slipped to the window till the party took their seats, when he hoped mr tooke would not observe who sat between agnes and his father. but the very first thing his father did was to pull his head back by the hair behind, and ask him whether he had persuaded mr tooke to tell him all about the crofton boys. hugh did not wish to make any answer; but his father said "eh?" and he thought he must speak; so he said that phil had told him all he wanted to know about the crofton boys. "then you can get mr tooke to tell you about phil, if you want nothing else," said mr proctor. mr tooke nodded and smiled; but hugh began to hand plates with all his might, he was so afraid that the next thing would be a question how much four times seven was. the dinner went on, however; and the fish was eaten, and the meat, and the pudding; and the dessert was on the table, without any one having even alluded to the multiplication-table. before this time, hugh had become quite at his ease, and had looked at mr tooke till he knew his face quite well. soon after dinner mr proctor was called away upon business; and hugh slipped into his father's arm-chair, and crossed one leg over the other knee, as he leaned back at his leisure, listening to mr tooke's conversation with his mother about the sort of education that he considered most fit for some boys from india, who had only a certain time to devote to school-learning. in the course of this conversation some curious things dropped about the curiosity of children from india about some things very common here;--their wonder at snow and ice, their delight at being able to slide in the winter, and their curiosity about the harvest and gleaning, now approaching. mr proctor came back just as mr tooke was telling of the annual holiday of the boys at harvest-time, when they gleaned for the poor of the village. as hugh had never seen a corn-field, he had no very clear idea of harvest and gleaning; and he wanted to hear all he could. when obliged to turn out of the arm-chair, he drew a stool between his mother and mr tooke: and presently he was leaning on his arms on the table, with his face close to mr tooke's, as if swallowing the gentleman's words as they fell. this was inconvenient; and his mother made him draw back his stool a good way. though he could hear very well, hugh did not like this, and he slipped off his stool, and came closer and closer. "and did you say," asked mr proctor, "that your youngest pupil is nine?" "just nine;--the age of my own boy. i could have wished to have none under ten, for the reason you know of. but--" "i wish," cried hugh, thrusting himself in so that mr tooke saw the boy had a mind to sit on his knee,--"i wish you would take boys at eight and a quarter." "that is your age," said mr tooke, smiling and making room between his knees. "how did you know? mother told you." "no; indeed she did not,--not exactly. my boy was eight and a quarter not very long ago; and he--" "did he like being in your school?" "he always seemed very happy there, though he was so much the youngest. and they teased him sometimes for being the youngest. now you know, if you came, you would be the youngest, and they might tease you for it." "i don't think i should mind that. what sort of teasing, though?" "trying whether he was afraid of things." "what sort of things?" "being on the top of a wall, or up in a tree. and then they sent him errands when he was tired, or when he wanted to be doing something else. they tried too whether he could bear some rough things without telling." "and did he?" "yes, generally. on the whole, very well. i see they think him a brave boy now." "i think i could. but do not you really take boys as young as i am?" "such is really my rule." it was very provoking, but hugh was here called away to fish up jane's work out of the water-butt. as he had put it in, he was the proper person to get it out. he thought he should have liked the fun of it; but now he was in a great hurry back, to hear mr tooke talk. it really seemed as if the shirt-collar was alive, it always slipped away so when he thought he had it. jane kept him to the job till he brought up her work, dripping and soiled. by that time tea was ready,--an early tea, because mr tooke had to go away. whatever was said at tea was about politics, and about a new black dye which some chemist had discovered; and mr tooke went away directly after. he turned round full upon hugh, just as he was going. hugh stepped back, for it flashed upon him that he was now to be asked how much four times seven was. but mr tooke only shook hands with him, and bade him grow older as fast as he could. chapter two. why mr tooke came. after tea the young people had to learn their lessons for the next day. they always tried to get these done, and the books put away, before mr proctor came in on his shop being shut, and the business of the day being finished. he liked to find his children at liberty for a little play, or half an hour of pleasant reading; or, in the winter evenings, for a dance to the music of his violin. little harry had been known to be kept up far too late, that he might hear the violin, and that his papa might enjoy the fun of seeing him run about among the rest, putting them all out, and fancying he was dancing. all believed there would be time for play with papa to-night, tea had been so much earlier than usual. but agnes soon feared there would be no play for hugh. though jane pored over her german, twisting her forefinger in the particular curl which she always twisted when she was deep in her lessons; though agnes rocked herself on her chair, as she always did when she was learning by heart; and though mrs proctor kept harry quiet at the other end of the room with telling him long stories, in a very low voice, about the elephant and brighton pier, in the picture-book, hugh could not learn his capital cities. he even spoke out twice, and stopped himself when he saw all the heads in the room raised in surprise. then he set himself to work again, and he said "copenhagen" so often over that he was not likely to forget the word; but what country it belonged to he could not fix in his mind, though agnes wrote it down large on the slate, in hopes that the sight of the letters would help him to remember. before he had got on to "constantinople," the well-known sound was heard of the shop-boy taking the shop-shutters out of their day-place, and mr proctor would certainly be coming presently. jane closed her dictionary, and shook back her curls from over her eyes; mrs proctor put down harry from her lap, and let him call for papa as loud as he would; and papa came bustling in, and gave harry a long toss, and several topplings over his shoulder, and yet hugh was not ready. "come, children," said mr proctor to agnes and hugh, "we have all done enough for to-day. away with books and slates!" "but, papa," said agnes, "hugh has not quite done. if he might have just five minutes more, miss harold--" "never mind what miss harold says! that is, you girls must; but between this and michaelmas--" he stopped short, and the girls saw that it was a sign from their mother that made him do so. he immediately proceeded to make so much noise with harry, that hugh discovered nothing more than that he might put away his books, and not mind miss harold this time. if she asked him to-morrow why he had not got down to "constantinople," he could tell her exactly what his father had said. so merry was hugh's play this evening. he stood so perfectly upright on his father's shoulders, that he could reach the top of his grandmamma's picture, and show by his finger-ends how thick the dust lay upon the frame: and neither he nor his father minded being told that he was far too old for such play. in the midst of the fun, hugh had a misgiving, more than once, of his mother having something severe to say to him when she should come up to his room, to hear him say his prayer, and to look back a little with him upon the events of the day. besides his consciousness that he had done nothing well this day, there were grave looks from his mother which made him think that she was not pleased with him. when he was undressing, therefore, he listened with some anxiety for her footsteps, and, when she appeared, he was ready with his confession of idleness. she stopped him in the beginning, saying that she had rather not hear any more such confessions. she had listened to too many, and had allowed him to spend in confessions some of the strength which should have been applied to mending his faults. for the present, while she was preparing a way to help him to conquer his inattention, she advised him to say nothing to her, or to any one else, on the subject; but this need not prevent him from praying to god to give him strength to overcome his great fault. "oh, mother! mother!" cried hugh, in an agony, "you give me up! what shall i do if you will not help me any more?" his mother smiled, and told him he need not fear any such thing. it would be very cruel to leave off providing him with food and clothes, because it gave trouble to do so; and it would be far more cruel to abandon him to his faults, for such a reason. she would never cease to help him till they were cured: but, as all means yet tried had failed, she must plan some others; and meantime she did not wish him to become hardened to his faults, by talking about them every night, when there was no amendment during the day. though she spoke very kindly, and kissed him before she went away, hugh felt that he was punished. he felt more unhappy than if his mother had told him all she thought of his idleness. though his mother had told him to go to sleep, and blessed him, he could not help crying a little, and wishing that he was a crofton boy. he supposed the crofton boys all got their lessons done somehow, as a matter of course; and then they could go to sleep without any uncomfortable feelings or any tears. in the morning all these thoughts were gone. he had something else to think about; for he had to play with harry, and take care of him, while susan swept and dusted the parlour: and harry was bent upon going into the shop--a place where, according to the rule of the house, no child of the family was ever to set foot till it was old enough to be trusted; nor to taste anything there, asked or unasked. there were some poisonous things in the shop, and some few nice syrups and gums; and no child could be safe and well there who could not let alone whatever might be left on the counter, or refuse any nice taste that a good-natured shopman might offer. harry was, as yet, far too young; but, as often as the cook washed the floor-cloth in the passage, so that the inner shop-door had to be opened, master harry was seized with an unconquerable desire to go and see the blue and red glass bowls which he was permitted to admire from the street, as he went out and came in from his walks. mr proctor came down this morning as hugh was catching harry in the passage. he snatched up his boys, packed one under each arm, and ran with them into the yard, where he rolled harry up in a new mat, which the cook was going to lay at the house-door. "there!" said he. "keep him fast, hugh, till the passage-door is shut. what shall we do with the rogue when you are at crofton, i wonder?" "why, papa! he will be big enough to take care of himself by that time." "bless me! i forgot again," exclaimed mr proctor, as he made haste away into the shop. before long, harry was safe under the attraction of his basin of bread and milk; and hugh fell into a reverie at the breakfast-table, keeping his spoon suspended in his hand as he looked up at the windows, without seeing anything. jane asked him twice to hand the butter before he heard. "he is thinking how much four times seven is," observed mr proctor: and hugh started at the words. "i tell you what, hugh," continued his father; "if the crofton people do not teach you how much four times seven is when you come within four weeks of next christmas-day, i shall give you up, and them too, for dunces all." all the eyes round the table were fixed on mr proctor in an instant. "there now!" said he, "i have let the cat out of the bag. look at agnes!" and he pinched her crimson cheek. everybody then looked at agnes, except harry, who was busy looking for the cat which papa said had come out of mamma's work-bag. agnes could not bear the gaze, and burst into tears. "agnes has taken more pains to keep the secret than her papa," said mrs proctor. "the secret is, that hugh is going to crofton next month." "am i ten, then?" asked hugh, in his hurry and surprise. "scarcely; since you were only eight and a quarter yesterday afternoon," replied his father. "i will tell you all about it by-and-by, my dear," said his mother. her glance towards agnes made all the rest understand that they had better speak of something else now. so mr proctor beckoned harry to come and see whether the cat had not got into the bag again, as she was not to be seen anywhere else. it is true, the bag was not much bigger than a cat's head; but that did not matter to harry, who never cared for that sort of consideration, and had been busy for half an hour, the day before, in trying to put the key of the house-door into the key-hole of the tea-caddy. by the time agnes had recovered herself, and the table was cleared, miss harold had arrived. hugh brought his books with the rest, but, instead of opening them, rested his elbow on the uppermost, and stared full at miss harold. "well, hugh!" said she, smiling. "i have not learned quite down to `constantinople,'" said he. "papa told me i need not, and not to mind you." "why, hugh! hush!" cried jane. "he did,--he said exactly that. but he meant, miss harold, that i am to be a crofton boy,--directly, next month." "then have we done with one another, hugh?" asked miss harold, gently. "will you not learn any more from me?" "that is for your choice, miss harold," observed mrs proctor. "hugh has not deserved the pains you have taken with him: and if you decline more trouble with him now he is going into other hands, no one can wonder." miss harold feared that he was but poorly prepared for school, and was quite ready to help him, if he would give his mind to the effort. she thought that play, or reading books that he liked, was less waste of time than his common way of doing his lessons; but if he was disposed really to work, with the expectation of crofton before him, she was ready to do her best to prepare him for the real hard work he would have to do there. his mother proposed that he should have time to consider whether he would have a month's holiday or a month's work, before leaving home. she had to go out this morning. he might go with her, if he liked; and as they returned, they would sit down in the temple garden, and she would tell him all about the plan. hugh liked this beginning of his new prospects. he ran to be made neat for his walk with his mother. he knew he must have the wet curl on his forehead twice over to day, but he comforted himself with hoping that there would be no time at crofton for him to be kept standing, to have his hair done so particularly, and to be scolded all the while, and then kissed, like a baby, at the end. chapter three. michaelmas-day come. hugh was about to ask his mother, again and again during their walk, why mr tooke let him go to crofton before he was ten; but mrs proctor was grave and silent; and though she spoke kindly to him now and then, she did not seem disposed to talk. at last they were in the temple garden; and they sat down where there was no one to overhear them; and then hugh looked up at his mother. she saw, and told him, what it was that he wanted to ask. "it is on account of the little boys themselves," said she, "that mr tooke does not wish to have them very young, now that there is no kind lady in the house who could be like a mother to them." "but there is mrs watson. phil has told me a hundred things about mrs watson." "mrs watson is the housekeeper. she is careful, i know, about the boys' health and comfort; but she has no time to attend to the younger ones, as mrs tooke did,--hearing their little troubles, and being a friend to them like their mothers at home." "there is phil--" "yes. you will have phil to look to. but neither phil, nor any one else, can save you from some troubles you are likely to have from being the youngest." "such as mr tooke told me his boy had;--being put on the top of a high wall, and plagued when he was tired: and all that. i don't think i should much mind those things." "so we hope, and so we believe. your fault is not cowardice--" mrs proctor so seldom praised anybody that her words of esteem went a great way. hugh first looked up at her, and then down on the grass,-- his cheeks glowed so. she went on-- "you have faults,--faults which give your father and me great pain; and though you are not cowardly about being hurt in your body, you sadly want courage of a better kind,--courage to mend the weakness of your mind. you are so young that we are sorry for you, and mean to send you where the example of other boys may give you the resolution you want so much." "all the boys learn their lessons at crofton," observed hugh. "yes; but not by magic. they have to give their minds to their work. you will find it painful and difficult to learn this, after your idle habits at home. i give you warning that you will find it much more difficult than you suppose; and i should not wonder if you wish yourself at home with miss harold many times before christmas." mrs proctor was not unkind in saying this. she saw that hugh was so delighted about going that nothing would depress his spirits, and that the chief fear was his being disappointed and unhappy when she should be far away. it might then be some consolation to him to remember that she was aware of what he would have to go through. he now smiled, and said he did not think he should ever wish to say his lessons to miss harold as long as he lived. then it quickly passed through his mind that, instead of the leads and the little yard, there would be the playground; and instead of the church bells, the rooks; and instead of susan, with her washing and combing, and scolding and kissing, there would be plenty of boys to play with. as he thought of these things, he started up, and toppled head over heels on the grass, and then was up by his mother's side again, saying that he did not care about anything that was to happen at crofton;--he was not afraid,--not even of the usher, though phil could not bear him. "if you can bring yourself to learn your lessons well," said his mother, "you need not fear the usher. but remember it depends upon that. you will do well enough in the playground, i have no doubt." after this, there was only to settle the time that was to pass--the weeks, days, and hours before michaelmas-day; and whether these weeks and days should be employed in preparing for crofton under miss harold, or whether he should take his chance there unprepared as he was. mrs proctor saw that his habits of inattention were so fixed, and his disgust at lessons in the parlour so strong, that she encouraged his doing no lessons in the interval. hugh would have said beforehand that three weeks' liberty to read voyages and travels, and play with harry, would have made him perfectly happy; but he felt that there was some disgrace mixed up with his holiday, and that everybody would look upon him with a sort of pity, instead of wishing him joy; and this spoiled his pleasure a good deal. when he came home from his walk, agnes thought he looked less happy than when he went out; and she feared his spirits were down about crofton. his spirits were up and down many times during the next three weeks. he thought these weeks would never be over. every day dragged on more slowly than the last; at every meal he was less inclined to eat; and his happiest time was when going to bed, because he was a day nearer crofton. his mother, foreseeing just what happened, wished to have kept the news from him till within a week of his departure, and had agreed with mr proctor that it should be so. but mr proctor hated secrets, and, as we see, let it out immediately. at last, the day came;--a warm, sunny, autumn day, on which any one might have enjoyed the prospect of a drive into the country. the coach was to set off from an inn in fleet street, at noon, and would set hugh down at his uncle's door in time for dinner, the distance being twenty-eight miles. his uncle's house was just two miles from the school. phil would probably be there to meet his brother, and take him to crofton in the afternoon. how to get rid of the hours till noon was the question. hugh had had everything packed up, over which he had any control, for some days. he had not left himself a plaything of those which he might carry: and it frightened him that his mother did not seem to think of packing his clothes till after breakfast this very morning. when she entered his room for the purpose, he was fidgeting about, saying to himself that he should never be ready. agnes came with her mother, to help: but before the second shirt was laid in the box, she was in tears and had to go away; for every one in the house was in the habit of hiding tears from mrs proctor, who rarely shed them herself, and was known to think that they might generally be suppressed, and should be so. as hugh stood beside her, handing stockings and handkerchiefs, to fill up the corners of the box, she spoke as she might not have done if they had not been alone. she said but a few words; but hugh never forgot them. "you know, my dear," said she, "that i do not approve of dwelling upon troubles. you know i never encourage my children to fret about what cannot be helped." there was nothing in the world that hugh was more certain of than this. "and yet i tell you," she continued, "that you will not be nearly so happy at crofton as you expect--at least, at first. it grieves me to see you so full of expectation--" "does it indeed, mother?" "it does indeed. but my comfort is--" "you think i can bear it," cried hugh, holding up his head. "you think i can bear anything." "i think you are a brave boy, on the whole. but that is not the comfort i was speaking of; for there is a world of troubles too heavy for the bravery of a thoughtless child, like you. my comfort is, my dear, that you know where to go for strength when your heart fails you. you will be away from your father and me; but a far wiser and kinder parent will be always with you. if i were not sure that you would continually open your heart to him, i could not let you go from me." "i will--i always do," said hugh, in a low voice. "then remember this, my boy. if you have that help, _you must not fail_. knowing that you have that help, i expect of you that you do your own duty, and bear your own troubles, like a man. if you were to be all alone in the new world you are going to, you would be but a helpless child: but remember, when a child makes god his friend, god puts into the youngest and weakest the spirit of a man." "you will ask him too, mother;--you will pray him to make me brave, and--and--" "and what else?" she inquired, fixing her eyes upon him. "and steady," replied hugh, casting down his eyes; "for that is what i want most of all." "it is," replied his mother. "i do, and always will, pray for you." not another word was said till they went down into the parlour. though it was only eleven o'clock, miss harold was putting on her bonnet to go away: and there was a plate of bread and cheese on the table. "lunch!" said hugh, turning away with disgust. "do eat it," said agnes, who had brought it. "you had no breakfast, you know." "because i did not want it; and i can't eat anything now." jane made a sign to agnes to take the plate out of sight: and she put some biscuits into a paper bag, that he might eat on the road, if he should become hungry. neither miss harold nor hugh could possibly feel any grief at parting; for they had had little satisfaction together; but she said very kindly that she should hope to hear often of him, and wished he might be happy as a crofton boy. hugh could hardly answer her;--so amazed was he to find that his sisters were giving up an hour of their lessons on his account,--that they might go with him to the coach!--and then susan came in, about the cord for his box, and her eyes were red:--and, at the sight of her, agnes began to cry again; and jane bent down her head over the glove she was mending for him, and her needle stopped. "jane," said her mother, gravely, "if you are not mending that glove, give it to me. it is getting late." jane brushed her hand across her eyes, and stitched away again. then she threw the gloves to hugh without looking at him, and ran to get ready to go to the coach. the bustle of the inn-yard would not do for little harry. he could not go. hugh was extremely surprised to find that all the rest were going;--that even his father was smoothing his hat in the passage for the walk,--really leaving the shop at noon on his account! the porter was at his service too,--waiting for his box! it was very odd to feel of such consequence. hugh ran down to bid the maids good-bye. the cook had cut a sandwich, which she thrust into his pocket, though he told her he had some biscuits. susan cried so that little harry stood grave and wondering. susan sobbed out that she knew he did not care a bit about leaving home and everybody. hugh wished she would not say so, though he felt it was true, and wondered at it himself. mr proctor heard susan's lamentations, and called to her from the passage above not to make herself unhappy about that; for the time would soon come when hugh would be homesick enough. mr blake, the shopman, came to the shop-door as they passed, and bowed and smiled; and the boy put himself in the way, with a broad grin: and then the party walked on quickly. the sun seemed to hugh to glare very much; and he thought he had never known the streets so noisy, or the people so pushing. the truth was, his heart was beating so he could scarcely see: and yet he was so busy looking about him for a sight of the river, and everything he wished to bid good-bye to, that his father, who held him fast by the hand, shook him more than once, and told him he would run everybody down if he could,--to judge by his way of walking. he must learn to march better, if he was to be a soldier; and to steer, if he was to be a sailor. there were just two minutes to spare when they reached the inn-yard. the horses were pawing and fidgeting, and some of the passengers had mounted: so mr proctor said he would seat the boy at once. he spoke to two men who were on the roof, just behind the coachman; and they agreed to let hugh sit between them, on the assurance that the driver would look to his concerns, and see that he was set down at the right place. "now, my boy, up with you!" said his father, as he turned from speaking to these men. hugh was so eager, that he put up his foot to mount, without remembering to bid his mother and sisters good-bye. mr proctor laughed at this; and nobody wondered; but agnes cried bitterly; and she could not forget it, from that time till she saw her brother again. when they had all kissed him, and his mother's earnest look had bidden him remember what had passed between them that morning, he was lifted up by his father, and received by the two men, between whom he found a safe seat. then he wished they were off. it was uncomfortable to see his sisters crying there, and not to be able to cry too, or to speak to them. when the coachman was drawing on his second glove, and the ostlers held each a hand to pull off the horse-cloths, and the last moment was come, mr proctor swung himself up by the step, to say one thing more. it was-- "i say, hugh,--can you tell me,--how much is four times seven?" mrs proctor pulled her husband's coat-tail, and he leaped down, the horses' feet scrambled, their heads issued from the gateway of the inn-yard, and hugh's family were left behind. in the midst of the noise, the man on hugh's right-hand said to the one on his left,-- "there is some joke in that last remark, i imagine." the other man nodded; and then there was no more speaking till they were off the stones. when the clatter was over, and the coach began to roll along the smooth road, hugh's neighbour repeated,-- "there was some joke, i fancy, in that last remark of your father's." "yes," said hugh. "are you in the habit of saying the multiplication-table when you travel?" said the other. "if so, we shall be happy to hear it." "exceedingly happy," observed the first. "i never say it when i can help it," said hugh; "and i see no occasion now." the men laughed, and then asked him if he was going far. "to crofton. i am going to be a crofton boy," said hugh. "a what? where is he going?" his companions asked one another over his head. they were no wiser when hugh repeated what he had said; nor could the coachman enlighten them. he only knew that he was to put the boy down at shaw's, the great miller's, near thirty miles along the road. "eight-and-twenty," said hugh, in correction; "and crofton is two miles from my uncle's." "eight-and-twenty. the father's joke lies there," observed the right-hand man. "no, it does not," said hugh. he thought he was among a set of very odd people,--none of them knowing what a crofton boy was. a passenger who sat beside the coachman only smiled when he was appealed to; so it might be concluded that he was ignorant too; and the right and left-hand men seemed so anxious for information, that hugh told them all he knew;-- about the orchard and the avenue, and the pond on the heath, and the playground; and mrs watson, and the usher, and phil, and joe cape, and tony nelson, and several others of the boys. one of the men asked him if he was sure he was going for the first time,--he seemed so thoroughly informed of everything about crofton. hugh replied that it was a good thing to have an elder brother like phil. phil had told him just what to take to crofton, and how to take care of his money, and everything. "ay! and how do the crofton boys take care of their money?" hugh showed a curious little inner pocket in his jacket, which nobody would dream of that did not know. his mother had let him have such a pocket in both his jackets; and he had wanted to have all his money in this one now, to show how safely he could carry it. but his mother had chosen to pack up all his five shillings in his box,--that square box, with the new brass lock, on the top of all the luggage. in his pocket there was only sixpence now,--the sixpence he was to give the coachman when he was set down. then he went on to explain that this sixpence was not out of his own money, but given him by his father, expressly for the coachman. then his right-hand companion congratulated him upon his spirits, and began to punch and tickle him; and when hugh writhed himself about, because he could not bear tickling, the coachman said he would have no such doings, and bade them be quiet. then the passengers seemed to forget hugh, and talked to one another of the harvest in the north, and the hopping in kent. hugh listened about the hopping, supposing it might be some new game, as good as leap-frog; though it seemed strange that one farmer should begin hopping on monday, and that another should fix thursday; and that both should be so extremely anxious about the weather. but when he found it was some sort of harvest-work, he left off listening, and gave all his attention to the country sights that were about him. he did not grow tired of the gardens, gay with dahlias and hollyhocks, and asters: nor of the orchards, where the ladder against the tree, and the basket under, showed that apple-gathering was going on; nor of the nooks in the fields, where blackberries were ripening; nor of the chequered sunlight and shadow which lay upon the road; nor of the breezy heath where the blue ponds were ruffled; nor of the pleasant grove where the leaves were beginning to show a tinge of yellow and red, here and there among the green. silently he enjoyed all these things, only awakening from them when there was a stop to change horses. he was not thinking of time or distance when he saw the coachman glance round at him, and felt that the speed of the horses was slackening. still he had no idea that this was any concern of his, till he saw something that made him start. "why, there's phil!" he exclaimed, jumping to his feet. "this is shaw's mill, and there is shaw; which is all i have to do with," said the coachman, as he pulled up. hugh was soon down, with his uncle and phil, and one of the men from the mill to help. his aunt was at the window too; so that altogether hugh forgot to thank his companions for his safe seat. he would have forgotten his box, but for the coachman. one thing more he also forgot. "i say, young master," said the driver, "remember the coachman. where's your sixpence?" "oh, my sixpence!" cried hugh, throwing down what he held, to feel in his curious inner pocket, which was empty. "lest you find a hole in your pocket, here is a sixpence for you," cried the right-hand passenger, tossing him his own sixpence. "thank you for teaching us the secret of such a curious pocket." the coachman was impatient, got his money, and drove off, leaving hugh to make out why he had been tickled, and how his money had changed hands. with a very red face, he declared it was too bad of the man: but the man was out of his hearing, and could never know how angry he was. "a pretty story this is for our usher to have against you, to begin with," was phil's consolation. "every boy will know it before you show yourself; and you will never hear the last of it, i can tell you." "your usher!" exclaimed hugh, bewildered. "yes, our usher. that was he on the box, beside coachee. did not you find out that much in all these eight-and-twenty miles?" "how should i? he never told me." hugh could hardly speak to his uncle and aunt, he was so taken up with trying to remember what he had said, in the usher's hearing, of the usher himself, and everybody at crofton. chapter four. michaelmas-day over. mrs shaw ordered dinner presently; and while it was being served, she desired phil to brush his brother's clothes, as they were dusty from his ride. all the while he was brushing (which, he did very roughly), and all the first part of dinner-time, phil continued to tease hugh about what he had said on the top of the coach. mrs shaw spoke of the imprudence of talking freely before strangers; and hugh could have told her that he did not need such a lecture at the very time that he found the same thing by his experience. he did wish phil would stop. if anybody should ask him a question, he could not answer without crying. then he remembered how his mother expected him to bear things; and he almost wished he was at home with her now, after all his longing to be away. this thought nearly made him cry again; so he tried to dwell on how his mother would expect him to bear things: but neither of them had thought that morning, beside his box, that the first trial would come from phil. this again made him so nearly cry that his uncle observed his twitching face, and, without noticing him, said that he, for his part, did not want to see little boys wise before they had time to learn; and that the most silent companion he had ever been shut up with in a coach was certainly the least agreeable: and he went on to relate an adventure which has happened to more persons than one. he had found the gentleman in the corner, with the shaggy coat, to be a bear--a tame bear, which had to take the quickest mode of conveyance, in order to be at a distant fair in good time. mr shaw spun out his story, so that hugh quite recovered himself, and laughed as much as anybody at his uncle having formed a bad opinion of bruin in the early twilight, for his incivility in not bowing to the passenger who left the coach. after dinner, phil thought it time to be off to crofton. he had missed something by coming away at all to-day; and he was not going to run the chance of losing the top of the class by not having time to do his sallust properly. mrs shaw said they must have some of her plums before they went, and a glass of wine; and mr shaw ordered the gig, saying he would drive them, and thus no time would be lost, though he hoped phil would not mind being at the bottom of every class for once to help his brother, seeing how soon a diligent boy might work his way up again. phil replied that that was not so easy as people might think, when there was one like joe cape determined to keep him down, if he could once get him down. "i hope you will find time to help hugh up from the bottom, in a class or two," said mr shaw. "you will not be too busy about your own affairs to look to his, i suppose." "where is the use of my meddling?" said phil. "he can't rise for years to come. besides--" "why can't i rise?" exclaimed hugh, with glowing cheeks. "that is right, hugh," said his uncle. "let nobody prophesy for you till you show what you can do." "why, uncle, he is nearly two years younger than any boy in the school; and--" "and there is little page above you in algebra. he is about two years younger than you, phil, if i remember right." hugh could not help clapping his hands at the prospect this held out to him. phil took the act for triumphing over him, and went on to say, very insultingly, that a little fellow who had been brought up among the girls all his life, and had learned of nobody but miss harold, could not be expected to cut any figure among boys. hugh looked so grieved for a moment, and then suddenly so relieved, that his kind uncle wondered what was in his mind. he took the boy between his knees and asked him. hugh loved his uncle already, as if he had always known him. he put his arms round his neck, and whispered in his ear what he was thinking of;-- his mother's saying that god could and would, if he was sought, put the spirit of a man into the feeblest child. "true!--quite true! i am very glad you know that, my boy. that will help you to learn at crofton, though it is better than anything they can teach you in their school-room." mrs shaw and phil looked curious; but mr shaw did not repeat a word of what hugh had said. he put the boy away from his knees, because he heard the gig coming round. mrs shaw told hugh that she hoped he would spend some of his sundays with his uncle and her; and his uncle added that he must come on holidays as well as sundays,--there was so much to see about the mill. phil was amused, and somewhat pleased, to find how exactly hugh remembered his description of the place and neighbourhood. he recognised the duck-pond under the hedge by the road-side, with the very finest blackberries growing above it, just out of reach. the church he knew, of course, and the row of chestnuts, whose leaves were just beginning to fall; and the high wall dividing the orchard from the playground. that must have been the wall on which mr tooke's little boy used to be placed to frighten him. it did not look so very high as hugh had fancied it. one thing which he had never seen or heard of was the bell, under its little roof on the ridge of mr tooke's great house. was it to call in the boys to school, or for an alarm? his uncle told him it might serve the one purpose in the day, and the other by night; and that almost every large farm thereabouts had such a bell on the top of the house. the sun was near its setting when they came in sight of the crofton house. a long range of windows glittered in the yellow light, and phil said that the lower row all belonged to the school-room;--that whole row. in the midst of his explanations phil stopped, and his manner grew more rough than ever--with a sort of shyness in it too. it was because some of the boys were within hearing, leaning over the pales which separated the playground from the road. "i say; hollo there!" cried one. "is that prater you have got with you?" "prater the second," cried another. "he could not have had his name if there had not been prater the first." "there! there's a scrape you have got me into already!" muttered phil. "be a man, phil, and bear your own share," said mr shaw; "and no spite, because your words come back to you!" the talk at the palings still went on, as the gig rolled quietly in the sandy by-road. "prater!" poor hugh exclaimed. "what a name!" "yes; that is you," said his uncle. "you know now what your nick-name will be. every boy has one or another: and yours might have been worse, because you might have done many a worse thing to earn it." "but the usher, uncle?" "what of him?" "he should not have told about me." "don't call him `prater the third,' however. bear your own share, as i said to phil, and don't meddle with another's." perhaps mr shaw hoped that through one of the boys the usher would get a new nick-name for his ill-nature in telling tales of a little boy, before he was so much as seen by his companions. he certainly put it into their heads, whether they would make use of it or not. mr tooke was out, taking his evening ride; but mr shaw would not drive off till he had seen mrs watson, and introduced his younger nephew to her, observing to her that he was but a little fellow to come among such a number of rough boys. mrs watson smiled kindly at hugh, and said she was glad he had a brother in the school, to prevent his feeling lonely at first. it would not take many days, she hoped, to make him feel quite at home. mr shaw slipped half-a-crown into hugh's hand, and whispered to him to try to keep it safe in his inner pocket hugh ran after him to the door, to tell him he had five shillings already--safe in his box: but his uncle would not take back the half-crown. he thought that, in course of time, hugh would want all the money he had. mrs watson desired phil to show his brother where he was to sleep, and to help him to put by his clothes. phil was in a hurry to get to his sallust; so that he was not sorry when mrs watson herself came up to see that the boy's clothes were laid properly in the deep drawer in which hugh was to keep his things. phil then slipped away. "dear me!" said mrs watson, turning over one of hugh's new collars, "we must have something different from this. these collars tied with a black ribbon are never tidy. they are always over one shoulder or the other." "my sisters made them; and they worked so hard to get them done!" said hugh. "very well--very right: only it is a pity they are not of a better make. every sunday at church, i shall see your collar awry--and every time you go to your aunt's, she will think we do not make you neat. i must see about that. here are good stockings, however--properly stout. my dear, are these all the shoes you have got?" "i have a pair on." "of course; i don't doubt that. we must have you measured to-morrow for some boots fitter for the country than these. we have no london pavement here." and so mrs watson went on, sometimes approving and sometimes criticising, till hugh did not know whether to cry or to be angry. after all the pains his mother and sisters had taken about his things, they were to be found fault with in this way! when his box was emptied, and his drawer filled, mrs watson took him into the school-room, where the boys were at supper. outside the door the buzz seemed prodigious, and hugh hoped that, in such a bustle, nobody would notice him. here he was quite mistaken. the moment he entered there was a hush, and all eyes were turned upon him, except his brother's. phil hardly looked up from his book; but he made room for hugh between himself and another boy, and drew the great plate of bread within reach. mrs watson saw that hugh had his basin of milk; and he found it a good thing to have something to do while so many eyes were upon him. he felt that he might have cried if he had not had his supper to eat. the usher sat at the top of the table, reading. mrs watson called his attention to hugh; and hugh stood up and made his bow. his face was red, as much with anger as timidity, when he recognised in him the passenger who had sat beside the coachman. "perhaps, mr carnaby," said mrs watson, "you will find something for this young gentleman to do, when he has had his supper, while the rest are learning their lessons. to-morrow he will have his own lessons; but to-night--" "there is always the multiplication-table," replied mr carnaby. "the young gentleman is partial to that, i fancy." hugh reddened, and applied himself to his bread and milk. "never mind a joke," whispered mrs watson. "we won't plague you with the multiplication-table the first evening. i will find you a book or something. meantime, there is a companion for you--i forgot that." the good lady went down the room, and brought back a boy who seemed to be doing all he could to stop crying. he dashed his hand over his eyes every minute, and could not look anybody in the face. he had finished his supper, and was at a loss what to do next, as he had only arrived that morning, and did not know anybody at crofton. his name was tom holt, and he was ten years old. when they had told their names and ages, and where they came from, the boys did not know what to say next; and hugh wished phil would stop murmuring over his sallust and looking in the dictionary every minute; but mrs watson did not forget the strangers. she brought them cook's voyages out of the library, to amuse themselves with, on condition of their delivering the book to mr carnaby at bedtime. the rest of the evening passed away very pleasantly. hugh told holt a great deal about broadstairs and the south sea islands, and confided to him his own hopes of being a sailor, and going round the world; and, if possible, making his way straight through china,--the most difficult country left to travel in, he believed, except some parts of africa. he did not want to cross the great desert, on account of the heat. he knew something of what that was by the leads at home, when the sun was on them. what was the greatest heat holt had ever felt? then came the surprise. holt had last come from his uncle's farm; but he was born in india, and had lived there till eighteen months ago. so, while hugh had chattered away about the sea at broadstairs, and the heat on the leads at home, his companion had come fourteen thousand miles over the ocean, and had felt a heat nearly as extreme as that of the great desert! holt was very unassuming too. he talked of the heat of gleaning in his uncle's harvest-fields, and of the kitchen when the harvest-supper was cooking; owning that he remembered he had felt hotter in india. hugh heaped questions upon him about his native country and the voyage; and holt liked to be asked: so that the boys were not at all like strangers just met for the first time. they raised their voices in the eagerness of their talk, from a whisper so as to be heard quite across the table, above the hum and buzz of above thirty others, who were learning their lessons half-aloud. at last hugh was startled by hearing the words "prater", "prater the second." he was silent instantly, to holt's great wonder. without raising his eyes from his book, phil said, so as to be heard as far as the usher,-- "who prated, of prater the second? who is prater the third?" there was a laugh which provoked the usher to come and see whereabouts in sallust such a passage as this was to be found. not finding any such, he knuckled phil's head, and pulled his hair, till hugh cried out-- "o, don't, sir! don't hurt him so!" "do you call that hurting? you will soon find what hurting is, when you become acquainted with our birch. you shall have four times seven with our birch--let us see,--that is your favourite number, i think." the usher looked round, and almost everybody laughed. "you see i have your secret;--four times seven," continued mr carnaby. "what do you shake your head for?" "because you have not my secret about four times seven." "did not i hear your father? eh?" "what did you hear my father say? nobody here knows what he meant? and nobody need know, unless i choose to tell--which i don't.--please don't teaze phil about it, sir: for he knows no more about it than you do." mr carnaby said something about the impertinence of little boys, as if they could have secrets, and then declared it high time that the youngsters should go to bed. hugh delivered cook's voyages into his hands, and then bade phil good-night. he was just going to put his face up to be kissed, but recollected in time that he was to leave off kissing when he went to school. he held out his hand, but phil seemed not to see it, and only told him to be sure to lie enough on one side, so as to leave him room; and that he was to take the side of the bed next the window. hugh nodded and went off, with holt and two more, who slept in the same room. the two who were not new boys were in bed in a minute; and when they saw hugh wash his face and hands, they sat up in bed to stare. one of them told him that he had better not do that, as the maid would be coming for the light, and would leave him in the dark, and report of him if he was not in bed. so hugh made a great splutter, and did not half dry his face, and left the water in the basin;--a thing which they told him was not allowed. he saw that the others had not kneeled down to say their prayers,--a practice which he had never omitted since he could say a prayer, except when he had the measles. he knew the boys were watching him; but he thought of his mother, and how she had taught him to pray at her knee. he hid himself as well as he could with the scanty bed-curtains, and kneeled. he could not attend to the words he said, while feeling that eyes were upon him; and before he had done, the maid came in for the candle. she waited; but when he got into bed, she told him that he must be quicker to-morrow night, as she had no time to spare waiting for the candle. hugh was more tired than he had ever been in his life. this had been the longest day he had ever known. it seemed more like a week than a day. yet he could not go to sleep. he had forgotten to ask phil to be sure and wake him in time in the morning: and now he must keep awake till phil came, to say this. then, he could not but ask himself whether he liked, and should like, being at school as much as he expected; and when he felt how very unlike home it was, and how rough everybody seemed, and how phil appeared almost as if he was ashamed of him, instead of helping him, he was so miserable he did not know what to do. he cried bitterly,--cried till his pillow was quite wet, and he was almost choked with his grief; for he tried hard not to let his sobs be heard. after awhile, he felt what he might do. though he had kneeled he had not really prayed: and if he had, god is never weary of prayers. it was a happy thought to hugh that his very best friend was with him still, and that he might speak to him at any time. he spoke now in his heart; and a great comfort it was. he said-- "o god, i am all alone here, where nobody knows me; and everything is very strange and uncomfortable. please, make people kind to me till i am used to them; and keep up a brave heart in me, if they are not. help me not to mind little things; but to do my lessons well, that i may get to like being a crofton boy, as i thought i should. i love them all at home very much,--better than i ever did before. make them love me, and think of me every day,--particularly agnes,--that they may be as glad as i shall be when i go home at christmas." this was the most of what he had to say; and he dropped asleep with the feeling that god was listening to him. after a long while, as it seemed to him, though it was only an hour, there was a light and some bustle in the room. it was phil and two others coming to bed. "o phil!" cried hugh, starting bolt upright and winking with sleep,--"i meant to keep awake, to ask you to be sure and call me in the morning, time enough,--quite time enough, please." the others laughed; and phil asked whether he had not seen the bell, as he came; and what it should be for but to ring everybody up in the morning. "but i might not hear it," pleaded hugh. "not hear it? you'll soon see that." "well, but you will see that i really do wake, won't you?" "the bell will take care of that, i tell you," was all he could get from phil. chapter five. crofton play. hugh found, in the morning, that there was no danger of his not hearing the bell. its clang clang startled him out of a sound sleep; and he was on his feet on the floor almost before his eyes were open. the boys who were more used to the bell did not make quite so much haste. they yawned a few times, and turned out more slowly; so that hugh had the great tin wash basin to himself longer than the rest. there was a basin to every three boys; and, early as hugh began, his companions were impatient long before he had done. at first, they waited, in curiosity to see what he was going to do after washing his face; when he went further, they began to quiz; but when they found that he actually thought of washing his feet, they hooted and groaned at him for a dirty brat. "dirty!" cried hugh, facing them, amazed, "dirty for washing my feet! mother says it is a dirty trick not to wash all over every day." phil told him that was stuff and nonsense here. there was no room and no time for such home-doings. the boys all washed their heads and feet on saturdays. he would soon find that he might be glad to get his face and hands done in the mornings. the other boys in the room were, or pretended to be, so disgusted with the very idea of washing feet in a basin, that they made hugh rinse and rub out the tin basin several times before they would use it, and then there was a great bustle to get down-stairs at the second bell. hugh pulled his brother's arm, as phil was brushing out of the room, and asked, in a whisper, whether there would be time to say his prayers. "there will be prayers in the school-room. you must be in time for them," said phil. "you had better come with me." "do wait one moment, while i just comb my hair." phil fidgeted, and others giggled, while hugh tried to part his hair, as susan had taught him. he gave it up, and left it rough, thinking he would come up and do it when there was nobody there to laugh at him. the school-room looked chilly and dull, as there was no sunshine in it till the afternoon; and still mr tooke was not there, as hugh had hoped he would be. mrs watson and the servants came in for prayers, which were well read by the usher; and then everybody went to business:-- everybody but hugh and holt, who had nothing to do. class after class came up for repetition; and this repetition seemed to the new boys an accomplishment they should never acquire. they did not think that any practice would enable them to gabble, as everybody seemed able to gabble here. hugh had witnessed something of it before,--phil having been wont to run off at home, "sal, sol, ren et splen," to the end of the passage, for the admiration of his sisters, and so much to little harry's amusement, that susan, however busy she might be, came to listen, and then asked him to say it again, that cook might hear what he learned at school. hugh now thought that none of them gabbled quite so fast as phil: but he soon found out, by a glance or two of phil's to one side, that he was trying to astonish the new boys. it is surprising how it lightened hugh's heart to find that his brother did not quite despise, or feel ashamed of him, as he had begun to think: but that he even took pains to show off. he was sorry too when the usher spoke sharply to phil, and even rapped his head with the cane, asking him what he spluttered out his nonsense at that rate for. thus ended phil's display; and hugh felt as hot, and as ready to cry, as if it had happened to himself. perhaps the usher saw this; for when he called hugh up, he was very kind. he looked at the latin grammar he had used with miss harold, and saw by the dogs'-ears exactly how far hugh had gone in it, and asked him only what he could answer very well. hugh said three declensions, with only one mistake. then he was shown the part that he was to say to-morrow morning; and hugh walked away, all the happier for having something to do, like everybody else. he was so little afraid of the usher, that he went back to him to ask where he had better sit. "sit! o! i suppose you must have a desk, though you have nothing to put in it. if there is a spare desk, you shall have it: if not, we will find a corner for you somewhere." some of the boys whispered that mrs watson's footstool, under her apron, would do: but the usher overheard this, and observed that it took some people a good while to know a new boy; and that they might find that a little fellow might be as much of a man as a big one. and the usher called the oldest boy in the school, and asked him to see if there was a desk for little proctor. there was: and hugh put into it his two or three school-books, and his slate; and felt that he was now indeed a crofton boy. then, the usher was kinder than he had expected; and he had still to see mr tooke, of whom he was not afraid at all. so hugh's spirits rose, and he liked the prospect of breakfast as well as any boy in the school. there was one more rebuff for him, first, however. he ran up to his room, to finish combing his hair, while the other boys were thronging into the long room to breakfast. he found the housemaids there, making the beds; and they both cried "out! out!" and clapped their hands at him, and threatened to tell mrs watson of his having broken rules, if he did not go this moment hugh asked what mrs watson would say to his hair, if he went to breakfast with it as it was. one of the maids was good-natured enough to comb it for him, for once: but she said he must carry a comb in his pocket; as the boys were not allowed to go to their rooms, except at stated hours. at last, hugh saw mr tooke. when the boys entered school at nine o'clock, the master was at his desk. hugh went up to his end of the room, with a smiling face, while tom holt hung back; and he kept beckoning tom holt on, having told him there was nothing to be afraid of. but when, at last, mr tooke saw him, he made no difference between the two, and seemed to forget having ever seen hugh. he told them he hoped they would be good boys, and would do credit to crofton; and then he asked mr carnaby to set them something to learn. and this was all they had to do with mr tooke for a long while. this morning in school, from nine till twelve, seemed the longest morning these little boys had ever known. when they remembered that the afternoon would be as long, and every morning and afternoon for three months, their hearts sank. perhaps, if any one had told them that the time would grow shorter and shorter by use, and at last, when they had plenty to do, almost too short, they would not have believed it, because they could not yet feel it. but what they now found was only what every boy and girl finds, on beginning school, or entering upon any new way of life. mr carnaby, who was busy with others, found it rather difficult to fill up their time. when hugh had said some latin, and helped his companion to learn his first latin lesson, and both had written a copy, and done a sum, mr carnaby could not spare them any more time or thought, and told them they might do what they liked, if they only kept quiet, till school was up. so they made out the ridiculous figures which somebody had carved upon their desks, and the verses, half rubbed out, which were scribbled inside: and then they reckoned, on their slates, how many days there were before the christmas holidays;--how many school-days, and how many sundays. and then hugh began to draw a steamboat in the thames, as seen from the leads of his father's house; while holt drew on his slate the ship in which he came over from india. but before they had done, the clock struck twelve, school was up, and there was a general rush into the playground. now hugh was really to see the country. except that the sun had shone pleasantly into his room in the morning, through waving trees, nothing had yet occurred to make him feel that he was in the country. now, however, he was in the open air, with trees sprinkled all over the landscape, and green fields stretching away, and the old church tower half-covered with ivy. hugh screamed with pleasure; and nobody thought it odd, for almost every boy was shouting. hugh longed to pick up some of the shining brown chestnuts which he had seen yesterday in the road, under the trees; and he was now cantering away to the spot, when phil ran after him, and roughly stopped him, saying he would get into a fine scrape for the first day, if he went out of bounds. hugh had forgotten there were such things as bounds, and was not at all glad to be reminded of them now. he sighed as he begged phil to show him exactly where he might go and where he might not phil did so in an impatient way, and then was off to trap-ball, because his party were waiting for him. the chestnut-trees overhung one corner of the playground, within the paling: and in that corner hugh found several chestnuts which had burst their sheaths, and lay among the first fallen leaves. he pocketed them with great delight, wondering that nobody had been before him to secure such a treasure. agnes should have some; and little harry would find them nice playthings. they looked good to eat too; and he thought he could spare one to taste; so he took out his knife, cut off the point of a fine swelling chestnut, and tasted a bit of the inside. just as he was making a face over it, and wondering that it was so nasty, when those which his father roasted in the fire-shovel on christmas-day were so good, he heard laughter behind him, and found that he was again doing something ridiculous, though he knew not what: and in a moment poor hugh was as unhappy as ever. he ran away from the laughing boys, and went quite to the opposite corner of the playground, where a good number of his schoolfellows were playing ball under the orchard-wall. hugh ran hither and thither, like the rest, trying to catch the ball; but he never could do it; and he was jostled, and thrown down, and another boy fell over him; and he was told that he knew nothing about play, and had better move off. he did so, with a heavy heart, wondering how he was ever to be like the other boys, if nobody would take him in hand, and teach him to play, or even let him learn. remembering what his mother expected of him, he tried to sing, to prevent crying, and began to count the pales round the playground, for something to do. this presently brought him to a tree which stood on the very boundary, its trunk serving instead of two or three pales. it was only a twisted old apple-tree; but the more twisted and gnarled it was, the more it looked like a tree that hugh could climb; and he had always longed to climb a tree. glancing up, he saw a boy already there, sitting on the fork of two branches, reading. "have you a mind to come up?" asked the boy. "yes, sir, i should like to try and climb a tree. i never did." "well, this is a good one to begin with. i'll lend you a hand; shall i?" "thank you, sir." "don't call me, `sir.' i'm only a schoolboy, like you. i am dan firth. call me firth, as i am the only one of the name here. you are little proctor, i think--proctor's brother." "yes: but, firth, i shall pull you down, if i slip." "not you: but i'll come down, and so send you up to my seat, which is the safest to begin with. stand off." firth swung himself down, and then, showing hugh where to plant his feet, and propping him when he wanted it, he soon seated him on the fork, and laughed good-naturedly when hugh waved his cap over his head, on occasion of being up in a tree. he let him get down and up again several times, till he could do it quite alone, and felt that he might have a seat here whenever it was not occupied by any one else. while hugh sat in the branches, venturing to leave hold with one hand, that he might fan his hot face with his cap, firth stood on the rail of the palings, holding by the tree, and talking to him. firth told him that this was the only tree the boys were allowed to climb, since ned reeve had fallen from the great ash, and hurt his spine. he showed what trees he had himself climbed before that accident; and it made hugh giddy to think of being within eight feet of the top of the lofty elm in the churchyard, which firth had thought nothing of mounting. "did anybody teach you?" asked hugh. "yes; my father taught me to climb, when i was younger than you." "and had you anybody to teach you games and things, when you came here?" "no: but i had learned a good deal of that before i came; and so i soon fell into the ways here. have you anybody to teach you?" "no--yes--why, no. i thought phil would have showed me things; but he does not seem to mind me at all." and hugh bit his lip, and fanned himself faster. "ah! he attends to you more than you think." "does he? then why--but what good does it do me?" "what good? his holding off makes you push your own way. it lets you make friends for yourself." "i have no friends here," said hugh. "yes, you have. here am i. you would not have had me, if you had been at proctor's heels at this moment." "will you be my friend, then?" "that i will." "what, a great boy like you, that sits reading in a tree! but i may read here beside you. you said there was room for two." "ay; but you must not use it yet,--at least, not often, if you wish to do well here. everybody knows i can play at anything. from the time i became captain of the wall at fives, i have had liberty to do what i like, without question. but you must show that you are up to play, before they will let you read in peace and quiet." "but how can i, if--if--" "once show your spirit,--prove that you can shift for yourself, and you will find phil open out wonderfully. he and you will forget all his shyness then. once show him that he need not be ashamed of you--" "ashamed of me!" cried hugh, firing up. "yes. little boys are looked upon as girls in a school till they show that they are little men. and then again, you have been brought up with girls,--have not you?" "to be sure; and so was he." "and half the boys here, i dare say. well, they are called bettys till--" "i am not a betty," cried hugh, flashing again. "they suppose you are, because you part your hair, and do as you have been used to do at home." "what business have they with my hair? i might as well call them bruins for wearing theirs shaggy." "very true. they will let you and your hair alone when they see what you are made of; and then phil will--" "he will own me when i don't want it; and now, when he might help me, there he is, far off, never caring about what becomes of me!" "o yes, he does. he is watching you all the time. you and he will have it all out some day before christmas, and then you will see how he really cares about you. really your hair is very long,--too like a girl's. shall i cut it for you?" "i should like it," said hugh, "but i don't want the boys to think i am afraid of them; or to begin giving up to them." "you are right there. we will let it alone now, and cut it when it suits our convenience." "what a nice place this is, to be sure!" cried hugh, as the feeling of loneliness went off. "but the rooks do not make so much noise as i expected." "you will find what they can do in that way when spring comes,--when they are building." "and when may we go out upon the heath, and into the fields where the lambs are?" "we go long walks on saturday afternoons; but you do not expect to see young lambs in october, do you?" "o, i forgot i never can remember the seasons for things." "that shows you are a londoner. you will learn all those things here. if you look for hares in our walks, you may chance to see one; or you may start a pheasant; but take care you don't mention lambs, or goslings, or cowslips, or any spring things; or you will never hear the last of it." "thank you: but what will poor holt do? he is from india, and he knows very little about our ways." "they may laugh at him; but they will not despise him as they might a londoner. being an indian, and being a londoner, are very different things." "and yet how proud the londoners are over the country! it is very odd." "people are proud of their own ways all the world over. you will be proud of being a crofton boy, by-and-by." "perhaps i am now, a little," said hugh, blushing. "what, already? ah! you will do, i see. i have known old people proud of their age, and young people of their youth. i have seen poor people proud of their poverty; and everybody has seen rich people proud of their wealth. i have seen happy people proud of their prosperity, and the afflicted proud of their afflictions. yes; people can always manage to be proud: so you have boasted of being a londoner up to this time; and from this time you will hold your head high as a crofton boy." "how long? till when?" "ah! till when? what next! what do you mean to be afterwards?" "a soldier, or a sailor, or a great traveller, or something of that kind. i mean to go quite round the world, like captain cook." "then you will come home, proud of having been round the world; and you will meet with some old neighbour who boasts of having spent all his life in the house he was born in." "old mr dixon told mother that of himself, very lately. oh dear, how often does the postman come?" "you want a letter from home, do you? but you left them only yesterday morning." "i don't know how to believe that,--it seems such an immense time! but when does the postman come?" "any day when he has letters to bring,--at about four in the afternoon. we see him come, from the school-room; but we do not know who the letters are for till school breaks up at five." "o dear!" cried hugh, thinking what the suspense must be, and the disappointment at last to twenty boys, perhaps, for one that was gratified. firth advised him to write a letter home before he began to expect one. if he did not like to ask the usher, he himself would rule the paper for him, and he could write a bit at a time, after his lessons were done in the evening, till the sheet was full. hugh then told his grievance about the usher, and firth thought that though it was not wise in hugh to prate about crofton on the top of the coach, it was worse to sit by and listen without warning, unless the listener meant to hold his own tongue. but he fancied the usher had since heard something which made him sorry; and the best way now was for hugh to bear no malice, and remember nothing more of the affair than to be discreet in his future journeys. "what is the matter there?" cried hugh. "o dear! something very terrible must have happened. how that boy is screaming!" "it is only lamb again," replied firth. "you will soon get used to his screaming. he is a very passionate boy--i never saw such a passionate fellow." "but what are they doing to him?" "somebody is putting him into a passion, i suppose. there is always somebody to do that." "what a shame!" cried hugh. "yes: i see no wit in it," replied firth. "anybody may do it. you have only to hold your little finger up to put him in a rage." hugh thought firth was rather cool about the matter. but firth was not so cool when the throng opened for a moment, and showed what was really done to the angry boy. only his head appeared above ground. his schoolfellows had put him into a hole they had dug, and had filled it up to his chin, stamping down the earth, so that the boy was perfectly helpless, while wild with rage. "that is too bad!" cried firth. "that would madden a saint." and he jumped down from the paling and ran towards the crowd. hugh, forgetting his height from the ground, stood up in the tree, almost as angry as lamb himself, and staring with all his might to see what he could. he saw firth making his way through the crowd, evidently remonstrating, if not threatening. he saw him snatch a spade from a boy who was flourishing it in lamb's face. he saw that firth was digging, though half-a-dozen boys had thrown themselves on his back, and hung on his arms. he saw that firth persevered till lamb had got his right arm out of the ground, and was striking everywhere within reach. then he saw firth dragged down and away, while the boys made a circle round lamb, putting a foot or hand within his reach, and then snatching it away again, till the boy yelled with rage at the mockery. hugh could look on no longer. he scrambled down from the tree, scampered to the spot, burst through the throng, and seized lamb's hand. lamb struck him a heavy blow, taking him for an enemy; but hugh cried "i am your friend," seized his hand again, and tugged till he was first red and then black in the face, and till lamb had worked his shoulders out of the hole, and seemed likely to have the use of his other arm in a trice. lamb's tormentors at first let hugh alone in amazement; but they were not long in growing angry with him too. they hustled him--they pulled him all ways--they tripped him up; but hugh's spirit was roused, and that brought his body up to the struggle again and again. he wrenched himself free, he scrambled to his feet again, as often as he was thrown down; and in a few minutes he had plenty of support. phil was taking his part, and shielding him from many blows. firth had got lamb out of the hole, and the party against the tormentors was now so strong that they began to part off till the struggle ceased. firth kept his grasp of the spade; for lamb's passion still ran so high that there was no saying what might be the consequences of leaving any dangerous weapon within his reach. he was still fuming and stamping, hugh gazing at him the while in wonder and fear. "there stands your defender, lamb," said firth, "thinking he never saw a boy in a passion before. come, have done with it for his sake: be a man, as he is. here, help me to fill up this hole--both of you. stamp down the earth, lamb. tread it well--tread your anger well down into it. think of this little friend of yours here--a crofton boy only yesterday." lamb did help to fill the hole, but he did not say a word--not one word to anybody till the dinner-bell rang. then, at the pump, where the party were washing their hot and dirty and bruised hands, he held out his hand to hugh, muttering, with no very good grace-- "i don't know what made you help me, but i will never be in a passion with you;--unless you put me out, that is." hugh replied that he had come to help because he never could bear to see anybody _made worse_. he always tried at home to keep the little boys and girls off "drunk old tom," as he was called in the neighbourhood. it was such a shame to make anybody worse! lamb looked as if he was going to fly at hugh now: but firth put his arm round hugh's neck, and drew him into the house, saying in his ear-- "don't say any more that you have no friends here. you have me for one; and you might have had another--two in one morning--but for your plain speaking about drunk old tom." "did i say any harm?" "no--no harm," replied firth, laughing. "you will do, my boy--when you have got through a few scrapes. i'm your friend, at any rate." chapter six. first ramble. hugh's afternoon lessons were harder than those of the morning; and in the evening he found he had so much to do that there was very little time left for writing his letter home. some time there was, however; and firth did not forget to rule his paper, and to let hugh use his ink. hugh had been accustomed to copy the prints he found in the voyages and travels he read; and he could never see a picture of a savage but he wanted to copy it. he was thus accustomed to a pretty free use of his slate-pencil. he now thought that it would save a great deal of description if he sent a picture or two in his letter: so he flourished off, on the first page, a sketch of mr tooke sitting at his desk at the top of the school, and of mr carnaby standing at his desk at the bottom of the school. the next evening he made haste to fill up the sheet, for he found his business increasing upon his hands so fast that he did not know when he should get his letter off, if he did not despatch it at once. he was just folding it up when tom holt observed that it was a pity not to put some words into the mouths of the figures, to make them more animated; and he showed hugh, by the curious carvings of their desks, how to put words into the mouths of figures. hugh then remembered having seen this done in the caricatures in the print-shops in london; and he seized on the idea. he put into mr tooke's mouth the words which were oftenest heard from him, "proceed, gentlemen;" and into mr carnaby's, "hold your din." firth was too busy with his sense-verses to mind the little boys, as they giggled, with their heads close together, over hugh's sheet of paper; but the usher was never too busy to be aware of any fun which might possibly concern his dignity. he had his eye on the new boys the whole while. he let hugh direct his letter, and paint up a stroke or two which did not look so well as the rest; and it was not till hugh was rolling the wafer about on his tongue that he interfered. mr carnaby then came up, tapped hugh's head, told him not to get on so fast, for that every letter must be looked over before it went to the post. while saying this, he took the letter, and put it into his waistcoat pocket. in vain hugh begged to have it again, saying he would write another. the more he begged, and the more dismayed tom holt looked, the less mr carnaby would attend to either. firth let himself be interrupted to hear the case: but he could do nothing in it. it was a general rule, which he thought every boy had known; and it was too late now to prevent the letter being looked over. mr carnaby was so angry at the liberty hugh had taken with his face and figure, that, in spite of all prayers, and a good many tears, he walked up the school with the letter, followed by poor hugh, as soon as mr tooke had taken his seat next morning. hugh thought that holt, who had put him up to the most offensive part of the pictures, might have borne him company; but holt was a timid boy, and he really had not courage to leave his seat. so hugh stood alone, awaiting mr tooke's awful words, while the whole of the first class looked up from their books, in expectation of what was to happen. they waited some time for the master's words; for he was trying to help laughing. he and mr carnaby were so much alike in the pictures, and both so like south sea islanders, that it was impossible to help laughing at the thought of this sketch going abroad as a representation of the crofton masters. at last all parties laughed aloud, and mr tooke handed hugh his wafer-glass, and bade him wafer up his letter, and by all means send it. mr carnaby could not remain offended if his principal was not angry: so here the matter ended, except that hugh made some strong resolutions about his future letters, and that the corners of the master's mouth were seen to be out of their usual order several times in the course of the morning. this incident, and everything which haunted hugh's mind, and engrossed his attention, was a serious evil to him; for his business soon grew to be more than his habit of mind was equal to. in a few days, he learned to envy the boys (and they were almost the whole school) who could fix their attention completely and immediately on the work before them, and relax as completely, when it was accomplished. when his eyes were wandering, they observed boy after boy frowning over his dictionary, or repeating to himself, earnestly and without pause; and presently the business was done, and the learner at ease, feeling confident that he was ready to meet his master. after double the time had passed hugh was still trying to get the meaning of his lesson into his head--going over the same words a dozen times, without gaining any notion of their meaning--suffering, in short from his long habit of inattention at home. he did now try hard; but he seemed to get only headaches for his pains. his brother saw enough to make him very sorry for hugh before ten days were over. he might not, perhaps, have been struck with his anxious countenance, his frequent starts, and his laying his head down on his desk because it ached so, if it had not been for what happened at night. sometimes hugh started out of bed, and began to dress, when the elder boys went up with their light, only an hour after the younger ones. sometimes he would begin saying his syntax in the middle of the night, fancying he was standing before mr carnaby; and once he walked in his sleep as far as the head of the stairs, and then suddenly woke, and could not make out where he was. phil should have told mr tooke of these things; but hugh was so very anxious that nobody should know of his "tricks" (as the boys in his room called his troubles), that phil only mentioned the matter to mrs watson, who had known so many bad sleepers among little boys, and had so little idea that the habit was anything new, that she took scarcely any notice of it. she had his hair cut very short and close, and saw that he took a moderate supper, and was satisfied that all would be well. hugh did not part with his hair till he had joked himself about its length as much as any one could quiz him for it. when he had pulled it down over the end of his nose, and peeped through it, like an owl out of an ivy-bush, he might be supposed to part with it voluntarily, and not because he was laughed at. phil's observation of his brother's toil and trouble led him to give him some help. almost every day he would hear hugh say his lesson--or try to say it; for the poor boy seldom succeeded. phil sometimes called him stupid, and sometimes refrained from saying so, whatever he might think; but there really was very little difference in the result, whether phil heard the lessons beforehand or not; and it gave joe cape a great advantage over phil that he had no little brother to attend to. considering how selfish rivalship is apt to make boys (and even men), it was perhaps no wonder that phil sometimes kept out of hugh's way at the right hour, saying to himself that his proper business was to do his lessons, and get or keep ahead of joe cape; and that hugh must take his chance, and work his own way, as other boys had to do. this conduct might not be wondered at in phil; but it hurt hugh, and made him do his lessons all the worse. he did not like to expose his brother's unkindness to any one, or he would oftener have asked firth to help him. firth, too, had plenty of work of his own to do. more than once, however, firth met the little lad, wandering about, with his grammar in his hand, in search of the hidden phil; and then firth would stop him, and sit down with him, and have patience, and give him such clear explanations, such good examples of the rules he was to learn, that it all became easy, and hugh found his lessons were to him only what those of other boys seemed to them. still, however, and at the best, hugh was, as a learner, far too much at the mercy of circumstances--the victim of what passed before his eyes, or was said within his hearing. boys who find difficulty in attending to their lessons are sure to be more teased with interruptions than any others. holt had not the habit of learning; and he and hugh were continually annoyed by the boys who sat near them watching how they got on, and making remarks upon them. one day, mr tooke was called out of the school-room to a visitor, and mr carnaby went up to take the master's place, and hear his class. this was too good an opportunity for the boys below to let slip; and they began to play tricks,--most of them directed against hugh and tom holt. one boy, warner, began to make the face that always made holt laugh, however he tried to be grave. page drew a caricature of mrs watson on his slate, and held it up; and davison took a mask out of his desk, and even ventured to tie it on, as if it had not been school-time. "i declare i can't learn my lesson--'tis too bad!" cried hugh. "'tis a shame!" said tom holt, sighing for breath after his struggle not to laugh. "we shall never be ready." hugh made gestures of indignation at the boys, which only caused worse faces to be made, and the mask to nod. "we wont look at them," proposed holt. "let us cover our eyes, and not look up at all." hugh put his hands before his eyes; but still his mind's eye saw the grinning mask, and his lesson did not get on. besides, a piece of wet sponge lighted on the very page he was learning from. he looked up fiercely, to see who had thrown it. it was no other than tooke, who belonged to that class:--it was tooke, to judge by his giggle, and his pretending to hide his face, as if ashamed. hugh tossed back the sponge, so as to hit tooke on the nose. then tooke was angry, and threw it again, and the sponge passed backwards and forwards several times: for hugh was by this time very angry,--boiling with indignation at the hardship of not being able to learn his lesson, when he really would if he could. while the sponge was still passing to and fro, mr carnaby's voice was heard from the far end of the room, desiring warner, page, davison, and tooke to be quiet, and let the boys alone till mr tooke came in, when mr tooke would take his own measures. hugh, wondering how mr carnaby knew, at that distance, what was going on, found that holt was no longer by his side. in a moment, holt returned to his seat, flushed and out of breath. a very slight hiss was heard from every form near, as he came down the room. "o! holt! you have been telling tales!" cried hugh. "telling tales!" exclaimed holt, in consternation, for holt knew nothing of school ways. "i never thought of that. they asked me to tell mr carnaby that we could not learn our lessons." "they! who? i am sure i never asked you." "no; you did not: but harvey and prince did,--and gillingham. they said mr carnaby would soon make those fellows quiet; and they told me to go." "you hear! they are calling you `tell-tale.' that will be your name now. oh, holt! you should not have told tales. however, i will stand by you," hugh continued, seeing the terror that holt was in. "i meant no harm," said holt, trembling. "was not it a shame that they would not let us learn our lessons?" "yes, it was--but--" at this moment mr tooke entered the room. as he passed the forms, the boys were all bent over their books, as if they could think of nothing else. mr tooke walked up the room to his desk, and mr carnaby walked down the room to _his_ desk; and then mr carnaby said, quite aloud,-- "mr tooke, sir." "well." here holt sprang from his desk, and ran to the usher, and besought him not to say a word about what warner's class had been doing. he even hung on mr carnaby's arm in entreaty; but mr carnaby shook him off, and commanded him back to his seat. then the whole school heard mr tooke told about the wry faces and the mask, and the trouble of the little boys. mr tooke was not often angry; but when he was, his face grew white, and his lips trembled. his face was white now. he stood up, and called before him the little boy who had informed. hugh chose to go with holt, though holt had not gone up with him about the letter, the other day; and holt felt how kind this was. mr tooke desired to know who the offenders were; and as they were named, he called to them to stand up in their places. then came the sentence. mr tooke would never forgive advantage being taken of his absence. if there were boys who could not be trusted while his back was turned, they must be made to remember him when he was out of sight, by punishment. page must remain in school after hours, to learn twenty lines of virgil; davison twenty; tooke forty-- here everybody looked round to see how tooke bore his father being so angry with him. "please, sir," cried one boy, "i saw little proctor throw a sponge at tooke. he did it twice." "never mind!" answered tooke. "i threw it at him first. it is my sponge." "and warner," continued the master, as if he had not heard the interruption, "considering that warner has got off too easily for many pranks of late,--warner seventy." seventy! the idea of having anybody condemned, through him, to learn seventy lines of latin by heart, made holt so miserable that the word seventy seemed really to prick his very ears. though mr tooke's face was still white, holt ventured up to him, "pray, sir--" "not a word of intercession for those boys," said the master. "i will not hear a word in their favour." "then, sir--" "well." "i only want to say, then, that proctor told no tales, sir. i did not mean any harm, sir, but i told because--" "never mind that," cried hugh, afraid that he would now be telling of harvey, prince, and gillingham, who had persuaded him to go up. "i have nothing to do with that. that is your affair," said the master, sending the boys back to their seats. poor holt had cause to rue this morning, for long after. he was weary of the sound of hissing, and of the name "tell-tale;" and the very boys who had prompted him to go up were at first silent, and then joined against him. he complained to hugh of the difficulty of knowing what it was right to do. he had been angry on hugh's account chiefly; and he still thought it _was_ very unjust to hinder their lessons, when they wished not to be idle: and yet they were all treating him as if he had done something worse than the boys with the mask. hugh thought all this was true: but he believed it was settled among schoolboys (though holt had never had the opportunity of knowing it) that it was a braver thing for boys to bear any teasing from one another than to call in the power of the master to help. a boy who did that was supposed not to be able to take care of himself; and for this he was despised, besides being disliked, for having brought punishment upon his companions. holt wished hugh had not been throwing sponges at the time:--he wished hugh had prevented his going up. he would take good care how he told tales again. "you had better say so," advised hugh; "and then they will see that you had never been at school, and did not know how to manage." the first saturday had been partly dreaded, and partly longed for, by hugh. he had longed for the afternoon's ramble; but saturday morning was the time for saying tables, among other things. nothing happened as he had expected. the afternoon was so rainy that there was no going out; and, as for the tables, he was in a class of five; and "four times seven" did not come to him in regular course. eight times seven did, and he said "fifty-six" with great satisfaction, mr carnaby asked him afterwards the dreaded question, but he was on his guard; and as he answered it right, and the usher had not found out the joke, he hoped he should hear no more of the matter. the next saturday was fine, and at last he was to have the walk he longed for. the weekly repetitions were over, dinner was done, mr carnaby appeared with his hat on, the whole throng burst into the open air, and out of bounds, and the new boys were wild with expectation and delight. when they had passed the churchyard and the green, and were wading through the sandy road which led up to the heath, firth saw hugh running and leaping hither and thither, not knowing what to do with his spirits. firth called him, and putting his arm round hugh's neck, so as to keep him prisoner, said he did not know how he might want his strength before he got home, and he had better not spend it on a bit of sandy road. so hugh was made to walk quietly, and gained his breath before the breezy heath was reached. on the way, he saw that a boy of the name of dale, whom he had never particularly observed before, was a good deal teased by some boys who kept crossing their hands before them, and curtseying like girls, talking in a mincing way, and calling one another amelia, with great affectation. dale tried to get away, but he was followed, whichever way he turned. "what do they mean by that?" inquired hugh of firth. "dale has a sister at a school not far off, and her name is amelia; and she came to see him to-day. ah! you have not found out yet that boys are laughed at about their sisters, particularly if the girls have fine names." "what a shame!" cried hugh; words which he had used very often already since he came to crofton. he broke from firth, ran up to dale, and said to him, in a low voice, "i have two sisters, and one of them is called agnes." "don't let them come to see you, then, or these fellows will quiz you as they do me. as if i could help having a sister amelia!" "why, you are not sorry for that? you would not wish your sister dead, or not born, would you?" "no; but i wish she was not hereabouts: that is, i wish she had not come up to the pales, with the maid-servant behind her, for everybody to see. and then, when mr tooke sent us into the orchard together, some spies were peeping over the wall at us all the time." "i only wish agnes would come," cried hugh, "and i would--" "ah! you think so now; but depend upon it, you would like much better to see her at home. why, her name is finer than my sister's! i wonder what girls ever have such names for!" "i don't see that these names are finer than some boys' names. there's frazer, is not his name colin? and then there's hercules fisticuff--" "why, you know--to be sure you know that is a nick-name?" said dale. "is it? i never thought of that," replied hugh. "what is his real name?" "samuel jones. however, there is colin frazer--and fry, his name is augustus adolphus; i will play them off the next time they quiz amelia. how old is your sister agnes?" then the two boys wandered off among the furze bushes, talking about their homes; and in a little while they had so opened their hearts to each other, that they felt as if they had always been friends. nobody thought any more about them when once the whole school was dispersed over the heath. some boys made for a hazel copse, some way beyond the heath, in hopes of finding a few nuts already ripe. others had boats to float on the pond. a large number played leap-frog, and some ran races. mr carnaby threw himself down on a soft couch of wild thyme, on a rising ground, and took out his book. so dale and hugh felt themselves unobserved, and they chatted away at a great rate. not but that an interruption or two did occur. they fell in with a flock of geese, and hugh did not much like their appearance, never having heard a goose make a noise before. he had eaten roast goose, and he had seen geese in the feathers at the poulterers'; but he had never seen them alive, and stretching their necks at passengers. he flinched at the first moment. dale, who never imagined that a boy who was not afraid of his schoolfellows could be afraid of geese, luckily mistook the movement, and said, "ay, get a switch,--a bunch of furze will do, and we will be rid of the noisy things." he drove them away, and hugh had now learned, for ever, how much noise geese can make, and how little they are to be feared. they soon came upon some creatures which were larger and stronger, and with which hugh was no better acquainted. some cows were grazing, or had been grazing, till a party of boys came up. they were now restless, moving uneasily about, so that dale himself hesitated for a moment which way to go. lamb was near,--the passionate boy, who was nobody's friend, and who was therefore seldom at play with others. he was also something of a coward, as any one might know from his frequent bullying. he and holt happened to be together at this time; and it was their appearance of fright at the restless cows which frightened hugh. one cow at last began to trot towards them at a pretty good rate. lamb ran off to the right, and the two little boys after him, though dale pulled at hugh's hand to make him stand still, as dale chose to do himself. he pulled in vain--hugh burst away, and off went the three boys, over the hillocks and through the furze, the cow trotting at some distance behind. they did not pause till lamb had led them off the heath into a deep lane, different from the one by which they had come. the cow stopped at a patch of green grass, just at the entrance of the hollow way; and the runners therefore could take breath. "now we are here," said lamb, "i will show you a nice place,--a place where we can get something nice. how thirsty i am!" "and so am i," declared holt, smacking his dry tongue. hugh's mouth was very dry too, between the run and the fright. "well, then, come along with me, and i will show you," said lamb. hugh thought they ought not to go farther from the heath: but lamb said they would get back by another way,--through a gate belonging to a friend of his. they could not get back the way they came, because the cow was there still. he walked briskly on till they came to a cottage, over whose door swung a sign; and on the sign was a painting of a bottle and a glass, and a heap of things which were probably meant for cakes, as there were cakes in the window. here lamb turned in, and the woman seemed to know him well. she smiled, and closed the door behind the three boys, and asked them to sit down: but lamb said there was no time for that to-day,--she must be quick. he then told the boys that they would have some ginger-beer. "but may we?" asked the little boys. "to be sure; who is to prevent us? you shall see how you like ginger-beer when you are thirsty." the woman declared that it was the most wholesome thing in the world; and if the young gentleman did not find it so, she would never ask him to taste her ginger-beer again. hugh thanked them both; but he did not feel quite comfortable. he looked at holt, to find out what he thought: but holt was quite engrossed with watching the woman untwisting the wire of the first bottle. the cork did not fly; indeed there was some difficulty in getting it out: so lamb waived his right, as the eldest, to drink first; and the little boys were so long in settling which should have it, that the little spirit there was had all gone off before hugh began to drink; and he did not find ginger-beer such particularly good stuff as lamb had said. he would have liked a drink of water better. the next bottle was very brisk: so lamb seized upon it; and the froth hung round his mouth when he had done: but holt was no better off with his than hugh had been. they were both urged to try their luck again. hugh would not: but holt did once; and lamb, two or three times. then the woman offered them some cakes upon a plate: and the little boys thanked her, and took each one. lamb put some in his pocket, and advised the others to do the same, as they had no time to spare. he kept some room in his pocket, however, for some plums; and told the boys that they might carry theirs in their handkerchiefs, or in their caps, if they would take care to have finished before they came within sight of the usher. he then asked the woman to let them out upon the heath through her garden gate; and she said she certainly would when they had paid. she then stood drumming with her fingers upon the table, and looking through the window, as if waiting. "come, proctor, you have half-a-crown," said lamb. "out with it!" "my half-crown!" exclaimed proctor. "you did not say i had anything to pay." "as if you did not know that, without my telling you! you don't think people give away their good things, i suppose! come,--where's your half-crown? my money is all at home." holt had nothing with him either. lamb asked the woman what there was to pay. she seemed to count and consider; and holt told hugh afterwards that he saw lamb wink at her. she then said that the younger gentlemen had had the most plums and cakes. the charge was a shilling a piece for them, and sixpence for master lamb:--half-a-crown exactly. hugh protested he never meant anything like this, and that he wanted part of his half-crown to buy a comb with; and he would have emptied out the cakes and fruit he had left; but the woman stopped him, saying that she never took back what she had sold. lamb hurried him, too, declaring that their time was up; and he even thrust his finger and thumb into hugh's inner pocket, and took out the half-crown, which he gave to the woman. he was sure that hugh could wait for his comb till holt paid him, and the woman said she did not see that any more combing was wanted: the young gentleman's hair looked so pretty as it was. she then showed them through the garden, and gave them each a marigold full-blown. she unlocked her gate, pushed them through, locked it behind them, and left them to hide their purchases as well as they could. though the little boys stuffed their pockets till the ripest plums burst, and wetted the linings, they could not dispose of them all; and they were obliged to give away a good many. hugh went in search of his new friend, and drew him aside from the rest to relate his trouble. dale wondered he had not found out lamb before this, enough to refuse to follow his lead. lamb would never pay a penny. he always spent the little money he had upon good things, the first day or two; and then he got what he could out of any one who was silly enough to trust him. "but," said hugh, "the only thing we had to do with each other before was by my being kind to him." "that makes no difference," said dale. "but what a bad boy he must be! to be sure, he will pay me, when he knows how much i want a comb." "he will tell you to buy it out of your five shillings. you let him know you had five shillings in mrs watson's hands." "yes; but he knows how i mean to spend that,--for presents to carry home at christmas. but i'll never tell him anything again. oh! dale! do you really think he will never pay me?" "he never pays anybody; that is all i know. come,--forget it all, as fast as you can. let us go and see if we can get any nuts." hugh did not at all succeed in his endeavours to forget his adventure. the more he thought about it, the worse it seemed; and the next time he spoke to holt, and told him to remember that he owed him a shilling, holt said he did not know that,--he did not mean to spend a shilling; and it was clear that it was only his fear of hugh's speaking to mrs watson or the usher, that prevented his saying outright that he should not pay it. hugh felt very hot, and bit his lip to make his voice steady when he told dale, on the way home, that he did not believe he should ever see any part of his half-crown again. dale thought so too; but he advised him to do nothing more than keep the two debtors up to the remembrance of their debt. if he told so powerful a person as firth, it would be almost as much tale-telling as if he went to the master at once; and hugh himself had no inclination to expose his folly to phil, who was already quite sufficiently ashamed of his inexperience. so poor hugh threw the last of his plums to some cottager's children on the green, in his way home; and, when he set foot within bounds again, he heartily wished that this saturday afternoon had been rainy too; for any disappointment would have been better than this scrape. while learning his lessons for monday, he forgot the whole matter; and then he grew merry over the great saturday night's washing; but after he was in bed, it flashed upon him that he should meet uncle and aunt shaw in church to-morrow, and they would speak to phil and him after church; and his uncle might ask after the half-crown. he determined not to expose his companions, at any rate: but his uncle would be displeased; and this thought was so sad that hugh cried himself to sleep. his uncle and aunt were at church the next morning; and hugh could not forget the ginger-beer, or help watching his uncle: so that, though he tried several times to attend to the sermon; he knew nothing about it when it was done. his uncle observed in the churchyard that they must have had a fine ramble the day before; but did not say anything about pocket-money. neither did he name a day for his nephews to visit him, though he said they must come before the days grew much shorter. so hugh thought he had got off very well thus far. in the afternoon, however, mrs watson, who invited him and holt into her parlour, to look over the pictures in her great bible, was rather surprised to find how little hugh could tell her of the sermon, considering how much he had remembered the sunday before. she had certainly thought that to-day's sermon had been the simpler, and the more interesting to young people, of the two. her conversation with hugh did him good, however. it reminded him of his mother's words, and of her expectations from him; and it made him resolve to bear, not only his loss, but any blame which might come upon him silently, and without betraying anybody. he had already determined, fifty times within the twenty-four hours, never to be so weakly led again, when his own mind was doubtful, as he had felt it all the time from leaving the heath to getting back to it again. he began to reckon on the christmas holidays, when he should have five weeks at home, free from the evils of both places,--from lessons with miss harold, and from crofton scrapes. it is probable that the whole affair would have passed over quietly, and the woman in the lane might have made large profits by other inexperienced boys, and mr carnaby might have gone on being careless as to where the boys went out of his sight on saturdays, but that tom holt ate too many plums on the present occasion. on sunday morning he was not well; and was so ill by the evening, and all monday, that he had to be regularly nursed; and when he left his bed, he was taken to mrs watson's parlour,--the comfortable, quiet place where invalid boys enjoyed themselves. poor holt was in very low spirits; and mrs watson was so kind that he could not help telling her that he owed a shilling, and he did not know how he should ever pay it; and that hugh proctor, who had been his friend till now, seemed on a sudden much more fond of dale; and this made it harder to be in debt to him. the wet, smeared lining of the pockets had told mrs watson already that there had been some improper indulgence in good things; and when she heard what part lamb had played towards the little boys, she thought it right to tell mr tooke. mr tooke said nothing till holt was in the school again, which was on thursday; and not then till the little boys had said their lessons, at past eleven o'clock. they were drawing on their slates, and lamb was still mumbling over his book, without getting on, when the master's awful voice was heard, calling up before him lamb, little proctor, and holt. all three started, and turned red; so that the school concluded them guilty before it was known what they were charged with. dale knew,--and he alone; and very sorry he was, for the intimacy between hugh and him had grown very close indeed since saturday. the master was considerate towards the younger boys. he made lamb tell the whole. even when the cowardly lad "bellowed" (as his school-fellows called his usual mode of crying) so that nothing else could be heard, mr tooke waited, rather than question the other two. when the whole story was extracted, in all its shamefulness, from lamb's own lips, the master expressed his disgust. he said nothing about the money part of it--about how hugh was to be paid. he probably thought it best for the boys to take the consequences of their folly in losing their money. he handed the little boys over to mr carnaby to be caned--"to make them remember," as he said; though they themselves were pretty sure they should never forget. lamb was kept to be punished by the master himself. though lamb knew he should be severely flogged, and though he was the most cowardly boy in the school, he did not suffer so much as hugh did in the prospect of being caned--being punished at all. phil, who knew his brother's face well, saw, as he passed down the room, how miserable he was--too miserable to cry; and phil pulled him by the sleeve, and whispered that being caned was nothing to mind--only a stroke or two across the shoulders. hugh shook his head, as much as to say, "it is not that." no--it was not the pain. it was the being punished in open school, and when he did not feel that he deserved it. how should he know where lamb was taking him? how should he know that the ginger-beer was to be paid for, and that he was to pay? he felt himself injured enough already: and now to be punished in addition! he would have died on the spot for liberty to tell mr tooke and everybody what he thought of the way he was treated. he had felt his mother hard sometimes; but what had she ever done to him compared with this? it was well he thought of his mother. at the first moment, the picture of home in his mind nearly made him cry--the thing of all others he most wished to avoid while so many eyes were on him; but the remembrance of what his mother expected of him--her look when she told him _he must not fail_, gave him courage. hard as it was to be, as he believed, unjustly punished, it was better than having done anything very wrong--anything that he really could not have told his mother. mr carnaby foresaw that a rebuke was in store for him for his negligence during the walk on saturday; and this anticipation did not sweeten his mood. he kept the little boys waiting, though holt was trembling very much, and still weak from his illness. it occurred to the usher that another person might be made uncomfortable; and he immediately acted on the idea. he had observed how fond of one another dale and hugh had become; and he thought he would plague dale a little. he therefore summoned him, and desired him to go, and bring him a switch, to cane these boys with. "i have broken my cane; so bring me a stout switch," said he. "bring me one out of the orchard; one that will lay on well--one that will not break with a good hard stroke;--mind what i say--one that will not break." "yes, sir," replied dale, readily; and he went as if he was not at all unwilling. holt shivered. hugh never moved. it was long, very long, before dale returned. when he did, he brought a remarkably stout broomstick. "this won't break, i think, sir," said he. the boys giggled. mr carnaby knuckled dale's head as he asked him if he called that a switch. "bring me a _switch_" said he. "one that is not too stout, or else it will not sting. it must sting, remember,--sting well. not too stout, remember." "yes, sir," said dale; and away he went again. he was now gone yet longer; and by the time he returned everybody's eyes were fixed on the door, to see what sort of a switch would next appear. dale entered, bringing a straw. "i think this will not be too stout, sir." everybody laughed but hugh--even holt. there was that sneer about mr carnaby's nose which made everybody sorry now for dale: but everybody started, mr carnaby and all, at mr tooke's voice, close at hand. how much he had seen and heard, there was no knowing; but it was enough to make him look extremely stern. "are these boys not caned yet, mr carnaby?" "no, sir:--i have not--i--" "have they been standing here all this while?" "yes, sir. i have no cane, sir. i have been sending--" "i ordered them an immediate caning, mr carnaby, and not mental torture. school is up," he declared to the boys at large. "you may go--you have been punished enough," he said to the little boys. "mr carnaby, have the goodness to remain a moment." and the large room was speedily emptied of all but the master, the usher, and poor lamb. "the usher will catch it now," observed some boys, as the master himself shut the door behind them. "he will get well paid for his spite." "what will be done to him?" asked hugh of dale, whom he loved fervently for having saved him from punishment. "oh, i don't know; and i don't care--though he was just going to give my head some sound raps against the wall, if mr tooke had not come up at the moment." "but what _will_ be done to mr carnaby?" "never mind what: he won't be here long, they say. fisher says there is another coming; and carnaby is here only till that other is at liberty." this was good news, if true: and hugh ran off, quite in spirits, to play. he had set himself diligently to learn to play, and would not be driven off; and dale had insisted on fair scope for him. he played too well to be objected to any more. they now went to leap-frog; and when too hot to keep it up any longer, he and dale mounted into the apple-tree to talk, while they were cooling, and expecting the dinner-bell. something happened very wonderful before dinner. the gardener went down to the main road, and seemed to be looking out. at last he hailed the london coach. hugh and dale could see from their perch. the coach stopped, the gardener ran back, met mr carnaby under the chestnuts, relieved him of his portmanteau, and helped him to mount the coach. "is he going? gone for good?" passed from mouth to mouth, all over the playground. "gone for good," was the answer of those who knew to a certainty. the boys set up first a groan, so loud that perhaps the departing usher heard it. then they gave a shout of joy, in which the little boys joined with all their might--hugh waving his cap in the apple-tree. chapter seven. what is only to be had at home. hugh got on far better with his lessons as he grew more intimate with dale. it was not so much that dale helped him with his grammar and construing (for dale thought every boy should make shift to do his own business) as that he liked to talk about his work, even with a younger boy; and so, as he said, clear his head. a great deal that he said was above hugh's comprehension; and much of his repetitions mere words: but there were other matters which fixed hugh's attention, and proved to him that study might be interesting out of school. when dale had a theme to write, the two boys often walked up and down the playground for half an hour together, talking the subject over, and telling of anything they had heard or read upon it. hugh presently learned the names and the meanings of the different parts of a theme; and he could sometimes help with an illustration or example, though he left it to his friend to lay down the proposition, and search out the confirmation. dale's nonsense-verses were perfect nonsense to hugh: but his construing was not: and when he went over it aloud, for the purpose of fixing his lesson in his ear, as well as his mind, hugh was sorry when they arrived at the end, and eager to know what came next,--particularly if they had to stop in the middle of a story of ovid's. every week, almost every day now, made a great difference in hugh's school-life. he still found his lessons very hard work, and was often in great fear and pain about them,--but he continually perceived new light breaking in upon his mind: his memory served him better; the little he had learned came when he wanted it, instead of just a minute too late. he rose in the morning with less anxiety about the day: and when playing, could forget school. there was no usher yet in mr carnaby's place; and all the boys said their lessons to mr tooke himself: which hugh liked very much, when he had got over the first fear. a writing-master came from a distance twice a week, when the whole school was at writing and arithmetic all the afternoon: but every other lesson was said to the master; and this was likely to go on till christmas, as the new usher, of whom, it was said, mr tooke thought so highly as to choose to wait for him, could not come before that time. of course, with so much upon his hands, mr tooke had not a moment to spare; and slow or idle boys were sent back to their desks at the first trip or hesitation in their lessons. hugh was afraid, at the outset, that he should be like poor lamb, who never got a whole lesson said during these weeks: and he was turned down sometimes; but not often enough to depress him. he learned to trust more to his ear and his memory: his mind became excited, as in playing a game: and he found he got through, he scarcely knew how. his feeling of fatigue afterwards proved to him that this was harder work than he had ever done at home; but he did not feel it so at the time. when he could learn a lesson in ten minutes, and say it in one; when he began to use latin phrases in his private thoughts, and saw the meaning of a rule of syntax, so as to be able to find a fresh example out of his own head, he felt himself really a crofton boy, and his heart grew light within him. the class to which hugh belonged was one day standing waiting to be heard, when the master was giving a subject and directions for an english theme to dale's class. the subject was the pleasures of friendship. in a moment hugh thought of damon and pythias, and of david and jonathan,--of the last of whom there was a picture in mrs watson's great bible. he thought how happy he had been since he had known dale, and his heart was in such a glow, he was sure he could write a theme. he ran after mr tooke when school was over, and asked whether he might write a theme with dale's class. when mr tooke found he knew what was meant by writing a theme, he said he might try, if he neglected nothing for it, and wrote every word of it himself, without consultation with any one. hugh scampered away to tell dale that they must not talk over this theme together, as they were both to do it; and then, instead of playing, he went to his desk, and wrote upon his slate till it was quite full. he had to borrow two slates before he had written all he had to say. phil ruled his paper for him; but before he had copied one page, his neighbours wanted their slates back again,--said they must have them, and rubbed out all he had written. much of the little time he had was lost in this way, and he grew wearied. he thought at first that his theme would be very beautiful: but he now began to doubt whether it would be worth anything at all; and he was vexed to have tired himself with doing what would only make him laughed at. the first page was well written out,--the confirmation being properly separated from the proposition: but he had to write all the latter part directly from his head upon the paper, as the slates were taken away; and he forgot to separate the conclusion from the inference. he borrowed a penknife, and tried to scratch out half a line; but he only made a hole in the paper, and was obliged to let the line stand. then he found he had strangely forgotten to put in the chief thing of all,--about friends telling one another of their faults,--though, on consideration, he was not sure that this was one of the pleasures of friendship: so, perhaps, it did not much matter. but there were two blots; and he had left out jonathan's name, which had to be interlined. altogether, it had the appearance of a very bad theme. firth came and looked over his shoulder, as he was gazing at it; and firth offered to write it out for him; and even thought it would be fair, as he had had nothing to do with the composition: but hugh could not think it would be fair, and said, sighing, that his must take its chance. he did not think he could have done a theme so very badly. mr tooke beckoned him up with dale's class, when they carried up their themes; and, seeing how red his face was, the master bade him not be afraid. but how could he help being afraid? the themes were not read directly. it was mr tooke's practice to read them out of school-hours. on this occasion, judgment was given the last thing before school broke up the next morning. hugh had never been more astonished in his life. mr tooke praised his theme very much, and said it had surprised him. he did not mind the blots and mistakes, which would, he said, have been great faults in a copy-book, but were of less consequence than other things in a theme. time and pains would correct slovenliness of that kind; and the thoughts and language were good. hugh was almost out of his wits with delight; so nearly so that he spoiled his own pleasure completely. he could not keep his happiness to himself, or his vanity: for hugh had a good deal of vanity,--more than he was aware of before this day. he told several boys what mr tooke had said: but he soon found that would not do. some were indifferent, but most laughed at him. then he ran to mrs watson's parlour, and knocked. nobody answered; for the room was empty: so hugh sought her in various places, and at last found her in the kitchen, boiling some preserves. "what do you come here for? this is no place for you," said she, when the maids tried in vain to put hugh out. "i only want to tell you one thing," cried hugh; and he repeated exactly what mr tooke had said of his theme. mrs watson laughed, and the maids laughed, and hugh left them, angry with them, but more angry with himself. they did not care for him,--nobody cared for him, he said to himself; he longed for his mother's look or approbation when he had done well, and agnes' pleasure, and even susan's fondness and praise. he sought dale. dale was in the midst of a game, and had not a word or look to spare till it was over. the boys would have admitted hugh; for he could now play as well as anybody; but he was in no mood for play now. he climbed his tree, and sat there, stinging his mind with the thought of his having carried his boastings into the kitchen, and with his recollection of mrs watson's laugh. it often happened that firth and hugh met at this tree; and it happened now. there was room for both; and firth mounted, and read for some time. at last he seemed to be struck by hugh's restlessness and heavy sighs; and he asked whether he had not got something to amuse himself with. "no. i don't want to amuse myself," said hugh, stretching so as almost to throw himself out of the tree. "why, what's the matter? did you not come off well with your theme? i heard somebody say you were quite enough set up about it." "where is the use of doing a thing well, if nobody cares about it?" said hugh. "i don't believe anybody at crofton cares a bit about me--cares whether i get on well or ill--except dale. if i take pains and succeed, they only laugh at me." "ah! you don't understand school and schoolboys yet," replied firth. "to do a difficult lesson well is a grand affair at home, and the whole house knows of it. but it is the commonest thing in the world here. if you learn to feel with these boys, instead of expecting them to feel with you (which they cannot possibly do), you will soon find that they care for you accordingly." hugh shook his head. "you will find it in every school in england," continued firth, "that it is not the way of boys to talk about feelings--about anybody's feelings. that is the reason why they do not mention their sisters or their mothers--except when two confidential friends are together, in a tree, or by themselves in the meadows. but, as sure as ever a boy is full of action--if he tops the rest at play--holds his tongue, or helps others generously--or shows a manly spirit without being proud of it, the whole school is his friend. you have done well, so far, by growing more and more sociable; but you will lose ground if you boast about your lessons out of school. to prosper at crofton, you must put off home, and make yourself a crofton boy." "i don't care about that," said hugh. "i give it all up. there is nothing but injustice here." "nothing but injustice! pray, am i unjust?" "no--not you--not so far. but--" "is mr tooke unjust?" "yes--very." "pray how, and when?" "he has been so unjust to me, that if it had not been for something, i could not have borne it. i am not going to tell you what that something is: only you need not be afraid but that i can bear everything. if the whole world was against me--" "well, never mind what that something is; but tell me how mr tooke is unjust to you." "he punished me when i did not deserve it; and he praised me when i did not deserve it. i was cheated and injured that saturday; and, instead of seeing me righted, mr tooke ordered me to be punished. and to-day, when my theme was so badly done that i made sure of being blamed, he praised me." "this might be injustice at home," replied firth, "because parents know, or ought to know, all that is in their children's minds, and exactly what their children can do. a schoolmaster can judge only by what he sees. mr tooke does not know yet that you could have done your theme better than you did--as your mother would have known. when he finds you can do better, he will not praise such a theme again. meantime, how you can boast of his praise, if you think it unjust, is the wonder to me." "so it is to me now. i wish i had never asked to do that theme at all," cried hugh, again stretching himself to get rid of his shame. "but why did mr tooke order me to be caned? why did he not make lamb and holt pay me what they owe? i was injured before: and he injured me more." "you were to be caned because you left the heath and entered a house without leave--not because you had been cheated of your money." "but i did not know where i was going. i never meant to enter a house." "but you did both; and what you suffered will prevent your letting yourself be led into such a scrape again. as for the money part of the matter--a school is to boys what the world is when they become men. they must manage their own affairs among themselves. the difference is, that here is the master to be applied to, if we choose. he will advise you about your money, if you choose to ask him: but, for my part, i would rather put up with the loss, if i were you." "nobody will ever understand what i mean about justice," muttered hugh. "suppose," said firth, "while you are complaining of injustice in this way, somebody else should be complaining in the same way of your injustice." "nobody can--fairly," replied hugh. "do you see that poor fellow, skulking there under the orchard-wall?" "what, holt?" "yes, holt. i fancy the thought in his mind at this moment is that you are the most unjust person at crofton." "i! unjust!" "yes; so he thinks. when you first came, you and he were companions. you found comfort in each other while all the rest were strangers to you. you were glad to hear, by the hour together, what he had to tell you about india, and his voyages and travels. now he feels himself lonely and forsaken, while he sees you happy with a friend. he thinks it hard that you should desert him because he owes you a shilling, when he was cheated quite as much as you." "because he owes me a shilling!" cried hugh, starting to his feet, "as if--" once more he had nearly fallen from his perch. firth caught him; and then asked him how holt should think otherwise than as he did, since hugh had been his constant companion up to that saturday afternoon, and had hardly spoken to him since. hugh protested that the shilling had nothing to do with the matter; and he never meant to take more than sixpence from holt, because he thought lamb was the one who ought to pay the shilling. the thing was, he did not, and could not, like holt half so well as dale. he could not make a friend of holt, because he wanted spirit--he had no courage. what could he do? he could not pretend to be intimate with holt when he did not like him; and if he explained that the shilling had nothing to do with the matter, he could not explain how it really was, when the fault was in the boy's character, and not in his having given any particular offence. what could he do? firth thought he could only learn not to expect, anywhere out of the bounds of home, what he thought justice. he must, of course, try himself to be just to everybody; but he must make up his mind in school, as men have to do in the world, to be misunderstood--to be wrongly valued; to be blamed when he felt himself the injured one; and praised when he knew he did not deserve it. "but it is so hard," said hugh. "and what do people leave home for but to learn hard lessons?" "but still, if it were not for--" "for what? do you see any comfort under it?" asked firth, fixing his eyes on hugh. hugh nodded, without speaking. "that one understands us who cannot be unjust!" whispered firth. "i am glad you feel that." "even home would be bad enough without that," said hugh. "and what would school be?" "or the world?" added frith. "but do not get cross, and complain again. leave that to those who have no comfort." hugh nodded again. then he got down, and ran to tell holt that he did not want a shilling from him, because he thought sixpence would be fairer. holt was glad to hear this at first; but he presently said that it did not much matter, for that he had no more chance of being able to pay sixpence than a shilling. his parents were in india, and his uncle never offered him any money. he knew indeed that his uncle had none to spare; for he had said in the boy's hearing, that it was hard on him to have to pay the school-bills (unless he might pay them in the produce of his farm), so long as it must be before he could be repaid from india. so holt did not dare to ask for pocket-money; and for the hundredth time he sighed over his debt. he had almost left off hoping that hugh, would excuse him altogether, though everybody knew that hugh had five shillings in mrs watson's hands. this fact and hugh's frequent applications to lamb for payment, had caused an impression that hugh was fond of money. it was not so; and yet the charge was not unfair. hugh was ready to give if properly asked; but he did not relish, and could not bear with temper, the injustice of such a forced borrowing as had stripped him of his half-crown. he wanted his five shillings for presents for his family; and for these reasons, and not because he was miserly, he did not offer to excuse holt's debt; which it would have been more generous to have done. nobody could wish that he should excuse lamb's. "when are you going to your uncle's?" asked holt. "i suppose you _are_ going some day before christmas." "on saturday, to stay till sunday night," said hugh. "and proctor goes too, i suppose?" "yes; of course, phil goes too." "anybody else?" "we are each to take one friend, just for saturday, to come home at night." "oh? then, you will take me. you said you would." "did i? that must have been a long time ago." "but you did say so,--that, whenever you went, you would ask leave to take me." "i don't remember any such thing. and i am going to take dale this time. i have promised him." holt cried with vexation. dale was always in his way. hugh cared for nobody but dale; but dale should not go to mr shaw's till he had had his turn. he had been promised first, and he would go first. he would speak to mrs watson, and get leave to go and tell mrs shaw, and then he was sure mr shaw would let him go. hugh was very uncomfortable. he really could not remember having made this promise: but he could not be sure that he had not. he asked holt if he thought he should like to be in people's way, to spoil the holiday by going where he was not wished for; but this sort of remonstrance did not comfort holt at all. hugh offered that he should have the very next turn, if he would give up now. "i dare say! and when will that be? you know on sunday it will want only nineteen days to the holidays; and you will not be going to your uncle's again this half-year. a pretty way of putting me off!" then, as if a sudden thought had struck him, he cried,-- "but proctor has to take somebody." "yes; phil takes tooke. they settled that a week ago." "oh! can't you ask him to take me?" "no; i shall not meddle with phil. besides, i am glad he has chosen tooke. tooke behaved well to me about the sponge that day. tooke has some spirit." this put holt in mind of the worst of his adventures since he came to crofton, and of all the miseries of being shunned as a tell-tale. he cried so bitterly as to touch hugh's heart. as if thinking aloud, hugh told him that he seemed very forlorn, and that he wished he would find a friend to be intimate with. this would make him so much happier as he had no idea of; as he himself had found since he had had dale for a friend. this naturally brought out a torrent of reproaches, which was followed by a hot argument; holt insisting that hugh ought to have been his intimate friend; and hugh asking how he could make a friend of a boy who wanted spirit. they broke away from one another at last, hugh declaring holt to be unreasonable and selfish, and holt thinking hugh cruel and insulting. of course mrs watson would not hear of holt's going to mr shaw, to ask for an invitation for saturday. he was told he must wait till another time. it was no great consolation to holt that on sunday it would want only nineteen days to the holidays: for he was to remain at crofton. he hoped to like the holidays better than school-days, and to be petted by mrs watson, and to sit by the fire, instead of being forced into the playground in all weathers; but still he could not look forward to christmas with the glee which other boys felt. chapter eight. a long day. hugh, meantime, was counting the hours till saturday. perhaps, if the truth were known, so was phil, though he was too old to acknowledge such a longing. but the climbing about the mill,--the play encouraged there by his uncle and the men,--his uncle's stories within doors, his aunt's good dinners,--the fire-side, the picture-books, the talk of home, altogether made up the greatest treat of the half-year. phil had plenty of ways of passing the time. hugh began a long letter home,--the very last letter, except the short formal one which should declare when the christmas vacation should commence. hugh meant to write half the letter before saturday, and then fill it up with an account of his visit to his uncle's. the days were passed, however, when hugh had the command of his leisure time, as on his arrival, when his hours were apt to hang heavy. he had long since become too valuable in the playground to be left to follow his own devices. as the youngest boy, he was looked upon as a sort of servant to the rest, when once it was found that he was quick and clever. either as scout, messenger, or in some such capacity, he was continually wanted; and often at times inconvenient to himself. he then usually remembered what mr tooke had told him of his boy, when tooke was the youngest,--how he bore things--not only being put on the high wall, but being well worked in the service of the older boys. usually hugh was obliging, but he could and did feel cross at times. he was cross on this friday,--the day when he was so anxious to write his letter before going to his uncle's. on saturday there would be no time. the early mornings were dark now; and after school he should have to wash and dress, and be off to his uncle's. on friday then, his paper was ruled, and he had only to run across the playground to borrow firth's penknife, and then nothing should delay his letter. in that ran across the playground he was stopped. he was wanted to collect clean snow for the boys who were bent on finishing their snow-man while it would bind. he should be let off when he had brought snow enough. but he knew that by that time his fingers would be too stiff to hold his pen; and he said he did not choose to stop now. upon this lamb launched a snowball in his face. hugh grew angry,--or, as his schoolfellows said, insolent. some stood between him and the house, to prevent his getting home, while others promised to roll him in the snow till he yielded full submission. instead of yielding, hugh made for the orchard-wall, scrambled up it, and stood for the moment out of the reach of his enemies. he kicked down such a quantity of snow upon any one who came near, that he held all at bay for some little time. at last, however, he had disposed of all the snow within his reach, and they were pelting him thickly with snow-balls. it was not at any time very easy to stand upright, for long together, upon this wall, as the stones which capped it were rounded. now, when the coping-stones were slippery after the frost, and hugh nearly blinded with the shower of snow-balls, he could not keep his footing, and was obliged to sit astride upon the wall. this brought one foot within reach from below; and though hugh kicked, and drew up his foot as far and as often as he could, so as not to lose his balance, it was snatched at by many hands. at last, one hand kept its hold, and plenty more then fastened upon his leg. they pulled: he clung. in another moment, down he came, and the large, heavy coping-stone, loosened by the frost, came after him, and fell upon his left foot as he lay. it was a dreadful shriek that he gave. mrs watson heard it in her store-room, and mr tooke in his study. some labourers felling a tree in a wood, a quarter of a mile off, heard it, and came running to see what could be the matter. the whole school was in a cluster round the poor boy in a few seconds. during this time, while several were engaged in lifting away the stone, tooke stooped over him, and said, with his lips as white as paper,-- "who was it that pulled you,--that got the first hold of you? was it i? o! say it was not i." "it was you," said hugh. "but never mind! you did not mean it."--he saw that tooke's pain was worse than his own, and he added, in a faint whisper,-- "don't you tell, and then nobody will know. mind you don't!" one boy after another turned away from the sight of his foot, when the stone was removed. tooke fainted, but, then, so did another boy who had nothing to do with the matter. everybody who came up asked who did it; and nobody could answer. tooke did not hear; and so many felt themselves concerned, that no one wished that any answer should be given. "who did it, my dear boy?" asked firth, bending over him. "never mind!" was all hugh could say. he groaned in terrible pain. he must not lie there; but who could touch him? firth did; and he was the right person, as he was one of the strongest. he made two boys pass their handkerchiefs under the leg, and sling it, without touching it; and he lifted hugh, and carried him across his arms towards the house. they met mr tooke, and every person belonging to the household, before they reached the door. "to my bed!" said the master, when he saw: and in an instant the gardener had his orders to saddle mr tooke's horse, and ride to london for an eminent surgeon: stopping by the way to beg mr and mrs shaw to come, and bring with them the surgeon who was their neighbour, mr annanby. "who did it?" "who pulled him down?" passed from mouth to mouth of the household. "he won't tell,--noble fellow," cried firth. "don't ask him. never ask him who pulled him down." "you will never repent it, my dear boy," whispered firth. hugh tried to smile, but he could not help groaning again. there was a suppressed groan from some one else. it was from mr tooke. hugh was sadly afraid he had, by some means, found out who did the mischief. but it was not so. mr tooke was quite wretched enough without that. everybody was very kind, and did the best that could be done. hugh was held up on the side of mr tooke's bed, while mrs watson took off his clothes, cutting the left side of his trousers to pieces, without any hesitation. the master held the leg firmly while the undressing went on; and then poor hugh was laid back, and covered up warm, while the foot was placed on a pillow, with only a light handkerchief thrown over it. it was terrible to witness his pain; but mr tooke never left him all day. he chafed his hands, he gave him drink; he told him he had no doubt his mother would arrive soon; he encouraged him to say or do anything that he thought would give him ease. "cry, my dear," he said, "if you want to cry. do not hide tears from me." "i can't help crying," sobbed hugh: "but it is not the pain,--not only the pain; it is because you are so kind!" "where _is_ phil?" he said at last. "he is so very unhappy, that we think he had better not see you till this pain is over. when you are asleep, perhaps." "oh! when will that be?" and poor hugh rolled his head on the pillow. "george rides fast; he is far on his way by this time," said mr tooke. "and one or other of the surgeons will soon be here; and they will tell us what to do, and what to expect." "do tell phil so,--will you?" mr tooke rang the bell; and the message was sent to phil, with hugh's love. "will the surgeon hurt me much, do you think?" hugh asked. "i will bear it. i only want to know." "i should think you hardly could be in more pain than you are now," replied mr tooke. "i trust they will relieve you of this pain. i should not wonder if you are asleep to-night as quietly as any of us; and then you will not mind what they may have done to you." hugh thought he should mind nothing, if he could ever be asleep again. he was soon asked if he would like to see his uncle and aunt, who were come. he wished to see his uncle; and mr shaw came up, with the surgeon. mr annanby did scarcely anything to the foot at present. he soon covered it up again, and said he would return in time to meet the surgeon who was expected from london. then hugh and his uncle were alone. mr shaw told him how sorry the boys all were, and how they had come in from the playground at once, and put themselves under firth, to be kept quiet; and that very little dinner had been eaten; and that, when the writing-master arrived, he was quite astonished to find everything so still, and the boys so spiritless: but that nobody told him till he observed how two or three were crying, so that he was sure something was the matter. "which? who? who is crying?" asked hugh. "poor phil, and i do not know who else,--not being acquainted with the rest." "how glad i am that dale had nothing to do with it!" said hugh. "he was quite on the other side of the playground." "they tell me below that i must not ask you how it happened." "oh, yes! you may. everything except just who it was that pulled me down. so many got hold of me that nobody knows exactly who gave _the_ pull, except myself and one other. he did not mean it; and i was cross about playing with them; and the stone on the wall was loose or it would not have happened. o dear! o dear! uncle, do you think it a bad accident?" "yes, my boy, a very bad accident." "do you think i shall die? i never thought of that," said hugh. and he raised himself a little, but was obliged to lie back again. "no; i do not think you will die." "will they think so at home? was that the reason they were sent to?" "no: i have no doubt your mother will come to nurse you, and to comfort you: but--" "to comfort me? why, mr tooke said the pain would soon be over, he thought, and i should be asleep to-night." "yes; but though the pain may be over, it may leave you lame. that will be a misfortune; and you will be glad of your mother to comfort you." "lame!" said the boy. then, as he looked wistfully in his uncle's face, he saw the truth. "oh! uncle, they are going to cut off my leg." "not your leg, i hope, hugh. you will not be quite so lame as that: but i am afraid you must lose your foot." "was that what mr tooke meant by the surgeon's relieving me of my pain?" "yes, it was." "then it will be before night. is it quite certain, uncle?" "mr annanby thinks so. your foot is too much hurt ever to be cured. do you think you can bear it, hugh?" "why, yes, i suppose so. so many people have. it is less than some of the savages bear. what horrid things they do to their captives,--and even to some of their own boys! and they bear it." "yes; but you are not a savage." "but one may be as brave, without being a savage. think of the martyrs that were burnt, and some that were worse than burnt! and they bore it." mr shaw perceived that hugh was either in much less pain now, or that he forgot everything in a subject which always interested him extremely. he told his uncle what he had read of the tortures inflicted by savages, till his uncle, already a good deal agitated, was quite sick: but he let him go on, hoping that the boy might think lightly in comparison of what he himself had to undergo. this could not last long, however. the wringing pain soon came back; and as hugh cried, he said he bore it so very badly, he did not know what his mother would say if she saw him. she had trusted him not to fail; but really he could not bear this much longer. his uncle told him that nobody had thought of his having such pain as this to bear: that he had often shown himself a brave little fellow; and he did not doubt that, when this terrible day was over, he would keep up his spirits through all the rest. hugh would have his uncle go down to tea. then he saw a gown and shawl through the curtain, and started up; but it was not his mother yet. it was only mrs watson come to sit with him while his uncle had his tea. tea was over, and the younger boys had all gone up to bed, and the older ones were just going when there was a ring at the gate. it was mrs proctor; and with her the surgeon from london. "mother! never mind, mother!" hugh was beginning to say; but he stopped when he saw her face,--it was so very pale and grave. at least, he thought so; but he saw her only by fire-light; for the candle had been shaded from his eyes, because he could not bear it. she kissed him with a long, long kiss; but she did not speak. "i wish the surgeon had come first," he whispered, "and then they would have had my foot off before you came. when _will_ he come?" "he is here,--they are both here." "oh, then, do make them make haste. mr tooke says i shall go to sleep afterwards. you think so? then we will both go to sleep, and have our talk in the morning. do not stay now,--this pain is _so_ bad,--i can't bear it well at all. do go, now, and bid them make haste, will you?" his mother whispered that she heard he had been a brave boy, and she knew he would be so still. then the surgeons came up, and mr shaw. there was some bustle in the room, and mr shaw took his sister down-stairs, and came up again, with mr tooke. "don't let mother come," said hugh. "no, my boy, i will stay with you," said his uncle. the surgeons took off his foot. as he sat in a chair, and his uncle stood behind him, and held his hands, and pressed his head against him, hugh felt how his uncle's breast was heaving,--and was sure he was crying. in the very middle of it all, hugh looked up in his uncle's face, and said,-- "never mind, uncle! i can bear it." he did bear it finely. it was far more terrible than he had fancied; and he felt that he could not have gone on a minute longer. when it was over, he muttered something, and mr tooke bent down to hear what it was. it was-- "i can't think how the red indians bear things so." his uncle lifted him gently into bed, and told him that he would soon feel easy now. "have you told mother?" asked hugh. "yes; we sent to her directly." "how long did it take?" asked hugh. "you have been out of bed only a few minutes--seven or eight, perhaps." "oh, uncle, you don't mean really?" "really: but we know they seemed like hours to you. now, your mother will bring you some tea. when you have had that, you will go to sleep: so i shall wish you good-night now." "when will you come again?" "very often, till you come to me. not a word more now. good-night." hugh was half asleep when his tea came up, and quite so directly after he had drunk it. though he slept a great deal in the course of the night, he woke often,--such odd feelings disturbed him! every time he opened his eyes, he saw his mother sitting by the fire-side; and every time he moved in the least, she came softly to look. she would not let him talk at all till near morning, when she found that he could not sleep any more, and that he seemed a little confused about where he was,--what room it was, and how she came to be there by fire-light. then she lighted a candle, and allowed him to talk about his friend dale, and several school affairs; and this brought back gradually the recollection of all that had happened. "i don't know what i have been about, i declare," said he, half laughing. but he was soon as serious as ever he was in his life, as he said, "but oh! mother, tell me,--do tell me if i have let out who pulled me off the wall." "you have not,--you have not indeed," replied she. "i shall never ask. i do not wish to know. i am glad you have not told; for it would do no good. it was altogether an accident." "so it was," said hugh; "and it would make the boy so unhappy to be pointed at! do promise me, if i should let it out in my sleep, that you will never, never tell anybody." "i promise you. and i shall be the only person beside you while you are asleep, till you get well. so you need not be afraid.--now, lie still again." she put out the light, and he did lie still for some time; but then he was struck with a sudden thought which made him cry out. "o, mother, if i am so lame, i can never be a soldier or a sailor.--i can never go round the world!" and hugh burst into tears, now more really afflicted than he had been yet. his mother sat on the bed beside him, and wiped away his tears as they flowed, while he told her, as well as his sobs would let him, how long and how much he had reckoned on going round the world, and how little he cared for anything else in the future; and now this was just the very thing he should never be able to do! he had practised climbing ever since he could remember;--and now that was of no use;--he had practised marching, and now he should never march again. when he had finished his complaint, there was a pause, and his mother said-- "hugh, do you remember richard grant?" "what,--the cabinet-maker? the man who carved so beautifully?" "yes. do you remember--no, you could hardly have known: but i will tell you. he had planned a most beautiful set of carvings in wood for a chapel belonging to a nobleman's mansion. he was to be well paid,--his work was so superior; and he would be able to make his parents comfortable, as well as his wife and children. but the thing he most cared for was the honour of producing a noble work which would outlive him. well, at the very beginning of his task, his chisel flew up against his wrist: and the narrow cut that it made,--not more than half an inch wide,--made his right-hand entirely useless for life. he could never again hold a tool;--his work was gone,--his business in life seemed over,--the support of the whole family was taken away--and the only strong wish richard grant had in the world was disappointed." hugh hid his face with his handkerchief, and his mother went on: "you have heard of huber." "the man who found out so much about bees. miss harold read that account to us." "bees and ants. when huber had discovered more than had ever been known before about bees and ants, and when he was sure he could learn more still, and was more and more anxious to peep and pry into their tiny homes, and their curious ways, huber became blind." hugh sighed, and his mother went on: "did you ever hear of beethoven? he was one of the greatest musical composers that ever lived. his great, his sole delight was in music. it was the passion of his life. when all his time and all his mind were given to music, he became deaf--perfectly deaf; so that he never more heard one single note from the loudest orchestra. while crowds were moved and delighted with his compositions, it was all silence to him." hugh said nothing. "now, do you think," asked his mother,--and hugh saw by the grey light that began to shine in, that she smiled--"do you think that these people were without a heavenly parent?" "o no! but were they all patient?" "yes, in their different ways and degrees. would you say that they were hardly treated? or would you rather suppose that their father gave them something more and better to do than they had planned for themselves?" "he must know best, of course: but it does seem hard that that very thing should happen to them. huber would not have so much minded being deaf, perhaps; or that musical man being blind; or richard grant losing his foot, instead of his hand: for he did not want to go round the world." "no doubt their hearts often swelled within them at their disappointments: but i fully believe that they found very soon that god's will was wiser than their wishes. they found, if they bore their trial well, that there was work for their hearts to do, far nobler than any work that the head can do through the eye, and the ear, and the hand. and they soon felt a new and delicious pleasure, which none but the bitterly disappointed can feel." "what is that?" "the pleasure of rousing their souls to bear pain, and of agreeing with god silently, when nobody knows what is in their hearts. there is a great pleasure in the exercise of the body,--in making the heart beat, and the limbs glow, in a run by the sea-side, or a game in the playground; but this is nothing to the pleasure there is in exercising one's soul in bearing pain,--in finding one's heart glow with the hope that one is pleasing god." "shall i feel that pleasure?" "often and often, i have no doubt,--every time that you can willingly give up your wish to be a soldier or a sailor,--or anything else that you have set your mind upon, if you can smile to yourself, and say that you will be content at home.--well, i don't expect it of you yet. i dare say it was long a bitter thing to beethoven to see hundreds of people in raptures with his music, when he could not hear a note of it. and huber--" "but did beethoven get to smile?" "if he did, he was happier than all the fine music in the world could have made him." "i wonder--o! i wonder if i ever shall feel so." "we will pray to god that you may. shall we ask him now?" hugh clasped his hands. his mother kneeled beside the bed, and, in a very few words, prayed that hugh might be able to bear his misfortune well, and that his friends might give him such help and comfort as god should approve. "now, my dear, you will sleep again," she said, as she arose. "if you will lie down too, instead of sitting by the fire. do, mother." she did so; and they were soon both asleep. chapter nine. crofton quiet. the boys were all in the school-room in the grey of the morning;--no one late. mr tooke was already there. almost every boy looked wistfully in the grave face of the master;--almost every one but his own son. he looked down; and it seemed natural: for his eyes were swollen with crying. he had been crying as much as proctor: but, then, so had dale. "your school-fellow is doing well," said mr tooke, in a low voice, which, however, was heard to the farthest end of the room. "his brother will tell you that he saw him quietly asleep; and i have just seen him so. he deserves to do well; for he is a brave little boy. he is the youngest of you; but i doubt whether there is a more manly heart among you all." there was a murmur, as if everybody wished to agree to this. that murmur set phil crying again. "as to how this accident happened," continued the master, "i have only to say this. the coping-stone of the wall was loose,--had become loosened by the frost. of that i am aware. but it would not,--it could not have fallen, if your school-fellow had not been pulled from the top of the wall. several hands pulled him,--as many as could get a hold. whose these hands were, it would be easy to ascertain; and it would not be difficult to discover whose was the hand which first laid hold, and gave the rest their grasp. but--" how earnestly here did every one look for the next words!--"but your school-fellow considers the affair an accident,--says he himself was cross." "no! no! we plagued him," cried many voices. "well! he is sure no one meant him any harm, and earnestly desires that no further inquiry may be made. for his part, nothing, he declares, shall ever induce him to tell who first seized him." the boys were about to give a loud cheer, but stopped, for hugh's sake, just in time. there was no want of signs of what they felt. there was no noise; but there were many tears. "i do not think that a promise of impunity can be any great comfort to those concerned," continued mr tooke: "but such comfort as they can find in it, they may. both from my wish to indulge one who has just sustained so great a misfortune, and because i think he is right, i shall never inquire,--never wish to know more than i do of the origin of this accident. his mother declares the same, on the part of both of his parents. i hope you will every one feel yourselves put upon honour, to follow my example." another general murmur, in sign of agreement. "the only thing you can now do for your school-fellow," concluded the master, "is to be quiet throughout the day. as soon as he can be removed, he will be carried to mr shaw's. till then, you will take care that he loses no rest through you,--now, first class, come up." while this class was up, phil's neighbour began whispering; and the next boy leaned over to hear; and one or two came softly up behind: but, though they were busily engaged in question and answer, the master's stern voice was not heard (as usual when there was talking) to say "silence there!" his class saw him looking that way, once or twice; but he took no notice. phil had seen his brother, and was privileged to tell. "so you saw him! did you get a real good sight of him?" "yes. i stayed some time; half-an-hour, i dare say." "what did he look like? did he say anything?" "say anything!" cried dale: "why, did you not hear he was asleep?" "what did he look like, then?" "he looked as he always does when he is asleep, as far as i could see. but we did not bring the light too near, for fear of waking him." "did you hear--did anybody tell you anything about it?" "yes: my mother told me whatever i wanted to know." "what? what did she tell you?" "she says it will not be so very bad a lameness as it might have been-- as if he had not had his knee left. that makes a great difference. they make a false foot now, very light; and if his leg gets quite properly well, and we are not too much in a hurry, and we all take pains to help hugh to practise walking carefully at first, he may not be very lame." "oh! then, it is not so bad," said one, while tooke, who was listening, gave a deep sigh of relief. "not so bad!" exclaimed phil. "why, he will never be so strong--so able and active as other men. he will never be able to take care of himself and other people. he will be so unlike other people always; and now, while he is a boy, he will never--" the images of poor hugh's privations and troubles as a schoolboy were too much for phil, and he laid down his head on his desk, to hide his grief. as for tooke, he walked away, looking the picture of wretchedness. "when will you see him again?" asked dale, passing his arm round phil's neck. "to-day, if he is pretty well. my mother promised me that." "do you think you could get leave for me too? i would not make any noise, nor let him talk too much, if i might just see him." "i'll see about it," said phil. as mrs proctor was placing the pillows comfortably, for hugh to have his breakfast, after he was washed, and the bed made nicely smooth, he yawned, and said he was sleepy still, and that he wondered what o'clock it was. his mother told him it was a quarter past ten. "a quarter past ten! why, how odd! the boys are half through school, almost, and i am only just awake!" "they slept through the whole night, i dare say. you were awake a good many times; and you and i had some talk. do you remember that? or has it gone out of your head with your sound sleep?" "no, no: i remember that," said hugh. "but it was the oddest, longest night!--and yesterday too! to think that it is not a whole day yet since it all happened! oh! here comes my breakfast. what is it? coffee!" "yes: we know you are fond of coffee; and so am i. so we will have some together." "how comfortable!" exclaimed hugh; for he was really hungry; which was no wonder, after the pain and exhaustion he had gone through. his state was like that of a person recovering from an illness--extremely ready to eat and drink, but obliged to be moderate. when warmed and cheered by his coffee, hugh gave a broad hint that he should like to see phil, and one or two more boys--particularly dale. his mother told him that the surgeon, mr annanby, would be coming soon. if he gave leave, phil should come in, and perhaps dale. so hugh was prepared with a strong entreaty to mr annanby on the subject; but no entreaty was needed. mr annanby thought he was doing very well; and that he would not be the worse for a little amusement and a little fatigue this morning, if it did not go on too long. so phil was sent for, when the surgeon was gone. as he entered, his mother went out to speak to mr tooke, and write home. she then heard from mr tooke and from firth and dale, how strong was the feeling in hugh's favour--how strong the sympathy for his misfortune throughout the school. hugh had seen no tears from her; but she shed them now. she then earnestly entreated that hugh might not hear what she had just been told. he felt no doubt of the kindness of his schoolfellows, and was therefore quite happy on that score. he was very young, and to a certain degree vain; and if this event went to strengthen his vanity, to fill his head with selfish thoughts, it would be a misfortune indeed. the loss of his foot would be the least part of it. it lay with those about him to make this event a deep injury to him, instead of the blessing which all trials are meant by providence eventually to be. they all promised that, while treating hugh with the tenderness he deserved, they would not spoil the temper in which he had acted so well, by making it vain and selfish. there was no fear, meantime, of phil's doing him any harm in that way; for phil had a great idea of the privileges and dignity of seniority; and his plan was to keep down little boys, and make them humble; not being aware that to keep people down is not the way to make them humble, but the contrary. older people than phil, however, often fall into this mistake. many parents do, and many teachers; and very many elder brothers and sisters. phil entered the room shyly, and stood by the fire, so that the bed-curtain was between him and hugh. "are you there, phil?" cried hugh, pulling aside the curtain. "yes," said phil; "how do you do this morning?" "oh, very well. come here. i want to know ever so many things. have you heard yet anything real and true about the new usher?" "no," replied phil. "but i have no doubt it is really mr crabbe who is coming, and that he will be here after christmas. why, hugh, you look just the same as usual!" "so i am just the same, except under this thing," pointing to the hoop, or basket, which was placed over his limb, to keep off the weight of the bed-clothes. "i am not hurt anywhere else, except this bruise;" and he showed a black bruise on his arm, such as almost any schoolboy can show, almost any day. "that's nothing," pronounced phil. "the other was, though, i can tell you," declared hugh. "was it very, very bad? worse than you had ever fancied?" "oh! yes. i could have screamed myself to death. i did not, though. did you hear me, did anybody hear me call out?" "i heard you--just outside the door there--before the doctors came." "ah! but not after, not while uncle was here. he cried so! i could not call out while was he crying so. where were you when they were doing it?" "just outside the door there. i heard you once--only once; and that was not much." "but how came you to be there? it was past bedtime. had you leave to be up so late?" "i did not ask it; and nobody meddled with me." "was anybody there with you?" "yes, firth. dale would not. he was afraid and he kept away." "oh! is not he very sorry?" "of course. nobody can help being sorry." "do they all seem sorry? what did they do? what do they say?" "oh! they are very sorry; you must know that." "anybody more than the rest?" "why some few of them cried; but i don't know that that shows them to be more sorry. it is some people's way to cry--and others not." hugh wished much to learn something about tooke; but, afraid of showing what was in his thoughts, he went off to quite another subject. "do you know, phil," said he, "you would hardly believe it, but i have never been half so miserable as i was the first day or two i came here? i don't care now, half so much, for all the pain, and for being lame, and--oh! but i can never be a soldier or a sailor--i can never go round the world! i forgot that." and poor hugh hid his face in his pillow. "never mind!" said phil, stooping over him very kindly. "here is a long time before you; and you will get to like something else just as well. papa wanted to be a soldier, remember, and could not; and he is as happy as ever he can be, now that he is a shop-keeper in london. did you ever see anybody merrier than my father is? i never did. come! cheer up, hugh! you will be very happy somehow." phil kissed him: and when hugh looked up in surprise, phil's eyes were full of tears. "now i have a good mind to ask you," said hugh, "something that has been in my mind ever since." "ever since when?" "ever since i came to crofton. what could be the reason that you were not more kind to me then?" "i! not kind?" said phil, in some confusion. "was not i kind?" "no. at least i thought not. i was so uncomfortable,--i did not know anybody, or what to do; and i expected you would show me, and help me. i always thought i could not have felt lonely with you here; and then when i came, you got out of my way, as if you were ashamed of me, and you did not help me at all; and you laughed at me." "no; i don't think i did that." "yes, you did, indeed." "well, you know, little boys always have to shift for themselves when they go to a great school--" "but why, if they have brothers there? that is the very thing i want to know. i think it is very cruel." "i never meant to be cruel, of course. but--but--the boys were all ready to laugh at me about a little brother that was scarcely any better than a girl;--and consider how you talked on the coach, and what ridiculous hair you had,--and what a fuss you made about your money and your pocket,--and how you kept popping out things about miss harold, and the girls, and susan." "you _were_ ashamed of me, then." "well, what wonder if i was?" "and you never told me about all these things. you let me learn them all without any warning, or any help." "to be sure. that is the way all boys have to get on. they must make their own way." "if ever little harry comes to crofton," said hugh, more to himself than to phil, "i will not leave him in the lurch,--i will never be ashamed of him. pray," said he, turning quickly to phil, "are you ashamed of me still?" "oh, no," protested phil. "you can shift for yourself,--you can play, and do everything like other boys, now. you--" he stopped short, overcome with the sudden recollection that hugh would never again be able to play like other boys,--to be like them in strength, and in shifting for himself. "ah! i see what you are thinking of," said hugh. "i am so afraid you should be ashamed of me again, when i come into the playground. the boys will quiz me;--and if you are ashamed of me--" "oh, no, no!" earnestly declared phil. "there is nobody in the world that will quiz you;--or, if there is, they had better take care of me, i can tell them. but nobody will. you don't know how sorry the boys are. here comes dale. he will tell you the same thing." dale was quite sure that any boy would, from this time for ever, be sent to coventry who should quiz hugh for his lameness. there was not a boy now at crofton who would not do anything in the world to help him. "why, dale, how you have been crying!" exclaimed hugh. "is anything wrong in school? can't you manage your verses yet?" "i'll try that to-night," said dale, cheerfully. "yes; i'll manage them. never mind what made my eyes red; only, if such a thing had happened to me, you would have cried,--i am sure of that." "yes, indeed," said phil. "now, proctor, you had better go," said dale. "one at a time is enough to-day; and i shall not stay long." phil agreed, and actually shook hands with hugh before he went. "phil is so kind to-day!" cried hugh, with glee; "though he is disappointed of going to uncle shaw's on my account. and i know he had reckoned on it. now, i want to know one thing,--where did mr tooke sleep last night? for this is his bed." dale believed he slept on the sofa. he was sure, at least, that he had not taken off his clothes; for he had come to the door several times in the course of the night, to know how all was going on. "why, i never knew that!" cried hugh. "i suppose i was asleep. dale, what do you think is the reason that our fathers and mothers and people take care of us as they do?" "how do you mean?" "why, agnes and i cannot make it out. when we were by the sea-side, mother took us a great way along the beach, to a place we did not know at all; and she bade us pick up shells, and amuse ourselves, while she went to see a poor woman that lived just out of sight. we played till we were quite tired; and then we sat down; and still she did not come. at last, we were sure that she had forgotten all about us; and we did not think she would remember us any more: and we both cried. oh! how we did cry! then a woman came along, with a basket at her back, and a great net over her arm: and she asked us what was the matter; and when we told her, she said she thought it was not likely that mother would forget us. and then she bade us take hold of her gown, one on each side, and she would try to take us to mother; and the next thing was mother came in sight. when the woman told her what we had said, they both laughed; and mother told us it was impossible that she should leave us behind. i asked agnes afterwards why it was impossible; and she did not know; and i am sure she was as glad as i was to see mother come in sight. if she really never can forget us, what makes her remember us?" dale shook his head. he could not tell. "because," continued hugh, "we can't do anything for anybody, and we give a great deal of trouble. mother sits up very late, sometimes till near twelve, mending our things. there is that great basket of stockings she has to mend, once a fortnight! and papa works very hard to get money; and what a quantity he pays for our schooling, and our clothes, and everything!" "everybody would think it very shameful if he did not," suggested dale. "if he let you go ragged and ignorant, it would be wicked." "but why?" said hugh, vehemently. "that is what i want to know. we are not worth anything. we are nothing but trouble. only think what so many people did yesterday! my mother came a journey; and uncle and aunt shaw came: and mother sat up all night; and mr tooke never went to bed,--and all about me! i declare i can't think why." dale felt as if he knew why; but he could not explain it. mrs proctor had heard much of what they were saying. she had come in before closing her letter to mr proctor, to ask whether hugh wished to send any particular message home. as she listened, she was too sorry to feel amused. she perceived that she could not have done her whole duty to her children, if there could be such a question as this in their hearts--such a question discussed between them, unknown to her. she spoke now; and hugh started, for he was not aware that she was in the room. she asked both the boys why they thought it was that, before little birds are fledged, the parent birds bring them food, as often as once in a minute, all day long for some weeks. perhaps no creatures can go through harder work than this; and why do they do it? for unfledged birds, which are capable of nothing whatever but clamouring for food, are as useless little creatures as can be imagined. why does the cat take care of her little blind kitten with so much watchfulness, hiding it from all enemies till it can take care of itself. it is because love does not depend on the value of the creature loved--it is because love grows up in our hearts at god's pleasure, and not by our own choice; and it is god's pleasure that the weakest and the least useful and profitable should be the most beloved, till they become able to love and help in their turn. "is it possible, my dear," she said to hugh, "that you did not know this,--you who love little harry so much, and take such care of him at home? i am sure you never stopped to think whether harry could do you any service, before helping him to play." "no; but then--" "but what?" "he is such a sweet little fellow, it is a treat to look at him. every morning when i woke, i longed to be up, and to get to him." "that is, you loved him. well: your papa and i love you all, in the same way. we get up with pleasure to our business--your father to his shop, and i to my work-basket--because it is the greatest happiness in the world to serve those we love." hugh said nothing; but still, though pleased, he did not look quite satisfied. "susan and cook are far more useful to me than any of you children," continued his mother, "and yet i could not work early and late for them, with the same pleasure as for you." hugh laughed; and then he asked whether jane was not now as useful as susan. "perhaps she is," replied his mother; "and the more she learns and does, and the more she becomes my friend,--the more i respect her: but it is impossible to love her more than i did before she could speak or walk. there is some objection in your mind still, my dear. what is it?" "it makes us of so much consequence,--so much more than i ever thought of,--that the minds of grown people should be busy about us." "there is nothing to be vain of in that, my dear, any more than for young kittens, and birds just hatched. but it is very true that all young creatures are of great consequence; for they are the children of god. when, besides this, we consider what human beings are,--that they can never perish, but are to live for ever,--and that they are meant to become more wise and holy than we can imagine, we see that the feeblest infant is indeed a being of infinite consequence. this is surely a reason for god filling the hearts of parents with love, and making them willing to work and suffer for their children, even while the little ones are most unwise and unprofitable. when you and agnes fancied i should forget you and desert you, you must have forgotten that you had another parent who rules the hearts of all the fathers and mothers on earth." hugh was left alone to think this over, when he had given his messages home, and got dale's promise to come again as soon as he could obtain leave to do so. both the boys were warned that this would not be till to-morrow, as hugh had seen quite company enough for one day. indeed, he slept so much, that night seemed to be soon come. chapter ten. little victories. though mr tooke was so busy from having no usher, he found time to come and see hugh pretty often. he had a sofa moved into that room: and he carried hugh, without hurting him at all, and laid him down there comfortably, beside the fire. he took his tea there, with mrs proctor; and he brought up his newspaper, and read from it anything which he thought would amuse the boy. he smiled at hugh's scruple about occupying his room, and assured him that he was quite as well off in mr carnaby's room, except that it was not so quiet as this, and therefore more fit for a person in health than for an invalid. mr tooke not only brought up plenty of books from the school library, but lent hugh some valuable volumes of prints from his own shelves. hugh could not look at these for long together. his head soon began to ache, and his eyes to be dazzled; for he was a good deal weakened. his mother observed also that he became too eager about views in foreign countries, and that he even grew impatient in his temper when talking about them. "my dear boy," said she one evening, after tea, when she saw him in this state, and that it rather perplexed mr tooke, "if you remember your resolution, i think you will put away that book." "o, mother!" exclaimed he, "you want to take away the greatest pleasure i have!" "if it is a pleasure, go on. i was afraid it was becoming a pain." mr tooke did not ask what this meant; but he evidently wished to know. he soon knew, for hugh found himself growing more fidgety and more cross, the further he looked in the volume of indian views, till he threw himself back upon the sofa, and stuffed his handkerchief into his mouth, and stared at the fire, struggling, as his mother saw, to help crying. "i will take away the book,--shall i, my dear?" "yes, mother. o dear! i shall never keep my vow, i know." mrs proctor told mr tooke that hugh had made a resolution which she earnestly hoped he might be able to keep;--to bear cheerfully every disappointment and trouble caused by this accident, from the greatest to the least,--from being obliged to give up being a traveller by-and-by, to the shoemaker's wondering that he wanted only one shoe. now, if looking at pictures of foreign countries made him less cheerful, it seemed to belong to his resolution to give up that pleasure for the present. hugh acknowledged that it did; and mr tooke, who was pleased at what he heard, carried away the indian views, and brought instead a very fine work on trades, full of plates representing people engaged in every kind of trade and manufacture. hugh was too tired to turn over any more pages to-night: but his master said the book might stay in the room now, and when hugh was removed, it might go with him; and, as he was able to sit up more, he might like to copy some of the plates. "removed!" exclaimed hugh. his mother smiled, and told him that he was going on so well that he might soon now be removed to his uncle's. "where," said mr tooke, "you will have more quiet and more liberty than you can have here. your brother, and any other boys you like, can run over to see you at any time; and you will be out of the noise of the playground." "i wonder how it is there is so little noise from the playground here," said hugh. "it is because the boys have been careful to make no noise since your accident. we cannot expect them to put themselves under such restraint for long." "o no, no! i had better go. but, mother, you--you--aunt shaw is very kind, but--" "i shall stay with you as long as you want me." hugh was quite happy. "but how in the world shall i get there?" he presently asked. "it is two whole miles; and we can't lay my leg up in the gig: besides its being so cold." his mother told him that his uncle had a very nice plan for his conveyance. mr annanby approved of it, and thought he might be moved the first sunny day. "what, to-morrow?" "yes, if the sun shines." mr tooke unbolted the shutter, and declared that it was such a bright starry evening that he thought to-morrow would be fine. the morning was fine; and during the very finest part of it came mr shaw. he told hugh that there was a good fire blazing at home in the back room that looked into the garden, which was to be hugh's. from the sofa by the fire-side one might see the laurustinus on the grass-plot,-- now covered with flowers: and when the day was warm enough to let him lie in the window, he could see the mill, and all that was going on round it. hugh liked the idea of all this: but he still looked anxious. "now tell me," said his uncle, "what person in all the world you would like best for a companion?" "in all the world!" exclaimed hugh. "suppose i say the great mogul!" "well; tell us how to catch him, and we will try. meantime, you can have his picture. i believe we have a pack of cards in the house." "but do you mean really, uncle,--the person i should like best in all the world,--out of crofton?" "yes; out with it!" "i should like agnes best," said hugh, timidly. "we thought as much. i am glad we were right. well, my boy, agnes is there." "agnes there! only two miles off! how long will she stay?" "o, there is no hurry about that. we shall see when you are well what to do next." "but will she stay till the holidays?" "o yes, longer than that, i hope." "but then she will not go home with me for the holidays?" "never mind about the holidays now. your holidays begin to-day. you have nothing to do but to get well now, and make yourself at home at my house, and be merry with agnes. now shall we go, while the sun shines? here is your mother all cloaked up in her warm things." "o, mother! agnes is come," cried hugh. this was no news; for it was his mother who had guessed what companion he would like to have. she now showed her large warm cloak, in which hugh was to be wrapped; and his neck was muffled up in a comforter. "but how am i to go?" asked hugh, trembling with this little bustle. "quietly in your bed," said his uncle. "come, i will lift you into it." and his uncle carried him down-stairs to the front door, where two of mr shaw's men stood with a litter, which was slung upon poles, and carried like a sedan-chair. there was a mattress upon the litter, on which hugh lay as comfortably as on a sofa. he said it was like being carried in a palanquin in india,--if only there was hot sunshine, and no frost and snow. mr tooke, and mrs watson, and firth shook hands with hugh, and said they should be glad to see him back again: and mr tooke added that some of the boys should visit him pretty often till the breaking-up. nobody else was allowed to come quite near; but the boys clustered at that side of the playground, to see as much as they could. hugh waved his hand; and every boy saw it; and in a moment every hat and cap was off, and the boys gave three cheers,--the loudest that had ever been heard at crofton. the most surprising thing was that mr tooke cheered, and mr shaw too. the men looked as if they would have liked to set down the litter, and cheer too: but they did not quite do that. they only smiled as if they were pleased. there was one person besides who did not cheer. tooke stood apart from the other boys, looking very sad. as the litter went down the by-road, he began to walk away; but hugh begged the men to stop, and called to tooke. tooke turned: and when hugh beckoned, he forgot all about bounds, leaped the paling, and came running. hugh said,-- "i have been wanting to see you so! but i did not like to ask for you particularly." "i wish i had known that." "come and see me,--do," said hugh. "come the very first, wont you?" "if i may." "oh, you may, i know." "well, i will, thank you. good-bye." and on went the litter, with mrs proctor and mr shaw walking beside it. the motion did not hurt hugh at all; and he was so warmly wrapped up, and the day so fine, that he was almost sorry when the two miles were over. and yet there was agnes out upon the steps; and she sat beside him on the sofa in his cheerful room, and told him that she had nothing to do but to wait on him, and play with him. she did not tell him yet that she must learn directly to nurse him, and, with her aunt's help, fill her mother's place, because her mother was much wanted at home: but this was in truth one chief reason for her coming. though there was now really nothing the matter with hugh--though he ate, drank, slept, and gained strength--his mother would not leave him till she saw him well able to go about. the carpenter soon came, with some crutches he had borrowed for hugh to try; and when they were sure of the right length, hugh had a new pair. he found it rather nervous work at first, using them; and he afterwards laughed at the caution with which he began. first, he had somebody to lift him from his seat, and hold him till he was firm on his crutches. then he carefully moved forwards one crutch at a time, and then the other; and he put so much strength into it, that he was quite tired when he had been once across the room and back again. every stumble made him shake all over. he made agnes try; and he was almost provoked to see how lightly she could hop about; but then, as he said, she could put a second foot down to save herself, whenever she pleased. every day, however, walking became easier to him; and he even discovered, when accidentally left alone, and wanting something from the opposite end of the room, that he could rise, and set forth by himself, and be independent. and in one of these excursions it was that he found the truth of what agnes had told him--how much easier it was to move both crutches together. when he showed his mother this, she said she thought he would soon learn to do with only one. hugh found himself subject to very painful feelings sometimes--such as no one quite understood, and such as he feared no one was able to pity as they deserved. a surprise of this sort happened to him the evening before his father was to come to see him, and to fetch away his mother. it was the dark hour in the afternoon--the hour when mrs proctor and her children enjoyed every day a quiet talk, before mr shaw came to carry hugh into his aunt's parlour to tea. nothing could be merrier than hugh had been; and his mother and agnes were chatting, when they thought they heard a sob from the sofa. they spoke to hugh, and found that he was indeed crying bitterly. "what is it, my dear?" said his mother. "agnes, have we said anything that could hurt him?" "no, no," sobbed hugh. "i will tell you presently." and presently he told them that he was so busy listening to what they said, that he forgot everything else, when he felt as if something had got between two of his toes; unconsciously he put his hand down; and his foot was not there! nothing could be plainer than the feeling in his toes: and, then, when he put out his hand, and found nothing, it was so terrible--it startled him so. it was a comfort to him to find that his mother knew all about this. she came and kneeled beside his sofa, and told him that many persons who had lost a limb considered this odd feeling the most painful thing they had to bear for some time; but that, though the feeling would return occasionally through life, it would cease to be painful. when he had become so used to do without his foot as to leave off wanting or wishing for it, he would perhaps make a joke of the feeling, instead of being disappointed. at least she knew that some persons did so who had lost a limb. this did not comfort hugh much, for every prospect had suddenly become darkened. he said he did not know how he should bear his misfortune;-- he was pretty sure he could not bear it. it seemed so long already since it had happened! and when he thought of the long long days, and months, and years, to the end of his life, and that he should never run and play, and never be like other people, and never able to do the commonest things without labour and trouble, he wished he was dead. he had rather have died. agnes thought he must be miserable indeed, if he could venture to say this to his mother. she glanced at her mother's face; but there was no displeasure there. mrs proctor said this feeling was very natural. she had felt it herself, under smaller misfortunes than hugh's; but she had found that, though the prospect appears all strewn with troubles, they come singly, and are not worth minding, after all. she told hugh that, when she was a little girl, very lazy--fond of her bed--fond of her book--and not at all fond of washing and dressing-- "why, mother, you!" exclaimed hugh. "yes; that was the sort of little girl i was. well, i was in despair, one day, at the thought that i should have to wash, and clean my teeth, and brush my hair, and put on every daily article of dress every morning, as long as i lived. there was nothing i disliked so much; and yet it was the thing that must be done every day of my whole life." "did you tell anybody?" asked hugh. "no; i was ashamed to do that: but i remember i cried. you see how it turns out. grown people, who have got to do everything by habit, so easily as not to think about it, wash and dress every morning, without ever being weary of it. we do not consider so much as once a year what we are doing at dressing-time, though at seven years old it is a very laborious and tiresome affair to get ready for breakfast." "it is the same about writing letters," observed agnes. "the first letter i ever wrote was to aunt shaw; and it took so long, and was so tiresome, that, when i thought of all the exercises i should have to write for miss harold, and all the letters that i must send to my relations when i grew up, i would have given everything i had in the world not to have learned to write. oh! how i pitied papa, when i saw sometimes the pile of letters that were lying to go to the post!" "and how do you like corresponding with phil now?" agnes owned, with blushes, that she still dreaded the task for some days before, and felt particularly gay when it was done. her mother believed that, if infants could think and look forward, they would be far more terrified with the prospect of having to walk on their two legs all their lives, than lame people could be at having to learn the art in part over again. grown people are apt to doubt whether they can learn a new language, though children make no difficulty about it: the reason of which is, that grown people see at one view the whole labour, while children do not look beyond their daily task. experience, however, always brings relief. experience shows that every effort comes at its proper time, and that there is variety or rest in the intervals. people who have to wash and dress every morning have other things to do in the after part of the day; and, as the old fable tells us, the clock that has to tick, before it is worn out, so many millions of times, as it perplexes the mind to think of, has exactly the same number of seconds to do it in; so that it never has more work on its hands than it can get through. so hugh would find that he could move about on each separate occasion, as he wanted; and practice would, in time, enable him to do it without any more thought than it now cost him to put all the bones of his hands in order, so as to carry his tea and bread-and-butter to his mouth. "but that is not all--nor half what i mean," said hugh. "no, my dear; nor half what you will have to make up your mind to bear. you will have a great deal to bear, hugh. you resolved to bear it all patiently, i remember: but what is it that you dread the most?" "oh! all manner of things. i can never do things like other people." "some things. you can never play cricket, as every crofton boy would like to do. you can never dance at your sisters' christmas parties." "oh! mamma!" cried agnes, with tears in her eyes, and the thought in her mind that it was cruel to talk so. "go on! go on!" cried hugh, brightening. "you know what i feel, mother; and you don't keep telling me, as aunt shaw does (and even agnes sometimes), that it wont signify much, and that i shall not care, and all that; making out that it is no misfortune hardly, when i know what it is, and they don't." "that is a common way of trying to give comfort, and it is kindly meant," said mrs proctor. "but those who have suffered much themselves know a better way. the best way is not to deny any of the trouble or the sorrow, and not to press on the sufferer any comforts which he cannot now see and enjoy. if comforts arise, he will enjoy them as they come." "now then, go on," said hugh. "what else?" "there will be little checks and mortifications continually--when you see boys leaping over this, and climbing that, and playing at the other, while you must stand out, and can only look on. and some people will pity you in a way you don't like; and some may even laugh at you." "o mamma!" exclaimed agnes. "i have seen and heard children in the street do it," replied mrs proctor. "this is a thing almost below notice; but i mentioned it while we were reckoning up our troubles." "well, what else?" said hugh. "sooner or later, you will have to follow some way of life, determined by this accident, instead of one that you would have liked better. but we need not think of this yet:--not till you have become quite accustomed to your lameness." "well, what else?" "i must ask you now. i can think of nothing more; and i hope there is not much else; for indeed i think here is quite enough for a boy--or any one else--to bear." "i will bear it, though,--you will see." "you will find great helps. these misfortunes, of themselves, strengthen one's mind. they have some advantages too. you will be a better scholar for your lameness, i have no doubt. you will read more books, and have a mind richer in thoughts. you will be more beloved;-- not out of mere pity; for people in general will soon leave off pitying you, when once you learn to be active again; but because you have kept faith with your schoolfellows, and shown that you can bear pain. yes, you will be more loved by us all; and you yourself will love god more for having given you something to bear for his sake." "i hope so,--i think so," said hugh. "o mother! i may be very happy yet." "very happy; and, when you have once made up your mind to everything, the less you think and speak about it, the happier you will be. it is very right for us now, when it is all new, and strange, and painful, to talk it well over; to face it completely; but when your mind is made up, and you are a crofton boy again, you will not wish to speak much of your own concerns, unless it be to me, or to agnes, sometimes, when your heart is full." "or to dale, when you are far off." "yes,--to dale, or some one friend at crofton. but there is only one friend that one is quite sure to get strength from,--the same who has given strength to all the brave people that ever lived, and comfort to all sufferers. when the greatest of all sufferers wanted relief, what did he do?" "he went by himself, and prayed," said agnes. "yes, that is the way," observed hugh, as if he knew by experience. mr shaw presently came, to say that tea was ready. "i am too big a baby to be carried now," cried hugh, gaily. "let me try if i cannot go alone." "why,--there is the step at the parlour-door," said mr shaw, doubtfully. "at any rate, stop till i bring a light." but hugh followed close upon his uncle's heels, and was over the step before his aunt supposed he was half way across the hall. after tea, his uncle and he were so full of play, that the ladies could hardly hear one another speak till hugh was gone to bed, too tired to laugh any more. chapter eleven. domestic manners. after mr proctor had come and was gone, and mrs proctor was gone with him, hugh began to wonder why tooke had never paid the visit he had promised. several boys had called; some to thank hugh for balls that he had quilted; some to see how he got on; and some to bring him crofton news. mr tooke had fastened his horse up at the door, in passing, and stepped in for a few minutes, two or three times a week: but it was now within six days of the holidays, and the one hugh most wished to see had not appeared. his uncle observed his wistful look when the door-bell rang, and drew his conclusions. he said, on the wednesday before the breaking-up, that he was going to drive past the crofton school; that it was such a fine day that he thought hugh might go with him, and perhaps they might persuade some one to come home to dinner with them. hugh had never enjoyed the open air more than during this drive. he had yet much to learn about the country, and it was all as beautiful as it was new. his uncle pointed out to him the fieldfares wheeling in flocks over the fallows; and the rabbits in the warren, scampering away with their little white tails turned up; and the robin hopping in the frosty pathway; and the wild ducks splashing among the reeds in the marshes. they saw the cottagers' children trying to collect snow enough from the small remains of the drifts to make snow-balls, and obliged to throw away the dirty snow that would melt, and would not bind. as they left the road, and turned through a copse, because mr shaw had business with mr sullivan's gamekeeper, a pheasant flew out, whirring, from some ferns and brambles, and showed its long tail-feathers before it disappeared over the hedge. all these sights were new to hugh: and all, after pain and confinement, looked beautiful and gay. mr shaw could not stop for hugh to get out at crofton; so, when his arrival was seen, the boys were allowed to go out of bounds, as far as the gig, to speak to their school-fellow. mr shaw asked tooke to mount, and go home with them for the day; and tooke was so pleased,--so agreeably surprised to see hugh look quite well and merry, that he willingly ran off to ask leave, and to wash his face, and change his jacket. when he had jumped in, and hugh had bidden the rest good-bye, a sudden shyness came over his poor conscious visitor: and it was not lessened by mr shaw telling tooke that he did not do credit to crofton air,--so puny as he seemed: and that he looked at that moment more like one that had had a bad accident than hugh did. when mr shaw perceived how the boy's eyes filled with tears in an instant, he probably thought within himself that tooke was sadly weak-spirited, and altogether more delicate than he had been aware of. hugh was full of questions about crofton matters, however; and long before they reached mr shaw's, they were chattering as busily as possible. but then it was all spoiled to tooke again by seeing hugh lifted out, and his crutches brought to him, and agnes ready to take his hat and cloak, instead of his being able to run about, doing everything for himself. the sofa had been left in hugh's room, and there was a fire there every afternoon, for him and agnes, that their aunt might have the parlour to herself till tea-time. the three young people went therefore to this room after dinner. agnes felt a little uncomfortable, as she always did when any crofton boys came. they had so much to say to each other of things that she did not understand, and so very little to say to her, that she continually felt as if she was in the way. when she proposed, as usual, that hugh should go through his exercises in walking and running (for she was indefatigable in helping him to learn to walk well, and superintended his practice every afternoon), he refused hastily and rather rudely. of course, she could not know that he had a reason for wishing not to show off his lameness before tooke; and she thought him unkind. he might indeed have remembered to ask her before to say nothing this afternoon about his exercises. she took out her work, and sat down at some distance from the boys; but they did not get on. it was very awkward. at last, the boys' eyes met, and they saw that they should like to talk freely, if they could. "agnes," said hugh, "cannot you go somewhere, and leave us alone?" "i hardly know where i can go," replied agnes. "i must not disturb aunt; and there is no fire anywhere else." "o, i am sure aunt won't mind, for this one afternoon. you can be still as a mouse; and she can doze away, as if nobody was there." "i can be as still as a mouse here," observed agnes. "i can take my work to that farthest window; and if you whisper, i shall not hear a word you say. or, if i do hear a word, i will tell you directly. and you will let me come, now and then, and warm myself, if i find i cannot hold my needle any longer." "no, no; that won't do. we can't talk so. do just go, and see whether aunt cannot let you be there for this one afternoon." agnes did not like to refuse anything to hugh: but she hesitated to take such a bold step as this. in his eagerness, hugh requested the same favour of tooke; but tooke, more anxious even than agnes to oblige, had not courage for such an errand. hugh snatched his crutches, and declared he would go himself. but now agnes gave way. she gathered up her work, and left the room. hugh little imagined where she went, this cold, darkening december afternoon. she went to her own room, put on her cloak, and walked up and down till tea was ready, without fire or candle, and not very happy in her mind. meanwhile the boys basked before a glowing fire. tooke began directly to open his full heart. "was that true that your sister said at dinner, about your always longing so to come to crofton!" "yes." "how sorry you must be that you came! how you must wish that you had never seen me!" "i knew that there would be things to bear, whenever i came; and particularly while i was the youngest. your father told me that: and one of the things that made me want to come more than ever was his telling me how you bore things when you were the youngest--being set on the top of that wall, and so on." "indeed, indeed, i never meant to hurt you when i pulled your foot--i suppose you are quite sure that it was i that gave the first pull? are you?" "why, yes; i am sure of that; and so are you: but i know very well that you meant no harm; and that is the reason i would not tell. after what you did about the sponge, i could not think you meant any harm to me." tooke could not remember anything about a sponge; and when he was told, he thought nothing of it. he went on-- "do you think you shall never tell anybody, as long as you live, who pulled you first?" "never," said hugh, "unless i tell it in my sleep; and that is not likely, for i never think about it in the daytime,--or scarcely ever; and when i can run about again, i dare say i shall never think of it at all." "but will you ever run about?" "o yes! finely, you will see. i shall begin first with a little stick-leg, very light. mother is going to send some for me to try. when i am a man, i shall have one that will look like a real foot; but that will not be so light as the one you will see me with after the holidays. but you do not half know what i can do now, with my crutches. here, i will show you." as he flourished about, and played antics, agnes heard the pit-pat of his crutches, and she thought she might as well have been there, if they had told all their secrets, and had got to play. but the noise did not last long, for hugh's performances did not make tooke very merry; and the boys sat down quietly again. "now, i'll tell you what," said tooke. "i am a bigger and stronger boy than you, without considering this accident i'll take care of you all the time you are at crofton: and always afterwards, if i can. mind you that. if anybody teases you, you call me,--that's all. say you will." "why," said hugh, "i had rather take care of myself. i had rather make no difference between you and everybody else." "there now! you don't forgive me, after all." "i do,--upon my word, i do. but why should i make any difference between you and the rest, when you did not mean me any harm,--any more than they? besides, it might make people suspect." "well, let them. sometimes i wish," continued tooke, twisting himself about in the uneasiness of his mind, "sometimes i wish that everybody knew now. they say murderers cannot keep their secret. they are sure to tell, when they cannot bear it any longer." "that is because of their consciences," said hugh. "but you are not guilty of anything, you know. i am sure i can keep a secret easily enough, when i am not to blame in it." "yes! you have shown that. but--" "come! don't let us talk any more about that--only just this. has anybody accused you? because i must know,--i must be on my guard." "nobody has said a word, because my father put us all upon honour never to mention it: but i always feel as if all their eyes were upon me all day,--and sometimes in the night." "nonsense! i don't believe anybody has pitched on you particularly. and when school opens again, all their eyes will be on me, to see how i manage. but i don't mean to mind that. anybody may stare that likes." hugh sighed, however, after saying this; and tooke was silent. at length he declared,-- "whatever you say against it, i shall always take your part: and you have only to ask me, and i will always run anywhere, and do anything for you. mind you that." "thank you," said hugh. "now tell me about the new usher; for i dare say you know more than the other boys do. holt and i shall be under him altogether, i suppose." "yes: and you will be well off, by what i hear. he is as little like mr carnaby as need be." all the rest of the afternoon was taken up with stories of mr carnaby and other ushers, so that the boys were surprised when the maid came to tell them that tea was ready. agnes was making tea. hugh was so eager to repeat to his uncle some of the good stories that he had just heard, that he did not observe, as his aunt did, how red his sister's fingers were, and how she shivered still. "my dear," said mrs shaw, "you have let these boys keep you away from the fire." "yes, aunt; never mind! i shall be warm enough presently." "but you should not allow it, agnes. how are they ever to learn manners, if they are not made to give way to young ladies while they are young? boys are sure to be rude enough, at any rate. their sisters should know better than to spoil them." while poor agnes' hardships were ending with a lecture, hugh was chattering away, not at all aware that he had treated his sister much as phil had treated him on his going to crofton. if any one had told him that he was tyrannical, he would have been as much surprised as he had been at phil's tyranny over him. he did not know indeed that his sister had been in the cold and in the dark; but he might have felt that he had used her with a roughness which is more painful to a loving heart than cold and darkness are to the body. chapter twelve. holt and his dignity. there was no reason now why hugh should not go to church. he and his crutches went between his uncle and aunt in the gig one way, and between his uncle and agnes home again; and he could walk up the aisle quite well. he had been pleased at the idea of attending church again, and had never thought of the pain of being stared at for his lameness. this pain came upon him as he entered the church; and as he went up towards his uncle's pew, and saw the crowd of crofton boys all looking at him, and some of the poor people turning their heads as he passed, to observe how he got on, he felt covered with confusion, and wished that he had waited one more sunday, when the crofton boys would have been all gone, and there would have been fewer eyes to mark his infirmity. but better thoughts soon arose, and made him ashamed of his false shame; and before the service was over, he felt how trifling is any misfortune while we are friends with god, in comparison with the least wrong-doing which sets us at a distance from him. he could not but feel after church that he had rather, a thousand times, be as he was than be poor lamb, who slunk away from him, and hid himself behind the other boys,--his mind sore and troubled, no doubt, about his debt, and his cheating transaction, so long ago. hugh asked some of the boys to bring up lamb, to shake hands before parting for the holidays; but he would not come, and wriggled himself out of sight. then hugh recollected that he could forgive lamb as well without lamb's knowing it; and he let him alone. then there was holt. he and holt had parted on uneasy terms; and holt now looked shy and uncomfortable. hugh beckoned to him, and asked him whether he was really to remain at crofton all the holidays. "yes," said holt. "i am the only one not going home, unless you are to stay hereabouts. even tooke is to be at his uncle's in london. when do you go home?" "not quite yet;--not at the beginning of the holidays," said hugh, hesitating, and looking up at his uncle. for, in truth, he did not know exactly what was planned for him, and had been afraid to ask. his uncle said, very kindly, that he was not going to part with hugh till school opened again. he would recover his full strength better in the country; and his aunt had promised his parents that he should be a stout boy again by the time he was wanted at crofton. this was what hugh had dreaded to hear; and when he thought that he should not see his parents, nor little harry, for so many months, his heart sank. but he was still in the church; and perhaps the place helped him to remember his mother's expectation that he should not fail, and his own resolution to bear cheerfully whatever troubles his misfortune brought upon him, from the greatest to the least. so when he heard his uncle saying to holt that he should ask mr tooke to let him come and spend two or three weeks at his house, he said so heartily that he hoped holt would come, that holt felt that whatever discontent had been between them was forgiven and forgotten. phil went home, of course; and when holt arrived at mr shaw's, agnes also returned to london, that she might see something of phil. then the two boys were glad to be together, though hugh would rather have had his dear friend dale for a companion; and holt knew that this was the case. yet hugh saw, and was glad to see, that holt was improved. he had plucked up some spirit, and was more like other lads, though still, by his own account, too much like a timid, helpless foreigner among the rough crofton boys. all the boys had some lessons to prepare in the holidays. every one who had ever written a theme had a theme to write now. every boy who could construe had a good piece of latin to prepare; and all had either latin or english verses to learn by heart. mrs shaw made a point of her young visitors sitting down every morning after breakfast to their business; and hugh was anxious to spare no pains, this time, about his theme, that, if he was to be praised, he might deserve it. he saw that holt could not fix his attention well, either upon work or play; and one morning, when hugh was pondering how, without knowing anything of history, he should find a modern example to match well with his ancient one (which he had picked up by chance), holt burst upon his meditation with-- "i have a good mind to tell you what has been upon my mind this ever so long." "wait a minute," said hugh. "i must find my example first." no example could he find, to his satisfaction, this day. he gave it up till to-morrow, and then asked holt what was on his mind. but holt now drew back, and did not think he could tell. this made hugh press; and hugh's pressing looked like sympathy, and gave holt courage: so that the thing came out at last. holt was very miserable, for he was deep in debt, and the boys never let him alone about it; and he did not see how he should ever pay, as nobody was likely to give him any money. "remember, it is only sixpence that you owe me--not a shilling," said hugh. holt sighed. perhaps he had hoped that hugh would excuse him altogether. he explained that this sixpence was not all, nor the chief part. he told that, when the whole school was on the heath, one saturday, they had seen a balloon rising at a distance, and some boys began betting about what direction it would move in when it ceased to rise perpendicularly. the betting spread till the boys told him he must bet, or he would be the only one left out, and would look like a shabby fellow. "and you did?" exclaimed hugh. "how silly!" "you would have done it, if you had been there." "no: i should not." "yes, you would. or, if you had not, it would have been because of--i know what." "because of what, pray?" "because of something the boys say about you. they say you are very fond of money." "i! fond of money! i declare i never heard of such a thing." "well, you know you made a great fuss about that half-crown." "as if it was about the money!" cried hugh. "i should not have cared a bit if my uncle had asked me for it back again the next day. it was the being cheated. that was the thing. what a shame--" "by-the-by, did your uncle ever ask what you did with that half-crown?" "no; but he will next week, at the january fair. he will be sure to ask then. what a shame of the boys to say so, when i forgave--" he remembered, just in time, that he had better not boast, or speak aloud, of having forgiven lamb his debt in secret. he resolved that he would not say another word, but let the boys see that he did not care for money for its own sake. they were all wrong, but he would be above noticing it; and, besides, he really had been very anxious about his half-crown, and they had only mistaken the reason. "how much did you bet on the balloon?" he inquired of holt. "a shilling; and i lost." "then you owe eighteen-pence." "but that is not all. i borrowed a shilling of meredith to pay school-fines--" "what for?" "chiefly for leaving my books about. meredith says i promised to pay him before the holidays; but i am sure i never did. he twitted me about it, so that i declare i would have fought him, if i could have paid him first." "that's right," exclaimed hugh. "why, holt, what a different fellow you are! you never used to talk of fighting." "but this fellow meredith plagued me so! if it had not been for that shilling, i would have knocked him down. well, here is half-a-crown altogether; and how am i ever to get half-a-crown?" "cannot you ask your uncle?" "no; you know i can't. you know he complains about having to pay the bills for me before my father can send the money from india." "i suppose it would take too long to ask your father. yes; of course it would. there would be another holidays before you could have an answer; and almost another still. i wonder what uncle shaw would say. he is very kind always, but it might set him asking--" "and what should i do, staying here, if he should be angry and refuse? what should i do every day at dinner?" "i know what i would do?" said hugh, decidedly. "i would tell mr tooke all about it, and ask him for half-a-crown." "mr tooke? oh! i dare not." "i dare,--in holiday-time. he is your master,--next to being your father, while your father is so far away. you had better ask mr tooke, to be sure." "what go to crofton, and speak to him? i really want not to be a coward,--but i never could go and tell him." "write him a letter, then. yes: that is the way. write a letter, and i will get one of my uncle's men to carry it, and wait for an answer: and then you will not be long in suspense, at any rate." "i wish i dare!" holt was not long in passing from wishing to daring. he wrote a letter, which hugh thought would do, though he rather wished holt had not mentioned him as instigating the act. this was the letter: "the mill, _january th_. "dear sir, "i am very unhappy; and proctor thinks i had better tell you what is upon my mind. i owe some money, and i do not see how i can ever pay it, unless you will help me. you know i have owed proctor sixpence for ginger-beer, this long time; and as lamb has never paid him his share, proctor cannot excuse me this debt. then i owe a boy a shilling, lent me for school-fines; and he never lets me alone about it. then i was led into betting a shilling on a balloon, and i lost; and so i owe half-a-crown. if you would lend me that sum, sir, i shall be obliged to you for ever, and i shall never forget it. "yours respectfully, "thomas holt." mr shaw's man george carried the letter; but he brought back neither letter nor money: only a message that mr tooke would call; which put holt into a great fright, and made hugh rather uneasy. there was no occasion for this, however. mr tooke came alone into the room where the boys were sitting; and neither mr nor mrs shaw appeared during the whole time of his visit: a thing which was rather odd, but which the boys were very glad of. when mr tooke had told them a little of some new boys expected after the holidays, he said: "well, now, holt, let us see what can be done about your affairs." holt looked uneasy; for it seemed as if mr tooke was not going to lend him the money,--or to give it, which was what he had hoped, while using the word "lend." "i am glad you asked me," continued mr tooke; "for people, whether they be men or boys, can usually retrieve their affairs when they have resolution to face their difficulties. there is no occasion to say anything about how you got into debt. we must consider how you are to get out of it." "that is very kind indeed!" exclaimed holt. "as to my lending you half-a-crown," continued mr tooke, "that would not be helping you out of debt; for if you had had any prospect of being able to pay half-a-crown, you would not have needed to apply to me at all." holt sighed. mr tooke went on. "i cannot give you the money. i have less to give away than i should like to have, for the sake of the poor people round us. i cannot pay for a bet and school-fines while the children of our neighbours want clothes and fire." "no, sir, certainly," said both the boys. "what do people do, all the world over, when they want money?" asked mr tooke. holt looked puzzled. hugh smiled. holt was hesitating whether to guess that they put into the lottery, or dig for treasure, or borrow from their friends, or what. having always till lately lived in india, where europeans are rather lazy, and life altogether is very languid, he did not see, as hugh did, what mr tooke could mean. "when men come begging to our doors," said mr tooke, "what is the first question we ask them?" holt still looked puzzled, and hugh laughed, saying,-- "why, holt, you must know very well. we ask them whether they cannot get work." "work!" cried holt. "yes," said mr tooke. "the fathers and uncles of both of you work for what money they have; and so do i; and so does every man among our neighbours who is satisfied with his condition. as far as i see, you must get the money you want in the same way." "work!" exclaimed holt again. "how is he to get work?" asked hugh. "that is where i hope to assist him," replied mr tooke. "are you willing to earn your half-crown, holt?" "i don't know how, sir." "widow murray thinks she should have a better chance for a new lodger if her little parlour was fresh papered; but she is too rheumatic to do it herself, and cannot afford to engage a workman. if you like to try, under her directions, i will pay you as your work deserves." "but, sir, i never papered a room in my life." "no more had the best paper-hanger in london when he first tried. but if you do not like that work, what do you think of doing some writing for me? our tables of rules are dirty. if you will make good copies of our rules for all the rooms in which they hang, in the course of the holidays, i will pay you half-a-crown. but the copies must be quite correct, and the writing good. i can offer you one other choice. our school library wants looking to. if you will put fresh paper covers to all the books that want covering, write the titles on the backs, compare the whole with the catalogue, and arrange them properly on the shelves, i will pay you half-a-crown." holt's pleasure in the prospect of being out of debt was swallowed up in the anxiety of undertaking anything so new to him as work out of school. hugh hurried him on to a decision. "do choose the papering," urged hugh. "i can help you in that, i do believe. i can walk that little way, to widow murray's; and i can paste the paper. widow murray will show you how to do it; and it is very easy, if you once learn to join the pattern. i found that, when i helped to paper the nursery closet at home." "it is an easy pattern to join," said mr tooke. "there now! and that is the chief thing. if you do the library books, i cannot help you, you know. and remember, you will have two miles to walk each way; four miles a-day in addition to the work." "he can sleep at crofton, if he likes," said mr tooke. "that would be a queer way of staying at uncle shaw's," observed hugh. "then there is copying the rules," said holt. "i might do that here; and you might help me, if you liked." "dull work!" exclaimed hugh. "think of copying the same rules three or four times over! and then, if you make mistakes, if you do not write clearly, where is your half-crown? i don't mean that i would not help you, but it would be the dullest work of all." mr tooke sat patiently waiting till holt had made up his mind. he perceived something that never entered hugh's mind: that holt's pride was hurt at the notion of doing workman's work. he wrote on a slip of paper these few words, and pushed them across the table to holt, with a smile:-- "no debtor's hands are clean, however white they be: who digs and pays his way--the true gentleman is he." holt coloured as he read, and immediately said that he chose the papering job. mr tooke rose, tossed the slip of paper into the fire, buttoned up his coat, and said that he should let widow murray know that a workman would wait upon her the next morning, and that she must have her paste and brushes and scissors ready. "and a pair of steps," said hugh, with a sigh. "steps, of course," replied mr tooke. "you will think it a pretty paper, i am sure." "but, sir, she must quite understand that she is not at all obliged to us,--that is, to me," said holt. "certainly. you will tell her so yourself, of course." here again holt's pride was hurt; but the thought of being out of meredith's power sustained him. when mr tooke was gone, hugh said to his companion,-- "i do not want you to tell me what mr tooke wrote on that paper that he burned. i only want to know whether he asked you to choose so as to indulge me." "you! o no! there was not a word about you." "o! very well!" replied hugh, not sure whether he was pleased or not. the next morning was so fine that there was no difficulty about hugh's walking the short distance to the widow murray's; and there, for three mornings, did the boys work diligently, till the room was papered, and two cupboards into the bargain. holt liked it very well, except for two things:--that hugh was sure he could have done some difficult corners better than holt had done them, if he could but have stood upon the steps; and that widow murray did so persist in thanking him, that he had to tell her several times over that she was not obliged to him at all, because he was to be paid for the job. mr tooke came to see the work when it was done, and returned to mr shaw's with the boys, in order to pay holt his half-crown immediately, and yet so that the widow should not see. hugh's eye followed mr tooke's hand as it went a second time into his pocket; and he was conscious of some sort of hope that he might be paid something too. when no more silver came forth, he felt aware that he ought not to have dreamed of any reward for the help he had freely offered to his companion: and he asked himself whether his schoolfellows were altogether wrong in thinking him too fond of money; and whether he was altogether right in having said that it was justice that he cared for, and not money, when he had pressed his debtor hard. however this might be, he was very glad to receive his sixpence from holt. as he put it in his inner pocket, he observed that this would be all the money he should have in the world when he should have spent his five shillings in fairings for home. holt made no answer. he had nothing to spend in the fair; still less, anything left over. but he remembered that he was out of debt,--that meredith, would twit him no more,--and he began to whistle, so light-hearted, that no amount of money could have made him happier. he only left off whistling to thank hugh earnestly for having persuaded him to open his heart to mr tooke. chapter thirteen. tripping. when the day came for returning to crofton, hugh would have left his crutches behind at his uncle's, so much did he prefer walking with the little light stick-leg he had been practising with for a fortnight. but his aunt shook her head at this, and ordered the crutches into the gig. he still walked slowly and cautiously, and soon grew tired: and she thought he might find it a relief at times to hop about on his crutches. they were hidden under the bed, however, immediately on his arrival; so anxious was hugh to make the least of his lameness, and look as like other boys as possible, both for tooke's sake and his own. when the boys had been all assembled for one day, and everybody had seen how little proctor could walk, the subject seemed to be dropped, and nothing was talked of but the new usher. so hugh said to himself; and he really thought that he had fully taken his place again as a crofton boy, and that he should be let off all notice of his infirmity henceforth, and all trials from it, except such as no one but himself need know of. he was even not quite sure whether he should not be a gainer by it on the whole. he remembered tooke's assurances of protection and friendship; he found phil very kind and watchful; and mrs watson told him privately that he was to be free of the orchard. she showed him the little door through which he might enter at any time, alone, or with one companion. here he might read, or talk, and get out of sight of play that he could not share. the privilege was to be continued as long as no mischief was done to anything within the orchard. the prospect of the hours, the quiet hours, the bright hours that he should spend here alone with dale, delighted hugh: and when he told dale, dale liked the prospect too; and they went together, at the earliest opportunity, to survey their new domain, and plan where they would sit in spring, and how they would lie on the grass in summer, and be closer and closer friends for ever. holt was encouraged to hope that he should have his turn sometimes; but he saw that, though hugh cared more for him than before the holidays, he yet loved dale the best. while hugh was still in spirits at the thought that his worst trials were over, and the pleasure of his indulgences to come, he felt very complacent; and he thought he would gratify himself with one more reading of the theme which he had written in the holidays,--the theme which he really believed mr tooke might fairly praise,--so great had been the pains he had taken with the composition, and so neatly was it written out. he searched for it in vain among his books and in his portfolio. then he got leave to go up to his room, and turn over all his clothes. he did so in vain; and at last he remembered that it was far indeed out of his reach,--in the drawer of his aunt's work-table, where it had lain ever since she had asked him for it, to read to a lady who had visited her. the themes would certainly be called for the first thing on mr tooke's appearance in school, at nine the next morning. the duties of the early morning would leave no one any time to run to mr shaw's then. if anybody went, it must be now. the first day was one of little regularity; it was only just beginning so grow dusk; any willing boy might be back before supper; and there was no doubt that leave would be given on such an occasion. so hugh made his way to the playground as fast as possible, and told his trouble to his best friends there,--to phil, and holt, and dale, and as many as happened to be within hearing. "never mind your theme!" said phil. "nobody expected you to do one; and you have only to say that you left it behind you." "it is not that," said hugh. "i must show up my theme." "you can't, you know, if you have it not to show," said two or three, who thought this settled the matter. "but it is there: it is at my uncle's, if any one would go for it," said hugh, beginning to be agitated. "go for it!" exclaimed phil. "what, in the dark,--this freezing afternoon?" "it is not near dark; it will not be dark this hour. anybody might run there and back before supper." he looked at dale; but dale looked another way. for a moment he thought of tooke's permission to appeal to him when he wanted a friend: but tooke was not within hearing; and he dismissed the thought of pointing out tooke to anybody's notice. he turned away as phil repeated that it was quite certain that there would be no bad consequences from his being unprovided with a theme, which was not one of his regular lessons. phil was not quite easy, however: nor were the others who heard; and in a minute they looked round for hugh. he was leaning his face upon his arms, against the orchard-wall; and when, with gentle force, they pulled him away, they saw that his face was bathed in tears. he sobbed out,-- "i took such pains with that theme,--all the holidays! and i can't go for it myself." there were loud exclamations from many against phil, against one another, and against themselves; and now everybody was eager to go. phil stopped all who had started off, saying that it was his business; and the next moment, phil was at mr tooke's study-door, asking leave of absence till supper. "little holt has been beforehand with you," said mr tooke. "i refused him, however, as he is not so fit as you to be out after dark. off with you!" before phil returned, it struck hugh that he had been very selfish; and that it was not a good way of bearing his trial to impose on any one a walk of four miles, to repair a piece of carelessness of his own. nobody blamed him; but he did not like to look in the faces round him, to see what people thought. when phil returned, fresh and hungry from the frosty air, and threw down the paper, saying,-- "there is your theme, and my aunt is very sorry," hugh said,-- "oh! phil, and i am so sorry too! i hope you are not very tired." "never mind!" replied phil. "there is your theme." and with this hugh was obliged to be satisfied; but it left him exceedingly uncomfortable--sorry for phil--disappointed in dale--and much more disappointed in himself. the thought of what holt had wished to do was the only pleasant part of it; and hugh worked beside holt, and talked with him all the evening. hugh felt, the next morning, as if he was never to have any pleasure from his themes, though they were the lesson he did best. this one was praised, quite as much as the former one: and he did not this time tell anybody what mr tooke had said about it: but the pleasure was spoiled by the recollection that his brother had run four miles on account of it, and that he himself must have appeared to others more selfish than he thought them. he burned his theme, that he might the more easily forget all about it; and the moment after he had done so, phil said he should have kept it, as other boys did theirs, for his parents to see. mr crabbe was just such a master as it was good for the little boys to be under. he did not punish capriciously, nor terrify them by anything worse than his strictness. very strict he was; and he thus caused them some fear every day: for holt was backward, and not very clever: and hugh was still much less able to learn than most other boys. but all felt that mr crabbe was not unreasonable, and they always knew exactly how much to be afraid of. whether he had inquired, or been told, the story of hugh's lameness, they did not know. he said nothing about it, except just asking hugh whether it tired him to stand up in class, saying that he might sit at the top or bottom of the class, instead of taking places, if he chose. hugh did find it rather fatiguing at first: but he did not like to take advantage of mr crabbe's offer, because it so happened that he was almost always at the bottom of his classes: and to have withdrawn from the contest would have looked like a trick to hide the shame, and might have caused him to be set down as a dunce who never could rise. he thanked mr crabbe, and said that if he should rise in his classes, and keep a good place for some time, he thought he should be glad to sit, instead of standing; but meantime he had rather be tired. then the feeling of fatigue went off before he rose, or saw any chance of rising. this inability to do his lessons so well as other boys was a deep and lasting grief to hugh. though he had in reality improved much since he came to crofton, and was now and then cheered by some proof of this, his general inferiority in this respect was such as to mortify him every day of his life, and sometimes to throw him almost into despair. he saw that everybody pitied him for the loss of his foot, but not for this other trouble, while he felt this to be rather the worst of the two; and all the more because he was not sure himself whether or not he could help it, as every one else seemed certain that he might. when he said his prayer in his bed, he earnestly entreated that he might be able to bear the one trouble, and be delivered from the other; and when, as the spring came on, he was found by one friend or another lying on the grass with his face hidden, he was often praying with tears for help in doing this duty, when he was thought to be grieving that he could not play at leaping or foot-ball, like other boys. and yet, the very next evening, when the whole school were busy over their books, and there was nothing to interfere with his work, he would pore over his lesson without taking in half the sense, while his fancy was straying everywhere but where it ought;--perhaps to little harry, or the temple gardens at home, or to cape horn, or japan--some way farther off still. it did not often happen now, as formerly, that he forgot before morning a lesson well learned over-night. he was aware that now everything depended on whether he was once sure of his lesson; but the difficulty was in once being sure of it. finding phil's kindness continue through the first weeks and months of the half-year, hugh took courage at last to open his mind pretty freely to his brother, offering to do anything in the world for phil, if he would only hear him his lessons every evening till he could say them perfect. phil was going to plead that he had no time, when hugh popped out-- "the thing is that it does not help me to say them to just anybody. saying them to somebody that i am afraid of is what i want." "why, you are not afraid of me?" said phil. "yes i am--rather." "what for?" "oh, because you are older;--and you are so much more of a crofton boy than i am--and you are very strict--and altogether--" "yes, you will find me pretty strict, i can tell you," said phil, unable to restrain a complacent smile on finding that somebody was afraid of him. "well, we must see what we can do. i will hear you to-night, at any rate." between his feeling of kindness and the gratification of his vanity, phil found himself able to hear his brother's lessons every evening. he was certainly very strict, and was not sparing of such pushes, joggings, and ridicule as were necessary to keep hugh up to his work. these were very provoking sometimes; but hugh tried to bear them for the sake of the gain. whenever phil would condescend to explain, in fresh words, the sense of what hugh had to learn, he saved trouble to both, and the lesson went off quickly and easily: but sometimes he would not explain anything, and soon went away in impatience, leaving hugh in the midst of his perplexities. there was a chance, on such occasions, that firth might be at leisure, or dale able to help: so that, one way and another, hugh found his affairs improving as the spring advanced; and he began to lose his anxiety, and to gain credit with the usher. he also now and then won a place in his classes. towards the end of may, when the trees were full of leaf, and the evenings sunny, and the open air delicious, quite up to bedtime, phil became persuaded, very suddenly, that hugh could get on by himself now; that it was not fair that he should be helped; and that it was even hurtful to him to rely on any one but himself. if phil had acted gradually upon this conviction, withdrawing his help by degrees, it might have been all very well: but he refused at once and decidedly to have anything more to do with hugh's lessons, as he was quite old and forward enough now to do them by himself. this announcement threw his brother into a state of consternation not at all favourable to learning; and the next morning hugh made several blunders. he did the same every day that week; was every afternoon detained from play to learn his lessons again; and on the saturday morning (repetition day) he lost all the places he had gained, and left off at the bottom of every class. what could mr crabbe suppose but that a sudden fit of idleness was the cause of this falling back? it appeared so to him, and to the whole school; and poor hugh felt as if there was scorn in every eye that looked upon his disgrace. he thought there could not be a boy in the school who did not see or hear that he was at the bottom of every class. mr crabbe always desired to be just: and he now gave hugh the opportunity of explaining, if he had anything to say. he remained in the school-room after the boys had left it, and asked hugh a question or two. but hugh sobbed and cried so bitterly that he could not speak so as to be understood; and he did not wish to explain, feeling that he was much obliged to phil for his former help, and that he ought not to complain to any master of its being now withdrawn. so mr crabbe could only hope that next week would show a great difference, and advise him to go out with the rest this afternoon, to refresh himself for a new effort. hugh did not know whether he had not rather have been desired to stay at home than go out among so many who considered him disgraced. it really was hard (though holt stood by him, and dale was his companion as usual) to bear the glances he saw, and the words that came to his ear. some boys looked to see how red his eyes were: some were surprised to see him abroad, and hinted a favouritism because he was not shut up in the school-room. some asked whether he could say his alphabet yet; and others whether he could spell "dunce." the most cruel thing of all was to see tooke in particularly high spirits. he kept away from hugh; but hugh's eye followed him from afar, and saw that he capered and laughed, and was gayer than at any time this half-year. hugh saw into his heart (or thought he did) as plain as he saw to the bottom of the clear stream in the meadows, to which they were bound for their afternoon's sport. "i know what tooke is feeling," thought he. "he is pleased to see me lowered, as long as it is not his doing. he is sorry to see me suffer by my lameness; because that hurts his conscience: but he is pleased to see me wrong and disgraced, because that relieves him of the feeling of being obliged to me. if i were now to put him in mind of his promise, to stand by me, and protect me--i declare i will--it will stop his wicked joy--it will make him remember his duty." dale wondered to see hugh start off, as fast as he could go, to overtake the foremost boys, who were just entering the meadow, and spreading themselves over it. tooke could, alas! like everybody else, go faster than hugh; and there was no catching him, though he did not seem to see that anybody wanted him. neither could he be made to hear, though hugh called him as loud as he could shout. holt was so sorry to see hugh hot and agitated, that he made no objection to going after tooke, though he was pretty sure tooke would be angry with him. holt could run as fast as anybody, and he soon caught the boy he was pursuing, and told him that little proctor wanted him very much indeed, that very moment. tooke sent him about his business, saying that he could not come; and then immediately proposed brook-leaping for their sport, leading the way himself over a place so wide that no lesser boy, however nimble, could follow. holt came running back, shaking his head, and showing that his errand was in vain. tooke was so full of play that he could think of nothing else; which was a shame. "ah! and you little know," thought hugh, "how deep a shame it is." with a swelling heart he turned away, and went towards the bank of the broader stream which ran through the meadows. dale was with him in a moment,--very sorry for him, because everybody else was at brook-leaping,--the sport that hugh had loved so well last autumn. dale passed his arm round hugh's neck, and asked where they should sit and tell stories,--where they could best hide themselves, so that nobody should come and tease them. hugh wished to thank his friend for this; but he could not speak directly. they found a pleasant place among the flowering reeds on the bank, where they thought nobody would see them; and having given holt to understand that they did not want him, they settled themselves for their favourite amusement of story-telling. but hugh's heart was too full and too sick for even his favourite amusement; and dale was perhaps too sorry for him to be the most judicious companion he could have at such a time. dale agreed that the boys were hard and careless; and he added that it was particularly shameful to bring up a boy's other faults when he was in disgrace for one. in the warmth of his zeal, he told how one boy had been laughing at hugh's conceit about his themes, when he had shown to-day that he could not go half through his syntax; and how he had heard another say that all that did not signify half so much as his being mean about money. between hugh's eagerness to hear, and dale's sympathy, five minutes were not over before hugh had heard every charge that could be brought against his character, and knew that they were all circulating this very afternoon. in his agony of mind he declared that everybody at crofton hated him,--that he could never hold up his head there,--that he would ask to be sent home by the coach, and never come near crofton again. dale now began to be frightened, and wished he had not said so much. he tried to make light of it; but hugh seemed disposed to do something decided;--to go to his uncle shaw's at least, if he could not get home. dale earnestly protested, against any such idea, and put him in mind how he was respected by everybody for his bravery about the loss of his foot. "respected?" "not a bit of it!" cried hugh. "they none of them remember: they don't care a bit about it." dale was sure they did. "i tell you they don't. i know they don't. i know it for certain; and i will tell you how i know. there is the very boy that did it,--the very boy that pulled me from the wall--o! if you knew who it was, you _would_ say it was a shame!" dale involuntarily sat up, and looked back, over the top of the reeds, at the boys who were brook-leaping. "would you like to know who it was that did it, dale?" "yes, if you like to tell; but--and if he treats you ill, after the way you used him, he cannot expect you should consider him so--besides, i am your best friend; and i always tell you everything!" "yes, that you do. and he has treated me so shamefully to-day! and i have nobody to speak to that knows. you will promise never--never to tell anybody as long as you live." "to be sure," said dale. "and you won't tell anybody that i have told you." "to be sure not." "well, then--" here there was a rustling among the reeds which startled them both, with a sort of guilty feeling. it was holt, quite out of breath. "i don't want to interrupt you," said he, "and i know you wish i would not come; but the others made me come. the biggest boys lay that the second-size can't jump the brook at the willow-stump; and the second-size boys want dale to try. they made me come. i could not help it." hugh looked at dale, with eyes which said, as plainly as eyes could speak, "you will not go--you will not leave me at such a moment?" but dale was not looking at his face, but at the clusters of boys beside the brook. he said-- "you will not mind my going, just for one leap. it will hardly take a minute. i shall not stay for a game. but i must have just one leap." and he was off. holt looked after him, and then towards hugh, hesitating whether to go or stay. hugh took no notice of him: so he went slowly away, and hugh was left alone. he was in an extreme perturbation. at the first moment, he was beyond measure hurt with dale. he did not think his best friend would have so reminded him of his infirmity, and of his being a restraint on his companions. he did not think any friend could have left him at such a moment. then it occurred to him,-- "what, then, am i? if dale was selfish, what was i? i was just going to tell what would have pointed out tooke to him for life. i know as well as can be that it was all accident his pulling me off the wall; and yet i was going to bring it up against him; and for the very reason why i should not,--because he has not behaved well to me. i was just going to spoil the only good thing i ever did for anybody in my life. but it is spoiled--completely spoiled. i shall never be able to trust myself again. it is all by mere accident that it is not all over now. if holt had not come that very instant, my secret would have been out, and i could never have got it back again! i could never have looked tooke in the face any more. i don't know that i can now; for i am as wicked as if i had told." dale came back presently, fanning himself with his cap. as he plunged into the reeds, and threw himself down beside hugh, he cried,-- "i did it! i took the leap, and came off with my shoe-soles as dry as a crust. ah! they are wet now; but that is with another leap i took for sport. i told you i should not be long gone. now for it! who did it?" "i am not going to tell you, dale,--not now, nor ever." "why, that is too bad! i am sure i stay beside you often enough, when the others are playing: you need not grudge me this one leap,--when the boys sent for me, too." "it is not that, dale. you are very kind always in staying beside me; and i do not wish that you should give up play for my sake half so much as you do. but i was very, very wrong in meaning to tell you that secret. i should have been miserable by this time if i had." "but you promised. you must keep your promise. what would all the boys say, if i told them you had broken your promise?" "if they knew what it was about, they would despise me for ever meaning to tell--not for stopping short in time. that was only accident, however. but my secret is my own still." dale's curiosity was so strong that hugh saw how dangerous it was to have tantalised it. he had to remind his friend of mr tooke's having put all the boys upon honour not to inquire on this subject. this brought dale to himself; and he promised never again to urge hugh, or encourage his speaking of the matter at all. they then went to story-telling; but it would not do to-day. hugh could not attend; and dale could not invent, while there was no sympathy in his hearer. he was presently released, for it struck hugh that he should like to write to his mother this very afternoon. his heart was heavy, and he wanted to tell her what was in it. mr crabbe gave him leave to go home; and dale was in time for plenty more play. hugh had the great school-room all to himself; and as the window before his desk was open, he had the pleasure of the fresh air, and the smell of the blossoms from the orchard, and the sound of the waving of the tall trees in the wind, and the cawing of the rooks as the trees waved. these things all made him enjoy scribbling away to his mother, as well as finding his mind grow easier as he went on. besides, he had not to care for the writing; for he had met mr tooke by the church, and had got his leave to send his letter without anybody's looking at it, as he had something very particular to say. he wrote,-- "dear mother,-- "it is saturday afternoon, and i have come home from the meadows before the rest, to tell you something that has made me very uneasy. if i had told anybody in the world who pulled me off the wall, it should and would have been you,--that night after it happened: and i am afraid i should have told you, if you had not prevented it: for i find i am not to be trusted when i am talking with anybody i love very much. i have not told yet: but i should have told dale if holt had not run up at the very moment. it makes me very unhappy,--almost as much as if i had let it out: for how do i know but that i may tell a hundred times over in my life, if i could forget so soon? i shall be afraid of loving anybody very much, and talking with them alone, as long as i live. i never felt the least afraid of telling till to-day; and you cannot think how unhappy it makes me. and then, the thing that provoked me to tell was that boy's being surly to me, and glad that i was in disgrace this morning, for doing my lessons badly all this week,--the very thing that should have made me particularly careful how i behaved to him: for his pulling me off the wall was only accident, after all. everything has gone wrong to-day; and i am very unhappy, and i feel as if i should never be sure of anything again; and so i write to you. you told me you expected me not to fail; and you see i have; and the next thing is that i must tell you of it. "your affectionate son, "hugh proctor. "ps. phil has been very kind about my lessons, till this week [_interlined_], when he has been very busy. "ps. if you should answer this, please put `private' outside, or at the top; and then mr tooke will not read it, nor anybody. but i know you are very busy always; so i do not quite expect an answer." when the letter was finished and closed, hugh felt a good deal relieved: but still not happy. he had opened his heart to the best friend he had in this world: but he still felt grievously humbled for the present, and alarmed for the future. then he remembered that he might seek comfort from a better friend still; and that he who had sent him his trial could and would help him to bear it with honour as well as with patience. as he thought of this, he saw that the boys were trooping home, along the road, and he slipped out, and into the orchard, where he knew he might be alone with his best friend. he stayed there till the supper-bell rang; and when he came in, it was with a cheerful face. he was as merry as anybody at supper: and afterwards he found his lessons more easy to him than usual. the truth was that his mind was roused by the conflicts of the day. he said his lessons to phil (who found time to-night to hear him), without missing a word. when he went to bed, he had several pleasant thoughts. his secret was still his own (though by no merit of his); to-morrow was sunday,--likely to be a bright, sweet may sunday,-- his lessons were quite ready for monday; and possibly there might be a letter from his mother in the course of the week. mrs proctor was in the midst of her monday morning's business (and monday morning was the busiest of the week), when she received hugh's letter. yet she found time to answer it by the very next post. when her letter was handed to hugh, with the seal unbroken, because `private' was written large on the outside, we thought she was the kindest mother that ever was, to have written so soon, and to have minded all his wishes. her letter was,-- "dear hugh, "there was nothing in your letter to surprise me at all; for i believe, if all our hearts were known, it would be found that we have every one been saved from doing wrong by what we call accident. the very best people say this of themselves, in their thanksgivings to god, and their confessions to one another. though you were very unhappy on saturday, i am not sorry that these things have happened, as i think you will be the safer and the wiser for them. you say you never till then felt the least afraid of telling. now you know the danger; and that is a good thing. i think you will never again see that boy (whoever he may be), without being put upon your guard. still, we are all sadly forgetful about our duty; and, if i were you, i would use every precaution against such a danger as you have escaped,--it makes me tremble to think how narrowly. if i were you, i would engage any friend i should become intimate with, the whole time of being at school, and perhaps afterwards, never to say a word about the accident,--or, at least, about how it happened. another way is to tell me your mind, as you have now; for you may be sure that it is my wish that you should keep your secret, and that i shall always be glad to help you to do it. "but, my dear boy, i can do but little, in comparison with the best friend you have. he can help you without waiting for your confidence,--even at the very instant when you are tempted. it is he who sends these very accidents (as we call them) by which you have now been saved. have you thanked him for saving you this time? and will you not trust in his help henceforward; instead of supposing yourself safe, as you now find you are not? if you use his strength, i feel that you will not fail. if you trust your own intentions alone, i shall never feel sure of you for a single hour, nor be certain that the companion you love best may not be your worst enemy, in breaking down your self-command. but, as you say you were very unhappy on saturday, i have no doubt you did go for comfort to the right friend, and that you were happier on sunday. "your sisters do not know that i am writing, as i consider your letter a secret from everybody but your father, who sends his love. you need not show this to phil; but you can give him our love. your sisters are counting the days to the holidays; and so are some older members of the family. as for harry, he shouts for you from the yard every day, and seems to think that every shout will bring nearer the happy time when phil and you will come home. "your affectionate mother, "jane proctor." hugh was, of course, very glad of this letter. and he was glad of something else;--that he had done the very things his mother had advised. he had engaged dale not to tempt him on this subject any more. he had opened his heart to his mother, and obtained her help; and he had sought a better assistance, and a a higher comfort still. it was so delightful to have such a letter as this,--to be so understood and aided, that he determined to tell his mother all his concerns, as long as he lived. when, in the course of the holidays, he told her so, she smiled, and said she supposed he meant as long as _she_ lived; for she was likely to die long before he did. hugh could not deny this; but he never liked to think about it:--he always drove away the thought; though he knew, as his mother said, that this was rather cowardly, and that the wisest and most loving people in the world remember the most constantly and cheerfully that friends must be parted for a while, before they can live together for ever. chapter fourteen. holt and his help. nothing more was heard by hugh, or any one else, of lamb's debt. the creditor himself chose to say nothing about it, so much was he annoyed at being considered fond of money; but he was sure that lamb's pockets were filled, from time to time, as he was seen eating good things in by-corners when everybody knew that his credit with his companions, and with all the neighbouring tradespeople, was exhausted. it was surprising that anybody could care so much for a shilling's worth of tarts or fruit as to be at the trouble of any concealment, or of constantly getting out of hugh's way, rather than pay, and have done with it. when lamb was seen munching or skulking, firth sometimes asked hugh whether he had got justice yet in that quarter: and then hugh laughed; and firth saw that he had gained something quite as good,--a power of doing without it good-humouredly, from those who were so unhappy as not to understand or care for justice. in one respect, however, hugh was still within lamb's power. when lamb was not skulking, he was much given to boasting; and his boasts were chiefly about what a great man he was to be in india. he was really destined for india; and his own opinion was that he should have a fine life of it there, riding on an elephant, with a score of servants always about him, spending all his mornings in shooting, and all his evenings at dinners and balls. hugh did not care about the servants, sport, or dissipation; and he did not see why any one should cross the globe to enjoy things like these, which might be had at home. but it did make him sigh to think that a lazy and ignorant boy should be destined to live among those mountains, and that tropical verdure of which he had read,--to see the cave-temples, the tanks, the prodigious rivers, and the natives and their ways, of which his imagination was full, while he must stay at home, and see nothing beyond london, as long as he lived. he did not grudge holt his prospect of going to india; for holt was an improved and improving boy, and had, moreover, a father there whom he loved very much: but hugh could never hear lamb's talk about india without being ready to cry. "do you think," he said to holt, "that all this is true?" "it is true that he is to go to india. his father has interest to get him out. but i do not believe he will like it so well as he thinks. at least, i know that my father has to work pretty hard,--harder than lamb ever worked, or ever will work." "o dear! i wish i could go and do the work; and i would send all the money home to him (except just enough to live upon), and then he might go to dinners and balls in london, as much as he liked, and i could see the hindoos and the cave-temples." "that is another mistake of lamb's,--about the quantity of money," said holt. "i do not believe anybody in india is so rich as he pretends, if they work ever so hard. i know my father works as hard as anybody, and he is not rich; and i know the same of several of his friends. so it is hardly likely that such a lazy dunce as lamb should be rich, unless he has a fortune here at home; and if he had that, i do not believe he would take the trouble of going so far, to suffer by the heat." "i should not mind the heat," sighed hugh, "if i could go. you must write to me, holt, all about india. write me the longest letters in the world; and tell me everything you can think of about the natives, and juggernaut's car." "that i will, if you like. but i am afraid that would only make you long the more to go,--like reading voyages and travels. how i do wish, though, that you were going with me by-and-by, as you let me go home with you these holidays!" it was really true that holt was going to london these holidays. he was not slow to acknowledge that hugh's example had put into him some of the spirit that he had wanted when he came to crofton, languid, indolent, and somewhat spoiled, as little boys from india are apt to be; and hugh, for his part, saw now that he had been impatient and unkind towards holt, and had left him forlorn, after having given him hopes that they were to be friends and companions. they were gradually becoming real friends now; and the faster, because holt was so humble as not to be jealous of hugh's still liking dale best. holt was satisfied to be liked best when dale could not be had; and as this was the case in the midsummer holidays, he was grateful to be allowed to spend them with the proctors. hugh was so thankful for his father's kindness in giving him a companion of his own age, and so pleased to show holt little harry, and the leads, and the river, and his shelf of books, and covent garden market, and other wonders of london, that any unpleasant feelings that the boys had ever entertained towards each other were quite forgotten, and they grew more intimate every day. it touched hugh's heart to see how sorry holt was for every little trial that befel him, on coming home, altered as he was. agnes herself did not turn red oftener, or watch more closely to help him than holt did. hugh himself had to tell him not to mind when he saw the shop-boy watching his way of walking, or little harry trying to limp like him, or susan pretending to find fault with him, as she used to do, as an excuse for brushing away her tears. holt was one of the first to find out that hugh liked to be sent errands about the house, or in the neighbourhood; and it was he who convinced the family of it, though at first they could not understand or believe it at all. when they saw, however, that hugh, who used to like that his sisters should wait upon him, and to be very slow in moving from his book, even at his mother's desire, now went up-stairs and down-stairs for everybody, and tried to be more independent in his habits than any one else, they began to think that holt knew hugh's mind better than even they, and to respect and love him accordingly. there was another proof of friendship given by holt, more difficult by far; and in giving it, he showed that he really had learned courage and spirit from hugh, or in some other way. he saw that his friend was now and then apt to do what most people who have an infirmity are prone to,--to make use of his privation to obtain indulgences for himself, or as an excuse for wrong feelings; and when holt could not help seeing this, he resolutely told his friend of it. no one else but mrs proctor would see or speak the truth on such occasions; and when his mother was not by, hugh would often have done selfish things unchecked, if it had not been for holt. his father pitied him so deeply, that he joked even about hugh's faults, rather than give him present pain. phil thought he had enough to bear at crofton, end that everybody should let him alone in the holidays. his sisters humoured him in everything: so that if it had not been for holt, hugh might have had more trouble with his faults than ever, on going back to crofton. "do you really and truly wish not to fail, as you say, hugh?" asked holt. "to be sure." "well, then, do try not to be cross." "i am not cross." "i know you think it is low spirits. i am not quite sure of that: but if it is, would not it be braver not to be low in spirits?" hugh muttered that that was fine talking for people that did not know. "that is true, i dare say; and i do not believe i should be half as brave as you, but i _should_ like to see you quite brave." "it is a pretty thing for you to lecture me, when i got down those books on purpose for you,--those voyages and travels. and how can i look at those same books, now and not--" hugh could not go on, and he turned away his head. "was it for me?" exclaimed holt, in great concern. "then i am very sorry. i will carry them to mrs proctor, and ask her to put them quite away till we are gone back to crofton." "no, no. don't do that. i want them," said hugh, finding now that he had not fetched them down entirely on holt's account. but holt took him at his word, and carried the books away, and succeeded in persuading hugh that it was better not to look at volumes which he really almost knew by heart, and every crease, stain, and dog's-ear of which brought up fresh in his mind his old visions of foreign travel and adventure. then, holt never encouraged any conversation about the accident with susan, or with mr blake, when they were in the shop; and he never pretended to see that hugh's lameness was any reason why he should have the best of their places in the haymarket theatre (where they went once), or be the chief person when they capped verses or played other games round the table, in the evenings at home. the next time hugh was in his right mood, he was sure to feel obliged to holt; and he sometimes said so. "i consider you a real friend to hugh," said mrs proctor, one day, when they three were together. "i have dreaded seeing my boy capable only of a short effort of courage;--bearing pain of body and mind well while everybody was sorry for him, and ready to praise him; and then failing in the long trial afterwards. when other people are leaving off being sorry for him, you continue your concern for him, and still remind him not to fail." "would not it be a pity, ma'am," said holt, earnestly, "would it not be a pity for him to fail when he bore everything so well at first, and when he helped me so that i don't know what i should have done without him? he made me write to mr tooke, and so got me out of debt; and a hundred times, i am sure, the thought of him and his secret has put spirit into me. it would be a pity if he should fail without knowing it, for want of somebody to put him in mind. he might so easily think he was bearing it all well, as long as he could talk about his foot, and make a joke of being lame, when, all the while, he might be losing his temper in other ways." "why, how true that is!" exclaimed hugh. "i was going to ask if i was ever cross about being lame: but i know i am about other things, because i am worried about that, sometimes." "it is so easy to put you in mind," continued holt; "and we shall all be so glad if you are brave to the very end--" "i will," said hugh. "only do you go on to put me in mind--" "and _you_ will grow more and more brave, too," observed mrs proctor to holt. holt sighed; for he thought it would take a great deal of practice yet to make him a brave boy. other people thought he was getting on very fast. chapter fifteen. conclusion. the longer these two boys were together, the more they wished they could spend their lives side by side; or, at least, not be separated by half the globe. just before the christmas holidays, some news arrived which startled them so much that they could hardly speak to one another about it for some hours. there was a deep feeling in their hearts which disposed them to speak alone to the ruler of their lives, before they could even rejoice with one another. when they meditated upon it, they saw that the event had come about naturally enough; but it so exactly met the strongest desire they had in the world, that if a miracle had happened before their eyes, they could not have been more struck. holt's father wrote a letter to mr proctor, which reached its destination through mr tooke's hands; and mr tooke was consulted in the whole matter, and requested by mr proctor to tell the two boys and phil all about it. these three were therefore called into mr tooke's study one day, to hear some news. the letters which mr tooke read were about hugh. mr holt explained that his son's best years were to be spent, like his own, in india; that his own experience had made him extremely anxious that his son should be associated with companions whom he could respect and love; and that he had long resolved to use such interest as he had in bringing out only such a youth, or youths, as he could wish his son to associate with. he mentioned that he was aware that one lad now at crofton was destined for india-- "that is lamb," whispered the boys to each other. but that he did not hear of any friendship formed, or likely to be formed with advantage between his son and this young gentleman. "no, indeed!" muttered holt. there was one boy, however, mr holt went on to say, to whom his son seemed to be attached, and concerning whom he had related circumstances which inspired a strong interest, and which seemed to afford an expectation of an upright manhood following a gallant youth. here all the boys reddened, and hugh looked hard at the carpet. this boy had evidently a strong inclination for travel and adventure; and though his lameness put military or naval service out of the question, it might not unfit him for civil service in india. if mr tooke could give such a report of his health, industry, and capability as should warrant his being offered an appointment, and if his parents were willing so to dispose of him, mr holt was anxious to make arrangements for the education of the boys proceeding together, in order to their being companions in their voyage and subsequent employments. and then followed some account of what these arrangements were to be. "now, proctor," said mr tooke to the breathless hugh, "you must consider what you have to say to this. your parents are willing to agree if you are. but if," he continued, with a kind smile, "it would make you very unhappy to go to india, no one will force your inclinations." "oh, sir," said hugh, "i will work very hard,--i will work as hard as ever i can, if i may go." "well: you may go, you see, if you will work hard. you can consider it quietly, or talk it over with your brother and holt; and to-morrow you are to dine at your uncle's, where you will meet your father; and he and you will settle what to write to mr holt, by the next ship." "and you, sir," said phil, anxiously--"mr holt asks your opinion." "my opinion is that your brother can be what he pleases. he wants some inducement to pursue his learning more strenuously than he has done yet--" "i will, sir. i will," indeed, cried hugh. "i believe you will. such a prospect as this will be an inducement, if anything can. you are, on the whole, a brave boy; and brave boys are not apt to be ungrateful to god or man; and i am sure you think it would be ungrateful, both to god and man, to refuse to do your best in the situation which gratifies the first wish of your heart." hugh could not say another word. he made his lowest bow, and went straight to his desk. as the first fruits of his gratitude, he learned his lessons thoroughly well that night; much as he would have liked to spend the time in dreaming. his father and he had no difficulty in settling what to write to mr holt; and very merry were they together when the business was done. in a day or two, when hugh had had time to think, he began to be glad on tooke's account; and he found an opportunity of saying to him one day,-- "i never should have gone to india if i had not lost my foot; and i think it is well worth while losing my foot to go to india." "do you really? or do you say it because--" "i think so really." and then he went off into such a description as convinced tooke that he was in earnest, though it was to be feared that he would be disappointed by experience. but then again, mr tooke was heard to say that one chief requisite for success and enjoyment in foreign service of any kind was a strong inclination for it. so tooke was consoled, and easier in mind than for a whole year past. hugh was able to keep his promise of working hard. both at crofton and at the india college, where his education was finished, he studied well and successfully; and when he set sail with his companion, it was with a heart free from all cares but one. parting from his family was certainly a great grief; and he could not forget the last tone he had heard from agnes. but this was his only sorrow. he was, at last, on the wide sea, and going to asia. holt was his dear friend. he had left none but well-wishers behind. his secret was his own; (though, indeed, he scarcely remembered that he had any secret;) and he could not but be conscious that he went out well prepared for honourable duty. the end. [frontispiece: "a fierce hand-to-hand fight was in progress."] soldiers of the queen by harold avery london, edinburgh, and new york thomas nelson and sons contents i. tin soldiers ii. an ugly duckling iii. the rebel reclaimed iv. the court of queen mab v. an unlucky picnic vi. a keepsake vii. strife in the upper fourth viii. a banquet at "duster's" ix. "guard turn out!" x. "storms in a tea-cup" xi. "out of the frying-pan--" xii. "--into the fire" xiii. a robbery at brenlands xiv. the sound of the drum xv. the queen's shilling xvi. on active service xvii. under fire xviii. the battle xix. "food for powder" xx. the river's brink xxi. "when johnny comes marching home again!" xxii. conclusion list of illustrations "lieutenant lawson, revolver in hand, stepped into a gap in the ranks" . . . . . . . . . . . . _frontispiece_. "another volley swept the intervening stretch of tablecloth" "'make haste! i can't hang on much longer'" (missing from book) "the visitors were seized, and hustled unceremoniously out of the room" "'here they are! now we've got them!'" "it was christmas day in the camp at korti" "the enemy swerved round the flank of the square, and burst furiously upon the rear" "the oncoming mass of arabs" soldiers of the queen. chapter i. tin soldiers. "they shouldered arms, and looked straight before them, and wore a splendid uniform, red and blue."--_the brave tin soldier_. the battle was nearly over. gallant tin soldiers of the line lay where they had fallen; nearly the whole of a shilling box of light cavalry had paid the penalty of rashly exposing themselves in a compact body to the enemy's fire; while a rickety little field-gun, with bright red wheels, lay overturned on two infantry men, who, even in death, held their muskets firmly to their shoulders, like the grim old "die-hards" that they were. the brigade of guards, a dozen red-coated veterans of solid lead, who had taken up a strong position in the cover of a cardboard box, still held their ground with a desperate valour only equalled by the dogged pluck of a similar body of the enemy, who had occupied the inkstand with the evident intention of remaining there until the last cartridge had been expended. another volley swept the intervening stretch of tablecloth, and the deadly missiles glanced against the glass bottles and rattled among the pencils and penholders. two men fell without a cry, and lay motionless with their heads resting on the pen-wiper. [illustration: "another volley swept the intervening stretch of tablecloth."] "look here, barbara, you're cheating! you put in more than two peas that time, i know." it was the commander-in-chief of the invading forces who spoke, and the words were addressed to a very harum-scarum looking young lady, who stood facing him on the opposite side of the table. "how d'you know i did?" she cried. "because i saw them hit. there were three at least, and the rule was that we weren't to fire more than two at a time." "there weren't three, then," retorted the girl, laughing, and shaking back her tangled locks with an impatient movement of her head. "there were _six_! ha! ha! i put them all in my mouth at once, and you never noticed." "oh, you little cheat!" cried the boy. "i'll lick you." the threat had evidently no terrors for her. she danced wildly round the table, crying, "six! six! six!" and when at length he caught her, and held her by the waist, she turned round and rapped him smartly on the head with a tin pea-shooter. at this stage of the proceedings a lady, who had been sitting in a low chair by the fire, looked up from her book. "come, come!" she said pleasantly. "i thought the day was past when generals fought single combats in front of their men. isn't that true, valentine?" the tussle ceased at once; the boy released his sister, who laughed, and shook herself like a small kitten. "she's been cheating!" he exclaimed. "i fired six peas instead of two!" cried the culprit, evidently delighted with her little piece of wickedness. "and i knocked over two of his silly old soldiers." a girl, somewhat older than valentine, though very like him in face, laid down her needlework, saying, with a quiet smile,-- "all's fair in love and war, isn't it, barbara?" "yes, of course it is," answered her sister. "it's not--is it, aunt?" retorted the boy. the lady rose from her chair, and, with a merry twinkle in her eye, came over to the table. "well, we'll hope not," she said. "why, val, i should have thought you were too old to play with tin soldiers; you were fourteen last birthday." "i don't think i shall ever be tired of playing with them--that is," he added, "until i'm with real ones." "queen mab," as the children sometimes called her, was below the medium height, and as she stood by her nephew's side his head reached above the level of her shoulder. she glanced over the mimic battlefield, and then down at the bright, healthy-looking young face at her side, with its honest grey eyes and resolute little mouth and chin. the old words, "food for powder," came into her mind, and she laid her hand lightly on his rumpled hair. "so you still mean to be a soldier?" "yes, rather; and father says i may." miss fenleigh was silent for a moment. "ah, well," she said at length, "a happy time will come some day when there will be no more war; and i think it's about time this one ceased, for jane will be here in a minute to clear the table for tea." if valentine or either of his sisters had been asked to describe their aunt mabel, they would probably have done so by saying she was the best and dearest person in the world; and accepting this assertion as correct, it would be difficult to say more. her house also was one of the most delightful places which could well be imagined; and there, since their mother's death, the children spent each year the greater part of their summer holidays. it was a dear, easy-going old house, with stairs a little out of the straight, and great beams appearing in unexpected places in the bedroom ceilings. there were brass locks with funny little handles to the doors, and queer alcoves and cupboards let into the walls. there was no fusty drawing-room, with blinds always drawn down, and covers to the chairs, but two cosy parlours meant for everyday use, the larger of which was panelled with dark wood which reflected the lamp and firelight, and somehow seemed to be ready to whisper to one stories of the days when wood was used for wall-paper, and when houses were built with sliding panels in the walls and hiding-places in the chimneys. the garden exactly matched the house, and so did the flowers that grew in it--the pink daisies, "boy's love," sweet-williams, and hollyhocks, all of which might be picked as well as looked at. visitors never had a chance of stealing the fruit, because they were always invited to eat it as soon as it was ripe, or even before, if they preferred. there were a lawn, and a paddock, and a shrubbery, the last so much overgrown that it resembled a little forest, and often did duty for a miniature "merry sherwood," when the present of some bows and arrows caused playing at robin hood and his men to become a popular pastime. lastly, there was the stable, where jessamine, the little fat pony, and the low basket-carriage were lodged; and above was the loft, a charming place, which had been in turn a ship, a fortress, a robbers' cave, and a desert island. up there were loads of hay and bundles of straw, which could be built up or rolled about in; the place was always in a romantic twilight; there were old, deserted spiders' webs hanging to the roof, looking like shops to let, which never did any business; and the ascent and descent of the perpendicular ladder from the ground floor was quite an adventure in itself. to picture a ship on which one had to go aloft to enter the cabin would seem rather a difficult task; but a child's imagination is the richest in the world, and though valentine and his sisters had grown rather too old for this style of amusement, every fresh visit to brenlands was made brighter by recollections of the many happy ones which had preceded it, and of all the fun and frolic they had already enjoyed there. but best and foremost of all the charming things which made the place so bright and attractive was queen mab herself. she never said that little people ought to be seen and not heard; and there never was a person so easy to tell one's troubles to, or so hard to keep a secret from, as aunt mabel. no one in the world could ever have told stories as well as she did. "the brave tin soldier" and "the ugly duckling" were the favourites, and came in time to be always associated with brenlands. they had been told so often that the listeners always knew exactly what was coming next, and had the narrator put the number of metal brethren at two dozen instead of twenty-five, or missed out a single stage of the duckling's wanderings, she would have been instantly tripped up by her audience. but queen mab was too skilful a story-teller to leave out the minutest detail in describing the perilous voyage of the paper boat, or to spare the duckling a single snub from the narrow-minded hen or the bumptious tom-cat. the "tin soldier" she generally gave in answer to the special request of her small nephew, but she herself seemed to prefer the other story. there, the duckling's sorrowful wanderings finished with his turning into a swan, and queen mab always had a liking for happy endings. she and the old house were exactly suited to each other, and seemed to share the same fragrant atmosphere, so that wherever her courtiers met her, and flung their arms round her neck, they were instantly reminded of sweet-brier and honeysuckle, jars of dried rose leaves, and all the other delicious scents of brenlands. the children never noticed that there were streaks of silver in her hair, or that on her left hand she wore a mourning ring; nor did they know the reason why, on a certain day in the year, she seemed, if possible, more kind and loving than on any other, and went away somewhere early in the morning with a big bunch of flowers, and came back with the basket empty. "aunt," said barbara, "what's an old maid?" "why, i'm one!" answered queen mab, laughing; whereupon it became every one's ambition to live a life of single blessedness. when there was cherry-tart for dinner, an alarming number of stones were secretly swallowed, in order that the person guilty of this abominable piece of sharp practice might count out, "this year--next year--some time--never!" and at old maid's cards the object of the game was now reversed, and instead of trying to "go out," every one strove to remain in, the fortunate being in whose hands the "old maid" remained at the finish always brandishing the hitherto detested card with a shriek of triumph. the last trace of the mimic battle had been cleared away, and now where tin cavalry had ridden boldly to their fate, and lead guards had died but not surrendered, nothing was to be seen but peaceful plum-cake, or bread and butter cut in thin and appetizing slices. "i'm sorry you weren't able to make a longer stay," said aunt mabel, as she poured out the tea. "but your father said he couldn't spare you for more than a week at easter. however, the summer will soon be here, and then you will come again for a proper visit. by-the-bye, valentine, d'you know that your cousin jack is coming to be a school-fellow of yours at melchester?" "no, aunt; is that uncle basil's son?" "yes; i want you to make friends with him, and bring him over here on your half-term holiday. i hope he will come for a few weeks at midsummer, and then you will all be able to have a jolly time together." "how old is he?" asked valentine. "oh, i think he is about a year older than you are--fifteen or thereabouts." barbara had fished a stranger out of her cup, and was smiting the back of one plump little hand against the other, to the accompaniment of "monday--tuesday--wednesday," and so on. "aunt mab," she said suddenly, "how is it we never hear anything of uncle basil, or that he never comes to visit us? what's jack like?" "well, i can hardly tell you," replied miss fenleigh; "i've only seen him once, poor boy, and that was several years ago." "but why don't we ever see uncle basil?" persisted barbara. "you often come and visit us, and why doesn't he?" "well, i live within ten miles of your house, and padbury is thirty or forty miles on the other side of melchester." "but that isn't very far by railway; and if he can't come, why doesn't he write?" aunt mabel seemed perplexed what reply to make, but at this moment the boy came to her rescue. "don't ask so many questions, bar," he said. miss barbara was always ready for a tussle, with words or any other weapons. "pooh!" she answered, "whom d'you think you're talking to? i know what it is, you're angry because i knocked over more of your soldiers than you did of mine!" "yes, you cheated." "fiddles! you thought i'd only got two peas in my mouth, you old stupid, and instead of that i'd got six, _six_! ha! ha!" and so the discussion continued. helen was nearly two years older than valentine. she was a quiet, thoughtful girl, and later in the evening, when her brother and sister had gone to bed, she remained talking with her aunt in front of the fire. while so doing, she returned to the subject of their conversation at the tea-table. "aunt, why is it that father and uncle basil never meet?" "well, my dear, i didn't like to talk about it before val and barbara; it's a pity they should hear the story before they are older and can understand it better; besides, i wish the boys to be good friends when they meet at school. basil and your father had a dispute many years ago about some money matters connected with your grandfather's will, and i am sorry to say they have never been friends since. your uncle has always been a very unpractical man; he has wasted his life following up ideas which he thought would bring him success and riches, but which always turned out failures. he always has some fresh fad, and it always brings him fresh trouble. i don't think he would wilfully wrong any one, but from being always in difficulties and under the weather, his temper has been soured and his judgment warped, and he cannot or will not see that your father acted in a perfectly just and honourable manner, and the consequence is, as i said before, they never made up their quarrel." "and jack is going to the school at melchester?" "yes; and i want valentine to make friends with him, and for us to have him here in the summer. poor boy, soon after your mother died, he lost his, and i am afraid his life and home surroundings have not been very happy since. well, we must try to brighten him up a bit. i've no doubt we shall be able to do that when we get him here at brenlands." chapter ii. an ugly duckling. "they had not been out of the egg long, and were very saucy. 'listen, friend,' said one of them to the duckling, 'you are so ugly that we like you very well.'"--_the ugly duckling_. it was the first day of term, and melchester school presented a general appearance of being unpacked and put together again, as though the whole institution had been sent out of town for the holidays, and had returned by goods train late on the previous evening. the passages were strewn with the contents of boxes belonging to late comers; new boys wandered about, apparently searching for something which they never found; while the old stagers exchanged noisy greetings, devoured each other's "grub," and discussed the prospects of the coming thirteen weeks which they must pass together before the commencement of the summer vacation. most of the boys had arrived on the monday evening, but valentine fenleigh did not come back until the following morning. according to a promise made to his aunt before leaving brenlands, one of the first things he did was to inquire after his cousin. "yes," said one of his classmates, "there is a new chap by the name of fenleigh, but i don't know what he's like. he's not put with us in the lower fourth." among a hundred and fifty boys, and in the confusion of a first day, it was a difficult matter to discover at once the whereabouts of the fellow he wanted. he accosted one or two of the new-comers, but by the time the bell rang for afternoon school he had only succeeded in ascertaining the fact that his cousin must be somewhere about, from having seen the name "j. fenleigh" ticked off on the bedroom list. holms was full of a project for hiring a bicycle during the summer months, and, what with listening to the unfolding of this plan, and struggling with the work in hand, valentine soon forgot the existence of his undiscovered relative. towards the end of the first hour mr. copland, the form-master, folded up a piece of paper on which he had been writing, and handing it across the desk, said,-- "fenleigh, take this in to mr. rowlands, and bring back an answer." valentine made his way to the head-quarters of the upper fourth. the classroom was rather quieter than the one he had left, mr. rowlands being somewhat of a martinet. "all right," said the latter, who was copying a list of questions on the blackboard; "put your note on my table, and i'll attend to you in a moment." the messenger did as he was told, and stood looking round the room, exchanging nods and winks with one or two members of the upper division with whom he was on friendly terms. on a form at the back of the room sat three boys who were hardly ever seen apart, and who had apparently formed an alliance for the purpose of idling their time, and mutually assisting one another in getting into scrapes. their names were garston, rosher, and teal; and seated at the same desk was a boy with whom they seemed to have already struck up an acquaintance, though valentine did not remember having seen his face before. even in the upper fourth there was a subdued shuffle, showing that work was going rather hard on this first day; and the young gentlemen whose names have just been mentioned were evidently not throwing themselves heart and soul into the subject which was supposed to be occupying their undivided attention. mr. rowlands finished a line, made a full stop with a sharp rap of his chalk, and then turned round sniffing. "dear me!" he said, "there's a strong smell of something burning." "perhaps it's jackson's cricket cap," murmured a small boy. jackson's hair, be it said, was of a fiery red, and hence the suggestion that his head-gear might be smouldering in his pocket. "what's that?" demanded mr. rowlands, and the joker subsided. jackson waited until a fresh sentence had been begun on the blackboard; then he dropped a ruler, and in picking it up again smote the small boy on a vulnerable spot beneath the peak of his shell-jacket. "there _is_ something burning," repeated the master. "has any one of you boys got matches in his pocket?" "oh, _no_, sir!" shouted a dozen voices. "answer more quietly, can't you? i'm not deaf! jackson, see if there's anything in the stove." the stove was found to contain nothing but a bit of ink-sodden blotting-paper. jackson drew it carefully forth, and held it up between his finger and thumb. "that's all, sir," he said. "then put it _back_, sir," cried the master, "and go on with your work." valentine had some difficulty in keeping from laughing. the smell which had greeted mr. rowlands' nostrils was caused by garston, who was deliberately burning holes with a magnifying glass in the coat of the boy in front of him, who sat all unconscious of what was happening to this portion of his wardrobe. the new fellow, who watched the proceedings with great interest, now stretched out his hand, and taking the glass held it up level with the victim's neck. a moment later there was a yell. "who made that noise?" "please, sir, somebody burnt my neck!" "burnt your neck! what boy has been burning pilson's neck?" the new-comer raised his hand and gave a flip with his thumb and finger. "i did," he answered. "you did!" exclaimed mr. rowlands wrathfully. "what are you thinking of, sir? i've spoken to you four times to-day already. i don't know if you were accustomed to behave in this manner at the last school you were at, but let me tell you--" "please, sir," interrupted pilson plaintively, "they've burnt a hole in my back!" at this announcement the class exploded. "_silence_!" cried the master. "what do you mean, pilson? is your coat burnt?" "yes, sir." "very well, fenleigh; i shall give you five hundred lines." valentine, who had been an unoffending spectator of the affair, was fairly staggered at suddenly hearing himself commissioned to write five hundred lines. then the situation dawned upon him--this reckless gentleman with the burning-glass was his cousin jack. mr. rowlands made a memorandum of the punishment, and at the same time scribbled a few words in reply to mr. copland. as he did so, valentine had an opportunity of examining his relative's appearance. the latter might have been pronounced good-looking, had it not been for a perpetual expression of restlessness and discontent, which soured what would otherwise have been a pleasant face. he seemed to care very little for the lines, and as soon as the master's eye was off him he turned to garston and winked. valentine was by no means what is commonly known as a "good boy;" he was as fond of a lark as any right-minded youngster need be; but he had been taught at home that any one who intended to become a soldier should first learn to obey, and to respect the authority of those set over him. he did not like plunging into rows for the sake of being disorderly; and something in jack fenleigh's careless behaviour did not tend to leave on his mind a very favourable impression of his newly-found cousin. he had, however, promised queen mab to make friends; and so, as soon as afternoon school was over, he waited for jack in the gravel playground, and there introduced himself. "oh, so you're valentine," said the other. "my guv'nor told me you were here." "yes. i hope we shall be friends." "well, there's no reason why we shouldn't. my guv'nor's had a row with yours, i know; but that's nothing, he's always quarrelling with somebody, and i'm sure i don't mind, if you don't. by-the-bye, weren't you the fellow who was in the classroom when i got into that row about the burning-glass?" "yes; and i say it's rather a pity you go on like that the first day you're here. masters don't expect new fellows to begin larking at once, and you'll get into rowlands' bad books." "oh, i don't mind that," answered the other; "i didn't want to come here, and i don't care if i'm sent going again." at this moment garston joined them. "hallo!" he said, "are you two related to each other? i never thought of your names being the same before. cousins, eh? well, look here, new fenleigh, pilson's on the war-path after you for burning his neck." "i don't care if he is," answered the other. hardly had the words been spoken when the subject of them turned the corner. "yes," he cried, "you're the chap i'm after! what did you burn my coat for?" "i didn't burn your coat." "oh, you liar! look here, i'm just going to--" what pilson _was_ going to do will remain for ever unknown. he had no sooner laid his hand on jack's collar than the latter, without a moment's hesitation, struck him a heavy blow on the chest which sent him staggering back against the wall gasping for breath. "just keep your dirty paws off me. i tell you i didn't burn your coat; though to look at it, i should think burning's about all it's good for." this was not at all the usual line of conduct which new boys adopted when brought to book by an oldster. pilson felt aggrieved, but made no attempt to follow up his attack. "all right," he said. "you're a liar, and i'll tell all the other fellows." "you can tell 'em what you please," returned the other, and taking hold of garston's arm he walked away. valentine turned on his heel with a doubtful look on his face; his cousin evidently knew how to take care of himself, yet the latter's conduct was not altogether satisfactory. it was garston who had burnt the coat, and it was like him to let another boy bear the blame; while jack evidently cared as little for being thought a liar as he did for any other misfortune that might befall him. during the next few days the cousins met every now and again in the playground, or about the school buildings, but it was only to exchange a nod or a few words on some subject of general interest. there seemed to be little in common between them; and jack, though willing enough to be friendly and forget the family feud, evidently found the society of the three unruly members of the upper fourth more to his liking than that of a steady-going boy like valentine. for nearly a month the latter did his best to form the friendship which his aunt had desired; then an event happened which caused him to almost regard the task as hopeless. jack had been steadily winning for himself the reputation of a black sheep; but the climax was reached when he further distinguished himself in connection with certain extraordinary proceedings known and remembered long afterwards as the "long dormitory sports." it was rosher's idea. the chamber in question was called "long" from the fact that it contained sixteen beds, eight on a side, all of which were occupied by members of the upper fourth. skeat, the sixth form boy in charge, was ill, and had gone to the infirmary; and in the absence of the proverbial cat, the mice determined to get in as much play as possible, only stopping short at performances which might attract the attention of the master on duty. it was one tuesday night. garston and teal had had a quarter mile walking race up and down the centre aisle, which had ended, to the great delight of the spectators, in garston nearly tearing his nightshirt off his back by catching it on a broken bedstead, while the other competitor had kicked his toe against an iron dumb-bell, and finished the race by dancing a one-legged hornpipe in the middle of the course, while his opponent won "hands down." "i say," remarked rosher, "why shouldn't we have proper sports, with a proper list of events and prizes?" "who'll give the prizes?" asked teal. "oh, anybody! look here. i vote we have sports to-morrow night before old skeat comes back. hands up, those who are agreeable! to the contrary!--none. very well, it's carried!" "but how about prizes?" persisted teal, who was of rather a mercenary disposition. "there needn't be any proper prizes," answered rosher; "we can give the winners anything." "give 'em lines," suggested garston. "no; shut up, garston. everybody must give something. i'll offer a brass match-box, shaped like a pig." "no, you won't," interrupted teal. "it's mine; you borrowed it a week ago, and never gave it me back." "did i? well, i'll tell you what, i'll offer a photograph of my brother; the frame's worth something. now, what'll you give, garston?" garston offered a small pocket-mirror. jack fenleigh a bone collar-stud, while a boy named hamond promised what was vaguely described as "part of a musical box," and which afterwards turned out to be the small revolving barrel, the only fragment of the instrument which remained. prizes having been secured, the next thing was to arrange competitions in which to win them; and in doing this, the committee were obliged to keep in view the peculiar nature and limitations of the ground at their disposal. it was no good hamond's clamouring for a pole jump, or teal suggesting putting the weight. jack's proposal of a sack race in bolster cases was, for a moment, entertained as a good idea; then it was suddenly remembered that the bolsters had no cases, and so that project fell through. one by one the events were decided on. rosher promised to draw up a programme, and insisted that after every boy's name some distinguishing colours should appear, as on a proper sports list, and that competitors were to arrange their costumes accordingly. "when shall it come off?" asked garston. "oh, to-morrow, after the masters have all gone in to supper. now, we've been planning long enough; good-night." the occupants of the long dormitory, be it said to their credit, were not fellows to form a scheme and then think no more about it, and the next day their minds were exercised with preparations for the sports, the chief difficulty being in arranging costumes which should answer to the descriptions given on rosher's card. these vagaries in dress caused an immense amount of amusement, and when the masters' supper-bell gave the signal for the commencement of operations, every one found it difficult to retrain from shouts of laughter at the sight of the various styles of war-paint. perhaps that of jack fenleigh, though simple to a degree, was most comical: his colours were described as "red and white," and his costume consisted of his night-shirt, and a large scarlet chest-protector which he had borrowed from a small boy, whose mother fondly believed him to be wearing it according to her instructions, instead of utilizing it to line a box containing a collection of birds' eggs. as every race had to be run in a number of heats the events were necessarily few in number. there were a hopping race, a hurdle race over the beds, and a race in which the competitors were blindfolded, and each carried a mug full of water, which had not to be spilt by the way. teal, over whose bed, as the result of a collision, two boys happened to empty the contents of their half-pint cups, professed not to see much fun in the performance, though every one else voted it simply screaming. but the contest looked forward to with the greatest amount of interest was the obstacle race. it was placed at the end of the programme; garston's pocket-mirror, the only prize worth having, was to reward the winner; and the conditions were as follows:-- the runners were to go once round the room, alternately crawling under and hopping over the sixteen beds; the finish was to be down the middle aisle, across the centre of which a row of chairs was placed, on which boys stood or sat to keep them steady while the racers crawled under the seats. in spite of the fact that the pocket-mirror was to be the prize, only jack and hamond appeared at the starting-point when it came to this last item on rosher's programme, their companions voting it too much fag, and preferring to sit on the obstacles and look on. the signal was given, and the two competitors started off in grand style, plunging in and out among the beds like dolphins in a choppy sea. jack led from the first; he dashed up to the row of chairs a long way in front of hamond, and had wriggled the greater portion of his body through the bars, when-- no one could have said exactly how the alarm was given, or who first saw the gleam of light through the ground-glass ventilator. the obstacle was snatched from the centre of the room; with a rush and a bound everybody was in bed; a moment later mr. rowlands entered the room, the first thing which met his gaze being the extraordinary spectacle of jack fenleigh, who, like a new kind of snail, was crawling along the floor on his hands and knees with a cane-bottomed chair fixed firmly on the centre of his back. the weight of the boy sitting on it being removed, the unfortunate jack found it impossible to force his way any further, and thus remained unable to extricate himself from between the bars of the obstacle. "fenleigh," said the master, "get up off the ground. what are you doing, sir?" the boy struggled to his feet, and in doing so revealed the glories of the chest-protector. there was a subdued titter from the adjacent beds. "silence!" cried mr. rowlands. "so you're responsible for this noise and disorder, fenleigh? if you want to perform as a clown, you had better leave school and join a circus. at nine o'clock to-morrow you will come with me to the headmaster's study." by breakfast-time on the following morning the story of this tragic finish to the obstacle race was all over the school. valentine heard it, and waited anxiously to learn his cousin's fate. the latter escaped with a severe reprimand, and the loss of the next two half-holiday afternoons; but he was reminded that his conduct, especially for a new boy, had been all along most unsatisfactory, and he was given clearly to understand that any repetition of this constant misbehaviour would result in his being expelled without further warning. "i wish you'd take more care what you're up to, jack," said valentine. "you're bound to get thrown out if you don't behave better." "what's the odds if i am? i've only been here a month, and i hate the place already." "it seems to me," answered valentine sadly, "that you don't care a straw for anything or anybody." "well, why should i?" returned the other. "you wouldn't, if you were in my place." chapter iii. the rebel reclaimed. "'i think he will grow up pretty, and perhaps be smaller; he has remained too long in the egg, and therefore his figure is not properly formed;' and then she stroked his neck and smoothed the feathers."--_the ugly duckling_. towards the end of june, queen mab wrote asking the two boys to come over for their usual half-term holiday. "i'm not going," said jack. "why not?" asked valentine, astonished that any one should decline an invitation to brenlands. "why ever not? you'd have a jolly time; aunt mabel's awfully kind." "i daresay she is, but i never go visiting. i hate all that sort of thing." it was no good trying to make jack fenleigh alter his mind; he stuck to his resolution, and valentine went to brenlands alone. "i'm sorry jack wouldn't come with you," said queen mab on the saturday evening; "why was it? aren't you and he on good terms with each other?" "oh, yes, aunt, we're friendly enough in one way, but we don't seem able to hit it off very well together." "how is that?" "oh, i don't know. i'm not his sort; i suppose i'm too quiet for him." "i always thought you were noisy enough," answered miss fenleigh laughing. "you wouldn't, if you knew some of our fellows," returned the boy. the weeks slipped by, the holidays were approaching, and the far-off haven of home could almost, as it were, be seen with the naked eye. whether the disastrous termination to the dormitory sports had really served as a warning to jack to put some restraint upon his wayward inclinations, it would be difficult to say; but certainly since the affair of the obstacle race he had managed to keep clear of the headmaster's study, and had only indulged in such minor acts of disorder as were the natural consequences of his friendship with garston, rosher, and teal. it needed the firm hand of mr. rowlands to hold in check the sporting element which at this period was, unfortunately, rather strong in the upper fourth, and which, at certain times--as for instance during the french lessons--attempted to turn the very highroad to learning into a second playground. monsieur durand, whose duty it was to instil a knowledge of his graceful mother tongue into the minds of a score of restless and unappreciative young britons, found the facetious gentlemen of the upper fourth a decided "handful." they seemed to regard instruction in the gallic language as an unending source of merriment. garston threw such an amount of eloquence into the reading of the sentence, "my cousin has lost the hat of the gardener," that every one sighed to think that a relative of one of their classmates should have brought such sorrow on the head of the honest son of toil; and when teal announced joyfully that "his uncle had found the hat of the gardener," rosher was obliged to slap the speaker on the back, and say, "bravo!" this being m. durand's first term in an english school, that gentleman could hardly have been expected, as the saying goes, to be up to all the moves on the board; and certain of his pupils, sad to relate, were only too ready to take advantage of his lack of experience. it was discovered that it was comparatively easy to obtain permission to leave the class. "please, sir, may i go and get a drink of water?" or "please, sir, may i go and fetch my dictionary?" was sufficient to obtain temporary leave of absence; nor did the french master seem to take much notice as to the length of time which such errands should by right have occupied. the consequence was that not unfrequently towards the end of the hour a quarter of his pupils were gathered in what was known as the playshed, drinking sherbet, or playing cricket with a fives ball and a walking-stick. one particular morning, when the lower fourth were struggling with the parsing and analysis of a certain portion of goldsmith's "deserted village," a mysterious patch of light appeared dancing about on the wall and ceiling, attracting the attention of the whole class, and causing the boy just told to "go on" to describe "man" as a personal pronoun, and to put a direct object after the verb "to be." "fenleigh," said mr. copland, "just see who that is outside." valentine, who was seated nearest the window, rose from his place, and looking down into the yard beneath saw the incorrigible jack amusing himself by flashing sunbeams with the pocket-mirror which he had won in the dormitory sports. the latter, who ought by rights to have been transcribing a french exercise, grinned, and promptly bolted round the corner. "who was it, fenleigh?" valentine hesitated. "who was it? did you see the boy?" "yes, sir; it was my cousin." "what! j. fenleigh in the upper fourth?" "yes, sir." "humph! very well," answered mr. copland, making a memorandum on a slip of paper in front of him; "i'll seek an interview with that young gentleman after school." valentine's heart sank, for he had in his pocket a letter from queen mab saying that she was driving over in the pony carriage that very afternoon, and inviting the two boys to spend their half-holiday with her in melchester. this significant remark of mr. copland's meant that jack would be prevented from going. valentine felt that he was indirectly the cause of the misfortune, and his wayward relative seemed inclined to view the matter in the same light. "i say," he exclaimed, "you were a sneak to tell copland it was i who was flashing that looking-glass." "i couldn't help it," answered valentine. "he told me to look out and see who was there." "well, why didn't you say the fellow had run away, or something of that sort?" "because it would have been a lie." "pooh! telling a cram like that to a master doesn't count. you are a muff, valentine," and the speaker turned on his heel with a contemptuous shrug of his shoulders. the little fat pony, the low basket-carriage, jakes the gardener driving, and last and best of all queen mab herself, arrived at the time appointed; but only one of her nephews was waiting at the rendezvous. "why, where's jack?" "he got into a scrape this morning, and is kept in. what's more, he says it's my fault, and we've had a row about it. i don't think we ever shall be friends, aunt." "oh, you mustn't say that. in a fortnight's time we shall all be at brenlands together, and then we must try to rub some of the sharp corners off this perverse young gentleman. i must come back with you to the school and try to see him before i drive home." in the quiet retirement of mr. copland's classroom, jack was writing lines when a messenger came to inform him that some one wished to see him in the visitors' room. "bother it! aunt mabel," he said to himself. "i suppose i must go," he added, swishing the ink from his pen and throwing it down on the desk. "what a bore relations are! i wish they'd let me alone." from their one brief meeting years before, neither aunt nor nephew would have recognized each other now had they met in the streets, and so this was like making a fresh acquaintance. jack had heard only one half of a very lopsided story, and though he took no interest in the family disagreement, yet he was inclined to be suspicious of his grown-up relations. he marched down the passage, jingling his keys with an air of defiance; but when he entered the visitors' room, and saw the bright smile with which his aunt greeted his appearance, he dropped the swagger and became stolidly polite. she, for her part, had come prepared for the conquest which she always made; his awkward, boyish manner and uncared-for appearance, the dissatisfied look upon his face, and the ink stains on his collar, all were noticed in one loving glance, and touched her warm heart. "well, jack," she said, "you see mahomet has come to the mountain. how are you, dear?" jack muttered that he was quite well. it was rather embarrassing to be called "dear." he attempted to hide his confusion by wiping his nose; but in producing his handkerchief, he pulled out with it a forked catapult stick and a broken metal pen-holder, which clattered to the ground and had to be picked up again. "how you've grown!" said queen mab, "and--my senses! what muscles you've got," she added, feeling his arm. jack grinned and bent his elbow, the next moment he straightened it again. "go on!" he said; "you're chaffing me." "i'm not. i wish you'd been at brenlands at easter, and i'd have set you to beat carpets. never mind, i shall have you with me in a fortnight." "i don't think i shall come," he began. "stuff and nonsense!" interrupted the aunt. "i say you _are_ coming. valentine never makes excuses when i send him an invitation. don't you think i know how to amuse young people?" "oh, yes; it's not that." "then what is it?" "i don't know," answered the boy, grinning, and kicking the leg of the table. "of course you don't; so you've got to come. valentine's sisters will be there; you'd like to meet the two girls?" "no, i shouldn't." "oh, shocking! you rude boy." jack stood on one leg and laughed; this was like talking to a fellow in the upper fourth, and his tongue was loosed. "they'd hate me," he said; "i don't know anything about girls." "i should think you didn't. wait till you see helen and barbara." "but there's another thing. i haven't got any clothes." "my dear boy, how dreadful! whose are those you are wearing now?" "oh, go on, aunt; what a chaff you are! i don't mean that--i--" "no, you evidently don't know what you mean. well, one thing's settled, you're coming to brenlands for the summer holidays." the battle was won, and queen mab had gained her usual victory. "how is your father? didn't he send me any message?" "yes, i think he told me to give you his love." "is that all?" "well, that's a jolly sight more than what he sends to most people," answered the boy. he would have been surprised to have seen that there were tears in her eyes when she walked out of the school gates, and still more astonished to know that it was love for his unworthy self which brought them there; for little did fenleigh j. of the upper fourth imagine that any one would come so near to crying on his account. that evening, just before supper, valentine felt some one touch him on the shoulder, and turning round saw that it was his cousin. "i've seen queen mab, as you call her," remarked the latter, "and, i say--i like her--rather." "i knew you would. she's an angel--only jollier." "she made me promise i'd go there for the holidays." "oh, that's fine!" cried valentine. "i thought she would; she's got such a way of making people do what she wants. i am glad you are going; you'll enjoy it awfully." fenleigh j. regarded the speaker for a moment with rather a curious glance. in view of the events of the morning he rather expected that his cousin would not be overpleased to hear that he had been asked to spend the holidays at brenlands; and that valentine should rejoice at his having accepted the invitation, struck him as being rather odd. "look here, val," he blurted out, "i'm sorry i called you a sneak this morning. it was my fault, and you're a good sort after all." "oh, stop it!" answered the other. "i'll forgive you now that you've promised to go to brenlands." queen mab was at home, miles away by this time; yet, as a result of her flying visit, some of the softening influence of her presence and kindly usages of her court seemed to linger even amid the rougher and more turbulent atmosphere of melchester school. chapter iv. the court of queen mab. "they were swans ... the ugly little duckling felt quite a strange sensation as he watched them."--_the ugly duckling_. during the short period which elapsed between queen mab's visit and the end of the term jack managed to steer clear of misfortune; but on the last evening he must needs break out and come to grief again. he incited the occupants of the long dormitory to celebrate the end of work by a grand bolster fight, during the progress of which conflict a pillow was thrown through the ventilator above the door. it so happened that, at that moment, mr. copland was walking along the passage; and a cloud of feathers from the torn case, together with fragments of ground glass, being suddenly rained down on his unoffending head, he was naturally led to make inquiries as to the cause of the outrage. as might have been expected, fenleigh j. was found to be the owner of the pillow which had done the damage, and he was accordingly kept back on the following day to pay the usual penalty of an imposition. "i'll take your luggage on with me," said valentine. "you get out at hornalby, the first station from here, and it's only about a quarter of a mile from there to brenlands. any one will tell you the way." it turned out a wet evening. queen mab and her court had already been waiting tea for nearly half an hour, when valentine exclaimed, "hallo! here he is!" the expected guest took apparently no notice of the rain; his cloth cricket cap was perched on the back of his head, and he had not even taken the trouble to turn up the collar of his jacket. he walked up the path in a cautious manner, as though he expected at every step to trip over the wire of a spring-gun; but when he came within a dozen yards of the house he quickened his pace, for aunt mabel had opened the door, and was standing ready to give him a welcome. "why, boy, how late you are! you must be nearly starving!" "i couldn't come before," he began; "i had some work to do, and--" "yes, you rascal! i've heard all about it. come in, and jane shall rub you down with a dry cloth." jack left off jingling his keys; he did not like being "rubbed down," but he submitted to the process with great good-humour. it was the cosiest old kitchen; the table was the whitest, and the pots and pans the brightest, that could be imagined; and jane, the cook, groomed him down as though brushing a damp jacket with a dry glass-cloth was the most enjoyable pastime in life. in the parlour it was just the same: the pretty china cups and saucers, and the little bunches of bright flowers, only made all the nice things there were to eat seem more attractive; and the company were as happy and gay as though it was everybody's birthday, and they had all met to assist one another in keeping up the occasion with a general merry-making. jack alone was quiet and subdued, for the simple reason that he had never seen anything like it in his life before. queen mab, strongly entrenched at the head of the table, behind the urn, sugar basin, and cream jug, held this line of outworks against any number of flank attacks in the shape of empty cups, the old silver teapot apparently containing an inexhaustible supply of ammunition, and enabling her to send every storming party back to the place from whence it came, and even invite them to attempt another assault. once or twice jack turned to find his aunt watching him with a look in her eyes which caused his own face to reflect the smile which was on hers. she was thinking, and had been ever since she had seen the latest addition to her court coming slowly up the front path through the dismal drizzle, of the old favourite story, and of that part in it where the ugly duckling, overtaken by the storm, arrived in front of the tumble-down little cottage, which "only remained standing because it could not decide on which side to fall first." when the meal was over, and while the table was being cleared, jack wandered out into the porch, and stood watching the rain. he had hardly been there a minute before he was joined by barbara. "i say," she exclaimed, "why didn't you talk at tea time? i wanted to ask you heaps of things. your name's jack, isn't it? well, mine's barbara; they call me bar, because it's the american for bear, and father says i am a young bear. i want to hear all about that pillow fight, and those races you had in the dormitory." "oh, they weren't anything! how did you get to hear about them?" "why, val told us." "well, what a fellow he is! he's always talking about the rows i get into." "it doesn't matter; we thought it awful fun. helen laughed like anything, and she's very good. i say, can you crack your fingers?" "no; but i can crack my jaw." "oh, do show me!" jack really did possess this gruesome accomplishment; he could somehow make a blood-curdling click with his jawbone. when he did it in "prep." his neighbours smote him on the head with dictionaries, and when he repeated the performance in the dormitory, fellows rose in their beds and hurled pillows and execrations into the darkness. barbara, however, was charmed. "you are clever!" she cried; "i wish i could do it. now, come back, and sit by me; we're going to play games." jack, who had cherished some vague notion that every girl was something between a saint and a bride-cake ornament, was agreeably surprised at this conversation with his small admirer, and readily complied with her request. several of the games he had never seen before, but he made bold attempts to play them some way or another, and soon entered into the spirit of his surroundings. in making words out of words his spelling was nearly as bad as barbara's, but he seemed to think his own mistakes a great joke, and didn't care a straw how many marks he gave to the other players. in "bell and hammer," however, he always managed to buy the "white horse," while other people would squander their all in bidding for a card which perhaps turned out after all to be only the "hammer." at "snap" he was simply terrible; he literally swept the board, but kept passing portions of his winnings under the table to barbara, whose pile seemed to be as inexhaustible as the widow's cruse. by the end of the evening he was the life of the party, and no one would have believed that he was the same boy who, a few hours ago, had come up the front path wishing in his secret heart that he was safely back at melchester writing lines in the upper fourth classroom. he and valentine shared a delightful, old four-post bed, which in times gone by had had the marvellous property of turning itself into a tent, a gipsy van, or a raft, which, though launched from a sinking ship in the very middle of a stormy ocean, always managed to bring its crew of distressed mariners safely to shore in time to answer queen mab's cheery call of "tea's ready!" "it is nice to be here," said valentine, dropping his head upon the pillow with a sigh of contentment. "aren't you glad you came?" "yes," answered jack. "aunt mabel seems so jolly kind and glad to see you. i wish you hadn't told her about all those rows i got into; i don't think she'll like me when she knows me better." "oh, yes, she will! don't you like helen?" "yes; i think she has the nicest face i ever saw. but she's too good for me, val, my boy. i think i shall get on better with barbara; she's more like a boy, and i don't think i shall ever be a ladies' man." valentine laughed; the idea of fenleigh j. of the upper fourth ever becoming a ladies' man was certainly rather comical. "you'll like helen when you get to know her. i wouldn't exchange her as a sister for any other girl in the kingdom. well--good-night!" that one evening at brenlands had done more towards forming a friendship between the two boys than all the ninety odd days which they had already spent in each other's company. the next afternoon, however, they were destined to become still more united; and the manner in which this came about was as follows. during the morning the weather held up, but by dinner time it was raining again. "bother it! what shall we do?" cried valentine. "i should think you'd better play with your tin soldiers," answered helen, laughing. "they always seem to keep you good." valentine hardly liked this allusion to his miniature army being made in the hearing of his older schoolfellow, for boys at melchester school were supposed to be above finding amusement in toys of any kind. the latter, however, pricked up his ears, and threw down the book he had been reading. "who's got any tin soldiers?" he asked. "let's see 'em." the boxes were produced. "my eye!" continued jack, turning out the contents, "what a heap you've got! i should like to set them out and have a battle. and here are two pea-shooters; just the thing!" "you don't mean to say you're fond of tin soldiers, jack?" said aunt mabel. "why, you're much too old, i should have thought, for anything of that kind." "i'm not," answered the boy; "i love tin soldiers, and anything to do with war. come on, val, we'll divide the men and have a fight." the challenge was accepted. there was an empty room upstairs, and on the floor of this the opposing forces were drawn up, and a desperate conflict ensued. the troops were certainly a motley crew; some were running, some marching, and some were standing still; some had their rifles at the "present," and some at the "slope;" but what they lacked in drill and discipline, they made up in their steadiness when under fire, and jack showed as much skill and resource in handling them as did their rightful commander. he set out his men on some thin pieces of board, which could be moved forward up the room, it having been agreed that he should be allowed to stand and deliver his fire from the spot reached by his advancing line of battle. each group of these tag-rag-and-bobtail metal warriors was dignified by the name of some famous regiment. here was the "black watch," and there the "coldstream guards;" while this assembly of six french zouaves, a couple of red-coats, a bugler, and a headless mounted officer on a three-legged horse, was the old th foot--the "die-hards"--ready to exhibit once more the same stubborn courage and unflinching fortitude as they had displayed at albuera. valentine held a position strengthened by redoubts constructed out of dominoes, match-boxes, pocket-knives, and other odds and ends. they were certainly curious fortifications; yet the nursery often mimics in miniature the sterner realities of the great world; and since that day, handfuls of englishmen have built breastworks out of materials almost as strange, and as little intended for the purpose, and have fought desperate and bloody fights, and won undying fame, in their defence. "i'm going to be this chap, who takes on and off his horse," said jack. "which is you?" "here i am," answered valentine. "now then, you fire first--blaze away!" as he spoke he picked up the veteran captain of the solid lead guards, and set him down in the centre of the defending force, and so the battle commenced. it was still raging when jane came to say that tea was ready; but the losses on both sides had been terribly severe. the invading army still pressed forward, though the " th" were once more decimated by the withering fire; and nothing actually remained of the "coldstream guards" but a kettle-drummer of uncertain nationality, and a man carrying a red and green flag, which he might very possibly have captured from some sunday-school treat. the opposite side were in no better plight: men were lying crushed under the ruins of the works which they had so gallantly defended; and hardly enough artillerymen were left to have pulled back, with their united efforts, the spring of one of the pea cannons. the leaders on both sides remained unscathed, and continued to brandish bent lead swords at each other in mutual defiance. "make haste! you've got one more shot," said valentine. the pea-shooter was levelled and discharged, the veteran lead captain tottered and tell, and thus the fight ended. "val, my boy, you're killed!" cried jack. "no matter, it's the bed of honour, old chap!" "oh, i don't mind!" answered the other, laughing. "_c'est la guerre_, you know; come along. i'd no idea you were so fond of soldiers." so they passed down to queen mab's merry tea-table, unsaddened by any recollections of the stricken field, or of the lead commander left behind among the slain. the two boys talked "soldiering" all the evening; and the next morning, when breakfast was nearly over, and helen ran upstairs to inquire if they meant to lie on till dinner-time, they were still harping away on the same subject. the door was standing ajar, and she heard their words. "don't move your knee," jack was saying; "that's the hill where i should post my artillery." "yes, that's all right," answered valentine; "but you couldn't shell my reserves if i got them down under cover of this curl in the blanket.--all right, helen! down directly!" the sun was shining brightly, the fine weather seemed to have come at last, and the question was how to put it to the best possible use. "why don't you children go and picnic somewhere?" said queen mab. "you can have prince and the carriage, and drive off where you like, and have tea out of doors." a general meeting was held in the hayloft directly after dinner for the purpose of discussing this important question. jack won a still higher place in barbara's affections by hauling himself up the perpendicular ladder without touching the rungs with his feet; and though knowing little or nothing about such things as picnics, he was ready with any number of absurd suggestions. "let's go to pitsbury common," said barbara; "there's such a lot of jolly sandpits to roll about in, and we can burn gorse-bushes." "oh, no, don't let's go there!" answered helen; "there's no place to shelter in if it comes on rain, and when you're having tea the sand blows about and gets into everything, so that you seem to be eating it by mouthfuls." "it's so nice having it out of doors," persisted barbara. "well, let's go out in the road and sit with our feet in the ditch, like the tramps do," said jack. "i'll bring the tea in my sponge bag. rosher used to carry it about in his pocket, full of water for a little squirt he was always firing off in the french class. pilson had the sentence, 'give me something to drink;' and as soon as he'd said it, he got a squirtful all over the back of his head, and durand--" "oh, stop that!" said valentine, laughing. "look here! i vote we drive over to grenford, and call on the fosbertons, and ask them to lend us their boat; they'd give us lunch, and then we could take our tea with us up the river. it's not more than six miles." "don't let's go there," said barbara. "i hate them." "is raymond away?" asked helen. "yes; didn't you hear queen mab say he was going to spend his holidays in london? uncle james is rather a pompous old fellow, but we shan't have to go there except for lunch; and father said we ought to call on them while we're here; besides, it'll be jolly on the river. you know them, don't you, jack?" "well, i've _heard_ about them," answered the other. "i know that the guv'nor's sister married old fosberton, and that he got a lot of money making tin tacks, or whatever it was; and now he fancies he's rather a swell, and says he's descended from william the conqueror's sea-cook, or something of that sort. i don't want to go and see them; but i don't mind having some grub there, if they'll lend us a boat." "my senses! you ought to feel very much honoured at the thought of going to lunch at grenford manor," said helen, laughing. "i'm sure i don't," answered her cousin. "i'd sooner have a feed in old 'duster's' shop at melchester." "well, that's what we'll do," said valentine. "we'll take a kettle and some cups with us, and tea, and all that sort of thing, and go up the river as far as starncliff, and there we'll camp out and have a jolly time." with some reluctance the proposal was agreed upon. had the company foreseen the chain of events which would arise directly and indirectly from this memorable picnic, they might have made up their minds to spend the day at brenlands. chapter v. an unlucky picnic. "the tom-cat, whom his mistress called 'my little son,' was a great favourite; he could raise his back, and purr, and could even throw out sparks from his fur if it were stroked the wrong way."--_the ugly duckling_. "now, jack, do behave yourself!" cried valentine, as the basket-carriage turned through two imposing-looking granite gate-posts into a winding drive which formed the approach to grenford manor. jack, as usual, seemed to grow particularly obstreperous just when circumstances demanded a certain amount of decorum, and at that moment he was kneeling on the narrow front seat belabouring prince with the cushion. "well," he answered, turning round, "we must drive up to the door in style; if we come crawling in like this, they'll think we're ashamed of ourselves." as he spoke, a curve in the drive brought the house into view. it was a big, square building, with not the slightest touch of green to relieve the monotony of the rigid white walls, and level rows of windows, which seemed to have been placed in position by some precise, mathematical calculation. a boy was lounging about in front of the porch, with his hands in his pockets, kicking gravel over the flower-beds. "o val! you said raymond wasn't at home," murmured helen. "well, aunt mab said he was going to london; he must have put off his visit." raymond fosberton turned at the sound of the carriage-wheels, and sauntered forward to meet the visitors. he had black hair, and a very pink and white complexion. to say that he looked like a girl would be disparaging to the fair sex, but his face would at once have impressed a careful observer as being that of a very poor specimen of british boyhood. "hallo!" he said, without removing his hands from his pockets, "so you've turned up at last! you've been a beastly long time coming!" he shook hands languidly with valentine and the two girls, but greeted jack with a cool stare, which the latter returned with interest. grenford manor was very different from brenlands. aunt isabel was fussy and querulous, while mr. fosberton was a very ponderous gentlemen in more senses than one. he had bushy grey whiskers and a very red face, which showed up in strong contrast to a broad expanse of white waistcoat, which was in turn adorned with a massive gold chain and imposing bunch of seals. "well, young ladies, and how are you?" he began in a deep, sonorous voice, of which he was evidently rather proud. "how are you, valentine? so this is basil's son?--hum! what's your father doing now?" "i don't know," answered jack, glancing at the clock. "i expect he's having his dinner, though there's no telling, for we're always a bit late at home." mr. fosberton stared at the boy, cleared his throat rather vigorously, and then turned to speak to helen. lunch was a very dry and formal affair. raymond spoke to nobody, his father and mother addressed a few words to valentine and the girls, but jack was completely ignored. the latter, instead of noticing this neglect, pegged away merrily at salmon and cold fowl, and seemed devoutly thankful that no one interrupted his labours by forcing him to join in the conversation. "you may tell your father," said mr. fosberton to valentine, "that i find his family are related to one of the minor branches of my own; i've no doubt he will be pleased to hear it. his father's sister married a pitsbury, a second cousin of the husband of one of the fosbertons of cranklen. you'll remember, won't you?" valentine said he would, and looked scared. the silver spoons and forks were all ornamented with the fosberton crest--a curious animal, apparently dancing on a sugar-stick. "what is it?" whispered barbara to jack. "the sea-cook's dog," answered her cousin. "but what's he doing?" "he's stolen the plum-duff, and the skipper's sent him up to ride on a boom, and he's got to stay there till he's told to come down." at last the weary meal was over. "i suppose we may have the boat," said valentine. "oh, yes. i'm coming with you myself," answered raymond; which announcement was received by miss barbara with an exclamation of "bother!" which, fortunately, was only overheard by jack, who smiled, and pinched her under the table. it did not take long to transport the provisions and materials from the pony-carriage to the boat, and the party were soon under way. it was a splendid afternoon for a river excursion. raymond, who had not offered to carry a thing on their way to the bank, lolled comfortably in the stern, leaving the other boys to do the work, and the girls to accommodate themselves as best they could. he was evidently accustomed to having his own way, and assumed the position of leader of the expedition. "have you finished school?" asked jack. "i don't go to one," answered the other; "i have a private tutor. i think schools are awful rot, where you're under masters, and have to do as you're told, like a lot of kids. i'm seventeen now. i'm going abroad this winter to learn french, then i'm coming home to read for the law. i say, why don't you row properly?" "so i do." "no, you don't; you feather too high." "there you go again," continued the speaker petulantly a few moments later; "that's just how the cockneys row." "sorry," said jack meekly. "look here, d'you mind showing me how it ought to be done?" raymond scrambled up and changed places with jack. "there," he said--"that's the way--d'you see? now, try again." "no, thanks," answered jack sweetly, "i'd rather sit here and watch you; it's rather warm work. i think i'll stay where i am." raymond did not seem to relish the joke, but it certainly had the wholesome effect of taking him down a peg, and rendering him a little less uppish and dictatorial for the remainder of the journey. at starncliff the right bank of the river rose rocky and precipitous almost from the water's edge. there was, however, a narrow strip of shore, formed chiefly of earth and shingle; and here the party landed, making the boat fast to the stump of an old willow. "we promised queen mab that we wouldn't be very late," said valentine, "so i should think we'd better have tea at once; it'll take some time to make the water boil." there is always some special charm about having tea out of doors, even when the spout of the kettle gets unsoldered, or black beetles invade the tablecloth. to share one teaspoon between three, and spread jam with the handle-end of it, is most enjoyable, and people who picnic with a full allowance of knives and forks to each person ought never to be allowed to take meals in the open. jack and valentine set about collecting stones to build a fireplace, and there being plenty of dry driftwood about, they soon had a good blaze for boiling the water. the girls busied themselves unpacking the provisions; but raymond fosberton was content to sit on the bank and throw pebbles into the river. the repast ended, the kettle and dishes were once more stowed away in the boat, and valentine proposed climbing the cliff. "it looks very steep," said helen. "there's a path over there by those bushes," answered her brother. "come along; we'll haul you up somehow." the ascent was made in single file, and half-way up the party paused to get their breath. "hallo!" cried jack, "there's a magpie." on a narrow ledge of rock and earth at the summit of the cliff two tall fir-trees were growing, and out of the top of one of these the bird had flown. the children stood and watched it, with its long tail and sharp contrast of black and white feathers, as it sailed away across the river. "one for sorrow," said helen. "i shouldn't like to climb that tree," said valentine. "it makes my head swim to look at it, leaning out like that over the precipice." "pooh!" answered raymond; "that's nothing. i've climbed up trees in much worse places before now." helen frowned, and turned away with an impatient twitch of her lips. jack saw the look. "all right, master fosberton," he said to himself; "you wait a minute." they continued their climb, and reaching the level ground above strolled along until they came opposite the tall tree out of which the magpie had flown. "there's the nest!" cried jack, pointing at something half hidden in the dark foliage of the fir. "now, then, who'll go up and get it?" "no one, i should think," said helen. "if you fell, you'd go right down over the cliff and be dashed to pieces." "i know i wouldn't try," added her brother. "i should turn giddy in a moment." "will you go?" asked jack, addressing raymond. "no," answered the other. "why, i thought you said a moment ago that you've climbed trees in much worse places. come, if you'll go up, i will." "not i," retorted raymond sulkily; "it's too much fag." "oh, well, if you're afraid, i'll go up alone." "don't be such a fool, jack," said valentine; "there won't be any eggs or young birds in the nest now." "never mind; i should like to have a look at it." fenleigh j. of the upper fourth was a young gentleman not easily turned from his purpose, and, in spite of valentine's warning and the entreaties of his girl cousins, he lowered himself down on to the ledge, and the next moment was buttoning his coat preparatory to making the attempt. for the first twelve or fifteen feet the trunk of the fir afforded no good hold, but jack swarmed up it, clinging to the rough bark and the stumps of a few broken branches. the spectators held their breath; but the worst was soon passed, and in a few seconds more he had gained the nest. "there's nothing in it," he cried; "but there's a jolly good view up here, and, i say, if you want a good, high dive into the river, this is the place. come on, raymond; it's worth the fag." "oh, do come down!" exclaimed helen. "it frightens me to watch you." she turned away, and began picking moon daisies, when suddenly an exclamation from valentine caused her to turn round again. "hallo! what's the matter?" jack had just begun to slip down the bare trunk, but about a quarter way down he seemed to have stuck. "my left foot's caught somehow," he said. "i can't get it free." he twitched his leg, and endeavoured to regain the lower branches, but it was no good. "oh, do come down!" cried helen, clasping her hands and turning pale. "can't any one help him?" jack struggled vainly to free his foot. "look here," he said in a calm though strained tone, "my boot-lace is loose, and has got entangled with one of these knots; one of you chaps must come up and cut it free. make haste, i can't hang on much longer." [illustration: "'make haste! i can't hang on much longer.'" (missing from book)] valentine turned to raymond. "you can climb," he said; "i can't." "i'm not going up there," answered the other doggedly, and turned on his heel. valentine wheeled round with a fierce look upon his face, threw off his coat, took out his knife, opened it, and put it between his teeth. "o val!" cried helen in a choking voice, and hid her face in her hands. only barbara had the strength of nerve to watch him do it, and could give a clear account afterwards of how her brother swarmed up the trunk, and held on with one arm while he cut the tangled lace. valentine himself knew very little of what happened until he found himself back on the grass with helen's arms round his neck. "i thought you couldn't climb," said jack, a minute later. "it's possible to do most things when it comes to a case like that," answered the other quietly. "besides, i remembered not to look down." that sort of answer didn't suit fenleigh j.; he caught hold of the speaker, and smacked him on the back. "look here, valentine, the truth is you're a jolly fine fellow, and i never knew it until this moment." the party strolled on across the field. "it's precious hot still," said raymond; "let's go and sit under that hayrick and rest." "we mustn't stay very long," helen remarked as they seated themselves with their backs against the rick. "we want to be home in time for supper." "we can stay long enough for a smoke, i suppose," said fosberton, producing a cigarette case. "have one. what! don't you chaps smoke? well," continued the speaker patronizingly, "you're quite right; it's a bad habit to get into. leave it till you've left school." "and then, when you smoke before ladies," added helen, "ask their permission first." "oh, we haven't come here to learn manners," said raymond, with a snort. "so it appears," returned the lady icily. fenleigh j., who had been smarting under that "leave it till you've left school," chuckled with delight, and began to think that he liked helen quite as much as barbara. at length, when raymond had finished his cigarette, the voyagers rose to return to the boat. jack enlivened the descent of the cliff by every dozen yards or so pretending to fall, and starting avalanches of stones and earth, which were very disconcerting to those who went before. on arriving at the shingly beach, he proposed a trial of skill at ducks and drakes, and made flat pebbles go hopping right across the river, until valentine put an end to the performance by saying it was time to embark. the girls were just stepping into the boat when helen gave an exclamation of surprise. "look!" she cried, pointing towards the top of the cliff, "where can all that smoke be coming from?" "it's a heap of rubbish burning in one of the fields," said raymond. "there's too much smoke for that," said jack. "it may be a barn or a house. wait a moment; i'll run up and see. i shan't be more than five or six minutes." he started off, jumping and scrambling up the path; but almost immediately on reaching the summit he turned and came racing down again. "what a reckless beggar he is;" said valentine. "he'll break his neck some day. well, what is it?" jack took a flying jump from the path on to the shingle. "the rick!" he cried--"the one we were sitting under--it's all in a blaze!" the boys and girls stood staring at one another with a horrified look on their faces. "you must have done it with your matches, raymond," said helen. "i didn't," returned the other. "it's the sun. come on into the boat." "you must have dropped your cigarette end," said valentine. "we ought to find the owner of the hay and say who we are." "you fool! i tell you it wasn't me," returned the other passionately. "ricks often catch fire of their own accord. i'm not going to be made pay for what isn't my fault." valentine hesitated, and shook his head. jack seemed ready to side with him; but raymond jumped into the boat and seized the oars. "look here!" he cried, "it's my boat, and i'm going. it you don't choose to come, you can stay." the two boys had no alternative but to obey their cousin's demand. jack took the second oar, while valentine steered. raymond was ready enough now for hard work, and pulled away with all his might, evidently wishing to escape as fast as possible from the neighbourhood of the burning rick. "what are you pulling so fast for?" asked jack; but "stroke" made no reply, and seemed, if anything, to increase the pace. "look out!" cried valentine, as the boat approached an awkward corner, one side of which was blocked by the branches of a big tree which had fallen into the water. "steady on, raymond!" "stroke," who did not see what was coming, and thought this was only another attempt to induce him to lessen the speed at which they were going, pulled harder than ever. valentine tugged his right-hand line crying, "steady on, i tell you!" but it was too late. there was a tremendous lurch which nearly sent every one into the river, the water poured over the gunwale, and something went with a sounding crack. raymond's oar had caught in a sunken branch and snapped off short. his face turned white with anger. "you cad!" he cried with an oath, "you made me do that on purpose." "i didn't!" answered valentine hotly; "and i should think you might know better than to begin swearing before the girls." helen looked frightened, but barbara was sinking with laughter at the sight of jack, who, on the seat behind, was silently going through the motions of punching master fosberton's head. "well, we can't go on any further," said the latter. "we must get the boat into that backwater and tie her up. though it'll be a beastly fag having to walk to grenford." dividing between them the things which had to be carried, the cousins made their way through a piece of waste ground studded with gorse-bushes, and gained the road, which ran close to the river. barbara lingered behind to pick quaker grass, but a few moments later she came racing after them and caught hold of jack's arm. "hallo!" he said, "what's up? you look scared." "so i am," she answered. "i saw a man's face looking at me. he was hiding behind the bushes." "fiddles!" answered jack. "it was only imagination. come along with me. i'll carry those plates." raymond fosberton seemed bent on making himself as disagreeable as possible. he was still in a great rage about the broken oar, and lagged behind, refusing to speak to the rest of the party. "we ought not to let him walk by himself," said helen, after they had gone about a mile; "it looks as if we wanted to quarrel." she stopped and turned round, but raymond was nowhere in sight. they waited, but still he did not appear. "he can't be far behind," said valentine. "i heard him kicking stones a moment or so ago." jack walked back to the last bend in the road and shouted, but there was no reply. "it's a rum thing," he said, as he rejoined his companions. "i wonder what has become of the beggar. i thought just then i heard him talking." the boys shouted again, and barbara drew a little closer to jack. whether the watching face was imagination or not, she had evidently been frightened. "surly brute! he has gone home by a short cut," said jack. "come along! it's no use waiting." they had not gone very far when they heard somebody running, and turning again saw their missing cousin racing round the corner. his face was pale and agitated, and it was evident that something was the matter. "hallo! where have you been?" "nowhere. i only stopped to tie my shoe-lace." "but you must have heard us calling?" "i never heard a sound," answered raymond abruptly, and so the matter ended. the four fenleighs were not at all sorry to find themselves free of their cousin's society, and bowling along behind prince in the little basket-carriage. it was still more delightful to be back once more at brenlands, and there, round the supper-table, to give queen mab an account of their adventures. "i should like to know who that man was whom i saw hiding among the bushes," said barbara. "i should like to know what raymond was up to when we missed him coming home," said valentine. "yes," added jack thoughtfully; "he was hiding away somewhere, for i could have sworn i heard his voice when i walked back to the corner." chapter vi. a keepsake. "he is my own child, and he is not so very ugly after all, if you look at him properly."--_the ugly duckling_. the holidays passed too quickly, as they always did at brenlands. jack was no longer the ugly duckling. whatever misunderstanding or lack of sympathy might have existed hitherto between himself and valentine had melted away in the sunny atmosphere of queen mab's court; and since the incident of the magpie's nest, the two boys had become fast friends. soldiering was their great mutual hobby. they constructed miniature earthworks in the garden, mounted brass cannon thereon, fired them off with real powder, and never could discover where the shots went to. they read and re-read "a voice from waterloo," the only military book they could discover in their aunt's bookcase; and on wet days the bare floor of the empty room upstairs was spread with the pomp and circumstance of war. the soldiers had a wonderful way of concealing their sufferings; they never groaned or murmured, and, shot down one day, were perfectly ready to take the field again on the next, and so when the solid lead captain or die mounted officer who took on and off his horse was "put out of mess" by a well-directed pea, the knowledge that they would reappear ready to fight again another day considerably lessened one's grief at the sight of their fall. perhaps, after all, lead is a more natural "food for powder" than flesh and blood, and so the only time tears were shed over one of these battles was one morning when barbara surreptitiously crammed two dozen peas into her mouth, fired them with one prolonged discharge into the midst of valentine's cavalry, and then fled the room, whereupon jack sat down and laughed till he cried. it would be difficult to say what it was that made queen mab's nephews and nieces like to wander out into the kitchen and stand by her side when she was making pastry or shelling peas; but they seemed to find it a very pleasant occupation, and in this, after the first week of his stay, jack was not a whit behind the others. he was sitting one morning on a corner of the table, watching with great interest his aunt's dexterous use of the rolling-pin. "well, jack," she said, looking up for a moment to straighten her back, "are you sorry i made you come to brenlands?" "no, rather not; i never enjoyed myself so much before. i should like to stay here always." "what! and never go home again?" the moment that word was mentioned he was once more fenleigh j. of the upper fourth. "home!" he said; "i hate the place. i've got no friends i care for, and the guv'nor's always complaining of something, and telling me he can't afford to waste the money he does on my education, because i don't learn anything. i do think i'm the most unlucky beggar under the sun. i've got nothing to look forward to. but i don't care. when i'm older i'll cut the whole show, and go away and enlist. any road, i won't stay longer than i can help at padbury." queen mab smiled, and went on cutting out the covering for an apple-tart. "i know you like soldiers," she said; "well, listen to this. just before the battle of waterloo, the father of sir henry lawrence was in charge of the garrison at ostend. he knew that some great action was going to take place, and wished very much to take part in it; so he wrote to wellington, reminding him that they had fought together in the peninsular war, and asking leave to pick out the best of the troops then under his command and come with them to the front. the duke sent him back this reply,--'that he remembered him well, and believed he was too good a soldier to wish for any other post than the one which was given to him.'" "you're preaching at me," said jack suspiciously; "it's altogether different in my case." "no, i'm not preaching; i'm only telling you a story. now go and find my little bar, and say i've got some bits of dough left, and if she likes she can come and make a pasty." barbara came, and jack assisted her in the manufacture of two shapeless little turn-overs, which contained an extraordinary mixture of apples, currants, sugar, and a sprinkling of cocoa put in "to see what it would taste like." but the boy's attention was not given wholly to the work, his mind was partly occupied with something else. he wandered over and stood at the opposite end of the table, watching queen mab as she put the finishing touch to her pie-crust, twisting up the edge into her own particular pattern. "i don't see why people shouldn't wish for something better when they have nothing but bad luck," he said. "i don't think people ever do have nothing but bad luck." "yes, they do, and i'm one of them. i hate people who're always preaching about being contented with one's lot." "you intend that for me, i suppose," said his aunt, slyly. "all right; if you weren't out of reach i'd shake the flour dredge over you!" "no, you know i don't mean you," said the boy, laughing. "and i have had one stroke of good luck, and that was your asking me to brenlands." he went away, and told valentine the story of colonel lawrence. "i didn't think she knew anything about soldiers." "she's a wonderful woman!" said valentine, solemnly. "she knows everything!" the following morning, as the two cousins were constructing an advanced trench in a supposed siege of the cucumber-frame, helen came out and handed her brother a letter. valentine read it, and passed id on to jack. "what d'you think of that?" he asked. the epistle was a short one, and ran as follows:-- "grenford manor, "_tuesday_. "dear valentine,--i want five shillings to square the man whose hayrick we set fire to the other day. if you fellows will give one half-crown, i'll give the other. send it me by return certain, or there'll be a row.--yours truly, "raymond fosberton." "pooh! i like his cheek!" cried jack. "at the time he said it was the sun; and now he says, 'the hayrick _we_ set on fire,' when he knows perfectly well it was entirely his own doing. i should think he's rich enough to find the five shillings himself." "oh, he's always short of money, and trying to borrow from somebody," answered valentine. "the thing i don't understand is, what good five shillings can be; the man would want more than that for his hay." "i don't understand master raymond," said jack. "what shall you do?" "well, as we were all there together, i suppose we ought to try to help him out. the damage ought to be made good; i thought he would have got uncle fosberton to do that. i'll send him the money; though i should like to know how he's going to square the man with five shillings." a description of half the pleasures and merry-making that went to make up a holiday at brenlands would need a book to itself, and it would therefore be impossible for me to attempt to give an account of all that happened. the jollification was somehow very different from much of the fun which fenleigh j. had been accustomed to indulge in, in company with his associates in the upper fourth; and though it was not a whit less enjoyable, yet after it was over no one was heard to remark that they'd "had their cake, and now they must pay for it." on the last morning but one, when the boys came down to breakfast, they found queen mab making a great fuss over something that had come by post. "isn't it kind of your father?" she said. "look what he's sent me!" the present was handed round. it was a gold brooch, containing three locks of hair arranged like a prince of wales's plume, two light curls, and a dark one in the middle--valentine's, helen's, and barbara's. "he says it's to remind me of my three chicks when they are not with me at brenlands." "mine's in the middle!" cried barbara. "you ought to have some of jack's put in as well," said helen. the boy glanced across at her with a pleased expression. "oh, no," he answered, "not alongside of yours." during the remainder of the morning he seemed unusually silent, and directly after dinner he disappeared. "d'you know where jack is?" asked valentine. "no," answered helen; "he went out into the road just now, but i have not seen him since." it was a broiling day, and the children spent the greater part of the afternoon reading under the shade of some trees in the garden. they were just sitting down to tea when their cousin reappeared, covered with dust, and looking very hot and tired. he refused to say what he had been doing, and in answer to a fire of questions as to where he had been he replied evasively, "oh, only along the road for a walk." "look sharp!" said valentine, bolting his last mouthful of cake, "we're going to have one more game of croquet. come on, you girls, and help me to put up the hoops." jack, who in the course of his travels had acquired a prodigious thirst, lingered behind to drink a fourth cup of tea. "you silly boy," said his aunt, "where have you been?" "to melchester." "to melchester! you don't mean to say you've walked there and back in this blazing sun?" "yes, i have. i wanted to get something." "what?" the boy rose from his chair, and came round to the head of the table. "that's it," he said, producing a little screw of tissue paper from his pocket. "it's for you. it's only a cheap, common thing, but i hadn't any more money." the paper was unrolled, and out came a little silver locket. "i didn't want the others to see--you mustn't ever let any one know. there's a bit of my hair inside." "now, then, don't stay there guzzling tea all night!" came valentine's voice through the open window. "but, my dear boy, whatever made you spend your money in giving me such a pretty present?" "i want," answered the boy, speaking as though half ashamed of the request he was making--"i want you to wear it when you wear the brooch; stick it somewhere on your chain. i should like, don't you know, to feel i'm one of your family." "so you are," answered queen mab, kissing him. "so you are, and always will be--my own boy jack!" chapter vii. strife in the upper fourth. "'you are exceedingly ugly,' said the wild ducks."--_the ugly duckling_. school was a great change after brenlands. the rooms seemed barer, the desks more inky, and the bread and butter a good eighth of an inch thicker than they had been at the close of the previous term; but by the end of the first week our two friends had settled to work, and things were going on much the same as usual. considerable alterations had been made in the composition of the upper fourth. most of the occupants of the front row of benches had got their remove, while a number of boys from the lower division, of whom valentine was one, had come up to join mr. rowlands' class. the long dormitory was also changed, and jack now found himself in number eight, sleeping in a bed next to that of his cousin. being thus so much thrown together, both in and out of school, it was only natural that the friendship which they had formed in the holidays should be still more firmly established. only one thing acted as a drag upon it, and that was the fact of jack's still finding a strong counter-attraction in the society of garston, rosher, and teal. the quartette began the term badly by being largely responsible for a disturbance which occurred in the dining-hall, when a clockwork frog was suddenly discovered disporting itself in pilson's teacup; and it is probable that jack would have continued to distinguish himself as a black sheep, in company with his three unruly classmates, had it not been for an unforeseen occurrence which caused him to make a change in his choice of friends. as not unfrequently happens, the few original members of the upper fourth who had not been called upon to "come up higher" still clung to their old position at the bottom of the class, while the front benches were filled by their more industrious schoolfellows who had earned promotion. this state of affairs was not altogether pleasing to some of the old hands. in garston's opinion, the ideal form was one which would have no top, and where everybody would be bottom; and when the first week's "order" was read out, he remarked, concerning those new-comers who had won the posts of honour, that it was "like their blessed cheek," and that some of them wanted a licking. teal was entirely at one with his chum in this opinion, and showed his approval of the latter's sentiments by laying violent hands upon the person of hollis, the head boy, making a playful pretence of wringing his neck, and then kicking his bundle of books down a flight of stairs. hollis, a weakly, short-sighted youth, threatened to complain to mr. rowlands; which course of action, as may be supposed, did not tend to increase his popularity with his new classmates. the very next morning the dogs of war broke loose. the boys were construing the portion of virgil which had been set them overnight. garston, who came last, had floundered about for a few moments among the closing lines, giving vent to a few incoherent sputterings, and every one was impatiently awaiting the first tinkle of the bell. "yes, garston," said mr. rowlands, "that's certainly up to your usual form--quite a brilliant display; i'll give you naught. let me see: i set the lesson to the end of the page, and told you to go further if you could; has any one done any more?" "i have, sir," said hollis; "shall i go on?" the master nodded, hollis proceeded, and valentine, who stood second, also followed in turn with a continuation of the translation. he had only got through a couple of lines when the bell rang, and the class was dismissed. hardly had the door closed behind them, when rosher and teal charged along the passage and seized hold of valentine and hollis. the other boys crowded round in a circle. "look here, my good chap," said teal, "in future you'll have to drop that; d'you hear?" "drop what?" "why, doing more work than what's set." "but why shouldn't i?" said hollis. "there's no harm in it; he didn't give us any marks." "you young fool! don't you see that if you do more than what's set, he'll think we can all do the same, and make the lessons longer." "of course he will!" added several voices. "just you mind what you're up to," continued teal, "or you'll get what you won't like." "pass on there! what are you waiting for?" cried mr. rowlands, appearing in the doorway of his classroom, and the gathering dispersed. the following morning, as fate would have it, nearly the same thing happened again, only this time during the hour devoted to algebra. "has any one had time to do any of the next set of examples?" asked mr. rowlands. "if so, let him hold up his hand." only two boys held up their hands--hollis and valentine. there were murmurs of discontent at the back of the room, and several fists were shaken ominously. jack had not troubled to side with either party--it mattered very little to him whether the lessons were long or short, as he only did as much as he felt inclined--but, if anything, his sympathies lay with his less industrious comrades, who, he considered, had very good ground for feeling aggrieved with hollis and his cousin. "look here, val," he said, when they met at the close of morning school, "what d'you want to go and work so beastly hard for?" "i don't." "no, perhaps you don't, because you're clever; but you're always doing more than you're obliged to, and the other chaps don't like it, because they say it'll make rowlands set longer pieces." "oh, that's all rubbish! it's simply because they're waxy with us for getting above them in class. i don't see why i should take my orders from rosher and teal, and only do what they like; and i don't intend to either." "all right, my boy," answered jack, carelessly. "do what you like, only look out for squalls." the latter piece of advice was not at all unnecessary; for soon after this, as the giver was strolling across the gravel playground, he heard his name called, and looking round saw his cousin hurrying after him with a scrap of paper in his hand. "look," he said; "i found this in my desk just now, and there was one just like it in hollis's." jack took the paper. it was an anonymous note, printed in capitals to disguise the handwriting; and it ran as follows:-- "this is to give you fair warning, that if you will persist in doing more work than what is set, you'll get a thrashing. the rest of the class don't intend to get more work on your account, and so have decided not to put up with your nonsense any longer." "it was rosher or one of those chaps wrote it," said jack. "you'd better look out; any one of them could give you a licking." "they'd have to try first," answered valentine, hotly. his cousin laughed; the reply rather tickled his fancy. those concerned had not long to wait before matters came to a head. that same afternoon mr. rowlands set a history lesson for the following day. "take the reign of elizabeth," he said. "by-the-bye, there's a genealogical tree at the end of the chapter; get that up if you can." the examination next morning was a written one, and the last question on the board was, "show, by means of a genealogical tree, the connection between the tudors and the stuarts." "please, sir," said garston, "you told us we needn't do that." "i said you were to get it up if you had time," returned the master. "haven't any of you done it?" "yes, sir," came from the front desk. "very well; let those who have learned it write it down." "val, my boy," said jack, in his happy-go-lucky style, as they met in the dormitory to change for football, "you just keep your eyes open; you're going to get licked." valentine replied with a snort of defiance, and the subject was dropped. tea was over, and in the short respite between the end of the meal and the commencement of "prep.," jack was strolling down one of the passages, when his attention was attracted by a certain small boy who stood beneath a gas-jet scanning the contents of a small book, and occasionally scribbling something on a half-sheet of exercise-book paper. suddenly the youngster flung down the book in a rage, and kicked it across the passage, whereupon jack promptly cried, "no goal!" "hallo, little garston!" he continued, "what's up with you?" "why, i've got to write out the translation of some of this caesar for old thorpe, and i can't make head or tail of the blessed stuff. i say, fenleigh, you might do a bit for me!" jack was a good-natured young vagabond. "where is it?" he said, picking up the book. "all right! here goes." garston minor slapped his piece of paper up against the wall, and wrote at his friend's dictation. the translation was not very accurate, but coming from the lips of a fellow in the upper fourth it was accepted without question by the juvenile, and in ten minutes the rough copy of the imposition was finished. "thanks awfully!" said the youngster, as he stuffed the book and paper back into his pocket. "look here, fenleigh; as you've done me a good turn, i'll let you into a secret, only you must promise not to let my brother know who told you. he and teal and rosher are going to give your cousin a licking." "how d'you know?" "i heard them talking about it. they said, 'we'll lick valentine fenleigh. if we touched hollis, he'd sneak; but it'll frighten him if we thrash the other chap.'" "when are they going to do it?" "now--some time; they said soon after tea." "where?" cried jack. "i can't tell you; they didn't say. that's all i know." jack exploded with wrath. he had talked calmly enough to valentine about his getting licked, and was inclined to think he deserved it; but now that it had come to the point, he found that the idea of his cousin being thrashed was not at all to his liking. even at that very moment the outrage might be taking place. the victim was not equal to any one of his three assailants, and stood much less chance of escaping from their combined attack. fenleigh j. rushed off down the passage on a wild-goose chase after his chum, but nowhere was the latter to be found. as a last resource, he ran into the schoolroom. valentine's seat was empty, but a boy sat reading at the next desk but one. "have you seen my cousin?" "yes, he was here a minute ago." "where's he gone?" "bother you!--let's see--oh, i know; some one came in to say darlton wanted him in the little music-room." "darlton never gives lessons after tea. phew! i see what's up!" the boy looked up from his reading with a grunt of astonishment as his questioner turned sharply on his heel and dashed out of the room. jack had his faults, but he was loyal-hearted enough to remember those who had at any time proved themselves to be his friends, and not to leave them in the lurch when an opportunity offered for rendering them some assistance. he was a strong boy, but the back desk trio were also good-sized fellows for their age. had it, however, been the whole of the sixth form who were licking valentine, jack in his present state of mind would have charged in among them and attempted a rescue. "it's clear enough," he muttered to himself, as he turned off down a short, narrow passage; "that message was a trap to catch him alone. but wait a minute, and i'll surprise the beggars." he paused outside a door, and hearing voices within tried the handle. it was locked. "hallo! who's there? you can't come in." jack was too wary to make any reply. he glanced round rapidly, endeavouring to concoct some plan for gaining an entrance. stooping down, he discovered that the key was turned so that it remained exactly in the centre of the keyhole, anything pushed against it would send it out on the other side. "i believe that bathroom key fits this door," he muttered, and tiptoed a little further along the passage. in another moment he was back again, and thrusting the key suddenly into the lock he turned it, and forced open the door. the room was a small chamber set apart for music practice, the only furniture it contained being a piano, a chair, some fiddle-cases, and music-stands, while on the mantelpiece, in the place of a clock, was a metronome that had something wrong with the works. jack, however, had no eye for these details; his attention was centred in a group of boys who were struggling under the single gas-jet, which was flaring away in a manner which showed it had evidently been turned up in a hurry. "here, leave that chap alone!" he exclaimed, plunging into the centre of the scrimmage. "let him alone, i say!" "hallo! it's fenleigh j.," cried garston. "you've just come in time to help us to teach this cousin of yours a lesson on the subject of not overworking himself." "leave him alone!" repeated jack angrily, giving rosher a push which sent him staggering back into the fireplace, where he knocked over the metronome, which fell with a crash on the fender. "don't be a fool, fenleigh," cried teal. "we're going to teach this chap a lesson. if you don't want to help, you can clear out." "i shall do nothing of the sort," returned the other. "you let him alone." both parties were too much in earnest to waste their breath in talking, and the next moment garston and rosher sprang on the intruder and endeavoured to force him out of the room. valentine, being unable to free himself from the muscular grasp of teal, could render no assistance; but his cousin, whose blood was fairly up, struggled furiously with his two assailants. round the room they went, like a circular storm, wrecking everything they came in contact with; music-stands went over with an appalling clatter, while the back of the solitary chair gave way with a crash as the three combatants fell against it. suddenly a sharp voice sounded down the passage,-- "now then, there! what's all that noise about?" teal released his hold of valentine, and springing to the gas-jet turned out the light. "_cave_!" he whispered: "it's old thorpe!" it was impossible to continue the struggle in the darkness, and the tumult ceased. "he's gone into copland's classroom," continued teal. "quick! let's hook it before he comes back!" a rush was made for the door. "all right, fenleigh; don't you think you're going to be friends with us any more." "i've no wish to be," answered jack. "if you want to finish this out any time, i shall be quite ready for you!" "it was jolly good of you to stick up for me like that," said valentine, as the two cousins hurried off towards the schoolroom. "i should have been a mean cad if i hadn't," returned the other, laughing. "you don't think i've forgotten that affair of the magpie's nest, do you? i don't care a straw for any of those fellows, and it they want to fight, i'll take them on any day; but they'll have to lick me first before they talk about thrashing you." in course of time the dispute between the two extremes of the upper fourth died a natural death. mr. rowlands did not increase the length of the "prep." lessons, and peace was restored. garston and his two companions, however, did not forgive jack for his interference with their plans. regarding him, perhaps, as rather a hard nut to crack, they made no attempt to renew the combat, but evidently decided to cut him off from any future enjoyment of their society or friendship. jack, on his part, did not seem to take this loss very much to heart; it only induced him to become more chummy with valentine, and, judging from the comparatively few times that his name was down for punishment, this change of associates seemed to be decidedly to his advantage. as the autumn advanced, and wet days became more frequent, the two boys took to doing fretwork in their spare time; and having purchased a rather large and complicated design for a kind of bracket bookcase, they conceived the happy notion of making it as a christmas present for queen mab, and so worked away together, taking an immense amount of interest in their task. before the term ended a rather curious incident happened, insignificant in itself, but worthy of being recorded as bearing on more important events to be dwelt on at a later period in our story. it wanted about three weeks to the holidays, and jack and valentine were returning from the ironmonger's, where they had been purchasing some sandpaper wherewith to put the finishing touches to their work. "i wish it was midsummer instead of christmas," the former was saying. "i don't want to go home. i'd much rather go to stay with aunt mab at brenlands." valentine was about to reply, when both boys were surprised by a shabby-looking man suddenly crossing from the other side of the street and taking up his stand directly in their path. the stranger wore a battered brown hat, no necktie, and a suit of clothes which he might have stolen from some scarecrow. "'afternoon, young gents!" he said. "good afternoon," answered jack shortly, stepping out into the road. the stranger turned and walked at their side. "you may not remember me, gents, but i'm ned hanks." "i don't care who you are," answered valentine; "i don't know you." "oh, but i know you, sir; it's mr. fenleigh i'm a-talking to. i thought, perhaps, you might like to stand me a drink." "i say, just be off," cried jack sharply, "here's old westford coming." the man fell back, and a moment later the two boys raised their caps to the headmaster. mr. westford acknowledged their salutation with a cold stare, which clearly showed that he had seen their late companion, and was wondering what business two of his pupils had to be talking with such a vagabond. "i wonder who that fellow was!" said jack. "oh, some tramp. i never saw him before." "but he knew your name." "well, these beggars are up to all kinds of dodges," answered valentine. "if we'd waited long enough, i daresay he'd have told me the names of all the family!" chapter viii. a banquet at "duster's." "it must have been the fault of the black goblin who lived in the snuff-box."--_the brave tin soldier_. at easter, jack and valentine got their remove into the fifth, and there became acquainted with a young gentleman who rejoiced in the name of tinkleby. tinkleby was a comical-looking fellow of medium height; he wore nippers, and had a perpetual smirk on his lips. "hallo, you two fenleighs!" he said, coming up to them on the second morning of the term; "i suppose you'll join our society." "what society?" asked jack. "the fifth form literary society." "what's it for?" asked valentine. "we're neither of us very literary." "well, to tell you the truth, the society isn't either. it's kept up for the sake of having a feed at the end of every summer term." "what?" cried jack, laughing. "if you'll listen a moment," said tinkleby glibly, "i'll explain the whole matter in two words. "the fellows in the fifth used to run a manuscript magazine. aston was the first editor, and he called it the 'portfolio,' because it was bound up in the case of an old blotter that he bagged out of the reading-room. the chaps who contributed papers called themselves the fifth form literary society, and elected a secretary, treasurer, and president. aston was so pleased with one of the numbers that he sent it to _the melchester herald_ to be reviewed; but after waiting about six months for a notice to appear, he went down to the office, and the editor said that the manuscript was lost, and that aston ought to have enclosed stamps if he wanted it returned. godson, one of the prefects, said he saw a bit at snell's the fish-shop, where they were using it to wrap up screws of shrimps; but that was all rot, and he only said it because the fellows in the sixth were jealous. well, then, it was suggested that the magazine should be printed, and the members subscribed towards bringing out the first number; but after they'd raked in all the money they could get, they found there wasn't enough for the purpose, so they decided to spend what they'd got in having a feed at 'duster's,' and it was agreed it should be an annual affair. "when i was made president i brought out two numbers of the 'portfolio,' but in the second i wrote rather a smart thing on old ward, and called it 'the career of a class master.' it was really so good i thought he'd enjoy reading it, and so i got another fellow to show it him; but he didn't properly appreciate it, and cut up rough. he said he would overlook the personal allusions, but he really couldn't allow any fellow in his form to be so backward in spelling, and therefore i must borrow a spelling-book from one of the kids, and learn two pages a day until i improved. he used to hear me before we began first lessons. it was rather rough on the president of a literary society, making him stand up every morning and reel off two pages of 'butter's spelling-book.' and that squashed the 'portfolio;' fellows wouldn't send in any more papers, for fear they should be hauled up in the same manner. "but they went on subscribing for the feed," continued tinkleby, brightening up. "we didn't let that fall through. it comes off on the breaking-up day, after the old boys' match. the sixth are always invited in to have supper with the swells; but i know a lot or them would much rather be with us having a blow-out at 'duster's.' well, that's the meaning of our literary society; the subscription is only two-pence a week, so you'd better join." the two cousins promised they would do so. every monday morning, in the classroom, tinkleby passed round an old missionary box, crying, "now then! pay up, you beggars. no broken glass or brace buttons!" it was always a race to get the collection over by the time mr. ward entered the room; but the sprightly tinkleby, who seemed to have undertaken the combined duties of president, secretary, and treasurer, hurried through it somehow; and each week the box grew heavier, and the hearts of the contributors lighter as they looked forward to the time when they should sit down to the long-expected banquet. the term passed very pleasantly for jack and valentine; and what between cricket, bathing, and the prospect of spending the coming holiday at brenlands, they had good reason for feeling contented and happy. only one thing happened to disturb their peace of mind, and that an incident of rather a curious nature. they were strolling back to the school one afternoon, and had got within twenty yards of the main entrance, when some one hurrying along behind them touched jack on the shoulder, and looking round they found themselves once more confronted by the same shabby-looking man who had accosted them on a previous occasion. "beg pardon, mr. fenleigh," he began. "i'm ned hanks; you'll remember, sir. maybe you've got a copper or two you can spare a poor fellow who's out of work." "i've got no money to give away to beggars," said jack; "and i tell you once more we don't know you." "that's rather ungrateful, i calls it," answered the man. "i did you two gents a good turn last year, and got precious little for it. i might have made more out of the other party." by this time they had reached the school-gates. "look here," broke in valentine, "don't you bother us any more, or we'll put a policeman on your track. i don't understand a word of what you've been saying, and--" "stop, stop, fenleigh!" interrupted a deep voice. "what's the meaning of this, pray?" the two boys looked up and found they were standing in the presence of the headmaster. "what's the meaning of this?" he repeated. "who is this man you're talking to?" there was a moment's silence, during which the seedy stranger slunk away, and disappeared round the corner. "i ask who is this man you are speaking to?" "i don't know, sir," answered valentine. "nonsense!" retorted mr. westford sharply. "i saw you two boys holding a conversation with him once before. you must know who he is; answer my question immediately." "he told us his name was hanks," said jack; "but we don't know him. he came up and spoke to us of his own accord." "and, pray, what did he want to speak to you about?" "i don't know, sir," answered valentine--"that is--he wanted to beg some money." "i don't understand your answer, fenleigh," replied mr. westford. "i fear you are not telling me the truth--or, at all events, you are trying to keep something back which ought to come to my knowledge. there must be some reason for my having twice found you in conversation with that disreputable-looking fellow. both of you will not go outside the school premises for a fortnight without special permission." jack stormed and raved, and threatened what he would do if they should encounter the tramp again; but of the two, valentine felt the punishment far more acutely than his cousin. he was not accustomed to rows; and for a boy with his naturally high sense of honour, the mere thought that the headmaster suspected him of telling a falsehood was ten times worse than the fact of being "gated." the term ran on, and at length the last day arrived; a day of perfect happiness, with no more work, and a letter by the first post from queen mab, saying that the pony-carriage would meet the train as usual at hornalby station. the prize-giving, with the mayor of melchester in the chair, and augustus powler, esq., m.p., and other grandees, upon the platform, was a very serious and formal business; the past and present match, in which preston, the coming man in bowling, took seven wickets, and dear old clayton, a bygone captain, lifted a ball over the roof of the pavilion, was certainly more interesting; but, at all events, in the opinion of all those concerned, the chief event of the day was the annual supper of the fifth form literary society. "come along," cried tinkleby, as the cheers which greeted a win for the present were gradually dying away--"come along. i told duster to have the grub ready at half-past five sharp, and it's a quarter to six." "shan't we get into a row for cutting tea?" asked jack. "no fear," answered the other. "old ward knows where we're going; and it's all right as long as we get back before lock-up." the confectioner's shop patronized by the melchester boys was situated in a quiet street some five minutes' walk from the school-gates. why the proprietor's name should have been changed from downing to "duster" it would be difficult to say; but as long as his customers came furnished with ready money and good appetites, the probability is that the former would have been quite content to serve them under any nickname which they chose to invent. at the back of "duster's" establishment was a little square parlour, where boys repaired to eat ices and drink alarming quantities of duster's famous home-made ginger-beer--a high explosive, which always sent the cork out with a bang, and to drink two bottles of which straight off would have been a risky business for any boy to attempt without first testing the staying power of his waistcoat-buttons, and putting several bags of sand in his jacket-pockets. in this parlour it was that the literary society assembled for their banquet; as many as could find room squeezing themselves on to the two short forms on either side of the table, and the remainder camping out wherever they could find room on the chairs, window-ledge, and a small sofa. at the close of a summer day the place was decidedly hot and stuffy, and the first thing everybody did was to pull off their coats and blazers and appear in their shirt-sleeves. tinkleby, as president, took the post of honour at the head of the table, and hammering the festive board with his fist, called on "duster" to "bring in the grub and something to drink." to describe the banquet itself would need an abler pen than mine. the sausages were browned to perfection, the ices were pinker than a maiden's cheek, and the ginger-beer was stronger and more filling at the price than it had ever been before, and made those who drank it gasp for breath and feel as though they had swallowed a cyclone. james, surnamed "guzzling jimmy," distinguished himself by finishing up with ices, and then beginning all over again with cold ham and pickles; but at length, when even he had finished, there was a general hammering of the table, and a call for "speeches." "well, fire away," said the president. "who's going to start?" "i will," cried a boy named dorris. "gentlemen, i beg to propose a toast--success to the fifth form literary society, and with it i couple the name of our worthy president, mr. tinkleby; may he live long and be happy!" this sentiment, though not very original, was received with great enthusiasm, the company showing their approval of it by administering to themselves fresh doses of "duster's" liquid explosive. the president, rising slowly to his feet, sticking his thumbs in the armholes of his waistcoat, and expanding that portion of his body which contained his supper, in imitation of the movements of augustus powler, esq., m.p., cleared his throat, and began in pompous tones: "mr. mayor, ladies and gentlemen, i cannot well express to you the delight with which i stand here to fulfil the pleasing duties which you have so kindly called upon me to perform. when i look round on the bright, young faces before me--" the speaker paused to dodge a shower of crusts, corks, and other missiles; the owners of the "bright, young faces" evidently resented this personal allusion. "shut up, tinky!" cried several voices. "talk sense, can't you?" the president smiled, and readjusted his nippers. "i was about to remark," he continued in his natural tone, and with his accustomed fluency of speech, "i was about to remark that i thank you very much for having drunk my health. you were good enough to couple my name with that of our society. gentlemen, i am convinced that the fifth form literary society has a great future before it. (laughter.) i look forward to the time when we shall not grub here at 'duster's,' but dine together in premises of our own. our friend mr. james has a nice little plot of ground in a soap-box, where he now grows mustard-and-cress, but which i have no doubt he would let to us on reasonable terms for building purposes. but, perhaps, i am looking a little too far ahead. as regards our immediate future, i intend making a determined effort to publish another number of the 'portfolio.' (cheers.) mr. ward has intimated his willingness to contribute a large number of latin lines written by members of his class; while mr. sam jones, the boot-cleaner, has offered to place his talented brush at our disposal, and produce a grand new-year's illustrated supplement, entitled, 'christmas in the coal-hole.' gentlemen, i fear i am trespassing on your time and good nature. mr. james, i see, is anxious to drink another toast. once more i thank you for having drunk my health, and would now call upon you to drink that of mr. preston, who distinguished himself this afternoon by taking no less than seven of the old boys' wickets." great applause greeted the finish of the president's speech, and preston's health was drunk amid a scene of the wildest enthusiasm. cries of "on your pins, preston!"--"well bowled, sir!"--"order!"--"speak up!" etc., rent the air; while the pounding of fists and drumming of feet were continued until a game leg of one of the forms suddenly gave way, causing a temporary disappearance of half the company beneath the table. preston might have been able to howl, but he certainly could not talk, and it was hard for him to follow such a glib speaker as the president. however, the fact remained that he had distinguished himself, and brought honour to the fifth form in general by taking seven wickets; and for this reason his comrades would have been content had he merely stood up and reeled off the list of prepositions which govern the accusative, or quoted selections from the multiplication table. as it was, they awarded him a cordial reception, and filled up the pauses in his disjointed utterances with tumultuous applause. "i'm much obliged to you fellows for drinking my health," began the bowler. "it's jolly good of you, and--all that sort of thing. (cheers.) i did manage to bag seven wickets." (renewed applause, interrupted by a warning shout of "look out! this form's going again!") "i was going to say," continued the speaker, attempting to hide his embarrassment by pretending to drink out of an empty glass, "that it was rather a fluke--" (shouts of "no! no!" "more pop for the gentleman!" and fresh outbursts of cheering.) "well, i did the best i could, and--well--glad you're pleased, and all that sort of thing. (alarums and excursions.) i suppose i ought to say something about this society, but, as regards that matter, the former speaker has rather taken the sails out of my wind. (cheers and laughter.) no, i should say the _whales_ out of my-- (yells of laughter.) any way," concluded preston, shouting to be heard above the general uproar, "i'm much obliged to you, and--all that sort of thing--" it was not until several ginger-beer bottles had rolled off the table, and the rickety form had once more gone down with every soul on board, that a sufficient amount of order was restored to enable the president to call on somebody for a song. "sing yourself, tinkleby," was the answer. "give us 'little brown jug.'" the president complied with the request. mead, a musical companion, ground out an unearthly accompaniment on "duster's" little, broken-winded harmonium; and the company shrieked the chorus, regardless of time, tune, or anything but the earnest desire of each individual to make more noise than any one else. when this deafening uproar had at length subsided, everybody was forced to remain quiet for a few moments to regain their breath. "now, then," said tinkleby, "who's next? what's that? all right. bos. jones says he will give us a recitation." the announcement was received with a groan. mr. boswell-jones was rather a pompous young gentleman, who expended most of his energies trying to live up to his double surname, and in consequence was not very popular with his schoolfellows. he rather fancied himself as an elocutionist; and though he might have seen "rocks ahead" in the manner in which the audience received the president's announcement, boswell-jones had sufficient confidence in his own powers to be blind to any lack of appreciation on the part of other people. he stood up and adjusted his necktie, cleared his throat, and began,-- "i remembah, i remembah, the house where i was bawn, ("euh! re--ah--lly!" murmured the listeners.) the leetle window where the sun came peeping in at mawn." "whose little son?" interrupted dorris. "shut up!" cried the president. "well, i only wanted to know," said dorris in an injured tone. "i should call it jolly good cheek of anybody's son to come peeping in through my bedroom window--" "shut _up_!" exclaimed tinkleby. "go on, bos." "he never came a wink too soon, nor brought too long a day; but now"-- continued the reciter with a great amount of pathos, --"i often wish the night had bawn my breath away!" "so do i," mumbled paterson. "let's have another song." "i remembah, i remembah, the roses, red and white--" "go on, bossy," ejaculated the irrepressible dorris; "you don't remember it at all, you're simply making it up as you go along." a general disturbance followed this last interruption--the audience laughed, the president vainly endeavoured to restore order, and boswell-jones sat down in a rage, and refused to continue his oration. "a song, a song!" cried several voices. "jack fenleigh, you know something; come on, let's have it." jack had a good voice, and with mead extracting fearful groans and growls out of the harmonium, he started off on the first verse of "the mermaid," a song which he was destined in after years to sing under strangely different circumstances:-- "oh, 'twas in the broad atlantic, 'mid the equinoctial gales, that a gay young tar fell overboard, among the sharks and whales; and down he went like a streak of light, so quickly down went he, until he came to a mermaid at the bottom of the deep blue sea." then the audience took up the chorus, and yelled,-- "rule, britannia! bri--tann--ia rules the waves! and bri--tons never, never, ne--ver shall be mar--ri--ed to a mer--mai--ed at the bottom of the deep blue sea!" the song was received with great enthusiasm, and the performers might have been kept repeating the last chorus until break of day on the following morning, it tinkleby had not suddenly jumped up, crying, "i say, you chaps, it's five-and-twenty past seven. we shall be late for lock-up." every one sprang to his feet. dorris was the first to reach the door, and being of a playful disposition caught up a bundle of coats and blazers and bolted with them under his arm. a moment later certain of the peaceful citizens of melchester were astonished at the sight of a dozen or more young gentlemen tearing madly down the street in their shirt-sleeves. and so ended the third annual supper of the fifth form literary society. chapter ix. "guard turn out!" "he felt for them as he had never felt for any other bird in the world. he was not envious ... but wished to be as lovely as they."--_the ugly duckling_. "it is jolly to be here at brenlands again," said jack, as he sat dangling his legs from the kitchen table, and munching one of the sweet pods of the peas which his aunt was shelling. "i've been looking forward to it ever since last summer." "yes, and a pretty fuss i had to get you to accept my first invitation," answered queen mab; "i thought you were never going to condescend to favour us with your company. however, i've got you all here again, and it _is_ jolly; and what's more, you managed to turn up at the proper time yesterday instead of coming half a day late, as you did last year, you rascal!" the boy laughed. "oh, well! you may put that down to val," he answered. "he's quite taken me in hand lately, and has been in an awful funk for fear i should get into another row just before the holidays. you know those penny toys you get with a little thing like a pair of bellows under them that squeaks--well, i got a bird the other day and pulled off the stand, and stuck it in my shoe so that i could make a noise with it when i walked. whenever i moved about in class, old ward used to beseech me with tears in his eyes to wear another pair of boots. i used to come squeaking into assemblies a bit late on purpose, and send all the fellows into fits. it was a fearful joke; but poor old val got quite huffy about it, and kept saying i should be found out, and that there was no sense in my 'monkey tricks,' as he called them." "so they are," answered queen mab, smiling in spite of herself. "i should have thought you were old enough to find some more sensible amusement than putting pieces of penny toys in your boots. you may laugh at valentine if you like, but i can tell you this, he's very fond of you, and that's the reason why he doesn't like to see you in trouble." "i know he is," returned the boy briskly. "he's a brick; and i like him better than any other chap in the school." queen mab went on shelling her peas, and jack remained perched on the end of the table, quite content to continue watching her nimble fingers and sweet, restful face. it certainly was jolly to be back again at brenlands. he was no longer the ugly duckling; helen and barbara were like sisters, and he got on with them swimmingly; all kinds of splendid projects were on the carpet, and there were plenty of long summer days to look forward to in which to carry them out. to be a careless dog of a schoolboy, ready for anything in the way of larks and excitement, and paying precious little attention to one's books or conduct record, might be a fascinating sort of existence; yet somehow it was not altogether unpleasant, once in a way, to become for a time a member of a more civilized and refined society, where gentler treatment encouraged gentler manners, where hearts were thought of as well as heads, where there was no black list, and where no one would have made a boast of being on it, had such a thing existed. this year the mimic war operations were of a more advanced kind than had ever been attempted before. a fortress built of clay and pebbles was mined and blown up; and there still being some powder left, jack successfully performed the feat of blowing himself up, and in doing so sustained the loss of an eyebrow. in order that this catastrophe should not alarm queen mab, the missing hair was replaced by burnt cork; but jack, forgetting what had happened, sponged his face and rushed down to tea, where barbara, after regarding him for a few moments in silence, leaned across the table and remarked, with a wise shake of her head, "yes, i see--you've been shaving." but what proved a source of endless delight to the two boys was an old, military bell-tent which queen mab had bought for their special use and amusement. they pitched it on a corner of the lawn, and were always repairing thither to read, and talk, and hold councils of war. it was delightful to speculate as to what doughty warriors might have been sheltered beneath it; and to imagine that sundry small rents and patches must be the result of the enemy's fire, and not due to the wear and tear of ordinary encampments. not satisfied with living in it by day, they determined to pass a night there also, and would not rest content until their aunt had given them permission to try the experiment. "all we want," said valentine, "is a mackintosh to spread on the ground, and a few rugs and sofa cushions, and a candle and a box of matches." "very well, you can have plenty of those," answered queen mab; "perhaps some day you won't be so well off, valentine." she spoke lightly enough, and with no foreshadowing of a visionary picture, often to haunt her mind in the days to come, of men lying silently under a clear, starlit sky, with belts on, rifles by their sides, and bayonets ready fixed. the two boys prepared to put their project into immediate execution; and in connection with this their first but by no means last experience of a night under canvas, they were destined to fall in with a little adventure which must be recorded. shortly before the commencement of the holidays a lot of strawberries had been stolen from the garden, and queen mab feared lest a similar fate should overtake a fine show of pears which were just getting ripe. "well, good-night," she said, as she prepared to close the door on the two adventurers; "if you're cold, and want to come in, throw some pebbles up at my window." "oh, we shan't want to come in," answered jack stoutly. "if you hear any one coming to steal the fruit, you shout, 'guard turn out!' and we'll nab 'em." the boys settled down like old campaigners. "awful joke, isn't it?" said jack. "yes, prime!" answered valentine; "soldiering must be jolly." half an hour passed. "i say," murmured valentine, "this ground seems precious hard!" "yes," answered his companion. "i've tried lying on it every way, and i believe my bones are coming through my skin." a long pause, and then, "i say, don't you think it's nearly morning?" "oh, no! the church clock has only just struck one." the darkness seemed to lengthen out into that of a polar winter instead of a single night. at length the canvas walls began to grow grey with dawn, and jack awoke with a shiver, wondering whether he had really been asleep or not. "it's beastly cold," he muttered. "yes," answered valentine. "i thought it was never going to get light. look here, i'm determined i _will_ sleep! what's the good of my being a soldier if i can't sleep in a tent?" he turned over on his face, and had just dropped off into a doze, when he was awakened by jack, who had reached over and was shaking his arm. "i say--val--who was that?" "who's what?" was the drowsy answer. "why! didn't you hear? some one just walked down the path. it can't be jakes; it isn't five o'clock." valentine rubbed his eyes, thought for a moment, and then suddenly sat up broad awake. "the pears!" he whispered. both boys sprang up, unlaced the door of the tent, and sallied forth in the direction of the fruit garden. "don't make a row; walk on the grass border. hist! there he is!" there he was, sure enough; a boy about their own age, calmly picking pears and dropping them into a basket. jack and valentine slowly crept down by the side of the raspberry bushes, like indians on a war-trail. "now then!" murmured the former, "charge!" the thief jumped as if a gun had been fired off behind him, and started to run, but before he could reach the path he was fairly collared. he struggled violently, and then commenced to kick, whereupon his arm was suddenly twisted behind his back, a style of putting on the curb-rein with which fractious small boys will be well acquainted. "woa! steady now, 'oss!" said jack facetiously. "keep your feet quiet, or i shall put the screw on a bit tighter. now then, what shall we do with him?" "put him into the tool shed," answered valentine. the culprit, finding himself fairly mastered, became more docile. his captors, however, turned a deaf ear to his pleadings to be let go; and thrusting him into the little outhouse, turned the key in the lock, and then began to wonder what they should do next. "well," said jack, "we've got a prisoner of war now, and no mistake. what shall we do with the beggar? go for a policeman?" "no, we don't want to get the chap sent to prison." "if we tell aunt mab she'll let him go, and he ought to be punished." "of course he does--young villain! it's like his cheek coming here and bagging all the fruit." "i have it!" said jack, suddenly struck with a bright idea. "we'll lick him!" valentine hesitated. "i don't like setting on a chap two against one," he answered. "i don't mind a stand-up fight." "well, that's what i mean," answered jack joyously. "look here!" he continued, hammering on the door of the shed--"look here, you inside there! i'm going to punch your head for stealing those pears. if you like to come out i'll fight you, and then you can go; if not, you can stay where you are. will you come?" "yes," answered the prisoner sullenly. twenty years ago a fight was not quite such a rare occurrence at melchester school as it would be to-day. jack threw off his coat with alacrity. "now, val, you watch; and if the beggar tries to bolt, you leg him down." with a dogged look the stranger took up his ground, and on the signal being given for the commencement of hostilities, lowered his head, and made a wild rush at his antagonist. the latter stepped aside, and greeted him with a smart cuff on the side of the head. once more the visitor came on like a runaway windmill, but this time jack walked backward and refused the encounter. "oh, look here," he cried, in an injured tone, "can't you do any better than that? can't you stand up and hit straight? don't you know how to box?" "no." "well, what's the good of saying you'll come out and fight? what's your name?" "joe crouch." "well then, joseph, you'd better take your hook. there's your old basket, only just leave those pears behind; and don't come here again, or we'll set the bobby on your track." crouch marched off, evidently astonished at finding himself at liberty to depart. when he reached the gate, he turned, and touched his cap. "morning, gen'lemen," he said, and so disappeared. valentine laughed, and regarded his cousin with a queer look in his face. "you are a rum fellow, jack; you're always wanting to fight somebody. when you get two fellows against you like garston and rosher, you go at it like a tiger; and then another time, just because you get hold of a chap who can't knock you down, you back out and make peace." "well," answered the other, "there's no sport in licking a chap like that. i'll tell you what, i'm frightfully hungry." the two adventurers had plenty to tell at breakfast that morning, and the interest in their capture lasted throughout the day. in the evening the young folks went out a favourite walk through the lanes and fields. valentine and barbara were running races on the way home; but jack lingered behind with helen, who was gathering ferns. "let me carry your basket," he said. "oh, don't you trouble; you'd rather run on with val and barbara." "i expect you don't want me. i know you think i've got no manners, and in that you're about right." "no, i don't think anything of the kind," said helen, laughing. "i shall be very glad if you will carry the basket, because i want to talk to you." "now for a lecture," said jack to himself.--"all right, fire away!" "well," began the girl, looking round at him with a twinkle in her eye, "i want to know why you didn't set val on to fight that boy this morning, instead of offering to do it yourself." "oh, i don't know! it was my own idea; besides, i'm bigger and stronger." "you mean you did it so that val shouldn't get hurt, in the same way that you grappled with those three fellows who were ill-treating him at school." "pooh! he didn't tell you that, did he? he always lets you know all the bothers i get into. you'll think i do nothing but fight and kick up rows; and," added the speaker, with a pathetic look of injured innocence, "i've been behaving jolly well lately." "i think you're a dear, good fellow for defending val," said helen warmly, "and i've been wanting to thank you ever since." "it was nothing. 'twasn't half as much as he did for me when he climbed that tree and freed my bootlace. i wish he wouldn't go telling you everything that happens at school." "you were saying a day or so ago," said the girl, slyly, "that you didn't care for anybody, or for what people thought of you." "yes, i do," answered the ugly duckling; "i care a lot what you folks think of me at brenlands." "why?" "why, because you're all better than i am, and yet you never try to make me feel it; but i do all the same. and i love you three and queen mab; and i love the place; and i should like to live here always. but outside of that," he added quickly, "i don't care a button for anything." "i wish you wouldn't talk like that." "but it's a fact." "you mean," she answered gently, "that you've said it so often that at last you're beginning to believe it's true." a few mornings later, when the boys came down to breakfast, they were surprised, on looking out of the window, to see no less a personage than joe crouch weeding the garden path. "i found he was out of work, and his parents wretchedly poor," said queen mab; "so i said he might come and help jakes by doing a few odd jobs. you know the old maxim," she added, smiling--"the beet way to subdue an enemy is to turn him into a friend." the two boys took considerable interest in crouch, regarding him as their own particular protégé. joe, for his part, seemed to remember their early morning encounter with gratitude, as having been the means of landing him in his present situation. he had apparently a great amount of respect for jack, and seeing the latter cutting sticks with a blunt knife, asked leave to take it home with him, and brought it back next day with the blades shining like silver, and as sharp as razors. one afternoon, when the boys were lying reading in the tent, barbara suddenly appeared in the open doorway, and stamping her foot, cried, "_bother_!" "what's up with you, bar?" "why, that wretched raymond fosberton is in the house talking to aunt mab. he's walked over from grenford; and he is going to stay the night." valentine groaned, and jack administered a kick to an unoffending camp-stool. "what does he want to come here for, i wonder?" continued barbara. "silly monkey! you should just see him in his white waistcoat and shiny boots--faugh!" and she choked with wrath. raymond's presence certainly did not contribute very much to the happiness of the party. he monopolized the conversation at tea-time, was very high and mighty in his manner, and patronized everybody in turn. he lost his temper playing croquet, and broke one of the mallets; and later on in the evening he cheated at "word-making," and because he failed to win, pronounced it a "stupid game, only fit for kids." in barbara, however, he found his match. she cared not two straws for all the fosbertons alive or dead; and when the visitor, who had been teasing her for some time, went so far as to pull her hair, she promptly dealt him a vigorous box on the ear, a proceeding which so delighted the warlike jack that he chuckled till bed-time. every one felt relieved when it came to tea-time on the following day. raymond had announced his intention of walking home in the cool of the evening, and queen mab proposed that his cousins should accompany him part of the way. they had walked about a mile, jack and helen being a little in advance of the others, when the girl caught hold of her cousin's arm. "oh, look!" she said, "there's a man coming who's drunk." "never mind," answered jack stoutly; "he won't interfere with us." the man, who had reeled into the hedge, suddenly staggered back into the middle of the road, and stood there barring the way. "'ello! misser fenleigh," he began, "'ow're you to-night, sir?" jack stared at the speaker in astonishment, and then recognized him as the same man who had spoken to them in melchester. "look here!" he said hotly. "i've told you twice i don't know you. you just stand clear and let us pass." by this time the remainder of the party had come up. "why, 'ere's misser fosbe'ton," continued the man, with a tipsy leer. "now i jus' ask you, sir, if these two gen'lemen don't owe me some money for a drink." raymond's face flushed crimson, and then turned white. "you've had too much already, hanks," he said sharply; "just shut up, and stand out of the road." "oh, no offence!" muttered the man, staggering aside to let the cousins pass; "'nother time'll do jus' the same." "look here, raymond, who is that fellow?" asked valentine, as soon as they had got out of earshot of the stranger, "twice he's come up to us in the street at melchester, saying he knows us, and wanting money; and the last time, old westford saw us talking to him, and we got into a beastly row, and were gated for a fortnight. who is he?" "oh, he's a lazy blackguard called ned hanks; he's always poaching and getting drunk. he never does any work, except now and then he collects rags and bones, and sells them in melchester." "how does he know you?" "he lives close to grenford, and every one knows me there." "but how does he know _us_?" "i can't say. haven't you ever seen him at brenlands?" "no, never." "well, i suppose he must have found out your name somehow; and he's always cadging for money for a drink. don't you trouble to come any further. by-the-bye, next year i'm going to set up in diggings at melchester. i shall be articled to a solicitor there; and if you fellows are still at the school, we might go out together." "confound that man!" said jack, on the following morning; "i should like to find out who he is, and why he always speaks to us. i wonder if crouch knows anything about him." joe crouch was questioned, and admitted that he knew the man hanks well by sight, and had sometimes spoken to him. jack explained the reason of his inquiry. "the fellow's got us into one row already. why should he always be bothering us for money?" joe crouch stood thoughtfully scratching his head for a moment with the point of the grass clippers. "i dunno, sir," he answered; "but maybe i might find out." chapter x. "storms in a tea-cup." "'are you not in a warm room, and in society from which you may learn something? but you are a chatterer, and your company is not very agreeable.'"--_the ugly duckling_. at the commencement of the winter term, in addition to being in the same class and dormitory, the two cousins were thrown still more together by occupying adjoining desks in the big schoolroom. "now i shall be able to keep an eye on you," said valentine, "and see that you do some work." "shall you?" "yes; helen gave me special instructions that i was to make you behave yourself. this is my last year; and the guv'nor says if i do well i shall go on then to an army coach to work up for sandhurst." "well, i suppose i must behave myself, if it's helen's orders," said jack, laughing. "i wish i knew what i was going to do when i leave this place. i only wish i was going into the army like you. some fine day i think i shall enlist." "oh, no, you wouldn't. what d'you think queen mab would say when she heard about it?" "but she wouldn't hear about it," returned the other, with a touch of his restless discontent. "no one would hear about it. i should call myself jones, or something of that sort. it would be a happier life than that i live at home; and what the guv'nor thinks he's going to do with me, i'm sure i don't know." valentine certainly did his best to follow out his sister's instructions, and keep master jack out of hot water. the latter seemed to have become a trifle more tractable; perhaps, finding other people were interested in him, he was led to take more interest in himself. at all events, his conduct underwent a considerable change for the better, and his name no longer appeared on every page of the defaulters' book. football was now on, a sport which he specially enjoyed. in addition to this, garston and teal had left, and rosher, who had now joined the fifth, seemed to be increasing in wisdom as well as in stature, and no longer sought the bubble reputation in official visits to the headmaster's study. in short, jack had improved with his surroundings. he and valentine, in addition to their fretwork, had taken up carpentry; and on wet afternoons, when idle hands were steeped in mischief, they were always to be found in the shed which had been set apart for the boys to use as a sort of workshop. as far as the fifth form was concerned, only one incident happened to relieve the monotony of a somewhat uneventful term; and as one of our heroes was largely responsible for what took place, an account of the episode may as well be included in our story. jack, it should be said, was not to blame for what happened in the first place, his and preston's share in the business was, as it were, only the effect arising from a primary cause; and for this, the real root of the matter, tinkleby was solely responsible. "look here," said tinkleby, "those fellows in the sixth are running that debating show of theirs, and they get let off 'prep.' every saturday night; wherefore i vote we join." "they wouldn't have us," answered dorris; "they won't allow any one to join if they are lower in the school than sixth or remove." "ah!" answered tinkleby, adjusting his nippers, "but, don't you see, i should do it in this way--i should propose that our society be amalgamated with theirs." "what society?" asked preston the bowler. "why, the fifth form literary society, you blockhead!" preston and dorris both exploded. "you seem to think," continued tinkleby, with a cynical smile, "that the only use for our society is to provide us with an excuse for having a feed once a year at 'duster's;' but let me remind you, sir, that its main object, according to the original rules, was the cultivation of a taste for literary pursuits among its members." "yes," added dorris, "and so you want to get off saturday 'prep.' fire away, tinky, i'm with you." that very afternoon tinkleby addressed a large, square envelope to _s. r. heningson, esq.,_ _hon. sec. melchester school debating society._ and having sealed it with an old military button, dropped it into the letter-box, a proceeding more in keeping with the importance of the communication than if he had delivered it by hand. the honorary secretary went one higher--he sent his reply by post. it was polite, and to the point. the committee of the debating society did not see their way to extend the limit of the rule relating to membership. they would be pleased to admit any of the fifth form who could obtain permission to attend the meetings, but they would not be entitled to vote, or to take any active part in the proceedings. tinkleby was incensed at this cool reception of his proposal, and harangued his comrades during a temporary absence of mr. ward from the classroom. "they think such a confounded lot of themselves, with their miserable essays and dry debates. i'll bet we could stand up and spout as well as they can, on any subject you like to mention, from cribbing to astronomy." "of course we could," answered boswell-jones, who had prepared a paper entitled, "an hour with the poets," into which he had introduced all his favourite recitations, and which he longed to fire off at something in the shape of an audience--"of course we could; it's all that conceited beast heningson. he thinks he's an orator--great ass!" "well, look here," said tinkleby, fixing his nippers with an air of resolution and defiance, "heningson's going to open a debate next saturday. the subject is: 'that this house is of opinion that the moral and physical condition of mankind is in a state of retrogression.' we'll go and hear it. ward'll let us do our 'prep.' in the afternoon. i've got a little plan in my head, and we'll take a rise out of these gentlemen." the melchester school debating society, as we have already mentioned, was established for the benefit of the senior boys, who held their meetings every saturday night during the winter and easter terms in what was known as the drawing classroom. it was conducted in a very solemn and serious manner. redbrook, the head of the school, took the chair; while on the table before him, as a sign of his office and authority, a small hand-bell was placed, which he was supposed to ring when, in the heat and excitement of debate, members so far forgot themselves as to need a gentle reminder of the rule relating to silence. as a matter of fact, the chairman seldom, if ever, had any need to use this instrument, though on one occasion some wag removed it before the proceedings commenced, and substituted in its place the huge railway-bell used by mullins, the school-porter; a jest which greatly incensed the grave and dignified assembly on whom it was practised. there was a proper mahogany ballot-box. the subjects for discussion always began, "that this house, etc.," and the secretary entered in a book exhaustive minutes of every meeting, which the chairman signed with a quill pen. these details are given in order that the reader may understand the character of the society in question, and be therefore in a better position to pass judgment on the outrageous behaviour of certain gentlemen whose conduct will shortly be described. on the following saturday evening, in answer to the formal invitation which they had received, tinkleby and his friends filed into the room, looking very good and demure, and occupied the desk against the end wall, which they entered as though it had been a pew in church. the usual preliminaries were gone through, and the chairman called on "our worthy friend the secretary" to open the debate by moving, "that this house is of opinion that the moral and physical condition of mankind is in a state of retrogression." for a time all went well. the visitors sat as mute as mummies, and the opener sought to justify his proposition by launching out into an impassioned discourse, which seemed rather inclined to resolve itself into a brief history of the world, and which the critical tinkleby afterwards described as containing "more wind than argument." touching briefly on the statements of the hebrew chroniclers, heningson proceeded with a wordy exposition of the manners and customs of ancient greece, and from this stumbled rather abruptly into the rise of the roman empire. drawing a fancy and perhaps rather flattering portrait of one of the world-conquering legionaries, the speaker thought fit to compare it with that of a latter-day italian organ-grinder who often visited the school, and who had recently been had up for being drunk and disorderly in the streets of melchester. "gentlemen," exclaimed the orator earnestly, pointing accidentally at the chairman, but meaning to indicate the unfortunate musician, "is _this_ the culmination of a race of gods? this inebriate, undersized--" at this point the discourse was suddenly interrupted by a loud and prolonged snore. heningson hesitated, and glanced up from his notes with a look of annoyance. he was about to proceed when a chorus of snores in every imaginable pitch and key effectively checked his utterance. with an indignant "sh--s-h!" the audience turned in their seats to witness the following astonishing spectacle. at the back of the room every one of the half-dozen visitors sat, or rather sprawled, with his head upon the desk, in an attitude suggestive of the soundest slumber; the only variation in position being on the part of jack fenleigh, who lay back with a handkerchief thrown over his face like an old gentleman taking his after-dinner nap. the nasal concert continued, and the chairman smote his hand-bell. "firs' bell," murmured tinkleby drowsily, "stop working;" while dorris became suddenly afflicted with a catch in his breath which caused a succession of terrific snorts, each of which nearly cracked the windows. "here, stop that noise!" cried redbrook, springing to his feet in great wrath. "wake 'em up, somebody!" an obliging member caught tinkleby by the arm, and gave him a prodigious shake. "shur up," growled that gentleman. "give me back my pillow, 'tisn't time to ger up. hallo! have i been asleep? i'm beastly sorry." one by one the other occupants of the visitors' gallery were made to understand that they were not in their beds. jack fenleigh, however, absolutely refused to return from the land of dreams. he was shaken, pinched, and pommelled, but all to no purpose; his snores only became louder, and the style more fantastic. meanwhile a heated altercation was going on between the chairman and the president of the fifth form literary society. "look here, tinkleby, we don't want any more of your silly foolery, so just stop it." "my dear sir, i'm doing nothing." "well, why did you begin?" "if you mean my having dropped off to sleep, i'm very sorry; but really there's something in the air of the place--" "haw-r-r-r-r-ratch," interposed jack fenleigh. redbrook rose from his chair, boiling with wrath. "just clear out!" he cried. "go on--all the lot of you!" the visitors demurred, but being outnumbered three to one, they were seized and hustled unceremoniously out of the room. in the midst of all this commotion, however, fenleigh j., still continued in an unbroken slumber, and was distinctly heard snoring louder than ever as his companions dragged him off down the passage. [illustration: "the visitors were seized, and hustled unceremoniously out of the room."] for the time being this little joke gave rise to a rather strained relationship between the members of the sixth and fifth forms. tinkleby and his comrades were designated a set of rowdy jackasses; and they replied to the compliment by declaring that a fraternity of live donkeys was better than a collection of stuffed owls, and advising heningson to patent his discourse as an infallible cure for insomnia. cutting allusions to the "literary society" and sarcastic retorts were exchanged in the corridors and playing-field; and so the feud continued. all his classmates were charmed with jack's share in the performance. "you wait," was his invariable answer to their congratulations; "i'll take a better rise out of them before long." for a time this boast was not considered to imply any definite intention on the speaker's part to play any further pranks on the members of the debating society; but at length a rumour got abroad that something _was_ going to happen. fenleigh j. and preston had been seen more than once taking counsel together in out-of-the-way corners, and exchanging mysterious nods and winks. they were known to have spent the free time between "prep." and supper, on two consecutive evenings, alone together in the workshop, with the door locked. a great deal of hammering went on, but no one could find out what they were making. when questioned on the subject, they professed a lamb-like state of innocence; and even tinkleby himself could give no explanation of their conduct. a fortnight after the delivery of heningson's essay, the debating society held an important meeting, the announcement of which, posted the previous evening on the notice-board, was worded as follows:-- m. s. d. s. _saturday, november ...th._ debate. "that this house approves of the settlement of all international disputes by arbitration instead of war," _aff._, mr. n. j. carter. _neg._, mr. shepherd. the members turned up in force, for this time the openers of the discussion were the two leading lights of the society, and the contest between them was certain to prove an intellectual treat which ought not to be missed. carter's style of oratory was of the impassioned order; he thumped on the desk, and went through the "extension motions," with the exception of that awful movement where you bend double and try to touch your toes. it was rumoured that he wrote deep, unintelligible poetry that did not rhyme; and if the school rules had not forbidden the practice, he would have worn long hair and a fly-away necktie. shepherd, on the other hand, went in for logic, unadorned by any movements suggestive of setting-up drill. his style bore a suspicious resemblance to that of augustus powler, esq., m.p. he stuck his thumbs in the armholes of his waistcoat, and pushed forward that portion of his body which it would have been unfair to strike at in a fight. it would be impossible to give here anything like a detailed report of the proceedings. from the moment when the chairman rose to introduce the first speaker, every one felt that the meeting would be one of unusual interest; and in one sense they were certainly destined not to be disappointed. carter was in great form; he dealt the desk such terrific blows that the ink spurted out of the ink-pots, and ran down on to the secretary's breeches. war, he declared, was legalized murder, and the soldier little better than a hired assassin. napoleon bonaparte was far more roughly handled than at leipsic or waterloo; and a long list of conquerors, ranging back to alexander the great, were, figuratively speaking, torn from their graves and hung in chains. at length, having dwelt on the enormous cost of standing armies, and other more practical aspects of the subject, the speaker concluded with a vivid picture of the horrors of a battlefield, and was in the act of quoting a verse of poetry, when he was suddenly silenced by an unlooked-for interruption. "the bursting shell, the gateway wrenched asunder, the rattling musketry, the clashing blade; and ever and anon, in tones of thunder, the--" bang! every one started; something like a miniature representation of the "bursting shell" had just exploded in the neighbourhood of the blackboard. a boy sitting close by stooped down and picked up from the floor a small fragment of burnt tissue-paper. "who threw that?" he exclaimed. "what is it?" asked the chairman. "why, one of those 'throw-downs.'" redbrook glanced round the room in angry astonishment. "look here," he said sharply, "i don't know who did it, but if any of you have come to play the fool, you'd better leave the room at once, for we aren't going to have any more nonsense like we had the other night." the audience turned in their seats, and stared at one another in amazement. most of my readers will probably have some practical knowledge of the small, round paper pellets known as "throw-downs," which explode when flung against anything; and it was difficult to imagine that any member of the select and decorous melchester school debating society would cause an interruption by flinging such things about in the middle of an important discussion. "go on, carter," said the chairman. "shan't!" returned the other, snappishly. "i've finished." shepherd was now called upon to open on the side of the negative. "war," he began, assuming his accustomed attitude, and beaming round on his listeners with a very good imitation of the powler smile--"war is like surgery. when drugs are of no avail, we are often forced to resort to the use of the knife, and so--" another mimic bomb exploded in the very centre of the speaker's waistcoat, causing him to jump nearly out of his skin. redbrook sprang to his feet in a towering rage, and as he did so another projectile burst on the open pages of the minute book. "who threw those things? i will find out!" a babel of voices rose in reply. no one had done it. the door was shut, the windows were fastened, a hasty search was made in the cupboards and under the back desks, in the hope of discovering a lurking enemy; but even while the search was in progress another missile went off under the secretary's chair. "who is it?" shouted redbrook. "where do they come from?" "that seemed to fall from the ceiling," answered heningson; "yes--look there!" above the hanging gas-jet in the centre of the room was an ornamental iron grating, between the apertures of which there now appeared about an inch and a half of brass tube, like the end of a big peashooter. a moment later there was a prodigious puff, and four "throw-downs" exploded with a simultaneous crash in the centre of the chairman's table. "there's some one up on the roof!" cried several voices.--"stop it, you villain!" "how could any one get there?" "there's a trap-door at the end of the passage," exclaimed shepherd. "quick! we shall cut him off." a rush was made for the door, but it refused to open; some one had evidently blocked the exit from the outside, by placing a short form lengthways across the passage. the drawing classroom formed part of a one-storied building which bounded one side of the school quadrangle. finding the door closed, shepherd dashed to the nearest window, and flinging it open dropped out on to the gravel, an example which was speedily followed by the chairman and several members of the audience. breathing out all manner of threats, they ran round through the nearest door and gained the entrance to the passage. the trap-door in the ceiling was wide open, and communicating with it was a curious, home-made ladder, consisting of an old post, with half a dozen rough cross pieces fastened to it with stout nails. a candle end was lying on the floor, and with its aid shepherd climbed up and explored the roof; but the bird had flown. after such an interruption it was no use attempting to continue the debate, and redbrook and his companions spent the remainder of the evening trying to discover the authors of this outrage. the culprits, however, had made good their escape; no one remembered having seen the ladder before, and it was impossible to say to whom it belonged. the members of the debating society were clearly outwitted; and not wishing to make the story of their discomfiture too public, they determined for the present to let the matter drop, at the same time announcing their intention of taking dire vengeance on any irreverent jokers who should rashly attempt to disturb their meetings in future. two days later, valentine was sitting at his desk reading, when he was joined by his cousin. "i borrowed your brass ruler the other afternoon," said the latter, producing something from under his coat. "yes, i know all about it, you villain!" "i only used it as a sort of pea-shooter." "oh, i've heard all about your little game; preston told me." jack tried to look innocent, and then laughed. "it's no use, val, old chap, you'll never make a good boy of me. it's the old story of the silk purse and the sow's ear." valentine laughed too. "i'm afraid i never shall," he answered. "the joke is that you're always ready to bring the whole place about your ears with some mad prank, and then when a cartload of bricks does fall on your head, you say, 'it's just your luck, and that--'" "a collection will be taken at the door in aid of the poor fund at the close of the present service," interrupted the other. "good-bye--i'm off!" he moved away a step or two, then came softly back, and began to rumple his cousin's hair; whereupon an exciting struggle ensued, which brought them both down on to the floor, and ended with the edifying spectacle of the preacher sitting flushed and triumphant on the congregation's chest. chapter xi. "out of the frying-pan--" "above all, beware of the cat."--_the ugly duckling_. "here, val, you're just the man i want! tell me something to say." it was a broiling afternoon. the summer term had once more come round, and jack, with his coat off, was sitting in a shady corner of the schoolroom wrestling with a letter to queen mab. "i write to her nearly every blessed week," he continued, "and the consequence is i've never got anything to say. i've told her how jolly it is to think that in four weeks' time we shall be at brenlands again; and now i'm stuck, and i can't get any further." "have you told her how well you've been doing in cricket this season?" "no." "well, i have; so it doesn't much matter. look here! raymond fosberton's outside, and wants to see you." "oh, tell him to go to bath!" answered jack, making another stab at the ink-pot with his pen. "i want to finish this letter." "no, come along," answered valentine, laughing. "you must be civil to the fellow; he's been waiting about for nearly a quarter of an hour." "do him good," growled the scribe, reluctantly pitching his untidy epistle into a very disorderly desk. "he only comes here to show off. just because he's in a lawyer's office, he thinks he's a big pot, and all he does is to write copies like a kid in the lower school." according to his own opinion, raymond fosberton had blossomed out into the full-blown man. he wore a light check suit of the very latest fashion, a rosebud adorned his button-hole, and he tapped the toe of his highly-polished, patent-leather boots with the point of a silver-mounted cane. "hallo!" he exclaimed; "what the dickens d'you want to keep a chap waiting so long for? i can tell you my time's more valuable than yours. look here! i'm sorry i haven't been able to ask you boys to come and see me before, but nearly every night since i've been here i've been engaged. however, i want you to get leave to come and have tea at my rooms on wednesday, and after that we'll go to the fair. you know what i mean. it's held once a year in a big field on the other side of the town; there are shows, and round-abouts, and all that sort of thing." "thanks," answered valentine, "but i'm afraid we can't go." "why not?" "because the rule of the school is that no boys are allowed to go to melchester fair. old westford is awfully strict about it. two years ago some fellows went, and had a row with one of the showmen, and it got into the papers." "oh, rubbish! you can say you're only going out to tea." valentine shook his head. "oh, yes, you can," continued raymond. "by-the-bye, there's a fellow here called rosher, isn't there? my guv'nor knows his people, and told me to ask him out sometimes; tell him to come too, if he can." "we can't do it," answered valentine decisively; "while the fair's on, westford won't even give fellows leave to go down into town." "nonsense!" answered raymond contemptuously. "you leave it to me, and i'll manage it all right. now i must cut back to the office. ta! ta!" on wednesday afternoon the two cousins were preparing to start for the cricket field, when a small boy brought them word that the headmaster wished to see them for a moment in his study. "what's the row now, i wonder?" said jack. "'pon my word, it's so long since i went to the old man's study that i feel quite nervous." the interview was not of a distressing nature. "i have received a letter from your uncle," began mr. westford, "asking for you to be allowed to go and meet him at the station this afternoon at five o'clock. he wishes also to see rosher, so you can tell him that he may go. be back, of course, in time for supper." "i wonder what brings uncle fosberton to melchester," said valentine to jack as they walked away together. "can't say," returned the other. "i don't want to see him; but i suppose we must go. let's hunt up rosher." a few minutes before five, the three boys entered the booking-office at the railway station. "i wonder which platform it is!" said jack. "hallo! there's raymond." the gentleman in question came forward, flourishing his silver-mounted cane. "well, my dear nephews," he cried, laughing. "how are you to-day? did old westford get my letter all right?" "what letter?" asked valentine. "why, the letter asking for you to come out." "but uncle wrote that!" "not a bit of it!" answered raymond triumphantly. "i did it. i had a bit of the manor note-paper, and i sent it to our man to post it from grenford. ha! ha! i told you i'd manage the business!" rosher chuckled, jack whistled, but valentine remained silent. "look here, raymond," said valentine, after a moment's pause, "i tell you straight, i don't believe in this sort of thing. i'm going back." "don't be a fool, man," retorted the other. "you can't go back now, or they'll want to know the reason. come along to my diggings and have some tea, and i'll bear all the blame." with some reluctance valentine agreed to go with the party to his cousin's lodgings. raymond did not seem on very good terms with his landlady. the tea was a long time coming; and when at length it did make its appearance, the fare consisted only of bread and butter, and a half-empty pot of jam. "sorry i can't offer you anything more," remarked the host, "but just now i've run rather short of cash. better luck next time." as soon as the meal was over, raymond repeated his proposal that they should visit the fair. "it's an awful joke," he said. "i'm going, and you chaps may as well come along too." "it's all very well for you to go," answered jack, "but with us it's different. any one can see by our hat-bands that we belong to the school; and if it gets to westford's ears that we've been, we shall stand a jolly good chance of being expelled." "oh, well! if you're afraid, don't go," answered raymond, with a sneer. "i thought you were a chap who didn't care for anything. will you go, rosher?" "i don't mind." "come on, then; don't let's stick here all the evening." the four boys put on their hats and sauntered out into the street. valentine said good-night, and turned off in the direction of the school; but jack lingered behind with the other two. "that's right," said raymond, taking his arm; "i knew you'd come." the evening was always the gayest part of the day at melchester fair. crowds of people from the town and surrounding neighbourhood jostled each other in the open spaces between the tents and booths, while the noise of bands, steam-organs, and yelling showmen was something terrific. "i say, have either of you fellows got change for a sovereign?" asked raymond. "you haven't? well, you pay, and i'll settle up with you some other time." the boys wandered round the field, listening to the cheap jacks, and the proprietors of various exhibitions, which were all "just a-goin' to begin." they patronized a shooting-gallery, where they fired down long tubes with little rifles, which made the marksman's hands very black, and seemed to carry round the corner. jack, however, succeeded in hitting the bull's-eye, and ringing the bell, and was rewarded with a handful of nuts. "come on," said rosher; "let's have a turn on the wooden horses," and the party accordingly moved off in the direction of the nearest round-about. the steeds were three abreast, and raymond mounted the one on the outside. a little group of factory boys were standing close by, and, just as the engine started, one of them thought fit to enliven the proceedings with a joke. "hallo, mister! how much starch d'you put on your weskit?" "that much!" answered raymond, snappishly, and leaning outwards in passing he dealt the speaker a sharp cut with his cane. "yah! thatches!" cried the boy, and every time the whirligig brought his assailant into view the shout was repeated. in the year of grace some traces still remained of an ancient feud between the school and the boys of the town. the name "thatches" had been invented by the latter on account of the peculiar pattern of straw hat worn by their adversaries; while the answering taunt always used in those warlike times was, "hey, johnny, where's your apron?" a remark which greatly incensed the small sons of toil, who usually wore this garment. "what have you been doing to those chaps?" asked jack, as the horses slowed down and the yell was repeated. "one of them cheeked me, and i hit him with my stick." "well, we'd better slip away as soon as this thing stops; we don't want to have a row with them here." unfortunately for the three boys, their steeds stopped just opposite the hostile group. jack pushed through them with an expression of lofty contempt, an example followed by rosher; but raymond was stupidly led into a further exchange of incivilities. "don't you give me any more of your confounded impudence, you miserable little cads, or i'll give you another taste of this stick." the "cads" answered with a shout of derisive laughter, and a few more straggling clansmen joining the band, they followed after the three friends, keeping at a safe distance, and repeating their cries of "yah! thatches! hit one yer own size!" and other remarks of a similar nature. "we can't go on like this," said jack. "they'll follow us all round the fair. shall we charge the beggars?" "no," answered raymond. "let's go into the circus, and that'll put them off the track. you fellows pay, and i'll owe it you; i don't want to change my sovereign here." rosher paid for three shilling seats, and the trio entered the big circular tent, thus for the time being effectually escaping from the pursuing band of unfriendly natives. the performance had just commenced, and though the display was by no means brilliant, yet the boys enjoyed it, and soon forgot the existence of everything except clowns, acrobats, and trained horses. "_i say_!" exclaimed rosher suddenly, "d'you know what the time is? it's close on nine o'clock!" "by jingo!" answered jack, "we must do a bolt." "no, don't go," interposed raymond; "you can't get back in time now, so you may as well stay and see the end. if you'll come round by my lodgings, i'll get my guv'nor to write a letter of excuse." "i don't want any more of your letters," murmured jack, "it's too risky. we'd better hook it." "no, stay; you can't get back in time now, so what's the good of losing part of the performance?" after some further discussion, jack and rosher decided to remain, and so kept their seats until the end of the performance. it was quite dark when they emerged from the tent, and every part of the fair was lit up with flaring paraffin lamps. they had not gone very far when, as ill-luck would have it, a shrill cry of "hallo! thatches!" showed that they had been sighted by some small scout of the enemy. "i've got some coppers left," said rosher; "let's have a shot at the cocoa-nuts." they stopped opposite a pitch, and began bowling at the fruit. the first two or three shies were unsuccessful; then jack knocked down a nut. "i'm not going to let you beat me!" cried rosher. "here; mister, give me some more balls." a fresh group of town boys were hovering about in the rear, their number being now augmented by one or two of a larger size. "yah! thatch! you can't hit 'em! come 'ere and let's see that stick you was talking about." "i say," whispered raymond to his cousin, "wouldn't it be a lark to pretend to make a good shot, and knock that lamp over." he pointed as he spoke to one of the flaring oil lamps which, fastened to a stake a few feet above the ground, illuminated the line of nuts. "no, don't do it," answered jack; but the warning came too late. raymond threw with all his might, and, as ill-luck would have it, the aim was only too true; the heavy wooden ball hit the lamp a sounding whack, dashed it from its stand, and the next moment the canvas screen at the back of the pitch against which it fell was all in a blaze. in an instant all was confusion. quick as thought raymond turned, and slipped away between the wheels of a caravan which stood close by. the proprietor of the pitch sprang forward and seized jack by the coat. "'ere, you did that," he cried, "and you did it a purpose." the crowd of juvenile roughs closed in behind. "yes, 'e did it," they cried; "'e's the man." "i didn't do it," retorted the boy. "leave go!" rosher leaned forward, and giving his friend a nudge, uttered the one word,-- "_bolt_!" jack's blood was up. he wrenched himself free of the man's grasp, and plunged into the little crowd of riff-raff, striking heavy blows to right and left. rosher did the same; and the enemy, who were nothing but a pack of barking curs, went down like ninepins, falling over one another in their efforts to escape. the two fugitives rushed on, stumbling over tent-ropes and dodging round the booths and stalls, until they came to the outskirts of the fair. then they paused to take breath and consider what was to be done next. the glare of the burning canvas and a noise of distant shouting, which could be clearly distinguished above the other babel of sounds, showed the quarter from which they had come. "where's raymond?" cried jack. "i don't know," answered rosher; "we can't wait here, or we shall be collared." "didn't you see what became of him? i don't like the thought of leaving the fellow--" the sentence was never finished; for at that moment two men suddenly appeared from behind a neighbouring stall. one was arrayed in a blue uniform with bright buttons, and his companion was at once recognized by the boys as being the proprietor of the cocoa-nut pitch. "here they are!" shouted the latter, catching hold of the policeman's arm; "now we've got 'em!" [illustration: "'here they are! now we've got them!'"] quick as thought the two schoolfellows turned and dashed off at the top of their speed. beyond the outskirts of the fair all lay in darkness; a high hedge loomed in front of them. jack scrambled up the bank, crashed through the thorn bushes, and fell heavily to the ground on the other side. in an instant he had regained his feet, and was running for his life with rosher by his side. in this manner they crossed three fields, stumbling over uneven places in the ground, scratching their hands, and tearing their clothes in the hedges, and at length landed nearly up to their knees in a ditch half-full of mud and water. "it's no good, fenleigh, i can't go any further. i'm completely pumped." struggling on to a bit of rising ground, the fugitives halted and turned round to listen. the glare of light and noise of the fair had been left some distance behind them, and there were no sounds of pursuit. the night was very dark, and everything in their immediate neighbourhood was quiet and still. "we must get to the town some other way," said jack. "doesn't the road to hornalby pass somewhere here on the right?" "i don't know," answered rosher; "we ought to strike some road or other if we keep going in that direction." the boys continued their flight, varying their walk by occasionally breaking into a jog-trot. at length they found themselves in a narrow lane; but after wandering down it for nearly half a mile, their further progress was barred by the appearance of a private gate. "botheration!" cried jack, "we've come wrong; this leads to some farm. we shall never get home at this rate." retracing their steps the way they had come, the two unfortunate adventurers at length found themselves on the hornalby road; but when they reached melchester, and were hurrying down the side street past "duster's" shop, the cathedral clock struck half-past eleven. "oh, my!" said rosher; "how shall we get in? everybody will be in bed. we shall have to knock up old mullins at the lodge." "no fear," answered jack. "we must get into westford's garden, and from there into the quad; then we'll try some of the windows." the plan was carried out, and a few moments later the two boys were standing in the dark and deserted playground. jack made a circuit of the buildings on tiptoe, and then returned to his companion. "all the classroom windows are fast," he said, "but there's one on the first landing belonging to the bathroom that's open. what we must do is this. under the bench in the workshop is that ladder thing that preston and i made last year. we must fetch it, and you must hold it while i get up to the window. then you must put the ladder back, and i'll creep down and let you in at the side door. the workshop's locked, but luckily i've got the key in my pocket!" the scheme was successful, and ten minutes later the two wanderers were creeping up the main staircase. rosher had a private bedroom; and jack, moving softly, and undressing in the dark, managed to get into bed without awakening any of the other boys in his dormitory. chapter xii. "--into the fire." "one of the little boys took up the tin soldier and threw him into the stove."--_the brave tin soldier_. "hallo, fenleigh! you were back precious late last night," said walker, the sixth form boy in charge of the dormitory. "yes," answered the other carelessly. "i had leave to go out to tea." the reply seemed to satisfy walker; but there was one person in the room to whom jack knew he would have to make a full confession. while dressing he avoided valentine's questioning glances, but after breakfast he was forced to give his cousin a full account of all that had happened. a dark frown settled on the latter's face as he listened to the recital, which he several times interrupted with impatient ejaculations. "i knew you'd be in a wax with me," concluded jack, with an air of defiance; "but it can't be helped now. you'll never make a saint of me, val, old chap, so don't let's quarrel." "it's not you that i'm angry with," answered valentine wrathfully, "it's that beast of a raymond. it's just his way to get other people into a mess, and leave them to get out of it as best they can. i suppose he never paid up his share of the money you spent?" "not he. never mind, we got out of the bother a lot better than i expected." valentine shook his head. "i hope to goodness you won't be found out," he said anxiously. "if you are, you'll stand a jolly good chance of being expelled." "oh, we're safe enough. don't you fret," answered jack lightly.--"hallo, tinkleby, what's up with you?" the president of the fifth form literary society was striding across the gravel, fingering his nippers, as he always did when excited. "haven't you heard?" he answered. "some one's in for a thundering row, i can tell you." "why, what do you mean?" "why, mullins says that some man from the fair came this morning, and wanted to see the headmaster. he says one of our fellows was up there last night, kicking up a fine shindy, and set his show on fire; and he means to find out who it is, and summon him for damages. mullins told him he'd better call again later on, as westford was at breakfast. my eye! i pity the chap who did it, if it's true, and he's collared." the clang of the school bell ended the conversation, and tinkleby rushed off to impart his news to other classmates. the distressed look on valentine's face deepened, but he said nothing. "pooh!" exclaimed jack, sticking his hands in his pockets, and making the gravel fly with a vicious kick. "let him come and say what he likes. what do i care?" the school had reassembled after the usual interval, and the sixth form were sitting in their classroom waiting for the arrival of the headmaster. a quarter of an hour passed, and still he did not arrive. at length the door opened, and mullins poked his head inside. "mr. westford wants to see all those gentlemen who are in charge of the different dormitories--now, at once, in his study." a murmur of surprise followed the announcement, as the boys indicated rose to their feet and prepared to obey the summons. on entering the study they found a shabby-looking man standing just inside the door, who eyed them all narrowly as they came in. the headmaster sat at his writing-table looking stern and troubled. the twelve prefects arranged themselves in a semicircle, and stood silently waiting and wondering what could have happened. "you say this took place about a quarter past ten?" "yes, sir," answered the man, twirling his hat with his fingers. "as near as i can say, it must have been about a quarter a'ter ten." "i have sent for you," continued mr. westford, turning to the group of senior scholars, "to know if any of the boys were absent from any of the dormitories at the usual bed-time." "one was absent from number five, sir," said walker. "who?" "fenleigh j., sir." "why didn't you report him? what time did he return?" "i don't know, sir. i was asleep when he came back. he said he'd had leave to go out to tea." "was any one else absent from any of the rooms? very well. you may go. redbrook, send fenleigh j. to me at once." a minute or so later the culprit entered the room. "that's the young feller i want!" exclaimed the stranger. "i could tell him anywheres in a moment." "fenleigh, were you at the fair last night?" "yes, sir." "what were you doing there? you know my orders?" the boy was silent. "i can tell you what he was doing," interrupted the man. "he knocked over one of my lamps and set my screen afire; and a'ter that he started fightin', and i was obliged to fetch a p'liceman. but there was two of 'em, this one and another." "did this really happen, fenleigh?" "yes, sir." "who else was with you?" "my cousin, raymond fosberton. it was he who knocked over the lamp." "that's a lie!" interrupted the man. "it was you done it. i seed you with my own eyes." "i don't think i need detain you any longer," said mr. westford, turning to the owner of the cocoa-nuts. "i need hardly say i regret that one of my scholars should be capable of such conduct. i shall make some further inquiries, and if you will call again this evening, whatever damage has been done shall be made good." the man knuckled his forehead and withdrew. jack was left alone with his judge, and felt that the case was ended. "now, sir," said the latter, in a cold, rasping tone, "you have succeeded in bringing public disgrace on the school, and i hope you are satisfied. go to the little music-room, and remain there for the present." there was something ominous in the brevity of this reprimand. no punishment had been mentioned, but in the school traditions the little music-room was looked upon as a sort of condemned cell. every one knew the subsequent fate of boys who had been sent there on previous occasions; and in a short time the news was in everybody's mouth that fenleigh j. was going to be expelled. it was a grave offence to hold any communication with a person undergoing solitary confinement, yet, before jack had been very long a prisoner, a pebble hit the window, and looking out he saw rosher. "i say," began the latter dolefully, "i'm awfully sorry you've been found out. if you like, i'll go and tell westford i was with you." "of course you won't. what's the good?" "well, i thought perhaps you'd think i was a sneak if i didn't. i'm afraid you'll get the sack," continued rosher sadly. "it was awfully good of you, fenleigh, not to split; you always were a brick. i say, we were rather chummy when you first came, if you remember; and then we had a bit of a row. i suppose it don't matter now. if you like, i'll write you when you get home." it was something, at such an hour, to have the sympathy and friendship even of a scapegrace like rosher. the prisoner said "it didn't matter," and so they parted. for some time jack wandered round the little room, swinging the blind cords, and trifling with the broken-down metronome on the mantelpiece. it was this very instrument that had been upset when he sent rosher sprawling into the fireplace; and yet, here was the same fellow talking about keeping up a correspondence. a litter of torn music lay on the top of the piano; among it a tattered hymn-book. jack turned over the pages until he came to "hark, hark, my soul!" and then, sitting down, played the air through several times with one finger. it was a tune that had been popular on sunday evenings at brenlands, and the children had always called it queen mab's hymn. jack shut the book with a bang. in less than a fortnight's time he ought to have been with her again, and what would she think of him now? * * * * * dinner was over in the big hall, and most of the boys had started for the playing-field. mr. ward sat correcting exercises in the deserted fifth form classroom, when there was a knock at the door, and valentine entered. "well, fenleigh," said the master kindly, "what do you want?" "i came to speak to you, sir, about my cousin jack. don't you think there's any chance of getting mr. westford to let him off?" "i'm afraid there isn't. i don't see what excuse can be offered for your cousin's conduct." "but there is an excuse, sir," persisted valentine, his love of honour and justice causing the blood to mount to his cheeks at the recollection of raymond fosberton's share in the adventure. "it was not all jack's fault, and it'll be an awful shame if he's expelled." had it been another fellow, mr. ward might have pooh-poohed the objection, and sent the speaker about his business; for, it being nearly the end of the term, the master had plenty of work to occupy his attention. he was not given to making favourites among his pupils, but valentine was a boy who had won his respect; and so he laid down his pen to continue the conversation. "i still fail to see what can be said on your cousin's behalf. if it was not his fault, who then is to blame?" valentine hastily recounted all that had happened on the previous afternoon. he did not hesitate to give a true account of the bogus invitation, and repeated all that jack had told him as to what had taken place at the fair. mr. ward listened patiently till he had heard the whole of the story. "there certainly is something in what you say," he remarked. "but the fact remains that your cousin went to the fair in defiance of the school rules. there was no reason at all why he should have gone. you say you came back; then why couldn't he have done the same?" "if i'd thought that my staying away would have made it any the worse for him, i'd have gone to the fair myself," said valentine desperately. mr. ward smiled. "well, what do you want me to do?" he asked. "i don't see that i can be of much service to you in the matter. the only thing i can advise you to do is to go to mr. westford, and tell him exactly what you have told me." "i thought perhaps you might say a word for him too, sir," pleaded the boy. "he's been behaving a lot better lately than he used to do." "there certainly was some room for improvement," returned the master, laughing. "well, if you like to come to me again just before school, i'll go with you and speak to mr. westford." the long summer afternoon dragged slowly away. mullins brought jack his dinner; and after that had been consumed, he sought to while away the hours of captivity by reading a tattered text-book on harmony, and strumming tunes with one finger on the piano. he wondered whether he would be sent away that evening or the following morning. at length, just before the second tea-bell rang, the school porter once more appeared, this time to inform the prisoner that the headmaster wished to see him in his study. mr. westford sat at his table writing a letter, and received his visitor in grim silence. "i've sent for you, sir," he said at length, "to tell you that i have been given to understand that you were not altogether to blame for what happened yesterday. there is, however, no excuse for your having set me at defiance by breaking the strict rule i laid down that no boy was to attend the fair. as i have already said, i believe you are not solely responsible for the disgraceful behaviour of which i received a complaint this morning. i shall not, therefore, expel you at once, as i at first intended, but i am writing to your father to inform him that your conduct is so far from satisfactory that i must ask him to remove you at the end of the present term. until then, remember you are not to go beyond the gates without my permission." "well, i've got off better than i expected," said jack, as he walked up and down the quadrangle, talking matters over with his cousin. "it was jolly good of you, val, to go and speak up for me to the old man. ward told me all about it. if it hadn't been for that, i should have been expelled at once. you've always been a good friend to me ever since i came here." "i'm sorry to think you're going at all," returned the other. "i can't help feeling awfully mad with raymond." "yes," answered jack, "it wasn't all my fault; but there, it's just my luck. the guv'nor'll be in a fine wax; but i don't care. only one thing i'm sorry for, and that is that this'll be my last holidays at brenlands." chapter xiii. a robbery at brenlands. "so at last he ran away, frightening the little birds in the hedge as he flew over the palings. 'they are afraid of me, because i am so ugly,' he said. so he closed his eyes, and flew still further."--_the ugly duckling_. whatever changes and alterations might take place in the outside world, brenlands seemed always to remain the same. coming there again and again for their august holidays, the children grew to think of it as a place blessed with eternal summer, where the flowers and green leaves never faded from one year's end to another, and such a thing as a cold, foggy winter day, with the moisture dripping from the trees, and the slush of slowly melting snow upon the ground, was a thing which could never have been possible, even in the memory of the oldest inhabitant. better still, the welcome which greeted them on their arrival was always as warm as on previous occasions, and never fell one single degree during the whole of the visit. in spite of all this, on that glad day when queen mab's court gathered once more round her cosy tea-table, jack was not in his usual spirits, but appeared silent and depressed. the result of mr. westford's letter to his father had been a reply to the effect that, as he seemed determined to waste his opportunities at school, it would be decidedly the best thing for him to come home and find some more profitable employment for his time. when tea was over he strolled out into the garden, and wandered moodily up and down the trim, box-bordered paths. to realize that one has done with school life for ever, that the book, as it were, is closed, and the familiar pages only to be turned again in memory, is enough to make any boy thoughtful; but it was not this exactly that weighed upon jack's mind. he had grown to love queen mab and his cousins; the thought of being different from them became distasteful; and he had entertained some vague notion of turning over a new leaf, and becoming a respectable member of society. now all his half-formed resolutions had come to the ground like a house of cards, and he was ending up worse than he had begun. he was standing staring gloomily at the particular pear-tree which marked the scene of his and valentine's first encounter with joe crouch, when his aunt came out and joined him. "well, jack, and so you've left school for good?" she made no mention of the melchester fair incident, though jack himself had sent her all particulars. he wished she would lecture him, for somehow her forbearance in not referring to the subject was worse than a dozen reproofs. "yes, aunt, they've thrown me out at last!" "it will be dreadful when both of you have left melchester. valentine tells me that next easter he expects to be going on to an army coach, to prepare for sandhurst." "yes, i know," answered jack, petulantly. "i'm always telling him what a lucky dog he is. i wish i had half his chances, and was going into the army, instead of back to that miserable padbury." "what does your father mean you to do?" "oh, he's got some scheme of sending me into the office of some metal works there. he says it's about all i'm good for, and he hasn't any money to put me in the way of learning a profession. but," added the boy impatiently, "he knows i hate the idea of grubbing away at a desk all day. i want to be a soldier." "i know you do, and i believe you'd make a good one; but, after all, it would be a sad thing if every one devoted themselves to learning to fight. besides, we can't afford to let all our gallants go to the wars; we want some to stay behind and do brave things in their daily life at home." "well, i'm not going to rust all my life in an office," answered jack doggedly. "rather than do that, i'll go off somewhere and enlist." queen mab looked down and smiled. they were walking together arm in arm, and he was fumbling with the little bunch of trinkets on her watch chain. "do you recollect who gave me that little silver locket?" "yes," he answered, with a pouting smile. "well, then, please to remember that you are always going to be my own boy, and so don't talk any more about such things as running away and enlisting." "yes, but what am i to do? look at the difference between my chances and val's." "i think that a man's success often depends more on himself, and less on circumstances, than you imagine," she answered. "'to be born in a duck's nest, in a farmyard, is of no consequence to a bird if it is hatched from a swan's egg.' that's what the story says that i used to tell the children." jack laughed, and shook his head. he was far from being convinced of the truth of this statement. a few mornings later the usual harmony of the breakfast-table was disturbed by the arrival of a letter from raymond fosberton. "he writes," said miss fenleigh, "to say that his father and mother are going away on a visit, and so he wants to come here for a few days." the announcement was received with a chorus of groans. "i wonder he has the cheek to come, after the way he treated us at melchester," said valentine; "i never wish to see him again." raymond did come, however, and instead of being at all abashed at the recollection of the termination of his tea-party, he was, if anything, more uppish than ever. it was only natural that he should make some reference to their adventure at the fair, and this he did by blaming jack for not having made good his escape. "why didn't you run for it sooner, you duffer? you stood still there like a stuffed monkey, and wouldn't move till the man collared you." "and you ran so far and so fast," retorted jack, "that you couldn't get back to own up it was your doing, and save me from being expelled." "oh, go on! it isn't so bad as that," answered raymond airily. "you ought to be jolly glad you're going to get out of that place. it's no good quarrelling over spilt milk.--look here, will either of you do a chap a friendly turn? can you lend me some money? i want a pound or two rather badly. of course, i'd have got it from home, only the guv'nor's away." jack and valentine shook their heads. "well, i wish you could," continued the other. "i'd give you a shilling in the pound interest, and pay you back for certain at the end of next month." "i wonder how it is," said jack to valentine that evening as they were undressing, "that raymond's always wanting money, and never seems to have any. his people are rich enough, and i should think they make him a good allowance." "of course they do," answered valentine, "but he throws it away somehow; and he's the most selfish fellow in the world, and never spends a halfpenny on any one but himself." raymond was certainly no great addition to the party at brenlands. his manners, one could well imagine, resembled those of the ferocious animal in the fosberton crest, which capered on a sugar-stick with its tongue stuck out of its mouth, as though it were making faces at the world in general. he monopolized the conversation at table, voted croquet a bore, and spent most of his time lying under a tree smoking and reading a novel. he fell foul of joe crouch (who still came to do odd jobs in the garden) over some trifling matter, calling him an impudent blockhead, and telling miss fenleigh in a lofty manner that "he would never allow such a cheeky beggar to be hanging about the premises at grenford." "i am sick of the fellow," said valentine to helen that same evening. "i wish he wouldn't come here during the holidays; it spoils the whole thing." on the following day raymond was destined to give his cousins still more reason for wishing that he had not favoured brenlands with a visit. at dinner he was full of a project for borrowing a gun, and having some target practice in the garden. "i know a man living not far away who's got a nice, little, single-barrelled muzzle-loader. we might borrow it, and make some bullets, then stick up a piece of board against that hedge at the end of the long path, and have a regular shooting match." "oh, i don't want any guns here!" said queen mab. "i should be afraid that one of you might get hurt. you'd far better stick to your croquet." "yes," added valentine. "it would be precious risky work firing bullets about in this garden with a muzzle-loader." "pooh! you're a nice chap to think of being a soldier, if you're afraid of letting off a gun!" "val knows a lot more about guns than you do," broke in jack. "i suppose you think a thorn hedge and a bit of board would stop a bullet, you duffer!" raymond lost his temper, and the discussion was carried on in a manner which was more spirited than polite. "come, come," interposed queen mab, "i think we might change the subject. i'm sure raymond won't want to borrow the gun if he knows it would make me nervous." the meal was finished in silence. anything so near a quarrel had never been known before at brenlands, and proved very disturbing in what was usually such a peaceful atmosphere. jack sauntered out into the garden in no very tranquil frame of mind. joe crouch was there, weeding. they had always been good friends ever since the pear incident, and something in jack's mode of action on that occasion seemed to have gained for him an abiding corner in crouch's respect and affections. "well, joe, what's the news?" "nothing particular that i knows of, sir, but there--there was somethin' i had to tell you; somethin' about this 'ere young bloke who comes orderin' every one around, as if the place was his own." "what's that?" "why, i'll tell you," continued crouch, lowering his voice in a significant manner. "you remember, sir, you was askin' me this time last year about a man called hanks, who'd come up to you wantin' money, and you didn't know 'ow he'd got to know you. well, he's in jail now for stealing fowls; but i seen him a month or so back, and got to know all about the whole business." the speaker paused to increase the interest of his story. "well, what was it?" "d'you remember, sir, about two years agone you and master valentine and the young ladies went up the river to a place called starncliff? well, hanks said he saw you there, and that you set some one's rick afire. he wasn't sure which of you done it, but he had a word with master fosberton as you was comin' 'ome, and he told him it was you two had been smokin', but that you were his cousins, and he didn't want to get you into a row; so he said he'd give hanks five shillings to hold his tongue, and promised he'd speak to you, and between you you'd make it up to something more, and that's why hanks was always botherin' of you for money." jack's wrath, which had been quickly rising to boiling point during the recital of this narrative, now fairly bubbled over. "what a lie!" he exclaimed. "what a mean cad the fellow is! why, he set the rick on fire himself!" "i just thought as much," said joe. "yes, and that's not all. he knew we got into a row at school through the man talking to us; and then last summer, when the man was drunk, and met us in the road, he pretended he couldn't tell how it was the fellow knew our names!" "well, 'ere he is," interrupted joe crouch; "and if i was you, i'd just give him a bit of my mind!" raymond came sauntering across the lawn. "i say," he exclaimed, "what a place this is! fancy not being allowed to let off a gun. it's just what you might have expected from an old maid like aunt mabel, but i should have thought valentine would have had more pluck. a fine sort of soldier he'll make--the milksop!" raymond fosberton had for some time been running up an account in his cousin's bad books. this speech was the final entry, and caused jack to demand an immediate settlement. "look here," he began, trembling with indignation, "don't you speak like that to me about aunt mab or valentine, he's got a jolly sight more pluck than you have, you coward! if you want to begin calling names, i'll tell you yours--you're a liar and a sneak!" "what d'you mean?" "i mean what i say. i know all your little game, and it's no good your trying to keep it dark any longer. you told hanks that val and i had set that rick on fire, and so got us into a row through the man's speaking to us at melchester. and last year, when we met him, you made out you didn't know why he should be always pestering us for money." raymond's face turned pale, but he made no attempt to deny the accusation. "that was one of your cowardly tricks. another was when you ran away after knocking that lamp over at the fair, the other day, and left rosher and me to get out of the bother as best we could. that was what practically got me thrown out of the school. for two pins i'd punch your head, you miserable tailor's dummy!" it was hardly likely that a fashionable young man like master raymond fosberton would stand such language from a school-boy two years his junior. "i should like to see you!" he remarked. "two can play at that game." the speaker did not know the person he was addressing; in another moment his request was granted. jack came at him like a tiger, put all the force of his outraged feelings into a heavy right and left, and raymond fosberton disappeared with a great crash into a laurel bush. joe crouch rose from his knees with a joyful exclamation, wiping his hands on his apron. "i should have liked to have had a cut in myself," he afterwards remarked, "but master jack he managed it all splendid!" whatever joseph's wishes may have been, he had no opportunity of taking part in the proceedings; for, before the contest could be renewed, helen rushed across the lawn and caught jack by the arm. "oh, don't fight!" she cried breathlessly. "what is the matter?" "ask him!" answered jack shortly, nodding with his fists still clenched, in the direction of fosberton, who was in the act of emerging from the depths of the laurel bush. "ask him, he knows." "he called me a liar!" answered fosberton; "and then rushed up and hit me when i was unprepared, the cad!" this assertion very nearly brought on a renewal of the contest, but the speaker knew that helen's presence would prevent any more blows being struck. jack watched his adversary with a look of contempt, as the latter wiped the blood from his cut lip. "yes, i said you were a liar and a coward." "oh, hush!" said the girl, laying her hand on her cousin's mouth. "don't quarrel any longer; it's dreadful here, at brenlands! what would aunt mabel say if she knew you'd been fighting? come away, jack, and don't say any more." the boy would have liked to stay behind for another private interview with raymond, but for helen's sake he turned on his heel and followed her into the house. "all right, my boy," muttered raymond, looking after the retreating figures with a savage scowl on his face, "i'll be even with you some day, if ever i get the chance." there was a great lack of the usual mirth and gaiety at the tea-table that evening. every one knew what had happened, and in their anxiety to avoid any reference to the painful subject conversation flagged, and even queen mab's attempts to enliven the assembly for once proved a failure. neither of the boys would have been at all shocked at seeing a row settled by an exchange of blows, had the dispute taken place at school; but here, at brenlands, it seemed a different matter--bad blood and rough language were out of keeping with the place, and the punching of heads seemed a positive crime. to make matters worse, the day ended with a thunderstorm, and the evening had to be spent indoors. raymond was in a sulk, and refused to join in any of the parlour games which were usually resorted to in wet weather. "aunt mab, i wish you'd show us some of your treasures," said barbara. she was kneeling upon a chair in front of a funny little semicircular cupboard with a glass door, let into the panelling of the wall, and filled with china, little indian figures, and all kinds of other odds and ends. "very well, dear, i will," answered miss fenleigh, glad to think of some way of amusing her guests. "run up and fetch the bunch of keys out of the middle drawer in my dressing-table." the young people gathered round, and the contents of the cupboard were handed from one to another for examination. the curiosities were many and various. the girls were chiefly taken with the china; while what most appealed to jack and valentine was a small moorish dagger. they carefully examined the blade for any traces of bloodstains, and trying the point against their necks, speculated as to what it must feel like to be "stuck." "and what's that?" asked barbara, pointing to a little, square leather case on the bottom shelf. "ah! that's the thing i value more than anything else," answered queen mab. "there!" she continued, opening the box and displaying a large, handsome gold watch. "that was given to your grandfather by the passengers on his ship at the end of one of his voyages to australia. they met with dreadful weather, and i know i've heard him say that for two days and nights, when the storm was at its height, he never left the deck. you boys ought to be proud to remember it. there, valentine, read the inscription." the boy read the words engraved on the inside of the case:-- presented to captain john fenleigh, of the "evelina" steamship, as a small acknowledgment of the skill and ability displayed by him under circumstances of exceptional difficulty and danger. "my father has a gold watch that was given to him when he retired from business," said raymond; "it's bigger than that, and has got our crest on the back. by-the-bye," he continued, "aren't you afraid of having it stolen? i shouldn't keep it in that cupboard, it i were you. you are certain to get it stolen some day." "oh, we don't have any thieves at brenlands," answered his aunt, smiling. "i've a jolly good mind to steal it myself," said jack; "or it you like, aunt, i'll exchange." jack's watch was always a standing joke against him, and, as he drew it out, the bystanders laughed. it was something like the timepiece by which, when the hands were at . and the bell struck three, one might know it was twelve o'clock. the silver case was dented and scratched; the long hand was twisted; the works, from having been taken to pieces and hurriedly put together again in class, were decidedly out of order; in fact, jack was not quite certain if, when cleaning it on one occasion, he had not lost one of the wheels. queen mab laughed and shook her head. "no, thank you," she said. "i think i should prefer to keep mine for the present, though one of you shall have it some day." raymond always came down to breakfast long after the others had finished. the next morning there was a letter waiting for him which had been readdressed on from melchester. he was still in a sulk, and the contents of the epistle did not seem to improve his temper. he devoured his food in silence, and then went off by himself to smoke at the bottom of the garden. "he is a surly animal," said valentine. "i wish he had never come." "well, he's going to-morrow evening," answered helen, "and i suppose we must make the best of him till then." during the remainder of the day raymond kept to himself, and though, after tea, he condescended to take part in some of the usual indoor games, he did it in so ungracious a manner as to spoil the pleasure of the other players. somehow the last day or so did not seem at all like the usual happy times at brenlands. there was a screw loose somewhere, and every one was not quite so merry and good-tempered as usual. "bother it! wet again!" said barbara, pushing back her chair from the breakfast-table with a frown and a pout. "never mind," answered her aunt. "rain before seven, fine before eleven." barbara did not believe in proverbs. she wandered restlessly round the room, inquiring what was the good of rain in august, and expressing her discontent with things in general. "oh, i say," she exclaimed suddenly, halting in front of the little glass door of the cupboard, "what do you think has happened? that dear little china man with the guitar has tumbled over and broken his head off!" helen and the boys crowded round to look. it was certainly the case--the little china figure lay over on its side, broken in the manner already described. "who can have done it?" "i expect i must have upset it the other evening when i was showing you the things," answered miss fenleigh. "never mind, i think i can mend it. go and fetch my keys, bar, and we'll see just what's the matter with the little gentleman." "this is funny," she continued, a few minutes later, "the key won't turn. dear me! what a silly i am! why, the door isn't locked after all." the little image was taken out, and while it was being examined barbara picked up the little leather case on which it usually stood. in another moment she gave vent to an ejaculation of surprise which startled the remainder of the company, and made them immediately forget all about the china troubadour. "why, aunt, where's the watch?" every one looked. it was true enough--the case was empty, and the watch gone. for a moment there was a dead silence, the company being too much astonished to speak. "stolen!" exclaimed raymond. "i said it would be some day." "but when was it taken?--who could have done it?--where did they get in?--how did they know about it?" these and other questions followed each other in rapid succession. a robbery at brenlands! the thing seemed impossible; and yet here was the empty case to prove it. the watch had disappeared, and no one had the slightest notion what could have become of it. "there's something in this lock," said valentine, who had been peering into the keyhole. "lend me your crochet needle, helen, and i'll get it out." with some little difficulty the obstacle was removed, and on examination proved to be a fragment of a broken key. "hallo!" said raymond, "here's a clue at any rate. don't lose it; put it in that little jar on the mantelpiece." the remainder of the morning was passed in an excited discussion regarding the mysterious disappearance of the gold timepiece. "i can't think any one can have stolen it," said queen mab. "how should they have known about it? and, besides, if any one broke into the house last night, how is it they didn't take anything else--that little silver box, for instance?" "it's stolen, right enough," said raymond. "it couldn't have been joe crouch, could it?" "not a bit of it," answered jack decisively. "he wouldn't do a thing like that. he stole some fruit once, but he's honest enough now." "could the servant have taken it?" "oh, no!" answered queen mab. "i could trust jane with anything." during the afternoon the weather cleared, but no one seemed inclined to do anything; a feeling of gloom and uneasiness lay upon the whole company. jack was sitting in a quiet corner reading, when his aunt called him. "oh, there you are! i wanted to speak to you alone just for a minute. helen told me about your quarrel with raymond, and i want you to make it up. he's going away to-night, and i shouldn't like you to part, except as friends." the boy frowned. "i don't want to be friends," he answered impatiently. "he's played me some very shabby tricks, and i think the less we see of him the better." "perhaps so; but i'm so sorry that you should have actually come to blows, and that while you were staying here with me at brenlands." "i'm not sorry! i wish i'd hit him harder!" "oh, you 'ugly duckling!'" answered the lady, smiling, and running her fingers through his crumpled hair. "you'll find out some day that 'punching heads,' as you call it, isn't the most satisfactory kind of revenge. however, i don't expect you to believe it now, but i think you'll do what i ask you. go to raymond, and say you're sorry you forgot yourself so far as to strike him, and ask his pardon. there, i don't think there is anything in that which need go against your conscience, or that it is a request that any gentleman need be ashamed to make." jack complied, but with a very bad grace. if the suggestion had come from any one but queen mab, he would have scouted the idea from the first. he found raymond swinging in a hammock under the trees. "i say," he began awkwardly, "i'm sorry i hit you when we had that row. aunt mabel wished me to tell you so." "hum! you'll be sorrier still before long. i suppose now you want to 'kiss and be friends'?" "no, i don't." "then if you don't want to be forgiven," returned the other with a sneer, "why d'you come and say you're sorry?" jack turned away in a rage, feeling that he had at all events got the worst of this encounter, and that it was entirely his own fault for having laid himself open to the rebuff. he felt vexed with helen for telling his aunt what had taken place, and with the latter for influencing him to offer raymond an apology. altogether the atmosphere around him seemed charged with discomfort and annoyance, and even the merry tinkle of the tea-bell was not so welcome as usual. "where's raymond?" asked queen mab. "i think he's putting his things in his bag," answered valentine. "shall i go and call him?" at that moment the subject of their conversation entered the room. he walked round to his place in silence, pausing for a moment to take something down from the mantelpiece. "who owns a key with a scrap of steel chain tied on to it?" "i do," answered jack. "it belongs to my play-box." "well, here it is," returned the other. "i picked it up among the bushes. do you notice anything peculiar about it?" "no." "you don't? well, here's something belonging to it," and so saying, the speaker flipped across the table the little metal fragment which had been taken from the lock in the cupboard door. "confound it!" said jack. "the thief must have used my key!" "_faugh_!" ejaculated raymond, bitterly. jack looked up quickly with an expression of anger and astonishment. "what's the matter?" he cried. "d'you mean to say i took the watch?" "i've said nothing of the kind," answered the other coldly; "though i remember you did say you'd a good mind to steal it. i've simply given you back your key." if a thunderbolt had fallen in the middle of the pretty tea-table, it could not have caused more astonishment and dismay than this last speech of raymond's. every one for the moment was too much taken aback to speak. the smouldering fire of jack's wrath had only needed this breeze to set it into a flame. his undisciplined spirit immediately showed itself in an outburst of ungovernable anger. "you are a cad and a liar!" he said. "wait till i get you outside." "hush! hush!" interrupted miss fenleigh, fearing a repetition of the previous encounter. "i can't have such words used here. perhaps raymond may be mistaken." the last words were spoken thoughtlessly, in the heat of the moment. jack in his anger resented that "may" and "perhaps," as implying doubt as to his honesty, and regarded the silence of the others as a sign that they also considered him guilty. in his wild, reckless manner he dashed his knife down upon the table, and with a parting glare at his accuser, marched straight out of the room. valentine rose to follow him. "no, val," said miss fenleigh, in an agitated voice. "leave him to himself for a little while. he'll be calmer directly." ten minutes later the front door closed with a bang. "he's going out to get cool, i suppose," said raymond scornfully. "he didn't seem to relish my finding his play-box key. however, perhaps he'll explain matters when he comes back." but jack did not come back. the blind fury of the moment gave place to a dogged, unreasoning sense of wrong and injustice. he had been accused of robbing the person he loved best on earth, and she believed him to be guilty. the old, wayward spirit once more took full possession of his heart, and in a moment he was ready to throw overboard all that he prized most dearly. he had some money in his pocket, enough to carry him home if he walked to melchester, and his luggage could come on another time. the plan was formed, and he did not hesitate to put it into immediate execution. it was not until nearly an hour after his departure that queen mab realized what had become of him, and then her distress was great. "why didn't he wait to speak to us!" she cried. "we must all write him a letter by to-night's post, to tell him that, of course, we don't think he's the thief, and to beg him to come back." "if you like to do it at once," said raymond, "i'll post them at grenford. they'll reach him then the first thing in the morning." the letters were written; even barbara, who never could be got to handle a pen except under strong compulsion, scribbled nearly four pages, and filled up the blank space at the end with innumerable kisses. about two hours later the scapegoat tramped, footsore and weary, into the melchester railway station; and at nearly the same moment, raymond fosberton, on his way home, took from his pocket the letters which had been entrusted to his care, tore them to fragments, and dropped them over the low wall of a bridge into the canal. "now we're about quits!" he said. chapter xiv. the sound of the drum. "'i believe i must go out into the world again,' said the duckling."--_the ugly duckling_. the summers came and went, but jack fenleigh remained a rebel, refusing to join the annual gathering at brenlands, and to pay his homage at the court of queen mab. one bright september morning, about four years after the holidays described in the previous chapter, he was sitting at an untidy breakfast-table, evidently eating against time, and endeavouring to divide his attention between swallowing down the meal and reading a letter which lay open in front of him. the teapot, bread, butter, and other provisions had been gathered round him in a disorderly group, so as to be near his hand; the loaf was lying on the tablecloth, the bacon was cold, and the milk-jug was minus a handle. it was, on the whole, a very different display from the breakfast-table at brenlands; and perhaps it was this very thought that crossed the young man's mind as he turned and dug viciously at the salt, which had caked nearly into a solid block. in outward appearance, to a casual observer, jack had altered very little since the day when he knocked master raymond fosberton into the laurel bush; yet there was a change. he had broadened, and grown to look older, and more of a man, though the old impatient look seemed to have deepened in his face like the lines between his eyebrows. the party at brenlands had waited in vain for a reply to their letters. within a week, miss fenleigh had written again, assuring the runaway that neither she nor his cousins for one moment suspected him of having stolen the watch; but in the meantime the mischief had been done. "they think i did it," muttered jack to himself, "or they'd have written at once. aunt mabel wants to forgive me, and smooth it over; but they know i'm a scamp, and now they believe i'm a thief!" again he hardened his heart, and though his feelings towards queen mab and his cousins never changed, yet his mind was made up to cut himself adrift from the benefit of their society. he left valentine's letter unanswered, and refused all his aunt's pressing invitations to visit her again. every year these were renewed with the same warmth and regularity, and it was one which now lay open beside his plate. "i suppose," ran the letter, "that you have heard how well val passed out of sandhurst. he is coming down to see me before joining his regiment, and will bring helen and barbara with him. i want you to come too, and then we shall all be together once more, and have the same dear old times over again. i shan't put up with any excuses, as i know you take your holiday about this time, so just write and say when you are coming." jack lifted his eyes from the letter, and made a grab at the loaf. "i should like to go," he muttered; "how jolly the place must look!--but no, i've left it too long. i ought to have gone back at once, or never to have run away like that. of course, now they must think that i stole the watch. yet, perhaps, if i gave them my word of honour, they'd believe me; i know aunt mabel would." at this moment the door opened, and a gentleman entered the room. he was wearing a shabby-looking dressing-gown, a couple of ragged quill pens were stuck in his mouth, and he carried in his hand a bundle of closely-written sheets of foolscap. mr. basil fenleigh, to tell the truth, was about to issue an invitation to a "few friends" to join him in starting an advertisement and bill-posting agency business; to be conducted, so said the rough copy of the circular, on entirely novel lines, which could not fail to ensure success, and the drafting out of which had occupied most of his leisure time during the past twelve months. "humph!" he exclaimed sourly. "down at your usual time, eh? you'll be late again at your office." "no, i shan't," answered the son, glancing up at the clock. "i can get there in ten minutes." "you can't. you know very well mr. caston complained only the other day of your coming behind your time. the next thing will be that you'll lose your situation." "i don't care if i do; i'm heartily sick of the place." "you're heartily sick of any kind of work, and you always have been." jack threw down his knife and fork and rose from the table, leaving part of his breakfast unfinished on his plate. "all right," he said sulkily; "i'll go at once." he strode out of the room, crushing queen mab's letter into a crumpled ball of paper in his clenched fist. after what had just passed, he would certainly not broach the subject of a holiday. the morning's work seemed, if possible, more distasteful than ever. casting up sheets of analysis, he got wrong in his additions, and had to go over them again. he watched the workmen moving about in the yard outside, and wished he had been trained to some manual trade like theirs. then he thought of valentine, and for the first time his affection for his old friend gave place to a feeling of bitterness and envy. "confound the fellow! he's always done just as he liked. i wish he was here in my shoes for a bit. it isn't fair one chap should have such luck, and another none at all. little he cares what becomes of me. i may rot here all my life, and no one troubles the toss of a button whether i'm happy or miserable." he was in the same ill-humour when he returned home to dinner. mr. fenleigh was also out of temper, and seemed inclined to give vent to his feelings by renewing the dispute which had commenced at the breakfast-table. father and son seldom met except at meals; and unfortunately, on these occasions, the conversation frequently took the form of bickering and complaint. jack, as a rule, appeared sullenly indifferent to what passed; this time, however, his smouldering discontent burst out into a name of anger. "i suppose you _were_ late this morning?" "no, i wasn't." "humph! you said before you started that you were sick of the place, and didn't care whether you lost it. if you do, i hope you won't expect me to find you another berth." "no, i'll find one myself." "what d'you think you're good for? you're more likely to idle about here doing nothing than find any other employment." "i work harder than you do," said the son angrily. "hold your tongue, sir! if you can't treat me with some amount of respect, you'd better leave the house." "so i will. i'll go and enlist." "you may go where you please. i've done the best i could for you, and all the return i get is ingratitude and abuse. now you can act for yourself." it was not the first time that remarks of this character had been fired across the table. jack made no reply, but at that moment his mind was seized with a desperate resolve. once for all he would settle this question, and change the present weary existence for something more congenial to his taste. all that afternoon he turned the plan over in his thoughts, and his determination to follow it up grew stronger as the time approached for putting it into execution. what if the move were a false one? a person already in the frying-pan could but jump into the fire; and any style of life seemed preferable to the one he was now living. his father had told him to please himself, and, as he had only himself to consider, he would do so, and follow the drum, as had always been his inclination from childhood. the big bell clanged out the signal for giving over work; but jack, instead of returning home, picked up a small handbag he had brought with him, and walked off in the direction of the railway station. on his way thither, he counted the money in his pocket. he had some idea of going to london, but the expense of the journey would be too heavy for his resources. it mattered little where the plunge was taken; he would go to the barracks at melchester. he lingered for a moment at the window of the booking-office, hardly knowing why he hesitated. why not? he had only himself to please. the clerk grew impatient. "well?" he said. jack threw down his money. "third, melchester!" he said, and so crossed the rubicon. very few changes had taken place in the little city during the four years which had elapsed since he last visited it. here and there a house had been modernized, or a new shop-front erected, but in the neighbourhood of the school no alterations seemed to have been made. he strolled past it in the dusk, and paused to look in through the gates: the boys had not yet returned, and the quadrangle was dark and deserted. he thought of the night when he and rosher had climbed in by way of the headmaster's garden, and forced an entry into the house through the bathroom window. it seemed a hardship then to be obliged to be in by a certain time, yet it was preferable to having no resting-place to claim as one's own. a few minutes later he halted again, this time outside the well-remembered cookshop. "duster's" was exactly the same as it always had been, except for the fact that, it being holiday time, the display of delicacies in the window was not quite so large as usual. jack smiled as there flashed across his mind the memory of the literary society's supper; the faces of the sprightly tinkleby, preston the bowler, "guzzling jimmy," and a host of others, rose before him in the deepening twilight. they had been good comrades together once; most of them had probably made a fair start by this time in various walks of life. he wondered if they remembered him, and what they would say if they knew what he was doing, and whether any of them would care what became of him. no, he had only himself to please now, and if he preferred soldiering to office-work, what was there to hinder him from taking the shilling? there was no particular hurry. he passed the night at a small temperance hotel, and next morning, after a plain breakfast, started out for a stroll into the country. he had written a note to his father before leaving padbury merely stating his intention, and giving no address. there was nothing more to be done but to enjoy himself as a free man before making application to the nearest recruiting sergeant. he passed the barracks where the st battalion of the royal blankshire regiment was quartered, and thought how often he and valentine had lingered there, listening to the bugle-calls, and watching the drill instructors at work in the square with their awkward squads. just inside the gate the guard were falling in, preparatory to the arrival of the relief, and something in their smart appearance, and in the very clank of their rifle-butts upon the flagstones, stirred his heart; yes, that was the calling he meant to follow. he strode off along the hornalby road, whistling a lively tune, and conjuring up bright mental pictures of the life before him. he might not have valentine's luck, but he would make up for it in other ways. the path was steep and rough, no doubt, but in treading it scores of brave men had won honour and renown; and with courage and determination, there was no reason why he should not do the same. it was a man's life, and here there was certainly more chance of distinguishing oneself than in a manufacturer's office. with these and other thoughts of a similar nature occupying his mind, jack tramped on gaily enough in the bright sunshine. suddenly, however, he stopped dead in the middle of the road. he had come in sight of a wayside inn, the black horse, and the thought struck him that he was within two miles of brenlands. all unbidden, a host of recollections came rushing upon him. the last time he had walked from melchester along this road was the afternoon on which he brought back the silver locket for queen mab. what if the pony-carriage should suddenly turn the corner? and yet, why should he be afraid to meet her? he was doing nothing to be ashamed of, and the recollection of the stolen watch never entered his head. he would have given anything to have gone on and seen her again--to have had one more kind smile and loving word. "my own boy jack!" would he ever hear her say that again? he turned on his heel, and began the return journey with a gloomy look of discontent upon his face. his castles in the air had vanished: what was there that made a soldier's life attractive but the right to go about in a red coat like a barrel-organ monkey? for two pins he would abandon the project, and go back to padbury. this impression, however, was not destined to last very long. as he approached the barracks he noticed a small crowd of idlers collecting near a gateway, and at the same instant the silence was broken by the sound of a drum. he knew what it was--the regiment had been out drilling on the neighbouring common, and was on its way home. he hurried forward to watch the soldiers as they passed. boom! boom! boom!--boom! boom! boom! with a glorious crash the brass instruments burst out with the tune. jack knew it well, and his heart danced to it as the band marched out into the road. "'twas in the merry month of may, when bees from flower to flower did hum, soldiers through the town marched gay, the village flew to the sound of the drum!" jack drew back into the hedge to watch as the regiment went by. "march at ease!" the sunlight flashed as the arms were sloped, and glittered on bright blades as the officers returned their swords. not a detail escaped his eager observation; the swing of the rifle-barrels, the crisp tramp of the marching feet, even the chink of the chain bridles as the horses of the mounted officers shook their heads, all seemed to touch answering chords in his inmost heart, and awaken there the old love and longing for a soldier's life. "the tailor he got off his knees, and to the ranks did boldly come: he said he ne'er would sit at ease, but go with the rest, and follow the drum!" jack hesitated no longer, but hurried back to pick up the few belongings he had left at the hotel, determined to put his project into execution without further delay. chapter xv. the queen's shilling. "if he had called out, 'here i am,' it would have been all right; but he was too proud to cry out for help while he wore a uniform."--_the brave tin soldier_. there was no more hesitation or uncertainty about his movements now, and before he knew it, jack found himself once more back at the barracks. the corporal on "gate duty," who, for want of something better to do, had been chastising his own leg with a "swagger cane," ceased in the performance of this self-imposed penance, and shot a significant glance at the stranger. "looking out for any one?" he inquired, by way of opening up a conversation. "no," answered jack; "the fact is, i've come to enlist. d'you think you could make a soldier of me?" "well, at any rate, i should say you were big enough," answered the corporal briskly. "why, we ought to make a general of a smart young fellow like you, in less than no time!" this seemed a promising commencement; but the adjutant, in front of whom jack was conducted after undergoing a preliminary examination as to his height, chest measurement, and strength of eyesight, did not appear to be of quite so sanguine a temperament as the non-commissioned officer. he eyed the would-be recruit with no very favourable expression on his face, as he prepared to take down the answers to the questions on the attestation paper. "name?" "john fenleigh." "is that a _nom de guerre_?" "no, sir, it's my real name." "humph! so you speak french?" jack coloured slightly. "no, sir--that is, i learned some at school." the officer looked up, and laid his quill pen down on the table. "look here, my good fellow," he said, "it's not my business to ask what brings you here, but one thing i should like to know: how long do you expect you are going to remain in the army--a week, or six months?" "the full time, i hope, sir." "are your parents living? and do they know of the step you're taking?" "my father is living. i told him what i meant to do before i left home." "well," returned the officer, once more dipping his quill in the ink, "if you change your mind before to-morrow, you'll have to pay a sovereign; after that, it'll cost you ten pounds!" the paper was filled up, and our hero received the historical shilling, which he slipped into his waistcoat pocket, having previously determined never to part with that particular coin, unless he were obliged. he was then conducted to the hospital, and there examined by the medical officer; his eyesight being once more tested by his having to count a number of white dots on a piece of black paper displayed on the opposite side of the room, each eye being covered alternately. having passed satisfactorily through this ordeal, he was informed that he could not be sworn in before the following day, when he must present himself at the orderly room at eleven o'clock. until that time he was free to do as he pleased; and being still in the possession of the greater portion of his previous week's salary, he chose to sleep another night at the hotel, and so spent the remainder of the day wandering about the streets of melchester. on the following morning, at the appointed hour, he returned to the barracks, and after some little delay, was brought into the presence of the commanding officer, where he was duly "sworn in," and signed his name to the declaration of allegiance. "you'll join c company," said the sergeant-major. "just take him across, orderly, and show him the room." with feelings very much akin to those of the "new boy" arriving for the first time at a big boarding-school, our hero followed his guide across the square, up a flight of stairs, and down a long corridor, amid a good deal of noise and bustle. the bugle had not long since sounded "come to the cook-house door," and the dinner orderlies were hurrying back with the supply of rations for their respective rooms. at length a door was reached, in front of which the orderly paused with, "here you are!" jack entered, and made his first acquaintance with his future home--the barrack-room. it was large and lofty, with whitewashed walls and a floor of bare boards. a row of wooden tables and forms ran down the centre, above which was a hanging shelf for the men's plates and basins. around the room were sixteen small iron bedsteads, each made in such a fashion that one half closed up under the other, the mattress when not in use being rolled up and secured by a strap, with the blankets and sheets folded on the top; the remaining portion of the couch, on which the rug was laid, serving for a seat. above the bed were shelves and hooks for accoutrements, and other possessions. above some of the cots small pictures or photographs were hung, which served to relieve the monotony of the whitewash; but these, like the rest of tommy atkins's property, were arranged with that scrupulous care and neatness which is so characteristic of all that concerns the service from baton to button-stick. at the moment jack entered, his future room-mates were busy round one end of the tables, assisting the orderly man in the task of pouring soup from a large can into the small basins, and making a similar equal division of the meat and potatoes. the new-comer's arrival, therefore, was scarcely noticed, except by the sergeant, who told him to sit down, and saw that he received a share of the rations. the fare was certainly rough, and seemed in keeping with the table manners of the rank and file of the royal blankshire; they forbore to "trouble" each other for things out of reach, but secured them with a dive and a grab. "here, chuck us the rooty!" was the request when one needed bread; while though substantial mustard and pepper pots adorned the board, the salt was in the primitive form of a lump, which was pushed about from man to man, and scraped down with the dinner knives. but jack had not come to barracks expecting a _table d'hôte_ dinner of eight or nine courses, served by waiters in evening dress, and he set to work with a good grace on what was set before him. the remarks addressed to him, if a trifle blunt, were good-natured enough, and he replied to them in the same spirit. his comrades evidently remarked from the first that he was a cut above the ordinary recruit; but he was wise enough to avoid showing any airs, and soon saw that this line of conduct was appreciated. the meal was in progress when there was a sharp rap, and the door was opened. "'tenshun!" the men laid down their knives and forks, and rose to their feet. "dinners all right here?" "yes, sir." "all present?" "all present, sir." the orderly officer glanced round the room, and then turned and walked out. "'e's a gentleman, is mr. lawson," murmured one of the men; "'e always shuts the door behind 'im." jack's eye followed the figure of the lieutenant as he rejoined the orderly sergeant in the passage. it was not so much the sash and sword, and neat, blue patrol jacket, as the cheery voice and pleasant sunburnt face, which had attracted our hero's attention; somehow these reminded him of valentine, and turned his thoughts back to his old friend. he wondered how his cousin looked in the same uniform. well, well, however wide and deep the gulf might be which the doings of the last two days had placed between them, they were, in a way, reunited; for the service was the same, whatever difference there might be in shoulder-straps. dinner over, some of the men made down their beds for a nap, while others announced their intention "to do some soldiering," a term which implied the cleaning and polishing of accoutrements. sergeant sparks, the non-commissioned officer in charge of the room, had a few friendly words with jack, told him what he would have to do on the following day, and advised him in the meantime to make himself as comfortable as he could. "here," he added, turning to a private, "just show this man his cot, and explain to him how to keep his bedding; you may want a good turn yourself some time." the soldier obeyed readily enough. jack had already caught his eye several times during dinner, and now followed him into a corner of the room, resolved if possible to patch up a friendship. in the carrying out of this intention he was destined to experience a startling surprise. the man paused before one of the end beds, and began to unfasten the strap of the mattress. "i didn't think of meeting you here, mr. fenleigh." jack started and stared at the speaker in silent astonishment. "you remember me, sir?--joe crouch." "what! joe crouch, who used to work at brenlands?" "yes, sir; joe crouch as stole the pears," answered the soldier, smiling. "i never expected to find you 'listin' in the army, sir. i suppose miss fenleigh ain't aware of what you're doin'?" "oh, no!" exclaimed the other eagerly. "promise me you'll never tell any one at brenlands where i am--swear you won't." "very well, sir," replied joe crouch, calmly proceeding to unroll the mattress and make down the bed. "for goodness' sake, drop that _sir_. look here, joe: i'm a lame dog, down on my luck, and no good to anybody; but we were friendly years ago, and if you'll have me for a comrade now, i'll do my best to be a good one." joe flung down the bedding, and held out his big, brown hand. "that i will!" he answered. "you did the square thing by me once, and now i'll see you through; don't you fret." tea in barracks was evidently a very informal meal, of which no great account was taken. as jack sat down to his bowl and chunk of bread, joe crouch pushed a screw of paper in front of him, which on examination proved to contain a small pat of butter. "what's this?" asked jack. "fat," answered joe, shortly. "from the canteen," he added. "then you've paid for it, and--look here--you've got none yourself." "don't want any," answered joe, breaking up a crust and dropping it into his tea. "there you are. that's what's called a 'floatin' battery.'" in the evening most of the men went out. jack, however, preferred to remain where he was, and passed the time reading a paper he had brought with him, at one of the tables. sergeant sparks came up to him and chatted pleasantly for half an hour. he wore a ribbon at his breast, and had stirring stories to tell of the afghan war, and roberts' march to candahar. about half-past eight the men began to return from their walks and various amusements, and the barrack-room grew more noisy. at half-past nine the roll was called, and the orders read out for the following day, and jack was not sorry when the time came to turn in. crouch came over to see if he understood the preparation of his cot. "the feathers in these 'ere beds grew on rather a large bird," remarked joe, referring to the straw mattress, "but they're soft enough when you come off a spell of guard duty or a day's manoeuvrin'." the bugle sounded the long, melancholy g, and the orderly man turned off the gas. our hero lay awake for some time listening to the heavy breathing of his new comrades, and then turned over and fell asleep. the bright morning sunshine was streaming in through the big windows when the clear, ringing notes of reveille and the cheery strains of "old daddy longlegs" roused him to consciousness of where he was. "now then, my lads, show a leg there!" cried the sergeant. jack stretched and yawned. yes, it was certainly a rough path, but his mind was made up to tread it with a good heart, and this being the case, he was not likely to turn back. chapter xvi. on active service. "a voice cried out, 'i declare here is the tin soldier!'"--_the brave tin soldier_. a brilliant, clear sky overhead, and such a scorching sun that the air danced with the heat, as though from the blast of a furnace; surely this could not be the twenty-fifth of december! but christmas day it was--christmas day in the camp at korti. [illustration: "it was christmas day in the camp at korti."] among the pleasant groves of trees which bordered the steep banks of the nile glistened the white tents of the camel corps. still farther back from the river lay fields of grass and patches of green dhurra; and behind these again an undulating waste of sand and gravel, dotted here and there with scrub and rock, and stretching away to the faintly-discerned hills of the desert. the shade of the trees tempered the heat, making a pleasant change after the roasting, toilsome journey up country. here, though hardly to be recognized with their ragged clothing and unshaven faces, was gathered a body of men who might be regarded as representing the flower of england's army--life guards, lancers, dragoons, grenadiers, highlanders, and linesmen from many a famous foot regiment; all were there, ready to march and fight shoulder to shoulder in order to rescue gordon from his perilous position in khartoum. every day the numbers in camp had been gradually growing larger, fresh batches of troops arriving either on camels or in boats. a whole fleet of these "whalers" lay moored along the bank of the nile; the usual quiet of the river being continually broken by the dog-like panting of steam launches hurrying up and down the stream. friendly natives, clad in loose shirts and skull-caps, wandered through the lines, gazing wonderingly at all they saw; while in strange contrast to their unintelligible jabberings, rose the familiar _patois_ of the barrack-room, or snatches of some popular music-hall song hummed or whistled by every urchin in the streets of london. the concentration of the expedition had now been almost completed, and the chief topic of conversation was the immediate prospect of a desert march to shendy. but to return to our commencement, christmas day it was; and however difficult it might have been to realize this as far as the weather was concerned, the fact had, to a certain extent, been impressed upon the minds of the men by the supplementing of their ordinary dinner rations with a gallant attempt at plum-pudding, manufactured for the most part out of boiled dates. two men, who had just partaken of this delicacy, were lying stretched out full length under a shady tree, their pith helmets brought well forward over their eyes, their grey serge jumpers thrown open, and pipes in their mouths. to see them now, with their tattered nether garments, stubbly chins, and sunburnt faces, from which the skin was peeling off in patches, one could hardly have recognized in them the same smart soldiers who paraded a few months ago on the barrack square at melchester. yet such they were, as the reader will soon discover by the opening remarks of their conversation. "this weather don't seem very seasonable. i wonder whether it's frost and snow away home at brenlands." "yes; i wonder if the reservoir at hornalby is frozen. we used to go skating there when i was at school. it seems a jolly long time ago now!" "it don't seem three years ago to me since you enlisted. i never thought you'd have stayed so long." "didn't you? when my mind's made up, it's apt to stick to it, joe, my boy. besides, i had no prospect of anything better." there was a pause, during which the two comrades (who, from the foregoing, will have been recognized as our hero and joe crouch) continued to puff away at their pipes in silence, listening to the remarks of three men who were playing a drowsy game with a tattered pack of cards. "these cards are gettin' precious ragged; you'd better get 'em clipped."--"why don't you play the king?"--"'cause there ain't one! he's one of 'em as is lost." "you used to have fine times, i reckon, when you and mr. valentine and the young ladies came to stay at miss fenleigh's," said crouch. "i wonder what she'd say if she knew you was out here in egypt." "i took precious good care she shouldn't know. i suppose she heard from the guv'nor that i went off and enlisted, but i didn't send word what regiment i joined. i never mean to see her again--no fear!" "she was a kind lady," murmured joe reflectively; "very good to me once upon a time." "yes, that she was--the best and kindest woman in the world; and that's just the reason why i'm glad to think she doesn't know what's become of me.-- hallo, swabs, what are you after?" the person thus addressed was a gaunt, lanky-looking warrior, clad simply in helmet, shirt, and trousers; the sleeves of his "greyback" were rolled up above his elbows; and he was armed with a roughly-made catapult, evidently intended for the destruction of some of the small, brightly-coloured birds that were flitting about among the branches of the palms. "swabs," who answered at roll-call to the name of smith h., in addition to holding the badge as best shot in the regiment, was a popular character in c company. "shist!" he answered; "when there ain't nothink better to shoot at, i'm goin' to try me 'and on some of these dickies." "swabs" was evidently more skilful with the rifle than with his present weapon. he discharged his pebble, but with no result. "miss; high right," said jack. "where did you get your elastic from?" "the tube of me filter. i'll take a finer sight next time," and "swabs" went stalking off in search of further sport. "it seems hard to imagine that we're on the real business at last," said jack, clasping his hands behind his head and stretching out his legs. "after so many sham fights, it seems rum to think of one in real earnest. the strange thing to me," he continued, "is to think how often my cousin and i used to talk about war, and wonder what it was like; and we thought he was the one more likely to see it. i used to be always grumbling about his luck, and now i expect he'd envy me mine." "i suppose he hasn't come out?" "no, i don't think so. i forget just where he's stationed. look at tom briggs over there, he using his towel to put a patch on the seat of his breeches. hey, tommy! how are you going to dry yourself when you wash?" "wash!" answered the man, looking up from his work with a grin, "you'll be glad enough afore long to lap up every spot of water you come across; there won't be much talk of washin' in this 'ere desert, i'm thinkin'." the answer was lost on jack; something else had suddenly attracted his attention. he sat up and made a movement as though he would rise to his feet. an officer had just strolled past, wearing a fatigue cap and the usual serge jumper. his face was tanned a deep brown, and showed up in strong contrast to his fair hair and small, light-coloured moustache. our hero's first impulse was to run after and accost the stranger, but he checked himself, and sank back into his former position. "i say, briggs," he called, "what men were those who came up in the boats yesterday?" "some of the ----sex regiment," answered the other, stooping forward to bite off his cotton with his teeth. jack's heart thumped heavily, and he caught his breath; his eyes had not deceived him, and the subaltern who had just walked by was valentine. he was roused from his reverie by the warning call to "stables," it being the time for feeding and grooming the camels. they were queer steeds, these "ships of the desert," and for those who had never ridden them before even mounting and dismounting was no easy task. in the case of the former, unless the animals' heads were brought round to their shoulders, and held there by means of the rope which served as a rein, they were apt to rise up suddenly before the rider had got properly into the saddle, a proceeding usually followed by disastrous results; while, on the other hand, the sudden plunge forward as they dropped on their knees, followed by the lurch in the opposite direction when their hind-quarters went down, made it an extremely easy matter to come a cropper in either direction. their necks seemed to be made of indiarubber, and their hind legs, with which they could scratch the top of their heads, or, if so inclined, kick out behind, even when lying down, appeared to be furnished with double joints. jack had christened his mount "lamentations," from the continual complaints which it uttered; but in this the animal was no worse than the remainder of its fellows, who bellowed and roared whatever was happening, whether they were being unsaddled, groomed, mounted, or fed. with thoughts centred on his recent discovery, our hero made his way to the spot where the camels of his detachment were picketed, and there went mechanically through the work of cleaning up the lines, and the still more unsavoury task of attending to "lam's" toilet. should he speak to valentine, or not? that was the question which occupied his mind. unless he did so, it was hardly likely that after seven years, and with a moustache and sprouting beard, his cousin would recognize him among the seventeen hundred men destined to form the expedition. the men marched back to their lines, and were then dismissed for tea. jack sat silently sipping at his pannikin and munching his allowance of biscuit. should he speak to valentine, or not? the vague day-dream of their school-boy days was realized--they were soldiers together, and on active service; but everything was altered now. the great difference of rank was, of itself, sufficient to place an impassable barrier between them; and then the recollection of their last parting, his refusals to meet his cousins again at brenlands, and the fact of his having left so many of his old chum's letters unanswered, all seemed to lead up to one conclusion. valentine would long ago have come to regard it as a clear proof that the runaway had really stolen the watch, and not have been surprised to hear that he had gone to the dogs. nor was he likely now to be very well pleased if the black sheep suddenly walked up and claimed relationship. no. jack felt he had long ago severed all ties with what had once been dear to him; it was the better plan to let things remain as they were, and make no attempt to renew associations with a past which could not be recalled. sunset was rapidly followed by darkness. in honour of its being christmas day, an impromptu concert had been announced; and the men began to gather round a rough stage which had been erected under the trees, and which was lit up with lamps and the glare of two huge bonfires. the programme was of the free-and-easy character: volunteers were called for, and responded with songs, step-dances, and the like; while the audience, lying and sitting round on the sand, greeted their efforts with hearty applause, and joined in every chorus with unwonted vigour. jack had always possessed a good voice, a fact which had long ago been discovered by his comrades, and now, for the honour of the royal blankshire, those standing near him insisted that he should sing. before he knew it, he was pushed forward, and hoisted on to the platform. there was no chance of retreat. he glanced round the sea of faces glowing brightly in the firelight, and after a moment's thought as to what would be likely to go down best, he struck up his old song, "the mermaid." "oh! 'twas in the broad atlantic, 'mid the equinoctial gales, that a gay young tar fell overboard, among the sharks and whales." the great crowd of listeners burst out into the "rule, britannia!" chorus with a mighty roar. but our hero heeded them not; his thoughts had suddenly gone back to the little parlour at the back of "duster's" shop; his eyes wandered anxiously over the faces of the officers who were grouped together in front of the stage, but valentine did not appear to be among them. an uproarious repetition of the last "rule, britannia!" was still in progress as jack rejoined the blankshire contingent, and submitted his back to a number of congratulatory slaps. these signs of approval were still being showered down upon him, when sergeant sparks touched his elbow. "here's an officer wants to speak to you, fenleigh. there he is, standing over by that tree." with his heart in his mouth, the singer stepped out of the crush, and approached the figure standing by itself under the heavy shadow of the palm. "jack!" the private soldier made no reply, but raised his hand in the customary salute. the action was simple enough, and yet full of meaning, showing the altered relationship between the two old friends. "why, man, didn't you tell us where you were? and what had become of you?" "there was no need; and, besides, i didn't wish you to know, sir?" "surely you are not still offended over what happened that summer at brenlands? you must have known that we, none of us, suspected you for a moment of having stolen that watch. it was only a cad like raymond fosberton would ever have thought of suggesting such a thing." "appearances were very much against me, sir--and--well, it's all past and done with now." valentine was silent. that "sir," so familiar to his ear, and yet seemingly so incongruous in the present instance, baffled him completely. in the first moment of his discovery he had intended, figuratively speaking, to fall upon the prodigal's neck, and converse with him in the old, familiar style; but now, between valentine fenleigh, esq., of the ----sex, and private fenleigh, of the royal blankshire, there was a great gulf fixed, and the latter, especially, seemed determined to recognize that the former conditions of their friendship could now no longer exist. after a moment's pause, jack spoke. "could you tell me, sir, if they are all well?" "who? my people? they're all right, thanks. helen's just gone and got married; and little bar's just the same as ever, only a bit older. she was twenty-one last month." jack smiled. "and aunt mabel, have you seen her lately?" "oh, yes! she's very well, and doesn't seem to alter at all. she often talks of you, and is always sad because you never write. why have you never been to see her?" "i have seen her once. i passed her in the street in melchester; but i was in uniform, and she didn't notice me." "but why didn't you go over to brenlands?" "oh, i couldn't do that! i struck out a path for myself. it may be a bit rough, like the way of transgressors always is; but it suits me well enough. i've been in it now for three years, and mean to stick to it; but it'll never bring me to brenlands again." "oh, yes, it will," answered the other cheerily, "at the end of the long lane comes the turning." there was another pause; the conversation had been running more freely, but now jack fell back again into his former manner. "i beg pardon, sir, but i should like to ask if you'll be good enough not to mention my name in any of your letters home." "why not?" "i should be glad, sir, if you wouldn't. i've managed hitherto to keep my secret." "well, if it's your wish, for the present i won't," answered valentine; "but if we both live through this business, then i shall have something to say to you on the subject." "good-night, sir." "good-night, old chap, and good luck to us both!" chapter xvii under fire. "the tin soldier trembled; yet he remained firm; his countenance did not change; he looked straight before him, and shouldered his musket."--_the brave tin soldier_. five days afterwards the camp was all astir, and presented an unusual scene of activity and animation. on the twenty-eighth of december, orders had been issued for a portion of the force to march across the desert and occupy the wells at gakdul; and on this, the morning of the thirtieth, the guards camel regiment and the mounted infantry (to which latter force jack and his comrades of the royal blankshire were attached), together with detachments of the engineers and medical staff corps, a squadron of the th hussars, and a large train of "baggagers," were preparing for the start, amid much bugle-blowing, shouting of orders, and roaring of camels as the loads were being placed on their backs. gradually, as the hour approached for the assembly of the force, the noise grew less; even "lamentations" ceased his protestations, and stalked off to the parade ground without further murmuring. lord wolseley inspected the force, and shortly before three o'clock the cavalry scouts started. as jack stood by the side of his kneeling steed, with joe crouch on his right, his heart beat fast. this was something different from any of his previous military experiences; the cartridges in his pouch and bandoleer were ball, not blank. it was to be the real thing this time; the stern reality of what he and valentine had so often pictured and played at far away in the peaceful old house at brenlands. though showing it in different ways, all his comrades were more or less excited at the prospect of a move: some were silent, others unusually noisy; joe crouch puffed incessantly at a little clay pipe; sergeant sparks seemed to have grown ten years younger, and overflowed with reminiscences of afghanistan and the ghazees; while lieutenant lawson might, from his high spirits and cheery behaviour, have been just starting on a hunting expedition or some pleasure excursion. at last it came: "prepare to mount!" "well, here goes!" said jack, drawing his steed's head round, and putting his foot in the stirrup. "here goes!" echoed joe crouch. "mount!" the bugle sounded the advance, the word was given, and the column moved off across the undulating plain--the guards in front, baggage camels in the centre, and the mounted infantry bringing up the rear; the length of the column extending to nearly a mile. scared gazelles sprang up from among the rocks and bushes, and bounded away. "hi, swabs! where's yer catapult?" inquired tommy briggs. "keepin' it for the niggers," answered the marksman significantly. after an hour's going, many of the riders sought to ease themselves, and vary the peculiar swaying motion by a change of position: some crossed their legs in front of them; while jack and his chum sat side-saddle, facing each other, and for the twentieth time that day exchanged opinions as to when and where they would first come in touch with the enemy. in addition to the heat, the clouds of dust raised by the force in front rendered it choky work for those in rear; and no one was sorry when, about five o'clock, the bugles sounded the halt. jack dismounted, feeling uncommonly sore and stiff, but was soon busily engaged helping to make fires of dry grass and mimosa scrub, on which to boil the camp kettles for tea. never, even when poured from queen mab's old silver teapot, had the steaming beverage tasted so refreshing; and the men, sitting round in groups, mess-tin in hand, seemed to regard the whole business in the light of a gigantic picnic. the sun dropped below the horizon; and after a rest of about an hour and a half, the march was continued, the column closing up and proceeding with a broadened front. the clear, brilliant light of the moon flooded the scene with silvery splendour, throwing up in strange contrast the black, dark hills in the distance. gradually, as the men grew sleepy, their laughter and conversation died away, the padded feet of the camels made no sound as they passed over the sand, and the silence remained unbroken save for the occasional yelping bark of some hungry jackal. jack felt cold and drowsy, and, in spite of the movement of his camel, had hard work to keep awake. once or twice, when the loads of some of the baggagers slipped, a halt was called while they were refixed; and men, dismounting from their saddles, fell fast asleep on the sand, only to be roused again in what seemed a moment later by the "advance" being sounded. hours seemed drawn out into weeks, and jack, glancing with heavy eyes to his left front, wondered if the sky would ever brighten with the signs of dawn. at length the east grew grey, then flushed with pink, and the sun rose with the red glare of a conflagration, sending a glow of warmth across the desert. for about two hours the march was continued; then, at a spot where a number of trees were growing, a halt was made, camels unloaded, and preparations made for a well-earned breakfast. in spite of the excitement of this first bivouac, as soon as the meal was over jack stretched himself out upon the ground and fell fast asleep, only returning to consciousness when wakened by the flies and midday heat; and so ended his first experience of a desert march. for the purposes of this story it will not be necessary to follow closely all our hero's doings during the next fortnight; and we shall therefore rest content with describing, as briefly as possible, the movements of the force during that period of time which preceded its coming in actual contact with the enemy. starting again on the afternoon of the thirty-first of december, the column pushed forward with occasional halts, until, early on the morning of the second of january, gakdul was reached, and the wells occupied without resistance. leaving the guards and engineers to garrison the place, the rest of the column marched the same evening on the return journey to korti, to collect and bring on the remaining troops and stores necessary for continuing the advance to metemmeh. ten days later, the remainder of the force arrived at gakdul; and after a day spent in watering and attending to arms and ammunition, a start was made on the afternoon of the fourteenth in the direction of abu klea. soon after sunset the column halted, and resuming the march early on the following morning, by five o'clock in the evening had reached jebel-es-sergain, or the hill of the saddle, which was to be the resting-place for the night. the men lay down as usual, with piled arms in front and camels in rear; the order for perfect silence was hardly needed; the sandy water-channels made a comfortable couch for wearied limbs; and the tired warriors were glad enough to wrap themselves in their blankets, and enjoy a few hours of well-earned repose. in spite of the long and fatiguing day through which he had just passed, jack did not fall asleep at once, like the majority of his comrades. ever since his meeting with valentine, his mind had been continually going back to the days when they were at school together; and now, in the solemn stillness of the desert, as he lay gazing up at the bright, starlit sky, his thoughts flew back to brenlands, and he pictured up the dear face that had always been the chief of the many attractions that made the place so pleasant. he almost wished now that he had written to her before leaving england. she knew where valentine was, and every morning would glance with beating heart at the war headings in the newspaper. it would have been a great satisfaction to feel confident of having a share in her loving thoughts. since christmas day, our hero had only caught an occasional glimpse of his cousin, but that was sufficient to revive his old love for the bright, frank-looking face. "he's just the same as ever," thought jack. "well, i hope he'll get through this all right. there are the girls, and aunt mabel--it would be dreadful if anything happened!" and with this reflection fenleigh j. turned over and fell asleep. before daybreak next morning the column was once more on the move, crossing a large waste of sand and gravel, relieved here and there by stretches of black rock; while, bordering the plain on either side, were ranges of hills, which gradually approached each other until, in the distance, they formed the pass through which ran the track leading to the wells of abu klea. the march was now beginning to tell upon the camels, which, weakened by fatigue and short allowance of forage, fell down in large numbers through sheer exhaustion, throwing the transport into great confusion. shortly before mid-day the force halted at the foot of a steep slope for the usual morning meal of tea and bully beef. "i shan't be sorry when we get to those wells," said jack, sipping at the lid of his mess-tin; "i've been parched with thirst ever since we left gakdul. i wonder it we shall reach them this evening!" "i don't reckon it's much further," answered joe crouch. "i heard the nineteenth are going on ahead to water their horses. look! they're just off." jack watched the hussars as they disappeared over the brow of the hill. "lucky beggars!" he muttered, and lying down upon his bed he pulled his helmet over his eyes, and prepared for a quiet snooze before the order should be given to mount. he had been dozing, and was in the dreamy stage between waking and sleeping, when his attention was attracted by a conversation which was taking place in his immediate vicinity. a few yards away, lieutenant lawson was sitting on the ground rearranging the folds of his putties, and talking to another subaltern. "i shouldn't have brought a thing like that with me," the latter was saying; "you might lose it. any old silver one's good enough for this job, especially if you get bowled over, and some villain picks your pockets." "well, i hadn't another," answered lawson; "and, after all, it didn't cost me much. i knew a fellow at melchester, called fosberton, an awful young ass. he got into debt, and was hard pushed to raise the wind. he wanted me to buy this. i was rather sorry for the chap, so i gave him five pounds for it, and told him he could have it back if he chose to refund the money; but he left the town soon after that, and i've never heard from him since. hallo! what's up now?" a couple of horsemen were galloping down the slope, and a few minutes later the command was passed back from the front,-- "fall in! examine arms and ammunition!" the men sprang forward to the row of piled arms, and then, like an electric current, the report passed from one to another--the enemy was in sight! "cast loose one packet of your ammunition," said the commander of the company. jack's fingers twitched with excitement as he pulled off the string of the familiar little brown paper parcel, and dropped the ten cartridges into his pouch. it was the real thing now, and no mistake! moving forward in line of columns, the force ascended the slope, and after one more brief halt, while further reconnaissances were being made, began to advance across the level stretch beyond, from which a good view was obtained of the distant valley of abu klea, with the steep hills rising on either side, and opening out at the entrance of the pass. "there they are!" far away, on the dark, rocky eminences, crowds of tiny, white-robed figures could be clearly distinguished moving and gesticulating in an excited manner. steadily the force advanced until, when within a comparatively short distance of the mouth of the valley, the word for "close order" was given. the camels were driven forward into a solid mass in rear of the leading company as it halted; the men dismounted, and knee-lashed their steeds. there was not much time for looking about, for the order was immediately given to build a zareba; and while some men were set to work to cut down brushwood, jack and his comrades were told off to gather stones for constructing a breastwork. "look alive, my lads!" said sergeant sparks, "and get whatever you can. hallo!" he added; "they've begun, have they?" jack had heard something like the sound of the swift flight of a swallow far overhead, but he did not understand its significance until, a moment later, the sound was repeated, and on the ground in front of him there suddenly appeared a mark, as though some one had struck the sand with the point of an invisible stick, leaving behind a short, deep groove, and causing a handful of dust to spring into the air. far away on the distant hillside was a tiny puff of smoke, and as he looked the faint pop of the rifle reached his ear. then the truth dawned on him: this was his baptism of fire--a long-range fire, to be sure, but none the less deadly if the bullet found its billet! he caught up a fragment of rock, and carried it to where the wall was to be constructed. men were hurrying to and fro all around him, and yet suddenly he seemed to feel himself alone, the sole mark for the enemy's fire; again that z--st overhead, and a cold chill ran down his back. he shut his teeth, and, with a careless air, strode off for a fresh load. he had not gone twenty yards when another shot ricochetted off a stone, and flew up into the air with a shrill chirrup. jack winced and shivered. it was no good, however well he might conceal the fact from others--the fear of death was on him; it was impossible to deceive his own heart. a fresh terror now seized him, coupled with a sense of shame. he was the fellow who had always expressed a wish to be a soldier, and go on active service; and now, before the first feeble spitting of the enemy's fire, all his courage was ebbing away. what if his comrades should notice that his limbs trembled and his voice was shaky? what if, when the advance was made, his nerve should fail him altogether, and he should turn to run? with dogged energy he pursued his task, hardly noticing what was going on around him. for the fourth time he was approaching the zareba, when a comrade, a dozen yards in front, stumbled forward and sank down upon the ground. there was no cry, no frantic leap into the air, yet it was sufficiently horrible. jack felt sick, and his teeth chattered; he had never before seen a man hit, and it was his first experience of the sacrifice of human flesh and blood. at the same moment, like a clap of thunder, one of the screw-guns was discharged; the droning whizz of the shell grew fainter and fainter--a pause--and then the boom of its explosion was returned in a muffled echo from the distant hillside. a couple of men hurried forward and raised their wounded comrade. jack turned away his eyes, and immediately they encountered a rather different spectacle. a young subaltern, with a short brier pipe in his mouth, and without a hair on his face, was making a playful pretence of dropping a huge boulder on to the toes of the lieutenant of jack's detachment. "hold the ball--no side!" said mr. lawson facetiously. "look here, mostyn, you beggar! i've just spotted a fine rock, only it's too big for one to carry. come and help to bring it in; it's a chance for you to distinguish yourself. look sharp! or some of the tommies will have bagged it." something in this speech, and the careless, happy-go-lucky way in which it was uttered, seemed to revive jack's spirits. mr. lawson recognized and spoke to him as he passed. "well, fenleigh, they've begun to shake the pepper-box at us; but it'll be our turn to-morrow." there was nothing in the remark itself, but there was something in the cheery tone and manly face of the speaker; something that brought fresh courage to the soldier's heart, and filled it with a sudden determination to emulate the example of his leader. "yes, sir," he answered briskly, and from that moment his fears were banished. slowly the construction of the zareba was completed--a low, stone wall in front, and earthen parapets and abattis of mimosa bushes on the other three sides. the enemy still continued a dropping fire, which was replied to with occasional rounds of shrapnel from the guns; but jack saw no further casualties. once, during the work of collecting stones, he encountered valentine. "i say," remarked the latter, acknowledging his cousin's salute with a nod and a smile, "this reminds me of the time when we went up the river with the girls to starncliff, and built up a fireplace to boil the kettle." when darkness fell, the force was assembled within the zareba; the low breastwork was manned in double rank, every soldier lying down in his fighting place, with belts on, rifle by his side, and bayonet fixed; all lights were extinguished, and talking and smoking forbidden. in spite of the day's exertions, few men felt inclined for sleep; the drumming of tom-toms, and the occasional whistle of a bullet overhead, were not very effective as a lullaby, and served as a constant reminder of the coming struggle. jack settled himself into as comfortable a position as his belts and accoutrements would allow, and lay gazing up at the silent, starlit sky. what was death? and what came after? before another night he himself might know. lying there in perfect health, it seemed impossible to realize that before another night his life might have ended. he turned his thoughts to brenlands. yes; he would like to have said good-bye to aunt mabel, and to have had once more the assurance from her own lips that he was still "my own boy jack!" "i always make a mess of everything," he said to himself. "i thought i should always have had brenlands to go to; and first of all i got chucked out of the school a year before i need have left, and then this happens about the watch. in both cases i've raymond fosberton to thank, in a great measure, for what happened. i'll pay him out if ever i get the chance." the thought of his cousin brought back to his mind the recollection of the conversation he had overheard that morning. strange that mr. lawson should have known raymond! jack wondered what the monetary transaction could have been that had been alluded to by his officer. gradually a sense of drowsiness crept over him, and his heavy head sank back upon the sand. "stand to your arms!" he clutched instinctively at the rifle by his side, and rose to his feet; the noise of the tom-toms seemed close at hand. "they're coming!" but no; it was a false alarm. once more the men settled down, and silence fell on the zareba. suddenly there was a wild yell from one of the sleepers. "what's up there?--man hit?" "no--silly chump!--only dreaming!" again jack dozed off, to be wakened, after what seemed only a moment of forgetfulness, by joe crouch shaking him by the shoulder. the word was once more being passed along, "stand to your arms!" and the men lay with their hands upon their rifles. daybreak was near, and an attack might be expected at any moment. the sky was ghostly with the coming dawn, the air raw and cold. jack shivered, and "wished for the day." chapter xviii. the battle. "then he heard a roaring sound, quite terrible enough to frighten the bravest man."--_the brave tin soldier_. numbed with the cold, and stiff from lying so long in a cramped position, jack and many of his comrades rose as the daylight strengthened, to stretch their legs and stamp some feeling into their feet. as they did so, however, the dropping shots of the enemy rapidly increased to a sharp fusilade; bullets whizzed overhead, or knocked up little spurts of sand and dust within the zareba; and the defenders were glad enough to once more seek the shelter of the low wall and parapet of earth. several men were wounded, and the surgeons commenced their arduous duties--services which so often demand the exercise of the highest courage and devotion, and yet seldom meet with their due share of recognition in the records of the battlefield. ever and anon the screw-guns thundered a reply to the popping of the distant rifle fire, and men raised their heads to watch the effect of the shrapnel, as each shot sped away on its deadly errand. even amid such surroundings, hunger asserted itself; and breakfast was served out, a good draught of hot tea being specially acceptable after the long exposure to the cold night air. "when you're on active service, eat and sleep whenever you can," said sergeant sparks, munching away at his bully beef and biscuit. "there's never no telling when you'll get another chance." bands of the enemy kept appearing and disappearing in the distance; spear-heads and sword-blades flashed and glittered in the rosy morning sunlight, and the tom-toms kept up a continual thunder; but still there was no sign of an attack. jack longed to be doing something. he lay on the ground nervously digging pits with his fingers in the soft sand, listening to the monotonous murmur of conversation going on around him, and the constant z--st! z--st! of bullets flying over and into the zareba. now and again he exchanged a few remarks with "swabs" or joe crouch; and when at length he was told off to join a party of skirmishers, he sprang up and seized his rifle with a sigh of relief. moving out in extended order to the right front of the zareba, they marched forward a short distance, then halted, and lay down to fire a volley. "ready, at eleven hundred yards. now, men, be steady, and take your time." "swabs" was in his element. he sprawled his legs wide apart, rooted his left elbow into the sand, and settled down as though he were firing for the battalion badge on the range at melchester. our hero was not quite so cool; his heart thumped and his fingers twitched as he adjusted the sliding bar of his back-sight. "aim low--present--fire!" the rifles were discharged with a simultaneous crash. "good volley," said mr. lawson, who was kneeling, peering through his field-glass; "a bit short, i'm afraid; put your sights up to eleven-fifty." jack opened the breach of his rifle with a sharp jerk, and drew a long breath. for the life of him he could not have told whether his aim had been good or bad, but this much he knew, that he had fired his first shot in actual conflict. the skirmishers retired; but still the enemy hung back, too wary to attempt a charge. at length the order was given for an advance, and preparations were accordingly made for forming a moving square. the various detachments marched out of the zareba and lay down as they took up their positions. camels for carrying the wounded, and conveying water and reserve ammunition, were drawn up in the centre; the two guns and the gardiner with its crew of sailors taking positions respectively within the front and rear faces of the formation. jack raised himself and looked round, anxious, if possible, to make out the whereabouts of his cousin. he could distinguish "heavies," blue-jackets, and the guards, but valentine and the ----sex men were stationed somewhere out of sight on the other side of the central mass of baggagers and their drivers. a short wait, and then came the order,-- "rise up! the square will advance!" two deep, as in the days of the "thin red line," the men marched forward, stumbling over rocky hillocks and deep water-ruts, vainly attempting to keep unbroken their solid formation, and delayed by the slow movement of the guns and camels. the arabs, swarming on either flank, opened a heavy fire. the flight of the bullets filled the air with a continual buzz. men dropped right and left, and a halt was made while the wounded were placed on the cacolets. the sides of the square turned outwards, the mounted infantry formed its left-front corner, and jack and his comrades were in the left face. "why can't we give 'em a volley?" murmured "swabs," gazing at the feathery puffs of smoke on the distant hillside, which looked so innocent, but each of which might mean death to the spectator. no order, however, was given to fire, and the command, "right turn--forward!" put the marksman and his comrades once more in motion. to walk along and be shot at was not exactly the ideal warfare of his boyhood: but jack had been "blooded" by this time, and trudged along with a set face, paying little attention to the leaden hail which swept overhead, and only wishing that something would happen to bring matters to a crisis. a few minutes later his attention was turned to the line of skirmishers, who were moving, some little distance away, in a direction parallel to the march of the square. suddenly, close to two of these, a couple of arabs sprang up from behind some bushes. one rushed upon the nearest englishman; but the latter parried the spear-thrust, and without a pause drove his bayonet through his adversary's chest. the other native turned and ran. "bang! bang!" went a couple of rifle shots; but the fugitive escaped untouched, and disappeared behind the brow of an adjacent knoll. "see that, lawson?" inquired a voice from the supernumerary rank. "yes," answered the subaltern, "like potting rabbits. i think i could have wiped that fellow's eye if i'd been there. the bayonet _versus_ lance was done better." jack glanced round, and saw the speaker smoking a pipe, while sergeant sparks tramped along close behind with an approving smile upon his face, as though, if questioned, he would have made exactly the same observation himself. it was no time to be fastidious or sentimental; the callous indifference to life and death, whether real or assumed, was the thing wanted. here, at least, were two superiors who did not seem to consider the situation very serious. the young soldier shifted his rifle to the other shoulder, and grasped the butt with a firmer grip. for an hour, which might have been a lifetime, the square toiled on, every now and again changing direction to gain more open ground; the stretchers and cacolets constantly receiving fresh burdens. a man, two files in front of our hero, went down with a bullet through the head, and those in rear stumbled over him. "close up! close up, and keep that corner blocked in!" with mouth parched with the stifling heat and dust, jack sucked at the lukewarm dregs of his water-bottle, and wondered if the river itself would ever quench his thirst. "swabs," his rear-rank man, kept fingering the loose cartridges in his pouch. at length the marksman's patience and _sang froid_ seemed exhausted. "is this going on for ever?" he blurted out, "ain't we ever going to give it 'em back?" hardly had the question been asked, when the answer was made evident in a most unmistakable manner. away in the grass to the left front a number of white and green flags, mounted on long poles, had been for some time visible; and at this point, as though they sprang out of the ground, swarms of arabs suddenly made their appearance, and with headlong speed and reckless devotion charged down upon the left-front corner of the square. the scattered line of skirmishers turned and fled for their lives; while behind them, like a devouring tidal wave, the vast black mass rushed forward, their fierce shouts filling the air with a hollow roar like that of a ground sea. like many another young soldier, with nothing but a few hundred yards of desert between himself and death, jack's first impulse was to raise his rifle and blaze away at random as fast as he could load; but the clear, calm voices in the supernumerary rank, and the old habit of discipline, held him in check. "steady, men:--aim low--fire a volley!" another moment, and the black mass with its waving banners and glittering weapons disappeared in a burst of fire and smoke, as the rifles spoke with a simultaneous crash. again, and yet again, the vivid sheet of flame flashed from the side of the square; then, through the drifting fog, it was seen that the enemy were apparently changing the direction of their attack. falling in scores before the terrible, scythe-like sweep of the volley firing, they swerved round the flank of the square and burst furiously upon the rear. [illustration: "the enemy swerved round the flank of the square, and burst furiously upon the rear."] rapid independent firing had succeeded the regular volleys, and jack was in the act of using his rifle, when he became conscious of a shock and swaying movement, like the commencement of a rugby scrimmage. he turned, and saw in a moment what had happened: by sheer weight of numbers, the overpowering rush of arabs had forced back the thin line of "heavies," and a fierce hand-to-hand fight was in progress. what had been the interior of the square was now covered with a confused mass of struggling combatants, dimly seen through clouds of dust and smoke. desperate fanatics hacked and stabbed with their heavy swords and long spears, while burly giants of the guards returned equally deadly strokes with butt and sword-bayonet. shouts, cries, and words of command mingled in a general uproar, half-drowned in the incessant din of the firing. how long this awful contest lasted, or exactly what happened, jack could never clearly remember. he was conscious that the rear rank had turned about, and of a vision of "swabs" standing like a man shooting rabbits in a cover, with his rifle at his shoulder, waiting for a chance of a clear shot. turning again to his front, he noticed the fellow on his right working frantically at his lever, and sobbing with rage and excitement over a jammed cartridge-case. "knock it out with your cleaning-rod!" he yelled, and thrust another round into the breach of his own weapon, determined, if this were the end, to make a hard fight of the finish. at length the pressure seemed to grow less, and then ceased; the enemy wavered, then turned and began to slowly retreat, hesitating every now and again, even in face of the withering rifle fire, as though half-minded to renew their attack. some turned and shook their fists, while others, with the fanatic's unconquerable spirit and reckless valour, rushed back singly, only to fall long before they reached the hated foe. once the threatening attitude of the retiring masses raised the cry of "close up! they're coming again!" but a well-directed volley settled the question, and the last stragglers soon disappeared behind the distant sandhills. cheer on cheer rose from the square, and jack, grounding the butt of his heated weapon, joined in with a right good will, for he had fought his first battle, and his heart throbbed with the triumph of victory. but even now the conflict was not quite over. arab marksmen were still lurking in the broken ground, and one of them suddenly rose into view from behind a rock. levelling his piece he fired, and mr. lawson, who, revolver in hand, had stepped into a gap in the ranks, fell forward on his face, the blood gushing in a crimson torrent from his mouth. at the same moment "greek met greek;" for "swabs," throwing his rifle into his shoulder fired, and the arab sharpshooter tossed up his arms and dropped out of sight behind a rock. our hero fell upon his knees with something like a sob, and attempted to raise the fallen man. there was no lack of assistance. mr. lawson was one of those officers for whose sake men are always ready and glad to risk their lives; but the boldest among them could do nothing for him now, and a moment or so later he died in jack's arms. "he's gone, right enough, poor fellow!" said captain hamling, the commander of the company, who had hurried to the spot. "see what's in his pockets, fenleigh. it there's anything of value, it must be taken care of, and sent to his people." jack did as he was ordered. a pipe, tobacco-pouch, jack-knife, and rolled bandage were the chief things he found; and he handed them to the captain. there was still the breast-pocket of the tunic, and this on examination was found to contain a small letter-case and a handsome gold watch. jack glanced at the timepiece, and very nearly let it drop from his fingers to the ground; he knew it in a moment--the lost treasure which years ago had been stolen from queen mab's cupboard. this then was the thing which raymond fosberton had parted with for five pounds. * * * * * the square moved on a short distance to ground less encumbered with the slain, and then halted. the carnage was awful; dead and dying of the enemy lay in heaps where they had fallen, mown down by the deadly fire of the martinis; while among them on the knoll where the square had been broken, and in many cases hardly recognizable from the blood and dust which covered their forms and faces, were the bodies of the englishmen who had perished in the fray. orders were now given for burying the dead, collecting the arms and ammunition, and destroying the useless weapons that lay scattered about in all directions; and it was while engaged in this latter duty that jack encountered his cousin. "i've just been inquiring for you. thank god, you're safe!" in spite of all that he had just passed through, jack's thoughts were not fixed upon the fighting or dearly-won victory. "o val!" he blurted out, "i've found that watch--the one that was stolen at brenlands!" in a few hurried sentences he described the conversation he had overheard, and the discovery of the timepiece in the dead lieutenant's pocket. the dread scene around him was for the moment forgotten in his anxiety to clear his character from the doubts which he imagined must still be entertained to a certain extent by his former friend. "so you see, sir," he concluded, "i can now prove that i'm no thief. raymond fosberton stole it. i wish you'd ask captain hamling to show it to you, sir, and then you'd know i'm speaking the truth." valentine listened to this extraordinary revelation in open-eyed astonishment. "there's no need for that," he answered--"i'll ask to see it if it's your particular wish--but, jack, i wish you would believe that what i say is true, and that neither i nor queen mab ever for a moment imagined that you were the thief. you may doubt us, but we have never lost faith in you." chapter xix. "food for powder." "and so he lay quite still, while the shot rattled through the rushes, and gun after gun was fired over him."--_the ugly duckling_. at last the wells were reached, and after the wants of the wounded had been supplied, jack and his comrades got a chance of quenching their parching thirst. water! it was a moving sight--a crowd of men standing round a pit, at the bottom of which appeared a little puddle, which when emptied out would gradually drain in again, the spectators watching its progress with greedy eyes. never had "duster's" celebrated home-made ginger-beer tasted so refreshing as this muddy liquid. jack sighed in an ecstasy of enjoyment as he gulped it down, and joe crouch remarked that he wished his throat was as long as a "hostridge's." a body of three hundred men from the guards, heavies, and mounted infantry started on a return journey to the zareba to bring up the baggage, and the remainder of the force bivouacked near the wells. the night was fearfully cold; the men had nothing but the thin serge jumpers which they had worn during the heat of the day to protect them against the bitter night air. shivering and gnawed with hunger, jack, joe crouch, "swabs," and two more men huddled together in a heap; and finding it impossible to sleep, endeavoured to stay the cravings of their empty stomachs with an occasional whiff of tobacco, those who were without pipes obtaining the loan of one from a more fortunate comrade. jack's thoughts wandered back to brenlands, and he smiled grimly to himself at the recollection of that first camping-out experience, and of queen mab's words as she promised them a supply of rugs and cushions, "perhaps some day you won't be so well off." his mind was still full of his recent discovery. the thought that his friends must regard him as guilty of the theft, and the feeling that he could never give them proof to the contrary, had rankled in his heart more, perhaps, than he himself suspected; and now that he had at last discovered a solution to the riddle, and could prove beyond the possibility of a doubt who was the guilty party, he longed to ease his soul by talking the matter over with some one who knew the circumstances of the case. joe crouch was the very man. "joe." "yes." "you remember my cousin, raymond fosberton?" joe was not in the best of humours; he was cold, and his pipe had gone out. "yes, i do," he grumbled. "i wish i had him here now in his white weskit and them shiny boots!" the speaker drew hard at his empty clay, which gave forth a fierce croak, as though it thoroughly approved of its owner's sentiments. "d'you remember that time when the watch was stolen out of miss fenleigh's cupboard?" "yes; and that fosberton said it might 'a been me as took it, and master valentine told me afterwards that you said that though i'd stolen some pears once, you knew i was honest. ay, but i thought of that the morning i seen you come into the barrack-room. and then he told them as it was you 'ad done it. my eye! if i had him here now, i'd knock his face out through the back of his head!" the clay pipe literally crowed with rage. "well, you may be interested to hear that it was raymond fosberton himself who took the watch." and jack proceeded to tell the story of his find. "so he stole it himself, did he?" exclaimed crouch, as the narrative concluded. "law me! if i had him here, i'd--" "never mind!" interrupted the other, laughing. "i may have a chance of settling up with him myself some day." "what shall you do when you see him?" "oh, i don't know!" answered jack. "i daresay i shall have my revenge." joe relapsed into silence, but for some time sudden squeaks from his pipe showed that he was still meditating on the terrible vengeance which he would mete out to raymond fosberton, should that gentleman leave his comfortable lodgings in england and appear unexpectedly in the bayuda desert. * * * * * at length the morning came, and with it the report that the baggage-train was in sight. the news was welcome, and the work of knee-lashing and unloading the camels did not take long. the previous morning's hasty breakfast under fire had not been, by any means, a satisfying meal; and so, after a fast of nearly two days, the prospect of food made the men active enough in unpacking the stores. jack seized his ration of bully beef and biscuit with the fierce eagerness of a famished wolf; cold, hunger, and weary, sleepless nights had never been the lot of the lead troops campaigning on the lumber-room floor at brenlands, or of their commanders either; nor, for the matter of that, is it usual for youthful, would-be warriors to associate such things with the triumph of a victory. our hero had finished his meal, and was cleaning his rifle, when he was accosted by joe crouch. "i say, mr. fenleigh wants to see you. he's over there by the guns." valentine was standing talking to some of his fellow-officers. he turned away from the group as he saw his cousin approaching, and the latter halted and accorded him the customary salute. "look here," said the subaltern, "the general is sending dispatches back to korti, and the officers have the opportunity of telegraphing to their friends in england. i'm going to send a message home to let them know i'm all right. shall i put in a word for you? i'm sure," added the speaker, "that aunt mabel would be glad to know that you are here, and quite sate and sound after the fighting." jack hesitated, but there was no sign yet of the long lane turning. "it's very good of you, sir," he answered, "but i'd rather they didn't know my whereabouts. if i live through this, and return to england, i shall still be a private soldier. i'm much obliged to you, sir, all the same." he saluted again, and walked away. valentine looked after the retreating figure with a queer, sad smile upon his face. "you're a difficult fish to deal with," he muttered; "but we shall land you again some day, though i hardly know how." late in the afternoon the column was once more in motion, and then commenced an experience which jack, and all those who shared in it, have probably never forgotten. at first the march was orderly, but, as the hours went by, progress became more and more difficult. camels, half-starved and exhausted, lagged and fell, causing continual delay and confusion. the desert track having been abandoned in order to avoid possible collision with the enemy, the road lay at one time through a jungle of mimosa trees and bushes, when the disorder was increased tenfold--baggagers slipped their loads, and ranks opening out to avoid obstacles found it impossible in the dark to regain their original formation. utterly unable to keep awake, men fell asleep as they rode, drifting out of their places, some, indeed, straying off into the darkness, never to be seen again. worn out, and chilled to the bone with the bitter night air, jack clung to his saddle, dozing and waking; dreaming for an instant that queen mab was speaking to him, and rousing with a start as the word was passed, "halt in front!" to allow time for the rear-guard closing up with the stragglers. at each of these pauses poor "lamentations" knelt of his own accord; and his rider, dropping down on the sand by his side, fell into a deep sleep, to be awakened by the complaining grunts of the camels as the word, "all right in rear!" gave the signal for a fresh start. after each stoppage it was no easy matter to get the weary animals on their legs again; and almost equally difficult in many instances to rouse their riders from the heavy slumber into which they fell the moment they stretched themselves upon the ground. "pass the word on, 'all right in rear!'" "oh, dear! i'd give a month's pay for an hour's sleep," mumbled joe crouch. "get up, you fool!" answered jack, kicking the recumbent figure of his comrade. "d'you want to be left behind?" on, on, through the endless darkness, now for a moment unconscious, now half awake, but always with the sense of being cold and weary, the long night march seemed to last a lifetime. then, as sometimes happens in similar circumstances, a half-forgotten tune took possession of his tired brain, the once familiar melody of queen mab's hymn; and in a dreamy fashion he kept humming it over and over again, sometimes the air alone, and sometimes with snatches of the words, as they came back to his memory. "rest comes at length;...... the day must dawn, and darksome night be past." his head sank forward on his breast. it was sunday evening at brenlands, and helen was playing the piano. queen mab was standing close at his side; and yet, somehow, the whole world lay between them. "you may doubt us, but we have never lost faith in you." he turned to see who spoke, and the figures in his dream vanished, leaving only the echo of their voices in his mind. "......angels of light! singing to welcome the pilgrims of the night!" the tune was still droning in his head when the first grey streaks of dawn gave warning of the approaching day, and, in the growing light, the column gradually regained its proper formation. the line of march lay down a vast slope covered with grass and shrubs, which stretched away towards the distant nile, as yet out of sight; and ere long word was received from the cavalry scouts that the enemy, in large numbers, were close at hand. once more the bullets of the sharpshooters whistled overhead; and the arabs appearing in considerable force on the left flank, the column was halted on the summit of a low knoll, and orders were issued for the construction of a zareba. all hands now set to work to unload the camels and build walls of saddles, biscuit-boxes, and other stores--parapets formed of almost as incongruous materials as the old domino and pocket-knife works behind which the lead warriors took shelter at brenlands. skirmishers were thrown out to keep down the enemy's fire; but the men were worn out, and having nothing to aim at but the feathery puffs of smoke rising amidst the distant grass and bushes, they failed to dislodge the arab marksmen. jack and his comrades "lay low," glad to avail themselves of the shelter afforded by the side of the zareba. the bullets whizzed overhead, or struck the biscuit-boxes with a sharp smack, while some dropped with a sickening thud into the mass of camels. they were patient sufferers, and even when struck made no sound or attempt to move. stretchers being constantly carried to and fro showed that the medical staff had plenty of work; but it was not until some hours later that the news leaked out among the men that sir herbert stewart himself was mortally wounded. feeling inclined for a smoke, and having no tobacco about him, our hero asked permission to fetch a supply from the zuleetah-bag attached to his saddle. "lamentations" acknowledged his approach with the usual grumble; but it was the last greeting he was ever destined to give his master. a bullet flew past with a sharp zip, the poor beast started and shivered, and a thin stream of blood trickled down his shoulder. poor "lam!" he was unclean and unsavoury, an inveterate grumbler, and possessed apparently of a chronic cold in his nose; his temper was none of the best--he had kicked, and on one occasion had attempted to bite, he had fought his comrades in the lines, and had got the picketing ropes into dire confusion; but, for all that, he was a living thing, and jack, who was fond of all dumb creatures, watched him with tears in his eyes. it did not last long: the unshapely head sank lower and lower; then suddenly turning his long neck round to the side of his body, the animal rolled over, and all that remained of poor "lamentations" was a meagre meal for the jackals and vultures. hour after hour the men waited, huddled together behind the hastily-formed breastwork of the zareba. "swabs" occasionally peered through a loophole in the boxes to get a snap-shot at any figure that might be seen creeping about among the distant bushes. jack, worn out with the night march, stretched himself upon the sand, and, in spite of the constant zip of bullets and discharge of rifles, sank into a deep slumber. at length he was awakened by a general movement among his comrades: orders had been issued for a portion of the column to fight its way to the nile, and a square was being formed for the purpose a little to the left of the zareba. in silence, and with anxious expressions on their faces, the men fell into their places, lying down to escape the leaden hail. the force seemed a ridiculously small one to oppose to the swarming masses of the enemy, yet on its success depended the safety of the whole column. the bugle sounded, and the men sprang to their feet, to be exposed immediately to a heavy fire. slowly and doggedly they moved forward, now halting to close up gaps, and now changing direction to gain more open ground. the vicious bang of rifles, fired at comparatively close range, told of innumerable sharpshooters lurking around in the grass and shrubs. a bullet suddenly tore the metal ornament from the top of jack's helmet, and striking the sword-bayonet of a man behind, knocked his rifle nearly out of his hands. "a miss is as good as a mile!" remarked sergeant sparks; but as he spoke joe crouch was suddenly flung to the ground as though felled by the stroke of a hammer. jack involuntarily uttered a cry of dismay, and the sergeant dropped down on one knee to assist the fallen man. to every one's astonishment, however, the latter rose to his feet unaided, looking rather dazed and gasping for breath, and picking up his rifle staggered back into the ranks. a spent shot had struck him on the bandoleer, demolishing one of the cartridges, but fortunately failing to penetrate the leather belt. now and again the square halted to send a volley wherever the enemy seemed to be gathered in any numbers, then continuing the advance in the same cool, deliberate manner. jack was marching in the left side, close to one of the rear corners, and, as fate would have it, the left half of the rear face was formed of the ----sex, and from the first he had been close to valentine. they were within a dozen yards of each other, and every few moments jack turned his head to assure himself that his cousin was unhurt. for more than an hour the little square had been doggedly pursuing its forward movement, and now the enemy were seen in black masses on the low hills to the left front. "they're coming, that's my belief!" said joe crouch, turning to address his chum. he got no reply; for, at that instant, as the other happened to look round, he saw his cousin stagger and sink down upon the sand. in an instant jack had sprung to his assistance; but this time it was no false alarm. the bullet had done too well its cruel work. for a moment valentine seemed to recognize him, and looking up, with his left hand still clutching at his breast, made a ghastly attempt to smile. then, with a groan, he fell over on his side, and fainted. a stretcher was brought, and jack was ordered sharply to get back to the ranks. as he took his place the square halted, and an excited murmur rose on all sides:-- "here they come!--thank god! they're going to charge!" chapter xx. the river's brink. "then he could see that the bright colours were faded from his uniform; but whether they had been washed off during his journey, or from the effects of his sorrow, no one could say."--_the brave tin soldier_. darkness had fallen, and a thick mist rising from the river made the still, night air damp and penetrating; but the weary men, stretched out upon the sand, slept soundly in spite of the cold, and of the scanty protection from it afforded by their clothing. the dark figures of the sentries surrounding the bivouac, moving slowly to and fro, or pausing to rest on their arms, seemed the only signs of wakefulness, except where the occasional gleam of a lantern shone out as the surgeons went their rounds among the wounded. jack, however, was not asleep. he seemed instead to be just waking up from a troubled dream, in which all that had happened since he had seen valentine placed upon the stretcher had passed before his mind in a confused jumble of sights and sounds, leaving only a vague recollection of what had really taken place:--the oncoming mass of arabs; the crash of the volleys, changing into the continuous roar of independent firing; the pungent reek of the powder as the rolling clouds of smoke enveloped the square; and the sight of the enemy falling in scores, wavering, slackening the pace of their advance, and finally retreating over the distant hills, not one having reached the line of bayonets. then, in the growing dusk, as the square advanced, the sight of the silver stream showing every now and again amidst the green, cultivated strip of land upon its banks; the wild joy of men suffering the tortures of a burning thirst, which swelled their tongues and blackened their lips; and the pitiful sight of the wounded being held up that they might catch a glimpse of the distant river; the wait on the brink of the broad stretch of cool, priceless water, as each face of the square moved up in turn to take its fill; and then, no sucking the dregs of a warm water-bottle, but a long, cold, satisfying drink. [illustration: "the oncoming mass of arabs."] all this, though so recently enacted, seemed to have left but a faint impression of its reality on jack's mind; his one absorbing thought being that valentine was hit, badly wounded, perhaps dying, or even dead. a man approached, and in the darkness stumbled over one of the slumberers. "now, then, where are you coming to?" "dunno--wish i did. d'you men belong to the blankshire? where's your officer?" "can't say. wait a minute; that's he lying by that bit of bush--captain hamling." our hero raised himself into a sitting posture. he had recognized the new-comer as a hospital orderly, and in the surrounding stillness heard him deliver his message:-- "surgeon gaylard sends his compliments, and would you allow one of your men named fenleigh to come and see an officer who's badly wounded? he's some relative i think, sir." "very good," answered the captain drowsily; "you can find him yourself." the orderly had no difficulty in doing that, for in a moment jack was at his side. "is he dying?" "dunno; he's badly hurt--shot through the lungs, and he's asked for you several times." it was a cruel night for the wounded, with nothing to shelter them from the bitter cold. valentine lay upon the ground, with his head propped up against a saddle. the surgeon was stooping over him as the two men approached, and the light of his lamp tell on the pale, pinched features of the sufferer. within the last three days jack had seen scores of men hurried into eternity, and his senses had become hardened by constant association with bloodshed and violent death, yet the sight of those unmistakable lines on that one familiar face turned his heart to stone. "you're some relative, i believe. he seemed very anxious to see you, so i sent the orderly. what?-- yes, you may stay with him if you like; but keep quiet, and don't let him talk more than you can help." "is--is he dying, sir?" "he may live till morning, but i doubt if he will." jack went down on his knees. there was no "sir" this time--sword, and sash, and shoulder-strap were all forgotten. "val!" the great, grey eyes, already heavy with the sleep of death, opened wide. "jack! my dear jack!" "yes; i've come to look after you. are you in much pain?" "no--only when i cough--and--it's dreadfully cold." the listener stifled down a groan. ah, dear thoughts of long ago! such things had never happened on the mimic battlefields at brenlands. this, then, was the reality. "jack, i want you to promise me something--your word of honour to a dying man." a fit of coughing, ending in a groan of agony, interrupted the request. "don't talk too much," answered the other in a broken voice. "what is it you want? i'll do anything for you, god knows!" "i want you to promise that you'll take this ring to queen mab--and give it to her with your own hands. say that i remembered her always--and carried my love for her with me down into the grave. promise me that you will give it her--_yourself_!" valentine ceased speaking, exhausted with the effort. "i will, i will!" returned the other, taking the ring. "but don't talk about dying, val; you'll pull through right enough." the sufferer answered with a feeble shake of his head, and another terrible fit of coughing left him faint and gasping for breath. "stay with me," he whispered. jack propped him up to ease his breathing, and wiped the blood from his pallid lips. for a long, long time he sat silently holding the hand of his dying friend; then, fight against it as he would, exhausted nature began to assert herself in an overpowering desire to sleep. numbed with cold, and wellnigh heart-broken, wretched in body and mind, jealous of the moments as they flew past and of the lessening opportunity of proving his love by any trifling service it might be in his power to render--in spite of all this, an irresistible drowsiness crept over him, and his head fell forward on his knees. the feeble voice was speaking again. "what did you say, val? god forgive me, i cannot keep awake." bending close down to catch the words, he could distinguish, even in the darkness, some faint traces of the old familiar smile. "you used to say--that i had all the luck--but, you remember--at brenlands--it was the lead captain that got killed." jack murmured some reply, he was too worn out and miserable to weep. once more that terrible struggle to keep his heavy eyes from closing; a dozen times he straightened his back, and groaned in bitterness of spirit at the thought that he could wish to sleep at such a time as this; then once again his head sank under the heavy weight of fatigue and want of rest, and everything became a blank. * * * * * awakening with a start, jack scrambled to his feet. how long he had slept he could not tell, nor did he realize where he was till the light of a lantern flashing in his eyes brought him to his senses. "how is--" the question died on his lips. the surgeon took one keen glance, held the lamp closer, and then raised it again. "is he going, sir?" "going? he's gone!" the words were followed by an awful silence; then, for an instant, the yellow gleam of the lamp tell upon the soldier's face. "come, come, my lad!" said the medical officer kindly, "we did what we could for him, but it was hopeless from the first. be thankful that you've got a whole skin yourself. you'd better rejoin your company." the sky was paling with the first indications of the coming dawn. the men were standing to their arms, and jack hurried away to take his place in the ranks, hiding his grief as best he could from the eyes of his comrades. then as he turned to look once more towards the spot whence he had come, he saw, away across the river, the flush of rosy light brighten in the east, and all unbidden there came back to his memory the words of queen mab's hymn. the sun rose with a red glare, scattering the mist and sending a glow of warmth across the desert; and once more the old, sweet melody was sounding in his heart, while all around seemed telling of hopes fulfilled and sorrows vanquished when "morning's joy shall end the night of weeping." chapter xxi. "when johnny comes marching home again!" "it touched the tin soldier so much to see her that he almost wept tin tears, but he kept them back. he looked at her, and they both remained silent."--_the brave tin soldier_. it was a hot, still afternoon in august. the birds were silent, hardly a leaf stirred, and everything seemed to have dozed off to sleep in the quiet sunshine. old ned brown, the cobbler, and general "handy-man" of the village, who, in days gone by, had often bound bats and done other odd jobs for "miss fenleigh's young nevies," laid down his awl, and gazed out of the window of his dingy little shop. a soldier was walking slowly down the road. his boots were covered with dust, and on the breast of his red coat glittered the egyptian medal and the khedive's cross. "that must be widow crouch's son," said ned to himself. "i heard he was back from the war. maybe he'll know summat about the young gen'leman who used to come and stay up at the house yonder, and who, they say, was killed. ah, yes! i remember him well--a nice, pleasant-spoken young chap! dear me, dear me! sad work, sad work!" with a shake of his head, the old man once more picked up the shoe he was mending, still muttering to himself, "yes, i remember him--sad work, sad work!" the soldier strode on. his thoughts also were busy with memories of the past. in one sense he was not alone; for before him, in fancy, walked a boy--a rather surly, uncared-for looking young dog, with hands in his pockets, coat thrown open, and cricket cap perched on the back of his head, as though in open defiance of the rain that was falling. the road had been damp and dismal then; to-day it was dry and dusty; but the heart of the man who trod it was no lighter than it had been that evening ten years ago. the old cobbler had been mistaken. it was not joe crouch, but jack fenleigh, who had just passed the window of the little shop. he was thinking of the first time he had come to brenlands at the commencement of the summer holidays, after having been kept back on the breaking-up day as a punishment for sending a pillow through the glass ventilator of the long dormitory. "i didn't want to face her then," he said to himself, switching the dust off his trousers with his cane. "and yet, how kind she was! never mind! she won't know me now. valentine promised he wouldn't write, and he never broke his word." jack had walked from melchester. more than once in the course of the journey he had hesitated, and thought of turning back; but the sacredness of the promise made to a dying man had compelled him to go forward. he turned the corner, and slackened his pace as he saw before him the old house nestling among the trees. there was no board with to let printed on it, such as usually, in story-books, greets the eye of the returning wanderer. the place was just the same as it always had been; and the very fact of its being unchanged appealed to his feelings in a manner which it would be impossible to describe. the white front gate, whose hinges had been so often tried by its being transformed into a sort of merry-go-round; the clumps of laurel bushes which had afforded such good hiding-places in games of "i spy;" even the long-suffering little brass weathercock above the stable roof, which had served as a mark for catapult shooting,--these, and a hundred other objects on which his eyes rested, recalled memories which softened his heart, and brought back more vividly than ever the recollection of that faithful friend, whose last request he was about to fulfil. "i must do it," he muttered, feeling in his pocket for the ring; "i promised him i would." he pushed open the gate, and walked almost on tiptoe down the path, casting anxious glances at the windows. to his great relief it was not jane who opened the door, but a new servant. "is miss fenleigh in?" he stammered. "will you tell her a--a private soldier has brought her something from an officer who died in egypt?" the girl showed him into the old, quiet parlour (as if he could not have found the way thither himself), and there left him. it was very still. nothing broke the silence but the sleepy tick of the clock, and the sound of some one (jakes, perhaps) raking gravel on the garden path. everything was unaltered. there was the little bust of minerva that barbara had once adorned with a paper bonnet; the fretsaw bookcase that the two boys had made at school; and the quaint little glass-fronted cupboard, let into the panelling, from which the watch had been stolen. in the years that had passed, only one thing in the room had changed, and that was the tall figure in uniform standing on the hearthrug. he turned to look at himself in the glass. the dark moustache, bronzed skin, red tunic with its white collar and badges of the "royal tiger;" all these things had never been reflected there before, and for the twentieth time during the last half-hour he sought to reassure himself with the thought that his disguise was complete. "she'll never recognize me!" he muttered. "it's all right." then the door opened, and for an instant his heart seemed to stop beating. the same easy dignity and graciousness of manner, the same sweet womanly face, and the same depths of love and ready sympathy in her clear, calm eyes. she was dressed in mourning, and at her throat was the brooch containing the locks of the children's hair. jack noticed it at once, and saw, too, that the little silver locket still had its place among the gold trinkets on her watch chain; and the sight of it very nearly brought him down upon his knees at her feet. she seemed smaller than ever, and now, standing in front of him, her upturned face was about on a level with the medals on his breast. what was it made his chest heave and his lips tremble as he encountered her gaze? however foolish and headstrong he might have been in the past, he knew he had only to declare himself and it would all be forgotten and forgiven. "you may doubt us," valentine had said, "but we have never lost faith in you." yes, that was it; she loved her ugly duckling, believing even now that, in spite of outward appearances, it would one day turn into a swan. but the years had slipped away, and the change had never taken place. she might hope that it had, and it was best that she should never know the truth. with a set face he began to speak. "i've lately returned from egypt, and saw there your nephew, lieutenant fenleigh, of the ----sex regiment." he tried to say "ma'am," but even at that moment it seemed too great a mockery, and the word choked him. "i was with him when he died on the banks of the nile. he asked me to bring you this, and to give it to you with my own hands." she took the ring, but without moving her eyes from the speaker's face. "he asked me to tell you that he remembered you always." the voice grew husky, and the lady drew a little closer, perhaps to hear more plainly what was said. "and to say that he carried his--his love for you with him down into the grave." with a great effort jack finished the message. the words had brought back a flood of vivid recollections of that dreadful night, and his eyes were filled with blinding tears. he turned to brush them away, and as he did so he felt queen mab's arms meet round his neck. "you dear old boy! don't you think i know you? don't you think i knew you as soon as you came inside the gate?" he made some attempt to reply, uttered a broken word or two, and then turned away his head; but she, standing on tiptoe, drew it down lower and lower, until at length it rested on her shoulder. and so the ugly duckling ended his wanderings. * * * * * no autumn frosts or winter snows could ever have fallen on that garden, for here were the same flowers, and fruit, and ferns as had bloomed and ripened that last august holiday seven years ago. so, at least, thought jack, as he and his aunt walked together along the paths. "did he write from egypt to tell you about me?" "no; but i've always been expecting you. i knew you'd come back some time." "i didn't think you'd recognize me." "valentine knew i should. don't you see it was you he sent home to me, and not the ring?" jack was silent. everything that his eye rested upon reminded him of that faithful, boyish friendship, and his lip quivered. queen mab noticed it, and changed the subject. "i wonder what jakes will think to see me walking about arm-in-arm with a soldier," she said gaily. "never mind, i must make the most of it while it lasts. i'm afraid i shan't have many more opportunities of 'keeping company' with a red-coat." "how d'you mean?" he asked, with an uneasy, downward glance at his uniform. "my time isn't up for nearly three years; and i know i ought not to come here in this rig-out." "don't talk nonsense," she answered. "you're a pretty soldier to be ashamed of your cloth. isn't it possible for a man to do his duty unless he has a pair of epaulettes on his shoulders? can't he do it under any kind of coat? come now," she added, shaking his arm, and looking up into his face with a mischievous twinkle in her eyes, "don't you think, for the matter of that, a man could be a hero in his shirt sleeves?" "yes," answered jack, laughing. "oh, you do! i'm glad you've come to that conclusion at last." "why?" "why? because i think you'll soon have to give us a practical illustration of how a man can distinguish himself by being capable and trustworthy, even in plain clothes. that opens up a subject that i have a lot to tell you about. have you heard that your father and your uncle john are friends again?" "yes; val said something about it." "you haven't heard," she continued quietly, "that before the second battle valentine made a will, and gave it to a friend to be sent home in case he was killed. it was more in the form of a long letter, roughly written on the leaves of a pocket-book. a great deal of it was about you. he did not break his promise to you, and say actually that he had seen you, and where you were; but he assured us that he knew you had not gone to the bad, but were living an honest life, and that before long we should see you again. then he begged his father, as a last request, to do something for you, and to treat you as his own son. your uncle was over the other day. he is very anxious to carry out valentine's wishes, and would like to take you into his own business, with a view to an ultimate partnership." "it's awfully good of him," murmured jack huskily. "well, that's what he intends to do. but come, it's time i put in the tea." "it's time i went," he murmured. "time you went? what nonsense! you say you've got a week's furlough, and that you left your things at the black horse. well, i'm just going to send jakes to fetch them. why, i quite forgot to tell you that little bar was staying here." the person who had just stepped out from the open french window on to the lawn was certainly no longer little, but a tall, graceful young lady. there was, however, still some trace in her roguish mouth and dancing eyes of the smaller barbara who had wrought such havoc among her enemies by firing six peas at a time instead of two. jack had never before been frightened at bar, of all people in the world; but now, if queen mab had not still retained her hold of his arm, he might very likely have bolted into the shrubbery. the girl advanced slowly across the lawn, casting inquiring glances, first at the red coat and medals, and then at the bronzed face of the stranger. then suddenly her mouth opened, and she quickened her pace to a run. "oh, you rascal!" she cried. "it's jack!" that was all the speech-making barbara thought necessary in welcoming the returning prodigal; and not caring a straw for bars and ribbons, pipeclay, and "royal tigers," she embraced him in the same hearty manner as she had always done when they met at the commencement of bygone summer holidays. the dainty tea-table was a great change after the barrack-room. the pretty china cups seemed wonderfully small and fragile compared with the familiar basin; and once jack found himself absent-mindedly stuffing his serviette into his sleeve, under the impression that it was his handkerchief. "why, when was the last time you had tea here?" asked barbara. "it must have been that summer when raymond--" she stopped short, but the last word instantly brought to jack's mind the recollection of that evening when fosberton had charged him with being a thief. "by-the-bye," he exclaimed, "i forgot to tell you--i've found the watch." "yes, i know," answered queen mab quietly. "valentine gave a full account of it in his letter." jack was just going to launch out into a long and forcible tirade on the subject of the theft, but his cousin signed to him across the table to let the matter drop. "aunt has been in such a dreadful way about it," she explained afterwards. "only she and ourselves know about it. she doesn't like even to have raymond's name mentioned. he has turned out a thorough scamp, and has given uncle fosberton no end of trouble. father happened to know the friends of that officer who was killed, and when his things were sent home the watch was returned; so it's back again now in the same old place. aunt has never told any one, not even raymond himself, as she doesn't want to bring fresh trouble on his parents." later on in the evening, as they sat together in the old, panelled parlour in the soft light of the shaded lamp, the talk turned naturally and sweetly on valentine--on all that he used to say and do; and jack told as best he could the story of the desert march, and of that last sad parting on the river's brink. after he had finished, there was a silence; then barbara picked up the piece of work she had laid down. "so you didn't find war quite such a jolly thing as you used to think it would be?" she said, looking across at him with a tearful smile. "no," he answered thoughtfully. "i suppose things that you have long set your mind on seldom turn out exactly what you want and expect them to be. i'm glad i saw active service, and i'd go through it all again a hundred times for the sake of having been with valentine when he died; though it was little i could do for him, more than to say good-bye." queen mab rose from her chair, and stooped over the speaker to wish him good-night. "never mind," she said softly. "i'm glad to think of both my boys that their warfare is accomplished!" chapter xxii conclusion. "i never dreamed of such happiness as this while i was an ugly duckling!"--_the ugly duckling_. the old house at brenlands still remains unaltered, except that the empty room upstairs, once the scene of so many terrible conflicts between miniature metal armies, has been turned into a nursery. another generation of children is growing up now, and eagerly they listen while aunt mabel tells the old story of the tin soldier who went adventuring in a paper boat, and came back in the end to the place from which he had started; or the history of the little lead captain, who stands keeping guard over the precious things in the treasure cupboard; and who once, after bearing the brunt of a long engagement, fell in front of his men, just as the fighting ended. when the nursery is in use, a long-forgotten little gateway makes its appearance at the top of the stairs, and "uncle jack" pays toll through the bars to the chubby little helen standing on the other side. queen mab tries to make out that she is growing older; but her courtiers will not believe it, and go so far as to scoff at and hide her spectacle case, declaring that her wearing glasses is only a pretence. but though brenlands and its queen may seem the same as ever, many of those connected with it in our story have experienced changes, of which some mention should be made. old jakes has been obliged to give up the gardening, and joe crouch has been installed in his stead. joe has finished his time, both with the colours and in the reserve; but he is the soldier still--smart, clean, and never needing to have an order repeated twice. he often unconsciously falls back into former habits, and comes marching up the path with his spade at the "slope" or his hoe at the "trail," whistling softly the old quick-step, which once drew our hero to "go with the rest, and follow the drum." for jack he cherishes the fondest regard and deepest admiration, which he never hesitates to express in such words as these:-- "aw, yes, sir! he's what i call the right sort, is master jack. he don't turn his back on an old cumred, as some would. i 'member the day he bought himself out. 'well, good-bye,' says i--'we've been soldierin' together a good time, and in some queer places; but now you're goin' back to be a gen'leman again, and i suppose we shan't see each other never no more.' 'i should be a precious poor gen'leman if i ever forgot you, joe,' says he; 'you stood by me when i first came to barracks, and some day i hope i shall be able to do something for you in return.' and so he did, for he kept writin' to me, and when my time was up he got me this place. look here, sir, the day he come to enlist the corporal at the gate says to him, 'we ought to make a general of such a fine chap as you;' and you take my word for it, that's just what they would have made of him, if he'd only stopped long enough!" of barbara something might be said, but that something is for the present supposed to be a secret. jack, who, like the average boy, always seemed to have a knack of finding out things that were intended to be kept private, knows more than he ought about this matter; and bringing out a handful of coppers at the table, and representing them to be the whole of his savings, declares that he will be "dead broke" should any unforeseen circumstance necessitate his purchasing a wedding present. whereupon his cousin blushes, and puts her fingers in her ears, and says, "i can't hear," but listens all the time. of raymond fosberton, perhaps the less said the better. his name has come very near being mentioned in a court of law, for forging his father's signature to a cheque, and is therefore seldom mentioned among his friends. one thing, however, might be told concerning his last visit to brenlands. a year after that eventful christmas in egypt, jack was sitting before the fire in queen mab's parlour, when raymond was announced, and shown into the room. he was dressed, as usual, in good though rather flashy clothes; but in spite of this, he looked cheap and common, and his general appearance gave one the impression of dirt wrapped up in silver paper. the moment he saw jack a spiteful look came into his face, and he took no pains to conceal the old dislike and hatred with which he still regarded the latter. "hallo! so you've turned up again. i thought you'd soon get sick of soldiering; too much hard work to suit your book, i expect." "no; i left it because i had a chance of something better. aunt mabel's out; will you wait till she comes back?" jack had seen more of the world since the day when he had knocked the visitor into the laurel bush; and could now realize that queen mab had spoken the truth when she said that punching heads was not always the most satisfactory kind of revenge. he had a score to settle with raymond; but he regarded the latter now as a pitiful fellow not worth quarrelling with, and he hesitated, half-minded to let the matter drop without mentioning what was on his mind. fosberton mistook the meaning of the other's averted glance. he thought himself master of the situation, and, like a fool, having, figuratively speaking, been given enough rope, he promptly proceeded to hang himself. "you've been lying low for a precious long time," he continued, maliciously. "why didn't you come here before? you've been asked often enough!" "i had my own reasons for stopping away." "you didn't like to come back after the bother about that watch, i suppose?" jack let him run on. "that was partly it," he answered. "well, then," continued raymond, with a sneer, "you made a great mistake bolting like that; you gave yourself away completely." "i don't understand you," returned the other, with a sharper ring in his voice. "d'you mean to charge me again with having stolen the watch?" "pooh! i daresay you know what's become of it." "yes," answered jack calmly, at the same time fixing the other with a steady stare, "i _do_ know what's become of it: at the present moment it's in its case in that cupboard there. shall i show it you?" the answer was so strange and unexpected that raymond started; the meaning look in his cousin's eyes warned him that he was treading on dangerous ground. he had, however, gone too far to let the matter drop suddenly without any attempt to brazen out the situation. "humph!" he said; "i suppose you put it back yourself." "i was the means of its being brought back. i found it in the pocket of an officer named lawson who was killed in egypt." the withering tone and scornful curl of the lip was on the other side now. the visitor was fully aware of it, and winced as though he had been cut with a whip. "mr. lawson had been stationed with the regiment at melchester, and i happen to know how the watch came into his possession." raymond saw that he had rushed into a pitfall of his own making--he was entirely in his opponent's hands--and like the mean cur he was, immediately began to sue for forgiveness and terms of peace. "hush!" he cried, glancing at the door. "don't say any more, the servants might hear. i'm very sorry i did it, but you know how it was; i was pushed for money, i say, you haven't told any one, have you?" "no. uncle john and aunt mabel know; though i don't think you need fear that they will let it go any further." "that's all right," continued raymond, in a snivelling tone. "i was badgered for money, and i really couldn't help it. i've been sorry enough since. i don't think i'll wait any longer, i'm in rather a hurry. well, good-bye. and look here, old chap--i'm afraid i treated you rather badly; but well let bygones be bygones. i don't want it to get to the governor's ears, so you won't mention it, will you?" jack cast a contemptuous glance at the proffered hand, and put his own behind his back. "no; i won't tell any one," he answered shortly, then turned on his heel, and that was his revenge. and now the only person remaining of whom a last word might be said at parting, is our hero himself. it was a balmy evening in that eternal summer that seemed to reign at brenlands; and he and queen mab were walking slowly round the green lawn, while the swallows went wheeling to and fro overhead. fastened to her bunch of trinkets next the locket was a silver coin--the enlisting shilling, which jack had never parted with since he first received it on that memorable morning at the melchester barracks. "yes," said aunt mabel, "it was queen victoria's once, but now it's mine!" "well, i think i earned it," he answered, laughing. "perhaps you'd like to go and earn another?" "no; i'm too happy where i am. uncle john is awfully good to me. he couldn't be kinder if i were his own son." "so you're content at last to stay at home and take what's given you?" "yes; i think i've settled down at last. dear old val said that the lane would turn some time, and so it has. my luck's changed." "i think i'd put it down to something better than that," said queen mab, smiling. "perhaps it is not all luck, but a little of yourself that has changed." jack laughed again, but made no attempt to deny the truth of the suggestion. possibly he felt that what she said was right, and that not only in his surroundings, but also in his own heart, had come at last the long lane's turning. the end. nelson's books for boys. _the books below are specially suitable for boys, and a better selection of well-written, attractively-bound, and beautifully-illustrated gift and prize books cannot be found. the list may be selected from with the greatest confidence, the imprint of messrs. nelson being a guarantee of wholesomeness as well as of interest and general good quality. for further selections see under ballantyne, kingston, nelson's "royal" libraries, etc._ _many illustrated in colours._ "captain swing." harold avery. hostage for a kingdom. f. b. forester. firelock and steel. harold avery. a captive of the corsairs. john finnemore. the duffer. warren bell. a king's comrade. c. w. whistler. in the trenches. john finnemore. in jacobite days. mrs. clarke. heads or tails? (a school story.) h. avery. held to ransom. (a story of brigands.) f. b. forester. jack hooper. v. cameron, r.n., c.b., d.c.l. jack ralston. (life in canada.) h. burnham. with pack and rifle in the far south-west. achilles daunt. a captain of irregulars. (war in chili.) herbert hayens. red, white, and green. (hungarian revolution.) herbert hayens. in the grip of the spaniard. herbert hayens. the tiger of the pampas. h. hayens. true to his nickname. harold avery. red cap. e. s. tylee. a sea-queen's sailing. c. w. whistler. play the game! harold avery. highway pirates. (a school story.) harold avery. sale's sharpshooters. harold avery. a rattling story of how three boys formed a very irregular volunteer corps. for king or empress? (stephen and matilda.) c. w. whistler. soldiers of the cross. e. f. pollard. tom graham, v.c. william johnston. one of buller's horse. william johnston. the fellow who won. andrew home. beggars of the sea. tom bevan. a trusty rebel. mrs. henry clarke. the british legion. herbert hayens. scouting for buller. herbert hayens. the island of gold. dr. gordon stables. harold the norseman. fred whishaw. nelson's books at one and sixpence. _stories for boys and girls._ from the back of beyond. mrs. roberton. countess dora's companion. mrs. bennitt. two little cavaliers. w. bettesworth. the luck of chervil. h. elrington. knights of the red cross. d. moore. john knox's "bairns." margaret h. roberton. mark's princess. mrs. edwin hohler. the round tower. a story of the irish rebellion of ' . florence m. s. scott. the riverton boys. k. m. eady. dorothy's difficulties. m. c. cordue. evelyn. dorothea moore. jake. adela f. mount. a helping hand. m. b. synge. the queen's namesake. m. b. synge. a happy failure. ethel dawson. fifine and her friends. sheila e. braine. a little cockney. miss gaye. mark hamilton's daughters. a. f. robertson. a story of seven. bridget penn. three sailor boys. commander cameron. terry's trials and triumphs. j. m. oxley. true to the flag. mrs. glasgow. bobby's surprises. three scottish heroines. e. c. traice. nelson's "royal" libraries. the shilling series. _eight coloured plates in nearly every volume._ archie digby. g. e. wyatt. as we sweep through the deep. gordon stables, m.d. at the black rocks. edward rand. aunt sally. constance milman. cyril's promise. a temperance tale. w. j. lacey. georgie merton. florence harrington. grey house on the hill. hon. mrs. greene. hudson bay. r. m. ballantyne. jubilee hall. hon. mrs. greene. lost squire of inglewood. dr. jackson. mark marksen's secret. jessie armstrong. martin rattler. r. m. ballantyne. rhoda's reform. m. a. paull. shenac. the story of a highland family in canada. sir aylmer's heir. e. everett-green. soldiers of the queen. harold avery. the coral island. r. m. ballantyne. the dog crusoe. r. m. ballantyne. the golden house. mrs. woods baker. the gorilla hunters. r. m. ballantyne. the robber baron. a. j. foster. the willoughby boys. emily c. hartley. ungava. r. m. ballantyne. world of ice. r. m. ballantyne. t. nelson and sons, london, edinburgh, dublin, and new york. (this file was made using scans of public domain works in the international children's digital library.) the crofton boys by harriet martineau author of "the peasant and the prince," "feats on the fiord," etc., etc. london george routledge and sons broadway, ludgate hill new york: , lafayette place ballantyne press ballantyne, hanson and co., edinburgh chandos street, london [illustration: the crofton boys.] contents. i. all the proctors but phil ii. why mr. tooke came iii. michaelmas-day come iv. michaelmas-day over v. crofton play vi. first ramble vii. what is only to be had at home viii. a long day ix. crofton quiet x. little victories xi. domestic manners xii. holt and his dignity xiii. tripping xiv. holt and his help xv. conclusion the crofton boys. chapter i. all the proctors but phil. mr. proctor, the chemist and druggist, kept his shop, and lived in the strand, london. his children thought that there was never anything pleasanter than the way they lived. their house was warm in winter, and such a little distance from the church, that they had no difficulty in getting to church and back again, in the worst weather, before their shoes were wet. they were also conveniently near to covent garden market; so that, if any friend dropped in to dinner unexpectedly, jane and agnes could be off to the market, and buy a fowl, or some vegetables or fruit, and be back again before they were missed. it was not even too far for little harry to trot with one of his sisters, early on a summer's morning, to spend his penny (when he happened to have one) on a bunch of flowers, to lay on papa's plate, to surprise him when he came in to breakfast. not much farther off was the temple garden, where mrs. proctor took her children every fine summer evening to walk and breathe the air from the river; and when mr. proctor could find time to come to them for a turn or two before the younger ones must go home to bed, it seemed to the whole party the happiest and most beautiful place in the whole world,--except one. they had once been to broadstairs, when the children were in poor health after the measles: and for ever after, when they thought of the waves beating on the shore, and of the pleasures of growing strong and well among the sea-breezes, they felt that there might be places more delightful than the temple garden: but they were still very proud and fond of the grass and trees, and the gravel walks, and the view over the thames, and were pleased to show off the garden to all friends from the country who came to visit them. the greatest privilege of all, however, was that they could see the river without going out of their own house. there were three back windows to the house, one above another; and from the two uppermost of these windows there was what the children called a view of the thames. there was a gap of a few yards wide between two high brick houses: and through this gap might be seen the broad river, with vessels of every kind passing up or down. outside the second window were some leads, affording space for three or four chairs: and here it was that jane and agnes liked to sit at work, on certain hours of fine days. there were times when these leads were too hot, the heat of the sun being reflected from the surrounding brick walls; but at an earlier hour before the shadows were gone, and when the air blew in from the river, the place was cool, and the little girls delighted to carry their stools to the leads, and do their sewing there. there philip would condescend to spend a part of his mornings, in his midsummer holidays, frightening his sisters with climbing about in dangerous places, or amusing them with stories of school-pranks, or raising his younger brother hugh's envy of the boys who were so happy as to be old enough to go to school at mr. tooke's, at crofton. the girls had no peace from their brothers climbing about in dangerous places. hugh was, if possible, worse than philip for this. he imitated all philip's feats, and had some of his own besides. in answer to jane's lectures and the entreaties of agnes, hugh always declared that he had a right to do such things, as he meant to be a soldier or a sailor; and how should he be able to climb the mast of a ship, or the walls of a city, if he did not begin to practise now? agnes was almost sorry they had been to broadstairs, and could see ships in the thames, when she considered that, if hugh had not seen so much of the world, he might have been satisfied to be apprenticed to his father, when old enough, and to have lived at home happily with his family. jane advised agnes not to argue with hugh, and then perhaps his wish to rove about the world might go off. she had heard her father say that, when he was a boy, and used to bring home news of victories, and help to put up candles at the windows on illumination nights, he had a great fancy for being a soldier; but that it was his fortune to see some soldiers from spain, and hear from them what war really was, just when peace came, and when there was no more glory to be got; so that he had happily settled down to be a london shop-keeper--a lot which he would not exchange with that of any man living. hugh was very like papa, jane added; and the same change might take place in his mind, if he was not made perverse by argument. so agnes only sighed, and bent her head closer over her work, as she heard hugh talk of the adventures he meant to have when he should be old enough to get away from old england. there was one person that laughed at hugh for this fancy of his;--miss harold, the daily governess, who came to keep school for three hours every morning. when hugh forgot his lesson, and sat staring at the upper panes of the window, in a reverie about his future travels; or when he was found to have been drawing a soldier on his slate instead of doing his sum, miss harold reminded him what a pretty figure a soldier would cut who knew no geography, or a sailor who could not make his reckonings, for want of attending early to his arithmetic. hugh could not deny this; but he was always wishing that school-hours were over, that he might get under the great dining-table to read robinson crusoe, or might play at shipwreck, under pretence of amusing little harry. it did make him ashamed to see how his sisters got on, from the mere pleasure of learning, and without any idea of ever living anywhere but in london; while he, who seemed to have so much more reason for wanting the very knowledge that they were obtaining, could not settle his mind to his lessons. jane was beginning to read french books for her amusement in leisure hours; and agnes was often found to have covered two slates with sums in practice, just for pleasure, while he could not master the very moderate lessons miss harold set him. it is true, he was two years younger than agnes: but she had known more of everything that he had learned, at seven years old, than he now did at eight. hugh began to feel very unhappy. he saw that miss harold was dissatisfied, and was pretty sure that she had spoken to his mother about him. he felt that his mother became more strict in making him sit down beside her, in the afternoon, to learn his lessons for the next day; and he was pretty sure that agnes went out of the room because she could not help crying when his sum was found to be all wrong, or when he mistook his tenses, or when he said (as he did every day, though regularly warned to mind what he was about) that four times seven is fifty-six. every day these things weighed more on hugh's spirits; every day he felt more and more like a dunce; and when philip came home for the midsummer holidays, and told all manner of stories about all sorts of boys at school, without describing anything like hugh's troubles with miss harold, hugh was seized with a longing to go to crofton at once, as he was certainly too young to go at present into the way of a shipwreck or a battle. the worst of it was, there was no prospect of his going yet to crofton. in mr. tooke's large school there was not one boy younger than ten; and philip believed that mr. tooke did not like to take little boys. hugh was aware that his father and mother meant to send him to school with philip by-and-by; but the idea of having to wait--to do his lessons with miss harold every day till he should be ten years old, made him roll himself on the parlour carpet in despair. philip was between eleven and twelve. he was happy at school: and he liked to talk all about it at home. these holidays, hugh made a better listener than even his sisters; and he was a more amusing one--he knew so little about the country. he asked every question that could be imagined about the playground at the crofton school, and the boys' doings out of school; and then, when philip fancied he must know all about what was done, out came some odd remark which showed what wrong notions he had formed of a country life. hugh had not learned half that he wanted to know, and his little head was full of wonder and mysterious notions, when the holidays came to an end, and philip had to go away. from that day hugh was heard to talk less of spain, and the sea, and desert islands, and more of the crofton boys; and his play with little harry was all of being at school. at his lessons, meantime, he did not improve at all. one very warm day, at the end of august, five weeks after philip had returned to school, miss harold had stayed full ten minutes after twelve o'clock to hear hugh say one line of the multiplication-table over and over again, to cure him of saying that four times seven is fifty-six; but all in vain: and mrs. proctor had begged her not to spend any more time to-day upon it. miss harold went away, the girls took their sewing, and sat down at their mother's work-table, while hugh was placed before her, with his hands behind his back, and desired to look his mother full in the face, to begin again with "four times one is four," and go through the line, taking care what he was about. he did so; but before he came to four times seven, he sighed, fidgetted, looked up at the corners of the room, off into the work-basket, out into the street, and always, as if by a spell, finished with "four times seven is fifty-six." jane looked up amazed--agnes looked down ashamed; his mother looked with severity in his face. he began the line a fourth time, when, at the third figure, he started as if he had been shot. it was only a knock at the door that he had heard; a treble knock, which startled nobody else, though, from the parlour door being open, it sounded pretty loud. mrs. proctor spread a handkerchief over the stockings in her work-basket; jane put back a stray curl which had fallen over her face; agnes lifted up her head with a sigh, as if relieved that the multiplication-table must stop for this time; and hugh gazed into the passage, through the open door, when he heard a man's step there. the maid announced mr. tooke, of crofton; and mr. tooke walked in. mrs. proctor had actually to push hugh to one side,--so directly did he stand in the way between her and her visitor. he stood, with his hands still behind his back, gazing up at mr. tooke, with his face hotter than the multiplication-table had ever made it, and his eyes staring quite as earnestly as they had ever done to find robinson crusoe's island in the map. "go, child," said mrs. proctor: but this was not enough. mr. tooke himself had to pass him under his left arm before he could shake hands with mrs. proctor. hugh was now covered with shame at this hint that he was in the way; but yet he did not leave the room. he stole to the window, and flung himself down on two chairs, as if looking into the street from behind the blind; but he saw nothing that passed out of doors, so eager was his hope of hearing something of the crofton boys,--their trap-ball, and their saturday walk with the usher. not a word of this kind did he hear. as soon as mr. tooke had agreed to stay to dinner, his sisters were desired to carry their work elsewhere,--to the leads, if they liked; and he was told that he might go to play. he had hoped he might be overlooked in the window; and unwillingly did he put down first one leg and then the other from the chairs, and saunter out of the room. he did not choose to go near his sisters, to be told how stupidly he had stood in the gentleman's way; so, when he saw that they were placing their stools on the leads, he went up into the attic, and then down into the kitchen, to see where little harry was, to play at school-boys in the back yard. the maid susan was not sorry that harry was taken off her hands; for she wished to rub up her spoons, and fill her castors afresh, for the sake of the visitor who had come in. the thoughtful jane soon came down with the keys to get out a clean table-cloth, and order a dish of cutlets, in addition to the dinner, and consult with susan about some dessert; so that, as the little boys looked up from their play, they saw agnes sitting alone at work upon the leads. they had played some time, hugh acting a naughty boy who could not say his latin lesson to the usher, and little harry punishing him with far more words than a real usher uses on such an occasion, when they heard agnes calling them from above their heads. she was leaning over from the leads, begging hugh to come up to her,--that very moment. harry must be left below, as the leads were a forbidden place for him. so harry went to jane, to see her dish up greengage plums which he must not touch: and hugh ran up the stairs. as he passed through the passage, his mother called him. full of some kind of hope (he did not himself know what), he entered the parlour, and saw mr. tooke's eyes fixed on him. but his mother only wanted him to shut the door as he passed; that was all. it had stood open, as it usually did on warm days. could his mother wish it shut on account of anything she was saying? it was possible. "o hugh!" exclaimed agnes, as soon as he set foot on the leads. "what do you think?--but is the parlour door shut? who shut it?" "mother bade me shut it, as i passed." "o dear!" said agnes, in a tone of disappointment; "then she did not mean us to hear what they were talking about." "what was it? anything about the crofton boys? anything about phil?" "i cannot tell you a word about it. mamma did not know i heard them. how plain one can hear what they say in that parlour, hugh, when the door is open! what do you think i heard mamma tell mrs. bicknor, last week, when i was jumping harry off the third stair?" "never mind that. tell me what they are talking about now. do, agnes." agnes shook her head. "now do, dear." it was hard for agnes to refuse hugh anything, at any time; more still when he called her "dear," which he seldom did; and most of all when he put his arm round her neck, as he did now. but she answered,-- "i should like to tell you every word; but i cannot now. mamma has made you shut the door. she does not wish you to hear it." "me! then will you tell jane?" "yes. i shall tell jane, when we are with mamma at work." "that is too bad!" exclaimed hugh, flinging himself down on the leads so vehemently that his sister was afraid he would roll over into the yard. "what does jane care about crofton and the boys to what i do?" "there is one boy there that jane cares about more than you do, or i, or anybody, except papa and mamma. jane loves phil." "o, then, what they are saying in the parlour is about phil." "i did not say that." "you pretend you love me as jane loves phil! and now you are going to tell her what you wont tell me! agnes, i will tell you everything i know all my whole life, if you will just whisper this now. only just whisper--or, i will tell you what. i will guess and guess; and you can nod or shake your head. that wont be telling." "for shame, hugh! phil would laugh at you for being a girl, if you are so curious. what mamma told mrs. bicknor was that jane was her right hand. what do you think that meant exactly?" "that jane might give you a good slap when you are so provoking," said hugh, rolling over and over, till his clothes were covered with dust, and agnes really thought once that he was fairly going over the edge into the yard. "there is something that i can tell you, hugh; something that i want to tell you, and nobody else," said agnes, glad to see him stop rolling about, and raise himself on his dusty elbow to look at her. "well, come, what is it?" "you must promise beforehand not to be angry." "angry! when am i angry, pray? come, tell me." "you must--you really must--i have a particular reason for saying so--you must learn how much four times seven is. now, remember, you promised not to be angry." hugh carried off his anger by balancing himself on his head, as if he meant to send his heels over, but that there was no room. from upside down, his voice was heard saying that he knew that as well as agnes. "well, then, how much is it?" "twenty-eight, to be sure. who does not know that?" "then pray do not call it fifty-six any more. miss harold----" "there's the thing," said hugh. "when miss harold is here, i can think of nothing but fifty-six. it seems to sound in my ears, as if somebody spoke it, 'four times seven is fifty-six.'" "you will make me get it by heart, too, if you say it so often," said agnes. "you had better say 'twenty-eight' over to yourself all day long. you may say it to me as often as you like. i shall not get tired. come, begin now--'four times seven----'" "i have had enough of that for to-day--tiresome stuff! now, i shall go and play with harry again." "but wait--just say that line once over, hugh. i have a reason for wishing it. i have, indeed." "mother has been telling mr. tooke that i cannot say my multiplication-table! now, that is too bad!" exclaimed hugh. "and they will make me say it after dinner! what a shame!" "why, hugh! you know mamma does not like--you know mamma would not--you know mamma never does anything unkind. you should not say such things, hugh." "ay, there! you cannot say that she has not told mr. tooke that i say my tables wrong." "well--you know you always do say it wrong to her." "i will go somewhere. i will hide myself. i will run to the market while the cloth is laying. i will get away, and not come back till mr. tooke is gone. i will never say my multiplication-table to him!" "never?" said agnes, with an odd smile and a sigh. "however, do not talk of running away, or hiding yourself. you will not have to say anything to mr. tooke to-day." "how do you know?" "i feel sure you will not. i do not believe mr. tooke will talk to you, or to any of us. there you go! you will be in the water-butt in a minute, if you tumble so." "i don't care if i am. mr. tooke will not come there to hear me say my tables. let me go!" he cried, struggling, for now agnes had caught him by the ankle. "if i do tumble in, the water is not up to my chin, and it will be a cool hiding-place this hot day." "but there is susan gone to lay the cloth; and you must be brushed; for you are all over dust. come up, and i will brush you." hugh was determined to have a little more dust first. he rolled once more the whole length of the leads, turned over jane's stool, and upset her work-basket, so that her thimble bounded off to a far corner, and the shirt-collar she was stitching fell over into the water-butt. "there! what will jane say?" cried agnes, picking up the basket, and peeping over into the small part of the top of the water-butt which was not covered. "there never was anything like boys for mischief," said the maid susan, who now appeared to pull hugh in, and make him neat. susan always found time, between laying the cloth and bringing up dinner, to smooth hugh's hair, and give a particular lock a particular turn on his forehead with a wet comb. "let that alone," said hugh, as agnes peeped into the butt after the drowning collar. "i will have the top off this afternoon, and it will make good fishing for harry and me." agnes had to let the matter alone; for hugh was so dusty that she had to brush one side of him while susan did the other. susan gave him some hard knocks while she assured him that he was not going to have harry up on the leads to learn his tricks, or to be drowned. she hardly knew which of the two would be the worst for harry. it was lucky for hugh that susan was wanted below directly, for she scolded him the whole time she was parting and smoothing his hair. when it was done, however, and the wet lock on his forehead took the right turn at once, she gave him a kiss in the very middle of it, and said she knew he would be a good boy before the gentleman from the country. hugh would not go in with agnes, because he knew mr. tooke would shake hands with her, and take notice of any one who was with her. he waited in the passage till susan carried in the fish, when he entered behind her, and slipped to the window till the party took their seats, when he hoped mr. tooke would not observe who sat between agnes and his father. but the very first thing his father did was to pull his head back by the hair behind, and ask him whether he had persuaded mr. tooke to tell him all about the crofton boys. hugh did not wish to make any answer; but his father said "eh?" and he thought he must speak; so he said that phil had told him all he wanted to know about the crofton boys. "then you can get mr. tooke to tell you about phil, if you want nothing else," said mr. proctor. mr. tooke nodded and smiled; but hugh began to hand plates with all his might, he was so afraid that the next thing would be a question how much four times seven was. the dinner went on, however; and the fish was eaten, and the meat, and the pudding; and the dessert was on the table, without any one having even alluded to the multiplication-table. before this time, hugh had become quite at his ease, and had looked at mr. tooke till he knew his face quite well. soon after dinner mr. proctor was called away upon business; and hugh slipped into his father's arm chair, and crossed one leg over the other knee, as he leaned back at his leisure, listening to mr. tooke's conversation with his mother about the sort of education that he considered most fit for some boys from india, who had only a certain time to devote to school-learning. in the course of this conversation some curious things dropped about the curiosity of children from india about some things very common here;--their wonder at snow and ice, their delight at being able to slide in the winter, and their curiosity about the harvest and gleaning, now approaching. mr. proctor came back just as mr. tooke was telling of the annual holiday of the boys at harvest-time, when they gleaned for the poor of the village. as hugh had never seen a corn-field, he had no very clear idea of harvest and gleaning; and he wanted to hear all he could. when obliged to turn out of the arm-chair, he drew a stool between his mother and mr. tooke: and presently he was leaning on his arms on the table, with his face close to mr. tooke's, as if swallowing the gentleman's words as they fell. this was inconvenient; and his mother made him draw back his stool a good way. though he could hear very well, hugh did not like this, and he slipped off his stool, and came closer and closer. "and did you say," asked mr. proctor, "that your youngest pupil is nine?" "just nine;--the age of my own boy. i could have wished to have none under ten, for the reason you know of. but----" "i wish," cried hugh, thrusting himself in so that mr. tooke saw the boy had a mind to sit on his knee,--"i wish you would take boys at eight and a quarter." "that is your age," said mr. tooke, smiling and making room between his knees. "how did you know? mother told you." "no; indeed she did not,--not exactly. my boy was eight and a quarter not very long ago; and he----" "did he like being in your school?" "he always seemed very happy there, though he was so much the youngest. and they teased him sometimes for being the youngest. now you know, if you came, you would be the youngest, and they might tease you for it." "i don't think i should mind that. what sort of teasing, though?" "trying whether he was afraid of things." "what sort of things?" "being on the top of a wall, or up in a tree. and then they sent him errands when he was tired, or when he wanted to be doing something else. they tried too whether he could bear some rough things without telling." "and did he?" "yes, generally. on the whole, very well. i see they think him a brave boy now." "i think i could. but do not you really take boys as young as i am?" "such is really my rule." it was very provoking, but hugh was here called away to fish up jane's work out of the water-butt. as he had put it in, he was the proper person to get it out. he thought he should have liked the fun of it; but now he was in a great hurry back, to hear mr. tooke talk. it really seemed as if the shirt-collar was alive, it always slipped away so when he thought he had it. jane kept him to the job till he brought up her work, dripping and soiled. by that time tea was ready,--an early tea, because mr. tooke had to go away. whatever was said at tea was about politics, and about a new black dye which some chemist had discovered; and mr. tooke went away directly after. he turned round full upon hugh, just as he was going. hugh stepped back, for it flashed upon him that he was now to be asked how much four times seven was. but mr. tooke only shook hands with him, and bade him grow older as fast as he could. chapter ii. why mr. tooke came. after tea the young people had to learn their lessons for the next day. they always tried to get these done, and the books put away, before mr. proctor came in on his shop being shut, and the business of the day being finished. he liked to find his children at liberty for a little play, or half an hour of pleasant reading; or, in the winter evenings, for a dance to the music of his violin. little harry had been known to be kept up far too late, that he might hear the violin, and that his papa might enjoy the fun of seeing him run about among the rest, putting them all out, and fancying he was dancing. all believed there would be time for play with papa to-night, tea had been so much earlier than usual. but agnes soon feared there would be no play for hugh. though jane pored over her german, twisting her forefinger in the particular curl which she always twisted when she was deep in her lessons; though agnes rocked herself on her chair, as she always did when she was learning by heart; and though mrs. proctor kept harry quiet at the other end of the room with telling him long stories, in a very low voice, about the elephant and brighton pier, in the picture-book, hugh could not learn his capital cities. he even spoke out twice, and stopped himself when he saw all the heads in the room raised in surprise. then he set himself to work again, and he said "copenhagen" so often over that he was not likely to forget the word; but what country it belonged to he could not fix in his mind, though agnes wrote it down large on the slate, in hopes that the sight of the letters would help him to remember. before he had got on to "constantinople," the well-known sound was heard of the shop-boy taking the shop-shutters out of their day-place, and mr. proctor would certainly be coming presently. jane closed her dictionary, and shook back her curls from over her eyes; mrs. proctor put down harry from her lap, and let him call for papa as loud as he would; and papa came bustling in, and gave harry a long toss, and several topplings over his shoulder, and yet hugh was not ready. "come, children," said mr. proctor to agnes and hugh, "we have all done enough for to-day. away with books and slates!" "but, papa," said agnes, "hugh has not quite done. if he might have just five minutes more, miss harold----" "never mind what miss harold says! that is, you girls must; but between this and michaelmas----" he stopped short, and the girls saw that it was a sign from their mother that made him do so. he immediately proceeded to make so much noise with harry, that hugh discovered nothing more than that he might put away his books, and not mind miss harold this time. if she asked him to-morrow why he had not got down to "constantinople," he could tell her exactly what his father had said. so, merry was hugh's play this evening. he stood so perfectly upright on his father's shoulders, that he could reach the top of his grandmamma's picture, and show by his finger-ends how thick the dust lay upon the frame: and neither he nor his father minded being told that he was far too old for such play. in the midst of the fun, hugh had a misgiving, more than once, of his mother having something severe to say to him when she should come up to his room, to hear him say his prayer, and to look back a little with him upon the events of the day. besides his consciousness that he had done nothing well this day, there were grave looks from his mother which made him think that she was not pleased with him. when he was undressing, therefore, he listened with some anxiety for her footsteps, and, when she appeared, he was ready with his confession of idleness. she stopped him in the beginning, saying that she had rather not hear any more such confessions. she had listened to too many, and had allowed him to spend in confessions some of the strength which should have been applied to mending his faults. for the present, while she was preparing a way to help him to conquer his inattention, she advised him to say nothing to her, or to any one else, on the subject; but this need not prevent him from praying to god to give him strength to overcome his great fault. "oh, mother! mother!" cried hugh, in an agony, "you give me up! what shall i do if you will not help me any more?" his mother smiled, and told him he need not fear any such thing. it would be very cruel to leave off providing him with food and clothes, because it gave trouble to do so; and it would be far more cruel to abandon him to his faults, for such a reason. she would never cease to help him till they were cured: but, as all means yet tried had failed, she must plan some others; and meantime she did not wish him to become hardened to his faults, by talking about them every night, when there was no amendment during the day. though she spoke very kindly, and kissed him before she went away, hugh felt that he was punished. he felt more unhappy than if his mother had told him all she thought of his idleness. though his mother had told him to go to sleep, and blessed him, he could not help crying a little, and wishing that he was a crofton boy. he supposed the crofton boys all got their lessons done somehow, as a matter of course; and then they could go to sleep without any uncomfortable feelings or any tears. in the morning all these thoughts were gone. he had something else to think about; for he had to play with harry, and take care of him, while susan swept and dusted the parlour: and harry was bent upon going into the shop--a place where, according to the rule of the house, no child of the family was ever to set foot, till it was old enough to be trusted: nor to taste anything there, asked or unasked. there were some poisonous things in the shop, and some few nice syrups and gums; and no child could be safe and well there who could not let alone whatever might be left on the counter, or refuse any nice taste that a good-natured shopman might offer. harry was, as yet, far too young; but, as often as the cook washed the floor-cloth in the passage, so that the inner shop door had to be opened, master harry was seized with an unconquerable desire to go and see the blue and red glass bowls which he was permitted to admire from the street, as he went out and came in from his walks. mr. proctor came down this morning as hugh was catching harry in the passage. he snatched up his boys, packed one under each arm, and ran with them into the yard, where he rolled harry up in a new mat, which the cook was going to lay at the house-door. "there!" said he. "keep him fast, hugh, till the passage-door is shut. what shall we do with the rogue when you are at crofton, i wonder?" "why, papa! he will be big enough to take care of himself by that time." "bless me! i forgot again," exclaimed mr. proctor, as he made haste away into the shop. before long, harry was safe under the attraction of his basin of bread and milk; and hugh fell into a reverie at the breakfast-table, keeping his spoon suspended in his hand as he looked up at the windows, without seeing anything. jane asked him twice to hand the butter before he heard. "he is thinking how much four times seven is," observed mr. proctor: and hugh started at the words. "i tell you what, hugh," continued his father; "if the crofton people do not teach you how much four times seven is when you come within four weeks of next christmas day, i shall give you up, and them too, for dunces all." all the eyes round the table were fixed on mr. proctor in an instant. "there now!" said he, "i have let the cat out of the bag. look at agnes!" and he pinched her crimson cheek. everybody then looked at agnes, except harry, who was busy looking for the cat which papa said had come out of mamma's work-bag. agnes could not bear the gaze, and burst into tears. "agnes has taken more pains to keep the secret than her papa," said mrs. proctor. "the secret is, that hugh is going to crofton next month." "am i ten, then?" asked hugh, in his hurry and surprise. "scarcely; since you were only eight and a quarter yesterday afternoon," replied his father. "i will tell you all about it by-and-by, my dear," said his mother. her glance towards agnes made all the rest understand that they had better speak of something else now. so mr. proctor beckoned harry to come and see whether the cat had not got into the bag again, as she was not to be seen anywhere else. it is true, the bag was not much bigger than a cat's head; but that did not matter to harry, who never cared for that sort of consideration, and had been busy for half an hour, the day before, in trying to put the key of the house-door into the key-hole of the tea-caddy. by the time agnes had recovered herself, and the table was cleared, miss harold had arrived. hugh brought his books with the rest, but, instead of opening them, rested his elbow on the uppermost, and stared full at miss harold. "well, hugh!" said she, smiling. "i have not learned quite down to 'constantinople,'" said he. "papa told me i need not, and not to mind you." "why, hugh! hush!" cried jane. "he did,--he said exactly that. but he meant, miss harold, that i am to be a crofton boy,--directly, next month." "then have we done with one another, hugh?" asked miss harold, gently. "will you not learn any more from me?" "that is for your choice, miss harold," observed mr. proctor. "hugh has not deserved the pains you have taken with him: and if you decline more trouble with him now he is going into other hands, no one can wonder." miss harold feared that he was but poorly prepared for school, and was quite ready to help him, if he would give his mind to the effort. she thought that play, or reading books that he liked, was less waste of time than his common way of doing his lessons; but if he was disposed really to work, with the expectation of crofton before him, she was ready to do her best to prepare him for the real hard work he would have to do there. his mother proposed that he should have time to consider whether he would have a month's holiday, or a month's work, before leaving home. she had to go out this morning. he might go with her, if he liked; and, as they returned, they would sit down in the temple garden, and she would tell him all about the plan. hugh liked this beginning of his new prospects. he ran to be made neat for his walk with his mother. he knew he must have the wet curl on his forehead twice over to-day; but he comforted himself with hoping that there would be no time at crofton for him to be kept standing, to have his hair done so particularly, and to be scolded all the while, and then kissed, like a baby, at the end. chapter iii. michaelmas-day come. hugh was about to ask his mother, again and again during their walk, why mr. tooke let him go to crofton before he was ten; but mrs. proctor was grave and silent; and though she spoke kindly to him now and then, she did not seem disposed to talk. at last, they were in the temple garden; and they sat down where there was no one to overhear them; and then hugh looked up at his mother. she saw, and told him, what it was that he wanted to ask. "it is on account of the little boys themselves," said she, "that mr. tooke does not wish to have them very young, now that there is no kind lady in the house who could be like a mother to them." "but there is mrs. watson. phil has told me a hundred things about mrs. watson." "mrs. watson is the housekeeper. she is careful, i know, about the boys' health and comfort; but she has no time to attend to the younger ones, as mrs. tooke did,--hearing their little troubles, and being a friend to them like their mothers at home." "there is phil----" "yes. you will have phil to look to. but neither phil, nor any one else, can save you from some troubles you are likely to have from being the youngest." "such as mr. tooke told me his boy had;--being put on the top of a high wall, and plagued when he was tired: and all that. i don't think i should much mind those things." "so we hope, and so we believe. your fault is not cowardice----" mrs. proctor so seldom praised anybody that her words of esteem went a great way. hugh first looked up at her and then down on the grass,--his cheeks glowed so. she went on-- "you have faults,--faults which give your father and me great pain; and though, you are not cowardly about being hurt in your body, you sadly want courage of a better kind,--courage to mend the weakness of your mind. you are so young that we are sorry for you, and mean to send you where the example of other boys may give you the resolution you want so much." "all the boys learn their lessons at crofton," observed hugh. "yes; but not by magic. they have to give their minds to their work. you will find it painful and difficult to learn this, after your idle habits at home. i give you warning that you will find it much more difficult than you suppose; and i should not wonder if you wish yourself at home with miss harold many times before christmas." mrs. proctor was not unkind in saying this. she saw that hugh was so delighted about going that nothing would depress his spirits, and that the chief fear was his being disappointed and unhappy when she should be far away. it might then be some consolation to him to remember that she was aware of what he would have to go through. he now smiled, and said he did not think he should ever wish to say his lessons to miss harold, as long as he lived. then it quickly passed through his mind that, instead of the leads and the little yard, there would be the playground; and instead of the church bells, the rooks; and instead of susan with her washing and combing, and scolding and kissing, there would be plenty of boys to play with. as he thought of these things, he started up, and toppled head over heels on the grass, and then was up by his mother's side again, saying that he did not care about anything that was to happen at crofton;--he was not afraid,--not even of the usher, though phil could not bear him. "if you can bring yourself to learn your lessons well," said his mother, "you need not fear the usher. but remember, it depends upon that. you will do well enough in the playground, i have no doubt." after this, there was only to settle the time that was to pass--the weeks, days, and hours before michaelmas-day; and whether these weeks and days should be employed in preparing for crofton under miss harold, or whether he should take his chance there unprepared as he was. mrs. proctor saw that his habits of inattention were so fixed, and his disgust at lessons in the parlour so strong, that she encouraged his doing no lessons in the interval. hugh would have said beforehand that three weeks' liberty to read voyages and travels, and play with harry, would have made him perfectly happy; but he felt that there was some disgrace mixed up with his holiday, and that everybody would look upon him with a sort of pity, instead of wishing him joy; and this spoiled his pleasure a good deal. when he came home from his walk, agnes thought he looked less happy than when he went out; and she feared his spirits were down about crofton. his spirits were up and down many times during the next three weeks. he thought these weeks would never be over. every day dragged on more slowly than the last; at every meal he was less inclined to eat; and his happiest time was when going to bed, because he was a day nearer crofton. his mother, foreseeing just what happened, wished to have kept the news from him till within a week of his departure, and had agreed with mr. proctor that it should be so. but mr. proctor hated secrets, and, as we see, let it out immediately. at last, the day came;--a warm, sunny, autumn day, on which any one might have enjoyed the prospect of a drive into the country. the coach was to set off from an inn in fleet-street at noon, and would set hugh down at his uncle's door in time for dinner, the distance being twenty-eight miles. his uncle's house was just two miles from the school. phil would probably be there to meet his brother, and take him to crofton in the afternoon. how to get rid of the hours till noon was the question. hugh had had everything packed up, over which he had any control, for some days. he had not left himself a plaything of those which he might carry: and it frightened him that his mother did not seem to think of packing his clothes till after breakfast this very morning. when she entered his room for the purpose, he was fidgeting about, saying to himself that he should never be ready. agnes came with her mother, to help: but before the second shirt was laid in the box, she was in tears, and had to go away; for every one in the house was in the habit of hiding tears from mrs. proctor, who rarely shed them herself, and was known to think that they might, generally be suppressed, and should be so. as hugh stood beside her, handing stockings and handkerchiefs, to fill up the corners of the box, she spoke as she might not have done if they had not been alone. she said but a few words; but hugh never forgot them. "you know, my dear," said she, "that i do not approve of dwelling upon troubles. you know i never encourage my children to fret about what cannot be helped." there was nothing in the world that hugh was more certain of than this. "and yet i tell you," she continued, "that you will not be nearly so happy at crofton as you expect--at least, at first. it grieves me to see you so full of expectation----" "does it indeed, mother?" "it does indeed. but my comfort is----" "you think i can bear it," cried hugh, holding up his head. "you think i can bear anything." "i think you are a brave boy, on the whole. but that is not the comfort i was speaking of; for there is a world of troubles too heavy for the bravery of a thoughtless child, like you. my comfort is, my dear, that you know where to go for strength when your heart fails you. you will be away from your father and me; but a far wiser and kinder parent will be always with you. if i were not sure that you would continually open your heart to him, i could not let you go from me." "i will--i always do," said hugh, in a low voice. "then remember this, my boy. if you have that help, _you must not fail_. knowing that you have that help, i expect of you that you do your own duty, and bear your own troubles, like a man. if you were to be all alone in the new world you are going to, you would be but a helpless child: but remember, when a child makes god his friend, god puts into the youngest and weakest the spirit of a man." "you will ask him too, mother;--you will pray him to make me brave, and--and----" "and what else?" she inquired, fixing her eyes upon him. "and steady," replied hugh, casting down, his eyes; "for that is what i want most of all." "it is," replied his mother. "i do, and always will, pray for you." not another word was said till they went down into the parlour. though it was only eleven o'clock, miss harold was putting on her bonnet to go away: and there was a plate of bread and cheese on the table. "lunch!" said hugh, turning away with disgust. "do eat it," said agnes, who had brought it. "you had no breakfast, you know." "because i did not want it; and i can't eat anything now." jane made a sign to agnes to take the plate out of sight: and she put some biscuits into a paper bag, that he might eat on the road, if he should become hungry. neither miss harold nor hugh could possibly feel any grief at parting; for they had had little satisfaction together; but she said very kindly that she should hope to hear often of him, and wished he might be happy as a crofton boy. hugh could hardly answer her;--so amazed was he to find that his sisters were giving up an hour of their lessons on his account,--that they might go with him to the coach!--and then susan came in, about the cord for his box, and her eyes were red:--and, at the sight of her, agnes began to cry again; and jane bent down her head over the glove she was mending for him, and her needle stopped. "jane," said her mother, gravely, "if you are not mending that glove, give it to me. it is getting late." jane brushed her hand across her eyes, and stitched away again. then, she threw the gloves to hugh without looking at him, and ran to get ready to go to the coach. the bustle of the inn-yard would not do for little harry. he could not go. hugh was extremely surprised to find that all the rest were going;--that even his father was smoothing his hat in the passage for the walk,--really leaving the shop at noon on his account! the porter was at his service too,--waiting for his box! it was very odd to feel of such consequence. hugh ran down to bid the maids good-bye. the cook had cut a sandwich, which she thrust into his pocket, though he told her he had some biscuits. susan cried so that little harry stood grave and wondering. susan sobbed out that she knew he did not care a bit about leaving home and everybody. hugh wished she would not say so, though he felt it was true, and wondered at it himself. mr. proctor heard susan's lamentations, and called to her from the passage above not to make herself unhappy about that; for the time would soon come when hugh would be homesick enough. mr. blake, the shopman, came to the shop-door as they passed, and bowed and smiled; and the boy put himself in the way, with a broad grin: and then the party walked on quickly. the sun seemed to hugh to glare very much; and he thought he had never known the streets so noisy, or the people so pushing. the truth was, his heart was beating so he could scarcely see: and yet he was so busy looking about him for a sight of the river, and everything he wished to bid good-bye to, that his father, who held him fast by the hand, shook him more than once, and told him he would run everybody down if he could,--to judge by his way of walking. he must learn to march better, if he was to be a soldier; and to steer, if he was to be a sailor. there were just two minutes to spare when they reached the inn-yard. the horses were pawing and fidgeting, and some of the passengers had mounted: so mr. proctor said he would seat the boy at once. he spoke to two men who were on the roof, just behind the coachman; and they agreed to let hugh sit between them, on the assurance that the driver would look to his concerns, and see that he was set down at the right place. "now, my boy, up with you!" said his father, as he turned from speaking to these men. hugh was so eager, that he put up his foot to mount, without remembering to bid his mother and sisters good-bye. mr. proctor laughed at this; and nobody wondered; but agnes cried bitterly; and she could not forget it, from that time till she saw her brother again. when they had all kissed him, and his mother's earnest look had bidden him remember what had passed between them that morning, he was lifted up by his father, and received by the two men, between whom he found a safe seat. then he wished they were off. it was uncomfortable to see his sisters crying there, and not to be able to cry too, or to speak to them. when the coachman was drawing on his second glove, and the ostlers held each a hand to pull off the horse-cloths, and the last moment was come, mr. proctor swung himself up by the step, to say one thing more. it was-- "i say, hugh,--can you tell me,--how much is four times seven?" mrs. proctor pulled her husband's coat-tail, and he leaped down, the horses' feet scrambled, their heads issued from the gate-way of the inn-yard, and hugh's family were left behind. in the midst of the noise, the man on hugh's right hand said to the one on his left, "there is some joke in that last remark, i imagine." the other man nodded; and then there was no more speaking till they were off the stones. when the clatter was over, and the coach began to roll along the smooth road, hugh's neighbour repeated, "there was some joke, i fancy, in that last remark of your father's." "yes," said hugh. "are you in the habit of saying the multiplication-table when you travel?" said the other. "if so, we shall be happy to hear it." "exceedingly happy," observed the first. "i never say it when i can help it," said hugh; "and i see no occasion now." the men laughed, and then asked him if he was going far. "to crofton. i am going to be a crofton boy," said hugh. "a what? where is he going?" his companions asked one another over his head. they were no wiser when hugh repeated what he had said; nor could the coachman enlighten them. he only knew that he was to put the boy down at shaw's, the great miller's, near thirty miles along the road. "eight-and-twenty," said hugh, in correction; "and crofton is two miles from my uncle's." "eight-and-twenty. the father's joke lies there," observed the right-hand man. "no, it does not," said hugh. he thought he was among a set of very odd people,--none of them knowing what a crofton boy was. a passenger who sat beside the coachman only smiled when he was appealed to; so it might be concluded that he was ignorant too; and the right and left-hand men seemed so anxious for information, that hugh told them all he knew;--about the orchard and the avenue, and the pond on the heath, and the playground; and mrs. watson, and the usher, and phil, and joe cape, and tony nelson, and several others of the boys. one of the men asked him if he was sure he was going for the first time,--he seemed so thoroughly informed of everything about crofton. hugh replied that it was a good thing to have an elder brother like phil. phil had told him just what to take to crofton, and how to take care of his money, and everything. "ay! and how do the crofton boys take care of their money?" hugh showed a curious little inner pocket in his jacket, which nobody would dream of that did not know. his mother had let him have such a pocket in both his jackets; and he had wanted to have all his money in this one now, to show how safely he could carry it. but his mother had chosen to pack up all his five shillings in his box,--that square box, with the new brass lock, on the top of all the luggage. in this pocket there was only sixpence now,--the sixpence he was to give the coachman when he was set down. then he went on to explain that this sixpence was not out of his own money, but given him by his father, expressly for the coachman. then his right-hand companion congratulated him upon his spirits, and began to punch and tickle him; and when hugh writhed himself about, because he could not bear tickling, the coachman said he would have no such doings, and bade them be quiet. then the passengers seemed to forget hugh, and talked to one another of the harvest in the north, and the hopping in kent. hugh listened about the hopping, supposing it might be some new game, as good as leap-frog; though it seemed strange that one farmer should begin hopping on monday, and that another should fix thursday; and that both should be so extremely anxious about the weather. but when he found it was some sort of harvest-work, he left off listening, and gave all his attention to the country sights that were about him. he did not grow tired of the gardens, gay with dahlias and hollyhocks, and asters: nor of the orchards, where the ladder against the tree, and the basket under, showed that apple-gathering was going on; nor of the nooks in the fields, where blackberries were ripening; nor of the chequered sunlight and shadow which lay upon the road; nor of the breezy heath where the blue ponds were ruffled; nor of the pleasant grove where the leaves were beginning to show a tinge of yellow and red, here and there among the green. silently he enjoyed all these things, only awakening from them when there was a stop to change horses. he was not thinking of time or distance when he saw the coachman glance round at him, and felt that the speed of the horses was slackening. still he had no idea that this was any concern of his, till he saw something that made him start, "why, there's phil!" he exclaimed, jumping to his feet. "this is shaw's mill, and there is shaw; which is all i have to do with," said the coachman, as he pulled up. hugh was soon down, with his uncle and phil, and one of the men from the mill to help. his aunt was at the window too; so that altogether hugh forgot to thank his companions for his safe seat. he would have forgotten his box, but for the coachman. one thing more he also forgot. "i say, young master," said the driver; "remember the coachman. where's your sixpence?" "oh, my sixpence!" cried hugh, throwing down what he held, to feel in his curious inner pocket, which was empty. "lest you find a hole in your pocket, here is a sixpence for you," cried the right-hand passenger, tossing him his own sixpence. "thank you for teaching us the secret of such a curious pocket." the coachman was impatient, got his money, and drove off, leaving hugh to make out why he had been tickled, and how his money had changed hands. with a very red face, he declared it was too bad of the man: but the man was out of his hearing, and could never know how angry he was. "a pretty story this is for our usher to have against you, to begin with," was phil's consolation. "every boy will know it before you show yourself; and you will never hear the last of it, i can tell you." "your usher!" exclaimed hugh, bewildered. "yes, our usher. that was he on the box, beside coachee. did not you find out that much in all these eight-and-twenty miles?" "how should i? he never told me." hugh could hardly speak to his uncle and aunt, he was so taken up with trying to remember what he had said, in the usher's hearing, of the usher himself, and everybody at crofton. chapter iv. michaelmas-day over. mrs. shaw ordered dinner presently; and while it was being served, she desired phil to brush his brother's clothes, as they were dusty from his ride. all the while he was brushing (which he did very roughly), and all the first part of dinner-time, phil continued to tease hugh about what he had said on the top of the coach. mrs. shaw spoke of the imprudence of talking freely before strangers; and hugh could have told her that he did not need such a lecture at the very time that he found the same thing by his experience. he did wish phil would stop. if anybody should ask him a question, he could not answer without crying. then he remembered how his mother expected him to bear things; and he almost wished he was at home with her now, after all his longing to be away. this thought nearly made him cry again; so he tried to dwell on how his mother would expect him to bear things: but neither of them had thought that morning, beside his box, that the first trial would come from phil. this again made him so nearly cry that his uncle observed his twitching face, and, without noticing him, said that he, for his part, did not want to see little boys wise before they had time to learn; and that the most silent companion he had ever been shut up with in a coach was certainly the least agreeable: and he went on to relate an adventure which has happened to more persons than one. he had found the gentleman in the corner, with the shaggy coat, to be a bear--a tame bear, which had to take the quickest mode of conveyance, in order to be at a distant fair in good time. mr. shaw spun out his story, so that hugh quite recovered himself, and laughed as much as anybody at his uncle having formed a bad opinion of bruin in the early twilight, for his incivility in not bowing to the passenger who left the coach. after dinner, phil thought it time to be off to crofton. he had missed something by coming away at all to-day; and he was not going to run the chance of losing the top of the class by not having time to do his sallust properly. mrs. shaw said they must have some of her plums before they went, and a glass of wine; and mr. shaw ordered the gig, saying he would drive them, and thus no time would be lost, though he hoped phil would not mind being at the bottom of every class for once to help his brother, seeing how soon a diligent boy might work his way up again. phil replied that that was not so easy as people might think, when there was one like joe cape determined to keep him down, if he could once get him down. "i hope you will find time to help hugh up from the bottom, in a class or two," said mr. shaw. "you will not be too busy about your own affairs to look to his i suppose." "where is the use of my meddling?" said phil. "he can't rise for years to come. besides----" "why can't i rise?" exclaimed hugh, with glowing cheeks. "that is right, hugh," said his uncle. "let nobody prophesy for you till you show what you can do." "why, uncle, he is nearly two years younger than any boy in the school; and----" "and there is little page above you in algebra. he is about two years younger than you, phil, if i remember right." hugh could not help clapping his hands at the prospect this held out to him. phil took the act for triumphing over him, and went on to say, very insultingly, that a little fellow who had been brought up among the girls all his life, and had learned of nobody but miss harold, could not be expected to cut any figure among boys. hugh looked so grieved for a moment, and then suddenly so relieved, that his kind uncle wondered what was in his mind. he took the boy between his knees and asked him. hugh loved his uncle already, as if he had always known him. he put his arms round his neck, and whispered in his ear what he was thinking of;--his mother's saying that god could and would, if he was sought, put the spirit of a man into the feeblest child. "true!--quite true! i am very glad you know that, my boy. that will help you to learn at crofton, though it is better than anything they can teach you in their school-room." mrs. shaw and phil looked curious; but mr. shaw did not repeat a word of what hugh had said. he put the boy away from his knees, because he heard the gig coming round. mrs. shaw told hugh that she hoped he would spend some of his sundays with his uncle and her; and his uncle added that he must come on holidays as well as sundays,--there was so much to see about the mill. phil was amused, and somewhat pleased, to find how exactly hugh remembered his description of the place and neighbourhood. he recognised the duck-pond under the hedge by the road-side, with the very finest blackberries growing above it, just out of reach. the church he knew, of course, and the row of chestnuts, whose leaves were just beginning to fall; and the high wall dividing the orchard from the playground. that must have been the wall on which mr. tooke's little boy used to be placed to frighten him. it did not look so very high as hugh had fancied it. one thing which he had never seen or heard of was the bell, under its little roof on the ridge of mr. tooke's great house. was it to call in the boys to school, or for an alarm? his uncle told him it might serve the one purpose in the day, and the other by night; and that almost every large farm thereabouts had such a bell on the top of the house. the sun was near its setting when they came in sight of the crofton house. a long range of windows glittered in the yellow light, and phil said that the lower row all belonged to the school-room;--that whole row. in the midst of his explanations phil stopped, and his manner grew more rough than ever--with a sort of shyness in it too. it was because some of the boys were within hearing, leaning over the pales which separated the playground from the road. "i say; hello there!" cried one. "is that prater you have got with you?" "prater the second," cried another. "he could not have had his name if there had not been prater the first." "there! there's a scrape you have got me into already!" muttered phil. "be a man, phil, and bear your own share," said mr. shaw; "and no spite, because your words come back to you!" the talk at the palings still went on, as the gig rolled quietly in the sandy by-road. "prater!" poor hugh exclaimed. "what a name!" "yes; that is you," said his uncle. "you know now what your nickname will be. every boy has one or another: and yours might have been worse, because you might have done many a worse thing to earn it." "but the usher, uncle?" "what of him?" "he should not have told about me." "don't call him 'prater the third,' however. bear your own share, as i said to phil, and don't meddle with another's." perhaps mr. shaw hoped that through one of the boys the usher would get a new nickname for his ill-nature in telling tales of a little boy, before he was so much as seen by his companions. he certainly put it into their heads, whether they would make use of it or not. mr. tooke was out, taking his evening ride; but mr. shaw would not drive off till he had seen mrs. watson, and introduced his younger nephew to her, observing to her that he was but a little fellow to come among such a number of rough boys. mrs. watson smiled kindly at hugh, and said she was glad he had a brother in the school, to prevent his feeling lonely at first. it would not take many days, she hoped, to make him feel quite at home. mr. shaw slipped half-a-crown into hugh's hand, and whispered to him to try to keep it safe in his inner pocket. hugh ran after him to the door, to tell him that he had five shillings already--safe in his box: but his uncle would not take back the half-crown. he thought that, in course of time, hugh would want all the money he had. mrs. watson desired phil to show his brother where he was to sleep, and to help him to put by his clothes. phil was in a hurry to get to his sallust; so that he was not sorry when mrs. watson herself came up to see that the boy's clothes were laid properly in the deep drawer in which hugh was to keep his things. phil then slipped away. "dear me!" said mrs. watson, turning over one of hugh's new collars, "we must have something different from this. these collars tied with a black ribbon are never tidy. they are always over one shoulder or the other." "my sisters made them; and they worked so hard to get them done!" said hugh. "very well--very right: only it is a pity they are not of a better make. every sunday at church, i shall see your collar awry--and every time you go to your aunt's, she will think we do not make you neat. i must see about that. here are good stockings, however--properly stout. my dear, are these all the shoes you have got?" "i have a pair on." "of course; i don't doubt that. we must have you measured to-morrow for some boots fitter for the country than these. we have no london pavement here." and so mrs. watson went on, sometimes approving and sometimes criticising, till hugh did not know whether to cry or to be angry. after all the pains his mother and sisters had taken about his things, they were to be found fault with in this way! when his box was emptied, and his drawer filled, mrs. watson took him into the school-room, where the boys were at supper. outside the door the buzz seemed prodigious, and hugh hoped that, in such a bustle, nobody would notice him. here he was quite mistaken. the moment he entered there was a hush, and all eyes were turned upon him, except his brother's. phil hardly looked up from his book; but he made room for hugh between himself and another boy, and drew the great plate of bread within reach. mrs. watson saw that hugh had his basin of milk; and he found it a good thing to have something to do while so many eyes were upon him. he felt that he might have cried if he had not had his supper to eat. the usher sat at the top of the table, reading. mrs. watson called his attention, to hugh; and hugh stood up and made his bow. his face was red, as much with anger as timidity, when he recognised in him the passenger who had sat beside the coachman. "perhaps, mr. carnaby," said mrs. watson, "you will find something for this young gentleman to do, when he has had his supper, while the rest are learning their lessons. to-morrow he will have his own lessons; but to-night----" "there is always the multiplication-table," replied mr. carnaby. "the young gentleman is partial to that, i fancy." hugh reddened, and applied himself to his bread and milk. "never mind a joke," whispered mrs. watson. "we wont plague you with the multiplication-table the first evening. i will find you a book or something. meantime, there is a companion for you--i forgot that." the good lady went down the room, and brought back a boy who seemed to be doing all he could to stop crying. he dashed his hand over his eyes every minute, and could not look anybody in the face. he had finished his supper, and was at a loss what to do next, as he had only arrived that morning, and did not know anybody at crofton. his name was tom holt, and he was ten years old. when they had told their names and ages, and where they came from, the boys did not know what to say next; and hugh wished phil would stop murmuring over his sallust and looking in the dictionary every minute; but mrs. watson did not forget the strangers. she brought them cook's voyages out of the library, to amuse themselves with, on condition of their delivering the book to mr. carnaby at bedtime. the rest of the evening passed away very pleasantly. hugh told holt a great deal about broadstairs and the south sea islands, and confided to him his own hopes of being a sailor, and going round the world; and, if possible, making his way straight through china,--the most difficult country left to travel in, he believed, except some parts of africa. he did not want to cross the great desert, on account of the heat. he knew something of what that was by the leads at home, when the sun was on them. what was the greatest heat holt had ever felt? then came the surprise. holt had last come from his uncle's farm; but he was born in india, and had lived there till eighteen months ago. so, while hugh had chattered away about the sea at broadstairs, and the heat on the leads at home, his companion had come fourteen thousand miles over the ocean, and had felt a heat nearly as extreme as that of the great desert! holt was very unassuming too. he talked of the heat of gleaning in his uncle's harvest-fields, and of the kitchen when the harvest-supper was cooking; owning that he remembered he had felt hotter in india. hugh heaped questions upon him about his native country and the voyage; and holt liked to be asked: so that the boys were not at all like strangers just met for the first time. they raised their voices in the eagerness of their talk, from a whisper so as to be heard quite across the table, above the hum and buzz of above thirty others, who were learning their lessons half-aloud. at last hugh was startled by hearing the words "prater," "prater the second." he was silent instantly, to holt's great wonder. without raising his eyes from his book, phil said, so as to be heard as far as the usher,-- "who prated of prater the second? who is prater the third?" there was a laugh which provoked the usher to come and see whereabouts in sallust such a passage as this was to be found. not finding any such, he knuckled phil's head, and pulled his hair, till hugh cried out-- "o, don't, sir! don't hurt him so!" "do you call that hurting? you will soon find what hurting is, when you become acquainted with our birch. you shall have four times seven with our birch----let us see,--that is your favourite number, i think." the usher looked round, and almost everybody laughed. "you see i have your secret;--four times seven," continued mr. carnaby. "what do you shake your head for?" "because you have not my secret about four times seven." "did not i hear your father? eh?" "what did you hear my father say? nobody here knows what he meant? and nobody need know, unless i choose to tell--which i don't.--please don't teaze phil about it, sir: for he knows no more about it than you do." mr. carnaby said something about the impertinence of little boys, as if they could have secrets, and then declared it high time that the youngsters should go to bed. hugh delivered cook's voyages into his hands, and then bade phil good night. he was just going to put his face up to be kissed, but recollected in time that he was to leave off kissing when he went to school. he held out his hand, but phil seemed not to see it, and only told him to be sure to lie enough on one side, so as to leave him room; and that he was to take the side of the bed next the window. hugh nodded and went off, with holt and two more, who slept in the same room. the two who were not new boys were in bed in a minute; and when they saw hugh wash his face and hands, they sat up in bed to stare. one of them told him that he had better not do that, as the maid would be coming for the light, and would leave him in the dark, and report of him if he was not in bed. so hugh made a great splutter, and did not half dry his face, and left the water in the basin;--a thing which they told him was not allowed. he saw that the others had not kneeled down to say their prayers,--a practice which he had never omitted since he could say a prayer, except when he had the measles. he knew the boys were watching him; but he thought of his mother, and how she had taught him to pray at her knee. he hid himself as well as he could with the scanty bed-curtains, and kneeled. he could not attend to the words he said, while feeling that eyes were upon him; and before he had done, the maid came in for the candle. she waited; but when he got into bed, she told him that he must be quicker to-morrow night, as she had no time to spare waiting for the candle. hugh was more tired than he had ever been in his life. this had been the longest day he had ever known. it seemed more like a week than a day. yet he could not go to sleep. he had forgotten to ask phil to be sure and wake him in time in the morning: and now he must keep awake till phil came, to say this. then, he could not but ask himself whether he liked, and should like, being at school as much as he expected; and when he felt how very unlike home it was, and how rough everybody seemed, and how phil appeared almost as if he was ashamed of him, instead of helping him, he was so miserable he did not know what to do. he cried bitterly,--cried till his pillow was quite wet, and he was almost choked with his grief; for he tried hard not to let his sobs be heard. after awhile, he felt what he might do. though he had kneeled he had not really prayed: and if he had, god is never weary of prayers. it was a happy thought to hugh that his very best friend was with him still, and that he might speak to him at any time. he spoke now in his heart; and a great comfort it was. he said-- "o god, i am all alone here, where nobody knows me; and everything is very strange and uncomfortable. please, make people kind to me till i am used to them; and keep up a brave heart in me, if they are not. help me not to mind little things; but to do my lessons well, that i may get to like being a crofton boy, as i thought i should. i love them all at home very much,--better than i ever did before. make them love me, and think of me every day,--particularly agnes,--that they may be as glad as i shall be when i go home at christmas." this was the most of what he had to say; and he dropped asleep with the feeling that god was listening to him. after a long while, as it seemed to him, though it was only an hour, there was a light and some bustle in the room. it was phil and two others coming to bed. "o phil!" cried hugh, starting bolt upright and winking with sleep,--"i meant to keep awake, to ask you to be sure and call me in the morning, time enough,--quite time enough, please." the others laughed; and phil asked whether he had not seen the bell, as he came; and what it should be for but to ring everybody up in the morning. "but i might not hear it," pleaded hugh. "not hear it? you'll soon see that." "well, but you will see that i really do wake, wont you?" "the bell will take care of that, i tell you," was all he could get from phil. chapter v. crofton play. hugh found, in the morning, that there was no danger of his not hearing the bell. its clang clang startled him out of a sound sleep; and he was on his feet on the floor almost before his eyes were open. the boys who were more used to the bell did not make quite so much haste. they yawned a few times, and turned out more slowly; so that hugh had the great tin wash basin to himself longer than the rest. there was a basin to every three boys; and, early as hugh began, his companions were impatient long before he had done. at first, they waited, in curiosity to see what he was going to do after washing his face; when he went further, they began to quiz; but when they found that he actually thought of washing his feet, they hooted and groaned at him for a dirty brat. "dirty!" cried hugh, facing them, amazed, "dirty for washing my feet! mother says it is a dirty trick not to wash all over every day." phil told him that was stuff and nonsense here. there was no room and no time for such home-doings. the boys all washed their heads and feet on saturdays. he would soon find that he might be glad to get his face and hands done in the mornings. the other boys in the room were, or pretended to be, so disgusted with the very idea of washing feet in a basin, that they made hugh rinse and rub out the tin basin several times before they would use it, and then there was a great bustle to get down stairs at the second bell. hugh pulled his brother's arm, as phil was brushing out of the room, and asked, in a whisper, whether there would be time to say his prayers. "there will be prayers in the school-room. you must be in time for them," said phil. "you had better come with me." "do wait one moment, while i just comb my hair." phil fidgeted, and others giggled, while hugh tried to part his hair, as susan had taught him. he gave it up, and left it rough, thinking he would come up and do it when there was nobody there to laugh at him. the school-room looked chilly and dull, as there was no sunshine in it till the afternoon; and still mr. tooke was not there, as hugh had hoped he would be. mrs. watson and the servants came in for prayers, which were well read by the usher; and then everybody went to business:--everybody but hugh and holt, who had nothing to do. class after class came up for repetition; and this repetition seemed to the new boys an accomplishment they should never acquire. they did not think that any practice would enable them to gabble, as everybody seemed able to gabble here. hugh had witnessed something of it before,--phil having been wont to run off at home, "sal, sol, ren et splen," to the end of the passage, for the admiration of his sisters, and so much to little harry's amusement, that susan, however busy she might be, came to listen, and then asked him to say it again, that cook might hear what he learned at school. hugh now thought that none of them gabbled quite so fast as phil: but he soon found out, by a glance or two of phil's to one side, that he was trying to astonish the new boys. it is surprising how it lightened hugh's heart to find that his brother did not quite despise, or feel ashamed of him, as he had begun to think: but that he even took pains to show off. he was sorry too when the usher spoke sharply to phil, and even rapped his head with the cane, asking him what he spluttered out his nonsense at that rate for. thus ended phil's display; and hugh felt as hot, and as ready to cry, as if it had happened to himself. perhaps the usher saw this; for when he called hugh up, he was very kind. he looked at the latin grammar he had used with miss harold, and saw by the dogs'-ears exactly how far hugh had gone in it, and asked him only what he could answer very well. hugh said three declensions, with only one mistake. then he was shown the part that he was to say to-morrow morning; and hugh walked away, all the happier for having something to do, like everybody else. he was so little afraid of the usher, that he went back to him to ask where he had better sit. "sit! o! i suppose you must have a desk, though you have nothing to put in it. if there is a spare desk, you shall have it: if not, we will find a corner for you somewhere." some of the boys whispered that mrs. watson's foot-stool, under her apron, would do: but the usher overheard this, and observed that it took some people a good while to know a new boy; and that they might find that a little fellow might be as much of a man as a big one. and the usher called the oldest boy in the school, and asked him to see if there was a desk for little proctor. there was: and hugh put into it his two or three school-books, and his slate; and felt that he was now indeed a crofton boy. then, the usher was kinder than he had expected; and he had still to see mr. tooke, of whom he was not afraid at all. so hugh's spirits rose, and he liked the prospect of breakfast as well as any boy in the school. there was one more rebuff for him, first, however. he ran up to his room, to finish combing his hair, while the other boys were thronging into the long room to breakfast. he found the housemaids there, making the beds; and they both cried "out! out!" and clapped their hands at him, and threatened to tell mrs. watson of his having broken rules, if he did not go this moment. hugh asked what mrs. watson would say to his hair, if he went to breakfast with it as it was. one of the maids was good-natured enough to comb it for him, for once: but she said he must carry a comb in his pocket; as the boys were not allowed to go to their rooms, except at stated hours. at last, hugh saw mr. tooke. when the boys entered school at nine o'clock, the master was at his desk. hugh went up to his end of the room, with a smiling face, while tom holt hung back; and he kept beckoning tom holt on, having told him there was nothing to be afraid of. but when, at last, mr. tooke saw them, he made no difference between the two, and seemed to forget having ever seen hugh. he told them he hoped they would be good boys, and would do credit to crofton; and then he asked mr. carnaby to set them something to learn. and this was all they had to do with mr. tooke for a long while. this morning in school, from nine till twelve, seemed the longest morning these little boys had ever known. when they remembered that the afternoon would be as long, and every morning and afternoon for three months, their hearts sank. perhaps, if any one had told them that the time would grow shorter and shorter by use, and at last, when they had plenty to do, almost too short, they would not have believed it, because they could not yet feel it. but what they now found was only what every boy and girl finds, on beginning school, or entering upon any new way of life. mr. carnaby, who was busy with others, found it rather difficult to fill up their time. when hugh had said some latin, and helped his companion to learn his first latin lesson, and both had written a copy, and done a sum, mr. carnaby could not spare them any more time or thought, and told them they might do what they liked, if they only kept quiet, till school was up. so they made out the ridiculous figures which somebody had carved upon their desks, and the verses, half-rubbed out, which were scribbled inside: and then they reckoned, on their slates, how many days there were before the christmas holidays;--how many school-days, and how many sundays. and then hugh began to draw a steamboat in the thames, as seen from the leads of his father's house; while holt drew on his slate the ship in which he came over from india. but before they had done, the clock struck twelve, school was up, and there was a general rush into the playground. now hugh was really to see the country. except that the sun had shone pleasantly into his room in the morning, through waving trees, nothing had yet occurred to make him feel that he was in the country. now, however, he was in the open air, with trees sprinkled all over the landscape, and green fields stretching away, and the old church tower half-covered with ivy. hugh screamed with pleasure; and nobody thought it odd, for almost every boy was shouting. hugh longed to pick up some of the shining brown chesnuts which he had seen yesterday in the road, under the trees; and he was now cantering away to the spot, when phil ran after him, and roughly stopped him, saying he would get into a fine scrape for the first day, if he went out of bounds. hugh had forgotten there were such things as bounds, and was not at all glad to be reminded of them now. he sighed as he begged phil to show him exactly where he might go and where he might not. phil did so in an impatient way, and then was off to trap-ball, because his party were waiting for him. the chesnut-trees overhung one corner of the playground, within the paling: and in that corner hugh found several chesnuts which had burst their sheaths, and lay among the first fallen leaves. he pocketed them with great delight, wondering that nobody had been before him to secure such a treasure. agnes should have some; and little harry would find them nice playthings. they looked good to eat too; and he thought he could spare one to taste: so he took out his knife, cut off the point of a fine swelling chesnut, and tasted a bit of the inside. just as he was making a face over it, and wondering that it was so nasty, when those which his father roasted in the fire-shovel on christmas-day were so good, he heard laughter behind him, and found that he was again doing something ridiculous, though he knew not what: and in a moment poor hugh was as unhappy as ever. he ran away from the laughing boys, and went quite to the opposite corner of the playground, where a good number of his school-fellows were playing ball under the orchard wall. hugh ran hither and thither, like the rest, trying to catch the ball; but he never could do it; and he was jostled, and thrown down, and another boy fell over him; and he was told that he knew nothing about play, and had better move off. he did so, with a heavy heart, wondering how he was ever to be like the other boys, if nobody would take him in hand, and teach him to play, or even let him learn. remembering what his mother expected of him, he tried to sing, to prevent crying, and began to count the pales round the playground, for something to do. this presently brought him to a tree which stood on the very boundary, its trunk serving instead of two or three pales. it was only a twisted old apple-tree; but the more twisted and gnarled it was, the more it looked like a tree that hugh could climb; and he had always longed to climb a tree. glancing up, he saw a boy already there, sitting on the fork of two branches, reading. "have you a mind to come up?" asked the boy. "yes, sir, i should like to try to climb a tree. i never did." "well, this is a good one to begin with. i'll lend you a hand; shall i?" "thank you, sir." "don't call me, 'sir.' i'm only a school-boy, like you. i am dan firth. call me firth, as i am the only one of the name here. you are little proctor, i think--proctor's brother." "yes: but, firth, i shall pull you down, if i slip." "not you: but i'll come down, and so send you up to my seat, which is the safest to begin with. stand off." firth swung himself down, and then, showing hugh where to plant his feet, and propping him when he wanted it, he soon seated him on the fork, and laughed good-naturedly when hugh waved his cap over his head, on occasion of being up in a tree. he let him get down and up again several times, till he could do it quite alone, and felt that he might have a seat here whenever it was not occupied by any one else. while hugh sat in the branches, venturing to leave hold with one hand, that he might fan his hot face with his cap, firth stood on the rail of the palings, holding by the tree, and talking to him. firth told him that this was the only tree the boys were allowed to climb, since ned reeve had fallen from the great ash, and hurt his spine. he showed what trees he had himself climbed before that accident; and it made hugh giddy to think of being within eight feet of the top of the lofty elm in the church-yard, which firth had thought nothing of mounting. "did anybody teach you?" asked hugh. "yes; my father taught me to climb, when i was younger than you." "and had you anybody to teach you games and things, when you came here?" "no: but i had learned a good deal of that before i came; and so i soon fell into the ways here. have you anybody to teach you?" "no----yes----why, no. i thought phil would have showed me things; but he does not seem to mind me at all." and hugh bit his lip, and fanned himself faster. "ah! he attends to you more than you think." "does he? then why----but what good does it do me?" "what good? his holding off makes you push your own way. it lets you make friends for yourself." "i have no friends here," said hugh. "yes, you have. here am i. you would not have had me, if you had been at proctor's heels at this moment." "will you be my friend, then?" "that i will." "what, a great boy like you, that sits reading in a tree! but i may read here beside you. you said there was room for two." "ay; but you must not use it yet,--at least, not often, if you wish to do well here. everybody knows i can play at anything. from the time i became captain of the wall at fives, i have had liberty to do what i like, without question. but you must show that you are up to play, before they will let you read in peace and quiet." "but how can i, if----if----" "once show your spirit,--prove that you can shift for yourself, and you will find phil open out wonderfully. he and you will forget all his shyness then. once show him that he need not be ashamed of you----" "ashamed of me!" cried hugh, firing up. "yes. little boys are looked upon as girls in a school till they show that they are little men. and then again, you have been brought up with girls,--have not you?" "to be sure; and so was he." "and half the boys here, i dare say. well, they are called bettys till----" "i am not a betty," cried hugh, flashing again. "they suppose you are, because you part your hair, and do as you have been used to do at home." "what business have they with my hair? i might as well call them bruins for wearing theirs shaggy." "very true. they will let you and your hair alone when they see what you are made of; and then phil will----" "he will own me when i don't want it; and now, when he might help me, there he is, far off, never caring about what becomes of me!" "o yes, he does. he is watching you all the time. you and he will have it all out some day before christmas, and then you will see how he really cares about you. really your hair is very long,--too like a girl's. shall i cut it for you?" "i should like it," said hugh, "but i don't want the boys to think i am afraid of them; or to begin giving up to them." "you are right there. we will let it alone now, and cut it when it suits our convenience." "what a nice place this is, to be sure!" cried hugh, as the feeling of loneliness went off. "but the rooks do not make so much noise as i expected." "you will find what they can do in that way when spring comes,--when they are building." "and when may we go out upon the heath, and into the fields where the lambs are?" "we go long walks on saturday afternoons; but you do not expect to see young lambs in october, do you?" "o, i forgot. i never can remember the seasons for things." "that shows you are a londoner. you will learn all those things here. if you look for hares in our walks, you may chance to see one; or you may start a pheasant; but take care you don't mention lambs, or goslings, or cowslips, or any spring things; or you will never hear the last of it." "thank you: but what will poor holt do? he is from india, and he knows very little about our ways." "they may laugh at him; but they will not despise him, as they might a londoner. being an indian, and being a londoner, are very different things." "and yet how proud the londoners are over the country! it is very odd." "people are proud of their own ways all the world over. you will be proud of being a crofton boy, by-and-by." "perhaps i am now, a little," said hugh, blushing. "what, already? ah! you will do, i see. i have known old people proud of their age, and young people of their youth. i have seen poor people proud of their poverty; and everybody has seen rich people proud of their wealth. i have seen happy people proud of their prosperity, and the afflicted proud of their afflictions. yes; people can always manage to be proud: so you have boasted of being a londoner up to this time; and from this time you will hold your head high as a crofton boy." "how long? till when?" "ah! till when? what next! what do you mean to be afterwards?" "a soldier, or a sailor, or a great traveller, or something of that kind. i mean to go quite round the world, like captain cook." "then you will come home, proud of having been round the world; and you will meet with some old neighbour who boasts of having spent all his life in the house he was born in." "old mr. dixon told mother that of himself, very lately. oh dear, how often does the postman come?" "you want a letter from home, do you? but you left them only yesterday morning." "i don't know how to believe that,--it seems such an immense time! but when does the postman come?" "any day when he has letters to bring,--at about four in the afternoon. we see him come, from the school-room; but we do not know who the letters are for till school breaks up at five." "o dear!" cried hugh, thinking what the suspense must be, and the disappointment at last to twenty boys, perhaps, for one that was gratified. firth advised him to write a letter home before he began to expect one. if he did not like to ask the usher, he himself would rule the paper for him, and he could write a bit at a time, after his lessons were done in the evening, till the sheet was full. hugh then told his grievance about the usher, and firth thought that though it was not wise in hugh to prate about crofton on the top of the coach, it was worse to sit by and listen without warning, unless the listener meant to hold his own tongue. but he fancied the usher had since heard something which made him sorry; and the best way now was for hugh to bear no malice, and remember nothing more of the affair than to be discreet in his future journeys. "what is the matter there?" cried hugh. "o dear! something very terrible must have happened. how that boy is screaming!" "it is only lamb again," replied firth. "you will soon get used to his screaming. he is a very passionate boy--i never saw such a passionate fellow." "but what are they doing to him?" "somebody is putting him into a passion, i suppose. there is always somebody to do that." "what a shame!" cried hugh. "yes: i see no wit in it," replied firth. "anybody may do it. you have only to hold your little finger up to put him in a rage." hugh thought firth was rather cool about the matter. but firth was not so cool when the throng opened for a moment, and showed what was really done to the angry boy. only his head appeared above ground. his school-fellows had put him into a hole they had dug, and had filled it up to his chin, stamping down the earth, so that the boy was perfectly helpless, while wild with rage. "that is too bad!" cried firth. "that would madden a saint." and he jumped down from the paling, and ran towards the crowd. hugh, forgetting his height from the ground, stood up in the tree, almost as angry as lamb himself, and staring with all his might to see what he could. he saw firth making his way through the crowd, evidently remonstrating, if not threatening. he saw him snatch a spade from a boy who was flourishing it in lamb's face. he saw that firth was digging, though half-a-dozen boys had thrown themselves on his back, and hung on his arms. he saw that firth persevered till lamb had got his right arm out of the ground, and was striking everywhere within reach. then he saw firth dragged down and away, while the boys made a circle round lamb, putting a foot or hand within his reach, and then snatching it away again, till the boy yelled with rage at the mockery. hugh could look on no longer. he scrambled down from the tree, scampered to the spot, burst through the throng, and seized lamb's hand. lamb struck him a heavy blow, taking him for an enemy; but hugh cried "i am your friend," seized his hand again, and tugged till he was first red and then black in the face, and till lamb had worked his shoulders out of the hole, and seemed likely to have the use of his other arm in a trice. lamb's tormentors at first let hugh alone in amazement; but they were not long in growing angry with him too. they hustled him--they pulled him all ways--they tripped him up; but hugh's spirit was roused, and that brought his body up to the struggle again and again. he wrenched himself free, he scrambled to his feet again, as often as he was thrown down; and in a few minutes he had plenty of support. phil was taking his part, and shielding him from many blows. firth had got lamb out of the hole; and the party against the tormentors was now so strong that they began to part off till the struggle ceased. firth kept his grasp of the spade; for lamb's passion still ran so high that there was no saying what might be the consequences of leaving any dangerous weapon within his reach. he was still fuming and stamping, hugh gazing at him the while in wonder and fear. "there stands your defender, lamb," said firth, "thinking he never saw a boy in a passion before. come, have done with it for his sake: be a man, as he is. here, help me to fill up this hole--both of you. stamp down the earth, lamb. tread it well--tread your anger well down into it. think of this little friend of yours here--a crofton boy only yesterday!" lamb did help to fill the hole, but he did not say a word--not one word to anybody, till the dinner-bell rang. then, at the pump, where the party were washing their hot and dirty and bruised hands, he held out his hand to hugh, muttering, with no very good grace-- "i don't know what made you help me, but i will never be in a passion with you:--unless you put me out, that is." hugh replied that he had come to help because he never could bear to see anybody _made worse_. he always tried at home to keep the little boys and girls off "drunk old tom," as he was called in the neighbourhood. it was such a shame to make anybody worse! lamb looked as if he was going to fly at hugh now: but firth put his arm round hugh's neck, and drew him into the house, saying in his ear-- "don't say any more that you have no friends here. you have me for one; and you might have had another--two in one morning--but for your plain speaking about drunk old tom." "did i say any harm?" "no--no harm," replied firth; laughing. "you will do, my boy--when you have got through a few scrapes. i'm your friend, at any rate." chapter vi. first ramble. hugh's afternoon lessons were harder than those of the morning; and in the evening he found he had so much to do that there was very little time left for writing his letter home. some time there was, however; and firth did not forget to rule his paper, and to let hugh use his ink. hugh had been accustomed to copy the prints he found in the voyages and travels he read; and he could never see a picture of a savage but he wanted to copy it. he was thus accustomed to a pretty free use of his slate-pencil. he now thought that it would save a great deal of description if he sent a picture or two in his letter: so he flourished off, on the first page, a sketch of mr. tooke sitting at his desk at the top of the school, and of mr. carnaby standing at his desk at the bottom of the school. the next evening he made haste to fill up the sheet, for he found his business increasing upon his hands so fast that he did not know when he should get his letter off, if he did not despatch it at once. he was just folding it up when tom holt observed that it was a pity not to put some words into the mouths of the figures, to make them more animated; and he showed hugh, by the curious carvings of their desks, how to put words into the mouths of figures. hugh then remembered having seen this done in the caricatures in the print-shops in london; and he seized on the idea. he put into mr. tooke's mouth the words which were oftenest heard from him, "proceed, gentlemen;" and into mr. carnaby's, "hold your din." firth was too busy with his sense-verses to mind the little boys, as they giggled, with their heads close together, over hugh's sheet of paper; but the usher was never too busy to be aware of any fun which might possibly concern his dignity. he had his eye on the new boys the whole while. he let hugh direct his letter, and paint up a stroke or two which did not look so well as the rest; and it was not till hugh was rolling the wafer about on his tongue that he interfered. mr. carnaby then came up, tapped hugh's head, told him not to get on so fast, for that every letter must be looked over before it went to the post. while saying this, he took the letter, and put it into his waistcoat pocket. in vain hugh begged to have it again, saying he would write another. the more he begged, and the more dismayed tom holt looked, the less mr. carnaby would attend to either. firth let himself be interrupted to hear the case: but he could do nothing in it. it was a general rule, which he thought every boy had known; and it was too late now to prevent the letter being looked over. mr. carnaby was so angry at the liberty hugh had taken with his face and figure, that, in spite of all prayers, and a good many tears, he walked up the school with the letter, followed by poor hugh, as soon as mr. tooke had taken his seat next morning. hugh thought that holt, who had put him up to the most offensive part of the pictures, might have borne him company; but holt was a timid boy, and he really had not courage to leave his seat. so hugh stood alone, awaiting mr. tooke's awful words, while the whole of the first class looked up from their books, in expectation of what was to happen. they waited some time for the master's words; for he was trying to help laughing. he and mr. carnaby were so much alike in the pictures, and both so like south sea islanders, that it was impossible to help laughing at the thought of this sketch going abroad as a representation of the crofton masters. at last, all parties laughed aloud, and mr. tooke handed hugh his wafer-glass, and bade him wafer up his letter, and by all means send it. mr. carnaby could not remain offended, if his principal was not angry: so here the matter ended, except that hugh made some strong resolutions about his future letters; and that the corners of the master's mouth were seen to be out of their usual order several times in the course of the morning. this incident, and everything which haunted hugh's mind, and engrossed his attention, was a serious evil to him; for his business soon grew to be more than his habit of mind was equal to. in a few days, he learned to envy the boys (and they were almost the whole school) who could fix their attention completely and immediately on the work before them, and relax as completely, when it was accomplished. when his eyes were wandering, they observed boy after boy frowning over his dictionary, or repeating to himself, earnestly and without pause; and presently the business was done, and the learner at ease, feeling confident that he was ready to meet his master. after double the time had passed, hugh was still trying to get the meaning of his lesson into his head--going over the same words a dozen times, without gaining any notion of their meaning--suffering, in short, from his long habit of inattention at home. he did now try hard; but he seemed to get only headaches for his pains. his brother saw enough to make him very sorry for hugh before ten days was over. he might not, perhaps, have been struck with his anxious countenance, his frequent starts, and his laying his head down on his desk because it ached so, if it had not been for what happened at night. sometimes hugh started out of bed, and began to dress, when the elder boys went up with their light, only an hour after the younger ones. sometimes he would begin saying his syntax in the middle of the night, fancying he was standing before mr. carnaby; and once, he walked in his sleep as far as the head of the stairs, and then suddenly woke, and could not make out where he was. phil should have told mr. tooke of these things; but hugh was so very anxious that nobody should know of his "tricks" (as the boys in his room called his troubles), that phil only mentioned the matter to mrs. watson, who had known so many bad sleepers among little boys, and had so little idea that the habit was anything new, that she took scarcely any notice of it. she had his hair cut very short and close, and saw that he took a moderate supper, and was satisfied that all would be well. hugh did not part with his hair till he had joked himself about its length, as much as any one could quiz him for it. when he had pulled it down over the end of his nose, and peeped through it, like an owl out of an ivy-bush, he might be supposed to part with it voluntarily, and not because he was laughed at. phil's observation of his brother's toil and trouble led him to give him some help. almost every day he would hear hugh say his lesson--or try to say it; for the poor boy seldom succeeded. phil sometimes called him stupid, and sometimes refrained from saying so, whatever he might think; but there really was very little difference in the result, whether phil heard the lessons beforehand or not; and it gave joe cape a great advantage over phil that he had no little brother to attend to. considering how selfish rivalship is apt to make boys (and even men), it was perhaps no wonder that phil sometimes kept out of hugh's way at the right hour, saying to himself that his proper business was to do his lessons, and get or keep ahead of joe cape; and that hugh must take his chance, and work his own way, as other boys had to do. this conduct might not be wondered at in phil; but it hurt hugh, and made him do his lessons all the worse. he did not like to expose his brother's unkindness to any one, or he would oftener have asked firth to help him. firth, too, had plenty of work of his own to do. more than once, however, firth met the little lad, wandering about, with his grammar in his hand, in search of the hidden phil; and then firth would stop him, and sit down with him, and have patience, and give him such clear explanations, such good examples of the rules he was to learn, that it all became easy, and hugh found his lessons were to him only what those of other boys seemed to them. still, however, and at the best, hugh was, as a learner, far too much at the mercy of circumstances--the victim of what passed before his eyes, or was said within his hearing. boys who find difficulty in attending to their lessons are sure to be more teased with interruptions than any others. holt had not the habit of learning; and he and hugh were continually annoyed by the boys who sat near them watching how they got on, and making remarks upon them. one day, mr. tooke was called out of the school-room to a visitor, and mr. carnaby went up to take the master's place, and hear his class. this was too good an opportunity for the boys below to let slip; and they began to play tricks,--most of them directed against hugh and tom holt. one boy, warner, began to make the face that always made holt laugh, however he tried to be grave. page drew a caricature of mrs. watson on his slate, and held it up; and davison took a mask out of his desk, and even ventured to tie it on, as if it had not been school-time. "i declare i can't learn my lesson--'tis too bad!" cried hugh. "'tis a shame!" said tom holt, sighing for breath after his struggle not to laugh. "we shall never be ready." hugh made gestures of indignation at the boys, which only caused worse faces to be made, and the mask to nod. "we wont look at them," proposed holt. "let us cover our eyes, and not look up at all." hugh put his hands before his eyes; but still his mind's eye saw the grinning mask, and his lesson did not get on. besides, a piece of wet sponge lighted on the very page he was learning from. he looked up fiercely, to see who had thrown it. it was no other than tooke, who belonged to that class:--it was tooke, to judge by his giggle, and his pretending to hide his face, as if ashamed. hugh tossed back the sponge, so as to hit tooke on the nose. then tooke was angry, and threw it again, and the sponge passed backwards and forwards several times: for hugh was by this time very angry,--boiling with indignation at the hardship of not being able to learn his lesson, when he really would if he could. while the sponge was still passing to and fro, mr. carnaby's voice was heard from the far end of the room, desiring warner, page, davison, and tooke to be quiet, and let the boys alone till mr. tooke came in, when mr. tooke would take his own measures. hugh, wondering how mr. carnaby knew, at that distance, what was going on, found that holt was no longer by his side. in a moment, holt returned to his seat, flushed and out of breath. a very slight hiss was heard from every form near, as he came down the room. "o! holt! you have been telling tales!" cried hugh. "telling tales!" exclaimed holt, in consternation, for holt knew nothing of school ways. "i never thought of that. they asked me to tell mr. carnaby that we could not learn our lessons." "they! who? i am sure i never asked you." "no; you did not: but harvey and prince did,--and gillingham. they said mr. carnaby would soon make those fellows quiet; and they told me to go." "you hear! they are calling you 'tell-tale.' that will be your name now. oh, holt! you should not have told tales. however, i will stand by you," hugh continued, seeing the terror that holt was in. "i meant no harm," said holt, trembling. "was not it a shame that they would not let us learn our lessons?" "yes, it was--but----" at this moment mr. tooke entered the room. as he passed the forms, the boys were all bent over their books, as if they could think of nothing else. mr. tooke walked up the room to his desk, and mr. carnaby walked down the room to _his_ desk; and then mr. carnaby said, quite aloud, "mr. tooke, sir." "well." here holt sprang from his desk, and ran to the usher and besought him not to say a word about what warner's class had been doing. he even hung on mr. carnaby's arm in entreaty; but mr. carnaby shook him off, and commanded him back to his seat. then the whole school heard mr. tooke told about the wry faces and the mask, and the trouble of the little boys. mr. tooke was not often angry; but when he was, his face grew white, and his lips trembled. his face was white now. he stood up, and called before him the little boy who had informed. hugh chose to go with holt, though holt had not gone up with him about the letter, the other day; and holt felt how kind this was. mr. tooke desired to know who the offenders were; and as they were named, he called to them to stand up in their places. then came the sentence. mr. tooke would never forgive advantage being taken of his absence. if there were boys who could not be trusted while his back was turned, they must be made to remember him when he was out of sight, by punishment. page must remain in school after hours, to learn twenty lines of virgil; davison twenty; tooke forty---- here everybody looked round to see how tooke bore his father being so angry with him. "please, sir," cried one boy, "i saw little proctor throw a sponge at tooke. he did it twice." "never mind!" answered tooke. "i threw it at him first. it is my sponge." "and warner," continued the master, as if he had not heard the interruption, "considering that warner has got off too easily for many pranks of late,--warner seventy." seventy! the idea of having anybody condemned, through him, to learn seventy lines of latin by heart, made holt so miserable, that the word seventy seemed really to prick his very ears. though mr. tooke's face was still white, holt ventured up to him-- "pray, sir----" "not a word of intercession for those boys?" said the master. "i will not hear a word in their favour." "then, sir----" "well." "i only want to say, then, that proctor told no tales, sir. i did not mean any harm, sir, but i told, because----" "never mind that," cried hugh, afraid that he would now be telling of harvey, prince, and gillingham, who had persuaded him to go up. "i have nothing to do with that. that is your affair," said the master, sending the boys back to their seats. poor holt had cause to rue this morning, for long after. he was weary of the sound of hissing, and of the name "tell-tale;" and the very boys who had prompted him to go up were at first silent, and then joined against him. he complained to hugh of the difficulty of knowing what it was right to do. he had been angry on hugh's account chiefly; and he still thought it _was_ very unjust to hinder their lessons, when they wished not to be idle: and yet they were all treating him as if he had done something worse than the boys with the mask. hugh thought all this was true; but he believed it was settled among school-boys (though holt had never had the opportunity of knowing it) that it was a braver thing for boys to bear any teasing from one another than to call in the power of the master to help. a boy who did that was supposed not to be able to take care of himself; and for this he was despised, besides being disliked, for having brought punishment upon his companions. holt wished hugh had not been throwing sponges at the time:--he wished hugh had prevented his going up. he would take good care how he told tales again. "you had better say so," advised hugh; "and then they will see that you had never been at school, and did not know how to manage." the first saturday had been partly dreaded, and partly longed for, by hugh. he had longed for the afternoon's ramble; but saturday morning was the time for saying tables, among other things. nothing happened as he had expected. the afternoon was so rainy that there was no going out; and, as for the tables, he was in a class of five; and "four times seven" did not come to him in regular course. eight times seven did, and he said "fifty-six" with great satisfaction. mr. carnaby asked him afterwards the dreaded question, but he was on his guard; and as he answered it right, and the usher had not found out the joke, he hoped he should hear no more of the matter. the next saturday was fine, and at last he was to have the walk he longed for. the weekly repetitions were over, dinner was done, mr. carnaby appeared with his hat on, the whole throng burst into the open air, and out of bounds, and the new boys were wild with expectation and delight. when they had passed the church-yard and the green, and were wading through the sandy road which led up to the heath, firth saw hugh running and leaping hither and thither, not knowing what to do with his spirits. firth called him, and putting his arm round hugh's neck, so as to keep him prisoner, said he did not know how he might want his strength before he got home, and he had better not spend it on a bit of sandy road. so hugh was made to walk quietly, and gained his breath before the breezy heath was reached. on the way, he saw that a boy of the name of dale, whom he had never particularly observed before, was a good deal teased by some boys who kept crossing their hands before them, and curtseying like girls, talking in a mincing way, and calling one another amelia, with great affectation. dale tried to get away, but he was followed, whichever way he turned. "what do they mean by that?" inquired hugh of firth. "dale has a sister at a school not far off, and her name is amelia; and she came to see him to-day. ah! you have not found out yet that boys are laughed at about their sisters, particularly if the girls have fine names." "what a shame!" cried hugh; words which he had used very often already since he came to crofton. he broke from firth, ran up to dale, and said to him, in a low voice, "i have two sisters, and one of them is called agnes." "don't let them come to see you, then, or these fellows will quiz you as they do me. as if i could help having a sister amelia!" "why, you are not sorry for that? you would not wish your sister dead, or not born, would you?" "no; but i wish she was not hereabouts: that is, i wish she had not come up to the pales, with the maid-servant behind her, for everybody to see. and then, when mr. tooke sent us into the orchard together, some spies were peeping over the wall at us all the time." "i only wish agnes would come," cried hugh, "and i would----" "ah! you think so now; but depend upon it, you would like much better to see her at home. why, her name is finer than my sister's! i wonder what girls ever have such names for!" "i don't see that these names are finer than some boys' names. there's frazer, is not his name colin? and then there's hercules fisticuff----" "why, you know--to be sure you know that is a nickname?" said dale. "is it? i never thought of that," replied hugh. "what is his real name?" "samuel jones. however, there is colin frazer--and fry, his name is augustus adolphus; i will play them off the next time they quiz amelia. how old is your sister agnes?" then the two boys wandered off among the furze bushes, talking about their homes; and in a little while, they had so opened their hearts to each other, that they felt as if they had always been friends. nobody thought any more about them when once the whole school was dispersed over the heath. some boys made for a hazel copse, some way beyond the heath, in hopes of finding a few nuts already ripe. others had boats to float on the pond. a large number played leap-frog, and some ran races. mr. carnaby threw himself down on a soft couch of wild thyme, on a rising ground, and took out his book. so dale and hugh felt themselves unobserved, and they chatted away at a great rate. not but that an interruption or two did occur. they fell in with a flock of geese, and hugh did not much like their appearance, never having heard a goose make a noise before. he had eaten roast goose, and he had seen geese in the feathers at the poulterers'; but he had never seen them alive, and stretching their necks at passengers. he flinched at the first moment. dale, who never imagined that a boy who was not afraid of his school-fellows could be afraid of geese, luckily mistook the movement, and said, "ay, get a switch,--a bunch of furze will do, and we will be rid of the noisy things." he drove them away, and hugh had now learned, for ever, how much noise geese can make, and how little they are to be feared. they soon came upon some creatures which were larger and stronger, and with which hugh was no better acquainted. some cows were grazing, or had been grazing, till a party of boys came up. they were now restless, moving uneasily about, so that dale himself hesitated for a moment which way to go. lamb was near,--the passionate boy, who was nobody's friend, and who was therefore seldom at play with others. he was also something of a coward, as any one might know from his frequent bullying. he and holt happened to be together at this time; and it was their appearance of fright at the restless cows which frightened hugh. one cow at last began to trot towards them at a pretty good rate. lamb ran off to the right, and the two little boys after him, though dale pulled at hugh's hand to make him stand still; as dale chose to do himself. he pulled in vain--hugh burst away, and off went the three boys, over the hillocks and through the furze, the cow trotting at some distance behind. they did not pause till lamb had led them off the heath into a deep lane, different from the one by which they had come. the cow stopped at a patch of green grass, just at the entrance of the hollow way; and the runners therefore could take breath. "now we are here," said lamb, "i will show you a nice place,--a place where we can get something nice. how thirsty i am!" "and so am i," declared holt, smacking his dry tongue. hugh's mouth was very dry too, between the run and the fright. "well, then, come along with me, and i will show you," said lamb. hugh thought they ought not to go farther from the heath: but lamb said they would get back by another way,--through a gate belonging to a friend of his. they could not get back the way they came, because the cow was there still. he walked briskly on till they came to a cottage, over whose door swung a sign; and on the sign was a painting of a bottle and a glass, and a heap of things which were probably meant for cakes, as there were cakes in the window. here lamb turned in, and the woman seemed to know him well. she smiled, and closed the door behind the three boys, and asked them to sit down: but lamb said there was no time for that to-day,--she must be quick. he then told the boys that they would have some ginger-beer. "but may we?" asked the little boys. "to be sure: who is to prevent us? you shall see how you like ginger-beer when you are thirsty." the woman declared that it was the most wholesome thing in the world; and if the young gentleman did not find it so, she would never ask him to taste her ginger-beer again. hugh thanked them both; but he did not feel quite comfortable. he looked at holt, to find out what he thought: but holt was quite engrossed with watching the woman untwisting the wire of the first bottle. the cork did not fly; indeed there was some difficulty in getting it out: so lamb waived his right, as the eldest, to drink first; and the little boys were so long in settling which should have it, that the little spirit there was had all gone off before hugh began to drink; and he did not find ginger-beer such particularly good stuff as lamb had said. he would have liked a drink of water better. the next bottle was very brisk: so lamb seized upon it; and the froth hung round his mouth when he had done: but holt was no better off with his than hugh had been. they were both urged to try their luck again. hugh would not; but holt did once; and lamb, two or three times. then the woman offered them some cakes upon a plate: and the little boys thanked her, and took each one. lamb put some in his pocket, and advised the others to do the same, as they had no time to spare. he kept some room in his pocket, however, for some plums; and told the boys that they might carry theirs in their handkerchiefs, or in their caps, if they would take care to have finished before they came within sight of the usher. he then asked the woman to let them out upon the heath through her garden gate; and she said she certainly would when they had paid. she then stood drumming with her fingers upon the table, and looking through the window, as if waiting. "come, proctor, you have half-a-crown," said lamb. "out with it!" "my half-crown!" exclaimed proctor. "you did not say i had anything to pay." "as if you did not know that, without my telling you! you don't think people give away their good things, i suppose! come,--where's your half-crown? my money is all at home." holt had nothing with him either. lamb asked the woman what there was to pay. she seemed to count and consider; and holt told hugh afterwards that he saw lamb wink at her. she then said that the younger gentlemen had had the most plums and cakes. the charge was a shilling a-piece for them, and sixpence for master lamb:--half-a-crown exactly. hugh protested he never meant anything like this, and that he wanted part of his half-crown to buy a comb with; and he would have emptied out the cakes and fruit he had left; but the woman stopped him, saying that she never took back what she had sold. lamb hurried him, too, declaring that their time was up; and he even thrust his finger and thumb into hugh's inner pocket, and took out the half-crown, which he gave to the woman. he was sure that hugh could wait for his comb till holt paid him, and the woman said she did not see that any more combing was wanted: the young gentleman's hair looked so pretty as it was. she then showed them through the garden, and gave them each a marigold full-blown. she unlocked her gate, pushed them through, locked it behind them, and left them to hide their purchases as well as they could. though the little boys stuffed their pockets till the ripest plums burst, and wetted the linings, they could not dispose of them all; and they were obliged to give away a good many. hugh went in search of his new friend, and drew him aside from the rest to relate his trouble. dale wondered he had not found out lamb before this, enough to refuse to follow his lead. lamb would never pay a penny. he always spent the little money he had upon good things, the first day or two; and then he got what he could out of any one who was silly enough to trust him. "but," said hugh, "the only thing we had to do with each other before was by my being kind to him." "that makes no difference," said dale. "but what a bad boy he must be! to be sure, he will pay me, when he knows how much i want a comb." "he will tell you to buy it out of your five shillings. you let him know you had five shillings in mrs. watson's hands." "yes; but he knows how i mean to spend that,--for presents to carry home at christmas. but i'll never tell him anything again. oh! dale! do you really think he will never pay me?" "he never pays anybody; that is all i know. come,--forget it all, as fast as you can. let us go and see if we can get any nuts." hugh did not at all succeed in his endeavours to forget his adventure. the more he thought about it, the worse it seemed; and the next time he spoke to holt, and told him to remember that he owed him a shilling, holt said he did not know that,--he did not mean to spend a shilling; and it was clear that it was only his fear of hugh's speaking to mrs. watson or the usher, that prevented his saying outright that he should not pay it. hugh felt very hot, and bit his lip to make his voice steady when he told dale, on the way home, that he did not believe he should ever see any part of his half-crown again. dale thought so too; but he advised him to do nothing more than keep the two debtors up to the remembrance of their debt. if he told so powerful a person as firth, it would be almost as much tale-telling as if he went to the master at once; and hugh himself had no inclination to expose his folly to phil, who was already quite sufficiently ashamed of his inexperience. so poor hugh threw the last of his plums to some cottager's children on the green, in his way home; and, when he set foot within bounds again, he heartily wished that this saturday afternoon had been rainy too; for any disappointment would have been better than this scrape. while learning his lessons for monday, he forgot the whole matter; and then he grew merry over the great saturday night's washing; but after he was in bed, it flashed upon him that he should meet uncle and aunt shaw in church to-morrow, and they would speak to phil and him after church; and his uncle might ask after the half-crown. he determined not to expose his companions, at any rate: but his uncle would be displeased; and this thought was so sad that hugh cried himself to sleep. his uncle and aunt were at church the next morning; and hugh could not forget the ginger-beer, or help watching his uncle: so that, though he tried several times to attend to the sermon, he knew nothing about it when it was done. his uncle observed in the church-yard that they must have had a fine ramble the day before; but did not say anything about pocket-money. neither did he name a day for his nephews to visit him, though he said they must come before the days grew much shorter. so hugh thought he had got off very well thus far. in the afternoon, however, mrs. watson, who invited him and holt into her parlour, to look over the pictures in her great bible, was rather surprised to find how little hugh could tell her of the sermon, considering how much he had remembered the sunday before. she had certainly thought that to-day's sermon had been the simpler, and the more interesting to young people, of the two. her conversation with hugh did him good, however. it reminded him of his mother's words, and of her expectations from him; and it made him resolve to bear, not only his loss, but any blame which might come upon him silently, and without betraying anybody. he had already determined, fifty times within the twenty-four hours, never to be so weakly led again, when his own mind was doubtful, as he had felt it all the time from leaving the heath to getting back to it again. he began to reckon on the christmas holidays, when he should have five weeks at home, free from the evils of both places,--from lessons with miss harold, and from crofton scrapes. it is probable that the whole affair would have passed over quietly, and the woman in the lane might have made large profits by other inexperienced boys, and mr. carnaby might have gone on being careless as to where the boys went out of his sight on saturdays, but that tom holt ate too many plums on the present occasion. on sunday morning he was not well; and was so ill by the evening, and all monday, that he had to be regularly nursed; and when he left his bed, he was taken to mrs. watson's parlour,--the comfortable, quiet place where invalid boys enjoyed themselves. poor holt was in very low spirits; and mrs. watson was so kind that he could not help telling her that he owed a shilling, and he did not know how he should ever pay it; and that hugh proctor, who had been his friend till now, seemed on a sudden much more fond of dale; and this made it harder to be in debt to him. the wet, smeared lining of the pockets had told mrs. watson already that there had been some improper indulgence in good things; and when she heard what part lamb had played towards the little boys, she thought it right to tell mr. tooke. mr. tooke said nothing till holt was in the school again, which was on thursday; and not then till the little boys had said their lessons, at past eleven o'clock. they were drawing on their slates, and lamb was still mumbling over his book, without getting on, when the master's awful voice was heard, calling up before him lamb, little proctor, and holt. all three started, and turned red; so that the school concluded them guilty before it was known what they were charged with. dale knew,--and he alone; and very sorry he was, for the intimacy between hugh and him had grown very close indeed since saturday. the master was considerate towards the younger boys. he made lamb tell the whole. even when the cowardly lad "bellowed" (as his school-fellows called his usual mode of crying) so that nothing else could be heard, mr. tooke waited, rather than question the other two. when the whole story was extracted, in all its shamefulness, from lamb's own lips, the master expressed his disgust. he said nothing about the money part of it--about how hugh was to be paid. he probably thought it best for the boys to take the consequences of their folly in losing their money. he handed the little boys over to mr. carnaby to be caned--"to make them remember," as he said; though they themselves were pretty sure they should never forget. lamb was kept to be punished by the master himself. though lamb knew he should be severely flogged, and though he was the most cowardly boy in the school, he did not suffer so much as hugh did in the prospect of being caned--being punished at all. phil, who knew his brother's face well, saw, as he passed down the room, how miserable he was--too miserable to cry; and phil pulled him by the sleeve, and whispered that being caned was nothing to mind--only a stroke or two across the shoulders. hugh shook his head, as much as to say, "it is not that." no--it was not the pain. it was the being punished in open school, and when he did not feel that he deserved it. how should he know where lamb was taking him? how should he know that the ginger-beer was to be paid for, and that he was to pay? he felt himself injured enough already; and now to be punished in addition! he would have died on the spot for liberty to tell mr. tooke and everybody what he thought of the way he was treated. he had felt his mother hard sometimes; but what had she ever done to him compared with this? it was well he thought of his mother. at the first moment, the picture of home in his mind nearly made him cry--the thing of all others he most wished to avoid while so many eyes were on him; but the remembrance of what his mother expected of him--her look when she told him _he must not fail_, gave him courage. hard as it was to be, as he believed, unjustly punished, it was better than having done anything very wrong--anything that he really could not have told his mother. mr. carnaby foresaw that a rebuke was in store for him for his negligence during the walk on saturday; and this anticipation did not sweeten his mood. he kept the little boys waiting, though holt was trembling very much, and still weak from his illness. it occurred to the usher that another person might be made uncomfortable; and he immediately acted on the idea. he had observed how fond of one another dale and hugh had become; and he thought he would plague dale a little. he therefore summoned him, and desired him to go, and bring him a switch, to cane these boys with. "i have broken my cane; so bring me a stout switch," said he, "bring me one out of the orchard; one that will lay on well--one that will not break with a good hard stroke;--mind what i say--one that will not break." "yes, sir," replied dale, readily; and he went as if he was not at all unwilling. holt shivered. hugh never moved. it was long, very long, before dale returned. when he did, he brought a remarkably stout broomstick. "this wont break, i think, sir," said he. the boys giggled. mr. carnaby knuckled dale's head as he asked him if he called that a switch. "bring me a _switch_," said he. "one that is not too stout, or else it will not sting. it must sting, remember,--sting well. not too stout, remember." "yes, sir," said dale; and away he went again. he was now gone yet longer; and by the time he returned everybody's eyes were fixed on the door, to see what sort of a switch would next appear. dale entered, bringing a straw. "i think this will not be too stout, sir." everybody laughed but hugh--even holt. there was that sneer about mr. carnaby's nose which made everybody sorry now for dale: but everybody started, mr. carnaby and all, at mr. tooke's voice, close at hand. how much he had seen and heard, there was no knowing; but it was enough to make him look extremely stern. "are these boys not caned yet, mr. carnaby?" "no, sir;--i have not--i----" "have they been standing here all this while?" "yes, sir. i have no cane, sir. i have been sending----" "i ordered them an immediate caning, mr. carnaby, and not mental torture. school is up," he declared to the boys at large. "you may go--you have been punished enough," he said to the little boys. "mr. carnaby, have the goodness to remain a moment." and the large room was speedily emptied of all but the master, the usher, and poor lamb. "the usher will catch it now," observed some boys, as the master himself shut the door behind them. "he will get well paid for his spite." "what will be done to him?" asked hugh of dale, whom he loved fervently for having saved him from punishment. "oh, i don't know; and i don't care--though he was just going to give my head some sound raps against the wall, if mr. tooke had not come up at the moment." "but what _will_ be done to mr. carnaby?" "never mind what; he wont be here long, they say. fisher says there is another coming; and carnaby is here only till that other is at liberty." this was good news, if true: and hugh ran off, quite in spirits, to play. he had set himself diligently to learn to play, and would not be driven off; and dale had insisted on fair scope for him. he played too well to be objected to any more. they now went to leap-frog; and when too hot to keep it up any longer, he and dale mounted into the apple-tree to talk, while they were cooling, and expecting the dinner-bell. something happened very wonderful before dinner. the gardener went down to the main road, and seemed to be looking out. at last he hailed the london coach. hugh and dale could see from their perch. the coach stopped, the gardener ran back, met mr. carnaby under the chesnuts, relieved him of his portmanteau, and helped him to mount the coach. "is he going? gone for good?" passed from mouth to mouth, all over the playground. "gone for good," was the answer of those who knew to a certainty. the boys set up first a groan, so loud that perhaps the departing usher heard it. then they gave a shout of joy, in which the little boys joined with all their might--hugh waving his cap in the apple-tree. chapter vii. what is only to be had at home. hugh got on far better with his lessons as he grew more intimate with dale. it was not so much that dale helped him with his grammar and construing (for dale thought every boy should make shift to do his own business) as that he liked to talk about his work, even with a younger boy; and so, as he said, clear his head. a great deal that he said was above hugh's comprehension; and much of his repetitions mere words: but there were other matters which fixed hugh's attention, and proved to him that study might be interesting out of school. when dale had a theme to write, the two boys often walked up and down the playground for half an hour together, talking the subject over, and telling of anything they had heard or read upon it. hugh presently learned the names and the meanings of the different parts of a theme; and he could sometimes help with an illustration or example, though he left it to his friend to lay down the proposition, and search out the confirmation. dale's nonsense-verses were perfect nonsense to hugh: but his construing was not: and when he went over it aloud, for the purpose of fixing his lesson in his ear, as well as his mind, hugh was sorry when they arrived at the end, and eager to know what came next,--particularly if they had to stop in the middle of a story of ovid's. every week, almost every day now, made a great difference in hugh's school-life. he still found his lessons very hard work, and was often in great fear and pain about them,--but he continually perceived new light breaking in upon his mind: his memory served him better; the little he had learned came when he wanted it, instead of just a minute too late. he rose in the morning with less anxiety about the day: and when playing, could forget school. there was no usher yet in mr. carnaby's place; and all the boys said their lessons to mr. tooke himself: which hugh liked very much, when he had got over the first fear. a writing-master came from a distance twice a-week, when the whole school was at writing and arithmetic all the afternoon: but every other lesson was said to the master; and this was likely to go on till christmas, as the new usher, of whom, it was said, mr. tooke thought so highly as to choose to wait for him, could not come before that time. of course, with so much upon his hands, mr. tooke had not a moment to spare; and slow or idle boys were sent back to their desks at the first trip or hesitation in their lessons. hugh was afraid, at the outset, that he should be like poor lamb, who never got a whole lesson said during these weeks: and he was turned down sometimes; but not often enough to depress him. he learned to trust more to his ear and his memory: his mind became excited, as in playing a game: and he found he got through, he scarcely knew how. his feeling of fatigue afterwards proved to him that this was harder work than he had ever done at home; but he did not feel it so at the time. when he could learn a lesson in ten minutes, and say it in one; when he began to use latin phrases in his private thoughts, and saw the meaning of a rule of syntax, so as to be able to find a fresh example out of his own head, he felt himself really a crofton boy, and his heart grew light within him. the class to which hugh belonged was one day standing waiting to be heard, when the master was giving a subject and directions for an english theme to dale's class. the subject was the pleasures of friendship. in a moment hugh thought of damon and pythias, and of david and jonathan,--of the last of whom there was a picture in mrs. watson's great bible. he thought how happy he had been since he had known dale, and his heart was in such a glow, he was sure he could write a theme. he ran after mr. tooke when school was over, and asked whether he might write a theme with dale's class. when mr. tooke found he knew what was meant by writing a theme, he said he might try, if he neglected nothing for it, and wrote every word of it himself, without consultation with any one. hugh scampered away to tell dale that they must not talk over this theme together, as they were both to do it; and then, instead of playing, he went to his desk, and wrote upon his slate till it was quite full. he had to borrow two slates before he had written all he had to say. phil ruled his paper for him; but before he had copied one page, his neighbours wanted their slates back again,--said they must have them, and rubbed out all he had written. much of the little time he had was lost in this way, and he grew wearied. he thought at first that his theme would be very beautiful: but he now began to doubt whether it would be worth anything at all; and he was vexed to have tired himself with doing what would only make him laughed at. the first page was well written out,--the confirmation being properly separated from the proposition: but he had to write all the latter part directly from his head upon the paper, as the slates were taken away; and he forgot to separate the conclusion from the inference. he borrowed a penknife, and tried to scratch out half a line; but he only made a hole in the paper, and was obliged to let the line stand. then he found he had strangely forgotten to put in the chief thing of all,--about friends telling one another of their faults,--though, on consideration, he was not sure that this was one of the pleasures of friendship: so, perhaps, it did not much matter. but there were two blots; and he had left out jonathan's name, which had to be interlined. altogether, it had the appearance of a very bad theme. firth came and looked over his shoulder, as he was gazing at it; and firth offered to write it out for him; and even thought it would be fair, as he had had nothing to do with the composition: but hugh could not think it would be fair, and said, sighing, that his must take its chance. he did not think he could have done a theme so very badly. mr. tooke beckoned him up with dale's class, when they carried up their themes; and, seeing how red his face was, the master bade him not be afraid. but how could he help being afraid? the themes were not read directly. it was mr. tooke's practice to read them out of school-hours. on this occasion, judgment was given the last thing before school broke up the next morning. hugh had never been more astonished in his life. mr. tooke praised his theme very much, and said it had surprised him. he did not mind the blots and mistakes, which would, he said, have been great faults in a copy-book, but were of less consequence than other things in a theme. time and pains would correct slovenliness of that kind; and the thoughts and language were good. hugh was almost out of his wits with delight; so nearly so that he spoiled his own pleasure completely. he could not keep his happiness to himself, or his vanity: for hugh had a good deal of vanity,--more than he was aware of before this day. he told several boys what mr. tooke had said: but he soon found that would not do. some were indifferent, but most laughed at him. then he ran to mrs. watson's parlour, and knocked. nobody answered; for the room was empty: so hugh sought her in various places, and at last found her in the kitchen, boiling some preserves. "what do you come here for? this is no place for you," said she, when the maids tried in vain to put hugh out. "i only want to tell you one thing," cried hugh; and he repeated exactly what mr. tooke had said of his theme. mrs. watson laughed, and the maids laughed, and hugh left them, angry with them, but more angry with himself. they did not care for him,--nobody cared for him, he said to himself; he longed for his mother's look or approbation when he had done well, and agnes' pleasure, and even susan's fondness and praise. he sought dale. dale was in the midst of a game, and had not a word or look to spare till it was over. the boys would have admitted hugh; for he could now play as well as anybody; but he was in no mood for play now. he climbed his tree, and sat there, stinging his mind with the thought of his having carried his boastings into the kitchen, and with his recollection of mrs. watson's laugh. it often happened that firth and hugh met at this tree; and it happened now. there was room for both; and firth mounted, and read for some time. at last, he seemed to be struck by hugh's restlessness and heavy sighs; and he asked whether he had not got something to amuse himself with. "no. i don't want to amuse myself," said hugh, stretching so as almost to throw himself out of the tree. "why, what's the matter? did not you come off well with your theme? i heard somebody say you were quite enough set up about it." "where is the use of doing a thing well, if nobody cares about it?" said hugh. "i don't believe anybody at crofton cares a bit about me--cares whether i get on well or ill--except dale. if i take pains and succeed, they only laugh at me." "ah! you don't understand school and school-boys yet," replied firth. "to do a difficult lesson well is a grand affair at home, and the whole house knows of it. but it is the commonest thing in the world here. if you learn to feel with these boys, instead of expecting them to feel with you (which they cannot possibly do), you will soon find that they care for you accordingly." hugh shook his head. "you will find in every school in england," continued firth, "that it is not the way of boys to talk about feelings--about anybody's feelings. that is the reason why they do not mention their sisters or their mothers--except when two confidential friends are together, in a tree, or by themselves in the meadows. but, as sure as ever a boy is full of action--if he tops the rest at play--holds his tongue, or helps others generously--or shows a manly spirit without being proud of it, the whole school is his friend. you have done well, so far, by growing more and more sociable; but you will lose ground if you boast about your lessons out of school. to prosper at crofton, you must put off home, and make yourself a crofton boy." "i don't care about that," said hugh. "i give it all up. there is nothing but injustice here." "nothing but injustice! pray, am i unjust?" "no--not you--not so far. but----" "is mr. tooke unjust?" "yes--very." "pray how, and when?" "he has been so unjust to me, that if it had not been for something, i could not have borne it. i am not going to tell you what that something is: only you need not be afraid but that i can bear everything. if the whole world was against me----" "well, never mind what that something is; but tell me how mr. tooke is unjust to you." "he punished me when i did not deserve it; and he praised me when i did not deserve it. i was cheated and injured that saturday; and, instead of seeing me righted, mr. tooke ordered me to be punished. and to-day, when my theme was so badly done that i made sure of being blamed, he praised me." "this might be injustice at home," replied firth, "because parents know, or ought to know, all that is in their children's minds, and exactly what their children can do. a school-master can judge only by what he sees. mr. tooke does not know yet that you could have done your theme better than you did--as your mother would have known. when he finds you can do better, he will not praise such a theme again. meantime, how you can boast of his praise, if you think it unjust, is the wonder to me." "so it is to me now. i wish i had never asked to do that theme at all," cried hugh, again stretching himself to get rid of his shame. "but why did mr. tooke order me to be caned? why did he not make lamb and holt pay me what they owe? i was injured before; and he injured me more." "you were to be caned because you left the heath and entered a house, without leave--not because you had been cheated of your money." "but i did not know where i was going. i never meant to enter a house." "but you did both; and what you suffered will prevent your letting yourself be led into such a scrape again. as for the money part of the matter--a school is to boys what the world is when they become men. they must manage their own affairs among themselves. the difference is, that here is the master to be applied to, if we choose. he will advise you about your money, if you choose to ask him: but, for my part, i would rather put up with the loss, if i were you." "nobody will ever understand what i mean about justice," muttered hugh. "suppose," said firth, "while you are complaining of injustice in this way, somebody else should be complaining in the same way of your injustice." "nobody can--fairly," replied hugh. "do you see that poor fellow, skulking there under the orchard-wall?" "what, holt?" "yes, holt. i fancy the thought in his mind at this moment is that you are the most unjust person at crofton." "i! unjust!" "yes; so he thinks. when you first came, you and he were companions. you found comfort in each other while all the rest were strangers to you. you were glad to hear, by the hour together, what he had to tell you about india, and his voyages and travels. now he feels himself lonely and forsaken, while he sees you happy with a friend. he thinks it hard that you should desert him because he owes you a shilling, when he was cheated quite as much as you." "because he owes me a shilling!" cried hugh, starting to his feet, "as if----" once more he had nearly fallen from his perch. firth caught him; and then asked him how holt should think otherwise than as he did, since hugh had been his constant companion up to that saturday afternoon, and had hardly spoken to him since. hugh protested that the shilling had nothing to do with the matter; and he never meant to take more than sixpence from holt, because he thought lamb was the one who ought to pay the shilling. the thing was, he did not, and could not, like holt half so well as dale. he could not make a friend of holt, because he wanted spirit--he had no courage. what could he do? he could not pretend to be intimate with holt when he did not like him; and if he explained that the shilling had nothing to do with the matter, he could not explain how it really was, when the fault was in the boy's character, and not in his having given any particular offence. what could he do? firth thought he could only learn not to expect, anywhere out of the bounds of home, what he thought justice. he must, of course, try himself to be just to everybody; but he must make up his mind in school, as men have to do in the world, to be misunderstood--to be wrongly valued; to be blamed when he felt himself the injured one; and praised when he knew he did not deserve it. "but it is so hard," said hugh. "and what do people leave home for but to learn hard lessons?" "but, still, if it were not for----" "for what? do you see any comfort under it?" asked firth, fixing his eyes on hugh. hugh nodded, without speaking. "that one understands us who cannot be unjust!" whispered firth. "i am glad you feel that." "even home would be bad enough without that," said hugh. "and what would school be?" "or the world?" added firth. "but do not get cross, and complain again. leave that to those who have no comfort." hugh nodded again. then he got down, and ran to tell holt that he did not want a shilling from him, because he thought sixpence would be fairer. holt was glad to hear this at first; but he presently said that it did not much matter, for that he had no more chance of being able to pay sixpence than a shilling. his parents were in india, and his uncle never offered him any money. he knew indeed that his uncle had none to spare; for he had said in the boy's hearing, that it was hard on him to have to pay the school-bills (unless he might pay them in the produce of his farm), so long as it must be before he could be repaid from india. so holt did not dare to ask for pocket-money; and for the hundredth time he sighed over his debt. he had almost left off hoping that hugh would excuse him altogether, though everybody knew that hugh had five shillings in mrs. watson's hands. this fact, and hugh's frequent applications to lamb for payment, had caused an impression that hugh was fond of money. it was not so; and yet the charge was not unfair. hugh was ready to give if properly asked; but he did not relish, and could not bear with temper, the injustice of such a forced borrowing as had stripped him of his half-crown. he wanted his five shillings for presents for his family; and for these reasons, and not because he was miserly, he did not offer to excuse holt's debt; which it would have been more generous to have done. nobody could wish that he should excuse lamb's. "when are you going to your uncle's?" asked holt. "i suppose you _are_ going some day before christmas." "on saturday, to stay till sunday night," said hugh. "and proctor goes too, i suppose?" "yes; of course, phil goes too." "anybody else?" "we are each to take one friend, just for saturday, to come home at night." "oh? then, you will take me. you said you would." "did i? that must have been a long time ago." "but you did say so,--that, whenever you went, you would ask leave to take me." "i don't remember any such thing. and i am going to take dale this time. i have promised him." holt cried with vexation. dale was always in his way. hugh cared for nobody but dale; but dale should not go to mr. shaw's till he had had his turn. he had been promised first, and he would go first. he would speak to mrs. watson, and get leave to go and tell mr. shaw, and then he was sure mr. shaw would let him go. hugh was very uncomfortable. he really could not remember having made this promise: but he could not be sure that he had not. he asked holt if he thought he should like to be in people's way, to spoil the holiday by going where he was not wished for; but this sort of remonstrance did not comfort holt at all. hugh offered that he should have the very next turn, if he would give up now. "i dare say! and when will that be? you know on sunday it will want only nineteen days to the holidays; and you will not be going to your uncle's again this half-year. a pretty way of putting me off!" then, as if a sudden thought had struck him, he cried, "but proctor has to take somebody." "yes; phil takes tooke. they settled that a week ago." "oh! can't you ask him to take me?" "no; i shall not meddle with phil. besides, i am glad he has chosen tooke. tooke behaved well to me about the sponge, that day. tooke has some spirit." this put holt in mind of the worst of his adventures since he came to crofton, and of all the miseries of being shunned as a tell-tale. he cried so bitterly as to touch hugh's heart. as if thinking aloud, hugh told him that he seemed very forlorn, and that he wished he would find a friend to be intimate with. this would make him so much happier as he had no idea of; as he himself had found since he had had dale for a friend. this naturally brought out a torrent of reproaches, which was followed by a hot argument; holt insisting that hugh ought to have been his intimate friend; and hugh asking how he could make a friend of a boy who wanted spirit. they broke away from one another at last, hugh declaring holt to be unreasonable and selfish, and holt thinking hugh cruel and insulting. of course mrs. watson would not hear of holt's going to mr. shaw, to ask for an invitation for saturday. he was told he must wait till another time. it was no great consolation to holt that on sunday it would want only nineteen days to the holidays: for he was to remain at crofton. he hoped to like the holidays better than school-days, and to be petted by mrs. watson, and to sit by the fire, instead of being forced into the playground in all weathers: but still he could not look forward to christmas with the glee which other boys felt. chapter viii. a long day. hugh, meantime, was counting the hours till saturday. perhaps, if the truth were known, so was phil, though he was too old to acknowledge such a longing. but the climbing about the mill,--the play encouraged there by his uncle and the men,--his uncle's stories within doors, his aunt's good dinners,--the fire-side, the picture-books, the talk of home, altogether made up the greatest treat of the half-year. phil had plenty of ways of passing the time. hugh began a long letter home,--the very last letter, except the short formal one which should declare when the christmas vacation should commence. hugh meant to write half the letter before saturday, and then fill it up with an account of his visit to his uncle's. the days were passed, however, when hugh had the command of his leisure time, as on his arrival, when his hours were apt to hang heavy. he had long since become too valuable in the playground to be left to follow his own devices. as the youngest boy, he was looked upon as a sort of servant to the rest, when once it was found that he was quick and clever. either as scout, messenger, or in some such capacity, he was continually wanted; and often at times inconvenient to himself. he then usually remembered what mr. tooke had told him of his boy, when tooke was the youngest,--how he bore things--not only being put on the high wall, but being well worked in the service of the older boys. usually hugh was obliging, but he could and did feel cross at times. he was cross on this friday,--the day when he was so anxious to write his letter before going to his uncle's. on saturday there would be no time. the early mornings were dark now; and after school he should have to wash and dress, and be off to his uncle's. on friday then, his paper was ruled, and he had only to run across the playground to borrow firth's penknife, and then nothing should delay his letter. in that run across the playground he was stopped. he was wanted to collect clean snow for the boys who were bent on finishing their snow-man while it would bind. he should be let off when he had brought snow enough. but he knew that by that time his fingers would be too stiff to hold his pen; and he said he did not choose to stop now. upon this lamb launched a snow-ball in his face. hugh grew angry,--or, as his school-fellows said, insolent. some stood between him and the house, to prevent his getting home, while others promised to roll him in the snow till he yielded full submission. instead of yielding, hugh made for the orchard wall, scrambled up it, and stood for the moment out of the reach of his enemies. he kicked down such a quantity of snow upon any one who came near, that he held all at bay for some little time. at last, however, he had disposed of all the snow within his reach, and they were pelting him thickly with snow-balls. it was not at any time very easy to stand upright, for long together, upon this wall, as the stones which capped it were rounded. now, when the coping-stones were slippery after the frost, and hugh nearly blinded with the shower of snow-balls, he could not keep his footing, and was obliged to sit astride upon the wall. this brought one foot within reach from below; and though hugh kicked, and drew up his foot as far and as often as he could, so as not to lose his balance, it was snatched at by many hands. at last, one hand kept its hold, and plenty more then fastened upon his leg. they pulled: he clung. in another moment, down he came, and the large heavy coping-stone, loosened by the frost, came after him, and fell upon his left foot as he lay. it was a dreadful shriek that he gave. mrs. watson heard it in her store-room, and mr. tooke in his study. some labourers felling a tree in a wood, a quarter of a mile off, heard it, and came running to see what could be the matter. the whole school was in a cluster round the poor boy in a few seconds. during this time, while several were engaged in lifting away the stone, tooke stooped over him, and said, with his lips as white as paper, "who was it that pulled you,--that got the first hold of you? was it i? o! say it was not i." "it was you," said hugh. "but never mind! you did not mean it."--he saw that tooke's pain was worse than his own, and he added, in a faint whisper, "don't you tell, and then nobody will know. mind you don't!" one boy after another turned away from the sight of his foot, when the stone was removed. tooke fainted, but, then, so did another boy who had nothing to do with the matter. everybody who came up asked who did it; and nobody could answer. tooke did not hear; and so many felt themselves concerned, that no one wished that any answer should be given. "who did it, my dear boy?" asked firth, bending over him. "never mind!" was all hugh could say. he groaned in terrible pain. he must not lie there; but who could touch him? firth did; and he was the right person, as he was one of the strongest. he made two boys pass their handkerchiefs under the leg, and sling it, without touching it; and he lifted hugh, and carried him across his arms towards the house. they met mr. tooke, and every person belonging to the household, before they reached the door. "to my bed!" said the master, when he saw: and in an instant the gardener had his orders to saddle mr. tooke's horse, and ride to london for an eminent surgeon: stopping by the way to beg mr. and mrs. shaw to come, and bring with them the surgeon who was their neighbour, mr. annanby. "who did it?" "who pulled him down?" passed from mouth to mouth of the household. "he wont tell,--noble fellow," cried firth. "don't ask him. never ask him who pulled him down." "you will never repent it, my dear boy," whispered firth. hugh tried to smile, but he could not help groaning again. there was a suppressed groan from some one else. it was from mr. tooke. hugh was sadly afraid he had, by some means, found out who did the mischief. but it was not so. mr. tooke was quite wretched enough without that. everybody was very kind, and did the best that could be done. hugh was held up on the side of mr. tooke's bed, while mrs. watson took off his clothes, cutting the left side of his trousers to pieces, without any hesitation. the master held the leg firmly while the undressing went on; and then poor hugh was laid back, and covered up warm, while the foot was placed on a pillow, with only a light handkerchief thrown over it. it was terrible to witness his pain; but mr. tooke never left him all day. he chafed his hands, he gave him drink; he told him he had no doubt his mother would arrive soon; he encouraged him to say or do anything that he thought would give him ease. "cry my dear," he said, "if you want to cry. do not hide tears from me." "i can't help crying," sobbed hugh: "but it is not the pain,--not only the pain; it is because you are so kind!" "where _is_ phil?" he said at last. "he is so very unhappy, that we think he had better not see you till this pain is over. when you are asleep, perhaps." "oh! when will that be?" and poor hugh rolled his head on the pillow. "george rides fast; he is far on his way by this time," said mr. tooke. "and one or other of the surgeons will soon be here; and they will tell us what to do, and what to expect." "do tell phil so,--will you?" mr. tooke rang the bell; and the message was sent to phil, with hugh's love. "will the surgeon hurt me much, do you think?" hugh asked. "i will bear it. i only want to know." "i should think you hardly could be in more pain than you are now," replied mr. tooke. "i trust they will relieve you of this pain. i should not wonder if you are asleep to-night as quietly as any of us; and then you will not mind what they may have done to you." hugh thought he should mind nothing, if he could ever be asleep again. he was soon asked if he would like to see his uncle and aunt, who were come. he wished to see his uncle; and mr. shaw came up, with the surgeon. mr. annanby did scarcely anything to the foot at present. he soon covered it up again, and said he would return in time to meet the surgeon who was expected from london. then hugh and his uncle were alone. mr. shaw told him how sorry the boys all were, and how they had come in from the playground at once, and put themselves under firth, to be kept quiet; and that very little dinner had been eaten; and that, when the writing-master arrived, he was quite astonished to find everything so still, and the boys so spiritless: but that nobody told him till he observed how two or three were crying, so that he was sure something was the matter. "which? who? who is crying?" asked hugh. "poor phil, and i do not know who else,--not being acquainted with the rest." "how glad i am that dale had nothing to do with it!" said hugh. "he was quite on the other side of the playground." "they tell me below that i must not ask you how it happened." "oh yes! you may. everything except just who it was that pulled me down. so many got hold of me that nobody knows exactly who gave _the_ pull, except myself and one other. he did not mean it; and i was cross about playing with them; and the stone on the wall was loose, or it would not have happened. o dear! o dear! uncle, do you think it a bad accident?" "yes, my boy, a very bad accident." "do you think i shall die? i never thought of that," said hugh. and he raised himself a little, but was obliged to lie back again. "no; i do not think you will die." "will they think so at home? was that the reason they were sent to?" "no: i have no doubt your mother will come to nurse you, and to comfort you: but----" "to comfort me? why, mr. tooke said the pain would soon be over, he thought, and i should be asleep to-night." "yes; but, though the pain may be over, it may leave you lame. that will be a misfortune; and you will be glad of your mother to comfort you." "lame!" said the boy. then, as he looked wistfully in his uncle's face, he saw the truth. "oh! uncle, they are going to cut off my leg." "not your leg, i hope, hugh. you will not be quite so lame as that: but i am afraid you must lose your foot." "was that what mr. tooke meant by the surgeon's relieving me of my pain?" "yes; it was." "then it will be before night. is it quite certain, uncle?" "mr. annanby thinks so. your foot is too much hurt ever to be cured. do you think you can bear it, hugh?" "why, yes, i suppose so. so many people have. it is less than some of the savages bear. what horrid things they do to their captives,--and even to some of their own boys! and they bear it." "yes; but you are not a savage." "but one may be as brave, without being a savage. think of the martyrs that were burnt, and some that were worse than burnt! and they bore it." mr. shaw perceived that hugh was either in much less pain now, or that he forgot everything in a subject which always interested him extremely. he told his uncle what he had read of the tortures inflicted by savages, till his uncle, already a good deal agitated, was quite sick: but he let him go on, hoping that the boy might think lightly in comparison of what he himself had to undergo. this could not last long, however. the wringing pain soon came back; and as hugh cried, he said he bore it so very badly, he did not know what his mother would say if she saw him. she had trusted him not to fail; but really he could not bear this much longer. his uncle told him that nobody had thought of his having such pain as this to bear: that he had often shown himself a brave little fellow; and he did not doubt that, when this terrible day was over, he would keep up his spirits through all the rest. hugh would have his uncle go down to tea. then he saw a gown and shawl through the curtain, and started up; but it was not his mother yet. it was only mrs. watson come to sit with him while his uncle had his tea. tea was over, and the younger boys had all gone up to bed, and the older ones were just going, when there was a ring at the gate. it was mrs. proctor; and with her the surgeon from london. "mother! never mind, mother!" hugh was beginning to say; but he stopped when he saw her face,--it was so very pale and grave. at least, he thought so; but he saw her only by fire-light; for the candle had been shaded from his eyes, because he could not bear it. she kissed him with a long, long kiss; but she did not speak. "i wish the surgeon had come first," he whispered, "and then they would have had my foot off before you came. when _will_ he come?" "he is here,--they are both here." "oh, then, do make them make haste. mr. tooke says i shall go to sleep afterwards. you think so? then we will both go to sleep, and have our talk in the morning. do not stay now,--this pain is _so_ bad,--i can't bear it well at all. do go, now, and bid them make haste, will you?" his mother whispered that she heard he had been a brave boy, and she knew he would be so still. then the surgeons came up, and mr. shaw. there was some bustle in the room, and mr. shaw took his sister down stairs, and came up again, with mr. tooke. "don't let mother come," said hugh. "no, my boy, i will stay with you," said his uncle. the surgeons took off his foot. as he sat in a chair, and his uncle stood behind him, and held his hands, and pressed his head against him, hugh felt how his uncle's breast was heaving,--and was sure he was crying. in the very middle of it all, hugh looked up in his uncle's face, and said, "never mind, uncle! i can bear it." he did bear it finely. it was far more terrible than he had fancied; and he felt that he could not have gone on a minute longer. when it was over, he muttered something, and mr. tooke bent down to hear what it was. it was-- "i can't think how the red indians bear things so." his uncle lifted him gently into bed, and told him that he would soon feel easy now. "have you told mother?" asked hugh. "yes; we sent to her directly." "how long did it take?" asked hugh. "you have been out of bed only a few minutes--seven or eight, perhaps." "oh, uncle, you don't mean really?" "really: but we know they seemed like hours to you. now, your mother will bring you some tea. when you have had that, you will go to sleep: so i shall wish you good night now." "when will you come again?" "very often, till you come to me. not a word more now. good-night." hugh was half asleep when his tea came up, and quite so directly after he had drunk it. though he slept a great deal in the course of the night, he woke often,--such odd feelings disturbed him! every time he opened his eyes, he saw his mother sitting by the fire-side; and every time he moved in the least, she came softly to look. she would not let him talk at all till near morning, when she found that he could not sleep any more, and that he seemed a little confused about where he was,--what room it was, and how she came to be there by fire-light. then she lighted a candle, and allowed him to talk about his friend dale, and several school affairs; and this brought back gradually the recollection of all that had happened. "i don't know what i have been about, i declare," said he, half laughing. but he was soon as serious as ever he was in his life, as he said, "but oh! mother, tell me,--do tell me if i have let out who pulled me off the wall." "you have not,--you have not indeed," replied she. "i shall never ask. i do not wish to know. i am glad you have not told; for it would do no good. it was altogether an accident." "so it was," said hugh; "and it would make the boy so unhappy to be pointed at! do promise me, if i should let it out in my sleep, that you will never, never tell anybody." "i promise you. and i shall be the only person beside you while you are asleep, till you get well. so you need not be afraid.--now, lie still again." she put out the light, and he did lie still for some time; but then he was struck with a sudden thought which made him cry out. "o, mother, if i am so lame, i can never be a soldier or a sailor.--i can never go round the world!" and hugh burst into tears, now more really afflicted than he had been yet. his mother sat on the bed beside him, and wiped away his tears as they flowed, while he told her, as well as his sobs would let him, how long and how much he had reckoned on going round the world, and how little he cared for anything else in the future; and now this was just the very thing he should never be able to do! he had practised climbing ever since he could remember;--and now that was of no use;--he had practised marching, and now he should never march again. when he had finished his complaint, there was a pause, and his mother said, "hugh, do you remember richard grant?" "what,--the cabinet-maker? the man who carved so beautifully?" "yes. do you remember----no, you could hardly have known: but i will tell you. he had planned a most beautiful set of carvings in wood for a chapel belonging to a nobleman's mansion. he was to be well paid,--his work was so superior; and he would be able to make his parents comfortable, as well as his wife and children. but the thing he most cared for was the honour of producing a noble work which would outlive him. well, at the very beginning of his task, his chisel flew up against his wrist: and the narrow cut that it made,--not more than half an inch wide,--made his right hand entirely useless for life. he could never again hold a tool;--his work was gone,--his business in life seemed over,--the support of the whole family was taken away,--and the only strong wish richard grant had in the world was disappointed." hugh hid his face with his handkerchief, and his mother went on: "you have heard of huber." "the man who found out so much about bees. miss harold read that account to us." "bees and ants. when huber had discovered more than had ever been known before about bees and ants, and when he was sure he could learn more still, and was more and more anxious to peep and pry into their tiny homes, and their curious ways, huber became blind." hugh sighed, and his mother went on: "did you ever hear of beethoven? he was one of the greatest musical composers that ever lived. his great, his sole delight was in music. it was the passion of his life. when all his time and all his mind were given to music, he became deaf--perfectly deaf; so that he never more heard one single note from the loudest orchestra. while crowds were moved and delighted with his compositions, it was all silence to him." hugh said nothing. "now, do you think," asked his mother,--and hugh saw by the grey light that began to shine in, that she smiled--"do you think that these people were without a heavenly parent?" "o no! but were they all patient?" "yes, in their different ways and degrees. would you say that they were hardly treated? or would you rather suppose that their father gave them something more and better to do than they had planned for themselves?" "he must know best, of course: but it does seem hard that that very thing should happen to them. huber would not have so much minded being deaf, perhaps; or that musical man being blind; or richard grant losing his foot, instead of his hand: for he did not want to go round the world." "no doubt their hearts often swelled within them at their disappointments: but i fully believe that they found very soon that god's will was wiser than their wishes. they found, if they bore their trial well, that there was work for their hearts to do, far nobler than any work that the head can do through the eye, and the ear, and the hand. and they soon felt a new and delicious pleasure, which none but the bitterly disappointed can feel." "what is that?" "the pleasure of rousing their souls to bear pain, and of agreeing with god silently, when nobody knows what is in their hearts. there is a great pleasure in the exercise of the body,--in making the heart beat, and the limbs glow, in a run by the sea-side, or a game in the playground; but this is nothing to the pleasure there is in exercising one's soul in bearing pain,--in finding one's heart glow with the hope that one is pleasing god." "shall i feel that pleasure?" "often and often, i have no doubt,--every time that you can willingly give up your wish to be a soldier or a sailor,--or anything else that you have set your mind upon, if you can smile to yourself, and say that you will be content at home.--well, i don't expect it of you yet. i dare say it was long a bitter thing to beethoven to see hundreds of people in raptures with his music, when he could not hear a note of it. and huber----" "but did beethoven get to smile?" "if he did, he was happier than all the fine music in the world could have made him." "i wonder--o! i wonder if i ever shall feel so." "we will pray to god that you may. shall we ask him now?" hugh clasped his hands. his mother kneeled beside the bed, and, in a very few words, prayed that hugh might be able to bear his misfortune well, and that his friends might give him such help and comfort as god should approve. "now, my dear, you will sleep again," she said, as she arose. "if you will lie down too, instead of sitting by the fire. do, mother." she did so; and they were soon both asleep. chapter ix. crofton quiet. the boys were all in the school-room in the grey of the morning;--no one late. mr. tooke was already there. almost every boy looked wistfully in the grave face of the master;--almost every one but his own son. he looked down; and it seemed natural: for his eyes were swollen with crying. he had been crying as much as proctor: but, then, so had dale. "your school-fellow is doing well," said mr. tooke, in a low voice, which, however, was heard to the farthest end of the room. "his brother will tell you that he saw him quietly asleep; and i have just seen him so. he deserves to do well; for he is a brave little boy. he is the youngest of you; but i doubt whether there is a more manly heart among you all." there was a murmur, as if everybody wished to agree to this. that murmur set phil crying again. "as to how this accident happened," continued the master, "i have only to say this. the coping-stone of the wall was loose,--had become loosened by the frost. of that i am aware. but it would not,--it could not have fallen, if your school-fellow had not been pulled from the top of the wall. several hands pulled him,--as many as could get a hold. whose these hands were, it would be easy to ascertain; and it would not be difficult to discover whose was the hand which first laid hold, and gave the rest their grasp. but--" how earnestly here did every one look for the next words!--"but your school-fellow considers the affair an accident,--says he himself was cross." "no! no! we plagued him," cried many voices. "well! he is sure no one meant him any harm, and earnestly desires that no further inquiry may be made. for his part, nothing, he declares, shall ever induce him to tell who first seized him." the boys were about to give a loud cheer, but stopped for hugh's sake, just in time. there was no want of signs of what they felt. there was no noise; but there were many tears. "i do not think that a promise of impunity can be any great comfort to those concerned," continued mr. tooke: "but such comfort as they can find in it, they may. both from my wish to indulge one who has just sustained so great a misfortune, and because i think he is right, i shall never inquire,--never wish to know more than i do of the origin of this accident. his mother declares the same, on the part of both of his parents. i hope you will every one feel yourselves put upon honour, to follow my example." another general murmur, in sign of agreement. "the only thing you can now do for your school-fellow," concluded the master, "is to be quiet throughout the day. as soon as he can be removed, he will be carried to mr. shaw's. till then, you will take care that he loses no rest through you.--now, first class, come up." while this class was up, phil's neighbour began whispering; and the next boy leaned over to hear; and one or two came softly up behind: but, though they were busily engaged in question and answer, the master's stern voice was not heard (as usual when there was talking) to say "silence there!" his class saw him looking that way, once or twice; but he took no notice. phil had seen his brother, and was privileged to tell. "so you saw him! did you get a real good sight of him?" "yes. i stayed some time; half-an-hour, i dare say." "what did he look like? did he say anything?" "say anything!" cried dale; "why, did you not hear he was asleep?" "what did he look like, then?" "he looked as he always does when he is asleep, as far as i could see. but we did not bring the light too near, for fear of waking him." "did you hear--did anybody tell you anything about it?" "yes: my mother told me whatever i wanted to know." "what? what did she tell you?" "she says it will not be so very bad a lameness as it might have been--as if he had not had his knee left. that makes a great difference. they make a false foot now, very light; and if his leg gets quite properly well, and we are not too much in a hurry, and we all take pains to help hugh to practise walking carefully at first, he may not be very lame." "oh! then, it is not so bad," said one, while tooke, who was listening, gave a deep sigh of relief. "not so bad!" exclaimed phil. "why, he will never be so strong--so able and active as other men. he will never be able to take care of himself and other people. he will be so unlike other people always; and now, while he is a boy, he will never----" the images of poor hugh's privations and troubles as a school-boy were too much for phil; and he laid down his head on his desk, to hide his grief. as for tooke, he walked away, looking the picture of wretchedness. "when will you see him again?" asked dale, passing his arm round phil's neck. "to-day, if he is pretty well. my mother promised me that." "do you think you could get leave for me too? i would not make any noise, nor let him talk too much, if i might just see him." "i'll see about it," said phil. as mrs. proctor was placing the pillows comfortably, for hugh to have his breakfast, after he was washed, and the bed made nicely smooth, he yawned, and said he was sleepy still, and that he wondered what o'clock it was. his mother told him it was a quarter past ten. "a quarter past ten! why, how odd! the boys are half through school, almost, and i am only just awake!" "they slept through the whole night, i dare say. you were awake a good many times; and you and i had some talk. do you remember that? or has it gone out of your head with your sound sleep?" "no, no: i remember that," said hugh. "but it was the oddest, longest night!--and yesterday too! to think that it is not a whole day yet since it all happened! oh! here comes my breakfast. what is it? coffee!" "yes: we know you are fond of coffee; and so am i. so we will have some together." "how comfortable!" exclaimed hugh; for he was really hungry; which was no wonder, after the pain and exhaustion he had gone through. his state was like that of a person recovering from an illness--extremely ready to eat and drink, but obliged to be moderate. when warmed and cheered by his coffee, hugh gave a broad hint that he should like to see phil, and one or two more boys--particularly dale. his mother told him that the surgeon, mr. annanby, would be coming soon. if he gave leave, phil should come in, and perhaps dale. so hugh was prepared with a strong entreaty to mr. annanby on the subject; but no entreaty was needed. mr. annanby thought he was doing very well; and that he would not be the worse for a little amusement and a little fatigue this morning, if it did not go on too long. so phil was sent for, when the surgeon was gone. as he entered, his mother went out to speak to mr. tooke, and write home. she then heard from mr. tooke and from firth and dale, how strong was the feeling in hugh's favour--how strong the sympathy for his misfortune throughout the school. hugh had seen no tears from her; but she shed them now. she then earnestly entreated that hugh might not hear what she had just been told. he felt no doubt of the kindness of his school-fellows, and was therefore quite happy on that score. he was very young, and to a certain degree vain; and if this event went to strengthen his vanity, to fill his head with selfish thoughts, it would be a misfortune indeed. the loss of his foot would be the least part of it. it lay with those about him to make this event a deep injury to him, instead of the blessing which all trials are meant by providence eventually to be. they all promised that, while treating hugh with the tenderness he deserved, they would not spoil the temper in which he had acted so well, by making it vain and selfish. there was no fear meantime of phil's doing him any harm in that way; for phil had a great idea of the privileges and dignity of seniority; and his plan was to keep down little boys, and make them humble; not being aware that to keep people down is not the way to make them humble, but the contrary. older people than phil, however, often fall into this mistake. many parents do, and many teachers; and very many elder brothers and sisters. phil entered the room shyly, and stood by the fire, so that the bed-curtain was between him and hugh. "are you there, phil?" cried hugh, pulling aside the curtain. "yes," said phil; "how do you do this morning?" "oh, very well. come here. i want to know ever so many things. have you heard yet anything real and true about the new usher?" "no," replied phil. "but i have no doubt it is really mr. crabbe who is coming; and that he will be here after christmas. why, hugh, you look just the same as usual!" "so i am, just the same, except under this thing," pointing to the hoop, or basket, which was placed over his limb, to keep off the weight of the bed-clothes. "i am not hurt anywhere else, except this bruise;" and he showed a black bruise on his arm, such as almost any school-boy can show, almost any day. "that's nothing," pronounced phil. "the other was, though, i can tell you," declared hugh. "was it very, very bad? worse than you had ever fancied?" "oh! yes. i could have screamed myself to death. i did not, though. did you hear me, did anybody hear me call out?" "i heard you--just outside the door there--before the doctors came." "ah! but not after, not while uncle was here. he cried so! i could not call out while he was crying so. where were you when they were doing it?" "just outside the door there. i heard you once--only once; and that was not much." "but how came you to be there? it was past bedtime. had you leave to be up so late?" "i did not ask it; and nobody meddled with me." "was anybody there with you?" "yes, firth. dale would not. he was afraid, and he kept away." "oh! is not he very sorry?" "of course. nobody can help being sorry." "do they all seem sorry? what did they do? what do they say?" "oh! they are very sorry; you must know that." "anybody more than the rest?" "why, some few of them cried; but i don't know that that shows them to be more sorry. it is some people's way to cry--and others not." hugh wished much to learn something about tooke; but, afraid of showing what was in his thoughts, he went off to quite another subject. "do you know, phil," said he, "you would hardly believe it; but i have never been half so miserable as i was the first day or two i came here? i don't care now, half so much, for all the pain, and for being lame, and----oh! but i can never be a soldier or a sailor--i can never go round the world! i forgot that." and poor hugh hid his face in his pillow. "never mind!" said phil, stooping over him very kindly. "here is a long time before you; and you will get to like something else just as well. papa wanted to be a soldier, you remember, and could not; and he is as happy as ever he can be, now that he is a shop-keeper in london. did you ever see anybody merrier than my father is? i never did. come! cheer up, hugh! you will be very happy somehow." phil kissed him; and when hugh looked up in surprise, phil's eyes were full of tears. "now i have a good mind to ask you," said hugh, "something that has been in my mind ever since." "ever since when?" "ever since i came to crofton. what could be the reason that you were not more kind to me then?" "i! not kind?" said phil, in some confusion. "was not i kind?" "no. at least i thought not. i was so uncomfortable,--i did not know anybody, or what to do; and i expected you would show me, and help me. i always thought i could not have felt lonely with you here; and then when i came, you got out of my way, as if you were ashamed of me, and you did not help me at all; and you laughed at me." "no; i don't think i did that." "yes, you did, indeed." "well, you know, little boys always have to shift for themselves when they go to a great school----" "but why, if they have brothers there? that is the very thing i want to know. i think it is very cruel." "i never meant to be cruel, of course. but--but--the boys were all ready to laugh at me about a little brother that was scarcely any better than a girl:--and consider how you talked on the coach, and what ridiculous hair you had,--and what a fuss you made about your money and your pocket,--and how you kept popping out things about miss harold, and the girls, and susan." "you _were_ ashamed of me, then." "well, what wonder if i was?" "and you never told me about all these things. you let me learn them all without any warning, or any help." "to be sure. that is the way all boys have to get on. they must make their own way." "if ever little harry comes to crofton," said hugh, more to himself than to phil, "i will not leave him in the lurch,--i will never be ashamed of him. pray," said he, turning quickly to phil, "are you ashamed of me still?" "oh, no," protested phil. "you can shift for yourself,--you can play, and do everything like other boys, now. you----" he stopped short, overcome with the sudden recollection that hugh would never again be able to play like other boys,--to be like them in strength, and in shifting for himself. "ah! i see what you are thinking of," said hugh. "i am so afraid you should be ashamed of me again, when i come into the playground. the boys will quiz me;--and if you are ashamed of me----" "oh, no, no!" earnestly declared phil. "there is nobody in the world that will quiz you;--or, if there is, they had better take care of me, i can tell them. but nobody will. you don't know how sorry the boys are. here comes dale. he will tell you the same thing." dale was quite sure that any boy would, from this time for ever, be sent to coventry who should quiz hugh for his lameness. there was not a boy now at crofton who would not do anything in the world to help him. "why, dale, how you have been crying!" exclaimed hugh. "is anything wrong in school? can't you manage your verses yet?" "i'll try that to-night," said dale, cheerfully. "yes i'll manage them. never mind what made my eyes red; only, if such a thing had happened to me, you would have cried,--i am sure of that." "yes, indeed," said phil. "now, proctor, you had better go," said dale. "one at a time is enough to-day; and i shall not stay long." phil agreed, and actually shook hands with hugh before he went. "phil is so kind to-day!" cried hugh, with glee; "though he is disappointed of going to uncle shaw's on my account. and i know he had reckoned on it. now, i want to know one thing,--where did mr. tooke sleep last night? for this is his bed." dale believed he slept on the sofa. he was sure, at least, that he had not taken off his clothes; for he had come to the door several times in the course of the night, to know how all was going on. "why, i never knew that!" cried hugh. "i suppose i was asleep. dale, what do you think is the reason that our fathers and mothers and people take care of us as they do?" "how do you mean?" "why, agnes and i cannot make it out. when we were by the sea-side, mother took us a great way along the beach, to a place we did not know at all; and she bade us pick up shells, and amuse ourselves, while she went to see a poor woman that lived just out of sight. we played till we were quite tired; and then we sat down; and still she did not come. at last, we were sure that she had forgotten all about us; and we did not think she would remember us any more: and we both cried. oh! how we did cry! then a woman came along, with a basket at her back, and a great net over her arm: and she asked us what was the matter; and when we told her, she said she thought it was not likely that mother would forget us. and then she bade us take hold of her gown, one on each side, and she would try to take us to mother, and the next thing was mother came in sight. when the woman told her what we had said, they both laughed; and mother told us it was impossible that she should leave us behind. i asked agnes afterwards why it was impossible; and she did not know; and i am sure she was as glad as i was to see mother come in sight. if she really never can forget us, what makes her remember us?" dale shook his head. he could not tell. "because," continued hugh, "we can't do anything for anybody, and we give a great deal of trouble. mother sits up very late, sometimes till near twelve, mending our things. there is that great basket of stockings she has to mend, once a fortnight! and papa works very hard to got money; and what a quantity he pays for our schooling, and our clothes, and everything!" "everybody would think it very shameful if he did not," suggested dale. "if he let you go ragged and ignorant, it would be wicked." "but why?" said hugh, vehemently. "that is what i want to know. we are not worth anything. we are nothing but trouble. only think what so many people did yesterday! my mother came a journey; and uncle and aunt shaw came: and mother sat up all night; and mr. tooke never went to bed,--and all about me! i declare i can't think why." dale felt as if he knew why; but he could not explain it. mrs. proctor had heard much of what they were saying. she had come in before closing her letter to mr. proctor, to ask whether hugh wished to send any particular message home. as she listened, she was too sorry to feel amused. she perceived that she could not have done her whole duty to her children, if there could be such a question as this in their hearts--such a question discussed between them, unknown to her. she spoke now; and hugh started, for he was not aware that she was in the room. she asked both the boys why they thought it was that before little birds are fledged, the parent birds bring them food, as often as once in a minute, all day long for some weeks. perhaps no creatures can go through harder work than this; and why do they do it? for unfledged birds, which are capable of nothing whatever but clamouring for food, are as useless little creatures as can be imagined. why does the cat take care of her little blind kitten with so much watchfulness, hiding it from all enemies till it can take care of itself. it is because love does not depend on the value of the creature loved--it is because love grows up in our hearts at god's pleasure, and not by our own choice; and it is god's pleasure that the weakest and the least useful and profitable should be the most beloved, till they become able to love and help in their turn. "is it possible, my dear," she said to hugh, "that you did not know this,--you who love little harry so much, and take such care of him at home? i am sure you never stopped to think whether harry could do you any service, before helping him to play." "no; but then----" "but what?" "he is such a sweet little fellow, it is a treat to look at him. every morning when i woke, i longed to be up, and to get to him." "that is, you loved him. well: your papa and i love you all, in the same way. we get up with pleasure to our business--your father to his shop, and i to my work-basket--because it is the greatest happiness in the world to serve those we love." hugh said nothing; but still, though pleased, he did not look quite satisfied. "susan and cook are far more useful to me than any of you children," continued his mother, "and yet i could not work early and late for them, with the same pleasure as for you." hugh laughed; and then he asked whether jane was not now as useful as susan. "perhaps she is," replied his mother; "and the more she learns and does, and the more she becomes my friend,--the more i respect her: but it is impossible to love her more than i did before she could speak or walk. there is some objection in your mind still, my dear. what is it?" "it makes us of so much consequence,--so much more than i ever thought of,--that the minds of grown people should be busy about us." "there is nothing to be vain of in that, my dear, any more than for young kittens, and birds just hatched. but it is very true that all young creatures are of great consequence; for they are the children of god. when, besides this, we consider what human beings are,--that they can never perish, but are to live for ever,--and that they are meant to become more wise and holy than we can imagine, we see that the feeblest infant is indeed a being of infinite consequence. this is surely a reason for god filling the hearts of parents with love, and making them willing to work and suffer for their children, even while the little ones are most unwise and unprofitable. when you and agnes fancied i should forget you and desert you, you must have forgotten that you had another parent who rules the hearts of all the fathers and mothers on earth." hugh was left alone to think this over, when he had given his messages home, and got dale's promise to come again as soon as he could obtain leave to do so. both the boys were warned that this would not be till to-morrow, as hugh had seen quite company enough for one day. indeed, he slept so much, that night seemed to be soon come. chapter x. little victories. though mr. tooke was so busy from having no usher, he found time to come and see hugh pretty often. he had a sofa moved into that room: and he carried hugh, without hurting him at all, and laid him down there comfortably, beside the fire. he took his tea there, with mrs. proctor; and he brought up his newspaper, and read from it anything which he thought would amuse the boy. he smiled at hugh's scruple about occupying his room, and assured him that he was quite as well off in mr. carnaby's room, except that it was not so quiet as this, and therefore more fit for a person in health than for an invalid. mr. tooke not only brought up plenty of books from the school library, but lent hugh some valuable volumes of prints from his own shelves. hugh could not look at these for long together. his head soon began to ache, and his eyes to be dazzled; for he was a good deal weakened. his mother observed also that he became too eager about views in foreign countries, and that he even grew impatient in his temper when talking about them. "my dear boy," said she one evening, after tea, when she saw him in this state, and that it rather perplexed mr. tooke, "if you remember your resolution, i think you will put away that book." "o, mother!" exclaimed he, "you want to take away the greatest pleasure i have!" "if it is a pleasure, go on. i was afraid it was becoming a pain." mr. tooke did not ask what this meant; but he evidently wished to know. he soon knew, for hugh found himself growing more fidgety and more cross, the further he looked in the volume of indian views, till he threw himself back upon the sofa, and stuffed his handkerchief into his mouth, and stared at the fire, struggling, as his mother saw, to help crying. "i will take away the book,--shall i, my dear?" "yes, mother. o dear! i shall never keep my vow, i know." mrs. proctor told mr. tooke that hugh had made a resolution which she earnestly hoped he might be able to keep;--to bear cheerfully every disappointment and trouble caused by this accident, from the greatest to the least,--from being obliged to give up being a traveller by-and-by, to the shoemaker's wondering that he wanted only one shoe. now, if looking at pictures of foreign countries made him less cheerful, it seemed to belong to his resolution to give up that pleasure for the present. hugh acknowledged that it did; and mr. tooke, who was pleased at what he heard, carried away the indian views, and brought instead a very fine work on trades, full of plates representing people engaged in every kind of trade and manufacture. hugh was too tired to turn over any more pages to-night: but his master said the book might stay in the room now, and when hugh was removed, it might go with him; and, as he was able to sit up more, he might like to copy some of the plates. "removed!" exclaimed hugh. his mother smiled, and told him that he was going on so well that he might soon now be removed to his uncle's. "where," said mr. tooke, "you will have more quiet and more liberty than you can have here. your brother, and any other boys you like, can run over to see you at any time; and you will be out of the noise of the playground." "i wonder how it is there is so little noise from the playground here," said hugh. "it is because the boys have been careful to make no noise since your accident. we cannot expect them to put themselves under such restraint for long." "o no, no! i had better go. but, mother, you----you----aunt shaw is very kind, but----" "i shall stay with you as long as you want me." hugh was quite happy. "but how in the world shall i get there?" he presently asked. "it is two whole miles; and we can't lay my leg up in the gig: besides its being so cold." his mother told him that his uncle had a very nice plan for his conveyance. mr. annanby approved of it, and thought he might be moved the first sunny day. "what, to-morrow?" "yes, if the sun shines." mr. tooke unbolted the shutter, and declared that it was such a bright starry evening that he thought to-morrow would be fine. the morning was fine; and during the very finest part of it came mr. shaw. he told hugh that there was a good fire blazing at home in the back room that looked into the garden, which was to be hugh's. from the sofa by the fire-side one might see the laurustinus on the grass-plot,--now covered with flowers: and when the day was warm enough to let him lie in the window, he could see the mill, and all that was going on round it. hugh liked the idea of all this: but he still looked anxious. "now tell me," said his uncle, "what person in all the world you would like best for a companion." "in all the world!" exclaimed hugh. "suppose i say the great mogul!" "well; tell us how to catch him, and we will try. meantime, you can have his picture. i believe we have a pack of cards in the house." "but do you mean really, uncle,--the person i should like best in all the world,--out of crofton?" "yes; out with it!" "i should like agnes best," said hugh, timidly. "we thought as much. i am glad we were right. well, my boy, agnes is there." "agnes there! only two miles off! how long will she stay?" "o, there is no hurry about that. we shall see when you are well what to do next." "but will she stay till the holidays?" "o, yes, longer than that, i hope." "but then she will not go home with me for the holidays?" "never mind about the holidays now. your holidays begin to-day. you have nothing to do but to get well now, and make yourself at home at my house, and be merry with agnes. now shall we go, while the sun shines? here is your mother all cloaked up in her warm things." "o, mother! agnes is come," cried hugh. this was no news; for it was his mother who had guessed what companion he would like to have. she now showed her large warm cloak, in which hugh was to be wrapped; and his neck was muffled up in a comforter. "but how am i to go?" asked hugh, trembling with this little bustle. "quietly in your bed," said his uncle. "come, i will lift you into it." and his uncle carried him downstairs to the front door, where two of mr. shaw's men stood with a litter, which was slung upon poles, and carried like a sedan-chair. there was a mattress upon the litter, on which hugh lay as comfortably as on a sofa. he said it was like being carried in a palanquin in india,--if only there was hot sunshine, and no frost and snow. mr. tooke, and mrs. watson, and firth shook hands with hugh, and said they should be glad to see him back again: and mr. tooke added that some of the boys should visit him pretty often till the breaking-up. nobody else was allowed to come quite near; but the boys clustered at that side of the playground, to see as much as they could. hugh waved his hand; and every boy saw it; and in a moment every hat and cap was off, and the boys gave three cheers,--the loudest that had ever been heard at crofton. the most surprising thing was that mr. tooke cheered, and mr. shaw too. the men looked as if they would have liked to set down the litter, and cheer too: but they did not quite do that. they only smiled as if they were pleased. there was one person besides who did not cheer. tooke stood apart from the other boys, looking very sad. as the litter went down the by-road, he began to walk away; but hugh begged the men to stop, and called to tooke. tooke turned: and when hugh beckoned, he forgot all about bounds, leaped the paling, and came running. hugh said, "i have been wanting to see you so! but i did not like to ask for you particularly." "i wish i had known that." "come and see me,--do," said hugh. "come the very first, wont you?" "if i may." "oh, you may, i know." "well, i will, thank you. good-bye." and on went the litter, with mrs. proctor and mr. shaw walking beside it. the motion did not hurt hugh at all; and he was so warmly wrapped up, and the day so fine, that he was almost sorry when the two miles were over. and yet there was agnes out upon the steps; and she sat beside him on the sofa in his cheerful room, and told him that she had nothing to do but to wait on him, and play with him. she did not tell him yet that she must learn directly to nurse him, and, with her aunt's help, fill her mother's place, because her mother was much wanted at home: but this was in truth one chief reason for her coming. though there was now really nothing the matter with hugh--though he ate, drank, slept, and gained strength--his mother would not leave him till she saw him well able to go about. the carpenter soon came, with some crutches he had borrowed for hugh to try; and when they were sure of the right length, hugh had a new pair. he found it rather nervous work at first, using them; and he afterwards laughed at the caution with which he began. first, he had somebody to lift him from his seat, and hold him till he was firm on his crutches. then he carefully moved forwards one crutch at a time, and then the other; and he put so much strength into it, that he was quite tired when he had been once across the room and back again. every stumble made him shake all over. he made agnes try; and he was almost provoked to see how lightly she could hop about; but then, as he said, she could put a second foot down to save herself, whenever she pleased. every day, however, walking became easier to him; and he even discovered, when accidentally left alone, and wanting something from the opposite end of the room, that he could rise, and set forth by himself, and be independent. and in one of these excursions it was that he found the truth of what agnes had told him--how much easier it was to move both crutches together. when he showed his mother this, she said she thought he would soon learn to do with only one. hugh found himself subject to very painful feelings sometimes--such as no one quite understood, and such as he feared no one was able to pity as they deserved. a surprise of this sort happened to him the evening before his father was to come to see him, and to fetch away his mother. it was the dark hour in the afternoon--the hour when mrs. proctor and her children enjoyed every day a quiet talk, before mr. shaw came to carry hugh into his aunt's parlour to tea. nothing could be merrier than hugh had been; and his mother and agnes were chatting, when they thought they heard a sob from the sofa. they spoke to hugh, and found that he was indeed crying bitterly. "what is it, my dear?" said his mother. "agnes, have we said anything that could hurt him?" "no, no," sobbed hugh. "i will tell you presently." and presently he told them that he was so busy listening to what they said, that he forgot everything else, when he felt as if something had got between two of his toes; unconsciously he put his hand down, and his foot was not there! nothing could be plainer than the feeling in his toes: and then, when he put out his hand, and found nothing, it was so terrible--it startled him so. it was a comfort to him to find that his mother knew all about this. she came and kneeled beside his sofa, and told him that many persons who had lost a limb considered this odd feeling the most painful thing they had to bear for some time; but that, though the feeling would return occasionally through life, it would cease to be painful. when he had become so used to do without his foot as to leave off wanting or wishing for it, he would perhaps make a joke of the feeling, instead of being disappointed. at least she knew that some persons did so who had lost a limb. this did not comfort hugh much, for every prospect had suddenly become darkened. he said he did not know how he should bear his misfortune;--he was pretty sure he could not bear it. it seemed so long already since it had happened! and when he thought of the long long days, and months, and years, to the end of his life, and that he should never run and play, and never be like other people, and never able to do the commonest things without labour and trouble, he wished he was dead. he had rather have died. agnes thought he must be miserable indeed, if he could venture to say this to his mother. she glanced at her mother's face; but there was no displeasure there. mrs. proctor said this feeling was very natural. she had felt it herself, under smaller misfortunes than hugh's: but she had found that, though the prospect appears all strewn with troubles, they come singly, and are not worth minding, after all. she told hugh that, when she was a little girl, very lazy--fond of her bed--fond of her book--and not at all fond of washing and dressing---- "why, mother, you!" exclaimed hugh. "yes; that was the sort of little girl i was. well, i was in despair, one day, at the thought that i should have to wash, and clean my teeth, and brush my hair, and put on every daily article of dress, every morning, as long as i lived. there was nothing i disliked so much; and yet it was the thing that must be done every day of my whole life." "did you tell anybody?" asked hugh. "no; i was ashamed to do that: but i remember i cried. you see how it turns out. grown people, who have got to do everything by habit, so easily as not to think about it, wash and dress every morning, without ever being weary of it. we do not consider so much as once a year what we are doing at dressing-time, though at seven years old it is a very laborious and tiresome affair to get ready for breakfast." "it is the same about writing letters," observed agnes. "the first letter i ever wrote was to aunt shaw; and it took so long, and was so tiresome, that, when i thought of all the exercises i should have to write for miss harold, and all the letters that i must send to my relations when i grew up, i would have given everything i had in the world not to have learned to write. oh! how i pitied papa, when i saw sometimes the pile of letters that were lying to go to the post!" "and how do you like corresponding with phil now?" agnes owned, with blushes, that she still dreaded the task for some days before, and felt particularly gay when it was done. her mother believed that, if infants could think and look forward, they would be far more terrified with the prospect of having to walk on their two legs all their lives, than lame people could be at having to learn the art in part over again. grown people are apt to doubt whether they can learn a new language, though children make no difficulty about it: the reason of which is, that grown people see at one view the whole labour, while children do not look beyond their daily task. experience, however, always brings relief. experience shows that every effort comes at its proper time, and that there is variety or rest in the intervals. people who have to wash and dress every morning have other things to do in the after-part of the day; and, as the old fable tells us, the clock that has to tick, before it is worn out, so many millions of times as it perplexes the mind to think of, has exactly the same number of seconds to do it in; so that it never has more work on its hands than it can get through. so hugh would find that he could move about on each separate occasion, as he wanted; and practice would, in time, enable him to do it without any more thought than it now cost him to put all the bones of his hands in order, so as to carry his tea and bread-and-butter to his mouth. "but that is not all--nor half what i mean," said hugh. "no, my dear; nor half what you will have to make up your mind to bear. you will have a great deal to bear, hugh. you resolved to bear it all patiently, i remember: but what is it that you dread the most?" "oh! all manner of things. i can never do things like other people." "some things. you can never play cricket, as every crofton boy would like to do. you can never dance at your sisters' christmas parties." "oh! mamma!" cried agnes, with tears in her eyes, and the thought in her mind that it was cruel to talk so. "go on! go on!" cried hugh, brightening. "you know what i feel, mother; and you don't keep telling me, as aunt shaw does (and even agnes sometimes), that it wont signify much, and that i shall not care, and all that; making out that it is no misfortune hardly, when i know what it is, and they don't." "that is a common way of trying to give comfort, and it is kindly meant," said mrs. proctor. "but those who have suffered much themselves know a better way. the best way is not to deny any of the trouble or the sorrow, and not to press on the sufferer any comforts which he cannot now see and enjoy. if comforts arise, he will enjoy them as they come." "now then, go on," said hugh. "what else?" "there will be little checks and mortifications continually--when you see boys leaping over this, and climbing that, and playing at the other, while you must stand out, and can only look on. and some people will pity you in a way you don't like; and some may even laugh at you." "o mamma!" exclaimed agnes. "i have seen and heard children in the street do it," replied mrs. proctor. "this is a thing almost below notice; but i mentioned it while we were reckoning up our troubles." "well, what else?" said hugh. "sooner or later, you will have to follow some way of life, determined by this accident, instead of one that you would have liked better. but we need not think of this yet:--not till you have become quite accustomed to your lameness." "well, what else?" "i must ask you now. i can think of nothing more; and i hope there is not much else; for indeed i think here is quite enough for a boy--or any one else--to bear." "i will bear it, though,--you will see." "you will find great helps. these misfortunes, of themselves, strengthen one's mind. they have some advantages too. you will be a better scholar for your lameness, i have no doubt. you will read more books, and have a mind richer in thoughts. you will be more beloved;--not out of mere pity; for people in general will soon leave off pitying you, when once you learn to be active again; but because you have kept faith with your school-fellows, and shown that you can bear pain. yes, you will be more loved by us all; and you yourself will love god more for having given you something to bear for his sake." "i hope so,--i think so," said hugh. "o mother! i may be very happy yet." "very happy; and, when you have once made up your mind to everything, the less you think and speak about it, the happier you will be. it is very right for us now, when it is all new, and strange, and painful, to talk it well over; to face it completely: but when your mind is made up, and you are a crofton boy again, you will not wish to speak much of your own concerns, unless it be to me, or to agnes, sometimes, when your heart is full." "or to dale, when you are far off." "yes,--to dale, or some one friend at crofton. but there is only one friend that one is quite sure to get strength from,--the same who has given strength to all the brave people that ever lived, and comfort to all sufferers. when the greatest of all sufferers wanted relief, what did he do?" "he went by himself, and prayed," said agnes. "yes, that is the way," observed hugh, as if he knew by experience. mr. shaw presently came, to say that tea was ready. "i am too big a baby to be carried now," cried hugh, gaily. "let me try if i cannot go alone." "why,--there is the step at the parlour door," said mr. shaw, doubtfully. "at any rate, stop till i bring a light." but hugh followed close upon his uncle's heels, and was over the step before his aunt supposed he was half way across the hall. after tea, his uncle and he were so full of play, that the ladies could hardly hear one another speak till hugh was gone to bed, too tired to laugh any more. chapter xi. domestic manners. after mr. proctor had come and was gone, and mrs. proctor was gone with him, hugh began to wonder why tooke had never paid the visit he had promised. several boys had called; some to thank hugh for balls that he had quilted; some to see how he got on; and some to bring him crofton news. mr. tooke had fastened his horse up at the door, in passing, and stepped in for a few minutes, two or three times a week: but it was now within six days of the holidays, and the one hugh most wished to see had not appeared. his uncle observed his wistful look when the door-bell rang, and drew his conclusions. he said, on the wednesday before the breaking-up, that he was going to drive past the crofton school; that it was such a fine day that he thought hugh might go with him, and perhaps they might persuade some one to come home to dinner with them. hugh had never enjoyed the open air more than during this drive. he had yet much to learn about the country, and it was all as beautiful as it was new. his uncle pointed out to him the fieldfares wheeling in flocks over the fallows; and the rabbits in the warren, scampering away with their little white tails turned up; and the robin hopping in the frosty pathway; and the wild-ducks splashing among the reeds in the marshes. they saw the cottagers' children trying to collect snow enough from the small remains of the drifts to make snow-balls, and obliged to throw away the dirty snow that would melt, and would not bind. as they left the road, and turned through a copse, because mr. shaw had business with mr. sullivan's gamekeeper, a pheasant flew out, whirring, from some ferns and brambles, and showed its long tail-feathers before it disappeared over the hedge. all these sights were new to hugh: and all, after pain and confinement, looked beautiful and gay. mr. shaw could not stop for hugh to get out at crofton; so, when his arrival was seen, the boys were allowed to go out of bounds, as far as the gig, to speak to their school-fellow. mr. shaw asked tooke to mount, and go home with them for the day; and tooke was so pleased,--so agreeably surprised to see hugh look quite well and merry, that he willingly ran off to ask leave, and to wash his face, and change his jacket. when he had jumped in, and hugh had bidden the rest good-bye, a sudden shyness came over his poor conscious visitor: and it was not lessened by mr. shaw telling tooke that he did not do credit to crofton air,--so puny as he seemed: and that he looked at that moment more like one that had had a bad accident than hugh did. when mr. shaw perceived how the boy's eyes filled with tears in an instant, he probably thought within himself that tooke was sadly weak-spirited, and altogether more delicate than he had been aware of. hugh was full of questions about crofton matters, however; and long before they reached mr. shaw's, they were chattering as busily as possible. but then it was all spoiled to tooke again by seeing hugh lifted out, and his crutches brought to him, and agnes ready to take his hat and cloak, instead of his being able to run about, doing everything for himself. the sofa had been left in hugh's room, and there was a fire there every afternoon, for him and agnes, that their aunt might have the parlour to herself till tea-time. the three young people went therefore to this room after dinner. agnes felt a little uncomfortable, as she always did when any crofton boys came. they had so much to say to each other of things that she did not understand, and so very little to say to her, that she continually felt as if she was in the way. when she proposed, as usual, that hugh should go through his exercises in walking and running (for she was indefatigable in helping him to learn to walk well, and superintended his practice every afternoon), he refused hastily and rather rudely. of course, she could not know that he had a reason for wishing not to show off his lameness before tooke; and she thought him unkind. he might indeed have remembered to ask her before to say nothing this afternoon about his exercises. she took out her work, and sat down at some distance from the boys; but they did not get on. it was very awkward. at last, the boys' eyes met, and they saw that they should like to talk freely, if they could. "agnes," said hugh, "cannot you go somewhere, and leave us alone?" "i hardly know where i can go," replied agnes. "i must not disturb aunt; and there is no fire anywhere else." "o, i am sure aunt wont mind, for this one afternoon. you can be as still as a mouse; and she can doze away, as if nobody was there." "i can be as still as a mouse here," observed agnes. "i can take my work to that farthest window; and if you whisper, i shall not hear a word you say. or, if i do hear a word, i will tell you directly. and you will let me come, now and then, and warm myself, if i find i cannot hold my needle any longer." "no, no; that wont do. we can't talk so. do just go, and see whether aunt cannot let you be there for this one afternoon." agnes did not like to refuse anything to hugh: but she hesitated to take such a bold step as this. in his eagerness, hugh requested the same favour of tooke; but tooke, more anxious than even agnes to oblige, had not courage for such an errand. hugh snatched his crutches, and declared he would go himself. but now agnes gave way. she gathered up her work, and left the room. hugh little imagined where she went, this cold, darkening december afternoon. she went to her own room, put on her cloak, and walked up and down till tea was ready, without fire or candle, and not very happy in her mind. meanwhile the boys basked before a glowing fire. tooke began directly to open his full heart. "was that true that your sister said at dinner, about your always longing so to come to crofton?" "yes." "how sorry you must be that you came! how you must wish you had never seen me!" "i knew there would be things to bear, whenever i came; and particularly while i was the youngest. your father told me that: and one of the things that made me want to come more than ever was his telling me how you bore things when you were the youngest--being set on the top of that wall, and so on." "indeed, indeed, i never meant to hurt you when i pulled your foot.--i suppose you are quite sure that it was i that gave the first pull? are you?" "why, yes; i am sure of that; and so are you: but i know very well that you meant no harm; and that is the reason i would not tell. after what you did about the sponge, i could not think you meant any harm to me." tooke could not remember anything about a sponge; and when he was told, he thought nothing of it. he went on-- "do you think you shall never tell anybody, as long as you live, who pulled you first?" "never," said hugh, "unless i tell it in my sleep; and that is not likely, for i never think about it in the daytime,--or scarcely ever; and when i can run about again, i dare say i shall never think of it at all." "but will you ever run about?" "o yes! finely, you will see. i shall begin first with a little stick-leg, very light. mother is going to send some for me to try. when i am a man, i shall have one that will look like a real foot; but that will not be so light as the one you will see me with after the holidays. but you do not half know what i can do now, with my crutches. here, i will show you." as he flourished about, and played antics, agnes heard the pit-pat of his crutches, and she thought she might as well have been there, if they had told all their secrets, and had got to play. but the noise did not last long, for hugh's performances did not make tooke very merry; and the boys sat down quietly again. "now, i'll tell you what," said tooke. "i am a bigger and stronger boy than you, without considering this accident. i'll take care of you all the time you are at crofton: and always afterwards, if i can. mind you that. if anybody teases you, you call me,--that's all. say you will." "why," said hugh, "i had rather take care of myself. i had rather make no difference between you and everybody else." "there now! you don't forgive me, after all." "i do,--upon my word, i do. but why should i make any difference between you and the rest, when you did not mean me any harm,--any more than they? besides, it might make people suspect." "well, let them. sometimes i wish," continued tooke, twisting himself about in the uneasiness of his mind, "sometimes i wish that everybody knew now. they say murderers cannot keep their secret. they are sure to tell, when they cannot bear it any longer." "that is because of their consciences," said hugh. "but you are not guilty of anything, you know. i am sure i can keep a secret easily enough, when i am not to blame in it." "yes? you have shown that. but----" "come! don't let us talk any more about that.--only just this. has anybody accused you? because i must know,--i must be on my guard." "nobody has said a word, because my father put us all upon honour never to mention it: but i always feel as if all their eyes were upon me all day,--and sometimes in the night." "nonsense! i don't believe anybody has pitched on you particularly. and when school opens again, all their eyes will be on me, to see how i manage. but i don't mean to mind that. anybody may stare that likes." hugh sighed, however, after saying this; and tooke was silent. at length he declared,-- "whatever you say against it, i shall always take your part: and you have only to ask me, and i will always run anywhere, and do anything for you. mind you that." "thank you," said hugh. "now tell me about the new usher; for i dare say you know more than the other boys do. holt and i shall be under him altogether, i suppose." "yes: and you will be well off, by what i hear. he is as little like mr. carnaby as need be." all the rest of the afternoon was taken up with stories of mr. carnaby and other ushers, so that the boys were surprised when the maid came to tell them that tea was ready. agnes was making tea. hugh was so eager to repeat to his uncle some of the good stories that he had just heard, that he did not observe, as his aunt did, how red his sister's fingers were, and how she shivered still. "my dear," said mrs. shaw, "you have let these boys keep you away from the fire." "yes, aunt. never mind! i shall be warm enough presently." "but you should not allow it, agnes. how are they ever to learn manners, if they are not made to give way to young ladies while they are young? boys are sure to be rude enough, at any rate. their sisters should know better than to spoil them." while poor agnes' hardships were ending with a lecture, hugh was chattering away, not at all aware that he had treated his sister much as phil had treated him on his going to crofton. if any one had told him that he was tyrannical, he would have been as much surprised as he had been at phil's tyranny over him. he did not know indeed that his sister had been in the cold and in the dark; but he might have felt that he had used her with a roughness which is more painful to a loving heart than cold and darkness are to the body. chapter xii. holt and his dignity. there was no reason now why hugh should not go to church. he and his crutches went between his uncle and aunt in the gig one way, and between his uncle and agnes home again; and he could walk up the aisle quite well. he had been pleased at the idea of attending church again, and had never thought of the pain of being stared at for his lameness. this pain came upon him as he entered the church; and as he went up towards his uncle's pew, and saw the crowd of crofton boys all looking at him, and some of the poor people turning their heads as he passed, to observe how he got on, he felt covered with confusion, and wished that he had waited one more sunday, when the crofton boys would have been all gone, and there would have been fewer eyes to mark his infirmity. but better thoughts soon arose, and made him ashamed of his false shame; and before the service was over, he felt how trifling is any misfortune while we are friends with god, in comparison with the least wrong-doing which sets us at a distance from him. he could not but feel after church that he had rather, a thousand times, be as he was than be poor lamb, who slunk away from him, and hid himself behind the other boys,--his mind sore and troubled, no doubt, about his debt, and his cheating transaction, so long ago. hugh asked some of the boys to bring up lamb, to shake hands before parting for the holidays; but he would not come, and wriggled himself out of sight. then hugh recollected that he could forgive lamb as well without lamb's knowing it; and he let him alone. then there was holt. he and holt had parted on uneasy terms; and holt now looked shy and uncomfortable. hugh beckoned to him, and asked him whether he was really to remain at crofton all the holidays. "yes," said holt. "i am the only one not going home, unless you are to stay hereabouts. even tooke is to be at his uncle's in london. when do you go home?" "not quite yet;--not at the beginning of the holidays," said hugh, hesitating, and looking up at his uncle. for, in truth, he did not know exactly what was planned for him, and had been afraid to ask. his uncle said, very kindly, that he was not going to part with hugh till school opened again. he would recover his full strength better in the country; and his aunt had promised his parents that he should be a stout boy again by the time he was wanted at crofton. this was what hugh had dreaded to hear; and when he thought that he should not see his parents, nor little harry, for so many months, his heart sank. but he was still in the church; and perhaps the place helped him to remember his mother's expectation that he should not fail, and his own resolution to bear cheerfully whatever troubles his misfortune brought upon him, from the greatest to the least. so when he heard his uncle saying to holt that he should ask mr. tooke to let him come and spend two or three weeks at his house, he said so heartily that he hoped holt would come, that holt felt that whatever discontent had been between them was forgiven and forgotten. phil went home, of course; and when holt arrived at mr. shaw's, agnes also returned to london, that she might see something of phil. then the two boys were glad to be together, though hugh would rather have had his dear friend dale for a companion; and holt knew that this was the case. yet hugh saw, and was glad to see, that holt was improved. he had plucked up some spirit, and was more like other lads, though still, by his own account, too much like a timid, helpless foreigner among the rough crofton boys. all the boys had some lessons to prepare in the holidays. every one who had ever written a theme had a theme to write now. every boy who could construe had a good piece of latin to prepare; and all had either latin or english verses to learn by heart. mrs. shaw made a point of her young visitors sitting down every morning after breakfast to their business; and hugh was anxious to spare no pains, this time, about his theme, that, if he was to be praised, he might deserve it. he saw that holt could not fix his attention well, either upon work or play; and one morning, when hugh was pondering how, without knowing anything of history, he should find a modern example to match well with his ancient one (which he had picked up by chance), holt burst upon his meditation with-- "i have a good mind to tell you what has been upon my mind this ever so long." "wait a minute," said hugh. "i must find my example first." no example could he find, to his satisfaction, this day. he gave it up till to-morrow, and then asked holt what was on his mind. but holt now drew back, and did not think he could tell. this made hugh press; and hugh's pressing looked like sympathy, and gave holt courage: so that the thing came out at last. holt was very miserable, for he was deep in debt, and the boys never let him alone about it; and he did not see how he should ever pay, as nobody was likely to give him any money. "remember, it is only sixpence that you owe me--not a shilling," said hugh. holt sighed. perhaps he had hoped that hugh would excuse him altogether. he explained that this sixpence was not all, nor the chief part. he told that, when the whole school was on the heath, one saturday, they had seen a balloon rising at a distance, and some boys began betting about what direction it would move in when it ceased to rise perpendicularly. the betting spread till the boys told him he must bet, or he would be the only one left out, and would look like a shabby fellow. "and you did?" exclaimed hugh. "how silly!" "you would have done it, if you had been there." "no: i should not." "yes, you would. or, if you had not, it would have been because of----i know what." "because of what, pray?" "because of something the boys say about you. they say you are very fond of money." "i! fond of money! i declare i never heard of such a thing." "well, you know you made a great fuss about that half-crown." "as if it was about the money!" cried hugh. "i should not have cared a bit if my uncle had asked me for it back again the next day. it was the being cheated. that was the thing. what a shame----" "by-the-bye, did your uncle ever ask what you did with that half-crown?" "no; but he will next week, at the january fair. he will be sure to ask then. what a shame of the boys to say so, when i forgave----" he remembered, just in time, that he had better not boast, or speak aloud, of having forgiven lamb his debt in secret. he resolved that he would not say another word, but let the boys see that he did not care for money for its own sake. they were all wrong, but he would be above noticing it; and, besides, he really had been very anxious about his half-crown, and they had only mistaken the reason. "how much did you bet on the balloon?" he inquired of holt. "a shilling; and i lost." "then you owe eighteen-pence." "but that is not all. i borrowed a shilling of meredith to pay school-fines----" "what for?" "chiefly for leaving my books about. meredith says i promised to pay him before the holidays; but i am sure i never did. he twitted me about it so that i declare i would have fought him, if i could have paid him first." "that's right," exclaimed hugh. "why, holt, what a different fellow you are! you never used to talk of fighting." "but this fellow meredith plagued me so! if it had not been for that shilling, i would have knocked him down. well, here is half-a-crown altogether; and how am i ever to get half-a-crown?" "cannot you ask your uncle?" "no; you know i can't. you know he complains about having to pay the bills for me before my father can send the money from india." "i suppose it would take too long to ask your father. yes; of course it would. there would be another holidays before you could have an answer; and almost another still. i wonder what uncle shaw would say. he is very kind always, but it might set him asking----" "and what should i do, staying here, if he should be angry and refuse? what should i do every day at dinner?" "i know what i would do!" said hugh, decidedly. "i would tell mr. tooke all about it, and ask him for half-a-crown." "mr. tooke? oh! i dare not." "i dare,--in holiday-time. he is your master,--next to being your father, while your father is so far away. you had better ask mr. tooke, to be sure." "what go to crofton, and speak to him? i really want not to be a coward,--but i never could go and tell him." "write him a letter, then. yes: that is the way. write a letter, and i will get one of my uncle's men to carry it, and wait for an answer: and then you will not be long in suspense, at any rate." "i wish i dare!" holt was not long in passing from wishing to daring. he wrote a letter, which hugh thought would do, though he rather wished holt had not mentioned him as instigating the act. this was the letter: "the mill, _january th_. "dear sir, "i am very unhappy; and proctor thinks i had better tell you what is upon my mind. i owe some money, and i do not see how i can ever pay it, unless you will help me. you know i have owed proctor sixpence for ginger-beer, this long time; and as lamb has never paid him his share, proctor cannot excuse me this debt. then i owe a boy a shilling, lent me for school-fines; and he never lets me alone about it. then i was led into betting a shilling on a balloon, and i lost; and so i owe half-a-crown. if you would lend me that sum, sir, i shall be obliged to you for ever, and i shall never forget it. "yours respectfully, "thomas holt." mr. shaw's man george carried the letter; but he brought back neither letter nor money: only a message that mr. tooke would call; which put holt into a great fright, and made hugh rather uneasy. there was no occasion for this, however. mr. tooke came alone into the room where the boys were sitting; and neither mr. nor mrs. shaw appeared during the whole time of his visit: a thing which was rather odd, but which the boys were very glad of. when mr. tooke had told them a little of some new boys expected after the holidays, he said: "well, now, holt, let us see what can be done about your affairs." holt looked uneasy; for it seemed as if mr. tooke was not going to lend him the money,--or to give it, which was what he had hoped, while using the word "lend." "i am glad you asked me," continued mr. tooke; "for people, whether they be men or boys, can usually retrieve their affairs when they have resolution to face their difficulties. there is no occasion to say anything about how you got into debt. we must consider how you are to get out of it." "that is very kind indeed!" exclaimed holt. "as to my lending you half-a-crown," continued mr. tooke, "that would not be helping you out of debt; for if you had had any prospect of being able to pay half-a-crown, you would not have needed to apply to me at all." holt sighed. mr. tooke went on. "i cannot give you the money. i have less to give away than i should like to have, for the sake of the poor people round us. i cannot pay for a bet and school-fines while the children of our neighbours want clothes and fire." "no, sir, certainly," said both the boys. "what do people do, all the world over, when they want money?" asked mr. tooke. holt looked puzzled. hugh smiled. holt was hesitating whether to guess that they put into the lottery, or dig for treasure, or borrow from their friends, or what. having always till lately lived in india, where europeans are rather lazy, and life altogether is very languid, he did not see, as hugh did, what mr. tooke could mean. "when men come begging to our doors," said mr. tooke, "what is the first question we ask them?" holt still look puzzled, and hugh laughed, saying, "why, holt, you must know very well. we ask them whether they cannot get work." "work!" cried holt. "yes," said mr. tooke. "the fathers and uncles of both of you work for what money they have; and so do i; and so does every man among our neighbours who is satisfied with his condition. as far as i see, you must get the money you want in the same way." "work!" exclaimed holt again. "how is he to get work?" asked hugh. "that is where i hope to assist him," replied mr. tooke. "are you willing to earn your half-crown, holt?" "i don't know how, sir." "widow murray thinks she should have a better chance for a new lodger if her little parlour was fresh papered; but she is too rheumatic to do it herself, and cannot afford to engage a workman. if you like to try, under her directions, i will pay you as your work deserves." "but, sir, i never papered a room in my life!" "no more had the best paper-hanger in london when he first tried. but if you do not like that work, what do you think of doing some writing for me? our tables of rules are dirty. if you will make good copies of our rules for all the rooms in which they hang, in the course of the holidays, i will pay you half-a-crown. but the copies must be quite correct, and the writing good. i can offer you one other choice. our school library wants looking to. if you will put fresh paper covers to all the books that want covering, write the titles on the backs, compare the whole with the catalogue, and arrange them properly on the shelves, i will pay you half-a-crown." holt's pleasure in the prospect of being out of debt was swallowed up in the anxiety of undertaking anything so new to him as work out of school. hugh hurried him on to a decision. "do choose the papering," urged hugh. "i can help you in that, i do believe. i can walk that little way, to widow murray's; and i can paste the paper. widow murray will show you how to do it; and it is very easy, if you once learn to join the pattern. i found that, when i helped to paper the nursery closet at home." "it is an easy pattern to join," said mr. tooke. "there, now! and that is the chief thing. if you do the library books, i cannot help you, you know. and remember, you will have two miles to walk each way; four miles a day in addition to the work." "he can sleep at crofton, if he likes," said mr. tooke. "that would be a queer way of staying at uncle shaw's," observed hugh. "then there is copying the rules," said holt. "i might do that here; and you might help me, if you liked." "dull work!" exclaimed hugh. "think of copying the same rules three or four times over! and then, if you make mistakes, or if you do not write clearly, where is your half-crown? i don't mean that i would not help you, but it would be the dullest work of all." mr. tooke sat patiently waiting till holt had made up his mind. he perceived something that never entered hugh's mind: that holt's pride was hurt at the notion of doing workman's work. he wrote on a slip of paper these few words, and pushed them across the table to holt, with a smile:-- "no debtor's hands are clean, however white they be: who digs and pays his way--the true gentleman is he." holt coloured as he read, and immediately said that he chose the papering job. mr. tooke rose, tossed the slip of paper into the fire, buttoned up his coat, and said that he should let widow murray know that a workman would wait upon her the next morning, and that she must have her paste and brushes and scissors ready. "and a pair of steps," said hugh, with a sigh. "steps, of course," replied mr. tooke. "you will think it a pretty paper, i am sure." "but, sir, she must quite understand that she is not at all obliged to us,--that is, to me," said holt. "certainly. you will tell her so yourself, of course." here again holt's pride was hurt; but the thought of being out of meredith's power sustained him. when mr. tooke was gone, hugh said to his companion, "i do not want you to tell me what mr. tooke wrote on that paper that he burned. i only want to know whether he asked you to choose so as to indulge me." "you! o no! there was not a word about you." "o! very well!" replied hugh, not sure whether he was pleased or not. the next morning was so fine that there was no difficulty about hugh's walking the short distance to the widow murray's; and there, for three mornings, did the boys work diligently, till the room was papered, and two cupboards into the bargain. holt liked it very well, except for two things:--that hugh was sure he could have done some difficult corners better than holt had done them, if he could but have stood upon the steps; and that widow murray did so persist in thanking him, that he had to tell her several times over that she was not obliged to him at all, because he was to be paid for the job. mr. tooke came to see the work when it was done, and returned to mr. shaw's with the boys, in order to pay holt his half-crown immediately, and yet so that the widow should not see. hugh's eye followed mr. tooke's hand as it went a second time into his pocket; and he was conscious of some sort of hope that he might be paid something too. when no more silver came forth, he felt aware that he ought not to have dreamed of any reward for the help he had freely offered to his companion: and he asked himself whether his school-fellows were altogether wrong in thinking him too fond of money; and whether he was altogether right in having said that it was justice that he cared for, and not money, when he had pressed his debtor hard. however this might be, he was very glad to receive his sixpence from holt. as he put it in his inner pocket, he observed that this would be all the money he should have in the world when he should have spent his five shillings in fairings for home. holt made no answer. he had nothing to spend in the fair; still less, anything left over. but he remembered that he was out of debt,--that meredith would twit him no more,--and he began to whistle, so light-hearted, that no amount of money could have made him happier. he only left off whistling to thank hugh earnestly for having persuaded him to open his heart to mr. tooke. chapter xiii. tripping. when the day came for returning to crofton, hugh would have left his crutches behind at his uncle's, so much did he prefer walking with the little light stick-leg he had been practising with for a fortnight. but his aunt shook her head at this, and ordered the crutches into the gig. he still walked slowly and cautiously, and soon grew tired: and she thought he might find it a relief at times to hop about on his crutches. they were hidden under the bed, however, immediately on his arrival; so anxious was hugh to make the least of his lameness, and look as like other boys as possible, both for tooke's sake and his own. when the boys had been all assembled for one day, and everybody had seen how little proctor could walk, the subject seemed to be dropped, and nothing was talked of but the new usher. so hugh said to himself; and he really thought that he had fully taken his place again as a crofton boy, and that he should be let off all notice of his infirmity henceforth, and all trials from it, except such as no one but himself need know of. he was even not quite sure whether he should not be a gainer by it on the whole. he remembered tooke's assurances of protection and friendship; he found phil very kind and watchful; and mrs. watson told him privately that he was to be free of the orchard. she showed him the little door through which he might enter at any time, alone, or with one companion. here he might read, or talk, and get out of sight of play that he could not share. the privilege was to be continued as long as no mischief was done to anything within the orchard. the prospect of the hours, the quiet hours, the bright hours that he should spend here alone with dale, delighted hugh: and when he told dale, dale liked the prospect too; and they went together, at the earliest opportunity, to survey their new domain, and plan where they would sit in spring, and how they would lie on the grass in summer, and be closer and closer friends for ever. holt was encouraged to hope that he should have his turn sometimes; but he saw that, though hugh cared more for him than before the holidays, he yet loved dale the best. while hugh was still in spirits at the thought that his worst trials were over, and the pleasure of his indulgences to come, he felt very complacent; and he thought he would gratify himself with one more reading of the theme which he had written in the holidays,--the theme which he really believed mr. tooke might fairly praise,--so great had been the pains he had taken with the composition, and so neatly was it written out. he searched for it in vain among his books and in his portfolio. then he got leave to go up to his room, and turn over all his clothes. he did so in vain; and at last he remembered that it was far indeed out of his reach,--in the drawer of his aunt's work-table, where it had lain ever since she had asked him for it, to read to a lady who had visited her. the themes would certainly be called for the first thing on mr. tooke's appearance in school, at nine the next morning. the duties of the early morning would leave no one any time to run to mr. shaw's then. if anybody went, it must be now. the first day was one of little regularity; it was only just beginning to grow dusk; any willing boy might be back before supper; and there was no doubt that leave would be given on such an occasion. so hugh made his way to the playground as fast as possible, and told his trouble to his best friends there,--to phil, and holt, and dale, and as many as happened to be within hearing. "never mind your theme!" said phil. "nobody expected you to do one; and you have only to say that you left it behind you." "it is not that," said hugh. "i must show up my theme." "you can't, you know, if you have it not to show," said two or three, who thought this settled the matter. "but it is there: it is at my uncle's, if any one would go for it," said hugh, beginning to be agitated. "go for it!" exclaimed phil. "what, in the dark,--this freezing afternoon?" "it is not near dark; it will not be dark this hour. anybody might run there and back before supper." he looked at dale; but dale looked another way. for a moment he thought of tooke's permission to appeal to him when he wanted a friend: but tooke was not within hearing; and he dismissed the thought of pointing out tooke to anybody's notice. he turned away as phil repeated that it was quite certain that there would be no bad consequences from his being unprovided with a theme, which was not one of his regular lessons. phil was not quite easy, however: nor were the others who heard; and in a minute they looked round for hugh. he was leaning his face upon his arms, against the orchard wall; and when, with gentle force, they pulled him away, they saw that his face was bathed in tears. he sobbed out,-- "i took such pains with that theme,--all the holidays! and i can't go for it myself." there were loud exclamations from many against phil, against one another, and against themselves; and now everybody was eager to go. phil stopped all who had started off saying that it was his business; and the next moment, phil was at mr. tooke's study-door, asking leave of absence till supper. "little holt has been beforehand with you," said mr. tooke. "i refused him, however, as he is not so fit as you to be out after dark. off with you!" before phil returned, it struck hugh that he had been very selfish; and that it was not a good way of bearing his trial to impose on any one a walk of four miles, to repair a piece of carelessness of his own. nobody blamed him; but he did not like to look in the faces round him, to see what people thought. when phil returned, fresh and hungry from the frosty air, and threw down the paper, saying,-- "there is your theme, and my aunt is very sorry." hugh said,-- "oh! phil, and i am so sorry too! i hope you are not very tired." "never mind!" replied phil. "there is your theme." and with this hugh was obliged to be satisfied; but it left him exceedingly uncomfortable--sorry for phil--disappointed in dale--and much more disappointed in himself. the thought of what holt had wished to do was the only pleasant part of it; and hugh worked beside holt, and talked with him all the evening. hugh felt, the next morning, as if he was never to have any pleasure from his themes, though they were the lesson he did best. this one was praised, quite as much as the former one: and he did not this time tell anybody what mr. tooke had said about it: but the pleasure was spoiled by the recollection that his brother had run four miles on account of it, and that he himself must have appeared to others more selfish than he thought them. he burned his theme, that he might the more easily forget all about it; and the moment after he had done so, phil said he should have kept it, as other boys did theirs, for his parents to see. mr. crabbe was just such a master as it was good for the little boys to be under. he did not punish capriciously, nor terrify them by anything worse than his strictness. very strict he was; and he thus caused them some fear every day: for holt was backward, and not very clever: and hugh was still much less able to learn than most other boys. but all felt that mr. crabbe was not unreasonable, and they always knew exactly how much to be afraid of. whether he had inquired, or been told, the story of hugh's lameness, they did not know. he said nothing about it, except just asking hugh whether it tired him to stand up in class, saying that he might sit at the top or bottom of the class, instead of taking places if he chose. hugh did find it rather fatiguing at first but he did not like to take advantage of mr. crabbe's offer, because it so happened that he was almost always at the bottom of his classes: and to have withdrawn from the contest would have looked like a trick to hide the shame, and might have caused him to be set down as a dunce who never could rise. he thanked mr. crabbe, and said that if he should rise in his classes, and keep a good place for some time, he thought he should be glad to sit, instead of standing; but meantime he had rather be tired. then the feeling of fatigue went off before he rose, or saw any chance of rising. this inability to do his lessons so well as other boys was a deep and lasting grief to hugh. though he had in reality improved much since he came to crofton, and was now and then cheered by some proof of this, his general inferiority in this respect was such as to mortify him every day of his life, and sometimes to throw him almost into despair. he saw that everybody pitied him for the loss of his foot, but not for this other trouble, while he felt this to be rather the worst of the two; and all the more because he was not sure himself whether or not he could help it, as every one else seemed certain that he might. when he said his prayer in his bed, he earnestly entreated that he might be able to bear the one trouble, and be delivered from the other; and when, as the spring came on, he was found by one friend or another lying on the grass with his face hidden, he was often praying with tears for help in doing this duty, when he was thought to be grieving that he could not play at leaping or foot-ball, like other boys. and yet, the very next evening, when the whole school were busy over their books, and there was nothing to interfere with his work, he would pore over his lesson without taking in half the sense, while his fancy was straying everywhere but where it ought;--perhaps to little harry, or the temple gardens at home, or to cape horn, or japan--some way farther off still. it did not often happen now, as formerly, that he forgot before morning a lesson well learned over-night. he was aware that now everything depended on whether he was once sure of his lesson; but the difficulty was in once being sure of it. finding phil's kindness continue through the first weeks and months of the half-year, hugh took courage at last to open his mind pretty freely to his brother, offering to do anything in the world for phil, if he would only hear him his lessons every evening till he could say them perfect. phil was going to plead that he had no time, when hugh popped out-- "the thing is that it does not help me to say them to just anybody. saying them to somebody that i am afraid of is what i want." "why, you are not afraid of me?" said phil. "yes i am--rather." "what for?" "oh, because you are older;--and you are so much more of a crofton boy than i am--and you are very strict--and altogether----" "yes, you will find me pretty strict, i can tell you," said phil, unable to restrain a complacent smile on finding that somebody was afraid of him. "well, we must see what we can do. i will hear you to-night, at any rate." between his feeling of kindness and the gratification of his vanity, phil found himself able to hear his brother's lessons every evening. he was certainly very strict, and was not sparing of such pushes, joggings, and ridicule as were necessary to keep hugh up to his work. those were very provoking sometimes; but hugh tried to bear them for the sake of the gain. whenever phil would condescend to explain, in fresh words, the sense of what hugh had to learn, he saved trouble to both, and the lesson went off quickly and easily: but sometimes he would not explain anything, and soon went away in impatience, leaving hugh in the midst of his perplexities. there was a chance, on such occasions, that firth might be at leisure, or dale able to help: so that, one way and another, hugh found his affairs improving as the spring advanced; and he began to lose his anxiety, and to gain credit with the usher. he also now and then won a place in his classes. towards the end of may, when the trees were full of leaf, and the evenings sunny, and the open air delicious, quite up to bedtime, phil became persuaded, very suddenly, that hugh could get on by himself now; that it was not fair that he should be helped; and that it was even hurtful to him to rely on any one but himself. if phil had acted gradually upon this conviction, withdrawing his help by degrees, it might have been all very well: but he refused at once and decidedly to have anything more to do with hugh's lessons, as he was quite old and forward enough now to do them by himself. this announcement threw his brother into a state of consternation not at all favourable to learning; and the next morning hugh made several blunders. he did the same every day that week; was every afternoon detained from play to learn his lessons again; and on the saturday morning (repetition day) he lost all the places he had gained, and left off at the bottom of every class. what could mr. crabbe suppose but that a sudden fit of idleness was the cause of this falling back? it appeared so to him, and to the whole school; and poor hugh felt as if there was scorn in every eye that looked upon his disgrace. he thought there could not be a boy in the school who did not see or hear that he was at the bottom of every class. mr. crabbe always desired to be just: and he now gave hugh the opportunity of explaining, if he had anything to say. he remained in the school-room after the boys had left it, and asked hugh a question or two. but hugh sobbed and cried so bitterly that he could not speak so as to be understood; and he did not wish to explain, feeling that he was much obliged to phil for his former help, and that he ought not to complain to any master of its being now withdrawn. so mr. crabbe could only hope that next week would show a great difference, and advise him to go out with the rest this afternoon, to refresh himself for a new effort. hugh did not know whether he had not rather have been desired to stay at home than go out among so many who considered him disgraced. it really was hard (though holt stood by him, and dale was his companion as usual) to bear the glances he saw, and the words that came to his ear. some boys looked to see how red his eyes were: some were surprised to see him abroad, and hinted at favouritism because he was not shut up in the school-room. some asked whether he could say his alphabet yet; and others whether he could spell "dunce." the most cruel thing of all was to see tooke in particularly high spirits. he kept away from hugh; but hugh's eye followed him from afar, and saw that he capered and laughed, and was gayer than at any time this half-year. hugh saw into his heart (or thought he did) as plain as he saw to the bottom of the clear stream in the meadows, to which they were bound for their afternoon's sport. "i know what tooke is feeling," thought he. "he is pleased to see me lowered, as long as it is not his doing. he is sorry to see me suffer by my lameness; because that hurts his conscience: but he is pleased to see me wrong and disgraced, because that relieves him of the feeling of being obliged to me. if i were now to put him in mind of his promise, to stand by me, and protect me----i declare i will----it will stop his wicked joy----it will make him remember his duty." dale wondered to see hugh start off, as fast as he could go, to overtake the foremost boys who were just entering the meadow, and spreading themselves over it. tooke could, alas! like everybody else, go faster than hugh; and there was no catching him, though he did not seem to see that anybody wanted him. neither could he be made to hear, though hugh called him as loud as he could shout. holt was so sorry to see hugh hot and agitated, that he made no objection to going after tooke, though he was pretty sure tooke would be angry with him. holt could run as fast as anybody, and he soon caught the boy he was pursuing, and told him that little proctor wanted him very much indeed, that very moment. tooke sent him about his business, saying that he could not come; and then immediately proposed brook-leaping for their sport, leading the way himself over a place so wide that no lesser boy, however nimble, could follow. holt came running back, shaking his head, and showing that his errand was in vain. tooke was so full of play that he could think of nothing else; which was a shame. "ah! and you little know," thought hugh, "how deep a shame it is." with a swelling heart he turned away, and went towards the bank of the broader stream which ran through the meadows. dale was with him in a moment,--very sorry for him, because everybody else was at brook-leaping,--the sport that hugh had loved so well last autumn. dale passed his arm round hugh's neck, and asked where they should sit and tell stories,--where they could best hide themselves, so that nobody should come and tease them. hugh wished to thank his friend for this; but he could not speak directly. they found a pleasant place among the flowering reeds on the bank, where they thought nobody would see them; and having given holt to understand that they did not want him, they settled themselves for their favourite amusement of story-telling. but hugh's heart was too full and too sick for even his favourite amusement; and dale was perhaps too sorry for him to be the most judicious companion he could have at such a time. dale agreed that the boys were hard and careless; and he added that it was particularly shameful to bring up a boy's other faults when he was in disgrace for one. in the warmth of his zeal, he told how one boy had been laughing at hugh's conceit about his themes, when he had shown to-day that he could not go half through his syntax; and how he had heard another say that all that did not signify half so much as his being mean about money. between hugh's eagerness to hear, and dale's sympathy, five minutes were not over before hugh had heard every charge that could be brought against his character, and knew that they were all circulating this very afternoon. in his agony of mind he declared that everybody at crofton hated him,--that he could never hold up his head there,--that he would ask to be sent home by the coach, and never come near crofton again. dale now began to be frightened, and wished he had not said so much. he tried to make light of it; but hugh seemed disposed to do something decided;--to go to his uncle shaw's, at least, if he could not get home. dale earnestly protested against any such idea, and put him in mind how he was respected by everybody for his bravery about the loss of his foot. "respected? not a bit of it!" cried hugh. "they none of them remember: they don't care a bit about it." dale was sure they did. "i tell you they don't. i know they don't. i know it for certain; and i will tell you how i know. there is the very boy that did it,--the very boy that pulled me from the wall----o! if you knew who it was, you would say it was a shame!" dale involuntarily sat up, and looked back, over the tops of the reeds, at the boys who were brook-leaping. "would you like to know who it was that did it, dale?" "yes, if you like to tell; but----and if he treats you ill, after the way you used him, he cannot expect you should consider him so----besides, i am your best friend; and i always tell you everything!" "yes, that you do. and he has treated me so shamefully to-day! and i have nobody to speak to that knows. you will promise never--never to tell anybody as long as you live." "to be sure," said dale. "and you wont tell anybody that i have told you." "to be sure not." "well, then----" here there was a rustling among the reeds which startled them both, with a sort of guilty feeling. it was holt, quite out of breath. "i don't want to interrupt you," said he, "and i know you wish i would not come; but the others made me come. the biggest boys lay that the second size can't jump the brook at the willow-stump; and the second-size boys want dale to try. they made me come. i could not help it." hugh looked at dale, with eyes which said, as plainly as eyes could speak, "you will not go----you will not leave me at such a moment?" but dale was not looking at his face, but at the clusters of boys beside the brook. he said-- "you will not mind my going, just for one leap. it will hardly take a minute. i shall not stay for a game. but i must have just one leap." and he was off. holt looked after him, and then towards hugh, hesitating whether to go or stay. hugh took no notice of him: so he went slowly away; and hugh was left alone. he was in an extreme perturbation. at the first moment, he was beyond measure hurt with dale. he did not think his best friend would have so reminded him of his infirmity, and of his being a restraint on his companions. he did not think any friend could have left him at such a moment. then it occurred to him, "what, then, am i? if dale was selfish, what was i? i was just going to tell what would have pointed out tooke to him for life. i know as well as can be that it was all accident his pulling me off the wall; and yet i was going to bring it up against him; and for the very reason why i should not,--because he has not behaved well to me. i was just going to spoil the only good thing i ever did for anybody in my life. but it is spoiled--completely spoiled. i shall never be able to trust myself again. it is all by mere accident that it is not all over now. if holt had not come that very instant, my secret would have been out, and i could never have got it back again! i could never have looked tooke in the face any more. i don't know that i can now; for i am as wicked as if i had told." dale came back presently, fanning himself with his cap. as he plunged into the reeds, and threw himself down beside hugh, he cried, "i did it! i took the leap, and came off with my shoe-soles as dry as a crust. ah! they are wet now; but that is with another leap i took for sport. i told you i should not be long gone. now for it! who did it?" "i am not going to tell you, dale,--not now, nor ever." "why, that is too bad! i am sure i stay beside you often enough, when the others are playing: you need not grudge me this one leap,--when the boys sent for me, too." "it is not that, dale. you are very kind always in staying beside me; and i do not wish that you should give up play for my sake half so much as you do. but i was very, very wrong in meaning to tell you that secret. i should have been miserable by this time if i had." "but you promised. you must keep your promise. what would all the boys say, if i told them you had broken your promise?" "if they knew what it was about, they would despise me for ever meaning to tell--not for stopping short in time. that was only accident, however. but my secret is my own still." dale's curiosity was so strong, that hugh saw how dangerous it was to have tantalised it. he had to remind his friend of mr. tooke's having put all the boys upon honour not to inquire on this subject. this brought dale to himself; and he promised never again to urge hugh, or encourage his speaking of the matter at all. they then went to story-telling; but it would not do to-day. hugh could not attend; and dale could not invent, while there was no sympathy in his hearer. he was presently released, for it struck hugh that he should like to write to his mother this very afternoon. his heart was heavy, and he wanted to tell her what was in it. mr. crabbe gave him leave to go home; and dale was in time for plenty more play. hugh had the great school-room all to himself; and as the window before his desk was open, he had the pleasure of the fresh air, and the smell of the blossoms from the orchard, and the sound of the waving of the tall trees in the wind, and the cawing of the rooks as the trees waved. these things all made him enjoy scribbling away to his mother, as well as finding his mind grow easier as he went on. besides, he had not to care for the writing; for he had met mr. tooke by the church, and had got his leave to send his letter without anybody's looking at it, as he had something very particular to say. he wrote,-- "dear mother,-- "it is saturday afternoon, and i have come home from the meadows before the rest, to tell you something that has made me very uneasy. if i had told anybody in the world who pulled me off the wall, it should and would have been you,--that night after it happened: and i am afraid i should have told you, if you had not prevented it: for i find i am not to be trusted when i am talking with anybody i love very much. i have not told yet: but i should have told dale if holt had not run up at the very moment. it makes me very unhappy,--almost as much as if i had let it out: for how do i know but that i may tell a hundred times over in my life, if i could forget so soon? i shall be afraid of loving anybody very much, and talking with them alone, as long as i live. i never felt the least afraid of telling till to-day; and you cannot think how unhappy it makes me. and then, the thing that provoked me to tell was that boy's being surly to me, and glad that i was in disgrace this morning, for doing my lessons badly all this week,--the very thing that should have made me particularly careful how i behaved to him; for his pulling me off the wall was by accident, after all. everything has gone wrong to-day; and i am very unhappy, and i feel as if i should never be sure of anything again; and so i write to you. you told me you expected me not to fail; and you see i have; and the next thing is that i must tell you of it. "your affectionate son, "hugh proctor. "p.s. phil has been very kind about my lessons, till this week [_interlined_], when he has been very busy. "p.s. if you should answer this, please put 'private' outside, or at the top; and then mr. tooke will not read it, nor anybody. but i know you are very busy always; so i do not quite expect an answer." when the letter was finished and closed, hugh felt a good deal relieved: but still not happy. he had opened his heart to the best friend he had in this world: but he still felt grievously humbled for the present, and alarmed for the future. then he remembered that he might seek comfort from a better friend still; and that he who had sent him his trial could and would help him to bear it, with honour as well as with patience. as he thought of this, he saw that the boys were trooping home, along the road, and he slipped out, and into the orchard, where he knew he might be alone with his best friend. he stayed there till the supper-bell rang; and when he came in, it was with a cheerful face. he was as merry as anybody at supper: and afterwards he found his lessons more easy to him than usual. the truth was that his mind was roused by the conflicts of the day. he said his lessons to phil (who found time to-night to hear him), without missing a word. when he went to bed, he had several pleasant thoughts. his secret was still his own (though by no merit of his); to-morrow was sunday,--likely to be a bright, sweet may sunday,--his lessons were quite ready for monday; and possibly there might be a letter from his mother in the course of the week. mrs. proctor was in the midst of her monday morning's business (and monday morning was the busiest of the week), when she received hugh's letter. yet she found time to answer it by the very next post. when her letter was handed to hugh, with the seal unbroken, because 'private' was written large on the outside, he thought she was the kindest mother that ever was, to have written so soon, and to have minded all his wishes. her letter was,-- "dear hugh, "there was nothing in your letter to surprise me at all; for i believe, if all our hearts were known, it would be found that we have every one been saved from doing wrong by what we call accident. the very best people say this of themselves, in their thanksgivings to god, and their confessions to one another. though you were very unhappy on saturday, i am not sorry that these things have happened, as i think you will be the safer and the wiser for them. you say you never till then felt the least afraid of telling. now you know the danger; and that is a good thing. i think you will never again see that boy (whoever he may be), without being put upon your guard. still, we are all sadly forgetful about our duty; and, if i were you, i would use every precaution against such a danger as you have escaped,--it makes me tremble to think how narrowly. if i were you, i would engage any friend i should become intimate with, the whole time of being at school, and perhaps afterwards, never to say a word about the accident,--or, at least, about how it happened. another way is to tell me your mind, as you have now; for you may be sure that it is my wish that you should keep your secret, and that i shall always be glad to help you to do it. "but, my dear boy, i can do but little, in comparison with the best friend you have. he can help you without waiting for your confidence,--even at the very instant when you are tempted. it is he who sends these very accidents (as we call them) by which you have now been saved. have you thanked him for saving you this time? and will you not trust in his help henceforward, instead of supposing yourself safe, as you now find you are not? if you use his strength, i feel that you will not fail. if you trust your own intentions alone, i shall never feel sure of you for a single hour, nor be certain that the companion you love best may not be your worst enemy, in breaking down your self-command. but, as you say you were very unhappy on saturday, i have no doubt you did go for comfort to the right friend, and that you were happier on sunday. "your sisters do not know that i am writing, as i consider your letter a secret from everybody but your father, who sends his love. you need not show this to phil; but you can give him our love. your sisters are counting the days to the holidays; and so are some older members of the family. as for harry, he shouts for you from the yard every day, and seems to think that every shout will bring nearer the happy time when phil and you will come home. "your affectionate mother, "jane proctor." hugh was, of course, very glad of this letter. and he was glad of something else;--that he had done the very things his mother had advised. he had engaged dale not to tempt him on this subject any more. he had opened his heart to his mother, and obtained her help; and he had sought a better assistance, and a higher comfort still. it was so delightful to have such a letter as this,--to be so understood and aided, that he determined to tell his mother all his concerns, as long as he lived. when, in the course of the holidays, he told her so, she smiled, and said she supposed he meant as long as _she_ lived; for she was likely to die long before he did. hugh could not deny this; but he never liked to think about it:--he always drove away the thought; though he knew, as his mother said, that this was rather cowardly, and that the wisest and most loving people in the world remember the most constantly and cheerfully that friends must be parted for a while, before they can live together for ever. chapter xiv. holt and his help. nothing more was heard by hugh, or any one else, of lamb's debt. the creditor himself chose to say nothing about it, so much was he annoyed at being considered fond of money: but he was sure that lamb's pockets were filled, from time to time, as he was seen eating good things in by-corners when everybody knew that his credit with his companions, and with all the neighbouring tradespeople, was exhausted. it was surprising that anybody could care so much for a shilling's worth of tarts or fruit as to be at the trouble of any concealment, or of constantly getting out of hugh's way, rather than pay, and have done with it. when lamb was seen munching or skulking, firth sometimes asked hugh whether he had got justice yet in that quarter: and then hugh laughed; and firth saw that he had gained something quite as good,--a power of doing without it good-humouredly, from those who were so unhappy as not to understand or care for justice. in one respect, however, hugh was still within lamb's power. when lamb was not skulking, he was much given to boasting; and his boasts were chiefly about what a great man he was to be in india. he was really destined for india; and his own opinion was that he should have a fine life of it there, riding on an elephant, with a score of servants always about him, spending all his mornings in shooting, and all his evenings at dinners and balls. hugh did not care about the servants, sport, or dissipation; and he did not see why any one should cross the globe to enjoy things like these, which might be had at home. but it did make him sigh to think that a lazy and ignorant boy should be destined to live among those mountains, and that tropical verdure of which he had read,--to see the cave-temples, the tanks, the prodigious rivers, and the natives and their ways, of which his imagination was full, while he must stay at home, and see nothing beyond london, as long as he lived. he did not grudge holt his prospect of going to india; for holt was an improved and improving boy, and had, moreover, a father there whom he loved very much: but hugh could never hear lamb's talk about india without being ready to cry. "do you think," he said to holt, "that all this is true?" "it is true that he is to go to india. his father has interest to get him out. but i do not believe he will like it so well as he thinks. at least, i know that my father has to work pretty hard,--harder than lamb ever worked, or ever will work." "o dear! i wish i could go and do the work; and i would send all the money home to him (except just enough to live upon), and then he might go to dinners and balls in london, as much as he liked, and i could see the hindoos and the cave-temples." "that is another mistake of lamb's,--about the quantity of money," said holt. "i do not believe anybody in india is so rich as he pretends, if they work ever so hard. i know my father works as hard as anybody, and he is not rich; and i know the same of several of his friends. so it is hardly likely that such a lazy dunce as lamb should be rich, unless he has a fortune here at home; and if he had that, i do not believe he would take the trouble of going so far, to suffer by the heat." "i should not mind the heat," sighed hugh, "if i could go. you must write to me, holt, all about india. write me the longest letters in the world; and tell me everything you can think of about the natives, and juggernaut's car." "that i will, if you like. but i am afraid that would only make you long the more to go,--like reading voyages and travels. how i do wish, though, that you were going with me by-and-bye, as you let me go home with you these holidays!" it was really true that holt was going to london these holidays. he was not slow to acknowledge that hugh's example had put into him some of the spirit that he had wanted when he came to crofton, languid, indolent, and somewhat spoiled, as little boys from india are apt to be; and hugh, for his part, saw now that he had been impatient and unkind towards holt, and had left him forlorn, after having given him hopes that they were to be friends and companions. they were gradually becoming real friends now; and the faster, because holt was so humble as not to be jealous of hugh's still liking dale best. holt was satisfied to be liked best when dale could not be had; and as this was the case in the midsummer holidays, he was grateful to be allowed to spend them with the proctors. hugh was so thankful for his father's kindness in giving him a companion of his own age, and so pleased to show holt little harry, and the leads, and the river, and his shelf of books, and covent garden market, and other wonders of london, that any unpleasant feelings that the boys had ever entertained towards each other were quite forgotten, and they grew more intimate every day. it touched hugh's heart to see how sorry holt was for every little trial that befel him, on coming home, altered as he was. agnes herself did not turn red oftener, or watch more closely to help him than holt did. hugh himself had to tell him not to mind when he saw the shop-boy watching his way of walking, or little harry trying to limp like him, or susan pretending to find fault with him, as she used to do, as an excuse for brushing away her tears. holt was one of the first to find out that hugh liked to be sent errands about the house, or in the neighbourhood; and it was he who convinced the family of it, though at first they could not understand or believe it at all. when they saw, however, that hugh, who used to like that his sisters should wait upon him, and to be very slow in moving from his book, even at his mother's desire, now went up stairs and down stairs for everybody, and tried to be more independent in his habits than any one else, they began to think that holt knew hugh's mind better than even they, and to respect and love him accordingly. there was another proof of friendship given by holt, more difficult by far; and in giving it, he showed that he really had learned courage and spirit from hugh, or in some other way. he saw that his friend was now and then apt to do what most people who have an infirmity are prone to,--to make use of his privation to obtain indulgences for himself, or as an excuse for wrong feelings; and when holt could not help seeing this, he resolutely told his friend of it. no one else but mrs. proctor would see or speak the truth on such occasions; and when his mother was not by, hugh would often have done selfish things unchecked, if it had not been for holt. his father pitied him so deeply, that he joked even about hugh's faults, rather than give him present pain. phil thought he had enough to bear at crofton, and that everybody should let him alone in the holidays. his sisters humoured him in everything: so that if it had not been for holt, hugh might have had more trouble with his faults than ever, on going back to crofton. "do you really and truly wish not to fail, as you say, hugh?" asked holt. "to be sure." "well, then, do try not to be cross." "i am not cross." "i know you think it is low spirits. i am not quite sure of that: but if it is, would not it be braver not to be low in spirits?" hugh muttered that that was fine talking for people that did not know. "that is true, i dare say; and i do not believe i should be half as brave as you, but i _should_ like to see you quite brave." "it is a pretty thing for you to lecture me, when i got down those books on purpose for you,--those voyages and travels. and how can i look at those same books, now and not----" hugh could not go on, and he turned away his head. "was it for me?" exclaimed holt, in great concern. "then i am very sorry. i will carry them to mrs. proctor, and ask her to put them quite away till we are gone back to crofton." "no, no. don't do that. i want them," said hugh, finding now that he had not fetched them down entirely on holt's account. but holt took him at his word, and carried the books away, and succeeded in persuading hugh that it was better not to look at volumes which he really almost knew by heart, and every crease, stain and dog's-ear of which brought up fresh in his mind his old visions of foreign travel and adventure. then, holt never encouraged any conversation about the accident with susan, or with mr. blake, when they were in the shop; and he never pretended to see that hugh's lameness was any reason why he should have the best of their places in the haymarket theatre (where they went once), or be the chief person when they capped verses, or played other games round the table, in the evenings at home. the next time hugh was in his right mood, he was sure to feel obliged to holt; and he sometimes said so. "i consider you a real friend to hugh," said mrs. proctor, one day, when they three were together. "i have dreaded seeing my boy capable only of a short effort of courage;--bearing pain of body and mind well while everybody was sorry for him, and ready to praise him; and then failing in the long trial afterwards. when other people are leaving off being sorry for him, you continue your concern for him, and still remind him not to fail." "would not it be a pity, ma'am," said holt, earnestly, "would it not be a pity for him to fail when he bore everything so well at first, and when he helped me so that i don't know what i should have done without him? he made me write to mr. tooke, and so got me out of debt; and a hundred times, i am sure, the thought of him and his secret has put spirit into me. it would be a pity if he should fail without knowing it, for want of somebody to put him in mind. he might so easily think he was bearing it all well, as long as he could talk about his foot, and make a joke of being lame, when, all the while, he might be losing his temper in other ways." "why, how true that is!" exclaimed hugh. "i was going to ask if i was ever cross about being lame: but i know i am about other things, because i am worried about that, sometimes." "it is so easy to put you in mind," continued holt; "and we shall all be so glad if you are brave to the very end----" "i will," said hugh. "only do you go on to put me in mind----" "and _you_ will grow more and more brave, too," observed mrs. proctor to holt. holt sighed; for he thought it would take a great deal of practice yet to make him a brave boy. other people thought he was getting on very fast. chapter xv. conclusion. the longer these two boys were together, the more they wished that they could spend their lives side by side; or, at least, not be separated by half the globe. just before the christmas holidays, some news arrived which startled them so much that they could hardly speak to one another about it for some hours. there was a deep feeling in their hearts which disposed them to speak alone to the ruler of their lives, before they could even rejoice with one another. when they meditated upon it, they saw that the event had come about naturally enough; but it so exactly met the strongest desire they had in the world, that if a miracle had happened before their eyes, they could not have been more struck. holt's father wrote a letter to mr. proctor, which reached its destination through mr. tooke's hands; and mr. tooke was consulted in the whole matter, and requested by mr. proctor to tell the two boys and phil all about it. these three were therefore called into mr. tooke's study, one day, to hear some news. the letters which mr. tooke read were about hugh. mr. holt explained that his son's best years were to be spent, like his own, in india; that his own experience had made him extremely anxious that his son should be associated with companions whom he could respect and love; and that he had long resolved to use such interest as he had in bringing out only such a youth, or youths, as he could wish his son to associate with. he mentioned that he was aware that one lad now at crofton was destined for india-- "that is lamb," whispered the boys to each other. but that he did not hear of any friendship formed, or likely to be formed with advantage between his son and this young gentleman. "no, indeed!" muttered holt. there was one boy, however, mr. holt went on to say, to whom his son seemed to be attached, and concerning whom he had related circumstances which inspired a strong interest, and which seemed to afford an expectation of an upright manhood following a gallant youth. here all the boys reddened, and hugh looked hard at the carpet. this boy had evidently a strong inclination for travel and adventure; and though his lameness put military or naval service out of the question, it might not unfit him for civil service in india. if mr. tooke could give such a report of his health, industry, and capability as should warrant his being offered an appointment, and if his parents were willing so to dispose of him, mr. holt was anxious to make arrangements for the education of the boys proceeding together, in order to their being companions in their voyage and subsequent employments. and then followed some account of what these arrangements were to be. "now, proctor," said mr. tooke to the breathless hugh, "you must consider what you have to say to this. your parents are willing to agree, if you are. but if," he continued, with a kind smile, "it would make you very unhappy to go to india, no one will force your inclinations." "oh, sir," said hugh, "i will work very hard,--i will work as hard as ever i can, if i may go." "well: you may go, you see, if you will work hard. you can consider it quietly, or talk it over with your brother and holt; and to-morrow you are to dine at your uncle's, where you will meet your father; and he and you will settle what to write to mr. holt, by the next ship." "and you, sir," said phil, anxiously--"mr. holt asks your opinion." "my opinion is that your brother can be what he pleases. he wants some inducement to pursue his learning more strenuously than he has done yet----" "i will, sir. i will, indeed," cried hugh. "i believe you will. such a prospect as this will be an inducement, if anything can. you are, on the whole, a brave boy; and brave boys are not apt to be ungrateful to god or man; and i am sure you think it would be ungrateful, both to god and man, to refuse to do your best in the situation which gratifies the first wish of your heart." hugh could not say another word. he made his lowest bow, and went straight to his desk. as the first-fruits of his gratitude, he learned his lessons thoroughly well that night; much as he would have liked to spend the time in dreaming. his father and he had no difficulty in settling what to write to mr. holt; and very merry were they together when the business was done. in a day or two, when hugh had had time to think, he began to be glad on tooke's account; and he found an opportunity of saying to him one day, "i never should have gone to india if i had not lost my foot; and i think it is well worth while losing my foot to go to india." "do you really? or do you say it because----" "i think so really." and then he went off into such a description as convinced tooke that he was in earnest, though it was to be feared that he would be disappointed by experience. but then again, mr. tooke was heard to say that one chief requisite for success and enjoyment in foreign service of any kind was a strong inclination for it. so tooke was consoled, and easier in mind than for a whole year past. hugh was able to keep his promise of working hard. both at crofton and at the india college, where his education was finished, he studied well and successfully; and when he set sail with his companion, it was with a heart free from all cares but one. parting from his family was certainly a great grief; and he could not forget the last tone he had heard from agnes. but this was his only sorrow. he was, at last, on the wide sea, and going to asia. holt was his dear friend. he had left none but well-wishers behind. his secret was his own; (though, indeed, he scarcely remembered that he had any secret;) and he could not but be conscious that he went out well prepared for honourable duty. the end available by internet archive (https://archive.org) note: project gutenberg also has an html version of this file which includes the original illustrations. see -h.htm or -h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/ / -h/ -h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/ / -h.zip) images of the original pages are available through internet archive. see https://archive.org/details/feedingofschoolc bulkuoft transcriber's note: text in italics is enclosed by underscores (_italics_). the feeding of school children the ratan tata foundation (university of london) the feeding of school children by mildred emily bulkley with an introductory note by r. h. tawney director of the ratan tata foundation london g. bell and sons, ltd. the ratan tata foundation _honorary director_: professor l. t. hobhouse, m.a., d.lit. _honorary secretary_: professor e. j. urwick, m.a. _director_: mr. r. h. tawney, b.a. _secretary_: miss m. e. bulkley, b.sc. the ratan tata foundation has been instituted in order to promote the study and further the knowledge of methods of preventing and relieving poverty and destitution. for the furtherance of this purpose the foundation conducts inquiries into wages and the cost of living, methods of preventing and diminishing unemployment, measures affecting the health and well-being of workers, public and private agencies for the relief of destitution, and kindred matters. the results of its principal researches will be published in pamphlet or book form; it will also issue occasional notes on questions of the day under the heading of "memoranda on problems of poverty." in addition to these methods of publishing information, the officers of the foundation will, as far as is in their power, send replies to individual inquiries relating to questions of poverty and destitution, their causes, prevention and relief, whether at home or abroad. such inquiries should be addressed to the secretary of the ratan tata foundation, school of economics, clare market, kingsway, w.c. the officers are also prepared to supervise the work of students wishing to engage in research in connection with problems of poverty. courses of lectures will also be given from time to time, which will be open to the public. already published. "_some notes on the incidence of taxation on the working-class family._" by f. w. kolthammer, m.a. d. "_the health and physique of school children._" by arthur greenwood, b.sc. s. "_poverty as an industrial problem_": _an inaugural lecture_. by r. h. tawney, b.a. d. "_studies in the minimum wage._" no. . the establishment of minimum rates in the chain-making industry under the trade boards act of . by r. h. tawney, b.a. s. d. net. "_the feeding of school children._" by miss m. e. bulkley, b.a., b.sc. s. d. net. to appear shortly "_studies in the minimum wage._" no. . the establishment of minimum rates in the tailoring trade. by r. h. tawney, b.a. preface in the collection of the material on which the following pages are based i have received assistance from so many persons that it is impossible to thank them all individually. i gratefully acknowledge the unfailing courtesy of officials of local education authorities, school medical officers, secretaries of care committees and many others, who have always been most ready to supply me with information as to the working of the provision of meals act, and to show me the feeding centres. my thanks are due especially to the students of the social science department of the school of economics, who have assisted in collecting and arranging the material, especially to miss ruth giles, miss a. l. hargrove, and miss p. m. bisgood, the first chapter being very largely the work of miss giles; mrs. leslie mackenzie, mr. i. h. cunningham, miss cecil young and mrs. f. h. spencer have also kindly collected local information. i am greatly indebted to mr. r. h. tawney for much valuable advice and co-operation, and to mr. and mrs. sidney webb and dr. kerr for reading through the proofs. i should add that the enquiry was made during the course of the year and the account of the provision made refers to that date. m. e. bulkley. contents preface vii introduction by r. h. tawney xi chapter i. the history of the movement for the provision of school meals provision by voluntary agencies--the organisation of the voluntary agencies--the demand for state provision--provision by the guardians--the education (provision of meals) act. chapter ii. the administration of the education (provision of meals) act the adoption of the act--canteen committees, their constitution and functions--the selection of the children--the preparation and service of the meals--the provision of meals during the holidays--the provision for paying children and recovery of the cost--overlapping between the poor law and the education authorities--the provision of meals at day industrial schools and at special schools--the underfed child in rural schools--conclusions. chapter iii. the provision of meals in london the organisation of voluntary agencies--the assumption of responsibility by the county council--the extent of the provision--the care committee--the provision for paying children--the service of the meals--overlapping with the poor law authority--appendix (examples of feeding centres). chapter iv. the extent and causes of malnutrition chapter v. the effect of school meals on the children chapter vi. the effect on the parents chapter vii. conclusions appendix i.--examples of menus appendix ii.--the provision of meals in scotland appendix iii.--the provision of meals abroad introduction the provision of meals for school children, which is the subject of the following pages, is still undergoing that process of tentative transformation from a private charity to a public service by which we are accustomed to disguise the assumption of new responsibilities by the state. begun in the 'sixties of the nineteenth century as a form of philanthropic effort, and denounced from time to time as socialistic and subversive of family life, it first attracted serious public attention when the south african war made the physical defects caused by starvation, which had been regarded with tolerance in citizens, appear intolerable in soldiers, and was canvassed at some length in the well-known reports of the royal commission on physical training in scotland and of the inter-departmental committee on physical deterioration. the first disposition of the authorities was, as usual, to recur to that maid-of-all-work, the poor law, and in april, , the relief (school children) order empowered the guardians to grant relief to the child of an able-bodied man without requiring him to enter the workhouse or to perform the outdoor labour test, provided that they took steps to recover the cost. the guardians, however, perhaps happily, had little sympathy for this deviation from the principle of deterrence, with the result that the new order was in most places either not applied or applied with insignificant results. the consequence was that the attempt to make the provision of meals for school children part of the poor law was abandoned. in the education (provision of meals) act was passed empowering local education authorities to provide food, either in co-operation with voluntary agencies or out of public funds, up to the limit of a half-penny rate. in the year - , out of authorities, were returned as making some provision for the feeding of school children. the object of miss bulkley's monograph is to describe what that provision is, how adequate or inadequate, how systematic or haphazard, and to examine its effect on the welfare both of the children concerned, and of the general community. the present work is, therefore, complementary to mr. greenwood's _health and physique of school children_, which was recently published by the ratan tata foundation, and which gave an exhaustive description of the conditions of school children in respect of health as revealed by the reports of school medical officers. that the subject with which miss bulkley deals is one of the first importance, few, whatever views may be held as to the act of , will be found to deny. almost all the medical authorities who have made a study of the health and physique of school children are unanimous that a capital cause of ill-health among them is lack of the right kind of food. "defective nutrition," states sir george newman, "stands in the forefront as the most important of all physical defects from which school children suffer.... from a purely scientific point of view, if there was one thing he was allowed to do for the six million children if he wanted to rear an imperial race, it would be to feed them.... the great, urgent, pressing need was nutrition. with that they could get better brains and a better race." "apart from infectious diseases," said dr. collie before the inter-departmental committee on physical deterioration, "malnutrition is accountable for nine-tenths of child sickness." "food," dr. eichholz told the same body, "is at the base of all the evils of child degeneracy." "the sufficient feeding of children," declared dr. niven, the medical officer of health for manchester, "is by far the most important thing to attend to." "to educate underfed children," said dr. leslie mackenzie, "is to promote deterioration of physique by exhausting the nervous system. education of the underfed is a positive evil." what doctors understand by malnutrition is what the plain man calls starvation; and while it is, of course, due to other causes besides actual inability to procure sufficient food, the experience of those authorities which have undertaken the provision of meals in a thorough and systematic manner suggests that these statements as to the prevalence of malnutrition or starvation are by no means exaggerations. to say, as has recently been said by a writer of repute in the _economic journal_, "already , children are fed weekly at the schools without appreciably improving the situation," is a ridiculous misstatement of the facts. on the contrary, there is every reason to believe that in those areas where suitable and sufficient meals have been provided, there has been a marked improvement in the health of the children receiving them. the tentative conclusions on this point given for a single city by mr. greenwood (_health and physique of school children_, pp. - ), are substantiated by the fuller evidence which miss bulkley sets out in chapter v. of the present work. "as far as the children are concerned, indeed, whether we consider the improvement in physique, mental capacity or manners, there is no doubt that the provision of school meals has proved of the greatest benefit." but while there is little doubt that the authorities which have made determined attempts to use to the full their powers under the act of have been rewarded by an improvement in the health of the children attending school, miss bulkley's enquiries show that the act itself is open to criticism, that many local authorities who ought to have welcomed the new powers conferred by the act have been deterred by a mean and short-sighted parsimony from adopting it, and that in many areas where it has been adopted its administration leaves much to be desired. the limitation to a halfpenny rate of the amount which a local authority may spend, has resulted in more than one authority stopping meals in spite of the existence of urgent need for them. by deciding--contrary, it would appear, to the intention of parliament--that local authorities cannot legally spend money on providing meals except when the children are actually in school, the local government board has made impossible, except at the risk of a surcharge or at the cost of private charity, the provision of meals during holidays. to those who regard the whole policy of the act of as a mistake, these limitations upon it will appear, of course, to be an advantage. but the assumption on which the act is based is that it is in the public interest that provision should be made for children who would otherwise be underfed, and, granted this premise, the wisdom of intervening to protect ratepayers against their own too logical deductions from it would appear to be as questionable as it is unnecessary. the bad precedent of authorities such as leicester, which has refused to adopt the act, and which leaves the feeding of school children to be carried out by a voluntary organisation under whose management the application for meals is in effect discouraged, does not, unfortunately, stand alone. of more than authorities who have made no use of their statutory powers, how many are justified in their inaction by the absence of distress among the school children in their area? how many have even taken steps to ascertain whether such distress exists or not? if it is the case, as is stated by high medical authorities, that "the education of the underfed is a positive evil," would not the natural corollary appear to be that, now that the experimental stage has been passed, the act should be made obligatory and the provision of meals should become a normal part of the school curriculum? apart from these larger questions of policy, it will be agreed that, if local authorities are to feed children at all, it is desirable that they should do so in the way calculated to produce the beneficial results upon the health of school children which it is the object of the act to secure. that certain authorities have been strikingly successful in providing good food under humanising conditions appears from the account of the effects of school meals given by miss bulkley. but the methods pursued in the selection of the children and in the arrangements made for feeding them vary infinitely from place to place, and the standards of efficiency with which many authorities are content appear to be lamentably low. it is evident that in many places a large number of children who need food are overlooked, either because the conditions are such as to deter parents from applying for meals, or because no attempt is made to use the medical service to discover the needs of children whose parents have not applied, or for both reasons (pp. - ). it is evident also that many authorities do not give sufficient attention to the character of the meals provided (pp. - ), or to the conditions under which they are served (pp. - ), with the result that "most diets ... are probably wanting in value for the children," and that little attempt is made to secure the "directly educational effect ... in respect of manners and conduct," which was emphasised as a _desideratum_ by the board of education. london, in particular, where the necessity for the provision of meals is conspicuous, has won a bad pre-eminence by sinning against light. reluctant, in the first place, to use its powers at all--"the whole question," said the chairman of the sub-committee on underfed children in , "of deciding which children are underfed, and of making special provision for such children, should really be one for the poor law authority"--the education committee of the london county council has taken little pains to ensure that the food provided should always be suitable, or that the meals should be served under civilising conditions. that these defects can be removed by care and forethought is shown by the example set by such towns as bradford, and now that eight years have elapsed since the education (provision of meals) act was passed, they should cease to receive the toleration which may reasonably be extended to new experiments. miss bulkley's monograph will have served its purpose if it makes it somewhat easier for the administrator, whether on education authorities or care committees, in public offices or in parliament itself, to apply the varied experience of the last eight years to a problem whose solution is an indispensable condition of the progress of elementary education. r. h. tawney. heights and weights of children from secondary schools and , from elementary schools in liverpool. boys age secondary council a council b council c schools ft. in. ft. in. ft. in. ft. in. · · · - / · · · · · · - / · · · · · · · - / · · · · · · · - / · · · · · · · · - / · · · · · · · - / · · · · · · · · - / · · · · · · · · girls age council a council b council c ft. in. ft. in. ft. in. · · · - / · · · · · · - / · · · · · · - / · · · · · - / · · · · · - / · · · · · · - / · · · · · - / · · · · · boys age secondary council a council b council c schools st. lb. st. lb. st. lb. st. lb. · · - / · · · · · · · - / · · · · · · · - / · · · · · · -- - / · · · · · · · · - / · · · · · · · · - / · · · · · · - / · · · · · · · · girls age council a council b council c st. lb. st. lb. st. lb. · - / · · · · - / · · · · - / · · · · · · - / · · · · · · - / · · · · · · - / · · · · · · - / · · · · a is a school where the parents were comparatively well-to-do and the children mostly had comfortable homes. b is a school where the parents were mostly small shopkeepers or labourers in constant employment. c is a school where the parents were mostly unemployed or casually employed. chapter i the history of the movement for the provision of school meals the latter half of the nineteenth century was remarkable for the birth of a new social conscience manifesting itself in every kind of social movement. some were mere outbursts of sentimentality, pauperising and patronising, others indicated real care and sympathy for the weaker members of society, others again a love of scientific method and order. thus in the early 'sixties there was an enormous growth in the amount spent in charity, leading to hopeless confusion. an attempt to introduce some order into this chaos and to stem the tide of indiscriminate almsgiving was made in by the formation of the "society for the prevention of pauperism and crime," which split the following year into the industrial employment association and the better known charity organisation society. in the 'eighties "slumming" became a fashionable occupation, while saw the beginning of the settlement movement in the foundation of toynbee hall. meanwhile the working classes were becoming articulate, learning more self-reliance and mutual dependence. the growth of trade unions, of co-operative and friendly societies, showed how the working people were beginning to work out their own salvation. towards the close of the century methods of improvement were nearly all on collectivist lines--in sanitary reform, in free education, in the agitation for a legal limitation of labour to eight hours a day, for a minimum wage and for old age pensions. amongst the most characteristic of these activities was the movement for the feeding of poor school children. in the early years of the movement the motives were chiefly philanthropic. the establishment of the ragged and other schools had brought under the notice of teachers and others large numbers of children, underfed and ill-clothed. still more was this the case when education was made compulsory under the education act of . it was impossible for humanitarians to attempt to educate these children without at the same time trying to alleviate their distress. education, in fact, proved useless if the child was starving; more, it might be positively detrimental, since the effort to learn placed on the child's brain a task greater than it could bear. all these early endeavours to provide meals were undertaken by voluntary agencies. their operations were spasmodic and proved totally inadequate to cope with the evil. towards the end of the century we find a growing insistence on the doctrine that it was the duty of the state to ensure that the children for whom it provided education should not be incapable, through lack of food, of profiting by that education. on the one hand some socialists demanded that the state ought itself to provide food for all its elementary school children. another school of reformers urged that voluntary agencies might in many areas deal with the question, but that where their resources proved inadequate the state must step in and supplement them. others again objected to any public provision of meals on the ground that it would undermine parental responsibility. the demand that the state must take some action was strengthened by the alarm excited during the south african war by the difficulty experienced in securing recruits of the requisite physique. the importance of the physical condition of the masses of the population was thus forced upon public attention. it was urged that the child was the material for the future generation, and that a healthy race could not be reared if the children were chronically underfed. in the result parliament yielded to the popular demand, and by the education (provision of meals) act of gave power to the local education authorities to assist voluntary agencies in the work of providing meals, and if necessary themselves to provide food out of the rates. (a)--provision by voluntary agencies. the first experiments in the provision of free or cheap dinners for school children appear to date from the early 'sixties.[ ] one of the earliest and most important of the london societies was the destitute children's dinner society, founded in february, , in connection with a ragged school in westminster.[ ] this society quickly grew and, between october and april , fifty-eight dining rooms were opened for longer or shorter periods.[ ] the motive, though largely sentimental, was from the first supported by educational considerations. "their almost constant destitution of food," write the committee in their appeal for funds, "is not only laying the foundation of permanent disease in their debilitated constitutions, but reduces them to so low a state that they have not vigour of body or energy of mind sufficient to derive any profit from the exertions of their teachers."[ ] the influence of the newly-formed charity organisation society is seen in the nervous anxiety of the promoters to avoid the charge of pauperising. "our object is not the indiscriminate relief of the multitude of poor children to be found in the lowest parts of the metropolis. our efforts are limited to those in attendance at ragged or other schools so as to encourage and assist the moral and religious training thus afforded."[ ] the dinners were not self-supporting,[ ] but a great point was made of the fact that a penny was charged towards paying the cost. nevertheless the promoters admitted that "it has been found impossible in some localities to obtain any payment from the children."[ ] footnote : "many of our own [roman catholic] schools ... fed the children even in the 'sixties." (report of select committee on education (provision of meals) bills (england and scotland), , evidence of monsignor brown, q. .) footnote : it is interesting to note that the impulse for the formation of this society came indirectly from france. in a commission of medical and scientific men had been appointed by the french government to enquire into the causes of diseases, such as scrofula, rickets, and impoverishment of blood, to which children of the poor were exposed, and which produced so much mortality. the committee reported that in their opinion the diseases were caused by children not having animal food, and might be checked by their having a meal of fresh meat once a month. owing to political events no action was taken on this report, but it made a great impression on victor hugo, and some fourteen years later (in ) he started the experiment of giving dinners of fresh meat and a small glass of wine, once a fortnight, to forty of the most necessitous young children of guernsey. this experiment was declared to be very successful. many children suffering from the above diseases had been cured, "and the physical constitution of nearly the whole of them sensibly improved" (_punch_, january , ). this description concluded with a suggestion that a similar scheme might be initiated in london. the destitute children's dinner society was the result. (_charity organisation review_, january, , p. .) footnote : report on metropolitan soup kitchens and dinner tables, by the society for organising charitable relief, , p. . footnote : _the times_, december , . footnote : _ibid._, november , . the following year the charity organisation society reports approvingly that the destitute children's dinner society "cordially accepts and endeavours to act up to the principle that 'to relieve destitution belongs to the poor law, while to prevent destitution is the peculiar function of charity.'" (report on metropolitan soup kitchens and dinner tables, , p. .) footnote : the cost of a meal was generally d., d. or d. footnote : _the times_, april , . the methods adopted by other societies were very similar. a common feature of all was the infrequency of the meal. as a rule a child would receive a dinner once a week, at the most twice a week.[ ] it is true that the dinners, unlike those supplied at the end of the century, when the predominant feature was soup, seem always to have been substantial and to have consisted of hot meat.[ ] but making all allowance for the nutritive value of the meal, its infrequency prevents us from placing much confidence in the enthusiastic reports of the various societies as to the beneficial result upon the children. "experience has proved," writes the destitute children's dinner society in , "that one substantial meat dinner per week has a marked effect on the health and powers of the children."[ ] "not only is there a marked improvement in their physical condition," reports the same society two years later, "but their teachers affirm that they are now enabled to exert their mental powers in a degree which was formerly impossible."[ ] the ragged school union in reports to the same effect. "the physical benefit of these dinners to the children is great; but it is not the body only that is benefited; the teachers agree in their opinion that those who are thus fed become more docile and teachable."[ ] footnote : we have only found one case where the dinner was given as often as three times a week. (see letter from john palmer, hon. sec. of the clare market ragged schools, _ibid._, october , .) footnote : thus a dinner given by the refuge for homeless and destitute children to pupils of st. giles and st. george, bloomsbury, consisted of boiled and roast beef, plenty of potatoes, and a thick slice of bread, the portion given to each child being abundant. (_ibid._, november , .) footnote : _ibid._, december , . footnote : _ibid._, march , . footnote : report of ragged school union for , quoted in report on metropolitan soup kitchens and dinner tables, , p. . meals were given only during the winter, though one society at any rate, the destitute children's dinner society, realised the importance of continuing the work throughout the year--an importance even now not universally appreciated--their object being "not to relieve temporary distress only, but by an additional weekly meal of good quality and quantity, to improve the general health and moral condition of the half starved and neglected children who swarm throughout the poor districts of london."[ ] funds apparently did not permit of their achieving this object.[ ] footnote : letter from the treasurer of the destitute children's dinner society, _the times_, april , . footnote : in that year ( ) dinners were given during nine months, being discontinued only from july to september, but in subsequent years they appear to have been provided during the winter months only. after the passing of the education act of , educational considerations became the dominant motive for feeding. teachers and school managers as well as philanthropists found themselves increasingly compelled to deal with the problem. it was not only that compulsory education brought into notice hundreds of needy children who had before been hidden away in courts and back alleys,[ ] but the effect of education on a starving child proved useless. footnote : "at the present season, when the energy of the school board visitors is filling the schools with all the poorest of the poor street arabs, the need of such a society as this is more than ever felt." (letter from the committee of the destitute children's dinner society, _the times_, december , .) the _referee_ fund, started in , was the result of mrs. burgwin's experience when head teacher of orange street school, southwark. she found the children in a deplorable condition and on appealing to a medical man for advice was told that they were simply starving. with the help of her assistant teachers she provided tea, coffee or warm milk for the most needy. soon a small local organisation was started, and a year or two after mr. g. r. sims drew public attention to the question by his articles on "how the poor live," and appealed for funds through the _referee_.[ ] the operations of the fund thus established were at first confined to west southwark--"in that area," mrs. burgwin triumphantly declared, "there was not a hungry school child"[ ]--but were gradually extended to other districts. as a result of the meals thus provided it was said that the children looked healthier and attended school better in the winter when they were being fed than they did in the summer.[ ] footnote : london school board, report of special committee on underfed children, , appendix , p. . footnote : report of inter-departmental committee on medical inspection and feeding, , vol. ii., q. . footnote : london school board, report of special committee on underfed children, , appendix , p. . the standard example, however, constantly quoted as evidence of the value of school meals, was the experiment started by sir henry peek at rousdon in . the children in that district had to walk long distances to school, "bringing with them wretched morsels of food for dinner," with, naturally, most unsatisfactory results. sir henry peek provided one good meal a day for five days, charging one penny a day. the system was practically self-supporting. the experiment was declared by the inspector to have "turned out a very great success. what strikes one at once on coming into the school is the healthy vigorous look of the children, and that their vigour is not merely bodily, but comes out in the course of examination. there is a marked contrast between their appearance and their work on the day of inspection, and those of the children in many of the neighbouring schools. the midday meal is good and without stint. it acts as an attraction, and induces regularity of attendance.... before the school was started the education of the children of the neighbourhood was as low as in any part of the district."[ ] footnote : mr. mundella in the house of commons, _hansard_, july , , rd series, vol. , pp. - . "the effect on the health of the children," writes the rector of rousdon in january, , "may be well exemplified by the most recent illustration--viz., that in the third week of december, though whooping-cough had been, and still was, prevalent among them, and the weather was damp and raw, the entry on the master's weekly report was, absentees, --that is, _every_ child on the register had appeared on the monday morning and paid for its week's dinners. probably such a circumstance in a rural school district (with radius of a mile and a half at least) in the height of winter is unprecedented." (_sanitary record_, january , .) about another motive for school meals emerges. public opinion began to be aroused on the subject of over-pressure. it was said that far too many subjects were taught and that the system of "payment by results" forced the teachers to overwork the children for the sake of the grant. it was pointed out that not only was it useless to try to educate a starving child, but the results might be positively harmful. numerous letters from school managers, doctors and others appeared in _the times_. "in dispensary practice," writes dr. sophia jex-blake, "i have lately seen several cases of habitual headache and other cerebral affections among children of all ages attending our board schools, and have traced their origin to overstrain caused by the ordinary school work, which the ill-nourished physical frames are often quite unfit to bear. i have spoken repeatedly on the subject to members of the school boards, and also to teachers in the schools, and have again and again been assured by them that they were quite alive to the danger, and heartily wished that it was in their power to avert it, but that the constantly advancing requirements of the education code left them no option in the matter."[ ] footnote : _the times_, april , . speaking of the children at london hospitals, dr. robert farquharson writes: "ill-fed and badly housed and clothed, exposed to depressing sanitary and domestic conditions, these poor creatures are frequently expected to do an amount of school work of which their badly-nourished brains are utterly incapable. i have long been familiar with the pale, dejected look, the chronic headache, the sleeplessness, the loss of appetite, the general want of tone, caused undoubtedly by the undue exercise of nervous tissues unprovided with their proper allowance of healthy food." such children "are by no means inclined to shirk their lessons; they are frequently much interested in them; but, feeling the responsibility of class and examinations keenly ... they become sleepless and restless, and rapidly lose flesh and strength." (_ibid._, april , .) _the lancet_ spoke strongly on the subject[ ] and in it was hotly discussed in parliament. mr. mundella spoke in warm praise of sir henry peek's experiment, while mr. s. smith, the member for liverpool, went so far as to say that "if parliament compelled persons by force of law to send their children to school, and the little ones were to be forced to undergo such a grinding system, they ought not to injure them in so doing, but should provide them, in cases of proved necessity, with sufficient nourishment to enable them to stand the pressure."[ ] such a proposition sounds "advanced" for the year , but he added the still more modern suggestion--"that not only should we have a medical inspection of schools, but that the grants should be partly dependent upon the physical health of the children.... we were applying sanitary science to our great towns, and we should apply the same science also to the educational system of the country."[ ] at last mr. mundella instigated dr. crichton browne to undertake a private enquiry into the subject. the report was somewhat vague and rhetorical, and dr. browne's judgments were said to be based on insufficient data, so that little fresh light was thrown on the question. it is, however, noteworthy that he too recommended medical inspection and also that a record of the height, weight and chest girth of the children should be kept.[ ] footnote : "that good feeding is necessary for brain nutrition does not need to be demonstrated or even argued at length ... it must be evident that the position in which education places the brains of underfed children is that of a highly-exercised organ urgently requiring food, and finding none or very little. these children are _growing_, and all or nearly all the food they can get is appropriated by the grosser and bulkier parts of the body to the starvation of the brain.... it is cruel to educate a growing child unless you are also prepared to feed him." (leading article, _the lancet_, august , , vol. ii., pp. - .) footnote : _hansard_, july , , rd series, vol. , p. . footnote : _ibid._, p. . footnote : _the times_, september , . in spite of conflicting opinions, one point became increasingly clear. whether the amount of mental strain necessitated by the educational code was exaggerated or not, there was no doubt that good educational results were dependent upon health and could not be attained where the children were seriously underfed. the situation was summed up by mr. sydney buxton during a conference of managers and teachers of london board schools in . the school boards, he said, had by their compulsory powers been "year by year tapping a lower stratum of society, bringing to light the distress, destitution and underfeeding which formerly had escaped their notice. the cry of over-pressure had drawn public attention to the children attending elementary schools, and he thought it was now becoming more and more recognised that 'over-pressure' in a very large number of cases was only another word for 'underfeeding.'"[ ] footnote : _school board chronicle_, december , , pp. - . the principle that compulsory education involved some provision of food being thus generally admitted,[ ] the question remained how was this to be done? should the meals be provided free or should they be self-supporting? a keen controversy ensued as to the merits of penny dinners. _the times_ quoted with apparent astonishment and alarm the view of the minister of education that it would not be enough to provide meals for those who could pay for them, and that whatever might be the vices of the parents the children ought not to suffer.[ ] the charity organisation society held more than one conference on the subject and emphatically contended that the only means of avoiding "pauperisation" was to insist on payment for the meals. indeed some members felt so strongly that penny dinners were bound to be converted into halfpenny or free dinners, that they were reluctant to give the movement any support at all.[ ] the attitude of the society was, as _the times_ said, "one of watchful criticism."[ ] yet there were some, at any rate, who recognised that the obligation on the part of the parent to send his children to school involved a very real pecuniary sacrifice which might often more than counterbalance any advantage to be obtained from free meals. "we must not teach poor children or poor parents to lean upon charity," says the school board chronicle in . "but, on the other hand, it ought never to be forgotten that this new law of compulsory attendance at school, in the making whereof the poorest classes of the people had no hand whatever, exacts greater sacrifices from that class than from any other. we hear a good deal sometimes ... of the grumbling of the ratepayers ... as to the burden of the school rate.... but do these grumblers ever reflect that the very poor of whom we are speaking never asked to have education provided for their children, never wanted it, have practically nothing to gain by it and much to lose, and that this law of compulsory education is forced on them, not for their good or for their pleasure, but for the safety and progress of society and for the sake of economy in the administration of the laws in the matter of poor relief and crime."[ ] amidst all the discussion on the needs and morals of the poor from the standpoint of the superior person, it is refreshing to find so honest and sympathetic a criticism. footnote : "it is now admitted that children cannot be expected to learn their lessons unless they are properly fed." (_the times_, leading article, december , .) footnote : _ibid._ footnote : _charity organisation review_, january, , p. . as we shall see (post, p. ), their fears in this respect were realised. footnote : _the times_, leading article, january , . footnote : _the school board chronicle_, december , , p. . the outcome of this lengthy public discussion was a great increase in voluntary feeding agencies all over the country about the year .[ ] at the conference of board school managers and teachers in that year, mr. mundella stated that, since he referred in the house of commons to the rousdon experiment, provision for school meals was being made in rural districts to an extent which he could hardly believe.[ ] in london the council for promoting self-supporting penny dinners was established and the movement spread rapidly. in august, , there were only two centres where penny dinners on a self-supporting basis were provided. by december such dinners had been started in thirteen other districts.[ ] footnote : such voluntary agencies were established, for instance, at hastings (about ), at birmingham and gateshead (in ), at carlisle (in ). footnote : _school board chronicle_, december , , pp. - . footnote : _ibid._, p. . meanwhile the promoters of free meals continued their work unabashed. the board school children's free dinner fund declared in , "our work does not cross the lines of the penny dinner movement. it was started before that movement and has been in some cases carried on side by side with it, its object being to feed those children whose parents have neither pennies nor half-pennies to pay for their dinners. free dinners are restricted to the children of widows, and to those whose parents are ill or out of work."[ ] the _referee_ fund now supplied schools over a large part of south london and had always given free meals. in most provincial towns, whether the dinners were nominally self-supporting or not, necessitous children were seldom refused food on account of inability to pay. private philanthropists saw the suffering and tried to alleviate it, not enquiring too closely into the consequences. footnote : _the times_, december , . it was generally taken for granted that the meals, whether free or self-supporting, should be provided by voluntary agencies. the local education authorities sometimes granted the use of rooms and plant,[ ] but seldom took any further action. it is remarkable that the guardians, whose duty it was to relieve the destitution existing, seem to have paid but the scantiest attention to it. even where they attempted to deal with it by granting relief to the family, this relief was generally inadequate and the children were consequently underfed, with the result that they were given meals by the voluntary feeding agencies.[ ] there seems indeed to have been no co-operation whatever between the various voluntary agencies established all over the country and the boards of guardians.[ ] by an act of parliament passed in it was enacted that where any parent wilfully neglected to provide adequate food for his child the board of guardians should institute proceedings.[ ] this act seems to have remained almost a dead letter. in giving evidence before the house of lords select committee on poor law relief in , mr. benjamin waugh, director of the national society for the prevention of cruelty to children, in speaking of the act, stated, "first, that the guardians do not act upon it to any very great extent; secondly, that the police know that it is not their business, and they do not act upon it; and, thirdly, the public have an impression that they are excluded from taking cognisance of starvation cases because the term used is 'the guardians shall' do it." "there are cases in which they are habitually doing it, chiefly where ladies are upon the board, but in a very small number of cases indeed throughout the country."[ ] the part taken by the state in the matter of relieving the wants of underfed children was thus as yet a small one.[ ] footnote : thus at liverpool, about , the council of education resolved to offer grants to school managers for the supply of needful appliances for penny dinners, provided that "the payment of a penny should absolutely cover the cost of each dinner, so as not only to avoid pauperising the recipient, but also to render the scheme entirely self-supporting." (report of special sub-committee on meals for school children, in minutes of london school board, july , , p. .) at birmingham the school board allowed a voluntary committee to erect kitchens on the school premises. (london school board, report of general purposes committee on underfed children attending school, , p. .) at gateshead, in , the school board arranged for a supply of dinners in the schools in the poorest parts of the town. (report of select committee on the education (provision of meals) bills (england and scotland), , q. .) in london, the school board in resolved "that the board grant facilities to local managers and to other responsible persons for the provision on the school premises of penny dinners on self-supporting principles for elementary school children, where it can be done without interference with school work or injury to the school buildings." (report of special committee on meals for school children, in minutes of london school board, july , , p. .) at manchester, as early as , the school board initiated a scheme for providing meals. the chairman, mr. herbert birley, had been in the habit of supplying breakfasts to poor children in some of the schools, and on these schools being transferred to the school board, he induced it to continue the work. (report of inter-departmental committee on medical inspection and feeding, , vol. ii., qs. a, , evidence of mr. c. h. wyatt.) footnote : in manchester there had been a serious attempt to meet the difficulty. there the board of guardians maintained a "day feeding school" and gave three meals a day to its out-door relief children for some years between and . (report of royal commission on the poor laws, , vo edition, vol. iii., p. n.) footnote : see for instance the evidence given before the london school board in . (see post, p. .) footnote : and vict. c. , sec. . footnote : house of lords select committee on poor law relief, , qs. , . footnote : by an act of , the local education authority might establish day industrial schools at which one or more meals were provided, towards the cost of which the parents should contribute. ( and vict., c. , sec. .) very few such schools were established. (see post, p. .) (b)--the organisation of the voluntary agencies. the history of the movement for the next ten years or so is mainly concerned with organisation. in london, with the number of feeding centres growing so rapidly, with many different agencies whose principles and methods conflicted, some plan of organisation and co-operation was the crying need. in may, , at the instigation of sir henry peek, a committee, composed of representatives of the various voluntary societies,[ ] was formed to consider in what ways co-operation was feasible. this committee recommended that (i) self-supporting dinner centres should be opened in as many districts as possible in london, and the various societies for providing dinners for children should be invited to make use of them; (ii) free dinners to children attending public elementary schools should only be given on the recommendation of the head teacher; (iii) when free dinners were given a register should be kept of the circumstances of the family.[ ] footnote : the committee represented the self-supporting penny dinner council, the board school children's free dinner fund, the south london schools dinner fund, free breakfasts and dinners for the poor board school and other children of southwark (the _referee_ fund) and the poor children's aid association. footnote : _the times_, november , . this attempt cannot have been very effective, for when, at last, the london school board took the matter in hand, feeding arrangements were as chaotic as ever. in a special committee was appointed to enquire into the whole question and report to the board. the report shows that the supply of food was extraordinarily badly distributed. "in some districts there is an excess of charitable effort leading to a wasteful and demoralising distribution of dinners to children who are not in want, while in other places children are starving."[ ] in most cases the provision was insufficient to feed all the indigent children every day, many getting a meal only once or twice a week.[ ] only a rough estimate of the number of necessitous children could be obtained, but it was calculated that , or · per cent. of the children attending schools of the board were habitually in want of food, and of these less than half were provided for.[ ] the committee recommended that a central organisation should be formed "to work with the existing associations with a view to a more economical and efficient system for the provision of cheap or free meals."[ ] as a result the london schools dinner association was founded. most of the large societies were merged into this body, one or two retaining their separate organisation, but agreeing to work in harmony with it.[ ] footnote : report of special sub-committee on meals for school children, in minutes of london school board, july , , p. . footnote : _ibid._ footnote : _ibid._, p. . footnote : _ibid._, p. . footnote : seven members of the school board were placed on the executive committee as a kind of informal representation, but in this number had dwindled to three. (london school board, report of general purposes committee on underfed children, , pp. v.-vi.) there was "no direct touch" between the two bodies, "except the accidental circumstance that members of the board might be on the committee" of the association. (_ibid._, p. , evidence of mr. t. a. spalding.) another committee appointed by the school board in december, , was just as emphatic as to the general inefficiency and want of uniformity. the work of giving charitable meals, they found, was still in the experimental stage, as was shown by the "extremely divergent views ... both as to the nature and extent of the distress ... and as to the efficiency of the methods employed in meeting it."[ ] they were struck by "the apparent want of co-ordination between the various agencies which were dealing with distress in london" (_i.e._, the poor law, the labour bureaux established by the london vestries, etc.). "the local committees in connection with the schools seem to have had no knowledge whatsoever of what was being done by these other bodies, except in the few cases where more or less permanent out-door relief was being given, and where the children presented attendance cards to be filled up by their teachers."[ ] "our work," remarked one witness, "is carried on without paying heed to what may be done under the poor law authorities."[ ] relief was "often given without any connection with the managers or teachers of public elementary schools." in one instance tickets for meals "were distributed without enquiry at the door of a music hall ... the proprietor of which had been one of the chief subscribers to the fund."[ ] in another case "tickets issued by an evening paper fund were sold over and over again by the people to whom they were given; sold in the streets and in the public-houses."[ ] even when the arrangements were nominally controlled by the education authorities the methods of selection were haphazard and the provision often totally inadequate. a number of witnesses gave evidence of this. "it was found that one child of a family was given fourteen tickets during the season, whilst another child of the same family had only one or two."[ ] "it might have been well to have taken one or two children in hand for the purpose of observations," remarked the head-master of a stepney school, "but i remember one of my instructions was that the same child was not to be given a meal too often."[ ] in one school the number of children needing a dinner on any day was ascertained by a show of hands. each child was then called out before the teacher and asked about its parents' circumstances.[ ] in another case the teachers merely asked the children in the morning which of them would not get any dinner at home that day.[ ] of course there were seldom enough tickets to go round. for the parents this haphazard method was most bewildering. "no arrangement is made with the parents as to whether or not a child will have a meal on any day .... in many cases the parents hardly know whether the children are having a meal at school or not, as they constantly come home for something more."[ ] footnote : london school board, report of special committee on underfed children, , p. vii. footnote : _ibid._ footnote : _ibid._, p. , evidence of mr. w. h. libby. "i am of opinion," said this witness, "that the children of parents who are in receipt of out-door relief are more in need of our help than others." (_ibid._) "in my experience," said mrs. burgwin, "the greatest distress was amongst the children of parents who were in receipt of out-door relief, and free meals should certainly be given to them, for the amount allowed as out-door relief is so small that a family is left practically on the verge of starvation." (_ibid._, p. .) footnote : _ibid._, p. ii. footnote : _ibid._, p. . footnote : _ibid._, p. (evidence of mrs. marion leon, manager of vere street school, clare market). footnote : _ibid._, pp. - (evidence of mr. j. morgan). footnote : _ibid._, p. (evidence of mr. c. h. heller, headmaster of sayer street school, walworth). footnote : _ibid._, p. (evidence of mrs. marion leon). footnote : _ibid._, p. (evidence of miss l. p. fowler). in the self-supporting meal was still regarded as the normal type although the number of free meals was on the increase. in the committee recognised that self-supporting penny dinners were a failure. only per cent. of the meals were paid for by the children.[ ] this had one rather curious effect. the meals were much more uniform in type than in , and this uniformity was distasteful if not harmful to the children. the chief reason was perhaps that the need to attract the children was not so great as when it was hoped to establish the meals on a self-supporting basis. another reason was that the national food supply association, which did most of the catering, desired to encourage the use of vegetable soup as well as to relieve distress.[ ] footnote : _ibid._, p. iii. even when the dinners were paid for, the payment rarely covered the cost. the same want of success was reported in the provinces. at birmingham the experiment of giving penny dinners failed completely, and the meals had to be given free. (report of inter-departmental committee on physical deterioration, , qs. , , evidence of dr. airy.) "the experience of all workers in this movement testifies," says canon moore ede, "that the poorest of all--those who are least well nourished--are scarcely touched by the penny dinners." ("cheap meals for poor school children," by rev. w. moore ede, in _report of conference on education under healthy conditions at manchester_, , p. .) footnote : london school board, report of special committee on underfed children, , pp. iv., v. "under the penny dinner system, we had to provide something to attract the children, as they would not come to the same meal every day and pay a penny for it; puddings and meat pies were provided and varied from day to day. now they get soup." (_ibid._, appendix i., p. , evidence of rev. r. leach.) "the soup ... supplied by the national food association varies so very little from day to day that it is natural for the children to grow tired of it," (_ibid._, p. , evidence of mr. c. h. heller.) apart from the question of more efficient organisation, the recommendations of this committee were somewhat indefinite. they urged that, as a guide for future action, continuous records should be kept of all children fed.[ ] on the adequacy of the existing voluntary organisations to cope with the distress the majority declined to commit themselves. the minority asserted emphatically that these charitable funds were amply sufficient. the committee questioned how far the supply of food was the right way of dealing with distress. "actual starvation," they said, "was undoubtedly at one time the chief evil to be feared by the poor. but now that rent in london is so high and food so cheap conditions have changed."[ ] other forms of help, they felt, were possibly more needed, _e.g._, medical advice and clothing. indeed, during the last sixty years there had been such an improvement in the economic conditions of the working classes as had not been known at any other period of history. comparisons between conditions obtaining at the beginning and at the end of the nineteenth century are to some extent vitiated by the fact that the former was a period of extraordinary social misery. nevertheless, the improvement is striking. sir robert giffen, speaking on "the progress of the working classes in the last half century," in november, , showed that, while the wages of working men "have advanced, most articles he consumes have rather diminished in price, the change in wheat being especially remarkable, and significant of a complete revolution in the conditions of the masses. the increased price in the case of one or two articles--particularly meat and house rent--is insufficient to neutralise the general advantages which the workman has gained."[ ] by further statistics he showed "a decline in the rate of mortality, an increase of the consumption of articles in general use, an improvement in general education, a diminution of crime and pauperism, a vast increase in the number of depositors in savings banks, and other evidences of general well-being."[ ] up to the cost of living steadily declined, and in that year real wages were higher than they had ever been before. this did not mean, as some urged, that society might slacken any of its efforts to improve the condition of the poorer classes. even from the most optimistic standpoint the improvement was far too small, and there was still a residuum whose deplorable condition demanded "something like a revolution for the better."[ ] but now that the more prosperous working men were consciously striving to improve their own position, the community, or the philanthropists among it, were more able to assist the submerged remainder. the history of school feeding illustrates how "one of the least noticed but most certain facts of social life is the fact that society very seldom awakes to the existence of an evil while that evil is at its worst, but some time afterwards, when the evil is already in process of healing itself.... society can seldom be induced to bother itself about any suffering, the removal of which requires really revolutionary treatment. it only becomes sensitive, sympathetic and eager for reform when reform is possible without too great an upheaval of its settled way of life."[ ] a higher standard of living was now required and the real question was whether feeding the school child was the right way to attain to it, or only a following of the line of least resistance. if it was a healthy movement, then clearly it was time to set about feeding in a more thorough fashion. footnote : _ibid._, pp. v., viii. footnote : _ibid._, p. vi. footnote : _economic enquiries and studies_, by sir robert giffen, , vol. i., pp. - . footnote : _ibid._, p. . footnote : _ibid._, p. . footnote : _a philosophy of social progress_, by e. j. urwick, , pp. , . in a third attempt was made by the london school board to deal with the question. it was referred to the general purposes committee to enquire into the number of underfed children and to consider "how far the present voluntary provision for school meals is, or is not, effectual."[ ] the evidence given before the committee shows the prevalence of a state of affairs very similar to that of the earlier years. there is the same complaint about "the want of any general plan, the utter lack of uniformity ... the absence (except in a few places) of any means of enquiring into doubtful cases, and above all the non-existence of any sort of machinery for securing that where want exists it shall be dealt with."[ ] but the report and recommendations of the majority of the special committee show an astonishing advance on the views of the two former committees. the necessity for feeding was not now denied, they thought, "even by those ... who are keenly anxious to prevent the undermining of prudence or self-help by ill-advised or unregulated generosity."[ ] they were most emphatic as to the good effects on the children when the meals were nicely served in the schools under proper supervision, and they considered "that food provision and training at meals should in particular form part of the work of all centres for physically and mentally defective children, and that the government grant should be calculated accordingly."[ ] one or two of the members of the committee and some of the witnesses urged that meals should be continued in the summer.[ ] as to the effect on the parents, "it appears to the sub-committee ... that its concern is with the well-being of the children, and even if it were the case that it was, in some way, better for the moral character of the parents to let the children starve, the sub-committee would not be prepared to advise that line of policy. the first duty of the community to the child ... is to see that it has a proper chance as regards its equipment for life."[ ] "if they come to school underfed ... it would seem to be the duty of those who have a care of the children to deal with it, and to see that the underfeeding ceases. it is, of course, obvious, in any case, that this, like all other social evils, may be gradually eliminated by the general improvement, moral and material, of the community. but apart from the fact that that is a slow process and that many generations of actual school children will come and go in the meantime, it is obvious that the prevention of underfeeding in school children (with its results of under-education and increasing malnutrition) is itself one of the potent means of forwarding the general improvement."[ ] at the same time the idea that school dinners pauperise the parents or destroy the sense of parental responsibility "appears to the sub-committee to be a mere theoretic fancy entirely unsupported by practical experience."[ ] parents who could feed their children and would not should "simply be summoned for 'cruelty.'"[ ] footnote : london school board, report of general purposes committee on underfed children, , p. ii., par. . footnote : _ibid._, p. vi., par. . footnote : _ibid._, p. iii., pars. , . footnote : _ibid._, p. v., par. . "school dinners well managed may be made to have an admirable educative effect.... this makes me think that a proper part of the business of the school should be a common mid-day meal." (evidence of mrs. despard, _ibid._, p. .) mrs. burgwin was of the same opinion. (_ibid._, p. .) footnote : see, for instance, the suggestions made by mr. whiteley (_ibid._, p. ix.), and the evidence of mrs. burgwin and mr. j. morant (_ibid._, pp. , ). footnote : _ibid._, p. iv., par. . footnote : _ibid._, p. iv., par. . footnote : _ibid._, p. iv., par. . footnote : _ibid._, p. v., par. . the majority of the committee declared themselves convinced "by the consideration of the subject, and by the special information now obtained from paris and from other foreign countries,[ ] that the whole question of the feeding and health of children compulsorily attending school requires to be dealt with as a matter of public concern."[ ] they therefore recommended that a central committee should be formed, which should be authorised to call for reports and general assistance from the board's staff, facilities being granted for the use of rooms at the schools for meals, and they made the following important statement of principle:--"it should be deemed to be part of the duty of any authority by law responsible for the compulsory attendance of children at school to ascertain what children, if any, come to school in a state unfit to get normal profit by the school work--whether by reason of underfeeding, physical disability or otherwise--and there should be the necessary inspection for that purpose; that where it is ascertained that children are sent to school 'underfed' ... it should be part of the duty of the authority to see that they are provided, under proper conditions, with the necessary food;" that "the authority should co-operate in any existing or future voluntary efforts to that end," and that, "in so far as such voluntary efforts fail to cover the ground, the authority should have the power and the duty to supplement them." where dinners were provided, it was desirable that they should be open to all children, and that the parents should pay for them, unless they were unable by misfortune to find the money, and that no distinction should be made between the paying and the non-paying children. if the underfed condition of the child was due to the culpable neglect of the parent, the board should prosecute the parent, and, if the offence was persisted in, should have power to deal with the child under the industrial schools acts.[ ] footnote : for some account of the "cantines scolaires" of paris, and the provision of meals in other foreign towns, see appendix iii. footnote : london school board, report of general purposes committee on underfed children, , p. vii., par. . footnote : _ibid._, p. i. the board rejected these proposals and acted on the more cautious recommendations of the minority, who were convinced that there was no necessity for any public authority to undertake the work, the voluntary associations being entirely capable of dealing effectively with the need, if they were properly organised. they considered, therefore, that the duties of the school board should be confined to co-operation in the organisation of these associations.[ ] this decision was hailed with relief by _the times_, which rejoiced that "the attempt of the 'fabian' school of socialists, assisted by some philanthropic dupes, to capture the london school board has been decisively repelled."[ ] footnote : _ibid._, p. xii. minutes of the london school board, november , , vol. , pp. - . the majority report was rejected by votes to . footnote : _the times_, december , . as a matter of fact the fabian society seems as yet to have paid little attention to the question, and, in so far as these proposals had been due to socialist influence, the agitation had come from the social democratic federation. this body had, since the early 'eighties, made the provision of a free meal for all children attending elementary schools one of the fundamental planks of its platform.[ ] several memorials were sent to the school board,[ ] urging that all children whose parents were unemployed should be fed and clothed out of the rates, but this proposal was too sweeping to meet with a favourable reception. footnote : _justice_, march , september and , december , . footnote : see, for instance, the memorials presented in , , and . (minutes of the london school board, november , ; february , ; december , .) the recommendations, which were finally adopted in march, , provided for the establishment of a permanent committee, to be known as the "joint committee on underfed children." this was composed partly of members of the school board, partly of representatives of various other bodies. sub-committees, consisting of managers, teachers, school board visitors and one or more co-opted outsiders, were to be appointed in each board school, or group of schools, where the necessity for providing meals for underfed children was felt, and these sub-committees were to make all necessary arrangements for the provision of meals.[ ] the functions of the joint committee were limited. it was to receive reports from the sub-committees, to draw their attention to any defect which might appear in the selection of the children or the arrangements made for providing relief, to give them assistance by placing them in communication with a source of supply so as to enable them to obtain the necessary funds, to communicate with the chief collecting agencies when there was reason to fear that the funds might not be sufficient, and "generally to keep the public informed of what is being done to provide relief for underfed children, and to stimulate public interest in the work."[ ] how far this effort to meet the need was successful we shall relate in a subsequent chapter.[ ] footnote : similar committees had been in existence in several schools for some years. footnote : minutes of the london school board, march , , vol. , pp. - , . footnote : see chapter iii. (c)--the demand for state provision. soon after the beginning of the new century the agitation for some form of state feeding grew urgent and widespread. there was no attempt to deal with the matter in the education act of , but from about this date onwards the question constantly recurred in parliamentary debates, a sure indication that the question was interesting others besides the expert and the philanthropist. and to the old motives of sentiment and educational need was added a new motive, a motive specially characteristic of the present century and one which in some other directions threatens to become almost an obsession. this was the desire for "race regeneration," the conviction of the supreme importance of securing a physically efficient people. formerly the tendency had been to sacrifice the needs of the child to the supposed moral welfare of the family, now the child was regarded primarily as the raw material for a nation of healthy citizens. the south african war had been partly instrumental in producing this extreme anxiety about physical unfitness, and two public enquiries--the royal commission on physical training in scotland, and the inter-departmental committee on physical deterioration--furnished abundant proof of the harm which was being done in this direction by the mal-nutrition of school children. the report of the royal commission on physical training showed indisputably the necessity for better feeding. on this point a large number of important witnesses were unanimous.[ ] the commissioners were, however, cautious in their recommendations. though fully convinced of the necessity for feeding, they were doubtful as to how far the responsibility for dealing with the need should be placed upon the education authorities. "it is matter for grave consideration," they declared, "whether the valuable asset to the nation in the improved moral and physical state of a large number of future citizens counterbalances the evils of impaired parental responsibility, or whether voluntary agencies may be trusted to do this work with more discrimination and consequently less danger than a statutory system."[ ] on the other hand, they urged, "it must be remembered that, with every desire to act up to their parental responsibility, and while quite ready to contribute in proportion to their power, there are often impediments in the way of the home provision of suitable food by the parents."[ ] they considered, therefore, that "accommodation and means for enabling children to be properly fed should ... be provided either in each school or in a centre; but, except a limited sum to provide the necessary equipment, no part of the cost should be allowed to fall on the rates."[ ] the meal should be educational in character. "an obligation for the proper supervision of the feeding of those who come for instruction should be regarded as one of the duties of school authorities."[ ] footnote : report of royal commission on physical training (scotland), . vol. i., p. , par. . "if we are going to develop the physical training of children we must be on our guard against overworking them," said one witness, "and, of course, underfed children would be positively injured by even light exercises." (_ibid._, vol. ii., q. , evidence of mr. j. e. legge, inspector of reformatory and industrial schools.) "children can exist, when doing no mental or physical work, on a bare subsistence diet," said dr. clement dukes, "but ... a bare subsistence diet becomes a starvation diet when mental or bodily work is added." (_ibid._, q. .) footnote : _ibid._, vol. i., p. , par. . footnote : _ibid._, p. , par. . footnote : _ibid._, p. , par. . footnote : _ibid._, p. , par. . the findings of the inter-departmental committee on physical deterioration were more definite and striking. to take first the evidence as to the extent of underfeeding, dr. eichholz, after careful investigation, estimated that the rough total of underfed children in london was , or per cent. of the elementary school population. these figures were based on the assumption that all the children being fed at schools and centres would otherwise have gone unfed; but, considering the loose method of enquiry prevalent, this was questionable. the london school board put the number at , , but this seems to have been grossly understating the case.[ ] in manchester, according to the estimate of the education committee and the medical officer of health, not less than per cent. were underfed.[ ] the evidence given was, however, conflicting, and indeed little reliance can be placed on these statistics. footnote : report of inter-departmental committee on physical deterioration, , p. , pars. - ; evidence of dr. eichholz, qs. - . footnote : _ibid._, p. , par. ; evidence of dr. eichholz, q. . with regard to the effect of underfeeding on the physique of the children, the doctors gave striking testimony. dr. robert hutchison was of opinion that, if a child had not sufficient food during the period of growth, that is during the school years, it would be permanently stunted.[ ] "apart from infectious diseases," said dr. collie of the london school board, "malnutrition is accountable for nine-tenths of child sickness."[ ] dr. eichholz pointed out that at leeds dr. hall had found that fifty per cent. of the children in a poor school suffered from rickets, the true cause of which was poor and unsuitable food, whilst in a well-to-do school the proportion was only eight per cent.[ ] in the opinion of this witness, an opinion "shared by medical men, members of education committees, managers, teachers and others conversant with the condition of school children ... food is at the base of all the evils of child degeneracy."[ ] "the sufficient feeding of children," declared dr. niven, medical officer of health for manchester, "is by far the most important thing to attend to and ... specially important in connection with the army.... when trade is good," he argued, "you will have to rely for the army upon this very poor class, and in order to get good soldiers you must rear good children, you must see that children are adequately fed."[ ] footnote : _ibid._, q. . "the critical age," he considered, was "from to ." looking at the enormous improvement in children in the navy and in industrial schools, where they were properly fed, he did not "share the pessimistic view that the mischief is hopelessly done by the time a child reaches school age." he felt certain that "the provision of meals would do a great deal to improve the health and growth and development of the children of the poorer classes." (_ibid._, qs. , - , , .) footnote : _ibid._, q. . footnote : _ibid._, q. . footnote : _ibid._, q. . footnote : _ibid._, q. . see also evidence of general sir t. maurice, q. . such were the arguments on the negative side--on the positive side there was ample proof of the good effects of a regular nutritious diet. dr. eichholz referred to dr. hall's experiment in feeding poor children at leeds. "taking sixty poor seven-year-old children, at the beginning of the period they totalled lbs., below normal weight.... they gained in three months forty lbs. in addition to the normal increase in weight" for that time, "and they looked less anæmic and more cheerful."[ ] too much importance must not be attached to these figures since the data on which they are based are not sufficiently known to gauge their value, but that the improvement was very considerable cannot be doubted. moreover, in the special schools for mentally defective children where meals were regularly provided, the results were astonishing. dr. collie told how, "in a large number of instances after the careful individual attention and midday dinner of the special schools," the children "returned after from six to eighteen months to the elementary schools with a new lease of mental vigour. these children are functionally mentally defective.... their brains are starved, and naturally fail to react to the ordinary methods of elementary teaching."[ ] "bad nutrition and normal brain development," he added, "are incompatible."[ ] footnote : _ibid._, evidence of dr. eichholz, q. . footnote : _ibid._, evidence of dr. collie, q. . footnote : _ibid._, q. . there was indeed, as the committee pointed out, "a general consensus of opinion that the time had come when the state should realise the necessity of ensuring adequate nourishment to children in attendance at school ... it was, further, the subject of general agreement that, as a rule, no purely voluntary association could successfully cope with the full extent of the evil."[ ] in a large number of cases such voluntary organisations would be sufficient for the purpose, "with the support and oversight of the local authority," and, as long as this was so, the committee would "strongly deprecate recourse being had to direct municipal assistance."[ ] but in cases where "the extent or the concentration of poverty might be too great for the resources of local charity ... it might be expedient to permit the application of municipal aid on a larger scale."[ ] as a corollary to the exercise of such powers on the part of the local authority, the law would have to be altered to make it more possible to prosecute neglectful parents.[ ] the committee were also in favour of establishing special schools of the day industrial school type in which feeding would form an essential feature. to these definitely "retarded" children might be sent.[ ] they recommended that the funds for these experiments should be found through the machinery of the poor law,[ ] for they were anxious to guard the community from the consequences of "the somewhat dangerous doctrine that free meals are the necessary concomitant of free education."[ ] footnote : _ibid._, p. , par. . footnote : _ibid._, p. , par. . footnote : _ibid._, par. . footnote : _ibid._ footnote : _ibid._, par. . footnote : _ibid._, par. . footnote : _ibid._, par. . following on these reports came a strenuous agitation in parliament and in the country. the national labour conference on the state maintenance of children, held at the guildhall in january, , declared unanimously in favour of state maintenance "as a necessary corollary of universal compulsory education, and as a means of partially arresting that physical deterioration of the industrial population of this country, which is now generally recognised as a grave national danger. as a step towards such state maintenance," the conference called upon the government to introduce without further delay legislation enabling local authorities to provide meals for school children, the cost to be borne by the national exchequer.[ ] the national union of teachers, at a largely attended conference at llandudno in the same year, were agreed as to the urgent need for legislation.[ ] footnote : report of the national labour conference on the state maintenance of children, at the guildhall, january , , p. . footnote : report of select committee on education (provision of meals) bills (england and scotland), , qs. , , . by a considerable majority the conference defeated an amendment that the board of guardians should be substituted for the local education authority as the authority for making the provision, but owing to a technical difficulty the main resolution was not put. see also the resolution passed at a conference of the school attendance officers' association, quoted by mr. slack in the house of commons (_hansard_, april , , th series, vol. , p. ). in parliament the agitation was led by mr. claude hay, sir john gorst and dr. macnamara. it was urged that a large part of the money spent on education was wasted. to teach children who were physically quite unfit to receive instruction, was, as sir john gorst pointed out, "the height of absurdity."[ ] thirty years' compulsory education had, mr. claude hay declared, resulted in disappointment. "the gain in intelligence was, to say the least of it, equivocal, while the physical deterioration of the people was obvious. the reason was largely that we had taken education as an isolated factor, whereas it was part of an absolutely indivisible unit.... we had assumed that ... the intellect could act independently of all other parts of the total human being. we had ignored the body, the soul and the will, and the result had been a fiasco."[ ] compulsory education involved free meals, but only for the "necessitous child."[ ] it was declared that many parents would gladly pay if they were thereby assured that their children were adequately and properly fed.[ ] footnote : _hansard_, july , , vol. , p. . see also _ibid._, february , , vol. , p. . footnote : _ibid._, april , , vol. , pp. - . footnote : _ibid._, p. . footnote : _ibid._, p. ; sir john gorst, _ibid._, july , , vol. , p. . for some time the government remained obdurate, and declined to take any action. at last, however, it became clear that something must be done. the findings of the royal commission on physical training and the inter-departmental committee on physical deterioration had created too profound an impression to be ignored. yet even now the government were not prepared for legislation. they were of opinion that there still existed a wide divergence of views as to the extent of underfeeding and the remedies to be applied. accordingly, in march, , another departmental committee was appointed to collect further information.[ ] footnote : _hansard_, march , , vol. , p. . the reference of this committee made it clear that the government had no intention of allowing the rates to be utilised for the supply of food. in the matter of feeding, the committee were merely to enquire into the relief given by the various voluntary agencies, and report "whether relief of this character could be better organised, without any charge upon public funds."[ ] the report was, therefore, mainly concerned with questions of administration. a careful and elaborate account was given of the existing agencies all over england, the methods employed, the sums expended, and the kind of relief given. evidence was received from representatives of all the more important societies in london and the provinces. it was found that outside london feeding agencies existed in out of the county boroughs, in out of the boroughs and in out of the large urban districts.[ ] in addition to these there were numerous efforts of a spasmodic character, school meals being often started hastily during some special emergency. the committee estimated that the total amount spent on the provision of meals in england and wales was approximately £ , , of which £ , was spent in london.[ ] but these figures were "very far from representing the full amount of money spent out of charitable sources."[ ] no account was taken of the innumerable philanthropic agencies existing all over the country, such as soup kitchens, district visiting societies and the like, who were incidentally spending large sums on the provision of food for school children. moreover, the impracticability of obtaining returns from all the feeding agencies and the varying methods in which their accounts were made up, made any exact computation impossible. footnote : report of the inter-departmental committee on medical inspection and feeding, , vol. i., p. vii. footnote : _ibid._, pp. , , pars. , , . the total number of these agencies was . of these were permanent (_i.e._, had been in existence over a year), were new, and were intermittent in their operations. footnote : _ibid._, pp. - , pars. - . footnote : _ibid._, p. , par. . in the evidence given before the committee, we note the same evils prevailing as had been discovered in former years. there is the same diversity in the method of selection and the same inadequate provision. we find still the practice of giving a child a meal two or three days a week only.[ ] in the great majority of cases the feeding was confined to the winter months, though many witnesses were of opinion that meals should be obtainable in the summer also.[ ] footnote : "at present," declared one witness, "the funds are wasted through their being distributed over too large a number of children.... at one school ... the headmaster asked the boys whether they would like to have their ticket this week or next week." (_ibid._, vol. ii., q. , evidence of mr. t. e. harvey.) at norwich, a child received a meal only once a week. "there was no system of feeding the children regularly. they had to take it in turns." (_ibid._, q. , evidence of mrs. pillow.) at hull it was "a rough rule given to the teacher" that a child should be fed every other day. (_ibid._, qs. , , evidence of mr. g. f. grant.) see also evidence given by mrs. adler (qs. - ), mrs. burgwin (q. ), and the rev. j. c. mantle (q. ). it was even urged by mr. hookham, of birmingham, that the insufficiency of the provision was a positive advantage. the fact "that there are more children wanting meals than can get them ... is the main safeguard against imposition." without this safeguard, he declares, "you will lose the evidence which the children give against one another when imposition takes place, which i think is the most valuable of all evidence" (_ibid._, q. .) footnote : _ibid._, vol. i., pp. - , pars. - . the meals given at bradford were continued all through the year, and so were the breakfasts given by mr. hookham at birmingham (_ibid._). the committee were convinced that, in all county boroughs and large towns, no voluntary agency which extended beyond the limits of one or two schools could be worked properly, except in intimate connection with, if not directly organised by, the local education authority. to avoid overlapping and abuse it was essential that managers and school teachers should be required to supply full information, and only the local authority had power to insist on this being done.[ ] the committee deprecated "the proneness for starting school meals hastily upon some special emergency."[ ] it was essential that any organisation for feeding school children should be of a permanent character and provision should be made for enabling meals to be given where necessary throughout the year.[ ] it was desirable that meals should be obtainable on every school day, and it should be the object of the feeding agency to feed the most destitute children regularly rather than a larger number irregularly.[ ] the committee recognised the valuable help which had been given by the teachers. many of the systems for feeding the children had in fact originated entirely with them, whilst in many more the whole brunt of the work had fallen upon them. but this work involved too great a strain upon the teachers and they should not be required to supervise the meals unless their attendance was indispensable.[ ] nor in the matter of the selection of the children should the teachers be asked to do more than draw up the preliminary list. they had no time for visiting the homes nor were they always the most competent persons for making enquiries. the final selection of the children should be in the hands of a relief committee, which should be formed for each school or group of schools.[ ] the increasing attention paid to the medical side of the question is shown by the recommendation that, wherever possible, the advice and guidance of the school doctor should be obtained.[ ] the committee refer with approval to the proposal that a system of school restaurants should be established, at which meals could be supplied at cost price. "not much attempt," they say, "has yet been made through the medium of school meals towards raising the standard of physical development among the children and promoting a taste for wholesome and nourishing food."[ ] in view of the very divergent opinions expressed by witnesses, the committee were unable to come to a clear conclusion whether or not such restaurants would succeed, but they would "welcome experiments made in this direction."[ ] the restaurants, they thought, would probably have to be kept separate from any system of free dinners, for attempts to combine free and cheap meals had always ended in failure. in country districts, where the children often lived at a great distance from the school, the need for school restaurants was distinctly felt. the lunches brought by the children were generally of a most unsatisfactory nature. the committee were of opinion that the managers should arrange for the provision of a hot dinner, or at any rate soup or cocoa, for those children who were unable to go home at midday. a charge should be made which should at least cover the cost of the food.[ ] footnote : _ibid._, p. , par. . footnote : _ibid._, p. , par. . footnote : _ibid._, pp. , , par. , secs. , . footnote : _ibid._, p. , pars. , . footnote : _ibid._, pp. , , pars. , . footnote : _ibid._, pp. , , pars. , (secs. , ). footnote : _ibid._, p. , par. . so far as the committee could discover, "the question of malnutrition and underfeeding has attracted very little attention in connection with medical inspection. there appears to be no area where the medical officer works in close touch with the organisations for the feeding of children." (_ibid._, p. , par. .) footnote : _ibid._, p. , par. . footnote : _ibid._, p. , par. . footnote : _ibid._, p. , par. . this was already being done in some rural schools. at siddington, for instance, a hot dinner had been supplied for the last two years, the parents' payments more than covering the cost of the food. (_ibid._, par. .) we have already alluded to the experiment at rousdon, where dinners were provided throughout the year in a specially provided dining-room, as a part of the school organisation. here the cost of the food was not quite covered by the parents' payments. (_ibid._, par. .) the report of the committee was published late in . meanwhile the parliamentary agitation had continued. two bills were introduced in march by mr. claude hay and mr. arthur henderson.[ ] these were withdrawn to make way for a resolution moved by mr. (afterwards sir bamford) slack--"that in the opinion of this house, the local education authorities should be empowered (as unanimously recommended by the inter-departmental committee on physical deterioration, ) to make provision, under such regulations and conditions as they may decide, for ensuring that all the children at any public elementary school in their area shall receive proper nourishment before being subjected to mental or physical instruction, and for recovering the cost, where expedient, from the parents or guardians."[ ] this resolution marks an important stage in the movement, for it received support from all sides of the house, and was passed by a considerable majority.[ ] one feature of the debate was new. it was no longer said that the matter should be left solely to private charity. the main point at issue now was whether the money required should come from the education rate or the poor rate.[ ] footnote : _hansard_, march and , , vol. , pp. - , . footnote : _ibid._, april , , vol. , p. . footnote : _ibid._, march , , vol. , p. . footnote : _ibid._, april , , vol. , p. . the balance of opinion was at this date in favour of the latter. sir john gorst thought that where the parents could not pay for the meals "reference should be made to the poor law authority, and the natural consequences of the receipt of public relief would follow." (_ibid._, july , , vol. , p. .) in the bill introduced by mr. claude hay in march, , provision was made for payment of the cost of meals by the guardians, but any parent receiving such relief from the guardians might apply to a court of summary jurisdiction and the court, "if satisfied that the parent's ... inability to pay is temporary and arises from no fault of his own," might make an order that he should not be disfranchised. (elementary education (feeding of children) bill, , clause .) (d)--provision by the guardians. following on this resolution came an attempt to deal with the question through the machinery of the poor law. by the relief (school children) order,[ ] issued in april, , the guardians were empowered to grant relief to the child of an able-bodied man without requiring him to enter the workhouse or perform the outdoor labour test.[ ] any relief so given was to be on loan if the case was one of habitual neglect, and might be so given in any case at the discretion of the guardians.[ ] except with the special sanction of the local government board proceedings were always to be taken to recover the cost.[ ] the children of widows and of wives not living with their husbands were expressly excluded from the scope of the order.[ ] the reason for this omission was that these children could already be dealt with by the guardians and that, therefore, no further sanction was needed, but this was not clearly explained by the local government board, and was indeed not generally understood.[ ] it was recommended that, where charitable organisations existed, the guardians should make arrangements with them for the supply of food; in other cases an arrangement might be made with a local shopkeeper.[ ] a circular issued by the board of education to the local education authorities, explaining how these authorities could co-operate with the guardians in carrying out the order, classified underfed children under three heads:--( ) those whose parents were permanently impoverished; ( ) those whose parents through illness, loss of employment, or other unavoidable causes were temporarily unable to provide for them; ( ) those whose parents, though capable of making provision, had neglected to do so. it was suggested that the second of these groups of cases should be left to the voluntary agencies, the first and third being dealt with by the guardians.[ ] footnote : for a description of the working of this order see the report of the royal commission on the poor laws, , vo. edition, vol. iii., pp. - . footnote : relief (school children) order, , article v. (in th report of local government board, - , p. ). footnote : _ibid._, article ii., sec. . footnote : _ibid._, article vi. whether the amount was recovered or not the parent became a pauper, and was disfranchised. footnote : _ibid._, article vii. footnote : "the whole order," declared mr. wyatt, the director of elementary education at manchester, "was a most perplexing thing. very early in the year there came down to manchester a poor law inspector who said that the construction of the order was that the children of widows or deserted women should not come under the order. that swept away a great many of those we had been feeding." (report of select committee on education (provision of meals) bills (england and scotland), , q. .) miss margaret frere was of opinion that the order would be a dead letter in that it ruled out the two most difficult classes, one being widows and deserted wives. (report of inter-departmental committee on medical inspection and feeding, , vol. ii., q. .) footnote : circular of local government board accompanying relief (school children) order, in th report of local government board, - , p. . footnote : circular issued by the board of education to the local education authorities re relief (school children) order, april , . in a large number of unions this order was entirely disregarded.[ ] in london the county council, though ready to assist in carrying it out where local authorities desired it, declined to initiate proceedings, for they did not look upon the order as "materially helping the solution of the problem."[ ] where the local education authority and the guardians agreed on a scheme, there was constant friction. this was only to be expected. the opposing views of the two bodies--the one actuated by a desire to ensure that children should not be prevented by lack of food from taking advantage of the education provided for them, the other imbued with the spirit of deterrence--militated against any successful co-operation. when the local education authority sent in lists of underfed children, the guardians cut them down ruthlessly.[ ] there was no serious contention that these children did not need food, but merely that their parents' circumstances were such that they could afford to provide it. undoubtedly under the voluntary feeding system there had been much abuse, many parents obtaining the meals when they were in receipt of good incomes.[ ] but in these cases, with very few exceptions,[ ] no pressure was brought to bear by the guardians on the parents to force them to provide adequate food for their children, and the children consequently remained unfed. in many cases the fathers of the children indignantly refused to allow them to receive the meals when they discovered that disfranchisement was entailed. footnote : the order "has been so far practically a dead letter in this district" [the counties of bedford, hertford, huntingdon, etc.]. ( th report of local government board, - , p. .) such seems to have been the case also in yorkshire and the northern counties, in wales, in essex and in surrey, for we find no mention of the order in the reports of the inspectors for these districts. footnote : minutes of the london county council, july , , p. . the council objected to the introduction of a dual authority in every district, which would cause delay and possibly friction; the absence of any provision for uniformity of rules in the different districts; and the radical error of allowing the cost to fall on the local authorities instead of on government funds, or at least on the rates of london as a whole. the risk of fathers being disfranchised as a result of meals being supplied by the guardians to their children without their knowledge, would militate against the usefulness of the scheme (_ibid._). as a matter of fact very few cases were relieved in london under the order. (_hansard_, july , , vol. , p. .) in two unions, fulham and wandsworth, where the guardians offered to assist, the council allowed lists to be sent from the schools, but the great majority of these children were reported by the relieving officers not to be underfed. (report of joint committee on underfed children for - , p. .) footnote : at bristol out of applications from the local education authority, the guardians felt justified in giving relief in cases only. ( th report of local government board, - , p. .) at chorlton, relief was given in cases out of , applications; at salford in out of , . (_ibid._, p. .) at stoke-on-trent, out of cases reported were relieved, and at ecclesall bierlow cases were reduced after careful investigation to one. (_ibid._, pp. , .) at kettering, on the other hand, practically all the cases referred to the guardians were relieved. (report of royal commission on the poor laws, , appendix, vol. i., q. .) this, however, was exceptional. footnote : at birmingham it was found that many parents "were earning over s. a week, and in one case the parent was in constant employment with an average rate of £ s. d. a week." ( th report of local government board, - , p. .) at bolton, some of the parents were receiving from £ to £ a week. (_ibid._, p. .) footnote : in the bolton union, in cases where the father's income was considered sufficient to provide meals without assistance, "the children were specially watched and reported upon by the cross visitor each fortnight, until the guardians were satisfied that the parents were carrying out their responsibility in this respect.... the relieving officer visits the home at meal time, or in the evening, to see what provision is made for feeding the children." ( th report of local government board, - , p. .) at birmingham the head teachers were of opinion that the children were being better looked after by their parents than formerly owing to the way in which the order was being carried out. (_ibid._, p. .) at bradford, where the most systematic attempt was made to carry out the order, the disputes and difficulties proved endless. "the principles upon which the guardians ... proceeded in selecting the children to be fed were," declared mr. f. w. jowett, "such as made not for the feeding of the children so much as for the saving of expense."[ ] the quality of the food and the conditions under which the meals were served[ ] were hotly criticised. the attempt on the part of the guardians to recover the cost from the parents raised a storm of protest.[ ] finally, in may, , the guardians announced their intention of discontinuing the provision of meals and the local education authority took over the work.[ ] in no other town was the action of the guardians prolonged to so late a date. by the end of , indeed, the order had become a dead letter. meanwhile, the public having assumed that everything necessary would be undertaken by the poor law authorities, voluntary contributions had declined.[ ] footnote : bradford city council proceedings, september , . footnote : at the centres provided by the guardians "the children were kept outside the doors until all was ready, and when they were allowed to enter they came in without any semblance of order, to tables without cloths, without seats." (_bradford and its children: how they are fed_, by councillor j. h. palin, , pp. - .) later the guardians distributed the children among various little eating-houses in the town, where the food was better, though the conditions of serving were not much improved. (_ibid._) footnote : _hansard_, february , , vol. , p. ; bradford city council proceedings, september , ; see also the local newspapers about this time. the prosecutions were apparently confined to those cases where the underfeeding of the children was due to neglect on the part of the parents. the charge fixed by the guardians was, however, very high, d. per meal. up to march , , action had been taken in the county court against men and orders for payment obtained in each case. (a short account of the working of the relief (school children) order, issued by the bradford poor law union, ; report of select committee on education (provision of meals) bills (england and scotland), , qs. - .) in other unions there seems to have been little or no attempt to recover the cost. at birmingham, for instance, it was reported, "the process of recovery laid down by the local government board was farcical in character and was dropped." (report of royal commission on the poor laws, , appendix, vol. iv., q. , par. .) footnote : extracts from the annual reports of the bradford education committee for the four years ended march , , , and in respect to the working of the education (provision of meals) act, p. . footnote : at birmingham the free dinner society, after an existence of thirty years, ceased its operations when the order came into force. (report of the royal commission on the poor laws, , appendix, vol. i., q. .) "there was at first," declared mr. jenner fust, a local government board inspector, "much misapprehension among the public as to the scope of the order, the prevalent idea being that all school children requiring it would now be supplied with free meals at the public expense, and that there was no further occasion for voluntary efforts." ( th report of the local government board, - , p. .) (e)--the education (provision of meals) act. the relief (school children) order having proved a "relative failure," to use mr. john burns' moderate expression,[ ] and the evidence given before the committee on medical inspection and feeding of school children having demonstrated once more the inadequacy of existing agencies to cope with the evil, it became imperative for parliament to take action. early in the education (provision of meals) bill was introduced.[ ] the opposition to this bill, both inside[ ] and outside[ ] the house, rested mainly on the familiar arguments respecting parental responsibility and the advisability of leaving all questions connected with relief to the poor law authorities. we hear also the objection that free meals must lead to a reduction in wages.[ ] the strongest argument, to which, however, little attention was paid, was that urged by the edinburgh school board before the select committee of the house of commons to which the bill was referred. "the bill touches the fringe of very serious and comprehensive social problems with which the imperial parliament should deal, and it [the school board] objects to so much power being placed upon a local authority before parliament has dealt with serious principles underlying the questions involved."[ ] "the causes of low physique and vitality, and inability to profit by instruction" are "insanitation, overcrowding, keeping the children out at night very late or all night, bad footwear, and homes where they have no ventilation at night," irregular meals, "uncleanliness and bad clothing and out-of-school employment."[ ] this was very true, but it did not convince the public that nothing should be done. in the experience of miss horn, the secretary of the westminster health society, where continuous feeding was combined with regular visits to the parents, there was a distinct improvement in the standard of the homes.[ ] footnote : _hansard_, december , , vol. , p. . footnote : the bill was introduced by a private member, mr. w. t. wilson. the government decided to make the matter an open question with their followers. (_ibid._, february and march , , vol. , pp. , .) footnote : for the debates on the bill see _hansard_, march , december , , , , and , (vol. , pp. - ; vol. , pp. - , - ; vol. , pp. - , - , - , - ). footnote : see, for instance, the discussions at a conference of representatives of charity organisation societies held in . (_charity organisation review_, july, , pp. _et seq._) footnote : mr. harold cox, _hansard_, march , , vol. , pp. , . footnote : report of the select committee on the education (provision of meals) bills (england and scotland), , evidence of mr. mill, chairman of edinburgh school board, q. . footnote : _ibid._, evidence of mr. scott, head teacher of wood close school, bethnal green, q. . _cf._ evidence of dr. kerr (q. ), miss horn (qs. - ), and mr. ferguson (q. ). footnote : _ibid._, qs. - . during the parliamentary debates, for the first time, much emphasis was laid on the educational value of the meals if served under proper conditions. mr. birrell "could conceive no greater service to posterity than to raise the standard of living in the children of the present day."[ ] "it was desired that this work should be not a work of relief, but a work of education," declared mr. lough, the parliamentary secretary to the board of education. "they wanted wholesome food given to the children and they wanted the children taught how to eat it, which was a most useful lesson."[ ] "this was not merely a question of providing the meals," said mr. john burns, "it was also one of teaching better habits and manners."[ ] for this work the local education authorities were better fitted than the guardians, for they "would attract, in a way which boards of guardians would not, the services of voluntary agencies, of leisured people ... and of managers and teachers, whose assistance was absolutely essential."[ ] for these reasons it was essential that the local education authorities should have power to provide meals, not only for necessitous children but also, on receipt of payment, for the children of all parents who desired it.[ ] footnote : _hansard_, march , , vol. , p. . footnote : _ibid._, december , , vol. , p. . footnote : _ibid._, p. . footnote : _ibid._ see also the speeches of mr. jowett (_ibid._, march , , vol. , p. ), mr. claude hay (_ibid._, december , , vol. , p. ) and the earl of crewe (_ibid._, december , , vol. , p. ). an amendment to substitute the poor law guardians for the local education authority as the authority for the administration of the act was defeated by an overwhelming majority, the voting being to . (_ibid._, december , , vol. , pp. - .) the local government board did not, in fact, desire to have the duty imposed on them. (mr. john burns, _ibid._, p. .) footnote : an amendment to limit the provision of meals to underfed children only was defeated by votes to . mr. lough declared the amendment would strike at the root of one of the objects of the bill. (_ibid._, december , , vol. , pp. - , .) the new attitude of society towards the child and the family was brought out by lord grimthorpe during the debates in the house of lords. "the children are the paramount consideration.... in a great many cases the parents are already demoralised owing to having themselves been insufficiently nourished in their youth. because they suffer from those conditions there is no reason why we should inflict similar conditions on the children.... experience in this matter shows us that the sense of parental responsibility will be increased rather than decreased. when the parent sees that his child is regarded by the nation as a valuable national asset he himself will think more of his child."[ ] footnote : _ibid._, december , , vol. , p. . the bill received the royal assent on december , .[ ] it provided that the local education authority might associate with themselves any committee (called a school canteen committee) on which the authority was represented, who would undertake to provide food, and might aid that committee by furnishing buildings and apparatus and the officers and servants necessary for the organisation, preparation and service of the meals.[ ] the parents were to be charged such an amount as might be determined by the local education authority, and, in the event of non-payment, the local authority, unless satisfied that the parent was unable to pay, should recover the amount summarily as a civil debt.[ ] failure on the part of the parent to pay was not, however, to involve disfranchisement.[ ] where the education authority resolved "that any of the children attending an elementary school within their area are unable by reason of lack of food to take full advantage of the education provided for them, and have ascertained that funds other than public funds are not available or are insufficient in amount to defray the cost of food," they might, with the sanction of the board of education, provide for food out of the rates, the amount thus spent being, however, limited to what would be produced by a halfpenny rate.[ ] the teachers might, if they desired, assist in the provision of meals but they were not to be required as part of their duties to do so.[ ] footnote : edward vii., c. . footnote : _ibid._, clause . footnote : _ibid._, clause . the select committee to which the bill had been referred, while of opinion "that the local education authority ought to undertake the administration rather than the boards of guardians," nevertheless recommended that it should be the duty of the guardians to recover the cost from neglectful parents. (report of select committee on the education (provision of meals) bills (england and scotland), , pp. viii., x.) they accordingly inserted a provision to this effect (_see_ the education (provision of meals) bill as amended by the select committee, no. of , clause ). this was amended in the committee stage in the house of commons. (_hansard_, december , , vol. , pp. - . footnote : edward vii., c. , clause . footnote : _ibid._, clause . footnote : _ibid._, clause . the bill, when it left the commons, applied to scotland as well as england and wales. the lords, however, struck out the clause extending its application to scotland.[ ] the commons, in view of the fact that the session was so far advanced, agreed to this amendment, but under protest.[ ] it was not till two years later that the scottish school boards, by the education (scotland) act of ,[ ] received power to spend the rates on the provision of food. footnote : _hansard_, december , , vol. , pp. - . footnote : _ibid._, december , , pp. - . footnote : edward vii., c. (december , ). a bill was introduced by the government in , but was withdrawn. (_hansard_, march , , vol. , pp. - .) for an account of the provision made in scotland see appendix ii. the provision of meals act marks an important point in the history of school feeding. the experiments of forty years had amply demonstrated the impossibility of dealing with the evils of underfeeding through voluntary agencies alone. parliament was indeed still convinced that voluntary organisations were the best bodies to supply the necessary food. the proposal that the duty of providing meals should be cast entirely upon local education authorities, relying only on public funds, had indeed, as the select committee of the house of commons declared, not been "seriously suggested." such a course would obviously result in the extinction of all voluntary societies, a result "from every point of view ... much to be deplored."[ ] only where voluntary subscriptions failed might the local authority provide the necessary funds. even in this case there was no compulsion on the authority to take any action whatsoever. still, with all these limitations, the act involved the assumption, however partial and incomplete, by the state of the function of securing to its children, by one means or another, the necessary minimum, not only of education, but also of food. footnote : report of select committee on the education (provision of meals) bills (england and scotland), , p. vi. chapter ii the administration of the education (provision of meals) act we propose in this chapter to describe the manner in which the local education authorities are administering the act of . we shall see that the adoption of the act has been by no means universal and that in many towns provision is still made by voluntary agencies. where the act has been put in force we shall find the greatest diversity of practice in such matters as the selection of the children, the dietary provided and the manner in which the meals are served. one local authority will construe its duties under the act in the narrowest sense, cutting down the number of children to be fed to the minimum, and serving the meals with the least possible expense. another authority will look on the school meal as a valuable means for improving the physique of its scholars; it will endeavour to secure that all children who are underfed shall be given school meals; the dietary will be carefully planned, while, in the matter of the service of the meals, the aim will be to make these in every way educational. we shall see that meals are as a rule given only during term-time, holiday feeding out of rates being held to be illegal, while many authorities limit their operations to the winter months. most authorities have confined their provision almost entirely to necessitous children, the plan of providing meals as a matter of convenience for children of parents who are at work all day or are otherwise prevented from preparing a midday meal, and who would be able and willing to pay for school dinners, finding but little favour. we shall describe the arrangements made in the special schools for defective children, where a dinner is provided either for all children attending the school or for all those who care to stay, and in the day industrial schools, where the provision of three meals a day for all is the rule. we shall discuss the extent to which the provision of meals by the local education authority overlaps the relief given by the poor law guardians. finally we shall touch upon the question of underfeeding in the rural districts, where the problem is little less urgent than in the towns. (a)--the adoption of the act. the provision of meals act came into force on december , . as we have seen, it was merely permissive and its adoption was, therefore, only gradual.[ ] many local education authorities contented themselves with making arrangements with voluntary agencies, the education committee continuing the already common practice of providing accommodation and apparatus, and the voluntary society providing as hitherto funds for the food. thus, at hull, the education authority co-operated with the hull school children's help society, which had been founded in for the provision of free meals. this arrangement was continued till , when the society's funds were exhausted and recourse was had to the rates.[ ] at scarborough, the amicable society, which had been founded in "for clothing and educating the children of the poor of scarborough," arranged with the education authority that the provision of meals should be organised through a joint committee of the two bodies.[ ] at liverpool, where the provision of meals had been undertaken since the early part of , before the act was passed, by a voluntary committee consisting of members of the education committee, the central relief society, the guardians and others, this system was continued for some years. in spite of strenuous opposition in from the labour party and the local fabian society, who complained that the numbers fed were far below the number in need of food, and that no proper attempt was made to ascertain the extent of the need, a special committee appointed by the education committee to investigate the whole question reported that the existing voluntary system was adequate. it was not till november, , that the education committee resolved that, "after full consideration of the circumstances and after having regard to the fact that it has been necessary to call upon the general public on two occasions during each year for subscriptions to the funds, the committee cannot but conclude that the time has now come when the provisions of the education (provision of meals) act, , should be put into force, and, therefore, _though with great reluctance_," they recommended that application be made to the board of education for power to levy a rate.[ ] footnote : aston manor was the first town to apply for authority to levy a rate. bradford, manchester, and other towns soon followed. during the year ended march , , authorities were authorised to levy a rate. during the two following years the number was increased to and respectively. (report on the working of the education (provision of meals) act up to march , , p. ; report of the board of education for - , p. ; ditto for - , p. .) footnote : appendix to minutes of the hull education committee, october , . footnote : report of the scarborough amicable society for , pp. , . footnote : "feeding the children," by h. beswick, in the _clarion_, october , . leicester, perhaps, furnishes the most notable example of the survival of the voluntary principle. in , when the provision of meals bill was before parliament, the town council appears to have been in favour of it. after the act was passed, however, the leicester branch of the charity organisation society opposed its adoption. at a conference between representatives of the charity organisation society and the national society for the prevention of cruelty to children, a scheme was formulated for administering the act from voluntary funds. the scheme was accepted by the town council, and the formation of the children's aid association was the result.[ ] this body consists chiefly of members of the charity organisation society and of the national society for the prevention of cruelty to children, with a small minority representing the education committee. in spite of considerable opposition from the labour party, who demand that the act shall be put into force, meals are still provided by this association out of voluntary funds.[ ] footnote : first annual report of the leicester children's aid association, - , p. . footnote : for a description of the methods adopted, see post, pp. - . a somewhat similar system is in force at chesterfield, where the arrangements for feeding are made by the civic guild, the expense being borne out of their funds. the education committee is represented on the general council and executive committee of the guild in a general sense, not in connection with feeding alone. cases of children requiring food are reported by the attendance officers, and are fed at once by the guild, investigation being made afterwards. if help is found necessary the whole family is adequately relieved. arrangements are usually made for the children to be fed at eating-houses. the number of children so dealt with is very small. this delay on the part of the local authorities in towns where, it was asserted, it was notorious that children suffered from want of food,[ ] led to an attempt to make the school medical officer responsible for determining whether or not it was necessary to put the act in force. in december, , a bill was introduced by the labour party with the object of providing that, when requested by the education committee, by a majority of the managers, or by the head teachers, the local authority should provide for the medical inspection of the children for the purpose of determining whether they were suffering from insufficient or improper food; if the medical inspector reported that the children were so suffering, the local authority should be obliged to provide food. the bill was not proceeded with, and the same fate befell four similar bills introduced within the next five years.[ ] footnote : _hansard_, april , , th series, vol. , p. . footnote : education (administrative provisions) bill, december , ; february , ; april , ; february , ; april , . in - , out of local education authorities in england and wales, were returned as making some provision for the feeding of school children (_i.e._ counties, including london, county boroughs, boroughs and urban districts).[ ] of these were spending rates on the provision of food; were spending rates on administrative charges only (accommodation, apparatus, etc.), the cost of food being borne by voluntary funds; whilst in the remaining areas[ ] the cost of both food and administration was met by voluntary contributions. footnote : report of the chief medical officer of the board of education for , pp. - , . footnote : the most important of these are leicester, sunderland, and barnsley. the steady decrease in the amount derived from voluntary contributions, and the increase in rates are shown by the following table :--[ ] rates £ voluntary miscellaneous sources total. contribution £ (contributions from parents, poor law guardians, etc.) £ for the year , , , - for the year , , , - for the year , , , , - for the year , , , , - footnote : see report on the working of the education (provision of meals) act up to march , , p. , and (for london) p. ; ditto for the year ended march , , p. ; report of the chief medical officer of the board of education for , p. ; ditto for , p. . the voluntary contributions are understated in the figures for - , and possibly throughout. the returns for - , for instance, do not include liverpool, where the whole cost was defrayed by voluntary contributions, and no financial details were supplied to the board. the discrepancy in the total for - is due to the fact that the figures in the several columns are not given exactly, but to the nearest £. the total number of children fed is given in the returns for as , .[ ] this, however, does not include a few counties and towns which did not return the number fed during the year. in most of these areas the number fed is very small, but at barnsley the number attending daily was about , , and in london the highest number fed in any one week during the year was , . if we take these figures as representing roughly between two-fifths and one half of the total number of children who were fed at some time or other during the year, we get a total of about , ,[ ] out of a total school population of , , .[ ] footnote : report of the chief medical officer of the board of education for , pp. - , . footnote : this does not include children fed at day industrial schools, open air schools or, with one or two exceptions, special schools for mentally or physically defective children. footnote : this number represents the average attendance at the ordinary elementary schools, not the total number on the rolls. (statistics of public education in england and wales, - , part i., pp. , .) in most towns where the act has been adopted the amount spent on food is well within the limit of the halfpenny rate. in - , only bradford and stoke-on-trent exceeded the limit, the latter (by an inconsiderable sum) owing to the coal strike. at bradford the rate has almost from the first been annually exceeded by a considerable amount.[ ] this excess is due partly to the numbers fed (a large proportion of the children receiving breakfasts as well as dinners), partly to the fact that the meals are continued throughout the holidays. the local government board auditor has regularly surcharged the excess expenditure, but the finance committee defrays it out of the corporation trading profits, which are not subject to the local government board audit. footnote : in - , by £ , ; in - , by £ , ; in - , by £ , , and in - , by £ . (report on the working of the education (provision of meals) act up to march , , p. ; report of the chief medical officer of the board of education for , p. ; ditto for , p. .) the limitation of the rate has in some towns undoubtedly restricted operations. in , for instance, the workington education committee were reluctantly obliged, owing to the exhaustion of the funds raised by the halfpenny rate, to stop the meals at a time of great distress.[ ] at east ham, the product of a halfpenny rate not being sufficient for a whole year, meals can only be given during the winter months.[ ] footnote : _hansard_, april , , th series, vol. , pp. - . a similar complaint was received from hartlepool. (_ibid._) footnote : see minutes of kingston-on-hull provision of meals sub-committee, march , , appendix, p. . the abortive bills introduced in and the following years by labour members contained a clause that the limitation of the rate should be abolished. we may note that the power of the local education authorities to provide food for necessitous children is not limited to their powers under the provision of meals act. by the education act of grants may be given for the maintenance of children at secondary schools. at bradford, at any rate, in quite a number of cases this grant is earmarked for providing school meals.[ ] more important is the power to provide three meals daily for all children attending day industrial schools. these children are drawn very largely from the class to whom free meals would have to be given if they were attending the ordinary elementary schools.[ ] again, necessitous children who are physically or mentally defective can receive meals at the special schools, and the cost of the food (and other expenses) can be charged to the special schools account. thus, at liverpool, dinner is provided for all defective children, this provision having been undertaken deliberately as part of the school curriculum long before the provision of meals act was passed. the class of physically defective children for whom special schools can be provided include not only cripples, but all children who are certified by a doctor to be "by reason of ... physical defect ... incapable of receiving proper benefit from the instruction in the ordinary public elementary schools."[ ] this wide definition enables the school medical officer to send to the open air schools, which several local authorities have established, and at which one or more meals a day are provided, not only children suffering from definite diseases, but also those who are underfed, anæmic and generally debilitated, to whom the fresh air, healthy life and regular, wholesome meals prove an inestimable boon. footnote : "school feeding," by wm. leach, in the _crusade_, november, (vol. , p. ). footnote : for a fuller account of the arrangements made for providing food at the day industrial schools and the special schools see post, pp. - . footnote : elementary education (defective and epileptic children) act, ( and vict., c. , sec. ( )). (b)--canteen committees, their constitution and functions. the arrangements for carrying out the provision of meals act are usually in the hands of a committee called variously the school canteen committee, the children's care committee, the underfed children's meals committee, or, as at leicester, the children's aid association. the constitution of this committee varies in different towns. sometimes it is composed entirely of members of the education committee.[ ] sometimes outside bodies, such as boards of guardians and voluntary agencies, are represented upon it. thus at crewe the children's care committee consists of representatives of the local education authority, teachers, guardians and various voluntary societies.[ ] at leicester the members of the education committee are in the minority, the children's aid association being composed chiefly of members of the charity organisation society and the national society for the prevention of cruelty to children. elsewhere the committee may be composed entirely, or almost entirely, of voluntary workers. thus at leeds, where all the members are women, all, except the chairman and vice-chairman, who are members of the education committee, are voluntary workers; two inspectors attend the meetings and carry recommendations to the education committee, but they do not vote. at bury st. edmunds, where the committee is also composed of women members, the only representative of the education committee is the official who holds the post of borough treasurer and secretary to the education committee. at bournemouth the schools are grouped under four district care committees, composed of voluntary workers nominated by the school managers, and of representatives of the head teachers, the school attendance officers being _ex officio_ members. these district care committees are controlled by a central care committee, composed partly of members of the education committee, and partly of co-opted members. the school medical officer here, as in some other towns, is an _ex officio_ member.[ ] footnote : as at birkenhead, bradford, liverpool, manchester, nottingham, stoke, west ham. footnote : report of school medical officer for crewe, , p. . footnote : report of the school medical officer for bournemouth for , pp. - . the functions of the canteen committee also vary in different towns. sometimes, as at bradford, all the arrangements for the management of the centres and the decision as to which children shall be fed are in the hands of the committee. at leeds the committee has no executive power, its functions being limited to making recommendations to the education committee as to the management of the dining centres. at bury st. edmunds each member of the committee is responsible for one school, making arrangements with caterers for the feeding of the children and visiting the homes. this visiting of the homes is rarely, if ever, undertaken by members of the canteen committee, unless it is composed of voluntary workers. (c)--the selection of the children. in the selection of the children who are to receive school meals two methods may be adopted. the selection may be based either on the physical condition of the child or on the economic circumstances of the family. the majority of the children selected will, of course, be the same whichever method is adopted, since the child will generally be found to be under-nourished if the family income is inadequate, and vice versa; but there are some children who, although the family income is comparatively good, are yet, for some cause or other, underfed, and these will be excluded if the "poverty test" is the only criterion used. from the first the board of education has urged that the "physical test" should be used as well as the "poverty test." the administration of the provision of meals act should be carried on in the closest co-operation with the school medical service.[ ] the school medical officer should approve the dietary, he should supervise the quality, quantity, cooking and service of the food and should inspect the feeding centres.[ ] in the selection of the children he should take an important part. not only should he recommend for school meals all cases of bad or insufficient nutrition observed in the course of medical inspection. "the end to be aimed at," writes sir george newman, "is that all children admitted to the meals should be medically examined by the school medical officer either before, or as soon as possible after, admission."[ ] that is to say, the provision of meals act should not be considered primarily as a measure for the relief of distress; "the physical and mental well-being of [the] children ... should be regarded as the principal object to be kept in view."[ ] footnote : "when a system of medical inspection of school children such as already exists under several local education authorities has been established, the school canteen committee, so far as its operations are concerned with underfed, ill-nourished or destitute children, should work in intimate connection with the school medical officer." (circular issued by the board of education, january , , in report on the working of the education (provision of meals) act up to march , , p. .) "it is obviously desirable that any arrangements made by a local education authority under the education (provision of meals) act, ... should be co-ordinated, as far as possible, with the arrangements for medical inspection under the act of ." (board of education, code of regulations for public elementary schools in england, , p. ii.) the general supervision of the administration of the act was placed in the hands of the board's medical department. footnote : report of the chief medical officer of the board of education for , p. . footnote : _ibid._ for , p. . this course is strongly urged by the school medical officer for portsmouth. "_all_ children, however selected, either by the physical or poverty test, _should be examined by the school medical officer_. this in many areas would involve a good deal of extra work on many medical men who find their time already fully occupied. yet if any work is worth doing it is worth doing well, and here it is that the value of the school medical officer comes in, by culling and recording facts relating to the personal condition of the child, as well as the home conditions and surroundings of his or her life." ("the importance of a well-advised and comprehensive scheme in the selection of children ... under the education (provision of meals) act," by victor j. blake, in _rearing an imperial race_, edited by c. e. hecht, , pp. - .) footnote : report of the chief medical officer of the board of education for , p. . very few authorities have made any attempt to select the children primarily or even to any great extent on the "physical test." in brighton the plan has perhaps been tried with more thoroughness than in any other town. when, in , the education committee undertook the provision of meals in association with the voluntary canteen committee, it was resolved that "the term 'underfed' ... should be held to apply distinctively to those scholars who, by reason of more or less continuous antecedent underfeeding, are physically below a certain specified standard of size and weight. these cases, which must of course be the first consideration of any feeding scheme, can only be scientifically detected by a detailed system of medical weighing and examination, and when so detected should be dealt with in accordance with medical advice."[ ] accordingly all the children for whom an application for free meals is made are weighed and measured, and the canteen committee, when deciding whether any particular child shall be fed or not, has before it this report as to the child's physical condition. whether the meals are supplied free depends on the economic circumstances of the family. if the child needs meals on medical grounds but the income is adequate, a circular is sent to the parent warning him of the child's condition. sometimes the parent will be willing for meals to be supplied on payment of the cost. if the parent refuses to pay, meals are not granted, but the name of the child is placed on a special list for observation.[ ] roughly about fifty per cent. of the children are fed solely on economic grounds and fifty per cent. on medical grounds.[ ] footnote : brighton education committee, report of canteen joint branch sub-committee, july , . there were, of course, also the cases of "necessitous" children who did not appear on medical grounds to be suffering from malnutrition, but who, from the economic circumstances of the parents, were unable to obtain sufficient food. children to whom the provision of a mid-day meal would be a convenience, and whose parents were able and willing to pay the cost, should also be provided for. (_ibid._) footnote : we have not been able to ascertain exactly what happens to these children on the "watching" list. in the school medical officer reports that they "are examined at intervals by the school doctor, and their progress is noted, the [canteen] committee taking such action as is recommended. enquiries are also carried out by the school nurse, under the supervision of the school doctor, as to the nature of the meals given at home in these cases." (report on the medical inspection of school children in brighton for , p. .) these home visits by the school nurse are no longer paid. footnote : in , out of , children who received free meals, were not examined, were recommended by the school doctor on medical grounds, were fed solely on economic grounds. (_ibid._ for , p. .) in , out of , children fed, were not examined, were recommended on medical and on economic grounds. (_ibid._ for , p. .) at heston and isleworth, the canteen sub-committee decided in to obtain from the school medical officer a report on the state of each child before determining whether it required school meals.[ ] at lancaster also all children who are recommended for free meals are seen by the school medical officer.[ ] footnote : report of the chief medical officer of the board of education for , p. . footnote : report of school medical officer for lancaster for , p. . but these cases are exceptional. in "the number of local education authorities who left the final selection in the hands of the school medical officer, or acted exclusively upon his recommendation or required every application to be endorsed by him," was, so far as the information of the board of education extended, less than a dozen.[ ] in sir george newman writes, "it is true that in the majority of cases the school medical officer takes some part ... in the work connected with the provision of meals, but the number of cases in which he exercises all the functions ... appropriately devolving upon him are very few indeed."[ ] in the great majority of towns, though the school medical officer may recommend for school meals children whom he finds suffering from malnutrition in the course of medical inspection, the greater number of children are selected on the "poverty test." footnote : report on the working of the education (provision of meals) act, up to march , , pp. - . footnote : report of the chief medical officer of the board of education for , p. . as a rule the primary selection is made by the teachers, either on their own initiative or on receiving requests from the parents. the school nurse, the attendance officer or perhaps a member of the local guild of help may also recommend cases. sometimes a personal application by the parent at the education offices or before the canteen committee is insisted on. thus at manchester the parents have to make application either at the education offices or at any of the district centres, of which there are twenty-four, situated in different parts of the town, and open at convenient hours. the teachers can advise children, whom they consider to be in need of food, to tell their parents to apply, but they take no further part in the selection of the children. at west ham also the parents have to apply at the public hall or education office. the section of the act dealing with repayment is read to the applicant, who then decides whether or not he wishes his children to be fed.[ ] on the parent's signing a form (by which he agrees to repay the cost of meals when he gets into work[ ]), tickets are issued for a week, pending enquiry. the parent is expected to send a note to the head teacher each day to say that he or she still wishes the child to be fed.[ ] this personal application has to be renewed every month. the teachers are allowed to give urgency tickets for three meals, but if the parents fail to apply the meals have to be discontinued. at erith "no breakfasts are supplied till the parents have registered at the distress committee (if eligible), or have made personal application there, or at the education office."[ ] at leicester, again, the parent has to make personal application at the office of the canteen committee, and this application has to be renewed every month. at birmingham, except in special cases, the parent has to attend the meeting of the committee; if he fails to appear, after being given a second chance, the child, who has meanwhile been temporarily receiving the meals, is removed from the feeding list.[ ] footnote : report of west ham education committee for the year ending march , , p. . this is the procedure now in force. footnote : see post, p. . footnote : we were informed by the head teacher of an infants' department that she did not insist on a note being sent more than two or three times a week. footnote : report of erith education committee for the three years ending march , . footnote : _the public feeding of elementary school children_, by phyllis d. winder, , p. . the primary selection of the children having been made, by whatever method, enquiry is then made into the home circumstances of the family. the object of this enquiry is or should be twofold: to ascertain the resources of the family, so as to determine whether the parents are able to provide adequate food for the child or not, and to find out whether help is needed in any other direction, and by friendly advice to improve the conditions of the home. we shall discuss later the great advantages to be obtained from the employment of voluntary workers for the purpose of these friendly home visits, as distinct from the duty of making enquiries.[ ] here it is sufficient to note that very few education authorities have made use of their services at all.[ ] the most notable example is, of course, furnished by the london care committees. a somewhat similar system has been adopted at bournemouth. here, as we have seen, the schools have been divided into four groups, and a care committee appointed for each. the members investigate the circumstances of children who are alleged to be in want of food and report to their committee, which thereupon decides whether or not the children shall receive free meals. at liverpool a tentative effort has been made in the same direction. care committees, managed by the different settlements, have for some years been attached to some half-dozen schools, but their position is rather indefinite. the enquiries are made by the school attendance officers, but the education committee asks the care committee for reports on special cases. at one school the care committee appears to visit all the cases. a wider scheme for the establishment of a system of care committees is at the present time ( ) under consideration. at brighton also, where care committees have been appointed, mainly for the purpose of finding employment and generally supervising the children when they leave school, a care visitor is sometimes asked to supplement the enquiries of the school attendance officers in doubtful cases where further investigation is needed. at leicester the enquiries are made by a paid investigator appointed by the children's aid association, subsequent friendly visits being paid by voluntary workers.[ ] in most towns, however, the work of enquiry is undertaken solely by the school attendance officers.[ ] footnote : see post, pp. _et seq._ footnote : report of the chief medical officer of the board of education for , pp. - ; ditto for , pp. - . in several of the few towns where care committees have been appointed, they take no part in the work of feeding the children, their functions being confined to the "following up" of medical cases and perhaps the finding of employment for the children when they leave school. footnote : at southend-on-sea enquiry is made by the civic guild into many of the cases. (report of the school medical officer for southend-on-sea for , p. .) at bradford the canteen committee communicates to the guild of help the names of all the new cases which are put on the feeding list. the members of the guild thereupon visit any cases in which other help besides the meals is needed. footnote : as at birkenhead, birmingham, leeds, manchester, salford, sheffield, stoke, etc. at birkenhead an attendance officer has been specially appointed for this purpose. at bradford a special constable has been told off to make enquiries in difficult cases. the thoroughness of the investigation varies considerably in different towns. the parent's statements as to the amount of wages earned are in some cases checked by enquiries from the employers. at birmingham the wages are always thus verified where the worker is employed by one firm regularly. at bradford the wages are verified except when the applicants are working on their own account, for instance hawking, when it is clearly impossible. generally enquiry is made from the employer as to the wages of the head of the house only, but at leeds and at leicester the wages of all earning members of the family are verified. at leicester in doubtful cases enquiries may be made from the employer as often as once a week. in other towns, as at stoke and york, where the current rates of wages are well known, wages are only verified when there is any doubt as to the parent's statement. at bootle little attempt is made to verify the information given by the parents. here the enquiries are made--so far as they can be said to be made at all--by the teachers. the help of the attendance officer can be asked in difficult cases, but this appears to be seldom done. the teachers naturally have no time to visit the homes, and the enquiry generally resolves itself into a form being given to the child for its parent to fill up. the parents are asked to state the rent, the number in the family and the total weekly income, taking the average for four weeks. when one considers the difficulty normally experienced in filling up forms correctly, one can readily imagine that the information thus obtained is practically valueless. where the answers are unintelligible--an occurrence by no means rare to judge from the few specimens of case papers which we have seen--the information may be supplemented by questioning the children. often urgency tickets can be issued by the teachers, pending enquiries, as at bradford, birmingham, bootle and liverpool. at birkenhead the teacher can only report the need for meals, but the enquiries only take two or three days. at leeds we were told that a week or ten days generally elapses between the time of application and the child's being placed on the list, with the result that in some cases the most urgent need is passed. it is true that the head teachers can secure a child's being placed immediately on the list by writing specially to the education office, but to do this every time would involve a considerable expenditure on postage, which is not refunded. when investigation has been made into the home circumstances, the decision as to whether or no the child shall be fed is made generally by the canteen committee or by a small sub-committee of this committee, or perhaps by the chairman.[ ] sometimes the responsibility rests with the secretary of the education committee or some other official, as at acton and leeds. at bournemouth the cases are decided by the district care committees, which are composed of voluntary workers and teachers. at bootle the decision appears to rest entirely in the teachers' hands. footnote : thus, at birkenhead, where the canteen committee meets very seldom, the cases are decided by the chairman. the decision is based on a consideration of the family income. many authorities have adopted a scale. at birmingham meals are granted if the income per head, after rent is deducted, does not exceed s. d. in winter or s. d. in summer.[ ] in bootle the income limit, in summer and winter alike, is s. d. for an adult and s. d. for each child under .[ ] when we consider, however, the slipshod method of enquiry pursued at bootle, we cannot attach much importance to the existence on paper of this scale. at bradford dinners are given if the income does not exceed s. per head; if the income is less than s., breakfasts also are given. this scale is taken only as a rough criterion of the needs of the family. special circumstances are taken into account, such as the size of the family, sickness, old debts, etc. and where the circumstances of the family are slightly above the point at which free meals may be given, the parents are often allowed to receive them on paying / d. or d. towards the cost. at leeds, on the other hand, the scale, which is a low one ( s. in winter and s. d. in summer) is, we are informed, rigidly observed. no regard is paid to the circumstances of the family. as a rule, directly the family income rises above the limit, the child's dinners are stopped, no matter how much debt has to be paid off. a delicate child who needed feeding or an underfed neglected child would not be fed if the income was above the limit. at liverpool the scale is s. per head; at stoke it is s. d.; at brighton it is s. per adult, two children being reckoned as one adult. in all these towns the limit is not a hard and fast one, regard being paid to any special circumstances. at manchester a sliding scale has been adopted. if there are five or more in the family the limit is s. d. per head, if there are only three or four s. d. is allowed, while if there are only one or two s. is allowed.[ ] at salford the limit is s. per week for two persons, and s. extra for each additional member of the family, rent not being deducted. in other towns, as at birkenhead, bournemouth, leicester and west ham, there is no fixed scale, each case being decided on its merits. footnote : _the public feeding of elementary school children_, by phyllis d. winder, , p. . footnote : report of bootle school canteen committee, - , p. . footnote : report of the manchester education committee, - , p. . as a rule the cases are revised about once a month. sometimes chronic cases will be continued for two or three months at a time, as at liverpool. at york the cases are revised only twice a year. at the beginning of the winter the head teachers send in lists of children whom they consider to be necessitous. these children (if the cases selection sub-committee decide to feed them) remain on the feeding list till the following april, when the head teachers are asked to send in a list of children who they consider need not receive meals during the summer. the attendance officers visit again and the cases are revised by the committee. this method is said to be satisfactory as, though officially the cases are revised so seldom, practically the circumstances are known, since the attendance officers regularly visit the homes in the course of their ordinary work and the chairman of the canteen committee knows many of the children intimately. at bootle, where, as we have seen, the decision as to which children shall be fed is practically in the hands of the teachers, there seems to be no system of revising the cases, and the tendency is for a child who is once put on the feeding list to remain on it till the meals are discontinued in the summer, unless the parents voluntarily withdraw the child on an improvement in the home circumstances. without discussing here the question whether it is possible to devise any system of selection which can be satisfactory, we may note some of the disadvantages of the methods at present in use. in the first place, since the selection is made in the main through the teachers, it necessarily follows that the numbers fed in any particular school depend very largely on the attitude taken by the head teachers. as a general rule the teachers are keenly interested in the physical welfare of their children, and anxious to do everything in their power which may promote it; but some teachers are opposed to the provision of meals, feeling that too much is done for the children; others, again, consider their schools "superior," and do not like their children to go to free meals. constantly one finds an astonishing disproportion between the numbers fed at two adjacent schools, drawing their children from the same locality. it is true that the character of two schools, within a stone's throw of each other, may vary in a curious way, one attracting a more prosperous class of children--perhaps because of the personality of the teacher, better buildings, or some other cause--but this would not account for all the difference. at bootle, for instance, it was reported, "there is apparently an absence of uniformity in assessing the needs of the children; for in the six schools of the poorest neighbourhoods it is found that of the number on the rolls the percentage of scheduled children varies from per cent. to per cent., and that in two schools of almost identical character, in one case per cent. of the children are returned as needing daily breakfasts, and in the other per cent."[ ] where the teachers are anxious to place all apparently underfed children on the feeding list, pressure is not infrequently exercised by the education authority to induce them to keep down the numbers. footnote : report of the bootle school canteen committee for - , p. . at birkenhead, and probably in other towns, the percentage of children fed in the church of england schools is very much higher than in the council schools, whilst the roman catholic schools feed a larger number still than the church schools. this is doubtless due partly to the character of the buildings, the non-provided schools being generally very much inferior, and the better-off children being consequently attracted to the council schools; partly, of course, also to the fact that the roman catholic population is chiefly irish and very poor. when an application by the parent is obligatory, there is cause for very grave doubt whether the provision of meals reaches all for whom it is intended. miss winder has shown that, at birmingham, out of , children for whom applications were received during the three years - , , were not fed because the parent failed to appear before the committee. she investigated the circumstances of twenty-eight of these families and came to the conclusion that, "although the small number of families investigated cannot justify an absolutely positive assertion, i think it may fairly be concluded that, on the whole, they are representative of most of the families whose applications are not granted, and that the home circumstances of these families are much the same as those of the families whose applications have been granted."[ ] this is the impression gained from enquiries at other towns. at west ham it is clear that there are children who need the meals, but do not get them because their parents will not apply. the number of "missed" cases does not appear to be large, for the act is administered in a sympathetic spirit, the superintendent of visitors impressing on the attendance officers that they should bring to his notice any case where the children appear to be suffering from lack of food. but there are cases where the parents, though they will take the urgency tickets for three meals which the teachers can give them, will take no further action. at one school the headmaster pointed out two boys who looked obviously in need of food and attention generally, but whose father, though out of work, would not apply. in another case he had used his discretion and kept two boys on the list for a month in spite of their parents' failure to renew their application, but he felt obliged at last to take them off though he considered that they still needed the meals. in such cases the attendance officers are supposed to visit the homes to find out the cause of the children's underfed condition, and to urge the parents, if necessary, to make application for school meals, but this course does not seem to be by any means always pursued. footnote : _the public feeding of elementary school children_, by phyllis d. winder, , pp. , , , . at leicester again, nothing appears to be done in those cases where the child needs food but the parent refuses to apply. and such cases appear to be frequent. we were told by the vicar of a very poor parish that numbers of the parents would not make the necessary application. this evidence seems to be borne out by a comparison of the numbers of cases helped by the distress committee and the canteen committee. in , for instance, it was found that on september , married men and widowers, having , children wholly, and partly, dependent upon them, were registered at the labour bureau as unemployed.[ ] these numbers were, of course, not a complete index of the unemployment in the town. but, turning to the report of the canteen committee, we find that on the same date only children were being helped.[ ] the great discrepancy between these figures seems to point to the fact that the canteen committee had not discovered all the cases of children who were suffering from want of food. footnote : _leicester pioneer_, october , . footnote : quarterly report of the leicester children's aid association, july to september , . the failure of the parents to apply may in some cases be due to laziness and disregard for their children's welfare. or it may be that they are too sensitive to ask for help. or again it may be difficult or impossible for them to attend at the time named. the hour is usually fixed so as to be that most convenient for the parents, but it is impossible, of course, to fix a time which will suit all. at birmingham cases have even occurred "where the father has been obliged to pay tram fares in order to arrive in time to prove his inability to feed his children"![ ] footnote : _the public feeding of elementary school children_, by phyllis d. winder, , p. . but even if the parent is not obliged to appear in person, but may send an application by note or verbal message to the teacher, there are still "missed" cases. it is notorious that many parents are too proud to let their need be known; in such cases, as teachers have frequently told us, it may be a considerable time before it is discovered that the child is suffering from want of food; and when the discovery is made there is frequently difficulty in inducing the parents to send the child, or in inducing the child itself to go, to the school meals. there still seems to exist, in certain districts at any rate, an idea that the provision of meals is poor law relief, and parents consequently shrink from applying. moreover, it is not generally recognised that the provision of school meals is by no means universally known to the parents. the school medical officer for leicester reports that "in certain cases it was a matter for regret that the families had not received help earlier by personally applying for assistance. ignorance of the existence of the canteen committee was given as the reason for non-application."[ ] and we have ourselves been told in other towns of cases where the children were suffering from want of food, but were not receiving school meals because the parents were unaware that they could be obtained. footnote : report of the school medical officer for leicester for , p. . the enquiries into the home circumstances undoubtedly exercise a deterrent influence--to what extent depends on the manner of the particular individual who makes the enquiries--both with the more independent parent who resents the investigator's visit, and with the criminal and semi-criminal parent whose record does not bear close investigation. thus the headmaster of a school in one of the worst districts of liverpool told us that numbers of the boys were in need of food but the parents would not submit to the necessary enquiries and consequently meals were not granted. at leicester, the searching enquiries made by the canteen committee, which, it must be remembered, is practically a department of the charity organisation society, coupled with the insistence on an application by the parent in person, result, as we have seen, in numbers of underfed children remaining underfed. where the education authority has adopted a scale of income on which to base the decision as to which children shall be fed, this scale is frequently below, and in some cases very considerably below, the minimum amount which has been shown to be necessary for expenditure on food.[ ] where the scale is rigidly adhered to, two classes of children are excluded altogether, those who are underfed through the neglect of their parents to provide for them though able to do so, and those cases where the family income may be sufficient to meet normal calls but where, owing to illness or the delicacy of the children or other special circumstances, extra nourishment is required. footnote : see note on page , _infra_. to sum up, we find as between town and town, and even as between school and school in the same town, a great want of uniformity in selecting the children to be fed. where the education authority has determined that all its underfed children shall be provided for, the child's need being the paramount consideration, undiscovered cases of underfeeding are reduced to a minimum. where, on the contrary, enquiries are carried out in a deterrent manner, or the parent is made to apply in person for the meals, or the selection is based on a rigid application of a scale, there is reason to fear that considerable numbers of children are, and remain, "unable by reason of lack of food to take full advantage of the education provided for them." (d)--the preparation and service of the meals. (i) the time of the meal. there are considerable differences of opinion as to what kind of meal should be given. many local authorities prefer breakfast. it is argued that when no breakfast is forthcoming at home the interval between the meal the previous evening and the midday dinner is too long, and that it is cruel to expect the child to attend morning school, when the heaviest work of the day is done, without a meal, especially in the cold winter months. by midday the parents, especially in districts where there is much casual labour, may have earned enough to provide some sort of a meal. but the arguments in favour of breakfast--as the sole meal provided--are largely based not so much on the child's physical needs as on the moral effect produced both on the child and the parent. the provision of breakfast furnishes a test of need. the meal is not so popular as dinner, and will only attract those who are really hungry.[ ] co-operation on the part of the mother is demanded, since she must get up early to see the children are dressed in time. moreover, the provision of breakfast does not act as an inducement to the mother to go out to work, as it is feared the provision of dinner may. footnote : thus it was found at a school in bethnal green that, "in spite of the supervision of a most efficient care committee," the change from a porridge breakfast to a meat pie dinner doubled the number of children attending. ("the feeding of necessitous children. a symposium. i., experience in s. w. bethnal green," by a. w. chute, in _oxford house magazine_, january, , p. .) the arguments seem to us overwhelmingly in favour of dinner. the provision of a midday meal may possibly encourage mothers to go out to work, though it is exceedingly difficult to trace such a result to any great extent. but on the other hand there are numbers of cases already where the mothers are forced, by stress of circumstances, to be the breadwinners and are obliged to leave home all day, or, if they come home for the dinner hour, have no time to prepare a proper meal. the children will either get a piece of bread, or will be given coppers to buy their own dinner; in either case the meal will be equally unsatisfactory. possibly the children will go dinnerless altogether, and the afternoon's lessons will then be a serious tax on their brains. the attendance at breakfasts is always less than at dinner.[ ] the breakfast acts, that is to say, as a successful "test." but this means that many children, either because their mothers are too lazy to get them dressed early, or because they are too lazy themselves, miss the meals, _though they are admittedly in need of them_. footnote : at west ham, for instance, where all the children on the feeding list receive both breakfast and dinner, the number of breakfasts given during the year - was , , and the number of dinners , ; the attendance at breakfast was thus only ninety per cent. of the attendance at dinner. (report of the west ham education committee for the year ended march , , pp. - .) we do not wish to under-estimate the importance of the moral aspect of the question. it is essential that co-operation on the part of the mother should be demanded. but the child's need must be the first consideration. the laziness of the children, be it noted, is frequently not entirely their own fault; the drowsiness in the morning may be due to the fact that they have slept all night in a crowded room and stuffy atmosphere. till the deep-rooted objection to open windows at night can be overcome, this will continue to be the case. for this reason too, the children will often have little appetite for breakfast. physiologically, again, dinner appears to be the better meal since it contains a greater quantity of the elements which are lacking in the ordinary home dietary of the child. thus in the feeding experiment at bradford in ,[ ] the porridge breakfast, the most satisfactory kind of breakfast that can be supplied from the food value point of view, contained a proteid value of grammes, and a fat value of grammes. the dinners contained, on an average, grammes of proteid and grammes of fat. thus the combined proteid and fat value of the breakfasts and dinners was respectively and grammes.[ ] moreover, the gain in point of cheapness to be derived from provision on a large scale is much greater relatively in the case of dinners than in the case of breakfasts. footnote : see post, pp. - . footnote : bradford education committee, report on a course of meals given to necessitous children from april to july, , p. . about per cent. of the local authorities give breakfasts only, and about per cent. dinners only, the remainder giving both meals.[ ] in the last-named case, dinners may be given in some schools and breakfasts in others, as at southampton and york. at bradford dinner is given to all the children on the feeding list, the most necessitous receiving breakfast as well.[ ] at west ham all the children receive both meals. at bootle, where till a few years ago only breakfasts were given, it was found that this provision was inadequate to meet the needs of many necessitous children.[ ] the expense and the practical difficulties in the way of providing a proper dinner led the education committee to adopt a simpler method, namely, that of increasing the quantity of food supplied for breakfasts, any overplus being given at midday at the discretion of the teachers as an extra meal to children who would otherwise go dinnerless.[ ] footnote : report of the chief medical officer of the board of education for , pp. - . footnote : roughly about half the children fed receive both meals (bradford education committee, return as to the working of the education (provision of meals) act, for the year ended march , .) footnote : enquiries made by the head teachers showed that in the aggregate children received no mid-day meal or an insufficient meal. since, presumably, these enquiries were made by the method of questioning the children, no particular value can be attached to the actual figures; the school attendance officers enquired into fifty-four of the cases taken at random and found that all but two showed undoubted poverty in the home. (report of bootle school canteen committee, - , pp. - .) footnote : _ibid._, p. . this is the plan still pursued (see post, pp. - ). (ii) the dietary. taking into consideration the fact that with a large number of elementary school children bread and tea form the chief elements in the home diet, it is of the greatest importance that the school meal should be planned so as to contain a good proportion of the ingredients which are lacking at home. whatever views may be held as to the amount of proteid food that is necessary for adults, it is not disputed that in the case of children the more expensive forms are necessary because the growth of the body depends entirely upon the proteids. "it is impossible," declares the school medical officer of the london county council, "to cut down proteids to the same extent in children as in adults without serious results.... to set out, therefore, to relieve underfeeding by a single meal a day, it is necessary to concentrate attention upon proteids and fats ... and, therefore, a dinner for necessitous children must be necessarily more costly than for those properly fed in institutions or in their own homes. the want of clothing, which often accompanies underfeeding, also necessitates more expensive feeding in relief, the loss of bodily heat to be made up being greater than in the case of the child in an industrial school or workhouse, who is warmly clad, and who, moreover, spends much time in a properly heated playroom or dormitory."[ ] footnote : london county council, report of the medical officer (education) to sub-committee on underfed children, . see also "school feeding," by dr. john lambert, in _medical examination of schools and scholars_, edited by t. n. kelynack, m.d., , pp. - . few local authorities have so planned their dietary as to contain this excess of proteid and fat over starchy food. "judged by this standard," declared dr. kerr in , and the same statement holds good to-day, "most diets supplied by public funds are probably wanting in value for the children, however useful they might be as a single meal for a normal individual."[ ] footnote : report of the education committee of the london county council, submitting report of the medical officer (education) for the twenty-one months ending december , , p. . it would naturally be expected that the school medical officer would be consulted about the dietary as a matter of course,[ ] but this is by no means invariably the case. at birkenhead, for instance, the school medical officer has no voice in the planning of the menu. at stoke-on-trent the school medical officer reports in that, "with the exception of the fenton district, the medical staff does not appear to have even been consulted on the matter of dietary."[ ] footnote : "the determination of the dietary of the children generally, and of individual children whose health or age renders it desirable that special arrangements should be made in their case" is, as the chief medical officer of the board of education points out, a matter "on which the school medical officer is particularly competent to form an opinion, and on which, therefore, his opinion should be sought by the authority." (report of the chief medical officer of the board of education for , p. .) footnote : annual report of the school medical officer for stoke-on-trent for , p. . where the meals are given at restaurants, the dietary is almost invariably unsatisfactory, adequate inspection being impossible.[ ] footnote : see the descriptions of stoke and liverpool, post, pp. , - . the most elaborate dietary is probably that adopted by the bradford education committee. in , after the education committee had adopted the provision of meals act, but before arrangements had been made to feed the children out of the rates, an experiment was made in feeding forty children for fourteen weeks. the dietary was carefully planned so that, while containing the requisite amount of proteid and fat, it should not be beyond the purse of the ordinary parent in normal times.[ ] this dietary is still in force, a few alterations having been made which experience showed to be advisable. the menu is varied, according to the season, winter, summer, and spring or autumn. the same meal is not repeated for four weeks.[ ] at portsmouth again, where the dietary is drawn up by the medical officer of health and the school medical officer, a different meal is given every day for three weeks.[ ] in most towns, however, the same menu is continued week after week, with some slight variation in the summer. the same meal is given on the same day in the week so that the children learn to know what meal to expect, and in consequence the attendance is often considerably smaller on days when the dish is unpopular. sometimes the food will vary very little even from day to day. though served under various names, soup, stew or hash, it is really almost precisely the same. some authorities supply only one course, others two. in some towns a child is allowed to have as much as it wants, in reason; in other towns only one helping is allowed as a rule, though, if there happens to be any food over, this may be distributed among the children.[ ] footnote : see bradford education committee, report on a course of meals given to necessitous children from april to july, , p. . footnote : for bradford and some other typical menus see appendix i.] footnote : "the importance of a well-advised and comprehensive scheme in the selection of children ... under the education (provision of meals) act," by victor j. blake, in _rearing an imperial race_, edited by c. e. hecht, , p. . footnote : at one centre that we visited, the second helping consisted only of what was left by some of the children on their plates! those who wanted more were asked to hold up their hands, and the food was then handed to them, the recipients being apparently selected at random, since there was not enough for all. occasionally special provision is made for the infants. thus, at york, milk and bread is given in the middle of the morning to infants who are on the feeding list, it having been found that they could not digest the ordinary dinners. but as a rule, though in well managed centres the infants are placed together at special tables, so that they can be better supervised and taught how to eat, there is no separate dietary for them. where only breakfasts are provided there is, of course, less room for variation. generally cocoa or coffee is given, with bread and butter, margarine, dripping, jam or syrup. at bootle pea soup is given one day a week. in several towns porridge is provided, either alternately with the cocoa or coffee breakfast, or every day. at sheffield, where a cocoa breakfast used to be given, porridge was substituted at one school as an experiment; it was found that the boys who were fed on porridge increased in weight at double the rate of the boys who received only the cocoa breakfast; as a result porridge breakfasts were substituted in all the schools.[ ] footnote : report of chief school medical officer for sheffield, for the year , pp. , . see post, p. . (iii) preparation and distribution of the meals. in a few cases the local education authority has equipped a kitchen for the preparation of the food, and makes arrangements for distributing it to the various centres. at bradford all the meals, with the exception of those for schools in outlying districts where arrangements are made with local caterers, are cooked at a central kitchen and distributed in special heat-retaining boxes to the different dining centres by motor vans. manchester, birkenhead and other towns also have their own central kitchen. sometimes, as at west ham, a kitchen is attached to each of the centres; or occasionally a cookery centre is utilised for the preparation of the meals. sometimes, as at leeds and portsmouth,[ ] the local education authority provides the kitchen and a caterer prepares the food. frequently, however, all the arrangements for the preparation and the distribution of the meals are in the hands of caterers. footnote : "the importance of a well-advised and comprehensive scheme in the selection of children ... under the education (provision of meals) act," by victor j. blake, in _rearing an imperial race_, edited by c. e. hecht, , p. . (iv) the service of the meals. from the first great stress was laid by the board of education upon the educational aspect of the meals. "the methods employed in the provision of meals should be not merely such as will secure an improvement in the physical condition of the children, but such as will have a directly educational effect upon them in respect of manners and conduct."[ ] "the school dinner may ... be made to serve as a valuable object-lesson and used to reinforce the practical instruction in hygiene, cookery and domestic economy."[ ] footnote : board of education, code of regulations for public elementary schools in england, , p. ii. footnote : report on the working of the education (provision of meals) act up to march , , prefatory note by l. a. selby-bigge, p. . in many cases this advice was totally disregarded. the second report on the working of the act contains many examples of the utter lack of discipline prevailing in some centres. in one case "no attempt to teach orderly eating was made; there was a certain amount of actual disorderly conduct, throwing bits of food at each other and so forth." in another case where the meals were served in a small outhouse in the playground, the "table was a low locker.... on this a newspaper was spread, and there was hardly room for more than six children to sit round it. other children sat on low benches where they could, holding their bowls on their knees ... about fifty partake of the dinner, but there is not room for more than twelve at a time, and then it is a scramble.... the food (irish stew and bread) was good but everything else was as bad as could be." at another centre, we read, "the dinner is eaten in a perfect pandemonium of noise. nine charwomen of a rather low type attend to about children."[ ] footnote : report on the working of the education (provision of meals) act for the year ended march , , pp. , . it is encouraging to note that there has since been, generally speaking, an improvement in the service of the meals. but "there are still areas in which the educational possibilities of the meals have not been realised, or, if realised, have not received the attention which they deserve"[ ]--a statement which we can amply corroborate. footnote : report of the chief medical officer of the board of education for , pp. , . the different methods in vogue may be classified roughly under four heads, according to the place in which the meal is served, _i.e._ (_a_) in the school, (_b_) in eating-houses, (_c_) in "centres," or (_d_) in the home. (_a_) the ideal place for the meal is the school when a room is specially set apart as a dining-room. the meal should be attended only by the children from that particular school and should be served under proper supervision. the tables should be nicely laid, regard being paid to the æsthetic side of the meal, and table manners should be taught. the children should themselves lay the tables and wait on one another. we have found these ideal arrangements in some of the special schools for defective children and in open air schools,[ ] but it is very rare to find such provision made for the "necessitous" children in the ordinary elementary schools. many authorities, indeed, adopt the plan of serving the meals in the schools, but too frequently class-rooms are utilised. the objections to this course are obvious. adequate ventilation after a meal is often impossible, and the smell of food pervades the atmosphere. it is frequently necessary to hurry over the meal so that the room may be prepared in time for school. the food is often served on the desks, an uncomfortable arrangement and one which renders it very difficult to teach the children to eat nicely. footnote : we describe two or three of these schools later. (see post, pp. - .) the worst example of this utilisation of the school premises that we have seen is that of bootle. here the arrangements made for supplying the meals show a deplorable lack of appreciation, on the part of the education authority, of the benefits which may be derived from the provision of meals act. the breakfasts are served sometimes in class-rooms, sometimes in the cloak-rooms or the cellars! when we visited bootle (in april, ) the breakfasts had been stopped for the summer, but we were shown one or two of these cellars. we were told that they are made as inviting as possible--the walls are whitewashed, sawdust is sprinkled on the floors, a table is placed for the children to sit down to--but when all is done that can be done they remain entirely unsuitable places for the purpose. the only point that is urged in their favour is that the children enjoy the warmth from the heating apparatus. in the cloak-rooms there is not always room for a table, and the children sometimes have to sit along the walls, holding their mugs of cocoa or their basins of soup on their knees. when the class-rooms are utilised the food has to be placed on the desks; nothing in the nature of table-cloths is provided, and the state of the desks after the children, the infants especially, have eaten soup or bread and syrup, can be well imagined. often the breakfasts arrive late, and the children have consequently to be hurried over the meal so that the class-rooms may be got ready for school.[ ] it must not be assumed that nothing in the way of table manners is attempted; clean hands, for instance, can be insisted on (though even this is difficult in some schools where there is an insufficient supply of water), and at one school we were told that the infants had learnt to eat without spilling their food; but it is obvious that very little can be done. the method of serving the midday meal is even less "educational." we have seen that the education committee refused to make arrangements for the provision of a suitable dinner, and decided instead that the teachers should distribute at midday to the most necessitous children any surplus left over from breakfast. the dinner thus consists usually of merely a piece of bread, with perhaps some cocoa, if any remains from the morning meal. the bread is given to the children to take away, and they eat it on their way home. what renders the failure of the education authority to pay any regard to the educational aspect of the meal more disastrous is that it is the teachers who supervise the meals. many of them bitterly resent the way in which the meals are served; as one pointed out to us, the girls are taught in the school how to set a table, but the practical example which the teachers are forced to show will have much more weight than any theoretical teaching. a year ago the head teachers presented a memorial to the education committee, urging that the schools should no longer be used. as "a temporary expedient," runs the communication, they "have loyally endeavoured to work this imperfect system, but they now feel that the time has arrived for the adoption of a scheme on a more satisfactory and permanent basis.... the serving of meals in cloak-rooms, cellars or basements, and other unsuitable places, calls for immediate remedy. in some cases the children receive their meals whilst sitting upon the floor; in all, the bread is of necessity placed upon the dirty desks. in others, there is no adequate supply of hot water and towels for use in cleansing the utensils. under such conditions there can be no training in habits of decency or cleanliness.... when the meals are served in class-rooms, the desks and floors are rendered unfit for immediate school use, and a smell of food permeates the atmosphere. to combat this state of affairs as far as possible, the teachers have, in many cases, to wash the desks and brush the floors. in other cases, the children are hurried over their meals in order that the necessary preparations for lessons may be made."[ ] to this the education committee replied that, while they agreed "that an ideal system of feeding the children would be by properly equipped centres quite apart from the school premises, the cost of such would be prohibitory, and that quite possibly the pressing of such a change would jeopardise the continuance of the exercise of the powers given by the provision of meals act, now so beneficially and economically administered." the committee hoped "that the teachers will recognise the authority's financial difficulties in the way of the introduction of a more desirable system, and, pending the arrival of the long-expected parliamentary aid for this and other ameliorative work devolving upon local education authorities, will continue their valuable co-operation in meeting the needs of their hungry scholars by the existing practical if not perfect system."[ ] the teachers had apparently been considering the advisability of withdrawing their services altogether, but this threat of a possible cessation of the meals induced them to continue their assistance. footnote : at birmingham we note the same defect. "the children are quiet and well-behaved; but all the time is taken in serving the food, and there is no opportunity to teach individual children to eat slowly. the tendency, especially with the cocoa breakfast, is to gulp down the drink, eat part of the bread and jam, and carry the rest away." (_the public feeding of elementary school children_, by phyllis d. winder, , p. .) footnote : report of bootle school canteen committee, - , p. . footnote : _ibid._, p. . (_b_) a second method is the service of the meals at local restaurants. this plan is strongly discouraged by the chief medical officer of the board of education, since it is impossible to secure adequate supervision of the meals or proper control of the dietary; "the meals are consequently of little, if any, value from an educational or even nutritional point of view."[ ] any authority adopting this system is, in fact, animated solely by the desire to get the children fed with the least possible trouble. footnote : report of the chief medical officer of the board of education for , p. . unfortunately the plan is still in favour with a considerable number of local authorities,[ ] even in some of the large towns. footnote : in many towns where meals are usually served at centres, local restaurants are utilised in outlying districts where the number of children is too small to allow of a centre being established. thus at stoke-on-trent the children for whom free meals are granted are sent to eating-houses.[ ] these houses are often, if not always, small bakers' shops, not general restaurants. they are usually situated at an easy distance from the school. the numbers attending each are small, amounting to not more than twenty or so. at the one we visited[ ] the conditions seemed to be as good as could be expected under the circumstances; the caterer was a motherly old woman who took an evident interest in the children, and the food was hot and palatable. the disadvantages inherent in the system, the impossibility of supervision and the lack of control over the dietary, are, however, observable here as elsewhere. probably in few cases would the children get an insufficiency of food. the difficulty lies rather in securing good quality and the proper kind of meal. thus it was found that one caterer had substituted, for the regulation fish pie, bread and jam, because the children preferred it. "i have inspected several of these [eating-houses]," reports the school medical officer, "and although i found one instance in which the children were treated on exactly the same lines as the contractor's own children, in fact sat at the same table, and were regarded quite as members of the family; in most instances the surroundings, the manner of serving and the dietary left much to be desired.... i would strongly urge the advisability of getting the catering in all instances into our own hands. i do not think that the full benefit of the act can be secured in any other way; it is doubtful, as things are, whether the intention of the act, as a remedy for malnutrition, can be carried out at all."[ ] footnote : at one school, the children have the meal in the school, the food being sent in by a caterer, the head-mistress preferring that arrangement. footnote : in april, . footnote : annual report of the school medical officer for stoke-on-trent, , p. . at acton the meals are given at a dingy eating-house which is intended primarily to serve the needs of the women working at the laundries in the district.[ ] there is only one room, so that the children have to have their meals with the other customers, and the hour at which the children come in, between twelve and one, is, of course, the busy hour for the restaurant. at one time a rota of ladies attended voluntarily to supervise the meals, but this plan has been given up; the school attendance officers now take it in turn to be present. the children come and go as they please and there is no attempt to teach table manners. footnote : this eating-house is situated in the poorest part of acton, where the great majority of the children who are on the dinner-list live. in a few cases, where the children live in other districts, arrangements are made for them to obtain food at the cookery centres; this food they take home with them. this plan, we were told, is only adopted in cases where the mother can be trusted to see that the dinners are really eaten by the children for whom they are intended. at liverpool, till quite recently, the same system was in force. the children received coupons at the school, which they presented at various cocoa rooms in the city.[ ] the objections to this system were many. the number of cocoa rooms, at which coupons were accepted, was limited, and in some cases the nearest cocoa room was situated too far from the school for the children to be sent there.[ ] though some managers refused to supply unsuitable food, others gave whatever the children asked for--frequently buns, jam puffs, or iced cakes.[ ] often the children would take the food home to be shared among the other members of the family.[ ] at some cocoa rooms the children were served in the general room, and were brought into contact with adult customers "of a class not choice in language or manners." there was little or no supervision--only occasional visits by the teachers--and consequently no attempt "to influence the children in the direction of cleanliness and orderliness at meals."[ ] in spite of these revelations the system was continued for several years, being only finally given up in august, . the meals are now served in centres. the food is at present supplied by caterers, but the education committee are considering the advisability of providing their own kitchen. footnote : some were sent to the depôts of the food and betterment association. footnote : interim report of the special committee appointed to investigate the insufficient or improper feeding of school children, liverpool city council proceedings, - , vol. ii., pp. , . footnote : _ibid._, pp. , , . footnote : _ibid._, pp. , , , . in one case where five coupons were given daily to five members of a family, it was found that the children took the coupons home every day, and at the end of the week these coupons were presented and value obtained. (_ibid._, p. .) footnote : ms. memorandum on the feeding of school children, by the liverpool fabian society, . (_c_) the plan most usually adopted, and the one recommended by the board of education, is the system of serving the meals at centres attended by children from three or four neighbouring schools. for this purpose some room belonging to the corporation may be utilised, perhaps a room attached to the police station, as often at manchester, or a room in some disused school; frequently the hall of a club or mission is hired. the arrangements are often of a makeshift character, the room being ill-adapted for the purpose and the surroundings dark and dreary. moreover, the assembling of large numbers of children from different schools renders the work of supervision more difficult and detracts considerably from the educational value of the meal. the actual conditions vary widely from town to town, and even from centre to centre in the same town. the best results are perhaps to be seen at bradford,[ ] the town in which most attention has been paid to the subject. here the teachers supervise the meal, two or three being present generally, one to apportion the food and the others to supervise the table manners of the children. they are assisted by boy and girl monitors. these are selected generally from the elder children on the dinner list.[ ] on arrival, about ten minutes before the meal, each monitor puts on one of the blue overalls provided for them, sets the table for which he or she is responsible and hands round the food. the position of monitor is a much coveted one. the system provides a valuable training for the children in doing things for themselves, and in looking after one another. the results are most marked. in every centre we visited the children were quiet and orderly, and in some cases the behaviour was excellent. at one centre we were particularly struck by the table manners of the boys, their consideration for one another, and the quick and quiet way in which they collected all the plates and spoons and packed them in the boxes for return to the cooking depot of their own accord, without any instructions from the teacher in charge. the results vary, of course, in different centres. for instance, with regard to clean hands and faces, some teachers are very strict, each child having to hold up his hands for inspection as he enters the dining-room. in others only periodical inspection is made, and we noticed several dirty hands, notably in the case of some of the boys who were assisting to hand round the food. infants are placed at separate tables so that they can receive special attention. each child is expected to eat the first course, or at any rate to try to eat it, before being given the second. when the child does not like the food, it is given a small helping at first and coaxed to eat it. over and over again we were told that at first the children would hardly touch the food, being accustomed to the home dietary of bread and tea and pickles; but by the patient endeavours of the teachers this difficulty was overcome and the children have learnt to appreciate nourishing food. the importance of the æsthetic side of the meal is fully appreciated. table cloths are provided and often flowers. the meal, indeed, "from start to finish is educational."[ ] footnote : the centres at bradford, leeds, west ham and birkenhead were all visited in the spring of and the descriptions refer to that date. footnote : in the secondary schools, the poorer children are allowed to act as monitors, being given in return a d. dinner free. footnote : report of school medical officer for bradford, , pp. - . at nottingham the conditions are very similar to those at bradford, the education committee having, in fact, modelled their policy on that of bradford. at leeds it struck us that the chief aim was merely to feed the children, the educational side receiving only secondary consideration. as most of the centres are not large enough to accommodate all the children at once (at any rate in winter time), two "sittings-down" are necessary, and the meal is hurried through so as to allow the second relay to come in as soon as possible. the children begin their meal as soon as they enter, without waiting till the others have come in so that all may begin together in an orderly manner. grace is said halfway through the meal. as soon as a child has finished the first course (of which it is allowed to have a second helping, if desired), it is given a piece of cake or bun which it eats outside in the street. the supervision is undertaken by the teachers, but only for a day or two at a time. this constant change of supervisors makes the teaching of table manners more difficult. one of the regulations runs that "the supervisor should see that no child is admitted who has not clean hands and face,"[ ] but to judge from the very dirty state of some of the hands and faces we saw, this rule seems to be ignored, at any rate at some of the centres. no special provision is made for the infants; they have the same food and are placed at the same tables with the bigger children; in some cases the tables are so high that they have to kneel on the forms in order to reach their food, and the spoons provided are so large that it is difficult for them to eat without spilling it.[ ] the condition of the rooms after the children have finished their dinner is anything but desirable, soup being spilled on the table and pieces dropped on the floor. especially was this noticeable at one centre where the meal was served on desks. these desks were covered with dirty and ragged linoleum, and the whole surroundings were inexpressibly dreary, the litter of food on the floor at the end of the meal adding to the general squalor. footnote : leeds education committee, rules for the management of dining centres. footnote : complaints on both these points had, we were told, been made to the education committee, but, on the score of expense, nothing had been done. at west ham some attempt is made to render the meal educational.[ ] monitors and monitresses are appointed from among the elder children to assist in waiting on the others. table cloths are provided, and in some cases flowers are placed on the tables. but here again the meal is spoilt by the sense of rush. since at each centre there may be twice or even perhaps three times as many children as can be accommodated at once, each child is given its dinner as soon as it comes in, and is dispatched as soon as it has finished. "table manners, personal appearance, good behaviour, and punctuality," are indeed, as the superintendent of the centres remarks, "not overlooked; but in these respects, the results are not as satisfactory as one could desire. the unusually large numbers of children attending the centres, and the limited time in which to serve the meals to enable the children to return in time for school, make it a difficult task to give the necessary individual attention."[ ] at one time school managers and members of the children's care committee took it in turn to attend the different centres and supervise the children, but this plan has been given up, and the supervision is now done solely by the women who prepare the meals. footnote : the meals are served at the schools in some room which is no longer needed for teaching purposes; in some cases, we believe, in a room which was specially built as a dining-room. we have included this example in the third class rather than in the first, since in each case the school serves as a centre for children from neighbouring schools. footnote : report of the west ham education committee for the year ended march , , p. . birkenhead affords a striking example of the varying conditions prevailing in different centres in the same town. in one case a dining-room has been specially built at the school, this dining-room serving as a centre for several other schools. no table cloths are used, but the tables are of white wood, well scrubbed; plants are sometimes provided, and the whole surroundings are bright and cheerful. the children were unfortunately allowed to come in as they liked, but in other respects the discipline seemed good. table manners were inculcated and clean hands insisted on. food had to be finished at table and might not be taken away. at another centre the conditions were entirely different. the meals were served in a corridor at the public baths. two long narrow tables were placed against each wall, with forms on one side; on the other side, owing to the narrowness of the corridor, there was no room for seats, so that some of the children had to stand. the children entered and left as they liked, and were allowed to take away food with them. little effort was made to teach table manners, indeed it would have been impossible to do much in this respect owing to the unsuitable character of the premises. it would perhaps be unfair to dwell too much on the conditions prevailing in this centre, since the use of these premises was admittedly a temporary expedient (though we understood they had been used for some time), but the conditions at a third centre were not very much better. the hall was large, it is true, and there was plenty of room for the children, but the surroundings were very dreary. the tables, which were not covered with tablecloths, were dark and dingy. here again the children were allowed to straggle in as they pleased, some as much as half an hour or forty minutes late. they left as soon as they had finished, frequently carrying away food with them unchecked. little attention was paid to table manners and much of the food was wasted. (_d_) the three methods which we have described all present one feature in common. the children, whether fed at the schools, at eating-houses or at centres, all share with their schoolfellows in a common meal. there remains one other method, the supply of food to the family for consumption at home. this is the method adopted at leicester and, so far as we know, in this town only. as we have already pointed out, no rate is levied at leicester, voluntary funds being declared to be sufficient. these funds are administered by the children's aid association, a body composed largely of members of the charity organisation society and imbued with its spirit. the association proceeds on the theory that the provision of meals is simply a form of relief; this being so, the relief should be adequate, and the family as a whole should be dealt with. the food is accordingly distributed in the homes,[ ] sufficient being supplied for all the family, not only for those attending school, and it is given every day, including sundays, throughout the year. milk being the chief article absent from the dietary of the poor, the food chosen is bread and milk. this is delivered by the ordinary baker and milkman so that the neighbours should not know that the family is receiving relief (though as a matter of fact the "bread and milk" families appear to be well known). footnote : where the home conditions are extremely bad, provision is made for children to be fed at eating-houses, but such cases are very rare. at the time of our visit, in july, , there was not one such case. certain advantages have undoubtedly accrued from this system. the parents have learnt the value of milk, and the children have been taught to take it. at first there was often much difficulty in this latter respect, but by constant visitation the children's prejudice has been broken down, and they now relish the food.[ ] on the other hand, under this method of distributing the food in the homes the advantages to be derived from a common meal are totally ignored. no provision is made to meet the case where the mother goes out to work all day, and where the provision of a midday meal at school would be of great value. moreover, though frequent visits are paid to the homes at breakfast-time to see that the children are actually getting the food intended for them, it is impossible to ensure this in all cases. footnote : second quarterly report of the children's aid association, november, , to february, , p. . we have classified the different methods under the above four headings according to the place where the meal is served, but, as will have been seen by the examples given, the educational value of the meal is determined even more by the character of the supervision than by the nature of the surroundings. the supervision is frequently undertaken by the teachers. in , the board of education reports that the "assistance of teachers has been the rule rather than the exception."[ ] this service is always rendered voluntarily, though occasionally, as at bradford, the teachers receive some small remuneration.[ ] the amount of service given varies widely in different towns. at bradford the same teacher will attend the centre daily for months. in other towns his or her turn may come quite infrequently, and may only amount to two or three days' service at a time.[ ] sometimes school managers, members of the canteen committee or voluntary workers take it in turn to assist in the supervision, but their attendance is generally spasmodic. at portsmouth the centres are entirely in charge of ladies who give their services voluntarily.[ ] as a rule, however, paid superintendents are appointed, too often women of the caretaker type. in some towns the school attendance officer attends to collect the tickets and helps to maintain order. footnote : report on the working of the education (provision of meals) act up to march , , p. . footnote : the head teachers receive s. a week for supervising dinners, and s. d. for breakfasts; the assistant teachers s. and s. respectively. at derby also the teachers are paid. (report of the school medical officer for derby, , p. .) this payment is very exceptional. footnote : at leeds, for instance, the teacher will perhaps be called on for a day or two every two months. at liverpool a teacher is supposed to attend once a fortnight, but often no teacher at all is present. at bootle the turn may be one day a week or a fortnight, or perhaps a week at a time; here the teachers, we were informed, voluntarily give their services "under protest," a fact which, when one considers the conditions under which they are asked to serve the meals, is not surprising. footnote : "the importance of a well-advised and comprehensive scheme in the selection of children ... under the education (provision of meals) act," by victor j. blake, in _rearing an imperial race_, edited by c. e. hecht, , p. . the question how far the teachers should be asked to give their services is a vexed one. on the one hand, where the teacher attends regularly--and regular attendance is essential if the full benefit from the meals is to be derived--this extra work involves a great strain. especially when the midday interval is only from to . , as in many provincial towns, the time for rest is seriously curtailed. at leeds "a reasonable time is allowed the teachers in charge for their own midday meal," and they are allowed to arrive late at afternoon school in consequence of this,[ ] but we were told that this permission is not in practice taken advantage of, as their late arrival would dislocate the work. moreover, although the service is supposed to be always entirely voluntary on the part of the teachers, there is always the danger that they may feel under a moral obligation to offer their services. in some cases, the burden seems to fall unduly on a few, only a small minority offering to assist in the supervision, the others taking no share. footnote : leeds education committee, rules for the management of dinner centres. at bradford it is noticeable that it is as a general rule the men teachers who supervise the meals; women teachers assist, but the responsibility for the management of the whole centre seems to involve too great a strain upon them. on the other hand, "it is unquestionable that where the teachers are willing to undertake the work, they are, generally speaking, the most competent supervisors. the reason for this is not far to seek. the children, being accustomed to obey the commands of their teachers, are more ready to behave in an orderly and disciplined manner when under their supervision than when a stranger is in charge. moreover, the teachers' acquaintance with the idiosyncrasies of individual children enables them to keep an eye on those children who are specially in need of food or who need persuasion to make them eat the wholesome food provided."[ ] again, the fact that the teachers are present connects the meal in the child's mind with the school, and so tends to make it more a part of the school curriculum, a lesson in table manners. without the teacher, miss mcmillan points out, "the whole venture will fail miserably on the educational side." but it is a mistake to ask the teachers to serve the food and wait on the children. their function should be "to preside and to be the head, and as far as possible the soul, of the daily gathering,"[ ] just as at dinner in a secondary school. footnote : report of the chief medical officer of the board of education for , p. . footnote : _london's children: how to feed them and how not to feed them_, by margaret mcmillan and a. cobden-sanderson, , p. . we have met with this ideal arrangement only at one school--a small "special" school for feeble-minded children at bradford (see post, pp. - .). to sum up now the main characteristics of the present methods of serving the meals, it will be seen that, generally speaking, the conditions are very far from satisfactory. even where the local education authority draws up elaborate regulations for the management of the dining-centres, these regulations are frequently disregarded in practice by the supervisors. too often the object is to get the meal over as quickly as possible, and inadequate attention is paid to the inculcation of table manners and the little amenities of a civilised meal. to expedite the service the food is frequently placed on the table before the children come in, and it is nearly cold before they eat it. sometimes the second course is served and placed in front of the child before it has finished the first course. the food is almost invariably such as can be eaten with a spoon and fork, and the children are thus not taught the use of a knife.[ ] sometimes only a spoon is provided and the help of fingers is almost unavoidable. we have as a rule found the supply of utensils fairly adequate, though where water is given it is not always the case for each child to have a separate mug.[ ] it is rare to find any attempt at table decoration, and table-cloths are by no means universal. it may be objected that table cloths are expensive and, if the tables are kept thoroughly clean, unnecessary, but to keep the tables well scrubbed costs as much as to provide table cloths and the necessity of keeping the cloth clean is a useful lesson to the child. sometimes the food, if of the bread and jam nature, is placed on the table without plates. in very few cases has the system of utilising the services of the elder children been adopted with any thoroughness, and the valuable opportunity of training thus offered is lost. footnote : knives were used at bradford for a time, but were given up, as it was found that the children hurt themselves. their use demands, of course, much supervision, but they might be given to the elder children at any rate. footnote : at birmingham "in one school the same mugs [for cocoa] were used twice over for different children without being washed. the supply of utensils at several of the schools was too small for the numbers fed." (_the public feeding of elementary school children_, by phyllis d. winder, , p. .) (e)--the provision of meals during the holidays. at the time the act of was passed, it appears to have been generally taken for granted that it empowered local education authorities to provide meals during holidays as well as during school time.[ ] the circular issued by the board of education, asking the local authorities for information as to the way in which the act had been administered, contained a question as to the number of children who were fed during the school holidays, thus assuming that the meals would be continued; nowhere was it pointed out that the cost of the meals so provided could not be borne by the rates.[ ] moreover, during the next two or three years, the accounts of several local authorities, who continued the meals during the holidays, were certified by the local government board auditors.[ ] about , however, the question was raised whether local authorities could legally spend the rates on providing meals when the children were not actually in school. the local government board, on being appealed to by the newcastle-on-tyne education authority, replied that they could not concur in any interpretation of the act which would empower the authority to incur expenditure when the closing of the schools precluded the children's attendance.[ ] in august, , the cost of feeding children during the previous christmas holidays was disallowed by the auditor in the accounts of the west ham authority. the local government board, on appeal, confirmed the disallowance, though they remitted the surcharge.[ ] footnote : see preamble to the education (provision of meals) act amendment bill, july , . "this bill introduces no new principle, but simply extends the act to render permissible the continued operation of the act during the holidays, a point which, when the original act was passing through parliament, it was generally thought was covered." footnote : report on the working of the education (provision of meals) act, up to march , , p. . footnote : _hansard_, july , , th series, vol. , pp. - . in , out of the twenty-five or so local authorities who continued the meals during the holidays, about one-fifth paid for them out of the rates. (report of the chief medical officer of the board of education for , p. .) footnote : _ibid._, p. . footnote : _ibid._, pp. - ; report of west ham education committee for the year ended march , , pp. - . since this date, in the great majority of towns where meals are continued during the holidays,[ ] the cost is met by voluntary funds. sometimes the local education authority will issue a special appeal for funds. or the arrangements may be undertaken by some voluntary society or by philanthropic individuals. where no provision is made officially, the teachers sometimes make arrangements privately for the most necessitous children to be fed at shops. at leeds it has become the custom for the lord mayor to provide out of his own purse meals during the christmas holidays (the meals being discontinued during the other holidays); the cost of this provision may amount to as much as £ . footnote : the first report which was issued on the working of the provision of meals act gave the number of authorities who continued the meals during the school holidays--at that date out of the counties, and out of the county boroughs, boroughs and urban districts, who were making some provision under the act (report on the working of the education (provision of meals) act, , up to march , , pp. - ). no figures are now available. in one or two towns the charge has been met year after year out of public funds. at bradford, for example, the meals have from the first been continued during school holidays.[ ] the expenditure has been surcharged regularly by the local government board auditor, but, as we have said, it has been met out of a grant voted by the finance committee from the trading profits of the corporation. the labour councillors maintain that when the act was passed holiday feeding was considered legal and the ratepayers generally seem to uphold them in this claim, in spite of occasional protests.[ ] at nottingham the same plan is pursued.[ ] at portsmouth a grant is made to the mayor on the tacit understanding that he will use it for the provision of meals during the holidays. at west ham, after the local government board auditor had, in , disallowed the charge for holiday feeding, the cost was for a year or two borne by voluntary funds.[ ] it became, however, increasingly difficult to raise the necessary subscriptions, and during £ was charged to the rates, the voluntary subscriptions only amounting to £ .[ ] during the following year recourse was again had to the rates. the local government board auditor surcharged the expenditure, but the board, on appeal, remitted the surcharge, though confirming the auditor's decision.[ ] at acton meals have been supplied regularly on saturdays[ ] and during the school holidays for the past few years without any question having been raised. footnote : report of bradford education committee for the year ended march , . footnote : see letter from bradford ratepayers association, in bradford city council proceedings, august , . footnote : in london, during the christmas holidays, - , meals were provided out of a sum placed at the disposal of the chairman of the council by the general purposes committee, from the balance of the account in connection with the erection and management of the coronation procession stands. (minutes of the london county council, february , , p. .) footnote : report of the west ham education committee for the year ended march , , p. ; _ibid._ for the year ended march , , p. . footnote : _ibid._ for the year ended march , , pp. - . footnote : the _east ham echo_, august , . footnote : at brighton meals were provided on saturdays by the local education authority out of the rates till january, , when it was declared to be _ultra vires_. (report on the medical inspection of school children in brighton for , p. .) the question of the legality of the provision of meals during the holidays out of the rates is, indeed, an open one. the london county council took counsel's opinion on the point in and again in , each time receiving the reply that holiday feeding was illegal,[ ] but the question has never been settled by a case in the courts. on special occasions the local government board have relaxed their prohibition. thus, in , mr. john burns stated in parliament that though the board would not sanction in advance any expenditure incurred in providing meals during the week the schools were closed on account of the coronation festivities, they would be prepared to consider each case on its merits, and decide whether any surcharge that might be made should be remitted or upheld.[ ] and in the spring of , during the widespread distress caused by the coal strike, the board sanctioned the provision of meals during the easter holidays. footnote : minutes of the london county council, february , , p. ; minutes of the education committee, november , , p. . footnote : _hansard_, march , , th series, vol. , pp. - . on several occasions bills have been brought in by the labour party to legalise the provision of meals during the holidays, the latest being in april, .[ ] so far these efforts have met with no success, though the prime minister declared in that the government was favourable to the principle,[ ] but it has now been promised that the forthcoming education bill shall contain a clause enabling local authorities to provide meals on sundays and during holidays.[ ] footnote : see education (administrative provisions) bills, april , (no. ), february , (no. ), april , (no. ), which all contained a clause for provision of school meals during the holidays; education (provision of meals) act amendment bills, july , (no. ); april , (no. ); march , (no. ); april , (no. ). footnote : _hansard_, march , , th series, vol. , p. . footnote : _hansard_, july , , vol. , pp. - . there seems indeed to be a general consensus of opinion in favour of holiday feeding. the experiments made by dr. crowley at bradford in , and by the medical officer of health at northampton in , which we shall describe later,[ ] not to mention the testimony offered by numbers of teachers as to the deterioration of the children physically during the holidays, prove conclusively the need for the continuation of the meals, if the children are not to lose much of the benefit which they have derived during term time. footnote : see post, pp. - . in passing we may note that not only do many local authorities--how many we are unable to ascertain, but the number must be considerable--discontinue the meals during the holidays, but they stop them entirely during the summer months.[ ] in some towns, where employment is good during the summer, there may be little need for school meals, but in large towns, such as bootle and salford, which contain a large population who rely on casual labour, it is obvious that the cessation of the meals during the summer must cause considerable hardship. footnote : this may be through lack of funds, as at east ham (see ante, p. ), but is not always due to this cause. (f)--the provision for paying children and recovery of the cost. when the provision of meals act was passed it was assumed that a considerable proportion of the cost of the meals would be borne by the parents. it was confidently expected that large numbers of parents would be willing to avail themselves of the provision of a midday meal at school for their children and would gladly pay for it.[ ] the circular issued by the board of education to the local authorities pointed out that the act aimed at securing that suitable meals should be available "just as much for those whose parents are in a position to pay as for those to whom food must be given free of cost."[ ] "there will generally be no difficulty in providing, where it is so desired, a school dinner at a fixed price in the middle of the day, attended by children for whom, by reason of distance from the school or because the mother's absence makes a home meal difficult, the parent prefers to take advantage of an arrangement similar to that now in operation in most secondary day schools."[ ] moreover, little difficulty was anticipated in extracting payment from those parents who could afford to pay but neglected to do so. these expectations have not been fulfilled. in the year - the sums received from the parents, either contributed voluntarily by them or recovered after prosecution or threat of prosecution, amounted to only £ , or . per cent. of the total receipts.[ ] in - the amount so received had increased but was still only per cent.[ ] footnote : see, for instance, _hansard_, december , , th series, vol. , p. ; december , , pp. , . see also _ibid._, july , , vol. , p. , and april , , vol. , p. . footnote : report on working of the education (provision of meals) act up to march , , p. . footnote : _ibid._, p. . footnote : _ibid._, p. . footnote : the amount was £ , out of a total of £ , . (report of the chief medical officer of the board of education for , p. .) the smallness of the sums voluntarily contributed by the parents is largely due to the action of the local authorities. in the great majority of towns in england[ ] no serious attempt has been made to establish "school restaurants"; the local education authority, owing perhaps to lack of accommodation, perhaps to the difficulty of providing for a fluctuating number of children (a difficulty felt especially where the meals are supplied through a caterer), perhaps to the feeling that the provision of school meals as a matter of convenience would encourage the mothers to go out to work, has limited the provision to necessitous children. in - , out of towns (apart from london) in which provision was made for underfed children, in only twenty-two were any of the meals paid for wholly by the parents. the number of children so paid for was in most cases negligible, the total amounting to only a few hundreds. and these figures include meals paid for under compulsion (though without prosecution) as well as meals voluntarily paid for as a matter of convenience.[ ] footnote : for provision made for paying children in scottish towns, see appendix ii., pp. , , . footnote : report of the chief medical officer of the board of education for , pp. - , . in eleven other towns the parents in some cases paid part of the cost. but even where the system of voluntary payment has been tried, it has been a failure. at bradford, where a large proportion of married women work in the mills, it was felt that many parents would take advantage of a system by which they could obtain a midday meal for their children at cost price.[ ] the education committee accordingly sent round a circular to the head teachers asking them to announce to their scholars that a good dinner could be obtained for d.[ ] the response was disappointing. comparatively few of the mothers took advantage of the offer, and the result, though the number of paying children[ ] seems to be larger than in any other provincial town,[ ] can only be described as a failure. this may be partly attributed to the cost. where there are several children a payment of d. per head may be more than the parent can afford. but the main cause of failure is undoubtedly the dislike of the independent type of parent who can afford to pay to sending his children to meals the majority of which are being given free. in fact any system which seeks to combine free and paying meals, the free meals being the chief element, is fore-doomed to failure.[ ] footnote : "the needs would be met of a host of children who never got a decent meal." (councillor north, bradford city council proceedings, february , , p. .) footnote : extracts from the annual reports of the bradford education committee for the four years ended march , , , and , pp. , . the charge is now - / d. footnote : the numbers given in the report of the chief medical officer of the board of education for (p. ) are , but some of these were paid for by the guardians. no record, we were told, is kept of the individual children who pay, but the amount received in - from parents who voluntarily paid the whole cost was £ s. d. thus only some , meals were wholly paid for, out of a total of , . (bradford education committee, return as to the working of the provision of meals act for the year ending march , .) footnote : at finchley as many as two-thirds of the meals are paid for, but the charge is very low, only / d. per meal. we were informed that the price would not cover the cost of food if it were not for the fact that the meat used in connection with the dinners was provided as a voluntary gift. footnote : this was the opinion of the inter-departmental committee on medical inspection and feeding in . (see ante, p. .) "if no distinction is made between the paying children and the non-paying children," declared one witness, "i feel sure that the birmingham artisan would not send his children. he would not let them go to receive a meal in regard to which it was not known whether it was given free or not." (report of the inter-departmental committee on medical inspection and feeding, , vol. ii., q. , evidence of mr. george hookham.) see also the evidence given by mr. f. wilkinson, the director of education for bolton. (_ibid._, qs. - .) in the special schools for mentally or physically defective children, where the dinner is provided more as a part of the school curriculum than as a "charity" meal, there is not, as we shall see, much difficulty in inducing the parents to pay for the meals.[ ] in rural districts also, where the children are in many cases unable to go home at midday, the system of paying dinners has more chance of success.[ ] footnote : see post, p. . footnote : see post, pp. - . turning now to the question of the recovery of the cost from unwilling parents, the provision of meals act, it will be remembered, laid down that the local authorities should require payment unless satisfied that the parents could not pay, and the cost might be recovered summarily as a civil debt. in practice this has been found very difficult to accomplish. it is impossible to tell from the returns how much of the £ , received from parents in - was contributed voluntarily, and how much recovered after compulsion, but the amount recovered must necessarily be very small.[ ] footnote : the amount recovered _after prosecution_ in - was £ s. d. for the whole of england and wales, london accounting for more than half this sum. (report of the chief medical officer of the board of education for , pp. - .) to this we must add the amount recovered with more or less difficulty, but without prosecution. where the local education authority confines the provision of meals strictly to the cases where the family income is below a certain amount per head, as at leeds, there is of course little to be recovered, attempts at recovery being limited to cases where the parents have made an incorrect statement as to their income, and have therefore been obtaining the meals under false pretences. at west ham, indeed, the education committee has interpreted the provision of meals act to mean that recovery must be attempted in every case where meals are supplied. when a parent applies for meals for his children on the score of being unable to provide for them himself--for only necessitous children are fed, no provision being made for voluntary payment--he has to sign a form by which he agrees to repay the cost of all meals which have been supplied when he gets back into work and can afford to do so. moreover, he has to send a note every day saying that he still wishes his children to be fed,[ ] this being insisted on as a proof that meals have been supplied in the event of an attempt at recovery. in any case the full cost is rarely charged, the wage and the number of children being taken into consideration, and a rebate of sometimes as much as per cent. being granted. but as a matter of fact very few accounts are sent to the borough treasurer for collection, as the wages of nearly all the parents of the children who are fed, even when they are in good work, are too small to allow of their paying for meals supplied in the past.[ ] footnote : see ante, p. . footnote : report of the west ham education committee for the year ending march , , p. . when the local education authority is determined to provide food for all children who need it, for those who are underfed through the neglect of their parents to provide for them as well as for those whose parents are too poor to do so, a considerable amount ought to be recovered. the difficulty lies in the impossibility in many cases of securing sufficient evidence of the parent's ability to pay. magistrates are notoriously loth to convict. at bradford we were told that in numbers of cases magistrates' orders for payment had been served on the parents, but these orders were frequently disregarded by parents who knew the practical difficulties in the way of enforcing them.[ ] footnote : in proceedings were taken against parents in only eight towns, including london. the number of cases was , of which were in london. (report of the chief medical officer of the board of education for , pp. - .) whether the amount due for meals which have been already supplied is paid by the parent or not, the commonest result of sending a notice that the local authority intends to recover the cost is that the parents refuse to allow their children any longer to receive the meals. "in practice it is found," says the bootle school canteen committee, "that when action is taken to enforce payment the children are withdrawn by their parents from further participation in the meals, with the result that the children revert to their former ill-fed condition."[ ] at york, too, we were told that when a child who is found to be underfed through neglect is put on the feeding-list and a letter written to the father that he will be charged the cost of the meals, he invariably writes back demanding that his child shall be taken off the list. nothing more is done and the child remains underfed. the local education authorities are, indeed, "on the horns of a dilemma in dealing with such cases, as the act obliges them to make this attempt to recover the cost, and they know that the only result of their doing so will be that the children are withdrawn from the meals."[ ] so much has the bradford education authority felt this difficulty that they have more than once sought power, by inserting a clause in the local bills promoted by the corporation, to compel the attendance of children at meals in all cases in which the school medical officer certifies that the children are underfed, and to recover the cost. these efforts have so far proved useless, it being held that such a clause involves a new principle and cannot therefore be included in a local act.[ ] footnote : report on the work of the bootle school canteen committee, - , p. . since this date the committee have accordingly made no attempt to prosecute parents for repayment of the cost. footnote : extracts from annual reports of bradford education committee for the four years ended march , , , and , p. . footnote : at bradford a child who is underfed through neglect is put on the feeding-list for a month before the bill is sent to its parents, so that it may receive the benefit of the meals for this period at any rate. the question of dealing with neglectful parents is indeed beset with difficulties. under the children act, , a parent or guardian can be prosecuted for neglecting a child "in a manner likely to cause such child unnecessary suffering or injury to its health." this neglect is defined to mean those cases where the parent or guardian "fails to provide adequate food, clothing, medical aid or lodging," or, if unable to provide the same himself, fails to apply to the guardians for relief.[ ] it is rare for the local education authorities themselves to institute proceedings under this act. usually they prefer to refer cases to the society for the prevention of cruelty to children. often an improvement in the condition of the child is effected as a result of the visits of this society's inspectors to the home. but when these warnings prove useless, frequently nothing more is done; the society are loth to prosecute, except in extreme cases when they can be practically certain of securing a conviction. footnote : edward vii., c. , sec. . (g)--overlapping between the poor law and the education authorities. we have already alluded to the neglect of the guardians to deal with more than an insignificant fraction of the children who are underfed. the attempt made in to force them to fulfil their responsibility in this respect was, as we have seen, a complete failure, and the duty was therefore cast upon the local education authorities. but even in the few cases where the guardians have assumed the responsibility by granting out-relief to the family, the amount of this relief is, in the vast majority of cases, totally inadequate. this was abundantly proved by the report of the poor law commission in . "the children," they reported, "are undernourished, many of them poorly dressed and many bare-footed ... the decent mother's one desire is to keep herself and her children out of the work-house. she will, if allowed, try to do this on an impossibly inadequate sum, until both she and her children become mentally and physically deteriorated."[ ] when the mother was careless or neglectful no supervision was exercised by the guardians to see that even this inadequate amount was really spent on the children. this indictment still holds good to-day. the inadequacy of the relief granted by the guardians, in all but a few exceptional unions, has, in fact, become a byword. footnote : report of the royal commission on the poor laws and relief of distress, , vo edition, vol. iii. (minority report), p. . in the great majority of towns, the local education authority is consequently driven to feed children whose parents are in receipt of poor relief. thus two authorities deal with the same case, without, in many instances, either of them knowing what the other is doing.[ ] only in a few cases has any attempt been made to prevent this overlapping. for example, at leicester (one of the few towns, we may note, where liberal out-relief is granted by the guardians) there has from the first been co-operation between the guardians and the canteen committee.[ ] the relieving officer refers to the canteen committee many applications that are made to him where temporary help only is needed, and the committee has frequently tided families over a bad time and saved them from recourse to the poor law. on the other hand, when a family is receiving out-relief the canteen committee refuses to grant food for the children. at acton a similar policy has been adopted. if parents who are in receipt of out-relief apply for school meals for their children, the secretary of the education committee recommends them to apply to the guardians for more relief, at the same time himself writing to the relieving officer. as a rule the relief is increased in consequence. meanwhile the teachers are told to watch the children to see that they do not suffer from want of food. at dewsbury, also, temporary cases are dealt with by the canteen committee, but all chronic cases by the guardians.[ ] footnote : occasionally, as we have seen, the guardians are represented on the canteen committee, as at crewe. footnote : first annual report of the leicester children's aid association, - , p. . footnote : report of the school medical officer for dewsbury for , p. . elsewhere an attempt has been made to prevent overlapping by other means. while the education authority undertakes to provide for all the underfed children, an arrangement is made with the guardians whereby they repay the cost of the meals supplied for all children whose parents are in receipt of relief. the relief is thus given partly in the form of school meals, a plan strongly to be commended, since it ensures that the relief given on account of the children is in fact obtained by them. this plan has been for some years pursued at bradford. at first there appear to have been complaints that the guardians were reducing the relief granted, on account of the dinners supplied at school,[ ] but the dinners are now given in addition to the ordinary relief.[ ] in - , the guardians paid £ to the education authority on this account.[ ] even so, there is some slight overlapping, since the guardians only pay for dinners and in some cases the canteen committee are of opinion that a second meal is needed, and consequently breakfasts are granted and paid for by the education authority. a similar plan has been adopted at blackburn,[ ] huddersfield,[ ] brighton,[ ] york and liverpool. in the last named town the arrangement has only recently been made, and is in force in only two of the three unions into which the town is divided, west derby and liverpool. the guardians have agreed to issue coupons for school meals to children whose parents are in receipt of out-relief, and will pay to the education authority d. per meal. we were informed that, in the case of the west derby guardians at any rate, these coupons would only be given to children whose mothers were out all day. the relief would be reduced in consequence, though not to the extent of the full value of the meal. the guardians of the toxteth union declined to make a similar arrangement, but suggested that the local education authority should inform them when they found children underfed whose parents were in receipt of relief, and they proposed in these cases to increase the relief.[ ] footnote : bradford city council proceedings, june , , p. ; april , , p. . footnote : thus the minimum relief for a widow is s., with s. each for the first two children, and s. each for other children. in addition five dinners a week, amounting in value to s. - / d., are given to all children attending school. (bradford poor law union, outdoor relief arrangements.) footnote : bradford education committee, return as to the working of the provision of meals act for the year ending march , . footnote : report of the school medical officer for blackburn, , p. . out of , meals given during the year, the guardians paid for , , or nearly one-third. footnote : report of the huddersfield education committee, , p. . footnote : report of brighton education committee for the year ending march , , p. . footnote : for the arrangements made between the liverpool education committee and the guardians with regard to payment for children admitted as voluntary cases to the day industrial schools, see post, p. n. other local education authorities have tried this plan of communicating with the guardians, in the hope that they would grant adequate relief for the needs of the children, but, finding no such result ensue, have discontinued the practice. at bury st. edmunds, for instance, it was found in the winter of - that "a large percentage of the families whose children were fed at school were in receipt of outdoor relief of an amount which the education authority thought inadequate. the attention of the board of guardians was called to the fact, but no steps were taken by them."[ ] the education committee accordingly continued to feed the children, and we gather that now no communication is made by them to the guardians. similarly at west ham we were informed that the education committee used to report cases to the guardians, but the practice proved useless and it has been given up, except for special cases, where the guardians will sometimes increase the relief given. footnote : report of the royal commission on the poor laws and relief of distress, , vo edition, vol. iii. (minority report), p. n. in a few unions, as at leeds, the only result of the guardians learning that the children are receiving school meals--the need for which points to the conclusion that the out-relief granted is inadequate--is that they promptly reduce the relief, though not contributing to the local education authority anything towards the cost of the meals. they appear to regard the provision of school meals merely as a means of reducing the poor-rates, and casting the burden on other shoulders. naturally in such circumstances the local education authority does not report cases to the guardians. any systematic arrangement between the two authorities appears indeed to be exceptional. as a rule there is practically no co-operation, beyond, perhaps, the notification of cases by both authorities to some mutual registration society,[ ] or the informal meetings of the relieving officers and the school attendance officers.[ ] footnote : thus at manchester, the education committee and the guardians send lists of their cases to the district provident society, and the secretary lets each authority know what the other is doing. footnote : it is impossible to give any figures as to the overlapping that exists, since the practice varies so much in different towns, and in many cases no records are kept. (h)--the provision of meals at day industrial schools and special schools. we have already alluded to the power of the local education authorities to provide meals for the children attending the day industrial schools and the special schools for the mentally or physically defective. the day industrial schools are intended primarily for children who have played truant from the ordinary schools and who are committed by a magistrate's order. but in the case of widows or deserted wives who have to work all day, or when the father is incapacitated from work by illness or infirmity, or if the father is a widower, the children may be admitted to a day industrial school, without an order, as "voluntary cases."[ ] when children are committed by a magistrate's order, the parents are ordered to make a weekly payment towards the cost of industrial training and meals.[ ] in the case of children admitted voluntarily such payment is also theoretically demanded,[ ] but in practice it is, as a rule, impossible to exact it. thus at liverpool, though small payments are received from widowers, the condition as to payment has to be waived in the case of widows and deserted wives, or when the father is unable to work through illness.[ ] at bootle we were informed that no payment is received from any of the voluntary cases. the schools are open from or in the morning to . or at night and three meals are provided. the dietary is as a rule monotonous, being continued week after week with practically no variation. in point of order, as might be expected, the service of the meals compares favourably with those given to necessitous children, erring rather on the side of over-much discipline. it is, unfortunately, by no means uncommon to find absolute silence insisted on, a regulation which has a most depressing effect. in these day industrial schools the local education authorities have a valuable instrument for providing for the numerous cases where mothers are at work all day and so cannot provide proper meals for their children, or where the children are neglected. this was urged by many witnesses before the royal commission on the poor laws,[ ] and again recently by the departmental committee on reformatory and industrial schools.[ ] very few authorities, however, have taken advantage of this power. in there were only twelve day industrial schools in england, provided by eight authorities, and eight in scotland, of which seven were in glasgow.[ ] the total attendance numbered a little over , , the voluntary cases amounting to only .[ ] these numbers showed a decrease compared with previous years,[ ] and this decline has since continued, partly owing to the fact that truancy is far less common now than formerly, partly owing to the provision of meals for children attending elementary schools, which renders the day industrial schools less necessary.[ ] footnote : elementary education act, ( and vic., c. ), sec. ( ); children act, ( edward vii., c. ), sec. ; "day industrial schools," by j. c. legge, in _proceedings of national conference on the prevention of destitution_, , p. . footnote : children act, , sec. ( ). footnote : _ibid._, sec. . footnote : "day industrial schools," by j. c. legge, in _proceedings of national conference on the prevention of destitution_, , p. . for many years an arrangement has been in force by which the liverpool select vestry pay the local education authority d. a week in respect of each child in their area admitted as a voluntary scholar. (_ibid._) a few years ago the guardians of the toxteth union agreed, in such cases, where the parent was in receipt of outdoor relief, to increase the relief by d. on condition that this was paid to the education authority. (_ibid._, p. .) the west derby guardians pay a lump sum of £ a year. footnote : report of the royal commission on the poor laws, . vo edition, vol. iii., p. . footnote : report of the departmental committee on reformatory and industrial schools, , p. . footnote : fifty-fifth report on reformatory and industrial schools, , part i., pp. - ; part ii., p. . two of the schools in england have since been closed, and the school at leeds is shortly to be given up. footnote : _ibid._, part i., pp. - ; part ii., p. . footnote : _ibid._, part ii., p. . footnote : report of the departmental committee on reformatory and industrial schools, , p. . the arrangements made for providing for the mentally and physically defective children vary in different towns. sometimes no special provision is made. at leicester, for instance, the mentally defective children who come from a distance bring their food with them and the caretaker warms it. frequently, however, a regular dinner is supplied. thus at eastbourne dinners are provided at the special school for dull and backward children at a very small charge.[ ] at bradford some of the children pay - / d. a meal, others receive it free. at liverpool a payment of s., d. or d. a week is demanded, according to the circumstances, the meals being given free in special cases.[ ] in birkenhead, too, the charge varies, some paying s. a week, some d. or d. per meal, at the discretion of the teacher; no meals are given free, children who cannot pay being sent to the centre to have their dinner with the necessitous children from the ordinary elementary schools. there appears to be usually little difficulty in collecting payment. at birkenhead we were told that some difficulty was experienced at first, but the children appreciate the dinners so much now that they beg their parents to give them the necessary pence. footnote : report of school medical officer for eastbourne for , p. . footnote : the majority pay about d. a week. in the case of physically defective children the parent's payment is intended to meet the expenses of dinner, any medicines or dressings that may be necessary, and the cost of conveyance. it does not, of course, nearly cover these charges. at the open air schools[ ] the common meal always forms part of the regular school routine. as a rule three meals a day are provided,[ ] and sometimes milk is given in addition in the middle of the morning. usually some charge is made towards the cost of the meals, varying from d. to s. per week, according to the parents' circumstances, but in necessitous cases the charge is remitted.[ ] footnote : in there were only nine open air schools, maintained by eight authorities. (report of the chief medical officer of the board of education for , p. .) footnote : at darlington only a mid-day meal is provided. footnote : at norwich the charge varies from d. to s. d.; at sheffield, from d. to s. d.; at halifax it may amount to s. at barnsley all the parents are charged s. d. per week, no children being admitted without payment. at bradford the meals are given free to all. the service of the meals at these special schools presents in general a marked contrast to the methods prevailing at the centres for necessitous children. for example, at birkenhead, where the management of the feeding centres leaves much to be desired,[ ] the dinner provided at the mentally defective school, for all children who care to stay, is served in an attractive and educational manner. one or more teachers are always present to supervise it. the children enter all together and sit down at small tables. the boys and girls take it in turns to lay the tables and clear away afterwards, and help to serve the food. table-cloths are provided and these are kept remarkably clean. somewhat similar conditions prevail at liverpool in the special schools for physically and mentally defective children.[ ] but it is at a school for feeble-minded children at bradford that we found the most perfect arrangements. the smallness of the numbers--only some or children being present--allowed attention to be paid to each individual child. the dinner was served in a bright cheerful hall, and the tables were nicely laid by the children, with table-cloths, plants and flowers; these latter the children often bring themselves. two teachers are always present and preside at the two tables, having their dinner with the children. the children's manners were excellent and spoke volumes for the patience and care exercised by the teachers. footnote : see ante, pp. - . footnote : at one of these schools, the mentally defective children were having their dinner in one room, the physically defective in an adjoining room. all the children stay for the meal. the headmistress supervised, assisted by a teacher for the mentally defective, and the school nurse for the physically defective children. tablecloths were provided for the latter, but not for the former. the dinner was cooked by the children who had been attending the cookery class in the morning; the children laid the tables, and monitors helped to serve the food. the example afforded by the service of the meals at these special schools might well be imitated by the education authorities in providing meals at the ordinary elementary schools. (i)--the underfed child in rural schools. we have confined our investigations almost entirely to the urban districts. we must, however, briefly touch upon the question of underfeeding in the country. here the conditions are different. the problem is not only how to provide for the children who do not get sufficient to eat; there are also to be considered the large numbers who are unable to return home at midday and have to bring their dinner to school with them. many of these children have to walk long distances, perhaps two miles, three miles, or even more. the long walk necessitates an early start from home; this makes the interval between breakfast and dinner long and the exercise sharpens the appetite. hence it is of the greatest importance that the midday meal should be adequate. in most cases, however, as the reports of school medical officers abundantly testify, the dinner which these children bring with them consists of bread and jam, cake or pastry, with perhaps a bottle of cold tea.[ ] in a few schools the teachers have organised cocoa clubs, the children paying d. or - / d. per week, which is as a rule just sufficient to cover expenses.[ ] incidentally, it is noticed, the weekly payment for cocoa has a good effect on the attendance. "a child having once paid his or her cocoa fee at the beginning of the week seldom stays away from school during the remainder of the week if it can possibly be avoided."[ ] footnote : in east sussex, for instance, where particulars were supplied by the teachers as to the meals brought by eleven of the children, it was found that the food was totally inadequate, in most cases consisting of bread and butter, or cake, with perhaps a small piece of cheese or an apple. two children of five years old, who had to walk two miles to school, brought, one of them bread and butter only, the other cake. three children, who had to walk three and a half miles, brought either cake or only bread. ("the diet of elementary school children in country districts," by dr. george finch, in _rearing an imperial race_, edited by c. e. hecht, , p. .) in a bedfordshire school out of children who brought their dinner to school with them, one had an apple tart, three had bread and cheese, while had "bread with a thin layer of butter or lard on it, or else bread and jam, or bread and syrup. this meal was washed down with water, as nothing hot was obtainable." ("how the family of the agricultural labourer lives," by ronald t. herdman, reprinted in _rearing an imperial race_, p. .) footnote : thus at brynconin, where children are supplied daily with cocoa for a weekly charge of d., the week's expenditure on cocoa, sugar and milk amounts to s. d., and the children's payments to s. d. (report of the school medical officer for pembrokeshire for , p. .) see also reports of the school medical officer for hampshire ( ), p. ; for the isle of ely ( ), p. ; for gloucestershire ( ), p. ; for east suffolk ( ), p. ; for west sussex ( ), p. . sometimes the cocoa is provided free through the generosity of the teachers. (see report of monmouthshire education committee on the medical inspection department for , p. .) footnote : report of the school medical officer for hampshire for , p. . sometimes the teacher encourages the children to bring bottles of milk, cocoa or coffee and sees that they are warmed over the fire before being partaken of. occasionally a regular dinner is provided. we have already mentioned the experiment made at rousdon by sir henry peek in . this has been continued to the present day. a hot dinner is provided daily, consisting of one course, soup with bread and vegetables two days a week, and some form of suet pudding the other three days. about half the children stay for the dinner and pay one penny each, these payments just about covering the cost of the food. the meal is served in a dining-room in the school and the ex-headmaster and the present headmaster voluntarily undertake the supervision. a somewhat similar plan has been tried at grassington, in yorkshire. when, eighteen years ago, the teaching of cookery was introduced, it was resolved to combine with that instruction the provision of a hot midday meal. the children not only cook the dinner themselves, but they take it in turns to order and pay for the materials, thus acquiring the valuable knowledge how to buy. they are taught the value of the different foodstuffs and learn how to make a good substantial dinner at a little cost. a two-course dinner, ample and varied, is provided daily at the school.[ ] each child is allowed to eat as much as it wants, but no waste is allowed. marvellous as it appears, the payment of a d. per meal covers the cost of the food.[ ] the dinner appears to have been intended chiefly for the children who came from a distance, but the parents of the children who live in the village have been glad to avail themselves of the provision, since the school dinner is better than they can supply at home.[ ] nearly half the children stay. all the arrangements are, and have from the first been, made by the headmaster's wife, who takes the cookery lesson and serves the meal herself, and the success of the experiment must be very largely attributed to her voluntary labours. footnote : for sample menus, see appendix i., p. . footnote : for instance, the cost of the food for the dinners for twelve weeks amounted to £ s. d., and the children's payments to £ s. d. on cold snowy mornings hot cocoa is provided before morning school for all the children. the cost of this is, we gather, borne entirely by the headmaster and his wife. footnote : _yorkshire post_, july , . in two schools in cheshire also, siddington and nether alderley, hot dinners are provided at a charge of - / d., in the former during the winter months, in the latter all the year round. in both cases the children's payments cover, or slightly more than cover, the cost of the food, the other expenses being borne by voluntary funds. such provision is, however, quite exceptional. as a rule no provision whatever is made. "i have only once seen any supervision of the meal on the part of the teachers," writes a late assistant school medical officer for east sussex; "in fine weather the children generally eat [their dinner] out of doors; in bad weather it is taken in the school or cloak-room in what are often very unhygienic surroundings."[ ] "there is no doubt," writes another school medical officer, "that at some of the schools the conditions in which the children get their midday meal are deplorable."[ ] "it is only too common a sight," reports the school medical officer for derbyshire, "to see little children sitting in a corner of the class-room, cloak-room or even the playground, munching at thick slices of bread and butter. under these circumstances," he continues, "it cannot be wondered at that children below the normal development are to be found in our schools."[ ] in anglesey the school medical officer finds more children badly nourished in the rural areas than in the urban areas; this he attributes mainly to the long walk to school every day, the inadequacy of the midday meal and the hurried manner in which it is eaten.[ ] footnote : "the diet of elementary school children in country districts," by dr. george finch, in _rearing an imperial race_, edited by c. e. hecht, , p. . footnote : report of the school medical officer for hampshire, , p. . footnote : report of the chief medical officer of the board of education for , p. . footnote : _ibid._, pp. - . it is indeed essential that in all country schools to which children come from a distance, provision should be made for the serving of a midday meal under proper supervision.[ ] as dr. george finch points out, "the authority which requires the child to spend its day away from home might not unreasonably be expected by the parents to make some provision that its midday meal might be taken under not unfavourable conditions. the parent, however conscientious, cannot adequately deal with the problem, and the provision of suitable cold food is not an easy matter, even in the more well-to-do family."[ ] the meals should be served as part of the school curriculum and might well be combined with the teaching of cookery as is done at grassington. footnote : as we have seen, the inter-departmental committee on medical inspection and feeding in recommended that managers of country schools should arrange, during the winter at any rate, to provide either a hot dinner or soup or cocoa for children who lived too far away to go home at mid-day. (see ante, p. .) footnote : "the diet of elementary school children in country districts," by dr. george finch, in _rearing an imperial race_, edited by c. e. hecht, , p. . conclusions. it may be useful now to sum up the main points which emerge from the foregoing description. the proposal, which we shall discuss in the final chapter, to make the midday meal a part of the school curriculum, to be attended by all children who wish to avail themselves of the provision, would obviate many of the difficulties that arise under the present system. meanwhile we may point out some ways in which improvements can be effected, apart from this more drastic proposal. . since the provision of meals act is only permissive, local education authorities are allowed to remain inactive in spite of the fact that children in their schools are underfed, and that no adequate provision is made by voluntary agencies. it should be made obligatory on the local authority to take action in such a case. . the limitation of the amount which may be spent on food by the local education authority to the sum yielded by a halfpenny rate restricts operations in some towns, and prevents provision being made for all the necessitous children. this limitation should be removed. an alteration of the law in these two directions would merely assimilate the powers and duties of the english education authorities to those already conferred on the scottish school boards by the education (scotland) act of .[ ] footnote : see post, pp. - . . the selection of the children who are to receive school meals is based, often solely and always primarily, on the poverty test. little attempt is made to link up the provision of meals with the school medical service. the meals, that is to say, are regarded primarily as a means of relieving distress rather than as a remedy for malnutrition. the numbers selected vary according to the policy of the local education authority and the views taken by the individual head teachers. nowhere can the selection of the children be said to be satisfactory. in towns such as bradford, where the local authority is determined to search out all cases of children who are suffering from lack of food, the great majority of underfed children are doubtless discovered, but in other towns numbers of such children are overlooked and left unprovided for, while everywhere little or no provision is made for the countless children who are improperly fed at home. we shall discuss in the final chapter the best method to be pursued in this matter of selecting the children. . there is great diversity of practice in different towns with regard to the time at which the meal is given, the manner in which it is prepared and served, and the kind of food supplied. where only one meal is provided, it would appear that dinner is for many reasons preferable to breakfast. the dietary should be varied and should be drawn up in consultation with the school medical officer; it should be so planned as to contain a due proportion of the elements which are lacking in the child's home diet, and special provision should be made for the infants. the preparation of the meals should not be left to caterers but should be undertaken by the local authority, so that adherence to the approved dietary and a high standard of quality can be assured. the meal should be regarded as part of the school curriculum. it should be served as far as possible on the school premises, and should be attended only by children from that particular school. the children should be taught to set the tables and wait on one another, the tables being nicely laid, with table-cloths and, if possible, flowers or plants. clean hands and faces and orderly behaviour should be insisted on. some of the teachers should supervise the meal and should receive some extra remuneration for this service. . the discontinuance of the school meals during the holidays has been shown to undo much of the benefit derived during term-time, and it entails unnecessary suffering on the children. the expenditure of the rates on holiday feeding must be legalised. the limitation of the provision to the winter months, as is the practice in some towns, is even more absurd. local authorities should be required to continue the school meals throughout the year, if need exists. . the sums contributed by the parents towards the cost of their children's meals amount to only a trifling fraction of the total expenditure. the power of providing meals as a matter of convenience for children whose parents are able and willing to pay has been very sparingly used by the local education authorities, as far as the ordinary elementary schools are concerned. in the special schools for defective children, on the other hand, where not infrequently a midday meal is provided for all the children, a considerable proportion of the parents contribute towards the cost. it is difficult to say whether the establishment of school restaurants in the ordinary schools would be successful. one point, however, seems clear; if the plan is to succeed, the meals must be intended primarily for paying children; if they are provided mainly for necessitous children, parents who can afford to pay will not send their children to any great extent. in the case of the parents who can afford to feed their children but neglect to do so, the attempt to recover the cost of the meals supplied to the children results as a rule in almost total failure, owing to the extreme difficulty of obtaining conclusive evidence of the parents' ability to pay. an attempt to recover may be worse than useless, for it frequently leads the parent to withdraw his children promptly from the school meals, though their need of the meals continues as great as before. . owing to the inadequate relief usually given by the boards of guardians, the local education authorities are in many cases forced to feed children whose parents are receiving poor relief. in only a few towns is any systematic attempt made to prevent this overlapping between the two authorities. so long as the guardians retain their present functions, the plan adopted at bradford and a few other towns, by which the out-relief granted by the guardians is given partly in the form of school meals, the guardians paying the education authority for these meals, might well be extended to other towns. by this plan overlapping of relief is avoided, while it ensures that the relief given to the mother on account of her children is in effect obtained by them. . in the rural districts the conditions under which the children eat their midday meal are frequently deplorable. the long walk to school renders it even more important than it is in the towns that the meal should be a substantial one, but the food which the children bring with them is as a rule entirely inadequate. in the few schools where a hot dinner has been provided, the plan has met with marked success, and such provision should be made in all schools. it might advantageously be combined with the teaching of cookery, a plan which is more practicable in the country than in the towns, since the numbers to be provided for are comparatively small. chapter iii the provision of meals in london we have reserved the treatment of london for a separate chapter since, owing to its size and the diverse conditions prevailing in the different districts, it presents problems of special difficulty. we shall describe in this chapter the provision made in the early years of this century by voluntary agencies, and the final assumption by the london county council of the whole responsibility of dealing with its underfed children; we shall trace the gradual building up of a vast and complex organisation to deal not only with the question of school meals, but also with other matters affecting the general welfare of the children; and we shall discuss the actual methods of working at the present day. (a)--the organisation of the voluntary agencies. we have already sketched the early history of the movement in london, and described the attempts made by the london school board to organise the host of voluntary agencies.[ ] the proposal put forward by a committee of the school board in to make that body responsible for providing food for all its underfed children was, as we have shown, defeated by a large majority, and a renewed attempt was made by the establishment of a central organisation, the joint committee on underfed children, to organise the voluntary agencies. footnote : see ante, pp. - . this attempt met with but little more success than the earlier endeavours. the functions of the joint committee were limited to receiving reports from the relief committees, pointing out defects in their methods of working, and acting generally as a medium of communication between these committees and the collecting agencies. if the relief committees failed to send reports, the joint committee had no power to compel them to do so, nor could the committee insist on the remedying of the defects which they pointed out. by the committee were able to report that only one school had been discovered in which meals were provided but no report received. "we may hope, therefore," they continue, "that ... the instructions of the council ... have at last reached all head teachers and are being obeyed. but in default of any executive and inspecting machinery, it has taken the persistent efforts of the joint committee, during six years, to effect this result, if indeed it has really been effected."[ ] the greatest difficulty was experienced in getting relief committees established in every school or group of schools in which underfed children were provided with meals.[ ] even when these committees were appointed, the meetings of many of them were held infrequently and for formal business only, the selection of the children and the enquiry into the parents' circumstances being left entirely to the teachers.[ ] consequently the methods of selection differed widely, even in the same school, the different departments paying no attention to what the others were doing.[ ] the enquiry was generally totally inadequate, and in some cases was not even attempted.[ ] the joint committee urged that, when meals were given at all, they should be given regularly at least four if not five days a week, and should be continued throughout the year if necessary.[ ] but in we find that "there are still a good many schools where meals are only provided on one or two days, and more where they are only given on three days, the average number throughout the schools being - / meals per child per week."[ ] in only sixteen schools were the meals continued for more than twenty weeks during the year.[ ] footnote : report of the joint committee on underfed children, for - , p. . footnote : fourth annual report of the joint committee on underfed children, , pp. - ; report of inter-departmental committee on medical inspection and feeding, , qs. , (evidence of mr. t. e. harvey). even in there were schools at which feeding took place which had not a properly constituted committee. (london county council, report by executive officer (education), appendix a to agenda of sub-committee on underfed children, july , .) footnote : "there is supposed to be a committee in every school," said one headmaster, "but the committees never meet in the vast majority of cases, and if they do, they never undertake personal investigation." (report of the select committee on the education (provision of meals) bills (england and scotland), , q. , evidence of mr. marshall jackman.) "there is [a relief committee] in accordance with the rules," declared another headmaster, but "the committee acts really through the head teachers.... the committee say that the teachers have their confidence, and they could not do any good by attempting themselves to help as a committee, and therefore they do not help." (report of the inter-departmental committee on medical inspection and feeding, , q. (evidence of mr. t. p. shovelier.) see also _ibid._, qs. a, - , , . footnote : see, for instance, report of inter-departmental committee on medical inspection and feeding, , qs. , . footnote : "the duty of making enquiries by the managers, or by outsiders working for them, into the home conditions of the children is, with some remarkable exceptions, seldom well done, and often not done at all. they are authorised to invite assistance from attendance officers, ... from charity organisation society visitors, district visitors, country holiday fund visitors, and similar persons, but we have very seldom found that this class of person has been consulted." (report of the joint committee on underfed children for - , p. .) footnote : _ibid._ for - , p. . footnote : _ibid._ for - , appendix g., p. . footnote : _ibid._, p. . the joint committee strenuously opposed the theory, which was now steadily gaining ground, that the rates should be utilised for the supply of food. in they report that, in their opinion, "all real distress on any considerable scale has been effectually met.... they have never been restricted in their efforts for want of funds, and there is no reason to think that any organisations dealing with public money would be more efficient than these bodies dealing with charitable money. on the other hand, there is reason to believe that, even as things are now, relief is often given to children who are not really in want, and there is no doubt that if the public purse were being drawn upon, relief would be distributed more lavishly."[ ] the county council could hardly, however, remain unmoved by the disquieting report of the committee on physical deterioration published in the same year. dr. eichholz, in his evidence before the committee, had indeed described the existing method of feeding in london as "entirely in the nature of a temporary stop-gap. there is," he declared, "but little concentrated effort at building up enfeebled constitutions, school feeding doing little beyond arresting further degeneracy."[ ] in april, , the council accordingly resolved "that, with a view to checking the physical deterioration among the london population and securing the best result from the expenditure on education, it be referred to the education committee to consider and report as to the necessary parliamentary power being obtained for the provision of food where necessary for the children attending rate-supported schools in london."[ ] the education committee, however, while admitting that there were numbers of underfed and ill-fed children attending the schools and that in the case of these children it was impossible to secure the best results from an educational standpoint, were nevertheless of opinion that, "while the necessity for feeding children as the last resort out of public funds is a proposition endorsed by the whole spirit of the poor law," there were strong arguments against seeking power to utilise the rates at present. the provision of school meals out of public funds must tend to lessen parental responsibility, and the expense entailed would be very serious, since the numbers, though small at first, would inevitably tend to increase.[ ] the committee recommended, therefore, that the experiment should be tried of utilising the food prepared at the cookery centres. the advantages of this course would be twofold. the experiment would prove whether there was a demand on the part of the better-off parents for the provision of cheap dinners at school, while the training at the cookery centres would be improved by receiving a more practical trend.[ ] footnote : fourth annual report of the joint committee on underfed children, , p. . evidence was given before the inter-departmental committee on medical inspection and feeding in , which showed that difficulty was experienced in collecting sufficient funds. the london schools dinner association found that people would contribute at christmas time, but in the early spring, when the work was heaviest, the subscriptions ceased. (report of the inter-departmental committee on medical inspection and feeding, , qs. , - .) see also evidence of mr. marshall jackman before the select committee on the education (provision of meals) bills (england and scotland), , qs. , - . footnote : report of inter-departmental committee on physical deterioration, , q. . footnote : minutes of the london county council, april , , p. . footnote : _ibid._, july , , p. . footnote : _ibid._, p. . the experiment was accordingly tried at five[ ] selected schools. in three of these schools, which were situated in poor districts, dinners were supplied at - / d each. in the other two schools, situated in better-class neighbourhoods, the cost was d. and d., the parents preferring the more expensive dinner.[ ] the council having no power to spend the rates on the provision of food, the meals had to be paid for by the parents or by charitable agencies. the teachers were instructed not to choose only necessitous children, but to distribute the tickets fairly between the children in the schools, the object being to try the experiment of a common dinner.[ ] from an educational point of view the dinners were very successful. the children were taught to eat properly,[ ] and the girls attending the cookery class benefited by the practical training. it appeared, too, that there was a demand, in certain districts at any rate, for the provision of cheap dinners at school.[ ] but the experiment was on too small a scale to have much practical bearing on the question of feeding necessitous children. for large numbers the cookery centres were quite inadequate and any attempt to use them primarily for the object of providing children's meals would interfere with the instruction given. footnote : the experiment was later extended to fifteen schools. footnote : report of the select committee on the education (provision of meals) bills, , qs. , , evidence of mr. a. j. shepheard. footnote : _ibid._, q. . footnote : the tables were "nicely laid and with tablecloths, with all the ordinary appliances and requirements of a table put there, such as salt cellars, knives and forks, and everything of that kind. the tables were laid out with flowers ... i think i may quite certainly say that some of these children had never sat down to a meal of that description in their lives." (_ibid._, q. .) footnote : minutes of the london county council, december , , p. . about eighty per cent. of the meals were paid for by the parents, the remaining twenty per cent. being paid for by friends or voluntary agencies. (report of the select committee on the education (provision of meals) bills, , q. .) (b)--the assumption of responsibility by the county council. no further serious attempt was made for some years to place the provision of food upon the rates. on the passing of the provision of meals act the county council took over the whole responsibility for the provision, the joint committee on underfed children, which had been composed partly of representatives of voluntary organisations,[ ] giving place to a sub-committee of the education committee[ ]; but voluntary funds were still relied on. in , however, the supply began to fail. in july of that year a conference of the mayors of the london boroughs had declared that there was no reason to fear that voluntary contributions would be insufficient to defray the cost of food.[ ] the appeal subsequently issued met, however, with a very meagre response, only some £ , being subscribed.[ ] by the end of the year it became clear that recourse must be had to the rates, and application was accordingly made to the board of education. the new system was put in force early in .[ ] footnote : when, in , the london school board was superseded by the london county council, the joint committee on underfed children had been continued by the latter body, its constitution remaining practically unaltered. (london county council, report of education committee, - , part ii., p. .) footnote : this sub-committee was known at first as the sub-committee on underfed children. in december, , the name was altered to the children's care (central) sub-committee. (_ibid._, p. .) footnote : see minutes of the london county council, november , , p. . footnote : "state feeding of school children in london," by sir charles elliott, in _nineteenth century_, may, , p. . footnote : london county council, report of the education committee for - , part ii., p. . meanwhile the constant complaints of the varying methods pursued by the different care committees[ ] in the selection of the children, and the rapid increase in the number of children fed,[ ] led the sub-committee on underfed children to call for a report on the circumstances of these children, so that the cause of the distress might be ascertained and some light thrown on the question how far the provision of free meals was really an effective remedy for the evils which existed.[ ] an investigation was accordingly conducted by the two officials who had been appointed by the council to organise the work of the local care committees. twelve schools were selected in different districts, and a careful enquiry made into the circumstances of all the children at these schools who were receiving free meals. in all , families were dealt with, containing , children. footnote : the local relief committees had been re-organised under the name of children's care committees in july, . (_ibid._) footnote : the numbers greatly increased during the winter of - , and reached a maximum of , in march, . (london county council, report on the home circumstances of necessitous children in twelve selected schools, , p. .) footnote : _ibid._ in a small number of the cases, · per cent., the distress was found to be due to illness or some other temporary misfortune; unemployment of the wage-earner accounted for · per cent., and under-employment for per cent., of the cases; in · per cent. the cause of the distress was attributed to the intemperance or wastefulness of the parents.[ ] the necessity of providing school meals, at any rate as a temporary expedient, was clearly proved. it was found that, though · per cent. of the children were not necessitous, the remaining · per cent. were necessitous "in the sense of lacking sufficient food," and that they would require school meals "until effective care committees are able to check the diseases attendant on partial employment, bad housing and other evils."[ ] so far little attempt had been made to improve the conditions of the homes by systematic visiting. with the majority of the care committees, declared the organisers, "their only active members are the head teachers and their only visitors are the attendance officers."[ ] the complaints as to want of uniformity in the selection of the children were corroborated. in many schools "each department has its own system of enquiry, its own method of selection, its own standard of necessity, and the result is that it is seldom that all the school children of one family are on the necessitous list."[ ] the extent of overlapping between the education authority and the boards of guardians was shown by the fact that out of the , families were in receipt of out-relief while no fewer than had been in receipt of relief recently.[ ] footnote : _ibid._, pp. - , . footnote : _ibid._, p. . footnote : _ibid._, p. . footnote : _ibid._, p. . see also the description of the methods employed at typical schools. (_ibid._, pp. , .) footnote : _ibid._, p. . to put an end to all this want of uniformity it was recommended that a responsible secretary visitor should be appointed for each school or group of schools, who would organise bands of voluntary workers, and co-operate with all existing local agencies for social improvement. it was urged that the duties of the care committees should not be confined to the provision of meals, but should include everything pertaining to the health and general well-being of the child.[ ] this latter recommendation was carried out. the care committees were re-organised and given additional duties, the supervision of medical treatment and the work of after-care,[ ] and it was resolved that a committee should be appointed for every elementary school, not only for those which contained "necessitous" children.[ ] the suggestion that a paid secretary should be appointed for every school or group of schools was not adopted. the council decided merely to appoint twelve paid lady workers for the whole of london, whose duties would be to strengthen the care committees. at the same time, as a further step towards uniformity, local associations of care committees were formed. several such associations had already come into existence voluntarily, but they were now made uniform and permanent. the functions of these associations, which numbered , were to make all the arrangements in connection with the feeding centres, and to collect voluntary contributions. they were also to act as advisory bodies. at their meetings would be discussed such questions as the selection of children to be fed, after-care, medical treatment, and any other duties falling to the care committees to be performed. they would thus, it was hoped, initiate a common policy and serve as a means of co-ordinating the work of the various care committees. two-thirds of their members were to be representatives of care committees, one-sixth were to be nominated by the teachers' local consultative committees, and one-sixth appointed by the children's care (central) sub-committee.[ ] footnote : _ibid._, p. . footnote : a few care committees were already carrying out these functions. see, for instance, the description of the methods adopted at one school (_ibid._, p. , no. c.) footnote : minutes of the london county council, april , , pp. - . footnote : minutes of the london county council, april , , pp. , ; handbook containing general information with reference to children's care, , pp. - , . there are thus to-day three distinct, though interdependent, organisations--the children's care (central) sub-committee, the local associations of care committees and the local care committees appointed for each school. in considering the development in london of the movement for the provision of meals, one is struck by the haphazard way in which the vast organisation has been built up. the county council has from the first been reluctant to undertake the responsibility for its underfed children. "the whole question of deciding which children are underfed, and of making special provision for such children," declared the chairman of the sub-committee on underfed children in , "should really be one for the poor law authority to decide, and not the education authority."[ ] the attempt to make the guardians carry out their duty having signally failed, the london county council was forced to undertake the task, but it has done so in a half-hearted fashion. the results of this failure to grasp the problem in a statesmanlike manner are conspicuously evident in the conditions prevailing to-day. footnote : report on the home circumstances of necessitous children in twelve selected schools, , p. . (c)--the extent of the provision. the total expenditure on the provision of meals in london amounted, for the year - , to £ , . of this by far the greater part, £ , , was derived from the rates, voluntary contributions amounting to only £ . apart from these voluntary contributions collected by the local associations, however, a few schools "contract out" and supply the meals from their own private sources.[ ] moreover, large sums were collected by voluntary organisations for the provision of meals during the holidays, especially during the summer holiday of , owing to the distress caused by the dock strike. and besides this holiday feeding, which, since it cannot be met out of the rates, must be paid for out of voluntary funds, there are still a certain number of voluntary agencies which are providing meals quite independently of the county council. footnote : thus at st. giles'-in-the-fields the expenditure on the provision of food is still met from voluntary funds. at hampstead, in all the schools except one or two, the provision of food for necessitous children is paid for by the hampstead council of social welfare. the care committee refers to the council of social welfare cases which are suitable for home relief, _i.e._, cases where the mother can be trusted to look after the children at home; in these cases adequate relief for the whole family is given by the council. if the mother cannot be trusted or if she goes out to work all day, the children receive meals at the feeding centre, the council paying for these meals. amongst the most important of these is the london vegetarian association. one of the chief objects of this association, which has been in existence many years, is the popularisation in the homes of the poor of a vegetable diet which is at once both cheap and wholesome. dinners are provided consisting of a bowl of vegetable soup, a slice of wholemeal bread and a slab of pudding. as a rule the meals are given during the winter only, being continued during the christmas holidays and, if necessary, during the easter holidays, and on saturdays also. the number of centres opened varies according to the state of the association's finances and the need that exists. during the present winter some half-dozen have been established, besides the central depôt in whitechapel, about children on an average being fed daily. since the passing of the provision of meals act the activities of the association, as far as the children are concerned, have been confined theoretically to the supply of dinners to children under school age or to children who wish to pay for the meals. but school children who prefer to be fed by the association rather than by the school are also given meals, as in addition are those who are not considered necessitous by the school care committee. any child can have a dinner on producing a halfpenny. free dinners are only given to children for whom application is made by some charitable agency, district visitors, little sisters of the poor or other persons interested, no enquiry being made by the association itself in these cases. it is clear that there is much danger of overlapping--in fact it has been found that, in some cases, children have obtained a dinner at school first and have then gone on to the depôt. in other cases it seems that the association feeds some children of a family, the care committee others. the total number of individual children fed during the year - was , ,[ ] the average weekly number being , . the numbers fed during the last thirteen years are seen in the following table:--[ ] season. average weekly number of children fed. - (august to july inclusive) , - " " , - " " , - " " , - " " , - " " , - " " , - " " , - " " , - (august to march ) , - (april to march ) , - , - , footnote : these are necessitous children only. this number includes the necessitous children in the defective schools, except the cripple schools, where the meals are provided by the cripple children's dinners committee. (see post, pp. - .) footnote : annual report of london county council for , vol. iv., p. . the figures for the earlier years are not reliable owing to the multiplicity of agencies providing food. (d)--the care committee. in the selection of the children the county council has throughout pursued the policy of keeping the numbers fed as low as possible. the school doctor may recommend for meals, or more frequently for milk or codliver oil, under-nourished children whom he discovers in the course of medical inspection,[ ] but the number of such cases is comparatively small. as a rule the children are selected by the teachers (either on their own initiative or, more frequently, on the application of the parents) on the ground of poverty. footnote : the teachers are asked to point out to the school doctor any children about to be inspected whose names are on the necessitous register. (london county council, handbook containing general information with reference to children's care, , p. .) the enquiry into the home circumstances of these children and the final decision as to which of them shall be fed, devolve upon the care committees. these care committees form the most striking feature of the administration of the provision of meals act in london. in no other town have the services of the volunteer worker been utilised to such an extent.[ ] as we have seen, the county council decided in that a children's care committee should be formed for every elementary school, and there is now practically no school for which a committee has not been appointed.[ ] the committees consist of two or three of the school managers, together with not less than four voluntary workers appointed by the children's care (central) sub-committee.[ ] the head teachers, though not members,[ ] usually attend the meetings, and in some cases undertake a considerable amount of clerical work. the members of these committees number some , ,[ ] but of these many take little or no part in the work, and the effective membership amounts perhaps to not more than two-thirds of this total. footnote : for examples of care committees in provincial towns, see ante, pp. - . in one or two scottish towns also care committees have been formed (see post, pp. , , - .) footnote : in addition to the ordinary elementary schools, care committees have been formed also for the special schools for defective children, with the exception of the physically defective. footnote : in a few cases the committees are composed entirely, or almost entirely, of working men. footnote : in the care committees were very largely composed of teachers. out of the total membership of , , , , or about three-sevenths, were teachers, , were school managers, and only were voluntary workers. (london county council, agenda for sub-committee on underfed children, appendix a, july , .) footnote : london county council, list of members of children's care (school) committees, . the functions of the care committees are numerous and important. they do not merely decide which children shall receive school meals. they have also to "follow up" cases of children who are found by the school medical officer to need medical treatment, and, by visiting the homes, induce the parents to obtain this treatment; often they arrange for the supply of spectacles at reduced rates and collect payment from the parents by instalments. further, they have to advise parents in connection with the employment of their children, referring suitable cases to the local juvenile advisory committee, apprenticeship committee or other agency, and generally befriending the children leaving school. some committees undertake the work in connection with the children's country holidays fund. frequently the care committee makes arrangements for the supply of boots,[ ] and sometimes also clothing, gratuitously or at reduced rates. footnote : at the end of , organisations for the supply of boots were in existence in , schools. these organisations were controlled by the care committees, managers, or head teachers. (report of the london county council for , vol. iv., p. .) the advantages of such a system of voluntary workers, acting in connection with, and under the guidance of, the local authority are many. the volunteer worker, as has often been pointed out, can bring to bear on individual cases a patience and an enthusiasm which the official has no time to bestow. by getting into friendly relations with the mother, the volunteer visitor will often be able to help the family in numberless ways. the care committee system represents, indeed, one of the most hopeful movements of the time, denoting, as it does, an awakening of the social conscience and a revolt against the old system of district visiting, which meant too frequently merely the giving of a dole, a system which encouraged a patronising attitude on the one hand, and a cadging habit on the other. from the care committee visitor little in the way of material gifts is to be expected. instead, some effort is demanded from the parent. he, or more usually she, is asked to co-operate with the care committee in doing what is necessary for the child's welfare. moreover, the care committee is invaluable as a means of educating public opinion. many will be found who, though perhaps strongly opposed in theory to the whole system of the provision of free meals, are yet willing to work for the children, and by contact with the children and their homes will learn something of the life and struggles of the poor, and a better mutual understanding will be brought about. as the warden of a settlement in liverpool has pointed out, "it is a constant lament of administrators of education that the public care more for saving the rates than making citizens. the complaint is justified. we only care about what we understand; the public understands the money it has to pay, but it does not understand what happens to it. as a matter of fact ninety per cent. of the ratepaying public have never been at a feeding centre or seen a medical inspection; and their own education was of such a scanty nature that one cannot expect their general imagination to supply the deficiency. hence they grumble at paying for a service of which they are ignorant. the remedy lies in making them understand. from the young men and women of these families we can recruit care committee workers. they will visit the homes of the people, the feeding centres and the school; their imagination will be stirred and their intellects quickened; finally, the time will come when an enlightened public opinion will be the critic of the education policy of our city."[ ] splendid work is now being done in many parts of london by the care committees and it is greatly to be regretted that the system has not been more widely adopted in the provinces. footnote : "care committee work in liverpool," by f. j. marquis, in the _school child_, september, , p. . on the other hand, the disadvantages of relying only on voluntary help must not be overlooked. in the first place there is the difficulty of securing enough workers. remarkable as has been the response to the appeal of the county council for helpers, yet many more are needed. in the residential parts of london this difficulty is not so much felt, but in the poorer districts, where the need is greatest, it is impossible to find enough people with leisure to devote to the work. from every care committee that we have visited comes the cry for more helpers. if the friendly relations with the parents are to be established, which are essential if the maximum amount of good is to be derived from the various activities which are undertaken by the school authorities, it is of the greatest importance that the homes should be visited; but it is rare to find a sufficient supply of workers forthcoming for this visiting to be undertaken regularly. it is true that some committees visit the homes once a month or sometimes even, in doubtful cases, once a fortnight, but more frequently visits are paid at long intervals, and in some districts many of the homes are never visited at all. at a school in east london, for instance (and this is typical of many others), we were told that it is found in practice quite impossible for every case to be visited, since there are only two members of the care committee to undertake this work. a committee in another district reports, "visits in doubtful cases are made twice a year, supplemented by quarterly visits," while another committee in the same district reports that, "owing to the lack of sufficient help, it is often necessary to receive parents instead of visiting homes." still more difficult is it to obtain honorary secretaries. the functions of a care committee are, as we have seen, many and varied, and involve an enormous amount of work, if they are to be performed efficiently, especially in districts where few volunteers can be obtained and where, in consequence, a disproportionate amount of visiting falls to the lot of the secretary. the secretary of a care committee in stepney found that it was necessary to give three quarters of her time to the work, and "even so, outside help had to be called in to keep the clerical work even approximately up to date."[ ] the secretary of another school in east london informed us that he had to give four full days a week, besides some hours devoted to clerical work in the evening; while another secretary, in central london, gives about four hours' work on an average five days a week. obviously it is impossible to secure enough volunteers. many who undertake the work of secretary find after a few months that they are obliged to give it up. the history of too many care committees is a record of ever-changing secretaries, interspersed with more or less prolonged interregna. in one district--and this appears to be typical of london as a whole--we were told that, out of schools, some or were at the time without secretaries, and the duties had to be undertaken by the assistant organisers. these officials are already overburdened, and the result is that all but the most urgent work is left undone. nothing is more disheartening for an energetic secretary who has laboured hard to effect some improvement in the condition of the children than to find, when forced by stress of circumstances to give up the work, that no one can be found to undertake the secretaryship and that, consequently, much of the devoted labour of months, perhaps of years, is undone. footnote : "care committees," by a. s., in the _school child_, march , pp. - . the need for the appointment of paid secretaries for each school or group of schools was, as we have seen, pointed out as long ago as .[ ] since that date the activities of the care committees have been enormously extended, and, in certain districts at any rate, if the work is to be done with any degree of efficiency, the necessity for such paid secretaries is becoming absolutely imperative. footnote : see ante, pp. - . but apart from the difficulty of securing enough voluntary workers, there are inherent disadvantages in the present system. the enquiry into the circumstances of the parents is not a duty for which the ordinary volunteer worker is fitted. and the necessity of making these enquiries may endanger those friendly relations which it is of such importance to establish between the visitor and the parent. the enquiry is generally totally inadequate. in the majority of cases the visitor is not trained for the purpose, and frequently finds this work distasteful. each visitor has a different standard. no enquiry is made from the employer[ ]; indeed, in the large number of cases where the father is casually employed such enquiry would be impracticable. in many cases there is little or no knowledge of what other help is being given to the family. many committees insist on the parents appearing before them to answer enquiries as to their circumstances. this is sometimes, as we have seen, rendered necessary by the lack of workers and the consequent impossibility of visiting the homes. but even if the homes are visited some committees consider that the obligation on the part of the parents to apply in person furnishes a test of the genuineness of their need. the attendance of the father, where it can be secured, is useful as it proves a means of bringing home to him his responsibility. it is not infrequently found that the mother has applied for meals without the husband's knowledge. on the other hand, as we have already shown, the insistence on the parents' attendance may result in considerable hardship to them, entailing perhaps the loss of half a day's work. they are often kept waiting for a considerable time. moreover, the assembling of numbers together, all for the purpose of making application for meals, tends to diminish the sense of self-respect. for this reason many committees consider it undesirable to summon the parents, or they only summon them in special cases. when the parent is summoned and does not attend, the council lays down that, if no immediate home visit is possible, a notice shall be sent to the parent that if he or she fails to attend before the committee or to show some good reason for not attending, the committee will be obliged to charge for the meals supplied to the children.[ ] as far as we can discover, this is very rarely done. the far more usual course is for the committee to send a notice to the effect that the meals will be discontinued unless the parent appeals. footnote : enquiries from the employers may not be made by the care committee without the consent of the parent or guardian. where the committee is doubtful of the accuracy of the parents' statements, the case can be referred to the divisional superintendent, who may make such enquiries. footnote : london county council, handbook containing general information with reference to children's care, , pp. - . another disadvantage arising from the utilisation of the service of voluntary workers alone, is that no sufficient control can be exercised by the central authority to enforce a common policy. a certain amount of latitude is desirable so as to allow scope for individual initiative and experiment. but in the matter of selection of the children to be fed want of uniformity is wholly to be condemned. the diversity in methods that prevails is in effect amazing. in two schools situated almost side by side, and drawing their children from the same streets, the percentage fed may be, in the one case, two, in the other ten, fifteen or even more.[ ] we have found this lack of uniformity in other towns, since the numbers fed depend very largely on the views taken by individual teachers, but in london there is superadded the diversity produced by the divergence of views of the different care committees. in one care committee the socialist element will be predominant. in another the work may be done on strictly "c.o.s." lines; the meals are regarded simply as a form of relief, and the feeding-list is cut down to the lowest limit.[ ] footnote : thus in three schools in south london, attended by children whose home circumstances were very similar, the majority of the parents being casual labourers, the percentages of children who were receiving free meals in march, , were . , . and . . in another neighbouring school, where the children were very little poorer, nineteen per cent. were being fed. footnote : the most extreme example of the "strict" type is the committee which deals with a group of schools in st. george's-in-the-east. it is held that, the provision of meals being merely a form of relief, the work should be as far as possible dissociated from the school; the parents do not make application to the teachers but to a central office. the county council has not found it possible to lay down any uniform rule for the guidance of the committees.[ ] though, in a small number of cases, the committee professes to have a scale, usually that laid down by rowntree,[ ] in practice this is a very rough criterion, frequently departed from, and the cases are all virtually decided on their merits. moreover, the policy of the same care committee even will not always be a consistent one. the decision as to any particular case will vary with the presence or absence of particular members of the committee. footnote : "having regard to the varying circumstances and conditions of families, it is considered undesirable to fix a minimum wage which would justify children being provided with school meals, and each case should therefore be considered upon its own merits." (london county council, handbook containing general information with reference to children's care, , p. .) footnote : that is, s. for an adult and s. d. for a child. (_poverty_, by b. seebohm rowntree, , p. .) where children from the same family attend different schools--a frequent occurrence in london--meals may be granted at one school and refused at another. the county council have issued elaborate regulations for ensuring that in such cases each care committee concerned shall know what the others are doing.[ ] but though many care committees do communicate with one another, or notify cases to a mutual registration committee, the county council's instructions are frequently disregarded. the secretary of one committee informed us that during the whole time of her secretaryship--a period of over a year--she never once received any notification from another committee. even where the cases are notified, it by no means follows that the several committees concerned adopt the same plan of action; often we have found that the one committee did not know in any particular case what the result of their notification had been. one secretary even told us that though all the committees in her district mutually notified cases to each other, this was solely for information; they pursued their own policy, merely noting that some of the children of the family were receiving meals at another school.[ ] footnote : handbook containing general information with reference to children's care, , p. . footnote : the county council, a few months ago, drew attention to the lack of uniformity prevailing. "in a number of cases it has been found that the form has not been issued, with the result that care committees dealing with part of a family are unacquainted with the relief afforded by another care committee." (_london county council gazette_, march , , p. .) to the parents this diversity of treatment of similar cases can only appear as capricious. successive visits by the care committee visitors from different schools, all making the same enquiries, are a needless source of irritation to the parent, while being at the same time unnecessary expenditure of time and energy for the visitors. attempts have been made in some districts to put an end to this waste of energy and overlapping. in camberwell, two or three years ago, it was decided that the care committee visiting should be organised by streets instead of by schools. the care committees of the different schools all sent on their cases to the secretary of the organisation, who referred them to the visitor for the particular street.[ ] this scheme worked very well for about eighteen months, but was then given up chiefly because the secretary could not continue the work. now three care committees in this district have been amalgamated, so as to secure some measure of uniformity.[ ] in a few other districts also, the care committees for groups of schools, though nominally separately appointed for each school, are in effect composed of the same people. quite recently an attempt to prevent overlapping has been made by the county council on a larger scale. in whitechapel the council have provided a central office where case papers will be kept, and paid assistants have been appointed who will notify to each care committee any assistance which is being given to the brothers and sisters of the children with whom they are dealing. footnote : "school care committees," by maude f. davies, in _progress_, july, , p. . footnote : at st. george's-in-the-east five committees have been amalgamated and then re-divided into two, one dealing with all the jewish, one with all the christian, children of the group. overlapping is thus almost completely avoided. (e)--the provision for paying children. the county council from the first has not looked with approval on the proposal that meals should be provided as a matter of convenience to parents who are willing to pay for them. "only cases of exceptional hardship," declared the education committee, "_e.g._, children of widowers or of widows who are compelled, owing to their work, to be away from home all day--should be so dealt with."[ ] in such cases payment must be made in advance and a week's notice be given, the full cost of the meals being charged.[ ] consequently, in most schools we find that no parents or only an insignificant number are voluntarily paying for the meals.[ ] but that there is a certain demand for such provision is shown by the number of applications received where the care committee encourages such a plan. in one school, for instance, we were informed that a number of parents paid; sometimes when the children had been receiving free meals the parents wished the children to continue having them when the home circumstances improved, and were quite willing to pay the cost. in such cases they preferred the children to go to the cookery centre, this being looked on as superior to the feeding-centre. in another district we were told that, though there was a demand on the part of the parents, this was not encouraged, partly because the staff of supervisors was inadequate to cope with larger numbers. there is frequently an unfortunate difference in the treatment of the paying and the non-paying children. at one centre, for instance, the "necessitous" children are placed at one table, and are supplied with food provided by the alexandra trust; the paying children are placed at another and are given food cooked at the cookery centre. at another school we were told that the paying children were fed at one end of the room, the necessitous children at the other; incidentally the paying children had to stand, since there were no chairs available, while the necessitous children sat on forms. in several schools the parents pay for milk or codliver oil when this is recommended by the doctor. in at least one school, however, we were told that though some of the parents would be willing to pay for this milk, it was too much trouble to collect the money, so no payment was asked. in one or two schools milk is provided for any child who likes to pay a halfpenny, and this provision is very largely taken advantage of. footnote : london county council minutes, november , , p. . footnote : the charge includes the cost of preparation and service of the meals, and is calculated to the nearest farthing. (london county council, handbook containing general information with reference to children's care, , pp. - .) footnote : in - the number of individual children who paid the full cost of the meals was , , that is, only one-fortieth of the number of "necessitous" children who were fed. the amount so received was £ . in the special schools for mentally defective children, where the provision of meals is carried on on the same lines as in the ordinary elementary schools, the proportion of children who pay for the meals is greater, since, owing to the distance from school of many of the children's homes, provision has to be made for non-necessitous as well as necessitous. in the cripple schools special provision has for many years been made by the cripple children's dinners committee. this body provides the food, the county council supplying the apparatus and attendance. dinners are supplied for all the children at a charge of d. each. the parents appear thoroughly to appreciate the provision made, and the great majority of them pay the full cost, only a few of the children receiving the dinner free or at a reduced price.[ ] footnote : in - the expenditure on food materials amounted to £ , s. d., and the payments for dinners to £ , s. d. out of a total of , dinners supplied, only , , or · per cent., were given free. the average cost of the dinner, for food materials only, was · d. (report of cripple children's dinners committee for - , pp. , .) (f)--the service of the meals. the results of the half-hearted fashion in which london undertook the responsibility for its underfed children are seen nowhere more clearly than in the arrangements made for serving the meals. the county council seems to have been actuated throughout rather by the desire to keep the expense down to the minimum than to supply the children with the most suitable food and to see that the meals were served under civilising conditions. in the early years after the council took over the provision, the local committees were left to make the best arrangements that they could. little encouragement was given them in any endeavour to provide wholesome and varied meals under conditions likely to exercise an educational influence over the children. still less was any attempt made to enforce such a policy. the reports are almost silent on this aspect of the question, though the scanty references which are to be found show a far from satisfactory state of affairs. in , for instance, it was reported that at thirty schools, where , children were fed, plates and mugs were not provided. "this has meant generally," reports the executive officer, "that the children brought their own mugs and ate the food out of their hands." in twenty other schools insufficient provision was made for washing up the utensils used and, "as food was served to the children in successive relays, two or more children used each drinking vessel or plate before it had been washed." "the usual meal has been a dinner of soup (sometimes containing meat), with, in certain cases, a form of pudding as an alternative. in the great majority of cases this was the daily meal for months without variety."[ ] the care committee organisers, in their report on the home circumstances of necessitous children in the same year, remark that, considering "the poor accommodation and the inferior quality of the meals often provided for the children," together with the fact that the highest average number of meals per child was · per week, it could not be expected that there would be much noticeable improvement in the physical condition of the children."[ ] footnote : london county council, agenda for sub-committee on underfed children, appendix a., july , . footnote : london county council, report on the home circumstances of necessitous children in twelve selected schools, , p. . since the formation of the local associations of care committees in conditions have improved, but they are still far from satisfactory. as we have already mentioned, these associations were formed in order to introduce some measure of uniformity into the work of feeding the necessitous children of the metropolis. they were from henceforth to be responsible for the arrangements made for the actual serving of the meals. the selection of a suitable centre rests with them, and it is their duty to arrange for the requisite supply of food and for the proper service of the meals and supervision of the children during the meal time. the food may be supplied by the alexandra trust, a local caterer, a cookery centre or a kitchen managed by the local association. the quality of the food varies according to the arrangements made by each local association. the food specially prepared for the jewish children appears to be generally good. at the cookery centres again, though complaints are occasionally heard that the dinners are badly cooked, they are as a rule appetising, and the menu is varied. the great majority of the meals are, however, supplied by the alexandra trust. ten different dinner menus have been drawn up by this trust, with a slight variation for summer,[ ] but in practice there is very little variety, practically the same dietary being repeated week after week; usually there is a deficiency of proteids and fats. the quantity supplied for each child varies considerably in different centres. in one that we visited, for instance, each child was given a large helping of suet pudding with minced meat, followed by a large plateful of rice, and second helpings were given if required; at another, where the dinner consisted of only one course, with a piece of bread, the portions were very small; the cook admitted that some of the children could eat more, but if any were allowed a second helping all would ask for it, whether they wanted it or not, and the food would then be left uneaten. footnote : for menus, see appendix i. how far the infants' needs are specially catered for depends on each local association. sometimes they are fed by themselves at the cookery centre, where it is easier to provide suitable food and to pay individual attention to their wants. more often they go with the elder children to the feeding-centres. the alexandra trust has drawn up a special menu for infants, and in centres where the food is supplied otherwise than by the trust the council have instructed the local association to make special provision.[ ] but it is rare to find any such provision made. as a rule the infants have the same food as the elder children, though in centres where there is careful supervision, and where the infants are placed at a separate table,[ ] the size of the helping is suited to their appetites. in many centres the number of infants is so few as to make the preparation of a separate diet hardly worth while, and the provision of special food has been known to give rise to jealousy on the part of the elder children. footnote : minutes of london county council, december , , p. . footnote : frequently the infants are placed with the older children at the ordinary tables, which are too high for them to reach up to with any comfort; it is sometimes impossible for them to eat without spilling their food. (see the description of a feeding centre, post, p. .) ordinarily one meal a day is provided, this meal being almost invariably dinner, but in cases of special necessity or delicacy an additional meal may be given. this meal may be either breakfast, milk or codliver oil. the practice varies in each school. in some schools breakfast is never given, or given only in very rare cases. in others breakfasts as well as dinners are given to the most necessitous children. at st. george's-in-the-east formerly only breakfasts were given, but now dinners are given in addition to all the children on the feeding-list; the breakfast is used as a test, the theory being that if the child does not come for breakfast it shall not receive dinner, but in practice this plan is not strictly carried out. milk and codliver oil are given in most schools, when recommended by the school doctor; in some schools milk is also given on economic grounds, as an additional meal to specially necessitous children, instead of breakfast. in a few schools a quantity of milk is supplied in the middle of the morning, and any child who pays a halfpenny can have it, the children, especially the infants, being encouraged to spend their halfpence on milk instead of on sweets. where no other suitable accommodation is available, the meals may be served in the school hall, but this method is not encouraged by the council, and is frequently objected to by the teachers, and it is only occasionally utilised. often, as we have already mentioned, the meals are served in the cookery centres, but the number of children that can be thus accommodated is necessarily limited, and the centre may be closed during the summer. till recently some local associations arranged for their children to be sent to small eating-houses. we have already pointed out the disadvantages--the impossibility of making the meal in any sense educational, and the lack of control over the dietary--inherent, even under the most favourable conditions, in this system. but in london, in many of these cookshops, the conditions were the reverse of favourable; they could, indeed, only be described as deplorable. for instance, at one eating-house, where the children were sent for their dinners up to the spring of , the room used was hardly larger than a cupboard, and only six or eight children could be fed at a time; the children had to go in relays and, when the numbers were very large, had to sit on the stairs eating their food. in others the conditions were equally bad. the plan of utilising restaurants is, we are glad to say, falling into disfavour, but it is not yet entirely abandoned. the most usual method is for the children to be sent to centres. these centres are frequently basement rooms, dark and cheerless. occasionally plants or flowers are provided, but it is very rare to find any attempt at table decoration. since the average cost of serving the meals is much less proportionately if the number of children is large, the county council has, for the sake of economy, decided that, where possible, schools shall be grouped, and the children from them fed at one centre.[ ] as we have already pointed out, the herding together of large numbers of children from different schools deprives the meal of much of its educational value. the children from the different schools will come in at different times. often the centre is not large enough for them all to be accommodated at once, and they have to be served in relays, with the consequence that the meal must be hurried through. they are usually seated at long tables, and are often crowded together, so that adequate supervision is rendered very difficult. footnote : london county council, handbook containing general information with reference to children's care, , p. . the supervision is occasionally undertaken voluntarily by teachers, and in many centres by other voluntary workers. where their regular attendance can be secured the good results are soon apparent. but the visits of voluntary supervisors are too often irregular, and it may happen that no one is present to supervise the meal, except the women who serve the food. in many districts it is impossible to obtain the services of volunteers at all, and paid supervisors are appointed.[ ] these may be assistant teachers, retired teachers or other suitable persons. one supervisor may be appointed for every hundred children, but frequently the number to be looked after by one supervisor far exceeds a hundred. thus, in three centres we visited, there were to children present, whilst in two others the numbers were well over two hundred; in all these there was only one supervisor. footnote : the payment is s. d. a week. (_ibid._, p. .) the county council has drawn up regulations for the management of the centres,[ ] but these regulations are largely disregarded. the council, for instance, has laid it down that boys and girls are to be appointed to act as monitors, to assist in laying the tables and serving the meals. in many centres this is not even attempted, and occasionally where their services are utilised, owing to the large number of children present, the supervisor is unable to devote much attention to the training of the monitors, and their presence rather adds to the prevailing confusion than conduces to the orderly and quiet service of the meal. another of the council's regulations directs that a separate mug shall be provided for each child.[ ] but it appears to be the exception rather than the rule for this instruction to be observed. though a sufficient supply of mugs is, or can on application be, supplied for every centre, the women who serve the meals, being only employed and paid for a fixed time, object to the extra labour involved in washing up. frequently no mugs are placed on the table at all, though we were told that the children could have water if they asked for it; when mugs are provided there is often only one to every two or three children, perhaps to every five or six! at one centre that we visited, though the girls were allowed mugs, the boys were not trusted, and mugs of water were placed on a side table for their indiscriminate use after the meal. footnote : _ibid._, pp. - . footnote : _ibid._, pp. - . the actual management of each centre varies, of course, very largely according to the personality of the supervisor. we have visited some two or three centres where all the arrangements were admirable; the children were quiet and well-behaved, there was little or no waste of food, and attention was paid to individual wants. but these cases are unfortunately exceptional. out of twenty centres in different parts of london that we have seen,[ ] in at least half the educational advantages to be derived from the common meal are imperfectly realised.[ ] in a few cases the supervisors appear to consider this aspect as but of secondary importance. so long as the children are fed and some sort of rough order preserved, they are satisfied. the meal may be eaten in a babel of noise. food which the children do not fancy they will throw on the floor, little attempt being made to prevent waste. but in any case, in many centres, owing to the large number of children to be attended to, the task of inculcating table manners is an almost impossible one. though the supervisors do their utmost, for instance, to teach the children to use spoons and forks, it is not uncommon to observe children eating with their fingers--even occasionally licking their plates! it is impossible for the supervisor to give that individual attention which is absolutely essential if the meal is to be in any sense educational. footnote : these centres were all visited in the spring, summer or autumn of . we describe some typical examples in the appendix to this chapter. footnote : in , as the result of an inspection of all the feeding centres by the school doctors, it was reported that "in one-fifth ... the conditions required material improvement, to make the giving of these meals an educational function, and to impress the hygiene of proper eating and cleanliness on the children." (annual report of the london county council for , vol. iii., p. .) (g)--overlapping with the poor law authority. we have already described the extent to which, in the provinces, the provision of meals by the local education authority overlaps the granting of relief by the poor law authorities. london is no exception to the general rule. in it was found that out of , families investigated, · per cent. were at the time in receipt of out-relief, while · per cent. had recently been receiving such relief.[ ] in february, , it was reported that, of the children who were being fed all over london, · per cent. were from families to whom poor law relief was being granted.[ ] the confusion was the greater since the practice of the guardians varied in each union. "there is no uniformity of policy or action amongst the boards," reports the education committee of the county council in . "for example, there could hardly be a wider divergence of principle and practice between public bodies than that which exists between such boards as paddington, fulham, and st. george's-in-the-east on the one hand, and islington and poplar on the other. in the case of fulham, the guardians, when assessing the relief to be granted, take into account the extent to which school meals are already being supplied to children of the family ... but in the case of poplar, the guardians have informed the various school care committees that 'the fact that a family is in receipt of poor law relief should not be considered as a reason for the children not being supplied with meals.'"[ ] to put an end to all this overlapping and diversity of practice, the council proposed that the guardians should purchase school meals for the children of families who were in receipt of relief. the local government board, however, declined to agree to this course. in practice, they thought, it was hardly possible to avoid all difficulty of overlapping, "though it should be feasible, with careful administration, to restrict it within reasonable limits"; the only suggestion they offered towards the solution of the difficulty was that, if it appeared to the education authority that a child whose parents were receiving out-relief required supervision by the guardians, the education authority should communicate with the guardians with a view to an investigation of the circumstances.[ ] this suggestion was acted upon, and the care committees were instructed in future to notify to the guardians all cases in which, to their knowledge, necessitous children belonged to families in receipt of poor law relief.[ ] but such notification had little practical result. the guardians continued to grant inadequate relief, and the council felt compelled to continue to provide these children with food. how necessary school meals were was, indeed, clearly shown by a resolution of the hammersmith guardians, who themselves actually declared that, "when school children's parents are in receipt of outdoor relief, that fact should in general be taken as an indication that such children would be benefited by school meals, and not as an indication that they are adequately fed, since, as a matter of fact, outdoor relief is seldom or never adequate"![ ] footnote : london county council, report on the home circumstances of necessitous children in twelve selected schools, , p. . footnote : annual report of london county council for , chapter xli., p. . footnote : minutes of the london county council, february , , p. . footnote : _ibid._, july - , , p. . footnote : _london county council gazette_, may , , p. . footnote : _school child_, february, , p. . though the council's proposal that the boards of guardians should repay the cost of the meals was rejected by the local government board, as far as london generally was concerned, individual boards have agreed to the plan. in lambeth and chelsea the guardians have consented to pay the cost of meals supplied to the children of parents who are receiving out-relief, if they consider that school meals are necessary.[ ] at hampstead, where the funds for the provision of school meals are supplied by the council of social welfare,[ ] an informal arrangement has been made with the guardians. where the mother can stay at home and can be trusted to expend the relief given in food for the children, the guardians have agreed to give ample relief. where the mother goes out to work or cannot be trusted to feed the children properly, or where it is undesirable for the children to go home, the council of social welfare pays for school dinners. footnote : minutes of london county council, november , , p. ; _london county council gazette_, january , , p. . footnote : see ante, p. n. but as a rule no definite arrangement is made. a few care committees refuse to feed children whose parents are receiving relief, but in the great majority of schools cases are to be found where children are being fed by the care committee, while their parents are being relieved by the guardians.[ ] frequently no official communication passes between the two authorities concerned. the guardians may learn indirectly through the relieving officer, or perhaps through some member of their board who happens also to be a member of the care committee, that the latter are feeding the children. where a system of mutual registration has been established, each authority will, theoretically, be informed of what the other is doing. how far all cases are actually notified will depend on the secretary of each individual care committee. and this system of mutual registration does not prevent overlapping in many cases where the children are on the feeding-list for a short time only, since cases are often notified only once a month, by which time the necessity for feeding may have ceased. occasionally the guardians ask the care committee to inform them if they discover any cases where the relief appears inadequate, so that they may increase it, if necessary. in other unions the guardians deliberately count on the provision of school meals to supplement the relief given; they tell the parents to apply for dinners and grant less relief in consequence, thereafter priding themselves on keeping down the rates. footnote : most of the cases of overlapping are, of course, cases in which the guardians are granting out-relief. there are also the cases where the guardians are relieving a widow by maintaining some of her children in poor law schools, but the mother has not sufficient income adequately to maintain the remaining child or children. appendix examples of feeding centres in london (a)--school, visited october, . here the dinner is served in the infants' school in a room at the top of the building. some sixty infants, all attending the school, were being fed. they entered the room two by two and sat down together at low tables on specially small chairs. two teachers were present throughout the meal; they served the food, and four of the children handed it round. perfect order was kept, and at the end of the meal all the children rose together, and, after saying grace, marched out quietly. the food is cooked on the premises, the menu being drawn up by one of the teachers and varied every day. the whole meal was served in as attractive a manner as possible, and testified eloquently to the care and thought which must have been spent on its organisation. (b)--school, visited june, . here the meal is served in the school hall. the headmistress much objects to this plan, since it leaves the atmosphere close and stuffy all the afternoon. moreover, the bringing in of the tables and forms, an operation which has to be begun twenty minutes before the end of morning school, causes a considerable commotion. on the day of our visit children, boys, girls and infants, were receiving dinner. for this number there were only one supervisor and two servers, assisted by five or six monitresses chosen from among the elder children. as a result of this inadequate supervision the meal was served in a perfect babel of noise; the children shouted and screamed and banged their spoons on the table. a bell was rung at intervals throughout the meal to obtain silence, but no attention was paid to it. the fact that there was a deficiency of seating accommodation heightened the confusion. at the end of each table a child had to stand, and those sitting down were crowded much too closely together. separate tables were reserved for the infants, of whom there were a large number, some of them tiny mites of three years old. the tables, however, were not specially adapted for them, being of the ordinary height. in consequence many of the little ones had considerable difficulty in feeding themselves, their heads only just appearing above the table, and, of course, nobody had time to attend to their wants. it is only fair to add that we saw the centre at a particularly unfortunate time, since the supervisor had only taken over the work a few days prior to our visit, and therefore had not yet obtained a firm hold over the children. the noise, we were told, was usually not so great. (c)--centre, visited may, . this centre, attended by children from two neighbouring schools, is a striking illustration of what can be effected by patient and careful supervision. at the time of our visit this work was being performed by an assistant teacher, but before her appointment the secretary or some other member of the care committee daily supervised the meal for two years. the meal was served in a large, cheerful room. no tablecloths were supplied; at one time flowers were provided, much to the joy of the children, but it was found impossible to continue this practice. the children were seated at small tables, some eight or ten at each, an arrangement which renders the work of supervision very much easier. there were no infants present, as these are sent to the cookery centre. a boy or girl was responsible for each table; they handed round the food, paying attention to the individual appetites of the children. no waste of food was permitted, the children being kept till they had finished. the whole scene, the quiet and orderly behaviour of the children and their consideration for one another's wants, left a most pleasing impression upon the mind. at the date of our visit the numbers were small, only some children being present, but we were told that their behaviour was quite as orderly even in winter, when the numbers were much larger. (d)--centre, visited march, . this centre is a large basement room in a mission hall, dark and unattractive, accommodating between and children. it serves several neighbouring schools, and the numbers on the day of our visit were too large to admit of all the children sitting down together. as each child came in and gave up its ticket, it seized a spoon and fork from a pile on a table near the door, and rushed to its place. when about half the children were seated, grace was sung or rather shouted, and then the food was brought in and literally flung on to the table by the server and one or two of the elder boys. though the numbers were so large there was only one supervisor, though we were told that occasionally one of the sisters from the neighbouring settlement came to help. with such inadequate supervision it was, of course, impossible to teach table manners. the children, the boys especially, gobbled down their dinner, amid a hubbub of noise, and hurried out as soon as they had finished, other boys rushing in to take their places. no special provision was made for the infants; they were placed with the other children and were given the same food. no attention was paid to individual appetites and much of the food, we were told, was wasted. (e)--centre, visited june, . this is a centre for jewish children, serving three or four neighbouring schools. the room not being large enough to accommodate all the children at once, two relays are necessary, even in summer. over children were present, but there was only one supervisor, assisted by four or five women. the children entered in an orderly fashion and seated themselves at the table, none being allowed to begin the meal till all were seated. the infants were placed at a separate table; they are given special food when the dietary provided for the other children is not suitable for them. some of the elder girls acted as monitresses and helped to serve the food and clear up afterwards. unfortunately, owing to the fact that other children were waiting to come in, the meal was necessarily hurried, the second course being placed on the table while the children were still eating the first course. though the order maintained was wonderful, considering the large numbers present, it was impossible to attend adequately to the children's manners; many of them were using their fingers, and there appeared to be considerable waste of food. (f)--centre, visited october, . this is another centre for jewish children. the dinner was served in a large, dreary parish hall, to some or children. there was one supervisor and four servers, while tickets were taken by the caretaker. order was well preserved, but only by means of the frequent ringing of a bell, and by the enforcement of absolute silence. the supervisor said that if the children were allowed to talk the noise would be unbearable. before being given their food, the children were told to hold up their hands if they were "big eaters," the margin of waste being minimised in this way. although the manners and behaviour of the children could not be said to be bad, the whole effect was singularly unattractive--the bare room, the large numbers, and the frequent shouted commands and rebukes of the supervisor leaving no scope for humanising and educational influences. chapter iv the extent and causes of malnutrition "defective nutrition," sir george newman points out, "stands in the forefront as the most important of all physical defects from which school children suffer."[ ] malnutrition, 'debility' and other physical defects in childhood "are the ancestry of tuberculosis in the adult. they predispose to disease, and are, in a sense, both its seed and its soil."[ ] footnote : report of the chief medical officer of the board of education for , p. . footnote : _ibid._, p. . it is impossible to give any figures as to the extent of this defect, since nutrition is not a condition which can be measured by any definite standards. the weight of the child is, of course, a most important matter to be noted, but there are other points--"the ratio of stature to weight; the general appearance, carriage and 'substance' of the child; the firmness of the tissues; the presence of subcutaneous fat; the development of the muscular system; the condition of the skin and redness of the mucous membranes; the expression of listlessness or alertness, apathy or keenness; the condition of the various systems of the body; and, speaking generally, the relative balance and co-ordination of the functions and powers of digestion, absorption and assimilation of food."[ ] each observer adopts a different standard of what constitutes good nutrition, and hence the statistics given in the reports of the school medical officers cannot be used for comparative purposes. according to the latest figures, as quoted by the president of the board of education, per cent. of the elementary school children of england and wales suffer from defective nutrition.[ ] many of the school medical officers, however, have obviously adopted a low standard and mr. arthur greenwood, who has made a careful enquiry into this subject, is of opinion that, "taking the country as a whole, not merely per cent., but probably a number approaching per cent., show perceptible signs of malnutrition."[ ] footnote : _ibid._, p. . footnote : _hansard_, april , , vol. , p. ; _the health and physique of school children_, by arthur greenwood, , p. . footnote : _ibid._, p. . unfortunately, there is reason to believe that the degeneration is progressive. in an enquiry conducted by dr. arkle at liverpool, , children from three elementary schools were compared, as to height and weight, with children from secondary schools. the results (see accompanying table) showed that at practically every age the heights and weights of the children varied directly with the class from which they were drawn, and the deficit increased out of proportion to the rate of growth. "these figures," he points out, "are rendered all the more striking when one considers that one is talking of children and not of full-grown men. a difference of a stone in the weight of two men may not be a very great matter, but when the investigation shows such a discrepancy between two groups of boys of eleven, it means that one of the groups is deficient to the extent of one-fifth of the whole body weight, and the decadence is so progressive that the deficiency has by fourteen years of age almost reached a quarter of the whole body weight."[ ] footnote : "the medical examination of school children," by dr. a. s. arkle, a paper read at the north of england education conference, january, (reprinted in _school government chronicle_, supplement, january , , pp. , ). as we have already said, the nutrition cannot be determined solely by weight. "in fact," as a school medical officer points out, "an ill-nourished child may be above the average weight, or, on the other hand, a healthy child may be much under the average and yet not be ill-nourished." (report of the school medical officer for leeds for , p. .) but when dealing with large numbers of children, the average weight furnishes a reliable index of nutrition. this malnutrition is to be attributed to many causes besides actual lack of food. improper food and hurried methods of eating account for much malnutrition. so much has been written on the subject of the wrong feeding of children that it seems unnecessary to labour this point. one can, indeed, hardly open a report of a school medical officer without finding this evil deplored. in the poorest homes there are frequently no fixed meal times; the children are given "a piece" when they are hungry, and this is often eaten in the street or on the doorstep. bread and tea figure largely in the dietary. supper is frequently the principal meal of the day, with resulting indigestion for the children. employment out of school hours and want of sleep are again important factors. indeed, in the eyes of some school medical officers, malnutrition is due more to want of sleep than to lack of food. the children are almost invariably kept up till late at night, it being a rare exception to find a child being sent to bed at anything approaching a reasonable hour. a still more potent cause, perhaps, is to be found in bad housing conditions. striking testimony as to the relation between the physique of school children and housing was adduced by dr. leslie mackenzie and captain foster, as a result of an enquiry into the condition of , school children in glasgow. "if we take all the children of ages from to ," they report, "we find that the average weight of the one-roomed boy is · lbs.; of the two-roomed, · lbs.; of the three-roomed, · lbs.; of the four-roomed and over, · lbs. the respective heights are · inches; · inches; · inches and · inches. for girls the corresponding figures are:--weights, · lbs.; · lbs.; · lbs.; · lbs. the heights are · inches; · inches; · inches; · inches."[ ] footnote : report by dr. leslie mackenzie and captain a. foster, on the physical condition of children attending the public schools of the school board of glasgow, , p. v. at east ham also the nutrition of the children was found to vary in accordance with the number of rooms:--[ ] number of rooms. number of percentage with children nutritional examined. defects. children from and -roomed · houses -roomed houses · -roomed houses · -roomed houses , · number of persons per room. less than one · one · between one and two , · two and more · footnote : report of the school medical officer for east ham for , p. . the interpretation of these tables, as the school medical officer points out, must be guarded. but, he continues, "i think it is safe to assume that nutrition ... suffered the more confined the individual."[ ] footnote : _ibid._, p. . actual physical defects, such as decayed teeth,[ ] adenoids or enlarged tonsils, or definite diseases, such as phthisis, may account for malnutrition in many cases. want of cleanliness again may be a cause.[ ] footnote : the school medical officer for cumberland found that whilst, at the age of to , · per cent. of the boys and · per cent. of the girls were classified as good, "the percentages diminish gradually till at the age of to they are only · and · , but from · and · at the age of to they gradually rise to · and · at the age of to . probably in most cases the condition of the teeth is responsible for this falling off in condition. in the early years of life, before the teeth begin to go bad, the nutrition is good, but gradually gets worse as time goes on and more teeth decay, but nutrition again improves after the eruption of the permanent teeth, which, of course, are in the majority of cases sound for some little time." (report of the school medical officer for cumberland for , p. .) footnote : "the cleanliness of the houses and especially of the bedrooms ... has an important bearing on nutrition." (report of the school medical officer for congleton for , p. .) a school medical officer in london told us that if a child improved in the point of cleanliness there was a marked improvement also in nutrition. the precise effect to be attributed to each cause is difficult to estimate. often, of course, two or more factors will be present, concurrently and interdependently. in an enquiry made in by dr. chate, into the condition of children ( boys and girls) in a rural or semi-rural district of middlesex who were suffering from malnutrition, it was found that poverty was the principal cause in · per cent. of the cases among the boys, and · per cent. among the girls. adenoids, worms, rickets, carious teeth and oral sepsis accounted for · per cent. among the boys, and · per cent. among the girls. improper diet was the main cause in · per cent. of the cases. in cases malnutrition was due to some disease such as tuberculosis, chronic bronchitis, etc., while in cases it was attributed to overcrowding, and in cases to overwork with insufficient sleep.[ ] in the following year a similar enquiry was made by dr. tate in a suburban residential area of the same county. out of cases, defective nutrition was found to be due to poverty and neglect in · per cent.; to rickets, adenoids, worms or digestive disorder in · per cent.; to lung affection in · per cent.; in · per cent. malnutrition "appeared to be associated with some previous or present condition of ill-health, to account for which no organic mischief could be found at the time of inspection"; while in instances no obvious cause could be assigned.[ ] footnote : report of the chief medical officer of the board of education for , pp. - . footnote : _ibid._, for , p. . at bootle the school medical officer reports that out of cases of sub-normal nutrition, the cause is to be sought in per cent. in some definite disease or physical defect (including disturbances of digestion due to improper feeding); in per cent. there are no definite signs of organic disease; while in per cent. malnutrition is due to neglect.[ ] footnote : report of the school medical officer for bootle for , p. . at wolverhampton dr. badger reports that, out of cases, malnutrition is due to the influence or reaction of disease, convalescence from recent disease, or defective heredity in ; to pampering in ; to excessive growth in ; to overwork and insufficient sleep in ; to ignorance and poverty in ; while in cases there was strong evidence of neglect, dirt or drink.[ ] in his opinion, an opinion based upon a comparison of the clothing and footgear of the malnourished and normal children, "the malnutrition of the scholars examined was not primarily due to poverty."[ ] this, as sir george newman points out, "may well have been the case, but the fact that the examinations were 'routine' in character, when the children are apt to be specially dressed and boots even borrowed for the occasion, makes this particular item, unless subjected to further analysis, of little or no value as a criterion in forming a judgment as to the relation of poverty to the malnutrition."[ ] footnote : report of the school medical officer for wolverhampton for , p. . footnote : _ibid._, p. . footnote : report of the chief medical officer of the board of education for , p. . other school medical officers are of the same opinion as dr. badger. at congleton the school medical officer visited the homes of a considerable number of children whose nutrition was defective, with a view to ascertaining the cause of their condition. he found that "actual poverty of the parents and inability to provide food was comparatively rare, that neglect was common, and unsuitable food probably the most frequent cause."[ ] at hornsey in the majority of cases "some definite ailment was apparent to explain, at least partially, the condition. there were very few instances in which it could be certainly stated that insufficiency of food was the sole cause."[ ] at manchester "the vast majority" of children whose nutrition was medium "and many of those who were poorly nourished were not in this condition through want of food.... each year's work adds to the evidence that poverty is not responsible for more than about per cent. of the cases."[ ] on the other hand, the school medical officer for kidderminster reports, "i find that the better condition of trade and employment in the town was reflected in the improved nutrition of the children.... this also tends to show that the majority of cases of defective nutrition arise, not from carelessness and inattention on the part of the parents, but from inability on their part to provide the children with sufficient nourishment owing to want of means."[ ] footnote : report of the school medical officer for congleton for , p. . footnote : report of the school medical officer for hornsey for , p. . footnote : report of the school medical officer for , in report of the manchester education committee, - , p. . footnote : report of the school medical officer for kidderminster for , p. . it is indeed impossible to say how much malnutrition is due to poverty. though the immediate cause may be disease, overwork, or overcrowding, these evils are themselves largely the result of insufficient means. the relation between the malnutrition of the children and the amount of the family income is strikingly illustrated by the results of an enquiry recently made into the diet of the labouring classes in glasgow. a careful study was made of the family diet of certain selected families during a week, or in some cases a fortnight, and the energy value of each diet expressed in terms of the requirements of a man per day, a woman or a boy of to being reckoned as equivalent to · of a man, a girl of to as · , and children of to , to , to , and under respectively as · , · , · , · . "if a family diet expressed in this way gives a yield of energy of less than , calories per man per day, it is insufficient for active work, and if less than , calories, it is quite inadequate for the proper maintenance of growth and of normal activity."[ ] footnote : report upon a study of the diet of the labouring classes in the city of glasgow carried out during - , by dorothy e. lindsay, b.sc., , pp. - . "taking the average intake of energy and of protein in the various groups [comprising families], the results are as follows:-- energy. protein. group a. [income regular, average s.] , · (excluding lix. abnormal) group b. [income regular, lodgers kept, , · average s.] group c. [income regular, between s. & , s.] group d. [ " " " s. & , · s.] group e. [ " " under s.] , · group f. [income irregular, over s.] , (excluding xliv. abnormal) , · group g. [income irregular, under s.] , · group h. [ " " father , · drinks] or, excluding xxvii. abnormal , · "these figures show conclusively that, while the labouring classes with a regular income of over s. a week generally manage to secure a diet approaching the proper standard for active life, _those with a smaller income and those with an irregular income entirely fail to get a supply of food sufficient for the proper development and growth of the body or for the maintenance of a capacity for active work_."[ ] "an interesting point in connection with these studies is the influence of the diet on the physical condition of the children." the weights of a number of children which were obtained "show very markedly the relationship between the physique and the food. _when the weight is much below the average for that age, almost without exception the diet is inadequate._"[ ] footnote : _ibid._, p. . the numbers in each group are so small that the average does not furnish a reliable index, but that the conclusion drawn from the figures is warranted is shown by the fact that of the families in the first four groups (excluding one case where the circumstances are abnormal), have a dietary yielding over , calories of energy and only fall below the minimum of , , while of the families in the remaining groups (excluding two abnormal cases), only one has a dietary yielding over , calories, while no less than fall below the minimum. (_ibid._, pp. - .) here, of course, again we have the question of wrong feeding. in many cases the income could have been laid out to better advantage. "where one family gets nearly their minimum adequate diet on an expenditure of · pence per man per diem ... others on an expenditure of nearly d. fail to secure it." (_ibid._, p. .) footnote : _ibid._, p. . dr. larkins, late assistant school medical officer for surrey, also came to the conclusion "that a steady wage of s. a week is required to produce and properly maintain average strong well-nourished children; that below this figure, the danger zone is reached." this conclusion was based on an enquiry he made into the wages of the parents of all children aged that he examined during a considerable period.[ ] the results are seen in the following table:-- footnote : the actual number of children examined is not stated. average average weight general condition of average number of weekly in lbs. of the children children in family. wages. children aged (percent very good / (total, under , between and average / poor) over ) . over s. · / / · · · s. to · / / · · · s. s. to · / / · · · s. s. to · / · / · · · · s. s. to · / / · · · s. s. to · / / · · · s. the wages are the total weekly income out of which everything has to be paid, including rent, which varies from s. to s. d. ("the influence of wages on the child's nutrition," by f. e. larkins, m.d. edin., d.p.h., late assistant school medical officer for surrey, in _the medical officer_, december , , p. .) the effect of education is, as was recognised thirty years ago, to intensify the evil of malnutrition. "to educate underfed children," says dr. leslie mackenzie, "is to promote deterioration of physique by exhausting the nervous system. education of the underfed is a positive evil."[ ] "defective nutrition," says the school medical officer for blackburn, "to a far greater extent than any other single cause, and probably more than all other causes combined, renders children incapable of education. in a growing child the demands of muscle and bone must be satisfied before those of nervous tissue, and consequently when there is deficiency, or what comes to the same thing, unsuitability of food or inability to assimilate it, the nervous system is the first to suffer, the brain is starved and anæmic, and the extra strain involved in school work can have only a harmful, and in some cases a disastrous result."[ ] "there is probably no disease of children," says another school medical officer, "which needs combating more than bad nutrition.... it is quite impossible for any child thus affected to compete mentally with normal children of similar age; in fact, mental defect is frequently found in association with malnutrition."[ ] footnote : _the medical inspection of school children_, by dr. w. leslie mackenzie, assisted by dr. e. matthew, , p. . footnote : report of the school medical officer for blackburn for , p. . footnote : report of the school medical officer for leeds for , p. . this relation of mental capacity to nutrition was exemplified in the figures quoted by dr. ralph crowley at the education conference in . he examined , children in elementary schools at bradford, and classified them according to their nutrition and intelligence. of the children of exceptional intelligence, · per cent. were of good nutrition, · per cent. were below normal, and · per cent. were of poor or very poor nutrition. of the children who were exceptionally dull, only · per cent. were of good nutrition, · were below normal, and no less than · poor or very poor.[ ] footnote : "the physical conditions of school children," by dr. ralph h. crowley, north of england education conference, january, (reprinted in the _school government chronicle_, supplement, january , , pp. - ). in an enquiry made at manchester by the school medical officer a few years ago, it was found on examining poorly nourished and markedly badly nourished children, that · per cent. of the former were below par in mental capacity, and · per cent. were classed as bad; of the latter · per cent. were below normal, and · per cent. bad. but the most remarkable results are recorded by dr. arkle, of liverpool, in the enquiry to which we have already referred. he asked the teachers to give evidence as to the intelligence of the , elementary school children whom he examined. "the teachers in 'a' and 'b' both return about per cent. of the children as normal in intelligence, but whereas the former returns per cent. as above and per cent. below normal, the latter only returns per cent. above and per cent. as below the normal. but it is in the return from the poorest school that we get the most curious result. in 'c' the master only feels justified in calling per cent. of the boys normal, while he puts per cent. above and per cent. below normal." these figures, "it seems to me," writes dr. arkle, "can only be explained on one hypothesis. i believe, and my personal notes tend to confirm this view, that almost all the abnormal intelligences in the poorest school are due to the one factor--starvation.... over and over again i noted such cases of children without an ounce of superfluous flesh upon them, with skins harsh and rough, a rapid pulse and nerves ever on the strain, and yet with the expression of the most lively intelligence. but it is the eager intelligence of the hunting animal.... i fear it is from this class that the ranks of pilferers and sneak thieves come, and their cleverness is not of any real intellectual value. on the other hand, with children of a more lymphatic temperament, starvation seems to produce creatures more like automata.... if i told one of these children to open its mouth, it would take no notice till the request became a command, which had to be accompanied by a slight shake to draw the child's attention. then the mouth would be slowly opened widely, but no effort would be made to close it again until the child was told to do so.... i believe both these types of children are suffering from what i would call starvation of the nervous system, in one case causing irritation and in the other torpor. and, further, these cases are always associated with the clearest signs of bodily starvation, stunted growth, emaciation, rough and cold skin and the mouth full of viscid saliva due to hunger."[ ] footnote : "the medical examination of school children," by dr. a. s. arkle, in _school government chronicle_, supplement, january , , p. . somewhat similar results were observed by dr. badger, the school medical officer for wolverhampton. in comparing , normal children of thirteen years of age with mal-nourished children, he found that, while of the normal scholars · per cent. were of good intelligence, per cent. of average intelligence and · per cent. dull, among the mal-nourished children the percentages were respectively , and .[ ] this "record in respect of intelligence," points out sir george newman, "shows, what has been noted by other observers, that though the proportion of children considered as 'dull' by the teachers is considerably larger among mal-nourished children than among children generally, nevertheless there are children who suffer serious defects in nutrition whose mental powers are well above the average. it is naturally quick and keen children such as these who require care in order that their physical health may not be further injured by excessive mental application."[ ] footnote : report of the school medical officer for wolverhampton for , p. . (quoted in report of chief medical officer of the board of education for , p. .) footnote : report of chief medical officer of the board of education for , p. . chapter v the effect of school meals on the children since the causes of malnutrition are so many and diverse it is obvious that this defect cannot be remedied or prevented solely by the provision of school meals. but that the provision of wholesome food at regular hours has a marked effect in the improvement of the physique of the children, there is abundant evidence. unfortunately, though the periodic weighing of children who are receiving school meals, in order to ascertain the effect produced, has been strongly advocated by the chief medical officer of the board of education,[ ] this advice has rarely been acted upon. it is true that a few--a very few--education authorities profess to have a system of weighing children who are receiving meals, before they are put on, and after they are taken off, the feeding-list, but for the most part this weighing is only done spasmodically, and the records are not accessible. footnote : report of the chief medical officer of the board of education for , p. . several such enquiries have, however, been made in the past, the best known being that made by dr. ralph crowley at bradford in .[ ] the results of this experiment have been often quoted, but they are so important that they will bear repetition. forty children were selected from two of the poorest schools in the city, the children being mainly those who appeared to be most in need of food, though a few were included primarily on the ground of their particularly poor home circumstances.[ ] to these children from april to july two meals a day were given--breakfast, consisting of oatmeal porridge with milk and treacle followed by bread and margarine or dripping, with hot or cold milk to drink; and a dinner comprising in rotation one of seventeen different menus specially drawn up so as to contain the amounts of fat and proteid necessary for a child's nourishment.[ ] every effort was made to render the meals of as much educational value as possible, and special attention was given to such matters as the provision of table-cloths and flowers and the inculcation of good manners. footnote : bradford education committee, report on a course of meals given to necessitous children from april to july, . footnote : _ibid._, p. . footnote : _ibid._, pp. , . the children experimented on were weighed three times during the five weeks preceding the starting of the meals, and every week while they were receiving them. for the purpose of making comparative observations children were selected who were being fed at home, and who in other respects were as comparable as possible with those who were receiving the breakfasts and dinners. these "control children" were also weighed weekly. during the four weeks, march to april , before the feeding began, the forty children gained on an average · kilos, and during the week previous to feeding · kilos. at the end of the first week of feeding the average increase was found to be · kilos ( lb. oz.).[ ] during the next week, there was a slight loss of · kilos, followed by a gain during the next two weeks of · and · kilos respectively. during the ensuing eleven days, the whitsuntide holiday, no meals were given. at the end of this period it was found that the "control children" who, during the three weeks preceding the holiday, had lost · kilos on the average, had during these eleven days gained an average of · kilos; in the case, however, of the children fed at school, not only had the lack of food neutralised the benefits of fresh air and exercise, but they had actually lost an average of · kilos, a loss which it took them nearly a fortnight to make up, after the meals had been started again. during the eleven days after the holiday the "control children" only gained · kilos. a group of "control children" from another school similarly gained · kilos during the holiday, and only · kilos during the subsequent fortnight. the same result was observed during the five weeks' summer holiday; the "control children" gained on an average · kilos (_i.e._, at the rate of · kilos per week), while the children fed at school lost · kilos.[ ] the accompanying chart illustrates the rate of increase of the two groups of children. apart from the increase in weight, the improvement in the general appearance and carriage of the children who received the meals "was more or less apparent in all, and very obvious in some of the children, who visibly filled out and brightened up."[ ] the reverse process was equally apparent after the summer holidays. footnote : "the average gain per year of children of this class and size," dr. crowley points out, "is not more than two kilos ( lbs. oz.) for the whole year." (_ibid._, p. .) footnote : _ibid._, pp. - . as dr. crowley points out, several points have to be considered in interpreting the effect on weight. "the increase in the weight of children normally varies greatly at different seasons of the year," and "at any given season fluctuates much, sometimes, comparatively, even from week to week. the proportional increase in weight varies with the age of the child, or rather with the weight to which the child has already attained." (_ibid._, p. .) footnote : _ibid._, p. . [illustration: chart illustrating the average gain or loss in weight--during the intervals shown--of the children who were fed at bradford. the broken line shows the average increase in weight--during the same time--of the "control children."] at northampton, in , a similar experiment was conducted under the supervision of the medical officer of health. forty-four children were given breakfast and dinner for fourteen weeks, and weighed weekly, together with forty children of the same social class who were not receiving meals. at the beginning of the experiment the average weight of the fed children was · kilos less than that of the "controls"; in the second week their average gain was much greater, and by the end of the fourteenth week the difference in weight was reduced to · kilos. during the easter holidays of ten days in which no meals were given, the children who had previously been fed lost in weight while the "controls" gained.[ ] footnote : report on the working of the education (provision of meals) act up to march , , pp. - . another interesting experiment was conducted by dr. haden guest in a poor school in lambeth in the early part of .[ ] a large number of children were selected-- --but the attendance of many of these was irregular and continuous records were obtained in the case of only children. from january to april a midday meal was given six days a week. the meal consisted of two courses, a normal portion of which was calculated to be sufficient to supply the amounts of proteids, carbohydrates, fats and salts, physiologically necessary for children. the same meal was never given twice in succession, a variation of six menus being repeated over twelve consecutive days. the room in which the meals were served was bright and airy, the surroundings having, in dr. guest's estimation, an important physiological bearing on good digestion. all the children in the school were weighed before and after the experiment and again in the first week of july, the children who were receiving dinners being also weighed regularly during the experiment. taking first the case of the elder children, we read that the results "showed a very decided and positive improvement both from the general standpoint and from that of increase in weight, the fed children increasing at a more rapid rate than the other children in the school with whom they were compared."[ ] "starting a good deal below the normal of their own school mates, they tended, under the influence of one good meal a day, rapidly to approach that normal." and again, "the increase in the healthy appearance of the children and in their general alertness was marked. children with sores, small abscesses, colds and blepharitis recovered from these ailments.... the amount of absence from school due to illness was considerably less during the course of the experiment." this testimony was fully borne out by the headmaster. "the effect of the feeding of the children," he declared, "is a marked improvement judging from the general appearance of the boys, who are almost all brighter. the improvement is particularly noticeable in their play. they are more vigorous and enter more heartily into the rougher games of boys and bear the knocks without coming to the teacher to complain. they certainly enjoy their play more and show less fatigue. there are few lads shivering against the walls with hands in pockets, sloping shoulders and pale faces. in school, the effect during the first few weeks was drowsiness. this was succeeded by improved tone and greater independence of character, and generally a greater individuality. the difference in mental condition is not so marked, and is certainly more difficult to measure. there is less fatigue in lessons, and the lads are capable of more continuous exertion." the teachers' reports on the girls were of the same character, though not so decided in tone, except on one point--that those who were fed were "more troublesome," that is to say, more full of spirits, a factor which appeared also in their play. turning to the effect of the meals on the infants a most disquieting state of affairs was disclosed. it was found that, while the weight of the infants who were fed was less than that of the other infants of their own school, "the difference was much less than in the case of the bigger children, the increase in weight in each case correspondingly slow, and the amount by which both groups fell below the normal greater." during the first week there was a remarkable fall in weight among the infants who received meals, ascribable partly to the fact that they did not receive the necessary attention which was afterwards given them, partly to the fact that they were unfamiliar with good nourishing food (a factor operating in the case of the elder children also, though to a far less degree[ ]); largely, however, it was due to their being "actually unable to digest and assimilate this food." this slow progress on the part of the infants dr. guest attributed to improper feeding at home. in most lambeth homes the younger children received the same diet (the staple articles being tea and bread and butter) as the older ones, but whereas the latter could manage on this diet, and, with a good midday meal in addition, even flourish, the former could not thrive. dr. guest therefore advocated that necessitous infants should be fed at least twice a day, on a diet different from that given to the elder children, and that more individual care should be devoted to each child, since in most cases they required coaxing before they would eat the wholesome food provided. footnote : ms. report on lambeth school children feeding experiment, by dr. l. haden guest, . footnote : we have, unfortunately, not been able to obtain a copy of the figures on which dr. haden guest's report is based. footnote : in the case of the boys, their weights, during this week, only increased a little; those of the girls remained stationary. on the cessation of the meals we find the same result ensuing as we have already noticed at bradford and northampton. for when, in july, , three months after the meals had been discontinued, all the children were again weighed and measured, it was found that there was a general decline in weight; the decline was so general that it was obviously due partly to a diminution in clothing, but "the necessitous children, who after the conclusion of the experiment were only fed spasmodically, show a greater decrease than the other children, pointing to either a stationary weight during the twelve weeks from april to july or a loss of weight." interesting figures as to the effects of different dietaries were obtained at sheffield in . before this date the meals provided for necessitous children had taken the form of cocoa breakfasts. as an experiment at one school some of the boys were given porridge for several weeks. their weights were compared with those of a group of other boys who were receiving cocoa breakfasts at school, and also with a group of boys who were being fed at home. the two groups of boys who were fed at school were drawn from equally poor districts, those who were fed at home being somewhat better off. it was found that the boys who were receiving cocoa breakfasts only gained on an average · kilos or · oz. per week; the boys who were being fed at home gained · kilos ( · oz.); while the boys who were receiving porridge breakfasts gained as much as · kilos ( · oz.). as a result of this proof of the superiority of porridge diet, porridge breakfasts were substituted for cocoa breakfasts in all the schools.[ ] footnote : report of chief school medical officer for sheffield for , pp. - . we may quote here striking results observed in the improved physique of the children at a special school for cripple children in london consequent on an improved dietary. a two-course dinner of meat, potatoes and pudding had been previously given, but in the summer of it was decided to provide a more liberal and varied dietary, _e.g._, more hot meat, eggs, milk, cream, vegetables and fruit. the results were soon apparent. "partially paralysed children," writes mrs. humphry ward a few months after the change, "have been recovering strength in hands and limbs with greater rapidity than before. a child who, last year, often could not walk at all from rickets and extreme delicacy and seemed to be fading away, and who in may was still languid and feeble, is now racing about in the garden on his crutches; a boy who last year could only crawl on his hands and feet is now rapidly and steadily learning to walk, and so on.... hardly any child now wants to lie down during school time, whereas applications to lie down used to be common, and the children both learn and remember better." (letter from mrs. humphry ward, _the times_, september , .) at brighton it has for the last few years been the practice to weigh before and after the course of meals the children who have been recommended for feeding on medical grounds. at the end of the last session, - , children who had received meals for nine weeks or more were thus re-examined. it was found that of these, or per cent., no longer needed meals on medical grounds, that is, they had been brought over the average weight for a given height.[ ] footnote : brighton education committee, report on the re-examination of children receiving free meals during the winter session, - . where only milk or codliver oil is given a remarkable improvement is often effected. indeed, several teachers told us that in their opinion the provision of milk was more beneficial than either breakfasts or dinners. at a bethnal green school, during the winter of - , it was found that out of boys and girls examined at the medical inspection, of the boys and of the girls were underfed. these children were given a tea-spoonful of codliver oil in a cupful of warm milk every day during the morning interval. at the end of the year the nutrition was re-assessed, with the following results:--[ ] footnote : annual report of london county council for , vol. iii., p. . good. average. bad. boys before after girls before after the results of these experiments are sufficient in themselves to establish conclusively the benefit to be derived from regular feeding even when no other factor in the child's environment is changed. "no doubt," says dr. haden guest, "irregular and late hours, disturbed sleep, overcrowding, improper clothing and employment of children after and before school hours, do each and all exercise a very detrimental effect on the children of poor parents. but that the greatest influence for evil is exerted by improper and insufficient food is a matter over which it appears impossible to have great controversy."[ ] footnote : ms. report by dr. l. haden guest on lambeth school children feeding experiment, . and these results are corroborated by abundant testimony from school medical officers, teachers, care committee workers and others, of the benefit derived by the children where the provision of meals act has been put in force. "the children derived an enormous amount of benefit" from the meals.[ ] "the physical appearance of the children speaks in pronounced terms" of the value of feeding.[ ] "those who have any practical experience ... are all agreed that such meals [free breakfasts] are of the greatest value, not only from a humanitarian point of view but also as a necessary adjunct for successful education."[ ] "there is continuous evidence of the immense benefit conferred upon the children by the administration of this act--both from the inspection of the scholars at the dining-centres and from the reports of the teachers."[ ] these are a few typical opinions culled from reports of school medical officers. at manchester "the operation of the provision of free meals acts very largely ... not so much in the way of improving the physical condition of children already emaciated and debilitated, but of preventing their ever reaching that condition by stepping in when the home income fails. it is certain that since the organisation of the supply of free meals at centres covering practically all parts of the city where they are required, _the number of underfed children_--_i.e._, the number showing signs of underfeeding--_has decreased markedly_. it is also certain that the type of child at the feeding centres is gradually improving--_i.e._, there are fewer children found in the centres with signs of the result of bad nourishment, and there are fewer such children in the schools."[ ] at bradford, where the local education authority has systematically endeavoured to effect an improvement in the condition of the children both by the school medical service and the provision of meals, there has been in the last few years a very marked improvement in nutrition and "a fairly regular increase in weight amongst bradford children as a whole. they are approaching nearer each year to the national average."[ ] footnote : report of school medical officer for macclesfield for , p. . footnote : _ibid._ for workington for , p. viii. footnote : _ibid._ for hastings for , p. . footnote : report of school medical officer for newcastle-on-tyne for , p. . footnote : report of school medical officer for manchester for , pp. - . in the following year he reports that out of over four hundred children attending eight feeding centres, only ten cases of markedly bad nourishment were recorded. (_ibid._ for , p. .) footnote : _the health and physique of school children_, by arthur greenwood, , pp. , . "it may perhaps be urged," he continues, "that this progress is purely accidental; but a close examination of a large number of school medical officers' reports does not show any general increase during the few years for which records are available. there are variations from year to year, of course, but no apparent regular improvement, except in isolated instances, of which bradford is one." (_ibid._, p. .) the witness of the teachers is no less favourable. in london, for instance, the education committee in made enquiries among the head teachers of some of the schools where a considerable number of meals were provided; the majority of the teachers were enthusiastic as to the benefit derived. "physical progress is most marked," said one headmistress. "the disappearance of chronic headaches, sores on faces, gatherings on fingers, pains in chest ... point to a more 'fit' condition, which the children can only express for me by saying that they 'feel better now,' for they 'are not hungry all the afternoons now.'"[ ] and a headmaster writes, "the change in the children after a month's provision of suitable and nourishing diet for breakfast and dinner has been distinctly beneficial. they have been more inclined to take part in the school sports, into which they have entered with considerable zest. their appearance, too, has greatly improved. their eyes have become brighter, their cheeks rounded. if, for any reason, such as temporary absence, they have lost the advantage of regular feeding, they have almost immediately shown signs of deterioration. when the period [of feeding] has been prolonged to three or six months, their health has permanently improved, and their capacity for work and play has still further developed."[ ] "the children on the necessitous register," says another headmaster, "now fully participate in these activities [games and sports] and supply rather above their proportionate number of prominent performers; this is equally true of swimming. it is indisputable that in the past lack of nourishment, where it did not entirely exclude, greatly limited the part taken by many children in this the most attractive side of school life."[ ] footnote : annual report of the london county council for , chapter xli., p. . footnote : _ibid._, pp. , . footnote : _ibid._, p. . we have ourselves questioned numbers of teachers, both in london and the provinces, on this point. here and there are found, it is true, teachers who declare that no improvement is to be observed, perhaps because, being with the children day by day they do not notice any change. but the verdict as to the beneficial results of school meals is almost unanimous. at bradford we were told that it used to be not uncommon for a child to faint in school from want of food; such an occurrence is now unknown. often children who are dull and listless are found, after a course of regular meals, to become full of life and spirits. it is indeed frequently remarked that the children become "naughtier" after the meals, a sign, of course, of increased vitality. we find that, as a result of the regular feeding, the resisting power of the children is increased and they are less susceptible to the contraction of infectious and other diseases.[ ] the attendance at school is thus improved. at a school in the potteries, the headmaster informed us that during the coal strike in , when three meals a day were given in the schools, there was far less non-attendance than usual through biliousness, headaches or other minor ailments.[ ] at liverpool we were told that there has been a considerable improvement in the regularity of the children's attendance, as a result of the dinners.[ ] non-attendance may be due, of course, not only to illness, but also to lack of food. when the parents have nothing to give the children for breakfast they will encourage them to sleep through the morning. the headmaster of a very poor school in liverpool told us that some years ago, before the education committee had undertaken the provision of meals, the attendance was very bad. he raised a voluntary fund and provided breakfasts himself. as a result the attendance improved to such an extent that the increased grant amounted to £ , which more than covered the cost of the food (£ ). footnote : report of school medical officer for bootle for , p. ; _ibid._ for worcester for , p. . footnote : as we have seen, this result was noticed during the feeding experiment at lambeth (see ante, p. .) footnote : at bootle, on the other hand, where "it was anticipated that the movement would have a beneficial effect upon the regularity of the attendance ... there is no evidence to show that such has been the case, and it is very doubtful whether the attendance has been appreciably affected." (report of the bootle school canteen committee for - , p. .) it would be interesting to compare the nutrition of the children in the day industrial schools, where three meals a day are given. since the children in these schools, who, it must be remembered, are drawn very largely from the poorest and most neglected class, return home in the evening, the only condition altered is the supply of food. we have, unfortunately, not been able to obtain any statistics as to the weights of these children, but we have received ample evidence from teachers and others as to the very marked physical improvement which is to be observed after they have been in the schools but a very short time. at liverpool some time ago it was found that the children attending the day industrial schools suffered much from sores and gatherings. on the diet being altered very considerably, these ailments entirely disappeared, and the children, we were told, are now in perfect health. at leeds the school medical officer found that, while of , children from the ordinary elementary schools, · per cent. were of sub-normal nutrition, the percentage in the same condition among the day industrial school children (of whom were examined) was only · .[ ] footnote : report of school medical officer for leeds for , p. . the chairman of the leeds education committee, in giving evidence before the royal commission on the poor laws, stated, "the supply of three good meals a day has been of great benefit to the children in attendance, who compare favourably with the children attending the ordinary public elementary schools.... they take a good position in school competitions for swimming, etc., and are particularly smart in school drills and exercises." (report of the royal commission on the poor laws, , vol. iv. of evidence, appendix lxxxii. ( ).) let us turn now to the effect of the meals on the mental capabilities of the children. this effect is, from the nature of the case, less easy to assess, and the evidence is not so unanimous as on the question of the physical effect. a minority of teachers assert that no improvement is to be observed. at hull, for instance, out of head-teachers who were asked for their opinions on this point, declared that there had been a considerable or distinct improvement, that there had been a slight improvement, and that there was no visible difference.[ ] at bradford, teachers were of opinion that there had been a considerable or distinct improvement, that the improvement had been slight, that no visible difference was to be noticed.[ ] "i cannot say," said the headmaster of a london school, "that the improvement in mentality has been in any way commensurate with the physical improvement."[ ] on the other hand, a headmistress declared, "there is undoubted improvement physically and educationally in the necessitous children supplied with meals at this school. but i confess the fact only came home to me vividly at our last terminal examination, when i found three of them headed the class in standard iii. (including all subjects)."[ ] another wrote, "the girls receiving regular meals have become more alert, less apathetic, and consequently far more ready to respond to the teachers' efforts to gain their undivided attention. the interest thus aroused has led the girls to look upon all branches of their work with more favour than heretofore. the taste for knowledge once established, homework has followed with the inevitable results produced by voluntary effort rather than compulsory work."[ ] in north kensington the "children who are supplied with milk at school or who are given breakfast and dinner respond at once to the better feeding, and show distinct improvement in their class work."[ ] at darlington it was reported that, "generally speaking, the replies [from the teachers] were very definite to the effect that the provision of dinners had assisted the educational progress of the children."[ ] and a striking illustration of the benefit derived from a regular course of feeding is given us by a medical member of an education committee who writes, "i find the condition of the children much improved by feeding. some children who, eighteen months ago, were considered half-witted are now monitors and monitresses, taking an intelligent interest in their work." footnote : hull education committee, appendix to minutes of the provision of meals sub-committee, october , . footnote : report of bradford education committee for the months ended july , , p. . footnote : annual report of the london county council for , chapter xli., p. . footnote : _ibid._ footnote : _ibid._ footnote : annual report of the london county council for , vol. iii., p. . footnote : report of darlington education committee, - , p. xii. we have already noticed the improvement in attendance consequent on the provision of meals. this, of course, assists in the educational progress, not only of those children who before attended irregularly, but of the whole class, since the others are no longer kept back by the irregular attenders. too much importance cannot be attached to the training of the children in habits of self-control and thoughtfulness for one another. for this training the common meal furnishes an excellent opportunity. as we have seen, far too little attention is paid to this aspect of the question. it is true that, even where the meal is served in a somewhat rough-and-ready fashion, leaving, in the eyes of the educationalist, much to be desired, we have generally been informed that there has been an improvement in manners. at first the children, many of whom, probably, had rarely sat down to a meal before, would throw the food at each other or on the floor, and the scene was often a pandemonium. some sort of order has been evolved out of this chaos. but how far this falls short of what might be effected is seen when one compares the great majority of feeding-centres all over england, not necessarily the worst, with a small minority, such as some of the bradford centres, or one or two london centres, where the meal is truly educational. it is interesting to hear that, when recently a party of children were sent to the cinderella holiday home from one of the bradford schools and the supervisor was particularly requested to notice those who had been receiving meals, it was found that they alone knew how to behave at table, and that the others learnt from them. in another direction the school meal may have an educational result of the highest importance. children in all ranks of life are notoriously conservative in the matter of food and shy of venturing on unknown dishes, but with the poorest class of children it is not only "faddiness" which has to be contended with; the unaccustomed food, however wholesome for the normal child, actually does not agree with these chronically underfed children. as was pointed out at the time of the passing of the provision of meals act, "one great merit of this act ... will be the teaching and training of a child in the matter of taste. at present it is a well known physiological fact that the slum stomach cannot accommodate itself in a moment to good, wholesome food. the child has been accustomed to tea and jam and pickles, and to food that is often more tasty than nourishing. it will now eat under public and _medical superintendence_ and gradually a pure and simple taste will be cultivated."[ ] that this prophecy is in process of being fulfilled may, we think, with justice be claimed. there still exists a certain amount of difficulty in inducing the children to take food to which they are unaccustomed, but that this difficulty can be surmounted by the exercise of tact and attention to individual needs has been practically demonstrated again and again. over and over again we have been told the same tale, "at first the children would not eat this or that dish, but now they have learned to like it." especially is this the case with porridge. at first, wherever this was given, it was found that many refused to eat it, but this antipathy was gradually overcome, and the children finally ate it with relish.[ ] it is amusing to find that at st. george's-in-the-east, where a porridge breakfast was devised as a test of need, it being thought that no child would come who was not really hungry, the children now like the porridge so much that this diet no longer furnishes a test. where the children do not learn to eat what is provided, it always turns out, on further enquiry, that the supervisors have failed, either because of the large numbers whom they have to look after or, perhaps, through lack of enthusiasm, to devote that careful and detailed attention to the children without which it is quite impossible to bring about any change. footnote : _child life and labour_, by margaret alden, m.d., , p. . footnote : thus, to quote one of many instances, at bradford, when porridge breakfasts were given in the experiment of , it was found that the first morning thirteen refused to eat it; the next morning only two refused, and after that all ate and enjoyed it. (bradford education committee, report on a course of meals given to necessitous children from april to july, , p. .) moreover, it is encouraging to notice that this education of the children in the matter of taste is not without its effect on the home diet. this was observed as long ago as . in giving evidence before the committee of the london school board, mrs. burgwin declared that, as a result of the porridge breakfasts given to the school children, there was "an increasing demand upon the local shop-keepers by the poor families themselves."[ ] "at first," said miss honnor morten, "the children did not care for porridge, but the result of the breakfasts has been that many now persuade their parents to make it for them."[ ] "the children," says lady meyer, who has started penny dinners in connection with the health centre at newport, "act as missionaries to their mothers, comparing the meals at the health centre with those at their homes, much to the disparagement of the latter, which quickly brought the more intelligent mothers to the centre to 'see how it was done.'"[ ] footnote : report of the special committee of the london school board on underfed children, , appendix i., p. . footnote : report of the general purposes committee of the london school board on underfed children, , appendix i., p. . footnote : _a health centre and dental clinic in a rural district, newport, essex_, , p. . as far as the children are concerned, indeed, whether we consider the improvement in physique, mental capacity or manners, there is no doubt that the provision of school meals has proved of the greatest benefit. chapter vi the effect on the parents the evidence which has been presented in the preceding chapter as to the benefits resulting from the feeding of school children would have evoked, fifty, or even twenty years ago, a simple and decisive retort. granted, it would have been argued, that the health and educational capacity of the children is deteriorated by lack of nourishment, that irreparable and preventible damage is inflicted, and that the provision of meals by a public authority averts this evil for many and mitigates it for all; yet no plea of immediate expediency can stand against the ultimate loss involved in any public assumption of the cost of providing maintenance for children. if a local authority supplies part, even a small part, of their food, parental responsibility is, _pro tanto_, diminished, with results disastrous not only to the character of the parents but to the prospects of the children themselves. for if parents receive assistance in one direction from a public authority, they will soon clamour to receive assistance in other directions as well. in order to qualify for it, they will neglect their children, who will thus benefit in one way only to be victimized in others. the children themselves, having been fed from public funds, will be trained in habits of dependence, and, when they grow up, will insist on still further provision being made for their children in their turn. thus one tiny breach in the walls of the family will insensibly be widened till it admits a flood in which domestic affections and the integrity of the home, "relations dear, and all the charities of father, son, and brother" are submerged. if such anticipations seem exaggerated, they have nevertheless played an important part in determining the policy pursued in england towards more than one question, and lie behind many of the criticisms which are passed on certain recent forms of social intervention. the idea that relief given to the child must be regarded as relief given to the parent, and that, if given at all, it must be accompanied by severe restrictions, was enunciated emphatically in the poor law report of --indeed that famous document scarcely mentions children except in so far as the treatment of adults is influenced by these appendages--and has since become a settled part of poor law policy. the fear that parental responsibility might be weakened was a criticism brought against the education act of , against the abolition of school fees in , and against the provision of medical treatment for school children under the education (administrative provisions) act of . naturally, therefore, the public provision of meals for school children has not escaped the criticism that it would weaken the bond between parent and child and ultimately result in "the breaking up of the home." "to remove the spur to exertion and self-restraint," reported a special committee of the charity organisation society in , "which the spectacle of his children's hunger must be to any man in whom the feelings of natural kindness are not altogether dead, is to assume a very grave responsibility, and perhaps to take away the last chance of re-establishing the character and fortunes of the breadwinner, and, with him, the fortunes of the whole household. it is true, no doubt, that there are parents who are past redemption by influences of this kind, but the majority of the committee are of opinion that it is better in the interests of the community to allow, in such cases, the sins of the parents to be visited on the children than to impair the principle of the solidarity of the family and run the risk of permanently demoralising large numbers of the population by the offer of free meals to their children."[ ] footnote : "charity and food," report of a special committee of the charity organisation society, , p. . for later expressions of the same line of criticism, see, for instance, "the relief of school children," by m. clutton and e. neville (c.o.s. occasional paper), march, , pp. , ; "underfed school children," by arthur clay (c.o.s. occasional paper), may, , p. ; "the feeding of school children," by miss mcknight, in _charity organisation review_, july, , p. ; "a new poor law for children," by rev. h. iselin, in _charity organisation review_, march, , p. . now it is obvious that an economic policy which was determined primarily by a consideration for the "solidarity of the family" would lead to far-reaching measures of industrial reorganisation. if the ideal is a society in which "the bread-winner" is by his "exertion and self-restraint" to guarantee "the fortunes of his whole household," the immediate object of attack must be those industrial evils which effectually prevent him from doing so at present, and of which the principal are low wages, casual labour, recurrent periods of unemployment and bad housing. that a crusade conducted in the interests of the family against these regular features of modern industry is entirely desirable need not be questioned. but in its absence it is obvious that, so far from allowing "the sins of the parents to be visited on the children," what we are really doing is to allow the sins of the employer to be visited on the employed or the sins of the community to be visited upon future generations of unborn children, and it seems almost frivolous to ascribe the results of this constant and vicarious sacrifice to the measures which, like the provision of school meals, are directed merely to the partial mitigation of some of its worst effects. the truth is, to put the matter bluntly, that what breaks up the family is not the presence of food but its absence, and that, if the public conscience is unperturbed by the spectacle of numerous homes in which economic circumstances have deprived the parents of the means of providing meals for their children themselves, its sudden sensitiveness at the thought of meals being provided by some external authority would be ludicrous if it did not lead to such tragic consequences. the reader who reflects on the thousands of dock-labourers in london, liverpool and glasgow who, through no fault of their own, can obtain only three days' work a week, or on the to per cent. of the working-class population of reading who have been shown by professor bowley to be receiving a total family income below the low standard fixed by mr. rowntree,[ ] and to be receiving it, in per cent. of the cases, because they are "in regular work but at low wages,"[ ] will scarcely argue that the mere provision of meals, however injudicious he may regard it, is likely to contribute seriously to the weakening of family relationships which have been already strained or broken by industrial anarchy or industrial tyranny. _sublata causa tollitur effectus._ but does any one seriously believe that a cessation of school meals would restore the desired "solidarity of the family" to the casual or sweated labourer? footnote : "working-class households in reading," by professor a. l. bowley, in _the journal of the royal statistical society_, june, , p. . the minimum standard for food was computed by mr. rowntree, in , as s. for an adult, and s. d. for a child. this standard has been raised by professor bowley to s. d. and s. d. respectively, since prices in reading in were about sixteen per cent. higher than at york in . the diet on which mr. rowntree based his computations was mainly vegetarian, and his minimum standard assumed a knowledge of food values and perfectly scientific expenditure. (_ibid._, p. .) taking a slightly different standard, professor bowley computes that "_more than half the working-class children of reading, during some part of their first fourteen years, live in households where the standard of life in question is not attained_." (_ibid._, p. .) footnote : _ibid._, p. . if the suggestion that the provision of meals is a _principal_ cause undermining parental responsibility is fantastic, is the suggestion that it must necessarily exercise _some_ influence in that direction better founded? we shall deal later with such facts as can be used to throw light on this question. but we may point out here that the idea underlying it usually derives part of its cogency in the minds of many of its supporters less from any concrete evidence than from an implicit assumption that there is a "natural" division of duties between public authorities and the individual citizen, and that any redistribution of them between these two parties, which removes one function from the latter to the former, must necessarily result in the undermining of character, the weakening of the incentive to self-maintenance, the decay of parental responsibility, in short, in all the phenomena of the process known as "pauperisation." now we need scarcely point out that, stated in this crude form, the theory that every assumption of fresh responsibilities by public authorities results in the undermining of character has no foundation in the experience of mankind. it is, of course, quite true that any sudden removal from an individual of duties which he has hitherto been accustomed to discharge may result in weakening the springs of effort. it is also quite true that any sudden addition to his responsibilities may result in crushing them, and that, as far as the more poorly paid ranks of labour are concerned, energies are far more often worn out in a hopeless struggle than sapped by an insidious ease. but by themselves these facts prove nothing as to the _manner_ in which burdens, duties, responsibilities, should be distributed between the community and its individual members. what experience shows is that there is no "natural" allocation of functions, but that there has been throughout history at once a constant addition to, and a constant re-arrangement of them, and that the former process is quite compatible with the latter. nor is there any ground for the idea that the extension of the activities of public bodies must necessarily result in accelerating the approach of the state of economic and moral inertia described by those who anticipate it as "pauperism." if that were the case, all civilised communities would, indeed, have been hastening to destruction from a time "whereof the memory of man runneth not to the contrary." for our fathers had no elementary education, our grandfathers no municipal water, and few lamp-posts; while our great-grandfathers enjoyed the independence derived from the possession of relatively few roads, and those of a character sufficiently bad to offer the most powerful incentives to the energy and self-reliance of the pedestrian. on this theory the citizen of manchester would be more pauperised than the citizen of london; both would be seriously pauperised compared with the peasant of connemara; while the wretched inhabitants of german municipalities would be wallowing in a perfect quagmire of perpetual pauperism. why indeed should one stop here? there have been periods in history in which not only these functions, but the organisation of justice and the equipment of military forces have been left to the bracing activities of private individuals; and an enquiry into the decline and fall of individual independence would, if logically pursued, lead us into dim regions of history far anterior to the norman conquest. the origins of modern pauperism, like the origins of modern liberty, are to be sought among "the primeval forests of germany!" while, however, there is no foundation for the doctrine that every extension of public provision results in a slackening of energy on the part of the individual, it is, none the less, possible that this may be the result of the particular kind of provision which consists in the supplying of meals to school children. in the event of that being proved to be the case, it is by no means easy to say what policy should be pursued. public authorities, it may be argued, should cease to provide school meals. to this answer, which is at first sight plausible, there are two objections which are together almost insuperable. the first is that education authorities are under a legal obligation to provide education for the children in their charge and to carry out medical inspection with a view to discovering their ailments; while they may, if they think fit, provide medical treatment for them. they owe it to their constituents to spend their money in the most effective and economical manner. education given to children who are suffering from want of nourishment not only is ineffective, but may be positively deleterious. when the extent of malnutrition is known, is it reasonable to expect the authorities deliberately to shut their eyes to the fact that so far from benefiting the children who suffer from it they may be positively aggravating their misfortunes? if it be replied, _ruat coelum fiat justitia_, let the children suffer in order to improve the moral character of their parents, an education committee may not unfairly retort that it is elected primarily to attend to the welfare of the children, and that the wisdom of elevating parents, who _ex hypothesi_ are demoralised, at the cost of the rising generation is, at any rate, too problematical to justify it in neglecting its own special duties. moreover, even assuming that public bodies were willing to apply to the education of children the principles recommended in for the treatment of "improvidence and vice," there is no reason to suppose that they would succeed in averting the "pauperisation" which is dreaded. no fact is more clearly established by the history of all kinds of relief administration since than that the effect of refusing to make public provision for persons in distress is merely to lead to the provision of assistance in a rather more haphazard, uncoordinated and indiscriminate manner by private agencies. a purely negative policy is systematically "blacklegged" by private philanthropists. rightly or wrongly the plain man finds his stomach turned by the full gospel of deterrence; with the result that, while the english poor law is nominally deterrent, enormous sums are spent every year in private charity in london alone; that in the local government board recommended local authorities to provide relief for certain classes of workers apart from the poor law, on the ground that the poor law, for whose administration the local government board is responsible, is necessarily degrading; and that, finally, a special act had to be passed in creating authorities to administer assistance for unemployed workmen whom public opinion would no longer allow to be left to the tender mercies of a deterrent policy of poor relief. that the same result would follow with even greater certainty were public bodies to decline to provide for necessitous school children is obvious, inasmuch as to the foolish sentimentality of the ordinary person the sufferings of childhood make a special appeal. indeed it has followed already. in the days when education authorities had no power to spend public money on the provision of meals for school children, what happened was that the provision of meals was begun by private persons, and in the towns which have not put the act of into force such private provision obtains at the present day. such extra-legal intervention has all the disadvantages ascribed to the public provision of meals, for one can scarcely accept the extravagant contention that while soup supplied by an education authority pauperises, soup tickets supplied by a philanthropic society do not. and it has few of its advantages. for private philanthropy tends to be more irregular and arbitrary in its administration than most public authorities. since it cannot cover the whole area of distress, its selection of children to be fed is more capricious; since its funds are raised by appeals _ad misericordiam_ they often fail when they are needed most; and when, as often happens, more than one agency enters the field, the result is overlapping and duplication. nor will it seem a minor evil to those who care for the civic spirit that even the best-intentioned charity can never escape from the taint of patronage, can never be anything but a sop with which the rich relieve their consciences by ministering to the poor. the statement that the feeding of school children weakens parental responsibility presumably means that the provision of meals at school induces parents to neglect to provide meals themselves. when one turns from these general considerations to examine how far this result has actually occurred, one is faced with the task of sifting a few grains of fact from a multitude of impressions. the first and most essential preliminary to the formation of any reasonable judgment is to determine the circumstances of those families one or more of whose members are receiving meals at school; and in order to throw some light on this point we give, in the following table, such particulars from six areas as are available:--[ ] footnote : the figures for birmingham are taken from _the public feeding of elementary school children_, by phyllis d. winder, , pp. - ; those for st. george's-in-the-east, from "the story of a children's care committee," by rev. h. iselin, in _economic review_, january, , p. ; those for stoke, bradford, st. pancras and bermondsey from case papers that we have analysed. these figures must not be taken as more than a somewhat rough indication of the state of affairs, for it is not always easy to determine precisely into which category a particular case should be put. probably the proportion of casually employed is somewhat understated; of the twenty-six, for instance, who are classed as unemployed at birmingham, roughly one-third belonged to the class of permanent casuals, but were totally unemployed at the date of the enquiry. (_the public feeding of elementary school children_, p. .) causes of stoke. bradford. birmingham. school school in distress in st. bermondsey pancras. unemployment casual employment short time -- -- regular work -- but low wages illness or disablement of father widows desertion or absence of father it will be seen that the four largest classes of families consist of those in which the father is casually employed, is disabled by illness or accident, is dead or is unemployed. if one adds to these families the in which the father is paid low wages or is working short time, there is a total of out of families in which distress is due either to industrial causes or to a misfortune. since men do not usually contract illness or die in order that their children may be fed at school, there is no question of the responsibility of the father being weakened in the cases in which death or ill-health was the cause which led to the provision of school meals. it is often argued, however, that the public provision of assistance is itself one cause of the distress which it is designed to relieve, because it must necessarily exercise a deteriorating influence over industrial conditions. the knowledge that his children will be fed is likely, it is said, to lead a man to relax the demands which he makes on his employer. the knowledge that he need not offer a subsistence wage for a family leads the employer to offer worse terms to his employees, more irregular employment or lower rates of wages, with the result that the ratepayer relieves the employer of part of his wage bill. cut off all public assistance, and "economic conditions will adjust themselves to the change." now it is perfectly true that the need which prompts the provision of school meals does normally arise from bad industrial conditions, and that to allow those conditions to continue while merely mitigating their effects is an offence against morality and an outrage on commonsense. whether school meals are desirable or not for their own sake, it is the right of the worker that industry should be organised in such a way that he should be able to provide for his children in the manner which he thinks best, and that he should not be compelled (as he often is at present) to choose between seeing them fed at school and seeing them half-starved at home. but the theory which we have stated goes much further than this. it holds that public provision is a _cause_ of bad industrial conditions, and that the mere abolition of public provision would _in itself_ result in those conditions being improved. it is obvious that, as far as certain economic evils are concerned, this doctrine does not hold good. many children are underfed because their parents are suffering from sickness or accident incurred in the course of their employment. clearly an employer will not be induced to render his processes safe merely by the fact that his employees' children will suffer if they are unsafe. many children are underfed because their parents are casually employed or altogether unemployed. equally clearly there is no reason whatever to suppose that casual labour would cease because of their starvation; for if that were the case it would have ceased long ago. nor again does the more specious doctrine that the wages of men are lowered by the provision of food for their children rest upon a securer foundation. in the nature of things it can neither be verified nor disproved by an appeal to facts; for the controversy is not concerning facts but concerning their interpretation. if we point out that in bradford, when the education (provision of meals) act was first adopted in , the majority of children fed were children of woolcombers, dyers' labourers, carters and builders' labourers, and that since the first three classes of workers have all received advances of wages, it may, of course, be answered that the advance would have been still greater if the children had not been fed.[ ] in reality, however, the more this theory that the feeding of school children acts as a subsidy to wages is examined, the weaker does it appear. historically it is traceable to the popular rendering of ricardo introduced by senior into the poor law report of , and it still contains marks of its origin. it assumes, in the first place, that wages are never above "subsistence level." for, clearly, if they are above it, there is no reason why they should be lowered if the cost of keeping a family is somewhat reduced. it assumes, in the second place, that they are never below the subsistence level of a family; for clearly, if they are, that in itself proves that the absence of public provision has not been able to maintain them. it assumes, in the third place, that the ability of workers to resist a reduction or to insist on an advance depends not upon the profitableness of the industry, nor upon the strength of their organisation, but solely upon their necessities. of these assumptions the first two are untrue, and the last is not only untrue, but the exact opposite of the truth. in reality, as every trade unionist knows, the necessities of the non-wage earning members of a family do not keep wages up; they keep them down. a man who knows that a stoppage of work will plunge his family in starvation has little resisting power, and acquiesces in oppression to which he would otherwise refuse to submit. it is the strikers' wives and children who really break many strikes, and if the pressure of immediate necessity is removed the worker is not less likely, he is more likely, to hold out for better terms. footnote : we may note that there are very few cases where the fathers of the children who are receiving school meals are, at the time, in regular work. (see table on page .) many authorities refuse to consider such cases, while, where they are not necessarily barred, they amount as a rule, so far as we have found, except at bradford, to a very small proportion of the total number of cases dealt with. in london a few committees have several such cases on their feeding-lists--a member of one committee, indeed, informed us that the fact that a man had a large family and low wages was, till recently, taken as a reason for granting meals to his children--but the great majority of committees either refuse to feed such children at all, or only do so in infrequent and exceptional circumstances. one or two instances were quoted to us where, as it was alleged, the provision of meals for the children had induced the father to acquiesce in the acceptance of a low wage without demanding an increase or seeking more remunerative employment. thus we were told of a man who was formerly in charge of two furnaces at a wage of s. a week; one furnace was shut down, and he was offered the charge of the remaining one at s. this he accepted and the care committee had been feeding his children for a whole year. in another case, a man who was out of work, and was having all his children fed at school, took a job at s. a week, a wage which, it was asserted, he would not otherwise have agreed to. but in such instances, infrequent and isolated as they are in any case, it is often found on analysis that the father, through some physical or mental infirmity, is incapable of performing a man's work, and unable, therefore, to earn more wages. nor is there much more substance in the theory that the provision of meals by a public authority weakens family life by "undermining parental responsibility." we are not, of course, concerned to deny that in the working classes as well as in the propertied classes there are a certain number of persons who are anxious "to get something for nothing." cases, no doubt, do arise in which a parent who knows that the needs of his children will partially be met by the food supplied by an education authority may for that reason contemplate their fate when abandoned by him with less apprehension. at most, however, such cases constitute only per cent. of those on the table, and the wisdom of withholding assistance from the remaining per cent. merely in order to bring pressure upon this small fraction of all the families concerned is, to put the matter at the lowest, highly questionable. moreover, even assuming that children who are neglected by their parents should be made to suffer in order to teach the latter a moral lesson, what probability is there that the lesson will be appreciated? in those families where a father is contemplating the desertion of his home, family relationships must obviously be weak and unstable. is it seriously suggested that the mere fact that a public body is known to provide meals for children in attendance at school is sufficient to tilt the scale; that a man who is willing, _ex hypothesi_, to contemplate relinquishing his wife and younger children to the poor law will be deterred from leaving them merely by anxiety as to how the children of school age will obtain their midday meal; and that, when his apprehensions upon this point are removed, he will hasten to avail himself of his freedom in order to abandon them to much more serious evils than the loss of one meal per day? such a suggestion carries its refutation on its face. when family life has been so disintegrated that a man is contemplating the desertion of his wife and children, he is not likely either to be encouraged to do so by the mere fact that meals for school children are provided by a public body, or deterred from doing so by the fact that they are not. and a similar answer may be made to those who argue that "the result of feeding children at school is merely to encourage their parents to spend more upon drink." no one, of course, would deny that, if a man has already formed the habit of indulging his tastes without regard to the consequences, an increase in his means will enable him to spend more upon such indulgence. but that is a very different thing from accepting the implication that every accession in the income of a class merely leads it to fresh extravagance. the evidence, indeed, points in the opposite direction. during the last forty years there has been a great extension of public provision and a rise in money wages. yet it is a matter of common knowledge that the consumption of alcoholic liquor per head of population has diminished and is still diminishing. in reality, however, the idea that any large number of parents misuse the public provision of meals appears to be quite without any solid foundation, and to be a hasty generalisation from exceptional cases, which, because they are exceptional, are recorded by charitable persons with pious horror, and are given an undeserved and misleading notoriety. almost all the actual evidence available points in the opposite direction. again and again has it been stated to us that parents withdraw their children from the school meals as soon as an improvement in their circumstances enables them to provide food at home.[ ] indeed, it is often said that they withdraw them before they can properly afford to do so, and before the canteen committee thinks it wise for the school meals to be stopped, while many refrain from applying for meals until they are driven to do so by actual necessity. the truth is that behind the talk on parental responsibility which finds favour in certain sections of society--especially those where it is customary for parents to pay for their children to be fed at school during to weeks of the year--there is a considerable amount not only of ignorance but of hypocrisy. these critics are apt entirely to overlook the fact that during the last hundred years parental responsibilities, so far from being diminished, have been multiplied by the state. middle-class parliaments have insisted that working-class parents should send their children to school, should dispense with the help of their earnings, should provide them with food, clothing and medical aid. more important, they forget that to insist on "responsibility" is meaningless unless the means of discharging it are available; for one cannot blame a man for failing to do what he wishes to do, but which he is prevented from doing by _force majeure_. now this is precisely the position of the majority of such parents as are aided by school meals. _they_ did not fix the wages of adult men at s. a week; _they_ did not ordain that employment at the ports of london and liverpool and glasgow, and in a score of other trades, should be a gamble. _they_ did not decree that those who direct industry should at intervals of five to seven years find it convenient to curtail production and turn their employees on to the streets. they are born into a world where this is the established social order, an order which, as individuals, they are impotent to alter. if some of them occasionally give up a struggle which must often seem hopeless, at whose door does the blood of these men and their children lie? if it is desired that every man should regularly provide the whole maintenance of his family, then industry must be organised in such a way as to make it possible. till that is done, to blame working people for acquiescing in circumstances which they did not create and which they detest is not only cruel but absurd. when every competent worker is secured regular employment and a living wage, it may be desirable that forms of public provision which exist at present should cease--though, even so, it is possible that the educational value of school meals will lead to their being continued. till that happy condition is brought about they must be not only continued, but extended and improved. footnote : at bradford a few years ago an enquiry was made with the object of discovering how far parents were obtaining the meals under false pretences. two criteria were taken, firstly, whether the parents' statements as to the income earned were corroborated by their employers; secondly, how far the parents voluntarily withdrew their children from the school meals when their circumstances improved. as a result of this enquiry it appeared that not more than - / per cent. were unduly taking advantage of the meals. in many cases, where the parents' statements as to income did not tally with the employers' statements, it was found that the parents, in giving their average earnings, had overstated instead of understating them. chapter vii conclusions the provision of meals for school children is, as we have pointed out, merely an attempt to mitigate some of the evil effects of industrial disorganisation. the principal end at which society should aim is the removal of the causes, low wages, casual employment, recurrent periods of unemployment, and bad housing, which make them necessary. but meanwhile, as long as economic conditions remain as they are, some provision must be made for the present generation of school children. and the provision of school meals is not merely a question of relief, it is also a preventive measure. "every step ... in the direction of making and keeping the children healthy is a step towards diminishing the prevalence and lightening the burden of disease for the adult, and a relatively small rise in the standard of child health may represent a proportionately large gain in the physical health, capacity, and energy of the people as a whole."[ ] footnote : report of chief medical officer of the board of education for , p. . granted, therefore, that the school meal is, for the present at any rate, a necessity, the question remains, for what children shall this meal be provided. we have described the methods of selection at present in force. we have seen that, though a few children are given school meals because they are found by the school doctor to be ill-nourished, the great majority are selected by the teachers on the ground of poverty, a method which involves an enquiry into the parents' circumstances. we have shown some of the disadvantages inherent in this method of selection. the enquiries deter parents from applying. it is impossible for the teachers to discover all cases of underfed children. if the child is told by its parents to say that it has plenty to eat at home, how is the teacher to know that it is underfed? it is difficult, and in many cases quite impossible, to ascertain the amount of income coming in. even if this could always be accurately ascertained, it would be difficult to discriminate with justice since other circumstances vary so widely. the enquiry is demoralising for the parents, putting a premium on deception and creating a sense of injustice. so unsatisfactory, indeed, has this system of investigation into income proved to be that there is a general consensus of opinion among adherents of the most opposing schools of thought that it must be given up. "as a guardian of the poor and a member of the charity organisation society, and in many other ways," says the late canon barnett, "i have come to see that no enquiry is adequate. i would not trust myself to enquire into any one's condition and be just. enquiry is never satisfactory and is always irritating.... _i believe it is enquiry and investigation and suspicion which undermine parental responsibility._"[ ] even so firm a supporter of charity organisation society principles as the rev. henry iselin would, we gather, prefer to the present inadequate system of investigation the provision of a meal for all children who like to come, without enquiry, though he would, of course, make the conditions of the meal in some way deterrent.[ ] in discussing what is the best method to be adopted we must, therefore, rule out any plan which involves an enquiry into the family income. footnote : report of select committee on education (provision of meals) bills (england and scotland), , qs. , . (the italics are mine.) footnote : see post, p. . (i) we may consider first the proposal that the selection should be made by the school doctor, school meals being ordered for all children whom he finds to be suffering from mal-nutrition. this method, which is strongly recommended by the chief medical officer of the board of education, has been adopted in a few towns, but only to a very limited extent and always in subordination to the system of selection based on the "poverty test." the selection by the "physical test" would obviate all the disadvantages arising from the demoralising enquiry into the parents' circumstances. on the other hand, the practical difficulties would be very great. at present a child is normally examined by the doctor only two or three times during the whole of its school career. under the system proposed frequent examinations would be necessary, which would entail an enormous increase in the school medical staff. but, however frequent the examinations, the discovery of all underfed children would not be assured. it is not always possible for the doctor to determine the cause of malnutrition in any particular case; hence many children would be included who get plenty of food at home, but yet, from some other cause, do not thrive. more important, numbers of children would be excluded who fail to get sufficient food but who yet appear healthy. as a school medical officer points out, "temporary lack of food does not stamp the child in such a way that it is possible to detect past privations by ordinary inspection."[ ] the underfeeding might be prolonged for a considerable time before its effects were apparent. but it is essential that underfeeding should be discovered before the child shows definite signs of malnutrition, since the object to be aimed at is to prevent its ever getting into this state. the physical test, therefore, forms too narrow a basis to be satisfactorily employed, at any rate as the sole test, in the selection of children to be provided for. footnote : report of school medical officer for leicester for , p. . (ii) we will consider next the plan to which we have already alluded, the provision of meals, free and without enquiry, for all children who like to come, it being understood that the meals are intended only for "necessitous" children, _i.e._, those children who through poverty are unable to obtain an adequate supply of food at home. those who aim at making this provision in some way deterrent suggest a breakfast of porridge, the time of the meal and the nature of the food providing a test of need. "as the man inside the workhouse must not have better, but a decidedly worse, treatment than the man outside, so if the food be nourishing but not too palatable it may chance that only the truly necessitous may apply."[ ] children who can obtain food at home will prefer to do so. but it is found in practice that it is not only the children who can get sufficient food at home who are deterred by such a device, but that the "truly necessitous" also refuse to come. such a system, in fact, defeats its own ends. it is futile to provide meals for all underfed children and at the same time to make that provision so deterrent that those for whom it is intended decline to avail themselves of it. even if there is no intention of making the provision deterrent, the idea that the meals are meant only for necessitous children will, in fact, make it so; many parents will prefer to feed their children at home on a totally inadequate diet rather than disclose their poverty by sending them to the school meals. the "poverty test" in fact, in whatever form it may be applied, will exclude numbers of children whom it is desirable to provide for. footnote : "a new poor law for children," by rev. henry iselin, in _charity organisation review_, march, , p. . (iii) the two methods that we have described would each leave a large class of children without provision. the first would fail to discover numbers of children who are underfed, but who do not show obvious signs of malnutrition. the second would not touch those cases where the children cannot get sufficient food at home, but where the parents are too proud to accept school meals for them. a combination of the two methods would remove both these objections. the provision of meals, free and without enquiry, for all necessitous children, would secure the feeding of the majority of those who are underfed, while the school doctor would generally discover those cases where the parents try to conceal the fact that they cannot give their children sufficient food at home. for these children the doctor would, of course, order school meals. this method would not obviate the necessity of a great increase in the school medical service. moreover, by any of the methods discussed, provision would be made only for underfed children. there would remain the hosts who are unsuitably fed; the worst of these cases would, of course, be discovered by the doctor, but only the worst cases. and, again, no provision would be made for the children whose mothers are at work all day and consequently unable to provide a midday meal, and for whom the school dinner would be a great convenience, for which the parents would, in many cases, be willing to pay. (iv) there remains the only logical conclusion, the provision of a meal for all school children, as part of the school curriculum. such a provision need not necessarily be compulsory, though it should be so in all cases where the school doctor recommends it. from every point of view, the psychological, the medical and the educational, the advantages to be gained from such a course would be enormous. general provision for all would do away with all pauperising discrimination between the necessitous and the non-necessitous. on the medical side it would be difficult to over-estimate the benefits to be secured. on this point the chief medical officer of the board of education has recently pronounced in no measured terms. "from a purely scientific point of view," he declared, "if there was one thing he was allowed to do for the six million children, if he wanted to rear an imperial race, it would be to feed them.... the great, urgent, pressing need was nutrition. with that they could get better brains and a better race."[ ] the beneficial results already observed in the case of children who have received a regular course of school meals would be extended to all. then, again, the common meal would serve as an opportunity for the exercise of many little acts of consideration for one another. the teachers would be brought into more intimate relations with the children, for they get to know the children better at meal time than in any other way. the school meal would serve as an object lesson; taken in conjunction with the teaching of housewifery and cookery in the schools, it would speedily raise the standard in the homes. there would be another advantage. adequate rest after the meal could be insisted on, followed by healthy play in the open air in the playground instead of in stuffy rooms and backyards. in the rural districts, as we have already shown, it is imperative that dinner should be provided for all who want to stay. numbers of children are unable to return home, and it is almost impossible for the parents to provide suitable cold food for them to take with them; even when they can go home to dinner they frequently have a long walk, with the consequence that the meal must be eaten hastily and the children hurry back to school immediately afterwards. footnote : report of proceedings of university extension oxford summer meeting, , p. . if general provision is made, ought the parents to be required to pay or should the meal be free to all? the first plan has much to recommend it and has been advocated in many quarters. at the recent conference at the guildhall on school feeding, for instance, there appeared to be a general agreement in favour of this course. the experience of the special schools for defective children, and some of the rural schools, where a midday meal or hot cocoa is provided, shows that numbers of parents are able to pay, and there does not appear to be much difficulty in collecting the payment.[ ] and in the ordinary elementary schools, where little provision is made for paying cases, it would appear that there does exist a certain demand for such provision.[ ] on the other hand, it must be admitted that it is a question whether any large number of parents would voluntarily pay for their children's meals when it was known that provision was made for all and that other children were receiving the meal free. the payment would have to be left to the parent's conscience, for any attempt to try to decide in which cases payment should be insisted on and in which it should be remitted would introduce again the evils of the present system, with its demoralising enquiry into the parents' circumstances--though in a somewhat mitigated form, since no distinction would be made between the paying and the non-paying children, and the latter would not be marked off as a separate class as at present. another difficulty, though a minor one, would arise in the fixing of the price to be charged. in the more prosperous districts the dinner might be self-supporting, but in the poorest localities it would hardly be possible to charge an amount sufficient to cover the cost of the food. footnote : see ante, pp. , - , - . footnote : in the ordinary elementary schools in some of the scottish towns, large numbers of children pay for the dinners. (see appendix ii., pp. , , .) the provision of a free meal for all would obviate these difficulties. it will be objected at once that such a plan will undermine parental responsibility, but, as we have shown in the previous chapter, communal provision of other services has not had this result. and against this lightening of parental burdens must be set the continual increase of duties which are being placed upon them. a more serious objection lies in the expense. taking the cost of a school dinner at - / d. per head,[ ] the provision of one meal a day for five days a week during term time for all the six million school children in england, wales and scotland would cost about £ , , . this is, of course, an outside estimate, for it would probably be found that a considerable number of parents would prefer to have their children at home to dinner rather than send them to the school meal; and the provision might be confined to schools in poor districts. to the actual cost of supplying the meals there must be added the initial outlay incurred in providing dining-rooms and appliances.[ ] on the other hand, there would be a great saving of time and energy which is now consumed in making enquiries. and the provision of school meals would tend to diminish the amount which will otherwise have to be spent in the near future on medical treatment. food, as sir george newman has pointed out, is of more importance than drugs and surgical treatment, and if regular meals were provided there would be much less need for school clinics.[ ] the expenditure on the provision of school meals would, indeed, be nationally a most profitable investment; it would be amply justified by the improved physique of the rising generation and by the consequent increase in their efficiency. it would be far more productive, in fact, than much of the money which is now spent on education, than the outlay, for instance, on the erection of huge school buildings, an outlay the necessity of which is becoming more and more questionable in the light of the proved superiority of open-air education. footnote : the cost depends, of course, on the kind of food provided. at bradford, where a two-course dinner is given, the total cost per meal, for administrative charges (the upkeep of the cooking depot, the rent of the dining-rooms, the wages of the staff, payment for supervision, the carriage of the food, sinking fund, etc.), amounted in - to · d., and for food to · d., making a total of · d. about one-third of the meals supplied were breakfasts, which are usually rather cheaper than dinners, so that the cost per dinner would be slightly more. (bradford education committee, return as to the working of the education (provision of meals) act for the year ending march , ). at edinburgh, where a one-course dinner is given, the cost is · d. for food and d. for administrative charges. (report of the edinburgh school board for - , p. .) footnote : we must add one other item of expenditure, which will be necessary whatever course be adopted with regard to the provision of meals, namely, the appointment of salaried organisers for each group of schools, to supervise the work of medical treatment, after-care, and all other activities directed to the physical well-being of the child. footnote : report of proceedings of university extension oxford summer meeting, , p. . unfortunately the general provision of a school dinner will not be a complete solution of the problem. there will remain the children for whom one meal a day will not be sufficient, while the discontinuance of the meals during the holidays will cause them serious suffering. experience has amply shown the necessity of the meals being continued during the holidays and power must be given to the local education authorities to make this provision when it is required. they must also be allowed to provide an additional meal for those children for whom dinner alone is not sufficient. any proposal to limit the provision to one meal could not, indeed, be seriously entertained, for numbers of local authorities are already supplying this extra food and would resist any curtailment of their powers in this respect. but when we come to consider for what children this additional provision shall be made, we are face to face with all the old difficulties of selection. obviously it cannot be made for all. perhaps the best method would be to provide for all children who liked to come, whilst attendance should be obligatory on those for whom the school doctor ordered extra nourishment. such a prospect would be viewed with alarm by many, but the numbers to be provided for would probably not be excessive, if it was understood that this extra provision was intended only for necessitous or delicate children. it is found that the attendance drops off considerably during the holidays, and that it is always less for a breakfast than for a dinner; it requires more exertion to come in time for breakfast, while the fare provided is not so popular. probably the danger would be rather on the side of too few children being provided for than too many. no plan that can be proposed is free from disadvantages. and this brings us back to the point at which we started in this chapter. from the nature of the case, no attempt to deal with effects only, while causes remain untouched, can be wholly satisfactory. provision must be made for the present generation of school children; their necessities must be relieved and future inefficiency due to underfeeding in childhood must be prevented. but at the same time, and above all, a determined attack must be made on the evils which lie at the root of the children's malnutrition. industrial conditions must be so organised that it is possible for every man himself to provide for his children at least the requisite minimum of food, clothing and other necessaries. _summary of conclusions_ . that, so long as economic conditions remain as they are, the provision of school meals is a necessity. . that no method of selection of the children who are to receive the meals can be satisfactory, and that all attempts at picking and choosing should, therefore, be abandoned. the meal should be provided for all children who like to come, without any enquiry into their parents' circumstances. attendance should be compulsory if recommended by the school medical officer. . that the meal should be regarded as part of the school curriculum and should be educational. it should be served, as far as practicable, on the school premises, in rooms which are not used as class-rooms; the plan of sending the children to eating-houses or to large centres should be discontinued. some of the teachers should be present to supervise the children, who should be taught to set the tables and to wait on one another. the meal should be served as attractively as possible. . the dietary should be drawn up in consultation with the school medical officer, with a view to the physiological requirements of the children, special attention being paid to the infants. . the preparation of the food should not be entrusted to caterers, but should be undertaken by the local education authority. . the meals should be continued throughout the school year, and, if necessary, during the holidays. appendix i examples of menus ( ) bradford spring dietary, dinners to be repeated every four weeks st week: monday. brown vegetable soup. rice pudding. tuesday. cottage pie; green peas. stewed fruit. wednesday. potato and onion soup. plum cake (cocoanut cake alternate months). thursday. meat and potato hash; beans. rice pudding. friday. fish and potato pie; parsley sauce; peas. ground rice. nd week: monday. potato and onion soup. rice pudding. tuesday. shepherd's pie. stewed fruit. wednesday. yorkshire pudding; gravy; peas. sago pudding. thursday. scotch barley broth. currant pastry. friday. fish and potato pie; parsley sauce; peas. rice and sultanas. rd week: monday. brown vegetable soup. rice pudding. tuesday. meat and potato hash; beans. stewed fruit. wednesday. potato and onion soup. ginger pudding and sweet sauce. thursday. stewed beef and gravy; mashed potatoes. baked jam roll. friday. fish and potato pie; parsley sauce; peas. semolina pudding. th week: monday. potato and onion soup. wholemeal cake. tuesday. hashed beef and savoury balls. rice pudding. wednesday. yorkshire cheese pudding; peas and gravy. stewed fruit. thursday. shepherd's pie; green peas. sago pudding. friday. fish and potato pie; parsley sauce. rice and sultanas. ( ) leeds winter dietary repeated week after week. monday. pea soup; brown and white bread. parkin. tuesday. shepherd's pie; brown and white bread. buns or cake. wednesday (except during advent and lent)--irish stew; brown and white bread. parkin. wednesday (during advent and lent)--lentil and tomato soup (alternately with fish pie); brown and white bread. parkin. thursday. crust pie; brown or white bread. buns or cake. friday. lentil and tomato soup (alternately with fish pie); brown and white bread. parkin. (some other kind of cake or bun is now sometimes substituted for parkin.) summer dietary monday. rice pudding; stewed fruit. currant cake. tuesday. shepherd's pie; brown and white bread. seed cake. wednesday. crust pie; brown and white bread. currant cake. thursday. potted meat sandwiches. rice pudding. friday. lentil and tomato soup; white and brown bread. buns. ( ) west ham. winter dietary. monday. irish stew. brown bread and jam. tuesday. lentil soup. baked currant pudding. wednesday. roast mutton; potatoes; haricot beans; bread. thursday. mince. suet pudding; jam or stewed fruit. friday. soup. rice with jam or treacle. (during summer lighter food is substituted.) ( ) acton. monday. soup and bread. currant roll. tuesday. stewed meat; cabbage; potatoes. wednesday. soup and bread. plain suet pudding with syrup. thursday. irish stew and potatoes. plain pudding. friday. soup and bread. rice pudding. saturday. stewed meat and two vegetables. this menu is theoretically repeated week after week throughout the year, but in practice it is not always strictly adhered to. ( ) london. _dinners which may be supplied by the alexandra trust._ (_see minutes of the l.c.c., dec. , , ._) winter menu. . haricot bean soup; bread. treacle pudding. . fish and potato pie; bread. baked raisin pudding. . pea soup; bread baked in dripping. fig pudding. . stewed beef or mutton; dumplings; steamed potatoes; bread. . beef stewed with peas; dumplings; potatoes; bread. . mutton stewed with haricot beans; steamed potatoes; bread. suet pudding. . meat and potato pie; bread. . meat pudding. . toad-in-the-hole; potatoes; bread. . rice pudding; two slices of bread and butter. summer menu. . rice pudding; two slices of bread and butter. . toad-in-the-hole; potatoes; bread. . meat pies; potatoes; bread. . meat pudding; potatoes; bread. . cold meat pie; fruit roll. . meat sandwich; piece of cake. . (for infants) hot milk and bread; fruit roll. dinners for infants liquid part of winter dinner menus, nos. , , . rice, tapioca, macaroni or barley pudding, with two slices of sultana bread and butter. stew--very fine mince. baked custard, with bread and butter. savory custard, with bread and butter. ( ) grassington (yorkshire) sample menus[ ] footnote : there appears to be no fixed dietary, the dinners being varied each week. monday. haricot bean soup; bread. steamed suet pudding and treacle. tuesday. meat and potato pies with crusts on. rice pudding. wednesday. onion soup; bread. steamed ginger pudding; sweet sauce. thursday. meat and potato pie with crusts on. sago pudding. friday. yorkshire pudding; gravy; mashed potato. marmalade pudding; sweet sauce. monday. potato soup; bread. steamed ginger pudding; sweet sauce. tuesday. meat and potato pies with crusts on. cornflour pudding. wednesday. pea soup. plain plum puddings; sweet sauce. thursday. meat and potato pies with crusts on. rice pudding. friday. shepherd's pie (minced meat, mashed potato). sago pudding. appendix ii the provision of meals in scotland the provision of meals act of applied only to england and wales. as we have seen, the attempt of the house of commons to extend its operations to scotland was defeated in the house of lords, and it was not till that the scottish school boards were granted power to utilise the rates for the provision of food.[ ] by the education (scotland) act passed in that year it was enacted that a school board might, either by itself or in combination with other school boards, provide accommodation, apparatus and service for the preparation and supply of meals.[ ] where it appeared that a child was unable by lack of food or clothing to take full advantage of the education provided, the school board should, after due warning, summon the parent or guardian to appear and give an explanation of the child's condition. if the explanation was not forthcoming or was insufficient or unsatisfactory, and the condition of the child was due to neglect, the procurator fiscal should prosecute the parents under the prevention of cruelty act.[ ] if, however, it appeared that the parent or guardian, through poverty or ill-health, was unable to supply sufficient food or clothing, the school board, if satisfied that the necessities of the case would not be met by voluntary agency, should make "such provision for the child ... as they deem necessary" out of the school fund.[ ] temporary provision might be made by the school board pending completion of procedure against the parents, and the cost of such provision might be recovered.[ ] the powers conferred upon scottish school boards thus differed in several respects from those conferred on english local authorities by the act of . the school boards were granted power not only to provide food but also clothing, and no limitation was placed upon the amount which might be spent out of the rates on the provision of these necessaries. moreover, the act was not permissive. in england, when in any area school children are suffering from lack of food, and voluntary funds are not forthcoming to meet their needs, the local education authority _may_ provide food out of the rates; in scotland the school board _shall_ make such provision. footnote : see ante, p. . footnote : edward vii., c. , sec. ( ). footnote : _ibid._, sec. ( ). footnote : _ibid._, sec. ( ). footnote : _ibid._ no report has yet been published by the scottish education department as to the action taken either by the school boards or by voluntary agencies in the work of the provision of meals. as far as we can gather from the reports of the chief inspectors, though several boards co-operate with voluntary agencies and provide apparatus and service, in only some half-dozen towns, _e.g._, edinburgh, glasgow, govan, leith, perth, has the system of providing food out of the rates been adopted to any extent.[ ] the increase in expenditure on the provision of meals, etc., for necessitous children under the act of is shown by the following table:--[ ] footnote : during the coal strike in the spring of , some boards in the fife district took action under section and provided free meals. (report of the chief inspector for the southern division for , p. .) footnote : report of the committee of council on education in scotland, - , p. . providing food, clothing or total. accomodation other expenditure for meals, (for necessitous sec. ( ) children) sec. - (part of £ £ £ year only.) - , - , , , - , , , in edinburgh, the necessity for feeding underfed school children was recognized[ ] very soon after the passing of the education act of . the association for improving the condition of the poor early undertook to deal with cases reported by the attendance officers. in miss flora stevenson started a scheme for feeding and clothing destitute children, on condition that children so assisted must attend school.[ ] towards the close of the nineteenth century numerous other voluntary organisations appear to have been established.[ ] as in other towns the provision by these voluntary agencies proved inadequate and unsatisfactory. meals were supplied only for about ten weeks in the year. they were served in eating-houses, where the food was poor and the arrangements of the roughest description. the children were selected by the teachers and attendance officers, and there was no adequate investigation into the cases. in the autumn of the lord provost summoned a conference to discuss the question, and a scheme of co-operation between the school board and the two chief voluntary agencies, the flora stevenson committee and the courant fund, was drawn up, by which the voluntary funds were pooled, and cases were decided by a committee consisting of representatives of the three bodies concerned. in the following year the school board undertook the entire responsibility for the provision of meals, though it still relied on voluntary contributions. it decided to establish a cooking centre of its own instead of entrusting the supply of the meals to caterers. care committees of voluntary workers were to be appointed for each group of schools to investigate all cases of destitution, and to "keep in continuous and sympathetic touch" with the families. cases were to be recommended by the medical officer, school nurses, teachers and attendance officers, in addition to applications made by the parents; the care committee was also itself to take the initiative in searching out cases of destitution. to secure uniformity of treatment a central care committee, composed of representatives of the school board and the voluntary agencies, was appointed to give the final decision on all cases; this central committee was also to supervise the collection of the necessary funds, and to rouse general interest in the problem of school feeding.[ ] the courant fund declined to act with the board under this scheme, but the flora stevenson committee co-operated cordially. footnote : for the following account i am mainly indebted to the kindness of mrs. leslie mackenzie and mr. i. h. cunningham. footnote : report of select committee on education (provision of meals) bills (england and scotland), , q. ; report of royal commission on physical training (scotland) , vol. ii., q. . footnote : report of special sub-committee on meals for school children, in minutes of london school board, july , , vol. , p. . footnote : edinburgh school board, memorandum on the feeding of school children, , pp. - . the cooking centre was opened in january, , and by the end of the year the system of care committees was in working order. voluntary subscriptions rapidly decreased, however, and in may, , the board resolved that recourse must be had to the rates. the central care committee thereupon ceased to exist, its duties being transferred to the attendance committee. the local care committees, of which eight had been appointed, were continued for a time, but at the beginning of the duty of investigation was entrusted to the attendance officers,[ ] and the local committees also were given up. the system had not worked entirely without friction. the method of investigation was cumbersome and slow, and the local committees were not in sufficiently close touch with the central committee. the committees were too large; from one to nine schools were allocated to each, and the membership usually numbered about twenty-five. but it is to be regretted that the system has been entirely abandoned. apart from the work of investigation, which, as we have shown elsewhere, is not a task which can suitably be entrusted to voluntary workers, there are many matters connected with the welfare of the school child in which the volunteer's services can be of the greatest value. footnote : two special officers have been appointed to make enquiries. the meal given is always dinner, though in one of the poorest districts breakfasts have recently been started; for these a halfpenny is charged, except to those children who are on the free list. till lately two courses were supplied at dinner, but now usually only one is given. the meals are served ordinarily in the schools, but in one or two places in halls hired for the purpose. from reports that we have received the arrangements seem to compare very favourably with those obtaining in most english dining-centres. the teachers frequently take a great interest in the question and supervise the meals. some of the elder boys and girls help to serve the food and wait on the children. the infants are served at a separate table or, perhaps, in a separate room. attention is paid to cleanliness and tidiness, and the children's manners are very good. provision is made not only for necessitous[ ] children, but for those who can pay part or the whole of the cost. non-necessitous children may obtain a dinner on payment of d., while the "semi-necessitous" may pay d. it is noteworthy that the number of free dinners is decreasing, while the number of penny dinners is on the increase. of the , meals supplied during - , nearly per cent. were supplied to "semi-necessitous" children on payment of d.; about per cent. were given free, the remaining per cent. being supplied to children whose parents were receiving relief from the parish council, children in higher grade and special schools, and the elder girls who helped in serving the meals.[ ] the work of investigation has been greatly reduced by the introduction of the penny dinner, and it has been suggested that the provision of a halfpenny dinner would still further diminish the need for free dinners, and consequently the need for investigation. footnote : there is no fixed scale in determining which children are necessitous, but free meals are usually granted if the gross income of the household is less than s. a head. footnote : for the week ending december , , the number of children fed was:-- necessitous paying children , parish council children for many years before the school board undertook the responsibility for providing for its underfed children, the parish council was supplying meals to the children of mothers who were receiving parish relief. the report of the royal commission on physical training in had drawn attention to the question of underfeeding among children, and the parish council determined to provide meals for the children for whose relief it was responsible, in order to ensure that no complaint might be brought against it.[ ] hot dinners were provided every day except sunday.[ ] they were intended chiefly for children whose mothers were at work all day, but tickets were also given in cases where an increase of relief would not have benefited the children, or where the children had a consumptive tendency.[ ] the dinners were served in eating-houses where "the conditions as to the serving of the meals, and the manners of the children--entirely without supervision--" were "anything but civilising."[ ] when the school board took over the general arrangements for feeding, it seemed at first as if the parish council would still continue its own methods, but the superiority of the board's scheme was soon apparent, and the parish council made an arrangement with it by which children whose mothers were receiving relief would have meals at school, the council paying - / d. per meal to the school board.[ ] footnote : evidence before the royal commission on the poor laws, , vol. vi., qs. - . footnote : _ibid._, q. ( ). footnote : _ibid._, q. ( ). footnote : report of the royal commission on the poor laws, , vo edition, vol. iii., p. . footnote : "administrative problems arising out of child feeding," by j. a. young, in _proceedings of the national conference on the prevention of destitution_, , pp. - . in glasgow, as in edinburgh, the provision of meals was very early undertaken by voluntary societies. as far back as the glasgow poor children's dinner table society was founded,[ ] and in another philanthropic society established day refuges, which were intended chiefly for children of widows or widowers who were at work all day, and at which three meals were supplied daily.[ ] the poor children's dinner table society continued to be the chief agency for supplying meals till , when voluntary contributions proved inadequate and the school board took over the provision of the meals. a central cooking centre, with modern labour-saving appliances, was built, the food being distributed to the different centres by motor waggon. the meals are served either in the schools or in halls hired for the purpose. the supervision is usually undertaken by the attendants; at some centres assistance is given by members of the old dinner societies, but the numbers are falling off. only necessitous children are fed. each case is decided on its merits, but dinners are not usually granted if the family income exceeds s. per head.[ ] the children are selected by the school doctors, nurses, attendance officers or teachers, and enquiries are made by the attendance officers, immediate provision being made in urgent cases. boots and clothing, which up to were supplied by the poor children's clothing scheme, are now provided by the school board.[ ] in the special schools for the physically defective, dinner is provided for practically all the children, and the parents pay. the food is good in quality and served in an attractive manner, tablecloths of some kind and flowers being provided. the supervision is undertaken by the nurses and teachers. footnote : report of select committee on education (provision of meals) bills (england and scotland), , qs. - . footnote : evidence before the royal commission on the poor laws, , vol. vi., q. ( ); report of london school board on underfed children attending school, , p. . footnote : see dundee school board, report on the feeding of school children, , p. . footnote : report of glasgow school board for - , p. . perth was one of the earliest school boards to use its powers under the act of and to provide food and clothing out of the rates, the system being begun in . a care committee was appointed in to assist the school board in looking after the welfare of the children and to take part in the distribution of the meals; the members visit the homes, but apparently have no voice in the selection of the children.[ ] the dinners are mostly served in a church hall and are supervised by the care committee and members of the school board. most of the dinners are supplied free, only a small proportion being paid for.[ ] in the matter of boots, if a child is found improperly shod, a notice is sent by the board to the parents. if they do not provide boots themselves, the board supplies them and calls upon the parents to pay[ ]; about two-thirds of the money thus spent is recovered from the parents.[ ] footnote : report of chief inspector for southern division for , pp. - . footnote : perth school board, officers' report on the supplying of meals and boots to school children, - , pp. - . footnote : report of chief inspector for southern division for , p. . footnote : perth school board, officers' report, - , p. . in most towns, as we have said, the cost of the food is still borne out of voluntary funds, whether the school board itself undertakes the provision of meals, or whether this is done by a voluntary society. in dundee provision has been made by "the free and assisted dinner fund" since the winter of - .[ ] the meals are given usually in the schools, but sometimes in coffee houses. the prevailing menu appears to be soup. in view of the large number of married women who are industrially employed at dundee, the school meal is a great convenience. a large proportion of the children, something like two-thirds in fact, make some payment towards the meal.[ ] but the price charged is very low; a single bowl of soup costs a halfpenny, while the payment of a penny a week secures a bowl daily.[ ] at paisley also a large proportion of the children pay. soup and bread, or, if the children prefer, cocoa and bread, etc., is provided for the sum of one halfpenny, the poorest children receiving it free. the balance of expenditure on food is met from voluntary funds; the school board pays all expenses of administration.[ ] in aberdeen the work of providing meals, which had formerly been undertaken by the aberdeen educational trust, was transferred in to the school board, together with the income which the trust had devoted to this purpose.[ ] at greenock the school board have raised a voluntary fund for the provision of books, boots or food for necessitous children, but it has not been found necessary to supply any meals within the last two years. in inverness provision is made by a voluntary organisation, the children being sent to local eating-houses. footnote : dundee school board, report on the feeding of school children, , p. . footnote : _ibid._, p. . footnote : _ibid._, pp. - . footnote : in the special schools for defective children at paisley a two-course dinner is provided at a charge of d. a week. footnote : report of chief inspector for the northern division for , p. . turning now to the rural districts, we may mention an early experiment somewhat similar to that at rousdon, to which we have already referred. in the minister of the small country parish of farnell came to the conclusion that the attendance at school would be more regular, and the children would derive more profit from the education given if a hot midday meal were provided. accordingly a soup kitchen was instituted at the school, the plant being provided by voluntary contributions. a charge was made of a halfpenny per meal or d. per family, where there were more than two children. practically all the children availed themselves of the provision. the effects were soon visible, not only in improved attendance--the grant earned rose from £ in to £ in --but in greater immunity from epidemics and illness than in neighbouring schools, and in the greater buoyancy of spirits of the children.[ ] footnote : "can a sufficient mid-day meal be given to poor school children ... for ... less than one penny?" by sir henry peek, , p. . in this matter of providing a midday meal for the children attending rural schools, scotland would appear to be, on the whole, in advance of england, though the extent of the provision made varies considerably in different districts. thus, in the border counties, very few schools make any arrangements,[ ] while in fifeshire, where the inspector "has consistently pressed upon managers" the necessity for providing dinners, the attitude of most of the rural boards is one of "stolid apathy."[ ] in aberdeenshire, on the other hand, a cup of cocoa or a plate of soup is provided in most of the country schools,[ ] and in the county of inverness almost all the schools provide some sort of hot liquid.[ ] in kincardineshire it was reported in that the soup kitchen was a "universal institution."[ ] the meals may be paid for by the children, these payments being supplemented by voluntary contributions in money or in kind. footnote : report of chief inspector for the southern division for , p. . footnote : _ibid._, pp. - . footnote : first report on medical inspection of school children in scotland, by dr. leslie mackenzie, , p. . footnote : "the diet of country elementary school children," by dr. gordon a. lang, in _rearing an imperial race_, edited by c. e. hecht, , p. . footnote : report of chief inspector for northern division for . but even where it is the rule to find cocoa or soup supplied, it is inadequate for the wants of many of the children, who require a more substantial and nourishing midday meal. moreover, the provision appears as a rule to be confined to the winter months, a limitation patently absurd, since the _raison d'être_ of the meals is not so much the poverty of the parents, a condition which may fluctuate according to the seasons, but the fact that the distances are, in many cases, too great to allow the children time to return home at midday--which condition is, of course, constant the whole year round. appendix iii the provision of meals abroad we have not been able to make any original enquiry into the systems of school feeding existing in other countries. the following history of the "cantines scolaires" in paris and brief notes as to the provision made in other foreign towns may, however, be useful for purposes of reference, and as showing how widespread has been the movement for the feeding of school children. the information as to foreign towns other than paris is derived mainly from _prize essays on feeding school children_, ; _report of london school board on underfed children attending school_, , appendix ix., pp. - ; _feeding of school children in continental and american cities_ (cd. ), ; _the free feeding of school children_, a reprint of the reports by the special sanitary commissioner of the _lancet_, nd edition, ; while fuller and more recent information is to be found in _school feeding, its practice at home and abroad_, by louise s. bryant, . (a) france (i) the cantines scolaires in paris paris has long offered to other cities an inspiring example of an efficient and uniform system for feeding poor school children. she was the first to make systematic provision on a large scale. she had a basis of organisation ready to her hand in the _caisses des ecoles_. these bodies correspond in some degree to the english care committees, though with a far wider sphere of action. the original object of these school funds was to encourage school attendance by rewards to industrious pupils and help to the needy. the first _caisse_ was established in by the national guard in the second _arrondissement_, and gradually the system spread. in a law was passed encouraging the formation of _caisses_ in every _commune_, and directing that their revenues were to consist of voluntary subscriptions and subventions by the commune, department or state.[ ] this law was merely permissive, but in , by the compulsory education law, the establishment of these organisations was made obligatory.[ ] a _caisse_ was accordingly set up in each of the twenty _arrondissements_ of paris. attendance at school being now compulsory, and it being therefore no longer so necessary to provide incentives to attendance, the _caisses_, though they still continued to grant prizes, turned their attention more and more to the physical needs of the children, boots, clothing, food, country holidays and, later, crèches, savings banks, skilled apprenticeship and medical treatment. the _caisse_ was a voluntary body, but was officially recognised by the municipality. the general committee was composed of the mayor, the members of the municipal council, and the school inspector for the district, together with from twenty to twenty-four persons elected by the subscribers.[ ] footnote : "the free feeding of school children," a reprint of the reports by the special sanitary commissioner of the _lancet_, nd edition, , p. . footnote : _ibid._, p. . footnote : _ibid._, p. . as in other towns, the early attempts at feeding poor school children were due to private initiative; meals were provided by the _caisses des ecoles_ or other voluntary associations or by philanthropic individuals. these attempts were unco-ordinated and inadequate to deal with the evil of underfeeding. in the municipal council made an enquiry into the whole question. as a result a scheme was drawn up to place the work on a more satisfactory and uniform basis under public control. the provision of meals was entrusted in each _arrondissement_ to the _caisses des ecoles_, and a grant of , francs was voted by the municipal council to aid them in this work.[ ] footnote : "the cantines scolaires of paris," by sir charles a. elliott, in the _nineteenth century_, may, , pp. - . it is interesting to note that it was seriously considered whether the meals should not be supplied free for all children attending the schools. the council, however, came to the conclusion that, "in freeing the parents of all responsibility with regard to their children, and in accustoming them to evade their duties, they would be running the risk of weakening the family spirit, to the great detriment of the morality both of the children and of the parents."[ ] it was, therefore, decided that free provision should be limited to necessitous children. at the same time it would be difficult to exclude children who were willing to pay for their meals, hence provision should be made for these too. footnote : "organisation des cantines scolaires à paris," a manifold manuscript report issued by the direction de l'enseignement primaire, me bureau, . the voluntary subscriptions which had supported the work before continued in theory to be the chief resource of the new _cantines scolaires_. these voluntary subscriptions rapidly decreased, being either withdrawn altogether or diverted to the other objects of the _caisses_. at the same time both the number of meals provided and the proportion of free meals increased no less markedly. in , the first year in which meals were provided under the new system, only per cent. of the meals were supplied free (the remainder being paid for by the parents); in this proportion had nearly doubled, being per cent. the municipal subsidy rose correspondingly, and in amounted to , , francs. the council took fright and appointed a commission to consider the question, with the result that the grant was restricted to , , francs.[ ] this limit has been fairly strictly adhered to, for the grant amounts now to only , , francs, though the proportion of free meals has continued slowly to increase.[ ] footnote : "the cantines scolaires of paris," by sir charles elliott, in the _nineteenth century_, may, , pp. - . footnote : according to the latest figures per cent. of the children for whom meals are provided receive them free. each _caisse_ is allowed a free hand in the actual details of administration, hence the arrangements vary in the different _arrondissements_. the want of uniformity has obvious disadvantages, and a proposal was recently made that the system should be centralised, but this would have necessitated the appointment of a large and expensive staff, and it was felt desirable to leave the initiative and responsibility to voluntary workers.[ ] everywhere the meal is served on the school premises, a kitchen being established for each school or group of schools. the meal is cooked by the _cantinières_, and is sometimes provided by them at a fixed price per head; more often the _caisse_ prefers to purchase the materials itself, a more economical method, and one which ensures a better quality of food.[ ] the dinner may consist of one, two or three courses. the food is plentiful and good, well-cooked and well-served, and the menu sufficiently varied. the meals are made as attractive as possible to encourage the better-class parents to make use of them. the price charged varies from d. to d.; in almost all the _arrondissements_ the charge appears to be below the cost price. no difference is made between the children who pay and those who are on the free list. the teachers do not assist in serving the food, as in england, but are always present to supervise the children, and, in some schools at any rate, they eat their dinner with them. at first the supervision was undertaken voluntarily, but since the teachers have received an extra remuneration of · francs a day for this duty.[ ] this sharing in a common meal by all classes alike, together with the presence of the teacher, has had a marked influence on the children's manners. besides the mid-day meal, which is given by all the _caisses_, breakfasts of soup are sometimes supplied to the children who are receiving free dinners, while in some _arrondissements_, _e.g._, the eighteenth, a small meal is also given at four o'clock to these children if they remain at school for the "classe de garde."[ ] a further extension has recently been made in the seventeenth _arrondissement_, where it was decided in to try the experiment of a "classe de garde" till eight o'clock in the evening, with a supper, for children of widows or widowers who were at work till late, or for other especially poor children, or children with bad homes, the object being both to secure them adequate nourishment and to remove them from the temptations of the streets. for this purpose the municipal council voted a sum of , francs.[ ] weakly children have codliver oil given to them in winter and syrup of iodide of iron or phosphate of lime in the summer. footnote : "organisation des cantines scolaires à paris," report by direction de l'enseignement primaire, me bureau, . footnote : _ibid._ footnote : _ibid._ footnote : "caisse des écoles du e arrondissement," exercice de l'année , p. . footnote : proposition tendant à l'ouverture d'un crédit de , francs en vue de permettre à la caisse des ecoles du xviie arrondissement d'organiser, à titre d'essai, une classe de garde prolongée jusqu'à huit heures et une cantine du soir, déposée par m. frédéric brunet, conseiller municipal, septembre , . the methods of enquiry vary in the different _arrondissements_. usually the enquiries are made by a paid investigator, but the numbers of children on the free list are so large that the investigation is as a rule very superficial. the necessity of keeping secret the fact that a child is receiving the meals free also militates against any effective enquiry into the parents' circumstances. the meals are granted for a school year, hence it frequently happens that a child continues to receive them long after the need has passed away.[ ] the enquiries are, as might be expected, the least satisfactory part of the paris system. in granting the meals the _caisses_ usually take a generous view; it is held, for instance, that a man earning up to s. a week cannot adequately feed and clothe more than three children, and if his family is larger than this the _caisses_ are prepared to assist him; while widows' children are invariably fed if application is made.[ ] footnote : "organisation des cantines scolaires à paris," report issued by direction de l'enseignement primaire, me bureau, ; "necessitous children in paris and london," by george rainey, in _school hygiene_, november, , vol. iii., p. . footnote : _ibid._, p. . an interesting feature of the paris system is the provision of clothes. the municipality insists that the children shall come to school properly clothed; it is ready to provide the requisite garments, but it insists that they shall be kept clean and tidy. frequent inspections are made for this purpose. the result is a notable raising of the level of cleanliness and tidiness in the schools, both the parents and the children themselves learning to take a pride in their appearance.[ ] so far, indeed, from the work of the _caisses_ having undermined parental responsibility, it would appear that the reverse is the case, the parents responding to the higher standard demanded of them. footnote : _ibid._, pp. , . what strikes one in comparing the paris system with that obtaining in english towns is the thoroughness with which the problem is tackled in paris and the widespread interest taken by the citizens generally in the work of the _caisses_. no half measures content them. from the first the work has been educational, the primary object of the _caisses_ being to encourage school attendance rather than to relieve distress. the educational progress of the children, the improvement in their physique, the raising of the standard of manners and cleanliness, all show that the results have amply justified the expenditure.[ ] footnote : for the above description, see, besides the references already quoted, report of london school board on underfed children attending school, , appendix ix., pp. - ; "the cantines scolaires of paris," by marcel kleine, in _report of proceedings of the international congress for the welfare and protection of children_, , pp. - ; "feeding school children: the experience of france," in the _manchester guardian_, february , ; "children's care committees in paris," in the _morning post_, march , ; "school canteens in paris," by miss m. m. boldero, in the _school child_, july, ; _school feeding, its history and practice at home and abroad_, by louise stevens bryant, , pp. - ; conseil municipal de paris, procès verbal, june , , december , , march , . (ii) provision in other french towns. paris was not the first municipality in france to interest itself in the provision of school meals. the pioneer town in this respect seems to have been angers, where as early as the société de fourneau des ecoles laïques was founded with the support of the municipality, to provide hot dinners, either free or at a cost of centimes, during the winter.[ ] towards the close of the nineteenth century many municipalities were providing meals, either directly or indirectly through voluntary organisations. footnote : _school feeding_, by louise s. bryant, , pp. - . thus at havre, in , the municipality was making a grant of £ to a voluntary society; meals were provided for centimes, or were given free in cases of poverty; about five-eighths of the children who attended paid for the meals.[ ] footnote : london school board, report on underfed children attending school, , p. . at marseilles cantines scolaires were organised by the municipality in . prior to this date meals had been provided in some three or four schools, but only in a haphazard manner by voluntary agencies. by the bye-law of a committee of twenty-two was to be appointed by the mayor, and presided over by him or his representative; this committee was to investigate the demands made for free meals. in about per cent. of the children in the communal schools were dining at school, about half this number paying for the meal; in the infant schools the proportion fed was much greater, viz., per cent., while only about one-sixth of the parents paid. as in paris, no distinction was made between the paying and the non-paying children. dinner tickets could be bought at all the police stations; if the parents wished to receive the meals free, they had to make application personally or by letter to the education department; if on investigation they proved to be unable to pay, the municipality provided them with tickets.[ ] footnote : _lancet_ reports, , pp. - . at nice also cantines scolaires were established by the municipality about . here the object was not so much to feed starving children as to provide a suitable meal for children who came such distances that they were unable to return home at mid-day. the municipality built kitchens, provided all the necessary apparatus, and paid the salaries of the cooks. a penny was charged for a dinner of soup, the meal being given free to those who could not afford to pay. any deficit was supplied by voluntary subscriptions. in the infant schools, on the other hand, the municipality assumed the entire responsibility, and a hot meal was provided for all the children without payment.[ ] footnote : _ibid._, pp. - . by cantines scolaires of one kind or another had been very generally established. it appeared that at this date something like three-fifths were supported entirely by public funds, the remainder being so supported indirectly and partially. in many towns where regular cantines had not been instituted, the teachers or janitors served warm soup to the children at a nominal sum. in country districts or smaller towns, the children would bring the raw material for soup and the teacher would prepare it; the children would also bring their own bread, and sometimes wine and cake. whether any organised provision was made or not, the great majority of the schools everywhere had a stove on which the children could warm any food they brought with them.[ ] footnote : _school feeding_ by louise s. bryant, , pp. , - . (b) switzerland switzerland was one of the first countries in which provision for necessitous school children became the subject of national legislation. the question early attracted attention. the long distances which many of the children had to walk to school rendered the provision of a mid-day meal of the greatest importance, while clothing and especially boots were little less necessary. after the system of providing food and clothing was greatly extended. the provision was everywhere made by voluntary societies, but assistance was given from the cantonal and communal funds. the cantonal contribution was derived chiefly from the alcohol monopoly profits and was devoted to this provision for the children's wants on the theory that their misery was in most cases the direct result of parental insobriety![ ] this method of administration by voluntary societies, subsidised but not controlled by the municipal authorities, proved most extravagant, and led to much abuse, while it aroused sectarian jealousies. the municipalities began, consequently, to take over the direct management of the school meals.[ ] in the federal government issued an order making it _obligatory_ for cantons to supply food and clothing to necessitous children in the public elementary schools. three years later it authorised the use of state funds for this purpose, on the understanding that in no case should the cantonal or city support be lessened because of this federal support.[ ] footnote : report of london school board on underfed children attending school, , pp. - . footnote : _the bitter cry of the children_, by john spargo, , p. . footnote : _school feeding_, by louise s. bryant, , p. . (c) italy as in other countries, the early attempts at school feeding in italy were made by voluntary agencies. in many towns, towards the close of the nineteenth century, committees of assistance and benevolent funds were instituted to assist poor pupils in the elementary schools, chiefly in the matter of books and clothing, but in several communes of lombardy and romagna meals were also given. a small grant, which in was raised to , francs (£ , ), was made by the department of public instruction to the school authorities in the large cities, and especially rome, who provided a mid-day meal for their children.[ ] footnote : report of london school board on underfed children attending school, , p. . the first town in which the municipality undertook the provision of meals was san remo, in . this policy was inaugurated by the socialist council. it was temporarily abandoned in , when a conservative council was appointed who preferred the subsidising of voluntary agencies to direct municipal action, but was re-introduced on the return of the socialists to power some four years later.[ ] footnote : _lancet_ reports, , pp. , . in milan an agitation for the provision of meals was set on foot in the last decade of the nineteenth century. the municipal authority declined to undertake the work themselves, but advocated the formation of charitable committees to raise subscriptions for the purpose, offering to supplement these voluntary funds with a municipal subvention. this grant amounted in to about £ .[ ] it was soon found that this system did not work satisfactorily, and the municipality was obliged, though somewhat reluctantly, to assume the responsibility.[ ] footnote : minutes of london school board, may , , vol. , p. . footnote : _lancet_ reports, , p. . but it is in the small rural town of vercelli that we find the most remarkable experiment.[ ] here for some years a charitable committee had been providing meals for children who lived too far from school to go home at mid-day, and the municipality had granted a small subsidy, but it was felt that this provision was entirely inadequate. in it was decided to provide a meal for all the children attending the elementary schools. the object was not the relief of distress but education in its fullest sense, as distinct from mere instruction. it was argued that the mid-day recess furnished an opportunity for moral education which could not be imparted in the class-room. the teachers would be brought into more intimate relation with the children, while the joining of richer and poorer alike in the common meal and in recreation afterwards would instil sentiments of brotherhood. the meal was to be free to all and attendance compulsory, for rich and poor were to be treated exactly alike. with the same object of preventing class distinctions, clothes were supplied for the poorer children, the municipality providing the material which was worked into garments by the sewing classes. the teachers were to have the same food, though they were allowed a double quantity, and were to eat it with the children. for this extra duty of supervising both the meals and recreation they only received an additional £ a year. since the moral rather than the physical welfare of the child was the primary consideration, too little attention was paid to the actual food that was given. the parents, it was argued, could in the great majority of cases amply feed their children at home, hence all that was needed was to supply sufficient food to compensate for the waste of energy during the two and a half hours of morning school. a cold meal of bread and sausage or cheese was given. this did not satisfy the more prosperous children, who would have preferred to pay for a hot meal, and some per cent. of the children, chiefly the richer ones, obtained a medical certificate exempting them from attendance. nor was the meal sufficient for the poorest children who were suffering from lack of food. to provide a really adequate meal free for all would have been too expensive an undertaking. accordingly, after some six years, the general free provision was abandoned. instead, hot soup was provided, which was given free to the poorest children, any others who wished being allowed to receive it on payment of · lire a month.[ ] footnote : [footnote : for the following account, see _lancet_ reports, pp. - . it is interesting to note that this scheme for making universal provision was introduced by the conservative party.] footnote : _school feeding_, by louise s. bryant, , p. ; il patronato scolastico umberto ° in vercelli e la sua opera al dicembre, , pp. , . the "school restaurant" seems to have been established in italy to a greater extent than in any other country. a very large proportion of the children attend, and a great number of these pay for the meals. in - it was found that in forty-three cities the average attendance amounted to per cent. of the total school population; while in several towns the attendance rose to over per cent.[ ] footnote : [footnote : _ibid._, p. .] (d) germany in germany little attention appears to have been paid to the question of feeding school children, apart from their parents, till the closing years of the nineteenth century.[ ] in some of the large towns, at any rate, the arrangements that were made were quite inadequate. in berlin, for instance, there was in no society whose chief object was the provision of school meals. a society which provided food for the poor generally had a branch which devoted special attention to the needs of school children, and gave a small sum, generally only s. or s. a year, to the committee of each parish school, to be used at the headmaster's discretion. generally milk and bread were given in the headmaster's house.[ ] about the subject began to attract more attention, especially in connection with the vacation colonies for school children; it was found that the children who were sent to these colonies, on returning to their homes, lost the benefit they had gained, owing to lack of food. on an attempt being made to continue the work of the colonies by feeding some of the children, it was found that thousands of others were also underfed.[ ] in a bill was introduced in the reichstag by the social democrats to make provision for school meals in the cities. the bill was defeated on the ground that it would increase the migration to the cities from the rural districts.[ ] some ten years later the agitation for national legislation was renewed, as a result of the discovery that from to per cent. of the conscripts for the imperial army were rejected on account of physical unfitness.[ ] footnote : "prize essays on feeding school children," , pp. , - . footnote : _ibid._, p. . footnote : _school feeding_, by louise s. bryant, , pp. - , . footnote : _ibid._, pp. , . footnote : _ibid._, pp. , . in it was found that out of cities from which information was obtained, in meals were being provided by voluntary societies, without any subsidy from, or control by, the municipal authorities, though these latter usually co-operated in the supervision and service, and often supplied rooms, gas and cooking free; in cities, meals were provided by voluntary organisations, but the city governments subsidised, and usually exercised some control over, their work; while in cities the provision of meals was undertaken entirely by the municipality.[ ] footnote : _ibid._, pp. - . (e) austria in austria school meals are provided in most of the large towns. in vienna the central association for feeding necessitous school children was founded in , with the help and approval of the municipality, the mayor acting as president and the municipal council being represented on its administrative council. meals were given from november to april, occasionally at the schools, but more often in restaurants. all the meals were supplied free. the children were selected by the school managers and the headmaster, and enquiry was made by local committees with the help of voluntary workers. the teachers supervised the meals.[ ] in - , the municipal council made a grant to this society towards the provision of food;[ ] by this municipal subsidy amounted to , frs. (£ , ), while , frs. were granted for the supply of clothing.[ ] in the food subsidy had risen to £ , .[ ] the provision made was, however, inadequate. meals were only given during the winter, and were not obtained by all the children who needed them. it was felt that the city ought to assume direct control. in kitchens and dining-rooms were built in four new public schools.[ ] footnote : "prize essays on feeding school children," , pp. - , - , - . footnote : _ibid._, pp. , . footnote : london school board, report on underfed children attending school, , pp. , - . footnote : _feeding of school children in continental and american cities_, , p. . footnote : _school feeding_, by louise s. bryant, , p. . (f) belgium in most of the belgian towns in the last decade of the nineteenth century voluntary organisations were to be found whose object was to provide food and clothing for poor school children. this provision was made to enable them to attend school instead of begging in the streets, since education was not compulsory.[ ] in brussels the chief society was "le progrès" club, which in commenced the provision of soup dinners in the schools. the town council assisted by providing tables and undertaking the carriage of the food to the different centres, and in by granting a subsidy of , frs. an application was very soon made for an increase of this subsidy, whereupon the municipality undertook a detailed enquiry into the whole question of the food, clothing, lodging, cleanliness and health of the children in the communal schools. it was found as a result that · per cent. were badly shod, · per cent. badly clothed, and · per cent. insufficiently fed.[ ] the work of medical inspection and treatment was very early undertaken by the local authority. at the date of this report ( ), a doctor and dentist were attached to each school; frequent inspections were made by the doctor, and preventive medicine, _e.g._, codliver oil, was provided from public funds.[ ] the provision of meals continued to be undertaken by voluntary organisations, aided by a municipal subsidy. in - , this subsidy amounted to , frs. for the communal schools, and , frs. for the clerical schools. in addition large quantities of clothing were supplied from public funds.[ ] footnote : london school board, report on underfed children attending school, , p. . footnote : _ibid._, p. ; board of education, reports on educational subjects, vol. ii., , p. . footnote : london school board, report on underfed children attending school, , p. . footnote : _lancet_ reports, , pp. - . at liège, as early as , the municipality organised the provision of soup for all children in the kindergartens who wished to receive it.[ ] the dinner was only given on condition that the children were clean and tidy. each child was expected to have clean linen twice a week and also to have a pocket handkerchief. a teacher was present to supervise the children, and share the meal with them. each child brought a basket of bread and fruit to supplement the food provided, and at the end any bread that remained was packed in the baskets by the children, to prevent waste and to inculcate habits of thrift.[ ] the whole cost was borne out of municipal funds. in a voluntary committee was formed for providing soup in the communal primary schools. this committee placed at the disposal of the municipality a sum of , frs., in order that general provision might be made for the first year's scholars in the primary schools, on the same lines as in the kindergartens. in other classes in the primary schools soup was given only to necessitous children, or to those whose parents were at work all day; this provision was at first limited to three months during the winter, but in the municipality voted a grant of , frs. in order that it might be extended to six months.[ ] footnote : _feeding of school children in continental and american cities_, , p. ; london school board, report on underfed children attending school, , pp. , - . footnote : "prize essays on feeding school children," , pp. - . footnote : _feeding of school children in continental and american cities_, , pp. , , . (g) holland holland was the first country to enact national legislation for the provision of school meals. the law of enforcing compulsory education authorised municipal authorities to provide food and clothing for all school children, whether in public or private schools, who, owing to lack of these necessaries, were unable to attend school regularly. this provision might be undertaken directly by the municipality, or by means of subsidies to voluntary organisations.[ ] footnote : _school feeding_, by louise s. bryant, , p. . (h) denmark in some of the cities of denmark meals were provided by voluntary agencies in the 'seventies. in a law was passed allowing municipal authorities to subsidise these organisations. this system, however, proved unsatisfactory and, in , a campaign was set on foot for compulsory national legislation.[ ] footnote : _school feeding_, by louise s. bryant, , p. . in copenhagen the municipality from made a grant of , kr. (about £ , ) to the "society for providing meals to free school children," the voluntary contributions to which were rapidly diminishing. this society, though a voluntary organisation, was directly connected with the municipality, its executive board consisting of the seven municipal school inspectors and four private gentlemen, while the municipal school director was _ex officio_ president. more than half the total expenditure was met out of the municipal subsidy, the balance being made up by voluntary contributions. dinners were given three days a week to all the children in the free schools who wished to attend. no charge was made and no question raised as to the economic circumstances of the parents. about per cent. of the total number of free school children availed themselves of this provision.[ ] footnote : _the feeding of school children in continental and american cities_, , pp. , , . (i) norway christiania was the first town in norway to make municipal provision for underfed school children. the system was started in . a proposal was made to distribute food free to all elementary school children, but this was, at the time, rejected. in the winter of - , applications were made on behalf of . per cent. of the pupils in the school, the great majority of the meals being given free.[ ] the children made such marked progress as a result of this experiment that the system was extended and in christiania and several other towns a good dinner was provided by the school authorities for all school children who cared to attend, the entire cost of the system being met by taxation.[ ] it was soon found that the advantages of this free provision outweighed the expense. at trondhjem, when the proposal was first made by the socialists, it was bitterly opposed, but by the system was unanimously supported by all sections.[ ] footnote : london school board, report on underfed children attending school, , p. ; _school feeding_, by louise s. bryant, , p. . footnote : _the bitter cry of the children_, by john spargo, , pp. - , . footnote : _ibid._, p. . (j) sweden in many towns in sweden schemes for feeding poor school children were started in the 'eighties, these voluntary schemes being later subsidised by the local authorities.[ ] footnote : _school feeding_, by louise s. bryant, , pp. - . in stockholm several voluntary organisations were formed for supplying meals, the provision being usually limited to necessitous children. in order to preserve the self-respect of the children and parents, some of these societies adopted the plan of allowing the children to contribute to the expense of the dinner by performing some manual work, the making of baskets (which were sold), the mending of clothes, the sweeping out of the rooms, etc.[ ] towards the close of the nineteenth century the school boards of the several parishes resolved to build kitchens at the schools. the kitchens generally contained several fireplaces, at each of which dinners for a certain number of children were prepared by the elder girls.[ ] each child only received a dinner three times a week. footnote : "prize essays on feeding school children," , pp. - . footnote : london school board, report on underfed children attending school, , pp. - . at jönköping the free distribution of meals dates from . the funds, which were derived from voluntary contributions and proceeds of concerts, were administered by the board school inspector, and the distribution of the food was supervised by the school board. the children were usually sent for dinner to the houses of private ladies who undertook the catering.[ ] the poorest children were fed twice a week, those who were rather less poor only once. footnote : _ibid._, p. . at gothenburg, besides the provision made by voluntary agencies, the board of education distributed bread to certain children who were selected by the school board.[ ] footnote : _ibid._, p. . (k) united states of america in america[ ] the movement for the feeding of school children is of comparatively recent date. it is true that in the numerous day industrial schools which were instituted in the nineteenth century by voluntary organisations, _e.g._, by the children's aid society, meals were always given,[ ] but it was not till , when mr. robert hunter in his "poverty" stated that probably , or , children in new york city often arrived at school hungry and unfitted to do their school work well,[ ] that public attention was seriously directed to the question of under-feeding among school children. footnote : see for a full description of the provision made in america, _school feeding_, by louise s. bryant, . footnote : "prize essays on feeding school children," , pp. - . footnote : _poverty_, by robert hunter, , p. . in new york in a school lunch committee of physicians and social workers was formed with the object of ascertaining if a three cent lunch could be made self-supporting. this idea of making the meals self-supporting seems to be characteristic of the provision made in most of the american cities. two schools were at first chosen, and the experiment proved so successful that two years later the board of education gave permission for lunches to be supplied in other schools. the board provided rooms, equipment and gas; the cost of the food and service had to be met by the sale of tickets. the meals are served sometimes in the basement in the schools, and there does not appear to be always adequate accommodation. the meal itself is well cooked and served, the elder children helping the staff. a physician draws up the dietaries. these include one main dish such as soup, stew, rice pudding, etc., costing the child about four cents. there are besides "extras," such as dessert, cakes or other delicacies, which may be bought for one cent, but only by children who have had the main dish. the meals are not quite self-supporting, as a small number are given free.[ ] footnote : _school feeding_, by louise s. bryant, , pp. - . in philadelphia the starr center association undertook school feeding in some schools over fifteen years ago, but it is now managed by the home and school league. several of the schools provide a meal, some at . a.m., others a fuller meal at midday. the cost is one cent for lunch and three to five cents for dinner. there is one hot dish of soup or rice pudding, etc., and the children may spend another cent on the "extra" dainty. the meals are self-supporting. the teachers co-operate enthusiastically, and sometimes eat with the children. the food is served on japanned trays in enamel bowls and a paper napkin is provided. the washing up is done by the children under supervision, and everything is carefully sterilised. both the superintendent, who is responsible for planning the meals and purchasing the food materials, and the home visitor are trained dietists.[ ] footnote : _ibid._, pp. - . in boston the hygiene committee of the home and school association began to organise school dinners in , at a school with a kitchen attached. by meals were being supplied at twenty-two schools. equipment was given in the first place, and the meals are now self-supporting. in schools where there is a kitchen, the cooking classes prepare and serve the meals; here one cent amply covers the cost of the food. in other schools outside help is hired, and an extra cent per meal ticket meets this expense.[ ] footnote : _ibid._, pp. - . throughout the rest of the states the system is gaining ground. by some thirty cities had organised the provision of school meals, while in at least twenty others the question was under consideration. everywhere this provision was made by voluntary organisations.[ ] public funds could not be utilised, but there was growing anxiety that the question should be made a national concern. the nearest approach to legislative action was taken by massachusetts, where in the committee on education of the lower house reported favourably a bill to allow school boards to spend part of the school funds on the provision of meals.[ ] footnote : _ibid._, p. . footnote : _ibid._, pp. , - . index aberdeen, ; county of, acton, , , , , after-care, , , , _n_ alexandra trust, , angers, anglesey, - arkle, dr., , - aston manor, _n_ attendance, effect of meals on, , , , - , - , audit by local government board, , , , - austria, - badger, dr., , , barnett, canon, barnsley, _n_, , _n_ bedfordshire, _n_ belgium, - berlin, bermondsey, _n_, bethnal green, _n_, - birkenhead, _n_, _n_, , _n_, , _n_, , , - , , birmingham, _n_, _n_, _n_, _n_, _n_, _n_, _n_, _n_, , , , , - , , _n_, _n_, _n_, _n_, birrell, mr., blackburn, , blake, dr. sophia jex-, board of education, xvi, , , , , , . see also _newman, sir george_ board school children's free dinner fund, , _n_ bolton, _n_ bootle, , , , , - , , - , _n_, , , , , _n_ boots, provision of, , , , . see also _clothing_ boston, bournemouth, , , - bowley, professor a. l., bradford, xvi, _n_, - , _n_, , , _n_, , , , , , , , - , , _n_, _n_, , , , , , , - , , , - , - , , , , , _n_, _n_, , , - _n_, _n_, - breakfasts, versus dinners, - , ; dietary at, ; attendance at, , , ; a test, - , , , . see also _meals_ brighton, - , , , _n_, , bristol, _n_ browne, dr. crichton, brussels, - brynconin, _n_ burgwin, mrs., , _n_, _n_, burns, mr. john, , , bury st. edmunds, , , buxton, mr. sydney, _caisses des ecoles_, - camberwell, canteen committees, , - , , , , . see also _children's care committees_. _cantines scolaires_, - , , care committees. see _children's care committees_ carlisle, _n_ casual employment, , , , caterers, supply of meals by, , , , . see also _alexandra trust_ and _restaurants_ centres, service of meals in, - , - , ; inspection of, charity organisation society, , , , , , , , , chate, dr., chelsea, chesterfield, _n_ children, numbers fed, , , _n_, ; underfed, numbers of, , , - , _n_, , ; underfed, effect of education on, xiii, , , - , - , ; numbers attending school, , ; neglected, , , , _n_, , , - , , , - , ; necessitous, report on home circumstances of, - ; physique of, at liverpool, - ; industrial employment of, , ; effect of meals on, physically, xiii, - _n_, - , - , _n_, , , , - , , , - ; mentally, - , , , - , ; in point of manners, , _n_, , , ; in matter of taste, , - ; morally, , . see also _attendance_, _day industrial schools_, _infants_, _malnutrition_, _meals_, _selection_, _special schools_ children act ( ), , _n_ children's aid association, , , , . see also _canteen committees_. children's care (central) sub-committee, _n_, , children's care committees, in provinces, - ; in london, , , , , - , , ; in scotland, , , - ; constitution of, ; membership of, ; functions of, , , , , ; secretaries of, - , - , _n_; organisers of, , , - ; advantages of, - ; disadvantages of, - ; diverse policies of, - ; overlapping of work of, - ; local associations of, , , , . see also _canteen committees_, _relief committees_, _voluntary workers_ children's country holidays fund, chorlton, _n_ christiania, - civic guild, _n_, _n_ cleanliness, relation of, to nutrition, clothing, provision of, ; in scotland, , , ; abroad, , , , , , , . see also _boots_ cocoa rooms. see _restaurants_ cod liver oil, provision of, , , , , ; effects of, - collie, dr., xii, , conference, on state maintenance, ; on school feeding, congleton, cookery centres, preparation and service of meals at, , _n_, , , , - , , , , , copenhagen, council for promoting self-supporting penny dinners, , _n_ council of social welfare, _n_, - crewe, , _n_ cripple schools, _n_, - , - _n_. see also _special schools_ crowley, dr. ralph, , - , , cumberland, _n_ darlington, _n_, "day feeding school," at manchester, _n_ day industrial schools, _n_, , - ; provision of meals at, _n_, , , - , - ; in america, defective children. see _special schools_ denmark, - derby, _n_ derbyshire, destitute children's dinner society, - dewsbury, diet, at home, unsuitable, , , , , , _n_, , ; effect of school meals on, , ; of working classes in glasgow, - ; minimum amount necessary, , _n_ dietary (at school), xv, xvi, , , , - , - , , ; at bradford, , , ; planning of, , - , , ; for infants, , , ; at restaurants, - , , , , ; at day industrial schools, ; sample menus, - . see also _cod liver oil_, _milk_, _porridge_ dinners. see _meals_ disfranchisement, _n_, _n_, , distress committee, , divisional superintendent, _n_ dukes, dr. clement, _n_ dundee, eastbourne, east ham, , _n_, eating houses. see _restaurants_ ecclesall bierlow, _n_ ede, canon moore, _n_ edinburgh, , _n_, , - education, compulsory, , , - , ; effect of, on underfed children, xiii, , , - , - , ; provision of meals a corollary of, - , , education act ( ), , , ; ( ), ; ( ), , education (administrative provisions) act ( ), education (administrative provisions) bills, , _n_ education (provision of meals) act, xii, xiv, xvi, , , , , , , , ; debates on, - ; provisions of, - ; adoption of, xiv, , - ; should be compulsory, xv, education (provision of meals) act amendment bills, _n_, _n_ education (scotland) act ( ), , , - eichholz, dr., xiii, , , elementary education act ( ), _n_, _n_ elementary education (defective and epileptic children) act ( ), _n_ elementary education (feeding of children) bill ( ), _n_ enquiry, - , ; by whom made, , - , , , _n_, , , , , ; inadequacy of, , - , ; from employer, - , ; not suited to voluntary worker, , ; deterrent, - , ; proposed abandonment of, - , , erith, fabian society, , farnell, farquharson, dr. robert, _n_ feeble-minded children. see _special schools_ fenton, finch, dr. george, _n_, , finchley, _n_ fifeshire, _n_, foreign countries, provision of meals in, , - foster, captain, - france, _n_, - frere, miss margaret, _n_ fulham, _n_, gateshead, _n_, _n_ germany, - giffen, sir robert, - glasgow, , , - , , , - gorst, sir john, , _n_ gothenburg, govan, grassington, - , greenock, greenwood, mr. arthur, xii, xiii, , _n_ grimthorpe, lord, guardians. see _poor law guardians_ guernsey, - _n_ guest, dr. l. haden, - , guild of help, , _n_. see also _civic guild_ halifax, _n_ hall, dr. william, hammersmith, hampstead, _n_, - hartlepool, _n_ hastings, _n_ havre, hay, mr. claude, , , _n_, _n_ henderson, mr. arthur, heston and isleworth, holidays, provision of meals during, xiv, , , - , - ; loss of weight during, - , ; necessity for meals during, , , - , holland, home, provision of food at, _n_, - , _n_ hookham, mr. george, _n_, _n_, _n_ horn, miss, hornsey, housing, , ; relation of nutrition to, - huddersfield, hugo, victor, _n_ hull, _n_, , hunter, mr. robert, hutchison, dr. robert, industrial schools, _n_. see also _day industrial schools_ infants, special provision for, , , , , - , , , , , , , ; provision for, abroad, , , inverness, ; county of, iselin, rev. henry, _n_, _n_, , _n_ italy, - joint committee on underfed children, , - , jönköping, jowett, mr. f. w., , _n_ juvenile employment. see _after-care_ kensington, kerr, dr., , kettering, _n_ kidderminster, kincardineshire, labour party, , , , _n_, lambeth, , - , _n_ lancaster, larkins, dr., leeds, , , , _n_, , , , , - , _n_, , , , _n_, - , - leicester, xiv, - , _n_, , , , , , - , - , - , , leith, liège, - liverpool, _n_, , _n_, , _n_, - , , , , - , _n_, - , , , , , , - , - , local education authorities, power of, to provide meals, , - , , , , , , - , - ; adoption of provision of meals act by, - ; numbers making provision, ; different policies of, ; co-operation and overlapping of, with guardians, , , - , - , , - ; provision of meals by, abroad, - . see also _school boards_, _state_, _voluntary agencies (co-operation of, with local authorities)_ local government board, xiv, , , , , , , , , london, xvi, - , , - , _n_, - , , , , , , _n_, _n_, _n_, - , - _n_, , , - , , , _n_, - london county council, xvi, , , , - , - , , , , , - , london school board, _n_, _n_; committees of, on underfed children, - , , london schools dinner association, - , _n_ london vegetarian association, - lough, mr., mackenzie, dr. leslie, xiii, , macmillan, miss margaret, macnamara, dr., malnutrition, extent of, , - ; causes of, , - , ; signs of, , ; effects of, on physique, xii-xiii, - ; effects of, on mental capacity, , - , ; relation of, to family income, - . see also _children_ manchester, _n_, , _n_, _n_, _n_, , _n_, , , , _n_, , , marseilles, massachusetts, meals, school, motives for provision of, , , , , ; public provision of, , , - , - , - , - ; a corollary of compulsory education, - , , ; cost of, _n_, _n_, _n_, _n_, - ; price of, , , _n_, , , , , , , , ; expenditure on, - ; time of, - , , , ; number of, per day, - , , , ; number of, per week, , , , , , , , ; continuance of, throughout the year, , , , , , , , , , , , - , , ; preparation and distribution of, - , , , , , ; service of, xv, xvi, - , - , , - , , , , - , - , , , , ; in day industrial schools, - ; in special schools, , _n_, - , ; service of, by poor law authorities, , ; provision of, at home, _n_, - , _n_; a form of relief, , , , , ; a preventive measure, ; provision of, deterrent, , ; provision of, not universally known, ; reasons for granting, , - ; necessity for, , , , , , ; provision of, for all necessitous children, , , , ; general provision of, without enquiry, , - , - , , , , - , , , - . see also _centres_, _children_, _cookery centres_, _dietary_, _holidays_, _local education authorities_, _parents_, _payment_, _poor law guardians_, _rates_, _restaurants_, _school_, _supervision_, _voluntary agencies_, _wages_ medical inspection, , , , , ; in brussels, ; and feeding, inter-departmental committee on, - , , _n_, _n_, _n_ medical officer of health, medical treatment, _n_, , , , , mental capacity, relation of, to nutrition, , - , mentally defective. see _special schools_ meyer, lady, middlesex, - milan, milk, provision of, , , , ; effects of, - monitors, , , , , , - , , , , morten, miss honnor, mundella, rt. hon. a. j., _n_, , , , municipality. see _local education authorities_ and _state_ mutual registration, , , national food supply association, national society for the prevention of cruelty to children, , , national union of teachers, nether alderley, newcastle-on-tyne, newman, sir george, xii, , , _n_, , , , , , , , newport, new york, - nice, - niven, dr., xiii, northampton, , - norway, - norwich, _n_, _n_ nottingham, _n_, _n_, open air schools, - , , - , outdoor relief. see _poor law guardians_ over-pressure, - . see also _education_ paisley, parents, application for meals by, xv, - , - , , , ; withdrawal of children from meals by, , - ; dislike of, to accept meals, - , , , ; co-operation of, , , ; effect on responsibility of, , - , , , , , , - , , - ; abuse of provision of meals by, , ; obligations of, increased, - , , ; neglect of children by, , , , _n_, , - , , , - , - , . see also _payment_ and _recovery_ paris, , - parish council, provision of meals by, in edinburgh, - payment, by parents for school meals, - , , , , , , , - , , , - , , , , - , , , - ; for children at day industrial schools, ; for children at special schools, , , , , , , , , _n_; in rural districts, , , , , , , ; in scotland, , , , ; abroad, , , , , , , - , . see also _penny dinners_ peek, sir henry, , , , "penny dinners," , , , . see also _payment_ perth, , - philadelphia, physical deterioration, , , , , , ; inter-departmental committee on, xi, , - , , physical test. see _selection_ physical training (scotland), royal commission on, xi, - , , poor law, report of royal commission on ( ), , poor law guardians, inaction of, - ; inadequacy of relief given by, , - _n_, - , - , , , ; the authority for the provision of meals, xvi, _n_, _n_, , , _n_, ; service of meals by, ; no co-operation between voluntary agencies and, , ; prosecution by, - , ; overlapping of, with education authorities, , - , - , , - ; representation of, on canteen committees, , _n_; payment for school meals by, _n_, - , , , ; payment for children in day industrial schools by, _n_; provision of meals by, at manchester, _n_. see also _parish council_, _poor rate_, and _relief (school children) order_ poor laws, royal commission on ( ), , , _n_ poor rate, provision of meals from, , . see also _poor law guardians_ poplar, porridge, , , ; effects of, , ; as test, , portsmouth, _n_, , , , potteries, poverty test. see _selection_ prevention of cruelty to children act, prices, changes in, - ragged school union, ragged schools, , , rates, expenditure on provision of meals from, , , , , , - , , , - , ; in scotland, , - ; limitation of amount to be spent from, xiv, , , , ; provision of meals during holidays from, , , - . see also _education (provision of meals) act (adoption of)_ and _poor rate_ reading, recovery of cost, , , , , , - , , referee fund, - , , _n_ reformatory and industrial schools, departmental committee on, relief, deterrent policy of, , - , , relief committees, , , , _n_. see also _children's care committees_ relief (school children) order, xi, - relieving officer, , , restaurants, service of meals at, _n_, _n_, - , - _n_, , , , , , ; dietary at, - , , , ricardo, rome, rousdon, - , , _n_, - , rowntree, mr. seebohm, , rural districts, - ; provision of midday meal in, - , , , - , ; in scotland, - ; abroad, ; need for provision in, - , , , - , , - st. george's-in-the-east, _n_, _n_, , , , _n_, st. giles'-in-the-fields, _n_ st. pancras, _n_, salford, _n_, _n_, , san remo, scale of income. see _selection_ scarborough, school, service of meals in, - , _n_, , - , - , , , , , ; fees, abolition of, school attendance officers, _n_, , , , ; selection of children by, , , , ; enquiry by, , , , , , ; supervision of meals by, , school attendance officers' association, _n_ school boards, powers of, in scotland, , - ; co-operation of, with voluntary agencies, , , , . see also _local education authorities_ school medical officers, proposed responsibility of, for putting provision of meals act in force, - ; part taken by, in provision of meals, , , ; _ex-officio_ members of canteen committee, ; selection of children by, - , , - , , - , , , , , ; milk and cod liver oil recommended by, - , ; planning of dietary by, , , , , ; testimony of, as to effect of meals on children, - school nurse, _n_, , _n_, , school restaurants, - , , , . see also _payment_ and _cantines scolaires_ scotland, , _n_, - secondary schools, , _n_ selection of children, xv, - , - ; under voluntary agencies, - , , ; by physical test, - , - , , - ; by poverty test, - , - , - , , , - , , , - ; based on scale of income, - , , - , _n_, ; final decision in, ; revision of cases, - ; want of uniformity in, , - , , - ; disadvantages of present system, - , ; suggested schemes of, - , . see also _school attendance officers_, _school medical officers_, _school nurse_ and _teachers_ senior, mr. nassau, sheffield, _n_, , _n_, siddington, _n_, sims, mr. g. r., slack, sir bamford, _n_, sleep, want of, , smith, mr. s., - social democratic federation, south african war, xi, - , southampton, southend-on-sea, _n_ southwark, - special schools for defective children, _n_; provision of meals at, - , , , - , , _n_, , , - , , , , , _n_. see also _cripple schools_ and _open air schools_ spectacles, state, provision of meals by, , , - , - , - ; abroad, - . see also _local education authorities_ stevenson, miss flora, , stockholm, stoke-on-trent, _n_, , _n_, _n_, , , , , _n_, sub-committee on underfed children, xvi, , sunderland, _n_ supervision of meals, , , , , , - , , , , , ; at restaurants, , , , . see also _school attendance officers_, _teachers_ and _voluntary workers_ supper, provision of, in paris, surcharge. see _audit_ surrey, sussex, east, - _n_, sweden, - switzerland, - tate, dr., teachers, provision of meals by, , , _n_, _n_; selection of children by, , , , , , - , , - , , , - , , , ; urgency tickets given by, , - , ; enquiry by, , , ; members of canteen and care committees, , , , ; supervision of meals by, , , - , , , - , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ; testimony of, as to effect of meals on children, , - , , - teachers, national union of, teeth, defective, malnutrition due to, toxteth, trondhjem, underfeeding. see _malnutrition_ unemployment, , , , united states, - urgency tickets, , - , utensils, insufficient supply of, , - , vercelli, - vienna, - visiting of homes, , , , - , - , - , . see also _enquiry_ voluntary agencies, provision of meals by, xiv, , - , , , - , , , - , - , - , , , , - , - , - , - , , , - ; the best agency for provision of meals, , ; disadvantages of provision by, - , , - , , , - , - , ; number of, ; expenditure of, - ; organisation of, - , , , - ; discontinuance of, ; co-operation of, with local authorities, xii, , , - , , , , - , , , - , - , - , - , - , - , - , - , ; co-operation of, with guardians, , , voluntary contributions, amount of, - , , - , ; provision of meals during holidays from, , , - voluntary workers, utilisation of services of, - , , ; organisation of, ; canteen committees composed of, - , ; supervision of meals by, , , , , , , . see also _children's care committees_ wages, effect of provision of meals on, , - ; low, - , , wandsworth, _n_ ward, mrs. humphry, - _n_ waugh, mr. benjamin, west derby, west ham, _n_, , , , _n_, , , - , , , - , - , whitechapel, , winder, miss phyllis d., - wilson, mr. w. t., _n_ wolverhampton, , women, married, employment of, - , , , , , workington, wyatt, mr. c. h., _n_, _n_ york, , , , , - , , _n_ * * * * * * transcriber's note: missing or obscured punctuation was corrected. typographical errors were silently corrected. spelling and hyphenation were made consistent when a predominant form was found in this book; otherwise it was not changed. one unpaired double quotation mark could not be corrected with confidence. one unpaired curved bracket could not be corrected with confidence. tables have been reformatted to a manageable width where necessary. more bed-time stories. by louise chandler moulton, author of "bed-time stories," and "some women's hearts." _with illustrations by addie ledyard._ [illustration: logo] boston: roberts brothers. . [illustration: missy.--page .] entered according to act of congress, in the year , by louise chandler moulton, in the office of the librarian of congress, at washington. _cambridge: press of john wilson & son._ _to my daughter florence._ [after a twelvemonth.] _"more bed-time stories," sweetest heart,_ _and all to you belong:_ _all that i have and am, my dear,_ _i give you with my song._ _all that i have and am, my dear,_ _is not too much to pay_ _as tribute to the fair, young queen_ _who rules my heart to-day;_ _as tribute to the dear, blue eyes,_ _and to the golden hair,_ _and sweet, new grace of maidenhood_ _that wraps you everywhere,--_ _the shy surprise of maidenhood,_ _that still turns back to hear_ _the tales i tell at shut of day:--_ _so these are yours, my dear._ _l. c. m._ _october, ._ contents. page against wind and tide blue sky and white clouds the cousin from boston missy the head boy of eagleheight school agatha's lonely days thin ice my lost sister: a confession what came to olive haygarth uncle jack nobody's child my little gentleman ruthy's country job golding's christmas my comforter more bed-time stories. against wind and tide. jack ramsdale was a bad boy. he had been a bad boy so long that secretly he was rather tired of it; but he really did not know how to help himself. it was his reputation, and it is a curious thing how naturally we all live up to our reputations; that is to say, we do the things which are expected of us. there is a deal of homely sense in the old proverb, "give a dog a bad name and hang him." give a boy a bad name, and he is reasonably sure to deserve one. not but that jack ramsdale had fairly earned his bad name. his mother had died before he was old enough to remember her, so he had never known what a home was. once, when his father was unusually good-natured, he had asked him some questions about his mother. "she was one of god's saints, if ever there was one," the man answered, half reluctantly. "everybody wondered that she took up with me, but maybe it was because she saw i needed her more than anybody else did. she might have made a different man of me if she'd lived; at least, i've always thought so. i never drank so much when she was alive but what i kept a comfortable home over her head. but when she was gone, it didn't appear to me there was any thing left to live for. i lacked comfort sorely, and i don't say but what i've sought for it in by-paths,--by and forbidden paths, as she used to say." "i wish i could ha' seen her," said jack. "she was a dreadful motherly creetur, and was always hangin' over you. cold nights i've known her get up half-a-dozen times, often, to see if the clothes was all up over your shoulders; and sometimes i've seen her stand there looking down at you in the biting cold till i thought she'd freeze; but i didn't dare to say any thing, for her lips were movin', and i knew she was prayin' for you. she was a prayin' woman, your mother was. i used to think her prayers would save both of us." "i can't make out how she looked," jack persisted. he was so anxious to hear something about this dead mother who had loved him so. ever since she died, he had been knocked round from pillar to post, as they say, with his father. sam ramsdale was good help, as all the farmers knew, when he was sober; but he was not reliable, and then he had the disadvantage of always being incumbered with the boy, whom he took with him everywhere,--an unkempt, undisciplined little fellow whom no one liked. now, as his father talked, it seemed to him so strange a thing to think that some one used to stand beside his bed in cold winter nights and pray for him, that he could hardly believe it; and he said again, out of his desolate longing,-- "i wish i could ha' seen how she looked." "i don't suppose folks would ha' said she was much to look at." his father spoke, in a musing sort of way. "she was a little pale slip of a woman, with soft yellow hair droopin' about her white face, and eyes as blue as them blue flowers you picked up along the road. but there, i can't talk about her, and i ain't a goin' to, what's more; and don't you ever ask me again!" from that time jack never dared to ask any more questions about his mother, but all through his troublesome, turbulent boyhood he remembered the meagre outlines of the story which had been told him. no matter how bad he had been through the day, the nights were few when he failed to think how once a pale slip of a woman, with soft yellow hair around her white face, and eyes blue as the blue gentians, had bent above his slumbers and said prayers for him. when he was ten years old his father died in the poor-house. drink had enfeebled his constitution; a sudden cold did the rest. there were a few weeks of terrible suffering, and then the end came. jack was with him to the last. there was nowhere else for him to be, and the father liked to have him in his sight. one day, just before the end, when they were all alone, the man called the boy to his bedside. "i can't tell you to follow my example, jack; that's the shame of it. i've got to hold myself up as a warnin', and not as an example. just you steer as clear o' my ways as you can; but remember that your mother was a prayin' woman. i s'pose nobody'd believe it, jack; but since i've been lyin' here i've kinder felt nearer to her than i ever did before since she died. seems as if i could a'most hear her prayin' for me; and i think, by times, that the god she lived so close to won't say no. it's the 'leventh hour, jack, the 'leventh hour, i know that as well as anybody; but she used to sing a hymn about while the lamp holds out to burn. when i get there i shall get rid of this awful thirst for drink. it's been an _awful_ thirst; no hunger that i know of can match it; but i shall get rid of that when this old body goes to pieces. and what does a saviour mean, if it ain't that he'll save us from our sins if we ask him?" as he said these last words he seemed sinking into a sort of stupor, but he started out of it to say once more,-- "never follow my example, jack, boy. remember your mother was a prayin' woman." those were the last connected words any one ever heard him speak. after that the night came on,--the double night of darkness and of death. once or twice the woman who acted as nurse, bending over him, heard him mutter, "the 'leventh hour, jack!" and afterwards she wondered whether it was a presentiment, for it was just at eleven o'clock that he died. jack had been sent to bed a little before, and when he got up in the morning, he knew that he was all alone in the world. after the funeral deacon small took him home. he wouldn't be of much use for two or three years to come, the deacon said. maybe he could drive up the cows, and ride the horse to plough, and scare the crows away from the corn, but he couldn't earn his salt for a number o' years to come. however, somebody must take him, and he guessed _he_ would. it would be a good spell before the "creetur" would come of age, and the last part of the time he might be smart enough to pay off old scores. but surely jack ramsdale must have eaten more salt than ever boy of ten ate before if he did not work enough for it, for it was jack here, and jack there, all day long. jack did everybody's errands; jack drew mrs. small's baby-grandchild in its little covered wagon; jack scoured the knives; jack brought the wood; jack picked berries; jack weeded flower-beds. from being an idle little chap, in everybody's way, as he had been in his father's time, he was pressed right into hard service, for more hours in the day than any man worked about the place. now work is good for boys, but all work and no play--worse yet, all work and no love--is not good for any one. jack grew bitter; and where he dared to be cruel, he was cruel; where he dared to be insolent, he was insolent. not toward deacon small, however, were these qualities displayed. the deacon was a hard master, and the boy feared, and hated, and obeyed him. but as the years went on, five of them, he grew to be generally considered a bad boy. at fifteen he was strong of his age, a man, almost, in size. his schooling had been confined to the short winter terms, and he had always been the terror of every successive schoolmaster. when he was fifteen, a new teacher came,--a handsome, graceful young man, just out of college. he was slight rather than stout, well-dressed, well-mannered, fit, you would have said, for a lady's drawing-room, rather than the country schoolhouse in winter, with its big boys, tough customers, many of them, and jack ramsdale the toughest customer of all. after mr. garrison had passed his examination, one of the committee, impressed by what he thought a certain-fine-gentleman air in the young man, warned him of the rough times in store for him, and especially of the rough strength and insubordination of jack ramsdale. ralph garrison smiled a calm smile, but uttered no boasts. he had been a week in the school before he had any especial trouble. jack was taking his measure. the truth was, the boy had a certain amount of taste, and garrison's gentlemanliness impressed him more than he would have cared to own. it is possible that he might have gone on, quietly and obediently, but that now his bad name began to weigh him down. the boys who had looked up to him as a leader in evil grew impatient of his quiet submission to rules. "got your match, jack?" said one. "goin' to own beat without giving it a try?" said another. and jack began to think that the evil laurels he had won, as the bravo and bully of the school, would fall withered from his brow if he didn't make some effort to fasten them. so one morning, midway between recess and the close of school, he took out an apple and began paring it with a jack-knife and eating it. for a moment mr. garrison looked at him; then he remarked, with ominous quietness, in a tone lower and more gentle than usual,-- "jack, this is not the place or time for eating." "my place and time to eat are when i am hungry," jack answered, with cool insolence, cutting off a mouthful, and carrying it deliberately to his mouth. "you will put up that apple instantly, if you please." still the teacher spoke very gently, and turned a little pale. the persuasive words and the slight paleness misled jack. he thought his victory was to be so easily won, there would not even be any glory in it. he smiled and ate, quite at his ease. "you will come here whether you please or not," was the next sentence from the teacher's desk. jack cut off another mouthful and sat still. then, he never knew how it was, but suddenly, in the twinkling of an eye, he felt himself pulled from his seat out into the middle of the floor while knife and apple flew from his hand. he kicked, he struggled, he tried to strike; but an iron grasp held his wrists. the strong muscles of the stroke-oar at harvard did good service. the handsome face was pale, but the lips were set like steel, and the cool eyes never wavered as they fixed and held those of the young bully. then suddenly he whipped from his pocket a ball of strong fish-line and bound the struggling wrists tightly, and, pushing a chair toward his captive, said, coolly,-- "i want nothing more of you till after school. you can sit or stand, as you please. now i will hear the first class in arithmetic." there was a strange hush in the school, and every scholar knew who was master. when all the rest had gone, the teacher turned to jack ramsdale. "i took you a little by surprise," he said. "perhaps you are not yet satisfied that i am stronger than you." "yes, i'm satisfied," jack answered. "i ain't so mean but what i'm willing to own beat when it's done fair and square." mr. garrison, meanwhile, was untying his wrists. as he unwound the last coil, he said,-- "the forces of law and order are what rule the world. i think if you fight against them, you'll always be likely to find yourself on the losing side." a great bitter wave of defiance swelled up in jack's heart; not against mr. garrison as an individual, but against such as he,--handsome, graceful, cultured; against his own hard lot; against a prosperous world; against, it almost seemed, god, himself. "what do _you_ know about it?" he said sullenly. "you never had to fight. it was all on your side. god did it. he made you handsome and strong, and had you go to school and college, and grow up a gentleman. and he made me"--how the face darkened here--"what you see. he took my mother, who did love me and pray for me, away from me when i wasn't more than three years old. he gave me to a father who drank hard and taught me nothing good. and then he took even him from me, and handed me over to deacon small; and i tell you, teacher, you don't know what a tough time is till you've summered and wintered with deacon small. i've got a bad name, and who wonders? and i feel like living up to it. i hadn't any thing against you, specially; but if i'd given in peaceably to all your rules, the boys would have said i had grown chicken-hearted, and a little name for pluck is all the name i have got." mr. garrison looked at him a few moments, steadily. then he said,-- "it does seem as if fate had been hard on you. but do you know what i think god has been doing for you, in giving you all these hard knocks; for things don't _happen_; god never lets go the reins." the boy looked the question he did not speak, and mr. garrison went on. "i think he has been making you strong, just as rowing against wind and tide made my wrists strong, until now you could fight all your enemies if you would. "the thing we are put here for," he continued, "is to do our best; and if we are doing that, in god's sight, there is nothing that can prevail against us; not fate, or foes, or poverty, or any other creature. there is nothing in all the universe that is strong enough to stand against a soul that is bound to go up and not down. you may go home, now." it was one of mr. garrison's merits that he knew when to stop. jack ramsdale went home with that last sentence ringing in his ears,-- "there is nothing in all the universe that is strong enough to stand against a soul that is bound to go up and not down." the words went with him all the rest of the day. they lay down with him at night, and he looked out of his window and fixed his eyes on a bright, far-off star, and thought of them. what if he should turn all the strength that was in him to going up and not down? if he did right, who could make him afraid? if he served willingly, he need fear no master. it was very late, and the star, obedient to the law which rules the worlds, had marched far on, out of his sight, before he went to sleep. he had made a resolve. in the strength of that resolve he awoke to the new day. "i will not go down," he said to himself; "i will go up and on!" he was not all at once transformed from sinner to saint. such sudden changes do not belong to this slow world. but the purpose and aim of his life was changed. never again did he lose sight of the shining heights he meant to climb. if the mother in the heavenly home could look down on the world below, she knew that not in vain had she been "a praying woman." to mr. garrison the boy's devotion was something wonderful,--humble, loyal, faithful, and never ceasing. from being the teacher's terror, jack had become the teacher's friend. blue sky and white clouds. "say yes, and you'll be such a dear papa." papa bent down and kissed his girl, before he asked, half reproachfully,-- "and how if i say 'no'? shan't i be dear, then?" kathie blushed, and then laughed. "why, of course you'll be dear, any way; but may be it's partly because you are so good, and hate so to say no to your own little daughter, that i love you so much." "to my little daughter as tall as her mother? do you know, small person, that i've often thought it might be better for that same little daughter if i said no to her oftener? i couldn't love you more, but i'm afraid i might love you more wisely. a hundred and twenty-five dollars for a new party dress! bring your own mature judgment to bear on it, and tell me if it appears quite sage, even to you." kathie thought so hard for a moment that she fairly scowled with earnestness; then she answered,-- "yes, on the whole, i think it will be eminently judicious. you see, i shall be going out a good deal now, and i can do so many different things with a handsome silk, and if i got a tarleton, or any of those cheap, thin goods, it would be used up at once." papa smiled. "well, if you are quite sure you're right, i'll bring the check home this noon, and you and mamma can begin your search for this wonderful yellow gown." "yellow!" kathie clapped her hands to her ears. "what did i ever do to make you think i would wear a horrid yellow gown?" "oh, was it red you said you wanted?" "worse and worse. you talk like a hottentot. my gown is to be blue, soft, and lustrous, like a summer sky, and i am to look in it,--well, you shall see on christmas eve." then, with half a dozen good-by kisses, the father of this only child--happy, easy-going, and too indulgent--took himself off down town, and kathie danced away to the sewing-room to find her mother and inform her of her success. kathie mason, at sixteen, was a girl bright, and sweet, and bonny enough to tempt any parent to a little over-indulgence. she had soft, sunny, yellow hair; and lovely, dark brown eyes; with a look in them that kept saying, "oh, be good to me!"; a delicate, flower-like face; and a mouth red as fair rosamond's, which has long been dust now, but which poets and painters raved about centuries ago. she had a graceful little figure, and a clear, fresh young voice; and she had a heart, too, which was in the right place, though she herself was almost a stranger to it. she loved beauty dearly, whether in books, or nature, or human faces, or blue silk gowns, and it was just as natural to her to be a picture, whatever way she looked or moved, as it was to be kathie. as she danced along she was humming a verse of a gay little french _chanson_, where some lover said his love was like a rose; and you thought it might have been written about herself, only kathie had no thorns. as she drew near the sewing-room she stopped, for her mother and the dress-maker were talking busily. miss atkinson was a pathetic little woman, with eyes which looked as if the color had been washed out of them by many tears, a thin, frail body, and a voice not complaining, but simply plaintive. somehow kathie hated to break in upon the slow pathos of those tones with her blue silk ecstasy, so she stood leaning against the door for a few moments and waited. "you see," the little woman was saying, "it was a great pull-back, my being sick two months in the summer, and then my brother being so much worse. but it will all come right, somehow. if i can manage to get alice clothed up so she can go to school, i shall be thankful; for she's a bright child, and it's too bad to have her wasting her time. but then, food and fire must come first, and if people are sick they are sick, and two hands can't do any more than they can." there was nothing to oppose to this mild fatalism; so kathie's mother only said, very sympathizingly, that it was hard, and that it seemed as if, with her sister and her sister's child to support, miss atkinson had all she could do before, without undertaking any new responsibilities for the ailing brother and his family. "oh! but there's no one else to do it if i don't, you see," quoth the little dress-maker, almost cheerfully--as cheerfully, that is, as her voice could be made to speak; but kathie noticed that a moment after she pressed her hand on her side and drew a sharp, hard breath. "does your side pain you, miss atkinson?" she asked, kindly. "not much more than usual. it's rather bad, most days. i went to work too soon after i was sick, the doctor said. but he didn't tell me how the rest were going to live if i laid by any longer; and, dear me, i'm thankful enough to be able to work at all." kathie thought she should be ashamed to have this poor little woman, who had two people besides herself to provide for, entirely, and no knowing how many more, in part, work on her blue silk superfluity. clearly _that_ must be made by some other dress-maker; and she could not even speak to her mother about it now; so she just asked for some work, and sat down with it, thinking more seriously than, perhaps, she had ever thought in her gay, butterfly life before. "how old is your little niece, alice?" she asked, after a while. "ten, and she is as far along in her studies now as a good many girls of twelve. i did mean to have sent her straight through, normal school and all, and let her prepare to be a teacher; but it doesn't look much like it, now william's taken so poorly. i expect i shall have to pretty much clothe his three children besides alice." "can't your sister, little alice's mother, help you at all?" "well, yes, she does help. she does all she's able to, and more; for, you see, she's feeble, too. she keeps house for us, and cooks, and washes and makes our things after i fit them, and keeps us mended; but there's nothing she can do to bring in any thing. but there, i beg your pardon ten times over, apiece. it's against my principles to go out sewing, and harrow up folks' minds with my troubles; only, you see, i'm a little nervous and unsettled to-day on account of alice's crying pretty hard this morning because she hadn't any thing to wear to school." papa mason took kathie aside when he came home to dinner, and with a little fun, and teasing, and pretence of mystery, produced the check. there it was, one hundred and twenty-five dollars, all right, and three weeks between now and christmas eve to get her blue silk gown made. while she ate her roast beef she began to think again. one question kept asking itself over in her mind,--why should some people have blue silk gowns, and others have no gowns at all? i rather think we have all asked ourselves this same thing, in one form of words or another. since the great father made and loves us all, why should one be queen victoria and another little alice staying at home from school for want of a few yards of woollen and a pair of boots? political economists have ciphered it all out, beautifully; but kathie did not know that, and so the vexing question puzzled her. what if it was done just to give us a chance to help each other? she asked herself, at last, and the text of a sermon she heard once came into her mind,--"bear ye one another's burdens." if all fared just alike there would be no chance for helpfulness, or charity, or self-denial; so may be clothes would be put on people's backs at the expense of better things in their hearts. it must be that god knew best. oh! if one couldn't think that, the world might as well fall to pieces at once. "will you have pudding, dear? i have asked you three times," said mrs. mason's voice, with a little extra energy in it; and kathie looked up out of her dream with a certain vagueness in her eyes, and answered,-- "a hundred and twenty-five," whereat they all laughed. "i can't give you a hundred and twenty-five puddings; but, if you'll please make a beginning with this one, no doubt the rest will come before the year is over." whereupon kathie roused herself from her speculations, ate her pudding, and sent her plate for more, with a good, healthy, girlish appetite. that afternoon she sewed quite diligently, and talked little; but her eyes were bright, and her face all the time eager with some thought. after tea was over, and miss atkinson had gone, and papa had stepped out to see a business friend, kathie sat down, as was one of her habits, on a low stool beside her mother, and laid her head in her lap. mrs. mason knew that all the afternoon's thinking would come out before the child got up again; so she just smoothed the fluffy, yellow hair with her hand and waited. "don't you think, mamma, that miss atkinson must be a good deal better christian than the rest of us, she's such a patient burden-bearer? she never seemed to think for one moment that it was hard she should have to work so, or that she couldn't have what she wanted herself. all that troubled her was because she couldn't do what she had planned for alice." then, when mrs. mason had made some slight answer, there was silence again for a time; and then kathie cried impulsively,-- "mamma, what a perfect good-for-nothing i am. i never carried a burden for any one in my life. i have just been a dead weight on some one else's hands." "not a _dead_ weight, by any means," and mrs. mason laughed, "and really, papa and i have found it rather a pleasure than otherwise to carry you." the loving girl kissed the hand that had been stroking her hair, but she was quite too much in earnest to laugh. "well, mamma, you know it doesn't say,--'bear ye one another's burdens, all of you but kathie, and she needn't.' i think this rule without any exceptions means me, just as much as it does any one; and i shan't feel quite right in my own mind till i begin to follow it. i want to bear part of alice." kathie was talking very fast by this time, and her cheeks were very pink, and her brown eyes very bright. "you see i've thought it all out, this afternoon. if miss atkinson will feed her and house her, i do think i might undertake to clothe her until she is through school and ready to teach; and don't you think i'd feel better when i came to die to have done some little thing for somebody? you see it would come very easy. my dresses, and cloaks, and hats would all make over for her. there wouldn't be much to buy outright, except boots, and stockings, and under clothes, generally." "and wouldn't you find all that rather a heavy drain on your pocket-money? i don't ask to discourage you, childie; only i want you to consider it all thoroughly, for if you should once undertake this thing and lead miss atkinson and alice to depend on it, there could be no drawing back then." "yes, i have thought about it all. didn't you see me working it out in my head this afternoon, like a sum in arithmetic? i think half the money papa gives me for lunches, and presents, and the other things pocket-money goes for, would be just as good for me as the whole; and i am sure with half of it i could keep alice along nicely after i once got her started; and its just about this start i want to speak to you now. papa gave me a hundred and twenty-five dollars to-day to buy me a blue silk gown for aunt jane's christmas-eve party. now fifty dollars will get me a lovely white muslin, and a blue sash, and all the fresh little fixings i should need; and that would leave seventy-five dollars, with which i could buy flannels, and boots, and water-proof, and a good, warm, strong outfit altogether, for alice to commence with. now do you think papa would be willing? i don't want to ask him, for he doesn't understand silks and muslins, or what alice needs; but would you answer for him? just think, mamma, what burdens poor miss atkinson has to bear." mrs. mason started to say,--"it is all for her own relations,"--but stopped, for the command didn't read, "relations, bear _ye_ one another's burdens." had she any right to interfere between kathie and this first work of charity the child had ever been inspired to undertake? would not this object of interest outside herself, apart from blue silk gowns, and flounces, and furbelows, do something for her girl that was likely to be left undone otherwise? what a very cold loving-one-another we were most of us doing in this world, after all? so she bent over and kissed the eager, lovely, upturned face that waited for her words, and said fondly,-- "yes, i will answer for papa, my darling. i approve your plan heartily, but i will not offer help. this shall be all your own good work." the next morning miss atkinson was told of the new plan. her faded eyes opened twice as widely as usual. she was not sure she heard aright. "do you mean to say miss kathie, that you undertake, with your mamma's full consent, to clothe alice until she is through school?" "that is precisely what i bind myself to do," kathie answered, gravely copying the solemnity of the little dress-maker. "then all i have to say is, bless you, and bless the lord. you never can tell what good you're doing." and then the poor little woman began to cry, just for pure joy; and she sobbed till mamma mason felt her eyes growing misty, and kathie ran away out of the room. be sure that miss atkinson made up kathie's muslin lovingly. it would not be her fault if it were not prettier than any silk. and truly, when christmas eve came and kathie was dressed for aunt jane's party, there could hardly have been a more radiant vision than this white-robed shape with the sunny, soft hair, the gleaming brown eyes, and the wild-rose cheeks, where the color came and went. her father looked her over with all his heart in his eyes, and a tenderness which quivered in his voice, though he tried to speak jestingly. "so there wasn't blue sky enough for any thing but your sash, and you had to take white clouds for the rest." "_just_ that. don't you like the clouds?" he bent and kissed her. "yes, i like the clouds; and i think the sunshine struck through them for somebody." the cousin from boston. we had been friends ever since i could remember, nelly and i. we were just about the same age. our parents were neighbors, in the quiet country town where we both lived. i was an only child; and nelly was an only daughter, with two strong brothers who idolized her. we were always together. we went to the same school, and sat on the same bench, and used the same desk. we learned the same lessons. i had almost said we thought the same thoughts. we certainly loved the same pleasures. we used to go together, in early spring, to hunt the dainty may-flowers from under the sheltering dead leaves, and to find the shy little blue-eyed violets. we went hand in hand into the still summer woods, and gathered the delicate maiden-hair, and the soft mosses, and all the summer wealth of bud and blossom. gay little birds sang to us. the deep blue sky bent over us, and the happy little brooks murmured and frolicked at our feet. in autumn we went nutting and apple gathering. in the winter we slid, and coasted, and snowballed. for every season, there was some special pleasure,--and always nelly and i were together,--always sufficient to each other, for company. we never dreamed that any thing could come between us, or that we could ever learn to live without each other. we were thirteen when nelly's cousin from boston--lill simmonds, her name was--came to see her. it was vacation then, and i had not seen nelly for two days, because it had been raining hard. so i did not know of the expected guest, until one morning nelly's brother tom came over, and told me that his aunt simmonds, from boston, was expected that noon, and with her his cousin lill. "she'll be a nice playmate for you and nelly," he said. "she's only a year older than you two, and she used to have plenty of fun in her. nelly wants you to come over this afternoon, sure." that was the beginning of my feeling hard toward nelly. i was unreasonable, i know, but i thought she might have come to tell me the news, herself. i felt a sort of bitter, shut-out feeling all the forenoon, and after dinner i was half minded not to go over,--to let her have her boston cousin all to herself. my mother heard some of my speeches, but she was wise enough not to interfere. when she saw, at last, that curiosity and inclination had gotten the better of pique and jealousy, she basted a fresh ruffle in the neck of my afternoon dress, and tied a pretty blue ribbon in my hair, and i looked as neat and suitable for the occasion as possible. at least i thought so, until i got to nelly's. she did not watch for my coming, and run to the gate to meet me, as usual. of course it was perfectly natural that she should be entertaining her cousin, but i missed the accustomed greeting; and when she heard my voice at the door, and came out of the parlor to speak to me, i know that if my face reflected my heart, it must have worn a most sullen and unamiable expression. "i'm so glad you've come, sophie," she said cheerfully. "lill is in the parlor. i want you to like her. but you can't help it, i know, she's so lovely; such a beauty." "perhaps i shan't see with your eyes," i answered, with what i imagined to be most cutting coldness and dignity. "oh yes! i guess you will," she laughed. "we have thought alike about most things, all our lives." i followed her into the parlor, and i saw lill. if you are a country girl who read, and have ever been suddenly confronted with a city young lady in the height of fashion, to whom you were expected to make yourself agreeable, you can, perhaps, understand what i felt; particularly if by nature you are not only sensitive, but somewhat vain, as i am sorry to confess i was. i had been used to think myself as well-dressed, and as well-looking as any of my young neighbors; i was neither as well-dressed nor as well-looking as lill simmonds. nelly was right. she was a beauty. she was a little taller than nelly or i,--a slender, graceful creature, with a high-bred air. it was years before they had begun to crimp little girls' hair, but i think lill's must have been crimped. it was a perfect golden cloud about her face and shoulders, and all full of little shining waves and ripples. then what eyes she had--star bright and deep blue and with lashes so long that when they drooped they cast a shadow on the pale pink of her cheeks. her features were all delicate and pure; her hands white, with one or two glittering rings upon them; and her clothes! my own gowns had not seemed to me ill-made before; but now i thought nelly and i both looked as if we had come out of the ark. it was the first of september, and her dress had just been made for fall,--a rich, glossy, blue poplin, with soft lace at throat and wrists, and a pin and some tiny ear jewels of exquisitely cut pink coral. "yes," i thought to myself bitterly, "no wonder nelly was dazzled. _she_ may like to be the contrast, to help miss fine-airs show off; but i object to that character, and i shall keep pretty clear of this house while miss lill is in it." i spoke to her politely enough, i suppose; and she answered me, it might have been either shyly or haughtily: i chose in my then mood to think the latter. decidedly the afternoon was not a success. nelly did her best to make it pleasant; but she and i couldn't go poking about into all sorts of odd places, as we did when we were alone, and we did not know what the boston cousin would like to do; so we put on our company manners and _talked_, and for an illustration of utter dulness and dreariness commend me to a "talk" between three girls in their early teens, who have nothing of the social ease which comes of experience and culture, and where two of them have nothing in common with the other, as regards daily pursuits and habits of life. lill talked a little about burnham's--it was before loring's day--but we had read no novelists but scott and dickens, and we couldn't discuss with her whether it wasn't too bad that gerald married isabel and did not marry margaret. we might have brightened a little over the supper, but then mrs. simmonds, who had been sitting upstairs with nelly's mother, was present,--a stately dame, in rustling silk and gleaming jewels, who overawed me completely. i was glad to go home; but the little root of bitterness i had carried in my heart had grown, until, for the time, it choked out every thing sweet and good. while the boston cousin stayed, i saw little of nelly. i am telling the truth, and i must confess it was my fault. i know now that nelly was unchanged; but, of course, she was very much occupied. whenever i saw her she was so full of lill's praises that i foolishly thought i was nothing to her any more, and lill was every thing. if i had chosen to verify her words, instead of chafe at them, i, too, might have enjoyed lill's grace and beauty, and learned from her a great many things worth knowing. but i took my own course, and if the cup i drank was bitter, it was of my own brewing. at last, one afternoon, nelly came over by herself to see me. i was most ungracious in my welcome. "i don't see how you could tear yourself away from your city company," i said, with that small, hateful sarcasm, which is so often a girl's weapon. "they say self-denial is blest: i hope yours will be." perhaps nelly guessed that my hatefulness had its root in pain; or it may have been that her own heart was too full of something else for her to notice my mood. "lill is going to-morrow," she said, gently. "indeed!" i answered; "i don't know how the town will support the loss of so much beauty and grace. i suppose i shall see more of you then; but i must not be selfish enough to rejoice in the general misfortune." nelly's gentle eyes filled with tears at last. "sophie," she said, "how can you be so unkind, you whom i have loved all my life? i am going, too, with lill, and that is what i came to tell you. ever since she has been here, aunt simmonds has been trying to persuade mother to let me go back for a year's schooling with lill, but it was not decided until last night. mother thought, at first, that i must wait to have my winter things made; but aunt simmonds said she could get them better in boston, and the same woman would make them for me who makes lill's." "indeed! how well dressed you will be!" i said bitterly. "how you will respect yourself!" "sophie, i don't _know_ you," nelly burst out, indignantly. "the hardest of all was to leave you, for we've been together all our lives; but you are making it easy. good-by." she put her arms round me, even then, and kissed me, and i responded coldly. oh how could i, when i loved her so? i watched her out of sight, and then i sank down upon the grass, and laid my head upon a little bench where we had often sat together, and sobbed and cried till i could scarcely see. i was half tempted to go over to nelly's, and ask her to forgive me; but my wicked pride and jealousy wouldn't let me. lill would be there, i thought, and she wouldn't want me while she had lill. so i stayed away. the next morning they all went off. when i heard the car-whistle at the little railroad station a mile and a half away, i began to cry again. then, if it had not been too late, i would have gone and implored my friend to forgive me, and not shut me out of her heart. but the day for repentance was over. the slow months went on. i missed nelly at school, at home, everywhere. i longed for her with an incurable longing. it was to me almost as if she were dead. people wrote many less letters in those days than they do now, and neither nelly nor i had learned to express any thing of our real selves on paper. we exchanged three or four letters, but they amounted to little more than the statement that we were well, and the list of our studies. one look into nelly's eyes would have been worth a thousand such. there were other pleasant girls in town, but i took none of them into nelly's vacant place: how could i? who of them would remember all my past life, as she did,--she who had shared with me so many perfect days of june, so many long, bright summers and melancholy autumns, and winters white with snow? i was, as i have shown you, jealous and hateful and cruel, but never for a moment fickle. at last nelly came again. it was a day in the late june, and she found me just where she had left me, under the old horse-chestnut tree in the great old-fashioned garden. i knew it must be almost time for her coming, but i had not asked any one about it. somehow i couldn't. i very seldom even spoke her name in those days. so she stole upon me unawares, and the first i knew her arms were round me,--her warm, tender lips against my own,--and her sweet, unchanged voice cried,-- "o sophie, this is good, this is coming home, indeed!" i cried like a very child. nell didn't quite understand that; but then she had not had, like me, a hard place in her heart, which needed happy tears to melt it away. i think, in spite of the tears, i was more glad of the meeting even than she. after a little while she said,-- "come, i want you to go home with me now, and see lill." will you believe that even then the old, bitter jealousy began to gnaw again at my heart? she had been with lill almost a year; could she not be content to give me a single hour without her? perhaps she saw my thought in my face; for she added, in such a sad, pitiful tone, "poor lill!" "poor lill," indeed! with her beautiful golden hair, and her eyes like stars, and her lovely gowns, and her city airs, "poor lill!" "i should never think of calling miss simmonds poor," i said, with the old hardness back in my voice. "you will when you see her, now," nelly answered gently. "she had a hard fall on the icy pavement, last winter, and she hurt her hip, and it's been growing worse and worse. she can hardly walk at all, now, and she has suffered awfully. but she has been, oh so patient!" and how i had dared to envy that girl! i was shocked and silenced. i walked along by nelly's side very quietly. when we got there she took me up into her room, and there i saw lill simmonds. i should hardly have known her. the golden glory of hair floated about her still. the eyes were star-bright yet, but the cheeks which the long lashes shaded were pink no longer, and they were so thin and hollow that it was pitiful to see them. she wore a wrapper of some soft blue stuff, and on her lap lay her frail, transparent hands. she started up to meet us with a smile which for a moment gave back some of the old brightness to her face, but which faded almost instantly. i sat down beside the lounging-chair where she was lying, but i could not talk to her. the sight of her wasted loveliness was all too sad. after a little while she said to nelly,-- "won't you, you are always so good to me, go and fetch me a glass of the cool water from the spring at the foot of the garden?" nelly went instantly, and then lill turned to me and put her hand on my arm. "i asked her to go, sophie," she said, "because i wanted to speak to you. i wanted to say something to you which it would hurt her to hear. i used to be very jealous of you, sophie. i wanted nelly to love me best, but she never did. she had loved you so long that i could see you were always first in her heart. and now i am glad. i shall never be well again, and when i am gone i would not like nelly to be so unhappy as she would be if she had loved me first and best. she will miss me, and she will be very sorry for me; but she will have you, and you can comfort her. i am ashamed now of that old jealousy. i think it made me not nice to you last summer." lill jealous of me! i was dumb with sheer amazement. and i, how much bitterness and injustice i had to confess! but before i could put it into words nelly had come back, and a look from lill kept me silent. that night, when i went away, i put my arms round my darling and kissed her with my whole heart, as i had not done for a year. she never knew how much went into that kiss, of sorrow and shame and self-reproach. what months those were which followed! i was constantly with nelly and her cousin. mrs. simmonds was there, but lill spent most of her day-time hours with us girls; to spare her mother, probably, who was with her every night, and also because she loved us both. sometimes, on fine days, she would walk a little under the trees; and i have knelt unseen, in a passion of loving humility, and kissed the grass over which she had dragged after her her helpless foot. growing near to death, she grew in grace. as nelly said, one day,-- "her wings are growing. she will fly away with them soon." and so she did. through the summer she lingered, suffering much at times, but always patient and gentle and uncomplaining. and when the dead leaves of autumn went fluttering down the wind, she died with the dead summer, and upborne on the wings of some messenger of god her soul went home. even her mother hardly dared mourn for her,--her life had been so pure and so peaceful,--her death was so tranquil and so happy. i had ceased, long before, to be jealous of her. no one could love her too much. she was my saint; and her memory has hallowed many a thought during the long, world-weary years since. i need but to close my eyes to see a pale, patient face, with its glory of golden hair and its eyes bright as stars; and often, on some soft wind, i seem to hear her voice, speaking again the last words i ever heard her speak,-- "love each other always, my darlings, and remember i loved you both." we have obeyed her faithfully, nelly and i. through the long years since, no coldness or estrangement has ever come between us. my first and last jealousy was buried in lill's grave; and nelly and i have proved, to our own satisfaction at least, that a friendship between two girls may be strong as it is sweet, faithful as it is fond,--the inalienable riches of a whole life. missy. miss hurlburt had wandered farther into the woods than was her habit, beguiled by the wonderful loveliness overhead, underfoot, all about her. it was an afternoon in early october, but warm as june. the leaves were of a thousand brilliant hues; for one or two nights of keen frost, a week before, had seemed to set them on fire. there were boughs as scarlet as the burning bush before which moses wondered and worshipped. there were others of deep orange; and others, still, of variegated leaves, where the green lingered and was mixed with scarlet and brown and yellow, till some of them looked like patterns in a kaleidoscope. underfoot was the delicate, fresh woodland moss. sometimes pine needles made the path soft; and sometimes, leaves, which had died earlier than their mates, rustled under miss hurlburt's tread. above, high over the flaming tree boughs, was the deep, lustrous, blue sky, with all its heavenly secrets. the air was full of that wonderful, radiant haze of autumn which makes the distance vague with beauty. and the temperature, as i said, was of june; so warm that miss hurlburt had taken off her hat, and let the scarlet mantle fall from her shoulders. she herself, had a painter been there to study the scene, would have been no unworthy wood nymph. her figure was full, but not too full for grace. health and strength were in every line of it. her fine, abundant hair, like that of which lowell wrote, "outwardly brown, but inwardly golden," was brushed back from her low, broad forehead, and coiled in a great heavy knot, from which a stray curl or two had escaped, at the back of her proud little head. she had great brown eyes, full of thought and feeling; cheeks, in which the rich, warm color glowed; bright, full, half-parted lips. she carried herself with grace, regal though unstudied. she never consciously remembered that she was eleanor hurlburt,--whose father owned the two great factories in the valley, and all the lands far and near, even these royal woods through which she walked,--but, unconsciously to herself, the fact gave firmness and elasticity to her step, and self-possession to her air. she very seldom wandered alone so far away from home. the factory hands were a necessary part of the great wealth which surrounded miss hurlburt's life with ease and luxury; but some of them might not be altogether pleasant to meet in lonely places,--so she usually was driven out in the elegant victoria, with the spanking bays which were her father's pride, by the decorous family coachman; or drove herself in her jaunty little pony phaeton, with her own man, all bands and buttons, seated in the rumble behind. but to-day it happened that she was walking. i said "it happened," because we speak in that way before we think; though nothing is farther from my belief than that any thing ever _happens_ in this world which god has made, and in which he never loses sight of the smallest or poorest thing. at any rate, miss hurlburt was walking, and she wandered on, until at last she heard a tender little voice singing a tender little song. it was so fine and clear, it might almost have been the carol of a bird, only birds have not yet learned the english language, and _this_ voice sang: "your brother has a falcon, your sister has a flower; but what is left for manikin, born within an hour? "i'll nurse you on my knee, my knee, my own little son; i'll rock you, rock you in my arms, my least little one." such a quaint little song, such a quaint little voice! miss hurlburt wondered for a moment who it could possibly be. then she remembered hearing that, while she was away in the summer, an elderly english woman and a little girl had been allowed to take possession of the cabin in the woods which her father owned. it was a little house with two rooms, which had been built, long ago, as a lodge for hunters; but which had for several years stood vacant, being too far from the factories to be a convenient residence for any of the hands. miss hurlburt went on a few steps farther, and saw the singer. it was a pretty picture. a little creature, who looked about five or six years old, sat in the door-way tending a battered doll. she was almost as brown as a gypsy, this small waif, but there was a singular grace about her. her black hair hung in thick, short curls. she had great, bright, black eyes; lips as red as strawberries; and teeth as white as pearls. miss hurlburt moved on softly, so as not to disturb her; and the waif took up her doll, and talked to it wisely and soberly, after the manner of some mothers. "now, pinky, me love, i have singed you a song. now you must be good for a whole week of hours, or i shan't sing to you, never no more. i mean any more, pinky. be very careful how you speak, always; no good children ever go wrong in their talking." by this time miss hurlburt had almost reached her side. "does your child give you much trouble?" she said, in a tone friendly and inviting confidence. the mite shook her head, with all its black curls. "pinky, me love? no; she only gives me trouble when she is bad. she is good most always, unless it rains." "is she bad then?" with an air of anxious interest. "certain she is: who wouldn't be? she has to stay in the house then; and she doesn't like it. would you? how can persons be good when they don't have what they want?" by this time a nice, motherly-looking old english woman had heard the talk, and came forward to the door. "missy," she said, "always thinks pinky is bad when she is bad herself; and missy is most always cross when it rains." "what is your name?" miss hurlburt asked, bending to smooth the black curls. "berenice ashford," the child answered, in a slow, painstaking manner, as if the words had been taught her with care; "but they don't call me that,--they call me 'missy.'" "is she your grandchild?" was the next question, addressed to the elderly woman, who had set a chair near the door and asked the young lady to sit down. "no, that she isn't, and i would like much to find out whose child she is. to be sure, i should miss her more than a little, if i had to part with her: but, all the same, i should like to find her kindred. she belongs to gentle-folks, and i can't do for her what ought to be done." a few more questions drew out the whole story. the woman, mrs. smith, had a son in america, who was doing well at his trade of dyeing; and he had sent for her to come out to him. he had sent money enough for her expenses, and she had taken passage in the second cabin of a steamer. among her fellow-passengers were missy and her mother,--the latter a beautiful young lady, mrs. smith said, but very pale and sad. she had complained sometimes of a keen and terrible pain in her heart; but she had made little conversation with any one. when they were five days out, she had been found in the morning dead in her berth, with missy sound asleep beside her. there was no possible clew to her history. in her trunk, full of her own clothes and missy's, was no scrap of handwriting, no address. the one or two books which were there, bore on their fly-leaves only the inscription "e. forsyth." she had taken passage as mrs. forsyth, but the captain knew nothing more about her. mrs. smith had somehow taken possession of missy. she had played with the child and amused her a good deal, before her mother died; and now the little creature clung to her as her only friend. there was something over a hundred dollars in the mother's trunk, but as yet mrs. smith said she had not used it. when she reached new york, instead of being met by her son, an old neighbor came for her to the steamer, brought her the news of his death, and gave her the money--nearly a thousand dollars in all--which he had been saving to make the new home they were to have together comfortable. it was an awful blow, and she clung to missy, then, for it seemed as if the child was all she had left in the world. the captain said that he would advertise for the little one's friends; but, meantime, he was evidently very glad to be relieved of the responsibility of her. "how happened you to come here?" miss hurlburt asked. "i had always lived in the country, miss, and i didn't want to stay any longer than i could help in new york; and my son had been meaning to bring me here. it seemed a little comfort, to come where i should have come with him. he had engaged with mr. hurlburt--the one who owns the big factories--to come here and see to the dyeing; and mr. hurlburt was so good as to give me this little house rent-free, for a while. by and by i want to get something to do. if i could be housekeeper somewhere where i could keep missy, or head-nurse, or something of that sort, it would suit me,--but there's no hurry." "mr. hurlburt is my father," the young lady said, when she had heard the story through. "we must see what can be done. missy, should you like to live with me?" the child considered. then she addressed her doll, inquiringly. "pinky, me love, should _you_ like to live with the lady? i guess she's good. would you go, if your mother went?" then she pretended to listen. "'no, i thank you,' pinky says; 'she couldn't go without grandma smith.'" "of course pinky couldn't," miss hurlburt said, laughing. "well, then, i'll come again to see you, and bring pinky's new gown." that evening, at dinner, miss hurlburt was radiant. she knew her father liked to see her well dressed, and she made a handsome toilet. she coaxed him into his very best humor by all the arts only daughters of widowed fathers are wont to use; and then, when he was seated comfortably before the open fire, which tempered the chill of the october evening, she unfolded her plan and her wishes. the beginning and the end were that she wanted missy,--she must have missy,--and the middle was that she couldn't be so cruel as to take from mrs. smith her one comfort, so she wanted mrs. smith. she represented herself as fearfully overworked, in keeping the establishment in order. now how nice it would be if mrs. smith could take all the troublesome details of that off her hands; could see that the house was clean, and the washing well done, and the buttons on. she had needed just such a person a long time, but she hadn't known where to find her; and now here she was, really made to order, as it seemed. of course she had her way. the world called jonathan hurlburt a stern man, but it was not often he could say "no" to his motherless daughter. the very next day miss hurlburt went with her proposition to the little cabin in the wood; and, before a week was over, missy and grandma smith were duly installed as members of the hurlburt household. as for the business part of the experiment, mrs. smith proved worth her weight in gold, as they say. before three months were over, mr. hurlburt discovered that she saved him five times her wages in money, and added immeasurably to the household comfort,--indeed, he concluded that she was, as eleanor had said, really made to order. as for missy, with her quaint ways, her odd, old-fashioned speeches, and the little songs she sang, she was speedily the delight of the household. she lost no whit of her affection for grandma smith, but it was miss hurlburt who was her idol. "pinky, me love," she used often to say to her faithful doll friend, "did you ever see any miss so nice as our miss hurlburt? you had better not say you did, pinky, me love; because then it would be me very sorrowful duty to whip you for telling lies." miss hurlburt's delight in her little waif was unbounded. she dressed her up, like a child in a story-book. when she drove in her victoria, missy always sat beside her, gorgeous in velvet suit and soft ermine furs; and at home missy was never far away. before spring, another strange event took place. i will not say happened, for no chapter of accidents would ever have read so strangely. a young english manufacturer came over to america. mr. hurlburt had had, by letter, various dealings with the firm which he represented; and, on hearing of his arrival in new york, wrote, begging a visit of some length from him. the young man, whose object in his american journey was partly business and partly pleasure, saw an opportunity to combine both in this visit, and accepted the invitation. he amused himself more or less with missy, as did every one who came to the house; but he had been a member of the household for several days before it occurred to him that she was not miss hurlburt's young sister. under this impression he remarked one night,-- "how curiously slight is the resemblance between yourself and your little sister, miss hurlburt!" "oh! missy is not my sister," was the smiling answer. "she is treasure-trove, mr. goring." and a little later, when missy had danced away in search of pinky, she told him the whole story. he listened with intense interest. "and do you know her name?" he asked, at last. "she says it is berenice ashford. you would laugh to hear the slow, painstaking way in which she pronounces it." mr. goring had turned pale as she spoke. "excuse me, miss hurlburt, but i truly believe your missy is my niece. my half-brother married against the wishes of his family, and i was the only one of them who ever made the acquaintance of his poor, pretty young wife. even when he died, last year, the rest would not have any thing to do with her. she had a brother in america, and she wanted to come here, so i took passage for her in the "asia." she insisted on coming in the second cabin, because it was quieter, she said; but i think it was to save expense, as well. tom had left her nothing; and, after the rest of the family had rejected her, i could see that it hurt her pride cruelly to let me help her. she should be all right, she said, when she reached her brother. she was to write me when she got there, but i have never heard a word. i confess that the hope to hear of her was one motive for my coming to this country." "but she was mrs. forsyth," miss hurlburt said, in a curiously bewildered state of mind. "certainly: forsyth was my brother's name. berenice ashford is the child's christian name. it was the name of tom's mother and mine." "but i wonder you did not know missy at once." "of course to find her here was the very last thing i could have expected. then i had not seen her for two or three years. i had communicated with my sister-in-law chiefly by letter; and it was my man of business, and not myself, who put her on board the steamer." "but her brother? why has he never looked for his sister nor her child?" goring smiled. "you are bent on making me prove my title to missy, as one does to stolen goods. i think mrs. forsyth must have gone on without writing to him in what steamer she was coming, and he probably did not know my address. nor do i think he had ever shown any especial interest in his sister. it was only her indomitable pride which made her so determined to go to him, when the family of her husband rejected her. now, i think, i have proved property, and i'm ready to pay the cost of advertising." just then missy's voice was heard in the hall, addressing a solemn exhortation to "pinky, me love," on the duty of never being greedy at table. miss hurlburt called her in. "missy," she said, "what was your papa's name?" "i never knew; did you ever know, pinky, me love? mamma called him tom." "and did you ever hear mamma speak of uncle richard?" mr. goring broke in, eagerly. "you do remember, pinky, me love. it is wicked to look as if you didn't. she said we couldn't go to america and find uncle john, if uncle richard had not given us the money. _i_ remember that, but i had 'most forgotten; so if you forgot, too, i shall not whip you, pinky, me love." "i am your uncle richard," the englishman said with entire calmness of manner and gesture, but with tears in his voice and his eyes. perhaps he expected the child to come at once to his arms; but she stood there, the same composed, self-poised little mite as ever. "_your_ great-uncle, pinky, me love," she announced,--manifesting an unexpectedly clear knowledge of degrees of kinship. "i think maybe we shall like him." "and you will go with me back to england?" he asked, eagerly; for the little creature's likeness to his dead brother stirred his heart. "does _she_ say i must?" missy asked, shyly, looking at miss hurlburt. "i will never say you must, missy." "then, please, uncle richard, i am afraid going in a ship wouldn't agree with pinky; and we'd rather stay here, unless our miss hurlburt will go too." "soh, soh!" and mr. goring smiled a quizzical smile, "i see i have a heart to storm." whose heart he did not say. but he lingered some time in america, coming back at frequent intervals to visit missy, as he said. the result was that when he returned to england little missy had become ready to go with him, even at the risk of exposing "pinky me love," to the perils of the sea; and miss hurlburt, thinking she needed something other than masculine oversight, concluded to go with her and take care of her, having first changed her own name to mrs. goring. and they all said what a fortunate thing it was that mrs. smith was there to keep house. the head boy of eagleheight school. the boys in eagleheight school made up their minds before the first fortnight of max grenoble's stay among them was over that he had no spirit. the truth was, they didn't exactly understand him. they began when he first came to exercise upon him their usual arts of torture,--the initiation ceremonies for all new boys,--and found him practically a non-resistant. they could not, indeed, be quite sure that they even succeeded in vexing him: he was so imperturbable. at last hal somers, goaded to a degree of exasperation by the quiet calmness of the new boy, struck him, with the outcry,-- "there, boys, see how this suits the quaker." it was a sound, ringing blow; but max only laughed a laugh which had a good deal of scorn in it, and said,-- "that's very little to take." then regarding hal curiously, "i looked for a tougher blow than that. to see you, somers, one would think you had a good deal of strength in your arms; but a bad cause is always weak." hal would have liked then to "pitch into him" with whatever of strength he had; but i think he was afraid. so he only turned on his heel, muttered something about a fellow not worth fighting with, and walked away. from that time those who did not vote max grenoble a coward pronounced him a mystery. he did not look at all as if he were wanting in spirit. he was a great strong saxon of a fellow, with the head of a young greek, covered with thick, short golden curls. i wish i could photograph him for you: he was such an embodiment of fresh, vigorous life, with his clear, fearless blue eyes, his short, smiling upper lip, his well-cut features. he was just the fellow to be popular, if only he had not been misunderstood in the first place, and especially if he had not happened to incur hal somers's enmity. hal had been there two years, and was a positive force in the school. he had a large capacity in several other directions besides mischief. he had been the best scholar at eagleheight before max came to dispute his laurels with him; a favorite, therefore, with the teachers, who always passed over his escapades, which were not few, as lightly as they could. in fact he was a sort of ringleader of the faster boys, and he found time, in spite of his never failing in class, to plan out and head the execution of most of the jollifications which were the terror of the quiet villagers around eagleheight. he seldom had any of his offences positively brought home and proven, it is true, and the faculty of the institution liked him too well to condemn him on suspicion, or even to try very hard to strengthen suspicion into certainty. they, the aforesaid faculty, were not at all too ready to give max grenoble his due when he first came. he was not, like hal, of their own training. he had come to them from a rival school, and they were secretly ill pleased to find in him a dangerous competitor with their best scholar. but before six months were over they were obliged to recognize his claims, and had even come to heartily like him. and, indeed, he was a fellow, as edmund sparkler would have said, with no nonsense about him, and likely to make his own way anywhere. whenever he had the opportunity to show his skill he was found to excel in all athletic sports; but this was not often, for the boys rather shunned him, and if there were enough for an undertaking without him he was usually left out of it. he had one friend, however,--a poor little weakling of a fellow, named molyneux bell, who had been friendless before max came. hal somers and his roystering set had always shoved poor little "miss molly," as they called young bell, to the wall; and it opened paradise to him when great, strong, bright, cheery max grenoble took him under his protecting wing. he gave as much as he received too; for max had a strongly affectionate nature, and would have found himself desolate enough without some one to be fond of. only "miss molly" knew the secret of his friend's non-resistance. one day max had carried him in his arms across a stream they came to in one of their walks, and set him gently down on the other side. molyneux looked up gratefully. "what great strong arms you have, max! why, you carry me as gently as a cradle. i believe you could whip hal somers himself, just as easy as nothing. honest, now, don't you think you could? o, i _wish_ you would! the boys wouldn't dare then to call us 'miss molly and her sister.'" max laughed heartily. "i shouldn't be much afraid to try it," he said. "the truth is, i have been awfully tempted to pitch in, sometimes. but last year i made up my mind that the bible meant what it said when it forbade us to return evil for evil and railing for railing. it comes tough on human nature, though, boy human nature at any rate; but there'd be no merit if there was no struggle, and we're put here to fight with the old man in us, as my father calls it." "but if you'd tell 'em _why_ you never knock a fellow down when he sauces you." max's face crimsoned like a girl's. "don't you understand that a fellow _couldn't_ tell such things? at least, i couldn't. i should feel like the pharisee in the bible." at the end of the school year there was to be a competitive examination. the credits for conduct and for recitations were to be taken into account, and the boy who stood highest on the books, and passed the best examination also, was to be the head boy of the school for the next year. from the first the field was abandoned to two competitors,--hal somers and max grenoble. all hal's emulation was aroused. he _would_ succeed. he even forsook his old ways, and for weeks together engaged in nothing that was contraband. he had really fine abilities. he learned some things more readily than max himself, and he felt that all his prestige depended on his securing this leadership. max took the matter more coolly, but still he worked with all diligence. and so, till within ten days of the examination, they were neck and neck. just then there came a dark night,--a warm, tempting june night,--when the moon was old, and only the stars shone, like very far-away lamps indeed, through the dusk. a friend of hal somers was night monitor, and doubtless the temptation afforded by such apparent security was too much for mischief-loving hal. it chanced that max grenoble had received permission from one of the tutors to go to the neighboring village of an errand, and this fact was known only to his own room-mate, molyneux bell. about half-past nine he was returning, and for greater speed crossed a lot belonging to the president of the institution, which saved him an extra quarter of a mile of road. half way across the lot he met hal somers with three other boys behind him, face to face. hal carried a small lantern, and a great pair of shears such as are used to shear sheep. the light from the lantern struck upon the shears with a glitter which led max to notice them. in the hands of one of hal's followers he saw the long, silvery tail of a white horse, and another carried a bunch of hair of a similar hue, evidently the mane of the same animal. "hal somers!" he spoke in his first moment of surprise, without consideration; but there came no answer. the lantern was blown out in a moment, and the boys made the best of their way toward eagleheight. as max walked on more slowly he heard a pitiful neigh, and following the sound, he found president king's pet horse, utterly denuded of mane and tail. it was a joke carried a little too far even for hal somers's effrontery, he thought to himself. if there was any thing outside of his school that president king loved and prided himself on more than another, it was snowflake. he gave her something of the fond care a family man bestows upon his children. every afternoon she was the companion of his solitude, to whom he talked, with a sort of grave humor of his own, as he took his constitutional upon her back. he would not be likely to have much toleration for the young rascals who had shorn her of all her glory. max went on, reported himself to professor vane, from whom he had obtained his leave of absence, and went to bed without hinting what he had seen, even to his room-mate. the next morning when the school went to chapel, there was a sense of thunder in the air. president king had seen his favorite, as those who were guilty did not need to be told, after one look at his lowering face. he conducted the devotions with more than his usual solemnity, and then detained the school a little longer. he uttered a few withering sentences, setting forth what had been done, and commenting satirically upon the invention, the gentlemanliness, the good sense of young men whose brains could originate nothing more brilliant or entertaining than the disfigurement of an unlucky quadruped, and an annoyance and insult to a teacher who had at least this claim upon their respect, that their parents had put them under his charge. then he gave them the opportunity to confess their folly, assuring them that confession was good for the soul, and adding that he should take it as a favor if any one who knew any thing of the affair, whether personally concerned in it or not, would give him all the information in his power. it was not the practice at eagleheight to ask any individual boy whether or not he had been guilty. it was one of president king's notions that to ask such a question of any one who had not manliness enough to confess his fault voluntarily was only leading him into temptation, offering safety as a premium for lying. as the fellows filed out of chapel, hal somers said to his chum,-- "it's all up with me about the leadership. of course grenoble will tell, especially now the prex makes a merit of it." "fool if he wouldn't," was the reply, "after the way we fellows have all treated him, too." all day hal was in hourly expectation of being sent for to an interview solemn and awful in the president's room. but the hours went on and no summons came. about four o'clock he saw max grenoble go into the dreaded chamber of audience. now, he thought, all would come out. of course max had gone to tell all he knew. would he be suspended, or expelled, he wondered, or would the prex be satisfied with giving him black marks enough to put the leadership altogether beyond his reach? then a plan came to him. the president's room was on the lower floor, and over one of its windows grew a grape vine large enough to conceal him from observation. he would go there and listen. that it was a very mean thing to do he knew as well as any body, but temptation was too strong for him, and giving one look to make sure that he was not observed he hid himself away under the open window. the first words he heard were in the voice of the president: "as soon as vane told me you were out last evening, it occurred to me that you would know who was at the bottom of the affair, and it seems you do." "yes, sir," firmly and quietly. "then there can be no possible doubt that it is your duty to tell." "it cannot be my duty, sir, to be a sneak. this secret came into my hands by accident. if i had been monitor for the evening, it would, of course, be my duty to make it known. not having been in any such capacity, _i_ think were i to turn telltale i should be no gentleman." "it's a new order of things when fifty must come to fifteen to be told what it is to be a gentleman," the president said, hotly. "perhaps you don't know, sir, that if you persist in your resolution you lose all hope of the leadership? you will be considered an accessory in the crime, and you will lose as many credit marks as would be taken from the ringleader were he detected." "i can afford to lose those better than my own self-respect," max said, stoutly, and then added, "i think _you_ would have done the same, president king, when you were at my age." hal waited to hear no more, but edged cautiously from his place of concealment. he thought he was not above profiting by max's generosity. he tried to think max was a fool, but there was an inner voice in his heart which whispered that there was something sublime in such folly, and, try as he might, this inner voice would not altogether be silenced. the days went on swiftly. max kept his scholarship up to the highest standard, but the twenty credit marks taken from his list put all hope of his attaining the leadership out of the question. it was the very night before the examination when president king answered a tap on his door with his well known, resonant "come in." his visitor was hal somers. the next morning, after prayers, the president said, very quietly,-- "young gentlemen, before the examination commences i have to detain you long enough to perform a simple act of justice. i acquit max grenoble of all complicity in the misdemeanor committed on the night of the th of june; the entire burden of the same having been assumed by henry somers, in behalf of himself, william graves, george saunders, and john morse. and as this confession was voluntary, i shall visit upon the offenders no severer penalty than the loss of all their credit marks for the last quarter." poor little molyneux bell forgot time and place, and threw his handkerchief into the air with one glad shout:-- "i knew max would come out right at last; i knew he would." so max went back the next year to eagleheight, as the head boy; and under his leadership a new state of affairs was brought about. he led them not only in class, and in athletic exercises, but in all true manliness. they had found out at length that he had plenty of "pluck and grit," even though he might not emulate sayers or heenan. one of his warmest friends was hal somers, in whose character enough nobility was latent to recognize at last the sterling worth even of his rival. agatha's lonely days. they had buried agatha's mother,--put her away under a sheltering tree, beloved of bird and breeze, which waved its boughs between her and the bending, changeful summer sky. agatha thought no other spot in the world could be so pleasant or so dear; and she longed, from the depths of her little, ten-years-old heart, to stay there with bird, and breeze, and tree, and the buried mother, who must hear her voice, she thought, even though she could never reply to it again in all the years. her father, pale with sorrow himself, had never come near enough to his child to be her comforter now. he talked little to any one of either his joys or his sorrows. agatha loved him, partly because she had always been taught to love and have faith in him; and, partly, too, because she knew well, with that childish and intuitive perception which discovers every thing, how dear he was to her mother; but she did not feel near to him, and she could not possibly have told him how she longed to stay there beside that grave. she made no protest when he took her hand to lead her away, though it seemed to her that she left her heart behind her, and that the lump in her breast was a cold stone to which warmth would never come back any more. she went home, and some one took off her little black hat, and put on an apron over her mourning gown, and then she was left in peace to sit at the window, and look out toward the spot where they had laid her mother, and wonder what was to become of _her_. they called her to supper, but she was not hungry,--she thought she never should be again,--and there was no mother to beguile her with dainty morsels. when they found she did not want to come they let her alone, and still she sat there and wondered. at last the twilight fell, and in the dusk her father came to her. he loved her very dearly; and especially now, that her mother was gone, and only she was left to him, he felt for her an unspeakable tenderness; literally unspeakable, for he did not know how to utter one word of it to his child. he longed to comfort her,--to tell her how dear she was to him,--but he could not. he sat down beside her, and looked at her little pale face, outlined against the western window, with such a depth of pity that it seemed to make his voice quieter and colder than ever when he spoke, because it required such an effort to speak at all. "to-morrow, agatha, i shall take you to your aunt irene. every girl needs a woman's care, and she will watch over you as faithfully as if you were her own." agatha never dreamed of objecting. she tried to think that she might as well be in one place as another, for she shouldn't live long anywhere without her mother. but she dreaded aunt irene's watching, as she dreaded few things in the world. she had made visits now and then at the quiet old homestead of which this aunt was mistress, and it seemed to her, on such occasions, that aunt irene did nothing but watch her from the time she entered the house; and in those days it had taken all the sunshine of her mother's joyous nature to gild the visits into some substitute for the pleasures other children took in their vacations. now, to go without her mother--all alone--and be "watched over" by her aunt! she began to know that she had a heart, after all, by its frightened fluttering. aunt irene was her father's sister, with all the raymond peculiarities of pride, and reserve, and silence, which made him half a stranger to his own child, intensified in her by her life of seclusion and of absolute authority over herself and her possessions. her experiences had been narrow, and her aims had been narrow also. mr. raymond saw this, his one sister, always at her best; and, through long knowledge of her, he understood her really trustworthy and excellent qualities. he felt that he was doing for agatha the best which fate now permitted him to do, in confiding her to this guidance, so sure to be wise, as he believed, even if not loving. the long car-ride next day was almost a silent one. agatha would have rejected with hot juvenile scorn, the idea that the presence or absence of any material comforts could affect her grief; and yet she would have felt a little less desolate, i think, if the heat had not been so intense, the dust so choking, and the seat so hard and straight. when she had made the journey in other years with her mother, how much shorter the way had seemed. the fresh linen frocks she used to wear were so much easier and cooler than the stifling black gown she had on to-day; and somehow her mother knew just when to open the windows and when to shut them, and if the seat was straight and hard, there was always mamma's lap or shoulder to lean against; and she forgot to be weary when mamma beguiled the time by poem or story. but her father rode silently, looking into vacancy for a face he would never see again; and after he had once bought agatha's ticket, and seated her beside him, it did not occur to him to do any thing to relieve the monotony of the long, dusty ride. it was dusk when the stage from the railway station set them down at aunt irene's door. agatha walked up the path timidly. it was a long, straight path, and either side of it grew thoroughly well-disciplined flowers; a rosebush on one side, just opposite to a rosebush on the other,--agatha wondered if either of them would have dared to bear one rose more than the other did,--a peony on one side and its mate opposite; so of a syringa bush, a flowering almond, and a root of lilies. between the well-marshalled ranks of flowers, which somehow made the child think of soldiers on guard, she followed her father up to the door, where aunt irene waited, grim chatelaine. mr. raymond shook hands with his sister, and then said gravely,-- "irene, i have brought you my poor, motherless little girl," and aunt irene put out her firm, strong, unyielding hand and took the child's into it, then bent and--not kissed her, kisses belonged to the dead days--but laid her lips on her cheek, and so agatha went in. every thing was good and substantial in aunt irene's house. you found there no frail stands which a careless touch might throw over, no brittle ornaments, no egg-shell china. the carpets were dark and rich and sombre. the tables and chairs were all of solid wood, and stood high and square. the sofas were heavy and firm, and the whole air of the place was grave and respectable, as aunt irene's surroundings should have been. i am not sure that any light, modern, fancy articles, suggestive of elegant idleness, had they been placed in her rooms, would not themselves have perceived their unsuitableness, and trundled off on their own castors. the supper which awaited the travellers followed the prevailing fashion of the house. the biscuits were three times as large as the biscuits on other tea-tables. there were no frisky rolls, no light-minded whips or wafers. but there were good old-fashioned preserve, serious-looking cake, and substantial slices of cold meat. aunt irene herself, sitting behind the tea-urn--solid silver, of course--comported with all the rest. she was a solid woman, with no superfluous flesh, and yet with a well-fed, well-to-do aspect, which was unmistakable. her head was high and narrow, her features good, her strong hair had disdained to turn gray, and her eyes were keen if cold. her lips, which had never cooed over babies, or soothed the sorrows of little children, or talked nonsense to any listener, were thin, as to such seldom-used lips seemed natural. they shut tightly over all her secrets. agatha's head began to ache furiously, and she could not eat. the room swam round and round till she felt as if she were the centre of a rolling ball, and her chair rocked, she thought, and she was slipping off it, when her father saw her white, strange face and wavering figure, and sprang up just in time to catch her in his arms. "she is sick, irene," he said. "where is her room? let me carry her there." while he went upstairs with her she revived, and lifted her tired head from his shoulder to look into his eyes. "i wish you were not going away, papa," she ventured to say. "i can't stay on in the old places, where i have lived with your mother, without her," was the answer which came, and which was like giving her a key wherewith to unlock her father's heart, and so made the two nearer to each other than they had ever been before. "some time will you come back, and let me live with you?" she whispered, wondering at her own rashness. "if you are good, dear, and learn to be womanly and helpful, and to take care of yourself, i will come back for you, or you shall come to me, and we will be together always." no one knew with what passionate yet timid hope agatha's little heart beat as she lay there alone on her strange, high bed. womanly and helpful,--that was what he had said, and she would be just that. she would do all aunt irene said, and never mind how much she was watched, since watching might help to make her nearer right, and get her ready all the sooner to go to her father and be his comfort. the very next day he left her. the death of his wife had seemed to sweep away all his old landmarks. he had been, hitherto, a quiet unadventurous man contented with his narrow routine of daily duty, which always brought him back to the tenderness of her welcoming smile. now that smile was frozen for ever on her cold lips, and a strange restlessness possessed him. he had meant to stay a few days with agatha in her new home, but he felt as if the inaction would drive him mad, so he hurried away; and a week afterward aunt irene showed agatha his name in the passenger list of a european steamer. it was june then, and the gay summer went on working its daily miracles round agatha's quiet home. bright birds sang to her, and gay flowers bloomed for her picking; and nature ran riot in a wood a quarter of a mile away, where the flowers asked no leave of aunt irene to blow, or the birds to sing. the child used to go there when her daily tasks were done, but she carried with her so sad a heart that nothing seemed to cheer her. she wondered what all the growing things were so glad about, in the summer weather, and, remembering an old phrase she had heard, she concluded it was because nature was their mother, and nature never died. "oh, mother nature, i wish you were a relative of mine!" she used to cry, sometimes, with unconscious quaintness; but before the summer was over, leaning her head so much on the mosses, a sense of kinship began to thrill in her pulses, and before she knew it the pain in her heart was eased a little, and she began to think of her mother, not as buried up and hidden away from her, but as near to her and waiting for her. meantime she never forgot her father's words,--"womanly and helpful,"--they were the keynote of her life. aunt irene wondered at her. she had thought her a mischievous little elf in the old days, but there was no mischief in her now. she herself respected no more religiously the rules of the household than did this little quiet child. as for trouble, why the creature gave none,--she was learning to do every thing for herself. at last even aunt irene grew half frightened at this still patience, which she felt must be unnatural to childhood. she began to wish that she could hear agatha laugh or shout,--that sometimes the child would tear her gowns, when she had on her oldest ones, at least,--that she would show some self-will, some little trace of her descent from apple-eating adam of the old time. she wrote to her brother how good and quiet his little girl was; but her heart misgave her. she did not know what more she could do to make her small inmate comfortable, but she had a vague sense that agatha was living an unchildlike life, and was less happy than in the old days when the little girl and her mother came there together. mother nature has her own methods of exacting compensation, and for agatha's overstrained and unnatural life pay-day came in the autumn. it had grown too cold to lie with her ear on the mosses, listening to the earth's pulse-beats, and the child sat quietly within doors, until one day she turned very pale and rolled off her stiff, straight chair to the carpet, and aunt irene picked her up, a lighter weight now than in the spring-time, and carried her to her room. dr. greene was sent for at once, and he looked at his little patient very gravely, and then whispered "typhoid" to her aunt. aunt irene wrote a hurried line to agatha's father, and then took up her post at the bedside, which for five weeks she scarcely left. she had a heart, only long ago she had concluded it was an inconvenience and locked it up; but now it broke loose from its confinement and half frightened her by its throbbings. her brother was very dear to her. she had loved him all his life, after the deep, silent, undemonstrative fashion of those who love but few; and now if this fresh grief was to come upon him how could she bear to see him suffer? but she did not allow these thoughts to interfere with her usefulness at agatha's bedside. day and night she watched over the child, who never once knew her, but who constantly mistook her for her mother, and clung to her passionately in the delirium of her fever. "o mother!" she would say, "i thought i never, never should see you again. no one was cross to me, mamma darling; but no one loved me since you went away. i've been trying to grow womanly and helpful, so papa would be glad to have me with him by and by; but now you've come and you'll love me whether i'm good or not." then again she seemed roaming through the woods. "hark," she would say, "hear how the birds sing, and see the gay flowers swing in the wind! their mother doesn't die, and they have no aunts. o birdies! you don't know how cold aunt irene's lips are." and aunt irene, listening, bent over the bed with tears blinding her eyes. had her life been all a failure? she asked herself. she had tried to do her duty: was it all nothing, because she hadn't loved? oh! if agatha would but get well she would find some way to make her happy. before the crisis of the child's fever came, her father had arrived. the letter found him in paris, and he had set out in twenty-four hours upon his homeward journey. "is she alive?" he asked, when his sister met him at the door, and started back, shocked by his haggard face. "yes, she lives, and the doctor says her fever must turn soon. come and see her." the little flushed face had never been so beautiful in its brightest days of health and joy, as now, with the clustering rings of hair framing in scarlet cheeks and large, strangely brilliant eyes. the father's heart almost broke as he stood there, unable to make her recognize his presence. while he watched, she said what she had said so often during the hours of that wasting sickness,-- "i have tried to be womanly and helpful. i think papa will want me after awhile. i hope so for aunt irene's lips are cold." how keenly he reproached himself then for having left her, only god knew. he was a silent man, as i have said, and silently he shared aunt irene's vigil without even thinking of rest after his journey. the next night dr. greene waited also by that bedside for the crisis he foresaw. at last the child slept. "when she wakes we shall know what to expect," he said, and went away into the next room for a little rest. but the father and the aunt never moved. it was midnight, and every thing was strangely, unnaturally still, as it always seems to watchers in the middle of the night, when they heard agatha call out of the hush and the stillness, with a sudden, glad cry of recognition,-- "o mamma! mamma!" "is she dying?" mr. raymond's look asked, for his lips refused to speak, and his sister's face made answer, "not yet." the hours, the long, slow hours went on. the night grew darker and deeper. then above the hills there stretched a faint line of dawn-light which deepened at length to rose, and then was shot through by a golden arrow from the rising sun. and then, as the dawning glory touched the little white, still face upon the pillows, the eyes opened, and a voice--agatha's own natural voice, but oh, so faint and low!--said, softly but gladly,-- "i have seen mamma. i wanted to go with her, but she said papa and aunt irene both needed me, and i was to stay here and grow well and happy. and so i shall." "and so, please god, you shall," dr. greene said, cheerily, having come in from the next room; and the father sank upon his knees by the bedside, with some murmured words, which only the father in heaven understood, upon his lips; and aunt irene hurried off, she said, to get something for the child to take, but she stopped a long time upon the way. "i knew you were here, papa," and agatha reached out her thin little fingers to touch the bowed head beside her. "i knew, because mamma told me." strangely enough, all her timidity had vanished. mamma had said that papa and aunt irene needed her, and that was enough. soon her aunt came in, and she looked up, gratefully. "you have been so good to me, aunt irene," she said, "so good that i thought it was mamma who was tending me, but i know now it was you, and i think you must love me, because you have kept me alive." and so my story of agatha's lonely days ends; for after this she never was lonely any more. her father and aunt had learned that little hearts need something more than to be clothed and fed; and agatha had learned, by their care for her, their love for her, and never doubted again that she had her own place in their hearts. but had she seen her own mamma? you ask. ah, who knows the mysteries of the border land between life and death? some of you will believe that she but dreamed a dream; and others, perchance, will think the father, who has so often sent his angels to comfort his earthly children, sent to her the home-faced angel whom her heart loved. i cannot tell. i only know that agatha believed always that a beloved voice not of this world had spoken to her. thin ice. the little village of westbrook seemed to have been standing still, while all the rest of the world had gone on. the people lived very much as their fathers and grandfathers had lived before them. they were all farmers except the doctor and the minister. the doctor was a very skilful man; but he had been reared on a westbrook farm, and when he went out into the world to get his medical education he had brought back with him, to quiet westbrook, only the knowledge he sought, and none of the airs and graces of town life. the minister, too, was westbrook born and bred, and his wife had scarcely ever been outside the town in all her days, so that there was no one in the simple community to set extravagant fashions, or turn foolish heads by gayety or splendor. [illustration: thin ice.--page .] it was, therefore, as much of an event as if queen victoria herself were to come and spend the winter in boston, when it became generally known that a rich widow lady and her son were to come, the last of september, and very probably stay on through the winter under dr. simms's roof. a famous city physician, with whom dr. simms had studied once, had recommended him and westbrook to mrs. rosenburgh, when it became necessary for her to take her puny boy into some still, country retreat. they came during the last golden days of september, and all westbrook was alive with interest about them. the lady looked delicate, but she was as pretty as she was pale, and her boy was curiously like her,--as pale, as pretty, almost as feminine. there was plenty of opportunity to see them, for the city doctor had given orders that the young gentleman should keep out of doors all the time; so, mornings, he and his mother were always to be seen in their low, luxurious carriage, drawn by high-stepping bay horses, and driven by a faithful, careful, middle-aged man, with iron-gray hair and an impenetrable face. sometimes, in the afternoons, they would all be out again, but oftener mrs. rosenburgh remained at home, and her son drove, for himself, a pair of pretty black ponies, while the impenetrable, iron-gray man sat behind, ready to seize the reins in case of accident. at first the boy's face seemed often drawn by pain, or white with weariness, and he would look round him listlessly, as he drove, with eyes that saw nothing, or at least failed to find any object of interest. but the clear autumn air proved invigorating, and when the glorious, prismatic days of late october came he looked as if, indeed, he had been re-created. and now one could see that he began to take a natural, human interest in what went on around him. he would drive up his little pony carriage to the wall, and look over it to watch the apple-pickers and the harvesters. no one spoke to him, and he spoke to no one. the lads of his own age, who watched his ponies with boyish envy, never dreamed that the owner of these fairy coursers could be as shy as one of themselves, and, indeed, as much more shy as delicate weakness naturally is than rosy strength. they thought his silence was pride, and felt a half-defiant hatred of him accordingly. yet many and many a day he went home to his mother, and sitting beside her with his head upon her knee, cried out, in very bitterness,-- "oh if i only could be like one of those healthy boys! how gladly i'd give up pease-blossom and mustard-seed, to be able to run about as they do! shall i never, never be strong, mamma?" and she would comfort him with the happy truth that every day he was growing stronger, and that she expected him to be her great, brave boy, by and by, who would take care of her all the days of her life. meantime, other boys, in other homes, talked to other mothers. for the very first time the evil spirit of envy had crept into quiet westbrook. why should ralph rosenburgh have every thing he wanted, and they nothing? what clothes he wore,--and a watch, a real gold watch they had seen him take out of his pocket,--and those ponies; for wherever they began they always ended with those ponies. and, as not all the mothers in westbrook were wise, any more than elsewhere in the world, while the wise ones would say that strong boy-legs were worth more than horses' legs, the weak ones would foster the evil spirit, and answer,-- "he ain't a bit better than you are, with all his watches and ponies. pride will have a fall some day, see if it don't, and he may be glad enough to stand in your shoes yet, before he dies." jack smalley was the son of one of these injudicious mothers, and so his envy grew, unchecked; till he nourished a vigorous hatred for ralph rosenburgh in his heart, without ever having exchanged a single word with him. it was a hatred, however, of which its object never could have dreamed. he had been so accustomed to be petted and pitied, and he was so very sorry for himself, that he could not be a wide-awake, vigorous, ball-playing, leaping, running boy, it would never have occurred to him that any one else could fail to see his condition in the same light. so he went steadily on the even tenor of his way, gaining something day by day and week by week, and hoping--how earnestly no one knew--for the happy time when pease-blossom and mustard-seed might stand idle in their stalls, and he go about on his own feet with the rest. the cold weather came on early that year. before the middle of december westbrook pond was frozen over, and then began the winter's fun. every afternoon ralph rosenburgh drove his ponies down to the very edge of the pond, and sat there for awhile, a patient looker-on at the frolics he could not share. with christmas, however, there came to him from the fond, maternal santa claus, a chair constructed on purpose for pushing over the ice, and then he became a daily partaker in the festivities upon the pond. the chair was modelled after a certain kind of invalid, garden chair, which is arranged to be either propelled by some one else from behind, or by the occupant turning a kind of crank at the sides. ralph soon learned to manage it for himself, and finding himself strong enough to do so, he used to make the iron-gray man stay with the ponies, while he himself moved round among the skaters. and, now that he seemed really one of themselves, the young people, all except jack smalley, began to feel a kindly interest in him. jack alone went on hating him more and more, finding daily fresh causes of offence in this boy who wore velvet and fur in place of his own coarse gray cloth, and woollen, hand-knit comforter. what was he, this puny wretch, without pluck enough to stand on his own legs, that he should wear the garments of a young prince? you see that master smalley had the primitive idea of young princes, and supposed them clad in everlasting velvet and ermine. but there were no princes in america, thank heaven, and nobody in westbrook wanted fools round who tried to look like king's sons. very innocent of trying to look like any one was poor ralph, if the truth had been known,--this mother's darling of a boy, who took no more thought of his attire than a weed, but whom mrs. rosenburgh wrapped assiduously in all that was softest and warmest, as she had, all his life, surrounded him with warmth and softness. after a while there came a january afternoon, over which a gray, moist sky brooded. already the ice had shown some symptoms of breaking up, and everybody was out, making the most of it while it lasted. among the rest ralph rosenburgh came down to the pond,--left pease-blossom and mustard seed in the iron-gray man's charge, as usual, and began to propel himself over the ice, with arms whose increasing vigor was a daily and happy astonishment to himself. at last he wandered away a little from most of the skaters. he felt himself and his chair rather in their way, they were wheeling and zigzagging so swiftly, and he moved along the pond quite rapidly toward the eastern end. it chanced that no one noticed his course except jack smalley, and jack knew that he was going directly toward a place where the ice had been recently cut, and where it was thin and treacherous now. slowly jack followed him. "i'd like to see him and that fine chair of his get a good ducking," jack muttered. "it would serve him right. i guess all them prince's feathers and fineries would look a little more like common folks', after they'd been soused." i do not think another and darker possibility crossed jack's mind. hating ralph rosenburgh though he did, i do not think one wish for his death had ever entered his heart. he himself had been in the water, time and again, and got no other harm from it than perhaps a hard cold. he did not realize what a different thing it would be for this delicate invalid, seated in his heavy chair. and so ralph propelled himself along toward destruction, and jack, with an evil sneer on his face, skated slowly after him. suddenly a third figure shot from the group of skaters,--the fastest skater of them all, and the one boy in the world whom jack smalley loved,--his own cousin, nelson smalley. he, too, had turned his eyes and seen in what fatal direction the chair with the delicate, golden-haired invalid in it was tending. he did not speak a word: he had but one thought,--to reach ralph rosenburgh in time to save him. he skated on, with the swiftness of light. and jack smalley saw him coming, nearing him, passing him, on toward the thin ice. now, indeed, he shrieked at the top of his voice,-- "nell, nell, come back. the ice out there is thin. come back--come back. don't you hear?" "i hear," floated backward on the wind from the flying figure; "i hear, but don't you see rosenburgh? i must save him." then jack himself skated after, making what speed he might. but he seemed to himself slow as a snail; and already rosenburgh was very near the treacherous ice, and nelson was almost up with him, flying like the wind. he heard nelson's voice: "stop, rosenburgh, stop. the ice beyond you is just a crust. stop, you will be drowned." and then he heard a plash, and looked. it was nelson, who had gone on, and gone under, unable to arrest, in time, his own headlong speed. and then, while he himself was shrieking madly for help, he saw rosenburgh, prince's feathers and all, just throw himself out of his chair, and down into the cold, seething water where nelson smalley had gone under. the ice grew thin suddenly, just where the saw had cut it squarely away, so the chair stood still upon the solid ice, and by that rosenburgh held with one hand, while with the other he grasped the long hair of nelson smalley, who was rising for the first time. excitement was giving him unnatural strength, but for how long could he hold on? now, at last, the skaters had perceived the real state of the case, and such a wail as one might hear afterwards through his dreams for ever, went up to the bending sky. hurry, all who can. run, iron-gray man, as you never ran before, or how shall you drive home to that boy's waiting mother? how was it done? how is it ever done? who can ever tell in such a crisis? i do not know how long they were in reaching the thin ice, for at such times moments seem hours, and seconds are bits of eternity. but rosenburgh held on, and the iron-gray man threw himself flat upon the cracking ice, with the boys holding fast to him, and drew them both out, and then rosenburgh turned limp and white on his hands, and whether he was dead or not he could not tell. there were enough others to care for smalley, and already the older ones had begun trying to restore him, and some of the younger were running in various directions for wiser aid. so the iron-gray man just lifted his own young master in his arms, and got him straight into the pony wagon, and drove pease-blossom and mustard-seed home as they had never been driven before. at the gate he met dr. simms coming out, and told his story in a few words. it was almost an hour before the blue eyes opened again, and the mother felt sure that her boy was still hers to have and to hold, to love and to cherish. indeed, it was many days before she felt altogether safe and sure about him. she was constantly expecting some after consequences from his exposure,--some fever, or cough, or terrible nervous prostration. but, strangely enough, he seemed to be none the worse; and one day, after a careful examination of him, dr. simms said to her,-- "i venture to tell you, now, what i have thought all along. this has been the very best thing for him that could possibly have happened. the severe shock was exactly what he needed, though certainly it was what i should not have dared to take the responsibility of subjecting him to. he is going to be the better and stronger for it." "and the brave, splendid fellow who was risking his own life to save him?" "is all right too. duckings are good for boys, not a doubt of it. trust me, this cold bath will go far to make a man of yours." and the doctor was right. the languid pulses which that awful peril had quickened never throbbed so languidly again. it was ralph rosenburgh's awakening to a new life. somehow the shyness in him passed away with the weakness, and he became a general favorite. the boys no longer envied him his ponies, when one or other of them was always asked to share his drives; and their cure was completed when he grew strong enough to take part in all their sports, when pease-blossom and mustard-seed were left to "eat their heads off" in their stall, and ralph rosenburgh and his chosen and dearest friend, nelson smalley, scaled rocks and climbed hills with the best of them. this strong friendship would have cost jack smalley some envious pangs, perhaps, if the awful terror of that january afternoon had not made him afraid of the evil in his own soul. my lost sister: a confession. i have a confession to make. when i went home from my grandmother's,--being set down at the home-door by the stage-driver, in whose care i had been placed,--and found my little sister in my mother's arms, a quick growing hate of her struck its black roots in my heart. i know that this seems unnatural. in most houses the baby is the very light and joy of them,--the little idol to whom, from the least to the greatest, the whole family do willing homage. but remember that i had grown to be ten years old, with no rival near the throne, accustomed to be the first object with my father and mother, petted, indulged, as much "the baby" as if i had worn white long clothes. it was not strange that it should come hard to be deposed from my throne of babyhood in one moment. when i went into the house, nurse sikes met me with a smile which struck me like a blow. "somebody's got her nose broke, i guess," she said, with a tantalizing laugh. before this, no one had spoken to me about the new-comer, and there, i think, was where the wrong began; but the woman's meaning flashed into my mind in a moment, and i tossed my head scornfully, without speaking. nurse sikes was probably not an ill-natured woman,--she could not have been, since no face was so welcome as hers in the sick rooms of all the neighborhood,--but she was a very injudicious one. i suppose my idle, vain contempt and indignation amused her, and so she went on provoking me. "ho, ho, miss fine airs! doesn't want to see her baby sister, don't she? well, to tell the truth, i don't think you'll be much missed. papa and mamma are pretty well wrapped up in miss baby. _she's_ a novelty, you know, and i guess she'll be taken care of, even if you don't trouble yourself." i would not for worlds have let her see the passion of grief and rage which shook me. i went out of her sight, and fled, not to my own room, which opened from my mother's, but to a remote spare chamber, and there i bore my pain alone. to cry would have infinitely relieved me, but my evil pride restrained me from that. they should not see my eyes red, and know how i felt; i would die first, i said, bitterly, to myself, i, who had cried out every sorrow of my life, hitherto, on my mother's tender bosom. after a while i heard them calling me,-- "annie! annie! annie! why, the child came in half an hour ago. where is she?" then i knew i must go down. so i looked at myself in the glass, and saw a face which, indeed, no tears stained, but which was disfigured by pride and passion; and thinking to myself,--'no one will notice how _i_ look, now,' i went to my mother's room. "come here, my darling," her gentle voice said, "come and look at baby." baby! could she not say a fond word to me, after i had been away from home two weeks, without bringing in baby! i moved reluctantly toward her. "baby is twelve days old," she went on, wistfully, seeing my sullen mien. "i wouldn't let any one tell you, for i thought it would be such a surprise." "a surprise, indeed!" i echoed her word with a scorn in my voice, which must have pained that gentle heart sorely. "isn't she sweet?" and, still trying to win my love for her new treasure, mamma uncovered the little, dimpled, rosy face, and held it toward me. "i suppose so; i don't think i care for babies," i said, ungraciously. "but you do care for mamma, and you haven't so much as kissed _me_ yet, my darling." perhaps if, even then, she could have put her arms around me, and held me fast against her loving heart, as she used to when i was grieved or naughty, it might have driven away the evil spirit, and made me her own child again; but she could not, for there, in her lap, was baby. so i took her kiss passively, returned it coldly, and then went away. it seems so incredible to my grown-up self, looking back upon it, that i could have gone on hating my baby sister more and more, that i can scarcely expect you to believe it; and i think i would hardly write out this, my confession, did i not hope it might lead some other, tempted as i was, to examine her heart in time, and root out from it the evil weed of jealousy, which bears always such bitter fruit. from the first, little lilias, or lily, as they all called her, was a singularly lovely child. as a baby, she cried very little, and never in anger. nothing but real pain ever made the red lips quiver, or filled the violet eyes with tears. she never could see any face more grave than usual without trying, in her baby fashion, to brighten it. i can remember, oh, how distinctly, times when my father would come home, worn and tired, and she would, quite untold, go through her little _rôle_ of accomplishments till she won a smile from him, clapping her fairy hands, nodding her gleaming, golden head, showing her two small teeth,--all the little winning wiles she had. she was a very frail, delicate child, always, and she did not walk nearly as early as other children. but she talked very soon indeed. she was scarcely ten months old, when she learned to call us all by our names; and, strangely enough, mine was the first name she spoke. "nan! nan! nan!" she would call me, half the day, like a little silver-voiced parrot. she was very fond of me, in a certain way. i never tended her unless i was obliged, and my mother, noticing with deep grief my spirit toward my little sister, waited for the evil feeling to wear itself out, and seldom called on me to amuse the child, or to give up for her sake any whim or fancy of my own. lily was not used, therefore, to have me hold or play with her. perhaps she thought i _could_ not, but it seemed to afford her infinite satisfaction just to have me in her sight. it may be she felt, in some vague way, that i was nearer babyhood than the rest, and so more of her kind. at any rate, she always seemed perfectly happy and content when she could watch me, at any of my pursuits; and when i left the room, the little silvery voice would call after me,-- "nan! nan! nan!" she was a full year and a half old before she began to walk, and then she was so small and delicate that she looked as you might fancy a baby out of fairy land would look, flitting round on her tiniest of feet, her yellow hair glinting goldenly in every chance sunbeam, and her wistful eyes blue as a blue flower. how could i help loving her? ay, how could i? i fancy i must have loved her a little, even then, only i had grown so in the habit of regarding her as an interloper, a rival, an alien, who was taking from me all which had formerly been mine, that i never owned, even in the silence of my own heart, to any softening toward her. father and mother were good to me beyond my deserts, and beyond my poor words to describe. i have known, since, with what infinite love and grief they sorrowed over me, while waiting for this evil growth in my heart to be uprooted, as they felt sure it would be, some time. they had the wisdom to know that reproof would be vain, and simply to love me and be silent. but if they loved _me_, and were to me most patient and kind, they were devoted to little lily, as was natural. she was so frail and so fair, so needed their constant watchfulness, that it is not strange she had it. one day, when she was two years old and i was twelve, i sat in a corner of the sitting-room, putting a dissected map together, while a lady was calling upon my mother. she looked earnestly and long at lily; but that was not uncommon; the child's dainty beauty was a pleasant thing to watch. at last, after she had risen to go, she said, as if she couldn't help saying it,-- "take good care of that little one, mrs. allen. she looks to me like one of the children the angels love." i saw the quick dew suffuse my mother's eyes, as she made some answer which i failed to hear, and then went to the door with her guest. am i to tell all the sad and bitter truth? i understood, as well as they did, that they thought our lily so frail we should have hard work to make her flourish in the cold soil of the earth; and for one moment a feeling of evil triumph swelled my heart. when she was gone, i should be _all_ to my father and mother, as i used to be before she came. they would love me, when they had no one else to love. i felt a guilty flush mounting to my cheeks, and i swept my map into its box hastily, and got up to leave the room. as i went out of the door lily's voice followed me, sweetly shrill,--"nan! nan! nan!" and, for the very first time in my life, a conviction smote me that there would be a sense of loss when that voice could never follow me again, with its soft calling, through all the years. the next summer was a strange, warm, oppressive summer,--the summer of ' . with its july heats our lily began to droop. such care as she had, such nursing, such love! but she had been always like a blossom from heaven, sprung up by mistake in the rough soil of this world, and she needed for her healing the wind which blows for ever through the leaves of the tree of life. she soon grew so weak that she could not run about any more, but would lie all day, except when, for a change, my mother held her in her arms, in a little rose-curtained crib, out from which the blue, wistful eyes followed all our movements, with a sweet, loving, lingering look, which i cannot describe. on me, in especial, that long gaze used to rest; and never could i leave the room without that sweet, small voice calling after me plaintively. there came a day, at last, when the doctor sat half an hour by lily's side, watching her with grave, silent face, and then went into another room alone with my mother. he came out first, and went away, and when she followed him, her eyes were very red. i knew afterwards, what i suspected the moment i saw her face, that he had been telling her that she must make up her mind to part with her little darling. my heart was not quite stone, after all, for it grew strangely soft and strangely afraid then. she was going home to god, this little lily of heaven; and would she tell him that i had hated, all through, the baby sister he had given me? i went away by myself and prayed. i had said my prayers night and morning, all my life, but this was quite another thing, this cry of the child's heart becoming conscious of its guilt and woe, to the pitying father. at last, i went to my mother. lily was asleep, and mamma sat by her side, pale as death, but with face that made no complaint. i knelt down beside her. "o mother!" i cried, "i have been so wicked,--and now i cannot undo it! oh, if i could! oh, if i could only die,--i who am not fit to live,--and let you keep lily!" she bent over me, and drew me into her arms, against her bosom. "if you are not fit to live, my darling, you are not fit to die," she said gently. "i can better part with lily, for she is pure yet as when god gave her to me. i have seen your sin and your suffering, and i have known your repentance would come." "oh, it has, it has! mother, how can i bear it? _will_ she go home to god, and tell him i have hated her?" "do you think she could tell _him_ any thing which he does not know? but lily has never found out what hate means. she has always loved you, and she does not know but that all the world loves her. the pain which your sin has caused has not rested on lily,--thank god for that." "but i might have made her happier,--i might have been good to her,--and now, perhaps i shall never have any little sister any more in all the world." just then the child awoke, and put out her frail little hands, with a low, sweet call i was destined to listen for in vain through all the empty, after years. i ran to her, and took her in my arms. she saw the tears upon my face, and touched them with her mites of fingers. "naughty nan," she said, in fond reproach, "naughty nan, to cry,--make lily cry too." and then i wiped away my tears, and tried to be cheerful; but, oh, how heavy my heart was! and, mourn as i would, i could not bring back the dead months and days wherein i might have loved my little sister, and had hated her instead. what else? nothing, but that, with the fading summer flowers, she, too, faded and died. in her case was wrought no miracle of healing. "we all do fade as the leaf;" but she had never been a strong, green leaf, tossed by summer winds, freshened by summer rains, gay in summer sunshine. just a pale, sweet day-lily, that lived her little life, and died with the sunset. and the first words she ever spoke, were the last words, also. she opened her tender eyes after a long silence, during which she had scarcely seemed to breathe, and they rested on me. "nan! nan! nan!" she cried, as if it were a call to follow her into the strange, new life, the strange, new world, whither, a moment after, she was gone. if there has been any good in my life since then, if i have striven at all to be tender and gentle and unselfish, let me offer such struggles as a tribute to her memory, as one lays flowers upon an altar or a grave. whither she has gone, i pray god to guide my feet also, in his own good time and way; and i shall know that i have reached the place whither my longings tend, when i hear, soft falling through the eternal air, her low, sweet call,-- "nan! nan! nan! welcome, nan!" what came to olive haygarth. a christmas story. it was the afternoon of the th of december, a dull, gray afternoon, with a sky frowning over it which was all one cloud, but from which neither rain nor snow fell. a certain insinuating breath of cold was in the air, more penetrating than the crisp, keen wind of the sharpest january day. olive haygarth shivered as she walked along the bleakest side of harrison avenue, down town. she was making her way to dock square, to carry home to a clothing store some vests which she and her mother had just completed. after a while she turned and walked across into washington street, for an impulse came over her to see all the bright christmas things in the shop windows, and the gay, glad people, getting ready to keep holiday. she had meant, when she set out on her walk, to avoid them, for she knew that her mood was bitter enough already. she had left no brightness behind her at home. there were but two of them, herself and her mother, and they were poor people, with only their needles between them and want. they had never known actual suffering, however, for mrs. haygarth had worked in a tailor's shop in her youth, and had taught olive so much of the intricacies of the business as sufficed to make her a good workwoman. accordingly they did their sewing so well as to command constant employment and fair prices. but after all it was ceaseless drudging, just to keep body and soul together. what was the use of it all? not enjoyment enough in any one day to pay for living,--why not as well lie down and die at once? she walked on sullenly, thinking of these things. an elegant carriage stopped just in front of her, and a girl no older than herself got out, trailing her rich silk across the sidewalk, and went into a fashionable jeweller's. olive stopped, and looking in at the window, ostensibly at the vases and bronzes, watched the girl with her dainty, high-bred air. she noted every separate item of her loveliness,--the delicate coloring, the hair so tastefully arranged, the pure, regular features. then she looked at the lustrous silk, the soft furs, the bonnet, which was a pink and white miracle of blonde and rosebuds. how much of the beauty was the girl's very self, and how much did she owe to this splendid setting? olive had seen cheeks and lips as bright and hair as shining when she tied on her own unbecoming dark straw bonnet before her own dingy looking-glass. she went on with renewed bitterness, asking herself, over and over again, why? why? why? did not the bible say that god was no respecter of persons? but why did he make some, like that girl in there, to feed on the roses and lie in the lilies of life,--to wear silks, and furs, and jewels, and laces, and then make _her_ to work buttonholes in butler & co.'s vests? was there any god at all? or, if there was, did he not make some people and forget them altogether, while he was heaping good things on others whom he liked better? she could not understand it. and then to be told to _love_ god after all; and that he pitied her as a father pitied his children! why! that girl in the silk dress could love god, easily,--that command must have been meant for her. going on she caught a glimpse of an illumination in the window of a print shop. "peace on earth and good-will toward men" was the legend set forth by the brilliantly colored letters. what a mockery those words seemed to be! there had never been peace or good-will in their house, even in the old days when they were tolerably prosperous, before her father went away. she walked very slowly now, for she was thinking of that old time. she had loved her father more than she had ever loved any one else. to her he had always been kind; he had never found fault with her, and had smoothed all the rough places out of her life. her mother had been neat and smart and _capable_, as the new england phrase is. higher praise than this mrs. haygarth did not covet. but like many capable women, she had acquired a habit of small faultfinding, a perpetual dropping, which would have worn even a stone, and george haygarth was no stone. the woman loved her husband, doubtless, in some fashion of her own, but to save her life she could not have kept from "nagging" him. she fretted if he brought mud upon his shoes over her clean floor, if he spent money on any pleasure for himself, any extra indulgence for olive; above all, if he ever took a fancy to keep holiday. just five years ago things had come to a climax. olive was thirteen years old then, and he had brought her home for christmas some ornaments,--a pin and earrings, not very expensive, but in mrs. haygarth's eyes useless and unnecessary. she assailed him bitterly, and for a marvel he heard her out in dumb silence. when she was all through, he only said,-- "i think i can spare the eight dollars they cost me, since i am not likely to give the girl any thing again for some time. it will be too far to send christmas gifts from colorado." mrs. haygarth's temper was up, and she answered him with an evil sneer,-- "colorado, indeed! colorado is peopled with wide-awake men. it's no place for you out there." he made no reply, only got up and went out; and, going by olive, he stooped and kissed her. how well she remembered that kiss! through the week afterward he went to his work as usual, but he spent scarcely any time at home, and when there made little talk. all his wife's accustomed flings and innuendoes fell on his ears apparently unheeded. the night before new year's he was busy a long time in his own room. when he came out he handed mrs. haygarth a folded paper. "there," he said, "is the receipt for the next year's house rent, and before that time is out i shall send you the money, if i am prospered, to pay for another year. i have taken from the savings-bank enough to carry me to colorado and keep me a little while after i get there; and the bank book, with the rest of the five hundred dollars, i have transferred to you. if i have any luck you shall never want,--you and olive. you'll be better off without me. i think i've always been an aggravation to you, martha,--only an aggravation." he went back again into his room, and came out with a valise packed full. "i think i'll go away now," he said. "the train starts in an hour, and there is no need of my troubling you any longer." then he had taken olive into his arms, and she had felt some sudden kisses on her cheek, some hot tears on her face; but he had said nothing to her, only the one sentence, gasped out like a groan,-- "father's little one! father's little one!" olive shivered and then grew hot again, as she remembered it; and remembered how wistfully he had looked afterwards at his wife, reading no encouragement in her sharp, contemptuous face. "i guess you'll see colorado about as much as i shall," said martha haygarth, sneeringly. "your courage may last fifty miles." he did not answer. he just shut the door behind him and went out into the night,--and she had never seen him since, never heard his voice since that last cry,--"father's little one!" she felt the thick-coming tears blinding her eyes, but she brushed them resolutely away, and looked up at the old south clock just before her. almost five. the sun had set nearly half an hour ago, and the night was falling fast. how long a time she had spent in walking the short distance since she came into washington street! how late home she should be! she quickened her steps almost to a run, went to the clothing store, where she had to wait a little while for her work to be looked over and paid for, and heard the clocks strike six just as she reached the corner of essex street, on her homeward way. the dense, hurrying crowd jostled and pressed her, and she turned the corner. she would find more room on the avenue, she thought. she had not noticed that two young men were following her closely. they would have been gentlemen if they had obeyed the laws of god and man. as it was, there was about them the look which nothing expresses so well as the word "fast." their very features had become coarse and lowered in tone by the lives they led; and yet they were the descendants of men whose names were honored in the state, and made glorious by traditions of true christian knighthood. on the other side of the way, alike unnoticed by olive and her pursuers, a man walked on steadily, never losing sight of them for a moment. at last, as she came into a quiet portion of the street, the two young men drew near her. they were simply what i have said, "fast." they perhaps meant no real harm, and thought it would be good fun to frighten her. "'where are you going, my pretty maid?'" said one, the bolder and handsomer of the two. "'my face is my fortune, sir, she said,'" responded the other, in a voice which the wine he had taken for dinner made a little thick and unsteady. "you ought not to be out alone," the first began again. "you are quite too young and too pretty." "that she is," a loud, stern voice answered, "when there are such vile hounds as you ready to insult an unprotected girl." surely it was a voice olive knew, only stronger and more resolute than she had ever heard it before. she turned suddenly, and the gas light struck full on her flushed, frightened, pretty face, which the drooping hair shaded. the man, who had crossed the street to come to her rescue, looked at her a moment, and then, as if involuntarily, came to his lips the old, fond words, the last she had ever heard him speak,-- "father's little one!" he opened his arms, and she, poor tired girl crept into their shelter. the two young men stood by waiting, enough of the nobility of the old blood in them to keep them from running away, though their nerves tingled with shame. george haygarth spoke to them with quiet, manly dignity. "when i saw you following this girl i had no idea she was _my_ girl, whom i had not seen for five years. it was enough for me that she was a woman. to my thinking it's a poor manhood that insults women instead of protecting them. i meant to look out for her, and, be she who she might, you should not have harmed her." "we never meant her any real harm," the elder of the two said humbly; "but we have learned our lesson, and i think we shall neither of us forget it. young lady, we beg your pardon." then they lifted their hats and went away; and george haygarth drew his daughter's hand through his arm and walked on, telling his story as he walked. he had been unsuccessful at first. for more than eighteen months he had scarcely been able to keep himself alive. fever had wasted him, plans had failed him, hope had deserted him. the very first money he could possibly spare he had sent home, with a long loving letter to the absent, over whom his heart yearned. but money and letter had both come back to him after a while, from the dead-letter office. "yes," olive said, "we were too poor to keep on there after the year for which you paid was out, and we have moved two or three times since then. the postman did not know where to find us, and after the first year we gave up asking for letters at the office." her father's hand clasped hers tighter, in sympathy, and then he told the rest of his story. he had never been very prosperous, never seen any such golden chances as the mining legends picture, but he had come home better off than he ever should have been if he had stayed in the east. for a whole week he had been in boston searching for them everywhere, and no knowing how much longer he might have had to wait but for this accident. "don't say accident, father," olive answered, softly. "it was god's way of bringing us together. i begin to see now what it means when the bible says, 'he is touched by our infirmities, and pities our necessities.' and yet, only this afternoon i was losing all my faith, and thinking that if he cared for all the rest of the world. he had forgotten me. here we are,--the next house is home." "your mother--how will she receive me, olive?" olive's heart seemed to stand still. her mother had been so bitter through all these years; had said such cruel things about this man, whom she accused of deserting his family and leaving them to starve, of caring only for himself. she did not speak,--she did not know what to say. "you must go in and break it to her," george haygarth said, as they climbed the stairs of the humble tenement house, the third story of which the mother and daughter occupied. "i will stay outside and wait. it won't be coming home at all if martha doesn't bid me welcome." olive went in, trembling. "here is the money, mother." mrs. haygarth reached out her hand for it and looked at it. "yes, it's all right; but i thought you were never coming home. what kept you?" "i looked into the windows a good deal as i went down, and then i had to wait at the store, and i've been thinking, mother. it will be five years next week since father went away. what if we could see him again?" she paused, expecting to hear some of the old bitter words about her father; but, instead, her mother's voice fell softly upon her ear. "_i've_ been thinking too, olive, and i believe he is dead. i don't think i used to be patient enough with him, and perhaps i wore his love out. but he _did_ care for _you_, and seems to me nothing short of death could have kept him away so long." "but if you _could_ see him, mother?" olive persisted, with trembling voice. some new thought pierced martha haygarth's brain. a strange thrill shook her. she looked an instant into olive's eyes. then, without a word, she sprang to the door and threw it open. olive heard a low, passionate cry. "george! george! if i was cross i _did_ love you!" and olive saw a figure come out of the shadow and take her mother close in its arms. and then she hid her eyes, and said a little prayer, she never knew what. so, after all, god had not forgotten them. just when their want was sorest their help had come. and they needed all they had suffered, perhaps, to teach her mother what love was worth, and what forbearance signified. "peace on earth and good-will toward men!" from the very sky the words seemed to drop down to her, like an angelic blessing; and now to their home the reign of peace had come, and she understood what the benediction meant. [illustration: uncle jack.--page .] uncle jack. "what young bears most boys are!" said my uncle jack, watching his oldest hope pushing his sister in the swing so vigorously that she almost fell out, and then pulling one side of the rope at a time, making her fairly dizzy with swaying from side to side while she alternately screamed and entreated. "just about the same, all of them," uncle jack went on. "talk about boyish chivalry, i never found it, especially toward a boy's own kith and kin. there may be some highland marys with juvenile adorers, but nine times out of ten a boy would rather frighten a girl than kiss her. my john here's just a specimen. come here, sir," raising his voice. "do you want to hear a story about the days when i was just such another cub as yourself?" this suggestion brought john and his sister both in from the swing. when uncle jack began to "spin a yarn," as he often called it, all the family were sure to want to be present at its unravelling. "you see," he began, "my sister nelly wasn't my sister at all; but it was all the same, as far as my feeling for her went. when i was only three years old my mother's best friend died, and left nelly, a little, wailing, two-months-old baby, to my mother's care. her father had been killed before she was born, in a railroad accident, so there was no one but my mother to see to her; and she brought the little thing home and adopted her, thankfully enough, for though she had four good stout boys, of whom i was the youngest, there was never a girl in the family till nelly came. "we all loved her, as she grew older. she was a pretty little blossom as you would want to see, with her black eyes, and the crisp, black hair falling about her rosy cheeks. she had a funny little rose-bud of a mouth, too, and the daintiest little figure,--well-made all through, and no mistake about it. "i think i loved her, if any thing, better than the rest did, considering that she was nearer my age, and so we were more continually together, but, bless you, there wasn't any chivalry in it. it didn't keep me from painting her doll's face black, or hiding its shoes, or from listening when she was talking with her girl cronies, and then bursting out among them, and yelling their choicest secret to the four winds. "i would have knocked any boy down, from the time i was big enough to use my fists, who had said a saucy word to nelly; but i said plenty of them myself. i believe i liked to tease her for the sake of hearing her beg me not to; just as i've seen you tease your sister a hundred times, master john. "you would think she would have hated me: but that's one curious thing about girls and women; they don't always hate where you would naturally expect them to; and nelly cared a good deal more about me than i deserved. she seemed to be proud of me, because i was a great, strong, roystering fellow, and she never bore malice for any of the tricks i served her. "i have wondered many a time since how i could have had the heart to torment her, for she never once tried to revenge herself on me, nor can i recollect her ever being angry with me. when i got myself into disgrace with parents or teachers, it was always her gentle voice which pleaded for me, and hard enough folks found it to say no to her, whether it was the dark eyes and bright cheeks, or a little winning, coaxing way she had. "when i was fourteen and nelly was eleven we went one day to a huckleberry picnic. we had great fun all the afternoon, and stayed a good deal later than we meant to, so that it was almost dark when we started to go home. we had two miles to walk, and the first half of the distance our way lay with the rest of the company. i had got well stirred up by the general merriment, and wasn't half satisfied with the frolic ending there. "nelly, i remembered afterwards, was very quiet, and seemed tired. she was a delicate little thing, any way, and got worn out with fatigue or excitement a good deal sooner than most of her mates. finally our road turned off away from the rest, and led through a long pine wood. as we went on under the thick trees it grew darker and darker, and nelly cuddled up closer to my side. "you'd have thought that at fourteen i was old enough for chivalry, and that sort of thing, if i was ever going to be; but not a bit of it,--i was just a great, strong, rollicking boy, with some heart, to be sure, but liking fun better than any thing, and headstrong and inconsiderate to an extent which i am ashamed to remember. full still of unexhausted animal spirits, and, as i said, not half satisfied with the frolic i had had, i began, in default of other amusement, to tease nelly. "i told her a ghastly story or two, and then i would rush away from her among the thick trees, as if in pursuit of something, and come back again to her side, in a few minutes. i wanted her to scream after me, but she didn't. she was so still that i actually thought she didn't care; and after a while i grew vexed because i couldn't vex her, and make her implore me to stay with her, and confess her dependence upon me. "at last, when we were about a third of a mile from home, a path led through the woods, branching off from the main path on which we were, to the farm where my greatest crony lived. i thought of something i wanted to say to him. here was a chance, to tease nelly well,--let her see whether she was just as comfortable without me as with me. "you look at me as if you didn't believe i could have been such a brute; but i was, and what is more, i did not at all realize at the time that i was doing any harm. that nelly would have a little scare, and hurry home somewhat faster than usual, was the most i apprehended; so i said, with a sort of boyish swagger,-- "'it just occurs to me that there is something i want to say to hal somers, and we are so near home now that you won't be afraid, so i'll just branch off there. tell mother i had supper enough at the picnic, and she needn't wait for me.' "it was too dark to look at nelly, or perhaps her white face, sad and frightened as i know it must have been, would have turned me from my purpose. she did not speak one word, and i struck off at a tearing pace through the woods. "by the time i had reached hal somers's place, i began to get sobered down a little, and to feel somewhat uncomfortable about what i had done. i had to wait a few minutes before i could see him, but i did my errand briefly, and it was not more than an hour after i had left nelly before i myself was at home. i found mother in the porch, looking out anxiously. "'i'm so glad you've come, children,' she cried, when she heard my footsteps, and then, as i drew nearer, 'why, jack, where is nelly?'" "'here, i suppose,' i answered, trying to face the music boldly. 'i left her about an hour ago in the woods, where the path branches off to go to hal somers's, and she had nothing to do but to come straight home.' "'you left nelly in the woods, an hour ago!' my mother cried, in a tone which made my heart stand still, and then turn over with a great leap. and then she sprang by me like some wild creature, and called through the darkness to my father to come with his lantern, quick, quick, for nelly had been alone in the dark woods for an hour. "instantly, as it seemed to me, my father and my oldest brother were following mother along the woodland path, and i stole after them, feeling like a second cain. it was but a very few minutes before we came up to nelly, for there she was, just where i left her. she had sunk to the ground, and was half sitting there, her back leaning against a tree beside the path. the light from the lantern flashed on her face, a face white and set as death, but with the wide-open eyes glaring fearfully into the dark beyond. "it was my mother who touched her first; and felt to see whether her heart had stopped beating. "'is she dead?' my father asked huskily. "'i don't know. it seems to me i can feel the very faintest throb, but i cannot tell until we get her home. if she isn't dead, i am afraid she is worse,--frightened out of her senses, for ever.' "then father and william made preparations to carry her. i asked, timidly, if i could help. i think none of them had noticed before that i was there. "'you!' my father said, with such concentrated scorn and wrath in his voice as i cannot describe; and then mother said, more mildly, but so sadly it was worse than any anger,-- "'no, i trusted her to you once. i supposed you loved her.' "so i saw them move off, carrying her between them, and i followed after like an outcast, until it occurred to me that, at least, i could call a physician. so i flew by them like the wind, and off on the road to town. by some singular good fortune, if we ought not always to say providence and never fortune, before i had gone forty rods i met dr. greene, who was coming in our direction to visit a patient. so i had him with me on the door-stone when they brought nelly in. "i did not dare to go into the room where they carried her; but i waited outside in an agony which punished me already for my sin. at last my mother had pity on me and looked out. "'she is not dead, jack,' she said, 'but she is still insensible, and until she is restored to consciousness there is no telling what the result will be.' "then an awful terror came over me, which i cannot put into words. what if she died, or what if she never had her reason again? who in that house would ever bear to look at me? when cain had murdered his brother he had to go forth alone,--what was left for me, another cain, but to go also alone into the world? "we lived nine miles away from a seaport town from which whaling vessels were continually starting, and it came into my mind that i might ship on board one for a three years' cruise; and, by the time it was over, the folks at home might have learned to forgive me for being in the world. so off through the night i hurried. "how strangely our ways seem made ready for us, often, in the great moments, big with fate, of our lives! i found a whaler which was to sail in the early morning, a captain disappointed in one of his green hands, whose place i could have, and before i had been half an hour in the town my bargain was made, i had been fitted out with necessaries, and i went into a tavern to write a note to my mother. "a strange, incoherent note it was; but it told her where i was gone and why, and begged her, whatever came, to forgive her boy, who loved her, and who might never see her again. "never mind about the long, long days, and weeks, and months which followed,--the empty hours of solemn nights and gusty days, during which i was face to face with my own soul. "of course before a week had gone by i was sorry enough for the rash step i had taken. it seemed to me i could not live for three years and not know what had become of nelly. i would have gone barefoot to the ends of the earth to find out about her, but i could not walk the sea. i was growing so wild with grief and anxiety that i sometimes think i should have walked overboard some night, and so ended all my pain for this world, if providence had not raised me up a friend in my need--only a common sailor, and a man whose strange history i never knew, but a gentleman and a scholar, in whose locker were milton, and shakespeare, and don quixote. "i had studied pretty well at school; and was rather forward than otherwise, for a boy of fourteen; and i have sometimes thought no course of study in any school would have been so much to me as was the entire absence of frivolous and worthless literature, and the constant companionship of these great minds. besides these, i read daily in my pocket testament; and i owed a great deal also to the instructions and explanations of the friend who was, as it has always seemed to me, god's especial gift to my needs. "our voyage appeared destined, at first, to be a highly successful one; but just as we were nearly ready to return, we encountered a storm which strewed the sea with wrecks. we saw our vessel go down, but we were fortunate enough to escape in our boats; my friend and i, and two or three more, were with the second mate in his boat, and we were soon separated from the others. we made land on a fruitful island, peopled by savages who were not unfriendly; but it was many months before, at last, we got away in an east indiaman, and while we were on the island my friend had died suddenly, leaving untold the story of his life. "i will not enter into the particulars of my return home,--how from port to port and ship to ship i made my way, until, at length, after five years of absence, i sighted the well-known landmarks of the old town from whence i embarked. "how familiar it all looked to me! i knew every field through which the homeward road led, and i walked the nine miles between the town and my father's farm in the night, as i had done before. it was three o'clock of a september morning when i reached the old place, and i had nearly two hours to wait before there were any signs of life about it. for now, after all these years, i had not the courage to summon them from their rest. how i passed those waiting hours, divided betwixt hope and fear, you can guess. i lived over in them all the torturing anxieties of the last five years. was nelly dead or alive? should i ever see my mother again? what had changed, while the old house among the trees had stood so still? "at last i heard a sound. a door opened, and my mother, who of old always used to be the first to move, looked out. her hair was white, and her thin cheeks were pale; but i knew the kind eyes that looked forth to meet the morning, and should have known them despite any amount of change. i sprang forward to greet her. "'mother,' i said. she knew my voice and turned toward me trembling. "'o jack, jack! i thought you were dead long ago. o my boy, my own boy!' "and her arms were round my neck, her tender lips were kissing me; and so she drew me in, into peace, shelter, home. "'and nelly?' i asked, half afraid to call the name. "'nelly is well. oh, if you had but waited to see. she was ill for awhile, but no serious harm came to her; and, instead, it was my own boy who went away to break my heart.' "'and has come back to heal it,' i cried, growing bold and merry with my relief and joy. "by this time the rest heard us, and came to the scene,--father, brothers, and last of all, nelly; such a beautiful nelly of sweet sixteen, ten times fairer and brighter than my brightest memories of her, and all ready to forgive me, and make much of me. "_then_ was when the chivalry began. _then_ i was ready enough to fetch and carry for miss nelly of the dark eyes and the bright cheeks." "oh," said john, laughing, "then when a fellow is nineteen he can be chivalrous to his own sister?" "very likely he can," uncle jack answered, "but my experience doesn't prove it; for i began to be glad, very soon indeed, that nelly was only my adopted sister, after all. it was a good while before i got my courage up to ask her whether she would trust herself to me on the long home stretch through life. be sure that i promised her, if she would, that i'd never leave her in any dark places." "and what did she say?" "oh! i mustn't tell her secrets. go and ask her. there she comes, with her first grandchild in her arms. her cheeks are not bright now, she says, but somehow they look to me just as they used to look; and i know her eyes are as dark and deep as ever; and though i call her 'mother,' with the rest of you, when you are all round, there is never a night that i don't say to her, before she goes to sleep, 'god bless you, nelly!'" nobody's child. the summer sun was warm in the five-acre lot, and the east porch was cool and pleasant, so the owner of the lot lingered in the porch and talked awhile with his wife. he had married her only the april before, and to live with her and love her had not yet grown to be an old story. it would be her fault if it ever did grow to be one; for he was a tender, kindly man, this marcus grant, with a gentle and clinging nature, and a womanly need of loving. his wife, though she was young and pretty, with bright eyes, and bright lips, and soft, waving hair, was harder than he, and colder, and more selfish. but she had given him all the heart she had, and in these early days she cared very much indeed about pleasing him, and keeping him satisfied with her; or, rather, making him continue to admire her, for quiet satisfaction on his part would not have been enough. he had thrown himself down on the door-stone, and his head was leaning against her lap, as she sat on her low chair in the porch, and ran her fingers in and out of his thick chestnut hair, thinking to herself what a fortunate woman she was to be the wife of this manly, handsome fellow, whom so many girls wanted, and the mistress of his well-filled, comfortable house. from this east porch where they sat they could see down the long line of dusty road that led to the church and the few houses clustered round it, which passed for a village. the farmhouse stood on the top of a high hill; and up this hill they now saw a woman toiling slowly. the summer sun burned fiercely down on her, the dust rose with every step in a choking cloud about her, but still she struggled on. little events are full of interest in country solitudes, and both grant and his wife watched the wanderer with curiosity. "well, i never saw her before, that's certain," the husband said, after a long look as she drew nearer. "nor i," returned his wife. "but see, mark, she has a baby in her arms. she's trying to keep the sun off it with that shawl; and, sure as you live, she is turning in here." "why, so she is;" and grant rose to his feet. "may i sit down in the shade and rest?" asked the stranger, drawing nigh. she spoke in a clear, silvery voice, which betrayed some of her secrets, since it was the voice of a lady, and also it was the utterance of despair, for its hopeless monotone was unvarying. "certainly," and mrs. grant rose and offered her own low chair, for clearly this was no common tramp. "and might i trouble you for a glass of water?" "i'll go for some fresh," grant said, full of hospitable intent. but before he got back with the water he heard his wife calling him, and hurrying forward at the sound, he found her holding the stranger's head, on her shoulder, and the baby, who was just opening sleepy eyes, in her arms. "quick, mark, do something. i think she is dying. she must be sun-struck." and so it proved. no one ever knew how far she had toiled in that intense heat, with the baby in her arms,--no one ever knew any thing more about her, for when the sun set, which had scorched and withered her life, she, too, was gone to unknown shores. she spoke only once after she asked for the glass of water, and that was just before she died. the baby, in another room, uttered a cry, and she tried to turn her head toward the sound. "it is your baby," mrs. grant said, kindly, "but she is all right. what do you call her?" the strangest change came over the dying face: it may have been only a foreshadowing of death, but it seemed more like a mortal agony of renunciation and of despair. "nothing," she said, as evenly and with as little change of inflection as if she were already a ghost; "nothing: she is nobody's child." but in half an hour after that she was dead, and mrs. grant, who was very literal in her ideas, always thought that the stranger had not known what she said; but, she used to add, the child _was_ nobody's child, for all they should ever know about it. after the mother was buried, she began to think it was time to dispose of this child, which was nobody's. she was not without heart, and she had worked diligently to fashion small garments enough to make the little creature comfortable; but now, she thought, her duty was done, and she wondered mark said nothing about taking the baby to the alms-house. at last, one evening, she herself proposed it. her husband looked at her in mild surprise. he supposed all women loved babies by instinct, and he took it for granted that of course his wife wanted this one, only she probably thought he wouldn't like it round. "why, did you think i wouldn't let you keep it?" he asked quietly. "i think god has sent it to us, and we've really no right to turn it over to any one else, to say nothing of the pleasure it is to have the little bundle." as i said, mrs. grant was still in a state of mind not to be satisfied without her husband's admiration. she would not have fallen short of his ideal of her for any thing; she would, at least, _seem_ all that he desired her to _be_. she was quick enough to understand that he _would_ think less of her if he saw her unwilling to keep the baby, so she smiled on him with what cheerfulness she could summon, and treated the matter as settled. thus the child, which was nobody's, grew up in the grant household. she had been six months old, apparently, when she came there, and by midwinter she began to totter round on her little feet, and to say short words. but no one ever taught her to say papa or mamma, those lovely first words of childhood. what had nobody's child to do with such names? it might have seemed strange to most people that julia grant did not love this little thing, so thrown upon her mercy in its tender babyhood. but, despite theories, all women are not fond of children. every woman is, perhaps, fond, in a blind, instinctive way, of her own; but the more heavenly love which takes all children in its arms and blesses them is not by any means universal. the most powerful trait in mrs. grant's character was a silent, unobtrusive selfishness. the whole world revolved, to her thought, about _her_. rains fell, dews dropped earthward, winds blew and suns shone for julia grant. she had consented with secret reluctance to keep the child, and from that moment a root of bitterness and jealousy had sprung up in her heart. if her husband had thought much of _her_ comfort, she used to say to herself, he would not have wanted to put all this care upon her. she was quite ready, therefore, to be jealous, and to feel as if something was taken from her every time he tossed the little one in his arms, or called it a pet name; and after a while--not at once, for he was naturally the most unsuspicious of men--some instinct revealed this to him, and made him, lover of peace as he was, very chary of manifesting in his wife's presence any especial tenderness for the little stranger within his gates. but summer and winter came and went, and with their sun and shade nobody's child grew on toward girlhood. she had a great deal of beauty, of a shadowy, delicate kind. she was seldom ill, but she was a very frail-looking child. the quick, changeful color in her cheeks, the depth of feeling in her dark eyes, the tremulous curves about her mouth, all indicated an organization of extreme sensitiveness; a nature to which love would be as the very breath of life, but which was too shrinking and timid ever to put forth any claims for it, or make any advances. for ten years she was the only little one in the grant household. their affairs prospered, they grew richer every year, as if nobody's child had brought a blessing with her; but it was a constant source of bitterness to mrs. grant that they were laying up for strangers, or perhaps for this waif, whom no one else claimed, and who seemed likely to remain in their house for ever, like some noiseless, unwelcome shadow. but at last, when the child had been for ten years her unwelcome housemate, to mrs. grant herself was given a little baby girl, god's messenger of love, as i think every child must be, to every mother. never had baby a warmer welcome. the preparations made for her were worthy of a little queen, and she opened her eyes on a world of love and of summer. but perhaps no one, not even her mother, lavished upon her such a passion of devotion as the poor little waif, nobody's child, who had never in her life before had any one whom she dared to caress. perhaps her devotion to baby touched mrs. grant's heart; at any rate she saw that she could trust the little one to her without fear, and so nobody's child became a self-constituted but most faithful nurse and body-guard to this other child, whom loving hearts were so proud and glad to own. and little rose--for so they named the summer baby--clung to her young nurse with a fond tenacity, very exacting and wearing, indeed, but unutterably sweet to the shy girl whom no one else loved. she began to feel that she was of some use,--even she had her own name and place in the world; and this reminds me that i have not yet told you her name. she had been christened annette soon after she came under the grant roof, but little rose called her "nanty," and this odd title was the very first word that small person ever spoke. she was a lovely baby, one of the rosy, fat, dimpled, laughing kind, and so thoroughly healthy that she seldom cried, except when "nanty" disappeared for a moment from her sight. the touch of her baby fingers seemed to make marcus grant and his wife both young again. day by day some line of care faded out of their faces, which time had begun to harden. the mother smiled, as she had never smiled before, on her baby; and here, at last, was an object on which the father's great, loving heart could lavish itself, unblamed, and unquestioned. rose was a year and a half old, when one cold winter night her father and mother were persuaded to go to a house warming, a mile away. mrs. grant was seldom willing to leave her baby, but this gay company was to assemble at the new house of one of her best friends, and she took a fancy to be present. "'nanty' will be just as careful of rose, to do her justice, as i should," she said; "and i think it's only neighborly to go." her husband, always sociable in his nature, assented readily enough; and eight o'clock saw them well tucked in under the buffalo robes of their sleigh, and started for the scene of festivities. "nanty," for her part, was well content. rose was already asleep, her little cheek, pink as the heart of one of her namesake flowers, resting on one dimpled hand, while the other was tossed above her head, as we have all seen babies sleep. the maid-of-all-work went off early to her bed in the next chamber, and the man, who had a family of his own not far away, took his departure, and then "nanty" raked up the fire, and crept softly into bed beside little rose. it was nearly midnight when she woke, roused from her slumber by a light, a vivid, red light, brighter than day. in one moment she realized her position. the house was on fire, and the flames were already far advanced. she sprang to the door and opened it, but it was only to be met and driven back by a sheet of fire. there was no hope of escape that way. rose was her only thought. if she could save the child, she did not care for herself. she opened the chamber window. the leap seemed desperate to her timid gaze, but the snow underneath the window might break the fall. then she thought of something better. she caught the blankets from the bed, and rolled rose in them hurriedly, then dragged off the feather-bed, by an effort of uttermost strength, and forced it through the window; and then, reaching out as far as she could, she dropped rose, closely wrapped in the blankets, upon the bed, and sprang herself from another window, lest she might fall upon the child. for her there was no bed underneath, and no wrapping of soft woollens. heavily she fell to the ground, and a violent shock, followed by deadly pain, told her that she had broken her arm. she thanked god, in that breathless moment, that it was not her leg, for somehow she must move rose to a place of safety, out of reach, at least, of falling timbers. how she did it she never could have told, but in thirty seconds rose and the bed were out of the yard and across the street, and then she sank down beside her charge, utterly unconscious. mr. and mrs. grant were driving home after the festival when they caught the gleam of a wild, strange light in the direction of their own home. "the house is on fire!" mrs. grant cried, with white lips. "rose!" the father answered hoarsely, and whipped his horse into a run. a quarter of a mile away from home they met the maid. "master, mistress," she screamed after them, "the house is on fire, and i'm going for help." they did not stop for questions. had "nanty" also forsaken little rose? but they found "nanty" at her post, though at first they thought she was dead. the mother pulled away the blankets from the little bundle beside her, and baby rose rubbed her chubby hands into her sleepy eyes. "where is i?" she said, "and what for you make morning so soon?" "o mark, mark! she's all right," the mother cried, in a passion of joy. "'nanty' has saved her;" and then she bent over the little girl in her thin night-gown, and took her by the arm. "nanty, nanty!" she had seized the broken arm, and the pain roused the fainting girl. "yes'm," she said, starting up. "i'm so sorry to be good for nothing just now, when you want me so much, but i broke my arm jumping out." afterwards, when the family had found a new shelter, the whole story came out. the maid, judith, had read herself to sleep, and her candle had tipped over and set the bed on fire. the flames had aroused her to a terror which utterly swept away whatever presence of mind she might have had under other circumstances, and without one thought for rose or "nanty" she had hurried off to call the neighbors to the scene of action. one might have feared that the fright and exposure would prove fatal to one so frail and delicate as "nanty" had always been; but by the time her arm was well healed she was stronger than ever before, drawing new life, as it seemed, from the love and care lavished on her so freely; for now even mrs. grant's heart had opened and taken her in. one day marcus grant said to his wife,-- "but for 'nanty' we should have had no child at all. it seems hard that she, who saved our darling, should be nobody's child herself." "you think we ought to adopt her, and make her ours legally?" his wife answered, smiling cheerfully. "i have been thinking the same thing myself. we will do it when you please, for i believe god sent her to us, to be our own, just as much as ever he sent rose." so it came about, before another spring, that "nanty" was no longer nobody's child. father, mother, and little sister all belonged to her, and she had name and place in life, and a happy home where love smiled for ever. my little gentleman. for a year the great house rising on the summit of prospect hill had been an object of interest and observation, and a chief subject for talk to the quiet country neighborhood surrounding it. hillsdale was an old town--a still, steady-going farming place--where the young men ploughed the unwilling fields, and coaxed reluctant crops out of the hard-hearted new england soil, as fathers and grandfathers had done before them. but in all the generations since the town was settled, no one had ever thought of building on prospect hill. it had been used as pasture ground, until now, when a man from boston had bought it, and had had a road made to its top, and a house built on its very brow. this house was a wonder of architectural beauty. "with its battlements high in the hush of the air, and the turrets thereon." it was built of a kind of mixed stone; so that its variegated coloring had an air of brightness and gayety very unusual. the farmers about were exercised in mind over the amount of ox-flesh and patience required to drag stone enough for the great building up the high hill; but that did not trouble the architect, who gave his orders composedly, and went on with his business, quite unheeding comment. the house, itself, puzzled the neighbors, with its superb, arched dining-hall, its lovely, frescoed drawing-room, its wide passages, its little music-room, and its great library all lined with carven oak. then, why there should be so many chambers, unless, indeed, mr. shaftsbury had a very large family. but it was when the furniture began to come in that wonder reached its height. such plenishings had never been seen before in hillsdale. the carpet on the drawing-room must have been woven in some loom of unheard-of size; for it seemed to be all in one piece, with a medallion in the centre, a border round the edge, and all over its soft velvet--into which your feet sank as into woodland moss--the daintiest flowers that ever grew. marble statues gleamed in front of the great mirrors; and pictures of lovely landscapes, and radiant sunsets, and handsome men, and fair women, hung upon the walls. in the music-room were placed a grand piano, a harp and a guitar. the shelves which ran round the library on all sides, half way from floor to ceiling, were filled with substantially bound books; and above them were busts of great men by whom immortal words had been written. it was a dream of beauty all through,--and when it was finished, and a troop of servants, men and women, came to make all things ready, expectation reached its height. a presidential progress could hardly have excited more interest than did the arrival of a quiet, gentlemanly-looking man, dressed in gray, with iron-gray hair and beard, at the little railroad station, where a carriage had been sent down from prospect hill to meet him. this, of course, was mr. shaftsbury. he was accompanied, in spite of the many chambers, by a family of only two,--a lady much younger than himself, dressed with elegant simplicity, with a face full of all womanly sweetness, and a boy, about twelve or thirteen, apparently,--a high-bred little fellow in his appearance, but somewhat pale and delicate, and in need of the bracing air of prospect hill. they drove home in the sunset,--this little family of three,--and looked for the first time on their new abode. mr. shaftsbury had selected the location, and bought the land, somewhat more than a year before; and then had put the whole matter into the hands of a competent architect, while he took his family to europe, so that the new residence had as entirely the charm of novelty for him as for the others. for a month after that he was to be seen busily superintending matters about his place in the forenoon, while his wife and boy sauntered along, never far away from him, or driving with them in the pleasant may afternoons,--always these three only, and always together. the first of june, the summer term of the district school began. it was an intense surprise to the scholars to find, first of all in his place, young shaftsbury, from the hill. "robert shaftsbury, thirteen years old," he replied to the teacher, who asked his name and age. he studied quietly till recess, and even then lingered in his seat, with evident shyness, though he watched the others with a look of interest on his face. they stood apart, and talked of him among themselves, instead of rushing out at once to play, as was their wont. at last, after a good deal of wonderment and talk, one boy, bolder or more reckless than the rest, marched up to him. "i say, velvet jacket, how came you here?" was his salutation. "seems to me you're too much of a gentleman for our folks." a slight flush warmed young shaftsbury's pale cheeks; but he answered, with frankness as absolute as his courtesy was perfect:-- "i have been taught at home, up to now, but my father wants me to be with other boys of my own age; and he says a true gentleman belongs everywhere." the boys all heard what he said; and, in spite of their boyish rudeness, it inspired them with a certain respect. that was the beginning of the title which they gave him, among themselves, of "little gentleman,"--_only_ among themselves, at first; though afterwards, when they grew more familiar with him, they used to address him by it, more often than by his name. if there had been a philosophical observer to take note of it, it would have been curious to watch how unconsciously the boys were influenced by my little gentleman,--how their manners grew more gentle,--how they avoided coarse or unclean or profane words in his presence, as if he had been a woman. he led his classes, easily, in their studies. the teacher had never to reprove him for carelessness in his duties, or for broken rules. his father had said, "a true gentleman belongs everywhere;" and he was quietly proving it. the scholars liked him,--they could not help it, for his manner was as courteous as his nature was unselfish and kindly; and yet in their feeling for him there was a little strain of envy,--a slight disposition to blame him for the luxury and elegance to which he was born; and, because of his very courtesy, to underrate his courage and the real manliness of his character. but there was one in whose eyes he was, from first to last, a hero. jamie strong was yet more delicate than young shaftsbury. he had something the matter with one of his ankles, and could not join in the rough sports of the others. he was the only son of his mother, and she was a widow. her husband and her other three children had all died of typhoid fever, and been, one after another, carried out of the little, lonesome cottage at the foot of the hill, where the sun seldom came, and now jamie was the last. he would never be strong enough to do hard work. sowing, ploughing, mowing, harvesting,--he could never manage any of these; so for his weak limbs his quick brain must make up; and widow strong had determined that he should be a scholar,--a minister, if it pleased the lord to call him to that; if not a teacher. so she quietly struggled on to keep him at school, and to earn money to provide for future years of academy and college. she sewed, she washed, she picked berries,--she did any thing by which she could add a dollar to her hoard. jamie understood and shared her ambition, and studied with might and main. he was used to harshness and rudeness from stronger boys, and he had grown shy and shrunk into himself. to him the coming of my little gentleman was as grace from heaven. here was one who never mocked at his feebleness, or his poverty,--who was always kind, always friendly, and who did many a little thing to make him happy. young shaftsbury on his part was quick to perceive the tender and loyal admiration of the other; and there grew between them the tie of an interest which had never been put into words. it had been a damp and strange summer, intensely warm, even in that hilly region. it had rained continually, but the rains, which kept the fields green and made vegetation so unusually lush and ripe, had seemed scarcely to cool at all the fervid heat of the air. wiseacres predicted much sickness. indeed, several cases of slow fever were in the town already. one day my little gentleman looked about in vain for his friend jamie, and finally asked for him anxiously, and found that the boy was ill of typhoid fever. at recess he heard the boys talking of it. "he'll never get well," one said. "his father died just that way, and his three brothers. you see it's damp, down in that hollow, and the sun hardly ever touches the house. i heard dr. simonds say it was ten to one against anybody who was sick there." when school was over robert shaftsbury hurried home. he found his mother sitting, dressed all in white, in the music-room, playing a symphony on the piano, while his father sat a little distance off, listening with half-closed eyes. he waited until the piece was over, and then he told his story and preferred his request. the doctor had said it was ten to one against any one who was sick in that little damp house in the hollow; and he wanted jamie brought up the hill to their own home. he watched the faces of his father and mother as he spoke; and it seemed to him that a refusal was hovering upon their lips, and he said, earnestly,-- "don't speak, just yet. remember that he is his mother's only son, as i am yours. if i lay sick where there was no hope for me, and some one else might, perhaps, save me by taking me in, would you think they ought to try it, or to let me die?" mr. shaftsbury looked into his wife's eyes. "robert is right," she said, with the sudden, sweet smile which always seemed to make the day brighter when it came to her lips. "if the poor boy can be helped by being brought here, we must bring him." "i will go and see," mr. shaftsbury answered, at once. "and i, too, papa," said my little gentleman. "not you, i think. i fear contagion for you." "i think there is no danger for me, living on this bright hill-top, in these great, airy rooms,--but even if there were, i am sure you would let me go if you knew how much jamie loves me." "come, then," his father said, quietly. he had been, all his son's life, preaching to him of heroism and self-sacrifice and devotion. he dared not interfere with almost his first opportunity for any real exercise of them. so the two went down the hill together. it chanced that they met dr. simonds coming away from the house, and proposed to him the question of the removal. it would not do, the doctor declared at once,--the disease had made too much progress. to remove him now would be more dangerous than to leave him where he was. "then i must go and see him," robert said, resolutely. "you know he has only his mother, and i must spend all the time i can spare from school with him." "but i will send an excellent nurse, my son. do you not see that i cannot have you expose yourself?" "send the nurse, too, please, papa; but do not keep me from going. he will not care for the nurse, and he does care very much for me. i do not believe in the danger, and i know how glad he will be to see me." mr. shaftsbury hesitated. this boy was as the apple of his eye. must he indeed begin so soon to look danger in the face, for the sake of others? but dared he withhold him, when the boy felt that honor and duty called? it ended by his walking in with him quietly. it was something to see how jamie's face brightened. he had been very dull and stupid all day, his mother said, and some of the time his mind had been wandering. but now a glad, eager light came into his eyes, and a smile curved his parched lips. he put out his hot hands. "oh! is it you, my little gentleman?" he said: "i had rather see you than any thing else in the world." "well, then, i will come every day as soon as i am through school," robert shaftsbury answered. "do you know what you have done?" his father asked, when, at last, they stood outside the house together. "yes, papa. i have promised that poor, sick, helpless little fellow all the comfort i can give him. i have promised to do by him as i should want him to do by me if i were jamie strong, and he was robert shaftsbury." mr. shaftsbury was silenced. this, indeed, was the rule of living he had taught. should he venture to interfere with its observance? so my little gentleman had his way. he took every precaution which his mother's anxiety suggested, such as going home to lunch before he went to the little cottage where the sick boy lay and longed for him. but he went regularly. and no matter how wild jamie might be, his presence would bring calmness. the dim eyes would kindle; the poor, parched lips would smile; and mrs. strong said the visit did jamie more good than his medicines. at school the boys looked upon my little gentleman with a sort of wondering reverence. they all knew of his daily visits to the fever-haunted place, which they themselves shunned, and they marvelled at his courage. this was the boy they had fancied to be lacking in manliness, because he was slight and fair,--because he was carefully dressed and tenderly nurtured! they said nothing; but in a hundred subtile ways they showed their changed estimate. the days went on, and with them jamie strong's life went toward its end. the doom of his house had come upon him; and love and prayers and watching were all, it seemed, of none avail. one night the fever reached its crisis, and the doctor, who watched him through it, knew that the end was near. jamie knew it, also. when the morning dawned he whispered faintly to his mother,-- "i shall never see another morning; but oh, if i can only live till night, and see my little gentleman!" she proposed to send for him; but that was not what the boy wished. "no," he said, feebly, "i want to see him coming in, at the old time, with some flowers in his hand, 'and make a sunshine in a shady place.' somebody said that, mother, i forget who; i forget every thing now; but that's what _he_ does; he makes a sunshine in this shady place." a dozen times that day it seemed as if the breath coming so faintly must be his last; but he clung to life with a strange, silent tenacity. at last, just a few moments before it was time for the accustomed visit, he said,-- "kiss me good-by, mother. i want to save the rest of my strength for him." she kissed him, with her bitter tears falling fast. he put up a hand so thin that you could almost see through it, and brushed the tears away. "don't cry," he said; "it hurts me. life here was hard, and up above christ says it will be all made easy." then he was silent, and presently robert came with a great bunch of white lilies in his hand. "the lilies of heaven," murmured jamie, in a low, strange tone. then into his eyes broke once more the light which never failed to respond to robert's coming, and a wan smile fluttered over his lips, as a soul might flutter before it flies away. "i am going now," he said. "i waited to say good-by, my little gentleman. do you think they are all gentlemen up there?" with this question his life went out, and voices we could not hear made answer. this was the beginning of robert shaftsbury's career. no harm came to him through his presence in the fever-tainted house,--but he had learned a lesson there. the one thing for which he has striven in life is to be a gentleman; and his interpretation of that much-abused phrase he finds in the book which tells us to do unto others as we would that they should do unto us. [illustration: ruthy's country.--page .] ruthy's country. it was such a strange, sad, old face to be on such a young, slight form, that you could not help looking at it again and again. otherwise there was nothing remarkable about her. she was just a girl sweeping a crossing, in a bustling, dirty street, on a muddy, sloppy march day. she was thinly clothed, but not more so than others of her class; and there was nothing in particular to make me notice her except this queer, expressive, melancholy, unyouthful countenance. she wore a worsted hood which left the whole face visible. you could see the forehead, broad and low, and lined with puzzled thinking; the dusky, tumbled hair; the wishful, pathetic mouth with its drooping corners; and the great, strange, olive-colored eyes, which looked as if they had asked for something they could never find for such a weary while that now they would never ask again,--eyes dark with despair, and yet with a suggestion of something else in them which set you questioning. patiently she swept on. sometimes she had to spring aside from the rapid passage of cart or carriage, sometimes she made clean the way of some dainty foot passenger, who rewarded her with a penny; but all the time the hopeless, unchildlike visage never betrayed the slightest gleam of interest. i was dabbling in art a little, just then; and i stood in the window of a picture store and watched her, thinking that her strange, impassive face ought to fit, somewhere, in the illustrations i was making for a book of ballads, but not knowing quite how to use it. all at once, as i watched, i saw a singular change pass over her. she held her broom motionless, her lips parted, a light as if at midnight the sun should rise, lighted the darkness of her eyes, her whole expression kindled with something,--interest, surprise, expectation,--i hardly knew what, but something that transformed it as by a spell. i stepped to the door then, and followed her eyes up the street. it takes ten times as long to tell this as it was in happening. it all came in an instant,--the change in her face, my going out to look for its cause, and the sight which, following her eyes, i saw,--a carriage coming swiftly down street, an elegant open barouche, in which sat a lady dressed in furs and velvet, and a wonderfully beautiful, golden-haired child. it was at the child that my little crossing-sweeper was looking, with a gaze which seemed to me to say,-- "so this, then, is childhood? _this_ is what we ought to be when we are young; and how beautiful it is!" she looked so intently that she forgot she was standing in the way, until the coachman shouted out to her, while he tried with all his strength to pull up his horses. she had looked one moment too long. somehow the pole knocked her down, and the horses stepped over or on her, which i could not see; but in another moment they were drawn up a rod farther on, the lady was getting out of her carriage, and i myself was in the heart of the crowd which gathered at once, as usual. "her arm is broken," one cried. "she has fainted," said another. "where is her home; can any one tell?" asked the lady in the furs and the velvet, standing now beside her. a ragged little newsboy stepped from the ranks and pulled at some ghost of a cap. "please, ma'am, i know," he said. "it's down here in moonstone court, with old sally." "hey for sally, in our alley," sang another little limb of evil, vexed that he had not been the one who knew the local habitation aforesaid. newsboy no. was elevated to the coachman's box, and was desired to show the way. the lady got into the carriage herself, and received the injured and swooning girl, whom there were strong arms enough to lift,--the golden-haired child looked on with the compassion of an angel in her angelic face,--newsboy no. hung on behind dexterously, making sure that his offence would pass unnoticed in the general _mêlée_, and the carriage rolled away toward moonstone court. presently the golden-haired child spoke. "what if they haven't any good place for her there, mamma?" mrs. brierly, for that was the lady's name, bent forward and addressed newsboy no. , on the box. "is the old sally you spoke of the girl's mother?" "no, ma'am. she ain't no relation to her. i've heard folks say, ruthy's father and mother died, and old sally took her in to beg for her; to be a sufferin' orphin, you know; and lately ruthy won't beg any more, and they say the old un do beat her awful." "o mamma!" it was all the pitiful, childish lips said; but the blue eyes full of tears finished the prayer. "don't be afraid, gracie," the lady answered, smiling; "she shall not go there." then she turned to newsboy no. . "here is some money for you. you can tell old sally that the girl got hurt, and has been taken to the hospital. you had better go and let her know at once." so newsboy no. got down from his unwonted elevation, pulled again at the phantom of a cap, and, looking curiously at the fresh, crisp currency in his hand, walked away. newsboy no. , correctly divining that nothing was to be gained by remaining, while, by following his comrade he might perhaps come in for a treat, let go his hold on the carriage, and went after the other. "now, james," mrs. brierly said to the coachman, "you may drive to the children's hospital, on rutland street." "we shall go right by home, shan't we, mamma?" "yes, dear." "i suppose we couldn't be a hospital, could we?" "not very conveniently, i think. it is better to help keep up a hospital outside than to turn our own house into one." "yes'm," gracie said, thoughtfully, "only this once, when we did the hurting, i didn't know but it would be nice if we did the curing." just then, before mrs. brierly answered, the swooning girl revived, and opened for an instant her curious, olive-colored eyes. there was something in their look, perhaps, which went farther than gracie's argument. at any rate, the lady said,-- "after all, james, you may as well leave us at home, and go at once for dr. cheever." in five minutes more the carriage had stopped before a substantial, prosperous-looking house, the coachman had carried the poor, suffering little waif upstairs in his arms, and mrs. brierly had summoned mrs. morris, the good, motherly woman who had been gracie's nurse, to her councils. when dr. cheever came, he found his patient in clean, pure clothes, in a fresh, lovely room, waiting for him with a piteous, silent patience which it was pathetic to see. she suffered cruelly from her hurt, a compound fracture of the wrist, but she was not used to making moans or receiving sympathy; and it would have seemed to her a sort of sacrilege to cry out with human pain in this paradise to which she had been brought. one could only guess at her suffering by her compressed lips, with the white pallor round them, and the dark rings about her eyes. dr. cheever listened to the account of the accident, while he dressed the poor hurt wrist with a gentleness which soothed the pain his touch caused. when he had done all he could, he followed mrs. brierly from the room. "this will be an affair of several weeks," he said. "would it not have been better to take the girl to one of the hospitals?" "i thought so, at first; but, as gracie said, we did the hurting, and it seemed right we should do the healing. besides, the child's face interested me strangely, and i think it will not be a bad thing for us to have a little experience of this sort." meantime ruthy lay and looked about her, as we have all fancied ourselves looking when, the death sleep over, we shall open our eyes to a new morning in some one of the father's "many mansions." to a denizen of moonstone court this peaceful spot in which ruthy found herself might well seem no unworthy heaven. the walls were tinted a soft, delicate gray, with blue borderings. on the drab carpet blue forget-me-nots blossomed. blue ribbons tied back the white muslin curtains, and all the little china articles for use or ornament were blue and gilt. only one picture was in the room, and that hung over the mantel, directly opposite the pure white bed where ruthy lay. it was a landscape by gifford,--one of those glorified pictures of his which paint nature as only a poet sees her. soft meadows sloped away into dreamy distance on one side, and, on the other, into the green enchantment of a wood a winding path beguiled you. in the centre, with her raised foot upon a stile by which she was about to cross into the peaceful meadows, a young girl stood with morning in her eyes. just as she raised her foot she had paused and turned her head to look over her shoulder, as if she heard a voice calling her, and was hesitating whether to go on her appointed way or back into the green wood's enchantment. there was a wonderful suggestion for a story in the girl's face, her attitude, her questioning eyes. but if ruthy felt this at all, it was very vaguely and unconsciously; yet the picture revealed to her a new world. somewhere, then, meadows bloomed like these meadows, and woods were green, and light flickered through tender leaves, and over all the great, glorious blue sky arched and smiled. somewhere! that must be country,--outside of the pavements and the tall, frowning houses. oh, if she _could_ go! oh, but she _would_ go! let her wrist but get well, and then! she had never had these dreams before. the vision of the country, the true country, had never dawned on her till now. and yet she must have seen pictures of it in the windows of print shops; but her eyes had not been anointed, or gifford had not painted the pictures. all through the quiet weeks in which her sore hurt was healing, she watched that painted landscape, and her longing to find it grew and grew. but she never said a word about it. indeed, she seldom spoke at all except to answer some question. mrs. brierly became strangely interested in her in spite of this silence, which piqued and disappointed gracie. the child could not understand what the mother guessed at,--the sense of isolation which tormented ruthy. she was among them, but not of them, the girl felt. she had been injured by an accident for which these people in some wise held themselves responsible, and so they were good to her, and gave her this glimpse of heaven. but they were of the chosen people, and she a gentile, an outcast at their gates. if she could but go away from every thing she had ever known, and follow that winding path into the still wood, she should be happy. who knew what she might not find there,--love, may be, and friends, and home,--perhaps, even, the father and mother who, as old sally said, were dead? who knew? one day mrs. brierly came in to sit with her. ruthy could sit up now, and she was in a low rocking-chair, still facing the picture. the lady saw the direction of her eyes, and said, gently,-- "i think you must like pictures very much, ruthy?" the olive-colored eyes gleamed, and a flickering flush came and went in the thin cheeks, but the girl answered shyly and guardedly, as her wont was. "i don't know, ma'am; i have never seen any. i like this one. it is the country; isn't it?" mrs. brierly smiled. "yes; it is the country as gifford, the man who made the picture, saw it. country means ploughed fields and potatoes to some people, and paradise to others. i think _you_ could find gifford's country, ruthy." the girl's heart gave a great, sudden bound. that was just what she meant to do; but she was silent. soon mrs. brierly asked,-- "do you remember your father and mother, ruthy? i think they must have been very different people from old sally." "yes, ma'am, i remember my mother. father died so long ago i have forgotten all about him, and mother and i grew poorer and poorer, until one day i woke up, as it seemed, from a long dream, with my hair all gone, and very weak; and the neighbors said mother and i had both had a fever, and she was dead. then sally took me and sent me out to beg, until i wouldn't beg any more; and since then i've sold matches and swept crossings, and done any thing else i could. my wrist is getting so i can use it now, and i must go to work again. i am very thankful to you, ma'am. i would have my wrist broke twenty times to come once into this house and lie in this white bed, and see that picture. but to-morrow i shall be well enough to put on my own clothes again and go to work, and i will, please, ma'am." "these are your own clothes that you have on, ruthy, your very own. and here are more changes for you in this drawer, and here in the closet are your shawl and hat. you must not go away yet, till you are much stronger; but when you do go, all these things are your own." "my very own!" it was a sort of glad cry which came from the girl's quivering lips. her eyes filled, and the flickering color came into her cheeks. mrs. brierly got up and went away. she had never heard ruthy speak so many words before, and she began to feel that she should get to the girl's heart in time, but she would not let her excite herself any more, now. and ruthy sat and looked at the picture, and thought. the next morning rose bright and clear,--a summer morning, which had slipped away from its kindred and stolen on in advance to brighten the last week in april. nurse morris went first into ruthy's room, and found the little white bed empty, and the room empty also. she called the maid who had been sweeping down the steps and washing the sidewalk, and asked if she had seen any one go out. no one, the girl said, but she had left the door unfastened while she just chatted a bit with katy, next door, and some one might have gone, and she not know it. mrs. morris went next to mrs. brierly with her tale, and mrs. briefly came in dressing-gown and slippers to look at the empty room. the hat and shawl she had put in the closet for ruthy were gone, but the changes of clothes in the drawer were untouched; and upon them lay a piece of paper on which the girl had printed laboriously, in great capital letters,-- "i am going to find the country. i did not tell, for fear i would not be let to go. god bless you, ma'am, i'm very thankful." it seemed useless to try to follow her on her unknown road. no one could guess in what direction she had gone. tender-hearted little gracie cried over her departure; mrs. brierly felt very anxious and uneasy, but they could only wait. and it was three days before any news came. it was brought, at last, by an odd messenger. a market-man stopped with his wagon before the house, and, ringing the bell, asked to see the mistress, and was shown upstairs. "did a young girl, sort of delicate lookin', leave you lately, ma'am?" "yes, on tuesday morning. can you tell me any thing of her?" "well, you see, i get up nigh about in the middle of the night to get things ready for market, and wednesday morning i found a girl lying in a dead faint on my barn floor. i called my wife, and we brought her to, and wife asked her where she came from. 'mrs. brierly's, no. tremont street,' she answered, straight enough; and then she went off again, and the next time we brought her to there was no more sense to be got out of her. she just kept saying over something about finding the country, and 'it ain't there.' "i had to come off to market, but we carried her into the house, and in the middle of the forenoon wife see the doctor goin' by, and she jest called to him. he said it was brain fever; and she don't get any better; and wife said i'd better stop at , and if there was a mrs. brierly here, why, i could let her know. we live at highville, about fifteen miles from boston; and if you ask for job smith's you'll find my house." so poor little ruthy had walked all those lonesome miles to find the country that gifford saw, and had found, instead, pain and weariness, and who knew what more? that day mrs. brierly drove out there, and took nurse morris with her; ruthy recognized neither of them, and at length mrs. brierly drove sadly away, leaving nurse morris behind to care for the sick child, as busy mrs. job smith, with all her kindliness, was unable to do. and after a while the fever wore itself out, and ruthy, a white wraith of a girl, was carried back into the chamber of peace, where the country gifford saw was hanging on the wall. but the days went by, and the spring came slowly up that way, and the young summer followed, and ruthy was still a pale, white wraith, and grew no rosier and no stronger. "do get well, ruthy," loving little gracie used to say, "and we'll take you to find the country." but ruthy would shake her head with a slow, mournful motion, and answer,-- "no use, miss gracie, it is in the picture, but it ain't anywhere else." and by and by they began to know that ruthy would never go where pleasant paths led through the wood's green enchantment, or peaceful meadows smiled in the summer sunshine. sorrow and privation and weariness had done their work too well, and the little heart, that beat so much too fast now, would stop beating soon. but ruthy was very happy. the unrest that had possessed her before she went to find the country was all over. she had tried her experiment, and found out, as she thought, that the true country was not to be reached by earthly winding ways, and she was content to watch it as gifford painted it, and dream her silent dreams, which no one knew, as she watched. one night when gracie bade her good-night and danced away, she looked after her with the old, wistful wonder in her eyes, and then looked up at mrs. brierly. "how beautiful god can make children, ma'am. i think they'll _all_ be so, in the true country." then reaching forward she took mrs. brierly's hand and touched it for the first time with her humble, grateful lips. "oh, ma'am," she said, "you are so dear and good." the next morning, when they found her lying still, she was whiter than ever. she would never speak again to tell her disappointment or her joy, but a wonderful smile, a smile of triumph, was frozen on her young, wistful mouth, and mrs. brierly, looking at her, stooped to kiss gracie's tears away, and said,-- "do not cry, my darling,--i think, at last, ruthy has found the true country." job golding's christmas. it was very strange, thought old job golding, that he couldn't be master of his own mind. he had lived a great many years, and neither remorse nor memory had ever been in the habit of disturbing him; but now it seemed to him as if the very foundations of his life were breaking up. he was through with his day's work,--he had dined comfortably,--he sat in an easy-chair, in a luxurious room whose crimson hangings shut out the still cold of the december afternoon,--for the th of december it was. he was all ready to enjoy himself. how singular that this state of things should remind him of a coming time when his life work would be all done,--even as his day's work was all done now,--when he would be ready to sit down in the afternoon and look over the balance sheet of his deeds. how curiously the old days came trooping in slow procession before him. his dead wife; he had not loved her much when she was with him, but how vivid was his memory of her now! he could see her moving round the house, noiseless as a shadow, never intruding on him, after he had once or twice answered her gruffly, but going on her own meek, still ways, with her face growing whiter every day. he began to understand, as he looked back, why her strength had failed and she had been ready, when her baby came, to float out on the tide and let it drift her into god's haven. she had had enough to eat and to drink, but he saw now that he had left her heart to starve. he seemed to see her white, still face, as he looked at it the last time before they screwed down the coffin lid, with the dumb reproach frozen on it, the eyes, that would never again plead vainly, closed for ever. he recalled how passionately the three-days-old baby cried in another room, just at that moment, moving all the people gathered at the funeral with a thrill of pity for the poor little motherless morsel. she _was_ a passionate, wilful baby, all through her babyhood, he remembered. she wanted--missed without knowing what the lack was--the love which her mother would have given her, and protested against fate with all the might of her lungs. but, as soon as she grew old enough to understand how useless it was, _she_ had grown quiet, too; just like her mother. he recalled her, all through her girlhood, a shy, still girl, always obedient and submissive, but never drawing very near him. did she have tastes, he wondered--wants, longings? she never told him. but suddenly, when she was eighteen, the old, passionate spirit that had made her cry so when she was a baby must have awakened again, he thought; for she fell in love then, and married in defiance of his wishes. he remembered her standing proudly before him, and asking,-- "father, do you know any thing against harry church?" "yes," he had answered wrathfully; "i know that he is as poor as job was when he sat among the ashes; he can't keep a wife." "any thing else, father?" looking him steadily in the eye. "no, that's enough," he had thundered; "and i'll tell you, besides, that if you marry him you must lie in the bed you will make. my doors will never open to you again, never." he met with a will as strong as his own that time. she _did_ marry harry church, and went away with him from her father's house. she had written home more than once afterwards, but he had sent the letters all back unopened. he wished, to-day, that he knew what had been in them; whether she had been suffering for any thing. he wondered why he had opposed the marriage so much. harry church had been a clerk in his store; faithful, intelligent, industrious, only--poor. in that word lay the head and front of his offending. he, job golding, was rich,--had been rich all his lifetime,--but what special thing had riches done for him? he was an old man now, and all alone. "all alone;" he kept saying that over and over, with a sort of vague self-pity. and all this time a message was on its way to him. he heard a ring at the door, but he went on with his thoughts, and did not trouble himself about it. meantime, two persons had been admitted into the hall below; a man and a little girl, eight years old, perhaps. her companion took off her hood and her warm wrappings, and the child stood there,--a dainty, delicate creature,--her golden curls drooping softly round her face, with its large blue eyes and parted scarlet lips. the housekeeper had come into the hall, and she turned pale as she saw that little face. "miss amy's child," she said to the man, nervously. "it is as much as my place is worth to let her come in here." "you are mrs. osgood, are you not?" said the little girl, looking at her. "hear the blessed lamb! who in this world told you there _was_ a mrs. osgood?" "mamma. you loved mamma, didn't you? she said you were always so kind to her." "loved your ma? well, i _did_ love her. the old house has never been the same since she went out of it." "then you'll let me go up alone and see grandpa? that is what mamma said i was to do." mrs. osgood hesitated a moment, then love and memory triumphed over fear, and she said,-- "yes, you shall. heaven forbid i should hinder you! go right upstairs and open the first door." the man who had come with her sat down in the hall to wait, and the little figure, with its gleaming, golden hair, tripped on alone. she opened the door softly, and went in. she did not speak; perhaps the stern-looking old man sitting there awed her to silence. she just stepped up to him and handed him a letter. he took it, scarcely noticing, so busy was he with his thoughts, at the hand of what strange messenger. he looked at the outside. it was his daughter's writing. ten years ago he had sent her last letter back unopened; but this one,--what influence apart from himself moved him to read it? it was not long, but it commenced with "dear father." he had never been a dear father to her, he thought. she had waited all these silent years, she told him, because she was determined never to write to him again until they were rich enough for him to know that she did not write from any need of his help. they had passed these ten years in the west, and heaven had prospered them. her husband was a rich man, now; and she wanted from her father only his love,--wanted only that death should not come between them, and either of them go to her mother's side without having been reconciled to the other. "let _her_ lips speak to you from the grave," she wrote; "her lips, which you must have loved once, and which never grew old or lost their youth's brightness,--let them plead with you to be reconciled to her child. surely, you will not turn away from the messenger i send,--your own grandchild." the messenger,--he had forgotten about her. he turned and she was standing there, like a spirit, on his hearthstone, with her white face and her gleaming golden hair. he looked at her, and saw her father's broad, full brow and thoughtful eyes, and below them the sweetness of her mother's smile. his grandchild--his! his heart throbbed chokingly. he grew hungry to clasp her,--to feel her soft arms clinging round his neck, her tender lips kissing away the furrows of his hard life from his face. but he feared to startle her. he tried to speak gently,--he, to whom gentleness was so new and strange. "come here, little girl," he said; and she went up to him fearlessly. "can you tell me how old you are, and what your name is?" "i am eight, grandpapa, and my name is amy." another amy! he felt the great sobs rising up from his heart, but he choked them back. "what have they told you about me?" he asked her anxiously. could it be possible, he wondered, that they had not taught her to hate him? "they always told me that you were far away toward where the sun rose; and if i were good they would fetch me to see you some day. and every night i say in my prayers, 'god bless papa and mamma, and god bless grandpapa.'" "why _didn't_ they fetch you; what made them let you come alone?" "mamma said she would surprise you with your big grandchild. they are waiting at the hotel, and john is down-stairs. they want you to come back with me. will you, grandpapa?" mrs. osgood looked on in wonder, as her master came downstairs and put on his overcoat,--came down holding the child's hand in his, her golden hair floating beside him. was that old job golding? he stepped into the carriage in which careful mistress amy had sent her messenger. the horses did not go fast enough. he would have been in a fever of impatience, but the child's hand in his quieted him. through it all he was wondering vaguely what it meant,--whether he were his own old self, or some one else. at last they were there, and the child led him in,--up the long hotel stairs, across hall and corridor,--until, at length, she opened a door and said cheerily,-- "mamma, here's grandpapa." his head swam. he was fain to sit down, and there were his own amy's arms about his neck. why had he never known what he lost, in losing the sweetness of her love, through all these vanished years? he held her fast now, and he heard her voice close to his ear:-- "father, are we reconciled at last?" "i don't know, daughter, until you've told me whether you've forgiven me." "there need be no talk about forgiveness," she said. "you went according to your own light. it is enough that god has brought us together again in peace. i thought that no one could resist my little amy, least of all her grandpapa." he looked up, and the child stood by, silently; the firelight glittering in her golden hair, her face shining strangely sweet. he put out his arms and drew her into them, close--where no child, not even his own, had ever nestled before. oh, how much he had missed in life! he thought. he felt her clinging hold round his neck,--her kisses dropped upon his face like the pitying dew from heaven, and he--_was_ it himself, or another soul in his place? "here, father," amy's voice had a cheerful ring to it, and her happy married life had made of her a fine, contented, matronly-appearing woman, "here are harry and the boys waiting to speak to you." he shook his son-in-law's hand heartily. old feuds, old things, were over now, and all was become new. then he looked at the boys,--six-years-old hal, three-years-old geordie,--brave, merry little fellows, of whom he should be proud some day; only they could never be to him quite like this girl in his arms,--his first-found grandchild. he sat there among them, surrounded by the peace and warmth of their household love, and felt as if a new life had come. he did not go away until long after, by the rules of any well-ordered nursery, those three pairs of bright little eyes should have been closed in sleep; but they must sit up to see the last of grandpapa. when, at length, he went, he told them that they must all come home to him on the morrow,--there must be no more staying at hotels, when his big, lonesome house was waiting for them. "to-morrow is christmas," his daughter said, half doubtfully. "all the better. if christmas was never kept in my house, it ought to be. come round to dinner,--three o'clock sharp,--and bring all the boxes with you. that will give you time to pack up, and mrs. osgood time to get your rooms ready." "boxes and boys,--won't they be too much for you, father?" "when they are i'll tell you,"--with a last touch of the old gruffness. then he went out on the street, and began looking for christmas gifts. it was new business for him, but he went into it earnestly and anxiously. it was so late, and every one seemed so busy, he thought it would never do to trust to the shopmen for sending things home. so he perambulated the streets like a bewildered santa claus,--and went home, at last, laden with books and toys and jewels and bon-bons,--with a doll that could walk, and a parrot that could talk, and no end of sweets and confections. he called mrs. osgood to help him put them away, and when they were all disposed of he said, with a curious attempt at maintaining his old sternness and dignity, which caused the good woman a secret smile,-- "mrs. osgood, i hope you will do yourself and me credit to-morrow. my daughter, mrs. church, is coming home with her husband and children, and i want the best christmas dinner you can get up, to be on the table at a quarter-past three." mrs. osgood had always loved miss amy, in the old days, and had been hoping against hope, all these years, for the reconciliation which had come now. so her heart was in her task, and the dinner was a master-piece,--a real work of genius, as she used to say, when she told the story afterwards. amy, and amy's husband, and the roystering boys, and, best of all, the little girl close at grandpapa's side, with her happy eyes shining, and her golden hair gleaming, and her quiet, womanly little ways,--what a jubilant party they were! and among them all job golding saw, or fancied that he saw, another face, over which, almost thirty years ago, he had seen the grave-sod piled,--a face sad and wistful no longer, but bright with a strange glory. no one else saw _her_, he knew, for the gay laughs were going round, but close at his side she seemed to stand; and he heard, or fancied that he heard, a whisper from her parted lips, which only his ear caught,--the christmas anthem,-- "peace on earth and good will toward men." my comforter. i got up and hung a shawl over the canary's cage to keep him quiet. he had been singing all day, till it seemed to me i could not bear it any longer. that morning the doctor had told me that my mother would never be any better. she was liable, he said, to die at any time. at the longest, it was only a question of days or weeks. and my mother was all i had in the world. my father had been dead a year. in his lifetime we had lived in a pleasant country home. he had been employed in the county bank, and we had lived most comfortably, and even with some pretensions to elegance. i had been sent to school, and learned a little french, a little music, and something of art. i had, too, a great deal of skill in fancy work, and had been used to find in that and my painting my amusements. indeed, we all had what are called elegant tastes,--tastes which suited a much larger income than ours, and we indulged them. this was unwise, perhaps. people said so, at any rate, when my father died suddenly, and left us with no property and no dependence save our home. it was to escape alike their censure and their pity, as much as because i fancied i could find more openings for employment, that i persuaded mother to join me in selling our little place, and remove to new york. she was willing enough to do this. i think that it was a relief to her to go away from all the familiar sights and sounds which kept so constantly before her the memory of the dead husband who had made her life among them so blessed. she fancied, perhaps, that when she was among unfamiliar things the first bitterness of her grief would wear away. but with her, as it proved, change of place was only change of pain. she was not made of the stuff to which forgetfulness is possible. our home and furniture brought us a little over three thousand dollars, and with this sum we went to new york. in spite of my mourning for my father i had the elasticity of youth, and i did not make this removal, enter into this wide, strange, new life, without my share of the high hopes and brilliant anticipations of youth. we went first to a hotel, and then looked up a boarding-place in a quiet, unpretentious street, suited to our means. we expected to use two or three hundred dollars before we got well established; and then i hoped to earn enough to keep us, with the help of the interest of the three thousand we should still have remaining, without encroaching upon the principal. i might have succeeded, perhaps,--for i was not long in procuring fancy work from two fashionable trimming stores,--if, when we had been there a little while, my mother's health had not begun seriously to decline. i think she made an effort to live on, after all the joy of her life was dead, for my sake; but she failed, and by and by she grew weary and gave up the struggle. of course her illness brought upon us new expenses. i would have for her the best medical advice, however she might protest against it as useless; and there were various little comforts and luxuries that i could not and would not deny myself the pleasure of procuring for her. so we were gradually going behindhand all the time. this had troubled me a little; but now that the doctor had spoken my mother's doom, the matter of dollars and cents faded into utter insignificance. there would be more than enough to take care of her to the last, and after that i could not bring myself to think. i would have shuddered at the thought of self-destruction, but i believe the prayer was in my mind, every moment in the day, that god would let me care for her till the end, and then lie down and die beside her. so i carried back the work i had from richmond's and la pierre's, and spent all my time with her,--my darling. often when i tried to talk with her, the thought how soon she would be past all hearing would rise up and choke me, and i would turn away to hide the sudden rush of tears. it was on wednesday the doctor had told me what i must expect; and up to saturday night i had kept it from her, trying my poor best to wear a cheerful face. that night i sat beside her in the twilight. she was on the lounge, bolstered up with pillows, and i on a low hassock, which brought my face on a level with hers. we had been silent a long time, since the last ray of sunset touched our western windows, and now the dusk had fallen so that we could see each other no longer. at last out of the shadows came her voice, clear and sweet,-- "beyond the sowing and the reaping, beyond the watching and the weeping, beyond the waking and the sleeping, i shall be soon." then she put out her hand and touched my wet face. "do not grieve, my darling," she said,--oh, how tenderly,--"because i am going home. the only pang i feel is for you, and it will not be long before you come." "it may be years," i said, bitterly. "i am young and strong. oh, i wish i wasn't,--if god would only take me too, and not make me stay in this great, empty world without you!" "i think, darling, he will send you a comforter." "oh, i am not so bad that i do not want his spirit. i do believe; i do try to follow the dear lord; but i want a human comforter,--something to see and feel,--tender lips, gentle fingers. the flesh is so weak." "and i meant a human comforter. i believe he will send you one in his own time and way,--when you learn, perhaps, to forget yourself in helping some one still more desolate." "as if that could be. o, mother, when you are gone there won't be in the whole wide world such a lonesome, aching heart as mine." "people always say that, dear; always think there is no sorrow like their sorrow, until god teaches them better, either by making their own burden heavier, or by showing them how to help some one else. god grant it may be this last with you, bessie." "but is there no hope, mother?" i said, with a wild longing for a little of the comfort a doubt would give. "i think none. dr. west told you so wednesday, did he not? and you have been trying to keep it from me,--as if i could not read it in your face, every time you looked at me." all reserve broke down then. i was in her arms, sobbing and crying on her bosom; i that so soon would have no mother's bosom for my refuge any more for ever. the doctor had said her life was a question of days or weeks. she lived four weeks after he told me that, and then one night she talked with me a long, long time. at last she said she was tired, and would go to sleep. then she kissed me, as she always did, and turned her gentle face toward the wall. she awoke again in another world than ours. but by the calm blessedness of the smile on the dead face i knew that her soul had departed in peace. it was a smile that made her young and fair again, as the mother i remembered away back in my childhood. oh, what a desolate funeral that was! i had no friends near enough to give them any claim to be sent for, and i wanted no one. i made all the arrangements myself, and the third day i buried my dead. i remember the minister, after the funeral rites were over, stopped a moment beside the grave to speak a few words of sympathy to me, sole mourner. but i was deaf with sorrow. i made no answer, and presently he turned away. i don't know how long i stood there. after a while my driver came up, touching his hat, respectfully, and asked,-- "would ye plaise to start soon, miss?" and mechanically i went toward the carriage, and he put me in and shut the door. so i went back to the desolate room where she had died. some one had been in during my absence and made it all bright and tidy, but i would rather have found it dark, and gloomy, and comfortless, as when i went away. the days which followed were sad and evil. my soul rose in revolt. i asked why i, of all others, should be so set apart by sorrow,--left so lonely and so desolate. for a whole week i had been thus mutinous. i had seen in my god no father, but an avenger. all the promises of love and joy were sealed from me. i passed through the very valley and shadow of death, and in its darkness the powers of evil did battle for my soul; until at last i slept, one night, and dreamed of mother, for the first time since she died. in the dream she seemed beside me, but not as of old. a spiritual beauty sat upon her face, a blessedness such as mortals never know looked from her eyes, but her voice came, low and sweet, as it used: "i think, darling, the father will send you a comforter." i woke refreshed, as i had not been before by any slumber. the voice of my dream lingered with me, and calmed me, as my mother's words used to. i began to have faith. i remembered _how_ she had thought my comforter was to come. but when and where should i find some one more desolate than myself to help? at any rate, not by sitting still to nurse my woe, an idler in the vineyard. i must go to work. i put on my deep mourning bonnet and went out. if i could get my old work from the trimming stores, i could earn enough now to take care of myself, and keep what money i had left as surety against the proverbial rainy day. i made my way first to richmond's. as i went in i noticed a little lame girl with her crutch sitting beside the door. one sees such objects of charity often enough in new york. i doubt if this one would have attracted me but for her singular beauty. she had the fairest skin i ever saw, with large, dark eyes, and hair of a pure auburn tint. it was a face full of contrasts, and yet of the most exquisite loveliness. i noticed she attracted others as well as myself, for while i stood a few moments looking at her, no one went into the store who did not drop a few pennies in the little outstretched hand. i followed the universal example as i went in, and at my gift, as at every other, a deep blush crimsoned the sensitive little face. i made my arrangements to resume my old employments, and then went out, and down the street to la pierre's. when i came back, half an hour later, the child was still sitting there; and i looked at her again, wondering anew at her delicate beauty. then a thrill of compassion warmed my heart for the poor little waif. it was a cold day in the autumn, and she was very thinly clad; sitting, poor little morsel, upon the cold stone, too lame, it seemed, to move about and warm herself, even if she wished; evidently, too, ashamed and miserable over her occupation. i went up to her and spoke to her. "what is your name?" "jennie green." "whose little girl are you?" "nobody's, ma'am." oh, perhaps i should not have understood the wail of sadness in those words if i, too, had not been nobody's girl. "have you no friends?" i asked, putting my question in a new form. "no, ma'am. mother died last spring, and i've had no friends since." "but you live somewhere?" "oh, yes; there was a woman in the next room to mother, and she took me when mother died, and every day she sends me out like this, and she takes the money i get to pay for my keeping." "do you like to live with her?" i pursued, getting strangely interested. a quick shudder of repugnance answered me before her words,-- "oh, no, no!" a sudden impulse moved me. i beckoned to a policeman who stood near by watching us. "do you know any thing of this child?" i inquired. "not much. she seems a quiet, well-disposed young one. a woman brings her here, a pretty rough customer, and leaves her here, and comes back after her toward night. i've seen her use her pretty hard, sometimes." "that woman is no relation to her," i said, "only a person in the house, that kept her when her mother died,--to make money out of her, i suppose. would it be against any law if i took her home with me, without letting any one know where she was gone, and took care of her? could that woman claim her again?" the policeman whistled, by which token proving himself yankee born, and considered a moment. then he answered, deliberately,-- "no, it ain't agin no law, as i knows of. i don't think the woman would dare to take her from you, and 'tain't likely any one would disturb you. all i'm thinking on is,--you're young, miss,--would your folks like it, and wouldn't you get tired on her?" "i have no folks," i said, with the old sadness rising up and choking me. "will you kindly call a carriage, and put her in?" i had given my direction without at all consulting the child. when he was gone for the hack i went up to her and asked her if she would go home with me, and have it for her home. "do you mean me to leave mrs. mcguire?" she cried, with wide eyes. "yes, if you want to." "and not--not come out for money any more?" "not, please god, while i have strength to work for us both." "oh, i do want to go, i do!" she cried, wild with eagerness. and then she drew her little crutch toward her, and painfully raised herself and stood there waiting. "oh, can't we go now?" she asked, in an eager whisper. "it's almost time for mrs. mcguire." just then the carriage came up to the sidewalk, and i carried my poor little foundling home. * * * * * yesterday was the anniversary of my dear mother's death, and i lived over again the old sorrow, tasted its bitterness anew. i laid my head on the pillow where she died, and sobbed out the passion of desolation which swept over me. and as i lay there crying i heard gentle footsteps, and then felt soft lips on my cheek, and heard a voice,-- "oh, can't i comfort you, miss bessie? can't i do any thing for you, now you've made my life all new and bright?" and i opened my arms, and took into them my little dark-eyed, bright-haired girl, and realized that god indeed had sent me my comforter,--a comforter found, as my mother had predicted, when i forgot myself in trying to comfort one yet more desolate. i should never have dared to act upon the impulse which led me to bring the child home, had i been less utterly alone in the world. but i have never regretted it. i found that her parents had brought her up in the fear of god, and all the rude and rough associations, which had worked their worst on her after her mother's death, had never soiled her innate purity. my care and tenderness have made of her all i hoped. dr. west's skill has almost cured her lameness, and she walks without a crutch now, and with only the slightest suggestion of a limp. she helps me at my tasks, and for her sake i have recalled my old pencil craft, and here i foresee that the pupil is soon to surpass her teacher; and some day i fancy you may see on the walls of the academy a picture by a girl artist with brown eyes and auburn hair,--the child who was my comforter. cambridge: press of john wilson and son. _messrs. roberts brothers' publications._ bed-time stories. by louise chandler moulton. with illustrations by addie ledyard. square mo. price $ . . "mrs. moulton's 'bed-time stories' are tender and loving, as the last thoughts of the day should be. they are told simply and sweetly. all of them teach unselfishness, faithfulness, and courage. 'what jess cotrell did,' and 'paying off jane,' are perhaps the best; although 'mr. turk, and what became of him,' is such a sympathetic revelation of a bit of child life, that we are half inclined to give it the first place. the stories are not for very young children, but for those old enough to think for themselves; and the influence they exert will be pure, gentle, and decidedly religious. the dedication is very graceful."--_boston daily advertiser._ "it is long years since we were a lad; but, as we have read these tales, we have dreamed ourself a boy again, have exulted with some of the young heroes and heroines of mrs. moulton's coinage, and have wept sweet tears with others, just as, we have no doubt, many a boy and girl will do who takes our advice and secures this delightful budget of stories out of their first savings. parents, who appreciate the difficulty of providing suitable reading for young people when they are at the doubtful age which burns describes as being ''twixt a man and a boy,' will find mrs. moulton one of the most graceful and thoughtful purveyors of an elevated literature, especially adapted to the wants and tastes of their bright-eyed and quick-witted sons and daughters."--_christian intelligencer._ "very delicately and prettily are these stories for children told.... children, the kindest and sharpest of critics, will willingly read them too. and not on the other side of the atlantic only, but on this, and in every land where the english language is spoken. real stories these for real children, not namby-pamby, teachy-teachy little tales, but regular stories, full of life, told in the good old-fashioned, diffuse, delightful manner."--_the london bookseller._ _in preparation._ more bed-time stories. _sold by all booksellers. mailed, postpaid, by the publishers_, roberts brothers, boston. what katy did. by susan coolidge. author of "the new year's bargain." with illustrations, by addie ledyard. one vol. square mo. cloth. price $ . . _from the lady's book._ "the new years bargain" was one of our pleasantest juvenile books for the last holidays. now we have by the same author a story of child-life so natural and so charming that the authoress has fairly earned a foremost place among her class. it takes a great deal to write a good story for children. women who think it easy, and sit down with a stock of platitudes and worn-out incidents, always fail miserably. this book tells "what katy did" in a way that will make all its readers long to hear about her again. _from the christian register._ it must have been with a smile of rare complacency that roberts brothers sent forth such a brace of volumes as susan coolidge's "what katy did" and miss alcott's "shawl-straps." not only will the children "cry for them," but the grown-up people will laugh over them until they too shall have tears in their eyes. two books so bright, wise, and every way delightful, are seldom given to the public at once by a single firm. _from the woman's journal._ since "little women" we have not seen a more charming book than this for children. it possesses the crowning merit of all story books,--that of being perfectly natural without becoming tedious. the author has the happy gift of knowing what to leave out; and describes the amusing or sorrowful incidents of child-life in the pleasantest manner, while unobtrusively instilling lessons of courtesy, patience, and kindness. illustrations by addie ledyard add to the attractions of the story. _from the buffalo courier._ none who take it up will want it to leave their hands until they reach the last page. as to the author, she is one of the few lucky mortals who know how to write for the little ones,--and that is saying a great deal. _from hearth and home._ the author of that delightful book, "the new year's bargain," has prepared another rare treat for her young friends. it is a story of child-life; and is so perfect in its delineations, so sweet and tender at times, and again so irresistibly funny, that it starts both tears and laughter. _sold everywhere. mailed, postpaid, by the publishers_, roberts brothers, boston.