gramp by charles v. de vet it's tough to see into minds when you're only a child--and tougher still when you see what scares you! [transcriber's note: this etext was produced from worlds of if science fiction, may 1962. extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the u.s. copyright on this publication was renewed.] "why is gramma making mad pictures at you?" i asked gramp. gramp looked at me. "what pictures, chum?" "pictures in her mind like you're lazy. and like she wanted to hurt you," i said. gramp's eyes got wide. he kept looking at me, and then he said, "get your cap, chum. we're gonna take a little walk." gramp didn't say anything until we walked all the way to the main road and past mr. watchorn's corn field. i walked behind him, counting the little round holes his wooden leg made in the gravel. finally gramp said, "abracadabra." that was our secret word. it meant that if i was playing one of our games, i was to stop for awhile. gramp and i had lots of games we played. one of them was where we made believe. sometimes we'd play that gramp and i had been working all day, when we really just stayed in the shade telling stories. then when we got home and gramma asked us what we had done, we'd tell her about how hard we had worked. "i really did see mad pictures in gramma's mind," i said. "have you ever seen pictures in anybody's mind before?" gramp asked. "i always see them," i said. "don't you?" "no," gramp said after a minute. "other people can't either. you're probably the only little boy who can." "is that bad?" "no," gramp answered. "it's good. but remember how i told you that people don't like other people who are different? well, even though seeing pictures like you do is a wonderful thing, other people won't like you if they know you can do it. so we'll just keep it a secret between us." i was glad gramp told me, because he always knows the best things to do. i'm his chum. i love him better than anyone else in the whole world. whenever the other kids tease me and call me crazy joe i go to gramp and he tells me funny stories and makes me laugh. * * * * * i remember the first time he told me about people hating other people who are different. "why do the kids call me crazy joe and laugh at me?" i asked him. "well, you see," gramp said slowly, "your daddy worked for uncle sam in a big place where they make things that the government won't tell anybody about. then your daddy got sick from something in the big place. after a long time he went up to stay with god. then god took mommy too, when he gave you to her. and now you're our little boy, mine and gramma's. and because you're a very special kind of little boy, the other children are jealous. so i wouldn't play with them any more if they tease you. just don't let them see you're afraid of them. you'll always be gramp's little joe." i love gramp very much.... we kept walking until we came to fayette. we went into carl van remortal's store. gramp sat on a chair by the big iron stove and i sat on his knee on his good leg. the stove must be real old, because it's got 1926 on its door in big iron letters. "tell me the pictures you see in mr. van's mind," gramp whispered in my ear, "but don't let him hear you." "he's making pictures of the fishing boats coming in," i said. "in the pictures he's talking to jack la salle and giving him some money for his fish.... the pictures are getting all mixed up now. he's putting the fish in ice in boxes, but other pictures show him in church. jack la salle is in the church too, and mr. van's sister margaret is dressed in a long white dress and standing alongside him." "he's thinking that jack la salle will be marrying margaret pretty soon," gramp said. "what else is he thinking?" "the pictures are coming so fast now that i can't name them all," i said. mr. lawrence st. ours came into the store, and gramp told me to read what he was thinking. i looked inside his head. "he's making pictures of himself driving a car, and buying bread, and bacon, and piling hay on his farm, and ..." i said, but then i had to stop. "all the pictures come so fast that i can't read them," i told gramp. "everybody makes blurry pictures like that most of the time." "instead of trying to tell me what the pictures are, see if you can understand what they mean," gramp said. i tried but it was awful hard and pretty soon i got tired and gramp and i left the store and went back home. the next morning gramp and i went out in the barn and gramp said, "now let's see what we got here." he had me try to do a lot of things, like lifting something without touching it, and trying to make chickens run by making a picture of them doing that and putting it in their minds. but i couldn't do any of them. after a while he said, "let's go down to the store again." * * * * * we went to the store almost every day after that. then sometimes we just walked around fayette, and gramp had me practice reading what the pictures in people's minds meant instead of just what they looked like. sometimes i did it real good. then gramp would buy me some candy or ice cream. one day we were following mr. mears and i was telling gramp what i saw in mr. mears' mind when mr. st. ours drove by in his car. "mr. mears is making pictures about feeding meat to mr. st. ours's dog and the dog is crawling away and dying," i said to gramp. gramp was real interested. he said, "watch close and read everything you can about that." i did. after, gramp seemed very happy. he bought me a big chocolate bar that time. chocolate is my best kind of candy. i read lots of things in other people's minds that made gramp feel good too, and he bought me candy just about every day. gramp seemed to have money all the time now instead of having to ask gramma for any. she wanted to know where he got all the money. but he just smiled with his right cheek like he does and wouldn't tell her. most of the people in town didn't seem to like gramp any more. they made mad pictures about him whenever we met them. sometimes when we were in the store mrs. van would come in and she would talk to me. she was awful nice. but she always had sad pictures in her mind and sometimes she would cough real hard and hold a handkerchief up in front of her mouth. when she did that mr. van used to get sad too. in his pictures mrs. van would be dead and laying in a coffin and they would be burying her in a big hole in the ground. mr. van was nice too. he gave me crackers and cookies, or sometimes a big thin slice of cheese. one night gramp was holding me and buying some groceries and mr. van was putting them in a cardboard box, and he was thinking about going to the bank in escanaba and cashing a check. and the man gave him a big handful of money. i told gramp, but then mr. van came close. i didn't say anymore, like gramp had told me. mr. van was whistling now. he made pictures of giving the money to mrs. van. she was getting on a train and going to a place where it was sunny all the time, and her cough went away and she wasn't skinny any more. in his mind mrs. van was real pretty. she didn't have the long nose like she really has. when we got in our car gramp was excited. he asked me where mr. van had put the money he brought back from escanaba. he had bad pictures in his mind about taking mr. van's money and i didn't want to tell him. but he grabbed my arm so hard it hurt and i began to cry. gramp never hurt me before. "what are you crying for?" he asked me, cranky. "i don't want you to take mr. van's money," i told him. gramp let go of my arm and didn't say anything for a while. "sometimes the pictures you see aren't true," he said. "you know that." he took out his blue handkerchief and made me blow my nose. "like when you see pictures in gramma's mind about her hurting me," he said. "she never does, you know. so the pictures aren't true. it's just what we call imagination." "but your pictures are bad! they make me scared," i said. "we all make bad pictures like that, but we don't mean them," gramp said. "remember how you said that you'd like to eat the whole apple pie last sunday? you probably made pictures of doing that. but you never did, because you know that gramma and me should have some of it too." i guess gramp can explain just about everything. so i told him where mr. van had hid the money under a box of brown sugar. gramp smiled and started the car. he let me steer while it was going slow. "who's my chum?" he asked. "i am," i said, and i laughed real happy. * * * * * the next day when i got up gramp was gone. i went back of the barn and played. i got a bunch of tin cans and punched holes in them with a nail like gramp showed me, and i made steps out of rocks and put a can on each step. i poured water in the top can. it ran through the holes from each can to the other all the way down the steps. i heard our car come in the front yard. i went around the barn, and gramp was just going up the steps to the house. he had been to fairport where the big store is, and he had bought a lot of things that he was carrying in his arms. at first i was glad because he had bought something that was for me too. but then i saw some bad pictures mixed with the happy ones--of gramp breaking a window in mr. van's store when it was dark and going in and taking something from underneath the brown sugar box. "you told me you wouldn't take mr. van's money. and you did!" i said. "ssh," gramp said. he put his packages on the porch and sat down and took me on his lap. he took a deep breath. "remember what i told you about imagination, chum?" he asked me. "so you know you're not supposed to believe all the pictures you see. now you're gramp's chum. and i want you to promise me again not to tell anyone but me what you see, and i'll tell you if the pictures are real or not. promise?" i promised, and gramp opened one of the packages. he took out two new pistols and a belt with double holsters to carry them in. he bent over and buckled them on me. "you look just like hoppy now," he said. i gave him a big kiss, and ran back of the barn to shoot robbers. * * * * * in the afternoon gramp was playing he was a bad indian and trying to scalp me when a strange car drove in our yard. mr. van and two men with badges got out. mr. van was real mad. "we've come after the money, bill," he said. gramp got white. he was scared, but he said, loud, "what the hell are you talking about?" "you know what, bill," mr. van said. "someone saw you break into the store. it will go easier on you if you admit it." "i told you i don't know what you're talking about," gramp said. his eyes moved kind of quick. then he noticed me and he walked over to me. "that's a fine way to talk in front of the boy," he said over his shoulder. he took my hand. "come on, chum. we're going in the house." "just a minute," the biggest policeman said. "we've got a few questions that we have to ask you." gramp made believe he was brushing some dirt from my pants. "did anyone see me take the money, chum?" he whispered to me. "no," i said, even though i didn't understand exactly. "mr. van is just pretending he knows you took it but he doesn't." "good boy." gramp patted me on the head. "go into the house now." he turned and walked back to the three men, pushing his wooden leg into the ground hard. i didn't go in the house, though. "now i've had just about enough of this," gramp said, with a big frown on his face. "you can't bluff me, van. say what you got to say, and get off my property." mr. van's shoulders seemed to sag and he got sad. he made the pictures in his mind of mrs. van being dead and being put in a big hole. it made me so sorry i couldn't stand it, and i cried, "tell him you got his money under the seat in our car! please, gramp! give it back to him." nobody said anything, but everybody turned and looked at me. they stood real still. i saw in gramp's mind that i had been bad, bad. i ran to him and put my face in his coat and began to cry. i couldn't help it. after a minute gramp knelt on his good knee in front of me and took my cheeks in both his hands. "i've let you down, chum," he said. he wasn't mad any more. he picked me up in his arms. "you needed me, little joe," he said. "you needed me." his eyes were all smudgy. he squeezed me so hard i couldn't breathe, almost. then he put me down and said, "come on," to the two policemen. he walked away between them. gramp! the pictures in his mind were awful. i could hardly bear to look at them. the worst picture was--me. i cried and cried. as the goose flies _written & illustrated_ _by_ katharine pyle published by little, brown & co. boston * * * * * _copyright, 1901_, by little, brown, and company _all rights reserved_ printed in the united states of america * * * * * contents chapter page i behind the bookcase 9 ii beyond the wall 15 iii the five little pigs and the goat 24 iv up in the cloud-land 45 v the house of the seven little dwarfs 58 vi the great gray wolf 77 vii the magic lamp 89 viii bluebeard's house 108 ix beyond the mist 120 x in the house of the queerbodies 137 xi the princess goldenhair 156 xii home again 175 * * * * * list of illustrations "then away he flew toward the dark line of forest" _frontispiece_ "ellen stood at the nursery window" _page_ 9 "presently she shaded her eyes with her hand and looked up at the sky" _page_ 16 "mother goose told her how to do it" _page_ 22 "ellen thought they were the cunningest little things for dolls that she had ever seen" _page_ 34 "as her eyes grew used to the gloom she saw a very large and very ugly goat" _page_ 40 "the gander and ellen began to let the rope slip" _face page_ 55 "there stood a little dwarf holding a great wooden spoon" _page_ 59 "it beat and buffeted them with its wings and hissed so piercingly in their ears that they did not know what was after them" _face page_ 73 "close to her was an enormous gray wolf" _page_ 78 "spread its wings and flew up over his head" _page_ 86 "the slaves threw themselves down before her" _face page_ 91 "a terrible black genie appeared before her" _page_ 100 "ellen climbed upon the gander's back and she then could just reach the knocker" _page_ 112 "ellen raised the horn to her lips and blew" _page_ 122 "still he kept whispering in its ear" _page_ 126 "an enormous dragon lay stretched in a rocky defile" _page_ 129 "she saw a tall man oddly dressed in green and yellow" _page_ 138 "timidly the little girl took the white hand" _face page_ 154 "the fairy knelt before her and lifted the edge of the cloak" _page_ 162 "the fairy drew his sword and pointed it at her" _face page_ 171 "ellen put her ear against the golden wall" _page_ 179 tailpiece _page_ 183 * * * * * [illustration] _chapter one_ _behind the bookcase_ ellen stood at the nursery window looking out at the gray sky and the wet, blowing branches of the trees. it had been raining and blowing all day. the roof pipes poured out steady waterfalls; the lilacs bent over, heavy with the rain. up in the sky a bird was trying to beat its way home against the wind. but ellen was not thinking of any of these things. she was thinking of the story that her grandmother had forgotten again. ellen's grandmother was very old; so old that she often called ellen by the names of her own little children; children who had grown up or died years and years ago. she was so old she could remember things that had happened seventy years before, but then she forgot a great many things, even things that had occurred only a few minutes before. sometimes she forgot where her spectacles were when they were pushed back on her head. most of all she forgot the stories she tried to tell ellen. she would just get to a very interesting place, and then she would push her spectacles up on her forehead and look vaguely about her. "i forget what came next," she would say. very often ellen could help her out. "why, granny, don't you know the little bear's voice was so thin and shrill it woke little silverhair right up? then when she opened her eyes and saw the three bears--" or, "why then when jack saw the giant was fast asleep he caught up the golden hen--" and so the little girl would go on and finish the story for the old grandmother. but there was one story that ellen could not finish for her grandmother. it was a story that she had never heard; at least she had never heard the end of it. it was about a little princess named goldenlocks who always had to wear a sooty hood over her beautiful shining hair, and who had a wicked stepmother. again and again the grandmother had begun the story, but she never got further in it than where goldenlocks was combing her hair at night all alone in the kitchen. when she had reached that point she would stop and say, "ah, what was it that came next? what was it, little clara? can't you remember? it's so long since i have told it." clara was the name by which the grandmother oftenest called ellen. sometimes the little girl tried to make up an ending to the story, but always the grandmother would shake her head. "no, no," she would cry, "that's not it. what was it? what was it? ah, if i could but remember!" she worried and fretted so over the story that ellen was always sorry to have her begin it. sometimes the old grandmother almost cried. now as the child stood looking through the window at the rainy world outside, her thoughts were upon the story, for the grandmother had been very unhappy over it all day; ellen had not been able to get her to talk or think of anything else. the house was very quiet, for it was afternoon. the mother was busy in the sewing-room, grandmother was taking a nap, and nurse was crooning softly to the baby in the room across the hall. ellen had come to the nursery to get a book of jingles; she was going to read aloud to her mother. now as she turned from the window it occurred to her that she would put the bookcase in order before she went down to the sewing-room. that was just the thing to do on a rainy day. she sat down before the shelves and began pulling the books out, now and then opening one to look at a picture or to straighten a bookmarker. the nursery walls were covered with a flowered paper, and when ellen had almost emptied the shelves she noticed that the paper back of them was of a different color from that on the rest of the room. it had not faded. the blue color between the vines looked soft and cloudlike, too, and almost as though it would melt away at a touch. ellen put her hand back to feel it. instead of touching a hard, cold wall as she had expected, her hand went right through between the vines as though there were nothing there. ellen rose to her knees and put both hands across the shelf. she found she could draw the vines aside just as though they were real. she even thought she caught a glimpse of skies and trees between them. in haste she sprang to her feet and pushed the bookcase to one side so that she could squeeze in behind it. she caught hold of the wall-paper vines and drew them aside, and then she stepped right through the wall and into the world beyond. _chapter two_ _beyond the wall_ it was not raining at all beyond the wall. overhead was a soft, mild sky, neither sunny nor cloudy. before her stretched a grassy green meadow, and far away in the distance was a dark line of forest. just at the foot of the meadow was a little house. it was such a curious little house that ellen went nearer to look at it. it was not set solidly upon the ground, but stood upon four fowls' legs, so that you could look clear under it; and the roof was covered with shining feathers that overlapped like feathers upon the back of a duck. beside the door, hitched to a post by a bridle just as a horse might be, was an enormous white gander. while ellen stood staring with all her eyes at the house and the gander, the door opened, and a little old woman, in buckled shoes, with a white apron over her frock and a pointed hat on her head, stepped out, as if to look about her and enjoy the pleasant air. presently she shaded her eyes with her hand and looked up at the sky; then she looked at the meadows, and last her eyes fell upon the little girl who stood there staring at her. the old woman gazed and gazed. [illustration] "well, i declare," she cried, "if it isn't a little girl! what are you doing here, child?" "i'm just looking at your house." "but how did you happen to come here?" "i came through the nursery wall. i didn't know it was soft before." a number of queer-looking little people had come out from the house while ellen and the old woman were talking, and they gathered about in a crowd and stared so hard and were so odd-looking that ellen began to feel somewhat shy. they kept coming out and coming out until she wondered how the house could have held them all. there was a little boy with a pig in his arms, and now and then the pig squealed shrilly. there was a maid with a cap and apron, and her sleeves were so full of round, heavy things that the seams looked ready to burst. a pocket that hung at her side was full, too, and bumped against her as she walked. she came quite close to ellen, and the child could tell by the smell that the things in her sleeves and pocket were oranges. there was one who ellen knew must be a king by the crown on his head; he was a jolly-looking fellow, and had a pipe in one hand and a bowl in the other. there were big people and little people, young people and old; and a dish and spoon came walking out with the rest. but what seemed almost the strangest of all to ellen was to see an old lady come riding out through the door of the house on a white horse. "i wonder where she keeps it," thought the little girl to herself. "i shouldn't think it would be very pleasant to have a horse in the house with you." the old lady's hands were loaded with rings, and as the horse moved there was a jingling as of bells. the words of a nursery rhyme rang through ellen's head in time to the jingling:- "_rings on her fingers and bells on her toes, she shall have music wherever she goes._" "why," she cried, "it's the old lady of banbury cross. and"--she looked around at the crowd--"why, i do believe they're _all_ out of mother goose rhymes." "of course they are," said the little old woman with the pointed hat. "what did you suppose would live in mother goose's house?" "and are you mother goose?" asked ellen. "yes, i am. don't you think i look like the pictures?" "but--but--i didn't know you were alive. i thought you were only a rhyme." "only a rhyme! well, i should think not. how do you suppose there could be rhymes unless there was something to make them about?" "and all the rest, too," said ellen dreamily, looking about her. "'tom, tom, the piper's son,' and 'dingty, diddlety, my mammy's maid,' and 'old king cole'--why, they're _all_ alive. how queer it seems! i wonder if the stories are alive, too." "yes, just as alive as we are." "and the story grandmother forgot--oh, _do_ you suppose i could find that story?" "the story she forgot!" answered mother goose thoughtfully. "what was it about?" "why, that's it; i don't know. nobody knows only just grandmother, and she's forgotten." mother goose shook her head. "if every one's forgotten it, i'm afraid it must be at the house of the queerbodies. that's where they send all the forgotten stories; then they make them over into new ones." "couldn't i go there to find it?" "i don't know. i've never been there myself. of course, they wouldn't let me in. but you're a real child. maybe you could get in. only, how would you get there? it's a long, long journey, through the forest and over hills and streams." "i don't know," said ellen. "i've never journeyed very far; only just to aunt josephine's." mother goose knitted her brows and began to think hard. suddenly her face brightened. "i'll tell you what i'll do. i'll lend you my gander; and he'll carry you there in short order, however far it is." "oh, thank you, but i don't believe i could ride him! i'd fall off, i'm sure." "no, you wouldn't. he goes as smoothly as a dream goose, and almost as fast. yes, i'll lend him to you. but there's one thing i'd like you to do for me in return when you reach the house of the queerbodies." "what is that?" "i'd like you to ask about a rhyme i used to have. i think they must have it there, for i've lost it; and if it hasn't been made over yet, perhaps you could manage to get it for me." "what's its name?" asked ellen. "well, it hasn't any name, but it looks like this:- "_johnnykin learned to ride the wind, but he wouldn't let any one on behind. but the wind ran away with johnny one day, and that wasn't such fun i have heard him say._" ellen promised to do what she could about it, and then mother goose sent little boy blue to unhitch the gander and bring him to them. ellen felt rather nervous about mounting him, but mother goose told her how to do it. [illustration] then the white gander spread his wings. the wind rustled through them like the sound made by the leaves of a book when they are turned. up, up rose the gander as smoothly as a bubble rises through the air and then away he flew toward the dark line of forest that ellen saw in the distance. _chapter three_ _the five little pigs and the goat_ on and on went the white gander so smoothly and swiftly that the country slipped away beneath just as the leaves of a book do when they slip from under your finger too fast for you to see the print or pictures. "i wonder what that is," said ellen as a spot of red shone out among the green beneath. the gander stayed his wings so that ellen could look. it was a little red brick house. around it were other houses that looked as though they were built of sods. they had chimneys and from two or three of these chimneys thin lines of smoke rose through the still air. as the gander hovered above them from a knoll a little way beyond there suddenly sounded a shrill and piteous squeaking. "oh, what's that?" cried ellen. "it must be a pig and i'm afraid some one is hurting it. oh dear!" "do you want to go and see mistress?" asked the gander. ellen said she did, so the gander turned in that direction. when they reached the knoll they found that it was indeed a pig that was making the noise, but ellen could not see why it was shrieking so. it sat there all alone under an oak tree and with its pink nose lifted to the sky and its eyes shut it wept aloud. the tears trickled down its bristly cheeks. suddenly it stopped squeaking, and getting up began quietly hunting about for acorns, and craunching them as though it found them very good. "what's the matter, you poor little pig?" asked ellen, looking down at it from the gander's back. she had not spoken with any idea of receiving any answer. the little pig looked up when he heard her voice. as soon as he saw her he sat down and began squeaking so shrilly that ellen felt like covering her ears. "week! week! week!" he cried. "can't find my way home." for a moment ellen was so surprised at hearing the pig speak that she could not say anything. then she asked, "where do you live?" but the pig did not hear her. "where do you live?" she repeated in a louder tone; then she shouted, "hush!" so loudly that the little pig stopped short with his mouth half open and the tears still standing in his eyes. "where do you live?" she asked for the third time. "i live over by the wood in the little sod house next to the brick one," answered the little pig. "well, isn't that it there?" and ellen pointed to the sod houses over which she had just flown. the little pig looked. "why, so it is," he cried. then curling up his little tail he trotted away in that direction. the white gander flew beside him and ellen talked as they went. "why didn't you see it before?" "i was coming home from market with my brother; he's quite a big pig; and i stopped to eat some acorns, so he said he wouldn't wait for me any longer, and he went on and that lost me." "but if you'd just looked you would have seen it." "i couldn't look because i was hunting for acorns, and then i began to cry, and then i hunted for some more acorns." it sounded so foolish, ellen couldn't help laughing. "i think i'd better go home with you or you may get lost again," she said. presently she asked, "how many brothers have you?" "four," answered the pig. "one of them's going to have roast beef for dinner." suddenly he sat down and began to cry again. "what in the world's the matter now?" asked ellen in desperation. "oweek! oweek! maybe he's eaten it all." "well you'd better hurry home and see. if you keep on sitting here and crying, i know you won't get any." this thought made the little pig jump up and start toward home as fast as his short legs would carry him. when they reached the sod house next to the brick one another pig was standing in the doorway looking out. he was larger than ellen's companion. he stared hard at the little girl and her gander, but when he spoke it was to the little pig. "you naughty little pig, why didn't you come home?" the little pig did not answer this question. "has middling finished his roast beef?" he asked. "there's some fat left." as the little pig hurried in through the door, ellen asked of the other, "is this your house?" "yes," grunted the pig. three other pigs had appeared in the doorway by this time. they all stared at the little girl. "it's a dear little house," said ellen. "would you like to look inside?" asked the largest pig. ellen said she would. she slipped from the gander and the pigs made way for her to go in; but she only looked through the doorway, without entering. the littlest pig was seated at a table eating beef fat as fast as he could. ellen did not think he ate very nicely. "it's a dear little house," she repeated. then she looked about her. at the window of one of the other houses she caught a glimpse of a head. it looked like a cat's head. "who live in all these other houses?" she asked. "well, in that brick house lives another pig," answered the pig they called middling. "sometimes he comes to see us, but he doesn't have _very_ much to do with us, because he's in a story; a _real_ story you know, and we're only in a rhyme." "what story is he in?" asked ellen. "the story of the wolf that huffed and puffed and blew the house in. he had two brothers, and one built a house of leaves and one built a house of straw, and the wolf came and blew their houses in and ate them up, but this one built his house of bricks, so when the wolf came to it--" "oh, yes, i know that story," interrupted ellen, for she had heard it so often she was rather tired of it. "who lives in the house beyond that?" "the seven little kids. a wolf really did swallow them once, but their mother cut him open with her scissors while he was asleep and they all got out." "and who lives in the little furry house with the chimneys like pointed ears?" "an old cat. she's nothing but a rhyme. she's very particular, though. why, one time she was just as _mad_ at her kittens, just because they lost some mittens she had knitted for them." so middling went on talking of all the people who lived in the village, while ellen listened and wondered. it seemed so strange she could hardly believe it was all true. "what fun you must have together!" she said at last. the pigs looked at each other and grunted. "we would have," said a slim pig that the others called ringling, "if it wasn't for an old goat that lives in a cave down at the end of the street." "oh, but he's a naughty one," broke in thumbie, the fattest pig. "he's always doing mischief and playing tricks on us." "that was a bad trick he played on you, thumbie," said middling. "what was that?" asked the little girl. "well, we were all away except thumbie, and he was asleep in the doorway, and the old goat saw him and brought a paint pot and painted his back so it looked like a big fat face lying there. so when we came home we didn't know what it was, and we were scared, but thumbie woke up and began to get up, and ringling she squeaked, 'run! run! big face is after us,' so we all began to run. thumbie he saw us all running, so he got scared too, and he ran after us, and the faster we ran the faster he ran. after a while he tripped and fell, and then he began to cry and we knew who it was." "oh, yes, he's as mean as mean can be," went on middling. "why, one time when our raspberries were ripe old shave-head came here--" "who's shave-head?" interrupted ellen. "oh, he's the goat. old shave-head came here and asked if he couldn't have some of our raspberries, and we said yes he could if he'd give us a present, and he said he would, so he went home and brought a big pannikin and put it on the table. it was covered. "then he went out in the garden and began to pick raspberries as fast as ever he could. "we all sat round and wondered what was in the pannikin. "littlesie guessed it was acorns, and thumbie thought it was apple parings, and i thought it was pancakes because it was in a pannikin." "and what was it?" asked ellen, very much interested. "well, it was a joke," said middling slowly. "he'd fixed up a sort of big jumping-jack inside, and when we took off the lid it jumped out at us and said, 'woof!' it scared us so we all squeaked and jumped back in our chairs, and the chairs upset and down we came, _clatterly-slam-bang_!" ellen could not help laughing at that. "he painted all our dolls, too," said fatty, "and almost spoiled them." "have you dolls?" cried ellen in surprise. [illustration] "oh, yes, indeed. i'll show them to you," and thumbie ran into the house to get them. when he brought them out ellen thought they were the cunningest little things for dolls that she had ever seen. they were little wooden pigs just like the real pigs themselves only very small. but they were painted in the funniest way. one was bright purple with a yellow nose, and one was pea-green with red legs, another was sky-blue spotted all over with pink, and the other two were just as funny-looking. after ellen had looked at them she asked, "did the goat paint them that way?" "yes, he did, and i think it's real mean." it was middling who answered. "what are some of the other tricks he plays?" middling thought awhile. "i don't remember any more." "there was that fourth-o'-july trick he played on the mother of the seven kids," suggested ringling. "oh, yes. that was mean too; she's so good. she bakes us cookies sometimes and then she gives the old goat some. she's always good to him and nobody likes him either." "what was the trick?" "he took torpedoes and put them all down the path at the mother goat's. it was a gravel path, and she thought the torpedoes were just part of it. fourth-o'-july morning she came out to get a pail of water and when she struck a torpedo with her hard hoof it went off, bang! it scared her so she jumped up in the air, and when she came down it was on some more torpedoes. bang! bang! they went. every time she made a leap and came down some more torpedoes went off. mother goat was so scared she went to bed for all the rest of the day, and it was fourth-o'-july, too. i just wish we could drive him away." "so do we," cried all the other pigs. "then we'd be happy. he's just an ugly old baldhead, anyway." "i never saw a bald goat," said ellen. "his master shaved him," said ringling, "he was so bad." "why? what did he do?" "well, his master had three sons, and he sent them one at a time to take the goat out to pasture. every time before the boy brought the goat home he would ask, 'goat, have you had enough?' and the goat would answer: "'_i am satisfied quite; no more can i bite._' then the boy would bring him home and put him in the stable. but the father always wanted to be sure his goat had had enough, so he would go out himself and say, 'goat have you had enough to-day?' then it would answer: "'_i only jumped about the fields, and never found a bite._' it made the father so angry to think his sons should have treated the goat that way that he drove them away from home." "i know," ellen interrupted. "then when the father found out that the goat had deceived him and made him send his sons away--" "he shaved the goat's head and drove it away with a yard-stick," cried middling, raising his voice. he wanted to tell the story himself. "then it hid in a bear's cave--" "i know." "and the bear was afraid to go home, for he could just see the goat's eyes shining in the cave and he didn't know what it was, and he was afraid to go in; but a bee said it would see, so it went in and stung the goat on the head and then the goat jumped out of the cave and ran till it came here, and i do wish somebody would take it away." "i would," said ellen, "if i knew where to take it." she was not afraid of the goat, for she had a pet one at home that drew a little wagon. littlesie, who had finished his roast beef and had come to the door, looked frightened. "you couldn't," he cried. "why baldhead would butt you right over if you tried to touch him." "mistress," said the white gander, "i know how you could make the goat go away." "how?" asked ellen. then the gander told his plan, while ellen and all the five pigs listened. "good, good," cried the pigs when they had heard it, and they clapped their hoofs and leaped up into the air. ellen, too, thought it a good plan and said she would do everything as the gander told her. the pigs showed her where the goat lived, and then they ran back home, for the gander said it would be better for ellen and him to go to see the goat by themselves. it was in a sort of a cave under a hillock that he lived. the cave had but one window and that was only a hole through the earth, but it had a doorway and a wooden door. there ellen knocked and a rough voice within asked, "who is that knocking at my door?" and ellen answered, "some one who never was here before." again the rough voice spoke: "_then lift the latch that i may see who dares to come and knock for me._" then ellen lifted the latch and after a moment's hesitation pushed open the door and stepped inside. [illustration] at first it seemed so dark in the cave after the brightness outside that she could see nothing, but as her eyes grew used to the gloom she saw that one end of the cave was almost filled with straw, and upon this was sitting a very large and very ugly goat. his hair was rough and shaggy; his head was shaved and his little eyes looked at ellen fiercely from under his curving horns. "what do you mean by coming and disturbing me here in my cave?" he asked. his voice was so very harsh that for a moment ellen was rather frightened, but she remembered her pet goat at home and spoke up bravely: "if you please, i've come to ask you whether you won't go away and find some other place to live." "_go!_" cried the goat, half rising. "me go?" "yes," answered ellen. "you see, you tease and bother the animals that live here so much that they all want you to go, and i told the pigs i would come and tell you." "then you can tell them," howled the goat in a rage, "that i'll never go. have i sent three sons packing from their father's house and frightened a bear from his cave to be ordered out of my house at last by some pigs?" "i don't know," said ellen, "but you'll have to go anyway." "i won't go," howled the goat. "yes, you'll have to," said ellen. "but i won't," howled the goat. then ellen did what the gander had told her to do. she put her hands to her mouth and buzzed into them like a bee. the goat started up as though he had been shot. ever since he had been stung out of the bear's cave there was nothing in the world that he feared like a bee. he began to shiver and shake, and his bald head turned quite pale, "oh don't sting me," he cried. "please don't, and i'll do whatever you wish." "then come with me," said ellen, "and i won't hurt you." "what are you going to do with me," asked the goat quite meekly, getting up and coming to her. "i don't know just yet, but you can't stay here any longer. i'll try to find a good home for you somewheres." then she fastened a stout twine, that the pigs had given her, about the goat's neck, and led him forth. the animals in the village had heard from the pigs how ellen had gone to try to get the old goat to go away, and they were all standing at their doors watching. they had expected to see ellen and the gander come running from the cave with the old goat butting them. how surprised they were to see their enemy come out trotting meekly at ellen's heels, following wherever she chose to lead it. they all murmured together of their surprise but they were still too much afraid of the goat to shout or show the delight they felt. ellen nodded shyly to the animals as she walked down the street. when she reached the pigs' house they were all watching for her. middling ran out and pushed something into her hand. "it's a present for you," he whispered. then he ran back to join the others, but he was so glad the goat was going that he could not help jumping up into the air and squeaking as he ran. the present he had given ellen was the prettiest of the little wooden pigs; the one that was painted sky-blue with pink spots. _chapter four_ _up in the cloud-land_ ellen walked on toward the forest, followed by the white gander and the goat. she wondered what she could do with the goat. she could not take it with her, and if she turned it loose it would go and worry some other animals, she was sure. over toward the right at the very edge of the wood was a house. ellen thought perhaps the people who lived there would take care of the goat, so she went over toward it. when she reached the house, she found it was a very comfortable one with a porch covered with vines, and a stable and out-buildings at the back. on the porch sat a gray-haired woman dressed in silk. she was looking up toward the quiet sky and listening to music that sounded from within the house. ellen had never heard such beautiful music in all her life. as long as it sounded she could do nothing but stand and listen. through the open window the little girl could see the top of a golden harp. she supposed some one must be playing on it, but she had never known before that any one in the world could play as beautifully as that. when the music stopped the woman on the porch stirred and sighed. then she lowered her eyes and her gaze fell upon ellen. she rose and came to the edge of the porch. "good-morning, child," she said. "did you want to see me?" "yes," said ellen. "i wanted to know whether you didn't want a goat." "why, no," answered the woman with some surprise, "i don't. we have all the animals about the place that we want." "i wish you _would_ take this one," urged ellen. "i don't know what to do with it." "how do you come to be leading it about the country? is it your goat?" "not exactly." she began to tell the woman all her story of how she had followed the little pig to the village; of how she had found the animals were being worried by the goat, and of how she had made it come away with her. it all sounded so strange, ellen was half afraid the woman would not believe it. she did not seem to think it surprising, however; but when ellen had ended she shook her head. "no," she said; "we wouldn't want such a mischievous animal about, i'm sure; but i'll ask my son." then she called, "jack, jack!" in answer a tall, stout lad came to the door. "what is it, mother?" he asked. "here's a child who has a goat, and she says this, that, and the other" (and the woman repeated ellen's story). "now the end of the matter is, she wants to leave the goat here with us." "i don't see how we can--" began the lad slowly, when suddenly he stopped and listened intently with a strange, scared look on his face. his mother caught him by the arm. "what is it, jack?" she cried. "what are you listening to? it isn't--" jack nodded without answering. and now all listened, and ellen knew that a sound she had heard some minutes before, without particularly noticing it, was the voice of some one weeping and complaining. the voice was very faint and far off, but in the silence the little girl could make out the words, "i can't get down! i can't get down! woe is me, but it's lonely up here." ellen could not tell where the voice came from, but it seemed to come from the sky. there was silence for a moment and then it began again lamenting and weeping. the woman threw her silk apron over her head and began to rock herself and sob. "oh, the poor thing! i can't stand it, jack," she cried. "you've got to get her down somehow. you've _got_ to." the lad had turned somewhat pale. "what can i do, mother?" he asked. "you know i've tried everything i know, but there's never a ladder in all the world that would reach that far, and we have no more such beans as those." "who is it?" asked ellen in a whisper. the woman put down her apron and wiped her eyes. "it's that giant's poor wife," she answered. "you see it all came from jack's selling our cow for a hatful of beans. i punished him well for it, but what good did that do? then he planted them, and one of them grew so fast it grew right up to the sky." "oh; jack and the beanstalk!" cried ellen. "then nothing would do but jack must climb up and see what was at the top of the beanstalk. he climbed and he climbed," the woman went on, her voice broken by sobs, "until at last he climbed right up to the sky. there he found a wonderful country and a giant had a castle there. the giant was very rich. besides his other treasures he had two bags of golden money, a golden hen, and a golden harp that played of itself. perhaps you heard the harp playing as you came up." "yes, i did," said ellen. "all these things jack managed to steal, one at a time, and brought them down the beanstalk with him. that was all right enough, for those things had once belonged to jack's father, and had been stolen from him by the giant. jack had no trouble in getting away with the bags of money and the hen, but the time he brought the harp the giant discovered him and chased him. he came clambering down the beanstalk after the lad, and would have killed us both without doubt, but jack ran in and got a hatchet and chopped down the beanstalk. the giant, who was only half way down, fell with it and was killed, and i never was sorry for him a moment, for he was a wicked, cruel giant. the only thing i grieve about is his poor wife. she was so good to jack, and now she is left there all alone in the giant's house, and no way of getting her down again, as far as i can see." the woman began to sob again more bitterly than ever. as for jack, he turned away and, putting his arm against the wall, hid his face in it. the white gander plucked ellen by the skirt. "mistress, mistress! come with me a moment," he whispered. ellen followed him a little apart. "i think i might help you to get the giant's wife down," he said. "how would you do it?" "do you mount upon my back and i'll fly up there with you, for wings can fly where never ladder can reach. when we're once up there we'll soon find some way to get her down." ellen was pleased with this advice, and returning to the porch she told jack and his mother what the gander had said. they were filled with joy and gratitude. "if you only will get her down there is nothing you can ask for that we will not give you," cried the mother, "even the golden harp itself." ellen seated herself upon the gander's back and gathered the reins into her fingers. then the bird spread its strong wings and rose in the air. up and up it flew. the sky seemed to grow nearer and jack and his mother and the old bald goat shrank to mere specks below. up, up, until ellen grew dizzy with the height and closed her eyes. there was a slight jar, and then the gander spoke, "mistress, we are here." ellen unclosed her eyes and looked about her. she was in a wide gray country, such as she had never seen before. everything about her was gray, the trees, the grass, the streams and sky--everything; and not far away was a gigantic, shadowy gray castle. close to where the gander had alighted stood a little old woman with her hands clasped. she was looking at ellen with wide, wondering eyes. presently she came nearer, and timidly stretching out her hand she touched ellen with her finger. "are you real, or are you only a dream?" she asked. "why i'm real, of course," said ellen. the little old woman caught her by the arm and began to sob with joy. "oh, i'm so glad, so glad," she cried. "i've been so lonely up here. you won't go away and leave me here alone again, will you?" "i've come to take you down," said ellen. "oh, that's better still. it's many a long and weary year since my foot has been on the dear green grass. but how will you get me down?" "i thought maybe the gander would carry us," said ellen, but the white gander shook his head. "no, no; my wings are not strong enough for that, and if i should fall we would all three break our necks." "then what shall we do?" "i have a rope," said the little old woman timidly. "while i have been up here alone i spent my time making it, and now i think it is long enough. i often thought i would try to lower myself to the earth by it, but i was afraid." ellen looked at the gander. "that might do," he said. "bring it here, and bring a basket, too; the biggest one you have." the little old woman hastened away, and in a short time returned with the rope and a basket. "now tie them together," said the gander. ellen and the old woman did this, seeing to it that the knots were tight. [illustration] then the white gander made ellen twist the rope around a tree, so that the basket would hang down just over the cloudy edge of the sky country. "now get in the basket," said the gander. the little old woman looked rather frightened, but she did as she was bid. then the gander and ellen began to let the rope slip, and as it slipped the basket slowly sank from sight. the weight did not seem great because of the rope's being twisted about the tree. down and down went the basket and the little old woman in it; down and down went the rope. ellen thought they never would get done letting it slip. at last there was no more pull on it. "she has reached the ground," said the gander. "and now, mistress, get on my back and we will fly down." "oh, i'm almost afraid, we are so far up." "shut your eyes and hold me by the neck." ellen seated herself upon the gander's back. then she clasped her arms about its neck and closed her eyes, as she was bid and then the gander flew out over the edge of the cloud-land. it took but a little while for them to find themselves once more down in front of the vine-covered porch, and there was the little old woman with jack and his mother, and they were joyful indeed. "and now what will you have as a reward?" asked jack's mother. "will you have the golden harp? or will you have a bag of golden money? or what?" but ellen said she would not take anything, for she did not wish to burden down the gander. all she asked was that they would keep the goat and be kind to him, and that they would tell her how to get to the queerbodies' house. "the first i will gladly do," said jack's mother, "but as to the second, all i can tell you is that the queerbodies' house lies on the other side of the forest; but if you ask the forest folk, no doubt they can direct you how to go." "this you must take at least," cried the little old woman; "it is all i brought from the gray country." she lifted her skirt, and from the pocket of the petticoat beneath she drew out an egg. it was just the size of a hen's egg and shaped like one, but ellen exclaimed with admiration when she saw it, for it was all of pure yellow gold, and shone like glass. "take it," said the little old woman, "i have no need of it now, for jack and his mother have promised that i shall live here with them and share all that they have. you see you can easily carry this." ellen took the egg and thanked the little old woman. then bidding good-by to all, she seated herself upon her gander, and away they flew so swiftly that almost immediately the vine-covered house was far away, and they found themselves at the edge of the deep, green forest. _chapter five_ _the house of the seven little dwarfs_ "mistress," said the gander, "you will have to alight now if we are to go in here in search of the forest folk. it would only bruise my wings for nothing if i tried to fly where the trees are so thick." "very well," answered ellen, stepping down from his back to the ground. "and i do believe," she added, "that i see a house now beyond those bushes. don't you?" "yes, i believe i do," said the gander. "let us go over in that direction and see." a very short walk brought them to the house. it was a very cunning little house, with a door and windows just about large enough for a large child. ellen went up to the door and knocked. she could hear some one rattling about inside and moving things around, but there was no answer to her rap, so she knocked again. [illustration] a moment's silence followed, and then the door was suddenly and violently thrown open. there stood a little dwarf holding a great wooden spoon in his hand as though it were a club. his eyes had a scared look. "who are you, and what do you want here?" he cried, in a voice that he tried to make very big and bold, though it trembled in spite of him. "i am ellen," answered the little girl, "and i stopped here to ask if you could tell me the way to the queerbodies' house." "oh, is that all," said the dwarf with a sigh of relief. "i was afraid when you first knocked that you might be one of those bad underground dwarfs. but come in; come in. i don't know the way myself, but maybe one of my brothers may. they'll be here soon if you'll come in and wait a bit. i'm just cooking dinner for them." "thank you," said ellen. "may my gander come in too?" "yes, yes; bring him in." as ellen followed the dwarf into the house she looked about her and thought it was the very cunningest little house she had ever seen. in the middle of the room was a long low table set with seven wooden bowls, seven wooden forks, and seven wooden spoons. around the table were seven little chairs just the right size for children or dwarfs. there were also a wooden dresser painted red, a dough-trough, a clock, and a settee; but everything was small. ellen thought what fun it would be to keep house there. the only big thing in the room was a huge black pot that stood on the stove, and in which something was cooking. the dwarf was obliged to stand on a stool in order to reach over and stir it with his big spoon. "porridge," he said looking over his shoulder at ellen. then he repeated in a tone of contempt, "_porridge!_" giving it a last stir he stepped down from the stool, and using all his strength he pushed the pot to the back part of the stove. then he came and sat down opposite to ellen. "i suppose you think porridge is a strange thing to have for dinner," he said, still speaking bitterly. "so do i. and to think i had a good dinner all ready and cooked just a little while ago!" "what became of it?" asked ellen. "why i just went a little way into the forest to see if my brothers were coming, and in that little time that i was away those bad underground dwarfs were here, and when i came back the meat was gone, and the potatoes were gone, and ashes were dropped in the soup, so it was fit for nothing but to be thrown out. oh, they're bad ones, they are." "so then you cooked some porridge?" "it was the best i could do at this hour of the day. there'll be grumbling enough about it when my brothers come home. those underground dwarfs are always up to some mischief or other. they weren't so much trouble--indeed they didn't trouble us at all as long as the good bear prince was about. they were too much afraid of him even if he was enchanted; but he broke the enchantment and married snow-white and went to live in his castle, far away. now the underground dwarfs have no one to be afraid of, and we daren't leave the house alone a minute or they're up to some mischief." ellen sat staring at the dwarf. she knew the story of that bear prince very well. it was all about how he came to the house where rose-red and snow-white lived and asked for shelter one bitter winter night. he was in the shape of a bear then because he had been enchanted by a wicked dwarf, but afterward he caught the dwarf and killed him, and then his bear-skin dropped from him. so he came back to his true shape of a handsome prince and married little snow-white. ellen knew the story almost by heart, but never before had she believed that it was really true. "and did you really see that enchanted prince with your very own eyes?" she asked. "oh, yes; we knew him well while he was a bear. many and many a time has he lain there before that very stove snoring away. but after he once began going to the widow's house he stopped coming here. the widow was the mother of snow-white and rose-red. "perhaps it was just as well though, anyway. he might have frightened our own beautiful snowdrop, for she was keeping house for us then." "who was snowdrop?" asked ellen. "she was the daughter of a king, but she had a wicked stepmother who hated her. the stepmother gave her to a huntsman bidding him kill her, but the man had pity on the poor child. he helped her to escape and then killed a deer and took its heart to the wicked stepmother, pretending it was snowdrop's heart. then snowdrop came here to live with us. we sheltered her and loved her, but the wicked stepmother hunted her out and came here to take the poor child's life." "oh, i know," cried ellen eagerly. "it's the story of the magic mirror." but the dwarf went on as though he had not heard her. his thoughts were all of those past days when snowdrop had made their little house bright with her beauty. "yes, she came here, that wicked queen. she came in disguise while we were away, pretending to have laces and stays for sale. we had warned snowdrop to beware of all strangers, but the child was so good and innocent herself that she could not think harm of any one. "she talked to the stepmother and looked at her wares without knowing her. she bought a beautiful pair of stays, too. then the wicked queen said she would lace them up for her. she laced them, and suddenly drew the cord so tight that snowdrop could not breathe, but fell down as though dead. "she was not dead, however, and when we came home we cut the cord so she could breathe, and so we saved her. "once the wicked one brought a poisoned comb and gave it to snowdrop, and as soon as it was put in her hair snowdrop fell down as though dead. then too we saved her, drawing out the comb. "but the third time we could do nothing. it was a piece of a poisoned apple that the stepmother brought her. snowdrop took a bite of the apple and it lodged in her throat. when we came home, there she lay on the floor as though dead and we could not tell what it was that ailed her. "we put her in a crystal casket, meaning to keep her always. "but a prince came by that way and saw snowdrop lying there motionless. though she could not move nor speak he loved her so dearly that when he begged for her we could not refuse him. we gave her to him and he carried her away, but on the journey the apple jolted out and she opened her eyes and spoke and lived. "she is a great queen now, but she has never forgotten us. every month she comes to see us in her great chariot drawn by six white horses and with out-riders. oh, you should see her then, so grand and beautiful. but she is not proud. she sits and eats with us just as she used to do. yes, and she cooked us a dinner, too, one time. cooked it with her own royal hands, laughing all the while." "oh, i _wish_ i could see her," cried ellen. the dwarf sat smiling to himself and rubbing one hand over the hairy back of the other. suddenly he started from his thoughts. "there come my brothers," he cried. gathering up the wooden bowls he carried them over to the porridge pot and began to fill them. there was a sound of footsteps and voices outside, and presently in through the doorway came six more sturdy dwarfs, all looking as like the one by the stove as one pea is like another. they all stopped and stared at ellen. "who is this?" asked one of them. "oh, it's just a child from the real world," said the dwarf by the stove. "nothing to be afraid of. she just stopped here to ask her way to the queerbodies' house, but i don't know how to tell her." "i know the way," said one of the new-comers. "but sit down, child; you must have a bite and a sup with us before you go." "thank you, i don't think i'm hungry," said ellen. "what's this?" cried another dwarf, eying the porridge that had been set before him. "where's our good dinner of soup and meat?" while the stay-at-home told his story of the lost dinner the looks of the other dwarfs grew blacker and blacker. "see now," cried one of them, striking his hairy fist upon the table; "'tis just as i tell you; those underground dwarfs grow more bold and mischievous every day. there's nothing for it but for two of us to stay at home, one to cook and one to act as guard." "but, brother, how can we do that?" asked another. "our hands are few enough as it is, for the work to be done." "if there were but some way to frighten them off," said another mournfully. "but i don't see how we could do that." "why don't you make a scarecrow to frighten them away? that's the way we do at home," ellen suggested. "what is a scarecrow?" asked another dwarf hopefully, but when ellen told him he shook his head. "no, no; they're so quick they'd guess in a minute that we were trying to trick them, and that it couldn't move." "well, i know what we'll do," cried ellen. "we won't make a scarecrow; we'll make a scare-gander. we'll dress the gander up like a figure and it shall sit there quietly, and then, when the dwarfs come in to look at it, it can fly up and beat them with its wings so they'll never dare to come back again." the gander stretched its great wings up and beat them loudly. "yes, yes," it hissed. "that might do," said the dwarfs; "but first we'll have our dinners, for we have been working hard and we're hungry." so, as soon as they had finished eating their porridge they dressed the white gander. ellen put her hat on its head and her shoes on its feet. they tied an apron that had belonged to snowdrop about his neck, and put on a veil that hung down over his beak. then they set him in a chair, and he looked so funny that ellen could hardly help laughing. "now we'll all go back to our work," said the oldest dwarf, "and when those evil ones count that all seven of us have gone they'll soon be here to see what mischief they can do about the house." so the dwarfs all put on their caps, and, shouldering their drills and picks, off they started, leaving the white gander sitting in the chair. as for ellen, she hid in the dresser, keeping the door just a crack open so she could see out. she had only been in there a few minutes when there was a noise at the window and an evil looking dwarf peered in. he peered all about the kitchen and then he cried, "it's all right. they've all gone and left the house to take care of itself. they'll be sorry enough they left it when they come back. quick! in, all of us, and see what mischief we can do." with that he dropped back from the window, and in a minute a great crowd of dwarfs came tumbling in through the door. they were not as large as the good dwarfs, but they looked so spiteful and evil that ellen was frightened and wished she and her white gander were well out of it. "what mischief shall we begin with?" cried one. "let's pull all the pots and pans out of the dresser first," said another, "and see what ones we can break." "yes, yes," cried still others. several of them started over toward the dresser where ellen was hidden, and if they had found her there it would have gone hard with her, but at the same moment one of them cried, "oh, look here! just see this puppet they've dressed up. did they think they could scare us with that? let's tear it to pieces before we do anything else." all the dwarfs rushed pell-mell toward the chair where the gander sat, dressed in ellen's hat and shoes and with a veil over its face. it sat as still as a stone until they were close upon it. then up rose the great white gander with a hiss. it spread its wide strong wings, and before the dwarfs could escape it had brought them down with such a blow that three of the dwarfs were knocked head over heels. the rest cried out in terror at the sight, and hastened towards the door, but the goose was after them. [illustration] it beat and buffeted them with its wings and hissed so piercingly in their ears that they did not know what was after them. out through the door they went and away over stump and through brier with the great white gander after them. the forest re-echoed with their harsh cries of fear. the good dwarfs heard it, and came hastening home to learn how ellen's plot had succeeded. just after they came in, back came the gander, and if ever a bird laughed it was laughing then. "mistress, did i not beat them well?" "you did indeed," said ellen, and all the dwarfs agreed with a loud voice. then ellen showed them how to take a pillow and dress it up as the gander had been dressed. they set it in a chair and moved the chair in front of the window, so that when you look at it from the outside it was exactly as though it were the gander itself sitting there. "i think they'll be afraid ever to come near the house again as long as that is there," said ellen. "they will indeed," cried all the dwarfs. then the child again begged them to tell her which way she was to go to find the queerbodies' house. "that's easily told," answered the oldest dwarf. "all you have to do is to watch the leaves and follow the way they turn, and that will soon bring you where you want to go." "how queer!" cried ellen. "with us the leaves turn every which way, as the wind happens to blow." "i don't see much use in that," said the dwarf. "i don't see how you ever find your way through the woods if that's the way they do. come, look here." he led ellen out under the trees in front of the house. there was no breath of air and the leaves all hung motionless. "now take a few steps," said the dwarf. ellen did so and immediately all the leaves stirred and began pointing toward the right, like wise little green fingers. "that's your way," said the dwarf. "only remember and follow the direction they point out and you can't lose it." ellen thanked the kindly dwarfs, and she and her gander started briskly off toward the right. on and on they went, and after a while they passed close to where there was a great heap of rocks; something kept bobbing about back of this heap, now appearing, now disappearing. at first ellen thought it was a big bird, but as she went nearer the gander spoke: "mistress, it's one of those wicked dwarfs." ellen stopped short, feeling rather frightened, but now the dwarf climbed on top of the rock and called to her: "child, child, did you see a little house in the woods as you came along?" "yes, i did," answered ellen. "and did you stop there?" "yes, i did." "and did you see anything of the big doll that beats you with flails?" he meant the gander and its wings. "oh, yes," said ellen; "i saw that too." "and is it still there?" "no, they haven't that one, but they have another doll half as big again. it sits by the window, and if you'll go and look you'll see it there now." "no, no," cried the dwarf. "if that's true we'll never go near the house again," and away he went, hopping over the rocks and disappearing in a big crack, and ellen saw no more of him or his kind. _chapter six_ _the great gray wolf_ on and on went ellen and the gander, following the pointing of the leaves, and all the while the forest kept growing deeper and greener and lonelier. there were no flowers now as there had been at first, but here and there on the trees or ground grew wonderful fungi. some were yellow as gold, some were red as blood, and still others were streaked and spotted as beautifully as sea-shells. the only flowers to be seen were the wax-white "indian-pipes" and there were whole clumps of them. ellen had just stooped to pick some, when suddenly the gander hissed, and at the same moment a harsh voice spoke so close to her ear that it made her start, "good morning!" [illustration] ellen glanced around, and there, standing close to her, was an enormous gray wolf, ragged and scarred. the sound of his paws had been so muffled by the moss that she had not heard him coming. "good morning," answered ellen, her heart beating a little faster at sight of him. "where are you going this pleasant day?" asked the wolf. "i am on my way to the queerbodies' house." "the queerbodies! i never heard of them. are they good to eat?" said the wolf. then he added hastily, "no, no; i don't mean that. i meant are they pleasant, merry people?" "i don't know," answered ellen. "i've never seen them, and i'm not sure whether i can find them at all. but if i mean to get to their house to-day i think i'd better be going; so good-bye," and she began to walk on, for she did not like to be there in that lonely spot with a great gray wolf for company. the wolf, however, trotted along beside her. "not good-bye," he said, "for i have nothing to do just now, so i'll just go with you part of the way for the sake of the walk and the company." ellen said nothing, but quickened her steps, while the gander and the gray wolf kept up with her, the one on one side, the other on the other. presently the wolf began again. "now about those queerbodies, it's curious i never heard of them, for i thought i knew everybody hereabouts: the dwarfs, and little red riding hood, and the three bears, and--" he hesitated for a moment, and then added with a gulp, "and the woodsmen; but no queerbodies that i ever heard tell of." "who lives there?" asked ellen, pointing to a little house she had just caught sight of in a dank and lonely glade. it had occurred to her that she might stop there for a glass of water and so rid herself of the wolf's company. the wolf grinned, as though he guessed her thought. "nobody lives there now. queer looking house isn't it?" ellen thought it was indeed a queer looking house. "why, what is it made of?" she asked. "bread and cake and barley sugar. but wouldn't you like to see it closer? you might eat some of it, too, if you like, for no one ever visits it now except the wind and rain." ellen walked over toward the house, while the wolf stopped a moment to bite out a burr that had stuck between his toes. "i'll be with you in a moment," he called after her. "mistress," said the gander stretching up its neck to whisper in ellen's ear, "that old gray-coat means no good to us." "he frightens me," ellen whispered back, "but what can i do?" "he isn't looking now. let's slip inside the house and lock the door." ellen glanced back over her shoulder. the wolf was still busy over the burr, but it was some distance to the house. "do you think we can get there before him?" she asked. "we can but try." "come, then," and ellen began to run toward the house; while the gander ran beside her, helping himself along with his wings. at the noise they made, the wolf looked up, and then with a howl of rage came tearing after them with long swift bounds. by the time ellen and the gander were on the threshold of the house he was at the foot of the steps, but, turning, the little girl slammed the door and shot the bolt into place. with a howl of rage, the wolf flung himself against it so that it shook again, and ellen and the gander trembled as they stood within; but the good door held, the bolt was true, and the wolf might do his worst; they were safe from him for the time at least. finding that he could do nothing, old gray-coat sat down panting, his fierce eyes fixed upon the house. "wait a bit," he muttered to himself. "you have escaped me this time, but i have as much time to spend as you, and how will it be when you have to come out again?" ellen, who heard this, looked at the gander. "what he says is true," she whispered. "we are safe now, but we can't stay here; and how are we to get away without his catching us?" "let us think about that, perhaps we can contrive some way," the gander made answer. he began to look about. the inside of the house was not built of cake and bread like the outside, but of wood, and the furniture was wooden also. at one end of the room was a great iron cage with a door and a padlock and key to fasten it. the cage was open at the top, but the bars were too high for any one but a monkey to climb out over them. "i believe i know exactly what house this is," ellen cried suddenly. "it's the house where hã¤nsel and gretel came when they were lost in the forest; the house where the wicked witch lived. and this is the cage where she kept hã¤nsel. you know she put him in the cage and shut the door and fastened him in." stooping, she picked up some hard red bits of shell from the floor. "crabs' claws! yes, now i know it's the same. don't you know the story says, 'the best of food was cooked for poor hã¤nsel, but gretel received nothing to eat but crabs' claws.'" the gander walked into the cage and looked it over carefully. "mistress, i believe i can get rid of the wolf," he said. "how is that?" "in this way," and the gander began to tell his scheme, while the little girl listened eagerly. "yes, yes," she cried; "that might do. and i'm to hide in the cupboard while you open the door. yes, and then to slip out and fasten the lock. yes, i'll do it." after they had their plan all arranged ellen did as she said. she tiptoed across the floor and hid herself in the closet. the gander waited until she was safely settled and all was quiet, and then he waddled over to the house door and peeped out through the keyhole. there at the foot of the steps sat the wolf, his red tongue hanging out over his long white teeth, his fierce eyes fixed on the house. suddenly with a rattle and noise the gander unbolted the door and flung it open. like a flash the wolf bounded up and into the house. he gave a glance about him. ellen was not to be seen, because she was hiding in the cupboard, but there was the plump white gander. it had flown away from the door as if in a great fright and into the cage. "just where it is easy to catch you!" cried the wolf, as he bounded into the cage in pursuit of it, every tooth in his head showing. the gander, however, was not to be so easily caught as the wolf had thought. in a moment it spread its wings and flew up over his head, while at the same time ellen slipped out of the cupboard and shut the cage door, turning the key, tick-a-lock. there was the wolf safely fastened behind the iron bars, but the gander flew out over the top of the cage and alighted on the floor at ellen's side. "come, mistress," he said, "the way is clear now, and we can journey on as soon as we choose." [illustration] [illustration] how the wicked old wolf did howl and threaten! but it was no good. ellen and the gander let him make all the noise he chose, but they left him there. all they would do was to promise to send the first woodsman they met in the woods to take charge of the cruel old gray-coat. they had scarcely travelled beyond sound of his howls when they met a huntsman with horn and gun journeying along under the trees. he greeted the two, and would have passed on, but ellen stopped him. "if you please," said she, "there's a wolf fastened in a cage in the little cake house back there. if you live near here would you mind taking care of him and seeing that he gets food and water?" "a wolf!" cried the huntsman. "who caught it?" "this gander and i," and ellen began telling the huntsman all about their meeting it, and what a narrow escape they had had. the huntsman could not wonder enough. "i know that old wolf well enough," he said. "you have had a narrow escape, child. that is the same wolf that came so near to eating up red riding hood." the man then went on to say that he would get some of his fellows and they would bind the wolf and carry him to king thrush-beard, who was making a collection of wild animals. he begged the little girl to come with him as the king would be sure to give a large reward for such a large, fierce beast, but ellen said she had no time. she must hasten on if she wished to reach the queerbodies' house that day. "then at least accept this horn," and the huntsman unslung the one that he carried at his shoulder. "it is all i have to offer you, but it may serve to remind you of your adventure." ellen thought the horn very pretty, and was delighted. she thanked the huntsman, and then, bidding him good-by, she and her gander started forward once more upon their journey. _chapter seven_ _the magic lamp_ "mistress, i think we must be coming to the end of the forest," said the gander. "the trees are not so close together, and i seem to see a light beyond." "i hope we are," answered the little girl. "once we are out from under the trees i can use my wings and then we'll get along faster," the gander added. even sooner than he had thought, they came to the edge of the forest, where the open country began. it seemed very bright after the leafy shade where they had travelled so long. before them was the gentle slope of a hill, and away beyond it stood a castle that shone like gold against the sky. "oh see," cried ellen, "a castle. let's go nearer and look at it." "very well," answered the gander. "seat yourself upon my back and we'll soon be there." as the little girl was settling herself between his wings they heard a far-off sound of trumpets, and saw a number of people coming out of the castle. even at that distance she could tell by the way the sunlight glittered on their clothing that they must be very magnificently dressed. there were horses, too, with nodding plumes. they all seemed to be forming in a procession, and then with another sound of trumpets they began to move away in an opposite direction. "oh hurry," cried ellen, almost falling off the gander in her eagerness. "it must be a parade." the gander spread his wings and flew as fast as he could, but when he reached the castle the procession had disappeared. no one was to be seen but two slavesstanding at the foot of the steps before the door. they were very magnificent, being dressed all in cloth of gold, and wearing about their necks collars of diamonds and rubies. [illustration] "was that a parade that just went away?" asked ellen, as the gander alighted softly upon the palace steps. the slaves seemed struck with terror and amazement at her sudden appearance. they threw themselves down before her hiding their eyes. "do not harm us," they cried. "we are only poor slaves." "why i'm not going to hurt you," said ellen. "i couldn't, anyway. i'm only a little girl." "but surely you must be a magician to ride through the air in this way," and one of the slaves raised his head a little. ellen felt like laughing. "no, i'm not anything but a child, and this is mother goose's gander." the slaves now rose from the ground with a relieved look, "and you are really not a magician?" "no, of course not. but what was all that we saw? we thought it was a parade." "it was our master aladdin with his slaves and guards riding away to pay a visit to his father-in-law, the sultan." "_aladdin!_ do you mean the aladdin who has the wonderful lamp?" "even the same." "oh, i do wish i could see the lamp," and the child clasped her hands in her eagerness. "i never believed it was true before. don't you think he would let me look at it?" "he is away now, as we have just told you." "but couldn't you let me see it? i've always wondered what it looked like, and thought what i'd wish for, if i had it." the slaves looked at her suspiciously and began to whisper together. then one of them turned to her again and spoke, "i cannot promise," he said, "but if you will be pleased to follow me it may be that the soldiers will allow you to see the lamp." the gander plucked at ellens sleeve. "mistress, mistress, do not follow him," he whispered. "i don't know why, but i fear danger." ellen, however, was too eager to heed what the gander said. it was too wonderful a chance to lose; the chance of really seeing--perhaps even handling--the lamp of aladdin. so she drew her sleeve away, and as the slaves led the way she followed them into a great hallway all of gold, set with patterns of rubies and emeralds. the hall was empty with no one in sight except themselves, though ellen could hear a distant sound of music and singing from some other part of the castle. along the hall they went, and up a flight of golden steps. after this there was another hall and more stairs and winding ways, until ellen felt completely lost. at last they came to a barred and bolted door before which stood two soldiers with drawn swords in their hands. as they saw ellen and the gander coming up the hall they crossed their swords before the door. "who are these whom you have dared to bring hither?" they cried to the slaves. the slaves made a deep reverence. "if you please," answered one of them, "it is one who says she is a child, and who comes begging to see the lamp of aladdin." ellen began to feel somewhat timid, the soldiers looked at her so frowningly and suspiciously. "if you don't mind," she began, "i thought i would like to see it, but if it's too much trouble, of course it doesn't matter." the foremost slave advanced with great respect and began whispering to the soldiers. they frowned more and more heavily as they listened. at last as the slave finished whispering they lowered their swords. "very well," said one of them to ellen, "you shall see the lamp." he made a motion and the slaves sprang forward and unbolted and unbarred the door. at a gesture from the soldier ellen stepped inside. on the instant, and before the gander had time to follow her in, the door was shut behind her with a crash, and she heard the bolts and bars falling into place. with a sudden fear she turned and tried to open the door. it was fast. they had made her a prisoner. "let me out! let me out!" she called, but there was no answer. "it's nothing but a fairy tale," whispered the child to herself. "nothing but a fairy tale, so of course they can't hurt me, but i wish my gander was in here, too. i wonder why they shut the door, anyway. they said i might come in." then a sudden suspicion struck her. "i wonder if they thought i had come here to steal the lamp?" breathing rather fast, she turned and looked about her. the room where she stood was very large and high. like the halls it was made entirely of gold, and the walls were polished until it seemed as though they must be too slippery for even a fly to crawl upon them. there was no door except the one by which she had come in, and though there were two windows they were very narrow, and set so high in the wall that it would have needed a long ladder to climb up to them. ellen walked all around the room. there seemed no possible way of getting out. half way up one of the walls and far out of reach was a little shelf set with rubies and diamonds and other precious stones, and upon this shelf stood a battered, rusty old lamp. as ellen's eyes fell upon it she felt sure it must be the magic lamp. suddenly she was startled by something coming against the opening of one of the windows and darkening it. there was a sound of brushing and rustling, and her gander flew down beside her. "here i am, mistress," he said. "oh dear, gander," cried ellen, "i'm so glad you've come! why did they shut the door?" "well, from the talk i heard around me, they were afraid you wanted to steal that lamp up there on the shelf and run away with it, and that's why they locked you in here. i don't see why any one should want to steal that lamp though. why it's not even gold,--nothing but copper." "no, but then i think it must be aladdin's magic lamp," ellen explained. she found that the gander had never even heard of the lamp and the genie, so she told him all about it. she told him of its being a magic lamp, and of how, if any one rubbed it a great genie would appear who would do whatever he was told to do by the one who held the lamp. "well!" said the gander, drawing a long breath as she finished. "no wonder they thought you wanted to steal it, if it's like that. why it's as good as a wishing stone." "but of course i didn't want to take it," cried ellen indignantly. "why didn't they ask me, and i'd have told them i didn't." "well, the great thing now is how are you to get out?" said the gander. "why don't you take me up on your wings and fly out of the window?" the gander looked up doubtfully at the narrow slit where he had just come in. "i'm afraid i can't. that window was a tight fit even for me, and i never could get you through." "then what _am_ i to do?" the gander thought for awhile. "did you say that if you held that lamp and rubbed it a genie would come?" "yes, i suppose he would." "and he would do whatever you bade him?" "yes." "then the thing for you to do is to rub the lamp and when the genie comes to tell him to set you free." ellen felt frightened at the idea of calling up a great black genie. "but i couldn't reach the lamp away up there, even if i wanted to," she said. "no trouble about that," and the gander spread his wings, "i can help you there." so saying, he flew up to where the shelf was. as he reached it he struck at the lamp with his wing, but he missed it; again he tried, and this time he just grazed it with his feathers; a third time and then he struck it fairly and the lamp fell clattering and rattling and rolled across the golden floor to ellen's feet. trembling, the little girl picked it up. "rub it; rub it, mistress," said the gander. "i hear the soldiers coming." but ellen hesitated. "i'm afraid," she cried. "quick," and the gander flapped his wings in his excitement. "if they catch you again you may never get away." then ellen brushed her thumb across the side of the lamp. [illustration] immediately, and with a sound like a thunder-clap a terrible black genie appeared before her. "what wouldst thou have?" he cried in a great voice. "i am ready to obey thee as thy slave and the slave of all those who have the lamp in their hands." the little girl was so frightened at the sight of this terrible being she had called up that she stood there unable to move. "speak, mistress!" cried the gander, "for here come the soldiers." and indeed at that moment the door was thrown open and the soldiers burst into the room. they had heard the noise of the genie's coming and were afraid ellen was getting away. but as they saw a terrible black being crouching there before the little girl, they shrank back in terror. the next instant, however, one of the boldest of them sprang forward to tear the lamp from ellen's hands. at that she found her voice. "i wish," she cried, "to be in a place of safety with my gander." immediately, before she could catch her breath, she found herself being whisked through the air by the genie. then before she could catch her breath she was set gently upon the ground. when she could look about her she saw that she and the gander were standing on a grassy plain some distance from the castle. she still held the lamp in her hands, and the genie was still with her. "hast thou any further commands?" asked he, in his terrible voice. "no," answered ellen, trembling violently. "then i will go," said the genie, and he began to fade away. "oh, wait a minute," the child called after him. "what shall i do with the lamp?" "wouldst thou not wish to keep it?" "why no, it isn't mine." "shall i return it to the castle?" "oh no, mistress," the gander interrupted, "they might rub it and tell the genie to bring us back and keep us prisoners." "then destroy it," the genie suggested. "but what would become of aladdin and his castle and everything if i did?" "they would stay as they are. and moreover if the lamp were destroyed he would no longer be tormented with fears lest an enemy should steal it and send me to destroy all he has." "very well," said ellen, "i'll do it. but i can't break the lamp. how _can_ i destroy it?" "i will cause the earth to open,--to open down to the great fires below. then throw the lamp in and the flames will destroy it." "very well," said the little girl. the genie struck his foot upon the ground and muttered some magic words. immediately the ground was rent open, and down in this chasm could be heard the roaring of the under fires. "make haste," he cried. "cast the lamp into the flames or they will devour thee." hardly knowing what she did ellen threw the lamp from her down into the fiery chasm. immediately there was a loud roaring like thunder. the earth and sky seemed to shake and the castle to tremble from its foundation to its highest turret. a mist came before ellen's eyes. when it cleared away all was still. the chasm had closed and the distant castle was still in its place. the gander, which had crouched down in its terror with its head and neck stretched along the ground, arose slowly and looked about it. the genie had become as thin as smoke, but he was standing there dark and gigantic as before. "i am free! i am free!" he cried in a joyful voice. "at last i may come and go as i choose, no longer a slave of the lamp. it is you, child, who have freed me, and i am not ungrateful, as you shall soon see. if i have made aladdin rich and powerful, i will make you ten times more so. you shall have a castle even more magnificent than his with slaves and treasures and horses and chariots." ellen gasped. "oh no," she said, "i don't think i want all that. i have to go home pretty soon, and i don't believe i'd like to have to live in a castle." "but you could still go home," said the genie. "you could go home in such magnificence as you never dreamed of, with outriders and trumpeters and dressed in cloth of gold and precious stones." but the thought of such magnificence frightened ellen. "no, no," she repeated. "i'm afraid my mother wouldn't like it." the genie looked disappointed. "well," he said, "of course, it's just as you like." he was still fading away and growing more mistlike. "i wish," ellen exclaimed, "that aladdin knew what had become of the lamp." "thy wish shall be granted," answered the genie. "i will myself tell him that it has been destroyed. and now farewell, and remember if thou shouldst ever wish to have that castle thou needst only clap thy hands three times and call upon the genie of the lamp to fulfil his promise and it shall be thine." the genie had grown so transparent now that it was only by straining her eyes that ellen could still see his shape as one sees an empty glass. then he was gone entirely. "thank you very much," she called after him. she waited a moment and as there was no answer she called again, "thank you!" then she turned to the gander. "i think he's gone," she said, adding in a whisper, "and i'm glad he has, because he _did_ frighten me a little, he was so very big and black." the gander made no answer except to ask ellen if she were ready to go. he seemed anxious for them to be on their way once more, so the little girl mounted on his back and they were soon flying swiftly along. "i hope," said ellen after a silence, "that aladdin won't mind about the lamp being burned up." "i should think he would be glad," replied the gander. "he must have been terribly afraid all the time that enemies would get it and make the genie destroy him and his castle." "yes, that is true," said ellen; then she added after another silence, "and how glad that poor genie was that i had set him free at last." _chapter eight_ _bluebeard's house_ "mistress, do you see that gray mist before us?" said the gander. "i think we have reached the border of the fairy tale country, and beyond that mist lies the country of the queerbodies." ellen drew rein, and the gander allowed himself to sink slowly to the ground. there he folded and settled his wings, and he and his mistress stood looking at the wall of mist before them. it was like the mist that hangs over streams in the early morning. they could not tell at all how high it was. sometimes it looked quite low, and sometimes it seemed to reach up to the sky itself so that they could not tell where one ended and the other began. "look," cried ellen in a whisper. "do you suppose that is one of the queerbodies?" a gigantic shadow had appeared upon the wall of mist. it moved with such tremendous strides that it was out of sight in a moment. and now they saw other shadows. some seemed to be bending over and taking up handfuls of earth and examining them as if in search of something. others seemed to reach up as if after invisible fruit. some were talking and nodding together, and every now and then one would turn and hurry away, as if suddenly remembering some business. they were not all as big as the first shadow, though some of them stretched up so high that their heads and shoulders were lost in the grayness of the sky. "they must be the queerbodies," said the gander in a low tone, "for i'm sure they're not fairy tales." "but they look so big,--like giants. do you think they'll hurt us? just suppose they were wicked giants who ate children like so many radishes." ellen had read some place in a fairy story of giants who did that. "maybe we'd better stop and ask some place," suggested the gander. "if they ate children i'm sure they'd eat ganders too, for some people who don't eat children at all eat ganders." then ellen looked about and saw that not far away stood a very large, fine house. it was not by any means as magnificent as aladdin's, but still it was very handsome. "let us ask at that house," said ellen. "they live so close to the mist that i'm sure they must know what goes on beyond, even if they have never been there." the gander was more than willing for this; so he took ellen up and flew with her to the house. there she alighted and mounted the steps, but the door was so very grand and tall that she could not reach the knocker, and had to knock with her knuckles. there was a moment's silence, and then a voice within called, "sister anne, sister anne, did you hear anything?" another voice answered, "i heard the brushing of the vine leaves against the lattice, but i heard nothing else." "your knuckles are too soft, mistress," said the gander; "let me knock," and with his bill he struck against the door. again the same voice within called, "sister anne, sister anne, do you hear nothing now?" and the second voice answered, "i hear a woodpecker tapping upon a branch outside, but that is all." "mistress, it is no use," said the gander, "you will have to climb upon my back so as to reach the knocker, or they will never hear us." so ellen climbed upon the gander's back and then she found she could just reach the knocker. rap, rap, rap! she struck upon the door. "sister anne, sister anne, do you still hear nothing?" cried the first voice. [illustration] "yes, now i hear some one knocking upon the door." in a moment the door opened and a lady stood in the doorway gazing with wonder at the child and the gander. "what is it, sister? who is there?" called the first voice impatiently. "it's a child," answered the lady in the doorway. "a real child it looks like." almost instantly another lady came hurrying down the hall and joined the one at the door. she was more beautiful than the first, but her face had a scared look as though she had once had such a fright that she had never gotten over it. "why, yes, it is a real child," she cried. "you are a real child, aren't you? where did you come from, and where are you going? is that your gander? what are you going to do with it?" there were so many questions that ellen hardly knew which to answer first, but she began, "i came through the nursery wall, and i'm trying to find the queerbodies' house, and this is mother goose's gander. she just lent it to me for awhile." "going to the queerbodies' house!" the beautiful lady glanced at her sister. then she took ellen by the hand and drew her gently in. "come in and tell me all about it." "i think i must hurry on," said ellen. "it's been a longer journey than i thought;" but she allowed herself to be drawn in. the room where the strange ladies took her was very magnificently furnished, and there the beautiful one whose name was fatima made her sit in a big armed chair. she offered another chair to the gander and he seated himself in it as gravely as possible, resting his wings on the arms. "and now," cried fatima eagerly, "tell me all about it." so ellen began and told her about her journey, while fatima listened with her chin in her hand, and her eyes never leaving the child's face. sister anne listened too. "but now," ellen ended, "i feel afraid to go any further, for it looks as though there were giants beyond that mist. do you know whether they're cross giants or not?" fatima started up and clasped her hands. "oh if i only knew what they _are_ like," she cried. "i watch from my window and long so to know what they are doing and how they look that sometimes it seems as if i could not bear it. some day i know i shall go through the mist just to find out." "fatima! fatima!" cried sister anne warningly. then she added, turning to ellen, "she's so curious. she always has been so, and that's what all her troubles came from." "oh yes," murmured fatima, dropping back in her chair. "i suppose you know my story? i suppose you've heard of bluebeard, haven't you?" and leaning forward again she looked eagerly at ellen. "oh yes, i have all about him in a book at home. it has colored pictures, and there's a picture of fatima with her hair all down, and one of sister anne up on the tower and the brothers coming in, and ever so many more." "oh yes, i shall never forget that time when my brothers came rushing in. and then that day when i looked in the room and saw all the heads in a row and dropped the key--" fatima shuddered, and hid her face in her hands. "are you really that fatima?" asked ellen. she was afraid it was hardly polite to ask, but she did want so much to know. "yes, she is," sister anne answered for her, for fatima seemed unable to speak. "and i often remind her of all the troubles her curiosity brought on her that time. a little more and her head would have been chopped off; but she doesn't seem to have learned anything. she'd go off to the queerbodies' country now if i'd let her, just so as to see what they're like. then the first thing she knew they'd be making her into another story, and she'd never get back." "yes, i _do_ want to know," cried fatima. she leaned forward, and caught ellen by the wrist so suddenly that it startled her. "couldn't _you_ come back and tell me all about it," she cried. "why i--i don't know whether i come back this way; i hoped there was a shorter way home," and ellen's lip trembled, for she was getting a little tired of her long journeyings in spite of her wish to find the lost story. "then your gander; maybe he could come back." "oh yes," answered the gander, "i'll have to come back this way. but the thing is, do we want to go any further. i didn't like the looks of those giants myself." "oh yes," urged fatima. "i wouldn't be afraid. maybe it's only their shadows that are so big. and then i tell you what; i'll give you something that may help you along. look!" with fingers that trembled with eagerness she drew a key-ring from her pocket and slipped from it a key. the key seemed to be of pure gold, but upon one side of it was a rusty spot. ellen wondered whether it was the key that had unlocked the door of the forbidden chamber. "take this," said fatima. "it is a magic key, and there is never a lock it will not fit nor a catch it will not undo." ellen was slow about taking it. she glanced at the gander. "i don't believe i want to go back, but i don't know." the gander answered her look. "we'll go on then," he said, "and if we have that key they can't keep us locked up, and my wings will be always good to carry us out of trouble." "and you'll bring me back word?" cried fatima. "yes, i will," the gander promised. and now fatima was eager for them to go. it seemed as though she could not wait to have her curiosity satisfied. sister anne would have had them stay and rest awhile and have some refreshment after their long journey, but fatima could not hide her impatience to have them start. and indeed ellen and the gander were in as much haste as she. fatima went with them to the very edge of the wall of mist and the last thing they heard as they plunged into it was her voice calling after them, "don't forget, you are to bring me word, and make haste; make haste." _chapter nine_ _beyond the mist_ "oh how cold and still and gray," cried ellen. they were in the very heart of the mist. she could hear the steady beat of the gander's wings, but the grayness around was so thick that she could see nothing but the dim outline of his neck before her. she would not have known whether they were moving at all if it had not been for the stir of air against her face. "mistress, do you see light before us?" asked the gander. "no, nothing but the grayness." "one might travel around and around in this mist, and yet never find one's way out," said the gander half to itself. on and on it flew. "is there no light before us yet?" it asked again, and its wings seemed to flag. "no, there is nothing." "can you hear any sound?" ellen listened. "nothing but the beating of your wings." "mistress, i no longer know whether i am flying forward or not. for all i can tell i may be going around in a circle." the child looked helplessly about her. "i wonder if i were to blow upon the horn the huntsman gave me whether some one would hear and answer?" she suggested. "you might try it." ellen raised the horn to her lips and blew. they both listened, but there was no reply. again she blew. still silence. the third time she drew a deep breath and blew with all her might. the gander stayed his flight to listen, and now, away toward the right hand, there sounded a faint halloo. the gander turned and flew in that direction, and they had gone but a little way when the grayness before them grew lighter. another moment or so, and they were through the mists and out upon the other side. [illustration] but ellen looked about her in dismay. they were in the midst of a great barren desert. there was no tree nor house in sight, no bird nor living thing. yes, there was one thing alive, for just as ellen thought this, something stirred and stood up from a heap of rocks nearby. it was a lad of about twelve or thirteen. at first ellen thought it was the son of the gardener they had at home; it certainly looked like him. the little girl was very fond of this lad, though people used to say he was queer and not quite right in his mind. he often made up stories and told them to her. she never had felt as glad to see him, though, as she felt then. when she went closer, however, the lad did not seem to know her, so she wondered whether it was the gardener's son after all. it certainly looked like him. "was that you blowing a horn?" asked the lad. "yes; we were lost in the mist and wanted to get out, but we wanted to get out on the side where the queerbodies live." "well, this is it." ellen looked about her. "but where are they? i saw their shadows on the mist." the lad laughed. "oh that's nothing. why, i used to see their shadows against the sky even when i was at home, but you'll have to travel far from here before you find them. i suppose you have a compass." "no. what for?" "to find your way across the desert. now i have a compass all right, but i'm so tired i can't go a step further." the lad paused and looked at the gander. "i don't suppose your gander could carry double?" "no, i couldn't," answered the gander. "well, i didn't think you could, but it's too bad, for i could have told you how to go. if i only had brought anything to begin with i'd make something to ride on; but i didn't know the journey would be so long and weary." "do you mean," said ellen, "that if you had anything to begin with you could _really_ make something to ride on?" "oh yes. almost everybody, before they start out for the queerbodies', learns to make something out of nothing; but i was in such a hurry to start i only learned to make much out of little, and that's the trouble now." "haven't you anything in your pocket to begin on?" asked ellen, for the lad's pockets were bulging with something that jingled every time he moved. "nothing that would do. it must be something that was once alive. now you don't happen to have such a thing about you as a twig or a chip of wood?" "no. that is, nothing but a little wooden pig, and it was never alive." "no, but the wood was when it was growing. will you let me see it?" as ellen drew the toy from her pocket the boy took it from her eagerly. his eyes sparkled. "the very thing!" he cried. "i can make a magnificent riding-horse out of this." holding the pig to his mouth, the boy began to whisper magic in its wooden ear. as he did so the pig began to grow. it grew and it grew, while ellen stared in wonder. when it was too large for the boy to hold in his hands he set it down on the ground. still he kept whispering in its ear and the pig kept on growing, until at last it was as large as a pony. when it was that big the lad stopped. "there!" he said to ellen, looking at the pig with pride, "how is that for a riding-horse?" [illustration] "i think it's fine, but i shouldn't call it a riding-_horse_; i think it's more of a riding-_pig_." "all the same," said the lad. "now the next thing is a bridle. when a magic pig like this once does start going it won't stop for a word. i suppose you haven't anything about you that would serve for a bridle." "nothing but this," and ellen touched the golden chain that the dwarfs had hung about her neck. "that will do," cried the boy; "give it here." he seemed to feel so sure that ellen would lend him the chain that she did not know how to say no, so she took it off and handed it to him. the lad quickly arranged it as a bridle, and then before he mounted the pig he took out his compass and made sure of the direction in which they were to go. "and now i'm ready," he cried; "follow me." with that he leaped on the pig's back, and no sooner had he touched it than away it went like the wind. its blue legs with the pink spots twinkled along so fast that it took all the gander knew to keep up with them. on and on they went; the wind whistled past ellen's ears, and the ground sped away beneath so fast that she grew almost dizzy. the lad, however, did not seem to mind how fast they went. now and then he settled himself more comfortably on the pig's back, and now and then he took out his compass and looked at it to make sure they were going in the right direction. after they had gone a long distance in this way he drew rein. "there!" he said, "the desert is passed; but there is a greater danger than it to come." "what is that?" "look!" and the lad pointed. ellen looked, and then she saw that what she had thought was a stretch of grass and rocks before them, was really an enormous green and gray dragon that lay stretched in a rocky defile. his neck and tail were coiled upon the ground; his wings stretched up the rocky walls on each side of him, and their tips were like tall green trees against the sky. presently he turned his head and ellen could see his big blinking eyes, each as big as a barrel. he yawned and his mouth was like a red cavern. ellen was frightened. "suppose he comes at us," she whispered. [illustration] "oh no, he won't pay any attention to us," the lad assured her. "that is, unless we try to go past him, and then he'd snap us up in a twinkling." "couldn't we go round?" "no, this is the only way, right between these rocks." "i could fly over," said the gander boldly. the lad laughed. "fly over! why look at his wings. he'd catch you in a minute. have you ever seen a bird after a little butterfly? that's the way he'd catch you if you tried any such tricks as that." "then what _are_ we to do?" asked ellen. "wait," answered the lad. "they'll come to feed him after a while; maybe in a week or so; and after he's been fed he always sleeps for ten minutes; then we can safely go past, for nothing will waken him for those ten minutes. you might hit him on the head with an axe and he wouldn't stir." "a week or so!" cried ellen in dismay. "why i can't wait a week or so, i have to be home this evening before dark." "well, i don't see what we can do unless you have something to feed him with." "i have a golden egg. that's all." "a golden egg!" cried the lad joyfully. "why didn't you say so before? why, it's just the thing. give it to me." he took the egg from ellen and slowly rode over toward the dragon. the great creature watched him with its blinking eyes, and when the lad seemed to be coming too near it raised its head and hissed warningly. ellen trembled, the sound was so loud and terrible, as though a dozen engines were letting off steam all at once. the lad, however, did not seem at all frightened. he checked the pig and motioned to the dragon to open its mouth. ellen had seen people motion to the elephant at the zoo in that same way when they wanted it to lift up its trunk, and open its mouth to have peanuts thrown in. the dragon seemed to understand, for after the boy had motioned once or twice it opened its great jaws. then the lad threw the golden egg in, and it seemed just as small a thing for the dragon as a peanut or a currant would to an elephant. the dragon waited a while with its mouth still open for the boy to throw some more in. as he did not do this, however, it closed its mouth and began to chew the golden egg. it chewed, and it chewed, and it chewed, and all the while it chewed it seemed to be growing sleepier and sleepier. at last it swallowed the egg, and then its eyes shut tight and it went fast asleep. the boy turned and beckoned to ellen. "come on," he shouted at the top of his lungs. "oh don't talk so loud," ellen whispered, coming up to him as fast as she could. "you might waken him." the lad burst into a shout of laughter that made the little girl tremble. "not i," he cried. "he'll sleep for nine minutes yet. one minute has gone already." "then let's hurry." the gander flew up and on, and the boy was not slow to follow, riding his blue and pink pig right over the dragon. ellen was in terror lest it should waken in spite of what the boy had said, but he did not seem in the least afraid. he even seemed to take pleasure in making the pig trot the full length of the dragon's tail just as children take pleasure in walking along a railroad track. at last they were safely over, and ellen drew a sigh of relief. on and on they went, and instead of the rocky walls on either side of them growing lower they grew higher and higher, arching over more and more until at last they met and made a sort of gallery. there was very little light here, and when at last the pig stopped and the gander settled to the ground ellen had to look twice before she saw that they were in front of a heavily barred door. "where are we now?" she asked. the eyes of the boy were flashing with eagerness. "it is the door of the queerbodies' house," he cried. he sprang from the pig, and, taking hold of the handle, he tried to open it. "locked!" he added. slipping his hand into his pocket he drew from it a whole handful of keys. then ellen knew that they were what had jingled every time he moved. he began to try one key after another, but none of them seemed to fit. as he was busy in this way a curious roar sounded through the gallery, echoing and re-echoing from the rocky walls. "what's that?" cried ellen. "oh, only the dragon yawning. he must have wakened up," answered the lad coolly, still busy with his keys. "but won't he follow us?" "no; he only guards the entrance to the defile." finding that none of the keys he first held would open the lock the lad had drawn out another handful; but these were no better than the others. one after another he tried all that he had, but not any would unlock the door. having tried the last of all, the boy threw it down and sank upon the floor in despair. "it is no good," he cried. "it is just as i feared. and yet i've been collecting those keys for the last seven months." "can't you unlock it?" "no." "then what are you going to do?" "i don't know. i didn't mind the desert or the dragon, but this was what i was afraid of all along." "mistress," said the gander, "where is the key that the lady fatima gave you? if what she said was true, it should unlock the door." "oh yes!" cried ellen. "i forgot it." with eager fingers she took the key from her pocket and pressed it into the lad's hand. "try this," she said. very hopelessly the boy arose and put the key to the lock. his face changed as he found it seemed to go in it easily. he turned the key, the lock slipped back, the door opened, and ellen, following close at his heels, entered at last the house of the queerbodies. _chapter ten_ _in the house of the queerbodies_ ellen and her companions were standing in a circular golden hall. all around the hall were arched doorways, and overhead, supported by golden pillars, was a blue dome studded with jewels that shone like stars. there were no windows to be seen, but all the hall was filled with a clear and pleasant light that seemed to come from the dome. as ellen looked wonderingly about, she heard a tapping sound behind her, and turning saw a tall man oddly dressed in green and yellow, and holding in his hand an ivory rod tipped with gold. it was this rod that she had heard as it tapped on the floor. [illustration] the man stood looking at her and her friends in silence for a few moments. then he said, "now how did you all get in here i should like to know; i have not opened the door to any one this morning." "i had a key," answered ellen, "and it fitted the door, so this lad unlocked it. we didn't know there was any one here to open it for us." "yes, i am the keeper of the gate, but i don't open for every one that knocks. but how did you find your way to the door, in the first place?" "i came on this gander; it's mother goose's gander, you know." "oh, then, that is all right. but how about this lad? did he come on the gander too?" "no, i came on the pig," answered the boy, speaking for himself. "i don't know that pig. where did you get it?" the lad told him. the gate-keeper shook his head. "it isn't really your pig, you know. you ought to have made it out of nothing. but did you come across the desert?" "yes." "and you passed the dragon?" "yes." "and unlocked the door! well, i suppose it's all right. and what do you want to set about, now that you are here?" "i should like to try my hand at fitting a puzzle together," answered the lad boldly. ellen stared. she had never heard anything so curious; for the lad to have come all that way and through all those dangers, and then want to play with a puzzle the first thing. the gate-keeper, however, did not seem at all surprised. he walked over to one of the golden pillars and took a key from the bunch at his side. and now ellen noticed that in each of the pillars was a narrow door. the gate-keeper unlocked the one in front of which he stood, and when he opened it the little girl could see that the pillar was hollow and fitted with shelves just like a closet. from a shelf the man took a box of puzzle blocks and put it in the lad's hand. "that's your room in there," he said, pointing to one of the arched doorways. the lad took the puzzle, and hastened away with such eager joy that he seemed to have quite forgotten ellen and everything, even the magic pig that followed close at his heels. the little girl looked after him. "i should think if he just wanted a puzzle he could have gotten one at home," she said. "not such puzzles as these," answered the man. "did you ever see a queerbodies' puzzle when it was finished?" "i don't think i did." "then come here, and i'll show you some." the man led ellen over to a large case and opening the lid he bade her look in. there, all placed in rows, were countless boxes of puzzles,--puzzles that were finished. as ellen looked she gave a little cry of astonishment and delight. the pictures she saw were just such as one might see upon any puzzle blocks,--pictures of children swinging in a garden, of a farm-yard scene, or a child's birthday party. the difference was that all of these were alive. the swing really swung up and down; the trees and flowers stirred their leaves; the tiny cows switched their tails to scare away flies too small for ellen to see, and a cock upon the fence swelled his neck and crowed. the children at the party looked at the gifts and then began to play. ellen even fancied that she could hear their voices very tiny and clear as they laughed and talked together. "do you have puzzles like that at home?" asked the keeper of the gate. "oh no," cried ellen. she drew a long breath as the man closed the case. "can everybody that comes here make puzzles like those?" "no, indeed. sometimes even when they get the puzzles finished they don't come alive, and then they're good for nothing but to be thrown away. do you see all these doorways?" "yes." "well, there are people in all those rooms, and in every room they're doing something different." "what are some of the things they do?" "over there," and the man pointed to one of the doorways, "they're making garments out of thin air; in the room next to that they're stringing stars." "stringing stars?" "yes. they fish for them with nets from the windows and then string them for crowns and necklaces. it's very pretty to see. then there's a whole room where they do nothing but make forgotten stories over into new ones." "oh! oh!" cried ellen, clasping her hands. "that's what i came for. i came to look for a forgotten story. _do_ you suppose it's there?" "why, i don't know. i shouldn't wonder. but do you want to make it over?" "no, i want to find it the way it is. my grandmamma used to know it, but she's forgotten it now, so i want to find it, so as to tell her about it." "well, i don't know," said the man doubtfully. "we might go and ask about it. i don't know very much about the different rooms myself, but come and we'll see." the room of the forgotten stories, to which the gate-keeper now led ellen was very large. so large that when the little girl stood in the doorway and looked about her she could hardly see where it ended. upon the floor in rows stood countless golden jars. among these rows figures were moving about or pausing at different jars to take something from them. they all seemed very busy, though ellen could not make out what they were doing at first. quite near the door a girl or a woman was standing; ellen could not tell which she was. she looked like a woman, but her hair hung down her back in a heavy plait. she wore some sort of loose brown garments. her hands were clasped before her and she seemed to be thinking deeply; so deeply that she did not notice the gate-keeper nor ellen nor the gander as they stood looking at her. suddenly she began to smile to herself, and, bending over one of the jars, she thrust her hand into it and brought it forth filled with some substance like wet clay, only much more beautiful than clay, for it glistened and shone between her fingers with all the colors of the rainbow. this she began to pat and mould into shape as she held it, humming softly to herself meanwhile as if from sheer happiness. the gate-keeper waited a few minutes to see whether she would notice him, and then he tapped upon the floor with his ivory staff. the queerbody looked around at the sound. "excuse me," said the man, "but here's a little girl who has just come, and she says she's come to look for a forgotten story; can you tell her anything about it?" the queerbody gazed earnestly at ellen. "a forgotten story!" she repeated slowly. "this is the place to come for forgotten stories, but it may be that it has been made into something else. how long is it since it was forgotten,--this story that you want?" ellen told her a long time; ever since her grandmother was a little girl. the queerbody shook her head. "i'm afraid it may have been made over," she said; "but there's no telling. there are some stories that have been here for many, many years; this one i was just beginning to use, for instance," and she held out her hands full of the shimmering stuff for ellen to see. "why, is that a forgotten story?" asked ellen. "i didn't know stories ever looked like that." "this is only part of a story. when a story has been forgotten it is all divided up and put into different jars. wondercluff we call it then. when we make a new story we take a handful from this and a handful from that, and when it's done you'd never know it was just old things pieced together. but what did your forgotten story look like? can you tell me anything about it?" ellen could not tell her very much. "it was about a little princess called goldenhair, and she had a wicked stepmother. the stepmother made her wear a sooty hood, but the fairies helped the princess. then one time goldenhair was combing her hair in the scullery and the stepmother came in and made her cut all her hair off; and i don't know the rest." the queerbody began to laugh. she held out the handful of wondercluff toward ellen. "why this is a part of that very story," she cried, "and you came just in time. a little later and it would have been made into something else. wait a bit. see if i can't put it together." she reached down into other jars, and took out handful after handful of different wondercluff. heaping it on a marble table she began to pat and mould it, working deftly with her slim long fingers. and as she worked, beneath her hands a figure began to grow. ellen watched, as if fascinated. first the head with a golden crown. "it must have a crown because the story's about a princess and royal folk," the queerbody explained. next appeared the body in a long flowing robe fastened by an embroidered girdle. then beautiful white hands and arms. at last it was all done but the feet. with her eyes fixed lovingly upon the figure she had made, the queerbody reached down into a jar that she had not touched before. suddenly her look changed. the smile faded from her face and she turned her eyes on ellen. "oh, i forgot," she said in a low, sad voice. she drew her hand from the jar. there was nothing in it. "what did you forget?" asked the little girl. "i forgot the castle. i can't finish the story after all." "but why not? she's all done but her feet. i should think you could easily do those." "no, you see they have to be made of castle wondercluff. there was a castle in the story, and i haven't used any of that yet." "what _do_ you mean?" "you see, when a story is broken to pieces all the parts of it are put in different jars, as i told you. all the king wondercluff in a jar, and birds in another jar, magic in another, witches in another, and so on. all the castles were put in this jar, and now i remember another queerbody was making a story this morning and she used the last piece of castle there was. look for yourself. the jar is empty." ellen looked in the jar. there was nothing there. "can't you use something else?" "of course not." the queerbody spoke with some impatience. "don't you remember the story begins with a castle where the princess lives?" suddenly, like a flash, ellen remembered the genie and his promise. at the same moment the gander plucked at her sleeve. "mistress, the castle you were promised," he whispered. there was no need of his reminding her. "if i were to get a castle for you could you finish the story?" she asked the queerbody hesitatingly. "yes, but where could you get a castle, you little girl?" "i think i can get one." ellen looked about. "we'd better go out in the hall," she whispered. she was afraid if she summoned the genie in there it would frighten the busy people around her. she led the way back into the silent, empty hall while the gatekeeper and the queerbody followed her wondering. ellen walked on until she stood under the centre of the dome. then she stopped and looked at the others. "you needn't be afraid," she said, "he won't hurt you;" but she herself felt a little nervous at the idea of calling up the genie again. however, she drew a long breath, and then, clapping her hands three times, she summoned him to appear. there was a loud noise as of thunder that made the gander cower behind ellen, while the gatekeeper and the queerbody trembled and turned pale. immediately the genie appeared, more gigantic and terrible-looking than ever. "thou hast called me, and i am here at thy command," he said to ellen. "wilt thou now have the castle, the treasures, the slaves and horsemen that i promised thee?" "not the treasures and all that," answered ellen, and her voice sounded very little and soft after the genie's, "but i should like the castle now if i may have it?" "it shall be thine. and where wilt thou have it?" "i'd like it in a golden jar over in that room," said ellen, pointing over to the forgotten story room. "in a jar!" cried the genie in amaze, and he scowled as though he thought ellen was making fun of him. but when she explained how it was, and why she wanted the castle, he burst into a roar of laughter that echoed and re-echoed against the blue dome. "i have heard of a genie in a bottle, but never of a castle in a jar," he cried. "however, it shall be thine. but hast thou no further wishes?" "no, that's all," said ellen. "then look in the jar and thou wilt find it there. henceforth i appear to thee no more." immediately, and with another crash as of thunder, the genie was resolved into air and disappeared. for a moment the hall seemed clouded with a thin gray vapor and then that too faded away and all was as it had been before. ellen and the others looked at each other while the gander craned its neck this way and that, as if to make sure that the genie had really gone. the queerbody was the first to speak. she drew a long breath. "i shouldn't like to see _him_ again," she said. "but i wonder if he really put the castle there." "i believe he did," said ellen. "let us go and see." the queerbody was all eagerness. they hastened back to the room of the forgotten stories and bent over the castle jar. the queerbody gave a cry of joy. it was half full of glistening wondercluff. reaching down into the jar she brought out great handfuls that shone and glistened. "_now_ i can finish the story," she cried. she began patting and moulding with hands that trembled with eagerness and under her fingers the silvery feet of the fairy tale seemed almost to shape themselves. then suddenly the figure stood complete, a tall and shining lady with a crown upon her head. the eyes, however, were blank and unseeing, and there was no breath to stir the silver robe. "take her hand," the queerbody said to ellen. timidly the little girl took the white hand of the fairy tale in hers. it was very cold, but as she held it, it seemed to grow warm and soft in her fingers. "speak to her," the queerbody now commanded. at first ellen could not think of what to say. then, "are you,--are you the forgotten story i came to find?" she whispered. slowly the color flushed into the fairy tale's face; the life came into her eyes. slowly very slowly she turned her head and looked down into ellen's eager face. "am i that story?" she murmured. "look in my eyes and see." [illustration] she bent toward the child, and ellen looked into her eyes. such wonderful eyes they were. as she looked, ellen seemed to lose herself in their clear depths. she lost all sense of where she was--even of the lady herself. she never could tell afterward whether the lady spoke and told her the story, or whether she saw it mirrored in those eyes, or whether she was herself the little princess goldenhair living it all, but this was the fairy tale. _chapter eleven_ _the princess goldenhair_ there were once a king and queen who had no children, though they greatly longed for them. one day the queen was sitting at the window sewing, and the sunlight shone upon the golden thimble she wore, so that it fairly dazzled the eyes. "i wish," said the queen, "that i had a little daughter and that her hair was as golden as my thimble in the sun." soon after this a daughter was indeed born to the queen, and the hair upon her head was of pure gold, but in the hour that she was born the queen herself died. as the little princess grew up, her hair was the wonder of all and because it was so beautiful she was always called the princess goldenhair or goldilocks. the king was prouder of his daughter's beauty than of all his treasures, and there was nothing he loved better than to see her unfasten her shining hair and shake it down about her, and then it was so long and bright that it covered her like a golden mantle. but one day the king went hunting, and in the chase he rode so fast that at last he left all his followers behind. he had reached a deep and lonely glade when suddenly his horse reared under him, and there, standing directly in his path was a beautiful woman dressed all in black. her hair, too, was black as a raven's wing and her eyes were strangely bright. she stood looking at the king and she did not speak. the king did not speak either, at first, for there was something in her look that made him ill at ease, even while he wondered at her beauty. "who are you?" he said at last; but she made no answer. then he questioned her whence she came, but she was still silent. but when he asked her if she would go back to the palace with him she nodded her head. so the king took her up before him and rode home with her. after that the stranger lived at the palace. she spoke little and when she did her voice was hoarse and croaking, but she was very beautiful, and the king loved her and made her his queen. there were great rejoicings over the marriage; but goldenhair wept and wept; she feared the stepmother with her black hair and her bright round eyes. nevertheless at first the new queen was kind enough to the child. but then, little by little, she began to show the hatred she felt toward her. after a while it was nothing but hard words and harder looks. above all, she could not bear the sight of the princess's hair, but shuddered every time she saw it. after a while she had a dark hood made, and she obliged the princess to wear it, so that her hair might be hidden. the child never dared to take off the hood by day, but every evening after the maids had left the scullery she would steal down there with a candle. it was very dark in the scullery, and the mice and beetles scuttled to and fro, but as goldenhair opened the door she would say, "_nimble mice that fear the light, small, black beetles of the night, shadows lurking here and there, i pray you fright not goldenhair._" then the mice and the beetles would noiselessly disappear in the cracks; the shadows would shrink into corners, and entering, goldenhair would take off her hood, and shake down her hair to comb and brush its shining lengths. then she would bind it up again and cover it with her hood before she went up into the castle. the stepmother knew nothing of this, but every day she grew bolder in her hate. she took from goldenhair all the beautiful clothes and jewels that her father had had made for her and gave her instead things scarce better than those a kitchen wench might wear. however the princess made no complaint, and the king her father did not even seem to notice it. it was as though the wicked queen had cast a spell over him so that he could see or think of no one but her. one day when goldenhair's heart was very heavy she wandered off by herself into the deep forest that lay all about the palace. she had not gone far when her cloak caught upon a thorn-bush and was torn. when she saw the rent she was frightened, for she knew her cruel stepmother would make it an excuse for punishing her; and at the thought of her helplessness the child threw herself down at the foot of a tree and began to weep. suddenly a voice beside her said, "why do you weep so bitterly, princess?" goldenhair looked up, and there, standing close beside her, was a fairy youth. he was very small, and was dressed all in green and silver. he had a cap upon his head, and about his neck was a chain, from which hung a jewel that sparkled brighter than a diamond. goldenhair gazed at him wonderingly. "i am weeping because i have torn my cloak," she answered, "and i am afraid my stepmother will punish me." and with that she began to sob again. then the fairy felt sorry for her, as he had never felt sorry for any one before. "do not weep," he said, "and i may be able to help you." with that he stepped to a toadstool close by, and, feeling under it, he drew out a toadstool thorn, invisible to mortal eyes. this he threaded with a strand of spider-web silk, and then he placed it in goldenhair's fingers. "draw together the edges of the cloak where it is torn," he said, "and sew it with this." [illustration] the princess looked at her fingers, but she could see nothing. still, she could feel the magic strand. wondering, she drew the edges of the rent together, and began stitching with the invisible needle; and as she stitched, the torn edges twisted and wove together again, so that they became whole as they had been before. when she had finished, the fairy knelt before her and lifted the edge of the cloak. "look," he said; "now no one could know that it had ever been torn." and then immediately he vanished like a breath. goldenhair rubbed her eyes and looked about her. the forest was very still. there was not a living thing to be seen, not even a bird or a squirrel. she lifted her cloak and looked, but she could not see where it had been mended. then suddenly she felt afraid, and, turning, she ran back to the castle as fast as she could. all the rest of the day she thought and thought about the fairy, and wondered whether she had really seen him, but she could scarcely believe it. the next night when it grew dark goldenhair stole down as usual to the scullery to comb her hair. she made sure that no one was there, and then she took off her hood and shook down her locks. when she had done that, they almost covered her with their golden strands. she began to brush and comb them, and as she brushed she sang:- "_i comb my locks, i comb my locks! my father is a king; my stepmother has hair as black as any raven's wing._ "_i comb my locks, i comb my locks! she bids me bind them tight; she makes me wear a sooty hood to hide them from her sight._ "_i comb my locks, i comb my locks! alas! that only here i dare to lay my hood aside and brush them without fear._" having brushed her hair until it shone, goldenhair bound it up again, and covered its brightness with her hood. she took up her candle and was about to leave the scullery when she heard a sound as of some one sighing sadly. she listened, but all was still. "'twas only the wind that sighed beneath the door," she said to herself, and again she was about to go when she heard the sighing once more, and this time she knew that it was not the wind. the sound came from the outer door of the scullery, the one that opened into the forest. goldenhair was frightened, but yet she could not think of any one being in distress without longing to help them. she crept over to the door and laid her ear against it. "who is there?" she asked. there was no answer, but she heard some one grieving softly on the other side of the door. then all was still. "who is there?" repeated goldenhair. "if it is some one in trouble, speak." there was no answer, but a sigh so sad that it went to the heart. she hesitated no longer, but opened the door. the draught of wind almost blew out her candle, but she put her hand around it to shelter it, and by its light she saw leaning against the doorway the same fairy she had seen in the forest. the princess looked and wondered. "why are you here?" she asked. "did you come to look for me?" "alas," sighed the fairy, "i would that i had never seen you." "why do you say that?" asked the princess. "because if i had not seen you weeping in the forest i would not have broken the fairy laws, teaching you to mend your cloak with magic such as fairies alone should use. it is for this that sorrow has come upon me and i have been banished from the fairy court. now i must journey out in the huge rough world like an outcast, until i have accomplished the task set me by the fairy queen for a punishment." when goldenhair heard this she was greatly troubled, for she felt that she was indeed the cause of it all. "what is this task they have set you?" she asked in a trembling voice. "it is to weave a net of magic gold; the net in whose meshes alone can be caught a wicked enchantress who has been haunting this forest. for a long time she has been darkening it with her wicked spells and now upon me has fallen the heavy task of ridding the forest of her." "but is this magic gold so hard to find? you are a fairy and surely you should know where to seek it." "_though i am as old as the oldest tree such gold i never yet did see._ only this much i know for this the queen told me; it is gold- _that lives and yet is not alive; that comes neither from earth nor water; softer than silk and harder to weld than steel._" "_gold that lives and yet is not alive; that comes neither from earth nor water; softer than silk but harder to weld than steel_" the princess murmured softly to herself. then suddenly she gave a cry of joy. setting down the candle, she slipped off her hood and shook down her hair, so that it fell all about her, glittering in the candle-light. "is not this the magic gold?" she cried. "see! it lives and yet it is not alive. it comes neither from the earth nor from the water, and it is softer than silk and yet all the hammers in the world could not weld one strand of it." the fairy cried aloud in his wonder and admiration. "it is indeed the magic gold." "then take it,--take it and weave your net," cried goldenhair. with hands that trembled with eagerness she drew from her pocket a pair of golden scissors that had been her mother's. with these she clipped strand after strand of the shiny locks, and they fell at the fairy's feet; they lay there in a shining heap. "enough! enough!" he cried. "then, quick," said the princess, "let us begin to knot them into a net." "no need of that," answered the fairy. "there is a quicker way than that." drawing his fairy sword from its sheath, he struck it lightly upon the shining locks. "_fold on fold, magic gold, into a net be knotted and rolled_," he cried. at his spell the silken locks began to twist themselves; they rolled into strands and knotted together in meshes until they were a golden net. suddenly the princess turned her head and looked behind her. she had heard a sound at the scullery door. the next moment it was thrown open, and there stood the stepmother, peering in with an evil look. behind her was the king. "look," cried the queen, pointing at goldenhair. "is it not just as i told you? the girl knows that i hate the very sight of her hair, and that i gave her a hood to wear that i might not see it; yet at every chance she has she slips away to comb her locks and weave her wicked spells." "do you indeed dare to weave your spells against the queen?" cried the king angrily,--for he was under the enchantment of the wicked queen, and he believed all that she wished him to. goldenhair began to weep. "alas!" she sobbed, "i know no spells, and i thought that if i came here to comb my hair she would never see it." suddenly the stepmother spied the scissors, which goldenhair had let fall upon the floor. stooping, she snatched them up. "since you will heed nothing that i say, there is but one way left; your hair shall be shorn close to your head, even to the last lock." but at this moment the fairy stepped forward from the shadow in which he had been standing. in the dark scullery he seemed to shine with light. "there is no need of that," he cried. "i know you, wicked enchantress; and the net has already been woven that shall break your evil spells." [illustration] the queen gave a hoarse cry and shrank back; but in a moment the fairy had caught up the net from the floor and cast it over her. it was in vain that she struggled; the net only drew closer and closer about her. "why, what is this?" cried the king, but the queen only croaked hoarsely in reply. the fairy drew his sword and pointed it at her. "by the power of the magic net take your true shape, false queen," he cried. and then--it was no longer a woman who struggled in the net, but only a great black raven, with a curving beak and cruel, angry eyes. it struggled there a while, and then flew out into the dark forest, dragging the net with it, and croaking hoarsely as it went. "let her go," said the fairy, "for, whatever becomes of her, her power has now gone forever." suddenly there was a soft strain of music, and the scullery was filled with rosy light. "they are coming, are coming for me," cried the fairy, and his face grew bright with joy. the next moment the fairy queen stood beside him, and with her were a great crowd of attendant fairies. the banished elf sank upon his knee before her, but she raised him graciously. "your task has been well done," she said. "you have freed the forest from the evil magic that has been haunting it, and now you shall return to the fairy court; and not only this, but you shall be my favorite page and follow in my train." once more the fairy knelt before her to kiss her hand. the queen turned to goldenhair. "and you, dear child," she said, "you have suffered so much here,--leave it all. come with us, and with one touch of my wand you shall become a fairy too." but at this the king started forward. with the breaking of the evil spell all his former love for his little daughter had returned. "do not leave me, goldenhair," he cried. "no," said goldenhair to the fairy, "he is my father, and i may not leave him; he would be lonely without me, now that the queen has gone." "then, farewell," cried the fairies. "the forest calls us, and we have already lingered too long. farewell, farewell, goldenhair." so saying, they disappeared, the light and music fading with them. they were never seen in the castle again; but often in the wood the princess would come upon them dancing in their fairy rings, or hear them call to her from flowers or clumps of fern, for they did not hide from her as they do from others. time went on, and many kings and princes sought the hand of goldenhair in marriage; but she would have none of them. at last the old king died, and then suddenly there appeared at the court a tall and noble youth. all wondered at his beauty, but no one but goldenhair knew that it was the fairy of the wood, who had become a mortal being for her sake. she loved him and gave him her hand, and they were married; and after that they ruled the kingdom together in great peace and happiness. _chapter twelve_ _home again_ ellen looked about her. she was still standing in the golden room of the queerbodies' house. before her was the fairy tale, smiling down into her face with shining eyes. there, too, were the gander and the queerbody. "is that the story?" the queerbody asked. ellen clasped her hands. "oh, yes," she cried, looking up into the fairy tale's face. "i'm sure you're the one. there were goldenhair and the sooty hood and all. you 'll stay made up now, won't you?" "yes," answered the story; "and more than that, i'm going back with you too." ellen gave a little cry of delight. she took the story's hand in hers, and it was so smooth and white she laid her cheek against it, and then kissed it softly. "but how about the rhyme?" asked the gander. "oh, yes; i'd forgotten to ask for that." then ellen told the queerbody how she had promised mother goose that she would try to find a forgotten rhyme for her. the child couldn't tell the queerbody exactly what the rhyme was, of course, because it was a forgotten one, but she explained as well as she could. the queerbody seemed to know which one she meant. "oh, yes, i can easily make that over; but if i do, you must promise to remember it and say it sometimes after you go back." ellen was very willing to promise. then the queerbody bent over another jar and took out some wondercluff. she patted and twisted and pulled, and then she set what she had made upon the floor. it was a funny-looking little rhyme, with a brown belted coat and a pointed cap, and a broad grin on its fat, round face. "quank! quank!" cried the gander. "there he is again." the rhyme blinked and looked about him, and then he spoke, still grinning broadly. "hello! i guess i've been forgotten, haven't i? but somebody seems to have brought me back. well, there's the old gander, same as ever." he ran over and caught hold of the gander's bridle. "give me a ride?" he asked. "yes, i'm going to carry you back with me." "oh, goody, goody!" and the rhyme hopped up and down as though its toes were made of rubber. but ellen looked anxious. "i wonder how we're all to get back," she said, with a glance at the fairy tale. "i don't believe the gander can carry us all." "oh, you're not going back with me," he answered. "the journey's too long for that, and there's an easier way." "yes, a much easier way," chimed in the queerbody. "why, it's so easy that sometimes i go home without even trying." ellen wondered. "do you? and then you have to come all that long way to get here again?" "no, it's shorter when you know the way. sometimes i get back in a minute. but put your ear against the wall and listen." ellen put her ear against the golden wall. as she listened she gave a little gasp of amazement, and yet what she heard was not so very wonderful; it was only the voices of her mother and the seamstress talking quietly together in the sewing-room. presently the voices grew fainter. ellen leaned harder against the wall to catch their tones. then all in a moment the wall yielded to her weight, just as a snowdrift might, and she fell through it. [illustration] she put out her hands to save herself, and caught hold of something hard and solid; it was the shelf of the bookcase. she was back in her own familiar nursery. she looked about her. there was no sign of where she had come through, no break in wall or ceiling. with a little cry she leaned forward and thrust her hands back between the book-shelves. they touched only the hard, cold wall. the vines were only painted on the paper; they would not draw aside under her eager fingers. as ellen turned from the bookcase she saw the shape of the fairy tale standing between her and the window. she was sure she saw it. it smiled and waved its hand to her, and then it was gone like the fading of one's breath upon the window-pane. "dear fairy tale, where are you?" cried ellen; but there was no reply. ellen waited a moment. "fairy tale!" she whispered. still silence. opening the door into the entry, the little girl ran down to the sewing-room as fast as she could. "mamma, mamma!" she called. she burst like a little whirlwind into the room where her mother and the seamstress were quietly at work, and threw herself into her mother's lap. "i've been having the queerest time," she cried excitedly; "and you never could guess where i've been; never." "wait," said her mother; "you're tumbling my work. and how excited you are, dear!" she put aside her sewing, and took the little girl upon her lap. "now, what have you been doing?" breathlessly and with flushing cheeks ellen told her mother all about her journey and her strange adventures on her way to the queerbodies' house. the mother listened and wondered. "that was a wonderful dream, indeed," she said. "a dream! why, it wasn't a dream, mamma. it really happened. and then i saw the fairy tale after i came back. and then the forgotten story itself; i couldn't have dreamed all that, you know." "but, my dear, it couldn't have been anything but a dream." "well, wait. i'm going to go down and tell grandmamma about it; and if it's the same story, then you know it _must_ be true." "very well; only go down quietly, for she may not have wakened from her nap yet." when ellen peeped in through her grandmother's door, however, she saw the old lady sitting over in her rocking-chair near the window, knitting. "may i come in?" she asked. "yes, yes, come in, little clara. i was just wondering where you and all the other children were." the child drew up a little stool and sat down by her grandmother's knee. "granny," she said, trying to speak quietly, "i think i know what happened to little goldenhair now. shall i tell you the story?" "yes, do, my dear." so ellen told her grandmother the story of goldenhair. the grandmother listened, smiling and nodding her head. after a while she grew so interested that she pushed her glasses up on top of her cap. "yes, yes, that is it. i didn't know anybody remembered that story any more, but that is the way i heard it when i was a child." "then it's true," cried the child triumphantly; "and i really did find the queerbodies' house, and see them making stories." "ah, yes, i knew a queerbody once, and she used to make stories;--verses, too. she was a lovely girl. it was long ago." "and did she tell you all about the queerbodies' house and the golden jars?" but the grandmother shook her head. "it is a long time ago, and i forget. i am so old--so old, little clara." "i knew it was n't a dream," murmured the child; and as she sat there by her grandmother's knee she felt the fairy tale was there, smiling gently upon them both, even though no one could see her. * * * * * by katharine pyle the christmas angel as the goose flies nancy rutledge in the green forest wonder tales retold tales of folk and fairies tales of wonder and magic fairy tales from far and near * * * * * that little beggar by e. king hall blackie & son limited london glasgow dublin bombay [illustration: chris is brought back by his friend the sergeant] contents. page chapter i. jack and his master. 161 chapter ii. a song and a story. 172 chapter iii. concerning eight flies. 189 chapter iv. teaching jacky to swim. 201 chapter v. the doctor's head! 218 chapter vi. a paste-man and a paint-box. 232 chapter vii. chris and his uncle. 244 chapter viii. "i'm a soldier now." 259 chapter ix. the golden farthing. 274 chapter i jack and his master. "no carriage! are you quite sure? mrs. wyndham told me that she would send to meet this train." i looked anxiously at the station-master as i spoke. i was feeling tired, having had a very long journey; and now, to find that i had the prospect of a good walk before me was not pleasant. "i'll go and have another look, mum," he said civilly as he turned away; "it may have driven up since the train came in. it weren't there before, i know that." presently he returned, and shook his head. "there's nothing from the hall," he remarked; "nothing to be seen nowhere." i looked round despairingly, first at the deserted-looking little country station with its gay flower-beds, decorated with ornamental devices in dazzling white stones, then at the long, white country road, stretching away in the distance with the july sun beating down upon it, and sighed. the outlook was not cheering. "is there no inn near at which i could find some sort of conveyance?" i asked, though without much hope of receiving a satisfactory reply. "none but the white hart at teddington, and that's a matter of four miles off," he replied. "it would take less time to send to the hall." "how far off is that?" i inquired. "it's two miles and a bit. by the fields it's less, but as you are a stranger in these parts, i take it, mum, you'd do better to keep to the road if you think of walking," he answered. "it seems to me the best thing to do," i replied with resignation. "well, it's a beautiful afternoon for a walk, if it _is_ a bit hot," he said consolingly, and, retiring to his office, left me to my own devices. i started very slowly, determined not to waste any energy, with that long and hot walk before me. strolling gently on i fell to thinking over my past life--the quiet, peaceful life in the country rectory, where i had lived for so many years, and which had only ended with the death of my dear old father two months ago. now middle-aged--yes, i called myself middle-aged, though i daresay you at the age of eight, ten, fourteen (what is it?) would have called me a methuselah--now i had to earn my own living, and start a fresh life. i don't want to make you sad, for i am quite of the opinion that it is better to make people laugh than cry, but i will confess that as i walked along that sunny afternoon, with the recollection of my great sorrow still fresh in my mind, the tears came to my eyes. you see, my father and i loved each other so much, and he was all that i had in the world; i had no brothers and sisters to share my sorrow with me. i had gone some distance on my way, when i heard the sound of loud and bitter sobbing. hastening my steps, i turned a bend of the road, and saw a little boy lying full length on the roadside, his face buried in the dusty, long grass, as he gave vent to the loud and uncontrolled grief which had attracted my attention; whilst a few yards off stood a little wire-haired fox-terrier, regarding him with a perplexed and wondering eye. "what is the matter, dear?" i asked the distressed little mortal, whose tears were flowing so fast. but he only mumbled something unintelligible, then burst into renewed sobs. "get up from that dusty grass and tell me what it is all about," i said encouragingly, as i stooped down and took hold of his hand. he rose slowly from the ground and looked at me doubtfully, half sobbing the while; then i saw how pretty he was. such a pretty little boy, but oh! such a dirty one. he had the sweetest violet eyes, the prettiest golden curls, the most rosy of rosy checks that you can imagine, and he was dressed in the dearest little white-duck sailor's suit that any little boy ever wore. but at that moment the violet eyes were all swollen with crying, the golden curls were all tumbled and tossed, the rosy cheeks all smudged where dirty fingers had been rubbing away the tears, whilst as for the white-duck suit--well, to be accurate, i ought not to call it white. but as the small person inside of it had apparently been recklessly rolling on the ground, it was not surprising that something of its original purity had departed. "what is the matter?" i asked again. "i took jack out for a walk and he runned away and i runned after him, but he wouldn't stop!" he sobbed vehemently. then, leaving go of my hand, he made a sudden dash towards the truant, who as suddenly ran off. my small friend wept afresh. "he thinks that you are playing with him," i said; "that's why he runs away. wait a moment!" seeing he made a movement as if he were again about to chase the dog. "look!" i went on, and going gently towards jack, i picked him up and placed him beside his little master. "come along, you little beggar!" the indignant little fellow exclaimed, and, seizing hold of the cause of the commotion, he walked, or rather staggered, off with him. poor jack! he did look so unhappy. i think you would have been as sorry for him if you had seen him, as i was. hugged closely in his master's arms, his hind-legs hanging down in a helpless, dislocated fashion, he gazed after me piteously over his master's shoulder, as if to say, "can you do nothing to help me?" he looked so funny and so miserable i could not help laughing. "what!" you say with some surprise, "and you were crying a little while before?" yes, my dear child; yet i could laugh in spite of that, for, you know, there is no better way of drying our own tears than to wipe away the tears of another--though they be but the ready tears of a little child. so i laughed, and i laughed very heartily too. "wait," i said. "i fancy jack is as uncomfortable as you, and that looks to me very uncomfortable. supposing we see if both you and he cannot get home in an easier fashion. why don't you put him on the ground? i think if you were to walk back quietly jack would follow you now." my new acquaintance wrinkled his dirty little tear-stained countenance doubtfully. "p'r'aps he'll run away, 'cause he's runned away often and often whilst he's been out with me, and i sha'n't be able to catch him," he said woefully. "put him down and see," i suggested. and jack was dropped on the ground, though as much i fancy from necessity as choice, since his weight was evidently becoming too much for his master. "are you far from home?" i asked. "a long, long way," he replied forlornly. "all the way from skeffington." "that's where i'm going," i said, "so we can go together." "are you the lady what's coming to live with my granny?" he asked, slipping his hand confidingly in mine, as we turned our steps homewards. "yes," i replied. "i'm called chris, but my proper name is christopher," he stated, pronouncing it slowly and with some difficulty. "it's very pretty," i answered, smiling at the diminutive little figure by my side, "but a very long name for such a little person." "that's not my only name," he said proudly. "did you think it was?" and he laughed pityingly at my ignorance. "what is your other?" i inquired, as i was intended to. "why, i have two others," he answered with still greater pride. "three names altogether. christopher, that's only like myself; and godfrey, that's like my uncle godfrey; and wyndham, that's like my uncle godfrey and my granny too. all our names is wyndham. what's your name?" "baggerley." "beggarley! that's something like what uncle godfrey calls me. he says i'm a little beggar." "baggerley, not beggarley," i corrected him. "but i would like to call you beggarley, 'cause then you'd be called something the same as me. mayn't i?" a suspicious tremble in his voice warned me to give way, unless i was prepared for another outcry from that healthy little pair of lungs. the tears were evidently still near the surface. i therefore weakly yielded. "very well, dear," i replied in a resigned voice; and chris, brightening at once, continued his conversation. "i'm seven years of age. how old are you?" he next remarked, regarding me with interest. "too old to tell my age," i replied evasively. "as old as my granny?" "i don't think so." "then how old?" "chris, you shouldn't ask so many questions," i said, with a touch of severity. "i only wanted to know if you was too old to play with me," he said, looking at me reproachfully out of his great violet eyes. "i will certainly play with you if you are a good boy," i replied, in a mollified voice. "oh, i'm so glad!" he exclaimed, dancing by my side with pleasure; "'cause i have no one to play with me. granny is too old, and briggs says when she runs it makes her legs ache as if they will break." "i will run a little sometimes, but i can't promise to do much," i said cautiously. "oh, you needn't always run," he said, encouragingly. "there is one or two games where you needn't hardly move. just a little tiny bit, you know. will you play at trains?" "what is it?" "oh, such a nice game! and you needn't run unless you like. i'll be the train and the engine, and you can be the guard and the steam-engine whistle. then you need only walk about at the station and take the tickets, and just scream high up in your head like this" (and chris gave vent to a loud and piercing scream--so unexpectedly loud and piercing that i almost started). "that's like the steam-engine goes, you know," he explained. "i couldn't do that," i said with decision, when i had recovered from the shock. "then p'r'aps you'd like to play at lame horses," he suggested. "you needn't scream then, only jog up and down as if you'd got a stone in your foot. i'll be the coachman, but i won't make you run fast, 'cause it would be very cruel of me if you had a stone in your foot; wouldn't it?" he continued, virtuously. "very," i agreed, as we turned into the lodge-gates of skeffington, and pursued our way up the drive. "there's my granny," he remarked presently, leaving go of my hand and running towards an old lady, who, with her work-table by her side and her knitting in her lap, was dozing comfortably in a big wicker chair on the shady side of the lawn. "granny! granny!" shouted chris excitedly, and at the top of his voice. "here's the lady what's coming to live with you." at the sound of his voice the old lady gave a nervous jump, opened her eyes, and, replacing her spectacles which had fallen off her nose, arose, looking round as she did so with a bewildered air. "miss baggerley, i presume," she said with an old-fashioned courtesy of manner, and advancing towards me with outstretched hand. "but how is it that you are walking? was not the carriage at the station to meet you?" "no, she walked all the way; and she didn't know the way, and i showed it to her," chris put in eagerly. "i showed it to her all myself." "the carriage was not at the station. but it was not of the slightest consequence, i assure you," i replied, as soon as chris allowed me to speak. "but two miles and a half in this hot sun, and after your long journey too!" mrs. wyndham said apologetically. "i am most distressed, i am indeed. i have a new coachman who is not very bright. he has doubtless made some stupid mistake. dear me, how unfortunate!" "it didn't matter, 'cause _i_ found her and _i_ showed her the way," chris reiterated with pride. "hush, my dear child!" granny said gently. then, for the first time becoming fully aware of his very unkempt condition, "what have you been doing, my darling?" she exclaimed with surprise; "and what do you mean by saying you met miss baggerley? where did you meet her?" "i took jack for a walk and he runned away, and was such a naughty little dog. and i felled down and hurted myself, and i cried," chris concluded with much pathos, as he saw granny shake her head at the account of his doings. "my darling, it was very wrong of you to leave the garden," she said. "you know when briggs left you, she never thought for a moment that you would go outside the gates. and, oh, how dirty you are! your nice white suit is all black! miss baggerley, i fear you met a disobedient, a very disobedient little boy indeed." "i hurted myself very much," chris remarked, in the most pathetic of voices. granny relented. "where did you hurt yourself, my dear child?" she asked, with some anxiety. "on my knee, and on my face, and on my hand," he replied still with melancholy. "go at once, darling, to briggs, and ask her to bathe all your bruises with warm water," she said. "or, if they are very bad, tell her that she will find some lotion in my room." "wasn't jack a naughty little dog?" he asked, recovering, as he held up a smudgy little face to be kissed. "i'm afraid it was someone else who was naughty," she answered, with an attempt at severity; "yes, very naughty indeed. but we'll say no more about it, for i think you are sorry; are you not, my chris?" "very, very sorry, granny," he replied, but more cheerfully than penitently, as he ran off, relieved at the matter ending in so easy and pleasant a fashion. "i'm afraid i spoil him dreadfully," granny said, looking fondly after the retreating little figure. 'you're ruining the little beggar'; that's what my son godfrey tells me. but then my chris has no father or mother, so i feel very tenderly towards him. he has such a lovable nature too, it is difficult not to spoil him. you have doubtless seen that for yourself already, have you not? "and now, my dear," she added kindly, "i'm sure you must want your tea after your long journey, and that hot walk afterwards. it was a most unfortunate mistake about the carriage. i cannot tell you how distressed, how very distressed, i am about it." chapter ii. a song and a story. yes, granny was quite right. it was difficult not to spoil that little beggar. everyone helped to do so; everyone, that is to say, but one person. that one person was briggs, chris's dignified and severe nurse. the whole household concurred in petting and spoiling him in every possible way. briggs alone maintained her course of justice, inflexible and unbending. her yoke was not one under which the little beggar willingly bowed his head. he was not accustomed to any yoke, and briggs' was not at all to his taste. in consequence of this state of affairs, nursery rows were by no means infrequent; nor was it very long before i witnessed one. it was but a few days after i had arrived, and i was sitting one afternoon in the library reading the _morning post_ to granny, who was busy with some work she was doing for the poor. it was a quiet and peaceful state of affairs which we were both enjoying. suddenly, however, we were interrupted by a tap at the door, and the entrance of briggs, flushed, heated, and slightly panting. "if you please, mum," she began, a little breathlessly, and placing her hand on her side as if to still the beating of her heart, "i wish to know if master chris is to be allowed to speak to me as he likes?" "certainly not, certainly not," granny replied, raising herself straight in her arm-chair, and trying to assume the severity of manner she felt was suitable to the occasion. "what has he been saying?" "it was just this, mum," briggs started, with the air of resolving to give a full, true, and particular account; "it was just this. we were down in the village, and i stepped into the post-office to buy a few reels of black cotton, which it so happens i have run out of. likewise, i wanted to buy some blue sewing-silk, which you may remember, mum, you asked me to keep in mind next time i happened to be that way." "yes, i remember, briggs. and master chris was naughty?" granny said, gently trying to bring her to the point. "well, mum, i was going to tell you," she continued, without hurrying, "when i had bought the cotton and the silk, it came to my mind to buy a packet of post-cards and two shillings' worth of stamps. but the rector's young ladies had come in, and being pressed for time, mrs. thompson, she says to me, 'i make no doubt but that you will let me serve the young ladies first'; to which i made answer, 'i wait your pleasure'. but master chris he gets cross, because he wants to go on home at once and roll his new hoop. 'come along, old briggs!' he says; 'come along, you old slow-coach!' such behaviour, such language! before the young ladies from the rectory, too! where he learnt it i'm sure i can't tell. not from me, i do assure you, mum," she concluded with indignation. "it was very naughty of him," granny remarked mildly. "but that was not all, mum," the irate briggs continued; "for all the way home he walks in front of me, tossing his head and singing as loud as possible, '_for i'm a jolly good fellow_'; and jack there barking and making such a row alongside of him; it was for all the world like a wild-beast show. nothing i could say could stop the pair of them." she paused to allow granny to take in the full extent of chris's enormity. as she did so, a scampering of little feet was heard outside, the handle of the door was impatiently turned--first the wrong way, and then rattled angrily. finally the door itself was burst open, and that little beggar ran in, with excited countenance; the big holland pinafore, in which briggs insisted upon enveloping him, and his especial detestation, half dropping off him, and trailing behind on the ground. "granny," he began immediately, "is '_for he's a jolly good fellow_', that uncle godfrey sings, a wicked song?" "it's very naughty of you to behave rudely to briggs," she replied gravely. looking round, chris's eyes fell upon briggs, whom at first he had not noticed; then, realizing that she had been first in the field, he burst into a loud, tearless wail. "briggs, you're a nasty, nasty thing, and i hate you!" he cried vehemently, stamping his foot as he spoke. "there, mum! is that the way for a young gentleman to speak?" she asked, not without a certain triumph. "i don't like you!" chris cried, stamping his foot again. "you are always cross! nasty, cross, old briggs!" "chris, i am shocked, very, very shocked," granny said gravely. "you must stand in the corner for a quarter of an hour." the little beggar wailed again; real, unfeigned tears this time. "i don't--want to--go into--the corner," he said sobbing. "it's all--your fault, briggs." briggs shook her head slowly and solemnly from side to side. "oh, master chris!" she exclaimed, "is that a way for a nice young gentleman to speak?" then she left the room with dignity. chris, looking after her with impotent anger, moved towards the corner with laggard steps, crying bitterly as he did so. "must i go into the corner, my granny?" he wailed. "uncle godfrey is never sent into the corner." "yes, yes, you must, chris," she said, obliging herself to be firm. the little beggar looked entreatingly with large tearful eyes at her, as he crept towards the hated corner. but she would not allow herself to relent. justice, in the form of the deeply offended briggs, had to be propitiated, and chris had to bear the punishment for his misdeeds. at the same time, i believe granny would joyfully have gone into the corner herself, if by so doing she could have spared her darling this wound to his pride, and yet have satisfied her own conscience. i think, indeed, in her sympathy for chris in his disgrace, she really suffered more than he. it was therefore with relief, and as a welcome diversion that, when the footman came to announce the arrival of visitors, she rose to go to the drawing-room. "i must go, miss baggerley," she said. "will you be so kind as to see that chris stays in the corner for a quarter of an hour? only for a quarter of an hour, if he is good; but i know that he will be good, for he does not want to make his granny unhappy any more. i am sure of that." with which gentle persuasion she went. for a time chris wept loudly and sorely, after which he was silent, save for an occasional sniff. this silence continued uninterrupted for so long that it at last aroused my suspicions. turning my head the better to see him, i found that he was engaged in drawing strange and mystic signs upon the wall, by the simple process of wetting his finger in his mouth. hence the explanation of this sudden calm; for so absorbing, apparently, was this occupation, that it had had the effect of drying up all those bitter tears which, but a few minutes earlier, had flowed so freely. "what are you doing?" i asked. "you must not dirty the wall like that." "i am writing my name," the little beggar said with much pathos. "chris-to-pher god-frey wyndham. then when i'm dead and gone far away over the sea, granny will see it, and she'll be sorry she was so cross." "jane will wash out those dirty marks," i replied, ruthlessly destroying his mournful hopes. "they will not remain there." at this the little beggar desisted from disfiguring the wall, but reiterated, though more weakly, "granny will be very sorry by and by; she was cross, and she'll wish she hadn't put me in the corner." "no, she won't," i answered decisively; "she'll be sorry that you were naughty, but she won't wish that she had not punished you. you deserved to be punished." feeling that i did not regard him as the ill-used little being that he considered himself, and that there was a want of sympathy about my remarks that was not altogether to his taste, chris once more was silent. ten minutes elapsed, broken only by an occasional sigh from the occupant of the corner. then i was asked wearily: "is it nearly time for me to come away?" "yes," i said, as i looked at my watch, "you may come out now." a forlorn little figure came towards me, and crept on my knee. "was i very naughty?" he asked, deprecatingly. "yes, dear, i am afraid you were," i answered. i should have liked to speak more severely, but that was a difficult matter with chris. "briggs is a nasty thing," he said, nestling his head contentedly on my shoulder. "granny will send you back to the corner if she hears you speak like that," i said, with more confidence than i felt upon the subject. "she was so unkind to me; she isn't a kind briggs," he said. "do you like her?" then without waiting for an answer he went on: "i love my granny best, and uncle godfrey next, and you next, and briggs last,--the most last." "if you were good to briggs you would love her more," i said. "would i?" he asked doubtfully. "yes," i answered; "and though you are a happy little boy now, you would be still happier then. there is nothing that makes us happier than to love people very much and try to be kind to them." "even briggs?" he inquired, thoughtfully. "you should not talk of her like that," i said, trying not to smile. "she is really very fond of you, and very kind to you. if she was angry, it was because you were rude." chris moved impatiently. he did not like that view of the case. there was a pause, then: "shall i tell you a story?" i asked. "i shall just have time before you go to your tea." "i don't know," he answered, with some indifference. "i've heard them all lots of times. briggs has told them to me often and often--'jack the giant-killer', and 'jack and the beanstalk', and 'red riding-hood', and 'cinderella' ("i don't much like those two," he put in, with a touch of masculine contempt, "'cause they're all about girls"), and 'hop o' my thumb.' and the story of the good boy who had a cake, and gave it all away to the blind beggar and his dog, except a tiny, weeny piece for himself; and the bad boy who had a cake, and told a wicked story, and said there never was one, 'cause he didn't want anyone else to have it; and the greedy boy who had a cake, and ate it all up so fast he was dreadfully sick. briggs has told them all to me, and she says there ain't no more stories to tell; leastways, if there are, she's never heard tell of them." "if i were you i shouldn't say 'leastways', 'never heard tell', or 'ain't no more'," i remarked as he paused, out of breath. "why not?" he asked. "they are not the expressions a gentleman uses," i answered. "does a lady?" he asked with curiosity; "'cause briggs does." "my dear child, never mind what briggs does. we were not talking of her," i replied. "you know i have told you before you should not always ask so many questions. it is a troublesome habit." "is it?" he said, with the utmost innocence. "decidedly," i replied, and once more struggling not to mar the effects of my words by smiling. "well, about my story. it is not one of those you have spoken of. i don't think that you have heard it." "then tell it to me, please," he said, with a touch of condescension. "well, once upon a time," i began, in the most approved fashion, "there were two men who had a great hill to climb. it was a long and difficult climb, but, if they only reached the top of that hill, they would be fully rewarded for all their pains. i will tell you why. there was there a beautiful country, where they would live and be happy for evermore. it was such a beautiful country! the trees were always green, the flowers never withered, and it was always sunny,--never a cloud to be seen. the lord of that country was not only very great and powerful, but he was also very loving and good. he knew how wearying and difficult that uphill journey was to the dwellers in the valley beneath. so, in his love, he sent messengers to tell the travellers how they must journey if they hoped ever to reach the beautiful country over which he ruled. "one of these messengers came to the two men of whom i have spoken just before they started on their journey, with these plain and simple directions: "follow the straight and narrow path that leads up-hill; you cannot mistake it, for it goes right on without any curves or twists. you will come across many rough and difficult places, but do not turn aside, though the path leads you over them. you may see other paths that lead round them, but don't turn off from the narrow one. don't take the others; they don't lead up, they lead down. the straight path is the only right one. _go straight on, don't be afraid._ these are my lord's directions. "'the journey is very tiring,' went on the messenger, 'and the sun will beat down by and by with much fierceness, so that you will suffer at times from great thirst. but, see, my lord has sent you these!' as he spoke, he held out two flasks. you cannot imagine anything so beautiful as they were. they were made of pure gold, bright and shining, and ornamented with diamonds that flashed and sparkled in the light like fire. to each of the men the messenger gave a flask. "'look,' he said, 'and you will find that they are filled with fresh, clear water. this water is magic; it will never come to an end, and you will never suffer from thirst, so long as you obey the order which my lord sends you. this is the order. drink none yourself, but give of it to all who need it. if you do so, your thirst will never overpower you. but if you are churlish, and wish to keep it for yourself, some day you will suffer--suffer terribly. by and by you will find, too, that there is no water left, for the magic will all have gone! the beauty also of your flasks will have all disappeared; the gold will have become dim, the diamonds will have lost their sparkle, and you yourself will have no power to go onwards and climb higher. good-bye--remember that my lord waits to welcome you with love.' "now, when he had given them these directions, the messenger went, and after a while the two men started on their journey. "at first the hill went up so gently that they hardly noticed the incline. the way did not appear very difficult in the beginning. they went through a wood where the trees were all young, and the leaves a tender green, as you see in the springtime, chris, my dear. and the sunlight fell through the trees and made a pattern on the ground, which moved slowly and gracefully as the gentle breezes swayed the branches. there were no rough places then, or, if there were, they were so slight that the two travellers hardly remarked them. and as they walked along they sang in the joy of their hearts; the sunshine, the soft light breezes, the pretty wild flowers, the trees--all made them so glad and so happy. nor did they forget to give to all who passed by some of the fresh, pure water out of their golden flasks. "by and by they came out of the pretty little wood, and the hill became steeper, the rough places rougher and more frequent. "then one grew impatient. he wanted to go on more quickly than he had done hitherto. it seemed to him a waste of time to stop so often to give to the passers-by that pure, refreshing water. besides, he began to doubt the truth of the message he had received. it did not seem possible to him that he could give away the water in his flask and yet not suffer from thirst. he resolved to keep it all for himself. nor could he believe that it was always necessary to follow the narrow path. it was a different thing when it led through the pretty wood, but now that it led so often over such difficult places, he determined to find an easier one. therefore he separated from his companion, and went his own way, avoiding all the roughnesses of the road, and taking the paths that seemed less hard. nor did he any longer stop to offer to others the magical water of his golden flask, he kept it all for himself, and let the wearied and sad ones pass him by without compassion. "but he never remarked how dim the gold of the flask was growing, nor how fast the water was diminishing. nor did he see that instead of going up he was really going down-hill, and that the paths he chose were misleading him. in his hurry he never noticed this, till one sad day it came upon him. "he had been feeling very tired and out of heart, for the way seemed so long and tiring. yet, he had been struggling on, hoping to find his rest at last. on this day, however, he found that his strength had gone; he could climb no further. he took out his flask, now so dim, hoping to quench the terrible thirst that was overpowering him; but alas! alas! there was hardly any water left; not nearly enough to revive him. so there, by himself, sad and disappointed--for he knew that now he would never see the happy land he had started for with such glorious hopes,--he died--died all alone and uncared for! "and the other traveller? well, he went straight on as the good lord had directed. often the rough places were terribly rough, and the sharp stones in the pathway wounded his feet sadly. nevertheless, he never turned aside; he went right on as he had been directed, whilst to all those who passed by, thirsting for some of the beautiful, clear water from his golden flask, he gave freely and willingly. little children who met him with tearful eyes went on their way laughing and singing. older people, also, who were too tired to cry, whose hearts were heavy with many sorrows, drank of that water and went on their way refreshed. and his golden flask remained bright, and the water within it undiminished, right to the very end. "what was the end? ah, it came sooner than he thought it would! the journey was not so very long after all! and when he arrived at that beautiful country, and his eyes saw 'the king in his beauty', he forgot all about the rough places, and all about his past weariness. it was the land of sunlight, you see, and the land of shadows passed from his recollection for ever." "is that all?" chris inquired, as i paused. "yes, that's all," i replied. "it's a very nice story," he said, patronizingly. "i like it almost as much as 'jack the giant killer' and 'jack and the beanstalk', and better than 'cinderella'." "shall i tell you what it means?" i asked. he looked at me doubtfully. "are you going to scold me?" he asked, moving restlessly on my knee; "'cause i'm going to be a good boy now." "no, my dear, i'm not going to scold you," i said reassuringly. "i only want to tell you what i mean by my story." "will it take long?" he asked; "'cause i'm hungry, and want my tea." "no, it won't take long," i answered persuasively. "i will tell it to you quickly. this is what it means. you know, chris, god wants us all to go to heaven and live with him by and by. in his great love he has shown us all the way; it is the way that the blessã©d jesus went; a way that sometimes takes us over hard and difficult places, but that always goes up--never down. it is a way that leads us higher and higher, right away to the happy land you were singing of last sunday. but there is one thing god has told us to do if we ever hope to reach that happy land--we must love everyone. just as the man who in my story reached the beautiful land at last, just as he gave freely of the water in his flask, so must we give freely of the love god has put into our hearts. he has put it there, not that we should spend it on ourselves, but that we should spend it on others. so long as we do that, so long will our hearts remain pure and good as god wants them to be. and the more we love everyone, the more we shall know of god, and the nearer we shall be to heaven; for you see, dear, to know god is heaven, and god is love." i paused, and chris looked contemplative. "i'm going to be like the good man, who gave away the water out of his flask," he said, with the air of one taking a great resolution. "i'm going to love everyone, and briggs too." "i like to hear you say that," i said, stroking his head, with the tumbled, golden curls. "now, i think you had better go to your tea. briggs will be waiting for you." he jumped off my knee and went as far as the door, then came back to my side. "miss beggarley," he said, putting his arms round my neck, "i want to give you a great, good hug like i give my granny. i love you very, very much." chapter iii. concerning eight flies. "if you please, mum, what am i to do about master chris's lessons? you said you wished me to look over his clothes this morning, and i haven't time for that and lessons too." briggs looked inquiringly at granny as she spoke. "of course not, of course not," said granny. "bring me his books, briggs; i will give them to him to-day." "yes, granny, you give me my lessons," exclaimed chris, dancing with glee and clapping his hands, evidently looking forward to a frivolous hour in her company. "i hope, mum, you'll see he does no tricks," briggs said, when she returned with chris's books. "he's very fond of them. he'll read over what he's read before, with a face as innocent as a lamb's, and if i don't remember he'll never say a word to remind me." "go away, briggs; i don't want you," the little beggar remarked with more truth than politeness. "master chris, i shall always stay where my duty calls me," she answered with loftiness, "as my mistress knows." "certainly," granny replied soothingly. "chris, i cannot permit you to speak to briggs in such a way. where are your lesson-books?" "here, mum," briggs said, producing two or three diminutive red books and a tiny slate. "thank you. then you had better go and get on with your work," said granny, and briggs left, with a last admonitory look at the little beggar, which he received with one of defiance. "may jack do lessons too? he's just outside," he asked as granny opened his reading-book. "very well," she agreed, and he ran off to fetch him. he returned presently, followed by his four-legged friend, who, selecting a sunny spot near the window, lay basking there, blinking at us lazily with sleepy eyes, as from time to time he roused himself to snap at the flies within reach. "i want to get on your knee, my granny," chris said, suiting the action to the word. "i don't think you will do your lessons so well," she said, doubtfully. "oh yes, i will!" he replied coaxingly, and was allowed to remain. "let us read this," he proposed, opening his book and pointing to a page. "what is it? a little dialogue?" answered granny. "yes; it looks very nice." "it's very difficult. so will you be the lady, and me the gentleman?" "yes, if you would like that. but as i am helping you, you must be very good, and read your very best." "my very, very best." there was a pause. "now begin, my darling; we are losing so much time," granny remarked. "why, it's you to begin," chris replied, with a touch of reproach at having been unjustly censured. "don't you see? you are sue!" "quite true, to be sure, so i am," the old lady said apologetically, then began gently and precisely: "'_she._ sir! sir! i am sue. see me! see me! the cow has hit my leg! she has hit her leg out up to my leg, and she has hit it and i cry! boo! boo!'" to this announcement of woe, chris replied, or rather chanted in a sing-song tone, and as loudly and rapidly as he could: "'_he._ why, sue, how is it? why do you cry so? you are not to cry, sue. it is bad to cry. put the cry out and let me see you gay.'" "not so fast," granny here remarked mildly; "not so fast, and not so loud." "i want to finish it," he explained. "i want to get my lessons done very quickly." "ah! but they must be done properly. you see that, my darling, don't you?" she said. then continued: "'_she._ i am to cry, and to cry all the day. i am so bad and so ill, and my leg is hit, and it is too bad of the cow to hit my leg.'" "'_he._ did she hit you on the toe?'" "'_she._ no. she hit me by the hip, and it is a bad hip now, and she is a bad, old, big cow, and she is not to eat rye or hay; no, not a bit of it all the day.'" "'_he._ not eat all the day! not eat rye, not eat hay!'" at this point, granny stroked chris's head and said commendingly: "you are reading very well now, very well indeed. you have made great progress since i last heard you." the little beggar wagged his head solemnly. "i want to read well," he stated gravely. "i want to read very well; then i shall read big books like my uncle godfrey." "you are a good little boy," she said. "i am very pleased with the pains my little chris is taking." a suspicion crossed my mind. was he indulging in one of the tricks of which briggs had forewarned granny? "have you ever read this before, chris?" i asked. "oh, yes; often and often!" he replied, with the utmost candour. "oh, my darling, why did you ask me to let you read it now?" granny said, looking grieved. "'cause i read it so well," he explained, without exhibiting any proper shame. "ah! but you might have known granny didn't want an old lesson," she said gravely. "it wasn't quite right; was it, miss baggerley?" "no; it wasn't fair," i assented. chris hung his head. "i didn't mean not to be fair," he said, with touching contrition. granny's heart softened. "i don't believe you did, my chris," she remarked gently. chris put his arms round her neck and hid his face on her shoulder. "i'm very sorry," he mumbled. then raising his head: "i am going to be a very fair boy," he said magnanimously, touched by granny's forgiveness; "i'm going to be a very fair boy, and i am going to tell you that i don't know the lady's part as well as i know the gentleman's part. shall i be sue, my granny?" "yes. now that's an excellent idea," she said, with much satisfaction, and glancing at me with a look of pride in her darling's noble repentance. "i consider that an excellent idea, indeed; and i am very pleased that you should have proposed it." chris's face fell. "don't you think that it is silly for a big boy like me to be sue?" he asked, with evident disappointment that his offer had been accepted. "not at all," granny said. "it's only in a book, you see, my pet." "i don't like being a girl," he murmured. "i don't want to be sue." "i thought, though, that you wanted to show granny you were sorry for not having told her you were reading an old lesson," i remarked. he sighed, without answering me; then after a pause, continued with an effort and a hesitation that offered a striking contrast to the glib manner of his previous reading: "'_she._ yes; for why did she hit me? she is a big and bad old cow. see her! see how fat she is! she is as fat as a sow. she has a fat hip, and a fat rib, and a fat ear, and a fat leg, and a fat all.'" as he came to the end of the sentence he sighed once more, very heavily and sadly, then waited. "yes, yes, go on," granny said, as he looked at her expectantly; "read to the end, like my good little boy." he obeyed, but with a look of protest on his face, which changed to one of injury, when, at the close of the one lesson, he found that granny intended him to read another. this was not what he had expected, and he was disappointed with her accordingly. "that is just as much as i read with briggs," he said, looking at her with a world of reproach. "but you must read as much with me as you do with briggs," she said, looking slightly fatigued with the arduous duty of giving the little beggar his lessons. "why must i?" he asked. "now, now, don't ask so many questions," she said slightly flustered. "begin here, my dear child." "'ben! ben! i can see a fly!'" he started impatiently, and stumbling over the words in his haste; "'and the fly can fly, and the fly can die, and the fly is shy, and can get to the pie, and can get on the rye! and the fly can run, and can get on the bun, all for its fun! and the fly is gay all the day, and oh, ben! ben! the fly is in my ear, so do put it out of my ear.'"... chris came to a stop, and leant his head back on granny's shoulder. "what a funny thing it must be to have a fly in your ear," he remarked thoughtfully. "have you ever had a fly in your ear, granny?" "never, my darling," said the long-suffering old lady patiently; "go on." chris obeyed; now, however, reading in a listless fashion, as if he had no further energy left. he continued without a breath, until he reached the following: "ah, but now it has got in the oil. oh, fly, fly, why do you go to the oil?" this was too good an opportunity to be lost. "granny," he said idly, and yawning as he spoke, "i want to ask you something." "yes, my chris," she said inquiringly. "why did the fly go to the oil?" he asked with feigned interest. "my darling, how can i possibly tell you?" she exclaimed. "see, you are slipping right off my knee. you can't read properly so." chris scrambled back to his former position, and then continued reading in a desultory fashion. "'oil is bad for a fly. so, now i put you out of the oil, and now i say you are to get dry. ah! but now the fly is on the pot of jam, and it is on the jar and in the jam. the red jam, the new jam, the big jar of jam.'" "how nice!" he exclaimed, with more enthusiasm. "may i have some red jam for my tea to-day?" "if you are a good boy, and read right on to the end of the lesson without stopping," she replied. thus encouraged, chris with an effort toiled to the conclusion without any further pauses. "'by, by! wee fly!' now must i do my sums?" he asked all in a breath as he came to the end. "yes; i think you had better," granny replied, holding the slate-pencil between her fingers and looking meditatively at the slate. "i will write you out one." "_sometimes_ briggs doesn't write horrid sums on the slate; _sometimes_ she asks me sums she makes up out of her head," he said, insinuatingly. "i like that better, it is much, much nicer." "sometimes briggs asks you sums out of her head, does she?" granny repeated, putting down the slate-pencil. "well, now, what shall i ask you?" "something about jack," he said, getting off her knee and sitting on the ground beside the dog. "he's such a naughty, lazy, little doggie; he's done no lessons at all. now, listen, jackie, and do a sum with me. if granny asks me something about you, you must think just as much as me. mustn't he, granny?" "of course, of course," she replied absently. "i'm to ask you something about jack, my darling. let me see, what shall it be?" she looked at jack for a moment as she spoke, who blinked back at her inquiringly, as if to ask, "what are you all talking so much about me for?" then with a look of inspiration: "i know," she said. "there were six--no, there were eight flies. jack swallowed one--yes, he swallowed one, he ate another--let me see, how many flies did i say? eight flies? yes, eight. well, he swallowed one, and he ate one, and"--she took off her spectacles and thought a moment--"he bit another in halves. "yes, that will do," she said with satisfaction. "he swallowed one, he ate another, and he bit another in halves. how many flies were left to fly away?" chris knitted his brows. "lots," he replied, as he pulled one of jack's ears. "come, come, think," granny said reprovingly. "he swallowed one--that left how many?" "seven," said chris. "very good. he ate another?" she went on-"that left six," the little beggar said, looking very astute. "that's right. and he bit another in halves. then, how many were left to fly away?" she asked with mild triumph. "five and a half," answered chris. then thoughtfully: "how did the half-fly fly away, my granny? p'r'aps jack only ate the body and left the wings. was that how it happened?" "my pet shouldn't ask such silly questions," granny said, speaking more testily than she generally did. "i only said, _supposing_ there were eight flies." "well, supposing," chris persisted; "how would the half-fly fly away then?" "it wouldn't, it couldn't. you see, my darling, it would be dead," the old lady said, becoming flurried. "but you said it would," chris said with some perplexity. "there, there, that will do," she said. "you are a silly little boy to think such a thing. we must get on with your other lessons, for the time is passing." "shall i have a holiday now?" he suggested lazily. "no, no; that would never do," she said. "you had better do some more sums; but on the slate. miss baggerley, will you be so kind as to give them to him. that, with a little spelling and a copy, will, i think, be sufficient for to-day;" and the old lady, leaning back in her arm-chair, closed her eyes with an exhausted expression. "miss beggarley," said chris in a coaxing voice--he never failed thus to distort my name--"may i get on your knee and do my lessons, like i did on granny's?" "no, you had better not," i said, hardening my heart. "how do you expect to write well if you sit on my knee?" "'cause i know i could," he replied confidently. "no, no," i said firmly; "we won't try. come here; you sit on this chair and write this copy. now show me how well you can write and spell. i know a boy no older than you, and he writes and spells beautifully for his age." "better than me?" chris asked anxiously. "well, write and spell your very best, and then i shall be able to tell," i replied with caution. the mention of my small friend of advanced powers as scribe and speller proved a happy thought on my part. the effect was excellent. chris's mood changed; his lazy fit passed away in a burning desire to emulate--not to say outdistance--his unknown rival. with frowning brow and tongue between his teeth, he laboured assiduously at his copy, without uttering a word, whilst granny, lulled by the quiet which prevailed, slept the sleep of the just. i felt, indeed i had cause to be, fully satisfied with the result of my remark, for its effects lasted not only whilst the copy was being written but even through the spelling-lesson; an effect that could hardly have been anticipated when the varying moods of that little beggar were taken into consideration. as i closed the spelling-book, "miss beggarley," he said, gazing at me with anxious eyes, "have i written my writing and spelt my spelling as well as that other boy?" "yes, i really think you have; at least very nearly." "p'r'aps i shall quite, to-morrow." "perhaps you will--if you take great pains." "shall i kiss my granny?" "no, you will wake her up." "why does she want to go to sleep? she often goes to sleep when she does my lessons. do boys' lessons always make old people sleepy?" "that depends on the little boy who does them," i replied gravely. "if he tires his granny very much, it is not surprising that she should go to sleep." chris looked thoughtful. "have i been a good boy?" he said. "you were inattentive at the beginning, dear," i replied, "but you were good afterwards." "then i shall tell briggs i have been a good boy," he remarked with satisfaction. and with a certain expression of anticipated triumph upon his face, he walked off, followed by jack, his constant and faithful companion. chapter iv. teaching jacky to swim. "tell you a story? what shall it be about? i thought you were tired of stories." granny spoke a trifle drowsily. it was very warm that september afternoon--an afternoon that made you feel more inclined to sleep than to tell stories. but chris was not to be denied. "i want a story very much," he said; "very much indeed." "perhaps miss baggerley would tell you one," suggested granny. "i am sure it would be a more interesting one than any i could think of." "i don't want anyone to tell me a story but you," answered the little tyrant wilfully; "only you, my granny." "then i will, my darling," she replied, plainly gratified at this preference so strongly expressed. "but you must wait a moment," she went on, "i shall have to think." she closed her eyes as she spoke, and there was silence, broken only by the sounds of the world without carried through the open windows--the lazy hum of the bees amongst the flowers, the gentle, monotonous cooing of the wood-pigeons in the trees, the far-off voices of children at play. presently the little beggar became impatient. "why don't you begin, granny?" he asked, pulling her sleeve as he leant against her knee. she started from a slight doze into which she had fallen. "let me see," she said with a start; "i had just thought of a very nice story, but i was trying to recollect the end. i think i remember it now." "there was once a very beautiful newfoundland dog," she began hurriedly. "yes, he was a very beautiful dog indeed." "how beautiful?" interrupted chris, with his usual aptitude for asking questions. "as beautiful as jacky?" "i think more beautiful," she replied, without pausing to consider. "then he was a nasty dog," he said, with vehemence. "i don't like a dog what is more beautiful than my jacky." "he was such a different kind of dog," she said deprecatingly. "a newfoundland dog cannot very well be compared with a fox-terrier, my pet." "what was his name?" asked the little beggar, accepting granny's explanation and letting the matter pass. "rover; that was what he was called," she replied. "his little mistress loved him dearly," she continued. "did he belong to a _girl_?" chris inquired, with some contempt on the substantive. "yes; and they always used to go out for pleasant walks together," she went on. "but never near the river, for she had said many a time, 'don't go near the river, my darling, for it is not safe; not for a little girl like you'." "who said that?" he asked, speaking with some impatience. "the little girl--or what?" "the little girl's mother," replied granny, a trifle drowsily. "you're going to sleep again!" chris exclaimed reproachfully. "oh, granny, how can you tell me a story when you're asleep?" "asleep! oh no, my darling," she said opening her eyes. "well, one day, i am sorry, very sorry to say, eliza--" "was that the little girl's name?" inquired chris. "yes," she answered. "didn't i tell you her name was eliza? dear, dear, how forgetful of me! as i was saying, eliza thought, in spite of her father's and mother's command, she would go to the river, for she wished to pick some of the water-lilies which grew there in such profusion." "how naughty of eliza!" exclaimed chris, with virtuous indignation. "yes, very naughty; very naughty indeed," agreed granny, her voice again becoming sleepy. "it was sadly disobedient." there was another pause, during which chris listened expectantly, and the old lady once more closed her eyes. "oh, granny! do go on," said the anxious little listener fervently. "she picked several which grew near the river's brink," the old lady continued with an effort, "and at first all went well. but at last she saw a beautiful--a remarkably beautiful one that grew just out of her reach. it was a most dangerous thing to attempt to pick it, but she did not think of that, for she was very, very thoughtless as well as disobedient. bending forward, heedless of her father's warning call, and her poor dear mother's sorrowful cry, she lost her balance, and--fell--right--into--the--river." the last few words were uttered in a whisper, granny's sleepiness having once more overtaken her, bravely as she struggled against it. "how drefful!" said chris, with wide-open eyes. "was poor eliza drownded? oh, i hope she wasn't! did she get out? oh, say yes, granny! and where did her father and mother call to her from? right from the house? 'cause i thought you said she was alone." but the only answer to his torrent of questions was a gentle snore. the time he had occupied in pouring forth these queries had sufficed to send eliza's historian asleep. chris's little face fell. "my granny has gone quite asleep," he remarked with much disappointment. "now i shall never know if eliza was drownded or not. p'r'aps she's only pretending. i'll see if her eyes are fast-shut," he added, preparing to put granny to the test by lifting one of her eyelids. "don't do that, chris," i said hastily. "come here, i'll tell you the rest of the story." "do you know it?" he asked doubtfully. "i can guess it," i replied, as he crossed the room to my side. "then what happened to poor eliza?" he inquired anxiously; "and did rover help her? oh! i do hope he did." "well," i started, taking up the story at the point at which granny had dozed off, "when her father and mother--who were near enough to see what had occurred--realized the danger their little daughter was in, they were filled with horror. it seemed as if they were going to see her die before their eyes; for they were so far off that it looked as if it were not possible to get to her before she sunk. and this is just what would have taken place had not help been at hand. eliza, her water-lilies, and her disobedient, little heart would have sunk to the bottom of the river for ever, had it not been for--what do you think chris?" "i know, i know!" he cried, clapping his hands. "it was rover; the good dog. he swam after her." "you are right," i said. "there was a plunge, and there was rover swimming to the help of his little mistress. for a minute it appeared as if the current was carrying her away, and as if he would not reach her in time. how, then, shall i describe her father and her mother's joy when they saw him succeed in doing so, and, seizing her by the dress, bring her safely to the river's bank! no," as chris looked at me with inquiring eyes, "she was not hurt; only very wet, and very frightened." "i 'spect she was very, very frightened," chris said, loudly and eagerly; "and i 'spect she never, never went near the river again,--never again. did she?" "no, my darling," granny said, awakened by his loud and eager tones in time to hear his last question, and sitting up and rubbing her eyes; "she was never such a naughty little girl again. she expressed great sorrow for what had occurred, and she learnt to be more obedient for the future. indeed, she became so remarkable for her obedience, my pet, that they always called her by the name of 'the obedient little eliza'." "now nice!" chris remarked with unction. "you've been fast asleep, my granny," he informed her, with a laugh--pitying and amused. "dear, dear, is it possible?" she said. "yes, and miss beggarley had to finish the story," he continued. "i'm much obliged to you, my dear, i'm sure," granny said gratefully. "i hope i told it as you intended it to be told," i said laughing. "you told it just as it should have been, i am fully convinced," she answered with gentle politeness; "much better than i should have myself." "but she never told me what happened to rover afterwards," put in chris. "he lived to a great age," answered granny, adjusting her spectacles and resuming her knitting, "and was loved and honoured by all. and when he died he was beautifully stuffed and put into a glass case." "i wish he hadn't died, my granny," said the little beggar mournfully, unconsoled by the honour paid to rover's remains. then, with a sudden change of thought: "can jack swim like he did, i wonder." "that i can't say, my darling," granny replied, intent on her work. "i think i had better teach him," the little beggar said, looking very wise; "'cause if you, or miss beggarley, or me, or briggs felled into the water like eliza, jacky could bring us out, and save us from being drownded." "twenty-seven, twenty-eight, twenty-nine," murmured granny, busy counting the stitches on her sock, and too much occupied to pay attention to what chris said. "twenty-nine! now, how have i gone wrong? miss baggerley, my dear, would you be so kind as to see if you can find out my mistake?" "i know!" exclaimed chris, as granny handed me her work; "i know very well what i will do. i'll--," and he stopped short. "what will you do, my pet?" asked granny, a little absently, watching me as i put her knitting right. but chris shook his head. "a surprise!" he said, and closed his lips firmly. i felt that it would be safer for the interests of all to probe the matter further, and was about to do so, when there was a tap at the door, and briggs entered. "master chris," she said, "it's time for your walk." now, generally the little beggar murmured much and loudly when he was interrupted by briggs. on this occasion, however, he showed no disinclination to go with her, but on the contrary went with alacrity. "i think he is really becoming fond of her," granny remarked with some satisfaction when they had gone. "perhaps, after all, i shall not have to send her away at christmas, as i feared i should have to if she and chris did not understand each other better. i shall be very glad if i can let her stay, for although she has an unsympathetic manner--yes, i must say that she strikes me as being extremely unsympathetic to the darling at times; don't you think so, my dear?--yet i know that she is thoroughly reliable and trustworthy." "i wonder if chris's readiness to go with her had anything to do with his 'surprise'," i answered. "it looks to me a little suspicious, i must own. i hope he has not any mischievous idea in his little head." "oh, no, my dear!" she replied, almost reproachfully; "the darling is as good as gold. there never was a better child when he likes. no, no, he is not at all inclined to be troublesome to-day; i think you are mistaken." i kept silence, for i saw that dear old granny was not altogether pleased at my suggestion. nevertheless, in spite of her reassuring words, i did not feel convinced that the little beggar was not going to give us some fresh proof of his remarkable powers for getting into mischief. and further events justified my fears. i will tell you how this happened. about half an hour later i was taking a stroll in the garden, when, turning my steps in the direction of the pond, i suddenly came upon chris, accompanied by briggs. that something was amiss was at once evident. briggs was walking along, with her air of greatest dignity--and that, i assure you, was very great indeed,--whilst chris, by her side, was also making his little attempt at being dignified. but it was the sorriest attempt you can imagine! dripping from head to foot, water running in little rivulets from his large straw hat upon his face, water dripping from his clothes soaked through and through, and making little pools on the garden-path as he pursued his way--a more forlorn, miserable-looking little object it was impossible to conceive. in spite of this, however, he would not let go of that attempt at dignity. with his hands in his pockets, and his head thrown back, he whistled as he walked along, with the most defiant expression he could assume upon that naughty little face of his. and the procession was brought up by jack, with his tail between his legs, also dripping and shivering violently. directly chris saw me the defiant expression instantly vanished, and running to me, he buried his face in my dress and wept at the top of his voice. "what is the matter, chris?" i asked. "what has happened? what have you been doing?" "what _hasn't_ happened, and what _hasn't_ he been doing?" said briggs, coming up and speaking very angrily. "and what will happen next? that's what i ask." "what has happened now?" i repeated. "one of master chris's tricks again, that's all," she said, still angrily, as we all walked on to the house. "i was--teach-teach--teaching j-j-jack to--to swim--like ro-ro--rover," the little beggar said between violent sobs, and bringing out the last word with a great gasp. "teaching jack to swim like rover!" i repeated. "yes," exclaimed briggs, with much sarcasm; "and it was a mighty clever thing for master chris to do, seeing as how he can't swim himself. "it was just like this, mum," she explained, as she hastened her steps, "(i think we had better hurry a bit if master chris isn't to take his death of cold. he'll be in bed to-morrow unless i'm much mistaken!) i was just speaking to one of the gardeners about a pot of musk we wanted in the nursery. i hadn't turned my back two minutes before i hear a splash and master chris crying out at the top of his voice, and when i look around there he is struggling nearly up to his neck in water, and jacky struggling along by his side. well, here we are back; we'll see what my mistress thinks of it all. i'll be bound she won't be over and above pleased. as for me, i can only say i am more than thankful it was at the shallow part of the pond; if it had been at the deep end, there's no saying if he wouldn't have been lying there now stiff and stark." at this woeful picture of himself, chris's grief, which had become slightly subdued, burst forth afresh, and as we entered the hall he sobbed more loudly and more violently than before. so loudly and so violently that the sound of his grief penetrated to the library where granny was sitting, and brought her out into the hall, frightened and anxious to know what was wrong. "he nearly drowned himself, that's what is the matter, mum," answered briggs, with a certain gloomy satisfaction, in reply to the old lady's anxious questions. "it's nothing but a chance he isn't at the bottom of the deepest end of the pond at this very same minute that i speak to you!" at this startling, not to say overwhelming statement, granny became quite white, and, holding on to a chair near at hand, did not speak. "there is nothing for you to alarm yourself about, mrs. wyndham," i said quietly.--"chris, stop crying; you are frightening granny.--he managed to fall into the pond, trying to teach jack to swim, but it was at the shallow end, so there was no danger." thus reassured, granny looked at me with relief. "thank god!" she said earnestly, as she kissed the little beggar thankfully, all wet and tear-stained as he was. then, with an attempt to control her emotion, but speaking in a voice that trembled in spite of herself: "come, come," she said to briggs, "we must not waste time in talking. we must put master chris to bed at once, and get him warm. see how he shivers. yes, come upstairs at once, my darling, and i will hear all about it by and by." and, together with briggs and the cause of all the confusion, she went upstairs to take precautions for the prevention of the ill consequences likely to follow upon his rash deed. it was some time before she came downstairs again, and when she did so she looked worried. "i am afraid, very much afraid, he has caught a chill," she remarked. "he so easily does that." "perhaps you may have prevented it," i said hopefully. "i wish i could think so," she replied, shaking her head; "but i much fear that it cannot be altogether prevented. he is not strong, you see, my dear." "and to think," she went on admiringly; "to think the darling ran that risk all because of his loving little heart; because he feared that some day we might be in danger of being drowned, and that if jack could swim we should be rescued. isn't it just like the pet to think of it?" "it is," i agreed with conviction; adding cautiously, "it would have been better, i think, if he had told you of his idea before trying to put it into effect. it would have given everyone less trouble." "he wished to surprise us all by showing us he had by himself taught jack to swim," granny returned, quick to defend her darling. "no, no, i see how it happened; he was thoughtless but not naughty. indeed, i take what blame there is to myself. i should have considered, before i told him the story of eliza and her dog rover, the effect it was likely to have upon an active, quick little brain like his." i smiled. it was quite plain that dear old granny in her loving way wished to take all the blame upon her own willing shoulders, and to spare that incorrigible little beggar.... it was some three days after this, and i was sitting in the nursery by chris's crib, trying to amuse him and wile away the time until briggs came back with the lamp, when it would be the hour for him to say good-night and go to sleep. the bright september afternoon was drawing to a close, and twilight was beginning to fall. in spite of all granny's precautions he had not escaped from the consequences of his tumble into the pond, but had caught a severe chill, and so had had to stay in bed for these last three days. he was very sweet and gentle in his weakness, that poor little beggar; partly, i think, because he felt too tired to be mischievous, and also, i am glad to say, because he loved his granny very dearly and was truly sorry for the fright he had given her. i had been telling him stories for the last half-hour, but having now come to the end of my resources, for the moment we were quiet. with his hand in mine, chris lay looking out through the window at the stars as they came out slowly, slowly in the gathering darkness. presently he asked: "do you like the stars? i like them very much." "yes, chris," i answered; "so do i." "i think they are the most beautifullest things," he remarked with enthusiasm. "yes, they are," i replied. "they are like the great and loving deeds of god, falling in a bright shower from heaven upon the earth beneath." "when i go to heaven, will god give me some stars if i ask him very much?" chris inquired, most seriously. "p'r'aps if i ask him every day in my prayers till i'm dead he will then." i smiled a little. "no, darling," i said, smoothing his hair gently; "the stars are not the little things they seem to you. you see, they are worlds like our world. it is only because they are such thousands and thousands of miles away that they look to you so small." chris pondered over this for a moment or two, then he said thoughtfully: "miss beggarley, i want to ask you, when the good man got to the top of the hill, did he see that the stars were big worlds and not little, tiny things?" "yes," i replied, half to him, half to myself; "he saw then that those things which, at the foot of the hill, had seemed to him so small and so far away he had given them but little consideration, were in reality great, and beautiful, and worlds in their importance. and he saw, too, that the things which in the valley beneath had appeared to him of such infinite value were by comparison poor and valueless, not worthy the thought he had given them or the pain they had so often caused him...." i heard a footstep, and looking round, saw that briggs had come back. "i must go now," i said to chris, kissing him. "it is time for you to sleep. good-night, dear!" "good-night!" he said, then turned his head towards the window and lay still, gazing solemnly with big, sleepy eyes at the stars that shone without. chapter v. the doctor's head! as chris regained his strength he also regained his love of mischief--a state of affairs that proved somewhat trying. to keep him in bed and to keep him good was not a very easy task. "the trouble it is, mum, words can't tell," briggs said to me with fervour one evening when i had come upstairs to see that chris was comfortably settled for the night. "if i turn my back for a moment he is half out of bed," she said, as she detained me for a moment as i went through the day-nursery. "he is that full of mischief i hardly know what to do with him." "it shows he is getting strong again," i said, half smiling. "it's the only way i can get any comfort," she said, sighing. poor briggs! she really looked tired as she spoke, and i felt sorry for her. "you look very tired," i remarked. "i've had bad enough nights lately to make me so," she replied. "master chris--he is always waking up and coughing and coughing till i'm nearly driven wild. it's my belief it's the barley-sugar has got something to do with it. ever since the doctor said some had better be given to him when he got coughing it seems to me his cough has got a deal worse." "why don't you put a little by his crib?" i suggested; "then he needn't wake you up when he wants it." "i did try that last night," she answered, "but by the time i went to bed myself he had eaten it all up, and there wasn't a scrap of it left." "i think he will be well enough to get up soon," i said hopefully. "i think so too," she replied. "it was only yesterday i said so to dr. saunders, but he didn't seem to think the same. "i don't altogether hold with him," she continued, with a return of her usual dignified manner; "and so i told my mistress this morning. he is over-careful, and i've no belief in these medical gentlemen who are given that way. when he comes to-morrow--there, if i didn't forget!" she interrupted herself to exclaim. "what have you forgotten, briggs?" i asked. "my mistress asked me in particular to remind the doctor that he said master chris would be the better of a tonic, but he had forgotten to leave the prescription," she answered. "i never thought of it this morning when he was here." "i should make a note of it," i suggested. "which is the very thing i'll do," she assented. "i'll write it down now on master chris's slate whilst it is in my mind. it's the only way to remember things, i do believe. "though it is my opinion, mum," she added, as she carried out her intention; "though it's my opinion a physician should not need reminding of such things. but there! he is always forgetting something. he has no head! i should like to know where it is sometimes, for it isn't always on his shoulders, i'll be bound!" "how can the doctor's head not be on his shoulders?" asked a puzzled little voice. "'cause he'd be quite dead if he had no head." at this unexpected interruption briggs and i looked in the direction whence the voice proceeded, and saw a little figure standing on the threshold of the door that led into the night-nursery. a little figure, in a long white nightgown, with tumbled, golden hair falling about the flushed little face, and two great violet eyes shining like stars, and dancing with mischief and glee. i confess i felt a weak desire to take that naughty but bewitching little beggar in my arms, and kiss him in spite of all his sins. but briggs experienced no such weakness. "master chris!" she exclaimed in horrified amazement; "what next, i should like to know? this is past everything." then snatching him up in her arms, she carried him back to bed, struggling and vehemently protesting at being treated in so summary and undignified a fashion. as for me, i presently went downstairs laughing, with the sound of chris's voice still ringing in my ears: "put me down, briggs. i will be a good boy. i don't want to be carried like a baby." then with his usual persistency: "but i want to know--why do you say that the doctor sometimes has no head on his shoulders, 'cause how could he live without a head?" then again, in the most insinuating of voices: "shall i tell the doctor about the medicine he forgot, and shall i write down all the things you want to know, and all the things i want to know, and everything. would i be a good boy if i did? i want some barley-sugar, 'cause my cough's drefful bad." "chris is certainly recovering," i said to granny when i joined her in the drawing-room, and told her what had occurred. "he is quite in his usual spirits again." "his is a happy disposition, is it not?" she said, with satisfaction. "the child is like a sunbeam in the house; so merry, so bright!" the next morning, however, the sunbeam was comparatively still; not dancing, gay, and restless, as sunbeams often are. the little beggar was in one of his quiet moods--moods of rare occurrence with him, as you will have gathered. "the darling is like a lamb," granny remarked when she came downstairs; "very gentle and so good. he wants you to go and sit with him a little, if you are not busy, my dear." "certainly," i said, and went up to the nursery to see chris in this edifying rã´le. i found him busy, drawing strange hieroglyphics on a large sheet of foolscap paper with a red-lead pencil. as i entered he looked up at me for a moment with a preoccupied expression, then said mysteriously: "miss beggarley, what do you think i am doing?" "i don't know," i replied. "what is it? let me see." "no, no, no!" he cried, bending over the paper, "you mustn't see. i don't want you to know." "then why did you ask me?" i inquired. "'cause i wanted to see if you could guess," he said. "it's nothing naughty, is it?" i asked. "oh no!" he replied in the most virtuous of voices, "it's very good. "i've done now," he remarked a few minutes later, sitting up and putting the sheet of foolscap and the red-lead pencil under his pillow. "when i get better will you play horses with me? you said you would, and you never have." "that is very wrong of me," i answered. "yes, i will play with you when you are better." "when will the doctor come?" he suddenly asked with some eagerness. "very soon now, i think," i replied. "it is just about his time." "will you be a lame horse when you play, or a well horse?" "which of the two horses has the least work?" "the lame horse." "then i'll be the lame horse." "is that the doctor?" i listened. "wait a moment, i'll see," i replied, and went to the day-nursery. yes, it was the doctor. i could hear him and granny talking as they walked along the passage; granny on her favourite topic--the virtues of her darling. "yes," she was saying, in answer to some observation of her companion's, "he really shows a great deal of character for one so young. but he has done that from the earliest, from the very earliest age. when he was a baby of but a few weeks old, he would clutch hold of his bottle with such resolution, such tenacity, that it was, i assure you, a difficult matter to take it from him." "quite so, quite so," the doctor answered blandly as they entered; "as you say, great tenacity of purpose. "well," i heard him continue, after having passed through the day-nursery to the one beyond; "well, and how are we to-day?" "quite well," answered the little beggar's voice cheerfully. "quite well? we couldn't be better, could we?" he said jocularly. "yes, i think we are looking so much better we may get up to-day, and go for a walk in the sun to-morrow. what do you say, master chris?" "i want to ask you a lot," i heard chris say importantly. "very well," replied the doctor good-naturedly, "let us hear it;" at which point curiosity prompted me to go to the door of the night-nursery and look in. chris was in the act of drawing, with no little pomp, the large sheet of foolscap from beneath his pillow. "read it," he said, handing it to the doctor with pride. "i've printed it all myself." the doctor laughed as he glanced at it. "i think," he said, "you had better read it to me yourself, my little man." "all right!" answered chris. "it's all questions i want to ask you. i've written them down in case i forget them." i here saw briggs glance up uneasily, and was myself conscious of some feeling of disquietude. could chris's questions have anything to do with briggs' remarks of the previous evening? a recollection came back to me which, till that moment, had slipped from my mind. had not i heard a suggestion made by a naughty, struggling little mortal being carried back to bed against his will? "shall i write down all the things you want to know, and all the things i want to know, and everything?" a presentiment of coming confusion came upon me, and i half stepped forward to try and stop chris going further in his proposed catechism. but i was too late; he started without delay. "may i have sugar-candy for my cough instead of barley-sugar, 'cause i've eaten so much barley-sugar?" he began pompously. "certainly," replied the doctor laughing; "we won't make any difficulty about that." i gave an involuntary sigh of relief at hearing so harmless a question, whilst briggs looked less anxious, and granny smiled. "shall i be well enough to run my hoop to-morrow?" he went on, loudly and slowly, pretending to read from the sheet of foolscap he held. "i have a new one, and i'm tired of not running it," he added. "very well, we'll see," the doctor answered. "if the sun is out i daresay we shall be able to run our hoop a little bit to-morrow. but we must be careful not to over-tire ourselves. anything more, my little man?" "yes. why did you forget to leave the 'scription for my tonic yesterday?" continued chris. "and will you remember it to-day?" the doctor laughed, but with some constraint. briggs looked up anxiously, and the smile vanished from granny's face. "what! are we so fond of medicine?" the doctor asked, trying to speak as before, but unable to prevent a touch of annoyance being heard in his voice. "little boys don't generally care for it so much. yes, i will leave the prescription to-day." "there, there, that will do," interposed granny nervously, moving towards the door. "but there is one other question i want to ask very much," chris said, again feigning to refer to his paper. "yes?" said the doctor inquiringly, pausing in his progress towards the door. "what do you do with your head when it isn't on your shoulders?" he asked, with the innocent expression always to be seen upon his face when he was creating the greatest awkwardness. at this question briggs became scarlet, looked as if she were about to speak, then appeared to alter her mind, and, turning her back, busied herself arranging the medicine-bottles on a little table near the crib. the doctor himself appeared more bewildered than anything else. "what do you mean?" he said. "where can my head be except on my shoulders?" "well, that was what i thought," chris said, triumphantly. "i said you'd be dead if your head was off your shoulders." "i should have concluded that everyone must have been of the same opinion," he said, still mystified, whilst granny shook her head gently, and frowned at the little beggar, hoping to prevent any further discussion of the subject. a futile hope. chris was resolved to go to the bottom of the matter. "well, briggs said it wasn't!" he exclaimed, "and what did she mean?" the doctor's expression of mystification changed to one of annoyance, as he remarked with no little displeasure: "i think you had better ask briggs herself for an explanation of her remark," then left, accompanied by granny--poor granny, awkward and mortified beyond measure at the embarrassing situation. as for briggs--who had certainly been the principal sufferer--her indignation burst out as soon as we saw the last of the doctor. "well, i never!" she exclaimed indignantly. then with increased wrath, "well, i never did!" after which two exclamations she paused to find suitable words in which to condemn the enormities of which chris had been guilty. for his part, he was not in the least disturbed by the general embarrassment--the only one who was not. he gazed up at briggs with an expression of injured innocence. "are you cross, briggs?" he asked. "have i been naughty?" "have you been naughty, master chris?" she asked, with wrathful sarcasm. "oh, no! there _never_ was such a well-behaved young gentleman." "surely, chris," i said, coming into the night-nursery, "you knew that you had no business to repeat to dr. saunders what briggs said to me?" he hung his head a little guiltily. "i wanted him to 'member about the tonic," he replied; "and i did want to know what briggs meant about his head coming off his shoulders. wasn't i a good boy?" he received his answer, however, from granny, who returned at this moment, a bright spot glowing in each of her faded, pink cheeks. "my chris!" she said, "my darling! what foolish thought made you ask such questions?" chris wrinkled his brows. "i want to be a very good boy and please you," he said querulously, and with a tremble in his voice; "and now briggs scolds me, and now you scold me, and now i'm very unhappy." "but don't you see, my pet," granny said, more calmly; "don't you see what rude questions you asked dr. saunders? oh, i felt ashamed of my little chris!" the little beggar at this point crawled to the bottom of his crib. "i shall stay down here," said a muffled voice. "i shall stay here always and never come back again, as my granny is so unkind." "but you must see," she reiterated, addressing a shapeless mass of bed-clothes, "that you asked the kind doctor very naughty questions, and very silly ones too. did you not understand when briggs said that he had no head, she meant that he had a bad memory, my child? did you not understand that? and did you not think how insulting, how very insulting it was to ask him such a question? and about the tonic too. surely, my darling, if you had thought you must have seen that. and, especially, how wrong it was to repeat what you overheard. does not my pet see what his granny means?" the mass of bed-clothes moved impatiently, but there was no reply. "as for me," put in briggs with dignity, "i felt as if i was going to sink through the floor, i was that ashamed!" "yes, yes, and so were we all," agreed granny. "indeed, had not my chris been ill, i should have felt obliged to punish him for his thoughtlessness. but he is sorry now; that granny feels sure of. is he not?" her question was received in sullen silence. "come, come," she said, "this is not the way i expect my child to behave." "nor any other little gentleman either," put in briggs, with asperity. there was an expectant pause, but no answer from the little beggar buried beneath the bed-clothes. granny looked at me with a puzzled expression. "well, chris, we have no time to waste with naughty little boys," i said, "so we are going downstairs. but i am surprised that you should treat your granny so; i thought you loved her." there was still no reply, and we turned to go. but ere we reached the door the shamefaced but slightly defiant little beggar cried out: "i _do_ love my granny!" at the sound she turned back with a radiant smile, and saw with delight two little arms stretched out to her appealingly, and two large tears trickling down a penitent little face. "there, there! we will say no more," she exclaimed, forgivingly; "for you are sorry, my pet, are you not?" "very, very sorry," said the little beggar with contrition; "and very hot, dreffully hot; and i won't ask the nasty doctor nothing ever again." "not the 'nasty' doctor; the nice, kind doctor who has made little chris well again," she corrected gently. "and you are going to be a good little boy now, darling?" "a very good boy; as good as uncle godfrey," chris said brightening up, as he saw that he was to be blamed no more. "that's my pet," she said, covering him up and tucking in the bed-clothes. "i'm so glad," she continued to me as we went downstairs, "that he came round, and was good in the end. but i knew he would. sulkiness is not one of his faults; no, no, nobody could say that. "i suppose," she went on a little uneasily, "godfrey would tell me that i ought to have been more severe with the child. 'you've let the little beggar off too easily, mother,'--that's what he would say. but between ourselves, my dear, i sometimes think that officers in the army are accustomed to such obedience, such implicit obedience, that they are at times inclined to carry their love of discipline too far. don't you agree with me? not that godfrey is a martinet! oh, no! he is far from that; such a favourite, so beloved by the men under his command. but you understand what i mean, do you not? "however," she concluded, with a certain relief, and as a salve to her conscience in the shape of her son godfrey's opinion, "now i think of it, i did tell the poor darling that if he had not been ill i should have felt obliged to punish him. of course, so i did. that will serve as a warning to him in the future; won't it, my dear?" chapter vi. a paste-man and a paint-box. "i can't, my pet; i can't tell you a story to-day," said, or rather whispered, granny huskily. "i have such a bad cold i can hardly speak." chris looked at her solemnly with wide-open eyes. "are you very ill, my granny?" he inquired very seriously, and sinking his voice to the sympathizing whisper which seemed to him to befit the occasion. "not very ill, darling," she whispered again with an effort; "only a very bad cold. "i am quite losing my voice," she added to me, shaking her head. "most trying, my dear." "how drefful!" exclaimed chris with sympathy, and still speaking in a whisper. "what a drefful thing!" "i have a good piece of news for you, my chris," she whispered, with another effort. "someone is coming home--to-day--this very afternoon--that you and i shall be--very, very--glad to see. who do you think it is?" chris considered a moment, then suddenly looked enlightened. "i know, i know!" he cried, jumping about and clapping his hands, in the excess of his joy forgetting to whisper, and putting to their full use his well-developed little lungs. "i know!" he repeated. "it's my uncle godfrey. hurrah! hurrah! hurrah!" granny nodded, and held up a telegram. "i've just had this," she said, with an attempt to regain her natural tone, which ended in an almost inaudible whisper, and her voice going away completely. "few nights ... way to london.... isn't ... treat ... pet?" she whispered brokenly. "must be ... quiet ... tired." "yes," i put in, taking upon myself to act as interpreter; "granny is very tired, chris; so if you stay here, you must be quiet." "did i make a noise and tire my granny, and was i a naughty boy?" he asked penitently, becoming very subdued in voice and manner. granny smiled at him tenderly, and shook her head. "no, dear," i said; "you have not been naughty. we did not mean that." thus reassured, the little beggar looked relieved; then, with a glance of deepest sympathy at his granny, he ran out of the room as if struck by a sudden thought. in a few moments he returned, carrying something carefully wrapped up in his pinafore. then, going up to her, he drew out a piece of paste bearing some rude resemblance to a man, and laid it with triumph on her lap. "my granny," he whispered proudly, "see what i have brought you. cook gave it to me for my tea, and i'm going to give it to you, and you may eat it all up; every bit. p'r'aps it will make you feel happy, as you have a cold." granny opened her eyes slowly and languidly, but seeing the paste figure, she sat straight up in her chair, with an expression of the strongest disapprobation. she opened her mouth and endeavoured to speak, but this time without success; she could not make herself heard. she rose, therefore, and going to the writing-desk, took a sheet of note-paper, and, in a neat, old-fashioned, italian hand, wrote the following reply, which she placed in my hand, signing to me to read aloud: "my darling, this is a most unwholesome and indigestible thing. it would not make either my chris or his granny happy to eat it, but would probably make them both ill. i am much surprised that mrs. james should have given it to you; she should have known better. you may, instead, have some of the sponge-cake we had at lunch, but i cannot permit my pet to eat this paste, nor can i eat it myself. but he will understand how much granny appreciates his kind thought." chris listened to this long message attentively and without interruption, for there was a solemnity about the proceeding that much impressed him. when i had finished reading it, he regarded the object of granny's displeasure with suspicion, mingled with awe; then remarked in a solemn and stage whisper, and in the manner of one bringing a grave charge against his poor, misguided friend: "cook called it 'master chris's little friend'. that's what she called it, my granny." "tut, tut!" said granny, as she heard this charge made against cook. by her expression, it was plain to see that she would have liked to say more had she been in full possession of her voice. failing that, however, she was obliged to content herself with "tut, tut!" and a gentle frown. "come, chris," i said laughing, "we'll leave granny in peace now and go and play in the library, or i will tell you a story. take your 'friend', the man of paste, with you, and see if jack would like to eat him." "what shall we do?" asked chris, slipping his hand into mine as we left the drawing-room. "would you like a story?" i asked. "no, thank you; i don't want a story now, i think," he answered, with some caprice. he thought a moment or two, then exclaimed: "i know! we'll paint. i'll get the new paint-box granny has given me, and a picture-paper, and we'll make lovely pictures." "very well," i said, not dissatisfied with this arrangement, which i hoped would only require on my part advice from time to time, or admiration, as required. taking a book, therefore, i sat down in an easy-chair near the writing-table, where chris, having fetched his paint-box, settled himself, labouring for a time silently and earnestly at his paintings. presently he asked: "what colour shall i make this horse? shall i make him black?" "a very good colour," i replied. "then, you see, i could call him 'black prince'," he went on. "i couldn't call him 'black prince' if i made him brown, could i? i'd have to call him 'brown prince'. have you ever heard of a horse called 'brown prince'?" "not to my recollection," i said, with my eyes on my book. "it is a funny name, isn't it?" he said laughing, as he continued his work. "brown prince!" "very," i said shortly, interested in my story, and not inclined to encourage conversation. chris worked on for a few moments without speaking; then asked: "miss beggarley, what colour are moons gennerly?" i laughed. it was, after all, a futile hope to continue reading under the circumstances. still, it was chris's time with granny and me, when he exacted as his right an unlimited amount of attention, so i resigned myself. "what colour?" he repeated, as i did not at once answer. "green," i answered. "green!" he echoed. "haven't you ever heard that the moon is made of green cheese?" i asked. he stared at me reproachfully. "you're laughing at me," he said, in an aggrieved voice, "and i don't like you to laugh." "i won't any more, dear," i said, composing my countenance to a becoming expression of gravity. "if i were you, i should paint the moon pale blue. how would that do?" "loverly," answered the little beggar in a mollified voice, and for a moment or two there was again silence. then, however, i heard something like a whimper, and looking up i saw chris's great eyes fixed on me tearfully. "what is the matter?" i inquired. "will my granny never, never be able to speak again?" he asked, digging his knuckles into his eyes. "will she always be never able to talk?" "why, no, dear," i answered cheerfully. "in a day or two she will be able to talk again as well as ever." "but she said it," he replied tearfully. "said what?" i asked, puzzled. "oh," i added, enlightened, "you mean when she said she was losing her voice! but she only meant for a little while. she did not intend to say she was losing it for ever. it is only because she has caught a bad cold. when her cold is better she will be able to speak again." "are you quite, quite sure?" he asked, anxiously, but relieved at my explanation. "quite sure," i answered. his mind thus at ease, he returned once more to his painting and worked contentedly for another five minutes, at the end of which time his restless spirit reasserted itself. "now, what shall we do?" he asked, throwing down his brush and yawning. "will you play at horses? you said you would." "well, for a little while," i answered, "but not too long." "oh, briggs, what do you want?" chris asked discontentedly, as at this point that worthy woman made her appearance. "you are to come and put on your velvet suit against mr. wyndham comes," she announced staidly. "i don't want to put on my velvet clothes," he replied rebelliously, annoyed at being thus disturbed. "they're nasty, horrid things." "oh, fie! master chris," she answered reprovingly. "it isn't like a big man to wear a velvet suit, it's like a baby," he went on, grumblingly. "uncle godfrey doesn't wear velvet clothes, and why should i?" "don't you grumble at your velvet suit, master chris," briggs said in a warning tone. "you may come to want it some day. there's many a little boy in the gutter as would be glad and proud to own it." "then i wish you would give it to the little boys in the gutters," the little beggar answered wilfully. "i shall ask my granny to give it to them, 'cause i hate it. and i'm going to play at horses; aren't i, miss beggarley?" "not with me," i said firmly, "until you have done what briggs tells you." "you said you would," he remarked, pouting. "so i will," i replied, "when you have obeyed briggs." he glanced at me inquiringly to see if there was no chance of my relenting, but i preserved a severe and resolute expression--in spite of a distinct inclination to smile,--seeing which he left with laggard step to don the despised suit. when, later, he returned in that same suit--in the dark-blue knickerbockers and coat, the large vandyke collar of cream lace, and the little white satin vest,--i really thought that he looked the sweetest little picture in the world! he had, indeed, such an extremely clean, well-brushed, and altogether spotless appearance, that i hesitated about the promised game of horses, fearing to spoil the result of briggs' work, before that all-important event--the arrival of uncle godfrey. "shall we play something else?" i suggested. "i'm afraid if we play horses you will get untidy." "oh no, i won't!" he said confidently. "we'll be quiet horses. "i know," he added, with a look of intelligence. "i won't be a horse; i'll be the driver, and you shall be a lame horse. then the game will be such a quiet game." "very well," i replied, weakly yielding to his wishes, as most people had a habit of doing. and a minute later i was running round the library in a fashion most undignified for a lady of middle-age, becoming at the same time hotter and more breathless than was altogether comfortable. consequently i slackened my pace, and found it more to my mind. for, when a good many years have passed since you indulged in the habit of playing horses, you find it more expedient to take for your model the slow and conscientious cab-horse rather than the swift and brilliant racer. but the change did not please chris. "gee-up, charlie!" he cried, excitedly. "that's your name, you know. gee-up! why are you going so slowly?" "i've no breath left to go fast," i explained. "what shall we do?" he said, perplexed. "i don't like a horse what won't go fast. "oh," he said, his face clearing. "why, it's time for you to go lame. poor charlie! poor thing! what's the matter? "you've got a stone in your foot," he explained in an aside, "and you must jog up and down as if you're lame." "must i?" i said, and obediently followed the directions with a patience truly praiseworthy, jogging laboriously up and down, whilst the little beggar followed in my wake, highly delighted, and giving vent as he did so to many loud and excited ejaculations. before long, however, he pined for further excitement. "the road is very, very slippery," he said; "'cause it's been snowing. you must slip right down and break your leg." "i'll slip into an arm-chair," i said, glancing at the comfortable one i had just quitted. "no, horses don't slip into arm-chairs; there aren't no arm-chairs for them in the road," he objected. "i can't help that," i answered, taking a stand. "my bones are too old to risk breaking them. i don't mind my leg being broken in fancy, but i do mind its being broken in reality." "how shall everyone know, then, that it is broken?" he asked, discontentedly. "it won't look a bit as if it is broken if you fall into an arm-chair." "i will groan very loud to show that i have," i said in a propitiating voice. "do horses groan when they break their legs?" he asked, doubtfully. "this horse does, very loud indeed," i said. "come, we'll go once more round the room, and then i'll break my leg and show you how beautifully i can groan." "all right!" said the little beggar, conceding the point, and away we started once more. "gee-up, charlie!" he cried; "gee-up, good horse! now then!" as we approached the arm-chair; "now then, now then, it's time for you to break your leg. quick, quick!" "all right!" i said, and with the most heartrending groan i could produce, i sank--carefully--into the chair. at the same moment the door opened, and a stranger to me entered the room--a tall and soldier-like-looking young man. even in the dimness of the twilight i could see a strong enough resemblance to the little beggar to tell me who he was without his delighted scream of "uncle godfrey! uncle godfrey!" as he ran and clasped him round the knees. "hold on!" answered uncle godfrey, putting him aside. then turning to me: "i fear you are ill. shall i send for my mother's maid?" he asked with polite sympathy. "why, no; she isn't; she isn't a bit ill!" cried the little beggar delightedly, with peals of derisive laughter, as he jumped about and clapped his hands. "she's only a poor, old, lame horse, what has just fallen down and broken his leg...." chapter vii. chris and his uncle. if ever there was a case of hero-worship it was the worship by chris of his uncle. to the little beggar, uncle godfrey was the ideal of all that was most manly, most noble, most heroic. to emulate him in every way was his most ardent desire, and with this end in view he imitated him whenever possible, to the smallest details. when uncle godfrey was at home in the autumn, chris's diminutive toy-gun was, without fail, brought down to the gun-case in the hall, where it lay in company with the more imposing weapons of his uncle. and when these were cleaned, it was an understood thing that the toy-gun must be cleaned likewise. to have omitted to do this would have drawn down upon the offender the little beggar's deepest indignation. i believe, too, that it was a real grief of heart to him that he was not allowed to go out with his uncle in the autumn, and try the effect of that same toy-gun upon the pheasants. he had often pleaded hard to be permitted do so, having, i imagine, glorious visions of the bags they would make between them; and the refusal of his request had been the cause of many tears in the nursery. not before his uncle! no, if there was one thing more than another that troubled him, it was the fear of looking like a baby in his uncle's presence. uncle godfrey might tease him as much as he pleased,--and he was undeniably talented in this respect,--but, close as were the tears to his eyes at other times, before his hero chris would never let them fall if he could help it. sometimes, when in the swing of a game, his uncle godfrey was unintentionally a little rough in word or deed, the little beggar, it is true, would flush--crimsoning up to the roots of his fair hair. his voice would falter, too, as if the tears were not far off, but he would struggle manfully with them, and, as soon as he had recovered, return again to the attack with fresh vigour. indeed, so great was his devotion to him, that he was never so happy as when by his side, and with chris in his vicinity, uncle godfrey found it a matter of no little difficulty to give his attention elsewhere. this was observable one morning when he was endeavouring to write his letters and enjoy a smoke in peace--a state of affairs by no means to the little beggar's mind. drawing near, chris took up his position straight in front of him, and stared steadily at him without speaking. presently uncle godfrey looked up, and, meeting chris's stedfast gaze, stared back in silence. "i'm a policeman," at last remarked chris, with a strenuous effort to assume the manly tones of his uncle; his usual habit when talking to him. "are you?" replied uncle godfrey, leaning back in his chair and giving him a little kick. "then be off, it's time you were on your beat." "but you're a bad, wicked robber, and i've come to take you to prison," persisted chris. "get along," said the writer laconically, blowing the smoke of his cigarette into the face of the policeman, and returning to his letters. chris looked at him admiringly. "i'm going to be a soldier like you, and smoke pipes and cigarettes, and everything like you, uncle godfrey," he remarked. "when may i be a soldier?" "not yet," was the reply. "we take them young, but they have to be out of the nursery, my boy." "when shall i be out of the nursery?" asked chris, discontentedly. "when you're in the army," his uncle said to tease him. "but a man, a real soldier, said if i came to him, he would make me a soldier," announced the little beggar. "what man?" asked uncle godfrey. "a man what is staying in marston, with his father and his mother and his brothers and his sisters," explained chris. "a very tall, big man--as tall as you; and he finds soldiers for the queen, he told me." "oh, a recruiting-sergeant!" uncle godfrey said. "how did you come to speak to him?" "i saw him when i was standing outside the shop when briggs was buying some buns for tea, and when i asked him if he knowed you," said chris, all in a breath. "he had on such loverly clothes! do you think if i go to him he will make me a soldier for the queen?" he asked. "of course," his uncle replied. "but i'll tell you what, you had better learn to hold your gun properly, and not as you did the other day. if you don't, you'll end by shooting the sergeant, and being put in 'chokee'." "what is 'chokee'?" asked chris, with wide-open eyes. "oh, prison! you'll be put into a cell, and have nothing to eat but bread and cold water." "how drefful!" "then go and get that little gun i bought you, and i'll show you how to hold it as you should." "just like a real soldier?" "well, how else? "now, look here," said uncle godfrey, when chris returned with the gun, "didn't i tell you that it was very dangerous to hold a gun like that? it's not sportsmanlike either. do you hear?" he spoke with some severity, for he was a young man who was very thorough in all he did, whether work or play, and would tolerate no carelessness. "not sports-man-like!" echoed chris slowly, trying hard with his child's voice to imitate uncle godfrey's manly tone. "then, as you hear, remember," his uncle said, authoritatively. "now, rest the gun against your right shoulder--you young duffer, that's your left shoulder; i said your right. shut your left eye, and aim at my hand." "yes," said the little beggar, very proud of himself. "let's see; that's right," his uncle continued. "now, fire!... not bad, only you should keep your arm steadier. it wobbled about too much." "it's very tired," chris remarked. then he inquired: "uncle godfrey, may i shoot some wicked men?" "certainly, when you find them--and with that gun," he answered. "only in the legs," added chris, "'cause it would be unkind to kill them really, wouldn't it? but i may shoot their legs, so that they can be caught, and can't run away; mayn't i?" "as much as you like, i say, with that gun," his uncle replied, as he resumed his neglected correspondence. "i shall shoot a lot," chris said, with satisfaction. "granny," he went on eagerly as he entered the hall, "i'm going to shoot some wicked men. uncle godfrey says i may." "with that gun," cried his uncle, without looking up from his writing. "my darling!" granny exclaimed, somewhat dismayed at this bloodthirsty ambition. "but you should not wish to hurt anyone; no, no one at all." "only wicked men, and only in the legs, so they couldn't run away from the people who catched them," he said comfortingly. "and i'm going to do it with this gun uncle godfrey gave me. isn't it a beufferfull gun?" he went on proudly. "yes, yes, i saw it," she answered, taking it out of his hands. "a very nice little gun indeed, my pet." "oh, my granny, take care!" he cried suddenly, in a loud, warning voice. "why what is the matter?" asked the old lady starting, and in her alarm almost dropping the gun as she spoke. "what is it?" she repeated in a flurried manner, turning round vaguely as she spoke. "you mustn't hold the gun like that, my granny," chris said more calmly, but still gravely; "it's very dan-ger-rus, and it's not sport-man-like." "thank you, my darling," she said simply. "granny will remember another time." "shut up, chris," said uncle godfrey laughing, "and don't talk nonsense." "well, i want somebody to play with me," he said inconsequently, as he returned to his uncle's side. "i want someone to play with me very badly." "i can't," said uncle godfrey, in his usual decided manner. "i have to finish my letters." "then, miss beggarley," he asked, with the air of one making the best of an unpromising state of affairs, "will you tell me a story?" "not now, dear," i answered. "i am just turning the heel of this sock, and i can't think of that and a story too." "not even miss beggarley can tell me a story!" said chris, sitting down, with a disconsolate expression, beside jacky on the hearth-rug. "not even miss beggarley," i repeated laughing. chris, looking disappointed and injured, gave jacky an irritable push, which resulted in an angry growl. there was a deep sigh from the little beggar. "no one plays with me now," he said mournfully, "and jacky growls. naughty jacky; i don't love you." "naughty chris; it's time for you to go back to the nursery," remarked uncle godfrey half-smiling. "yes, my chris; a few lessons, or a nice walk," granny said, persuasively. "now, go, like my little pet." in spite, however, of her gentle persuasions, chris looked as if he would like to protest, had he not lacked the courage to do so in the presence of uncle godfrey. it was, therefore, slowly and unwillingly that he went up the first flight of stairs, then sat on the landing and looked at the back of uncle godfrey's head as he bent over his writing. in a moment or two briggs' voice was heard in the distance. "master chris, where are you?" "here i am," he called back; "just here." "what, not gone yet?" uncle godfrey said a little sharply, turning round. "yes, i'm gone," answered the little beggar half-defiantly, half-nervously, as he rose hastily from the landing and continued his upward progress. "what do you want, briggs?" he called out. "i want to know," she said, the sound of her voice coming nearer; "i want to know if you can tell me where your hats are? it's time for you to go out, and i've hunted for them everywhere, but not one can i find." "why, they're down there," chris was heard to say in an aggrieved voice, and as if she were asking a most unnecessary question. "they're all down there." "and where might down there be?" she asked, with some irritation. "why, on the table near the door, with uncle godfrey's hats," he answered. "i'm always going to keep my hats there now," he added. "it's only babies what has their hats in the nursery." "well, if this doesn't pass everything!" she was heard to exclaim angrily. "and to think of me hunting for those very same hats for the last quarter of an hour till i'm that tired. your tricks, master chris, are beyond bearing. you'll please come down with me this minute and fetch those very same hats." "i shall put them all back when we come home," chris remarked rebelliously, as he began to walk downstairs in company with the irate briggs. "we'll see what we'll see,--and _you'll_ see. that's all i say," she answered with some loftiness. "i have no mind to have things put out of their proper place, and me have all this trouble given me." after which oracular speech, and because she was approaching the last flight of stairs leading into the hall, she reserved all further expressions of indignation till she and chris were once more on the familiar ground of the nursery. as for the little beggar, it was with many a furtive glance at uncle godfrey, who was still writing, that he crossed the hall. he hoped to escape without notice, and, looking mysteriously at granny and myself, walked by briggs' side on tiptoe. but his pains were wasted. "yes, i know you're there," uncle godfrey said, without turning his head, and relaxing into a smile. "what mischief have you been up to this time?" "i put my hats with your hats, 'cause i liked them to be with yours, and i didn't want to be a baby and have my hats in the nursery," explained chris, encouraged by something in his uncle's voice to run to his side and lay his cheek affectionately on his coat-sleeve. "then, in future, just you keep your hats where you are told to," uncle godfrey said, laughing. "don't you be such an independent little beggar." "no," replied chris obediently, relieved at receiving no severer reprimand. "and come and kiss your granny," granny said gently and caressingly, as he passed her. "do you love her very much?" "oh, yes, my granny!" he answered somewhat thoughtlessly, as he obeyed her directions. then continued without pause: "i wanted to ask you--why does cook always make rice-puddings, and tapioca-puddings, and sago-puddings for my dinner?" "because, my pet, i tell her to," she replied. "they are so wholesome, so good for little boys; they make them grow big." "but i don't mind about growing big," he answered. "i would rather have roly-poly puddings for my dinner; roly-poly puddings what have lots of jam inside." "now, how do you think i am to get on with my writing whilst you chatter like this?" interrupted uncle godfrey. "go upstairs, and don't keep briggs waiting like this." by the little beggar's expression, it was evident that he did not consider the merits of roly-poly pudding, as compared with those of its less enticing rivals, had been by any means sufficiently discussed, and that much yet remained to be said upon the subject. nevertheless, his uncle's order had the effect of restoring, for a time at least, peace and quiet to the hall; for, as i have before intimated, the one person whose word chris never thought of disputing was uncle godfrey's. i said that peace and quiet was restored _for a time only_, and i said it advisedly. with the little beggar in the neighbourhood it was useless to count on such a state of affairs continuing for more than a short period. so it proved upon the present occasion. before a quarter of an hour had passed, his voice--unmistakably defiant, not to say impertinent--fell upon our ears, as he and briggs walked along the gallery, that ran above, round the hall. it was briggs whom we heard first. "master chris," she remarked severely, "i will not stand it." then the little beggar repeated in an irritating and rebellious-sounding treble: "i have a little nursie, she is a little dear, she runs about all day without a thought of fear. i love my little nursie, an' she loves me. so my little nursie an' me both a-gree." a pause followed, evidently intended by briggs to convey her sense of deep displeasure, and to overawe the offender. without effect. in a moment chris's voice began again, from time to time choked with laughter, and giving a little variety to his poetical effort by varying the accent on different words: "i _have_ a little nursie, she _is_ a little dear, she runs about all day without a _thought_ of fear. i _love_ my little nursie, an' she loves _me_. _so_ my little nursie an' me both a-gree." at this repetition of the offence briggs could contain her wrath no longer. "if i'm to be ridiculed like this," she exclaimed angrily, yet without altogether losing her habitual impressiveness of manner; "if i'm to be ridiculed like this, i shall give warning and go. i cannot, and i will not stand it." a second pause, by which time they had reached the top of the stairs leading into the hall, when chris, forgetful that uncle godfrey was within hearing, and unaware of the judgment about to descend on him, started once more: "i have a _little_ nur--" "wait a moment, young man," called out his uncle from the writing-table. "what do you mean by being so disobedient? come here." "he has been going on like that for the last ten minutes," said briggs complainingly, when she and chris reached the hall. "he's been that aggravating." "what nonsense are you talking?" uncle godfrey asked him severely, beckoning chris to come to him. the little beggar looked at his uncle half-frightened, and did not at once answer. "what was it, my pet?" granny said, gently and encouragingly. "it was a piece of poetry i made up all by myself, all about briggs," he faltered out. "a piece of impertinence, it strikes me," remarked uncle godfrey. "well, as you are so fond of poetry, as you call it, i'll make up a piece about you," he said, whilst granny glanced at the judge pleadingly, as if to ask mercy for the offender. "wait a moment ... yes, i have it," uncle godfrey said presently. and holding chris at arm's-length, he repeated, imitating as he did so, his childish voice and accents: "i know a little beggar, he is a little goose, he runs about all day rampaging on the loose. i think that little beggar, would be better for a slap; if he isn't pretty sharp, he'll get a nasty rap. "how do you like that?" he asked, when he had finished. he was smiling all the while in spite of his severe tone,--very often the way with uncle godfrey. but chris did not see that, and with his little face scarlet, he stood still, struggling with his tears, unable to reply. his uncle looked at him and relented. "there, go along with you," he said, laughing and rumpling the boy's golden curls; "and don't you make yourself such a little nuisance." the little beggar brightened up as he noted the altered tone, and granny appeared perceptibly relieved. "uncle godfrey, do you know what?" he asked with a loud sniff and half a sob. "what do you think?" "what?" asked his uncle with some amusement. "i'm going to be a soldier like you very soon," he said, nodding his head. "well, you'll have to learn to be a little more obedient," his uncle remarked with a laugh. "i'd soon find myself in a pretty position if i disobeyed orders as you do. be off, you young rascal, and look smart. there is briggs waiting for you by the door. "what made him think of that jingle?" he continued, still laughing, to granny when chris had gone. "it was a funny thing for a little chap of his age." "the darling has quite a turn for poetry; he has indeed," explained granny with pride. "he takes the greatest delight in repeating his little poems, such as: 'i love little pussy, her coat is so warm,' and 'mary had a little lamb'. and the child says them so sweetly, so prettily too!" chapter viii. "i'm a soldier now." some two hours later briggs faced granny and myself with a countenance expressive of the deepest despair. "he's gone, mum!" she exclaimed, tragically, throwing up her hands as she spoke. "gone! gone! who is gone?" granny asked with bewilderment and surprise at briggs' sudden announcement. then, as chris's absence struck her, she inquired fearfully: "has anything happened to master chris? where is the child? why is he not with you?" "he's lost, mum!" she said, breathlessly. "everywhere have i looked for him, high and low, up and down, but nowhere is he to be found!" at this startling piece of intelligence granny half rose in her chair as if to go without delay and search for the wanderer; but, recollecting the necessity for further information, she sunk back again, and asked with agitation: "where, then, did you leave him? when did you last see him? how long ago is it, briggs? i must beg of you to be as accurate as possible, most accurate." "i left him in the garden about an hour ago," she answered, on the point of tears. "i had just taken him out for a short walk, having some work to do; and thinking he'd be better for a little more air i left him in the garden when we came back. when i went for him half an hour after, not a trace of him was there to be seen!" "but how careless, how very careless of you, briggs!" granny said in a reprimanding yet trembling voice. "you should not have left him out of your sight for so long. at his age! most inconsiderate!" "have you looked along the road?" i suggested. "he may have wandered out there. he did so the day i arrived." "i've walked half a mile along each way," she answered, with a hopeless sigh. "but the garden, briggs!" granny exclaimed, in her anxiety hardly knowing what to say. "how could you be so thoughtless, so forgetful as not to search the garden before you went into the road?" "but i did, mum; it was the very first thing i did do," she replied tearfully, and with something of an injured expression at this unnecessary censure. "have you looked over the house? he may be hiding there," i said. "everywhere in the house and out of it," she answered with gloomy conviction. "not a stone have i left unturned." we glanced from one to the other with perplexity. what could have become of the little beggar? where could he have hidden himself, thus to escape this vigilant search? "wouldn't it be as well to let mr. wyndham know?" i said. "i think i hear him practising billiards." "of course, of course!" granny answered with relief. "why didn't i think of that at once? briggs, go at once and ask mr. wyndham to speak to me." "well, what is it?" he said cheerfully, when he arrived upon the scene. "the youngster disappeared? there is no need for worry. depend upon it he is hiding somewhere not very far off, and we'll soon unearth him." "you say you have looked carefully in the garden?" he continued to briggs. "all over it, sir; in every corner," she replied. "all the same, we had better do it again," he said. "it is just possible that he may have escaped you the first time. no, mother, you stay here," he said decidedly, as granny rose with the evident intention of accompanying him. "you will only tire yourself for no purpose. if he is to be found in the garden, you may rest assured that i shall find him and bring him to you as soon as possible. just stay here quietly with miss baggerley, and don't worry yourself." undoubtedly a very good piece of advice, this last, but one that poor granny in her nervous state of mind found very difficult to follow. "it is so strange, so very strange!" she said, unhappily. "i cannot understand it at all; i only pray that no accident may have happened to the child. i should have thought briggs would have taken greater precautions if she intended to leave him alone for that time. i had a higher opinion of her, i had indeed. "she is much to blame," she added, smoothing with a nervous little movement the curls she wore in the old fashion on each side of her face. after this she continued her knitting, but she was plainly too restless and ill at ease to fix her attention on her work. "my dear," she said in a minute, "it has just struck me that it would be a good thing if we were together to look upstairs; briggs may not have searched there thoroughly. do you not think that it would be a good plan if we were to go?" i should have liked to answer in the negative, for she was not strong, and a little exertion soon fatigued her. but i saw that it would be a real relief to her in her anxiety to be doing something. so i did not follow my inclination, and together we went slowly upstairs, granny leaning on my arm, in a sweet, clinging way,--a way that was all her own. arrived upstairs, we went conscientiously from room to room, but in vain. no success attended our efforts. we would go into a room, when granny, opening the door of a cupboard and peering in in a short-sighted way, would call out in a gentle, slightly quavering voice: "is my darling hiding here from his granny?" no answer coming, her face would become still more anxious-looking, and she would request me to see if he were under the bed. "will you look under the bed, my dear, and see if he is there?" she would whisper, as if fearful that he might overhear and escape us. then as i did so, she would cry coaxingly: "are you hiding there, my pet, trying to frighten poor granny? come out, my darling, come out." and so on from room to room till we had exhausted all those not only on the first floor but on the next also, after which she proposed exploring the attics. by this time, however, she was so tired that i persuaded her to send one of the servants instead, whilst she returned with me to the library. here we found briggs waiting for us, with a face the expression of which told its tidings without words. ill-success was so plainly written upon it, that our anxious question, "have you found him?" seemed almost superfluous. "did you look everywhere, briggs,--everywhere?" poor granny asked anxiously, and with grievous disappointment. "in every single nook and corner, mum," briggs replied, with a heavy sigh. "he ain't in the garden--that's sure and certain." "where is mr. wyndham?" granny inquired, as she sat down wearily in her arm-chair. "he's gone round to the stables," she said. "he's going to drive into marston. he says that master chris this morning was talking about the recruiting-sergeant staying there, and he thinks it may be possible he has taken it into his head to go to him, fancying he can enlist." "i really think that that is possible," i remarked. "dear me! dear me! what if anything should happen to the child on the way?" exclaimed granny, with fresh care. "i should not think of that; nothing will happen. someone will find him and bring him back," i replied, speaking more cheerfully than i altogether felt. as i spoke i turned to the window, more from a restless feeling of not knowing what to do with myself than for any other reason. certainly the last thing in the world i expected to see at that particular moment was the little beggar. yet--to my utter astonishment--that was exactly what i did see! there he was, after causing all the confusion and alarm of which i have told you, walking down the drive as calmly as possible; as if to disappear mysteriously from home for about two hours, without leaving any idea as to his whereabouts, was the most ordinary and everyday habit a little boy could indulge in. he was not alone, but was in company with a tall and gorgeous individual, whom i concluded was the sergeant, and the innocent cause of the little beggar's last and most startling escapade. he walked hand in hand with him in the most confiding fashion, chattering to him apparently in his usual fashion--without the least reserve, whilst jacky frisked along by their side. as my eyes fell upon this little group i uttered a loud exclamation of surprise, which induced granny to look up inquiringly. "why, there he is! chris!" i exclaimed, "coming down the drive!" and accompanied by briggs i hurried to meet him, granny following more leisurely. "here i am! here i am!" cried the little vagabond, gaily bounding forward to meet me. "i've 'listed, and i'm a soldier now like uncle godfrey." "a soldier!" burst out briggs contemptuously. "as naughty a child as can be found in christendom. that's what i should say!" "yes, chris," i said, in the gravest voice i could assume, "you have been a very naughty little boy indeed." at these strictures on his conduct chris pouted and kicked the gravel with some violence, whilst his companion relaxed into a broad smile, which he put up his hand to hide. "i found this here young gentleman, marm, on his way to marston," he said, touching his cap. "i came across him quite by a chance, as you may say, it happening that i was taking a walk in this direction. 'i've come to find you,' he says, ''cause i want to 'list and be a soldier like my uncle godfrey,' says he. 'but i won't shoot you,' says he, ''cause i know how to hold my gun, and i don't want to be put in chokee,' he says. guessing as how there was something amiss i finds out where he lives, and so here he is." "is he quite well and safe, quite well and safe?" granny asked nervously at this point, arriving just in time to hear the conclusion of the sergeant's explanation. "oh, chris, my darling, what have you been doing?" "i'm a soldier now, my granny," he stated proudly, with a defiant look at briggs and myself. "he said i was, didn't you?" he asked, turning to the sergeant, who smiled again. "he's going to lend me his soldier clothes till you buy me some. he said he would." "he'd have been here before if i could have got a lift, marm," explained the sergeant, "but it chanced nothing passed by us. it's been a long walk for the young gentleman, i'm afraid." but granny did not at once reply; she was looking at the little beggar with all the love of her heart overflowing her eyes, and as if she never again could bear to let him out of her sight. indeed, for the moment she was so absorbed that i think she hardly realized what the sergeant said. there was a slight pause, and then she said with much fervent gratitude and an old-fashioned courtesy of manner: "i am more indebted to you than i can express for your kind care of my little grandson. it is, indeed, a great relief to my mind to see him back safely." "why, my granny!" cried chris, with a little skip and a laugh, "i _always_ was safe. there was nothing the matter with me!" "hush! my child," granny then continued, though with an effort, as if the reaction from the anxiety she had been suffering was becoming too much for her control: "will you not go round to the kitchen and rest? and will you kindly tell parker, my butler, that i have sent you, and to see that you have some refreshment after your long walk." "thank you, marm," said the sergeant, touching his cap once more as he left, followed by a regretful glance from chris. "i should like to go with him," he remarked. "my darling," began granny reproachfully--then stopped short and tried to smile at me. "i'm very silly," she said, as the tears filled her eyes; "but, my dear, i have been feeling so anxious, so anxious, you understand...." she could say no more, but going to a wicker-chair near, she sat down, and covered her eyes with her hand. i said nothing, for i knew that her tears were a relief to her overwrought feelings. so for a time there was silence, which was at length broken by the little beggar, who, looking at her with pity mingled with curiosity, remarked in a hushed voice: "i b'lieve my granny is crying!" "and who do you think has made her cry?" suddenly asked a severe voice, and turning round somewhat apprehensively, the little beggar saw uncle godfrey--who, unperceived and unheard, had crossed the lawn--confronting him in righteous indignation. "i say, who do you think has made her cry?" he reiterated, as granny threw him an imploring glance as if to beg mercy for the offender. "i have just heard something of your last piece of disobedience from your friend the sergeant," he continued sternly. "fortunately for me i met him not two minutes ago, and so was saved a useless drive into marston on your account. now i should like to hear some explanation of your conduct." he looked so very tall and inflexible as he towered above the little beggar, and the little beggar looked so very small and abject as he stood before him, that my heart was stirred with pity for the diminutive transgressor in spite of his misdeeds. "well, answer," uncle godfrey said peremptorily. "what is the meaning of your behaviour, sir?" "i w--w--went to be a s--s--soldier," stammered chris, winking his eyes to keep back his tears, and grasping hold of granny's hand as if for protection. "what did i tell you this morning?" "i forget," answered the little beggar tremblingly. "then think," his uncle said; whilst granny said pleadingly: "don't be too severe, my son. he's only a little child." "quite old enough to know better," he replied unrelentingly; and, as chris did not at once answer, "didn't i tell you," he went on, "that you were not old enough to be a soldier? do you remember now?" "y--yes," answered chris, with a strangled sob. "but i suppose you thought that you knew better than i, and didn't tell me of your plan because you knew that you would not be allowed to carry it out. was it not so?" he asked. then as chris nodded he went on: "i hope now that you see the consequences of your behaviour," he continued; "everyone's time wasted, an endless amount of unnecessary anxiety and trouble, and your grandmother nearly ill. if ever anyone deserved a good punishment it is you." at this point the little beggar, unable to keep back his tears any longer, buried his head in his granny's lap and sobbed bitterly, and as if his heart would break; whilst for my part i went away. he had been very naughty, but i did not like to see him crying so bitterly. it made me sad. * * * * * it was about an hour later,--just lunch-time,--and i was walking up and down the gravelled terrace at the back of the house, when a little hand was slipped into mine, while a little voice remarked in an awe-struck tone: "what do you think? uncle godfrey put me in the corner for half an hour--a whole half-hour!" chris spoke with much solemnity. granny's punishments were of such a mild description, that this of uncle godfrey's, by comparison, appeared very heavy, and impressed upon him the grievousness of his offence. "and he says i'm not to have no pudding for dinner," he continued with some pathos; "no pudding at all. do you know what kind of pudding it is?" "no, i don't," i answered smiling. "'cause granny said i might have a roly-poly pudding soon," he said, "and i do hope it's not to-day. if it is bread-and-butter pudding i don't mind, as i don't like bread-and-butter pudding." "i can't tell you what pudding it is," i repeated. "uncle godfrey said i was a very naughty boy," he went on. "so you were," i said, but mildly, and not with the decision the case demanded. "i didn't want to frighten you, or my granny, or anyone," he said humbly, with the effects of his uncle's scolding and punishment still fresh in his memory. "but i did want to be a soldier and fight; and uncle godfrey says i'm not one, and i never was one, and that the soldier was only laughing at me when he said i was. and i can't be a soldier for a long while--a very, very, very long while." "not that kind of soldier," i said, "but i know another kind of soldier that you can be." "the queen's soldier?" asked chris eagerly. "no, but the king's soldier," i replied. "you can be one of christ's soldiers. whenever you try hard to be good and obedient when you feel inclined to be naughty and wilful; whenever you try not to say the angry word, to think the unkind thought you would like to say, you would like to think; whenever you turn your back on what is mean and unmanly and follow what is true and noble; whenever you do this for his sake, then, chris, you are fighting for christ, you are christ's soldier. "but," i went on as i saw that i had gained his attention, "there is a great difference between these battles and the others that you were speaking of. in fighting for the queen you have to be very brave and no coward, it is true. but you have the cheers of your countrymen to inspirit you. you know that your country is watching you, and that helps you to meet your enemies with courage. in these other battles, fought for christ, there are no cheers to excite you, no one watching but god, and god only. for these fights must be fought silently, quite by yourself,--god your only help,--or they are not worth the name of battles. but, by and by, on that silent battle-field, where so many struggles have been gone through, and so many hard victories won through the grace of god, the silence will at last be broken. it will be broken by a sound full of triumphant joy, too heavenly in its beauty for earthly ears to catch, but a sound that will make the angels in heaven rejoice, a sound of--" i paused as i tried to find appropriate words for the thought that, half-formed, was in my mind, gazing as i did so, as if to seek inspiration, at the boughs of the elms near, swaying and bowing slowly to and fro in the wind. "what?" said chris, impatiently tugging at my dress. "what?" "'the voice of a soul that goeth home'," i said, as the great poet's words came to me in all their beauty. chapter ix. the golden farthing. "it's the best thing; i should not propose it unless i were fully convinced that it is so." uncle godfrey, standing on the hearth-rug in the drawing-room, his hands in his pockets, was speaking with his usual decision. i, who had just entered, feeling that i was interrupting his conversation with granny, turned to leave. "please, don't go, miss baggerley. we should like to have the benefit of your opinion," remarked uncle godfrey. "yes, stay, my dear. i should be glad to know what you think," said granny. so i remained. "you tell her what we are talking about, godfrey," she said. "all right!" he answered. "well, the subject under discussion is the advisability of sending chris to be educated with my sister's little boy. she and her husband have just come home from india, and have taken a house for a time in norfolk. in a letter my mother had from her this morning, she suggests the plan i have mentioned; in fact, she is most anxious that it should be arranged. i think myself that it is a capital idea, for it seems to me that it would do chris all the good in the world to have the companionship of another child. he is a capital little chap, but i don't see how it can be good for him to have every whim and fancy attended to as he has at present, by my mother, by you, by everyone as far as i can see, except perhaps that excellent and depressing young woman, briggs. oh, i know what you would like to say; much that my mother has already said--that chris is not easily spoilt, that he has such a good disposition, and so on. all of which i grant; but, nevertheless, i think it would be better for him in the end to have a little less attention given to him than he has at present. besides, he would have the advantage of an excellent governess, who has been with my sister some time, and, according to her, is a paragon of a teacher. and that is not to be despised, it seems to me. chris, of course, would always come to my mother for the holidays, so that she still would see a great deal of him. now, frankly, don't you agree with my view of the case?" "i suppose so," i answered, though i was conscious of speaking unwillingly, for i knew what it would cost granny to give up the charge of her darling. "of course you do," he replied, "only you don't like to say so for the sake of my mother." "the darling is very dear to me," said granny, a little pathetically. "i only desire what is best for him." "i know that, my dear mother," uncle godfrey said gently--he could speak very gently when he liked, in spite of all his decided ways,--"no one could doubt it." no one spoke for a moment or two, and it was plain to see that a struggle was going on in granny's mind. "i don't want to persuade you against your judgment, mother," at last uncle godfrey said, still speaking very gently, even tenderly, and then we were silent again. then granny said with an effort--an effort that plainly cost her much: "you are right, my son; yes, you are right. i am getting too old to have the entire responsibility of the child, and, doubtless, it would be good, it would be more cheerful for him, to be with a little companion of his own age. yes, it is better that he should go to louisa." and then she got up and left the room, as if, for the time, she could say no more. it was a hard trial for her, because love for chris was as part of her life, and to part with him would be a wrench that neither uncle godfrey nor myself could fully comprehend, with all our desire to enter into her feelings. yet i think that she had never loved him so truly as at that moment when she gave him up. for is not our love the greatest when it is the most unselfish, when it is purified by self-sacrifice, as "gold that is tried in the fire"? * * * * * it was such a bright morning when the little beggar left us; a cold, crisp day in the beginning of october, the slight frost sprinkling the ground with a white powder that sparkled and glistened like diamonds in the autumn sun. uncle godfrey had come up from aldershot for the express purpose of taking him to his new home, which fact filled chris with no little pride. "me and my uncle godfrey are going a long way together," he kept informing everyone. "he has left all his soldiers to come and take me. isn't it kind of my uncle godfrey?" in a tone of devotion. i imagine that had it been anyone else but his uncle godfrey it would have been a difficult matter to reconcile him to leave his granny. as it was, he became inclined to be very tearful as the hour of departure drew near, and clung to her in a way that, whilst it touched and pleased her, made the thought of the parting more difficult to bear. and now the little beggar, who for the last few minutes had been playing in a somewhat restless fashion with uncle godfrey, returning between whiles to granny's side, was sent upstairs to have his hat put on. five minutes passed and he had not returned. granny became impatient. poor granny! who grudged losing even a minute of her darling's presence when she knew that she was about to lose it for so long. "my dear," she said to me, "will you kindly go and see if he is ready? the dog-cart will so soon be round." hastening upstairs, i went to the nursery to bring down the little beggar to rejoice her sight for the short period that remained before he left. as i approached the open door i heard briggs taking leave of him, and with more sentiment than was generally to be observed in the utterances of that dignified person. "and you won't forget your briggs?" she said, kissing him; "and you'll send her a letter sometimes?" "a long, long letter; ever so long," promised chris rashly. "and you've wroten down the place what you live at?" "yes, here it is," said briggs, holding out an envelope and reading aloud as i entered: "miss amelia briggs, 6 balaclava villas, upper touting, london." "and you'll write me a nice letter, won't you, master chris?" "nicer than ever you can think," he replied, as she kissed him again with something like emotion, and bade him good-bye. "i'm sorry to leave briggs," he said, as we went downstairs hand in hand; "but i am dreffully, dreffully sorry to leave my granny." "will i never come back to her again?" he asked, wistfully. "why, of course you will," i said, encouragingly. "but i don't want to go 'way from her," he remarked sadly. "you'll be a good boy, though," i said, "and not cry, or you will make her unhappy." "yes, i'll be the goodest boy," he promised me fervently, "and i won't make my granny unhappy; not a little, tiny bit." but when he saw her looking so sad his resolution somewhat failed, and, standing by her side, he gazed up into her face with his great eyes full of tears--eyes like violets with the dew upon them. suddenly, however, he brightened up, and turned to leave the room. "hulloa! where are you off to?" cried uncle godfrey. "the dog-cart will be round in a minute, and you'll be nowhere to be found." "i want to get something for my granny; i want to get something very badly for her," he said eagerly as he paused; "and it's in my coat, and it's outside, where i put it, with your greatcoat in the hall." "slightly involved," uncle godfrey remarked, laughing. "what can the darling be bringing me?" granny said, roused a little from the abstraction into which she had fallen. she was not long left in doubt, for almost as she asked the question chris returned, holding aloft a little, bright, red leather purse, the pride and joy of his heart. opening it, he went back to granny's side and showered its contents upon her lap--two halfpennies and four pennies, a sixpenny and a threepenny bit, and a bright farthing. "it's all for you, my granny, 'cause i'm going away," he said impulsively; "all for you! the golden farthing and everything?" "no, no, my pet; i won't take it from you," answered granny, much moved by this great gift. "yes, but you must, my granny; it's all for you," he repeated, with a fleeting glance of regret at the red purse in its splendour. "my darling, i won't take it all," she said, replacing the money in the purse, and putting it into his pocket--all save the "golden farthing", which she kept. "but, see, i will keep this as a keepsake from my own dear child." "yes, granny; and you'll never spend it," chris said seriously. "you'll keep it for always." "for always, my chris," she said tenderly, with a pathetic little tremble in her voice as she kissed him. and now the dog-cart came round to the door, and we all went out into the hall. then, with a hug from me, and many a loving kiss from granny as she clasped him in her arms, chris was lifted up by the side of uncle godfrey and driven away. "good-bye! good-bye! good-bye!" he called out shrilly, looking back and waving his hand, till his little voice grew faint in the distance. as for granny, she stood still on the door-step, heedless of the keen morning air, with one hand shading her eyes from the sunlight, while the other grasped tightly chris's parting gift--the "golden farthing". she stood there gazing after the dog-cart till it was out of sight. then she turned in silence and went back into the house. it seemed as if all the sunshine and brightness had gone out of it with the departure of that little beggar! * * * * * many years have passed since that summer's day when i found a little truant sobbing so bitterly by the roadside. granny is a very old lady now, and my hair is becoming quite white. as for the little beggar himself, the ambition of his childhood is fulfilled, and he is one of the queen's soldiers, having just passed into sandhurst, a fact in which granny takes an overwhelming pride. so overwhelming, that i really fancy if you were to ask her to name the greatest general of the future, she would have but one answer for you. cannot you guess what that answer would be? transcriber's notes this title was published as the second half of the book _unlucky_ by caroline austin (ebook #35653). page numbers begin with 161. the publisher's name comes from the first half of the book, as does the illustration. minor changes have been made to correct typesetters' errors; otherwise, every effort has been made to remain true to the author's words and intent. a table of contents has been added for the reader's convenience. page 202, "baggerly" changed to "baggerley" ("perhaps miss baggerley would tell you"). page 251, "beggarly" changed to "beggarley" ("not even miss beggarley"). +------------------------------------------+ | transcriber's note | |spelling, punctuation and inconsistencies | |in the original book have been retained. | +------------------------------------------+ [illustration: book cover] my new home [illustration: 'i'd like to know your sisters that are as little as me's names.'--p. 39.] _front._ [illustration: title page] my new home by mrs molesworth illustrated by l leslie brooke macmillan and co london: 1894 contents chapter i page windy gap 1 chapter ii at the foot of the ladder 15 chapter iii one and seven 28 chapter iv new friends and a plan 43 chapter v a happy day 58 chapter vi 'waving view' 71 chapter vii the beginning of troubles 83 chapter viii two letters 96 chapter ix a great change 111 chapter x no. 29 chichester square 125 chapter xi an arrival 139 chapter xii a catastrophe 153 chapter xiii harry 168 chapter xiv kezia's counsel 183 chapter xv 'happy ever since' 195 illustrations 'i'd like to know your sisters that are as little as me's names.' _frontispiece_ grandmamma's chair was still waiting to be decorated, so the next hour was spent very happily. 67 'i do wonder why they are so late'. 82 a nice-looking oldish man came forward and bowed respectfully to grandmamma. 126 it was the portrait of a young girl. 139 up rushed two or three ... men, cousin cosmo the first. 160 it was all uphill too. 173 chapter i windy gap my name is helena, and i am fourteen past. i have two other christian names; one of them is rather queer. it is 'naomi.' i don't mind having it, as i am never called by it, but i don't sign it often because it is such an odd name. my third name is not uncommon. it is just 'charlotte.' so my whole name is 'helena charlotte naomi wingfield.' i have never been called by any short name, like 'lena,' or 'nellie.' i think the reason must be that i am an only child. i have never had any big brother to shout out 'nell' all over the house, or dear baby sisters who couldn't say 'helena' properly. and what seems still sadder than having no brothers or sisters, i have never had a mother that i could remember. for mamma died when i was not much more than a year old, and papa six months before that. but my history has not been as sad as you might think from this. i was very happy indeed when i was quite a little child. till i was nine years old i really did not know what troubles were, for i lived with grandmamma, and she made up to me for everything i had not got: we loved each other so very dearly. i will tell you about our life. grandmamma was not at all the sort of person most children think of when they hear of a grandmother in a story. she was not old, with white hair and spectacles and always a shawl on, even in the house, and very old-fashioned in her ways. she did wear caps, at least i _think_ she always did, for, of course, she was not _young_. but her hair was very nicely done under them, and they were pretty fluffy things. she made them herself, and she made a great many other things herself--for me too. for, you will perhaps wonder more than ever at my saying what a happy child i was, when i tell you that we were really _very_ poor. i cannot tell you exactly how much or how little we had to live upon, and _most_ children would not understand any the better if i did. for a hundred pounds a year even, sounds a great deal to a child, and yet it is very little indeed for one lady by herself to live upon, and of course still less for two people. and i don't think we had much more than that. grandmamma told me when i grew old enough to understand better, that when i first came to live with her, after both papa and mamma were dead, and she found that there was no money for me--that was not poor papa's fault; he had done all that could be done, but the money was lost by other people's wrong-doing--well, as i was saying, when grandmamma found how it was, she thought over about doing something to make more. she was very clever in many ways; she could speak several languages, and she knew a lot about music, though she had given up playing, and she might have begun a school as far as her cleverness went. but she had no savings to furnish a large enough house with, and she did not know of any pupils. she could not bear the thought of parting with me, otherwise she might perhaps have gone to be some grand sort of housekeeper, which even quite, _quite_ ladies are sometimes, or she might have joined somebody in having a shop. but after a lot of thinking, she settled she would rather try to live on what she had, in some quiet, healthy, country place, though i believe she did earn some money by doing beautiful embroidery work, for i remember seeing her make lovely things which were never used in our house. this could not have gone on for long, however, as granny's eyes grew weak, and then i think she did no sewing except making our own clothes. now i must tell you about our home. it was quite a strange place to grandmamma when we first came there, but _i_ can never feel as if it had been so. for it was the first place i can remember, as i was only a year old, or a little more--and children very seldom remember anything before they are three--when we settled down at windy gap. that was the name of our cottage. it is a nice breezy name, isn't it? though it does sound rather cold. and in some ways it _was_ cold, at least it was windy, and quite suited its name, though at some seasons of the year it was very calm and sheltered. sheltered on two sides it always was, for it stood in a sort of nest a little way up the middlemoor hills, with high ground on the north and on the east, so that the only winds really to be feared could never do us much harm. it was more a nest than a 'gap,' for inside, it was so cosy, so very cosy, even in winter. the walls were nice and thick, built of rather gloomy-looking, rough gray stone, and the windows were deep--deep enough to have window-seats in them, where granny and i used often to sit with our books or work, as the inner part of the rooms, owing to the shape of the windows, was rather dark, and the rooms of course were small. we had a little drawing-room, which we always sat in, and a still smaller dining-room, which was very nice, though in reality it was more a kitchen than a dining-room. it had a neat kitchen range and an oven, and some things had to be cooked there, though there was another little kitchen across the passage where our servant kezia did all the messy work--peeling potatoes, and washing up, and all those sorts of things, you know. the dining-room-kitchen was used as little as possible for cooking, and grandmamma was so very, very neat and particular that it was almost as pretty and cosy as the drawing-room. upstairs there were three bedrooms--a good-sized one for grandmamma, a smaller one beside it for me, and a still smaller one with a rather sloping roof for kezia. the house is very easy to understand, you see, for it was just three and three, three upstairs rooms over three downstairs ones. but there was rather a nice little entrance hall, or closed-in porch, and the passages were pretty wide. so it did not seem at all a poky or stuffy house though it was so small. indeed, one could scarcely fancy a 'windy gap cottage' anything but fresh and airy, could one? i was never tired of hearing the story of the day that grandmamma first came to middlemead to look for a house. she told it me so often that i seem to know all about it just as if i had been with her, instead of being a stupid, helpless little baby left behind with my nurse--kezia was my nurse then--while poor granny had to go travelling all about, house-hunting by herself! what made her first think of middlemead she has never been able to remember. she did not know any one there, and she had never been there in her life. she fancies it was that she had read in some book or advertisement perhaps, that it was so very healthy, and dear grandmamma's one idea was to make me as strong as she could; for i was rather a delicate child. but for me, indeed, i don't think she would have cared where she lived, or to live at all, except that she was so very good. 'as long as any one is left alive,' she has often said to me, 'it shows that there is something for them to be or to do in the world, and they must try to find out what it is.' but there was not much difficulty for grandmamma to find out what _her_ principal use in the world was to be! it was all ready indeed--it was poor, little, puny, delicate, helpless _me_! so very likely it was as she thought--just the hearing how splendidly healthy the place was--that made her travel down to middlemead in those early spring days, that first sad year after mamma's death, to look for a nest for her little fledgling. she arrived there in pretty good spirits; she had written to a house-agent and had got the names of two or three 'to let' houses, which she at once tramped off from the station to look at, for she was very anxious not to spend a penny more than she could help. but, oh dear, how her spirits went down! the houses were dreadful; one was a miserable sort of genteel cottage in a row of others all exactly the same, with lots of messy-looking children playing about in the untidy strips of garden in front. _that_ would certainly not do, for even if the house itself had been the least nice, grandmamma felt sure i would catch measles and scarlet-fever and hooping-cough every two or three days! the next one was a still more genteel 'semi-detached' villa, but it was very badly built, the walls were like paper, and it faced north and east, and had been standing empty, no doubt, for these reasons, for years. _it_ would not do. then poor granny plodded back to the house agent's again. he isn't only a house agent, he has a stationer's and bookseller's shop, and his name is timbs. i know him quite well. he is rather a nice man, and though she was a stranger of course, he seemed sorry for grandmamma's disappointment. 'there are several very good little houses that i am sure you would like,' he said to her, 'and one or two of them are very small--but it is the rent. for though middlemead is scarcely more than a village it is much in repute for its healthiness, and the rents are rising.' 'what are the rents of the smallest of the houses you speak of?' grandmamma asked. 'forty pounds is the cheapest,' mr. timbs answered, 'and the situation of that is not so good. rather low and chilly in winter, and somewhat lonely.' 'i don't mind about the loneliness,' said grandmamma, 'but a low or damp situation would never do.' mr. timbs was looking over his lists as she spoke. her words seemed to strike him, and he suddenly peered up through his spectacles. 'you don't mind about loneliness,' he repeated. 'then i wonder----' and he turned over the leaves of his book quickly. 'there _is_ another house to let,' he said; 'to tell the truth i had forgotten about it, for it has never been to let unfurnished before; and it would be considered too lonely for all the year round by most people.' 'are there no houses near?' asked grandmamma. 'i don't fancy middlemead is the sort of place where one need fear burglars, and besides,' she went on with a little smile, 'we should not have much of value to steal. the silver plate that i have i shall leave for the most part in london. but in case of sudden illness or any alarm of that kind, i should not like to be out of reach of everybody.' 'there are two or three small cottages close to the little house i am thinking of,' said mr. timbs, 'and the people in them are very respectable. i leave the key with one of them.' then he went on to tell grandmamma exactly where it was, how to get there, and all about it, and with every word, dear granny said her heart grew lighter and lighter. she really began to hope she had found a nest for her poor little homeless bird--that was _me_, you understand--especially when mr. timbs finished up by saying that the rent was only twelve pounds a year, one pound a month. and she _had_ made up her mind to give as much as twenty pounds if she could find nothing nice and healthy for less. she looked at her watch; yes, there was still time to go to see windy gap cottage and yet get back to the station in time for the train she had fixed to go back by--that is to say, if she took a fly. she has often told me how she stood and considered about that fly. was it worth while to go to the expense? yes, she decided it was, for after all if she found nothing to suit us at middlemead she would have to set off on her travels again to house-hunt somewhere else. it would be penny wise and pound foolish to save that fly. mr. timbs seemed pleased when she said she would go at once--i suppose so many people go to house agents asking about houses which they never take, that when anybody comes who is quite in earnest they feel like a fisherman when he has really hooked a fish. he grew quite eager and excited and said he would go with the lady himself, if she would allow him to take a seat beside the driver to save time. and of course granny was very glad for him to come. it was getting towards evening when she saw windy gap for the first time, and it happened to be a very still evening--the name hardly seemed suitable, and she said so to mr. timbs. he smiled and shook his head and answered that he only hoped if she did come there to live that she would not find the name _too_ suitable. still, though there was a good deal of wind to be _heard_, he went on to explain that the cottage was, as i have already said, well sheltered on the cold sides, and also well and strongly built. 'none of your "paper-mashy," one brick thick, run-up-to-tumble-down houses,' said mr. timbs with satisfaction, which was certainly quite true. the end of it was, as of course you know already, that grandmamma fixed to take it. she talked it all over with mr. timbs, who 'made notes,' and promised to write to her about one or two things that could not be settled at once, and then 'with a very thankful heart,' as she always says when she talks of that day, she drove away again off to the station. the sun was just beginning to think about setting when she walked down the little steep garden path and a short way over the rough, hill cart-track--for nothing on wheels can come quite close up to the gate of windy gap--and already she could see what a beautiful show there was going to be over there in the west. she stood still for a minute to look at it. 'yes, madam,' said old timbs, though she had not spoken, 'yes, that is a sight worth adding a five pound note on to the rent of the cottage for, in my opinion. the sunsets here are something wonderful, and there's no house better placed for seeing them than windy gap. "sunset view" it might have been called, i have often thought.' 'i can quite believe what you say,' grandmamma replied, 'and i am very glad to have had a glimpse of it on this first visit.' many and many a time since then have we sat or stood together there, granny and i, watching the sun's good-night. i think she must have begun to teach me to look at it while i was still almost a baby. for these wonderful sunsets seem mixed up in my mind with the very first things i can remember. and still more with the most solemn and beautiful thoughts i have ever had. i always fancied when i was _very_ tiny that if only we could have pushed away the long low stretch of hills which prevented our seeing the very last of the dear sun, we should have had an actual peep into heaven, or at least that we should have seen the golden gates leading there. and i never watched the sun set without sending a message by him to papa and mamma. only in my own mind, of course. i never told grandmamma about it for years and years. but i did feel sure he went there every night and that the beautiful colours had to do with that somehow. grandmamma felt as if the lovely glow in the sky was a sort of good omen for our life at windy gap, and she felt happier on her journey back in the railway that evening than she had done since papa and mamma died. she told kezia and me all about it--you will be amused at my saying she told _me_, for of course i was only a baby and couldn't understand. but she used to fancy i _did_ understand a little, and she got into the way of talking to me when we were alone together especially, almost as if she was thinking aloud. i cannot remember the time when she didn't talk to me 'sensibly,' and perhaps that made me a little old for my age. granny says i used to grow quite grave when she talked seriously, and that i would laugh and crow with pleasure when she seemed bright and happy. and this made her try more than anything else to _be_ bright and happy. dear, dear grandmamma--how very, exceedingly unselfish she was! for i now see what a really sad life most people would have thought hers. all her dearest ones gone; her husband, her son and her son's wife--mamma, i mean--whom she had loved nearly, if not quite as much, as if she had been her own daughter; and she left behind when she was getting old, to take care of one tiny little baby girl--and to be so poor, too. i don't think even now i quite understand her goodness, but every day i am getting to see it more and more, even though at one time i was both ungrateful and very silly, as you will hear before you come to the end of this little history. and now that i have explained as well as i can about grandmamma and myself, and how and why we came to live in the funny little gray stone cottage perched up among the middlemoor hills, i will go on with what i can remember myself; for up till now, you see, all i have written has been what was told to me by other people, especially of course by granny. chapter ii at the foot of the ladder no, perhaps i was rather hasty in saying i could now go straight on about what i remember myself. there are still a few things belonging to the time before i can remember, which i had better explain now, to keep it all in order. i have spoken of grandmamma as being alone in the world, and so she was--as far as having no one _very_ near her--no other children, and not any brothers or sisters of her own. and on my mother's side i had no relations worth counting. mamma was an only child, and her father had married again after _her_ mother died, and then, some years after, he died himself, and mamma's half-brothers and sisters had never even seen her, as they were out in india. so none of her relations have anything to do with my story or with _me_. but grandmamma had one nephew whom she had been very fond of when he was a boy, and whom she had seen a good deal of, as he and papa were at school together. his name was not the same as ours, for he was the son of a sister of grandpapa's, not of a brother. it was vandeleur, mr. cosmo vandeleur. he was abroad when our great troubles came--i forget where, for though he was not a soldier, he moved about the world a good deal to all sorts of out-of-the-way places, and very often for months and months together, grandmamma never heard anything about him. and one of the things that made her still lonelier and sadder when we first came to windy gap was that he had never answered her letters, or written to her for a very long time. she thought it was impossible that he had not got her letters, and almost more impossible that he had not seen poor papa's death in some of the newspapers. and as it happened he had seen it and he had written to her once, anyway, though she never got the letter. he had troubles of his own that he did not say very much about, for he had married a good while ago, and though his wife was very nice, she was very, _very_ delicate. still, his name was familiar to me. i can always remember hearing grandmamma talk of 'cosmo,' and when she told me little anecdotes of papa as a boy, his cousin was pretty sure to come into the story. and kezia used to speak of him too--'master cosmo,' she always called him. for she had been a young under-servant of grandmamma's long ago, when grandpapa was alive and before the money was lost. that is one thing i want to say--that though kezia was our only servant, she was not at all common or rough. she turned herself into what is called 'a maid-of-all-work,' from being my nurse, just out of love for granny and me. and she was very good and very kind. since i have grown older and have seen more of other children and how they live, i often think how much better off i was than most, even though my home was only a cottage and we lived so simply, and even poorly, in some ways. everything was so open and happy about my life. i was not afraid of anybody or anything. and i have known children who, though their parents were very rich and they lived very grandly, had really a great deal to bear from cross or unkind nurses or maids, whom they were frightened to complain of. for children, unless they are _very_ spoilt, are not so ready to complain as big people think. i had nothing to complain of, but if i had had anything, it would have been easy to tell grandmamma all about it at once; it would never have entered my head not to tell her. she knew everything about me, and i knew everything about her that it was good for me to know while i was still so young--more, perhaps, than some people would think a child should know--about our not having much money and needing to be careful, and things like that. but it did not do me any harm. children don't take _that_ kind of trouble to heart. i was proud of being treated sensibly, and of feeling that in many little ways i could help her as i could not have done if she had not explained. and if ever there was anything she did not tell me about, even the keeping it back was done in an open sort of way. granny made no mysteries. she would just say simply-'i cannot tell you, my dear,' or 'you could not understand about it at present.' so that i trusted her--'always,' i was going to say, but, alas, there came a time when i did not trust her enough, and from that great fault of mine came all the troubles i ever had. _now_ i will go straight on. have you ever looked back and tried to find out what is really the very first thing you can remember? it is rather interesting--now and then the b--no, i don't mean to speak of them till they come properly into my story--now and then i try to look back like that, and i get a strange feeling that it is all there, if only i could keep hold of the thread, as it were. but i cannot; it melts into a mist, and the very first thing i _can_ clearly remember stands out the same again. this is it. i see myself--those looking backs always are like pictures; you seem to be watching yourself, even while you feel it is yourself--i see myself, a little trot of a girl, in a pale gray merino frock, with a muslin pinafore covering me nearly all over, and a broad sash of roman colours, with a good deal of pale blue in it (i have the sash still, so it isn't much praise to my memory to know all about _it_), tied round my waist, running fast down the short steep garden path to where granny is standing at the gate. i go faster and faster, beginning to get a little frightened as i feel i can't stop myself. then granny calls out-'take care, take care, my darling,' and all in a minute i feel safe--caught in her arms, and held close. it is a lovely feeling. and then i hear her say-'my little girlie must not try to run so fast alone. she might have fallen and hurt herself badly if granny had not been there.' there is to me a sort of parable, or allegory, in that first thing i can remember, and i think it will seem to go on and fit into all my life, even if i live to be as old as grandmamma is now. it is like feeling that there are always arms ready to keep us safe, through all the foolish and even wrong things we do--if only we will trust them and run into them. i hope the children who _may_ some day read this won't say i am preaching, or make fun of it. i must tell what i really have felt and thought, or else it would be a pretence of a story altogether. and this first remembrance has always stayed with me. then come the sunsets. i have told you a little about them, already. i must often have looked at them before i can remember, but one specially beautiful has kept in my mind because it was on one of my birthdays. i think it must have been my third birthday, though granny is half inclined to think it was my fourth. _i_ don't, because if it had been my fourth i should remember _some_ things between it and my third birthday, and i don't--nothing at all, between the running into granny's arms, which she too remembers, and which was before i was three, there is nothing i can get hold of, till that lovely sunset. i was sitting at the window when it began. i was rather tired--i suppose i had been excited by its being my birthday, for dear granny always contrived to give me some extra pleasures on that day--and i remember i had a new doll in my lap, whom i had been undressing to be ready to be put to bed with me. i almost think i had fallen asleep for a minute or two, for it seems as if all of a sudden i had caught sight of the sky. it must have been particularly beautiful, for i called out-'oh, look, look, they're lighting all the beauty candles in heaven. look, dollysweet, it's for my birfday.' grandmamma was in the room and she heard me. but for a minute or two she did not say anything, and i went on talking to dolly and pretending or fancying that dolly talked back to me. then granny came softly behind me and stood looking out too. i did not know she was there till i heard her saying some words to herself. of course i did not understand them, yet the sound of them must have stayed in my ears. since then i have learnt the verses for myself, and they always come back to me when i see anything very beautiful--like the trees and the flowers in summer, or the stars at night, and above all, lovely sunsets. but all i heard then was just- 'good beyond compare, if thus thy meaner works are fair'-and all i _remembered_ was- '... beyond compare, ... are fair.' i said them over and over to myself, and a funny fancy grew out of them, when i got to understand what 'beyond' meant. i took it into my head that 'compare' was the name of the hills, which, as i have said, came between us and the horizon on the west, and prevented our seeing the last of the sunset. and i used to make wonderful fairy stories to myself about the country beyond or behind those hills--the country i called 'compare,' where something, or everything--for i had lost the words just before, was 'fair' in some marvellous way i could not even picture to myself. for i soon learnt to know that 'fair' meant beautiful--i think i learnt it first from some of the old fairy stories grandmamma used to tell me when we sat at work. that evening she took me up in her arms and kissed me. 'the sun is going to bed,' she said to me, 'and so must my little helena, even though it is her birthday.' 'and so must dollysweet,' i said. i always called that doll 'dollysweet,' and i ran the words together as if it was one name. 'yes, certainly,' said granny. then she took my hand and i trotted upstairs beside her, carrying dollysweet, of course. and there, up in my little room--i had already begun to sleep alone in my little room, though the door was always left open between it and grandmamma's--there, at the ending of my birthday was another lovely surprise. for, standing in a chair beside my cot was a bed for my doll--_so_ pretty and cosy-looking. wasn't it nice of granny? i never knew any one like her for having _new_ sort of ideas. it made me go to bed so very, very happily, and that is not always the case the night of a birthday. i have known children who, even when they are pretty big, cry themselves to sleep because the long-looked-for day is over. it did not matter to me that my dolly's bed had cost nothing--except, indeed, what was far more really precious than money--granny's loving thought and work. it was made out of a strong cardboard box--the lid fastened to the box, standing up at one end like the head part of a french bed. and it was all beautifully covered with pink calico, which grandmamma had had 'by her.' granny was rather old-fashioned in some ways, and fond of keeping a few odds and ends 'by her.' and over that again, white muslin, all fruzzled on, that had once been pinafores of mine, but had got too worn to use any more in that way. there were little blankets, too, worked round with pink wool, and little sheets, and everything--all made out of nothing but love and contrivance! it was so delightful to wake the next morning and see dollysweet in her nest beside me. she slept there every night for several years, and i am afraid after some time she slept there a good deal in the day also. for i gave up playing with dolls rather young--playing with _a_ doll, i should say. i found it more interesting to have lots of little ones, or of things that did instead of dolls--dressed-up chessmen did very well at one time--that i could make move about and act and be anything i wanted them to be, more easily than one or two big dolls. still i always took care of dollysweet. i never neglected her or let her get dirty and untidy, though in time, of course, her pink-and-white complexion faded into pallid yellow, and her bright hair grew dull, and, worst of all--after that i never could bear to look at her--one of her sky-blue eyes dropped, not out, but _into_ her hollow head. poor old dollysweet! the day after my third birthday grandmamma began to teach me to read. _i_ couldn't have remembered that it was that very day, but she has told me so. i had very short lessons, only a quarter of an hour, i think, but though she was very kind, she was very strict about my giving my attention while i was at them. she says that is the part that really matters with a very little child--the learning to give attention. not that it would signify if the actual things learnt up to six or seven came to be forgotten--so long as a child knows how to learn. at first i liked my lessons very much, though i must have been a rather tiresome child to teach. for i would keep finding out likenesses in the letters, which i called 'little black things,' and i wouldn't try to learn their names. grandmamma let me do this for a few days, as she thought it would help me to distinguish them, but when she found that every day i invented a new set of likenesses, she told me that wouldn't do. 'you may have one likeness for each,' she said, 'but only if you really try to remember its name too.' and i knew, by the sound of her voice, that she meant what she said. so i set to work to fix which of the 'likes,' as i called them, i would keep. 'a' had been already a house with a pointed roof, and a book standing open on its two sides, and a window with curtains drawn at the top, and the wood of the sash running across half-way, and a good many other things which you couldn't see any likeness to it in, i am sure. but just as i was staring at it again, i saw old tanner, who lived in one of the cottages below our house, settling his double ladder against a wall. i screamed out with pleasure-'i'll have tan's ladder,' i said, and so i did. 'a' was always tan's ladder after that. and a year or two later, when i heard some one speak of the 'ladder of learning,' i felt quite sure it had something to do with the opened-out ladder with the bar across the middle. after all, i have had to get grandmamma's help for some of these baby memories. still, as i _can_ remember the little events i have now written down, i suppose it is all right. chapter iii one and seven i will go on now to the time i was about seven years old. 'baby' stories are interesting to people who know the baby, or the person that once was the baby, but i scarcely think they are very interesting to people who have never seen you or never will, or, if they do, would not know it was you! all these years we had gone on quietly living at windy gap, without ever going away. going away never came into my head, and if dear grandmamma sometimes wished for a little change--and, indeed, i am sure she must have done--she never spoke of it to me. now and then i used to hear other children, for there were a few families living near us, whose little boys and girls i very occasionally played with, speak of going to the sea-side in the summer, or to stay with uncles and aunts or other relations in london in the winter, to see the pantomimes and the shops. but it never struck me that anything of that sort could come in my way, not more than it ever entered my imagination that i could become a princess or a gipsy or anything equally impossible. happy children are made like that, i think, and a very good thing it is for them. and i was a very happy child. we had our troubles, troubles that even had she wished, grandmamma could not have kept from me. and i do not think she did wish it. she knew that though the _background_ of a child's life should be contented and happy, it would not be true teaching or true living to let it believe any life can be without troubles. one trouble was a bad illness i had when i was six--though this was really more of a trouble to granny and kezia than to me. for i did not suffer much pain. sometimes the illnesses that frighten children's friends the most do not hurt the little people themselves as much as less serious things. this illness came from a bad cold, and it _might_ have left me delicate for always, though happily it didn't. but it made granny anxious, and after i got better it was a long time before she could feel easy-minded about letting me go out without being tremendously wrapped up, and making sure which way the wind was, and a lot of things like that, which are rather teasing. i might not have given in as well as i did had it not happened that the winter which came after my illness was a terribly severe one, and my own sense--for even between six and seven children _can_ have some common sense--told me that nothing would be easier than to get a cough again if i didn't take care. so on the whole i was pretty good. but those months of anxiety and the great cold were very trying for grandmamma. her hair got quite, _quite_ white during them. these severe winters do not come often at middlemoor; not very often, at least. we had two of them during the time we lived there, 'year in and year out,' as kezia called it. but between them we had much milder ones, one or two quite wonderfully mild, and others middling--nothing really to complain of. still, a very tiny cottage house standing by itself is pretty cold during the best of winters, even though the walls were thick. and in wet or stormy days one does get tired of very small rooms and few of them. but the year that followed that bitter winter brought a pleasant little change into my life--the first variety of the kind that had come to me. i made real acquaintance at last with some other children. this was how it began. i was seven, a little past seven, at the time. one morning i had just finished my lessons, which of course took more than a quarter of an hour now, and was collecting my books together, to put them away, when i heard a knock at the front door. i was in the drawing-room--_generally_, especially in winter, i did my lessons in the dining-room. for we never had two fires at once, and for that reason we sat in the dining-room in the morning if it was cold, though granny was most particular always to have a fire in the drawing-room in the afternoon. i think now it was quite wonderful how she managed about things like that, never to fall into irregular or untidy ways, for as people grow old they find it difficult to be as active and energetic as is easy for younger ones. it was all for my sake, and every day i feel more and more grateful to her for it. never once in my life do i remember going into the dining-room to dinner without first meeting grandmamma in the drawing-room, when a glance would show her if my face and hands had been freshly washed and my hair brushed and my dress tidy, and upstairs again would i be sent in a twinkling if any of these matters were amiss. but this morning i had had my lessons in the drawing-room; to begin with, it was not winter now, but spring, and not a cold spring either; and in the second place, kezia had been having a baking of pastry and cakes in the dining-room oven, and granny knew my lessons would have fared badly if my attention had been disturbed every time the cakes had to be seen to. i was collecting my books, i said, to carry them into the other room, where there was a little shelf with a curtain in front on purpose for them, as we only kept our nicest books in the drawing-room, when this rat-a-tat knock came to the door. i was very surprised. it was so seldom any one came to the front door in the morning, and, indeed, not often in the afternoon either, and this knock sounded sharp and important somehow. though i was still quite a little girl i knew it would vex grandmamma if i tried to peep out to see who it was--it was one of the things she would have said 'no lady should ever do'--and i could not bear her to think i ever forgot how even a very small lady should behave. the only thing i could do was to look out of the side window, not that i could see the door from there, but i had a good view of the road where it passed the short track, too rough to call a road, leading to our own little gate. no cart or carriage could come nearer than that point; the tradesmen from middlemoor always stopped there and carried up our meat or bread or whatever it was--not very heavy basketfuls, i suspect--to the kitchen door, and i used to be very fond of standing at this window, watching the unpacking from the carts. there was no cart there to-day, but what _was_ there nearly took my breath away. 'oh, grandmamma,' i called out, quite forgetting that by this time kezia must have opened the door; 'oh, grandmamma, do look at the lovely carriage and ponies.' granny did not answer. she had not heard me, for she was in the dining-room, as i might have known. but i had got into the habit of calling to her whenever i was pleased or excited, and generally, somehow or other, she managed to hear. and i could not leave the window, i was so engrossed by what i saw. there was a girl in the carriage, to me she seemed a grown-up lady. she was sitting still, holding the reins. but i did not see the figure of another lady which by this time had got hidden by the house, as she followed the little groom whom she had sent on to ask if mrs. wingfield was at home, meaning at first, to wait till he came back. i heard her afterwards explaining to grandmamma that the boy was rather deaf and she was afraid he had not heard her distinctly, so she had come herself. and while i was still gazing at the carriage and the ponies, the drawing-room door, already a little ajar, was pushed wide open and i heard kezia saying she would tell mrs. wingfield at once. 'mrs. nestor; you heard my name?' said some one in a pleasant voice. i turned round. there stood a tall lady in a long dark green cloak, she had a hat on, not a bonnet, and i just thought of her as another lady, not troubling myself as to whether she was younger or older than the one in the carriage, though actually she was her mother. i was not shy. it sounds contradictory to say so, but still there is truth in it. i had seen too few people in my life to know anything about shyness. and all i ever had had to do with were kind and friendly. and i remembered 'my manners,' as old-fashioned folk say. i clambered down from the window-seat, and stroked my pinafore, which had got ruffled up, and came forward towards the lady, holding out my hand. i had no need to go far, for she had come straight in my direction. 'well, dear?' she said, and again i liked her voice, though i did not exactly think about it, 'and are you mrs. wingfield's little girl?' 'my name is helena charlotte naomi wingfield,' i said, very gravely and distinctly, 'and grandmamma is mrs. wingfield.' mrs. nestor was smiling still more by this time, but she smiled in a nice way that did not at all give me any feeling that she was making fun of what i said. 'and how old are you, my dear?--let me see, you have so many names! which are you called by, or have you any short name?' i shook my head. 'no, only "girlie," and that is just for grandmamma to say. i am always called "helena."' 'it is a very pretty name,' said my new friend. 'and how old are you, helena?' 'i am past seven,' i said. 'my birthday comes in the spring, in march. have you any little girls, and are any of them seven? i would like to know some little girls as big as me.' 'i have lots,' said mrs. nestor. 'one of them is in the pony-carriage outside. i daresay you can see her from the window.' i think my face must have fallen. 'oh,' i said, disappointedly. 'she's a lady.' 'no, indeed,' said mrs. nestor, now laughing outright; 'if you knew her, or when you know her, as i hope you will soon, i'm afraid you will think her much more of a tomboy than a lady. sharley is only eleven, though she is tall. her name is charlotte, like one of yours, but we call her sharley; we spell it with an "s" to prevent people calling her "charley," for she is boyish enough already, i am afraid. then i have three girls younger--nine, six, and three, and two boys of----' i was _so_ interested--my eyes were very wide open, and i shouldn't wonder if my mouth was too--that for once in my life i was almost sorry to see grandmamma, who at that moment opened the door and came in. 'i hope helena has been a good hostess?' she said, after she had shaken hands with mrs. nestor, whom she had met before once or twice. 'we have been having a cake baking this morning, and i was just giving some directions about a special kind of gingerbread we want to try.' 'i should apologise for coming in the morning,' said mrs. nestor, but grandmamma assured her it was quite right to have chosen the morning. 'helena and i go out in the afternoon whenever the weather is fine enough, and i should have been sorry to miss you. now, my little girl, you may run off to kezia. say good-bye to mrs. nestor.' i felt very disappointed, but i was accustomed to obey at once. but mrs. nestor read the disappointment in my eyes: that was one of the nice things about her. she was so 'understanding.' she turned to grandmamma. 'one of my daughters is in the pony-carriage,' she said. 'would you allow helena to go out to her? she would be pleased to see your garden, i am sure.' 'certainly,' said grandmamma. 'put on your hat and jacket, helena, and ask miss'--she had caught sight of the girl from the window and saw that she was pretty big--'miss nestor to walk about with you a little.' i flew off--too excited to feel at all timid about making friends by myself. 'call her sharley,' said mrs. nestor, as i left the room. 'she would not know herself by any other name.' in a minute or two i was running down the garden-path. when i found myself fairly out at the gate, and within a few steps of the girl, i think a feeling of shyness _did_ come over me, though i did not myself understand what it was. i hung back a little and began to wonder what i should say. i had so seldom spoken to a child belonging to my own rank in life. and i had not often spoken to any of the poorer children about, as there happened to be none in the cottages near us, and grandmamma was perhaps a little _too_ anxious about me, too afraid of my catching any childish illness. she says herself that she thinks she was. but of course i am now so strong and big that it makes it rather different. i had not much time left in which to grow shy, however. as soon as the girl saw that i was plainly coming towards her she sprang out of the carriage. 'has mother sent you to fetch me?' she said. i looked at her. now that she was out of the carriage and standing, i could see that she was not as tall as grandmamma, or as her own mother, and that her frock was a good way off the ground. and her hair was hanging down her back. still she seemed to me almost a grown-up lady. i am afraid her first impression of _me_ must have been that i was extremely stupid. for i went on staring at her for a moment or two before i answered. she was indeed opening her lips to repeat the question when i at last found my voice. 'i don't know,' i said. and if she did not think me stupid before i spoke, she certainly must have done so when i did. 'i don't know,' i repeated, considering over what her question exactly meant. 'no, i don't think it was fetching you. i was to ask you--would you like to walk round our garden? and p'raps--your mamma was going to tell me all your names, but grandmamma told me to run away. i'd like to know your sisters that are as little as me's names.' i remember exactly what i said, for sharley has often told me since how difficult it was for her not to burst out laughing at the funny way i spoke. but tomboy though she was in some respects, she had a very tender heart, and like her mother she was quick at understanding. so she answered quite soberly-'thank you. i should like very much to walk round your garden--though running would be even nicer. i'm not very fond of walking if i can run, and you have got such jolly steep paths and banks.' i eyed the steep paths doubtfully. 'you hurt yourself a good deal if you run too fast down the paths,' i said. 'the stones are so sharp.' sharley laughed. 'you speak from experience,' she said. 'that grass bank would be lovely for tobogganing.' 'i don't know what that is,' i replied. 'we'll show you if you come to see us at home,' she said. 'but i suppose i'd better not try anything like that to-day. you want to know my sisters' names? they are anna and valetta and baby----' 'never mind about baby,' i interrupted, rather abruptly, i fear. 'how big is anna, and--the other one?' sharley stood still and looked me well over. 'do you really mean "big"?' she said, 'or "old"? anna is nine and val is six; but as for bigness--anna is nearly as tall as i am, and val is a good bit bigger than you.' i felt and looked nearly ready to cry. 'and i'm past seven,' i said, 'i wish i wasn't so little. it's like being a baby, and i don't care for babies.' 'never mind,' replied sharley consolingly, 'you needn't be at all babyish because you're little. one of our boys is very little, but he's not a bit of a baby. i'm sure val will like to play with you, and so will anna--and all of us, for that matter.' i began to think sharley a very nice girl. i put my hand in hers confidingly. 'i'd like to come,' i said, 'and i'd like to play that funny name down the grass-bank here, if you'll show me how.' 'all right,' she said. 'we'll have to ask leave, i suppose. but you haven't told me your name yet. the children are sure to ask me.' i repeated it--or them--solemnly. '"charlotte"--that's my name,' sharley remarked. 'i'm never called it,' i said. 'i'm always called helena.' sharley looked rather surprised. 'fancy!' she said. '_we_ all call each other by short names and nicknames and all kinds of absurd names. anna is generally nan, and the boys are pert and quick--at least those are the names that have lasted longest. i daresay it's partly because they are just a little like their real names--percival and quintin.' 'what a great many of you there are!' i said, but sharley took my remark in perfectly good part, even though i went on to add--'it's like the baker's children--i counted them once, but i couldn't get them right; sometimes they came to nine and sometimes to eleven.' 'do you mean the baker's on the way to high middlemoor?' said sharley. 'oh yes, it must be them--papa calls them the baker's dozen always. no, we're not as many as that. we are only seven--us four girls, and pert and quick, and jerry, our big brother, who's at school. dear me, it must be dull to be only one!' just then we heard the voices of grandmamma and sharley's mother coming towards us. and a minute or two later the pony-carriage drove away again, sharley nodding back friendly farewells. chapter iv new friends and a plan i stood looking after it as long as it was in sight. i felt quite strange, almost a little dazed, as if i had more than i could manage to think over in my head. grandmamma, who was standing behind me, put her hand on my shoulder. i looked up at her, and i saw that her face seemed pleased. 'is that a nice lady, grandmamma?' i said. i do not quite know why i asked about sharley's mother in that way, for i felt sure she was nice. i think i wanted grandmamma to help me to arrange my ideas a little. 'very nice, dear,' she said. 'did you not think she spoke very kindly?' 'yes, i did, grandmamma,' i replied. i had a rather 'old-fashioned' way of speaking sometimes, i think. 'and her little girl--well, she is not a little girl, exactly, is she?--seems very bright and kind too,' grandmamma went on. 'yes,' i replied, but then i hesitated. grandmamma wanted to find out what i was thinking. 'you don't seem quite sure about it?' she said. 'yes, grandmamma. she is a very kind girl, but she made me feel funny. she has such a lot of brothers and sisters, and she says it must be so dull to be only one. grandmamma, is it dull to be only one?' grandmamma did not smile at my odd way of asking her what i could have told myself, better than any one else. a little sad look came over her face. 'i hope not, dear,' she answered. 'my little girl does not find her life dull?' i shook my head. 'i love you, grandmamma, and i love kezia, but i don't know about "dull" and things like that. i think sharley thinks i'm a very stupid little girl, grandmamma.' and all of a sudden, greatly to dear granny's surprise and still more to her distress, i burst into tears. she led me back into the house, and was very kind to me. but she did not say very much. she only told me that she was sure sharley did not think anything but what was nice and friendly about me, and that i must not be a fanciful little woman. and then she sent me to kezia, who had kept an odd corner of her pastry for me to make into stars and hearts and other shapes with her cutters, as i was very fond of doing. so that very soon i was quite bright and happy again. but in her heart granny was saying that it would be a very good thing for me to have some companions of my own age, to prevent my getting fanciful and unchildlike, and, worst of all, too much taken up with myself. a few days after that, grandmamma told me that the three nestor girls were coming twice a week to read french with her. i think i have said already that grandmamma was very clever, very clever indeed, and that she knew several foreign languages. she had been a great deal in other countries when grandpapa was alive, and she could speak french beautifully. so i wasn't surprised, and only very pleased when she told me about sharley and her sisters. for i was too little to understand what any one else would have known in a moment, that dear granny was going to do this to make a little more money. my illness and all the things she had got for me--even the having more fires--had cost a good deal that last winter, and she had asked the vicar of our village to let her know if he heard of any family wanting french or german lessons for their children. this was the reason of mrs. nestor's call, and it was because they were going to settle about the french lessons that grandmamma had sent me out of the room. it was not till long afterwards that i understood all about it. just now i was very pleased. 'oh, how nice!' i said, 'and may i play with them after the lessons are done, do you think, grandmamma? and will they ask me to go to their house to tea sometimes? sharley said they would--at least she nearly said it.' 'i daresay you will go to their house some day. i think mrs. nestor is very kind, and i am sure she would ask you if she thought it would please you,' said grandmamma. but then she stopped a little. 'i want you to understand, helena dear, that these children are coming here really to learn french. so you must not think about playing with them just at first, that must be as their mother likes.' grandmamma did not say what she felt in her own mind--that she would not wish to seem to try to make acquaintance with the nestors, who were very rich and important people, through giving lessons to their children. for she was proud in a right way--no, i won't call it proud--i think dignified is a better word. but mrs. nestor was too nice herself not to see at once the sort of person grandmamma was. she was almost _too_ delicate in her feelings, for she was so afraid of seeming to be in the least condescending or patronising to us, that she kept back from showing us as much kindness as she would have liked to do. so it never came about that we grew very intimate with the family at moor court--that was the name of their home--i really saw more of the three girls at our own little cottage than in their own grand house. but as i go on with my story you will see that there was a reason for my telling about them, and about how we came to know them, rather particularly. the french lessons began the next week. sharley and her sisters used to come together, sometimes walking with a maid, sometimes driving over in a little pony-cart--not the beautiful carriage with the two ponies; that was their mother's--but what is called a governess-cart, in which they drove a fat old fellow called bunch, too fat and lazy to be up to much mischief. when they drove over they brought a young groom with them, but their governess very seldom came. i think mrs. nestor thought it would be pleasanter for granny to give the lessons without a grown-up person being there, and sharley said their governess used that time to give the two boys latin lessons. mrs. nestor would have been very glad if grandmamma would have agreed to teach pert and quick french too, but granny did not think she could spare time for it, though a year or two later when percival had gone to school she did let quick join what we called the second class. i should have explained that though i could not read or write french at all well, i could speak it rather nicely, as grandmamma had taken great pains to accustom me to do so since i was quite little. i think she had a feeling that i might have to be a governess or something of the kind when i was grown-up, and that made her very anxious about my lessons from the beginning of them. and though things have turned out quite differently from that, i have always been _very_ glad that i was well taught from the first. it is such a comfort to me now that i am really growing big to be able to show grandmamma that i am not far back for my age compared with other girls. sharley was the first class all by herself, and nan and vallie were the second. i did not do any lessons with them, but after each class had had half an hour's teaching we had conversation for another half hour, and when the conversation time began i was always sent for. grandmamma had asked mrs. nestor if she would like that, and mrs. nestor was very pleased. we had great fun at the 'conversation.' you can scarcely believe what comical things the little girls said when they first began to try to talk. grandmamma sometimes laughed till the tears came into her eyes--i do love to see her laugh--and i laughed too, partly, i think, because she did, for the funny things they said did not seem quite so funny to me, of course, as to a big person. but altogether the french lessons were very nice and brought some variety into our lives. i think granny and i looked forward to them as much as the nestor children did. grandmamma's birthday happened to come about a fortnight after they began. i told sharley about it one day when she was out in the garden with me, while her sisters were at their lesson. we used to do that way sometimes, only we had to promise to speak french all the time, so that i really had a little to do with teaching them as well as grandmamma, and to tease me, on these occasions sharley would call me 'mademoiselle,' and make nan and vallie do the same. they used in turn, you see, to be with me while sharley was with granny. it was rather difficult to make her understand about grandmamma's birthday, i remember, for she could scarcely speak french at all then, and at last she burst out into english, for she got very interested about it. 'i'll tell mrs. wingfield we have been talking english,' she said, 'and i'll tell her it was all my fault. but i must understand what you are saying.' 'it's about grandmamma's birthday,' i said. 'i do so want to make a plan for it.' sharley's eyes sparkled. she loved making plans, and so did vallie, who was very quick and bright about everything, while nan was rather a sleepy little girl, though exceedingly good-natured. i don't think i _ever_ knew her speak crossly. 'i heard something about "fãªte,"' said sharley, 'about fãªte and grandmamma. why do you call her birthday her "fãªte"?' 'i didn't,' i replied. '"fãªte" doesn't generally mean birthday--it means something else, something about a saint's day. i said i wanted to "fãªter" dear granny on her birthday, and i wondered what i could do. last year i worked a little case in that stiff stuff with holes in, to keep stamps in, and kezia made tea-cakes. but i can't think of anything i can work for her this year, and tea-cakes are only tea-cakes,' and i sighed. 'don't look so unhappy,' said sharley, '_we'll_ plan. we're rather short of plans just now, and we always like to have some on hand for first thing in the morning--val and i do at least. nan never wakes up properly. leave it to us, helena, and the next time we come i'll tell you what we've thought of.' i had a good deal of faith in sharley's cleverness in some things, already, though i can't say that it shone out in speaking french. so i promised to wait to see what she and vallie thought of. when we went in we told grandmamma that we had been speaking english. i made it up into very good french, and sharley said it, which pleased granny. 'and what was it you were so eager about that you couldn't wait to say it, or hear it in french?' she asked sharley. we had not expected this, and sharley got rather red. 'it's a secret,' she blurted out. grandmamma looked just a little grave. 'i am not very fond of secrets,' she said. 'and helena has never had any.' 'oh yes, i have, grandmamma,' i said. i did not mean to contradict rudely, and i don't think it sounded like that, though it looks rather rude written down. 'i had one this time last year--don't you remember?--about your little stamp case.' granny's face brightened up. it did not take very quick wits to put two and two together, and to guess from what i said that the secret had to do with her birthday. and sharley was too anxious for grandmamma not to be vexed, to think about her having partly guessed the secret. 'ah, well!' said granny, 'i think i can trust you both.' 'yes, indeed, you may,' said sharley. 'there's nothing about mischief in it, and the only secrets mother's ever been vexed with me about had to do with mischief.' 'sharley dressed up a pillow to tumble on pert's head from the top of his door, once,' said nan in her slow solemn voice, 'and he screamed and screamed.' 'it was because he was such a boasty boy, about never being frightened,' said sharley, getting rather red. 'but i never did it again. and this secret is quite, quite a different kind.' i felt very eager for the next french day, as we called them, to come, to hear what sharley had thought of. i told kezia about it, and then i almost wished i had not, for she said she did not know that grandmamma would be pleased at my talking about her birthday and 'such like' to strangers. i think kezia forgot sometimes how very little a girl i still was. i did not understand what she meant, and all i could say was that the three girls were not strangers to me. afterwards i saw what kezia was thinking of, she was afraid of the nestors sending some present to grandmamma, and that, she would not have liked. but mrs. nestor was too good and sensible for anything of that kind. when sharley and nan and vallie came the next time, i ran to meet them, full of anxiety to know if they had made any 'plans.' they all looked very important, but rather to my disappointment the first thing sharley said to me was-'don't ask us yet, helena. we've promised mother not to tell. she's going to come to fetch us to-day, and she's made a lovely plan, but first she has to speak about it to your grandmamma.' 'then it won't be a surprise,' i began, but vallie answered before i had time to say any more. 'oh yes, it will. there's to be a surprise mixed up with it, and we're to settle that part of it all ourselves--you and us.' i found it very difficult to keep to speaking french that day, i can tell you. and it seemed as if the hour and a half of lessons spread out to twice as much before mrs. nestor at last came. we all ran out into the garden while she went in to talk to grandmamma. they were very kind and did not keep us long waiting, and soon we heard granny calling us from the window. her face was quite pleased and smiling. i saw in a moment that she was not going to say i should not have spoken of her birthday to the little girls. 'mrs. nestor is thinking of a great treat for you--and for me, helena,' she said. 'and she and i want you to know about it at once, so that you may all talk about it together and enjoy it beforehand as well. some little bird, it seems, has flown over to moor court and told that next tuesday week will be your old granny's birthday, and mrs. nestor has invited us to spend the afternoon of it there. you will like that, will you not?' i looked up at grandmamma, feeling quite strange. you will hardly believe that i had never in my life paid even a visit of this simple kind. 'yes,' i whispered, feeling myself getting pink all over, as i knew that mrs. nestor was looking at me, 'yes, thank you.' then dear little vallie came close up to me, and said in a low voice-'now we can settle about the surprise. come quick, helena--the surprise will be the fun.' and when i found myself alone with the others again, all three of them, even nan, chattering at once, i soon found my own tongue again, and the strange, unreal sort of feeling went off. they were very simple unspoilt children, though their parents were rich and what i used to call 'grand.' it is quite a mistake to think that the children who live in very large houses and have ponies and lots of servants and everything they can want are sure to be spoilt. very often it is quite the opposite. for, if their parents are good and wise, they are _extra_ careful not to spoil them, knowing that the sort of trials that cannot be kept away from poorer children, and which are a training in themselves in some ways, are not likely to come to _their_ children. i even think now, looking back, that there was really more risk of being spoilt, for me myself, than for sharley and her brothers and sisters. being allowed to be selfish is the real beginning and end of being spoilt, i am quite sure. the 'surprise' they had thought of was a very simple one, and one that i knew grandmamma would like. it was that we should have tea out-of-doors, in an arbour where there was a table and seats all round. and we were to decorate it with flowers, and a wicker arm-chair was to be brought out for granny, and wreathed with greenery and flowers, to show that she was queen of the feast. 'so it will be a "fãªte," after all, helena,' said sharley. they were nearly as eager and pleased about it as i was myself, for they had already learnt to love my grandmamma very dearly. 'there's only one thing,' we kept saying to each other every time we met before the great day, 'it _mustn't_ rain. oh, do let us _hope_ it will be fine,--beautifully fine.' chapter v a happy day and it _was_ a fine day! things after all do not always go wrong in this world, though some people are fond of talking as if they did. that day, that happy birthday, stands out in my mind so clearly that i think i must write a good deal about it, even though to most children there would not seem anything very remarkable to tell. but to me it was like a peep into fairyland. to begin with, it was the very first time in my life that i had ever paid a visit of any kind except once or twice when i had had tea in rather a dull fashion at the vicarage, where there were no children and no one who understood much about them. miss linden, the vicar's sister, a very old-maid sort of lady, though she meant to be kind, had my tea put out in a corner of the room by myself, while she and grandmamma had theirs in a regular drawing-room way. they had muffins, i remember, and miss linden thought muffins not good for little girls, and my bread-and-butter was cut thicker than i ever had it at the cottage, and the slice of currant-bread was not nearly as good as kezia's home-made cake--even the plainest kind. no, my remembrances of going out to tea at the vicarage were not very enlivening. how different the visit to moor court was! it began--the pleasure of it at least to me--the first thing when i awoke that morning, and saw without getting out of bed--for my room was so little that i could not help seeing straight out of the window, and i never had the blinds drawn down--that it was a perfectly lovely morning. it was the sort of morning that gives almost certain promise of a beautiful day. in our country, because of the hills, you see, it isn't always easy to tell beforehand what the weather is going to be, unless you really study it. but even while i was quite a child i had learnt to know the signs of it very well. i knew about the lights and shadows coming over the hills, the gray look at a certain side, the way the sun set, and lots of things of that kind which told me a good deal that a stranger would never have thought of. i knew there were some kinds of bright mornings which were really less hopeful than the dull and gloomy ones, but there was nothing of that sort to-day, so i curled myself round in bed again with a delightful feeling that there was nothing to be feared from the weather. i did not dare to get up till i heard kezia's knock at the door--for that was one of grandmamma's rules, and though she had not many rules, those there _were_ had to be obeyed, i can assure you. i must have fallen asleep again, for the next thing i remember was hearing grandmamma's voice, and there she was, standing beside my bed. 'oh, granny!' i called out, 'what a shame for you to be the one to wake me on _your_ birthday.' 'no, dear,' said grandmamma, 'it is quite right. kezia hasn't been yet, it is just about her time.' i sprang up and ran to the table, where i had put my little present for grandmamma the night before, for of course i had got a present for her all of my own, besides having planned the treat with the nestors. i remember what my present was that year. it was a little box for holding buttons, which i had bought at the village shop, and it had a picture of the old, old abbey church at middlemoor on its lid. grandmamma has that button-box still, i saw it in her work-basket only yesterday. i was very proud of it, for it was the first year i had saved pennies enough to be able to _buy_ something instead of working a present for grandmamma. she did seem so pleased with it. i remember now the look in her eyes as she stooped to kiss me. then she turned and lifted something which i had not noticed from a chair standing near. 'this is my present for my little girl,' she said, and though i was inclined to say that it was not fair for her to give me presents on her birthday, i was so delighted with what she held out for me to see that i really could scarcely speak. what do you think it was? a new frock--the prettiest by far i had ever had. the stuff was white, embroidered by grandmamma herself in sky-blue, in such a pretty pattern. she had sat up at night to do it after i was in bed. 'oh, grandmamma,' i said, 'how beautiful it is! oh, may i--' but then i stopped short--'may i wear it to-day?' was what i was going to say. but, 'oh no,' i went on, 'it might get dirtied.' 'you are to wear it to-day, dear,' said grandmamma, 'if that is what you were going to say, so you needn't spoil your pleasure by being afraid of its getting dirtied; it will wash perfectly well, for i steeped the silk i worked it in, in salt and water before using it, to make the colour quite fast. i will leave it here on the back of the chair, and when the time comes for you to get ready i will dress you myself, to be sure that it is all quite right.' i kept peeping at my pretty frock all the time i was dressing; the sight of it seemed the one thing wanting to complete my happiness. for though sharley and nan and vallie were never too grandly dressed, their things were always fresh and pretty, and i _had_ been thinking to myself that none of my summer frocks were quite as nice or new-looking as theirs. and to-day, though only may, was really summer. grandmamma wouldn't let me do very much that morning, as she did not want me to be tired for the afternoon. 'is it a very long walk to moor court?' i asked her. grandmamma smiled, a little funnily, i thought afterwards. 'yes,' she said, 'it is between two and three miles.' 'then we must set off early,' i said, 'so as not to have to go too fast and be tired when we get there. i don't mind for coming back about being tired; there'll be nothing to do then but go to bed, it'll all be over!' and i gave a little sigh, 'but i don't want to think about its being over yet.' 'we must start at half-past two,' said grandmamma. 'that will be time enough.' long before half-past two, as you can fancy, i was quite ready. my frock fitted perfectly, and even kezia, who was rather afraid of praising my appearance for fear of making me conceited, said with a smile that i did look very nice. i quite thought so myself, but i really think all my pride was for grandmamma's frock. i settled myself in the window-seat looking towards the road, as i have explained. 'stay there quietly,' grandmamma said to me, 'till i call you.' and again i noticed a sort of little twinkle in her eyes, of which before long i understood the reason. i must have been sitting there a quarter of an hour at least when i thought i heard wheels coming. it wasn't the usual time for the butcher or baker, or any of the cart-people, as i called them, and wheels of any other kind seldom came our way. so i looked out with great curiosity to see what it could be. to my astonishment, there came trotting along the short bit of level road leading to our own steep path the two ponies and the pretty pony-carriage that had so delighted me the first time i saw them. sharley was driving, the little groom behind her. but this time my first feeling was certainly not one of pleasure. on the contrary i started in dismay. 'oh dear,' i thought, 'there's something the matter, and sharley has come herself to say we can't go.' i rushed upstairs, the tears already very near my eyes. 'granny, granny,' i exclaimed, 'the pony-carriage has come and sharley's there! i'm sure she's come to tell us we can't go.' my voice broke down before i could say anything more. grandmamma was coming out of her room quite ready, and even in the middle of my fright i could not help thinking how nice she looked in her pretty dark gray dress and black lace cloak, which, though she had had it a great, great many years, always seemed to me rich and grand enough for the queen herself to wear. 'my dear little girl,' she said, 'you really must not get into the way of fancying misfortunes before they come. it is a very bad habit. why shouldn't sharley have come to fetch us? don't you think it would be nicer to drive to moor court than to walk all that way along the dusty road?' 'oh, granny,' i cried, and my tears, if they were there, vanished away like magic. 'oh, granny, that would be too lovely. but are you quite sure?' 'quite,' said grandmamma, 'i promised to keep it a secret to please sharley, as she is so fond of surprises. run down now to meet her and tell her we are quite ready.' how perfectly delightful that drive was! i sat with my back to the ponies, on the low seat opposite grandmamma and sharley. 'vallie wanted to come too,' said sharley, 'but that seat isn't very comfortable for two.' it was very comfortable for one, at least i found it so. i had hardly ever been in a carriage before, and sharley drove so nice and fast; she was very proud of being allowed to drive the two ponies. but they were so good, they seemed, like every one and everything else, determined to make that day a perfectly happy one. when we got to the lodge of moor court sharley began to drive more slowly, and looked about as if expecting some one. 'the others said they would come to meet us,' she explained, 'and sometimes pert is rather naughty about startling the ponies, even though he can't bear being startled himself. oh, there they are!' as she spoke the four figures appeared at a turn in the drive. nan and vallie in the pretty pink frocks, which no longer made me feel discontented with my own, as nothing could be prettier, i was quite firmly convinced, than grandmamma's beautiful work, which sharley had already admired in her own pleasant and hearty way. we two got out of the pony-carriage, leaving grandmamma to be driven up to the house by the groom, the little girls saying that their mother was waiting for her on the lawn in front. i had never seen the boys before. percival seemed to me quite big, though he was one year younger than sharley and smaller for his age. quintin was more like nan, slow and solemn and rather fat, so his nickname of quick certainly didn't suit him very well. but they were both very nice and kind to me. i am quite sure sharley had talked to them well about it before i came, though it was easy to see that when pert was not on his best behaviour he was very fond of playing tricks. i felt very happy, and not at all strange or frightened as i walked along between sharley and val, each holding one of my hands and chattering away about all we were going to do, though i had a queer, rather nice feeling as if i must be in a dream, it all seemed so pretty and wonderful. and indeed many people, far better able to judge of such things than i, think that moor court is one of the loveliest places in england. i did not see much of the inside of the house that day, though i learnt to know it well afterwards. it was very old and very large, and everything about it seemed to me quite perfect. but on this day we amused ourselves almost altogether out of doors. [illustration: grandmamma's chair was still waiting to be decorated, so the next hour was spent very happily.--p. 67.] the children had already done a good deal to the arbour where we were to have tea; but grandmamma's chair was still waiting to be decorated, so the next hour was spent very happily in gathering branches of ivy and other pretty green things to twine about it, with here and there a bunch of flowers, which mrs. nestor had told the gardener we were to have. vallie was very anxious to make a wreath for grandmamma, but though i thought it a very nice idea, i was afraid it would look rather funny, and when sharley reminded us that wreaths couldn't be worn very well above a bonnet, we quite gave it up. but we did make the table look very pretty, and at last everything was ready, except the tea itself and the hot cakes, which of course the servants would bring at the very end. by the time we had finished it was nearly four o'clock, and we were not to have tea till half-past, so there was time for a nice game of hide-and-seek among the trees. i don't think i ever ran so fast or laughed so much in my life. they were all such good-natured children, even if they did have little quarrels they were soon over, and then i think they were all especially kind to me. i suppose they were sorry for me in some ways that did not come into my own mind at all. then we all went to the house to be made tidy for tea, and in spite of what grandmamma had said about not minding if my frock was dirtied i was very pleased to find that it was perfectly clean. grandmamma and mrs. nestor were waiting for us in the drawing-room; and we all went back to the arbour together, sharley walking first with grandmamma, which was quite right, as the plan about tea had been all her own. grandmamma _was_ pleased. i think she liked to see how fond these children had already got to be of her, though perhaps it would have been as well if quick had not informed us in the middle of tea that he liked her a great, great deal better than his real grandmamma, whose nose was very big and her hair quite black. 'but she's very kind to us too,' said sharley, 'only i don't think she cares much for little boys.' 'nor for tomboys either,' said pert, who did love teasing sharley whenever he had a chance. 'jerry's her favourite,' said nan. 'and i think he deserves to be,' said her mother. 'i wish he was here to-day, i know that,' said sharley. 'it's such a long time to the holidays, and it won't be so nice this year when they do come, as most likely a boy's coming with jerry.' 'two boys,' corrected pert, 'their name's vandeleur, and they're his greatest friends.' 'vandeleur?' said grandmamma. 'i wonder if----' and then she stopped. 'i have relations of that name,' she said, 'but i don't suppose they belong to the same family.' 'it is not a common name,' said mrs. nestor. 'but these boys are, i believe, orphans. both their father and mother are dead, are they not, sharley? sharley knows the most about them,' she went on, 'for gerard and she write long letters to each other always, and she hears all about his school friends and everything he is interested in.' 'yes,' said sharley, 'they are orphans. they have an old aunt or some relation who takes care of them. but i think they are rather lonely. they often spend all their holidays at school--that was why jerry thought it would be nice to invite them here. i daresay it will be very nice for _them_, but _i_ think it will quite spoil the holidays for _us_.' 'come, sharley,' said her mother, 'you must not be selfish.' 'what are the boys' christian names?' asked grandmamma. 'harry and lindsay,' sharley replied. grandmamma shook her head. 'no,' she said, as if thinking aloud, 'i never heard those names in the branch of the vandeleurs i am connected with.' chapter vi 'waving view' i was only eight years old at the time we made the acquaintance of the family at moor court. it may seem strange and unlikely that i should remember so clearly all that happened when we first got to know them, but even though i was so young at the time i _do_ recollect all about it very well. for it was so new to me that it made a great impression. till then i had never had any real companions; as i have said already, i had scarcely ever had a meal out of our own house. it was like the opening of a new world to me. but i have asked grandmamma about a few things which she remembers more exactly than i do. especially about the vandeleur boys, i mean about what was said of them. but for things that happened afterwards i daresay i should never have thought of this again, though grandmamma did not forget about it. she told me over quite lately everything that had passed at that birthday tea. the months, and indeed the years that followed that first happy day at moor court seem to me now, on looking back upon them, a good deal mixed up together--till, that is to say, a change, a melancholy one for me, came over my happy friendship with the nestor children. this change, however, did not come for fully three years, and these three years were very bright and sunny ones. sharley and her sisters continued all that time to be my grandmamma's pupils--winter and summer, all the year round, except for some weeks of holiday at christmas, and a rather longer time in the autumn, when the nestors generally went to the sea-side for a change; unless the weather was terribly bad or stormy, twice a week they either walked over with a maid, or the governess-cart drawn by the fat pony made its appearance at the end of our path. sometimes the little groom went on into the village if there were any messages, sometimes if it was cold he drove as far as the farm at the foot of the hill, where it was arranged that he could 'put up' for an hour or two, sometimes in warm summer days the pony-cart just waited where it was. often, once a fortnight or so at least, in the fine season, i made one of the party on the little girls' return home. how we all managed to squeeze into the cart, or how old bunch managed to take us all home without coming to grief on the way, i am sure i can't say. i only know we _did_ manage it, and so did he. for he is still alive and well, and no doubt 'ready to tell the story,' if he could speak. we never seemed to be ill in those days. the nestor children were no doubt very strong, and i grew much stronger. then middlemoor is such a splendidly healthy place. i have some misty recollections of nan and vallie having the measles, and a doubt arising as to whether i had not got it too. but if it was measles it did not seem worse than a cold, and we were soon all out and about again, as merry as ever. and grandmamma seemed to grow younger during those years. her mind was more at rest for the time, for the steady payment she received for the girls' french lessons made all the difference in our little income, between being comfortable, with a small extra in case of need, and being only _just_ able to make both ends meet with a great deal of tugging. and grandmamma was happy about taking the money, for it was well earned; sharley and the others made such good progress in french and after a little while in german also, even though nan was by nature rather slow and vallie dreadfully flighty, and not at all good at giving her attention. but she _was_ so sweet! i never saw any one so sweet as vallie, when she had been found fault with and was sorry; the tears used to come up into her big brown eyes very slowly and stay there, making them look like velvety pansies with dewdrops in them. somehow sharley always seemed the _most_ my friend, though she was a good deal older. perhaps it was through having known her the first, and partly, i daresay, because in _some_ ways i was old for my age. the big brother gerard came home for his holidays three times a year. he was a very nice boy, i am sure, but i did not get to know him well, and i had rather a grudge at him. for when he was at moor court i seemed to see so much less of sharley. it wasn't her fault. she was not a changeable girl at all, but jerry had always been accustomed to having her a great deal with him in his holidays, as she took pains to explain to me. so of course if she had given him up for me she _would_ have been changeable. she did her best, i will say that for her. she told gerard all about me, and he was very nice to me. but it was in rather a big boy way, which i did not understand. i thought he was treating me like a baby when _he_ only meant to be kind and brotherly. i remember one day being so offended at his lifting me over a stile, that it was all i could do not to burst into tears! so it came to be the way among us, without anything being actually said about it, that during jerry's holidays i was mostly with the four others--nan and vallie and the two younger boys. and i daresay it was a good thing for me. for none of them were at all old for their age; they were just hearty, healthy, regular _children_, living in the present and very happy in it. and if i had been altogether with the older ones i might have grown more and more 'old-fashioned.' for gerard was a very serious and thoughtful boy, and sharley, though in outside ways she seemed rather wild and hoydenish, was really very clever and very wise, to be only the age she was. i never quite took in that side of her character till i saw her with jerry--she seemed quite transformed. one thing came to pass, however, which was a great pleasure to the two people it chiefly concerned and to sharley. as for me, i don't think i gave much attention to it, and i am not sure that if it had at all interfered with my own life i should not have been rather jealous! this was a close friendship between gerard nestor and grandmamma. and it is necessary to speak about it because it was the beginning of things which brought about great changes. grandmamma loved boys and she was one of those women that are well fitted to manage them. she used to say that till she got _me_, she had never had anything to do with _girls_. for her own children were both boys--papa was the elder, and the other was a dear boy who died when he was only sixteen, and whom of course i had never seen, though grandmamma liked me to speak of him as 'uncle guy.' then, too, she had had some charge of her nephew, mr. cosmo vandeleur. her friendship with jerry came about by his reading french and german with her in the holidays. he had never been out of england and he was anxious to improve his 'foreign languages,' as he was backward in them, besides having a very bad accent indeed. granny has often said she never had so attentive a pupil, and it was in talking with him--for 'conversation' was a very important part of her teaching--that she got to know so much of gerard, and he so much of her. she used to tell him stories of her own boys, paul--paul was papa--and guy, in french, and he had to answer questions about the stories to show that he had understood her. and in these stories the name of cosmo vandeleur came to be mentioned. the first time or so he heard it i don't think jerry noticed it. but one day it struck him just as it had struck grandmamma that first day--the birthday-tea day--at moor court. 'vandeleur,' said jerry--it was one day when he had come over for his lesson, and as it was raining and i could not go out, i was sitting in the window making a cloak or something for my doll. 'vandeleur,' he repeated. 'i wonder, mrs. wingfield, if your nephew is any relation to some boys at my school. they are great chums of mine--they were to have come home with me for the summer holidays'--it was the christmas holidays now,--'but their relations had settled something else for them and wouldn't let them come. i think their relations must be rather horrid.' 'i remember sharley--i think it was sharley--speaking of them,' said grandmamma. 'they are orphans, are they not?' 'yes,' said gerard. 'they've got guardians--one of them is quite an old woman. her name is lady bridget woodstone. they don't care very much for her. i think she must be very crabbed.' 'i do not think they can be related to my nephew,' said grandmamma. 'i never heard of any orphan boys in his family, and i never heard of lady bridget woodstone. but mr. cosmo vandeleur is only my nephew, because his mother was my husband's sister--so of course he _may_ have relations i know nothing of. he always seemed to me very near when he was a boy, because he was so often with us.' she sighed a little as she finished speaking. thinking of mr. vandeleur made her sad. it did seem so strange that he had never written all these years. and jerry was very quick as well as thoughtful. he saw that for some reason the mention of the name made her sad, so he said no more about the vandeleur boys. long afterwards he told us that when he went back to school he did ask harry and lindsay vandeleur if they had any relation called mr. cosmo vandeleur, but at that time they told him they did not know. they were quite under the care of old lady bridget, and she was not a bit like granny. she was the sort of old lady who treats children as if they had no sense at all; she never told the boys anything about themselves or their family, and when they spent the holidays with her, she always had a tutor for them--the strictest she could find, so that they almost liked better to stay on at school. the three years i have been writing about must have passed quickly to grandmamma. they were so peaceful, and after we got to know the nestors, much less lonely. and grandmamma says that it is quite wonderful how fast time goes once one begins to grow old. she does not seem to mind it. she is so very good--i cannot help saying this, for my own story would not be true if i did not keep saying _how_ good she is. but i must take care not to let her see the places where i say it. she loves me as dearly as she can, i know--and others beside me. but still i try not to be selfish and to remember that when the dreadful--dreadful-for-_me_--day comes that she must leave me, it will only for _her_ be the going where she must often, often have longed to be--the country 'across the river,' where her very dearest have been watching for her for so long. to me those three years seem like one bright summer. of course we had winters in them too, but there is a feeling of sunshine all over them. and, actually speaking, those winters were very mild ones--nothing like the occasional severe ones, of another of which i shall soon have to tell. i was so well too--growing so strong--stronger by far than grandmamma had ever hoped to see me. and as i grew strong i seemed to take in the delightfulness of it, though as a very little girl i had not often _complained_ of feeling weak and tired, for i did not understand the difference. now i must tell about the change that came to the nestors--a sad change for me, for though at first it seemed worse for them, in the end i really think it brought more trouble to granny and me than to our dear friends themselves. it was one day in the autumn, early in october i think, that the first beginning of the cloud came. gerard had not long been back at school and we were just settling down into our regular ways again. 'the girls are late this morning,' said grandmamma. 'you see nothing of them from your watch-tower, do you, helena?' granny always called the window-seat in our tiny drawing-room my 'watch-tower.' i had very long sight and i had found out that there was a bit of the road from moor court where i could see the pony-cart passing, like a little dark speck, before it got hidden again among the trees. after that open bit i could not see it again at all till it was quite close to our own road, as we called it--i mean the steep bit of rough cart-track leading to our little garden-gate. i was already crouched up in my pet place, when grandmamma called out to me. she was in the dining-room, but the doors were open. 'no, grandmamma,' i replied. 'i don't see them at all. and i am sure they haven't passed waving view in the last quarter-of-an-hour, for i have been here all that time.' 'waving view,' i must explain, was the name we had given to the short stretch of road i have just spoken of, because we used to wave handkerchiefs to each other--i at my watch-tower and sharley from the pony-cart, at that point. grandmamma came into the drawing-room a moment or two after that and stood behind me, looking out at the window. [illustration: 'i do wonder why they are so late.'--p. 82.] 'not that i could see them coming,' she said, 'till they are up the hill and close to us. but i do wonder why they are so late--half an hour late,' and she glanced at the little clock on the mantelpiece. 'i hope there is nothing the matter.' i looked at her as she said that, for i felt rather surprised. it was never granny's way to expect trouble before it comes. i saw that her face was rather anxious. but just as i was going to speak, to say some little word about its not being likely that anything was wrong, i gave one other glance towards waving view. this time i was not disappointed. 'oh, granny,' i exclaimed, 'there they are! i am sure it is them--i know the way they jog along so well--only, grandmamma, they are not waving?' and i think the anxious look must have come into my own face, for i remember saying, almost in a whisper, 'i do hope there is nothing the matter'--granny's very words. chapter vii the beginning of troubles grandmamma was the one to reassure me. 'i scarcely think there can be anything wrong, as they are coming,' she said. 'you did not wave to them, either?' 'no,' i said, 'i _did_ wave, but i got tired of it. and it's always they who do it first. you see there's no use doing it except at that place.' 'well, they will be here directly, and then i must give them a little scolding for being so unpunctual,' said grandmamma, cheerfully. but that little scolding was never given. when the governess-cart stopped at our path there were only two figures in it--no, three, i should say, for there was the groom, and the two others were nan and vallie--sharley was not there. i ran out to meet them. 'is sharley ill?' i called out before i got to them. nan shook her head. 'no,' she was beginning, but vallie, who was much quicker, took the words out of her mouth--that was a way of vallie's, and sometimes it used to make nan rather vexed. but this morning she did not seem to notice it; she just shut up her lips again and stood silent with a very grave expression, while vallie hurried on-'sharley's not ill, but mother kept her at home, and we're late because we went first to the telegraph office at yukes'--yukes is a _very_ tiny village half a mile on the other side of moor court, where there is a telegraph office. 'father's ill, helena, and i'm afraid he's very ill, for as soon as dr. cobbe saw him this morning he said he must telegraph for another doctor to london.' 'oh, dear,' i exclaimed, 'i am so sorry,' and turning round at the sound of footsteps behind me i saw grandmamma, who had followed me out of the house. 'granny,' i said, 'there _is_ something the matter. their father is very ill,' and i repeated what vallie had just said. 'i am very grieved to hear it,' said grandmamma. afterwards she told me she had had a sort of presentiment that something was the matter. 'i am so sorry for your mother,' she went on. 'i wonder if i can be of use to her in any way.' then nan spoke, in her slow but very exact way. 'mother said,' she began, 'would you come to be with her this afternoon late, when the london doctor comes? she will send the brougham and it will bring you back again, if you would be so very kind. mother is so afraid what the london doctor will say,' and poor nan looked as if it was very difficult for her not to cry. 'certainly, i will come,' said grandmamma at once. 'ask mrs. nestor to send for me as soon as you get home if she would like to have me. i suppose--' she went on, hesitating a little, 'you don't know what is the matter with your father?' 'it is a sort of a cold that's got very bad,' said vallie, 'it hurts him to breathe, and in the night he was nearly choking.' granny looked grave at this. she knew that mr. nestor had not been strong for some time, and he was a very active man, who looked after everything on his property himself, and hunted a good deal, and thought nothing about taking care of himself. he was a nice kind man, and all his people were very fond of him. but she tried to cheer up the little girls and gave them their lesson as usual. it was much better to do so than to let them feel too unhappy. and i tried to be very kind and bright too--i saw that grandmamma wanted me to be the same way to them that she was. but after they were gone she spoke to me pretty openly about her fears for mr. nestor. 'dr. cobbe would not have sent for a london doctor without good cause,' she said. 'all will depend on his opinion. it is possible that i may have to stay all night, helena dear. you will not mind if i do?' i _did_ mind, very much. but i tried to say i wouldn't. still, i felt pretty miserable when the moor court carriage came to fetch grandmamma, and she drove away, leaving me for the first time in my life, or rather the first time i could remember, alone with kezia. kezia was very kind. she offered me to come into the kitchen and make cakes. but i was past eleven now--that is very different from being only eight. i did not care much for making cakes--i never have cared about cooking as some girls do, though i know it is a very good thing to understand about it, and grandmamma says i am to go through a regular course of it when i get to be seventeen or eighteen. but i knew kezia's cakes were much better than any i could make, so i thanked her, but said no--i would rather read or sew. i had my tea all alone in the dining-room. kezia was always so respectful about that sort of thing. though she had been a nurse when i was only a tiny baby, she never forgot, as some old servants do, to treat me quite like a young lady, now i was growing older. she brought in my tea and set it all out just as carefully as when grandmamma was there, even more carefully in some ways, for she had made some little scones that i was very fond of, and she had got out some strawberry jam. but i could not help feeling melancholy. i know it is wrong to believe in presentiments, or at least to think much about them, though _sometimes_ even very wise people like grandmamma cannot help believing in them a little. but i really do think that there are times in one's life when a sort of sadness about the future does seem _meant_. and i had been so happy for so long. and troubles must come. i said that over to myself as i sat alone after tea, and then all of a sudden it struck me that i was very selfish. this trouble was far, far worse for the nestors than for me. possibly by this time the london doctor had had to tell them that their father would never get better, and here was i thinking more, i am afraid, of the dulness of being one night without dear granny than of the sorrow that was perhaps coming over sharley and the others of being without their father for always. for i scarcely think my 'presentiments' would have troubled me much except for the being alone and missing granny so. i made up my mind to be sensible and not fanciful. i got out what i called my 'secret work,' which was at that time a footstool i was embroidering for grandmamma's next birthday, and i did a good bit of it. that made me feel rather better, and when my bedtime came it was nice to think i had nothing to do but to go to sleep and stay asleep to make to-morrow morning come quickly. i fell asleep almost at once. but when i woke rather with a start--and i could not tell what had awakened me--it was still quite, quite dark, certainly not to-morrow morning. 'oh, dear!' i thought, 'what a bother! here i am as wide awake as anything, and i so seldom wake at all. just this night when i wanted to sleep straight through.' i lay still. suddenly i heard some faint sounds. some one was moving about downstairs. could it be kezia up still? it must be very late--quite the middle of the night, i fancied. the sounds went on--doors shutting softly, then a slight creak on the stairs, as if some one were coming up slowly. i was not exactly frightened. i never thought of burglars--i don't think there has been a burglary at middlemoor within the memory of man--but my heart did beat rather faster than usual and i listened, straining my ears and scarcely daring to breathe. then at last the steps stopped at my door, and some one began to turn the handle. i _almost_ screamed. but--in one instant came the dear voice-'is my darling awake?' so gently, it was scarcely above a whisper. 'oh, granny, dear, dear granny, is it you?' i said, and every bit of me, heart and ears and everything, seemed to give one throb of delight. i shall never forget it. it was like the day i ran into her arms down the steep garden-path. 'did i startle you?' she went on. 'generally you sleep so soundly that i hoped i would not awake you.' 'i was awake, dear grandmamma,' i said, 'and oh, i am so glad you have come home.' i clung to her as if i would never let her go, and then she told me the news from moor court. the london doctor had spoken gravely, but still hopefully. with great care, the greatest care, he trusted mr. nestor would quite recover. 'so i came home to my little girl,' said grandmamma, 'though i have promised poor mrs. nestor to go to her again to-morrow.' 'i don't mind anything if you are here at night,' i said, with a sigh of comfort. and then she kissed me again and i turned round and was asleep in five minutes, and when i woke the next time it _was_ morning; the sunshine was streaming in at the window. there were some weeks after that of a good deal of anxiety about mr. nestor, though he went on pretty well. grandmamma went over every two or three days, just to cheer mrs. nestor a little--not that there was really anything to do, for they had trained nurses, and everything money could get. the girls went on with their lessons as usual, which was of course much better for them. but in those few weeks sharley almost seemed to grow into a woman. i felt rather 'left behind' by her, for i was only eleven, and as soon as the first great anxiety about mr. nestor was over i did not think very much more about it. nor did nan and vallie. we were quite satisfied that he would soon be well again, and that everything would go on as usual. only sharley looked grave. at last the blow fell. it was a very bad blow to me, and in one way--which, however, i did not understand till some time later--even worse to grandmamma, though she said nothing to hint at such a thing in the least. and it was a blow to the nestor children, for they loved their home and their life dearly, and had no wish for any change. this was it. they were all to go abroad almost immediately, for the whole winter at any rate. the doctors were perfectly certain that it was necessary for mr. nestor, and he would not hear of going alone, and mrs. nestor could not bear the idea of a separation from her children. besides--they were very rich, there were no difficulties in the way of their travelling most comfortably, and having everything they could want wherever they went to. to me it was the greatest trouble i had ever known--and i really do think the little girls--sharley too--minded it more on my account than on any other. but it had to be. almost before we had quite taken in that it was really going to be, they were off--everything packed up, a courier engaged--rooms secured at the best hotel in the place they were going to--for all these things can be done in no time when people have lots of money, grandmamma said--and they were gone! moor court shut up and deserted, except for the few servants left in charge, to keep it clean and in good order. i only went there once all that winter, and i never went again. i could not bear it. for in among the trees where we played i came upon the traces of our last paper-chase, and passing the side of the house it was even worse. for the schoolrooms and play-room were in that wing, and above them the nurseries, where vallie used to rub her little nose against the panes when she was shut up with one of her bad colds. some cleaning was going on, for it was like longfellow's poem exactly- 'i saw the nursery windows wide open to the air, but the faces of the children, they were no longer there.' i just squeezed grandmamma's hand without speaking, and we turned away. it _is_ true that troubles do not often come alone. that winter was one of the very severe ones i have spoken of, that come now and then in that part of middleshire. for the nestors' sake it made us all the more glad that they were safely away from weather which, in his delicate state, would very probably have killed their father. i think this was our very first thought when the snow began to fall, only two or three weeks after they left, and went on falling till the roads were almost impassable, and remained lying for i am afraid to say how long, so intense was the frost that set in. i thought it rather good fun just at the beginning, and wished i could learn to skate. grandmamma did not seem to care about my doing so, which i was rather surprised at, as she had often told me stories of how fond she was of skating when she was young, and how clever papa and uncle guy were at it. she said i had no one to teach me, and when i told her that i was sure tom linden, a nephew of the vicar's who was staying with his uncle and aunt just then, would help me, she found some other objection. tom was a very stupid, very good-natured boy. i had got to know him a little at the nestors. he was slow and heavy and rather fat. i tried to make granny laugh by saying he would be a good buffer to fall upon. i saw she was looking grave, and i felt a little cross at her not wanting me to skate, and i persisted about it. 'do let me, grandmamma,' i said. 'i can order a pair of skates at barridge's. they don't keep the best kind in stock, but i know they can get them.' 'no, my dear,' said grandmamma at last, very decidedly. 'i am not at all sure that it would be nice for you--it would have been different if the nestors had been here. and besides, there are several things you need to have bought for you much more than skates. you must have extra warm clothing this winter.' she did not say right out that she did not know where the money was to come from for my wants--as for her own, when did the darling ever think of _them_?--but she gave a little sigh, and the thought did come into my head for a moment--was grandmamma troubled about money? but it did not stay there. we had been so comfortable the last few years that i had really thought less about being poor than when i was quite little. and other things made me forget about it. for a very few days after that, most unfortunately, i got ill. chapter viii two letters it was only a bad cold. except for having to stay in the house, i would not have minded it very much, for after the first few days, when i was feverish and miserable, i did not feel very bad. and like a child, i thought every day that i should be all right the next. i daresay i should have got over it much quicker if the weather had not been so severe. but it was really awfully cold. even my own sense told me it would be mad to think of going out. so i got fidgety and discontented, and made myself look worse than i really was. and for the very first time in my life there seemed to come a little cloud, a little coldness, between dear grandmamma and me. speaking about it since then, _she_ says it was not all my fault, but _i_ think it was. i was selfish and thoughtless. she was dull and low-spirited, and i had never seen her like that before. and i did not know all the reasons there were for her being so, and i felt a kind of irritation at it. even when she tried, as she often and often did, to throw it off and cheer me up in some little way by telling me stories, or proposing some new game, or new fancy-work, i would not meet her half-way, but would answer pettishly that i was tired of all those things. and i was vexed at several little changes in our way of living. all that winter we sat in the dining-room, and never had a fire in the drawing-room, and our food was plainer than i ever remembered it. granny used to have special things for me--beef-tea and beaten-up eggs and port-wine--but i hated having them all alone and seeing her eating scarcely anything. 'i don't want these messy things as if i was really ill,' i said. 'why don't we have nice little dinners and teas as we used?' grandmamma never answered these questions plainly; she would make some little excuse about not feeling hungry in frosty weather, or that the tradespeople did not like sending often. but once or twice i caught her looking at me when she did not know i saw her, and then there was something in her eyes which made me think i was a horridly selfish child. and yet i did not _mean_ to be. i really did not understand, and it was rather trying to be cooped up for so long, in a room scarcely bigger than a cupboard, after my free open life of the last three years or so. dr. cobbe came once or twice at the beginning of my cold and looked rather grave. then he did not come again for two or three weeks--i think he had told grandmamma to let him know if i got worse. and one day when i had really made myself feverish by my fidgety grumbling, and then being sorry and crying, which brought on a fit of coughing, grandmamma got so unhappy that she tucked me up on the sofa by the fire, and went off herself, though it was late in the afternoon, to fetch him herself. she would not let kezia go because she wanted to speak to him alone; i did not know it at the time, but i remember waking up and hearing voices near me, and there were the doctor and grandmamma. she was in her indoors dress just as usual, for me not to guess she had been out. i sat up, feeling much the better for my sleep. dr. cobbe laughed and joked--that was his way--he listened to my breathing and pommelled me and told me i was a little humbug. then he went off into kezia's kitchen, where there _had_ to be a tiny fire, with grandmamma, and a few minutes later i heard him saying good-bye. grandmamma came back to me looking happier than for some time past. the doctor, she has told me since, really did assure her that there was nothing serious the matter with me, that i was a growing child and must be well fed and kept cheerful, as i was inclined to be nervous and was not exactly robust. and the relief to grandmamma was great. that evening she was more like her old self than she had been for long, even though i daresay she was awake half the night thinking over the doctor's advice, and wondering what more she _could_ do to get enough money to give me all i needed. for some of her money-matters had gone wrong. that i did not know till long afterwards. it was just about the time of mr. nestor's illness, and it was not till the moor court family had left that she found out the worst of it--that for two or three years _at least_ we should be thirty or forty pounds a year poorer than we had been. it _was_ hard on her--coming at the very same time as the extra money for the lessons left off! and the severe winter and my cold all added to it. it even made it more difficult for her to hear of other pupils, or to get any orders for her beautiful fancy-work. no visitors would come to middlemoor _this_ winter, though when it was mild they sometimes did. still, from the day of dr. cobbe's visit things improved a little--for the time at least. and in the end it was a good thing that grandmamma was not tempted to try her eyes with any embroidery again, as she really might have made herself blind. it had been such a blessing that she did not need to do it during the years she gave lessons to sharley and her sisters. i went on getting better pretty steadily, especially once i was allowed to go out a little, though, as it was a very cold spring, it was only for some time _very_ little, just an hour or so in the best part of the day. and grandmamma followed dr. cobbe's advice, though i never shall understand how she managed to do so. she was so determined to be cheerful that when i look back upon it now it almost makes me cry. i had all the nourishing things to eat that it was possible to get, and how thoughtless and ungrateful i was! my appetite was not very good, and i remember actually grumbling at having to take beef-tea, and beaten-up eggs, and things like that at odd times. i scarcely like to say it, but in my heart i do not believe grandmamma had enough to eat that winter. about easter--or rather at the time for the big school easter holidays, which does not always match real easter--we had a pleasant surprise. at least it was a pleasant surprise for grandmamma--i don't know that i cared about it particularly, and i certainly little thought what would come of it! one afternoon gerard nestor walked in. granny's face quite lighted up, and for a moment or two i felt very excited. 'have you all come home?' i exclaimed. 'i haven't had a letter from sharley for ever so long--perhaps--perhaps she meant to surprise me,' i had been going to say, but something in jerry's face stopped me. he looked rather grave; not that he was ever anything but quiet. 'no,' he said, 'i only wish they _were_ all back, or likely to come. i'm afraid there's no chance of it. the doctors out there won't hear of it this year at all. just when father was hoping to arrange for coming back soon, they found out something or other unsatisfactory about him, and now it is settled that he must stay out of england another whole year at least. they are speaking of algeria or egypt for next winter.' my face fell. i was on the point of crying. gerard looked very sympathising. 'i did not myself mind it so much till i came down here,' he said. 'but it is so lonely and dull at moor court. i hope you will let me come here a great deal, mrs. wingfield. i mean to work hard at my foreign languages these holidays--it will give me something to do. you see it wasn't worth while my going out to hyã¨res for only three weeks, and i hoped even they might be coming back. so i asked to come down here. i didn't think it could be so dull.' 'you are all alone at home?' said grandmamma. 'yes, it must be very lonely. i shall be delighted to read with you as much as you like. i am not very busy.' 'thank you,' said gerard. 'well, i only hope you won't have too much of me. may i stay to tea to-day?' 'certainly,' said grandmamma. but i noticed--i don't think gerard did--that her face had grown rather anxious-looking as he spoke. 'if you like,' she went on, 'we can glance over your books, some of them are still here, and settle on a little work at once.' 'all right,' said he. but then he added, rather abruptly, 'you are not looking well, mrs. wingfield? i think you have got thinner. and helena looks rather white, though she has not grown much.' i felt vexed at his saying i had not grown much. 'it's no wonder i am white,' i said in a surly tone. 'i have been mewed up in the house almost ever since sharley and all of them went away.' and then grandmamma explained about my having been ill. 'i'm very sorry,' said jerry, 'but you look worse than helena, mrs. wingfield.' i felt crosser and crosser. i fancied he meant to reproach me with grandmamma's looking ill, even though it made me uneasy too. i glanced at her--a faint pink flush had come over her face at his words. '_i_ don't think granny looks ill at all,' i said. 'no, indeed, i am very well,' she said, with a smile. gerard said no more, but i know he thought me a selfish spoilt child. and from that moment he set himself to watch grandmamma and to find out if anything was really the matter. he _did_ find out, and that pretty quickly, i fancy, that we were much poorer. but it was very difficult for him to do anything to help grandmamma. she was so dignified, and in some ways reserved. she got a letter from mrs. nestor a few days later, thanking her for reading with jerry again, and saying that of course the lessons must be arranged about as before. and it vexed her a very little. (she has told me about it since.) perhaps she was feeling unusually sensitive and depressed just then. but however that may have been, she wrote a letter to mrs. nestor, which made her really _afraid_ of offering to pay. it was not as if there was time for a good many lessons, granny wrote--would not mrs. nestor let her render this very small service as a friend? and jerry did not know what he _could_ do. it was not the season for game, except rabbits--and he did send rabbits two or three times--and i know now that he scarcely dared to stay to tea, or _not_ to stay, for if he refused granny seemed hurt. on the whole, nice as he was, it was almost a relief when he went away back to school. still things were not so bad as in winter. i was really all right again, and a little money come in to grandmamma about may or june that she had not dared to hope for. we got on pretty well that summer. none of the nestors came to moor court at all. gerard joined them for the long holidays in switzerland. mrs. nestor wrote now and then to granny, and sharley to me, but of course there was not the least hint of what gerard had told them. i think they believed and hoped he had exaggerated it--he was the sort of boy to fancy things worse than they were if he cared about people, i think. and so it got on to be the early autumn again. i think it was about the middle of september when the first beginning of the great change in our lives came. it was cold already, and the weather prophets were talking of another severe winter. grandmamma watched the signs of it anxiously. she kept comparing it with the same time last year till i got quite tired of the subject. 'really, grandmamma,' i said one morning, 'what does it matter? if it is very cold we must have big fires and keep ourselves warm. and one thing i know--i am not going to be shut up again like last winter. i am going to get skates and have some fun as soon as ever the frost comes.' i said it half jokingly, but still i was ready to be cross too. i had not improved in some ways since i was ill. i was less thoughtful for grandmamma and quite annoyed if she did not do exactly what i wanted, or if she seemed interested in anything but me. in short, i was very spoilt. she did not answer me about the skates, for at that moment kezia brought in the letters. it was not by any means every morning that we got any, and it was always rather an excitement when we saw the postman turning up our path. that morning there were two letters. one was for me from sharley. i knew at once it was from her by the foreign stamp and the thin paper envelope, even before i looked at the writing. i was so pleased that i rushed off with it to my favourite window-seat, without noticing grandmamma, who had quietly taken her own letter from the little tray kezia handed it to her on and was examining it in a half-puzzled way. i remembered afterwards catching a glimpse of the expression on her face, but at the moment i gave no thought to it. there was nothing _very_ particular in sharley's letter. it was very affectionate--full of longings to be coming home again, even though she allowed that their present life was very bright and interesting. i was just laughing at a description of pert and quick going to market on their own account, and how they bargained with the old peasant women, when a slight sound--_was_ it a sound or only a sort of feeling in the air?--made me look up from the open sheet before me, and glance over at grandmamma. for a moment i felt quite frightened. she was leaning back in her chair, looking very white, and i could almost have thought she was fainting, except that her lips were moving as if she were speaking softly to herself. i flew across the room to her. 'granny,' i said, '_dear_ granny, what is it? are you ill--is anything the matter?' just at first, i think, i forgot about the letter lying on her lap--but before she spoke she touched it with her fingers. 'i am only a little startled, dear child,' she said, 'startled and----' i could not catch the other word she said, she spoke it so softly, but i think it was 'thankful.' 'no, there is nothing wrong, but you will understand my feeling rather upset when i tell you that this letter is from cosmo--you know whom i mean, helena, cosmo vandeleur, my nephew, who has not written to me all these years.' at once i was full of interest, not unmixed--and i think it was natural--with some indignation. 'so he is alive and well, i suppose?' i said, rather bitterly. 'well, granny, i hope you will not trouble about him any more. he must be a horrid man, after all your kindness to him when he was a boy, never to have written or seemed to care if you were alive or dead.' 'no, dear,' said grandmamma, whose colour was returning, though her voice still sounded weak and tremulous--'no, dear. you must not think of him in that way. careless he has certainly been, but he has not lost his affection for me. i will explain it all to you soon, but i must think it over first. i feel still so upset, i can scarcely take it in.' she stopped, and her breath seemed to come in gasps. i was not a stupid child, and i had plenty of common sense. 'granny, dear,' i said, 'don't try to talk any more just now. i will call kezia, and she must give you some water, or tea, or something. and i won't call mr. vandeleur horrid if it vexes you.' kezia knew how to take care of grandmamma, though it was very, very seldom she was ever faint or nervous or anything of that kind. and something told me that the best _i_ could do was to leave dear granny alone for a little with the faithful servant who had shared her joys and sorrows for so long. so i took my own letter--sharley's letter i mean, and ran upstairs to fetch my hat and jacket. 'i'm going out for a little, grandmamma,' i said, putting my head in again for half a second at the drawing-room door as i passed. 'it isn't cold this morning, and i've got a long letter from sharley to read over and over again.' 'take care of yourself, darling,' said granny, and as i shut the door i heard her say to kezia, 'dear child--she has such tact and thoughtfulness for her age. it is for her i am so thankful, kezia.' i was pleased to be praised. i have always loved praise--too much, i am afraid. but my conscience told me i had _not_ been thoughtful for grandmamma lately, not as thoughtful as i might have been certainly. this feeling troubled me on one side, and on the other i was dying with curiosity to know what it was granny was thankful about. the mere fact of a letter having come from that 'horrid, selfish, ungrateful man,' as i still called him to myself, though i would not speak of him so to grandmamma, could not be anything to be so thankful about--at least not to be thankful for _me_. what could it be? what had he written to say? i am afraid that sharley's letter scarcely had justice done to it the second time i read it through--between every line would come up the thought of what grandmamma had said, and the wondering what she could mean. and besides that, the uncomfortable feeling that i was not as good as she thought me--that i did not deserve all the love and anxiety she lavished on me. chapter ix a great change perhaps here it will be best for me to tell straight off what the contents of mr. vandeleur's letter were. not, i mean, to go into all as to when and how grandmamma told me about it, with 'she said's' and 'i said's.' besides, it would not be quite correct to tell it that way, for as a matter of fact i did not understand everything _then_ as i do now that i am several years older, and it would be difficult not to mix up what i have since come to know with the ideas i then had--ideas which were in some ways mistaken and childish. first of all, how do you think cousin cosmo, as i was told to call him, had come to write again after all those years of silence? what had put it into his head? the explanation is rather curious. it all came from gerard nestor's being at moor court that easter, and feeling so sorry for grandmamma and so sure that she was in trouble. i have told, as we knew afterwards, that he had written to his people, but that grandmamma's way of answering made them think, and hope, that he had fancied more than was really the matter, and besides it was difficult for the nestors, who were not _relations_, to do anything to help grandmamma, unless she had in some way given them her confidence. at that time they were hoping to come home the following spring, and then, probably, mrs. nestor would have found out more. but when gerard first went back to school his head was full of it. he had not been _told_ anything, it was only his own suspicions, so there was no harm in his speaking of it, as he did, though quite privately, to his great friend, harry vandeleur. and harry gave him some confidences in return. lady bridget woodstone, the old lady who was guardian to him and his brother, had lately died--the boys had spent their last holidays at school, but a new guardian had now appeared on the scene. this was a cousin of theirs whom, till then, they had never heard of, and this cousin was no other than grandmamma's nephew, mr. cosmo vandeleur. gerard quite started when he heard the name, which he remembered quite well. harry said that mr. cosmo vandeleur was grave and quiet, he and lindsay felt rather afraid of him, but they would know better what sort of person he was when they had spent the holidays with him. 'we are to go to his house, or at least to a house he has got in devon, near the sea-side, next august,' he told gerard, and he promised that he would ask his guardian if he had any relation called mrs. wingfield, and if he found it was the same, he would tell him what gerard had said, and how all these years she had been hoping to hear from him. for granny had told gerard almost as much as she had told me of how strange it was that 'cosmo' never wrote. well now you--by 'you' of course i mean whoever reads this story, if ever any one does--you begin to see how it came about. harry vandeleur _did_ tell his guardian about us, or about grandmamma, and found out that she _was_ his aunt. mr. vandeleur was very much startled, harry said, to hear about how very differently she was living now, and he wrote down the address and told harry he would make further enquiries. that was all harry knew, for mr. vandeleur was very reserved, and harry and lindsay did not feel as if they knew him any better after the holidays than before. mrs. vandeleur was very ill, though they thought she would have liked to be kind; they were always being told not to make a noise, and so they stayed out-of-doors as much as they could. it was rather dull (_very_ dull, i should think), and they hoped they would not spend their next holidays there; they would almost rather stay at school. it was august or september when mr. vandeleur heard about grandmamma. he did not at once write to her; he made enquiries of the lawyer who had for many years managed, grandpapa's and papa's affairs, and he found it was only too true, that granny was _very_ badly off. but even then he did not write immediately, for mrs. vandeleur got worse and for a little while they were afraid she was going to die. he told granny this in his letter, but went on to say that mrs. vandeleur was better, and the doctors hoped she might be moved home to their house in london after the new year. in the meantime he was in great difficulty what to do, he had to be in london a good deal, and it was a pity to shut up the house, as they had made it all very nice, and they had good servants. and even when mrs. vandeleur was much better she must not be troubled about housekeeping or anything for a long time, and besides this, there was a new responsibility upon him, which he would tell granny about afterwards. he meant the care of the two boys, but he did not speak of them then. some part of this, grandmamma told me that very evening; she also told me how sorry her nephew was about his long silence, though, as i think i said before, he _had_ written and got no answer,--a letter which she had never received. here i find i must change my plan a little after all, and go into conversation again. for as i am writing there comes back to me one part of our talk that evening so clearly, that i think i can remember almost every word. we had got as far as grandmamma telling me most of what i have now written down, but still i did not see why the letter had so upset her or why she had whispered something to herself about being 'thankful.' 'well,' i said, 'i am glad he has written if it pleases you, grandmamma. but i don't think i want ever to see him.' 'you must not be prejudiced, helena dear,' she answered. 'i think it very likely you will see him, and before very long. i have not yet told you what he proposes. he wants us to go to--to pay him a long visit in london. he says i should be a very great help to him and agnes--agnes is his wife--as i could take charge of things for her.' 'of course you would be a great help,' i said. 'but i think it is rather cool of him to expect you to give up your own home and go off there just to be of use to them.' grandmamma sighed. she did not want to tell me too much of her increasing anxiety about money, and yet without doing so it was difficult for her to make me understand how really kind mr. vandeleur's proposal was, and how it had not come a day too soon. 'there are more reasons than that for my accepting his invitation,' she said. 'it will be of advantage to us in many ways not to spend the coming winter here, but in a warm, large house. if we had weather like last year i should dread it very much. london is on the whole very healthy in winter, in spite of the fogs. and you are growing old enough to take in new ideas, helena, and to benefit by seeing something more of life.' i felt very strange, almost giddy, with the thought of such a change. 'do you really mean, grandmamma,' i said, 'that--that you are thinking of going there _soon_?' 'very soon,' she answered, 'almost at once. it may get cold and wintry here any day, and besides that, my nephew is very anxious to settle his own plans as quickly as possible.' i said nothing for a minute or two. in my heart i was not at all sorry at the prospect of a winter in london, even though i naturally shrank from leaving dear old windy gap, the only home i had ever known. but the sort of spoilt way i had got into kept me from expressing the pleasure i felt--that one side of me felt, anyway. 'i don't believe he cares about us,' i said at last rather grumpily. 'i am sure he is a very selfish man.' grandmamma looked distressed, but she was wise, too. she saw i was really inclined to be 'naughty' about it. 'helena, my dearest child,' she said, and though she spoke most kindly i heard by her voice that she would be firm, 'you must not yield to prejudice, and you must trust me. this invitation is the very best thing that could have come to us at present, and i am deeply grateful for it. it is rather startling, i know, but there should be a good deal of pleasure for you in our new prospects. and i am sure you will see this in a day or two. now go to bed, my darling. to-morrow we shall have a great deal to talk over, and you must keep well and strong so as to be able to help me.' she kissed me tenderly, and i whispered 'good-night, dear grandmamma,' gently and affectionately. but as soon as i got upstairs and was alone in my own little room, i burst into tears. i daresay it was only natural. still, i see now that my feelings were not altogether what they should have been. there was a great deal of selfishness and spoiltness mixed up with them. * * * * * after that evening i have rather a confused remembrance of the next two or three weeks. things seemed to hurry on in a bewildering way, and of course it was all the more bewildering to me, as i had never known any change or uprooting of the kind in my life. grandmamma was exceedingly busy. she had to write very often to mr. vandeleur, and he replied in a most business-like way, generally, i think, by return. it was no longer a great event for the postman to be seen turning up our path, and as well as letters he sometimes now brought parcels. for grandmamma was determined that we should both look nice when we first went to london to live in her nephew's big house, where there were so many servants. 'we must do him credit,' she said to me, with a smile. i understood what she meant, and i had a feeling of pride about it, too, and i was very pleased to have some new dresses and hats and other things. but with me there was no good feeling to my cousin mixed up in all this. i now know that there was reason for grandmamma's wish to gratify him; he behaved most generously and thoughtfully about everything, sending her more than sufficient money for all we needed, and doing it in such a nice way--just as a son who had grown rich might take pleasure in helping a mother to whom he owed more than mere money could ever repay. but though grandmamma read out to me bits of his letters in which he was always repeating how grateful he was to her for coming to his aid in his difficulties, she did not tell me the whole particulars of her arrangements with him. he would not have liked it, and i was really too young to have been told all these money-matters. i did notice that there was never any mention of me in what she read to me. and now i know that mr. vandeleur did _not_ particularly rejoice at the prospect of my living with them too. he had proposed that i should be sent to some very good school, for he knew nothing of children, especially of little girls. i think he believed they were even more tiresome and mischievous and bothering in every way than boys. grandmamma would not listen for an instant to this proposal. her first and greatest duty in life was her granddaughter, 'paul's little girl,' and she would do _anything_ rather than be separated from me, especially as i was delicate and required care. in reality i was not nearly as delicate as she thought. but i daresay it did not add to my cousin's wish to have me in his house to hear that i was considered so. among the other things that grandmamma had to arrange about was what to do with windy gap. in her heart i believe she thought it very unlikely that it would ever be our home again, but she did not say anything of this kind to me. she went off one day to mr. timbs to ask him to try to let it as it was, with our furniture in. he promised to do his best, but did not think it likely it would let in the winter. 'and by the spring we shall be coming back again,' i said, when granny told me this. i had not gone with her to mr. timbs; she had made some little excuse for not taking me. to this she did not reply, and i thought no more about it, but i was glad to hear that kezia was to stay on in the cottage to keep it all aired and in nice order. and i said to her secretly that if granny and i were not happy in chichester square--that was the name of the gloomy, rather old-fashioned square, filled with handsome gloomy houses, where mr. vandeleur lived--it was nice to feel that we had only to drive to the station and get into the train and be 'home' again in four or five hours. kezia smiled, though i think in her heart she was much more inclined to cry, and said she hoped to hear of our being very happy indeed in london, though of course she would look forward to seeing us again. i shall never forget the day we left our dear little cottage. it had begun to be wintry, a sprinkling of snow was on the ground and the air was quite frosty, though the morning was bright. i did feel so strange--sorrowful yet excited, and as if i really did not know who i was. and though the tears were running down poor kezia's face when she bade us good-bye at the window of the railway carriage, i could not have cried if i had wished. we had a three miles' drive to the station. it was only the third or fourth time in my life i had ever been there, and i had never travelled for longer than half an hour or so, when granny had taken me, and once or twice sharley and the others, to one of the neighbouring towns famed for their beautiful cathedrals. we travelled second class. i thought it very comfortable, and it was very nice to have foot-warmers, which i had never seen before. my spirits rose steadily and even grandmamma's face had a pinky colour, which made her look quite young. 'i should like to travel like this for a week without stopping,' i said. granny smiled. 'i don't think you would,' she said. 'you will feel you have had quite enough of it by the time we get to london.' and after an hour or two, especially when the short winter afternoon grew misty and dull, so that i could scarcely distinguish the landscape as we flew past, i began to agree with her. 'it will be quite dark when we get to chichester square,' said grandmamma. 'you must wait for your first real sight of london till to-morrow. i hope the weather will not be foggy.' 'will there be flys at the station?' i asked, 'or did you write to order one?' grandmamma smiled. 'no, dear, that would not be necessary. there are always lots of four-wheelers and hansoms. but mr. vandeleur is sending a footman to meet us and he will find us a cab.' 'hasn't he got a carriage then?' said i. grandmamma shook her head. 'not in london. their carriages and horses are in the country still for mrs. vandeleur. they will not be sent back to london till she comes.' 'i hope that won't be for a good long while,' i said to myself, rather unfeelingly, for i might have remembered that as soon as my cousin's wife was well enough she was to return. so her staying away long would mean her not getting well. their being away--for mr. vandeleur was not in london himself just then--was the part that pleased me the most of the whole plan. i thought it would be great fun to be alone in london with grandmamma, and i had been making lists of the things i wanted her to do and the places we should go to see. it never struck me that she could have any one or anything to think of but me myself! chapter x no. 29 chichester square it was quite dark when we arrived at paddington station, and long before then, as grandmamma had prophesied, i had had much more than enough of the railway journey at first so pleasant. i was tired and sleepy. it all seemed very, very strange and confusing to me--the huge railway station, the dimly burning gas-lamps, the bustle, the lots of people. for, as i have to keep reminding you, there is scarcely ever nowadays a child who leads so quiet and unchangeful a life as mine had been. i felt in a dream. if i had been less tired in my body i daresay my mind and fancy would have been amused and excited by it all. as it was, i just clung to grandmamma stupidly, wondering how she kept her head, wondering still more, when i heard her suddenly talking to some one--who turned out to be mr. vandeleur's footman--how in the world she or he, or both of them, had managed to find each other out in the crowd! i did not speak. after a while i remember finding myself, and granny of course, safe in a four-wheeler, which seemed narrow and stuffy compared to the middlemoor flys, and jolted along with a terrible rattle and noise, so that i could scarcely distinguish the words grandmamma said when once or twice she spoke to me. i daresay a good deal of the noise was outside the cab, and some of it perhaps inside my own head, for it did not altogether stop even when _we_ did--that is to say when we drew up at 29 chichester square. the house was very large--the hall looked to me almost as large as the hall at moor court. it was not really so, but i could scarcely judge of anything correctly that night. i was so very tired. [illustration: a nice-looking oldish man came forward and bowed respectfully to grandmamma.--p. 126.] a nice-looking oldish man came forward and bowed respectfully to grandmamma. he was the butler. he handed us over, so to say, to a nice-looking oldish woman, who was the head housemaid, and she took us at once upstairs to our rooms, the butler asking grandmamma to leave the luggage and the cab-paying to him--he would see that it was all right. she thanked him nicely, but rather 'grandly'--not at all as if she was not accustomed to lots of servants and attention, which i was pleased at. it was a good thing for me that i had been so much with the nestors; it prevented my seeming awkward or shy with so many servants about, which otherwise i might have been. grandmamma of course _had_ been used to being rich, but _i_ never had. there came a disappointment the very first thing. hales, the housemaid, threw open the door of a large, rather gloomy-looking bedroom, where a fire was burning and candles already lighted. 'your room, ma'am,' she said. 'missie's----' she hesitated. 'miss wingfield's,' said granny. 'miss wingfield's,' hales repeated, 'is on the next floor but one.' grandmamma looked uneasy. 'is it far from this room?' she said. 'oh no, ma'am, just the staircase--it is over this. mr. vandeleur thought it was the best. it was mrs. vandeleur's when she was a little girl.' for the house in chichester square had been left to cousin agnes by her parents a few years ago; that was why it seemed rather old-fashioned. 'all the rooms on this floor besides this one,' hales went on, 'are mrs. vandeleur's; and master's study, and the next floor are spare rooms, except to the back, and we thought it was fresher and pleasanter to the front for the young lady.' grandmamma looked pleased at the kind way hales spoke, but still she hesitated. i gave her a little tug. 'i don't mind,' i said, for i was not at all a frightened child about sleeping alone and things like that. she smiled back at me. 'that's right,' she said, and i felt rewarded. my room was a nice one when i got there, but it did seem a tremendous way up, and it looked rather bare and felt rather chilly, even though there was a fire burning, which, however, had not been lighted very long. the housemaid went towards it and gave it a poke, murmuring something about 'belinda being so careless.' belinda, as i soon found out, was the second housemaid, and it was she who was to wait upon me and take care of my room. 'you must ring for anything you want, miss,' said hales, 'and if belinda isn't attentive perhaps you will mention it.' and so saying she left me. i felt rather lonely, even though grandmamma was in the same house. there was a deserted feeling about the room as if it had not been used for a very long time, and my two boxes looked very small indeed. i felt no interest in unpacking my things, even though i had brought my books and some of my little ornaments. 'they will look nothing in this great bare place,' i thought. 'i won't take them out, and then i shall have the feeling that we are not going to be here for long.' a queer sort of home-sickness for windy gap and for my life there came over me. 'i do wish we had not come here; i'm sure i'm going to hate it. i think grandmamma might have come up with me to see my room,' and i stood there beside the flickering little fire, feeling far from happy or even amiable. suddenly, the sound of a gong startled me. i had not even begun to take off my hat and jacket. i did so now in a hurry, and then turned to wash my hands and face, somewhat cheered to find a can of nice hot water standing ready. then i smoothed my hair with a little pocket-comb i had, as i dared not wait to take out any of my things. but i am afraid i did not look as neat as usual or as i might have done if i hadn't wasted my time. i hurried downstairs; a door stood open, and looking in, i was sure that it was the dining-room, and grandmamma there waiting for me. a table, which to me seemed very large, though it was really an ordinary-sized round one, was nicely arranged for tea. how glad i was that it was not dinner! 'come, dear,' said grandmamma, 'you must be very hungry.' 'i couldn't change my dress, grandmamma,' i said, not quite sure if she would not be displeased with me. 'of course not,' she replied, cheerfully, 'i never expected it this first evening.' my spirits rose when i had had a nice cup of tea and something to eat--it is funny how our bodies rule our minds sometimes--and i began to talk more in my usual way, especially as, to my great relief, the servants had by this time left the room. 'shall we have tea like this every evening, grandmamma?' i asked; 'it is so much nicer than dinner.' grandmamma hesitated. 'yes,' she said, 'while we are alone i think it will be the best plan, as you are too young for late dinner. when your cousins come home, of course things will be regularly arranged.' 'that means,' i thought to myself, 'that i shall have all my meals alone, i suppose,' and again an unreasonably cross feeling came over me. grandmamma noticed it, i think, but she said nothing, and very soon after we had finished tea she proposed that i should go to bed. she took me upstairs herself to my room, and waited till i was in bed; then she kissed me as lovingly and tenderly as ever, but, all the same, no sooner had she left me alone than i buried my face in the pillow and burst into tears. i had an under feeling that grandmamma was not quite pleased with me. i know now that she was only anxious, and perhaps a little disappointed, at my not seeming brighter. for, after all, everything she had done and was doing was for my sake, and i should have trusted her and known this by instinct, instead of allowing myself from the very first beginning of our coming to london to think i was a sort of martyr. 'i can see how it's going to be,' i thought, 'as soon as ever mr. and mrs. vandeleur come back i shall be nowhere at all and nobody at all in this horrid, gloomy london. cousin agnes will be grandmamma's first thought, and i shall be expected to spend most of my life up in my room by myself. it is too bad, it isn't my fault that i am an orphan with no other home of my own. i would rather have stayed at windy gap, however poor we were, than feel as i know i am going to do.' but in the middle of all these miserable ideas i fell asleep, and slept very soundly--i don't think i dreamt at all--till the next morning. when i opened my eyes i thought it was still the night. there seemed no light, but by degrees, as i got accustomed to the darkness, i made out the shapes of the two windows. then a clock outside struck seven, and gradually everything came back to me--the journey and our arrival and the unhappy thoughts amidst which i had fallen asleep. somehow, even though as yet there was nothing to cheer me--for what can be gloomier than to watch the cold dawn of a winter's morning creeping over the gray sky of london?--somehow, things seemed less dismal already. the fact was i had had a very good night, and was feeling rested and refreshed, so much so that i soon began to fidget and to wish that some one would come with my hot water and say it was time to get up. this did not happen till half-past seven, when a knock at the door was followed by the appearance of belinda--at least i guessed it was belinda, for i had not seen her before. she was a pleasant enough looking girl, but with rather a pert manner, and she spoke to me as if i were about six. 'you'd better get up at once, miss, as breakfast's to be so early, and i'm to help you to dress if you need me.' 'no, thank you,' i said with great dignity, 'i don't want any help. but where's my bath?' 'i've had no orders about a bath,' she replied, 'but, to be sure, you can't go to the bathroom, as it's next master's dressing-room. you'll have to speak to hales about it,' and she went away murmuring something indistinctly as to new ways and new rules. in a few minutes, however, she came back again, lumbering a bath after her and looking rather cross. 'how different she is from kezia,' i thought to myself. 'i would not have minded anything as much if she had come with us.' still, i was sensible enough to know that it was no use making the worst of things, and i think i must have looked rather pleasanter and more cheerful than the evening before, when i tapped at grandmamma's door and went downstairs to breakfast holding her hand. _she_ had much more to think of and trouble about than i, and if i had not been so selfish i was quite sensible enough to have understood this. a great many things required rearranging and overlooking in the household, for, though the servants were good on the whole, it was long since they had had a mistress's eye over them, and without that, even the best servants are pretty sure to get into careless ways. and grandmamma was so very conscientious that she felt even more anxious about all these things for mr. and mrs. vandeleur's sake, than if it had been her own house and her own servants. besides, though she was so clever and experienced, it was a good many years since she had had a large house to look after, as our little home at middlemoor had been so very, very simple. yes, i see now it must have been very hard upon her, for, instead of doing all i could to help her, i was quite taken up with my own part of it, and ready to grumble at and exaggerate every little difficulty or disagreeableness. i think grandmamma tried for some time not to see the sort of humour i was in, and how selfish and spoilt i had become. she excused me to herself by saying i was tired, and that such a complete change of life was trying for a child, and by kind little reasons of that sort. 'i shall be rather busy this morning,' she said to me that first day at breakfast, 'but if it keeps fine we can go out a little in the afternoon, and let you have your first peep of london. let me see, what can you do with yourself this morning? you have your things to unpack still, and i daresay you would like to put out your ornaments and books in your own room.' 'i don't mean to put them out,' i said, 'it's not worth while. i will keep my books in one of the boxes and just get one out when i want it, and as for the ornaments, they wouldn't look anything in that big, bare room.' but as i said this i caught sight of grandmamma's face, and i felt ashamed of being so grumbling when i was really feeling more cheerful and interested in everything than the night before. so i changed my tone a little. 'i will unpack all my things,' i said, 'and see how they look, anyway. perhaps i'd better hang up my new frocks, i wouldn't like them to get crushed.' 'i should think belinda would have unpacked your clothes by this time,' said grandmamma, 'but no doubt you'll find something to do. but, by the bye, they may not have lighted a fire in your room, don't stay upstairs long if you feel chilly, but bring your work down to the library.' i went upstairs. in the full daylight, though it was a dull morning, i liked my room even less than the night before. there was nothing in it bright or fresh, though i daresay it had looked much nicer, years before, when cousin agnes was a little girl, for the cretonne curtains must once have been very pretty, with bunches of pink roses, which now, however, were faded, as well as the carpet on the floor, and the paper on the walls, to an over-all dinginess such as you never see in a country room even when everything in it is old. i sat down on a chair and looked about me disconsolately. belinda had unpacked my clothes and arranged them after her fashion. my other possessions were still untouched, but i did not feel as if i cared to do anything with them. 'i shall never be at home here,' i said to myself, 'but i suppose i must just try to bear it for the time, for grandmamma's sake.' silly child that i was, as if grandmamma ever thought of herself, or her own likes and dislikes, before what she considered right and good for me. but the idea of being something of a martyr pleased me. i got out my work, not my fancy-work--i was in a mood for doing disagreeable things--but some plain sewing that i had not touched for some time, and took it downstairs to the library. i heard voices as i opened the door, grandmamma was sitting at the writing-table speaking to the cook, who stood beside her, a rather fat, pleasant-looking woman, who made a little curtsey when she saw me. but grandmamma looked up, for her, rather sharply-'why, have you finished upstairs already, helena?' she said. 'you had better go into the dining-room for a few minutes, i am busy just now.' i went away immediately, but i was very much offended, it just seemed the beginning of what i was fancying to myself. the dining-room door was ajar, and i caught sight of the footman looking over some spoons and forks. 'i won't go in there,' i said to myself, and upstairs i mounted again. on the first landing, where grandmamma's room was, there were several other doors. all was perfectly quiet--there seemed no servants about, so i thought i would amuse myself by a little exploring. the first room i peeped into was large--larger than grandmamma's, but all the furniture was covered up. the only thing that interested me was a picture in pastelles hanging up over the mantelpiece. it caught my attention at once, and i stood looking up at it for some moments. chapter xi an arrival it was the portrait of a young girl,--a very sweet face with soft, half-timid looking eyes. [illustration: it was the portrait of a young girl.--p. 139.] 'i wonder who it is,' i thought to myself, 'i wonder if it is mrs. vandeleur. if it is, she must be nice. i almost think i should like her very much.' a door in this room led into a dressing-room, which next caught my attention. here, too, the only thing that struck me was a portrait. this time, a photograph only, of a boy. such a nice, open face! for a moment or two i thought it must be cousin cosmo, but looking more closely i saw written in one corner the name 'paul' and the date 'july 1865.' i caught my breath, as i said to myself-'it must be papa! i wonder if granny knows--she has none of him as young as that, i am sure. oh, dear, how i do wish he was alive!' but it was with a softened feeling towards both of my unknown cousins that i stepped out on to the landing again. it did seem as if mr. vandeleur must have been very fond of my father for him to have kept this photograph all these years, hanging up where he must see it every time he came into his room. unluckily, just as i was thinking this, belinda made her appearance through a door leading on to the backstairs. 'what are you doing here, miss?' she said. 'i don't think hales would be best pleased to find you wandering about through these rooms.' 'i don't know what you mean,' i said, frightened, yet indignant too. 'i was only looking at the pictures. in grandmamma's house at home i go into any room i like.' she gave a little laugh. 'oh, but you see, miss, you are not at your own home now,' she said, 'that makes all the difference,' and she passed on, closing the door i had left open, as if to say, 'you can't go in there again!' i made my way up to my own room, all the doleful feelings coming back. 'really,' i said, as i curled myself up at the foot of the bed, 'there seems no place for me in the world, it's "move on--move on," like the poor boy in the play grandmamma once told me about.' and i sat there in the cold, nursing my bitter and discontented thoughts, as if i had nothing to be grateful or thankful for in life. grandmamma did not come up to look for me, as in my secret heart i think i hoped she would. she was very, very busy, busier than i could have understood if she had told me about it, for though he did not at all mean to put too much upon her, mr. vandeleur had such faith in her good sense and judgment, that he had left everything to be settled by her when we came. i do not know if i fell asleep; i think i must have dozed a little, for the next thing i remember is rousing up, and feeling myself stiff and cramped, and not long after that the gong sounded again. i got down from my bed and looked at myself in the glass; my face seemed very pinched and miserable. i made my hair neat and washed my hands, for i would not have dared to go downstairs untidy to the dining-room. but i was not at all sorry when grandmamma looked at me anxiously, exclaiming-'my dear child, how white you are! where have you been, and what have you been doing with yourself?' 'i've been up in my own room,' i said, and just then grandmamma said nothing more, but when we were alone again she spoke to me seriously about the foolishness of risking making myself ill for no reason. 'there _is_ reason,' i said crossly, 'at least there's no reason why i shouldn't be ill; nobody cares how i am.' for all answer grandmamma drew me to her and kissed me. 'my poor, silly, little helena,' she said. i was touched and ashamed, but irritated also; grandmamma understood me better than i understood myself. 'we are going out now,' she said, 'put on your things as quickly as you can. i have several shops to go to, and the afternoons close in very early in london just now.' that walk with grandmamma--at least it was only partly a walk, for she took a hansom to the first shop she had to go to,--and i had never been in a hansom before, so you can fancy how i enjoyed it--yes, that first afternoon in london stands out very happily. once i had grandmamma quite to myself everything seemed to come right, and i could almost have skipped along the street in my pleasure and excitement. the shops were already beginning to look gay in anticipation of christmas, to me--country child that i was, they were bewilderingly magnificent. grandmamma was careful not to let me get too tired, we drove home again in another hansom, carrying some of our purchases with us. these were mostly things for the house, and a few for ourselves, and shopping was so new to me, that i took the greatest interest even in ordering brushes for the housemaid, or choosing a new afternoon tea-service for cousin agnes. that evening, too, passed much better than the morning. grandmamma spoke to me about how things were likely to be and what i myself should try to do. 'i cannot fix anything about lessons for you,' she said, 'till after cosmo and agnes return, for i do not know how much time i shall have free for you. but you are well on for your age, and i don't think a few weeks without regular lessons will do you any harm, especially here in london, where there is so much new and interesting. but i think you had better make a plan for yourself--i will help you with it--for doing something every morning while i am busy.' 'but i may be with you in the afternoons, mayn't i?' i said. 'of course, at least generally,' said grandmamma, 'whenever the weather is fine enough i will take you out. it would never do to shut you up when you have been so accustomed to the open air. some days, perhaps, we may go out in the mornings. all i want you to understand now, is that plans cannot possibly be settled all at once. you must be patient and cheerful, and if there are things that you don't like just now, in a little while they will probably disappear.' i felt pleased at grandmamma talking to me more in her old consulting way, and for the time it seemed as if i could do as she wished without difficulty. and for some days and even weeks things went on pretty well. i used to get cross now and then when grandmamma could not be with me as much as i wanted, but so far, there was no _person_ to come between her and me, it was only her having so much to do; and whenever we were together she was so sweet and understanding in every way, that it made up for the lonely hours i sometimes had to spend. but in myself i am afraid there was not really any improvement, it was only on the surface. there was still the selfishness underneath, the readiness to take offence and be jealous of anything that seemed to put me out of my place as first with grandmamma. all the unhappy feelings were there, smouldering, ready to burst out into fire the moment anything stirred them up. christmas came and went. it was very unlike any of the christmases i had ever known, and of course it could not but seem rather lonely. grandmamma still had some old friends in london, but she had not tried to see them, as she had been so busy, and not knowing as yet when cousin agnes would be returning. it seemed a sort of waiting time altogether. now and then grandmamma would allude cheerfully to cousin cosmo and his wife coming home, hoping that it would be soon, as every letter brought better accounts of mrs. vandeleur's health. i certainly did not share in these hopes, i would rather have gone on living for ever as we were if only i could have had grandmamma to myself. i think it was about the 8th of january that there came one morning a letter which made grandmamma look very grave, and when she had finished reading it she sat for a moment or two without speaking. then she said, as if thinking aloud-'dear me, this is very disappointing.' 'is anything the matter?' i asked. 'can't you tell me what it is, grandmamma?' 'oh yes, dear,' she said, 'it is only what i have been looking forward to so much--but it has come in such a different way. your cousins are returning almost immediately, but only, i am sorry to say, because poor agnes is so ill that the london doctor says she must be near him. they are bringing her up in an invalid carriage the first mild day, so i must have everything ready for them. it will probably be many weeks before she can leave her room,' and poor grandmamma sighed. this news was far from welcome to me, but i am afraid what i cared for had only to do with myself. i didn't feel very sorry for poor cousin agnes. partly, perhaps, because i was too young to understand how seriously ill she was, but chiefly, i am afraid, because i immediately began to think how much of grandmamma's time would be taken up by her, and how dull it would be for me in consequence. and when grandmamma turned to me and said-'i'm sure i shall find you a help and comfort, helena,' it almost startled me. i murmured something about wishing there was anything i could do, and i did feel ashamed. 'i'm afraid there will not be much for you actually to do,' said grandmamma, 'and i don't think you need warning to be very quiet in a house with an invalid. you are never noisy,' and she smiled a little; 'but you must try to be bright and not to mind if for a little while you have to be left a good deal to yourself. i must speak to hales about going out with you sometimes, for you must have a walk every day.' and within a week of receiving this bad news there came one morning a telegram to say that mr. and mrs. vandeleur would be arriving that afternoon. 'oh, dear, dear,' i thought to myself when i heard it. 'i wish i were--oh, anywhere except here!' i spent the hours till luncheon--which was of course my dinner--as usual, doing some lessons and needlework. hitherto, grandmamma had corrected my lessons in the evening. 'i don't believe she'll have time to look over my exercises now,' i thought to myself, 'but i suppose i must go on doing them all the same.' i have forgotten to say that i did my lessons at a side table in the dining-room, where there was always a large fire burning. it did not seem worth while to have another room given up to me while grandmamma and i were alone in the house. i did not see grandmamma till luncheon, and then she told me that she was obliged to go out immediately to some distance, as mrs. vandeleur's invalid couch or table, i forget which, was not the kind ordered. 'but mayn't i come with you?' i asked. grandmamma shook her head. no, she was in a great hurry, and the place she was going to was in the city, it would do me no good, and it was a damp, foggy day. i might go into the square garden for a little if i would promise to come in at once if it rained. there was nothing very inviting in this prospect. i liked the square gardens well enough to walk up and down in with grandmamma, but alone was a very different matter. still, it was better than staying in all the afternoon. and i spent an hour or more in pacing along the paths enjoying my self-pity to the full. there were a few other children playing together; how i envied them! 'if i had even a little dog,' i said to myself, 'it would be something. but of course there's no chance of that--he would disturb cousin agnes.' i went back to the house an hour or so before the expected arrival. grandmamma had already returned. she was in her own room, i peeped in on my way upstairs. 'what do you want me to do, grandmamma?' i said. she glanced at me. 'change your frock, dear, and come down to the library with your work. of course cosmo will want to see you, once cousin agnes is settled in her room. dear me, i do hope she will have stood the journey pretty well!' i came downstairs again with mixed feelings. i should rather have enjoyed making a martyr of myself by staying up in my own room. but, on the other hand, i had a good deal of curiosity on the subject of my unknown cousins. 'i wonder if cousin agnes will be able to walk,' i thought to myself, 'or if they will carry her in. i should like to see what an invalid carriage is like!' i think i pictured to myself a sort of palanquin, and eager to be on the spot at the moment of the arrival i changed my frock very quickly and hastened downstairs with my knitting in my hand--a model of propriety. 'do i look nice, grandmamma?' i asked. 'it is the first time i have had this frock on, you know.' for besides the new clothes grandmamma had ordered from windy gap, she had got me some very nice ones since we came to london. and this new one i thought the prettiest of all. it was brown velveteen with a falling collar of lace, with which i was especially pleased, for though my clothes had been always very neatly made, they had been very plain, the last two or three years more especially. so i stood there pleasantly expecting grandmamma's approval. but she scarcely glanced at me, i doubt if she heard what i said, for she was busy writing a note about something or other which had been forgotten, and almost as i spoke the footman came into the room to take it. 'what were you saying, my dear?' she said quickly. 'oh yes, very nice---be sure, william, that this is sent at once.' i crossed the room and sat down in the farthest corner, my heart swelling. it was not _all_ spoilt temper, i was really terribly afraid that grandmamma was beginning to care less for me. but before there had been time for her to notice my disappointment, there came the sound of wheels stopping at the door, and then the bell rang loudly. grandmamma started up. if i had been less taken up with myself, i could easily have entered into her feelings. it was the first time for more than twelve years that she had seen her nephew, and think of all that had happened to her since then! but none of these thoughts came into my mind just then, it was quite filled with myself and my own troubles, and but for my curiosity i think i would have hidden myself behind the window-curtains. grandmamma went out into the hall and i followed her. the door was already opened, as the servants had been on the look-out. the first thing i saw was a tall, slight figure coming very slowly up the steps on the arm of a dark, grave-looking man. behind them came a maid laden with shawls and cushions. they came quietly into the hall, grandmamma moving forward a little to meet them, though without speaking. a smile came over cousin agnes's pale face as she caught sight of her, but mr. vandeleur looked up almost sharply. 'wait till we get her into the library,' he said. evidently coming up those few steps had almost been too much for his wife, for i saw her face grow still paler. i was watching with such interest that i quite forgot that where i stood i was partially blocking up the doorway. without noticing who i was, so completely absorbed was he with cousin agnes, mr. vandeleur stretched out his hand and half put me aside. 'take care,' he said quickly, and before there was time for more--'helena, do get out of the way,' said grandmamma. that was the last straw for me. i did get out of the way. i turned and rushed across the hall, and upstairs to my own room without a word. chapter xii a catastrophe no one came up to look for me; i don't know that i expected it, but still i was disappointed and made a fresh grievance of this neglect, as i considered it. the truth was, nobody was thinking of me at all, for cousin agnes had fainted when she got into the library and everybody was engrossed in attending to her. afternoon tea time came and passed, and still i was alone. it was quite dark when at last belinda came up to draw down the blinds, and was startled by finding me in my usual place when much upset--curled up at the foot of the bed. 'whatever are you doing here, miss?' she said, sharply. 'there's your tea been waiting in the dining-room for ever so long.' the fact was, she had been told to call me but had forgotten it. 'i don't want any,' i said, shortly. 'nonsense, miss,' said the girl, 'you can't go without eating. and when there's any one ill in the house you must just make the best of things.' 'mrs. vandeleur didn't seem so very ill,' i said, 'she was able to walk.' 'ah, but she's been worse since then--they had to fetch the doctor, and now she's in bed and better, and your grandmamma's sitting beside her.' i did feel sorry for cousin agnes when i heard this, though the sore feeling still remained that i wasn't wanted, and was of no use to any one. i was almost glad to escape seeing grandmamma, so i went downstairs quietly to the dining-room and had my tea, for i was very hungry. just as i had finished, and was crossing the hall to go upstairs again, a tall figure came out of the library. i knew in a moment who it was, but cousin cosmo stared at me as if he couldn't imagine what child it could be, apparently at home in his house. 'who--what?' he began, but then corrected himself. 'oh, to be sure,' he added, holding out his hand, 'you're helena of course. i wasn't sure if you were at school or not.' 'at school,' i repeated, 'grandmamma would never send me to school.' he smiled a little, or meant to do so, but i thought him very grim and forbidding. 'i don't wonder at those boys not liking him for their guardian,' i said to myself as i looked up at him. 'ah, well,' he replied, 'so long as you remember to be a very quiet little girl, especially when you pass the first landing, i daresay it will be all right.' i didn't condescend to answer, but walked off with my most dignified air, which no doubt was lost upon my cousin, who, i fancy, had almost forgotten my existence before he had closed the hall door behind him, for he was just going out. i did not see grandmamma that evening, and i did not know that she saw me, for when she at last was free to come up to my room, i was in bed and fast asleep, and she was careful not to wake me. she told me this the next morning, and also that belinda had said i had had my tea and supper comfortably. but--partly from pride, and partly from better motives--i did not tell her that i had cried myself to sleep. i need not go into the daily history of the next few weeks, indeed i don't wish to do so. they were the most miserable time of my whole life. now that all is happy i don't want to dwell upon them. dear grandmamma says, whenever we do speak about that time, that she really does not think it was _all_ my fault, and that comforts me. it was certainly not her fault, nor anybody's in one way, except of course mine. things happened in a trying way, as they must do in life sometimes, and i don't think it was wrong of me to feel unhappy. we _have_ to be unhappy sometimes; but it was wrong of me not to bear it patiently, and to let myself grow bitter, and worst of all, to do what i did--what i am now going to tell about. those dreary weeks went on till it was nearly easter, which came very early that year. after my cousins' return home the weather got very bad and added to the gloom of everything. it was not so very cold, but it was _so_ dull! fog more or less, every day, and if not fog, sleety rain, which generally began by trying to be snow, and for my part i wished it had been--it would have made the streets look clean for a few hours. there were lots of days on which i couldn't go out at all, and when i did go out, with belinda as my companion, i did not enjoy it. she was a silly, selfish girl, though rather good-natured once she felt i was in some way dependent on her, but her ideas of amusing talk were not the same as mine. the only shop-windows she cared to look at were milliners' and drapers', and she couldn't understand my longing to read the names of the tempting volumes in the booksellers, and feeling so pleased if i saw any of my old friends among them. indoors, my life was really principally spent in my own room, where, however, i always had a good big fire, which was a comfort. there were many days on which i scarcely saw grandmamma, a few on which i actually did not see her at all. for all this time cousin agnes was really terribly ill--much worse than i knew--and mr. vandeleur was nearly out of his mind with grief and anxiety, and self-reproach for having brought her up to london, which he had done rather against the advice of her doctor in the country, who, he now thought, understood her better than the great doctor in london. and grandmamma, i believe, had nearly as much to do in comforting him and keeping him from growing quite morbid, as in taking care of cousin agnes. all the improvement in her health which they had been so pleased at during the first part of the winter had gone, and i now know that for a great part of those weeks there was very little hope of her living. i saw cousin cosmo sometimes at breakfast but never at any other hour of the day, unless i happened to pass him on the staircase, which i avoided as much as possible, you may be sure, for if he did speak to me it was as if i were about three years old, and he was sure to say something about being very quiet. i don't think i could have been expected to like him, but i'm afraid i almost hated him then. it would have been better--that is one of the things grandmamma now says--to have told me more of their great anxiety, and it certainly would have been better to send me to school, to some day-school even, for the time. as it was, day by day i grew more miserable, for you see i had nothing to look forward to, no actual reason for hoping that my life would ever be happier again, for, not knowing but that poor cousin agnes might die any day, grandmamma did not like to speak of the future at all. i never saw her--cousin agnes i mean--never except once, but i have not come to that yet. at last, things came to a crisis with me. one day, one morning, belinda told me that i must not stay in my room as it was to be what she called 'turned out,' by which she meant that it was to undergo an extra thorough cleaning. she had forgotten to tell me this the night before, so that when i came up from breakfast, which i had had alone, intending to settle down comfortably with my books before the fire, i found there was no fire and everything in confusion. 'what am i to do?' i said. 'you must go down to the dining-room and do your lessons there,' said belinda. 'there will be no one to disturb you, once the breakfast things are taken away.' 'has mr. vandeleur had his breakfast?' i asked. 'i don't know,' said belinda, shortly, for she had been told not to tell me that cousin agnes had been so ill in the night that the great doctor had been sent for, and they were now having a consultation about her in the library. 'i'll help you to get your things together,' she went on, 'and you must go downstairs as quietly as possible.' we collected my books. it made me melancholy to see them, there were such piles of exercises grandmamma had never had time to look over! belinda heaped them all on to the top of my atlas, the glass ink-bottle among them. 'are they quite steady?' i said. 'hadn't i better come up again and only take half now?' 'oh, dear, no,' said belinda,'they are right enough if you walk carefully,' for in her heart she knew that she should have helped me to carry them down, herself. but i had got used to her careless ways, and i didn't seem to mind anything much now, so i set off with my burden. it was all right till i got to the first floor--the floor where grandmamma's and cousin agnes's rooms were. then, as ill luck would have it--just from taking extra care, i suppose--somehow or other i lost my footing and down i went, a regular good bumping roll from top to bottom of one flight of stairs, books, and slate, and glass ink-bottle all clattering after me! i'm quite sure that in all my life before or since i never made such a noise! [illustration: up rushed two or three ... men, cousin cosmo the first.--p. 160.] i hurt myself a good deal, though not seriously; but before i had time to do more than sit up and feel my arms and legs to be sure that none of them were broken, the library door below was thrown open, and up rushed two or three--at first sight i thought them still more--men! cousin cosmo the first. 'in heaven's name,' he exclaimed, though even then he did not speak loudly, 'what is the matter? this is really inexcusable!' he meant, i think, that there should have been some one looking after me! but i took the harsh word to myself. 'i--i've fallen downstairs,' i said, which of course was easy to be seen. there was a dark pool on the step beside me, and in spite of his irritation cousin cosmo was alarmed. 'have you cut yourself?' he said, 'are you bleeding?' and he took out his handkerchief, hardly knowing why, but as he stooped towards me it touched the stain. 'ink!' he said, in a tone of disgust. 'really, even a child might have more sense!' then the older of the two men who were with him came forward. he had a very grave but kind face. 'it is very unfortunate,' he said,'i hope the noise has not startled mrs. vandeleur. you must really,' he went on, turning to cousin cosmo, but then stopping--'i must have a word or two with you about this before i go. in the meantime we had better pick up this little person.' i got up of myself, though something in the doctor's face prevented my feeling vexed at his words, as i might otherwise have been. but just as i was stooping to pick up my books and to hide the giddy, shaky feeling which came over me, a voice from the landing above made me start. it was grandmamma herself; she hastened down the flight of stairs, looking extremely upset. 'helena!' she exclaimed, and i think her face cleared a little when she saw me standing there,'you have not hurt yourself then? but what in the world were you doing to make such a terrific clatter? i never knew her do such a thing before,' she went on. 'did agnes hear it?' said cousin cosmo, sharply. 'i'm afraid it did startle her,' grandmamma replied, 'but fortunately she thought it was something in the basement. i must go back to her at once,' and without another word to me she turned upstairs again. i can't tell what i felt like; even now i hate to remember it. my own grandmamma to speak to me in that voice and not to care whether i was hurt or not! i think some servant was called to wipe up the ink, and i made my way, stiff and bruised and giddy, to the dining-room--i had not even the refuge of my own room to cry in at peace--while cousin cosmo and the doctors went back to the library. and not long after, i heard the front door close and a carriage drive away. i thought my cup was full, but it was not, as you shall hear. i didn't try to do any lessons. my head was aching and i didn't feel as if it mattered what i did or didn't do. 'if only my room was ready,' i thought, half stupidly, 'i wouldn't mind so much.' i think i must have cried a good deal almost without knowing it, for after a while, when the footman came into the room, i started up with a conscious feeling of not wanting to be seen, and turned towards the window, where i stood pretending to look out. not that there was anything to be seen; the fog was getting so thick that i could scarcely distinguish the railings a few feet off. the footman left the room again, but i felt sure he was coming back, so i crept behind the shelter of the heavy curtains and curled myself up on the floor, drawing them round me. and then, how soon i can't tell, i fell asleep. it has always been my way to do so when i've been very unhappy, and the unhappier i am the more heavily i sleep, though not in a nice refreshing way. i awoke with a start, not knowing where i was. i could not have been asleep more than an hour, but to me it seemed like a whole night, and as i was beginning to collect my thoughts i heard voices talking in the room behind me. it must have been these voices which had awakened me. the first i heard was mr. vandeleur's. 'i am very sorry about it,' he was saying, 'but i see no help for it. i would not for worlds distress you if i could avoid doing so, for all my old debts to you, my dear aunt, are doubled now by your devotion to agnes. she will in great measure owe her life to you, i feel.' 'you exaggerate it,' said grandmamma, 'though i do believe i am a comfort to her. but never mind about that just now--the present question is helena.' 'yes,' he replied, 'i can't tell you how strongly i feel that it would be for the child's good too, though i can quite understand it would be difficult for you to see it in that light.' 'no,' said grandmamma, 'i have been thinking about it myself, for of course i have not been feeling satisfied about her. perhaps in the past i have thought of her too exclusively, and it is very difficult for a child not to be spoilt by this. and now on the other hand----' 'it is too much for you yourself,' interrupted my cousin, 'she should be quite off your mind. i have the greatest confidence in dr. pierce's judgment in such matters. he would recommend no school hastily. if you will come into the library i will give you the addresses of the two he mentioned. no doubt you will prefer to write for particulars yourself; though when it is settled i daresay i could manage to take her there. for even with these fresh hopes they have given us, now this crisis is passed, i doubt your being able to leave agnes for more than an hour or two at a time.' 'i should not think of doing so,' said grandmamma, decidedly. 'yes--if you will give me the addresses i will write.' to me her voice sounded cold and hard; _now_ i know of course that it was only the force she was putting upon herself to crush down her own feelings about parting with me. it was not till they had left the room that i began to understand what a dishonourable thing i had been doing in listening to this conversation, and for a moment there came over me the impulse to rush after them and tell what i had heard. but only for a moment; the dull heavy feeling, which had been hanging over me for so long of not being cared for, of having no place of my own and being in everybody's way, seemed suddenly to have increased to an actual certainty. hitherto, it now seemed to me, i had only been playing with the idea, and now as a sort of punishment had come upon me the reality of the cruel truth--grandmamma did _not_ care for me any longer. she had got back the nephew who had been like a son to her, and he and his wife had stolen away from me all her love. then came the mortification of remembering that i was living in cousin cosmo's house--a most unwelcome guest. 'he never has liked me,' i thought to myself; 'even at the very beginning, grandmamma never gave me any kind messages from him. and those poor boys gerard told me of couldn't care for him--he must be horrid.' then a new thought struck me. 'i _have_ a home still,' i thought; 'windy gap is ours, i could live there with kezia and trouble nobody and hardly cost anything. i won't stay here to be sent to school; i don't think i am bound to bear it.' i crept out of my corner. 'surely my room will be ready by now,' i thought, and walking very slowly still, for falling asleep in the cold had made me even stiffer, i made my way upstairs. yes, my room was ready, and there was a good fire. there was a little comfort in that: i sat down on the floor in front of it and began to think out my plans. chapter xiii harry in spite of all that was on my mind i slept soundly, waking the next morning a little after my usual hour. very quickly, so much was it impressed on my brain, i suppose, i recollected the determination with which i had gone to bed the night before. i hurried to the window and drew up the blind, for i had made one condition with myself--i would not attempt to carry out my plan if the fog was still there! but it had gone. whether i was glad or sorry i really can't say. i dressed quickly, thinking or planning all the time. when i got downstairs to the dining-room it was empty, but on the table were the traces of some one having breakfasted there. just then the footman came in-'i was to tell you, miss,' he said, 'that mrs. wingfield won't be down to breakfast; it's to be taken upstairs to her.' 'and mr. vandeleur has had his, i suppose?' i said. 'yes, miss,' he replied, clearing the table of some of the plates and dishes. i went on with my breakfast, eating as much as i could, for being what is called an 'old-fashioned' child, i thought to myself it might be some time before i got a regular meal again. then i went upstairs, where, thanks to belinda's turn-out of the day before, my room was already in order and the fire lighted. i locked the door and set to work. about an hour later, having listened till everything seemed quiet about the house, i made my way cautiously and carefully downstairs, carrying my own travelling-bag stuffed as full as it would hold and a brown paper parcel. when i got to the first bedroom floor, where grandmamma's room was, a sudden strange feeling came over me. i felt as if i _must_ see her, even if she didn't see me. her door was ajar. 'very likely,' i thought, 'she will be writing in there.' for, lately, i knew she had been there almost entirely, when not actually in cousin agnes's room, so as to be near her. 'i will peep in,' i said to myself. i put down what i was carrying and crept round the door noiselessly. at first i thought there was no one in the room, then to my surprise i saw that the position of the bed had been changed. it now stood with its back to the window, but the light of a brightly burning fire fell clearly upon it. there was some one in bed! could it be grandmamma? if so, she must be really ill, it was so unlike her ever to stay in bed. i stepped forward a little--no, the pale face with the pretty bright hair showing against the pillows was not grandmamma, it was some one much younger, and with a sort of awe i said to myself it must be cousin agnes. so it was, she had been moved into grandmamma's room a day or two before for a little change. it could not have been the sound i made, for i really made none, that roused her; it must just have been the _feeling_ that some one had entered the room. for all at once she opened her eyes, such very sweet blue eyes they were, and looked at me, at first in a half-startled way, but then with a little smile. 'i thought i was dreaming,' she whispered. 'i have had such a nice sleep. is that you, little helena? i'm so glad to see you; i wanted you to come before, often.' i stood there trembling. what would grandmamma or mr. vandeleur think if they came in and found me there? but yet cousin agnes was so very sweet, her voice so gentle and almost loving, that i felt i could not run out of the room without answering her. 'thank you,' i said, 'i do hope you are better.' 'i am going to be better very soon, i feel almost sure,' she said, but her voice was already growing weaker. 'are you going out, dear?' she went on. 'good-bye, i hope you will have a nice walk. come again to see me soon.' 'thank you,' i whispered again, something in her voice almost making the tears come into my eyes, and i crept off as quietly as possible, with a curious feeling that if i delayed i should not go at all. by this time you will have guessed what my plan was. i think i will not go into all the particulars of how i made my way to paddington in a hansom, which i picked up just outside the square, and how i managed to take my ticket, a third class one this time, for though i had brought all my money--a few shillings of my own and a sovereign which cousin cosmo had sent me for a christmas box--i saw that care would be needed to make it take me to my journey's end. nor, how at last, late in the afternoon, i found myself on the platform at middlemoor station. i was very tired, now that the first excitement had gone off. 'how glad i shall be to get to windy gap,' i thought, 'and to be with kezia.' i opened my purse and looked at my money. there were three shillings and some coppers, not enough for a fly, which i knew cost five shillings. 'i can't walk all the way,' i said to myself. 'it's getting so late too,' for i had had to wait more than an hour at paddington for a train. then a bright idea struck me. there was an omnibus that went rather more than half-way, if only i could get it i should be able to manage. i went out of the station and there, to my delight, it stood; by good luck i had come by a train which it always met. there were two other passengers in it already, but of course there was plenty of room for me and my bag and my parcel, so i settled myself in a corner, not sorry to see that my companions were perfect strangers to me. it was now about seven in the evening, the sky was fast darkening. off we jogged, going at a pretty good pace at first, but soon falling back to a very slow one as the road began to mount. i fancy i dozed a little, for the next thing i remember was the stopping of the omnibus at the little roadside inn, which was the end of its journey. i got out and paid my fare, and then set off on what was really the worst part of the whole, for i was now very tired and my luggage, small as it was, seemed to weigh like lead. i might have looked out for a boy to carry it for me, but that idea didn't enter my head, and i was very anxious not to be noticed by any one who might have known me. [illustration: it was all uphill too.--p. 173.] i seemed to have no feeling now except the longing to be 'at home' and with kezia. i almost forgot why i had come and all about my unhappiness in london; but, oh dear! how that mile stretched itself out! it was all uphill too; every now and then i was forced to stop for a minute and to put down my packages on the ground so as to rest my aching arms, so my progress was very slow. it was quite dark when at last i found myself stumbling up the bit of steep path which lay between the end of the road where sharley's pony-cart used to wait and our own little garden-gate. if i hadn't known my way so well i could scarcely have found it, but at last my goal was reached. i stood at the door for a moment or two without knocking, to recover my breath, and indeed my wits, a little. it all seemed so strange, i felt as if i were dreaming. but soon the fresh sweet air, which was almost like native air to me, made me feel more like myself--made me realise that here i was again at dear old windy gap. more than that, i would not let my mind dwell upon, except to think over what should be my first words to kezia. i knocked at last, and then for the first time i noticed that there was a light in the drawing-room shining through the blinds. 'dear me,' i thought, 'how strange,' and then a terror came over me--supposing the house was let to strangers! i had quite forgotten that this was possible. but before i had time to think of what i could in that case do, the door was opened. 'kezia,' i gasped, but looking up, my new fears took shape. it was not kezia who stood there, it was a boy; a boy about two or three years older than i, not as tall as gerard nestor, though strong and sturdy looking, and with--even at that moment i thought so to myself--the very nicest face i had ever seen. he was sunburnt and ruddy, with short dark hair and bright kind-looking eyes, which when he smiled seemed to smile too. i daresay i did not see all that just then, but it is difficult now to separate my earliest remembrance of him from what i noticed afterwards, and there never was, there never has been, anything to contradict or confuse the first feeling, or instinct, that he was as good and true as he looked, my dear old harry! just now, of course, his face had a very surprised expression. 'kezia?' he repeated. 'i am sorry she is not in just now.' it was an immense relief to gather from his words that she was not away. 'will she be in soon?' i said, eagerly; 'i didn't know there was any one else in the house. may i--do you mind--if i come in and wait till kezia returns?' 'certainly,' said the boy, and as he spoke he stooped to pick up the bag and parcel which his quick eyes had caught sight of. 'my brother and i are staying here,' he said, as he crossed the little hall to the drawing-room door. 'we are alone here except for kezia; we came here a fortnight ago from school, it was broken up because of illness.' i think he went on speaking out of a sort of friendly wish to set me at my ease, and i listened half stupidly, i don't think i quite took in what he said. a younger boy was sitting in my own old corner, by the window, and a little table with a lamp on it was drawn up beside him. 'lindsay,' said my guide, and the younger boy, who was evidently very well drilled by his brother, started up at once. 'this--this young lady,' for by this time he had found out i was a lady in spite of my brown paper parcel, 'has come to see kezia. put some coal on the fire, it's getting very low.' lindsay obeyed, eyeing me as he did so. he was smaller and slighter than his brother, with fair hair and a rather girlish face. 'won't you sit down?' said harry, pushing a chair forward to me. i was dreadfully tired and very glad to sit down, and now my brain began to work a little more quickly. the name 'lindsay' had started some recollection. 'are you--' i began, 'is your name vandeleur; are you the boys at school with gerard nestor?' 'yes,' said harry, opening his eyes very wide, 'and--would you mind telling me who you are?' he added bluntly. 'i'm helena wingfield,' i said. 'this is my home. i have come back alone, all the way from london, because----' and i stopped short. 'because?' repeated harry, looking at me with his kind, though searching eyes. something in his manner made me feel that i must answer him. he was only a boy, not nearly as 'grown-up' in manners or appearance as gerard nestor; there was something even a little rough about him, but still he seemed at once to take the upper hand with me; i felt that i must respect him. 'because--' i faltered, feeling it very difficult to keep from crying--'because i was so miserable in london in your--in cousin cosmo's house. he is my cousin, you know,' i went on, 'though his name is different.' 'i know,' said harry, quietly, 'he's our cousin too, and our guardian. but you're better off than we are--you've got your grandmother. i know all about you, you see. but how on earth did she let you come away like this alone? or is she--no, she can't be with you, surely?' 'no,' i replied, 'i'm alone, i thought i told you so; and grandmamma doesn't know i've come away, of course she wouldn't have let me. nobody does know.' harry's face grew very grave indeed, and lindsay raised himself from stooping over the fire, and stood staring at me as if i was something very extraordinary. 'your grandmother doesn't know?' repeated harry, 'nobody knows? how could you come away like that? why, your grandmother will be nearly out of her mind about you!' 'no, she won't,' i replied, 'she doesn't care for me now, it's all quite different from what it used to be. nobody cares for me, they'll only be very glad to be rid of the trouble of me.' the tears had got up into my eyes by this time, and as i spoke they began slowly to drop on to my cheeks. harry saw them, i knew, but i didn't feel as if i cared, though i think i wanted him to be sorry for me, his kind face looked as if he would be. so i was rather surprised when, instead of saying something sympathising and gentle, he answered rather abruptly-'helena, i don't mean to be rude, for of course it's no business of mine, but i think you must know that you are talking nonsense. i don't mean about mr. vandeleur, or any one but your grandmother; but as for saying that she has left off caring for you, that's all--perfectly impossible. _i_ know enough for that; you've been with her all your life, and she's been most awfully good to you----' 'i know she has,' i interrupted, 'that makes it all the worse to bear.' 'we'll talk about that afterwards,' said harry, 'it's your grandmother you should think of now--what do you mean to do?' i stared at him, not quite understanding. 'i meant to stay here,' i said, 'with kezia. if i can't--if you count it your house and won't let me stay, i must go somewhere else. but you can't stop my staying here till i've seen kezia.' harry gave an impatient exclamation. 'can't you understand,' he said, 'that i meant what are you going to do about letting your grandmother know where you are?' 'i hadn't thought about it,' i said; 'perhaps they won't find out till to-morrow morning.' and then in my indignation i went on to tell him about the lonely life i had had lately, ending up with an account of my fall down the stairs and what i had overheard about being sent away to school. 'poor helena,' said lindsay. harry, too, was sorry for me, i know, but just then he did not say much. 'all the same,' he replied, after listening to me, 'it wouldn't be right to risk your grandmother's being frightened, any longer. i'll send a telegram at once.' the village post and telegraph office was only a quarter of a mile from our house. harry turned to leave the room as he spoke. 'lindsay, you'll look after helena till i come back,' he said. 'i daresay kezia won't be in for an hour or so.' i stopped him. 'you mustn't send a telegram without telling me what you are going to say,' i said. he looked at me. 'i shall just put--"helena is here, safe and well,"' he replied, and to this i could not make any reasonable objection. 'i may be safe, but i don't think i am well,' i said grumblingly when he had gone. 'i'm starving, to begin with. i've had nothing to eat all day except two buns i bought at paddington station, and my head's aching dreadfully.' 'oh, dear,' said lindsay, who was a soft-hearted little fellow, and most ready to sympathise, especially in those troubles which he best understood, 'you must be awfully hungry. we had our tea some time ago, but kezia always gives us supper. come into the kitchen and let's see what we can find--or no, you're too tired--you stay here and i'll forage for you.' he went off, returning in a few minutes with a jug of milk and a big slice of one of kezia's own gingerbread cakes. i thought nothing had ever tasted so good, and my headache seemed to get better after eating it and drinking the milk. i was just finishing when harry came in again. 'that's right,' he said, 'i forgot that you must be hungry.' then we all three sat and looked at each other without speaking. 'lindsay,' said harry at last, 'you'd better finish that exercise you were doing when helena came in,' and lindsay obediently went back to the table. i wanted harry to speak to me. after all i had told him i thought he should have been sorry for me, and should have allowed that i had right on my side, instead of letting me sit there in silence. at last i could bear it no longer. 'i don't think,' i said, 'that you should treat me as if i were too naughty to speak to. i know quite well that you are not at all fond of mr. vandeleur yourself, and that should make you sorry for me.' 'i suppose you're thinking of what gerard nestor said,' harry replied. 'it's true i know very little of mr. vandeleur, though i daresay he has meant to be kind to us. but what i can't make out is how you could treat your grandmother so. lindsay and i have never had any one like what she's been to you.' his words startled me. 'if i had thought,' i began, 'that she would really care--or be frightened about me--perhaps i--' but i had no time to say more, there came a knock at the front door and lindsay started up. 'it's kezia,' he said, 'she locks the back-door when she goes out in the evening and we let her in. she's been to church,' so off he flew, eager to be the one to give her the news of my unexpected arrival. but i did not rush out to meet her, as i would have done at first. harry's words had begun to make me a little less sure than i had been as to how even kezia would look upon my conduct. chapter xiv kezia's counsel the sound of low voices--lindsay's and kezia's, followed by an exclamation, kezia's of course--reached harry and me as we stood there in silence looking at each other. then the door was pushed open and in hurried my old friend. 'miss helena!' she said breathlessly. 'miss helena, i could scarce believe master lindsay! dear, dear, how frightened your grandmother will be!' i could see that it went against her kindly feelings to receive me by blame at the very first, and yet her words showed plainly enough what she was thinking. 'grandmamma will not be frightened,' i said, rather coldly. 'harry has sent her a telegram, and besides--i don't think she would have been frightened any way. it's all quite different now, kezia, you don't understand. she's got other people to care for instead of me.' kezia took no notice of this. 'dear, dear!' she said again. 'to think of you coming here alone! i'm sure when master lindsay met me at the door saying: "guess who's here, kezia," i never could have--' but here i interrupted her. 'if that's all you've got to say to me i really don't care to hear it,' i said, 'but it's a queer sort of welcome. i can't go away to-night, i suppose, but i will the very first thing to-morrow morning. i daresay they'll take me in at the vicarage, but really--' i broke off again--'considering that this is my own home, and--and--that i had no one else to go to in all the world except you, kezia, i do think--' but here my voice failed, i burst into tears. kezia put her arms round me very kindly. 'poor dear,' she said, 'whatever mistakes you've made, you must be tired to death. come with me into the dining-room, miss helena, there's a better fire there, and i'll get you a cup of tea or something, and then you must go to bed. your own room's quite ready, just as you left it. master lindsay has the little chair-bed in mr. harry's room--your grandmamma's room, i mean.' she led me into the dining-room, talking as she went, in this matter-of-fact way, to help me to recover myself. harry and lindsay remained behind. 'i have had--some--milk, and a piece of--gingerbread,' i said, between my sobs, as kezia established me in front of the fire in the other room. 'i don't think i could eat anything else, but i'd like some tea very much.' i shivered in spite of the beautiful big fire close to me. 'you shall have it at once,' said kezia, hurrying off, 'though it mustn't be strong, and i'll make you a bit of toast, too.' then i overheard a little bustle in the kitchen, and by the sounds, i made out that harry or lindsay, or both of them perhaps, were helping kezia in her preparations. 'what nice boys they are,' i thought to myself, and a feeling of shame began to come over me that i should have first got to know them when acting in a way that they, harry at least, so evidently thought wrong and foolish. but now that, in spite of her disapproval, i felt myself safe in kezia's care, the restraint i had put upon myself gave way more and more. i sat there crying quietly, and when the little tray with tea and a tempting piece of hot toast (which harry's red face showed he had had to do with) made its appearance i ate and drank obediently, almost without speaking. half an hour later i was in bed in my own little room, kezia tucking me in as she had done so very, very often in my life. 'now go to sleep, dearie,' she said, 'and think of nothing till to-morrow morning, except that when things come to the worst they begin to get better.' and sleep i did, soundly and long. harry and lindsay had had their breakfast two hours before at least, when i woke, and other things had happened. a telegram had come in reply to harry's, thanking him for it, announcing mr. vandeleur's arrival that very afternoon, and desiring harry to meet him at middlemoor station. they did not tell me of this; perhaps they were afraid it would have made me run off again somewhere else. but when my old nurse brought up my breakfast we had a long, long talk together. i told her all that i had told harry the night before, and of course in some ways it was easier for her to understand than it had been for him. i could not have had a better counsellor. she just put aside all i said about grandmamma's not caring for me any longer as simple nonsense; she didn't attempt to explain all the causes of my having been left so much to myself. she didn't pretend to understand it altogether. 'your grandmamma will put it all right to you, herself, when she sees well to do so,' she said. 'she has just made one mistake, miss helena, it seems to me--she has credited you with more sense than perhaps should be expected of a child.' i didn't like this, and i felt my cheeks grow red. 'more sense,' repeated kezia, 'and she has trusted you too much. it should have pleased you to be looked on like that, and if you'd been a little older it would have done so. the idea that you could think she had left off caring for you would have seemed to her simply impossible. she has trusted you too much, and you, miss helena, have not trusted her at all.' 'but you're forgetting, kezia, what i heard myself, with my own ears, about sending me away to school, and how little she seemed to care.' kezia smiled, rather sadly. 'my dearie,' she said, 'i have not served mrs. wingfield all the years i have, not to know her better than that. i daresay you'll never know, unless you live to be a mother and grandmother yourself, what the thought of parting with you was costing her, at the very time she spoke so quietly.' 'but when i fell downstairs,' i persisted, 'she seemed so vexed with me, and then--oh! for days and days before that, i had hardly seen her.' kezia looked pained. 'yes, my dear, it must have been hard for you, but harder for your grandmamma. there are times in life when all does seem to be going the wrong way. and very likely being so very troubled and anxious herself, about you as well as about other things, made your grandmamma appear less kind than usual.' kezia stopped and hesitated a little. 'i think as things are,' she said, 'i can't be doing wrong in telling you a little more than you know. i am sure my dear lady will forgive me if i make a mistake in doing so, seeing she has not told you more herself, no doubt for the best of reasons.' she stopped again. i felt rather frightened. 'what do you mean, kezia?' i said. 'it is about mrs. vandeleur. do you know, my dear miss helena, that it has just been touch and go these last days, if she was to live or die?' 'oh, kezia!' i exclaimed; 'no, i didn't know it was as bad as that,' and the tears--unselfish, unbitter tears this time--rushed into my eyes as i remembered the sweet white face that i had seen in grandmamma's room, and the gentle voice that had tried to say something kind and loving to me. 'oh, kezia, i wish i had known. do you think it will have hurt her, my peeping into the room yesterday?' for i had told my old nurse _everything_. she shook her head. 'no, my dear, i don't think so. she is going to get really better now, they feel sure--as sure as it is ever _right_ to feel about such things, i mean. only yesterday morning i had a letter from your grandmamma, saying so. she meant to tell you soon, all about the great anxiety there had been--once it was over--she had been afraid of grieving and alarming you. so, dear miss helena, if you had just been patient a _little_ longer----' my tears were dropping fast now, but still i was not quite softened. 'all the same, kezia,' i said, 'they meant to send me to school.' 'well, my dear, if they had, it might have been really for your happiness. you would have been sent nowhere that was not as good and nice a school as could be. and, of course, though mrs. vandeleur has turned the corner in a wonderful way, she will be delicate for long--perhaps never quite strong, and the life is lonely for you.' 'i wouldn't mind,' i said, for the sight of sweet cousin agnes had made me feel as if i would do anything for her. 'i wouldn't mind, if grandmamma trusted me, and if i could feel she loved me as much as she used. i would do my lessons alone, or go to a day-school or anything, if only i felt happy again with grandmamma.' 'my dearie, there is no need for you to feel anything else.' 'oh yes--there is _now_, even if there wasn't before,' i said, miserably. 'think of what i have done. even if grandmamma forgave me for coming away here, cousin cosmo would not--he is _so_ stern, kezia. he really is--you know harry and lindsay thought so--gerard nestor told us, and though harry won't speak against him, i can see he doesn't care for him.' 'perhaps they have not got to know each other,' suggested kezia. 'master harry is a dear boy; but so was mr. cosmo long ago--i can't believe his whole nature has changed.' then another thought struck me. 'kezia,' i said, 'i think grandmamma might have told me about the boys being here. she used to tell me far littler things than that. and in a sort of a way i think i had a right to know. windy gap is my home.' 'it was all settled in a hurry,' said kezia. 'the school broke up suddenly through some cases of fever, and poor mr. vandeleur was much put about to know where to send the young gentlemen. he couldn't have them in london, with mrs. vandeleur so ill, and your grandmamma was very glad to have the cottage free, and me here to do for them. no doubt she would have told you about it. i'm glad for your sake they are here. they'll be nice company for you.' her words brought home to me the actual state of things. 'do you think grandmamma will let me stay here a little?' i said. 'i'm afraid she will not--and even if _she_ would, cousin cosmo will be so angry, _he_'ll prevent it. i am quite sure they will send me to school.' 'but what was the use of you coming here then, miss helena,' said kezia, sensibly, 'if you knew you would be sent to school after all?' 'oh,' i said,'i didn't think very much about anything except getting away. i--i thought grandmamma would just be glad to be rid of the trouble of me, and that they'd leave me here till mrs. vandeleur was better and grandmamma could come home again.' kezia did not answer at once. then she said-'do you dislike london so very much, then, miss helena?' 'oh no,' i replied. 'i was very happy alone with grandmamma, except for always thinking they were coming, and fancying she didn't--that she was beginning not to care for me. but--i _am_ sorry now, kezia, for not having trusted her.' 'that's right, my dear; and you'll show it by giving in cheerfully to whatever your dear grandmamma thinks best for you?' i was still crying--but quite quietly. 'i'll--i'll try,' i whispered. when i was dressed i went downstairs, not sorry to feel i should find the boys there. and in spite of the fears as to the future that were hanging over me i managed to spend a happy day with them. they did everything they could to cheer me up, and the more i saw of harry the more i began to realise how very, very much brighter a life mine had been than his--how ungrateful i had been and how selfish. it was worse for him than for lindsay, who was quite a child, and who looked to harry for everything. and yet harry made no complaints--he only said once or twice, when we were talking about grandmamma, that he did wish she was _their_ grandmother, too. 'wasn't that old lady you lived with before like a grandmother?' i asked. harry shook his head. 'we scarcely ever saw her,' he said. 'she was very old and ill, and even when we did go to her for the holidays we only saw her to say good-morning and good-night. on the whole we were glad to stay on at school.' poor fellows--they had indeed been orphans. we wandered about the little garden, and all my old haunts. but for my terrible anxiety, i should have enjoyed it thoroughly. 'harry,' i said, when we had had our dinner--a very nice dinner, by the bye. i began to think grandmamma must have got rich, for there was a feeling of prosperity about the cottage--fires in several rooms, and everything so comfortable. 'harry, what do you think i should do? should i write to grandmamma and tell her--that i am very sorry, and that--that i'll be good about going to school, if she fixes to send me?' the tears came back again, but still i said it firmly. 'i think,' said harry, 'you had better wait till to-morrow.' he did not tell me of mr. vandeleur's telegram--for he had been desired not to do so. i should have been still more uneasy and nervous if i had known my formidable cousin was actually on his way to middlemoor! chapter xv 'happy ever since' later in the afternoon--about three o'clock or so--harry looked at his watch and started up. we were sitting in the drawing-room talking quietly--harry had been asking me about my lessons and finding out how far on i was, for i was a little tired still, and we had been running about a good deal in the morning. 'oh,' i said, in a disappointed tone, 'where are you going? if you would wait a little while, i could come out with you again, i am sure.' for i felt as if i did not want to lose any of the time we were together, and of course i did not know how soon grandmamma might not send some one to take me away to school. and never since sharley and the others had gone away had i had the pleasure of companions of my own age. there was something about harry which reminded me of sharley, though he was a boy--something so strong and straightforward and _big_, no other word seems to say it so well. harry looked at me with a little smile. dear harry, i know now that he was feeling even more anxious about me than i was for myself, and that brave as he was, it took all his courage to do as he had determined--i mean to plead my cause with his stern guardian. for mr. vandeleur was almost as much a stranger to him as to me. 'i'm afraid i must,' he said, 'i have to go to middlemoor, but i shall not be away more than an hour and a half. lindsay--you'll look after helena, and helena will look after you and prevent you getting into mischief while i'm away.' for though lindsay was a very good little boy, and not wild or rough, he was rather unlucky. i never saw any one like him for tumbling and bumping himself and tearing his clothes. after harry had gone, lindsay got out their stamp album and we amused ourselves with it very well for more than an hour, as there were a good many new stamps to put into their proper places. then kezia came in-'miss helena,' she said, 'would you and master lindsay mind going into the other room? i want to tidy this one up a little, i was so long talking with you this morning that i dusted it rather hurriedly.' we had made a litter, certainly, with the gum-pot and scraps of paper, and cold water for loosening the stamps, but we soon cleared it up. 'isn't it nearly tea-time?' i said. 'yes, you shall have it as soon as master harry comes in,' said kezia, 'it is all laid in the dining-room.' 'oh, well,' said lindsay, 'we won't do any more stamps this afternoon; come along then, helena, we'll tell each other stories for a change.' 'you may tell me stories,' i said--'and i'll try to listen,' i added to myself, 'though i don't feel as if i could,' for as the day went on i felt myself growing more and more frightened and uneasy. 'i wish harry would come in,' i said aloud, 'i think i should write to grandmamma to-day.' 'he won't be long,' said lindsay, 'harry always keeps to his time,' and then he began his stories. i'm afraid i don't remember what they were. there were a great many 'you see's' and 'and so's,' but at another time i daresay i would have found them interesting. he was just in the middle of one, about a trick some of the boys had played an undermaster at their school, when i heard the front door open quietly and steps cross the hall. the steps were of more than one person, though no one was speaking. 'stop, lindsay,' i said, and i sat bolt up in my chair and listened. whoever it was had gone into the drawing-room. then some one came out again and crossed to the kitchen. 'can it be harry?' i said. 'there's some one with him if it is,' said lindsay. i felt myself growing white, and lindsay grew red with sympathy. he _is_ a very feeling boy. but we both sat quite still. then the door opened gently, and some one looked in, but it wasn't harry, it was kezia. 'miss helena, my love,' she said, 'there's some one in the drawing-room who wants to see you.' 'who is it?' i asked, breathlessly, but my old nurse shook her head. 'you'll see,' she said. my heart began to beat with the hope--a silly, wild hope it was, for of course i might have known she could not yet have left cousin agnes--that it might be grandmamma. and, luckily perhaps, for without it i should not have had courage to enter the drawing-room, this idea lasted till i had opened the door, and it was too late to run away. how i did wish i could do so you will easily understand, when i tell you that the tall figure standing looking out of the window, which turned as i came in, was that of my stern cousin cosmo himself! i must have got very white, i think, though it seemed to me as if all the blood in my body had rushed up into my head and was buzzing away there like lots and lots of bees, but i only remember saying 'oh!' in a sort of agony of fear and shame. and the next thing i recollect was finding myself on a chair and cousin cosmo beside me on another, and, wonderful to say, he was holding my hand, which had grown dreadfully cold, in one of his. his grasp felt firm and protecting. i shut my eyes just for a moment and fancied to myself that it seemed as if papa were there. 'but it can't last,' i thought, 'he's going to be awfully angry with me in a minute.' i did not speak. i sat there like a miserable little criminal, only judges don't generally hold prisoners' hands when they are going to sentence them to something very dreadful, do they? i might have thought of that, but i didn't. i just squeezed myself together to bear whatever was coming. this was what came. i heard a sort of sigh or a deep breath, and then a voice, which it almost seemed to me i had never heard before, said, very, very gently-'my poor little girl--poor little helena. have i been such an ogre to you?' i could _scarcely_ believe my ears--to think that it was cousin cosmo speaking to me in that way! i looked up into his face; i had really never seen it very well before. and now i found out that the dark, deep-set eyes were soft and not stern--what i had taken for hardness and severity had, after all, been mostly sadness and anxiety, i think. 'cousin cosmo,' i said, 'are you going to forgive me, then? and grandmamma, too? _i am_ sorry for running away, but i didn't understand properly. i will go to school whenever you like, and not grumble.' my tears were dropping fast, but still i felt strangely soothed. 'tell me more about it all,' said mr. vandeleur. 'i want to understand from yourself all about the fancies and mistakes there have been in your head.' 'would you first tell me,' i said, 'how cousin agnes is? it was a good deal about her i didn't understand?' 'much, much better,' he replied, 'thank god. she is going to be almost well again, i hope.' and then, before i knew what i was about, i found myself in the middle of it all--telling him everything--the whole story of my unhappiness, more fully even than i had told it to harry and kezia, for though he did not say much, the few words he put in now and then showed me how wonderfully he understood. (cousin cosmo _is_ a very clever man.) and when at last i left off speaking, _he_ began and talked to me for a long time. i could never tell if i tried, _how_ he talked--so kindly, and nicely, and rightly--putting things in the right way, i mean, not making out it was _all_ my fault, which made me far sorrier than if he had laid the whole of the blame on me. i always do feel like that when people, especially big people, are generous in that sort of way. one thing cousin cosmo said at the end which i must tell. 'we have a good deal to thank harry for,' it was, 'both you and i, helena. but for his manly, sensible way of judging the whole, we might never have got to understand each other, as i trust we now always shall. and more good has come out of it, too. i have never known harry for what _he_ is, before to-day.' 'i am so very glad,' i said. 'now,' said mr. vandeleur, looking at his watch, 'it is past five o'clock. i shall spend the night at the hotel at middlemoor, but i should like to stay with you three here, as late as possible. do you think your good kezia can give me something to eat?' 'of course she can,' i said, all my hospitable feelings awakened--for i can never feel but that windy gap is my particular home--'shall i go and ask her? our tea must be ready now in the dining-room.' 'that will do capitally,' said cousin cosmo. 'i'll have a cup of tea now with you three, in the first place, and then as long as the daylight lasts you must show me the lions of windy gap, helena. it _is_ a quaint little place,' he added, looking round, 'and i am sure it must have a great charm of its own, but i am afraid my aunt and you must have found it very cold and exposed in bad weather?' 'sometimes,' i said; 'the last winter here was pretty bad.' 'yes,' he answered, 'it is not a place for the middle of winter,' but that was all he said. i was turning to leave the room when another thought struck me. 'cousin cosmo,' i asked timidly, 'will grandmamma want me to go to school very soon?' he smiled, rather a funny smile. 'put it out of your mind till i go back to london, and talk things over,' he replied. 'i want all of us to be as happy as possible this evening. send harry in here for a moment.' i met harry outside in the hall. 'is it all right?' he said, anxiously. 'oh, harry,' i said, 'i can scarcely believe he's the same! he's been so awfully kind.' that evening _was_ a very happy one. cousin cosmo was interested about everything at windy gap, and after supper he talked to harry and me of all sorts of things, and promised to send us down some books, which pleased me, as it did seem as if he must mean me to stay where i was for a few days at any rate. still, i did not feel, of course, quite at rest till i had written a long, long letter to grandmamma and heard from her in return. i need not repeat all she said about what had passed--it just made me feel more than ever ashamed of having doubted her and of having been so selfish. but what she said at the end of her letter about the plans she and cousin cosmo had been making was almost too delightful. i could scarcely help jumping with joy when i read it. 'harry,' i called out, 'i'm not to go to school at all, just fancy! i'm to stay here with you and lindsay till you go back to school--till a few days before, i mean, and we're to travel to london together and be all at chichester square. cousin agnes and grandmamma are going away to the sea-side now immediately, but they'll be back before we come. cousin agnes is so much better!' harry did not look quite as pleased as i was--about the london part of it. 'i'm awfully glad you're going to stay here,' he answered; 'and i do want to see your grandmother. i suppose it'll be all right,' he went on, 'and that they won't find lindsay and me a nuisance in london.' i was almost vexed with him. 'harry,' i said, 'don't _you_ begin to be fanciful. you don't _know_ how cousin cosmo spoke of you the other day.' and after all it did come all right. my story finishes up like a fairy-tale--'they lived happy ever after!' well no, not quite that, for it is not yet four years since all this happened, and four years would be a very short 'ever after.' but i may certainly say we have lived most happily ever since that time till now. cousin agnes is much, much better. she never will be quite strong--never a very strong person, i mean. but she is _so_ sweet, our boys and i often think we should scarcely like her to be any different in any way from what she is, though of course not really ill or suffering. and 'our boys'--yes, that is what they are--dear brothers to me, just like real ones, and just like grandsons to dear, dear grandmamma. they come to chichester square regularly for their holidays--it is their 'new home,' as it is mine. but we have another home--and it is not much of the holidays except the christmas ones that we--grandmamma and we three--spend in london. for windy gap is still ours--and kezia lives there and is always ready to have us--and cousin cosmo has built on two or three more rooms, and our summers there are just _perfect_! the nestors came back to moor court long ago, and i see almost as much of them as in the old days, as they now come to their london house every year for some months, and we go to several classes together, though i have a daily governess as well. next year sharley is to 'come out.' just fancy! i am sure every one will think her very pretty. but not many can know as well as i do that her face only tells a very small part of her beauty. she is so very, very good. i daresay you will wonder how cousin cosmo--grave, stern cousin cosmo--likes it all. his quiet solemn house the home of three adopted children, who are certainly not solemn, and not always 'quiet' by any means. i can only tell you that he said to grandmamma not very long ago, and she told me, and i told harry--that he had 'never been so happy since he was a boy himself,' all but a son to her and a brother to 'paul'--that was my father, you know. the end französische und englische schulbibliothek herausgegeben von otto e. a. dickmann reihe a: prosa band lxxvii englisch leipzig 1904 rengersche buchhandlung gebhardt & wilisch. little lord fauntleroy von frances hodgson burnett für den schulgebrauch bearbeitet von g. wolpert siebente auflage leipzig 1904 rengersche buchhandlung gebhardt & wilisch. mit gütiger erlaubnis der verlagshandlung _bernhard tauchnitz_ in leipzig. druck von hugo wilisch in chemnitz. vorwort zur ersten auflage. bei der bearbeitung des vorliegenden auszugs aus _burnetts_[1] fesselndem romane für die schule, lag mir nach den grundsätzen der französischen und englischen schulbibliothek zunächst die aufgabe ob, denselben so zu kürzen, daß der inhalt des bändchens in einem semester bewältigt werden kann. es wurden deshalb alle für die entwicklung der erzählung nicht unbedingt nötigen teile ausgeschieden, der übrige text aber noch soweit gekürzt, als es die rücksicht auf die klarheit der schilderung und die korrektheit des ausdrucks zuließ. dadurch ist es mir gelungen, das ganze auf etwa ein dritteil des ursprünglichen umfanges zu beschränken, ohne jedoch den zusammenhang zu stören und die feine zeichnung der charaktere der hauptpersonen zu verwischen. nur an einer stelle war eine etwas gewaltsame verschmelzung mehrerer seiten in wenige zeilen (s. 82, z. 30-36) nicht zu umgehen; aber auch da erwies sich gewissenhafte wahrung der von burnett selbst gebrauchten ausdrucksweise als möglich. sachliche anmerkungen brauchten nur in beschränktem maße gegeben zu werden, dagegen hielt ich es für angezeigt, mit den fußnoten nicht allzu sparsam zu sein, einmal weil verschiedene amerikanismen (store, boss, ranch u. a.), sowie eine große anzahl vulgärer oder familiärer ausdrücke eine erklärung erheischten, sodann weil gar manche stelle des textes für die übersetzung in gutes deutsch nicht ohne schwierigkeit ist. häufiger in der umgangssprache erscheinende kürzungen, wie: i'd, he'd, i'll, he'll u. a., die in den meisten grammatiken angeführt sind, wurden als bekannt vorausgesetzt. bei dem s. 83 vollständig abgedruckten briefe cedrics unterblieb der raumersparnis halber die wiedergabe in korrektes englisch, soweit nicht die rücksicht auf das verständnis es verlangte. möge dieses bändchen, das für die mittleren klassen aller anstalten eine anregende lektüre bieten wird, die freundliche aufnahme finden, die dem kleinen helden der erzählung in der alten wie in der neuen welt zu teil geworden ist. münchen, im januar 1894. [fußnote 1: _frances hodgson burnett_ wurde am 28. november 1849 zu manchester geboren und kam schon sehr jung nach amerika. aus der reihe der von ihr veröffentlichten romane und erzählungen verdienen neben »little lord fauntleroy«, zuerst erschienen in st. nicholas magazine (1886), besonders erwähnung: »that lass o' lowries«, »a fair barbarian«, »through one administration«, »sara crewe«, »editha's burglar«, »the pretty sister of josé« und die novellensammlung »vagabondia«. verschiedene derselben, auch »little lord«, wurden dramatisiert und mit großem erfolge in deutschland, amerika und england aufgeführt.] vorwort zur zweiten auflage. die günstige aufnahme, welche diese ausgabe des _little lord_ bei den herren fachgenossen und bei der kritik gefunden, hat schon nach verlauf von nicht ganz zwei jahren eine neue auflage nötig gemacht. in dieser ist der text mit ausnahme einer einzigen stelle (s. 79, z. 14), wo ich sinnrichtiger _a_ statt _any_ setzte, unverändert geblieben; die früheren fußnoten sind nach der vorschrift der redaktion mit den sachlichen anmerkungen verbunden, letztere einer genauen durchsicht unterzogen und um einige vermehrt worden. münchen, im januar 1896. * * * * * für die in die vierte auflage aufgenommenen sprachlichen erläuterungen zu s. 66. z. 21 und s. 83, z. 4 bin ich herrn prof. dr. thiergen zu dank verpflichtet. münchen, im dezember 1898. * * * * * die vorliegende siebente auflage ist, wie die beiden vorhergehenden, ein unveränderter abdruck der vierten. münchen, im februar 1904. georg wolpert, k. professor. little lord fauntleroy. chapter i. a great surprise. cedric himself knew nothing whatever about it. it had never been even mentioned to him. he knew that his papa had been an englishman, because his mamma had told him so; but then his papa had died when he was so little a boy that he could not remember very much about him, except that he was big, and had blue eyes and a long moustache, and that it was a splendid thing to be carried around the room on his shoulder. since his papa's death, cedric had found out that it was best not to talk to his mamma about him. when his father was ill, cedric had been sent away, and when he had returned, everything was over; and his mother, who had been very ill, too, was only just beginning to sit in her chair by the window. she was pale and thin, and all the dimples had gone from her pretty face, and her eyes looked large and mournful, and she was dressed in black. he and his mamma knew very few people, and lived what might have been thought very lonely lives, although cedric did not know it was lonely until he grew older and heard why it was they had no visitors. then he was told that his mamma was an orphan, and quite alone in the world when his papa had married her. their marriage brought them the ill-will of several persons. the one who was most angry of all, however, was the captain's father, who lived in england, and was a very rich and important old nobleman, with a very bad temper, and a very violent dislike to america and americans. he had two sons older than captain cedric; and it was the law that the elder of these sons should inherit the family title and estates, which were very rich and splendid; if the eldest son died the next one would be heir; so though he was a member of such a great family, there was little chance that captain cedric would be very rich himself. but it so happened that nature had given to the younger son gifts which she had not bestowed upon his elder brothers. he had a beautiful face and a fine, strong, graceful figure; he had a bright smile and a sweet, gay voice; he was brave and generous, and had the kindest heart in the world, and seemed to have the power to make every one love him. but it was not so with his elder brothers; neither of them was handsome, or kind, or clever; they cared nothing for study, and wasted both time and money, and made few real friends. the old earl, their father, was constantly disappointed and humiliated by them; his heir was no honour to his noble name. it was very bitter, the old earl thought, that the son who was only third, should be the one who had all the gifts, and all the charms. sometimes he almost hated the handsome young man because he seemed to have the good things which should have gone with the stately title and the magnificent estates. it was in one of his fits of petulance that he sent him off to travel in america. but after about six months, he began to feel lonely, and longed in secret to see his son again, so he wrote to captain cedric and ordered him home. the letter he wrote crossed on its way a letter the captain had just written to his father telling of his love for the pretty american girl, and of his intended marriage; and when the earl received that letter, he was furiously angry. bad as his temper was, he had never given way to it in his life as he gave way to it when he read the captain's letter. for an hour he raged like a tiger, and then he sat down and wrote to his son, and ordered him never to come near his old home, nor to write to his father or brothers again. the captain was very sad when he read the letter; he was very fond of england, and he dearly loved the beautiful home where he had been born; he had even loved his ill-tempered old father; but he knew he need expect no kindness from him in the future. at first he scarcely knew what to do; he had not been brought up to work, and had no business experience, but he had courage and plenty of determination. so he sold his commission in the english army, and after some trouble found a situation in new york, and married. the change from his old life in england was very great, but he was young and happy and he hoped that hard work would do great things for him in the future. he had a small house in a quiet street, and his little boy was born there. though he was born in so quiet and cheap a little home, it seemed as if there never had been a more fortunate baby. in the first place, he was always well, and so he never gave any one trouble; in the second place he had so sweet a temper and ways so charming that he was a pleasure to every one; and in the third place he was so beautiful to look at that he was quite a picture. when he was old enough to walk out with his nurse, he was so handsome and strong and rosy that he attracted every one's attention, and his nurse would come home and tell his mamma stories of the ladies who had stopped their carriages to look at and speak to him, and of how pleased they were when he talked to them in his cheerful little way, as if he had known them always. his greatest charm was this cheerful, fearless, quaint little way of making friends with people. as he grew older, he had a great many quaint little ways which amused and interested people greatly. he was so much of a companion for his mother that she scarcely cared for any other. they used to walk together and talk together and play together. when he was quite a little fellow he learned to read; and after that he used to lie on the hearth-rug, in the evening, and read aloud--sometimes stories, and sometimes big books such as older people read, and sometimes even the newspaper; and often at such times mary, in the kitchen, would hear mrs. errol laughing with delight at the quaint things he said. mary was very fond of him, and very proud of him, too. she had been with his mother ever since he was born; and, after his father's death, had been cook and housemaid and nurse and everything else. "ristycratic, is it?" she would say. "it's like a young lord he looks." cedric did not know that he looked like a young lord; he did not know what a lord was. his greatest friend was the groceryman at the corner. his name was mr. hobbs, and cedric admired and respected him very much. he thought him a very rich and powerful person, he had so many things in his store--prunes and figs and oranges and biscuits,--and he had a horse and waggon. cedric was fond of the milkman and the baker and the apple-woman, but he liked mr. hobbs best of all, and was on terms of such intimacy with him that he went to see him every day, and often sat with him quite a long time discussing the topics of the hour. it was quite surprising how many things they found to talk about--the fourth of july, for instance. when they began to talk about the fourth of july there really seemed no end to it. mr. hobbs had a very bad opinion of "the british," and he told the whole story of the revolution, relating very wonderful and patriotic stories about the villainy of the enemy and the bravery of the revolutionary heroes, and he even generously repeated part of the declaration of independence. cedric was so excited that his eyes shone and he could hardly wait to eat his dinner after he went home, he was so anxious to tell his mamma. it was, perhaps, mr. hobbs who gave him his first interest in politics. mr. hobbs was fond of reading the newspapers, and so cedric heard a great deal about what was going on in washington; and mr. hobbs would tell him whether the president was doing his duty or not. when cedric was between seven and eight years old, the very strange thing happened which made so wonderful a change in his life. it was quite curious, too, that the day it happened he had been talking to mr. hobbs about england and the queen, and mr. hobbs had said some very severe things about the aristocracy, being specially indignant against earls and marquises. they were in the midst of their conversation, when mary appeared. cedric thought she had come to buy some sugar, perhaps, but she had not. she looked almost pale and as if she were excited about something. "come home, darlint," she said; "the mistress is wantin' yez." cedric slipped down from his stool. "does she want me to go out with her, mary?" he asked. "good morning, mr. hobbs. i'll see you again." when he reached his own house there was a coupé standing before the door, and some one was in the little parlour talking to his mamma. mary hurried him up stairs and put on his best summer suit of cream-coloured flannel with the red scarf around the waist, and combed out his curly locks. when he was dressed, he ran down stairs and went into the parlour. a tall, thin old gentleman with a sharp face was sitting in an arm-chair. his mother was standing near by with a pale face, and he saw that there were tears in her eyes. "oh, ceddie!" she cried out, and ran to her little boy and caught him in her arms and kissed him in a little frightened, troubled way. "oh, ceddie, darling!" the tall old gentleman rose from his chair and looked at cedric with his sharp eyes. he rubbed his thin chin with his bony hand as he looked. he seemed not at all displeased. "and so," he said at last, slowly,--"and so this is little lord fauntleroy." chapter ii. cedric's friends. there was never a more amazed little boy than cedric during the week that followed; there was never so strange or so unreal a week. in the first place, the story his mamma told him was a very curious one. he was obliged to hear it two or three times before he could understand it. he could not imagine what mr. hobbs would think of it. it began with earls; his grandpapa, whom he had never seen, was an earl; and his eldest uncle, if he had not been killed by a fall from his horse, would have been an earl, too, in time; and after his death, his other uncle would have been an earl, if he had not died suddenly, in rome, of a fever. after that, his own papa, if he had lived, would have been an earl; but since they all had died and only cedric was left, it appeared that _he_ was to be an earl after his grandpapa's death--and for the present he was lord fauntleroy. he turned quite pale when he was first told of it. "oh! dearest!" he said, "i should rather not be an earl. none of the boys are earls. can't i _not_ be one?" but it seemed to be unavoidable. and when, that evening, they sat together by the open window looking out into the shabby street, he and his mother had a long talk about it. cedric sat on his footstool, clasping one knee in his favourite attitude and wearing a bewildered little face rather red from the exertion of thinking. his grandfather had sent for him to come to england, and his mamma thought he must go. "because," she said, looking out of the window with sorrowful eyes, "i know your papa would wish it to be so, ceddie. i should be a selfish little mother if i did not send you. when you are a man you will see why." ceddie shook his head mournfully. "i shall be very sorry to leave mr. hobbs," he said. when mr. havisham--who was the family lawyer of the earl of dorincourt, and who had been sent by him to bring lord fauntleroy to england--came the next day, cedric heard many things. but, somehow, it did not console him to hear that he was to be a very rich man when he grew up, and that he would have castles here and castles there, and great parks and deep mines and grand estates and tenantry. he was troubled about his friend, mr. hobbs, and he went to see him at the store soon after breakfast, in great anxiety of mind. he found him reading the morning paper, and he approached him with a grave demeanour. he really felt it would be a great shock to mr. hobbs to hear what had befallen him, and on his way to the store he had been thinking how it would be best to break the news. "hello!" said mr. hobbs. "mornin'!" "good-morning," said cedric. he did not climb up on the high stool as usual, but sat down on a biscuit-box and clasped his knee, and was so silent for a few moments that mr. hobbs finally looked up inquiringly over the top of his newspaper. "hello!" he said again. cedric gathered all his strength of mind together. "mr. hobbs," he said, "do you remember what we were talking about yesterday morning?" "well," replied mr. hobbs,--"seems to me it was england." "yes," said cedric; "but just when mary came for me, you know?" mr. hobbs rubbed the back of his head. "we _was_ mentioning queen victoria and the aristocracy." "yes," said cedric, rather hesitatingly, "and--and earls; don't you know?" "why, yes," returned mr. hobbs; "that's so!" "you said," proceeded cedric, "that you wouldn't have them sitting 'round on your biscuit barrels." "so i did!" returned mr. hobbs, stoutly. "mr. hobbs," said cedric, "one is sitting on this box now!" mr. hobbs almost jumped out of his chair. "what!" he exclaimed. "yes," cedric announced, with due modesty; "_i_ am one--or i am going to be. i shan't deceive you." mr. hobbs looked agitated. he rose up suddenly and went to look at the thermometer. "the mercury's got into your head!" he exclaimed, turning back to examine his young friend's countenance. "it _is_ a hot day! how do you feel?" he put his big hand on the little boy's hair. "thank you," said ceddie; "i'm all right. there is nothing the matter with my head. i'm sorry to say it's true, mr. hobbs. that was what mary came to take me home for. mr. havisham was telling my mamma, and he is a lawyer." mr. hobbs sank into his chair and mopped his forehead with his handkerchief. "_one_ of us has got a sunstroke!" he exclaimed. "no," returned cedric, "we have not. mr. havisham came all the way from england to tell us about it. my grandpapa sent him." mr. hobbs stared wildly at the innocent, serious little face before him. "who is your grandfather?" he asked. cedric put his hand in his pocket and carefully drew out a piece of paper, on which something was written in his own round, irregular hand. "i couldn't easily remember it, so i wrote it down on this," he said. and he read aloud slowly: "'john arthur molyneux errol, earl of dorincourt.' that is his name, and he lives in a castle--in two or three castles, i think. and my papa, who died, was his youngest son; and i shouldn't have been a lord or an earl if my papa hadn't died; and my papa wouldn't have been an earl if his two brothers hadn't died, and my grandpapa has sent for me to come to england." mr. hobbs seemed to grow hotter and hotter. he mopped his forehead and breathed hard. he began to see that something very remarkable had happened. "wha--what did you say your name was?" mr. hobbs inquired. "it's cedric errol, lord fauntleroy," answered cedric. "that was what mr. havisham called me." "well," said mr. hobbs, "i'll be--jiggered!" this was an exclamation he always used when he was very much astonished or excited. he could think of nothing else to say just at that puzzling moment. cedric looked at mr. hobbs wistfully. "england is a long way off, isn't it?" he asked. "it's across the atlantic ocean," mr. hobbs answered. "that's the worst of it," said cedric. "perhaps i shall not see you again for a long time. i don't like to think of that, mr. hobbs." "the best of friends must part," said mr. hobbs. "well," said cedric, "we have been friends for a great many years, haven't we?" "ever since you was born," mr. hobbs answered. "ah," remarked cedric, with a sigh, "i never thought i should have to be an earl then!" "you think," said mr. hobbs, "there's no getting out of it?" "i'm afraid not," answered cedric. "my mamma says that my papa would wish me to do it. but if i have to be an earl, i can try to be a good one. i'm not going to be a tyrant." his conversation with mr. hobbs was a long and serious one. once having got over the first shock, mr. hobbs endeavoured to resign himself to the situation, and before the interview was at an end he had asked a great many questions. as cedric could answer but few of them, he endeavoured to answer them himself, and explained many things in a way which would probably have astonished mr. havisham, could that gentleman have heard it. but then there were many things which astonished mr. havisham. he had known all about the old earl's disappointment in his elder sons and all about his fierce rage at captain cedric's american marriage, and he knew how he still hated the gentle little widow and would not speak of her except with bitter and cruel words. he insisted that she was only a common american girl, who had entrapped his son into marrying her because she knew he was an earl's son. the old lawyer himself had more than half believed this was all true. when he had been driven into the cheap street, and his coupé had stopped before the cheap small house, he had felt actually shocked. when mary handed him into the small parlour he looked around it critically. it was plainly furnished but it had a home-like look; the few adornments on the walls were in good taste, and about the room were many pretty things which a woman's hand might have made. the lawyer's experience taught him to read people's characters very shrewdly, and as soon as he saw cedric's mother he knew that the old earl had made a great mistake in thinking her a vulgar, mercenary woman. when he first told mrs. errol what he had come for, she turned very pale. "oh!" she said; "will he have to be taken away from me? we love each other so much! he is such a happiness to me! he is all i have." and her sweet young voice trembled, and the tears rushed into her eyes. "you do not know what he has been to me!" she said. the lawyer cleared his throat. "i am obliged to tell you," he said, "that the earl of dorincourt is not--is not very friendly toward you. he is an old man, and his prejudices are very strong. he has always especially disliked america and americans, and was very much enraged by his son's marriage. i am sorry to be the bearer of so unpleasant a communication, but he is very fixed in his determination not to see you. his plan is that lord fauntleroy shall be educated under his own supervision; that he shall live with him. the earl is attached to dorincourt castle, and spends a great deal of time there. lord fauntleroy will, therefore, be likely to live chiefly at dorincourt. the earl offers to you as a home, court lodge, which is situated pleasantly, and is not very far from the castle. he also offers you a suitable income. lord fauntleroy will be permitted to visit you; the only stipulation is, that you shall not visit him. you see you will not be really separated from your son." he felt a little uneasy lest she should begin to cry or make a scene. but she did not. she went to the window and stood with her face turned away for a few moments. "captain errol was very fond of dorincourt," she said at last. "he loved england, and everything english. it was always a grief to him that he was parted from his home. i know he would wish, that his son should know the beautiful old places, and be brought up in such a way as would be suitable to his future position." then she came back to the table and stood looking up at mr. havisham very gently. "my husband would wish it," she said. "it will be best for my little boy. i know--i am sure the earl would not be so unkind as to try to teach him not to love me; and i know--even if he tried--that my little boy is too much like his father to be harmed. i hope, that his grandfather will love ceddie. the little boy has a very affectionate nature; and he has always been loved." mr. havisham cleared his throat again. he could not quite imagine the gouty, fiery-tempered old earl loving any one very much; but he knew that if ceddie were at all a credit to his name, his grandfather would be proud of him. "lord fauntleroy will be comfortable, i am sure," he replied. "it was with a view to his happiness that the earl desired that you should be near enough to him to see him frequently." when the door opened and the child came into the room, he recognised in an instant that here was one of the finest and handsomest little fellows he had ever seen. his beauty was something unusual. he had a strong, lithe, graceful little body and a manly little face; he was so like his father that it was really startling; he had his father's golden hair and his mother's brown eyes. they were innocently fearless eyes; he looked as if he had never feared or doubted anything in his life. "he is the best-bred-looking and handsomest little fellow i ever saw," was what mr. havisham thought. what he said aloud was simply, "and so this is little lord fauntleroy." cedric did not know he was being observed, and he only behaved himself in his ordinary manner. he shook hands with mr. havisham in his friendly way when they were introduced to each other, and he answered all his questions with the unhesitating readiness with which he answered mr. hobbs. the next time mr. havisham met him, he had quite a long conversation with him--a conversation which made him smile, and rub his chin with his bony hand several times. mrs. errol had been called out of the parlour, and the lawyer and cedric were left together. mr. havisham sat in an arm-chair on one side of the open window; on the other side was another still larger chair, and cedric sat in that and looked at mr. havisham. there was a short silence after mrs. errol went out, and cedric seemed to be studying mr. havisham, and mr. havisham was certainly studying cedric. he could not make up his mind as to what an elderly gentleman should say to a little boy. but cedric relieved him by suddenly beginning the conversation himself. "do you know," he said, "i don't know what an earl is?" "don't you?" said mr. havisham. "no," replied ceddie. "and i think when a boy is going to be one, he ought to know. don't you?" "well--yes," answered mr. havisham, "an earl is--is a very important person." "so is a president!" put in ceddie. "an earl," mr. havisham went on, "is frequently of very ancient lineage----" "what's that?" asked ceddie. "of very old family--extremely old." "ah!" said cedric, thrusting his hands deeper into his pockets. "i suppose that is the way with the apple-woman near the park. i dare say she is of ancient lin-lenage. she is so old it would surprise you how she can stand up." mr. havisham felt rather at a loss as he looked at his companion's innocent, serious little face. "i am afraid you did not quite understand me," he explained. "when i said 'ancient lineage' i did not mean old age; i meant that the name of such a family has been known in the world a long time; perhaps for hundreds of years persons bearing that name have been known and spoken of in the history of their country." "like george washington," said ceddie. "i've heard of him ever since i was born, and he was known about long before that. mr. hobbs says he will never be forgotten. that's because of the declaration of independence, you know, and the fourth of july. you see, he was a very brave man." "the first earl of dorincourt," said mr. havisham solemnly, "was created an earl four hundred years ago." "well, well!" said ceddie. "that was a long time ago! did you tell dearest that? it would int'rust her very much. she always likes to hear cur'us things. what else does an earl do besides being created?" "a great many of them have helped to govern england. some of them have been brave men and have fought in great battles in the old days." "i should like to do that myself," said cedric. "my papa was a soldier, and he was a very brave man--as brave as george washington. perhaps that was because he would have been an earl if he hadn't died. i am glad earls are brave. that's a great 'vantage--to be a brave man." "there is another advantage in being an earl, sometimes," said mr. havisham slowly. "some earls have a great deal of money." he was curious because he wondered if his young friend knew what the power of money was. "that's a good thing to have," said ceddie innocently. "i wish i had a great deal of money." "do you?" said mr. havisham. "and why?" "well," explained cedric, "there are so many things a person can do with money. you see there's the apple-woman. if i were very rich i should buy her a little tent to put her stall in, and a little stove, and then i should give her a dollar every morning it rained, so that she could afford to stay at home." "ahem!" said mr. havisham. "and what else would you do if you were rich?" "oh! i'd do a great many things. of course i should buy dearest all sorts of beautiful things, needle-books and fans and gold thimbles and rings, and an encyclopedia, and a carriage, so that she needn't have to wait for the street-cars. and then dick----" "who is dick?" asked mr. havisham. "dick is a boot-black," said his young lordship, quite warming up in his interest in plans so exciting. "he is one of the nicest boot-blacks you ever knew. he stands at the corner of a street down town. i've known him for years. once when i was very little, i was walking out with dearest and she bought me a beautiful ball that bounced, and i was carrying it, and it bounced into the middle of the street where the carriages and horses were, and i was so disappointed, i began to cry--i was very little. dick ran in between the horses and caught the ball for me and wiped it off with his coat and gave it to me and said; 'it's all right, young un.' so dearest admired him very much, and so did i, and ever since then, when we go down town, we talk to him." "and what would you like to do for him?" inquired the lawyer, rubbing his chin and smiling a queer smile. "well," said lord fauntleroy, settling himself in his chair with a business air; "i'd buy jake out." "and who is jake?" mr. havisham asked. "he's dick's partner, and he is the worst partner a fellow could have! dick says so. he isn't a credit to the business, and he isn't square. he cheats, and that makes dick mad. so if i were rich, i'd buy jake out and i'd get dick some new clothes and new brushes, and start him out fair." "what would you get for yourself, if you were rich?" asked mr. havisham. "lots of things!" answered lord fauntleroy briskly: "but first i'd give mary some money for bridget--that's her sister, with twelve children, and a husband out of work. and i think mr. hobbs would like a gold watch and chain to remember me by, and a meerschaum pipe." the door opened and mrs. errol came in. "i am sorry to have been obliged to leave you so long," she said to mr. havisham; "but a poor woman, who is in great trouble, came to see me." "this young gentleman," said mr. havisham, "has been telling me about some of his friends, and what he would do for them if he were rich." "bridget is one of his friends," said mrs. errol; "and it is bridget to whom i have been talking in the kitchen. she is in great trouble now because her husband has rheumatic fever." cedric slipped down out of his big chair. "i think i'll go and see her," he said, "and ask her how he is. he's a nice man when he is well, he once made me a sword out of wood." he ran out of the room, and mr. havisham rose from his chair. he seemed to have something in his mind which he wished to speak of. he hesitated a moment, and then said, looking down at mrs. errol: "before i left dorincourt castle i had an interview with the earl, in which he gave me some instructions. he said that i must let his lordship know that the change in his life would bring him money and the pleasures children enjoy; if he expressed any wishes i was to gratify them, and to tell him that his grandfather had given him what he wished. i am aware that the earl did not expect anything quite like this; but if it would give lord fauntleroy pleasure to assist this poor woman, i should feel that the earl would be displeased if he were not gratified." "oh!" mrs. errol said, "that was very kind of the earl; cedric will be so glad! he has always been fond of bridget and michael. they are quite deserving." mr. havisham put his thin hand in his breast pocket and drew forth a large pocket-book. there was a queer look in his keen face. the truth was, he was wondering what the earl of dorincourt would say when he was told what was the first wish of his grandson that had been granted. "i do not know that you have realised," he said, "that the earl of dorincourt is an exceedingly rich man. i think it would please him to know that lord fauntleroy had been indulged in any fancy. if you will call him back and allow me, i shall give him five pounds for these people." "that would be twenty-five dollars!" exclaimed mrs. errol. "it will seem like wealth to them. i can scarcely believe that it is true." "it is quite true," said mr. havisham, with his dry smile. "a great change has taken place in your son's life, a great deal of power will lie in his hands." "oh!" cried his mother. "and he is such a little boy--a very little boy. how can i teach him to use it well? it makes me half afraid. my pretty little ceddie!" the lawyer slightly cleared his throat. it touched his worldly, hard old heart to see the tender, timid look in her brown eyes. "i think, madam," he said, "that if i may judge from my interview with lord fauntleroy this morning, the next earl of dorincourt will think for others as well as for his noble self. he is only a child yet, but i think he may be trusted." then his mother went for cedric and brought him back into the parlour. his little face looked quite anxious when he came in. he was very sorry for bridget. "dearest said you wanted me," he said to mr. havisham. "i've been talking to bridget." mr. havisham looked down at him a moment. he felt a little awkward and undecided. as cedric's mother had said, he was a very little boy. "the earl of dorincourt----" he began, and then he glanced involuntarily at mrs. errol. little lord fauntleroy's mother suddenly kneeled down by him and put both her tender arms around his childish body. "ceddie," she said, "the earl is your grandpapa, your own papa's father. he is very, very kind, and he loves you and wishes you to love him, because the sons who were his little boys are dead. he wishes you to be happy and to make other people happy. he is very rich, and he wishes you to have everything you would like to have. he told mr. havisham so, and gave him a great deal of money for you. you can give some to bridget now, enough to pay her rent and buy michael everything. isn't that fine, ceddie? isn't he good?" and she kissed the child on his round cheek, where the bright colour suddenly flashed up in his excited amazement. he looked from his mother to mr. havisham. "can i have it now?" he cried. "can i give it to her this minute? she's just going." mr. havisham handed him the money. it was in fresh clean greenbacks and made a neat roll. ceddie flew out of the room. "bridget!" they heard him shout, as he tore into the kitchen. "bridget, wait a minute! here's some money. it's for you, and you can pay the rent. my grandpapa gave it to me. it's for you and michael!" "oh, master ceddie!" cried bridget, in an awestricken voice. "it's twinty-foive dollars is here. where's the mistress?" "i think i shall have to go and explain it to her," mrs. errol said. so she, too, went out of the room, and mr. havisham was left alone for a while. he went to the window and stood looking out into the street reflectively. he was thinking of the old earl of dorincourt, sitting in his great, splendid, gloomy library at the castle, gouty and lonely, surrounded by grandeur and luxury, but not really loved by any one, because in all his long life he had never really loved any one but himself. he could fill his castle with guests if he chose, but he knew that in secret the people who would accept his invitations were afraid of his frowning old face and sarcastic, biting speeches. mr. havisham knew his hard, fierce ways by heart, and he was thinking of him as he looked out of the window into the quiet, narrow street. and there rose in his mind, in sharp contrast, the picture of the cheery, handsome little fellow sitting in the big chair and telling his story of his friends, dick and the apple-woman, in his generous, innocent, honest way. and he thought of the immense income, the beautiful, majestic estates, the wealth, and power for good or evil, which in the course of time would lie in the small, chubby hands little lord fauntleroy thrust so deep into his pockets. "it will make a great difference," he said to himself. "it will make a great difference." cedric and his mother came back soon after. cedric was in high spirits. he was glowing with enjoyment of bridget's relief and rapture. "she cried!" he said. "she said she was crying for joy. i never saw any one cry for joy before. my grandpapa must be a very good man. i didn't know he was so good a man. it's more--more agreeable to be an earl than i thought it was. i'm almost glad--i'm almost _quite_ glad i'm going to be one." chapter iii. leaving home. cedric's good opinion of the advantages of being an earl increased greatly during the next week. it seemed almost impossible for him to realise that there was scarcely anything he might wish to do which he could not do easily; in fact i think it may be said that he did not fully realise it at all. but at least he understood, after a few conversations with mr. havisham, that he could gratify all his nearest wishes, and he proceeded to gratify them with a simplicity and delight which caused mr. havisham much diversion. in the week before they sailed for england, he did many curious things. the lawyer long after remembered the morning they went down together to pay a visit to dick, and the afternoon they so amazed the apple-woman of ancient lineage by stopping before her stall and telling her she was to have a tent, and a stove, and a shawl, and a sum of money which seemed to her quite wonderful. "for i have to go to england and be a lord," explained cedric, sweet-temperedly. "she's a very good apple-woman," he said to mr. havisham as they walked away, leaving the proprietress of the stall almost gasping for breath, and not at all believing in her great fortune. "once, when i fell down and cut my knee, she gave me an apple for nothing. i've always remembered her for it. you know you always remember people who are kind to you." it had never occurred to his honest, simple, little mind that there were people who could forget kindnesses. the interview with dick was quite exciting. dick had just been having a great deal of trouble with jake, and was in low spirits when they saw him. his amazement when cedric calmly announced that they had come to give him what seemed a very great thing to him, and would set all his troubles right, almost struck him dumb. lord fauntleroy's manner of announcing the object of his visit was very simple and unceremonious and the end of the matter was that dick bought jake out, and found himself the possessor of the business, and some new brushes and a most astonishing sign and outfit. he could not believe in his good luck any more easily than the apple-woman of ancient lineage could believe in hers. he scarcely seemed to realise anything until cedric put out his hand to shake hands with him before going away. "well, good-bye," he said; and though he tried to speak steadily, there was a little tremble in his voice and he winked his big brown eyes. "and i hope trade'll be good. i'm sorry i'm going away to leave you, but i wish you'd write to me, because we were always good friends. and here's where you must send your letter." and he gave him a slip of paper. "and my name isn't cedric errol any more; it's lord fauntleroy and--and good-bye, dick." dick winked his eyes also, and yet they looked rather moist about the lashes. "i wish ye wasn't goin' away," he said in a husky voice. then he winked his eyes again. then he looked at mr. havisham and touched his cap. "thanky, sir, for bringin' him down here an' fur wot ye've done." until the day of his departure, his lordship spent as much time as possible with mr. hobbs in the store. gloom had settled upon mr. hobbs; he was much depressed in spirits. when his young friend brought to him in triumph the parting gift of a gold watch and chain, mr. hobbs found it difficult to acknowledge it properly. he laid the case on his stout knee, and blew his nose violently several times. "there's something written on it," said cedric,--"inside the case. i told the man myself what to say. 'from his oldest friend, lord fauntleroy, to mr. hobbs. when this you see, remember me.' i don't want you to forget me." mr. hobbs blew his nose very loudly again. "i shan't forget you," he said, speaking a trifle huskily, as dick had spoken; "nor don't you go and forget me when you get among the british aristocracy." "i shouldn't forget you, whoever i was among," answered his lordship. "i've spent my happiest hours with you; at least, some of my happiest hours. i hope you'll come to see me some time." at last all the preparations were complete; the day came when the trunks were taken to the steamer, and the hour arrived when the carriage stood at the door. then a curious feeling of loneliness came upon the little boy. his mamma had been shut up in her room for some time; when she came down the stairs, her eyes looked large and wet, and her sweet mouth was trembling. cedric went to her, and she bent down to him, and he put his arms around her and they kissed each other. he knew something made them both sorry, though he scarcely knew what it was; but one tender little thought rose to his lips. "we liked this little house, dearest, didn't we?" he said. "we always will like it, won't we?" "yes--yes," she answered in a low, sweet voice. "yes, darling." and then they went into the carriage and cedric sat very close to her, and as she looked back out of the window, he looked at her and stroked her hand and held it close. and then, it seemed almost directly, they were on the steamer in the midst of the wildest bustle and confusion; carriages were driving down and leaving passengers; passengers were getting into a state of excitement about baggage which had not arrived and threatened to be too late; big trunks and cases were being bumped down and dragged about; sailors were uncoiling ropes and hurrying to and fro; officers were giving orders; ladies and gentlemen and children and nurses were coming on board--some were laughing and looked gay, some were silent and sad, here and there two or three were crying and touching their eyes with their handkerchiefs. cedric found something to interest him on every side; he looked at the piles of rope, at the furled sails, at the tall, tall masts which seemed almost to touch the hot blue sky; he began to make plans for conversing with the sailors and gaining some information on the subject of pirates. it was just at the very last, when he was leaning on the railing of the upper deck and watching the final preparations, that his attention was called to a slight bustle in one of the groups not far from him. some one was hurriedly forcing his way through this group and coming toward him. it was a boy, with something red in his hand. it was dick. he came up to cedric quite breathless. "i've run all the way," he said. "i've come down to see ye off. trade's been prime! i bought this for ye out o' what i made yesterday. ye kin wear it when ye get among the swells. it's a hankercher." he poured it all forth as if in one sentence. a bell rang and he made a leap away before cedric had time to speak. "good-bye!" he panted. "wear it when ye get among the swells." and he darted off and was gone. cedric held the handkerchief in his hand. it was of bright red silk, ornamented with purple horse-shoes and horses' heads, he leaned forward and waved it. "good-bye, dick!" he shouted, lustily. "thank you! good-bye, dick!" and the big steamer moved away, and the people cheered again, and cedric's mother drew the veil over her eyes, and on the shore there was left great confusion; but dick saw nothing save that bright, childish face and the bright hair that the sun shone on and the breeze lifted, and he heard nothing but the hearty childish voice calling "good-bye, dick!" as little lord fauntleroy steamed slowly away from the home of his birth to the unknown land of his ancestors. chapter iv. in england. it was during the voyage that cedric's mother told him that his home was not to be hers; and when he first understood it, his grief was so great that mr. havisham saw that the earl had been wise in making the arrangements that his mother should be quite near him, and see him often; for it was very plain he could not have borne the separation otherwise. but his mother managed the little fellow so sweetly and lovingly, and made him feel that she would be so near him, that, after a while, he ceased to be oppressed by the fear of any real parting. "my house is not far from the castle, ceddie," she repeated each time the subject was referred to--"a very little way from yours, and you can always run in and see me every day, and you will have so many things to tell me! and we shall be so happy together! it is a beautiful place. your papa has often told me about it. he loved it very much; and you will love it too." "i should love it better if you were there," his small lordship said, with a heavy little sigh. he could not but feel puzzled by so strange a state of affairs, which could put his "dearest" in one house and himself in another. the fact was that mrs. errol had thought it better not to tell him why this plan had been made. "i should prefer he should not be told," she said to mr. havisham. "he would not really understand; he would only be shocked and hurt; and i feel sure that his feeling for the earl will be a more natural and affectionate one if he does not know that his grandfather dislikes me so bitterly. it would make a barrier between them, even though ceddie is such a child." so cedric only knew that there was some mysterious reason for the arrangement, some reason which he was not old enough to understand, but which would be explained when he was older. he was puzzled; but after many talks with his mother, in which she placed before him the bright side of the picture, the dark side of it gradually began to fade out, though now and then mr. havisham saw him sitting in some queer little old-fashioned attitude, watching the sea, with a very grave face, and more than once he heard an unchildish sigh rise to his lips. the people who had been sea-sick had no sooner recovered from their sea-sickness, and come on deck to recline in their steamer-chairs and enjoy themselves, than every one seemed to know the romantic story of little lord fauntleroy, and every one took an interest in the little fellow, who ran about the ship or walked with his mother or the tall, thin old lawyer, or talked to the sailors. every one liked him, he made friends everywhere. he was ever ready to make friends. when the gentlemen walked up and down the deck, and let him walk with them, he stepped out with a manly, sturdy little tramp, and answered all their jokes with much gay enjoyment; when the ladies talked to him, there was always laughter in the group of which he was the centre; when he played with the children, there was always magnificent fun on hand. among the sailors he had the heartiest friends; he heard miraculous stories about pirates and shipwrecks and desert islands; he learned to splice ropes and rig toy ships, and gained an amount of information concerning "tops'les" and "mains'les," quite surprising. his conversation had, indeed, quite a nautical flavour at times. it was eleven days after he had said good-bye to his friend dick before he reached liverpool; and it was on the night of the twelfth day that the carriage, in which he and his mother and mr. havisham had driven from the station, stopped before the gates of court lodge. mary had come with them to attend her mistress, and she had reached the house before them. when cedric jumped out of the carriage mary stood in the doorway. lord fauntleroy sprang at her with a gay little shout. "did you get here, mary?" he said. "here's mary, dearest." "i am glad you are here, mary," mrs. errol said to her in a low voice. "it is such a comfort to me to see you. it takes the strangeness away." and she held out her little hand, which mary squeezed encouragingly. the english servants looked with curiosity at both the boy and his mother. they had heard all sorts of rumours about them both; they knew why mrs. errol was to live at the lodge and her little boy at the castle; but they did not know what sort of a little lord had come among them; they did not quite understand the character of the next earl of dorincourt. he pulled off his overcoat quite as if he were used to doing things for himself, and began to look about him. he looked about the broad hall, at the pictures and stags' antlers and curious things that ornamented it. they seemed curious to him because he had never seen such things before in a private house. "dearest," he said, "this is a very pretty house, isn't it? i am glad you are going to live here. it's quite a large house." it was quite a large house compared to the one in the shabby new york street, and it was very pretty and cheerful. mary led them into a big bright room; its ceiling was low, and the furniture was heavy and beautifully carved. there was a great tiger-skin before the fire, and an arm-chair on each side of it. a stately white cat had responded to lord fauntleroy's stroking and followed him down stairs, and when he threw himself down upon the rug, she curled herself up grandly beside him as if she intended to make friends. cedric was so pleased that he put his head down by hers, and lay stroking her, not noticing what his mother and mr. havisham were saying. they were, indeed, speaking in a rather low tone. mrs. errol looked a little pale and agitated. "he need not go to-night?" she said. "he will stay with me to-night?" "yes," answered mr. havisham in the same low tone; "it will not be necessary for him to go to-night. i myself will go to the castle as soon as we have dined, and inform the earl of our arrival." mrs. errol smiled faintly. "his lordship does not know all that he is taking from me," she said rather sadly. then she looked at the lawyer. "will you tell him, if you please," she said, "that i should rather not have the income he proposed to settle upon me. i am obliged to accept the house, and i thank him for it, because it makes it possible for me to be near my child; but i have a little money of my own and i should rather not take the other. as he dislikes me so much, i should feel a little as if i were selling cedric to him. i am giving him up only because i love him enough to forget myself for his good, and because his father would wish it to be so." mr. havisham rubbed his chin. "this is very strange," he said. "he will be very angry. he won't understand it, but i will deliver your message." and then the dinner was brought in and they sat down together, the big cat taking a seat on a chair near cedric's and purring majestically throughout the meal. when, later in the evening, mr. havisham presented himself at the castle, he was taken at once to the earl. he found him sitting by the fire in a luxurious easy-chair, his foot on a gout-stool. he looked at the lawyer sharply from under his shaggy eyebrows. "well," he said; "well, havisham, come back, have you? what's the news?" "lord fauntleroy and his mother are at court lodge," replied mr. havisham. "they bore the voyage very well and are in excellent health." the earl made a half-impatient sound and moved his hand restlessly. "glad to hear it," he said brusquely. "so far, so good. make yourself comfortable. have a glass of wine and settle down. what else?" "his lordship remains with his mother to-night. to-morrow i will bring him to the castle." the earl's elbow was resting on the arm of his chair; he put his hand up and shielded his eyes with it. "well?" he said; "go on. what kind of a lad is he? i don't care about the mother; what sort of a lad is he? healthy and well grown?" "apparently very healthy, and quite well grown," replied the lawyer. "straight-limbed and well enough to look at?" demanded the earl. a very slight smile touched mr. havisham's thin lips. "rather a handsome boy, i think, my lord, as boys go," he said, "though i am scarcely a judge, perhaps." there was a silence of a few moments. it was mr. havisham who broke it. "i have a message to deliver from mrs. errol," he remarked. "i don't want any of her messages!" growled his lordship; "the less i hear of her the better." "this is a rather important one," explained the lawyer. "she prefers not to accept the income you proposed to settle on her." the earl started visibly. "what's that?" he cried out. "what's that?" mr. havisham repeated his words. "she says it is not necessary, and that as the relations between you are not friendly----" "not friendly!" ejaculated my lord savagely; "i should say they were not friendly! i hate to think of her! a mercenary american! i don't wish to see her!" "my lord," said mr. havisham, "you can scarcely call her mercenary. she has asked for nothing. she does not accept the money you offer her." "all done for effect!" snapped his noble lordship. "she thinks i shall admire her spirit. i don't admire it! it's only american independence! i won't have her living like a beggar at my park gates. she shall have the money, whether she likes it or not!" "she won't spend it," said mr. havisham. "i don't care whether she spends it or not!" blustered my lord. "she shall have it sent to her. she wants to give the boy a bad opinion of me! i suppose she has poisoned his mind against me already!" "no," said mr. havisham. "i have another message, which will prove to you that she has not done that." "i don't want to hear it!" panted the earl, out of breath with anger and excitement and gout. but mr. havisham delivered it. "she asks you not to let lord fauntleroy hear anything which would lead him to understand that you separate him from her because of your prejudice against her. he is very fond of her, and she is convinced that it would cause a barrier to exist between you. she has told him that he is too young to understand the reason, but shall hear it when he is older. she wishes that there should be no shadow on your first meeting." the earl sank back into his chair. his deep-set fierce old eyes gleamed under his beetling brows. "come, now!" he said, still breathlessly. "come, now! you don't mean the mother hasn't told him?" "not one word, my lord," replied the lawyer coolly. "that i can assure you. the child is prepared to believe you the most amiable and affectionate of grandparents. and as i carried out your commands in every detail, while in new york, he certainly regards you as a wonder of generosity." "he does, eh?" said the earl. "i give you my word of honour," said mr. havisham, "that lord fauntleroy's impressions of you will depend entirely upon yourself. and if you will pardon the liberty i take in making the suggestion, i think you will succeed better with him if you take the precaution not to speak slightingly of his mother." "pooh, pooh!" said the earl. "the youngster's only seven years old!" "he has spent those seven years at his mother's side," returned mr. havisham; "and she has all his affection." chapter v. at the castle. it was late in the afternoon when the carriage containing little lord fauntleroy and mr. havisham drove up the long avenue which led to the castle. the earl had given orders that his grandson should arrive in time to dine with him, and for some reason best known to himself, he had also ordered that the child should be sent alone into the room in which he intended to receive him. as the carriage rolled up the avenue, lord fauntleroy sat leaning comfortably against the luxurious cushions, and regarded the prospect with great interest. he was, in fact, interested in everything he saw. he had been interested in the carriage, with its large, splendid horses and their glittering harness; he had been interested in the tall coachman and footman, with their resplendent livery; and he had been especially interested in the coronet on the panels, and had struck up an acquaintance with the footman for the purpose of inquiring what it meant. the carriage rolled on and on between the great, beautiful trees which grew on each side of the avenue and stretched their broad swaying branches in an arch across it. cedric had never seen such trees, they were so grand and stately, and their branches grew so low down on their huge trunks. he did not then know that dorincourt castle was one of the most beautiful in all england; that its park was one of the broadest and finest, and its trees and avenue almost without rivals. but he did know that it was all very beautiful. now and then they passed places where tall ferns grew in masses, and again and again the ground was azure with the bluebells swaying in the soft breeze. several times he started up with a laugh of delight as a rabbit leaped up from under the greenery and scudded away with a twinkle of short white tail behind it. once a covey of partridges rose with a sudden whir and flew away, and then he shouted and clapped his hands. "it's a beautiful place, isn't it?" he said to mr. havisham. "i never saw such a beautiful place. it's prettier even than central park." he was rather puzzled by the length of time they were on their way. "how far is it?" he said, at length, "from the gate to the front door?" "it is between three and four miles," answered the lawyer. it was not long after this that they saw the castle. it rose up before them stately and beautiful and grey, the last rays of the sun casting dazzling lights on its many windows. it had turrets and battlements and towers; a great deal of ivy grew upon its walls; all the broad open space about it was laid out in terraces and lawns and beds of brilliant flowers. "it's the most beautiful place i ever saw!" said cedric, his round face flushing with pleasure. "it reminds any one of a king's palace. i saw a picture of one once in a fairy-book." he saw the great entrance-door thrown open and many servants standing in two lines looking at him. he wondered why they were standing there, and admired their liveries very much. he did not know that they were there to do honour to the little boy to whom all this splendour would one day belong. at the head of the line of servants there stood an elderly woman in a rich plain black silk gown; she had grey hair and wore a cap. as he entered the hall she stood nearer than the rest, and the child thought from the look in her eyes that she was going to speak to him. mr. havisham, who held his hand, paused a moment. "this is lord fauntleroy, mrs. mellon," he said. "lord fauntleroy, this is mrs. mellon, who is the housekeeper." cedric gave her his hand, his eyes lighting up. "was it you who sent the cat?" he said. "i'm much obliged to you, ma'am." mrs. mellon's handsome old face looked very much pleased. "the cat left two beautiful kittens here," she said; "they shall be sent up to your lordship's nursery." mr. havisham said a few words to her in a low voice. "in the library, sir," mrs. mellon replied. "his lordship is to be taken there alone." * * * * * a few minutes later, the very tall footman in livery, who had escorted cedric to the library door, opened it and announced: "lord fauntleroy, my lord," in quite a majestic tone. cedric crossed the threshold into the room. it was a very large and splendid room, with massive carven furniture in it, and shelves upon shelves of books; the furniture was so dark, and the draperies so heavy, the diamond-paned windows were so deep, and it seemed such a distance from one end of it to the other, that, since the sun had gone down, the effect of it all was rather gloomy. for a moment cedric thought there was nobody in the room, but soon he saw that by the fire burning on the wide hearth there was a large easy-chair, and that in that chair some one was sitting--some one who did not at first turn to look at him. but he had attracted attention in one quarter at least. on the floor, by the arm-chair, lay a dog, a huge tawny mastiff, with body and limbs almost as big as a lion's; and this great creature rose majestically and slowly, and marched toward the little fellow with a heavy step. then the person in the chair spoke. "dougal," he called, "come back, sir." but there was no fear in little lord fauntleroy's heart. he put his hand on the big dog's collar and they strayed forward together, dougal sniffing as he went. and then the earl looked up. what cedric saw was a large old man with shaggy white hair and eyebrows, and a nose like an eagle's beak between his deep fierce eyes. what the earl saw was a graceful childish figure in a black velvet suit, with a lace collar, and with love-locks waving about the handsome, manly little face, whose eyes met his with a look of innocent good-fellowship. there was a sudden glow of triumph and exultation in the fiery old earl's heart as he saw what a strong beautiful boy this grandson was, and how unhesitatingly he looked up as he stood with his hand on the big dog's neck. cedric came quite close to him. "are you the earl?" he said. "i'm your grandson, you know, that mr. havisham brought. i'm lord fauntleroy." he held out his hand because he thought it must be the polite and proper thing to do even with earls. "i hope you are very well," he continued, with the utmost friendliness. "i'm very glad to see you." the earl shook hands with him, with a curious gleam in his eyes. "glad to see me, are you?" he said. "yes," answered lord fauntleroy, "very." there was a chair near him, and he sat down on it; it was a high-backed, rather tall chair, and his feet did not touch the floor when he had settled himself in it, but he seemed to be quite comfortable as he sat there and regarded his august relative intently and modestly. "any boy would love his grandfather," continued he, "especially one that had been as kind to him as you have been." another queer gleam came into the old nobleman's eyes. "oh!" he said, "i have been kind to you, have i?" "yes," answered lord fauntleroy brightly; "i'm ever so much obliged to you about bridget, and the apple-woman, and dick!" "bridget!" exclaimed the earl. "dick! the apple-woman!" "yes," explained cedric; "the ones you gave me all that money for--the money you told mr. havisham to give me if i wanted it." "ha!" ejaculated his lordship. "that's it, is it? the money you were to spend as you liked. what did you buy with it? i should like to hear something about that." he drew his shaggy eyebrows together and looked at the child sharply. he was secretly curious to know in what way the lad had indulged himself. "oh!" said lord fauntleroy, "perhaps you didn't know about dick, and the apple-woman and bridget. i forgot you lived such a long way off from them. they were particular friends of mine. and you see michael had the fever----" "who's michael?" asked the earl. "michael is bridget's husband, and they were in great trouble. and bridget used to come to our house and cry. and the evening mr. havisham was there, she was in the kitchen crying because they had almost nothing to eat and couldn't pay the rent; and i went in to see her, and mr. havisham sent for me and he said you had given him some money for me. and i ran as fast as i could into the kitchen and gave it to bridget; and that made it all right; and bridget could scarcely believe her eyes. that's why i'm so obliged to you." "oh!" said the earl in his deep voice, "that was one of the things you did for yourself, was it? what else?" "well, there was dick," cedric answered. "you'd like dick, he's so square." this was an americanism the earl was not prepared for. "what does that mean?" he inquired. lord fauntleroy paused a moment to reflect. he was not very sure himself what it meant. "i think it means that he wouldn't cheat any one," he exclaimed; "or hit a boy who was under his size, and that he blacks people's boots very well and makes them shine as much as he can. he's a professional boot-black." "and he's one of your acquaintances, is he?" said the earl. "he's an old friend of mine," replied his grandson. "not quite as old as mr. hobbs, but quite old. he gave me a present just before the ship sailed." he put his hand into his pocket and drew forth a neatly folded red object and opened it with an air of affectionate pride. it was the red silk handkerchief with the large purple horse-shoes and heads on it. "he gave me this," said his young lordship. "i shall keep it always. you can wear it round your neck or keep it in your pocket. it's a keepsake. i put some poetry in mr. hobbs' watch. it was, 'when this you see, remember me.' when this i see, i shall always remember dick." the sensation of the right honourable the earl of dorincourt could scarcely be described. he could not help seeing that the little boy took him for a friend and treated him as one, without having any doubt of him at all. it was quite plain as the little fellow sat there in his tall chair and talked in his friendly way that it had never occurred to him that this large, fierce-looking old man could be anything but kind to him, and rather pleased to see him there. and it was plain, too, that, in his childish way, he wished to please and interest his grandfather. cross, and hard-hearted, and worldly as the old earl was, he could not help feeling a secret and novel pleasure in this very confidence. so the old man leaned back in his chair, and led his young companion on to telling him still more of himself, and with that odd gleam in his eyes watched the little fellow as he talked. lord fauntleroy was quite willing to answer all his questions and chatted on in his genial little way quite composedly. he told him all about dick, and the apple-woman, and mr. hobbs. in the course of the conversation, he reached the fourth of july and the revolution, and was just becoming enthusiastic, when dinner was announced. cedric left his chair and went to his noble kinsman. he looked down at his gouty foot. "would you like me to help you?" he said politely. "you could lean on me, you know. once when mr. hobbs hurt his foot with a potato-barrel rolling on it, he used to lean on me." the earl looked his valiant young relative over from head to foot. "do you think you could do it?" he asked gruffly. "i _think_ i could," said cedric. "i'm strong. i'm seven, you know. you could lean on your stick on one side, and on me on the other." "well," said the earl, "you may try." cedric gave him his stick, and began to assist him to rise. usually the footman did this, and was violently sworn at when his lordship had an extra twinge of gout. but this evening he did not swear, though his gouty foot gave him more twinges than one. he chose to try an experiment. he got up slowly and put his hand on the small shoulder presented to him with so much courage. little lord fauntleroy made a careful step forward, looking down at the gouty foot. "just lean on me," he said, with encouraging good cheer. "i'll walk very slowly." if the earl had been supported by the footman he would have rested less on his stick and more on his assistant's arm. and yet it was part of his experiment to let his grandson feel his burden as no light weight. it was quite a heavy weight indeed, and after a few steps his young lordship's face grew quite hot, and his heart beat rather fast, but he braced himself sturdily. "don't be afraid of leaning on me," he panted. "i'm all right--if--if it isn't a very long way." it was not really very far to the dining-room, but it seemed rather a long way to cedric, before they reached the chair at the head of the table. when the hand was removed from his shoulder, and the earl was fairly seated, cedric took out dick's handkerchief and wiped his forehead. "it's a warm night, isn't it?" he said. "you have been doing some rather hard work," said the earl. "oh, no!" said lord fauntleroy, "it wasn't exactly hard, but i got a little warm. a person will get warm in summer time." and he rubbed his damp curls rather vigorously with the gorgeous handkerchief. his own chair was placed at the other end of the table, opposite his grandfather's. it was a chair with arms, and intended for a much larger individual than himself; indeed, everything he had seen so far--the great rooms, with their high ceilings, the massive furniture, the big footman, the big dog, the earl himself--were all of proportions calculated to make this little lad feel that he was very small indeed. but that did not trouble him. notwithstanding his solitary existence the earl chose to live in considerable state. he was fond of his dinner, and he dined in a formal style. cedric looked at him across a glitter of splendid glass and plate, which to his unaccustomed eyes seemed quite dazzling. a stranger looking on might well have smiled at the picture--the great stately room, the big liveried servants, the bright lights, the glittering silver and glass, the fierce-looking old nobleman at the head of the table and the very small boy at the foot. dinner was usually a very serious matter with the earl--and it was a very serious matter with the cook, if his lordship was not pleased or had an indifferent appetite. to-day, however, his appetite seemed a trifle better than usual, perhaps because his grandson gave him something to think of. he kept looking at him across the table. he did not say very much himself, but he managed to make the boy talk. he had never imagined that he could be entertained by hearing a child talk, but lord fauntleroy at once puzzled and amused him. cedric finished his dinner first, and then he leaned back in his chair and took a survey of the room. "you must be very proud of your house," he said, "it's such a beautiful house. i never saw anything so beautiful; but, of course, as i'm only seven, i haven't seen much." "and you think i must be proud of it, do you?" said the earl. "i should think any one would be proud of it," replied lord fauntleroy. "i should be proud of it, if it were my house. everything about it is beautiful." then he paused an instant and looked across the table rather wistfully. "it's a very big house for just two people to live in, isn't it?" he said. "it is quite large enough for two," answered the earl. "do you find it too large?" his little lordship hesitated a moment. "i was only thinking," he said, "that if two people lived in it who were not very good companions, they might feel lonely sometimes." "do you think i shall make a good companion?" inquired the earl. "yes," replied cedric, "i think you will. mr. hobbs and i were great friends. he was the best friend i had except dearest." the earl made a quick movement of his bushy eyebrows. "who is dearest?" "she is my mother," said lord fauntleroy, in a rather low, quiet little voice. perhaps he was a trifle tired, as his bed-time was nearing, and perhaps the feeling of weariness brought to him a vague sense of loneliness in the remembrance that to-night he was not to sleep at home, watched over by the loving eyes of that "best friend" of his. they had always been "best friends," this boy and his young mother. he could not help thinking of her, and the more he thought of her the less was he inclined to talk, and by the time the dinner was at an end the earl saw that there was a faint shadow on his face. but cedric bore himself with excellent courage, and when they went back to the library, though the tall footman walked on one side of his master, the earl's hand rested on his grandson's shoulder, though not so heavily as before. when the footman left them alone, cedric sat down upon the hearth-rug near dougal. for a few minutes he stroked the dog's ears in silence and looked at the fire. the earl watched him. the boy's eyes looked wistful and thoughtful, and once or twice he gave a little sigh. the earl sat still, and kept his eyes fixed on his grandson. "fauntleroy," he said at last, "what are you thinking of?" fauntleroy looked up with a manful effort at a smile. "i was thinking about dearest," he said; "and--and i think i'd better get up and walk up and down the room." he rose up, and put his hands in his small pockets, and began to walk to and fro. his eyes were very bright, and his lips were pressed together, but he kept his head up and walked firmly. dougal moved lazily and looked at him and then stood up. he walked over to the child, and began to follow him uneasily. fauntleroy drew one hand from his pocket and laid it on the dog's head. "he's a very nice dog," he said. "he's my friend. he knows how i feel." "how do you feel?" asked the earl. "i never was away from my own house before," said the boy, with a troubled look in his brown eyes. "it makes a person feel a strange feeling when he has to stay all night in another person's castle instead of in his own house. but dearest is not very far away from me. she told me to remember that--and--and i'm seven--and i can look at the picture she gave me." he put his hand in his pocket, and brought out a small violet velvet-covered case. "this is it," he said. "you see, you press this spring and it opens, and she is in there!" he had come close to the earl's chair, and, as he drew forth the little case, he leaned against the old man's arm. "there she is," he said, as the case opened; and he looked up with a smile. the earl knitted his brows; he did not wish to see the picture, but he looked at it in spite of himself; and there looked up at him from it such a pretty young face--a face so like the child's at his side--that it quite startled him. "i suppose you think you are very fond of her?" he said. "yes," answered lord fauntleroy, in a gentle tone, and with simple directness; "i do think so, and i think it's true. you see mr. hobbs was my friend, and dick and bridget and michael they were my friends too; but dearest--well she is my _close_ friend, and we always tell each other everything." his young lordship slipped down upon the hearth-rug, and sat there with the picture still in his hand. the earl did not speak again. he leaned back in his chair and watched him. a great many strange new thoughts passed through the old nobleman's mind. dougal had stretched himself out and gone to sleep with his head on his huge paws. there was a long silence. * * * * * in about half an hour's time mr. havisham was ushered in. the great room was very still when he entered. the earl was still leaning back in his chair. he moved as mr. havisham approached, and held up his hand in a gesture of warning--it seemed as if he had scarcely intended to make the gesture--as if it were almost involuntary. dougal was still asleep, and close beside the great dog, sleeping also, with his curly head upon his arm, lay little lord fauntleroy. chapter vi. the earl and his grandson. when lord fauntleroy wakened in the morning--he had not wakened at all when he had been carried to bed the night before,--the first sound he was conscious of were the crackling of a wood fire and the murmur of voices. he moved on his pillow, and turned over, opening his eyes. there were two women in the room. everything was bright and cheerful with gay-flowered chintz. there was a fire on the hearth, and the sunshine was streaming in through the ivy-entwined windows. both women came toward him, and he saw that one of them was mrs. mellon, the housekeeper, and the other a comfortable, middle-aged woman, with a face as kind and good-humoured as a face could be. "good-morning, my lord," said mrs. mellon. "did you sleep well?" his lordship rubbed his eyes and smiled. "good-morning," he said. "i didn't know i was here." "you were carried up-stairs when you were asleep," said the housekeeper. "this is your bedroom, and this is dawson, who is to take care of you." fauntleroy sat up in bed and held out his hand to dawson, as he had held it out to the earl. "how do you do, ma'am?" he said. "i'm much obliged to you for coming to take care of me." "you can call her dawson, my lord," said the housekeeper with a smile. "she is used to being called dawson.--she will do anything you ask her to." "that i will, bless him," said dawson, in her comforting, good-humoured voice. "he shall dress himself, and i'll stand by, ready to help him if he wants me." "thank you," responded lord fauntleroy; "it's a little hard sometimes about the buttons, you know, and then i have to ask somebody." when he went into the adjoining room to take his breakfast and saw what a great room it was, and found there was another adjoining it, which dawson told him was his also, the feeling that he was very small indeed came over him again so strongly that he confided it to dawson, as he sat down to the table on which the pretty breakfast service was arranged. "i am a very little boy," he said rather wistfully, "to live in such a large castle, and have so many big rooms--don't you think so?" "oh, come!" said dawson, "you feel just a little strange at first, that's all; but you'll get over that very soon, and then you'll like it here. it's such a beautiful place, you know." "it's a very beautiful place, of course," said fauntleroy, with a little sigh; "but i should like it better if i didn't miss dearest so. i always had my breakfast with her in the morning, and put the sugar and cream in her tea for her, and handed her the toast. that made it very sociable, of course." "oh, well!" answered dawson, comfortably, "you know you can see her every day, and there's no knowing how much you'll have to tell her. bless you! wait till you've walked about a bit and seen things--the dogs and the stables with all the horses in them. and, dear me, you haven't looked even into the very next room yet!" "what is there?" asked fauntleroy, "wait until you've had your breakfast, and then you shall see," said dawson. at this he naturally began to grow curious, and he applied himself assiduously to his breakfast. "now then," he said, slipping off his seat a few minutes later; "i've had enough. can i go and look at it?" dawson nodded and led the way. when she opened the door of the room, he stood upon the threshold and looked about him in amazement. he did not speak; he only put his hands in his pockets and stood there looking in. the room was a large one too, as all the rooms seemed to be, and it appeared to him more beautiful than the rest, only in a different way. the furniture was not so massive and antique as was that in the rooms he had seen down stairs; the draperies and rugs and walls were brighter; there were shelves full of books, and on the tables were numbers of toys--beautiful, ingenious things--such as he had looked at with wonder and delight through the shop windows in new york. "it looks like a boy's room," he said at last, catching his breath a little. "who do they belong to?" "go and look at them," said dawson. "they belong to you!" "to me!" he cried "to me! why do they belong to me? who gave them to me?" and he sprang forward with a gay little shout. it seemed almost too much to be believed. "it was grandpapa!" he said, with his eyes as bright as stars. "i know it was grandpapa!" "yes, it was his lordship," said dawson. it was a tremendously exciting morning. there were so many things to be examined, so many experiments to be tried; each novelty was so absorbing that he could scarcely turn from it to look at the next. the earl had passed a bad night and had spent the morning in his room; but at noon, after he had lunched, he sent for his grandson. fauntleroy answered the summons at once. he came down the broad staircase with a bounding step; the earl heard him run across the hall, and then the door opened and he came in with red cheeks and sparkling eyes. "i was waiting for you to send for me," he said. "i was ready a long time ago. i'm _ever_ so much obliged to you for all those things! i'm _ever_ so much obliged to you! i have been playing with them all the morning." "oh!" said the earl, "you like them, do you?" "i like them so much--well, i couldn't tell you how much!" said fauntleroy, his face glowing with delight. "there's one that's like base-ball. i tried to teach dawson, but she couldn't quite understand it just at first. but you know all about it, don't you?" "i'm afraid i don't," replied the earl. "it's an american game, isn't it? is it something like cricket?" "i never saw cricket," said fauntleroy; "but mr. hobbs took me several times to see base-ball. it's a splendid game. you get so excited! would you like me to go and get my game and show it to you? perhaps it would amuse you and make you forget about your foot. does your foot hurt you very much this morning?" "more than i enjoy," was the answer. "then perhaps you couldn't forget it," said the little fellow, anxiously. "perhaps it would bother you to be told about the game. do you think it would amuse you, or do you think it would bother you?" "go and get it," said the earl. it certainly was a novel entertainment this--making a companion of a child who offered to teach him to play games, but the very novelty of it amused him. there was a smile lurking about the earl's mouth when cedric came back with the box containing the game in his arms, and an expression of the most eager interest on his face. "may i pull that little table over here to your chair?" he asked. "ring for thomas," said the earl. "he will place it for you." "oh, i can do it myself," answered fauntleroy. "it's not very heavy." "very well," replied his grandfather. the lurking smile deepened on the old man's face as he watched the little fellow's preparations; there was such an absorbed interest in them. the small table was dragged forward and placed by his chair, and the game taken from its box and arranged upon it. "it's very interesting when you once begin," said fauntleroy. "you see, the black pegs can be your side and the white ones mine. they're men, you know, and once round the field is a home run and counts one--and these are the outs--and here is the first base and that's the second and that's the third and that's the home-base." he entered into the details of explanation with the greatest animation. he showed all the attitudes of pitcher and catcher and batter in the real game. when at last the explanations and illustrations were at an end and the game began in good earnest, the earl still found himself entertained. his young companion was wholly absorbed; he played with all his childish heart; his gay little laughs when he made a good throw, his enthusiasm over a "home run," his impartial delight over his own good luck or his opponent's would have given a flavour to any game. if, a week before, any one had told the earl of dorincourt that on that particular morning he would be forgetting his gout and his bad temper in a child's game, with a curly-headed small boy for a companion, he would without doubt have made himself very unpleasant; and yet he certainly had forgotten himself when the door opened and thomas announced a visitor. the visitor in question, who was an elderly gentleman in black, and no less a person than the clergyman of the parish, was so startled by the amazing scene which met his eye, that he almost fell back a pace, and ran some risk of colliding with thomas. there, was, in fact, no part of his duty that the reverend mr. mordaunt found so decidedly unpleasant as that part which compelled him to call upon his noble patron at the castle. his noble patron, indeed, usually made these visits as disagreeable as it lay in his lordly power to make them. he abhorred churches and charities, and flew into violent rages when any of his tenantry took the liberty of being poor and ill and needing assistance. during all the years in which mr. mordaunt had been in charge of dorincourt parish, the rector certainly did not remember having seen his lordship, of his own free will, do any one a kindness, or, under any circumstances whatever, show that he thought of any one but himself. judge then of his amazement when, as thomas opened the library door, his ears were greeted by a delighted ring of childish laughter. the earl glanced around, and when he saw who it was, mr. mordaunt was still more surprised to see that he looked almost as if he had forgotten for the moment how unpleasant he really could make himself when he tried. "ah!" he said in his harsh voice, but giving his hand rather graciously. "good morning, mordaunt. i've found a new employment, you see." he put his other hand on cedric's shoulder--perhaps deep down in his heart there was a stir of gratified pride that it was such an heir he had to present; there was a spark of something like pleasure in his eyes as he moved the boy slightly forward. "this is the new lord fauntleroy," he said. "fauntleroy, this is mr. mordaunt, the rector of the parish." fauntleroy looked up at the gentleman in the clerical garments, and gave him his hand. "i am very glad to make your acquaintance, sir," he said. mr. mordaunt held the small hand in his a moment as he looked down at the child's face, smiling involuntarily, he liked the little fellow from that instant--as in fact people always did like him. "i am delighted to make your acquaintance, lord fauntleroy," said the rector. "you made a long journey to come to us. a great many people will be glad to know you made it safely." "it _was_ a long way," answered fauntleroy; "but dearest, my mother, was with me and i wasn't lonely. of course you are never lonely if your mother is with you; and the ship was beautiful." "take a chair, mordaunt," said the earl. mr. mordaunt sat down. he glanced from fauntleroy to the earl. "your lordship is greatly to be congratulated," he said warmly. but the earl plainly had no intention of showing his feelings on the subject. "he is like his father," he said rather gruffly. "let us hope he'll conduct himself more creditably." and then he added: "well, what is it this morning, mordaunt? who is in trouble now?" this was not as bad as mr. mordaunt had expected, but he hesitated a second before he began. "it is higgins," he said; "higgins of edge farm. he has been very unfortunate. he was ill himself last autumn, and his children had scarlet fever. he is in trouble about his rent now. newick tells him if he doesn't pay it he must leave the place; and of course that would be a very serious matter. his wife is ill, and he came to me yesterday to beg me to see you about it, and ask you for time. he thinks if you would give him time he could catch up again." "they all think that," said the earl, looking rather black. fauntleroy made a movement forward. he had been standing between his grandfather and the visitor, listening with all his might. he had begun to be interested in higgins at once. he wondered how many children there were, and if the scarlet fever had hurt them very much. his eyes were wide open and were fixed upon mr. mordaunt with intense interest as that gentleman went on with the conversation. "higgins is a well-meaning man," said the rector, making an effort to strengthen his plea. "he is a bad enough tenant," replied his lordship. "and he is always behindhand, newick tells me." "he is in great trouble now," said the rector, "he is very fond of his wife and children, and if the farm is taken from him they may literally starve. he cannot give them the nourishing things they need. two of the children were left very low after the fever, and the doctor orders for them wine and luxuries that higgins cannot afford." at this fauntleroy moved a step nearer. "that was the way with michael," he said. the earl slightly started. "i forgot _you_!" he said. "i forgot we had a philanthropist in the room. who was michael?" and the gleam of queer amusement came back into the old man's deep-set eyes. "he was bridget's husband, who had the fever," answered fauntleroy; "and he couldn't pay the rent or buy wine and things. and you gave me that money to help him." the earl drew his brows together into a curious frown, which somehow was scarcely grim at all. he glanced across at mr. mordaunt. "i don't know what sort of a landed proprietor he will make," he said. "i told havisham the boy was to have what he wanted--and what he wanted, it seems, was money to give to beggars." "oh! but they weren't beggars," said fauntleroy eagerly. "michael was a splendid bricklayer! they all worked." "oh!" said the earl, "they were not beggars." he bent his gaze on the boy for a few seconds in silence. "come here," he said, at last. "what would _you_ do in this case?" it must be confessed that mr. mordaunt experienced for the moment a curious sensation. being a man of great thoughtfulness, and having spent so many years on the estate of dorincourt, he realised very strongly what power for good or evil would be given in the future to this one small boy standing there, his brown eyes wide open, his hands deep in his pockets; and the thought came to him also that a great deal of power might, perhaps, through the caprice of a proud, self-indulgent old man be given to him now, and that if his young nature were not a simple and generous one, it might be the worst thing that could happen, not only for others, but for himself. "and what would _you_ do in such a case?" demanded the earl. fauntleroy drew a little nearer, and laid one hand on his knee, with the most confiding air of good comradeship. "if i were very rich," he said "and not only just a little boy, i should let him stay, and give him the things for his children; but then, i am only a boy." then, after a second's pause, in which his face brightened visibly, "_you_ can do anything, can't you?" he said. "humph!" said my lord, staring at him. "that's your opinion, is it?" and he was not displeased either. "i mean you can give any one anything," said fauntleroy. "who's newick?" "he is my agent," answered the earl, "and some of my tenants are not over-fond of him." "are you going to write him a letter now?" inquired fauntleroy. "shall i bring you the pen and ink? i can take the game off this table." it plainly had not for an instant occurred to him that newick would be allowed to do his worst. the earl paused a moment, still looking at him. "can you write?" he asked. "yes," answered cedric, "but not very well." "move the things from the table," commanded my lord, "and bring the pen and ink, and a sheet of paper from my desk." mr. mordaunt's interest began to increase. fauntleroy did as he was told very deftly. in a few moments, the sheet of paper, the big inkstand, and the pen were ready. "there!" he said gaily, "now you can write it." "you are to write it," said the earl. "i!" exclaimed fauntleroy, and a flush overspread bis forehead. "will it do if i write it? i don't always spell quite right when i haven't a dictionary and nobody tells me." "it will do," answered the earl. "higgins will not complain of the spelling. i'm not the philanthropist; you are. dip your pen in the ink." fauntleroy took up the pen and dipped it in the ink-bottle, then he arranged himself in position, leaning on the table. "now," he inquired, "what must i say?" "you may say, 'higgins is not to be interfered with, for the present,' and sign it 'fauntleroy,'" said the earl. fauntleroy dipped his pen in the ink again, and resting his arm, began to write. it was rather a slow and serious process, but he gave his whole soul to it. after a while, however, the manuscript was complete, and he handed it to his grandfather with a smile slightly tinged with anxiety. "do you think it will do?" he asked. the earl looked at it, and the corners of his mouth twitched a little. "yes," he answered; "higgins will find it entirely satisfactory." and he handed it to mr. mordaunt. what mr. mordaunt found written was this:- "dear mr. newik if you pleas mr. higins is not to be inturfeared with for the present and oblige "yours rispecferly "fauntleroy." "mr. hobbs always signed his letters that way," said fauntleroy; "and i thought i'd better say 'please.' is that exactly the right way to spell 'interfered'?" "it's not exactly the way it is spelled in the dictionary," answered the earl. "i was afraid of that," said fauntleroy. "i ought to have asked. you see, that's the way with words of more than one syllable; you have to look in the dictionary. it's always safest. i'll write it over again." and write it over again he did, making quite an imposing copy, and taking precautions in the matter of spelling by consulting the earl himself. "spelling is a curious thing," he said. "it's so often different from what you expect it to be. i used to think 'please' was spelled p-l-e-e-s, but it isn't, you know; and you'd think 'dear' was spelled d-e-r-e, if you didn't inquire. sometimes it almost discourages you." when mr. mordaunt went away, he took the letter with him, and he took something else with him also--namely, a pleasanter feeling and a more hopeful one than he had ever carried home with him down that avenue on any previous visit he had made at dorincourt castle. when he was gone, fauntleroy, who had accompanied him to the door, went back to his grandfather. "may i go to dearest now?" he said. "i think she will be waiting for me." the earl was silent a moment. "there is something in the stable for you to see first," he said. "ring the bell." "if you please," said fauntleroy, with his quick little flush, "i'm very much obliged; but i think i'd better see it to-morrow. she will be expecting me all the time." "very well," answered the earl. "we will order the carriage." then he added dryly, "it's a pony." fauntleroy drew a long breath. "a pony!" he exclaimed. "whose pony is it?" "yours," replied the earl. "mine?" cried the little fellow. "mine--like the things up stairs?" "yes," said his grandfather. "would you like to see it? shall i order it to be brought round?" fauntleroy's cheeks grew redder and redder. "i never thought i should have a pony!" he said. "i never thought that! how glad dearest will be. you give me _everything_, don't you?" "do you wish to see it?" inquired the earl. fauntleroy drew a long breath. "i _want_ to see it," he said. "i want to see it so much i can hardly wait. but i'm afraid there isn't time." "you _must_ go and see your mother this afternoon?" asked the earl. "you think you can't put it off?" "why," said fauntleroy, "she has been thinking about me all the morning, and i have been thinking about her!" "oh!" said the earl. "you have, have you? ring the bell." as they drove down the avenue, under the arching trees, he was rather silent. but fauntleroy was not. he talked about the pony. what colour was it? how big was it? what was its name? what did it like to eat best? how old was it? how early in the morning might he get up and see it? "dearest will be so glad!" he kept saying. "she will be so much obliged to you for being so kind to me! she knows i always liked ponies so much, but we never thought i should have one." he leaned back against the cushions and regarded the earl with rapt interest for a few minutes and in entire silence. "i think you must be the best person in the world," he burst forth at last. "you are always doing good, aren't you?--and thinking about other people. dearest says that is the best kind of goodness; not to think about yourself, but to think about other people. that is just the way you are, isn't it?" his lordship was so dumfounded to find himself presented in such agreeable colours, that he did not know exactly what to say. fauntleroy went on, still regarding him with admiring eyes--those great, clear, innocent eyes! "you make so many people happy," he said. "there's michael and bridget and their ten children, and the apple-woman, and dick, and mr. hobbs, and mr. higgins and mrs. higgins and their children, and mr. mordaunt--because of course he was glad--and dearest and me, about the pony and all the other things. do you know, i've counted it up on my fingers and in my mind, and it's twenty-seven people you've been kind to. that's a good many--twenty-seven!" "and i was the person who was kind to them--was i?" said the earl. "why, yes, you know," answered fauntleroy. "you made them all happy. do you know," with some delicate hesitation, "that people are sometimes mistaken about earls when they don't know them? mr. hobbs was. i am going to write to him, and tell him about it." "what was mr. hobbs's opinion of earls?" asked his lordship. "well, you see, the difficulty was," replied his young companion, "that he didn't know any, and he'd only read about them in books. he thought--you mustn't mind it--that they were gory tyrants; and he said he wouldn't have them hanging around his store. but if he'd known _you_, i'm sure he would have felt quite different. i shall tell him about you." "what shall you tell him?" "i shall tell him," said fauntleroy, glowing with enthusiasm, "that you are the kindest man i ever heard of. and--and i hope when i grow up, i shall be just like you." "just like me!" repeated his lordship, looking at the little kindling face. "_just_ like you," said fauntleroy, adding modestly, "if i can. perhaps i'm not good enough but i'm going to try." the carriage rolled on down the stately avenue under the beautiful, broad-branched trees, through the spaces of green shade and lanes of golden sunlight. fauntleroy saw again the lovely places where the ferns grew high and the bluebells swayed in the breeze; he saw the deer, standing or lying in the deep grass, turn their large startled eyes as the carriage passed, and caught glimpses of the brown rabbits as they scurried away. he heard the whirr of the partridges and the calls and songs of the birds, and it all seemed even more beautiful to him than before. all his heart was filled with pleasure and happiness in the beauty that was on every side. but the old earl saw and heard very different things, though he was apparently looking out too. he saw a long life, in which there had been neither generous deeds nor kind thoughts; he saw years in which a man who had been young and strong and rich and powerful had used his youth and strength and wealth and power only to please himself and kill time as the days and years succeeded each other; he saw this man, when the time had been killed and old age had come, solitary and without real friends in the midst of all his splendid wealth; he saw people who disliked or feared him, and people who would flatter and cringe to him, but no one who really cared whether he lived or died, unless they had something to gain or lose by it. and the fact was, indeed, that he had never before condescended to reflect upon it at all, and he only did so now because a child had believed him better than he was. fauntleroy thought the earl's foot must be hurting him, his brows knitted themselves together so, as he looked out at the park; and thinking this, the considerate little fellow tried not to disturb him, and enjoyed the trees and the ferns and the deer in silence. but at last, the carriage, having passed the gates and bowled through the green lanes for a short distance, stopped. they had reached court lodge; and fauntleroy was out upon the ground almost before the big footman had time to open the carriage door. the earl wakened from his reverie with a start. "what!" he said. "are we here?" "yes," said fauntleroy. "let me give you your stick. just lean on me when you get out." "i am not going to get out," replied his lordship brusquely. "not--not to see dearest?" exclaimed fauntleroy with astonished face. "'dearest' will excuse me," said the earl dryly. "go to her and tell her that not even a new pony would keep you away." "she will be disappointed," said fauntleroy. "she will want to see you very much." "i am afraid not," was the answer. "the carriage will call for you as we come back.--tell jeffries to drive on, thomas." thomas closed the carriage door: and, after a puzzled look, fauntleroy ran up the drive. the earl had the opportunity--of seeing a pair of handsome, strong little legs flash over the ground with astonishing rapidity. evidently their owner had no intention of losing any time. the carriage rolled slowly away, but his lordship did not at once lean back; he still looked out. through a space in the trees he could see the house door; it was wide open. the little figure dashed up the steps; another figure--a little figure too, slender and young, in its black gown--ran to meet it. it seemed as if they flew together, as fauntleroy leaped into his mother's arms, hanging about her neck and covering her sweet young face with kisses. chapter vii. at church. on the following sunday morning, mr. mordaunt had a large congregation. indeed, he could scarcely remember any sunday on which the church had been so crowded. people appeared upon the scene who seldom did him the honour of coming to hear his sermons. there were even people from hazelton, which was the next parish. there were hearty, sunburned farmers, stout, comfortable, apple-cheeked wives in their best bonnets and most gorgeous shawls, and half a dozen children or so to each family. the doctor's wife was there, with her four daughters. mrs. kimsey and mr. kimsey, who kept the druggist's shop, and made pills, and did up powders for everybody within ten miles, sat in their pew; mrs. dibble in hers, miss smiff, the village dressmaker, and her friend miss perkins, the milliner, sat in theirs; the doctor's young man was present, and the druggist's apprentice; in fact, almost every family on the country side was represented, in one way or another. in the course of the preceding week, many wonderful stories had been told of little lord fauntleroy. the reverend mr. mordaunt had told the story of higgins at his own dinner table, and the servant who had heard it had told it in the kitchen, and from there it had spread like wildfire. and on market-day, when higgins had appeared in town, he had been questioned on every side, and newick had been questioned too, and in response had shown to two or three people the note signed "fauntleroy." and so the farmers' wives had found plenty to talk of over their tea and their shopping, and they had done the subject full justice and made the most of it. and on sunday they had either walked to church or had been driven in their gigs by their husbands, who were perhaps a trifle curious themselves about the new little lord who was to be in time the owner of the soil. it was by no means the earl's habit to attend church, but he chose to appear on this first sunday--it was his whim to present himself in the huge family pew, with fauntleroy at his side. there were many loiterers in the churchyard that morning. there were groups at the gates and in the porch, and there had been much discussion as to whether my lord would really appear or not. when this discussion was at its height, one good woman suddenly uttered an exclamation. "eh!" she said; "that must be the mother, pretty young thing." all who heard turned and looked at the slender figure in black coming up the path. the veil was thrown back from her face and they could see how fair and sweet it was, and how the bright hair curled as softly as a child's under the little widow's cap. she was not thinking of the people about; she was thinking of cedric, and of his visits to her, and his joy over his new pony, on which he had actually ridden to her door the day before, sitting very straight and looking very proud and happy. but soon she could not help being attracted by the fact that she was being looked at and that her arrival had created some sort of sensation. she first noticed it because an old woman in a red cloak made a bobbing curtsy to her, and then another did the same thing and said, "god bless you, my lady!" and one man after another took off his hat as she passed. for a moment she did not understand, and then she realised that it was because she was little lord fauntleroy's mother that they did so, and she flushed rather shyly, and smiled and bowed too and said, "thank you" in a gentle voice to the old woman, who had blessed her. she had scarcely passed through the stone porch into the church before the great event of the day happened. the carriage from the castle, with its handsome horses and tall liveried servants, bowled round the corner and down the green lane. "here they come!" went from one looker-on to another. and then the carriage drew up, and thomas stepped down and opened the door, and a little boy, dressed in black velvet, and with a splendid mop of bright waving hair, jumped out. every man, woman, and child looked curiously upon him. "he's the captain over again!" said those of the on-lookers who remembered his father. "he's the captain's self, to the life!" he stood there in the sunlight looking up at the earl, as thomas helped that nobleman out, with the most affectionate interest that could be imagined. the instant he could help, he put out his hand and offered his shoulder as if he had been seven feet high. it was plain enough to every one that however it might be with other people, the earl of dorincourt struck no terror into the breast of his grandson. "just lean on me," they heard him say. "how glad the people are to see you, and how well they all seem to know you!" "take off your cap, fauntleroy," said the earl. "they are bowing to you." "to me!" cried fauntleroy, whipping off his cap in a moment, baring his bright head to the crowd, and turning shining, puzzled eyes on them as he tried to bow to every one at once. "god bless your lordship!" said the curtsying, red-cloaked old woman who had spoken to his mother; "long life to you!" "thank you, ma'am," said fauntleroy. and then they went into the church, and were looked at there, on their way up the aisle to the square red-cushioned and curtained pew. when fauntleroy was fairly seated he made two discoveries which pleased him: the first was that, across the church where he could look at her, his mother sat and smiled at him; the second, that at one end of the pew against the wall knelt two quaint figures carven in stone, facing each other as they kneeled on either side of a pillar supporting two stone missals, their hands folded as if in prayer, their dress very antique and strange. on the tablet by them was written something of which he could only read the curious words: "here lyethe ye bodye of gregorye arthure fyrst earle of dorincourt allsoe of alisone hildegarde hys wyfe." "may i whisper?" inquired his lordship, devoured by curiosity. "what is it?" said his grandfather. "who are they?" "some of your ancestors," answered the earl, "who lived a few hundred years ago." "perhaps," said lord fauntleroy, regarding them with respect, "perhaps i got my spelling from them." and then he proceeded to find his place in the church service. when the music began, he stood up and looked across at his mother, smiling. he was very fond of music, and his mother and he often sang together, so he joined in with the rest, his pure, sweet, high voice rising as clear as the song of a bird. he quite forgot himself in his pleasure in it. the earl forgot himself a little too, as he sat in his curtain-shielded corner of the pew and watched the boy. his mother, as she looked at him across the church, felt a thrill pass through her heart, and a prayer rose in it too; a prayer that the pure, simple happiness of his childish soul might last, and that the strange, great fortune which had fallen to him might bring no wrong or evil with it. there were many soft anxious thoughts in her tender heart in those new days. "oh, ceddie!" she had said to him the evening before, as she hung over him in saying good-night, before he went away; "oh, ceddie, dear, i wish for your sake i was very clever and could say a great many wise things! but only be good, dear, only be brave, only be kind and true always, and then you will never hurt any one so long as you live, and you may help many, and the big world may be better because my little child was born." and on his return to the castle, fauntleroy had repeated her words to his grandfather. "and i thought about you when she said that," he ended; "and i told her that was the way the world was because you had lived, and i was going to try if i could be like you." "and what did she say to that?" asked his lordship, a trifle uneasily. "she said that was right, and we must always look for good in people and try to be like it." perhaps it was this the old man remembered as he glanced through the divided folds of the red curtain of his pew to where his son's wife sat. as they came out of the church, many of those who had attended the service stood waiting to see them pass. as they neared the gate, a man who stood with his hat in his hand made a step forward and then hesitated. he was a middle-aged farmer, with a careworn face. "well, higgins," said the earl. fauntleroy turned quickly to look at him. "oh!" he exclaimed; "is it mr. higgins?" "yes," answered the earl dryly; "and i suppose he came to take a look at his new landlord." "yes, my lord," said the man, his sunburned face reddening. "mr. newick told me his young lordship was kind enough to speak for me, and i thought i'd like to say a word of thanks, if i might be allowed." perhaps he felt some wonder when he saw what a little fellow it was who had innocently done so much for him, and who stood there looking up just as one of his own less fortunate children might have done--apparently not realising his own importance in the least. "i've a great deal to thank your lordship for," he said; "a great deal. i----" "oh," said fauntleroy; "i only wrote the letter. it was my grandfather who did it. but you know how he is about always being good to everybody. is mrs. higgins well now?" higgins looked a trifle taken aback. he also was somewhat startled at hearing his noble landlord presented in the character of a benevolent being, full of engaging qualities. "i--well, yes, your lordship," he stammered. "i'm glad of that," said fauntleroy. "my grandfather was very sorry about your children having the scarlet fever, and so was i." "you see, higgins," broke in the earl with a fine grim smile; "you people have been mistaken in me. lord fauntleroy understands me. get into the carriage, fauntleroy." and fauntleroy jumped in, and the carriage rolled away down the green lane, and even when it turned the corner into the high road, the earl was still grimly smiling. chapter viii. learning to ride. lord dorincourt had occasion to wear his grim smile many a time as the days passed by. indeed, as his acquaintance with his grandson progressed, he wore the smile so often that there were moments when it almost lost its grimness. there is no denying that before lord fauntleroy had appeared on the scene, the old man had been growing very tired of his loneliness and his gout and his seventy years, but when he saw the lad, fortunately for the little fellow, the secret pride of the grandfather was gratified at the outset. and then when he heard the lad talk, and saw what a well-bred little fellow he was, notwithstanding his boyish ignorance of all that his new position meant, the old earl liked his grandson more, and actually began to find himself rather entertained. it had amused him to give into those childish hands the power to bestow a benefit on poor higgins. then it had gratified him to drive to church with cedric and to see the excitement and interest caused by the arrival. my lord of dorincourt was an arrogant old man, proud of his name, proud of his rank, and therefore proud to show the world that at last the house of dorincourt had an heir who was worthy of the position he was to fill. the morning the new pony had been tried the earl had been so pleased that he had almost forgotten his gout. when the groom had brought out the pretty creature, which arched its brown glossy neck and tossed its fine head in the sun, the earl had sat at the open window of the library and had looked on while fauntleroy took his first riding lesson. he wondered if the boy would show signs of timidity. fauntleroy mounted in great delight. he had never been on a pony before, and he was in the highest spirits. wilkins, the groom, led the animal by the bridle up and down before the library window. after a few minutes fauntleroy spoke to his grandfather--watching him from the window. "can't i go myself?" he asked; "and can't i go faster?" his lordship made a sign to wilkins, who at the signal brought up his own horse and mounted it and took fauntleroy's pony by the leading-rein. "now," said the earl, "let him trot." the next few minutes were rather exciting to the small equestrian. he found that trotting was not so easy as walking, and the faster the pony trotted, the less easy it was. "it j-jolts a g-goo-good deal--do-doesn't it?" he said to wilkins. "d-does it j-jolt y-you?" "no, my lord," answered wilkins. "you'll get used to it in time. rise in your stirrups." "i'm ri-rising all the t-time," said fauntleroy. he was both rising and falling rather uncomfortably and with many shakes and bounces. he was out of breath, but he held on with all his might, and sat as straight as he could. the earl could see that from his window. when the riders came back within speaking distance, after they had been hidden by the trees a few minutes, fauntleroy's hat was off, his cheeks were like poppies, and his lips were set, but he was still trotting manfully. "stop a minute!" said his grandfather. "where's your hat?" wilkins touched his. "it fell off, your lordship," he said, with evident enjoyment. "wouldn't let me stop to pick it up, my lord." "tired?" said the earl to fauntleroy. "want to get off?" "it jolts you more than you think it will," admitted his young lordship frankly. "and it tires you a little too; but i don't want to get off. i want to learn how. as soon as i've got my breath i want to go back for the hat." the cleverest person in the world, if he had undertaken to teach fauntleroy how to please the old man who watched him, could not have taught him anything which would have succeeded better. as the pony trotted off again toward the avenue, a faint colour crept up in the fierce old face, and the eyes, under the shaggy brows, gleamed with a pleasure such as his lordship had scarcely expected to know again. and he sat and watched quite eagerly until the sound of the horses' hoofs returned. when they did come, which was after some time, they came at a faster pace. fauntleroy's hat was still off, wilkins was carrying it for him; his cheeks were redder than before, and his hair was flying about his ears, but he came at quite a brisk canter. "there!" he panted, as they drew up, "i c-cantered." he and wilkins and the pony were close friends after that. scarcely a day passed on which the country people did not see them out together, cantering gaily on the highroad or through the green lanes. the children in the cottages would run to the door to look at the proud little brown pony with the gallant little figure sitting so straight in the saddle, and the young lord would snatch off his cap and swing it at them, and shout, "hallo! good morning!" in a very unlordly manner, though with great heartiness. sometimes he would stop and talk with the children, and once wilkins came back to the castle with a story of how fauntleroy had insisted on dismounting near the village school, so that a boy who was lame and tired might ride home on his pony. "an' i'm blessed," said wilkins, in telling the story at the stables,--"i'm blessed if he'd hear of anything else! he wouldn't let me get down, because he said the boy mightn't feel comfortable on a big horse. an' ses he, 'wilkins,' ses he, 'that boy's lame and i'm not, and i want to talk to him too.' and up the lad has to get, and my lord trudges alongside of him with his hands in his pockets. and when we come to the cottage, an' the boy's mother comes out to see what's up, he whips off his cap an' ses he, 'i've brought your son home, ma'am,' ses he, 'because his leg hurt him, and i don't think that stick is enough for him to lean on; and i'm going to ask my grandfather to have a pair of crutches made for him.'" when the earl heard the story, he was not angry, as wilkins had been half afraid that he would be; on the contrary, he laughed outright, and called fauntleroy up to him, and made him tell all about the matter from beginning to end, and then he laughed again. and actually, a few days later, the dorincourt carriage stopped in the green lane before the cottage where the lame boy lived, and fauntleroy jumped out and walked up to the door, carrying a pair of strong, light, new crutches, and presented them to mrs. hartle (the lame boy's name was hartle) with these words: "my grandfather's compliments, and if you please, these are for your boy, and we hope he will get better." "i said your compliments," he explained to the earl when he returned to the carriage. "you didn't tell me to, but i thought perhaps you forgot. that was right, wasn't it?" and the earl laughed again, and did not say it was not. in fact, the two were becoming more intimate every day, and every day fauntleroy's faith in his lordship's benevolence and virtue increased. he had no doubt whatever that his grandfather was the most amiable and generous of elderly gentlemen. certainly, he himself found his wishes gratified almost before they were uttered; and such gifts and pleasures were lavished upon him, that he was sometimes almost bewildered by his own possessions. perhaps, notwithstanding his sweet nature, he might have been somewhat spoiled by it, if it had not been for the hours he spent with his mother at court lodge. that "best friend" of his watched over him very closely and tenderly. the two had many long talks together, and he never went back to the castle with her kisses on his cheeks without carrying in his heart some simple, pure words worth remembering. there was one thing, it is true, which puzzled the little fellow very much. he thought over the mystery of it much oftener than any one supposed; even his mother did not know how often he pondered on it; the earl for a long time never suspected that he did so at all. but being quick to observe, the little boy could not help wondering why it was that his mother and grandfather never seemed to meet. he had noticed that they never did meet. and yet, every day, fruit and flowers were sent to court lodge from the hot-houses at the castle. but the one virtuous action of the earl's which had set him upon the pinnacle of perfection in cedric's eyes, was what he had done soon after that first sunday when mrs. errol had walked home from church unattended. about a week later, when cedric was going one day to visit his mother, he found at the door, instead of the large carriage and prancing pair, a pretty little brougham and a handsome bay horse. "that is a present from you to your mother," the earl said abruptly. "she cannot go walking about the country. she needs a carriage. the man who drives will take charge of it. it is a present from _you_." fauntleroy's delight could but feebly express itself. he could scarcely contain himself until he reached the lodge. his mother was gathering roses in the garden. he flung himself out of the little brougham and flew to her. "dearest!" he cried, "could you believe it? this is yours! he says it is a present from me. it is your own carriage to drive everywhere in!" he was so happy that she did not know what to say. she could not have borne to spoil his pleasure by refusing to accept the gift, even though it came from the man who chose to consider himself her enemy. she was obliged to step into the carriage, roses and all, and let herself be taken for a drive, while fauntleroy told her stories of his grandfather's goodness and amiability. they were such innocent stories that sometimes she could not help laughing a little, and then she would draw her little boy closer to her side and kiss him, feeling glad that he could see only good in the old man who had so few friends. the very next day after that, fauntleroy wrote to mr. hobbs. he wrote quite a long letter, and after the first copy was written, he brought it to his grandfather to be inspected. "because," he said, "it's so uncertain about the spelling." these were the last lines: "i should like to see you and i wish dearest could live at the castle but i am very happy when i dont miss her too much and i love my granfarther every one does plees write soon "your afechshnet old friend "cedric errol. "do you miss your mother very much?" asked the earl when he had finished reading this. "yes," said fauntleroy, "i miss her all the time. and when i miss her very much, i go and look out of my window to where i see her light shine for me every night through an open place in the trees. it is a long way off, but she puts it in her window as soon as it is dark and i can see it twinkle far away, and i know what it says." "what does it say?" asked my lord. "it says, 'good-night, god keep you all the night!'--just what she used to say when we were together. every night she used to say that to me, and every morning she said, 'god bless you all the day!' so you see i am quite safe all the time----" "quite, i have no doubt," said his lordship dryly. and he drew down his beetling eyebrows and looked at the little boy so fixedly and so long that fauntleroy wondered what he could be thinking of. chapter ix. the poor cottages. the fact was, his lordship the earl of dorincourt thought in those days of many things of which he had never thought before, and all his thoughts were in one way or another connected with his grandson. his pride was the strongest part of his nature, and the boy gratified it at every point. through this pride he began to find a new interest in life. he began to take pleasure in showing his heir to the world. the world had known of his disappointment in his sons; so there was an agreeable touch of triumph in exhibiting this new lord fauntleroy, who could disappoint no one. he made plans for his future. sometimes in this new interest he forgot his gout, and after a while his doctor was surprised to find this noble patient's health growing better than he had expected it ever would be again. perhaps the earl grew better because the time did not pass so slowly for him, and he had something to think of besides his pains and infirmities. one fine morning, people were amazed to see little lord fauntleroy riding his pony with another companion than wilkins. this new companion rode a tall, powerful gray horse, and was no other than the earl himself. and in their rides together through the green lanes and pretty country roads, the two riders became more intimate than ever. and gradually the old man heard a great deal about "dearest" and her life. as fauntleroy trotted by the big horse he chatted gaily. there could not well have been a brighter little comrade, his nature was so happy. the earl often was silent, listening and watching the joyous, glowing face. sometimes he would tell his young companion to set the pony off at a gallop, and when the little fellow dashed off, sitting so straight and fearless, he would watch the boy with a gleam of pride and pleasure in his eyes; and fauntleroy, when, after such a dash, he came back waving his cap with a laughing shout, always felt that he and his grandfather were very good friends indeed. one thing that the earl discovered was that his son's wife did not lead an idle life. it was not long before he learned that the poor people knew her very well indeed. when there was sickness or sorrow or poverty in any house, the little brougham often stood before the door. it had not displeased the earl to find that the mother of his heir had a beautiful young face and looked as much like a lady as if she had been a duchess, and in one way it did not displease him to know that she was popular and beloved by the poor. and yet he was often conscious of a hard, jealous pang when he saw how she filled her child's heart and how the boy clung to her as his best beloved. the old man would have desired to stand first himself and have no rival. he felt it to be almost incredible that he, who had never really loved any one in his life, should find himself growing so fond of this little fellow,--as without doubt he was. at first he had only been pleased and proud of cedric's beauty and bravery, but there was something more than pride in his feeling now. he laughed a grim, dry laugh all to himself sometimes, when he thought how he liked to have the boy near him, how he liked to hear his voice, and how in secret he really wished to be liked and thought well of by his small grandson. it was only about a week after that ride when, after a visit to his mother, fauntleroy came into the library with a troubled, thoughtful face. he sat down in that high-backed chair in which he had sat on the evening of his arrival, and for a while he looked at the embers on the hearth. the earl watched him in silence, wondering what was coming. it was evident that cedric had something on his mind. at last he looked up "does newick know all about the people?" he asked. "it is his business to know about them," said his lordship. "been neglecting it--has he?" contradictory as it may seem, there was nothing which entertained and edified him more than the little fellow's interest in his tenantry. "there is a place," said fauntleroy, looking up at him with wide-open, horror-stricken eyes--"dearest has seen it; it is at the other end of the village. the houses are close together, and almost falling down; you can scarcely breathe: and the people are so poor, and everything is dreadful! the rain comes in at the roof! dearest went to see a poor woman who lived there. the tears ran down her cheeks when she told me about it!" the tears had come into his own eyes, but he smiled through them. "i told her you didn't know, and i would tell you," he said. he jumped down and came and leaned against the earl's chair. "you can make it all right," he said, "just as you made it all right for higgins. you always make it all right for everybody. i told her you would, and that newick must have forgotten to tell you." the earl looked down at the hand on his knee. newick had not forgotten to tell him; in fact, newick had spoken to him more than once of the desperate condition of the end of the village known as earl's court. mr. mordaunt had painted it all to him in the strongest words he could use, and his lordship had used violent language in response; and, when his gout had been at the worst, he had said that the sooner the people of earl's court died and were buried by the parish the better it would be--and there was an end of the matter. and yet, as he looked at the small hand on his knee, and from the small hand to the honest, earnest, frank-eyed face, he was actually ashamed both of earl's court and of himself. "what!" he said; "you want to make a builder of model cottages of me, do you?" and he positively put his own hand upon the childish one and stroked it. "those must be pulled down," said fauntleroy, with great eagerness. "dearest says so. let us--let us go and have them pulled down to-morrow. the people will be so glad when they see you! they'll know you have come to help them!" and his eyes shone like stars in his glowing face. the earl rose from his chair and put his hand on the child's shoulder. "let us go out and take our walk on the terrace," he said, with a short laugh; "and we can talk it over." and though he laughed two or three times again, as they walked to and fro on the broad stone terrace, where they walked together almost every fine evening, he seemed to be thinking of something which did not displease him, and still he kept his hand on his small companion's shoulder. chapter x. the earl alarmed. the truth was that mrs. errol had found a great many sad things in the course of her work among the poor of the little village that appeared so picturesque when it was seen from the moor-sides. everything was not as picturesque when seen near by, as it looked from a distance. she had found idleness and poverty and ignorance where there should have been comfort and industry. and she had discovered, after a while, that erlesboro was considered to be the worst village in that part of the country. as to earl's court, it was a disgrace, with its dilapidated houses and miserable, careless, sickly people. when first mrs. errol went to the place, it made her shudder. and a bold thought came into her wise little mother-heart. gradually she had begun to see, as had others, that it had been her boy's good fortune to please the earl very much, and that he would scarcely be likely to be denied anything for which he expressed a desire. "the earl would give him anything," she said to mr. mordaunt. "he would indulge his every whim. why should not that indulgence be used for the good of others? it is for me to see that this shall come to pass." she knew she could trust the kind, childish heart; so she told the little fellow the story of earl's court, feeling sure that he would speak of it to his grandfather, and hoping that some good results would follow. and strange as it appeared to every one, good results did follow. the fact was that the strongest power to influence the earl was his grandson's perfect confidence in him--the fact that cedric always believed that his grandfather was going to do what was right and generous. he could not quite make up his mind to let him discover that he had no inclination to be generous at all, and so after some reflection, he sent for newick, and had quite a long interview with him on the subject of the court, and it was decided that the wretched hovels should be pulled down and new houses should be built. "it is lord fauntleroy who insists on it," he said dryly; "he thinks it will improve the property. you can tell the tenants that it's his idea." of course, both the country people and the town people heard of the proposed improvement. at first, many of them would not believe it; but when a small army of workmen arrived and commenced pulling down the crazy, squalid cottages, people began to understand that little lord fauntleroy had done them a good turn again, and that through his innocent interference the scandal of earl's court had at last been removed. when the cottages were being built, the lad and his grandfather used to ride over to earl's court together to look at them, and fauntleroy was full of interest. he would dismount from his pony and go and make acquaintance with the workmen, asking them questions about building and bricklaying and telling them things about america. when he left them, the workmen used to talk him over among themselves, and laugh at his odd, innocent speeches; but they liked him, and liked to see him stand among them, talking away, with his hands in his pockets, his hat pushed back on his curls, and his small face full of eagerness. and they would go home and tell their wives about him, and the women would tell each other, and so it came about that almost every one talked of, or knew some story of, little lord fauntleroy; and gradually almost every one knew that the "wicked earl" had found something he cared for at last--something which had touched and even warmed his hard, bitter old heart. but no one knew quite how much it had been warmed, and how day by day the old man found himself caring more and more for the child, who was the only creature that had ever trusted him. he never spoke to any one else of his feeling for cedric; when he spoke of him to others it was always with the same grim smile. but fauntleroy soon knew that his grandfather loved him and always liked him to be near--near to his chair if they were in the library, opposite to him at table, or by his side when he rode or drove or took his evening walk on the broad terrace. "do you remember," cedric said once looking up from his book as he lay on the rug, "do you remember what i said to you that first night about our being good companions? i don't think any people could be better friends than we are, do you?" "we are pretty good companions, i should say," replied his lordship. "come here." fauntleroy scrambled up and went to him. "is there anything you want," the earl asked; "anything you have not?" the little fellow's brown eyes fixed themselves on his grandfather with a rather wistful look. "only one thing," he answered. "what is that?" inquired the earl. fauntleroy was silent a second. he had not thought matters over to himself so long for nothing. "what is it?" my lord repeated. fauntleroy answered. "it is dearest," he said. the old earl winced a little. "but you see her almost every day," he said. "is not that enough?" "i used to see her all the time," said fauntleroy. "she used to kiss me when i went to sleep at night, and in the morning she was always there, and we could tell each other things without waiting." the old eyes and the young ones looked into each other through a moment of silence. then the earl knitted his brows. "do you _never_ forget about your mother?" he said. "no," answered fauntleroy, "never; and she never forgets about me. i shouldn't forget about _you_, you know, if i didn't live with you. i should think about you all the more." "upon my word," said the earl, after looking at him a moment longer, "i believe you would!" the jealous pang that came when the boy spoke so of his mother seemed even stronger than it had been before--it was stronger because of this old man's increasing affection for the boy. but it was not long before he had other pangs, so much harder to face that he almost forgot, for the time, he had ever hated his son's wife at all. and in a strange and startling way it happened. one evening, just before the earl's court cottages were completed, there was a grand dinner party at dorincourt. there had not been such a party at the castle for a long time. a few days before it took place, sir harry lorridaile and lady lorridaile, who was the earl's only sister, actually came for a visit--a thing which caused the greatest excitement in the village and set mrs. dibble's shop-bell tinkling madly again, because it was well known that lady lorridaile had only been to dorincourt once since her marriage, thirty-five years before. she was a handsome old lady with white curls and dimpled, peachy cheeks, and she was as good as gold, but she had never approved of her brother any more than did the rest of the world, and having a strong will of her own and not being at all afraid to speak her mind frankly, she had, after several lively quarrels with his lordship, seen very little of him since her young days. not only the poor people and farmers heard about little lord fauntleroy; others knew of him. he was talked about so much and there were so many stories of him--of his beauty, his sweet temper, his popularity, and his growing influence over the earl his grandfather--that rumours of him reached the gentry at their country places and he was heard of in more than one county of england. and so by degrees lady lorridaile, too, heard of the child; she heard about higgins, and the lame boy, and the cottages at earl's court, and a score of other things,--and she began to wish to see the little fellow. and just as she was wondering how it might be brought about, to her utter astonishment, she received a letter from her brother inviting her to come with her husband to dorincourt. "it seems incredible!" she exclaimed. "i have heard it said that the child has worked miracles, and i begin to believe it. they say my brother adores the boy and can scarcely endure to have him out of sight. and he is so proud of him! actually, i believe he wants to show him to us." and she accepted the invitation at once. when she reached dorincourt castle with sir harry, it was late in the afternoon, and she went to her room at once before seeing her brother. having dressed for dinner she entered the drawing-room. the earl was there standing near the fire and looking very tall and imposing; and at his side stood a little boy in black velvet, and a large vandyke collar of rich lace--a little fellow whose round bright face was so handsome, and who turned upon her such beautiful, candid brown eyes, that she almost uttered an exclamation of pleasure and surprise at the sight. as she shook hands with the earl, she called him by the name she had not used since her girl-hood. "what, molyneux," she said, "is this the child?" "yes, constantia," answered the earl, "this is the boy. fauntleroy, this is your grand-aunt, lady lorridaile." "how do you do, grand-aunt?" said fauntleroy. lady lorridaile put her hand on his shoulder, and after looking down into his upraised face a few seconds, kissed him warmly. "i am your aunt constantia," she said, "and i loved your poor papa, and you are very like him." "it makes me glad when i am told i am like him," answered fauntleroy, "because it seems as if every one liked him,--just like dearest, eszackly,--aunt constantia," (adding the two words after a second's pause). lady lorridaile was delighted. she bent and kissed him again, and from that moment they were warm friends. "well, molyneux," she said aside to the earl afterwards, "it could not possibly be better than this!" "i think not," answered his lordship dryly. "he is a fine little fellow. we are great friends. he believes me to be the most charming and sweet-tempered of philanthropists. i will confess to you, constantia,--as you would find it out if i did not,--that i am in some slight danger of becoming rather an old fool about him." "what does his mother think of you?" asked lady lorridaile, with her usual straightforwardness. "i have not asked her," answered the earl, slightly scowling. "well," said lady lorridaile, "i will be frank with you at the outset, molyneux, and tell you i don't approve of your course, and that it is my intention to call on mrs. errol as soon as possible; so if you wish to quarrel with me, you had better mention it at once. what i hear of the young creature makes me quite sure that her child owes her everything. we were told even at lorridaile park that your poorer tenants adore her already." "they adore _him_," said the earl, nodding towards fauntleroy. "as to mrs. errol, you'll find her a pretty little woman. i'm rather in debt to her for giving some of her beauty to the boy, and you can go to see her if you like. all i ask is that she will remain at court lodge and that you will not ask me to go and see her," and he scowled a little again. "but he doesn't hate her as much as he used to, that is plain enough to me," her ladyship said to sir harry afterwards. "and he is a changed man in a measure, and, incredible as it may seem, harry, it is my opinion that he is being made into a human being, through nothing more or less than his affection for that innocent, affectionate little fellow." the very next day she went to call upon mrs. errol. when she returned, she said to her brother: "molyneux, she is the loveliest little woman i ever saw! she has a voice like a silver bell, and you may thank her for making the boy what he is. she has given him more than her beauty, and you make a great mistake in not persuading her to come and take charge of you. i shall invite her to lorridaile." "she'll not leave the boy," replied the earl. "i must have the boy too," said lady lorridaile, laughing. but she knew fauntleroy would not be given up to her, and each day she saw more clearly how closely those two had grown to each other, and how all the proud, grim old man's ambition and hope and love centred themselves in the child, and how the warm, innocent nature returned his affection with most perfect trust and good faith. she knew, too, that the prime reason for the great dinner party was the earl's secret desire to show the world his grandson and heir. perhaps there was not one person who accepted the invitation without feeling some curiosity about little lord fauntleroy, and wondering if he would be on view. and when the time came he was on view. "the lad has good manners," said the earl. "he will be in no one's way. he can actually answer when he's spoken to, and be silent when he is not." but he was not allowed to be silent very long. every one had something to say to him. the fact was they wished to make him talk. the ladies petted him and asked him questions, and the men asked him questions too, and joked with him, as the men on the steamer had done when he crossed the atlantic. but though he was talked to so much, as the earl had said, he was in no one's way. he could be quiet and listen when others talked, and so no one found him tiresome. mr. havisham had been expected to arrive in the afternoon, but, strange to say, he was late. such a thing had really never been known to happen before during all the years in which he had been a visitor at dorincourt castle. he was so late that the guests were on the point of rising to go in to dinner when he arrived. when he approached his host, the earl regarded him with amazement. he looked as if he had been hurried or agitated; his dry, keen old face was actually pale. "i was detained," he said, in a low voice to the earl, "by--an extraordinary event." it was as unlike the methodic old lawyer to be agitated by anything as it was to be late, but it was evident that he had been disturbed. at dinner he ate scarcely anything, and two or three times, when he was spoken to, he started as if his thoughts were far away. at dessert, when fauntleroy came in, he looked at him more than once, nervously and uneasily. fauntleroy noted the look and wondered at it. he and mr. havisham were on friendly terms, and they usually exchanged smiles. the lawyer seemed to have forgotten to smile that evening. he did not exactly know how the long, superb dinner ended. he sat through it as if he were in a dream, and several times he saw the earl glance at him in surprise. but it was over at last, and the gentlemen joined the ladies in the drawing-room. they found fauntleroy sitting on a sofa with miss vivian herbert,--the great beauty of the last london season; they had been looking at some pictures, and he was thanking his companion, as the door opened. "i'm ever so much obliged to you for being so kind to me!" he was saying; "i never was at a party before, and i've enjoyed myself so much!" he had enjoyed himself so much that his eyelids began to droop. he was quite sure he was not going to sleep, but there was a large, yellow satin cushion behind him and his head sank against it, and after a while his eyelids drooped for the last time. * * * * * no sooner had the last guest left the room, than mr. havisham turned from his place by the fire, and stepped nearer the sofa, where he stood looking down at the sleeping occupant. "well, havisham," said the earl's harsh voice behind him. "what is it? it is evident something has happened. what was the extraordinary event, if i may ask?" mr. havisham turned from the sofa, still rubbing his chin. "it was bad news," he answered, "distressing news, my lord--the worst of news. i am sorry to be the bearer of it." the earl had been uneasy for some time during the evening, as he glanced at mr. havisham, and when he was uneasy he was always ill-tempered. "why do you look so at the boy!" he exclaimed irritably. "you have been looking at him all the evening as if--. what has your news to do with lord fauntleroy?" "my lord," said mr. havisham, "i will waste no words. my news has everything to do with lord fauntleroy. and if we are to believe it--it is not lord fauntleroy who lies sleeping before us, but only the son of captain errol. and the present lord fauntleroy is the son of your son bevis, and is at this moment in a lodging-house in london." the earl clutched the arms of his chair with both his hands until the veins stood out upon them; the veins stood out on his forehead too; his fierce old face was almost livid. "what do you mean!" he cried out. "you are mad! whose lie is this?" "if it is a lie," answered mr. havisham, "it is painfully like the truth. a woman came to my chambers this morning. she said your son bevis married her six years ago in london. she showed me her marriage certificate. they quarrelled a year after the marriage, and he paid her to keep away from him. she has a son five years old. she is an american of the lower classes,--an ignorant person,--and until lately she did not fully understand what her son could claim. she consulted a lawyer, and found out that the boy was really lord fauntleroy and the heir to the earldom of dorincourt; and she, of course, insists on his claims being acknowledged." the handsome, grim old face was ghastly. a bitter smile fixed itself upon it. "i should refuse to believe a word of it," he said, "if it were not such a low, scoundrelly piece of business that it becomes quite possible in connection with the name of my son bevis. it is quite like bevis. he was always a disgrace to us. the woman is an ignorant, vulgar person, you say?" "i am obliged to admit that she can scarcely spell her own name," answered the lawyer. "she cares for nothing but the money. she is very handsome in a coarse way, but----" the fastidious old lawyer ceased speaking and gave a sort of shudder. the veins on the old earl's forehead stood out like purple cords. something else stood out upon it too--cold drops of moisture. he took out his handkerchief and swept them away. his smile grew even more bitter. "and i," he said, "i objected to--to the other woman, the mother of this child" (pointing to the sleeping form on the sofa); "i refused to recognize her. and yet she could spell her own name. i suppose this is retribution." suddenly he sprang up from his chair and began to walk up and down the room. fierce and terrible words poured forth from his lips. his rage and hatred and cruel disappointment shook him as a storm shakes a tree. "i might have known it," he said. "they were a disgrace to me from their first hour! i hated them both; and they hated me! bevis was the worse of the two. i will not believe this yet though! i will contend against it to the last. but it is like bevis--it is like him!" and then he raged again and asked questions about the woman, about her proofs, and pacing the room, turned first white and then purple in his repressed fury. when at last he had learned all that was to be told, and knew the worst, mr. havisham looked at him with a feeling of anxiety. he looked broken and haggard and changed. his rages had always been bad for him, but this one had been worse than the rest because there had been something more than rage in it. he came slowly back to the sofa, at last, and stood near it. "if any one had told me i could be fond of a child," he said, his harsh voice low and unsteady, "i should not have believed them. i always detested children--my own more than the rest. i am fond of this one; he is fond of me" (with a bitter smile). "i am not popular; i never was. but he is fond of me. he never was afraid of me--he always trusted me. he would have filled my place better than i have filled it. i know that. he would have been an honour to the name." he bent down and stood a minute or so looking at the happy, sleeping face. he put up his hand, pushed the bright hair back from the forehead, and then turned away and rang the bell. when the footman appeared, he pointed to the sofa. "take"--he said, and then his voice changed a little--"take lord fauntleroy to his room." chapter xi. anxiety in america. when mr. hobbs's young friend left him to go to dorincourt castle and become lord fauntleroy, and the grocery-man had time to realise that the atlantic ocean lay between himself and the small companion who had spent so many agreeable hours in his society, he began to feel very lonely indeed. at first it seemed to mr. hobbs that cedric was not really far away, and would come back again; that some day he would look up from his paper and see the lad standing in the doorway, in his white suit and red stockings, and with his straw hat on the back of his head, and would hear him say in his cheerful little voice: "hello, mr. hobbs! this is a hot day--isn't it?" but as the days passed on and this did not happen, mr. hobbs felt very dull and uneasy. he did not even enjoy his newspaper as much as he used to. he would take out his gold watch and open it and stare at the inscription; "from his oldest friend, lord fauntleroy, to mr. hobbs. when this you see, remember me." at night, when the store was closed, he would light his pipe and walk slowly along until he reached the house where cedric had lived, on which there was a sign that read, "this house to let"; and he would stop near it and look up and shake his head, and puff at his pipe very hard, and after a while walk mournfully back again. this went on for two or three weeks before a new idea came to him. he would go to see dick. he smoked a great many pipes before he arrived at the conclusion, but finally he did arrive at it. he would go to see dick. he knew all about dick. cedric had told him, and his idea was that perhaps dick might be some comfort to him in the way of talking things over. so one day when dick was very hard at work blacking a customer's boots, a short, stout man with a heavy face and a bald head, stared for two or three minutes at the bootblack's sign, which read: "professor dick tipton can't be beat." he stared at it so long that dick began to take a lively interest in him, and when he had put the finishing touch to his customer's boots, he said: "want a shine, sir?" the stout man came forward deliberately and put his foot on the rest. "yes," he said. then when dick fell to work, the stout man looked from dick to the sign and from the sign to dick. "where did you get that?" he asked. "from a friend o' mine," said dick,--"a little feller. he was the best little feller ye ever saw. he's in england now. gone to be one o' those lords." "lord--lord--" asked mr. hobbs, with ponderous slowness, "lord fauntleroy--goin' to be earl of dorincourt!" dick almost dropped his brush. "why, boss!" he exclaimed, "d'ye know him yerself?" "i've known him," answered mr. hobbs, wiping his warm forehead, "ever since he was born. we were lifetime acquaintances--that's what _we_ were." it really made him feel quite agitated to speak of it. he pulled the splendid gold watch out of his pocket and opened it, and showed the inside of the case to dick. "'when this you see, remember me,'" he read. "that was his parting keepsake to me. i'd ha' remembered him," he went on, shaking his head, "if he hadn't given me a thing. he was a companion as _any_ man would remember." it proved that they had so much to say to each other that it was not possible to say it all at one time, and so it was agreed that the next night dick should make a visit to the store and keep mr. hobbs company. this was the beginning of quite a substantial friendship. when dick went up to the store, mr. hobbs received him with great hospitality. he gave him a chair tilted against the door, near a barrel of apples, and after his young visitor was seated, he made a jerk at them with the hand in which he held his pipe, saying: "help yerself." then they read, and discussed the british aristocracy; and mr. hobbs smoked his pipe very hard and shook his head a great deal. he seemed to derive a great deal of comfort from dick's visit. before dick went home, they had a supper in the small back room; they had biscuits and cheese and sardines, and other things out of the store, and mr. hobbs solemnly opened two bottles of ginger ale, and pouring out two glasses, proposed a toast. "here's to _him_!" he said, lifting his glass, "an' may he teach 'em a lesson--earls an' markises an' dooks an' all!" after that night, the two saw each other often, and mr. hobbs was much more comfortable and less desolate. they read the _penny story gazette_, and many other interesting things, and gained a knowledge of the habits of the nobility and gentry which would have surprised those despised classes if they had realised it. one day mr. hobbs made a pilgrimage to a book-store down town, for the express purpose of adding to their library. he went to a clerk and leaned over the counter to speak to him. "i want," he said, "a book about earls." "what!" exclaimed the clerk. "a book," repeated the grocery-man, "about earls." "i'm afraid," said the clerk, looking rather queer, "that we haven't what you want." "haven't?" said mr. hobbs, anxiously. "well, say markises then--or dooks." "i know of no such book," answered the clerk. mr. hobbs was much disturbed. he looked down on the floor,--then he looked up. "none about female earls?" he inquired. "i'm afraid not," said the clerk, with a smile. "well," exclaimed mr. hobbs, "i'll be jiggered!" he was just going out of the store, when the clerk called him back and asked him if a story in which the nobility were chief characters would do. mr. hobbs said it would--if he could not get an entire volume devoted to earls. so the clerk sold him a book called _the tower of london_, written by mr. harrison ainsworth, and he carried it home. when dick came they began to read it. it was a very wonderful and exciting book, and the scene was laid in the reign of the famous english queen who is called by some people bloody mary. and as mr. hobbs heard of queen mary's deeds and the habit she had of chopping people's heads off, putting them to the torture, and burning them alive, he became very much excited. he took his pipe out of his mouth and stared at dick. "why, he ain't safe!" he said. "he ain't safe! if the women folks can sit up on their thrones an' give the word for things like that to be done, who's to know what's happening to him this very minute?" "well," said dick, though he looked rather anxious himself; "ye see this 'ere un isn't the one that's bossin' things now. i know her name's victory, an' this un here in the book,--her name's mary." "so it is," said mr. hobbs, still mopping his forehead; "so it is,--but still it doesn't seem as if 'twas safe for him over there with those queer folks. why, they tell me they don't keep the fourth o' july!" he was privately uneasy for several days; and it was not until he received fauntleroy's letter and had read it several times, both to himself and to dick, and had also read the letter dick got about the same time, that he became composed again. but they both found great pleasure in their letters. they read and re-read them, and talked them over and enjoyed every word of them. and they spent days over the answers they sent, and read them over almost as often as the letters they had received. one day they were sitting in the store doorway together, and mr. hobbs was filling his pipe, whilst dick told him all about his life and his elder brother, who had been very good to him after their parents had died. the brother's name was ben, and he had managed to get quite a decent place in a store. "and then," said dick, "blest if he didn't go an' marry a gal, a regular tiger-cat. she'd tear things to pieces, when she got mad. had a baby just like her; 'n' at last ben went out west with a man to set up a cattle ranch." "he oughtn't to 've married," mr. hobbs said solemnly, as he rose to get a match. as he took the match from its box, he stopped and looked down on the counter. "why!" he said, "if here isn't a letter! i didn't see it afore. the postman must have laid it down when i wasn't noticin', or the newspaper slipped over it." he picked it up and looked at it carefully. "it's from _him_!" he exclaimed. "that's the very one it's from!" he forgot his pipe altogether. he went back to his chair quite excited, and took his pocket-knife and opened the envelope. "i wonder what news there is this time," he said. and then he unfolded the letter and read as follows: "dorincourt castle. "my dear mr. hobbs. "i write this in a great hury becaus i have something curous to tell you i know you will be very mutch suprised my dear frend when i tel you. it is all a mistake and i am not a lord and i shall not have to be an earl there is a lady whitch was marid to my uncle bevis who is dead and she has a little boy and he is lord fauntleroy becaus that is the way it is in england and my name is cedric errol like it was when i was in new york and all the things will belong to the other boy i thought at first i should have to give him my pony and cart but my grandfarther says i need not my grandfarther is very sorry i am not rich now becaus when your papa is only the youngest son he is not very rich i am going to learn to work so that i can take care of dearest i have been asking wilkins about grooming horses preaps i might be a groom or a coachman. i thort i would tell you and dick right away becaus you would be intrusted so no more at present with love from "your old frend "cedric errol (not lord fauntleroy)." mr. hobbs fell back in his chair, the letter dropped on his knee, his penknife slipped to the floor, and so did the envelope. "well!" he ejaculated, "i am jiggered!" he was so dumfounded that he actually changed his exclamation. it had always been his habit to say, "i _will_ be jiggered," but this time he said, "i _am_ jiggered." perhaps he really _was_ jiggered. there is no knowing. "well," said mr. hobbs. "it's my opinion it's all a put-up job o' the british 'ristycrats to rob him of his rights because he's an american. they're trying to rob him! that's what they're doing, and folks that have money ought to look after him." and he kept dick with him until quite a late hour to talk it over, and when that young man left he went with him to the corner of the street; and on his way back he stopped opposite the empty house for some time, staring at the "to let," and smoking his pipe in much disturbance of mind. chapter xii. the rival claimants. a very few days after the dinner-party at the castle, almost everybody in england who read the newspaper at all knew the romantic story of what had happened at dorincourt. it made a very interesting story when it was told with all the details. there was the little american boy who had been brought to england to be lord fauntleroy, and who was said to be so fine and handsome a little fellow, and to have already made people fond of him; there was the old earl, his grandfather, who was so proud of his heir; there was the pretty young mother who had never been forgiven for marrying captain errol; and there was the strange marriage of bevis the dead lord fauntleroy, and the strange wife, of whom no one knew anything, suddenly appearing with her son, and saying that he was the real lord fauntleroy and must have his rights. all these things were talked about and written about, and caused a tremendous sensation. and then there came the rumour that the earl of dorincourt was not satisfied with the turn affairs had taken, and would perhaps contest the claim by law, and the matter might end with a wonderful trial. there never had been such excitement before in the county in which erlesboro was situated. on market-days, people stood in groups and talked and wondered what would be done; the farmers' wives invited one another to tea that they might tell one another all they had heard and all they thought and all they thought other people thought. in fact there was excitement everywhere; at the castle, in the library, where the earl and mr. havisham sat and talked; in the servants' hall, where mr. thomas and the butler and the other men and women servants gossiped and exclaimed at all times of the day; and in the stables, where wilkins went about his work in a quite depressed state of mind. but in the midst of all the disturbance there was one person who was quite calm and untroubled. that person was the little lord fauntleroy who was said not to be lord fauntleroy at all. when first the earl told him what had happened, he had sat on a stool holding on to his knee, as he so often did when he was listening to anything interesting; and by the time the story was finished, he looked quite sober. "it makes me feel very queer," he said; "it makes me--queer!" the earl looked at the boy in silence. it made him feel queer too--queerer than he had ever felt in his whole life. and he felt more queer still when he saw that there was a troubled expression on the small face which was usually so happy. "will they take dearest's house away from her--and her carriage?" cedric asked in a rather unsteady, anxious little voice. "_no!_" said the earl decidedly--in quite a loud voice in fact. "they can take nothing from her." "ah!" said cedric with evident relief. "can't they?" then he looked up at his grandfather, and there was a wistful shade in his eyes, and they looked very big and soft. "that other boy," he said rather tremulously--"he will have to--to be your boy now--as i was--won't he?" "_no!_" answered the earl--and he said it so fiercely and loudly that cedric quite jumped. "no?" he exclaimed, in wonderment. "won't he? i thought----" he stood up from his stool quite suddenly. "shall i be your boy, even if i'm not going to be an earl?" he said. "shall i be your boy, just as i was before?" and his flushed little face was all alight with eagerness. how the old earl did look at him from head to foot, to be sure! how his great shaggy brows did draw themselves together, and how queerly his deep eyes shone under them--how very queerly! "my boy!" he said "yes, you'll be my boy as long as i live; and, by george, sometimes i feel as if you were the only boy i had ever had." cedric's face turned red to the roots of his hair; it turned red with relief and pleasure. he put both his hands deep into his pockets and looked squarely into his noble relative's eyes. "do you?" he said. "well, then, i don't care about the earl part at all. i don't care whether i'm an earl or not. i thought--you see, i thought the one that was going to be the earl would have to be your boy too, and--and i couldn't be. that was what made me feel so queer." the earl put his hand on his shoulder and drew him nearer. "they shall take nothing from you that i can hold for you," he said, drawing his breath hard. "i won't believe yet that they can take anything from you. you were made for the place, and--well, you may fill it still. but whatever comes, you shall have all that i can give you--all!" it scarcely seemed as if he were speaking to a child, there was such determination in his face and voice; it was more as if he were making a promise to himself--and perhaps he was. he had never before known how deep a hold upon him his fondness for the boy and his pride in him had taken. he had never seen his strength and good qualities and beauty as he seemed to see them now. to his obstinate nature it seemed impossible--to give up what he had so set his heart upon. and he had determined that he would not give it up without a fierce struggle. within a few days after she had seen mr. havisham, the woman who claimed to be lady fauntleroy presented herself at the castle, and brought her child with her. she was sent away. the earl would not see her, she was told by the footman at the door; his lawyer would attend to her cause. mr. havisham had noticed, during his interviews with her, that she was neither so clever nor so bold as she meant to be. it was as if she had not expected to meet with such opposition. "she is evidently," the lawyer said to mrs. errol, "a person from the lower walks of life. she is uneducated and quite unused to meeting people like ourselves on any terms of equality. she does not know what to do. her visit to the castle quite cowed her. she was infuriated, but she was cowed. the earl would not receive her, but i advised him to go with me to the dorincourt arms, where she is staying. when she saw him enter the room, she turned white, though she flew into a rage at once, and threatened and demanded in one breath." the fact was that the earl had stalked into the room and stood, looking like a venerable aristocratic giant, staring at the woman and not condescending a word. he let her talk and demand until she was tired, without himself uttering a word, and then he said: "you say you are my eldest son's wife. if that is true, and if the proof you offer is too much for us, the law is on your side. in that case, your boy is lord fauntleroy. if your claims are proved, you will be provided for. i want to see nothing either of you or the child so long as i live." and then he turned his back upon her and stalked out of the room as he had stalked into it. not many days after that, a visitor was announced to mrs. errol, who was writing in her little morning room. the maid who brought the message looked rather excited. "it's the earl hisself, ma'am!" she said in tremulous awe. when mrs. errol entered the drawing-room, a very tall, majestic-looking old man was standing on the tiger-skin rug. he had a handsome, grim old face, with an aquiline profile, a long white moustache, and an obstinate look. "mrs. errol, i believe?" he said. "mrs. errol," she answered. "i am the earl of dorincourt," he said. he paused a moment, almost unconsciously, to look into her uplifted eyes. they were so like the big, affectionate, childish eyes he had seen uplifted to his own so often every day during the last few months, that they gave him a quite curious sensation. "the boy is very like you," he said abruptly. "it has been often said so, my lord," she replied, "but i have been glad to think him like his father also." as lady lorridaile had told him, her voice was very sweet, and her manner was very simple and dignified. she did not seem in the least troubled by his sudden coming. "yes," said the earl, "he is like--my son--too." he put his hand up to his big white moustache and pulled it fiercely. "do you know," he said, "why i have come here?" "i have seen mr. havisham," mrs. errol began, "and he has told me of the claims which have been made----" "i have come to tell you," said the earl, "that they will be investigated and contested, if a contest can be made. i have come to tell you that the boy shall be defended with all the power of the law. his rights----" the soft voice interrupted him. "he must have nothing that is _not_ his by right, even if the law can give it to him," she said. "unfortunately the law cannot," said the earl. "if it could, it should. this outrageous woman and her child----" "perhaps she cares for him as much as i care for cedric, my lord," said little mrs. errol. "and if she was your eldest son's wife, her son is lord fauntleroy, and mine is not." "i suppose," said the earl, "that you would much prefer that he should not be the earl of dorincourt?" her fair young face flushed. "it is a very magnificent thing to be the earl of dorincourt, my lord," she said. "i know that, but i care most that he should be what his father was--brave and just and true always." "in striking contrast to what his grandfather was, eh?" said his lordship sardonically. "i have not had the pleasure of knowing his grandfather," replied mrs. errol, "but i know my little boy believes----" she stopped short a moment, looking quietly into his face, and then she added, "i know that cedric loves you." "would he have loved me," said the earl dryly, "if you had told him why i did not receive you at the castle?" "no," answered mrs. errol; "i think not. that was why i did not wish him to know." "well," said my lord, brusquely, "there are few women who would not have told him." he suddenly began to walk up and down the room, pulling his great moustache more violently than ever. "yes, he is fond of me," he said, "and i am fond of him. i can't say i ever was fond of anything before. i am fond of him. he pleased me from the first. i am an old man, and was tired of my life. he has given me something to live for. i am proud of him. i was satisfied to think of his taking his place some day as the head of the family." he came back and stood before mrs. errol. "i am miserable," he said. "miserable!" he looked as if he was. even his pride could not keep his voice steady or his hands from shaking. for a moment it almost seemed as if his deep, fierce eyes had tears in them. "perhaps it is because i am miserable that i have come to you," he said, quite glaring down at her. "i used to hate you; i have been jealous of you. this wretched, disgraceful business has changed that. i have been an obstinate old fool, and i suppose i have treated you badly. you are like the boy and the boy is the first object in my life. i am miserable, and i came to you merely because you are like the boy, and he cares for you, and i care for him. treat me as well as you can, for the boy's sake." he said it all in his harsh voice, and almost roughly, but somehow he seemed so broken down for the time that mrs. errol was touched to the heart. she got up and moved an arm-chair a little forward. "i wish you would sit down," she said in a soft, pretty, sympathetic way. "you have been so much troubled that you are very tired, and you need all your strength." it was just as new to him to be spoken to and cared for in that gentle, simple way as it was to be contradicted. he was reminded of "the boy" again, and he actually did as she asked him. perhaps his disappointment and wretchedness were good discipline for him; if he had not been wretched he might have continued to hate her, but just at present he found her a little soothing. she had so sweet a face and voice, and a pretty dignity when she spoke or moved. very soon, by the quiet magic of these influences, he began to feel less gloomy, and then he talked still more. "whatever happens," he said, "the boy shall be provided for. he shall be taken care of, now and in the future." before he went away, he glanced around the room. "do you like the house?" he demanded. "very much," she answered. "this is a cheerful room," he said. "may i come here again and talk this matter over?" "as often as you wish, my lord," she replied. and then he went out to his carriage and drove away, thomas and henry almost stricken dumb upon the box at the turn affairs had taken. chapter xiii. dick to the rescue. of course, as soon as the story of lord fauntleroy and the difficulties of the earl of dorincourt were discussed in the english newspapers, they were discussed in the american newspapers. the story was too interesting to be passed over lightly, and it was talked of a great deal. there were so many versions of it that it would have been an edifying thing to buy all the papers and compare them. mr. hobbs used to read the papers until his head was in a whirl, and in the evening he and dick would talk it all over. they found out what an important personage an earl of dorincourt was, and what a magnificent income he possessed, and how many estates he owned, and how stately and beautiful was the castle in which he lived; and the more they learned the more excited they became. "seem's like somethin' orter be done," said mr. hobbs. but there really was nothing they could do but each write a letter to cedric, containing assurances of their friendship and sympathy. they wrote those letters as soon as they could after receiving the news. the very next morning, one of dick's customers was rather surprised. he was a young lawyer just beginning practice; as poor as a very young lawyer can possibly be, but a bright, energetic young fellow, with sharp wit and a good temper. he had a shabby office near dick's stand, and every morning dick blacked his boots for him. that particular morning, when he put his foot on the rest, he had an illustrated paper in his hand--an enterprising paper, with pictures in it of conspicuous people and things. he had just finished looking it over, and when the last boot was polished, he handed it to the boy. "here's a paper for you, dick," he said. "picture of an english castle in it and an english earl's daughter-in-law. you ought to become familiar with the nobility and gentry, dick. begin on the right honourable the earl of dorincourt and lady fauntleroy. hello! i say, what's the matter?" the pictures he spoke of were on the front page, and dick was staring at one of them with his eyes and mouth open, and his sharp face almost pale with excitement. he pointed to the picture, under which was written: "mother of claimant (lord fauntleroy)." it was the picture of a handsome woman, with large eyes and heavy braids of black hair wound around her head. "her!" said dick. "i know her better'n i know you! an' i've struck work for this mornin'." and in less than five minutes from that time he was tearing through the streets on his way to mr. hobbs and the corner store. mr. hobbs could scarcely believe the evidence of his senses when he looked across the counter and saw dick rush in with the paper in his hand. the boy was out of breath with running; so much out of breath, in fact, that he could scarcely speak as he threw the paper down on the counter. "look at it!" panted dick. "look at that woman in the picture! that's what you look at! _she_ aint no 'ristocrat, _she_ aint!" with withering scorn. "she's no lord's wife. you may eat me, if it aint minna--_minna!_ i'd know her anywheres, an' so'd ben. jest ax him." mr. hobbs dropped into his seat. "i knowed it was a put-up job," he said. "i knowed it; and they done it on account o' him bein' a 'merican!" "done it!" cried dick, with disgust. "_she_ done it, that's who done it. i'll tell yer wot come to me, the minnit i saw her pictur. there was one o' them papers we saw had a letter in it that said somethin' 'bout her boy, an' it said he had a scar on his chin. put them together--her 'n' that scar! why that boy o' hers aint no more a lord than i am! it's _ben's_ boy." professor dick tipton had always been a sharp boy, and earning his living in the streets of a big city had made him still sharper. he had learned to keep his eyes open and his wits about him, and it mast be confessed he enjoyed immensely the excitement and impatience of that moment. mr. hobbs was almost overwhelmed by his sense of responsibility, and dick was all alive and full of energy. he began to write a letter to ben, and he cut out the picture and inclosed it to him, and mr. hobbs wrote a letter to cedric and one to the earl. they were in the midst of this letter-writing when a new idea came to dick. "say," he said, "the feller that give me the paper, he's a lawyer. let's ax him what we'd better do. lawyers knows it all." mr. hobbs was immensely impressed by this suggestion and dick's business capacity. "that's so!" he replied. "this here calls for lawyers." and leaving the store in care of a substitute, he struggled into his coat and marched down town with dick, and the two presented themselves with their romantic story in mr. harrison's office, much to that young man's astonishment. if he had not been a very young lawyer, with a very enterprising mind and a great deal of spare time on his hands, he might not have been so readily interested in what they had to say, for it all certainly sounded very wild and queer; but he chanced to want something to do very much. "and," said mr. hobbs, "say what your time's worth an hour and look into this thing thorough, and _i'll_ pay the damage--silas hobbs, corner of blank street, vegetables and groceries." "well," said mr. harrison, "it will be a big thing if it turns out all right, and it will be almost as big a thing for me as for lord fauntleroy; and at any rate, no harm can be done by investigating. it appears there has been some dubiousness about the child. the woman contradicted herself in some of her statements about his age, and aroused suspicion. the first persons to be written to are dick's brother and the earl of dorincourt's family lawyer." and actually before the sun went down, two letters had been written and sent in two different directions--one speeding out of new york harbour on a mail steamer on its way to england, and the other on a train carrying letters and passengers bound for california. and the first was addressed to t. havisham, esq., and the second to benjamin tipton. and after the store was closed that evening, mr. hobbs and dick sat in the back room and talked together until midnight. chapter xiv. the exposure. it is astonishing how short a time it takes for very wonderful things to happen. it had taken only a few minutes, apparently, to change all the fortunes of the little boy dangling his red legs from the high stool in mr. hobbs's store, and to transform him from a small boy, living the simplest life in a quiet street, into an english nobleman, the heir to an earldom and magnificent wealth. it had taken only a few minutes, apparently, to change him from an english nobleman into a penniless little impostor, with no right to any of the splendours he had been enjoying. and, surprising as it may appear, it did not take nearly so long a time as one might have expected to alter the face of everything again and to give back to him all that he had been in danger of losing. it took the less time because, after all, the woman who had called herself lady fauntleroy was not nearly so clever as she was wicked; and when she had been closely pressed by mr. havisham's questions about her marriage and her boy, she had made one or two blunders which had caused suspicion to be awakened; and then she had lost her presence of mind and her temper, and in her excitement and anger had betrayed herself still further. there seemed no doubt that she had been married to bevis, lord fauntleroy, but mr. havisham found out that her story of the boy's being born in a certain part of london was false; and just when they all were in the midst of the commotion caused by this discovery, there came the letter from the young lawyer in new york, and mr. hobbs's letters also. what an evening it was when those letters arrived, and when mr. havisham and the earl sat and talked their plans over in the library! "after my first three meetings with her," said mr. havisham, "i began to suspect her strongly. our best plan will be to cable at once for these two tiptons, say nothing about them to her, and suddenly confront her with them when she is not expecting it. my opinion is that she will betray herself on the spot." and that was what actually happened. she was told nothing, but one fine morning, as she sat in her sitting-room at the inn called "the dorincourt arms," making some very fine plans for herself, mr. havisham was announced; and when he entered, he was followed by no leas than three persons--one was a sharp-faced boy and one was a big young man, and the third was the earl of dorincourt. she sprang to her feet and actually uttered a cry of terror. she had thought of these new-comers as being thousands of miles away, when she had ever thought of them at all, which she had scarcely done for years. she had never expected to see them again. it must be confessed that dick grinned a little when he saw her. "hello, minna!" he said, the big young man--who was ben--stood still a minute and looked at her. "do you know her?" mr. havisham asked, glancing from one to the other. "yes," said ben. "i know her and she knows me. i can swear to her in any court, and i can bring a dozen others who will. her father is a respectable sort of man, and he's honest enough to be ashamed of her. he'll tell you who she is, and whether she married me or not." then he clenched his hand suddenly and turned on her. "where's the child?" he demanded. "he's going with me! he is done with you, and so am i!" and just as he finished saying the words, the door leading into the bedroom opened a little, and the boy, probably attracted by the sound of the loud voices, looked in. he was not a handsome boy, but he had rather a nice face, and he was quite like ben, his father, as any one could see, and there was the three-cornered scar on his chin. ben walked up to him and took his hand, and his own was trembling. "tom," he said to the little fellow. "i'm your father; i've come to take you away. where's your hat?" the boy pointed to where it lay on a chair. it evidently rather pleased him to hear that he was going away. ben took up the hat and marched to the door. "if you want me again," he said to mr. havisham, "you know where to find me." he walked out of the room, holding the child's hand and not looking at the woman once. she was fairly raving with fury, and the earl was calmly gazing at her through his eyeglasses, which he had quietly placed upon his aristocratic eagle nose. "come, come, my young woman," said mr. havisham. "this won't do at all. if you don't want to be locked up, you really must behave yourself." and there was something so very business-like in his tones that, probably feeling that the safest thing she could do would be to get out of the way, she gave him one savage look and dashed past him into the next room and slammed the door. "we shall have no more trouble with her," said mr. havisham. and he was right; for that very night she left the dorincourt arms and took the train to london, and was seen no more. * * * * * when the earl left the room after the interview, he went at once to his carriage. "to court lodge," he said to thomas. "to court lodge," said thomas to the coachman as he mounted the box; "an' you may depend on it, things is taking a uniggspected turn." when the carriage stopped at court lodge, cedric was in the drawing-room with his mother. the earl came in without being announced. he looked an inch or so taller, and a great many years younger. his deep eyes flashed. "where," he said, "is lord fauntleroy?" mrs. errol came forward, a flush rising to her cheek. "is it lord fauntleroy?" she asked. "is it, indeed?" the earl put out his hand and grasped hers. "yes," he answered, "it is." then he put his other hand on cedric's shoulder. "fauntleroy," he said in his unceremonious, authoritative way, "ask your mother when she will come to us at the castle." fauntleroy flung his arms around his mother's neck. "to live with us!" he cried. "to live with us always!" the earl looked at mrs. errol, and mrs. errol looked at the earl. his lordship was entirely in earnest. he had made up his mind to waste no time in arranging this matter. he had begun to think it would suit him to make friends with his heir's mother. "are you quite sure you want me?" said mrs. errol, with her soft, pretty smile. "quite sure," he said bluntly. "we have always wanted you, but we were not exactly aware of it. we hope you will come." chapter xv. his eighth birthday. ben took his boy and went back to his cattle ranch in california, and he returned under very comfortable circumstances. just before his going, mr. havisham had an interview with him in which the lawyer told him that the earl of dorincourt wished to do something for the boy who might have turned out to be lord fauntleroy. and so when ben went away, he went as the prospective master of a ranch which would be almost as good as his own, and might easily become his own in time, as indeed it did in the course of a few years; and tom, the boy, grew up on it into a fine young man and was devotedly fond of his father; and they were so successful and happy that ben used to say that tom made up to him for all the troubles he had ever had. but dick and mr. hobbs--who had actually come over with the others to see that things were properly looked after--did not return for some time. it had been decided at the outset that the earl would provide for dick, and would see that he received a solid education; and mr. hobbs had decided that as he himself had left a reliable substitute in charge of his store, he could afford to wait to see the festivities which were to celebrate lord fauntleroy's eighth birthday. all the tenantry were invited, and there were to be feasting and dancing and games in the park, and bonfires and fireworks in the evening. "just like the fourth of july!" said lord fauntleroy. "it seems a pity my birthday wasn't on the fourth, doesn't it? for then we could keep them both together." what a grand day it was when little lord fauntleroy's birthday arrived, and how his young lordship enjoyed it! how beautiful the park looked, filled with the thronging people dressed in their gayest and best, and with the flags flying from the tents and the top of the castle! nobody had stayed away who could possibly come, because everybody was really glad that little lord fauntleroy was to be little lord fauntleroy still, and some day was to be the master of everything. every one wanted to have a look at him, and at his pretty, kind mother, who had made so many friends. what scores and scores of people there were under the trees, and in the tents, and on the lawns! farmers and farmers' wives in their sunday suits and bonnets and shawls; children frolicking and chasing about; and old dames in red cloaks gossiping together. at the castle, there were ladies and gentlemen who had come to see the fun, and to congratulate the earl, and to meet mrs. errol. lady lorridaile and sir harry were there, and mr. havisham, of course. everybody looked after little lord fauntleroy. and the sun shone and the flags fluttered and the games were played and the dances danced, and as the gaieties went on and the joyous afternoon passed, his little lordship was simply radiantly happy. the whole world seemed beautiful to him. there was some one else who was happy too,--an old man, who, though he had been rich and noble all his life, had not often been very honestly happy. perhaps, indeed, i shall tell you that i think it was because he was rather better than he had been that he was rather happier. he had not, indeed, suddenly become as good as fauntleroy thought him; but, at least, he had begun to love something, and he had several times found a sort of pleasure in doing the kind things which the innocent, kind little heart of a child had suggested,--and that was a beginning. and every day he had been more pleased with his son's wife. he liked to hear her sweet voice and to see her sweet face; and as she sat in his arm-chair, he used to watch her and listen as he talked to her boy; and he heard loving, gentle words which were new to him, and he began to see why the little fellow who had lived in a new york side street and known grocery-men and made friends with boot-blacks, was still so well-bred and manly a little fellow that he made no one ashamed of him, even when fortune changed him into the heir to an english earldom, living in an english castle. as the old earl of dorincourt looked at him that day, moving about the park among the people, talking to those he knew and making his ready little bow when any one greeted him, entertaining his friends dick and mr. hobbs, or standing near his mother listening to their conversation, the old nobleman was very well satisfied with him. and he had never been better satisfied than he was when they went down to the biggest tent, where the more important tenants of the dorincourt estate were sitting down to the grand collation of the day. they were drinking toasts; and, after they had drunk the health of the earl with much more enthusiasm than his name had ever been greeted with before, they proposed the health of "little lord fauntleroy." and if there had ever been any doubt at all as to whether his lordship was popular or not, it would have been settled that instant. such a clamour of voices and such a rattle of glasses and applause! little lord fauntleroy was delighted. he stood and smiled, and made bows, and flushed rosy red with pleasure up to the roots of his bright hair. "is it because they like me, dearest?" he said to his mother. "is it dearest? i'm so glad!" and then the earl put his hand on the child's shoulder and said to him: "fauntleroy, say to them that you thank them for their kindness." fauntleroy gave a glance up at him and then at his mother. "must i?" he asked just a trifle shyly, and she smiled, and nodded. and so he made a little step forward, and everybody looked at him--such a beautiful, innocent little fellow he was, too, with his brave, trustful face!--and he spoke as loudly as he could, his childish voice ringing out quite clear and strong. "i'm ever so much obliged to you!" he said, "and--i hope you'll enjoy my birthday--because i've enjoyed it so much--and--i'm very glad i'm going to be an earl--i didn't think at first i should like it, but now i do--and i love this place so, and i think it is beautiful--and--and--and when i am an earl, i am going to try to be as good as my grandfather." and amid the shouts and clamour of applause, he stepped back with a little sigh of relief, and put his hand into the earl's and stood close to him, smiling and leaning against his side. * * * * * and that would be the very end of my story; but i must add one curious piece of information, which is that mr. hobbs became so fascinated with high life and was so reluctant to leave his young friend that he actually sold his corner store in new york, and settled in the english village of erlesboro, where he opened a shop which was patronized by the castle and consequently was a great success. and about ten years after, when dick, who had finished his education and was going to visit his brother in california, asked the good grocer if he did not wish to return to america, he shook his head seriously. "not to live there," he said. "not to live there; i want to be near _him_. it's a good enough country for them that's young an stirrin'--but there's faults in it. there's not an auntsister among 'em--nor an earl!" anmerkungen. (vor den anmerkungen bezeichnen _fette_ zahlen die _seiten_, _magere_ die _zeilen_.) ¶2¶, 31/32. _fits of petulance_, zornesausbrüche. ¶3¶, 13. _he sold his commission._ die commissions (patente) für offiziersstellen bis zum oberstleutnant waren bis zum jahre 1871 käuflich, konnten also auch verkauft werden. -20. _cheap_, schlicht, einfach. -35/36. _this ... quaint little way_, diese drollige art und weise. -38/39. _quaint little ways_, wunderliche einfälle. ¶4¶, 3. _hearth-rug_, teppich vor dem kamin. der englische kamin ist eine offene in einer wandvertiefung befindliche feuerstelle; in besseren häusern ist er mit schönen fayenceplatten oder marmorwandungen bekleidet, deren oberen abschluß ein vorstehendes kamingesims bildet. auf diesem werden allerhand schmuckgegenstände (vasen, leuchter, uhren usw.) aufgestellt, darüber befindet sich häufig ein großer spiegel. -13. _ristycratic_ = aristocratic. -21. _store_ = shop, ist ein amerikanismus. -27. _the topics of the hour_, die tagesereignisse. -28/29. _the fourth of july._ am 4. juli 1776 erfolgte die unabhängigkeitserklärung (declaration of independence [z. 36]) der dreizehn englischen kolonien virginia, massachusetts, new-hampshire, conne(c)ticut, rhode island, new york, new jersey, pennsylvania, delaware, maryland, south carolina, north carolina, georgia vom mutterlande. schon im jahre vorher hatte der nordamerikanische freiheitskampf (the revolution [z. 32]) mit der schlacht bei bunkershill (17. juni 1775), wo die engländer nur mit den größten verlusten siegten, begonnen. ¶5¶, 2. _washington_, im distrikt columbia, ist die bundeshauptstadt der vereinigten staaten und seit 1800 sitz der regierung und des kongresses. die stadt erhielt ihren namen zur erinnerung an den ersten präsidenten und bundesfeldherrn george washington (1732-1799); vgl. ¶13¶, 16. -17. _darlint_ = darling. -18. _wantin'_ = wanting; _yez_ = you. -22. _coupé_, zweisitziger wagen; das wort ist französisch zu sprechen. ¶6¶, 3. _unreal_, unwahrscheinlich. ¶7¶, 14/15. _to break the news_, die nachricht mitzuteilen. -16. _hello_ = halloo! -_mornin'_ = morning. -32. _we was_ ist vulgär für we were. ¶8¶, 7. _mercury_ = heat. ¶9¶, 3. _i'll be--jiggered_, etwa: mich soll der kuckuck holen. jigger ist die englische form für chigoe, chico der eingeborenen westindiens, und bedeutet einen sandfloh, der sich unter dem nagel des fußes eingräbt, dort eier legt und böse geschwüre hervorruft. -18. _you was_; vgl. ¶7¶, 32. ¶10¶, 10. _home like_, traulich, wohnlich. -27. _cleared his throat_, räusperte sich. ¶11¶, 28. _fiery-tempered_, hitzig, aufbrausend. ¶13¶, 16. _george washington_, geb. 1732 in virginien, ist der begründer der unabhängigkeit der vereinigten staaten. am 3. januar 1777 schlug er als obergeneral der kolonialtruppen den englischen general cornwallis bei princeton in new jersey und zwang 1781 die besatzung von new york zur übergabe. er war der erste bundespräsident (1789), legte 1797 sein amt nieder und starb 1799. -25. _int'rust_ = interest. -26. _cur'us_ = curious. -36. _'vantage_ = advantage. ¶14¶, 16. _street-cars_, trambahnwagen. -30. _un_ = one. -41. _square_ = of an open, fair character, ehrlich. ¶15¶, 3. _start ... out fair_, schön ausstatten. -11. _meerschaum_, spr. mèer-shoum. ¶16¶, 3. _michael_, spr. mi-kl. -11. _that you have realised_, ob sie sich vergegenwärtigt haben. ¶17¶, 25. _greenbacks_ werden die banknoten der vereinigten staaten nach der grünen farbe ihrer rückseite genannt. -27. _he tore_, er eilte. -32. _twinty-foive_ = twenty-five. -_where's_ = where is. ¶18¶, 17. _chubby_, rund. -32. _realise_; vgl. ¶16¶, 11. -37. _his nearest wishes_, seine herzenswünsche. ¶19¶, 1. _he proceeded to gratify them_, er ging an ihre befriedigung. -17. _cut_ = hurt. -30. _struck him dumb_, machte ihn sprachlos. ¶20¶, 10. _ye wasn't goin'_; vgl. ¶7¶, 32; _ye_, vulgäre form für you. -13. _thanky_ = thank you; _fur_ = for; _wot_ = what. ¶22¶, 2. _i made_ = i gained, ich verdiente. -_kin_ = can. -3. _hankercher_ = handkerchief. -7. _he panted_, sagte er keuchend. ¶24¶, 10. _tops'les_ = topsails, marssegel. -_mains'les_ = mainsails, hauptsegel. -11. _a nautical flavour_, einen seemännischen anstrich. ¶25¶, 1. _stags' antlers_, hirschgeweihe. -9. _shabby_, ärmlich. ¶26¶, 15. _shaggy_, buschig. -36. _straight-limbed_, hat er seine geraden glieder? ¶27¶, 9. _to settle on her_, ihr auszusetzen. -15. _ejaculated_, rief aus. -22. _snapped_, stieß heraus. -29. _blustered my lord_, polterte seine lordschaft heraus. ¶28¶, 6. _deep-set_, tief liegend. -7. _beetling_, hier: buschig. ¶29¶, 7. _had struck up an acquaintance_, hatte sich bekannt gemacht. -24. _greenery_, blätterwerk. -31. _central park_ ist der größte park new yorks und einer der großartigsten der welt. er wurde 1857 in angriff genommen und enthält auf einer fläche von 342 ha herrliche gärtnerische anlagen mit großen künstlichen teichen, einem zoologischen garten, einem großen museum und der 1881 vom millionär vanderbilt der stadt geschenkten nadel der kleopatra, dem berühmten obelisken aus alexandria. ¶30¶, 7. _fairy-book_, märchenbuch. -15. _rich_, schwer. -_plain_, glatt. ¶31¶, 2. _diamond-paned windows_, fenster mit butzenscheiben. -18. _sir_ wird häufig dem hunde gegenüber als drohender zuruf gebraucht, wenn er etwas unrechtes getan hat. -27. _love-locks_, lange locke. ¶32¶, 18. _ever so much_, gar so sehr. ¶33¶, 12. _square_; vgl. ¶14¶, 41. -21. _professional_, von beruf. ¶34¶, 1. _plain_, offenbar. -8. _worldly_, selbstsüchtig. -16. _genial_, munter, heiter. -35/36. _was violently sworn at_, bekam einen derben fluch zu hören. -36/37. _when his lordship had an extra twinge of gout_, wenn die gicht seiner herrlichkeit einen außergewöhnlichen schmerz bereitete. ¶35¶, 13. _he panted_; vgl. ¶22¶, 7. -14. _i'm all right_, ich kann es ganz gut. ¶36¶, 11. _he kept looking at him_, er blickte ihn fortgesetzt an. -28. _wistfully_, nachdenklich. ¶38¶, 34. _close_, innigste, vertrauteste. ¶39¶, 22. _ivy-entwined_, efeuumrankt. ¶40¶, 33. _there's no knowing_ = one can (does) not know. ¶41¶, 16. _rugs_; vgl. ¶4¶, 3. -22. _catching his breath a little_, schnell aufatmend. ¶42¶, 4. _ever so much_; vgl. ¶32¶, 18. -11. _base-ball_ ist ein amerikanisches ballspiel für 18 personen, 9 auf jeder seite. [illustration: o ii l . r /:\ / : \ / : \ s / : \ / : \ / : \ / : \ iii < :p. > i \ : / \ : / \ : / y \ : / x \ : / \ : / \:/ . h c ] es wird ein quadrat abgesteckt, welches _diamond_ (raute oder carreau) heißt und dessen seiten je 90 fuß lang sind. an den ecken sind die _bases_ (male), welche _home_ (ziel) oder _home base_ _[h]_, _first base_ _[i]_, _second base_ _[ii]_ und _third base_ _[iii]_ heißen. die spieler stellen sich um das quadrat herum auf. hinter _h_ steht der _catcher_ (fänger) _[c]_; der _pitcher_ (werfer) _[p]_ steht auf der linie _h ii_ 50 fuß von _h_ entfernt; die drei _basemen_ (malmänner) stehen neben _i_, _ii_, _iii_. der _shortstop_ _[s]_ (aufhalter) steht zwischen _ii_ und _iii_. ferner stehen noch 3 _fielders_ d. h. mitglieder der nicht an der reihe befindlichen partei _r_ (right fielder), o (centre fielder), _l_ (left fielder) in einiger entfernung hinter und auf beiden seiten von _ii_. der _pitcher_ wirft den ball über das _home_ dem _catcher_ zu, während ein mann der partei, welche in (= am spiel) oder _at the bat_ (= am schlagholz) ist, neben dem _home_ steht und den vom _pitcher_ geworfenen ball, ehe er zum _catcher_ gelangt, mit seinem schlagholz zu treffen sucht. schlägt er denselben in die luft und fängt ihn einer der gegenpartei auf, bevor er zu boden fällt, so ist der schlagende _out_ oder _caught out_ (d. h. er muß den schlägel einem andern spieler seiner partei abtreten). fällt der geschlagene ball außerhalb der linien _h i_ oder _h iii_ oder ihrer verlängerung, z. b. nach _x_ oder _y_, so ist der schlag _foul_ (ungültig) und wird nicht gezählt, außer wenn der ball vor dem niederfallen aufgefangen wird, worauf der _striker_ oder _batter_ ebenfalls _out_ wird. wird aber der ball innerhalb der genannten linien d. h. in den _diamond_ geschlagen, so muß der schläger zunächst nach _i_, dann der reihe nach über _ii_ und _iii_ nach _h_ zurücklaufen. gelingt ihm dies, so wird ihm ein _run_ (lauf) angerechnet. wird aber der ball von einem bei _i_ stehenden spieler aufgefangen, bevor der schläger dahin gelangt, oder wird dieser während seines laufes von einem gegner mit dem ball berührt, so ist der schläger _out_. sind drei schläger derselben partei _out_ gemacht, so ist ein _inning_ (reihe) vorüber und die gegenpartei kommt an die reihe. das spiel besteht aus 9 _innings_ für jede partei, und jene partei hat gewonnen, welche innerhalb ihrer _innings_ die meisten _runs_ gemacht hat. -14. _i'm afraid i don't_, ich fürchte, nein. -34. _there was a smile lurking_, es spielte ein lächeln. ¶43¶, 26. _flavour_, einen besonderen reiz. -28. _on that particular morning_, gerade an jenem morgen. -30. _curly-headed_, lockenköpfig. -37/38. _he almost fell back a pace_, er prallte fast einen schritt zurück. ¶44¶, 6. _tenantry_, pachtleute. -25/26. _there was a stir of gratified pride_, es regte sich ein gefühl befriedigten stolzes. ¶45¶, 11. _plainly_, offenbar. -22. _rent_, pachtzins. -27. _catch up_, sich empor arbeiten. -29. _black_, finster. -39. _to strengthen his plea_, seine bitte zu unterstützen. ¶46¶, 5. _low_, schwach, entkräftet. -13. _deep-set_; vgl. ¶28¶, 6. -35. _he realised_; vgl. ¶16¶, 11. ¶48¶, 7. _higgins is not to be interfered with_, gegen higgins soll nicht eingeschritten werden. -17/18. _the corners of his ... a little_, es zuckte ein wenig um seine mundwinkel. -25. _rispecferly_ = respectfully. -33. _that's the way with_, so geht es mit. ¶49¶, 6. _pleasanter_ = more pleasant (umgangssprache). 30. _to be brought round_ = to be brought. ¶50¶, 12. _he kept saying_, sagte er immer wieder. -25. _dumfounded_, verblüfft (familiär). ¶51¶, 32. _startled_, erschrocken. -34. _they scurried away_, sie eilten davon. -_the whirr_, das aufstreichen. ¶52¶, 23. _bowled_, dahingerollt. -33. _brusquely_, kurz, barsch. ¶53¶, 6. _flash over the ground_, über den boden hin eilen. -12. _dashed up_, sprang hinauf. -25. _apple-cheeked_, rotwangig. ¶54¶, 13. _over their ... shopping_, bei ihrem tee und ihren einkäufen. ¶55¶, 4. _curtsy_ = courtesy; _a bobbing curtsy_, ein schneller knix. 22. _mop_, büschel, fülle. -26. _over again_, vom scheitel bis zur sohle, von oben bis unten. ¶56¶, 10. _aisle_ (spr. il), chor. -_red-cushioned and curtained_, mit roten kissen und vorhängen versehen. -13. _across the church_, gegenüber in der kirche. -22. _lyethe_ = lies; _ye_ = the; _bodye_ = body. -23. _allsoe_ = also. -25. _devoured_, verzehrt, gequält. -33. _church service_, ergänze: book. seit dem jahre 1589 ist für die englische staatskirche (church of england) ein gemeinsames gebetbuch (the book of common prayer, common prayer book) eingeführt. -40. _curtain-shielded_, durch vorhänge geschützt, verborgen. ¶57¶, 35. _careworn_, von kummer durchfurcht. ¶58¶, 17. _a trifle taken aback_, ein wenig verblüfft. -25. _broke in_, unterbrach, fiel ein. ¶59¶, 23. _arched_, bog. -38. _leading-rein_, leitzügel. ¶60¶, 15. _set_, festgeschlossen. -22. _want_ = do you want? ¶61¶, 3. _he panted_; vgl. ¶22¶, 7. -11. _snatch off_, schnell abnehmen. -19. _an'_ = and. -_i'm blessed_, hol' mich der kuckuck. -23. _ses_ = says. -25. _trudges_, schlendert. -28. _what's up_, was los ist, was es gibt. -_he whips off_, er zieht schnell ab. ¶62¶, 22. _closely_, treu, sorgsam. -38/39. _which had set ... perfection_, welche ihn den gipfel der vollkommenheit hatte erreichen lassen. ¶63¶, 3. _brougham_ (sprich: broù-am oder bròom), leichter, geschlossener, zweioder vierrädriger wagen, benannt nach lord brougham, einem berühmten staatsmann und redner. -6. _abruptly_, kurz. -39. _dont_ = don't. -40. _granfarther_ = grandfather. -_plees_ = please. -41. _afechshnet_ = affectionate. ¶65¶, 18. _dashed off_, dahinjagte. -21. _such a dash_, solch' ein schneller ritt. ¶66¶, 17. _on his mind_, auf dem herzen. -21. _been ... he_ = has he been neglecting it? -26. _horror-stricken_, von schrecken erfüllt. ¶69¶, 10. _crazy_, baufällig, elend. -21/22. _to talk him over_, über ihn zu reden. ¶70¶, 12. _scrambled up_, krabbelte in die höhe, erhob sich langsam. ¶71¶, 12. _sir_ ist ein titel, welchen die baronets und knights (squires) vor ihrem vornamen führen; vgl. ¶81¶, 8. 15. _and set mrs. dibble's ... madly again_, und der frau dibble ladenglocke immer wie toll klingeln ließ. -19. _dimpled peachy cheeks_, grübchen in den frischen roten wangen. ¶72¶, 14. _vandyke collar_ wird ein ausgezackter spitzenhalskragen genannt, wie man sie auf den gemälden des niederländischen malers van dyck, welcher 1461 starb, sieht. -33. _eszackly_ = exactly. ¶73¶, 13. _course_, vorgehen, handlungsweise. -30. _in a measure_ = in some measure, gewissermaßen. ¶74¶, 7/8. _how closely those ... to each other_, wie innige zuneigung die beiden zueinander gefaßt hatten. ¶75¶, 5. _methodic_, steif, ruhig. -27. _ever so much_; vgl. ¶32¶, 18. ¶76¶, 22. _clutched_, faßte krampfhaft. -29. _chambers_, schreibstube, kanzlei. ¶77¶, 4/5. _a low, scoundrelly piece of business_, eine gemeine, schurkige geschichte. -13. _fastidious_, stolz, vornehm. -17. _drops of moisture_, schweißtropfen. ¶79¶, 10. _that read_, auf dem zu lesen war. -31. _want a shine?_ stiefel wichsen? -33. _rest_, wichsbank. -35. _fell to work_, machte sich an die arbeit. -40. _feller_ = fellow. ¶80¶, 7. _boss_ (o = a in all), herr, meister, ist ein amerikanismus. -_yerself_ = yourself (vulgär). -11. _lifetime acquaintances_, freunde von jeher. -17. _ha'_ = have (vulgär). -28. _tilted_, gelehnt. -30. _he made a jerk at them with the hand_, deutete er mit der hand auf sie. -40. _ginger ale_ ist ein moussierendes getränk wie gingerbeer (ingwerbier), welches aus gärendem ingwer, cream-of-tartar (schaum einer kochenden weinsteinlösung) und zucker mit hefe und wasser bereitet wird. ¶81¶, 1. _here's to him!_ dies auf sein wohl! -2. _markises_ = marquesses. -_dooks_ = dukes. -8. _the nobility and gentry_. nobility ist der geburtsadel (duke, marquess, earl, viscount (spr. is = i), baron). die träger dieser adelstitel sind lords, ihre frauen ladies (anrede mylord oder your lordship, mylady). der nobility steht gegenüber die _gentry_ (niederer adel, auch landadel vgl. ¶94¶, 10) mit den 2 klassen der baronets und knights (squires). man rechnet jedoch zur gentry im weiteren sinne alle gentlemen, d. h. alle gebildeten und in vornehmer lebensstellung befindlichen. -9. _realised_ = known. -33. _the tower of london_, nach welchem die erzählung von ainsworth betitelt ist, ist eine gruppe von gebäuden am nördlichen ufer der themse. im innern desselben erhebt sich der von wilhelm dem eroberer erbaute white tower, welcher in früheren zeiten als staatsgefängnis benutzt wurde. bis ins 14. jahrhundert war die burg zuweilen auch der sitz des königlichen hofes. -34. _ainsworth_, william harrison. geb. 1805 in manchester, gestorben 1882, ist der erste vertreter der räuberund schauerromane in der englischen literatur. seine zahlreichen romane (u. a. crichton, jack sheppard, old st. paul's) wurden viel gelesen. -38. _bloody mary_ wurde die königin maria i. von england (1553-1558) wegen ihrer blutigen und grausamen verfolgung der protestanten genannt. ¶82¶, 3. _ain't_ = is not (vulgär). -8. _this 'ere un_ = this one (vulgär). -_that's bossin'_, welche leitet, ist ein amerikanismus; vgl. ¶80¶, 7. -33. _gal_ = girl (vulgär). -34. _'n'_ = and. -35/36. _to set up a cattle ranch_, um einen viehhandel zu beginnen; vgl. ¶98¶, 2. -37. _'ve_ = have. ¶83¶, 1. _afore_ = before. -4/5. _that's ... from_, von ihm und keinem andern kommt er (der brief). -14. _curous_ = curious. -26. _preaps_ = perhaps. -27. _thort_ = thought. -28. _right away_, sofort. -_intrusted_ = interested. -39/40. _there is no knowing_, das kann man nicht wissen. -42. _a put-up job_, eine abgekartete geschichte (familiär). -_'ristycrats_; vgl. ¶4¶, 13. ¶85¶, 5. _exclaimed_, äußerten sich laut. -13. _holding on to his knee_, die hände um die kniee geschlungen. -15. _sober_, besonnen, ruhig. -37. _jumped_, aufsprang. ¶86¶, 2/3. _was all alight with eagerness_, leuchtete ganz vor spannung. -9. _by george_ ist eine in der englischen aristokratischen gesellschaft deshalb gebrauchte beteuerungsformel, weil der heilige ritter georg der patron des höchsten englischen ordens, des von eduard iii. 1350 gestifteten hosenbandordens (order of the garter), ist. -24. _drawing his breath hard_, mühsam atmend. -33. _how deep a hold upon him ... had taken_, wie tief ... wurzel gefaßt hatten. ¶87¶, 11. _walks_, kreise, klassen. -35. _morning room_, boudoir. -38. _hisself_ = himself. -_ma'am_ = madam. ¶88¶, 8. _uplifted eyes_, auf ihn gerichteten augen. ¶89¶, 9. _sardonically_, spöttisch. -39. _glaring down at her_, sie mit einem durchbohrenden blick ansehend. ¶90¶, 16. _as it was to be_ = as it was new to him to be etc. -21/22. _he found her a little soothing_, er fand in ihr einigen trost. -37. _almost stricken dumb_, fast sprachlos vor erstaunen. ¶91¶, 9. _until his head was in a whirl_, bis ihm ganz wirr im kopfe war. -17. _seem's like_ = it seems as if. -_orter_ = ought to. ¶92¶, 1. _the right honourable_, ist eine bezeichnung, die den earls, viscounts und barons, sowie ihren frauen zukommt; ferner den mitgliedern des privy council (des geheimen staatsrates) d. h. den ministern in und außer dienst, erzbischöfen u. a. -14. _better'n_ = better than. -25. _aint_; vgl. ¶82¶, 3. -27. _you may eat me_, ich lasse mich hängen. -28. _anywheres_ = any where. -_so'd_ = so would. -_jest ax_ = just ask. -31. _knowed_ = knew. -32. _they done it_ = they have done it. -33. _'merican_ = american. -34. _she done_ = she has done. -35. _i'll tell yer wot come to me_, ich will ihnen sagen, was mir eingefallen ist. -36. _minnit_ = minute. -_pictur_ = picture. -_o' them papers_ = of those papers. ¶93¶, 14. _feller_ = fellow. -_give_ = gave. -16. _knows_ = know. -21. _in care of_, unter der obhut. -22. _he struggled into his coat_, er schlüpfte eilig in seinen rock. -27. _spare_, frei, übrig. -36. _a big thing_, eine wichtige sache. ¶94¶, 10. _esq._ = esquire entspricht heutzutage in england dem deutschen hochwohlgeboren und wird regelmäßig auf adressen dem namen eines gentleman (vgl. ¶81¶, 8) nachgesetzt, wenn nicht bei demselben schon m(iste)r oder ein titel (doctor, rev. = reverend u. a.) steht. ¶95¶, 12. _to cable_, (durch das unterseeische kabel) telegraphieren. -21. _sharp faced_, mit pfiffigem gesichte. -37. _i can swear to her_, ich kann beschwören, daß sie es ist. ¶96¶, 4. _he is done with you_, er ist mit dir fertig. -25. _fairly_ = completely. -34. _dashed past him_, stürzte an ihm vorbei. ¶97¶, 6. _is_ = are. -_a uniggspected_ = an unexpected. ¶98¶, 2. _ranch_ (span. rancho, gesellschaft, kameradschaft) ist in amerika gebraucht für: 1) leicht gebaute hütte der viehhirten, 2) viehwirtschaft, wie hier. -8. _prospective_, voraussichtlich, zukünftig. -12/13. _was devotedly fond of_, hing mit ganzem herzen an. -14. _made up to him_, entschädigte ihn. ¶99¶, 19. _was simply radiantly happy_, strahlte einfach vor glück. ¶100¶, 20. _settled_, entschieden. -23. _flushed rosy red_, wurde dunkelrot. ¶101¶, 23. _that's_ = that are. -_stirrin'_, rührig. -25. _auntsister_ = ancestor. verzeichnis zu den sachlichen anmerkungen. (die zahlen bezeichnen die seiten und zeilen im texte, zu denen eine anmerkung im anhang gegeben ist.) ainsworth 81,34 base-ball 42,11 bloody-mary 81,38 brougham 63,3 central park 29,31 church-service 56,33 commission 3,13 esquire 94,10 fourth of july 4,28 gentry 81,8 george, by 86,9 ginger ale 80,40 greenbacks 17,25 hearth 4,3 jiggered 9,3 nobility 81,8 ranch 98,2 right honourable 92,1 sir, sir 31,18; 71,12 tower (the) of london 81,33 vandyke collar 72,14 washington (stadt) 5,2 washington, george 13,16 die französische und englische schulbibliothek erscheint seit dem 1. oktober 1883; sie ist eine sammlung der besten französischen und englischen schriftsteller vom 17. bezw. 16. jahrhundert an bis in die neueste zeit. bezüglich der äußeren ausstattung sei folgendes bemerkt: a) die _schrift_ entspricht _allen von medizinisch-pädagogischen vereinen gestellten anforderungen_; sie ist groß, scharf und deutlich lesbar wegen des richtigen verhältnisses zwischen höhe der großen und kleinen buchstaben unter sich und zwischen buchstabenhöhe und entfernung der einzelnen zeilen. _selbst schwache augen dürften lange zeit ohne ermüdung diese schrift lesen können._ b) das _papier_ ist ein eigens hierzu angefertigter, kräftiger, nicht durchscheinender, guter stoff von gelblicher färbung, _die sehr wohltuend auf das auge des schülers wirkt_. c) der _einband ist biegsam und dauerhaft_. prospekt. die »¶französische und englische schulbibliothek¶«, aufgebaut auf den thesen der direktoren-versammlung in der provinz hannover (1882), ist den anforderungen _der lehrpläne und lehraufgaben für die höheren schulen vom jahre 1901 genau angepaßt_. sie bringt nicht nur die wichtigeren schriftwerke der letzten drei bezw. vier jahrhunderte und führt somit in die literatur, kulturund volkskunde der beiden großen kulturvölker ein (lehrpläne und lehraufgaben von 1901, s. 37 u. 38), sondern sie berücksichtigt auch die _technisch-wissenschaftliche lektüre_ und wird so _den weitgehendsten forderungen der gymnasien und realanstalten_ gerecht. folgende grundsätze sind für die gestaltung derselben maßgebend. 1. _die schulbibliothek_ bringt _prosa_ und _poesie_. die _prosa_bände enthalten den lesestoff für je ein _halbjahr_. mit ausnahme _der lebensbeschreibungen_ berühmter männer, welche, _ohne beeinträchtigung des gesamtbildes_, zweckentsprechend gekürzt erscheinen, _werden nur teile eines ganzen veröffentlicht, die, in sich aber eine art ganzes bildend_, eine hinreichende bekanntschaft mit den geisteswerken und deren verfassern ermöglichen. 2. vor _jedem_ bande erscheint eine dem gesichtskreis des schülers entsprechende _lebensbeschreibung_ des schriftstellers sowie eine kurze zusammenstellung _alles dessen, was zu seinem vollen verständnis zu wissen nötig scheint_. den _poetischen_ bänden gehen außerdem eine _metrische_ und eine _sprachliche_ einleitung voran, die sich streng an das betreffende stück anlehnen. 3. der _text_ ist bei den _prosaikern_ der übersichtlichkeit halber in kürzere kapitel geteilt. 4. der _rechtschreibung_ in den _französischen_ bänden liegt die ausgabe des _dictionnaire de l'académie_ von _1877_ zugrunde. 5. die _anmerkungen_ sind _deutsch_; sie stehen von band _100_ an und in den neuen auflagen früher erschienener bände _hinter_ dem texte. bei bänden, von denen auch oder nur _einsprachige ausgaben_ (französisch bezw. englisch) erschienen sind, ist dies im verzeichnis besonders angegeben. 6. die sachliche _erklärung_ bringt das _notwendige_ ohne _gelehrtes_ beiwerk. _sprachliche anmerkungen_ finden sich da, wo eine eigenheit in der ausdrucksweise des schriftstellers vorliegt; die _grammatik_ wird nur ganz _ausnahmsweise_ behandelt, wenn sich die schwierigkeit einer stelle durch die nicht leicht bemerkbare unterordnung unter eine grammatische regel heben läßt. auf eine bestimmte grammatik ist nicht hingewiesen. die _synonymik_ ist _nicht_ berücksichtigt. _soll dieselbe ihren zweck als formales bildungsmittel nicht verfehlen, so muß da, wo das verständnis des textes und die wahl des richtigen ausdrucks selbst eine synonymische aufklärung erheischen, diese gemeinschaftlich von den schülern gesucht und unter der unmittelbaren einwirkung des lehrers gefunden werden._ aus _gleichen_ gründen ist der _etymologie kein platz_ eingeräumt. 7. _übersetzungen_, die nur der _trägheit_ des schülers vorschub leisten, sind ausgeschlossen. -die herausgabe von _sonderwörterbüchern_ zu einzelnen bänden hat sich als eine _zwingende notwendigkeit_ erwiesen; denn abgesehen davon, daß die konkurrenzunternehmungen derartige wörterbücher veröffentlichen, welche die schüler _auf jeden fall_ sich zu verschaffen wissen, sind auch an die schriftleitung seitens zahlreicher amtsgenossen zuschriften gelangt, denen zufolge die namentlich für die _mittleren_ klassen bestimmten ausgaben nur _mit einem wörterbuche_ in gebrauch genommen werden können, weil _erst in den oberen klassen_ auf die anschaffung eines schulwörterbuches _gedrungen_ wird. da _jedoch die wörterbücher den betreffenden bänden nicht beigegeben sind, sondern erst auf verlangen nachgeliefert werden, so bedarf es nur eines antrages seitens der schule, wenn das sonderwörterbuch nicht geliefert werden soll_. 8. _aussprachebezeichnungen_ werden hinzugefügt, wo die schulwörterbücher den schüler im stiche lassen; _sie fehlen_ bei den _seltener_ vorkommenden _ausländischen eigennamen_, weil die _gebildeten engländer und franzosen_ bemüht sind, _dieselben so auszusprechen, wie sie im lande selbst ausgesprochen werden_. 9. den _geschichtlichen_ stoffen sind _abbildungen_, _karten_ und _pläne_ beigegeben; _verzeichnisse_ zu den anmerkungen erleichtern das zurechtfinden in einzelnen bänden. - verlag der rengerschen buchhandlung in leipzig. im verlage der rengerschen buchhandlung gebhardt & wilisch in leipzig sind erschienen oder im erscheinen begriffen: buurmans kurze repetitorien für das einjährig-freiwilligen-examen nebst muster-prüfungen. buurmans repetitorien behandeln in 10 bändchen alle prüfungsgegenstände. 1. bändchen: deutsch (erschienen) 2. " lateinisch 3. " griechisch 4. " französisch (erschienen) 5. " englisch " 6. " geschichte " 7. " geographie " 8. " mathematik " 9. " physik (erscheint im mai 1904) anhang: prüfungsbestimmungen. preis jedes bändchens in leinw. geb. 1 mk. 50. diese bändchen eignen sich nicht bloß für die stufe des einjährigen-examens, sondern sind auch für die höheren prüfungen zweckmäßig zu benutzen, um sich eine bedeutende präsenz des wissens anzueignen. jedes bändchen ist einzeln im buchhandel zu beziehen. zum gebrauch in höheren schulen ist erschienen: monumentalplan von berlin. herausgeg. v. r. gebhardt. entworfen u. gezeichnet v. j. aescher. größe der zeichnung 130x170 cm. preis des in 5 farben gedruckten planes: a) roh -4 blätter in mappe 8 mk. b) auf leinwand aufgezogen mit ösen in mappe 14 mk. c) " ringen und stäben 15 mk. monumentalplan von berlin. auf 32x38 cm bildfläche verkleinerte ausgabe des wandplanes von berlin, in 5 farben gedruckt, mit alphabetischem namensverzeichnis. mk. 0.60. illustrated map of london. entworfen und herausgegeben von ludwig e. rolfs. größe der zeichnung 132x172 cm. preis des in fünf farben kolorierten planes: a) roh -9 blätter in mappe 16 mk. b) auf leinwand aufgezogen mit ösen in mappe 22 mk. c) " ringen und stäben 24 mk. gleichzeitig ist eine für die hand des schülers bestimmte, auf 32x42 cm verkleinerte ausgabe dieses planes in mehrfachem farbendruck ausgeführt erschienen, deren einzelpreis einschl. eines alphabet. namensverzeichnisses 60 pf. beträgt. plan pittoresque de la ville de paris. entworfen und herausgegeben von ludwig e. rolfs. größe der zeichnung 132x176 cm. preis des in fünf farben kolorierten planes: a) roh -6 blätter in mappe 16 mk. b) auf leinwand aufgezogen mit ösen in mappe 22 mk. c) " ringen und stäben 24 mk. hiervon ist ebenfalls eine auf 32 x 42 cm verkleinerte, für den gebrauch der schüler bestimmte und in mehreren farben gedruckte ausgabe erschienen unter dem titel: plan monumental de la ville de paris. in umschlag mit alphabet. namensverzeichnis. preis 60 pf. kommentar hierzu preis brosch. 3 mk. 70 pf. in ganzleinwand gebunden 4 mk. französische und englische schulbibliothek herausgegeben von dr. otto e. a. dickmann, direktor der oberrealschule der stadt köln. nach den autoren alphabetisch geordnetes verzeichnis der bisher erschienenen bände. reihe a: prosa -reihe b: poesie -reihe c: für mädchenschulen. t. a.: sammlung französischer und englischer text-ausgaben zum schulgebrauch. zu den mit * bezeichneten bänden ist ein sonderwörterbuch erschienen. einsprachige ausgaben (französisch bezw. englisch) siehe unter barrau -conteurs -corneille, le cid -daudet, tartarin - english school life -goerlich -monod -shakespeare, coriolanus. reihe. band a 49. addison, sir roger de coverley. [aus: the 0.90. spectator.] (professor dr. h. fehse.) mit 1 karte. t.a. *10. aladdin or the wonderful lamp. 0.60. a 90. arago, histoire de ma jeunesse. (prof. dr. o. 1.20. klein.) a *131. ascensions -voyages aériens -évasions. 1.30. (prof. dr. wershoven.) b 22. augier et sandeau, le gendre de m. poirier. 1.60. (prof. dr. j. sarrazin.) 4. aufl. a *72. aymeric, dr. j., de leipsic à constantinople. 1.10. journal de route. a 20. barante, jeanne darc. (dir. prof. dr. k. 1.40. mühlefeld.) 3. aufl. mit 2 kärtchen und 2 plänen. a 47. barrau, scènes de la révolution française. 1.50. (prof. dr. b. lengnick.) mit 2 plänen und 1 karte. 4. aufl. dasselbe. mit französischen anmerkungen 1.50. c 2. bersier, mme, les myrtilles. stufe ii. (m. 0.70. mühry.) a 142. boissonnas, une famille pendant la guerre 1.30. 1870/71. (dr. banner.) a 141. the british isles. (dir. prof. j. leitritz.) 20 3.--. abbild. u. 1 karte. a *97. bruno, francinet. (prof. dr. j. sarrazin.) 2. 1.--. aufl. a *115. bruno, le tour de la france. (dir. prof. 1.20. rolfs.) mit 1 karte. a *77. burnett, little lord fauntleroy. (prof. g. 1.10. wolpert.) 7. aufl. b 10. byron, childe harold's pilgrimage. [ausw.] 1.40. (prof. dr. r. werner.) c *25. candy, emily j., talk about engl. life or first 1.30. days in england. stufe iv. c 14. carraud, mme j., contes. stufe ii. (dr. cl. 0.80. klöpper.) a *132. chambers's english history. mit 1 karte. 1.30. (oberl. a. v. roden.) b 26. chants d'écoles. (dir. prof. ludw. e. rolfs u. 1.--. barthel müller.) a *109. chaucer stories. (dr. cl. klöpper.) 1.10. c 32. christie's old organ or home, sweet home by 0.80. mrs. walton. -daddy darwins dovecot by mrs. ewing. (a. bückmann). c 4. colomb, la fille de carilès. stufe iv. (m. 0.90. mühry.) 7. aufl. a *122. contes d'andersen, trad. par d. soldi. (dir. 1.--. prof. dr. e. penner.) c 40. contes, trois, pour les petites filles. stufe 0.70. i. (dr. fr. lotsch.) a *69. conteurs modernes. [jules simon, theuriet, 1.--. révillon, moret, richebourg.] (prof. dr. j. sarrazin.) 3. aufl. dasselbe. mit französischen anmerkungen 1.--. c 11. coolidge, what katy did at school. stufe iv. 1.--. (dir. a. seedorf.) c 38. coolidge, what katy did. stufe iv. (e. 0.90. merhaut.) a *67. coppée, ausgew. erzählungen. (prof. dr. a. 1.--. gundlach.) 3. aufl. c 20. corbet-seymour, only a shilling. stufe ii. (dr. 0.70. cl. klöpper.) b 2. corneille, le cid. (prof. dr. w. mangold.) 3. 1.30. aufl. dasselbe. mit französischen anmerkungen 1.30. b 17. corneille, cinna. (professor dr. p. schmid.) 1.--. b 21. corneille, horace. (professor dr. p. schmid.) 1.10. a 113. cornish, life of oliver cromwell. [1 karte.] 1.50. (prof. dr. deutschbein.) c 26. dalgleish, life of queen victoria. stufe iv. 1.30. (dr. cl. klöpper.) a *27. daudet, ausgew. erzählungen. (dir. prof. dr. e. 1.10. gropp.) 7. aufl. a *56. daudet, tartarin de tarascon. (dr. j. aymeric.) 1.20. 6. aufl. dasselbe. mit französischen anmerkungen 1.20. a *94. daudet, le petit chose. (dr. j. aymeric.) 3. 1.30. aufl. a 135. daudet, lettres de mon moulin. (oberl. dr. 1.30. hertel.) a *111. day, the history of little jack.--the history 1.20. of sandford and merton. (direktor dr. hugo gruber.) a *75. defoe, robinson crusoe. (oberlehrer dr. k. 1.--. foth.) b 8. delavigne, louis xi. (direktor ph. plattner.) 1.80. a *117. deschaumes, journal d'un lycéen de 14 ans. (dr. 1.80. r. kron.) mit 3 skizzen, 1 plan und 1 karte. a *123. desèze, défense de louis xvi. (oberl. dr. o. 1.10. klein.) a *45. dhombres et monod, biographies historiques. 1.--. (oberlehrer h. bretschneider.) 7. aufl. a 88. dickens, sketches. (dir. prof. dr. e. penner.) 1.--. mit 1 plan. a 93. dickens, the cricket on the hearth. (oberl. b. 1.20. röttgers.) a *95. dickens, david copperfield's schooldays. (prof. 1.20. dr. h. bahrs.) 3. aufl. a 98. dickens, a christmas carol. (oberl. b. 1.10. röttgers.) a *134. dickmann u. heuschen, französisches lesebuch. 1.80. a 2. duruy, histoire de france de 1560/1643. (dir. 1.40. prof. dr. a. g. meyer.) 4. aufl. mit 3 kartenskizzen u. 1 spezialkarte. a *63. duruy, biographies d'hommes célèbres des temps 1.20. anciens et modernes. (oberlehrer karl penner.) mit 2 abbildungen. 3. aufl. a *106. duruy, règne de louis xiv de 1661--1715. 2. 1.80. aufl. (professor dr. h. müller.) mit 1 karte. a *116. duruy, règne de louis xvi et la révolution 2.--. française. (prof. dr. h. müller.) mit 1 karte und 1 plan. c 36. edgeworth, lacy lawrence. (oberl. dr. fr. 1.10. lotsch). t.a. *9. edgeworth, miss, popular tales. 0.50. c 41. eliot, tom and maggie. stufe iv. (e. merhaut.) a *112. english history. (prof. dr. wershoven.) [4 1.40. karten, 3 pläne.] 2. aufl. a 119. english letters. (prof. dr. ernst regel.) 1.10. a *133. english school life. (prof. dr. f. j. 1.30. wershoven.) dasselbe. mit englischen anmerkungen 1.30. a *43. erckmann-chatrian, histoire d'un conscrit de 1.40. 1813. [im auszuge]. (dir. prof. dr. g. strien.) 6. aufl. mit 1 karte. a *51. erckmann-chatrian, waterloo. [im auszuge]. (dr. 1.40. jos. aymeric.) 4. aufl. mit 1 karte. t.a. *5. erzählungen, ausgewählte (courier, toepffer, 0.60. dumas, mérimée, souvestre). c 3. erzählungen, ausgew. (mlle cornaz, mme colomb, 0.80. paul de musset) 1903. c 19. erzählungen, ausgew. aus: voyage en france par 0.70. deux soeurs par c. juranville et p. berger. stufe i. (dr. cl. klöpper.). c 34. erzählungen aus dem französischen schulleben. 1.20. stufe iii u. iv. (prof. dr. f. j. wershoven.) a 102. erzählungen, franz. [souvestre, 1.--. erckm.-chatrian, reybaud]. (prof. wolpert.) c 31. ev.-green, the secret of the old house. stufe 1.20. iii. (e. taubenspeck.) t.a. *15. fénelon, aventures de télémaque. 0.70. a 103. figuier, scènes et tableaux de la nature. (dir. 1.30. prof. l. e. rolfs.) c 28. fleuriot, plus tard ou le jeune chef de 1.10. famille. stufe iii. (dr. meyer.) t.a. *4. florian, guillaume tell. 0.50. a 89. forbes, my experiences of the war between 1.30. france and germany. (dr. wilh. heymann.) c 30. françaises illustres. stufe iii u. iv. (prof. 1.20. dr. f. j. wershoven.) a *83. la france, anthologie géographique. (dir. prof. 2.20. j. leitritz.) 2. aufl. mit 24 abbildungen u. 1 karte von frankreich. a 52. franklin, the life of franklin. (dir. f. 1.30. wüllenweber.) 2. aufl. mit 1 karte. a 46. frédéric le gr., correspond. avec voltaire. 1.30. (prof. dr. hoffmann.) a *32. gardiner, historical biographies. (prof. g. 1.10. wolpert.) 5. aufl. b 11. gedichte. auswahl englischer gedichte. (dir. 2.20. prof. dr. e. gropp und dir. prof. dr. e. hausknecht.) 10. aufl. 20 bogen 8o. dazu »kommentar« von e. gropp u. e. hausknecht. 3.20. 2 teile. geb. b 1. gedichte. auswahl französ. gedichte (dir. prof. 2.--. dr. e. gropp und dir. prof. dr. e. hausknecht.) 17 bgn. 8o. 65.-72. tausend. dazu »kommentar« v. e. gropp u. e. hausknecht. 2.20. 3. aufl. geb. a 124. géographie de la france. (dir. prof. dr. ew. 1.10. goerlich.) ausgabe mit nur französischen anmerkungen. a 129. geography of the british empire. (dir. prof. 1.10. dr. ew. goerlich.) ausgabe mit nur englischen anmerkungen. a 17. gibbon, history of the 1. and 4. crusades. 1.40. (dir. dr. f. hummel.) mit 2 plänen. c 16. girardin, récits de la vie réelle. stufe iv. 0.80. (rektor k. zwerg.) b 30. gobineau, alexandre. (prof. dr. völcker.) 1.10. t.a. *7. goldsmith, the vicar of wakefield. 0.70. a *96. grimm frères, contes choisis. [ausw.] (dir. 1.--. prof. l. e. rolfs.) a *108. grimm's and hauff's fairy tales. (dir. prof. 1.10. dr. e. penner.) a *140. gros, récits d'aventures et expéditions au pôle 1.10. nord. (oberlehrer dr. l. hasberg.) mit 1 karte. a 28. guizot, histoire de la révolution d'angleterre 1.50. de 1641-1649. (prof. dr. a. althaus.) mit 1 karte. a 29. guizot, histoire de la civilisation. [auswahl.] 1.40. (prof. dr. a. kressner.) 3. aufl. a 50. guizot, washington. (dr. cl. klöpper.) mit 1 1.20. karte. a *84. halévy, l'invasion. (prof. dr. j. sarrazin.) m. 1.60. 3 plänen. 3. aufl. c 21. hanson, stories of king arthur. stufe iii. (dr. 1.--. cl. klöpper.) a *126. henty, when london burned. (professor g. 1.50. wolpert.) a *143. henty, yarns on the beach, a bundle of tales. 1.10. [do your duty -surly joe -a fish-wife's dream]. (oberl. dr. eule.) a 81. d'hérisson, journal d'un officier d'ordonnance. 1.50. (dr. u. cosack.) mit 2 plänen. 3. aufl. a 139. d'hérisson, journal d'un interprète en chine. 1.30. (prof. dr. a. krause.) c 29. hope, asc. r., stories of engl. girlhood. 1.10. (prof. dr. j. klapperich.) a *6. hume, the reign of queen elizabeth. (dir. prof. 1.30. dr. a. fritzsche.) 2. aufl. mit 1 karte. a 15. hume, history of charles i. and of the 1.40. commonwealth. (prof. dr. f. j. wershoven.) mit 1 karte. a 22. hume, the foundation of english liberty. (prof. 1.50. bohne.) [2 karten.] a 4. irving, christmas. (oberl. dr. g. tanger.) 0.90. a *38. irving, tales of the alhambra. (hofr. dir. dr. 1.10. wernekke.) 3. aufl. a 138. irving, bracebridge hall or the humorists. 1.20. (prof. dr. wolpert). c 8. king lear. -grace darling by eva hope. - 0.80. some eminent women of our times by fawcett. -florence nightingale. -elizabeth fry. stufe iv. (b. mühry.) a 18. lamartine, captivité, procès et mort de louis 1.30. xvi etc. (prof. dr. b. lengnick.) 3. aufl. mit 1 abbildung u. 2 plänen. t.a. *2. lamartine, nelson. 0.50. t.a. *3. lamartine, christophe colomb. 0.60. t.a. *12. lamartine, gutenberg et jacquard. 0.60. a *42. lamé-fleury, histoire de la découverte de 1.20. l'amérique. (prof. dr. m. schmidt.) 7. aufl. a *73. lamé-fleury, histoire de france de 406-1328. 1.--. (oberlehrer dr. j. hengesbach.) 3. aufl. a *107. lamé-fleury, histoire de france de 1328-1862. 1.40. (oberlehrer dr. j. hengesbach.) mit 1 karte. 3. aufl. a *12. lanfrey, campagne de 1806-1807. (professor dr. 1.50. otto klein.) 8. aufl. mit 2 karten und 4 plänen. a *30. lanfrey, campagne de 1809. (prof. dr. otto 1.50. klein.) 3. aufl. mit 3 plänen. a *30. lanfrey, campagne de 1809. (prof. dr. otto 1.50. klein.) 3. aufl. mit 3 plänen. a *114. lectures historiques. (prof. dr. f. j. 1.30. wershoven.) 2. aufl. c 1. le petit paresseux. 1er voyage du petit louis 0.70. d'après mme de witt née guizot. histoire d'une petite fille heureuse par mme bersier. stufe i. (m. mühry.) c 5. little susy's little servants by prentiss. - 0.80. story told etc. by bakewell. -the true history etc. by brunefille. -topo by brunefille stufe i. (b. mühry.) a 91. littré, comment j'ai fait mon dictionnaire. 0.80. causerie. (prof. dr. imelmann.) c 35. livre de lecture pour les enfants de 10-12 ans. 0.70. stufe!i. (oberlehrer dr. fr. lotsch.) a *100. london and its environs. (direktor professor j. 2.50. leitritz.) mit 23 abbildungen und 2 plänen. a 7. macaulay, state of england in 1685. (professor 1.40. dr. a. kressner.) 2. aufl. mit 1 plan. a 16. macaulay, lord clive. (prof. dr. a. kressner.) 1.20. 3. aufl. [karte.] a 21. macaulay, warren hastings. (prof. dr. 1.40. kressner.) 2. aufl. [karte.] a 24. macaulay, the duke of monmouth. 1.30. (kreisschulinsp. dr. o. werner.) 2. aufl. mit 1 karte. a 137. macaulay, james ii. descent on ireland. (prof. 1.30. dr. otto hallbauer.) c 23. macé, la france avant les francs. stufe iv. 0.80. (rektor k. zwerg.) c 15. de maistre, la jeune sibérienne. stufe iv. 1.--. (prof. dr. j. sarrazin.) c 10. malot, h., romain kalbris. stufe iv. (m. 1.10. mühry.) mit 1 karte. a 144. marbot, retraite de la grande armée et bataille 1.10. de leipzig. (prof. dr. stange.) a *37. marryat, the children of the new forest. (prof. 1.40. g. wolpert.) 3. aufl. a 61. marryat, masterman ready or the wreck of the 1.30. pacific. (prof. adolf mager.) a 99. marryat, the three cutters. (dr. r. miller.) 3. 0.80. aufl. mit 1 karte. a *127. marryat, the settlers in canada. (kgl. 1.20. regierungsu. schulrat jos. heuschen.) c 22. maxime du camp, deux petites nouvelles. aus: 0.80. bons coeurs et braves gens u. mme léonie d'aunet, le spitzberg. aus: voyage d'une femme au spitzberg. stufe iv. (dr. cl. klöpper.) a 65. mérimée, colomba. (dir. prof. j. leitritz.) 2. 1.30. aufl. a *1. michaud, siège d'antioche et prise de 1.20. jérusalem. (dir. dr. f. hummel.) 4. aufl. mit 3 karten und 4 abbild. a *10. michaud, moeurs et coutumes des croisades. 1.20. (dir. dr. f. hummel.) 3. aufl. a *13. michaud, influence et résultats des croisades. 1.10. (dir. dr. f. hummel.) 2. aufl. a *130. michaud, histoire de la 3me croisade. (prof. 1.30. dr. o. klein.) t.a. *1. michaud, la troisième croisade. 0.60. a *35. mignet, histoire de la terreur. [aus: histoire 1.50. de la révolution française]. (prof. a. ey.) 3. aufl. mit 1 plan. a 44. mignet, essai sur la formation territoriale et 1.30. politique de la france. (oberlehrer dr. a. korell.) mit 1 karte. a 64. mignet, vie de franklin. (prof. h. voss.) mit 1 1.--. karte. a *118. mirabeau, discours choisis. (prof. dr. o. 1.--. klein.) mit bild mirabeaus. b 4. molière, le misanthrope. (prof. dr. w. 1.20. mangold.) 2. aufl. b 19. molière, l'avare. (prof. dr. w. mangold.) 3. 1.20. aufl. b 20. molière, le bourgeois gentilhomme. (prof. dr. 1.20. w. mangold.) 2. aufl. b 24. molière, les femmes savantes. (prof. dr. w. 1.20. mangold.) 2. aufl. b 28. molière, les précieuses ridicules. (prof. dr. 0.90. w. mangold.) a 121. molière et le théâtre en france. (prof. dr. f. 1.10. j. wershoven.) a *92. monod, allemands et français. (direktor dr. w. 0.90. kirschten.) 3. aufl. mit 3 kartenskizzen und 1 karte. dasselbe. mit französischen anmerkungen 0.90. a 3. montesquieu, considérations sur les causes de 1.30. la grandeur des romains, etc. (prof. dr. b. lengnick.) a 105. nouvelles choisies [cladel, foley, normand]. 1.10. (prof. dr. a. kressner.) c 33. oliphant mrs., agnes hopetoun's school and 1.--. holidays. -the experiences of a little girl. (e. taubenspeck.) a *82. paris et ses environs. (dir. prof. j. 2.--. leitritz.) 3. aufl. mit 27 abbildungen, 1 karte und 1 stadtplan. dieser band ist von iib bis ia gleich nutzbringend zu verwenden. t.a. *8. parley, the book of wonders. 0.60. a 85. passy, le petit poucet du xixe siècle g. 1.20. stephenson et la naissance des chemins de fer. (oberl. b. röttgers.) mit 10 abbild. a *101. perrault, contes de fées. (oberl. dr. a. 1.--. mohrbutter.) b 7. piron, la métromanie. (professor dr. a. 1.50. kressner.) c 6. poor nelly. by the author of "mr. burke's 0.80. nieces" etc. stufe ii. (b. mühry.) 7.-9. tausend. a *136. porchat, le berger et le proscrit. (kgl. 1.--. regierungsund schulrat j. heuschen.) c 37. probable sons. stufe iii. (elisabeth dickmann.) 1.10. t.a. *16. prosa, ausgew., des 17. und 18. jahrhunderts 0.90. (mme de sévigné, le sage, montesquieu, voltaire). t.a. *17. prosa, ausgew., des 18. und 19. jahrhunderts. 0.80. i. teil. t.a. *18. prosa, ausgew., des 18. und 19. jahrhunderts. 0.70. ii. teil. t.a. *19. prosa, ausgew., des 18. und 19. jahrhunderts. 0.80. iii. teil. t.a. *20. prosa, ausgew., des 18. und 19. jahrhunderts. 0.80. iv. teil. b 3. racine, britannicus. (prof. dr. b. lengnick.) 1.--. 2. aufl. b 6. racine, athalie. (direktor dr. f. hummel.) 2. 1.20. aufl. b 14. racine, phèdre. (professor dr. a. kressner.) 2. 1.10. aufl. a 120. recent travel and adventure. livingstone, 1.--. stanley, emin pasha, gordon, greely, nordenskjöld. (prof. dr. j. klapperich.) 2 karten. a 8. reden, ausgewählte, englischer staatsmänner. i. 0.80. [pitt d. ä. u. d. j.] (prof. dr. j. c. a. winkelmann.) a 23. reden, ausgewählte, englischer staatsmänner. 1.10. ii. [burke: ostind. bill des ch. j. fox.] (prof. dr. j. c. a. winkelmann.) a 11. reden, ausgewählte, französischer kanzelredner 1.20. [bossuet, fléchier, massillon]. (professor dr. a. kressner.) b 18. regnard, le joueur. (oberlehrer dr. otto 1.30. boerner.) a 55. robertson, charles v. and francis i. from 1.20. 1521-1527. (professor dr. h. bahrs.) a 86. saintine, picciola. (prof. dr. b. lengnick.) 1.20. b 23. sandeau, mlle de la seiglière. (prof. dr. j. 1.60. sarrazin.) 4. aufl. a *59. sarcey, le siège de paris. (dr. u. cosack.) mit 1.50. karte. 6. aufl. a 9. scott, history of france from 1328-1380. (prof. 1.50. dr. h. fehse.) mit 1 karte und 2 plänen. a *33. scott, sir william wallace and robert the 1.10. bruce. [aus: tales of a grandfather]. (professor dr. h. fehse.) 2. aufl. a 54. scott, ivanhoe. [auszug], (dir. prof. dr. e. 1.40. penner.) 3. aufl. a 62. scott, scenes from old-scottish life. [aus: the 1.10. fair maid of perth]. (professor dr. h. bahrs.) mit 1 karte. a *71. scott, mary stuart. (direktor prof. dr. a. 1.20. fritzsche.) a *87. scott, kenilworth. 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(prof. dr. otto hoffmann.) 6. aufl. a *76. tales and stories from modern writers. i. 1.20. bändchen. (prof. dr. j. klapperich.) 2. aufl. a 78. theuriet, la princesse verte. (dir. prof. l. e. 1.--. rolfs.) a *79. theuriet, ausgew. erzählungen. (prof. dr. a. 1.10. gundlach.) 2. aufl. a 80. theuriet, les enchantements de la forêt. 0.90. [auswahl.] (dir. prof. ludwig e. rolfs.) a 19. thierry, histoire d'attila. (prof. dr. 1.30. wershoven.) [1 karte.] 2. aufl. a 63. thierry, guillaume le conquérant. (dir. prof. 1.40. j. leitritz.) mit 1 karte und 1 schlachtenplan. a *14. thiers, expédition de bonaparte en égypte. 1.50. (prof dr. otto klein.) 6. aufl. mit 3 karten. a 39. thiers, campagne d'italie en 1800. (prof. dr. 1.50. a. althaus.) 2. aufl. mit 1 karte und 2 plänen. c 12. traill, mrs., in the forest or pictures of life 0.80. and scenery in the woods of canada. stufe ii. (dr. cl. klöpper.) a *68. verne, christophe colomb. 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(prof. g. 1.--. wolpert.) t.a. *11. yonge, the book of golden deeds. 0.60. anmerkungen zur transkription die kapitelüberschriften, die der buchvorlage als seitenüberschriften beigegeben waren, wurden an die kapitelanfänge verschoben. verlagsanzeigen wurden am ende des buches vereinigt. hervorhebungen, die im original g e s p e r r t oder kursiv sind, wurden mit unterstrichen wie _hier_ gekennzeichnet. fette schrift wurde ¶so¶ markiert. offensichtliche druckfehler wurden berichtigt wie hier aufgeführt (vorher/nachher): ... frances hodgsons burnett ... ... frances hodgson burnett ... [s. vi]: ... erscheinende kürzungen, wie: i'd, he'd, i'll, h'ell u. a., ... ... erscheinende kürzungen, wie: i'd, he'd, i'll, he'll u. a., ... [s. 49]: ... is'nt, you know; and you'd think 'dear' was spelled ... ... isn't, you know; and you'd think 'dear' was spelled ... [s. 80]: ... "why, boss!" he exlaimed, "d'ye know him yerself?" ... ... "why, boss!" he exclaimed, "d'ye know him yerself?" ... [s. 102]: ... 1776 erfolgte die unabhängigkeitserklärung (declaration of independance ... ... 1776 erfolgte die unabhängigkeitserklärung (declaration of independence ... [s. 102]: ... massachusetts, new-hampshire, conne(c)ticut, rode island, new ... ... massachusetts, new-hampshire, conne(c)ticut, rhode island, new ... [s. 102]: ... york, new jersey, pensylvania, delaware, maryland, south ... ... york, new jersey, pennsylvania, delaware, maryland, south ... ... den schülern im stiche lassen; sie fehlen bei den ... ... den schüler im stiche lassen; sie fehlen bei den ... note: project gutenberg also has an html version of this file which includes the original illustrations. see 20963-h.htm or 20963-h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/2/0/9/6/20963/20963-h/20963-h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/2/0/9/6/20963/20963-h.zip) grandmother dear a book for boys and girls by mrs. molesworth author of 'carrots,' 'cuckoo clock,' 'tell me a story' illustrated by walter crane macmillan and co., limited st. martin's street, london 1932 first edition november 1878. reprinted december 1878 september and december 1882, 1886 1887, 1889, 1892, 1895, 1897, 1899, 1900, 1902, 1904, 1906, 1909, 1911 1918, 1920, 1932 printed in great britain by r. & r. clark, limited, edinburgh [illustration: 'i hope it isn't haunted.'] to _our_ 'grandmother dear,' a. j. s. maison du chanoine, _october_ 1878. contents. chapter i. making friends chapter ii. lost in the louvre chapter iii. "_where_ is sylvia?" chapter iv. the six pinless brooches chapter v. molly's plan chapter vi. the apple-tree of stéfanos chapter vii. grandmother's grandmother chapter viii. grandmother's story (_continued_) chapter ix. ralph's confidence chapter x. "that cad sawyer" chapter xi. "that cad sawyer"--part ii. chapter xii. a christmas adventure chapter xiii. a christmas adventure--part ii. chapter xiv. how this book came to be written list of illustrations. sylvia lost in the louvre "whose drawer is this?" under the apple-tree "zwanzig--twenty schelling, that cup" in the coppice "good-bye again, my boy, and god bless you!" "i hope it isn't haunted" chapter i. making friends. "good onset bodes good end." spenser. "well?" said ralph. "well?" said sylvia. "well?" said molly. then they all three stood and looked at each other. each had his or her own opinion on the subject which was uppermost in their minds, but each was equally reluctant to express it, till that of the others had been got at. so each of the three said "well?" to the other two, and stood waiting, as if they were playing the old game of "who speaks first?" it got tiresome, however, after a bit, and molly, whose patience was the most quickly exhausted, at last threw caution and dignity to the winds. "well," she began, but the "well" this time had quite a different tone from the last; "_well_," she repeated emphatically, "i'm the youngest, and i suppose you'll say i shouldn't give my opinion first, but i just will, for all that. and my opinion is, that she's just as nice as she can be." "and i think so too," said sylvia, "don't you, ralph?" "i?" said ralph loftily, "you forget. _i_ have seen her before." "yes, but not to _remember_," said sylvia and molly at once. "you might just as well never have seen her before as far as that goes. but isn't she nice?" "ye-es," said ralph. "i don't think she's bad for a grandmother." "'for a grandmother!'" cried molly indignantly. "what do you mean, ralph? what can be nicer than a nice grandmother?" "but suppose she wasn't nice? she needn't be, you know. there are grandmothers and grandmothers," persisted ralph. "of course i know _that_," said molly. "you don't suppose i thought our grandmother was everybody's grandmother, you silly boy. what i say is she's just like a real grandmother--not like nora leslie's, who is always scolding nora's mother for spoiling her children, and wears such grand, quite _young lady_ dresses, and has _black_ hair," with an accent of profound disgust, "not nice, beautiful, soft, silver hair, like _our_ grandmother's. now, isn't it true, sylvia, isn't our grandmother just like a _real_ one?" sylvia smiled. "yes, exactly," she replied. "she would almost do for a fairy godmother, if only she had a stick with a gold knob." "only perhaps she'd beat us with it," said ralph. "oh no, not _beat_ us," cried molly, dancing about. "it would be worse than that. if we were naughty she'd point it at us, and then we'd all three turn into toads, or frogs, or white mice. oh, just fancy! i am so glad she hasn't got a gold-headed stick." "children," said a voice at the door, which made them all jump, though it was such a kind, cheery voice. "aren't you ready for tea? i'm glad to see you are not very tired, but you must be hungry. remember that you've travelled a good way to-day." "only from london, grandmother dear," said molly; "that isn't very far." "and the day after to-morrow you have to travel a long way farther," continued her grandmother. "you must get early to bed, and keep yourselves fresh for all that is before you. aunty says _she_ is very hungry, so you little people must be so too. yes, dears, you may run downstairs first, and i'll come quietly after you; i am not so young as i have been, you know." molly looked up with some puzzle in her eyes at this. "not so young as you have been, grandmother dear?" she repeated. "of course not," said ralph. "and you're not either, molly. once you were a baby in long clothes, and, barring the long clothes, i don't know but what----" "hush, ralph. don't begin teasing her," said sylvia in a low voice, not lost, however, upon grandmother. what _was_ lost upon grandmother? "and what were you all so busy chattering about when i interrupted you just now?" she inquired, when they were all seated round the tea-table, and thanks to the nice cold chicken and ham, and rolls and butter and tea-cakes, and all manner of good things, the children fast "losing their appetites." sylvia blushed and looked at ralph; ralph grew much interested in the grounds at the bottom of his tea-cup; only molly, molly the irrepressible, looked up briskly. "oh, nothing," she replied; "at least nothing particular." "dear me! how odd that you should all three have been talking at once about anything so uninteresting as nothing particular," said grandmother, in a tone which made them all laugh. "it wasn't _exactly_ about nothing particular," said molly: "it was about _you_, grandmother dear." "molly!" said sylvia reproachfully, but molly was not so easily to be snubbed. "we were wishing," she continued, "that you had a gold-headed stick, and then you'd be quite _perfect_." it was grandmother's and aunty's turn to laugh now. "only," molly went on, "ralph said perhaps you'd beat us with it, and i said no, most likely you'd turn us into frogs or mice, you know." "'frogs or mice, i know,' but indeed i don't know," said grandmother; "why should i wish to turn my boy and girl children into frogs and mice?" "if we were naughty, i meant," said molly. "oh, sylvia, you explain--i always say things the wrong way." "it was i that said you looked like a fairy godmother," said sylvia, blushing furiously, "and that put it into molly's head about the frogs and mice." "but the only fairy godmother _i_ remember that did these wonderful things turned mice into horses to please her god-daughter. have you not got hold of the wrong end of the story, molly?" said grandmother. "the wrong end and beginning and middle too, i should say," observed ralph. "yes, grandmother dear, i always do," said molly, complacently. "i never remember stories or anything the right way, my head is so funnily made." "when you can't find your gloves, because you didn't put them away carefully, is it the fault of the shape of the chest of drawers?" inquired grandmother quietly. "yes, i suppose so,--at least, no, i mean, of course it isn't," replied molly, taking heed to her words half-way through, when she saw that they were all laughing at her. grandmother smiled, but said no more. "what a wool-gathering little brain it is," she said to herself. when she smiled, all the children agreed together afterwards, she looked more like a fairy godmother than ever. she was really a _very_ pretty old lady. never very tall, with age she had grown smaller, though still upright as a dart; the "november roses" in her cheeks were of their kind as sweet as the june ones that nestled there long ago--ah! so long ago now; and the look in her eyes had a tenderness and depth which can only come from a life of unselfishness, of joy and much sorrow too--a life whose lessons have been well and dutifully learnt, and of which none has been more thoroughly taken home than that of gentle judgment of, and much patience with, others. while they are all finishing their tea, would you, my boy and girl friends, like to know who they were--these three, ralph, sylvia, and molly, whom i want to tell you about, and whom i hope you will love? when i was a little girl i liked to know exactly about the children in my books, each of whom had his or her distinct place in my affections. i liked to know their names, their ages, all about their homes and their relations _most_ exactly, and more than once i was laughed at for writing out a sort of genealogical tree of some of my little fancy friends' family connections. we need not go quite so far as _that_, but i will explain to you about these new little friends of yours enough for you to be able to find out the rest for yourselves. they had never seen their grandmother before, never, that is to say, in the girls' case, and in ralph's "not to remember her." ralph was fourteen now, sylvia thirteen, and molly about a year and a half younger. more than seven years ago their mother had died, and since then they had been living with their father, whose profession obliged him often to change his home, in various different places. it had been impossible for their grandmother, much as she wished it, to have had them hitherto with her, for, for several years out of the seven, her hands, and those of aunty, too, her only other daughter besides their mother, had been more than filled with other cares. their grandfather had been ill for many years before his death, and for his sake grandmother and aunty had left the english home they loved so much, and gone to live in the south of france. and after his death, as often happens with people no longer young, and somewhat wearied, grandmother found that the old dream of returning "home," and ending her days with her children and old friends round her, had grown to be but a dream, and, what was more, had lost its charm. she had grown to love her new home, endeared now by so many associations; she had got used to the ways of the people, and felt as if english ways would be strange to her, and as aunty's only idea of happiness was to find it in hers, the mother and daughter had decided to make their home where for nearly fourteen years it had been. they had gone to england this autumn for a few weeks, finally to arrange some matters that had been left unsettled, and while there something happened which made them very glad that they had done so. mr. heriott, the children's father, had received an appointment in india, which would take him there for two or three years, and though grandmother and aunty were sorry to think of his going so far away, they were--oh, i can't tell you how delighted! when he agreed to their proposal, that the children's home for the time should be with them. it would be an advantage for the girls' french, said grandmother, and would do ralph no harm for a year or two, and if his father's absence lasted longer, it could easily be arranged for him to be sent back to england to school, still spending his holidays at châlet. so all was settled; and grandmother, who had taken a little house at dover for a few weeks, stayed there quietly, while aunty journeyed away up to the north of england to fetch the children, their father being too busy with preparations for his own departure to be able conveniently to take them to dover himself. there were some tears shed at parting with "papa," for the children loved him truly, and believed in his love for them, quiet and undemonstrative though his manner was. there were some tears, too, shed at parting with "nurse," who, having conscientiously spoilt them all, was now getting past work, and was to retire to her married daughter's; there were a good many bestowed on the rough coat of shag, the pony, and the still rougher of fusser, the scotch terrier; but after all, children are children, and for my part i should be very sorry for them to be anything else, and the delights of the change and the bustle of the journey soon drowned all melancholy thoughts. and so far all had gone charmingly. aunty had proved to be all that could be wished of aunty-kind, and grandmother promised more than fairly. "what _would_ we have done if she had been very tall and stout, and fierce-looking, with spectacles and a hookey nose?" thought molly, and as the thought struck her, she left off eating, and sat with wide open eyes, staring at her grandmother. though grandmother did not in general wear spectacles--only when reading very small print, or busied with some peculiarly fine fancywork--nothing ever seemed to escape her notice. "molly, my dear, what are you staring at so? is my cap crooked?" she said. molly started. "oh no, grandmother dear," she replied. "i was only thinking----" she stopped short, jumped off her seat, and in another moment was round the table with a rush, which would have been sadly trying to most grandmothers and aunties, only fortunately these special ones were not like most! "what is the matter, dear?" grandmother was beginning to exclaim, when she was stopped by feeling two arms hugging her tightly, and a rather bread-and-buttery little mouth kissing her valorously. "nothing's the matter," said molly, when she stopped her kisses, "it only just came into my head when i was looking at you, how nice you were, you dear little grandmother, and i thought i'd like to kiss you. i don't want you to have a gold-headed stick, but i do want one thing, and then you _would_ be quite perfect. oh, grandmother dear," she went on, clasping her hands in entreaty, "just tell me this, _do_ you ever tell stories?" grandmother shook her head solemnly. "i _hope_ not, my dear child," she said, but molly detected the fun through the solemnity. she gave a wriggle. "now you're laughing at me," she said. "you _know_ i don't mean that kind. i mean do you ever tell real stories--not real, i don't mean, for very often the nicest aren't real, about fairies, you know--but you know the sort of stories i mean. you would look so beautiful telling stories, wouldn't she now, sylvia?" "and the stories would be beautiful if i told them--eh, molly?" "yes, i am sure they would be. _will_ you think of some?" "we'll see," said grandmother. "anyway there's no time for stories at present. you have ever so much to think of with all the travelling that is before you. wait till we get to châlet, and then we'll see." "i like _your_ 'we'll see,'" said molly. "some people's 'we'll see,' just means, 'i can't be troubled,' or, 'don't bother.' but i think _your_ 'we'll see' sounds nice, grandmother dear." "i am glad you think so, grand-daughter dear; and now, what about going to bed? it is only seven, but if you are tired?" "but we are not a bit tired," said molly. "we never go to bed till half-past eight, and ralph at nine," said sylvia. the word "bed" had started a new flow of ideas in molly's brain. "grandmother," she said, growing all at once very grave, "that reminds me of one thing i wanted to ask you; do the tops of the beds ever come down now in paris?" "'do the tops of the beds in paris ever come down?'" repeated grandmother. "my dear child, what _do_ you mean?" "it was a story she heard," began sylvia, in explanation. "about somebody being suffocated in paris by the top of the bed coming down," continued ralph. "it was robbers that wanted to steal his money," added molly. grandmother began to look less mystified. "oh, _that_ old story!" she said. "but how did you hear it? i remember it when i was a little girl; it really happened to a friend of my grandfather's, and afterwards i came across it in a little book about dogs. 'fidelity of dogs,' was the name of it, i think. the dog saved the traveller's life by dragging him out of the bed." "yes," said aunty, "i remember that book too. it was among your old child's books, mother. a queer little musty brown volume, and i remember how the story frightened me." "there now!" said molly triumphantly. "you see it frightened aunty too. so i'm _not_ such a baby after all." "yes, you are," said ralph. "people might be frightened without making such a fuss. molly declared she would rather not go to paris at all. _that's_ what i call being babyish--it isn't the feeling frightened that's babyish--for people might feel frightened and still _be_ brave, mightn't they, grandmother?" "certainly, my boy. that is what _moral_ courage means." "oh!" said molly, as if a new idea had dawned upon her. "i see. then it doesn't matter if i am frightened if i don't tell any one." "not exactly that," said grandmother. "i would _like_ you all to be strong and sensible, and to have good nerves, which it would take a good deal to startle, as well as to have what certainly is best of all, plenty of moral courage." "and if molly is frightened, she certainly couldn't help telling," said sylvia, laughing. "she does _so_ pinch whoever is next her." "there was nothing about a dog in the story of the bed we heard," said molly. "it was in a book that a boy at school lent ralph. i wouldn't ever be frightened if i had fusser, i don't think. i do so wish i had asked papa to let him come with us--just _in case_, you know, of the beds having anything funny about them: it would be so comfortable to have fusser." at this they all laughed, and aunty promised that if molly felt dissatisfied with the appearance of her bed, she would exchange with her. and not long after, sylvia and molly began to look so sleepy, in spite of their protestations that the dustman's cart was nowhere near _their_ door, that aunty insisted they must be mistaken, _she_ had heard his warning bell ringing some minutes ago. so the two little sisters came round to say good-night. "good night, grandmother dear," said molly, in a voice which tried hard to be brisk as usual through the sleepiness. grandmother laid her hand on her shoulder and looked into her eyes. molly had nice eyes when you looked at them closely: they were honest and candid, though of too pale a blue to show at first sight the expression they really contained. just now too, they were blinking and winking a little. still grandmother must have been able to read in them what she wanted, for her face looked satisfied when she withdrew her gaze. "so i am _really_ to be 'grandmother dear,' to you, my dear funny little girl?" she said. "of course, grandmother dear. really, _really_ i mean," said molly, laughing at herself. "do you see it in my eyes?" "yes, i think i do. you have nice honest eyes, my little girl." molly flushed a little with pleasure. "i thought they were rather ugly. ralph calls them 'cats',' and 'boiled gooseberries,'" she said. "anyway sylvia's are much prettier. she has such nice long eyelashes." "sylvia's are very sweet," said grandmother, kissing her in turn, "and we won't make comparisons. both pairs of eyes will do very well my darlings, if always 'the light within them, tender is and true.' now good night, and god bless my little grand-daughters. ralph, you'll sit up with me a little longer, won't you?" "what nice funny things grandmother says, doesn't she, sylvia?" said molly, as they were undressing. "she says nice things," said sylvia, "i don't know about they're being funny. you call everything funny, molly." "except you when you're going to bed, for then you're very often rather cross," said molly. but as she was only _in fun_, sylvia took it in good part, and, after kissing each other good night, both little sisters fell asleep without loss of time. chapter ii. lost in the louvre. "oh how i wish that i had lived in the ages that are gone!" a child's wish. it was--did i say so before? the children's first visit to paris. they had travelled a good deal, for such small people quite "a _very_ good deal," as molly used to maintain for the benefit of their less experienced companions. they knew england, "of course," ralph would say in his lordly, big-boy fashion, scotland too, and wales, and they had spent some time in germany. but they had never been in paris, and the excitement on finding the journey safely past and themselves really there was very considerable. "and, molly," said sylvia, on their way from the railway station to the hotel where rooms had been engaged for them, "remember you've _promised_ not to awake me in the middle of the night if you begin thinking about the top of the bed coming down." "and, oh, sylvia! i _wish_ you hadn't reminded me of it just now," said molly pathetically, for which all the satisfaction she received was a somewhat curt observation from sylvia, that she shouldn't be so silly. for sylvia, though in reality the kindest of little elder sisters, was sometimes inclined to be "short" with poor molly. sylvia was clever and quick, and very "capable," remarkably ready at putting herself, as it were, in the place of another and seeing for the time being, through his or her spectacles. while molly had not got further than opening wide her eyes, and not unfrequently her mouth too, sylvia, practical in the way that only people of lively imagination can be so, had taken in the whole case, whatever it might be, and set her ready wits to work as to the best thing to be said or done. and molly would wonderingly admire, and wish she could manage to "think of things" the way sylvia did. they loved each other dearly, these two--but to-night they were tired, and when people, not children only, big people too, very often--are tried, it is only a very little step to being cross and snappish. and when aunty, tired too, and annoyed by the unamiable tones, turned round to beg them to "_try_ to leave off squabbling; it was so thoughtless of them to disturb their grandmother," two or three big tears welled up in molly's eyes, though it was too dark in the omnibus, which was taking them and their luggage from the station, for any one to see, and she thought to herself what a terrible disappointment it would be if, after all, this delightful, long-talked-of visit to paris, were to turn out not delightful at all. and through sylvia's honest little heart there darted a quick sting of pain and regret for her sharpness to molly. how was it that she could not manage to keep the resolutions so often and so conscientiously made? how was it that she could not succeed in remembering at the time, the very moment at which she was tempted to be snappish and supercilious, her never-_really_-forgotten motive for peculiar gentleness and patience with her younger sister, the promise she had made, now so many years ago, to the mother molly could scarcely even remember, to be kind, _very_ kind, and gentle to the little, flaxen-haired, toddling thing, the "baby" whom that dear mother had loved so piteously. "eight years ago," said sylvia to herself. "i was five and molly only three and a half then. poor little molly, how funny she was!" and a hand crept in under molly's sleeve, and a whisper reached her ear. "i don't mean to be cross or to tease you, molly." and molly in a moment was her own queer, happy, muddle-headed little self again. "dear sylvia," she whispered in return, "of course you don't. you never do, and if the top of the bed _did_ come down, i'm sure i'd pull you out first, however sleepy i was. only of course i know it _won't_, and it's just my silly way, but when i'm as big as you, sylvia, i'll get out of it, i'm sure." "you're as big as me now, you silly girl," said sylvia laughingly, which was true. molly was tall and well-grown for her age, while sylvia was small, so that very often, to molly's delight, they were taken for twins. "in my body, but not in my mind," rejoined molly, with a little sigh. "i wish the growing would go into my mind for a little, though i wouldn't like to be _much_ smaller than you, sylvia. perhaps we shouldn't be dressed alike, then." "do be quiet, molly, you are such an awful chatterbox," growled ralph from his corner. "i was just having a nice little nap." he was far too "grown-up" to own to the eagerness with which, as they went along, he had been furtively peeping out at the window beside him--or to join in molly's screams of delight at the brilliance of the illumined shop windows, and the interminable perspective of gas lamps growing longer and longer behind them as they rapidly made their way. a sudden slackening of their speed, a sharp turn, and a rattle over the stones, told of their arrival at their destination. and "oh!" cried molly, "i _am_ so glad. aren't you awfully hungry, sylvia?" and grandmother, who, to tell the truth, had been indulging in a peaceful, _real_ little nap--not a sham one like ralph's--quite woke up at this, and told molly it was the best sign in the world to be hungry after a journey; she was delighted to find her so good a traveller. the "dinner-tea" which, out of consideration for the children's home hours, had been ordered for them, turned out delicious. never had they tasted such butter, such bread, such grilled chicken, and fried potatoes! and to complete molly's satisfaction the beds proved to have no tops to them at all. "i told you so," said ralph majestically, when they had made the tour of the various rooms and settled who was to have which, and though neither sylvia nor molly had the slightest recollection of his "telling you so," they were wise enough to say nothing. "but the little doors in the walls are quite as bad, or worse," ralph continued mischievously. "there's one at the head of your bed, molly,"--molly and sylvia were to have two little beds in the same room, standing in a sort of alcove--"which i am almost sure opens on to a secret staircase." molly gave a little shiver, and looked up appealingly. "ralph, you are not to tease her," said aunty. "remember all your promises to your father." ralph looked rather snubbed. "let us talk of something pleasant," continued aunty, anxious to change the subject. "what shall we do to-morrow? what shall we go to see first?" "yes," said grandmother. "what are your pet wishes, children?" "notre dame," cried molly. "the louvre," said sylvia. "anything you like. i don't care much for sightseeing," said ralph. "that's a pity," said aunty drily. "however, as you are the only gentleman of the party, and we are all dependent on you, perhaps it is just as well that you have no special fancies of your own. so to-morrow i propose that we should go a drive in the morning, to give you a general idea of paris, returning by notre dame. in the afternoon i have some calls to make, and a little shopping to do, and you three must not forget to write to your father. then the next day we can go to the louvre, as sylvia wished." "thank you, aunty," said sylvia. "it isn't so much for the pictures i want to go, but i do so want to see the room where poor henry the fourth was killed. i am _so_ fond of henry the fourth." aunty smiled, and ralph burst out laughing. "what a queer idea!" he said. "if you are so fond of him, i should think you would rather _not_ see the room where he was killed." sylvia grew scarlet, and molly flew up in her defence. "you've no business to laugh at sylvia, ralph," she cried. "_i_ understand her quite well. and she knows a great deal more history than you do--and about pictures, too. of course we want to see the pictures, too. there's that beautiful blue and orange one of murillo's that papa has a little copy of. _it's_ at the louvre." "i didn't say it wasn't," retorted ralph. "it's sylvia's love of horrors i was laughing at." "she _doesn't_ love horrors," replied molly, more and more indignant. "_you_ needn't talk," said ralph coolly. "who was it that took a box of matches in her pocket to holyrood palace, and was going to strike one to look for the blood-stains on the floor? it was the only thing you cared to see, and yet you are such a goose--crying out if a butterfly settles on you. i think girls are----" "ralph, my boy," said grandmother, seeing that by this time molly was almost in tears; "whatever you think of girls, you make me, i am sorry to say, think that boys' love of teasing is utterly incomprehensible--and oh, _so_ unmanly!" the last touch went home. "i was only in fun, grandmother," said ralph with unusual meekness; "i didn't mean really to vex molly." so peace was restored. to-morrow turned out fine, deliriously fine. "not like england," said molly superciliously, "where it _always_ rains when you want it to be fine." they made the most of the beautiful weather, though by no means agreeing with aunty's reminder that even in paris it did sometimes rain, and the three pairs of eager feet were pretty tired by the time bed-time came. and oh, what a disappointment the next morning brought! the children woke to a regular, pouring wet day, no chance of fulfilling the programme laid out, for sylvia was subject to sore throats, and grandmother would not let her go out in the damp, and there would be no fun in going to the louvre without her. so, as what can't be cured _must_ be endured, the children had just to make the best of it and amuse themselves in the house in the hopes of sunshine again for to-morrow. these hopes were happily fulfilled. "a lovely day," said aunty, "all the brighter for yesterday's rain." "and we may go to the louvre," exclaimed sylvia eagerly. aunty hesitated and turned, as everybody did when they were at a loss, to grandmother. "what do you think?" she said. she was reluctant to disappoint the children--sylvia especially--as they had all been very good the day before, but yet----"it is saturday, and the louvre will be so crowded you know, mother." "but _i_ shall be with you," said ralph. "and _i_!" said grandmother. "is not a little old lady like me equal to taking care of you all?" "will you really come too, dear grandmother?" exclaimed sylvia and molly in a breath. "_oh_, how nice!" "i should like to go," said grandmother. "it is ever so many years since i was at the louvre." "do let us go then. oh, do let us all go," said the little girls. "you know we are leaving on tuesday, and something might come in the way again on monday." so it was settled. "remember, children," said grandmother as they were all getting out of the carriage, "remember to keep close together. you have no idea how easily some of you might get lost in the crowd." "_lost!_" repeated sylvia incredulously. "lost!" echoed molly. "lost!" shouted ralph so loudly that some of their fellow-sight-seers, passing beside them into the palace, turned round to see what was the matter. "how could we _possibly_ get lost here?" "very easily," replied aunty calmly. "there is nothing, to people unaccustomed to it, so utterly bewildering as a crowd." "not to me," persisted ralph. "i could thread my way in and out of the people till i found you. the _girls_ might get lost, perhaps." "thank you," said molly; "as it happens, master ralph, i think it would be much harder to lose us than you. for one thing we can speak french ever such a great deal better than you." "and then there are two of us. if one of us was lost, grandmother and aunty could hold out the other one as a pattern, and say, 'i want a match for this,'" said sylvia laughing, and a little eager to prevent the impending skirmish between ralph and molly. "hush, children, you really mustn't chatter so," said aunty. "use your eyes, and let your tongues, poor things, rest for a little." they got on very happily. aunty managed to show the children the special picture or pictures each had most wanted to see--including the "beautiful blue and orange" one of molly's recollection. she nearly screamed with delight when she saw "how like it was to the one in papa's study," but took in good part ralph's cynical observation that a thing that was copied from another was generally supposed to be "like" the original. only sylvia was a little disappointed when, after looking at the pictures in one of the smaller rooms--a room in no way peculiar or remarkable as differing from the others--they suddenly discovered that they were in the famous "salle henri ii.," where henry the fourth was killed! "i didn't think it would be like this," said sylvia lugubriously. "why do they call it 'salle henri ii.?' it should be called after henry the fourth; and i don't think it should have pictures in, and be just like a common room." "what would you have it? hung round with black and tapers burning?" said her aunt. "i don't know--any way i thought it would have had old tapestry," said sylvia. "i should like it to have been kept just the way it was then." "poor sylvia!" said grandmother. "but we must hurry on, children. we have not seen the 'petite galérie' yet--dear me, how many years it is since i was in it!--and some of the most beautiful pictures are there." they passed on--grandmother leaning on aunty's arm--the three children close behind, through a room called the "salle des sept cheminées," along a vestibule filled with cases of jewellery, leading again to one of the great staircases. something in the vestibule attracted grandmother's attention, and she stopped for a moment. sylvia, not interested in what the others were looking at, turned round and retraced her steps a few paces by the way they had entered the hall. a thought had struck her. "i'd like just to run back for a moment to henry the fourth's room," she said to herself. "i want to notice the shape of it exactly, and how many windows there are, and then i think i can fancy to myself how it looked _then_, with the tapestry and all the old-fashioned furniture." no sooner thought than done. in a moment she was back in the room which had so curiously fascinated her, taking accurate note of its features. "i shall remember it now," she said to herself, after gazing round her for a minute or two. "now i must run after grandmother and the others, or they'll be thinking i am lost." she turned with a little laugh at the idea, and hastened out of the room, through the few groups of people standing or moving about, looking at the pictures--hastened out, expecting in another moment to see the familiar figures. the room into which she made her way was also filled with pictures, as had been the one through which she had entered the "salle henri ii." she crossed it without misgiving: she had no idea that she had left the salle henri ii. by the opposite door from that by which she had entered it! poor little sylvia, she did not know that grandmother's warning was actually to be fulfilled. she was "lost in the louvre!" chapter iii. "_where_ is sylvia?" "what called me back? a voice of happy childhood, "yet might i not bewail the vision gone, my heart so leapt to that dear loving tone." mrs. hemans, "an hour of romance." she did not find out her mistake. she passed through the room and entered the vestibule into which it led, quite confident that she would meet the others in an instant. there were several groups standing about this vestibule as there had been in the other, but none composed of the figures she was looking for. "they must have passed on," said sylvia to herself; "i wish they hadn't; perhaps they never noticed i wasn't beside them." then for the first time a slight feeling of anxiety seized her. she hurried quickly across the ante-room where she was standing, to find herself in another "salle," which was quite unlike any of the others she had seen. instead of oil-paintings, it was hung round with colourless engravings. here, too, there were several people standing about, but none whom, even for an instant, sylvia could have mistaken for her friends. "how quickly they must have hurried on," she thought, her heart beginning to beat faster. "i do think they might have waited a little. they must have missed me by now." no use delaying in _this_ room. sylvia hurried on, finding herself now in that part of the palace devoted to ancient pottery and other antiquities, uninteresting to a child. the rooms through which she passed were much less crowded than those containing pictures. at a glance it was easy to distinguish that those she was in search of were _not_ there. still she tried to keep up heart. "there is nothing here they would much care about," she said to herself. "if i could get back to the picture rooms i should be sure to find them." at last, to her delight, after crossing a second vestibule, from which descended a great staircase which she fancied she had seen before, she entered another of the long galleries completely hung with paintings. she bounded forward joyously. "they're sure to be here," she said. the room was very crowded. she dared not rush through it as fast as hitherto; it was _so_ crowded that she felt it would be quite possible to overlook a group of even four. more than once she fancied she caught sight of grandmother's small and aunty's taller figure, both dressed in black. once her heart gave a great throb of delight when she fancied she distinguished through the crowd the cream-coloured felt hat and feathers of molly, her double. but no--it was a cream-coloured felt hat, but the face below it was not molly's. then at last a panic seized the poor little girl. she fairly lost her head, and the tears blinding her so, that had molly and all of them been close beside her, she could scarcely have perceived them, she ran half frantically through the rooms. half frantically in reality, but scarcely so to outward appearance. her habit of self-control, her unconquerable british dislike to being seen in tears, or to making herself conspicuous, prevented her distress being so visible as to attract general attention. some few people remarked her as she passed--a forlorn little evangeline--her pretty face now paler, now more flushed than its wont, as alternations of hope and fear succeeded each other, and wondered if she had lost her party or her way. but she had disappeared before there was time to do more than notice her. more than once she was on the point of asking help or advice from the cocked-hat officials at the doors, but she was afraid. in some ways she was very ignorant and childish for her age, notwithstanding her little womanlinesses and almost precocious good sense, and to tell the truth, a vague misty terror was haunting her brain--a terror which she would hardly have confessed to molly, not for worlds untold to _ralph_--that, being in france and not in england, she might somehow be put in prison, were the state of the case known to these same cocked-hat gentlemen! so, when at last one of these dignitaries, who had been noticing her rapid progress down the long gallery "napoléon iii.," stopped her with the civil inquiry, "had mademoiselle lost her way? was she seeking some one?" she bit her lips tight and winked her eyes briskly not to cry, as she replied in her best french, "oh no," she could find her way. and then, as a sudden thought struck her that possibly he had been deputed by grandmother and aunty, who _must_ have missed her by now, to look for her, she glanced up at him again with the inquiry, had he, perhaps, seen a little girl like her? _just_ like her? [illustration: sylvia lost in the louvre.] "une petite fille comme mademoiselle?" replied the man smiling, but not taking in the sense of the question. "no, he had not." how could there be two little demoiselles, "tout-à-fait pareilles?" he shook his head, good-natured but mystified, and sylvia, getting frightened again, thanked him and sped off anew. the next doorway--by this time she had unconsciously in her panic and confusion begun actually to retrace her steps round the main court of the palace--brought her again into a room filled with statuary and antiquities. she was getting so tired, so out of breath, that the excitement now deserted her. she sat down on the ledge of one of the great marble vases, in a corner where her little figure was almost hidden from sight, and began to think, as quietly and composedly as she could, what she should do. the tears were slowly creeping up into her eyes again; she let two or three fall, and then resolutely drove the others back. "what shall i do?" she thought, and joined to her own terrors there was now the certainty of the anxiety and misery the others must, by this time, be suffering on her account. "oh, poor little molly," she said to herself. "how dreadfully she will be crying! what shall i do?" two or three ideas struck her. should she go down one of the staircases which every now and then she came upon, and find her way out of the palace, and down in the street try to call a cab to take her back to the hotel? but she had no money with her, and no idea what a cab would cost. and she was frightened of strange cabmen, and by no means sure that she could intelligibly explain the address. besides this, she could not bear to go home without them all, feeling certain that they would not desert the palace till they had searched every corner for her. "if i could but be sure of any place they _must_ pass," she said to herself, with her good sense reviving; "it would be the best way to wait there till they come." she jumped up again. "the door out!" she exclaimed. "they _must_ pass it. only perhaps," her hopes falling, "there are several doors. the best one to wait at would be the one we came in by, if i could but tell which it was. let me see--yes, i remember, as we came upstairs, aunty said, 'this is the grand escalier.' if i ask for the 'grand escalier.'" her courage returned. the very next cocked hat she came upon, she asked to direct her to the "grand escalier." he sent her straight back through a vestibule she had just left, at the other entrance to which she found herself at the head of the great staircase. "i am sure this is the one we came up," she thought, as she ran down, and her certainty was confirmed, when, having made her way out through the entrance hall at the foot of the staircase, she caught sight, a few yards off, of an old apple woman's stall in the courtyard. "i remember that stall quite well," thought sylvia, and in her delight she felt half inclined to run up to the apple-woman and kiss her. "she looks nice," she said to herself, "and they must pass that way to get to the street we came along. i'll go and stand beside her." half timidly the little girl advanced towards the stall. she had stood there a minute or two before its owner noticed her, and turned to ask if mademoiselle wanted an apple. sylvia shook her head. she had no money and did not want any apples, but might she stand there to watch for her friends, whom she had lost in the crowd. the old woman, with bright black eyes and shrivelled-up, yellow-red cheeks, not unlike one of her own apples that had been thrown aside as spoilt, turned and looked with kindly curiosity at the little girl. "might mademoiselle wait there? certainly. but she must not stand," and as she spoke she drew out a little stool, on which sylvia was only too glad to seat herself, and feeling a little less anxious, she mustered courage to ask the old woman if every one came out at this door. "to go where?" inquired the old woman, and when sylvia mentioned the name of the hotel and the street where they were staying, "ah, yes!" said her informant; "mademoiselle might be quite satisfied. it was quite sure madame, her mother, would come out by that entrance." "not my mother," said sylvia. "i have no mother. it is my grandmother." "the grandmother of mademoiselle," repeated the old woman with increased interest. "ah, yes i too had once a grand-daughter." "did she die?" said sylvia. "poor angel, yes," replied the apple-seller; "she went to the good god, and no doubt it is better. she was orphan, mademoiselle, and i was obliged to be out all day, and she would come too. and it is so cold in paris, the winter. she got a bad bronchitis and she died, and her old grandmother is now alone." "i am so sorry," said sylvia. and her thoughts went off to her own grandmother, and molly, and all of them, with fresh sympathy for the anxiety they must be suffering. she leant back on the wall against which the old woman had placed the stool, feeling very depressed and weary--so weary that she did not feel able to do anything but sit still, which no doubt from every point of view was the best thing she could do, though but for her weariedness she would have felt much inclined to rush off again to look for them, thus decidedly decreasing her chance of finding them. "mademoiselle is tired," said the old woman, kindly. "she need not be afraid. the ladies are sure to come out here. i will watch well those who pass. a little demoiselle dressed like mademoiselle? one could not mistake. mademoiselle may feel satisfied." somehow the commonplace, kindly words did make sylvia feel less anxious. and she was very tired. not so much with running about the louvre; that, in reality, had not occupied more than three quarters of an hour, but with the fright and excitement, and the excitement of a different kind too, that she had had the last few days, poor little sylvia was really quite tired out. she laid her head down on the edge of the table on which the apples were spread out, hardly taking in the sense of what the old woman was saying--that in half-an-hour at most mademoiselle would find her friends, for then the doors would be closed, and every one would be obliged to leave the palace. she felt satisfied that the old woman would be on the look-out for the little party she had described to her, and she thought vaguely that she would ask grandmother to give her a sixpence or a shilling--no, not a sixpence or a shilling,--she was in france, not in england--what should she say? a franc--half a franc--how much was equal to a sixpence or a shilling? she thought it over mistily for a moment or two, and then thought no more about it--she had fallen fast asleep! but how was this? she had fallen asleep with her head on the apple-woman's stall; when she looked round her again where was she? for a minute or two she did not in the least recognise the room--then it suddenly flashed upon her she was in the salle henri ii., the room where poor henry the fourth was killed! but how changed it was--the pictures were all gone, the walls were hung with the tapestry she had wished she could see there, and the room was but dimly lighted by a lamp hanging from the centre of the roof. sylvia did not feel in any way surprised at the transformation--but she looked about her with great interest and curiosity. suddenly a slight feeling of fear came over her, when in one corner she saw the hangings move, and from behind the tapestry a hand, a very long white hand, appear. whose could it be? sylvia's fear increased to terror when it suddenly struck her that this must be the night of the 14th of may, the night on which henry of navarre was to be killed. she gave a scream of terror, or what she fancied a scream; in reality it was the faintest of muffled sounds, like the tiny squeal of a distressed mouse, which seemed to startle the owner of the hand into quicker measures. he threw back the hangings and came towards sylvia, addressing her distinctly. the voice was so kind that her courage returned, and she looked up at the new comer. his face was pale and somewhat worn-looking, the eyes were bright and sparkling, and benevolent in expression; his tall figure was curiously dressed in a fashion which yet did not seem quite unfamiliar to the little girl--a sort of doublet or jacket of rich crimson velvet, with lace at the collar and cuffs, short trousers fastened in at the knees, "very like ralph's knickerbockers," said sylvia to herself, long pointed-toed shoes, like canoes, and on the head a little cap edged with gold, half coronet, half smoking cap, it seemed to her. where had she ever seen this old-world figure before? she gazed at him in perplexity. "why are you so frightened, mademoiselle?" said the stranger, and curiously enough his voice sounded very like that of the most amiable of her cocked-hat friends. sylvia hesitated. "i don't think i am frightened," she said, and though she spoke english and the stranger had addressed her in french, he seemed quite to understand her. "i am only tired, and there was something the matter. i can't remember what it was." "i know," replied her visitor. "you can't find molly and the others. never mind. if you come with me i'll take you to them. i know all the ins and outs of the palace. i have lived here so long, you see." he held out his hand, but sylvia hesitated. "who are you?" she said. a curious smile flickered over the face before her. "don't you know?" he said. "i am surprised at that. i thought you knew me quite well." "are you?" said sylvia--"yes, i am sure you must be one of the pictures in the long gallery. i remember looking at you this afternoon. how did you get down?" "no," said the stranger, "mademoiselle is not quite right. how could there be two 'tout à fait pareils'?" and again his voice sounded exactly like that of the cocked-hat who would not understand when she had asked him if he had seen molly. yet she still felt sure he was mistaken, he _must_ be the picture she remembered. "it is very queer," she said. "if you are not the picture, who are you then?" "i pass my time," said the figure, somewhat irrelevantly, "between this room, where i was killed and the 'salle des caryatides,' where i was married. on the whole i prefer this room." "are you--can you be--henry the fourth?" exclaimed sylvia. "oh! poor henry the fourth, i am so afraid of them coming to kill you again. come, let us run quick to the old apple-woman, she will take care of you till we find grandmother." she in turn held out her hand. the king took it and held it a moment in his, and a sad, very sad smile overspread his face. "alas!" he said, "i cannot leave the palace. i have no little grand-daughter like mademoiselle. i am alone, always alone. farewell, my little demoiselle. les voilà qui viennent." the last words he seemed to speak right into her ears, so clear and loud they sounded. sylvia started--opened her eyes--no, there was no king to be seen, only the apple-woman, who had been gently shaking her awake, and who now stood pointing out to her a little group of four people hurrying towards them, of whom the foremost, hurrying the fastest of all, was a fair-haired little girl with a cream-coloured felt hat and feathers, who, sobbing, threw herself into sylvia's arms, and hugged and hugged as if she never would let go. "oh, sylvia, oh, my darling!" she cried. "i thought you were lost for always. oh, i have been so frightened--oh, we have all been so frightened. i thought perhaps they had taken you away to one of the places where the tops of the beds come down, or to that other place on the river, the morgue, where they drown people, only i didn't say so, not to frighten poor grandmother worse. oh, grandmother _dear_, aren't you glad she's found?" sylvia was crying too by this time, and the old apple-woman was wiping her eyes with a corner of her apron. you may be sure grandmother gave her a present, i rather think it was of a five-franc piece, which was very extravagant of grandmother, wasn't it? they had been of course hunting for sylvia, as people always do for anything that is lost, from a little girl to a button-hook, _before they find it_, in every place but the right one. i think it was grandmother's bright idea at last to make their way to the entrance and wait there. there had been quite a commotion among the cocked-hats who had _not_ seen sylvia, only unfortunately they had not managed to communicate with the cocked-hats who _had_ seen her, and they had shown the greatest zeal in trying to "match" the little girl in the cream-coloured hat, held out to them as a pattern by the brisk old lady in black, who spoke such beautiful french, that they "demanded themselves" seriously if the somewhat eccentric behaviour of the party could be explained, as all eccentricities should of course _always_ be explained, by the fact of their being english! aunty's distress had been great, and she had not "kept her head" as well as grandmother, whose energies had a happy knack of always rising to the occasion. "what _will_ walter think of us," said aunty piteously, referring to the children's father, "if we begin by losing one of them?" and she unmercifully snubbed ralph's not unreasonable suggestion of "detectives;" he had always heard the french police system was so excellent. ralph had been as unhappy as any of them, especially as grandmother had strenuously forbidden his attempting to mend matters by "threading his way in and out," and getting lost himself in the process. and yet when they were all comfortably at the hotel again, their troubles forgotten, and sylvia had time to relate her remarkable dream, he teased her unmercifully the whole evening about her description of the personal appearance of henry the fourth. he was, according to ralph, neither tall nor pale, and he certainly could not have had long thin hands, nor did people--kings, that is to say, at that date--wear lace ruffles or pointed shoes. had molly not known, for a fact, that all their lesson books were unget-at-ably packed up, she would certainly have suspected ralph of a sly peep at mrs. markham, just on purpose "to set sylvia down." but failing this weapon, her defence of sylvia was, it must be confessed, somewhat illogical. she didn't care, she declared, whether henry the fourth was big or little, or how he was dressed. it was very clever of sylvia to dream such a nice dream about real history things, and ralph couldn't dream such a dream if he tried ever so hard. boys are aggravating creatures, are they not? chapter iv. the six pinless brooches. "they have no school, no governess, and do just what they please, no little worries vex the birds that live up in the trees." the discontented starlings. not many days after this thrilling adventure of sylvia's, the little party of travellers reached their destination, grandmother's pretty house at châlet. they were of course delighted to be there, everything was so bright, and fresh, and comfortable, and grandmother herself was glad to be again settled down at what to her now represented home. but yet, at the bottom of their hearts, the children were a little sorry that the travelling was over. true, molly declared that, though their passage across the channel had really been a very good one as these dreadful experiences go, nothing would _ever_ induce her to repeat the experiment; whatever came of it, there was no help for it, live and die in france, at least on this side of the water, she _must_. "i am never going to marry, you know," she observed to sylvia, "so for that it doesn't matter, as of course i _couldn't_ marry a frenchman. but you will come over to see me sometimes and bring your children, and when i get very old, as i shall have no one to be kind to me you see, i daresay i shall get some one to let me be their concierge like the old woman in our lodge. i shall be very poor of course, but _anything_ is better than crossing the sea again." it sounded very melancholy. sylvia's mind misgave her that perhaps she should offer to stay with molly "for always" on this side of the channel, but she did not feel quite sure about it. and the odd thing was that of them all molly had most relished the travelling, and was most eager to set off again. she liked the fuss and bustle of it, she said; she liked the feeling of not being obliged to do any special thing at any special hour, for regularity and method were sore crosses to molly. "it is so nice," she said, "to feel when we get up in the morning that we shall be out of one bustle into another all day, and nobody to say 'you will be late for your music,' or, 'have you finished your geography, molly?'" "well," said sylvia, "i am sure you haven't much of that kind of thing just now, molly. we have _far_ less lessons than we had at home. it is almost like holidays." this was quite true. it had been settled between grandmother and their father that for the first two or three months the children should not have many lessons. they had been working pretty hard for a year or two with a very good, but rather strict, governess, and sylvia, at no time exceedingly strong, had begun to look a little fagged. "they will have plenty to use their brains upon at first," said their father. "the novelty of everything, the different manners and customs, and the complete change of life, all that will be enough to occupy and interest them, and i don't want to overwork them. let them run wild for a little." it sounded very reasonable, but grandmother had her doubts about it all the same. "running wild" in her experience had never tended to making little people happier or more contented. "they are always better and more able to enjoy play-time when they feel that they have done some work well and thoroughly," she said to aunty. "however, we must wait a little. if i am not much mistaken, the children themselves will be the first to tire of being too much at their own disposal." for a few weeks it seemed as if mr. heriott had been right. the children were so interested and amused by all they saw that it really seemed as if there would not be room in their minds for anything else. every time they went out a walk they returned, molly especially, in raptures with some new marvel. the bullocks who drew the carts, soft-eyed, clumsy creatures, looking, she declared, so "sweet and patient;" the endless varieties of "sisters," with the wonderful diversity of caps; the chatter, and bustle, and clatter on the market-days; the queer, quaint figures that passed their gates on horse and pony back, jogging along with their butter and cheese and eggs from the mountain farms--all and everything was interesting and marvellous and entertaining to the last degree. "i don't know how other children find time to do lessons here," she said to sylvia one day. "it is quite difficult to remember just practising and french, and think what lots of other lessons we did at home, and we seemed to have much more time." "yes," said sylvia, "and do you know, molly, i think i liked it better. just now at the end of the day i never feel as if i had done anything nicely and settledly, and i think ralph feels so too. _he_ is going to school regularly next month, every day. i wish we were too." "_i_ don't," said molly, "and it will be very horrid of you, sylvia, if you go putting anything like that into grandmother's head. there now, she is calling us, and i am not _nearly_ ready. where _are_ my gloves? oh, i cannot find them." "what did you do with them yesterday when you came in?" said sylvia. "you ran down to the lodge to see the soldiers passing; don't you remember, just when you had half taken off your things?" "oh yes, and i believe i left them in my other jacket pocket. yes, here they are. there is grandmother calling again. do run, sylvia, and tell her i'm just coming." molly was going out alone with grandmother to-day, and having known all the morning at what time she was to be ready, there was no excuse for her tardiness. "my dear child," said grandmother, who, tired of waiting, just then made her appearance in their room, "what have you been doing? and you don't look half dressed now. see, your collar is tumbling off. i must really tell marcelline never to let you go out without looking you all over." "it wasn't marcelline's fault, grandmother dear," said molly. "i'm so sorry. i dressed in such a hurry." "and why in such a hurry?" asked grandmother. "this is not a day on which you have any lessons." "no-o," began molly; but a new thought struck grandmother. "oh, by the by, children, where are your letters for your father? i told you i should take them to the post myself, you remember, as i wasn't sure how many stamps to put on for cairo." sylvia looked at molly, molly looked at sylvia. neither dared look at grandmother. both grew very red. at last, "i am _so_ sorry, grandmother dear." "i am _so_ sorry, dear grandmother." "we are both _so_ sorry; we _quite_ forgot we were to write them this morning." grandmother looked at them both with a somewhat curious expression. "you both forgot?" she said. "have you so much to do, my dear little girls, that you haven't room in your minds to remember even this one thing?" "no, grandmother, it isn't that. i should have remembered," said sylvia in a low voice. "i don't know, grandmother dear," replied molly, briskly. "my mind does seem very full. i don't know how it is, i'm sure." grandmother quietly opened a drawer in a chest of drawers near to which she was standing. it was very neat. the different articles it contained were arranged in little heaps; there were a good many things in it--gloves, scarfs, handkerchiefs, ribbons, collars, but there seemed plenty of room for all. "whose drawer is this?" she asked. [illustration: 'whose drawer is this?'] "mine," said sylvia. "sylvia's," answered molly in the same breath, but growing very red as she saw grandmother's hand and eyes turning in the direction of the neighbour drawer to the one she had opened. "i am so sorry, grandmother dear," she exclaimed; "i wish you wouldn't look at mine to-day. i was going to put it tidy, but i hadn't time." it was too late. grandmother had already opened the drawer. ah, dear! what a revelation! gloves, handkerchiefs, scarfs, ribbons, collars; collars ribbons, scarfs, handkerchiefs, gloves, in a sort of _pot-pourri_ all together, or as if waiting to be beaten up into some wonderful new kind of pudding! molly grew redder and redder. "dear me!" said grandmother. "this is your drawer, i suppose, molly. how is it it is so much smaller than sylvia's?" "it isn't, grandmother dear," said molly, rather surprised at the turn of the conversation. "it is just the same size exactly." "then how is it you have so many more things to keep in it than sylvia?" "i haven't, grandmother dear," said molly. "we have just exactly the same of everything." "and yet yours looks crowded to the last degree--far too full--and in hers there seems plenty of room for everything." "because, grandmother dear," said molly, opening wide her eyes, "hers is neat and mine isn't." "ah," said grandmother. "see what comes of order. suppose you try a little of it with that mind of yours, molly, which you say seems always too full. do you know i strongly suspect that if everything in it were very neatly arranged, you would find a very great deal of room in it; you would be surprised to find how little, not how much, it contains." "_would_ i, grandmother dear?" said molly, looking rather mystified. "i don't quite understand." "think about it a little, and then i fancy you will understand," said grandmother. "but we really must go now, or i shall be too late for what i wanted to do. there is that collar of yours loose again, molly. a little brooch would be the proper thing to fasten it with. you have several." poor molly--her unlucky star was in the ascendant this afternoon surely! she grew very red again, as she answered confusedly, "yes, grandmother dear." "well then, quick, my dear. put on the brooch with the bit of coral in the middle, like the one that sylvia has on now." "please, grandmother dear, that one's pin's broken." "the pin's broken! ah, well, we'll take it to have it mended then. where is it, my dear? give it to me." molly opened the unlucky drawer, and after a minute or two's fumbling extracted from its depths a little brooch which she handed to grandmother. grandmother looked at it. "this is not the one, molly. this is the one aunty sent you on your last birthday, with the little turquoises round it." molly turned quickly. "oh yes. it isn't the coral one. it must be in the drawer." another rummage brought forth the coral one. "but the turquoise one has no pin either!" "no, grandmother dear. it broke last week." "then it too must go to be mended," said grandmother with decision. "see, here is another one that will do for to-day." she, in turn, drew forth another brooch. a little silver one this time, in the shape of a bird flying. but as she was handing it to molly, "why, this one _also_ has no pin!" she exclaimed. "no, grandmother dear. i broke it the day before yesterday." grandmother laid the three brooches down in a row. "how many brooches in all have you, molly?" she said. "six, grandmother dear. they are just the same as sylvia has. we have each six." "and where are the three others?" molly opened a little box that stood on the top of the chest of drawers. "they're here," she said, and so they were, poor things. a little mosaic brooch set in silver, a mother-of-pearl with steel border, and a tortoise-shell one in the shape of a crescent; these made up her possessions. "i meant," she added naïvely, "i meant to have put them all in this box as i broke them, but i left the coral one, and the turquoise one, and the bird in the drawer by mistake." "_as you broke them?_" repeated grandmother. "how many are broken then?" "all," said molly. "i mean the pins are." it was quite true. there lay the six brooches--brooches indeed no longer--for not a pin was there to boast of among them! "six pinless brooches!" said grandmother drily, taking them up one after another. "six pinless brooches--the property of one careless little girl. little girls are changed from the days when i was young! i shall take these six brooches to be mended at once, molly, but what i shall do with them when they are mended i cannot as yet say." she put them all in the little box from which three of them had been taken, and with it in her hand went quietly out of the room. molly, by this time almost in tears, remained behind for a moment to whisper to sylvia, "is grandmother dreadfully angry, do you think, sylvia? i am so frightened, i wish i wasn't going out with her." "then you should not have been so horribly careless. i never knew any one so careless," said sylvia, in rather a job's comforter tone of voice. "of course you must tell grandmother how sorry you are, and how ashamed of yourself, and ask her to forgive you." "grandmother dear," said molly, her irrepressible spirits rising again when she found herself out in the pleasant fresh air, sitting opposite grandmother in the carriage, bowling along so smoothly--grandmother having made no further allusion to the unfortunate brooches--"grandmother dear, i am so sorry and so ashamed of myself. will you please forgive me?" "and what then, my dear?" said grandmother. "i will try to be careful; indeed i will. i will tell you how it is i break them so, grandmother dear. i am always in such a hurry, and brooches _are_ so provoking sometimes. they won't go in, and i give them a push, and then they just squock across in a moment." "they just _what_?" said grandmother. "squock across, grandmother dear," said molly serenely. "it's a word of my own. i have a good many words of my own like that. but i won't say them if you'd rather not. i've got a plan in my head--it's just come there--of teaching myself to be more careful with brooches, so _please_, grandmother dear, do try me again when the brooches are mended. _of course_ i'll pay them out of my own money." "well, we'll see," said grandmother, as the carriage stopped at the jeweller's shop where the poor brooches were to be doctored. during the next two days there was a decided improvement in molly. she spent a great part of them in putting her drawers and other possessions in order, and was actually discovered in a quiet corner mending a pair of gloves. she was not once late for breakfast or dinner, and, notwithstanding the want of the brooches, her collars retained their position with unusual docility. all these symptoms were not lost on grandmother, and to molly's great satisfaction, on the evening of the third day she slipped into her hand a little box which had just been left at the door. "the brooches, molly," said grandmother. "they have cost just three francs. i think i may trust you with them, may i not?" "oh yes, grandmother dear. i'm sure you may," said molly, radiant. "and do you know my drawers are just _beautiful_. i wish you could see them." "never fear, my dear. i shall be sure to take a look at them some day soon. shall i pay them an unexpected visit--eh, molly?" "if you like," replied the little girl complacently. "i've quite left off being careless and untidy; it's so much nicer to be careful and neat. good-night, grandmother dear, and thank you so much for teaching me so nicely." "good-night, grand-daughter dear. but remember, my little molly, that rome was not built in a day." "of course not--how could a big town be built in a day? grandmother dear, what funny things you do say," said molly, opening wide her eyes. "_the better to make you think, my dear_," said grandmother, in a gruff voice that made molly jump. "oh dear! how you do frighten me when you speak like that, grandmother dear," she said in such a piteous tone that they all burst out laughing at her. "my poor little girl, it is a shame to tease you," said grandmother, drawing her towards her. "to speak plainly, my dear, what i want you to remember is this: faults are not cured, any more than big towns are built, in a day." "no, i know they are not. i'm not forgetting that. i've been making a lot of plans for making myself remember about being careful," said molly, nodding her head sagaciously. "you'll see, grandmother dear." and off to bed she went. the children went out early the next morning for a long walk in the country. it was nearly luncheon time when they returned, and they were met in the hall by aunty, who told them to run upstairs and take off their things quickly, as a friend of their grandmother's had come to spend the day with her. "and make yourselves neat, my dears," she said. "miss wren is a particular old lady." sylvia was down in the drawing-room in five minutes, hair brushed, hands washed, collar straight. she went up to miss wren to be introduced to her, and then sat down in a corner by the window with a book. miss wren was very deaf, and her deafness had the effect, as she could not in the least hear her own voice, of making her shout out her observations in a very loud tone, sometimes rather embarrassing for those to whom they were addressed, or, still worse, for those concerning whom they were made. "nice little girl," she remarked to grandmother, "very nice, pretty-behaved little girl. rather like poor mary, is she not? not so pretty! dear me, what a pretty girl mary was the first winter you were here, twelve, no, let me see, fourteen years ago! never could think what made her take a fancy to that solemn-looking husband of hers." grandmother laid her hand warningly on miss wren's arm, and glanced in sylvia's direction, and greatly to her relief just then, there came a diversion in the shape of molly. grandmother happened to be asked a question at this moment by a servant who just came into the room, and had therefore turned aside for an instant as molly came up to speak to miss wren. her attention was quickly caught again, however, by the old lady's remarks, delivered as usual in a very loud voice. "how do you do, my dear? and what is your name? dear me, is this a new fashion? laura," to aunty, who was writing a note at the side-table and had not noticed molly's entrance, "laura, my dear, i wonder your mother allows the child to wear so much jewellery. in _my_ young days such a thing was never heard of." aunty got up from her writing at this, and grandmother turned round quickly. what could miss wren be talking about? was her sight, as well as her hearing, failing her? was grandmother's own sight, hitherto quite to be depended upon, playing her some queer trick? there stood molly, serene as usual, with--it took grandmother quite a little while to count them--one, two, three, yes, _six_ brooches fastened on to the front of her dress! all the six invalid brooches, just restored to health, that is to say _pins_, were there in their glory. the turquoise one in the middle, the coral and the tortoise-shell ones at each side of it, the three others, the silver bird, the mosaic and the mother-of-pearl arranged in a half-moon below them, in the front of the child's dress. they were placed with the greatest neatness and precision; it must have cost molly both time and trouble to put each in the right spot. grandmother stared, aunty stared, miss wren looked at molly curiously. "odd little girl," she remarked, in what she honestly believed to be a perfectly inaudible whisper, to grandmother. "she is not so nice as the other, not so like poor mary. but i wonder, my dear, i really do wonder at your allowing her to wear so much jewellery. in _our_ young days----" for once in her life grandmother was _almost_ rude to miss wren. she interrupted her reminiscences of "our young days" by turning sharply to molly. "molly," she said, "go up to your room at once and take off that nonsense. what _is_ the meaning of it? do you intend to make a joke of what you should be so ashamed of, your own carelessness?" molly stared up in blank surprise and distress. "grandmother dear," she said confusedly. "it was my _plan_. it was to make me careful." grandmother felt much annoyed, and molly's self-defence vexed her more. "go up to your room," she repeated. "you have vexed me very much. either you intend to make a joke of what i hoped would have been a lesson to you for all your life, or else, molly, it is as if you had not all your wits. go up to your room at once." molly said no more. never before had grandmother and aunty looked at her "like that." she turned and ran out of the room and up to her own, and throwing herself down on the bed burst into tears. "i thought it was such a good plan," she sobbed. "i wanted to please grandmother. and i do believe she thinks i meant to mock her. oh dear! oh dear! oh dear!" downstairs the luncheon bell rang, and they all seated themselves at table, but no molly appeared. "shall i run up and tell her to come down?" suggested sylvia, but "no," said grandmother, "it is better not." but grandmother's heart was sore. "i shall be so sorry if there is anything of sulkiness or resentfulness in molly," she said to herself. "what _could_ the child have had in her head?" chapter v. molly's plan. "... such a plague every morning with buckling shoes, gartering, and combing." the twin rivals. soon after luncheon miss wren took her departure. nothing more was said about molly before her, but on leaving she patted sylvia approvingly on the back. "nice little girl," she said. "your grandmother must bring you to see me some day. and your sister may come, too, if she leaves her brooches at home. young people in _my_ young days----" aunty saw that sylvia was growing very red, and looking as if she were on the point of saying something; molly's queer behaviour had made her nervous: it would never do for sylvia, too, to shock miss wren's notion of the proprieties by bursting out with some speech in molly's defence. so aunty interrupted the old lady by some remark about her shawl not being thick enough for the drive, which quite distracted her attention. as soon as she had gone, grandmother sent sylvia upstairs to look for molly. sylvia came back looking rather alarmed. no molly was there. where could she be? grandmother began to feel a little uneasy. "she is nowhere in the house," said sylvia. "marcelline says she saw her go out about half-an-hour ago. she is very fond of the little wood up the road, grandmother: shall i go and look for her there?" grandmother glanced round. "ralph," she said. "oh, i forgot, he will not be home till four;" for ralph had begun going to school every day. "laura," she went on, to aunty, "put on your hat and go with sylvia to find the poor child." sylvia's face brightened at this. "then you are not so vexed with molly now, grandmother," she said. "i know it seemed like mocking you, but i am sure she didn't mean it that way." "what did she mean, then, do you think?" said grandmother. "i don't quite know," said sylvia. "it was a plan of her own, but it wasn't anything naughty or rude, i am sure." aunty and sylvia went off to the little wood, as the children called it--in reality a very small plantation of young trees, where any one could be easily perceived, especially now when the leaves were few and far between. no, there was no molly there. hurriedly, aunty and sylvia retraced their steps. "let us go round by the lodge," said aunty--they had left the house by the back gate--"and see if old marie knows anything of where she is." as they came near to the lodge they saw old marie coming to meet them. "is mademoiselle looking for the little demoiselle?" she said with a smile. "yes, she is in my kitchen--she has been there for half-an-hour. poor little lady, she was in trouble, and i tried to console her. but the dear ladies have not been anxious about her? ah yes! but how sorry i am! i knew it not, or i would have run up to tell marcelline where she was." "never mind, marie," said aunty. "if we had known she was with you, we should have been quite satisfied. run in, sylvia, and tell molly to come back to the house to speak to your grandmother." sylvia was starting forward, but marie touched her arm. "a moment, mademoiselle sylvie," she said,--sylvia liked to be called "mademoiselle sylvie," it sounded so pretty--"a moment. the little sister has fallen asleep. she was sitting by the fire, and she had been crying so hard, poor darling. better not wake her all at once." she led the way into the cottage, and they followed her. there, as she had said, was molly, fast asleep, half lying, half sitting, by the rough open fireplace, her head on a little wooden stool on which marie had placed a cushion, her long fair hair falling over her face and shoulders--little sobs from time to time interrupting her soft, regular breathing. sylvia's eyes filled with tears. "poor molly," she whispered to aunty, "she must have been crying so. and do you know, aunty, when molly does cry and gets really unhappy, it is dreadful. she seems so careless, you know, but once she does care, she cares more than any one i know. and look, aunty." she pointed to a little parcel on the floor at molly's side. a parcel very much done up with string, and an unnecessary amount of sealing-wax, and fastened to the parcel a little note addressed to "dear grandmother." "shall i run with it to grandmother?" said sylvia: and aunty nodding permission, off she set. she had not far to go. coming down the garden-path she met grandmother, anxiously looking for news of molly. "she's in old marie's kitchen," said sylvia, breathlessly, "and she's fallen fast asleep. she'd been crying so, old marie said. and she had been writing this note for you, grandmother, and doing up this parcel." without speaking, grandmother broke the very splotchy-looking red seal and read the note. "my dear, dear grandmother," it began, "please do forgive me. i send you all my brooches. i don't _deserve_ to keep them for vexing you so. only i didn't, oh, indeed, i didn't mean to _mock_ you, dear grandmother. it is that that i can't bear, that you should think so. it was a plan i had made to teach me to be careful, only i know it was silly--i am always thinking of silly things, but oh, _believe_ me, i would not make a joke of your teaching me to be good.--your own dearest "molly." "poor little soul," said grandmother. "i wish i had not been so hasty with her. it will be a lesson to me;" and noticing that at this sylvia looked up in surprise, she added, "does it seem strange to you my little sylvia, that an old woman like me should talk of having lessons? it is true all the same--and i hope, do you know, dear?--i hope that up to the very last of my life i shall have lessons to learn. or rather i should say that i shall be able to learn them. that the lessons are there to be learnt, always and everywhere, we can never doubt." "but," said sylvia, and then she hesitated. "but what, dear?" "i can't quite say what i mean," said sylvia. "but it is something like this--i thought the difference between big people and children was that the big people _had_ learnt their lessons, and that was why they could help us with ours. i know what kind of lessons you mean--not _book_ ones--but being kind and good and all things like that." "yes," said grandmother, "but to these lessons there is no limit. the better we have learnt the early ones, the more clearly we see those still before us, like climbing up mountains and seeing the peaks still rising in front. and knowing and remembering the difficulties we had long ago when _we_ first began climbing, we can help and advise the little ones who in their turn are at the outset of the journey. only sometimes, as i did with poor molly this morning, we forget, we old people who have come such a long way, how hard the first climbing is, and how easily tired and discouraged the little tender feet get." grandmother gave a little sigh. "dear grandmother," said sylvia, "i am sure _you_ don't forget. but those people who haven't learnt when they were little, they can't teach others, grandmother, when they don't know themselves?" "ah, no," said grandmother. "and it is not many who have the power or the determination to learn to-day the lessons they neglected yesterday. we all feel that, sylvia, all of us. only in another way we may get good out of that too, by warning those who have still plenty of time for all. but let us see if molly is awake yet." no, she was still fast asleep. but when grandmother stooped over her and gently raised her head, which had slipped half off the stool, molly opened her eyes, and gazed up at grandmother in bewilderment. for a moment or two she could not remember where she was; then it gradually came back to her. "grandmother, will you forgive me?" she said. "i wrote a note, where is it?"--she looked about for it on the floor. "i have got it, molly," said grandmother. "forgive you, dear? of course i will if there is anything to forgive. but tell me now what was in your mind, molly? what was the 'plan'?" "i thought," said molly, sitting up and shaking her hair out of her eyes, "i thought, grandmother dear, that it would teach me to be careful and neat and not hurried in dressing if i wore _all_ my brooches every day for a good while--a month perhaps. for you know it is very difficult to put brooches in quite straight and neat, not to break the pins. it has always been such a trouble to me not to stick them in, in a hurry, any how, and that was how i broke so many. but i'll do just as you like about them. i'll leave off wearing them at all if you would rather." she looked up in grandmother's face, her own looking so white, now that the flush of sleep had faded from it, and her poor eyelids so swollen, that grandmother's heart was quite touched. "my poor little molly," she said. "i don't think that will be necessary. i am sure you will try to be careful. but the next time you make a plan for teaching yourself any good habit, talk it over with me first, will you, dear?" molly threw her arms round grandmother's neck and hugged her, and old marie looked quite pleased to see that all was sunshine again. just as they were leaving the cottage she came forward with a basketful of lovely apples. "they came only this morning, madame," she said to grandmother. "might she send them up to the house? the little young ladies would find them good." grandmother smiled. "thank you, marie," she said. "are they _the_ apples? oh, yes, of course. i see they are. is there a good crop this year?" "ah, yes, they seem always good now. the storms are past, it seems to me, madame, both for me and my tree. but a few years now and they will be indeed all over for me. 'tis to-morrow my fête day, madame; that was why they sent the apples. they are very good to remember the old woman--my grand-nephews--i shall to-morrow be seventy-five, madame." "seventy-five!" repeated grandmother. "ah, well, marie, i am not so very far behind you, though it seems as if i were growing younger lately--does it not?--with my little girls and my boy beside me. you must come up to see us to-morrow that we may give you our good wishes. thank you for the beautiful apples. some day you must tell the children the history of your apple-tree, marie." marie's old face got quite red with pleasure. "ah, but madame is too kind," she said. "a stupid old woman like me to be asked to tell her little stories--but we shall see--some day, perhaps. so that the apples taste good, old marie will be pleased indeed." "what is the story of marie's apple-tree, grandmother?" said sylvia, as they walked back to the house. "she must tell you herself," said grandmother. "she will be coming up to-morrow morning to see us, as it is her birthday, and you must ask her about it. poor old marie." "has she been a long time with you, grandmother dear?" said molly. "twelve or thirteen years, soon after we first came here. she was in great trouble then, poor thing; but she will tell you all about it. she is getting old, you see, and old people are always fond of talking, they say--like your poor old grandmother--eh, molly?" "_grandmother_," said molly, flying at her and hugging her, for by this time they were in the drawing-room again, and molly's spirits had quite revived. the apples turned out very good indeed. even ralph, who, since he had been in france, had grown so exceedingly "john bull," that he could hardly be persuaded to praise anything not english, condescended to commend them. "no wonder they're good," said molly, as she handed him his second one, "they're _fairy_ apples i'm sure," and she nodded her head mysteriously. "fairy rubbish," said ralph, taking a good bite of the apple's rosy cheek. "well, they're something like that, any way," persisted molly. "grandmother said so." "_i_ said so! my dear! i think your ears have deceived you." "well, grandmother dear, i know you didn't exactly say so, but what you said made me think so," explained molly. "not quite the same thing," said grandmother. "you shall hear to-morrow all there is to tell--a very simple little story. how did you get on at school, to-day, ralph?" "oh, right enough," said ralph. "some of the fellows are nice enough. but some of them are awful cads. there's one--he's about thirteen, a year or so younger than i--his name's prosper something or other--i actually met him out of school in the street, carrying a bundle of wood! a boy that sits next me in the class!" he added, with considerable disgust. "is he a poor boy?" asked sylvia. "no--at least not what you'd call a poor boy. none of them are that. but he got precious red, i can tell you, when he saw me--just like a cad." "is he a naughty boy? does he not do his lessons well?" asked grandmother. "oh i daresay he does; he is not an ill-natured fellow. it was only so like a cad to go carrying wood about like that," said ralph. "ralph," said grandmother suddenly. "you never saw your uncle jack, of course; has your father ever told you about him?" ralph's face lighted up. "uncle jack who was killed in the crimea?" he said, lowering his voice a little. "yes, papa has told me how brave he was." "brave, and gentle, and good," said grandmother, softly. "some day, ralph, i will read you a little adventure of his. he wrote it out to please me not long before his death. i meant to have sent it to one of the magazines for boys, but somehow i have never done so." "what is it about, grandmother? what is it called?" asked the children all together, molly adding, ecstatically clasping her hands. "if you tell us stories, grandmother, it'll be _perfect_." "what is the little story about?" repeated grandmother. "i can hardly tell you what it is about, without telling the whole. the _name_ of it--the name your uncle gave to it, was 'that cad sawyer.'" ralph said nothing, but somehow he had a consciousness that grandmother did not agree with him that carrying a bundle of wood through the streets proved that "a fellow" must certainly be a cad. chapter vi. the apple-tree of stéfanos. "and age recounts the feats of youth." thomson. "i was the only daughter among nine children," began old marie, when the girls and ralph had made her sit down in their own parlour, and they had all drunk her "good health and many happy returns" in raspberry vinegar and water, and then teased her till she consented to tell them her story. "that is to say, my little young ladies and young monsieur, i had eight brothers. not all my own brothers: my father had married twice, you see. and always when the babies came they wanted a little girl, for in the family of my grandfather too, there were but three boys, my father and his two brothers, and never a sister. and so one can imagine how i was fêted when i came, and of all none was so pleased as the old 'bon papa,' my father's father. he was already very old: in our family we have been prudent and not married boy and girl, as so many do now, and wish often they could undo it again. before he had married he had saved and laid by, and for his sons there was something for each when they too started in life. for my father there was the cottage and the little farm at stéfanos." "where is stéfanos, marie?" interrupted ralph. "not so far, my little monsieur; nine kilometers perhaps from châlet." "nine kilomètres; between five and six miles? we must have passed it when we were driving," said ralph. "without doubt," replied marie. "well, as i was saying, my father had the paternal house at stéfanos for his when he married, and my uncles went to the towns and did for themselves with their portions. and the bon papa came, of course, to live with us. he was a kind old man--i remember him well--and he must have had need of patience in a household of eight noisy boys. they were the talk of the country, such fine men, and i, when i came, was such a tiny little thing, you would hardly believe there could be a child so small! and yet there was great joy. 'we have a girl at last,' they all cried, and as for the bon papa he knew not what to do for pleasure. "i shall have a little grand-daughter to lead me about when my sight is gone, i shall live the longer for this gift of thine,' he said to my mother, whom he was very fond of. she was a good daughter-in-law to him. she shall be called 'marie, shall she not? the first girl, and so long looked for. and, eulalie,' he told my mother, 'this day, the day of her birth, i shall plant an apple-tree, a seedling of the best stock, a 'reinette,' in the best corner of the orchard, and it shall be her tree. they shall grow together, and to both we will give the best care, and as the one prospers the other will prosper, and when trouble comes to the one, the other will droop and fade till again the storms have passed away. the tree shall be called 'le pommier de la petite.'" "my mother smiled; she thought it the fancy of the old man, but she was pleased he should so occupy himself with the little baby girl. and he did as he said: that very day he planted the apple-tree in the sunniest corner of the orchard. and he gave it the best of his care; it was watered in dry weather, the earth about its roots was kept loose, and enriched with careful manuring; no grass or weeds were allowed to cling about it, never was an apple-tree better tended." marie paused. "it is not always those that get the most care that do the best in this world," she said, with a sigh. "there was my louis, our eldest, i thought nothing of the others compared with him! and he ran away to sea and nearly broke my heart." "did he ever come back again?" asked the children. old marie shook her head. "never," she said. "but i got a letter that he had got the curé somewhere in the amérique du sud--i know not where, i have not learnt all about the geography like these little young ladies--to write for him, before he died of the yellow fever. and he asked me to forgive him all the sorrows he had caused me: it was a good letter, and it consoled me much. that was a long time ago; my louis would have been in the fifties by now, and my other children were obedient. the good god sends us comfort." "and about the apple-tree, tell us more, marie," said molly. "did it do well?" "indeed yes. mademoiselle can judge, are not the apples good? ah, yes, it did well, it grew and it grew, and the first walk i could take with the hand of the bon papa was to the apple-tree. and the first words i could say were 'mi pommier à malie.' before many years there were apples, not so fine at the first, of course, but every year they grew finer and finer, and always they were for me. what we did not eat were sold, and the money given to me to keep for the carnival, when the bon papa would take me to the town to see the sights." "and did you grow finer and finer too, marie?" said sylvia. marie smiled. "i grew strong and tall, mademoiselle," she said. "as for more than that it is not for me to say. but _they_ all thought so, the father and mother and the eight brothers, and the bon papa, of course, most of all. and so you see, mademoiselle, the end was i got spoilt." "but the apple-tree didn't?" "no, the apple-tree did its work well. only i was forgetting to tell you there came a bad year. everything was bad--the cows died, the harvest was poor, the fruit failed. to the last, the bon papa hoped that 'le pommier de la petite' would do well, though nothing else did, but it was not so. there was a good show of blossom, but when it came to the apples, _every one_ was blighted. and the strange thing was, my little young ladies and little monsieur, that that was the year the small-pox came--ah, it was a dreadful year!--and we all caught it." "_all?_" exclaimed sylvia. "yes, indeed, mademoiselle--all the seven, that is to say, that were at home. i cannot remember it well--i was myself too ill, but we all had it. i was the worst, and they thought i would die. it was not the disease itself, but the weakness after that nearly killed me. and the poor bon papa would shake his head and say he might have known what was coming, by the apple-tree. and my mother would console him--she, poor thing, who so much needed consoling herself--by saying, 'come, now, bon papa, the apple-tree lives still, and doubtless by next year it will again be covered with beautiful fruit. let us hope well that our little one will also recover.' and little by little i began to mend--the mother's words came true--by the spring time i was as well as ever again, and the six brothers too. all of us recovered; we were strong, you see, very strong. and after that i grew so fast--soon i seemed quite a young woman." "and did the small-pox not spoil your beauty, marie?" inquired sylvia with some little hesitation. it was impossible to tell from the old woman's face now whether the terrible visitor had left its traces or not; she was so brown and weather worn--her skin so dried and wrinkled--only the eyes were still fine, dark, bright and keen, yet with the soft far-away look too, so beautiful in an old face. "no, mademoiselle," marie replied naïvely, "that was the curious part of it. there were some, my neighbour didier for one, the son of the farmer larreya----" "why, marie, that's _your_ name," interrupted molly. "'marie larreya,'--i wrote it down the other day because i thought it such a funny name when grandmother told it me." "well, well, molly," said sylvia, "there are often many people of the same name in a neighbourhood. do let marie tell her own story." "as i was saying," continued marie, "many people said i had got prettier with being ill. i can't tell if it was true, but i was thankful not to be marked: you see the illness itself was not so bad with me as the weakness after. but i got quite well again, and that was the summer i was sixteen. my eldest brother was married that summer,--he was one of the two sons of my father's first marriage and he had been away for already some time from the paternal house. he married a young girl from châlet; and ah, but we danced well at the marriage! i danced most of all the girls--there was my old friend didier who wanted every dance, and glad enough i would have been to dance with him--so tall and straight he was--but for some new friends i made that day. they were the cousins of my brother's young wife--two of them from châlet, one a maid in a family from paris, and with them there came a young man who was a servant in the same family. they were pleasant, good-natured girls, and for the young man, there was no harm in him; but their talk quite turned my silly head. they talked of châlet and how grandly the ladies there were dressed, and still more of paris--the two who knew it--till i felt quite ashamed of being only a country girl, and the fête-day costume i had put on in the morning so proudly, i wished i could tear off and dress like my new friends. and when didier came again to ask me to dance, i pushed him away and told him he tired me asking me so often. poor didier! i remember so well how he looked--as if he could not understand me--like our great sheep-dog, that would stare up with his soft sad eyes if ever i spoke roughly to him! "that day was the beginning of much trouble for me. i got in the way of going to châlet whenever i could get leave, to see my new friends, who were always full of some plan to amuse themselves and me, and my home where i had been so happy i seemed no longer to care for. i must have grieved them all, but i thought not of it--my head was quite turned. "one day i was setting off for châlet to spend the afternoon, when, just as i was leaving, the bon papa stopped me. "'here, my child,' he said, holding out to me an apple; 'this is the first of this season's on thy pommier. i gathered it this morning--see, it is quite ripe--it was on the sunny side. take it; thou mayest, perhaps, feel tired on the way.' "i took it carelessly. "'thanks, bon papa,' i said, as i put it in my pocket. bon papa looked at me sadly. "'it is never now as it used to be,' he said. 'my little girl has never a moment now to spare for the poor old man. and she would even wish to leave him for ever; for thou knowest well, my child, i could not live with the thought of thee so far away. when my little girl returned she would find no old grandfather, he would be lying in the cold church-yard.' "the poor old man held out his arms to me, but i turned away. i saw that his eyes were filled with tears--he was growing so feeble now--and i saw, too, that my mother, who was ironing at the table--work in which i could have helped her--stooped to wipe away a tear with the corner of her apron. but i did not care--my heart was hard, my little young ladies and young monsieur--my heart was hard, and i would not listen to the voices that were speaking in my conscience. "'it is too bad,' i said, 'that the chances of one's life should be spoilt for such fancies;' and i went quickly out of the cottage and shut the door. but as i went i saw my poor bon papa lift his head, which he had bent down on his hands, and say to my mother, "'there will be no more apples this year on the pommier de la petite. thou wilt see, my daughter, the fortune of the tree will leave it.' "i heard my mother say something meant to comfort him, but i only hurried away the faster. "what my grandfather meant about my wishing to leave him was this,--my new friends had put it in my head to ask my parents to consent to my going to paris with the family in which the two that i told you of were maid and valet. they had spoken of me to their lady; she knew i had not much experience, and had never left home. she did not care for that, she said. she wanted a nice pretty girl to amuse her little boy, and walk out with him. and of course the young man, the valet, told me he knew she could not find a girl so pretty as i anywhere! i would find when i got to paris, he said, how i would be admired, and then i would rejoice that i had not stayed in my stupid little village, where it mattered not if one had a pretty face or not. i had come home quite full of the idea--quite confident that, as i had always done exactly what i wished, i would meet with no difficulty. but to my astonishment, at the paternal house, one would not hear of such a thing! "'to leave us--thou, our only girl--to go away to that great paris, where one is so wicked--where none would guard thee or care for thee? no, it is not to be thought of,' said my father with decision; and though he was a quiet man who seldom interfered in the affairs of the house, i knew well that once that he had said a thing with decision, it was done with--it would be so. "and my mother said gently, "'how could'st thou ask such a thing, marie?' "and the bon papa looked at me with sad reproach; that was worse than all. "so this day--the day that bon papa had given me the first apple of the season--i was to go to châlet to tell my friends it could not be, i felt very cross and angry all the way there. "'what have i done,' i said to myself, 'to be looked at as if i were wicked and ungrateful? why should my life be given up to the fancies of a foolish old man like bon papa?' "and when i got to châlet and told my friends it was not to be, their regret and their disappointment made me still more displeased. "'it is too much,' they all said, 'that you should be treated still like a bébé--you so tall and womanly that one might think you twenty.' "'and if i were thee, marie,' said one, 'i would go all the same. they would soon forgive thee when they found how well things would go with thee at paris. how much money thou wouldst gain!' "'but how could i go?' i asked. "then they all talked together and made a plan. the family was to leave châlet the beginning of the week following, sooner than they had expected. i should ask leave from my mother to come again to say good-bye the same morning that they were to start, and instead of returning to stéfanos i should start with them for paris. i had already seen the lady, a young creature who, pleased with my appearance, concerned herself little about anything else, and my friends would tell her i had accepted her offer. and for my clothes, i was to pack them up the evening before, and carry the parcel to a point on the road where the young man would meet me. they would not be many, for my pretty fête costumes, the dress of the country, which were my best possessions, would be of no use in paris. "'and once there,' said my friend, 'we will dress thee as thou should'st be dressed. for the journey i can lend thee a hat. thou could'st not travel with that ridiculous foulard on thy head, hiding all thy pretty hair.' "i remember there was a looking-glass in the room, and as odette--that was the girl's name--said this, i glanced at myself. my poor foulard, i had thought it so pretty. it had been the 'nouvel an' of the bon papa! but i would not listen to the voice of my heart. i set out on my return home quite determined to carry out my own way. "it was such a hot walk that day. how well i remember it! my little young ladies and little monsieur, you would hardly believe how one can remember things of fifty years ago and more, as if they were yesterday when one is old as i am! the weather had been very hot, and now the clouds looked black and threatening. "'we shall have thunder,' i said to myself, and i tried to walk faster, but i was tired, and oh, so hot and thirsty. i put my hand in my pocket and drew out the apple, which i had forgotten. how refreshing it was! "'poor bon papa,' i said to myself. 'i wish he would not be so exacting. i do not wish to make him unhappy, but what can i do? one cannot be all one's life a little child.' "still, softer thoughts were coming into my mind, i began to wish i had not given my decision, that i had said i would think it over. paris was so far away; at home they might all be dead before i could hear, the poor bon papa above all; it was true he was getting very old. "just then, at a turn in the road, i found myself in face of didier, didier larreya. he was walking fast, his face looked stern and troubled. he stopped suddenly on seeing me; it was not often of late that we had spoken to each other. he had not looked with favour on my new friends, who on their side had made fun of him (though i had noticed the day of the wedding that odette had been very ready to dance with him whenever he had asked her), and i had said to my silly self that he was jealous. so just now i would have passed him, but he stopped me. "'it is going to thunder, marie,' he said. 'we shall have a terrible storm. i came to meet thee, to tell thee to shelter at our house; i told thy mother i would do so. i have just been to thy house.' "i felt angry for no reason. i did not like his watching me, and going to the house to be told of all my doings. i resented his saying 'thou' to me. "'i thank you, monsieur didier,' i said stiffly. 'i can take care of myself. i have no wish to rest at your house. i prefer to go home,' and i turned to walk on. "didier looked at me, and the look in his eyes was very sad. "'then it is true,' he said. "'what is true?' "'that you are so changed'--he did not say 'thou'--'that you wish to go away and leave us all. the poor bon papa is right.' "'what has bon papa been saying?' i cried, more and more angry, 'what is it to you what i do? attend to your own affairs, i beg you, monsieur didier larreya, and leave me mine.' "didier stopped, and before i knew what he was doing, took both my hands in his. "'listen, marie,' he said. 'you _must_. you are scarcely more than a child, and i was glad for you to be so. it would not be me that would wish to see you all wise, all settled down like an old woman at your age. but you force me to say what i had not wished to say yet for a long time. i am older than you, eight years older, and i know my own mind. marie, you know how i care for you, how i have always cared for you, you know what i hope may be some day? has my voice no weight with you? i do not ask you now to say you care for me, you are too young, but i thought you would perhaps learn, but to think of you going away to paris? oh, my little marie, you would never return to us the same!" "he stopped, and for a moment i stood still without speaking. in spite of myself he made me listen. he seemed to have guessed that though my parents had forbidden it, i had not yet given up the thoughts of going away, and in spite of my silly pride and my temper i was much touched by what he said, and the thought that if i went away he would leave off caring for me came to me like a great shock. i had never thought of it like that; i had always fancied that whatever i did i could keep didier devoted to me; i had amused myself with picturing my return from paris quite a grand lady, and how i would pretend to be changed to didier, just to tease him. but now something in his manner showed me this would not do; if i defied him and my friends now, he would no longer care for me. yet--would you believe it, my little young ladies and young monsieur?--my naughty pride still kept me back. i turned from didier in a rage, and pulled away my hands. "'i wish none of your advice or interference,' i said. 'i shall please myself in my affairs.' "i hurried away; he did not attempt to stop me, but stood there for a moment watching me. "'good-bye, marie,' he said, and then he called after me, 'beware of the storm.' "i had still two miles to go. i hurried on, passing the larreyas' farm, and just a minute or two after that the storm began. i heard it come grumbling up, as if out of the heart of the mountains at first, and then it seemed to rise higher and higher. i was not frightened, but yet i saw it was going to be a great storm--you do not know, my young ladies, what storms we have here sometimes--and i was so hot and so tired, and when the anger began to pass away i felt so miserable. i could not bear to go home and see them all with the knowledge in my heart of what i intended to do. when i got near to the orchard, which was about a quarter of a mile from the house, i felt, with all my feelings together, as if i could go no farther. the storm seemed to be passing over--for some minutes there had been no lightning or thunder. "'perhaps after all it will only skirt round about us,' i said. and as i thought this i entered the orchard and sat down on my own seat, a little bench that--now many years ago--the bon papa had placed for me with his own hands beside my pommier. "i was so tired and so hot and so unhappy, i sat and cried. "'i wish i had not said i would go,' i thought. 'now if i change one will mock so at me.' "i leaned my head against the trunk of my tree. i had forgotten about the storm. suddenly, more suddenly than i can tell, there came a fearful flash of lightning--all about me seemed for a moment on fire--then the dreadful boom of the thunder as if it would shake the earth itself to pieces, and a tearing crashing sound like none i had ever heard before. i screamed and threw myself on the ground, covering my eyes. for a moment i thought i was killed--that a punishment had come to me for my disobedience. 'oh! i will not go away. i will do what you all wish,' i called out, as if my parents could hear me. 'bon papa, forgive me. thy little girl wishes no longer to leave thee;' but no one answered, and i lay there in terror. gradually i grew calmer--after that fearful crash the thunder claps seemed to grow less violent. i looked up at last. what did i see? the tree next to my pommier--the one but a yard or two from my bench--stood black and charred as if the burning hand of a great giant had grasped it; already some of its branches strewed the ground. and my pommier had not altogether escaped; one branch had been struck--the very branch on the sunny side from which bon papa had picked the apple, as he afterwards showed me! that my life had been spared was little less than a miracle." marie paused.... [illustration: under the apple-tree.] "i left the orchard, my little young ladies and young monsieur," she went on after a moment or two, "a very different girl from the one that had entered it. i went straight to the house, and confessed all--my naughty intention of leaving them all, my discontent and pride, and all my bad feelings. and they forgave me--the good people--they forgave me all, and bon papa took me in his arms and blessed me, and i promised him not to leave him while he lived. nor did i--it was not so long--he died the next year, the dear old man! what would my feelings have been had i been away in paris?" old as she was, marie stopped to wipe away a tear. "it is nearly sixty years ago, yet still the tears come when i think of it," she said. "he would not know me now if he saw me, the dear bon papa," she added. "i am as old as he was then! how it will be in heaven i wonder often--for friends so changed to meet again? but that we must leave to the good god; without doubt he will arrange it all." "and didier, marie?" said sylvia, after a little pause. "did you also make friends with him?" marie smiled, and underneath her funny old brown wrinkled skin i almost think she blushed a little. "ah yes, mademoiselle," she said. "that goes without saying. ah yes--didier was not slow to make friends again--and though we said nothing about it for a long time, not till i was in the twenties, it came all as he wished in the end. and a good husband he made me." "oh!" cried molly, "i see--then _that's_ how your name is 'larreya' too, marie." they all laughed at her. "but grandmother said you had many more troubles, marie," said sylvia. "long after, when first she knew you. she said you would tell us." "ah yes, that is because the dear lady wishes not herself to tell how good she was to me!" said marie. "i had many troubles after my husband died. i told you my son louis was a great grief, and we were poor--very poor--i had a little fruit-stall at the market--" "like my old woman in paris," said molly, nodding her head. "and there it was the dear lady first saw me," said marie. "it was all through the apples--bon papa did well for me the day he planted that tree! they were so fine--madame bought them for the poor gentleman who was ill--and then i came to tell her my history; and when she took this house she asked me to be her concierge. since then i have no troubles--my daughter married, long ago of course, but she died, and her husband died, and the friends were not good for her children, and it was these i had to provide for--my grand-daughters. but now they are very well off--each settled, and so good to me! the married one comes with her bébé every sunday, and the other, in a good place, sends me always a part of her wages. and my son too--he that went to paris--he writes often. ah yes, i am well satisfied! and always my great-nephews send me the apples--every year--their father and their grandfather made the promise, and it has never been broken. and still, my little young ladies and little monsieur--still, the old apple-tree at the paternal house at stéfanos, is called 'le pommier de la petite.'" "how nice!" said the children all together. "thank you, marie, thank you so much for telling us the story." chapter vii. grandmother's grandmother. "i'll tell you a story of jack-o-my-nory, and now my story's begun. i'll tell you another of jack and his brother, and now my story's done." old nursery rhyme. marie's story was the subject of much conversation among the children. sylvia announced her intention of writing it down. "she tells it so nicely," she said. "i could have written it down beautifully while she was talking, if she would have waited." "she would not have been able to tell it so nicely if she had known you were waiting to write down every word as she said it," remarked grandmother. "at least in her place i don't think _i_ could." a shriek from molly here startled them all, or perhaps i should say, _would_ have done so, had they been less accustomed to her eccentric behaviour. "what is the matter now, my dear?" said aunty. "oh," said molly, gasping with eagerness, "grandmother's saying that _reminded_ me." "but what about, my dear child?" "about telling stories; don't you remember grandmother _dear_, i said you would be _perfect_ if you would tell us stories, and you didn't say you wouldn't." "and what's more, grandmother promised me one," said ralph. "_did_ i, my dear boy?" "yes, grandmother," said ralph, looking rather abashed, "don't you remember, grandmother--the day i called prosper de lastre a cad? i don't think he's a cad now," he added in a lower voice. "ah yes, i remember now," said grandmother. "but do you know, my dears, i am so sorry i cannot find your uncle jack's manuscript. he had written it out so well--all i can find is the letter in which he first alluded to the incident, very shortly. however, i remember most of it pretty clearly. i will think it over and refresh my memory with the letter, and some day i will tell it to you." "can't you tell it us to-night then, grandmother dear?" said molly in very doleful tones. they were all sitting round the fire, for it was early december now, and fires are needed then, even at châlet! what a funny fire some of you would think such a one, children! no grate, no fender, such as you are accustomed to see--just two or three iron bars placed almost on the floor, which serve to support the nice round logs of wood burning so brightly, but alas for grandmother's purse, so swiftly away! but the brass knobs and bars in front look cheery and sparkling, and then the indispensable bellows are a delightful invention for fidgety fingers like those of ralph and molly. how many new "nozzles" grandmother had to pay for her poor bellows that winter i should really be afraid to say! and once, to molly's indescribable consternation, the bellows got on fire _inside_; there was no outward injury to be seen, but they smoked alarmingly, and internal crackings were to be heard of a fearful and mysterious description. molly flew to the kitchen, and flung the bellows, as if they were alive, into a pan of water that stood handy. doubtless the remedy was effectual so far as extinguishing the fire was concerned, but as for the after result on the constitution of the poor bellows i cannot report favourably, as they were never again fit to use. _and_, as this was the fourth pair spoilt in a month, molly was obliged to give up half her weekly money for some time towards replacing them! but we are wandering away from the talk by the fire--grandmother and aunty in their low chairs working--the three children lying in various attitudes on the hearthrug, for hearthrug there was, seldom as such superfluities are to be seen at châlet. grandmother was too "english" to have been satisfied with her pretty drawing-room without one--a nice fluffy, flossy one, which the children were so fond of burrowing in that grandmother declared she would need a new one by the time the winter was over! "_can't_ you tell it to us to-night then, grandmother dear?" said molly. "i would rather think it over a little first," said grandmother. "you forget, molly, that old people's memories are not like young ones. and, as marie says, it is very curious how, the older one gets, the further back things are those that one remembers the most distinctly. the middle part of my life is hazy compared with the earlier part. i can remember the patterns of some of my dresses as a _very_ little girl--i can remember words said and trifling things done fifty years ago better than little things that happened last month." "how queer!" said molly. "shall we all be like that, grandmother dear, when we get old?" grandmother laid down her knitting and looked at the children with a soft smile on her face. "yes, dears, i suppose so. it is the 'common lot.' i remember once asking _my_ grandmother a question very like that." "_your_ grandmother!" exclaimed all the children--molly adding, "had _you_ ever a grandmother, grandmother dear?" "oh, molly, how can you be so silly?" said ralph and sylvia, together. "i'm not silly," said molly. "it is you that are silly not to understand what i mean. i am sure anybody might. of course i mean can grandmother remember her--did she know her? supposing anybody's grandmother died before they were born, then they wouldn't ever have had one, would they now?" molly sat up on the rug, and tossed back her hair out of her eyes, convinced that her logic was unanswerable. "you shouldn't begin by saying 'anybody's grandmother,'" remarked ralph. "you put anybody in the possessive case, which means, of course, that the grandmother belonged to the anybody, and _then_ you make out that the anybody never had one." molly retorted by putting her fingers in her ears and shaking her head vehemently at her brother. "be quiet, ralph," she said. "what's the good of muddling up what i say, and making my head feel _so_ uncomfortable when you know quite well what i _mean_? please, grandmother dear, will you go on talking as soon as i take my fingers out of my ears, and then he will have to leave off puzzling me." "and what am i to talk about?" asked grandmother. "tell us about your grandmother. if you remember things long ago so nicely, you must remember story sort of things of then," said molly insinuatingly. "i really don't, my dear child. not just at this moment, anyhow." "well, tell us _about_ your grandmother: what was she like? was she like you?" grandmother shook her head. "that i cannot say, my dear; i have no portrait of her, nor have i ever seen one since i have been grown up. she died when i was about fifteen, and as my father was not the eldest son, few, if any, heirlooms fell to his share. and a good many years before my grandmother's death--at the time of her husband's death--the old home was sold, and she came to live in a curious old-fashioned house, in the little county town a few miles from where we lived. this old house had belonged to her own family for many, many years, and, as all her brothers were dead, it became hers. she was very proud of it, and even during my grandfather's life they used to come in from the country to spend the worst of the winter there. dear me! what a long time back it takes us! were my grandmother living now, she would be--let me see--my father would have been a hundred years old by now. i was the youngest of a large family you know, dears. his mother would have been about a hundred and thirty. it takes us back to the middle of george the second's reign." "yes," said molly so promptly, that every one looked amazed, "george the first, seventeen hundred and fourteen, george the second, seventeen hundred and twenty-seven, george the third, seventeen hundred and----" "when did you learn that--this morning i suppose?" observed ralph with biting sarcasm. "no," said molly complacently, "i always could remember the four georges. sylvia will tell you. _she_ always remembered the norman conquest, and king john, and so when we spoke about something to do with these dates when we were out a walk miss bryce used to be as pleased as pleased with us." "is that the superlative of 'very pleased,' my dear molly?" said aunty. molly wriggled. "history is bad enough," she muttered. "i don't think we need have grammar too, just when i thought we were going to have nice story-talking. did _you_ like lessons when you were little, grandmother dear?" she inquired in a louder voice. "i don't know that i did," said grandmother. "i was a very tom-boy little girl, molly. and lessons were not nearly so interesting in those days as they are made now." "then they must have been--_dreadful_," said molly solemnly, pausing for a sufficiently strong word. "what did you like when you were little, grandmother?" said sylvia. "i mean, what did you like best?" "i really don't know what i liked _best_," said grandmother. "there were so many nice things. haymaking was delicious, so were snow-balling and sliding; blindman's buff and snapdragon at christmas were not bad, nor were strawberries and cream in summer." the children drew a long breath. "had you all those?" they said. "oh, what a happy little girl you must have been!" "and all the year round," pursued grandmother, "there was another delight that never palled. when i look back upon myself in those days i cannot believe that ever a child was a greater adept at it." "what was that, grandmother?" said the children, opening their eyes. "_mischief_, my dears," said grandmother. "the scrapes i got into of falling into brooks, tearing my clothes, climbing up trees and finding i could not get down again, putting my head through window-panes--ah dear, i certainly had nine lives." "and what did your grandmother say? did she scold you?" asked molly--adding in a whisper to ralph and sylvia, "grandmother must have been an _awfully_ nice little girl." "my grandmother was to outward appearance quiet and rather cold," replied _their_ grandmother. "for long i was extremely afraid of her, till something happened which led to my knowing her true character, and after that we were friends for life--till her death. it is hardly worth calling a story, but i will tell it to you if you like, children." "oh, _please_ do," they exclaimed, and molly's eyes grew round with satisfaction at having after all inveigled grandmother into story telling. "i told you," grandmother began, "that my grandmother lived in a queer, very old-fashioned house in the little town near which was our home. it was such a queer house, i wish you could have seen it, but long ago it was pulled down, and the ground where it stood used for shops or warehouses. when you entered it, you saw no stair at all--then, on opening a door, you found yourself at the foot of a very high spiral staircase that went round and round like a corkscrew up to the very top of the house. by the by that reminds me of an adventure of my grandmother's which you might like to hear. it happened long before i was born, but she has often told it me. ah, molly, i see that twinkle in your eyes, my dear, and i know what it means! you think you have got grandmother started now--wound up--and that you will get her to go on and on; ah well, we shall see. where was i? taking you up the corkscrew stair. the first landing, if landing it could be called, it was so small, had several doors, and one of these led into a little ante-room, out of which opened again a larger and very pretty drawing-room. it was a long, rather narrow room, and what i admired in it most of all were wall cupboards with glass doors, within which my grandmother kept all her treasures. there were six of them at least--in two or three were books, of which, for those days, grandmother had a good many; another held chinese and indian curiosities, carved ivory and sandal-wood ornaments, cuscus grass fans, a pair or two of chinese ladies' slippers--things very much the same as you may see some of now-a-days in almost every prettily furnished drawing-room. and one, or two perhaps, of the cupboards contained treasures which are rarer now than they were then--the _loveliest_ old china! even i, child as i was, appreciated its beauty--the tints were so delicate and yet brilliant. my grandmother had collected much of it herself, and her taste was excellent. at her death it was divided, and among so many that it seemed to melt away. all that came to my share were those two handleless cups that are at the top of that little cabinet over there, and those were by no means the most beautiful, beautiful as they undoubtedly are. i was never tired of feasting my eyes on grandmother's china when i used to be sent to spend a day with her, which happened every few weeks. and _sometimes_, for a great treat, she used to open the wall cupboards and let me handle some of the things--for it is a curious fact that a child _cannot_ admire anything to its perfect satisfaction without touching it too, and looking back upon things now, i can see that despite her cold manner, my grandmother had a very good knowledge of children and a real love and sympathy for them. "one day--it was a late autumn day i remember, for it was just a few days after my ninth birthday--my birthday is on the fifteenth of november,--my mother told me that my father, having to drive to the town the following day, would take me with him to spend the day with grandmother. "'and nelly,' said my mother, 'do try to be very good and behave prettily. i really fear, my dear, that you will never be like a young lady--it is playing so much with your brothers, i suppose, and you know grandmother is very particular. the last time you were there you know you dressed up the cat and frightened poor old betsy (my grandmother's cook) so. do try to keep out of mischief this time.' "'i can't,' i said. 'there is no one to play with there. i would rather stay at home;' and i teased my mother to say i need not go. but it was no good; she was firm about it--it was right that i, the only girl at home, should go to see my grandmother sometimes, and my mother repeated her admonitions as to my behaviour; and as i really loved her dearly i promised to 'try to be very good;' and the next morning i set off with my father in excellent spirits. there was nothing i liked better than a drive with him, especially in rather cold weather, for then he used to tuck me up so beautifully warm in his nice soft rugs, so that hardly anything but the tip of my nose was to be seen, and he would call me his 'little woman' and pet me to my heart's content. "when we reached my grandmother's i felt very reluctant to descend from my perch, and i said to my father that i wished he would take me about the town with him instead of leaving me there. "he explained to me that it was impossible--he had all sorts of things to do, a magistrate's meeting to attend, and i don't know all what. besides which he liked me to be with my grandmother, and he told me i was a silly little goose when i said i was afraid of her. "my father entered the house without knocking--there was no need to lock doors in the quiet streets of the little old town, where everybody that passed up and down was known by everybody else, and their _business_ often known better by the everybody else than by themselves. we went up to the drawing-room, there was nobody there--my father went out of the room and called up the staircase, 'mother, where are you?' "then i heard my grandmother's voice in return. "'my dear hugh--is it you? i am so sorry. i cannot possibly come down. it is the third tuesday of the month. my wardrobe day.' "'and the little woman is here too. what shall i do with her?' said my father. he seemed to understand, though i did not, what 'wardrobe day' meant. "'bring her up here,' my grandmother called back. 'i shall soon have arranged all, and then i can take her downstairs again.' "i was standing on the landing by my father by this time, and, far from loth to discover what my grandmother was about, i followed him upstairs. you have no idea, children, what a curious sight met me! my grandmother, who was a very little woman, was perched upon a high stool, hanging up on a great clothes-horse ever so many dresses, which she had evidently taken out of a wardrobe, close by, whose doors were wide open. there were several clothes-horses in the room, all more or less loaded with garments,--and oh, what queer, quaint garments some of them were! the clothes my grandmother herself had on--even those i was wearing--would seem curious enough to you if you could see them now,--but when i tell you that of those she was hanging out, many had belonged to _her_ grandmother, and mother, and aunts, and great-aunts, you can fancy what a wonderful array there was. her own wedding-dress was among them, and all the coloured silks and satins she had possessed before her widowhood. and more wonderful even than the dresses were a few, not very many, for indeed no room or wardrobe would have held _very_ many, bonnets, or 'hats,' as i think they were then always called. huge towering constructions, with feathers sticking straight up on the top, like the pictures of cinderella's sisters in old-fashioned fairy-tale books--so enormous that any ordinary human head must have been lost in their depths." "did you ever try one on, grandmother?" said molly. grandmother shook her head. "i should not have been allowed to take such a liberty," she said. "i stood and stared about me in perfect amazement without speaking for a minute or two, till my grandmother got down from her stool, and my father told me to go to speak to her. "'are you going away, grandmother?' i said at last, my curiosity overcoming my shyness. 'are these all your clothes? you will want a great many boxes to pack them in, and what queer ones some of them are!' "'queer, my dear,' said my grandmother. 'they are certainly not like what you get now-a-days, if that is what you mean by queer. see here, nelly, this is your great-grandmother's wedding dress--white padusoy embroidered in gold--why, child, it would stand alone! and this salmon-coloured satin, with the pea-green slip--will the stuffs they dye now keep their colour like that a hundred years hence?' "'it's good strong stuff certainly,' said my father, touching it as he spoke. but then he went on to say to my grandmother that the days for such things were past. 'we don't want our clothes to last a century now, mother,' he said. 'times are hurrying on faster, and we must make up our minds to go on with them and leave our old clothes behind. the world would get too full if everybody cherished bygone relics as you do.' "i don't think she much liked his talking so. she shook her head and said something about revolutionary ideas, which i didn't understand. but my father only laughed; his mother and he were the best of friends, though he liked to tease her sometimes. i wandered about the room, peeping in among the rows of quaint costumes, and thinking to myself what fun it would be to dress up in them. but after a while i got tired, and i was hungry too, so i was very glad when grandmother, having hung out the last dress to air, said we must go down to dinner--my father had left some time before----" "what did you have for dinner, grandmother?" said sylvia. "it isn't that i care so much about eating," she added, blushing a little, "but i like to know exactly the sort of way people lived, you know." "only i wish you wouldn't interrupt grandmother," said molly. "i'm _so_ afraid it'll be bed-time before she finishes the story." "which isn't yet begun--eh, molly?" said grandmother. "i warned you my stories were sadly deficient in beginning and end, and middle too--in short they are not stories at all." "never mind, they're _very_ nice," said molly; "and if i may sit up till this one's done i don't mind your telling sylvia what you had for dinner, grandmother dear." "many thanks for your small majesty's gracious permission," said grandmother. "but as to what we had for dinner, i really can't say. much the same as you have now, i fancy. let me see--it was november--very likely a roast chicken and rice pudding." "oh!" said sylvia, in a tone of some disappointment; "go on then, please, grandmother." "where was i?" said grandmother. "oh yes--well, after dinner we went up to the drawing-room, and grandmother, saying she was a good deal tired by her exertions of the morning, sat down in her own particular easy chair by the fire, and, spreading over her face a very fine cambric handkerchief which she kept, i strongly suspect, for the purpose, prepared for her after-dinner nap. it was really a regular institution with her--but i noticed she always made some little special excuse for it, as if it was something quite out of the common. she told me to amuse myself during her forty winks by looking at the treasures in the glass-doored cupboards, which she knew i was very fond of admiring, and she told me i might open the book cupboard if i wanted to take out a book, but on no account any of the others. "now i assure you, children, and by your own experience you will believe what i say, that, but for my grandmother's warnings, the idea of opening the glass doors when by myself would never have come into my head. i had often been in the drawing-room alone and gazed admiringly at the treasures without ever dreaming of examining them more closely. i had never even _wished_ to do so, any more than one wishes to handle the moon or stars or any other un-get-at-able objects. but now, unfortunately, the idea was suggested, it had been put into my head, and there it stayed. i walked round the room gazing in at the cupboards in turn--the book ones did not particularly attract me--long ago i had read, over and over again, the few books in my grandmother's possession that i could feel interested in, and i stood still at last in front of the prettiest cupboard of all, wishing that grandmother had not forbidden my opening it. there were such lovely cups and saucers! i longed to handle them--one in particular that i felt sure i had never seen before. it had a deep rose pink ground, and in the centre there was the sweetest picture of a dear little shepherdess curtseying to an equally dear little shepherd. "as i gazed at this cup the idea struck me that it would be delicious to dress one of my dolls in the little shepherdess's costume, and, eager to see it more minutely, i opened the glass door, and was just stretching up my hand for the cup, when i again remembered what my grandmother had said. i glanced round at her; she was fast asleep; there was no danger; what harm _could_ it do for me to take the cup into my hand for a moment? i stretched up and took it. yes, it was really most lovely, and the little shepherdess's dress seemed to me a perfect facsimile of the one i had most admired upstairs in my grandmother's wardrobe--a pea-green satin over a pale pink or rather salmon-coloured quilted slip. i determined that lady rosabella should have one the same, and i was turning over in my mind the possibilities of getting satin of the particular shades i thought so pretty, when a slight sound in the direction, it seemed to me, of my grandmother's arm-chair, startled me. i turned round hastily--how it was i cannot tell, but so it was--the beautiful cup fell from my hands and lay at my feet in, i was going to say, a thousand fragments." "oh!" exclaimed sylvia and molly--"oh, grandmother, what _did_ you do?" "first of all," grandmother continued, "first of all i stooped down and picked up the pieces. there were not a thousand of them--not perhaps above a dozen, and after all, grandmother was sleeping quietly, but to all appearance soundly. the sound that had startled me must have been a fancied one, i said to myself, and oh dear, what a terrible pity i had been startled! "i gathered the bits together in my handkerchief, and stood staring at them in perfect despair. i dared not let myself burst out crying as i was inclined to do, for grandmother would have heard me and asked what was the matter, and i felt that i should sink into the earth with shame and terror if she saw what i had done, and that i had distinctly disobeyed her. my only idea was to conceal the mischief. i huddled the bits up together in my handkerchief, and huddled the handkerchief into my pocket--the first pocket i had ever had, i rather think--and then i looked up to see if the absence of the cup was very conspicuous. i thought not; the saucer was still there, and by pulling one or two of the other pieces of china forward a little, i managed to make it look as if the cup was just accidentally hidden. to reach up to do this, i had to draw forward a chair; in getting down from it again i made some little noise, and i looked round in terror to see if grandmother was awake. no, she was still sleeping soundly. _what_ a blessing! i got out of one of the book cupboards a book i had read twenty times at least, and sitting down on a stool by the fire i pretended to read it again, while really all my ideas were running on what i should, what i _could_ do. for i had no manner of doubt that before long the accident would be discovered, and i felt sure that my grandmother's displeasure would be very severe. i knew too that my having tried to conceal it would make her far less ready to forgive me, and yet i felt that i _could_ not make up my mind to confess it all. i was so miserable that it was the greatest relief to me a minute or two afterwards to hear the hall door open and my father's hearty voice on the stair." "'i have come to fetch you rather sooner than i said, little woman,' he exclaimed, as he came in, and then he explained that he had promised to drive a friend who lived near us home from the town in our gig, and that this friend being in a hurry, we must leave earlier than usual. my grandmother had wakened up of course with my father's coming in. it seemed to me, or was it my fancy?--that she looked graver than usual and rather sad as she bade us good-bye. she kissed me very kindly, more tenderly than was her habit, and said to my father that he must be sure to bring me again very soon, so that as i was going downstairs with him, he said to me that he was glad to see how fond grandmother was getting of me, and that he would bring me again next week. _i_ did not feel at all pleased at this--i felt more unhappy than ever i had done in my life, so that my father, noticing it, asked what was the matter. i replied that i was tired and that i did not care for going to grandmother's, and then, when i saw that this ungracious answer vexed my kind father, i felt more and more unhappy. every moment as we walked along--we were to meet the carriage at the inn where it had been left--the bits of broken china in my pocket bumped against my leg, as if they would not let themselves be forgotten. i wished i could stop and throw them away, but that was impossible. i trudged along, gloomy and wretched, with a weight on my heart that it seemed to me i would never get rid of. suddenly--so suddenly that i could hardly believe my own senses, something caught my eye that entirely changed my whole ideas. i darted forward, my father was a few steps in front of me--the footpath was so narrow in the old town that there was often not room for two abreast--_and_----" just at this moment the door opened, and grandmother's maid appeared with the tea-tray. molly gave an impatient shake. "oh, _what_ a bother!" she said. "i quite forgot about tea. and immediately after tea it is always time for us to go to bed. it is eight o'clock now, oh grandmother, _do_ finish the story to-night." "and why cannot my little girl ask it without all those shakes and 'bothers?'" said grandmother. she spoke very gently, but molly looked considerably ashamed. "yes, grandmother dear," she replied meekly. then she got up from the rug and stood by aunty patiently, while she poured out the tea, first "grandmothering" each cup to keep it from slipping about, then warming them with a little hot water, then putting in the beautiful yellow cream, the sugar, and the nice rich brown tea, all in the particular way grandmother liked it done. and during the process, molly did not once wriggle or twist with impatience, so that when she carried grandmother's tea to her, very carefully and steadily, without a drop spilling over into the saucer in the way grandmother disliked to see, she got a kiss by way of reward, and what was still better perhaps, grandmother looked up and said, "that's _my_ good little woman. there is not much more of what you call 'my story,' to tell, but such as it is, you may sit up to hear it, if you like." chapter viii. grandmother's story----(_continued_). "o while you live, tell truth." henry iv., part 1. so in a few minutes they were all settled again, and grandmother went on. "we were walking through a very narrow street, i was telling you--was i not? when i caught sight of something that suddenly changed my ideas. 'what was this something?' you are all asking, i see. it was a china cup in a shop window we were passing, a perfect match it seemed to me of the unfortunate one still lamenting its fate by rattling its bits in my pocket! it was a shabby little old shop, of which there were a good many in the town, filled with all sorts of curiosities, and quite in the front of the window, as conspicuous as if placed there on purpose, stood the cup. i darted forward to beg my father to let me wait a moment, but just then, curiously enough, he had met a friend and was standing talking to him, and when i touched his arm, he turned rather hastily, for, as i told you, he had not been pleased with my way of replying about my grandmother. and he said to me i must not be so impatient, but wait till he had finished speaking to mr. lennox. i asked him if i might look in at the shop window, and he said 'yes, of course i might,' so i flew back, the bits rattle-rattling in my pocket, and stood gazing at the twin-cup. i must tell you that i happened to have in my possession an unusual amount of money just then--ten shillings, actually ten whole shillings, which my father had given me on my birthday, and as i always brought my purse with me when i came into the town, there it was all ready! i looked and looked at the cup till i was satisfied it was a perfect match, then glancing up the street and seeing my father still talking to his friend, i crept timidly into the shop, and asked the price of the pink cup and saucer in the window. "the old man in the shop was a german; afterwards my grandmother told me he was a jew, and well accustomed to having his prices beaten down. he looked at me curiously and said to me, "'ach! too moch for leetle young lady like you. zwanzig--twenty schelling, that cup. old lady bought von, vill come again buy anoder. zwanzig--twenty schelling.' "i grew more and more eager. the old lady he spoke of must be my grandmother; i had often heard my father laugh at her for poking about old shops; i felt perfectly certain the cups were exactly alike. i begged the old man to let me have it, and opened my purse to show him all i had--the ten shilling piece, two sixpences and a fourpenny, and a few coppers. that was all, and the old man shook his head. it was too little, 'twenty schelling,' he repeated, or at the very least, to oblige the 'young lady,' fifteen. i said to him i had not got fifteen--eleven and nine-pence was everything i possessed, and at last, in my eagerness, i nearly burst into tears. i really do not know if the old man was sorry for me, or if he only thought of getting my money; however that may have been, he took my purse out of my hand and slowly counted out the money. i meanwhile, nearly dancing with impatience, while he repeated 'nine-pence, von schelling, zehn schelling ach vell, most be, most be,' and to my great delight he handed me the precious cup and saucer, first wrapping them up in a dirty bit of newspaper. [illustration: zwanzig--twenty schelling, that cup.] "then he took the ten-shilling piece out of my purse, and handed it back to me, leaving me in possession of my two sixpences, my fourpenny bit, and my five coppers. "i flew out of the shop, thanking the old man effusively, and rushed up the street clutching my treasure, while rattle-rattle went the bones of its companion in my pocket. my father was just shaking hands with mr. lennox and turning round to look for me, when i ran up. mr. lennox, it appeared, was the gentleman who was to have driven home with us, but something had occurred to detain him in the town, and he was on his way to explain this to my father when we met him. "my father was rather silent and grave on the way home; he seemed to have forgotten that i had said anything to vex him; some magistrates' business had worried him, and it was that that he had been talking about to mr. lennox. he said to me that he was half afraid he would have to drive into the town again the next day, adding, 'it is a pity lennox did not know in time. by staying a little later, we might have got all done.' "to his astonishment i replied by begging him to let me come with him again the next day. he said to me, 'why, nelly, you were just now saying you did not care for going to see your grandmother, that it was dull, and tired you. what queer creatures children are.' "i felt my cheeks grow hot, but i replied that i was sorry i had said that, and that i did want very much to go to see my grandmother again. of course you will understand, children, that i was thinking about the best chance of putting back the cup, or rather its substitute, but my dear father thought i was sorry for having vexed him, and that i wanted to please him by asking to go again, so he readily granted my request. but i felt far from happy that evening at home, when something was said about my wanting to go again, and one of my brothers remarking that i must surely have enjoyed myself very greatly at my grandmother's, my father and mother looked at me kindly and said that their little nelly liked to please others as well as herself. oh how guilty i felt! i hated having anything to conceal, for i was by nature very frank. and oh, what a torment the poor cup and saucer were! i got rid of the bits by throwing them behind a hedge, but i could not tell where to hide my purchase, and i was so terribly afraid of breaking it. it was a relief to my mind the next morning when it suddenly struck me that i need not take the saucer too, the cup was enough, as the original saucer was there intact, and the cup was much easier to carry by itself. "when we got to the town my father let me down at my grandmother's without coming in himself at all, and went off at once to his business. the door was open, and i saw no one about. i made my way up to the drawing-room as quickly and quietly as possible; to my great satisfaction there was no one there. i stole across the room to the china cupboard, drew forward a chair and climbed upon it, and, in mortal fear and trembling, placed the cup on the saucer waiting for it. they seemed to match exactly, but i could not wait to see any more--the sound of some one coming along the ante-room reached my ears--i had only just time to close the door of the cupboard, jump down and try to look as if nothing were the matter, when my grandmother entered the room. she came up to me with both her hands out-stretched in welcome, and a look on her face that i did not understand. she kissed me fondly, exclaiming, "'my own dear little nelly. i thought you would come. i knew you would not be happy till you had----.' but she stopped suddenly. i had drawn a little back from her, and again i felt my face get red. why would people praise me when i did not deserve it? my grandmother, i supposed, thought i had come again because i had felt conscious of having been not particularly gracious the day before--whereas i knew my motive to have been nothing of the kind. "'papa was coming again, and he said i might come. i have nothing to do at home just now. it's holidays,' i said abruptly, my very honesty _now_ leading me into misrepresentations, as is constantly the case once one has quitted the quite straight path of candour. "my grandmother looked pained and disappointed, but said nothing. but _never_ had she been kinder. it was past dinner time, but she ordered tea for me an hour earlier than her usual time, and sent down word that the cook was to bake some girdle-cakes, as she knew i was fond of them. and what a nice tea we might have had but for the uncomfortable little voice that kept whispering to me that i did not deserve all this kindness, that i was deceiving my grandmother, which was far worse than breaking twenty cups. i felt quite provoked with myself for feeling so uneasy. i had thought i should have felt quite comfortable and happy once the cup was restored. i had spent all, or very nearly all, my money on it. i said to myself, who could have done more? and i determined not to be so silly and to think no more about it--but it was no good. every time my grandmother looked at me, every time she spoke to me--worst of all when the time came for me to go and she kissed me, somehow so much more tenderly than usual, and murmured some words i could not catch, but which sounded like a little prayer, as she stroked my head in farewell--it was dreadfully hard not to burst into tears and tell her all, and beg her to forgive me. but i went away without doing so. "half way home a strange thought came suddenly into my mind. it seemed to express the unhappiness i was feeling. supposing my grandmother were to die, supposing i were never to see her again, would i _then_ feel satisfied with my behaviour to her, and would i still say to myself that i had done all for the best in spending my money on a new cup? would i not then rather feel that it would have been less grievous to my grandmother to know of my breaking twenty cups, than to discover the concealment and want of candour into which my cowardliness had led me? "'if grandmother were _dead_, i suppose she would know all about it,' i said to myself. 'i would not like to think of that. i would rather have told her myself.' "and i startled my father by turning to him suddenly and asking if grandmother was very old. he replied, 'not so very. of course she is not _young_, but we may hope to have her among us many a day yet if god wills it, my little woman.' "i gave a sigh of relief. 'i know she is very strong,' i said. 'she is very seldom ill, and she can take quite long walks still.' "thank god for it,' said my father, evidently pleased with my interest in my grandmother. and although it was true that already i was beginning to love her much more than formerly, still my father's manner gave me again the miserable feeling that i was gaining credit which i did not deserve. "more than a week passed after this without my seeing my grandmother. it was not a happy week for me. i felt quite unlike my old light-hearted self. and constantly--just as when one has a tender spot anywhere, a sore finger for instance, everything seems to rub against it--constantly little allusions were made which appeared to have some reference to my concealment. something would be said about my birthday present, and my brothers would ask me if i had made up my mind what i should buy with it, or they would tease me about my sudden fancy for spending two days together with my grandmother, and ask me if i was not in a hurry to go to see her again. i grew irritable and suspicious, and more and more unhappy, and before long those about me began to notice the change. my father and mother feared i was ill--'nelly is so unlike herself,' i heard them say. my brothers openly declared 'there was no fun in playing with me now, i had grown so cross.' i felt that it was true--indeed both opinions were true, for i really _was_ getting ill with the weight on my mind, which never, night or day, seemed to leave it. "at last one day my father told me that he was going to drive into the little town where my grandmother lived, the next day, and that i was to go with him to see her. i noticed that he did not ask me, as usual, if i would like to go; he just said i must be ready by a certain hour, and gave me no choice in the matter. i did not want to go, but i was afraid of making any objection for fear of their asking my reasons, so i said nothing, but silently, and to all appearance i fear, sulkily, got ready as my father desired. we had a very quiet drive; my father made no remarks about my dullness and silence, and i began to be afraid that something had been found out, and that he was taking me to my grandmother's to be 'scolded,' as i called it in my silly little mind. i glanced up at his face as i sat beside him. no, he did not look severe, only grave and rather anxious. dear father! afterwards i found that he and my mother had been really _very_ anxious about me, and that he was taking me to my grandmother, by her express wish, to see what she thought of the state of matters, before consulting a doctor or trying change of air, or anything of that kind. and my grandmother had particularly asked him to say nothing more to myself about my own unsatisfactory condition, and had promised him to do her utmost to put things right. "well--we got to my grandmother's--my father lifted me out of the carriage, and i followed him upstairs--my grandmother was sitting in the drawing-room, evidently expecting us. she came forward with a bright kind smile on her face, and kissed me fondly. then she said to my father she was so glad he had brought me, and she hoped i would have a happy day. and my father looked at me as he went away with a sort of wistful anxiety that made me again have that horrible feeling of not deserving his care and affection. and oh, how i wished the long day alone with my grandmother were over! i could not bear being in the drawing-room, i was afraid of seeming to glance in the direction of the china cupboard; i felt miserable whenever my grandmother spoke kindly to me. "and how kind she was that day! if ever a little girl _should_ have been happy, that little girl was i. grandmother let me look over the drawers where she kept her beautiful scraps of silk and velvet, ever so many of which she gave me--lovely pieces to make a costume such as i had fancied for lady rosabelle, but which i had never had the heart to see about. she let me 'tidy' her best work-box--a _wonderful_ box, full of every conceivable treasure and curiosity--and then, when i was a little tired with all my exertions, she made me sit down on a footstool at her feet and talked to me so nicely--all about when _she_ was a little girl--fancy that, molly, your great-great-grandmother ever having been a little girl!--and about the queer legends and fairy tales that in those days were firmly believed in in the far-away scotch country place where her childhood was spent. for the first time for all these unhappy ten days, i began to feel like myself again. sitting there at my grandmother's feet listening to her i actually forgot my troubles, though i was in the very drawing-room i had learnt so to dread, within a few yards of the cupboard i dared not even glance at. "there came a little pause in the conversation; i leaned my head against my grandmother's knee. "'i wish there were fairies now,' i said. 'don't you, grandmother?' "grandmother said 'no, on the whole she preferred things being as they were.' there were _some_ fairies certainly she would be sorry to lose, princess sweet-temper, and lady make-the-best-of-it, and old madame tidy, and, most of all perhaps, the beautiful fairy _candour_. i laughed at her funny way of saying things, but yet something in her last words made the uneasy feeling come back again. then my grandmother went on talking in a different tone. "'do you know, nelly,' she said, 'queer things happen sometimes that one would be half inclined to put down to fairies if one did not know better?' "i pricked up my ears. "'do tell me what sort of things, grandmother,' i said eagerly. "'well'--she went on, speaking rather slowly and gravely, and very distinctly--'the other day an extraordinary thing happened among my china cups in that cupboard over there. i had one pink cup, on the side of which was--or is--the picture of a shepherdess curtseying to a shepherd. now this shepherdess when i bought the cup, which was only a few days ago, was dressed--i am _perfectly_ certain of it, for her dress was just the same as one i have upstairs in my collection--in a pale pink or salmon-coloured skirt, looped up over a pea-green slip--the picture of the shepherdess is repeated again on the saucer, and there it still is as i tell you. but the strangest metamorphosis has taken place in the cup. i left it one morning as i describe, for you know i always dust my best china myself. two days after, when i looked at it again, the shepherdess's attire was changed--she had on no longer the pea-green dress over the salmon, but a _salmon_ dress over a _pea-green_ slip. did you ever hear anything so strange, nelly?' "i turned away my head, children; i dared not look at my grandmother. what should i say? this was the end of my concealment. it had done _no_ good--grandmother must know it all now, i could hide it no longer, and she would be far, far more angry than if at the first i had bravely confessed my disobedience and its consequences. i tried to speak, but i could not. i burst into tears and hid my face. "grandmother's arm was round me in a moment, and her kind voice saying, 'why, what is the matter, my little nelly?' "i drew myself away from her, and threw myself on the floor, crying out to grandmother not to speak kindly to me. "'you won't love me when you know,' i said. 'you will never love me again. it was _me_, oh grandmother! it was me that changed the cup. i got another for you not to know. i spent all my money. i broke it, grandmother. when you told me not to open the cupboard, i did open it, and i took out the cup, and it fell and was broken, and then i saw another in a shop window, and i thought it was just the same, and i bought it. it cost ten shillings, but i never knew it wasn't quite the same, only now it doesn't matter. you will never love me again, and nobody will. oh dear, oh dear, what _shall_ i do?' "'never love you again, my poor dear faithless little girl,' said grandmother. 'oh, nelly, my child, how little you know me! but oh, i am so glad you have told me all about it yourself. that was what i was longing for. i did so want my little girl to be true to her own honest heart.' "and then she went on to explain that she had known it all from the first. she had not been asleep the day that i disobediently opened the cupboard, at least she had wakened up in time to see what had happened, and she had earnestly hoped that i would make up my mind to tell it frankly. that was what had so disappointed her the next day when she had quite thought i had come on purpose to tell it all. then when my father had come to consult her about the queer state i seemed to be in, she had not felt surprised. she had quite understood it all, though she had not said so to him, and she had resolved to try to win my confidence. she told me too that she had found out from the old german about my buying the cup, whose reappearance she could not at first explain. "'i went to his shop the very next morning,' she told me, 'to see if he still had the fellow to the cup i had bought, as i knew he had two of them, and he told me the other had been bought by a little girl. ten shillings was too much to give for it, nelly, a great deal too much for you to give, and more than the cup was really worth. it was not a very valuable cup, though the colour was so pretty that i was tempted to buy it to place among the others.' "'i don't mind about the money, grandmother,' i replied. 'i would have given ever so much more if i had had it. you will keep the cup now?' i added. 'you won't make me take it back to the old man? and oh, grandmother, will you really forgive me?' "she told me she had already done so, fully and freely, from the bottom of her heart. and she said she would indeed keep the cup, as long as she lived, and that if ever again i was tempted to distrust her i must look at it and take courage. and she explained to me that even if there had been reason for my fears, 'even if i had been a very harsh and severe grandmother, your concealment would have done no good in the end,' she said. 'it would have been like the first little tiny seed of deceit, which might have grown into a great tree of evil, poisoning all your life. oh, nelly, never _never_ plant that seed, for once it has taken root who can say how difficult it may be to tear it up?' "i listened with all my attention; i could not help being deeply impressed with her earnestness, and i was so grateful for her kindness that her advice found good soil ready to receive it. and how many, many times in my life have i not recalled it! for, ralph and sylvia and molly, my darlings, remember this--even to the naturally frank and honest there come times of sore temptation in life, times when a little swerving from the straight narrow path of uprightness would seem to promise to put all straight when things have gone wrong, times when the cost seems so little and the gain so great. ah! yes, children, we need to have a firm anchor to hold by at these times, and woe for us then if the little evil seed has been planted and has taken root in our hearts." grandmother paused. the children too were silent for a moment or two. then sylvia said gently, "did you tell your father and mother all about it, grandmother?" "yes," said grandmother, "i did--all about it. i told them everything. it was my own choice. my grandmother left it to myself. she would not tell them; she would leave it to me. and, of course, i did tell them. i could not feel happy till i had done so. they were very kind about it, _very_ kind, but still it was to my grandmother i felt the most grateful and the most drawn. from that time till her death, when i was nearly grown up, she was my dearest counsellor and guide. i had no concealment from her--i told her everything. for her heart was so wonderfully young; to the very last she was able to sympathise in all my girlish joys, and sorrows, and difficulties." "like you, grandmother dear," said molly, softly stroking her grandmother's hand, which she had taken in hers. "she must have been just like you." they all smiled. "and when she died," pursued grandmother gently, almost as if speaking to herself, "when she died and all her things were divided, i begged them to give me the pink cup. i might have had a more valuable one instead, but i preferred it. it is one of those two over there on the little cabinet." molly's eyes turned eagerly in the direction of the little cabinet. "grandmother dear," she said, solemnly, "when you die--i don't _want_ you to die, you know of course, but when you _do_ die, i wish you would say that _i_ may have that cup--will you? to remind me, you know, of what you have been telling us. i quite understand how you mean: that day all my brooches were broken, i did awfully want not to tell you about them all, and i might forget, you see, about the little bad seed and all that, that you have been telling us so nicely. please, grandmother dear, _may_ i have that cup when you die?" "molly," said sylvia, her face growing very red, "it is perfectly horrible of you to talk that way. i am quite ashamed of you. don't mind her, grandmother. she just talks as if she had no sense sometimes. how _can_ you, molly?" she went on, turning again to her sister, "how _can_ you talk about dear grandmother dying? _dear_ grandmother, and you pretend to love her." molly's big blue eyes opened wide with astonishment, then gradually they grew misty, and great tears welled up to their surface. "i don't _pretend_--i _do_ love her," she said. "and i don't _want_ you to die, grandmother dear, do i? only we all must die some time. i didn't mean to talk horribly. i think you are very unkind, sylvia." "children, children," said grandmother's gentle voice, "i don't like these words. i am sure molly did not mean anything i would not like, sylvia dear, but yet i know how _you_ mean. don't be in such a hurry to judge each other. and about the cup, molly, i'll consider, though i hope and believe you will not need it to remind you of the lesson i want to impress on you by the story of my long-ago troubles. now kiss each other, dears, and kiss me, for it is quite bed-time. good-night, my little girls. ralph, my boy, open the door for your sisters, and pleasant dreams to you all." chapter ix. ralph's confidence. "sad case it is, as you may think for very cold to go to bed; and then for cold not sleep a wink." wordsworth's _goody blaks_ "grandmother," said ralph, when they were all sitting at breakfast the next morning, "didn't you say that your grandmother once had an adventure that we might like to hear? it was at the beginning of the story you told us--i think it was something about the corkscrew staircase. i liked the story awfully, you know, but i'm fearfully fond of adventures." grandmother smiled. "i remember saying something about it," she said, "but it is hardly worth calling an adventure, my boy. it showed her courage and presence of mind, however. she was a very brave little woman." "presence of mind," repeated ralph. "ah yes! that's a good thing to have. there's a fellow at our school who saved a child from being burnt to death not long ago. it was his little cousin where he lives. it wasn't he that told me about it, he's too modest, it was some of the other fellows." "who is he? what's his name?" asked molly. "prosper de lastre," replied ralph. "he's an awful good fellow every way." "prosper de lastre!" repeated molly, who possessed among other peculiarities that of a sometimes most inconveniently good memory. "prosper de lastre! i do believe, ralph, that's the very boy you called a cad when you first went to school." ralph's face got very red, and he seemed on the verge of a hasty reply. but he controlled himself. "well, and if i did," he said somewhat gruffly, "a fellow may be mistaken, mayn't he? i don't think him a cad _now_, and that's all about it." molly was preparing some rejoinder when grandmother interrupted her. "you are quite right, ralph, _quite_ right not to be above owning yourself mistaken. who _can_ be above it really? not the wisest man that ever lived. and molly, my dear little girl, why can you not learn to be more considerate? do you know what 'tact' is, molly? did you ever hear of it?" "oh yes, grandmother dear," said molly serenely. "it means--it means--oh i don't quite know, but i'm sure i do know." "think of it as meaning the not saying or doing to another person whatever in that other's place you would not like said or done to you--that is _one_ meaning of tact anyway, and a very good one. will you try to remember it, molly?" molly opened her eyes. "yes, grandmother dear, i will try. but i _think_ all that will be rather hard to remember, because you see people don't feel the same. my head isn't twisty-turny enough to understand things like that, quickly. i like better to go bump at them, quite straight." "without, in nine cases out of ten, the faintest idea what you are going to go bump straight at," said aunty, laughing. "oh, molly, you are irresistible!" the laughing at her had laughed back ralph's good humour anyway, and now he returned to the charge. "twisty-turny is like a corkscrew, grandmother," he said slyly, "and once there was an old house with a corkscrew stair----" "yes," said grandmother, "and in that old house there once lived an old lady, who, strange to say, was not always old. she was not very old at the time of the 'adventure.' you remember, children, my telling you that during her husband's life, my grandmother and he used to spend part of the winter in the old house where she afterwards ended her days. my grandfather used to drive backwards and forwards to his farms, of which he had several in the neighbourhood, and the town was a sort of central place for the season of bad weather and short days. sometimes he used to be kept rather late, for besides his own affairs, he had, like his son, my father, a good deal of magistrate's business to attend to. but however late he was detained my grandmother always sat up for him, generally in a little sitting-room she had on the storey above the long drawing-room i have described to you, almost, that is to say, at the top of the house, from attic to basement of which ran the lung 'twisty-turny, corkscrew staircase.' one evening, about christmas time it was, i think, my grandfather was very late of coming home. my grandmother was not uneasy, for he had told her he would be late, and she had mentioned it to the servants, and told them they need not sit up. so there she was, late at night, alone, sewing most likely--ah girls, i wish i could show you some of her sewing--in her little parlour. she was not the least nervous, yet it was a little 'eerie' perhaps, sitting up there alone so late, listening for her husband's whistle--he always whistled when he was late, so that she might be _sure_ it was he, when she went down to open the door at his knock--and more than once she looked at the clock and wished he would come. suddenly a step outside the room, coming up the stair, made her start. she had hardly time to wonder confusedly if it could be my grandfather, knowing all the time it could _not_ be he--the doors were all supposed to be locked and barred, and could only be opened from the inside--when the door was flung open and some one looked in. not my grandfather certainly; the man who stood in the doorway was dressed in some sort of rough workman's clothes, and his face was black and grimy. that was all she had time to catch sight of, for, not expecting to see her there, the intruder, startled, turned sharply round and made for the stair. up jumped my little grandmother; she took it all in in an instant, and saw that her only chance was to take advantage of his momentary surprise and start at seeing her. up she jumped and rushed bravely after him, making all the clatter she could. downstairs he flew, imagining very probably in his fright that two or three people instead of one little woman were at his heels, and downstairs, round and round the corkscrew staircase, she flew after him. never afterwards, she has often since told me, did she quite lose the association of that wild flight, never could she go downstairs in that house without the feeling of the man before her, and seeming to hear the rattle-rattle of a leathern apron he was wearing, which clattered against the banisters as he ran. but she kept her head to the end of the chase; she followed him--all in the dark, remember--down to the bottom of the staircase, and, guided by the clatter of his apron, through a back kitchen in the basement which opened into a yard--there she stopped--she heard him clatter through this cellar, banging the door--which had been left open, and through which he had evidently made his way into the house--after him, as if to prevent her following him farther. poor thing, she certainly had no wish to do so; she felt her way to the door and felt for the key to lock it securely. but alas, when she pushed the door closely to, preparatory to locking it, it resisted her. some one or something seemed to push against her from the outside. then for the first time her courage gave way, and thinking that the man had returned, with others perhaps, she grew sick and faint with fright. she sank down helplessly on the floor for a moment or two. but all seemed quiet; her courage and common sense returned; she got up and felt all about the door carefully, to try to discover the obstacle. to her delight she found that some loose sand or earth driven into a little heap on the floor was what prevented the door shutting. she smoothed it away with her hand, closed the door and locked it firmly, and then, faint and trembling, but safe, made her way back to the little room where her light was burning. you can fancy how glad she was, a very few moments afterwards, to hear my grandfather's cheerful whistle outside." "but," interrupted molly, her eyes looking bigger and rounder than usual, "but suppose the man had been waiting outside to catch him--your grandfather--grandmother, when he came in?" "but the man wasn't doing anything of the sort, my dear molly. he had gone off in a fright, and when my grandmother thought it over coolly, she felt convinced that he was not a regular burglar, and so it turned out. he was a man who worked at a smithy near by, and this was his first attempt at burglary. he had heard that my grandfather was to be out late, through one of the servants, whom he had persuaded not to lock the door, on the pretense that he might be passing and would look in to say good-night. it all came out afterwards." "and was he put in prison?" said molly. "no," said grandmother. "the punishments for housebreaking and such things in those days were so frightfully severe, that kind-hearted people often refrained from accusing the wrong-doers. this man had been in sore want of money for some reason or other; he was not a dishonest character. i believe the end of it was that my grandfather forgave him, and put him in the way of doing better." "that was very nice," said molly, with a sigh of relief. "good-bye," said ralph, who was just then strapping his books together for school. "thank you for the story, grandmother. if it is fine this afternoon," he added, "may i stay out later? i want to go a walk into the country." "certainly, my boy," said grandmother. "but you'll be home by dinner." "all right," said ralph, as he marched off. "and grandmother, please," said sylvia, "may molly and i go out with marcelline this afternoon to do some shopping? the pretty christmas things are coming in now, and we have lots to do." "certainly, my dears," said grandmother again, and about two o'clock the little girls set off, one on each side of good-natured marcelline, in high spirits, to do their christmas shopping. grandmother watched them from the window, and thought how pretty they looked, and the thought earned her back to the time--not so very long ago did it seem to her now--when their mother had been just as bright and happy as they--the mother who had never lived to see them more than babies. grandmother's eyes filled with tears, but she smiled through the tears. "god is good and sends new blessings when the old he takes away," she whispered to herself. it was a blessing, a very great blessing and pleasure to have what she had so often longed for, the care of her dear little grand-daughters herself. "and ralph," she added, "i cannot help feeling the responsibility with him even greater. an old woman like me, can i have much influence with a boy? but he is a dear boy in many ways, and i was pleased with the way he spoke yesterday. it was honest and manly. ah! if we could teach our boys what _true_ manliness is, the world would be a better place than it is." the days were beginning to close in now. by four o'clock or half-past it was almost dark, and, once the sun had gone down, cold, with a peculiar biting coldness not felt farther north, where the temperature is more equable and the contrasts less sudden. grandmother put on her fur-lined cloak and set off to meet the little market-women. once, twice thrice she walked to the corner of the road--they were not to be seen, and she was beginning to fear the temptations of the shops had delayed them unduly, when they suddenly came in view; and the moment they caught sight of her familiar figure off they set, as if touched at the same instant by an electric thrill, running towards her like two lapwings. "dear grandmother, how good of you to come to meet us," said sylvia. "we have got such nice things. they are in marcelline's basket," nodding back towards marcelline, jogging along after them in her usual deliberate fashion. "_such_ nice things," echoed molly. "but oh, grandmother dear, you don't know what we saw. we met ralph in the town, and i'm sure he didn't want us to see him, for what _do_ you think he was doing?" a chill went through poor grandmother's heart. in an instant she pictured to herself all manner of scrapes ralph might have got into. had her thoughts of him this very afternoon been a sort of presentiment of evil? she grew white, so white that even in the already dusky light, sylvia's sharp eyes detected it, and she turned fiercely to molly, the heedless. "you naughty girl," she said, "to go and frighten dear little grandmother like that. and only this very morning or yesterday grandmother was explaining to you about tact. don't be frightened, dear grandmother. ralph wasn't doing anything naughty, only i daresay he didn't want us to see." "but what _was_ he doing?" said grandmother, and molly, irrepressible still, though on the verge of sobs, made answer before sylvia could speak. "he was carrying wood, grandmother dear," she said--"big bundles, and another boy with him too. i think they had been out to the little forests to fetch it. it was fagots. but i _didn't_ mean to frighten you, grandmother; i _didn't_ know it was untact to tell you--i have been thinking all day about what you told me." "carrying wood?" repeated grandmother, relieved, though mystified. "what can he have been doing that for?" "i think it is a plan of his. i am sure it is nothing naughty," said sylvia, nodding her head sagely. "and if molly will just leave it alone and say _nothing_ about it, it will be all right, you will see. ralph will tell you himself, i'm sure, if molly will not tease." "i won't, i promise you i won't," said molly; "i won't say anything about it, and if ralph asks me if we saw him i'll screw up my lips as tight as tight, and not say a single word." "as if that would do any good," said sylvia contemptuously; "it would only make him think we had seen him, and make a fuss. however, there's no fear of ralph asking you anything about it. you just see him alone when he comes in, grandmother. "oh dear, oh dear," sighed molly, as they returned to the house, "i shall never understand about tact, never. we've got our lessons to do for to-morrow, sylvia, and the verbs are very hard." "never mind, i'll help you," said sylvia good-naturedly, and grandmother was pleased to see them go upstairs to their little study with their arms round each other's waists as usual--the best of friends. half an hour later, ralph made his appearance. he looked rather less tidy than his wont--for as a rule ralph was a particularly tidy boy--his hair was tumbled, and his hands certainly could not have been described as _clean_. "well, ralph, and what have you been doing with yourself?" said grandmother, as he came in. ralph threw himself down on the rug. "my poor rug," thought grandmother, but she judged it wiser not, at that moment, to express her misgivings aloud. ralph did not at once reply. then-"grandmother," he said, after a little pause. "well, my boy?" "you remember my calling one of the boys in my class a cad--what molly began about last night?" "well, my boy?" said grandmother again. "do you remember what made me call him a cad? it was that i met him carrying a great bundle of wood--little wood they call it--along the street one day. well, just fancy, grandmother, _i've_ been doing it too. that's what i wanted to stay later for this afternoon." grandmother's heart gave a bound of pleasure at her boy's frankness. "sensible child sylvia is," she said to herself. but aloud she replied with a smile, "carrying wood! what did you do that for, and where did you get it?" "i'll tell you, i'll tell you all about it," said ralph. "we went out after school to a sort of little coppice where there is a lot of that nice dry brushwood that anybody may take. prosper knew the place, and took me. it was to please him i went. he does it every thursday; that is the day we are let out of school early." "and what does he do it for?" asked grandmother. "is he--are his people so very poor that he has to do it? i thought all the boys were of a better class," she added, with some inward misgiving as to what mr. heriott might say as to his son's present companions. "oh, so they are--at least they are not what you would call poor," said ralph. "prosper belongs to quite rich people. but he's an orphan; he lives with his uncle, and i suppose he's not rich--prosper himself, i mean--for he says his uncle's always telling him to work hard at school, as he will have to fight his way in the world. he has got a little room up at the top of the house, and that's what put it into his head about the wood. there's an old woman, who was once a sort of a lady, who lives in the next room to his. you get up by a different stair; it's really a different house, but once, somehow, the top rooms were joined, and there's still a door between prosper's room and this old woman's, and one morning early he heard her crying--she was really _crying_, grandmother, she's so old and shaky, he says--because she couldn't get her fire to light. he didn't know what she was crying for at first, but he peeped through the keyhole and saw her fumbling away with damp paper and stuff that wouldn't light the big logs. so he thought and thought what he could do--he hasn't any money hardly--and at last he thought he'd go and see what he could find. and he found a _beautiful_ place for brushwood, and he carried back all he could, and since then every thursday he goes out to that place. but, of course, one fellow alone can't carry much, and you should have seen how pleased he was when i said i'd go with him. but i thought i'd better tell you. you don't mind, grandmother?" [illustration: in the coppice.] grandmother's eyes looked very bright as she replied. "_mind_, my ralph? no, indeed. i am only glad you should have so manly and self-denying an example as prosper's, and still more glad that you should have the right feeling and moral courage to follow it. poor old woman! is she quite alone in the world? she must be very grateful to her little next-door neighbour." "i don't know that she is--at least not so very," said ralph. "the fun of it was, that for ever so long she didn't know where the little wood came from. prosper found a key that opened the door, and when she was out he carried in the fagots, and laid the fire all ready for her with some of them; and when she came in he peeped through the keyhole. she was so surprised, she couldn't make it out. and the wood he had fetched lasted a week, and then he got some more. but the next time she found him out." "and what did she say?" "at first she was rather offended, till he explained how he had got it; and then she thanked him, of course, but not so very much, i fancy. he always says old people are grumpy--doesn't 'grogneur' mean grumpy, grandmother?--that they can't help it, and when his old woman is grumpy he only laughs a little. but _you're_ not grumpy, grandmother, and you're old; at least getting rather old." "decidedly old, my boy. but why should i be grumpy? and how do you know i shouldn't be so if i were living up alone in an attic, with no children to love and cheer me, my poor old hands swollen and twisted with rheumatism, perhaps, and very little money. ah, what a sad picture! poor old woman, i must try to find out some way of helping her." "she washes lace for ladies, prosper says," said ralph, eagerly. "perhaps if you had some lace to wash, grandmother." "i'll see what i can do," said grandmother. "you get me her name and address from prosper. and, ralph, we might think of something for a little christmas present for her, might we not? you must talk to your friend about it. i suppose his relations are not likely to interest themselves in his protégée?" "no," said ralph. "his aunt is young, and dresses very grandly, and i don't think she takes much notice of prosper himself. oh no, _you_ could do it much better than any one else, grandmother; find out all about her and what she would like--in a nice sort of way, you know." grandmother drew ralph to her and kissed him. "my own dear boy," she said. ralph got rather red, but his eyes shone with pleasure nevertheless. "grandmother," he said, half shyly, "i've had a lesson about not calling fellows cads in a hurry, but all the same you won't forget about telling us the story of uncle jack's cad, will you?" "what a memory you have, ralph," said grandmother. "you're nearly as bad for stories as molly. no, i haven't forgotten. as well as i could remember, i have written out the little story--i only wish i had had it in your uncle's own words. but such as it is, i will read it to you all this evening." grandmother went to her davenport, and took out from one of the drawers some sheets of ruled paper, which she held up for ralph to see. on the outside one he read, in grandmother's neat, clear handwriting, the words---chapter x. --"that cad sawyer." "i do not like thee, doctor fell, the reason why i cannot tell." old rhyme. and grandmother of course kept her promise. that evening she read it aloud. "they were ryeburn boys--ryeburn boys to their very heart's core--jack and his younger brother carlo, as somehow he had got to be called in the nursery, before he could say his own name plainly." "that's uncle charlton, who died when he was only about fifteen," whispered sylvia to ralph and molly; "you see grandmother's written it out like a regular story--not saying 'your uncle this' or 'your uncle that,' every minute. isn't it nice?" grandmother stopped to see what all the whispering was about. "we beg your pardon, grandmother, we'll be quite quiet now," said the three apologetically. "they had been at school at ryeburn since they were quite little fellows, and they thought that nowhere in the world was there a place to be compared with it. holidays at home were very delightful, no doubt, but school-days were delightful too. but for the sayings of good-byes to the dear people left at home--father and mother, big sister and little one, i think jack and carlo started for their return journey to school at the end of the midsummer holidays _very_ nearly as cheerfully as they had set off for home eight weeks previously, when these same delightful holidays had begun. jack had not very many more half-years to look forward to: he was to be a soldier, and before long must leave ryeburn in preparation for what was before him, for he was fifteen past. carlo was only thirteen and small of his age. he _had_ known what it was to be homesick, even at ryeburn, more than three years ago, when he had first come there. but with a big brother--above all a big brother like jack, great strong fellow that he was, with the kindest of hearts for anything small or weak--little carlo's preliminary troubles were soon over. and now at thirteen he was very nearly, in his way, as great a man at ryeburn as jack himself. jack was by no means the cleverest boy at the school, far from it, but he did his book work fairly well, and above all honestly. he was honesty itself in everything, scorned crooked ways, or whatever he considered meanness, with the exaggerated scorn of a very young and untried character, and, like most boys of his age, was inclined, once he took up a prejudice, to carry it to all lengths. "there was but one cloud over their return to school this special autumn that i am telling you of, and that was the absence of a favourite master--one of the younger ones--who, an unexpected piece of good luck having fallen to his share, had left ryeburn the end of the last half. "'i wonder what sort of a fellow we shall have instead of wyngate,' said jack to carlo, as the train slackened for ryeburn station. "'we shan't have any one as nice, that's certain,' said carlo, lugubriously. 'there couldn't be any one as nice, could there?' "but their lamentations over mr. wyngate were forgotten when they found themselves in the midst of their companions, most of whom had already arrived. there were such a lot of things to tell and to ask; the unfortunate 'new boys' to glance at with somewhat supercilious curiosity, and the usual legendary caution as to 'chumming' with them, till it should be proved what manner of persons they were; the adventures of the holidays to retail to one's special cronies; the anticipated triumphs in cricket and football and paper-chases of the forthcoming 'half' to discuss. jack and carlo soon found themselves each the centre of his particular set, too busy and absorbed in the present to give much thought to the past. only later that evening, when prayers were over and supper-time at hand, did the subject of their former teacher and his successor come up again. "a pale, thin, rather starved-looking young man came into the schoolroom desiring them to put away their books, which they were arranging for next morning. his manner was short but ill-assured, and he spoke with a slightly peculiar accent. none of the boys seemed in any hurry to obey him. "'cod-faced idiot!' muttered one. "'french frog!' said another. "'is that the new junior?' said jack, looking up from the pile of books before him. "'yes; did you ever see such a specimen?' replied a tall boy beside him, who had arrived the day before. 'and what a fellow to come after wyngate too.' "'he can't help his looks,' said jack quietly; 'perhaps he's better than they are.' "'hallo, here's old berkeley going to stick up for that nice specimen sawyer!' called out the boy, caring little apparently whether mr. sawyer, who had only just left the room, was still within ear-shot or not. "jack took it in good part. "'i'm not 'sticking up' for him, nor 'not sticking up' for him,' he said. 'all i say is, wait a bit till you see what sort of a fellow he is himself, whatever his looks are.' "'and most assuredly they're _not_ in his favour,' replied the tall boy. "from this jack could not honestly dissent; mr. sawyer's looks were not, in a sense, in his favour. it was not so much that he was downright ugly--perhaps that would have mattered less--but he was _poor_ looking. he had no presence, no self-assertion, and his very anxiety to conciliate gave his manner a nervous indecision, in which the boys saw nothing but cause for ridicule. he did not understand his pupils, and still less did they understand him. but all the same he was a capital teacher, patient and painstaking to the last degree, clear-headed himself, and with a great power, when he forgot his nervousness in the interest of his subject, of making it clear to the apprehensions of those about him. in class it was impossible for the well-disposed of his pupils not to respect him, and in time he might have fought his way to more, but for one unfortunate circumstance--the unreasonable and unreasoning prejudice against him throughout the whole school. "now our boys--jack and carlo--jack, followed by carlo, perhaps i should say, for whatever jack said carlo thought right, wherever jack led carlo came after--to do them justice, i must say, did not at once give in to this unreasonable prejudice. jack stuck to his resolution to judge sawyer by what he found him to be on further acquaintance, not to fly into a dislike at first sight. and for some time nothing occurred to shake jack's opinion that not improbably the new master was better than his looks. but sawyer was shy and reserved; he liked jack, and was in his heart grateful to him for his respectful and friendly behaviour, and for the good example he thereby set to his companions, only, unfortunately, the junior master was no hand at expressing his appreciation of such conduct. unfortunately too, jack's lessons were not his strong point, and mr. sawyer, for all his nervousness, was so rigorously, so scrupulously honest that he found it impossible to pass by without comment some or much of jack's unsatisfactory work. and jack, though so honest himself, was human, and _boy_-human, and it was not in boy-human nature to remain perfectly unaffected by the remarks called forth by the new master's frequent fault-finding. "'it's just that you're too civil to him by half,' his companions would say. 'he's a mean sneak, and thinks he can bully you without your resenting it. _wyngate_ would never have turned back those verses.' "or it would be insinuated how partial sawyer was to little castlefield, 'just because he's found out that castle's father's so rich'--the truth being that little castlefield, a delicate and precocious boy, was the cleverest pupil in the school, his tasks always faultlessly prepared, and his power of taking in what he was taught wonderfully great, though, fortunately for himself, his extreme good humour and merry nature made it impossible for his companions to dislike him or set him down as a prig. "jack laughed and pretended--believed indeed--that he did not care. "'i don't want him to say my verses are good if they're not good,' he maintained stoutly. but all the same he did feel, and very acutely too, the mortification to which more than once mr. sawyer's uncompromising censure exposed him, little imagining that the fault-finding was far more painful to the teacher than to himself, that the short, unsympathising manner in which it was done was actually the result of the young man's tender-hearted reluctance to cause pain to another, and that other the very boy to whom of all in the school he felt himself most attracted. "and from this want of understanding his master's real feelings towards him arose the first cloud of prejudice to dim jack's reasonable judgment. "now at ryeburn, as was in those days the case at all schools of old standing, there were legends, so established and respected that no one ever dreamed of calling them into question; there were certain customs tolerated, not to say approved of, which yet, regarded impartially, from the outside as it were, were open to objection. among these, of which there were several, were one or two specially concerning the younger boys, which came under the junior master's direction, and of them all, none was more universally practised than the feat of what was called 'jumping the bar.' the 'bar,'--short in reality for 'barrier,'--was a railing of five or six feet high, placed so as to prevent any of the junior boys, who were late in the morning, from getting round by a short cut to the chapel, where prayers were read, the proper entrance taking them round the whole building, a matter of at least two minutes' quick walking. day after day the bar was 'jumped,' day after day the fact was ignored; on no boy's conscience, however sensitive, would the knowledge of his having made his way into chapel by this forbidden route have left any mark. but alas, when mr. sawyer came things struck him in a different light. "i cannot go into the question of how far he was wrong and how far right. he meant well, of that there is no doubt, but as to his judiciousness in the matter, that is another affair altogether. he had never been at a great english school before; he was conscientious to the last degree, but inexperienced. and i, being only an old woman, and never having been at school at all, do not feel myself able to give an opinion upon this or many other matters of which i, like poor mr. sawyer, have no experience. i can only, children, 'tell the tale as 'twas told to me,' and not even that, for the telling to me was by an actor in the little drama, and i cannot feel, therefore, that in this case the 'tale will gain by the telling,' but very decidedly the other way. "to return, however, to the bar-jumping--of all the boys who made a practice of it, no one did so more regularly than carlo, 'berkeley minor.' he was not a lazy boy in the morning; many and many a time he would have been quite soon enough in the chapel had he gone round the proper way; but it became almost a habit with him to take the nominally forbidden short cut--so much a habit that mr. wyngate, who was perfectly aware of it, said to him jokingly one day, that he would take it as a personal favour, if, _for once_, carlo would gratify him by coming to chapel by the regular entrance. as for being _blamed_ for his bar-jumping, such an idea never entered carlo's head; he would almost as soon have expected to be blamed for eating his breakfast, and, naturally enough, when mr. sawyer's reign began, it never occurred to him to alter his conduct. for some time things went on as usual, mr. sawyer either never happening to see carlo's daily piece of gymnastics, or not understanding that it was prohibited. but something occurred at last, some joke on the subject, or some little remark from one of the other masters, which suddenly drew the new 'junior's' attention to the fact. and two or three mornings afterwards, coming upon carlo in the very act of bar-jumping, mr. sawyer ventured mildly, but in reality firmly, to remonstrate. "'berkeley,' he said, in his nervous, jerky fashion, 'that is not the _proper_ way from your schoolroom to chapel, is it?' "carlo took this remark as a good joke, after the manner of mr. wyngate's on the same subject. "'no, sir,' he replied mischievously, 'i don't suppose it is.' "'then,' said mr. sawyer, stammering a very little, as he sometimes did when more nervous than usual, 'then will you oblige me for the future by coming the proper way?' "he turned away before carlo had time to reply, if indeed he had an answer ready, which is doubtful, for he could not make up his mind if mr. sawyer was in earnest or not. but by the next morning all remembrance of the junior master's remonstrance had faded from carlo's thoughtless brain. again he went bar-jumping to chapel, and this time no mr. sawyer intercepted him. but two mornings later, just as he had successfully accomplished his jump, he perceived in front of him the thin, uncertain-looking figure of the junior master. "'berkeley,' he said gravely, 'have you forgotten what i said to you two or three days ago?' "carlo stared. the fact of the matter was that he _had_ forgotten, but as his remembering would have made no difference, considering that he had never had the slightest intention of taking any notice of mr. sawyer's prohibition, his instinctive honesty forbade his giving his want of memory as an excuse. "'no,' he replied, 'at least i don't know if i did or not. but i have always come this way--lots of us do--and no one ever says anything.' "'but _i_ say something now,' said mr. sawyer, more decidedly than he had ever been known to speak, 'and that is to forbid your coming this way. and i expect to be obeyed.' "carlo made no reply. this time there was no mistaking mr. sawyer's meaning. it was mortifying to have to give in to the 'mean little sneak,' as carlo mentally called the new master; still, as next morning he happened to be in particularly good time he went round the proper way. the day after, however, he was late, decidedly late for once, and, throwing to the winds all consideration for mr. sawyer or his orders, carlo jumped the bar and made his appearance in time for prayers. he had not known that he was observed, but coming out of chapel mr. sawyer called him aside. "'berkeley,' he said, 'you have disobeyed me again. if this happens once more i shall be obliged to report you.' "carlo stared at him in blank amazement. "'report me?' he said. such a threat had never been held out to either him or jack through all their ryeburn career. they looked upon it as next worst to being expelled. for reporting in ryeburn parlance meant a formal complaint to the head-master, when a boy had been convicted of aggravated disobedience to the juniors. and its results were very severe; it entirely prevented a boy's in any way distinguishing himself during the half-year: however hard a 'reported' boy might work, he could gain no prize that term. so no wonder that poor carlo repeated in amazement, "'_report_ me?' "'yes,' said sawyer. 'i don't want to do it, but if you continue to disobey me, i must,' and he turned away. "off went carlo to his cronies with his tale of wrongs. the general indignation was extreme. "'i'd like to see him dare to do such a thing,' said one. "'i'd risk it, berkeley, if i were you,' said another. 'anything rather than give in to such a cowardly sneak.' "in the midst of the discussion up came jack, to whom, with plenty of forcible language, his brother's woes were related. jack's first impulse was to discredit the sincerity of mr. sawyer's intention. "he'd never _dare_ do such a thing as report you for nothing worse than bar-jumping,' he exclaimed. "but carlo shook his head. "'he's mean enough for anything,' he replied. 'i believe he'll do it fast enough if ever he catches me bar-jumping again.' "'well, you'll have to give it up then,' said jack. 'it's no use hurting yourself to spite him,' and as carlo made no reply, the elder brother went away, satisfied that his, it must be confessed, not very exalted line of argument, had had the desired effect. "but carlo's silence did _not_ mean either consent or assent. when jack had left them the younger boys talked the whole affair over again in their own fashion and according to their own lights--the result being that the following morning, with the aggravation of a whoop and a cry, carlo defiantly jumped the bar on his way to chapel for prayers. "when jack came to hear of it, as he speedily did, he was at first very angry, then genuinely distressed. "'you will only get what you deserve if he does report you,' he said to carlo in his vexation, and when carlo replied that he didn't see that he need give up what he had always done 'for a cad like that,' jack retorted that if he thought sawyer a cad he should have acted accordingly, and not trusted to _his_ good feeling or good nature. but in his heart of hearts jack did not believe the threat would be carried out, and, unknown to carlo, he did for his brother what he would never have done for himself. as soon as morning school was over he went to mr. sawyer to beg him to reconsider his intention, explaining to the best of his ability the extenuating circumstances of the case--the tacit indulgence so long accorded to the boys, carlo's innocence, in the first place, of any intentional disobedience. "mr. sawyer heard him patiently; whether his arguments would have had any effect, jack, at that time at least, had not the satisfaction of knowing, for when he left off speaking mr. sawyer replied quietly, "'i am very sorry to seem severe to your brother, berkeley, but what i have done i believed to be my duty. i have _already_ reported him.' "jack turned on his heel and left the room without speaking. only as he crossed the threshold one word of unutterable contempt fell from between his teeth. '_cad_,' he muttered, careless whether sawyer heard him or not. "and from that moment jack's championship of the obnoxious master was over; and throughout the school he was never spoken of among the boys, big and little, but as 'that cad sawyer.' "though, after all, the 'reporting' turned out less terrible than was expected. how it was managed i cannot exactly say, but carlo was let off with a reprimand, and new and rigorous orders were issued against 'bar-jumping' under any excuse whatever. "i think it probable that the 'authorities' privately pointed out to mr. sawyer that there might be such a thing as over-much zeal in the discharge of his duties, and if so i have no doubt he took it in good part. for it was not zeal which actuated him--it was simple conscientiousness, misdirected perhaps by his inexperience. he could not endure hurting any one or anything, and probably his very knowledge of his weakness made him afraid of himself. be that as it may, no one concerned rejoiced more heartily than he at carlo's acquittal. "but it was too late--the mischief was done. day by day the exaggerated prejudice and suspicion with which he was regarded became more apparent. yet he did not resent it--he worked on, hoping that in time it might be overcome, for he yearned to be liked and trusted, and his motives for wishing to do well at ryeburn were very strong ones. "and gradually, as time went on, things improved a little. now and then the better-disposed of the boys felt ashamed of the tacit disrespect with which one so enduring and inoffensive was treated; and among these better-disposed i need hardly say was our jack. "it was the end of october. but a few days were wanting to the anniversary so dear to schoolboy hearts--that of gunpowder plot. this year the fifth of november celebration was to be of more than ordinary magnificence, for it was the last at which several of the elder boys, among them jack, could hope to be present. fireworks committees were formed and treasurers appointed, and nothing else was spoken of but the sums collected and promised, and the apportionment thereof in catherine wheels, chinese dragons, and so on. jack was one of the treasurers. he had been very successful so far, but the sum total on which he and his companions had set their hearts was still unattained. the elder boys held a committee meeting one day to consider ways and means, and the names of all the subscribers were read out. "'we _should_ manage two pounds more; we'd do then,' said one boy. "'are you sure everybody's been asked?' said another, running his eye down the lists. 'bless me, sawyer's not in,' he added, looking up inquiringly. "'no one would ask him,' said the first boy, shrugging his shoulders. "a sudden thought struck jack. "'i'll tell you what, _i'll_ do it,' he said, 'and, between ourselves, i shouldn't much wonder if he comes down handsomely. he's been very civil of late--i rather think he'd be glad of an opportunity to do something obliging to make up for that mean trick of his about carlo, and what's more,' he added mysteriously, 'i happen to know he's by no means short of funds just now.' "they teased him to say more, but not another word on the subject could be got out of jack. what he knew was this--that very morning when the letters came, he had happened to be standing beside mr. sawyer, who, with an eager face, opened one that was handed to him. he was nervous as usual, more nervous than usual probably, and perhaps his hands were shaking, for as he drew his letter hastily out of the envelope, something fluttered to the ground at jack's feet. "it was a cheque for twenty pounds, and conspicuous on the lowest line was the signature of a well-known publishing firm. instinctively jack stooped to pick it up and handed it to its owner--it had been impossible for him not to see what he did, but he had thought no more about it, beyond a passing wonder in his own mind, as to 'what on earth sawyer got to write about,' and had forgotten all about it till the meeting of the fireworks committee recalled it to his memory. "but it was with a feeling of pleasant expectancy, not unmixed with some consciousness of his own magnanimity in 'giving old sawyer a chance again,' that jack made his way to the junior master's quarters, the list of subscribers in his hand. "he made a pleasant picture, as, in answer to the 'come in' which followed his knock at the door, he opened it and stood on the threshold of mr. sawyer's room--his bright, honest, blue-eyed, fair-haired 'english boy' face smiling in through the doorway. with almost painful eagerness the junior master bade him welcome; he liked jack so much, and would so have rejoiced could the attraction have been mutual. and this was the first time that jack had voluntarily sought mr. sawyer in his own quarters since the bar-jumping affair. mr. sawyer's spirits rose at the sight of him, and hope again entered his heart--hope that after all, his position at ryeburn, which he was beginning to fear it was nonsense to attempt to retain, in face of the evident dislike to him, might yet alter for the better. "'i have not a good way with them--that must be it,' he had said to himself sadly that very morning. 'i never knew what it was to be a boy myself, and therefore i suppose i don't understand boys. but if they could but see into my heart and read there how earnestly i wish to do my best by them, surely we could get on better together.' "'well, berkeley--glad to see you--what can i do for you?' said sawyer, with a little nervous attempt at off-hand friendliness of manner, in itself infinitely touching to any one with eyes to take in the whole situation and judge it and him accordingly. but those eyes are not ours in early life, more especially in _boy_-life. we must have our powers of mental vision quickened and cleared by the magic dew of sad experience--experience which alone can give sympathy worth having, ere we can understand the queer bits of pathos we constantly stumble upon in life, ere we can begin to judge our fellows with the large-hearted charity that alone can illumine the glass through which for so long we see so _very_ 'darkly.' "'i have come to ask you for a subscription for the fifth of november fireworks, mr. sawyer,' said jack, plunging, as was his habit, right into the middle of things, with no beating about the bush. 'we've asked all the other masters, and every one in the school has subscribed, and i was to tell you, sir, from the committee that they'll be very much obliged by a subscription--and--and i really think they'll all be particularly pleased if you can give us something handsome.' "the message was civil, but hardly perhaps, coming from pupils to a master, 'of the most respectful,' as french people say. but poor sawyer understood it--in some respects his perceptions were almost abnormally sharp; he read between the lines of jack's rough-and-ready, boy-like manner, and understood perfectly that here was a chance for him--a chance in a thousand, of gaining some degree of the popularity he had hitherto so unfortunately failed to obtain. and to the bottom of his heart he felt grateful to berkeley--but alas! "he grew crimson with vexation. "'i am dreadfully sorry, berkeley,' he said, 'dreadfully sorry that i cannot respond as i would like to your request. at this moment unfortunately, i am very peculiarly out of pocket. stay,'--with a momentary gleam of hope, 'will you let me see the subscription list. how--how much do you think would please the boys?' "'a guinea wouldn't be--would please them very much, and of course two would be still better,' said jack drily. already he had in his own mind pronounced a final verdict upon mr. sawyer, already he had begun to tell himself what a fool he had been for having anything more to do with him, but yet, with the british instinct of giving an accused man a fair chance, he waited till all hope was over. "'a guinea, two guineas?' repeated mr. sawyer sadly. 'it is perfectly impossible;' and he shook his head regretfully but decidedly. 'half-a-crown, or five shillings perhaps, if you would take it,' he added hesitatingly, but stopped short on catching sight of the hard, contemptuous expression that overspread jack's face, but a moment ago so sunny. "no thank you, sir,' he replied. 'i should be very sorry to take _any_ subscription from you, knowing what i do, and so would all my companions. you're a master, sir, and i'm a boy, but i can tell you i wish you _were_ a boy that i might speak out. i couldn't help seeing what came to you by post this morning--you know i couldn't--and yet on the face of that you tell me you're too hard-up to do what i came to ask like a gentleman--and what would have been for your good in the end too. i'm not going to tell what came to my knowledge by accident; you needn't be afraid of that, but i'd be uncommonly sorry to take _anything_ from you for our fireworks.' "and again jack turned on his heel, and in hot wrath left the under-master, muttering again between his set teeth as he did so the one word 'cad.' "'jack,' mr. sawyer called after him, but either he did not call loud enough or jack would not take any notice of his summons, for he did not return. what a pity! had he done so, mr. sawyer, who understood him too well to feel the indignation a more superficial person would have done at his passionate outburst, had it in his heart to take the hasty, impulsive, generous-spirited lad into his confidence and what might not have been the result? what a different future for the poor under-master, had he then and there and for ever won from the boy the respect and sympathy he so well deserved! "jack returned to his companions gloomy but taciturn. he gave them to understand that his mission had failed, and that henceforth he would have nothing to say to sawyer that he could help, and that was all. he entered into no particulars, but there are occasions on which silence says more than words, and from this time no voice was ever raised in the junior master's defence--throughout the school he was never referred to except as 'the cad,' or 'that cad sawyer.' "and alone in his own room, mr. sawyer, sorrowful but unresentful still, was making up his mind that his efforts had been all in vain. 'i must give it up,' he said. 'and both for myself and the boys the sooner the better, before there is any overt disrespect which would _have_ to be noticed. it is no use fighting on, i have not the knack of it. the boys will never like me, and i may do harm where i would wish to do good. i must try something else.' "two or three weeks later--a month perhaps--the boys were one day surprised by the appearance of a strange face at what had been mr. sawyer's desk. and on inquiry the new comer proved to be a young curate accidentally in the neighbourhood, who had undertaken to fill for a few weeks the under-master's vacant place. the occurrence made some sensation--it was unusual for any change of the kind to take place during a term. 'was sawyer ill?' one or two of the boys asked, as there came before them the recollection of the young man's pale and careworn face, and they recalled with some compunction the pariah-like life that for some time past had been his. "no, he was not ill, they were informed, but he had requested the head-master to supply his place and let him leave, for private reasons, as soon as possible. "what were the private reasons? the head-master and his colleagues had tried in vain to arrive at them. not one syllable of complaint had fallen from the junior master's lips. he had simply repeated that, though sorry to cause any inconvenience, it was of importance to him to leave at once. "'at least,' he said to himself, 'i shall say nothing to get any of them into trouble after i am gone.' "and he had begged, too, that no public intimation of his resignation should be given. "but one or two of the boys had known it before it actually occurred--and among them the berkeley brothers. late one cold evening, for winter had set in very early that year, mr. sawyer had stopped them on their way across the courtyard to their own rooms. "'berkeley,' he had said, 'i am leaving early to-morrow morning. i should like to say good-bye and shake hands with you before i go. i have not taken a good way with you boys, somehow, and--and the prejudice against me has been very strong. but some day--when you are older perhaps, you may come to think it possible you have misunderstood me. be that as it may, there is not and never has been any but good feeling towards you on my part.' "he held out his hand, but a spirit of evil had taken possession of jack--a spirit of hard, unforgiving prejudice. "'good-bye, mr. sawyer,' he said, but he stalked on without taking any notice of the out-stretched hand, and carlo, echoing the cold 'good-bye, mr. sawyer,' followed his example. "but little carlo's heart was very tender. he slept ill that night and early, very early the next morning he was up and on the watch. there was snow on the ground, snow, though december had scarcely set in, and it was very cold. "carlo shivered as he hung about the door leading to mr. sawyer's room, and he wondered why the fly which always came for passengers by the early london train had not yet made its appearance, little imagining that not by the comfortable express, but third class in a slow 'parliamentary' mr. sawyer's journey was to be accomplished. and, when at last the thin figure of the under-master emerged from the doorway, it went to the boy's heart to see that he himself was carrying the small black bag which held his possessions. "'i have come to wish you good-bye again, sir,' said carlo, 'and i am sorry i didn't shake hands last night. and--and--i believe jack would have come too, if he'd thought of it.' "mr. sawyer's eyes glistened as he shook the small hand held out to him. "'thank you, my boy,' he said earnestly, how much i thank you you will never know.' "'and is that all your luggage?' asked carlo, half out of curiosity, half by way of breaking the melancholy of the parting, which somehow gave him a choky feeling about the throat. "'oh no,' said mr. sawyer, entering into the boy's shrinking from anything like a scene, 'oh no, i sent on my box by the carrier last saturday. it would have been _rather_ too big to carry.' he spoke in his usual commonplace tone, more cheerful, less nervous perhaps than its wont. then once more, with a second hearty shake of the hand, "'good-bye again, my boy, and god bless you." and carlo, his eyes dim in spite of his intense determination to be above such weakness, stood watching the dark figure, conspicuous against the white-sheeted ground and steel-blue early morning winter sky. "'i wonder if we've been right about him,' he said to himself. 'i'm glad i came, any way.' "and there came a day when others beside little carlo himself were glad, oh so glad, that he had 'come' that snowy morning to bid the solitary traveller godspeed." [illustration: 'good-bye again, my boy, and god bless you!'] chapter xi. "that cad sawyer."--part ii. "did the road wind uphill all the way? yes to the very end." christina rossetti. grandmother's voice had faltered a little now and then during the latter part of her reading. the children looked at each other significantly. "uncle carlo _died_ you know," whispered sylvia again to ralph and molly. "and uncle jack too," said ralph. "yes, but much longer after. uncle _carlo_ was only a boy when he died," said molly, as if the fact infinitely aggravated the sorrow in his case. their whispering did not interrupt their grandmother this time. she had already paused. "i think, dears," she said, "i had better read the rest to-morrow evening. there is a good deal more of it, and my voice gets tired after a while." "couldn't i read it for you, mother dear?" said aunty. grandmother smiled a little roguishly. "no, my dear, thank you," she said. "i think i like best to read myself what i have written myself. and you, according to that, will have your turn soon, laura." "_mother!_ how did you find out what i was doing?" exclaimed aunty. "a little bird told me, of course," said grandmother, smiling. "you know how clever my little birds are." during this mysterious conversation the children had sat with wide open eyes and puzzled faces. suddenly a light broke upon sylvia. "i know, i know," she cried. "_aunty's_ writing a story for us too. oh, you delightful aunty!" "oh you beautiful aunty! oh you delicious aunty!" echoed molly. "why don't you say something too, ralph?" she exclaimed, turning reproachfully to her brother. "you like stories just as much as we do--you know you do." "but you and sylvia have used up all the adjectives," said ralph. "what _can_ i call aunty, unless i say she's a very jolly fellow?" "reserve your raptures, my dears," said aunty, "'the proof of the pudding's in the eating,' remember. perhaps you may not care for my story when you hear it. i am quite willing to wait for your thanks till you have heard it." "but any way, aunty dear, we'll thank you for having _tried_," said molly encouragingly. "i daresay it won't be _quite_ as nice as grandmother's. you see you're so much younger, and then i don't think anybody _could_ tell stories like her, could they? but, grandmother dear," she went on, "would you mind telling me one thing? when people write stories how do they know all the things they tell? how do you know what poor mr. sawyer said to himself when he was alone in his room that day? did he ever tell anybody? i know the story's true, because uncle jack told it you himself, only i can't make out how you got to know all those bits of it, like." "what a goose you are, molly!" exclaimed both ralph and sylvia. "how could any stories ever be written if people went on about them like that?" but molly's honest puzzled face made grandmother smile. "i know how you mean, dear," she said, "i used to think like that myself. no, i don't know _exactly_ the very words mr. sawyer said to himself, but, judging from my knowledge of the whole story, i put myself, as it were, in his place, and picture to myself what i would have said. i told you i had altered it a little. when your uncle wrote it out it was all in the first person, but not having been an eye-witness, as he was, it seemed to me i could better give the _spirit_ of the story by putting it into this form. do you understand at all better, dear? when you have heard the whole to the end you will do so, i think. all the part about carlo i had from his own lips." "thank you, grandmother dear. i think i understand," said molly, and she was philosophical enough to take no notice of the repeated whisper which reached her ears alone. "oh, you _are_ a goose!" it was not till the next evening that grandmother went on with the second part of her story. "what do all those stars mean?" asked molly, peeping over her grandmother's shoulder before she began to read. "look sylvia, how funny!" and she pointed to a long row of * * * * at the end of the first part of the manuscript. "they mean that some length of time had elapsed between the two parts of the story," said grandmother. "oh, i see. and each star counts for a year. i suppose. let me see; one, two, three----" "molly, _do_ be quiet, and let grandmother go on," said ralph and sylvia, their patience exhausted. "no, they are not counted like that," said grandmother. "listen, molly, and you will hear for yourself." "the first part of my little story finished in the snow--on a cold december morning in england. the second part begins in a very different scene and many, many miles away from ryeburn. three or four years have passed. some of those we left boys are now men--many changes have taken place. instead of december, it is august. instead of england we have a far away country, which till that time, when the interest of the whole world was suddenly concentrated on it, had been but little known and still less thought of by the dwellers in more civilised lands. it is the crimea, children, and the crimea on a broiling, stifling august day. at the present time when we speak and think of that dreadful war and the sufferings it entailed, it is above all the _winters_ there that we recall with the greatest horror--those terrible 'crimean winters.' but those who went through it all have often assured me that the miseries of the summers--of some part of them at least--were in their way quite as great, or worse. what could be much worse? the suffocating heat; the absence, or almost total absence, of shade; the dust and the dirt, and the poisonous flies; the foul water and half-putrid food? bad for the sound ones, or those as yet so--and oh, how intolerably dreadful for the sick! "'what could be much worse?' thought jack berkeley to himself, as after a long killing spell in the trenches he at last got back to his tent for a few hours' rest. "'my own mother wouldn't know me,' he said to himself, as out of a sort of half melancholy mischief he glanced at his face in the little bit of cracked looking-glass which was all he had to adorn himself by. he was feeling utterly worn out and depressed--so many of his friends and companions were dead or dying--knocked down at that time quite as much by disease as by russian bullets--in many cases the more terrible death of the two. and things in general were looking black. it was an anxious and weariful time. "jack threw himself on the bed. he was too tired to undress. all he longed for was coolness and sleep--the first the less attainable of the two, for the thin sides of his tent were as powerless to keep out the scorching heat as the biting cold, and it was not till many more months of both heat and cold had passed that any better shelter was provided for him or his fellows. "but heat and flies notwithstanding jack fell asleep, and had slept soundly for an hour or two when he was suddenly awakened by a voice calling him by name. "'berkeley,' it said, 'you are berkeley of the 300th, aren't you? i am sorry to awaken you if you're not, but i couldn't see your servant about anywhere to ask. there's a poor fellow dying, down at kadikoi, asking for berkeley--jack berkeley of the 300th.' "'yes, that's me,' said jack, rubbing his eyes with his smoke-begrimed hands, which he had neither had energy nor water to wash before he fell asleep. 'that's me, sure enough. who is it? what does he want?' "'i don't know who he is,' replied the other. 'i didn't hear his name. he's not one of us. he's a poor devil who's out here as a correspondent to some paper--i forget which--he's only been out a short time. he's dying of dysentery--quite alone, near our quarters. i'm montagu of the 25th hussars--captain montagu, and our doctor, who's looking after him, sent in for me, knowing i'd been at ryeburn, as the poor fellow said something about it. but it must have been after my time. i left in '48.' "'i don't think i remember you,' said jack meditatively. 'but you may have been among the upper boys when i was one of the small ones.' "'sure to have been,' said captain montagu. 'but about this poor fellow. he was so disappointed when he found i was a stranger to him that i said i'd try to find some other ryeburn boy who might remember him. and some one or other mentioned you, so i came over to look you up.' "'very good of you,' said jack, who was still, however, feeling so sleepy that he could almost have wished captain montagu had _not_ been so good. 'shall i go back with you to kadikoi? very likely it's some one i did not know either, still one can but try.' "'you're very tired,' said montagu, sympathisingly. 'i am sorry to give you such a long walk. but the doctor said he couldn't last long, and the poor fellow seemed so eager when he heard your name.' "'oh, he _does_ know me then?' said jack, his interest reviving. 'i didn't understand.' "'oh yes. i mentioned your name when i heard it, and he said at once if it was _jack_ berkeley he would extremely like to see him. it was stupid of me not to ask his name.' "'i'll be ready to go with you in a moment,' said jack, after frantic efforts discovering in a bucket a very small reserve of water with which he managed to wash his face clear of some part of its grimy covering. 'my servant's gone to balaclava to see what he could get in the way of food for a change from these dreadful salt rations. he brought me a bottle of porter the other day; it cost three shillings, but i never enjoyed anything so much in my life.' "'i can quite believe it,' said captain montagu feelingly. 'your servant must be worth his weight in gold.' "in another minute they were on their way. the sun was beginning to sink, fortunately; it was not _quite_ so hot as a few hours previously. but it was quite as dusty, and the walking along a recently and roughly made track, not worthy the name of road, was very tiring. it was fully five miles to kadikoi--five miles across a bare, dried-up country, from which all traces of the scanty cultivation it had ever received were fast disappearing under the present state of things. there was not a tree, hardly a stunted shrub, to be seen, and the ground--at best but a few inches of poor soil above the sterile rock, felt hard and unyielding as well as rough. it was a relief of its kind at last to quit the level ground for the slope leading down to balaclava, where, though they were too small to afford anything in the shape of shade, the sight of some few, starved-looking bushes and some remains of what might once have been grass, refreshed the eye, at once wearied and dazzled by the glare and monotony of the sun-dried plain. "the tent to which captain montagu led the way stood by itself on some rising ground, a little behind the row of nondescript hovels or mud huts representing what had been the little hamlet of kadikoi. it looked wretched enough as the two young men made their way in, but everywhere looked wretched, only the bareness and comfortlessness impressed one doubly when viewed in connection with physical suffering that would have been hard to endure even with all the alleviations and tenderness of friends and home about one. "the doctor was just leaving the tent--his time was all too precious to give much of it where it was evident that his skill could be of no avail--but before going he had done what he could for the sick man's comfort, and he lay now, pale, worn, and wan, but no longer in pain, and by the bedside--a low narrow camp stretcher--sat a young soldier, holding from time to time a cup of water to the dry lips of the dying man. clumsy he might be, but there was no lack of tenderness in his manner or expression. "that's one of our men that the doctor sent in,' whispered montagu; 'the poor fellow there had been lying alone for two or three days, and no one knew. his greek servant--scoundrels those fellows are--had deserted him.' "jack cautiously approached the bed. "'this is mr. berkeley--jack berkeley of the 300th, whom you said you would like to see,' said captain montagu gently, stepping in front of jack. "the sick man's eyes lightened up, and a faint flush rose in his cheeks. he was very fair, and lying there looked very young, younger somehow than jack had expected. _had_ he ever seen him before? there was nothing remarkable about the face except its peculiarly gentle and placid expression--yet it was a face of considerable resolution as well, and there were lines about the mouth which told of endurance and fortitude, almost contradicting the wistfulness of the boyish-looking blue eyes. jack grew more and more puzzled. _something_ seemed familiar to him, yet---"'how good, how very good of you to come. do you remember me, berkeley?' said the invalid, feebly stretching out a thin hand, which jack instinctively took and held gently in his own strong grasp. "jack hesitated. a look of disappointment overspread the pale face. "'i am afraid you don't know me. perhaps you would not have come if you had understood who it was.' "'i did not hear your name,' said jack, very gently, 'but, of course, hearing you wished to see me----' he hesitated. 'were we at ryeburn together?' "'yes,' said the dying man. 'my--my name is sawyer--philip sawyer--but you only knew my surname, of course.' "jack understood it all. even before the name was mentioned, the slight nervous stammer, the faint peculiarity of accent, had recalled to his memory the poor young junior master, whose short, apparently unsuccessful, ryeburn career had left its mark on the lives of others besides his own. "_jack_ understood--not so the sick man. he was surprised and almost bewildered by the eagerness with which his visitor received his announcement. "'sawyer, mr. sawyer!' he exclaimed. 'you cannot imagine how glad i am to see you again. i don't mean--i am terribly sorry to see you like this--but i have so often wished to find you, and i could never succeed in doing so.' "he turned as he spoke to captain montagu. "'i'll stay with him for an hour or two--as long as i can,' he said. 'i think,----' he added, glancing at the extempore sick-nurse, and hesitating a little. captain montagu understood the glance. "'come, watson,' he said to the young soldier, 'mr. berkeley will sit with--with mr.----' "'sawyer,' said jack. --"'with mr. sawyer for a while. shall he return in an hour, berkeley?' "'thank you, yes,' said jack, and then he found himself alone with his old master. "'you said you tried to trace me after i left ryeburn,' said sawyer. 'will you tell me why? there was no special reason for it, was there? i know i was disliked, but the sort of enmity i incurred must soon have died out. i was too insignificant for it to last. and the one great endeavour i made was to injure no one. that was why i left hurriedly--before i should be forced to make any complaints.' "he stopped--exhausted already by what he had said. 'and i have so much to say to him,' he whispered regretfully to himself. "'i know,' said jack sadly. 'i understood it all before you had left many months.' "mr. sawyer looked pleased but surprised. "'it is very kind of you to speak so,' he said. 'i remember that dear little brother of yours when he came to see me off that last morning--i remember his saying, 'i'm sure jack would have come if he had thought of it.' you don't know what a comfort the remembrance of that boy has been to me sometimes. you must tell him so. dear me--he must be nearly grown up. is he too in the army?' "'no, oh no,' said jack. 'he--he died the year after you knew him.' "sawyer's eyes looked up wistfully in jack's face. 'dead?' he said. 'that dear boy?' "'yes,' jack went on. 'it was of scarlet fever. it was very bad at ryeburn that half. we both had it, but i was soon well again. it was not till carlo was ill that he told me of having run over to wish you good-bye that morning--he had been afraid i would laugh at him for being soft-hearted--what a young brute i was--forgive my speaking so, sawyer, but i can't look back to that time without shame. what a life we led you, and how you bore it! you were too good for us.' "sawyer smiled. 'no,' he said. 'i cannot see it that way. i had not the knack of it--i was not fit for the position. the boys were very good boys, as boys go. it would have been inexcusable of me to have made them suffer for what, after all, was an unfortunate circumstance only. i had attempted what i could not manage. and carlo--he is dead--somehow, perhaps because i am so near death myself, it does not shock or startle me. dear little fellow that he was!' "'and while he was ill he was constantly talking about you. it seemed the only thing on his conscience, poor little chap, that he had joined at all in our treatment of you. and he begged me--i would have promised him anything, but by that time i saw it plainly enough for myself--to try to find you and ask you to forgive us both. but i little thought it would have been like this--i had fancied sometimes----' jack hesitated, and the colour deepened in his sunburnt cheeks. "'what?' said mr. sawyer. 'do not be afraid of my misunderstanding anything you say.' "'i had hoped perhaps that if i found you again i might be able to be of some use to you. and now it is too late. for you see we owe you some reparation for indirectly forcing you to leave ryeburn--you might have risen there--who knows? i can see now what a capital teacher you were.' "mr. sawyer shook his head. "'i know i could teach,' he said, 'but that was all. i did not understand boys' ways. i never was a boy myself. but put all this out of your mind, berkeley, for ever. in spite of all the disappointment, i was very happy at ryeburn. the living among so many healthy-minded happy human beings was a new and pleasant experience to me. short as it was, no part of my life has left a pleasanter remembrance. you say you would like to do something for me. will you write to my mother after i am gone, and tell her? tell her how little i suffered, and how good every one was to me, a perfect stranger. will you do this?' "jack bent his head. 'willingly,' he said. "'you will find her address in this book,' he went on, handing a thick leather pocket-book to jack. 'also a sort of will--roughly drawn up, but correctly--leaving her all i have, and the amount of that, and the bank it is in--all is noted. i have knocked about so--since i was at ryeburn i have tried so many things and been in so many places, i have learnt to face all eventualities. i was so pleased to get the chance of coming out here----' "he stopped again. "'you must not tire yourself so,' said jack. "'what does it matter? i can die so much more easily if i leave things clear--for, trifling as they are, my poor mother's comfort depends on them. and i am so glad too for you to understand about me, berkeley. that day--it went to my heart to have to refuse you about the subscription for the fireworks.' "'don't speak of it. i know you had some good motive,' said jack. "'necessity--sheer, hard necessity,' said poor sawyer. 'the money i had got that morning was only just in time to save my younger brother from life-long disgrace, perhaps imprisonment.' "then painfully--in short and broken sentences--he related to jack the history of his hard, sad, but heroic life. _he_ did not think it heroic--it seemed to him, in his single-minded conscientiousness, that he had done no more than his duty, and that but imperfectly. he had given his life for others, and, hardest of all, for others who had little appreciated his devotion. "'my father died when i was only about twelve,' he said. 'he had been a clergyman, but his health failed, and he had to leave england and take a small charge in switzerland. there he met my mother--a swiss, and there i was partly brought up. when he died he told me i must take his place as head of the family. i was not so attractive as my brother and sister; i was shy and reserved. naturally my mother cared most for them. i fear she was too indulgent. my sister married badly, and i had to try to help her. my poor brother, he was always in trouble and yet he meant well----' "and so he told jack the whole melancholy history, entering into details which i have forgotten, and which, even if i remembered them, it would be only painful to relate. his brother was now in america--doing well he hoped, thanks of course to him; his sister's circumstances too had improved. for the first time in his life sawyer had begun to feel his burdens lessening, when he was brought face to face with the knowledge that all in this world was over for him. uncomplainingly he had, through all these long years, borne the heat and burden of the day; rest for him was to be elsewhere, not here. but as he had met life, so he now met death--calmly and unrepiningly, certain that hard as it had been hard as it seemed now, it must yet be for the best--the solving of the riddle he left to god. "and his last thought was for others--for the mother who had so little appreciated him, who required to lose him, perhaps, to bring home to her his whole value. "'i have always foreseen the possibility of this,' he said, 'and prepared for it as best i could. besides the money i have confided to you, i insured my life, most fortunately, last year. she will have enough to get on pretty comfortably--and tell her,' he hesitated, 'i don't think she will miss me very much. i have never had the knack of drawing much affection to myself. but tell her i was quite satisfied that it is all for the best, and louis may yet return to cheer her old age.' "jack stayed till he could stay no longer. then, with a grasp of the hand which meant more than many words, he left his new, yet old friend, promising to be down again at kadikoi first thing in the morning. 'but take the papers with you, berkeley, the papers and the pocket-book, in case, you know----' were sawyer's last words to him. "jack was even earlier the next day than he had expected. but when he got to the tent the canvas door was drawn to. "'asleep?' he said to the doctor of the 25th hussars, who came up at that moment, recognizing him. "'yes,' said the doctor, bending his head reverently, as he said the word. "he unfastened the door, and signed to jack to follow him. jack understood--yes, asleep indeed. there he lay--all the pain and anxiety over, and as the two men gazed at the peaceful face, there came into jack's mind the same words which his mother had whispered over the dead face of his little brother, "'of such is the kingdom of heaven'." chapter xii. a christmas adventure. "with bolted doors and windows wedged, the care was all in vain; for there were noises in the night which nothing could explain." grandmamma and the fairies the children had gone quietly to bed the evening before when grandmother had finished the reading of her story. they just kissed her and said, "thank you, _dear_ grandmother," and that was all. but it was all she wanted. "i felt, you know," said molly to sylvia when they were dressing the next morning, "i felt a sort of feeling as if i'd been in church when the music was _awfully_ lovely. a beautiful feeling, but strange too, you know, sylvia? _particularly_ as uncle jack died too. when did he die? do you know, sylvia? was it at that place?" "what place?" said sylvia curtly. when her feelings were touched she had a way of growing curt and terse, sometimes even snappish. "that hot place--without trees, and all so dusty and dirty--kadi--kadi--i forget." "oh! you stupid girl kadikoi was only one little wee village. you mean the crimea--the crimea is the name of all the country about there--where the war was." "yes, of course. i _am_ stupid," said molly, but not at all as if she had any reason to be ashamed of the fact. "did he never come home from the crimea?" "no," said sylvia, curtly again, "he never came home." for an instant molly was silent. then she began again. "well, i wonder how the old lady, that poor nice man's mother, i mean--i wonder how she got the money and all that, that uncle jack was to settle for her. shall we ask grandmother, sylvia?" "no, of course not. what does it matter to us? of course it was all properly done. if it hadn't been, how would grandmother have known about it?" "i never thought of that. still i would like to know. i think," said molly meditatively, "i think i could get grandmother to tell without exactly asking--for fear, you know, of seeming to remind her about poor uncle jack." "you'd much better not," said sylvia, as she left the room. but once let molly get a thing well into her head, "trust her," as ralph said, "not to let it out again till it suited her." that very evening when they were all sitting together again, working and talking, all except aunty, busily writing at her little table in the corner, molly began. "grandmother dear," she said gently, "wasn't the old lady _dreadfully_ sorry when she heard he was dead?" for a moment grandmother stared at her in bewilderment--her thoughts had been far away. "what are you saying, my dear?" she asked. sylvia frowned at molly across the table. too well did she know the peculiarly meek and submissive tone of voice assumed by molly when bent on--had the subject been any less serious than it was, sylvia would have called it "mischief." "molly," she said reprovingly, finding her frowns calmly ignored. "what is it?" said molly sweetly. "i mean, grandmother dear," she proceeded, "i mean the mother of the poor nice man that uncle was so good to. wasn't she _dreadfully_ sorry when she heard he was dead?" "i think she was, dear," said grandmother unsuspiciously. "poor woman, whatever her mistakes with her children had been, i felt dreadfully sorry for her. i saw her a good many times, for your uncle sent me home all the papers and directions--'in case,' as poor sawyer had said of himself--so my jack said it." grandmother sighed; sylvia looked still more reproachfully at molly; molly pretended to be threading her needle. "and i got it all settled as her son had wished. he had arranged it so that she could not give away the money during her life. not long after, she went to america to her other son, and i believe she is still living. he got on very well, and is now a rich man. i had letters from them a few years ago--nice letters. i think it brought out the best of them--philip sawyer's death i mean. still--oh no--they did not care for him, alive or dead, as such a man deserved." "what a shame it seems!" said molly. "when _i_ have children," she went on serenely, "i shall love them all alike--whether they're ugly or pretty, if _anything_ perhaps the ugliest most, to make up to them, you see." "i thought you were never going to marry," said ralph. "for you're never going to england, and you'll never marry a frenchman." "englishmen might come here," replied molly. "and when you and sylvia go to england, you might take some of my photographs to show." this was too much. ralph laughed so that he rolled on the rug, and sylvia nearly fell off her chair. even grandmother joined in the merriment, and aunty came over from her corner to ask what it was all about. "i have finished my story," she said. "i am so glad." "and when, oh, when will you read it?" cried the children. "on the evening of the twenty-second of december. i fixed that while i was writing it, for that was the day it happened on," said aunty. "that will be next monday, and this is friday. not so very long to wait. and after all it's a very short story--not nearly so long as grandmother's." "never mind, we'll make it longer by talking about it," said molly. "that's how i did at home when i had a very small piece of cake for tea. i took one bite of cake to three or four of bread and butter. it made it seem much more." "i can perfectly believe that _you_ will be ready to provide the necessary amount of 'bread and butter' to eke out my story," said aunty gravely. and molly stared at her in such comical bewilderment as to what she meant, that she set them all off laughing again. monday evening came. aunty took her place at the table in front of the lamp, and having satisfied herself that molly's wants in the shape of needles and thread, thimble, etc., were supplied for the next half-hour at least, she began as follows:-"a christmas adventure. "on the twenty-second of december, in the year eighteen hundred and fifty----" "no," said aunty, stopping short, "i can't tell you the year. molly would make all sorts of dreadful calculations on the spot, as to my exact age, and the date at which the first grey hairs might be looked for--i will only say eighteen hundred and _something_." "_fifty_ something," said molly promptly. "you did say that, aunty." "terrible child!" said aunty. "well, never mind, i'll begin again. on the twenty-second of december, in a certain year, i, laura berkeley, set out with my elder sister mary, on a long journey. we were then living on the western coast of england, or wales rather; we had to cross the whole country, for our destination was the neighbourhood, a few miles inland, of a small town on the _eastern_ coast. our journey was not one of pleasure--we were not going to spend 'a merry christmas' with near and dear friends and relations. we were going on business, and our one idea was to get it accomplished as quickly as possible, and hurry home to our parents again, for otherwise their christmas would be quite a solitary one. and as former christmases--before we children had been scattered, before there were vacant chairs round the fireside--had been among the happiest times of the year in our family, as in many others, we felt doubly reluctant to risk spending it apart from each other, we four--all that were left now! "'it is dreadfully cold, mary,' i said, when we were fairly off, dear mother gazing wistfully after us, as the train moved out of the station and her figure on the platform grew smaller and smaller, till at last we lost sight of it altogether. 'it is dreadfully cold, isn't it?' "we were tremendously well wrapped up--there were hot-water tins in the carriage, and every comfort possible for winter travellers. yet it was true. it was, as i said, bitterly cold. "'don't say that already, laura,' said mary anxiously, 'or i shall begin to wish i had stood out against your coming with me.' "'oh, dear mary, you couldn't have come alone,' i said. "i was only fifteen. my accompanying mary was purely for the sake of being a companion to her, though in my own mind i thought it very possible that, considering the nature of the 'business' we were bent upon, i might prove to be of practical use too. i must tell you what this same 'business' was. it was to choose a house. owing to my father's already failing health, we had left our own old home more than a year before, and till now we had been living in a temporary house in south wales. but my father did not like the neighbourhood, and fancied the climate did not suit him, and besides this we could not have had the house after the following april, had we wished it. so there had been great discussions about what we should do, where we should go rather, and much consultation of advertisement sheets and agents' lists. already mary had set off on several fruitless expeditions in quest of delightful 'residences' which turned out very much the reverse. but she had never before had to go such a long way as to east hornham, which was the name of the post-town near which were two houses to let, each seemingly so desirable that we really doubted whether it would not be difficult to resist taking _both_. my father had known east hornham as a boy, and though its neighbourhood was not strikingly picturesque, it was considered to be eminently healthy, and he was full of eagerness about it, and wishing he himself could have gone to see the houses. but that was impossible--impossible too for my mother to leave him even for three days; there was nothing for it but for mary to go, and at once. our decision in the case of one of the houses must not be delayed a day, for a gentleman had seen it and wanted to take it, only as the agent in charge of it considered that we had 'the first refusal,' he had written to beg my father to send some one to see it at once. "and thus it came about that mary and i set off by ourselves in this dreary fashion only two days before christmas! mother had proposed our taking a servant, but as we knew that the only one who would have been any use to us was the one of _most_ use to mother, we declared we should much prefer the 'independence' of going by ourselves. "by dint of much examination of bradshaw we had discovered that it was possible, just possible, to get to east hornham the same night about nine o'clock. "'that will enable us to get to bed early, after we have had some supper, and the next day we can devote to seeing the two houses, one or other of which _must_ suit us,' said mary, cheerfully. 'and starting early again the next day we may hope to be back with you on christmas eve, mother dear.' "the plan seemed possible enough,--one day would suffice for the houses, as there was no need as yet to go into all the details of the apportionment of rooms, and so on. that would be time enough in the spring, when we proposed to stay at east hornham for a week or two at the hotel there, and arrange our new quarters at leisure. it was running it rather close, however; the least hitch, such as failing to catch one train out of the many which mary had cleverly managed to fit in to each other, would throw our scheme out of gear; so mother promised not to be anxious if we failed to appear, and we, on our part, promised to telegraph if we met with any detention. "for the first half--three-quarters, i might say--of our journey we got on swimmingly. we caught all the trains; the porters and guards were civility itself; and as our only luggage was a small hand-bag that we carried ourselves, we had no trouble of any kind. when we got to fexel junction, the last important station we were to pass, our misfortunes began. here, by rights, we should have had a full quarter of an hour to wait for the express which should drop us at east hornham on its way north; but when the guard heard our destination he shook his head. "'the train's gone,' he said. 'we are more than half an hour late.' "and so it proved. a whole hour and a half had we to sit shivering, in spite of the big fire, in the fexel waiting-room, and it was eleven at night before, in the slowest of slow trains, we at last found ourselves within a few miles of east hornham. "our spirits had gone down considerably since the morning. we were very tired, and that has _very_ much more to do with people's spirits than almost any one realises. "'it wouldn't matter if we were going to friends,' said mary. 'but it does seem very strange and desolate--we two poor things, two days before christmas, arriving at midnight in a perfectly strange place, and nowhere to go to but an inn.' "'but think how nice it will be, getting home to mother again--particularly if we've settled it all nicely about the house,' i said. "and mary told me i was a good little thing, and she was very glad to have me with her. it was not usual for me to be the braver of the two, but you see i felt my responsibilities on this occasion to be great, and was determined to show myself worthy of them. "and when we did get to the inn, the welcome we received was worthy of dr. johnson's praise of inns in general. the fire was so bright, the little table so temptingly spread that the spirits--seldom long depressed--of one-and-twenty and fifteen rose at the sight. for we were hungry as well as tired, and the cutlets and broiled ham which the good people had managed to keep beautifully hot and fresh for us--possibly they were so accustomed to the railway eccentricities that they had only cooked them in time for our arrival by the later train, for we were told afterwards that no one ever _did_ catch the express at fexel junction,--the cutlets and ham, as i was saying, and the buttered toast, and all the other good things, were _so_ good that we made an excellent supper, and slept the sleep of two tired but perfectly healthy young people till seven o'clock the next morning. "we awoke refreshed and hopeful. but alas! when mary pulled up the blind what a sight met her eyes! snow--snow everywhere. "'what _shall_ we do?' she said. 'we can never judge of the houses in this weather. and how are we to get to them? dear me! how unlucky!' "'but it has left off, and it can't be very thick in these few hours,' i said, 'if only it keeps off now, we could manage.' "we dressed quickly, and had eaten our breakfast by half-past eight; for at nine, by arrangement, the agent was to call for us to escort us on our voyage of discovery. the weather gave promise of improving, a faint wintry sunshine came timidly out, and there seemed no question of more snow. when mr. turner, the agent, a respectable fatherly sort of man, made his appearance, he altogether pooh-poohed the idea of the roads being impassable; but he went on to say that, to his great regret, it was perfectly impossible for him to accompany us. mr. h----, mr. walter h----, that is to say, the younger son of the owner of the grange, the larger of the two houses we were to see, had arrived unexpectedly, and mr. turner was obliged to meet him about business. "'i have managed the business about here for them since they left the grange, and mr. walter is only here for a day,' said the communicative mr. turner. 'it is most unfortunate. but i have engaged a comfortable carriage for you, miss berkeley, and a driver who knows the country thoroughly, and is a very steady man. and, if you will allow me, i will call in this evening to hear what you think of the houses--which you prefer.' he seemed to be quite sure we should fix for one or other. "'thank you, that will do very well,' said mary,--not in her heart, to tell the truth, sorry that we were to do our house-hunting by ourselves. 'we shall get on quite comfortably, i am sure, mr. turner. which house shall we go to see first?' "'the farthest off, i would advise,' said mr. turner. 'that is hunter's hall. it is eight miles at least from this, and the days are so short.' "'is that the old house with the terraced garden?' i asked. "mr. turner glanced at me benevolently. "'oh no, miss,' he said. 'the terraced garden is at the grange. hunter's hall is a nice little place, but much smaller than the grange. the gardens at the grange are really quite a show in summer.' "'perhaps they will be too much for us,' said mary. 'my father does not want a very large place, you understand, mr. turner--not being in good health he does not wish to have the trouble of looking after much.' "'i don't think you would find it too much,' said mr. turner. 'the head gardener is to be left at mr. h----'s expense, and he is very trustworthy. but i can explain all these details this evening if you will allow me, after you have seen the house,' and, so saying, the obliging agent bade us good morning. "'i am sure we shall like the grange the best,' i said to mary, when, about ten o'clock, we found ourselves in the carriage mr. turner had provided for us, slowly, notwithstanding the efforts of the two fat horses that were drawing us, making our way along the snow-covered roads. "'i don't know,' said mary. 'i am afraid of its being too large. but certainly hunter's hall is a long way from the town, and that is a disadvantage.' "a _very_ long way it seemed before we got there. "'i could fancy we had been driving nearly twenty miles instead of eight,' said mary, when at last the carriage stopped before a sort of little lodge, and the driver informed us we must get out there, there being no carriage drive up to the house. "'objection number one,' said mary, as we picked our steps along the garden path which led to the front door. 'father would not like to have to walk along here every time he went out a drive. dear me!' she added, 'how dreadfully difficult it is to judge of any place in snow! the house looks so dirty, and yet very likely in summer it is a pretty bright white house.' "it was not a bad little house: there were two or three good rooms downstairs and several fairly good upstairs, besides a number of small inconvenient rooms that might have been utilised by a very large family, but would be no good at all to us. then the kitchens were poor, low-roofed, and straggling. "'it might do,' said mary doubtfully. 'it is more the look of it than anything else that i dislike. it does not look as if gentle-people had lived in it--it seems like a better-class farm-house.' "and so it proved to be, for on inquiry we learnt from the woman who showed us through, that it never had been anything but a farm-house till the present owner had bought it, improved it a little, and furnished it in a rough-and-ready fashion for a summer residence for his large family of children. "'we should need a great deal of additional furniture,' said mary. 'much of it is very poor and shabby. the rent, however, is certainly very low--to some extent that would make up.' "then we thanked the woman in charge, and turned to go. 'dear me!' said mary, glancing at her watch, 'it is already half-past twelve. i hope the driver knows the way to the grange, or it will be dark before we get there. how far is it from here to east hornham?' she added, turning again to our guide. "'ten miles good,' said the woman. "'i thought so,' said mary. 'i shall have a crow to pluck with that mr. turner for saying it was only eight. and how far to the grange?' "'which grange, miss? there are two or three hereabouts.' "mary named the family it belonged to. "'oh it is quite seven miles from here, though not above two from east hornham.' "'seven and two make nine,' said mary. 'why didn't you bring us here past the grange? it is a shorter way,' she added to the driver, as we got into the carriage again. "the man touched his hat respectfully, and replied that he had brought us round the other way that we might see more of the country. "we laughed to ourselves at the idea of seeing the country, shut up in a close carriage and hardly daring to let the tips of our noses peep out to meet the bitter, biting cold. besides, what was there to see? it was a flat, bare country, telling plainly of the near neighbourhood of the sea, and with its present mantle of snow, features of no kind were to be discerned. roads, fields, and all were undistinguishable. "'i wonder he knows his way,' we said to each other more than once, and as we drove on farther we could not resist a slight feeling of alarm as to the weather. the sky grew unnaturally dark and gloomy, with the blue-grey darkness that so often precedes a heavy fall of snow, and we felt immensely relieved when at last the carriage slackened before a pair of heavy old-fashioned gates, which were almost immediately opened by a young woman who ran out from one of the two lodges guarding each a side of the avenue. "the drive up to the house looked very pretty even then--or rather as if it would be exquisitely so in spring and summer time. "'i'm sure there must be lots and lots of primroses and violets and periwinkles down there in those woody places,' i cried. 'oh mary, mary, _do_ take this house.' "mary smiled, but i could see that she too was pleased. and when we saw the house itself the pleasant impression was not decreased. it was built of nice old red stone, or brick, with grey mullions and gables to the roof. the hall was oak wainscotted all round, and the rooms that opened out of it were home-like and comfortable, as well as spacious. certainly it was too large, a great deal too large, but then we could lock off some of the rooms. "'people often do so,' i said. 'i think it is a delicious house, don't you, mary?' "one part was much older than the other, and it was curiously planned, the garden, the terraced garden behind which i had heard of, rising so, that after going upstairs in the house you yet found yourself on a level with one part of this garden, and could walk out on to it through a little covered passage. the rooms into which this passage opened were the oldest of all--one in particular, tapestried all round, struck me greatly. "'i hope it isn't haunted,' i said suddenly. mary smiled, but the young woman looked grave. "'you don't mean to say it _is_?' i exclaimed. "'well, miss, i was housemaid here several years, and i certainly never saw nor heard nothing. but the young gentlemen did used to say things like that for to frighten us, and for me i'm one as never likes to say as to those things that isn't for us to understand.' "'i do believe it _is_ haunted,' i cried, more and more excited, and though mary checked me i would not leave off talking about it. "we were turning to go out into the gardens when an exclamation from mary caught my attention. "'it is snowing again and _so_ fast,' she said, 'and just see how dark it is.' "''twill lighten up again when the snow leaves off, miss,' said the woman. 'it is not three o'clock yet. i'll make you a bit of fire in a minute if you like, in one of the rooms. in here----' she added, opening the door of a small bedroom next to the tapestry room, 'it'll light in a minute, the chimney can't be cold, for there was one yesterday. i put fires in each in turns.' "we felt sorry to trouble her, but it seemed really necessary, for just then our driver came to the door to tell us he had had to take out the horses and put them into the stable. "'they seemed dead beat,' he said, 'with the heavy roads. and besides it would be impossible to drive in the midst of such very thick falling snow. 'twould be better to wait an hour or two, till it went off. there was a bag in the carriage--should he bring it in?' "we had forgotten that we had brought with us some sandwiches and buns. in our excitement we had never thought how late it was, and that we must be hungry. now, with the prospect of an hour or two's enforced waiting with nothing to do, we were only too thankful to be reminded of our provisions. the fire was already burning brightly in the little room--'mr. walter's room' the young woman called it--'that must be the gentleman that was to be with mr. turner to-day,' i whispered to mary--and she very good-naturedly ran back to her own little house to fetch the necessary materials for a cup of tea for us. "'it is a fearful storm,' she informed us when she ran back again, white from head to foot, even with the short exposure, and indeed from the windows we could see it for ourselves. 'the snow is coming that thick and fast, i could hardly find my own door,' she went on, while she busied herself with preparations for our tea. 'it is all very well in summer here, but it is lonesome-like in winter since the family went away. and my husband's been ill for some weeks too--i have to sit up with him most nights. last night, just before the snow began, i did get such a fright--all of a sudden something seemed to come banging at our door, and then i heard a queer breathing like. i opened the door, but there was nothing to be seen, but perhaps it was that that made me look strange when miss here,' pointing to me, 'asked me if the house was haunted. whatever it was that came to our door certainly rushed off this way.' "'a dog, or even a cat, perhaps,' said mary. "the woman shook her head. "'a cat couldn't have made such a noise, and there's not a dog about the place,' she said. "i listened with great interest--but mary's thoughts were otherwise engaged. there was not a doubt that the snow-storm, instead of going off, was increasing in severity. we drank our tea and ate our sandwiches, and put off our time as well as we could till five o'clock. it was now of course perfectly dark but for the light of the fire. we were glad when our friend from the lodge returned with a couple of tallow candles, blaming herself for having forgotten them. "'i really don't know what we should do,' said mary to her. 'the storm seems getting worse and worse. i wonder what the driver thinks about it. is he in the house, do you know?' "'he's sitting in our kitchen, miss,' replied the young woman. 'he seems very much put about. shall i tell him to come up to speak to you?' "'thank you, i wish you would,' said mary. 'but i am really sorry to bring you out so much in this dreadful weather.' "the young woman laughed cheerfully. "'i don't mind it a bit, miss,' she said; 'if you only knew how glad i shall be if you come to live here. nothing'd be a trouble if so be as we could get a kind family here again. 'twould be like old times.' "she hastened away, and in a few minutes returned to say that the driver was downstairs waiting to speak to us----" "laura, my dear," said grandmother, "do you know it is a quarter to ten. how much more is there?" aunty glanced through the pages-"about as much again," she said. "no, scarcely so much." "well then, dears, it must wait till to-morrow," said grandmother. "_oh_, grandmother!" remonstrated the children. "aunty said it was a shorter story than yours, grandmother," said molly in a half reproachful voice. "and are you disappointed that it isn't?" said aunty, laughing. "i really didn't think it was so long as it is." "oh! aunty, i only wish it was _twenty_ times as long," said molly. "i shouldn't mind hearing it all over again this minute, only you see i do dreadfully want to hear the end. i am sure they had to stay there all night, and that something frightens them. oh it's 'squisitely delicious," she added, "jigging" up and down on her chair. "you're a 'squisitely delicious little humbug," said aunty, laughing. "now good-night all three of you, and get to bed as fast as you can, as i don't want 'grandmother dear' to scold me for your all being tired and sleepy to-morrow." chapter xiii. a christmas adventure.--part ii. "and as for poor old rover, i'm sure he meant no harm." old doggie. "molly is too sharp by half," said aunty, the following evening, when she was preparing to go on with her story. "we _had_ to stay there all night--that was the result of mary's conversation with the driver, the details of which i may spare you. let me see, where was i? 'the driver scratched his head,'--no,--ah, here it is! 'he was waiting downstairs to speak to us; 'and the result of the speaking i have told you, so i'll go on from here---"it was so cold downstairs in the fireless, deserted house, that mary and i were glad to come upstairs again to the little room where we had been sitting, which already seemed to have a sort of home-like feeling about it. but once arrived there we looked at each other in dismay. "'isn't it dreadful, mary?' i said. "'and we shall miss the morning train from east hornham--the only one by which we can get through the same day--that is the worst of all,' she said. "'can't we be in time? it is only two or three miles from here to east hornham,' i said. "'yes, but you forget i _must_ see mr. turner again. if i fix to take this house, and it seems very likely, i must not go away without all the particulars for father. there are ever so many things to ask. i have a list of father's, as long as my arm, of questions and inquiries.' "'ah, yes,' i agreed; 'and then we have to get our bag at the hotel, and to pay our bill there.' "'and to choose rooms there to come to at first,' said mary. 'oh yes, our getting away by that train is impossible. and then the christmas trains are like sunday. even by travelling all night we cannot get home, i fear. i must telegraph to mother as soon as we get back to east hornham.' "the young woman had not returned. we were wondering what had become of her when she made her appearance laden with everything she could think of for our comfort. the bed, she assured us, could not be damp, as it had been 'to the fire' all the previous day, and she insisted on putting on a pair of her own sheets, coarse but beautifully white, and fetching from another room additional blankets, which in their turn had to be subjected to 'airing,' or 'firing' rather. to the best of her ability she provided us with toilet requisites, apologising, poor thing, for the absence of what we 'of course, must be used to,'--as she expressed it, in the shape of fine towels, perfumed soap, and so on. and she ended by cooking us a rasher of bacon and poached eggs for supper, all the materials for which refection she had brought from her own cottage. she was so kind that i shrank from suggesting to mary the objection to the proposed arrangement, which was all this time looming darkly before me. but when our friend was about to take her leave for the night i could keep it back no longer. "'mary,' i whispered, surprised and somewhat annoyed at my sister's calmness, 'are you going to let her go away? you and i _can't_ stay here all night alone.' "'do you mean that you are frightened, laura dear?' she said kindly, in the same tone. 'i don't see that there is anything to be frightened of; and if there were, what good would another girl--for this young woman is very little older than i--do us?' "'she knows the house, any way, and it wouldn't seem so bad,' i replied, adding aloud, 'oh, mrs. atkins'--for i had heard the driver mention her name--'can't you stay in the house with us? we shall feel so dreadfully strange.' "'i would have done so most gladly, miss,' the young woman began, but mary interrupted her. "'i know you can't,' she said; 'your husband is ill. laura, it would be very wrong of us to propose such a thing.' "'that's just how it is,' said mrs. atkins. 'my husband has such bad nights he can't be left, and there's no one i could get to sit with him. besides, it's such a dreadful night to seek for any one.' "'then the driver,' i said; 'couldn't he stay somewhere downstairs? he might have a fire in one of the rooms.' "mrs. atkins wished it had been thought of before. 'giles,'--which it appeared was the man's name--would have done it in a minute, she was sure, but it was too late. he had already set off to seek a night's lodging and some supper, no doubt, at a little inn half a mile down the road. "'an inn?' i cried. 'i wish we had gone there too. it would have been far better than staying here.' "'oh, it's a very poor place--'the drover's rest,' they call it. it would never do for you, miss,' said mrs. atkins, looking distressed that all her efforts for our comfort appeared to have been in vain. 'giles might ha' thought of it himself,' she added, 'but then you see it would never strike him but what here--in the grange--you'd be as safe as safe. it's not a place for burglaries and such like, hereabouts.' "'and of course we shall be quite safe,' said mary. 'laura dear, what has made you so nervous all of a sudden?' "i did not answer, for i was ashamed to speak of mrs. atkins' story of the strange noises she had heard the previous night, which evidently mary had forgotten, but i followed the young woman with great eagerness, to see that we were at least thoroughly well defended by locks and bolts in our solitude. the tapestry room and that in which we were to sleep could be locked off from the rest of the empty house, as a door stood at the head of the little stair leading up to them--so far, so well. but mrs. atkins proceeded to explain that the door at the _outside_ end of the other passage, leading into the garden, could not be locked except from the outside. "'i can lock you in, if you like, miss,' she said, 'and come round first thing in the morning;' but this suggestion did not please us at all. "'no, thank you,' said mary, 'for if it is fine in the morning i mean to get up very early and walk round the gardens.' "'no, thank you,' said i, adding mentally, 'supposing we _were_ frightened it would be too dreadful not to be able to get out.'--'but we can lock the door from the tapestry room into the passage, from our side, can't we?' i said, and mrs. atkins replied 'oh yes, of course you can, miss,' turning the key in the lock of the door as she spoke. 'master never let the young gentlemen lock the doors when they were boys,' she added, 'for they were always breaking the locks. so you see, miss, there's a hook and staple to this door, as well as the lock.' "'thank you, mrs. atkins,' said mary, 'that will do nicely, i am sure. and now we must really not keep you any longer from your husband. good-night, and thank you very much.' "'good-night,' i repeated, and we both stood at the door of the passage as she made her way out into the darkness. the snow was still falling very heavily, and the blast of cold wind that made its way in was piercing. "'oh, mary, come back to the fire,' i cried. 'isn't it _awfully_ cold? oh, mary dear,' i added, when we had both crouched down beside the welcome warmth for a moment, 'won't it be _delicious_ to be back with mother again? we never thought we'd have such adventures, did we? can you fancy this house ever feeling _home-y_, mary? it seems so dreary now.' "'yes, but you've no idea how different it will seem even to-morrow morning, if it's a bright day,' said mary. 'let's plan the rooms, laura. don't you think the one to the south with the crimson curtains will be best for father?' "so she talked cheerfully, more, i am sure--though i did not see it at the time--to encourage me than to amuse herself. and after awhile, when she saw that i was getting sleepy, she took a candle into the outer room, saying she would lock the door and make all snug for the night. i heard her, as i thought, lock the door, then she came back into our room and also locked the door leading from it into the tapestry room. "'you needn't lock that too,' i said sleepily; 'if the tapestry door is locked, we're all right!' "'i think it's better,' said mary quietly, and then we undressed, so far as we could manage to do so in the extremely limited state of our toilet arrangements, and went to bed. "i fell asleep at once. mary, she afterwards told me, lay awake for an hour or two, so that when she did fall asleep her slumber was unusually profound. i think it must have been about midnight when i woke suddenly, with the feeling--the indescribable feeling--that something had awakened me. i listened, first of all with _only_ the ear that happened to be uppermost--then, as my courage gradually returned again, i ventured to move slightly, so that both ears were uncovered. no, nothing was to be heard. i was trying to compose myself to sleep again, persuading myself that i had been dreaming, when again--yes most distinctly--there _was_ a sound. a sort of shuffling, scraping noise, which seemed to come from the direction of the passage leading from the tapestry room to the garden. fear made me selfish. i pushed mary, then shook her gently, then more vigorously. "'mary,' i whispered. 'oh, mary, _do_ wake up. i hear such a queer noise.' "mary, poor mary awoke, but she had been very tired. it was a moment or two before she collected her faculties. "'where are we? what is it?' she said. then she remembered. 'oh yes--what is the matter, laura?' "'listen,' i said, and mary, calmly self-controlled as usual, sat up in bed and listened. the sound was quite distinct, even louder than i had heard it. "'oh, mary!' i cried. 'somebody's trying to get in. oh, mary, what _shall_ we do? oh, i am so frightened. i shall die with fright. oh, i wish i had never come!' "i was on the verge of hysterics, or something of the kind. "mary, herself a little frightened, as she afterwards confessed--in the circumstances what young girl could have helped being so?--turned to me quietly. something in the very tone of her voice seemed to soothe me. "'laura dear,' she said gravely, 'did you say your prayers last night?' "'oh yes, oh yes, indeed i did. but i'll say them again now if you like,' i exclaimed. "even then, mary could hardly help smiling. "'that isn't what i meant,' she said. 'i mean, what is the _good_ of saying your prayers if you don't believe what you say?' "'but i do, i do,' i sobbed. "'then why are you so terrified? you asked god to take care of you. when you said it you believed he would. why not believe it now? _now_, when you are tried, is the time to show if you do mean what you say. i am sure god _will_ take care of us. now try, dear, to be reasonable, and i will get up and see what it is.' "'but don't leave me, and i will try to be good,' i exclaimed, jumping out of bed at the same moment that she did, and clinging to her as she moved. 'oh, mary, don't you think perhaps we'd better go back to bed and put our fingers in our ears, and by morning it wouldn't seem anything.' "'and fancy ever after that there had been something mysterious, when perhaps it is something quite simple,' said mary. 'no, i shouldn't like that at all. of course i won't do anything rash, but i would like to find out.' "'the fire, fortunately, was not yet quite out. mary lighted one of the candles with a bit of paper from a spark which she managed to coax into a flame. the noise had, in the meantime, subsided, but just as we had got the candle lighted, it began again. "'now,' said mary, 'you stay here, laura, and i'll go into the next room and listen at the passage door.' she spoke so decidedly that i obeyed in trembling. mary armed herself with the poker, and, unlocking our door, went into the tapestry room, first lighting the second candle, which she left with me. she crossed the room to the door as she had said. _i_ thought it was to listen; in reality her object was to endeavour to turn the key in the lock of the tapestry room door, which she had _not_ been able to do the night before, for once the door was shut the key would not move, and she had been obliged to content herself with the insecure hold of the hook and staple. now it had struck her that by inserting the poker in the handle of the key she might succeed in turning it, and thus provide ourselves with a double defence. for if the intruder--dog, cat, whatever it was--burst the outer door and got into the tapestry room, my fears, she told me afterwards, would, she felt sure, have become uncontrollable. it was a brave thing to do--was it not? she deserved to succeed, and she did. with the poker's help she managed to turn the key, and then with a sigh of relief she stood still for a moment listening. the sounds continued--whatever it was it was evidently what mrs. atkins had heard the night before--a shuffling, rushing-about sound, then a sort of impatient breathing. mary came back to me somewhat reassured. "'laura,' she said, 'i keep to my first opinion. it is a dog, or a cat, or some animal.' "'but suppose it is a _mad_ dog?' i said, somewhat unwilling to own that my terrors had been exaggerated. "'it is possible, but not probable,' she replied. 'any way it can't get in here. now, laura, it is two o'clock by my watch. there is candle enough to last an hour or two, and i will make up the fire again. get into bed and _try_ to go to sleep, for honestly i do not think there is any cause for alarm.' "'but mary, i _can't_ go to sleep unless you come to bed too, and if you don't, i can't believe you think it's nothing,' i said. so, to soothe me, she gave up her intention of remaining on guard by the fire, and came to bed, and, wonderful to relate, we both went to sleep, and slept soundly till--what o'clock do you think? "it was _nine_ o'clock when i awoke; mary was standing by me fully dressed, a bright frosty sun shining into the room, and a tray with a cup of tea and some toast and bacon keeping hot by the fire. "'oh, mary!' i cried, sitting up and rubbing my eyes. "'are you rested?' she said. 'i have been up since daylight--not so very early _that_, at this season--mrs. atkins came and brought me some breakfast, but we hadn't the heart to waken you, you poor child.' "'and oh, mary, what about the noise? did she hear it?' "'she wasn't sure. she half fancied she did, and then she thought she might have been imagining it from the night before. but get up, dear. it is hopeless to try for the early train; we can't leave till to-night, or to-morrow morning; but i am anxious to get back to east hornham and see mr. turner. and before we go i'd like to run round the gardens.' "'but, mary,' i said, pausing in my occupation of putting on my stockings, 'are you still thinking of taking this house?' "'still!' said mary. 'why not?' "'because of the noises. if we can't find out what it is, it would be very uncomfortable. and with father being so delicate too, and often awake at night!' "mary did not reply, but my words were not without effect. we ran round the gardens as she had proposed--they were lovely even then--took a cordial farewell of mrs. atkins, and set off on our return drive to east hornham. i must not forget to tell you that we well examined that part of the garden into which the tapestry room passage led, but there were no traces of footsteps, the explanation of which we afterwards found to be that the snow had continued to fall till much later in the night than the time of our fright. "mr. turner was waiting for us in considerable anxiety. we had done, he assured us, the most sensible thing possible in the circumstances. he had not known of our non-arrival till late in the evening, and, but for his confidence in giles, would have set off even then. as it was, he had sent a messenger to hunter's hall, and was himself starting for the grange. "mary sent me out of the room while she spoke to him, at which i was not over well pleased. she told him all about the fright we had had, and that, unless its cause were explained, it would certainly leave an uncomfortable feeling in her mind, and that, considering our father's invalid state, till she had talked it over with our mother she could not come to the decision she had hoped. "'it may end in our taking hunter's hall,' she said, 'though the grange is far more suitable.' "mr. turner was concerned and perplexed. but mary talked too sensibly to incline him to make light of it. "'it is very unfortunate,' he said; 'and i promised an answer to the other party by post this evening. and you say, miss berkeley, that mrs. atkins heard it too. you are _sure_, miss, you were not dreaming?' "'_quite_ sure. it was my sister that heard it, and woke me,' she replied; 'and then we both heard it.' "mr. turner walked off, metaphorically speaking, scratching his head, as honest giles had done literally in his perplexity the night before. he promised to call back in an hour or two, when he had been to the station and found out about the trains for us. "we packed our little bag and paid the bill, so that we might be quite ready, in case mr. turner found out any earlier train by which we might get on, for we had telegraphed to mother that we should do our best to be back the next day. i was still so sleepy and tired that mary persuaded me to lie down on the bed, in preparation for the possibility of a night's journey. i was _nearly_ asleep when a tap came to the door, and a servant informed mary that a gentleman was waiting to speak to her. "'mr. turner,' said she carelessly, as she passed into the sitting-room. "but it was not mr. turner. in his place she found herself face to face with a very different person--a young man, of seven or eight and twenty, perhaps, tall and dark--dark-haired and dark-eyed that is to say--grave and quiet in appearance, but with a twinkle in his eyes that told of no lack of humour. "'i must apologise for calling in this way, miss berkeley,' he said at once, 'but i could not help coming myself to tell how _very_ sorry i am about the fright my dog gave you last night at the grange. i have just heard of it from mr. turner.' "'your dog?' repeated mary, raising her pretty blue eyes to his face in bewilderment. "'yes,' he said, 'he ran off to the grange--his old home, you know--oh, i beg your pardon! i am forgetting to tell you that i am walter h----,--in the night, and must have tried to find his way into my room in the way he used to do. i always left the door unlatched for him.' "instead of replying, mary turned round and flew straight off into the room where i was. "'oh, laura,' she exclaimed, 'it _was_ a dog; mr. walter h---has just come to tell us. are you not delighted? now we can fix for the grange at once, and it will all be right. come quick, and hear about it.' "i jumped up, and, without even waiting to smooth my hair, hurried back into the sitting-room with mary. our visitor, very much amused at our excitement, explained the whole, and sent downstairs for 'captain,' a magnificent retriever, who, on being told to beg our pardon, looked up with his dear pathetic brown eyes in mary's face in a way that won her heart at once. his master, it appeared, had been staying at east hornham the last two nights with an old friend, the clergyman there. both nights, on going to bed late, he had missed 'captain,' whose usual habit was to sleep on a mat at his door. the first night he was afraid the dog was lost, but to his relief he reappeared again early the next morning; the second night, also, his master happening to be out late at mr. turner's, with whom he had a good deal of business to settle, the dog had set off again on his own account to his former quarters, with probably some misty idea in his doggy brain that it was the proper thing to do. "'but how did you find out where he had been?' said i. "'i went out early this morning, feeling rather anxious about 'captain,'' said our visitor; 'and i met him coming along the road leading from the grange. where he had spent the night after failing to get into his old home i cannot tell; he must have sheltered somewhere to get out of the snow and the cold. later this morning i walked on to the grange, and, hearing from ruth atkins of your fright and her own, i put 'two and two together,' and i think the result quite explains the noises you heard.' "'quite,' we both said; 'and we thank you so much for coming to tell us.' "'it was certainly the very least i could do,' he said; 'and i thank you very much for forgiving poor old captain.' "so we left east hornham with lightened hearts, and, as our new friend was travelling some distance in our direction, he helped us to accomplish our journey much better than we could have managed it alone. and after all we _did_ get back to our parents on christmas day, though not on christmas eve." aunty stopped. "then you did take the grange, aunty?" said the children. aunty nodded her head. "and you never heard any more noises?" "never," said aunty. "it was the pleasantest of old houses; and oh, we were sorry to leave it, weren't we, mother?" "why did you leave it, grandmother dear?" said molly. "when your grandfather's health obliged him to spend the winters abroad; then we came here," said grandmother. "oh yes," said molly, adding after a little pause, "i _would_ like to see that house." aunty smiled. "few things are more probable than that you will do so," she said, "provided you can make up your mind to cross the sea again." "why? how do you mean, aunty?" said molly, astonished, and ralph and sylvia listened with eagerness to aunty's reply. "because," said aunty,--then she looked across to grandmother. "won't you explain to them, mother?" she said. "because, my darlings, that dear old house will be your home--your happy home, i trust, some day," said grandmother. "is my father thinking of buying it?" asked ralph, pricking up his ears. "no, my boy, but some day it will be his. it is your uncle's now, but he is _much_ older than your father, and has no children, so you see it will come to your father some day--sooner than we have thought, perhaps, for your uncle is too delicate to live in england, and talks of giving it up to your father." "but _still_ i don't understand," said ralph, looking puzzled. "did my _uncle_ buy it?" "no, no. did you never hear of old alderwood grange?" "alderwood," said ralph. "of _course_, but we never speak of it as 'the grange,' you know, and i have never seen it. it has always been let since i can remember. i never even heard it described. papa does not seem to care to speak of it." "no, dear," said aunty. "the happiest part of his life began there, and you know how all the light seemed to go out of his life when your mother died. it was there he--captain's master--got to know her, the 'mary' of my little adventure. you understand it all now? he was a great deal in the neighbourhood--at the little town i called east hornham--the summer we first came to alderwood. and there they were married; and there, in the peaceful old church-yard, your dear mother is buried." the children listened with sobered little faces. "poor papa!" they said. "but some day," said grandmother, "some day i hope, when you three are older, that alderwood will again be a happy home for your father. it is what your mother would have wished, i know." "well then, you and aunty must come to live with us there. you must. promise now, grandmother dear," said molly. grandmother smiled, but shook her head gently. "grandmother will be a _very_ old woman by then, my darling," she said, "and perhaps----" molly pressed her little fat hand over grandmother's mouth. "i know what you're going to say, but you're _not_ to say it," she said. "and _every_ night, grandmother dear, i ask in my prayers for you to live to be a hundred." grandmother smiled again. "do you, my darling?" she said. "but remember, whatever we _ask_, god knows best what to _answer_." chapter xiv. how this book came to be written. "ring out ye merry, merry bells, your loudest, sweetest chime; tell all the world, both rich and poor, 'tis happy christmas time." "grandmother," said ralph, at breakfast on what molly called "the morning of christmas eve," "i was going to ask you, only the story last night put it out of my head, if i might ask prosper to spend to-morrow with us. his uncle and aunt are going away somewhere, and he will be quite alone. besides he and i have made a plan about taking the shawl to the old woman quite early in the morning. you don't know _how_ pleased he was when i told him you had got it for her, grandmother--just as pleased as if he had bought it for her with his own money." "then he is a really unselfish boy," said grandmother. "certainly you may ask him. i had thought of it too, but somehow it went out of my head. and, as well as the shawl, i shall have something to send to prosper's old friend. she must have a good dinner for once." "that'll be awfully jolly," said ralph. sylvia and molly listened with approval, for of course they had heard all about the mystery of ralph's wood-carrying long ago. "at christmas time we're to try to make other people happy," said molly, meditatively. "_i_ thought of something that would make a great lot of people happy, if you and aunty would do it, grandmother dear?" "i don't think you did _all_ the thinking about it, molly," said sylvia, with a slight tone of reproach. "i do think i did some." "well, i daresay you did. we did it together. it couldn't be for _this_ christmas, but for another." "but what is it?" asked grandmother. "it is that you and aunty should make a book out of the stories you've told us, and then you see lots and lots of other children would be pleased as well as us," said molly. "of course you'd have to put more to it, to make it enough. i don't _mind_ if you put some in about me, grandmother dear, if you would _like_ to very much." "no," said sylvia, "that would be very stupid. grandmother couldn't make a book about _us_. we're not uncommon enough. we couldn't be _heroines_, molly." "but children don't care about heroines," said molly. "children like to hear about other children, just really what they do. now, don't they, grandmother dear? and _isn't_ my plan a good one?" * * * * * will _you_ answer little molly's question, children dear? for dear you all are, whoever and wherever you be. boys and girls, big and little, dark and fair, brown-eyed and blue-eyed, merry and quiet--all of you, dear unknown friends whose faces i may never see, yet all of whom i love. i shall be so glad--so very glad, if this little simple story-book of mine helps to make this christmas day a happy and merry one for you all. the end. * * * * * _macmillan's prize library_ a carefully selected series of illustrated books suitable for presentation. _baker, sir samuel w._ cast up by the sea. _besant, sir walter._ life of captain cook. _bradley, a. g._ life of wolfe. _buckland, frank._ curiosities of natural history. vols. i.-iii. _buckley, a. b._ through magic glasses. _butler, sir william._ general gordon. _cooper, j. fenimore._ the last of the mohicans. the deerslayer. the pathfinder. the pioneers. _corbett, sir julian._ for god and gold. sir francis drake. _creasy, sir e._ the fifteen decisive battles of the world. _dickens, charles._ oliver twist. the old curiosity shop. christmas books. barnaby rudge. _edgeworth, maria._ lazy lawrence and other stories. _eliot, george._ scenes of clerical life. _finny, violet geraldine._ revolt of the young maccormacks. _fowler, w. warde._ a year with the birds. tales of the birds. more tales of the birds. _fraser, edward._ famous fighters of the fleet. _gilmore, rev. john._ storm warriors; or life-boat work on the goodwin sands. _grimm, the bros._ household stories. _henley, w. e._ lyra heroica. a book of verse for boys. _hooper, g._ life of wellington. _hughes, t._ tom brown's school days. alfred the great. _keary, a. and e._ heroes of asgard. _kingsley, charles._ hereward the wake. westward ho! the heroes. the water-babies. madam how and lady why. glaucus. _kipling, rudyard._ selected stories. _laughton, sir j. k._ life of nelson. _marryat, captain._ newton forster. the pirate and the three cutters. peter simple. japhet in search of a father. mr. midshipman easy. masterman ready. the phantom ship. _metelerkamp, sanni._ outa karel's stories. _mitchell, s. weir._ the adventures of françois. _molesworth, mrs._ carrots. tell me a story. the tapestry room. the cuckoo clock. grandmother dear. herr baby. us. the rectory children. two little waifs. four winds farm. the ruby ring. mary. nurse heatherdale's story. the woodpigeons and mary. the story of a year. edmée. a tale of the french revolution. _morier, james._ the adventures of hajji baba. _norton, h. e._ a book of courtesy. _oman, sir c. w._ warwick the kingmaker. _perry, w. c._ the boy's iliad. the boy's odyssey. _scott, sir walter._ kenilworth. count robert of paris. _sharp, evelyn._ micky. the children who ran away. the other boy. the youngest girl in the school. _thackeray, w. m._ henry esmond. _yonge, charlotte m._ little duke. the prince and the page. unknown to history. the dove in the eagle's nest. the chaplet of pearls. 