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Stories by Mrs. Molesworth 
 
©BY DUFFIELD 8 COMPANY 
 
 "It's a royal salute," said the Cuckoo. 
 
 See Pui/i 88 
 
STORIES BY 
 MRS. MOLESWORTH 
 
 COMPILED BY 
 SIDNEY BALDWIN 
 
 With Pictures by 
 
 EDNA COOKE 
 
 NEW YORK 
 
 DUFFIELD AND COMPANY 
 
 1922 
 
Printed in U. S. A. 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 The Cuckoo Clock 1 
 
 The Six Poor Little Princesses 113 
 
 Too Bad 123 
 
 Carrots 143 
 
 Mary Ann Jolly 257 
 
 Basil's Violin 272 
 
 The Reel Fairies 301 
 
 The Blue Dwarfs 317 
 
 Good Night Winny . 340 
 
ILLUSTRATIONS 
 
 "It's a royal salute," said the Cuckoo frontispiece 
 
 FACING PAGE 
 
 "Bound and round in moving circles, twisted and untwisted, the brilliant 
 
 bands of butterflies." 72 
 
 "What could be lovelier, what more perfect, than the six exquisite dolls, each 
 
 more beautiful than her sister." 120 
 
 "So Floss and Carrots ate their bread and milk in undiminished curiosity." 170 
 
 "Then it must be this way," said Floss 226 
 
 "I've some one else here to kiss you, Wee Janet," he said 268 
 
 "No sooner was she seated than off flew the work box, away, away." . . 304 
 
 "They were sliding down the branches of the tree in all directions." . . 332 
 
THE CUCKOO CLOCK 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 THE OLD HOUSE 
 
 "Somewhat back from the village street 
 Stands the old-fashioned country seat." 
 
 OsTce upon a time in an old town, in an old street, there 
 stood a very old house. Such a house as you could hardly find 
 nowadays, however you searched, for it belonged to a gone-by 
 time — a time now quite passed away. 
 
 It stood in a street, but yet it was not like a town house, for 
 though the front opened right on to the pavement, the back win- 
 dows looked out upon a beautiful, quaintly terraced garden, with 
 old trees growing so thick and close together that in summer it 
 was like living on the edge of a forest to be near them ; and even 
 in winter the web of their interlaced branches hid all clear view 
 behind. 
 
 There was a colony of rooks in this old garden. Year after 
 year they held their parliaments and cawed and chattered and 
 fussed; year after year they built their nests and hatched their 
 eggs; year after year, I suppose, the old ones gradually died off 
 and the young ones took their place, though, but for knowing 
 this must be so, no one would have suspected it, for to all appear- 
 ance the rooks were always the same — ever and always the same. 
 
 Time indeed seemed to stand still in and all about the old 
 house, as if it and the people who inhabited it had got so old that 
 they could not get any older, and had outlived the possibility of 
 change. 
 
 But one day at last there did come a change. Late in the 
 dusk of an autumn afternoon a carriage drove up to the door of 
 
 I 
 
2 STORIES BY MRS. MOLESWORTH 
 
 the old house, came rattling over the stones with a sudden noisy 
 clatter that sounded quite impertinent, startling the rooks just as 
 they were composing themselves to rest, and setting them all 
 wondering what could be the matter. 
 
 A little girl was the matter! A little girl in a gray merino 
 frock and gray beaver bonnet, gray tippet and gray gloves — all 
 gray together, even to her eyes, all except her round rosy face and 
 bright brown hair. Her name even was rather gray, for it was 
 Griselda. 
 
 A gentleman lifted her out of the carriage and disappeared 
 with her into the house, and later that same evening the gentle- 
 man came out of the house and got into the carriage which had 
 come back for him again, and drove away. That was all that the 
 rooks saw of the change that had come to the old house. Shall we 
 go inside to see more? 
 
 Up the shallow, wide, old-fashioned staircase, past the wain- 
 scoted walls, dark and shining like a mirror, down a long narrow 
 passage with many doors, which but for their gleaming brass 
 handles one would not have known were there, the oldest of the 
 three old servants led little Griselda, so tired and sleepy that her 
 supper had been left almost untasted, to the room prepared for 
 her. It was a queer room, for everything in the house was queer; 
 but in the dancing light of the fire burning brightly in the tiled 
 grate, it looked cheerful enough. 
 
 "I am glad there's a fire," said the child. "Will it keep alight 
 till the morning, do you think?" 
 
 The old servant shook her head. 
 
 " 'Twould not be safe to leave it so that it would burn till 
 morning," she said. "When you are in bed and asleep, little 
 missie, you won't want the fire. Bed's the warmest place." 
 
 "It isn't for that I want it," said Griselda; "it's for the light 
 I like it. This house all looks so dark to me, and yet there seem 
 to be lights hidden in the walls too, they shine so." 
 
 The old servant smiled. 
 
THE CUCKOO CLOCK 3 
 
 "It will all seem strange to you, no doubt," she said; "but 
 you'll get to like it, missie. 'Tis a good old house, and those that 
 know best love it well." 
 
 "Whom do you mean?" said Griselda. "Do you mean my 
 great-aunts?" 
 
 "Ah, yes, and others beside," replied the old woman. "The 
 rooks love it well, and others beside. Did you ever hear tell of 
 the 'good people,' missie, over the sea where you come from?" 
 
 "Fairies, do you mean?" cried Griselda, her eyes sparkling. 
 "Of course I've heard of them, but I never saw any? Did you 
 ever?" 
 
 "I couldn't say," answered the old woman. "My mind is 
 not young like yours, missie, and there are times when strange 
 memories come back to me as of sights and sounds in a dream. I 
 am too old to see and hear as I once could. We are all old here, 
 missie. 'Twas time something young came to the old house 
 again." 
 
 "How strange and queer everything seems !" thought Griselda, 
 as she got into bed. "I don't feel as if I belonged to it a bit. 
 And they are so old: perhaps they won't like having a child 
 among them?" 
 
 The very same thought that had occurred to the rooks ! They 
 could not decide as to the fors and againsts at all, so they settled 
 to put it to the vote the next morning, and in the meantime they 
 and Griselda all went to sleep. 
 
 I never heard if they slept well that night ; after such unusual 
 excitement it was hardly to be expected they would. But Gris- 
 elda, being a little girl and not a rook, was so tired that two 
 minutes after she had tucked herself up in bed she was quite sound 
 asleep, and did not wake for several hours. 
 
 "I wonder what it will all look like in the morning," was her 
 last waking thought. "If it was summer now, or spring, I 
 shouldn't mind — there would always be something nice to do 
 then." 
 
4 STORIES BY MRS. MOLESWORTH 
 
 As sometimes happens, when she woke again, very early in 
 the morning, long before it was light, her thoughts went straight 
 on with the same subject. 
 
 "If it was summer now, or spring," she repeated to herself, 
 just as if she had not been asleep at all — like the man who fell 
 into a trance for a hundred years just as he was saying "it is 
 bitt — " and when he woke up again finished the sentence as if 
 nothing had happened — "erly cold." "If only it was spring," 
 thought Griselda. 
 
 Just as she had got so far in her thoughts, she gave a great 
 start. What was it she heard? Could her wish have come true? 
 Was this fairyland indeed that she had got to, where one only 
 needs to wish, for it to be? She rubbed her eyes, but it was too 
 dark to see; that was not very fairyland-like, but her ears she felt 
 certain had not decived her: she was quite, quite sure that she had 
 heard the cuckoo! 
 
 She listened with all her might, but she did not hear it again. 
 Could it, after all, have been fancy? She grew sleepy at last, 
 and was just dropping off when — yes, there it was again, as clear 
 and distinct as possible — "Cuckoo, cuckoo, cuckoo!" three, four, 
 five times, then perfect silence as before. 
 
 "What a funny cuckoo," said Griselda to herself. "I could 
 almost fancy it was in the house. I wonder if my great-aunts 
 have a tame cuckoo in a cage? I don't think I ever heard of such 
 a thing, but this is such a queer house; everything seems different 
 in it — perhaps they have a tame cuckoo. I'll ask them in the 
 morning. It's very nice to hear, whatever it is." 
 
 And, with a pleasant feeling of companionship, a sense that 
 she was not the only living creature awake in this dark world, 
 Griselda lay listening, contentedly enough, for the sweet, fresh 
 notes of the cuckoo's friendly greeting. But before it sounded 
 again through the silent house she was once more fast asleep. 
 And this time she slept till daylight had found its way into all 
 but the very darkest nooks and crannies of the ancient dwelling. 
 
THE CUCKOO CLOCK 5 
 
 She dressed herself carefully, for she had been warned that 
 her aunts loved neatness and precision; she fastened each button 
 of her gray frock, and tied down her hair as smooth as such a 
 brown tangle could be tied down ; and, absorbed with these weighty 
 cares, she forgot all about the cuckoo for the time. It was not 
 till she was sitting at breakfast with her aunts that she remem- 
 bered it, or rather was reminded of it, by some little remark that 
 was made about the friendly robins on the terrace walk outside. 
 
 "Oh, aunt," she exclaimed, stopping short halfway the jour- 
 ney to her mouth of a spoonful of bread and milk, "have you got 
 a cuckoo in a cage?" 
 
 "A cuckoo in a cage," repeated her elder aunt, Miss Grizzel; 
 "what is the child talking about?" 
 
 "In a cage!" echoed Miss Tabitha, "a cuckoo in a cage!" 
 
 "There is a cuckoo somewhere in the house," said Griselda; 
 "I heard it in the night. It couldn't have been out-of-doors, could 
 it? It would be too cold." 
 
 The aunts looked at each other with a little smile. "So like 
 her grandmother," they whispered. Then said Miss Grizzel 
 
 "We have a cuckoo, my dear, though it isn't in a cage, and 
 it isn't exactly the sort of cuckoo you are thinking of. It lives in 
 a clock." 
 
 "In a clock," repeated Miss Tabitha, as if to confirm her 
 sister's statement. 
 
 "In a clock!" exclaimed Griselda, opening her gray eyes very 
 wide. 
 
 It sounded something like the three bears, all speaking one 
 after the other, only Griselda's voice was not like Tiny's; it was 
 the loudest of the three. 
 
 "In a clock!" she exclaimed; "but it can't be alive, then?" 
 
 "Why not?" said Miss Grizzel. 
 
 "I don't know," replied Griselda, looking puzzled. 
 
 "I knew a little girl once," pursued Miss Grizzel, "who was 
 quite of opinion the cuckoo was alive, and nothing would have 
 
6 STORIES BY MRS. MOLESWORTH 
 
 persuaded her it was not. Finish your breakfast, my dear, and 
 then if you like you shall come with me and see the cuckoo for 
 yourself." 
 
 "Thank you, Aunt Grizzel," said Griselda, going on with her 
 bread and milk. 
 
 "Yes," said Miss Tabitha, "you shall see the cuckoo for 
 yourself." 
 
 "Thank you, Aunt Tabitha," said Griselda. It was rather 
 a bother to have always to say "thank you," or "no, thank you," 
 twice, but Griselda thought it was polite to do so, as Aunt Tabitha 
 always repeated everything that Aunt Grizzel said. It wouldn't 
 have mattered so much if Aunt Tabitha had said it at once after 
 Miss Grizzel, but as she generally made a little pause between, 
 it was sometimes rather awkward. But of course it was better to 
 say "thank you" or "no, thank you" twice over than to hurt Aunt 
 Tabitha's feelings. 
 
 After breakfast Aunt Grizzel was as good as her word. She 
 took Griselda through several of the rooms in the house, pointing 
 out all the curiosities, and telling all the histories of the rooms and 
 their contents; and Griselda liked to listen, only in every room 
 they came to, she wondered when they would get to the room 
 where lived the cuckoo. 
 
 Aunt Tabitha did not come with them, for she was rather 
 rheumatic. On the whole, Griselda was not sorry. It would have 
 taken such a very long time, you see, to have had all the histories 
 twice over, and possibly, if Griselda had got tired, she might have 
 forgotten about the "thank you's" or "no, thank you's" twice over. 
 
 The old house looked quite as queer and quaint by daylight 
 as it had seemed the evening before; almost more so indeed, for 
 the view from the windows added to the sweet, odd "old-fash- 
 ionedness" of everything. 
 
 "We have beautiful roses in summer," observed Miss Grizzel, 
 catching sight of the direction in which the child's eyes were wan- 
 dering. 
 
THE CUCKOO CLOCK 7 
 
 "I wish it was summer. I do love summer," said Griselda. 
 "But there is a very rosy scent in the rooms even now, Aunt 
 Grizzel, though it is winter, or nearly winter." 
 
 Miss Grizzel looked pleased. 
 
 "My pot-pourri," she explained. 
 
 They were just then standing in what she called the "great 
 saloon," a handsome old room, furnished with gold-and-white 
 chairs, that must once have been brilliant, and faded yellow dam- 
 ask hangings. A feeling of awe had crept over Griselda as they 
 entered this ancient drawing-room. What grand parties there 
 must have been in it long ago! But as for dancing in it now — 
 dancing, or laughing, or chattering — such a thing was quite im- 
 possible to imagine! 
 
 Miss Grizzel crossed the room to where stood in one corner 
 a marvellous Chinese cabinet, all black and gold and carving. It 
 was made in the shape of a temple, or a palace — Griselda was not 
 sure which. Any way, it was very delicious and wonderful. At 
 the door stood, one on each side, two solemn mandarins; or, to 
 speak more correctly, perhaps I should say, a mandarin and his 
 wife, for the right-hand figure was evidently intended to be a lady. 
 
 Miss Grizzel gently touched their heads. Forthwith, to Gris- 
 elda's astonishment, they began solemnly to nod. 
 
 "Oh, how do you make them do that, Aunt Grizzel?" she 
 exclaimed. 
 
 "Never you mind, my dear; it wouldn't do for you to try to 
 make them nod. They wouldn't like it," replied Miss Grizzel 
 mysteriously. "Respect to your elders, my dear, always remember 
 that. The mandarins are many years older than you — older than 
 I myself, in fact." 
 
 Griselda wondered, if this were so, how it was that Miss 
 Grizzel took such liberties with them herself, but she said nothing. 
 
 "Here is my last summer's pot-pourri," continued Miss 
 Grizzel, touching a great china jar on a little stand, close beside 
 the cabinet. "You may smell it, my dear." 
 
8 STORIES BY MRS. MOLESWORTH 
 
 Nothing loth, Griselda buried her round little nose in the 
 fragrant leaves. 
 
 "It's lovely," she said. "May I smell it whenever I like, 
 Aunt Grizzel?" 
 
 "We shall see," replied her aunt. "It isn't every little girl, 
 you know, that we could trust to come into the great saloon 
 alone." 
 
 "No," said Griselda meekly. 
 
 Miss Grizzel led the way to a door opposite to that by which 
 they had entered. She opened it and passed through, Griselda 
 following, into a small ante-room. 
 
 "It is on the stroke of ten," said Miss Grizzel, consulting her 
 watch; "now, my dear, you shall make acquaintance with our 
 cuckoo." 
 
 The cuckoo "that lived in a clock!" Griselda gazed round 
 her eagerly. Where was the clock? She could see nothing in the 
 least like one, only up on the wall in one corner was what looked 
 like a miniature house, of dark brown carved wood. It was not so 
 very like a house, but it certainly had a roof — a roof with deep 
 projecting eaves ; and, looking closer, yes, it was a clock, after all, 
 only the figures, Avhich had once been gilt, had grown dim with 
 age, like everything else, and the hands at a little distance were 
 hardly to be distinguished from the face. 
 
 Miss Grizzel stood perfectly still, looking up at the clock; 
 Griselda beside her, in breathless expectation. Presently there 
 came a sort of distant rumbling. Something was going to happen. 
 Suddenly two little doors above the clock face, which Griselda had 
 not known were there, sprang open with a burst and out flew a 
 cuckoo, flapped his wings, and uttered his pretty cry, "Cuckoo! 
 cuckoo! cuckoo!" Miss Grizzel counted aloud, "Seven, eight, nine, 
 ten. Yes, he never makes a mistake," she added triumpan%ly. 
 "All these long years I have never known him wrong. There 
 are no such clocks made nowadays, I can assure you, my dear." 
 
 "But is it a clock? Isn't he alive?" exclaimed Griselda. 
 
THE CUCKOO CLOCK 9 
 
 "He looked at me and nodded his head, before he flapped his 
 wings and went into his house again — he did indeed, aunt," she 
 said earnestly; "just like saying, 'How do you do?' to me." 
 
 Again Miss Grizzel smiled, the same odd yet pleased smile 
 that Griselda had seen on her face at breakfast. "Just what 
 Sybilla used to say," she murmured. "Well, my dear," she added 
 aloud, "it is quite right he should say, 'How do you do?' to you. 
 It is the first time he has seen you, though many a year ago he 
 knew your dear grandmother, and your father, too, when he was 
 a little boy. You will find him a good friend, and one that can 
 teach you many lessons." 
 
 "What, Aunt Grizzel?" inquired Griselda, looking puzzled. 
 
 "Punctuality, for one thing, and faithful discharge of duty," 
 replied Miss Grizzel. 
 
 "May I come to see the cuckoo — to watch for him coming out, 
 sometimes?" asked Griselda, who felt as if she could spend all 
 day looking up at the clock, watching for her little friend's 
 appearance. 
 
 "You will see him several times a day," said her aunt, "for 
 it is in this little room I intend you to prepare your tasks. It is 
 nice and quiet, and nothing to disturb you, and close to the room 
 where your Aunt Tabitha and I usually sit." 
 
 So saying, Miss Grizzel opened a second door in the little 
 ante-room, and, to Griselda's surprise, at the foot of a short flight 
 of stairs through another door, half open, she caught sight of her 
 Aunt Tabitha, knitting quietly by the fire, in the room in which 
 they had breakfasted. 
 
 "What a very funny house it is, Aunt Grizzel," she said, as 
 she followed her aunt down the steps. "Every room has so many 
 doors, and you come back to where you were just when you think 
 you are ever so far off. I shall never be able to find my way 
 about." 
 
 "Oh, yes, you will, my dear, very soon," said her aunt en- 
 couragingly. 
 
10 STORIES BY MRS. MOLESWORTH 
 
 "She is very kind," thought Griselda; "but I wish she 
 wouldn't call my lessons tasks. It makes them sound so dread- 
 fully hard. But, anyway, I'm glad I'm to do them in the room 
 where that dear cuckoo lives." 
 
 CHAPTER II 
 
 IMPATIENT GRISELDA 
 
 "... fairies but seldom appear; 
 If we do wrong we must expect 
 That it will cost us dear!" 
 
 It was all very well for a few days. Griselda found plenty 
 to amuse herself with while the novelty lasted, enough to prevent 
 her missing very badly the home she had left "over the sea," and 
 the troop of noisy merry brothers who teased and petted her. Of 
 course she missed them, but not "dreadfully." She was neither 
 homesick nor "dull." 
 
 It was not quite such smooth sailing when lessons began. 
 She did not dislike lessons; in fact, she had always thought she 
 was rather fond of them. But the having to do them alone was 
 not lively, and her teachers were very strict. The worst of all 
 was the writing and arithmetic master, a funny old man who 
 wore knee-breeches and took snuff, and called her aunt "Madame," 
 bowing formally whenever he addressed her. He screwed Gris- 
 elda up into such an unnatural attitude to write her copies, that 
 she really felt as if she would never come straight and loose again; 
 and the arithmetic part of his instructions was even worse. Oh! 
 what sums in addition he gave her! Griselda had never been 
 partial to sums, and her rather easy-going governess at home had 
 
 not, to tell the truth, been partial to them either. And Mr. 
 
 I can't remember the little old gentleman's name. Suppose we 
 call him Mr. Kneebreeches — Mr. Kneebreeches, when he found 
 this out, conscientiously put her back to the very beginning. 
 
THE CUCKOO CLOCK 11 
 
 It was dreadful, really. He came twice a week, and the 
 days he didn't come were as bad as those he did, for he left her 
 a whole row I was going to say, but you couldn't call Mr. Knee- 
 breeches' addition sums "rows," they were far too fat and wide 
 across to be so spoken of! — whole slatefuls of these terrible moun- 
 tains of figures to climb wearily to the top of. And not to climb 
 once up merely. The terrible thing was Mr. Kneebreeches' favour- 
 ite method of what he called "proving." I can't explain it — it 
 is far beyond my poor powers — but it had something to do 
 Avith cutting off the top line, after you had added it all up and 
 had actually done the sum, you understand — cutting off the top 
 line and adding the long rows up again without it, and then join- 
 ing it on again somewhere else. 
 
 "I wouldn't mind so much," said poor Griselda, one day, "if 
 it was any good. But you see, Aunt Grizzel, it isn't. For I'm 
 just as likely to do the proving wrong as the sum itself — more 
 likely, for I'm always so tired when I get to the proving — and 
 so all that's proved is that something's wrong, and I'm sure that 
 isn't any good, except to make me cross." 
 
 "Hush!" said her aunt gravely. "That is not the way for a 
 little girl to speak. Improve these golden hours of youth, Gris- 
 elda; they will never return." 
 
 "I hope not," muttered Griselda, "if it means doing sums." 
 
 Miss Grizzel fortunately was a little deaf; she did not hear 
 this remark. Just then the cuckoo clock struck eleven. 
 
 "Good little cuckoo," said Miss Grizzel. "What an example 
 he sets you. His life is spent in the faithful discharge of duty;" 
 and so saying she left the room. 
 
 The cuckoo was still telling the hour — eleven took a good 
 while. It seemed to Griselda that the bird repeated her aunt's 
 last words. "Faith — ful, dis — charge, of — your, du — ty," he said, 
 "faith— ful." 
 
 "You horrid little creature!" exclaimed Griselda in a passion; 
 "what business have you to mock me?" 
 
12 STORIES BY MRS. MOLESWORTH 
 
 She seized a book, the first that came to hand, and flung 
 it at the bird who was just beginning his eleventh cuckoo. He 
 disappeared with a snap, disappeared without flapping his wings, 
 or, as Griselda always fancied he did, giving her a friendly nod, 
 and in an instant all was silent. 
 
 Griselda felt a little frightened. What had she done? She 
 looked up at the clock. It seemed just the same as usual, the 
 cuckoo's doors closely shut, no sign of any disturbance. Could it 
 have been her fancy only that he had sprung back more hastily 
 than he would have done but for her throwing the book at him? 
 She began to hope so, and tried to go on with her lessons. But 
 it was no use. Though she really gave her best attention to the 
 long addition sums, and found that by so doing she managed 
 them much better than before, she could not feel happy or at 
 ease. Every few minutes she glanced up at the clock, as if ex- 
 pecting the cuckoo to come out, though she knew quite well there 
 was no chance of his doing so till twelve o'clock, as it was only 
 the hours, not the half hours and quarters, that he told. 
 
 "I wish it was twelve o'clock," she said to herself anxiously 
 more than once. 
 
 If only the clock had not been so very high up on the wall, 
 she would have been tempted to climb up and open the little 
 doors, and peep in to satisfy herself as to the cuckoo's condition 
 But there was no possibility of this. The clock was far, very far 
 above her reach, and there was no high piece of furniture standing 
 near, upon which she could have climbed to get it. There was 
 nothing to be done but to wait for twelve o'clock. 
 
 And, after all, she did not wait for twelve o'clock, for just 
 about half-past eleven, Miss Grizzel's voice was heard calling to 
 her to put on her hat and cloak quickly, and come out to walk up 
 and down the terrace with her. 
 
 "It is fine just now," said Miss Grizzel, "but there is a pros- 
 pect of rain before long. You must leave your lessom for the 
 present, and finish them in the afternoon." 
 
THE CUCKOO CLOCK 13 
 
 "I have finished them," said Griselda, meekly. 
 
 "All?" inquired her aunt. 
 
 "Yes, all," replied Griselda. 
 
 "Ah, well, then, this afternoon, if the rain holds off, we shall 
 drive to Merrybrow Hall, and inquire for the health of your dear 
 godmother, Lady Lavander," said Miss Grizzel. 
 
 Poor Griselda! There were few things she disliked more 
 than a drive with her aunts. They went in the old yellow chariot, 
 with all the windows up, and of course Griselda had to sit with 
 her back to the horses, which made her very uncomfortable when 
 she had no air, and had to sit still for so long. 
 
 Merrybrow Hall was a large house, quite as old and much 
 grander, but not nearly so wonderful as the home of Griselda's 
 aunts. It was six miles off, and it took a very long time indeed 
 to drive there in the rumbling old chariot, for the old horses were 
 fat and wheezy, and the old coachman fat and wheezy too. Lady 
 Lavander was, of course, old too — very old indeed, and rather 
 grumpy and very deaf. Miss Grizzel and Miss Tabitha had the 
 greatest respect for her; she always called them "My dear," as if 
 they were quite girls, and they listened to all she said as if her 
 words were of gold. For some mysterious reason she had been 
 invited to be Griselda's godmother; but, as she had never shown 
 her any proof of affection beyond giving her a prayer-book, and 
 hoping, whenever she saw her, that she was "a good little miss," 
 Griselda did not feel any particular cause for gratitude to her. 
 
 The drive seemed longer and duller than ever this afternoon, 
 but Griselda bore it meekly; and when Lady Lavander, as usual, 
 expressed her hopes about her, the little girl looked down mod- 
 estly, feeling her cheeks grow scarlet. "I am not a good little 
 girl at all," she felt inclined to call out. "I'm very bad and cruel. 
 I believe I've killed the dear little cuckoo." 
 
 What would the three old ladies have thought if she had 
 called it out? As it was, Lady Lavander patted her approvingly, 
 said she loved to see young people modest and humble-minded, 
 
14 STORIES BY MRS. MOLESWORTH 
 
 and gave her a slice of very highly-spiced, rather musty ginger- 
 bread, which Griselda couldn't bear. 
 
 All the way home Griselda felt in a fevex- of impatience to 
 rush up to the ante-room and see if the cuckoo was all right again. 
 It was late and dark when the chariot at last stopped at the door 
 of the old house. Miss Grizzel got out slowly, and still more 
 slowly Miss Tabitha followed her. Griselda was obliged to re- 
 strain herself and move demurely. 
 
 "It is past your supper-time, my dear," said Miss Grizzel. 
 "Go up at once to your room, and Dorcas shall bring some supper 
 to you. Late hours are bad for young people." 
 
 Griselda obediently wished her aunts good-night, and went 
 quietly upstairs. But once out of sight, at the first landing, she 
 changed her pace. She turned to the left instead of to the right, 
 which led to her own room, and flew rather than ran along the 
 dimly-lighted passage, at the end of which a door led into the 
 great saloon. She opened the door. All was quite dark. It was 
 impossible to fly or run across the great saloon ! Even in daylight 
 this would have been a difficult matter. Griselda felt her way 
 as best she could, past the Chinese cabinet and the pot-pourri jar, 
 till she got to the ante-room door. It was open, and now, know- 
 ing her way better, she hurried in. But what was the use? All 
 was silent, save the tick-tick of the euckoo clock in the corner. 
 Oh, if only the cuckoo would come out and call the hour as usual, 
 what a weight would be lifted off Griselda's heart! 
 
 She had no idea what o'clock it was. It might be close to 
 the hour, or it might be just past it. She stood listening for a few 
 minutes, then hearing Miss Grizzel's voice in the distance, she felt 
 that she dared not stay any longer, and turned to feel her way out 
 of the room again. Just as she got to the door it seemed to her 
 that something softly brushed her cheek, and a very, very faint 
 "cuckoo" sounded as it were in the air close to her. 
 
 Startled, but not frightened, Griselda stood perfectly still. 
 
 "Cuckoo," she said, softly. But there was no answer. 
 
THE CUCKOO CLOCK 15 
 
 Again the tones of Miss Grizzel's voice coming upstairs 
 reached her ear. 
 
 "I must go," said Griselda; and finding her way across the 
 saloon without, by great good luck, tumbling against any of the 
 many breakable treasures with which it was filled, she flew down 
 the long passage again, reaching her own room just before Dorcas 
 appeared with her supper. 
 
 Griselda slept badly that night. She was constantly dream- 
 ing of the cuckoo, fancying she heard his voice, and then waking 
 with a start to find it was only fancy. She looked pale and heavy- 
 eyed when she came down to breakfast the next morning; and her 
 Aunt Tabitha, who was alone in the room when she entered, 
 began immediately asking her what was the matter. 
 
 "I am sure you are going to be ill, child," she said nervously. 
 "Sister Grizzel must give you some medicine. I wonder what 
 would be the best. Tansy tea is an excellent thing when one has 
 taken cold, or " 
 
 But the rest of Miss Tabitha's sentence was never heard, for 
 at this moment Miss Grizzel came hurriedly into the room — her 
 cap awry, her shawl disarranged, her face very pale. I hardly 
 think any one had ever seen her so discomposed before. 
 
 "Sister Tabitha!" she exclaimed, "what can be going to hap- 
 pen? The cuckoo clock has stopped." 
 
 "The cuckoo clock has stopped!" repeated Miss Tabitha, 
 .holding up her hands; "impossible!" 
 
 "But it has, or rather I should say — dear me, I am so upset 
 I cannot explain myself — the cuckoo has stopped. The clock is 
 going on, but the cuckoo has not told the hours, and Dorcas is of 
 opinion that he left off doing so yesterday. What can be going 
 to happen? What shall we do?" 
 
 "What can we do?" said Miss Tabitha. "Should we send for 
 the watch-maker?" 
 
 Miss Grizzel shook her head. 
 
 " 'Twould be worse than useless. Were we to search the world 
 
16 STORIES BY MRS. MOLESWORTH 
 
 over, we could find no one to put it right. Fifty years and more, 
 Tabitha, fifty years and more, it has never missed an hour! We 
 are getting old, Tabitha, our day is nearly over; perhaps 'tis to 
 remind us of this." 
 
 Miss Tabitha did not reply. She was weeping silently. The 
 old ladies seemed to have forgotten the presence of their niece, 
 but Griselda could not bear to see their distiess. She finished her 
 breakfast as quickly as she could, and left the room. 
 
 On her way upstairs she met Dorcas. 
 
 "Have you heard what has happened, little missie?" said the 
 old servant. 
 
 "Yes," replied Griselda. 
 
 "My ladies are in great trouble," continued Dorcas, who 
 seemed inclined to be more communicative than usual, "and no 
 wonder. For fifty years that clock has never gone wrong." 
 
 "Can't it be put right?" asked the child. 
 
 Dorcas shook her head. 
 
 "No good would come of interfering," she said. "What 
 must be, must be. The luck of the house hangs on that clock. 
 Its maker spent a good part of his life over it, and his last words 
 were that it would bring good luck to the house that owned it, 
 but that trouble would follow its silence. It's my belief," she 
 added solemnly, "that it's a fairy clock, neither more nor less, for 
 good luck it has brought there's no denying. There are no cows 
 like ours, missie — their milk is a proverb hereabouts; there are no 
 hens like ours for laying all the year round; there are no roses 
 like ours. And there's always a friendly feeling in this house, 
 and always has been. 'Tis not a house for wrangling and jan- 
 gling, and sharp words. The 'good people' can't stand that. 
 Nothing drives them away like ill-tefmper*or anger." 
 
 Griselda's conscience gave her a sharp prick. Could it be her 
 doing that trouble was coming upon the old house? What a pun- 
 ishment for a moment's fit of ill-temper. 
 
THE CUCKOO CLOCK 17 
 
 "I wish you wouldn't talk that way, Dorcas," she said; "it 
 makes me so unhappy." 
 
 "What a feeling heart the child has !" said the old servant as 
 she went on her way downstairs. "It's true — she is very like Miss 
 Sybilla." 
 
 That day was a very weary and sad one for Griselda. She 
 was oppressed by a feeling she did not understand. She knew she 
 had done wrong, but she had sorely repented it, and "I do think 
 the cuckoo might have come back again," she said to herself, "if he 
 is a fairy; and if he isn't, it can't be true what Dorcas says." 
 
 Her aunts made no allusion to the subject in her presence, 
 and almost seemed to have forgotten that she had known of their 
 distress. They were more grave and silent than usual, but other- 
 wise things went on in their ordinary way. Griselda spent the 
 morning "at her tasks," in the ante-room, but was thankful to 
 get away from the tick-tick of the clock in the corner and out into 
 the garden. 
 
 But there, alas! it was just as bad. The rooks seemed to 
 know that something was the matter; they set to work making 
 such a chatter immediately Griselda appeared that she felt in- 
 clined to run back into the house again. 
 
 "I am sure they are talking about me," she said to herself. 
 "Perhaps they are fairies too. I am beginning to think I don't 
 like fairies." 
 
 She was glad when bed-time came. It was a sort of reproach 
 to her to see her aunts so pale and troubled; and though she tried 
 to persuade herself that she thought them very silly, she could 
 not throw off the uncomfortable feeling. 
 
 She was so tired when she went to bed — tired in the disagree- 
 able way that comes from a listless, uneasy day — that she fell 
 asleep at once and slept heavily. When she woke, which she did 
 suddenly, and with a start, it was still perfectly dark, like the 
 first morning that she had wakened in the old house. It seemed 
 to her that she had not wakened of herself — something had 
 
18 STORIES BY MRS. MOLESWORTH 
 
 roused her. Yes! there it was again, a very, very soft distant 
 "cuckoo." Was it distant? She could not tell. Almost she could 
 have fancied it was close to her. 
 
 "If it's that cuckoo come back again, I'll catch him!" ex- 
 claimed Griselda. 
 
 She darted out of bed, felt her way to the door, which was 
 closed, and opening it let in a rush of moonlight from the un- 
 shuttered passage window. In another moment her little bare 
 feet were pattering along the passage at full speed, in the direc- 
 tion of the great saloon. 
 
 For Griselda's childhood among the troop of noisy brothers 
 had taught her one lesson — she was afraid of nothing. Or rather 
 perhaps I should say she had never learnt that there was anything 
 to be afraid of! And is there? 
 
 CHAPTER III 
 
 OBEYING ORDERS 
 
 "Little girl, thou must thy part fulfil, 
 If we're to take kindly to ours: 
 Then pull up the weeds with a will, 
 And fairies will cherish the flowers." 
 
 There was moonlight, though not so much, in the saloon and 
 the ante-room, too; for though the windows, like those in Gris- 
 elda's bedroom, had the shutters closed, there was a round part 
 at the top, high up, which the shutters did not reach to, and in 
 crept, through these clear uncovered panes, quite as many moon- 
 beams, you may be sure, as could find their way. 
 
 Griselda, eager though she was, could not help standing still 
 a moment to admire the effect. 
 
 "It looks prettier with the light coming in at those holes at 
 the top than even if the shutters were open," she said to herself. 
 "How goldy-silvery the cabinet looks; and, yes, I do declare, the 
 
THE CUCKOO CLOCK 19 
 
 mandarins are nodding! I wonder if it is out of politeness to me, 
 or does Aunt Grizzel come in last thing at night and touch them 
 to make them keep nodding till morning? I suppose they're a 
 sort of policemen to the palace ; and I dare say there are all sorts 
 of beautiful things inside. How I should like to see all through 
 it!" 
 
 But at this moment the faint tick-tick of the cuckoo clock in 
 the next room, reaching her ear, reminded her of the object of this 
 midnight expedition of hers. She hurried into the ante-room. 
 
 It looked darker than the great saloon, for it had but one 
 window. But through the uncovered space at the top of this 
 window there penetrated some brilliant moonbeams, one of which 
 lighted up brightly the face of the clock with its queer overhang- 
 ing eaves. 
 
 Griselda approached it and stood below, looking up. 
 
 "Cuckoo," she said softly — very softly. 
 
 But there was no reply. 
 
 "Cuckoo," she repeated rather more loudly. "Why won't 
 you speak to me? I know you are there, and you're not asleep, 
 for I heard your voice in my own room. Why won't you come 
 out, cuckoo?" 
 
 "Tick-tick" said the clock, but there was no other reply. 
 
 Griselda felt ready to cry. 
 
 "Cuckoo," she said reproachfully, "I didn't think you were 
 so hard-hearted. I have been so unhappy about you, and I was 
 so pleased to hear your voice again, for I thought I had killed 
 you, or hurt you very badly; and I didn't mean to hurt you, 
 cuckoo. I was sorry the moment I had done it, dreadfully sorry. 
 Dear cuckoo, won't you forgive me?" 
 
 There was a little sound at last — a faint coming sound, and 
 by the moonlight Griselda saw the doors open, and out flew the 
 cuckoo. He stood still for a moment, looked round him as it were, 
 then gently flapped his wings, and uttered his usual note — 
 "Cuckoo." 
 
20 STORIES BY MRS. MOLESWORTH 
 
 Griselda stood in breathless expectation, but in her delight 
 she could not help very softly clapping her hands. 
 
 The cuckoo cleared his throat. You never heard such a funny 
 little noise as he made ; and then, in a very clear, distinct, but yet 
 "cuckoo-y" voice, he spoke. 
 
 "Griselda," he said, "are you truly sorry?" 
 
 "I told you I was," she replied. "But I didn't feel so very 
 naughty, cuckoo. I didn't, really. I was only vexed for one 
 moment, and when I threw the book I seemed to be a very little 
 in fun, too. And it made me so unhappy when you went away, 
 and my poor aunts have been dreadfully unhappy too. If you 
 hadn't come back I should have told them to-morrow what I had 
 done. I would have told them before, but I was afraid it would 
 have made them more unhappy. I thought I had hurt you dread- 
 fully." 
 
 "So you did," said the cuckoo. 
 
 "But you look quite well," said Griselda. 
 
 "It was my feelings," replied the cuckoo; "and I couldn't 
 help going away. I have to obey orders like other people." 
 
 Griselda stared. "How do you mean?" she asked. 
 
 "Never mind. You can't understand at present," said the 
 cuckoo. "You can understand about obeying your orders, and 
 you see, when you don't things go wrong." 
 
 "Yes," said Griselda humbly, "they certainly do. But, 
 cuckoo," she continued, "I never used to get into tempers at home 
 — hardly never, at least; and I liked my lessons then, and I never 
 was scolded about them." 
 
 "What's wrong here, then?" said the cuckoo. "It isn't often 
 that things go wrong in this house." 
 
 "That's what Dorcas says," said Griselda. "It must be with 
 my being a child — my aunts and the house and everything have 
 got out of children's ways." 
 
 "About time they did," remarked the cuckoo drily. 
 
 "And so," continued Griselda, "it is really very dull. I have 
 
THE CUCKOO CLOCK 21 
 
 lots of lessons, but it isn't so much that I mind. It is that I've 
 no one to play with." 
 
 "There's something in that," said the cuckoo. He flapped his 
 wings and was silent for a minute or two. "I'll consider about it," 
 he observed at last. 
 
 "Thank you," said Griselda, not exactly knowing what else 
 to say. 
 
 "And in the meantime," continued the cuckoo, "you'd better 
 obey present orders and go back to bed." 
 
 "Shall I say good-night to you, then?" asked Griselda some- 
 what timidly. 
 
 "You're quite welcome to do so," replied the cuckoo. "Why 
 shouldn't j^ou?" 
 
 "You see I wasn't sure if you would like it," returned Gris- 
 elda, "for of course you're not like a person, and — and — I've been 
 told all sorts of queer things about what fairies like and 
 don't like." 
 
 "Who said I was a fairy?" inquired the cuckoo. 
 
 "Dorcas did, and, of course, my own common sense did too," 
 replied Griselda. "You must be a fairy — you couldn't be any- 
 thing else." 
 
 "I might be a fairyfied cockoo," suggested the bird. 
 
 Griselda looked puzzled. 
 
 "I don't understand," she said, "and I don't think it could 
 make much difference. But whatever you are, I wish you would 
 tell me one thing." 
 
 "What?" said the cuckoo. 
 
 "I want to know, now that you've forgiven me for throwing 
 the book at you, have you come back for good?" 
 
 "Certainly not for evil," replied the cuckoo. 
 
 Griselda gave a little wriggle. "Cuckoo, you're laughing 
 at me," she said. "I mean, have you come back to stay and 
 cuckoo as usual and make my aunts happy again?" 
 
22 STORIES BY MRS. MOLESWORTH 
 
 "You'll see in the morning," said the cuckoo. "Now go 
 off to bed." 
 
 "Good-night," said Griselda, "and thank you, and please 
 don't forget to let me know when you've considered." 
 
 "Cuckoo, cuckoo," was her little friend's reply. Griselda 
 thought it was meant for good-night, but the fact of the matter 
 was that at that exact second of time it was two o'clock in the 
 morning. 
 
 She made her way back to bed. She had been standing 
 some time, talking to the cuckoo, but, though it was now well on 
 in November, she did not feel the least cold, nor sleepy! She 
 felt as happy and light-hearted as possible, and she wished it 
 was morning, that she might get up. Yet the moment she laid 
 her little brown curly head on the pillow, she fell asleep; and it 
 seemed to her that just as she dropped off a soft feathery wing 
 brushed her cheek gently and a tiny "Cuckoo" sounded in her ear. 
 
 When she woke it was bright morning, really bright morn- 
 ing, for the wintry sun was already sending some clear yellow 
 rays out into the pale gray-blue sky. 
 
 "It must be late," thought Griselda, when she had opened 
 the shutters and seen how light it was. "I must have slept a 
 long time. I feel so beautifully unsleepy now. I must dress 
 quickly — how nice it will be to see my aunts look happy again! 
 I don't even care if they scold me for being late." 
 
 But, after all. it was not so much later than usual; it was 
 only a much brighter morning than they had had for some time. 
 Griselda did dress herself very quickly, however. As she went 
 downstairs two or three of the clocks in the house, for there Avere 
 several, were striking eight. These clocks must have been a 
 little before the right time, for it was not till they had again 
 relapsed into silence that there rang out from the ante-room 
 the clear sweet tones, eight times repeated, of "Cuckoo." 
 
 Miss Grizzel and Miss Tabitha were already at the breakfast- 
 table, but they received their little niece most graciously. Nothing 
 
THE CUCKOO CLOCK 23 
 
 was said about the clock, however, till about half-way through 
 the meal, when Griselda, full of eagerness to know if her aunts 
 were aware of the cuckoo's return, could restrain herself no 
 longer. 
 
 "Aunt Grizzel," she said, "isn't the cuckoo all right again?" 
 
 "Yes, my dear. I am delighted to say it is," replied Miss 
 Grizzel. 
 
 "Did you get it put right, Aunt Grizzel?" inquired Griselda, 
 slyly. 
 
 "Little girls should not ask so many questions," replied Miss 
 Grizzel, mysteriously. "It is all right again, and that is enough. 
 During fifty years that cuckoo has never, till yesterday, missed 
 an hour. If you, in your sphere, my dear, do as well during 
 fifty years, you won't have done badly." 
 
 "No, indeed, }'ou won't have done badly," repeated Miss 
 Tabitha. 
 
 But though the two old ladies thus tried to improve the occa- 
 sion by a little lecturing, Griselda could see that at the bottom of 
 their hearts they were both so happy that, even if she had been 
 very naughty indeed, they could hardly have made up their minds 
 to scold her. 
 
 She was not at all inclined to be naughty this day. She 
 had something to think about and look forward to, which made 
 her quite a different little girl, and made her take heart in doing 
 her lessons as well as she possibly could. 
 
 "I wonder when the cuckoo will have considered enough 
 about my having no one to play with?" she said to herself, as 
 she was walking up and down the terrace at the back of the house. 
 
 "Caw, caw!" screamed a rook just over her head, as if in 
 answer to her thought. 
 
 Griselda looked, up at him. 
 
 "Your voice isn't half so pretty as the cuckoo's, Mr. Rook," 
 she said. "All the same, I dare say I should make friends with 
 you, if I understood what you meant. How funny it would be 
 
24 STORIES BY MRS. MOLESWORTH 
 
 to know all the languages of the birds and the beasts, like the 
 prince in the fairy tale! I wonder if I should wish for that, 
 if a fairy gave me a wish? No, I don't think I would. I'd far 
 rather have the fairy carpet that would take you anywhere you 
 liked in a minute. I'd go to China to see if all the people there 
 looked like Aunt Grizzel's mandarins; and I'd first of all, of 
 course, go to fairyland." 
 
 "You must come in now, little missie," said Dorcas's voice. 
 "Miss Grizzel says you have had play enough, and there's a 
 nice fire in the ante-room for you to do your lessons by." 
 
 "Play!" repeated Griselda indignantly, as she turned to 
 follow the old servant. "Do you call walking up and down the 
 terrace 'play,' Dorcas? I mustn't loiter even to pick a flower, 
 if there were any, for fear of catching cold, and I mustn't run 
 for fear of overheating myself. I declare, Dorcas, if I don't 
 have some play soon, or something to amuse me, I think I'll 
 run away." 
 
 "Nay, nay, missie, don't talk like that. You'd never do 
 anything so naughty, and you so like Miss Sybilla, who was 
 so good." 
 
 "Dorcas, I'm tired of being told I'm like Miss Sybilla," said 
 Griselda, impatiently. "She was my grandmother; no one would 
 like to be told they were like their grandmother. It makes me 
 feel as if my face must be all screwy up and wrinkly, and as if 
 I should have spectacles on and a wig." 
 
 "That is not like what Miss Sybilla was when I first saw 
 her," said Dorcas. "She was younger than you, missie, and as 
 pretty as a fairy." 
 
 "Was she?" exclaimed Griselda, stopping short. 
 
 "Yes, indeed she was. She might have been a fairy, so 
 sweet she was and gentle — and yet so merry. Every creature 
 loved her; even the animals about seemed to know her, as if she 
 was one of themselves. She brought good luck to the house, and 
 it was a sad day when she left it." 
 
THE CUCKOO CLOCK 25 
 
 "I thought you said it was the cuckoo that brought good 
 luck?" said Griselda. 
 
 "Well, so it was. The cuckoo and Miss Sybilla came here 
 the same day. It was left to her by her mother's father, with 
 whom she had lived since she was a baby, and when he died she 
 came here to her sisters. She wasn't own sister to my ladies, 
 you see, missie. Her mother had come «from Germany, and it 
 was in some strange place there, where her grandfather lived, that 
 the cuckoo clock was made. They make wonderful clocks there, 
 I've been told, but none more wonderful than our cuckoo, I'm 
 sure." 
 
 "No, I'm sure not," said Griselda, softly. "Why didn't Miss 
 Sybilla take it with her when she was married and went away?" 
 
 "She knew her sisters were so fond of it. It was like a 
 memory of her left behind for them. It was like a part of her. 
 And do you know, missie, the night she died — she died soon after 
 your father was born, a year after she was married — for a whole 
 hour, from twelve to one, that cuckoo went on cuckooing in a soft, 
 sad way, like some living creature in trouble. Of course, we did 
 not know anything was wrong with "her, and folks said something 
 had caught some of the springs of the works; but I didn't think 
 so, and never shall. And " 
 
 But here Dorcas's reminiscences were abruptly brought to 
 a close by Miss Grizzel's appearance at the other end of the 
 terrace. 
 
 "Griselda, what are you loitering so for? Dorcas, you should 
 have hastened, not delayed Miss Griselda." 
 
 So Griselda was hurried off to her lessons, and Dorcas to 
 her kitchen. But Griselda did not much mind. She had plenty 
 to think of and wonder about, and she liked to do her lessons in 
 the ante-room, with the tick-tock of the clock in her ears, and 
 the feeling that perhaps the cuckoo was watching her through 
 some invisible peep-hole in his closed doors. 
 
 "And if he sees," thought Griselda, "if he sees how hard 
 
26 STORIES BY MRS. MOLESWORTH 
 
 I am trying to do my lessons well, it will perhaps make him be 
 quick about 'considering.' " 
 
 So she did try very hard. And she didn't speak to the 
 cuckoo when he came out to say it was four o'clock. She was 
 busy, and he was busy. She felt it was better to wait till he gave 
 her some sign of being ready to talk to her again. 
 
 For fairies, you know, children, however charming, are some- 
 times rather queer to have to do with. They don't like to be 
 interfered with, or treated except with very great respect, and 
 they have their own ideas about what is proper and what isn't, 
 I can assure you. 
 
 I suppose it was with working so hard at her lessons- — most 
 people would say it was with having been up the night before, 
 running about the house in the moonlight; but as she had never 
 felt so "fresh" in her life as when she got up that morning, it 
 could hardly have been that — that Griselda felt so tired and 
 sleepy that evening, she could hardly keep her eyes open. She 
 begged to go to bed quite half an hour earlier than usual, which 
 made Miss Tabitha afraid again that she was going to be ill. But 
 there is nothing better for children than to go to bed early, even 
 if they are going to be ill, Miss Grizzel told her to say good-night, 
 and to ask Dorcas to give her a wine-glassful of elderberry wine, 
 nice and hot after she was in bed. 
 
 Griselda had no objections to the elderberry wine, though 
 she felt she was having it on false pretences. She certainly did 
 not need it to send her to sleep, for almost before her head 
 touched the pillow she was as sound as a top. She had slept a 
 good long while, when again she wakened suddenly — just as she 
 had done the night before, and again with the feeling that some- 
 thing had wakened her. And the queer thing was that the mo- 
 ment she was awake she felt so very awake — she had no inclina- 
 tion to stretch and yawn and hope it wasn't quite time to get up, 
 and think how nice and warm bed was, and how cold it was out- 
 
THE CUCKOO CLOCK 27 
 
 side! She sat straight up, and peered out into the darkness, 
 feeling quite ready for an adventure. 
 
 "Is it you, cuckoo?" she said softly. 
 
 There was no answer, but listening intently, the child fan- 
 cied she heard a faint rustling or fluttering in the corner of the 
 room by the door. She got up and, feeling her way, opened it, 
 and the instant she had done so she heard, a few steps only in 
 front of her it seemed, the familiar notes, very, very soft and 
 whispered, "Cuckoo, cuckoo." 
 
 It went on and on, down the passage, Griselda trotting after. 
 There was no moon to-night, heavy clouds had quite hidden it, 
 and outside the rain was falling heavily. Griselda could hear it 
 on the window-panes, through the closed shutters and all. But 
 dark as it was, she made her way along without any difficulty, 
 down the passage, across the great saloon, in through the ante- 
 room, guided only by the little voice now and then to be heard 
 in front of her. She came to a standstill right before the clock, 
 and stood there for a minute or two patiently waiting. 
 
 She had not very long to wait. There came the usual mur- 
 muring sound, then the doors 'above the clock face opened — -she 
 heard them open, it was far too dark to see — and in his ordinary 
 voice, clear and distinct (it was just two o'clock, so the cuckoo 
 was killing two birds with one stone, telling the hour and greet- 
 ing Griselda at once), the bird sang out, "Cuckoo, cuckoo." 
 
 "Good evening, cuckoo," said Griselda, when he had finished. 
 
 "Good morning, you mean," said the cuckoo. 
 
 "Good morning, then, cuckoo," said Griselda. "Have you 
 considered about me, cuckoo?" 
 
 The cuckoo cleaned his throat. 
 
 "Have you learnt to -obey orders yet, Griselda?" he inquired. 
 
 "I'm trying," replied Griselda. "But you see, cuckoo, I've 
 not had very long to learn in — it was only last night you told 
 me, you know." 
 
 The cuckoo sighed. 
 
28 STORIES BY MRS. MOLESWORTH 
 
 "You've a great deal to learn, Griselda." 
 
 "I dare say I have," she said. "But I can tell you one 
 thing, cuckoo — whatever lessons I have, I couldn't ever have any 
 worse than those addition sums of Mr. Kneebreeches'. I have 
 made up my mind about that, for to-day, do you know, 
 cuckoo " 
 
 "Yesterday," corrected the cuckoo. "Always be exact in 
 your statements, Griselda." 
 
 "Well, yesterday, then," said Griselda, rather tartly; "though 
 when you know quite well what I mean, I don't see that you 
 need be so very particular. Well, as I was saying, I tried and 
 tried, but still they were fearful. They were, indeed." 
 
 "You've a great deal to learn, Griselda," repeated the 
 cuckoo. 
 
 "I wish you wouldn't say that so often," said Griselda. "I 
 thought you were going to play with me." 
 
 "There's something in that," said the cuckoo, "there's some- 
 thing in that. I should like to talk about it. But we could talk 
 more comfortably if you would come up here and sit beside me." 
 
 Griselda thought her friend must be going out of his mind. 
 
 "Sit beside you up there!" she exclaimed. "Cuckoo, how 
 could I? I'm far, far too big." 
 
 "Big!" returned the cuckoo. "What do you mean by big? 
 It's all a matter of fancy. Don't you know that if the world 
 and everything in it, counting yourself of course, was all made 
 little enough to go into a walnut, you'd never find out the 
 difference?" 
 
 "Wouldn't I?" said Griselda, feeling rather muddled; "but, 
 not counting myself, cuckoo, I would then, wouldn't I?" 
 
 "Nonsense," said the cuckoo hastily, "you've a great deal 
 to learn, and one thing is, not to argue. Nobody should argue; 
 it's a shocking bad habit, and ruins the digestion. Come up here 
 and sit beside me comfortably. Catch hold of the chain; you'll 
 find you can manage if you try." 
 
THE CUCKOO CLOCK 29 
 
 "But it'll stop the clock," said Griselda. "Aunt Grizzel 
 said I was never to touch the weights or the chains." 
 
 "Stuff," said the cuckoo; "it won't stop the clock. Catch 
 hold of the chains and swing yourself up. There now — I told 
 you you could manage it." 
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 
 THE COUNTRY OF THE NODDING MANDARINS 
 "We're all nodding, nid-nid-nodding." 
 
 How she managed it she never knew; but, somehow or 
 other, it was managed. She seemed to slide up the chain just 
 as easily as in a general way she would have slidden down, 
 only without any disagreeable anticipation of a bump at the end 
 of the journey. And when she got to the top how wonderfully 
 different it looked from anything she could have expected! The 
 doors stood open, and Griselda found them quite big enough, or 
 herself quite small enough — which it was she couldn't tell, and as 
 it was all a matter of fancy she decided not to trouble to inquire — 
 to pass through quite comfortably. 
 
 And inside there was the most charming little snuggery 
 imaginable. It was something like a saloon railway carriage — 
 it seemed to be all lined and carpeted and everything, with rich 
 mossy red velvet; there was a little round table in the middle 
 and two arm-chairs, on one of which sat the cuckoo — "quite like 
 other people," thought Griselda to herself — while the other, as 
 he pointed out to Griselda by a little nod, was evidently intended 
 for her. 
 
 "Thank you," said she, sitting down on the chair as she 
 spoke. 
 
 "Are you comfortable?" inquired the cuckoo. 
 
 "Quite," replied Griselda, looking about her with great satis- 
 
30 STORIES BY MRS. MOLESWORTH 
 
 faction. "Are all cuckoo clocks like this when you get up inside 
 them?" she inquired. "I can't think how there's room for this 
 dear little place between the clock and the wall. Is it a hole cut 
 out of the wall on purpose, cuckoo?" 
 
 "Hush!" said the cuckoo, "we've got other things to talk 
 about. First, shall I lend you one of my mantles? You may 
 feel cold." 
 
 "I don't just now," replied Griselda; "but perhaps I might." 
 
 She looked at her little bare feet as she spoke and wondered 
 why they weren't cold, for it was very chilblainy weather. 
 
 The cuckoo stood up, and with one of his claws reached from 
 a corner where it was hanging a cloak which Griselda had not 
 before noticed. For it was hanging wrong side out, and the 
 lining was red velvet, very like what the sides of the little room 
 were covered with, so it was no wonder she had not noticed it. 
 
 Had it been hanging the right side out she must have done so ; 
 this side was so very wonderful! 
 
 It was all feathers — feathers of every shade and colour, but 
 beautifully worked in, somehow, so as to lie quite smoothly and 
 evenly, one colour melting away into another like those in a prism, 
 so that you could hardly tell where one began and another ended. 
 
 "What a lovely cloak!" said Griselda, wrapping it round her 
 and feeling even more comfortable than before, as she watched 
 the rays of the little lamp in the roof — I think I was forgetting 
 to tell you that the cuckoo's boudoir was lighted by a dear little 
 lamp set into the red velvet roof like a pearl in a ring — playing 
 softly on the brilliant colours of the feather mantle. 
 
 "It's better than lovely," said the cuckoo, "as you shall see. 
 Now, Griselda," he continued, in the tone of one coming to 
 business — "now, Griselda, let us talk." 
 
 "We have been talking," said Griselda, "ever so long. I am 
 very comfortable. When you say 'let us talk' like that, it makes 
 me forget all I wanted to say. Just let me sit still and say what- 
 ever comes into mv head." 
 
THE CUCKOO CLOCK 31 
 
 "That won't do," said the cuckoo; "we must have a plan 
 of action." 
 
 "A what?" said Griselda. 
 
 "You see you have a great deal to learn," said the cuckoo 
 triumphantly. "You don't understand what I say." 
 
 "But I didn't come up here to learn," said Griselda; "I can 
 do that down there"; and she nodded her head in the direction of 
 the ante-room table. "I want to play." 
 
 "Just so," said the cuckoo; "that's what I want to talk about. 
 What do you call 'play' — blind-man's-buff and that sort of thing?" 
 
 "No," said Griselda, considering. "I'm getting rather too 
 big for that kind of play. Besides, cuckoo, you and I alone 
 couldn't have much fun at blindman's-buff ; there'd be only me 
 to catch you or you to catch me." 
 
 "Oh, we could easily get more," said the cuckoo. "The man- 
 darins would be pleased to join." 
 
 "The mandarins!" repeated Griselda. "Why, cuckoo, they're 
 not alive! How could they play?" 
 
 The cuckoo looked at her gravely for a minute, then shook 
 his head. 
 
 "You have a great deal to learn," he said solemnly. "Don't 
 you know that everything's alive?" 
 
 "No," said Griselda, "I don't; and I don't know what you 
 mean, and I don't think I want to know what you mean. I want 
 to talk about playing." 
 
 "Well," said the cuckoo, "talk." 
 
 "What I call playing," pursued Griselda, "is — I have 
 thought about it now, you see — is being amused. If you will 
 amuse me, cuckoo, I will count that you are playing with me." 
 
 "How shall I amuse you?" inquired he. 
 
 "Oh, that's for you to find out !" exclaimed Griselda. "You 
 might tell me fairy stories, you know: if you're a fairy you should 
 know lots; or — oh, yes, of course that would be far nicer — if you 
 are a fairy you might take me with you to fairyland." 
 
32 STORIES BY MRS. MOLESWORTH 
 
 Again the cuckoo shook his head. 
 
 "That," said he, "I cannot do." 
 
 "Why not?" said Griselda. "Lots of children have been 
 there." 
 
 "I doubt it," said the cuckoo. "Some may have been, but not 
 lots. And some may have thought they had been there who hadn't 
 really been there at all. And as to those who have been there, 
 you may be sure of one thing — they were not taken, they found 
 their own way. ~No one ever was taken to fairyland— to the real 
 fairyland. They may have been taken to the neighbouring coun- 
 tries, but not to fairyland itself." 
 
 "And how is one ever to find one's own way there?" asked 
 Griselda. 
 
 "That I cannot tell you either," replied the cuckoo. "There 
 are many roads there; you may find yours some day. And if 
 ever you do find it, be sure you keep what you see of it well swept 
 and clean, and then you may see further after a while. Ah, yes, 
 there are many roads and many doors into fairyland!" 
 
 "Doors!" cried Griselda. "Are there any doors into fairy- 
 land in this house?" 
 
 "Several," said the cuckoo; ""but don't waste your time look- 
 ing for them at present. It would be no use." 
 
 "Then how will you amuse me?" inquired Griselda, in a 
 rather disappointed tone. 
 
 "Don't you care to go anywhere except to fairyland?" said the 
 cuckoo. 
 
 "Oh yes, there are lots of places I wouldn't mind seeing. Not 
 geography sort of places — it would be just like lessons to go to 
 India and Africa and all those places — but queer places, like 
 the mines where the goblins make diamonds and precious stones, 
 and the caves down under the sea where the mermaids live. 
 And — oh, I've just thought — now I'm so nice and little, I would 
 like to go all over the mandarins' palace in the great saloon." 
 
 "That can be easily managed," said the cuckoo; "but — ex- 
 
THE CUCKOO CLOCK 33 
 
 cuse me for an instant," he exclaimed suddenly. He gave a spring 
 forward and disappeared. Then Griselda heard his voice outside 
 the doors. "Cuckoo, cuckoo, cuckoo." It was three o'clock. 
 
 The doors opened again to let him through, and he re- 
 settled himself on his chair. "As I was saying," he went on, 
 "nothing could be easier. But that palace, as you call it, has 
 an entrance on the other side, as well as the One you know." 
 
 "Another door, do you mean?" said Griselda. "How funny! 
 Does it go through the wall? And where does it lead to?" 
 
 "It leads," replied the cuckoo, "it leads to the country of the 
 Nodding Mandarins." 
 
 "What fun!" exclaimed Griselda, clapping her hands. 
 "Cuckoo, do let us go there. How can we get down? You can 
 fly, but must I slide down the chain again?" 
 
 "Oh, dear, no," said the cuckoo, "by no means. You have 
 only to stretch out your feather mantle, flap it as if it was wings — 
 so" — he flapped his own wings encouragingly — "wish, and there 
 you'll be." 
 
 "Where?" said Griselda bewilderedly. 
 
 "Wherever you wish to be, of course," said the cuckoo. "Are 
 you ready? Here goes." 
 
 "Wait — wait a moment," cried Griselda. "Where am I to 
 wish to be?" 
 
 "Bless the child!" exclaimed the cuckoo. "Where do you 
 wish to be; You said you wanted to visit the country of the Nod- 
 ding Mandarins." 
 
 "Yes; but am I to wish first to be in the palace in the great 
 saloon?" 
 
 "Certainly," replied the cuckoo. "That is the entrance to 
 Mandarin Land, and you said you would like to see through it. 
 So — you're surely ready now?" 
 
 "A thought has just struck me," said Griselda. "How will 
 you know what o'clock it is, so as to come back in time to tell 
 the next hour? My aunts will get into such a fright if you go 
 
34 STORIES BY MRS. MOLESWORTH 
 
 wrong again! Are you sure we -shall have time to go to the 
 mandarins' country to-night?" 
 
 "Time!" repeated the cuckoo; "what is time? Ah, Griselda, 
 you have a very great deal to leam! What do you mean by 
 time'?" 
 
 "I don't know," replied Griselda, feeling rather snubbed. 
 "Being slow or quick — I suppose that's what I mean." 
 
 "And what is slow, and what is quick?" said the cuckoo. "All 
 a matter of fancj r ! If everything that's been done since the world 
 was made till now, was done over again in five minutes, you'd 
 never know the difference." 
 
 "Oh, cuckoo, I wish you wouldn't!" cried poor Griselda; 
 "you're worse than sums, you do so puzzle me. It's like what you 
 said about nothing being big or little, -only it's worse. Where 
 would all the days and hours be if there was nothing but minutes? 
 Oh, cuckoo, you said you'd amuse me, and you do nothing but 
 puzzle me." 
 
 "It was your own fault. You wouldn't get ready," said the 
 cuckoo. "Now, here goes! Flap and Avish." 
 
 Griselda flapped and wished. She felt a sort of rustle in 
 the air, that was all — then s"he found herself standing with the 
 cuckoo in front of the Chinese cabinet, the door of which stood 
 open, while the -mandarins on each side, nodding politely, seemed 
 to invite them to enter. Griselda hesitated. 
 
 "Go on," said the cuckoo, patronizingly; "ladies first." 
 
 Griselda went on. To her surprise, inside the cabinet it 
 was quite light, though where the light came from that illumin- 
 ated all the queer corners and recesses and streamed out to the 
 front, where stood the mandarins, she could not discover. 
 
 The "palace" was not quite as interesting as she had ex- 
 pected. There were lots of little rooms in it opening on to 
 balconies commanding, no doubt, a splendid view of the great 
 saloon ; there were ever so -many little staircases leading to more 
 little rooms and balconies; but it all seemed empty and deserted. 
 
THE CUCKOO CLOCK 35 
 
 "I don't care for it," said Griselda, stopping short at last; 
 "it's ;all the same, and there's nothing to see. I thought my 
 aunts kept ever so many beautiful things in here, and there's 
 nothing." 
 
 "Come along then," said the cuckoo. "I didn't expect you'd 
 care for the palace as you called it, much. Let us go out the other 
 way." 
 
 He hopped down a sort of little staircase near which they 
 were standing, and Griselda followed him willingly enough. At 
 the foot they found themselves in a vestibule, much handsomer 
 than the entrance at the other side, and the cuckoo, crossing it, 
 lifted one of his claws and touched a spring in the wall. In- 
 stantly a pair of large doors flew open in the middle, revealing 
 to Griselda the prettiest and most curious sight she had ever 
 seen. 
 
 A flight of wide shallow steps led down from this doorway 
 into a long, long avenue bordered by stiffly growing trees, from 
 the branches of which hung innumerable lamps of every colour, 
 making a perfect network of brilliance as far as the eye could 
 reach. 
 
 "Oh, how lovely!" cried Griselda, clapping her hands. "It'll 
 be like walking along a rainbow. Cuckoo, come quick." 
 
 "Stop," said the cuckoo; "we've a good way to go. There's no 
 need to Avalk. Palanquin!" 
 
 He flapped his wings, and instantly a palanquin appeared 
 at the foot of the steps. It was made of carved ivory, and borne 
 by four Chinese-looking figures with pigtails and bright-coloured 
 jackets. A feeling came over Griselda that she was dreaming, or 
 else that she had seen this palanquin before. She hesitated. 
 Suddenly she gave a little jump of satisfaction. 
 
 "I know," she exclaimed. It's exactly like the one that 
 stands under a glass shade on Lady Lavander's drawing-room 
 mantelpiece. I wonder if it is the very one? Fancy me being 
 able to get into it." 
 
36 STORIES BY MRS. MOLESWORTH 
 
 She looked at the four bearers. Instantly they all nodded. 
 
 "What do they mean?" asked Griselda, turning to the cuckoo. 
 
 "Get in," he replied. 
 
 "Yes, I'm just going to get in," she said; "but what do 
 they mean when they nod at me like that?" 
 
 "They mean, of course, what I tell you — 'Get in,' " said 
 the cuckoo. 
 
 "Why don't they say so, then?" persisted Griselda, getting 
 in, however, as she spoke. 
 
 "Griselda, you have a very great " began the cuckoo, but 
 
 Griselda interrupted him. 
 
 "Cuckoo," she exclaimed, "if you say that again, I'll jump 
 out of the palanquin and run away home to bed. Of course 
 I've a great deal to learn — that's why I like to ask questions about 
 everything I see. Now, tell me where we are going." 
 
 "In the first place," said the cuckoo, "are you comfortable?" 
 
 "Very," said Griselda, settling herself down among the 
 cushions. 
 
 It was a change from the cuckoo's boudoir. There were no 
 chairs or seats, only a number of very, very soft cushions cov- 
 ered with green silk. There were green silk curtains all round, 
 too, which you could draw or not as you pleased, just by touch- 
 ing a spring. Griselda stroked the silk gently. It was not "fruz- 
 zley" silk, if you know what that means; it did not make you 
 feel as if your nails wanted cutting, or as if all the rough places 
 on your skin were being rubbed up the wrong way; its soft- 
 ness was like that of a rose or pansy petal. 
 
 "What nice silk!" said Griselda. "I'd like a dress of it. 
 I never noticed that the palanquin was lined so nicely," she con- 
 tinued, "for I suppose it is the one from Lady Lavander's mantel- 
 piece? There couldn't be two so exactly like each other." 
 
 The cuckoo gave a sort of whistle. 
 
 "What a goose you are, my dear!" he exclaimed' "Excuse 
 me," he continued, seeing that Griselda looked rather offended; 
 
THE CUCKOO CLOCK 37 
 
 "I didn't mean to hurt your feelings, but you won't let me say 
 the other thing, you know. The palanquin from Lady Lavan- 
 der's! I should think not. You might as well mistake one of 
 those horrible paper roses that Dorcas sticks in her vases for 
 one of your aunt's Gloires de Dijon! The palanquin from 
 Lady Lavander's — a clumsy human imitation not worth look- 
 ing at!" 
 
 "I didn't know," said Griselda humbly. "Do they make 
 such beautiful things in Mandarin Land?" 
 
 "Of course," said the cuckoo. 
 
 Griselda sat silent for a minute or two, but very soon she 
 recovered her spirits. 
 
 "Will you please tell me where we are going?" she asked 
 again. 
 
 "You'll see directly," said the cuckoo; "not that I mind tell- 
 ing you. There's to be a grand reception at one of the palaces 
 to-night. I thought you'd like to assist at it. It'll give you some 
 idea of what a palace is like. By-the-by, can you dance?" 
 
 "A little," replied Griselda. 
 
 "Ah, well, I dare say you will manage. I've ordered a 
 court dress for you. It will be all ready when we get there." 
 
 In a minute or two the palanquin stopped. The cuckoo 
 got out, and Griselda followed him. 
 
 She found that they were at the entrance to a very much 
 grander palace than the one in her aunt's saloon. The steps 
 leading up to the door were very wide and shallow, and covered 
 with a gold embroidered carpet, which looked as if it would be 
 prickly to her baTe feet, 'but Avhich, on the contrary, when she 
 trod upon it, felt softer than the softest moss. She could see 
 very little besides the carpet, for at each side of the steps stood 
 rows and rows of mandarins, all something like, but a great deal 
 grander than the pair outside her aunt's cabinet; and as the 
 cuckoo hopped and Griselda walked up the staircase, they all, in 
 turn, row by row, began solemnly to nod. It gave them the look 
 
38 STORIES BY MRS. MOLESWORTH 
 
 of a field of very high grass, through which any one passing 
 leaves for the moment a trail, till all the heads bob up again into 
 their places. 
 
 "What do they mean?" whispered Griselda. 
 
 "It's a royal salute," said the cuckoo. 
 
 "A salute!" said Griselda. "I thought that meant kissing 
 or guns." 
 
 "Hush" said the cuckoo, for by this time they had arrived 
 at the top of the staircase; "you must be dressed now." 
 
 Two mandariny-looking young ladies, with porcelain faces 
 and three-cornered head-dresses, stepped forward and led Griselda 
 into a small ante-room, where lay waiting for her the most mag- 
 nificent dress you ever saw. But how do you think they dressed 
 her? It was all by nodding. They nodded to the blue and silver 
 embroidered jacket, and in a moment it had fitted itself on to her. 
 They nodded to the splendid scarlet satin skirt, made very short 
 in front and very long behind, and before Griselda knew where 
 she was, it was adjusted quite correctly. They nodded to the 
 head-dress, and the sashes, and the necklaces and bracelets, and 
 forthwith they all arranged themselves. Last of all, they nodded 
 to the dearest, sweetest little pair of high-heeled shoes imagin- 
 able — all silver, and blue, and gold, and scarlet, and everything 
 mixed up together, only they were rather a stumpy shape about 
 the toes, and Griselda's bare feet were encased in them, and, to 
 her surprise, quite comfortably so. 
 
 "They don't hurt me a bit," she said aloud; "yet they didn't 
 look the least the shape of my foot." 
 
 But her attendants only nodded; and turning round, she 
 saw the cuckoo waiting for her. He did not speak either, rather 
 to her annoyance, but gravely led the way through one grand 
 room after another to the grandest of all, where the entertain- 
 ment was evidently just about to begin. And everywhere there 
 were mandarins, rows and rows, who all set to work nodding as 
 fast as Griselda appeared. She began to be rather tired of royal 
 
THE CUCKOO CLOCK 39 
 
 salutes, and was glad when, at last, in profound silence, the pro- 
 cession, consisting of the cuckoo and herself, and about half a 
 dozen "mandarins," came to a halt before a kind of dais, or raised 
 seat, at the end of the hall. 
 
 Upon this dais stood a chair — a throne of some kind, Griselda 
 supposed it to be — and upon this was seated the grandest and 
 gravest personage she had yet seen. 
 
 "Is he the king of the mandarins?" she whispered. But 
 the cuckoo did not reply; and before she had time to repeat the 
 question, the very grand and grave person got down from his 
 seat, and coming towards her, offered her his hand, at the same 
 time nodding — first once, then two or three times together, then 
 once again. Griselda seemed to know what he meant. He was 
 asking her to dance. 
 
 "Thank you," she said. "I can't dance very well, but perhaps 
 you won't mind." 
 
 The king, if that was his title, took not the slightest notice 
 of her reply, but nodded again — once, then two or three times 
 together, then once alone, just as before. Griselda did not know 
 what to do, when suddenly she felt something poking her head. 
 It was the cuckoo — he had lifted his claw, and was tapping her 
 head to make her nod. So she nodded — once, twice together, then 
 once — that appeared to be enough. The king nodded once again; 
 an invisible band suddenly struck up the loveliest music, and off 
 they set to the places of honour reserved for them in the centre 
 of the room, where all the mandarins were assembling. 
 
 What a dance that was! It began like a minuet and ended 
 something like the hay -makers. Griselda had not the least idea 
 what the figures or steps were, but it did not matter. If she did 
 not know, her shoes or something about her did; for she got 
 on famously. The music was lovely — "so the mandarins can't 
 be deaf, though they are dumb," thought Griselda, "which is 
 one good thing about them." The king seemed to enjoy it as 
 much as she did, though he never smiled or laughed; any one 
 
40 STORIES BY MRS. MOLES WORTH 
 
 could have seen he liked it by the way he whirled and twirled 
 himself about. And between the figures, when they stopped to 
 rest for a little, Griselda got on very well too. There was no 
 conversation, or rather, if there was, it was all nodding. 
 
 So Griselda nodded too, and though she did not know what 
 her nods meant, the king seemed to understand and be quite 
 pleased; and when they had nodded enough the music struck up 
 again, and off they set, harder than before. 
 
 And every now and then tiny little mandariny boys appeared 
 with trays filled with the most delicious fruits and sweetmeats. 
 Griselda was not a greedy child, but for once in her life she 
 really did feel rather so. I cannot possibly describe these de- 
 licious things; just think of whatever in all your life was the 
 most "lovely" thing you ever ate, and you may be sure they 
 tasted like that. Only the cuckoo would not eat any, which rather 
 distressed Griselda. He walked about among the dancers, ap- 
 parently quite at home; and the mandarins did not seem at all 
 surprised to see him, though he did look rather odd, being nearly, 
 if not quite, as big as any of them. Griselda hoped he was en- 
 joying herself, considering that she had to thank him for all 
 the fun she was having, but she felt a little conscience-stricken 
 when she saw that he wouldn't eat anything. 
 
 "Cuckoo," she whispered; she dared not talk out loud — it 
 would have seemed so remarkable, you see. "Cuckoo," she said, 
 very, very softly, "I wish you would eat something. You'll be 
 so tired and hungry." 
 
 "No, thank you," said the cuckoo; and you can't think how 
 pleased Griselda was at having succeeded in making him speak. 
 "It isn't my way. I hope you are enjoying yourself?" 
 
 "Oh, very much," said Griselda. "I " 
 
 "Hush!" said the cuckoo; and looking up, Griselda saw a 
 number of mandarins, in a sort of procession, coming their way. 
 
 When they got up to the cuckoo they set to work nodding, 
 two or three at a time, more energetically than usual. When they 
 
THE CUCKOO CLOCK 41 
 
 stopped, the cuckoo nodded in return, and then hopped off towards 
 the middle of the room. 
 
 "They're very fond of good music, you see," he whispered as 
 he passed Griselda; "and they don't often get it." 
 
 CHAPTER V 
 
 PICTURES 
 
 "And she is always beautiful, 
 And always is eighteen!" 
 
 When he got to the middle of the room the cuckoo cleared 
 his throat, flapped his wings, and began to sing. Griselda was 
 quite astonished. She had had no idea that her friend was so 
 accomplished. It wasn't "cuckooing" at all; it was real singing, 
 like that of the nightingale or the thrush, or like something pret- 
 tier than either. It made Griselda think of woods in summer, 
 and of tinkling brooks flowing through them, with the pretty 
 brown pebbles sparkling up through the water; and then it made 
 her think of something sad — she didn't know what ; perhaps it was 
 of the babes in the wood and the robins covering them up with 
 leaves — and then again, in a moment, it sounded as if all the 
 merry elves and sprites that ever were heard of had escaped from 
 fairyland, and were rolling over and over with peals of rollicking 
 laughter. And at last, all of a sudden, the song came to an 
 end. 
 
 "Cuckoo! cuckoo! cuckoo!" rang out three times, clear and 
 shrill. The cuckoo flapped his wings, made a bow to the man- 
 darins, and retired to his old corner. 
 
 There was no buzz of talk, as is usual after a performance 
 has come to a close, but there was a great buzz of nodding, and 
 Griselda, wishing to give the cuckoo as much praise as she could, 
 nodded as hard as any of them. The cuckoo really looked quite 
 shy at receiving so much applause. But in a minute or two the 
 
42 STORIES BY MRS. MOLESWORTH 
 
 music struck up and the dancing began again — one, two, three: 
 it seemed a sort of mazurka this time, which suited the man- 
 darins very well, as it gave them a chance of nodding to mark 
 the time. 
 
 Griselda had once learnt the mazurka, so she got on even 
 better than before — only she would have liked it more if her 
 shoes had had sharper toes; they looked so stumpy when she 
 tried to point them. All the same, it was very good fun, and she 
 was not too well pleased when she suddenly felt the little sharp 
 tap of the cuckoo on her head, and heard him whisper — 
 
 "Griselda, it's time to go." 
 
 "Oh dear, why?" she asked. "I'm not a bit tired. Why need 
 we go yet?" 
 
 "Obeying orders," said the cuckoo; and after that, Griselda 
 dared not say another word. It was. very nearly as bad as being 
 told she had a great deal to learn. 
 
 "Must I say good-bye to the king and all the people?" she 
 inquired; but before the cuckoo had time to answer, she gave a 
 little squeal. "Oh, cuckoo," she cried, "you've trod on my foot." 
 
 "I beg your pardon," said the cuckoo. 
 
 "I must take off my shoe; it does so hurt," she went on. 
 
 "Take it off, then," said the cuckoo. 
 
 Griselda stooped to take off her shoe. "Are we going home 
 
 in the pal ?" she began to say; but she never finished the 
 
 sentence, for just as she had got her shoe off she felt the cuckoo 
 throw something round her. It was the feather mantle. 
 
 And Griselda knew nothing more till she opened her eyes 
 the next morning, and saw the first early rays of sunshine peep- 
 ing in through the chinks of the closed shutters of her little 
 bedroom. 
 
 She rubbed her eyes, and sat up in bed. Could it have been 
 a dream. 
 
 "What could have made me fall asleep so all of a sudden?" 
 she thought. "I wasn't the least sleepy at the mandarins' ball. 
 
THE CUCKOO CLOCK 43 
 
 What fun it was! I believe that cuckoo made me fall asleep on 
 purpose to make me fancy it was a dream. Was it a dream?" 
 
 She began to feel confused and doubtful, when suddenly she 
 felt something hurting her arm, like a little lump in the bed. She 
 felt with her hand to see if she could smooth it away, and drew 
 out — one of the shoes belonging to her court dress! The very 
 one she had held in her hand at the moment the cuckoo spirited 
 her home again to bed. 
 
 "Ah, Mr. Cuckoo!" she exclaimed, "you meant to play me a 
 trick, but you haven't succeeded, you see." 
 
 She jumped out of bed and unfastened one of the window- 
 shutters, then jumped in again to admire the little shoe in comfort. 
 It was even prettier than she "had thought it at the ball. She held 
 it up and looked at it. It was about the size of the first joint of 
 her little finger. "To think that I should have been dancing with 
 you on last night!" she said to the shoe. "And yet the cuckoo 
 says being big or little is all a matter of fancy. I wonder what 
 he'll think of to amuse me next?" 
 
 She was still holding up the shoe and admiring it when 
 Dorcas came with the hot water. 
 
 "Look, Dorcas," she said. 
 
 "Bless me, it's one of the shoes off the Chinese dolls in the 
 saloon," exclaimed the old servant. "How ever did you get that, 
 missie? Your aunts wouldn't be pleased." 
 
 "It just isn't one of the Chinese dolls' shoes, and if you don't 
 believe me, you can go and look for yourself," said Griselda. "It's 
 my very own shoe, and it was given me to my own self." 
 
 Dorcas looked at her curiously, but said no more, only as 
 she was going out of the room Griselda heard her saying some- 
 thing about "so very like Miss Sybilla." 
 
 "I wonder what 'Miss Sybilla' was like?" thought Griselda. 
 "I have a good mind to ask the cuckoo. He seems to have known 
 her very well." 
 
 It was not for some days that Griselda had a chance of asking 
 
44 STORIES BY MRS. MOLESWORTH 
 
 the cuckoo anything. She saw and heard nothing of him — noth- 
 ing, that is to say, but his regular appearance to tell the hours as 
 usual. 
 
 "I suppose," thought Griselda, "he thinks the mandarins' 
 ball was fun enough to last me a good while. It really was very 
 good-natured of him to take me to it, so I mustn't grumble." 
 
 A few days after this poor Griselda caught cold. It was not 
 a very bad cold, I confess, but her aunts made rather a fuss about 
 it. They wanted her to stay in bed, but to this Griselda so much 
 objected that they did not insist upon it. 
 
 "It would be so dull," she said piteously. "Please let me 
 stay in the ante-room, for all my things are there; and, then, 
 there's the cuckoo." 
 
 Aunt Grizzel smiled at this, and Griselda got her way. But 
 even in the ante-room it was rather dull. Miss Grizzel and Miss 
 Tabitha were obliged to go out, to drive all the way to Merry- 
 brow Hall, as Lady Lavander sent a messenger to say that she 
 had an attack of influenza, and wished to see her friends at once. 
 
 Miss Tabitha began to cry — she was so tender-hearted. 
 
 "Troubles never come singly," said Miss Grizzel, by way of 
 consolation. 
 
 "No, indeed, they never come singly," said Miss Tabitha, 
 shaking her head and wiping her eyes. 
 
 So off they set; and Griselda, in her arm-ehair by the ante- 
 room fire, with some queer little old-fashioned books of her aunts', 
 which she had already read more than a dozen times, beside her 
 by way of amusement, felt that there was one comfort in her 
 troubles — she had escaped the long weary drive to her god- 
 mother's. 
 
 But it was very dull. It got duller and duller. Griselda 
 curled herself up in her chair, and wished she could go to sleep, 
 though feeling quite sure she couldn't, for she had stayed in bed 
 much later than usual this morning, and had been obliged to 
 spend the time in sleeping, for want of anything better to do. 
 
THE CUCKOO CLOCK 45 
 
 She looked up at the clock. 
 
 "I don't know even what to wish for," she said to herself. 
 "I don't feel the least inclined to play at anything, and I shouldn't 
 care to go to the mandarins' again. Oh, cuckoo, cuckoo, I am so 
 dull; couldn't you think of anything to amuse me?" 
 
 It was not near "any o'clock." But after waiting a minute 
 or two, it seemed to Griselda that she heard the soft sound of 
 "coming" that always preceded the cuckoo's appearance. She 
 was right. In another moment she heard his usual greeting, 
 "Cuckoo, cuckoo!" 
 
 "Oh, cuckoo!" she exclaimed, "I am so glad you have come 
 at last. I am so dull, and it has nothing to do with lessons this 
 time. It's that I've got such a bad cold, and my head's aching, 
 and I'm so tired of reading, all by myself." 
 
 "What would you like to do?" said the cuckoo. "You don't 
 want to go to see the mandarins again?" 
 
 "Oh no; I couldn't dance." 
 
 "Or the mermaids down under the sea?" 
 
 "Oh, dear, no," said Griselda, with a little shiver, "it would 
 be far too cold. I would just like to stay where I am, if some 
 one would tell me stories. I'm not even sure that I could listen to 
 stories. What could you do to amuse me, cuckoo?" 
 
 "Would you like to see some pictures?" said the cuckoo. "I 
 could show you pictures without your taking any trouble." 
 
 "Oh yes, that would be beautiful," cried Griselda. "What 
 pictures will you show me? Oh, I know. I would like to see 
 the place where you were bom — where that very, very clever 
 man made you and the clock, I mean." 
 
 "Your great-great-grandfather," said the cuckoo. "Very 
 well. Now, Griselda, shut your eyes. First of all, I am going 
 to sing." 
 
 Griselda shut her eyes, and the cuckoo began his song. It 
 was something like what he had sung at the mandarins' palace, 
 
46 STORIES BY MRS. MOLESWORTH 
 
 only even more beautiful. It was so soft and dreamy, Griselda 
 felt as if she could have sat there for ever, listening to it. 
 
 The first notes were low and murmuring. Again they made 
 Griselda think of little rippling brooks in summer, and now and 
 then there came a sort of hum as of insects buzzing in the warm 
 sunshine near. This humming gradually increased, till at last 
 Griselda was conscious of nothing -more — everything seemed to 
 be humming, herself too, till at last she fell asleep. 
 
 When she opened her eyes, the ante-room and everything in 
 it, except the arm-chair on which she was still curled up, had 
 disappeared- — melted away into a misty cloud all round her, which 
 in turn gradually faded, till before her she saw a scene quite new 
 and strange. It was the first of the cuckoo's "pictures." 
 
 An old, quaint room, with a high, carved mantelpiece, and 
 a bright fire sparkling in the grate. It was not a pretty room — 
 it had more the look of a workshop of some kind; but it was 
 curious and interesting. All round, the walls were hung with 
 clocks and strange mechanical toys. There was a fiddler slowly 
 fiddling, a gentleman and lady gravely dancing a minuet, a little 
 man drawing up water in a bucket out of a glass vase in which 
 gold fish were swimming about — all sorts of queer figures; and 
 the clocks were even queerer. There was one intended to repre- 
 sent the sun, moon, and planets, with one face for the sun and 
 another for the moon, and gold and silver stars slowly circling 
 round them; there was another clock with a tiny trumpeter 
 perched on a ledge above the face, who blew a horn for the 
 hours. I cannot tell you half the strange and wonderful things 
 there were. 
 
 Griselda was so intei'ested in looking at all these queer ma- 
 chines, that she did not for some time observe the occupant of 
 the room. And no wonder; he was sitting in front of a little 
 table, so perfectly still, much more still than the un-living figures 
 around him. He was examining, with a magnifying glass, some 
 small object he held in his hand, so closely and intently that 
 
THE CUCKOO CLOCK 47 
 
 Griselda, forgetting she was only looking at a "picture," almost 
 held her breath for fear she should disturb him. He was a very 
 old man, his coat was worn and threadbare in several places, 
 looking as if he spent a great part of his life in one position. Yet 
 he did not look poor, and his face, when at last he lifted it, was 
 mild and intelligent and very earnest. 
 
 While Griselda was watching him closely there came a soft 
 tap at the door, and a little girl danced into the room. The dear- 
 est little girl you ever saw, and so funnily dressed! Her thick 
 brown hair, rather lighter than Griselda's, was tied in two long 
 plaits down her back. She had a short red skirt with silver braid 
 round the bottom, and a white chemisette with beautiful lace at 
 the throat and .wrists, and over that again a black velvet bodice, 
 also trimmed with silver. And she had a great many trinkets, 
 necklaces, and bracelets, and ear-rings, and a sort of little silver 
 •coronet ; no, it was not like a coronet, it was a band with a square 
 piece of silver fastened so as to stand up at each side of her head 
 something like a horse's blinkers, only they were not placed over 
 her eyes. 
 
 She made quite a jingle as she came into the room, and the 
 old man looked up with a smile of pleasure. 
 
 "Well, my darling, and are you all ready for your fete?" he 
 said ; and though the language in which he spoke was quite strange 
 to Griselda, she understood his meaning perfectly well. 
 
 "Yes, dear grandfather; and isn't my dress lovely?" said the 
 child. "I should be so happy if only you were coming too, and 
 would get yourself a beautiful velvet coat like Mynheer van 
 Huyten." 
 
 The old man shook his head. 
 
 "I have no time for such things, my darling," he replied; 
 "and besides, I am too old. I must work — work hard to make 
 money for my pet when I am gone, that she may not be depend- 
 ent on the bounty of those English sisters." 
 
 "But I won't care for money when you are gone, grand- 
 
48 STORIES BY MRS. MOLESWORTH 
 
 father," said the child, her eyes filling with tears. "I would 
 rather just go on living in this little house, and I am sure the 
 neighbours would give me something to eat, and then I could hear 
 all your clocks ticking, and think of you. I don't want you to 
 sell all your wonderful things for money for me, grandfather. 
 They would remind me of you, and money wouldn't." 
 
 "Not all, Sybilla not all," said the old man. "The best of 
 all, the chef-d'oeuvre of my life, shall not be sold. It shall be 
 yours, and you will have in your possession a clock that crowned 
 heads might seek in vain to purchase." 
 
 His dim old eyes brightened, and for a moment he sat erect 
 and strong. 
 
 "Do you mean the cuckoo clock?" said Sybilla, in a low 
 voice. 
 
 "Yes, my darling, the cuckoo clock, the crowning work of 
 my life — a clock that shall last long after I, and perhaps thou, 
 my pretty child, are crumbling into dust; a clock that shall last 
 to tell my great-grandchildren to many generations that the old 
 Dutch mechanic was not altogether to be despised." 
 
 Sybilla sprang into his arms. 
 
 "You are not to talk like that, little grandfather," she said. 
 "I shall teach my children and my grandchildren to be so proud 
 of you — oh, so proud! — as proud as I am of you, little grand- 
 father." 
 
 "Gently, my darling," said the old man, as he placed care- 
 fully on the table the delicate piece of mechanism he held in his 
 hand, and tenderly embraced the child. "Kiss me once again, 
 my pet, and then thou must go ; thy little friends will be waiting." 
 
 ******* 
 
 As he said these words the mist slowly gathered again before 
 Griselda's eyes — the first of the cuckoo's pictures faded from 
 her sight. 
 
 ******* 
 
THE CUCKOO CLOCK 49 
 
 When she looked again the scene was changed, but this time 
 it was not a strange one, though Griselda had gazed at it for 
 some moments before she recognised it. It was the great saloon, 
 but it looked very different from what she had ever seen it. Forty 
 years or so make a difference in rooms as well as in people! 
 
 The faded yellow damask hangings were rich and brilliant. 
 There were bouquets of lovely flowers arranged about the tables; 
 wax lights were sending out their brightness in every direction, 
 and the room was filled with ladies and gentlemen in gay attire. 
 
 Among them, after a time, Griselda remarked two ladies, 
 no longer very young, but still handsome and stately, and some- 
 thing whispered to her that they were her two aunts, Miss Grizzel 
 and Miss Tabitha. 
 
 "Poor aunts!" she said softly to herself; "how old they have 
 grown since then." 
 
 But she did not long look at them ; her attention was attracted 
 by a much younger lady — a mere girl she seemed, but oh, so 
 sweet and pretty ! She was. dancing with a gentleman whose eyes 
 looked as if they saw no one else, and she herself seemed brim- 
 ming over with youth and happiness. Her very steps had joy 
 in them. 
 
 "Well, Griselda," whispered a voice, which she knew was 
 the cuckoo's; "so you don't like to be told you are like your 
 grandmother, eh?" 
 
 Griselda turned round sharply to look for the speaker, but 
 he was not to be seen. And. when she turned again, the picture 
 of the great saloon had faded away. 
 
 * * * * * M * 
 
 One more picture. 
 
 Griselda looked again. She saw before her a country road 
 in full summer time; the sun was shining, the birds were singing, 
 the trees covered with their bright green leaves — everything ap- 
 peared happy and joyful. But at last in the distance she saw, 
 
50 STORIES BY MRS. MOLESWORTH 
 
 slowly approaching, a group of a few people, all walking together, 
 carrying in their centre something long and narrow, which, though 
 the black cloth covering it Avas almost hidden by the white flowers 
 with which it was thickly strewn, Griselda knew to be a coffin. 
 
 It was a funeral procession, and in the place of chief mourner, 
 with pale, set face, walked the same young man whom Griselda 
 had last seen dancing with the girl Sybilla in the great saloon. 
 
 The sad group passed slowly out of sight; but as it disap- 
 peared there fell upon the ear the sounds of sweet music, lovelier 
 far than she had heard before — lovelier than the magic cuckoo's 
 most lovely songs — and somehow, in the music, it seemed to the 
 child's fancy there were mingled the soft strains of a woman's 
 voice. 
 
 "It is Sybilla singing," thought Griselda dreamily, and with 
 that she fell asleep again. 
 
 gfc j|t ifc £]& jli ^k, jk 
 
 When she woke she was in the arm-chair by the ante-room 
 fire, everything around her looking just as usual, the cuckoo clock 
 ticking away calmly and regularly. Had it been a dream only? 
 Griselda could not make up her mind. 
 
 "But I don't see that it matters if it was," she said to herself. 
 "If it was a dream, the cuckoo sent it to me all the same, and I 
 thank you very much indeed, cuckoo," she went on, looking up 
 at the clock. "The last picture was rather sad, but still it was 
 very nice to see it, and I thank you very much, and I'll never say 
 again that I don't like to be told I'm like my dear pretty grand- 
 mother." 
 
 The cuckoo took no notice of what she said, but Griselda 
 did not mind. She was getting used to his "ways." 
 
 "I expect he hears me quite well," she thought; "and even 
 if he doesn't, it's only civil to try to thank him." 
 
 She sat still contentedly enough, thinking over what she had 
 seen, and trying to make more "pictures" for herself in the fire. 
 
THE CUCKOO CLOCK 51 
 
 Then there came faintly to her ears the sound of carriage wheels, 
 opening and shutting of doors, a little bustle of arrival. 
 
 "My aunts must have come back," thought Griselda; and 
 so it was. In a few minutes Miss Grizzel, closely followed by 
 Miss Tabitha, appeared at the ante-room door. 
 
 "Well, my love," said Miss Grizzel anxiously, "and how 
 are you? Has the time seemed very long while we were away?" 
 
 "Oh no, thank you, Aunt Grizzel," replied Griselda, "not 
 at all. I've been quite happy, and my cold's ever so much better, 
 and my headache's quite gone." 
 
 "Come, that is good news," said Miss Grizzel. "Not that 
 I'm exactly surprised," she continued, turning to Miss Tabitha, 
 "for there really is nothing like tansy tea for a feverish cold." 
 
 "Nothing," agreed Miss Tabitha; "there really is nothing 
 like it." 
 
 "Aunt Grizzel," said Griselda, after a few moments' silence, 
 "was my grandmother quite young when she died?" 
 
 "Yes, my love, very young," replied Miss Grizzel with a 
 change in her voice. 
 
 "And was her husband very sorry?" pursued Griselda. 
 
 "Heart-broken," said Miss Grizzel. "He did not live long 
 after, and then you know, my dear, your father was sent to us 
 to take care of. And noAv he has sent you — the third generation 
 of young creatures confided to our care." 
 
 "Yes," said Griselda. "My .grandmother died in the summer, 
 when all the flowers were out ; and she was buried in a pretty coun- 
 try place, wasn't she?" 
 
 "Yes," said Miss Grizzel, looking rather bewildered. 
 
 "And when she was a little girl she lived with her grand- 
 father, the old Dutch mechanic," continued Griselda, uncon- 
 sciously using the very words she had heard in her vision. "He 
 was a nice old man; and how clever of him to have made the 
 cuckoo clock, and such lots of other pretty, wonderful things. I 
 don't wonder little Sybilla loved him; he was so good to her. 
 
52 STORIES BY MRS. MOLESWORTH 
 
 But, oh, Aunt Grizzel, how pretty she was when she was a young 
 lady! That time that she danced with my grandfather in the 
 great saloon. And how very nice you and Aunt Tabitha looked 
 then, too." 
 
 Miss Grizzel held her very breath in astonishment; and no 
 doubt if Miss Tabitha had known she was doing so, she would 
 have held hers too. But , Griselda lay still, gazing at the fire, 
 quite unconscious of her aunt's surprise. 
 
 "Your papa told you all these old stories, I suppose, my 
 dear," said Miss Grizzel at last. 
 
 "Oh, no," said Griselda dreamily. "Papa never told me any 
 thing like that. Dorcas told me a very little, I think; at least, 
 she made me want to know, and I asked the cuckoo, and then, 
 you see, he showed me it all. It was so pretty." 
 
 Miss Grizzel glanced at her sister. 
 
 "Tabitha, my dear," she said in a low voice, "do you hear?" 
 
 And Miss Tabitha, who really was not very deaf when she 
 set herself to hear, nodded in awestruck silence. 
 
 "Tabitha," continued Miss Grizzel in the same tone, "it is 
 wonderful! Ah, yes, how true it is, Tabitha, that 'there are 
 more things in heaven and earth than are dreamt of in our phil- 
 osophy' " (for Miss Grizzel was a well-read old lady, you see) ; 
 "and from the very first, Tabitha, we always had a feeling that the 
 child was strangely like Sybilla." 
 
 "Strangely like Sybilla," echoed Miss Tabitha. 
 
 "May she grow up as good, if not quite as beautiful — that 
 we could scarcely expect; and may she be longer spared to those 
 that love her," added Miss Grizzel, bending over Griselda, while 
 two or three tears slowly trickled down her aged cheeks. "See, 
 Tabitha, the dear child is fast asleep. How sweet she looks! I 
 trust by to-morrow morning she will be quite , herself again; her 
 cold is so much better." 
 
THE CUCKOO CLOCK 53 
 
 CHAPTER VI 
 
 RUBBED THE WRONG WAY 
 
 "For now and then there comes a day 
 When everything goes wrong." 
 
 Griselda's cold was much better by "to-morrow morning." 
 In fact, I might almost say it was quite well. 
 
 But Griselda herself did not feel quite well, and saying this 
 reminds me that it is hardly sense to speak of a cold being better 
 or well — for a cold's being "well" means that it is not there at all, 
 out of existence, in short, and if a thing is out of existence how 
 can we say anything about it? Children, I feel quite in a hobble — 
 I cannot get my mind straight about it — please think it over and 
 give me your opinion. In the meantime, I will go on about 
 Griselda. 
 
 She felt just a little ill — a sort of feeling that sometimes is 
 rather nice, sometimes "very extremely" much the reverse! She 
 felt in the humour for being petted, and having beef-tea, and 
 jelly, and sponge cake with her tea, and for a day or two this 
 was all very well. She was petted, and she had lots of beef-tea, 
 and jelly, and grapes, and sponge cakes, and everything nice, for 
 her aunts, as you must have seen by this time, were really very, 
 very kind to her in every way in which they understood how to 
 be so. 
 
 But after a few days of the continued petting, and the 
 beef-tea and the jelly and all the rest of it, it occurred to Miss 
 Grizzel, who had a good large bump of "common sense," that it 
 might be possible to overdo this sort of thing. 
 
 "Tabitha," she said to her sister, when they were sitting 
 together in the evening after Griselda had gone to bed, "Tabitha, 
 my dear, I think the child is quite well again now. It seems to 
 me it would be well to send a note to good Mr. Kneebreeches, 
 to say that she will be able to resume her studies the day after 
 to-morrow." 
 
54 STORIES BY MRS. MOLESWORTH 
 
 "The day after to-morrow," repeated Miss Tabitha. "The 
 day after to-morrow — to say that she will be able to resume her 
 studies the day after to-morrow — oh yes, certainly. It would be 
 very well to send a note to good Mr. Kneebreeches, my dear 
 Grizzel." 
 
 "I thought you would agree with me," said Miss Grizzel, 
 with a sigh of relief (as if poor Miss Tabitha during all the last 
 half-century had ever ventured to do anything else), getting up 
 to fetch her writing materials as she spoke. "It is such a satis- 
 faction to consult together about what we do. I was only a 
 little afraid of being hard upon the child, but as you agree with 
 me, I ! have no longer any misgiving." 
 
 "Any misgiving, oh dear, no!" said Miss Tabitha. "You 
 have no reason for any misgiving, I am sure, my dear Grizzel." 
 
 So the note was written and despatched, and the next morn- 
 ing when, about twelve o'clock, Griselda made her appearance 
 in the little drawing-room where her aunts usually sat, looking, 
 it must be confessed, very plump and rosy for an invalid, Miss 
 Grizzel broached the subject. 
 
 "I have written to request Mr. Kneebreeches to resume his 
 instructions to-morrow," she said quietly. "I think you are quite 
 well again now, so Dorcas must wake you at your usual hour." 
 
 Griselda had been settling herself comfortably on a corner of 
 the sofa. She had got a nice book to read, which her father, 
 hearing of her illness, had sent her by post, and she was looking 
 forward to the tempting plateful of jelly which Dorcas had 
 brought her for luncheon every day since she had been ill. Alto- 
 gether, she was feeling very "lazy-easy" and contented. Her 
 aunt's announcement felt like a sudden downpour of cold water, 
 or rush of east wind. She sat straight up on her sofa, and ex- 
 claimed in a tone of great annoyance — — 
 
 "Oh, Aunt Grizzel!" 
 
 "Well, my dear?" said Miss Grizzel, placidly. 
 
 "I wish you wouldn't make me begin lessons again just yet. 
 
THE CUCKOO CLOCK 55 
 
 I know they'll make my head ache again, and Mr. Kneebreeches 
 will be so cross. I know he will, and he is so horrid when he is 
 cross." 
 
 "Hush!" said Miss Grizzel, holding up her hand in a way 
 that reminded Griselda of the cuckoo's favourite "obeying orders." 
 Just then, too, in the distance the ante-room clock struck twelve. 
 "Cuckoo! cuckoo! cuckoo!" on it went. Griselda could have 
 stamped with irritation, but somehow, in spite of herself, she felt 
 compelled to say nothing. She muttered some not very pretty 
 words, coiled herself round on the sofa, opened her book, and 
 began to read. 
 
 But it was not as interesting as she had expected. She had 
 not read many pages before she began to yawn, and she was 
 delighted to be interrupted by Dorcas and the jelly. 
 
 But the jelly was not as nice as she bad expected, either. 
 She tasted it, and thought it was too sweet; and when she tasted 
 it again, it seemed too strong of cinnamon; and the third taste 
 seemed too strong of everything. She laid down her spoon, and 
 looked about her discontentedly. 
 
 "What is the matter, my -dear?" said Miss Grizzel. "Is the 
 jelly not to your liking?" 
 
 "I don't know," said Griselda shortly. She ate a few spoon- 
 fuls, and then took up her book again. Miss Grizzel said nothing 
 more, but to herself she thought that Mr. Kneebreeches had not 
 been recalled any too soon. 
 
 All day long it was much the same. Nothing seemed to come 
 right to Griselda. It was a dull, cold day, what is. called "a black 
 frost"; not a bright, clear, pretty, cold day, but the sort of frost 
 that really makes the world seem dead — makes it almost impos- 
 sible to believe that there will ever be warmth and sound and 
 "growing-ness" again. 
 
 Late in the afternoon Griselda crept up to the ante-room, 
 and sat down by the window. Outside it was nearly dark, and 
 inside it was not much more cheerful — for the fire was nearlv out, 
 
56 STORIES BY MRS. MOLESWORTH 
 
 and no lamps were lighted; only the cuckoo clock went on tick- 
 ticking briskly as usual. 
 
 "I hate winter," said Griselda, pressing her cold little face 
 against the colder window-pane, "I hate winter, and I hate les- 
 sons. I would give up being a person in a minute if I might be 
 a — a — what would I best like to be? Oh yes, I know — a butter- 
 fly.. Butterflies never see winter, and they certainly never have 
 any lessons or any kind of work to do. I hate must-mg to do 
 anything." 
 
 "Cuckoo," rang out suddenly above her head. 
 
 It was only four o'clock striking, and as soon as he had told 
 it the cuckoo was back behind his doors again in an instant, just 
 as usual. There was nothing for Griselda to feel offended at, but 
 somehow she got quite angry. 
 
 "I don't care what you think, cuckoo!" she exclaimed defi- 
 antly. "I know you came out on purpose just now, but I don't 
 care. I do hate winter, and I do hate lessons, and I do think it 
 would be nicer to be a butterfly than a little girl." 
 
 In her secret heart I fancy she Avas half in hopes that the 
 cuckoo would come out again, and talk things over with her. 
 Even if he were to scold her, she felt that it would be better 
 than sitting, there alone with nobody to speak to, which was very 
 dull work indeed. At the bottom of her conscience there lurked 
 the knowledge that what she should be doing was to be looking 
 over her last lessons with Mr. Kneebreeches, and refreshing her 
 memory for the next day; but, alas! knowing one's duty is by 
 no means the same thing as doing it, and Griselda sat on by the 
 window doing nothing but grumble and work herself up into a 
 belief that she was one of the most-to-be-pitied little girls in all the 
 world. So that by the time Dorcas came to call her to tea, I 
 doubt if she had a single pleasant thought or feeling left in her 
 heart. 
 
 Things grew no better after tea, and before long Griselda 
 asked if she might go to bed. She was "so tired," she said; and 
 
THE CUCKOO CLOCK 57 
 
 she certainly looked so, for ill-humour and idleness are excellent 
 "tirers," and will soon take the roses out of a child's cheeks, and 
 the brightness out of her eyes. She held up her face to be kissed 
 by her aunts in a meekly reproachful way, which made the old 
 ladies feel quite uncomfortable. 
 
 "I am by no means sure that I have done right in recalling 
 Mr. Kneebreeches so soon, Sister Tabitha," remarked Miss Griz- 
 zel, uneasily, when Griselda had left the room. But Miss Tabitha 
 was busy counting her stitches, and did not give full attention 
 to Miss Grizzel's observation, so she just repeated placidly, "Oh 
 yes, Sister Grizzel, you may be sure you have done right in re- 
 calling Mr. Kneebreeches." 
 
 "I am glad you think so," said Miss Tabitha, with again a 
 little sigh of relief. "I was only distressed to see the child look- 
 ing so white and tired." 
 
 Upstairs Griselda was hurry-scurrying into bed. There was 
 a lovely fire in her room — fancy that! Was she not a poor 
 neglected little creature? But even this did not please her. She 
 was too cross to be pleased with anything ; too cross to wash her 
 face and hands, or let Dorcas brush her hair out nicely as usual; 
 too cross, alas, to say her prayers! She just huddled into bed, 
 huddling up her mind in an untidy hurry and confusion, just as 
 she left her clothes in an untidy heap on the floor. She would 
 not look into herself, was the truth of it; she shrank from doing 
 so because she knew things had been going on in that silly little 
 heart of hers in a most unsatisfactory way all day, and she wanted 
 to go to sleep and forget all about it. 
 
 She did go to sleep, very quickly too. No doubt she really 
 was tired; tired with crossness and doing nothing, and she slept 
 very soundly. When she woke up she felt so refreshed and rested 
 that she fancied it must be morning. It was dark, of course, but 
 that was to be expected in mid-winter, especially as the shutters 
 were closed. 
 
 "I wonder," thought Griselda, "I wonder if it really is morn- 
 
58 STORIES BY MRS. MOLESWORTH 
 
 ing. I should like to get up early — I went so early to bed. I 
 think I'll just jump out of bed and open a chink of the shutters. 
 I'll see at once if it's nearly morning, by the look of the sky." 
 
 She was up in a minute, feeling her way across the room 
 to the window, and without much difficult y she found the hook 
 of the shutters, unfastened it, and threw one side open. Ah no, 
 there was no sign of morning to be seen. There was moonlight, 
 but nothing else, and not so very much of that, for the clouds were 
 hurrying across the "orbed maiden's" face at such a rate, one 
 after the other, that the light was more like a number of pale 
 flashes than the steady, cold shining of most frosty moonlight 
 nights. There was going to be a change of weather, and the 
 cloud armies were collecting together from all quarters; that was 
 the real explanation of the hurrying and scurrying Griselda saw 
 overhead, but this, of course, she did not understand. She only 
 saw that it looked wild and stormy, and she shivered a little, 
 partly with cold, partly with a half-frightened feeling that she 
 could not have explained. 
 
 "I had better go back to bed," she said to herself; "but I am 
 not a bit sleepy." 
 
 She was just drawing-to the shutter again, when something 
 caught her eye, and she stopped short in surprise. A little bird 
 was outside on the window-sill— a tiny bird crouching in close to 
 the cold glass. Griselda's kind heart was touched in an instant. 
 Cold as she was, she pushed back the shutter again, and drawing 
 a chair forward to the window, managed to unfasten it — it was 
 a very heavy one — and to open it wide enough to slip her hand 
 gently along to the bird. It did not start or move. 
 
 "Can it be dead?" thought Griselda anxiously. 
 
 But no, it was not dead. It let her put her hand round it 
 and draw it in, and to her delight she felt that it was soft and 
 warm, and it even gave a gentle peck on her thumb. 
 
 "Poor little bird, how cold you must be," she said kindly. 
 But, to her amazement, no sooner was the bird safely inside the 
 
THE CUCKOO CLOCK 59 
 
 room, than it managed cleverly to escape from her hand. It 
 fluttered quietly up on to her shoulder, and sang out in a soft 
 but cheery tone, "Cuckoo, cuckoo — cold, did you say, Griselda? 
 Not so very, thank you." 
 
 Griselda stept back from the window. 
 
 "It's you, is it?" she said rather surlily, her tone seeming to 
 infer that she had taken a great deal of trouble for nothing. 
 
 "Of course it is, and why shouldn't it be? You're not gen- 
 erally so sorry to see me. What's the matter?" 
 
 "Nothing's the matter," replied Griselda, feeling a little 
 ashamed of her want of civility; "only you see, if I had known 
 it was you " She hesitated. 
 
 "You wouldn't have clambered up and hurt your poor fingers 
 in opening the window if you had known it was me — is that it, 
 eh?" said the cuckoo. 
 
 Somehow, when the cuckoo said "eh?" like that, Griselda was 
 obliged to tell just what she was thinking. 
 
 "No, I wouldn't have needed to open the window," she said. 
 "You can get in or out whenever you like; you're not like a real 
 bird. Of course, you were just tricking me, sitting out there and 
 pretending to be a starved robin." 
 
 There was a little indignation in her voice, and she gave her 
 head a toss, which nearly upset the cuckoo. 
 
 "Dear me, dear me!" exclaimed the cuckoo. "You have a 
 great deal to complain of, Griselda. Your time and strength 
 must be very valuable for you to regret so much having wasted 
 a little of them on me." 
 
 Griselda felt her face grow red. What did he mean? Did he 
 know how yesterday had been spent? She said nothing, but she 
 drooped her head, and one or two tears came slowly creeping up 
 to her eyes. 
 
 "Child!" said the cuckoo, suddenly changing his tone, "you 
 are very foolish. Is a kind thought or action ever wasted? Can 
 your eyes see what such good seeds grow into? They have wings, 
 
60 STORIES BY MRS. MOLESWORTH 
 
 Griselda — kindnesses have wings and roots, remember that — 
 wings that never droop, and roots that never die. What do you 
 think I came and sat outside your window for?" 
 
 "Cuckoo," said Griselda humbly, "I am very sorry." 
 
 "Very well," said the cuckoo, "we'll leave it for the present. 
 I have something else to see about. Are you cold, Griselda?" 
 
 "Very," she replied. "I would very much like to go back to 
 bed, cuckoo, if you please ; and there's plenty of room for you too, 
 if you'd like to come in and get warm." 
 
 "There are other ways of getting warm besides going to 
 bed," said the cuckoo. "A nice brisk walk, for instance. I was 
 going to ask you to come out into the garden with me." 
 
 Griselda almost screamed. 
 
 "Out into the garden! Oh, cuckoo!" she exclaimed, "how can 
 you think of such a thing? Such a freezing cold night. Oh no, 
 indeed, cuckoo, I couldn't possibly." 
 
 "Very well, Griselda," said the cuckoo; "if you haven't yet 
 learnt to trust me, there's no more to be said. Good-night." 
 
 He flapped his wings, cried out "Cuckoo" once only, flew 
 across the room, and almost before Griselda understood what he 
 was doing, had disappeared. 
 
 She hurried after him, stumbling against the furniture in her 
 haste, and by the uncertain light. The door was not open, but 
 the cuckoo had got through it — "by the keyhole, I dare say," 
 thought Griselda; "he can 'scrooge' himself up any way" — for a 
 faint "cuckoo" was to be heard on its other side. In a moment 
 Griselda had opened it, and was speeding down the long passage 
 in the dark, guided only by the voice from time to time heard 
 before her, "cuckoo, cuckoo." 
 
 She forgot all about the cold, or rather, she did not feel it, 
 though the floor was of uncarpeted old oak, whose hard, polished 
 surface would have usually felt like ice to a child's soft, bare feet. 
 It was a very long passage, and to-night, somehow, it seemed 
 longer than ever. In fact, Griselda could have fancied she had 
 
THE CUCKOO CLOCK 61 
 
 been running along it for half a mile or more, when at last she 
 was brought to a standstill by finding she could go no further. 
 Where was she? She could not imagine! It must be a part of 
 the house she had never explored in the daytime, she decided. In 
 front of her was a little stair running downwards, and ending in 
 a doorway. All this Griselda could see by a bright light that 
 streamed in by the keyhole and through the chinks round the door 
 
 a light so brilliant that the little girl blinked her eyes, and 
 
 for a moment felt quite dazzled and confused. 
 
 "It came so suddenly," she said to herself; "some one must 
 have lighted a lamp in there all at once. But it can't be a lamp, 
 it's too bright for a lamp. It's more like the sun; but how ever 
 could the sun be shining in a room in the middle of the night? 
 What shall I do? Shall I open the door and peep in?" 
 
 "Cuckoo, cuckoo," came the answer, soft but clear, from the 
 other side. 
 
 "Can it be a trick of the cuckoo's to get me out into the gar- 
 den?" thought Griselda; and for the first time since she had run 
 out of her room a shiver of cold made her teeth chatter and her 
 skin feel creepy. 
 
 "Cuckoo, cuckoo," sounded again, nearer this time, it seemed 
 to Griselda. 
 
 "He's waiting for me. I will trust him," she said resolutely. 
 "He has always been good and kind, and it's horrid of me to 
 think he's going to trick me." 
 
 She ran down the little stair, she seized the handle of the 
 door. It turned easily; the door opened — opened, and closed 
 again noiselessly behind her, and what do you think she saw? 
 
 "Shut your eyes for a minute, Griselda," said the cuckoo's 
 voice beside her; "the light will dazzle you at first. Shut them, 
 and I will brush them with a little daisy dew, to strengthen them." 
 
 Griselda did as she was told. She felt the tip of the cuckoo's 
 softest feather pass gently two or three times over her eyelids, 
 and a delicious iscent seemed immediately to float before her. 
 
62 STORIES BY MRS. MOLESWORTH 
 
 "I didn't know daisies had any scent," she remarked. 
 
 "Perhaps you didn't. You forget, Griselda, that you have a 
 great " 
 
 "Oh, please don't, cuckoo. Please, please don't, dear cuckoo," 
 she exclaimed, dancing about with her hands clasped in entreaty, 
 but her eyes still firmly closed. "Don't say that, and I'll promise 
 to believe whatever you tell me. And Iioav soon may I open 
 my eyes, please, cuckoo?" 
 
 "Turn round slowly, three times. That will give the dew 
 time to take , effect," said the cuckoo. "Here goes — one — two — 
 three. There, now." 
 
 Griselda opened her eyes. 
 
 CHAPTER VII 
 
 BUTTERFLY-LAND 
 "I'd be a butterfly." 
 
 Griselda opened her eyes. 
 
 What did she see? 
 
 The loveliest, loveliest garden that ever or never a little girl's 
 eyes saw. As for describing it, I cannot. I must leave a good 
 deal to your fancy. It was just a delicious garden. There was 
 a charming mixture of all that is needed to make a garden perfect 
 — grass, velvety lawn rather; water, for a little brook ran tinkling 
 in and out, playing bo-peep among the bushes; trees, of course, 
 and flowers, of course, flowers of every shade and shape. But all 
 these beautiful things Griselda did not at first give as much 
 attention to as they deserved; her eyes were so occupied with a 
 quite unusual sight that met them. 
 
 This was butterflies! Not that butterflies are so very un- 
 common; but butterflies, as Griselda saw them, I am quite sure, 
 children, none of you ever saw, or are likely to see. There were 
 
THE CUCKOO CLOCK 63 
 
 such enormous numbers of them, and the variety of their colours 
 and sizes was so great. They were fluttering about everywhere; 
 the garden seemed actually alive with them. 
 
 Griselda stood for a moment in silent delight, feasting her 
 eyes on the lovely things before her, enjoying the delicious sun- 
 shine which kissed her poor little bare feet, and seemed to wrap 
 her all up in its warm embrace. Then she turned to her little 
 friend. 
 
 "Cuckoo," she said, "I thank you so much. This is fairyland, 
 at last!" 
 
 The cuckoo smiled, I was going to say, but that would be 
 a figure of speech only, would it not? He shook his head gently. 
 
 "No, Griselda," he said kindly; "this is only butterfly-land." 
 
 "Butterfly-land !" repeated Griselda, with a little disappoint- 
 ment in her tone. 
 
 "Well," said the cuckoo, "it's where you were wishing to be 
 yesterday, isn't it?" 
 
 Griselda did not particularly like these allusions to "yes- 
 terday." She thought it would be as well to change the subject. 
 
 "It's a beautiful place, whatever it is," she said, "and I'm 
 sure, cuckoo, I'm very much obliged to you for bringing me here. 
 Now may I run about and look at everything? How delicious 
 it is to feel the warm sunshine again! I didn't know how cold I 
 was. Look, cuckoo, my toes and fingers are quite blue; they're 
 only just beginning to come right again. I suppose the sun 
 always shines here. How nice it must be to be a butterfly; don't 
 you think so, cuckoo? Nothing to do but fly about." 
 
 She stopped at last, quite out bf breath. 
 
 "Griselda," said the cuckoo, "if you want me to answer your 
 questions, you must ask them one at a time. You may run about 
 and look at everything if you like, but you had better not be in 
 such a hurry. You will make a great many mistakes if you are — 
 you have made some already." 
 
 "How?" said Griselda. 
 
64 STORIES BY MRS. MOLESWORTH 
 
 "Have the butterflies nothing to do but fly about? Watch 
 them." 
 
 Griselda watched. 
 
 "They do seem to be doing something," she said, at last, "but 
 I can't think what. They seem to be nibbling at the flowers, and 
 then flying away something like bees gathering honey. Butterflies 
 don't gather honey, cuckoo?" 
 
 "No," said the cuckoo. "They are filling their paint-boxes." 
 
 "What do you mean?" said Griselda. 
 
 "Come and see," said the cuckoo. 
 
 He flew quietly along in front of her, leading the way 
 through the prettiest paths in all the pretty garden. The paths 
 were arranged in different colours, as it were; that is to say, the 
 flowers growing along their sides were not all "mixty-maxty," 
 but one shade after another in regular order— from the palest 
 blush pink to the very deepest damask crimson; then, again, from 
 the soft greenish blue of the small grass forget-me-not to the 
 rich warm tinge of the brilliant cornflower. Every tint was 
 there; shades, to which, though not exactly .strange to her, Gris- 
 elda could yet have given no name, for the daisy dew, you see, 
 had sharpened her eyes to observe delicate variations of colour, 
 as she had never done before. 
 
 "How beautifully the flowers are planned," she said to the 
 cuckoo. "Is it just to look pretty, or why?" 
 
 "It saves time," replied the cuckoo. "The fetch-and-carry 
 butterflies know exactly where to go to for the tint the world- 
 flower-painters want." 
 
 "Who are the fetch-and-carry butterflies, and who are the 
 world-flower-painters?" asked Griselda. 
 
 "Wait a bit and you'll see, and use your eyes," answered 
 the cuckoo. "It'll do your tongue no harm to have a rest now 
 and then." 
 
 Griselda thought it as well to take his advice, though not 
 particularly relishing the manner in which it was given. She 
 
THE CUCKOO CLOCK 65 
 
 did use her eyes, and as she and the cuckoo made their way along 
 the flower alleys, she saw that the butterflies were never idle. 
 They came regularly, in little parties of two and threes, and 
 nibbled away, as she called it, at flowers of the same colour but 
 different shades, till they had got what they wanted. Then off 
 flew butterfly No. 1 with perhaps the palest tint of maize, or 
 yellow, or lavender, whichever he was in quest of, followed by 
 No. 2 with the next deeper shade of the same, and No. 3 bringing 
 up the rear. 
 
 Griselda gave a little sigh. 
 
 "What's the matter?" said the cuckoo. 
 
 "They work very hard," she replied, in a melancholy tone. 
 
 "It's a busy time of year," observed the cuckoo, drily. 
 
 After a while they came to what seemed to be a sort of centre 
 to the garden. It was a huge glass house, with numberless doors, 
 in and out of which butterflies were incessantly flying — reminding 
 Griselda again of bees and a beehive. But she made no remark 
 till the cuckoo spoke again. 
 
 "Come in," he said. 
 
 Griselda had to stoop a good deal, -but she did manage to 
 get in without knocking her head or doing any damage. Inside 
 was just a mass of butterflies. A confused mass it seemed at 
 first, but after a while she saw that it was the very reverse of 
 confused. The butterflies were all settled in rows on long, 
 narrow, white tables, and before each was a tiny object about 
 the size of a flattened-out pin's head, which he was most carefully 
 painting with one of his tentacles, whidh, from time to time, he 
 moistened by rubbing it on the head of a butterfly waiting pa- 
 tiently behind him. Behind this butterfly again stood another, 
 who after a while took his place, while the first attendant flew 
 away. 
 
 "To fill his paint-box again," remarked the cuckoo, who 
 seemed to read Griselda's thoughts. 
 
 "But what are they painting, cuckoo?" she inquired eagerly. 
 
66 STORIES BY MRS. MOLESWORTH 
 
 "All the flowers in the world," replied the cuckoo. "Autumn, 
 winter, and spring, they're hard at work. It's only just for the 
 three months of summer that the butterflies have any holiday, and 
 then a few stray ones now and then wander up to the world, 
 and people talk about 'idle butterflies!' And even then it isn't 
 true that they are idle. They go up to take a look at the flowers, 
 to see how their work has turned out, and many a damaged petal 
 they repair, or touch up a faded tint, though no one ever 
 knows it." 
 
 "1 know it now," said Griselda. "I will never talk about 
 idle butterflies again — never. But, cuckoo, do they paint all the 
 flowers here, too? What a fearful lot they must have to do!" 
 
 "No," said the cuckoo; "the flowers down here are fairy 
 flowers. They never fade or die, they are always just as you 
 see them. But the colours of your flowers are all taken from 
 them, as you have seen. Of course they don't look the same up 
 there," he went on, with a slight contemptuous shrug of his cuckoo 
 shoulders; "the coarse air and the ugly things about must take 
 the bloom off. The wild flowers do the best, to my thinking; 
 people don't meddle with them in their stupid, clumsy way." 
 
 "But how do they get the flowers sent up to the world, 
 cuckoo?" asked Griselda. 
 
 "They're packed up, of course, and taken up at night when 
 all of you are asleep," said the cuckoo. "They're painted on 
 elastic stuff, you see, which fits itself as the plant grows. Why, 
 if your eyes were as they are usually, Griselda, you couldn't even 
 see the petals the butterflies are painting now." 
 
 "And the packing up," said Griselda; "do the butterflies do 
 that too?" 
 
 "No," said the cuckoo, "the fairies look after that." 
 
 "How wonderful!" exclaimed Griselda. But before the 
 cuckoo had time to say more a sudden tumult filled the air. It 
 was butterfly dinner-time! 
 
 "Are you hungry, Griselda?" sad the cuckoo. 
 
THE CUCKOO CLOCK 67 
 
 "Not so very," replied Griselda. 
 
 "It's just as well perhaps that you're not," he remarked, 
 "for I don't know that you'd be much the better for dinner here." 
 
 "Why not?" inquired Griselda curiously. "What do they 
 have for dinner? Honey? I like that very well, spread on the 
 top of bread-and-butter, of course — I don't think I should care to 
 eat it alone." 
 
 "You won't get any honey," the cuckoo was beginning; but 
 he was interrupted. Two handsome butterflies flew into the 
 great glass hall, and making straight for the cuckoo, alighted on 
 his shoulders. They fluttered about him for a minute or two, evi- 
 dently rather excited about something, then flew away again, as 
 suddenly as they had appeared. 
 
 "Those were royal messengers," said the cuckoo, turning to 
 Griselda. "They have come with a message from the king and 
 queen to invite us to a banquet which is to be held in honour of 
 your visit." 
 
 "What fun!" cried Griselda. "Do let's go at once, cuckoo. 
 But, oh dear me," she went on, with a melancholy change of tone, 
 "I was forgetting, cuckoo. I can't go to the banquet. I have 
 nothing on but my night-gown. I never thought of it before, 
 for I'm not a bit cold." 
 
 "Never mind," said the cuckoo, "I'll soon have that put to 
 rights." 
 
 He flew off, and was back almost immediately, followed by a 
 whole flock of butterflies. They were of a smaller kind than 
 Griselda had hitherto seen, and they were of two colours only; 
 half were blue, half yellow. They flew up to Griselda, who felt 
 for a moment as if she were really going to be suffocated by them, 
 but only for a moment. There seemed a great buzz and flutter 
 about her, and then the butterflies set to work to dress her. And 
 how do you think they dressed her? With themselves! They 
 arranged themselves all over her in the cleverest way. One set 
 of blue ones clustered round the hem of her little white night- 
 
(58 STORIES BY MRS. MOLES WORTH 
 
 gown, making a thick "ruche," as it were; and then there came 
 two or three thinner rows of yellow, and then blue again. Round 
 her waist they made the loveliest belt of mingled blue and yellow, 
 and all over -the upper part of her night-gown, in and out among 
 the pretty white frills which Dorcas herself "goffered" so nicely, 
 they made themselves into fantastic trimmings of every shape and 
 kind; bows, rosettes — I cannot tell you what they did not imitate. 
 
 Perhaps the prettiest ornament of all was the coronet or 
 wreath they made of themselves for her head, dotting over her 
 curly brown hair too with butterfly spangles, which quivered 
 like dew-drops as she moved about. No one would have known 
 Griselda; she looked like a fairy queen, or princess, at least, for 
 even her little white feet had what looked like butterfly shoes upon 
 them, though these, you will understand, were only a sort of make- 
 believe, as, of course, the shoes were soleless. 
 
 "Now," said the cuckoo, when at last all was quiet again, 
 and every blue and every yellow butterfly seemed settled in his 
 place, "now, Griselda, come and look at yourself." 
 
 He led the way to a marble basin, into which fell the waters 
 of one of the tinkling brooks that were to be found everywhere 
 about the garden, and bade_ Griselda look into the water mirror. 
 It danced about rather; but still she was quite able to see herself. 
 She peered in Avith great satisfaction, turning herself round, so 
 as to see first over one shoulder, then over the other. 
 
 "It is lovely," she said at last. "But, cuckoo, I'm just think- 
 ing—how shall I possibly be able to sit down without crushing 
 ever so many?" 
 
 "Bless you, you needn't trouble about that," said the cuckoo; 
 "The butterflies are quite able to take care of themselves. You 
 don't suppose you are the first little girl they have ever made a 
 dress for?" 
 
 Griselda said no more, but followed the cuckoo, walking 
 rather "gingerly," notwithstanding his assurances that the butter- 
 flies could take care of themselves. At last the cuckoo stopped, 
 
THE CUCKOO CLOCK 69 
 
 in front of a sort of banked-up terrace, in the centre of which 
 grew a strange-looking plant with large smooth, spreading-out 
 leaves, and on the two topmost leaves, their splendid wings glit- 
 tering in the sunshine, sat two magnificent butterflies. They were 
 many times larger than any Griselda had yet seen; in fact, the 
 cuckoo himself looked rather small beside them, and they were so 
 beautiful that Griselda felt quite over-awed. You could not have 
 said what colour they were, for at the faintest movement they 
 seemed to change into new colours, each more exquisite than the 
 last. Perhaps I could best give you an idea of them by saying 
 that they were like living rainbows. 
 
 "Are those the king and queen?" asked Griselda in a 
 whisper. 
 
 "Yes," said the cuckoo. "Do you admire them?" 
 
 *'I should rather think I did," said Griselda. "But, cuckoo, 
 do they never do anything but lie there in the sunshine?" 
 
 "Oh, you silly girl," exclaimed the cuckoo, "always jumping 
 at conclusions. No, indeed, that is not how they manage things 
 in butterfly-land. The king and queen have worked harder than 
 any other butterflies. They are chosen every now and then, out 
 of all the others, as being the most industrious and the cleverest 
 of all the world-flower-painters, and then they are allowed to rest, 
 and are fed on the finest essences, so that they grow as splendid 
 as you see. But even now they are not idle; they superintend 
 all the work that is done, and choose all the new colours." 
 
 "Dear me!" said Griselda, under her breath, "how clever 
 they must be." 
 
 Just then the butterfly king and queen stretched out their 
 magnificent wings, and rose upwards, soaring proudly into the 
 air. 
 
 "Are they going away?" said Griselda in a disappointed tone. 
 
 "Oh no," said the cuckoo; "they are welcoming you. Hold 
 out your hands." 
 
 Griselda held out her hands, and stood gazing up into the 
 
70 STORIES BY MRS. MOLESWORTH 
 
 sky. In a minute or two the royal butterflies appeared again, 
 slowly, majestically circling downwards, till at length they 
 alighted on Griselda's little hands, the king on the right, the queen 
 on the left, almost covering her fingers with their great dazzling 
 wings. 
 
 "You do look nice now," said the cuckoo, hopping back a 
 few steps and looking up at Griselda approvingly; "but it's time 
 for the feast to begin, as it won't do for us to be late." 
 
 The king and queen appeared to understand. They floated 
 away from Griselda's hands and settled themselves, this time, at 
 one end of a beautiful little grass plot or lawn, just below the 
 terrace where grew the large-leaved plant. This was evidently 
 their dining-room, for no sooner were they in their place than 
 butterflies of every kind and colour came pouring in, in masses, 
 from all directions. Butterflies small and butterflies large; but- 
 terflies light and butterflies dark; butterflies blue, pink, crimson, 
 green, gold-colour — every colour, and far, far more colours than 
 you could possibly imagine. 
 
 They all settled down, round the sides of the grassy dining-table, 
 and in another minute a number of small white butterflies ap- 
 peared, carrying among them floAver petals carefully rolled up, 
 each containing a drop of liquid. One of these was presented to 
 the king, and then one to the queen, who each sniffed at their 
 petal for an instant, and then passed it on to the butterfly next 
 them, whereupon fresh petals were handed to them, which they 
 again passed on. 
 
 "What are they doing, cuckoo?" said Griselda; "that's not 
 eating." 
 
 "It's their kind of eating," he replied. "They don't require 
 any other kind of food than a sniff of perfume; and as there are 
 perfumes extracted from every flower in butterfly-land, and there 
 are far more flowers than you could count between now and 
 Christmas, you must allow there is plenty of variety of dishes." 
 
 "Um-m," said Griselda; "I suppose there is. But all the 
 
THE CUCKOO CLOCK 71 
 
 same, cuckoo, it's a very good thing I'm not hungry, isn't it? 
 May I pour the scent on my pocket-handkerchief when it comes 
 round to me? I have my handkerchief here, you see. Isn't it 
 nice that I brought it? It was under my pillow, and I wrapped 
 it round my hand to open the shutter, for the hook scratched it 
 once." 
 
 "You may pour one drop on your handkerchief," said the 
 cuckoo, "but not more. I shouldn't like the butterflies to think 
 you greedy." 
 
 But Griselda grew very tired of the scent feast long before 
 all the petals had been passed round. The perfumes were very 
 nice, certainly, but there were such quantities of them — double 
 quantities in honour of the guest, of course! Griselda screwed 
 up her handkerchief into a tight little ball, so that the one drop 
 of scent should not escape from it, and then she kept sniffing 
 at it impatiently, till at last the cuckoo asked her what was the 
 matter. 
 
 "I am so tired of the feast," she said. "Do let us do some- 
 thing else, cuckoo." 
 
 "It is getting rather late," said the cuckoo. "But see, Gris- 
 elda, they are going to have an air-dance now." 
 
 "What's that?" said Griselda. 
 
 "Look, and you'll see," he replied. 
 
 Flocks and flocks of butterflies were rising a short way into 
 the air, and there arranging themselves in bands according to their 
 colours. 
 
 "Come up on the bank," said the cuckoo to Griselda; "you'll 
 see them better." 
 
 Griselda climbed up the bank, and as from there she could 
 look down on the butterfly show, she saw it beautifully. The 
 long strings of butterflies twisted in and out of each other in a 
 most wonderful way, like ribbons of every hue plaiting themselves 
 and then in an instant unplaiting themselves again. Then the 
 king and queen placed themselves in the centre, and round and 
 
72 STORIES BY MRS. MOLESWORTH 
 
 round in moving circles twisted and untwisted the brilliant bands 
 of butterflies. 
 
 "It's like a kaleidoscope," said Griselda; "and now it's like 
 those twisty-twirly dissolving views that papa took me to see once. 
 It's just like them. Oh, how pretty! Cuckoo, are they doing it 
 all on purpose to please me?" 
 
 "A good deal," said the cuckoo. "Stand up and clap your 
 hands loud three times, to show them you're pleased." 
 
 Griselda obeyed. "Clap" number one — all the butterflies rose 
 up into the air in a cloud; clap number two — they all fluttered 
 and twirled and buzzed about, as if in the greatest excitement; 
 clap number three — they all turned in Griselda's direction with 
 a rush. 
 
 "They're going to kiss you, Griselda," cried the cuckoo. 
 
 Griselda felt her breath going. Up above her was the vast 
 feathery cloud of butterflies, fluttering, rushing down upon her. 
 
 "Cuckoo, cuckoo," she screamed, "they'll suffocate me. Oh, 
 cuckoo!" 
 
 "Shut your eyes, and clap your hands loud, very loud," called 
 out the cuckoo. 
 
 And just as Griselda clapped her hands, holding her precious 
 handkerchief between her teeth, she heard him give his usual cry, 
 "Cuckoo, cuckoo." 
 
 Clap — where were they all? 
 
 Griselda opened her eyes — garden, butterflies, cuckoo, all 
 had disappeared. She was in bed, and Dorcas was knocking at 
 the door with the hot water. 
 
 "Miss Grizzel said I was to wake you at your usual time this 
 morning, missie," she said. "I hope you don't feel too tired to 
 get up." 
 
 "Tired! 1 should think not," replied Griselda. "I was 
 awake this morning ages before you, I can tell you, my dear 
 Dorcas. Come here for a minute, Dorcas, please," she went on. 
 
Os. </-. 
 
 ©BY DUFFIELD a COMPANY 
 
 "Round and round in moving circles, twisted and untwisted, the brilliant bands 
 
 of butterflies." 
 
THE CUCKOO CLOCK 73 
 
 "There now, sniff my handkerchief. What do you think of 
 that?" 
 
 "It's beautiful," said Dorcas. "It's out of the big blue chinay 
 bottle on your auntie's table, isn't it, missie?" 
 
 "Suff and nonsense," replied Griselda; "it's scent of my own, 
 Dorcas. Aunt Grizzel never had any like it in her life. There 
 now! Please give me my slippers, I want to get up and look 
 over my lessons for Mr. Kneebreeches before he comes. Dear 
 me," she added to herself, as she was putting on her slippers, 
 "how pretty my feet did look with the blue butterfly shoes! It 
 was very good of the cuckoo to take me there, but I don't think I 
 shall ever wish to be a butterfly again, now I know how hard they 
 work! But I'd like to do my lessons well to-day. I fancy it'll 
 please the dear old cuckoo." 
 
 CHAPTER VIII 
 
 MASTER PHIL 
 
 "Who comes from the world of flowers? 
 Daisy and crocus, and sea-blue bell, 
 And violet shrinking in dewy cell — 
 Sly cells that know the secrets of night, 
 When earth is bathed in fairy light — 
 
 Scarlet, and blue, and golden flowers." 
 
 And so Mr. Kneebreeches had no reason to complain of his 
 pupil that day. 
 
 And Miss Grizzel congratulated herself more heartily than 
 ever on her wise management of children. 
 
 And Miss Tabitha repeated that Sister Grizzel might indeed 
 congratulate herself. 
 
 And Griselda became gradually more and more convinced 
 that the only way as yet discovered of getting through hard tasks 
 is to set to work and do them ; also, that grumbling, as things are 
 at present arranged in this world, does not always, nor I may 
 
74 STORIES BY MRS. MOLESWORTH 
 
 say often, do good; furthermore, that an ill-tempered child is not, 
 on the whole, likely to be as much loved as a good-tempered one; 
 lastly, that if you wait long enough, winter will go and spring 
 will come. 
 
 For this was the case this year after all! Spring had only 
 been sleepy and lazy, and in such a case what could poor old winter 
 do but fill the vacant post till she came? Why he should be so 
 scolded and reviled for faithfully doing his best, as he often is, 
 I really don't know. Not that all the ill words he gets have much 
 effect on him — he comes again just as usual, whatever we say 
 of, or to, him. I suppose his feelings have long ago been frozen 
 up, or surely before this he would have taken offence — well for 
 us that he has not done so! 
 
 But when the spring did come at last this year, it would be 
 impossible for me to tell you how Griselda enjoyed it. It was 
 like new life to her as well as to the plants, and flowers, and birds, 
 and insects. Hitherto, you see, she had been able to see very little 
 of the outside of her aunt's house; and charming as the inside 
 was, the outside, I must say, was still "charminger." There 
 seemed no end to the little up-and-down paths and alleys, leading 
 to rustic seats and quaint arbours; no limits to the little pine- 
 wood, down into which led the dearest little zig-zaggy path you 
 ever saw, all bordered with snow-drops and primroses and violets, 
 and later on with periwinkles, and wood anemones, and those 
 bright, starry, white flowers, whose name no two people agree 
 about. 
 
 This wood-path was the place, I think, which Griselda loved 
 the best. The bowling-green was certainly very delightful, and 
 so was the terrace where the famous roses grew; but lovely as the 
 roses were (I am speaking just now, of course, of later on in the 
 summer, when they were all in bloom), Griselda could not enjoy 
 them as much as the wild-flowers, for she was forbidden to gather 
 or touch them, except with her funny round nose! 
 
 "You may scent them, my dear," said Miss Grizzel, who was 
 
THE CUCKOO CLOCK 75 
 
 of opinion that smell was not a pretty word; "but I cannot allow 
 anything more. " 
 
 And Griselda did "scent" them, I assure you. She burrowed 
 her whole rosy face in the big ones; but gently, for she did not 
 want to spoil them, both for her aunt's sake, and because, too, 
 she had a greater regard for flowers now that she knew the secret 
 of how they were painted, and what a great deal of trouble the 
 butterflies take about them. 
 
 But after a while one grows tired of "scenting" roses; and 
 even the trying to walk straight across the bowling-green with 
 her eyes shut, from the arbour at one side to the arbour exactly like 
 it at the other, grew stupid, though no doubt it would have been 
 capital fun with a companion to applaud or criticise. 
 
 So the wood-path became Griselda's favourite haunt. As 
 the summer grew on, she began to long more than ever for a 
 companion — not so much for play, as for some one to play with. 
 She had lessons, of course, just as many as in the winter; but with 
 the long days, there seemed to come a quite unaccountable in- 
 crease of play-time, and Griselda sometimes found it hang heavy 
 on her hands. She had not seen or heard anything of the cuckoo 
 either, save, of course, in his "official capacity" of time-teller, for 
 a very long time. 
 
 "I suppose," she thought, "he thinks I don't need amusing, 
 now that the fine days are come and I can play in the garden; 
 and certainly, if I had any one to play with, the garden would be 
 perfectly lovely." 
 
 But, failing companions, she did the best she could for her- 
 self, and this was why she loved the path down into the wood so 
 much. There was a sort of mystery about it; it might have been 
 the path leading to the cottage of Red-Ridinghood's grandmother, 
 or a path leading to fairyland itself. There were all kinds of 
 queer, nice, funny noises to be heard there — in one part of it 
 especially, where Griselda made herself a seat of some moss- 
 grown stones, and where she came so often that she got to know 
 
76 STORIES BY MRS. MOLESWORTH 
 
 all the little flowers growing close round about, and even the 
 particular birds whose nests were hard by. 
 
 She used to sit there and fancy — fancy that she heard the 
 wood-elves chattering under their breath, or the little under- 
 ground gnomes and kobolds hammering at their fairy forges. 
 And the tinkling of the brook in the distance sounded like the 
 enchanted bells round the necks of the fairy kine, who are sent 
 out to pasture sometimes on the upper world hillsides. For Gris- 
 elda' s head was crammed full, perfectly full, of fairy lore; and the 
 mandarins' country, and butterfly-land, were quite as real to her 
 as the every-day world about her. 
 
 But all this time she was not forgotten by the cuckoo, as you 
 will see. 
 
 One day she was sitting in her favourite nest, feeling, not- 
 withstanding the sunshine, and the flowers, and the soft sweet 
 air, and the pleasant sounds all about, rather dull and lonely. 
 For though it was only May, it was really quite a hot day, and 
 Griselda had been all the morning at her lessons, and had tried 
 very hard, and done them very well, and now she felt as if she 
 deserved some reward. Suddenly in the distance, she heard a 
 well-known sound, "Cuckoo, cuckoo." 
 
 "Can that be the cuckoo?" she said to herself; and in a 
 moment she felt sure that it must be. For, for some reason that 
 I do not know enough about the habits of real "flesh and blood" 
 cuckoos to explain, that bird was not known in the neighbourhood 
 where Griselda's aunts lived. Some twenty miles or so further 
 south it was heard regularly, but all this spring Griselda had 
 never caught the sound of its familiar note, and she now remem- 
 bered hearing it never came to these parts. 
 
 So, "it must be my cuckoo," she said to herself. "He must 
 be coming out to speak to me. How funny! I have never seen 
 him by daylight." 
 
 She listened. Yes, again there it was, "Cuckoo, cuckoo," as 
 plain as possible, and nearer than before. 
 
THE CUCKOO CLOCK 77 
 
 "Cuckoo," cried Griselda, "do come and talk to me. It's 
 such a long time since I have seen you, and I have nobody to 
 play with." 
 
 But there was no answer. Griselda held her breath to listen, 
 but there was nothing to be heard. 
 
 "Unkind cuckoo!" she exclaimed. "He is tricking me, I do 
 believe; and to-day too, just when I was so dull and lonely." 
 
 The tears came into her eyes, and she was beginning to think 
 herself very badly used, when suddenly a rustling in the bushes 
 beside her made her turn round, more than half expecting to see 
 the cuckoo himself. But it was not he. The rustling went on 
 for a minute or two without anything making its appearance, for 
 the bushes were pretty thick just there, and any one scrambling 
 up from the pinewood below would have had rather hard work 
 to get through, and indeed for a very big person such a feat 
 would have been altogether impossible. 
 
 It was not a very big person, however, who was causing all 
 the rustling and crunching of branches, and general commotion, 
 which now absorbed Griselda's attention. She sat watching for 
 another minute in perfect stillness, afraid of startling by the 
 slightest movement the squirrel or rabbit or creature of some 
 kind which she expected to see. At last — was that a squirrel or a 
 rabbit — that rosy, round face, with shaggy, fair hair falling over 
 the eager blue eyes, and a general look of breathlessness and over- 
 heatedness and determination? 
 
 A squirrel or a rabbit! No, indeed, but a very sturdy, very 
 merry, very ragged little boy. 
 
 "Where are that cuckoo? Does you know?" were the first 
 words he uttered, as soon as he had fairly shaken himself, though 
 not by any means all his clothes, free of the bushes (for ever so 
 many pieces of jacket and knickerbockers, not to speak of one 
 boot and half his hat, had been left behind on the way), and 
 found breath to say something. 
 
 Griselda stared at him for a moment without speaking. She 
 
78 STORIES BY MRS. MOLESWORTH 
 
 was so astonished. It was months since she had spoken to a 
 child, almost since she had seen one, and about children younger 
 than herself she knew very little at any time, being the ba»by of 
 the family at home, you see, and having only big brothers older 
 than herself for play-fellows. 
 
 "Who are you?" she said at last. "What's your name, and 
 what do you want?" 
 
 "My name's Master Phil, and I want that cuckoo," answered 
 the little boy. "He earned up this way. I'm sure he did, for he 
 called me all the way." 
 
 "He's not here,'* said Griselda, shaking her head; "and this 
 is my aunts' garden. No one is allowed to come here but -friends 
 of theirs. You had better go home; and you have torn your 
 clothes so." 
 
 "This aren't a garden," replied the little fellow undauntedly, 
 looking round him; "this are a wood. There are blue-bells and 
 primroses here, and that shows it aren't a garden — not anybody's 
 garden, I mean, with walls round, for nobody to come in." 
 
 "But it is" said Griselda, getting rather vexed. If it isn't 
 a garden it's grounds, private grounds, and ndbody should come 
 without leave. This path leads down to the wood, and there's 
 a door in the wall at the bottom -to get into the lane. You may 
 go down that way, little boy. No one -comes scrambling up the 
 way you did." 
 
 "But I want to find the cuckoo," said the little boy. "I 
 do so want to find the cuckoo!" 
 
 His voice sounded almost as if he were going to cry, and 
 his pretty, hot, flushed face puckered up. Griselda's heart smote 
 her; she looked at him more carefully. He was such a very little 
 boy, after -all ; she did not like to be cross to him. 
 
 "How •old are you?" she asked. 
 
 "Five and a bit. I had a birthday after the summer, and 
 if I'm good, nurse says perhaps I'll have one after next summer 
 too. Do you ever have birthdays?" he went on, peering up at 
 
THE CUCKOO CLOCK 79 
 
 Griselda. "Nurse says she used to when she was young, but 
 she never has any now." 
 
 "Have you a nurse?" asked Griselda, rather surprised; for 
 to tell the truth, from "Master Phil's" appearance, she had not 
 felt at all sure what sort of little boy he was, or rather what sort 
 of people he belonged to. 
 
 "Of course I have a nurse, and a mother too," said the little 
 boy, opening wide his eyes in surprise at the question. "Haven't 
 you? Perhaps you're too big, though. People leave off having 
 nurses and mothers when they're big, don't they? Just like birth- 
 days. But I won't. I won't never leave off having a mother, 
 any way. I don't care so much about nurse and birthdays, not 
 kite so much. Did you care when you had to leave off, when you 
 got too big?" 
 
 "I hadn't to leave off because I got big," said Griselda sadly. 
 "I left off when I was much littler than you," she went on, un- 
 consciously speaking as Phil would best understand her. "My 
 mother died." 
 
 "I'm werry sorry," said Phil; and the way in which he said 
 it quite overcame Griselda's unfriendliness. "But perhaps you 
 have a nice nurse. My nurse is rather nice ; but she will 'cold me 
 to-day won't she?" he added, laughing, pointing to the terrible 
 rents in his garments. "These are my very oldestest things; 
 that's a good thing, isn't it? Nurse says I don't look like Master 
 Phil in these, but when I have on my blue welpet, then I look 
 like Master Phil. I shall have my blue welpet when mother 
 comes." 
 
 "Is your mother away?" said Griselda. 
 
 "Oh, yes, she's been away a long time; so nurse came here 
 to take care of me at the farm-house, you know. Mother was 
 ill, but she's better now, and some day she'll come too." 
 
 "Do you like being at the farm-house? Have you any- 
 body to play with?" said Griselda. 
 
 Phil shook his curly head. "I never have anybody to play 
 
80 STORIES BY MRS. MOLESWORTH 
 
 with," he said. "I'd like to play with you if you're not too big. 
 And do you think you could help me find the cuckoo?" he added 
 insinuatingly. 
 
 "What do you know about the cuckoo?" said Griselda. 
 
 "He called me," said Phil, "he called me lots of times; and 
 to-day nurse was busy, so I thought I'd come. And do 
 you know," he added mysteriously, "I do believe the cuckoo's 
 a fairy, and when I find him I'm going to ask him to show me 
 the way to fairyland." 
 
 "He says we must all find the way ourselves," said Griselda, 
 quite forgetting to whom she was speaking. 
 
 "Does he?" cried Phil, in great excitement. "Do you know 
 him, then — and have you asked him? Oh, do tell me." 
 
 Griselda recollected herself. "You couldn't understand," 
 she said. "Some day perhaps I'll tell you — I mean if I ever 
 see you again." 
 
 "But I may see you again," said Phil, settling himself down 
 comfortably beside Griselda on her mossy stone. "You'll let 
 me come, won't you? I like to talk about fairies, and nurse 
 doesn't understand. And if the cuckoo knows you, perhaps that's 
 why he called me to come to play with you." 
 
 "How did he call you?" asked Griselda. 
 
 "First," said Phil gravely, "it was in the night. I was asleep, 
 and I had been wishing I had somebody to play with, and then 
 I d'eamed of the cuckoo — such a nice d'eam. And when I woke 
 up I heard him calling me, and I wasn't d'eaming then. And 
 then when I was in the field he called me, but I couldn't find him, 
 and nurse said 'Nonsense.' And to-day he called me again, so 
 I earned up through the bushes. And mayn't I come again? 
 Perhaps if we both tried together we could find the way to 
 fairyland. Do you think we could?" 
 
 "I don't know," said Griselda, dreamily. "There's a great 
 deal to learn first, the cuckoo says." 
 
 "Have you learnt a great deal?" (he called it "a gate deal") 
 
THE CUCKOO CLOCK 81 
 
 asked Phil, looking up at Griselda with increased respect. "Z 
 don't know scarcely nothing. Mother was ill such a long time 
 before she went away, but I know she wanted me to learn to 
 read books. But nurse is too old to teach me." 
 
 "Shall I teach you?" said Griselda. "I can bring some of 
 my old books and teach you here after I have done my own 
 lessons." 
 
 "And then mother would be surprised when she comes back," 
 said Master Phil, clapping his hands. "Oh, do. And when I've 
 learnt to read a great deal, do you think the cuckoo would show 
 us the way to fairyland?" 
 
 "I don't think it was that sort of learning he meant," said 
 Griselda. "But I dare say that would help. I think," she went 
 on, lowering her voice a little, and looking down gravely into 
 Phil's earnest eyes, "I think he means mostly learning to be very 
 good — very, very good, you know." 
 
 "Gooder than you?" said Phil. 
 
 "Oh, dear, yes; lots and lots gooder than me," replied 
 Griselda. 
 
 "Z think you're very good," observed Phil, in a parenthesis. 
 Then he went on with his cross-questioning. 
 
 "Gooder than mother?" 
 
 "I don't know your mother, so how can I tell how good 
 she is?" said Griselda. 
 
 "Z can tell you," said Phil, importantly. "She is just as 
 good as— as good as — as good as good. That's what she is." 
 
 "You mean she couldn't be better," said Griselda, smiling. 
 
 "Yes, that'll do, if you like. Would that be good enough 
 for us to be, do you think?" 
 
 "We must ask the cuckoo," said Griselda. "But I'm sure 
 it would be a good thing for you to learn to read. You must 
 ask your nurse to let you come here every afternoon that it's 
 fine, and I'll ask my aunt." 
 
 "I needn't ask nurse," said Phil composedly; "she'll never 
 
82 STORIES BY MRS. MOLESWORTH 
 
 know where I am, and I needn't tell her. She doesn't care what 
 I do, except tearing my clothes; and when she scolds me, I don't 
 care." 
 
 "That isn't good, Phil," said Griselda gravely. "You'll 
 never be as good as good if you speak like that." 
 
 "What should I say, then? Tell me," said the little boy 
 submissively. 
 
 "You should ask nurse to let you come to play with me, 
 and tell her I'm much bigger than you, and I won't let you 
 tear your clothes. And you should tell her you're very sorry 
 you've torn them to-day." 
 
 "Very well," said Phil, "I'll say that. But, oh see!" he ex- 
 claimed, darting off, "there's a field mouse! If only I could 
 catch him!" 
 
 Of course he couldn't catch him, nor could Griselda either; 
 very ready, though, she was to do her best. But it was great 
 fun all the same, and the children laughed heartily and enjoyed 
 themselves tremendously. And when they Were tired they sat 
 down again and gathered flowers for nosegays, and Griselda 
 was surprised to find how clever Phil was about it. He was 
 much quicker than she at spying out the prettiest blossoms, how- 
 ever hidden behind tree, or stone, or shrub. And he told her of 
 all the best places for flowers near by, and Avhere grew the largest 
 primroses and the sweetest violets, in a way that astonished her. 
 
 "You're such a little boy," she said; "how do you know so 
 much about flowers?" 
 
 "I've had no one else to play with," he said innocently. "And 
 then, you know, the fairies are so fond of them." 
 
 When Griselda thought it was time to go home, she led little 
 Phil down the wood-path, and through the door in the wall 
 opening on to the lane. 
 
 "Now you can find your way home without scrambling 
 through any more bushes, can't you, Master Phil?" she said. 
 
 "Yes, thank you, and I'll come again to that place to-morrow 
 
THE CUCKOO CLOCK 83 
 
 afternoon, shall I?" asked Phil. "I'll know when — after I've 
 had my dinner and raced three times round the big field, then 
 it'll be time. That's how it was to-day." 
 
 "I should think it would do if you walked three times — or 
 twice if you like — round the field. It isn't a good thing to race 
 just when you've had your dinner," observed Griselda sagely. 
 "And you mustn't try to come if it isn't fine, for my aunts won't 
 let me go out if it rains even the tiniest bit. And of course you 
 must ask your nurse's leave." 
 
 "Very well," said little Phil as he trotted off. "I'll try to 
 remember all those things. I'm so glad you'll play with me again ; 
 and if you see the cuckoo, please thank him." 
 
 CHAPTER IX 
 
 UP AND DOWN THE CHIMNEY 
 
 "Helper. Well, but if it was all dream, it would be the same as if it 
 was all real, would it not? 
 
 "Keeper. Yes, I see. I mean, Sir, I do not see."- — A Lilliput Revel. 
 
 Not having "just had her dinner," and feeling very much 
 inclined for her tea, Griselda ran home at a great rate. 
 
 She felt, too, in such good spirits; it had been so delightful 
 to have a companion in her play. 
 
 "What a good thing it was I didn't make Phil run away 
 before I found out what a nice little boy he was," she said to 
 herself. "I must look out my old reading books to-night. I 
 shall so like teaching him, poor little boy, and the cuckoo will be 
 pleased at my doing something useful, I'm sure." 
 
 Tea was quite ready, in fact waiting for her, when she came 
 in. This was a meal she always had by herself, brought up on 
 a tray to Dorcas's little sitting-room, where Dorcas waited upon 
 her. And sometimes when Griselda was in a particularly good 
 
84 STORIES BY MRS. MOLESWORTH 
 
 humour she would beg Dorcas to sit down and have a cup of tea 
 with her — a liberty the old servant was far too dignified and 
 respectful to have thought of taking, unless specially requested 
 to do so. 
 
 This evening, as you know, Griselda was in a very particu- 
 larly good humour, and besides this, so very full of her adven- 
 tures, that she would have been glad of an even less sympathising 
 listener than Dorcas was likely to be. 
 
 "Sit down, Dorcas, and have some more tea, do," she said 
 coaxingly. "It looks ever so much more comfortable, and I'm 
 sure you could eat a little more if you tried, whether you've had 
 your tea in the kitchen or not. I'm fearfully hungry, I can tell 
 you. You'll have to cut a whole lot more bread and butter, and 
 not 'ladies' slices' either." 
 
 "How your tongue does go, to be sure, Miss Griselda," said 
 Dorcas, smiling, as she seated herself on the chair Griselda had 
 drawn in for her. 
 
 "And why shouldn't it?" said Griselda saucily. "It doesn't 
 do it any harm. But oh, Dorcas, I've had such fun this after- 
 noon — really, you couldn't guess what I've been doing." 
 
 "Very likely not, missie," said Dorcas. 
 
 "But you might try to guess. Oh no, I don't think you 
 need— guessing takes such a time, and I want to tell you. Just 
 fancy, Dorcas, I've been playing with a little boy in the wood." 
 
 "Playing with a little boy, Miss Griselda !" exclaimed Dorcas, 
 aghast. 
 
 "Yes, and he's coming again to-morrow, and the day after, 
 and every day, I dare say," said Griselda. "He is such a nice 
 little boy." 
 
 "But, missie," began Dorcas. 
 
 "Well? What's the matter? You needn't look like that— 
 as if I had done something naughty," said Griselda sharply. 
 
 "But you'll tell your aunt, missie?" 
 
 "Of course," said Griselda, looking up fearlessly into Dor- 
 
THE CUCKOO CLOCK 85 
 
 cas's face with her bright gray eyes. "Of course; why shouldn't 
 I? I must ask her to give the little boy leave to come into our 
 grounds; and I told the little boy to be sure to tell his nurse, 
 Who takes care of him, about his playing with me." 
 
 "His nurse," repeated Dorcas, in a tone of some relief. 
 "Then he must be quite a little boy, perhaps Miss Grizzel would 
 not object so much in that case." 
 
 "Why should she object at all? She might know I wouldn't 
 want to play witih a naughty rude boy," said Griselda. 
 
 "She thinks all boys rude and naughty, I'm afraid, missie," 
 said Dorcas. "All, that is to say, excepting your dear papa. 
 But then, of course, she had the bringing up of him in her own 
 way from the beginning." 
 
 "Well, I'll ask her, anyway," said Griselda, "and if she says 
 I'm not to play with him, I shall think — I know what I shall 
 think of Aunt Grizzel, whether I say it or not." 
 
 And the old look of rebellion and discontent settled down 
 again on her rosy face. 
 
 "Be careful, Missie, now do, there's a dear good girl," said 
 Dorcas anxiously, an hour later, when Griselda, dressed as usual 
 in her little white muslin frock, was ready to join her aunts at 
 dessert. 
 
 But Griselda would not condescend to make any reply. 
 
 "Aunt Grizzel," she said suddenly, when she had eaten an 
 orange and three biscuits and drunk half a glass of home-made 
 elder-berry wine, "Aunt Grizzel, when I was out in the garden 
 to-day — down the wood-path, I mean— I met a little boy, and 
 he played with me, and I want to know if he may come every day 
 to play with me." 
 
 Griselda knew she was not making her request in a very 
 amiable or becoming manner; she knew, indeed, that she was 
 making it in such a way as was almost certain to lead to its 
 being refused ; and yet, though she was really so very, very anxious 
 
86 STORIES BY MRS. MOLESWORTH 
 
 to get leave to play with little Phil, she took a sort of spiteful 
 pleasure in injuring her own cause. 
 
 How foolish ill-temper makes us! Griselda had allowed 
 herself to get so angry at the thought of being thwarted that had 
 her aunt looked up quietly and said at once, "Oh yes, you may 
 have the little boy to play with you whenever you like," she 
 would really, in a strange distorted sort of way, have been dis- 
 appointed. 
 
 But, of course, Miss Grizzel made no such reply. Nothing 
 less than a miracle could have made her answer Griselda other- 
 wise than as she did. Like Dorcas, for an instant, she was utterly 
 "flabbergasted," if you know what that means. For she was 
 really quite an old lady, you know, and sensible as she was, things 
 upset her much more easily than when she was younger. 
 
 Naughty Griselda saw her uneasiness, and enjoyed it. 
 
 "Playing with a boy!' exclaimed Miss Grizzel. "A boy in 
 my grounds, and you, my niece, to have played with him!" 
 
 "Yes," said Griselda coolly, "and I want to play with him 
 again." 
 
 "Griselda," said her aunt, "I am too astonished to say more 
 at present. Go to bed." 
 
 "Why should I go to bed? It is not my bedtime," cried 
 Griselda, blazing up. "What have I done to be sent to bed as 
 if I were in disgrace?" 
 
 "Go to bed," repeated Miss Grizzel. "I will speak to you 
 to-morrow." 
 
 "You are very unfair and unjust," said Griselda, starting 
 up from her chair. "That's all the good of being honest and 
 telling everything. I might have played with the little boy every 
 day for a month and you would never have known, if I hadn't 
 told you." 
 
 She banged across the room as she spoke, and out at the 
 door, slamming it behind her rudely. Then upstairs like a whirl- 
 wind; but when she got to her own room, she sat down on the 
 
THE CUCKOO CLOCK 87 
 
 floor and burst into tears, and when Dorcas came up, nearly half 
 an hour later, she was still in the same place, crouched up in a 
 little heap, sobbing bitterly. 
 
 "Oh, missie, missie," said Dorcas, "it's just what I was 
 afraid of!" 
 
 As Griselda rushed out of the room Miss Grizzel leant back 
 in her chair and sighed deeply. 
 
 "Already," she said faintly. "She was never so violent be- 
 fore. Can one afternoon's companionship with rudeness have 
 already contaminated her? Already, Tabitha — can it be so?" 
 
 "Already," said Miss Tabitha, softly shaking her head, which 
 somehow made her look wonderfully like an old cat, for she felt 
 cold of an evening and usually wore a very fine woolly shawl 
 of a delicate gray shade, and the borders of her cap and the ruffles 
 round her throat and wrists were all of fluffy, downy white — 
 "already," she said. 
 
 "Yet," said Miss Grizzel, recovering herself a little, "it is 
 true what the child said. She might have deceived us. Have 
 I been hard upon her, Sister Tabitha?" 
 
 "Hard upon her Sister Grizzel!" said Miss Tabitha with 
 more energy than usual; "no, certainly not. For once, Sister 
 Grizzel, I disagree with you. Hard upon her! Certainly not." 
 
 But Miss Grizzel did not feel happy. 
 
 When she went up to her own room at night she was sur- 
 prised to find Dorcas waiting for her, instead of the younger maid. 
 
 "I thought you would not mind having me, instead of Martha, 
 to-night, ma'am," she said, "for I did so want to speak to you 
 about Miss Griselda. The poor, dear young lady has gone to bed 
 so very unhappy." 
 
 "But do you know what she has done, Dorcas?" said Miss 
 Grizzel. "Admitted a boy, a rude, common, impertinent boy, into 
 my precincts, and played wibh him — with a boy, Dorcas." 
 
 "Yes, ma'am," said Dorcas. "I know all about it, ma'am. 
 Miss Griselda has told me all. But if you would allow me to 
 
88 STORIES BY MRS. MOLES WORTH 
 
 give an opinion, it isn't quite so bad. He's quite a little boy, 
 ma'am — between five and six — only just about the age Miss 
 Griselda's dear papa was when he first came to us, and, by all I 
 can hear, quite a little gentleman." 
 
 "A little gentleman," repeated Miss Grizzel, "and not six 
 years old! That is less objectionable than I expected. What is 
 his name, as you know so much, Dorcas?" 
 
 "Master Phil," replied Dorcas. "That is what he told Miss 
 Griselda, and she never thought to ask him more. But I'll tell 
 you how we could get to hear more about him, I think, ma'am. 
 From what Miss Griselda says, I believe he is staying at Mr. 
 Crouch's farm, and that, you know, ma'am, belongs to my Lady 
 Lavander, though it a good way from Merrybrow Hall. My 
 lady is pretty sure to know about the child, for she knows all 
 that goes on among her tenants, and I remember hearing that a 
 little gentleman and his nurse had come to Mr. Crouch's to lodge 
 for six months." 
 
 Miss Grizzel listened attentively . 
 
 "Thank you, Dorcas," she said, when the old servant had left 
 off speaking. "You have behaved with your usual discretion. I 
 shall drive over to Merrybrow to-morrow, and make inquiry. And 
 you may tell Miss Griselda in the morning what I purpose doing; 
 but tell her also that, as a punishment for her rudeness and ill- 
 temper, she must have breakfast in her own room to-morrow, 
 and not see me till I send for her. Had she restrained her 
 temper and explained the matter, all this distress might have 
 been saved." 
 
 Dorcas did not wait till "to-morrow morning"; she could 
 not bear to think of Griselda's unhappiness. From her mistress's 
 room she went straight to Vhe little girl's, going in very softly, so 
 as not to disturb her should she be sleeping. 
 
 "Are you awake, missie?" she said gently. 
 
 Griselda started up. 
 
 "Yes," she exclaimed. "Is it you, cuckoo? I'm quite awake." 
 
THE CUCKOO CLOCK 89 
 
 "Bless the child," said Dorcas to herself, "how her head does 
 run on Miss Sybilla's cuckoo. It's really wonderful. There's 
 more in such things than some people think." 
 
 But aloud she only replied — 
 
 "It's Dorcas, missie. No fairy, only old Dorcas come to com- 
 fort you a bit. Listen, missie. Your auntie is going over to 
 Merrybrow Hall to-morrow to inquire about this little Master 
 Phil from my Lady Lavander, for we think it's at one of her 
 ladyship's farms that he and his nurse are staying, and if she hears 
 that he's a nice-mannered little gentleman, and comes of good 
 parents — why, missie, there's no saying but that you'll get leave 
 to play with him as much as you like." 
 
 "But not to-morrow, Dorcas," said Griselda. "Aunt Grizzel 
 never goes to Merrybrow till the afternoon. She won't be back 
 in time for me to play with Phil to-morrow." 
 
 "No, but next day, perhaps," said Dorcas. 
 
 "Oh, but that won't do," said Griselda, beginning to cry 
 again. "Poor little Phil will be coming up to the wood-path to- 
 morrow, and if he doesn't find me, he'll be so unhappy — perhaps 
 he'll never come again if I don't meet him to-morrow." 
 
 Dorcas saw that the little girl was worn out and excited, and 
 not inclined to take a reasonable view of things. 
 
 "Go to sleep, missie," she said kindly, "and don't think any- 
 thing more about it till to-morrow. It'll be all right, you'll see." 
 
 Her patience touched Griselda. 
 
 "You are very kind, Dorcas," she said. "I don't mean to be 
 cross to you; but I can't bear to think of poor little Phil. Per- 
 haps he'll sit down on my mossy stone and cry. Poor little Phil !" 
 
 But notwithstanding her distress, when Dorcas had left 
 her she did feel her heart a little lighter, and somehow or other 
 before long she fell asleep. 
 
 When she awoke it seemed to be suddenly, and she had the 
 feeling that something had disturbed her. She lay for a minute 
 or two perfectly still — listening. Yes; there it was — the soft, 
 
90 STORIES BY MRS. MOLESWORTH 
 
 faint rustle in the air that she knew so well. It seemed as if 
 something was moving away from her. 
 
 "Cuckoo," she said gently, "is that you?" 
 
 A moment's pause, then came the answer — the pretty greet- 
 ing she expected. 
 
 "Cuckoo, cuckoo," soft and musical. Then the cuckoo spoke. 
 
 "Well, Griselda," he said, "and how are you? It's a good 
 while since we have had any fun together." 
 
 "That's not my fault," said Griselda sharply. She was not 
 yet feeling quite as amiable as might have been desired, you see. 
 "That's certainly not my fault," she repeated. 
 
 "I never said it was," replied the cuckoo. "Why will you 
 .lump at conclusions so? It's a very bad habit, for very often you 
 jump over them, you see, and go too far. One should always 
 walk up to conclusions, very slowly and evenly, right foot first, 
 then left, one with another— that's the way to get where you want 
 to go, and feel sure of your ground. Do you see?" 
 
 "I don't know Avhether I do or not, and I'm not going to 
 speak to you if you go on at me like that. You might see I 
 don't want to be lectured when I am so unhappy." 
 
 "What are you unhappy about?" 
 
 "About Phil, of course. I won't tell you, for I believe you 
 know," said Griselda. "Wasn't it you that sent him to play with 
 me? I was so pleased, and I thought it was very kind of you; 
 but it's all spoilt now." 
 
 "But I heard Dorcas saying that your aunt is going over to 
 consult my Lady Lavander about rt," said the cuckoo. "It'll be 
 all right; you needn't be in such low spirits about nothing." 
 
 "Were you in the room then?" said Griselda. "How funny 
 you are, cuckoo. But it isn't all right. Don't you see, poor little 
 Phil will be coming up the wood-path to-morrow afternoon to 
 meet me, and I won't be there! I can't bear to think of it." 
 
 "Is that all?" said the cuckoo. "It really is extraordinary 
 
THE CUCKOO CLOCK 91 
 
 how some people make troubles out of nothing! We can easily 
 tell Phil not to come till the day after. Come along." 
 
 "Come along," repeated Griselda; "what do you mean?" 
 
 "Oh, I forgot," said the cuckoo. "You don't understand. 
 Put out your hand. There, do you feel me?" 
 
 "Yes," said Griselda, stroking gently the soft feathers which 
 seemed to be close under her hand. "Yes, I feel you." 
 
 "Well, then," said the cuckoo, "put your arms round my 
 neck, and hold me firm. I'll lift you up." 
 
 "How can you talk such nonsense, cuckoo?" said Griselda. 
 "Why, one of my little fingers would clasp your neck. How can 
 I put my arms round it?" 
 
 "Try," said the cuckoo. 
 
 Somehow Griselda had to try. 
 
 She held out her arms in the cuckoo's direction, as if she 
 expected his neck to be about the size of a Shetland pony's, or 
 a large Newfoundland dog's; and, to her astonishment, so it was! 
 A nice, comfortable, feathery neck it felt — so soft that she could 
 not help laying her head down upon it, and nestling in the downy 
 cushion. 
 
 "That's right," said the cuckoo. 
 
 Then he seemed to give a little spring, and Griselda felt her- 
 self altogether lifted on to his back. She lay there as comfortably 
 as possible— it felt so firm as well as soft. Up he flew a little 
 way — then stopped short. 
 
 "Are you all right?" he inquired. "You're not afraid of fall- 
 ing off?" 
 
 "Oh no," said Griselda; "not a bit." 
 
 "You needn't be," said the cuckoo, "for you couldn't if 
 you tried. I'm going on, then." 
 
 "Where to?" said Griselda. 
 
 "Up the chimney first," said the cuckoo. 
 
 "But there'll never be room," said Griselda. "I might per- 
 haps crawl up like a sweep, hands and knees, you know, like 
 
92 STORIES BY MRS. MOLES WORTH 
 
 going up a ladder. But stretched out like this — it's just as if 
 I were lying on a sofa — I couldn't go up the chimney." 
 
 "Couldn't you?" said the cuckoo. "We'll see. I intend to 
 go, anyway, and to take you with me. Shut your eyes — one, two, 
 three — here goes — we'll be up the chimney before you know." 
 
 It was quite true. Griselda shut her eyes tight. She felt 
 nothing but a pleasant sort of rush. Then she heard the cuckoo's 
 voice saying — 
 
 "Well, wasn't that well done? Open your eyes and look 
 about you." 
 
 Griselda did so. Where were they? 
 
 They were floating about above the top of the house, which 
 Griselda saw down below them, looking dark and vast. She felt 
 confused and bewildered. 
 
 "Cuckoo," she said, "I don't understand. Is it I that have 
 grown little, or you that have grown big?" 
 
 "Whichever you please," said the cuckoo. "You have for- 
 gotten. I told j'ou long ago it is all a matter of fancy." 
 
 "Yes, if everything grew little together," persisted Griselda; 
 "but it isn't everything. It's just you or me, or both of us. No, 
 it can't be both of us. And I don't think it can be me, for if any 
 of me had grown little all would, and my eyes haven't grown 
 little, for everything looks as big as usual, only you a great deal 
 bigger. My eyes can't have grown bigger without the rest of 
 me, surely, for the moon looks just the same. And I must have 
 grown little, or else we couldn't have get up the chimney. Oh, 
 cuckoo, you have put all my thinking into such a muddle!" 
 
 "Never mind," said the cuckoo. "It'll show you how little 
 consequence big and little are of. Make yourself comfortable all 
 the same. Are you all right? Shut your eyes if you like. I'm 
 going pretty fast." 
 
 "Where to?" said Griselda. 
 
 "To Phil, of course," said the cuckoo. "What a bad memory 
 you have! Are you comfortable?" 
 
THE CUCKOO CLOCK 93 
 
 "Very, thank you," replied Griselda, giving the cuckoo's 
 neck an affectionate hug as she spoke. 
 
 "That'll do, thank you. Don't throttle me, if it's quite the 
 same to you," said the cuckoo. "Here goes— one, two, three," 
 and off he flew again. 
 
 Griselda shut her eyes and lay still. It was delicious — the 
 gliding, yet darting motion, like nothing she had ever felt before. 
 It did not make her the least giddy, either; but a slightly sleepy 
 feeling came over her. She felt no inclination to open her eyes; 
 and, indeed, at the rate they were going, she could have distin- 
 guished very little had she done so. 
 
 Suddenly the feeling in the air about her changed. For an 
 instant it felt more rushy than before, and there was a queer, 
 dull sound in her ears. Then she felt that the cuckoo had stopped. 
 
 "Where are we?" she asked. 
 
 "We've just come down a chimney again," said the cuckoo. 
 "Open your eyes and clamber down off my back; but don't speak 
 loud, or you'll waken him, and that wouldn't do. There you are — - 
 the moonlight's coming in nicely at the window — you can see your 
 way." 
 
 Griselda found herself in a little bedroom, quite a tiny one, 
 and by the look of the simple furniture and the latticed window, 
 she saw that she was not in a grand house. But everything looked 
 very neat and nice, and on a little bed in one corner lay a lovely 
 sleeping child. It was Phil! He looked so pretty asleep — his 
 shaggy curls all tumbling about, his rosy mouth half open as if 
 smiling, one little hand tossed over his head, the other tight clasp- 
 ing a little basket which he had insisted on taking to bed with 
 him, meaning as soon as he was dressed the next morning to run 
 out and fill it with flowers for the little girl he had made friends 
 with. 
 
 Griselda stepped up to the side of the bed on tiptoe. The 
 cuckoo had disappeared, but Griselda heard his voice. It seemed 
 to come from a little way up the chimney. 
 
94 STORIES BY MRS. MOLESWORTH 
 
 "Don't wake him," said the cuckoo, "but whisper what you 
 want to say into his ear, as soon as I have called him. He'll 
 understand; he's accustomed to my ways." 
 
 Then came the old note, soft and musical as ever — 
 
 "Cuckoo, cuckoo, cuckoo. Listen, Phil," said the cuckoo, and 
 without opening his eyes a change passed over the little boy's 
 face. Griselda could see that he was listening to hear her message. 
 
 "He thinks he's dreaming, I suppose," she said to herself with 
 a smile. Then she whispered softly — 
 
 "Phil, dear, don't come to play with me to-morrow, for I 
 can't come. But come the, day after. I'll be at the wood-path 
 then." 
 
 "Welly well," murmured Phil. Then he put out his two arms 
 toAvard Griselda, all without opening his eyes, and she, bending 
 down, kissed him softly. 
 
 "Phil's so sleepy," he whispered, like a baby almost. Then 
 he turned over and went to sleep more soundly than before. 
 
 "That'll do," said the cuckoo. "Come along, Griselda." 
 
 Griselda obediently made her way to the place whence the 
 cuckoo's voice seemed to come. 
 
 "Shut your eyes and put your arms round my neck again," 
 said the cuckoo. 
 
 She did not hesitate this time. It all happened just as 
 before. There came the same sort of rushy sound; then the 
 cuckoo stopped, and Griselda opened her eyes. 
 
 They were up in the air again — a good way up, too, for some 
 grand old elms that stood beside the farmhouse were gently wav- 
 ing their topmost branches a yard or two from where the cuckoo 
 was poising himself and Griselda. 
 
 "Where shall we go to now?" he said. "Or would you rather 
 go home? Are you tired?" 
 
 "Tired!" exclaimed Griselda: I should rather think not. 
 How could I be tired, cuckoo?" 
 
THE CUCKOO CLOCK 95 
 
 "Very well, don't excite yourself about nothing, whatever you 
 do," said the cuckoo. "Say where you'd like to go." 
 
 "How can I?" said Griselda. "You know far more nice 
 places than I do." 
 
 "You don't care to go back to the mandarins, or the butter- 
 flies, I suppose?" asked the cuckoo. 
 
 "No, thank you," said Griselda; "I'd like something new. 
 And I'm not sure that I care for seeing any more countries of 
 that kind, unless you could take me to the real fairyland." 
 
 "7 can't do that, you know," said the cuckoo. 
 
 Just then a faint "soughing" sound among the branches 
 suggested another idea to Griselda. 
 
 "Cuckoo," she exclaimed, "take me to the sea. It's such a 
 time since I saw the sea. I can fancy I 'hear it ; do take me to 
 see it." 
 
 CHAPTER X 
 
 THE OTHER SIDE OF THE MOON 
 
 "That after supper time has come, 
 And silver dews in the meadows steep. 
 And all is silent in the home, 
 And even nurses are asleep, 
 
 That be it late, or be it soon, 
 Upon this lovely night in June 
 They both will step into the moon." 
 
 "Very well," said the cuckoo. "You would like to look 
 about you a little on the way, perhaps, Griselda, as we shall not 
 be going down chimneys, or anything of that kind just at present." 
 
 "Yes," said Griselda. "I think I should. I'm rather tired 
 of shutting my eyes, and I'm getting quite accustomed to flying 
 about with you, cuckoo." 
 
 "Turn on your side, then," said the cuckoo, "and you won't 
 have to twist your neck to see over my shoulder. Are you com- 
 fortable now? And, by-the-by, as you may be cold, just feel 
 
96 STORIES BY MRS. MOLESWORTH 
 
 under my left wing. You'll find the feather mantle there, that 
 you had on once before. Wrap it round you. I tucked it in at 
 the last moment, thinking you might want it." 
 
 "Oh, you dear, kind cuckoo!" cried Griselda. "Yes, I've 
 found it. I'll tuck it all round me like a rug — that's it. I am 
 so warm now, cuckoo." 
 
 "Here goes, then," said the cuckoo, and off they set. Had 
 ever a little girl such a flight before? Floating, darting, gliding, 
 sailing — no words can describe it. Griselda lay still in delight, 
 gazing all about her. 
 
 "How lovely the stars are, cuckoo!" she said. "Is it true 
 they're all great, big suns? I'd rather they weren't. I like to 
 think of them as nice, funny little things." 
 
 "They're not all suns," said the cuckoo. "Not all those you're 
 looking at now." 
 
 "I like the twinkling ones best," said Griselda. "They look 
 so good-natured. Are they all twirling about always, cuckoo? 
 Mr. Kneebreeches has just begun to teach me astronomy, and he 
 says they are ; but I'm not at all sure that he knows much about it." 
 
 "He's quite right all the same," replied the cuckoo. 
 
 "Oh, dear me! How tired they must be, then!" said Griselda. 
 "Do they never rest just for a minute?" 
 
 "Never." 
 
 "Why not?" 
 
 "Obeying orders," replied the cuckoo. 
 
 Griselda gave a little wriggle. 
 
 "What's the use of it?" she said. "It would be just as 
 nice if they stood still now and then." 
 
 "Would it?" said the cuckoo. "I know somebody who 
 would soon find fault if they did. What would you say to no 
 summer; no day, or no night, whichever it happened not to be. 
 you see; nothing growing, and nothing to eat before long? That's 
 what it would be if they stood still, you see, because " 
 
 "Thank you, cuckoo," interrupted Griselda. "It's very nice 
 
THE CUCKOO CLOCK 97 
 
 to hear you — I mean, very dreadful to think of, but I don't want 
 you to explain. I'll ask Mr. Kneebreeches when I'm at my les- 
 sons. You might tell me one thing, however. What's at the 
 other side of the moon?" 
 
 "There's a variety of opinions," said the cuckoo. 
 
 "What are they? Tell me the funniest." 
 
 "Some say all the unfinished work of the world is kept there," 
 said the cuckoo. 
 
 "That's not funny," said Griselda. "What a messy place it 
 must be! Why, even my unfinished work makes quite a heap. I 
 don't like that opinion at all, cuckoo. Tell me another." 
 
 "I have heard," said the cuckoo, "that among the places there 
 you would find the country of the little black dogs. You know 
 what sort of creatures those are?" 
 
 "Yes, I suppose so," said Griselda, rather reluctantly. 
 
 "There are a good many of them in this world, as of course 
 you know," continued the cuckoo. "But up there, they are much 
 worse than here. When a child has made a great pet of one down 
 here, I've heard tell the fairies take him up there when his 
 parents and nurses think he's sleeping quietly in his bed, and 
 make him work hard all night, with his own particular little black 
 dog on his back. And it's so dreadfully heavy — for every time he 
 takes it on his back down here it grows a pound heavier up 
 there — that by morning the child is quite worn out. I dare say 
 3 r ou've noticed how haggard and miserable some ill-tempered chil- 
 dren get to look — now you'll know the reason." 
 
 "Thank you, cuckoo," said Griselda again; "but I can't say 
 I like this opinion about the other side of the moon any better 
 than the first. If you please, I would rather not talk about it 
 any more." 
 
 "Oh, but it's not so bad an idea after all," said the cuckoo. 
 "Lots of children, they say, get quite cured in the country of the 
 little black dogs. It's this way — for every time a child refuses 
 to take the dog on his back down here it grows a pound lighter 
 
98 STORIES BY MRS. MOLESWORTH 
 
 up there, so at last any sensible child learns how much better it 
 is to have nothing to say to it at all, and gets out of the way of it, 
 you see. Of course, there are children whom nothing would cure, 
 I suppose. What becomes of them I really can't say. Very 
 likely they get crushed into pancakes by the weight of the dogs 
 at last, and then nothing more is ever heard of them." 
 
 "Horrid!" said Griselda, with a shudder. "Don't let's talk 
 about it any more, cuckoo; tell me your own opinion about what 
 there really is on the other side of the moon." 
 
 The cuckoo was silent for a moment. Then suddenly he 
 stopped short in the middle of his flight. 
 
 "Would you like to see for yourself, Griselda?" he said. 
 "There would be about time to do it," he added to himself, "and 
 it would fulfill her other wish, too." 
 
 "See the moon for myself, do you mean?" cried Griselda, 
 clasping her hands. "I should rather think I would. Will you 
 really take me there, cuckoo?" 
 
 "To the other side," said the cuckoo. "I couldn't take you 
 to this side." 
 
 "Why not? Not that I'd care to go to this side as much as 
 to the other; for, of course, we can see this side from here. But 
 I'd like to know why you couldn't take me there." 
 
 "For reasons," said the cuckoo drily. "I'll give you one if 
 you like. If I took you to this side of the moon you wouldn't 
 be yourself when you got there." 
 
 "Who would I be, then?" 
 
 "Griselda," said the cuckoo, "I told you once that there are 
 a great many things you don't know. Now, I'll tell you some- 
 thing more. There are a great many things you're not intended 
 to know." 
 
 "Very well," said Griselda. "But do tell me when you're 
 going on again, and where you are going to take me to. There's 
 no harm my asking that?" 
 
 "No," said the cuckoo, "I'm going on immediately, and I'm 
 
THE CUCKOO CLOCK 99 
 
 going to take you where you wanted to go to, only you must shut 
 your eyes again, and lie perfectly still without talking, for I must 
 put on steam — a good deal of steam — and I can't talk to you. 
 Are you all right?" 
 
 "All right," said Griselda. 
 
 She had hardly said the words when she seemed to fall asleep. 
 The rushing sound in the air all round her increased so greatly 
 that she was conscious of nothing else. For a moment or two 
 she tried to remember where she was, and where she was going, 
 but it was useless. She forgot everything, and knew nothing 
 more of what was passing till — till she heard the cuckoo again. 
 
 "Cuckoo, cuckoo; wake up, Griselda," he said. 
 
 Griselda sat up. 
 
 Where was she? 
 
 Not certainly where she had been when she went to sleep. 
 Not on the cuckoo's back, for there he was standing beside her, 
 as tiny as usual. Either he had grown little again, or she had 
 grown big — which, she supposed, it did not much matter. Only 
 it was very queer! 
 
 "Where am I, cuckoo?" she said. 
 
 "Where you wished to he," he replied. "Look about you 
 and see." 
 
 Griselda looked about her. What did she see. Something 
 that I can only give you a faint idea of, children; something 
 so strange and unlike what she had ever seen before, that only 
 in a dream could you see it as Griselda saw it. And yet why it 
 seemed to her so strange and unnatural I cannot well explain; if 
 I could, my words would be as good as pictures, which I know 
 they are not. 
 
 After all, it was only the sea she saw; but such a great, 
 strange, silent sea, for there were no waves. Griselda was seated 
 on the shore, close beside the water's edge, but it did not come 
 lapping up to her feet in the pretty, coaxing way that our sea does 
 when it it is in a good humour. There were here and there faint 
 
100 STORIES BY MRS. MOLESWORTH 
 
 ripples on the surface, caused by the slight breezes which now and 
 then came softly round Griselda's face, but that was all. King 
 Canute might have sat "from then till now" by this still, lifeless 
 ocean without the chance of reading his silly attendants a les- 
 son — if, indeed, there ever were such silly people, which I very 
 much doubt. 
 
 Griselda gazed with all her eyes. Then she suddenly gave 
 a little shiver. 
 
 "What's the matter?" said the cuckoo. "You have the man- 
 tle on- — you're not cold?" 
 
 "No," said Griselda, "I'm not cold; but somehow, cuckoo, 
 I feel a little frightened. The sea is so strange, and so dreadfully 
 big; and the light is so queer, too. What is the light, cuckoo? It 
 isn't moonlight, is it?" 
 
 "Not exactly," said the cuckoo. "You can't both have your 
 cake and eat it, Griselda. Look up at the sky. There's no 
 moon there, is there?" 
 
 "No," said Griselda; "but what lots of stars, cuckoo. The 
 light comes from them, I suppose? And where's the sun, cuckoo? 
 Will it be rising soon? It isn't always like this up here, is it?" 
 
 "Bless you, no," said the cuckoo. "There's sun enough, and 
 rather too much, sometimes. How would you like a day a fort- 
 night long, and nights to match? If it had been daytime here 
 just now, I couldn't have brought you. It's just about the very 
 middle of the night now, and in about a week of your days the 
 sun will begin to rise, because, you see " 
 
 "Oh, dear cuckoo, please don't explain!" cried Griselda. I'll 
 promise to ask Mr. Kneebreeches, I will indeed. In fact, he 
 was telling me something just like it to-day or yesterday — which 
 should I say? — at my astronomy lesson. And that makes it so 
 strange that you should have brought me up here to-night to 
 see for myself, doesn't it, cuckoo?" 
 
 "An odd coincidence," said the cuckoo. 
 
 "What -would Mr. Kneebreeches think if I told him where 
 
THE CUCKOO CLOCK 101 
 
 I had been?" continued Griselda. "Only, you see, cuckoo, I 
 never tell anybody about what I see when I am with you." 
 
 "No," replied the cuckoo; "better not. ("Not that you 
 could if you tried," he added to himself.) You're not frightened 
 now, Griselda, are you?" 
 
 "No, I don't think I am," she replied. "But, cuckoo, isn't 
 this sea mv fully big?" 
 
 "Pretty well," said the cuckoo. "Just half, or nearly half, 
 the size of the moon; and, no doubt, Mr. Kneebreeches has told 
 
 you that the moon's diameter and circumference are respec " 
 
 , "Oh don't, cuckoo!" interrupted Griselda, beseechingly. "I 
 want to enjoy myself, and not to have lessons. Tell me some- 
 thing funny, cuckoo. Are there any mermaids in the moon-sea?" 
 
 "Not exactly," said the cuckoo. 
 
 "What a stupid way to answer," said Griselda. "There's 
 no sense in that; there either must be or must not be. There 
 couldn't be half mermaids." 
 
 "I don't know about that," replied the cuckoo. "They might 
 have been here once and have left their tails behind them, like 
 Bopeep's sheep, you know; and some day they might be coming 
 to find them again, you know. That would do for 'not exactly,' 
 wouldn't it?" 
 
 "Cuckoo, you're laughing at me," said Griselda. "Tell me, 
 are there any mermaids, or fairies, or water-sprites, or any of 
 those sort of creatures here?" 
 
 "I must still say 'not exactly,' " said the cuckoo. "There 
 are beings here, or rather there have been, and there may be 
 again; but you, Griselda, can know no more than this." 
 
 His tone was rather solemn, and again Griselda felt a little 
 "eerie." 
 
 "It's a dreadfully long way from home, anyway," she said. 
 "I feel as if, when I go back, I shall perhaps find I have been 
 away fifty years or so, like the little boy in the fairy story. 
 
102 STORIES BY MRS. MOLESWORTH 
 
 Cuckoo, I think I would like to go home. Mayn't I get on your 
 back again?" 
 
 "Presently," said the cuckoo. "Don't be uneasy, Griselda. 
 Perhaps I'll take you home by a short cut." 
 
 "Was ever any child here before?" asked Griselda, after 
 a little pause. 
 
 "Yes," said the cuckoo. 
 
 "And did they get safe home again?" 
 
 "Quite," said the cuckoo. "It's so silly of you, Griselda, 
 to have all these ideas still about far and near, and big and little, 
 and long and short, after all I've taught you and all you've seen." 
 
 "I'm very sorry," said Griselda humbly ; "but you see, cuckoo, 
 I can't help it. I suppose I'm made so." 
 
 "Perhaps," said the cuckoo, meditatively. 
 
 He was silent for a minute. Then he spoke again. "Look 
 over there, Griselda," he said. "There's the short cut." 
 
 Griselda looked. Far, far over the sea, in the silent dis- 
 tance, she saw a tiny speck of light. It was very tiny; but yet 
 the strange thing was that, far away as it appeared, and minute 
 as it was, it seemed to throw off a thread of light to Griselda's 
 very feet — right across the great sheet of faintly gleaming water. 
 And as Griselda looked, the thread seemed to widen and grow, 
 becoming at the same time brighter and clearer, till at last it lay 
 before her like a path of glowing light. 
 
 "Am I to walk along there?" she said softly to the cuckoo. 
 
 "No," he replied; "wait." 
 
 Griselda waited, looking still, and presently in the middle of 
 the shining streak she saw something slowly moving — something 
 from which the light came, for the nearer it got to her the 
 shorter grew the glowing path, and behind the moving object 
 the sea looked no brighter than before it had appeared. 
 
 At last — at last, it came quite near — near enough for 
 Griselda to distinguish clearly what it was. 
 
 It was a little boat — the prettiest, the loveliest little boat that 
 
THE CUCKOO CLOCK 103 
 
 ever was seen ; and it was rowed by a little figure that at first Gris- 
 elda felt certain was a fairy. For it was a child with bright hair 
 and silvery wings, which with every movement sparkled and shone 
 like a thousand diamonds. 
 
 Griselda sprang up and clapped her hands with delight. At 
 the sound, the child in the boat turned and looked at her. For one 
 instant she could not remember where she had seen him before; 
 then she exclaimed, joyfully — 
 
 "It is Phil! Oh, cuckoo, it is Phil. Have you turned into 
 a fairy, Phil?" 
 
 But, alas, as she spoke the light faded away, the boy's figure 
 disappeared, the sea and the shore and the sky were all as they 
 had been before, lighted only by the faint, strange gleaming of 
 the stars. Only the boat remained. Griselda saw it close to her, 
 in the shallow water, a few feet from where she stood. 
 
 "Cuckoo," she exclaimed in a tone of reproach and disap- 
 pointment, "where is Phil gone? Why did you send him away?" 
 
 "I didn't send him away," said the cuckoo. "You don't un- 
 derstand. Never mind, but get into the boat. It'll be all right, 
 you'll see." 
 
 "But are we to go away and leave Phil here, all alone at 
 the other side of the moon?" said Griselda, feeling ready to cry. 
 
 "Oh, you silly girl!" said the cuckoo. "Phil's all right, and 
 in some ways he has a great deal more sense than you, I can tell 
 you. Get into the boat and make yourself comfortable; lie 
 down at the bottom and cover yourself up with the mantle. You 
 needn't be afraid of wetting your feet a little, moon water never 
 gives cold. There, now." 
 
 Griselda did as she was told. She was beginning to feel rather 
 tired, and it certainly was very comfortable at the bottom of the 
 boat, with the nice warm feather-mantle well tucked round her. 
 
 "Who will row?" she said sleepily. "You can't, cuckoo, with 
 your tiny little claws, you could never hold the oars, I'm " 
 
104 STORIES BY MRS. MOLESWORTH 
 
 "Hush!" said the cuckoo; and whether he rowed or not Gris- 
 elda never knew. 
 
 Off they glided somehow, but it seemed to Griselda that some- 
 body rowed, for she heard the soft dip, dip of the oars as they 
 went along, so regularly that she couldn't help beginning to count 
 in time — one, two, three, four — on, on — she thought she had got 
 nearly to a hundred, when 
 
 CHAPTER XI 
 
 "cuckoo, cuckoo, good-bye!" 
 
 "Children, try to be good! 
 
 That is the end of all teaching; 
 Easily understood, 
 
 And very easy in preaching. 
 And if you find it hard, 
 
 Your efforts you need but double; 
 Nothing deserves reward 
 
 Unless it has given us trouble." 
 
 When she forgot everything, and fell fast, fast asleep, to 
 wiike, cf course, in her own little bed as usual! 
 
 "One of your tricks again, Mr. Cuckoo," she said to herself 
 with a smile. "However, I don't mind. It was a short cut home, 
 and it was very comfortable in the boat, and I certainly saw a 
 great deal last night, and I'm very much obliged to you — particu- 
 larly for making it all right with Phil about not coming to play 
 with me to-day. Ah ! that reminds me, I'm in disgrace. I wonder 
 if Aunt Grizzel will really make me stay in my room all day. 
 How tired I shall be, and Avhat will Mr. Kneebreeches think! 
 But it serves me right. I was very cross and rude." 
 
 There came a tap at the door. It was Dorcas with the hot 
 water. 
 
 "Good morning, missie," she said gently, not feeling, to tell 
 the truth, very sure as to what sort of a humour "missie" was 
 
THE CUCKOO CLOCK 105 
 
 likely to be found in this morning. "I hope you've slept well." 
 
 "Exceedingly well, thank you, Dorcas. I've had a delightful 
 night," replied Griselda amiably, smiling to herself at the thought 
 of what Dorcas would say if she knew where she had been, and 
 what she had been doing since last she saw her. 
 
 "That's good news," said Dorcas in a tone of relief; "and 
 I've good news for you, too, missie. At least, I hope you'll think 
 it so. Your aunt has ordered the carriage for quite early this 
 morning — so you see she really wants to please you, missie, about 
 playing with little Master Phil; and if to-morrow's a fine day, 
 we'll be sure to find some way of letting him know to come." 
 
 "Thank you, Dorcas. I hope it will be all right, and that 
 Lady Lavander won't say anything against it. I dare say she 
 won't. I feel ever so much happier this morning, Dorcas; and 
 I'm very sorry I was so rude to Aunt Grizzel, for of course I 
 know I should obey her." 
 
 "That's right, missie," said Dorcas approvingly. 
 
 "It seems to me, Dorcas," said Griselda dreamily, when, a 
 few minutes later, she was standing by the window while the old 
 servant brushed out her thick, wavy hair, "it seems to me, Dorcas, 
 that it's all 'obeying orders' together. There's the sun now, 
 just getting up, and the moon just going to bed — they are always 
 obeying, aren't they? I wonder why it should be so hard for 
 people — for children, at least." 
 
 "To be sure, missie, you do put it a way of your own," replied 
 Dorcas, somewhat mystified; "but I see how you mean, I think, 
 and it's quite true. And it is a hard lesson to learn." 
 
 "I want to learn it well, Dorcas," said Griselda, resolutely. 
 "So will you please tell Aunt Grizzel that I'm very sorry about 
 last night, and I'll do just as she likes about staying in my room 
 or anything. But, if she would let me, I'd far rather go down 
 and do my lessons as usual for Mr. Kneebreeches. I won't ask to 
 go out in the garden; but I would like to please Aunt Grizzel 
 by doing my lessons very well." 
 
106 STORIES BY MRS. MOLESWORTH 
 
 Dorcas was both delighted and astonished. Never had she 
 known her little "missie" so altogether submissive and reasonable. 
 
 "I only hope the child's not going to be ill," she said to herself. 
 But she proved a skilful ambassadress, notwithstanding her mis- 
 givings; and Griselda's imprisonment confined her only to the 
 bounds of the house and terrace walk, instead of within the four 
 walls of her own little room, as she had feared. 
 
 Lessons laere very well done that day, and Mr. Kneebreeches' 
 report was all that could be wished. 
 
 "I am particularly gratified," he remarked to Miss Grizzel, 
 "by the intelligence and interest Miss Griselda displays with 
 regard to the study of astronomy, which I have recently begun 
 to give her some elementary instruction in. And, indeed, I have 
 no fault to find Avith the way in which any of the young lady's 
 tasks are performed." 
 
 "I am extremely glad to hear it," replied Miss Grizzel gra- 
 ciously, and the kiss with which she answered Griselda's request 
 for forgiveness was a very hearty one. 
 
 And it was "all right" about Phil. 
 
 Lady Lavander knew all about him; his father and mother 
 were friends of hers, for whom she had a great regard, and for 
 some time she had been intending to ask the little boy to spend 
 the day at Merrybrow Hall, to be introduced to her goddaughter 
 Griselda. So, of course, as Lady Lavander knew all about him, 
 there could be no objection to his playing in Miss Grizzel's 
 garden! 
 
 And "to-morrow" turned out a fine day. So altogether you 
 can imagine that Griselda felt very happy and light-hearted as 
 she ran down the wood-path to meet her little friend, whose rosy 
 face soon appeared among the bushes. 
 
 "What did you do yesterday, Phil?" asked Griselda. "Were 
 you sorry not to come to play with me?" 
 
 "No," said Phil mysteriously, "I didn't mind. I was looking 
 
THE CUCKOO CLOCK 107 
 
 for the way to fairyland to show you, and I do believe I've found 
 it. Oh, it is such a pretty way." 
 
 Griselda smiled. 
 
 "I'm afraid the way to fairyland isn't so easily found," she 
 said. "But I'd like to hear about where you went. Was it far?" 
 
 "A good way," said Phil. "Won't you come with me? It's 
 in the wood. I can show you quite well, and we can be back by 
 tea-time." 
 
 "Very well," said Griselda; and off they set. 
 
 Whether it was the way to fairyland or not, it was not to be 
 wondered at that little Phil thought so. He led Griselda right 
 across the wood to a part where she had never been before. It 
 was pretty rough work part of the way. The children had to 
 fight with brambles and bushes, and here and there to creep through 
 on hands and knees, and Griselda had to remind Phil several 
 times of her promise to his nurse that his clothes should not be 
 the worse for his playing with her, to prevent his scrambling 
 through "anyhow" and leaving bits of his knickerbockers behind 
 him. 
 
 But when at last they reached Phil's favourite spot all their 
 troubles were forgotten. Oh, how pretty it was! It was a sort 
 of tiny glade in the very middle of the wood — a little green nest 
 enclosed all round by trees, and right through it the merry brook 
 came rippling along as if rejoicing at getting out into the sunlight 
 again for a while. And all the choicest and sweetest of the early 
 summer flowers seemed to be collected here in greater variety and 
 profusion than in any other part of the wood. 
 
 "Isn't it nice?" said Phil, as he nestled down beside Griselda 
 on the soft, mossy grass. "It must have been a fairies' garden 
 some time, I'm sure, and I shouldn't wonder if one of the doors 
 into fairyland is hidden somewhere here, if only we could find it." 
 
 "If only!" said Griselda. "I don't think we shall find it, 
 Phil; but, any way, this is a lovely place you've found, and I'd 
 like to come here verv often." 
 
108 STORIES BY MRS. MOLESWORTH 
 
 Then at Phil's suggestion they set to work to make them- 
 selves a house in the centre of this fairies' garden, as he called 
 it. They managed it very much to their own satisfaction, by 
 dragging some logs of wood and big stones from among the 
 brushwood hard by, and filling the holes up with bracken and 
 furze. 
 
 "And if the fairies do come here," said Phil, "they'll be very 
 pleased to find a house all ready, won't they?" 
 
 Then they had to gather flowers to ornament the house 
 inside, and dry leaves and twigs all ready for a fire in one corner. 
 Altogether it was quite a business, I can assure you, and when 
 it was finished they were very hot and very tired and rather dirty. 
 Suddenly a thought struck Griselda. 
 
 "Phil," she said, "it must be getting late." 
 
 "Past tea-time?" he said coolly. 
 
 "I dare say it is. Look how low down the sun has got. 
 Come, Phil, we must be quick. Where is the place we came out 
 of the wood at?" 
 
 "Here," said Phil, diving at a little opening among the 
 bushes. 
 
 Griselda followed him. He had been a good guide hitherto, 
 and she certainly could not have found her way alone. They 
 scrambled on for some way, then the bushes suddenly seemed to 
 grow less thick, and in a minute they came out upon a little path. 
 
 "Phil," said Griselda, "this isn't the way we came." 
 
 "Isn't it?" said Phil, looking about him. "Then we must 
 have corned the wrong way." 
 
 "I'm afraid so," said Griselda, "and it seems to be so late 
 already. I'm so sorry, for Aunt Grizzel will be vexed, and 
 I did so want to please her. Will your nurse be vexed, Phil?" 
 
 "I don't care if she are," replied Phil valiantly. 
 
 "You shouldn't say that, Phil. You know we shouldn't 
 have stayed so long playing." 
 
 "Nebber mind," said Phil. "If it was mother I would mind. 
 
THE CUCKOO CLOCK 109 
 
 Mother's so good, you don't know. And she never 'colds me, 
 except when I am naughty — so I do mind." 
 
 "She wouldn't like you be out so late, I'm sure," said Griselda 
 in distress, "and it's most my fault, for I'm the biggest. Now, 
 which way shall we go?" 
 
 They had followed the little path till it came to a point where 
 two roads, rough cart-ruts only, met; or, rather, where the path 
 ran across the road. Right, or left, or straight on, which should 
 it be ? Griselda stood still in perplexity. Already it was growing 
 dusk; already the moon's soft light was beginning faintly to 
 glimmer through the branches. Griselda looked up to the sky. 
 
 "To think," she said to herself — "to think that I should not 
 know my way in a little bit of a wood like this — I that was up 
 at the other side of the moon last night." 
 
 The remembrance put another thought into her mind. 
 
 "Cuckoo, cuckoo," she said softly, "couldn't you help us?" 
 
 Then she stood still and listened, holding Phil's cold little 
 hands in her own. 
 
 She was not disappointed. Presently, in the distance, came 
 the well-known cry, "cuckoo, cuckoo," so soft and far away, but 
 yet so clear. 
 
 Phil clapped his hands. 
 
 "He's calling us," he cried joyfully. "He's going to show 
 us the way. That's how he calls me always. Good cuckoo, we're 
 coming"; and, pulling Griselda along, he darted down the road 
 to the right — the direction from whence came the cry. 
 
 They had some way to go, for they had wandered far in a 
 wrong direction, but the cuckoo never failed them. Whenever 
 they were at a loss — whenever the path turned or divided, they 
 heard his clear, sweet call; and, without the least misgiving, they 
 followed it, till at last it brought them out upon the high-road, 
 a stone's throw from Farmer Crouch's gate. 
 
 "I know the way now, good cuckoo," exclaimed Phil. "I 
 can go home alone now, if your aunt will be vexed with you." 
 
110 STORIES BY MRS. MOLESWORTH 
 
 "No," said Griselda, "I must take you quite all the way- 
 home, Phil dear. I promised to take care of you, and if nurse 
 scolds any one it must be me, not you." 
 
 There was a little bustle about the door of the farmhouse as 
 the children wearily came up to it. Two or three men were stand- 
 ing together receiving directions from Mr. Crouch himself, and 
 Phil's nurse was talking eagerly. Suddenly she caught sight of 
 the truants. 
 
 "Here he is, Mr. Crouch!" she exclaimed. "No need now 
 to send to look for him. Oh, Master Phil, how could you stay 
 out so late? And to-night of all nights, just when your — I 
 forgot, I mustn't say; — come into the parlour at once — and this 
 little girl, who is she?" 
 
 "She isn't a little girl, she's a young lady," said Master Phil, 
 putting on his lordly air. "And she's to come into the parlour 
 and have some supper with me, and then some one must take 
 her home to her auntie's house — that's what I say." 
 
 More to please Phil than from any wish for "supper," for 
 she was really in a fidget to get home, Griselda let the little boy 
 lead her into the parlour. But she was for a moment perfectly 
 startled by the cry that broke from him when he opened the door 
 and looked into the room. A lady was standing there, gazing out 
 of the window, though in the quickly growing darkness she could 
 hardly have distinguished the little figure she was watching for 
 so anxiously. 
 
 The noise of the door opening made her look round. 
 
 "Phil," she cried, "my own little Phil; where have you been 
 to? You didn't know I was waiting here for you, did you?" 
 
 "Mother, mother!" shouted Phil, darting into his mother's 
 arms. 
 
 But Griselda drew back into the shadow of the doorway, and 
 tears filled her eyes as for a minute or two she listened to the 
 cooings and caressings of the mother and son. 
 
 Only for a minute, however. Then Phil called to her. 
 
THE CUCKOO CLOCK 111 
 
 "Mother, mother," he cried again, "you must kiss Griselda, 
 too! She's the little girl that is so kind, and plays with me; and 
 she has no mother," he added in a lower tone. 
 
 The lady put her arm round Griselda, and kissed her, too. 
 She did not seem surprised. 
 
 "I think I know about Griselda," she said very kindly, look- 
 ing into her face with her gentle eyes, blue and clear like Phil's. 
 
 And then Griselda found courage to say how uneasy she 
 was about the anxiety her aunts would be feeling, and a mes- 
 senger was sent off at once to tell of her being safe at the farm. 
 
 But Griselda herself the kind lady would not let go till she 
 had some nice supper with Phil, and was both warmed and rested. 
 
 "And what were you about, children, to lose your way?" 
 she asked presently. 
 
 "I took Griselda to see a place that I thought was the way 
 to fairyland, and then we stayed to build a house for the fairies, 
 in case they come, and then we came out at the wrong side, and 
 it got dark," explained Phil. 
 
 "And was it the way to fairyland?" asked the mother, smiling. 
 
 Griselda shook her head as she replied 
 
 "Phil doesn't understand yet," she said gently. "He isn't 
 old enough. The way to the true fairyland is hard to find, and 
 we must each find it for ourselves, mustn't we?" 
 
 She looked up in the lady's face as she spoke, and saw that 
 she "understood. 
 
 "Yes, dear child," she answered softly, and perhaps a very 
 little sadly. "But Phil and you may help each other, and I 
 perhaps may help you both." 
 
 Griselda slid her hand into the lady's. "You're not going 
 to take Phil away, are you?" she whispered. 
 
 "No, I have come to stay here," she answered, "and Phil's 
 father is coming too, soon. We are going to live at the White 
 House — the house on the other side of the wood, on the way to 
 Merrybrow. Are you glad, children?" 
 
112 STORIES BY MRS. MOLESWORTH 
 
 Griselda had a curious dream that night — merely a dream, 
 nothing else. She dreamt that the cuckoo came once more; this 
 time, he told her, to say "good-bye." 
 
 "For you will not need me now," he said. "I leave you in 
 good hands, Griselda. You have friends now who will under- 
 stand you — friends who will help you both to work and to play. 
 Better friends than the mandarins, or the butterflies, or even than 
 your faithful old cuckoo." 
 
 And when Griselda tried to speak to him, to thank him for 
 his goodness, to beg him still sometimes to come to see her, he 
 gently fluttered away. "Cuckoo, cuckoo, cuckoo," he warbled ; but 
 somehow the last "cuckoo" sounded like "good-bye." 
 
 In the morning, when Griselda awoke, her pillow was wet 
 with tears. Thus many stories end. She was happy, very happy 
 in the thought of her kind new friends; but there were tears for 
 the one she felt she had said farewell to, even though he was only 
 a cuckoo in a clock. 
 
THE 
 SIX POOR LITTLE PRINCESSES 
 
 "And all the Christ Child's other gifts . . . 
 . . . but still — but still — 
 The doll seem'd all my waking thoughts to fill. ..." 
 
 The Doll that ne'er was Mine. 
 
 There were six of them, beginning with Helen and ending 
 with Baby, and as Helen was only twelve and Baby already five, 
 it is easy to understand that they were all pretty near of a size. 
 But they weren't really princesses. That was all Jinny's plan- 
 ning. Indeed most things which were nice or amusing or at all 
 "out-of-the-way" were Jinny's planning. 
 
 Jinny's long name was Ginevra. She came third. Helen and 
 Agatha were in front of her, and below her came Elspeth and 
 Belinda and Baby. Baby had a proper name, I suppose, but I 
 never heard it, and so I can't tell you what it was. And as no 
 one ever did hear it, I don't see that it much matters. Nor would 
 it have mattered much if Belinda had had no proper name either, 
 for she was never called anything but Butter-ball. The story was 
 that it was because she was so fat; and as, like many fat people, 
 she was very good-natured, she did not mind. 
 
 They were all together in the nursery, together but alone, as 
 was rather often the case; for they had no kind, comfortable old 
 nurse to spoil and scold them by turns, poor children, only a girl 
 that Miss Burton, the lady whom they lived with, kept "to do 
 the nursery work," which does not sound like being a nice nurse 
 at all, though I suppose Miss Burton did not understand the 
 difference. There were a good many things she did not under- 
 stand. She liked the children to be neatly dressed, and to have 
 good plain food in plenty ; she was very particular that they should 
 
 113 
 
114 STORIES BY MRS. MOLESWORTH 
 
 do their lessons and go for a walk every day when it was fine 
 enough, but that was about all she thought of. She did not think 
 they needed any fun except what they could make for themselves, 
 and even then it must not be too noisy; she could not understand 
 that they could possibly be "dull," caged up in their nursery. 
 "Dull," when there were six of them to play together? She 
 would have laughed at the idea. 
 
 They had few story-books and fewer toys. So they had to 
 invent stories for themselves, and as for the toys, to make believe 
 very much indeed. But how they would have succeeded in either 
 had it not been for Jinny I should be afraid to say. 
 
 "It's a shame — a regular shame," said Ginevra. She was 
 sitting on the table in the middle of the room with Elspeth beside 
 her. The two little ones were cross-legged on the floor, very dis- 
 consolately nursing the battered remains of two very hideous old 
 dolls, who in their best days could never have been anything but 
 coarse and common, and Helen and Agatha sat together on a 
 chair with a book in their hands, which, however, they were not 
 reading. "It's a shame," Ginevra repeated; "even the little princes 
 in the tower had toys to play with." 
 
 "Had they?" said Helen. "Is that in the history, Jinny?" 
 
 "It's in some history; anyway, I'm sure I've heard it," Jinny 
 replied. 
 
 "But this isn't a tower," said Agatha. 
 
 "No, it's a dungeon," replied Ginevra grimly. "And if any 
 of you besides me had the spirit of a true princess, you wouldn't 
 stand it." 
 
 "We don't want to stand it any more than you do," Helen 
 said quietly. "But what are we to do? You don't want to run 
 away, do you? Where could Ave run to? It isn't as if papa was 
 anywhere in England. Besides, we're not starved or beaten, and 
 we're in no danger of having our heads cut off." 
 
 "I'd rather we were — there'd be some fun in that," said 
 Princess Jinny. 
 
THE SIX POOR LITTLE PRINCESSES 115 
 
 "Fun!" repeated Agatha. 
 
 "Well, it Avouldn't be as stupid as being shut up here in this 
 dreary old nursery — I mean dungeon," said Ginevra. "And now 
 that our cruel gaoler has refused to let us have the small solace of 
 
 — of a " she could not find any more imposing word — "doll to 
 
 play with, I think the time has come to take matters into our 
 own hands, princesses." 
 
 "I've no objection," said Helen and Agatha, speaking to- 
 gether. "But what do you mean to do?" 
 
 "You shouldn't call Miss Burton a gaoler — she isn't as bad 
 as that; besides, she's not a man," said Elspeth, who had not be- 
 fore spoken. "We might call her the governor — no, governess; 
 but that sounds so funny, 'governess of the tower,' or custo — then 
 some word like that, of the castle." 
 
 "But this isn't a tower — we've fixed that — nor a castle. It's 
 just a dungeon — that'll do very well, and it's great fun at night 
 when we put out the candles and grope about in the dark. And 
 gaoler will do very well for Miss Burton — some are quite kind, 
 much kinder than she." 
 
 "It's all along of our never having had any mamma," said 
 a slow, soft little voice from the floor. 
 
 "Princess Butter-ball, what a vulgar way of speaking you 
 have! — 'all along of — I'm ashamed of you," said Jinny severely. 
 
 "Besides, Ave did have a mamma once — all except " and she 
 
 glanced at Baby, but without finishing her sentence. For had 
 she done so poor Princess Baby would have burst into loud sobs; 
 it was a very sore point with her that she had never had a mamma 
 at all, whereas all the others, even Butter-ball, were perfectly sure 
 they could remember their mother. 
 
 "If Aunt Ginevra would come home," sighed Elspeth. 
 "We've always been promised she would." 
 
 "And she's written us kind letters," added Agatha. 
 
 "What's letters?" said Jinny contemptuously. 
 
 "Well, you needn't complain," said Helen. "She sent you a 
 
116 STORIES BY MRS. MOLESWORTH 
 
 silver mug — real silver — and that's more than any of our god- 
 mothers did for the rest of us." 
 
 "Yes, she did," said Jinny, "and it's fortunate for us all, 
 princesses, that through all our troubles I have always kept that 
 one — memento of happier days about my person " 
 
 "What stories, Jinny!" Agatha exclaimed. "At least it's 
 stories if you're being real just now. You mix up princess-ing 
 and real, so that I get quite muddled. But, you know, you don't 
 carry the mug about with you." 
 
 For all answer, Princess Ginevra, after some fumbling in her 
 pocket, drew out a short, thick parcel wrapped in tissue-paper, 
 which she unfolded, and held up to view a silver mug. 
 
 "There now," she said. 
 
 Agatha looked rather crestfallen. 
 
 "It must be very uncomfortable to have that lumpy thing 
 in your pocket, and some day Miss Burton will be asking where 
 it's gone," she said. "I suppose it makes you fancy yourself more 
 a princess, but I'm getting rather tired of fancies. Now if we 
 only had a beautiful doll, and could all work at dressing it, that 
 would be worth something." 
 
 "And we might go on being princesses all the same, or even 
 more," put in Elspeth. 
 
 "Patience," said Jinny, "patience and courage. Leave it 
 to me. I think I see my way. I have my eye on a trusty adher- 
 ent, and if I am not much mistaken, you shall have a doll before 
 Christmas." 
 
 All five pricked up their ears at this — they had all at the 
 bottom of their hearts the greatest faith in Ginevra, though the 
 elder ones now and then felt it necessary to snub her a little. 
 
 "Are you in earnest, Jinny?" said Helen; "and if you are, 
 I wish you'd tell us what you mean. Who is the trusty adherent?" 
 
 "I know," said Agatha. "It's the red-haired boy next door. 
 Jinny dropped her umbrella the other day and he picked it up for 
 
THE SIX POOR LITTLE PRINCESSES 117 
 
 her, and she stopped to thank him — that day we had colds and 
 couldn't go out, Helen." 
 
 "No," said Elspeth; "it was Jinny that picked up some of 
 his books that dropped — he was carrying such a pile of awful 
 messy ragged ones. He must go to a messy school." 
 
 "He was not going to school," said Ginevra. "He was taking 
 these old books to — but no, I must not betray him." 
 
 "Rubbish," said Agatha; "he can't be more than nine. What 
 could there be to betray? He's not a shut-up prince, Jinny. Do 
 talk sense for once." 
 
 Ginevra changed her tone. 
 
 "I don't want to tell you," she said in a matter-of-fact voice, 
 "for fear of disappointing you all. Just wait a very few days 
 and then I'll tell you. But first, supposing we could get a doll, 
 what should it be like — fair or dark?" 
 
 "Dark, black hair and brown eyes," replied all the five voices. 
 For the six princesses had fair curls and blue eyes, so, naturally, 
 they preferred a contrast. 
 
 "Hum," said Jinny. "Brown hair, perhaps, but not black. 
 The black-haired dolls in the shop-windows look common." 
 
 "Never mind. Any haired would do so long as we got her," 
 said Agatha. "But don't talk about it. It does make me want 
 her so dreadfully." 
 
 . Late that afternoon, just about the time that the little boy 
 next door would be coming home from school, a small figure with 
 a shawl drawn over its head might have been seen at Miss 
 Burton's front gate. She had waited patiently for some minutes. 
 At last she was rewarded by the sight, or the sound rather, for 
 it was almost too dark to see any one, of Master Red-Head 
 coming up the road. When he got close to his own door she 
 called out. It was rather difficult to do so, for she had no idea 
 what his name was. 
 
 "Master — Mr. — " she began, and then changing suddenly, 
 "boy, please, I don't know your name." 
 
118 STORIES BY MRS. MOLESWORTH 
 
 He stopped and came up to her, exclaiming of course, "I 
 say who's there? What's up?" 
 
 "It's me — Prin — I mean one of the little girls next door, the 
 one who picked up your old books the other day. I want to ask 
 you something, please." 
 
 Red-Head was all attention, and the two went on talking for 
 some minutes. 
 
 "You're sure he will?" said Jinny at last. 
 
 "Quite positive. I'll get all out of him I can. It's real sil- 
 ver, you say." 
 
 "Real, pure silver," she replied. 
 
 "And — and it's your very own? I mean you may do what 
 jrou like with it?" Red-Head went on, for he was a boy with a 
 conscience. 
 
 "Of course it's my own. Do you think I'd steal?" exclaimed 
 Jinny indignantly, so indignantly that she omitted to answer his 
 second question, not even asking it of herself. 
 
 "No, no, of course not. But you know — I wouldn't get 
 leave to sell my watch though it's my own. Only I suppose it's 
 all because you've no father and mother to look after you. It's 
 very hard on you to have no toys. I suppose girls can't live with- 
 out dolls. But I say, tell me again about the doll. I'll have 
 to do it all at once, for we're going away for the holidays the day 
 after tomorrow." 
 
 "You're to get all the money you can, and the very prettiest 
 doll you can have for the money. With brown hair, remember- — 
 not light, we're tired of light, we've all got it ourselves — and not 
 black, black's common." 
 
 "And not red, I suppose. You may as well say it. I don't 
 mind." 
 
 "Well, no," said Ginevra hesitatingly. She would not for 
 worlds have hurt his feelings— no princess would so treat a trusty 
 adherent — yet she could not pretend to a weakness for red hair. 
 "I think we'd like brown best." 
 
THE SIX POOR LITTLE PRINCESSES 119 
 
 "All right. Then to-morrow afternoon, just about this time. 
 It's a half-holiday — we're breaking up, but it's best to wait till 
 dark for fear you should get a scolding. I'll be here just about 
 this time, with — you know what." 
 
 "Thank you, oh, thank you so much," and Ginevra held out 
 her hand, half expecting him to kiss it, instead of which, however, 
 he gave it a schoolboy shake. 
 
 "I can excuse it, however; he could not be expected to under- 
 stand," she said to herself as she flew up to the nursery. 
 
 She could scarcely sleep that night, and the next morning it 
 was all she could do to keep her secret. But there was plenty of 
 determination under Princess Jinny's fair curls, and by dint of 
 much squeezing of her lips together and saying to herself what a 
 pit} r it would be to spoil the beautiful "surprise," she managed 
 to get through the morning without doing more than dropping 
 some mysterious hints. But how long the day seemed, short as it 
 really was! Would it never get dark? For it was clear and 
 frosty, and the afternoon, to Jinny, appeared, out of contradic- 
 tion, to be twice as long as usual of closing in. 
 
 "All comes, however to him (or her) who waits," and the 
 blissful moment at last arrived when Ginevra found herself run- 
 ning upstairs, though not so fast as the evening before, for fear 
 of dropping the precious parcel she held in her arms. 
 
 "The dear, sweet boy," she said to herself. "I'd have liked 
 to kiss him. Perhaps we all might when he comes home again." 
 
 For Red-Head's last words had been a charge not to forget 
 to let him know after the holidays if Miss Dolly was approved of. 
 
 Ginevra burst into the nursery. 
 
 "Princesses," she exclaimed, "shut your eyes, while I un- 
 wrap her. "I'll shut mine too. I haven't seen her myself." 
 
 "Is it — can it be — the doll?" they all cried, and their hearts 
 nearly stopped beating with excitement. 
 
 "Now," Jinny exclaimed. 
 
 They all pressed forward. All six pairs of eyes were fixed 
 
120 STORIES BY MRS. MOLESWORTH 
 
 on Jinny's lap, but not a sound was heard. A blank look of dis- 
 appointment fell over every face. Red-Head, poor Red-Head had 
 done his best, but oh, what a mistake! He had bought a dressed 
 doll, and as ten and sixpence, which was all he had got for the mug, 
 will not go very far in such articles, it can be imagined that Dolly 
 herself, notwithstanding the gorgeousness of her attire, fell short, 
 lamentably short of the poor princesses' expectations. 
 
 "She's only china, and her hair's a put-on wig," said Agatha, 
 with tears in her eyes. 
 
 "Her clothes don't even take off and on, and they're not a 
 bit like a little girl's clothes," said Elspeth. 
 
 Ginevra said not a word; her face told of nothing less than 
 despair. 
 
 "And poor darling Jimry has sold her mug to buy it with — 
 all to please us. I found it out, but it was too late to stop it," 
 said Helen. "Jinny darling, we must like her, we "will — -anyway 
 she'll be better than nothing. We'll make her new clothes, and 
 then perhaps she won't look so vulgar," whereupon, Helen setting 
 the example, all the five princesses fell upon Jinny's neck and 
 hugged and kissed her and each other amidst their tears. 
 
 "And we mustn't tell Red-Head," said Jinny; "he'd be so 
 disappointed. He did his best. I never thought of saying she 
 wasn't to be dressed. He's going away to-morrow, and of course 
 they wouldn't change the doll after he comes back. Besides, she is 
 better than nothing, surely?" 
 
 Christmas Eve — the six princesses sat on the window-sill 
 looking out on the fast-falling snow. Dolly — partially denuded of 
 her gorgeous attire, but looking rather woe-begone, if less self- 
 satisfied and vulgar, for new clothes "to take on and off," and of 
 irreproachable good taste, are not to be fashioned by little fingers 
 in a day — was reposing in Butter-ball's fat arms. They "took 
 turns" of her, as was the fairest arrangement under the circum- 
 stances of six little girls and only one doll ; and, true to the sound 
 philosophy of her being "better than nothing," a certain half- 
 
DUFFIELD a COMPANY 
 
 "What could be lovelier, what more perfect, than the mx exquisite dolls, each 
 more beautiful than her sister." 
 
THE SIX POOR LITTLE PRINCESSES 121 
 
 contemptuous affection for her had taken the place of the first 
 dislike. 
 
 Suddenly — rat-tat-tat at the front knocker. 
 
 "The postman," said Helen. "Possibly there may be a 
 Christmas card for us." 
 
 It was for "us," but it was not a card. No; a letter, ad- 
 dressed outside to Helen as the eldest, but inside beginning "My 
 six dear little nieces." 
 
 "From Aunt Ginevra," Helen exclaimed; "and oh, she is 
 coming home at last. And oh, oh, just fancy, we are all to go to 
 live with her. And — and " 
 
 "Read it aloud," said Jinny quickly. But Helen was all 
 trembling with excitement. Jinny seized it and read. 
 
 Delightful news truly for the six imprisoned princesses! 
 
 "She must be nice," said Jinny; "she writes so sweetly. And 
 what can the presents be that she says she is sending us for 
 Christmas?" 
 
 Agatha looked over her shoulder. 
 
 "I have chosen what I think would have pleased me most 
 when I was a little girl. The box is sent off by express from 
 Paris, where your uncle and I are resting for a few days, so that 
 you may have it by Christmas. And before the new year begins, 
 my darlings, I hope to be at last with you." 
 
 Rat-tat-tat again. The railway van this time. Such a 
 big box comes up to the nursery. Dear, dear, what a business to 
 get it opened. How the six pairs of eyes shine, how the six pairs 
 of hands tremble with eagerness as each undoes her own specially 
 marked parcel. And oh, the cries of delight at last! What could 
 be lovelier, what more perfect, than the six exquisite dolls, each 
 more beautiful than her sisters! 
 
 "Real wax, real hair, real everysing," cries Princess Baby. 
 
 "One suit of clothes ready, taking off and on ones, and lots 
 of stuff to make more," adds Butter-ball. 
 
122 STORIES BY MRS. MOLESWORTH 
 
 "Oh, how sweet Auntie must be, how happy we are going to 
 be!" cry all. 
 
 But Jinny's face is sad. 
 
 "My poor, ugly dolly," she murmurs. "And oh, what shall 
 I say if Auntie asks for my jug?" 
 
 "We'll tell her — all of us together. It was all for our sakes 
 you did it, and so she can't be angry," say the other five. 
 
 "And Jinny, I do think the old doll would make a beautiful 
 maid for the others ; she really couldn't look vulgar in a neat print 
 frock and white apron." 
 
 Ginevra brightens up at this. 
 
 "All the same," she said, "I wish now we had waited a little 
 and believed that Auntie would come as soon as she could. I see 
 that it would have been better. And oh, I do so hope she won't 
 be vexed." 
 
 She was not vexed ; only very, very sorry. More deeply sorry 
 than the princesses themselves could understand. 
 
 "I had no idea of it all," said poor Auntie. "Yet I could not 
 have come to you sooner, my darlings. Still — if I had known — 
 But it is all over now, and you are going to be as happy as ever 
 your Auntie can make you." 
 
 "And it's almost the same as having a mamma, isn't it?" said 
 Baby, satisfied that in this possession she had an undoubted share. 
 
 The mug was reclaimed. And the dealer, who had paid far 
 too little for it, was well frightened by no less a person than Uncle 
 himself. 
 
 Poor Red-Head never knew how he had failed. But Auntie, 
 Avho got to know his father and mother, was able, without hurting 
 his feelings, to make him understand that little boys do well to 
 keep out of such transactions even when inspired by the kindest 
 of motives. 
 
TOO BAD 
 
 "It is the mynd that maketh good or ill, 
 That maketh wretch or happie, rich or poore." 
 
 Spenser. 
 
 Chapter I 
 
 "It's too bad!" said Miss Judy; "I declare it's really 
 too bad!" and she came stumping along the road after her nurse, 
 looking decidedly "put out." 
 
 "It would be something new if it wasn't too bad with you, 
 Miss Judy, about something or other," said nurse coolly. 
 
 Miss Judy was a kind-hearted, gentle-mannered little girl. 
 She was pretty and healthy and clever — the sort of child any 
 parents might have been proud of, any brothers and sisters fond 
 of, had not all her niceness been spoiled by one most disagreeable 
 fault. She was always grumbling. The hot days of summer, the 
 cold days of winter, the rain, the wind, the dust, might, to hear 
 her speak, have been expressly contrived to annoy her. When 
 it was fine and the children were to go out for a walk, Miss 
 Judy was sure to have something she particularly wanted to 
 say in for; when it rained, and the house was evidently the 
 best place for little people, Miss Judy was quite certain to have 
 set her heart upon going out. She grumbled at having to 
 get up, she grumbled at having to go to bed, she grumbled at 
 lessons, she grumbled at play; she could not see that little con- 
 tradictions and annoyances came to everybody in the world, and 
 that the only way to do is to meet them bravely and sensibly. She 
 really seemed to believe that nobody had so much to bear as she; 
 that on her poor little shoulders all the tiresomenesses and disap- 
 pointments, and "going the wrong way" of things, were heaped in 
 double, and more than double quantities, and she persuaded herself 
 that everybody she saw was better off than herself, and that no one 
 else had such troubles to bear. So children, you will not be sur- 
 
 123 
 
124 STORIES BY MRS. MOLESWORTH 
 
 prised to hear that poor Miss Judy was not loved or respected as 
 much as some little girls who perhaps really deserved love and 
 respect less. For this ugly disagreeable fault of hers hid all her 
 good qualities; and just as flowers can not flourish when shaded 
 from the nice bright sun by some rank, wide-spreading weed, so 
 Judy's pretty blossoms of kindness and unselfishness and truth- 
 fulness, which were all Teally there, were choked and withered 
 by this poisonous habit of grumbling. 
 
 I do not really remember what it was she was grumbling 
 at this particular morning. I dare say it was that the roads 
 were muddy, for it was autumn, and Judy's home was in the 
 country. Or, possibly, it was only that nurse had told her to 
 walk a little quicker, and that immediately her boots began to 
 hurt her, or the place on her heel where once there had been 
 a chilblain got sore, or the elastic of her hat was too loose, and 
 her hat came flopping down on to her face. It might have been 
 any of these things. Whatever it was, it was "too bad." That, 
 whenever Miss Judy was concerned, you might be quite, quite 
 sure of. 
 
 They were returning home from rather a long walk. It was 
 autumn, as I said, and there had been a week or two of almost 
 constant rain, and certainly country lanes are not very pleasant 
 at such times. If Judy had not grumbled so at everything, 
 she might have been forgiven for this special grumble (if it was 
 about the roads), I do think. It was getting chilly and raw, 
 and the clouds looked as if the rain was more than half thinking 
 of turning back on its journey to "Spain," or Avherever it was 
 it had set off to. Nurse hurried on; she was afraid of the little 
 ones in the perambulator catching cold, and she could not spare 
 time to talk to Miss Judy any longer. 
 
 Judy came after her slowly; they were just passing some 
 cottages, and at the door of one of them stood a girl of about 
 Judy's age, with her mouth open, staring at "the little gentry." 
 She had heard what had passed between Judy and her nurse, 
 
TOO BAD 125 
 
 ana" was thinking it over in her own way. Suddenly Judy caught 
 sight of her. 
 
 "What are you staring at so?" she said sharply. "It's too 
 had of you. You are a rude little girl. I'll tell nurse how rude 
 you are." 
 
 Judy did not generally speak so crossly, especially not to 
 poor children, for she had really nice feelings about such things, 
 but she was very much put out, and ashamed too, that her ill- 
 natured words to nurse should have been overheard, so she ex- 
 pressed her vexation to the first object that came in her way. 
 The little girl did not leave off staring at her; in fact she did 
 so harder than before. But she answered Judy gently, growing 
 rather red as she did so; and Judy felt her irritation cool. 
 
 "I didn't mean no offence," she said. "I were just looking 
 at you, and thinking to be sure how nice you had everything, 
 and a-wondering how it could be as you weren't pleased." 
 
 "Who said I wasn't pleased?" said Judy. 
 
 "You said as something was a deal too bad," replied the 
 child. 
 
 "Well, so it was, — it must have been, I mean, — or else I 
 wouldn't have said so," answered Judy, who, to tell the truth 
 had by this time quite forgotten what particular trouble had 
 been the cause of her last grumble. "How do you mean that I 
 have everything so nice?" 
 
 "Your things, miss — your jacket and your frock, and all 
 them things. And you live in such a fine house, and has 
 servants to do for you and all. O my! wouldn't I change with 
 you. Nothing would never be too bad for me if I was you, miss." 
 
 "I dare say you think so," said Judy importantly, "but 
 that just shows that you don't know better. I can tell you I 
 have a great, great many troubles and things to bear that you 
 have no idea of. Indeed, I dare say you are far happier than 
 I. You are not bothered about keeping your frocks clean, and 
 not getting your feet wet, and all those horrible things. And 
 
126 STORIES BY MRS. MOLESWORTH 
 
 about lessons. I dare say you have no trouble at all about les- 
 sons. You don't go to school, do you?" 
 
 "Not now, miss. It's more than six months since I've been. 
 Mother's wanted me so badly to mind baby. Father did say as 
 perhaps I should go again for a bit come Christmas," answered 
 the little girl, who was growing quite at ease with Judy. 
 
 "And do you like going?" said Judy. 
 
 "Pretty well, but it's a long walk — winter time 'specially," 
 said the child! "not but what most things is hard then to them as 
 lives in places like ours. 'Tisn't like for you, miss, with lots 
 of fires, and no need for to go out if it's cold or wet." 
 
 "Indeed I have to go out very often — indeed, always almost 
 when I don't want," retorted Judy. "Not that I should mind the 
 walk to school. I should like it; it would be far nicer than horrid 
 lessons at home, cooped up in the same room all the time, with 
 no change. You don't understand a bit; I am quite sure you 
 haven't as many troubles as I." 
 
 The little girl smiled, but hardly seemed convinced. "Seems 
 to me, miss, as if you couldn't hardly know, unless you tried, 
 what things is like in places like ours," she said. 
 
 But before Judy could reply, a voice from inside the cottage 
 called out, "Betsy, my girl, what are you about so long? 
 Father'll be in directly, and there's the tea to see to." 
 
 The voice was far from unkind, but its effect on Betsy was 
 instantaneous. 
 
 "I must go, miss," she said; "mother's calling;" and off 
 she ran. 
 
 "How nice and funny it must be to set the tea for her 
 father," thought Judy, as she walked on. "I should like that 
 sort of work. What a silly girl she is not to see how much fewer 
 troubles she has than I. I only wish " 
 
 "What did you say you wished?" interrupted a voice that 
 seemed to come out of the hedge, so suddenly did its owner 
 appear before Judy. 
 
TOO BAD 127 
 
 "I didn't say I wished anything — at least I didn't know I 
 was speaking aloud," said the little girl, as soon as she found 
 voice to reply. 
 
 The person who had spoken to her was a little old woman, 
 with a scarlet cloak that nearly covered her. She had a basket 
 on her arm, and looked as if she was returning from market. 
 There was nothing very remarkable about her, and yet Judy 
 felt startled and a little frightened, she did not quite know 
 why. 
 
 "I didn't know I was speaking aloud," she repeated, staring 
 half timidly at the old woman. 
 
 "Didn't you?" she replied. "Well, now I think of it, I 
 don't remember saying that you did. There's more kinds of 
 speaking than with tongue and words. What should you say 
 if I were to tell you what it was you were wishing just now?" 
 
 "I don't know," said Judy, growing more alarmed. "I 
 think, please, I had better run on. Nurse will be wondering 
 where I am." 
 
 "You didn't think of that when you were standing chat- 
 tering to little Betsy just now," said the old woman. 
 
 "Did you hear us?" asked Judy, her astonishment almost 
 overcoming her alarm. "Where were you standing? I didn't 
 see you." 
 
 "I dare say not. There's many things besides what you 
 see, my dear. For instance, you don't see why Betsy should 
 think it would be a fine thing to be you, and perhaps Betsy 
 doesn't see why you should think it would be a fine thing to 
 be in her place instead of in your own." 
 
 Judy's eyes opened wider and wider. "Did you hear all 
 that?" she exclaimed. 
 
 The old woman smiled. 
 
 'So you really would like to be Betsy for a change?" she said. 
 
 "Not exactly for a change," answered Judy. "It isn't that 
 I am tired of being myself, but I am sure no other little 
 
128 STORIES BY MRS. MOLESWORTH 
 
 girl in the world has so many troubles; that is why I would 
 rather be Betsy. You have no idea what troubles I have," she 
 went on, "and I can never do anything I like. It's always 'Miss 
 Judy, you must,' or 'Miss Judy, you mustn't,' all day long. 
 And if ever I am merry for a little, then nurse tells me I shall 
 wake baby. O! he is such a cross baby!" 
 
 "And do you think Betsy's baby brothers and sisters are 
 never cross?" inquired the old woman. 
 
 "O no, I dare say they are; but then she's allowed to scold 
 and punish them, and I may never say anything, however tire- 
 some the little ones are. If I might put baby in the corner 
 when he is naughty, I would soon cure him. But I may never 
 do anything I want; it's too bad." 
 
 "Poor thing, poor thing! it is too bad, a great deal too 
 bad. I do feel for you," said the old woman. 
 
 But when Judy looked up there was a queer twinkle in her 
 eyes, which made her by no means sure whether she was laughing 
 at her or not. The little girl felt more than half inclined to be 
 affronted, but before she had time to decide the point, the old 
 woman interrupted her. 
 
 "Look here, my dear," she said, lifting up the lid of the 
 basket on her arm; "to show you that I am in earnest, see what 
 I will do for you. Here is a nice rosy-cheeked apple; put it 
 into your pocket, and don't let any one see it, and when you are 
 in bed at night, if you are still of the same mind about being 
 Betsy instead of yourself, just take a bite of the apple, then 
 turn round and go to sleep, and in the morning you shall see 
 what you shall see." 
 
 Half hesitatingly, Judy put out her hand for the apple. 
 
 "Thank you very much," she said, "but" 
 
 "But what?" said the old woman rather sharply. 
 
 "Must I always be Betsy, if I try being her?" 
 
 "Bless the child, Avhat will she have?" exclaimed the old 
 woman. "No, you needn't go on being Betsy if you don't want. 
 
TOO BAD 129 
 
 Keep the apple, take care you don't lose it, and when you've had 
 enough of a change, take another bite. But after that, remember 
 the apple can do no more for you." 
 
 "I dare say I shall not want it to do anything for me once 
 I have left off being myself," said Judy. "Oh, how nice it will 
 be not to have nurse ordering me about all day long, and not 
 to be bothered about keeping my frock clean, and to have no 
 lessons !" 
 
 "I'm glad you're pleased," said the old woman. "Now, good- 
 bye; you won't see me again till you want me." 
 
 "Good-bye, and thank" — "thank you very much," she was 
 going to have said, holding out her hand as she spoke — for re- 
 member she was not a rude or ill-mannered little girl by any 
 means — but, lo and behold, there was nobody there! The old 
 woman had disappeared! Judy rubbed her eyes, and stared 
 about her in every direction, but there was nothing to be seen — 
 nothing, that is to say, in the least like an old woman, only 
 some birds hopping about quite unconcernedly, and a tiny field- 
 mouse, who peeped up at Judy for an instant with its bright 
 little eyes, and then scurried off to its hole. 
 
 It was growing late and dusk, the mists were creeping up 
 from the not far distant sea, and the hills were thinking of put- 
 ting on their night-caps, and retiring from view. Judy felt a 
 little strange and "eerie," as she stood there alone in the lane. 
 She could almost have fancied she had been dreaming, but there 
 was the rosy-cheeked apple in her hand, proof positive to the 
 contrary. So Judy decided that the best thing she could do 
 was to run home as fast as she could, and consider at her leisure 
 if she should make use of the little old woman's gift. 
 
 It was nearly dark when she reached the garden gate — at 
 least the trees on each side of the carriage-drive made it seem so. 
 Judy had never been out so late alone before, and she felt rather 
 frightened as to what nurse would say. The side door Avas open, 
 so she ran in, and went straight up to the nursery. Just as she 
 
130 STORIES BY MRS. MOLESWORTH 
 
 got upstairs she met nurse, her shawl and bonnet on, her kind 
 old face looking hot and anxious. At sight of the truant she 
 stopped short. 
 
 "So there you are, Miss Judy," she exclaimed; "and a nice 
 fright you've given me. It's my turn to speak about 'too bad' 
 now, I think. It really was too bad of you to stay behind like 
 that, and me never thinking but what you were close behind till 
 this moment; at least, that you had come in close behind, and 
 had stayed down in the drawing-room for a little. You've fright- 
 ened me out of my wits, you naughty child; and if only your 
 mamma was at home, I would go straight downstairs, and tell 
 her it's more than I can put up with." 
 
 "It's more than I can put up with to be scolded so for 
 nothing," said Judy crossly, and Avith a tone in her voice new 
 to her, and which rather took nurse aback. She had not meant 
 to be harsh to the child, but she had been really frightened, and, 
 as is often the case, on finding there had been no cause for her 
 alarm, a feeling of provocation took its place. 
 
 "You should not speak so, Miss Judy," she said quietly, for 
 she was wise enough not to wish to irritate the little girl, whom 
 she truly loved, further. 
 
 But Judy was not to be so easily pacified. 
 
 "It's too bad," she began as usual; "it's a great deal too 
 bad, that I should never be allowed to do the least thing I want; 
 to be scolded so for nothing at all — just staying out for two or 
 three minutes;" and she "banged about" the nursery, dragging 
 her hat off, and kicking her boots into the corner in an extremely 
 indignant manner. 
 
 Nurse felt much distressed. To Judy's grumbling she was 
 accustomed, but this was worse than grumbling. "What can 
 have come over the child?" she said to herself, but to Judy she 
 thought it best to say nothing at all. All through tea Judy 
 looked far from amiable; she hardly spoke, though a faint "Too 
 bad" was now and then heard from her direction. Poor nurse 
 
TOO BAD 131 
 
 had not a very pleasant time of it, for the "cross" infection spread, 
 as, alas! it is too apt to do, and little Lena, Judy's four-years- 
 old sister, grew peevish and discontented, and pinched Master 
 Baby, in return for which he, as was to be expected, set up a 
 dismal howl. 
 
 "Naughty, horrid little things!" said Judy. "If I had my 
 way with them, they should both be whipped and put to bed." 
 
 "Hush, Miss Judy!" said nurse. "If you would be pleasant 
 and help to amuse them, they would not be so cross." 
 
 "I've something else to do than to amuse such ill-natured 
 little things," said Judy. 
 
 "Well, I should think it was time you learnt your lessons for 
 to-morrow," said nurse. "We've had tea so late, it will soon be 
 time for you to be dressed to go down to the drawing-room to 
 your papa. There are some gentlemen dining with him to-night." 
 
 "I can't bear going down when mamma's away," said Judy. 
 "It's too bad of her to go away and leave us." 
 
 "For shame, Miss Judy, to speak so, when you know that 
 it's only because your poor aunt is so ill that your mamma had to 
 go away. Now get your books, there's a good girl, and do your 
 lessons." 
 
 "I'm not going to do them," said Judy, with sudden resolu- 
 tion. "I needn't unless I like. I don't think I shall ever do any 
 more. It's too bad I should never have a minute of time to 
 myself." 
 
 Nurse really began to think the little girl must be going to 
 be ill. Never, in all her experience of her, had she known her so 
 cross. It was the same all the evening. Judy grumbled and 
 stormed at everything; she would not stand still to have her hair 
 brushed, or her pretty white muslin frock fastened; and when 
 she came upstairs she was more ill pleased than before, because, 
 just as she was beginning to amuse herself with some pictures, 
 her papa told her he thought it was time for little girls to be in 
 bed. How often, while she was being undressed, she declared 
 
132 STORIES BY MRS. MOLESWORTH 
 
 that something or other was "too bad," I really could not under- 
 take to say. She grumbled at her nice warm bath, she grumbled 
 at her hair being combed out, she grumbled at having to go to 
 bed when she wasn't "the least bit sleepy," she grumbled at every- 
 thing and everybody, herself included, for she came to the resolu- 
 tion that she really would not be herself any longer! No sooner 
 had nurse and the candle left the room than Judy drew out the 
 apple, which, while nurse was not looking, she had managed to 
 hide under her pillow, took a good big bite of it, turned round 
 on her side, and notwithstanding that her little heart was beating 
 much faster than usual, half with excitement, half with fear, at 
 what she had done, in two minutes she was sound asleep. 
 
 Chaptee II. 
 
 "Betsy, Betsy girl, it's time you were stirring. Up with 
 you, child; you must look sharp." 
 
 What voice was that? Who could it be, shouting so loudly, 
 and waking her up in the middle of the night? Judy for a moment 
 felt very indignant, but she was extremely sleepy, and deter- 
 mined to think she was dreaming; so she turned round, and was 
 just dozing off, when again she heard the cry: 
 
 "Betsy, Betsy, wake up with thee. Whatever's come to the 
 child this morning?" 
 
 The voice seemed to come nearer and nearer, and at last a 
 thump on the wall, close to Judy"s head, it seemed to her, fairly 
 startled her awake. 
 
 "Up with thee, child," sounded close to her ear; "Baby's 
 been that cross all night I've had scarce a wink o' sleep. Thee 
 mustn't lie snoring there." 
 
 Suddenly all returned to Judy's memory. She was not her- 
 self; she was Betsy. 
 
TOO BAD 133 
 
 "I'm coming," she called out, hardly knowing what she was 
 saying; and then the person on the other side of the wall seemed 
 to be satisfied, for Judy now heard her walking about, clattering 
 fire-irons and pots and pans, evidently employed in tidying the 
 kitchen. 
 
 It was still what Judy thought quite dark. She had some 
 idea of calling for a lig'ht, but whom to call to she did not know. 
 So. feeling very strange and rather frightened, she got timidly 
 out of bed, and by the little light that came in at the small square 
 window, began to look about her. What a queer little place it 
 was! Not a room really, only a sort of "lean-to" at one side 
 of the kitchen, barely large enough for the narrow, rickety little 
 bedstead, and one old chair that stood beside it, answering sev- 
 eral purpose besides its proper one, for on it was placed a cracked 
 basin and jug, and a tiny bit of looking glass, with a frame, fast- 
 ened by a piece of string to the only remaining bar. Betsy's 
 clothes lay in the bed, which was but poorly provided with proper 
 blankets — the sheets were clean — everything in the place was as 
 clean as poverty can be, and indeed Betsy was, and considered 
 herself to be, a very fortunate little girl for having a "room" of 
 her own at all; but to Judy, Judy who had had no training like 
 Betsy's, Judy who found every crumple in a rose-leaf "too bad," 
 Judy who knew as little of other people's lives and other peoples 
 troubles as the man in the moon, — you can fancy, my dears, how 
 the room of which little Betsy was so proud looked to Judy! But 
 she had a spirit of her own, ready though she was to grumble. 
 With a little shiver, she began to try to dress herself in the well- 
 mended clothes, so different from her own daintily-trimmed little 
 garments — for washing she felt to be out of the question; it was 
 really too cold, and besides there were no soap, or sponges, or 
 towels to be seen. 
 
 "I don't care," she said to herself stoutly, as she wriggled 
 first into one garment and then into another. "I don't care. Anyway 
 I shall have no lessons to learn, and I shall not be bothered about 
 
134 STORIES BY MRS. MOLESWORTH 
 
 keeping my frock clean. But I do wish the fairy had left me my 
 own hair," she went on regretfully, examining the thick dark 
 locks that hung round her face, and kept tumbling into her eyes, 
 "my hair is much nicer. I don't believe Betsy ever has hers prop- 
 erly brushed, it is so tuggy. And what brown hands I've got, 
 and such crooked nails. I wonder if Betsy's mother will cut them 
 for me ; I wonder if" 
 
 She was interrupted by another summons. 
 
 "Betsy, girl, what are you after this morning? I be getting 
 downright cross with you, child. There's father'll be back for 
 breakfast directly, and you not helped me a hand's turn this blessed 
 morning." 
 
 Judy started. She only stopped to fasten the last button of 
 her little dark cotton frock, and calling out, "I'm coming," opened 
 the rough door of the little bedroom, and found herself in the 
 kitchen. There sat Betsy's mother, with the baby on her knee, 
 and the baby but one tumbling about at her feet, while she vainly 
 tried to fasten the frock of another little fellow of three, who 
 sturdily refused to stand still. 
 
 "You must finish dressing Jock," she said, on catching sight 
 of Judy; "Jock's a naughty boy, won't stand still for mammy to 
 dress him; naughty Jock," she continued, giving him a little shake 
 as she got up, Avhich sent him howling across the room to Judy. 
 "It's too bad of you, Betsy, to be so lazy this morning, and me so 
 tired with no sleep, and the little ones all crying; if I tell father 
 he'll be for giving it thee, lass, to make thee stir about a bit 
 quicker." 
 
 "He'll give me what?" said Judy, perplexed. "I don't under- 
 stand." 
 
 "Hold thy tongue; I'll have none of that answering back, 
 child," said Betsy's mother, tired and out of patience, poor 
 woman, though you must not think she was either harsh or un- 
 kind, for she was a very kind, good mother. 
 
 "Jock, let me dress you," said Judy, turning to the little 
 
TOO BAD 135 
 
 boy, with a vague idea that it would be rather amusing to act 
 nurse to him. Jock came towards her willingly enough, but 
 Judy found the business less easy than she had expected. There 
 was a button missing on his little petticoat, which she did not 
 find out in time to prevent her fastening it all crooked; and when 
 she tried to undo it again, Jock's patience was exhausted, and 
 he went careering round the kitchen, Judy after him, till the 
 mother in despair caught hold of him, and completed the task. 
 
 "Your fingers seem to be all thumbs this morning," she said 
 testily. "You've not swep' up a bit, nor made th' fire, nor 
 nothing. Go and fetch water now to fill th' kettle, or father'll be 
 in afore it's on the boil." 
 
 Judy turned to the fireplace, and, with some difficulty, man- 
 aged to lug the heavy old kettle as far as the front door. Just 
 outside stood the pump, but try as she might she could not get the 
 water to flow. She was ready to cry with vexation, pumping had 
 always seemed such nice easy woTk; she had often watched the 
 children of these very cottages filling their kettles and jugs, and 
 had envied them the fun ; but now when she had it to do she found 
 it very different — very poor fun, if indeed fun at all! At last 
 she got the water to begin to come, a poor miserable little trickle; 
 at this rate the kettle would never be filled, and her tears were pre- 
 paring to descend, when a rough hearty voice made her jump. 
 It was Betsy's father. 
 
 "Pump's stiff this morning, is it, my lass?" he called out as 
 he came up the path. "Let's have a hand at it;" and with his 
 vigorous pull the water quickly appeared. He lifted the kettle 
 into the kitchen, greatly to Judy's relief; but Betsy's mother took 
 a different view of the matter. 
 
 "I don't know what's come to Betsy this morning," she said. 
 "Lazy's no word for her. The porridge is ready, but there'll be 
 no time to make thee a cup of coffee, father. She's been close 
 upon a quarter of an hour filling the kettle, and baby's so cross 
 this morning I can't put her down." 
 
136 STORIES BY MRS. MOLESWORTH 
 
 "I must make my breakfast of porridge then," said the 
 father; "but Betsy, girl, it's new for thee to be lazy, my lass." 
 
 Judy felt humbled and mortified, but she said nothing. 
 Somehow she felt as if she could not defend herself, though she 
 knew she had honestly done her best. The words "too bad" rose 
 to her lips, but she did not utter them. She began to wonder how 
 little Betsy managed to get through her daily tasks, easy as she 
 had imagined them to be. 
 
 The porridge was not much to her taste, but she tried to eat 
 it. Perhaps it was not so much the porridge itself, for it was 
 good of its kind, which took away her appetite, as the want of 
 the many little things to which she was so accustomed that their 
 absence made her for the first time think of them at all. The 
 nice white table-cloth and silver spoons on the nursery table, the 
 neat, pretty room, and freshly dressed little brothers and sis- 
 ters — all were very different from the rough board, and the pew- 
 ter spoons, and Betsy's father and big brothers hurriedly devour- 
 ing the great bowls of porridge, while the three little ones cried 
 or quarrelled incessantly. "After all," thought Judy, "perhaps it 
 is a good thing to have rather a strict nurse, even if she is very 
 fussy about being neat and all that." 
 
 But yet she felt very sorry for Betsy's mother, when she 
 looked at her thin, careworn face, and noticed how patient she 
 was with the babies, and how cheerfully she answered all "father's" 
 remarks. And there began to dawn in the little girl's mind a 
 faint idea that perhaps there were troubles and difficulties in the 
 world such as she had never dreamt of, that there are a good many 
 "too bads" in other people's lots as well as in Miss Judy's. 
 
 Breakfast over, her troubles began again. It was washing- 
 day, and just as she was looking forward to a ramble in the fields 
 in glorious independence of nurse's warnings about spoiling her 
 frock, her dreams were put an end to by Betsy's mother's sum- 
 moning her to take her place at the tub. And oh, my dears, 
 real washing is very different work from the dolls' laundressing — 
 
TOO BAD 137 
 
 standing round a wash-hand basin placed on a nursery chair, and 
 wasting ever so much beautiful honey-soap in nice clean hot 
 water, and then when the little fat hands are all "crumply" and 
 puffy "like real washerwomen's," rinsing out the miniature gar- 
 ments in still nicer clean cold water, and hanging them round the 
 nursery guard to dry, and most likely ending up by coaxing nurse 
 to clear away all the mess you have made, and to promise to let 
 you iron dolly's clean clothes the next wet afternoon — which 
 you think so delightful. Judy's arms ached sorely, sorely, and 
 her head ached too, and she felt all steamy and hot and weary, 
 when at last her share of it was over, and, "for a change," she 
 was instructed to take the two youngest out for a walk up the 
 lane, while mother boiled the potatoes for dinner. 
 
 The babies were very tiresome, and though Judy was quite 
 at liberty to manage them in her own way, and to punish them 
 as she had never ventured to punish Lena and Harry at home, 
 she did not find it of much use. She wondered "how ever the 
 real Betsy did;" and I fancy the babies too wondered a good 
 deal in their own way as to what had come over their big sister 
 to-day. Altogether the walk was very far from a pleasure to any 
 of the three, and when at last Judy managed to drag her weary 
 self, and her two hot, cross little charges home again to the 
 cottage, she was by no means in an amiable humour. She would 
 have liked to sit down and rest, and she would have liked to 
 wash her face and hands, and brush her hair — Judy who at home 
 always grumbled at nurse's summons to "come and be tidied" — 
 but there was no time for anything of the kind. Dinner — the 
 potatoes, that is to say — was ready, and the table must be set 
 at once, ready for father and the boys, and Betsy's mother told 
 her to "look sharp and bustle about," in a way that Judy felt 
 to be really a great deal "too bad." She was hungry, however, 
 and ate her share of potatoes, flavoured with a little dripping and 
 salt, with more appetite than she had sometimes felt for roast 
 mutton and rice pudding, though all the same she would have been 
 
138 STORIES BY MRS. MOLESWORTH 
 
 exceedingly glad of a little gravy, or even a plateful of sago pud- 
 ding, which generally was by no means a favorite dish of hers. 
 
 "Me and the boys won't be home till late," said the father, 
 as he rose to go; "there's a piece o' work master wants done this 
 week, and he'll pay us extra to stay a couple of hours. Betsy 
 must bring us our tea." 
 
 Judy's spirits rose. She would have a walk by herself 
 anyway, unplagued by babies, and the idea of it gave her some 
 patience for the afternoon's task of darning stockings, which 
 she found was expected of her. Just at first the darning was 
 rather amusing, but after a while she began to be sadly tired of it. 
 It was very different from sitting still for a quarter of an hour, 
 with nurse patiently instructing her, and praising her whenever 
 she did well; these stockings were so very harsh and coarse, and 
 the holes were so enormous, and the basketful so huge! 
 
 "I'll never get them done," she exclaimed at last. "I think 
 it's too bad to make a little girl like me or Betsy do such hard 
 work; and I think her father and brothers must make holes in 
 their horrid stockings on purpose, I do. I'll not do any more." 
 
 She shoved the basket into a corner, and looked about for 
 amusement. The babies were asleep, and Jock was playing in a 
 corner, and mother, poor body, was still busy in the wash-house 
 — Judy could find nothing to play with. There were no books 
 in the cottage, except an old Farmers' Almanac, a Bible and 
 Prayer-Book, and one or two numbers of a People's Miscellany, 
 which Judy looked into, but found she could not understand. 
 How she wished for some of her books at home! Even those she 
 had read two or three times through, and was always grumbling 
 at in consequence, would have been a great treasure; even a 
 history or geography book would have been better than nothing. 
 
 Suddenly the clock struck, and Betsy's mother called out 
 from the wash-house, 
 
 "It's three o'clock — time for you to be going with the tea. 
 Set the kettle on, Betsy, and I'll come and make it and cut 
 
TOO BAD 139 
 
 the bread. It'll take you more nor half-an-hour to walk to Farmer 
 Maxwell's where they're working this week." 
 
 Judy was staring out of the window. "It's beginning to 
 rain," she said dolefully. 
 
 "Well, what if it is," replied Betsy's mother, "Father 
 and boys can't want their tea because it's raining. Get thy old 
 cloak, child. My goodness me!" she went on, as she came into 
 the kitchen, "she hasn't got the kettle on yet? Betsy, it's 
 too bad of thee, it is for sure; there's not a thing but Avhat's 
 been Avrong to-day." 
 
 Judy's conscience pricked her about the stockings, so, without 
 attempting to defend herself, she fetched the old cloak she had 
 seen hanging in Betsy's room, and, drawing the hood over her 
 head, stood meekly waiting, while the mother cut the great hunches 
 of bread, made the tea, and poured it into the two tin cans, 
 which the little girl was to carry to the farm. 
 
 It did not rain much when she first set off, so though it was 
 a good two miles' walk, she was only moderately wet when she 
 got to the farm. One of the boys was on the look-out for her, 
 or rather for their tea, which he at once took possession of and 
 ran off with, advising Judy to make haste home, it was going 
 to rain like blazes. But poor Judy found it no easy matter to 
 follow his counsel; her arms were still aching with the weight 
 of the baby in the morning, and her wrist was chafed with the 
 handle of one of the tin pails, which she could not manage other- 
 wise to carry, the old cloak was poor protection against the driving 
 rain, and, Avorst of all, Betsy's old boots had several holes in 
 them, and a sharp stone had made its way through the sole of 
 the left one, cutting and hurting her foot. She stumbled along 
 for some way, feeling very miserable, till at last, quite unable to go 
 farther, she sat down under the hedge, and burst into tears. 
 
 "So you haven't found things quite so pleasant as you ex- 
 pected, eh, Miss Judy? You don't find walking in Betsy's shoes 
 quite such an easy matter after all?" said a voice at her side; 
 
140 STORIES BY MRS. MOLESWORTH 
 
 and, looking up, lo and behold! there, standing before her, Judy 
 saw the old woman with the scarlet cloak. 
 
 "I don't think it is kind of you to laugh at me," she sobbed. 
 
 "It's 'too bad,' is it, eh, Miss Judy?" 
 
 Judy sobbed more vigorously, but did not answer. 
 
 "Come, now," said the old woman kindly. "Let's talk it over 
 quietly. Are you beginning to understand that other people's 
 lives have troubles and difficulties as well as yours — that little 
 Betsy, for instance, might find things 'too bad' a good many 
 times in the course of the day, if she was so inclined?" 
 
 "Yes," said Judy humbly. 
 
 "And on the whole," continued the fairy, "you would rather 
 be yourself than any one else — eh, Miss Judy?" 
 
 "Oh yes, yes, a great deal rather," said Judy eagerly. 
 "Mayn't I be myself again now this very minute, and go home 
 to tea in the nursery? Oh, I would so like! It seems ever so 
 long since I saw Lena and Harry and nurse, and you said yes- 
 terday I needn't keep on being Betsy if I didn't like." 
 
 "Not quite so fast, my dear," said the old woman. "It's only 
 four o'clock ; you must finish the day's work. Go back to the cot- 
 tage and wait patiently till bedtime, and then — you know what to 
 do — you haven't lost your apple?" 
 
 "No," said Judy, feeling in her pocket. "I have it safe." 
 
 "That's all right. Now jump up my dear, and hasten home, 
 or Betsy's mother will be wondering what has become of you." 
 
 Judy got up slowly. "I'm so wet," she said, "and oh! my 
 foot's so sore. These horrible boots! I think it's too " 
 
 "Hush!" said the fairy. "How would you like me to make 
 you stay as you are, till you quite leave off that habit of grumbling. 
 I'm not sure but what it would be a good thing for her," she 
 added, consideringly, as if thinking aloud. 
 
 "O no, please don't," said Judy, "please, please don't. I 
 do beg your pardon; I didn't mean to say it, and I won't say it 
 any more." 
 
TOO BAD 141 
 
 "Then off with you; your foot won't be so bad as you think," 
 said the fairy. 
 
 "Thank you," replied Judy, fancying already that it hurt her 
 less. She had turned to go when she stopped. 
 
 "Well," said the old woman, "what's the matter now?" 
 
 "Nothing," answered Judy, "but only I was thinking, if I 
 am myself again to-morrow morning, and Betsy's herself, what 
 will they all think, nurse and all, I mean? and if I try to explain, 
 I'm sure they'll never believe me — they'll say I'm talking non- 
 sense. Nurse always says 'rubbish' if we make up fairy stories, 
 or anything like that." 
 
 The old woman smiled curiously. 
 
 "Many wiser people than nurse think that 'rubbish' settles 
 whatever they don't understand," she said. "But never you mind, 
 Judy. You needn't trouble your head about what any one will 
 think. No one ever will be the wiser but you and I. When 
 Betsy wakes in her own little bed in the morning, she will only 
 think she has had a curious dream — a dream, perhaps, which will 
 do her no harm — and nurse will think nothing but that Miss Judy 
 has been cured of grumbling in a wonderful way. For if you're 
 not cured it will be my turn to say it's too bad! — will it not?" 
 
 "Yes," said Judy, laughing. "Thank you so much, kind fairy. 
 Won't you come and see me again some time?" 
 
 But the last words were spoken to the air, for while Judy 
 was uttering them the old woman had disappeared, and only 
 the little field mouse again, ivith bright sparkling eyes, ran across 
 the path, looking up fearlessly at Judy as it passed her. 
 
 And Judy never did see the old woman again. 
 
 She went back to the cottage, bearing bravely the pain of 
 her wounded foot, which was not so very bad after all, and the 
 discomfort of her wet clothes. 
 
 And though Betsy's mother scolded her for having been so 
 slow about her errand, she did not grumble or complain, but did 
 her best to help the poor woman with the evening's work. All 
 
142 STORIES BY MRS. MOLESWORTH 
 
 the same, I can tell you, she was very glad to get to bed at night, 
 and you may be sure she did not forget to take a great big 
 bite of her apple. 
 
 "When I am myself again, I'll spend the six shillings I have 
 in my money-box to buy Betsy a nice new print frock instead of 
 that ugly old one that got so soaked to-day," was her last thought 
 before she fell asleep. 
 
 And oh! my dears, can you imagine how delightful it was 
 to find herself in the morning, her real own self again? She felt 
 it was almost too good to be true. And, since then, it has been 
 seldom, if ever, that Miss Judy has been heard to grumble, or 
 that anything has been declared to be "too bad." 
 
"CARROTS:" 
 
 JUST A LITTLE BOY 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 floss's baby 
 
 Where did you come from, Baby dear? 
 Out of the everywhere into the here? 
 
 ******* 
 
 But how did you come to us, you dear? 
 God thought about you, and so I am here ! 
 
 G. Macdonald. 
 
 His real name was Fabian. But he was never called any- 
 thing but Carrots. There were six of them. Jack, Cecil, Louise, 
 Maurice, commonly called Mott, Floss, dear, dear Floss, whom 
 he loved best of all, a long way the best of all, and lastly Carrots. 
 
 Why Carrots should have come to have his history written 
 I really cannot say. I must leave you, who understand such 
 things a good deal better than I, you, children, for whom the 
 history is written, to find out. I can give you a few reasons why 
 Carrot's history should not have been written, but that is about 
 all I can do. There was nothing very remarkable about him; 
 there was nothing very remarkable about the place where he lived, 
 or the things that he did, and on the whole he was very much 
 like other little boys. There are my no reasons for you. But 
 still he was Carrots, and after all, perhaps, that was the reason! 
 I shouldn't wonder. 
 
 He was the baby of the family ; he had every right to be con- 
 sidered the baby, for he was not only the youngest, but very 
 much the youngest; for Floss, who came next to him, was nearly 
 four years older than Carrots. Yet he was never treated as the 
 baby. I doubt if even at the very outset of his little life, when 
 he was just a wee pink ball of a creature, rolled up in flannel, 
 
 143 
 
144 STORIES BY MRS. MOLESWORTH 
 
 and with his funn3 r curls of red hair standing crisp up all over 
 his head, I doubt, if even then, he was ever called "baby." I 
 feel almost sure it was always "Carrots." He was too independent 
 and sensible to be counted a baby, and he was never fond of being 
 petted — and then, too, "Carrots" came so naturally! 
 
 I have said that Carrots loved his sister Floss better than 
 anybody or anything else in the world. I think one reason of this 
 was that she was the very first person he could remember in his 
 life, and a happy thing for him that it was so, for all about her 
 that there was to remember was nice and good and kind. She was 
 four years older than he, four years old, that is to say, when he 
 first came into the world and looked about him with grave inquiry 
 as to what sort of a place this could be that he had got to. And 
 the first object that his baby-wise eyes settled upon with content, 
 as if in it there might be a possible answer to the riddle, was 
 Floss ! 
 
 These children's father and mother were not very rich, and 
 having six boys and girls you can quite easily imagine they had 
 plenty to do with their money. Jack was a great boy at school 
 when Carrots first joined the family party, and Cecil and Louise 
 had a governess. Mott learnt with the governess too, but was 
 always talking of the time when he should go to school with 
 Jack, for he was a A^ery boy-ey boy, very much inclined to look 
 down upon girls in general, and his sisters in particular, and his 
 little sister Floss in 'particular est. So, till Carrots appeared on 
 the scene, Floss had had rather a lonely time of it, for, "of course," 
 Cecil and Louise, who had pockets in all their frocks, and could 
 play the "March of the Men of Harlech" as a duet on the piano, 
 were far too big to be "friends to Floss," as she called it. They 
 were friendly and kind in an elder sisterly way, but that was 
 quite a different sort of thing from being "friends to her," though 
 it never occurred to Floss to grumble or to think, as so many 
 little people think now-a-days, how much better things would have 
 been arranged if she had had the arranging of them. 
 
"CARROTS" 145 
 
 There was only one thing Floss wished for very, very much, 
 and that was to have a brother or sister, she did not much care 
 which, younger than herself. She had the most motherly heart 
 in the world, though she was such a quiet little girl that very few 
 people knew anything about what she was thinking, and the big 
 ones laughed at her for being so outrageously fond of dolls. She 
 had dolls of every kind and size, only alike in one thing, that none 
 of them were very pretty, or what you would consider grand dolls. 
 But to Floss they were lovely, only, they were only dolls! 
 
 Can you fancy, can you in the least fancy, Floss's delight — 
 a sort of delight that made her feel as if she couldn't speak, when 
 one winter's morning she was awakened by nurse to be told that 
 a real live baby had come in the night — a little brother, and 
 "such a funny little fellow," added nurse, "his head just covered 
 with curly red hair. Where did he get that from, I wonder? Not 
 one of my children has hair like that, though yours, Miss Flossie, 
 has a touch of it, perhaps." 
 
 Floss looked at her own tangle of fluffy hair with new rev- 
 erence. "Hair somesing like my hairs," she whispered. "Oh, 
 nursie, dear nursie, may Floss see him?" 
 
 "Get up and let me dress you quickly, and you shall see him 
 — no fear but that you'll see more of the poor little fellow than 
 you care about," said nurse, though the last words were hardly 
 meant for Floss. 
 
 The truth was that though of course every one meant to be 
 kind to this new little baby, to take proper care of him, and all 
 that sort of thing, no one "was particularly glad he had come. 
 His father and mother felt that five boys and girls were already 
 a good number to bring up well and educate and start in life, 
 not being very rich you see, and even nurse, who had the very 
 kindest heart in the world, and had taken care of them all, begin- 
 ning with Jack, ever since they were born, even nurse felt, I 
 think, that they could have done without this red-haired little 
 stranger. For nurse was no longer as young as she had been, 
 
146 STORIES BY MRS. MOLESWORTH 
 
 and as the children's mother could not, she knew, very well afford 
 to keep an under-nurse to help her, it was rather trying to look 
 forward to beginning again with all the "worrit" of a new baby — 
 bad nights and many tiring climbs up the long stairs to the nur- 
 sery, etc., etc., though nurse was so really good that she did not 
 grumble the least bit, and just quietly made up her mind to make 
 the best of it. 
 
 But still Floss was the only person to give the baby a really 
 hearty welcome. And by some strange sort of baby instinct he 
 seemed to know it almost from the first. He screamed at Jack, 
 and no wonder, for Jack, by way of salutation, pinched his poor 
 little nose, and said that the next time they had boiled mutton for 
 dinner, cook need not provide anything but turnips, as there was 
 a fine crop of carrots all ready, which piece of wit was greatly 
 applauded by Maurice and the girls. He wailed when Cecil and 
 Louise begged to be allowed to hold him in their arms, so that 
 they both tumbled him back on to nurse's lap in a hurry, and 
 called him "a cross, ugly little thing." Only when little Floss 
 sat down on the floor, spreading out her knees with great solemnity, 
 and smoothing her pinafore to make a nice place for baby, and 
 nurse laid him carefully down in the embrace of her tiny arms, 
 "baby" seemed quite content. Pie gave a sort of wriggle, like a 
 dog when he has been pretending to burrow a hole for himself in 
 the rug, just before he settles down and shuts his eyes, and in 
 half a second was fast asleep. 
 
 "Baby loves Floss," said Floss gravely, and as long as nurse 
 would let her, till her arms really ached, there she sat on the floor, 
 as still as a mouse, holding her precious burden. 
 
 It was wonderful how trusty she was. And "as handy," 
 said nurse, "indeed far more handy than many a girl of five times 
 her age." "I have been thinking," she said, one day to Floss's 
 mother, "I have been thinking, ma'am, that even if you had been 
 going to keep an under-nurse to help with baby, there would have 
 been nothing for her to do. For the help I get from Miss Flossie 
 
"CARROTS" 147 
 
 is really astonishing, and Master Baby is that fond of her already, 
 you'd hardly believe it." 
 
 And Floss's mother kissed her, and told her she was a good 
 little soul, and Floss felt, oh, so proud! Then a second thought 
 struck her, "Baby dood too, mamma," she said, staring up into 
 her mother's face with her bright, searching, gray-green eyes. 
 
 "Yes," said her mother with a little sigh, "poor baby is good 
 too, dear," and then she had to hurry off to a great overhauling 
 of Jack's shirts, which were, if possible, to be made to last him 
 another half-year at school. 
 
 So it came to pass that a great deal of Floss's life was spent 
 in the nursery with Carrots. He was better than tAventy dolls, 
 for after a while he actually learnt, first to stand alone, and then 
 to walk, and after a longer while he learnt to talk, and to under- 
 stand all that Floss said to him, and by and by to play games 
 with her in his baby way. And how patient Floss was with him ! 
 It was no wonder he loved her. 
 
 This chapter has seemed almost more about Floss than Car- 
 rots you will say, perhaps, but I couldn't tell you anything of 
 Carrots' history without telling you a great deal about Floss too, 
 so I dare say you Avon't mind. I dare say too you will not care 
 to hear much more about Carrots when he was a baby, for, after 
 all, babies are all very like each other, and a baby that wasn't like 
 others would not be a baby! To Floss I fancy he seemed a re- 
 markable baby, but that may have been because he was her very 
 own, and the only baby she had ever known. He was certainly 
 very good, in so far as he gave nurse exceedingly little trouble, 
 but why children should give trouble when they are perfectly well, 
 and have everything they can possibly want, I have never been 
 able to decide. On the whole, I think it must have something to 
 do with the people who take care of them, as well as with them- 
 selves. 
 
 Now we will say good-by to Carrots, as a baby. 
 
148 STORIES BY MRS. MOLESWORTH 
 
 CHAPTER II 
 
 SIX YEARS OLD 
 
 "As for me, I love the sea, 
 The dear old sea ! 
 
 Don't you?" 
 
 Song. 
 
 I think I said there was nothing very remarkable about the 
 place where Carrots lived, but considering it over, I am not quite 
 sure that you would agree with me. It was near the sea for one 
 thing, and that is always remarkable, is it not? How remarkable, 
 how wonderful and changeful the sea is, I doubt if any one can 
 tell who has not really lived by it, not merely visited it for a few 
 weeks in the fine summer time, when it looks so bright and sunny 
 and inviting, but lived by it through autumn and winter too, 
 through days when it looks so dull and leaden, that one can 
 hardly believe it will ever be smiling and playful again, through 
 fierce, rough days, When it lashes itself with fury, and the wind 
 wails as if it were trying to tell the reason. 
 
 Carrots' nursery window looked straight out upon the sea, 
 and many and many an hour Floss and he spent at this window, 
 watching their strange fickle neighbour at his gambols. I do not 
 know that they thought the sea at all wonderful. I think they 
 were too much accustomed to it for that, but they certainly found 
 it very interesting. Floss had names for the different kinds of 
 waves; some she called "ribs of beef," when they showed up side- 
 ways in layers as it were, of white and brown, and some she 
 called "ponies." That was the kind that came prancing in, with 
 a sort of dance, the white foam curling and rearing, and tossing 
 itself, just exactly like a frisky pony's mane. Those were the 
 prettiest waves of all, I think. 
 
 It was not at all a dangerous coast, where the Cove House, 
 that was Carrots' home, stood. It was not what is called "pic- 
 turesque." It was a long flat stretch of sandy shore, going on 
 
"CARROTS" 149 
 
 and on for miles just the same. There were very few trees and 
 no mountains, not even hills. 
 
 In summer, a few, just a very few visitors used to come to 
 Sandyshore for bathing; there were always visitors with children, 
 for every one said it was such a nice safe place for the little 
 people. 
 
 But, safe as it was, it wasn't till Carrots was growing quite 
 a big boy, nearly six, I should think, that Floss and he got leave 
 to go out and play on the shore by themselves, the thing they had 
 been longing for ever since they could remember. 
 
 This was how they did get leave at last. Nurse was very, 
 Aery busy, one day ; really quite extra busy, for she was arranging 
 and helping to pack Jack's things to go to a new school. Jack 
 was so big noAv, about sixteen, that he was going to a kind of 
 college, or grown-up school, the last he would go to before 
 entering the army. And there was quite a fuss in the house. 
 Jack thought himself almost as grand as if he was an officer 
 already, and Mott was overpowered with envy. Everybody was 
 fussing about Jack, and no one had much time to think of the 
 two little ones. 
 
 They stood at the nursery window, poor little souls, when 
 Floss came up from her lessons, gazing out wistfully. It was a 
 nice spring day, not exactly sunny, but looking as if the sun were 
 only hiding himself to tease you, and might come out any minute. 
 
 "If we might go down to the shore," said Floss, half to 
 herself, half to Carrots, and half to nurse. I shouldn't have 
 said it so, for there can't be three halves of anything, but no doubt 
 you will understand. 
 
 "Go down to the shore, my dear?" repeated nurse, "I wish 
 you could, I'm sure, but it will be afternoon, at least, before I 
 have a minute to spare to take you. And there's no one else 
 to-day, for cook and Esther are both as busy as busy. Perhaps 
 Miss Cecil and Miss Louise will take you when they have done 
 their lessons." 
 
150 STORIES BY MRS. MOLESWORTH 
 
 "We don't care to go with them, much," said Floss, "they 
 don't understand our plays. We like hest to go with you, nursie, 
 and you to sit down with your sewing near — that's the nicest 
 way. Oh, nurse," she exclaimed with sudden eagerness, "wouldn't 
 you let us go alone? You can peep out of the window and see 
 us every few minutes, and we'll he so good." 
 
 Nurse looked out of the window doubtfully. 
 
 "Couldn't you play in the garden at the back, instead?" 
 she said. "Your papa and mamma won't be home till late, and 
 I am always in a terror of any harm happening while they are 
 away." 
 
 "We won't let any harm happen," said Floss, "and we are so 
 tired of the garden, nurse. There is nothing to play at there. 
 The little waves are so pretty this morning." 
 
 There was certainly very little to play at in the green, at 
 the back of the house, which was called the garden. Being so 
 near the sea, the soil was so poor that hardly any flowers would 
 grow, and even the grass was coarse and lumpy. Then there 
 were no trees, and what is a garden without trees? 
 
 Nurse looked out of the window again. 
 
 "Well," she said, "if you will really be very good, I think 
 I might trust you. Now, Master Carrots, you will promise to 
 do exactly what Miss Floss tells you?" 
 
 "Yes, I promise," said Carrots, who had been listening with 
 great anxiety, though he had not hitherto spoken — he was not a 
 great talker — "I promise, nurse. I will do exactly what Floss 
 tells me, and Floss will do exactly what I tell her, won't you, 
 Floss? So we shall both be kite good, that way, won't we?" 
 
 "Very well," said nurse gravely, though she felt very much 
 inclined to laugh, "then run and get your things as fast as you 
 can." 
 
 And, oh, how happy the two were when they found them- 
 selves out on the shore all alone! They Avere so happy, they did 
 not know what to do; so first of all, they ran races to run 
 
"CARROTS" 151 
 
 away a little of the happiness. And when they had run them- 
 selves quite hot, they sat down on a little heap of stones to con- 
 sider what they should do next. They had no spades with them, 
 for they did not care very much about digging; children who 
 live always by the sea never care so much about digging as the 
 little visitors who come down in the summer, and whose very 
 first idea at the sight of the sea is "spades and buckets." 
 
 "What shall we play at Carrots?" said Floss. "I wish it 
 was warm enough to paddle." 
 
 Carrots looked at the little soft rippling waves, contem- 
 platively. 
 
 "When I'm a man," he said, "I shall paddle always. I 
 shall paddle in winter too. When I'm a man I won't have 
 no nurse." 
 
 "Carrots," said Floss, reproachfully, "that isn't good of you. 
 Think how kind nurse is." 
 
 "Well, then," replied Carrots, slowly, "I will have her, but 
 she must let me paddle always, when I'm a man." 
 
 "When you are a man, Carrots," said Floss, solemnly still, 
 "I hope you will have something better to do than paddling. 
 Perhaps you'll be a soldier, like Jack." 
 
 "Killing people isn't better than paddling," retorted Carrots. 
 "I'd rather be a sailor, like papa." 
 
 "Sailors have to kill people, too, sometimes," said Floss. 
 
 "Have they?" said Carrots. Then he sat silent for a few 
 minutes, finding this new idea rather overwhelming. "Naughty 
 people, do you mean, Floss?" he inquired at last. 
 
 "Yes," said Floss, unhesitatingly, "naughty people of course." 
 
 "But I don't like killing," said Carrots, "not killing naughty 
 people, I don't like. I won't be a soldier, and I won't be a 
 sailor, and I won't be a butcher, 'cos butchers kill lambs. Per- 
 haps I'll be a fisherman." 
 
 "But fishermen kill fish," said Floss. 
 
152 STORIES BY MRS. MOLESWORTH 
 
 "Do they?" said Carrots, looking up in her face pathetically 
 with his gentle brown eyes. "I'm so sorry. I don't understand 
 about killing, Floss. I don't like it." 
 
 "I don't either," said Floss ; "but perhaps it has to be. If there 
 was no killing we'd have nothing to eat." 
 
 "Eggs," said Carrots; "eggs and potatoes, and — and — cake?" 
 
 "But even that would be a sort of killing," persisted Floss, 
 though feeling by no means sure that she was not getting beyond 
 her depth. "If we didn't eat eggs they would grow into chickens, 
 and so eating stops them; and potatoes have roots, and when 
 they're pulled up they don't grow; and cake has eggs in, and — 
 oh, I don't know, let's talk of something else." 
 
 "What?" said Carrots. "Fairies?" 
 
 "If you like, or supposing we talk about when auntie comes 
 and brings Sybil." 
 
 "Yes," said Carrots, "I like that best." 
 
 "Well, then," began Floss, "supposing it is late in the evening 
 when they come. You would be in bed, Carrots, dear, but I would 
 
 have begged to sit up a little longer and " 
 
 "No, Floss, that isn't nice. I won't talk about Sybil, if you 
 make it like that," interrupted Carrots, his voice sounding as if 
 he were going to cry. "Sybil isn't not any bigger than me. I 
 wouldn't be in bed, Floss." 
 
 "Very well, dear. Never mind, darling. I won't make it 
 like that. It was very stupid of me. No, Sybil and auntie will 
 come just about our tea-time, and we shall be peeping along the 
 road to see if the carriage from the station is coming, and when 
 we hear it we'll run in, and perhaps mamma will say we may 
 stay in the drawing-room to see them. You will have one of your 
 new sailor suits on, Carrots, and I shall have my white pique 
 and blue sash, and nurse will have made the nursery tea-table 
 look so nice — with a clean table-cloth, you know, and quite thin 
 bread and butter, and jam, and, perhaps, eggs." 
 
"CARROTS" 153 
 
 "I won't eat one," interrupted Carrots; "I won't never 
 eat eggs. I'll keep all mine that I get to eat, in a box, till they've 
 growed into chickens." 
 
 "But they're boiled when you get them," said Floss; "they 
 wouldn't grow into chickens when they're boiled." 
 
 Carrots sighed. "Well, never mind," he said, "go on, Floss." 
 
 "Well, then," started Floss again, "you see the nursery 
 tea would look so nice that Sybil would be sure to ask her mamma 
 to let her have tea with us, even though it was the first evening. 
 Perhaps, you know, she would be rather shy, just at first, till 
 she got to know us. So we would be very, very kind to her, and 
 after tea we would show her all our things — the dolls, only — 
 Carrots, I'm afraid the dolls are getting rather old." 
 
 "Are they?" said Carrots, sympathisingly. "When I'm a 
 man I'll buy you such a lot of new dolls, Floss, and Sybil, too, 
 if she likes dolls — does she, Floss?" 
 
 "I don't know. I should think so," said Floss. "When 
 papa and mamma went to see auntie, they said Sybil was like a 
 doll herself. I suppose she has beautiful blue eyes and long gold 
 curls. That was a year ago; she must be bigger now. Carrots!" 
 
 "What?" 
 
 "We must get up and run about a little now. It's too cold 
 to sit still so long, and if we get cold, nurse won't let us come out 
 alone again." 
 
 Up jumped Carrots on to his sturdy little legs. "I'll run, 
 Floss," he said. 
 
 "Floss," he began, when they stopped to take breath again, 
 "once I saw a little boy with a hoop. It went so nice on the 
 sands. I wish I had a hoop, Floss." 
 
 "I wish you had, dear," said Floss. "I'd buy you one, if I 
 had any money. But I haven't, and we couldn't ask mamma, 
 because I know," and Floss shook her head mysteriously, "I know 
 poor mamma hasn't any money to spare. I must think of a plan 
 to get some." 
 
154 STORIES BY MRS. MOLESWORTH 
 
 Carrots kept silence for about three-quarters of a minute. 
 "Have you thinkened, Floss?" he asked, eagerly. 
 
 "Thought," gravely said Floss, "not thinkened. What about?" 
 
 "About a plan," replied Carrots. He called it "a pan," but 
 Floss understood him. 
 
 "Oh, dear, no," said Floss, "not yet. Plans take a great lot 
 of thinking. They're real things, you see, Carrots, not like fancies 
 about fairies and Sybil coming." 
 
 "But when Sybil does come, that'll be real then," said Carrots. 
 
 "Of course," agreed Floss, "but fancying about it before, isn't 
 real." 
 
 It took Carrots a little while to get this into his head. Then 
 he began again. 
 
 "When will you have thinkened enough, Floss? By tea- 
 time?" 
 
 "I don't know. No, I think you had better wait till to- 
 morrow morning, and then perhaps the plan will be ready." 
 
 "Very well," said Carrots, adding, with a little sigh, "to- 
 morrow morning is a long time, Floss." 
 
 "Not very," said Floss, consolingly. "Now Carrots, let's 
 have one more race, and then we must go in." 
 
 CHAPTER III 
 
 PLANS 
 
 " 'Have you invented a plan for it ?' Alice inquired. 
 'Not yet,' said the knight." 
 
 Through the Looking Glass. 
 
 The next morning Carrots woke very early, and the first 
 thing he thought of was the plan. Floss and he slept in the night 
 nursery, in two little beds, and nurse slept in a small room that 
 had a door opening into the nursery. She used to sleep in the 
 nursery herself, but now that Carrots was so big, Floss and he were 
 
"CARROTS" 155 
 
 quite safe by themselves, and poor old nurse enjoyed having her 
 own little room. 
 
 Floss was still asleep, so Carrots only climbed out of his 
 own cot into hers, and crouched himself down at the foot, watch- 
 ing for her to wake. Floss looked very nice asleep; her "fuzzy" 
 hair was tumbling over the pillow, and her cheeks looked pinker 
 than when she was awake. 
 
 "I wonder what being asleep is," thought the little boy as 
 he looked at her. "I always go away, such a long way, when I 
 am asleep. I wonder if Floss does." 
 
 She couldn't have been very far away just then, for some- 
 how, though Carrots sat so still, she seemed to know he was there. 
 She turned round and half opened her eyes, then shut them as 
 if she were trying to go to sleep again, then opened them once 
 more, quite wide this time, and caught sight of the funny little 
 figure beside her. 
 
 "Carrots," she said, in a sleepy voice, "Carrots, dear, what 
 are you doing there? You'll catch cold." 
 
 "No, I won't. May I come in 'aside you, Floss? I was 
 only watching for you to wake; I didn't wake you, did I?" said 
 Carrots, as Floss made room for him, and he poked his cold little 
 toes down into a nice warm place, "I did so want to know if it 
 was ready, for it's to-morrow morning now." 
 
 "If what's ready?" said Floss, for she was rather sleepy still. 
 
 "The plan for getting money." 
 
 "Oh!" said Floss. "Yes," she went on affer thinking for a 
 minute, "yes, it's nearly ready; at least I'm almost sure it is. 
 But it's not quite ready for telling you, yet, Carrots." 
 
 Carrots looked terribly disappointed. 
 
 "I think," went on Floss, "I think it will be ready for telling 
 you after breakfast. And if you like, you may listen to something 
 I am going to ask nurse at breakfast, and, perhaps, that will 
 help you to guess what the plan is." 
 
156 STORIES BY MRS. MOLESWORTH 
 
 At breakfast time Carrots was all ears. All ears and no 
 tongue, so that nurse began to wonder if he was ill. 
 
 "I shouldn't like you to be ill the very day after Master 
 Jack has gone," she said anxiously (Jack had gone up to town 
 by the night train with his father), "one trouble at a time is quite 
 enough for j r our poor mamma." 
 
 "Is Jack's going to the big school a trouble?" asked Floss, 
 opening her eyes very wide, "I thought they were all very glad." 
 
 "My dear," said nurse solemnly, "one may be glad of a 
 thing and sorry too. And changes mostly are good and bad 
 together." 
 
 Floss did not say any more, but she seemed to be thinking 
 about what nurse had said. Carrots was thinking too. 
 
 "When I'm a man," he said at last, "I won't go to a big 
 school if Floss doesn't want me to." 
 
 Nurse smiled. "There's time enough to see about that," she 
 said, "get on with your breakfast, Master Carrots; you'll never 
 grow a big boy if you don't eat plenty." 
 
 "Nurse," said Floss, suddenly, "what's the dearest thing we 
 eat? What costs most?" 
 
 "Meat, now-a-days, Miss Flossie," said nurse. 
 
 "Could we do without it?" asked Floss. Nurse shook her 
 head. 
 
 "What could we Ido without?" continued the Child. "We 
 couldn't do without bread or milk, I suppose. What could we 
 do without that costs money?" 
 
 "Most things do that," said nurse, who began to have a 
 glimmering of what Floss was driving at, "but the money's well 
 spent in good food to make you strong and well." 
 
 "Then isn't there anything we could do without — without it 
 hurting us, I mean?" said Floss, in a tone of disappointment. 
 
 "Oh, yes," said nurse, "I dare sa> l ,here is. Once a little boy 
 and girl I knew went without sugar in their tea for a month, 
 and their grandmother gave them sixpence each instead." 
 
"CARROTS" 157 
 
 "Sixpence!" exclaimed Floss, her eyes gleaming. 
 
 "Sixpence each," corrected nurse. 
 
 "Two sixpences, that would he a shilling. Carrots, do you 
 hear?" 
 
 Carrots had been listening with might and main, but was 
 rather puzzled. 
 
 "Would two sixpennies pay for two hoops?" he whispered 
 to Floss, pulling her pinafore till she bent her head down to 
 listen. 
 
 "Of course they Avould. At least I'm almost sure. I'll ask 
 nurse. Nurse dear," she went on in a louder voice, "do you think 
 we might do that way — Carrots and I — about sugar, I mean?" 
 
 "I don't see that it would do you any harm," said nurse. 
 "You must ask your mamma." 
 
 But Floss hesitated. 
 
 "I shouldn't much like to ask mamma," she said, and Carrots, 
 who was listening so intently that he had forgotten all about his 
 bread and milk, noticed that Floss's face grew red. "I shouldn't 
 much like to ask mamma, because, nursie, dear, it is only that 
 we want to get money for something for ourselves, and if we 
 told mamma, it would be like asking her to give us the money. 
 It wouldn't be any harm for us not to eat any sugar in our tea 
 for a month, and you could keep the sugar in a packet all together, 
 nurse, and then you might tell mamma that we had saved it, and 
 she would give us a shilling for it. It would be quite worth a 
 shilling, wouldn't it, nurse?" 
 
 "Oh, yes," said nurse, "I am sure your mamma would say 
 it was." Then she considered a little. She was one of those truly 
 trustworthy nurses whose notions are strong on the point of 
 everything being told to "mamma." But she perfectly understood 
 Floss's hesitation, and though she might not have been able to 
 put her feeling into words, she felt that it might do the child harm 
 to thwart her delicate instinct. 
 
 "Well, nurse?" said Floss, at last. 
 
158 STORIES BY MRS. MOLESWORTH 
 
 "Well, Miss Flossie, I don't think for once I shall be doing 
 wrong in letting you have a secret. When will you begin? This 
 is Thursday; on Saturday your mamma will give me the week's 
 sugar suppose you begin on Sunday? But does Master Car- 
 rots quite understand?" 
 
 "Oh, yes," said Floss, confidently, "he understands, don't 
 you, dear?" 
 
 "Oh, yes," said Carrots, "we won't eat not any sugar, Floss 
 and me, for a great long time, and nurse will tie it up in a parcel 
 with a string round, and mamma will buy it and give us a great 
 lot of pennies, and then, and then"— he began to jump about 
 with delight — "Floss and me will go to the toy-shop and buy 
 our hoops, won't we, Floss? Oh, I wish it was time to go now, 
 don't you, Floss?" 
 
 "Yes, dear, a month's a good while to wait," said Floss sym- 
 pathisingly. "May we go out on the shore again by ourselves 
 this afternoon, nurse?" 
 
 "If it doesn't rain," said nurse; and Floss, who had half an 
 hour to wait before it was time for her to join her sisters in the 
 schoolroom, went to the window to have a look at the weather. 
 She had not stood there for more than a minute when Carrots 
 climbed up on to a chair beside her. 
 
 "It's going to rain, Floss," he said, "there are the little curly 
 clouds in the sky that Matthew says come when it rains." 
 
 Floss looked up at the sky and down at the sea. 
 
 "The sea looks cross to-day," she said. 
 
 There were no pretty ripples this morning; the water looked 
 dull and leaden. 
 
 "Floss," said Carrots, with a sigh, "I do get so tired when 
 you are at lessons all the morning and I have nucken to do. Can't 
 you think of a plan for me to have something to do?" Carrots' 
 head was running on "plans." 
 
 Floss considered. 
 
 "Would you like to tidy my drawer for me?" she said. "This 
 
"CARROTS" 159 
 
 isn't the regular day for tidying it, but it is in a mess, because 
 I turned all the things upside down when I was looking for 
 our race horses' reins yesterday. Will you put it quite tidy, 
 Carrots?" 
 
 "Oh, yes, quite, dear Floss," said Carrots, "I'll put all the 
 dolls neat, and all the pieces, and all tlhe sewing things. Oh, dear, 
 Floss, what nice plans you make." 
 
 So when Floss had gone to her lessons, and nurse was busy 
 with her morning duties, in and out of the room, so as not to lose 
 sight of Carrots, but still too busy to amuse him, he, with great 
 delight, set to work at the drawer. It certainly was much in 
 need of "tidying," and after trying several ways, Carrots found 
 that the best plan was to take everything out, and then put the 
 different things back again in order. It took him a good while, 
 and his face got rather red with stooping down to the floor to 
 pick up all the things he had deposited there, for the drawer 
 itself was too heavy for him to lift out bodily, if, indeed, such an 
 idea had occurred to him. It was the middle drawer of the 
 cupboard, the top part of which was divided into shelves where 
 the nursery cups and saucers and that sort of things stood. The 
 drawer above Floss's was nurse's, where she kept her work, and 
 a few books, and a little notepaper and so on; and the drawer at 
 the bottom, so that he could easily reach it, was Carrots' own. 
 
 One end of Floss's drawer was given up to her dolls. She 
 still had a good many, for though she did not care for them 
 now as much as she used, she never could be persuaded to throw 
 any of them away. But they were not very pretty; even Carrots 
 could see that, and Carrots, to tell the truth, was very fond of 
 dolls. 
 
 "If I had some money," he said to himself, "I would buy 
 Floss such a most beautiful doll. I wish I had some money." 
 
 For the moment he forgot about the hoops and the "plan" 
 and sat down on a little stool with one of the unhappiest looking 
 of the dolls in his arms. 
 
160 STORIES BY MRS. MOLESWORTH 
 
 "I wish I could buy you a new face, poor dolly," he said. 
 "I wish I had some money." 
 
 He got up again to put poor dolly back into her corner. As 
 he was smoothing down the paper which lined the drawer, he felt 
 something hard close to dolly's foot; he pushed away the dolls 
 to see — there, almost hidden by a crumple in the paper lay a 
 tiny little piece of money — a little shining piece, about the size 
 of a sixpence, only a different colour. 
 
 "A yellow sixpenny, oh, how nice!" thought Carrots, as he 
 seized it. "I Avonder if Floss knowed it was there. It would 
 just do to buy a new doll. I wish I could go to the toy-shop to 
 buy one to surprise Floss. I won't tell Floss I've found it. I'll 
 keep it for a secret, and some day I'll buy Floss a new doll. I'm 
 sure Floss doesn't know— I think the fairies must have put it 
 there." 
 
 He wrapped the piece of money up carefully in a bit of 
 paper, and after considering where he could best hide it, so that 
 Floss should not know till it was time to surprise her, he fixed 
 on a beautiful place — he hid it under one of the little round 
 saucers in his paint-box — a very old paint-box it was, which had 
 descended from Jack, first to Mott and then to Carrots, but 
 which, all the same, Carrots considered one of his greatest 
 treasures. 
 
 When nurse came into the room, she found the tidying of 
 the drawer completed, and Carrots sitting quietly by the window. 
 He did not tell her about the money he had found, it never 
 entered into his little head that he should speak of it. He had 
 got into the way of not telling all the little things that happened 
 to him to any one but Floss, for he was naturally a very quiet 
 child, and nurse was getting too old to care about all the tiny 
 interests of her children as she once had done. Besides, he had 
 determined to keep it a secret, even from Floss, till he could buy 
 a new doll with it — but A r ery likely he would have told her of it 
 after all, had not something else put it out of his head. 
 
"CARROTS" 161 
 
 The something else was that that afternoon nurse took Floss 
 and him for a long walk, and a walk they were very fond of. 
 
 It was to the cottage of the old woman, who, ever since they 
 had come to Sandyshore, had washed for them. She was a very 
 nice old woman, and her cottage was beautifully clean, and now 
 and then Floss and Carrots had gone with nurse to have tea with 
 her, which was a great treat. But to-day they were not going 
 to tea ; they were only going because nurse had to pay Mrs. White 
 some money for washing up Jack's things quickly, and nurse 
 knew the old woman would be glad to have it, as it was close 
 to the day on which she bad to pay her rent. 
 
 Floss and Carrots were delighted to go, for even when they 
 did not stay to tea, Mrs. White always gave them a glass of milk, 
 and, generally, a piece of home-made cake. 
 
 Before they started, nurse went to her drawer and took out 
 of it a very small packet done up in white paper, and this little 
 packet she put into her purse. 
 
 It was, after all, a nice fine day. Floss and Carrots walked 
 quietly beside nurse for a little, and then sbe gave them leave to 
 run races, which made the way seem very short, till they got to 
 Mrs. White's. 
 
 "How nice it will be when we have our hoops, won't it, 
 Carrots?" said Floss. 
 
 Carrots had almost forgotten about the hoops, but now that 
 Floss mentioned them, it put him in mind of something else. 
 
 "Wouldn't you like a new doll, Floss?" he said mysteriously, 
 "a most beautifullest neAV doll, with hair like — like the angels' hair 
 in the big window at church, and eyes like the little blue stones 
 in mamma's ring?" 
 
 "Of course I would," said Floss, "and we'd call her Angelina, 
 wouldn't we, Carrots? But it's no good thinking about it — I 
 shall never have one like that, unless the fairies send it me!" 
 
 "If the fairies sended you money to buy one, wouldn't that 
 
162 STORIES BY MRS. MOLESWORTH 
 
 do?" said Carrots, staring up in her face with a funny look in 
 his eyes. 
 
 But before Floss had time to answer, nurse called to them 
 — they were at the corner of the lane which led to Mrs. White's. 
 
 Mrs. White was very kind. She had baked a cake only a 
 day or two before, and cut off a beautiful big piece for each of the 
 children, then she gave them a drink of milk, and they ran out 
 into her little garden to eat their cake and look at the flowers, 
 till nurse had finished her business with the old washerwoman, 
 and was ready to go home. 
 
 Floss and Carrots thought a great deal of Mrs. White's 
 garden. Small as it was, it had far more flowers in it than their 
 own garden at the back of the Cove House, for it was a mile 
 or two farther from the sea, and the soil was richer, and it was 
 more sheltered from the wind. 
 
 In summer there was Avhat Floss called quite a "buzzy" 
 sound in this little garden — she meant that sweet, lazy-busy hum 
 of bees and butterflies and all sorts of living creatures, that you 
 never hear except in a real old-fashioned garden where there 
 are lots of clove pinks and sweet williams and roses, roses espe- 
 cially, great, big, cabbage roses, and dear little pink climbing 
 roses, the kind that peep in at a cottage window to bid you 
 "good-morning." Oh, how very sweet those old-fashioned flowers 
 are — though "rose fanciers" and all the clever gardeners we have 
 now-a-days wouldn't give anything for them. I think them the 
 sweetest of all. Don't you, children? Or is it only when one 
 begins to grow old-fashioned oneself and to care more for things 
 that used to be than things that are now, that one gets to prize 
 these old friends so? 
 
 I am wandering away from Floss and Carrots waiting for 
 nurse in the cottage garden; you must forgive me, boys and girls 
 — when people begin to grow old they get in the habit of telling 
 stories in a rambling way, but I don't find children so hard upon 
 this tiresome habit as big people sometimes are. And it all 
 
"CARROTS" 163 
 
 comes back to me so — even the old washerwoman's cottage I 
 can see so plainly, and the dear straggly little garden ! 
 
 For you see, children, I am telling you the history of a real 
 little boy and girl, not fancy children, and that is why, though 
 there is nothing very wonderful about Floss and Carrots, I hope 
 the story of their little pleasures and sorrows and simple lives may 
 be interesting to you. 
 
 But I must finish about the visit to the washerwoman in 
 another chapter. I have made this one rather too long already. 
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 
 THE LOST HALF-SOVEREIGN 
 
 "Children should not leave about 
 Anything that's small and bright; 
 Lest the fairies spy it out, 
 And fly off with it at night." 
 
 Poems written for a Child. 
 
 There was no buzzy sound in Mrs. White's garden this 
 afternoon. It was far too early in the year for that, indeed it was 
 beginning to feel quite chilly and cold, as the afternoons often 
 do of fine days in early spring, and by the time Floss and Carrots 
 had eaten their cake, and examined all the rose bushes to see if 
 they could find any buds, and wished it were summer, so that 
 there would be some strawberries hiding under the glossy green 
 leaves, they began to wonder why nurse was so long — and to 
 feel rather cold and tired of waiting. 
 
 "Just run to the door, Carrots, dear," said Floss, "and peep 
 in to see if nurse is coming." 
 
 She did not like to go herself, for she knew that nurse and 
 Mrs. White were fond of a comfortable talk together and might 
 not like to be interrupted by her. But Carrots they would not 
 mind. 
 
164 STORIES BY MRS. MOLESWORTH 
 
 Carrots set off obediently, but before he got to the door he 
 met nurse coming out. She was followed by Mrs. White and 
 both were talking rather earnestly. 
 
 "You'll let me know, if so be as you find it, Mrs. Hooper; 
 you won't forget?" — Mrs. White was saying — Hooper was nurse's 
 name — "for I feel quite oneasy — I do that, for you." 
 
 "I'll let you know, and thank you, Mrs. White," said nurse. 
 "I'm glad I happened to bring some of my own money with me 
 too, for I should have been sorry to put you to any incon- 
 venience by my carelessness — though how I could have been so 
 careless as to mislay it, I'm sure it's more than I can say." 
 
 "It is, indeed, and you so careful," said Mrs. White sym- 
 pathisingly. 
 
 Just then nurse caught sight of Carrots. 
 
 "Come along, Master Carrots," she said, "I was just going to 
 look for you. Wherever's Miss Floss? We must be quick; it's 
 quite time we were home." 
 
 "I'll tell Floss," said Carrots, disappearing again down the 
 path, and in another moment Floss and he ran back to nurse. 
 
 Though they had been very quick, nurse seemed to think 
 they had been slow. She even scolded Floss a very little as if 
 she had been kept waiting by her and Carrots, when she was in 
 a hurry to go, and both Floss and Carrots felt that this was very 
 hard when the fact was that they had been waiting for nurse till they 
 were both tired and cold. 
 
 "It wasn't Floss's fault. Floss wanted you to come quick, 
 and she sended me to see," said Carrots indignantly. 
 
 "Hold your tongue, Master Carrots," said nurse sharply. 
 
 Carrots' face got very red, he gave nurse one reproachful 
 look, but did not speak. He took Floss's hand and pulled her 
 on in front. But Floss would not go; she drew her hand away. 
 
 "No, Carrots, dear," she said in a low voice, "it wouldn't 
 be kind to leave nurse all alone when she is sorry about some- 
 thing." 
 
"CARROTS" 165 
 
 "Is she sorry about somesing?" said Carrots. 
 
 "Yes," replied Floss, "I am sure she is. You run on for a 
 minute. I want to speak to nurse." 
 
 Carrots ran on and Floss stayed behind. 
 
 "Nurse," she said softly, slipping her hand through nurse's 
 arm, which, by stretching up on tip-toe, she was just able to do, 
 "nurse, dear, what's the matter?" 
 
 "Nothing much, Miss Flossie," replied nurse, patting the 
 kind little hand, "nothing much, but I'm growing an old woman 
 and easy put out — and such a stupid-like thing for me to have 
 done!" 
 
 "What have you done? What is stupid?" inquired Floss, 
 growing curious as well as sympathising. 
 
 "I have lost a half-sovereign — a ten-shilling piece in gold, 
 Miss Flossie," replied nurse. 
 
 "Out of your pocket — dropped it, do you mean?" said Floss. 
 
 "Oh no — I had it in my purse — at least I thought I had," 
 said nurse. "It was a half-sovereign of your mamma's that she 
 gave me to pay Mrs. White with for Master Jack's things and 
 part of last week that was left over, and I wrapped it up with 
 a shilling arid a sixpence — it came to eleven and six, altogether — 
 in a piece of paper, and put it in my drawer in the nursery, 
 and before I came out I put the packet in my purse. And when 
 I opened it at Mrs. White's no half-sovereign was there! Only 
 the shilling and the sixpence!" 
 
 "You didn't drop it at Mrs. White's, did you? Should we 
 go back and look?" said Floss, standing still, as if ready to run 
 off that moment. 
 
 "No, no, my dear. It's not at Mrs. White's. She and I 
 searched all over, and she's as honest a body as could be," replied 
 nurse. "No, there's just the chance of its being in the drawer 
 at home. I feel all in a fever till I get there to look. But don't 
 you say anything about it, Miss Flossie; it's my own fault, and 
 no one must be trcaibled about it but myself." 
 
166 STORIES BY MRS. MOLESWORTH 
 
 "Poor nursie," said Floss, "I'm so sorry. But you're sure 
 to find it in your drawer. Let's go home very fast. Carrots," 
 she called out to the little figure obediently trotting on in front, 
 "Carrots, come and walk with nursie and me now. Nurse isn't 
 vexed." 
 
 Carrots turned back, looking up wistfully in nurse's face. 
 
 "Poor darlings," said the old woman to herself, "such a 
 shame of me to have spoilt their walk!" 
 
 And all the way home, "to make up," she was even kinder 
 than usual. 
 
 But her hopes of finding the lost piece of money were dis- 
 appointed. She searched all through the drawer in vain; there 
 was no half-sovereign to be seen. Suddenly it struck her that 
 Carrots had been busy "tidying" for Floss that morning. 
 
 "Master Carrots, my dear," she said, "when you were busy 
 at Miss Floss's drawer to-day, you didn't open mine, did you, 
 and touch anything in it?" 
 
 "Oh, no," said Carrots, at once, "I'm quite, quite sure I 
 didn't, nursie." 
 
 "You're sure you didn't touch nurse's purse, or a little tiny 
 packet of white paper, in her drawer?" inquired Floss, with an 
 instinct that the circumstantial details might possibly recall some 
 forgotten remembrance to his mind. 
 
 "Quite sure," said Carrots, looking straight up in their 
 faces with a thoughtful, but not uncertain expression in his brown 
 eyes. 
 
 "Because nurse has lost something out of her drawer, you 
 see, Carrots dear, and she is very sorry about it," continued Floss. 
 
 "What has she lost? But I'm sure" repeated Carrots, "I 
 didn't touch nurse's drawer, nor nucken in it. What has nurse 
 lost?" 
 
 "A half-sovereign " began Floss, but nurse interrupted 
 
 her. 
 
 "Don't tease him any more about it," she said; "it's plain 
 
"CARROTS" 167 
 
 he doesn't know, and I wouldn't like the other servants to hear. 
 Just forget about it, Master Carrots, my dear, perhaps nurse will 
 find it some day." 
 
 So Carrots, literally obedient, asked no more questions. He 
 only said to himself, with a puzzled look on his face, "A half- 
 sovereign! I didn't know nurse had any sovereigns — I thought 
 only Floss had — and I never saw any broken in halfs!" 
 
 But as no more was said in his hearing about the matter, it 
 passed from his innocent mind. 
 
 Nurse thought it right to tell the children's mother of her 
 loss, and the girls and Maurice heard of it too. They all were 
 very sorry for nurse, for she took her own carelessness rather 
 sorely to heart. But by her wish, nothing was said of it to the 
 two other servants, one of whom had only lately come, though the 
 other had been with them many years. 
 
 "I'd rather by far bear the loss," said nurse, "than cause any 
 ill-feeling about it, ma'am." 
 
 And her mistress gave in to her. "Though certainly you must 
 not bear the loss, nurse," she said, kindly; "for in all these years 
 you have saved me too many half-sovereigns and whole ones too 
 for me to mind much about the loss of one. And you've asked 
 Carrots, you say; you're sure he knows nothing about it?" 
 
 "Quite sure, ma'am," said nurse, unhesitatingly. 
 
 And several days went on, and nothing more was said or 
 heard about the half-sovereign. Only all this time the little yellow 
 sixpenny lay safely hidden aAvay in Carrots' paint-box. 
 
 In a sense he had forgotten about it. He knew it was safe 
 there, and he had almost fixed in his mind not to tell Floss about 
 it till the day they should be going to the toy-shop to buy their 
 hoops. Once or twice he had been on the point of showing it to 
 her, but had stopped short, thinking how much more delightful 
 it would be to "surprise" her. He had quite left off puzzling his 
 head as to where the little coin had come from; he had found it 
 in Floss's drawer, that was quite enough. If he had any 
 
168 STORIES BY MRS. MOLESWORTH 
 
 thoughts about its history, they were that either Floss had had 
 "the sixpenny" a long time ago and had forgotten it, or that the 
 fairies had brought it; and on the whole he inclined to the latter 
 explanation, for you see there was something different about 
 this sixpenny from any he had ever seen before. 
 
 Very likely "fairies' sixpennies" are always that pretty yel- 
 low colour, he thought. 
 
 One day, about a week after the loss of the half-sovereign, 
 Maurice happened to come into the nursery just at the little 
 ones' tea-time. It was a half-holiday, and he had been out a 
 long walk Math some of his companions, for he still went to 
 school at Sandyshore, and now he had come in tremendously 
 hungry and thirsty. 
 
 "I say, nurse," he exclaimed, seating himself unceremoniously 
 at the table, "I'm awfully hungry, and mamma's out, and we 
 shan't have tea for two hours yet. And Carrots, young man, I 
 want your paint-box; mine's all gone to smash, and Cecil won't 
 lend me hers, and I want to paint flags with stars and stripes 
 for my new boat." 
 
 "Tars and tipes," repeated Carrots, "what's tars and tipes?" 
 
 "What's that to you?" replied Mott, politely. "Bless me, 
 I am so thirsty. Give me your tea, Carrots, and nurse will make 
 you some more. What awful weak stuff! But I'm too thirsty to 
 wait." 
 
 He seized Carrots' mug and drank off its contents at one 
 draught. But when he put the mug down he made a very wry 
 face. 
 
 "What horrible stuff!" he exclaimed. "Nurse, you've for- 
 gotten to put in any sugar." 
 
 "No, she hasn't," said Carrots, bluntly. 
 
 Nurse smiled, but said nothing, and Floss looked fidgety. 
 
 "What do you mean?" said Mott. "Don't you like sugar — eh, 
 young 'un?" 
 
"CARROTS" 169 
 
 "Yes, I do like it," replied Carrots, but he would say no 
 more. 
 
 Floss grew more and more uneasy. 
 
 "Oh, Mott," she burst out, "please don't tease Carrots. It's 
 nothing wrong; it's only something we've planned ourselves." 
 
 Mott's curiosity was by this time thoroughly aroused. 
 
 "A secret, is it?" he exclaimed, pricking up his ears; "you'd 
 best tell it me. I'm a duffer at keeping secrets. Out with it." 
 
 Floss looked ready to cry, and Carrots shut his mouth tight, 
 as if determined not to give in. Nurse thought it time to interfere. 
 
 "Master Maurice," she said, appealingly, "don't tease the 
 poor little things, there's a good boy. If it is a secret, there's no 
 harm in it, you may be sure." 
 
 "Tease!" repeated Mott, virtuously, "I'm not teasing. I 
 only want to know what the mystery is — why shouldn't I? I 
 won't interfere." 
 
 Now Mott was just at the age when the spirit of mischief 
 is most apt to get thorough hold of a boy ; and once this is the case, 
 who can say where or at what a boy will stop? Every opposition 
 or contradiction only adds fuel to the flames, and not seldom a 
 tiny spark may thus end in a great fire. Nurse knew something 
 of boys in general, and of Mott in particular; and knowing what 
 she did, she decided in her own mind that she had better take the 
 bull by the horns without delay. 
 
 "Miss Floss," she said seriously, "and Master Carrots, I 
 think you had better tell your brother your secret. He'll be very 
 kind about it, you'll see, and he won't tell anybody." 
 
 "Won't you, Mott?" said Floss, jumping up and down on 
 her chair in her anxiety. "Promise." 
 
 "Honour bright," said Mott. 
 
 Carrots opened his mouth as if about to speak, but shut it 
 down again. 
 
 "What were you going to say?" said Mott. 
 
 "Nucken," replied Carrots. 
 
170 STORIES BY MRS. MOLESWORTH 
 
 "People don't open their mouths like that, if they've 'nucken' 
 to say," said Mott, as if he didn't believe Carrots. 
 
 "I didn't mean that I wasn't going to say nucken," said 
 Carrots, "I mean I haven't nucken to say now." » 
 
 "And what were you going to say?" persisted Mott. 
 
 Carrots looked frightened. 
 
 "I was only sinking if you knowed, and nurse knowed, and 
 Floss knowed, and I knowed, it wouldn't be a secret." 
 
 Mott burst out laughing. 
 
 "What a precious goose you are," he exclaimed. "Well, 
 secret or no secret, I'm going to hear it ; so tell me." 
 
 Floss looked at nurse despairingly. 
 
 "You tell, nurse, please," she said. 
 
 So nurse told, and Maurice looked more amused than ever. 
 "What an idea!" he exclaimed. "I don't believe Carrots'll hold 
 out for a month, whatever Floss may do, unless he has a precious 
 lump of ac — ac — what is it the head people call it? — acquisitiveness 
 for his age. But you needn't have made such a fuss about your 
 precious secret. Here, nurse, give us some tea, and you may put 
 in all the sugar Floss and Carrots have saved by now." 
 
 Floss and Carrots looked ready to cry, but nurse reassured 
 them. 
 
 "Never you fear," she said; "he shall have what's proper, 
 but no more. Never was such a boy for sweet things as you, 
 3Iaster Mott." 
 
 "It shows in my temper, doesn't it?" he said saucily. And 
 then he was so pleased with his own wit that for a few minutes 
 he forgot to tease, occupying himself by eating lots of bread and 
 butter instead, so that tea went on peaceably. 
 
<Oby duffield a company 
 
 "So Floss and Carrots ate their bread and milk in undiminished curiosity." 
 
 See Page 206 
 
"CARROTS" 171 
 
 CHAPTER V 
 
 CARROTS IN TROUBLE 
 "But bitter while they flow, are childish tears." 
 
 "Now Carrots," said Mott, when he had eaten what he con- 
 sidered might possibly support him for the next two hours, "now 
 Carrots, let's have the paint-box. You needn't disturb yourself," 
 he continued, for Carrots was preparing to descend from his high 
 chair, "I know where you keep it; it's in your drawer, isn't it? 
 Which is his drawer, nurse? It'll be a good opportunity for 
 me to see if he keeps it tidy." 
 
 "No, no, let me get it myself," cried Carrots, tumbling him- 
 self off his chair anyhow in his eagerness. "Nurse, nurse, don't 
 tell him which is mine; don't let him take my paint-box, let me 
 get it my own self." 
 
 Nurse looked at him with some surprise; it was seldom the 
 little boy so excited himself. 
 
 "Master Mott won't hurt your drawer, my dear," she said; 
 "you don't mind his having your paint-box, I'm sure. But do 
 let him get it out himself, if he wants, Master Maurice, there's 
 a dear boy," she continued, for Maurice was by this time ferret- 
 ing in Floss's drawer with great gusto, and in another moment 
 would have been at Carrots'! But Carrots was at it before him. 
 He pulled it open as far as he could, for in consequence of Mott's 
 investigations in the upper story, he could not easily penetrate to 
 his own quarters. But he knew exactly where the paint-box lay, 
 and managed to slip it out, without Maurice's noticing what he 
 was doing. His triumph was short-lived, however: before he 
 could open the box, Mott was after him. 
 
 "Hi, you young sneak!" he cried, "what are you after now? 
 Give me the box; I believe you want to take the best paints 
 out before you lend it to me," and he wrenched the paint-box 
 out of his little brother's hands. 
 
172 STORIES BY MRS. MOLESWORTH 
 
 "I don't, I don't," sobbed Carrots, sitting down on the floor 
 and crying bitterly; "you may have all the paints, Mott, but it's 
 my secret, oh, my secret!" 
 
 "What are you talking about?" said Mott, roughly, pulling 
 out the lid as he spoke. The box had been all tumbled about in 
 the struggle, and the paints came rattling out, the paints and the 
 brushes, and the little saucers, and with them came rolling down 
 on to the floor, children, you know what — the "fairies' sixpenny," 
 the little bright, shining, yellow half-sovereign! 
 
 A strange change came over Mott's face. 
 
 "Nurse," he cried, "do you see that? What does that mean?" 
 
 Nurse hastened up to where he was standing; she stared for 
 a moment in puzzled astonishment at the spot on the carpet to 
 which the toe of Maurice's boot was pointing, then she stooped 
 down slowly and picked up the coin, still without speaking. 
 
 "Well, nurse," said Maurice, impatiently, "what do you think 
 of that?' 
 
 "My half-sovereign," said nurse, as if hardly believing what 
 she saw. 
 
 "Of course it's your half-sovereign," said Mott, "it's as 
 plain as a pike-staff. But how did it come there, that's the 
 question?" 
 
 Nurse looked at Carrots with puzzled perplexity. "He 
 couldn't have known," she said in a low voice, too low for Carrots 
 to hear. He was still sitting on the floor sobbing, and through 
 his sobs was to be heard now and then the melancholy cry, "My 
 secret, oh, my poor secret." 
 
 "You hear what he says," said Maurice; "what does his 
 'secret' mean but that he sneaked into your drawer and took the 
 half-sovereign, and now doesn't like being found out. I'm 
 ashamed to have him for my brother, that I am, the little cad!" 
 
 "But he couldn't have understood," said nurse, at a loss how 
 otherwise to defend her little boy. "I'm not even sure he rightly 
 
"CARROTS" 173 
 
 knew of my losing it, and he might have taken it, meaning no 
 harm, not knowing what it was, indeed, very likely." 
 
 "Rubbish," said Maurice. "A child that is going without 
 sugar to get money instead, must be old enough to understand 
 something about what money is." 
 
 "But that was my plan; it wasn't Carrots that thought of it 
 at all," said Floss, who all this time had stood by, frightened and 
 distressed, not knowing what to say. 
 
 "Hold your tongue, Floss," said Maurice, roughly; and 
 Floss subsided. "Carrots," he continued, turning to his brother, 
 "leave off crying this minute, and listen to me. Who put this 
 piece of money into your paint-box?" 
 
 "I did my own self," said Carrots. 
 
 "What for?" 
 
 "To keep it a secret for Floss," sobbed Carrots. 
 
 Maurice turned triumphantly to nurse. 
 
 "There," he said, "you see! And," he continued to Carrots 
 again, "you took it out of nurse's drawer — out of a little paper 
 packet?" 
 
 "No," said Carrots, "I didn't. I didn't know it was nurse's." 
 
 "You didn't know nurse had lost a half-sovereign!" exclaimed 
 Mott, "Carrots, how dare you say so?" 
 
 "Yes," said Carrots, looking so puzzled, that for a moment or 
 two he forgot to sob, "I did know; Floss told me." 
 
 "Then how can you say you didn't know this was nurse's?" 
 said Mott. 
 
 "Oh, I don't know — I didn't know — I can't under'tand," 
 cried Carrots, relapsing into fresh sobs. 
 
 "I wish your mamma were in, that I do," said nurse, looking 
 ready to cry too; by this time Floss's tears were flowing freely. 
 
 "She isn't, so it's no good wishing she were," said Maurice; 
 "but papa is," he went on importantly, "and I'll just take Carrots 
 to him and see what he'll say to all this." 
 
 "Oh, no, Master Mott, don't do that, I beg and pray of you,'* 
 
174 STORIES BY MRS. MOLESWORTH 
 
 said nurse, all but wringing her hands in entreaty. "Your papa 
 doesn't understand about the little ones; do wait till your mamma 
 comes in." 
 
 "No, indeed, nurse; it's a thing papa should be told," said 
 Mott, in his innermost heart half inclined to yield, but working 
 himself up to imagine he was acting very heroically. And not- 
 withstanding nurse's distress, and Floss's tears, off he marched his 
 unfortunate little brother to the study. 
 
 "Papa," he said, knocking at the door, "may I come in? 
 There's something I must speak to you about immediately." 
 
 "Come in, then," was the reply. "Well, and what's the mat- 
 ter now? Has Carrots hurt himself?" asked his father, naturally 
 enough for his red-haired little son looked pitiable in the extreme 
 as he crept into the room after Maurice, frightened, bewildered, 
 and, so far as his gentle disposition was capable of such a feeling, 
 indignant also, all at once. 
 
 "No," replied Maurice, pushing Carrots forward, "he's not 
 hurt himself; it's worse than that. Papa," he continued excitedly, 
 "you whipped me once, when I was a little fellow, for telling a 
 story. I am very sorry to trouble you, but I think it's right you 
 should know; I am afraid you will have to punish Carrots more 
 severely than you punished me, for he's done worse than tell a 
 story." Maurice stopped to take breath, and looked at his father 
 to see the effect of his words. Carrots had stopped crying to 
 listen to what Maurice was saying, and there he stood, staring 
 up with his large brown eyes, two or three tears still struggling 
 down his cheeks, his face smeared and red and looking very miser- 
 able. Yet he did not seem to be in the least ashamed of him- 
 self, and this somehow provoked Mott and hardened him against 
 his brother. 
 
 "What's he been doing?" said their father, looking at the 
 two boys with more amusement than anxiety, and then glancing 
 regretfully at the newspaper which he had been comfortably 
 reading when Mott's knock came to the door. 
 
"CARROTS" 175 
 
 "He's done much worse than tell a story," repeated Maurice, 
 "though for that matter he's told two or three stories, too. But, 
 papa, you know about nurse losing a half-sovereign? Well, 
 Carrots had got it all the time; he took it out of nurse's purse, 
 and hid it away in his paint-box, without telling anybody. He 
 can't deny it, though he tried to." 
 
 "Carrots," said his father sternly, "is this true?" 
 
 Carrots looked up in his father's face; that face, generally 
 so kind and merry, was now all gloom and displeasure — why? — 
 Carrots could not understand, and he was too frightened and 
 miserable to collect his little wits together to try to do so. He 
 just gave a sort of little tremble and began to cry again. 
 
 "Carrots," repeated his father, "is this true?" 
 
 "I don't know," sobbed Carrots. 
 
 Now Captain Desart, Carrots' father, was, as I think I 
 have told you, a sailor. If any of you children have a sailor 
 for your father, you must not think I mean to teach you to be 
 disrespectful when I say that sailors are, there is no doubt, in- 
 clined to be hot-tempered and hasty. And I do not think on the 
 whole that they understand much about children, though they 
 are often very fond of them and very kind. All this was the case 
 with Carrots' fiather. He had been so much away from his 
 children while they were little, that he really hardly knew how they 
 had been brought up or trained or anything about their childish 
 ways — he had left them entirely to his wife, and scarcely con- 
 sidered them as in any way "his business," till they were quite 
 big boys and girls. 
 
 But once he did begin to notice them, though very kind, he 
 was very strict. He had most decided opinions about the only way 
 of checking their faults whenever these were serious enough to 
 attract his attention, and he could not and would not be troubled 
 with arguing, or what he called "splitting hairs," about such 
 matters. A fault was a fault; telling a falsehood was telling a 
 falsehood; and he made no allowance for the excuses or "palliat- 
 
176 STORIES BY MRS. MOLESWORTH 
 
 ing circumstances" there might be to consider. One child, ac- 
 cording to his ideas, was to be treated exactly like another ; why 
 the same offence should deserve severer punishment with a self- 
 willed, self-confident, bold, matter-of-fact lad, such as Maurice, 
 than with a timid, fanciful, baby-like creature as was his little Fabian, 
 he could not have understood had he tried. 
 
 Nurse knew all this by long experience; no wonder, kind 
 though she knew her master to be, that she trembled when Mott 
 announced his intention of laying the whole affair before his 
 father. 
 
 But poor Carrots did not know anything about it. "Papa" 
 had never been "cross" to him before, and he was far from clearly 
 understanding why he was "cross" to him now. So he just sobbed 
 and said "I don't know," which was about the worst thing he could 
 possibly have said in his own defence, though literally the truth. 
 
 "No or yes, sir," said Captain Desart, his voice growing 
 louder and sterner — I think he really forgot that it was a poor 
 little shrimp of six years old he was speaking to — "no nonsense of 
 'don't knows.' Did you or did you not take nurse's half-sovereign 
 out of her drawer and keep it for your own?" 
 
 "No," said Carrots, "I never took nucken out of nurse's 
 drawer. I never did, papa, and I didn't know nurse had any 
 sovereigns." 
 
 "Didn't you know nurse had lost a half-sovereign? Car- 
 rots, how can you say so?" interrupted Mott. 
 
 "Yes, Floss told me," said Carrots. 
 
 "And Floss hid it away in your paint-box, I suppose?" said 
 Mott, sarcastically. 
 
 "No, Floss didn't. I hided the sixpenny my own self," said 
 Carrots, looking more and more puzzled. 
 
 "Hold your tongue, Maurice," said his father, angrily. "Go 
 and fetch the money and the tom-fool paint-box thing that you say he 
 had it in." 
 
 Mott did as he was told. He ran to the nursery and back 
 
"CARROTS" 177 
 
 as fast as he could; but, unobserved by him, Floss managed to 
 run after him and crept into the study so quietly that her father 
 never noticed her. 
 
 Maurice laid the old-paint-box and the half-sovereign down 
 on the table in front of his father; Captain Desart held up the 
 little coin between his finger and thumb. 
 
 "Now," he said, "Carrots, look at this. Did you or did 
 you not take this piece of money out of nurse's drawer and hide 
 it away in your paint-box?" 
 
 Carrots stared hard at the half-sovereign. 
 
 "I did put in in my paint-box," he said, and then he stopped. 
 
 "What for?" said his father. 
 
 "I wanted to keep it for a secret," he replied. "I wanted 
 to— to " 
 
 "What?" thundered Captain Desart. 
 
 "To buy something at the toy-shop with it," sobbed Carrots. 
 
 Captain Desart sat down and looked at Mott for sympathy. 
 
 "Upon my soul," he said, "one could hardly believe it. A 
 child that one would think scarcely knew the value of money! 
 Where can he have learnt such cunning; you say you are sure he 
 was told of nurse's having lost a half-sovereign?" 
 
 "Oh, yes," said Mott; "he confesses to that much himself." 
 
 "Floss told me," said Carrots. 
 
 "Then how can you pretend you didn't take it out of her 
 drawer, too," said his father. 
 
 "I don't know. I didn't take it out of her drawer; it was 
 'aside Floss's doll," said Carrots. 
 
 "He's trying to equivocate," said his father. Then he turned 
 to the child again, looking more determined than ever. 
 
 "Carrots," he said, "I must whip you for this. Do you 
 know that I am ashamed to think you are my son? If you were 
 a poor boy you might be put in prison for this." 
 
 Carrots looked too bewildered to understand. "In prison," 
 he repeated. "Would the prison-man take me?" 
 
178 STORIES BY MRS. MOLESWORTH 
 
 "What does he mean?" said Captain Desart. 
 
 Floss, who had been waiting unobserved in her corner all 
 this time, thought this a good opportunity for coming forward. 
 
 "He means the policeman," she said. "Oh, papa," she went 
 on, running up to her little brother and throwing her arms round 
 him, the tears streaming down her face, "oh, papa, poor little 
 Carrots! he doesn't understand." 
 
 "Where did you come from?" said her father, gruffly but not 
 unkindly, for Floss was rather a favourite of his. "What do 
 you mean about his not understanding? Did you know about this 
 business, Floss?" 
 
 "Oh, no, papa," said Floss, her face flushing; "I'm too big 
 not to understand." 
 
 "Of course you are," said Captain Desart; "and Carrots is 
 big enough, too, to understand the very plain rule that he is not 
 to touch what does not belong to him. He was told, too, that 
 nurse had lost a half-sovereign, and he might then have owned to 
 having taken it and given it back, and then things would not have 
 looked so bad. Take him up to my dressing-room, Maurice, and 
 leave him there till I come." 
 
 "May I go with him, papa?" said Floss very timidly. 
 
 "No," said her father, "you may not." 
 
 So Mott led off poor weeping Carrots, and all the way up- 
 stairs he kept sobbing to himself, "I never touched nurse's sover- 
 eigns. I never did. I didn't know she had any sovereigns." 
 
 "Hold your tongue," said Mott; "what is the use of telling 
 more stories about it?" 
 
 "I didn't tell stories. I said I hided the sixpenny my own 
 self, but I never touched nurse's sovereigns ; I never did." 
 
 "I believe you're more than half an idiot," said Mott, angry 
 and yet sorry — angry with himself, too, somehow. 
 
 Floss, left alone with her father, ventured on another appeal. 
 
 "You won't whip Carrots till mamma comes in, will you, 
 papa?" she said softly. 
 
"CARROTS" 179 
 
 "Why not? Do you think I want her to help me to whip 
 him?" said Captain Desart. 
 
 "Oh no — but — I think perhaps mamma would understand 
 better how it was, for, oh, papa, dear, Carrots isn't a naughty boy ; 
 he never, never tells stories." 
 
 "Well, we'll see," replied her father; "and in the meanwhile it 
 will do him no harm to think things over by himself in my dress- 
 ing-room for a little." 
 
 "Oh, poor Carrots!" murmured Floss to herself; "it'll be 
 getting dark, and he's all alone. I wish mamma would come in!" 
 
 CHAPTER VI 
 
 CARROTS "ALL ZIGHT" AGAIN 
 
 "When next the summer breeze comes by, 
 And waves the bush, the flower is dry." 
 
 Walter Scott. 
 
 Floss crept upstairs to the dressing-room door. It was 
 locked. Though the key was in the lock, she knew she must 
 not turn it; and even had it been open she would not have dared 
 to go in, after her father's forbidding it. But she thought she 
 might venture to speak to Carrots, to comfort him a little, through 
 the door. She was dreadfully afraid that he might feel fright- 
 ened in there alone if it got dark before he was released, for 
 sometimes he was afraid of the dark — he was such a little bojr, 
 remember. 
 
 Floss tapped at the door. 
 
 "Carrots," she said, " are you there?" 
 
 "Yes," said Carrots; "but you can't come in, Floss. Mott 
 has locked me in." 
 
 "I know," said Floss ; "what are you doing, Carrots. Are you 
 very unhappy?' 
 
180 STORIES BY MRS. MOLESWORTH 
 
 "Not so very. I'm crying — I'm crying a great lot, Floss, 
 but I don't think I'm so very unhappy — not now you've come 
 to the door." 
 
 "Poor Carrots," said Floss, "I'll stay by the door, if you 
 like. I'll just run down to the front door now and then, to see 
 if mamma is coming, and then I'll come straight back to you." 
 
 "All zight," said Carrots. Whenever he wanted to seem very 
 brave, and rather a big boy, he used to say "all zight," and just 
 now he was trying very hard to be like a big boy. 
 
 There was silence for a minute or two. Then Carrots called 
 out again. 
 
 "Floss," he said, "are you there?" 
 
 "Yes, dear," replied faithful Floss. 
 
 "I want just to tell you one thing," he said. "Floss, I 
 never did touch nurse's sovereigns. I never knowed she had any." 
 
 "It wasn't a sovereign; it was a 7zaZ/-sovereign," corrected 
 Floss. 
 
 "I don't under'tand how it could be a half-sovereign," said 
 Carrots. "But I never touched nurse's drawer, nor nucken 
 in it." 
 
 "Then where did you find the half-sovereign?" began Floss, 
 "and why — oh, Carrots," she broke off, "I do believe that's the 
 front door bell. It'll be mamma coming. I must run down." 
 
 "All zight," called out Carrots again. "Don't be long, 
 Floss; but please tell mamma all about it. I don't under'tand." 
 
 He gave a little sigh of perplexity and lay down on the floor 
 near the window where the room was lightest, for the darkness 
 was now beginning to creep in and he felt very lonely. 
 
 Poor Mrs. Desart hardly knew what to think or say, when, 
 almost before she had got into the house, she was seized upon by 
 Maurice and Floss, each eager to tell their own story. Carrots 
 naughty, Carrots in disgrace, was such an extraordinary idea! 
 
 "Nurse," she exclaimed, perceiving her at the end of the 
 passage, whence she had been watching as anxiously as the 
 
"CARROTS" 181 
 
 children for her mistress's return, "nurse, what is the meaning of 
 it all?' 
 
 "Indeed, ma'am," nurse was beginning, hut she was inter- 
 rupted. "Come in here, Lucy," said Captain Desart to his wife, 
 opening the study door, "come in here before you go upstairs." 
 
 And Mrs. Desart did as he asked, but Floss again managed 
 to creep in too, almost hidden in the folds of her mother's dress. 
 
 "I can't believe that Carrots is greedy, or cunning, or obsti- 
 nate," said his mother, when she heard all. "I cannot think that 
 he understood what he was doing when he took the half-sovereign." 
 
 "But the hiding it," said Captain Desart, "the hiding it, 
 and yet to my face persisting that he had never touched nurse's 
 half-sovereign. I can't make the child out." 
 
 "He says he didn't know nurse had any sovereigns," put 
 in Floss. 
 
 "Are you there again, you ubiquitous child?" said her 
 father. 
 
 Floss looked rather frightened — such a long word as ubi- 
 quitous must surely mean something very naughty; but her 
 father's voice was not angry, so she took courage. 
 
 "Does he know what a sovereign means?" said Mrs. Desart. 
 "Perhaps there is some confusion in his mind which makes him 
 seem obstinate when he isn't so really." 
 
 "He said he knew I had sovereigns," said Floss, "and I 
 couldn't think what he meant. Oh, mamma," she went on sud- 
 denly, "I do believe I know what he was thinking of. It Was my 
 kings and queens." 
 
 And before her father or mother could stop her, she had 
 darted off to the nursery. In two minutes she was back again, 
 holding out to her mother a round wooden box — the sort of box 
 one often used to see with picture alphabets for little children, 
 but instead of an alphabet, Floss's box contained a set of round 
 card, each about the size of the top of a wine-glass, with the 
 
182 STORIES BY MRS. MOLESWORTH 
 
 heads of all the English kings and queens, from William the 
 Conqueror down to Victoria! 
 
 " 'Sovereigns of England,' mamma, you see," she exclaimed, 
 pointing to the words on the lid, and quite out of breath with hurry 
 and excitement, "and I very often call them my sovereigns; and 
 of course Carrots didn't understand how there could be a half one 
 of them, nor how nurse could have any." 
 
 "It must be so," said Mrs. Desart to her husband; "the poor 
 child really did not understand." 
 
 "But still the taking the money at all, and hiding it?" said 
 Captain Desart. "I don't see that it would be right not to punish 
 him." 
 
 "He has been punished already- — pretty severely for him, I 
 fancy," said Floss's mother, with a rather sad smile. "You will 
 leave him to me now, won't you, Frank?" she asked her husband. 
 "I will go up and see him, and try to make him thoroughly under- 
 stand. Give me the sovereigns, Floss dear, I'll take them 
 with me." 
 
 Somewhat slowly, Carrots' mother made her way upstairs. 
 She was tired and rather troubled. She did not believe that her 
 poor little boy had really done wrong wilfully, but it seemed diffi- 
 cult to manage well among so many children; she was grieved, 
 also, at Maurice's hastiness and want of tender feeling, and she 
 saw, too, how little fitted Carrots was to make his way in this 
 rough-and-ready world. 
 
 "How would it be without me! My poor children," she 
 thought with a sigh. 
 
 But a little hand was slipped into hers. 
 
 "Mamma, dear, I'm so glad you thought of the sovereigns. 
 I'm sure Carrots didn't mean to be naughty. Mamma dear, though 
 he is so little, Carrots always means to be good; I don't think 
 he could even be frightened into doing anything that he understood 
 was naughty, though he is so easily frightened other ways." 
 
 "My good little Floss, my comforter," said her mother, pat- 
 
"CARROTS" 183 
 
 ting Floss's hand, and then they together made their way to the 
 dressing-room. 
 
 It was almost dark. The key was in the lock, and Mrs. 
 Desart felt for it and turned it. But when she opened the door 
 it was too dark in the room to distinguish anything. 
 
 "Carrots," she said, but there was no answer. "Where can 
 he be?" she said rather anxiously. "Floss, run and get a light." 
 
 Floss ran off: she was back again in a minute, for she had 
 met nurse on the stairs with a candle in her hand. But even with 
 the light they could not all at once find Carrots, and though they 
 called to him there was no answer. 
 
 "Can he have got out of the window?" Mrs. Desart was 
 beginning to say, when Floss interrupted her. 
 
 "Here he is, mamma," she exclaimed. "Oh, poor little Car- 
 rots! Mamma, nursie, do look." 
 
 There he was indeed — fast, fast asleep! Extra fast sleep, 
 for his troubles and his tears had worn him out. He was lying in 
 a corner of a large closet opening out of the dressing-room. In 
 this closet Captain Desart hung up his coats and dressing-gowns, 
 and doubtless Carrots had crept into it when the room began 
 to get dark, feeling as if in the hanging garments there was some 
 comfort and protection; and there he lay, looking so fair and 
 innocent, prettier than when he was awake, for his cheeks had 
 more colour, and his long eyelashes, reddy-brown like his hair, 
 showed clearly on his fair skin. 
 
 "Poor little fellow, how sweet he looks," said Mrs. Desart. 
 "Nurse, lift him up and try to put him to bed without waking 
 him. We must wait to disentangle the confusion in his mind till 
 to-morrow morning." 
 
 And very tenderly nurse lifted him up and carried him off. 
 
 "My bonnie wee man," she murmured; for though it was 
 many and many a day since she had seen her native land, and she 
 had journeyed with her master and mistress to strange countries 
 
184 STORIES BY MRS. MOLESWORTH 
 
 "far over the sea," she was apt when her feelings were stirred to 
 fall back into her own childish tongue. 
 
 So no more was said to or about Carrots that evening; but 
 Floss went to bed quite happy and satisfied that "mamma" would 
 put it all right in the morning. I don't think Mott went to bed 
 in so comfortable a mood; yet his mother had said nothing 
 to him! 
 
 Cecil and Louise had, though. Cecil told him right out that 
 he was a horrid telltale, and Louise said She only wished he had 
 red hair instead of Carrots; which expressions of feeling on the 
 part of such very grown-up young ladies meant a good deal, for 
 it was not often they troubled themselves much about nursery 
 matters. Cecil, that is to say, for Louise, who was fair-haired 
 and soft and gentle, and played very nicely on the piano, was 
 just a shadow of Cecil, and if Cecil had proposed that they should 
 stay in bed all day and get up all night, would have thought it a 
 very good idea! 
 
 And the next morning Mrs. Desart had a long talk with 
 Carrots. It was all explained and made clear, and the difference 
 between the two kinds of "sovereigns" shown to him. And he 
 told his mother all — all, that is to say, except the "plan" for 
 saving sugar and getting money instead, which had first put it 
 into his head to keep the half-sovereign to get a new doll for 
 Floss. He began to tell about the plan, but stopped when he 
 remembered that it was Floss's secret as well as his own; and 
 when he told his mother this, she said he was quite right not to 
 tell without Floss's leave, and that as nurse knew about it, they 
 might still keep it for their secret, if they liked, which Carrots 
 was very glad to hear. 
 
 He told his mother about his thinking perhaps the fairies 
 had brought the "sixpenny," and she explained to him that now- 
 a-days, alas! that was hardly likely to be the case, though she 
 seemed quite to understand his fancying it, and did not laugh at 
 him at all. But she spoke very gravely to him, too, about never 
 
"CARROTS" 185 
 
 taking anything that was not his; and, after listening and think- 
 ing with all his might, Carrots said he thought he "kite 
 under'tood." 
 
 "I am never, never to taken nueken that I'm not sure is 
 mine," he said slowly. "And if ever I'm not sure I'm to ask 
 somebody, you, or nursie, or Floss — or sometimes, perhaps, Cecil. 
 But I don't think I'd better ask Mott, for perhaps he wouldn't 
 under'tood." 
 
 But Mott's mother took care that before the day was over 
 Mott should "under'tand" something of where and how he had 
 been in fault; that there are sometimes ways of doing right which 
 turn it into "wrong"; and that want of pity and tenderness for 
 the vnong-doer never, never can be right. 
 
 CHAPTER VII 
 
 A LONG AGO STORY 
 
 "You may laugh, my little people, 
 But be sure my story's true; 
 For I vow by yon church steeple, 
 I was once a child like you." 
 
 The Land of Long Ago. 
 
 If any of you children have travelled much, have you noticed 
 that on a long journey there seem to come points, turns — I 
 hardly know what to call them — after which the journey seems 
 to go on differently. More quickly, perhaps more cheerfully, or 
 possibly less so, but certainly differently. Looking back after- 
 wards you see it was so — "from the time we all looked out of 
 the window at the ruined abbey we seemed to get on so much 
 faster," you would say, or— "after the steamer had passed the 
 Spearhead Point, we began to feel dull and tired, and there was 
 no more sunshine." 
 
 I think it is so in life. Suddenly, often quite unknowingly, 
 
186 STORIES BY MRS. MOLESWORTH 
 
 we turn a corner sometimes of our history, sometimes of our 
 characters, and looking back, long afterwards, we make a date 
 of that point. It was so just now with my little Carrots. This 
 trouble of his about the half-sovereign changed him. I do not 
 mean to say that it saddened him and made him less happy than he 
 had been- — at his age, thank God, few, if any children have it in 
 them to be so deeply affected — but it changed him. It was his 
 first peep out into life, and it gave him his first real thoughts about 
 things. It made him see how a little wrong doing may cause 
 great sorrow; it gave him his first vague, misty glimpse of that, 
 to my thinking, saddest of all sad things — the way in which it 
 is possible for our very nearest and dearest to mistake and mis- 
 understand us. 
 
 He had been in some ways a good deal of a baby for his 
 age, there is no doubt. He had a queer, babylike way of not 
 seeming to take in quickly what was said to him, and staring up 
 in your face with his great oxen-like eyes, that did a little excuse 
 Maurice's way of laughing at him and telling 'him he was "half- 
 witted." But no one that really looked at those honest, sensible, 
 tender eyes could for an instant have thought there was any 
 "want" in their owner. It was all there — the root of all goodness, 
 cleverness, and manliness — just as in the acorn there is the oak; 
 but of course it had a great deal of growing before it, and, more 
 than mere growing, it would need all the care and watchful ten- 
 derness and wise directing that could be given it, just as the acorn 
 needs all the rain and sunshine and good nourishing soil it can 
 get, to become a fine oak, straight and strong and beautiful. For 
 what do I mean by "it," children? I mean the "own self" of 
 Carrots, the wonderful "something" in the little childish frame 
 which the wisest of all the wise men of either long ago or now- 
 a-days have never yet been able to describe — the "soul," children, 
 which is in you all, which may grow into so beautiful, so lovely 
 and perfect a thing; which may, alas! be twisted and stunted and 
 starved out of all likeness to the "image" in which it was created. 
 
"CARROTS" 187 
 
 Do you understand a little why It seems sometimes such a 
 very, very solemn thing to have the charge of children? When 
 one thinks what they should be, and again when one thinks what 
 they may be, is it not a solemn, almost too solemn a thought? 
 Only we, who feel this so deeply, take heart when we remember 
 that the Great Gardener who never makes mistakes has promised 
 to help us; even out of our mistakes to bring good. 
 
 As I have said the affair of the lost half-sovereign did not 
 leave any lastingly painful impression on Carrots, but for some 
 days he seemed unusually quiet and pale and a little sad. He 
 had caught cold, too, with falling asleep on the dressing-room 
 floor, nurse said, for the weather was still exceedingly chilly, 
 though the spring was coming on. So altogether he was rather a 
 miserable looking little Carrots. 
 
 He kept out of the way and did not complain, but "mamma" 
 and nurse and Floss did not need complaints to make them see 
 that their little man was not quite himself, and they were extra 
 kind to him. 
 
 There came just then some very dull rainy days, regular 
 rainy days, not stormy, but to the children much more disagree- 
 able than had they been so. For in stormy weather at the sea- 
 side there is too much excitement for any one to think whether 
 it is disagreeable or not — there is the splendid sight of the angry, 
 troubled sea, there are the wonderful "storm songs" of the wind 
 to listen to. Of course, as Carrots used to say, at such times 
 it is "dedful" to think of the poor sailors ; but even in thinking of 
 them there is something that takes one's thoughts quite away 
 from one's self, and one's own worries and trodbles — all the 
 marvellous stories of shipwreck and adventure, from Grace Darl- 
 ing to old Sinbad, come rushing into one's mind, and one feels as 
 if the sea were the only part of the world worth living on. 
 
 But even at the seaside, regular, steady, "stupid" rainy days 
 are trying. Carrots sat at the nursery window one of these dull 
 afternoons looking out wistfully. 
 
188 STORIES BY MRS. MOLESWORTH 
 
 "Floss," he said, for Floss was sitting on the floor learning 
 her geography for the next day, "Floss, it is so raining." 
 
 "I know," said Floss, stopping a minute in her "principal 
 rivers of northern Europe." "I wish there wasn't so much rain, 
 and then there wouldn't be so many rivers; or perhaps if there 
 weren't so many rivers there wouldn't be so much rain. I wonder 
 which it is!" 
 
 "Which beginned first — rivers or rain?" said Carrots, medita- 
 tively, "that would tell." 
 
 "I'm sure I don't know, and I don't believe anybody does," 
 said Floss, going on again with her lesson. "Be quiet, Carrots, 
 for one minute, and then I'll talk to you." 
 
 Carrots sat silent for about a minute and a half; then he 
 began again. 
 
 "Floss," he said. 
 
 "Well." replied Floss. "I've very nearly done, Carrots." 
 
 "It's werry dull to-day, Floss; the sea looks dull too, it 
 isn't dancey a bit to-day, and the sands look as if they would 
 never be nice for running on again." 
 
 "Oh, but they will, Master Carrots," said nurse, who was 
 sitting near, busy darning stockings. "Dear, dear! don't I re- 
 member feeling just so when I was a child? In winter thinking 
 summer would never come, and in summer forgetting all about 
 winter!" 
 
 "Is it a werry long tune since you were a child?" inquired 
 Carrots, directing his attention to nurse. 
 
 "It's getting on for a good long tune, my dear," said nurse, 
 with a smile. 
 
 "Please tell me about it," said Carrots. 
 
 "Oh yes, nursie dear, do," said Floss, jumping up from the 
 floor and shutting her book. "I've done all my lessons, and it 
 would just be nice to have a story. It would amuse poor little 
 Carrots." 
 
 "But you know all my stories as well, or even better, than 
 
"CARROTS" 180 
 
 I do myself," objected nurse, "not that they were ever much to 
 tell, any of them." 
 
 "Oh yes, they were. They are very nice stories indeed," 
 said Floss, encouragingly. "And I'm very fond of what you 
 call your mother's stories, too — aren't you, Carrots? — about the 
 children she was nurse to — Master Hugh and Miss Janet. Tell 
 us more about them, nursie." 
 
 "You've heard all the stories about them, my dears, I'm 
 afraid," said nurse. "At least, I can't just now think of any 
 worth telling but what you've heard." 
 
 "Well, let's hear some not worth the telling," said Floss, 
 persistently. "Nurse," she went on, "how old must Master Hugh 
 and Miss Janet be by now? Do you know where they are?" 
 
 "Master Hugh is dead," said nurse, "many a year ago, poor 
 fellow, and little Miss Janet — why she was fifteen years older 
 than I ; mother only left them to be married when Miss Janet was 
 past twelve. She must he quite an old lady by now, if she is 
 alive — with grandchildren as old as you, perhaps! How strange 
 it seems!" 
 
 "She must have been a very nice little girl, and so must 
 Master Hugh have been — a nice little boy, I mean. That story 
 of 'Mary Ann Jolly' was so interesting. I suppose they never 
 did anything naughty?" said Floss, insinuatingly. 
 
 "Oh, but they did." replied nurse, quite unsuspicious of the 
 trap laid for her. "Master Hugh was very mischievous. Did I 
 never tell you what they did to their dog Caesar?" 
 
 "No, never," said both the children in a breath; "do tell us." 
 
 "Well, it was one Sunday morning, to tell it as mother told 
 me," began nurse. "You know, my dears," she broke off again, "it 
 was in Scotland, and rather an out-of-the-way part where they 
 lived. I know the place well, of course, for it wasn't till I was 
 seventeen past that I ever left it. It is a pretty place, out of 
 the way even now, I'm told, with railways and all, and in those 
 days it was even more out-of-the-way. Six miles from the church, 
 
190 STORIES BY MRS. MOLESWORTH 
 
 and the prayers and the sermon very long when you got there! 
 Many and many a time I've fallen asleep at church, when I was 
 a little girl. Well, to go back to Master Hugh and Miss Janet. 
 It was on a Sunday morning they did the queer piece of mis- 
 chief I'm going to tell you of. They had been left at home with 
 no one but an old woman, who was too deaf to go to church, to 
 look after them. She lived in the lodge close by, and used to come 
 into the house to help when the servants were busy, for she was 
 a very trusty old body. It was not often the children were left 
 without mother, or perhaps one of the housemaids, to take care 
 of them, and very often in fine weather they used to be taken to 
 church themselves, though it was tiring like for such young things. 
 But this Sunday, everybody had gone to church because it was 
 the time of the preaching " 
 
 "The what, nurse?" said Floss. "Isn't there preaching every 
 Sunday at church?' 
 
 "Oh yes, my dear; but what we call the preachings in Scot- 
 land means the time when there is the communion service, which 
 is only twice a year. You can't understand, my dear," seeing that 
 Floss looked as mystified as ever; "but never mind. When you 
 are older, you will find that there are many different ways of 
 saying and doing the same things in churches, just like among 
 people. But this Sunday I am telling you of, the services were 
 to be very long indeed, too long for the children, considering the 
 six miles' drive and all. So they were left at home with old 
 Phemie." 
 
 "Did they mind?" said Carrots. 
 
 "Oh no; I fancy they were very well pleased. They were 
 always very happy together, the two of them and Caesar.'* 
 
 "And of course they promised to be very good," said Floss. 
 
 "No doubt of that," said nurse, with a smile. "Well, they 
 certainly hit upon a queer way of amusing themselves. Mother 
 came home from church one of the earliest; she had a lift in one 
 of the farmer's carts, and came in at the lodge gate just as 
 
"CARROTS" 191 
 
 the carriage with her master and mistress and the young ladies 
 was driving up. They all got out at the big gate, and let the 
 coachman drive round to the stable the back way, and mother 
 came quietly walking up the drive behind them. They were 
 talking seriously about the sermon they had heard, and feeling 
 rather solemn-like, I dare say, when all at once there flew down 
 the drive to meet them the most fearsome-like creature that ever was 
 seen. It was like nothing in nature, my mother said, about the size of 
 a large wolf, but with a queer-shaped head and body — at least 
 they looked queer to them, not knowing what it was — and not 
 a particle of hair or coat of any kind upon it. It rushed up to 
 my lady, that was Miss Janet's mother, and tried to leap upon 
 her; but she shrieked to her husband, and he up with his stick — 
 he always took a stick about with him — and was just on the point 
 of giving it a fearful blow, never thinking but What it was one 
 of the beasts escaped from some travelling show, when one of the 
 young ladies caught his arm. 
 
 "'Stop father!' she cried. 'Don't you see who it is? It's 
 Caesar.' 
 
 " 'Caesar!' said he. 'My dear, that's never Ca?sar.' 
 
 "But Ca?sar it was, as they soon saw by the way he jumped 
 and whined, and seemed to beg them to understand he was him- 
 self. He was frightened out of his wits, poor doggie, for he had 
 never felt so queer before, and couldn't understand what had 
 come over him." 
 
 "And what had come over him?" asked the children eagerly. 
 
 "Why, Master Hugh and Miss Janet had spent the morning 
 in cropping him!" replied nurse. "The hair, and he had great 
 long thick hair, was cut off as close and as neat as if it had been 
 shaved; it was really wonderful how clean they had done it without 
 cutting or wounding the poor doggie. They had taken great 
 pains about it, and had spent the best part of the morning over 
 it — the two of them, Master Hugie with the great kitchen scissors, 
 and Miss Janet with a wee fine pair she had found in her mamma's 
 
192 STORIES BY MRS. MOLESWORTH 
 
 workbox, the little monkey! And such a sight as the kitchen 
 dresser was with hair ! For they told how they had made Caesar jump 
 up on to the dresser and lie first on one side and then on the 
 other, till all was cut off." 
 
 "Were they punished?" asked Floss, anxiously. And at this 
 question Carrots looked very woe-begone. 
 
 "They were going to be," said nurse, "but somehow, I cannot 
 justly say how it was, they were let off. The whole thing was such 
 a queer idea, their father and mother could not but laugh 
 at it, though they didn't let the children see them. And what do 
 you think my lady did? She took all poor Caesar's hair and spun 
 it up into worsted for knitting, mixing it, of course, with long 
 yarn." 
 
 "Did she spin?" asked Floss. "I thought you said she was 
 a lady." 
 
 "And that she was, Miss Flossie, and none the less so for 
 being able to spin and to knit, and to cook too, I dare say," 
 said nurse. "But ladies, and high born ones too, in those days 
 turned their hands to many things they think beneath them now. 
 I know Miss Janet's mother would never have thought of letting 
 any one but herself wash up her breakfast and tea services. The 
 cups were a sight to be seen, certainly, of such beautiful old 
 china; they were worth taking care of; and that's how old china 
 has been kept together. There isn't much of what's in use now- 
 a-days will go down to your grandchildren, and great-grand- 
 children, Miss Flossie, with the smashing and dashing that goes 
 on. My lady had a white wood bowl kept on purpose, and the 
 napkin of the finest damask, and a large apron of fine holland 
 that she put on, and, oh yes, a pair of embroidered holland cuffs 
 she used to draw on over her sleeves up to the elbow; and a 
 lady she looked, I can assure you, rinsing out and drying her 
 beautiful cups, with her pretty white hands!" 
 
 "Did you ever see her?" asked Floss. 
 
 "Yes, when she was getting to be quite an old lady, I've 
 
"CARROTS" 193 
 
 see her several times when I've been sent upon a message by 
 mother to the house. For my mother was a great favourite of 
 hers; I never went there but my lady would have me in to have 
 a piece." 
 
 "A piece?" repeated Floss. 
 
 Nurse laughed. "A slice of bread and jam, I should say, 
 my dear. I forget that I'm far away from the old life when 
 I get to talking of those days. And to think I'm getting on to 
 be quite an old woman myself; older in some ways than my lady 
 ever was, for my hair is fast turning gray, and hers had never 
 a silver streak in it to the last day of her life, and she died 
 at eighty-four!" 
 
 Carrots was getting a little tired, for he hardly understood 
 all that nurse was saying. To create a diversion he climbed up 
 on to her knee, and began stroking her face. 
 
 "Never mind, nursie," he said. "I'll always love you, even 
 when your hair's kite gray, and I would marry you if you like 
 when I'm big, only I've promised to marry Floss." 
 
 "Oh you funny little Carrots," said Floss. "But nurse," 
 she went on, "what did Janet's mamma do with the hair when 
 she had spun it?" 
 
 "She knitted it into a pair of stockings for Master Hughie," 
 said nurse; "but they weren't much use. They were well enough 
 to look at, but no mortal boy could have worn them without his 
 legs being skinned, they were so pricky." 
 
 "And what became of Caesar?" said Floss. "Did his hair 
 ever grow again?" 
 
 "Oh yes," said nurse, "in time it did, though I believe it 
 never again looked quite so silky and nice. But Ca?sar lived to 
 a good old age, for all that. He didn't catch cold, for my lady 
 made mother make him a coat of a bit of soft warm cloth, which 
 he wore for some time." 
 
 "How funny he must have looked," said Floss. 
 
 "What are you talking about?" said a voice behind her, and 
 
194 STORIES BY MRS. MOLESWORTH 
 
 turning round, Floss saw Cecil, who had come into the room 
 without their hearing her. 
 
 "About a doggie," answered Carrots. "Oh, Cis, nurse has 
 been telling us such a lubly story about a doggie. Nursie, dear, 
 won't you tell us another to-morrow?" 
 
 "My stories are all worn out, my dear," said nurse, shaking 
 her head. 
 
 "Couldn't you tell us one, Cis?" said Carrots. 
 
 "Make up one, do you mean?" said Cecil. "No, indeed, I'm 
 sure I never could. Are they always at you to tell them stories, 
 nurse? If so, I pity you." 
 
 "Poor little things," said nurse, " it's dull for them these 
 wet days, Miss Cecil, and Master Carrots' cold has been bad." 
 
 Cecil looked at her little brother's pale face as he sat nestling 
 in nurse's arms, and a queer new feeling of compunction 
 seized her. 
 
 "I couldn't tell you a story," she said; "but if you like, the 
 first afternoon it's rainy, and you can't go out, I'll read you one. 
 Miss Barclay lent me a funny old-fashioned little book the 
 other day, and some of the stories in it are fairy ones. Would 
 you like that, Carrots?" 
 
 Floss clapped her hands, and Carrots slid down from nurse's 
 knee, and coming quietly up to Cecil, threw his arms round her 
 neck, and gave her a kiss. 
 
 "I hope it'll rain to-morrow," he said, gravely. 
 
 "It is kind of Miss Cecil," said nurse; and as Cecil left 
 the nursery she added to herself, "it will be a comfort to her 
 mother if she begins to take thought for the little ones, and I've 
 always felt sure it was in her to do so, if only she could get 
 into the way of it." 
 
"CARROTS" 193 
 
 CHAPTER VIII 
 
 "the bewitched tongue." 
 
 "Thou wilt not fail 
 To listen to a fairy tale." 
 
 Lewis Carroll. 
 
 It did rain the next day! And Cecil did not forget her 
 promise. Just as the old nursery clock was striking four, a full 
 hour still to her tea-time, she marched into the room with a little 
 old brown book in her hand. I wonder if any of you have ever 
 seen that little old book, or one like it, I should say? It was 
 about the size of the first edition of "Evenings at Home," which 
 some of you are sure to have in your book-cases. For I should 
 think everybody's grandfathers and grandmothers had an "Eve- 
 ning's at Home" among their few, dearly-prized children's books. 
 
 Do you know how very few those books were? You may 
 have heard it, but I scarcely fancy you have ever thought over 
 the great difference between yourselves and long-ago-children in 
 this respect. Now-a-days, when you have galloped through all 
 the brilliant blue and green and scarlet little volumes that have 
 been given to you on birthdays and Christmas-days, you come 
 with a melancholy face to your mother, and tell her you have 
 "nothing to read." And then, most likely, when your mother 
 goes to the library, she chooses a book for you out of the "ju- 
 venile department," and when it is done you get another, till you 
 can hardly remember what you have read and what you haven't. 
 But as for reading any book twice over, that is never to be 
 thought of. 
 
 Not so was it long ago. Not only had no children many 
 books, but everywhere children had the same. There was seldom 
 any use in little friends lending to each other, for it was always 
 the same thing over again: "Evenings at Home," "Sandford and 
 Merton," "Ornaments Discovered," and so on. 
 
 You think, I dare say, that it must have been very stupid 
 
196 STORIES BY MRS. MOLESWORTH 
 
 and tiresome to have so little variety, but I think you are in some 
 ways mistaken. Children really read their books in those days; 
 they put more of themselves into their reading, so that, stupid 
 as these quaint old stories might seem to you now-a-days, they 
 never seemed so then. What was wanting in them the children 
 filled up out of their own fresh hearts and fancies, and however 
 often they read and re-read them, they always found something 
 new. They got to know the characters in their favourite stories 
 like real friends, and would talk them over with their companions, 
 and compare their opinions about them in a way that made each 
 book as good, or better, than a dozen. 
 
 So there is something to be said for this part of the "ancien 
 regime" — if you do not understand what that means, you will 
 some day — after all! 
 
 The volume that Cecil Desart brought into the nursery 
 was called "Faults Corrected; or" (there Avas always long ago 
 an "or" in the titles of books) "Beneficent Influences." 
 
 "Some of the stories are stupid," said Cecil, as she sat down. 
 "Miss Barclay said it was her mother's when she was a little 
 girl, so it must be rather ancient; but I think I've found one 
 that will amuse you, and that Carrots can understand." 
 
 "What's it called?" said Floss, peering over her sister's 
 
 shoulder. " 'Faults Corrected; or, Ben — ben ' what word's 
 
 that, Cecil?" 
 
 "Sit down, Floss, and be quiet, or I won't read to you," 
 said Cecil emphatically. "That's the name of the whole book 
 you are looking at, and you wouldn't understand the word if 
 I told it you. The name of the story I'm going to read to you 
 is, 'The Bewitched Tongue; or, Think Before You Speak.' A 
 Fairy Tale." 
 
 Floss would have liked to clap her hands, but she was afraid 
 of another snub from Cecil, so she restrained her feelings. 
 
 "When there come very long words," continued Cecil — 
 "there often are in old books — I'll change them to easy ones, 
 
"CARROTS" 197 
 
 so that Carrots may understand. Now, be quiet all of you, 
 I'm going to begin. 'The Bewitched Tongue, etc.' I'm not 
 going to read all the title again. 'In a beautiful mansion' (that 
 just means a fine house, Carrots) 'surrounded by pleasure 
 grounds of great extent, there lived, many years ago, a young 
 girl named Elizabetha. She was of charming appearance and 
 pleasing manners; her parents loved her devotedly, her brothers 
 and sisters looked upon her with amiable affection, her teachers 
 found her docile and intelligent. Yet Elizabetha constantly 
 found herself, despite their affection, shunned and feared by 
 her best and nearest friends, and absolutely disliked by those 
 who did not know her well enough to feel assured of the real 
 goodness of her heart. 
 
 'This sad state of things was all owing to one unfortunate 
 habit. She had a hasty tongue. Whatever thought was upper- 
 most in her mind at the moment, she expressed without reflec- 
 tion; she never remembered the wholesome adage. "Think before 
 you speak," or that other excellent saying, "Second thoughts 
 are best." 
 
 'Her disposition was far from unamiable or malicious, yet 
 the mischief of which she was the cause was indescribable. 
 Every servant in the household dreaded to hear the sound of 
 her voice, for many had she involved in trouble and disgrace; 
 and as her temper was naturally quick and impetuous, and she 
 never attempted to check her first expressions of provocation, 
 small and even trifling disagreements were by her foolish tongue 
 exaggerated into lasting discord, long after all real cause of offence 
 had passed from her mind. 
 
 ' "My brother will not forgive me," she confessed one day 
 to her mother, with many tears, "and the quarrel was only that 
 he had broken the vase of flowers that stand on my table. I 
 forgave him — I would rather lose twenty vases than his affection 
 — and yet he will not speak to me, and passes me by with 
 indignant looks." 
 
198 STORIES BY MRS. MOLESWORTH 
 
 ' "And did you at once express your forgiveness to him, 
 Elizabetha?" said her mother. "When you first discovered the 
 accident, what words escaped you?" 
 
 'Elizabetha reflected, and presently her colour rose. 
 
 ' "I fear, ma'am," she said, "I fear that at the first sight 
 of the broken vase I spoke unguardedly. I exclaimed that 
 without doubt Adolphus had thrown down the ornament on 
 purpose to annoy me, and that I wished so mean-spirited a youth 
 were not my brother. My little sister Celia was beside me at the 
 time — can she have carried to him what I said? I did not really 
 mean that; my words were but the momentary expression of 
 my vexation." 
 
 'Her mother gravely shook her head. 
 
 ' "It is your own doing altogether, Elizabetha," she said, 
 "and you cannot complain that your brother resents so unkind 
 and untrue a charge." 
 
 'Elizabeth burst into tears, but the harm was done, and 
 it was some time before Adolphus could forget the pain of 
 her unjust and hasty words. 
 
 'Another day her little brother Jacky had just with great 
 pains and care written out his task for the next morning, when, 
 having been called to supper, he found on his return to the 
 schoolroom his exercise book all blotted and disfigured. 
 
 ' "Who can have done this?" he cried in distress. 
 
 'Elizabetha Avas just entering the room. 
 
 ' "Oh," she exclaimed, "it is Sukey, the under-housemaid, 
 that you have to thank for that. I saw her coming out of the 
 room, and she had no reason to enter it. Out of curiosity she 
 has been looking at your books, and blotted your exercise." 
 
 'Jacky was but eight years old, full young for prudence or 
 reflection. Downstairs he flies, his face inflamed with anger, 
 and meeting the unfortunate Sukey at the door of the servants' 
 hall, upbraids her in no gentle terms for her impertinence. In 
 vain the poor girl defends herself, and denies Master Jacky's 
 
"CARROTS" 199 
 
 accusation; the other servants come to the rescue, and the whole 
 household is in an uproar, till suddenly Miss Elizabetha is named 
 as the source of the mischief. 
 
 ' "Ah," says the old housekeeper, "do not distress yourself, 
 Sukey; we all know what Miss Elizabetha's tongue is!" 
 
 'And thereupon the poor girl is freed from blame. She 
 had only gone to the schoolroom by the desire of an upper 
 servant to mend the fire, and the real offender was discovered 
 to have been the cat! 
 
 'This affair coming to the ears of Elizabetha's father, he 
 reproved her with great severity. Mortified and chagrined, she. as 
 usual, Avept bitterly, and ashamed to meet the cold looks of 
 the household, she hastened out into the garden and paced up 
 and down a shady walk, where she imagined herself quite hidden 
 from observation.' " 
 
 "Cis," interrupted Carrots at this point, "I don't under- 
 stand the story." 
 
 "I'm very sorry," said Cecil, "I didn't notice what a lot 
 of long words there are. Shall I leave off?" 
 
 "Z understand it," said Floss. 
 
 "Then read it for Floss, please, Cis," said Carrots. "I'll 
 be kite still." 
 
 "You're a good little boy," said Cecil; "I suppose I may 
 as well finish it as I have begun. We're coming to the fairy 
 part now. Perhaps you'll understand it better. Where was 
 I? Oh yes, 'imagined herself quite hidden from observation. 
 But in this she was mistaken, as my readers will see. 
 
 'She walked slowly up and down. "Oh my tongue, my 
 cruel tognue!" she exclaimed. "What trouble it is the cause of! 
 How can I cure myself of my rash speech?" 
 
 ' "Do you in all sincerity wish to cure yourself, Elizabetha?" 
 said a voice beside her; and turning in surprise at its sound, 
 the young girl perceived at a few steps' distance a fair and 
 sweet looking lady clad in silvery white, adorned with wreaths 
 of the loveliest flowers. 
 
200 STORIES BY MRS. MOLESWORTH 
 
 ' "Assuredly I do, gracious lady," replied Eliza'betha, mas- 
 tering as well as she was able her surprise, for she felt that 
 this beautiful lady must be a fairy of high degree. 
 
 ' "Then I will help you," said the lady, "but on one con- 
 dition, hereafter to be explained. You are content to agree to 
 this beforehand?" 
 
 ' "To anything, kind fairy," replied the young girl, "if only 
 my unhappy fault can be cured." 
 
 'The fairy smiled. "Hasty as ever," she murmured; "how- 
 ever, in this instance, you shall have no reason to regret your 
 words. Put out your tongue, Elizabetha." 
 
 'Trembling slightly, the young girl obeyed. But her fears 
 were uncalled for — the fairy merely touched the unruly member 
 with her wand and whispered some words, the meaning of which 
 Elizabetha could not understand. 
 
 ' "Meet me here one week hence," said the fairy, "till then 
 your tongue will obey my commands. And if you then feel 
 you have reason to feel grateful to me, I will call upon you to 
 redeem your promise." 
 
 'And before Elizabetha could reply, the lady had disap- 
 peared. 
 
 'Full of eagerness and curiosity, Elizabetha returned to the 
 house. It was growing dusk, and as she sped along the garden 
 paths something ran suddenly against her, causing her to trip 
 and fall. As she got up she perceived that it was Fido, the 
 dog of her brother Adolphus. The creature came bounding 
 up to her again, full of play and affection. But in her fall 
 Elizabetha had bruised herself; she felt angry and indignant. 
 
 ' "Get off with you, you clumsy wretch," she exclaimed, 
 or meant to exclaim. But to her amazement the words that 
 issued from her mouth were quite otherwise. 
 
 ' "Gently, gently, my poor Fido. Thou didst not mean 
 to knock me down, however," she said in a kind and caressing 
 tone, which the dog at once obeyed. 
 
"CARROTS" 201 
 
 'Hardly knowing whether she were awake or dreaming, 
 Elizabetha entered the house. She was met by her sister Maria. 
 
 ' "Where have you been, Elizabetha?" she inquired. "Your 
 friends the Misses Larkyn have been here, but no one could 
 find you, so they have gone." 
 
 'Elizabetha felt extremely annoyed. She had not seen her 
 friends for some weeks, and had much wished for a visit from 
 them. 
 
 ' "I think it was most ill-natured of none of you to look 
 for me in the garden. You might have known I was there 
 if you had cared to oblige me," were the words she intended 
 to say, but instead of which were heard the following: 
 
 ' "I thank you, my dear Maria. I am sorry to have missed 
 my friends, but it cannot be helped." 
 
 'And when Maria, pleased by her gentleness, went on to 
 tell her that, knowing that her disappointment would be great, 
 and as the Misses Larkyn had been too pressed for time to 
 linger, she had arranged to walk with Elizabetha the following 
 day to see them, how rejoiced was Elizabetha that her intended 
 words of unkindness had not been uttered ! "Kind fairy, I thank 
 thee!" she whispered to herself. 
 
 'The following day the same state of things continued. 
 Many times before its close did Elizabetha's hasty temper en- 
 deavour to express itself in rash speech, but each time the tongue 
 remained faithful to its new mistress. Whenever Elizabetha 
 attempted to speak hastily, the words that issued from her 
 lips were exactly the opposite of those she had intended to utter; 
 and as her real disposition was amiable and good, not once did 
 she regret the metamorphosis. 
 
 'Her parents, her brothers and sisters, and even the servants 
 of the family, were amazed and delighted at the change. 
 
 ' "Go on as thou hast begun, my child," said her father, 
 on the morning of the day on which Elizabetha was again to 
 
202 STORIES BY MRS. MOLESWORTH 
 
 meet the fairy, "and soon the name of Elizabetha will be asso- 
 ciated with gentleness and discretion in speech as in deed." 
 
 'Elizabetha blushed. She would have liked to confess that 
 the credit of the improvement was not her own; but a moment's 
 reflection reminded her that she had not received permission to 
 divulge the secret, and kissing affectionately her father's hand, 
 she thanked him for his encouragement. 
 
 'At the appointed hour she was on the spot, awaiting the 
 fairy, who soon appeared. A benignant smile overspread her 
 features. 
 
 ' "Well, Elizabetha," she said, "and hast thou found that I 
 have deserved thy gratitude?" 
 
 ' "Kind fairy," cried the young girl, "I cannot thank thee 
 enough. Ask of me what thou wilt, I shall be only too ready 
 to perform it." 
 
 'The fairy smiled. "My condition is a very simple one," 
 she said. "It is only this. Whenever, Elizabetha, you feel your- 
 self in the least degree discomposed or out of temper, utter no 
 word till you have mentally counted the magic number seven. 
 And if you follow this rule, it will be but seldom that your 
 tongue, of which I now restore to you the full control" (she 
 touched it again with her wand as she spoke) "will lead you into 
 trouble. Your disposition, though generous, is naturally hasty 
 and impulsive, and till by a long course of self-restraint you 
 have acquired complete mastery over yourself, you will find 
 that I was right in my experiment of obliging your tongue to 
 utter the exact opposite of what you, in your first haste, would 
 have expressed." 
 
 'And before Elizabetha could reply, she had disappeared. 
 
 'But Elizabetha kept her promise, and to thus following 
 her fairy friend's advice she owes it that she is now the object 
 of universal esteem and affection, instead of being hated, de- 
 spised, and feared as the owner of "a hasty tongue." ' " 
 
 Cecil stopped. 
 
"CARROTS" 208 
 
 "Is that all?" said Carrots. 
 
 "Yes, that's all. Did you like it?" 
 
 "I did understand better about the fairy," Carrots replied. 
 "I think she was a werry good fairy; don't you, Floss?" 
 
 "Very" said Floss. "I think," she went on, "whenever I 
 am cross, I shall fancy my tongue is bewitched, just to see if 
 it would be best to say the opposite of what I was going to say. 
 Wouldn't it be fun?" 
 
 "Better than fun, perhaps, Miss Flossie," said nurse. "I 
 think it would be a very good thing if big people, too, were 
 sometimes to follow the fairy's rule." 
 
 "People as big as you, nursie?" asked Carrots. 
 
 "Oh, yes, my dear," said nurse. "It's a lesson we're all 
 slow to learn, and many haven't learnt it by the end of their 
 threescore years and ten — 'to be slow to anger,' and to keep our 
 tongues from evil." 
 
 "That's out of the Bible, nursie, all of it," said Floss, as 
 if not altogether sure that she approved of the quotation. 
 
 Cecil laughed. 
 
 "What are you laughing at, Cis?" said Floss. "It is out of 
 the Bible." 
 
 "Well, no one said it wasn't," said Cecil. 
 
 "Cis," said Carrots, "will you read us another story, another 
 day?" 
 
 "If I can find one that you can understand," said Cecil. 
 
 "Never mind if I can't," replied Carrots. "I like to hear 
 you reading, even if I can't understand. I like your voice. I 
 think," he added after a pause, "I think, Cis, I'll marry you too, 
 when I'm big. You and Floss, and nurse." 
 
 So Cecil had good reason to feel that she vr&s greatly 
 appreciated in the nursery. 
 
204 STORIES BY MRS. MOLESWORTH 
 
 CHAPTER IX 
 
 SYBIL 
 
 "The children crowned themselves with wishes, 
 And every wish came true." 
 
 Crowns for Children. 
 
 But it is not always, or even often, that wishes "come 
 true," is it children? Or if they do come true, it is in a different 
 way; so different that they hardly seem the same. Like the 
 little old woman in the ballad, who turned herself about and 
 wondered and puzzled, but couldn't make out if she was herself 
 or not, we stare at our fulfilled wishes and examine them on 
 every side but in their altered dress — so different from, and, 
 very seldom, if ever, as pretty as that which they wore in our 
 imagination — we cannot believe that they are themselves! 
 
 Do you remember the fancies that Carrots and Floss used to 
 have about their cousin Sybil, and how they wished for her to 
 come to see them? Well, about a fortnight after the affair of 
 the lost half-sovereign, Sybil actually did come to see them! 
 She and her mamma. But it all happened quite differently 
 from the way the children had planned it, so that just at first 
 they could hardly believe it was "a wish come true," though 
 afterwards, when it was over, and they began to look back to it 
 as a real thing instead of forward to it as a fancy, they grew 
 to think it had really turned out nicer than any of their fancies. 
 
 You would like to hear all about it, I dare say. 
 
 It took them all by surprise — this sudden visit of Sybil and 
 her mother, I mean. There was no time for planning or ar- 
 ranging anything. There just came a telegram one afternoon, 
 to say that Mrs. — no, I don't think I will tell you the name of 
 Sybil's mother, I want you just to think of her as "auntie" — 
 and her little girl would arrive at Sandyshore, late that same 
 evening, "to stay one day," said the telegram, on their way to 
 some other Dlace. it does not matter where. 
 
"CARROTS" 205 
 
 It was several years since Captain Desart had seen his sister 
 — that is, "auntie." He had been abroad at the time of her 
 marriage, for she was a good many years younger than he, and 
 since then, she and her husband had been a great deal out of 
 England. But now at last they were going to have a settled 
 home, and though it was a good way from Sandyshore, still it 
 was not like being in another country. 
 
 "I am sorry Florence can only stay one day," said Mrs. 
 Desart to her husband; "it seems hardly worth while for her 
 to come so far out of her way for so short a time." 
 
 "I am sorry too," said Captain Desart; "but a day's better 
 than nothing." 
 
 Floss and Carrots were sorry too — but what they were 
 most sorry for was not that Sybil and her mamma were only 
 going to stay there one day, it was that they would not arrive till 
 after the children's bedtime! So much after that there could not 
 even be a question of their "sitting up till they come." There 
 was even a doubt of Cecil and Louise doing so, and Floss could 
 not help feeling rather pleased at Mott's getting a decided snub 
 from his father when he broached the subject on his own account. 
 
 "Sit up till after ten o'clock — nonsense. Nobody wants 
 you. Go to bed as usual, of course," said Captain Desart. 
 
 "How tired that poor little girl will be!" said Mrs. Desart 
 pityingly. "Children, you must all be quiet in the morning so 
 as not to wake her early. And you must be very gentle and 
 kind to her, for you know she is not accustomed to companions."" 
 
 "Yes, mamma," said Floss and Carrots promptly. Mott 
 said nothing, for, of course, the speech could not have been 
 addressed to Mm. Mr. Maurice Desart, nearly thirteen years 
 old, could not be supposed to be a companion to a mite of a 
 girl of six. 
 
 "It won't be difficult to be quiet to-morrow morning," said 
 Floss to Carrots, "for I expect I shall be very sleepy, as I have 
 
206 STORIES BY MRS. MOLES WORTH 
 
 quite made up my mind to stay awake to-night, till I hear them 
 come." 
 
 It was then eight o'clock, and Floss was going to bed. 
 Carrots had been in bed nearly an hour, but was not yet asleep. 
 He soon dropped off, however, and how long do you think Floss 
 kept awake? Till twenty-three minutes past eight, or not so 
 late probably, for that was the time by the nursery clock, when 
 nurse came in to see that her charges were tucked up for the 
 night, and found them both fast asleep! 
 
 They were in a state of great expectation the next morning 
 when they were being dressed, but they remembered their prom- 
 ise and were very quiet. 
 
 "When shall we see Sybil?" asked Carrots; "Will she have 
 breakfast in the nursery?" 
 
 "Of course not," said Floss, "she won't be up for ever so 
 Jong. I dare say." 
 
 "Poor little thing, she must be very tired," said nurse. 
 
 "Did you see her last night?" asked Floss eagerly. 
 
 Nurse shook her head. "It was past ten when they ar- 
 rived," she said, "the little lady was put to bed at once, your 
 mamma and sisters only saw her for a minute." 
 
 So Floss and Carrots ate their bread and milk in undimin- 
 ished curiosity. Not long afterwards the bell rang for prayers 
 in the dining-room as usual, and the two, hand in hand, went in 
 to take their places among the others. 
 
 They were rather late, Captain Desart had the Prayer 
 Book and Bible open before him, and was looking impatient, 
 so Floss and Carrots sat down on their little chairs and left 
 "good-mornings" till after prayers. There was a strange lady 
 beside their mother, and, yes, beside the strange lady a strange 
 little girl! Was that Sybil? Where was the fair-haired, blue- 
 eyed, waxen, doll-like Sybil, they had expected to see? 
 
 What they did see was worth looking at, however. It was 
 a very pretty Sybil after all. Small and dark, dark-eyed, dark- 
 
"CARROTS" 207 
 
 haired, and browny-red as to complexion. Sybil was more like 
 a gipsy than an angel as they had fancied her. She had very 
 pretty, very bright, noticing eyes and she was pretty altogether. 
 She was dressed in black velvet with a bright crimson sash, 
 and her hair was tied with crimson ribbon; her neat little legs 
 were clothed in black silk stockings, and there were buckles on 
 her tiny shoes. 
 
 Floss and Carrots hardly, dared to stare at her, for her eyes 
 seemed to be noticing them all over, and when prayers were fin- 
 ished, and their mamma called them to come to speak to their 
 aunt and cousin, do you know they actually both felt quite shy 
 of Sybil, small as she was? More shy of her than of their aunt, 
 somehow; she seemed more like what they had expected, or, 
 perhaps, the truth was they had "expected" much less about her. 
 Besides no children ever were shy with auntie, such a thing would 
 have been impossible. 
 
 They kissed Sybil, Floss feeling very tall and lanky beside 
 her compact tiny cousin, and Carrots feeling I don't know 
 how. He just looked at Sybil with his soft wondering brown 
 eyes, in such a solemn way that at last she burst out laughing. 
 
 "What a funny boy you are!" she exclaimed. "Mother 
 dear, isn't he a funny boy?" 
 
 "Aren't you very tired, Sybil?" said Floss, afraid that she 
 would be laughed at as "a funny girl," next. 
 
 "No, thank you," said Sybil, quite grave, and like a grown- 
 up person, all in a minute. "I'm becustorned to travelling. I'm 
 not tired at all, but I'll tell you what I am — I'm," and out 
 broke her merry laugh again, "I'm very hungry." 
 
 "That's a broad hint," said Captain Desart, laughing too. 
 'Florence, your daughter is ready for breakfast, do you hear? 
 Where will you sit, Miss Sybil? Besides your old uncle, eh?" 
 
 "Yes, thank you," replied Sybil, "if you won't call me 
 Miss Sybil, please. And may this little boy sit 'aside me?" 
 
 "This little boy and this little girl have had their breakfast," 
 
208 STORIES BY MRS. MOLESWORTH 
 
 said Mrs. Desart. "Run off, Carrots and Floss, you are both 
 to have a whole holiday you know, so Sybil will see plenty of 
 you." 
 
 "I wish they could see more of each other," said auntie, as 
 the children left the room. "Sometime you must let them 
 both come and pay us a long visit, when we are really settled 
 you know." 
 
 Auntie gave a little sigh as she said this — she felt so tender 
 and kind to Carrots and Floss, and something made her a little 
 sorry for them. Though they were healthy, happy-looking chil- 
 dren, and their dress was neat and cared for, they did not look 
 like her Sybil, whose clothes were always like those of a little 
 princess. Floss's frock was rather faded-looking, and there was 
 a mark where it had been let down, and Carrots' brown holland 
 blouse had arrived at a very whitey-brown shade, through much 
 wear and washing. 
 
 "It must be hard work with so many children, and such 
 small means," she thought to herself, for auntie had been married 
 young to a rich man, and knew little of "making both ends 
 meet"; but aloud she only said, "how lovely little Fabian would 
 look in black velvet, Lucy! What a complexion he has!" 
 
 "Yes, if you can forgive him his hair," said Mrs. Desart. 
 
 "I think his hair is beautiful," observed Sybil and then went 
 on eating her breakfast. 
 
 They all laughed, but there was still a little sigh at the 
 bottom of auntie's heart. There was reason for it greater than 
 the sight of her little nephew's and niece's shabby clothes. 
 
 But there was no sigh in the hearts of Floss and Carrots. 
 
 "Carrots," said Floss, as they made their way to the nursery 
 to decide which of their small collection of toys were fit for 
 Sybil's inspection, "Carrots, did you hear?" 
 
 "What auntie said?" asked Carrots. "Yes, I heard. Do 
 you think mamma will ever let us go?" 
 
 "Some day, perhaps," said Floss, and oh, what dreams and 
 
"CARROTS" 209 
 
 plans and fancies hung on that "perhaps"! "Fancy, Carrots, 
 we should go in the railway, you and me, Carrots, alone perhaps." 
 
 "Oh, Floss!" said Carrots, his feelings being beyond further 
 expression. 
 
 That "some day" was a good way off, however, but "to-day" 
 was here, and a nice bright-looking to-day it was. How happy 
 they were! How happy Sybil was! 
 
 For, somehow, though she was dressed like a princess, 
 though since babyhood she had had everything a child could wish 
 for, though very often, I must confess, she had had "her own 
 way," a good deal more than would have been good for most 
 children, little Sybil was not spoilt. The spoiling dropped off 
 her like water down a duck's back, and auntie never found out 
 it had been there at all! Perhaps after all there is a kind of 
 spoiling that isn't spoiling — love and kindness, and even in- 
 dulgence, do not spoil when there is perfect trust and openness, 
 and when a child at the same time is taught the one great lesson, 
 that the best happiness is trying to make others happy too. 
 
 They played on the sands nearly all day, and Sybil, to her 
 great delight, was covered up from damage by one of Carrots' 
 blouses. The sun came out bright and warm, and they built 
 the most lovely sand house you ever saw. 
 
 "I'd like to live in it always," said Carrots. 
 
 "Oh, you funny boy," said Sybil patronisingly, "and what 
 would you do at night, when it got cold, and perhaps the sea 
 would come in." 
 
 "Perhaps the mermaids would take care of him till the 
 morning," said Floss. 
 
 "What are the mermaids?" asked Sybil. 
 
 "Pretty ladies," said Carrots, "who live at the bottom of 
 the sea, only they've got tails." 
 
 "Then they can't be pretty," said Sybil decidedly, "not un- 
 less their tails are beautiful and sweeping out, like peacocks! 
 Are they? — One day I tied a shawl of mother's on, it was a red 
 
210 STORIES BY MRS. MOLESWORTH 
 
 and gold shawl, and I sweeped it about just like a peacock, — 
 that mould be pretty." 
 
 "I don't think mermaids' tails are like that," said Carrots, 
 doubtfully, "but they are pretty ladies, aren't they, Floss?" 
 
 "Beautiful," said Floss, "but they're very sad. They come 
 up to the shore at night and comb their hair and cry dreadfully." 
 
 "What do they cry for?" asked Sybil and Carrots, pressing 
 up to Floss, and forgetting all about the lovely sand house. 
 
 "Because they — no, you couldn't understand," she broke 
 off; "it is no good telling you." 
 
 "Oh, do tell," said the children. 
 
 "Well," said Floss, "I read in a book of Cecil's, they cry be- 
 cause they haven't got any souls. When they die they can't go to 
 heaven, you see." 
 
 Sybil and Carrots looked very solemn at this. Then a 
 sudden thought struck Carrots. 
 
 "How can they cry if they haven't got souls, Floss?" he 
 said, "Nurse says it's our souls that make us glad and sorry. 
 Are you sure the poor mermaids haven't got souls?" 
 
 "I'm only telling you what I read in a book," said Floss. 
 "I dare say it's all a sort of fairy tale. Don't you like fairy 
 tales, Sybil?" 
 
 "No," said Sybil, "I like stories of naughty boys and girls 
 best — very naughty boys and girls." 
 
 "Oh, Sybil!" said Carrots, "I don't, because they are always 
 unhappy in the end." 
 
 "No, they're not. Sometimes they all get good. Mother 
 always makes them get good at the end," replied Sybil. 
 
 "Does auntie tell you stories?" said Floss. 
 
 "Yes, of course, for I can't read them to myself yet. I'm 
 learning, but it is so hard," said Sybil dolefully. 
 
 "I wish auntie would tell us stories." 
 
 "P'raps she will when you come to my house," said Sybil, 
 encouragingly. "Would you think that a treat?" 
 
"CARROTS" 211 
 
 "It would be a 'normous treat." 
 
 "We're going to have a treat to-day," said Floss. "We're 
 going to have tea in the dining-room with you, Sybil, and auntie 
 and everybody, and I think it's time to go in now, because we 
 must change our frocks." 
 
 Carrots had never had tea in the dining-room before, and 
 felt a little overpowered by the honour. He sat very still, and 
 took whatever was offered to him, as nurse had taught him. Cecil 
 poured out the tea, and to please the children she put an extra 
 allowance of sugar into their cups. Carrots tasted his, and was 
 just thinking how very nice it was, when it flashed across his 
 mind that he should not have had any sugar. He put down 
 his cup and looked round him in great perplexity. If only he 
 could ask Floss. But Floss was at the other side of the table, 
 she seemed to be drinking her tea without any misgiving. Wasn't 
 it naughty? Could she have forgotten? Carrots grew more 
 and more unhappy; the tears filled his eyes, and his face got 
 scarlet. 
 
 "What's the matter, dear?" said auntie, who was sitting next 
 him, "Is your tea too hot? Has it scalded your poor little 
 mouth?" 
 
 She said it in a low voice. She was so kind and "under- 
 standing," she knew Carrots would not have liked everybody 
 round the table to begin noticing him, and as she looked at him 
 more closely, she saw that the tears in his eyes were those of 
 distress, not of "scalding." 
 
 "No, thank you," said Carrots, looking up in auntie's face 
 in his perplexity; "it isn't that. My tea is werry good, but it's 
 got sugar in." 
 
 "And you don't like sugar? Poor old man! Never mind, 
 Cecil will give you another cup. You're not like Sybil in your 
 tastes," said auntie, kindly, and she turned to ask Cecil for 
 some sugarless tea for her little brother. 
 
 "No, no, auntie. Oh, please don't," whispered Carrots, his 
 
212 STORIES BY MRS. MOLESWORTH 
 
 trouble increasing, and pulling hard at his aunt's sleeve as he 
 spoke, "I do like sugar werry much — it isn't that. But mamma 
 said I was never, never to take nucken that wasn't mine, and 
 sugar won't be mine for two weeks more, nurse says." 
 
 Auntie stared at her little nephew in blank bewilderment. 
 What did he mean? Even her quick wits were quite at fault. 
 
 "What do you mean, my dear little boy?" she said. 
 
 Suddenly a new complication struck poor Carrots. 
 
 "Oh!" he exclaimed, "it's a secret, it's a secret, and I'm tell- 
 ing it," and he burst into tears. 
 
 It was impossible now to hide his trouble. Everybody began 
 to cross-question him. 
 
 "Cry-baby," muttered Maurice, and even Mrs. Desart said, 
 "Carrots, I wonder at your behaving so when your aunt and 
 cousin are here. Floss, do you know what is the matter with 
 him?" 
 
 "No, mamma," said Floss, looking as she always did when 
 Carrots was in distress, ready to cry herself. 
 
 "Carrots," said Captain Desart, sharply, "go to the nursery 
 till you learn to behave properly." 
 
 Carrots got slowly down off his high chair, and crept away. 
 But everybody looked troubled and uncomfortable. 
 
 Auntie hated to see people looking troubled and uncom- 
 fortable. She thought a minute, and then she turned to Mrs. 
 Desart. 
 
 "Lucy," she said, "will you let me try what I can do with 
 the poor little fellow? I am sure it was not naughtiness made 
 him cry." 
 
 And almost before Mrs. Desart could reply, auntie was 
 off to the nursery in search of Carrots. 
 
 He had left off crying, and was sitting quietly by the win- 
 dow, looking out at his old friend the sea. 
 
 "What are you thinking about, my poor old man?" said 
 auntie, fondly. 
 
"CARROTS" 213 
 
 Carrots looked up at her. "I like you to call me that," 
 he said. "I was thinking about our hoops and what a long time 
 four weeks is." 
 
 "Has that to do with you having no sugar?" asked auntie. 
 
 "Yes," said Carrots. "How did you guess? You're like 
 a fairy, auntie." But then his face grew troubled again. "I 
 forgot," he went on, "it's a secret. It's Floss's secret too. I 
 would so like to tell you, for I don't know what to do. I don't 
 mind having no tea, but they all thought I was naughty." 
 
 "Wait a minute," said auntie. She hurried out of the room, 
 but was back in a minute. 
 
 "I've asked Floss," she said, "and she gives you leave to 
 tell me. So now, perhaps, when I know all about it, I can tell 
 you what to do." 
 
 The telling did not take Carrots long; he was so glad to 
 show auntie he had not meant to be naughty. Auntie listened 
 quite gravely, and when he had finished she said she thought he 
 was quite right not to take any sugar. 
 
 "But do you think Floss did?" said Carrots, anxiously. 
 
 "Perhaps having tea in the dining-room made her forget," 
 said auntie. "We'll ask her afterwards, and if she did forget, 
 I'll tell you what she must do. She must go without one day 
 longer than you. Now come along with me, and I'll make it 
 all right, you'll see." 
 
 When they got back to the dining-room auntie quietly lifted 
 Carrots onto his chair again, and said to his mamma with a 
 smile, "It was all a mistake; I thought it was; Carrots was not 
 naughty at all, and he is quite happy again now." 
 
 And Mrs. Desart smiled too, so Carrots really did feel 
 happy again. But he wondered what auntie would do about the 
 tea, which was still standing there as he had left it, and it would 
 be wrong to "waste" it, thought Carrots. 
 
 Sybil was sitting on auntie's other side, and auntie glancing 
 
214 STORIES BY MRS. MOLESWORTH 
 
 at her cup saw that it was empty. So auntie quietly put Carrots' 
 cup before Sybil and gave Carrots the empty one. 
 
 "Cecil," she said, "will you give Carrots some tea without 
 any sugar?" 
 
 Cecil saw that auntie had some reason for asking this, so 
 she gave Carrots the tea as auntie said, and Carrots drank it 
 and ate his bread and butter and a piece of cake, with great 
 content. 
 
 The only person who did not seem quite contented was 
 Sybil. 
 
 "Mother," she whispered, "I don't like having Carrots' tea. 
 It's quite cold." 
 
 But as Carrots didn't hear it, it didn't much matter. For 
 you see, Sybil had had one cup of nice hot tea, so she was not 
 so badly off after all. 
 
 And, alas! the very next morning auntie and Sybil had to 
 go away. And the long-talked-of and fancied-a'bout visit was 
 over. 
 
 CHAPTER X 
 
 A JOURNEY AND ITS ENDING 
 
 "The way was long, the wind was cold." 
 
 Soon after auntie's visit summer really began to come. It 
 was very pleasant while it lasted, but this year it was a very 
 short summer, and the winter that came after was a very severe 
 one, and made many people ill. It did not make Carrots ill, nor 
 Floss, nor any of the Desart children, for they were all strong, 
 but it was very bad for their mother. As the winter went on, she 
 seemed to get weaker and weaker; there were very few days on 
 which she could go out, and if the spring had not been an early 
 and very mild one I hardly think her strength would have lasted. 
 
 But with the finer weather she seemed to get better again. 
 
"CARROTS" 215 
 
 The children were of course very glad, but still they had not 
 felt frightened by her illness. It had come on so slowly and 
 gradually that they had got accustomed to it, as children do. 
 They thought it was just the cold wintry weather that had 
 made her ill, and that when the spring came she would get 
 better. And when the spring came and she did get better, they 
 were perfectly satisfied and happy. 
 
 By the end of this summer Carrots Avas seven years old — 
 no longer in the least a baby, though he was not tall for his 
 age. He could read, of course, perfectly, and write a little. 
 Now and then he wrote little letters to Sybil in answer to hers, 
 for she was very particular about getting answers. She was 
 only just beginning to leam to write, and sometimes when she 
 got tired of working away at real "A's" and "B's" and "C's" 
 in her letters, she would dash off into a lot of "scribble," which 
 she said was "children's writing," and "if Carrots didn't know 
 what it meant he must be very stupid, as he was a child too." 
 
 Carrots didn't know what it meant, but he never liked to 
 say so, and I dare say it did not much matter. But his letters 
 to Sybil were quite real. Any one could have understood them. 
 
 Long ago Floss and he had bought their hoops. They 
 were quite "old friends" now. They had bought them at the 
 toy-shop, just as they had planned, and, curiously enough when 
 their mamma and nurse counted up how much was owing to 
 them for the sugar, it came to exactly the price of the hoops. 
 
 But I must tell you what happened just about the time 
 Carrots had his seventh birthday. The summer was nearly 
 over again, and already the cold winds, of which there were 
 so many at Sandyshore, were beginning to be felt. Floss noticed 
 that her mother very seldom went out now, and even in the house 
 she generally had to wrap herself up in a shawl. 
 
 "Mamma, I hope the cold weather isn't going to make you 
 ill again?" Floss said, one day When she and Carrots came in 
 from a race on the sands, all hot and rosy with running. 
 
216 STORIES BY MRS. MOLESWORTH 
 
 "I don't know, dear," said her mother with a little sigh. 
 
 "I wish you could run about like us. That would make 
 you so hot," said Carrots. 
 
 Mrs. Desart smiled. Just then her glance happened to 
 fall on Floss's boots. "My dear child," she said, "those boots are 
 really not fit to go out with. There's a great hole at the side 
 of one of them." 
 
 "I know, mamma," said Floss, "but they're going to be 
 mended. Nurse thinks they'll do a good while longer, if they're 
 mended. I hope they will, for I know you always have so 
 many new things to get when winter begins to come — haven't 
 you, mamma?" 
 
 Mrs. Desart sighed again. 
 
 "I should have liked all your things to be so nice," she said, 
 more as if speaking to herself than to Floss, "but it can't be 
 helped." 
 
 Something in her tone caught Floss's attention. 
 
 "Why, mamma," she asked, "why did you want our things 
 to be so nice?" 
 
 "Because, dears, you may be going away from home," re- 
 plied Mrs. Desart. 
 
 Floss and Carrots stared with astonishment. "Going away 
 from home," Floss repeated, utterly unable to say more. Car- 
 rots could say nothing at all, he could only stare. 
 
 "Yes," continued Mrs. Desart, "I had meant to tell you 
 
 all about it before, but I have kept putting it off " she 
 
 stopped and seemed to hesitate. 
 
 "Why, mamma?" said Floss again. "Don't you like us to 
 go? Are you coming with us, mamma?" 
 
 "Are we going to auntie's?" said Carrots. 
 
 His asking this seemed to please his mother. 
 
 "You would like to go to auntie's, wouldn't you, Carrots?" 
 she said* 
 
"CARROTS" 217 
 
 Carrots stroked his mother's shawl up and down two or 
 three times before he answered. 
 
 "I'd like to go if you would come too," he said at last, "but 
 I think I would rather stay at home, thank you, if you can't 
 come." 
 
 Mrs. Desart's eyes filled with tears. "Poor little Carrots!" 
 she said, softly smoothing his curls with her hand. "But if it 
 would please me for Floss and you to go without me?" she said. 
 
 "I'll go if you want me to go, mamma," said Carrots. 
 
 "I must explain a little," said Mrs. Desart, and then she 
 went on to tell the children how it was. The doctor had said 
 she must not risk another winter at Sandyshore, and it had been 
 arranged for her to go to a warmer climate. Cecil and Louise 
 were to go with her; Captain Desart would be with them as 
 much as he possibly could, and Maurice was to live at school. 
 And what concerned the two little ones almost more than any- 
 thing, nurse was to go too! "I must have some one kind and 
 
 sensible with me, in case, in case " and again Mrs. Desart 
 
 hesitated. 
 
 "In case you were very tired with travelling, or if you were 
 to get a bad cold again; somebody who could make nice white 
 wine whey and things like that," said Floss, who was of a prac- 
 tical turn of mind, "oh yes, mamma, I quite understand." 
 
 "Though nurse is getting old, she has been so much accus- 
 tomed to travelling, too," said Mrs. Desart, "and we are going 
 a long way — to Algeria; Floss, do you know where that is?" 
 
 "Over the sea!" said Floss, "I wish we might come too, 
 mamma, Carrots and I," she exclaimed. "You will be so far 
 away." 
 
 "But you will be with auntie, and you know how kind auntie 
 is," said her mother, forcing herself to speak cheerfully. "And 
 it is such a pretty place where auntie lives." 
 
 "Is the sea there?" said Carrots. 
 
 "No, but the hills are," answered Mrs. Desart with a smile. 
 
218 STORIES BY MRS. MOLESWORTH 
 
 "I am quite sure you will like it." And she went on to tell 
 them so much about auntie's pretty home that for a little they 
 almost forgot everything but the pleasant part of the change 
 that was to come so soon. 
 
 And it did come very soon. It seemed but a few days 
 from the afternoon they had first heard about it all, when Floss 
 and Carrots found themselves early one morning at the little 
 railway station with their father, waiting for the train. 
 
 Captain Desart was to travel with them for the first hour, 
 to take them to the "junction" where they were to change and 
 get into a train which would take them straight to Whitefriars, 
 near which was auntie's house. 
 
 You will laugh, children, I dare say, and think Floss and 
 Carrots very countrified and ignorant when I tell you that they 
 had never been a long railway journey before. Never, that is 
 to say, that they could remember — for their parents had come 
 to Sandyshore when Floss was a baby, and Carrots, as you 
 know, had been born there. 
 
 So you can hardly fancy what a wonderful event this jour- 
 ney was to them. 
 
 Their little hearts were very full at first after parting with 
 their mother, and sisters, and nurse, and all that made the Cove 
 House home to them. 
 
 And their mamma had kissed them so many times, as if she 
 could not really say good-bye, though she was not generally a 
 very petting or kissing mamma, but rather quiet and grave. 
 
 And nurse had the tears in her eyes, and Louise had them 
 pouring down her face, and Cecil had her face squeezed up in 
 a sort of way that Floss knew meant she was determined she 
 would not cry. Floss felt troubled in a way she could not under- 
 stand, and I think Carrots did too. They had a feeling that 
 the bigger people knew of more reason for sorrow than had 
 been told to them, and yet they could not imagine what it could 
 be. And after all, to them the parting for even four or five 
 
'CARROTS" 219 
 
 months was almost as great a trouble as they could understand, 
 only, they were going to "auntie's"! 
 
 "And we will try to be so good, dear mamma," said Floss, 
 bravely choking down her tears. "We will try to get on with 
 
 our lessons, too, and write you nice letters. And — and " 
 
 here a sob or two would make its way, "I can't help crying a 
 little; but I'm sure we shall be very happy, won't we, Carrots?" 
 
 "If mamma wants us to be happy, we'll try, won't we. 
 Floss?" said Carrots. He wiped the tears on his mother's cheeks 
 with his own little pocket-handkerchief and looked up in her face 
 piteously. "Please don't cry, poor mamma," he said; "we will 
 be good and happy." 
 
 Then their father came in and hurried them off, and the 
 farewells were over — that part of them, at least, for the saying 
 good-bye to Captain Desart at the junction was rather hard too. 
 
 And at last Floss and Carrots find themselves at the height 
 of their ambition — alone in a railway carriage travelling to 
 auntie's! But they do not seem so delighted as they used to 
 fancy they would; they do not jump about and laugh and chatter 
 in their overflowing pleasure — they sit quite still, side by side, 
 holding each other's hands and with little quiet, grave faces. 
 
 "Things never come the same as people fancy," said Floss 
 at last. "We never thought we should go to auntie's because 
 poor mamma was ill, did we, Carrots?" 
 
 "No, we never did," said Carrots. "But mamma will soon 
 get better, won't she, Floss, at that nice warm place?" 
 
 "Oh, yes, of course she will," said Floss. "But it's a long 
 way away, Carrots, and I never thought going to auntie's would 
 be like this." 
 
 "No," agreed Carrots again, "we never did." 
 
 "I'm so sorry to leave them all, aren't you, Carrots?" said 
 Floss, her voice trembling a little. 
 
 "Yes," said Carrots; "and, Floss, I'm very sorry, too, to 
 leave the sea. I never left the sea before, you know." 
 
220 STORIES BY MRS. MOLESWORTH 
 
 "But the sea won't miss you," said Floss, "and poor mamma 
 and nursie and all of them will miss us. That's what I keep 
 thinking of." 
 
 "When should we eat our dinner, Floss?" said Carrots, 
 with an instinct that it would he as well to change the subject. 
 
 "Not just yet. When we've gone about half-way would 
 do; and papa said that great big place, Millingham, would be 
 about half-way." 
 
 "But if there were any other people to get into the car- 
 riage?" said Carrots. 
 
 "Well, it wouldn't matter," said Floss. "People must eat 
 when they are travelling." 
 
 "But wouldn't we have to ask them to have some too?" 
 suggested Carrots. 
 
 "I don't know," said Floss; "I never thought of that. Per- 
 haps it would be polite. But there are only eight sandwiches, 
 Carrots; eight sandwiches and four sponge cakes and a packet 
 of Albert biscuits. I hope a great many people won't get in." 
 
 No one got in at the next station. Only the guard put his 
 head in at the door, as Captain Desart had asked him to do, to 
 see how the little pair were getting on. Carrots had thoughts of 
 offering him a sandwich, but he disappeared before there was 
 time to do so, which Floss thought very fortunate when she 
 heard of Carrots' intention. "For you see," she said, "if we 
 began offering them to him, we would have to do it at every 
 station, and if there are eight stations before Whitefriars, all our 
 sandwiches would be gone." 
 
 "He might have a biscuit for a change," said Carrots, sub- 
 missive, but scarcely convinced. "He is a nice man. Floss — he 
 calls us 'Well, sir,' and 'Miss.' Do you think papa told him to 
 say 'Well, sir,' and 'Miss'?" 
 
 But before Floss had time to answer they had stopped 
 again, and this time some one did get into their carriage. The 
 newcomer was a small neat, oldish ladv. She looked rather 
 
"CARROTS" 221 
 
 grim at first, but after a while she grew decidedly friendly, and 
 no wonder; for at Millingham, Floss and Carrots unpacked their 
 little basket of provisions, and I don't think the grimmest of 
 maiden ladies could have remained grim after the politeness with 
 which the children treated her. 
 
 They selected the nicest-looking sandwich, putting it on an 
 Albert biscuit by way of a plate, and then, at a sign from Floss, 
 Carrots clambered down from his seat and gravely offered it to 
 the lady. 
 
 "I'm sorry there's no mustard, if you like mustard," said 
 Floss; "but Carrots and I don't like it, and — and — I suppose 
 nurse didn't think of any one else." 
 
 The oldish lady looked at the children for a moment before 
 she replied. 
 
 "I am very much obliged to you," she said at last, "but I 
 think I won't take a sandwich, as I had luncheon before I left 
 home. But if you will allow me I will have a biscuit. I am 
 very fond of biscuits." 
 
 "I'm so glad," said Floss, hospitably. "Now, Carrots," she 
 said in a lower voice, "you eat two sandwiches and I'll eat two, 
 and we'll each have one sponge cake. And that'll do for dinner. 
 We'll eat the rest in about an hour and pretend we're having 
 tea early." 
 
 The lady asked them a good many questions after this, and 
 told them they were such well-behaved children she would not 
 mind travelling all the way to Whitefriars with them. Floss 
 blushed a little at this; it made her feel shy to be praised to her 
 face, but still no doubt the lady meant it kindly, and they were 
 rather sorry when she left them, some stations before they got 
 to Whitefriars. Their old friend the guard left them here, too, 
 but he popped his head in for the last time to say that he was 
 going to speak for them to "him that was coming on now." And 
 Floss thanked him, though she had not the least idea what he 
 meant. 
 
222 STORIES BY MRS. MOLESWORTH 
 
 But there must have been some mistake about it, for the new 
 guard never came near them, and when, at the last stoppage 
 before Whitefriars, another man threw the door open and de- 
 manded "tickets," Floss felt too startled by his rough manner to 
 ask him what they were longing to know, how far they still had 
 to go. But he took away the tickets. "So we can't have very far 
 to go," said Floss. "Papa said they would take away the tickets 
 a little before we got to Whitefriars." 
 
 "Will auntie be at the station?" said Carrots. 
 
 "Yes, I'm sure she will," said Floss. "Auntie and Sybil 
 too, perhaps. Carrots, I do believe we're there; the train's 
 stopping." 
 
 And in another minute they found themselves in a nice 
 clean-looking station with several people standing about on the 
 platform, evidently waiting for the train. 
 
 The children looked out eagerly. There were two or three 
 ladies, one little girl, and a few other people — but no auntie, no 
 Sybil! 
 
 "P'raps this isn't the place," said carrots. 
 
 "Please, is this Whitefriars?" inquired Floss of a porter who 
 just then threw open the door. 
 
 "Whitefriars, yes, miss. Any luggage?" 
 
 "Oh, yes," said Floss anxiously, "a great deal. It's in one 
 of the luggage carriages, and it's marked with our name." 
 
 The man smiled. "Will you come with me, missie, and show 
 me which it is, and I'll get it all right for you." 
 
 "Oh, thank you," said Floss, gathering together their cloaks 
 and baskets, and preparing to descend. 
 
 "What a kind man," whispered Carrots; and when the por- 
 ter lifted him out of the carriage he took hold of his hand and 
 ran along beside him as fast as his little legs could keep up. 
 
 Floss felt quite bewildered at first, when she saw the heaps 
 and heaps of luggage lying on the platform, all labelled "White- 
 friars." It seemed to her that everybody must have been travel- 
 
"CARROTS" 223 
 
 ling to Whitefriars to-day! But by degrees it was claimed and 
 melted away, and the kind porter, to whom she had already 
 pointed out their "great deal" — one portmanteau, one bag, and 
 a small tin hat-box — soon picked it up and stood waiting for 
 further orders. 
 
 "Where am I to take it to, please, miss?" he said. "Is there 
 no one here to meet you?" 
 
 "I don't think so, I don't know what to do," said Floss, 
 looking sadly troubled again. In the excitement of finding the 
 luggage she had forgotten this new difficulty, but now it re- 
 turned in full force. 
 
 "Have you far to go?" said the man. 
 
 "Oh, no," said Floss, "auntie's house is near here, I know." 
 
 "Then perhaps little master and you had better walk on, 
 and send for the luggage afterwards?" suggested the man, never 
 doubting from Floss's manner that the children were accustomed 
 to the place, and knew their way. 
 
 "Yes, I suppose so," said Floss uncertainly. 
 
 "Or shall I fetch you a fly from the Blue Boar?" said the 
 man. "The station flies has all drove off." 
 
 "No, thank you; I don't think I have enough money for 
 that," said Floss, feeling in her pocket for her purse, which she 
 knew contained only her father's parting gift of half-a-crown, 
 a sixpence with a hole in it, and three pennies of Carrots' ! "Your 
 auntie says she will get you everything you want, so I need not 
 give you any money with you," their mother had said. Floss 
 had no idea what a fly from the Blue Boar would cost, but it 
 sounded very grand, and she hardly dared to risk it. 
 
 "Well, I dare say you'll be safest to walk," said the porter, 
 rather afraid of getting himself into a scrape if he fetched the 
 children a fly without proper authority, and feeling uncertain, 
 from their very plain and rather "countryfied" appearance, if their 
 friends belonged to the fly patronising class or not. "I'll keep 
 
224 STORIES BY MRS. MOLESWORTH 
 
 the luggage safe till it's sent for — no fear," and with a friendly 
 nod he marched off with their possessions. 
 
 Holding Carrots by the hand, Floss made her way out of 
 the station. For about a quarter of a mile the road ran straight 
 before them and they trudged along contentedly enough. But 
 after awhile they came to a point where two roads met, one 
 leading to the little watering-place (for the station was some 
 way from the town), the other out into the country. And for 
 the first time it struck Floss that she did not know the way. She 
 looked about her in perplexity. 
 
 "It cannot be far," she said; "mamma always said auntie 
 lived near Whitefriars. But I wish I knew which way to go." 
 
 Carrots had no suggestion to offer. To make matters worse, 
 it began to rain — a cold, sleety, late October rain; the children 
 had no umbrella, and were already tired and hungry. I think it 
 was much to their credit that they did not lose heart altogether. 
 
 Just as Floss was making up her mind to take the turn 
 leading in the distance to terraces of houses and gardens and 
 other signs of civilisation, there came, jogging along the road 
 on a cart-horse, a farmer's boy. Joyful sight! Floss plucked 
 up heart. 
 
 "Can you tell me, please," she called out, "which is the way 
 to Greenmays?" 
 
 The farmer's boy turned his thumb in the direction of the 
 country road. "Yonder," he shouted, without stopping in his 
 jog, "straight on past the church, and down lane to left." 
 
 "Is it far?" asked Floss, but the boy did not seem to hear. 
 
 There was nothing for it but to go on with their trudge. 
 The rain was not heavy but very piercingly cold, and the day- 
 light was beginning to fade. Two or three hot tears at last 
 forced their way down Floss's cheeks, but she wiped them quickly 
 away, before Carrots could see them. Carrots said nothing, 
 but Floss knew he was getting tired by the way he kept lagging 
 
"CARROTS" 225 
 
 behind, every now and then giving a little run to get up to Floss 
 again. 
 
 "I shouldn't mind so much, Floss," he said at last, "if it 
 would be home when ive get there, and if we were to find mamma 
 and nurse and tea in our own nursery waiting for us." 
 
 This was altogether too much for Floss. For a moment 
 or two she could not speak, she was choked with sobs. "Oh, 
 how I do Avish poor mamma hadn't got ill," she said at last. 
 
 "Poor Flossie, dear Flossie," said Carrots, pulling down her 
 face to kiss in spite of the rain and the dark and the cold and 
 everything. "I didn't mean to make you cry. And auntie will 
 be very kind when we get there, won't she, Floss?" 
 
 "Oh yes," said Floss, trying to speak cheerfully, though in 
 her secret heart there was a little misgiving. It did not look 
 very kind not to have sent to meet them at the station, and even 
 without this, Floss, though she had not said so, had felt a little 
 shy and frightened at the thought of meeting auntie and the 
 strange uncle, and even Sybil again. It was nearly two years 
 since the visit to Sandyshore, and two years is a lifetime to a 
 child — it seemed to Floss like going altogether among strangers. 
 She clasped her little brother's hand tighter as these feelings 
 passed through her mind. "It won't be so bad for Carrots," 
 she reflected; "anyway he will have me." 
 
 They seemed to have walked a very weary way when at 
 last the church, of which the farmer's boy had spoken, came in 
 sight — very dimly in sight, for the daylight was fast dying away. 
 Floss would have passed the church without noticing it, but the 
 road divided in two just at this place, and she was obliged 
 to think which way to go. Then the boy's directions came into 
 her mind. 
 
 "To the left past the church, didn't he say, Carrots?" she 
 said. 
 
 " 'Down lane to left,' he said," replied Carrots. 
 
 "Then it must be this way," said Floss, and on they trudged. 
 
226 STORIES BY MRS. MOLESWORTH 
 
 In a few minutes they came to large gates, on one side of 
 which stood a pretty little house; but such a little house, hardly 
 bigger than a cottage. 
 
 "Is that auntie's house?" said Carrots. 
 
 "I'm afraid it's too little to be auntie's house," said Floss. 
 "I wish it was. I would much rather auntie lived in a cottage." 
 
 "Just like Mrs. White's," said Carrots. 
 
 Floss could not help laughing at him; it had left off raining 
 and her spirits were rising a little. 
 
 "Look, Carrots," she said, "there is a light in the cottage 
 window. We'd better knock at the door and ask if it is auntie's 
 house. It's getting rather like a fairy story, isn't it, Carrots? 
 Fancy if somebody calls out 'Pull the string and the latch will 
 open.' " 
 
 "But that would be the wolf, Floss," said Carrots, pressing 
 closer to his sister. 
 
 It was no wolf, but a nice, tidy-looking woman with a white 
 cap and a baby in her arms who opened the door, and stood 
 staring at the two little wayfarers in bewilderment. Floss grew 
 afraid that she was angry. 
 
 "I'm very sorry — I mean I beg your pardon," she began. 
 "I didn't know this was your house. We thought perhaps it 
 was auntie's. Can you tell me please, where Greenmays is?" 
 
 "This is Greenmays," said the Avoman. Floss stared: the 
 door opened right into the kitchen, it couldn't be auntie's house. 
 
 "This is the lodge," continued the woman. "If it's some 
 one at the big house you're wanting, you must just go straight 
 up the drive. I'd show you the way," she went on, "but my 
 husband's up at the stables and it's too cold for baby. You seem 
 wet and tired, you do — have you come far?" 
 
 "Yes," said Floss, wearily, "very far. We thought auntie 
 would meet us at the station, but there wasn't anybody." 
 
 "They must be kin to the housekeeper, surely," thought the 
 woman. And yet something indescribable in Floss's manner, 
 
'Then it must be this way," said Floss. 
 
"CARROTS" 227 
 
 and in the clear, well-bred tones of her small, childish voice, pre- 
 vented her asking if this was so. "I wish I could go with you 
 to the house," she repeated, curiosity and kindliness alike prompt- 
 ing her, "but," she added, looking doubtfully at the sleeping 
 child in her arms, "I'm afeared for baby." 
 
 "Oh, it doesn't matter, thank you," said Floss, "we can 
 find the way, I dare say. Good-evening," and taking Carrots 
 by the hand, she turned to go. 
 
 "Good-evening," said little Carrots also. 
 
 "Good-evening, and I hope you'll find your auntie in," said 
 the woman. And for a few minutes she stood at the door 
 straining her eyes after the two forlorn little figures till she could 
 distinguish them no longer in the darkness of the trees bordering 
 the avenue. "Who can they be?" she said to herself. "Such a 
 pretty spoken, old-fashioned little pair I never did see!" 
 
 CHAPTER XI 
 
 HAPPY AND SAD 
 
 " 'Tis gone — and in a merry fit 
 
 They run upstairs in gamesome race. 
 
 A moment's heaviness they feel, 
 A sadness at the heart." 
 
 The Mother's Return. 
 
 It was very dark in the drive, and Carrots crept close to 
 Floss. But Floss felt far less afraid of the dark than of the 
 light when at last the house came in view and the brightly lit 
 up windows shone out into the gloom. 
 
 "Oh, what a big house," said Floss. "Oh, Carrots, how I do 
 wish that little cottage had been auntie's house, even though the 
 door did open right into the kitchen. Don't you, Carrots?" 
 
 "I don't know," replied Carrots, "auntie will be very kind 
 to us, won't she, Floss?" 
 
228 STORIES BY MRS. MOLESWORTH 
 
 "Oh, yes," said Floss, "but supposing she is having a party- 
 to-night, Carrots?" 
 
 "Well, we could have tea in the nursery, and go to bed," 
 said Carrots philosophically. "Oh, Floss, wouldn't you like some 
 nice hot tea and bread and butter?" 
 
 "Poor Carrots," said Floss. And her anxiety to see her 
 little brother in comfort again gave her courage to ring the bell 
 as loudly as she could. 
 
 A man servant opened the door. Very tall and formidable 
 he looked to the two children, whose eyes were dazzled by the 
 sudden light, after their long walk in the dusk. 
 
 "If you please," said Floss, "is auntie at home?" 
 
 The man stared. "What did you say?" he inquired. "Is 
 it a message from some one?" 
 
 "Oh, no," said Floss, "it's just that we've come, Carrots and 
 I — will you please tell auntie? We've walked all the way from 
 the station, because there was no one to meet us." 
 
 The man still stared. He had heard something about a 
 young lady and gentleman, his mistress's nephew and niece, being 
 expected on a visit, but his ideas were rather slow. He could 
 not all at once take in that the dilapidated little couple before 
 him could possibly be the looked for guests. 
 
 But just then another person came upon the scene. A little 
 figure with bright dark eyes and flying hair came dancing into 
 the hall. 
 
 "Who's there, Fletcher?" she said. "Is it the post?" 
 
 "No, miss," said Fletcher, rather glad of some one to consult 
 in his perplexity. "I don't know who it is — that's to say, it's a 
 little boy and girl who say as they've come from the station, but 
 I can't justly make out who it is they want." 
 
 "How funny," said Sybil, coming forward and peering out 
 from under Fletcher's arm, "perhaps they'll tell me what they 
 want. Who are you, little girl? Is it my mother you want? 
 Will you give me your message?" 
 
"CARROTS" 229 
 
 She looked more like a little princess than ever. She was 
 dressed to go down to the drawing-room before dinner — all white 
 embroidery and lace and rose-coloured ribbons. Floss and Car- 
 rots looked at her with a sort of dazzled admiration, mingled with 
 shy bewilderment. It all seemed more of a mistake than ever — 
 Sybil was evidently not expecting them — if only the railway 
 station had not been so dreadfully far away, Floss felt as if she 
 would have liked to take Carrots by the hand and go away back 
 again, all the long weary way to Sandyshore! 
 
 But Carrots' faith in auntie and Sybil was unshaken — and 
 his childlike confidence less susceptible of chill. Partly from 
 mortification, partly to hide that she was crying, Floss stood 
 perfectly silent, but Carrots pressed forward. 
 
 "It is Flossie and me, Sybil — don't you remember us? 
 We've walked such a long way, and there was nobody to meet us 
 at the station, and we are so cold and so hungry!" 
 
 Sybil gave a sort of leap into the air. "Floss and Carrots !" 
 she cried, "oh mother, mother, come quick, here are Floss and 
 Carrots!" 
 
 She seemed to fly across the hall in one second, and darting 
 down a passage disappeared, crying out all the way, "Flossie 
 and Carrots — oh, mother, mother, come." 
 
 And before the children had time to consider what they had 
 best do, and long before the very deliberate Mr. Fletcher had 
 collected his wits sufficiently to decide upon inviting them to 
 come in, Sybil was back again, closely followed by her mother, 
 whom she had dragged out of the drawing-room without any 
 other explanation than her cry of "Floss and Carrots ! Oh, mother, 
 Flossie and Carrots." 
 
 And when Floss saw auntie running to them, with her kind 
 face all eagerness and anxiety, the shyness and disappointment 
 and the mortification all seemed suddenly to melt away. She 
 rushed into the hall and threw herself sobbing into auntie's arms. 
 "Oh, auntie," she cried, "we are so tired — poor Carrots is I mean, 
 
230 STORIES BY MRS. MOLESWORTH 
 
 and so hungry, and I thought you had forgotten us, and we're 
 so far away from mamma." 
 
 Auntie understood all about it in a moment. She hugged 
 Floss tight, and only let go of her for an instant to get hold of 
 Carrots and hug him tight too. And then, when she saw the 
 two tired little white faces, and felt how wet they were, and saw 
 the tears on Floss's cheeks, she sat; down on the hall floor, still 
 clasping them tight, and actually cried too. 
 
 "My two poor dear little babes in the wood," she exclaimed. 
 "What a dreadful mistake! What a cruel auntie you must have 
 thought me!" 
 
 "I didn't know if you wanted us — I thought perhaps you 
 had forgotten about us coming," whispered Floss. 
 
 "No wonder," said auntie; "but Flossie, darling, I haven't 
 got any letter to say what day you were coming. That was why 
 we were not at the station. Sybil and I had been making such 
 delightful plans about how we should meet you at the station — 
 do you think your father and mother could have forgotten to 
 write to tell me the day?" 
 
 "Oh, no," said Floss, "I know papa wrote to tell you — he 
 wrote the day before yesterday, for I heard him tell mamma 
 so. And this morning when the post came, just as we were 
 leaving, he wondered a little that there was no letter from you, 
 but he said perhaps you hadn't thought it worth while to write, 
 as you had said any day this week would do for us to come." 
 
 "Of course I would have written," said auntie; "but what 
 can have become of the letter?" 
 
 It had evidently gone astray somehow, and that very eve- 
 ning the mystery was explained, for the postman brought it — a 
 very travel-worn letter indeed, with two or three scrawls across 
 it in red ink— "Missent to Whitehurst," "Try Whitefield," 
 etc., etc. 
 
 "Whenever a letter does go wr.ong, which certainly is not 
 very often, it is sure to be one of consequence," said auntie. But 
 
"CARROTS" 231 
 
 long before the letter came Floss and Carrots had forgotten their 
 troirbles — at least if they hadn't it was not auntie's fault, for I 
 can't tell you how kind she was and what a fuss she made about 
 them. She took them up to Sybil's nice beautiful warm nursery, 
 and all their wet things were taken off, and Floss was wrapped 
 up in a dressing-gown of auntie's and Carrots in one of Sybil's, 
 and then they had the most lovely tea you can imagine. 
 
 Sybil's father was away that night and was not coming back 
 till the next day, and auntie was to have dinner alone, with Sybil be- 
 side her, you may be sure, to "keep her company," and help her to get 
 through dinner by opening her little mouth for "tastes" every now 
 and then. But auntie had to manage alone, after all, for of course 
 Sybil would not leave Floss and Carrots, and auntie sent up the 
 very nicest things from the dining-table for the children to eat 
 with their tea, and Sybil did get some "tastes," I can assure you. 
 
 And they laughed at each other in the dressing-gowns, and 
 Floss quite forgot that she had expected to feel shy and strange. 
 Only when auntie came up to the nursery again after dinner 
 and made Floss tell her all about the long walk in the cold and 
 the dark, and about the "kind porter," and the oldish-looking 
 lady, and, further back still, about the leaving home in the 
 morning and how poor mamma kissed them "so many, many 
 times" — Floss could not help crying again a little, nor could 
 auntie either. And though Carrots and Sybil did not cry, their 
 little faces looked very solemn and as if they almost thought they 
 should cry, as they sat side by side on the rug in front of the 
 high nursery guard, Carrots in the funny red-flannel dressing- 
 gown which made him look so "old-fashioned," and Sybil in her 
 white embroidery and rose ribbons, crumpling them all up "any- 
 how" in a way which really went to Floss's heart, though auntie 
 did not seem to mind. 
 
 Then came bedtime. Such a nice bedtime, for auntie had 
 prepared for them two dear little rooms, with a door between, 
 that they should not feel far away from eac"h other. And though 
 
232 STORIES BY MRS. MOLESWORTH 
 
 it was the very first time in Carrots' life that he had gone to bed 
 without kind old nurse to tuck him up, he did not feel unhappy, 
 for Floss reminded him what a good thing it was that their 
 mother had nurse with her now she was ill, and besides, Sybil's 
 French maid Denise was very kind and merry, and not at all 
 "stuck up" or grand. 
 
 And the waking the next morning! 
 
 Who does not know those first wakings in a strange place! 
 Sometimes so pleasant, sometimes so sad, but never, I think, 
 without a strange interestingness of their own. This waking was 
 pleasant, though so strange. The sun was shining for one thing 
 ■ — a great thing, I think I should call it, and the children felt 
 it to be so. 
 
 They woke about the same time and called out to each other, 
 and then Floss got out of bed and went to see how Carrots 
 was looking, after all his adventures. 
 
 "You haven't caught cold, I hope, Carrots," she said in a 
 motherly tone. 
 
 "Oh, no. I'm quite well," replied Carrots, "I haven't even a 
 cold in my nose. And isn't it a nice morning, Floss, and isn't 
 this a lovely room?" 
 
 "Yes," said Floss, "and so is mine, Carrots." 
 
 "And auntie is kind, isn't she, Floss?" 
 
 "Oh, very" said Floss. 
 
 "Isn't it nice to see the sun?" said Carrots. "Floss, I can't 
 understand how it can always be the same sun, however far 
 we go." 
 
 "But don't you remember what I showed you," said Floss, 
 "about the world being like a little ball, always going round 
 and round a great light, so of course the great light must always 
 be the same?" 
 
 "Yes," said Carrots dreamily, "but still it seems funny. 
 Will mamma see the sun at that nice warm place over the sea?" 
 
"CARROTS" 233 
 
 "Why, of course," said Floss, "it's the sun that makes that 
 place nice and warm." 
 
 "Is it?" said Carrots. "Is that place nearer the sun than 
 Sandyshore is, Floss?" 
 
 "No, not exactly. At least it is in a sort of a way — the 
 sunshine falls straighter on it, but I couldn't explain without 
 a globe and a lot of fuss," said Floss. "Never mind just now, 
 Carrots — perhaps auntie can show you." 
 
 "But Floss," persisted Carrots, "I do want to know one 
 thing. Shall we see the sun in heaven?" 
 
 "No," said Floss decidedly, "certainly not. It says in the 
 Bible there will be no sun or moon in heaven." 
 
 "Then I don't think I shall like it at all," said Carrots, "for 
 there won't be any sea there either. I can't think how it can be 
 a nice place." 
 
 "But, Carrots dear," said Floss in some distress, "you 
 mustn't think of heaven that way. It isn't like that. Heaven 
 isn't like a place exactly, mamma says. It is just being quite 
 good." 
 
 "Being quite good," repeated Carrots thoughtfully. "I 
 wish I could be quite good, Floss, I wish everybody could, 
 don't you?" 
 
 "Yes," said Floss. "But really you must get up, Carrots 
 dear; that will be good for just now. Being good always comes 
 in little bits like that.' 
 
 "But in heaven, the being good will be all in one great 
 big piece, that's how it will be, isn't it?" said Carrots, as he got 
 out of bed and began hunting for his slippers. 
 
 I cannot tell you half the history of that first day at' 
 Greenmays, or of many others that followed. They were very 
 happy days, and they were full of so many new pleasures and inter- 
 ests for Carrots and Floss that I should really have to write another 
 book to tell you all about them. Everybody was kind to the 
 children, and everything that could be thought of to make them 
 
234 STORIES BY MRS. MOLESWORTH 
 
 feel "at home" was done. And Greenmays was such a pretty 
 place — Carrots could hardly miss his dear old sea, once he had 
 learnt to make friends with the hills. At first he could do 
 nothing but gaze at them in astonishment. 
 
 "I didn't think hills were so big, or that they would have 
 so many faces," he said to Floss and Sybil the first morning 
 when they were out in the garden together. 
 
 Sybil burst out laughing. "Oh, you funny Carrots!" she 
 said; "you're just like a boy in a fairy story — you've got such 
 queer fancies." 
 
 "But they're not fancies, Sybil," said Carrots, gravely, turn- 
 ing his great brown eyes on his cousin. "The hills have got lots 
 of different faces: that one up there, the one with the round 
 knobby top, has looked quite different several times this morn- 
 ing. First it looked smiley and smooth, and then it got all 
 cross and wrinkly, and now it looks as if it was going to sleep." 
 
 Sybil stared up at the hill he was pointing to. "I see what 
 you mean," she said; "but it's only the shadows of the clouds." 
 
 "That's pretty," said Carrots: "who told you that, Sybil? 
 I never thought of clouds having shadows." 
 
 "Nobody told me," said Sybil; "I finded it out my own self. 
 I find out lots of things," she continued, importantly. "I dare 
 say it's because of my name — papa says my name means I 
 should find out things, like a sort of a fairy, you know." 
 
 "Does it?" said Carrots, in a rather awe-struck tone. "I 
 should like that. When you were little, Sybil," he continued, 
 "were you ever frightened of shadows? I was." 
 
 "No," said Sybil, "I only thought they were funny. And 
 once papa told me a story of a shadow that ran away from its 
 master. It went across the street, at night, you know, when 
 the lamps were lighted: there were houses opposite, you see, and 
 the shadow went into such a beautiful house, and wouldn't come 
 back again!" 
 
"CARROTS" 235 
 
 "And what after that?" said both Floss and Carrots in a 
 breath. 
 
 "Oh, I can't tell it you all," said Sybil ; "you must ask papa." 
 
 "Does he often tell you stories?" asked Floss. 
 
 "Bits," said Sybil; "he doesn't tell them all through, like 
 mother. But he's very nice about answering things I ask him. 
 He doesn't say 'you couldn't understand,' or 'you'll know when 
 you're older,' that horrid way." 
 
 "He must be nice," said Floss, who had secretly been trem- 
 bling a little at the thought of the strange uncle. 
 
 And he did turn out very nice. He was older than Floss 
 had expected; a good deal older than auntie, whom he sometimes 
 spoke to as if she were quite a little girl, in a way which amused 
 the children very much. At first he seemed very quiet and 
 grave, but after a while Floss found out that in his own way he 
 was very fond of fun, and she confided to auntie that she thought 
 he was the funniest person she had ever seen. I don't know if 
 auntie told him this, or if he took it as a compliment, but cer- 
 tainly he could not have been offended, for every day, as they 
 learnt to know him better, the children found him kinder and 
 kinder. 
 
 So they were very happy at Greenmays, and no doubt would 
 have gone on being so but for one thing. There came bad news 
 of their mother. 
 
 This was how they heard it. Every week at least, for sev- 
 eral weeks, Floss or Carrots, and sometimes both, got a letter 
 from their mother or from Cecil and Louise; and at first these 
 letters were so cheerful that even the little bit of anxiety which 
 the children had hardly known was in their hearts melted away. 
 
 "What a good thing mamma went to that nice warm place, 
 isn't it, auntie?" Carrots used to say after the arrival of each 
 letter, and auntie most heartily agreed with the happy little 
 fellow. But at last, just about Christmas time, when the thin 
 foreign-looking letter, that the children had learnt to know 
 
236 STORIES BY MRS. MOLESWORTH 
 
 so well, made its appearance one morning on the breakfast-table, 
 it proved to be for auntie — that, of course, they did not object 
 to, had there been one for them too, but there was not! 
 
 "Auntie dear, there is no letter for us," said Floss, when 
 auntie came into the room. "Will you please open yours quick, 
 and see if there is one inside it?" 
 
 "I don't think there is," said auntie; "it doesn't feel like it." 
 
 However, she opened the letter at once. No, there was 
 no enclosure; and Floss, who was watching her face, saw that 
 it grew troubled as she ran her eyes down the page. 
 
 "My letter is from your father. I cannot read it properly 
 till after breakfast, for uncle is waiting for me to pour out his 
 coffee. Run off now, dears, and I'll come to the nursery and tell 
 you all about it after breakfast," she said, trying to look and 
 speak just the same as usual. 
 
 But Floss saw that she was trying; she did not persist, how- 
 ever, but took Carrots by the hand, and went off obediently with- 
 out speaking, only giving auntie one wistful look as she turned 
 away. 
 
 "What's wrong, Florence?" said Sybil's father, as the door 
 closed after the children. 
 
 "It is about Lucy," said auntie; "she is much worse; very 
 ill indeed. She has caught cold somehow, and Frank seems al- 
 most to have lost hope already." 
 
 Two or three tears rolled down auntie's face as she spoke. 
 For a minute or two Sybil's father said nothing. 
 
 "How about telling the children?" he asked at last. 
 
 "That's just it," replied auntie. "Frank leaves it to me 
 to tell them or not, as I think best. He would not let Cecil 
 or Louise write, as he thought if it had to be told I had better 
 do so as gently as I could, by word of mouth. But they must 
 be told — they are such quick children, I believe Floss suspects it 
 already. And if — and if the next news should be worse" con- 
 tinued auntie with a little sob, "I would never forgive myself for 
 
"CARROTS" 237 
 
 not having prepared them, and they would be full of self-reproach 
 for having been happy and merry as usual. Floss would say she 
 should have known it by instinct." 
 
 "Would they feel it so much — could they realize it? They 
 are so young," said Sybil's father. 
 
 Auntie shook her head. "Not too young to feel it terribly," 
 she said. "It is much better to tell them. I could not hide the 
 sorrow in my face from those two honest pairs of eyes, for one 
 thing." 
 
 "Well, you knoAv oest," said her husband. 
 
 A sad telling it was, and the way in which the children 
 took it touched auntie's loving heart to the quick. They were 
 so quiet and "pitiful," as little Sybil said. Floss's face grew 
 white, for, with a child's hasty rush at conclusions, she fancied 
 at first that auntie was paving the Avay for the worst news of all. 
 
 "Is mamma dead?" she whispered, and auntie's "Oh, no, no, 
 darling. Not so bad as that," seemed to give her a sort of crumb 
 of hope, even before she had heard all. 
 
 And Carrots stood beside auntie's knee, clasping his little 
 mother Floss's hand tight, and looking up in auntie's face with 
 those wonderful eyes of his, which auntie had said truly one 
 could not deceive; and when he had been told all there was to 
 tell, he just said softly, "Oh, poor mamma! Auntie, She kissened 
 us so many times!" 
 
 And then, which auntie was on the whole glad of, the three 
 children sat down on the rug together and cried; Sybil in her 
 sympathy, as heartily as the others, while she kept kissing and 
 petting them, and calling them by every endearing name she 
 could think of. 
 
 "When will there be another letter, auntie?" said Floss. 
 
 "The day after to-morrow," said auntie. "Your father will 
 write by every mail." 
 
 In her own heart auntie had not much hope. From what 
 Captain Desart said, the anxiety was not likely to last long. 
 
238 STORIES BY MRS. MOLESWORTH 
 
 The illness had taken a different form from Mrs. Desart's other 
 attacks. "She must be better or worse in a day or two," he 
 wrote, and auntie's heart sorely misgave her as to which it 
 would be. 
 
 The sorrowful day seemed very long to the children. They 
 did their lessons as usual, for auntie told them it would be much 
 better to do so. 
 
 "Would it please mamma?" said Carrots; and when auntie 
 said "Yes, she was quite sure it would," he got his books at 
 once, and "tried" even harder than usual. 
 
 But after lessons they had no heart to play, and there 
 was no "must" about that. By bedtime they all looked worn 
 out with crying and the sort of strange excitement there is 
 about great sorrows — above all to children — which is more ex- 
 hausting than almost anything. 
 
 "This will never do," thought auntie. "Hugh" (that was 
 the name of Sybil's father) "will have reason to think I should 
 have taken his advice, and not told them, if they go on like this." 
 
 "Sybil," she said, "Floss and Carrots will make themselves ill 
 before the next letter comes. What can we do for them?" 
 
 Sybil shook her head despondently. 
 
 "I don't know, mother dear," she said; "I've got out all 
 my best things to please them, but it's no good." She stood still 
 for a minute, then her face lightened up. "Mother," she said, 
 '"aposing you were to read aloud some of those stories you're 
 going to get bounded up into a book some day? They would 
 like that." 
 
 Floss hardly felt as if she would care to hear any stories, 
 however pretty. But she did not like to disappoint kind auntie 
 by saying so, especially when auntie told her she really wanted 
 to know if she and Carrots liked her stories, as it would help 
 her to judge if other children would care for them when they 
 were "bounded up into a book." 
 
 So the next day auntie read them some, and they talked 
 
"CARROTS" 239 
 
 them over and got quite interested in them. Fortunately, she 
 did not read them all that day, for the next day there was still 
 more need of something to distract the children's sorrowful 
 thoughts, as the looked-for letter did not come. Auntie would 
 have liked to cheer the children hy reminding them of the old 
 sayings that "No news is good news," and "It is ill news which 
 flies fast," but she dared not, for her own heart was very heavy with 
 anxiety. And she was very glad to see them interested in the rest 
 of the stories for the time. 
 
 I cannot tell you these stories, hut some day perhaps you 
 may come across the little book which they were made into. But 
 there is one of them which I should like to tell you, as it is not 
 very long, and in the children's mind it was always associated 
 with something that happened just as auntie had finished reading 
 it. For it was the last of her little stories, and it was called — 
 
 CHAPTER XII 
 
 "the two funny little trots" 
 
 "Like to a double cherry." 
 
 A Midsummer Night's Dream. 
 
 ' "Oh, mamma," cried I, from the window by which I was 
 standing, to my mother who was working by the fire, "do come 
 here and look at these two funny little trots." ' 
 
 Aunties had read only this first sentence of her story when 
 Sybil interrupted her. 
 
 "Mother dear," she said, in her prim little way, "before you 
 begin, do tell us one thing. Does the story end sadly?" 
 
 Auntie smiled. "You should have asked me before I had 
 begun, Sybil," she said. "But never mind now. I don't really 
 think I can tell you if it ends sadly or not. It would be like 
 telling you the end at the beginning, and it would spoil the 
 interest, if you understand what that means." 
 
240 STORIES BY MRS. MOLESWORTH 
 
 "Very well," said Sybil, resignedly, "then I suppose I must 
 wait. But I won't like it if it ends badly, mother, and Floss 
 won't, and Carrots won't. Will you, Floss and Carrots?" 
 
 "I don't think Floss and Carrots can say, till they've heard 
 it," said auntie. "Now, Sybil, you musn't interrupt any more. 
 Where was I? Oh, yes"] — ' "do come and look at these two 
 funny little trots." 
 
 'My mother got up from her seat and came to the window. 
 She could not help smiling when she saw the little couple I 
 pointed out to her. 
 
 ' "Aren't they a pair of fat darlings?" I said. "I wonder 
 if they live in our terrace?" 
 
 'We knew very little of our neighbors, though we were not 
 living in London, for we had only just come to St. Austin's. 
 We had come there to spend the winter, as it was a mild and 
 sheltered place, for I, then a girl of sixteen, had been in delicate 
 health for some time.' ["You wouldn't believe it to see me now, 
 Avould you?" said auntie, looking up at the children with a 
 smile on her pretty young-looking face, but it was quite true, 
 all the same.] 'I was my mother's only girl,' she went on, turn- 
 ing to her manuscript again, 'and she was a widow, so you can 
 fancy what a pet I was. My big brothers were already all out in 
 the world, in the navy, or the army, or at college, and my mother 
 and I generally lived by ourselves in a country village much 
 farther north than St. Austin's, and it was quite an event to us 
 to leave our own home for several months and settle ourselves 
 down in lodgings in a strange place. 
 
 'It seemed a very strange place to us, for we had not a 
 single friend or acquaintance in it, and at home in our village we 
 knew everybody, and everybody knew us, from the clergyman 
 down to farmer Grinthwait's sheep-dog, and nothing happened 
 without our knowing it. I suppose I was naturally of rather 
 a sociable turn. I knew my mother used sometimes in fun to 
 call me "a little gossip," and I really very much missed the 
 
"CARROTS" 241 
 
 sight of the accustomed friendly faces. We had been two days 
 at St. Austin's, and I had spent most of those two days at the 
 window, declaring to my mother that I should not feel so 
 "strange" if I got to know some of our neighbours by sight, if 
 nothing more. 
 
 'But hitherto I had hardly succeeded even in this. There 
 did not seem to be any "neighbours" in the passers-by; they were 
 just passers-by who never seemed to pass by again, and without 
 anything particular to distinguish them if they did. For St. 
 Austin's was a busy little place, and our house was on the South 
 Esplanade, the favourite "promenade" for the visitors, none of 
 whom, gentlemen, ladies, or children, had particularly attracted 
 me till the morning I first caught sight of my funny little trots. 
 
 'I do think they would have attracted any one — any one 
 certainly that loved children. I fancy I see them now, the two 
 dears, coming slowly and solemnly along, each with a hand of 
 their nurse, pulling well back from her, as if the effort to keep 
 up, even with her deliberate rate of walking, was almost too much 
 for their fat little legs. They looked exactly the same size, and 
 were alike in everything, from their dresses — which this first day 
 were brown holland, very easy about the bodies, very short and 
 bunchy about the skirts — to the two white woolly lambs, clasped 
 manfully by each in his or her disengaged hand. Whether they 
 were boys or girls I could not tell in the least, and to this day 
 I do not know. 
 
 ' "Aren't they darlings, mamma?" I said. 
 
 ' "They certainly are two funny little trots," she replied 
 with a smile, using my own expression. 
 
 'Mamma went back to her knitting, but I stayed by the 
 window, watching my new friends. They passed slowly up the 
 Esplanade, my eyes following them till they were out of sight, 
 and then I turned away regretfully. 
 
 ' "They are sure not to pass again," I said, "and they are 
 so nice." 
 
242 STORIES BY MRS. MOLESWORTH 
 
 ' "If they live near here, very likely the Esplanade is their 
 daily walk, and they will be passing back again in a few min- 
 utes," said my mother, entering into my fancy. 
 
 T took up her suggestion eagerly. She was right: in about 
 a quarter of an hour my trots appeared again, this time from 
 the other direction, and, as good luck would have it, just opposite 
 our window, their nurse happening to meet an acquaintance, 
 they came to a halt! 
 
 ' "Mamma, mamma," I exclaimed, "here they are again!" 
 
 'Mamma nodded her head and smiled without looking up. 
 She was just then counting the rows of her knitting, and was 
 afraid of losing the number. I pressed my face close to the 
 window — if only the trots would look my way! — I could hardly 
 resist tapping on the pane. 
 
 'Suddenly a bright thought struck me. I seized Gip, my 
 little dog, who was asleep on the hearth-rug, and held him up 
 to the window. 
 
 ' "T'ss, Gip; T'ss, cat. At her; at her," I exclaimed. 
 
 'Poor Gip had doubtless been having delightful dreams — it 
 was very hard on him to be waked up so startlingly. He 
 blinked his eyes and tried to see the imaginary cat — no doubt he 
 thought it was his own fault he did not succeed, for he was the 
 most humble-minded and unpresuming of little dogs, and his 
 faith in me was unbounded. He could not see a cat, but he took 
 it for granted that I did; so he set to work barking vigorously. 
 That was just what I wanted. The trots heard the noise and 
 both turned round; then they let go of their nurse's hands and 
 made a little journey round her skirt till they met. 
 
 ' "Dot," said one, "pretty doggie." 
 
 ' "Doll," said the other, both speaking at once, you under- 
 stand, "pretty doggie." 
 
 'I don't mean to say that I heard what they said, I only 
 saw it. But afterwards, when I had heard their voices, I felt 
 
"CARROTS" 243 
 
 sure that was what they had said, for they almost always spoke 
 together. 
 
 'Then they joined their disengaged hands (the outside hand 
 of each still clasping its woolly lamb), and there they stood, legs 
 well apart, little mouths and eyes wide open, staring with the 
 greatest interest and solemnity at Gip and me. At Gip, of 
 course, far more than at me. Gip was a dog, I was only a girl! — 
 quite a middle-aged person, no doubt, the trots thought me, 
 if they thought about me at all ; perhaps they did a little, as I was 
 Gip's owner; for I was sixteen, and they could not have been 
 much more than three. 
 
 'But all this time they were so solemn. I wanted to make 
 them laugh. There was a little table in the window — a bow 
 window, of course, as it was at the sea-side, and certain to 
 catch winds from every quarter of the heavens — upon which I 
 mounted Gip, and set to work putting him through his tricks. 
 I made him perform "ready, present, fire" with a leap to catch 
 the bit of biscuit on his nose. I made him "beg," "lie dead," like 
 Mother Hubbard's immortal pet, and do everything a well- 
 educated dog could be expected to do. And, oh, how funny it 
 was to watch the trots! Evidently they had never seen any- 
 thing of the kind before; they stared at first as if they could 
 hardly believe their eyes, and then they smiled, and, at last, they 
 laughed. How prettily they laughed — they looked more like two 
 fat cherubs than ever. 
 
 'But their laughing attracted their maid's attention. She 
 too turned round, and I Avas pleased to see that she had a pleas- 
 ant, pretty young face. "I shouldn't have liked those dear trots 
 to have a cross old nurse," I said to myself, and the maid still 
 further raised herself in my good opinion by laughing and smiling 
 too. In a minute or two when she thought "that was enough for 
 to-day," she stooped and whispered to the trots and they imme- 
 diately lifted their little hands, the right of one, the left of the other 
 — for nothing, you see, could have persuaded them to let go of 
 
244 STORIES BY MRS. MOLESWORTH 
 
 their precious lambs — to their rosy mouths and blew a kiss to me, 
 and I could see them say, "Zank zou, lady; zank zou, doggie." 
 
 'You may be sure I kissed my hand to them in return, and 
 off they toddled, each with a hand of "Bessie," as I afterwards 
 heard them call their maid, and hauling back manfully as before, 
 which gave Bessie the look of a very large steam-tug convoying 
 two very little vessels. 
 
 'I watched them till they Avere quite out of sight. Then 
 I turned to my mother. 
 
 ' "I have made two friends here anyway, mamma," I said. 
 "The trots are sure to stop every time they pass. It will be 
 something to watch for." 
 
 'Mamma smiled. She was pleased to see vie pleased and in- 
 terested, for she had been beginning to fear that the dulness and 
 strangeness of our new life would prevent St. Austin's doing me 
 as much good as she had hoped. 
 
 ' "To-morrow, dear," she said, "if it is fine, I hope you will 
 be able to go a little walk, and we'll look out for your little 
 friends." 
 
 'It was fine the next day, and we did go out, and we did 
 meet the trots! 
 
 'They caught sight of me (of Gip, rather, I should perhaps 
 say) and I of them, just about the same moment. I saw them 
 tug their nurse, and when they got close up to me they stopped 
 short. It was no use Bessie's trying to get them on; there they 
 stood resolutely, till the poor girl's face grew red, and she looked 
 quite ashamed. Gip, who I must say, had a wonderful amount 
 of tact, ran up to them with a friendly little bark. Bessie let 
 go the trots' hands and stooped to stroke him. 
 
 ' "He won't bite, miss, will he?" she said gently, looking 
 up at me. 
 
 ' "Oh, dear, no," I said, and the trots, smiling with delight, 
 stooped — not that they had so very far to stoop — to stroke 
 him too. 
 
"CARROTS" 245 
 
 '"Pretty doggie," said Doll. 
 
 ' "Pretty doggie," said Dot. 
 
 'Then they held up their dear little mouths to kiss me. 
 "Zank zou, lady," they said, and each taking a hand of Bessie 
 again, they proceeded on their way. 
 
 'After that day, not many passed without my seeing them, 
 and talking to them, and making Gip show off his tricks. Some- 
 times our meetings were at the window, sometimes on the road; 
 once or twice, when there came some unusually fine mild days, 
 mamma let me sit out on the shore, and I taught the trots to 
 dig a hole for Gip and bury him in the sand, all but his bright 
 eyes and funny black nose — that was a beautiful game! I never 
 found out exactly where my friends lived; it was in one of the 
 side streets leading on to the Esplanade, that was all I knew. 
 I never knew, as I said, if they were boys or girls, or perhaps 
 one of each. Mamma wanted one day to ask Bessie, but I 
 wouldn't let her. They were just my two little trots, that was 
 all I wanted to know. 
 
 ' "It would spoil them to fancy them growing up into great 
 boys or girls," I said. "I want them to be always trots — 
 nothing else." 
 
 'And as Bessie called them simply Doll and Dot, without any 
 "master" or "miss," I was able to keep my fancy. 
 
 'When the weather grew colder, the trots came out in a 
 new costume — sealskin coats, sealskin caps, and sealskin gloves— 
 they were just little balls of sealskin, and looked "trottier" than 
 ever. About this time they left off carrying their woolly lambs. 
 I suspect the real reason was that their extreme affection for 
 the lambs had resulted in these favoured animals growing more 
 black than white, and that Bessie judged them unfit for appear- 
 ing in public, but if this was the case, evidently Bessie had been 
 obliged to resort to artifice to obtain their owners' consent to the 
 lambs being left at home. For, when I asked the trots where 
 
246 STORIES BY MRS. MOLESWORTH 
 
 the precious creatures were, they looked melancholy and dis- 
 tressed and shook their heads. 
 
 "Too told!" said Doll, and Dot repeated, like a mournful 
 echo, "too told!" 
 
 ' "Of course," said I, "how stupid of me not to think of 
 it! of course it's far too cold for such very little lambs to be out." 
 
 'Bessie looked gratefully at me. "We're going to buy some 
 cakes for tea," she said, with a smile, and sure enough in about 
 half an hour the trio appeared again, and came to a standstill 
 as usual, opposite our window. And, instead of a lamb, each 
 trot hugged a little parcel, neatly done up in white paper. I 
 opened the window to hear what they were saying, they looked 
 so excited. 
 
 ' "Takes for tea," they both called out at once, "takes for 
 tea. Lady have one. Dip have one." 
 
 'And poor Bessie was obliged to open the parcels, and 
 extract one "take" from each and hand them up to me, before 
 my little dears would be satisfied. 
 
 'Can you fancy that I really got to love the trots? I did 
 not want to know who they were, or what sort of a father and 
 mother they had — they were well taken care of, that was evident, 
 for somehow, knowing anything more about them would have 
 spoilt them for being my funny little trots. 
 
 'But, for several weeks of the three months we spent at 
 St. Austin's, the sight of these happy little creatures was one 
 of my greatest pleasures, and a day without a glimpse of them 
 would have seemed blank and dull. 
 
 'There came a time, however, when for many days I did 
 not see my little friends. The weather was bad just then, and 
 mamma said she was sure they had got colds, that would be all 
 that was wrong with them, but somehow I felt uneasy. I asked 
 our doctor, when he called, if there was much illness about, and 
 he, fancying I was nervous on my own account replied, "Oh, 
 no, with the exception of two or three cases of croup, he had no 
 
"CARROTS" 247 
 
 serious ailments among his patients : it was a very healthy season." 
 
 'I got frightened at the idea of croup, and cross-questioned 
 him to discover if my trots were among the sufferers, but he 
 shook his head. All his little patients were mere infants; he did 
 not even know the trots by sight. 
 
 'Then mamma suggested another very reasonable explana- 
 tion of their disappearance. 
 
 ' "Ihey have probably left St. Austin's," she said. "Many 
 people come here for only the very worst of the winter, and that 
 is about over now." 
 
 'But even this did not satisfy me. I was certain something 
 Avas wrong with Doll and Dot, and I wasted, I should be 
 ashamed to say how many hours, gazing out of the window in 
 hopes of catching sight of the familiar little figures. 
 
 'At last, one day, when I had almost left off hoping ever to 
 see them again, suddenly, two figures appeared on the Esplanade, 
 a stone's throw from our window. 
 
 'Who were they? Could it be — yes, it must be one of the 
 trots, led by, not Bessie, no, this maid was a stranger. Where 
 could Bessie be? And oh, where was my other little trot? For, 
 even at some yards' distance, I saw something sadly different in 
 the appearance of the one little figure, slowly coming along in 
 our direction. It was dressed — hat, coat, gloves, socks and all — 
 it was dressed in deep mourning. 
 
 T seized my hat and rushed out to meet them. Mamma 
 thought I was going out of my mind I believe. When I found 
 myself out in the open air, I tried to control myself and look 
 like the rest of the people walking quietly along, though my 
 heart was beating violently, and I felt as if I could not speak 
 without crying. But when I got up to the one little trot and 
 its attendant, the sight of her strange face composed me. She was so 
 different from Bessie — old and stiff and prim-looking. I 
 stooped to kiss the child, Dot or Doll, I knew not which. "How 
 are you, darling?" I said, "And where is " I stopped short. 
 
248 STORIES BY MRS. MOLESWORTH 
 
 'The trot looked up in my face. 
 
 ' "Oh, lady," it said, "Dot is all alone. Doll is done to 
 'Ebben," and the great tears gathered in Dot's mournful eyes 
 and rolled down Dot's rosy cheeks. 
 
 ' "Hush, hush, my dear. You mustn't cry. You'll make 
 yourself ill if you cry any more," said the hard-looking nurse. 
 
 'A moment before, I had intended turning to her and ask- 
 ing for some particulars of the baby's sad words, but now I 
 felt I could not. She was so stiff and unsympathising. I could 
 not bear her to see me, a stranger, crying about what I had 
 heard. Besides, what good would it do? Why should I hear 
 any more? I shrank from doing so. The bare fact was enough. 
 I just bent down and kissed the solitary darling. 
 
 ' "Good-bye, my trot," I said. I could not say another word. 
 
 ' "Dood-bye, don't ky," said Dot, stroking my cheek. "Doll 
 won't turn back, but Dot will do to 'Ebben too some day." 
 
 'That was quite too much for me. I turned away and 
 hurried back home as fast as I could. 
 
 ' "Mamma," I exclaimed, rushing into our sitting-room, and 
 throwing myself down on the sofa, "it's just what I thought. 
 I wish you would come away from St. Austin's at once. I shall 
 never, never like it again." 
 
 ' "What is the matter, Florence?" said poor mamma, quite 
 startled. 
 
 ' "It's about the trots," I said, now fairly sobbing, "I have 
 just seen one — in deep mourning, mamma, — and — and — the 
 other one is dead." 
 
 ' "Poor little angel!" said mamma. And the tears came 
 into her eyes too. 
 
 'I did not see Dot again after that day. I fancy that was 
 its last walk before leaving St. Austin's for its regular home, 
 wherever that was. And a very short time after, we ourselves 
 
 left too. 
 
 ******* 
 
"CARROTS" 249 
 
 'I never forgot the trots. Of course the pleasure of going 
 back to our own dear home again, and seeing all our old friends, 
 raised my spirits, and softened the real grief I had felt. But 
 whenever we spoke of St. Austin's, or people asked me about 
 it, and mentioned the Esplanade or the shore, or any of the 
 places where I had seen the trots, the tears would come into 
 my eyes, as again I seemed to see before me the two dear funny 
 little figures. And whenever our plans for the following winter 
 were alluded to, I always said one thing: "Wherever you go, 
 mamma, don't go to St. Austin's." 
 
 'My mother gave in to me. When did she not? How patient 
 she was with me, how sympathising, even in my fancies! And 
 how unselfish — it was not till long after we had left St. Austin's, 
 that she told me what anxiety she had gone through on hearing 
 of my having kissed Dot. For how sadly prdba'ble it seemed 
 that Doll had died of some infectious illness, such as scarlet- 
 fever, for instance, which I had never had! 
 
 ' "But Dot couldn't have been ill, mamma," I said. "Dot 
 looked perfectly well." 
 
 ' "Did he?" said my mother. Sometimes she called the 
 trots "he" and sometimes "she," in the funniest way! "I wonder 
 Avhat the other little dear died of?" 
 
 ' "So do I," I replied. "Still, on the whole, I think I am 
 just as well pleased not to know." 
 
 'Our uncertainty for the next winter ended in what was to 
 me a delightful decision. We determined to go to the South of 
 France. I could amuse you children by a description of our 
 journey — journeys in those days really were much more amus- 
 ing than now; but I must hasten on to the end of my story. We 
 had fixed upon Pau as our headquarters, and we arrived there 
 early in November. What a different thing from our November 
 at home! I could hardly believe it was November; it would have 
 seemed to me far less wonderful to have been told I had been 
 asleep for six months, and that really it was May, and not 
 
250 STORIES BY MRS. MOLESWORTH 
 
 November at all, than to have awakened as I did, that first 
 morning after our arrival, and to have seen out of the window 
 the lovely sunshine and bright blue sky, and summer-look of 
 warmth, and comfort, and radiance! 
 
 'We had gone to an hotel for a few days, intending to look 
 out for a little house, or apartement (which, children, does not 
 mean the same thing as our English lodgings by any means), at 
 our leisure. Your grandmother was not rich, and the coming 
 so far cost a great deal. The hotel we had been recommended 
 to was a very comfortable one though not one of the most fash- 
 ionable, and the landlord was very civil, as some friend who had 
 stayed with him the year before "had written about our coming. 
 He showed us our rooms himself, and hoped we should like them, 
 and then he turned back to say he trusted we should not be dis- 
 turbed by the voices of some children in the next "salon." He 
 would not have risked it, he said, had he been able to help it, 
 but there were no other rooms vacant, and the family with the 
 children were leaving the next day. Not that they were noisy 
 children by any means ; they were very chers petits, but there were 
 ladies, to whom the very name of children in their vicinity was — 
 here the landlord held up his hands and made a grimace! 
 
 ■ c "Then they must be old maids !" I said, laughing, "which 
 mamma and I are not. We love children," at which Mr. Land- 
 lord bowed and smiled, and said something complimentary about 
 mademoiselle being so "aimable." 
 
 'I listened for the children's voices that evening, and once 
 or twice I heard their clear merry tones. But as for any "dis- 
 turbance," one might as well have complained of a cuckoo in the 
 distance, as of anything we heard of our little neighbours. We 
 did not see them ; only once, as I was running along the passage, 
 I caught a glimpse at the other end of a little pinafored figure 
 led by a nurse, disappearing through a doorway. I did not 
 see its face; in fact the glimpse was of the hastiest. Yet some- 
 thing about the wee figure, a certain round-about bunchiness, and 
 
"CARROTS" 251 
 
 a sort of pulling back from the maid, as she went into the room, 
 recalled vaguely to my heart, rather than to my mind, two little 
 toddling creatures, that far away across the sea I had learnt to 
 love and look for. When I went into our room, there were tears 
 in my eyes, and when mamma asked me the reason, I told her 
 that I had seen a child that somehow had reminded me of my two 
 little trots. 
 
 ' "Poor little trots," said mamma. "I wonder if the one 
 that was left still misses the other?" 
 
 'But that was all we said about them. 
 
 'The next morning I was in a fever to go out and see all 
 that was to be seen. I dragged poor mamma into all the churches, 
 and half the shops, and would have had her all through the castle 
 too, but that she declared she could do no more. So we came to a 
 halt at the great "Place," and sat down on a nice shady seat to 
 watch the people, I consoling myself with the reflection that, as 
 we were to be four months at Pau, there was still a little time left 
 for sight-seeing. 
 
 'It was very amusing. There were people of all nations — 
 children of all nations, little French boys and girls, prettily but 
 simply dressed, some chatting merrily, some walking primly be- 
 side their white-capped bonnes; little Russians, looking rather 
 grand, but not so grand as their nurses in their rich costumes of 
 bright scarlet and blue, embroidered in gold; some Americans, 
 and a few unmistakable English. We amused ourselves by 
 guessing the nationality of all these little people. 
 
 ' "Those are Italians or Spaniards, mamma, look what dark 
 
 eyes they have, and those are " I suddenly stopped. "Oh, 
 
 mamma!" I exclaimed, and when she looked at me, she saw I had 
 grown quite pale, and in another moment, seeing to what I was 
 pointing, she understood the reason. There, right before us, 
 coming slowly up the middle of the Place, Bessie in the middle, 
 each child with a hand of hers tugging back manfully in the old 
 
252 STORIES BY MRS. MOLESWORTH 
 
 way, each, yes, really, each under the other arm hugging a woolly 
 lamb, came the two funny little trots! 
 
 'I felt at first as if I were dreaming. Could it be the trots? 
 I sat still in a half stupid way, staring, but Gip — I was forgetting 
 to tell you that of course Gip had come with us to Pau — Gip had 
 far more presence of mind than I. He did not stop to wonder how 
 it could be the trots, he was simply satisfied that it was the trots, 
 and forward he darted, leaping, barking furiously, wagging his 
 tail, giving every sort of welcome in dog language, that he could 
 think of. 
 
 ' "Dip, Dip ; see Bessie, here is a doggie like Dip," said 
 one trot. 
 
 ' "Dip, Dip, pretty Dip," said the other. 
 
 'The sound of their voices seemed to bring back my common 
 sense. They were my own dear trots. "Dip, Dip" would have satis- 
 fied me, even if I had not seen them. The trots never could manage 
 the letter "G"! I flew forward, and kneeling down on the 
 ground, little caring how I soiled my nice new dress, or what 
 the people on the Place thought of me, I regularly hugged my 
 two pets. 
 
 ' "Here is Dip's kind lady too," they both said at once, smil- 
 ing and happy, but not by any means particularly surprised to 
 see me. I looked up at Bessie at last, and held out my hand. She 
 shook it heartily. 
 
 ■ "I am pleased to see you again, miss, to be sure; who would 
 have thought it?" she said. "And they haven't forgot you, 
 haven't Doll and Dot. They are ahvays speaking of Gip and 
 you, miss." 
 
 ' "But, Bessie," I began, and then I hesitated. How could 
 I tell her what I had thought? "How was it you left St. Austin's 
 so suddenly?" — the trots were not in mourning now, they were 
 prettily dressed in dark blue sailor serge, as bunchy as ever. 
 
 'Bessie thought for a minute. 
 
 ' "Let me see," she said, "oh, yes, I remember! We did 
 
"CARROTS" 253 
 
 leave suddenly. My mistress's father died, and she was sent for 
 off to Edinburgh, and she took Doll and me, and left Dot to keep 
 her papa company. Master said he'd be lost without one of them, 
 and he couldn't get off to Edinburgh for a fortnight after us. 
 But we'll never try that again, miss. Dot did nothing but cry 
 for Doll, and Doll for Dot. Dot, so Martha the housemaid said, 
 was always saying, 'Doll's done to 'Ebben,' till it was pitiful to 
 hear, and Dot was just as bad in Edinburgh about Doll." 
 
 1 "But Dot did do to 'Ebben," said Doll, who as well as Dot 
 was listening to what Bessie was saying. "And then Doll 
 tummed to 'Ebben too," said Dot, "and then 'Ebben was nice." 
 
 I kissed the pets again, partly to prevent Bessie seeing the 
 tears in my eyes. I understood it all now, without asking any 
 more, and Bessie never knew what it was I had thought. 
 
 'Only you can fancy how sorry I was to find the trots were 
 leaving Pau that very afternoon! They were the children whose 
 dear little voices I had heard through the wall, who the landlord had 
 feared might disturb us! They were going on to Italy for the 
 Avinter. 
 
 ' "If only I had known last night who they were," I said 
 to mamma regretfully. 
 
 'Mamma, however, was always wise. "Think rather," she 
 said, "how very glad you should be to know it this morning. 
 And who can tell but what some time or other you may see the 
 trots again." 
 
 'But I never did!' 
 
254 STORIES BY MRS. MOLESWORTH 
 
 CHAPTER XIII 
 
 GOOD ENDINGS 
 
 But I lost my happy childhood. 
 ***** 
 
 It slipped from me you shall know, 
 
 It was in the dewy alleys 
 
 Of the land of long ago. 
 
 ***** 
 
 Not in sadness, 
 Nor reproach, these words I say, 
 God is good, and gives new gladness, 
 When the old he takes away. 
 
 "You never did? Oh, what a pity!" exclaimed Sybil. "You 
 really never, never did, mother?" 
 
 Auntie looked rather "funny," as the children call it. 
 
 "As trots I never saw them again," she said, "and at the 
 time I wrote out that story I had not seen them again at all." 
 
 "But you've seen them since," cried all the three children 
 at once, "you've seen them since they've grown big. Oh, auntie, 
 oh, mother, do tell us." 
 
 "I couldn't just now, truly I couldn't," said auntie, "it 
 would lead me into another story which isn't written yet. AJ1 
 that I know about 'the two funny little trots' I have told you. 
 Do you like it?" 
 
 "Awfully," said Sybil. 
 
 "Very much," said Floss. 
 
 "It's lovely," said Carrots. 
 
 Auntie smiled at the children. They looked so pleased and 
 interested, it was evident that for the time they had forgotten 
 their sorrow and anxiety. Suddenly, just as she was thinking 
 sadly how soon it must return to their minds, there came a loud 
 ring at the bell. They all started, they had been sitting so 
 quietly. 
 
 "It must be the post," said Sybil. Auntie had thought so 
 
"CARROTS" 255 
 
 too, but had not said it, as it was very unlikely this post would 
 bring any letter from Captain Desart. 
 
 It did however! Fletcher appeared with one in another 
 minute; the thin large envelope, and the black, rather scrawly 
 writing that Floss and Carrots knew so well. It would have 
 been no use trying to conceal it from them, so auntie opened it 
 quietly, though her fingers trembled as she did so. She read 
 it very quickly, it was not a long letter, and then she looked up 
 with the tears in her eyes. "Children, dear children," she said, 
 "it is good news. Your dear mother is a little better, and they 
 have good hopes of her." 
 
 Oh how glad they were! They kissed auntie and Sybil and 
 each other, and it seemed as if a great heavy stone had been 
 lifted off their hearts. There was still of course reason for 
 anxiety, but there was hope, "good hope," wrote Captain Desart, 
 and what does not that mean? Auntie felt so hopeful herself 
 that she could not find it in her heart to check the children for 
 being so. 
 
 "It is because you made the story of the trots end nicely 
 that that nice letter came," said Sybil, and nothing that her 
 mother could say would persuade her that she had nothing to 
 do with the ending, that she had just told it as it really hap- 
 pened! 
 
 J am telling you the story of Floss and Carrots as it really 
 happened too, and I am so glad that it — the story of this part 
 of their young lives, that is to say — ends happily too. Their 
 mother did get better, wonderfully better, and was able to come 
 back to England in the spring, looking stronger than for many 
 years. To England, but not to Sandyshore. Captain Desart 
 got another appointment much farther south, where the climate 
 was milder and better and the winters not to be dreaded for a 
 delicate person. So they all left the Cove House! 
 
 Their new home was of course by the sea too, but Carrots 
 never would allow that it was the same sea. His own old sea 
 
256 STORIES BY MRS. MOLESWORTH 
 
 stayed behind at Sandyshore, though if he were to go to look 
 for it there now I doubt if he would find it. When old friends 
 once get away into the country of long ago, they are hard to 
 find again — we learn to doubt if they are to be found anywhere 
 except in their own corners of our memory. 
 
 And it is long ago now since the days when Carrots and 
 his dear Floss ran races on the sands and made "plans" to- 
 gether. Long ago, in so far that you would not be able any- 
 where to find these children whom I loved so much, and whom 
 I have told you a little about. You would, at least I hope you 
 would, like to know what became of them, how they grew up, 
 and what Carrots did when he got to be a man. But this I 
 cannot now tell you, for my little book is long enough — I only 
 hope you are not tired of it — only I may tell you one thing. If 
 any of you know a very good, kind, gentle, brave man — so good 
 that he cannot but be kind; so brave that he cannot but be 
 gentle, I should like you to think that, perhaps, whatever he is 
 — clergyman, doctor, soldier, sailor, it doesn't matter in the least 
 — perhaps when that man was a boy, he was my little Carrots. 
 Especially if he has large "doggy-looking," brown eyes, and hair 
 that once might have been called "red." 
 
MARY ANN JOLLY 
 
 "But I lost my poor little doll, dears, 
 As I played in the heath one day; 
 And I cried for her more than a week, dears" — 
 
 They say that the world — and of course that means the 
 people in it — has changed very much in the last half century or 
 so. I dare say in some ways this is true, but it is not in 
 all. There are some ways in which I hope and think people 
 will never change much. Hearts will never change, I hope — 
 good, kind hearts who love and trust each other I mean; and 
 little children, they surely will always be found the same, — 
 simple and faithful, happy and honest; why, the very word 
 childlike would cease to have any meaning were the natures it 
 describes to alter. 
 
 Looking back over more than fifty years to a child life then, 
 far away from here, flowing peacefully on, I recognise the same 
 nature, the same innocent, unsuspicious enjoyment, the same 
 quaint, so-called "old-fashioned" ways that now-a-days I find in 
 the children growing up about me. The little ones of to-day 
 enjoy a shorter childhood, there is more haste to hurry them 
 forward in the race — we would almost seem to begrudge them 
 their playtime — but that I think is the only real difference. My 
 darlings are children after all; they love the sunshine and the 
 flowers, mud-pies and mischief, dolls and story-books, as fer- 
 vently as ever. And long may they do so! 
 
 My child of fifty j^ears ago was in all essentials a real 
 child. Yet again, in some particulars, she was exceptional, and 
 exceptionally placed. She had never travelled fifty miles from 
 
 257 
 
258 STORIES BY MRS. MOLESWORTH 
 
 her home, and that home was far away in the country, in Scot- 
 land. And a Scottish country home in those days was far removed 
 from the bustle and turmoil and excitement of the great haunts 
 of men. Am I getting beyond you, children dear? Am I using 
 words and thinking thoughts you can scarcely follow? Well, I 
 won't forget again. I will tell you my simple story in sim- 
 ple words. 
 
 This long-ago little girl was named Janet. She was the 
 youngest of several brothers and sisters, some of whom, when she 
 was born even, were already out in the world. They were, on the 
 whole, a happy, united family; they had their troubles, and dis- 
 agreements perhaps too, sometimes, but in one thing they all 
 joined, and that was in loving and petting little Janet. How 
 well she remembers even now, all across the long half century, 
 how the big brothers would dispute as to which of them should 
 carry her in her flowered chintz dressing-gown, perched like a 
 tiny queen on their shoulders, to father's and mother's room to 
 say good-morning; how on Hallowe'en the rosiest apples and 
 finest nuts were for "wee Janet"; how the big sisters would 
 work for hours at her dolls' clothes; how, dearest memory of 
 all, the kind, often careworn, studious father would read aloud 
 to her, hour after hour, as she lay on the hearth-rug, coiled 
 up at his feet. 
 
 For little Janet could not read much to herself. She was 
 not blind, but her sight was imperfect, and unless the greatest 
 care had been taken she might, by the time she grew up, have 
 lost it altogether. To look at her you would not have known 
 there was anything wrong with her blue eyes; the injury was the 
 result of an accident in her infancy, by which one of the delicate 
 sight nerves had been hurt, though not so as to prevent the hope 
 of cure. But for several years she was hardly allowed to use 
 her eyes at all. She used to wear a shade whenever she was in 
 a bright light, and she was forbidden to read, or to sew, or 
 to do anything which called for much seeing. How she learnt 
 
MARY ANN JOLLY 259 
 
 to read I do not know — I do not think she could have told 
 you herself — but still it is certain that she did learn; perhaps 
 her kind father taught her this, and many more things than 
 either he or she suspected in the long hours she used to lie by his 
 study fire, sometimes talking to him in the intervals of his 
 writing, sometimes listening with intense eagerness to the legends 
 and ballads 'his heart delighted in, sometimes only making stories 
 to herself as she sat on the hearth-rug playing with her dolls. 
 
 There are many quaint little stories of this long-ago maiden 
 
 that you would like to hear, I think. One comes back to my 
 
 mind as I write. It is about a mysterious holly bush in the 
 
 garden of Janet's home, which one year took it into its head 
 
 to grow all on one side, in the queerest way you ever saw. This 
 
 holly bush stood in a rather conspicuous position, just outside 
 
 the breakfast-room window, and Janet's father was struck by 
 
 the peculiar crookedness wbich afflicted it, and one morning he 
 
 went out to examine it more closely. He soon found the 
 
 reason — the main branch had been stunted by half an orange 
 
 skin, which had been fitted upon it most neatly and closely, 
 
 like a cap, just where it was sprouting most vigorously. Janet's 
 
 father was greatly surprised. "Dear me, dear me," he exclaimed 
 
 as he came in, "wlhat a curious thing. How could this ever have 
 
 got on to the holly bush? An old orange skin, you see," he 
 
 went on, holding it up to the assembled family party. Little 
 
 Janet Avas there, in her usual place by her father's chair. 
 
 "Was it on the robin's bush, father?" She asked. 
 
 "The robin's bush, Janet? What do you mean?" 
 
 "The bush the wee robin perches on when he comes to sing in 
 
 the morning," she answered readily. "A long, long time ago, 
 
 I tied an orange skin on, to make a soft place for the dear robin's 
 
 feet. The bush was so prickly, I could not bear to see him 
 
 stand upon it." 
 
 And to this day the crooked holly bush tells of the little 
 child's tenderness. 
 
260 STORIES BY MRS. MOLESWORTH 
 
 Then there is another old story of Janet, how, once being 
 sorely troubled with toothache, and anxious to bear it uncom- 
 plainingly "like a woman," she was found, after being searched 
 for everywhere, fast asleep in the "byre," her little cheek pil- 
 lowed on the soft skin of a few days' old calf. "Its breath 
 was so sweet, and it felt so soft and warm, it seemed to take 
 the ache away," she said. 
 
 And another old memory of little Janet on a visit at 
 an uncle's, put to sleep in a room alone, and feeling frightened 
 by a sudden gale of wind that rose in the night, howling among 
 the trees and sweeping down the hills. Poor little Janet! It 
 seemed to her she was far, far away from everbody, and the 
 wind, as it were, took mortal form and voice, and threatened 
 her, till she could bear it no longer. Up she got, all in the 
 dark, and wandered away down the stairs and passages of the 
 rambling old house, till at last a faint glimmer of light led her 
 to a modest little room in the neighbourhood of the kitchen, 
 where old Jamie, the faithful serving-man, who had seen pass 
 away more than one generation of the family he was devoted to, 
 was sitting up reading his Bible before going to bed. How 
 well Janet remembers it even now! The old man's start of 
 surprise at the unexpected apparition of wee missy, how he took 
 her on his knee and turned over the pages of "the Book," to 
 read to her words of gentle comfort, even for a little child's 
 alarm; how Jesus hushed the winds and waves, and bade them 
 be still; how not a hair of the head of even tiny Janet could 
 be injured without the Father's knowledge; how she had indeed 
 no reason to fear; till, soothed and reassured, the child let the 
 good old man lead her back to bed again, where she slept 
 soundly till morning. 
 
 But all this time I am very long of introducing to you, the 
 real heroine of this story — not Janet, but who then? Janet's 
 dearest and most tenderly prized doll — "Mary Ann Jolly." 
 
 She was one of several, but the best loved of all, though 
 
MARY ANN JOLLY 261 
 
 why it would have been difficult to say. She was certainly not 
 pretty; indeed, to tell the truth, I fear I must own that she was 
 decidedly ugly. And an ugly doll in those days was an ugly 
 doll, my dears. For Whether little girls have altered much or 
 not since the days of Janet's childhood, there can be no two 
 opinions about dolls; they have altered tremendously and un- 
 doubtedly for the better. There were what people thought very 
 pretty dolls then, and Janet possessed two or three of these. 
 There was "Lady Lucy Manners," an elegant blonde, with 
 flaxen ringlets and pink kid hands and arms; there was "Master 
 Ronald," a gallant sailor laddie, with crisp black curls and 
 goggle bead eyes; there were two or three others — Arabellas 
 or Clarissas, I cannot tell you their exact names; on the whole, 
 for that time, Janet had a goodly array of dolls. But still, 
 dearest of all was Mary Ann Jolly. I think her faithfulness, 
 her thorough reliableness, must have been her charm; she 
 never melted, wept tears of wax — that is to say, to the detri- 
 ment of her complexion, when placed too near the nursery fire. 
 She never broke an artery and collapsed through loss of sawdust. 
 These weaknesses were not at all in her way, for she was of 
 wood, wooden. Her features were oil-painted on her face, like 
 the figure-head of a ship, and would stand washing. Her hair 
 was a good honest black-silk wig, with sewn-on curls, and the 
 whole affair could be removed at pleasure; but oh, my dear 
 children, she was ugly. Where she had come from originally 
 I cannot say. I feel almost sure it was from no authorised 
 doll manufactory. I rather think she was home-made to some 
 extent, and I consider it highly probable that her beautiful 
 features were the production of the village painter. But none 
 of these trifling details are of consequence; wherever she had 
 come from, whatever her origin, she was herself — good, faithful 
 Mary Ann Jolly. 
 
 One summer time there came trouble to the neighbourhood 
 where little Janet's home was. A fever of some kind broke out 
 
262 STORIES BY MRS. MOLESWORTH 
 
 in several villages, and its victims were principally children. For 
 the elder ones of the family — such of them, that is to say, as were 
 at home — but little fear was felt by their parents; but for 
 Janet and the brother next to her, Hughie, only three years 
 older than she, they were anxious and uneasy. Hughie was 
 taken from the school, a few miles distant, to Which every day 
 he used to ride on his little rough pony, and for the time Janet 
 and he were allowed to run wild. They spent the long sunny 
 days, for it was the height of summer, in the woods or on the 
 hills, as happy as two young fawns, thinking, in their innocence, 
 "the fever" — to them but the name of an unknown and unrealis- 
 able possibility — rather a lucky thing than otherwise. 
 
 And Hughie was a trusty guardian for his delicate little sis- 
 ter. He was a brave and manly little fellow; awkward and shy to 
 strangers, but honest as the day, and with plenty of mother-wit 
 about him. Janet looked up to him with affection and admira- 
 tion not altogether unmixed with awe. Hughie was great at 
 "knowing best," in their childish perplexities, and, for all his 
 tenderness, somewhat impatient of "want of sense," or thought- 
 lessness. 
 
 One day the two children, accompanied as usual by Hughie's 
 dog "Cassar," and the no less faithful Mary Ann Jolly, had 
 wandered farther than their wont from home. Janet had set 
 her heart on some beautiful water forget-me-nots, which, in a 
 rash moment, Hughie had told her that he had seen growing on 
 the banks of a little stream that flowed through a sort of gorge 
 between the hills. It was quite three miles from home — a 
 long walk for Janet, but Hughie knew his way perfectly — he 
 was not the kind of boy ever to lose it; the day was lovely, 
 and the burn ran nowhere near the direction they had been 
 forbidden to take — 'that of the infected village. But Hughie. 
 wise though he was, did not know or remember that close to 
 the spot for which he was aiming ran a road leading directly 
 from this village to the ten miles distant little town of Linnside, 
 
MARY ANN JOLLY 263 
 
 and even had he thought of it, the possibility of any danger 
 to themselves attending the fact would probably never have 
 struck him. There was another way to Linnside from their 
 home, so Hughie's ignorance or forgetfulness was natural. 
 
 The way down to the edge of the burn was steep and difficult, 
 for the shrubs and bushes grew thickly together, and there 
 was no proper path. 
 
 "Stay you here, Janet," he said, finding for the child a seat on 
 a nice flat stone at the entrance to the gorge; "I'll be back before 
 you know I am gone, and I'll get the flowers much better 
 without you, little woman ; and Mary Ann will be company like." 
 
 Janet obeyed without any reluctance. She had implicit faith 
 in Hughie. But after a while Mary Ann confided to her that 
 she was "wearying" of sitting still, and Janet thought it could 
 do no harm to take a turn up and down the sloping field where 
 Hughie had left her. She wandered to a gate a few yards off, 
 and, finding it open, wandered a little farther, till, without 
 knowing it, she was Avithin a stone's throw of Dhe road I 
 mentioned. And here an unexpected sight met Janet's eyes, 
 and made her lose all thought of Hughie and the forget-me-nots, 
 and how frightened he would be at missing her. Drawn up in 
 a corner by some trees stood one of tihose travelling houses on 
 wheels, in which I suppose every child that ever was born has at 
 one time or other thought that it would be delightful to live. 
 Janet had never seen one before, and she gazed at it in astonish- 
 ment, till another still more interesting object caught her 
 attention. 
 
 It was a child — a little girl just about her own age, a dark- 
 eyed, dark-haired, brown-skinned, but very, very thin little 
 girl, lying on a heap of old shawls and blankets on the grass 
 by the side of the movable house. She seemed to be quite alone 
 — there was no one in the waggon apparently, no sound to be 
 heard; she lay quite still, one thin little hand under her head, 
 the other clasping tightly some two or three poor flowers — a 
 
264 STORIES BY MRS. MOLESWORTH 
 
 daisy or two, a dandelion, and some buttercups — which she had 
 managed to reach without moving from her couch. Janet, from 
 under her little green shade, stared at her, and she returned 
 the stare with interest, for all around was so still that the 
 slight rustle made by the little intruder caught her sharp ear 
 at once. But after a moment her eyes wandered down from 
 Janet's fair childish face, on which she seemed to think she 
 had bestowed enough attention, and settled themselves on the 
 lovely object nestling in the little girl's maternal embrace. A 
 smile of pleasure broke over her face. 
 
 "What's yon?" she said suddenly. 
 
 "What's what?" said Janet. 
 
 "Yon," repeated the child, pointing with her disengaged hand 
 to the faithful Mary Ann. 
 
 "That," exclaimed Janet. "That's my doll. That's Mary 
 Ann Jolly. Did you never see a doll?" 
 
 "No," replied the brown-skinned waif, "never. She's awfu' 
 bonny." 
 
 Janet's maternal vanity was gratified. 
 
 "She's guid and she's bonny," she said, unconsciously imitat- 
 ing, with ludicrous exactness, her own old nurse's pet expression 
 when she was pleased with her. She hugged Mary Ann closer 
 to her as she spoke. "You'd like to have a dolly too, wouldn't 
 you, little girl?" 
 
 The child smiled. 
 
 "I couldna gie her tae ye," said Janet, relapsing into Scotch, 
 with a feeling that "high English" would probably be lost upoa 
 her new friend. "But ye micht tak' her for a minute in yer ain 
 airms, if ye like?" 
 
 "Ay wad I," said the child, and Janet stepped closer to her 
 and deposited Mary Ann in her arms. 
 
 "Canna ye stan' or walk aboot? Hae ye nae legs?" she 
 inquired. 
 
 "Legs," repeated the child, "what for shud I na hae legs? 
 
MARY ANN JOLLY 265 
 
 I oanna rin aboot i' the noo; I've nae been weel, but I'll sune 
 be better. Eh my! but she's awfu' fine," she went on, caressing 
 Mary Ann as she spoke. 
 
 But at this moment the bark of a dog interrupted the 
 friendly conversation. Ceesar appeared, and Janet stauted for- 
 ward to reclaim her property, her heart for the first time mis- 
 giving her as to "what Hughie would 9ay." Just as she was 
 taking Mary Ann out of the little vagrant's arms, Hughie came 
 up. He was hot, breathless, anxious, and, as a natural conse- 
 quence of the last, especially, angry. 
 
 "Naughty Janet, bad girl," he exclaimed, in his excitement 
 growing more "Scotch" than usual. What for didna ye bide 
 whaur I left ye? I couldna think what had become o' ye; bad 
 girl. And wha's that ye're clavering wi'? Shame on ye, Janet." 
 
 He darted forward, snatched his little sister roughly by 
 the arm, dropping the precious forget-me-nots in his flurry, and 
 dragged Janet away, making her run so fast that she burst out 
 sobbing with fear and consternation. She could not understand 
 it; it was not like Hughie to be so fierce and rough. 
 
 "You are very, very unkind," she began as soon as her 
 brother allowed her to stop to take breath. "Why should I 
 nae speak to the puir wee girl? She looked sae ill lying there 
 her lane, and she was sae extraordinar' pleased wi' Mary Ann." 
 
 "You let her touch Mary Ann, did ye?" said Hughie, stop- 
 ping short. "I couldna have believed, Janet, you'd be such a 
 fule. A big girl, ten years old, to ken na better! It's 'fare- 
 ye-weel' to Mary Ann anyway, and you have yourself to thank 
 for it." 
 
 They were standing near the spot where Hughie had left 
 his sister while he clambered down to the burn, and before 
 Janet had the least idea of his intention, Hughie seized the 
 unfortunate doll, and pitched her, with all his strength, far, far 
 away down among the brushwood of the glen. 
 
 For an instant Janet stood in perfect silence. She was 
 
266 STORIES BY MRS. MOLESWORTH 
 
 too thunderstruck, too utterly appalled and stunned, to take in 
 the reality of what had happened. She had never seen Hughie 
 in a passion in her life; never in all their childish quarrels had 
 he been harsh or "bullying," as I fear too many boys of his 
 age are to their little sisters. She gazed at him in terrified 
 consternation, slowly, very slowly taking in the fact — to her 
 almost as dreadful as if he had committed a murder — that Hughie 
 had thrown away Mary Ann — her own dear, dear Mary Ann; 
 and Hughie, her own brother had done it! Had he lost his senses? 
 
 "Hughie," she gasped out at last; that was all. 
 
 Hughie looked uneasy, but tried to hide it. 
 
 "Come on, Janet," he said, "it's getting late. We must 
 put our best foot foremost, or nurse will be angry." 
 
 But Janet took no notice of what he said. 
 
 "Hughie," she repeated, "are ye no gaun to get me Mary 
 Ann back again?" 
 
 Hughie laughed, half contemptuously. "Get her back again," 
 he said. "She's ower weel hidden for me or anybody to get her 
 back again. And why should I want her back when I've just the 
 noo thrown her awa'? Na, na, Janet, you'll have to put up 
 wi' the loss of Mary Ann; and I only hope you won't have 
 to put up wi' waur. It's your own fault; though maybe I 
 shouldna' have left her," he added to himself. 
 
 "Hughie, you've broke my heart," said Janet. "What did 
 you do it for?" 
 
 "If you'd an ounce of sense you'd know," said Hughie; 
 "and if you don't I'm no gaun to tell." 
 
 And in dreary silence the two children made their way home 
 — Hughie, provoked, angiy, and uneasy, yet self-reproachful 
 and sore-hearted; Janet in an anguish of bereavement and in- 
 dignation, yet through it all not without little gleams of faith 
 in Hughie still, that mysteriously cruel though his conduct ap- 
 peared, there must yet somehow have been a good reason for it. 
 
 It was not for long, however, that she understood it. She 
 
MARY ANN JOLLY 267 
 
 did not know that immediately they got home honest Hughie 
 went to his father and told him all that had happened, taking 
 blame to himself manfully for having for an instant left 
 Janet alone. 
 
 "And you say she does not understand at all why you 
 threw the doll away," said Janet's father. "Did she not notice 
 that the little girl had been ill?" 
 
 "Oh yes, but she took no heed of it," Hughie replied. "She 
 thinks it was just awfu' unkind of me to get in such a temper. 
 I would like her to know why it was, but I thought maybe I 
 had better not explain till I had told you." 
 
 "You were quite right, Hughie," said his father; "and I 
 think it is better to leave it. Wee Janet is so impressionable 
 and fanciful, it would not do for her to begin thinking she 
 had caught the fever from the child. We must leave it in 
 God's hands, and trust no ill will come of it. And the first day 
 I can go to Linnside you Shall come with me, and we'll buy her 
 a new doll." 
 
 "Thank you, father," said Hughie gratefully. But he 
 stopped as he was leaving the room, with his hand on the door 
 handle, to say, half -laughing, half-pathetically, "I'm hardly 
 thinking, father, that any new doll will make up to wee Janet 
 for Mary Ann." 
 
 Janet heard nothing of this conversation, however, and the 
 silence which was, perhaps mistakenly, preserved about the loss 
 of her favourite added to the mysterious sadness of her fate. The 
 poor little girl moped and pined, but said nothing. To Hughie 
 her manner was gently reproachful, but nothing more. But all 
 her brightness and playfulness had deserted her; she hung about' 
 listless and uninterested, and for some days there was not an hour 
 during which one or other of her doting relations — father, mother, 
 sisters, and brothers — did not make up his or her mind that their 
 darling was smitten by the terrible blast of the fever. 
 
 A week, ten days, nearly a fortnight passed, and they 
 
268 STORIES BY MRS. MOLESWORTH 
 
 began to breathe more freely. Then one day the father, remem- 
 bering his promise, took Hughie with him to the town to buy 
 a new doll for Janet, instead of her old favourite. I cannot 
 describe to you the one they bought, but I know it was the 
 prettiest that money could get at Linnside, and Hughie came 
 home in great spirits with the treasure in his arms. 
 
 "Janet, Janet," he shouted, as soon as he had jumped off 
 his pony, "where are you, Janet? Come and see what I've got 
 for you !" 
 
 Janet came slowly out of the study, where she had been 
 lying coiled up on the floor, near the low window, watching 
 for her father's return. 
 
 "I'm here, Hughie," she said, trying to look interested and 
 bright, though the effort was not very successful. 
 
 But Hughie was too excited and eager to notice her manner. 
 
 "Look here, Janet," he exclaimed, unwrapping the paper 
 which covered Miss Dolly. "Now, isn't she a beauty? Far be- 
 fore that daft-like old Mary Ann; eh, Janet?" 
 
 Janet took the new doll in her hands. "She's bonny," she 
 said, hesitatingly. "It's very kind of you, Hughie; but I wish, 
 I wish you hadn't. I don't care for her. I dinna mean to 
 vex ye, Hughie," she continued, sadly, "but I canna help it. 
 I want, oh I do want my ain Mary Ann!" 
 
 She put the new doll down on the hall table, burst into 
 tears, and ran away to the nursery. 
 
 "She's just demented about that Mary Ann," said Hughie to 
 his father, who had followed him into the hall. 
 
 "I'm sorry for your disappointment, my boy," said his father, 
 "but you must not take it to heart. I don't think wee Janet 
 can be well." 
 
 He was right. What they had so dreaded came at last, just 
 as they had begun to hope that the danger was over. The next 
 morning saw little Janet down with the fever. Ah, then, what 
 sad days of anxiety and watching followed! How softly every- 
 
©BY DUFFIELD a COMPANY 
 
 "I've some one else here to kiss you, Wee Janet," he said. 
 
MARY ANN JOLLY 269 
 
 body crept about — a vain precaution, for poor Janet was uncon- 
 scious of everything about her. How careworn and tear-stained 
 were all the faces of the household — parents, brothers and sisters, 
 and servants! What sad little bulletins, costing sixpence if not 
 a shilling each in those days, children, were sent off by post 
 every day to the absent ones, with the tidings still of "No 
 better," gradually growing into the still worse, "Very little 
 hope." It must have been a touching sight to see a whole house- 
 hold so cast down about the fate of one tiny, delicate child. 
 
 And poor Hughie was the worst of all. They had tried to 
 keep him separate from his sister, but it was no use. He had 
 managed to creep into the room and kiss her unobserved, and 
 then he had it all his own way — all the harm was done. But 
 he could hardly bear to hear her innocent ravings, they were so 
 often about the lost Mary Ann, and Hughie's strange cruelty in 
 throwing her away. "I canna think what came over Hughie to 
 do it," she would say, over and over again. "I want no new 
 dollies. I only want Mary Ann." 
 
 Then there came a day on which the doctor said the disease 
 was at its height — a few hours would show on which side the 
 victory was to be; and the anxious faces grew more anxious still, 
 and the silent prayers more frequent. But for many hours of 
 this day Hughie was absent, and the others, in their intense 
 thought about Janet, scarcely missed him. He came home late 
 in the summer evening, with something in his arms, hidden under 
 his jacket. And somehow bis face looked more hopeful and 
 happy than for days past. 
 
 "How is she?" he asked breathlessly of the first person he 
 met. It was one of the elder sisters. 
 
 "Better," she replied, with the tears in her eyes. "O Hughie, 
 how can we thank God enough? She has wakened quite herself, 
 and the doctor says now there is only weakness to fight against. 
 She has been asking for you, Hughie. You may go up and 
 say good-night. Where have you been all the afternoon?" 
 
270 STORIES BY MRS. MOLESWORTH 
 
 But Hughie was already half way up the stairs. 
 
 He crept into Janet's room, where the mother was on guard. 
 She made a sign to him to come to the bed where little Janet lay, 
 pale, and thin and fragile, but peaceful and conscious. 
 
 "Good-night, wee Janet," Hughie whispered; "I'm sae glad 
 wee Janet's better." 
 
 "Good-night, Hughie," she answered softly. "Kiss me, 
 Hughie." 
 
 "I've some one else here to kiss you, wee Janet," he said. 
 
 Janet looked up inquiringly. 
 
 "You must not excite her, Hughie," the mother whispered. 
 But Hughie knew what he was about. He drew from under 
 his jacket a queer, familiar figure. It was Mary Ann Jolly! 
 There had been no rain, fortunately for her, during her exposure 
 to the weather, and she was sturdy enough to have stood a 
 few showers, even had there been any. She really looked in no 
 way the worse for her adventure, as Hughie laid her gently 
 down on the pillow beside Janet. 
 
 "It's no one to excite her, mother," he said. "It's no 
 stranger; only Mary Ann. She's been away paying a visit to 
 the fairies in the glen, and I think she must have enjoyed it. 
 She's looking as bonny as ever, and she was in no hurry to come 
 home. I had to shout for her all over the glen before I could 
 make her hear. Are you glad she's come, Janet?" 
 
 Janet's eyes were glistening. "O Hughie," she whispered, 
 "kiss me again. I can sleep so well now." 
 
 The crisis no doubt had been passed before this, but still it 
 is certain that Janet's recovery was faster far than had been 
 expected. And for this she and Hughie, and some of the elder 
 ones, too, I fancy, gave the credit to the return of her favourite. 
 Hughie was well rewarded for his several hours of patient 
 searching in the glen; and I am happy to tell you that he did 
 not catch the fever. 
 
 He would have been an elderly, almost an old man by now 
 
MARY ANN JOLLY 271 
 
 had he lived — good, kind Hughie. But that was not God's will 
 for him. He died long ago, in the prime of his youthful man- 
 hood; and it is to his little grand-nephews and nieces that wee 
 Janet's daughter has heen telling this simple story of a long-ago 
 little girl, and a long-ago doll, poor old Mary Ann Jolly! 
 
BASIL'S VIOLIN 
 
 Part 1 
 
 "Thank you so much for telling me about it. I am pleased, 
 ffor it is just what I wanted to hear of." 
 
 "And I am so glad for Herr Wildermann's sake. It rarely 
 happens in this world that one hears of a want and a supply at 
 the same time"; and the speaker, laughing as she said the last 
 words, shook hands once again with her hostess and left her. 
 
 Lady Utyd went to the window, — a low one, leading on to the 
 garden, and looked out. Then she opened it and called out 
 clearly, though not very loudly 
 
 "Basil, Basi — i — il, are you there, my boy?" 
 
 "Yes, mother; I'm coming." And from among the bushes, 
 at a very short distance, there emerged a rather comical little 
 figure. A boy of eight or nine, Avith a bright rosy face and short 
 dark hair. Over his sailor suit he had a brown holland blouse, 
 which once, doubtless, had been clean, but was certainly so no 
 longer. It stuck out rather bunchily behind, owing to the large 
 collar and handkerchief worn beneath, and as the child was of a 
 sturdy make to begin with, and was extra flushed with his exer- 
 tions, it was no wonder that his mother stopped in what she was 
 going to say to laugh heartily at her little boy. 
 
 "You look like a gnome, Basil," she said. "What have you 
 been doing to make yourself so hot and dirty?" 
 
 "Transplanting, mother. It's nearly done. I've taken a 
 lot of the little wood plants that I have in my garden and put 
 them down here among the big shrubs, where it's cool and damp. 
 It was too dry and sunny for them in my garden, Andrew says. 
 They're used to the nice, shady, damp sort of places in the wood, 
 you see, mother." 
 
 272 
 
BASIL'S VIOLIN 273 
 
 "But it isn't the time for transplanting, Basil. It is too late." 
 
 "It won't matter, Andrew says, mother. I've put them in 
 such a beautiful wet corner. But I'm awfully hot, and I'm rather 
 dirty." 
 
 "Rather," said his mother. "And, Basil, your lessons for to- 
 morrow? It's four o'clock, and you know what your father said 
 about having them done before you come down to dessert." 
 
 Basil shook himself impatiently. 
 
 "Oh, bother!" he said; "whenever I'm a little happy somebody 
 begins about something horrid. I've such a lot of lessons to-day. 
 And it's a half-holiday. I think it is the greatest shame to call it 
 a half-holiday, and then give more lessons to do than any other 
 day." 
 
 At the bottom of her heart Lady Iltyd was a little of Basil's 
 opinion; but she felt it would do no good, and might do a great 
 deal of harm, to say so. Basil went as a day-scholar to a very 
 good private school at Tarnworth, the little country town two 
 miles off. He rode there on his pony in the morning, and rode 
 home again at four o'clock. He liked his school-fellows, and did 
 not dislike his teachers, but he could not bear lessons! There was 
 this much excuse for him, that he was not a clever boy in the sense 
 of learning quickly. On the contrary, he learned slowly, and had 
 to read a thing over several times before he understood it. Some- 
 times he would do so patiently enough; but sometimes — and these 
 "times," I fear, came more frequently than the good ones — he was 
 so impatient, so easily discouraged, that it was not a pleasant task 
 to superintend his lessons' learning. Yet he was not without a 
 queer kind of perseverance of his own — he could not bear to go 
 to bed leaving any of his lessons unfinished, and he would go on 
 working at them with a sort of dull, hopeless resolution that was 
 rather piteous, till one reflected that, after all, he might just as 
 well look cheerful about it. But to look cheerful in the face of 
 difficulties was not Basil's "way." With the first difficulty van- 
 ished all his brightness and good temper, and all he could do was 
 
274 STORIES BY MRS. MOLESWORTH 
 
 to work on like a poor little overdriven slave, with no pleasure or 
 satisfaction in his task. And many an evening bed-time was long 
 past before his lessons were ready, for though Basil well knew 
 how long he took to learn them, and how the later he put them 
 off the harder they grew, there was no getting him to set to work 
 at once on coming home. He would make one excuse after 
 another — "it was not worth while beginning till after tea," or his 
 little sister Blanche had begged him to play with her just for five 
 minutes, and they "hadn't noticed how late it was," or — or — it 
 would be impossible to tell all the reasons why Basil never could 
 manage to begin his lessons so as to get them done at a reasonable 
 hour. So that at last his father had made the rule of which his 
 mother reminded him — that he was not to come down to dessert 
 unless his lessons were done. 
 
 Now, not coming down to dessert meant more to Basil than 
 it sounds, and nothing was a greater punishment to him. It was 
 not that he was too fond of nice things, for he was not at all a 
 greedy boy, though he liked an orange, or a juicy pear, or a 
 macaroon biscuit as much as anybody, and he liked, too, to be 
 neatly dressed, and sit beside his father in the pretty dining-room, 
 by the nicely arranged table with the flowers and the fruit and 
 the sparkling wine and shining glass. For though Basil was 
 not in some ways a clever child, he had great taste for pretty and 
 beautiful things. But it was none of the things I have men- 
 tioned that made him so very fond of "coming down to dessert." 
 It was another thing. It was his mother's playing on the piano. 
 
 Every evening when Lady Iltyd left the dining-room, fol- 
 lowed by Basil and Blanche, she used to go straight to the grand 
 piano which stood in one corner of the library, where they gener- 
 ally sat, and there she would play to the children for a quarter 
 of an hour or so, just whatever they asked for. She needed no 
 "music paper," as Blanche called it; the music seemed to come 
 out of her fingers of itself. And this was Basil's happiest moment 
 of the day. Blanche liked it too, but not as much as Basil. She 
 
BASIL'S VIOLIN 275 
 
 would sometimes get tired of sitting still, and begin to fidget 
 about, so that now and then her mother would tell her to run 
 off to bed without waiting for nurse to come for her. But not 
 so Basil. There he would sit — or lie, perhaps, generally on the 
 white fluffy rug before the fire — with the soft dim light stealing 
 in through the coloured glass of the high windows, or in winter 
 evenings with no light but that of the fire fitfully dancing on the 
 rows and rows and rows of books that lined the walls from 
 floor to ceiling, only varied here and there by the portrait of some 
 powdered-haired great-grandfather or grandmother smiling, or 
 sometimes, perhaps, frowning down on their funny little descend- 
 ant in his sailor-suit, with his short-cropped, dark head. A quaint 
 little figure against the gleaming white fur, dreaming — what? — 
 he could not have told you, for he had not much cleverness in 
 telling what he thought. But his music-dreams were very charm- 
 ing nevertheless, and in after life, whenever anything beautiful 
 or exquisite came in his way, Basil's thoughts always flew back 
 to the old library and his mother's playing. 
 
 For long he had imagined that nothing of music kind could 
 be more delightful. But a short time before this little story begins 
 a new knowledge had come to him. At a concert at Tarnworth 
 — for once or twice a year there were good concerts at the little 
 town — he had heard a celebrated violinist play, and it seemed to 
 Basil as if a new world had opened to him. 
 
 "Mother," he said, when the concert was over, looking up at 
 his mother with red cheeks and sparkling eyes, "it's better than 
 the piano — that little fiddle, I mean. It's like — like " 
 
 "Like what, my boy?" 
 
 "I can't say it," said Basil, "but it's like as if the music 
 didn't belong to here at all. Like as if it came out of the air 
 someway, without notes or anything. I think if I was an awfully 
 clever man I could say things out of a fiddle, far better than 
 write them in books." 
 
 His mother smiled at him. 
 
276 STORIES BY MRS. MOLESWORTH 
 
 "But you mustn't call it a fiddle, Basil. A violin is the 
 right name." 
 
 "Violin," repeated Basil thoughtfully. And a few minutes 
 later, when they were in the carriage on their way home, 
 "Mother," he said, "do you think I might learn to play the 
 violin?" 
 
 "I should like it very much," said his mother. "But I fear 
 there is no teacher at Tarnworth. I will inquire, however. 
 Only, Basil, there is one thing. The violin is difficult, and you 
 don't like difficulties." 
 
 Basil opened his eyes. 
 
 "Difficult," he said, and as he spoke he put up his left arm 
 as he had seen the violinist do, sawing the air backwards and 
 forwards with an imaginary bow in his right — "difficult! I 
 can't fancy it would be difficult. But anyway, I'd awfully like 
 to learn it." 
 
 This had been two or three months ago. Lady Iltyd had 
 not forgotten Basil's wish, and, indeed, if she had been inclined 
 to do so, I don't think Basil would have let her. For at least 
 two or three times a week he asked her if she had found a violin 
 teacher yet, and whether it wouldn't be a good plan to write to 
 London for a violin. For, at the bottom of his heart, Basil 
 had an idea which he did not quite like to express, in the face 
 of what his mother had said as to the difficulty of violin playing, 
 namely, that teaching at all would be unnecessary! 
 
 "If I only had a violin in my arms," he used to say to 
 himself as he fiddled away with his invisible bow, "I am sure I 
 could make it sing out whatever I wanted." 
 
 And I am afraid that this idea of violin playing which had 
 taken such a hold of him, did not help him to do his lessons 
 any the quicker. He would fall into a brown study in the 
 middle of them, imagining himself with the longed-for treasure 
 in his possession, and almost hearing the lovely sounds, to wake 
 up with a start to his half-finished Latin exercise or French 
 
BASIL'S VIOLIN 277 
 
 verb on the open copy-book before him, so that it was really no 
 wonder that the complaint, evening after evening repeated, 
 "Basil hasn't finished his lessons," at last wore out his father's 
 patience. 
 
 We have been a long time in returning to the garden and 
 listening to the conversation between Basil and his mother. 
 
 "Yes, I think it's a shame," repeated Basil, apropos of 
 Wednesday afternoon lessons. 
 
 "But it can't be altered," said his mother, "and instead of 
 wasting time in grumbling, I think it would be much better 
 to set to work. And Basil, listen. If you really exert yourself 
 to the utmost, you may still get your lessons done in time this 
 evening. And if they are done in time, and you can come down 
 to dessert, I shall have something to tell you in the library 
 after dinner." 
 
 "Something to tell me," repeated Basil, looking rather 
 puzzled. "How do you mean, mother? Something nice, do 
 you mean?" 
 
 He did not take up ideas very quickly, and now and then 
 looked puzzled about things that would have been easily under- 
 stood by most children. 
 
 "Nice, of course it is nice, you stupid old fellow," said his 
 mother, laughing. "Are you in a brown study, Basil? That 
 bodes ill for your lessons. Come, rouse yourself and give all 
 your attention to them, and let me see a bright face at dessert. 
 Of course it is something 'nice' I have to tell you, or I wouldn't 
 make a bribe of it, would I? It's very wrong to bribe you, 
 isn't it?" 
 
 "I don't know," said Basil. "I don't think it can be if you 
 do it. Kiss me, mother. I'll try to do my lessons quickly," and 
 lifting up his rosy face for his mother's kiss, he ran off. "But 
 oh, how I do hate them!" he said to himself as he ran. 
 
 After all, "they" were not so very difficult today, or perhaps 
 Basil really did try hard for once. However that may have 
 
278 STORIES BY MRS. MOLESWORTH 
 
 been, the result was a happy one. At dessert two bright little 
 people made their appearance in the dining-room, and before his 
 father had time to ask him the question he had hitherto so 
 dreaded, the boy burst out with the good news 
 
 "All done, father, every one, more than half an hour ago." 
 
 "Yes," said Blanche complacently, "he's been werry good. 
 He's put his fingers in his ears, and kept humming to himself 
 such a lot, and he hasn't played the vi'lin one time." 
 
 "Played the violin!" repeated her father. "What does she 
 
 mean? You didn't tell me Basil had already be " he went 
 
 on, turning to the children's mother; but she hastily inter- 
 rupted him. 
 
 "Blanche means playing an imaginary violin," she said, 
 
 smiling. "Ever since Basil heard Signor L at Tamworth, 
 
 his head has been running on violins so that he stops in the 
 middle of his lessons to refresh himself with a little inaudible 
 music." 
 
 As she spoke she got up and moved toward the door. 
 
 "Bring your biscuits and fruit into the library, children," 
 she said. "You can eat them there. I'm not going to play 
 to you this evening. We're going to talk instead." 
 
 Up jumped Basil. 
 
 "I don't want any fruit," he said, "I really don't. Blanche, 
 you stay with father and eat all you want. I want to be a 
 little while alone with mother in the library. Mayn't I, mother?" 
 he added eoaxingly. "Blanche doesn't mind." 
 
 "You are really very complimentary to me," said his father, 
 laughing. "Why should Blanche mind?" 
 
 "I doesn't," said Blanche, very contentedly watching her 
 father peeling a pear for her. So Basil and his mother went 
 off together for their talk. 
 
 "About the 'something nice,' mother?" began Basil. 
 
 "Well, my boy, I'm quite ready to tell you. Mrs. March- 
 cote was here to-day. You know who I mean — the lady who 
 
BASIL'S VIOLIN 279 
 
 lives in that pretty house at the end of Tarnworth High Street. 
 You pass it every morning going to school." 
 
 "I know," said Basil, nodding his head. "But I don't care 
 about Mrs. Marehcote, mother. Is she going to have a children's 
 party — is that it? I don't think I care about parties, mother." 
 And his face looked rather disappointed. 
 
 "Basil, Basil, how impatient you are! I never said anything 
 about a children's party. Mrs. Marehcote told me something 
 quite different from that. Listen, Basil. A young German — 
 Ulric Wildermann is his name — has come to Tarnworth in hopes 
 of making his living by teaching the violin. He can give 
 pianoforte lessons also, but he plays the violin better. He plays 
 it, she says, very beautifully. He has got no pupils yet, Basil. 
 But — who do you think is going to be his first one?" 
 
 Basil gazed at his mother. For a moment he felt a little 
 puzzled. 
 
 "Mother," he said at last, "do you mean — oh, mother, are 
 you going to let me have lessons? Shall I have a dear little 
 violin of my own? Oh, mother, mother!" 
 
 And he jumped up from the rug where he had been lying 
 at his mother's feet, and looked as if he were ready to turn 
 head over heels for joy! 
 
 "Yes, my boy," said his mother; "you are going to have 
 your first lesson the day after to-morrow, and Mr. Wildermann 
 is to choose you a violin. But listen, Basil, and think well of 
 what I say. It is not easy to learn to play the violin. Even if 
 a child has a great deal of taste — talent even — for music, it 
 requires great patience and perseverance to leam to play the 
 violin at all well. No instrument requires more patience before 
 you can arrive at anything really good. I would not say all 
 this to another child — I would let Blanche, for instance, find 
 out the difficulties for herself, and meet them as they come, 
 cheerfully and brightly as she always does. But you are so 
 exaggerated about difficulties, Basil, that I want to save yourself 
 
280 STORIES BY MRS. MOLESWORTH 
 
 and me vexation and trouble before you begin the violin. You 
 are too confident at first, and you cannot believe that there -will 
 be difficulties, and then you go to the other extreme and lose 
 heart. Now, I warn you that the violin is very difficult. And 
 it is not a thing you must learn — not like your lessons at school. 
 It will be a great, an immense pleasure to you once you master 
 it, but unless you resolve to be patient and persevering and 
 hopeful in learning it, you had better not begin it." 
 
 Lady Utyd spoke very earnestly. She was anxious to make 
 an impression on Basil, for she saw more clearly than any one 
 the faults of his character, and longed to help him to overcome 
 them. For a moment or two Basil remained silent, for he 
 was, as she had hoped he would be, struck by what she had said, 
 and was thinking over it. Then he jumped up, and throwing his 
 arms round his mother's neck, kissed her very lovingly. 
 
 "Mother dear," he said, "I do want to learn it, and I will 
 try. Even if it is very difficult, I'll try. You'll see if I 
 won't, for I do love music, and I love you, mother. And I 
 would like to please you." 
 
 Lady Iltyd kissed him in return. 
 
 "My own dear boy," she said, "you will please me very 
 much if you overcome that bad habit of losing heart over 
 difficulties." 
 
 "He may learn more things than music in learning the 
 violin," she thought to herself. 
 
 But as Basil went upstairs to bed, fiddling at his invisible 
 violin all the way, and whistling the tune he liked to fancy he 
 was playing, he said to himself: "I do mean to try, but I can't 
 believe it is so difficult as mother says." 
 
BASIL'S VIOLIN 281 
 
 Part II 
 
 That same afternoon an elderly woman was sitting alone 
 by the window of a shabby little parlour over a grocer's shop 
 in the High Street of Tarnworth. She had a gentle, careworn 
 face — a face that looked as if its owner had known much 
 sorrow, but had not lost heart and patience. She was knitting 
 — knitting a stocking, but so deftly and swiftly that it was 
 evident she did not need to pay any attention to what her fingers 
 were doing. Her eyes — soft, old, blue eyes, with the rather 
 sad look those clear blue eyes often get in old age — gazed now 
 and then out of the window — for from where she sat a comer of 
 the ivy-covered church tower was to be seen making a pleasant 
 object against the sky — and now and then turned anxiously 
 toward the door. 
 
 "He is late, my poor Ulric," she said to herself. "And 
 yet I almost dread to see him come in, with the same look 
 on his face — always the same sad disappointment! Ah, what a 
 mistake it has been, I fear, this coming to England — but yet we 
 did it for the best, and it seemed so likely to succeed here where 
 there are two or three such good schools and no music teacher. 
 We did it for the best, however, and there is no use regretting 
 it. The good God sees fit to try us — but still we must trust 
 Him. Ah, if it were only I; but my poor boy!" 
 
 And the old eyes filled with slow-coming tears. 
 
 They were hastily brushed away, however, for at that 
 moment the door opened and a young man, breathless with 
 excitement, hurried into the room. 
 
 "Mother!" he exclaimed, but before he could say more she 
 interrupted him. 
 
 "What is it, my boy? What is it, Ulric?" she exclaimed. 
 "No bad news, surely?" 
 
 "Bad news, mother dear? I scarcely see Avhat more bad 
 news could come to us. As long as we have each other, what is 
 
282 STORIES BY MRS. MOLESWORTH 
 
 there for us to lose? But I did not mean to speak gloomily 
 this morning, for I have brought you good news. Fancy, 
 mother, only fancy — I have got a pupil at last." 
 
 "My Ulric — that is good news !" said poor Mrs. Wildermann. 
 
 "And who knows what it may lead to," said the young man. 
 "I have always heard that the first pupil is the difficulty — once 
 started, one gets on rapidly. Especially if the pupil is one likely 
 to do one credit, and I fancy this will be the case with this boy. 
 Mrs. Marchcote — it is through her kindness I have been recom- 
 mended — says he has unusual taste for music. He has been long- 
 ing to learn the violin." 
 
 "Who is he?" asked the mother. 
 
 "The son of Sir John Iltyd — one of the principal families 
 here. I could not have a better introduction. I am to go the 
 day after to-morrow — three lessons a week, and well paid." 
 
 He went on to explain all about the terms to his mother, who 
 listened with a thankful heart, as she saw Ulric's bright eyes and 
 eager, hopeful expression. 
 
 "He has not looked like that for many a long day," she 
 thought to herself, "and the help has not come too soon. Ulric 
 would have been even more unhappy had he known how very 
 little we have left." 
 
 And she felt glad that she had struggled on without telling 
 her son quite the worst of things. What would she not have 
 borne for him — how had she not struggled for him all these years? 
 He was the only one left her, the youngest and last of her chil- 
 dren, for the other three had died Avhile still almost infants, and 
 Ulric had come to them when she and her husband were no longer 
 young, and had lost hopes of ever having a child to cheer their 
 old age. So never was a son more cherished. And he deserved it. 
 He 'had been the best of sons, and had tried in his boyish way to 
 replace his father, though he was only twelve years old when that 
 father died. Since then life had been hard on them both, doubly 
 hard, for each suffered for the other even more than personally, 
 
BASIL'S VIOLIN 283 
 
 and yet in another sense not so hard as if either had been alone. 
 They had had misfortune after misfortune — the little patrimony 
 which had enabled Mrs. Wildermann to yield to Ulric's darling 
 wish of being a musician by profession, had been lost by a bad 
 investment just as his musical education was completed, and it 
 seemed too late in the day for him to try anything else. And so 
 for a year or two they had struggled on, faring not so badly in the 
 summer when living is cheaper, and Ulric often got engagements 
 for the season in the band at some watering-place, but suffering 
 sadly in the long, cold German winters — suffering as those do 
 who will not complain, who keep up a respectable appearance to 
 the last. And then came the idea of emigrating to England, sug- 
 gested to them by a friend who had happened to hear of what 
 seemed like an opening at Tarnworth, where they had now been 
 for nearly two months without finding any pupils for Ulric, or 
 employment of any kind in his profession for the young musician. 
 
 So it is easy to understand the delight with which he ac- 
 cepted Lady Iltyd's proposal, made to him by Mrs. Marchcote. 
 
 It would be difficult to say which of the two, master or pupil, 
 looked forward the more eagerly to the first music-lesson. Basil 
 dreamed of it night and day. Ulric Wildermann on his side built 
 castles in the air about the number of pupils he was to have, and 
 the fame he was to gain through his success with Lady Iltyd's 
 boy. Poor fellow, it was not from vanity that his mind dwelt on 
 and so little doubted this same wonderful success! 
 
 And in due course came the day after to-morrow, neither 
 hastened nor retarded by the eagerness with which it was looked 
 forward to. 
 
 "What a beautiful home! The child cannot but be refined 
 and tender in nature who has been brought up in such a home," 
 thought Ulric Wildermann, ready at all times to think the best 
 and more than usually inclined to-day to see things through rose- 
 coloured spectacles. 
 
 He was walking up the long avenue of elms, leading to the 
 
284 STORIES BY MRS. MOLESWORTH 
 
 Hall. The weather was lovely, already hot, however, and he 
 would have liked to take off his hat and let the breeze — what there 
 was of it, that is to say — play on his forehead. But he had not 
 a free hand, for he was loaded with no less than three violins, his 
 own and two others, what are called half and three-quarters sized, 
 as, till he saw his little pupil, he could not tell which would suit 
 him. He did look rather a comical object, I dare say, to the tall 
 footman at the door, but not so to the eager child who had spent 
 the last hour at least in peeping out to see if his master was not 
 yet coming. 
 
 "Mother," he exclaimed, rushing back into the room, "he's 
 come. And he's brought loads of violins." 
 
 "Loads," repeated Lady Iltyd, smiling down at her boy, 
 whose rosy cheeks and bright eyes were still rosier and brighter 
 than usual; "well, among them it is to be hoped there will be one 
 to suit you." 
 
 Then she turned to Ulric, who was standing in the doorway, 
 half dazzled by the brightness of the pretty room into which he 
 was ushered after the darker hall, and still more confused by his 
 intense anxiety to please the graceful lady who was greeting him 
 so kindly, and to win the liking of the child he was to teach. But 
 Basil's mother's pleasant manner soon set him at his ease, and in 
 a minute or two he was opening the violin cases and discussing 
 which would be the right size for the boy. Basil gazed and lis- 
 tened in silence. At first glance Ulric had felt a little disap- 
 pointed. His new pupil was not certainly a poetical looking 
 child! His short sturdy figure and round rosy face spoke of 
 the perfection of hearty boyish life, but nothing more. But 
 his breathless eagerness, the intense interest in his eyes — most of 
 all the look in his face as he listened to a little caprice which Ulric 
 played on his own violin as a sort of introduction to the lesson, 
 soon made the musician change his opinion. 
 
 "He has it — he has the musician's soul. One can see it!" he 
 half said, half whispered to Lady Iltyd, though he had the good 
 
BASIL'S VIOLIN 285 
 
 sense to understand what might have seemed a little cold in her 
 answer. 
 
 "I think Basil truly loves music," she said, "but you will join 
 with me, I am sure Mr. Wildermann, in telling him that to be 
 a musician at all, to play well above all, takes much patience and 
 perseverance. Nothing in this world can be done without trouble, 
 can it?" 
 
 "Ah, no," said Ulric Wildermann, "that is true." 
 
 But Basil, whose fingers were fidgeting to touch at last the 
 violin and dainty bow, said nothing. 
 
 "I will leave you," said his mother. "I think you will find 
 it better to be alone with Basil, Mr. Wildermann." 
 
 And she left the room. 
 
 She listened with some anxiety to the sounds which now and 
 then made their way to the room where she sat writing. Sweet, 
 clear sounds occasionally from the master's violin, but mingled, 
 it must be confessed, with others the reverse of musical. Squeak- 
 ings and gruntings, and a dreadful sort of scraping whine, not 
 to be described in words. 
 
 "My poor Basil," thought his mother, though it was a little 
 difficult not to smile at a most unearthly shriek that just then 
 reached her ears. "I hope he is not losing his temper already." 
 
 But she waited quietly till the sounds ceased. Then came 
 the soft sweet notes of a melody which she knew well, played by 
 Mr. Wildermann alone; and a few minutes after she saw among 
 the trees the tall thin figure of the young German, laden with 
 but two violins this time as he made his way down the avenue. 
 
 She waited a minute or two to see if Basil would come to 
 her. Then, as he did not, she returned to the morning room 
 where he had had his lesson. He was still there, standing by 
 the window, but she was pleased to hear as she went in that he 
 was humming to himself the air that Ulric had played last. 
 
 "Well, Basil," she said, "and how did you get on?" 
 
 The boy turned round — there was a mixture of expressions 
 
286 STORIES BY MRS. MOLES WORTH 
 
 on his face. A rather dewy look about his eyes made his mother 
 wonder for a moment if he had been crying. But when he spoke 
 it was so cheerfully that she thought she must have been 
 mistaken. 
 
 "He plays so beautifully, mother," he said. 
 
 "Yes," she replied. "I knew he did. I heard him one day 
 at Mrs. Marchcote's, and I listened this morning." 
 
 "You listened, mother?" he said. "Did you hear how aw- 
 fully it squeaked with me?" 
 
 "Of course," said Lady Iltyd, in a matter-of-fact way; "it 
 is always so at first." 
 
 Basil seemed relieved. 
 
 "Yes," he said, "he said so too. But I don't mind. He 
 says I shall very soon be able to make it sound prettily — to get 
 nice sounds, you know, even before I can play tunes, if— — " and 
 Basil hesitated. 
 
 "If what?" 
 
 "If I practise a lot. But I think I shall. It's rather fun 
 after all, and I do so like to have that ducky little yiolin in my 
 arms. It does feel so jolly," and he turned with sparkling eyes 
 again to the dainty little case containing his new treasure. 
 
 His mother was pleased. The first brunt of disappoint- 
 ment which she was sure Basil had felt, whether he owned to 
 it or not, had passed off better than she had expected. 
 
 And for some days his energy continued. At all hours, 
 when the boy was at home, unearthly squeaks and shrieks were 
 to be heard in various parts of the house, for it was not at all 
 Basil's way to confine his practisings to his own quarters. Any- 
 where that came handy — on the staircase, in the pantry, when 
 he took it into his head to pay a visit to the footmen, the boy 
 and his violin were to be seen at all sorts of odd hours, and 
 alas, still more surely to be heard! For a while his mother 
 thought it best not to interfere; she did not wish to check his 
 ardour, and the second and third lessons went off, as far as she 
 
BASIL'S VIOLIN 287 
 
 could judge, very well. But gradually the violin grew less 
 talkative — a day, then a couple of days, then even longer, 
 passed without its voice being heard, and one day, towards the 
 close of the fifth or sixth lesson, Lady Iltyd, going into the 
 room, saw a look she knew too well on her little son's face. He 
 flung down the violin and turned to Ulric Wildermann 
 
 "I can't play any more — nasty thing — I believe it's got a 
 bad fairy inside it," he said, half in fun, half in petulance. 
 
 "Why, Basil " began his mother, but her glance happen- 
 ing at the moment to fall on the young German, she stopped 
 short, startled at the look of intense distress that overspread his 
 features. "He thinks I shall blame him, poor fellow," she 
 thought, and, with her quick kindliness, she tried, indirectly, to 
 reassure him. 
 
 "Don't look so grave about this silly little boy, Mr. Wil- 
 dermann," she said brightly. "Suppose you drive away the bad 
 fairy by playing to us, and let lazy Basil rest a little." 
 
 Basil's face, which had clouded over at the beginning of 
 this speech, brightened up again. He flung himself down on 
 the rug with the air of one intending to enjoy himself. And for 
 the next ten minutes or so not a sound was heard but the ex- 
 quisite tones of the master's violin, thrilling with intensity, then 
 warbling like a bird in the joyous springtime, bringing the 
 tears to the boy's eyes with its tender pathos, and then flushing 
 his cheeks with excitement, till at last they died away in the 
 distance as it were, as if returning to the enchanted land from 
 whence they came. 
 
 Basil gave a deep sigh. 
 
 "Ah," he said, in a low voice, "to play like that " 
 
 Ulric Wildermann's face lighted up. 
 
 "He has it — he loves it so much, madame," he said half 
 apologetically to Lady Iltyd. 
 
 "Yes," she said, but her tone was rather grave. "But it 
 is not enough to love it. He must learn not to be so easily 
 
288 STORIES BY MRS. MOLESWORTH 
 
 discouraged. You know, my boy, what I said to you at the be- 
 ginning," she went on, turning to Basil, "it is not a necessity 
 to learn the violin. I would rather you gave it up than make it 
 a worry and vexation to yourself and others." 
 
 Basil stopped her with a kiss. 
 
 "It's only when the bad fairy comes," he said. "Don't be 
 vexed with me, mother. I'm in a beautiful good temper now." 
 
 A day or two after this, Basil's mother left home for a 
 fortnight. She said a few words to him before she went, about 
 his violin lessons, but not much, for she had heard him practis- 
 ing again with more attention, and she had begun to hope his 
 impatience and discouragement had been merely a passing fit. 
 So she only repeated to him what she had said already. Basil 
 listened in silence, with an expression on his face she did not 
 quite understand. But she thought it better to say no more, 
 especially when the boy flung his arms around her neck, and re- 
 peated more than once — 
 
 "I do want to please you, little mother; I do, I do," he 
 cried; and her last sight of him, as the carriage drove away, was 
 standing with his violin in his arms at the hall-door, pretending 
 to fiddle away at a great rate. 
 
 "He is only a baby after all," said Lady Iltyd to herself. 
 "I must not be too anxious about his faults. This fortnight will 
 test his perseverance about the violin. If he is not going to be 
 steady about it, he must give it up." 
 
 Alas! the fortnight tested Basil and found him wanting. 
 There were some excuses perhaps. It Avas very hot, and the 
 half-yearly examinations were coming on. In his parents' 
 absence it had been arranged that he was to stay later at school 
 so as to get his lessons done before coming home — a very neces- 
 sary precaution; for without his mother at hand to keep him up 
 to his work it is to be doubted if the lessons would often have 
 been finished before midnight! Basil would not have gone to 
 bed and left them undone — that was not his way; but he would 
 
BASIL'S VIOLIN 289 
 
 have wasted three hours over what with energy and cheerfulness 
 might have been well done in one. At school, under the eye 
 of a master, this was less likely to occur — the boy was to some 
 extent forced to give his attention and keep up his spirit, though 
 the master, whose business it was to superintend the lessons pre- 
 paring, found his labours increased in no trifling way during the 
 fortnight of Basil's staying later. 
 
 And when he got home after all this hard work, the boy 
 felt inclined for a romp with Blanche, or a stroll in the garden, 
 far more than for practising the violin! Half-holidays, too, in 
 hot weather, presented many temptations. The hay was down 
 in the park on the side nearest the house, the strawberries were 
 at their prime; there seemed always something else to do than 
 struggling with the capricious little instrument whose "con- 
 trariness," as he called it, really made Basil sometimes fancy 
 it was bewitched. 
 
 "You've got it inside you; why won't you let it come out 
 for me as well as for him?" he would say, addressing his violin, 
 half in fun, half in petulance, after some vain but not very sus- 
 tained effort to draw out of it tones in any way approaching 
 those which in Ulric Wildermann's hands seemed to come of 
 themselves. "No, I've no patience with you. It's too bad," and 
 down he would fling violin and bow, declaring to himself he 
 would never touch tihem again. But when the day for the 
 music lesson came round, and Ulric Wildermann drew out some 
 few lovely notes before Basil was ready to begin, all the boy's 
 impatience disappeared, and he listened as if entranced till his 
 master recalled his attention. And thus, seeing the child's un- 
 doubted love for music, Ulric could not yet feel altogether dis- 
 couraged, though again there were times when he doubted if his 
 efforts would ever succeed in making a musician of the boy. 
 
 "But as long as he likes it so much," he would say to him- 
 self, "and provided he does not wish to give it up, it would be 
 
290 STORIES BY MRS. MOLESWORTH 
 
 wrong of me to suggest it. In any case it is for his mother to 
 judge." 
 
 Before the fortnight was over, however, Ulrie's patience was 
 sorely tried. There came a day on which, Avith a sudden outburst 
 of temper, Basil refused to try any more, and only by dint of 
 promising to play to him for a quarter of an hour after the lesson 
 was over, could his master get him to make any effort. Nor was 
 it worth much when made. 
 
 And poor Ulric walked home that day to the little lodging 
 over the grocer's shop with a heavy heart. 
 
 Part III. 
 
 In the first pleasant excitement of her return home and 
 finding the children well, and to all appearance happy, Lady 
 Iltyd did not think of what had, nevertheless, been often in "her 
 mind during her absence — namely, Basil's violin! 
 
 But the day after, when he came back from school and 
 was beginning to tell her all he had been busied about while she 
 was away, the question soon came to her lips, "And what about 
 your violin, my boy?" 
 
 Basil hesitated — then his rosy face grew rosier than before, 
 and he stood first upon one leg and then upon the other, a habit 
 of his when not quite easy in his mind. 
 
 "Well?" said Lady Iltyd. 
 
 Then out it came. 
 
 "Mother," he began, "I didn't like to tell you yesterday 
 just when you first came back, but I was going to tell you. I 
 know you'll be vexed, but I must tell you the truth. I haven't 
 got on a bit — I tried to practise at first, but I can't get to play, 
 and I hate it — I mean I hate not being able to play — and 
 please, mother, I want to leave it off." 
 
 A rather sad look came over Lady Iltyd's face, but she 
 only said quietly — 
 
BASIL'S VIOLIN 291 
 
 "Very well, Basil. You have quite made up your mind, I 
 suppose?" 
 
 "Yes," he replied. "You know you always said, mother, 
 I needn't go on with it if I didn't — if it was too difficult," for 
 he could not truthfully say "if I didn't care for it." 
 
 "Yes. I told you it was no necessity. Very well, then, I 
 will tell Mr. Wildermann to-morrow." 
 
 "But, mother," Basil hesitated, "I didn't want you to he 
 vexed about it." 
 
 "I am not vexed," his mother replied. "My disappoint- 
 ment is another matter. But I will keep to what I said. It is 
 better for you to give it up than to make a trouble of it to your- 
 self and others. Now run away, for I am busy." 
 
 Basil went out of the room slowly, and not feeling altogether 
 happy in his mind. "It isn't fair of mother," he said to himself; 
 "she told me I needn't go on with it if I didn't like, and she 
 never said she'd be vexed if I gave it up, and she is vexed." 
 But he would not remember how much and often his mother had 
 warned him before he began, how she had told him of the 
 patience and perseverance required, and how he had refused to 
 believe her! And, boy-like, he soon forgot all about it in a game 
 with Blanche and the dogs in the garden, or remembered it only 
 with a feeling of relief that he need not cut short his play to 
 go in to practise his unlucky violin. But a remark of his little 
 sister's rather destroyed his equanimity. 
 
 "I'm going in now, Basil," she said with the little "proper" air 
 she sometimes put on; "I've not finished my scales yet, and I 
 won't have time after tea. And you should go in for your violin, 
 Basil. Come along." 
 
 "No," said Basil, rolling himself again lazily on the smooth 
 lawn; "I'm not going to bother with it any more. I've given 
 it up." 
 
 Blanche's eyes opened wide. 
 
 "Oh, Basil!" she exclaimed. "How sorry mother will be!" 
 
292 STORIES BY MRS. MOLESWORTH 
 
 "Rubbish," said Basil, roughly. "Mother always said I 
 might leave it off if I liked. I don't want you to preach to 
 me, Blanche." Upon which Blanche walked away, her little 
 person erect with offended dignity. 
 
 Basil did not feel happy, but he called the dogs to him and 
 went off whistling. 
 
 The next day was a half-holiday. Basil came home at mid-day, 
 and the violin lesson was in the afternoon. 
 
 "Am I to have a lesson to-day, mother?" said the boy at 
 luncheon. 
 
 "Mr. Wildermann is coming" replied his mother, "it would 
 be very rude to let him come for nothing. I will see him first, 
 and then you can go to him for the hour. If he likes to play 
 to you instead of your having a lesson, I do not care. It does 
 not signify now." 
 
 The idea would have been very much to Basil's taste, but the 
 tone in which his mother said that "now," made him again feel 
 vexed. He tried to fancy he had cause for being so, for he would 
 not own to the real truth — that he was vexed with himself, and 
 that "himself" deserved it. 
 
 "It isn't fair," he repeated half sullenly. 
 
 Two hours later he was summoned to the library. Ulric 
 Wildermann had come fully a quarter of an hour before — he had 
 heard his ring, and he knew his mother was in the drawing-room 
 waiting for him. When he entered the library he thought at first 
 there was no one there — the violin cases lay open on the table, the 
 music-stand was placed ready as usual; but that was all. No 
 pleasant voice met him with a friendly greeting in broken English 
 and words of kindly encouragement. 
 
 "Can Mr. Wildermann have gone already?" thought the boy. 
 "He might have waited to say good-bye. What did Sims call 
 me for if he had gone?" 
 
 And he was turning to leave the room with a mixture of 
 feelings — irritation and some disappointment, mingled neverthe- 
 
BASIL'S VIOLIN 293 
 
 less, with a certain sense of relief, for he had dreaded this last 
 lesson — when a slight, a very slight sound seeming to come from 
 somewhere near the windows, caught his ear. He had come into 
 the room more softly than his wont, and his footfall had made 
 no sound on the thick carpet. The person who was hidden by 
 the curtains had not heard him, had no idea any one was in the 
 room, for through a sort of half-choked sob the child heard two 
 or three confused words which, though uttered in German, were 
 easy enough to understand 
 
 "My mother, ah, my poor mother! How can I tell her? Oh, 
 my mother!" 
 
 And startled and shocked, Basil stopped short in the question 
 that was on his lips. "Who's there? Is it you, Blanche?" he had 
 been on the point of saying, when the words caught his ears. 
 
 "It must be Mr. Wildermann — can he be crying?" said Basil 
 to himself, his cheeks growing red as the idea struck him. "What 
 should I do?" 
 
 He had no time to consider the question, for as he stood in 
 perplexity his little dog Yelpie, who had followed him into the 
 room, suddenly becoming aware of the state of things, dashed 
 forward with a short sharp bark. 
 
 "Yelpie — Yelpie," cried Basil; "be quiet, Yelpie. It's only 
 Mr. Wildermann. Don't you know him, Yelpie? What a stupid 
 you are!" 
 
 He went on talking fast to give the young German time to 
 recover himself, for, on hearing Basil's voice, Ulric had come for- 
 ward from the shelter of the curtain. He was not red, but pale, 
 — very pale, with a look of such intense misery in his eyes, that 
 Basil's momentary feeling of contempt entirely faded into one of 
 real anxiety and sympathy. 
 
 "Are you ill, Mr. Wildermann? You look so strange. Is 
 your mother ill? Is anything dreadful the matter?" he asked 
 hurriedly, pressing forward, nearer to the young man. 
 
 Ulric tried to smile, but it was a poor attempt, and he felt 
 
294 STORIES BY MRS. MOLESWORTH 
 
 that it was so. Suddenly a sort of weak, faint feeling came over 
 him — he had walked over to the Park in the full heat of the day, 
 and the meals that were eaten over the grocer's shop were very 
 frugal! — he had not been prepared for the news that had met 
 him. "Could I — might I have a glass of water, Master Basil?" 
 he said, drawing to him a chair and dropping into it. 
 
 "I'll ring for — no, stay, I'll fetch it myself," said Basil, with 
 quick understanding. "I shouldn't like the servants to know he 
 had been crying — poor man," he thought to himself as he left the 
 roozn. And in two minutes he was back with a glass of wine 
 and water. 
 
 "I made Sims put some sherry in it," he said half apologeti- 
 cally. "You've knocked yourself up somehow, Mr. Wildermann, 
 haven't you?" 
 
 And Ulric drank obediently, and managed this time to smile 
 more successfully. "How kind and thoughtful the boy was — 
 how could he be the cause of such sorrow, if indeed he understood 
 it!" thought the young man to himself. 
 
 "I — yes — perhaps it was the hot sun," he said confusedly, as 
 he put down the glass. "Thank you, very much. I am all right 
 now. Had we not better begin? Not that I am hurried," he 
 went on. "I can stay a full hour from now. I have no engage- 
 ments — nothing to hurry me home," he added sadly, for in his 
 heart he was thinking how he dreaded the return home, and what 
 he would have to tell his poor old mother. 
 
 "But what's the matter?" persisted Basil, who, now that the 
 ice was broken, felt inclined to get to the bottom of things. 
 "What are you so troubled about — what were you ?" He hesi- 
 tated and stopped short, and again his rosy cheeks grew redder 
 than usual. 
 
 Ulric Wildermann looked up. He was still very pale, but 
 he did not seem self-conscious or ashamed. 
 
 "You saw my distress?" he said quietly. "Ah, well, I could 
 not help it — the thought of my poor mother " He turned 
 
BASIL'S VIOLIN 295 
 
 away and bit his lips. "I thought you knew the cause of it," he 
 went on; "your lady mother, did you not know — did she not tell 
 you that she meant to-day to give me notice that the lessons are 
 to cease — that this is to be the last?" 
 
 Basil opened his mouth as if he meant to say something, and 
 stood there, forgetting to shut it again, and staring up in Ulric's 
 face, though no words came. Ulric, after waiting a moment or 
 two, turned away and began arranging the violins. Then at last 
 the boy ejaculated 
 
 "Mr. Wildermann, you — you don't mean to say " and 
 
 stopped short again. 
 
 "To say what?" asked the young German, but without much 
 tone of interest in his voice. He had quite mastered himself by 
 now — a sort of dull, hopeless resignation was coming over him — 
 it did not seem to matter what Basil said about it; it was all 
 settled, and the momentary gleam of good-fortune which had so 
 raised his hopes had faded into the dark again. "We must go 
 back to Germany," he was saying to himself. "Somehow or 
 other I must scrape together money enough to take my mother 
 back to her own country. There at least she need not starve. I 
 can earn our daily bread, even if I have to give up music 
 for ever." 
 
 But again Basil's voice interrupted his thoughts. 
 
 "Mr. Wildermann," said the boy, speaking now with eager- 
 ness, and throwing aside his hesitation, "is it possible that it is 
 about my lessons that you're unhappy. Does it matter to you if 
 I give them up? I never thought of it." 
 
 "Master Basil," said the young man sadly, "it does not sig- 
 nify now. It is all settled. But I do not blame you. It is not 
 your fault — at least, it is not exactly your fault. You are so 
 young, and the violin is very difficult. I am sorry to lose you 
 as a pupil, for I think you could have learnt well, if you had had 
 more hopefulness and perseverance." 
 
 And again he turned away as if there were no more to be said. 
 
296 STORIES BY MRS. MOLESWORTH 
 
 But Basil was not to be so easily satisfied. 
 
 "Mr. Wildermann," he exclaimed, going nearer to his 
 master and pulling him gently by the sleeve, "that can't be all. 
 I dare say you're vexed at my giving it up when you've tried 
 so hard to teach me, but that wouldn't make you so dreadfully 
 sorry. Mr. Wildermann, do tell me all about it? Is it because 
 — because of the money?" he whispered at last. "Are you so 
 — does it matter so much?" 
 
 Ulric turned his pale face to the boy. Its expression was 
 still sad — very sad, but quiet and resigned. 
 
 "Yes, my child," he said composedly. "Why should I hide 
 it? There is no shame in it — yes, it is because of the money. 
 We are very poor. And also I had hoped much from giving you 
 lessons. I thought if I succeeded as I expected it would have 
 brought me other pupils." 
 
 Basil gazed up in the young man's face for a moment or two 
 without speaking. He did not take in ideas very quickly, and 
 perhaps he had never before in his life thought so seriously as 
 at this moment. 
 
 "I see," he said at last. "I did not understand before. If 
 I had known — but even now it is not too late. Mr. Wildermann. 
 I need not give up my lessons. I will ask mother to let me go 
 on with them, and you will see she will agree in a moment." 
 
 A gleam of pleasure lighted up Ulric's pale face, but it 
 faded almost as quickly as it had come. 
 
 "Thank you for your kind thought, my little friend," he 
 said; "but what you propose would not be right. It would not 
 be right for your mother to pay me money for teaching you when 
 she had decided that she did not want me to teach you any more. 
 It would be a mere charity to me — it would be more honest for 
 me to ask for charity at once," he went on, the colour mounting 
 to his face. "No, Basil, it could not be; but thank you as much. 
 Now let us go on with our lesson." 
 
 Basil understood, but was not satisfied. The lesson passed 
 
BASIL'S VIOLIN 297 
 
 quietly. Never had the boy so thoroughly given his attention, 
 or tried so hard to overcome the difficulties which had so dis- 
 heartened him. 
 
 "It is too bad," he said to himself; "but it is all my own 
 fault. I believe I could have got on if I had really tried. And 
 now it is too late. He wouldn't give me lessons now, for he 
 would think it was only for him." 
 
 Suddenly an idea struck him. 
 
 "Mr. Wildermann," he said, "won't you do this? Suppose 
 I ask for just six lessons more, and I will try. You'll see 
 if I don't. Well, after these six, if I'm not getting on any better, 
 it'll be given up. But if I am, and if I really want to go on, you 
 won't think it's not right, will you?" 
 
 Ulric hesitated. 
 
 "No," he said; "I have no scruples in going on teaching you, 
 for I feel certain you could learn well if you were more hopeful. 
 
 But you must explain it all to your mother, and — and " 
 
 He stopped short, and then went on resolutely. "I will not 
 be ashamed. It is for my mother — anything for her. It was 
 only the feeling, my boy — but perhaps you are too young to 
 understand — the feeling that it was almost like asking charity." 
 
 "I do understand," exclaimed Basil, "and I don't think I 
 need tell mother yet, Mr. Wildermann. I don't want to promise 
 again, and perhaps not keep my promise. I'll just ask for the 
 six lessons, and tell mother I can't tell her why just yet. And 
 then think how surprised she'll be if I really do get on"; and the 
 boy's eyes sparkled with delight. But to Ulric's there came tears 
 of thankfulness. 
 
 If Lady Iltyd suspected in part what had worked the change 
 in Basil's ideas and prompted his request, she was too wise to say 
 so. His petition for six lessons more was granted willingly, but 
 not lightly. 
 
 "Do you really mean to profit by them, Basil?" she asked. 
 
298 STORIES BY MRS. MOLESWORTH 
 
 "If so, I am only too willing that you should go on and give 
 yourself a fair trial." 
 
 "That is it, mother," said the boy eagerly. "I want to see, 
 to try if I can't do better. At least that is partly it," he went 
 on, for he had already told her that he could not explain the 
 whole just yet. 
 
 So poor Ulric Wildermann went home with a lighter heart 
 than he had expected. He hoped much from these six lessons, for 
 it was evident that Basil meant to put his heart into them. 
 
 "I need not tell my mother of my fears," thought Ulric to 
 himself, "for they may, after all, prove to be only fears, and what 
 would be the use of making her miserable in such a case?" And 
 he was so bright and cheerful that evening in the little sitting- 
 room over the grocer's shop, that even his mother's eyes failed 
 to discover that he had had more than usual anxiety that day. 
 
 One week, two weeks, three weeks passed. It was the day of 
 the last of the six lessons. 
 
 "Mother," said Basil that morning when he was starting for 
 school, "I have my violin lesson this afternoon when I come home, 
 you know. Mr. Wildermann told me to ask you if you would 
 come in to-day while I am playing. Not at the beginning, please, 
 but about half-way through. He wants you to see if I am getting 
 on better," and then, with a very happy kiss, he was off. 
 
 Lady Utyd had left Basil quite to himself about his violin 
 these last weeks. She had not heard much of his practising, but 
 she had noticed that he got his school lessons done quickly and 
 without needing to be reminded, and then regularly disappeared 
 in his own quarters, and she had her private hopes and 
 expectations. 
 
 Nor were they disappointed. What cannot be done with 
 patience and cheerfulness? Those three weeks had seen more 
 progress made than the three months before, and Basil's eyes 
 danced with pleasure when be left off playing and stood waiting 
 to hear what his mother would say. 
 
BASIL'S VIOLIN 299 
 
 She said nothing, but she drew him to her and kissed him 
 tenderly, and Basil, peeping up half shyly — for somehow, as he 
 told Blanche afterwards, "mother's pleased kisses" always made 
 him feel a little shy — saw a glimmer of tears in her eyes. 
 
 "You are pleased, mother?" he whispered, and another kiss 
 was the answer. Then the young stranger came forward. 
 
 "Mr. Wildermann, I must thank you for all the trouble you 
 have taken. I am more than pleased," said Lady Iltyd warmly. 
 "How have you succeeded so well? You have taught him more 
 than his music — you have taught him to persevere, and to keep 
 up heart in spite of difficulties." 
 
 "He has taught himself, madame," said Ulric eagerly, his 
 face flushing. "It was his kind heart that gave him what he 
 needed. Ah, Master Basil," he went on, turning to his little 
 pupil, "I must now tell the whole, and then it will be to say if 
 you are still to continue your lessons." 
 
 "The whole" was soon told, and it is easy to understand that 
 it did not lessen Lady Iltyd's pleasure. She had been glad to 
 find her boy capable of real effort and determination— she was 
 still more glad to find that the new motive which had prompted 
 these was unselfish sympathy and kindness. 
 
 "I thank you again, Mr. Wildermann," she said, when the 
 young man had told her all, "you have, as I said, taught Basil 
 more lessons than you knew. And your mother is happy to have 
 so good a son." 
 
 Better days began for the young music-master. Thanks to 
 Basil's mother and to Basil himself, for the boy became a pupil 
 who would have done credit to any master, Ulric Wildermann 
 gradually made his way in the neighbourhood he had chosen for 
 his new home, and his old mother's later days were passed in 
 peace and comfort. He always counted Tarnworth his home, 
 though as time went on he came to be well known as one of the 
 first violinists of the day in London and others of the great 
 capitals of Europe. 
 
300 STORIES BY MRS. MOLESWORTH 
 
 But sometimes when his success and popularity were at the 
 highest, he would turn to the friend who had been his first pupil, 
 and say half regretfully 
 
 "You might excel me if you chose, Basil. I could sometimes 
 find it in my heart to wish that you too had been born a poor 
 boy with his way to make in the world." 
 
 And Basil Iltyd would laugh as he told Ulric that his affection 
 made him over-estimate his pupil's talent. 
 
 "Though, such as it is," he added, "I have to thank you for 
 having drawn it out, and added untold pleasure to my life." 
 
 For though Basil had too many other duties to attend to for 
 it to be possible for him to devote very much time to music, he never 
 neglected it, and never forgot the gratitude he owed his mother 
 for encouraging his boyish taste. 
 
 "Above all," Lady Iltyd used often to say, "as in mastering 
 the violin, you gained your first battle over impatience and want 
 of perseverance." 
 
 "My first, but not my last," he would answer brightly. For 
 Basil came to be known for steady, cheerful determination, which, 
 after all, is worth many more brilliant gifts in the journey 
 through life, which to even the most fortunate is uphill and 
 rugged and perplexing at times. 
 
THE REEL FAIRIES 
 
 "Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown." 
 
 Louisa was a little girl of eight years old. That is to say, 
 she Avas eight years old at the time I am going to tell you about. 
 She was nothing particular to look at; she was small for her age, 
 and her face was rather white, and her eyes were pretty much the 
 same as other people's eyes. Her hair was dark brown, but it was 
 not even curly. It was quite straight-down hair, and it was cut 
 short, not quite so short as little boys' hair is cut now-a-days, 
 but not very much longer. Many little girls had quite short hair 
 at that time, but still there was something about Louisa's that 
 made its shortness remarkable, if anything about her could have 
 been remarkable ! It was so very smooth and soft, and fitted into 
 her head so closely that it gave her a small soft look, not unlike 
 a mouse. On the whole, I cannot describe her better than by 
 saying she was rather like a mouse, or like what you could fancy 
 a mouse would be if it were turned into a little girl. 
 
 Louisa was not shy, but she was timid and not fond of putting 
 herself forward; and in consequence of this, as well as from her 
 not being at all what is called a "showy" child, she received very 
 little notice from strangers, or indeed from many who knew her 
 pretty well. People thought her a quiet, well-behaved little thing, 
 and then thought no more about her. Louisa understood this in 
 her own way, and sometimes it hurt her. She was not so un- 
 observant as she seemed; and there were times when she would 
 have very much liked a little more of the caressing, and even 
 admiration, which she now and then saw lavished on other children; 
 for though she was sensible in some Avays, in others she was not 
 wiser than most little people. 
 
 Her home was not in the country: it was in a street, in a 
 
 301 
 
302 STORIES BY MRS. MOLES WORTH 
 
 large and rather smoky town. The house in which she lived was 
 not a very pretty one; but, on the whole, it was nice and com- 
 fortable, and Louisa was generally very well pleased with it, 
 except now and then, when she got little fits of wishing she lived 
 in some very beautiful palace sort of house, with splendid rooms, 
 and grand staircases, and gardens, and fountains, and I don't 
 know all what — just the same sort of little fits as she some- 
 times had of wishing to be very pretty and to have lovely 
 dresses, and to be admired and noticed by every one who saw 
 her. She never told anyone of these wishes of hers; perhaps if 
 she had it would have been better, but it was not often that 
 she could have found any one to listen to and understand her; and 
 so she just kept them to herself. 
 
 There was one person who, I think, could have understood 
 her, and that was her mother. But she was often busy and 
 when not busy, often tired, for she had a great deal to do, 
 and several other little children besides Louisa to take care of. 
 There were two brothers who came nearest Louisa in age, one 
 older and one younger, and two or three mites of children smaller 
 still. The brothers went to school, and Avere so much interested 
 in the things "little boys are made of," that they were apt to be 
 rather contemptuous to Louisa because she was a girl, and the 
 wee children in the nursery were too wee to think of anything 
 but their own tiny pleasures and troubles. So you can under- 
 stand that though she had really everything a little girl could 
 wish for, Louisa was sometimes rather lonely and at a loss for 
 companions, and this led to her making friends in a very odd 
 way indeed. If you guessed for a whole year I do not think 
 you would ever guess whom, or I should say what, she chose for 
 her friends. Indeed, I fear that when I tell you you will 
 hardly believe me; you will think I am "story-telling" indeed. 
 Listen — it was not her doll, nor a pet dog, nor even a favourite 
 pussy-cat — it was, they were rather, the reels in her mother's 
 workbox. 
 
THE REEL FAIRIES 303 
 
 Can you believe it? It is quite, quite true. I am not 
 "making up" at all, and I will tell you how it came about. There 
 was one part of the day, I dare say it was the hour that the 
 nursery children were asleep, when it was convenient for Louisa 
 to be sent down-stairs to sit beside her mother in the drawing- 
 room, with many injunctions to be quiet. Her mother was gen- 
 erally writing or "doing accounts" at that time, and not at 
 leisure to attend to her little girl; but when Louisa appeared at 
 the door she would look up and say with a smile, "Well, dear, 
 and what will you have to amuse yourself with to-day?" At 
 first Louisa used to consider for a minute, and nearly every day 
 she would make a different request. 
 
 "A piece of paper and a pencil to write," she would say 
 on Monday perhaps, and on Tuesday it would be "The box with 
 the chess, please," and on Wednesday something else. But 
 after a while her answer came to be always the same — "Your 
 big workbox to tidy, please, mamma." 
 
 Mamma smiled at the great need of tidying that had come 
 over her big workbox, but she knew she could certainly trust 
 Louisa not to un-tidy it, so she used just to push it across the 
 table to her without speaking, and then for an hour at least 
 nothing more was heard of Louisa. She sat quite still, fully as 
 absorbed in her occupation as her mother was in hers, till at last 
 the well-known tap at the door would bring her back from 
 dream-land. 
 
 "Miss Louisa, your dinner is waiting," or "Miss Louisa, the 
 little ones are quite ready to go out;" and, with a deep sigh, 
 the workbox would be closed and the little girl would obey 
 the unwelcome summons. 
 
 And next day, and the day after, and a great many days 
 after that, it was always the same thing. But nobody knew 
 anything about these queer friends of hers, except Louisa herself. 
 
 There were several families of them, and their names were 
 as original as themselves. There were the Browns, reels of 
 
304 STORIES BY MRS. MOLESWORTH 
 
 brown wood wound with white cotton; as far as I remember 
 there was a Mr. and Mrs. Brown and three children; the Browns 
 were supposed to be quiet, respectable people, who lived in a 
 large house in the country, but had nothing particularly romantic 
 or exciting about them. There were the De Cordays, so named 
 from the conspicuous mark of "three cord" which they bore. 
 They were a set of handsome bone, or, as Louisa called it, ivory 
 reels, and she added the "De" to their name to make it sound 
 grander. There were two pretty little reels of fine China silk, 
 whom she distinguished as the Chinese princesses. Blanche and 
 Rose were their first names, to suit the colours they bore, for 
 Louisa, you see, had learnt a little French already; and there were 
 some larger silk reels, whom she called the "Lords and Ladies 
 Flossy." Altogether there were between twenty and thirty per- 
 sonages in the workbox community, and the adventures they had, 
 the elegance and luxury in which they lived, the wonderful stories 
 they told each other, would fill more pages than I have time 
 to write, or than you, kind little girls that you are, would have 
 patience to read. I must hasten on to tell you how it came to 
 pass that this queer fancy of Louisa's was discovered by other 
 people. 
 
 One morning when she was sitting quietly, as usual, beside 
 
 her mother, a friend of Mrs. no, we need not tell her name, 
 
 I should like you best just to think of her as Louisa's mamma 
 — Well then, a friend of Louisa's mamma came to call. She 
 was a lady who lived in the country several miles away from 
 Smokytown, but she was very fond of Louisa's mamma, and 
 whenever she had to come to Smokytown to shop, or anything of 
 that kind, perhaps to take her little girl (for she too had a little 
 girl as you shall hear) to the dentist's, she always came early 
 to call on her friend. Louisa's mamma jumped up at once, when 
 the servant threw open the door and announced the lady by 
 name, and then they kissed each other, and then Louisa's mamma 
 stooped down and kissed the lady's little girl who was standing 
 
©BY DUFFIELD & COMPANY 
 
 "No sooner was she seated than off flew the work box, away, away. 
 
THE REEL FAIRIES 305 
 
 beside her, but Louisa sat so quietly at her corner of the table, 
 that for a minute or two no one noticed her. She was just think- 
 ing if she could manage to creep down under the table and 
 slip away out of the room without being seen, when her mamma 
 called her. 
 
 "Louisa, my dear," she said, "come here and speak to Mrs. 
 Gordon and to Frances. You remember Frances, don't you, dear?" 
 
 Louisa got down slowly off her chair and came to her mamma. 
 She stood looking at Frances for a minute or two without 
 speaking. 
 
 "Don't you remember Frances?" said her mamma again. 
 
 "No," said Louisa at last, "I don't think I do." Then she 
 turned away as if she were going back to her place at the table. 
 Her mamma looked vexed. 
 
 "Poor little thing," said Mrs. Gordon, "she is only rather 
 shy. Frances, you must make friends with her." 
 
 "Louisa, I am not pleased with you," said her mamma 
 gravely, and then she went on talking to Mrs. Gordon. 
 
 Frances followed Louisa to the table, where all the reels were 
 arranged in order. There was a grand feast going on among 
 them that day; one of the Chinese princesses was to be married 
 to one of the Lords Flossy, and Louisa had been smartening 
 them up for the occasion. But she did not want to tell Frances 
 about it. 
 
 "I am only playing with mamma's workbox things," she said, 
 looking up at Frances, and wishing she had not come. She had 
 taken a dislike to Frances, and the reason was not a very nice 
 one — she was envious of her because she had such a pretty face 
 and was very beautifully dressed. She had long curls of bright 
 light hair, and large blue eyes, and she had a purple velvet coat 
 trimmed with fur, and a sweet little bonnet with rosebuds in the 
 cap, and Louisa's mamma would never let her have rosebuds or 
 any flowers in her bonnets. To Louisa's eyes she looked almost 
 as beautiful as a fairy princess, but the thought vexed her. 
 
306 STORIES BY MRS. MOLESWORTH 
 
 "Playing with your mamma's workbox things," said Frances, 
 "how very funny! You poor little thing, have you got nothing 
 else to play with?" 
 
 She spoke as if she were several years older than Louisa, and 
 this made Louisa still more vexed. 
 
 "Yes," she answered, "of course I have got other things, but 
 I like these. You can't understand." 
 
 Frances smiled. "How funny you are!" she said again, "but 
 never mind. Let us talk of something nice. Perhaps you would 
 like to hear what things J have got to play with. I have a room 
 all for myself, filled with toys. I have got a large doll-house, as 
 tall as myself, with eight rooms; and I have sixteen dolls of 
 different kinds. They were mostly birthday presents. But I 
 am getting too big to care for them now. My birthday was last 
 week. What do you think papa gave me? Something so beautiful 
 that I had wanted for such a long time. I don't think you could 
 guess." 
 
 In spite of herself Louisa was becoming interested. "I don't 
 know, I'm sure," she said; "perhaps it was a book full of 
 stories." 
 
 Frances shook her head. "O no," she answered, "it wasn't. 
 That would be nothing particular, and my present was some- 
 thing particular, very particular indeed. Well, you can't guess, 
 so I'll tell you — it was a Princess's dress; a real dress you 
 know; a dress that I can put on and wear." 
 
 "A Princess's dress," repeated Louisa, opening her eyes. 
 
 "Yes, to be sure," said Francis. "I call it a Princess's 
 dress, because it is copied from one the Princess Fair Star 
 wore at the pantomime last Christmas. It was there I saw 
 it, and I have teased papa ever since till he got it for me. And 
 it is so beautiful; quite beautiful enough for a queen for that 
 matter. My papa often calls me his queen, sometimes he says 
 his golden-haired queen. Does yours?" 
 
 "No," said Louisa sadly; "my papa sometimes calls me his 
 
THE REEL FAIRIES 307 
 
 pet, and sometimes he calls me 'old woman,' but he never says I 
 am his queen. I suppose I am not pretty enough." 
 
 "I don't know," said Frances, consideringly, "I don't think 
 you're ugly exactly. Perhaps if you asked your papa to get 
 you a Princess's dress " 
 
 "He wouldn't," said Louisa decidedly, "I know he wouldn't. 
 It would not be the least use asking him. Tell me more about 
 yours — what is it like, and does it make you feel like a real 
 princess when you have it on?" 
 
 "I suppose it makes me look like one," replied Frances 
 complacently, "and as for feeling, why one can always fancy, 
 you know." 
 
 "Fancying isn't enough," said Louisa. "I know I should 
 dreadfully like to be a princess or a queen. It is the first thing 
 I would ask a fairy. Perhaps you don't wish it so much 
 because every one pets you so, and thinks you so pretty. Has 
 your dress got silver and gold on it?" 
 
 "O yes, at least it has silver — silver spots," began Frances 
 eagerly, but just then her mamma turned to tell her that they 
 must go. "The little people have made friends very quickly 
 after all, you see," she said to Louisa's mamma. "Some day 
 you must really bring Louisa to see Frances — it has been such 
 an old promise." 
 
 "It is not often I can leave home for a whole day," said 
 Louisa's mamma; "and then, dear, you must remember not 
 having a carriage makes a difference." 
 
 Louisa's cheeks grew red. She felt very vexed with her 
 mamma for telling Mrs. Gordon they had no carriage, but of 
 course she did not venture to say anything, so no one noticed 
 her. She was not sorry when Mrs. Gordon and Frances said 
 good-bye and went away. 
 
 That same evening, a little before bed-time, Louisa hap- 
 pened to be again in the drawing-room alone with her mother. 
 
 "Louisa," said her mother, who was sewing at the table, 
 
308 STORIES BY MRS. MOLES^WORTH 
 
 "you did not leave my workbox as neat as usual this morning. 
 I suppose it was because you were interrupted by Frances 
 Gordon. Come here, dear, and take the box and put it on a 
 chair near the fire and arrange it rightly. Here is a whloe col- 
 lection of reels rolling about. Put them all in their places." 
 
 Louisa did as she was told, but without speaking. Indeed 
 she had been very silent all day, but her mother had been 
 occupied with other things and had not noticed her particularly. 
 Louisa quietly put the reels into their places, giving the most 
 comfortable corners to her favourites as usual, and huddling 
 some of the others together rather unceremoniously. Then she 
 sat down on the hearth-rug, and began to think of what Frances 
 Gordon had said to her, and to wish all sorts of not very wise 
 things. She felt herself at last growing drowsy, so she leant 
 her little round head on the chair beside her, and was almost 
 asleep, When she heard her mother say, "Louisa, my dear, you 
 are getting sleepy, you must really go to bed." 
 
 "Yes, mamma," she said, or intended to say, but the words 
 sounded faint and dreamlike, and before they were fully pro- 
 nounced she was fairly asleep! 
 
 She remembered nothing more for what seemed a very long 
 time — then to her surprise she found herself already undressed 
 and in her own little bed! "Nurse must have carried me up- 
 stairs and undressed me," she thought, and she opened her eyes 
 very wide to see if it was still the middle of the night. No, 
 surely it could not be; the room Avas quite light, yet where was 
 the light coming from? It was not coming in at the window — 
 there was no window to be seen; the curtains were drawn 
 across, and no tiny chink even was visible; there was no lamp 
 or candle in the room, — the light was simply there, but where 
 it came from Louisa could not discover. She got tired of 
 wondering about it at last, and was composing herself to sleep 
 again, When suddenly a small but very clear voice called her by 
 name. "Louisa, Louisa," it said. She did not feel at all 
 
THE REEL FAIRIES 309 
 
 frightened. She half raised herself in hed and exclaimed, 
 "Who is speaking to me? What do you want?" 
 
 "Louisa, Louisa," the voice repeated, "would you like to be 
 a queen?" 
 
 "Very much indeed, thank you," Louisa replied promptly. 
 "Then rub your eyes and look about you," said the voice. 
 
 Louisa rubbed her eyes and looked about her to some pur- 
 pose, for what do you think she saw? All the white counter- 
 pane of her little bed was covered with tiny figures, of various 
 sizes, from one inch to three or four in height. They were 
 hopping, and dancing, and twirling themselves about in every 
 imaginable way, like nothing anybody ever saw before, or since, 
 or ever will again. 
 
 "Fairies!" thought Louisa at once, and without any feeling 
 of overwhelming surprise, for, like most children, she had al- 
 ways been hoping, and indeed half expecting, that some day 
 an adventure of this kind would fall to her share. 
 
 "Yes, fairies," said the same voice as before, which seemed 
 to hear her thoughts as distinctly as if she had spoken them; 
 "but what kind of fairies? Look at us again, Louisa." 
 
 Louisa opened her eyes wider and stared harder. There 
 were all kinds of fairies, gentleman and ladies, little and big; 
 but as she looked she saw that every one of them, without ex- 
 ception, "wore a curious sort of round stiff jacket, more like a 
 little barrel than anything else. It gave them a queer high- 
 shouldered look, very like the little figures of Noah and his 
 family in toy arks ; but as Louisa was staring at them the mystery 
 was explained. A big, rather clumsy-looking gentleman fairy, 
 stopped for a moment in his gymnastics, and Louisa read on 
 the ledge round his shoulders the familiar words "Clark and 
 Co.'s best six-cord, extra quality, No. 12." 
 
 "I know," she cried, clapping her hands; "you're mamma's 
 reels!" 
 
310 STORIES BY MRS. MOLESWORTH 
 
 At these words a sensation ran through the company; they 
 all stood stock-still, and Louisa began to feel a little afraid. 
 
 "She says," exclaimed the voice, "she says we're her 
 mamma's reels!" 
 
 There fell a dead silence; Louisa expected to be sentenced 
 to undergo capital punishment on the spot. "It's too bad," 
 she said to herself, "it's too bad; they asked me to guess who 
 they were." 
 
 "She says," continued the voice, "she says 'it's too bad.' 
 What is too bad? My friends, let the deputation stand forward." 
 
 Instantly about a dozen fairies separated themselves from 
 the others and advanced, slowly marching two and two up 
 the counterpane, till having made their way across the various 
 hills and valleys formed by Louisa's little figure under the bed- 
 clothes, they drew up just in front of her nose. Foremost of 
 the deputation she recognised, the one clad in pink satin, the 
 other in glistening white, her two favourites the Princesses 
 Blanche and Rose. 
 
 "Beautiful Louisa," said the deputation, all speaking at 
 once, "we have come to ask you to be our queen." 
 
 "Thank you," said Louisa, not knowing what else to say. 
 
 "She consents!" exclaimed the deputation, "let the royal 
 chariot appear." 
 
 Thereupon there suddenly started up in the middle of the 
 bed, as large as life, but no larger, her mamma's big workbox! 
 The fairies all clambered on to it with a rush, and hung upon 
 it in every direction, like bees on a hive, or firemen on a fire- 
 engine; and no sooner were they all mounted than the workbox 
 slowly glided along till it was close to Louisa's face. 
 
 "Will your majesty please to get in?" said one of the 
 fairies, "Clark's No. 12, extra quality," I think it was. 
 
 "How can I?" said Louisa piteously, "how can I? I'm far 
 too big. How can I get into a workbox?" 
 
THE REEL FAIRIES 311 
 
 "Please to rub your eyes and try," said the big fairy, 
 "right foot foremost, if you please." 
 
 Louisa rubbed her eyes, and pulling her right foot out from 
 under the clothes, stepped on to the workbox. 
 
 To her surprise, or rather not to her surprise, everything 
 seemed to come quite naturally, she found that she was not at 
 all too big, and she settled herself in the place the fairies had 
 kept for her, the nice little division lined with satin, in which 
 her mamma's thimble and emery cushion always lay. It was 
 pretty comfortable, only rather hard, but Louisa had no time 
 to think about that, for no sooner was she seated than off flew 
 the workbox, that is to say the royal chariot, away, away, 
 Louisa knew not where, and felt too giddy to try to think. It 
 stopped at last as suddenly as it had started, and quick as 
 thought all the fairies jumped down. Louisa followed them 
 more deliberately. She found herself in a great shining hall, 
 the walls seemed to be of looking-glass, but when she observed 
 them more closely she found they were made of innumerable 
 needles, all fastened together in some wonderful fairy fashion, 
 which she had not time to examine, for just then the Chinese 
 princesses approached her, carrying between them a glistening 
 dress, which they begged her to put on. They were quite as 
 tall as she by-the-by, so she allowed them to dress her, and then 
 examined herself with great satisfaction in the looking-glass 
 walls. The dress was lovely, of that there was no doubt; it was 
 just such a one, curiously enough, as Frances Gordon had 
 described; the only drawback was her short hair, which certainly 
 did not add to her regal appearance. 
 
 "It won't show so much when your majesty has the crown 
 on," said the Chinese princesses, answering as before to Louisa's 
 unspoken thoughts. Then some gentlemen fairies appeared with 
 the crown, which fitted exactly, only it felt rather heavy. But 
 it would never do for a queen to complain, even in thought, 
 of so trifling a matter, so with great dignity Louisa ascended 
 
312 STORIES BY MRS. MOLESWORTH 
 
 the throne which stood at one end of the hall, and sat down upon 
 it to see what would come next. 
 
 The Fairies came next. One after the other, by dozens, and 
 scores, and hundreds, they passed before her, each as he passed 
 making the humblest of obeisances, as if to the Great Mogul 
 himself. It was very fine indeed, but after a while Louisa began 
 to get rather tired of it, and though the throne was very grand 
 to look at, it too felt rather hard, and the crown grew decidedly 
 heavier. 
 
 "I think I'd like to come down for a little," she said to 
 some of the ladies and gentlemen beside her, but they took 
 no notice. "I'd like to get down for a little and to take off 
 my crown — it's hurting my head, and this spangly dress is so 
 cold," she continued. Still the fairies took no notice. 
 
 "Don't you hear what I say?" she exclaimed again, getting 
 angry; "what's the use of being a queen if you won't an- 
 swer me?" 
 
 Then at last some of the fairies standing beside the throne 
 appeared to hear what she was saying. 
 
 "Her majesty wishes to take a little exercise," said "Clark's 
 No. 12," and immediately the words were repeated in a sort 
 of confusing buzz all round the hall. "Her majesty wishes to 
 take a little exercise" — "her majesty wishes to take a little 
 exercise," till Louisa could have shaken them all heartily, she 
 felt so provoked. Then suddenly the throne began to squeak 
 and grunt (Louisa thought it was going to talk about her taking 
 exercise next), and after it had given vent to all manner of 
 unearthly sounds it jerked itself up, first on one side and then 
 on the other, like a very rheumatic old woman, and at last 
 slowly moved away. None of the fairies were pushing it, that 
 was plain; and at first Louisa was too much occupied in won- 
 dering what made it move, to find fault with the mode of exercise 
 permitted to her. The throne rolled slowly along, all round 
 the hall, and wherever it appeared a crowd of fairies scuttled 
 
THE REEL FAIRIES 313 
 
 away, all chattering the same words — "Her majesty is taking a 
 little exercise," till at last, with renewed jerks and grunts and 
 groans, her queer conveyance settled itself again in its old place. 
 As soon as it was still, Louisa tried to get down, but no sooner 
 did she put a foot on the ground than a crowd of fairies re- 
 spectfully lifted it up again on to the footstool. This happened 
 two or three times, till Louisa's patience was again exhausted. 
 
 "Get out of my way," she exclaimed, "you horrid little 
 things, get out of my way; I want to get down and run about." 
 
 But the fairies took no notice of what she said, till for the 
 third time she repeated it. Then they all spoke at once. 
 
 "Her majesty wants to take a little more exercise," they 
 buzzed in all directions, till Louisa was so completely out of 
 patience that she burst into tears. 
 
 "I won't stay to be your queen," she said, "it's not nice 
 at all. I want to go home to my mamma. I want to go home 
 to my mamma. I want to go home to my mamma." 
 
 "We don't know what mammas are," said the fairies. "We 
 haven't anything of that kind here." 
 
 "That's a story," said Louisa. "There — are mammas here. 
 I've seen several. There's Mrs. Brown, and there's Lady Floss, 
 and there's — no, the Chinese princesses haven't a mamma. But 
 you see there are two among my mamma's own reels in her 
 workb " 
 
 But before she could finish the word the fairies all set 
 up a terrific shout. "The word, the word," they cried, "the 
 word that no one must mention here. Hush! hush! hush!" 
 
 They all turned upon Louisa as if they were going to tear 
 her to pieces. In her terror she uttered a piercing scream, 
 and — woke. 
 
 She wasn't in bed; where was she? Could she be in the 
 workbox? Wherever she was it was quite dark and cold, and 
 something was pressing against her head, and her legs were 
 aching. Suddenly there came a flash of light. Some one had 
 
314 STORIES BY MRS. MOLESWORTH 
 
 opened the door, and the light from the hall streamed in. The 
 some one was Louisa's mamma. 
 
 "Who is in here? Did I hear some one calling out?" she 
 exclaimed anxiously. 
 
 Louisa was slowly recovering her wits. "It was me, 
 mamma," she answered; "I didn't know where I was, and I was 
 so frightened and I am so cold. Oh mamma!" 
 
 A flood of tears choked her. 
 
 "You poor child," exclaimed her mamma, hurrying back to 
 the hall to fetch a lamp, as she spoke, "why, you have fallen 
 asleep on the hearthrug, and the fire's out; and my workbox — 
 what is it doing here? Were you using it for a pillow?" 
 
 "No," said Louisa, eyeing the workbox suspiciously, "it 
 was on the chair, and the corner of it has hurt my head, mamma; 
 it was pressing against it." 
 
 Her mamma lifted the box on to the table. 
 
 "Are they all in there, mamma?" whispered Louisa, timidly. 
 
 "All in where? All who? What are you speaking about, 
 my dear?" 
 
 "The fairies — the reels I mean," replied Louisa. 
 
 "My dear, you are dreaming still," said her mamma, laugh- 
 ing, but seeing that Louisa looked dissatisfied, "never mind, 
 you shall tell me your dreams to-morrow. But just now you 
 must really go to bed. It is nine o'clock — you have been two 
 hours asleep. I went out of the room in a hurry, taking the 
 lamp with me because it was not burning rightly, and then I 
 heard baby crying — he is very cross to-night — and both nurse 
 and I forgot about you. Now go, dear, and get well warmed 
 at the nursery fire before you go to bed." 
 
 Louisa trotted off. She had no more dreams that night, 
 but when she woke the next morning, her poor little legs 
 were still aching. She had caught cold the night before, there 
 was no doubt, so her mamma, taking some blame to herself 
 for her having fallen asleep on the floor, was particularly kind 
 
THE REEL FAIRIES 315 
 
 and indulgent to her. She brought her down to the drawing- 
 room wrapped in a shawl, and established her comfortably in 
 an arm-chair. 
 
 "What will you have to play with?" she asked. "Would 
 you like my workbox?" 
 
 "I don't know," said Louisa, doubtfully. "Mamma," she 
 continued, after a moment's silence, "can queens never do what 
 they like?" 
 
 "Very often they can't," replied her mamma. "What makes 
 you ask?" 
 
 "I dreamt I was a queen," said Louisa. 
 
 "Did you? What country were you queen of?" 
 
 "I was queen of the reel fairies," replied the child gravely. 
 Her mother looked mystified. 
 
 "Tell me what you mean, dear," she said. "Tell me all 
 about it." 
 
 So bit by bit Louisa explained the whole, and her mamma 
 had for once a peep into that strange, fantastic, mysterious 
 "world, which we call a child's imagination. She had a glimpse 
 of something else too. She saw that her little girl was in danger 
 of getting to live too much alone, was in need of sympathy and 
 companionship. 
 
 "I think it was what Frances Gordon said that made me 
 dream about being a queen," she said. 
 
 "And do you still wish you were a queen?" said her mamma. 
 
 "No," said Louisa. 
 
 "A princess then?" 
 
 "No," she replied again. "But, mamma " 
 
 "Well, dear?" 
 
 "I do wish sometimes that I was pretty, and that — that; 
 — I don't know how to say it — that people made a fuss about 
 me sometimes." 
 
 Her mamma looked a little grave and a little sad; but 
 still she smiled. She could not be angry — thought Louisa. 
 
316 STORIES BY MRS. MOLESWORTH 
 
 "Is it naughty, mamma?" she whispered. 
 
 "Naughty? No, dear; it is a wish most little girls have, I 
 fancy — and big ones too. But some day you will understand 
 how it might grow into a wrong feeling, and how on the other 
 side a little of it may be useful to help good feelings. And 
 till you understand better, dear, doesn't it make you happy to 
 know that to me you could not be dearer if you were the most 
 beautiful little princess in the world." 
 
 "As beautiful as Princess Fair Star, mamma?" 
 
 "Yes, or any other princess you can think of. I would 
 rather have my little mouse of a girl than any of them." 
 
 Louisa nestled closer to her mamma with great satisfaction. 
 "I like you to call me j^our mouse, mamma; and do you know I 
 almost think I like having a cold." 
 
 Her mother laughed. "Am I making a little fuss about 
 you? Is that what you like?" 
 
 Louisa laughed too. 
 
 "Do you think I should leave off playing with the reels, 
 and making stories about them, mamma? Is it silly?" 
 
 "No, dear, not if it amuses you," said her mother. 
 
 But though Louisa did not leave off playing with the 
 reels altogether, she gradually came to find that she preferred 
 other amusements. Her mother taught her several pretty kinds 
 of work, and read aloud stories to her more often than 
 formerly. And, somehow, Louisa never again cared quite as 
 much for her old friends. She thought the Chinese princesses 
 had grown rather "stuck-up" and affected, and she could not 
 get over a strong suspicion that "Clark's No. 12" was very 
 ready to be impertinent, if he could ever again get a chance. 
 
THE BLUE DWARF 
 
 AN ADVENTURE IN THURINGEN 
 
 "And then on the top of the Caldon Low 
 There was no one left but me." 
 
 Mary Howitt. 
 
 "I liked the blue dwarfs the best — far, far the best of any- 
 thing," said Olive. 
 
 " 'The blue dwarfs?' " repeated Rex. "What do you mean? 
 Why can't you say what you mean plainly? Girls have such a 
 stupid way of talking!" 
 
 "What can be plainer than the blue dwarfs?" said Olive 
 rather snappishly, though, it must be allowed, with some reason. 
 "We were talking about the things we liked best at the china 
 place. You said the stags' heads and the inkstands, and I say 
 the blue dwarfs." 
 
 "But I didn't see any dwarfs," persisted Rex. 
 
 "Well, I can't help it if you didn't. You had just as much 
 chance of seeing them as I had. They were in a corner by them- 
 selves — little figures about two inches high, all with blue coats 
 on. There were about twelve of them, all different, but all little 
 dwarfs or gnomes. One was sitting on a barrel, one was turn- 
 ing head-over-heels, one was cuddling his knees — all funny ways 
 like that. Oh, they were lovely!" 
 
 "I wish I had seen them better," said Rex regretfully. "I 
 do remember seeing a tray full of little blue-looking dolls, but 
 I didn't notice Avhat they were." 
 
 Olive did not at once answer. Her eyes were fixed on 
 something she saw passing before the window. It was a very, 
 very little man. He was not exactly hump-backed, but his 
 figure was somewhat deformed, and he was so small that but for 
 
 317 
 
318 STORIES BY MRS. MOLESWORTH 
 
 the sight of his rather wizened old face one could hardly have 
 believed he was a full-grown man. His eyes were bright and 
 beady-looking, like those of a good-natured little weasel, if there 
 be such a thing, and his face lighted up with a smile as he caught 
 sight of the two, to him, strange-looking children at the open 
 window of the little village inn. 
 
 "Good day," he said, nodding to them; and "good day," 
 replied the children, as they had learnt to do by this time to 
 everybody they met. For in these remote villages it would be 
 thought the greatest breach of courtesy to pass any one without 
 this friendly greeting. 
 
 Rex drew a long breath when the dwarf had passed. 
 
 "Olive " he began, but Olive interrupted him. 
 
 "Rex," she said eagerly, "that's exactly like them — like the 
 blue dwarfs, I mean. Only, of course, their faces were prettier 
 — nice little china faces, rather crumply looking, but quite nice; 
 and then their coats were such a pretty nice blue. I think," 
 she went on consideringly — "I think, if I had that little man 
 and washed his face very well, and got him a bright blue coat, 
 he would look just like one of the blue dwarfs grown big." 
 
 Rex looked at Olive with a queer expression. 
 
 "Olive," he said in rather an awe-struck tone; "Olive, do 
 you think perhaps they're real? Do you think perhaps some- 
 where in this country — in those queer dark woods, perhaps — that 
 there are real blue dwarfs, and that somebody must have seen 
 them and made the little china ones like them? Perhaps," and his 
 voice dropped and grew still and solemn; "perhaps, Olive, that 
 little man's one of them, and they may have to take off their blue 
 coats when they're walking about. Do you know, I think it's 
 a little, just a very little frightening? Don't you, Olive?" 
 
 "No, of course I don't," said Olive, and, to do her justice, 
 her rather sharp answer was meant as much to reassure her little 
 brother as to express any feeling of impatience. Rex was quite 
 a little fellow, only eight, and Olive, who was nearly twelve, 
 
THE BLUE DWARFS 319 
 
 remembered that when she was as little as that, she used some- 
 times to feel frightened about things which she now couldn't see 
 anything the least frightening in. And she remembered how 
 once or twice some of her big cousins had laughed at her, and 
 amused themselves by telling her all sorts of nonsense, which 
 still seemed terrible to her when she was alone in her room 
 in the dark at night. "Of course there's nothing frightening in 
 it," she said. "It would be rather a funny idea, I think. Of 
 course it can't be, you know, Rex. There are no dwarfs, and 
 gnomes, and fairies now." 
 
 "But that little man was a dwarf," said Rex. 
 
 "Yes, but a dwarf needn't be a fairy sort of person," 
 explained Olive. "He's just a common little man, only he's 
 never grown as big as other people. Perhaps he had a bad fall 
 when he was a baby — that might stop his growing." 
 
 "Would it?" said Rex. "I didn't know that. I hope I hadn't 
 a bad fall when I was a baby. Everybody says I'm very small 
 for my age." And Rex looked with concern at his short but 
 sturdy legs. 
 
 Olive laughed outright. 
 
 "Oh, Rex, what a funny boy you are! No, certainly, you 
 are not a dwarf. You're as straight and strong as you can be." 
 
 "Well, but," said Rex, returning to the first subject, "I do 
 think it's very queer about that little dwarf man coming up the 
 street just as you were telling me about the blue dwarfs. And he 
 did look at us in a funny way, Olive, whatever you say, just as 
 if he had heard what we were talking about." 
 
 "All the people look at us in a funny way here," said Olive. 
 "We must look very queer to them. Your sailor suit, Rex, and 
 my 'Bolero' hat must look to them quite as queer as the women's 
 purple skirts, with bright green aprons, look to us." 
 
 "Or the bullock-carts," said Rex. "Do you remember how 
 queer we thought them at first. Now we've got quite used to 
 seeing queer things, haven't we, Olive? Oh, now do look there 
 
320 STORIES BY MRS. MOLESWORTH 
 
 — at the top of the street — there, Olive, did you ever see such a 
 load as that woman is carrying in the basket on her back? Why, 
 it's as big as a house!" 
 
 He seemed to have forgotten about the dwarfs, and Olive 
 was rather glad of it. These two children were travelling with 
 their uncle and aunt in a rather out-of-the-way part of Europe. 
 Out-of-the-way, that is to say, to most of the regular summer 
 tourists from other countries, who prefer going Avhere they are 
 more sure of finding the comforts and luxuries they are accus- 
 tomed to at home. But it was by no means out-of-the-way in 
 the sense of being dull or deserted. It is a very busy part of the 
 world indeed. You would be amazed if I were to tell you some 
 of the beautiful things that are made in these bare, homely little 
 peasant cottages. For all about in the neighbourhood there are 
 great manufactories and warehouses for china and glass and 
 many other things; and some parts of the work are done by the 
 people at home in their own houses. The morning of the day of 
 which I am telling you had been spent by the children and their 
 friends in visiting a very large china manufactory, and their 
 heads were full of the pretty and wonderful things they had 
 seen. 
 
 And now they were waiting in the best parlour of the village 
 inn while their uncle arranged about a carriage to take them all 
 on to the small town where they were to stay a few days. Their 
 aunt was tired, and was resting a little on the sofa, and they had 
 planted themselves on the broad window-sill, and were looking 
 out with amusement at all that passed. 
 
 "What have you two been chattering about all this time?" 
 said their aunt, suddenly looking up. "I think I must have been 
 asleep a little, but I have heard your voices going on like two 
 birds twittering." 
 
 "Have we disturbed you, Auntie?" asked Olive, with concern. 
 
 "Oh, no, not a bit; but come here and tell me what you have 
 been talking about." 
 
THE BLUE DWARFS 321 
 
 Instantly Rex's mind went back to the dwarfs. 
 
 "Auntie," he said seriously, "perhaps you can tell me better 
 than Olive can. Are there really countries of dwarfs, and are 
 they a kind of fairies, Auntie?" 
 
 Auntie looked rather puzzled. 
 
 "Dwarfs, Rex?" she said; "countries of dwarfs? How do 
 you mean?" 
 
 Olive hastened to explain. Auntie was very much amused. 
 
 "Certainly," she said, "we have already seen so many strange 
 things in our travels that it is better not to be too sure what 
 we may not see. But anyway, Rex, you may be quite easy in 
 your mind, that if ever you come across any of the dwarfs, 
 you will find them very good-natured and amiable, only you 
 must be very respectful — always say 'Sir,' or 'My lord,' or some- 
 thing like that to them, and bow a great deal. And you must 
 never seem to think anything they do the least odd, not even if 
 they propose to you to walk on your head, or to eat roast fir- 
 cones for dinner, for instance." 
 
 Auntie was quite young — not so very much older than Olive 
 — and very merry. Olive's rather "grown-up" tones and man- 
 ners used sometimes to tempt her to make fun of the little 
 girl, which, to tell the truth, Olive did not always take quite in 
 good part. And it must for Olive be allowed, that Auntie did 
 sometimes allow her spirits and love of fun to run away with 
 her a little too far, just like pretty unruly ponies, excited by 
 the fresh air and sunshine, who toss their heads and gallop off. 
 It is great fun at first and very nice to see, but one is sometimes 
 afraid they may do some mischief on the way — without meaning 
 it, of course; and, besides, it is not always so easy to pull them 
 up as it was to start them. 
 
 Just as Auntie finished speaking the door opened and their 
 uncle came in. He was Auntie's elder brother — a good deal older 
 — and very kind and sensible. At once all thoughts of the 
 dwarfs or what Auntie had been saying danced out of Rex's 
 
322 STORIES BY MRS. MOLESWORTH 
 
 curly head. Like a true boy he flew off to his uncle, besieging 
 him with questions as to what sort of a carriage they were to 
 go on in — was it an ox-cart; oh, mightn't they for once go in an 
 ox-cart, and might he — oh, might he sit beside the driver in 
 front? 
 
 His uncle laughed and replied to his questions, but Olive 
 stayed beside the sofa, staring gravely at her aunt. 
 
 "Auntie," she said, "you're not in earnest, are you, about 
 there being really a country of dwarfs?" 
 
 Olive was twelve. Perhaps you will think her very silly to 
 have imagined for a moment that her aunt's joke could be anything 
 but a joke, especially as she had been so sensible about not letting 
 Rex get anything into his head which could frighten him. But I 
 am not sure that she was so very silly after all. She had read in her 
 geography about the Lapps and Finns, the tiny little men of the 
 north, whom one might very well describe as dwarfs; there might 
 be dwarfs in these strange Thuringian forests, which were little 
 spoken of in geography books; Auntie knew more of such things 
 than she did, for she had travelled in this country before. Then 
 with her own eyes Olive had seen a dwarf, and though she had 
 said to Rex that he was just an odd dwarf by himself as it were, 
 not one of a race, how could she tell but what he might be one of a 
 number of such queer little people? And even the blue dwarfs 
 themselves — the little figures in the china manufactory — rather 
 went to prove it than not. 
 
 "They may have taken the idea of dwarfs from the real ones, 
 as Rex said," thought Olive. "Anyway I shall look well about me 
 if we go through any of these forests again. They must live in 
 the forests, for Auntie said they eat roast fir-cones for dinner." 
 
 All these thoughts were crowding through her mind as she 
 stared up into Auntie's face and asked solemnly 
 
 "Auntie, were you in earnest?" 
 
 Auntie's blue eyes sparkled. 
 
 "In earnest, Olive?" she said. "Of course! Why shouldn't 
 
THE BLUE DWARFS 323 
 
 I be in earnest? But come, quick, we must get our things together. 
 Your uncle must have got a carriage." 
 
 "Yes," said he, "I have. Not an ox-cart, Rex. I'm sorry for 
 your sake, but for no one else's; for I don't think there would be 
 much left of us by the end of the journey if we were to be jogged 
 along the forest roads in an ox-cart. No! I have got quite a re- 
 spectable vehicle ; but we must stop an hour or two on the way, to 
 rest the horses and give them a feed, otherwise we could not get 
 through to-night." 
 
 "Where shall we stop?" said Auntie, as with the bundles of 
 shawls and bags they followed the children's uncle to the door. 
 
 "There is a little place in the forest, where they can look after 
 the horses," said he; "and I dare say we can get some coffee there 
 for ourselves, if we want it. It is a pretty little nook. I remember 
 it long ago, and I shall be glad to see it again." 
 
 Olive had pricked up her ears. "A little place in the forest!" 
 she said to herself; "that may be near where the dwarfs live: it is 
 most likely not far from here, because of the one we saw." She 
 would have liked to ask her uncle about it, but something in the 
 look of her aunt's eyes kept her from doing so. 
 
 "Perhaps she was joking," thought Olive to herself. "But 
 perhaps she doesn't know ; she didn't see the real dwarf. It would 
 be rather nice if I did find them, then Auntie couldn't laugh at me 
 any more." 
 
 They were soon comfortably settled in the carriage, and set 
 off. The first part of the drive was not particularly interesting; 
 and it was so hot, though already afternoon, that they were all — 
 Olive especially, you may be sure — delighted to exchange the open 
 country for the pleasant shade of a grand pine forest, through 
 which their road now lay. 
 
 "Is it a very large forest, Uncle?" said Olive. 
 
 "Yes, very large," he replied rather sleepily, to tell the truth ; 
 for both he and Auntie had been nodding a Little, and Rex had once 
 
324 STORIES BY MRS. MOLESWORTH 
 
 or twice been fairly asleep. But Olive's imagination was far too 
 hard at work to let her sleep. 
 
 "The largest in Europe?" she went on, without giving much 
 thought to poor Uncle's sleepiness. 
 
 "Oh, yes, by far," he replied, for he had not heard clearly 
 what she said, and fancied it was "the largest hereabouts." 
 
 "Dear me!" thought Olive, looking round her Avith awe and 
 satisfaction. "If there are dwarfs anywhere, then it must be here." 
 
 And she was just beginning another. "And please. Uncle, 
 is ?" when her aunt looked up and said lazily 
 
 "Oh, my dear child, do be quiet! Can't you go to sleep your- 
 self a little? We shall have more than enough of the forest before 
 we are out of it." Which offended Olive so much that she relapsed 
 into silence. 
 
 Auntie was a truer prophet than she knew ; for when they got 
 to the little hamlet in the wood, where they were to rest, something 
 proved to be wrong witJh one of the horse's shoes ; so wrong, indeed, 
 that after a prolonged examination, at which all the inhabitants 
 turned out to assist, it was decided that the horse must be re-shod 
 before he could go any farther ; and this made it impossible for the 
 party who had come in the carriage to go any farther either. For 
 the nearest smithy was two miles off; the horse must be led there 
 and back by the driver, which would take at least two, if not three, 
 hours. It was now past six, and they had come barely half way. 
 The driver shook his head, and said he would not like to on to the 
 town till morning. The horse had pricked his foot ; it might cause 
 inflammation to drive him farther without a rest, and the carriage 
 was far too heavy for the other horse alone, which had suddenly 
 struck the children's uncle as a brilliant idea. 
 
 "There would be no difficulty about the harnessing, anyway," 
 he said to Auntie, laughing; "for all the vehicles hereabouts drawn 
 by one horse have the animal at one side of a pole, instead of 
 between shafts." 
 
 But Auntie thought it better to give in. 
 
THE BLUE DWARFS 325 
 
 "It really doesn't much matter," she said; "we can stay here 
 vrell enough. There are two bedrooms, and no doubt they can give 
 us something to eat; beer and sausages and brown bread anyway." 
 
 And so it was settled, greatly to Olive's satisfaction; it would 
 give her capital opportunities for a dwarf hunt ! Though as to this 
 she kept her own counsel. 
 
 The landlady of the little post-house where they had stopped 
 was accustomed to occasional visits of this kind from benighted or 
 distressed travellers. She thought nothing of turning her two 
 daughters out of their bedroom, which, it must be owned, was very 
 clean, for Auntie and Olive, and a second room on the ground-floor 
 was prepared for Rex and his uncle. She had coffee ready in five 
 minutes, and promised them a comfortable supper before bedtime. 
 Altogether, everything seemed very satisfactory, and when they 
 felt a little refreshed, Auntie proposed a walk — "a good long walk," 
 she said, "would do us good. And the landlady says we get out of 
 the forest up there behind the house, where the ground rises, and 
 that there is a lovely view. It will be rather a climb, but it isn't 
 more than three-quarters of an hour from here, and we have not 
 walked all day." 
 
 Uncle thought it a good idea, and Rex was ready to start at 
 once; but Olive looked less pleased. 
 
 "Don't you want to come, Olive?" said Auntie. "Are you 
 tired? You didn't take a nap like the rest of us." 
 
 "I am a little tired," said Olive, which was true in one sense, 
 though not in another, for she was quite fit for a walk. It struck 
 her that her excuse was not quite an honest one, so she added, "If 
 you don't mind, I would rather stay about here. I don't mind being 
 alone, and I have my book. And I do so like the forest." 
 
 "Very well," said her uncle; "only don't lose yourself. She is 
 perfectly safe," he added, turning to her aunt; "there are neither 
 wolves, nor bears, nor robbers nowadays, in these peaceful forests." 
 
 So the three set off, leaving Olive to her own devices. She 
 waited till they were out of sight, then she made her preparations. 
 
326 STORIES BY MRS. MOLESWORTH 
 
 "I'd better take my purse," she said to herself, "in case I meet 
 the dwarfs. Auntie told me to be very polite, and perhaps they 
 would like some of these tiny pieces ; they just look as if they were 
 meant for them." So she chose a few copper coins and one or two 
 silver pieces, worth about twopence-halfpenny each, still smaller. 
 Then she put in her pocket half a slice of the brown bread they had 
 had with their coffee, and arming herself, more for appearance' 
 sake than anything else, with her parasol and the book she had 
 with her in her travelling bag, she set off on her solitary ramble. 
 
 It was still hot — though the forest trees made a pleasant shade. 
 Olive walked some way, farther and farther, as far as she could 
 make out, into the heart of the forest, but in her inexperience she 
 took no sort of care to notice the way she went, or to make for her- 
 self any kind of landmarks. She just wandered on and on, tempted 
 first by some mysterious little path, and then by another, her mind 
 full of the idea of the discoveries she was perhaps about to make. 
 Now and then a squirrel darted across from one tree to another, 
 disappearing among the branches almost before Olive could be 
 sure she had seen it, or some wild wood birds, less familiar to the 
 little foreigner, would startle her with a shrill, strange note. There 
 were here and there lovely flowers growing among the moss, and 
 more than once she heard the sound of not far off trickling water. 
 It was all strangely beautiful, and she would greatly have enjoyed 
 and admired it had not her mind been so full of the queer, fascinat- 
 ing idea of the blue dwarfs. 
 
 At last — she had wandered about for some time — Olive began 
 to feel tired. 
 
 "I may as well sit down a little," she thought; "I have lots 
 of time to get back. This seems the very heart of the forest. They 
 are just as likely to be seen here as anywhere else." 
 
 So Olive ensconced herself in a comfortable corner, her back 
 against the root of a tree, which seemed hollowed out on purpose to 
 serve as an arm-chair. She thought at first she would read a little, 
 but the light was already slightly waning, and the tree shadows 
 
THE BLUE DWARFS 327 
 
 made it still fainter. Besides, Olive had plenty to think of — she 
 did not require any amusement. Queer little noises now and then 
 made themselves heard— once or twice it really sounded as if small 
 feet were pattering along, or as if shrill little voices were laughing 
 in the distance ; and with each sound, Olive's heart beat faster with 
 excitement — not with fear. 
 
 "If I sit very still," she thought, "who knows what I may see? 
 Of course, it would be much nicer and prettier if the dwarfs were 
 quite tiny — not like the little man we saw in the street at that 
 place — I forget the name — for he was not pretty at all — but like 
 the blue dwarfs at the manufactory. But that, I suppose, is im- 
 possible, for they would be really like fairies. But they might be 
 something between: not so big as the little man, and yet bigger 
 than the blue dwarfs." 
 
 And then Olive grew a little confused in trying to settle in her 
 mind how big, or how small rather, it was possible or impossible for 
 a nation of dwarfs to be. She thought it over till she hardly seemed 
 sure what she was trying to decide. She kept saying to herself, 
 "Anyway, they could not but be a good deal bigger than my thumb ! 
 What does that mean? Perhaps it means more in dwarf measures 
 than in English, perhaps " 
 
 But Avhat was that that suddenly hit her on the nose? Olive 
 looked up, a very little inclined to be offended ; it is not a pleasant 
 thing to be hit on the nose; could it be Rex come behind her sud- 
 denly, and playing her a trick? Just as she was thinking this, a 
 second smart tap on the nose startled her still more, and this time 
 there was no mistake about it ; it came from above, and it was a fir- 
 cone! Had it come of itself? Somehow the words, "Roast fir-cones 
 for dinner," kept running in her head, and she took up the fir-cone 
 in her fingers to examine it, but quickly dropped it again, for it 
 was as hot as a coal. 
 
 "It has a very roasty smell," thought Olive; "where can it 
 have come from?" 
 
328 STORIES BY MRS. MOLESWORTH 
 
 And hardly had she asked herself the question, when a sudden 
 noise all round her made her again look up. They were sliding 
 down the branches of the tree in all directions. At first, to her 
 dazzled eyes, they seemed a whole army, but as they touched the 
 ground one by one, and she was able to distinguish them better, she 
 saw that after all there were not so very many. One, two, three, 
 she began quickly counting to herself, not aloud, of course — that 
 would not have been polite — one, two, three, up to twelve, then thir- 
 teen, fourteen, and so on up to — yes, there were just twenty-four 
 of them. 
 
 "Two of each," said Olive to herself; "a double set of the blue 
 dwarfs." 
 
 For they were the blue dwarfs, and no mistake ! Two of each, 
 as Olive had seen at once. And immediately they settled them- 
 selves in twos — two squatted on the ground embracing their knees, 
 two strode across a barrel which they had somehow or other brought 
 with them, two began turning head-over-heels, two knelt down with 
 their heads and queer little grinning faces looking over their shoul- 
 ders, twos and twos of them in every funny position you could 
 imagine, all arranged on the mossy ground in front of where Olive 
 sat, and all dressed in the same bright blue coats as the toy dwarfs 
 at the china manufactory. 
 
 Olive sat still and looked at them. Somehow she did not feel 
 surprised. 
 
 "How big are they?" she said to herself. "Bigger than my 
 thumb? Oh, yes, a good deal. I should think they are about as 
 tall as my arm would be if it was standing on the ground. I 
 should think they would come up above my knee. I should like to 
 stand up and measure, but perhaps it is better for me not to 
 speak to them till they speak to me." 
 
 She had not long to wait. In another moment two little blue 
 figures separated themselves from the crowd, and made their way 
 up to her. But when they were close to her feet they gave a sudden 
 
THE BLUE DWARFS 329 
 
 jump in the air, and came down, not on their feet, but on their 
 heads ! And then again some of her aunt's words came back to her, 
 "If they should ask you to stand on your head, for instance." 
 
 "Dear me," thought Olive, "how did Auntie know so much 
 about them? But I do hope they won't ask me to stand on my 
 head." 
 
 Her fears were somewhat relieved when the dwarfs gave 
 another spring and came down this time in a respectable manner on 
 their feet. Then, with a good many bows and flourishes, they be- 
 gan a speech. 
 
 "We are afraid," said the first. 
 
 "That the fir-cones," said the second. 
 
 "Were rather underdone," finished up the first. 
 
 Olive really did not know what to say. She was dreadfully 
 afraid that it would seem so very rude of her not even to have 
 tasted the cones. But naturally she had not the slightest idea that 
 they had been intended for her to eat. 
 
 "I am very sorry," she said, "Mr. , sir! my lord! I beg 
 
 your pardon. I don't quite know what I should call you." 
 
 "With all respect," said the first. 
 
 "And considering the circumstances," went on the second. 
 
 Then just as Olive supposed they were going to tell her their 
 names, they stopped short and looked at her. 
 
 "I beg your pardon," she began again, after waiting a minute 
 or two to see if they had nothing else to say; "I don't quite under- 
 stand." 
 
 "Nor do we," they replied promptly, speaking for the first 
 time both together. 
 
 "Do you mean you don't know what my name is?" said she. 
 "It's Olive, Olive!" for the dwarfs stood staring as if they had not 
 heard her. "Olive!" she repeated for the third time. 
 
 "Green?" asked the first. 
 
 "No!" said Olive. "Of course not! Green is a very common 
 name — at least " 
 
330 STORIES BY MRS. MOLESWORTH 
 
 "But you called us 'blue,' " said the second; and it really was 
 a relief to hear him finish a sentence comfortably by himself, only 
 Olive felt very puzzled by what he said. 
 
 "How do you know?" she said. "How could you tell I 
 called you the blue dwarfs?" and then another thought suddenly 
 struck her. How very odd it was that the dwarf spoke such good 
 English ! "I thought you were German," she said. 
 
 "How very amusing!" said the dwarfs, this time again speak- 
 ing together. 
 
 Olive could not see that it was very amusing, but she was 
 afraid of saying so, for fear it should be rude. 
 
 "And about the fir-cones," went on the first dwarf. "It is 
 distressing to think they were so underdone. But we have come, 
 all of us," waving his hand in the direction of the others, "to 
 invite you to supper in our village. There you Avill find them done 
 to perfection." 
 
 Olive felt more and more uncomfortable. 
 
 "You are very kind," she said. "I should like to come very 
 much, if it isn't too far; but I am afraid I couldn't eat any supper. 
 Indeed, I'm not hungry." And then a bright thought struck 
 her. "See here," she went on, drawing the half slice of bread out 
 of her pocket, "I had to put this in my pocket, for I couldn't finish 
 it at our afternoon coffee." 
 
 The two dwarfs came close and examined the piece of bread 
 with the greatest attention. They pinched and smelt it, and one 
 of them put out his queer little pointed tongue and licked it. 
 
 "Not good!" he said, looking up at Olive and rolling about 
 his eyes in a very queer way. 
 
 "I don't know," said Olive; "I don't think it can be bad. 
 It is the regular bread of the country. I should have thought 
 you would be accustomed to it, as you live here." 
 
 The two dwarfs took no notice of what she said, but suddenfy 
 turned round, and standing with their backs to Olive called out 
 shrilly, "Good day." Immediately all the other dwarfs replied 
 
THE BLUE DWARFS 331 
 
 in the same tone and the same words, and to Olive's great surprise 
 they all began to move towards her, but without altering their 
 attitudes — those on the barrel rolled towards her without getting 
 off it; the two who were hugging their knees continued to hug 
 them, while they came on by means of jerking themselves; the 
 turning head-over-heels ones span along like wheels, and so on till 
 the whole assemblage were at her feet. Then she saw unfolded 
 before her, hanging on the branches of the tree, a large mantle, just 
 the shape of her aunt's travelling dust-cloak, which she always 
 spread over Olive in a carriage, only, instead of being drab or 
 fawn-colored, it was, like the dwarfs' jackets, bright blue. And 
 without any one telling her, Olive seemed to know of herself that 
 she was to put it on. 
 
 She got up and reached the cloak easily; it seemed to put 
 itself on, and Olive felt very happy and triumphant as she said to 
 herself, "Now I'm really going to have some adventures." 
 
 The dwarfs marched — no! one cannot call it marching, for 
 they had about a dozen different ways of proceeding — they moved 
 on, and Olive in the middle, her blue cloak floating majestically on 
 her shoulders. No one spoke a word. It grew darker and darker 
 among the trees, but Olive did not feel frightened. On they went, 
 till at last she saw twinkling before them a very small but bright 
 blue light. It looked scarcely larger than the lamp of a glow- 
 worm, but it shone out very distinct in the darkness. Immediately 
 they saw it the dwarfs set up a shout, and as it died away, to 
 Olive's surprise, they began to sing. And what do you think they 
 sang? Olive at first could hardly believe her ears as they listened 
 to the thoroughly English song of "Home, Sweet Home." And 
 the queerest thing was that they sang it very prettily, and that it 
 sounded exactly like her aunt's voice! And though they were 
 walking close beside her, their voices when they left off singing 
 did not so much seem to stop as to move off, to die away into 
 the distance, which struck Olive as very odd. 
 
 They had now arrived at the trunk of a large tree, half way 
 
332 STORIES BY MRS. MOLESWORTH 
 
 up which hung the little lamp — at least Olive supposed it must 
 be a lamp — from which came the bright blue light. 
 
 "Here we are," said one of the dwarfs, she did not see which, 
 "at the entrance to our village." And thereupon all the dwarfs 
 began climbing up the tree, swarming about it like a hive of 
 bees, till they got some way up, when one after another they 
 suddenly disappeared. Olive could see all they did by the blue 
 light. She was beginning to wonder if she would be left standing 
 there alone, when a shout made her look up, and she saw two dwarfs 
 standing on a branch holding a rope ladder, Whieh they had just 
 thrown down, and making signs to her to mount up by it. It 
 was quite easy; up went Olive, step by step, and when she reached 
 the place where the two dwarfs were standing, she saw how it 
 was that they had all disappeared. The tree trunk was hollow, 
 and there were steps cut in it like a stair, down which the dwarfs 
 signed to her that she was to go. She did not need to be twice 
 told, so eager was she to see what was to come. The stair was 
 rather difficult for her to get down without falling, for the steps 
 were too small, being intended for the dwarfs, but Olive managed 
 pretty well, only slipping now and then. The stair seemed very 
 long, and as she went farther it grew darker, till at last it was 
 quite dark; by which time, fortunately, however, she felt herself 
 again on level ground, and after waiting half a minute a door 
 seemed to open, and she found herself standing outside the tree 
 stair, with the prettiest sight before her eyes that she had ever 
 seen or even imagined. 
 
 It was the dwarf village! Rows and rows of tiny houses 
 — none of them more than about twice as high as Olive herself, 
 for that was quite big enough for a dwarf cottage, each with a 
 sweet little garden in front, like what one sees in English villages, 
 though the houses themselves were like Swiss chalets. It was not 
 dark down here, there was a soft light about as bright as we have 
 it at summer twilight; and besides this each little house had 
 a twinkling blue light hanging above the front door, like a sign- 
 
tjjBY DUFFIELD ft COMPANY 
 
 "They were .sliding down the branches of the tree in ;ill directions." 
 
THE BLUE DWARFS 333 
 
 post. And at the door of each cottage stood one of the dwarfs, 
 with a little dwarf wife beside him; only, instead of blue, each 
 little woman was dressed in brown, so that they were rather less 
 showy than their husbands. They all began bowing as Olive 
 appeared, and all the little women curtseying, and Olive seemed 
 to understand, without being told, that she was to walk up the 
 village street to see all there was to be seen. So on she marched, 
 her blue cloak floating about her, so that sometimes it reached the 
 roofs of the houses on each side at the same time. 
 
 Olive felt herself rather clumsy. Her feet, which in general 
 she was accustomed to consider rather neat, and by no means too 
 large for her age, seemed such great awkward things. If she had 
 put one of them in at the window of a dwarf house, it would 
 have knocked everything out of its place. 
 
 "Dear me!" thought Olive, "I had no idea I could seem 
 clumsy! I feel like a great ploughman. I wish I were not 
 so big." 
 
 "Yes," said a voice beside her, "it has its disadvantages"; 
 and Olive, looking down to see who spoke — she had to look down 
 for everything — caught sight of one of the two dwarfs with whom 
 she had first spoken. She felt a little ruffled. She did not like 
 this trick of the dwarf hearing what she thought before she said it. 
 
 "Everything has its disadvantages," she replied. "Don't you 
 find yourself very inconveniently small when you are up in our 
 world?" 
 
 "Exactly so," said the dwarf; but he did not seem the least 
 put out. 
 
 "They are certainly very good-tempered," said Olive to her- 
 self. Then suddenly a thought struck her. 
 
 "Your village is very neat and pretty," she said; "though, 
 perhaps — I don't mean to be rude, not on any account " 
 
 "No," interrupted the dwarf; "Auntie told you on no ac- 
 count to be rude." 
 
334 STORIES BY MRS. MOLES WORTH 
 
 "Auntie!" repeated Olive, in astonishment; "she is not your 
 auntie!" 
 
 "On no account," said the dwarf, in the same calm tone, but 
 without seeming to take in that Olive meant to reprove him. 
 
 "It's no use trying to make them understand," said Olive 
 to herself. 
 
 "Not the least," said the dwarf; at which Olive felt so pro- 
 voked that she could have stamped her feet with irritation. But 
 as thinking crossly seemed in this country to be quite as bad as 
 speaking crossly, she had to try to swallow down her vexation as 
 well as she could! 
 
 "I was going to say," she went on quietly, "that to my taste 
 the village would be prettier if there was a little variety. Not 
 all the houses just the same, you know. And all of you are so 
 like each other, and all your little brown wives too. Are there no 
 children dwarfs?" 
 
 "Doubtless. Any quantity," was the answer. 
 
 "Then where are they all?" said Olive. "Are they all 
 asleep?" She put the last question rather sarcastically, but the 
 sarcasm seemed to be lost on the little man. 
 
 "Yes, all asleep," he replied; "all asleep, and dream- 
 ing. Children are very fond of dreaming," he went on, looking 
 up at Olive with such a queer expression, and such a queer tone 
 in his voice, too, that Olive got a queer feeling herself, as if he 
 meant more than his words actually said. Could he mean to 
 hint that she was dreaming? But a remark from the dwarf dis- 
 tracted her thoughts. 
 
 "Supper is ready," he said. "They are all waiting." And 
 turning round, Olive saw before her a cottage a good deal larger 
 than the others; in fact, it was almost high enough for her, with 
 considerable stooping, to get in at the door. And through the 
 windows she saw a long table neatly covered with a bright blue 
 table-cloth, and spread with numbers of tiny plates, and beside 
 each plate a knife and fork and a little blue glass cup. Two great 
 
THE BLUE DWARFS 335 
 
 dishes stood on the table, one at each end. Steam was rising from 
 each, and a delicious smell came out through the open windows. 
 
 "I did not know I was so hungry," thought Olive; "but I do 
 hope it isn't fir-cones." 
 
 "Yes," said the dwarf; "they'll be better done this time." 
 
 Then he gave a sort of sharp, sudden cry or whistle, and im- 
 mediately all the dwarfs of the village appeared as if by magic, 
 and began hurrying into the house, but as soon as they were in 
 the middle of the passage they fell back at each side, leaving a 
 clear space in the middle. 
 
 "For you," said the first dwarf, bowing politely. 
 
 "Do you always have supper here all together like that? said 
 Olive. "How funny!" 
 
 "Not at all," said the dwarf; "it's a table d'hote. Be so good 
 as to take your place." 
 
 Olive bent her head cautiously in preparation for passing 
 through the door, when again the same sharp cry startled her, 
 and lifting her head suddenly she bumped it against the lintel. 
 The pain of the blow was rather severe. 
 
 "What did you do that for?" she exclaimed angrily. "Why 
 did you scream out like that? I — — " but she said no more. The 
 cry was repeated, and this time it did its Avork effectually, for 
 Olive awoke. Awoke — was it waking? — to find herself all in the 
 dark, stiff and cold, and her head aching with the bump she had 
 given it against the old tree-trunk, \Vhile farther off now she heard 
 the same shrill hoot or cry of some early astir night-bird, which 
 had sounded before in her dreams. 
 
 "Oh, dear! Oh, dear!" she sobbed, "what shall I do? Where 
 am I? How can I ever find my way in the dark? I believe it 
 was all a trick of those nasty blue dwarfs. I don't believe I was 
 dreaming. They must be spiteful goblins. I wish I had not gone 
 with them to see their village." And so for some minutes, half 
 asleep and half awake, Olive stayed crouching by the tree, which 
 seemed her only protector. But by degrees, as her senses — her 
 
336 STORIES BY MRS. MOLESWORTH 
 
 common sense particularly — came back to her, she began to realise 
 that it was worse than useless to sit there crying. Dark as it was, 
 she must try to find her way back to the little inn, where, doubt- 
 less, Auntie and the others were in the greatest distress about her, 
 the thought of which nearly made her burst out crying again; and 
 poor Olive stumbled up to her feet as best she could, fortunately 
 not forgetting to feel for her book and parasol which were lying 
 beside her, and slowly and tremblingly made her way on a few 
 steps, hoping that perhaps if she could manage to get out of the 
 shadow of the trees it might not be quite so dark farther on. She 
 was not altogether disappointed. It certainly grew a very little 
 less black, but that it was a very dark night there was no denying. 
 And, indeed, though it had not been dark, she would have had 
 the greatest difficulty in finding her way out of the wood, into 
 which she had so thoughtlessly penetrated. Terrifying thoughts, 
 too, began to crowd into her mind, though, as I think I have shown 
 you, she was not at all a timid child. But a forest on a dark 
 night, and so far away from everywhere — it was enough to shake 
 her nerves. She hoped and trusted there was no fear of wolves 
 in summer-time; but bears! — ah! as to bears there was no telling. 
 Even the hooting cries of the birds which she now and then again 
 heard in the distance frightened her, and she felt that a bat flap- 
 ping against her would send her nearly out of her mind. And 
 after a while she began to lose heart — it was not quite so dark, 
 but she had not the very least idea where she was going. She 
 kept bumping and knocking herself against the trunks; she was 
 evidently not in a path, but wandering farther and farther among 
 the forest trees. That was about all she could feel sure of, and 
 after two or three more vain efforts Olive fairly gave up, and, 
 sinking down on the ground, again burst into tears. 
 
 "If I but had a mariner's compass," she thought, her fancy 
 wandering off to all the stories of lost people she had ever heard 
 of. Then she further reflected that a compass would do her very 
 little good if it was too dark to see it, and still more as she had 
 
THE BLUE DWARFS 337 
 
 not the slightest idea whether her road lay north, south, east or 
 west. "If the stars were out!" was her next idea; but then, I am 
 ashamed to say, Olive's ideas of astronomy were limited. She 
 could perhaps have recognized the Plough and the Pole star, but 
 she could not remember which way they pointed. Besides, she 
 did not feel quite sure that in Thuringen one would see the same 
 stars as in England or Paris ; and after all, as there were none visi- 
 ble, it was no good puzzling about it, only if they had been there it 
 would not have seemed so lonely. Suddenly — what was that in the 
 distance? A light, a tiny light, bobbing in and out of sight among 
 the trees? Could it be a star come out of its way to take pity 
 on her? Much more likely a Will-o'-the-wisp; for she did not 
 stop to reflect that a dry pine forest in summer-time is not one of 
 Will-o'-the-wisp's favourite playgrounds. It was a light, as to that 
 there was no doubt, and it was coming nearer. Whether she was 
 more frightened or glad Olive scarcely knew. Still, almost any- 
 thing was better than to sit there to be eaten up by bears, or to die 
 of starvation; and she eagerly watched the light now steadily ap- 
 proaching her, till it came near enough for her to see that it was a 
 lantern carried by some person not high above the ground. A boy 
 perhaps; could it be — oh, joyful thought! — could it be Rex? But 
 no; even if they were all looking for her it was not likely that 
 they would let Rex be running about alone to get lost, too. Still 
 it must be a boy, and without waiting to think more Olive called 
 out 
 
 "Oh, please come and help me! I'm lost in the wood!" she 
 cried, thinking nothing of German or anything but her sore 
 distress. 
 
 The lantern moved about undecidedly for a moment or two, 
 then the light flashed towards her and came still nearer. 
 
 "Acli, Gott!" exclaimed an unfamiliar voice, and Olive, peering 
 forward, thought for half a second she was again dreaming. He 
 was not, certainly, dressed in blue, and he was a good deal taller 
 than up to her knee ; but still he was — there was no doubt about it 
 
338 STORIES BY MRS. MOLESWORTH 
 
 — he was a dwarf! And another gaze at his queer little figure and 
 bright sparkling eyes told Olive that it was the very same little 
 man who had smiled at Rex and her when he saAv them leaning out 
 of the inn window that very afternoon. 
 
 She didn't feel frightened; he looked so good-natured and so 
 sorry for her. And somehow Olive's faith in the possible existence 
 of a nation of dwarfs had received a shock ; she was much more in- 
 clined to take things prosaically. But it was very difficult to explain 
 matters. I think the dwarf at the first moment was more inclined 
 to take her for something supernatural than she was now to 
 imagine him a brownie or a gnome. For she was a pretty little 
 girl, with a mass of golden fair hair and English blue eyes; and 
 with her hat half fallen off, and her cheeks flushed, she might have 
 sat for a picture of a fairy who had strayed from her home. 
 
 Her German seemed all to go out of her head. But she 
 managed to remember the name of the village where they had been 
 that afternoon, and a sudden recollection seemed to come over the 
 dwarf. He poured out a flood of words and exclamations, amidst 
 which all that Olive could understand was the name of the village 
 and words which she knew meant "lost" and "poor child." Then 
 he went on to tell that he too was on his way from the same village 
 to somewhere; that he came by the woods, because it was shorter, 
 and lifting high his lantern, gave Olive to understand that he could 
 now show her the way. 
 
 So off she set under his guidance, and, only fancy, a walk 
 of not more than ten minutes brought them to the little inn! 
 Olive's wanderings and straying had, after all, drawn her very near 
 her friends if she had known it. Poor Auntie and Rex were run- 
 ning about in front of the house in great distress. Uncle and the 
 landlord and the coachman had set off with lanterns, and the land- 
 lady was trying to persuade Auntie that there was not really any- 
 thing to be afraid of; neither bears, nor wolves, nor evilly-disposed 
 people about: the little young lady had, doubtless, fallen asleep in 
 the wood with the heat and fatigue of the day ; which, as you know, 
 
THE BLUE DWARFS 339 
 
 was a very good guess, though the landlady little imagined what 
 queer places and people Olive had been visiting in her sleep. 
 
 The dwarf was a well-known person thereabouts, and a very 
 harmless, kindly little man. A present of a couple of marks sent 
 him off to his cottage nearby very happy indeed, and when Uncle 
 returned a few minutes later to see if the wanderer had been heard 
 of, you can imagine how thankful he was to find her. It was not so 
 very late after all, not above half-past ten o'clock, but a thunder- 
 storm which came on not long after explained the unusual dark- 
 ness of the cloud-covered sky. 
 
 "What a good thing you were safe before the storm came on!" 
 said Auntie, with a shudder at the thought of the dangers her 
 darling had escaped. "I will take care never again to carry my 
 jokes too far," she resolved, when Olive had confided to her the real 
 motive of her wanderings in the wood. And Olive, for her part, 
 decided that she would be content with fairies and dwarfs in books 
 and fancy, without trying to find them in reality. 
 
 "Though all the same," she said to herself, "I should have 
 liked to taste the roast fir-cones. They did smell so good!" "And, 
 Auntie," she said aloud, "were you singing in the wood on your 
 way home with Uncle and Rex?" 
 
 "Yes," said Auntie, "they begged me to sing 'Home, Sweet 
 Home.' Why do you ask me?" 
 
 Olive explained. "So it was your voice I heard when I 
 thought it was the dwarfs," she said, smiling. 
 
 And Auntie gave her still another kiss. 
 
GOOD-NIGHT, WINNY 
 
 "Say not good-night — but, in some brighter clime, 
 Bid me good-morning!" 
 
 When I was a little girl I was called Meg. I do not mean 
 to say that I have got a different name now that I am big, 
 but my name is used differently. I am now called Margaret, 
 or sometimes Madge, but never Meg. Indeed I do not wish 
 ever to be called Meg, for a reason you will quite understand 
 when you have heard my story. But perhaps I am wrong 
 to call it a "story" at all, so I had better say at the begin- 
 ning that what I have to tell you is only a sort of remembrance of 
 something that happened to me when I was very little — of some 
 one I loved more dearly, I think, than I can ever love any one 
 again. And I fancy perhaps other little girls will like to hear it. 
 
 Well then, to begin again — long ago I used to be called 
 Meg, and the person who first called me so was my sister 
 Winny, who was not quite two years older than I. There 
 were four of us then — four little sisters — Winny, and I, and 
 Dolly, and Blanche, baby Blanche we used to call her. We 
 lived in the country in a pretty house, which we were very 
 fond of, particularly in the summer time, when the flowers were 
 all out. Winny loved flowers more dearly than any one I 
 ever knew, and she taught me to love them too. I never 
 see one now without thinking of her and the things she used 
 to say about them. I can see now, now that I am so much 
 older, that Winny must have been a very clever little girl in 
 some ways, not so much in learning lessons as in thinking things 
 to herself, and understanding feelings and thoughts that children 
 do not generally care about at all. She was very pretty too, I 
 can remember her face so well. She had blue eyes and very 
 long black eyelashes — our mamma used to tease her sometimes, 
 and say that she had what Irish people call "blue eyes put in 
 with dirty fingers" — and pretty rosy cheeks, and a very white 
 
 340 
 
GOOD-NIGHT WINNY 341 
 
 forehead. And her face always had a bright dancing look that 
 I can remember best of all. 
 
 We learnt lessons together, and we slept together in two 
 little beds side by side, and we did everything together, from 
 eating our breakfast to dressing our dolls — and when one was 
 away the other seemed only half alive. All our frocks and 
 hats and jackets were exactly the same, and except that Winny 
 was taller than I, we should never have known which was 
 which of our things. I am sure Winny was a very good little 
 girl, but when I try to remember all about her exactly, what 
 seems to come back most to me is her being always so happy. 
 She did not need to think much about being good and not 
 naughty; everything seemed to come rightly to her of itself. 
 She thought the world was a very pretty, nice place; and she 
 loved all her friends, and she loved God most of all for giving 
 them to her. She used to say she was sure Heaven would be 
 a very happy place too, only she did so hope there would be 
 plenty of flowers there, and she was disappointed because 
 mamma said it did not tell in the Bible what kinds of flowers 
 there would be. Almost the only thing which made her unhappy 
 was about there being so many very poor people in the world. 
 She used to talk about it very often and wonder why it was, 
 and when she was very, very little, she cried because nurse 
 would not let her give away her best velvet jacket to a poor 
 little girl she saw on the road. 
 
 But though Winny was so sweet, and though we loved 
 each other so, sometimes we did quarrel. Now and then it 
 was quite little quarrels which were over directly, but once we 
 had a bigger quarrel. Even now I do not like to remember 
 it; and oh! how I do wish I could make other boys and girls feel 
 as I do about quarrelling. Even little tiny squabbles seem to 
 me to be sorrowful things, and then they so often grow into 
 bigger ones. It was generally mostly my fault. I was peevish 
 and cross sometimes, and Winny was never worse than just 
 
342 STORIES BY MRS. MOLES WORTH 
 
 hasty and quick for a moment. She was always ready to make 
 friends again, "to kiss ourselves to make the quarrel go away," 
 as our little sister Dolly used to say, almost hefore she could 
 speak. And sometimes I was silly, and then it was right for 
 Winny to find fault with me. My manners used occasionally 
 to trouble her, for she was very particular about such things. 
 One day I remember she was very vexed with me for something 
 I said to a gentleman who was dining with our papa and 
 mamma. He was a nice kind gentleman, and we liked him, 
 only we did not think him pretty. Winny and I had fixed 
 together that we did not think him pretty, only of course Winny 
 never thought I would be so silly as to tell him so. We came 
 down to dessert that evening — Winny sat beside papa, and I sat 
 between Mr. Merton and mamma, and after I had sat quite 
 still, looking at him without speaking, I suddenly said,— I can't 
 think what made me— "Mr. Merton, I don't think you are at all 
 pretty. Your hair goes straight down, and up again all of a 
 sudden at the end, just like our old drake's tail." 
 
 Mr. Merton laughed very much, and papa laughed, and 
 mamma did too, though not so much. But Winny did not 
 laugh at all. Her face got red, and she would not eat her 
 raisins, but asked if she might keep them for Dolly, and she 
 seemed quite unhappy. And when we had said good-night, 
 and had gone upstairs, I could see how vexed she was. She 
 was so vexed that she even gave me a little shake. "Meg," 
 she said, "I am so ashamed of you. I am really. How could 
 you be so rude?" 
 
 I began to cry, and I said I did not mean to be rude; 
 and I promised that I would never say things like that again; 
 and then Winny forgave me; but I never forgot it. And once 
 I remember, too, that she was vexed with me because I would 
 not speak to a little girl >vho came to pay a visit to her grand' 
 father, who lived at our grandfather's lodge. Winny stopped 
 to say good-morning to her, and to ask her if her friends at 
 
GOOD-NIGHT WINNY 343 
 
 home were quite well; and the little girl curtseyed and looked 
 so pleased. But I walked on, and when Winny called to me to 
 stop I would not; and then, when she asked me what was the 
 matter, I said I did not think we needed to speak to the little 
 girl, she was quite a common child, and we were ladies. Winny 
 ■was vexed with me then; she was too vexed to give me a little 
 shake even. She did not speak for a minute, and then she said, 
 very sadly, "Meg, I am sorry you don't know better than 
 that what being a lady means." 
 
 I do know better now, I hope; but was it not strange 
 that Winny always seemed to know better about these things? 
 It came of itself to her, I think, because her heart was so kind 
 and happy. 
 
 Winny was very fond of listening to stories, and of making 
 them up and telling them to me; but she was not very fond of 
 reading to herself. She liked writing best, and I liked reading. 
 We used to say that when we were big girls, Winny should 
 write all mamma's letters for her, and I should read aloud to 
 her when she was tired. How little we thought that time would 
 never come! We were always talking about what we should 
 do when we were big; but sometimes when we had been talking 
 a long time, Winny would stop suddenly, and say, "Meg, 
 growing big seems a dreadfully long way off. It almost tires 
 me to think of it. What a great, great deal we shall have to 
 learn before then, Meg!" I wonder what gave her that feeling. 
 
 Shall I tell you now about the worst quarrel we ever 
 had? It was about Winny's best doll. The doll's name was 
 "Poupee." Of course I know now that that is the French 
 for all dolls; but we were so little then we did not understand, 
 and when our aunt's French maid told us that "poupee" was 
 the word for doll, we thought it a very pretty name, and 
 somehow the doll was always called by it. Grandfather had 
 given Poupee to Winny — I think he brought it from Lon- 
 don for her — and I cannot tell you how proud she was of it. 
 
344 STORIES BY MRS. MOLESWORTH 
 
 She did not play with it every day, only on holidays and 
 treat-days; but every day she used to peep at Poupee in the 
 drawer where she lay, and kiss her, and say how pretty she 
 looked. One afternoon Winny was going out somewhere — I 
 don't remember exactly where; I dare say it was a drive Avith 
 mamma — and I was not to go, and I was crying; and just as 
 Winny was running downstairs all ready dressed to go, she came 
 back and whispered to me, "Meg, dear, don't cry. It takes 
 away all my pleasure to see you. Will you leave off crying and 
 look happy if I let you have Poupee to play with while I am out?" 
 
 I wiped away my tears in a minute, I was so pleased. 
 Winny ran to Poupee's drawer and got her out, and brought 
 her to me. She kissed her as she put her into my arms, and 
 said to her, "My darling Poupee you are going to spend the 
 afternoon with your aunt. You must be a very good little 
 girl, and do exactly what she tells you." 
 
 And then Winny said to me, "You will be very careful 
 of her, won't you, Meg?" and I promised, of course, that 
 I would. 
 
 I did mean to be careful, and I really was; but for all 
 that a sad accident happened. I had been very happy with 
 Poupee all the afternoon, and I had made her a new apron 
 with a piece of muslin nurse gave me, and some ribbon, which 
 did nicely for bows; and I was carrying her along the passage 
 to show nurse how pretty the apron looked when the house- 
 maid, who was coming along with a trayful of clean clothes from 
 the wash in her arms, knocked against me, and Poupee was 
 thrown down; and, terrible to tell, her dear, sweet little right 
 foot was broken. I cannot tell you how sorry I was, and 
 nurse was sorry too, and so was Jane; but all the sorrow would 
 not mend the foot. I was sitting on the nursery floor, with 
 Poupee in my lap, crying over her, as miserable as could be, 
 when Winny rushed in, laden with parcels, in the highest 
 spirits. 
 
GOOD-NIGHT WINNY 345 
 
 "O! I have had such a nice drive, and I have brought 
 some buns and sponge-cakes for tea, and a toy donkey for 
 Blanche. And has Poupee been good?" she exclaimed. But 
 just then she caught sight of my face. "What is the matter, 
 Meg? What have you done to my darling, beautiful Poupee? 
 
 Meg, Meg, you surely haven't broken her?" 
 
 I was crying so I could hardly speak. 
 
 "O Winny!" I said, "I am so sorry." 
 
 But Winny was too vexed to care just at first for anything 
 
 1 could say. "You naughty, naughty, unkind Meg," she 
 raid, "I do believe you did it on purpose." 
 
 I could not bear to hear that. I thought it very hard 
 indeed that she should say so, when any one could see hoAv 
 miserable I was. I did not answer her; I ran out of the 
 nursery, and though Winny called to me to come back (for 
 the moment she had said those words she was sorry for them), 
 I would not listen to her. Nurse fetched me back soon, how- 
 ever, for it was tea-time, but I would not speak to Winny. 
 We never had such a miserable tea; there we sat, two red-eyed, 
 unhappy little girls, looking as if we did not love each other 
 a bit. If mamma had come up to the nursery she would have 
 put it all right — she did put Poupee's foot right the very next 
 day, she mended it so nicely with diamond cement, that the 
 place hardly showed at all — but she was busy that evening, and 
 did not happen to come up. So bed-time came, and still we 
 had not made friends, though I heard Winny crying when 
 she was saying her prayers. After we were in bed, and nurse 
 had gone away, Winny whispered to me, "Meg, won't you 
 forgive me for saying that unkind thing? Won't you kiss me 
 and say good-night, Winny?" 
 
 A minute before, I had been feeling as sorry as could 
 be, but when Winny spoke to me, a most hard, horrid, unkind 
 feeling seemed to come back into mv heart, and I would not 
 answer. I breathed as if I were asleep, pretending not to hear. 
 
346 STORIES BY MRS. MOLESWORTH 
 
 I think Winny thought I was asleep, for she did not speak 
 again. I heard her crying softly, and then after a while I heard 
 by her breathing that she had really gone to sleep. But I 
 couldn't. I lay awake for a long time, I thought it was hours 
 and hours, and I tossed and turned, but I couldn't go to sleep. 
 I listened but I could not hear Winny breathing — I put my 
 hand out of my cot, and stretched across to hers to feel for 
 her; she seemed to be lying quite still. Then a dreadful feeling 
 came into my mind — suppose Winny were dead, and that I 
 had refused to make friends and say good-night! I must have 
 got fanciful with lying awake, I suppose, and you know I was 
 only a very little girl. I could not bear it — I stretched myself 
 across to Winny and put my arms round her. 
 
 "Winny! Winny!" I said, "wake up, Winny, and kiss me, 
 and let us say good-night." 
 
 Winny woke up almost immediately, and she seemed to 
 understand at once. 
 
 "Poor little Meg," she said, "poor little Meg. We will 
 never be unkind to each other again — never. Good-night, 
 dear Meg." 
 
 "Good-night, Winny," I said. And just as I was falling 
 asleep I whispered to her — "I will never let you go to sleep 
 again, Winny, without saying good-night." And I never did, 
 never except once. 
 
 I could tell you ever so many other things about Winny. but I 
 dare say you would be tired, for, of course, they cannot be 
 so interesting to any other little girls as to me. But I think 
 you will wish to hear about our last good-night. 
 
 Have I told you about our aunts at all? We had two 
 aunties we were very fond of. They were young and merry 
 and so kind to us, and there was nothing we liked so much as 
 going to stay with them, for their home — our grandfather's — 
 was not far away. We generally all went there to spend 
 Christmas, but one year something, I forget what, had pre- 
 
GOOD-NIGHT WINNY 347 
 
 vented this, so to make up for it we were promised to spend 
 Easter with them. We did so look forward to it — we were to go 
 by ourselves, just like young ladies going to pay a visit, and 
 we were to stay from Saturday till Easter Monday or Tuesday. 
 
 On the Saturday morning we woke up so early— hours before 
 it was time to be dressed — we were so excited about our visit. 
 But somehow Winny did not seem quite as happy about it as 
 I wanted her to be. I asked her what made her dull, and she 
 said it was because she did not like leaving papa and mamma, 
 and Dolly and Blanche, not even for two or three days. And 
 when we went into mamma's room to say good-morning as 
 usual, Winny said so to her too. Mamma laughed at her a 
 little, and said she was a great baby after all; and Winny 
 smiled, but still she seemed dull, and I shall never forget what 
 a long, long kiss she gave mamma that morning, as if she 
 could not bear to let go of her. 
 
 When we went to the nursery for breakfast, baby Blanche 
 was crying very much, and nurse said she was very cross. She 
 did not think she was quite well, and we must be good and 
 quiet. After breakfast, when mamma came to see baby, she 
 seemed anxious about her, but baby went to sleep before long 
 quite comfortably, and then nurse said she would be better 
 when she awoke; it was probably just a little cold. And very 
 soon the pony carriage was ready for Winny and me, and 
 we kissed them all and set off on our visit. I was in high spirits, 
 but as we drove away I saw that Winny was actually crying a 
 little, and she did not often cry. 
 
 When we got to our aunties', however, she grew quite 
 happy again. We were very happy indeed on Sunday, only 
 Winny kept saying how glad she would be to see them all at 
 home again on Monday or Tuesday. But on Monday morn- 
 ing there came a letter, which made our aunties look grave. 
 They did not tell us about it till Winny asked if we were to go 
 home "to-day," and then they told us that perhaps we could 
 
348 STORIES BY MRS. MOLESWORTH 
 
 not go home for several days — not for two or three weeks even, 
 for poor baby Blanche was very ill, and it was a sort of illness 
 we might catch from her if we were with her. 
 
 "And that would only add to your poor mamma's trouble," 
 said our aunties; "so you see, dears, it is much the best for 
 you to stay here." 
 
 I did not mind at all; indeed I was pleased. I was sorry 
 about baby, but not very, for I thought she would soon be 
 better. But Winny looked very sad. 
 
 "Aunty," she said, "you don't think poor baby will die, 
 do you?" 
 
 "No, dear; I hope she will soon be better," said aunty, and 
 then Winny looked happier. 
 
 "Meg," she whispered to me, "we must be sure to remember 
 about poor baby being ill when we say our prayers." And we 
 fixed that we would. 
 
 After that we were very happy for two or three weeks. 
 Sometimes we were sorry about baby and Dolly, for baby was 
 very ill we were told, and Dolly had caught the fever too. 
 But after a while news came that they were both better, and 
 we began to look forward to seeing papa and mamma and 
 them again. We used to write little letters to them all at 
 home, and that was great fun; and we used to go such nice 
 walks. The fields and lanes were full of daffodils, and soon 
 the primroses came and the violets, and Winny was always 
 gathering them and making wreaths and nosegays. It was a 
 very happy time, and it all comes back into my mind dreadfully , 
 when I see the spring flowers, especially the primroses, every 
 year. 
 
 One day we had had a particularly nice walk, and when 
 we came in Winny seemed so full of spirits that she hardly 
 knew what to do with herself. We had a regular romp. In 
 our romping, by accident, Winny knocked me down, for she 
 was very strong, and I hurt my thumb. I was often silly about 
 
GOOD-NIGHT WINNY 349 
 
 being hurt even a little, and I began to cry. Then Winny was 
 so sorry; she kissed me and petted me, and gave me all her 
 primrose wreaths and nosegays, so I soon left off crying. But 
 somehow Winny's high spirits had gone away. She shivered 
 a little and went close to the fire to get warm, and soon she 
 said she was tired, and we both went to bed. I remember that 
 night so well. Winny did not seem sleepy Avhen she was in 
 bed, and I wasn't either. She talked to me a great deal, and so 
 nicely. It was not about when we should be big girls; it was 
 about now things; about not being cross ever, and helping 
 mamma, and about how pretty the flowers had looked, and how 
 kind every one was to us, and how kind God must be to make 
 every one so, and just at the last, as she was falling asleep, 
 she said, "I do wonder so if there are primroses in heaven?" and 
 then she fell asleep, and so did I. 
 
 When I woke in the morning, I heard voices talking be- 
 side me. It was one of our aunties. She was standing beside 
 Winny, speaking to her. When she looked round and saw that 
 I was awake, she said to me in a kind but rather a strange voice, 
 "Meg, dear, put on your dressing-gown and run down to my 
 room to be dressed. Winny has a headache, and I think she 
 had better not get up to breakfast." 
 
 I got up immediately and put on my slippers, and I was 
 running out of the room when I thought of something and ran 
 back. I put Winny's slippers neatly beside her crib, and I said 
 to her, "I have put them ready for you when you get up, Winny." 
 I wanted to do something for her you see, because I was so 
 sorry about her headache. She did not speak, but she looked at 
 me with such a look in her eyes. Then she said, "Kiss me, Meg, 
 dear little Meg," and I was just going to kiss her when she suddenly 
 seemed to remember, and she drew back. "No, dear, you mustn't," 
 she said; "aunty would say it was better not, because I'm not 
 well." 
 
350 STORIES BY MRS. MOLESWORTH 
 
 "Could I catch your headache, Winny?" I said, "or is it 
 a cold you've got? You are not very ill, Winny?" 
 
 She only smiled at me, and just then I heard aunty calling 
 to me to be quick. Winny's little hand was hanging over the 
 side of the bed. I took it, and kissed it — poor little hand, it 
 felt so hot — "I may kiss your hand, mayn't I?" I said, and then 
 I ran away. 
 
 All that day I was kept away from Winny, playing by my- 
 self in rooms we did not generally go into. Sometimes my aunties 
 would come to the door for a minute and peep at me, and ask 
 me what I would like to play with, but it was very dull. My 
 aunties' maid took me a little walk in garden, and she put me 
 to bed, but I cried myself to sleep because I had not said good- 
 night to Winny. 
 
 "Oh how I wish I had never been cross to her!" I kept think- 
 ing; and if only I could make other children understand how 
 dreadful that feeling was, I am sure, quite sure, they would 
 never, never quarrel. 
 
 The next day was just the same .playing alone, dinner alone, 
 everything alone. I was so lonely. I never saw aunty till the 
 evening, when it was nearly bed-time, and then she came to the 
 room where I was, and I called out to her immediately to ask 
 how Winny was. 
 
 "I hope she will soon be better," she said. "And, Meg, 
 dear, it is your bed-time now." 
 
 The thought of going to bed again without Winny was too 
 hard. I began to cry. 
 
 "O aunty!" I said, "I do so want to say good-night to 
 Winny. I always say good-night, and last night I couldn't." 
 
 Aunty thought for a minute. She looked so sorry for me. 
 Then she said, "I will see if I can manage it. Come after me, 
 Meg." She went up through a part of the house I did not know, 
 and into a room where there was a closed door. She tapped at 
 
GOOD-NIGHT WINNY 351 
 
 it without opening, and called out. "Meg has come to say 
 good-night to you, through the door, Winny dear." 
 
 Then I heard Winny's voice say softly, "I am so glad"; and 
 I called out quite loud, "Good-night, Winny," but Winny an- 
 swered — I could not hear her voice without listening close at the 
 door — "Not good-night now, Meg. It is good-bye, dear Meg." 
 
 I looked up at aunty. It seemed to me her face had grown 
 white, and the tears were in her eyes. Somehow, I felt a little 
 afraid. 
 
 "What does Winny mean, aunty?" I said in a whisper. 
 
 "I don't know, dear. Perhaps being ill makes her head 
 confused," she said. So I called out again, "Good-night, Winny," 
 and aunty led me away. 
 
 But Winny was right. It was good-bye. The next morning 
 when aunty's maid was dressing me, I saw she was crying. 
 
 "What is the matter, Hortense?" I said. "Why are you 
 unhappy? Is any one vexed with you?" 
 
 But she only shook her head and would not speak. 
 
 After I had had my breakfast, Hortense took me to my 
 aunties' sitting-room. And when she opened the door, to my de- 
 light there was mamma, sitting with both my aunties by the fire. 
 I was so pleased, I gave quite a cry of joy, and jumped on to 
 her knee. 
 
 "Does Winny know you've come?" I cried, "dear mamma." 
 
 But when I looked at her I saw that her face was very white 
 and sad, and my poor aunties were crying. Still mamma smiled. 
 
 "Poor Meg!" she said. 
 
 "What is the matter? Why is everybody so strange to- 
 day?" I said. 
 
 Then mamma told me. "Meg, dear," she said, "you must 
 try to remember some of the things I have often told you about 
 Heaven, what a happy place it is, with no being ill or tired, or 
 any troubles. Meg, dear, Winny has gone there." 
 
 For a minute I did not seem to understand. I could not 
 
352 STORIES BY MRS MOLES WORTH 
 
 understand Winny's having gone without telling me. A sort 
 of giddy feeling came over me, it was all so strange, and I put 
 my head down on mamma's shoulder, without speaking. 
 
 "Meg, dear, do you understand?" she said. 
 
 "She didn't tell me she was going," I said, "but, oh yes, 
 I remember she said good-bye last night. Did she go alone, 
 mamma? Who came for her? Did Jesus?" Something made 
 me whisper that. 
 
 Mamma just said softly, "Yes." 
 
 "Had she only her little pink dressing-gown on?" I asked 
 next. "Wouldn't she be cold? Mamma, dear, is it a long way 
 off?" 
 
 "Not to her," she said. She was crying now. 
 
 "Do you think if I set off now, this very minute, I could 
 get up to her?" 
 
 But when I said that, mamma clasped me tight. 
 
 "Not that too," she whispered. "Meg, Meg, don't say that." 
 
 I was sorry for her crying, and I stroked her cheek, but 
 still I wanted to go. 
 
 "Heaven is such a nice place, mamma. Winny said so, only 
 she wondered about the primroses. Why won't you let me go, 
 mamma?" And just then my eyes happened to fall on the little 
 piece of black sticking-plaster that Winny had put on my thumb 
 only two evenings before, when she had hurt it without meaning. 
 "Mamma, mamma," I cried, "I can't stay here without Winny." 
 
 It all seemed to come into my mind then what it would really 
 be to be without her, and I cried and cried till my face ached with 
 crying. I can't remember much of that day, nor of several days. 
 I did not get- ill, the fever did not come to me somehow, but I 
 seemed to get stupid with missing Winny. Mamma and my 
 aunties talked to me, but it did not do any good. They could 
 not tell me the only things I cared to hear — all about Winny, 
 what she was doing, what lessons she would have, if she would al- 
 ways wear white frocks, and all sorts of things, that I must have 
 
GOOD-NIGHT WINNY 353 
 
 sadly pained them by asking. For I did not then at all understand 
 about death. I thought that Winny, my pretty Winny, just 
 as I had known her, had gone to Heaven. I did not know that 
 her dear little body had been laid to rest in the quiet churchyard, 
 and that it was her spirit, her pure happy spirit, that had gone to 
 heaven. It was not for a long time after that, that I was old 
 enough to understand at all, and even now it is hard to under- 
 stand. Mamma says even quite big, and very, very clever people 
 find it hard, and that the best way is to trust to God to explain 
 it afterwards. But still I like to think about it, and I like to think 
 of what my aunties told me of the days Winny was ill — how happy 
 and patient she was, how she seemed to "understand" about going, 
 and how she wanted to have wreaths of primroses about her all 
 the time she was ill. 
 
 I am a big girl now — nearly twelve. I am a good deal big- 
 ger than Winny was when she died, even Blanche is now as 
 big as she was — is that not strange to think of! Perhaps I may 
 live to be quite, quite an old woman — that seems stranger still. 
 But «ven if I do I shall never forget Winny. I shall know her 
 dear face again, and she will know mine — I feel sure she will, 
 in that happy country where she has gone. But I will never 
 again say "good-night" to my Winny, for in that country "there 
 is no night — neither sorrow nor weeping."