the cozy lion frances hodgson burnett the cozy lion as told by queen crosspatch by frances hodgson burnett author of "little lord fauntleroy" with illustrations by harrison cady the century co. new york copyright, 1907, by the century co. published october, 1907 printed in u. s. a. i am very fond of this story of the cozy lion because i consider it a great credit to me. i reformed that lion and taught him how to behave himself. the grown-up person who reads this story aloud to children must know how to roar. the cozy lion i shall never forget the scolding i gave him to begin with. one of the advantages of being a fairy even quite a common one is that lions can't bite you. a fairy is too little and too light. if they snap at you it's easy to fly through their mouths, and even if they catch you, if you just get behind their teeth you can make them so uncomfortable that they will beg you to get out and leave them in peace. of course it was all the lion's fault that i scolded him. lions ought to live far away from people. nobody likes lions roaming about--particularly where there are children. but this lion said he wanted to get into society, and that he was very fond of children-little fat ones between three and four. so instead of living on a desert, or in a deep forest or a jungle he took the large cave on the huge green hill, only a few miles from a village full of the fattest, rosiest little children you ever saw. he had only been living in the cave a few days, but even in that short time the mothers and fathers had found out he was there, and everybody who could afford it had bought a gun and snatched it up even if they saw a donkey coming down the road, because they were afraid it might turn out to be a lion. as for the mothers, they were nearly crazy with fright, and dare not let their children go out to play and had to shut them up in top rooms and cupboards and cellars, they were so afraid the lion might be hiding behind trees to jump out at them. so everything was beginning to be quite spoiled because nobody could have any fun. of course if they had had any sense and believed in fairies and had just gone out some moonlight night and all joined hands and danced slowly around in a circle and sung: fairies pink and fairies rose fairies dancing on pearly toes we want you, oh! we want you! fairy queens and fairy slaves who are not afraid of lions' caves please to come to help us, then it would have been all right, because we should have come in millions, especially if they finished with this verse: our troubles we can never tell but if _you_ would come it would all be well par-tic-u-lar-ly silverbell. but they hadn't sense enough for that--of course they hadn't--_of course they hadn't_! which shows what loonies people are. but you see i am much nicer than _un_-fairy persons, even if i have lost my nice little, pink little, sweet little temper and if i am cross. so when i saw the children fretting and growing pale because they had to be shut up, and the mothers crying into their washtubs when they were washing, until the water slopped over, i made up my mind i would go and talk to that lion myself in a way he wouldn't soon forget. it was a beautiful morning, and the huge green hill looked lovely. a shepherd who saw me thought i was a gold and purple butterfly and threw his hat at me--the idiot! of course he fell down on his nose-and very right and proper too. when i got to the cave, the lion was sitting outside his door and he was crying. he was one of these nasty-tempered, discontented lions who are always thinking themselves injured; large round tears were rolling down his nose and he was sniffling. but i must say he was handsome. he was big and smooth and had the most splendid mane and tail i ever saw. he would have been like a king if he had had a nicer expression. but there he sat sniffling. "i'm so lonely," he said. "nobody calls. nobody pays me any attention. and i came here for the society. no one is fonder of society than i am." i sat down on a flowering branch near him and shouted at him, "what's the use of society when you eat it up?" i said. he jumped up and lashed his tail and growled but at first he could not see me. "what's it for _but_ to be eaten up?" he roared. "first i want it to entertain me and then i want it for dessert. where are you? who are you?" "i'm queen crosspatch--queen silverbell as was," i said. "i suppose you have heard of _me_?" "i've heard nothing good," he growled. "a good chewing is what _you_ want!" he _had_ heard something about me, but not enough. the truth was he didn't really believe in fairies--which was what brought him into trouble. by this time he had seen me and he was ignorant enough to think that he could catch me, so he laid down flat in the thick, green grass and stretched his big paws out and rested his nose on them, thinking i would be taken in and imagine he was going to sleep. i burst out laughing at him and swung to and fro on my flowery branch. "do you want to eat me?" i said. "you'd need two or three quarts of me with sugar and cream--like strawberries." that made him so angry that he sprang roaring at my tree and snapped and shook it and tore it with his claws. but i flew up into the air and buzzed all about him and he got furious--just furious. he jumped up in the air and lashed his tail and _thrashed_ his tail and crashed his tail, and he turned round and round and tore up the grass. "don't be a silly," i said. "it's a nice big tufty sort of tail and you will only wear it out." so then he opened his mouth and roared and roared. and what do you suppose _i_ did? i flew right into his mouth. first i flew into his throat and buzzed about like a bee and made him cough and cough and cough--but he couldn't cough me up. he coughed and he houghed and he woughed; he tried to catch me with his tongue and he tried to catch me with his teeth but i simply made myself tinier and tinier and got between two big fierce white double ones and took one of my fairy workers' hammers out of my pocket and hammered and hammered and hammered until he began to have such a jumping toothache that he ran leaping and roaring down the huge green hill and leaping and roaring down the village street to the dentist's to get some toothache drops. you can just imagine how all the people rushed into their houses, and how the mothers screamed and clutched their children and hid under beds and tables and in coalbins, and how the fathers fumbled about for guns. as for the dentist, he locked his door and bolted it and barred it, and when he found _his_ gun he poked it out of the window and fired it off as fast as ever he could until he had fired fifty times, only he was too frightened to hit anything. but the village street was so full of flashes and smoke and bullets that mr. lion turned with ten big roars and galloped down the street, with guns fired out of every window where the family could afford to keep a gun. when he got to his home in the huge green hill, he just laid down and cried aloud and screamed and kicked his hind legs until he scratched a hole in the floor of his cave. "just because i'm a lion," he sobbed, "just because i'm a poor, sensitive, helpless, orphan lion nobody has one particle of manners. they won't even sell me a bottle of toothache drops. and i wasn't going to touch that dentist--until he had cured me and wrapped up the bottle nicely in paper. not a touch was i going to touch him until he had done that." he opened his mouth so wide to roar with grief that i flew out of it. i had meant to give him a lesson and i'd given him one. when i flew out of his mouth of course his beautiful double teeth stopped aching. it was such a relief to him that it made quite a change in his nature and he sat up and began to smile. it was a slow smile which spread into a grin even while the tear-drops hung on his whiskers. "my word! how nice," he said. "it's stopped." i had flown to the top of his ear and i shouted down it. "i stopped it," i said. "and i began it. and if you don't behave yourself, i'll give you earache and that will be worse." before i had given him his lesson he would have jumped at me but now he knew better. he tried to touch my feelings and make me sorry for him. he put one paw before his eyes and began to sniff again. "i am a poor sensitive lonely orphan lion,' he said. "you are nothing of the sort," i answered very sharply. "you are not poor, and heaven knows you are not sensitive, and you needn't be lonely. i don't know whether you are an orphan or not--and i don't care. you are a nasty, ill-tempered, selfish, biting, chewing thing." "there's a prejudice against lions," he wept. "people don't like them. they never invite them to children's parties--nice little fat, tender, children's parties--where they would enjoy themselves so much--and the refreshments would be just what they like best. they don't even invite them to grown-up parties. what i want to ask you is this: has _one_ of those villagers called on me since i came here--even a tough one?" "nice stupids they would be if they did," i answered. he lifted up his right paw and shook his head from side to side in the most mournful way. "there," he said. "you are just as selfish as the rest. everybody is selfish. there is no brotherly love or consideration in the world. sometimes i can scarcely bear it. i am going to ask you another question, and it is almost like a riddle. who did you ever see try to give pleasure to a lion?" i got into his ear then and shouted down it as loud as ever i could. "who did you ever see a _lion_ try to give pleasure to?" i said. "you just think over that. and when you find the answer, tell it to _me_." i don't know whether it was the newness of the idea, or the suddenness of it, but he turned pale. did you ever see a lion turn pale? i never did before and it was funny. you know people's skins turn pale but a lion's skin is covered with hair and you can't see it, so his hair has to turn pale or else you would never know he was turning pale at all. this lion's hair was a beautiful tawny golden color to begin with and first his whiskers turned white and then his big mane and then his paws and then his body and last his long splendid tail with the huge fluffy tuft on the end of it. then he stood up and his tail hung down and he said weakly: "i do not know the answer to that riddle. i will go and lie down in my cave. i do not believe i have one friend in this world." and he walked into his cave and laid down and sobbed bitterly. he forgot i was inside his ear and that he carried me with him. but i can tell you i had given him something to think of and that was what he needed. this way of feeling that nothing in the world but a lion has a right to be comfortable--just because you happen to be a lion yourself--is too _silly_ for anything. i flew outside his ear and boxed it a little. "come!" i said. "crying won't do you any good. are you really lonely--really--really--really so that it gives you a hollow feeling?" he sat up and shook his tears away so that they splashed all about-something like rain. "yes," he answered, "to tell the truth i am--i _do_ like society. i want friends and neighbors--and i don't only want them for dessert, i am a sociable lion and am affectionate in my nature--and clinging. and people run as fast as they can the moment they hear my voice." and he quite choked with the lump in his throat. "well," i snapped, "what else do you expect?" that overcame him and he broke into another sob. "i expect kindness," he said, "and invitations to afternoon teas--and g-g-arden parties----" "well you won't get them," i interrupted, "if you don't change your ways. if you _eat_ afternoon teas and garden parties as though they were lettuce sandwiches, you can't expect to be invited to them. so you may as well go back to the desert or the jungle and live with lions and give up society altogether." "but ever since i was a little tiny lion--a tiny, tiny one--i have wanted to get into society. i _will_ change--i will! just tell me what to do. and do sit on my ear and talk down it and stroke it. it feels so comfortable and friendly." you see he had forgotten that he had meant to chew me up. so i began to give him advice. "the first things you will have to do will be to change your temper and your heart and your diet, and stop growling and roaring when you are not pleased.' "i'll do that, i'll do that," he said ever so quickly. "you don't want me to cut my mane and tail off, do you?" "no. you are a handsome lion and beauty is much admired." then i snuggled quite close up to his ear and said down it, "did you ever think how _nice_ a lion would be if--if he were much nicer?" "n-no," he faltered. "did you ever think how like a great big cozy lovely dog you are? and how nice your big fluffy mane would be for little girls and boys to cuddle in, and how they could play with you and pat you and hug you and go to sleep with their heads on your shoulder and love you and adore you--if you only lived on breakfast foods and things-and had a really sweet disposition?" he must have been rather a nice lion because that minute he began to look "kind of smiley round the mouth and teary round the lashes"--which is part of a piece of poetry i once read. "oh! aunt maria!" he exclaimed a little slangily. "i never thought of that: it _would_ be nice." "a lion could be the coziest thing in the world--if he would," i went on. he jumped up in the air and danced and kicked his hind legs for joy. "could he! could he! could he?" he shouted out. "oh! let me be a cozy lion! let me be a cozy lion! hooray! hooray! hooray! i would like it better than being invited to buckingham palace!" "little children would just _flock_ to see you and play with you," i said. "and then if they came, their mothers and fathers couldn't be kept away. they would flock too." the smile of joy that spread over his face actually reached his ears and almost shook me off. "that _would_ be society!" he grinned. "the very best!" i answered. "children who are _real_ darlings, and not imitations, come first, and then mothers and fathers--the rest just straggle along anywhere." "when could it begin? when could it begin?" he panted out. "not," i said very firmly, "until you have tried some breakfast food!" "where shall i get it? oh! where? oh! where?" "_i_ will get it, of course," was my answer. then i stood up on the very tip of his ear and put my tiny golden trumpet to my lips. (and oh! how that lion did roll up his eyes to try to catch a glimpse of me!) and i played this tune to call my fairy workers: i'm calling from the huge green hill, tira-lira-lira, the lion's cave is cool and still. tira-lira-lira. the lion wishes to improve and show he's filled with tender love and _not_ with next door neighbor. the lion wishes to be good. to fill him _full_ of breakfast food will aid him in his labor. bring breakfast food from far and near --he'll eat a dreadful lot i fear. oh! tira-lira-lira-la and tira-lira-ladi. a lion learning to be good needs everybody's breakfast food. you workers bring it--tira-la and tira-lira-ladi. then the fairy workers came flying in clouds. in three minutes and three quarters they were swarming all over the huge green hill and into the lion's cave, every one of them with a little sack on his green back. they swarmed here and they swarmed there. some were cooks and brought tiny pots and kettles and stoves and they began to cook breakfast foods as fast as lightning. the lion sat up. (i forgot to say that he had turned un-pale long before this and was the right color again.) and his mouth fell wide open, just with surprise and amazement. what amazed him most was that one out of all those thousands of little workers in their green caps and smocks was the least bit afraid of him. why, what do you think! my little skip just jumped up and stood on the end of the lion's nose while he asked me a question. you never saw anything as funny as that lion looking down the bridge of his nose at him until he squinted awfully. he was so interested in him. "does he take it with sugar and cream, your royal silver-cross-bell-ness?" skip asked me, taking off his green cap and bowing low. "try him with it in both ways," i said. when the workers had made a whole lot of all the kinds together they poured it into a hollow stone and covered it with sugar and cream. "ready, your highnesses!" they all called out in chorus. "is that it?" said the lion. "it looks very nice. how does one eat it? must i bite it?" "dear me, no," i answered. "lap it." so he began. if you'll believe me, he simply reveled in it. he ate and ate and ate, and lapped and lapped and lapped and he did not stop until the hollow stone was quite clean and empty and his sides were quite swelled and puffed out. and he looked as pleased as punch. "i never ate anything nicer in my life," he said. "there was a sunday school picnic i once went to." "a sunday school picnic!" i shouted so fiercely that he blushed all over. the very tuft on his tail was deep rose color. "who invited you?" he hung his head and stammered. "i was not exactly _invited_," he said, "and didn't go _with_ the school to the picnic grounds--but i should have come back with it-at least some of it--but for some men with guns!" i stamped on his ear as hard as ever i could. "never let me hear you mention such a subject again," i said. "nobody in society would speak to you if they knew of it!" he quite shook in his shoes--only he hadn't any shoes. "i'll never even think of it again," he said. "i see my mistake. i apologize. i do indeed!" now what _do_ you suppose happened at that very minute? if i hadn't been a fairy i should have been frightened to death. at that very minute i heard little children's voices singing like skylarks farther down on the huge green hill--actually little children a whole lot of them! "it--it sounds like the sunday school pic----" the lion began to say--and then he remembered he must not mention the subject and stopped short. "has your heart changed?" i said to him. "are you sure it has?" "i think it has," he said meekly, "but even if it hadn't, ma'am, i'm so _full_ of breakfast food i couldn't eat a strawberry." it happened that i had my heart glass with me--i can examine hearts with it and see if they have properly changed or not. "roll over on your back," i said. "i will examine your heart now." and the little children on the huge green hill side were coming nearer and nearer and laughing and singing and twittering more like skylarks than ever. he rolled over on his back and i jumped off his ear on to his big chest. i thumped and listened and looked about until i could see his great heart and watch it beating--thub--thub--thub--thub. it actually had changed almost all over except one little corner and as the children's voices came nearer and nearer and sounded like whole nests full of skylarks let loose, even the corner was changing as fast as it could. instead of a big ugly dark red fiery heart, it was a soft ivory white one with delicate pink spots on it. "it has changed!" i cried out. "you are going to be a great big nice soft cozy thing, and you couldn't eat a picnic if you tried-and you will never try." he was all in a flutter with relief when he got up and stood on his feet. and the laughing little voices came nearer and nearer and i flew to the cave door to see what _was_ happening. it was really a picnic. and goodness! how dangerous it would have been if it had not been for me. that's the way i am always saving people, you notice. the little children in the village had grown so tired of being shut up indoors that about fifty of them who were too little to know any better had climbed out of windows, and slipped out of doors, and crawled under things, and hopped over them, and had all run away together to gather flowers and wild peachstrawberines, and lovely big yellow plumricots which grew thick on the bushes and in the grass on the huge green hill. the delicious sweet pink and purple ice-cream-grape-juice melons hung in clusters on trees too high for them to reach, but they thought they would just sit down under their branches and look at them and sniff and hope one would fall. and there they came--little plump girls and boys in white frocks and with curly heads--not the least bit afraid of anything: tumbling down and laughing and picking themselves up and laughing, and when they got near the cave, one of my working fairies, just for fun, flew down and lighted on one little girl's fat hand. she jumped for joy when she saw him and called to the others and they came running and tumbling to see what she had found. "oh! look--look!" she called out. "what is he! what is he! he isn't a bird--and he isn't a bee and he isn't a butterfly. he's a little teeny, weeny-weeny-weeny-weeny wee, and he has little green shoes on and little green stockings, and a little green smock and a little green hat and he's laughing and laughing." and then a boy saw another in the grass--and another under a leaf, and he shouted out, too. "oh! here's another--here's another." and then the workers all began to creep out of the grass and from under the leaves and fly up in swarms and light on the children's arms and hands and hats and play with them and tickle them and laugh until every child was dancing with fun, because they had never seen such things before in their lives. i flew back to the lion. he was quite nervous. "it is a picnic," i said. "and now is your chance. can you purr?" "yes, i can." and he began to make a beautiful purring which sounded like an immense velvet cat over a saucer of cream. "come out then," i ordered him. "smile as sweetly as you can and don't stop purring. try to look like a wriggling coaxing dog--i will go first and prevent the children from getting frightened." so out we went. i was riding in his ear and peeping out over the top of it. i did not let the children see me because i wanted them to look at the lion and at nothing else. what i did was to make them remember in a minute all the nicest lions they had ever seen in pictures or in the circus. many of them had never seen a lion at all and the few who had been to a circus had only seen them in big cages behind iron bars, and with notices written up, "don't go near the lions." when my lion came out he was smiling the biggest, sleepiest, curliest, sweetest smile you ever beheld and he was purring, and he was softly waving his tail. he stood still on the grass a moment and then lay down with his big head on his paws just like a huge, affectionate, coaxing dog waiting and begging somebody to come and pet him. and after staring at him for two minutes, all the children began to laugh, and then one little _little_ girl who had a great mastiff for a friend at home, suddenly gave a tiny shout and running to him tumbled over his paws and fell against his mane and hid her face in it, chuckling and chuckling. that was the beginning of the most splendid fun a picnic ever had. every one of them ran laughing and shouting to the lion. it was such a treat to them to actually have a lion to play with. they patted him, they buried their hands and faces in his big mane, they stroked him, they scrambled up on his back, and sat astride there. little boys called out, "hello, lion! hello, lion!" and little girls kissed his nice tawny back and said "liony! liony! sweet old liony!" the little little girl who had run to him first settled down right between his huge front paws, resting her back comfortably against his chest, and sucked her thumb, her blue eyes looking very round and big. she _was_ comfy. i kept whispering down his ear to tell him what to do. you see, he had never been in society at all and he had to learn everything at once. "now, don't move suddenly," i whispered. "and be sure not to make any loud lion noises. they don't understand lion language yet." "but oh! i am so happy," he whispered back, "i want to jump up and roar for joy." "mercy on us!" i said. "that would spoil everything. they'd be frightened to death and run away screaming and crying and never come back." "but this little one with her head on my chest is such a _sweetie_!" he said. "mayn't i just give her a little lick--just a little one?" "your tongue is too rough. wait a minute," i answered. my fairy workers were swarming all about. they were sitting in bunches on the bushes and hanging in bunches from branches, and hopping about and giggling and laughing and nudging each other in the ribs as they looked on at the lion and children. they were as amused as they had been when they watched winnie sitting on the eggs in the rook's nest. i called nip to come to me. "jump on to the lion's tongue," i said to him, "and smooth it off with your plane until it is like satin velvet--not silk velvet, but satin velvet." the lion politely put out his tongue. nip leaped up on it and began to work with his plane. he worked until he was quite hot, and he made the tongue so smooth that it was _quite_ like satin velvet. "now you can kiss the baby," i said. the little little girl had gone to sleep by this time and she had slipped down and lay curled up on the lion's front leg as if it was an arm and the lion bent down and delicately licked her soft cheek, and her fat arm, and her fat leg, and purred and purred. when the other children saw him they crowded round and were more delighted than ever. "he's kissing her as if he was a mother cat and she was his kitten," one called out, and she held out her hand. "kiss me too. kiss me, liony," she said. he lifted his head and licked her little hand as she asked and then all the rest wanted him to kiss them and they laughed so that the little little girl woke up and laughed with them and scrambled to her feet and hugged and hugged as much of the lion as she could put her short arms round. she felt as if he was her lion. "i love--oo i love oo," she said. "tome and play wiv us." he smiled and smiled and got up so carefully that he did not upset three or four little boys and girls who were sitting on his back. you can imagine how they shouted with glee when he began to trot gently about with them and give them a ride. of course everybody wanted to ride. so he trotted softly over the grass first with one load of them and then with another. when each ride was over he lay down very carefully for the children to scramble down from his back and then other ones scrambled up. the things he did that afternoon really made me admire him. a cozy lion is nicer to play with than anything else in the world. he shook ice-cream-grape-juice melons down from the trees for them. he carried on his back to a clear little running brook he knew, every one who wanted a drink. he jumped for them, he played tag with them and when he caught them, he rolled them over and over on the grass as if they were kittens; he showed them how his big claws would go in and out of his velvet paws like a pussy cat's. whatever game they played he would always be "it," if they wanted him to. when the tiniest ones got sleepy he made grass beds under the shade of trees and picked them up daintily by their frocks or little trousers and carried them to their nests just as kittens or puppies are carried by their mothers. and when the others wanted to be carried too, he carried them as well. the children enjoyed themselves so much that they forgot about going home altogether. and as they had laughed and run about every minute and had had _such_ fun, by the time the sun began to go down they were all as sleepy as could be. but even then one little fellow in a white sailor suit asked for something else. he went and stood by the lion with one arm around his neck and the other under his chin. "can you roar, old lion?" he asked him. "i am sure you can roar." the lion nodded slowly three times. "he says 'yes--yes,'" shouted everybody, "oh! do roar for us as loud as ever you can. we won't be frightened the least bit." the lion nodded again and smiled. then he lifted up his head and opened his mouth and roared and _roared_ and roared. they were not the least bit frightened. they just shrieked and laughed and jumped up and down and made him do it over and over again. * * * * * now i will tell you what had happened in the village. at first when the children ran away the mothers and fathers were all at their work and did not miss them for several hours. it was at lunch time that the grown-ups began to find out the little folks were gone and then one mother ran out into the village street, and then another and then another, until all the mothers were there, and all of them were talking at once and wringing their hands and crying. they went and looked under beds, and tables and in cupboards, and in back gardens and in front gardens, and they rushed to the village pond to see if there were any little hats or bonnets floating on the top of the water. but all was quiet and serene and nothing was floating anywhere--and there was not one sign of the children. when the fathers came the mothers all flew at them. you see it isn't any joke to lose fifty children all at once. the fathers thought of the lion the first thing, but the mothers had tried not to think of him because they couldn't bear it. but at last the fathers got all the guns and all the pistols and all the iron spikes and clubs and scythes and carving knives and old swords, and they armed themselves with them and began to march all together toward the huge green hill. the mothers _would_ go too and _they_ took scissors and big needles and long hat pins and one took a big pepper-pot, full of red pepper, to throw into the lion's eyes. they had so much to do before they were ready that when they reached the huge green hill the sun was going down and what do you think they heard? they heard this---"ro-o-a-a-arh! ro-o-a-a-rh! ro-o-a-a-arrh!" almost as loud as thunder. and at the same time they heard the shouts and shrieks of the entire picnic. but _they_ did not know that the picnic was shouting and screaming for joy. so they ran and ran and ran--and stumbled and scrambled and hurried and scurried and flurried faster and faster till they had scrambled up the huge green hill to where the lion's cave was and then they gathered behind a big clump of bushes and the fathers began to cock their guns and the mothers to sharpen their scissors and hat pins. but the mother with the pepper-pot had nothing to sharpen, so she peeped from behind the bushes, and suddenly she cried out, "oh! oh! oh! oh! look! look! and don't fire a single gun, on any account." and they all struggled to the front to peep. and _this_--thanks to me--_was what they saw_! on the green places before the lion's cave on several soft heaps of grass, the tiniest children were sitting chuckling or sucking their thumbs. on the grass around them a lot of others were sitting or standing or rolling about with laughter and kicking up their heels-and right in front of the cave there stood the lion looking absolutely angelic. his tail had a beautiful blue sash on it tied just below the tuft in a lovely bow, he had a sash round his waist, and four children on his back. the little little girl was sitting on his mane which was stuck full of flowers, and she was trying to put a wreath on the top of his head and couldn't get it straight, which made him look rather rakish. on one side of him stood the little boy in the sailor suit, and on the other stood a little girl, and each one held him by the end of a rope of pink and white wild roses which they were going to lead him with. the mother of the little little girl could not wait one minute longer. she ran out towards her, calling out:---"oh! betsy-petsy! oh! betsy-petsy! mammy's lammy-girl!" and then the other mothers threw away their scissors and hat pins and ran after her in a crowd. what that clever lion did was to carefully lie down without upsetting anybody and stretch out his head on his paws as if he was a pet poodle, and purr and purr like a velvet cat. the picnic simply shouted with glee. it was the kind of picnic which is always shouting with glee. "oh! mother! mother! father! father!" it called out. "look at our lion! look at our lion! we found him ourselves! he's ours." and the sailor boy shouted, "he'll roar for me, mother!" and the rest cried out one after another, "he'll sit up and beg for me!" "he'll carry me by my trousers!" "he can play tag!" "he'll show you his claws go in and out!" "mother, ask him to take you on his back to get a drink." "may he go home and sleep with me, mother?" it was like a bedlam of skylarks let loose this time, and the lion had to do so many tricks that only determination to show how cozy he was kept up his strength. he was determined to prove to the fathers and mothers that he _was_ cozy. and he did it. from that time he was the lion of the village. he was invited everywhere. there never was a party without him. birthday parties, garden parties, tea parties, wedding parties--he went to them all. his life was one round of gaiety. he became _most_ accomplished. he could do all the things lions do in hippodromes--and a great many more. the little little girl gave him a flute for a present and he learned to play on it beautifully. when he had an evening at home he used to sit at his cave door and play and sing. first he played and then he sang this--- my goodness gracious me! this _is_ socier-tee! my goodness gracious mercy me! this _is_ socier-ier-tee! it _is_ socier-tee! he had composed it himself. the next story i shall tell you is about my spring cleaning. that will show you how i have to work when the winter is over and how, if it were not for me, things would never be swept up and made tidy for the summer. the primroses and violets would never be wakened, or the dormice called up, or anything. it is a busy time, i can tell you. note: project gutenberg also has an html version of this file which includes the original illustrations. see 14543-h.htm or 14543-h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/1/4/5/4/14543/14543-h/14543-h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/1/4/5/4/14543/14543-h.zip) false friends the sailor's resolve 1884 [illustration: lady grange reading to her son. _page 19._] [illustration: a talk about the picture. _page 33._] false friends "thorns and snares are in the way of the froward."--prov. xxii. 5. [illustration: reflection. _page 25._] "philip, your conduct has distressed me exceedingly," said lady grange, laying her hand on the arm of her son, as they entered together the elegant apartment which had been fitted up as her boudoir. "you could not but know my feelings towards those two men--i will not call them gentlemen--whose company you have again forced upon me. you must be aware that your father has shut the door of this house against them." "my father has shut the door against better men than they are," said the youth carelessly; "witness my own uncles henry and george." the lip of the lady quivered, the indignant colour rose even to her temples; she attempted to speak, but her voice failed her, and she turned aside to hide her emotion. "well, mother, i did not mean to vex you," said philip, who was rather weak in purpose than hardened in evil; "it _was_ a shame to bring jones and wildrake here, but--but you see i couldn't help it." and he played uneasily with his gold-headed riding-whip, while his eye avoided meeting that of his mother. "they have acquired some strange influence, some mysterious hold over you," answered the lady. "it cannot be," she added anxiously, "that you have broken your promise,--that they have drawn you again to the gaming-table,--that you are involved in debt to these men?" philip whistled an air and sauntered up to the window. lady grange pressed her hand over her eyes, and a sigh, a very heavy sigh, burst from her bosom. philip heard, and turned impatiently round. "there's no use in making the worst of matters," said he; "what's done can't be helped; and my debts, such as they are, won't ruin a rich man like my father." "it is not that which i fear," said the mother faintly, with a terrible consciousness that her son,--her hope, her pride, the delight of her heart,--had entered on a course which, if persevered in, must end in his ruin both of body and soul. "i tremble at the thought of the misery which you are bringing on yourself. these men are making you their victim: they are blinding your eyes; they are throwing a net around you, and you have not the resolution to break from the snare." "they are very pleasant, jovial fellows!" cried philip, trying to hide under an appearance of careless gaiety the real annoyance which he felt at the words of his mother. "i've asked them to dine here to-day and--" "i shall not appear at the table," said lady grange, drawing herself up with dignity; "and if your father should arrive--" "oh! he won't arrive to-night; he never travels so late." "but, philip," said the lady earnestly again laying her cold hand on his arm. she was interrupted by her wayward and undutiful son. "mother, there's no use in saying anything more on the subject; it only worries you, and puts me out of temper. i can't, and i won't be uncivil to my friends;" and turning hastily round, philip quitted the apartment. "friends!" faintly echoed lady grange, as she saw the door close behind her misguided son. "oh!" she exclaimed, throwing herself on a sofa, and burying her face, "was there ever a mother--ever a woman so unhappy as i am!" her cup was indeed very bitter; it was one which the luxuries that surrounded her had not the least power to sweeten. her husband was a man possessing many noble qualities both of head and heart; but the fatal love of gold, like those petrifying springs which change living twigs to dead stone, had made him hardened, quarrelsome, and worldly. it had drawn him away from the worship of his god; for there is deep truth in the declaration of the apostle, that the covetous man is _an idolater_. it was this miserable love of gold which had induced sir gilbert to break with the family of his wife, and separate her from those to whom her loving heart still clung with the fondest affection. lady grange yearned for a sight of her early home; but gold had raised a barrier between her and the companions of her childhood. and what had the possession of gold done for the man who made it his idol? it had put snares in the path of his only son; it had made the weak-minded but head-strong youth be entrapped by the wicked for the sake of his wealth, as the ermine is hunted down for its rich fur. it had given to himself heavy responsibilities, for which he would have to answer at the bar of heaven; for from him unto whom much has been given, much at the last day will be required. yes, lady grange was very miserable. and how did she endeavour to lighten the burden of her misery? was it by counting over her jewels,--looking at the costly and beautiful things which adorned her dwelling,--thinking of her carriages and horses and glittering plate, or the number of her rich and titled friends? no; she sought comfort where widow green had sought it when her child lay dangerously ill, and there was neither a loaf on her shelf nor a penny in her purse. the rich lady did what the poor one had done,--she fell on her knees and with tears poured out her heart to the merciful father of all. she told him her sorrows, she told him her fears; she asked him for that help which she so much required. her case was a harder one than the widow's. a visit from the clergyman, a present from a benevolent friend, god's blessing on a simple remedy, had soon changed mrs. green's sorrow into joy. the anguish of lady grange lay deeper; her faith was more sorely tried; her fears were not for the bodies but the souls of those whom she loved;--and where is the mortal who can give us a cure for the disease of sin? while his mother was weeping and praying, philip was revelling and drinking. fast were the bottles pushed round, and often were the glasses refilled. the stately banqueting-room resounded with laughter and merriment; and as the evening advanced, with boisterous song. it was late before the young men quitted the table; and then, heated with wine, they threw the window wide open, to let the freshness of the night air cool their fevered temples. beautiful looked the park in the calm moonlight. not a breath stirred the branches of the trees, their dark shadows lay motionless on the green sward: perfect silence and stillness reigned around. but the holy quietness of nature was rudely disturbed by the voices of the revellers. with the conversation that passed i shall not soil my pages. the window opened into a broad stone balcony, and seating themselves upon its parapet, the young men exchanged stories and jests. after many sallies of so-called wit, wildrake rallied philip on the quantity of wine which he had taken, and betted that he could not walk steadily from the one end of the balcony to the other. philip, with that insane pride which can plume itself on being _mighty to mingle strong drink_, maintained that his head was as clear and his faculties as perfect as though he had tasted nothing but water; and declared that he could walk round the edge of the parapet with as steady a step as he would tread the gravel-path in the morning! wildrake laughed, and dared him to do it: jones betted ten to one that he could not. "done!" cried philip, and sprang up on the parapet in a moment. "come down again!" called out wildrake, who had enough of sense left to perceive the folly and danger of the wager. philip did not appear to hear him. attempting to balance himself by his arms, with a slow and unsteady step he began to make his way along the lofty and narrow edge. the two young men held their breath. to one who with unsteady feet walks the slippery margin of temptation, the higher his position, the greater his danger; the loftier his elevation, the more perilous a fall! "he will never get to the end!" said jones, watching with some anxiety the movements of his companion. the words had scarcely escaped his lips when they received a startling fulfilment. philip had not proceeded half way along the parapet when a slight sound in the garden below him attracted his attention. he glanced down for a moment; and there, in the cold, clear moonlight, gazing sternly upon him, he beheld his father! the sudden start of surprise which he gave threw the youth off his balance,--he staggered back, lost his footing, stretched out his hands wildly to save himself, and fell with a loud cry to the ground! all was now confusion and terror. there were the rushing of footsteps hither and thither, voices calling, bells loudly ringing, and, above all, the voice of a mother's anguish, piercing to the soul! jones and wildrake hurried off to the stables, saddled their horses themselves, and dashed off at full speed to summon a surgeon, glad of any excuse to make their escape from the place. the unfortunate philip was raised from the ground, and carried into the house. his groans showed the severity of his sufferings. the slightest motion was to him torture, and an hour of intense suspense ensued before the arrival of the surgeon. lady grange made a painful effort to be calm. she thought of everything, did all that she could do for the relief of her son, and even strove to speak words of comfort and hope to her husband, who appeared almost stupified by his sorrow. prayer was still her support--prayer, silent, but almost unceasing. the surgeon arrived,--the injuries received by the sufferer were examined, though it was long before philip, unaccustomed to pain and incapable of self-control, would permit necessary measures to be taken. his resistance greatly added to his sufferings. he had sustained a compound fracture of his leg, besides numerous bruises and contusions. the broken bone had to be set, and the pale mother stood by, longing, in the fervour of her unselfish love, that she could endure the agony in the place of her son. the pampered child of luxury shrank sensitively from pain, and the thought that he had brought all his misery upon himself by his folly and disobedience rendered it yet more intolerable. when the surgeon had at length done his work, lady grange retired with him to another apartment, and, struggling to command her choking voice, asked him the question on the reply to which all her earthly happiness seemed to hang,--whether he had hope that the life of her boy might be spared. "i have every hope", said the surgeon, cheerfully, "if we can keep down the fever." then, for the first time since she had seen her son lie bleeding before her, the mother found the relief of tears. through the long night she quitted not the sufferer's pillow, bathing his fevered brow, relieving his thirst, whispering comfort to his troubled spirit. soon after daybreak philip sank into a quiet, refreshing sleep; and lady grange, feeling as if a mountain's weight had been lifted from her heart, hurried to carry the good news to her husband. she found him in the spacious saloon, pacing restlessly to and fro. his brow was knit, his lips compressed; his disordered dress and haggard countenance showed that he, too, had watched the live-long night. "he sleeps at last, gilbert, thank god!" her face brightened as she spoke; but there was no corresponding look of joy on that of her husband. "gilbert, the doctor assures me that there is every prospect of our dear boy's restoration!" "and to what is he to be restored?" said the father gloomily; "to poverty--misery--ruin!" lady grange stood mute with surprise scarcely believing the evidence of her senses almost deeming that the words must have been uttered in a dream. but it was no dream, but one of those strange, stern realities which we meet with in life. her husband indeed stood before her a ruined man! a commercial crash, like those which have so often reduced the rich to poverty, coming almost as suddenly as the earthquake which shakes the natural world, had overthrown all his fortune! the riches in which he had trusted had taken to themselves wings and flown away. here was another startling shock, but lady grange felt it far less than the first. it seemed to her that if her son were only spared to her, she could bear cheerfully any other trial. when riches had increased, she had not set her heart upon them; she had endeavoured to spend them as a good steward of god and to lay up treasure in that blessed place where there is no danger of its ever being lost. sir gilbert was far more crushed than his wife was by this misfortune. he saw his idol broken before his eyes, and where was he to turn for comfort? everything upon which his eye rested was a source of pain to him; for must he not part with all, leave all in which his heart had delighted, all in which his soul had taken pride? he forgot that poverty was only forestalling by a few years the inevitable work of death! the day passed wearily away. philip suffered much pain, was weak and low, and bitterly conscious how well he had earned the misery which he was called on to endure. it was a mercy that he was experiencing, before it was too late, that _thorns and snares are in the way of the froward_. he liked his mother to read the bible to him, just a few verses at a time, as he had strength to bear it; and in this occupation she herself found the comfort which she needed. sir gilbert, full of his own troubles, scarcely ever entered the apartment of his son. towards evening a servant came softly into the sick-room, bringing a sealed letter for her lady. there was no post-mark upon it, and the girl informed her mistress that the gentleman who had brought it was waiting in the garden for a reply. the first glance at the hand-writing, at the well-known seal, brought colour to the cheek of the lady. but it was a hand-writing which she had been forbidden to read; it was a seal which she must not break! she motioned to the maid to take her place beside the invalid who happened at that moment to be sleeping and with a quick step and a throbbing heart she hurried away to find her husband. he was in his study, his arms resting on his open desk, and his head bowed down upon them. bills and papers, scattered in profusion on the table, showed what had been the nature of the occupation which he had not had the courage to finish. he started from his posture of despair as his wife laid a gentle touch on his shoulder; and, without uttering a word, she placed the unopened letter in his hand. my reader shall have the privilege of looking over sir gilbert's shoulder, and perusing the contents of that letter:- "dearest sister,--we have heard of your trials, and warmly sympathize in your sorrow. let sir gilbert know that we have placed at his banker's, after having settled it upon you, double the sum which caused our unhappy differences. let the past be forgotten; let us again meet as those should meet who have gathered together round the same hearth, mourned over the same grave, and shared joys and sorrows together, as it is our anxious desire to do now. i shall be my own messenger, and shall wait in person to receive your reply.--your ever attached brother, "henry latour." a few minutes more and lady grange was in the arms of her brother; while sir gilbert was silently grasping the hand of one whom, but for misfortune, he would never have known as a friend. all the neighbourhood pitied the gentle lady, the benefactress of the poor, when she dismissed her servants, sold her jewels, and quitted her beautiful home to seek a humbler shelter. amongst the hundreds who crowded to the public auction of the magnificent furniture and plate, which had been the admiration of all who had seen them, many thought with compassion of the late owners, reduced to such sudden poverty, though the generosity of the lady's family had saved them from want or dependence. and yet truly, never since her marriage had lady grange been less an object of compassion. her son was slowly but surely recovering, and his preservation from meeting sudden death unprepared was to her a source of unutterable thankfulness. her own family appeared to regard her with even more tender affection than if no coldness had ever arisen between them; and their love was to her beyond price. even sir gilbert's harsh, worldly character, was somewhat softened by trials, and by the unmerited kindness which he met with from those whom, in his prosperity, he had slighted and shunned. lady grange felt that her prayers had been answered indeed, though in a way very different from what she had hoped or expected. the chain by which her son had been gradually drawn down towards rum, by those who sought his company for the sake of his money, had been suddenly snapped by the loss of his fortune. the weak youth was left to the guidance of those to whom his welfare was really dear. philip, obliged to rouse himself from his indolence, and exert himself to earn his living, became a far wiser and more estimable man than he would ever have been as the heir to a fortune; and he never forgot the lesson which pain, weakness, and shame had taught him,--that the way of evil is also the way of sorrow. _thorns and snares are in the way of the froward._ who wisdom's path forsakes, leaves all true joy behind: he who the peace of others breaks, no peace himself shall find. flowers above and thorns below, little pleasure, lasting woe,- such is the fate that sinners know! the drunkard gaily sings above his foaming glass; but shame and pain the revel brings, ere many hours can pass. flowers above and thorns below, little pleasure, lasting woe,- such is the fate that sinners know! the thief may count his gains;- if he the sum could see of future punishment and pains, sad would his reckoning be! flowers above and thorns below, little pleasure, lasting woe,- such is the fate that sinners know! the sabbath-breaker spurns what wisdom did ordain: god's rest to satan's use he turns,- a blessing to a bane. flowers above and thorns below, little pleasure, lasting woe,- such is the fate which sinners know! o lord, to thee we pray; do thou our faith increase; help us to walk in wisdom's way,- the only way of peace: for flowers above and thorns below, little pleasure, lasting woe,- such is the fate which sinners know! the sailor's resolve. "an angry man stirreth up strife, and a furious man aboundeth in transgression."--prov. xxix. 22. the old sailor jonas sat before the fire with his pipe in his mouth, looking steadfastly into the glowing coals. not that, following a favourite practice of his little niece, he was making out red-hot castles and flaming buildings in the grate, or that his thoughts were in any way connected with the embers: he was doing what it would be well if we all sometimes did,--looking into himself, and reflecting on what had happened in relation to his own conduct. "so," thought he, "here am i, an honest old fellow,--i may say it, with all my faults; and one who shrinks from falsehood more than from fire; and i find that i, with my bearish temper, am actually driving those about me into it--teaching them to be crafty, tricky, and cowardly! i knew well enough that my gruffness plagued others, but i never saw how it _tempted_ others until now; tempted them to meanness, i would say, for i have found a thousand times that _an angry man stirreth up strife_, and that a short word may begin a long quarrel. i am afraid that i have not thought enough on this matter. i've looked on bad temper as a very little sin, and i begin to suspect that it is a great one, both in god's eyes and in the consequences that it brings. let me see if i can reckon up its evils! it makes those miserable whom one would wish to make happy; it often, like an adverse gale, forces them to back, instead of steering straight for the port. it dishonours one's profession, lowers one's flag, makes the world mock at the religion which can leave a man as rough and rugged as a heathen savage. it's directly contrary to the word of god,--it's wide as east from west of the example set before us! yes, a furious temper is a very evil thing; i'd give my other leg to be rid of mine!" and in the warmth of his self-reproach the sailor struck his wooden one against the hearth with such violence as to make alie start in terror that some fierce explosion was about to follow. "well, i've made up my mind as to its being an evil--a great evil," continued jonas, in his quiet meditation; "the next question is, how is the evil to be got rid of? there's the pinch! it clings to one like one's skin. it's one's nature,--how can one fight against nature? and yet, i take it, it's the very business of faith to conquer our evil nature. as i read somewhere, any dead dog can float with the stream; it's the living dog that swims against it. i mind the trouble i had about the wicked habit of swearing, when first i took to trying to serve god and leave off my evil courses. bad words came to my mouth as natural as the very air that i breathed. what did i do to cure myself of that evil? why, i resolved again and again, and found that my resolutions were always snapping like a rotten cable in a storm; and i was driven from my anchorage so often, that i almost began to despair. then i prayed hard to be helped; and i said to myself, 'god helps those who help themselves, and maybe if i determine to do something that i should be sorry to do every time that an oath comes from my mouth, it would assist me to remember my duty.' i resolved to break my pipe the first time that i swore; and i've never uttered an oath from that day to this, not even in my most towering passions! now i'll try the same cure again; not to punish a sin, but to prevent it. if i fly into a fury, i'll break my pipe! there jonas colter, i give you fair warning!" and the old sailor smiled grimly to himself, and stirred the fire with an air of satisfaction. not one rough word did jonas utter that evening; indeed he was remarkably silent, for the simplest way of saying nothing evil, he thought, was to say nothing at all. jonas looked with much pleasure at his pipe when he put it on the mantle-piece for the night. "you've weathered this day, old friend," said he; "we'll be on the look out against squalls to-morrow." the next morning jonas occupied himself in his own room with his phials, and his nephew and niece were engaged in the kitchen in preparing for the sunday school, which their mother made, them regularly attend. the door was open between the two rooms and as the place was not large, jonas heard every word that passed between johnny and alie almost as well as if he had been close beside them. _johnny_. i say, alie-_alie_. please, johnny, let me learn this quietly. if i do not know it my teacher will be vexed. my work being behind-hand yesterday has put me quite back with my tasks. you know that i cannot learn so fast as you do. _johnny_. oh! you've plenty of time. i want you to do something for me. do you know that i have lost my new ball? _alie_. why, i saw you take it out of your pocket yesterday, just after we crossed the stile on our way back from the farm. _johnny_. that's it! i took it out of my pocket, and i never put it in again. i want you to go directly and look for the ball. that stile is only three fields off, you know. you must look carefully along the path all the way; and lose no time, or some one else may pick it up. _alie_. pray, johnny, don't ask me to go into the fields. _johnny_. i tell you, you have plenty of time for your lessons. _alie_. it is not that, but-_johnny_. speak out, will you? _alie_. you know--there are--cows! johnny burst into a loud, coarse laugh of derision. "you miserable little coward!" he cried; "i'd like to see one chasing you round the meadow! how you'd scamper! how you'd scream! rare fun it would be,--ha! ha! ha!" "rare fun would it be, sir!" exclaimed an indignant voice, as jonas stumped from the next room, and, seizing his nephew by the collar of his jacket, gave him a hearty shake; "rare fun would it be,--and what do you call this? you dare twit your sister with cowardice!--you who sneaked off yesterday like a fox because you had not the spirit to look an old man in the face!--you who bully the weak and cringe to the strong!--you who have the manners of a bear with the heart of a pigeon!" every sentence was accompanied by a violent shake, which almost took the breath from the boy; and jonas, red with passion, concluded his speech by flinging johnny from him with such force that, but for the wall against which he staggered, he must have fallen to the ground. the next minute jonas walked up to the mantle-piece, and exclaiming, in a tone of vexation, "run aground again!" took his pipe, snapped it in two, and flung the pieces into the fire! he then stumped back to his room, slamming the door behind him. "the old fury!" muttered the panting johnny between his clenched teeth, looking fiercely towards his uncle's room. "to break his own pipe!" exclaimed alie. "i never knew him do anything like that before, however angry he might be!" johnny took down his cap from its peg, and, in as ill humour as can well be imagined, went out to search for his ball. he took what revenge he could on his formidable uncle, while amusing himself that afternoon by looking over his "robinson crusoe." johnny was fond of his pencil, though he had never learned to draw; and the margins of his books were often adorned with grim heads or odd figures by his hand. there was a picture in "robinson crusoe" representing a party of cannibals, as hideous as fancy could represent them, dancing around their fire. johnny diverted his mind and gratified his malice by doing his best so to alter the foremost figure as to make him appear with a wooden leg, while he drew on his head a straw hat, unmistakably like that of the old sailor, and touched up the features so as to give a dim resemblance to his face. to prevent a doubt as to the meaning of the sketch, johnny scribbled on the side of the picture,- "in search of fierce savages no one need roam; the fiercest and ugliest, you'll find him at home!" he secretly showed the picture to alie. "o johnny! how naughty! what would uncle say if he saw it?" "we might look out for squalls indeed! but uncle never by any chance looks at a book of that sort." "i think that you had better rub out the pencilling as fast as you can," said alie. "catch me rubbing it out!" cried johnny; "it's the best sketch that ever i drew, and as like the old savage as it can stare!" late in the evening their mother returned from brampton, where she had been nursing a sick lady. right glad were johnny and alie to see her sooner than they had ventured to expect. she brought them a few oranges, to show her remembrance of them. nor was the old sailor forgotten; carefully she drew from her bag and presented to him a new pipe. the children glanced at each other. jonas took the pipe with a curious expression on his face, which his sister was at a loss to understand. "thank'ee kindly," he said; "i see it'll be a case of- "'if ye try and don't succeed, try, try, try again.'" what he meant was a riddle to every one else present, although not to the reader. the "try" was very successful on that evening and the following day. never had johnny and alie found their uncle so agreeable. his manner almost approached to gentleness,--it was a calm after a storm. "uncle is so very good and kind," said alie to her brother, as they walked home from afternoon service, "that i wonder how you can bear to have that naughty picture still in your book. he is not in the least like a cannibal, and it seems quite wrong to laugh at him so." "i'll rub it all out one of these days," replied johnny; "but i must show it first to peter crane. he says that i never hit on a likeness: if he sees that, he'll never say so again!" the next morning jonas occupied himself with gathering wild flowers and herbs in the fields. he carried them into his little room, where johnny heard him whistling "old tom bowling," like one at peace with himself and all the world. presently jonas called to the boy to bring him a knife from the kitchen; a request made in an unusually courteous tone of voice, and with which, of course, johnny immediately complied. he found jonas busy drying his plants, by laying them neatly between the pages of a book, preparatory to pressing them down. what was the terror of johnny when he perceived that the book whose pages jonas was turning over for this purpose was no other than his "robinson crusoe"! "oh! if i could only get it out of his hands before he comes to that horrid picture! oh! what shall i do? what shall i do?" thought the bewildered johnny. "uncle, i was reading that book," at last he mustered courage to say aloud. "you may read it again to-morrow," was the quiet reply of jonas. "perhaps he will not look at that picture," reflected johnny. "i wish that i could see exactly which part of the book he is at! he looks too quiet a great deal for any mischief to have been done yet! dear! dear! i would give anything to have that 'robinson crusoe' at the bottom of the sea! i do think that my uncle's face is growing very red!--yes! the veins on his forehead are swelling! depend on't he's turned over to those unlucky cannibals, and will be ready to eat me like one of them! i'd better make off before the thunder-clap comes!" "going to sheer off again, master johnny?" said the old sailor, in a very peculiar tone of voice, looking up from the open book on which his finger now rested. "i've a little business," stammered out johnny. "yes, a little business with me, which you'd better square before you hoist sail. why, when you made such a good figure of this savage, did you not clap jacket and boots on this little cannibal beside him, and make a pair of 'em 'at home'? i suspect you and i are both in the same boat as far as regards our tempers, my lad!" johnny felt it utterly impossible to utter a word in reply. "i'm afraid," pursued the seaman, closing the book, "that we've both had a bit too much of the savage about us,--too much of the dancing round the fire. but mark me, jack,--we learn even in that book that a savage, a cannibal _may_ be tamed; and we learn from something far better, that principle,--the noblest principle which can govern either the young or the old,--_may_, ay, and _must_, put out the fire of fierce anger in our hearts, and change us from wild beasts to men! so i've said my say," added jonas with a smile; "and in token of my first victory over my old foe, come here, my boy, and give us your hand!" "o uncle, i am so sorry!" exclaimed johnny, with moistened eyes, as he felt the kindly grasp of the old man. "sorry are you? and what were you on saturday when i shook you as a cat shakes a rat?" "why, uncle, i own that i was angry." "sorry now, and angry then? so it's clear that the mild way has the best effect, to say nothing of the example." and jonas fell into a fit of musing. all was fair weather and sunshine in the home on that day, and on many days after. jonas had, indeed, a hard struggle to subdue his temper, and often felt fierce anger rising in his heart, and ready to boil over in words of passion or acts of violence; but jonas, as he had endeavoured faithfully to serve his queen, while he fought under her flag, brought the same earnest and brave sense of duty to bear on the trials of daily life. he never again forgot his resolution, and every day that passed made the restraint which he laid upon himself less painful and irksome to him. if the conscience of any of my readers should tell him that, by his unruly temper, he is marring the peace of his family, oh! let him not neglect the evil as a small one, but, like the poor old sailor in my story, resolutely struggle against it. for _an angry man stirreth up strife, and a furious man aboundeth in transgression._ there is sin in commencing strife; sin in the thoughtless jest or angry burst, which awakens first the ire in a brother's breast! there is sin in stirring up strife, in fanning the smouldering flame, by scornful eye, or proud reply, or anger-stirring name. there is sin in keeping up strife, dark, soul-destroying sin. who cherishes hate may seek heaven's gate, but never can enter in. for peace is the christian's joy, and love is the christian's life; he's bound for a home where hate cannot come, nor the shadow of sin or strife! images generously made available by the internet archive/american libraries.) mrs. leslie's books for little children. the little frankie series. books written or edited by a. r. baker, and sold by all booksellers. * * * * * question books on the topics of christ's sermon on the mount. vol. i. for children. vol. ii. for youth. vol. iii. for adults. lectures on these topics, _in press_. mrs. leslie's sabbath school books. tim, the scissors grinder. sequel to "tim, the scissors grinder." prairie flower. the bound boy. the bound girl. virginia. the two homes; or, earning and spending. the organ-grinder, _in press_. question books. the catechism tested by the bible. vol. i. for children. vol. ii. for adults. the dermott family; or, stories illustrating the catechism. vol. i. doctrines respecting god and mankind. " ii. doctrines of grace. " iii. commandments of the first table. " iv. commandments of the second table. " v. conditions of eternal life. mrs. leslie's home life. vol. i. cora and the doctor. " ii. courtesies of wedded life. " iii. the household angel. mrs. leslie's juvenile series. vol. i. the motherless children. " ii. play and study. " iii. howard and his teacher. " iv. trying to be useful. " v. jack, the chimney sweeper. " vi. the young housekeeper. " vii. little agnes. the robin redbreast series. the robins' nest. little robins in the nest. little robins learning to fly. little robins in trouble. little robins' friends. little robins' love one to another. * * * * * the little frankie series. little frankie and his mother. little frankie at his plays. little frankie and his cousin. little frankie and his father. little frankie on a journey. little frankie at school. [illustration: unpacking nelly's trunks.] little frankie and his cousin. by mrs. madeline leslie, author of "the home life series;" "mrs. leslie's juvenile series," etc. [illustration] boston: crosby and nichols. 117 washington street. entered, according to act of congress, in the year 1860, by a. r. baker, in the clerk's office of the district court of the district of massachusetts. electrotyped at the boston stereotype foundry. little frankie and his cousin. chapter i. frankie's cousin nelly. in another little book i have given you an account of frankie when he was a baby, and have spoken of some things which he said and did when he began to talk and to walk. in this book i shall tell you more about him, and also about his cousin nelly, who came to pass some months in his father's house, while her parents visited europe. nelly was six years old, while frankie was but just past his fourth birthday. nelly was a pale, delicate child, with light flaxen hair, which curled in ringlets about her face. her features were very small; but her eyes were bright and sparkling, and her motions quick and graceful. sally, the nurse, used often to say that nelly looked like the great wax dolls which were put up in the shop windows; but her cousin willie laughed, and said, "nelly flies about so, i can't tell what she does look like." when nelly was a baby, she had learned to suck her finger; and since that time she had never been taught to give up the habit. before her mother went to europe, mrs. gray showed her that the poor little finger was wasting away, and would never grow like the others, unless nelly would stop sucking it. but the lady only laughed, and said, "i have not the heart to forbid her, she takes such a world of comfort with it." mrs. gray said no more, but she determined to break up the habit before nelly left her. the little girl was to have a small room, opening out of her aunt's chamber. there her trunks were carried for sally to unpack, and put the clothes into the wardrobe and drawers. "come in here!" said nelly to her little cousin, "and we will take out the playthings. this trunk is full of them." frankie's eyes grew very round and large as sally selected the right key, and displayed a great variety of toys packed as closely as possible into the large trunk. "goodness me!" exclaimed nurse, holding up both hands. "why, you'll be able to set up a toy shop, miss." "i have more at home," said nelly. "maria couldn't get them all in." maria was the name of the colored woman who had taken care of nelly ever since she was a tiny baby. she had wished to come with her to mrs. gray's, and cried bitterly when she knew that she could not. but her aunt was sure that if maria was there, nelly would be too much indulged, that is, she would have her own way, and would be spoiled. she loved her little niece, and was sorry that her brother's wife did not take more pains to teach her little girl to be good and kind. she hoped nelly would learn, while her mother was away, to wait upon herself, and to be generous and truthful. when sally had unlocked the trunk of playthings for the little miss, she went on unpacking the other one. she took out the dresses, and laid them on the bed. there was a pink muslin, and a blue tarleton, and a white one with the skirt tucked up to the waist. then there were two silks, and one or two delaines, and ever so many french calicoes. mrs. gray came in at this moment, and sally exclaimed, "where i am to put all these dresses, ma'am, is more than i can tell. the wardrobe won't hold half of them." the lady glanced toward the bed, and said, "you may hang the best ones in the parlor-chamber closet." by this time frankie had helped his cousin to take out the toys; and they were spread all over the floor, so that neither his mamma nor nurse could walk at all without stepping on them. "why, nelly," said her aunt, "what a quantity of playthings you have there!" "may we play with them here?" asked frankie. "i am afraid you will be in sally's way," replied mamma. "she can wait, then, till we are done," said nelly, taking up a large dolly. "no," said her aunt; "nurse has a great deal to do; and first of all she wants to clear up this room. see how untidy it looks, with the clothes all lying about." "can't we go up in willie's play room, then?" asked the little boy. "yes, my dear; there is a large case up there, which will make a nice play house for nelly. you can have one shelf for the parlor, and put these little sofas and chairs in it. then have another for the closet, and set out the cups and saucers. you and your cousin may carry them up stairs; and when margie comes home, she will love to help you arrange them." "o mamma, see this pretty carriage!" cried frankie. "that's a pedler's wagon," said nelly. "there is the front seat for him to sit on, and the top comes way over to keep off the rain. the horses can take out too. when i first had it, i used to play 'get to the tavern, and put them up in the barn.'" "o nelly!" exclaimed the little fellow, "let us play that as soon as we get up stairs." "i'm tired," said nelly, sitting down on the floor, and putting her finger in her mouth. "i'll carry the things up then," said frankie, running into the next room for a basket. "see, i'm real strong." "if you are tired, you had better go and lie down on the lounge," said her aunt. "no," said nelly; "i want to stay here, and see sally put away my clothes." nurse did not take a fancy to the little girl; that was very plain. she kept muttering to herself all the time she was arranging the drawers, and was quite vexed that her darling, as she called frankie, should be doing the work while nelly sat idly looking on. at last, when her mistress had left the room, she asked, "do you never work any, miss?" nelly shook her head. "well, i expect your aunt will teach you to wait upon yourself," said sally; "you'd be a great deal happier if you had something to do." "maria does every thing for me," said nelly, still holding her finger in her mouth. "if i don't like to stay without her, i shall send for her to come. mamma said i might." "indeed!" said nurse, laughing. "we'll see what your aunt says to that. here, darling," she called out to frankie, "let sally help you carry that heavy basket. i'm afraid you can't get it through the door alone." "yet i can," said frankie, "cause i belong to the try company." "i guess your cousin had better join it too," said nurse to herself. [illustration] chapter ii. moses and the orange. "mamma," said frankie one day, "you promised to tell me a toly." "so i did," said mamma; "and what shall it be about?" "bout moses." "moses in the bulrushes?" asked mamma. "no; bout moses and the olange." the lady thought a minute before she could remember what he meant. then she smiled, and said, "o, yes, i'll tell that. do you like to hear stories, nelly?" she asked. "i don't know," answered nelly. "maria sometimes tells me pretty ones." "well, you may bring the cricket, and sit down by frankie. i think you will like to hear about moses," said aunty. "he was just as old as you are, nelly; and like you, he was an only child. his father and mother were very fond of him, and loved to do every thing to make him happy. i don't mean that they always let him have his own way, or allowed him to do what was wrong, for that would have made him grow very selfish and wicked. "the day before he was six years old, his mother thought she would let him have a party. so she asked his father to bring from the city some oranges, and figs, and nuts, that the little folks might have a feast. "when papa had gone to town, which he did every day, because his store was there, she went to the kitchen, and helped the cook make some light sponge cake for moses to have for his party. "the little fellow knelt in a chair close by the table, and watched her sift the sugar and beat the eggs; then, when she put in the lemon, and took a clean spoon to taste a little to know whether it was seasoned right, moses said, 'i should like to taste too.' "by and by the cake was done, and smelled so good that moses asked for a piece; but his mother told him to wait until his cousins were there to eat it with him. "then the carriage came up to the door, and james, the hostler, rung the bell to let his mistress know he was ready to drive her out. she dressed her little boy in his new suit, and told him he might go with her. "they drove first to aunt mary's, and mamma invited george and walter, and little katy. then they went a mile farther, to uncle john's, where susy, william, and grace gladly promised to come. on their way home, they called upon three of their neighbors, where the number was increased to eleven. "when his father came home from the city, he brought a basket in one hand, and two large bundles under his other arm. "moses ran to meet him, and said, 'let me carry the basket, papa. it isn't too heavy for me.' "before he put it on the table, he peeped in, and said, 'o, what nice oranges, papa!' the little boy was very fond of oranges. "that night moses went to bed very happy. he longed for the time when his young companions would come, and lay awake nearly an hour, thinking what a very pleasant party his would be. "the next morning he was up long before his mother, and ran down stairs to see if breakfast was ready. the table was not yet laid; and he went into the large store closet to see where his mother had put the oranges and cake. there was the basket upon the first shelf, and on lifting the lid he saw that the oranges were still in it. how fresh and good they smelt! he put in his hand and took one out. 'o, what a large one!' "the basket was so full, he thought there must be more than twelve; so he stood up on a box, and began to count them. 'yes, there are,' he said to himself; 'there are twelve, and one more.' "then he took the largest, and laid it on the next shelf, while he put the others back again into the basket, wishing all the time that he could have it for his own. he knew that he should have one at the party, but he couldn't wait. 'i want one now,' he said. "he sat down on the box, and began to smell the large orange which he had left out. then he made a small hole in the peel, and began to suck the juice through it. it tasted so sweet, he could not get his mouth away. so he squeezed and sucked, and sucked and squeezed, until the juice was all gone, and nothing remained but the skin and the pulp. "'o, dear! i'm sorry i've eaten it,' he whispered; 'i didn't mean to. i only thought i would suck it a little. how quick it all came out!' "just then he heard cook come into the room to set the table for breakfast, and he knew his mother would soon be down. he began to be very unhappy, and to wish he were back again in his little bed. then he remembered it was his birthday; but some how the thought of his party gave him no pleasure." "i guess satan was whispering to him," said frankie. "if i had been there, i would open the door, and say, 'satan, go wight out.'" "who is satan?" asked nelly, who had been listening with great interest. "satan's naughty man," said frankie. "he don't love good boys." "he is the evil spirit," replied aunty, "who tries to make boys and girls, and men and women too, behave naughty and sin against god." "does he live in moses' house?" asked the little girl. "he is every where, my dear," said the lady, "trying to make people do mischief. he was there in the closet with moses, and when the little boy's naughty heart said, 'i would steal one of my mother's oranges and eat it,' he said, 'yes; no one will know it, and if your mother asks you about it, you can tell her a lie, and say you didn't touch it.'" "i wouldn't take your olange, mamma," said frankie, putting his arms round his mother's neck and kissing her. "i would ask you, 'may i?'" at this moment a lady called to see mamma, and she said, "you may go and play now, and i will finish the story about moses some other time." chapter iii. frankie's sickness. that night frankie was quite sick, and his mother, after being up with him several times, lay down by him in his trundle-bed. he was very much pleased at this, and put up his little hot hand on her face. the fever made him quite wakeful, and he wanted to talk. she began to repeat the little rhyme,- "once there was a little man, where a little river ran," when he said, "mamma, please tell me 'bout heaven." "do you want to go to heaven?" she asked. "yes, mamma, when i die; but i can't go 'lone. i want you to go with me. won't you please to ask god to let us take hold of hands and go wight up to heaven together. that would be a pretty way; wouldn't it?" mrs. gray bent over her darling boy and kissed his cheek. she whispered a prayer to god to preserve her dear child from death for a long time to come. pretty soon he spoke again: "how can you get up to heaven, mamma?" "god will send his angels, my dear, and take me there." "i 'fraid they can't lift you, mamma, you so heavy. but you can go up on the barn, and then they can get you up there; can't they?" in a minute, he asked, "does god have horses in heaven, mamma?" toward morning, he sank into a quiet sleep, and did not awake until willie and margie had gone to school. when he opened his eyes, his mamma was standing over him with a cup of milk and water in her hand. "frankie feel better," he said, starting up to receive her kiss. as he still felt weak, his mamma held him in her lap, where he could look at ponto, who was washing his paws on the rug. presently nelly came in, carrying a wax doll nearly as large as herself. she was a little afraid of ponto, and when he went and put his nose on her arm, and tried to lick her hand, she cried, "get away, you ugly dog! i hate you, i do!" and she struck him with the doll. ponto growled, and turned away to frankie. the little fellow slipped down from his mother's lap, and clasped his arms around ponto's neck. "o, you good dog," he said, "i love you, i do." ponto knew very well what this meant, and he rapped with his tail as hard as he could on the rug. then frankie made the dog lie down, and he laid his head upon him. ponto was delighted to have his little master use him for a pillow; so he lay very still indeed. i suppose he thought frankie wished to go to sleep. then mrs. gray told nelly how the good dog had pulled frankie out of the water, and how much they all loved him. but nelly only said, "i hate dogs, i do, they're so ugly and cross;" and then she put her finger in her mouth again. "mamma," said frankie, "i want to hear 'bout moses 'gen. pease, mamma, tell me toly 'bout moses." "well," said mamma, "i'll get my sewing and tell you the rest of the story." so frankie lay with his head on ponto, and listened to mamma. nelly sat in her little chair, and sucked her finger and tended her doll. "i told you," said the lady, "that moses began to wish he had not touched the orange; but it was of no use to wish that now, for there it was all squeezed and sucked, and what should he do with it? "when the cook had set the table, she rang the bell, and presently his father and mother came down to breakfast. "'where's moses?' asked his mamma; 'i expected to find him at the table.' "'he came down early,' said the cook; 'but i have not seen him for a good while.' "'won't you see if he is out doors?' said the lady. "moses knew it was of no use for him to wait any longer; so he came out laughing. "'why, what were you doing, my dear?' asked the lady. "'i was hiding,' said the boy." "o, that was a naughty lie!" exclaimed frankie. "yes, dear, when children do one naughty thing, they almost always do another. moses had stolen his mother's orange, and now he told a lie to hide it. his mother did not think he would act so wickedly. she asked, 'do you remember, moses, this is your birthday.' "'yes, mamma.' "'you have a very pleasant day for your party,' said his father; and then moses began to talk about what he should play when his company came. 'shall you have the supper first?' he asked. "'no, my dear. i shall wait until you have played a while.' "after breakfast the lady swept and dusted the parlors, to have them ready for the party. then she sat down to her sewing, while she heard moses read and spell. after this he went out doors to play with his hoop. "in the middle of the afternoon she began to arrange for her little feast. first, she took the nut-cracker and cracked the large walnuts, the almonds, and the filberts, and put them in the glass dishes ready to set them on the table. then she cut the cake into square pieces, and grated sugar over them. after that, she put the figs into plates, and then brought out the basket of oranges. "all this time, moses had been kneeling in his chair by the table, watching her as she worked. he looked very sober. he was thinking about the orange, and wished he had not taken it. "when his mother began to take the oranges from the basket, he felt as if he should cry, he was so afraid she would find out what he had done. "'why,' said the lady to herself, 'here are only twelve. i asked him to get thirteen.' she counted them over again. all at once she looked at moses, and said, 'i hope you have not eaten one of mother's oranges, my dear.' "'no,' said the little boy, 'i haven't touched one.'" "o, dear!" said frankie. "i'm afraid god won't love moses any more, he is so naughty, and tells so many lies." frankie jumped up when he said this, and ponto took the opportunity to turn himself over. he had lain very still before, for fear of disturbing his little master. "'what did you want thirteen for?' asked moses. 'you said there would be twelve at the party.' "'because i meant to send one to sarah christie. joseph and belle are coming, but sarah is sick, you know; so i meant to send her one. i suppose your father forgot it; but i'm very sorry.'" mrs. gray was going on to tell the rest of the story, but she saw that frankie looked very pale, and she stopped. "i want to womit," said he, and she ran quickly to get the bowl. then she gave him some medicine, and put him into bed, while she sent nelly to play out doors until he awoke. chapter iv. nelly's punishment. in a few days frankie was quite well again, and able to play merrily with nelly, who had sadly missed him in her out-door exercise. the little girl had not been long with her aunt before the lady saw that the right training of her niece would require much skill and patience. nelly had never been taught to obey, and could not be made to understand why she should not have her own way, as she had done at home. there was another thing which made her aunt feel very badly. she found that, young as nelly was, she had already learned to deceive, and no one could trust her word a moment. then she was selfish, and while she would not oblige her cousins by lending them her books or toys, she was very angry if they did not at once yield theirs to her, when she asked for them. she was so pert and uncivil in her talk, that sally, and even jane, disliked to have her about; and at last her aunt was obliged to shut her in her own room, she spoke so impudently to the servants. instead of asking the nurse to do her a favor, as the other children did, she used to say, "go right up stairs quick, sally, and get my bonnet;" and once, when sally did not start, she said, "you're an ugly girl," and struck her in the face. nurse started forward to hold her hands, when at this moment mrs. gray entered the room. nelly was ashamed that her aunt had heard her, for she loved her aunt better than any one in the house; but when the lady took her hand firmly to lead her up stairs, she screamed and struggled to get away. "i don't like to stay here," she cried; "this is an ugly house. i wish my mamma would come home and take me away." mrs. gray led her to a chair in her own room, and going out locked the door after her. but nelly kicked and pounded the door so hard, and threw over the chairs, that her aunt was obliged to call sally to help her tie the naughty girl to a chair. she was very sorry to do this, and the tears were in her eyes; but sally was right glad to have the child punished as she deserved. indeed, she had told jane the day before that she did not see how mistress had so much patience with the naughty child. mrs. gray did not intend to hurt nelly. she only meant to fasten her hands and feet to the chair so as to prevent her doing any more mischief. she took large towels from the washstand to do this; but nelly kicked and screamed, and at last made a great scratch on her aunt's face. after that sally took the child in her arms, and held her so tight she could not move. when they had fastened her firmly to her seat, they went out, and left her to think of her bad conduct. mrs. gray went into her closet, and asked god to direct her what to do in order to make nelly a good, obedient child. after an hour she went back, and said, "are you sorry, my dear, that you have been so naughty?" "i don't love you. i want to go to maria," was the only reply. her aunt sighed, when she found the little girl was not at all subdued, and she went out again. if nelly could have put her finger in her mouth, it would have been no punishment for her to stay there, for she could lie back in the chair and go to sleep. when her uncle came home to dinner, he found willie, and frankie, and mamma, sitting silent and sad in the parlor, while from above stairs came the sound of loud and angry crying. the lady wept as she told her husband how naughty nelly had behaved. "i had no idea," she said, "that she had so bad a temper." "shall i go up and talk with her?" asked the gentleman. "if you think it best," replied mamma; "but i fear it will do no good. i have already been to her three times." "well, perhaps i had better leave her with you, then. i hope this will be a good lesson to her." after dinner, mrs. gray carried a plate full of pudding to nelly, and offered to feed her with it; but the stubborn child refused to eat. she made up faces at her aunt, and said many naughty words, which i should not want any little boy or girl to hear. the lady came out of her room looking very pale and anxious, and at last began to cry. she was quite discouraged, and thought she would write to her brother, and tell him she could do nothing with his child. but if i do so, she thought, nelly will be ruined. if she grows up with such a bad temper, is so untruthful and selfish, she will be a trial to herself and to her parents; and what is more than that, she can never have the blessing of god. "i will not give up yet," she said, aloud. "i will try her a little longer." she then went down stairs, and told frankie he might go out doors and play with his wheel-barrow; but the little fellow said, "i want to stay with you, mamma. nelly makes my head ache." poor child, he did not feel like play while his cousin was so naughty. it was almost time for tea, when the lady, having once more asked god to direct her, entered the little chamber where her niece was sitting. nelly was quiet now; but her lips stuck out with an ugly pout. "my dear child," said the lady, sitting down near her, "it makes us all very unhappy to have you up here by yourself, when you might be playing and enjoying yourself with your cousins. when you came to live with us, we thought it was so pleasant to have a dear little girl running and dancing about the house! but now it seems sad because we know by your naughty temper you have not only offended us, but you have displeased god. i wish you would let me untie your hands, and see you my darling little nelly once more." "i'm sorry now," said nelly, her lip quivering. "i will be good, aunty." the tears ran down the little girl's cheeks, but this time they were not angry tears. her aunt made haste to untie the towels, and took nelly in her arms. "i love you now," sobbed nelly; "i love you dearly." "and i love you, my dear, or i could not have kept you here so long," said her aunt, kissing her again and again. "i came a great many times to the door, and longed to take you from this great chair, and hear your happy voice once more; but i knew it would be wrong in me to do so until you were ready to say you were sorry, and to promise to be a good girl. you have offended god, my dear child. shall i ask him to forgive you?" "yes, aunty." mrs. gray then knelt with nelly by the chair, and prayed god to forgive all her sins, and to help her to keep her new resolution to be good. chapter v. taking medicine. after tea nelly had a fine romp with her cousins on the lawn. margie and ponto were there too; and papa and mamma sat on the front steps, laughing and enjoying their sport. as the children ran round and round, the lady saw that nelly's apron was unbuttoned, and that it troubled her as she played. she called, "nelly, come here a minute." the little girl stopped at once, and then ran to her aunt. before this, when any one called her, she would say, "i can't come now;" or, "in a minute i will." the lady was very much pleased to see that the child obeyed promptly. when she had fastened the apron, nelly clasped her arms about her aunt's neck, and kissed her. her uncle smiled, and said, "you look very happy now, nelly; i wish your mamma could see your rosy cheeks." "come, nelly, it's your turn now," shouted willie from the lawn. a few days after this, mrs. gray sat busily sewing, while frankie made a barn with his blocks, in which to put up the pedler's cart, and nelly was undressing her doll. the sleeve did not come off easily, and as she pulled it roughly it tore. the little girl was angry, and began to cry. "what is the matter?" asked her aunt. "dolly's dress is ugly, and it's all torn." "should you like to have a needle, and mend it, my dear?" "o, yes, aunty." "may i sew some too?" asked frankie. "yes, darling, you may mend this stocking." she then threaded a needle for the little girl, and showed her how to put the stitches through, and afterwards gave frankie a darning needle with some yarn. he had often sewed before, and he liked the business very much. there was no knot in the thread, and so he pulled it through and through. but he thought it was sewing for all that. nelly sat steadily at her work for a minute; but at last she threw it on the floor, and said, "i hate sewing, it's so hard." "let me see it, dear," said aunty. nelly picked it up, and put it into her hand. she laughed when she looked at it, and nelly laughed too; and then frankie said, "o, what funny sewing!" "i'll baste you some easier work," said her aunt; "and you shall have a little thimble to put on your finger. then you will like to sew." nelly had behaved much better since she was punished, so that her uncle, aunt, and cousins loved her better than ever. still there were many things in which they hoped she would improve. one day her aunt found her sitting on the piazza alone, eating something, and as soon as she saw some one coming, she put it hastily in her pocket. it was not more than an hour before she complained of a bad pain in her stomach. "what have you been eating, my dear?" asked her aunt. "nothing," said nelly. "are you sure?" and the lady looked earnestly in her face. "yes, i am very sure," answered nelly. mrs. gray sent sally for some warm peppermint water, and then laid the child on the lounge. for some time she lay quite still, sucking her finger; but when her aunt glanced toward her to see if she were asleep, she noticed that nelly looked very pale about the mouth; and presently she jumped up, and carried her to the closet, where she threw up a great quantity of raisins, which she had stolen from her aunt's box. she continued very sick all that night, and in the morning the doctor came, and said she must take a large dose of castor oil. the sight of oil always made the lady very sick, and so her uncle said he would give it to her. he poured it out, and mixed it with a little hot milk, and held it to her lips. but she would not take it. he tried to persuade her, promised her a ride, told her she would be very sick if she did not obey the doctor, but all was of no use. she shut her teeth, and would not touch it. then sally tried her skill. "i'll make your great dolly a new dress," she said; "come, now, be a good girl, and then i'll tell you how frankie took his medicine." it was all in vain; nelly still shook her head, and refused to obey. mrs. gray then took the child in her lap, and spread a large cloth under her chin, at the same time telling sally to bring a cup of blackberry jelly from the store closet. "now, my little nelly," she said, "you must take this to make you well. if you will open your mouth and swallow it all down like a good girl, i will give you some nice jelly to take the taste out, for it is very bad. but if you don't take it before i count three, i shall hold you and force it down your throat." then she began to count,--"one, two,"--but before she could say three, nelly caught the spoon and swallowed the medicine, and then took some jelly so quickly, that she hardly tasted the oil. "that was a right good girl," said her uncle. "i couldn't have taken it any better myself." when nelly was well, her aunt kindly talked with her of the great sin which she had committed. "you have done just as naughty moses did," she said. "first, you stole the raisins, as he stole the orange; and then you told a wicked lie to hide it from me, as he did to hide his sin from his mother." then she told nelly, "god hears all we say, and sees all we do. we can hide nothing from him; and he says in his holy book, 'liars shall have their portion in the lake which burneth with fire and brimstone.'" nelly cried; and promised over and over again to be a good girl, and she really tried to improve. she saw how happy her cousins were, and how every body loved them, and she said to herself, "i mean to try to be just as good as i can." chapter vi. the lost orange found. when little girls or boys try to do right, every body loves to help them. mrs. gray knew that for six years her little niece had been indulged in every wish, and that she had never been taught to restrain her ill humor. she could not, therefore, expect her to be cured at once of all her bad habits; but she was much pleased to see that nelly grew every day more amiable, more ready to give up her own wishes, and to try to make others happy. sometimes, in playing with frankie, she would forget, and say an unkind word; but the moment she saw the eye of her aunt fixed mournfully upon her, she would say, "i'm sorry, frankie." when she said this, the dear child always put up his little red lips to kiss her, and say, "i sorry, too, nelly." sometimes he would add, "god is sorry, too." it was very rainy one morning, and the children were obliged to keep in doors. frankie had for some time been amusing himself by hiding a ball, which he made ponto find and bring to him in his teeth, while nelly shouted and danced at every new discovery, saying "i never saw such a funny dog before." at last they grew tired of this, and even ponto began to think they had played this game quite long enough; so frankie sat down on the floor, and putting one arm around the dog's neck, said, "mamma, i want to hear a toly." "you said some time you would tell us some more about moses," exclaimed nelly. "so i will," said mamma. "i told you that his mother counted the oranges, and found there were but twelve. 'i'm sorry,' she said to moses, 'because i wanted one for sarah christie; but i suppose your father forgot to get it, and i'll send her one another time.' "'you can give her some figs,' said moses. "'so i can,' replied his mother; and then she went on cutting the peel and tearing it down a little way, so that, when they were put into the large glass dish, they looked like great yellow flowers. "'o, how pretty they are!' said moses. "his mother then set all the dishes on the sideboard, and covered them over with a clean table cloth. after tea, she said, 'i will set them out on the table, and then when the children have done playing, they can come here and eat them.' "when moses' father came home from the city, the lady said, 'i'm sorry you forgot to get thirteen oranges. there were only twelve in the basket.' "'there were thirteen when i brought them home,' said papa; 'i am sure of it, because i counted them myself, and they were nice ones too; i had to give three cents apiece for them, though they are quite plenty now.' "'i don't know where the other can have gone,' said mamma, looking very sober, as a painful suspicion flashed through her. "'i hope moses wouldn't take one without leave,' said the gentleman. "'i asked him,' replied mamma, 'and he said he hadn't touched them.' "'where is he?' asked papa, 'i will ask him. i don't care at all about the orange, because i can easily get another; but somebody must have taken it, and i am afraid it was our little boy.' the gentleman then went to the door and called, 'moses! moses!' "presently moses came, and his father took him in his lap, and said, 'tell me, my dear, have you taken an orange from the basket?' "'no, papa,' said the boy, his face growing very red. 'i told mamma i hadn't touched them.' "the gentleman couldn't think that his darling child would tell a lie; so he put him down to the floor, and inquired, 'have you asked cook?' "'no,' said mamma; 'i am quite sure she wouldn't meddle with my things.' "'just then, cook came in with the cloth for supper, and mamma said to moses, 'i shall have time, i think, to dress you before tea. run up quick to my room, and i will get a clean ruffle, and baste it in your new sack." "while she was doing this, he pulled off his sack and pantaloons that he had worn every day, and threw them on the floor. then his mother washed his face, and neck, and arms, and hands, very clean, and brushed his hair smoothly off his forehead, so that he looked very nicely indeed. and all the time moses was talking about his party, and telling what a pleasant time he should have. "'it's your birthday,' said his mother, kissing him, 'and you must remember to be a very good boy. be kind to your dear little cousins and playmates, and let them play with any of your toys. here, let me hang up your clothes, and we will go down to tea.' "she took the pantaloons from the floor, and said, 'why, moses, what have you stuffed into your pocket? here is your handkerchief wet through.' she pulled out first an india rubber ball, and then--o, what do you think?--why, the lost orange, all sucked and gone except the peel. "'o moses!' was all the poor mother could say. she sank into a chair, and covered her face with her hands; but the tears trickled down through her fingers. "the little boy began to cry; he wished his mother had not found him out, because it made her feel so badly. presently the tea bell rang; but the lady never stirred from her seat. she was mourning over her son, and thinking what she ought to do to punish him for his great sin. "'supper is ready,' called out papa from the stairs. "'don't wait for me,' answered the lady; 'i can't go down.' "'what is the matter?' asked the gentleman, springing up the stairs and coming into the room. "mamma began to weep again. she could not speak, but she held up the skin of the orange, and glanced toward moses, who was sitting in a chair by himself crying bitterly. "'so he did take it, after all,' said papa, in a stern voice. "'i'm sorry, papa,' sobbed the boy. "'what a wicked boy you must be, to steal and lie, and on your birthday too,' said his father, 'when we were trying to make you so happy!' "'i never will do so again,' said moses. "'you must be punished, so that you will remember it,' said his father. "'stay here,' said his mother; 'i will send cook up with some supper for you.'" chapter vii. the birthday party. "she sat down at the table, and poured the tea, but she could not eat. her heart was too sorrowful. she arose, and returned to the chamber, where moses was eating a slice of bread and butter. when he had finished it, she said, 'wipe your hands on the towel, and take off your clothes.' "'are you going to whip me, mamma? i never will be so naughty again,' exclaimed the boy, beginning to cry louder than ever. "'no,' said his mother, 'i am going to put you to bed.' "'i can't see my party, then,' screamed moses, catching hold of his mother's dress. "'nor eat any of the good things, my child. you have been a wicked boy, and broken god's holy commands; and i must punish you. you don't know how you've made mother's heart ache,' said the lady, trying to keep back her tears. 'i did not think you could be so naughty. when i know how displeased the dear saviour must be, i tremble for you.' "'i didn't mean to eat the orange, mamma; it smelled so good, i only thought i would suck it a little.' "'if you had told me that at first, i would gladly have forgiven you,' said mamma; 'but you told wicked lies to hide your sin. you forgot that god was looking at you all the time, and knew all that was in your heart. you must pray to him to forgive you, and to make you a good boy.' "moses cried so that he could hardly stand. his mother took off his clothes, put on his night gown, and helped him into bed. then she knelt by his bed side, and prayed that the means used to punish him might help him to remember what a great sin lying is. she asked god to forgive him, and help him from that hour to be an honest, truthful boy. "moses slept in a small room, next to her own, and as the lady thought some of the little party might run up there, she locked the door, and went herself down the back way. "pretty soon the bell rang, and moses stopped crying to listen. he heard happy voices of children running through the hall. then they asked, 'where's moses?' but he could not hear what his mother answered. "in a few minutes a carriage drove up, and there was another ring of the bell. this time it was his cousins, and he heard them laughing and talking together. "before half an hour all the company had assembled. some of the little girls went up to the front room, and he could hear his mother's voice as she went with them. she was talking very kindly, but he thought she did not feel happy, it was so sad. "o, what a long evening that was! he could not go to sleep, for every few minutes there was a merry burst of laughter from the room below; and he knew that his papa was teaching them some pretty games. every time he heard this he began to cry again. and then he wondered whether his mother would tell them why he was not there, and what they would say. "at last he heard them all walk out into the dining room, and papa's voice saying, 'i will take katy because she is the youngest.' now he knew they were going to sit at table and eat the nice fruit. "'o, dear!' he sobbed, 'how sorry i am!' and then, for the first time, he began to think how wicked it was to deceive his dear parents, who had been so kind to him all his life. 'i made mamma cry,' he said softly. 'i'm sorry for that, too.' "as soon as satan heard moses say that, he ran away and hid; and the good spirit came, and whispered to moses, and presently he got out of his bed, and knelt down by his low chair, and prayed softly. but jesus heard what he said, and looked into his heart, and saw he was really sorry he had been a wicked boy, and then god forgave him. "pretty soon the children all came rushing up the stairs to put on their clothes, for the carriages had come to take them home. moses was not crying now. he lay quiet and still; and he heard them say, 'good by! good by! please give my love to moses;' and then the door was shut, and the house all still again. "when mamma came up stairs she carried the light into her little boy's room to see if he was awake. his eyes were wide open, and as soon as he saw her, he said, 'you might give my orange to sarah christie, mamma, because i wasn't down there to eat it.' "then mamma put up her handkerchief quick to wipe the tears from her eyes; and she went up to the bed and kissed her boy, for she knew that he had repented of his sin. "'i am sorry, very sorry,' he said, pulling her face down to his; 'i prayed hard to god to forgive me, and make me good. will you forgive me, mamma?' "'yes, my darling. i will gladly forgive you, and i hope this may be a lesson to you as long as you live.'" nelly looked very sober while her aunt was telling this story. she began to see how naughty she had been, and to hope that god would forgive her too. as soon as his mother had finished, frankie said, "o, i'm so glad moses became a good boy! did he ever steal or tell lies again?" "no, my dear, i am happy to tell you that from the hour when he so heartily repented of his great sin, and so earnestly asked god to forgive him, he became an honest and truthful boy. but i have talked a long time, and can only add one incident, which occurred nearly six months later than the birthday party. "moses had a cousin whose name was eugene. he lived in a city many hundred miles distant. he was also an only child; but unlike moses, he had been foolishly indulged in every desire of his heart, until he had become exceedingly selfish, wilful, and passionate. eugene accompanied his parents on a visit to his aunt, and though younger than his cousin, began at once to tyrannize over him. "one day a loud cry was heard from the play room, and presently eugene came running to his mother, complaining that moses had broken his little wagon, and then had struck him with his indian bow. "'how is this, moses?' asked his mother; 'did you strike your cousin?' "the little fellow fixed his large, earnest eyes full upon hers, as he exclaimed, 'o, no, indeed, mother! eugene knows i did not touch him. we were playing together, when the wagon wheel hit the trunk and broke it. then he got angry, and pinched me on my arm. "'i don't mind that,' he added, as his aunt pointed to a large red spot near his elbow; 'but i'm dreadfully sorry he didn't tell the truth.'" * * * * * transcriber's notes: obvious punctuation errors repaired. page 108, word "to" added to text (next to her own) naughty miss bunny. [illustration: the butler surprises bunny.] naughty miss bunny a story for little children. by clara mulholland author of "the little bog-trotters," &c. [illustration: logo] london blackie & son, limited, 50 old bailey, e.c. glasgow and dublin contents. chap. page i. only for fun, 9 ii. pleasant news for bunny, 27 iii. bunny gets up early, 37 iv. bunny gets a fright, 49 v. the little indian, 59 vi. bunny forgets again, 69 vii. in miss kerr's room, 83 viii. bunny tries to show off, 99 ix. miss kerr promises a prize, 125 x. on oliver's mount, 138 xi. was it cruel? 152 xii. the fireworks, 167 xiii. quiet times, 179 xiv. bunny's improvement. home again, 185 illustrations. page the butler surprises bunny, _frontispiece_ 19 bunny welcomes her father, 50 francis saves bunny, 115 [illustration: chapter decoration.] naughty miss bunny. chapter i. only for fun. "how nice!" cried bunny. "mama has sent for miss kerr, so i can do exactly as i like for a little while. i am very glad papa brought us up here, for it is so pretty and so cool, and these gardens are so lovely;" and she gazed about her at the garden and the lawn and then at the distant sea that lay just beyond them, sparkling and dancing in the sunshine. "if i had no governess," continued the little girl, "and no lessons, and no nasty nurse to say, 'sit still, miss bunny,' and 'don't make dirty your frock, miss bunny,' i think i should be jolly--yes, that's papa's word, jolly. but, oh dear, big people are so happy, for they can do what they like, but _chindrel_ must do everything they are told." and quite forgetting her pretty white frock and dainty sash, and the many orders she had received not on any account to soil them, she lay back comfortably upon the grass. bunny, whose real name was ethel dashwood, was six years old, and was one of the spoilt "_chindrel_," as she called children. if she had had brothers and sisters, very likely bunny would have been kept in better order, but as she was quite alone no one could bear to correct her, and so she became very hard to manage indeed. her papa indulged her, and thought she could do nothing wrong, whilst her mama was so delicate that she was very seldom able to look after her little girl, and left her to the care of a kind-hearted, but foolish old nurse, who allowed her to have her own way in everything and never for an instant thought of finding fault with her. this was all very well so long as bunny was no more than a baby, but when she came to be six years old mr. dashwood suddenly found that her little girl was much too naughty, so she resolved to make a change in the nursery, that would, she hoped, have a good effect in every way. first of all old nurse was sent away, and a trim french maid, with a quick sharp manner, was engaged to take her place. bunny was sorry to part with nurse, who had always been kind to her, but sophie was so amusing, spoke such funny english, and sang such merry songs that the little girl soon ceased to fret, and became quite pleased with her new maid. the change of nurses bunny bore in a quiet way that surprised everyone in the house; but when her mother told her that she had arranged with a young lady to come and live with them and be her governess, the little girl burst into a passion, and stamping her foot declared she would have no one to teach her, that she would say no lessons, and that her mama was very unkind to think of such a thing. mrs. dashwood was greatly shocked, and unable to understand such naughtiness, rang the bell and ordered sophie to take the child away, and bunny was carried off weeping bitterly. but this fit of anger only made her mama more anxious to have some one to look after her daughter, and in a few days the governess arrived, and bunny was set down to learn to read and write. this was a great change for the neglected child, and had her teacher been a sensible person bunny would doubtless have become a good little girl in time. but unfortunately the governess was very foolish, and thought it much easier to allow her pupil to have her own way than to take the trouble to make her do what was right, and so instead of doing the child good she did her harm, and bunny became more and more naughty every day. this was in june, and as london grew very hot and dusty, mrs. dashwood declared they must all go away to the country, and her husband, who wished them to have a nice holiday, went off at once and took a beautiful house at scarborough. bunny was enchanted, and made up her mind to have great fun at the seaside, and as the very day before they left town, her governess was obliged to leave in a great hurry on account of a death in her family, the little girl made up her mind that she was going to have perfect freedom to do exactly what she liked and to play every day upon the sea-beach. sophie did not trouble her much except when she was cross, and so bunny set off to scarborough in very high spirits. the house her papa had taken for them was a pretty rambling old place, standing on a height just above the sea, and surrounded by spreading trees and large gardens full of sweet-scented flowers. a most charming spot indeed, and to the little girl from hot dusty london it seemed a perfect paradise. the first days in the country passed away very happily, and bunny was not as wild as might have been expected by those who knew her, when one day, as she ran through the hall, she stopped in astonishment before a large trunk, and cried out to the butler, who was standing near, "who does that belong to, ashton? has a visitor come to stay with us?" "a visitor, miss? no, a new governess, miss--she's just gone in to speak to your mama;" and he hurried away to his pantry. "nasty thing!" cried bunny, stamping her foot and growing very red and angry. just when i thought i was going to be happy all by myself! but i'll be so naughty, and so troublesome, that she'll soon go away. i'll be ten times as hard to manage as i was before. she'll not get hold of me to-night any way, and scampering off into the garden she hid herself among the trees. but the new governess, miss kerr, was a very different person from the last, and resolved to do her best to make her little pupil a good well-behaved child. she was a kind, warm-hearted girl, who had a great many small brothers and sisters of her own, and she never doubted that in a short time bunny would become as good and obedient as they were. she soon found, however, that the task was not as easy as she had fancied, and when she had been a few days at holly lodge she began to fear that it would be a very long time before her lectures and advice would have the smallest effect upon the wayward little child. she had now been a whole week in charge of the girl, and she feared that bunny would never learn to love her. about half an hour before our story begins, bunny and her governess had been seated on the lawn together. mrs. dashwood sent to ask miss kerr to go to her for a few moments, and that young lady had hastened into the house, leaving her little charge upon the grass with her book. "do not stir from here till i return, bunny," she said; "you can go over that little lesson again, and i shall not be long." but as time went on and she did not return the child grew restless, and feeling very tired of sitting still, began to look about to see what there was for her to do. "governesses are great bothers," she grumbled to herself as she rolled about on the grass. "and now as miss kerr does not seem to be coming back, i think i will have a climb up that tree--it looks so easy i'm sure i could go up ever so high. there's nobody looking, so i'll just see if i can go right away up--as high as that little bird up there." bunny was very quick in her movements, and a minute later her white frock and blue sash were fluttering about among the leaves and branches of a fine old tree that grew in the middle of the lawn. "oh, dear! how lovely it would be to be a bird--cheep, cheep! if i only had wings i should just feel like one this minute, perched up so high," she said with a merry laugh, as she jumped and wriggled about on the branch. but she quite forgot that the nursery window overlooked the lawn, and that sophie was sure to be sitting there at her work. in a moment, however, this fact was recalled to her mind by the sound of a wild shriek from the terrified maid. "mademoiselle! miss bunny, you want to kill yourself, or tear your sweet frock. ah! naughty child, get down this instants, or i will tell monsieur your papa." this was the one threat that had any power to move miss bunny, so down she scrambled and ran away as fast as she could over the grass. there was still no sign of miss kerr, so the child wandered about, wondering what was keeping her governess, and wishing she had something to do, when all at once her eyes fell on a beautiful rose-tree, almost weighed down with the quantity of its flowers, and she flew at it in delight and began to pull off the lovely blossoms and pin one of them into the front of her frock. but like most foolish children she broke them off so short that there was no stalk left with which to fasten them, and so the poor rose fell upon the ground, and the little girl impatiently snatched at another and dragged it ruthlessly from the branch. this went on for some time, and would probably have gone on until not a flower remained upon the bush, had not sophie again made herself heard from the nursery window. "miss bunny, how can you derange the beautiful roses?" she cried indignantly. "there will be not one left to give to your papa when he comes home, and you know he loves those sweet flowers so much." "oh, i am so sorry," cried bunny. "but there are some dear little buds, and i will just leave them for papa. who knows perhaps they may be roses by to-morrow evening!" and away she flitted like a white-winged butterfly in search of some other sweet flowers that she might make her own, without fear of further interruption from sharp-tongued sophie. at last, when she had such a large bouquet that her little hands could scarcely hold it, she wearied of her occupation, and stepping softly to the drawing-room window, she peeped in just to see what miss kerr and her mama could be doing that kept them shut up there for so long together. "i'll take mama these flowers," she said to herself, "and i am sure they will make her headache better. i'll just tap gently at the window and miss kerr will let me in, and i'll be so good and quiet that mama will not mind me being with her while she talks." bunny waited for some minutes, hoping to be admitted to the room, but no notice was taken of her knocking--for the ladies were too much absorbed in their own affairs to trouble themselves about her. mrs. dashwood lay on the sofa, and her face had a flushed anxious expression, as she listened to miss kerr, who was seated on a stool by her side, and seemed to be talking very earnestly, but her voice was low, and as the window was shut bunny could not hear a word she said. "oh dear, what a lot miss kerr has got to say!" cried the little girl impatiently. "she seems as if she had forgotten all about me. i am tired of being out here all alone, so i'll just run in and play with my dollies." now the nearest way into the house was up a flight of steps and in by the dining-room window, which was like a large glass door, and always lay open in the most tempting manner possible. so up these steps went miss bunny, her hands full of flowers and her mind bent on mischief, if she could only meet with anything to do that would amuse her and give her some fun. [illustration: the butler surprises bunny.] the room into which she stepped was a very pretty one. it was very nearly round, with many high windows looking out upon the pleasant grounds and blue sparkling sea. upon the walls were pictures of fine thoroughbred horses, some of them with their little foals beside them, others with a surly-looking old dog or a tiny kitten, their favourite stable companion and friend. bunny loved these pictures and had given the horses pet names of her own, by which she insisted on calling them, although their own well-known names were printed under them, for they were all horses that had won a great number of races during their lives, and so had become celebrated. the round table in the middle of the room was laid ready for dinner, and looked very inviting with its prettily arranged flowers, handsome silver, and shining glass. "dear me, how nice it all looks!" said bunny, as she marched round the table on tip-toe. "one, two, three, four places. why, it must be for company. well, i hope there will be somebody nice to talk to me. i must get sophie to put on my pretty new frock. but oh, dear, what fun it would be just to put a tiny, little drop of water into every glass! wouldn't old ashton wonder--just when he thinks everything is nice for dinner? i will! i'll do it! it will be such fun! oh, i'd like to see his face; won't he be horribly angry?" throwing her flowers on the floor, bunny sprang to the side-board, and seizing a water-jug she climbed up on each chair in turn and poured a few drops of water into every glass all round the dinner-table. just as she came to the last wine-glass and held the jug ready to let the water fall into it, the door opened suddenly and the solemn-looking old butler entered the room. "miss bunny!" he exclaimed, and he looked so stern and angry that the little girl felt frightened, and dropping the jug, scrambled off the chair, seized her flowers, and ran out of his sight as fast as she could. "i only did it for fun, ashton," she called back from the door. "it is clean water, so it won't do any harm." "harm, indeed!" grumbled ashton; "just as i thought i had everything done until dinner time. now i must begin and rub up all this glass again;" and he began at once to remove the glasses from the table. "little himp that she is, that miss bunny! a perfect himp, and if i had the governessing of her for sometime i'd--i'd--bah! there's that bell again! some folks is in a mighty hurry," and full of anger and indignation against the little girl whom he could not punish for her naughty trick, ashton hurried to the hall door, longing for something upon which he could vent his wrath. bunny was skipping merrily in the hall, and the pretty roses that she had gathered with so much pleasure lay scattered on the ground. this sight did not tend to put the butler in a better temper, but he made no remark, and passing by the little girl without a word he opened the hall door with a jerk. a poor boy with a thin pinched face stood upon the step. "if you please, sir, will you give me a bit of bread, for i am very hungry?" he said in an imploring voice, as he gazed up into the butler's face. "there's nothing for you. how dare you come here with your wretched lies?" cried ashton fiercely, and he shut the door with a bang. "that's not true, ashton," cried bunny darting forward and opening the door again. "wait, little boy, and i will get you something!" and before the astonished butler knew where he was, she had rushed into the dining-room, and came back carrying a large loaf and a pat of butter that she had found upon the side-board. "you must not give that away, miss bunny," cried the man; "that is in my charge, and i cannot allow you to give it to a beggar;" and he tried to drag the bread from her hands. "you nasty man! i will give it to him if i like," she screamed. "my papa always lets me do what i like, and you are only a servant--and i will give it;" and she struggled to get away from him. "i only put the water in your glasses for fun--but i'm very glad i did it--and i wish i had put dirty water in--and i wish--let me go--i'll tell papa, and he'll be very angry and--" "bunny," said a soft reproachful voice, "my dear child, what is the matter?" and miss kerr laid her hand gently upon the little girl's shoulder. "that nasty ashton won't let me give this loaf to a poor boy who is there begging," cried bunny; "he's very hungry and i want--" "ashton is quite right, bunny," said miss kerr gently; "give him back the loaf, dear. it is not yours, so you have no right to give it away. have you no money of your own to give the boy?" "no, i have not," cried bunny bursting into tears, "and i am sure papa would not mind my giving the loaf away--he never does. ashton's a nasty, cross old thing;" and she flung the loaf on the floor. "ashton is only doing his duty, bunny, and you must not speak in that way." "well, i wish he wouldn't do his duty then," sobbed the little girl; "it's a great shame of him to do his duty, when i tell him not." "come, now, dear, dry your eyes and give this to the poor boy," said miss kerr kindly; "see, i will lend you threepence to give to him, and when your papa gives you some pocket-money you can repay me. the boy will like the money better than the bread, i daresay, and you will feel that you are giving something that is really your own." "oh, thank you, thank you!" cried bunny with delight, her tears drying up in an instant. "you are good! you are kind!" and throwing her arms round miss kerr's neck she kissed her over and over again; then seizing the pennies she flew to the door, and handing them to the boy said in a subdued voice: "here, boy, a good lady gave me these pennies for you. i am a greedy little girl and spend all my own money on sweets, but i'll save up and pay miss kerr back very soon." "that is enough, bunny," said the governess, taking the child by the hand. "i have something to tell you, dear, so come with me now." "very well, i will come," answered bunny quite meekly, and shutting the door, she followed miss kerr down the hall. [illustration: chapter decoration.] chapter ii. pleasant news for bunny. "and now, bunny," said miss kerr, as she led the little girl into the library and took her on her knee, "i am afraid you have been a very naughty child. i do not like to scold you, you know, but when children are told to stay in one place they should do so, and not run about all over the house in the way you seem to have been doing." "but you were so long away," replied bunny, "and i was tired sitting there all by myself. sophie kept screaming at me not to touch the flowers, so i had nothing to do." "and what about the lesson? did you learn that?" "no, i didn't, it was so stupid," said bunny, "i got quite tired of it, and all the letters went wrong, so i thought i would go to the nursery and play with my toys, and then when i went into the dining-room there was nobody there, and i thought it would be great fun to tease old ashton, so i jumped on the chairs and poured water into all the glasses, and he was so angry; and oh it was fun to see his face when he cried out, 'miss bunny!'" and carried away with delight at the recollection of her naughty trick, the little girl clapped her hands and laughed long and merrily. "but, my dear child, do you not know that that was extremely naughty conduct?" said miss kerr gravely. "it is very wicked to make anyone angry, and it was very unkind of you to play such a trick upon ashton. how would you like if he were to spoil your toys or break your dolls for you?" "oh, i shouldn't like it at all," answered bunny; "i'd be awfully cross, and i'd get papa to send him away. that would be a good way to punish him, i know." "well, bunny, you think you could punish him but he has no way of punishing you, so you should always be very careful not to annoy or trouble him. besides, my child, we should never do anything to other people that we know we would not like them to do to us. god wishes us to be good and kind to everyone about us, remember, and to be unkind is to disobey him." "oh, then, i'm very sorry that i was so naughty," cried bunny, "for sophie told me this morning that god has been good and kind to me always, for she says he gave me all the nice things i have, and my papa and mama, so i should not like to vex him when he has been so kind to me." "if my little bunny will just remember that, whenever she feels inclined to be naughty she will soon find it easy to be good, and she will be a much happier child, for then she will know that she is pleasing god who has been good to her." "oh, i will try, dear miss kerr, indeed i will," said the little girl; "i'll be good and kind to god, and you, and papa, and mama, because you are all so good to me;" and she laid her soft cheek against miss kerr's face. "that is right, darling," said the governess with a smile; "and now that i have given you a little lecture, and you have promised to be good, i have a piece of news to tell you that will, i am sure, give you great pleasure;" and she smoothed the child's fair hair with her hand. "good news! oh, dear miss kerr, do tell me what it is," cried the little girl eagerly. "well, i have been having a long talk with your mama, bunny, and--" "oh, yes, i know that. i saw you talk, talk, talk, only i couldn't hear what you were saying, because the window was shut." "no, i suppose not, dear, but listen. your mama says you have an uncle in india who has a little son of seven years old--" "oh, i know that, miss kerr! why, that's no news! of course i know about uncle jim and cousin mervyn. i never saw them though, but still i know they are in india, an awfully hot place it is, sophie says." "yes, so it is. but would you like to see this cousin mervyn, do you think?" "oh, i'd just love to see him--but is he black? sophie says the people in those countries are black. oh, i shouldn't like a black cousin, miss kerr, indeed i should not," cried bunny in a piteous voice. "you little goose, he's not black at all," cried miss kerr, laughing at the little girl's look of consternation; "i have never seen him, but his papa is supposed to be like your mama, so i daresay he will have fair hair, blue eyes, and pink cheeks something very like your own." "oh, i'm glad he is like that, for indeed i could not bear a black cousin. once i had a black doll given to me for a present, and i screamed and screamed till nurse put it away out of the nursery." "it is certainly very lucky that your cousin is not black, for it would never do to scream at him, would it?" said miss kerr, "for he has arrived in london and is coming here with your papa to-morrow evening." "oh, i am glad! oh, i am glad!" sang bunny, dancing round the room on the points of her toes. "what fun it will be to have a little cousin to play with! will he stay long, miss kerr?" "yes, a long time, bunny," answered the governess. "it is too hot in india for him to stay there any longer--indeed they think he has stayed there too long already, and your mama has promised to take care of him until he is old enough to go to school." "oh, that will be a nice long visit," said the little girl; "he'll be staying with us just as if it was home, and he was my own brother." "yes, dear, just so. he will be like your brother, i am sure; and he is to have his lessons with you. i am to teach you both." "yes, and i'll lend him my pony and i'll let him play with my kittens. and oh, miss kerr, i'll give him tea out of my own little tea-set; and we'll have such fun." "yes, dear, it will be very nice, and i hope that little bunny will be a good child and not make her cousin naughty and teach him mischievous tricks." "oh, i'll be good, indeed, dear miss kerr. i won't want to be naughty so much when i have someone to play with, for it's always when i feel lonely that i want to play tricks on people." "is that so really, you poor mite? well, you will not be lonely any more, bunny, and i hope you will try hard and learn to read soon. when children can read they do not want a companion so much, because they can read pretty stories about other children and so amuse themselves for hours together." "oh, i don't want to read stories one bit," said bunny with a pout. "sophie and mama read lots of stories to me, so it doesn't matter whether i can read them for myself or not." "and what will you do when you grow up, bunny? don't you think you would feel very much ashamed if you could not read when you had grown to be a tall lady?" "oh, no one would ever know, for i am sure people never ask grown-up ladies if they can read. do they, now? no one ever asks you or mama if you know how to read." "no, people never ask us if we can read, certainly, bunny," answered miss kerr laughing, "but they would soon find out if we did not, i can tell you. people who cannot read seldom learn those things that everyone should know, and so they are ignorant and stupid. surely you would not like mervyn to beat you at his lessons, would you?" "oh, but he's older than me," said bunny, "and, of course, he knows a great deal more than me, and----" "than _i_, bunny, say he is older than _i_ am," corrected miss kerr. "yes, he is older, but i do not think he knows more than you do. his papa says he has never been taught anything but his letters, and he can hardly speak english." "oh, dear! does he only speak french then?" said bunny with a look of alarm. "no, hindustanee. that is the indian language, you know, and as he always had a native nurse he does not know english very perfectly. but we will soon teach him, won't we, dear?" "oh, yes, it will be fun, and i'll try very hard to learn to read well before he does! it will be nice to have a cousin, won't it? i wonder what he's like. but i'm sure he'll be nice. i know he will. don't you think he'll be nice, miss kerr?" "yes, dear, i think it is very likely, but you will know all about him to-morrow." "oh, i wish to-morrow would come, quick, quick!" cried bunny; "the days and the hours go over so slowly, and i do want to see that little indian." "poor little boy! i daresay he will be very tired and shy when he arrives. it is a sad thing to leave father and friends and come among strangers, bunny," said miss kerr, and there were tears in her eyes as she gazed out over the garden. "dear miss kerr, why should you feel sorry for mervyn? i'm so glad that he is coming here," said bunny softly, and she put her little hand into miss kerr's. "why should you cry for him? we will be very kind to him, you and i, and papa and mama." "yes, darling, of course," answered miss kerr stroking the little hand. "but i was not thinking of mervyn, but of someone i know, who had to leave her dear home, her father and mother, and brothers and sisters, to go be governess to a wild little girl, who did not care to learn her lessons and did not love her at all." "why, that's like me and you! but i do love you; oh, i do love you!" cried the child, and she flung her arms round miss kerr's neck. "you are so good and kind, and i am sorry you had to leave your little brothers and sisters, and i won't be wild, and i'll love you very much." "if you do, bunny, you will make me very happy, and i think you will soon be a very good little girl," and miss kerr kissed the eager face over and over again. "but run away now and get ready for tea. i have some letters to write for the post, and i shall just have time if you run off at once." "very well," said bunny jumping off miss kerr's knee. "i must go to tell sophie the news." and away she ran, calling, "sophie, sophie," as she went up the stairs. "she has a good little heart, and will become a fine character in time, if she is properly managed," said miss kerr to herself as the child left the room. "but she has been terribly spoilt and neglected. if the boy from india is as great a pickle as miss bunny, i shall have my hands very full indeed," and with something between a sigh and a laugh, miss kerr seated herself at the table and began to write her letters. [illustration: chapter decoration.] chapter iii. bunny gets up early. for a long time after she went to bed that night, bunny could not go to sleep, and lay tossing about from side to side, wishing over and over again that it was morning, that she might get up and put all her toys and books in order, so that they should look as nice as possible when she came to show them to the new cousin. at last she dropped off into a sound sleep, and did not wake again until the sun was shining brightly into her room. she jumped up and looked about to see if sophie had gone to get her bath ready. but the maid lay fast asleep in her bed at the other side of the room, and poor bunny felt sure she would not get up for a very long time yet. she felt ready to cry at the thoughts of lying there for so long doing nothing, whilst the sun was shining so brightly over the sea and dancing so merrily up and down the nursery walls. suddenly, however, a happy idea presented itself to her mind, and she sprang out of her crib with a soft well-pleased little laugh. "it will be such fun," she whispered to herself, "and sophie will get such a start when she sees the crib empty! but i must go about very gently or she might wake up and send me back to bed." so the little girl slipped very quietly about the room, and struggled bravely with buttons and tapes, as she did her best to dress herself without the assistance of her maid. "they're all upside down and tied in big knots," she said ruefully, "but sophie will just have to do them all over again when she gets up. oh, dear, where are my boots, i wonder? i can't see them anywhere about. well, i must go out in these, i suppose;" and sitting down on the floor she put on a pair of dainty queen anne shoes, with satin bows and steel stars, that she had worn the evening before when she went down to the drawing-room to see her mama. at this moment sophie turned round with a loud snore, and bunny gave a start of alarm, as she looked quickly towards the bed. if sophie awoke and saw what she was doing, all her fun would surely be spoiled, and she would be sent back to her crib in disgrace. very cautiously then she got up off the floor, seized her hat that lay on the chest of drawers, and opening the door as softly as possible, flew along the corridor and away down the stairs. not a servant was to be seen about, for it was not yet seven o'clock, and so bunny passed on without any interruption into the dining-room, and stood on tip-toe at the side-board looking anxiously to see if there was anything there for her to eat. but there was not even a crust to be seen. "nasty old ashton!" she cried, "he might have left a few pieces of bread for me; but he wouldn't, i'm sure, even if he had known i was coming. i must get something for my dear pony, now that i am up, so i'll go off to the larder and see what i can find there." so away went bunny in high glee at her clever thought; but when she arrived at the larder door she found it locked, and she was about to turn away sad and disappointed when a sudden jingling of keys was heard in the passage, the kitchen door opened, and mrs. brown, the cook, appeared upon the scene. "miss bunny, dear, what brings you here at such an hour? and law but you are dressed queer! but, indeed, them frenchies are little good with their new-fangled ways. it's nurse that used to dress you smart, deary, and as for sophie, she beats all;" and the good woman held up her hands in dismay at the child's untidy appearance. "oh, sophie didn't dress me at all!" cried bunny. "she doesn't even know i'm up, for she's fast asleep. but i was so tired lying there listening to sophie snoring that i thought i would get up and go out. i want to take my pony a piece of bread, so please give me some for him and some for myself, mrs. brown, for i'm very hungry." "bless your heart, of course i will," cried the good-natured woman, as she unlocked the door, and cutting two large slices of bread and butter, handed them to the little girl. "oh, thank you," said bunny; "frisk will like this, i am sure. good morning, mrs. brown, and mind you don't tell sophie where i am, if she comes to look for me." "don't be afraid, deary, i won't give her any news of you. i don't admire her and her stuck-up french airs, so she won't get much out of me." but bunny did not wait to hear the end of the good woman's speech against poor sophie; she had got all she wanted, so away she ran to pay her morning visit to her little pony. when frisk heard the stable door opening and a footstep approaching his stall, he whisked his tail and twisted his head as well as he could, to see who was coming to visit him at such an early hour. and when he found it was his little mistress, and heard her voice at his ear he neighed with delight, and rubbed his velvety nose up and down her frock. "dear old frisk," she cried, patting his neck, "there's a little cousin coming all the way from india to stay with us. sophie is not glad, but i am, and miss kerr is, and you must be glad too, old man. and he's not black at all, frisk, oh, no, and it is very, very silly of you to think so, sir. you must be good to him, dear little pony, and give him nice rides, and then he'll love you, just as i do, and we'll all be friends together. so now eat this, little frisk," she continued, and breaking off a piece of the bread, she held it up to the pony's nose. but suddenly bunny gave a little shriek, and drew her hand quickly away; for without intending it, frisk had actually bitten his kind little mistress. the bread she offered him was so small, and his mouth was so big, that the child's fingers got rather far in among his teeth, and when frisk's white grinders came down upon the dainty offered him, they met rather sharply upon poor bunny's thumb. the skin was slightly cut, and as a little stream of blood ran down her finger the child grew frightened and began to cry. "oh, frisk, frisk, why did you bite? i never thought you would do such a thing," she cried reproachfully. "i never, never knew you do such a thing before;" and sinking down on the straw by his side, she tried to stop the blood by rolling her finger tightly up in the corner of her pinafore. "just when i wanted to tell the new cousin that you were a good, kind pony, you go and bite me--oh dear, oh dear, i am very sorry, frisk, i am indeed." but in spite of the little girl's sorrowful lecture, frisk did not in the least know that he had done anything wrong, and poking his soft nose into bunny's lap, he carried off the remaining piece of bread and ate it with much relish. "you artful old thing," cried bunny, delighted with his cleverness, and smiling through her tears, "if you hadn't bit me i'd have said you were the best and dearest little pony alive;" and forgetting her anger at him for hurting her, she jumped up and patted and kissed his soft silky nose. "where is mademoiselle bunny? ah! that child will be the death of me. jean, have you seen meess bunny anywhere about?" cried sophie, just outside the stable door; and the little girl knew that her hour was come and that she was going to get a good scolding. "oh, miss bunny is in there, talking to frisk, mamzelle sophie," answered the groom. "little naughty one! ah, these english children are so dreadful!" cried sophie, and in a moment bunny was dragged out from her seat on the straw and carried away to the nursery. "oh!" she screamed as soon as they were inside the door, "what is that i see on your dress, mademoiselle? blood, i declare! oh, what will your mama say? she will send away that beast of a pony i am sure, and then you will not make such early walks to the stable." "oh, sophie, sophie, don't tell! don't tell!" cried bunny, "frisk did not mean to hurt me i am sure, and it's nearly well now. look, it has stopped bleeding already, so don't tell mama, pray don't," and the little girl raised her eyes full of tears to the maid's face. "well, i won't tell if you will promise me never to slip out of your bed and away out of the house again as you have done just now." "oh, i never will, i never will, sophie!" cried bunny, "but do say you won't tell. i couldn't bear to see frisk sent away." "well, well, don't cry any more," said sophie good-naturedly. "be a good enfant, and i will say not anything about it." "oh! you dear, darling sophie, i'll be so good, so good!" cried the little girl, "i'll be so good that you'll never have to scold me any more." "ma foi, what a change that will be!" cried sophie, "if you get so good as all that i will send for the doctor." "for the doctor!" exclaimed bunny in surprise. "why would you send for him?" "good gracious, mademoiselle, because i will surely think you are ill if you get to be an angel like that; but i am very certain i shall have to scold you many times before this evening comes." "very likely, sophie, but still i'm good now," said bunny with a merry little laugh, and as the maid gave the last touch to her hair, the last pull to her sash, she ran out of the nursery and away to her mama with whom she always had her breakfast. bunny was in a wild state of excitement all that day, and sophie and miss kerr found it very hard to keep her in order and prevent her disturbing her mama, who was not well, and could not bear much noise. "oh, dear, how long the day is! how long the day is!" she cried over and over again. "i don't think evening will ever come, miss kerr, i don't, indeed." "it will come fast enough, bunny dear, if you will only have patience. try and forget that you are expecting anything to happen." "i wish i could! i wish i could! but i do so wish to see what mervyn is like." "you impatient little goose, do try and think of something else and time will go over much faster. but i tell you what, bun," said miss kerr, when they had finished their early dinner, "we will go and take a good run on the sands and that will pass the afternoon very nicely for us." "but they might come when we are away, and that would be dreadful." "no, they won't, because they can't," said miss kerr with a smile. "the train does not come in until seven, and it is only three now, so you see we have plenty of time for a nice walk." [illustration: chapter decoration.] chapter iv. bunny gets a fright. "do be quick, sophie," cried bunny as she rushed into the nursery after her walk upon the sands, "miss kerr says it is half-past five, and papa and mervyn will be here at seven, so do be quick and dress me as fast as ever you can, for i want to be down in the hall, ready to jump out at them the minute they come to the door." "indeed," said sophie without moving from her chair at the window. "what haste we are in, certainly. but you may just keep still, miss bunny, for i am not going to touch you for one half hour. what is the use for me to dress you now, when long before seven you would be so black as a sweep again, i know." "oh, what a bother!" cried bunny, stamping her foot and flinging her pretty white hat upon the floor. "you are a nasty thing, and i wish you had not come to be my maid at all, for you never do anything i ask you to do. i wish dear old nurse was back with me again, she used to be so nice, and always did whatever i wanted." "old nurse was an old silly," answered sophie, stitching away at her work. "she neg-lect you and make you so naughty, and it is for me to keep you in order and make you good." "well, i won't be kept in order, and i won't be made good--not one bit," cried bunny bursting into tears. "it's very unkind of you not to dress me in time to see my papa, and he'll be very angry with you." [illustration: bunny welcomes her father.] "come, miss bunny, don't be a silly baby," said sophie, "i'll dress you soon enough, do not fear that. you had so much best go and make tidy that doll's house, for the little cousin will be ashamed to see it in so much of disorder." "i don't want to tidy my doll's house, and i don't care whether mervyn likes it or not, not a bit!" said bunny, and taking off one little glove she threw it into the very furthest corner of the room, and then rolling the other into a ball she threw it at sophie's head as she sat bending over her work. but the maid did not take the slightest notice of the young lady, and without another word went quietly on with her sewing. when bunny saw that sophie was really determined not to dress her for some time, she sat down on the floor in silence, and leaning her head up against the side of her crib, kicked about for some minutes in a very ill-tempered way indeed. after a while she grew tired of this conduct, which to her great surprise did not seem to make sophie the least bit angry, and not knowing what to do with herself she sat staring about the room with a very sulky expression on her little face. but by degrees the tears dried up, the cross look disappeared, and jumping suddenly to her feet, she trotted off to the other end of the room. pulling open the wide door of the doll's house, she set to work very industriously to put it in order. she brushed the carpets, dusted the chairs, shook out the dolls' dresses and set them out in the drawing-room as if they were waiting to receive their visitors. "now it's tidy, sophie," she cried with a bright little smile. "mervyn will think it a very nice doll's house. won't he?" "yes, my dear enfant, i am sure he will," said sophie kindly, "and now as you have been good and quiet for so long, i will begin to dress you if you like." "oh, that is a dear good sophie. i am so afraid that i shall not be ready when papa comes." "you will be ready, never fear," said sophie, and taking off the child's frock, she began to wash her face and hands. "you hurt, sophie, you hurt," cried bunny pettishly, as the maid combed out her long fair hair. "bah, no i don't hurt you, mademoiselle, except when you pull your head aside. but in truth it is hard to comb your hair properly when you move and fidget about. you are very difficult to manage to-day." "i tell you, you do hurt me--you pull as hard as anything," cried bunny growing very red. "very well, miss, if you are in such humour," cried sophie, "you may just stand there till you get back to your temper again. i'm going into the next room to get your frock, and i hope that when i come back you will be quiet and let me dress your hair like a little lady," and the maid flounced out of the nursery, leaving bunny standing before the glass in her short white petticoat, with one shoe off and the other on, her hair hanging in disorder about her shoulders, and her face puckered up in dismay at sophie's sudden and unexpected departure. "oh, why was i so cross about my hair?" she cried. "papa and mervyn will be here directly, and just look at the state i am in. what shall i do? what shall i do? sophie, i'll be good. do come back, and get me ready to go down." but sophie did not answer, nor did she return, and poor bunny sat down on the edge of her crib, and in spite of all the efforts she made to keep them back, the big tears rolled slowly down her cheeks. suddenly the sound of wheels was heard upon the gravel below, and brushing away her tears, the little girl started to her feet and ran over to the window. a cab covered with luggage was coming in at the big gate, and in a minute she saw her papa nodding gaily up to his little bunny, with a bright well-pleased smile upon his dear face. without a moment's thought as to the state she was in, or of what her papa or the little boy from india might think of her in such a condition, bunny dropped the blind, and with a joyful cry of "papa, papa, my own dear papa," she rushed out of the nursery and away down the stairs. "my little darling! my sweet little bun," exclaimed mr. dashwood, as the small wild-looking figure came running along the hall and jumped into his arms. "why, dear, why did you come out of the nursery before you were dressed?" he said, as he smoothed back the ruffled hair and kissed the hot cheeks of the excited child. "you are in a strange state to receive visitors, bunny dear, and i am afraid cousin mervyn will be shocked at my wild girl, for he is a very tidy little man, i can tell you. mervyn, this is your cousin ethel, commonly called bunny, i hope you will be very good friends," and he put out his hand to a pale gentle-looking boy of about seven years old, who was clinging shyly to the skirts of an indian ayah, as though afraid to let her go from beside him for an instant. when bunny raised her head from her papa's shoulder to look at her new cousin, her eyes suddenly lighted upon the grinning black face of the strange foreign-looking woman, and with one wild yell of terror she turned away, and buried her little face in her father's coat. "oh, send that dreadful thing away!" she cried, "i'm not half so naughty as i used to be! and i have promised miss kerr to be so good! oh, papa, papa, don't give your little bunny to that dreadful black woman." "my darling, that is mervyn's nurse, and he loves her very dearly. see how he clings to her and begs her to stay with him! just look how kind she is to him!" "oh, no, no, papa, she's a bogie, i am sure," cried the child, clinging to him more nervously than ever. "sophie always tells me a bogie will come for me if i am naughty, and i was naughty just now because sophie pulled my hair, and i was cross, and cried and stamped my foot and--" "my poor foolish little girl, she is not a bogie, but a good kind woman--her face is black, but she can't help that. it was very wrong of sophie to frighten you about bogies, very wrong--there is no such thing in the world." "ah, monsieur, monsieur, i'm so sorry meess bunny has been so naughty to run down to you in such a state," cried sophie running into the hall with a very angry look on her face. "i just left her for a minute to get her frock, and when i came back she was gone." "oh, sophie, sophie, don't scold me, please," cried bunny, "i'll go back to the nursery, and let you dress me now. oh, take me away quick, for if i see that dreadful face, i shall scream again, i know i shall;" and with one little hand over her eyes that she might not see the terrible creature again, bunny flung herself into sophie's arms and was carried off upstairs to have her toilet completed for dinner. "poor little monkey!" said mr. dashwood laughing, "i never thought she would be so easily frightened. ashton, take the nurse down to the housekeeper's room, and tell the servants to look after her, and give her her dinner. come, mervyn, my little man, i want to take you to see your aunt." "yes, uncle," answered the little boy in a shy nervous voice, and looking up into the ayah's face to see what she wished him to do. "go at once," she said in hindustanee, and then mervyn went up to his uncle, and putting his little hand into his, allowed him to lead him down the passage to the drawing-room. [illustration: chapter decoration.] chapter v. the little indian. mrs dashwood lay on the sofa in the drawing-room, and miss kerr sat beside her reading aloud. the two children, bunny and mervyn, were seated side by side upon a large white woolly rug in the bow-window, and they whispered together in very low tones lest they should disturb the ladies by their noise. bunny was nursing a pretty black kitten, with a red ribbon round its neck, whilst mervyn sat with his little hands clasped over his knees, looking out at the blue sparkling sea, with a well-pleased expression on his thin pale face. "what a lovely cool place england is!" he whispered; "it feels so comfortable and nice here, and that sea is so beautiful to look at." "yes, to look at," answered bunny, nodding her head; "but, oh! mervyn, wouldn't you feel afraid to go into it, and have your face stuck right under the water, and held there till you had no breath, and--" "oh, that would be horrible!" cried mervyn with a frightened look; "my papa would be angry if i were put into the sea in that way. oh! i will write and tell him if--" "well, i know he wrote to say that bathing would be very good for you," said bunny, "and mama told miss kerr this very morning she was sure it would be. but i tell you, mervyn, it's only sophie that is so rough and nasty. one day i went to bathe with miss kerr, and it was lovely! she told me when she was going to dip me, and she let me play at the edge, and i took dolly in and i dipped her, and it was such fun." "well, then, i will ask miss kerr always to bathe me," replied mervyn; "i should die, i am sure, if i were pushed under the water and could not get my breath." "oh! i was often and often pushed down that way by sophie, and i didn't die at all; but i kicked and screamed most dreadfully," cried bunny; "but then, mama says i am very strong, and sophie said last night that you were a misserble creature, so thin and white." "sophie is very rude!" exclaimed mervyn with a slight flush; "i am not a miserable creature; i can't help being white; everyone is in india, because it's so hot." "that is funny!" cried the little girl, "for sophie said all indians were black, and i thought you would have a little black face like pussy here, only miss kerr told me you would be as white as me; but you're whiter, much whiter," and she laid her small plump pink hand on mervyn's thin white one. "i don't like your sophie," cried mervyn impatiently; "she talks in such a queer way, and she's not half so nice as my dear old indian nurse. i do wish she had been able to stay in england with me." "oh, i think she was a horrid fright!" cried bunny, "with her nasty black face and her dreadful flappy wild dress, and i'm sure nobody could understand a word she said." "i could," said mervyn with a sigh, "and i liked talking hindustanee much better than english." "but it sounds so silly!" cried bunny; "i think it's a great pity people shouldn't always speak english everywhere, for that would be so plain and easy." "well, i would much rather everyone would speak hindustanee, for that would be much nicer." "oh, dear! i don't think so," said bunny; "and i think you speak english very well." "do you?" said mervyn, smiling; "papa did not; and do you know, i can't always think of the right words for things." "oh! just ask me and i will tell you," replied bunny jauntily, "for i never have to think for my words at all." "bunny, dear," said mrs. dashwood from her sofa, "i think you have nursed that kitten quite long enough; the poor little thing looks very tired. put it into its basket like a good child." "very well, mama," answered bunny, and, jumping up, she ran over to a corner of the room where stood a pretty round basket, which was always used as a snug bed for miss puss. bunny dropped her pet gently in upon the soft cushion, and after much stroking and tucking up, she stole away on tip-toe to her mother's side. but pussy was in a playful mood, and as soon as the little girl's back was turned she sprang lightly out of her bed and went scampering gaily round the room. "naughty, naughty puss!" cried bunny laughing, and off she went in pursuit of the runaway. "bunny, dear bunny, i can't bear that noise," cried mrs. dashwood, as her little daughter tumbled over a footstool and knocked down a chair. "i can't bear it indeed, dear child, so i think you had better go out. sophie will take you for a walk, as i want miss kerr to read to me." "oh, mama! i like miss kerr much better than sophie," cried bunny, "and so does mervyn. do let miss kerr come." "but, bunny, dear," said miss kerr, "you would not like poor mama to have no one to read to her, would you? it is so dull for her all day on the sofa by herself. you would not ask me to leave her, would you?" "oh! no, no, dear, darling mama, i will not ask miss kerr to come, not for a minute!" cried bunny as, kneeling beside the sofa, she threw her arms round her mother's neck and kissed her vehemently. "i could not bear to think of you being lonely, mamey dear. but do let us stay here now, and go out in the afternoon with miss kerr. mervyn can't bear sophie." "i am sorry for that, my little man," said mrs. dashwood, drawing the boy towards her; "sophie is sharp and quick, but she is very good-natured, i think, so i hope you will try and like her." "oh! yes, aunt," answered mervyn, flushing, "i only meant that i would rather have my own dear nurse, and that i was very sorry she had been sent away to india again." "she was not sent away, dear," answered mrs. dashwood; "she went by her own wish. she was fond of you, mervyn, but she did not like to live in england, so she hurried back to india as soon as she could. it will be better for you to learn english well, and try to pick up a little french from sophie, than to be always talking with an indian, my child. but the first thing you have to do, mervyn, is to get fat and rosy like bunny here. and you must grow tall, dear boy, for you are very, very small for your age; you must grow as fast as you can or this little girl will soon be the tallest," and mrs. dashwood pinched her daughter's plump cheek. "oh! but mama, dear, he can't make himself grow," remarked bunny, as she stood up to measure herself with her cousin. "he has not got a key to wind up the works of himself, so he must just wait small till he begins to grow big." "you are sharp enough, miss pert," said her mother, laughing. "i wish you would learn to be more steady and to remember what is said to you." "oh! i can remember," cried bunny gaily; "i've got a splendid memory, haven't i, miss kerr?" "yes, i think you have, dear," said miss kerr gravely; "but i am afraid you do not always remember at the right time. eh! bunny?" "no, i don't," said the little girl, hanging her head; "i quite forgot when i got up and went to feed frisk. but i don't think god minded that much; it was not much harm." "god is always displeased at disobedience, bunny," said mrs. dashwood very seriously. "the first thing god expects of a little child is that she should be obedient, and so my bunny must try and remember things that she is not allowed to do, and then be very careful not to do them." "yes, mama, i will try," said bunny in a subdued voice. "that is right, dear, and i hope little mervyn will do the same." "yes, aunt, i will indeed; papa told me to be very good until he came home, and i mean to be," he said, drawing himself up in a determined manner. "well, then, i am sure you will do bunny good and help her to remember. but now run away like good children and tell sophie to take you out for a walk. it is a lovely morning, and a run on the sands will give you an appetite for your dinner." "very well, mama," cried bunny gaily, and away she darted out of the room singing and shouting at the top of her voice. "good morning, aunt," said mervyn gently, and he followed his little cousin in a slow dignified manner, turning quietly to shut the drawing-room door behind him. "what a harum-scarum that bunny is!" said mrs. dashwood with a sigh. "it is very hard to make an impression on her." "yes, it is certainly, at least for more than a few minutes at a time," answered miss kerr; "she is always so ready to be good, no matter what she has done, that it is not easy to scold her much. but she is a good-hearted child, and i am sure in a short time you will see a great change in her." "i hope so, indeed," said mrs. dashwood, "for she is a constant worry at present and extremely hard to manage." [illustration: chapter decoration.] chapter vi. bunny forgets again. out of the gate and down the road went the two little cousins hand in hand, whilst close behind them walked sophie, holding up a big umbrella, and carrying a yellow-covered novel under her arm. on they went; the little ones laughing and talking pleasantly together, until they came to the entrance of the spa, a gay promenade which the fashionables of the place were in the habit of frequenting in the morning to inhale the sea breezes, listen to sweet music and meet their friends. sophie liked the spa, for there she saw much to delight and amuse her, whilst on the sands she always felt dull and weary. but bunny's ideas and those of her maid were not at all the same, for the little girl loved the sands, and could spend hours there digging and building castles of all shapes and sizes. every day there was an angry dispute between the nurse and child as to where they should spend their time between breakfast and dinner; sometimes one came off victorious and sometimes the other. this morning, as usual, bunny was quite determined to go on the sands, and sophie was equally resolved to go down to the spa. "mama said we were to go on the sands, sophie, and i hate that old spa," cried bunny, making a rush towards the steps that led down to the sands; "i've got my spade, and so has mervyn, and it's very unkind of you not to come there when it looks so nice and we both want to go." "you'll just please to come where i tell you, mademoiselle," said sophie, making a dive at the little girl, and dragging her through the turnstile and on to the bridge that led into the cliff grounds. "don't you think you go to play any of your bad tricks on me. it is enough difficult minding two of you in here without running all over the sands for you." "never mind, bunny," said mervyn gently, as they walked along together, "miss kerr will come on the sands with us after dinner, perhaps, and then we will have fine fun." "yes, indeed," answered the little girl with a toss of her head, and speaking in a loud voice so that the maid might hear her; "miss kerr always does what i ask her to do, but sophie is a regular cross-patch." "sit down here, mademoiselle, and try to behave like a lady," cried sophie, as she seated herself upon a bench at the top of the cliff, overlooking the promenade and sea. "oh, i don't want to sit down, i want to walk," cried bunny tearfully; "why, we have just come out." "of course you want to do exactly what i tell you not to do," said sophie angrily; "sit down, both of you, when i tell you," and she lifted first one and then the other, and placed them very roughly upon the bench. in a few minutes a friend of sophie's approached them, and after some pressing she took a seat beside the maid, and the two children were pushed away by themselves to the other end of the bench. "how long an age it is since i've seen you, kitty!" cried sophie, smiling pleasantly upon the new-comer. "yes, it is a long time," answered her friend, "and i've lots of news for you. i've heard of a place--but it might be dangerous to say much just now," and she glanced at the children. "oh, they will not pay attention," cried sophie, "but it's easy to get rid of them if you like. meess bunny, you can run and play up and down for a little with your cousin. but do not go very far." "that is nice!" exclaimed bunny gaily; "thank you, sophie, very much," and jumping off the seat, she took mervyn by the hand and dragged him away for a race down the hill. "what is that, bunny? what is that?" cried mervyn suddenly, and he pointed his finger towards the far end of the spa. "it's like a train, at least one carriage of a train, and it's running so fast up the side of the cliff, and, oh dear! i declare there is another one just the same coming down past it." "that is the lift, mervyn; doesn't it look very funny hanging all down like that? do you know, i went in it once with papa and it was lovely. it went along so smooth and so fast." "i would like so much to go in it," said mervyn, "i wonder if uncle will take me some day." "yes, i am sure he will, and me too," cried bunny, skipping gaily along. "but i tell you what, mervyn, wouldn't it be fun to go off now, all by ourselves." "now!" exclaimed mervyn in surprise, "and what would sophie say?" "oh, she will never know," said bunny. "we'll go up in the lift and run down those paths among the trees ever so fast, and get back to her before she knows we have gone away at all. she always has so much to say to that friend of hers." "yes, but don't you have to pay to go up in the lift?" asked mervyn, "and i have no money. have you?" "of course we must pay, but it's only a penny each, i know," answered bunny, "and i have got twopence in my pocket that papa gave me this morning. i was going to give it to miss kerr, but i won't now." "to miss kerr! why should you give her your money?" "oh, that's a secret of mine. but i don't mind telling you, mervyn, only you must not tell anyone, will you now? promise you won't, like a good boy." "i promise," answered mervyn earnestly; "i would not tell anyone for the world." "well, one day miss kerr lent me three pennies to give to a poor boy, and i said i would pay her back very soon." "then i would not spend the pennies," said mervyn decidedly; "keep them, bunny, and give them to miss kerr when we go home." "oh, no; i would much rather go in the lift," cried bunny. "miss kerr won't mind, for she said i need not be in a hurry to pay it." "still i think it would be better," began mervyn solemnly, "to pay miss--" "oh, bother! never mind thinking, but come along, or we will not have time to go up in the lift before sophie wants to go home for her dinner." "i should like to go up in it very much," said mervyn weakly, and casting longing looks at the distant lift, "but, indeed, bunny--" "oh, you are silly!" cried the little girl. "come on quick or we sha'n't have time," and grasping his hand, she hurried him down the steps, with just one backward glance to make sure that sophie was still safe upon her bench. the maid's face was turned away towards her friend, who seemed to be telling a very interesting story; they were both completely occupied and quite unaware of what was going on about them. "we shall have plenty of time!" said bunny growing bold at the sight of the back of sophie's head. "so come along, mervyn, and see what the lift is like." there was a great crowd of ladies and gentlemen walking up and down the promenade, and it took the children a long time to make their way as far as the band-stand, and even then they were at some distance from the wonderful lift that had attracted the little stranger so much. as they hurried along, pushing their way right and left through the people, the band began to play the "blue danube waltzes," and mervyn stopped short in delight. "oh, what a lovely waltz!" he cried. "bunny dear, do let us stay here and listen to it. i'd much rather hear the music than go up in the lift, i would, indeed." "oh! no, no," cried bunny, "i'm tired of that old band, it's a stupid old thing! we can come and listen to it to-morrow if you like; but do come on now, you can't think how nice it is flying up the cliff in the lift; besides, i am quite sure that we sha'n't get a chance to go another day." "oh, very well, if you want to go so much; but really, bunny, i would far rather stay and hear the music," said mervyn, "i would indeed." "bother the music! do come, like a good boy," cried the little girl impatiently, and catching him by the hand she dragged him away through the gate that led to the lift. there was a great crowd of people of all kinds waiting to go up in the lift, for it was getting near luncheon hour at the hotels, and many were anxious to be in good time for that pleasant meal. our little friends, bunny and mervyn, were so small that they were a good deal knocked about by the crowd, and the lift went off several times before they managed to push themselves anywhere near the front. at last the conductor noticed the two mites, and stepping forward in a kindly way, he took them by the hand, helped them into the carriage, and seating them side by side, remarked with a smile: "you're a funny pair to be sure! where is your nurse?" "she's on the spa, at least on a bench just at the top of the steps," said bunny gaily as she arranged her short skirts about her on the seat. "my cousin is a stranger here, so i have brought him to see what the lift is like." "indeed!" said the man with a laugh. "what a kind little lady you are to be sure;" and then, as the carriage was full, he banged the door and away they went. "isn't it nice, mervyn? aren't you glad i brought you?" asked bunny in a patronizing tone. "it is much nicer in here than sitting up on that bench. isn't it?" "yes, i suppose it is," answered mervyn doubtfully, "but oh, bunny, i don't much like it! i have a sort of feeling as if i were in a ship, and it makes me giddy to look out--indeed it does." "don't look out then," said bunny decisively. "but really, mervyn, i think it's lovely--it's so--oh, dear what is that?" she cried in alarm, as with a harsh grating noise the lift they were in, came to a sudden stand-still, and the descending one shot quickly past them. "something gone wrong, i expect," grumbled an old gentleman beside her; "ah, they have to let us go down again! what an awful nuisance!" "oh, please, sir, is there going to be an accident?" cried bunny in a voice of terror, and growing very pale. "my cousin is just come from india, and i am sure he will be frightened," and she put her little arm round mervyn as if to protect him from danger. "no, no, there is not going to be any accident, my little girl," answered the old gentleman with a kind smile. "don't be afraid, we'll go up again in a minute; but i must say the small cousin from india doesn't look half so much frightened as you do," and he patted her on the back. "there, now, off we go, you see, and we'll be at the top in a minute." "oh, i am so glad we are out of that horrid thing! and, bunny, i am sure we should never have gone into it," cried mervyn, as they at last stepped out of the lift and ran quickly along the cliff towards the entrance to the spa grounds. "just think, there might have been an accident and we might have been killed! oh, it would have been so dreadful if such a thing had happened." "yes, it would," answered bunny, "and sophie will be angry, for we have been away such a long time. and oh, mervyn, now i remember, mama told me that i should never leave my nurse when i was out with her, and i quite forgot, and there, i have been disobedient again! i am so sorry." "oh, bunny, bunny! why don't you try and remember?" cried mervyn reproachfully, "and we promised aunt to be so good just before we came out," and tears of sorrow stood in the little boy's eyes. "never mind, mervyn, dear," said bunny kissing him, "it was my fault. don't cry--you were not naughty at all. it was all because i forgot again. oh, dear, i am afraid miss kerr will be angry with me. but come along quick, there is sophie. see, she is looking about everywhere for us." the two children trotted along at a brisk pace down the steep winding path that led through the pretty ornamental grounds with which the cliff, overhanging the spa, was tastefully laid out. the trees were high and shady, so the little creatures were not visible from below as they ran quickly on their way. but soon they came to a part where there was not even a bush to hide them from view, and as sophie walked up and down in despair, her eyes wandering about wildly in every direction, she suddenly caught sight of bunny's white hat and blue sash, and with a shriek of rage, she bounded up the path, and taking hold of them by the shoulders shook them angrily as she cried in a hoarse voice: "ah, you wicked bad ones, i thought you were lost! i thought the kidnappers had taken you away for ever." "oh, we are too big for that!" cried bunny, "and you need not be in such a rage, sophie, we only went up in the lift, as mervyn wanted to see what it was like;" and she walked past the maid with a scornful toss of her little head. "i am very sorry, sophie, indeed i am," said mervyn gently; "i did not know we had so far to go. i am sorry you thought we were lost." "ah! much i care whether you are sorry or not," cried the angry maid. "it will be like mademoiselle bunny's sorrow--it will last one minute--and then off to some more naughty things," and with a push and a slap sophie drove the two children on before her, over the bridge and away home to holly lodge. "and now," she cried as they reached the hall door, "i will march you both up to miss kerr, and see what she will do with you. some punishment should be given to you, and i don't know what to do." "oh, very well!" said bunny, "we'll go and tell miss kerr ourselves. you need not come with us, we don't want you at all. come along, mervyn;" and taking the little boy by the hand, she dragged him up the stairs after her. [illustration: chapter decoration.] chapter vii. in miss kerr's room. when the two children reached miss kerr's bed-room, they found the door shut, and feeling quite certain that she was there, they knocked gently, and then stood very still upon the mat, expecting every moment to hear her voice calling to them to go in. "dear miss kerr," said bunny at last, as, growing impatient at the delay, she put her little mouth to the key-hole and tried very hard to make herself heard within the room, "mervyn and i want to tell you something, so please, please, open the door and let us in." but to her surprise she received no answer, and becoming more and more cross and impatient, she rattled the handle as noisily as possible in order to attract miss kerr's attention. "i can't make out why she doesn't speak to us," said mervyn in a whisper. "i think she must be asleep." "asleep!" exclaimed bunny indignantly. "she isn't a baby, and she isn't ill, so why should she be asleep at this time of the day?" "well, in india people sleep in the day when they're not a bit ill, just because it's hot--so why shouldn't they here?" "what a lot of sillies they must be in india then!" cried bunny contemptuously. "why, i have not been asleep in the day for years--not since i was quite small," and she rattled away more noisily than ever at the door-handle. "miss kerr is not there, children," said a housemaid who passed along the passage at that moment, "she has been in the drawing-room all the morning." "has she?" said bunny, "oh, then, i tell you what, mervyn, we'll just go in and wait for her. she will be sure to come up in a few minutes to wash her hands before dinner, and then we'll tell her." "oh, but there is sophie calling to us to get ready ourselves. she will be awfully angry if we don't go," said mervyn. "listen how she is screaming." "never mind her, the nasty, cross old thing!" cried bunny, opening the bed-room door. "come in, mervyn, come in! there is sophie--do be quick, or she will catch us and drag us off with her--and then she'll tell miss kerr before we do. come in, come in," and once more she hurried her cousin along with her, against his own will and inclination. "but, bunny, i do think we ought to go to sophie, i do indeed," said mervyn; "listen, she is asking the housemaid if she has seen us anywhere. and oh, she is coming here to look for us--she will be awfully cross! do let us go into the nursery quietly and take off our things and get ready for dinner." "well, you are a silly, mervyn! that would spoil all the fun. but i know what i'll do--i'll lock the door, and then sophie will not be able to get us. i can easily open it for miss kerr when she comes up," cried bunny; and before mervyn could say a word to prevent her, the little girl turned the key in the lock, and, clapping her hands with delight, danced up and down the room singing at the top of her voice: "what a good plan! what a good plan! and the dinner is in the frying pan!" "indeed, then i wish it was here," grumbled mervyn, "i'm awfully hungry, and it would be much better to go down to dinner now, and tell miss kerr afterwards, or at dinner-time, bunny, indeed it would." "yes, and let sophie hear her scolding us," cried the little girl. "i am hungry too, i can tell you, mervyn; but miss kerr won't be long, i am sure. hasn't she got a pretty room? and doesn't the sea and the bridge look nice from the window?" "well enough," answered mervyn crossly, as he rolled about in an arm-chair that stood away in the furthest corner. "but oh, it is silly to be sticking up here when the dinner is ready down-stairs--oh, i smell it, and it does smell nice! and i am so hungry, and it's very stupid of you to keep me shut up here." "well, i thought you were sorry and wanted to tell miss kerr so," said bunny complacently, as she shook out her frock and admired herself in the long glass. "it's very greedy to talk so much about your dinner." "is it?" grumbled mervyn. "well, i don't care! i'm sure you're just as bad twisting about and looking at yourself in the glass, for that's being vain, and i'd rather be greedy than vain, so i would, bunny." "would you? oh, that's because you're a boy. boys are greedy, but it's vulgar to be greedy--sophie says it is, but it's different to be vain, i--" "mademoiselle bunny, come out this minute. ah, what a little naughty one you are! and that cousin of yours he is a wicked bad boy--he leads you into the mischiefs of all kinds. come out, i say, the dinner is ready and miss kerr is waiting for you;" and sophie rattled the handle and hammered at the door till the whole passage was filled with the noise and the other servants came running from all parts of the house to see what could be the matter. "what is wrong, sophie?" asked miss kerr, as she too hurried upstairs wondering what was going on in the corridor. "why are you making such a dreadful noise?" "ah! ma foi! noise, miss kerr! what can i do but make a noise, when those two children have locked themselves into your room, and will not come out for their dinner. is it then a wonder that i make a noise?" and she began once more to bang the door as if she would like to break it in. "that was miss kerr's voice, bunny," whispered mervyn; "do open the door and let us go out to her now." "is it really? i only heard sophie. miss kerr," she called, "are you there?" "yes, bunny, i am here. come out, child, come to your dinner. you must be starving, both of you." "yes, we are," answered bunny, "and we will go out if you will send sophie away. mervyn and i want to tell you something." "ah! what a naughty child!" cried sophie. "meess kerr, they have both been so very difficult, so wicked! they have run away, they have gone in the lift, they have just escaped being seized by kidnappers and--" "that's a great story, sophie," cried bunny through the door, "for there was not a single kidnapper near us; was there, mervyn?" "no, there wasn't," said mervyn, "not one, sophie, there wasn't really." "now!" shouted bunny triumphantly, "you see you are quite wrong, sophie." "open the door, bunny, this minute," said miss kerr decidedly, "i am surprised that you should behave in such a naughty way, just when i thought you were going to be a good girl." "i'll open it now, indeed i will," cried bunny, "and please, please don't be angry with us. we are so sorry we ran away from sophie, indeed we are, and that is the reason we came up here, just to tell you so." all the time the child was talking she was also working away at the key, trying her very best to open the door. but no matter how she turned or pulled it, round it would not go, and at last, hot and tired with so many violent efforts, she begged mervyn to try if he could make it turn. "no, bunny, i can't," said the boy sadly, after working patiently at the key for some time. "it's no use, i can't do it at all." "oh dear, oh dear!" cried bunny in a miserable voice, "what shall we do? miss kerr, dear, we can't open the door, it's locked quite fast." "take the key out of the lock and push it under the door, and i will try and open it from this side," said miss kerr; "it was really very naughty of you to lock yourselves up in such a way. but be quick and give me the key." after a good deal of pulling and tugging, bunny at last managed to get the key out of the lock, and kneeling on the floor she tried with all the strength of her tiny hands to push it out under the door. but the key was too large or the door fitted too closely, and the little girl gave a cry of alarm as she found that it was quite impossible to get it out into the passage. "oh, mervyn, dear, it won't go out! oh! miss kerr, what shall we do?" she cried, bursting into tears; "if we can't open the door what shall we do?" "and i am so hungry," said mervyn in a doleful tone. "how nasty it will be to be stuck in here for ever! oh, pray open the door! oh! pray open the door, miss kerr." "throw the key out of the window, bunny," said miss kerr, "and i will go round and pick it up, and let you out in a minute." "oh! the window is shut. the window is shut," cried the two children in despair, "and we cannot reach to open it. what shall we do? what shall we do?" "good gracious!" exclaimed miss kerr, "who can have shut the window?" "i am sorry to say i did, miss," said the housemaid. "the wind was so strong upon the window that was open, that i shut it, intending to open the middle one, but i forgot all about it when i was leaving the room." "it is extremely awkward, and has helped to give the poor children a great fright," said miss kerr. "go and bring me the keys of all the doors, sarah, and i will try if any of them will fit the lock. don't be uneasy, bunny; don't cry, little mervyn. we will get you out some way or other, you may be quite sure, so don't be afraid. i have sent for some keys to try if they will open the door, so don't fret. ah! here they are." one after the other the keys were taken and tried, but not one was of the slightest use. one was too large, and another too small, and miss kerr felt really grieved for the poor little prisoners, whose sobs were distinctly heard through the door. "what can i do?" she said. "it is really very hard on them to be shut in there for such a long, long time! and they are so hungry too." "send for a man to pick the lock, miss," said sarah. "ashton will get some one from one of the shops." "but that will take such a time!" cried miss kerr; "it is a long way to the town, and the children want their dinner so badly. no, i must think of some quicker plan than that. ah, now i know one!" she exclaimed with a sudden smile; "it is a pity, but it can't be helped! bunny, dear, will you take the poker, break a pane of glass with it, and throw the key out upon the grass. be very careful not to cut your fingers." "i'll do it!" cried mervyn, jumping up out of the chair, where he had been rolling about disconsolately. "i'd just like to break a window, and i'm taller than you, bunny; do let me, like a good girl." "no, no; miss kerr told me to do it," cried bunny, "and i should like to break a pane too;" and seizing the poker she sent it crash through the glass. "oh, what fun! what a rare smash!" exclaimed mervyn in delight. "i will throw the key out;" and he darted across the room, picked up the key, and flung it with all his strength at the window. but he did not aim straight, and instead of flying into the garden the key merely shattered the glass a little more, and fell back again on to the floor. "you stupid boy! what a bad shot!" cried bunny, and taking it up between her finger and thumb she stepped on a chair, and dropped it down cleverly upon the grass, just at miss kerr's feet. "that is right," said the governess with a smile, as she stooped to pick up the key; "and now don't you think it would be a good punishment for all your naughtiness to keep you both locked up there for the rest of the afternoon?" "oh, no, no, pray do not do that, miss kerr, we are so sorry and so hungry!" and the two little faces, as they were pressed against the window, looked so utterly miserable and woebegone, that the kind-hearted governess could not bear to carry out her threat of punishment, but hurried away as fast as possible to let the poor children out. when the door was at last opened and they were told to come forth, mervyn hung back and did not dare to raise his eyes to miss kerr's face. bunny, on the contrary, greeted her with a cry of joy, and springing into her arms, kissed her heartily over and over again. "i'm so glad to get out! i'm so glad to get out! oh, i was afraid we should have to stay in here all day by ourselves." "well, i hope this will be a lesson to you never to shut yourself into a room again, bunny," said miss kerr severely. "it was a very foolish thing to do, and i cannot say that i am very sorry that you got a little fright, for i really think you deserved to suffer something for your naughtiness. but tell me, little man," she said to mervyn, "are you not glad to get out too? you don't look so cheerful over it as bunny does." "i am very glad to get out. but i--i--wanted to tell you," he said with much difficulty, and clasping his little hands tightly together. "i want--to tell you--that i am very sorry i was disobedient and ran away from sophie." "i am glad to hear you say you are sorry, dear," answered miss kerr. "i am sure you mean it mervyn, and that i may trust you not to be disobedient again." "yes, you may trust me, indeed you may," the boy cried with a bright smile, "i will really try to be good, and make bunny remember if i can." "naughty little bun! why do you always forget as you do?" said miss kerr gently. "i did think you were going to be good to-day, and just see how you have disappointed me!" "i'm very sorry," murmured bunny, hanging her head. "i did want to be good, and i promise you i won't be naughty again. i'll always stay as close up to sophie as ever i can when we go out, i will indeed." "very well, then, i will not say any more about the matter. run away now, like good children, and get ready for dinner. and bunny, dear, if sophie is a little cross, be gentle and polite with her, for you have tormented and tried her temper very much, you know." "oh, i will be ever so nice and kind to her, dear, dear miss kerr," cried bunny as she gave the governess a bear-like hug and another loving kiss. "i'll be awfully polite;" and laughing merrily she jumped off her perch on miss kerr's knee, and ran down the passage to the nursery, waving her hat and singing at the top of her voice. "poor little giddy-pate!" said miss kerr with a sigh. "i wonder how long she will keep all those splendid promises. but why don't you go off and get ready for dinner too, mervyn?" she asked in surprise as she saw the little boy lingering at the door in a shy uncertain manner. "run along, dear, at once." "will you--give me a kiss?" said mervyn with a deep blush. "i want to know that you have really forgiven me." "of course i have, dear boy," answered miss kerr, and she put her arm round him and kissed him affectionately. "i have quite forgiven you, mervyn, and i feel sure that you are going to be a very good boy." "i am going to try very hard to be good," replied the boy solemnly, "and as bunny is so small perhaps i may make her do the same." "very likely, mervyn, dear, for good example is sure to have a strong effect upon little bunny, who is more thoughtless than really naughty. but run off now, dear, and get your hands washed as quickly as possible. the dinner will not be fit to eat if we keep it waiting any longer." "that is true," said mervyn with a bright happy smile. "we have kept it waiting a dreadfully long time, and we are all just dying with hunger, i'm sure;" and he too went off singing to the nursery. [illustration: chapter decoration.] chapter viii. bunny tries to show off. for some time after this there was a marked improvement in little bunny's behaviour, and everyone in the house was delighted with the change, and rejoiced over it in a very open manner. "it is perfectly wonderful!" said mrs. dashwood; "our little troublesome is becoming quite a well-behaved young person. i feel very grateful to you, miss kerr, for i believe it is all owing to your tender care and kind good-nature that the child is improving so much." "i don't think i have so much to do with the change as little mervyn," answered miss kerr with a smile. "i have lectured poor bunny very often, it is true, but i think a good obedient little friend does a child more real good than all the scoldings and lectures in the world." "yes, i daresay it is an excellent thing," replied mrs. dashwood; "but still i think your lectures and sermons have improved my poor darling a great deal. she was very ignorant when you came to look after her." "yes, she was," said miss kerr; "she did not know much, poor child, and what was worse, did not care to learn anything. but lately she has begun to get on very nicely. and there, again, you see it is mervyn who has done her good, for her whole ambition is to do everything better than he does it." "the little rogue!" exclaimed mrs. dashwood laughing. "well, it is a good thing to have found a way to make her work. where is she now, i wonder?" "mr. dashwood took her off with him to the stables. mervyn went too, as it seems there is a pleasant surprise awaiting them there. they both went off laden with bread for frisk." "i think i can guess what the surprise is," said mrs. dashwood with a smile; "i--" "oh, mama, mama! we are glad! we are glad!" cried bunny bursting suddenly into the room, followed by mervyn with a radiant look of happiness on his little white face. "what do you think? guess what has happened. just guess what papa has given mervyn." "dear aunt, it was so kind of uncle to buy me such a--" "let her guess--let her guess, mervyn. don't tell her what he bought you. miss kerr, what did papa buy for him? something living, something with a tail, something with a nose, a dear velvety nose and a soft silky coat," cried bunny, as she danced up and down the drawing-room in high glee. "a kitten," said miss kerr gravely. "a kitten! oh, the idea!" exclaimed bunny, "as if people bought kittens." "something far nicer!" said mervyn in a voice full of pleasure. "i'll tell her, bunny, something to ride--" "no, no, don't tell, don't tell!" cried the little girl, laying her hand quickly over his mouth. "mama, guess, guess." "a pony, bun, a little brown pony," said mrs. dashwood, smiling brightly upon the eager excited children. "you dear clever mamey, that's just what it is," exclaimed bunny, giving her mother an affectionate hug. "and mervyn's so pleased, and i am so glad, and oh, it will be so nice going out to ride together!" and jumping up sideways on the arm of the sofa the little girl began to work herself about as if she were really on frisk's back and trotting along a country road. "my dear bunny, please don't," cried mrs. dashwood, as she felt the sofa upon which she was lying, shaken up and down by the child's vigorous antics. "please don't, dear, you hurt me very much." "oh, i am so sorry!" cried bunny bounding quickly down from her perch, and holding her face up for a pardoning kiss. "but won't it be nice, mama? frisk is so glad to have a friend in the stable with him, and it will be fun for me to have mervyn to ride with." "yes, it will be very nice, dear. but, bunny, you talk so much that mervyn never gets saying a word. tell me, my dear, do you really like your pony?" "oh, yes, aunt, i am delighted with him, he is so pretty. it was very good of uncle to buy him for me." "and you will not be afraid to ride him, i hope," she said with a smile. "no, i think not, at least not if we go along quietly. but bunny says she will make frisk go awfully fast, and then my pony will run after him, and that she is sure i shall be frightened and hold on by the mane and--" "bunny, bunny, you must not say such naughty things," cried mrs. dashwood shaking her finger at the mischievous child. "but don't mind her, mervyn. she does not ride at all so splendidly herself. the groom or her papa always holds frisk by a leading rein, so it would be quite impossible for her to go on as fast as she likes; so do not mind her." "oh, i don't feel a bit afraid if some one holds my pony by a rein," said mervyn bravely; "not one bit; i think it will be lovely riding along together." "that is right," said mrs. dashwood. "i am sure you will be a clever horseman, for your papa was when he was a boy." "and so he is now, aunt. he has a beautiful horse, and he looks splendid on it when he goes off to ride," cried mervyn, smiling brightly at the recollection; "i used to think he looked grander than any of the other officers." "poor little man," said his aunt gently, as she smoothed back the hair from his brow. "you are very fond of your papa, mervyn, and do you know, i think you will be like him when you grow big and strong." "i want to be like him in every way," said mervyn, "and i mean to be an officer when i grow up." "and go away to that nasty, hot india," cried bunny; "oh, i'd be so lonely if you went away again--please don't, mervyn, please don't." "what is mervyn not to do, my little woman?" asked mr. dashwood, who entered the room at this moment. "he's not to go back to india again, because i should be so lonely without him," cried bunny catching hold of her papa's hand and laying her little cheek against it; "you won't let him go, papa, will you, dear?" "no, indeed, i couldn't think of such a thing. but i am sure he won't want to go when he hears that his papa is coming home for christmas; eh, my boy?" "that is good news, uncle," cried mervyn joyfully; "i never thought he would come so soon. not much fear of my wanting to go to india when he comes home." "so i thought," said mr. dashwood. "and now, children, when are we to have our first ride?" "now, now; to-day, to-day," cried bunny; "dear papa, let us go off at once!" "very well, my dear. i thought you would like to go soon, so i told john to get the ponies and horses ready in half an hour. you had better run and get on your habit--that is, if miss kerr will let you both off with your afternoon lessons. what do you think, miss kerr, do they deserve a ride?" "yes, i think they do, for they have both been very good," answered the governess with a smile; "besides, i really don't think they look studiously inclined--they are very much excited." "i couldn't learn a lesson if i tried ever so," cried bunny, "i really couldn't, so i am glad you are going to let us off. good-bye, miss kerr; good-bye, mama i sha'n't be long, papa, dear;" and away she flew in breathless haste to the nursery. sophie had received a message informing her that her young lady was going out for a ride, and when bunny went up to be dressed she found her pretty brown habit and neat felt hat laid all ready for her on the bed. "that is a dear good sophie," she cried, and she was in such good humour that she allowed the maid to brush her hair and put on her habit without uttering a single cross word or complaint. "thank you very much, that will do nicely," she said politely, as sophie put the last finishing touch to her curls; then taking her little whip with the pretty silver top from the maid's hand, she gathered up her skirts and ran quickly down to the hall-door. "what a pleasure it is to dress her when she is so good and polite as that!" said sophie to herself as she watched the little figure running away from her down the passage. "what a pity it is that children are so often naughty and troublesome!" when bunny arrived in the hall she found her papa and mervyn quite ready to start for their ride. "oh, how nice brownie looks!" cried the little girl in delight, as her cousin was lifted on to his new pony; "but i don't think he is as handsome as you, old frisk. is he, papa?" "i don't know, i am sure, dear," answered her papa, laughing; "but i suppose you like frisk best because he is your own." "yes, i suppose i do," said bunny, and placing her little foot on her papa's hand she sprang nimbly to her saddle. "good-bye, miss kerr, good-bye." mr. dashwood mounted his horse, the groom jumped on his, and the whole party rode gaily up the avenue and out of the gate. "i declare mervyn sits very well, papa," said bunny in a patronizing manner, as she looked back at her cousin, who was following them with the servant. "yes, of course he sits well; why shouldn't he?" asked mr. dashwood; "he wants a few lessons and then he will ride very well, i am sure." "yes, i daresay," said bunny; "but he never rode before, you know, except just little short rides on frisk, and he'd be awfully afraid to go without the leading rein, i know." "yes, and quite right too," said her father; "it's only children who ride very well who should be allowed to go without a leading rein, and especially on a country road. supposing the pony took it into his head to bolt--what do you think would happen then?" "oh, he could be pulled up quite tight by his rein. i wouldn't be a bit afraid to ride all by myself." "wouldn't you, indeed, miss vanity. well, i would rather not trust you," said mr. dashwood laughing; "i think it is very likely you would find master frisk rather too much for you without a leading rein, my dear child." "no, i shouldn't," answered bunny, bending over her pony and patting his neck; "frisk and i are such friends he would be sure to do what i told him. wouldn't you, friskie?" "don't trust him or your own power too much, miss bunny," replied her father with a smile. "but who is that coming down the road towards us? i think i ought to know him." "why, papa, it's mr. davis, that nice old gentleman who gave me the box of sweets; don't you remember? i'm sure it is." "yes, so it is," said mr. dashwood; "what sharp eyes you have, little woman! you and mervyn had better ride on with john, as i want to say a word to mr. davis." "very well, papa, but don't be long, pray," said the little girl; "it's so much nicer talking to you than to john." "no, i sha'n't be very long, dear. good morning, mr. davis," said mr. dashwood to a tall fine-looking old gentleman who at this moment rode up to them on a beautiful chestnut horse; "i am very glad to see you. this little girl of mine knew you a long way off." "ha! miss bunny and i are great friends," answered mr. davis with a smile, as he bent forward to shake her warmly by the hand. "those pretty eyes of yours are a deal sharper than mine, my dear, for i had not the faintest idea who it was that was coming along the road. but i am glad i met you, dashwood, as i want to say a few words to you about--" and he lowered his voice to a whisper. "very well," said mr. dashwood; "i'll send these little people on with the groom, and ride down the road a short way with you. john," he called to the servant, "take miss bunny's rein and go on up the hill with the children, turn in at lady edith's drive, and i will overtake you in a few minutes." "yes, sir," said the groom, touching his hat respectfully, and riding forward he took the rein from his master's hand. "ride quietly along and i will be back to you very soon, bunny," said mr. dashwood, and then he turned his horse round and walked it leisurely down the road again with mr. davis. "oh, what a pretty place!" cried mervyn, as the riding party trotted along through a gate and into a cool shady avenue, with tall stately trees growing closely together on every side. "this is lady edith's drive," said bunny; "i think it is the prettiest place about scarborough. it is so cool and pleasant, and then it is so quiet." "why is it called lady edith's drive?" asked mervyn. "i don't know," answered bunny. "do you, john?" "well, no, miss," said john; "i can't exactly say as i do. i suppose some lady edith used to drive here very often." "i suppose so, indeed," said bunny, laughing merrily at this explanation. "i don't think that tells us much, john," said mervyn; "anyone might know that." "yes, sir, very likely, sir," replied the groom; "but i never asks no questions. if i'm told a place is called by a name, i never asks why or wherefore, but just takes it as the name that it's to be called by." "well, i think you are very foolish then," said mervyn; "i like asking questions, and it's a very good way to learn about things, i can tell you." "i daresay it is, sir, for a young gentleman like you, sir. but you see the people about me don't know no more nor i do, so what's the use of asking them what's this an' what's that, an' showin' them i don't know nothin' myself." "i never thought of that," said mervyn, "but i don't think it matters about showing that you don't know. miss kerr says no one should be ashamed to ask a question about a thing they don't understand." "john, john," cried bunny suddenly as she pulled very hard at the leading rein in order to attract the groom's attention, "i want to ask you something. stoop down that i may whisper it into your ear." the man did as she requested; but when he had heard what she wanted him to do he shook his head in a very determined manner, saying, "i couldn't on no account, miss. your pa would be as angry as anything." "no, he wouldn't, john. i told him i could manage frisk myself, and he only laughed. do let me--just for a few minutes. i'll go along quite quietly, you'll see i will. i want to show mervyn that i can ride better than he does, and that i am not afraid to go without a leading rein." "well, it's very quiet here, so i suppose it could not be much harm," said the man, yielding a little at her pleading voice; "i really don't think it could be any harm;" and he turned in his saddle and looked carefully up and down the drive. "harm!" exclaimed bunny, "of course it could do no harm. oh! pray take off the rein, john," and she looked up into his face in a most imploring manner. "well, you are a funny little lady, to be sure," he answered with a good-natured laugh, and, bending forward, he unfastened the leading rein and put it into his pocket. "thank you, john," said the child, sitting up proudly on her pony. "it feels ever so much nicer without it; it's so silly to be always led along by a rein like a baby. mervyn, i am riding all by myself. wouldn't you like to ride without a leading rein?" she shouted across at her cousin, who was trotting along quietly at the other side of the groom; "it's twice as nice to feel that you can go just as you like." "i feel just as nice as i am, bunny, thank you," said mervyn; "i would rather have the rein, thank you." "i can't hear what you say, so i think i'll go round beside you, mervyn," she cried gaily; and, raising her whip, she brought it down heavily upon poor frisk's back, and tried to make him go round beside brownie. but frisk was not accustomed to such treatment, and tossed his head and whisked up his tail, but absolutely refused to go to the other side of john's horse, no matter what she did to him. "you naughty pony," she cried, "you must do what i tell you," and she tugged violently at his mouth, and gave him another sharp blow with her whip. this was more than the pony could bear; and before his little mistress knew where she was, he pricked up his ears, and with an angry toss of his head galloped away down the road as fast as he could. "stop, miss bunny, for goodness sake stop," shouted the groom; "you must not go so fast; come back here at once." [illustration: francis saves bunny.] "i can't stop--i can't!" shrieked the little girl in a voice of terror. "oh! he's running away--he's running away;" and, completely overcome with fright, poor bunny dropped her reins, and, catching hold of the pony's mane, held on to him with all her strength. "what a fool i was to let her go!" cried the groom; "what on earth will my master say to me? goodness, the silly child has let go her reins; she'll be off--she'll be off;" and, spurring up his horse, he rode after the runaway, hoping to overtake him and put a stop to his mad race. but the noise of the horses as they clattered down the road after him seemed only to excite master frisk, and on he went faster than ever. as the pony reached the end of the drive, and poor little bunny had become so weak and faint from terror that she was in great danger of being thrown to the ground, a young lad of about sixteen jumped up from the grass where he had been seated, and, dashing forward, seized frisk by the head and brought him to a sudden stand-still. "poor little girl," said the boy kindly, as he lifted bunny from her saddle and laid her gently on the grass. "what a fright you have had! how did this beggar come to run away? he looks quiet enough." "i whipped him," answered bunny in a shaky voice; "and oh! i thought i was going to fall," and she put her hand to her head as if she still felt giddy. "you were certainly very nearly off," said the boy; "but what a fool that groom of yours was to let a kid like you ride without a leading rein; he shouldn't have done such a thing." "oh! but i begged him so hard that he let me go," said bunny; "he didn't want to let me, and--" "miss bunny, i'm ashamed of you," cried john, riding up beside her. "you promised you'd ride quite quiet beside me, and you broke your word. i'm very thankful to you, sir, i'm sure," he continued, turning to the young stranger. "in another minute this little lady might have been thrown on her head and been killed on the spot." "oh, dear! oh, dear! it wasn't my fault," cried bunny, bursting into tears; "i only mean't to go round beside mervyn, and frisk ran away and--" "don't cry, dear," said the strange lad kindly; "you must not say another word to her, my man," he continued, turning to the groom; "she is rather shaken with her fright, and it's best to leave her alone. take hold of this pony and i will go and get your young lady some fresh water; that will do her good." "very well, sir," said john, pulling the leading rein once more from his pocket, and fastening it on to frisk's bridle with an angry jerk. "it's not my place to scold, miss bunny, but a young lady should keep her word, and not get a servant into trouble." "but i didn't mean to break my word, john, indeed i didn't," sobbed bunny. "oh! why did papa leave us? oh, dear! oh, dear!" "drink this, you poor little mite," said her new friend as he held a flask full of fresh water to her lips. "it will do you ever so much good. i will bathe your face for you, and then you will see how comfortable you will feel, but you must not cry any more." "thank you so much," said bunny, drinking off the water; "it is very cool and nice." "yes," the boy answered, "it is very refreshing, but this will do you more good, i am sure;" and, removing her hat, he took a neatly-folded, perfectly clean handkerchief from his pocket, shook it out, and, dipping it into the water, bathed the child's face as tenderly as a girl might have done. "you are very kind," said bunny, as she raised her big blue eyes to his face; "you are a nice good boy," and she raised her face to give him a kiss. "that's right," he said smiling; "you are beginning to look more cheerful," and, stooping, he kissed her gently on the forehead. at this moment the sound of horses' feet was heard coming along the road, and mr. dashwood soon appeared, riding quickly towards them. "what is the matter?" he cried in alarm, as, drawing up sharply, he sprang from his horse and rushed to his little girl's side. "oh! papa, papa!" cried the child, running into her father's arms, "your poor bunny was nearly killed, only this nice boy stopped frisk and took me off his back." "my poor darling!" cried mr. dashwood, lifting her gently from the ground, and smoothing back her ruffled hair, "i am very thankful to god that you are not hurt. thank you, too, my lad, for your kind and ready assistance," he said to the young stranger, grasping him warmly by the hand, "and now tell me, sir," he cried with a stern look, as he turned to the groom, "how it is that the child whom i left in your care came to be in such danger." "if you please, sir, miss bunny asked--" began john very nervously. "yes, papa, i--it was all my fault," interrupted the little girl; "don't scold john. i wanted to show mervyn that i could ride better than he does, and as i could not do so properly with john holding me by the rein, i begged him to let me go, and i promised to ride quietly; but i whipped frisk, and he ran off so fast that i got frightened, and--" "it was very wrong of you, john, to allow the child to ride without a rein, and i am really angry and vexed that you should not have taken more care of her when she was left in your charge." "indeed, sir, i am very sorry, and it shall never happen again," said john. "i hope not," said mr. dashwood; "and as for you, bunny, i am very much surprised that you should have been so naughty. you know i told you you could not manage frisk without a leading rein." "yes, i know you did, dear papa," said bunny, as she rubbed her little face up and down against her father's cheek, "but don't scold us any more. we are all very sorry, aren't we, john?" "very, miss," answered the groom; "i'd rather have died than let any harm come to you, an' i hope master will forgive me for lettin' you have your own way about the rein." "i forgive you this time, john," said mr. dashwood; "but remember for the future you are to keep miss bunny well to your side when you take her out to ride on her pony." "yes, sir, surely i will," answered the man earnestly; "i will never do what miss bunny asks me to do again, never while i live." "and now, my dear fellow," said mr. dashwood, turning to the young stranger and shaking him once more by the hand, "i cannot tell you how grateful i feel to you. may i be permitted to ask your name?" "my name is francis collins; but indeed i did not do much," the boy answered modestly. "you have done me a very great service, master francis, and one that i can never repay you," said mr. dashwood earnestly. "do you live anywhere about here?" "no, sir; i live in london," replied the lad; "my father is in india with his regiment, and i am staying up here for a time with my aunt." "is your father a captain? and is he in india now?" asked mervyn shyly. "yes, little man," answered young collins with a smile, "he is a captain in the 45th, and is now stationed at jublepoore." "why, captain collins is papa's great friend, and of course he was my friend too; and mrs. collins was so good and kind to me. oh, i did love her so much!" cried mervyn, looking up into the lad's face. "are you the frank she used to talk to me about?" "yes, i am the frank, her only child," said the boy sadly; "poor mother! it's a whole year and a half since i saw her last;" and tears came into his eyes as he spoke. "i have often heard my brother-in-law speak of your father, my dear boy, and i am very glad to have made your acquaintance," said mr. dashwood as he seated his little daughter upon her pony. "where are you staying?" "i am living with my aunt at a quiet hotel on the west cliff." "i am very glad to hear it," said mr. dashwood, "for you will be able to come over and see us. our name is dashwood, and we are staying at holly lodge, a house standing in its own grounds and facing the sea, yonder on the south cliff. anyone will point it out to you; so be sure and pay us a visit some day soon." "yes, thank you, i certainly will," the boy replied with a bright smile; "i must have a talk with this little chap, mr. dashwood, and find out all i can about my father and mother from him. by the by i suppose you are the mervyn hastings she told me she missed so much." "yes, i am mervyn hastings; and oh, did she miss me?" cried the little fellow eagerly. "most dreadfully! and i don't wonder, for you seem to be a capital little fellow," said frank collins, patting mervyn on the shoulder. "come over and lunch at the children's dinner to-morrow at two o'clock, and then you and mervyn can have a long talk together," said mr. dashwood as he sprang to his horse. "it is rather late now, so these youngsters must get home as quickly as they can. remember we shall all be delighted to see you, if you can spare time for visiting." "oh, do come, do come," said mervyn, earnestly. "mama will be so glad to see you," cried bunny, "so do come, please." "thank you all very much," answered the lad brightly; "i will be sure to be at holly lodge by two o'clock. good-bye, mr. dashwood; good-bye, miss bunny; good-bye, little mervyn;" and frank lifted his hat politely as the riding party turned and rode away from him down the drive towards scarborough. [illustration: chapter decoration.] chapter ix. miss kerr promises a prize. the next morning was very wet, and as it was quite impossible for the children to go out, miss kerr insisted on their going into the library to learn their lessons. bunny pouted and declared that her papa did not wish them to sit still all day over their books, and that it would be much nicer to run about the house and play at "hide and seek." "yes, it would be pleasanter for you, bunny," said miss kerr, "but you forget that 'hide and seek' is a very noisy game, and that your mama's head is aching so much that she could not bear the noise you would be sure to make. come now, be good children, and try to learn your lessons as well as you possibly can." "i hate lessons! and so does mervyn," cried the little girl in a cross voice. "don't you, mervyn?" "no, i don't," answered the boy; "i will go if you like, miss kerr, for i want to learn how to write soon, that i may be able to send papa a letter." "you are a good boy, mervyn," said the governess with a smile as she took him by the hand, "and i promise you that i will soon let you write a little letter to your papa. come, bun, dear, you are not going to be naughty, i am sure. come along and we'll have such a nice quiet morning over our books;" and she held out her other hand to the little girl. "well, if i am good, will you read us a story after we have said our lessons?" bargained miss bunny; "i just love to hear you read stories." "yes, i will read you a very nice story if you are good, and i have a pretty box of chocolate here that i will give to the child who studies the hardest and keeps silence the longest." "oh, how nice! oh, how jolly!" cried bunny, clapping her hands in delight. "i'll learn my lessons awfully hard;" and away she ran down the passage to the library, pulled her spelling-book out of the drawer, and perching herself on a chair at the table began to shout out the words at the top of her voice. "my dear bunny, how do you think mervyn can learn his lessons if you scream yours out in that way?" said miss kerr laughing; "repeat those words quietly to yourself whilst i show your cousin what he is to do." "i don't know very much, miss kerr," said mervyn shyly as he took the book from her hand; "papa says i am a dreadful dunce, but i only began to learn last year." "never mind that, my dear boy. if you give your attention to your book and feel anxious to learn, you will soon get on. spell over these words for me and let me see what you can do." mervyn did as he was told, and with much difficulty he managed to spell down half a column of very easy words. "oh, i can do better than that! i can do better than that!" cried bunny, wriggling about on her chair; "why, i could spell those words in a minute. listen--h-o-u-s-e, d-a-y, m-o-u-s-e." "hush! bunny, i cannot allow you to go on like that," said miss kerr gravely; "you have learned those words over and over again, so of course you know them well. now, mervyn, go and read them over by yourself and i will hear you say them without the book in a few minutes. bunny, come and say your lesson." the little girl slipped off her chair and came slowly across the room to miss kerr. "be quick, bun, stir yourself," cried the governess; "i want to hear how beautifully you can spell words that you have never seen before; come along." but bunny still hung back with an obstinate look on her little face, that showed plainly how very unwilling she was to do as she was told. "come, dear child, be quick, you are wasting all my time;" and miss kerr held out her hand for the spelling-book. bunny handed it to her, and then dragging one foot slowly after the other, she at last stood by miss kerr's side. "take your finger out of your mouth, bunny," said the governess, as she laid the book before the child and pointed to the place. "now begin, b--" "if you please, miss kerr," said ashton, opening the door. "mrs. dashwood wants to see you very particular, miss, in the drawing-room. she said as she wouldn't keep you long, but you was to go to her at once." "very well, i will go now, ashton," said miss kerr; "and now, children, i hope you will be good while i am away. bunny, you can go over those words by yourself. see here is the box of chocolate. i will put it in the middle of the table so that you may see what you have to work for;" and placing a pretty cardboard box upon a pile of books so that the children might see the gay picture on the lid, she smiled kindly upon them both, and hurried out of the room. for a few moments after they were left alone the little people were very silent and quiet; but soon bunny raised her head, yawned noisily, and pushing her book away began to amuse herself by looking about the room. "i shall get the prize," said mervyn, "you are not learning your lesson, you know." "no more are you," cried bunny; "i'll learn mine up in a minute when miss kerr comes back, and you're as slow as an old snail at yours;" and again she began to mimic his voice and manner of spelling. "you're very rude," cried mervyn, getting red, "and i'll just tell miss kerr when she comes back." "tell-tale! tell-tale!" sang bunny; "much i care! if i know my lesson best i'll get the chocolate and i won't give you one bit." "you're a greedy thing! but you won't get it. i know my lesson splendidly, and you don't know yours at all, so i am sure to get the prize, i can tell you." "ha, how grand you are, to be sure!" screamed bunny, and stretching out her hand she tried to pull the chocolate box towards her. "you sha'n't touch it! you sha'n't touch it!" shouted mervyn; "it isn't yours, so just leave it alone." "it isn't yours either," cried bunny with flaming cheeks, and she fastened her little fingers more firmly than ever round the box. "i am sure to get it, so i shall keep it beside me till miss kerr comes back." "no, you sha'n't," answered mervyn in an angry voice, and jumping up on his chair he sprawled over the table and tried to drag the box from bunny's hand. "you nasty boy, let go! i'll tell miss kerr! i'll tell mama! you're a coward! you're a horrid--" "who's going to be tell-tale now?" shrieked the boy. "give it to me, i say, give it to me," and he gave a vigorous pull at the box. but the cardboard of which the chocolate box was composed was not strong enough to stand such pulling, and before the naughty children knew where they were it suddenly gave way and came to pieces in their hands. the beautiful prize was completely destroyed, and its whole contents were strewn all over the place. "now, see what you have done!" cried bunny, bursting into tears; "you have broken the box--oh dear, oh dear, you cross, nasty, greedy boy, i--" "i didn't do it," said mervyn, but his voice was low and shaky, for all his anger disappeared when he saw the pretty box torn to pieces and the chocolate creams lying scattered about all over the table and floor. "yes, you did! if you hadn't pulled so hard it would have been all right," said bunny tearfully. "oh, what will miss kerr say? i think i'll run away to the nursery and hide. i shall be afraid to let her see me--" "that would be cowardly," answered mervyn; "i'm very sorry i pulled the box, and i'll stay here and tell her so;" and he went down on his knees and began to gather up the sweetmeats and put them into a sheet of paper. "don't eat any, mervyn," said bunny, "they look awfully nice, but--" "eat them!" exclaimed the boy indignantly, "i should think not indeed! i am not so mean as that; i wouldn't--" "mean--is it mean?" cried bunny, rubbing her mouth; "oh, i didn't know, and i just took one--but miss kerr won't mind." "well, you are nasty! you tell me not to eat them, and then you go and take some yourself. go away, i won't speak to you or be friends with you any more; you're a mean--" "oh, mervyn, mervyn, i'm so sorry! i'm so sorry!" cried bunny, flinging herself on her knees beside her cousin. "i didn't want to take the chocolate cream, but it looked so nice, and i just longed to take it and--" "children! what are you doing?" cried miss kerr in astonishment as her eyes fell upon the two kneeling figures and she heard bunny's miserable tone of voice; "why are you on the floor? come back to the table at once." "bunny," whispered mervyn, "we must tell miss kerr now what we have done;" and springing to his feet he caught the little girl by the hand and dragged her over to the other side of the room, where the governess had seated herself, ready to begin lessons again. "we have been very naughty," he began, looking down at the floor; "we didn't learn our lessons--and--we--broke--the box--and spilt all the chocolates--but we are very sorry, indeed we are," and he raised his blue eyes full of tears to miss kerr's face. "yes, we are very sorry--and--i eat a chocolate cream--but mervyn didn't because it was mean," cried bunny, and then, overcome with grief, she buried her face in her pinafore and sobbed aloud. "i cannot tell you how much surprised and shocked i feel at such conduct," said miss kerr gravely. "i really thought i could trust you for a few minutes alone. mervyn, i am very much grieved to think that you could behave in such a naughty way. bunny is wild and giddy, but i thought you were going to show her a good example, by being good and gentle yourself." "yes, and i wanted to," said mervyn, "but she called me names and then i got cross, and then--i--" "yes, and i got cross too," cried bunny, putting down her pinafore for a minute. "i was angry and--" "and i am afraid you both forgot that god was looking at you, and that he was greatly displeased at you for giving way to your wicked passions in such a manner. how did you come to be so naughty? mervyn, what began it all?" the tears were rolling down the little boy's cheeks, but he dried them with his handkerchief, and choking back those that were still ready to flow, he tried to tell the story of the torn chocolate box as well as he could. "well, i am glad you have told me all about it," said miss kerr, gently, "and as you both seem so sorry for your conduct, i suppose i must forgive you. but remember, dear children, that you must tell god that you are sorry, and ask him to forgive you. pray to him that he may help you to overcome your tempers and become good, gentle little children. i will not scold you any more, and you have punished yourselves by breaking the box and spilling the sweetmeats, for now i cannot allow you to have any of them." "oh, i don't mind that!" cried mervyn quickly. "if you will forgive me for being naughty, i don't want any sweets." "i do forgive you, mervyn, but don't forget what i told you. say a prayer to-night before you go to bed and ask god's forgiveness and help." "yes, i will, i will," cried the boy, "and i will try and be ever so good all day to make up for being so naughty this morning." "and i'll be good too," said bunny; "i am sorry you won't give us any sweets, for they look so nice, but still i--" "you won't ask for any! that is right, dear. i know you like sweets, bun, but i must punish you a little, you know, so i can't give you any to-day. come, now, i forgive you both, so let us go back to our lessons at once; and i hope you will do your best to show me that you are truly sorry, by working very hard for the next two hours." "yes, yes, we will, indeed," cried the children together, and off they ran to get their books. "that is right! that looks like real work," said miss kerr, as she wrapped up the chocolate creams in paper, and locked them away in a drawer. "come, bunny, bring your book to me, dear." bunny opened her spelling-book briskly, mervyn began to read his lesson attentively, and perfect peace reigned once more. [illustration: chapter decoration.] chapter x. on oliver's mount. the lessons were over about half-past one, and as they had been well learned and quickly said, miss kerr was really pleased with the children, and rewarded them for their industry and attention by reading a pretty story, that interested and amused them very much. this kept them pleasantly occupied until nearly two o'clock, and then they ran off to the nursery in high spirits, to get themselves washed and dressed for their early dinner. "i am so sorry, miss kerr," said bunny, as she took her seat at the dinner-table, "i'm really dreadfully sorry that nice boy we saw yesterday has not come to have lunch with us as he promised he would." "yes, dear, so am i, for i should like very much to see him," answered miss kerr, "but i daresay the rain kept him from coming." "but it's not raining one drop now," said mervyn, "and i declare, there is the sun coming out; i do wish he would come." "oh, but it's wet under-foot, mervyn," remarked bunny wisely, "and it's a bad thing to get your feet wet--sophie screams fearfully at me if i put my toe out, even long after the rain has stopped." "yes, when you go in your thin shoes, of course," cried mervyn; "but big boys like frank collins are not afraid of wetting their feet. are they, miss kerr?" "no, i don't think they are, dear," answered the governess, laughing, "i know my brothers run out in all kinds of weather." "come in, my boy! here they are at their dinner," said mr. dashwood, opening the door at this moment, and entering the room with young collins. "miss kerr, this is our young friend who so bravely saved poor bunny yesterday," he added as he presented frank to the governess. "i am very glad to see you, master collins, and these children have been longing for you to come," said miss kerr; "it was very brave of you to stop the pony." "brave! not at all, miss kerr," answered frank with a bright honest smile that won the lady's heart at once. "i don't think the pony was really running away, and if this little girl," and he patted bunny on the head, "had not been frightened, but had sat up properly and kept a good hold of her reins, she would have been all right." "oh! bunny, bunny, you little coward," cried miss kerr, "and so, after all, it was you who held on by the mane, and not mervyn, as you so gaily told him he would do yesterday." "did she tell him that?" asked frank as he took a seat at the table beside mervyn. "well, i think this little chap would be the bravest of the two in real danger. he would not be so rash, perhaps, but i think he would keep cool and not lose his head as she did." "oh, but i was frightened," sighed bunny. "i was sure frisk was running away;" and she looked so very tearful that her papa kindly changed the conversation by asking his young guest how he liked staying at scarborough. "are there many nice walks about?" asked mr. dashwood, when they had all finished their lunch and were preparing to leave the table. "i mean short walks within easy distance, where these little folks could go, for instance?" "yes, there's the old castle," said frank, "on the west cliff, then there's the people's park in the valley, which of course you all know well, and oliver's mount, which i think the nicest walk of any." "oliver's mount! oh, that is a nice place," said bunny, who had quite recovered her gay spirits again. "sophie says she went up there one day with some friends, and she had buns and lemonade and all kinds of things, in a little house, a funny small house, she says, that is up there on the top. do take us up oliver's mount, like a dear good papa." "yes, i know the little house sophie means," said frank; "it is only a small shed, you can just see it from the window, look, there it is, right away up on the top of the mount." "it looks a great height, certainly," said mr. dashwood. "i wonder if these little ones could manage to go such a long way." "oh! yes, we could, we could," cried the children together. "very well, then, i suppose we had better set off at once," said mr. dashwood; "you have no objection to my taking these small people, miss kerr?" "not the slightest," she replied. "i was going to send them with sophie, but i am sure they will enjoy going with you much better. mrs. dashwood is not well enough to go out, so i intend to read to her the best part of the afternoon." "i am glad to hear that, for i was afraid she might feel dull if we set off for a long walk," said mr. dashwood. "well, run away, children, and get ready; the sooner we start the better." "it will be a long way for their little legs if we go right to the top," said frank doubtfully. "mervyn doesn't look very strong, and bunny's legs are very short." "indeed they are not," cried bunny indignantly. "i can walk splendidly; can't i, miss kerr?" "yes, dear, you are a very good walker for your age and size." "there, do you hear that?" cried bunny, jumping off her chair and throwing her arms round her father's neck. "do take us, do take us, dear darling old papa." "you little rogue!" cried mr. dashwood, "i do believe you could coax the birds off the bushes." "no, papa, indeed i couldn't," answered bunny gravely; "i often tried, but they would not come; and i tried to put salt on their tails too, but they flew away and--" "you dear little goose, that was a great shame; they must have been very rude birds indeed, my poor bun," said mr. dashwood with a hearty laugh at the child's simplicity. "you have coaxed me anyway, dear. i will take you to oliver's mount; and i have thought of a plan that will save your short legs and mervyn's weak ones a good deal." "a plan! oh! what is it? you dear, darling papa," she cried joyfully. "no, i won't tell you, little one. run off and get dressed, and you will see what it is when you come back. away you go!--both of you. be quick, or frank and i will not wait for you." bunny and mervyn were both very curious to know what this wonderful plan of mr. dashwood's could be, and chattered away about it as they were being dressed by sophie. "to the top of oliver's mount!" cried the maid, holding up her hands in astonishment when the children told her where they were going. "gracious! is it that monsieur your papa knows how far it is? you will both be too tired to return home to-night." "then we shall sleep in that little house at the top, among the buns and the lemonade," said mervyn. "that would be fine fun, wouldn't it, bunny?" "i don't know about that," replied the little girl. "but do not be frightened, sophie; papa has a fine plan, so we sha'n't be one bit tired. come on, mervyn," and, laughing merrily, the two children ran off together down-stairs. "papa, papa! where is your plan?" cried bunny, as they met her father and young collins in the hall. "we do so want to know what your wonderful plan can be." "here it is, then, my dear," said mr. dashwood, and he threw open the door, and displayed two steady-looking old donkeys standing ready saddled at the gate. "you are to ride one of those fellows, and mervyn the other. that is my plan; isn't it a good one?" "capital! capital! what fun! what fun!" cried the children, clapping their hands in delight. "but, papa, the donkeys will never go up the mountain," exclaimed bunny suddenly; "sophie says there is a big stile to get over, so how will they manage that?" "we won't ask them to go over the stile," said frank collins, as he lifted the little girl and seated her comfortably on the saddle. "they will carry you up the road to the foot of the mount, and then we will leave them there to rest and eat some grass, while we go on our rambles up to the top." "wasn't it a capital plan of papa's, mervyn, to get us these donkeys?" asked bunny, as she and her cousin jogged quietly along the road on the steady old animals. "these are such nice well-behaved creatures, and don't run away in a hurry like master frisk." "no, i should think not," answered mervyn laughing. "why, just look at this fellow," he cried as his donkey came to a sudden stand-still in the middle of the road. "what can we do to make him go on? here, boy, please make him move a little," he shouted to the donkey-boy, who was loitering behind talking to a comrade. "hey up!" screamed the lad, running up quietly from behind, and bringing his stick down heavily on the poor brute's back; "hey up, teddy!" and away trotted the donkey at a rapid pace up the hill. when bunny's charger saw his companion starting off so gaily, he pricked up his ears and followed him as fast as ever he could. "your plan was a capital one, uncle," said mervyn, as he and bunny jumped off their donkeys and prepared themselves to climb over the stile and begin their walk up the mount together. "i suppose you feel as fresh as a couple of daisies, and not at all shaken?" said frank collins. "come along and we'll have a race to the very top;" and away he ran nimbly up the side of the hill. bunny and mervyn struggled bravely after him, and they went so fast that they soon left mr. dashwood behind them, for he declared that he was too old to run, and that he would follow them at his leisure. the grass was very slippery after the rain, and the mount was very steep, and so, although the children went as fast as their little legs could carry them, yet they could not keep up with their young friend, who soon appeared a long way above them, waving a handkerchief, and cheering and shouting at the top of his voice. but at last they all reached the highest part of the mount, and, puffing and panting after their fearful exertions, they seated themselves upon a bench and gazed about them in delight. "isn't it jolly up here, mr. dashwood?" said frank. "i think it would be worth climbing ever so much higher to see such a sight, don't you?" "yes, indeed i do," answered mr. dashwood; "and the air is very fine; it feels so fresh and strong. that is the old castle away over there, i suppose." "yes; and doesn't the old part of the town, with its queer red brick houses and narrow streets, look pretty? and look at the bay in front of it, with its ships and barges. doesn't it all look lovely in the sunlight?" "yes, frank, it does look pretty," cried mervyn; "and isn't the sea a beautiful blue colour?" "and don't our donkeys look funny little gray fellows, away down there on the road?" cried bunny. "oh, dear! they do look far away." "bunny would rather look at her donkey than all the beauties of the country," said mr. dashwood with a smile, as he took his little girl upon his knee. "but these youngsters must not be defrauded of their cakes and lemonade, frank. would you mind going into that wonderful shop to see if you can get some?" "oh! they have lots of good things in there, i know," answered frank. "i hope you will be able to eat a good supply, bunny?" "yes, i feel able to eat several cakes," cried bunny; "thank you, dear papa, for thinking of them. i do love buns and lemonade. don't you, mervyn?" "yes, bunny, very much," replied her cousin. "i am afraid i shall get scolded for letting you have them," said mr. dashwood, as frank appeared, carrying an armful of cakes and buns, and followed by a man with glasses and bottles of lemonade. "if you eat all these you won't be able to take anything at tea, and then miss kerr will be so dreadfully angry." "oh! never mind, papa, dear," cried bunny; "cakes and lemonade are just as good as tea, but i will eat as much as ever i can when i go home, and then no one will scold you." "that's a good, kind little woman," said her father laughing; "but finish up those cakes now as fast as you can, for i want to get back to the club for an hour before dinner." "i will just put this in my pocket for the donkey-boy, papa," said the little girl, holding up a bun which she could not manage to eat; "he was very good, and made the donkeys go so well." "i think we will go round by the road, frank," said mr. dashwood, rising from the bench; "it is not quite so steep as the mount, and is very little longer." "very well; i daresay it will be the best way to return; it will be a variety anyway," said frank. "mervyn, will you walk with me? i want to talk to you about india and all our friends there." "yes, yes," said the little boy, "that is the very thing i should like." "but our donkeys--oh! are we not going home on our donkeys?" cried bunny. "of course we are, you little grumbler," said her father. "we are only going to walk round by the road to them instead of tumbling pell-mell down the hill again. come along with me, and let these two boys talk over their affairs together." then, taking his little girl by the hand, mr. dashwood walked quickly away with her down the hilly road. frank and mervyn followed them slowly arm-in-arm, and the elder boy, with a look of yearning love in his eyes, asked his small friend many anxious questions about the dear father and mother whom he had not seen for such a long time. [illustration: chapter decoration.] chapter xi. was it cruel? one lovely afternoon towards the end of september mrs. dashwood and miss kerr sat together on the lawn in front of the house. they were stitching away at some pretty clothes, that were evidently intended for a large wax doll, with golden ringlets and blue eyes, that lay on a table that stood between them on the grass. mrs. dashwood looked pale and delicate still, but there was a well-pleased smile upon her sweet face as she sat enjoying the sea breezes. she was comfortably propped up with pillows in a large wicker chair, and her thin white fingers were busily engaged on her dainty work. the fresh country air had done her great service, and she was full of the hope that she should soon return quite strong and well to town. bunny lay curled up in another big chair, and although she knew very well that the pretty doll was intended for her, she looked very cross and did not seem to notice what was going on about her. "why don't you go and play, bunny?" said miss kerr looking up from her work. "i do not like to see you tumbling about there with such a cross look on your face. go and get a book--or will you have a needle and thread and try to do some sewing?" "no, thank you," answered bunny, "i hate books and i can't sew." "but you might learn, dear," said her mother gently. "it is a great pleasure to be able to sew, bunny. i quite enjoy doing my piece of work after being obliged to lie on the sofa for such a long time." "i don't want to learn to sew," cried bunny. "i want to have a game. i am tired sitting here, mama. oh, i do wish mervyn and frank would be quick and come back." "well, my dear bunny, they will soon be here," said miss kerr. "they promised to be back at three and it wants a quarter to three now, so you won't have very long to wait." "oh! i'm so glad!" cried bunny; "i've spent such a nasty dull day without them." "well, really now!" said her mother laughing; "that's a kind thing to say. i thought my little girl liked being with me." "oh! yes, mama, so i do," answered bunny quickly; "but mervyn has been away such a long time, and i do want him to come back and have a good game with me. he stayed to lunch with frank up there at the hotel, and miss kerr wouldn't let me go, and oh, dear! i have been so lonely all day." "poor little girl!" said her mother, "but miss kerr was quite right not to let you go, bunny; frank will have quite enough to do to manage mervyn. you are very hard to keep in order, for you are very wild and--" "oh! i'm not a bit wild now, mama; i'm as quiet as a lamb--i am indeed." "bunny, bunny, where are you, i say?--where are you?" called mervyn, running up the garden walk and across the lawn. "here i am, mervyn, and oh! i am so glad you have come back," and the little girl rushed forward eagerly to meet her cousin. "but where is frank? i thought he was coming back with you." "yes, so he is. he will be here in a minute; and he has something for you, bunny." "something for me, mervyn; oh! what is it?" she cried; "do tell me what it is." "he'll tell you himself--he'll tell you himself," answered mervyn, and going down on the grass, he tumbled heels over head two or three times in succession. "you tiresome boy," cried his cousin, "do get up and tell me what frank has for me, and where he got it, and--" "go and ask frank himself--there he is," shouted mervyn, starting quickly to his feet again, as young collins appeared suddenly at the top of the flight of steps that led from the drawing-room into the garden. his hands were both behind his back, and he laughed merrily when he saw bunny's face of excitement and curiosity as she ran across the lawn to meet him. "you dear good frank, mervyn says you have something for me," she cried; "do tell me what it is. i do so want to know." "a bird, bunny; a young thrush," said frank gaily, as he drew a small cage from behind his back and held it up to the little girl. "i put him in here because it was the only thing i could find; but i will get you a proper big cage for him to-morrow." "oh! never mind the cage; but let me see the bird," cried bunny. "he is rather frightened just now, bun, but i think he will soon sit up and begin to sing; and thrushes do sing beautifully." "he is a dear little fellow! a perfect darling! but where did you get him, frank?" asked bunny in delight, as she danced joyfully round her new treasure. "did you manage to put salt on his tail?" "he hasn't got a tail, bunny," answered frank, laughing; "he is so young that he hasn't got one yet. i caught him quite easily in the hotel garden." "mama, miss kerr, look at the lovely bird frank has brought me," cried bunny, running back to her mother's chair. "a bird, frank?" said mrs. dashwood, looking into the cage in surprise. "what a pity it was to catch him and put him in prison, poor little creature; he looks dreadfully frightened." "in prison, mama!" cried bunny indignantly. "why, it's a lovely cage; and see, he has water, and hard-boiled egg, and bread sopped in water, and--" "yes, dear, i see all those things, but still he is in prison, bunny," said mrs. dashwood gently, "and i think it would have been much kinder to have left him to fly about the woods and sing his sweet songs in happy freedom." "i am afraid he will never sing again," said miss kerr as frank placed the cage on the table beside her; "he looks as if he were going to die, i think; just see how he has gathered himself up into a ball, and his eyes are shut." "oh! i hope he won't die," cried frank; "i am sorry i caught him, mrs. dashwood. shall i let him fly away again?" "no, you sha'n't, frank; he is my bird, and you must not let him fly away," cried bunny; "i want to keep him." "but, bunny, your mama thinks he would be glad to get away, so i would rather let him go. do say i may send him off." "no, no, frank, you sha'n't; i want him; he's mine now," answered the little girl in an angry voice; "i will have him and keep him;" and making a dive across the table she seized the cage and ran away with it down the garden. "bunny! bunny! come back this minute," cried her mother and miss kerr together. "i'll soon bring her back!" exclaimed frank, and off he went after the runaway. when bunny heard footsteps behind her she turned her head to see who it was that was following her, and as she ran along without looking where she was going, her foot came against a stone, and down she went, cage and all, upon the gravelled path. "oh, you cruel big boy!" she cried, bursting into tears. "why did you come after me and make me fall in that way? i'll never speak to you again--never;" and, gathering herself up from the ground, she began to rub her knees, and brush the dust and sand off her frock. "now, don't be silly, bunny," said frank, as he picked up the cage. "you are not a bit hurt--but, look here! i believe you have killed the poor bird." "oh! no, frank, dear! oh! i didn't do that!" sobbed the little girl, coming forward and looking wistfully into the cage. "yes, i am afraid he is dead. he was very much frightened before," said frank sadly, "and the shock of the fall, and all the water and things falling on him have killed him. i am so sorry. i wish, now, i had left him to sing happily in the garden, mrs. dashwood," he said, going back to where the ladies sat together, carrying the poor dead thrush in his hand. "you were quite right; it was a great pity to take the poor bird and put him in a cage. i will never catch a young bird again--never." "poor little creature! i thought it would not live long," said miss kerr; "but, bunny, you were very naughty to run away with it in that way; i am sure the fall helped to kill the thrush." "i didn't mean to kill it!" cried bunny in a choking voice. "oh! mama, i am so sorry!" and she flung herself on the ground beside her mother's chair, and buried her face in her lap. "never mind, bunny, dear," whispered mervyn softly, as he stole up and put his arm round her neck. "don't cry, dear; i am sure it would have died very soon anyway. wouldn't it, miss kerr?" "yes, dear, i think it would," said the governess gently. "but what are you going to do with the thrush, frank?" "oh! i suppose i must bury it," answered frank; "i wish i had a pretty box to put it in." "i have one, i have one," cried bunny, jumping quickly to her feet, and running off towards the house, mopping up her tears as she went along. "i've got a dear little one that will just do, frank." "we must have a solemn funeral," said young collins. "who will write an epitaph to put at the head of his grave?" "an epee--what, frank?" asked mervyn, with a puzzled look on his little face. "what do you mean?" "an epitaph, you little simple indian; do you not know what that means?" "no," said mervyn gravely, "i don't think people in india ever have such things." "don't they indeed! bunny, what is an epitaph?" asked frank, laughing merrily as he took a pretty bon-bon box from the little girl's hand. "i don't know, i'm sure," said bunny; "i never heard of such a thing. what is it yourself?" "well, you are a clever pair! why, it's something written on a tombstone," cried frank, and, taking a piece of paper out of his pocket, he scribbled a few words, and then proceeded to read them aloud. "listen and learn what an epitaph is, my friends:- "beneath there lies a little thrush, who should have sung on many a bush." "capital!" said miss kerr, laughing merrily at this brilliant production. "why, you are a regular poet!" "it is very good indeed, frank," said mrs. dashwood with a bright smile. "now, mervyn, i hope you know what an epitaph is?" "yes, i think so," said mervyn slowly; "but no one says bush like thrush. it doesn't sound at all right." "hallo! young indian, are you going to find fault with my pronunciation? isn't it splendid, miss bun, bun?" "i'm not bun, bun, and i think mervyn is quite right," answered the little girl with a toss of her head. "it sounds very funny, and all that, but it isn't the proper way to say the word, i know." "of course not, little miss wisehead, but we are allowed to say all kinds of things in poetry," said frank grandly; "and i can tell you it's jolly convenient when a fellow wants a rhyme. but now that we have decided this knotty point, let us go and look for a nice place where we can bury the little fellow;" and, having placed the thrush in the box, he went off to look for a suitable burying-place. "put him in my little garden," cried bunny eagerly. "there are lovely flowers there, and we can make him such a nice grave." "where is your garden, monkey?" said frank. "i did not know you had such a thing." "yes, i have; at least i call it mine," answered bunny, skipping gaily along. "it's a dear little flower-bed down there by the sun-dial, and it will be such a pretty place for the poor dead bird. do bury him there, frank." "very well; what pleases you pleases me," and off they went to bunny's garden. very carefully frank dug up the earth, and, having placed the bird within the grave, he filled it in neatly, took a lovely geranium from a neighbouring flower-bed, and planted it just over the poor songster's head. "we must water it," cried bunny, "or it will not grow," and away she rushed to the tool-house. here she found the gardener's watering-pot, and, unfortunately for them all, it was more than half-full of water. "this will make the flowers grow beautifully," she cried; and before the boys had time to speak or stop her hand, she tilted up the heavy pot and sent the water flying all over their feet and legs. "oh! bunny, bunny! just see what you have done," exclaimed mervyn, beginning to cry as he felt the cold water soaking in through his stockings and shoes. "oh, dear! what shall i do?" "you little mischief!" cried frank, shaking himself. "what on earth made you do that?" "oh! i wanted the flower to grow," said bunny, bursting into tears, "and i did not mean to wet you and mervyn at all; and look at my own pinafore and frock. oh, dear! what will sophie say?" "sophie will say you are a naughty, wicked little creature," cried the maid, darting out suddenly from behind a tree. "come in this minute and get your things changed. monsieur mervyn, go to the nursery at once." "i won't go! i won't go a bit!" cried bunny, stamping her foot angrily. "the sun will dry me in a minute, and i won't go with you; so there!" "come along, bunny, like a good girl," said mervyn, "let us run fast and see who will get up to the nursery first," and away he went up the path as fast as he could. "i won't go, sophie. i want to stay with frank," cried bunny once more, as she caught the boy's hand and held on to it tightly. "you ought to go, dear, indeed you ought," said frank. "see, mervyn has gone, and you know you should always do what sophie tells you." "no, i won't; she's a nasty thing! and it's twice as nice out here, so i won't go one bit." "your mama and miss kerr have returned to the house, and you must come in and get changed your dress, mademoiselle." "i won't! i won't," shrieked bunny, clinging more closely to frank, and turning her back upon her nurse in a most impertinent manner. "we shall see if you do not, you bad, naughty child," cried sophie in an angry voice, and running forward she seized the little girl in her arms, and carried her off screaming and kicking into the house. [illustration: chapter decoration.] chapter xii. the fireworks. a little before seven o'clock that evening the children stood at the drawing-room window. all traces of the recent struggle in the garden had been removed, and in the neat little girl in the dainty cream lace and muslin frock, with its fluttering pink ribbons, few persons would have recognized the small fury that sophie had carried off wriggling and crying to the nursery a few hours before. but miss bunny had already forgotten that such a scene had ever taken place, and was making very merry over a big blue-bottle fly that she and mervyn were doing their best to catch as it walked up and down the window-pane. frank collins sat at the piano playing some very lively tunes, and from time to time bunny would pause in her pursuit of the fly and dance lightly over the floor in time to the music. "papa, papa," she cried, as mr. dashwood entered the room with his wife upon his arm, "doesn't frank make lovely tunes?" "i don't know, dear," answered her father. "frank does not seem anxious to let me hear his music, for he has stopped short the moment i appeared." "i am afraid mrs. dashwood would not care for my music," answered frank modestly. "i only play from ear." "oh, frank, how can you say such a thing!" cried bunny indignantly. "why, mama, he plays just like miss kerr does. he plays away up in the treble with two hands, and then he plays pum, pum, pum away down in the bass; oh, it is most beautiful! do play again, frank." "no, dear, not now," said frank. "i'll play for you another time, but don't ask me now;" and he hopped the little girl up on his knee. "well, then, ask--you know what," whispered bunny mysteriously. "you know you said you would--you promised." "oh, yes, of course; i very nearly forgot," said frank, "and i suppose sophie will soon be carrying you off to bed, it's nearly half-past seven." "yes, she will, unless you ask that, and papa and mama say, yes." "mrs. dashwood," said frank, "it's a gala night, as they call it, on the spa, and there are to be fireworks, so will you let these little people stay up for them? please do." "what! to go out in the night air and into the crowd?" asked mrs. dashwood in a horrified voice. "my dear frank, i could not think of allowing such a thing. it is quite impossible!" "of course it is, mrs. dashwood," answered frank. "but i did not mean them to go out at all, i--" "oh, no, dear mama," cried bunny eagerly, "frank does not want us to go out, but to sit up and see them from miss kerr's window, that is all." "bunny, come here, dear, i want to have a talk with you," said her mother gravely, and guessing that she was going to receive a scolding for her naughty conduct in the garden, the child stole slowly over the floor, and at last stood in rather a shamefaced manner beside her mother's chair. "do you think, bunny, that a little girl who screamed and kicked as you did when sophie took you in out of the garden, deserves to be allowed to stay up to see the fireworks?" "no, mama," answered bunny in a low voice, and two large tears trickled down her cheeks and fell on her mother's hand. "auntie, dear, don't scold poor bunny, for she is very sorry she was naughty, and she begged sophie's pardon before we came down." "well, i am glad to hear that, mervyn," said mrs. dashwood, "and i hope bunny is sorry; but i don't think she should be allowed to stay up to see the fireworks, she cannot expect it." "why, mama, what is all this about?" said mr. dashwood, coming over and putting his arm round his little daughter. "why are you scolding poor bunny so much?" "because i was naughty, papa," said bunny, creeping up very close to him. "but i am very sorry, and i promise to be good." "oh, well, don't scold her any more, dear," said her papa, stroking the little golden head, "she can't do more than promise to be a good child." "and do forgive her, and let her stay up to see the fireworks," whispered mervyn, "it would be such fun!" "what is that you are saying, mervyn? what dreadful plot are you hatching over there?" cried mr. dashwood, "why, the fireworks don't go off until nine, and your bedtime is at half-past seven, isn't it?" "yes, i know it is, uncle, but we're not a bit sleepy, and we never saw any fireworks, and this is the last gala night before we leave scarborough, and--" "my dear mervyn, what a string of reasons!" cried his uncle laughing; "after such a list, i think we must surely grant your request. that is, if mama will forgive this poor culprit, and allow her to stay up." "well, as she is sorry, and as mervyn says it is the last night, perhaps--" "that's right! that's right!" said her husband, "and now let us go in to dinner. this animated discussion has given me quite an appetite." and as ashton at this moment threw open the door, and announced that dinner was served, mr. dashwood offered his arm to his wife, and led her away to the dining-room. "what fun! what fun! to be allowed to stay up to see the fireworks," cried bunny, and catching hold of frank's arm she hurried him off after her papa and mama. "now, you must sit quiet, children," said mrs. dashwood; "if you make a noise i shall have to send you away to the nursery." "we'll be as quiet as mice," said bunny, and pulling mervyn down on a large woolly mat in the middle window, she began to whisper joyfully about the treat that was in store for them before the evening was over. the first part of the dinner seemed rather long to the two little ones in their corner, but when at last the dessert was placed on the table, and bunny was seated at her papa's elbow, and mervyn between his aunt and his dear friend frank, they all became so merry together, that the fireworks were for the time completely forgotten. "oh, papa, i heard such a funny noise just now," cried bunny suddenly, "what can it be? listen, there it is again--whizz--whizz--" "it's the first rocket, i'm sure!" exclaimed frank, dropping the nut-crackers, "let us go off to a window somewhere, for i am sure the fireworks are going to begin." "how jolly!" cried mervyn. "aunt, may we run up to miss kerr's room?" "can't we see them from here?" asked mr. dashwood, pulling up the blind and looking out. "what a beautiful dark night it is! better stay here, chicks, i think. see, there goes another rocket!" "oh, that is lovely!" cried bunny, clapping her hands. "but, papa, dear, we can see them much better from miss kerr's room, she has such a nice balcony, and she promised to let us go up to it if mama would allow us." "very well, then, away you go," said her father; "but be quick, or you will lose all the fun." "be sure and wrap yourselves up, dear children, if you go out into the balcony," said mrs. dashwood. "the night air is very sharp." "oh, yes, mama, we will make ourselves as warm as toast," cried bunny gaily. "come, frank, do come up to the balcony with us." "all right, little woman, jump upon my back and we'll run a race with mervyn." very much delighted at such an invitation, bunny sprang from a chair on to frank's back, and away they went galloping madly after mervyn, up the stairs and along the passage to miss kerr's room. there they found sophie waiting for them, heavily laden with cloaks and shawls in which she insisted on wrapping them up till they were nearly smothered, and shrieked wildly for just one little space through which they might manage to breathe. "very well, you will all catch your deaths of colds," cried sophie. "miss bunny, you will want the doctor to-morrow, i am quite sure;" and she flounced out of the room and banged the door after her. "good riddance to bad rubbish!" cried frank, laughing, as he released poor mervyn's face from the thick shawl in which the maid had rolled him up. "she's an awful scold that sophie." "but she's jolly kind to us sometimes," said mervyn stoutly; "and we torment her dreadfully, don't we, bunny?" "yes, we do indeed," answered the little girl; "and she doesn't always scold, master frank." "goodness me! don't be so indignant," cried frank. "i meant no offence. i daresay sophie is a regular angel." "she's not quite that," said miss kerr as she opened the window and let the young people out upon the balcony. "but i am glad to hear the children stand up for her, for, as mervyn says, they do torment her, and still she is very good-natured and kind to them on the whole." "yes, indeed she is," said mervyn; "but oh! just look at that, isn't it exquisite?" "lovely!" cried frank. "it's a regular shower of golden hail! but i think i like the roman candles best. look, bunny, there's one--see--those two stars--watch how they change colour--first they're red--then blue--then--" "oh, yes, yes," cried bunny dancing about. "there they go, right away over the sea! what lovely things fireworks are!" "it is a pity we could not have gone down on the spa to see the set pieces," said frank. "i believe they are most beautiful. but then the crowd is something dreadful." "do they send the fireworks up from the spa?" asked mervyn; "they look just as if they were coming from the road up there in front of the crown hotel." "no, they are sent from a place just over the spa, up among the trees there, but a long way below the hotel." "oh dear! there goes a splendid rocket," cried mervyn, "and doesn't it make a lovely noise?" "oh! i can't bear the noise," said bunny, putting her fingers in her ears, "it makes me jump." "now that is really charming!" said miss kerr, as the whole bay with its ships and boats was suddenly illuminated by a brilliant crimson light. "how lovely everything looks in that soft, rich colour!" "oh! and i declare you can see oliver's mount and the dear little cake shop," cried bunny. "and, mervyn, i wonder where our old donkeys are to-night," and she peered away out in the direction of the sands where the poor animals usually spent their days. "at home in their beds, my dear," said miss kerr laughing, "and that's where small people like you should be; it must be near ten o'clock." "oh! not yet, not yet," cried the children; "we must stay and see the last of the fireworks!" "that is the last now, i'm sure," said frank. "that thick yellow light comes from the grand finale, which we cannot see--ha! there goes another rocket. hurrah! the whole thing is at an end." "very well, my dears, you must say good-night," said miss kerr; "your poor little eyes are positively blinking with sleep, bunny, dear." "no, they're not," said the little girl, "but they feel funny and won't go quite straight." "are you getting a squint, then?" said frank. "come along, old lady, a few hours' sleep will make them go straight enough;" and putting one arm round bunny and the other round mervyn, he marched them off to the nursery, where he deposited them one after the other on their little beds. the children were really quite tired out with excitement, and the fatigue of sitting up to such an unusually late hour; so when frank left them for the night, they did not utter a word or make a complaint. they said their prayers, were undressed at once, and, laying their weary heads upon their pillows, were soon fast asleep. [illustration: chapter decoration.] chapter xiii. quiet times. it is to be hoped that you see some improvement in bunny's behaviour since you first made her acquaintance, though she was very naughty on the day when the poor thrush was killed. at all events she had been trying to be good, and when she failed, or forgot her good resolutions she was so willing to confess her faults, and was so truly sorry for them, that miss kerr and mama, and even sophie, were always ready to forgive her. miss kerr had quite won bunny's heart by her constant love and gentleness, so that the child could not bear to give her pain. this made bunny more thoughtful, and she soon learned to check her outbreaks of temper and to keep out of mischief. mervyn, who was growing tall and strong, was very much in earnest when he had promised to try to be docile and obedient. he did not forget that should he meet his dear mother and father in london they would ask him whether he had kept his word, and he would not have told them a falsehood even if he had been ever so naughty, for he was a truthful boy, and not at all a coward. mervyn often helped bunny to remember her promises too; and it seemed as though after the night when they had seen the display of fireworks they had both made up their minds to go on steadily with their lessons every morning. miss kerr was delighted, and sophie had really very little to do, for all the afternoon, and sometimes in the evening also, they were out on the sands, or on the hills, or seated in the garden. the reason of this was, that as mr. dashwood had given them notice that the holiday was coming to an end, they had implored their friend frank collins to come often to see them, and as he loved mervyn and could talk to him about his dear father and mother, and listen to his descriptions of life in madras and calcutta, he used to come every day to take the children out. of this mr. dashwood was very glad, for he was pleased that such a nice manly boy as frank should give up so much time to these two young ones, and used to laugh at miss kerr and tell her that they learnt more from their young tutor frank collins than they did from their governess. miss kerr often made one of the party when they went out together and she used to like to listen to frank too. he had been to a large school, and was now only waiting for his parents to return from india before going to another. he had read a great many books, and could remember several stories and accounts of voyages and discoveries. the children would sit under a tree or inside an old boat on the beach and listen to him as he told them of the adventures of sailors and travellers; or sometimes they went with him for a ramble in the country, and he could show them the different kinds of trees and wild flowers, and point out where the various birds built their nests. mervyn was quite surprised one day when a lark sprang suddenly from a field of long grass and went soaring up and up in the clear sunshine till it looked only like a speck, and at last could scarcely be seen, but yet all the time kept trilling and singing its beautiful song. as it sung it floated away to some distance from the place from which it rose, and then suddenly it seemed to sink from the air and to drop amidst the grass again. "wherever has it gone to?" said bunny; "there are no trees here, and where can its nest be?" "its nest is on the ground, in the long grass of the field," said frank. "oh then, it has just dropped into it," cried mervyn; "couldn't we go and see?" "you wouldn't find it except you could trace the way to the spot where the bird first rose," said frank. "directly the artful fellow heard us coming he sprang out and started his song so that he might lead us away from the spot where the nest is, and now he has dropped in the grass a long way off to lead us still further away." "oh _do_ let us go and look for it!" said bunny. "i think we'd better not," said mervyn; "remember the thrush, bunny, and we might kill some of the little birds." "quite right, mervyn," said frank collins; "we should very likely step upon it or frighten the hen bird so much that she would leave the nest. it would be like somebody coming and driving us away from home, you know. when i was as young as you are, i used to rob the nests of their eggs, but i have left off doing so now, and even if you should ever collect eggs you should only take one from a nest and contrive not to frighten the birds. but there are young larks and not eggs in this nest, so we will let them alone to grow strong and fly out into the sunshine and sing under the blue sky, won't we, bunny?" you may well believe that the children thought the last part of their holiday was the pleasantest of all; for beside frank they had found another playmate, a great friend of his. his name was captain, and he was a grand, black, curly, newfoundland dog. such a fine fellow was seldom to be seen, and he learnt to lie down in a patch of grass on the hill, just at the place where he could watch for bunny and mervyn when they went out for their afternoon walk. he would pretend to be asleep, and when they came quite close to him would spring up and begin to leap about, leading the way to the sands, and barking or rolling over and over till frank or mervyn threw a stick as far as ever they could into the sea that he might dash in after it and fetch it out. captain was a splendid swimmer, and had once jumped into the sea from the end of a pier after a little girl who had fallen into the water. the child would have been drowned, but captain seized her by the frock and held her up till a boat could put out and fetch her, and then the brave fellow turned and swam ashore. [illustration: chapter decoration.] chapter xiv. bunny's improvement. home again. the time had arrived when the holiday at scarborough was to come to an end. the last evening was spent on the cliff. it was while they were all sitting on the hillside looking out to sea that frank began to talk to them about "lighthouses," those tall buildings, having a strong lantern at the top, the bright light from which can be seen far out at sea, so that sailors may know to what part of the coast they are going, and may steer their ships in such a direction as to avoid danger, or guide them into a place of safety. then miss kerr told them a story about a lighthouse, and how a brave and thoughtful little girl was able to save a great ship from being dashed to pieces on the rocks. this lighthouse was at a very dangerous part of the coast, and every day the lamps had to be cleaned and fresh oil put in them, and the great metal "reflectors" that were behind the lamps and threw the light far out to sea had to be burnished. the little girl was the child of the keeper of the lighthouse, and he often took her with him to stay there. he had a companion, for in lighthouses there are mostly two men; but one day this companion slipped off the ladder up which he had to climb to light the lamps in the great lantern, and broke his leg. at the same time he struck his head and became insensible, and so the father of the little girl was obliged to leave her and to fetch a doctor. he meant to come back very soon, but the doctor was out, and in trying to find him he was away for many hours, and by the time he could get down to his boat a great storm had come on, and the waves were breaking over the shore so that he could not put out to sea again. night was coming on, and the poor fellow paced the beach and wondered what was to be done, for it would soon be time for the lamps to be lighted, and there was nobody in the lighthouse but the helpless man and his little girl. the sailors and fishermen all came round, but it would have been a desperate venture to put out a boat in such a storm, and with the great waves roaring and leaping on a long sharp ridge of rocks quite close to where the lighthouse stood, nobody could have expected to reach it alive. at last, just as the night was coming on, the poor fellow prepared to risk his life rather than leave the ships that might be far off at sea without a guide or a warning; but six strong men dragged a large boat down to the edge of the shore where the waves were lowest, and agreed to share his danger. their hands were on the boat ready to push her in and then scramble to their places; an old fisherman was in his seat ready to steer, when he suddenly gave a shout and pointed towards the lighthouse. there from the lantern high above the roaring waves shone the brilliant beams of the lamps, and with a hearty cheer the brave fellows drew the boat back, and shading their eyes with their hands stared as though they had never seen the familiar light before. all night long they watched, till at break of day the storm abated, the sea grew still, and far far away they could see a great three-masted ship rolling and tossing, with one of her sails blown to rags, but still keeping off the shore. the pilot had seen the lights, and so knowing how to steer had kept her away from the rocky reefs where she might have been dashed to pieces. it was not till the sun rose high and they were able to go out in their boats that the men on shore could take the doctor to the lighthouse, and then they found the little girl kneeling beside the injured man and feeding him with some cold tea which had been left in the teapot. he had come to his senses, and had tried to crawl to the ladder, when he heard her voice singing softly right up in the lantern. he contrived to drag himself along the floor of the room, and could just see a gleam from one of the lamps coming through the chinks of the wood-work. the child, when she found her father did not return, had grown afraid; but her great fear was that the lamps would not be lighted, and as the place grew dark she made up her mind to try to light them herself. she had seen her father clean the lamps, and had been with him up the ladder, holding his strong hand; and she knew too where the match was kept, for she had been shown everything about the place while she was there on those long days alone with her father till the other man came on duty in the evening. so up she went, softly singing a hymn to herself, and after steadying herself by one of the iron rods that supported the lantern, put the lighted match to the wick, and was so startled to see the great yellow glare that shone from the reflector that she nearly lost her balance. when she reached the bottom of the ladder she found her friend looking at her quite wide awake; but he could do nothing to help her, except by telling her how to manage the light, and also how to move up there in the great glass lantern of the lighthouse, so that she might reach each lamp in turn. when her father came up the steep stair, followed by a dozen of his comrades, she gave a cry of delight and was in his arms in a moment; and she was soon made such a pet of by the men there that they all wanted her to accept knives, and rings, and pocket combs, and even tobacco-boxes, because they had nothing else to offer her; but she had her father and that was quite enough for her, and as he held her to his breast she could feel his tears fall upon her head, and yet he was as brave as any man who lived upon that coast. "however could she do it?" said bunny, who had earnestly listened to this story. "she forgot all about herself, bunny, and thought only of other people and of the duty that was straight before her," said frank gently. bunny remained very serious all the rest of the evening; perhaps the story of the child lighting the lamps reminded her of the trick she had played poor old ashton when she poured water into his wine-glasses. but as we have seen already, bunny was improving, and her mama was indeed delighted to notice the change, and quite shared her sorrow that they were so soon to leave for london. a day or two before they had begun to pack up mr. dashwood brought the children glorious news. frank collins was to go to london and stay with them till the arrival of his mother, who was on her voyage home and would be in england in a few days. then he was to go to school, and perhaps mervyn would some day be sent to the same school, but of course in a lower class. this last part of it was not very cheering for poor bunny, and she was ready to cry; but she looked at miss kerr's kind gentle face and saw the look of joy in mervyn's eyes, and so she choked back her tears, and presently when mervyn said softly, "of course i can't help being glad, bunny, but i shall never be anything but sorry to be parted from you;" she was ready to say, "and i shall be awfully sorry, mervyn dear, but then when the holidays come we shall both know so much more, and--and--" here poor bunny broke down and hid her face in her pinafore. but the next day she had recovered her spirits, and she and mervyn were talking over their future plans, for it would be some months before her cousin would know enough to enter even the lowest form. but one chief reason for their rapid recovery of spirits was that it would be a whole month or more before frank himself could begin his studies, and there were promises of visits to the zoological gardens, the great palm house at kew, the old tower of london, and other places which would remind them of the stories they had heard, and of the books which they had yet to learn to read. they had all these things to talk about when they found themselves in the train that was to carry them home, and were so full of plans and expectations that they were many miles upon the journey before they remembered that they had not waved a good-bye to their old friend oliver's mount, or thought of the sorrow of leaving scarborough for smoky, noisy, old london. the end. note: images of the original pages are available through the florida board of education, division of colleges and universities, palmm project, 2001. (preservation and access for american and british children's literature, 1850-1869.) see http://purl.fcla.edu/fcla/dl/uf00001806.jpg or http://purl.fcla.edu/fcla/dl/uf00001806.pdf emilie the peacemaker. by mrs. thomas geldart. author of "truth is everything;" "nursery guide;" "stories of england and her forty counties;" and "thoughts for home." mdcccli. blessed are the peacemakers: for they shall be called the children of god.... matt v. 9. contents. chapter i. introduction chapter ii. the soft answer chapter iii. the lesson at the cottage chapter iv. the holidays chapter v. edith's trials chapter vi. emilie's trials chapter vii. better things chapter viii. good for evil chapter ix. fred a peacemaker chapter x. edith's visit to joe chapter xi. joe's christmas chapter xii. the christmas tree chapter xiii. the new home chapter xiv. the last chapter first. introduction. one bright afternoon, or rather evening, in may, two girls, with basket in hand, were seen leaving the little seaport town in which they resided, for the professed purpose of primrose gathering, but in reality to enjoy the pure air of the first summer-like evening of a season, which had been unusually cold and backward. their way lay through bowery lanes scented with sweet brier and hawthorn, and every now and then glorious were the views of the beautiful ocean, which lay calmly reposing and smiling beneath the setting sun. "how unlike that stormy, dark, and noisy sea of but a week ago!" so said the friends to each other, as they listened to its distant musical murmur, and heard the waves break gently on the shingly beach. although we have called them friends, there was a considerable difference in their ages. that tall and pleasing, though plain, girl in black, was the governess of the younger. her name was emilie schomberg. the little rosy, dark-eyed, and merry girl, her pupil, we shall call edith parker. she had scarcely numbered twelve mays, and was at the age when primrosing and violeting have not lost their charms, and when spring is the most welcome, and the dearest of all the four seasons. emilie schomberg, as her name may lead you to infer, was a german. she spoke english, however, so well, that you would scarcely have supposed her to be a foreigner, and having resided in england for some years, had been accustomed to the frequent use of that language. emilie schomberg was the daily governess of little edith. little she was always called, for she was the youngest of the family, and at eleven years of age, if the truth must be told of her, was a good deal of a baby. several schemes of education had been tried for this same little edith,--schools and governesses and masters,--but emilie schomberg, who now came to her for a few hours every other day, had obtained greater influence over her than any former instructor; and in addition to the german, french, and music, which she undertook to teach, she instructed edith in a few things not really within her province, but nevertheless of some importance; of these you shall judge. the search for primroses was not a silent search--edith is the first speaker. "yes, emilie, but it was very provoking, after i had finished my lessons so nicely, and got done in time to walk out with you, to have mamma fancy i had a cold, when i had nothing of the kind. i almost wish some one would turn really ill, and then she would not fancy i was so, quite so often." "oh, hush, edith dear! you are talking nonsense, and you are saying what you cannot mean. i don't like to hear you so pert to that kind mamma of yours, whenever she thinks it right to contradict you." "emilie, i cannot help saying, and you know yourself, though you call her kind, that mamma is cross, very cross sometimes. yes, i know she is very fond of me and all that, but still she _is_ cross, and it is no use denying it. oh, dear, i wish i was you. you never seem to have anything to put you out. i never see you look as if you had been crying or vexed, but i have so many many things to vex me at home." emilie smiled. "as to my having nothing to put me out, you may be right, and you may be wrong, dear. there is never any excuse for being what you call _put out_, by which i understand cross and pettish, but i am rather amused, too, at your fixing on a daily governess, as a person the least likely in the world to have trials of temper and patience." "yes, i dare say i vex you sometimes, but"--"well, not to speak of you, dear, whom i love very much, though you are not perfect, i have other pupils, and do you suppose, that amongst so many as i have to teach at miss humphrey's school, for instance, there is not one self-willed, not one impertinent, not one idle, not one dull scholar? my dear, there never was a person, you may be sure of that, who had nothing to be tried, or, as you say, put out with. but not to talk of my troubles, and i have not many i will confess, except that great one, edith, which, may you be many years before you know, (the loss of a father;) not to talk of that, what are your troubles? your mamma is cross sometimes, that is to say, she does not always give you all you ask for, crosses you now and then, is that all?" "oh no emilie, there are mary and ellinor, they never seem to like me to be with them, they are so full of their own plans and secrets. whenever i go into the room, there is such a hush and mystery. the fact is, they treat me like a baby. oh, it is a great misfortune to be the youngest child! but of all my troubles, fred is the greatest. john teases me sometimes, but he is nothing to fred. emilie, you don't know what that boy is; but you will see, when you come to stay with me in the holidays, and you shall say then if you think i have nothing to put me out." the very recollection of her wrongs appeared to irritate the little lady, and she put on a pout, which made her look anything but kind and amiable. the primroses which she had so much desired, were not quite to her mind, they were not nearly so fine as those that john and fred had brought home. now she was tired of the dusty road, and she would go home by the beach. so saying, edith turned resolutely towards a stile, which led across some fields to the sea shore, and not all emilie's entreaties could divert her from her purpose. "edith, dear! we shall be late, very late! as it is we have been out too long, come back, pray do;" but edith was resolute, and ran on. emilie, who knew her pupil's self-will over a german lesson, although she had little experience of her temper in other matters, was beginning to despair of persuading her, and spoke yet more earnestly and firmly, though still kindly and gently, but in vain. edith had jumped over the stile, and was on her way to the cliff, when her course was arrested by an old sailor, who was sitting on a bench near the gangway leading to the shore. he had heard the conversation between the governess and her headstrong pupil, as he smoked his pipe on this favourite seat, and playfully caught hold of the skirt of the young lady's frock, as she passed, to edith's great indignation. "now, miss, i could not, no, that i could'nt, refuse any one who asked me so pretty as that lady did you. if she had been angry, and commanded you back, why bad begets bad, and tit for tat you know, and i should not so much have wondered: but, miss, you should not vex her. no, don't be angry with an old man, i have seen so much of the evils of young folks taking their own way. look here, young lady," said the weather beaten sailor, as he pointed to a piece of crape round his hat; "this comes of being fond of one's own way." edith was arrested, and approached the stile, on the other side of which emilie schomberg still leant, listening to the fisherman's talk with her pupil. "you see, miss," said he, "i have brought her round, she were a little contrary at first, but the squall is over, and she is going home your way. oh, a capital good rule, that of your's, miss!" "what," said emilie smiling, "why, that 'soft answer,' that kind way. i see a good deal of the ways of nurses with children, ah, and of governesses, and mothers, and fathers too, as i sit about on the sea shore, mending my nets. i ain't fit for much else now, you see, miss, though i have seen a deal of service, and as i sit sometimes watching the little ones playing on the sand, and with the shingle, i keep my ears open, for i can't bear to see children grieved, and sometimes i put in a word to the nurse maids. bless me! to see how some of 'em whip up the children in the midst of their play. neither with your leave, nor by your leave; 'here, come along, you dirty, naughty boy, here's a wet frock! come, this minute, you tiresome child, it's dinner time.' now that ain't what i call fair play, miss. i say you ought to speak civil, even to a child; and then, the crying, and the shaking, and the pulling up the gangway. many and many is the little squaller i go and pacify, and carry as well as i can up the cliff: but i beg pardon, miss, hope i don't offend. only i was afraid, miss there was a little awkward, and would give you trouble." "indeed," said emilie, "i am much obliged to you; where do you live?" "i live," said the old man, "i may say, a great part of my life, under the sky, in summer time, but i lodge with my son, and he lives between this and brooke. in winter time, since the rheumatics has got hold of me, i am drawn to the fire side, but my son's wife, she don't take after him, bless him. she's a bit of a spirit, and when she talks more than i like, why i wish myself at sea again, for an angry woman's tongue is worse than a storm at sea, any day; if it was'nt for the children, bless 'em, i should not live with 'em, but i am very partial to them." "well, we must say good night, now," said emilie, "or we shall be late home; i dare say we shall see you on the shore some day; good night." "good night to you, ma'am; good night, young lady; be friends, won't you?" edith's hand was given, but it was not pleasant to be conquered, and she was a little sullen on the way home. they parted at the door of edith's house. edith went in, to join a cheerful family in a comfortable and commodious room; emilie, to a scantily furnished, and shabbily genteel apartment, let to her and a maiden aunt by a straw bonnet maker in the town. we will peep at her supper table, and see if miss edith were quite right in supposing that emilie schomberg had nothing to put her out. chapter second. the soft answer. an old lady was seated by a little ricketty round table, knitting; knitting very fast. surely she did not always knit so fast, germans are great knitters it is true, but the needles made quite a noise--click, click, click--against one another. the table was covered with a snow-white cloth. by her side was a loaf called by bakers and housekeepers, crusty; the term might apply either to the loaf or the old lady's temper. a little piece of cheese stood on a clean plate, and a crab on another, a little pat of butter on a third, and this, with a jug of water, formed the preparation for the evening meal of the aunt and niece. emilie went up to her aunt, gaily, with her bunch of primroses in her hand, and addressing her in the german language, begged her pardon for keeping supper waiting. the old lady knitted faster than ever, dropped a stitch, picked it up, looked out of the window, and cleared up, not her temper, but her throat; click, click went the needles, and emilie looked concerned. "aunt, dear," she said, "shall we sit down to supper?" "my appetite is gone, emilie, i thank you." "i am really sorry, aunt, but you know you are so kind, you wish me to take plenty of exercise, and i was detained to-night. miss parker and i stayed chattering to an old sailor. it was very thoughtless, pray excuse me. but now aunt, dear, see this fine crab, you like crabs; old peter varley sent it to you, the old man you knitted the guernsey for in the winter." no,--old miss schomberg was not to be brought round. crabs were very heavy things at night, very indigestible things, she wondered at emilie thinking she could eat them, so subject as she was to spasms, too. indeed she could eat no supper. she was very dull and not well, so emilie sat down to her solitary meal. she did not go on worrying her aunt to eat, but she watched for a suitable opening, for the first indication indeed, of the clearing up for which she hoped, and though it must be confessed some such thoughts as "how cross and unreasonable aunt is," did pass through her mind, she gave them no utterance. emilie's mind was under good discipline, she had learned to forbear in love, and for the exercise of this virtue, she had abundant opportunity. poor emilie! she had not always been a governess, subject to the trials of tuition; she had not always lived in a little lodging without the comforts and joys of family and social intercourse. her father had failed in business, in frankfort, and when emilie was about ten years of age, he had come over to england, and had gained his living there by teaching his native language. he had been dead about a twelve-month, and emilie, at the age of twenty-one, found herself alone in the world, in england at least, with the exception of the old german aunt, to whom i have introduced you, and who had come over with her brother, from love to him and his motherless child. she had a very small independence, and when left an orphan, the kind old aunt, for kind she was, in spite of some little infirmities of temper, persisted in sharing with her her board and lodging, till emilie, who was too active and right minded to desire to depend on her for support, sought employment as a teacher. the seaport town of l----, in the south of england, whither emilie and her father had gone in the vain hope of restoring his broken health, offered many advantages to our young german mistress. she had had a good solid education. her father, who was a scholar, had taught her, and had taught her well, so that besides her own language, she was able to teach latin and french, and to instruct, as the advertisements say, "in the usual branches of english education." she was musical, had a fine ear and correct taste, and accordingly met with pupils without much difficulty. in the summer months especially she was fully employed. families who came for relaxation were, nevertheless, glad to have their daughters taught for a few hours in the week; and you may suppose that emilie schomberg did not lead an idle life. for remuneration she fared, as alas teachers do fare, but ill. the sum which many a gentleman freely gives to his butler or valet, is thought exorbitant, nay, is rarely given to a governess, and emilie, as a daily governess, was but poorly paid. the expenses of her father's long illness and funeral were heavy, and she was only just out of debt; therefore, with the honesty and independence of spirit that marked her, she lived carefully and frugally at the little rooms of miss webster, the straw bonnet maker, in high street. from what i have told you already, you will easily perceive that emilie was accustomed to command her temper; she had been trained to do this early in life. her father, who foresaw for his child a life dependent on her character and exertion, a life of labour in teaching and governing others, taught emilie to govern herself. never was an only child less spoiled than she; but she was ruled in love. she knew but one law, that of kindness, and it made her a good subject. many were the sensible lessons that the good man gave her, as leaning on her strong arm he used to pace up and down the grassy slopes which bordered the sea shore. "look, emilie," he would say, "look at that governess marshalling her scholars out. do they look happy? think you that they obey that stern mistress out of _love_? listen, she calls to them to keep their ranks and not to talk so loud. what unhappy faces among them! emilie, my child, you may keep school some day; oh, take care and gain the love of the young ones, i don't believe there is any other successful government, so i have found it." "with me, ah yes, papa!" "with you, my child, and with all my scholars; i had little experience as a teacher, when first it pleased god to make me dependent on my own exertions as such, but i found out the secret. gain your pupils' love, emilie, and a silken thread will draw them; without that love, cords will not drag, scourges will scarcely drive them." emilie found this advice of her father's rather hard to follow now and then. her first essay in teaching was in mrs. parker's family. edith was to "be finished." and now poor emilie found that there was more to teach edith than german and french, and that there was more difficulty in teaching her to keep her temper than her voice in tune. edith was affectionate, but self-willed and irritable. her mamma's treatment had not tended to improve her in this respect. mrs. parker had bad health, and said she had bad spirits. she was a kind, generous, and affectionate woman, but was always in trouble. in trouble with her chimneys because they smoked; in trouble with her maids who did not obey her; and worst of all in trouble with herself; for she had good sense and good principle, but she had let her temper go too long undisciplined, and it was apt to break forth sometimes against those she loved, and would cause her many bitter tears and self-upbraidings. she took an interest in the poor german master, for she was a benevolent woman, and cheered his dying bed by promising to assist his daughter. she even offered to take her into her family; but this could not be thought of. good aunt agnes had left her country for the sake of emilie--emilie would not desert her aunt now. the scene at the supper table was not an uncommon one, but emilie was frequently more successful in winning aunt agnes to a smile than on this occasion. "perhaps i tried too much; perhaps i did not try enough, perhaps i tried in the wrong way," thought emilie, as she received her aunt's cold kiss, and took up her bed room candle to retire for the night. when aunt agnes said good night, it was so very distantly, so very unkindly, that an angry demand for explanation almost rose to emilie's lips, and though she did not utter it, she said her good night coldly and stiffly too, and thus they parted. but when emilie opened the bible that night, her eye rested on the words, "be ye kind one to another, tender-hearted, forgiving one another, as god for christ's sake hath forgiven you," then emilie could not rest. she did not forgive her aunt; she felt that she did not; but emilie was _human_, and human nature is proud. "i did nothing to offend her," reasoned pride, "it was only because i was out a little late, and i said i was sorry and i tried to bring her round. ah well, it will all be right to-morrow; it is no use to think of it now," and she prepared to kneel down to pray. just then her eye rested on her father's likeness; she remembered how he used to say, when she was a child and lisped her little prayer at his knee, "emilie, have you any unkind thoughts to any one? do you feel at peace with all? for god says, 'when thou bringest thy gift before the altar, and there rememberest that thy brother hath aught against thee, leave there thy gift before the altar, _first_ be reconciled to thy brother, and _then_ go and offer thy gift.'" on one or two occasions had emilie arisen, her tender conscience thus appealed to, and thrown her arms round her nurse's or her aunt's neck, to beg their forgiveness for some little offence committed by her and forgotten perhaps by them, and would then kneel down and offer up her evening prayer. so emilie hushed pride's voice, and opening her door, crossed the little passage to her aunt's sleeping room, and putting her arm round her neck fondly said, "dear aunt!" it was enough, the good old lady hugged her lovingly. "ah, emilie dear, i am a cross old woman, and thou art a dear good child. bless thee!" in half an hour after the inmates of the little lodging in high street were sound asleep, at peace with one another, and at peace with god. chapter third. the lesson at the cottage. edith was very busily searching for corallines and sea weeds, a few days after the evening walk recorded in our first chapter. she was alone, for her two sisters had appeared more than usually confidential and unwilling for her company, and her dear teacher was engaged that afternoon at the young ladies' seminary, so she tried to make herself happy in her solitary ramble. a boat came in at this moment, and the pleasant shout of the boatmen's voices, and the grating of the little craft as it landed on the pebbly shore, attracted the young lady's notice, and she stood for a few moments to watch the proceedings. amongst those on shore, who had come to lend a hand in pulling the boat in, edith thought that she recognised a face, and on a little closer inspection she saw it was old joe murray, who had stopped her course to the beach a few evenings before. she did not wish to encounter joe, so slipping behind the blue jacketed crowd, she walked quickly forwards, but joe followed her. "young lady," he said, "if you are looking for corallines, you can't do better than ask your papa some fine afternoon, to drive you as far as sheldon, and you'll find a sight of fine weeds there, as i know, for my boy, my poor boy i lost, i mean," said he, again touching the rusty crape on his hat, "my boy was very curious in those things, and had quite a museum of 'em at home." how could edith stand against such an attack? it was plain that the old man wanted to make peace with her, and, cheerfully thanking him, she was moving on, but the old boots grinding the shingle, were again heard behind her, and turning round, she saw joe at her heels. "miss, i don't know as i ought to have stopped you that night. i am a poor old fisherman, and you are a young lady, but i meant no harm, and for the moment only did it in a joke." "oh, dear," said edith, "don't think any more about it, i was very cross that night, and you were quite right, i should have got miss schomberg into sad trouble if i had gone that way. as it was, i was out too late. have you lost a son lately, said edith, i heard you say you had just now? was he drowned?" inquired the child, kindly looking up into joe's face. "yes miss, he was drowned," said joe, "he came by his death very sadly. will you please, miss, to come home with me, and i will shew you his curiosities, and if you please to take a fancy to any, i'm sure you are very welcome. i don't know any good it does me to turn 'em over, and look at them as i do times and often, but somehow when we lose them we love, we hoard up all they loved. he had a little dog, poor bob had, a little yapping thing, and i never took to the animal, 'twas always getting into mischief, and gnawing the nets, and stealing my fish, and i used often to say, 'bob, my boy, i love you but not your dog. no, that saying won't hold good now. i can't love that dog of yours. sell it, boy--give it away--get rid of it some how.' all in good part, you know, miss, for i never had any words with him about it. and now bob is gone--do you know, miss, i love that dumb thing with the sort of love i should love his child, if he had left me one. if any one huffs rover, (i ain't a very huffish man,) but i can tell you i shew them i don't like it, i let the creature lay at my feet at night, and i feed him myself and fondle him for the sake of him who loved him so. and you may depend miss, the dog knows his young master is gone, and the way he is gone too, for i could not bring him on the shore for a long while, but he would set up such a howl as would rend your heart to hear. and that made me love the poor thing i can tell you." "but how did it happen?" softly asked edith. "why miss it ain't at all an extraordinary way in which he met his death. it was in this way. he was very fond of me, poor boy, but he liked his way better than my way too often. and may be i humoured him a little too much. he was my benjamin, you must know miss, for his mother died soon after he was born. sure enough i made an idol of the lad, and we read somewhere in the bible, miss, that 'the idols he will utterly abolish.' but i don't like looking at the sorrow that way neither. i would rather think that 'whom the lord loveth he chasteneth.' well, miss, like father like son. my boy loved the sea, as was natural he should, but he was too venturesome; i used often to say, 'bob, the oldest sailor living can't rule the waves and winds, and if you are such a mad cap as to go out sailing in such equally weather on this coast, as sure as you are alive you will repent it.' he and some young chaps hereabouts, got such a wonderful notion of sailing, and though i have sailed many and many a mile, in large vessels and small, i always hold to it that it is ticklish work for the young and giddy. why sometimes you are on the sea, miss, ah, as calm as it is now--all in peace and safety--a squall comes, and before you know what you are about you are capsized. i had told him this, and he knew it, miss, but he got a good many idle acquaintances, as i told you, and they tempted him often to do bold reckless things such as boys call brave." "it was one morning at the end of september, bob says to me, 'father, we are going to keep my birthday; i am sixteen to-day,' and so he was, bless him, sixteen the very day he died. 'we are going to keep my birthday,' says he, 'newton, and somers, and franklin, and i, we are all going to witton,' that is the next town, miss, as you may know, 'we are going to have a sail there, and dine at grandmother's, and home again at night, eh father.' 'bob,' says i, 'i can't give my consent; that ticklish sailing boat of young woods' requires wiser heads and steadier hands than your's to manage. you know my opinion of sailing, and you won't grieve me, i hope, by going.' i might have told him, but i did not, that i did not like the lads he was going with, but i knew that would only make him angry, and do no good just as his heart was set upon a frolic with them, so i said nought of that, but i tried to win him, (that's my way with the young ones,) though i failed this time; go he would, and he would have gone, let me have been as angry as you please. but i have this comfort, that no sharp words passed my lips that day, and no bitter ones his. i saw he was set on the frolic, and i hoped no harm would come of it. how i watched the sky that day, miss, no mortal knows; how i started when i saw a sea gull skim across the waves! how i listened for the least sound of a squall! snap was just as fidgetty seemingly, and we kept stealing down to the beach, long before it was likely they should be back. as i stood watching there in the evening, where i knew they would land, i saw young newton's mother; she pulled me by my sleeve, anxious like, and said, 'what do you think of the weather joe?' 'why, missis,' said i, 'there is an ugly look about the sky, but i don't wish to frighten you; please god they'll soon be home, for bob promised to be home early.'" "well, miss, there we stood, the waves washing our feet, till it grew dark, and then i could stand it no longer. i said to the poor mother, 'keep a good heart,' but i had little hope myself, god knows, and off i made for witton. well, they had not been there, i found the grandmother had seen nothing of them. they were picked up a day or so after, all four of them washed up by the morning tide; their boat had drifted no one knows where, and no one knows how it happened; but i suppose they were driven out by the fresh breeze that sprung up, and not knowing how to manage the sails, they were capsized." "there they all lay. miss, in the churchyard. it was a solemn sight, i can tell you, to see those four coffins, side by side, in the church. they were all strong hearty lads, and all under seventeen. i go and sit on his grave sometimes, and spell over all i said, and all he said that day; and glad enough i am, that i can remember neither cross word nor cross look. ah, my lady, i should remember it if it had been so. we think we are good fathers and good friends to them we love while they are alive, but as soon as we lose 'em, all the kindness we ever did them seems little enough, while all the bad feelings we had, and sharp words we spoke, come up to condemn us." by this time they had reached the fisherman's cottage; it was prettily situated, as houses on the south coast often are, under the shadow of a fine over-hanging cliff. masses of rock, clad with emerald green, were scattered here and there, and the thriving plants in the little garden, gave evidence of the mildness of the air in those parts, though close upon the sea. the cottage was very low, but white and cheerful looking outside, and as clean and trim within as a notable and stirring woman could make it. joe's daughter-in-law, the same described by joe the other evening as the woman of a high spirit, was to-day absent on an errand to the town; and edith, who loved children, stopped at the threshold to notice two or three little curly-headed prattlers, who were playing together at grotto making, an amusement which cost grandfather many a half-penny. some dispute seemed to have arisen at the moment of their entrance between the young builders, for a good-humoured, plain-looking girl, of twelve, the nursemaid of the baby, and the care-taker of four other little ones, was trying to pacify the aggrieved. in vain--little susy was in a great passion, and with her tiny foot kicked over the grotto, the result of several hours' labour; first, in searching on the shore for shells and pebbles, and secondly, in its erection. then arose such a shriek and tumult amongst the children, as those only can conceive who know what a noise disappointed little creatures, from three to seven years old, can make. they all set upon susy, "naughty, mischievous, tiresome," were among the words. the quiet looking girl, who had been trying to settle the dispute, now interfered again. she led susy away gently, but firmly, into another part of the garden, where spying her grandfather, she took the unwilling and ashamed little girl for him to deal with, and ran hack to the crying children and ruined grotto. "oh, hush! dears, pray hush," said sarah, beginning to pick up the shells, "we will soon build it up again." this they all declared impossible, and cried afresh, but sarah persevered, and quietly went on piling up the shells, till at last one little mourner took up her coarse pinafore and wiping her eyes, said, "sarah does it very nicely." the grotto rose beautifully, and at last they were all quiet and happy again; all but poor susy, who, seeing herself excluded, kept up a terrible whine. "i wonder if susan is sorry," said sarah. "not she, not she, don't ask her here again," said they all. "why not," said the grandfather, who having walked about with susy awhile, and talked gravely to her, appeared to have brought about a change in her temper? "why because she will knock it down again the first time any thing puts her out." "won't you try her?" said sarah, pleadingly; but they still said "no! no!" "don't you mind the day, dick," said sarah, "when you pulled grandfather's new net all into the mud, and tangled his twine, and spoilt him a whole day's work?" "yes," said dick. "ah, and don't you mind, too, when he went out in the boat next day, and you asked to go with him, just as if nothing had happened, and you had done no harm, he said, 'ah, dick, if i were to mind what _revenge_ says, i would not take you with me; you have injured me very much, but i'll mind what _love_ says, and that tells me to return good for evil?'" "yes," says dick. "do you think you could have hurt any thing of grandfather's after that?" "no," said dick, "but i did not do it in a rage, as susy did." "you did mischief, though," said sarah; "but i want susy to give over going into these rages. i want to cure her. beating her does no good, mother says that herself; wont you all try and help to cure susy?" these children were not angels. i am writing of children as they are you know, and though they yielded, it was rather sullenly, and little susan was given to understand that she was not a very welcome addition. susy kept very close to sarah, sobbing and heaving, till the children seeing her subdued, made more room for her, and her smile returned. now the law of kindness prevailed, and when the time came to run down to the shore for some more shells, to replace those that had been broken, susy, at sarah's hint, ran first and fastest, and brought her little pinafore fullest of all. edith watched all this, and her good old mentor was willing that she should. "i suppose you have taught them this way of settling disputes," said edith to joe. "i, oh no, miss, i can't take all the credit. sarah, there, she has taken to me very much since my bob died, and she said to me the day of his funeral, when her heart was soft and tender-like, 'grandfather, tell me what i can do to comfort you.' 'oh, child,' says i, 'my grief is too deep for you to touch, but you are a kind girl, i'll tell you what to do to-night. leave me alone, and, oh, try and make the children quiet, for my head aches as bad as my heart. sally.'" "then sarah tried that day and the next, but found it hard work; the boys quarrelled and fought, and the little once scratched and cried, and their mother came and beat one or two of the worst, but all did no good. there was no peace till bed time; still i encouraged her and told her, you know, about 'a soft answer turning away wrath,' and since that time, she has less often given railing for railing; and has not huffed and worried them, as elder sisters are apt to do. she is a good girl, is sarah, but here comes the missis home from market." "the missis" certainly did not look very sweet, and her heavy load had heated her. she did not welcome edith pleasantly, which, the old man observing, led her away to a little room he occupied at the back of the cottage, and showed her the corallines. edith saw plainly that though the poor father offered her any of them she liked to take, he suffered in parting with them, so calling dick and mary, she asked if they would hunt for some for her, like those in grandfather's stores. they consented joyfully, and edith promising often to come and see the old man, ran down the cliff briskly, and hastened home. she thought a good deal as she walked, and asked herself if she should have had the patience and the gentleness of that poor cottage girl; if she should have soothed susy, and comforted dick and mary; if she should have troubled herself to kneel down in the broiling sun and build up a few trumpery shells into a grotto, to be upset and destroyed presently. she came to the conclusion that for good, pleasant, prettily behaved children, she might have done so, but for shrieking, passionate, quarrelsome little things as they appeared to her then, she certainly should not. she felt humbled at the contrast between herself and sarah; and when she arrived at home, for the first time, perhaps, in her life, she patiently bore her mamma's reproaches for being so late, and for the impropriety of walking away from her sisters, no one knew where. she was not yet quite skilled enough in the art of peace, to give the "soft answer;" but her silence and quietness turned away mrs. parker's wrath, and after dinner, edith prepared herself for the visit of her dear emilie. chapter fourth. the holidays. mrs. parker and her two elder daughters were going to pay a visit to town this summer, and as edith was not thought old enough to accompany them, mrs. parker resolved to ask emilie to take charge of her. the only difficulty was how to dispose of aunt agnes; aunt agnes wishing them to believe that she did not mind being alone, but all the while minding it very much. at last it occurred to emilie that perhaps mrs. crosse, at the farm in edenthorpe, a few miles off, would, if she knew of the difficulty, ask aunt agnes there for a few weeks. mrs. crosse and aunt agnes got on so wonderfully well together, and as she had often been invited, the only thing now was to get her in the mind to go. this was effected in due time, and mr. crosse came up to the lodgings for her and her little box, in his horse and gig, on the very evening that emilie was to go the parkers', to be installed as housekeeper and governess in the lady's absence. edith had come to see the dear old aunt off; and now re-entered the lodgings to help emilie to collect her things, and to settle with miss webster for the lodgings, before her departure. miss webster had met with a tenant for six weeks, and was in very good spirits, and very willing to take care of the schombergs' goods, which, to tell the truth, were not likely to oppress her either in number or value, with the exception of one cherished article, one relic of former days--a good semi-grand piano, which m. schomberg had purchased for his daughter, about a year before his death. miss webster looked very much confused as emilie bade her good-bye, and said--"miss schomberg, you have not, i see, left your piano unlocked." "no," said emilie, "certainly i have not; i did not suppose----" "why," replied miss webster, "the lodgers, seeing a piano, will be sure to ask for the key, miss, and to be sure you wo'nt object." emilie hesitated. did she remember the time when miss webster, indignant at emilie for being a fortnight behind-hand in her weekly rent, refused to lend a sofa for her dying father, without extra pay? did she recall the ill-made slops, the wretched attendance to which this selfish woman treated them during the pressure of poverty and distress? emilie was human, and she remembered all. she knew, moreover, that miss webster would make a gain of her instrument, and that it might suffer from six weeks' rough use. she stood twisting some straw plait that lay on the counter, in her fingers, and then coolly saying she would consider of it, walked out of the shop with edith, her bosom swelling with conflicting feelings. the slight had been to her _father_--to her dear dead father--she could not love miss webster, nor respect her--she could not oblige her. she felt so now, however, and despised the meanness of the lodging-house keeper, in making the request. edith was by her side in good spirits, though she was to miss the london journey. not every young lady would be so content to remain all the holiday-time with the governess; but edith loved her governess. happy governess, to be loved by her pupil! mrs. parker received emilie very kindly: she was satisfied that her dear child would be happy in her absence, and she knew enough of emilie, she said, to believe that she would see that mr. parker had his meals regularly and nicely served, and that the servants did not rob or run away, or the boys put their dirty feet on the sofa, or bright fender tops, or lead edith into mischief; in short, the things that emilie was to see to were so numerous, that it would have required more eyes than she possessed, and far more vigilance and experience than she lay claim to, to fulfill all mrs. parker's desires. amidst all the talking and novelty of her new situation, however, emilie was absent and thoughtful; she was dispirited, and yet she was not subject to low spirits either. there was a cause. she had a tender conscience--a conscience with which she was in the habit of conversing, and conscience kept whispering to her the words--"what things soever ye would that men should do unto you, do ye also to them." in vain she tried to silence this monitor, and at last she asked to withdraw for a few minutes, and scribbled a hasty note to miss webster; the first she wrote was as follows:-"dear miss w.--i enclose the key of the pianoforte. i should have acceded to your request, only i remembered standing on that very spot, by that very counter, a year ago, petitioning hard for the loan of a sofa for my dying father, who, in his feverish and restless state, longed to leave the bed for awhile. i remembered that, and i could not feel as if i could oblige you; but i have thought better of it, and beg you will use the piano." "yours truly, "emilie schomberg." she read the note before folding it, however; and somehow it did not satisfy her. she crumpled it up, took a turn or two in the room, and then wrote the following:-"dear miss webster--i am sorry that i for a moment hesitated to lend you my piano. it was selfish, and i hope you will excuse the incivility. i enclose the key, and as your lodgers do not come in until to-morrow, i hope the delay will not have inconvenienced you. "believe me, yours truly, "emilie schomberg." having sealed her little note, she asked mrs. parker's permission to send it into high street, and emilie schomberg was herself again. you will see, by-and-bye, how emilie returned miss webster's selfishness in a matter yet more important than the loan of the piano. it would have been meeting evil with evil had she retaliated the mean conduct of her landlady. she would undoubtedly have done so, had she yielded to the impulses of her nature; but "how then could i have prayed," said emilie, "forgive me my trespasses as i forgive them that trespass against me." the travellers set off early in the morning, and now began the holiday of both governess and pupil. they loved one another so well that the prospect of six weeks' close companionship was irksome to neither; but emilie had not a holiday of it altogether. miss edith was exacting and petulant at times, even with those she loved, and she loved none better than emilie. fred, the tormenting brother of whom edith had spoken in her list of troubles in our first chapter, was undeniably troublesome; and the three maid-servants set themselves from the very first to resist the governess's temporary authority; so we are wrong in calling these emilie's holidays. she had not, indeed, undertaken the charge very willingly; but mrs. parker had befriended her in extremity, and she loved edith dearly, notwithstanding much in her that was not loveable, so she armed herself for the conflict, and cheerfully and humbly commenced her new duties. fred and his elder brother john were at home for the holidays; they were high-spirited lads of fourteen and fifteen years of age, and were particularly fond of teasing both their elder sisters and little edith; a taste, by-the-bye, by no means peculiar to the master parkers, but one which we cannot admire, nevertheless. the two boys, with emilie and edith, were on their way to pay aunt agnes a little visit, having received from mrs. crosse, at the farm, a request for the honour of the young lady's company as well as that of her brothers. john and frederick were to walk, and emily and edith were to go in the little pony gig. as they were leaving the town, edith caught sight of john coming out of a shop which was a favourite resort of most of the young people and visitors of the town of l----. it was professedly a stationer's and bookseller's, and was kept by mrs. cox, a widow woman, who sold balls, fishing tackle, books, boats, miniature spades, barrows, garden tools, patent medicines, &c., and who had lately increased her importance, in the eyes of the young gentlemen, by the announcement that various pyrotechnical wonders were to be obtained at her shop. there are few boys who have not at some time of their boyhood had a mania for pyrotechnics--in plain english, _fire-works_--and there are few parents, and parents' neighbours, who can say that they relish the smell of gunpowder on their premises. mr. parker had a particular aversion to amusements of the kind. he was an enemy to fishing, to cricketing, to boating; he was a very quiet, gentlemanly, dignified sort of man, and, although a kind father, had perhaps set up rather too high a standard of quietness and order and sedateness for his children. it is a curious fact, but one which it would be rather difficult to disprove, that children not unfrequently are the very opposites of their parents, in qualities such as i have described. possibly they may not have been inculcated quite in the right manner; but that is not our business here. edith guessed what her brothers were after, and told her suspicious to emilie; but not until they were within sight of the farm-house. john and fred, who had been a short cut across the fields, were in high glee awaiting their arrival, and assisted edith and her friend to alight more politely than usual. aunt agnes was in ecstasies of delight to see her dear emilie, and she caressed edith most lovingly also. edith liked the old lady, who had a fund of fairy tales, such as the german language is rich in. often would edith go and sit by the old lady as she knitted, and listen to the story of the "flying trunk," or the "two swans," with untiring interest; and old ladies of a garrulous turn like good listeners. so aunt agnes called edith a charming girl, and edith, who had seldom seen aunt agnes otherwise than conversable and pleasant, thought her a very nice old lady. mrs. crosse was extremely polite; and in the bustle of greeting, and putting up the pony, and aunt agnes' questions, the fire-work affair was almost forgotten. when they all met at tea, the farmer, who had almost as great a horror of gunpowder as mr. parker--and in the vicinity of barns and stacks, with greater reason--declared he smelt a smell which he never tolerated in his house, and asked his boys if they had any about them. they denied it, but it was evident they knew something of the matter; and now emilie's concern was very great. after tea she took john by the arm, and looking into his face, said, "i am going to be very intrusive, sir; i am not your governess, and i have no right to control you, but i wish to be your friend, and may i advise you? don't take those fire-works out on mr. crosse's premises, you have no idea the mischief you might do. you could not have brought them to a worse place. be persuaded, pray do, to give it up." john, thus appealed to, laughed heartily at miss schomberg's fears, said something not very complimentary about miss s. speaking one word for the farmer's stack, and two for her own nerves, and made his escape to join his brother, and the two young farmers, who were delighted at the prospect of a frolic. what was to be done? the lads were gone out, and doubtless would send up their rockets and let off their squibs somewhere on the farm, which was a very extensive one. the very idea of fire-works would put aunt agnes into a terrible state of alarm, so emilie held her peace. to tell the farmer would, she knew, irritate him fearfully; and yet no time was to be lost. she was older than any of the party, and it was in reliance on her discretion that the visit had been permitted. she appealed to edith, but edith, who either had a little fancy to see the fire-works, or, who feared her brothers' ridicule, or who thought emilie took too much upon herself, gave her no help in the matter. "well, edith," said emilie, when the farmer's wife left the room to make some preparation for a sumptuous supper, "i have made up my mind what to do. i will not stay here if your brothers are to run any foolish risks with those fire-works. i will go home at once, and tell your papa, he will be in time to stop it; or i will apprise mr. crosse, and he can take what steps he pleases." "well, you will have a fine life of it, miss schomberg, if you tell any tales, i can tell you," said edith, pettishly, "and it really is no business of yours. they are not under your care if i am. oh, let them be. fred said he should let them off on the langdale hills, far enough away from the farm." but emilie was firm. she tied on her bonnet, and determined to make one more effort--it should be with fred this time. she followed the track of the lads, having first inquired of a farm-boy which road they had taken, and as they had loitered, and she walked very fast, she soon overtook them. they were seated on a bank by the road-side, when she got up to them, and john was just displaying his treasures, squibs to make miss edith jump, catherine wheels, roman candles, sky-rockets, and blue lights and crackers. the farmer's sons, jerry and tom, grinned delightedly. emilie stood for a few moments irresolute; the boys were rude, and looked so daring--what should she say? "young gentlemen," she began; they all took off their hats in mock deference. "a woman preaching, i declare." "go on. madam, hear! hear! hear!" said the young crosses. "young gentlemen," continued emilie, with emphasis, "it is to _you_ i am speaking. i am determined that those fire-works shall not be let off, if i can prevent it, on mr. crosse's premises. if you will not give up your intention, i shall walk to l--, and inform your father, and you know very well how displeased he will be." "who says we are going to let them off on mr. crosse's premises?" said fred, fiercely. "you are very interfering miss schomberg, will you go back to your our own business, and to little edith." "i will go to l----, master fred," said emilie, firmly, but kindly. "i shall be sorry to get you into trouble, and i would rather not take the walk, but i shall certainly do what i say if you persist." the boys looked doubtfully at one another. fred seemed a little disposed to yield, but to be conquered by his sister's governess was very humiliating. however, they knew from edith's account that emilie, though kind, was firm; and, therefore, after a little further altercation, they agreed not to send up the fire-works that night, but they promised her at the same time that she should not hear the last of it. they returned to the farm much out of humour, and having hidden them in the box of the pony gig, came in just in time for supper. the ride home was a silent one; edith saw that her brothers were put out, and began to think she did not like emilie schomberg to live with at all. emilie had done right, but she had a hard battle to fight; all were against her. no one likes to be contradicted, or as fred said, to be managed. emilie, however, went steadily on, speaking the truth, but speaking it in love, and acting always "as seeing him who is invisible." chapter fifth. edith's trials. "now, emilie, what do you think of my life?" said edith, one day after she and fred had had one of their usual squabbles. "what do you think of fred _now_?" "i think, edith, dear, that i would try and win him over to love and affection, and not thwart and irritate him as you do. have you forgotten old joe's maxim, 'a soft answer turneth away wrath?' but your grievous words too often stir up strife. you told me the other day, dear, how much the conduct of sarah murray pleased you; now you may act towards john and fred as sarah did to little susy." edith shook her head. "it is not in me, emilie, i am afraid." "no, dear," said emilie, "you are right, it is not _in_ you." "well then what is the use of telling me to do things impossible?" "i did not say impossible, edith, did i?" "no, but you say it is not in me to be gentle and all that, and i dare say it is not; but you don't get much the better thought of, gentle as you are. miss schomberg. john and fred don't behave better to you than they do to me, so far as i see." "edith, dear, you set out wrong in your attempts to do right," said emily, kindly. "it is not _in_ you; it is not _in_ any one by nature to be always gentle and kind. it is not in me i know. i was once a very petulant child, being an only one, and it was but by very slow process that i learned to govern myself, and i am learning it still." at this moment fred came in, bearing in one hand a quantity of paper, and in another a book with directions for balloon making. "now edith, you are a clever young lady," he began. "oh, yes," said edith, wrathfully, "when it suits you, you can flatter." "no, but edith, don't be cross, come! i want you to do me a service. i want you to cut me out this tissue paper into the shape of this pattern. i am going to send up a balloon to-morrow, and i can't cut it out, will you do it for me?" "yes, yes," said emilie, "we will do it together. oh, come that is a nice job, edith dear, i can help you in that," and emilie cleared away her own work quick as thought, and asked fred for particular directions how it was to be done, all this time trying to hide edith's unwillingness to oblige her brother, and making it appear that edith and she were of one mind to help him. fred, who since the fire-work affair had treated emilie somewhat rudely, and had on many occasions annoyed her considerably, looked in astonishment at miss schomberg. she saw his surprise and understood it. "fred," said she frankly, "i know what you are thinking of, but let us be friends. give me the gratification of helping you to this pleasure, since i hindered you of the other. you won't be too proud, will you, to have my help?" fred coloured. "miss schomberg," said he, "i don't deserve it of you, i beg your pardon;" and thus they were reconciled. oh, it is not often in great things that we are called upon to show that we love our neighbour as ourselves. it is in the daily, hourly, exercise of little domestic virtues, that they who truly love god may be distinguished from those who love him not. it was not because emilie was naturally amiable or naturally good that she was thus able to show this loving and forgiving spirit. she loved god, and love to him actuated her; she thus adorned the doctrine of her saviour in all things. young reader there is no such thing as a religion of words and feelings alone, it must be a religion of _acts_; a life of warfare against the sins that most easily beset you; a mortification of selfishness and pride, and a humble acknowledgment, when you have done your _very best_, that you are only unprofitable servants. had you heard emilie communing with her own heart, you would have heard no self gratulation. she was far from perfect even in the sight of man; in the sight of god she knew that in many things she offended. it is not a perfect character that i would present to you in emilie schomberg; but one who with all the weakness and imperfection of human nature, made the will of god her rule and delight. this is not natural, it is the habit of mind of those only who are created anew, new creatures in christ jesus. this you may be sure emilie did not fail to teach her pupil; but a great many such lessons may be received into the head without one finding an entrance to the heart, and edith was in the not very uncommon habit of looking on her faults in the light of misfortunes, just as any one might regard a deformed limb or a painful disorder. she was, indeed, too much accustomed to talk of her faults, and was a great deal too easy about them. "my dear," emilie would say after her confessions, "i do not believe you see how sinful these things are, or surely you would not so very, very, often commit them." this was the real state of the case; and it may be said of all those who are in the habit of mere confessions, that they do not believe things to be so very bad, because they do not understand how very good and holy is the god against whom they sin. edith had this to learn; books could not teach her this. she who taught her all else so well, could not teach her this; it was to be learned from a higher source still. well, you are thinking, some of you, that this is a prosy chapter, but you must not skip it. it is just what emily schomberg would have said to you, if you had been pupils of hers. the end of reading is not, or ought not to be, mere amusement; so read a grave page now and then with attention and thoughtfulness. chapter sixth. emilie's trials. the truth must be told of emilie; she was not clever with her hands, and she was, nevertheless, a little too confident in her power of execution, so willing and anxious was she to serve you. the directions fred gave her were far from clear; and after the paper was all cut and was to be pasted together, sorrowful to say, it would not do at all. fred, in spite of his late apology was very angry, and seizing the scissors said he should know better another time than to ask miss schomberg to do what she did not understand. "you have wasted my paper, too," said the boy, "and my time in waiting for what i could better have done myself." emilie was very sorry, and she said so; but a balloon could not exactly be made out of her sorrow, and nothing short of a balloon would pacify fred, that was plain. "must it be ready for to-morrow?" she asked. "yes, it _must_," he said. three other boys were going to send up balloons. it was the queen's coronation day, and he had promised to take a fourth balloon to the party; and the rehearsal of all this stirred up fred's ire afresh, and he looked any thing but kind at miss schomberg. what was to be done? edith suggested driving to the next market town to buy one; but her papa wanted the pony gig, so they could only sally forth to mrs. cox's for some more tissue paper, and begin the work again. this was very provoking to edith. "to have spent all the morning and now to be going to spend all the afternoon over a trumpery balloon, which you can't make after all, miss schomberg, is very tiresome, and i wanted to go to old joe murray's to-day and see if the children have picked me up any corallines." "i am very sorry, dear, my carelessness should punish you; but don't disturb me by grumbling and i will try and get done before tea, and then we will go together." this time emilie was more successful; she took pains to understand what was to be done, and the gores of her balloon fitted beautifully. "now edith, dear, ring for some paste," said emilie, just as the clock struck four; margaret answered the bell. margaret was the housemaid, and so far from endeavouring in her capacity to overcome evil with good, she was perpetually making mischief and increasing any evil there might be, either in kitchen or parlour, by her mode of delivering a message. she would be sure to add her mite to any blame that she might hear, in her report to the kitchen, and thus, without being herself a bad or violent temper, was continually fomenting strife, and adding fuel to the fire of the cook, who was of a very choleric turn. the request for paste was civilly made and received, but emilie unfortunately called margaret back to say, "oh, ask cook, please, to make it stiffer than she did the last that we had for the kite; that did not prove quite strong." margaret took the message down and informed cook that "miss schomberg did not think she knew how to make paste." "then let her come and make it herself," said cook. "she wants to be cook i think; she had better come. i sha'nt make it. what is it for?" "oh," said margaret, "she is after some foreign filagree work of hers, that's all." "well, i'm busy now and i am not going to put myself out about it, she must wait." emilie did wait the due time, but as the paste did not come she went down for it. "is the paste ready, cook?" she asked. "no, miss schomberg," was the short reply, and cook went on assiduously washing up her plates. "will you be so kind as to make it, cook, for i want it particularly that it may have as much time as possible to dry." "perhaps you will make it yourself then," was the gracious rejoinder. emilie was not above making a little paste, and as she saw that something had put cook out, she willingly consented; but she did not know where to get either flour or saucepan, and cook and margaret kept making signs and laughing, so that it was not very pleasant. she grew quite hot, as she had to ask first for a spoon, then for a saucepan, then for the flour and water; at last she modestly turned round and said, "cook, i really do not quite know how to make a little paste. i am ashamed to say it, but i have lived so long in lodgings that i see nothing of what is done in the kitchen. will you tell or show me? i am very ignorant." her kind civil tone quite changed cook's, and she said, "oh, miss, i'll make it, only you see, you shouldn't have said i didn't know how." emilie explained, and the cook was pacified, and gave miss schomberg a good deal of gratuitous information during the process. how she did not like her place, and should not stay, and how she disliked her mistress, and plenty more--to which emilie listened politely, but did not make much reply. she plainly perceived that cook wanted a very forbearing mistress, but she could not exactly tell her so. she merely said in her quaint quiet way, that every one had something to bear, and the paste being made, she left the kitchen. "well, i must say, miss schomberg has a nice way of speaking, which gets over you some how," said cook, "i wish i had her temper." more than one in the kitchen mentally echoed that wish of cook's. the balloon went on beautifully, and was completed by seven o'clock. fred was delighted when he came in to tea, and john no less so. all the rude speeches were forgotten, and emilie was as sympathetic in her joy as an elder sister could have been. "i don't know what you will do without miss schomberg," said mr. parker, as he sipped his tea. "she had better come and live with us," said fred, "and keep us all in order. i'm sure i should have no objection." emilie felt quite paid for the little self-denial she had exercised, when she found that her greatest enemy, he who had declared he would "plague her to death, and pay her off for not letting them send up their fire-works," was really conquered by that powerful weapon, _love_. fred had thought more than he chose to acknowledge of emilie's kindness; he could not forget it. it was so different to the treatment he had met with from his associates generally. it made him ask what could be the reason of emilie's conduct. she had nothing to get by it, that was certain, and fred made up his mind to have some talk with miss schomberg on the subject the first time they were alone. he had some trials at school with a boy who was bent on annoying him, and trying to stir up his temper; perhaps the peacemaker might tell him how to deal with this lad. fred was an impetuous boy, and now began to like miss schomberg as warmly as he had previously disliked her. on their way to old joe's house that night, emilie thought she would call in on miss webster, not having parted from her very warmly on the first night of the holidays. a fortnight of these holidays had passed away, and emilie began to long for her quiet evenings, and to see dear aunt agnes again. she looked quite affectionately up to the little sitting room window, where her geraniums stood, and even thought kindly of miss webster herself, to whom it was not quite so easy to feel genial. she entered the shop. the apprentice sate there at work, busily trimming a fine rice straw bonnet for the lodger within. she looked up joyously at emilie's approach. she thought how often that kind german face had been to her like a sunbeam on a dull path; how often her musical voice had spoken words of counsel, and comfort, and sympathy, to her in her hard life. how she had pressed her hand when she (the apprentice) came home one night and told her, "my poor mother is dead," and how she had said, "we are both orphans now, lucy. we can feel for one another." how she had taught her by example, often, and by word sometimes, not to answer again if any thing annoyed or irritated her, and in short how much lucy had missed the young lady only lucy could say. emilie inquired for her mistress, but the words were scarcely out of her lips, than she said, "oh, miss, she's so bad! she has scalt her foot, and is quite laid up, and the lodgers are very angry. they say they don't get properly attended to and so they mean to go. dear me, there is such a commotion, but her foot is very had, poor thing, and i have to mind the shop, or i would wait upon her more; and the girl is very inattentive and saucy, so that i don't see what we are to do. will you go and see miss webster, miss?" emilie cheerfully consented, leaving edith with lucy to learn straw plaiting, if she liked, and to listen to her artless talk. lucy had less veneration for the name of queen victoria than for that of schomberg. emilie was to her the very perfection of human nature, and accordingly she sang her praises loud and long. on the sofa, the very sofa for which m. schomberg had so longed, lay miss webster, the expression of her face manifesting the greatest pain. the servant girl had just brought up her mistress's tea, a cold, slopped, miserable looking mess. a slice of thick bread and butter, half soaked in the spilled beverage, was on a plate, and that a dirty one; and the tray which held the meal was offered to the poor sick woman so carelessly, that the contents were nearly shot into her lap. it was easy to see that love formed no part of betsey's service of her mistress, and that she rendered every attention grudgingly and ill. emilie went up cordially to miss webster, and was not prepared for the repulsive reception with which she met. she wondered what she could have said or done, except, indeed, in the refusal of the instrument, and that was atoned for. emilie might have known, however, that nothing makes our manners so distant and cold to another, as the knowledge that we have injured or offended him. miss webster, in receiving emilie's advances, truly was experiencing the truth of the scripture saying, that coals of fire should be heaped on her head. poor miss webster! "there! set down the tray, you may go, and don't let me see you in that filthy cap again, not fit to be touched with a pair of tongs; and don't go up to mrs. newson in that slipshod fashion, don't betsey; and when you have taken up tea come here, i have an errand for you to go. shut the door gently. oh, dear! dear, these servants!" this was so continually the lament of miss webster, that emilie would not have noticed it, but that she appeared so miserable, and she therefore kindly said, "i am afraid betsey does not wait on you nicely, miss webster, she is so very young. i had no idea of this accident, how did it happen?" how it happened took miss webster some time to tell. it happened in no very unusual manner, and the effect was a scalt foot, which she forthwith shewed miss schomberg. there was no doubt that it was a very bad foot, and emilie saw that it needed a good nurse more than a good doctor. mr. parker was a medical man, and emilie knew she should have no difficulty in obtaining that kind of assistance for her. but the nursing! miss webster was feverish and uneasy, and in such suffering that something must be done. at the sight of her pain all was forgotten, but that she was a fellow-creature, helpless and forsaken, and that she must be helped. all this time any one coming in might have imagined that emilie had been the cause of the disaster, so affronted was miss webster's manner, and so pettishly did she reject all her visitor's suggestions as preposterous and impossible. "will you give up your walk to-night, edith," said emilie on her return to the shop, "poor miss webster is in such pain i cannot leave her, and if you would run home and ask your papa to step in and see her, and say she has scalt her foot badly, i would thank you very much." emilie spoke earnestly, so earnestly that edith asked if she were grown very fond of that "sour old maid all of a sudden." "very fond! no edith; but it does not, or ought not to require us to be very fond of people to do our duty to them." "well, i don't see what duty you owe to that mean creature, and i see no reason why i should lose my walk again to-night. you treat people you don't love better than those you do it seems; or else your professions of loving me mean nothing. all day long you have been after fred's balloon, and now i suppose mean to be all night long after miss webster's foot." emilie made no reply; she could only have reproached edith for selfishness and temper at least equal to miss webster's, but telling lucy she should soon return, hastened to mr. parker's house, followed by edith; he was soon at the patient's side, and as emilie foretold, it was a case more for an attentive nurse than a skilful doctor. he promised to send her an application, but, "miss schomberg," said he, "sleep is what she wants; she tells me she has had no rest since the accident occurred. what is to be done?" "can you not send for a neighbour, miss webster, or some one to attend to your household, and to nurse you too. if you worry yourself in this way you will be quite ill." poor miss webster was ill, she knew it; and having neither neighbour nor friend within reach, she did what was very natural in her case, she took up her handkerchief and began to cry. "oh, come, miss webster," said emilie, cheerfully, "i will get you to bed, and lucy shall come when the shop is closed, and to-morrow i will get aunt agnes to come and nurse you. keep up your spirits." "ah, it is very well to talk of keeping up spirits, and as to your aunt agnes, there never was any love lost between us. no thank you, miss schomberg, no thank you. if i may just trouble you to help me to the side of my bed, i can get in, and do very well alone. _good_ night." emilie stood looking pitifully at her. "i hope i don't keep you, miss schomberg, pray don't stay, you cannot help me," and here miss webster rose, but the agony of putting her foot to the ground was so great that she could not restrain a cry, and emilie, who saw that the poor sufferer was like a child in helplessness, and like a child, moreover, in petulance, calmly but resolutely declared her intention of remaining until lucy could leave the shop. having helped her landlady into bed, she ran down-stairs to try and appease the indignant lodgers, who protested, and with truth, that they had rung, rung, rung, and no one answered the bell; that they wanted tea, that miss webster had undertaken to wait on them, that they were _not_ waited on, and that accordingly they would seek other lodgings on the morrow, they would, &c., &c. "miss webster, ma'am, is very ill to-night. she has a young careless servant girl, and is, i assure you, very much distressed that you should be put out thus. i will bring up your tea, ma'am, in five minutes, if you will allow me. it is very disagreeable for you, but i am sure if you could see the poor woman, ma'am, you would pity her." mrs. harmer did pity her only from emilie's simple account of her state, and declared she was very sorry she had seemed angry, but the girl did not say her mistress was ill, only that she was lying down, which appeared very disrespectful and inattentive, when they had been waiting two hours for tea. the shop was by this time cleared up, and lucy was able to attend to the lodgers. whilst emilie having applied the rags soaked in the lotion which had arrived, proceeded to get miss webster a warm and neatly served cup of tea. it would have been very cheering to hear a pleasant "thank you;" but miss webster received all these attentions with stiff and almost silent displeasure. do not blame her too severely, a hard struggle was going on; but the law of kindness is at work, and it will not fail. chapter seventh. better things. "ah, if miss schomberg had asked me to wait on _her_, how gladly would i have done it, night after night, day after day, and should have thought myself well paid with a smile; but to sit up all night with a person, who cares no more for me, than i for her, and that is nothing! and then to have to get down to-morrow and attend to the shop, all the same as if i had slept well, is no joke. oh, dear me! how sleepy i am, two o'clock! i was to change those rags at two; i really scarcely dare attempt it, she seems so irritable now." so soliloquized lucy, who, kindhearted as she was, could not be expected to take quite so much delight in nursing her cross mistress, who never befriended her, as she would have done a kinder, gentler person; but lucy read her bible, and she had been trying, though not so long as emilie, nor always so successfully it must be owned, to live as though she read it. "miss webster, ma'am, the doctor said those rags were to be changed every two hours. may i do it for you? i can't do it as well as miss schomberg, but i will do my very best not to hurt you." "i want sleep child," said miss webster, "i want _sleep_, leave me alone." "you can't sleep in such pain, ma'am," said poor lucy, quite at her wits ends. "don't you think, i must know that as well as you? there! there's that rush light gone out, and you never put any water in the tin; a pretty nurse you make, now i shall have that smell in my nose all night. you must have set it in a draught. what business has a rush light to go out in a couple of hours? i wonder." lucy put the obnoxious night shade out of the room, and went back to the bedside. for a long time she was unsuccessful, but at last miss webster consented to have her foot dressed, and even cheered her young nurse by the acknowledgment that she did it very well, considering; and thus the night wore away. quite early emilie was at her post, and was grieved to see that miss webster still looked haggard and suffering, and as if she had not slept. in answer to her inquiries, lucy said that she had no rest all night. "rest! and how can i rest, miss schomberg? i can't afford to lose my lodgers, and lose them i shall." "only try and keep quiet," said emilie, "and i will see that they do not suffer from want of attendance. _you_ cannot help them, do consent to leave all thought, all management, to those who can think and manage. may aunt agnes come and nurse you, and attend to the housekeeping?" "yes," was reluctantly, and not very graciously uttered. "well then, lucy will have time to attend to you. i would gladly nurse you myself, but you know i may not neglect miss parker; now take this draught, and try and sleep." "miss schomberg," said the poor woman, "you won't lack friends to nurse you on a sick bed; i have none." "miss webster, if i were to be laid on a sick bed, and were to lose aunt agnes, i should be alone in a country that is not my own country, without money and without friends; but we may both of us have a friend who sticketh closer than a brother, think of him, ma'am, now, and ask him to make your bed in your sickness." she took the feverish hand of the patient as she said this, who, bursting into a flood of tears, replied, "ah, miss schomberg! i don't deserve it of you, and that is the truth; but keep my hand, it feels like a friend's, hold it, will you, and i think i shall sleep a little while;" and emilie stood and held her hand, stood till she was faint and weary, and then withdrawing it as gently as ever mother unloosed an infant's hold, she withdrew, shaded the light from the sleeper's eyes, and stole out of the room, leaving the sufferer at ease, and in one of those heavy sleeps which exhaustion and illness often produce. her visit to the kitchen was most discouraging. betsey was only just down, and the kettle did not boil, nor were any preparations made for the lodgers' breakfast, to which it only wanted an hour. emilie could have found it in her heart to scold the lazy, selfish girl, who had enjoyed a sound sleep all night, whilst lucy had gone unrefreshed to her daily duties, but she forebore. "scolding never does answer," thought emilie, "and i won't begin to-day, but i must try and reform this girl at all events, by some means, and that shall be done at once." "come, betsey," said emilie pleasantly, "now, we shall see what sort of a manager you will be; you must do all you can to make things tidy and comfortable for the lodgers. is their room swept and dusted?" "oh, deary me, miss, what time have i had for that, i should like to know?" "well now, get every thing ready for their breakfast, and pray don't bang doors or make a great clatter with the china, as you set the table. every sound is heard in this small house, and your mistress has had no sleep all night." "well, she'll be doubly cross to day, then, i'll be bound. howsoever, i shall only stay my month, and it don't much matter what i do, she never gives a servant a good character, and i don't expect it." "no, and you will not deserve it if you are inattentive and unfeeling now. it is not doing as you would be done by, either. do now, betsey, forget, for a few days, that miss webster ever scolded or found fault with you. if you want to love any one just do him a kindness, and you don't know how fast love springs up in the heart; you would be much happier, betsey, i am sure. come _try_, you are not a cross girl, and you don't mean to be unkind now. i shall expect to hear from lucy, when i come again, how well you have managed together." fred went to mr. crosse's after breakfast, in the pony gig, for aunt agnes, who, at a summons from emilie, was quite willing to come and see after miss webster's household. she soon put mutters into a better train, both in kitchen and parlour, so that the pacified lodgers consented to remain. and though neither lucy nor betsey altogether liked aunt agnes, they found her quite an improvement on miss webster. it is not our object to follow miss webster through her domestic troubles nor through the tedious process of the convalescence of a scalt foot. we will rather follow edith into her chamber, and see how she is trying to learn the arts of the peacemaker there. edith's head is bent over a book, a torn book, and her countenance is flushed and heated. she is out of breath, too, and her hair is hanging disordered about her pretty face; not pretty now, however; it is an angry face--and an angry face is never pretty. has she been quarrelling with fred again? yes, even so. fred would not give up hans andersen's tales, which emilie had just given edith, and which she was reading busily, when some one came to see her about a new bonnet, so she left the book on the table, and in the mean time fred came in, snatched it up, and was soon deep in the feats of the "flying trunk." then came the little lady back and demanded the book, not very pleasantly, if the truth must be told. fred meant to give it up, but he meant to tease his sister first, and edith, who had no patience to wait, snatched at the book. fred of course resisted, and it was not until the book had been nearly parted from its cover, and some damage had ensued to the dress and hair of both parties that edith regained possession; not _peaceable_ possession, however, for both of the children's spirits were ruffled. edith flew to her room almost as fast as if she had been on the "flying trunk," in the fairy tale. when there, she could not read, and in displeasure with herself and with every one, dashed the little volume away and cried long and bitterly. edith had not been an insensible spectator of the constantly and self-denying gentle conduct of emilie. her example, far more than her precepts, had affected her powerfully, but she had much to contend with, and it seemed to her as if at the very times she meant to be kind and gentle something occurred to put her out. "i _will_ try, oh, i will try," said edith again and again, "but it is such hard work."--yes, edith, hard enough, and work which even emilie can scarcely help you in. you wrestle against a powerful and a cruel enemy, and you need great and powerful aid; but you have read your bible edith, and again and again has emilie said to you, "of yourself you can do nothing." edith had had a long conversation on this very subject only that morning with her friend, as they were walking on the sea shore, and under the influence of the calm lovely summer's sky, and within the sound of emilie's clear persuasive voice, it did not seem a hard matter to edith to love and to be loving. she could love fred, she could even bear a rough pull of the hair from him, she could stand a little teasing from john, who found fault with a new muslin frock she wore at dinner, and we all know it is not pleasant to have our dress found fault with; but this attack of fred's about the book, was _not_ to be borne, not by edith, at least, and thus she sobbed and cried in her own room, thinking herself the most miserable of creatures, and very indignant that emilie did not come to comfort her; "but she is gone out after that tiresome old woman, with her scalt foot, i dare say," said edith, "and she would only tell me i was wrong if she were here--oh dear! oh dear me!" and here she sobbed again. solitude is a wonderfully calming, composing thing; emilie knew that, and she did quite right to leave edith alone. it was time she should listen seriously to a voice which seldom made itself heard, but conscience was resolute to-day, and did not spare edith. it told her all the truth, (you may trust conscience for that,) it told her that the very reason why she failed in her efforts to do right was because she had a wrong _motive_; and that was, love of the approbation of her fellow creatures, and not real love to god. she would have quarrelled with any one else who dared to tell her this; but it was of no use quarrelling with conscience. conscience had it all its own way to-day, and went on answering every objection so quietly, and to the point, that by degrees edith grew quiet and subdued; and what do you think she did? she took up a little bible that lay on her table, and began to read it. she could not pray as yet. she did not feel kind enough for that. emilie had often said to her that she should be at peace with every one before she lifted up her heart to the "god of peace." she turned over the leaves and tried to find the chapter, which she knew very well, about the king who took account of his servants, and who forgave the man the great debt of ten thousand talents; and then when that man went out and found his servant who owed him but one hundred pence, he took him by the throat, and said, "pay me that thou owest." in vain did the man beseech for patience, he that had only just been forgiven ten thousand talents could not have pity on the man who owed him but one hundred pence. often had edith read this chapter, and very just was her indignation against the hard-hearted servant, who, with his king's lesson of mercy and forgiveness fresh in his memory, could not practise the same to one who owed him infinitely less than he had done his master; and yet here was little edith who could not forgive fred his injuries, when, nevertheless, god was willing to forgive hers. had fred injured her as she had injured god? surely not; and yet she might now kneel down and receive at once the forgiveness of all her _great_ sins. nay, more: she had been receiving mercy and patience at the hands of her heavenly father many years. she had neglected him, done many things contrary to his law, owed him, indeed, the ten thousand talents, and yet she was spared. she had a great deal of revenge in her heart still, however; and she could not, reason as she would, try as she would, read as she would, get it out, so she sunk down on her knees, and lifted up her heart very sincerely, to ask god to take it away. she had often said her prayers, and had found no difficulty in that, but now it seemed quite different. she could find no words, she could only feel. well, that was enough. he who saw in secret, saw her heart, and knew how it felt. she felt she needed forgiveness, and that she could only have it by asking it of him who had power to forgive sins. she took her great debt to jesus, and he cancelled it; she hoped she was forgiven, and now, oh! how ready she felt to forgive fred. how small a sum seemed his hundred pence--his little acts of annoyances compared with her many sins against god. now she felt and understood the meaning of the saviour's lesson to peter. she had entered the same school as peter, and though a slow she was a sincere learner. she is in the right way now to learn the true law of kindness. none but the _saviour,_ who was love itself, could teach her this. if any earthly teacher could have done so, surely emilie would have succeeded. she went down to tea softened and sad, for she felt very humble. the consideration of her great unlikeness to the character of jesus, affected her. "when he was reviled he reviled not again; when he suffered he threatened not;" and this thought made her feel more than any sermon or lecture or reproof she ever had in her life, how she needed to be changed, her whole self changed; not her old bad nature _patched_ up, but her whole heart made _new_. she did not say much at tea; she did not formally apologise to fred for her conduct to him. he looked very cross, so perhaps it was wiser to act rather than to speak; but she handed him the bread and butter, and buttered him a piece of toast, and in many little quiet ways told him she wished to be friends with him. john began at her frock again. she could not laugh, (she was not in a laughing humour,) but she said she would not wear it any more, during his holidays, if he disliked it so _very_ much. the greatest trial to her temper was the being told she looked cross. emilie, who could see the sun of peace behind the cloud, was half angry herself at this speech, and said to mr. parker, "if she looks cross she is not cross, sir, but i think she is not in very good spirits. every one looks a little sad sometimes;" and mr. porker, happily, being called out to a patient at that moment, gave edith opportunity to swallow her grief. after tea the boys prepared to accompany their sister and her governess in the usual evening walk. edith did not desire their company, but she did not say so; and they all went out very silent for them. on their road to the beach they met a man who had a cage of canaries to sell, the very things that fred had desired so long, and to purchase which he had saved his money. edith had no taste for noisy canaries; few great talkers have, for they do interrupt conversation must undeniably, but fred thought it would be most delightful to have them, and as he had a breeding cage which had belonged to one of his elder sisters years before, he asked the price and began to make his bargain. the birds were bought and the man dispatched to the house with them, with orders to call for payment at nine o'clock, before fred remembered that he did not exactly know where he should keep them. in the sitting room it would be quite out of the question he knew, for the noise would distract his mother. papa was not likely to admit canaries into his study for consultations; and fred knew only of one likely or possible place, but the door to that was closed, unless he could find a door to edith's heart, and he had just quarrelled with edith; what a pity! to make it up with her, however, just to gain his point, he was too proud to do, and was therefore gloomy and uncivil. "where are you going to keep your canaries fred?" asked his sister. "in the cage," said fred, shortly and tartly. "yes; but in what room?" "in my bed-room," said fred. "oh, i dare say! will you though?" said john, who as he shared his brother's apartment had some right to have a voice in the matter. "i am not going to be woke at daylight every morning by your canaries. and such an unwholesome plan; i am sure papa and mamma won't let you. what a pity you bought the birds! you can't keep them in our small house. get off your bargain, i would if i were you. besides, who will take care of them all the week? they will want feeding other days besides saturdays, i suppose." fred looked annoyed, and dropped behind the party. edith whispered to emilie, "go you on with john, i want to talk to fred." "fred, dear," said she, "will you keep your birds in my little room, where my old toys are? i will clear a place, and i shan't mind their singing, _do_ fred. i have often hindered your pleasures, now let me have the comfort of making it up a little to you, and i will feed them and clean them while you are at school in the week." "you may change your mind edith, and you know if my birds are in your room, i shall have to be there a good deal; and they will make a rare noise sometimes, and some one must take care of them all the week--i can only attend to them on saturdays, you know." "yes, i have been thinking of all that, and i expect i shall sometimes _wish_ to change my mind, but i shall not do it. i am very selfish i know, but i mean to try to be better, fred. take my little room, do." fred was a proud boy, and would rather have had to thank any one than edith just then; but nevertheless he accepted her offer, and thanked his little sister, though not quite so kindly as he might have done, and that is the truth. there is a grace in accepting as well as in giving. edith had given up what she had much prized, the independence of a little room, (it was but a little one,) a little room all to herself; but she did so because she felt love springing up in her heart. she acted in obedience to the dictates of the law of kindness, and she felt lighter and happier than she had done for a long time. fred was by degrees quite cheered, and amused his companions by his droll talk for some way. spying, however, one of his school-fellows on the rocks at a distance, he and john, joined him abruptly, and thus emilie and edith were left alone. sincerity is never loquacious, never egotistic. if you don't understand these words i will tell you what i mean. a person really in earnest; and sincere, does not talk much of earnestness and sincerity, still loss of himself. edith could not tell emilie of her new resolutions, of her mental conflict, but she was so loving and affectionate in her manner to her friend, that i think emilie understood; at any rate, she saw that edith was very pleasant, and very gentle that night, and loved her more than ever. she saw and felt there was a change come over her. they walked far, and on their return found the canaries arrived, and fred very busy in putting them up in their new abode. he had rather unceremoniously moved edith's bookcase and boxes, to make room for the bird cages. she did say, "i think you might have asked my leave," but she instantly recalled it. "oh, never mind; what pretty little things, i shall like to have them with me." it really was a trial to edith to see all her neat arrangements upset, and to find how very coolly fred did it, too. she sighed and thought, "ah, i shall not be mistress here now i see!" but fred was gone down stairs for some water and seed, and did not hear her laments. he was very full of his scheme for canary breeding at supper, and emilie was quite as full of sympathy in his joy as fred desired; she took a real interest in the matter. her father, she said, had given much attention to canary breeding, for the germans were noted for their management of canaries; she could help him, she thought, if he would accept her help. so they were very merry over the affair at supper time, and mr. parker, in his quiet way, enjoyed it too. suddenly, however, the merriment received a check. margaret, who had been to look at the birds, came in with the intelligence that muff, the pet cat of miss edith, was sitting in the dusk, watching the canaries with no friendly eye, and that she had even made a dart at the cage; and she prophesied that the birds would not be safe long. a bird of ill omen was margaret always; she thought the worst and feared the worst of every one, man or animal. "why, it is easy to keep the door of the cage shut," john remarked, but to keep puss out of her old haunts was not possible. muff was not a kitten, but a venerable cat, who had belonged to edith's elder sister, and was given to edith, the day that sister married, as a very precious gift; and edith loved that grey cat, loved her dearly. she always sat in the same place in that dear little room. edith had only that day made her a new red leather collar, and muff looked very smart in it. "muff won't hurt the birds, fred dear," said edith, "she is not like a common cat." whatever points of dissimilarity there might he between muff and the cat race in general, in this particular she quite resembled them; she loved birds, and would not be very nice as to the manner of obtaining them. what was to be done? fred had all manner of projects in his head for teaching the canaries to fly out and in the cage, to bathe, to perch on his finger, etc.; but if, whenever any one chanced to leave the door of the room open, muff were to bounce in, why there was an end to all such schemes. in short, muff would get the birds by fair means or foul, there was no doubt of that, and fred was desperate. i cannot tell how many times muff was called "a nasty cat," "a tiresome cat," "a vicious cat," and little edith's heart was full, for she did not believe any evil of her favourite; and to hear her so maligned, seemed like a personal insult; but she bore it patiently. she asked emilie at bed time what she should do about muff; she had so long been accustomed to her seat by the sunny window in edith's room, that to try and tempt her from it she knew would be vain. emilie agreed with her, but hoped muff would practise self-denial. before edith lay down to rest that night, she again thought over all that she had done through the day; again knelt down and asked for help to overcome that which was sinful within her, and then lay down to sleep. edith was but a child, and she could not forget muff; she thought, and very truly, that there was a general wish to displace her muff. not one in the house would be sorry to see muff sent away she know, and margaret at supper time seemed so pleased to report of muff's designs. this thought made her love muff all the more, but then there were fred's birds. it would be very sad if any of them should be lost through her cat; what should she do? she wished to win fred to love and gentleness. should she part with muff? miss schomberg (aunt agnes that is) had expressed a wish for a nice quiet cat, and this, her beauty, would just suit her. "shall i take muff to high-street to-morrow? i will," were her last thoughts, but the resolution cost her something, and edith's pillow was wet with tears. when she arose the next morning she felt as we are all apt to feel after the excitement of new and sudden resolves, rather flat; and the sight of muff sitting near a laurel bush in the garden, enjoying the morning sun, quite unnerved her. "part with muff! no, i cannot; and i don't believe any one would do such a thing for such a boy as fred. i cannot part with muff, that's certain. fred had better give up his birds, and so i shall tell him." all this is very natural, but what is very natural is often very wrong, and edith did not fuel that calm happiness which she had done the night before. when she received emilie's morning kiss, she said, "well, miss schomberg, i thought last night i had made up my mind to part with muff, but i really cannot! i do love her so!" "it would be a great trial to you, i should think," said emilie, "and one that no one could _ask_ of you, but if she had a good master, do you think you should mind it so very much? you would only have your own sorrow to think of, and really it would be a kindness if those poor birds are to be kept. the cat terrifies them by springing at the wires, and if they were sitting they would certainly be frightened off their nests." edith looked perplexed; "what shall i do emilie? i _do_ wish to please fred, i do wish to do as i would be done by; i really want to get rid of my selfish nature, and yet it will keep coming back." "watch as well as pray, dear," said emilie affectionately, "and you will conquer at last." they went down to breakfast together. "watch and pray." that word "watch," was r word in season to edith, she had _prayed_ but had well nigh forgotten to _watch_. she could not eat her meal, however, her heart was full with the greatness of the sacrifice before her. do not laugh at the word _great_ sacrifice. it was very great to edith; she loved with all her heart; and to part with what we love, be it a dog, a cat, a bird, or any inanimate possession, is a great pang. after breakfast she went into the little room where muff usually eat, and taking hold of the favourite, hugged and kissed her lovingly, then carrying her down stairs to the kitchen, asked cook for a large basket, and with a little help from margaret, tied her down and safely confined her; then giving the precious load to her father's errand boy, trotted into the town, and stopped not till she reached miss webster's door. her early visit rather astonished aunt agnes, who was at that moment busily engaged in dressing miss webster's foot, and at the announcement of betsey--"please ma'am little miss parker is called and has brought you a cat," she jumped so that she spilled miss webster's lotion. "a cat! a cat!" echoed the ladies. "i will have no cats here miss schomberg, if you please," said the irritable mistress. "i always did hate cats, there is no end to the mischief they do. i never did keep one, and never mean to do." miss schomberg went down stairs into miss webster's little parlour, and there saw edith untying her beloved muff. "well aday! my child, what brings you here? all alone too. surely emilie isn't ill, oh dear me something must be amiss." "oh no, miss schomberg, no, only i heard you say you would like a cat, and fred has got some new birds and i mayn't keep muff, and so will you take her and be kind to her?" "my dear child," said aunt agnes in a bewilderment, "i would take her gladly but miss webster has a bird you know, and is so awfully neat and particular, oh, it won't do; you must not bring her here, and i _must_ go back and finish miss webster's foot. she is very poorly to-day. oh how glad i shall be when my emilie comes back! good bye, take the cat, dear, away, pray do;" and, so saying, aunt agnes bustled off, leaving poor edith more troubled and perplexed with muff than ever. chapter eighth. good for evil. old joe murray was seated on the beach, nearer the town than his house stood, watching the groups of busy children, digging and playing in the sand, now helping them in their play, and now giving his hint to the nurses around him, when edith tapped him on the shoulder. there was something so unusually serious, not _cross_, in edith's countenance, that joe looked at her inquiringly. "there, set down the basket, nockells, and run back quick, tell papa i kept you; i am afraid you will get into disgrace." "mayn't i drown puss?" said nockells. "no! you cruel boy, _no!_" said edith, vehemently. "_you_ shall not have the pleasure, no one shall do it who would take a pleasure in it." "what is the matter miss?" asked joe, as soon as nockells turned away. "the matter, oh joe! i want muff drowned; my cat i mean, my dear cat;" and then she told her tale up to the point of miss webster's refusing to admit muff as a lodger, and cried most bitterly as she said, "and i won't have her ill-treated, so i will drown her, will you do it for me joe, please do now, or my courage will be gone? but i won't stay to look at it, so good-bye," said she, and slipping a shilling into joe's hand, ran home with the news to fred, that the cat was by this time at the bottom of the tea, and his canaries were safe for ever from her claws. fred was not a hard-hearted boy, and his sister's tale really grieved him. he kissed her several times over, as he said he now wished he had never bought the birds, that they had caused edith nothing but trouble and that he was very sorry. "i am not sorry, fred dear, at least i am only sorry for being forced to drown muff. i like to give you my room, and i like to give up my cat to you, and i shall not cry any more about it, so don't be unhappy." "and all this for me," said fred; "i who teased you so yesterday afternoon, and always am teasing you, i think!" how pleased emilie looked! she did not praise edith, but she gave her such a look of genuine approval as was a rich reward to her little pupil. "_this_ is the way. edith dear, to overcome evil with good; go on, _watch_ and pray, and you will subdue fred in time as well as your own evil tempers." how easy all this looks to read about! how swift the transition from bad to good! who has not felt, in reading rosamond and frank, a kind of envy that they so soon overcame their errors, so soon conquered their bad habits and evil dispositions? dear young reader, it is _not_ easy to subdue self; it is not easy to practise this law of kindness, love, and forbearance; it is not easy to live peaceably with all men, but believe me, it is not impossible. he who giveth liberally and upbraideth not, will give you grace, and wisdom, and help to do this if you ask it. the promise is, "ask and ye shall receive." edith in her helplessness naked strength of god and it was given. that which was given to her he will not withhold from you. only try him. for the comfort of those who may not have such a friend as emilie, we would remind our readers that the actual work of edith's change, for such it was, was that which no friend however wise and however good could effect. there is no doubt but that to her example edith owed much. it led her to _think_ and to _compare_, and was part of the means used by the all-wise god, to instruct this little girl; but if you have not emilie for a friend, you may all have the god, whom emilie served, for a friend. you may all read in the bible which she studied, and in which she learned, from god's love to man, how we should love each other. she read there, "if god so loved us, we ought also to love one another." the holidays drew to a close. the return of the mother and sisters was at hand. emilie was not without her fears for edith at this time, but she trusted in the help which she knew edith would have if she sought it, and was thus encouraged. the right understanding between her brothers and herself she was rejoiced to see daily increasing. it was not that there was nothing to ruffle the two most easily ruffled spirits. fred was not considerate, and would constantly recur to his old habit of tensing edith. edith was easily teased, and would rather order and advise fred, which was sure to bring on a breeze; but they were far less vindictive, less aggravating than formerly. they were learning to bear and forbear. edith had the most to bear, for although fred was impressed by her kind and altered conduct, and could never forget the generous act of sacrifice when she parted with muff to gratify him, he was as yet more actuated by impulse than principle, and nothing but principle, christian principle i mean, will enable us to be kind and gentle, and unselfish _habitually_, not by fits and starts, but every day. joe murray was sitting at his door smoking his pipe, and watching his little grandchildren as they played together (this time harmoniously) in the garden. they were not building a grotto, they were dancing, and jumping, and laughing, in the full merriment of good healthy happy children. emilie and edith greeted joe as an old friend, and joe seemed delighted to see them. the two children, who had been commissioned to search for corallines, rushed up to edith with a basket full of a heterogeneous collection, and amongst a great deal of little value there were some beautiful specimens of the very things edith wanted. she thanked the little murrays sincerely, and then looked at emilie. should she pay them? the look asked. it was evident the children had no idea of such a thing, and felt fully repaid by edith's pleasure. edith only wanted to know if it would take from that pleasure to receive money. she had been learning of late to study what people liked, and wished to do so now. emilie did not understand her look, and so edith followed her own course. "thank you, oh, thank you," she said. "it was very kind of you to collect me so many, they please me very much. i wish i knew of something that you would like as well as i like these, and if i can, i will give it to you, or ask mamma to help me." the boy not being troubled with bashfulness, immediately said, that of all things he should like a regular rigged boat, a ship, "a little-un" that would swim. the girl put her finger in her mouth and said "she didn't know." "are you going to have a boat?" said every little voice, "oh, what fun we shall have." "yes," said our peace-making friend, sarah. "you know that if dick gets any thing it is the same as if you all did. he is such a kind boy, miss, he plays with the little ones, and gives up to them so nicely, you'd be surprised." "i am glad of that," said emilie, "it will be such a pleasure to miss edith to give pleasure to them all--but come, jenny, you have not fixed yet what you will have." jenny said she did not want to be paid, but she had thought, perhaps miss parker might give them something, and if miss parker did not think it too much, she should like a shilling better than any thing. every one looked inquiringly, except sarah. sarah was but the uneducated daughter of a poor fisherman, but she studied human nature as it lay before her in the different characters of her brothers and sisters, and she guessed the workings of jenny's mind. "what do you want a shilling for?" said the mother sharply, who had joined the group. "you ought not to have asked for anything, what bad manners you have! the weeds cost you nothing, and you ought to be much obliged to miss parker for accepting them." "i wanted the shilling very much," persisted jenny, as edith pressed it into her hand, and off she ran, as though to hide her treasure. but edith had caught sight of something, and forgot shilling and every thing else in that glimpse. her own dear old muff sleeping on the hearth of the kitchen which she had not yet entered. i shall not tell you all the endearments she used to puss, they would look ridiculous on paper; they made even those who heard them smile, but she was so overjoyed that there was some excuse for her. mrs. murray rather damped her joy at once by saying, "oh, she's a sad thief, miss. she steals the fish terribly. i suppose you can't take her back, miss?" "ah, joe," said edith sorrowfully, "you see, you had better have drowned her." "so i think," said mrs. murray. "no, no, no," cried jane, coming forwards. "i have a shilling now, and barker the carrier will take her for that all the way to southampton, where aunt martha lives, and aunt martha loves cats, and will take care of muff; she shan't be drowned, miss," said jenny, kindly. the mother looked surprised, and they all admired jenny's kind intentions. emilie slipped another shilling into her hand as they went away, and said "you will find a use for it." "good night jenny, and thank you," said poor edith, with a sigh, for she had already looked forward to many joyful meetings with muff--her newly-found treasure. but as old joe, who followed them down the cliff said, there was no end to the trouble muff caused, what with stealing fish, and upsettings and breakings; and she would be happier at aunt martha's, where there was neither fish nor child, and more room to walk about in than muff enjoyed here. "but how kind of jenny," said edith, "how thoughtful for muff!" "no, miss, 't aint for muff exactly," said joe, "though she pitied you, as they all did, in thinking of drowning the cat; but bless the dear children, they are all trying in their way, i do believe; to please their mother, and to win her to be more happy and gentle like. you see she has had a hard struggle with them, so many as there are, and so little to do with; and that and bad health have soured her temper like; but she'll come to. oh miss edith, take my word for it, if ever you have to live where folks are cross and snappish, be _you_ good-humoured. a little of the leaven of sweetness and good temper lightens a whole lump of crossness and bad humour. one bright spirit in a family will keep the sun shining in _one_ spot; it can't then be _all_ dark, you see, and if there's ever such a little spot of sunshine, there must be some light in the house, which may spread before long, miss." "goodnight, joe," and "good night, ladies," passed, and the friends were left alone--alone upon the quiet beach. the sun had set, for it was late; the tide was ebbing, and now left the girls a beautiful smooth path of sand for some little distance, on which the sound of their light steps was scarcely heard, as they rapidly walked towards home. "who would think, edith, that our six weeks' holiday would be at an end to-morrow?" said emilie. "i don't know, emilie, i feel it much longer." "_do_ you? then you have not been so happy as i hoped to have made you, dear; i have been a great deal occupied with other things, but it could scarcely be helped." "no, emilie, i have not been happy a great part of the holidays, but i am happy now; happier at least, and it was no fault of yours at any time. i know now why i was so discontented with my condition, and why i thought i had more to try me than anybody else. i feel that i was in fault; that i _am_ in fault, i should say; but, oh emilie, i am trying, trying hard, to--" and here, edith, softened by the remembrance that soon she and her friend must part, burst into tears. "and you have succeeded, succeeded nobly, edith, my darling. i have watched you, and but that i feared to interfere, i would have noticed your victories to you. i may do so now." "my _victories_, emilie! are you making fun of me? i feel to have been so very irritable of late.--my _victories!_" "just because, dear, you take notice of your irritability as you did not use to do, and because you have constantly before your eyes that great pattern in whom was no sin." "emilie, i will tell you something--your patience, your example, has done me a great deal of good, i hope; but there is one thing in your kind of advice, which does me more good than all. you have talked more of the love of god than of any other part of his character, and the words which first struck me very much, when i first began to wish that i were different, were those you told me one sunday evening, some time ago. 'herein is love, not that we loved god, but that he loved us, and gave his son a ransom for sinners.' there seemed such a contrast between my conduct to god, and his to me; and then it has made me, i hope, a little more, (a _very_ little, you know,) i am not boasting, emilie, am i? it has made me a _little_ more willing to look over things which used to vex me so. what are fred's worst doings to me, compared with my _best_ to god?" thus they talked, and now, indeed, did the friends love one another; and heartily did each, by her bedside that night, thank god for his gospel, which tells of his love to man, the greatest illustration truly of the law of kindness. chapter ninth. fred a peacemaker. "talk not of wasted affection, affection never is wasted.... its waters returning back to their spring, like the rain shall fill them full of refreshment"--_h. w. longfellow_. "well fred," said emilie at the supper table, from which mr. parker was absent, "i go away to-morrow and we part better friends than we met, i think, don't we?" "oh yes, miss schomberg, we are all better friends, and it is all your doing." "my doing, oh no! fred, that _is_ flattery. i have not made edith so gentle and so good as she has of late been to you. _i_ never advised her to give up that little room to you nor to send poor muff away." "_didn't_ you? well, now i always thought you did; i always kid that to you, and so i don't believe i have half thanked edith as i ought." "indeed you might have done." "well, i hope i shall not get quarrelsome at school again, but i wish i was in a large school. i fancy i should be much happier. only being us five at mr. barton's, we are so thrown together, somehow we can't help falling out and interfering with each other sometimes. now there is young white, i never can agree with him, it is _impossible_." "dear me!" said emilie, without contradicting him, "why?" "he treats me so very ill; not openly and above-board, as we say, but in such a nasty sneaking way, he is always trying to injure me. he knows sometimes i fall asleep after i am called. well, he dresses so quietly, (i sleep in his room, i wish i didn't,) he steals down stairs and then laughs with such triumph when i come down late and get a lecture or a fine for it. if i am very busy over an exercise out of school hours, he comes and talks to me, or reads some entertaining book close to my ears, aloud to one of the boys, to hinder my doing it properly, but that is not half his nasty ways. could _you love_ such a boy miss schomberg?" "well, i would try to make him more loveable, fred, and then i might perhaps love him," said emilie. "ah, emilie, your 'overcome evil with good' rule would fail there _i_ can tell you; you may laugh." "no, i won't laugh, i am going to be serious. you will allow me to preach a short sermon to-night, the last for some time, you know, and mine shall be but a text, or a very little more, and then 'good night.' will you try to love that boy for a few weeks? _really_ try, and see if he does not turn out better than you expect. if he do not, i will promise you that you will be the better for it. love is never wasted, but remember, fred, it is wicked and sad to hate one another, and it comes to be a serious matter, for 'if any man love not his brother whom he hath seen, how can he love god whom he hath not seen.' good night." "good night, miss schomberg, you have taught me to like you," and oh, how i did dislike you once! thought fred, but he did not say so. miss webster's foot got well at last, but it was a long time about it. the lodgers went away at the end of the six weeks, and aunt agnes and emilie were quietly settled in their little apartments again. the piano was a little out of tune, but emilie expected as much, and now after her six weeks' holiday, so called, she prepared to begin her life of daily teaching. her kindness to miss webster was for some time to all appearance thrown away, but no, that cannot be--kindness and love can never be wasted. they bless him that gives, if not him that takes the offering. by and bye, however, a few indications of the working of the good system appeared. miss webster would offer to come and sit and chat with aunt agnes when emilie was teaching or walking; and aunt agnes in return taught miss webster knitting stitches and crochet work. miss webster would clean emilie's straw bonnet, and when asked for the bill, she would say that it came to nothing; and would now and then send up a little offering of fruit or fish, when she thought her lodgers' table was not well supplied. little acts in themselves, but great when we consider that they were those of an habitually cold and selfish person. she did not express love; but she showed the softening influence of affection, and emilie at least understood and appreciated it. fred had perhaps the hardest work of all the actors on this little stage; he thought so at least. joe white was an unamiable and, as fred expressed it, a sneaking boy. he had never been accustomed to have his social affections cultivated in childhood, and consequently, he grew up into boyhood without any heart as it is called. good mr. barton was quite puzzled with him. he said there was no making any impression on him, and that mr. barton could make none was very evident. who shall make it? even fred; for he is going to try emilie's receipt for the cure of the complaint under which master white laboured, a kind of moral ossification of the heart. will he succeed? we shall see. perhaps, had joe white at this time fallen down and broken his leg, or demanded in any way a _great_ sacrifice of personal comfort from his school-fellow, he would have found it easier to return good for his evil, than in the daily, hourly, calls for the exercise of forgiveness and forbearance which occurred at school. oh, how many will do _great_ things in the way of gifts or service, who will not do the little acts of kindness and self denial which common life demands. many a person has built hospitals or alms houses, and has been ready to give great gifts to the poor and hungry, who has been found at home miserably deficient in domestic virtues. dear children, cultivate these. you have, very few of you, opportunities for great sacrifices. they occur rarely in real life, and it would be well if the relations of fictitious life abounded less in them; but you may, all of you, find occasions to speak a gentle word, to give a kind smile, to resign a pursuit which annoys or vexes another, to cure a bad habit, to give up a desired pleasure. you may, all of you, practice the injunction, to live not unto yourselves. fred, i say, found it a hard matter to carry out emilie's plan towards joe white, who came back from home more evilly disposed than ever, and all the boys agreed he was a perfect nuisance. "i would try and make him loveable." those words of emilie's often recurred to fred as he heard the boys say how they disliked joe white worse and worse. so fred tried first by going up to him very gravely one day, and saying how they all disliked him, and how he hoped he would mend; but that did not do at all. fred found the twine of his kite all entangled next day, and john said he saw white playing with it soon after fred had spoken to him. "i'd go and serve him out; just you go and tangle his twine, and see how he likes it," said john. "i will--but no! i won't," bald fred, "that's evil for evil, and that is what i am not going to do. i mean to leave that plan off." an opportunity soon occurred for returning good for evil miss barton had a donkey, and this donkey, whose proper abode was the paddock, sometimes broke bounds, and regaled itself on the plants in the young gentlemen's gardens, in a manner highly provoking to those who had any taste for flowers. if joe white had any love for anything, it was for flowers. now, there is something so pure and beautiful in flowers; called by that good philanthropist wilberforce, the "smiles of god," that i think there must be a little tender spot in that heart which truly loves flowers. joe tended his as a parent would a child. his garden was his child, and certainly it did his culture credit. fred liked a garden too, and these boys' gardens were side by side. they were the admiration of the whole family, so neatly raked, so free from stones or weeds, so gay with flowers of the best kind. they were rival gardens, but undoubtedly white's was in the best order. john and fred always went home on a saturday, as mr. barton's house was not far from l----. joe was a boarder entirely, his home was at a distance, and to this fred parker ascribed the superiority of his garden. he was able to devote the whole of saturday, which was a holiday, to its culture. well, the donkey of which i spoke, one day took a special fancy to the boys' gardens; and it so happened, that he was beginning to apply himself to nibble the tops of joe's dahlias, which were just budding. joe was that day confined to the house with a severe cold, and little did he think as he lay in bed, sipping mrs. barton's gruel and tea, of the scenes that were being enacted in his own dear garden. fred fortunately spied the donkey, and though there had been lately a little emulation between them, who should grow the finest dahlias, he at once carried out the principle of returning good for evil, drove the donkey off, even though his course lay over his own flower beds, and then set to work to repair the damage done. a few minutes more, and all joe's dahlias would have been sacrificed. fred saved them, raked the border neatly, tied up the plants, and restored all to order again; and who can tell but those who thus act, the pleasure, the comfort of fred's heart? why, not the first prize at the horticultural show for the first dahlia in the country, would have given him half the joy; and a still nobler sacrifice he made--he did not tell of his good deeds. now, fred began to realise the pleasures of forbearance and kindness indeed. there could not have been a better way of reaching young white's heart than through his garden. fred's was a fortunate commencement. he never boasted of the act, but one of the boys told mr. barton, who did not fail to remind joe of it at a suitable time, and that time was when white presented his master with a splendid bouquet of dahlias for his supper table, when he was going to have a party of friends. the boys, who were treated like members of the family, were invited to join that party, and then did mr. barton narrate the scene of the donkey's invasion, of which, however, the guests did not perceive the point; but those for whom it was intended understood it all. at bed time that night, joe white begged his school-fellow's pardon for entangling his kite twine, and went to bed very humble and grateful, and with a little love and kindness dawning, which made his rest sweeter and his dreams happier. thus fred began his lessons of love; it was thus he endeavoured to make joe lovable, and congratulated himself on his first successful attempt. he did not speak in the very words of the poet, but his sentiments were the same, as he talked to john of his victory. "there is a golden chord of sympathy, fix'd in the harp of every human soul, which by the breath of kindness when 'tis swept, wakes angel-melodies in savage hearts; inflicts sore chastisements for treasured wrongs, and melts away the ice of hate to streams of love; nor aught but _kindness_ can that fine chord touch." joe murray was quite right in telling edith that a little of the leaven of kindness and love went a great way in a family. no man can live to himself, that is to say, no man's acts can affect himself only. had fred set an example of revenge and retaliation, other boys would have no doubt acted in like manner on the first occasion of irritation. now they all helped to reform joe white, and did not return evil for evil, as had been their custom. fred was the oldest but one of the little community, and had always been looked up to as a clever boy, up to all kinds of spore and diversion. he was the leader of their plays and amusements, and but for the occasional outbreaks of his violent temper would have been a great favourite. as it was, the boys liked him, and his master was undoubtedly very fond of fred parker. he was an honest truthful boy though impetuous and headstrong. permission was given the lads, who as we have said were six in number, to walk out one fine september afternoon without the guardianship of their master. they were to gather blackberries, highly esteemed by mrs. barton for preserves, and it was the great delight of the boys to supply her every year with this fruit. blackberrying is a very amusing thing to country children. it is less so perhaps in its consequences to the nurse, or sempstress, who has to repair the terrible rents which merciless brambles make, but of that children, boys especially, think little or nothing. on they went, each provided with a basket and a long crome stick, for the purpose of drawing distant clusters over ditches or from some height within the reach of the gatherer. at first they jumped and ran and sang in all the merriment of independence. the very consciousness of life, health, and freedom was sufficient enjoyment, and there was no end to their fun and their frolics until they came to the spot where the blackberries grew in the greatest abundance. then they began to gather and eat and fill their baskets in good earnest. the most energetic amongst them was fred, and he had opportunities enough this afternoon for practising kindness and self-denial, for white was in one of his bad moods, and pushed before fred whenever he saw a fine and easily to be obtained cluster of fruit; and once, (fred thought purposely,) upset his basket, which stood upon the pathway, all in the dust. still fred bore all this very well, and set about the gathering with renewed ardour, though one or two of the party called out, "give it him, parker; toss his out and see how he likes it." no, fred had begun to taste the sweet fruits of kindness, he would not turn aside to pluck the bitter fruits of revenge and passion. so he gave no heed to the matter, only leaving the coast clear for white whenever he could, and helping a little boy whom white had pushed aside to fill his basket. without any particular adventures, and with only the usual number of scratches and falls, and only the common depth of dye in lips and fingers, the boys sat down to rest beneath the shade of some fine trees, which skirted a beautiful wood. "i say," said john parker, "let us turn in here, we shall find shade enough, and i had rather sit on the grass and moss than on this bank. come along, we have only to climb the hedge." "but that would be trespassing," said one conscientious boy, who went by the name of simon pure, because he never would join in any sport he thought wrong, and used to recall the master's prohibitions rather oftener to his forgetful companions than they liked. "trespassing! a fig for trespassing," said john parker, clearing away all impediments, and bestriding the narrow ditch, planted a foot firmly on the opposite bank. "you may get something not so sweet as a fig for trespassing, john, though," said his brother fred, who came up at this moment. "man-traps and spring-guns are fictions my lad," said philip harcourt, a boy of much the same turn as john, not easily persuaded any way; "now for it, over parker; be quick, man," and over he jumped. then followed harcourt, white, and another little boy, whose name was arthur, leaving fred and simon pure in the middle of the road. the wood was, undoubtedly, a very delightful place, and more than one fine pheasant rustled amongst the underwood, and the squirrels leaped from bough to bough, whilst the music of the birds was charming. fred, himself, was tempted as he peeped over the gap, and stood irresolute. the plantation was far enough from the residence of the owner, nor was it likely that they could do much mischief beyond frightening the game, and as it was not sitting time, fred himself argued it could do no harm, but little riches, the boy called pure, who was a great admirer of fred, especially since the affair of the dahlias, begged him not to go; "mr. barton, you know, has such a great dislike to our trespassing," said riches, "and if we stay here resolutely they will be sure to come back." "don't preach to me," was the rather unexpected reply, for fred was not _perfect_ yet, though he had gained a victory or two over his temper of late. "i didn't mean to preach, but i do wish the boys would come home, it is growing late; and with our heavy baskets we shall only just get in in time." "halloo!" shouted fred, getting on the bank. "come back, won't you, or we shall be too late; come, john, you are the eldest, come along." but his call was drowned in the sound of their voices, which were echoing through the weeds, much to the annoyance, no doubt, of the stately pheasants who were not accustomed to human sounds like these. they were not at any great distance, and fred could just distinguish parts of their conversation. john and harcourt were urging white, a delicate boy, and no climber, to mount a high tree in the wood, to enjoy they said the glorious sea-view; but in reality to make themselves merry at his expense, being certain that if he managed to scramble up he would have some difficulty in getting down, and would get a terrible fright at least. white stood at the bottom of the tree, looking at his companions as they rode on one of the higher branches of a fine spruce fir. "don't venture! white," shouted fred as loudly as he could shout, "don't attempt it! they only want to make game of you, and you'll never get down if you manage to get up. take my advice now, don't try." "mind your own business," and a large sod of earth was the reply. the sod struck the boy on the face, and his nose bled profusely. "there," said young riches, "what a cowardly trick! oh! i think white the meanest spirited boy i ever saw. he wouldn't have flung that sod at you if you had been within arm's length of him; well, i do dislike that white." "i'll give it to him," said fred, as he vaulted over the fence, but immediately words, which emilie had once repeated to him when they were talking about offensive and defensive warfare, came into his mind, and he stopped short. those words were:--"if any man smite thee on thy right cheek turn to him the other also," and fred was in the road again. "well," said riches, "we have done and said all we can, let us be going home, their disobeying orders is no excuse for us, so come along parker--won't you? they have a watch, and their blackberries won't run away, i suppose." "can't we manage between us, though, to carry some of them?" said fred. "this large basket is not nearly full, let us empty one of them into it. there, now we have only left them two. i've got white's load. i've half a mind to set it down, but no i won't though. you will carry john's, won't you, that's lighter, and between them they may carry the other." they went on a few steps when they both turned to listen. "i thought," said fred, "i heard my name called. it could only be fancy, though. yet, hush! there it is! quite plain," and so it was. john called to him loudly to stop, and at that moment such a scream was heard echoing through the woods, as sent the wood pigeons flying terrified about, and started the hares from their hiding places. "stop, oh stop, fred, white can't get down," said john, breathless, "and i believe he will fall, if he hasn't already, he says he is giddy. pray come back and see if you can't help him, you are such a famous climber." fred could not refuse, and in less than five minutes he was on the spot, but it was too late. the branch had given way, and the boy lay at the foot of the tree senseless, to all appearance dead. there was no blood, no outward sign of injury, but--his face! fred did not forget for many years afterwards, its dreadful, terrified, ghastly expression. what was to be done? they were so horror-struck that for a few minutes they stood in perfect silence, so powerfully were they convinced that the lad had ceased to breathe, that they remained solemn and still as in the presence of death. to all minds death has great solemnities; to the young, when it strikes one of their own age and number, especially. "come," said fred, turning to riches, "come, we must not leave him here to die, poor fellow. take off his neck-handkerchief, harcourt, and run you, riches, to the stream close by, where we first sat down, and get some water. get it in your cap, man, you have nothing else to put it in. quick! quick!" "joe! joe!" said john, "only speak, only look, joe, if you can, we are so frightened."--no answer. "joe!" said fred, and he tried to raise him. no assistance and no resistance; joe fell back passive on the arm of his friend, yes, friend--they were no longer enemies you know. had fred returned evil for evil, had he rushed on him as he first intended when he received the sod from white, he would not have felt as he now did. the boys, who, out of mischief, to use the mildest word, tempted him to climb to a height, beyond that which even they themselves could have accomplished, were not to be envied in _their_ feelings. poor fellows, and yet they only did what many a reckless, mischievous school boy has done and is doing every day; they only meant to tease him a bit, to pay him off for being so spiteful all the way, and so cross to fred when he spoke. but it was no use trying to still the voice which spoke loudly within them, which told them that they had acted with heartless cruelty, and that their conduct had, perhaps, cost a fellow-creature his life. "will you wait with him whilst i run to l---for papa?" said fred. "what alone?" they cried. "alone! why there are four of you, will be at least when riches comes back." "oh no! no! do you stay fred, you are the only one that knows what you are after." "well, which of you will go then? it is near two miles, and you must run, for his _life_--mind that." no one stirred, and riches at this moment coming up with the water, fred told him in few words what he meant to do, and bade him go and stand by the poor lad. that was all that could be done, and "riches don't be hard on them; their consciences are telling them all you could tell them. don't lecture them, i mean; you would not like it yourself." off ran fred, and to his great joy, spying a cart, with one of farmer crosse's men in it, he hailed it, told his tale, and thus they were at l---in a very short space of time. terrified indeed was mrs. parker at the sight of her son driving furiously up in farmer crosse's spring-cart, and his black eye and swelled face did not tend to pacify her on nearer inspection. the father, a little more used to be called out in a hurry, and to prepare for emergencies, was not so alarmed, but had self-possession enough to remember what would be needed, and to collect various articles for the patient's use. the journey to the wood was speedily accomplished, but the poor lads who were keeping watch, often said afterwards that it seemed to them almost a lifetime, such was the crowd of fearful and wretched thoughts and forebodings, such the anxiety, and hopelessness of their situation. there in the silence of the wood lay their young companion, stretched lifeless, and they were the cause. the least rustle amongst the leaves they mistook for a movement of the sufferer; but he moved not. how did they watch mr. parker's face as he knelt down and applied his fingers to the boy's wrist first, and then to his heart! with what intense anxiety did they watch the preparations for applying remedies and restoratives! "was he, was he dead, _quite_ dead?" they asked. no, not dead, but the doctor shook his head seriously, and their exclamations of joy and relief were soon checked. not to follow them through the process of restoring animation, we will say that he was carefully removed to mr. barton's house, and tenderly watched by his kind wife. he had been stunned by the fall, but this was not the extent of the mischief. it was found upon examination that the spine had received irreparable injury, and that if poor white lived, which was doubtful, it would be as a helpless cripple. who can tell the reflections of those boys? who can estimate the misery of hearts which had thus returned evil for evil? it was a sore lesson, but one which of itself could yield no good fruit. it was a great grief to fred that his presence, in the excitable state of the sufferer, seemed to do him harm. he would have liked to sit by him, and share in the duties of his nursing, but whenever fred approached, white became restless and uneasy, and continually alluded, even in his delirium, to the sod he had thrown, and to other points of his ungrateful malicious conduct to his school-fellow. this feeling, however, in time wore away, and many an hour did fred take from play to go and sit by poor joe's couch. he had no mother to come and watch beside that couch, no kind gentle sister, no loving father. he was an orphan, taken care of by an uncle and aunt, who had no experience in training children, and were accustomed to view young persons in the light of evils, which it was unfortunately necessary to _bear_ until the _fault_ of youth should have passed away. will you not then cease to wonder that joe seemed to have so little heart? affection needs to be cultivated; his uncle thought that in sending him to school and giving him a good education, he was doing his duty by the boy. his aunt considered that if in the holidays she let him rove about as he pleased, saw to the repairs of his clothes, sent him back fitted out comfortably, with a little pocket money and a little _advice_, she had done _her_ duty by the child. but poor joe! no kind mother ever stole to his bedside to whisper warnings and gentle reproof if the conduct of the day had been wrong; no knee ever bent to ask for grace and blessing on that orphan boy; no sympathy was ever expressed in one of his joys or griefs; no voice encouraged him in self-denial; no heart rejoiced in his little victories over temper and pride. now, instead of blaming and disliking, will you not pity and love the unlovable and neglected lad? he had not been long under mr. barton's care, and after all, what could a schoolmaster do in twelve months, to remedy the evils which had been growing up for twelve years? he did his best, but the result was very little, and perhaps the most useful lesson joe ever had was that which fred gave him about the dahlias. chapter tenth. edith's visit to joe. fred and edith were sitting in the canary room one saturday afternoon, shortly after the event recorded in the last chapter; edith listening with an earnest interest to the oft-repeated tale of the fall in the wood. "how glad you must have felt, fred, when you thought he was dead, that you had not returned his unkindness." "glad! edith, i cannot tell you how glad; but glad is'nt the word, either. on my knees that night, and often since, i have thanked god who helped me to check the temper that arose. those words out of the bible did it: 'if any man smite thee on thy right cheek, turn to him the other also.' emilie told me that text one day, and i said i did'nt think i could ever do that, but i was helped somehow; but come, edith, let us go and see emilie schomberg, i have'nt seen her since all this happened, though you have. how beautifully you keep my cages edith! i think you are very clever; the birds get on better than they did with me. is there any one you would like to give a bird to, dear? for i am sure you ought to share the pleasures, you have plenty of the trouble of my canaries." "oh, i have pleasure enough, and their songs always seem like rejoicings over our reconciliation that day ever so long ago; you remember, don't you, fred? but i should like a bird _very_ much to give to miss schomberg; she seems low-spirited, and says she is often very lonely. a bird would be nice company for her, shall we take her one?" "it would be rather a troublesome gift without a cage, edith, but i have money enough, i think, and i will buy a cage, and then she shall have her bird." "we will hang it up to greet her on sunday morning, shall we?" thus the brother and sister set out, and it was a beautiful sight to their mother, who dearly loved them, to see the two who once were so quarrelsome and disunited now walking together in _love_. emilie was not at home, and they stood uncertain which way to walk, when fred said, "edith, i want some one to teach poor joe love; will you go with me and see him? you taught me to love you, and i think joe would be happier if he could see some one he could take a fancy to. papa said he might see one at a time now, and poor fellow, i do pity him so. will you go? it is a fine fresh afternoon, let us go to mr. barton's." the october sky was clear and the air bracing, and side by side walked fred and edith on their errand of mercy to poor neglected joe, their young hearts a little saddened by the remembrance of his sufferings, "is not his aunt coming?" asked edith. "no! actually she is not," replied fred. "she says in her letter she could not stand the fatigue of the journey, and that her physicians order her to try the waters of bath and cheltenham. unfeeling creature!" thus they chatted till they arrived at mr. barton's house. mrs. barton received them very kindly. "oh, miss parker, she said, my heart aches for that poor lad upstairs, and yet with all this trial, and the wonderful providential escape he has had, would you believe it? his heart seems very little affected. he is not softened that i can see. i told him to day how thankful he ought to be that god did not cut him off in all his sins, and he answered that they who tempted him into danger would have the most to answer for." ah, mrs. barton, it is not the way to people's hearts usually to find fault and upbraid them. there was much truth in what you said to joe, but truth sometimes irritates by the way and time in which it is spoken, and it seems in this case that the _kind_ of truth you told did not exactly suit the state of the boy's mind. edith did not say this of course to the good lady, whose intentions were excellent, but who was rather too much disposed to be severe on young persona, and certainly joe had tried her in many ways. "i will go and see whether joe would like to see edith may i, madam, asked fred?" permission was given. "my sister is here, joe, you have often heard me mention her, would you like to see her?" "oh, i don't know, my back is so bad. oh dear me, and your father tells me i am to lie flat in this way, months. what am i to do all through the christmas holidays too? oh! dear, dear me. well, yes, she may come up." with this not very gracious invitation little edith stepped upstairs, and being of a very tender nature, no sooner did she see poor joe's suffering state than she began to cry. they were tears of such genuine sympathy, such exquisite tenderness, that they touched joe. he did not withdraw the hand she held, and felt even sorry when she herself took hers away. "how sorry i am for you!" said edith, when she could speak, "but may i come and read to you sometimes, and wait upon you when there is no one else? i think i could amuse you a little, and it might pass the time away. i only mean when you have no one better, you know." joe's permission was not very cordial, he was so afraid of girls' _flummery_, as he called it "she plays backgammon and chess, joe, and i can promise you she reads beautifully." "well, i will come on monday," said edith, gaily, "and send me away if you don't want me; but dear me, do you like this light on your eyes? i'll ask mamma for a piece of green baize to pin up. good bye." as she was going out of the room joe called her back. "i have such a favour to ask of you, miss parker. don't bring that preaching german lady here of whom i have heard fred speak; i don't mind you, but i cannot bear so much preaching. mrs. barton and her together would craze me." edith promised, but she felt disappointed. she had hoped that emilie might have gained an entrance, and she knew that emilie would have found out the way to his heart, if she could once have got into his presence; but she concealed her disappointment having made the required promise, and ran after her brother. "i don't like going where i am so plainly not wanted, fred," said she on their way home, "oh, what a sad thing poor white's temper is for himself and every one about him." "yes edith, but _we_ are not always sweet-tempered, and you must remember that poor white has no mother and no father, no one in short to love." edith found at first that it required more judgment than she possessed to make her visit to joe white either pleasant or useful. illness had increased his irritability, and so far from submitting patiently to the confinement and restriction imposed, he was quite fuming with impatience to be allowed to sit up and amuse himself at least. how ingenious is affection in contriving alleviations! here joe sadly wanted some one whose wits were quickened by love. mrs. barton nursed him admirably; he was kept very neat and nice, and his room always had a clean tidy appearance; but it lacked the little tokens of love which oft-times turn the sick chamber into a kind of paradise. no flowers, no little contrivances for amusement, no delicate article of food to tempt his sickly appetite. poor joe! edith soon saw this, and yet it needs experience in illness to adapt one's self to sick nursing. besides she was afraid, she did not like to offer books and flowers, and these visits were quite dreaded by her. "will you not go and see joe, emilie?" asked edith, one day of her friend, as she was recounting the difficulties in her way. "you get at people's hearts much better than ever i could do." "my dear child," said emilie, "did not joe say that he begged you never would bring the preaching german to see him? oh no, dear, i cannot force my company on him. besides you have not tried long enough, kindness does not work miracles; try a little longer edith, and be patient with joe as god is with us. how often we turn away from him when he offers to be reconciled to us. think of that, dear." "fred is very patient and persevering; i often wonder, miss schomberg, that john, who really did cause the accident, seems to think less about joe than fred, who had not any thing to do with it." "it is not at all astonishing, edith. it requires that our actions should be brought to the light of god's word to see them in their true condition. an impenitent murderer thinks less of his crime than a true penitent, who has been moral all his life, thinks of his great sin of ingratitude and ungodliness." chapter eleventh. joe's christmas. christmas was at hand; christmas with its holidays, its greetings, its festive meetings, its gifts, its bells, and its rejoicings. that season when mothers prepare for the return of their children from school, and are wont to listen amidst storms of wind and snow for the carriage wheels; when little brothers and sisters strain their eyes to catch the first glimpse of the dear ones' approach along the snowy track; when the fire blazes within, and lamps are lit up to welcome them home; and hope and expectation and glad heart beatings are the lot of so many--of many, not of all. christmas was come, but it brought no hope, no gladness, no mirth to poor white, either present or in prospect. the music and the bells of christmas, the skating, the pony riding, the racing, the brisk walk, the home endearments were not for joe--poor joe. no mother longed for his return, no brother or little sister pressed to the hall door to get the first look or the first word; no father welcomed joe back to the hearth-warmth of home sweet home. poor orphan boy! joe's uncle and aunt wrote him a kind letter, quite agreed in mr. parker's opinion that a journey into lincolnshire was, in the state of his back and general health, out of the question, were fully satisfied that he was under the best care, both medical and magisterial, (they had never seen either doctor or master, and had only known of mr. barton through an advertisement,) and sent him a handsome present of pocket money, with the information that they were going to the south of france for the winter. joe bore the news of their departure very coolly, and carelessly pocketed the money, knowing as he did that he had a handsome property in his uncle's hands, and no one would have supposed from any exhibition of feeling that he manifested, that he had any feeling or any care about the matter. once, indeed, when a fly came to the door to convey harcourt to the railway, and he saw from the window of his room the happy school-boy jumping with glee into the vehicle, and heard him say to mr. barton, "oh yes, sir, i shall be met!" he turned to fred who sate by him and said, "no one is expecting _me_, no one in the whole world is thinking of me now, parker." fred told his mother of this speech, a speech so full of bitter truth that it made mrs. parker, kind creature as she was, shed tears, and she asked her husband if young white could not be removed to pass the christmas holidays with them. the distance was not great, and they could borrow mr. darford's carriage, and perhaps it might do him good. mr. parker agreed, and the removal was effected. for some days it seemed doubtful whether the change would be either for poor white's mental happiness or bodily improvement. the exertion, and the motion and excitement together, wrought powerfully on his nervous frame, and he was more distressed, and irritable than ever. he could not sleep, he ate scarcely any thing, he rarely spoke, and more than once mrs. parker regretted that the proposal had been made. in vain edith brought him plants from the little greenhouse, fine camellias, pots of snow-drops, and lovely anemones. they seemed rather to awaken painful than pleasing remembrances and associations, and once even when he had lain long looking at a white camellia he burst into tears. it is a great trial of temper, a great test of the sincerity of our purpose, when the means we use to please and gratify seem to have just the contrary effect. in the sick room especially, where kind acts, and gentle words, and patient forbearance are so constantly demanded, it is difficult to refrain from expressions of disappointment when all our endeavours fail; when those we wish to please and comfort, obstinately refuse to be pleased and comforted. often did fred and edith hold counsel as to what would give joe pleasure, but he was as reserved and gloomy as ever, and his heart seemed inaccessible to kindness and affection. besides, there were continual subjects of annoyance which they could scarcely prevent, with all the forethought and care in the world. the boys were very thoughtful, for boys; mrs. parker had it is true warned them not to talk of their out-of-door pleasures and amusements to or before joe, and they were generally careful; but sometimes they would, in the gladness of their young hearts, break out into praises of the fine walk they had just had on the cliff, or the glorious skating on the pond, of the beauty of the pony, and of undiscovered walks and rides in the neighbourhood. once, in particular, emilie, who was spending the afternoon with the parkers, was struck with the expression of agony that arose to joe's face from a very trifling circumstance. they were all talking with some young companion of what they would be when they grew up, and one of them appealing to joe, he quickly said, "oh, a sailor--i care for nobody at home and nobody cares for me, so i shall go to sea." "to sea!" the boy repeated in wonder. "and why not?" said joe, petulantly, "where's the great wonder of that?" there was a silence all through the little party; no one seemed willing to remind the poor lad of that which he, for a moment, seemed to forget--his helpless crippled state. it was only emilie who noticed his look of hopelessness; she sat near him and heard his stifled sigh, and oh, how her heart ached for the poor lad! this conversation and some remarks that the boy made, led mr. and mrs. parker seriously to think that he entertained hopes of recovery, and they were of opinion that it would be kinder to undeceive him, than to allow him to hope for that which could never he. mr. parker began to talk to him about it one day, very kindly, after an examination of his back, when white said, abruptly, "i don't doubt you are very skilful. sir, and all that, but i should like to see some other doctor. i have money enough to pay his fee, and uncle said i was to have no expense spared in getting me the best advice. sir j. ---comes here at christmas, i know, to see his father, and i should like to see him and consult him, sir, may i?" mr. parker of course could make no objection, and a day was fixed for the consultation. it was a very unsatisfactory one and at once crushed all joe's hopes. the result was communicated to him as gently and kindly as possible. mrs. parker was a mother, and her sympathy for poor joe was more lasting than that of the younger branches of the family. she went to him on the sunday evening following the physician's visit to tell him the whole truth, and she often said afterwards how she dreaded the task. joe lay on the sofa before the dining room window, watching the blue sea sit a distance, and thinking with all the ardour of youthful longing of the time when his back should be well, and he should be a voyager in one of those beautiful ships. he should have no regrets, and no friends to regret him; then he groaned at the pain and inconvenience and privation of his present state, and panted for restoration. mrs. parker entered and eat down by him. "is sir j. c---gone, ma'am?" "yes, he has been gone some minutes." "what does he say?" asked the lad earnestly. "he said very little to me, nothing indeed, only all that fudge i am always hearing--'rest, patience,' and so on." "he thinks it a very serious case, my dear; he says that the recumbent posture is very important." "but for how long, ma'am? i would lie twelve months patiently enough if i hoped then to be allowed to walk about, and to be able to do as other boys do." "sir j. c---thinks, joe, that you never will recover. i am grieved to tell you so, but it is the truth, and we think it best you should know it. your spine is so injured that it is impossible you should ever recover; but you may have many enjoyments, though not able to be active like other boys. you must keep up your spirits; it is the will of god and you must submit." poor mrs. parker having disburdened her mind of a great load, and performed her dreaded task, left the room, telling her husband that the boy bore it very well, indeed, he did not seem to feel it much. the bell being already out for church, she called the young people to accompany her thither, leaving one maid-servant and the errand boy at home, and poor joe to meditate on his newly-acquired information that he would be a cripple for life. edith looked in and asked softly, "shall i stay?" but the "no" was so very decided, and so very stern that she did not repeat the question, so they all went off together, a cheerful family party. the errand boy betook himself to a chair in the kitchen, where he was soon sound asleep, and the maid-servant to the back gate to gossip with a sailor; so joe was left alone with a hand-bell on the table, plenty of books if he liked to read them, and as far as outward comforts went with nothing to complain of. "and here i am a cripple for life," ejaculated the poor fellow, when the sound of their voices died away and the bell ceased; "and, oh, may that life be a short one! i wish, oh, i wish, i were dead! who would care to hear this? no one--i wish from my heart i were dead;" and here the boy sobbed till his poor weak frame was convulsed with agony, and he felt as if his heart (for he had a heart) would break. in his wretchedness he longed for affection, he longed for some one who would really care for him, "but _no one_ cares for me," groaned the lad, "no one, and i wish i might die to night." ah, joe, may god change you _very_ much before he grants that wish! after he had sobbed a while, he began to think more calmly, but his thoughts were thoughts of revenge and hatred. "_john_ has been the cause of it all." then he thought again, "they may well make all this fuss over me, when their son caused all my misery; let them do what they will they will never make it up to me, but they only tolerate me i can see, i know i am in the way; they don't ask me here because they care for me, not they, it's only out of pity;" and here, rolling his head from side to side, sobbed and cried afresh. "what would i give for some one to love me, for some one to wait on me because they loved me! but here i am to lie all my life, a helpless, hopeless, cripple; oh dear! oh dear! my heart _will_ break. those horrid bells! will they never have done?" * * * * * at the very moment when poor joe was thinking that no one on earth cared for him, that not a heart was the sadder for his sorrow, a kind heart not far off was feeling very much for him. "i shall not go to church to-night, aunt agnes," said emilie schomberg, "i shall go and hear what sir j.c.'s opinion of poor joe white is. i cannot get that poor fellow out of my mind." "no, poor boy, it is a sad case," said aunt agnes, "but why it should keep you from church, my dear, i don't see. _i_ shall go." so they trotted off, emilie promising to leave aunt agnes safe at the church door, where she met the parkers just about to enter. "oh emilie," said little edith, "poor joe! we have had sir j.c.'s opinion, and it is quite as had if not worse than papa's, there is so much disease and such great injury done. he is all alone, emilie, do go and sit with him." "it is just what i wish to do, dear, but do you think he will let me?" "yes, oh yes, try at least," said edith, and they parted. when emilie rang at the bell joe was in the midst of his sorrow, but thinking it might only be a summons for mr. parker, he did not take much notice of it until the door opened and the preaching german lady, as he called emilie, entered the room. when she saw his swollen eyes and flushed face, she wished that she had not intruded, but she went frankly up to him, and began talking as indifferently as possible, to give him time to recover himself, said how very cold it was, stirred the fire into a cheerful blaze, and then relapsed into silence. the silence was broken at times by heavy sighs, however--they were from poor joe. emilie now went to the piano, and in her clear voice sang softly that beautiful anthem, "i will arise and go to my father." it was not the first time that joe had shown something like emotion at the sound of music; now it softened and composed him. "i should like to hear that again," he said, in a voice so unlike his own that emilie was surprised. she sang it and some others that she thought he would like, and then said, "i hope i have not tired you, but i am afraid you are in pain." "i am," said joe, in his old gruff uncivil voice, "in great pain." "can i do any thing for you?" asked emilie, modestly. "no _nothing_, nothing can be done! i shall have to lie on my back as long as i live, and never walk or stand or do any thing like other boys--but i hope i shan't live long, that's all." emilie did not attempt to persuade him that it would not be as bad as he thought--that he would adapt himself to his situation, and in time grow reconciled to it. she knew that his mind was in no state to receive such consolation, that it rather needed full and entire sympathy, and this she could and did most sincerely offer. "i am _very_ sorry for you," she said quietly, "_very_ sorry," and she approached a little nearer to his couch, and looked at him so compassionately that joe believed her. "don't you think that fellow john ought to be ashamed of himself, and i don't believe he ever thinks of it," said joe, recurring to his old feeling of revenge and hatred. "perhaps he thinks of it more than you imagine," said emilie, "but don't fancy that no one cares about you, that is the way to be very unhappy." "it is _true_," said joe, sadly. "god cares for you," however, replied emily softly. "oh, if i could think that, it would be a comfort," miss schomberg, "and i do need comfort; i do, i do indeed, groaned the boy." emilie's tears fell fast. no words of sympathy however touching, no advice however wise and good, no act however kind could have melted joe as the tears of that true-hearted girl. he felt confidence in their sincerity, but that any one should feel for _him_, should shed tears for him, was so new, so softening an idea, that he was subdued. not another word passed on the subject. emilie returned to the piano, and soon had the joy of seeing joe in a tranquil sleep; she shaded the lamp that it might not awake him, covered his poor cold feet with her warm tartan, and with a soft touch lifted the thick hair from his burning forehead, and stood looking at him with such intense interest, suck earnest prayerful benevolence, that it might have been an angel visit to that poor sufferer's pillow, so soothing was it in its influence. he half opened his eyes, saw that look, felt that touch, and tears stole down his cheeks; tears not of anger, nor discontent, but of something like gratitude that after all _one_ person in the world cared for him. his sleep was short, and when he awoke, he said abruptly to emilie, "i want to feel less angry against john," miss schomberg, "but i don't know how. it was such a cruel trick, such a cowardly trick, and i cannot forgive him." "i don't want to preach," said emily, smiling, "but perhaps if you would read a little in this book you would find help in the very difficult duty of forgiving men their trespasses." "ah, the bible, but i find that dull reading; it always makes me low spirited, i always associate it with lectures from uncle and mr. barton. when i did wrong i was plied up with texts." emilie did not know what answer to make to this speech. at last she said, "do you remember the account of the saviour's crucifixion, how, when in agony worse than yours, he said, 'father forgive them.' may i read it to you?" he did not object, and emilie read that history which has softened many hearts as hard as joe's. he made but little remark as emilie closed the book, nor did she add to that which she had been reading by any comment, but; bidding him a kind good night, went to meet aunt agnes at the church door, and conduct her safely home. there is a turning point in most persons' lives, either for good or evil. joe white was able long afterwards to recall that miserable sunday evening, with its storm of agitation and revenge, and then its lull of peace and love. he who said, "peace, be still," to the tempestuous ocean, spoke those words to joe's troubled spirit, and the boy was willing to listen and to learn. would a long lecture on the sinfulness and impropriety of his revengeful and hardened state have had the same effect on joe, as emilie's hopeful, gentle, almost silent sympathy? we think not. "i would try and make him lovable," so said and so acted emilie schomberg, and for that effort had the orphan cause to thank her through time and eternity. joe was not of an open communicative turn, he was accustomed to keep his feelings and thoughts very much to himself, and he therefore did not tell either fred or edith of his conversation with emilie, but when they came to bid him good night, he spoke softly to them, and when john came to his couch he did not offer one finger and turn away his face, as he had been in the habit of doing, but said, "good night," freely, almost kindly. the work went on slowly but surely, still he held back forgiveness to john, and while he did this, he could not be happy, he could not himself feel that he was forgiven. "i do forgive him, at least i wish him no ill, miss schomberg," he said in one of his conversations with emilie. "i don't suppose i need be very fond of him. am i required to be that?" "what does the bible say, joe? 'if thine enemy hunger feed him, if he thirst give him drink.' '_i_ say unto you,' christ says, '_love_ your enemies.' he does not say don't hate them, he means _love_ them. do you think you have more to forgive john than jesus had to forgive those who hung him on the cross?" "it seems to me, miss schomberg, so different that example is far above me. i cannot be like him you know." "yet joe there have been instances of persons who have followed his example in their way and degree, and who have been taught by him, and helped by him to forgive their fellow-creatures." "but it is not in human nature to do it, i know, at least is not in mine." "but try and settle it in your mind, joe, that john did not mean to injure you, that had he had the least idea that you would fall he would never have tempted you to climb. if you look upon it as accidental on your part, and thoughtlessness on his, it will feel easier to forgive him perhaps, and i am sure you may. you are quite wrong in supposing that john does not think of it. he told edith only yesterday that he never could forgive himself for tempting you to climb, and that he did not wonder at your cold and distant way to him. poor fellow! it would make him much happier if you would treat him as though you forgave him, which you cannot do unless you _from your heart_ forgive him." chapter twelfth. the christmas tree. the conversation last recorded, between emilie and joe, took place a few days before christmas. every one noticed that joe was more silent and thoughtful than usual, but he was not so morose; he received the little attentions of his friend more gratefully, and was especially fond of having emilie talk to him, sing to him, or read to him. emilie and her aunt were spending a few days at the parkers' house, and it seemed to add very much to joe's comfort. this emilie was like a spirit of peace pervading the whole family. she was so sure to win edith to obey her mamma, to stop john if he went a little too far in his jokes with his sister, to do sundry little services for mrs. parker, and to make herself such an agreeable companion to emma, and caroline, that they all agreed they wished that they had her always with them. edith confessed to emilie one day that she thought emma and caroline wonderfully improved, and as to her mamma, how very seldom she was cross now. "we are very apt to think other persons in fault when we ourselves are cross and irritable, this may have been the case here, edith, may it not?" "well! perhaps so, but i am sure i am much happier than i was, emilie." "'_great peace_ have they that love god's law,' my dear, 'and nothing shall offend them.' what a gospel of peace it is edith, is it not?" the great work in hand, just now, was the christmas tree. these christmas trees are becoming very common in our english homes, and the idea, like many more beautiful, bright, domestic thoughts, is borrowed from the germans. you may be sure that emilie and aunt agnes were quite up to the preparations for this christmas tree, and so much the more welcome were they as christmas guests. "i have plenty of money," said joe, "but i don't know, somehow, what sort of present to make, miss schomberg, yet i think i might pay for all the wax lights and ornaments, and the filagree work you talk of." "a capital thought," said emilie, and she took his purse, promising to lay out what was needful to the best advantage. joe helped emilie and the miss parkers very efficiently as he lay "useless," he said, but they thought otherwise, and gave him many little jobs of pasting, gumming, etc. it was a beautiful tree, i assure you; but joe had a great deal of mysterious talk with emilie, apart from the rest, which, however, we must not divulge until christmas eve. a little box came from london on the morning of the day, directed to joe. edith was very curious to know its contents; so was fred, so was john; emilie only smiled. "joe, won't you unpack that box now, to gratify us all?" said mr. parker, as joe put the box on one side, nodded to emilie, and began his breakfast. no, joe could not oblige him. evening came at last, and the christmas tree was found to bear rich fruit. from many a little sparkling pendant branch hung offerings for joe; poor joe, who thought no one in the world cared for him. he lay on his reclining chair looking happier and brighter than usual, but as the gifts poured into his lap, gifts so evidently the offspring of tenderness and affection, so numerous, and so adapted to his condition, his countenance assumed a more serious and thoughtful cast. every cue gave him something. there is no recounting the useful and pretty, if not costly, articles that joe became possessor of. a beautiful tartan wrapper for his feet, from mrs. parker; a reading desk and book from mr. parker; a microscope from john and fred; a telescope from emilie and edith; some beautiful knitted socks from aunt agnes; a pair of edith and fred's very best canaries. when his gifts were arranged on his new table, a beautifully made table, ordered for him by mr. parker, and exactly adapted to his prostrate condition, and joe saw every one's looks directed towards him lovingly, and finally received a lovely white camellia blossom from edith's hand, he turned his face aside upon the sofa pillow and buried it in his hands. what could be the matter with him? asked mrs. parker, tenderly. had any one said any thing to wound or vex him? "oh no! no! no!" what was it then? was he overcome with the heat of the room? "no, oh no!" but might he be wheeled into the dining room, he asked? mr. parker consented, of course, but aunt agnes was sure he was ill. "take him some salvolatile, emilie, at once." "no aunt," said emilie, "he will be better without that, he is only overcome." "and is not that just the very thing i was saying, emilie, child, give him some camphor julep then; camphor julep is a very reviving thing doctor! mr. parker, won't you give him something to revive him." "i think," said emilie, who understood his emotion and guessed its cause, "i think he will be better alone. his spirits are weak, owing to illness, i would not disturb him." "come," said mrs. parker, "let us look at the tree, its treasures are not half exhausted." wonderful to say, although joe had given his purse to emilie for the adornment of the tree, there still were presents for every one from him; and what was yet more surprising to those who knew that joe had not naturally much delicacy of feeling or much consideration for others, each present was exactly the thing that each person liked and wished for. but john was the most astonished with his share; it was a beautiful case of mathematical instruments, such a case as all l---and all the county of hampshire together could not produce; a case which joe had bought for himself in london, and on which he greatly prided himself. john had seen and admired it, and joe gave this prized, cherished case to john--his enemy john. "it must be intended for you fred," said john, after a minute's consideration; "but no, here is my name on it." margaret, at this moment, brought in a little note from joe for john, who, when he had read it, coloured and said, "papa, perhaps you will read it aloud, i cannot." it was as follows:- dear john, i have been, as you must have seen, very unhappy and very cross since my accident; i have had my heart filled with thoughts of malice and revenge, and to _you_. i have not felt as though i could forgive you, and i have often told emilie and edith this; but they have not known how wickedly i have felt to you, nor how much i now need to ask your forgiveness for thoughts which, in my helpless state, were as bad as actions. often, as i saw you run out in the snow to slide or skate, i have wished (don't hate me for it) that you might fall and break your leg or your arm, that you might know a little of what i suffered. thank god, all that is passed away, and i now do not write so much to say i forgive you, for i believe from my heart you only meant to tease me a little, not to hurt me, but to ask you to pardon me for thoughts far worse and more evil than your thoughtless mischief to me. will you all believe me, too, when i say that i would not take my past, lonely, miserable feelings back again, to be the healthiest, most active boy on earth. emilie has been a good friend to me, may god bless her, and bless you all for your patience and kindness to. jos. white. pray do not ask me to come back to you to night, i cannot indeed. i am not unhappy, but since my illness my spirits are weak, and i can bear very little; your kindness has been too much. j.w. the contents of the little box were now displayed. it was the only costly present on that christmas tree, full as it was, and rich in love. the present was a little silver inkstand, with a dove in the centre, bearing not an olive branch, but a little scroll in its beak, with these words, which emilie had suggested, and being a favourite german proverb of hers. i will give it in her own language, in which by the bye it was engraved. she had written the letter containing the order for the plate to a fellow-countryman of hers, in london, and had forgotten to specify that the motto must be in english; but never mind, she translated it for them, and i will translate it for you. "friede ernã¤hrt, unfriede verzehrt." "in peace we bloom, in discord we consume." the inkstand was for mr. and mrs. parker, and the slip of paper said it was from their grateful friend, joe white. that was the secret. emilie had kept it well; they rather laughed at her for not translating the motto, but no matter, she had taught them all a german phrase by the mistake. where was she gone? she had slipped away from the merry party, and was by joe's couch. joe's heart was very full, full with the newly-awakened sense that he loved and that he was loved; full of earnest resolves to become less selfish, less thankless, less irritable. he knew his lot now, knew all that lay before him, the privations, the restrictions, the weakness, and the sufferings. he knew that he could never hope again to share in the many joys of boyhood and youth; that he must lay aside his cricket ball, his hoop, his kite, in short all his active amusements, and consign himself to the couch through the winter, spring, summer, autumn, and winter again. he felt this very bitterly; and when all the gifts were lavished upon him, he thought, "oh, for my health and strength again, and i would gladly give up _all_ these gifts, nay, i would joyfully be a beggar." but when he was alone, in the view of all i have written and more, he felt that he could forgive john, that in short he must ask john to forgive him, and this conviction came not suddenly and by chance, but as the result of honest sober consideration, of his own sincere communings with conscience. still he felt very desolate, still he could scarcely believe in emilie's assurance, "you may have god for your friend," and something of this he told miss schomberg, when she came to sit by him for awhile. she had but little faith in her own eloquence, we have said, and she felt now more than ever how dangerous it would be to deceive him, so she did not lull him into false peace, but she soothed him with the promise of him who loves us not because of our worthiness, but who has compassion on us out of his free mercy. herein is love indeed, thought poor joe, and he meditated long upon it, so long that his heart began to feel something of its power, and he sank to sleep that night happier and calmer than he had ever slept before, wondering in his last conscious moments that god should love _him_. poor joel he had much to struggle with; for if indulgence and over-weening affection ruin their thousands, neglect and heartlessness ruin tens of thousands. the heart not used to exercise the affection, becomes as it were paralyzed, and so he found it. he could not love as he ought, he could not be grateful as he knew he ought to be, and he found himself continually receiving acts of kindness, as matters of course, and without suitable feeling of kindness and gratitude in return; but the more he knew of himself the more he felt of his own unworthiness, the more gratefully he acknowledged and appreciated the love of others to him. the ungrateful are always proud. the humble, those who know how undeserving they are, are always grateful. chapter thirteenth. the new home. let us pass by twelve months, and see how the law of kindness is working then. mrs. parker is certainly happier, less troubled than she was two years ago; edith is a better and more dutiful child, and the sisters are far more sociable with her than formerly. the dove of peace has taken up its abode in the parker family. how is it in high street? emilie and aunt agnes are not there, but miss webster is still going on with her straw bonnet trade and her lodging letting, and she is really as good tempered as we can expect of a person whose temper has been bad so very long, and who has for so many years been accustomed to view her fellow creatures suspiciously and unkindly. but emilie is gone, and are you not curious to know where? i will tell you; she is gone back to germany--she and her aunt agnes are both gone to frankfort to live. the fact is, that emilie is married. she was engaged to a young professor of languages, at the very time when the christmas tree was raised last year in mr. parker's drawing room. he formed one of the party, indeed, and, but that i am such a very bad hand at describing love affairs, i might have mentioned it then; besides, this is not a _love story_ exactly, though there is a great deal about _love_ in it. lewes franks had come over to england with letters of recommendation from one or two respectable english families at frankfort, and was anxious to return with two or three english pupils, and commence a school in that town. his name was well known to mr. parker, who gladly promised to consign his two sons, john and fred to his care, but recommended young franks to get married. this franks was not loth to do when he saw emilie schomberg, and after rather a short courtship, and quite a matter of fact one, they married and went over to germany, accompanied by john, fred, and joe white. mr. barton, after the sad accident in the plantation, had so little relish for school keeping, that he very gladly resigned his pupils to young franks, who, if he had little experience in tuition, was admirably qualified to train the young by a natural gentleness and kindness of disposition, and sincere and stedfast christian principle. edith longed to accompany them, but that was not to be thought of, and so she consoled herself by writing long letters to emilie, which contained plenty of l---news. i will transcribe one for you. the following was dated a few months after the departure of the party, not the first though, you may be sure. l----, dec, 18- dearest emilie, i am thinking so much of you to-night that i must write to tell you so. i wish letters only cost one penny to frankfort, and i would write to you every day. i want so to know how you are spending your christmas at frankfort. we shall have no christmas tree this year. we all agreed that it would be a melancholy attempt at mirth now you are gone, and dear fred and john and poor joe. i fancy you will have one though, and oh, i wish i was with you to see it, but mamma is often very poorly now, and likes me to be with her, and i know i am in the right place, so i won't wish to be elsewhere. papa is very much from home now, he has so many patients at a distance, and sometimes he takes me long rides with him, which is a great pleasure. one of his patients is just dead, you will be sorry to hear who i mean--poor old joe murray! he took cold in november, going out with his life boat, one very stormy night, to a ship in distress off l---sands, the wind and rain were very violent, and he was too long in his wet clothes, but he saved with his own arm two of the crew; two boys about the age of his own poor bob. every one says it was a noble act; they were just ready to sink, and the boat in another moment would have gone off without them. his own life was in great danger, but be said he remembered your, or rather the saviour's, "golden rule," and could not hesitate. think of remembering that in a november storm in the raging sea! he plunged in and dragged first one and then another into the boat. these boys were brothers, and it was their first voyage. they told joe that they had gone to sea out of opposition to their father, who contradicted their desires in every thing, but that now they had had quite enough of it, and should return; but i must not tell you all their story, or my letter will he too long. joe, as i told you, caught cold, and though he was kindly nursed and sarah waited on him beautifully, he got worse and worse. i often went to see him, and he was very fond of my reading in the bible to him; but one day last week he was taken with inflammation of the chest, and died in a few hours. papa says he might have lived years, but for that cold, he was such a healthy man. i feel very sorry he is gone. i can't help crying when i think of it, for i remember he was very useful to me that may evening when we were primrose gathering. do you recollect that evening, emilie? ah, i have much to thank you for. what a selfish, wilful, irritable girl i was! so i am now at times, my evil thoughts and feelings cling so close to me, and i have no longer you, dear emilie, to warn and to encourage me, but i have jesus still. he is a good friend to me, a better even than you have been. i owe you a great deal emilie; you taught me to love, you showed me the sin of temper, and the beauty of peace and love. i go and see miss webster sometimes, as you wish; she is getting very much more sociable than she was, and does not give quite such short answers. she often speaks of you, and says you were a good friend to her; that is a great deal for her to say, is it not? how happy you must be to have every one love you! i am glad to say that fred's canaries are well, but they don't _agree_ at all times. there is no teaching canaries to love one another, so all i can do is to separate the fighters; but i love those birds, i love them for fred's sake, and i love them for the remembrances they awaken of our first days of peace and union. my love to joe, poor joe! do write and tell me how he goes on, does he walk at all? ever dear emilie, your affectionate edith. there were letters to john and fred in the same packet, and i think you will like to hear one of fred's to his sister, giving an account of the christmas festivities at frankfort. dear edith, i am very busy to-day, but i must give you a few lines to tell you how delighted your letters made us. we are very happy here, but _home_ is the place after all, and it is one of our good master's most constant themes. he is always talking to us about home, and encouraging us to talk of and think of it. emilie seems like a sister to us, and she enters into all our feelings as well us you could do yourself. well, you will want to know something about our christmas doings at school. they have been glorious i can tell you--such a christmas tree! such a lot of presents in our _shoes_ on christmas morning; such dinings and suppings, and musical parties! you must know every one sings here, the servants go singing about the house like nightingales, or sweeter than nightingales to my mind, like our dear "kanarien vogel." you ask for joe, he is very patient, and kind and good to us all, he and john are capital friends; and oh, edith, it would do your heart good to see how john devotes himself to the poor fellow. he waits upon him like a servant, but it is all _love_ service. joe can scarcely bear him out of his sight. herr franks was asked the other day, by a gentleman who came to sup with us, if they were brothers. john watches all joe's looks, and is so careful that nothing may be said to wound him, or to remind him of his great affliction more than needs be. it was a beautiful sight on new year's eve to see joe's boxes that he has carved. he has become very clever at that work, and there was an article of his carving for every one, but the best was for emilie, and she _deserted_ it. oh, how he loves emilie! if he is beginning to feel in one of his old cross moods, he says that emilie's face, or emilie's voice disperses it all, and well it may; emilie has sweetened sourer tempers than joe white's. but now comes a sorrowful part of my letter. joe is very unwell, he has a cough, (he was never strong you know,) and the doctor says he is very much afraid his lungs are diseased. he certainly gets thinner and weaker, and he said to me to-day what i must tell you. he spoke of his longings to travel (to go to australia was always his fancy.) "and now, fred," he said, "i never think of going _there_, i am thinking of a longer journey _still_." "a longer journey, joe!" i said, "well, you have got the travelling mania on you yet, i see." he looked so sad, that i said, "what do you mean joe?" he replied, "fred, i think nothing of journeys and voyages in this world now. i am thinking of a pilgrimage to the land where all our wandering's will have an end. i longed, oh fred, you know how i longed to go to foreign lands, but i long now as i never longed before to go to _heaven_." i begged him not to talk of dying, but he said it did not make him low spirited. emilie and he talked of it often. ah edith! that boy is more fit for heaven than any of us who a year or two ago thought him scarcely fit to be our companion, but as emilie said the other day, god often causes the very afflictions that he sends to become his choicest mercies. so it has been with poor white, i am sure. i find i have nearly filled my letter about joe, but we all think a great deal of him. don't you remember emilie's saying, "i would try to make him lovable." he is lovable now, i assure you. i am sorry our canaries quarrel, but that is no fault of yours. we have only two school-fellows at present, but herr franks does not wish for a large school; he says he likes to be always with us, and to be our companion, which if there were more of us he could not so well manage. we have one trouble, and that is in the temper of this newly arrived german boy, but we are going to try and make him lovable. he is a good way off it _yet_. i must leave john to tell you about the many things i have forgotten, and i will write soon. we have a cat here whom we call _muff_, after your old pet. her name often reminds me of your sacrifice for me. ah! my dear little sister, you heaped coals of fire on my head that day. truly you were not overcome of evil, you overcame evil with good. dear love to all at home. your ever affectionate brother, fred parker. chapter fourteenth. the last. "hush, dears! hush!" said a gentle voice, pointing to a shaded window. "he is asleep now, and we must have the window open for air this sultry evening. i would not rake that bed to-night, john, i think." "it is _his_ garden, emilie." "yes, i know"--and she sighed.-"it _is_ his garden, and his eye always sees the least weed and the least untidiness. he will be sure to notice it when he is drawn out to-morrow." "john there may be no to-morrow for joe, he is altered very much to-day, and it is evident to me he is sinking fast. he won't come down again, i think." "may i go and sit by him, emilie?" said the boy, quietly gathering up his tools and preparing to leave his employment. "yes, but be very still." it was a striking contrast; that fine, florid, healthy boy, whose frame was gaining vigour and manliness daily, whose blight eye had scarcely ever been dimmed by illness or pain, and that pale, deformed, weary sleeper. so emilie thought as she took her seat by the open window and watched them both. the roses and the carnations that john had brought to his friend were quietly laid on the table as he caught the first glimpse of the dying boy. there was that in the action which convinced emilie that john was aware of his friend's state and they quietly sat down to watch him. the stars came out one by one, the dew was falling, the birds were all hurrying home, children were asleep in their happy beds; many glad voices mingled by open casements and social supper tables, some few lingered out of doors to enjoy the beauties of that quiet august night, the last on earth of one, at least, of god's creatures. they watched on. "i have been asleep, emilie, a beautiful sleep, i was dreaming of my mother; i awoke, and it was you. john, _you_ there too! good, patient, watchful john. leave me a moment, quite alone with john, will you, emilie? moments are a great deal to me now." the friends were left alone, their talk was of death and eternity, on the solemn realities of which one of them was about to enter, and carefully as john had shielded joe, tenderly as he had watched over him hitherto, he must now leave him to pass the stream alone--yet not alone. emilie soon returned; it was to see him die. it was not much that he could say, and much was not needed. the agony of breathing those last breaths was very great. he had lived long near to god, and in the dark valley his saviour was still near to him. he was at peace--at peace in the dying conflict; it was only death now with whom he had to contend. being justified by faith, he had peace with god through the lord jesus christ. his last words were whispered in the ear of that good elder sister, our true-hearted, loving emilie. 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"it is a stirring and instructive volume for intelligent young people."--_evangelical_. the former volume, for 1849, still continues on sale. * * * * * new gift book for the season. * * * * * in 8vo. price 16s. bound in cloth, or 24s. morocco elegant, pilgrimages to english shrines. by mrs. s.c. hall. with notes and illustrations by f.w. fairholt, f.s.a. _among the interesting subjects of this volume will be found,_ the birth-place or john bunyan; the burial-place of john hampden; the residence of hannah more; the tomb of sir thomas gresham; the tomb of thomas gray; the birth-place of thomas chatterton; the birth-place of richard wilson; the house of andrew marvel; the tomb of john stow; the heart of sir nicholas crispe; the printing office of william caxton; shaftesbury house; the dwelling of james barry; the residence of dr. isaac watts; the prison of lady mary grey; the town of john kyrle (the man of ross); the tomb of william hogarth; the studio of thomas gainsborough, r.a. notices of the press "descriptions of such shrines come home with deep interest to all hearts--all english hearts--particularly when they are done with the earnestness which distinguishes mrs. hall's writings. that lady's earnestness and enthusiasm are of the right sort--felt for freedom of thought and action, for taste, and for genius winging its flight in a noble direction. they are displayed, oftentimes most naturally, throughout the attractive pages of this volume."--_observer._ "mrs. hall's talents are too well known to require our commendation of her 'pilgrimages,' which are every way worthy of the beautiful woodcuts that illustrate almost every page, and this is very high praise indeed."--_standard._ "the illustrations are very effective; and the whole work externally and internally, is worthy of the patronage of all who love to be instructed as well as amazed."_--church and state gazette._ "the book is a pleasant one; a collection of a great deal of curious information about a number of curious places and persons, cleverly and readily put together, and combined into an elegant volume."--_guardian_. images generously made available by the cwru preservation department digital library. html version by al haines. rosy by mrs. molesworth author of 'carrots,' 'cuckoo clock,' 'tell me a story.' illustrated by walter crane [illustration: manchon] contents. chapter i. rosy, colin, and felix chapter ii. beata chapter iii. tears chapter iv. ups and downs chapter v. rosy thinks things over chapter vi. a strike in the schoolroom chapter vii. mr. furniture's present chapter viii. hard to bear chapter ix. the hole in the floor chapter x. stings for bee chapter xi. a parcel and a fright chapter xii. good out of evil list of illustrations. manchon "beata, dear, this is my rosy," she said rosy and manchon "what is ze matter wif you, bee?" he said "did you ever see anything so pretty, bee?" rosy repeated "what is there down there, does you fink?" said fixie by stretching a good deal she thought she could reach them "it's a rose from rosy" chapter i. rosy, colin, and felix. "the highest not more than the height of a counsellor's bag." --wordsworth. rosy stood at the window. she drummed on the panes with her little fat fingers in a fidgety cross way; she pouted out her nice little mouth till it looked quite unlike itself; she frowned down with her eyebrows over her two bright eyes, making them seem like two small windows in a house with very overhanging roofs; and last of all, she stamped on the floor with first her right foot and then with her left. but it was all to no purpose, and this made rosy still more vexed. "mamma," she said at last, for really it was too bad--wasn't it?--when she had given herself such a lot of trouble to show how vexed she was, that no one should take any notice. "_mamma_" she repeated. but still no one answered, and obliged at last to turn round, for her patience was at an end, rosy saw that there was no one in the room. mamma had gone away! that was a great shame--really a _great_ shame. rosy was offended, and she wanted mamma to see how offended she was, and mamma chose just that moment to leave the room. rosy looked round--there was no good going on pouting and frowning and drumming and stamping to make mamma notice her if mamma wasn't there, and all that sort of going on caused rosy a good deal of trouble. so she left off. but she wanted to quarrel with somebody. in fact, she felt that she _must_ quarrel with somebody. she looked round again. the only "somebody" to be seen was mamma's big, _big_ persian cat, whose name was "manchon" (_why_, rosy did not know; she thought it a very stupid name), of whom, to tell the truth, rosy was rather afraid. for manchon could look very grand and terrible when he reared up his back, and swept about his magnificent tail; and though he had never been known to hurt anybody, and mamma said he was the gentlest of animals, rosy felt sure that he could do all sorts of things to punish his enemies if he chose. and knowing in her heart that she did not like him, that she was indeed sometimes rather jealous of him, rosy always had a feeling that she must not take liberties with him, as she could not help thinking he knew what she felt. [illustration: rosy and manchon] no, manchon would not do to quarrel with. she stood beside his cushion looking at him, but she did not venture to pull his tail or pinch his ears, as she would rather have liked to do. and manchon looked up at her sleepily, blinking his eyes as much as to say, "what a silly little girl you are," in a way that made rosy more angry still. "i don't like you, you ugly old cat," she said, "and you know i don't. and i shan't like _her_. you needn't make faces at me," as manchon, disturbed in his afternoon nap, blinked again and gave a sort of discontented mew. "i don't care for your faces, and i don't care what mamma says, and i don't care for all the peoples in the world, i _won't_ like her;" and then, without considering that there was no one near to see or to hear except manchon, rosy stamped her little feet hard, and repeated in a louder voice, "no, i won't, i _won't_ like her." but some one had heard her after all. a little figure, smaller than rosy even, was standing in the doorway, looking at her with a troubled face, but not seeming very surprised. "losy," it said, "tea's seady. fix is comed for you." "then fix may go away again. rosy doesn't want any tea. rosy's too bovvered and vexed. go away, fix." but "fix," as she called him, and as he called himself, didn't move. only the trouble in his delicate little face grew greater. "_is_ you bovvered, losy?" he said. "fix is welly solly," and he came farther into the room. "losy," he said again, still more gently than before, "_do_ come to tea. fix doesn't like having his tea when losy isn't there, and fix is tired to-day." rosy looked at him a moment. then a sudden change came over her. she stooped down and threw her arms round the little boy's neck and hugged him. "poor fixie, dear fixie," she said. "rosy will come if _you_ want her. fixie never bovvers rosy. fixie loves rosy, doesn't he?" "ses," said the child, kissing her in return, "but please don't skeese fix _kite_ so tight," and he wriggled a little to get out of her grasp. instantly the frown came back to rosy's changeable face. "you cross little thing," she said, half flinging her little brother away from her, "you don't love rosy. if you did, you wouldn't call her cuddling you _skeesing_." fix's face puckered up, and he looked as if he were going to cry. but just then steps were heard coming, and a boy's voice called out, "fix, fix, what a time you are! if rosy isn't there, never mind her. come along. there's something good for tea." "there's colin," said fix, turning as if to run off to his brother. again rosy's mood changed. "don't run away from rosy, fix," she said. "rosy's not cross, she's only troubled about somefing fix is too little to understand. take rosy's hand, dear, and we'll go up to tea togever. never mind colin--he's such a big rough boy;" and when colin, in his turn, appeared at the door, rosy and fix were already coming towards it, hand-in-hand, rosy the picture of a model little elder sister. colin just glanced at them and ran off. "be quick," he said, "or i'll eat it all before you come. there's fluff for tea--strawberry fluff! at least i've been smelling it all the afternoon, and i saw a little pot going upstairs, and martha said cook said it was for the children!" colin, however, was doomed to be disappointed. there was no appearance of anything "better" than bread and butter on the nursery table, and in answer to the boy's questions, martha said there was nothing else. "but the little pot, martha, the little pot," insisted colin. "i heard you yourself say to cook, 'then this is for the children?'" "well, yes, master colin, and so i did, and so it is for you. but i didn't say it was for to-day--it's for to-morrow, sunday." "whoever heard of such a thing," said colin. "fluff won't keep. it should be eaten at once." "but it's jam, master colin. it's regular jam in the little pot. i don't know anything about the fluff, as you call it. i suppose they've eaten it in the kitchen." "well, then, it's a shame," said colin. "it's all the new cook. i've always been accustomed, always, to have the fluff sent up to the nursery," and he thumped impressively on the table. "in all your places, master colin, it was always so, wasn't it?" said martha, with a twinkle of fun in her eyes. "you're very impettnent, martha," said rosy, looking up suddenly, and speaking for the first time since she had come into the room. "nonsense, rosy," said colin. "_i_ don't mind. martha was only joking." rosy relapsed into silence, to martha's relief. "if miss rosy is going to begin!" she had said to herself with fear and trembling. she seldom or never ventured to joke with rosy--few people who knew her did--but colin was the most good-natured of children. she looked at rosy rather curiously, taking care, however, that the little girl should not notice it. "there's something the matter with her," thought martha, for rosy looked really buried in gloom; "perhaps her mamma's been telling her what she told me this morning. i was sure miss rosy wouldn't like it, and perhaps it's natural, so spoilt as she's been, having everything her own way for so long. one would be sorry for her if she'd only let one," and her voice was kind and gentle as she asked the little girl if she wouldn't like some more tea. rosy shook her head. "i don't want nothing," she said. "what's the matter, rosy?" said colin. "losy's bovvered," said fixie. colin gave a whistle. "oh!" he said, meaningly, "i expect i know what it's all about. i know, too, rosy. you're afraid your nose is going to be put out of joint, i expect." "master colin, don't," said martha, warningly, but it was too late. rosy dashed off her seat, and running round to colin's side of the table, doubled up her little fist, and hit her brother hard with all her baby force, then, without waiting to see if she had hurt him or not, she rushed from the room without speaking, made straight for her own little bedroom, and, throwing herself down on the floor with her head on a chair, burst into a storm of miserable, angry crying. "i wish i was back with auntie--oh, i do, i do," she said, among her sobs. "mamma doesn't love me like colin and pixie. if she did, she wouldn't go and bring a nasty, horrible little girl to live with us. i hate her, and i shall always hate her--_nasty_ little thing!" the nursery was quiet after rosy left it--quiet but sad. "dear, dear," said martha, "if people would but think what they're doing when they spoil children! poor miss rosy, but she is naughty! has it hurt you, master colin?" "no," said colin, _one_ of whose eyes nevertheless was crying from rosy's blow, "not much. but it's so _horrid_, going on like this." "of course it is, and _why_ you can go on teasing your sister, knowing her as you do, i can't conceive," said martha. "if it was only for peace sake, i'd let her alone, i would, if i was you, master colin." martha had rather a peevish and provoking way of finding fault or giving advice. just now her voice sounded almost as if she was going to cry. but colin was a sensible boy. he knew what she said was true, so he swallowed down his vexation, and answered good-naturedly, "well, i'll try and not tease. but rosy isn't like anybody else. she flies into a rage for just nothing, and it's always those people somehow that make one _want_ to tease them. but, i say, martha, i really do _wonder_ how we'll get on when--" a warning glance stopped him, and he remembered that little felix knew nothing of what he was going to speak about, and that his mother did not wish anything more said of it just yet. so colin said no more--he just whistled, as he always did if he was at a loss about anything, but his whistle sometimes seemed to say a good deal. how was it that colin was so good-tempered and reasonable, felix so gentle and obedient, and rosy, poor rosy, so very different? for they were her very own brothers, she was their very own sister. there must have been some difference, i suppose, naturally. rosy had always been a fiery little person, but the great pity was that she had been sadly spoilt. for some years she had been away from her father and mother, who had been abroad in a warm climate, where delicate little felix was born. they had not dared to take colin and rosy with them, but colin, who was already six years old when they left england, had had the good fortune to be sent to a very nice school, while rosy had stayed altogether with her aunt, who had loved her dearly, but in wishing to make her perfectly happy had made the mistake of letting her have her own way in everything. and when she was eight years old, and her parents came home, full of delight to have their children all together again, the disappointment was great of finding rosy so unlike what they had hoped. and as months passed, and all her mother's care and advice and gentle firmness seemed to have no effect, rosy's true friends began to ask themselves what should be done. the little girl was growing a misery to herself, and a constant trouble to other people. and then happened what her mother had told her about, and what rosy, in her selfishness and silliness, made a new trouble of, instead of a pleasure the more, in what should have been her happy life. i will soon tell you what it was. rosy lay on the floor crying for a good long while. her fits of temper tired her out, though she was a very strong little girl. there is _nothing_ more tiring than bad temper, and it is such a stupid kind of tiredness; nothing but a waste of time and strength. not like the rather _nice_ tiredness one feels when one has been working hard either at one's own business, or, _still_ nicer, at helping other people--the sort of pleasant fatigue with which one lays one's head on the pillow, feeling that all the lessons are learnt, and well learnt, for to-morrow morning, or that the bit of garden is quite, quite clear of weeds, and father or mother will be so pleased to see it! but to fall half asleep on the floor, or on your bed, with wearied, swollen eyes, and panting breath and aching head, feeling or fancying that no one loves you--that the world is all wrong, and there is nothing sweet or bright or pretty in it, no place for you, and no use in being alive--all these _miserable_ feelings that are the natural and the right punishment of yielding to evil tempers, forgetting selfishly all the pain and trouble you cause--what _can_ be more wretched? indeed, i often think no punishment that can be given can be half so bad as the punishment that comes of itself--that is joined to the sin by ties that can never be undone. and the shame of it all! rosy was not quite what she had been when she first came home to her mother--she was beginning to feel ashamed when she had yielded to her temper--and even this, though a small improvement, was always something--one little step in the right way, one little sign of better things. she was not asleep--scarcely half asleep, only stupid and dazed with crying--when the door opened softly, and some one peeped in. it was fixie. he came creeping in very quietly--when was fixie anything but quiet?--and with a very distressed look on his tiny, white face. something came over rosy--a mixture of shame and sorrow, and also some curiosity to see what her little brother would do; and these feelings mixed together made her shut her eyes tighter and pretend to be asleep. fixie came close up to her, peeped almost into her face, so that if she had been really asleep i rather think it would have awakened her, except that all he did was so _very_ gentle and like a little mouse; and then, quite satisfied that she was fast asleep, he slowly settled himself down on the floor by her side. "poor losy," he said softly. "fixie are so solly for you. poor losy--why can't her be good? why doesn't god make losy good all in a minute? fixie always akses god to make her good"--he stopped in his whispered talk, suddenly--he had fancied for a moment that rosy was waking, and it was true that she had moved. she had given a sort of wriggle, for, sweet and gentle as fixie was, she did not at all like being spoken of as _not_ good. she didn't see why he need pray to god to make _her_ good, more than other people, she said to herself, and for half a second she was inclined to jump up and tell pix to go away; it wasn't his business whether she was good or naughty, and she wouldn't have him in her room. but she did _not_ do so,--she lay still again, and she was glad she had, for poor fixie stopped in his talking to pat her softly. "don't wake, poor losy," he said. "go on sleeping, losy, if you are so tired, and fix will watch aside you and take care of you." he seemed to have forgotten all about her being naughty--he sat beside her, patting her softly, and murmuring a sort of cooing "hush, hush, losy," as if she were a baby, that was very touching, like the murmur of a sad little dove. and by and by, with going on repeating it so often, his own head began to feel confused and drowsy--it dropped lower and lower, and at last found a resting-place on rosy's knees. rosy, who had really been getting sleepy, half woke up when she felt the weight of her little brother's head and shoulder upon her--she moved him a little so that he should lie more comfortably, and put one arm round him. "dear fixie," she said to herself, "i do love him, and i'm sure he loves me," and her face grew soft and gentle--and when rosy's face looked like that it was very pretty and sweet. but it quickly grew dark and gloomy again as another thought struck her. "if fixie loves that nasty little girl better than me or as much--if he loves her _at all_, i'll--i don't know what i'll do. i'd almost hate him, and i'm sure i'll hate her, any way. mamma says she's such a dear good little girl--that means that everybody'll say _i'm_ naughtier than ever." but just then fixie moved a little and whispered something in his sleep. "what is it, fix?" said rosy, stooping down to listen. his ears caught the sound of her voice. "poor losy," he murmured, and rosy's face softened again. and half an hour later martha found them lying there together. chapter ii. beata. "how will she be--fair-haired or dark, eyes bright and piercing, or rather soft and sweet? --all that i care not for, so she be no phraser." --old play. "what was it all about?" said rosy's mother the next morning to colin, she had heard of another nursery disturbance the evening before, and martha had begged her to ask colin to tell her all about it. "and what's the matter with your eye, my boy?" she went on to say, as she caught sight of the bluish bruise, which showed more by daylight. "oh, that's nothing," said colin. "it doesn't hurt a bit, mother, it doesn't indeed. i've had far worse lumps than that at school hundreds of times. it's nothing, only--" and colin gave a sort of wriggle. "only what?" said his mother. "i do so wish rosy wouldn't be like that. it spoils everything. just this easter holiday time too, when i thought we'd be so happy." his mother's face grew still graver. "do you mean that it was _rosy_ that struck you--that hit you in the eye?" she said. colin looked vexed. "i thought martha had told you," he said. "and i teased her, mother. i told her she was afraid of having her nose put out of joint when be--i can't say her name--when the little girl comes." "o colin, how could you?" said his mother sadly. "when i had explained to you about beata coming, and that i hoped it might do rosy good! i thought you would have tried to help me, colin." colin felt very vexed with himself. "i won't do it any more, mother, i won't indeed," he said. "i wish i could leave off teasing; but at school, you know, one gets into the way, and one has to learn not to mind it." "yes," said his mother, "i know, and it is a very good thing to learn not to mind it. but i don't think teasing will do rosy any good just now, especially not about little beata." "mother," said colin. "well, my boy," said his mother. "i wish she hadn't such a stupid name. it's so hard to say." "i think they sometimes have called her bee," said his mother; "i daresay you can call her so." "yes, that would be much better," said colin, in a more contented tone. "only," said his mother again, and she couldn't help smiling a little when she said it, "if you call her 'bee,' don't make it the beginning of any new teasing by calling rosy 'wasp.'" "mother!" said colin. "i daresay i would never have thought of it. but i promise you i won't." this was what had upset rosy so terribly--the coming of little beata. she--beata--was the child of friends of rosy's parents. they had been much together in india, and had returned to england at the same time. so beata was already well known to rosy's mother, and fixie, too, had learnt to look upon her almost as a sister. beata's father and mother were obliged to go back to india, and it had been settled that their little girl was to be left at home with her grandmother. but just a short time before they were to leave, her grandmother had a bad illness, and it was found she would not be well enough to take charge of the child. and in the puzzle about what they should do with her, it had struck her father and mother that perhaps their friends, rosy's parents, might be able to help them, and they had written to ask them; and so it had come about that little beata was to come to live with them. it had all seemed so natural and nice. rosy's mother was so pleased about it, for she thought it would be just what rosy needed to make her a pleasanter and more reasonable little girl. "beata is such a nice child," she said to rosy's father when they were talking about it, "and not one bit spoilt. i think it is _sure_ to do rosy good," and, full of pleasure in the idea, she told rosy about it. but--one man may bring a horse to the water, but twenty can't make him drink, says the old proverb--rosy made up her mind on the spot, at the very first instant, that she wouldn't like beata, and that her coming was on purpose to vex _her_, rosy, as it seemed to her that most things which she had to do with in the world were. and this was what had put her in such a temper the first time we saw her--when she would have liked to put out her vexation on manchon even, if she had dared! rosy's mother felt very disappointed, but she saw it was better to say no more. she had told colin about beata coming, but not felix, for as he knew and loved the little girl already, she was afraid that his delight might rouse rosy's jealous feelings. for the prettiest thing in rosy was her love for her little brother, only it was often spoilt by her _exactingness_. fixie must love her as much or better than anybody--he must be all hers, or else she would not love him at all. that was how she sometimes talked to him, and it puzzled and frightened him--he was such a very little fellow, you see. and _mother_ had never told him that loving other people too made his love for her less, as rosy did! i think rosy's first dislike to beata had begun one day when fixie, wanting to please her, and yet afraid to say what was not true, had spoken of beata as one of the people rosy must let him love, and it had vexed rosy so that ever since he had been afraid to mention his little friend's name to her. rosy's mother thought over what colin had told her, and settled in her own mind that it was better to take no notice of it in speaking to rosy. "if it had been a quarrel about anything else," she said to herself, "it would have been different. but about beata i want to say nothing more to vex rosy, or wake her unkind feelings." but rosy's mother did not yet quite know her little girl. there was one thing about her which was _not_ spoilt, and that was her honesty. when the children came down that morning to see their mother, as they always did, a little after breakfast, rosy's face wore a queer look. "good morning, little people," said their mother. "i was rather late this morning, do you know? that was why i didn't come to see you in the nursery. i am going to write to your aunt to-day. would you like to put in a little letter, rosy?" "no, thank you," said rosy. "then shall i just send your love? and fixie's too?" said her mother. she went on speaking because she noticed the look in rosy's face, but she wanted not to seem to do so, thinking rosy would then gradually forget about it all. "i don't want to send my love," said rosy. "if you say i _must_, i suppose i must, but i don't _want_ to send it." "do you think your love is not worth having, my poor little girl?" said her mother, smiling a little sadly, as she drew rosy to her. "don't you believe we all love you, rosy, and want you to love us?" "i don't know," said rosy, gloomily. "i don't think anybody can love me, for martha's always saying if i do naughty things _you_ won't love me and father won't love me, and nobody." "then why don't you leave off doing naughty things, rosy?" said her mother. "oh, i can't," rosy replied, coolly. "i suppose i was spoilt at auntie's, and now i'm too old to change. i don't care. it isn't my fault: it's auntie's." "rosy," said her mother, gravely, "who ever said so to you? where did you ever hear such a thing?" "lots of times," rosy replied. "martha's said so, and colin says so when he's vexed with me. he's always said so," she added, as if she didn't quite like owning it, but felt that she must. "he said i was spoilt before you came home, but auntie wouldn't let him. _she_ thought i was quite good," and rosy reared up her head as if she thought so too. "i am very sorry to hear you speak so," said her mother. "i think if you ask _yourself_, rosy, you will very often find that you are not good, and if you see and understand that when you are not good it is nobody's fault but your own, you will surely try to be better. you must not say it was your aunt's fault, or anybody's fault. your aunt was only too kind to you, and i will never allow you to blame her." "i wasn't good last night," said rosy. "i doubled up my hand and i hit colin, 'cos i got in a temper. i was going to tell you--i meant to tell you." "and are you sorry for it now, rosy dear?" asked her mother, very gently. rosy looked at her in surprise. her mother spoke so gently. she had rather expected her to be shocked--she had almost, if you can understand, _wished_ her to be shocked, so that she could say to herself how naughty everybody thought her, how it was no use her trying to be good and all the rest of it--and she had told over what she had done in a hard, _un_sorry way, almost on purpose. but now, when her mother spoke so kindly, a different feeling came into her heart. she looked at her mother, and then she looked down on the ground, and then, almost to her own surprise, she answered, almost humbly, "i don't know. i don't think i was, but i think i am a little sorry now." seeing her so unusually gentle, her mother went a little further. "what made you so vexed with colin?" she asked. rosy's face hardened. "mother," she said, "you'd better not ask me. it was because of something he said that i don't want to tell you." "about beata?" asked her mother. "well," said rosy, "if you know about it, it isn't my fault if you are vexed. i don't want her to come--i don't want _any_ little girl to come, because i know i shan't like her. i like boys better than girls, and i don't like good little girls _at all_." "rosy," said her mother, "you are talking so sillily that if fixie even talked like that i should be quite surprised. i won't answer you. i will not say any more about beata--you know what i wish, and what is right, and so i will leave it to you. and i will give you a kiss, my little girl, to show you that i want to trust you to try to do right about this." she was stooping to kiss her, when rosy stopped her. "thank you, mother," she said. "but i don't think i can take the kiss like that--i don't _want_ to like the little girl." "rosy!" exclaimed her mother, almost in despair. then another thought struck her. she bent down again and kissed the child. "i _give_ you the kiss, rosy," she said, "hoping it will at least make you _wish_ to please me." "oh," said rosy, "i do want to please you, mother, about everything _except_ that." but her mother thought it best to take no further notice, only in her own heart she said to herself, "was there _ever_ such a child?" in spite of all she had said rosy felt, what she would not have owned for the world, a good deal of curiosity about the little girl who was to come to live with them. and now and then, in her cross and unhappy moods, a sort of strange confused _hope_ would creep over her that beata's coming would bring her a kind of good luck. "everybody says she's so good, and everybody loves her," thought rosy, "p'raps i'll find out how she does it." and the days passed on, on the whole, after the storm i have told you about, rather more peaceably than before, till one evening when rosy was saying good-night her mother said to her quietly, "rosy, i had a letter this morning from beata's uncle; he is bringing her to-morrow. she will be here about four o'clock in the afternoon." "to-morrow!" said rosy, and then, without saying any more, she kissed her mother and went to bed. she went to sleep that evening, and she woke the next morning with a strange jumble of feelings in her mind, and a strange confusion of questions waiting to be answered. "what would beata be like? she was sure to be pretty--all people that other people love very much were pretty, rosy thought. and she believed that she herself was very ugly, which, i may tell you, children, as rosy won't hear what we say, was quite a mistake. everybody is a _little_ pretty who is sweet and good, for though being sweet and good doesn't alter the colour of one's hair or the shape of one's nose, it does a great deal; it makes the cross lines smooth away, or, rather, prevents their coming, and it certainly gives the eyes a look that nothing else gives, does it not? but rosy's face, alas! was very often spoilt by frowns, and dark looks often took away the prettiness of her eyes, and this was the more pity as the good fairies who had welcomed her at her birth had evidently meant her to be pretty. she had very soft bright hair, and a very white skin, and large brown eyes that looked lovely when she let sweet thoughts and feelings shine through them; but though she had many faults, she was not vain, and she really thought she was not pleasant-looking at all. "beata is sure to be pretty," thought rosy. "i daresay she'll have beautiful black hair, and blue eyes like lady albertine." albertine was rosy's best doll. "and i daresay she'll be very clever, and play the piano and speak french far better than me. i don't mind that. i like pretty people, and i don't mind people being clever. what i don't like is, people who are dedfully _good_ always going on about how good they are, and how naughty _other_ people is. if she doesn't do that way i shan't mind so much, but i'm sure she _will_ do that way. yes, manchon," she said aloud, "i'm sure she will, and you needn't begin 'froo'in' about it." for rosy was in the drawing-room when all these thoughts were passing through her mind--she was there with her afternoon frock on, and a pretty muslin apron, all nice to meet beata and her uncle, who were expected very soon. and manchon was on the rug as usual, quite peacefully inclined, poor thing, only rosy could never believe any good of manchon, and when he purred, or, as she called it, "froo'ed," she at once thought he was mocking her. she really seemed to fancy the cat was a fairy or a wizard of some kind, for she often gave him the credit of reading her very thoughts! the door opened, and her mother came in, leading fixie by the hand and colin just behind. "oh, you're ready, rosy," she said. "that's right. they should be here very soon." "welly soon," repeated fixie. "oh, fixie will be so glad to see beenie again!" "what a stupid name," said rosy. "_we_'re not to call her that, are we, mother?" she spoke in rather a grand, grown-up tone, but her mother knew she put that on sometimes when she was not really feeling unkind. "_i_ shall call her bee," said colin. "it would do very well, as we've"--he stopped suddenly--"as we've got a wasp already," he had been going to say--it seemed to come so naturally--when his mother's warning came back to his mind. he caught her eye, and he saw that she couldn't help smiling and he found it so difficult not to burst out laughing that he stuffed his pocket-handkerchief into his mouth, and went to the window, where he pretended to see something very interesting. rosy looked up suspiciously. "what were you going to say, colin?" she asked. "i'm sure--" but she too stopped, for just then wheels were heard on the gravel drive outside. "here they are," said mother. "will you come to the door to welcome beata, rosy?" rosy came forward, though rather slowly. colin was already out in the hall, and fixie was dancing along beside his mother. rosy kept behind. the carriage, that had gone to the station to meet the travellers, was already at the door, and the footman was handing out one or two umbrellas, rugs, and so on. then a gray-haired gentleman, whom rosy, peeping through a side window, did not waste her attention on--"he is quite old," she said to herself--got out, and lifted down a much smaller person--smaller than rosy herself, and a good deal smaller than the beata of rosy's fancies. the little person sprang forward, and was going to kiss rosy's mother, when she caught sight of the tiny white face beside her. "o fixie, dear little fixie!" she said, stooping to hug him, and then she lifted her own face for fixie's mother to kiss. at once, almost before shaking hands with the gentleman, rosy's mother looked round for her, and rosy had to come forward. "beata, dear, this is my rosy," she said; and something in the tone of the "my" touched rosy. it seemed to say, "i will put no one before you, my own little girl--no stranger, however sweet--and you will, on your side, try to please me, will you not?" so rosy's face, though grave, had a nice look the first time beata saw it, and the first words she said as they kissed each other were, "o rosy, how pretty you are! i shall love you very much." chapter iii. tears. "'twere most ungrateful."--v. s. lakdoh. beata was not pretty. that was the first thing rosy decided about her. she was small, and rather brown and thin. she had dark hair, certainly like lady albertine's in colour, but instead of splendid curls it was cut quite short--as short almost as colin's--and her eyes were neither very large nor very blue. they were nice gray eyes, that could look sad, but generally looked merry, and about the rest of her face there was nothing very particular. rosy looked at her for a moment or two, and she looked at rosy. then at last rosy said, "will you come into the drawing-room?" for she saw that her mother and beata's uncle were already on their way there. "thank you," said beata, and then they quietly followed the big people. rosy's father was not at home, but he would be back soon, her mother was telling the gray-haired gentleman, and then she went on to ask him how "they" had got off, if it had been comfortably, and so on. "oh yes," he replied, "it was all quite right. poor maud!--" "that's my mamma," said beata in a low voice, and rosy, turning towards her, saw that her eyes were full of tears. "what a queer little girl she is!" thought rosy, but she did not say so. "--poor maud," continued the gentleman. "it is a great comfort to her to leave the child in such good hands." "i hope she will be happy," said rosy's mother. "i will do my best to make her so." "i am very sure of that," said beata's uncle. "it is a great disappointment to her grandmother not to have her with her. she is a dear child. last week at the parting she behaved like a brick." both little girls heard this, and beata suddenly began speaking rather fast, and rosy saw that her cheeks had got very red. "do you think your mamma would mind if i went upstairs to take off my hat? i think my face must be dirty with the train," said beata. "don't you like staying here?" said rosy, rather crossly. "_i_ think you should stay till mother tells it to go," for she wanted to hear what more her mother and the gentleman said to each other, the very thing that made beata uncomfortable. beata looked a little frightened. "i didn't mean to be rude," she said. then suddenly catching sight of manchon, she exclaimed, "oh, what a beautiful cat! may i go and stroke him?" "if you like," said rosy, "but he isn't _really_ a nice cat." and then, seeing that beata looked at her with curiosity, she forgot about listening to the big people, and, getting up, led beata to manchon's cushion. "everybody says he's pretty," she went on, "but i don't think so, because _i_ think he's a kind of bad fairy. you don't know how he froos sometimes, in a most horrible way, as if he was mocking you. he knows i don't like him, for whenever i'm vexed he looks pleased." "does he really?" said beata. "then i don't like him. i shouldn't look pleased if you were vexed, rosy." "wouldn't you?" said rosy, doubtfully. "no, i'm sure i wouldn't. i wonder your mamma likes manchon if he has such an unkind dis--i can't remember the word, it means feelings, you know." "never mind," said rosy, patronisingly, "i know what you mean. oh, its only _me_ manchon's nasty to, and that doesn't matter. _i'm_ not the favourite. i _was_ at my aunty's though, that i was--but it has all come true what nelson told me," and she shook her head dolefully. "who is nelson?" asked beata. "aunty's maid. she cried when i came away, and she said it was because she was so sorry for me. it wouldn't be the same as _there_, she said. i shouldn't be thought as much of with two brothers, and nelson knew that my mamma was dreadfully strict. i daresay she'd be still more sorry for me if she knew--" rosy stopped short. "why don't you go on?" said beata. "oh, i was going to say something i don't want to say. perhaps it would vex you," said rosy. beata considered a little. "i'm not very easily vexed," she said at last. "i think i'd like you to go on saying it if you don't mind--unless its anything naughty." "oh no," said rosy, "it isn't anything naughty. i was going to say nelson would be still more sorry for me if she knew _you_ had come." "_me!_" said beata, opening her eyes. "why? she can't know anything about me--i mean she couldn't know anything to make her think i would be unkind to you." "oh no, it isn't that. only you see some little girls would think that if another little girl came to live with them it wouldn't be so nice--that perhaps their mammas and brothers and everybody would pet the other little girl more than them." "and do you think that?" said beata, anxiously. a feeling like a cold chill seemed to have touched her heart. she had never before thought of such things--loving somebody else "better," not being "the favourite," and so on. could it all be true, and could it, _worst_ of all, be true that her coming might be the cause of trouble and vexation to other people--at least to rosy? she had come so full of love and gratitude, so ready to like everybody; she had said so many times to her mother, "i'm _sure_ i'll be happy. i'll write and tell you how happy i am," swallowing bravely the grief of leaving her mother, and trying to cheer her at the parting by telling her this--it seemed very hard and strange to little beata to be told that _anybody_ could think she could be the cause of unhappiness to any one. "do _you_ think that?" she repeated. rosy looked at her, and something in the little eager face gave her what she would have called a "sorry" feeling. but mixed with this was a sense of importance--she liked to think that she was very good for not feeling what she said "some little girls" would have felt. "no," she said, rather patronisingly, "i don't think i do. i only said _some_ little girls would. no, i think i shall like you, if only you don't make a fuss about how good you are, and set them all against me. i settled before you came that i wouldn't mind if you were pretty or very clever. and you're not pretty, and i daresay you're not very clever. so i won't mind, if you don't make everybody praise you up for being so _good_." beata's eyes filled with tears. "i don't want anybody to praise me," she said. "i only wanted you all to love me," and again rosy had the sorry feeling, though she did not feel that she was to blame. "i only told her what i really thought," she said to herself; but before she had time to reflect that there are two ways of telling what one thinks, and that sometimes it is not only foolish, but wrong and unkind, to tell of thoughts and feelings which we should try to _leave off_ having, her mother turned round to speak to her. "i think we should take beata upstairs to her room, rosy," she said. "you must be tired, dear," and the kind words and tone, so like what her own mother's would have been, made the cup of beata's distress overflow. she gave a little sob and then burst into tears. rosy half sprang forward--she was on the point of throwing her arms round beata and whispering, "i _will_ love you, dear, i _do_ love you;" but alas, the strange foolish pride that so often checked her good feelings, held her back, and jealousy whispered, "if you begin making such a fuss about her, she'll think she's to be before you, and very likely, if you seem so sorry, she'll tell your mother you made her cry." so rosy stood still, grave and silent, but with some trouble in her face, and her mother felt a little, just a very little vexed with beata for beginning so dolefully. "it will discourage rosy," she said to herself, "just when i was so anxious for beata to win her affection from the first." and beata's uncle, too, looked disappointed. just when he had been praising her so for her bravery! "why, my little girl," he said, "you didn't cry like this even when you said good-bye at southampton." "that must be it," said rosy's mother, who was too kind to feel vexed for more than an instant; "the poor child has put too much force on herself, and that always makes one break down afterwards. come, dear beata, and remember how much your mother wanted you to be happy with us." she held out her hand, but to her surprise beata still hung back, clinging to her uncle. "oh, please," she whispered, "let me go back with you, uncle. i don't care how dull it is--i shall not be any trouble to grandmother while she is ill. do let me go back--i cannot stay here." beata's uncle was kind, but he had not much experience of children. "beata," he said, and his voice was almost stern, "it is impossible. all is arranged here for you. you will be sorry afterwards for giving way so foolishly. you would not wish to seem _ungrateful_, my little girl, for all your kind friends here are going to do for you?" the word ungrateful had a magical effect. beata raised her head from his shoulder, and digging in her pocket for her little handkerchief, wiped away the tears, and then looking up, her face still quivering, said gently, "i won't cry any more, uncle; i _will_ be good. indeed, i didn't mean to be naughty." "that's right," he answered, encouragingly. and then rosy's mother again held out her hand, and beata took it timidly, and followed by rosy, whose mind was in a strange jumble, they went upstairs to the room that was to be the little stranger's. it was as pretty a little room as any child could have wished for--bright and neat and comfortable, with a pleasant look-out on the lawn at the side of the house, while farther off, over the trees, the village church, or rather its high spire, could be seen. for a moment beata forgot her new troubles. "oh, how pretty!" she said, "is this to be my room? i never had such a nice one. but when they come home from india for always, papa and mamma are going to get a pretty house, and choose all the furniture--like here, you know, only not so pretty, i daresay, for a house like this would cost such a great deal of money." she was chattering away to rosy's mother quite in her old way, greatly to rosy's mother's pleasure, when she--mrs. vincent, opened a door beata had not before noticed. "this is rosy's room," she said. "i thought it would be nice for you to be near each other. and i know you are very tidy, bee, so you will set rosy a good example--eh, rosy?" she said it quite simply, and beata would have taken it in the same way half an hour before, but looking round the little girl caught an expression on rosy's face which brought back all her distress. it seemed to say, "oh, you're beginning to be praised already, i see," but rosy's mother had not noticed it, for rosy had turned quickly away. when, however, mrs. vincent, surprised at beata's silence, looked at her again, all the light had faded out of the little face, and again she seemed on the point of tears. "how strangely changeable she is," thought mrs. vincent, "i am sure she used not to be so; she was merry and pleased just as she seemed a moment or two ago." "what is the matter, dear?" she said. "you look so distressed again. did it bring back your mother--what i said, i mean?" "i think--i suppose so," beata began, but there she stopped. "'no," she said bravely, "it wasn't that. but, please--i don't want to be rude--but, please, would you not praise me--not for being tidy or anything." how gladly at that moment would she have said, "i'm not tidy. mamma always says i'm not," had it been true. but it was not--she was a very neat and methodical child, dainty and trim in everything she had to do with, as rosy's mother remembered. "what _shall_ i do?" she said to herself. "it seems as if only my being naughty would make rosy like me, and keep me from doing her harm. what _can_ i do?" and a longing came over her to throw her arms round mrs. vincent's neck, and tell her her troubles and ask her to explain it all to her. but her faithfulness would not let her think of such a thing. "that _would_ do rosy harm," she remembered, "and perhaps she meant to be kind when she spoke that way. it was kinder than to have kept those feelings to me in her heart and never told me. but i don't know what to do." for already she felt that mrs. vincent thought her queer and changeable, _rude_ even, perhaps, though she only smiled at beata's begging not to be praised, and rosy, who had heard what she said, gave her no thanks for it, but the opposite. "that's all pretence," thought rosy. "everybody likes to be praised." mrs. vincent went downstairs, leaving the children together, and telling rosy to help beata to take off her things, as tea would soon be ready. beata had a sort of fear of what next rosy would say, and she was glad when martha just then came into the room. "miss rosy," she said, "will you please to go into the nursery and put away your dolls' things before tea. they're all over the table. i'd have done it in a minute, but you have your own ways and i was afraid of doing it wrong." she spoke kindly and cheerfully. "what a nice nurse!" thought beata, with a feeling of relief--a sort of hope that martha might help to make things easier for her somehow, especially as there was something very kindly in the way the maid began to help her to unfasten her jacket and lay aside her travelling things. to her surprise, rosy made no answer. "miss rosy, please," said martha again, and then rosy looked up crossly. "'miss rosy, please,'" she said mockingly. "you're just putting on all that politeness to show off. no, i won't please. you can put the dolls away yourself, and, if you do them wrong, it's your own fault. you've seen lots of times how i do them." "miss rosy!" said martha, as if she wanted to beg rosy to be good, and her voice was still kind, though her face had got very red when rosy told her she was "showing off." beata stood in shocked silence. she had had no idea that rosy could speak so, and, sad as it was, martha did not seem surprised. "i wonder if she is often like that," thought little bee, and in concern for rosy her own troubles began to be forgotten. they went into the nursery to tea. martha had cleared away rosy's things and had done her best to lay them as the little girl liked. but before sitting down to the table, rosy would go to the drawer where they were kept, and was in the middle of scolding at finding something different from what she liked when colin and fixie came in to tea. "i say, rosy," said colin, "you might let us have one tea-time in peace,--bee's first evening." rosy turned round upon him. "_i_'m not a pretender," she said. "_i_'m not going to sham being good and all that, like martha and you, because bee has just come." "i don't know what you've been saying to martha," said colin, "but i can't see why you need begin at me about shamming before bee. you've not seen me for two minutes since she came. what's the matter, fix? wait a minute and i'll help you," for fixie was tugging away at his chair, and could not manage to move it as he wanted. "i want to sit, aside bee," he said. rosy threw an angry look at him--he understood what she meant. "i'll sit, aside you again to-morrow, losy," he hastened to say. but it did no good. rosy was now determined to find nothing right. there came a little change in their thoughts, however, for the kitchen-maid appeared at the door with a plate of nice cold ham and some of the famous strawberry jam. "cook thought the young lady would be hungry after her journey," she said. "yes, indeed," cried colin, "the young lady's very hungry, and so are the young gentlemen, and so is the other young lady--aren't you, rosy?" he said good-naturedly, turning to her. "he is really a very kind boy," thought beata. "tell cook, with my best compliments, that we are very much obliged to her, and she needn't expect to see any of the ham or the strawberry jam again." it was later than the usual tea-hour, so all the children were hungry and, thanks to this, the meal passed quietly. beata said little, though she could not help laughing at some of colin's funny speeches. but for the shock of rosy's temper and the confusion in her mind that rosy's way of speaking had made, bee would have been quite happy, as happy at least, she would have said, "as i can be till mamma comes home again," but rosy seemed to throw a cloud over everybody. there was never any knowing from one minute to another how she was going to be. only one thing became plainer to bee. it was not only because _she_ had come that rosy was cross and unhappy. it was easy to see that she was at all times very self-willed and queer-tempered, and, though bee was too good and kind to be glad of this, yet, as she was a very sensible little girl, it made things look clearer to her. "i will not begin fancying it is because i am in her place, or anything like that," she said to herself. "i will be as good as i can be, and perhaps she will get to like me," and rosy was puzzled and perhaps, in her strange contradiction, a little vexed at the brighter look that came over bee's face, and the cheery way in which she spoke. for at the first, when she saw how much bee had taken to heart what she said, though her _best_ self felt sorry for the little stranger, she had liked the feeling that she would be a sort of master over her, and that the fear of seeming to take _her_ place would prevent bee from making friends with the others more than she, rosy, chose to allow. poor rosy! she would have herself been shocked had she seen written down in plain words all the feelings her jealous temper caused her. but almost the worst of jealousy is that it hides itself in so many dresses, and gives itself so many names, sometimes making itself seem quite a right and proper feeling; often, very often making one think oneself a poor, ill-treated martyr, when in reality, the martyrs are the unfortunate people that have to live with the foolish person who has allowed jealousy to become his master. beata's uncle left that evening, but before he went away he had the pleasure of seeing his little niece quite herself again. "that's right," he said, as he bade her good-bye, "i don't know what came over you this afternoon." beata did not say anything, but she just kissed her uncle, and whispered, "give my love to dear grandmother, and tell her i am going to try to be very good." chapter iv. ups and downs. "mary, mary, quite contrary."--nursery rhyme. that night when bee was in her little bed, though not yet asleep, for the strangeness of everything, and all she had to think over of what had happened in the day, had kept her awake longer than usual, she heard some one softly open the door and look in. "are you awake still, dear?" said a voice which bee knew in a moment was that of rosy's mother. "yes, oh yes. i'm quite awake. i'm not a bit sleepy," beata answered. "but you must try to go to sleep soon," said mrs. vincent. "rosy is fast asleep. i have just been in to look at her. it is getting late for little girls to be awake." "yes, i know," said bee. "but i often can't go to sleep so quick the first night--while everything is--different, you know--and new." "and a little strange and lonely, as it were--just at first. don't be afraid i would be vexed with you for feeling it so." "but i don't think i do feel lonely," said bee, sitting up and looking at rosy's mother quite brightly. "it seems quite natural to be with you and fixie again." "i'm very glad of that," said mrs. vincent. "and was it not then the strange feeling that made you so unhappy this afternoon for a little?" beata hesitated. "tell me, dear," said mrs. vincent. "you know if i am to be a 'make-up mother' for a while, you must talk to me as much as you _can_, as if i were your own mother." she listened rather anxiously for bee's answer, for two or three little things--among them something colin had said of the bad temper rosy had been in at tea-time--had made her afraid there had been some reason she did not understand for beata's tears. bee lay still for a minute or two. then she said gently and rather shyly, "i am so sorry, but i don't know what's right to do. isn't it sometimes difficult to know?" "yes, sometimes it is." then mrs. vincent, in her turn, was silent for a minute, and at last she said, "would you very much rather i did not ask you why you cried?" "oh yes," cried bee, "much, much rather." "very well then, but you will promise me that if the same thing makes you cry again, you _will_ tell me?" "_should_ i?" said bee. "i thought--i thought it wasn't right to tell tales," she added so innocently that mrs. vincent could not help smiling to herself. "it is not right," she said. "but what i ask you to promise is not to tell tales. it is to tell me what makes you unhappy, so that i may explain it or put it right. i could not do my duty among you and my other children unless i knew how things were. it is the _spirit_ that makes tell-tales--the telling over for the sake of getting others blamed or punished--_that_ is what is wrong." "i see," said beata slowly. "at least i think i see a little, and i'll try to think about it. i'll promise to tell you if anything makes me unhappy, _really_ unhappy, but i don't think it will now. i think i understand better what things i needn't mind." "very well, dear. then good-night," and rosy's mother kissed bee very kindly, though in her heart she felt sad. it was plain to her that rosy had made bee unhappy, and as she passed through rosy's room she stopped a moment by the bed-side and looked at the sleeping child. nothing could be prettier than rosy asleep--her lovely fair hair made a sort of pale golden frame to her face, and her cheeks had a beautiful pink flush. but while her mother was watching her, a frown darkened her white forehead, and her lips parted sharply. "i won't have her put before me. i tell you i _won't_," she called out angrily. then again, a nicer look came over her face and she murmured some words which her mother only caught two or three of. "i didn't mean"--"sorry"--"crying," she said, and her mother turned away a little comforted. "o rosy, poor rosy," she said to herself. "you _do_ know what is right and sweet. when will you learn to keep down that unhappy temper?" * * * * * the next morning was bright and sunny, the garden with its beautiful trees and flowers, which beata had only had a glimpse of the night before, looked perfectly delicious in the early light when she drew up the window-blind to look out. and as soon as she was dressed she was only too delighted to join rosy and colin for a run before breakfast. children are children all the world over--luckily for themselves and luckily for other people too--and even children who are sometimes ill-tempered and unkind are sometimes, too, bright and happy and lovable. rosy was after all only a child, and by no means _always_ a disagreeable spoilt child. and this morning seeing bee so merry and happy, she forgot her foolish and unkind feelings about her, and for the time they were all as contented and joyous as children should be. "where is fixie?" asked beata. "may he not come out a little before breakfast too?" "martha won't let him," said rosy. "nasty cross old thing. she says it will make him ill, and i am sure it's much more likely to make him ill keeping him poking in there when he wanted so much to come out with us." "i don't see how you can call martha cross," said colin. "and certainly she's never _cross_ to fixie." "how do _you_ know?" said rosy, sharply. "you don't see her half as much as i do. and she can always pretend if she likes." beata looked rather anxiously at colin. he was on the point of answering rosy crossly in his turn, and again bee felt that sort of nervous fear of quarrels or disagreeables which it was impossible to be long in rosy's company without feeling. but colin suddenly seemed to change his mind. "shall we run another race?" he said, without taking any notice of rosy's last speech. "yes," said bee, eagerly, "from here to the library window. but you must give me a little start--i can't run half so fast as you and rosy." she said it quite simply, but it pleased rosy all the same, and she began considering how much of a start it was fair for bee to have. when that important point was settled, off they set. bee was the first to arrive. "you must have given me too much of a start," she said, laughing. "look here, colin and rosy, there's the big cat on the window-seat. doesn't he look solemn?" "he looks very cross and nasty--he always does," said rosy. then, safely sheltered behind the window, she began tapping on the pane. "manchon, manchon," she said, "you can't scratch me through the glass, so i'll just tell you what i think of you for once. you're a cross, mean, _pretending_ creature. you make everybody say you're so pretty and so sweet when _really_ you're--" she stopped in a fright--"bee, bee," she cried, "just look at his face. i believe he's heard all i said." "well, what if he did?" said beata. "cats don't understand what one means." "_manchon_ does," said rosy. "come away, bee, do. quick, quick. we'd better go in to breakfast." the two little girls ran off, but colin stayed behind at the library window. "i've been talking to manchon," he said when he came up to them. "he told me to give you his compliments, rosy, and to say he is very much obliged to you for the pretty things you said to him, and the next time he has the pleasure of seeing you he hopes to have the honour of scratching you to show his gratitude." rosy's face got red. "colin, how _dare_ you laugh at me?" she called out in a fury. she was frightened as well as angry, for she really had a strange fear of the big cat. "i'm not laughing," colin began again, looking quite serious. "i had to give you manchon's message." [illustration: 'what is ze matter wif you, bee?' he said] rosy looked at bee. if there had been the least shadow of a smile on bee's face it would have made her still more angry. but beata looked grave, because she felt so. "oh, i wish they wouldn't quarrel," she was thinking to herself. "it does so spoil everything. i can't _think_ how colin can tease rosy so." and sadly, feeling already tired, and not knowing what was best to do, beata followed the others to the nursery. _they_ did not seem to care--colin was already whistling, and though rosy's face was still black, no one paid any attention to it. but little fixie ran to bee and held up his fresh sweet face for a kiss. "what is ze matter wif you, bee?" he said. "you's c'ying. colin, losy, bee's c'ying," he exclaimed. "you're _not_, are you, bee?" said colin. "are you, really?" said rosy, coming close to her and looking into her face. the taking notice of it made bee's tears come more quickly. all the children looked sorry, and a puzzled expression came into rosy's face. "come into my room a minute, bee," she said. "do tell me," she went on, "what are you crying for?" beata put her arms round rosy's neck. "i can't quite tell you," she said, "i'm afraid of vexing you. but, oh, i do so wish--" and then she stopped. "what?" said rosy. "i wish you would never get vexed with colin or anybody, and i wish colin wouldn't tease you," said bee. "was that all?" said rosy. "oh, _that_ wasn't anything--you should hear us sometimes." "_please_ don't," entreated beata. "i can't bear it. oh, dear rosy, don't be vexed with me, but please do let us be all happy and not have anything like that." rosy did not seem vexed, but neither did she seem quite to understand. "what a funny girl you are, bee," she said. "i suppose it's because you've lived alone with big people always that you're like that. i daresay you'll learn to tease too and to squabble, after you've been a while here." "oh, i _hope_ not," said bee. "do you really think i shall, rosy?" "i shall like you just as well if you do," said rosy, "at least if you do a _little_. anyway, it would be better than setting up to be better than other people, or _pretending_." "but i _don't_ want to do that," said beata. "i want to _be_ good. i don't want to think about being better or not better than other people, and i'm _sure_ i don't want to pretend. i don't ever pretend like that, rosy. won't you believe me? i don't know what i can say to make you believe me. i can't see that you should think it such a very funny thing for me to want to be good. don't _you_ want to be good?" "yes," said rosy, "i suppose i do. i do just now, just at this minute. and just at this minute i believe what you say. but i daresay i won't always. the first time colin teases me i know i shall leave off wanting to be good. i shall want nothing at all except just to give him a good hard slap--really to hurt him, you know. i do want to _hurt_ him when i am very angry--just for a little. and if you were to say anything to me _then_ about being good, i'd very likely not believe you a bit." just then martha's voice was heard calling them in to breakfast. "be quiet, martha," rosy called back. "we'll come when we're ready. do leave us alone. just when we're talking so nicely," she added, turning to bee. "what a bother she is" "_i_ think she's very kind," said bee, "but i don't like to say anything like that to you, for fear you should think i'm pretending or 'setting up,' or something like that." rosy laughed. "i don't think that just now," she said. "well, let's go into the nursery, then," and, as they came in, she said to martha with wonderful amiability, "we aren't very hungry this morning, i don't think, for we had each such a big hunch of bread and some milk before we ran out." "that was quite right, miss rosy," said martha, and by the sound of her voice it was easy to see she was pleased. "it is never a good thing to go out in the morning without eating something, even if it's only a little bit." breakfast passed most comfortably, and by good luck fixie hadn't forgotten his promise to sit "aside losy." "it was her turn," he said, and he seemed to think the honour a very great one. "do you remember on the steamer, fixie?" said bee, "how we liked to sit together, and how hot it was sometimes, and how we used to wish we were in nice cool england?" "oh ses," said fixie, "oh it _were_ hot! and the poor young lady, bee, that was so ill?" "oh, do you remember her, fixie? what a good memory you have!" fixie got rather red. "i'm not sure that i 'membered her all of myself," he said, "but mamma telled me about her one day. her's quite welldened now." bee smiled a little at fixie's funny way of speaking, but she thought to herself it was very nice for him to be such an honest little boy. "how do you know she's got well?" said rosy, rather sharply. "mamma telled me," said fixie. "yes," said colin, "it's quite true. and the young lady's father's going to come to see us some day. i don't remember his name, do you, bee?" "not quite," said bee, "yes, i think it was something like _furniture_." "furniture," repeated colin, "it couldn't be that. was it 'ferguson'?" "no," said bee, "it wasn't that." "well, never mind," said colin. "it was something like it. we'll ask mamma. he is going to come to see us soon. i'm sure of that." later in the day colin remembered about it, and asked his mother about it. "what was the name of the gentleman that you said was coming to see us soon, mamma?" he said--"the gentleman whose daughter was so ill in the ship coming home from india." "mr. furnivale," replied his mother. "you must remember him and his daughter, bee. she is much better now. they have been all these months in italy, and they are going to stay there through next winter, but mr. furnivale is in england on business and is coming to see us very soon. he is a very kind man, and always asks for fixie and bee when he writes." "that is very kind of him," said bee, gratefully. but a dark look came over rosy's face. "it's just as if _she_ was mamma's little girl, and not me," she said to herself. "i hate people mamma knew when bee was with her and i wasn't." "mr. furnivale doesn't know you are with us," mrs. vincent went on; "he will be quite pleased to see you. he says cecilia has never forgotten you; cecilia is his daughter, you know." "yes, i remember _her_ name," said bee. "i wish she could come to see us too. she was so pretty, wasn't she, aunt--lillias?" she added, stopping a little and smiling. lillias was mrs. vincent's name, and it had been fixed that beata should call her "aunt," for to say "mrs. vincent" sounded rather stiff. "you would think her pretty, rosy," she went on again, out of a wish to make rosy join in what they were talking of. "no," said rosy, with a sort of burst, "i shouldn't. i don't know anything about what you're talking of, and i don't want to hear about it," and she turned away with a very cross and angry face. bee was going to run after her, but mrs. vincent stopped her. "no," she said. "when she is so very foolish, it is best to leave her alone." but though she said it as if she did not think rosy's tempers of very much consequence, beata saw the sad disappointed look on her face. "oh," thought the little girl, "how i _do_ wish i could do anything to keep rosy from vexing her mother." it was near bed-time when they had been talking about mr. furnivale and his daughter, and soon after the children all said good-night. rather to bee's surprise, rosy, who had hidden herself in the window with a book, came out when she was called and said good-night quite pleasantly. "i wonder she doesn't feel ashamed," thought bee, "i'm sure i never spoke like that to my mamma, but if ever i had, i couldn't have said good-night without saying i was sorry." and it was with a slight feeling of self-approval that beata went up to bed. when she was undressed she went into the nursery for a moment to ask martha to brush her hair. fixie was not yet asleep, and the nurse looked troubled. "is fixie ill?" said bee. "no, i hope not," said martha, "but he's troubled. miss rosy's been in to say good-night to him, and she's set him off his sleep, i'm sure." "i'm so unhappy, bee," whispered fixie, when beata stooped over him to say good-night. "losy's been 'peaking to me, and she says nobody loves her, not _nobody_. she's so unhappy, bee." a little feeling of pain went through bee. perhaps rosy _was_ really unhappy and sorry for what she had said, though she had not told any one so. and the thought of it kept bee from going to sleep as quickly as usual. "rosy is so puzzling," she thought. "it is so difficult to understand her." chapter v. rosy thinks things over. "whenever you find your heart despair of doing some goodly thing, con over this strain, try bravely again, and remember the spider and king." --try again. she did go to sleep at last, and she slept for a while very soundly. but suddenly she awoke, awoke quite completely, and with the feeling that something had awakened her, though what she did not know. she sat up in bed and looked about her, if you can call staring out into the dark where you can see nothing "looking about you." it seemed to be a very dark night; there was no chink of moonlight coming in at the window, and everything was perfectly still. beata could not help wondering what had awakened her, and she was settling herself to sleep again when a little sound caught her ears. it was a kind of low, choking cry, as if some one was crying bitterly and trying to stuff their handkerchief into their mouth, or in some way prevent the sound being heard. beata felt at first a very little frightened, and then, as she became quite sure that it was somebody crying, very sorry and uneasy. what could be the matter? was it fixie? no, the sounds did not come from the nursery side. beata sat up in bed to hear more clearly, and then amidst the crying she distinguished her own name. "bee," said the sobbing voice, "bee, i wish you'd come to speak to me. are you asleep, bee?" in a moment beata was out of bed, for there was no doubt now whose voice it was. it was rosy's. bee was not a timid child, but the room was very dark, and it took a little courage to feel her way among the chairs and tables till at last she found the door, which she opened and softly went into rosy's room. for a moment she did not speak, for a new idea struck her,--could rosy be crying and talking in her sleep? it was so very unlike her to cry or ask any one to go to her. there was no sound as beata opened the door; she could almost have believed it had all been her fancy, and for a moment she felt inclined to go back to her own bed and say nothing. but a very slight sound, a sort of little sobbing breath that came from rosy's bed, made her change her mind. "rosy," she said, softly, "are you awake? were you speaking to me?" she heard a rustle. it was rosy sitting up in bed. "yes," she said, "i am awake. i've been awake all night. it's dedful to be awake all night, bee. i've been calling and calling you. i'm so unhappy." "unhappy?" said bee, in a kind voice, going nearer the bed. "what are you so unhappy about, rosy?" "i'll tell you," said rosy, "but won't you get into my bed a little, bee? there is room, if we scrudge ourselves up. one night fixie slept with me, and you're not so very much bigger." "i'll get in for a little," said beata, "just while you tell me what's the matter, and why you are so unhappy." she was quite surprised at rosy's way of speaking. she seemed so much gentler and softer, that bee could not understand it. "i'll tell you why i'm so unhappy," said rosy. "i can't be good, bee. i never have cared to be good. it's such a lot of trouble, and lots of peoples that think they're very good, and that other peoples make a fuss about, are very pretending. i've noticed that often. but when we had been talking yesterday morning all of a sudden i thought it would be nice to be good--not pretending, but _real_ good--never cross, and all that. and so i fixed i would be quite good, and i thought how pleased you'd be when i never quarrelled with colin, or was cross to martha, or anything like that. and it was all right for a while; but then when mamma began talking about mr. furniture, and how nice he was, and his daughter, and you knew all about them and i didn't, it _all went away_. i told you it would--all the wanting to be good--and i was as angry as angry. and then i said that, you remember, and then everybody thought i was just the same, and it was all no use." "poor rosy," said bee. "no, i don't think it was no use." "oh yes," persisted rosy, "it was all no use. but nobody knew, and i didn't mean anybody to know. mamma and colin and nobody could see i was sorry when i said good-night--_could_ they?" she said, with a tone of satisfaction. "no, i didn't mean anybody to know, only after i was in bed it came back to me, and i was so vexed and so unhappy. i thought everybody would have been _so_ surprised at finding i could be just as good as anybody if i liked. but i don't like; so just remember, bee, to-morrow morning i'm not going to try a bit, and it's no use saying any more about it. it's just the way i'm made." "but you do care, rosy," said bee, "i know you care. if you didn't you wouldn't have been thinking about it, and been sorry after you were in bed." "yes, i _did_ care," said rosy, with again a little sob. "i had been thinking it would be very nice, but i'm not going to care--that's just the thing, bee--that's what i wanted to tell you--i'm not going to go on caring." "don't you always say your prayers, rosy?" asked bee, rather solemnly. "yes, _of course_ i do. but i don't think they're much good. i've been just as naughty some days when i'd said them _beautifully_, as some days when i'd been in a hurry." beata felt puzzled. "i can't explain about it properly," she said. "but that isn't the way, i don't think. mother told me if i thought just saying my prayers would make me good, it was like thinking they were a kind of magic, and that isn't what we should think them." "what good are they then?" said rosy. "oh, i know what i mean, but it's very hard to say it," said poor bee. "saying our prayers is like opening the gate into being good; it gives us a sort of feeling that _he_, you know, rosy, that god is smiling at us all day, and makes us remember that he's _always_ ready to help us." "_is_ he?" said rosy. "well, i suppose there's something worser about me than other peoples, for i've often said, 'do make me good, do make me good, quick, quick,' and i didn't get good." "because you pushed it away, rosy. you're always saying you're not good and you don't care. but i think you _do_ care, only," with a sigh, "i know one has to try a great, great lot." "yes, and i don't like the bother," said rosy, coolly. "there, now you've said it," said bee. "then that shows it isn't that you can't be good but you don't like to have to try so much. but please, rosy, don't say you'll leave off. _do_ go on. it will get easier. i know it will. it's like skipping and learning to play on the piano and lots of things. every time we try makes it a little easier for the next time." "i never thought of that," said rosy, with interest in her tone. "well, i'll think about it any way, and i'll tell you in the morning what i've settled. perhaps i'll fix just to be naughty again to-morrow, for a rest you know. how would it do, i wonder, if i was to be good and naughty in turns? i could settle the days, and then the naughty ones you could keep out of my way." "it wouldn't do at all," said bee, decidedly. "it would be like going up two steps and then tumbling back two steps. no, it would be worse, it would be like going up two and tumbling back three, for every naughty day would make it still harder to begin again on the good day." "well, i won't do that way, then," said rosy, with wonderful gentleness. "i'll either _go on_ trying to climb up the steps--how funnily you say things, bee!--or i'll not try at all. i'll tell you to-morrow morning. but remember you're not to tell anybody. if i fix to be good i want everybody to be surprised." "but you won't get good all of a sudden, rosy," said bee, feeling afraid that rosy would again lose heart at the first break-down. "well, i daresay i won't," returned rosy. "but don't you see if nobody but you knows it won't so much matter. but if i was to tell everybody then it would all seem pretending, and there's nothing so horrid as pretending." there was some sense in rosy's ideas, and bee did not go against them. she went back to her own bed with a curious feeling of respect for rosy and a warm feeling of affection also. "and it was very horrid of me to be thinking of her that way to-night," said honest bee to herself. "i'll never think of her that way again. poor rosy, she has had no mother all these years that i've had my mother doing nothing but trying to make me good. but i am so glad rosy is getting to like me." for rosy had kissed her warmly as they bade each other good-night for the second time. "it was very nice of bee to get out of bed in the dark to come to me," she said to herself. "she is good, but i don't think she is pretending," and it was this feeling that made the beginning of rosy's friendship for beata--_trust_. the little girls slept till later than usual the next morning, for they had been a good while awake in the night. rosy began grumbling and declaring she would not get up, and there was very nearly the beginning of a stormy scene with martha when the sound of bee's voice calling out "good-morning, rosy," from the next room reminded her of their talk in the night, and though she did not feel all at once able to speak good-naturedly to martha, she left off scolding. but her face did not look as pleasant as beata had hoped to see it when she came into the nursery. "don't speak to me, please," she said in a low voice, "i haven't settled yet what i'm going to do. i'm still thinking about it." bee did not say any more, but the morning passed peacefully, and once or twice when colin began some of the teasing which seemed as necessary to him as his dinner or his breakfast, rosy contented herself with a wriggle or a little growl instead of fiery words and sometimes even blows. and when colin, surprised at her patience went further and further, ending by tying a long mesh of her hair to the back of her chair, while she was busy fitting a frock on to one of the little dolls, and then, calling her suddenly, made her start up and really hurt herself, beata was astonished at her patience. she gave a little scream, it is true--who could have helped it?--and then rushed out of the room, but not before the others had seen the tears that were running down her cheeks. "colin," said bee, and, for a moment or two, it almost seemed to the boy as if rosy's temper had passed into the quiet little girl, "i am ashamed of you. you naughty, _cruel_ boy, just when poor rosy was----" she stopped suddenly--"just when poor rosy was beginning to try to be good," she was going to have said, forgetting her promise to tell no one of rosy's plans,--"just when we were all quiet and comfortable," she said instead. colin looked ashamed. "i won't do it any more," he said, "i won't really. besides there's no fun in only making her cry. it was only fun when it put her into a rage." "nice _fun_," said bee, with scorn. "well, you know what i mean. i daresay it wasn't right, but i never meant really to hurt her. and all the fellows at school tease like that--one can't help getting into the way of it." "i never heard such a foolish way of talking," answered bee, who was for once quite vexed with colin. "i don't think that's a reason for doing wrong things--that other people do them.'" "it's bad example--the force of bad example," said colin so gravely that beata, who was perhaps a little matter-of-fact, would have answered him gravely had she not seen a little twinkle in his eyes, which put her on her guard. "you are trying to tease _me_ now, colin," she said. "well, i don't mind, if you'll promise me to leave rosy alone--any way for a few days; i've a very particular reason for asking it. do promise, won't you?" she looked up at him with her little face glowing with eagerness, her honest gray eyes bright with kindly feeling for rosy. "you may tease me"--she went on--"as much as you like, if you must tease somebody." colin could not help laughing. "there wouldn't be much fun in teasing you, bee," he said. "you're far too good-natured. well, i will promise you--i'll promise you more than you ask--listen, what a grand promise--i'll promise you not to tease rosy for three whole months--now, what do you say to that, ma'am?" bee's eyes glistened. "three whole months!" she exclaimed. "yes, that is a good promise. why, by the end of the three months you'll have forgotten how to tease! but, colin, please, it must be a secret between you and me about you promising not to tease rosy. if she knew i had asked you it wouldn't do half as well." "oh, it's easy enough to promise that," said colin. "poor bee," he went on, half ashamed of having taken her in, "you don't understand why i promised for three months. it's because to-morrow i'm going back to school for three months." "_are_ you?" said beata, in a disappointed tone. "i'm very sorry. i had forgotten about you going to school with your being here when i first came, you know." "yes; and your lessons--yours and rosy's and fixie's, for he does a little too--they'll be beginning again soon. we've all been having holidays just now." "and who will give us lessons?" asked beata. "oh, miss pink, rosy's governess. her real name's miss pinkerton, but it's so long, she doesn't mind us saying miss pink, for short." "is she nice?" asked bee. she felt a little dull at the idea of having still another stranger to make friends with. "oh yes, she's nice. only she spoils rosy--she's afraid of her tempers. you'll see. but you'll get on all right. i really think rosy is going to be nicer, now you've come, bee." "i'm so glad," said bee. "but i'm sorry you're going away, colin. in three months you'll have forgotten how to tease, won't you?" she said again, smiling. "i'm not so sure of that," he answered laughingly. in her heart bee thought perhaps it was a good thing colin was going away for a while, for rosy's sake. it might make it easier for her to carry out her good plans. but for herself bee was sorry, for he was a kind, merry boy, and even his teasing did not seem to her anything very bad. rosy came back into the nursery with her eyes rather red, but the other children saw that she did not want any notice taken. she looked at colin and bee rather suspiciously. "have you been talking about _me_?" her look seemed to say. "i've been telling bee about miss pink," said colin. "she hadn't heard about her before." "she's a stupid old thing," said rosy respectfully. "but she's kind, isn't she?" asked beata. "oh yes; i daresay you'll think her kind. but i don't care for her--much. she's rather pretending." "i can't understand why you think so many people pretending," said bee. "i think it must be very uncomfortable to feel like that." "but if they _are_ pretending, it's best to know it," said rosy. beata felt herself getting puzzled again. colin came to the rescue. "i don't think it is best to know it," he said, "at least not rosy's way, for she thinks it of everybody." "no, i don't," said rosy, "not _everybody_." "well, you think it of great lots, any way. i'd rather think some people good who aren't good than think some people who _are_ good _not_ good--wouldn't you, bee?" beata had to consider a moment in order to understand quite what colin meant; she liked to understand things clearly, but she was not always very quick at doing so. "yes," she said, "i think so too. besides, there _are_ lots of very kind and good people in the world--really kind and good, not pretending a bit. and then, too, mother used to tell me that feeling kind ourselves made others feel kind to us, without their quite knowing how sometimes." rosy listened, though she said nothing; but when she kissed beata in saying good-night, she whispered, "i did go on trying, bee, and i think it does get a very little easier. but i don't want _anybody_ to know--you remember, don't you?" "yes, i won't forget," said bee. "but if you go on, rosy, everybody will find out for themselves, without _my_ telling." and in their different ways both little girls felt very happy as they fell asleep that night. chapter vi. a strike in the schoolroom. "multiplication's my vexation, division is as bad." colin went off to school "the day after to-morrow," as he had said. the house seemed very quiet without him, and everybody felt sorry he had gone. the day after he left miss pinkerton came back, and the little girls' lessons began. "how do you like her?" said rosy to beata the first morning. "i think she is kind," said bee, but that was all she said. it was true that miss pinkerton meant to be kind, but she did not manage to gain the children's hearts, and bee soon came to understand why rosy called her "pretending." she was so afraid of vexing anybody that she had got into the habit of agreeing with every one without really thinking over what they meant, and she was so afraid also of being blamed for rosy's tempers that she would give in to her in any way. so rosy did not respect her, and was sometimes really rude to her. "miss pink," she said one morning a few days after lessons had begun again, "i don't want to learn any more arithmetic." "no, my dear?" said miss pink, mildly. "but what will you do when you are grown-up if you cannot count--everybody needs to know how to count, or else they can't manage their money." "i don't want to know how to manage my money," replied rosy, "somebody must do it for me. i won't learn any more arithmetic, miss pink." miss pink, as was a common way of hers in a difficulty with rosy, pretended not to hear, but beata noticed, and so, you may be sure, did rosy, that they had no arithmetic that morning, though miss pink said nothing about it, leaving it to seem as if it were by accident. beata liked sums, and did them more quickly than her other lessons. but she said nothing. when lessons were over and they were alone, rosy threw two or three books up in the air, and caught them again. "aha!" she said mischievously, "we'll have no more nasty sums--you'll see." "rosy," said bee, "you can't be in earnest. miss pink won't leave off giving us sums for always." "won't she?" said rosy. "she'll have to. _i_ won't do them." "i will," said bee. "how can you, if she doesn't give you any to do?" "if she really doesn't give us any to do i'll ask her for them, and if she still doesn't, then i'll tell your mother that we're not learning arithmetic any more." "you'll tell mamma," said rosy, standing before her and looking very fierce. "yes," said beata. "arithmetic is one of the things my mother wants me to learn very well, and if miss pink doesn't teach it me i shall tell your mother." "you mean tell-tale," cried rosy, her face getting red with anger. "that's what you call being a friend to me and helping me to be good, when you know there's nothing puts me in such a temper as those _horrible_ sums. i know now how much your kindness is worth," and what she would have gone on to say there is no knowing had not fixie just then come into the room, and rosy was not fond of showing her tempers off before her little brother. beata was very sorry and unhappy. she said nothing more, hoping that rosy would come to see how mistaken she was, and the rest of the day passed quietly. but the next morning it was the same thing. when they came to the time at which they usually had their arithmetic, rosy looked up at miss pink with a determined air. "no arithmetic, miss pink, you know," she said. miss pink gave a sort of little laugh. "my dear rosy," she said, "you are so very comical! come now, get your slate--see there is dear beata all ready with hers. you shall not have very hard sums to-day, i promise you." "miss pink," said rosy, "i won't do _any_ sums. i told you so yesterday, and you know i mean what i say. if bee chooses to tell tales, she may, but _i_ won't do any sums." miss pink looked from one to the other. "there is no use my doing sums without rosy," said bee. "we are at the same place and it would put everything wrong." "yes," said miss pink. "i cannot give you separate lessons. it would put everything wrong. but i'm sure you're only joking, rosy dear. we won't say anything about the sums to-day, and then to-morrow we'll go on regularly again, and dear beata will see it will all be right." "no," said rosy, "it won't be all right if you try to make me do any sums to-morrow or any day." bee said nothing. she did not know what to say. she could hardly believe rosy was the same little girl as the rosy whom she had heard crying in the night, who had made her so happy by talking about trying to be good. and how many days the silly dispute might have gone on, there is no telling, had it not happened that the very next morning, just as they came to the time for the arithmetic lesson, the door opened and mrs. vincent came in. "good morning, miss pinkerton," she said. "i've come to see how you are all getting on,"--for miss pinkerton did not live in the house, she only came every morning at nine o'clock--"you don't find your new pupil _very_ troublesome, i hope?" she went on, with a smile at beata. "oh dear, no! oh, certainly not," said miss pinkerton nervously; "oh dear, no--miss beata is very good indeed. everything's very nice--oh we're very happy, thank you--dear rosy and dear beata and i." "i am very glad to hear it," said mrs. vincent, but she spoke rather gravely, for on coming into the room it had not looked to her as if everything _was_ "very nice." beata looked grave and troubled, miss pinkerton flurried, and there was a black cloud on rosy's face that her mother knew only too well. "what lessons are you at now?" she went on. "oh, ah!" began miss pinkerton, fussing among some of the books that lay on the table. "we've just finished a chapter of our english history, and--and--i was thinking of giving the dear children a dictation." "it's not the time for dictation," said rosy. and then to bee's surprise she burst out, "miss pink, i wonder how you can tell such stories! everything is not quite nice, mamma, for i've just been telling miss pink i won't do any sums, and it's just the time for sums. i wouldn't do them yesterday, and i won't do them to-day, or any day, because i hate them." "you 'won't' and you 'wouldn't,' rosy," said her mother, so sternly and coldly that bee trembled for her, though rosy gave no signs of trembling for herself. "is that a way in which i can allow you to speak? you must apologise to miss pinkerton, and tell her you will be ready to do _any_ lessons she gives you, or you must go upstairs to your own room." "i'll go upstairs to my own room then," said rosy at once. "i'd 'pologise to you, mamma, if you like, but i won't to miss pink, because she doesn't say what's true." "rosy, be silent," said her mother again. and then, turning to miss pinkerton, she added in a very serious tone, "miss pinkerton, i do not wish to appear to find fault with you, but i must say that you should have told me of all this before. it is most mistaken kindness to rosy to hide her disobedience and rudeness, and it makes things much more difficult for me. i am _particularly_ sorry to have to punish rosy to-day, for i have just heard that a friend is coming to see us who would have liked to find all the children good and happy." rosy's face grew gloomier and gloomier. beata was on the point of breaking in with a request that rosy might be forgiven, but something in mrs. vincent's look stopped her. miss pinkerton grew very red and looked very unhappy--almost as if she was going to cry. "i'm--i'm very sorry--very distressed. but i thought dear rosy was only joking, and that it would be all right in a day or two. i'm sure, dear rosy, you'll tell your mamma that you did not mean what you said, and that you'll do your best to do your sums nicely--now won't you, dear?" "no," said rosy, in a hard, cold tone, "i won't. and you might know by this time, miss pink, that i always mean what i say. i'm not like you." after this there was nothing for it but to send rosy up to her own room. mrs. vincent told miss pinkerton to finish the morning lessons with beata, and then left the schoolroom. bee was very unhappy, and miss pink by this time was in tears. "she's so naughty--so completely spoilt;" she said. "i really don't think i can go on teaching her. she's not like you, dear beata. how happily and peacefully we could go on doing our lessons--you and i--without that self-willed rosy." bee looked very grave. "miss pink," she said, "i don't like you to speak like that at all. you don't say to rosy to her face that you think her so naughty, and so i don't think you should say it to me. i think it would be better if you said to rosy herself what you think." "i couldn't," said miss pink. "there would be no staying with her if i didn't give in to her. and i don't want to lose this engagement, for it's so near my home, and my mother is so often ill. and mr. and mrs. vincent have been very kind--very kind indeed." "i think rosy would like you better if you told her right out what you think," said bee, who couldn't help being sorry for miss pinkerton when she spoke of her mother being ill. and miss pink was really kind-hearted, only she did not distinguish between weak indulgence and real sensible kindness. when lessons were over mrs. vincent called bee to come and speak to her. "it is mr. furnivale who is coming to see us to-day," she said. "it is for that i am so particularly sorry for rosy to be again in disgrace. and she has been so much gentler and more obedient lately, i am really _very_ disappointed, and i cannot help saying so to you, bee, though i don't want you to be troubled about rosy." "i do think rosy wants--" began bee, and then she stopped, remembering her promise. "don't you think she will be sorry now?" she said. "might i go and ask her?" "no, dear, i think you had better not," said mrs. vincent. "i will see her myself in a little while. yes, i believe she is sorry, but she won't let herself say so." beata felt sad and dull without rosy; for the last few days had really passed happily. and rosy shut up in her own room was thinking with a sort of bitter vexation rather than sorrow of how quickly her resolutions had all come to nothing. "it's not my fault," she kept saying to herself, "it's all miss pink's. she knew i hated sums--that horrid kind of long rows worst of all--and she just gave me them on purpose; and then when i said i wouldn't do them, she went on coaxing and talking nonsense--that way that just _makes_ me naughtier. i'd rather do sums all day than have her talk like that--and then to go and tell stories to mamma--i hate her, nasty, pretending thing. it's all her fault; and then she'll be going on praising bee, and making everybody think how good bee is and how naughty i am. i wish bee hadn't come. i didn't mind it so much before. i wonder if _she_ told mamma as she said she would, and if that was why mamma came in to the schoolroom this morning. i _wonder_ if bee could be so mean;" and in this new idea rosy almost forgot her other troubles. "if bee did do it i shall never forgive her--never," she went on to herself; "i wouldn't have minded her doing it right out, as she said she would, but to go and tell mamma that sneaky way, and get her to come into the room just at that minute, no, i'll never--" a knock at the door interrupted her, and then before she had time to answer, she heard her mother's voice outside. "i'll take it in myself, thank you, martha," she was saying, and in a moment mrs. vincent came in, carrying the glass of milk and dry biscuit which the children always had at twelve, as they did not have dinner till two o'clock with their father's and mother's luncheon. "here is your milk, rosy," said her mother, gravely, as she put it down on the table. "have you anything to say to me?" rosy looked at her mother. "mamma," she said, quickly, "will you tell me one thing? was it bee that made you come into the schoolroom just at sums time? was it because of her telling you what i had said that you came?" mrs. vincent in her turn looked at rosy. many mothers would have refused to answer--would have said it was not rosy's place to begin asking questions instead of begging to be forgiven for their naughty conduct; but rosy's mother was different from many. she knew that rosy was a strange character to deal with; she hoped and believed that in her real true heart her little girl _did_ feel how wrong she was; and she wished, oh, how earnestly, to _help_ the little plant of goodness to grow, not to crush it down by too much sternness. and in rosy's face just now she read a mixture of feelings. "no, rosy," she answered very gently, but so that rosy never for one instant doubted the exact truth of what she said, "no, beata had not said one word about you or your lessons to me. i came in just then quite by accident. i am very sorry you are so suspicious, rosy--you seem to trust no one--not even innocent-hearted, honest little bee." rosy drew a long breath, and grew rather red. her best self was glad to find bee what she had always been--not to be obliged to keep to her terrible resolutions of "never forgiving," and so on; but her _worst_ self felt a strange kind of crooked disappointment that her suspicions had no ground. "bee _said_ she would tell you," she murmured, confusedly, "she said if i wouldn't go on with sums she'd complain to you." "but she would have done it in an open, honest way," said her mother. "you _know_ she would never have tried to get you into disgrace in any underhand way. but i won't say any more about bee, rosy. i must tell you that i have decided not to punish you any more to-day, and i will tell you that the reason is greatly that an old friend of ours--of your father's and mine----" "mr. furniture!" exclaimed rosy, forgetting her tempers in the excitement of the news. "yes, mr. furnivale," said her mother, and she could not keep back a little smile; "he is coming this afternoon. it would be punishing not only you, but your father and bee and myself--all of us indeed--if we had to tell our old friend the moment he arrived that our rosy was in disgrace. so you may go now and ask martha to dress you neatly. mr. furnivale _may_ be here by luncheon-time, and no more will be said about this unhappy morning. but rosy, listen--i trust to your honour to try to behave so as to please me. i will say no more about your arithmetic lessons; will you act so as to show me i have not been foolish in forgiving you?" the red flush came back to rosy's face, and her eyes grew bright; she was not a child that cried easily. she threw her arms round her mother's neck, and whispered in a voice which sounded as if tears were not very far off, "mamma, i _do_ thank you. i will try. i will do my sums as much as you like to-morrow, only--" "only what, rosy?" "can you tell miss pink that it is to please _you_ i want to do them, not to please _her_, mamma--she isn't like you. i don't believe what she says." "i will tell miss pink that you want to please me certainly, but you must see, rosy, that obeying her, doing the lessons she gives you by my wish, _is_ pleasing me," said her mother, though at the same time in her own mind she determined to have a little talk with miss pink privately. "yes," said rosy, "i know that." she spoke gently, and her mother felt happier about her little girl than for long. mr. furnivale did arrive in time for luncheon. he had just come when the little girls and fixie went down to the drawing-room at the sound of the first gong. he came forward to meet the children with kindly interest in his face. "well, fixie, my boy, and how are you?" he said, lifting the fragile little figure in his arms. "why, i think you are a little bit fatter and a little bit rosier than this time last year. and this is your sister that i _don't_ know," he went on, turning to rosy, "and--why, bless my soul! here's another old friend--my busy bee. i had no idea mrs. warwick had left her with you," he exclaimed to mrs. vincent. mrs. warwick was beata's mother. i don't think i have before told you bee's last name. "i was just going to tell you about it, when the children came in," said rosy's mother. "i knew cecilia would be so glad to know bee was with us, and not at school, when her poor grandmother grew too ill to have her." "yes, indeed," said mr. furnivale, "cecy will be glad to hear it. she had no idea of it. and so when you all come to pay us that famous visit we have been talking about, bee must come too--eh, bee?" bee's eyes sparkled. she liked kind, old mr. furnivale, and she had been very fond of his pretty daughter. "is cecy much better?" she asked, in her gentle little voice. "_much_ better. we're hoping to come back to settle in england before long, and have a nice house like yours, and then you are all to come to see us," said mr. furnivale. they went on talking for a few minutes about these pleasant plans, and in the interest of hearing about cecilia furnivale, and hearing all her messages, rosy, who had never seen her, and who was quite a stranger to her father too, was naturally left a little in the background. it was quite enough to put her out again. "i might just as well have been left upstairs in my own room," she said to herself. "nobody notices me--nobody cares whether i am here or not. _i_ won't go to stay with that ugly old man and his stupid daughter, just to be always put behind bee." and when beata, with a slight feeling that rosy might be feeling herself neglected, and full of pleasure, too, at mrs. vincent's having forgiven her, slipped behind the others and took rosy's hand in hers, saying brightly, "_won't_ it be nice to go and stay with them, rosy?" rosy pulled away her hand roughly, and, looking very cross, went back to her old cry. "i wish you'd leave me alone, bee. i hate that sort of pretending. you know quite well nobody would care whether _i_ went or not." and poor bee drew back quite distressed, and puzzled again by rosy's changeableness. chapter vii. mr. furniture's present. "and show me any courtly gem more beautiful than these." --song of the strawberry girl. "your little girl is very pretty, unusually pretty," mr. furnivale was saying to rosy's mother, as he sat beside her on the sofa during the few minutes they were waiting for luncheon, "and she looks so strong and well." "yes," said mrs. vincent, "she is very strong. i am glad you think her pretty," she went on. "it is always difficult to judge of one's own children, i think, or indeed of any face you see constantly. i thought rosy very pretty, i must confess, when i first saw her again after our three years' separation, but now i don't think i could judge." mrs. vincent gave a little sigh as she spoke, which made mr. furnivale wonder what she was troubled about. the truth was that she was thinking to herself how little she would care whether rosy was pretty or not, if only she could feel more happy about her really trying to be a good little girl. "your little girl was with miss vincent while you were away, was she not?" said mr. furnivale. "yes," said rosy's mother, "her aunt is very fond of her. she gave herself immense trouble for rosy's sake." "by-the-bye, she is coming to see you soon, is she not?" said mr. furnivale. "she is, as of course you know, an old friend of ours, and she writes often to ask how cecy is. and in her last letter she said she hoped to come to see you soon." "i have not heard anything decided about it," replied mrs. vincent. "i had begun to think she would not come this year--she was speaking of going to some seaside place." "ah, but i rather think she has changed her mind, then," said mr. furnivale, and then he went on to talk of something else to him of more importance. but poor mrs. vincent was really troubled. "i should not mind edith herself coming," she said to herself. "she is _really_ good and kind, and i think i could make her understand how cruel it is to spoil rosy. but it is the maid--that nelson--i cannot like or trust her, and i believe she did rosy more harm than all her aunt's over-indulgence. and edith is so fond of her; i cannot say anything against her," for miss vincent was an invalid, and very dependent on this maid. little beata noticed that during luncheon rosy's mother looked troubled, and it made her feel sorry. rosy perhaps would have noticed it too, had she not been so very much taken up with her own fancied troubles. she was running full-speed into one of her cross jealous moods, and everything that was said or done, she took the wrong way. her father helped bee before her--that, she could not but allow was right, as bee was a guest--but now it seemed to her that he chose the nicest bits for bee, with a care he never showed in helping her. rosy was not the least greedy--she would have been ready and pleased to give away anything, _so long_ as she got the credit of it, and was praised and thanked, but to be treated second-best in the way in which she chose to imagine she was being treated--_that_, she could not and would not stand. she sat through luncheon with a black look on her pretty face; so that mr. furnivale, whom she was beside, found her much less pleasant to talk to than bee opposite, though bee herself was less bright and merry than usual. mrs. vincent felt glad that no more was said about aunt edith's coming. she felt that she did not wish rosy to hear of it, and yet she did not like to ask mr. furnivale not to mention it, as it seemed ungrateful to think or speak of a visit from miss vincent except with pleasure. after luncheon, when they were again in the drawing-room, mr. furnivale came up to her with a small parcel in his hand. "i am so sorry," he began, with a little hesitation, "i am so sorry that i did not know beata warwick was with you. cecy had no idea of it, and she begged me to give _your_ little girl this present we bought for her in venice, and now i don't half like giving it to the one little woman when i have nothing for the other." he opened the parcel as he spoke; it contained a quaint-looking little box, which in its turn, when opened, showed a necklace of glass beads of every imaginable colour. they were not very large--each bead perhaps about the size of a pea--of a large pea, that is to say. and some of them were long, not thicker, but twice as long as the others. i can scarcely tell you how pretty they were. every one was different, and they were beautifully arranged so that the colours came together in the prettiest possible way. one was pale blue with little tiny flowers, pink or rose-coloured raised upon it; one was white with a sort of rainbow glistening of every colour through it; two or three were black, but with a different tracery, gold or red or bright green, on each; and some were a kind of mixture of colours and patterns which seemed to change as you looked at them, so that you could _fancy_ you saw flowers, or figures, or tiny landscapes even, which again disappeared--and no two the same. "oh how lovely," exclaimed rosy's mother, "how very, very pretty." "yes," said mr. furnivale, "they _are_ pretty. and they are now rare. these are really old, and the imitation ones, which they make in plenty, are not half so curious. cecy thought they would take a child's fancy." "more than a _child's_," said mrs. vincent, smiling. "i think they are lovely--and what a pretty ornament they will be--fancy them on a white dress!" "i am only sorry i have not two of them," said mr. furnivale, "or at least _something_ else for the other little girl. you would not wish me, i suppose, to give the necklace to beata instead of to rosy?" he added. now mrs. vincent's own feeling was almost that she _would_ better like it to be given to beata. she was very unselfish, and her natural thought was that in anything of the kind, bee, the little stranger, the child in her care, whose mother was so far away, should come first. but there was more to think of than this feeling of hers-"it would be doing no real kindness to bee," she said to herself, "to let mr. furnivale give it to her. it would certainly rouse that terrible jealousy of rosy's, and it might grow beyond my power to undo the harm it would do. as it is, seeing, as i know she will, how simply and sweetly beata behaves about it may do her lasting good, and draw the children still more together." so she looked up at mr. furnivale with her pretty honest eyes--rosy's eyes were honest too--and like her mother's when she was sweet and good--and said frankly, "you won't think me selfish i am sure--i think you will believe that i do it from good motives--when i ask you not to change, but still to give it to rosy. i will take care that little bee does not suffer for it in the end." "and i too," said mr. furnivale, "if i _can_ find another necklace when i go back to venice. i shall not forget to send it--indeed, i might write to the dealer beforehand to look out for one. i am sure you are right, and on the whole i am glad, for cecy did buy it for your own little girl." "would you like to give it her now?" said mrs. vincent, and as mr. furnivale said "yes," she went to the window opening out on to the lawn where the three children were now playing, and called rosy. "i wonder what mamma wants," thought rosy to herself, as she walked towards the drawing-room rather slowly and sulkily, leaving bee and fixie to go on running races (for when i said "the children" were playing, i should have said beata and felix--not rosy). "i daresay she will be going to scold me, now luncheon's over. i wish that ugly old mr. furniture would go away," for all the cross, angry, jealous thoughts had come back to poor rosy since she had taken it into her head again about bee being put before her, and all her good wishes and plans, which had grown stronger through her mother's gentleness, had again flown away, like a flock of frightened white doves, looking back at her with sad eyes as they flew. rosy's good angel, however, was very patient with her that day. again she was to be tried with _kindness_ instead of harshness; surely this time it would succeed. "rosy dear," said her mother, quite brightly, for she had not noticed rosy's cross looks at dinner, and she felt a natural pleasure in the thought of her child's pleasure, "mr. furnivale--or perhaps i should say _miss_ furnivale--whom we all speak of as "cecy," you know, has sent you such a pretty present. see, dear--you have never, i think, had anything so pretty," and she held up the lovely beads before rosy's dazzled eyes. "oh, how pretty!" exclaimed the little girl, her whole face lighting up, "o mamma, how very pretty! and they are for _me_. oh, how very kind of miss furni--of miss cecy," she went on, turning to the old gentleman, "will you please thank her for me _very_ much?" no one could look prettier or sweeter than rosy at this moment, and mr. furnivale began to think he had been mistaken in thinking the little vincent girl a much less lovable child than his old friend beata warwick. "how very, very pretty," she repeated, touching the beads softly with her little fingers. and then with a sudden change she turned to her mother. "is there a necklace for bee, too?" she said. mrs. vincent's first feeling was of pleasure that rosy should think of her little friend, but there was in the child's face a look that made her not sure that the question _was_ quite out of kindness to bee, and the mother's voice was a little grave and sad, as she answered. "no, rosy. there is not one for bee. mr. furnivale brought it for you only." then rosy's face was a curious study. there was a sort of pleasure in it--and this, i must truly say, was not pleasure that bee had _not_ a present also, for rosy was not greedy or even selfish in the common way, but it was pleasure at being put first, and joined to this pleasure was a nice honest sorrow that bee was left out. now that rosy was satisfied that she herself was properly treated she found time to think of bee. and though the necklace had been six times as pretty, though it had been all pearls or diamonds, it would not have given mrs. vincent half the pleasure that this look of real unselfish sorrow in rosy's face sent through her heart. more still, when the little girl, bending to her mother, whispered softly, "mamma, would it be right of me to give it to bee? i wouldn't mind very much." "no, darling, no; but i am _very_ glad you thought of it. we will do something to make up for it to bee." and she added aloud, "mr. furnivale may _perhaps_ be able to get one something like it for bee, when he goes back to italy." "then i may show it to her. it won't be unkind to show it her?" asked rosy. and when her mother said "no, it would not be unkind," feeling sure, with her faith in bee's goodness that rosy's pleasure would be met with the heartiest sympathy--for "sympathy," dears, can be shown to those about us in their joys as well as in their sorrows--rosy ran off in the highest spirits. mr. furnivale smiled as he saw her delight, and mrs. vincent was, oh so pleased to be able to tell him, that rosy, of herself, had offered to give it to bee, that that was what she had been whispering about. "not that beata would have been willing to take it," she added, "she is the most unselfish child possible." [illustration: 'did you ever see anything so pretty, bee?' rosy repeated.] "and unselfishness is sometimes, catching, luckily for poor human nature," said the old gentleman, laughing. and mrs. vincent laughed too--the whole world seemed to have grown brighter to her since the little gleam she believed she had had of true gold at the bottom of rosy's wayward little heart. and rosy ran gleefully off to her friend. "bee, bee," she cried, "stop playing, do. i have something to show you. and you too, fixie, you may come and see it if you like. see," as the two children ran up to her breathlessly, and she opened the box, "see," and she held up the lovely necklace, lovelier than ever as it glittered in the sunshine, every colour seeming to mix in with the others and yet to stand out separate in the most beautiful way. "did you _ever_ see anything so pretty, bee?" rosy repeated. "_never_," said beata, with her whole heart in her voice. "nebber," echoed fixie, his blue eyes opened twice as wide as usual. "and is it _yours_, rosy?" asked bee. "yes mine, my very own. mr. furniture brought it me from--from somewhere. i don't remember the name of the place, but i know it's somewhere in the country that's the shape of a boot." "italy," said bee, whose geography was not quite so hazy as rosy's. "yes, i suppose it's italy, but i don't care where it came from as long as i've got it. oh, isn't it lovely? i may wear it for best. won't it be pretty with a quite white frock? and, bee, they said something, but perhaps i shouldn't tell." "don't tell it then," said bee, whose whole attention was given to the necklace. "o rosy, i _am_ so glad you've got such a pretty thing. don't you feel happy?" and she looked up with such pleasure in her eyes that rosy's heart was touched. "bee," she said quickly, "i do think you're very good. are you not the least bit vexed, bee, that _you_ haven't got it, or at least that you haven't got one like it?" beata looked up with real surprise. "vexed that i haven't got one too," she repeated, "of course not, rosy dear. people can't always have everything the same. i never thought of such a thing. and besides it is a pleasure to me even though it's not my necklace. it will be nice to see you wearing it, and i know you'll let me look at it in my hand sometimes, won't you?" touching the beads gently as she spoke. "see, fixie," she went on, "what lovely colours! aren't they like fairy beads, fixie?" "yes," said fixie, "they is welly _pitty_. i could fancy i saw fairies looking out of some of them. i think if we was to listen welly kietly p'raps we'd hear fairy stories coming out of them." "rubbish, fixie," said rosy, rather sharply. she was too fond of calling other people's fancies "rubbish." fixie's face grew red, and the corners of his mouth went down. "rosy's only in fun, fixie," said bee. "you shouldn't mind. we'll try some day and see if we can hear any stories--any way we could fancy them, couldn't we? are you going to put on the beads now, rosy? i think i can fasten the clasp, if you'll turn round. yes, that's right. now don't they look lovely? shall we run back to the house to let your mother see it on? o rosy, you can't _think_ how pretty it looks." off ran the three children, and mrs. vincent, as she saw them coming, was pleased to see, as she expected, the brightness of rosy's face reflected in beata's. "mother," whispered rosy, "i didn't say anything to bee about her perhaps getting one too. it was better not, wasn't it? it would be nicer to be a surprise." "yes, i think it would. any way it is better to say nothing about it just yet, as we are not at all _sure_ of it, you know. does bee think the beads very pretty, rosy?" "_very_," said rosy, "but she isn't the least _bit_ vexed for me to have them and not her. she's _quite_ happy, mamma." "she's a dear child," said mrs. vincent, "and so are you, my rosy, when you let yourself _be_ your best self. rosy," she went on, "i have a sort of feeling that this pretty necklace will be a kind of _talisman_ to you--perhaps it is silly of me to say it, but the idea came into my mind--i was so glad that you offered to give it up to bee, and i am so glad for you really to see for yourself how sweet and unselfish bee is about it. do you know what a talisman is?" "yes, mamma," said rosy, with great satisfaction. "papa explained it to me one day when i read it in a book. it is a kind of charm, isn't it, mamma?--a kind of nice fairy charm. you mean that i should be so pleased with the necklace, mamma, that it should make me feel happy and good whenever i see it, and that i should remember, too, how nice bee has been about it." "yes, dear," said her mother. "if it makes you feel like that, it _will_ be a talisman." and feeling remarkably pleased with herself and everybody else, rosy ran off. mr. furnivale left the next day, but not without promises of another visit before very long. "when cecy will come with you," said mrs. vincent. "and give her my bestest love," said fixie. "yes, indeed, my little man," said mr. furnivale, "and i'll tell her too that she would scarcely know you again--so fat and rosy!" "and my love, please," said beata, "i would _so_ like to see her again." "and mine," added rosy. "and please tell her how _dreadfully_ pleased i am with the beads." and then the kind old gentleman drove away. for some time after this it really seemed as if rosy's mother's half fanciful idea was coming true. there was such a great improvement in rosy--she seemed so much happier in herself, and to care so much more about making other people happy too. "i really think the necklace _is_ a talisman," said mrs. vincent, laughing, to rosy's father one day. not that rosy always wore it. it was kept for dress occasions, but to her great delight her mother let her take care of it herself, instead of putting it away with the gold chain and locket her aunt had given her on her last birthday, and the pearl ring her other godmother had sent her, which was much too large for her small fingers at present, and her ivory-bound prayer-book, and various other treasures to be enjoyed by her when she should be "a big girl." and many an hour the children amused themselves with the lovely beads, examining them till they knew every one separately. they even, i believe, had a name for each, and fixie had a firm belief that inside each crystal ball a little fairy dwelt, and that every moonlight night all these fairies came out and danced about rosy's room, though he never could manage to keep awake to see them. altogether, there was no end to the pretty fancies and amusement which the children got from "mr. furniture's present." chapter viii. hard to bear. "give unto me, made lowly-wise, the spirit of self-sacrifice." --ode to duty. for some weeks things went on very happily. of course there were little troubles among the children sometimes, but compared with a while ago the nursery was now a very comfortable and peaceful place. martha was quietly pleased, but she had too much sense to say much about it. miss pink was so delighted, that if bee had not been a modest and sensible little girl, miss pink's over praise of her, as the cause of all this improvement, might have undone all the good. not that miss pink was not ready to praise rosy too, and in a way that would have done her no good either, if rosy had cared enough for her to think much of her praise or her blame. but one word or look even from her mother was getting to be more to rosy than all the good-natured little governess's chatter; a nice smile from martha even, she felt to mean _really_ more, and one of beata's sweet, bright kisses would sometimes find its way straight to rosy's queerly hidden-away heart. "you see, rosy, it _does_ get easier," bee ventured to say one day. she looked up a little anxiously to see how rosy would take it, for since the night she had found rosy sobbing in bed they had never again talked together quite so openly. indeed, rosy was not a person whose confidence was easy to gain. but she was honest--that was the best of her. she looked up quickly when bee spoke. "yes," she said, "i think it's getting easier. but you see, bee, there have only been nice things lately. if anything was to come to vex me very much, i daresay it would be just like it used to be again. there's not even been colin to tease me for a long time!" rosy's way of talking of herself puzzled bee, though she couldn't quite explain it. it was right, she knew, for rosy not to feel too sure of herself, but still she went too far that way. she almost talked as if she had nothing to do with her own faults, that they must come or not come like rainy days. "what are you thinking, bee?" she said, as bee did not answer at once. "i can't tell you quite how i mean, for i don't know it myself," said bee. "only i think you are a little wrong. you should try to say, 'if things come to vex me, i'll _try_ not to be vexed.'" rosy shook her head. "no," she said, "i can't say that, for i don't think i should _want_ to try," and beata felt she could not say any more, only she very much hoped that things to vex rosy would _not_ come! the first thing at all out of the common that did come was, or was going to be, perhaps i should say, a very nice thing. a note came one day to rosy's mother to say that a lady, a friend of hers living a few miles off, wanted to see her, to talk over a plan she had in her head for a birthday treat to her two little daughters. these two children were twins; they were a little younger than rosy, and she did not know them _very_ well, as they lived some way off; but mrs. vincent had often wished they could meet oftener, as they were very nice and good children. and when lady esther had been, and had had her talk with rosy's mother, she looked in at the schoolroom a moment in passing, and kissed the little girls, smiling, and seeming very pleased, for she was so kind that nothing pleased her so much as to give pleasure to others. "your mother will tell you what we have been settling," she said, nodding her head and looking very mysterious. and that afternoon mrs. vincent told the children all about it. lady esther was going to have a fãªte for the twins' birthday--a garden-fãªte, for it was to be hoped by that time the weather could be counted upon, and all the children were to have fancy dresses! that was to be the best fun of it all. not very grand or expensive dresses, and nothing which would make them uncomfortable, or prevent their running about freely. lady esther's idea was that the children should be dressed in _sets_, which would look very pretty when they came into the big hall to dance before leaving. lady esther had proposed that rosy and bee should be dressed as the pretty french queen, marie antoinette, whom no doubt you have heard of, and her sister-in-law the good princess, madame elizabeth. fixie was to be the little prince, and lady esther's youngest little girl the young princess, while the twins were to be two maids of honour. but rosy's mother had said she would like better for her little girls to be the maids of honour, and the twins to be the queen and princess, which seemed quite right, as the party was to be in their house. and so it was settled. a few days later lady esther sent over sketches of the dresses she proposed to have, and the children were greatly pleased and interested. "may i wear my beads, mamma?" asked rosy. mrs. vincent smiled. "i daresay you can," she said, and rosy clapped her hands with delight, and everything seemed as happy as possible. "but remember," said mrs. vincent, "it is still quite a month off. do not talk or think about it _too_ much, or you will tire yourselves out in fancy before the real pleasure comes." this was good advice. bee tried to follow it by doing her lessons as usual, and giving the same attention to them. but rosy, with some of her old self-will, would not leave off talking about the promised treat. she was tiresome and careless at her lessons, and miss pink was not firm enough to check her. morning, noon, and night, rosy went on about the fete, most of all about the dresses, till bee sometimes wished the birthday treat had never been thought of, or at least that rosy had never been told of it. one morning when the children came down to see mr. and mrs. vincent at their breakfast, which they often were allowed to do, though they still had their own breakfast earlier than the big people, in the nursery with martha, beata noticed that rosy's mother looked grave and rather troubled. bee took no notice of it, however, except that when she kissed her, she said softly, "are you not quite well, auntie?" for so rosy's mother liked her to call her. "oh yes, dear, i am quite well," she answered, though rather wearily, and a few minutes after, when mr. vincent had gone out to speak to some of the servants, she called rosy and bee to come to her. "rosy and bee," she said kindly but gravely, "do you remember my advising you not to talk or to think too much about lady esther's treat?" "yes," said bee, and "yes," said rosy, though in a rather sulky tone of voice. "well, then, i should not have had to remind you both of my advice. i am really sorry to have to find fault about anything to do with the birthday party. i wanted it to have been nothing but pleasure to you. but miss pink has told me she does not know what to do with you--that you are so careless and inattentive, and constantly chattering about lady esther's plan, and that at last she felt she must tell me." bee felt her cheeks grow red. mrs. vincent thought she felt ashamed, but it was not shame. poor bee, she had _never_ before felt as she did just now. it was not true--how could miss pink have said so of her? she knew it was not true, and the words, "i _haven't_ been careless--i did do just what you said," were bursting out of her lips when she stopped. what good would it do to defend herself except to make mrs. vincent more vexed with rosy, and to cause fresh bad feelings in rosy's heart? would it not be better to say nothing, to bear the blame, rather than lose the kind feelings that rosy was getting to have to her? all these thoughts were running through her mind, making her feel rather puzzled and confused, for bee did not always see things very quickly; she needed to think them over, when, to her surprise, rosy looked up. "it isn't true," she said, not very respectfully it must be owned, "it isn't true that bee has been careless. if miss pink thinks telling stories about bee will make me any better, she's very silly, and i shall just not care what she says about anything." "rosy," said mrs. vincent sternly, "you shall care what _i_ say. go to your room and stay there, and you, beata, go to yours. i am surprised that you should encourage rosy in her naughty contradiction, for it is nothing else that makes her speak so of what miss pink felt obliged to say of you." rosy turned away with the cool sullen manner that had not been seen for some time. bee, choking with sobs--never, _never_, she said to herself, not even when her mother went away, had she felt so miserable, never had aunt lillias spoken to her like that before--poor bee rushed off to her room, and shutting the door, threw herself on the floor and wondered _what_ she should do! mrs. vincent, if she had only known it, was nearly as unhappy as she. it was not often she allowed herself to feel worried and vexed, as she had felt that morning, but everything had seemed to go wrong--miss pink's complaints, which were _not_ true, about bee had really grieved her. for miss pink had managed to make it seem that it was mostly bee's fault---and she had said little things which had made mrs. vincent really unhappy about bee being so very sweet and good before people, but not _really_ so good when one saw more of her. mrs. vincent would not let miss pink see that she minded what she said; she would hardly own it to herself. but for all that it had left a sting. "_can_ i have been mistaken in bee?" was the thought that kept coming into her mind. for miss pink had mixed up truth with untruths. "_rosy,_" she had said, "whatever her faults, is so very honest," which her mother knew to be true, but mrs. vincent did not--for she was too honest herself to doubt other people--see that miss pink liked better to throw the blame on bee, not out of ill-will to bee, but because she was so very afraid that if there was any more trouble about rosy, she would have to leave off being her governess. then this very morning too had brought a letter from rosy's aunt, proposing a visit for the very next week, accompanied, of course, by the maid who had done rosy so much harm! poor mrs. vincent--it really was trying--and she did not even like to tell rosy's father how much she dreaded his sister's visit. for aunt edith had meant and wished to be so truly kind to rosy that it seemed ungrateful not to be glad to see her. rosy and bee were left in their rooms till some time later than the usual school-hour, for mrs. vincent, wanting them to think over what she had said, told miss pink to give fixie his lessons first, and then, before sending for the little girls to come down, she had a talk with miss pink. "i have spoken to both rosy and bee very seriously, and told them of your complaints," she said. miss pink grew rather red and looked uncomfortable. "i should be sorry for them to think i complained out of any unkindness," she said. "it is not unkindness. it is only telling the truth to answer me when i ask how they have been getting on," said mrs. vincent, rather coldly. "besides i myself saw how very badly rosy's exercises were written. i am very disappointed about beata," she added, looking miss pink straight in the face, and it seemed to her that the little governess grew again red. "i can only hope they will both do better now." then rosy and bee were sent for. rosy came in with a hard look on her face. bee's eyes were swollen with crying, and she seemed as if she dared not look at her aunt, but she said nothing. mrs. vincent repeated to them what she had just said about hoping they would do better. "i will do my best," said beata tremblingly, for she felt as if another word would make her burst out crying again. "oh, i am sure they are both going to be very good little girls now," said miss pink, in her silly, fussy way, as if she was in a hurry to change the subject, which indeed she was. bee raised her poor red eyes, and looked at her quietly, and mrs. vincent saw the look. rosy, who had not yet spoken, muttered something, but so low that nobody could quite hear it; only the words "stories" and "not true" were heard. "rosy," said her mother very severely, "be silent!" and soon after she left the room. the schoolroom party was not a very cheerful one this morning, but things went on quietly. miss pink was plainly uncomfortable, and made several attempts to make friends, as it were, with bee. bee answered gently, but that was all, and as soon as lessons were over she went quietly upstairs. two days after, miss vincent arrived. rosy was delighted to hear she was coming, and her pleasure in it seemed to make her forget about bee's undeserved troubles. so poor bee had to try to forget them herself. her lessons were learnt and written without a fault--it was impossible for miss pink to find anything to blame; and indeed she did not wish to do so, or to be unkind, to beata, so long as things went smoothly with rosy. and for these two days everything was very smooth. rosy did not want to be in disgrace when her aunt came, and she, too, did her best, so that the morning of the day when miss vincent was expected, miss pink told the children, with a most amiable face, that she would be able to give a very good report of them to rosy's mother. bee said nothing. rosy, turning round, saw the strange, half-sad look on bee's face, and it came back into her mind how unhappy her little friend had been, and how little she had deserved to be so. and in her heart, too, rosy knew that in reality it was owing to _her_ that beata had suffered, and a sudden feeling of sorrow rushed over her, and, to miss pink's and bee's astonishment, she burst out, "you may say what you like of me to mamma, miss pink. it is true i have done my lessons well for two days, and it is true i did them badly before. but if you can't tell the truth about bee, it would be much better for you to say nothing at all." miss pink grew pinker than usual, and she was opening her lips to speak, when beata interrupted her. "don't say anything, miss pink," she said. "it's no good. _i_ have said nothing, and--and i'll try to forget--you know what. i don't want there to be any more trouble. it doesn't matter for me. o rosy dear," she went on entreatingly, "_don't_ say anything more that might make more trouble, and vex your mamma with you, just as your aunt's coming. oh, _don't_." she put her arms round rosy as if she would have held her back, rosy only looking half convinced. but in her heart rosy _was_ very anxious not to be in any trouble when her aunt came. she didn't quite explain to herself why. some of the reasons were good, and some were not very good. one of the best was, i think, that she didn't want her mother to be more vexed, or to have the fresh vexation of her aunt seeming to think--as she very likely would, if there was any excuse for it--that rosy was less good under her mother's care than she had been in miss vincent's. rosy was learning truly to love, and what, for her nature, was almost of more consequence, really to _trust_ her mother, and a feeling of _loyalty_--if you know what that beautiful word means, dear children,--i hope you do--was beginning for the first time to grow in her cross-grained, suspicious little heart. then, again, for her own sake, rosy wished all to be smooth when her aunt and nelson arrived, which was not a _bad_ feeling, if not a very good or unselfish one. and then, again, she did not want to have any trouble connected with bee. she knew her aunt edith had not liked the idea of bee coming, and that if she fancied the little stranger was the cause of any worry to her darling she would try to get her sent away. and rosy did not now _at all_ want bee to be sent away! these different feelings were all making themselves heard rather confusedly in her heart, and she hardly knew what to answer to bee's appeal, when miss pink came to the rescue. "bee is right, rosy," she said, her rather dolly-looking face flushing again. "it is much better to leave things. you may trust me to--to speak very kindly of--of you _both_. and if i was--at all mistaken in what i said of you the other day, bee--perhaps you had been trying more than i--than i gave you credit for--i'm very sorry. if i can say anything to put it right, i will. but it is very difficult to--to tell things quite correctly sometimes. i had been worried and vexed, and then mrs. vincent rather startled me by asking me about you, rosy, and by something she said about my not managing you well. and--oh, i don't know _what_ we would do, my mother and i, if i lost this nice situation!" she burst out suddenly, forgetting everything else in her distress. "and poor mamma has been _so_ ill lately, i've often scarcely slept all night. i daresay i've been cross sometimes"--and miss pink finished up by bursting into tears. her distress gave the finishing touch to bee's determination to bear the undeserved blame. "no, poor miss pink," she said, running round to the little governess's side of the table, "i _don't_ think you are cross. i shouldn't mind if you were a little sometimes. and i know we are often troublesome--aren't we, rosy?" rosy gave a little grunt, which was a good deal for her, and showed that her feelings, too, were touched. "but just then i _had_ been trying. aunt lillias had spoken to us about it, and i _did_ want to please her"--and the unbidden tears rose to bee's eyes. "please, miss pink, don't think i don't know when i _am_ to blame, but--but you won't speak that way of me another time when i've not been to blame." a sort of smothered sob here came from miss pink, as a match to rosy's grunt. "and _please_," bee went on, "don't say _anything_ more about that time to aunt lillias. it's done now, and it would only make fresh trouble." that it would make trouble for _her_, miss pink felt convinced, and she was not very difficult to persuade to take bee's advice. "it would indeed bring _me_ trouble," she thought, as she walked home more slowly than usual that the fresh air might take away the redness from her eyes before her mother saw her. "i know mrs. vincent would never forgive me if she thought i had exaggerated or misrepresented. i'm sure i didn't want to blame bee; but i was so startled; and mrs. vincent seemed to think so much less of it when i let her suppose they had _both_ been careless and tiresome. but it has been a lesson to me. and beata is _very_ good. i could never say a word against her again." miss vincent arrived, and with her, of course, her maid nelson. everything went off most pleasantly the first evening. aunt edith seemed delighted to see rosy again, and that was only kind and natural. and she said to every one how well rosy was looking, and how much she was grown, and said, too, how nice it was for her to have a companion of her own age. she had been so pleased to hear about little miss warwick from cecy furnivale, whom she had seen lately. bee stared rather at this. she hardly knew herself under the name of little miss warwick; but she answered miss vincent's questions in her usual simple way, and told rosy, when they went up to bed, that she did not wonder she loved her aunt--she seemed so very kind. "yes," said rosy. then she sat still for a minute or two, as if she was thinking over something very deeply. "i don't think i'd like to go back to live with auntie," she said at last. "to leave your mother! no, _of course_ you wouldn't," exclaimed bee, as if there could be no doubt about the matter. "but i did think once i would," said rosy, nodding her head--"i did." "i don't believe you really did," said bee calmly. "perhaps you _thought_ you did when you were vexed about something." "well, i don't see much difference between wanting a thing, and _thinking_ you want it," said rosy. this was one of the speeches which bee did not find it very easy to answer all at once, so she told rosy she would think it over in her dreams, for she was very sleepy, and she was sure aunt lillias would be vexed if they didn't go to bed quickly. chapter ix. the hole in the floor. "and the former called the latter 'little prig.'"--emerson. "and how well that sweet child is looking, nelson," said miss vincent that evening to her maid as she was brushing her hair. "i am glad you think so, ma'am," replied nelson, in a rather queer tone of voice. "why, what do you mean?" said miss vincent. "do _you_ not think so? to be sure it was by candlelight, and i am very near-sighted, but i don't think any one could say that she looks ill. she is both taller and stouter." "perhaps so, ma'am. i wasn't thinking so much of her healthfulness. with the care that _was_ taken of her, she couldn't but be a fine child. but it's her _feelin's_, ma'am, that seems to be so changed. all her spirits, her lovely high spirits, gone! why, this evening, that martha--or whatever they call her--a' upsetting thing _i_ call her--spoke to her that short about having left the nursery door open because master fixie chose to fancy he was cold, that i wonder any young lady would take it. and miss rosy, bless her, up she got and shut it as meek as meek, and 'i'm very sorry, martha--i forgot,' she said. i couldn't believe my ears. i could have cried to see her so kept down like. and she's so quiet and so grave." "she is certainly quieter than she used to be," said miss vincent, "but surely she can't be unhappy. she would have told me--and i thought it was so nice for her to have that little companion." "umph," said nelson. she had a way of her own of saying "umph" that it is impossible to describe. then in a minute or two she went on again. "well, ma'am, you know i'm one as must speak my mind. and the truth is i _don't_ like that miss bee, as they call her, at all. she's far too good, by way of being too good, i mean, for a child. give me miss rosy's tempers and fidgets--i'd rather have them than those smooth-faced ways. and she's come round miss rosy somehow. why, ma'am, you'd hardly believe it, she'd hardly a word for me when she first saw me. it was 'good-evening, nelson. how do you do?' as cool like as could be. and it was all that miss bee's doing. i saw miss rosy look round at her like to see what she thought of it." "well, well, nelson," said miss vincent, quite vexed and put out, "i don't see what is to be done. we can't take the child away from her own parents. all the same, i'm very glad to have come to see for myself, and if i find out anything not nice about that child, i shall stand upon no ceremony, i assure you," and with this nelson had to be content. it was true that rosy had met nelson very coldly. as i have told you before, rosy was by no means clever at _pretending_, and a very good thing it is _not_ to be so. she had come to take a dislike to nelson, and to wonder how she could ever have been so under her. especially now that she was learning to love and trust beata, she did not like to let her know how many wrong and jealous ideas nelson had put in her head, and so before beata she was very cold to the maid. but in this rosy was wrong. nelson had taught her much that had done her harm, but still she had been, or had meant to be, very good and kind to rosy, and rosy owed her for this real gratitude. it was a pity, too, for bee's sake that rosy had been so cold and stiff to nelson, for on bee, nelson laid all the blame of it, and the harm did not stop here, as you will see. miss vincent never got up early, and the next morning passed as usual. but she sent for rosy to come to her room while she was dressing, after the morning lessons were over, which prevented the two little girls having their usual hour's play in the garden, and beata wandered about rather sadly, feeling as if rosy was being taken away from her. at luncheon rosy came in holding her aunt's hand and looking very pleased. "you don't know what lovely things auntie's been giving me," she said to bee as she passed her. "and nelson's making me such a _beautiful_ apron--the newest fashion." nelson had managed to get into rosy's favour again--that was clear. beata did not think this to herself. she was too simple and kind-hearted to think anything except that it was natural for rosy to be glad to see her old nurse again, though bee had a feeling somehow that she didn't much care for nelson and that nelson didn't care for her! "by-the-bye, rosy," said mrs. vincent, in the middle of luncheon, "did you show your aunt your venetian beads?" "yes," said miss vincent, answering for rosy, "she did, and great beauties they are." "_nelson_ didn't think so--at least not at first," said rosy, rather spitefully. she had always had a good deal of spite at nelson, even long ago, when nelson had had so much power of her. "nelson said they were glass trash, till auntie explained to her." "she didn't understand what they were," said miss vincent, seeming a little annoyed. "she thinks them beautiful now." "yes _now_, because she knows they must have cost a lot of money," persisted rosy. "nelson never thinks anything pretty that doesn't cost a lot." these remarks were not pleasant to miss vincent. she knew that mrs. vincent thought nelson too free in her way of speaking, and she did not like any of her rather impertinent sayings to be told over. "certainly," she thought to herself, "i think it is quite a mistake that rosy is too much kept down," but just as she was thinking this, rosy's mother looked up and said to her quietly, "rosy, i don't think you should talk so much. and you, bee, are almost too silent!" she added, smiling at beata, for she had a feeling that since miss vincent's arrival bee looked rather lonely. "yes," said rosy's aunt, "we don't hear your voice at all, miss beata. you're not like my chatter-box rosy, who always must say out what she thinks." the words sounded like a joke--there was nothing in them to vex bee, but something in the tone in which they were said made the little girl grow red and hot. "i--i was listening to all of you," she said quietly. she was anxious to say something, not to seem to mrs. vincent as if she was cross or vexed. "yes," said rosy's mother. "rosy and her aunt have a great deal to say to each other after being so long without meeting," and miss vincent looked pleased at this, as rosy's mother meant her to be. "by-the-bye," continued mrs. vincent, "has rosy told you all about the fãªte there is going to be at summerlands?" summerlands was the name of lady esther's house. "oh yes," said miss vincent, "and very charming it will be, no doubt, only _i_ should have liked my pet to be the queen, as she tells me was at first proposed." this was what mrs. vincent thought one of aunt edith's silly speeches, and rosy could not help wishing when she heard it that she had not told her aunt that her being the queen had been thought of at all. she looked a little uncomfortable, and her mother, glancing at her, understood her feelings and felt sorry for her. "i think it is better as it is," she said. "would you like to hear about the dresses rosy and bee are to wear?" she went on. "i think they will be very pretty. lady esther has ordered them in london with her own little girls'." and then she told miss vincent all about the dresses, so that rosy's uncomfortable feeling went away, and she felt grateful to her mother. after luncheon the little girls went out together in the garden. "i'm so glad to be together again," said bee, "it seems to me as if i had hardly seen you to-day, rosy." "what nonsense!" said rosy. "why, i was only in auntie's room for about a quarter of an hour after miss pink went." "a quarter of an hour," said bee. "no indeed, rosy. you were more than an hour, i am sure. i was reading to fixie in the nursery, for he's got a cold and he mayn't go out, and you don't know what a great lot i read. and oh, rosy, fixie wants so to know if he may have your beads this afternoon, just to hold in his hand and look at. he can't hurt them." "very well," said rosy. "he may have them for half an hour or so, but not longer." "shall i go and give them to him now?" said bee, ready to run off. "oh no, he won't need them just yet. let's have a run first. let's see which of us will get to the middle bush first--you go right and i'll go left." this race round the lawn was a favourite one with the children. they were playing merrily, laughing and calling to each other, when a messenger was seen coming to them from the house. it was samuel the footman. "miss rosy," he said as he came within hearing, "you must please to come in _at onst_. miss vincent is going a drive and you are to go with her." "oh!" exclaimed rosy, "i don't think i want to go." "i think you must," said bee, though she could not help sighing a little. "miss vincent is going to summerlands," said samuel. "oh, then i _do_ want to go," said rosy. "never mind, bee--i wish you were going too. but i'll tell you all i hear about the party when i come' back. but i'm sorry you're not going." she kissed bee as she ran off. this was a good deal more than rosy would have done some weeks ago, and bee, feeling this, tried to be content. but the garden seemed dull and lonely after rosy had gone, and once or twice the tears would come into bee's eyes. "after all," she said to herself, "those little girls are much the happiest who can always live with their own mammas and have sisters and brothers of their own, and then there can't be strange aunts who are not their aunts." but then she thought to herself how much better it was for her than for many little girls whose mothers had to be away and who were sent to school, where they had no such kind friend as mrs. vincent. "i'll go in and read to fixie," she then decided, and she made her way to the house. passing along the passage by the door of rosy's room, it came into her mind that she might as well get the beads for fixie which rosy had given leave for. she went in--the room was rather in confusion, for rosy had been dressing in a hurry for her drive--but bee knew where the beads were kept, and, opening the drawer, she found them easily. she was going away with them in her hand when a sharp voice startled her. it was nelson. bee had not noticed that she was in a corner of the room hanging up some of rosy's things, for, much to martha's vexation, nelson was very fond of coming into rosy's room and helping her to dress. "what are you doing in miss rosy's drawers?" said nelson; and bee, from surprise at her tone and manner, felt herself get red, and her voice trembled a little as she answered. "i was getting something for master fixie--something for him to play with." and she held up the necklace. nelson looked at her still in a way that was not at all nice. "and who said you might?" she said next. "rosy--_of course_, miss rosy herself," said bee, opening her eyes, "i would not take anything of hers without her leave." nelson gave a sort of grunt. but she had an ill-will at the pretty beads, because she had called them rubbish, not knowing what they were; so she said nothing more, and bee went quietly away, not hearing the words nelson muttered to herself, "sly little thing. i don't like those quiet ways." when bee got to the nursery, she was very glad she had come. fixie was sitting in a corner looking very desolate, for martha was busy looking over the linen, as it was saturday, and his head was "a'ting dedfully," he said. he brightened up when he saw bee and what she had brought, and for more than an hour the two children sat perfectly happy and content examining the wonderful beads, and making up little fanciful stories about the fairies who were supposed to live in them. then when fixie seemed to have had enough of the beads, bee and he took them back to rosy's room and put them carefully away, and then returned to the nursery, where they set to work to make a house with the chairs and fixie's little table. the nursery was not carpeted all over--that is to say, round the edge of the room the wood of the floor was left bare, for this made it more easy to lift the carpet often and shake it on the grass, which is a very good thing, especially in a nursery. the house was an old one, and so the wood floor was not very pretty; here and there it was rather uneven, and there were queer cracks in it. "see, bee," said fixie, while they were making their house, "see what a funny place i've found in the f'oor," and he pointed to a small, dark, round hole. it was made by what is called a knot in the wood having dried up and dropped out long, long ago probably, for, as i told you, the house was very old. "what is there down there, does you fink?" said fixie, looking up at bee and then down again at the mysterious hole. "does it go down into the middle of the world, p'raps?" beata laughed. "oh no, fixie, not so far as that, i am sure," she said. "at the most, it can't go farther than the ceiling of the room underneath." fixie looked puzzled, and bee explained to him that there was a small space left behind the wood planking which make the floor of one room and the thinner boards which are the ceiling of an under room. [illustration: 'what is there down there, does you fink?' said fixie] "the ceiling doesn't need to be so strong, you see," she said. "we don't walk and jump on the ceiling, but we do on the floor, so the ceiling boards would not be strong enough for the floor." "yes," said fixie, "on'y the flies walks on the ceiling, and they's not very heavy, is they, bee? but," he went on, "i would like to see down into this hole. if i had a long piece of 'ting i could _fish_ down into it, couldn't i, bee? you don't fink there's anything dedful down there, do you? not fogs or 'nakes?" "no," said bee, "i'm sure there are no frogs or snakes. there _might_ be some little mice." "is mice the same as mouses?" said fixie; and when bee nodded, "why don't you say mouses then?" he asked, "it's a much samer word." "but i didn't make the words," said bee, "one has to use them the way that's counted right." but fixie seemed rather grumbly and cross. "_i_ like mouses," he persisted; and so, to change his ideas, bee went on talking about the knot hole. "we might get a stick to-morrow," she said, "and poke it down to see how far it would go." "not a 'tick," said fixie, "it would hurt the little mouses. i didn't say a 'tick--i said a piece of 'ting. i fink you'se welly unkind, bee, to hurt the poor little mouses," and he grew so very doleful about it that bee was quite glad when martha called them to tea. "i don't know what's the matter with fixie," she said to martha, in a low voice. "he's not very well," said martha, looking at her little boy anxiously. but tea seemed to do fixie good, and he grew brighter again, so that martha began to think there could not be much wrong. nursery tea was long over before rosy came home, and so she stayed down in the drawing-room to have some with her mother and aunt. and even after that she did not come back to the other children, but went into her aunt's room to look over some things they had bought in the little town they had passed, coming home. she just put her head in at the nursery door, seeming in very high spirits, and called out to bee that she would tell her how nice it had been at summerlands. but the evening went on. fixie grew tired and cross, and martha put him to bed; and it was not till nearly the big people's dinner-time that rosy came back to the nursery, swinging her hat on her arm, and looking rather untidy and tired too. "i think i'll go to bed," she said. "it makes me feel funny in my head, driving so far." "let me put away your hat, miss rosy," said martha, "it's getting all crushed and it's your best one." "oh, bother," said rosy, and the tone was like the rosy of some months ago. "what does it matter? _you_ won't have to pay for a new one." martha said nothing, but quietly put away the hat, which had fallen on the floor. bee, too, said nothing, but her heart was full. she had been alone, except for poor little fixie, all the afternoon; and the last hour or so she had been patiently waiting for rosy to come to the nursery to tell her, as she had promised, all her adventures. "i'm going to bed," repeated rosy. "won't you stay and talk a little?" said bee; "you said you would tell me about summerlands." "i'm too tired," said rosy. then suddenly she added, sharply, "what were you doing in my drawers this afternoon?" "in your drawers?" repeated bee, half stupidly, as it were. she was not, as i have told you, very quick in catching up a meaning; she was thoughtful and clear-headed but rather slow, and when any one spoke sharply it made her still slower. "in your drawers, rosy?" she said again, for, for a moment, she forgot about having fetched the necklace. "yes," said rosy, "you were in my drawers, for nelson told me. she said i wasn't to tell you she'd told me, but i told her i would. i don't like mean ways. but i'd just like to know what you were doing among my things." it all came back to bee now. "i only went to fetch the beads for fixie," she said, her voice trembling. "you said i might." "and did you put them back again? and did you not touch anything else?" rosy went on. "of course i put them back, and--_of course_ i didn't touch anything else," exclaimed bee. "rosy, how can you, how dare you speak to me like that? as if i would steal your things. you have no _right_ to speak that way, and nelson is a bad, horrible woman. i will tell your mother all about it to-morrow morning." and bursting into tears, beata ran out of the nursery to take refuge in her own room. nor would she come out or speak to rosy when she knocked at the door and begged her to do so. but she let martha in to help her to undress, and listened gently to the good nurse's advice not to take miss rosy's unkindness to heart. "she's sorry for it already," said martha. "and, though perhaps i shouldn't say it, you can see for yourself, miss bee dear, that it's not herself, as one may say." and martha gave a sigh. "i'm sorry for miss rosy's mamma," she added, as she bid bee good-night. and the words went home to bee's loving, grateful little heart. it was very seldom, very seldom indeed, that unkind or ungentle thoughts or feelings rested there. never hardly in all her life had beata given way to anger as she had done that afternoon. chapter x. stings for bee. "and i will look up the chimney, and into the cupboard to make quite sure." --author of lilliput levee. fixie was not quite well the next morning, as martha had hoped he would be. still he did not seem ill enough to stay in bed, so she dressed him as usual. but at breakfast he rested his head on his hand, looking very doleful, "very sorry for himself," as scotch people say. and martha, though she tried to cheer him up, was evidently anxious. mother came up to see him after breakfast, and she looked less uneasy than martha. "it's only a cold, i fancy," she said, but when martha followed her out of the room and reminded her of all the children's illnesses fixie had _not_ had, and which often look like a cold at the beginning, she agreed that it might be better to send for the doctor. "have you any commissions for blackthorpe?" she said to miss vincent when she, aunt edith, came down to the drawing-room, a little earlier than usual that morning. "i am going to send to ask the doctor to come and see fixie." aunt edith had already heard from nelson about felix not being well, and that was why she had got up earlier, for she was in a great fright. "i am thankful to hear it," she said; "for there is no saying what his illness may be going to be. but, lillias, _of course_ you won't let darling rosy stay in the nursery." "i hadn't thought about it," said rosy's mother. "perhaps i am a little careless about these things, for you see all the years i was in india i had only fixie, and he was quite out of the way of infection. besides, rosy has had measles and scarlet fever, and----" "but not whooping-cough, or chicken-pox, or mumps, or even smallpox. who knows but what it may be smallpox," said aunt edith, working herself up more and more. mrs. vincent could hardly help smiling. "i _don't_ think that's likely," she said. "however, i am glad you mentioned the risk, for i think there is much more danger for bee than for rosy, for bee, like fixie, has had none of these illnesses. i will go up to the nursery and speak to martha about it at once," and she turned towards the door. "but you will separate rosy too," insisted miss vincent, "the dear child can sleep in my room. nelson will be only too delighted to have her again." "thank you," said rosy's mother rather coldly. she knew nelson would be only too glad to have the charge of rosy, and to put into her head again a great many foolish thoughts and fancies which she had hoped rosy was beginning to forget. "it will not be necessary to settle so much till we hear what the doctor says. of course i would not leave rosy with fixie and bee by herself. but for to-day they can stay in the schoolroom, and i will ask miss pinkerton to remain later." the doctor came in the afternoon, but he was not able to say much. it would take, he said, a day or two to decide what was the matter with the little fellow. but fixie was put to bed, and rosy and bee were told on no account to go into either of the nurseries. fixie was not sorry to go to bed; he had been so dull all the morning, playing by himself in a comer of the nursery, but he cried a little when he was told that bee must not come and sit by him and read or tell him stories as she always was ready to do when he was not quite well. and bee looked ready to cry too when she saw his distress! it was not a very cheerful time. the children felt unsettled by being kept out of their usual rooms and ways. rosy was constantly running off to her aunt's room, or to ask nelson about something or other, and bee did not like to follow her, for she had an uncomfortable feeling that neither nelson nor her mistress liked her to come. nelson was in a very gloomy humour. "it will be a sad pity to be sure," she said to rosy, "if master fixie's gone and got any sort of catching illness." "how do you mean?" said rosy. "it won't much matter except that bee and i can't go into the nursery or my room. bee's room has a door out into the other passage, i heard mamma saying we could sleep there if the nursery door was kept locked. i think it would be fun to sleep in bee's room. i shouldn't mind." nelson grunted. she did not approve of rosy's liking beata. "ah, well," she said, "it isn't only your aunt edith that's afraid of infection. if it's measles that master fixie's got, you won't go to lady esther's party, miss rosy." rosy opened her eyes. "not go to the party! we _must_ go," she exclaimed, and before nelson knew what she was about, off rosy had rushed to confide this new trouble to bee, and hear what she would say about it. bee, too, looked grave, for her heart was greatly set on the idea of the summerlands fete. "i don't know," she replied. "i hope dear little fixie is not going to be very ill. any way, rosy, i don't think nelson should have said that. your mother would have told us herself if she had wanted us to know it." "indeed," said a harsh voice behind her, "i don't require a little chit like you, miss bee, to teach me my duty," and turning round, beata saw that nelson was standing in the doorway, for she had followed rosy, a little afraid of the effect of what she had told her. bee felt sorry that nelson had overheard what she had said, though indeed there was no harm in it. "i did not mean to vex you, nelson," she said, "but i'm sure it is better to wait till aunt lillias tells us herself." nelson looked very angry, and walked off in a huff, muttering something the children could not catch. "i wish you wouldn't always quarrel with nelson," said rosy crossly. "she always gets on with _me_ quite well. i shall have to go and get her into a good humour again, for i want her to finish my apron." rosy ran off, but bee stayed alone, her eyes filled with tears. "it _isn't_ my fault," she said to herself. "i don't know what to do. nothing is the same since they came. i'll write to mother and ask her not to leave me here any longer. i'd rather be at school or anywhere than stay here when they're all so unkind to me now." but then wiser thoughts came into her mind. they weren't "all" unkind, and she knew that mrs. vincent herself had troubles to bear. besides--what was it her mother had always said to her?--that it was at such times that one's real wish to be good was tried; when all is smooth and pleasant and every one kind and loving, what is easier than to be kind and pleasant in return? it is when others are _not_ kind, but sharp and suspicious and selfish, that one _has_ to "try" to return good for evil, gentleness for harshness, kind thoughts and ways for the cold looks or angry words which one cannot help feeling sadly, but which lose half their sting when not treasured up and exaggerated by dwelling upon them. and feeling happier again, bee went back to what she was busy at--making a little toy scrap-book for fixie which she meant to send in to him the next morning as if it had come by post. and she had need of her good resolutions, for she hardly saw rosy again all day, and when they were going to bed nelson came to help rosy to undress and went on talking to her so much all the time about people and places bee knew nothing about, that it was impossible for her to join in at all. she kissed rosy as kindly as usual when nelson had left the room, but it seemed to her that her kiss was very coldly returned. "you're not vexed with me for anything, are you, rosy?" she could not help saying. "vexed with you? no, i never said i was vexed with you," rosy answered. "i wish you wouldn't go on like that, bee, it's tiresome. i can't be always kissing and petting you." and that was all the comfort poor bee could get to go to sleep with! for a day or two still the doctor could not say what was wrong with fixie, but at last he decided that it was only a sort of feverish attack brought on by his having somehow or other caught cold, for there had been some damp and rainy weather, even though spring was now fast turning into summer. the little fellow had been rather weak and out of sorts for some time, and as soon as he was better, mrs. vincent made up her mind to send him off with martha for a fortnight to a sheltered seaside village not far from their home. beata was very sorry to see them go. she almost wished she was going with them, for though she had done her best to be patient and cheerful, nothing was the same as before the coming of rosy's aunt. rosy scarcely seemed to care to play with her at all. her whole time, when not at her lessons, was spent in her aunt's room, generally with nelson, who was never tired of amusing her and giving in to all her fancies. bee grew silent and shy. she was losing her bright happy manner, and looked as if she no longer felt sure that she was a welcome little guest. mrs. vincent saw the change in her, but did not quite understand it, and felt almost inclined to be vexed with her. "she knows it is only for a short time that rosy's aunt is here. she might make the best of it," thought mrs. vincent. for she did not know fully how lonely bee's life now was, and how many cold or unkind words she had to bear from rosy, not to speak of nelson's sharp and almost rude manner; for, though rosy was not cunning, nelson was so, and she managed to make it seem always as if bee, and not rosy, was in fault. "where is bee?" said mrs. vincent one afternoon when she went into the nursery, where, at this time of day, nelson was now generally to be found. "i don't know, mamma," said rosy. then, without saying any more about bee, she went on eagerly, "do look, mamma, at the lovely opera-cloak nelson has made for my doll? it isn't _quite_ ready--there's a little white fluff----" "swansdown, miss rosy, darling," said nelson. "well, swansdown then--it doesn't matter--mamma knows," said rosy sharply, "there's white stuff to go round the neck. won't it be lovely, mother?" she looked up with her pretty face all flushed with pleasure, for nobody could be prettier than rosy when she was pleased. "yes dear, _very_ pretty," said her mother. it was impossible to deny that nelson was very kind and patient, and mrs. vincent would have felt really pleased if only she had not feared that nelson did rosy harm by her spoiling and flattery. "but where can bee be?" she said again. "does she not care about dolls too?" "she used to," said rosy. "but bee is very fond of being alone now, mamma. and i don't care for her when she looks so gloomy." "but what makes her so?" said mrs. vincent. "are you quite kind to her, rosy?" "oh indeed, yes, ma'am," interrupted nelson, without giving rosy time to answer. "of that you may be very sure. indeed many's the time i say to myself miss rosy's patience is quite wonderful. such a free, outspoken young lady as she is, and miss bee _so_ different. i don't like them secrety sort of children, and miss rosy feels it too--she--" "nelson, i didn't ask for your opinion of little miss warwick," said mrs. vincent, very coldly. "i know you are very kind to rosy. but i cannot have any interference when i find fault with her." nelson looked very indignant, but mrs. vincent's manner had something in it which prevented her answering in any rude way. "i'm sure i meant no offence," she said sourly, but that was all. beata was alone in the schoolroom, writing, or trying to write, to her mother. her letters, which used to be such a pleasure, had grown difficult. "mamma said i was to write everything to her," she said to herself, "but i _can't_ write to tell her i'm not happy. i wonder if it's any way my fault." just then the door opened and mrs. vincent looked in. "all alone, bee," she said. "would it not be more cheerful in the nursery with rosy? you have no lessons to do now? "no" said bee, "i was beginning a letter to mamma. but it isn't to go just yet." "well, dear, go and play with rosy. i don't like to see you moping alone. you must be my bright little bee--you wouldn't like any one to think you are not happy with us?" "oh no," said bee. but there was little brightness in her tone, and mrs. vincent felt half provoked with her. "she has not really anything to complain of," she said to herself, "and she cannot expect me to speak to her against aunt edith and nelson. she should make the best of it for the time." as bee was leaving the schoolroom mrs. vincent called her back. "will you tell rosy to bring me her venetian necklace to the drawing-room?" she said; "i want it for a few minutes." she did not tell beata why she wanted it. it was because she had had a letter that morning from mr. furnivale asking her to tell him how many beads there were on rosy's necklace and their size, as he had found a shop where there were two or three for sale, and he wanted to get one as nearly as possible the same for beata. beata went slowly to the nursery. she would much rather have stayed in the schoolroom, lonely and dull though it was. when she got to the nursery she gave rosy her mother's message, and asked her kindly if she might bring her dolls so that they could play with them together. "i shan't get no work done," said nelson crossly, "if there's going to be such a litter about." "i'm going to take my necklace to mamma," said rosy. "you may play with my doll till i come back, bee." she ran off, and bee sat down quietly as far away from nelson as she could. five or ten minutes passed, and then the door suddenly opened and rosy burst in with a very red face. "bee, nelson," she exclaimed, "my necklace is _gone_. it is indeed. i've hunted _everywhere_. and somebody must have taken it, for i always put it in the same place, in its own little box. you know i do--don't i, bee?" bee seemed hardly able to answer. her face looked quite pale with distress. "your necklace gone, rosy," she repeated. nelson said nothing. "yes, _gone,_ i tell you," said rosy. "and i believe it's stolen. it couldn't go of itself, and i _never_ left it about. i haven't had it on for a good while. you know that time i slept in your room, bee, while fixie was ill, i got out of the way of wearing it. but i always knew where it was, in its own little box in the far-back corner of the drawer where i keep my best ribbons and jewelry." "yes," said bee, "i know. it was there the day i had it out to amuse fixie." rosy turned sharply upon her. "did you put it back that day, bee?" she said, "i don't believe i've looked at it since. answer, _did_ you put it back?" "yes," said bee earnestly, "yes, indeed; _indeed_ i did. o rosy, don't get like that," she entreated, clasping her hands, for rosy's face was growing redder and redder, and her eyes were flashing. "o rosy, _don't_ get into a temper with me about it. i did, _did_ put it back." but it is doubtful if rosy would have listened to her. she was fast working herself up to believe that bee had lost the necklace the day she had had it out for pixie, and she was so distressed at the loss that she was quite ready to get into a temper with _somebody_--when, to both the children's surprise, nelson's voice interrupted what rosy was going to say. "miss warwick," she said, with rather a mocking tone--she had made a point of calling bee "miss warwick" since the day mrs. vincent had spoken of the little girl by that name--"miss warwick did put it back that day, miss rosy dear," she said. "for i saw it late that evening when i was putting your things away to help martha as master fixie was ill." she did not explain that she had made a point of looking for the necklace in hopes of finding bee had _not_ put it back, for you may remember she had been cross and rude to bee about finding her in rosy's room. "well, then, where has it gone? come with me, bee, and look for it," said rosy, rather softening down,--"though i'm _sure_ i've looked everywhere." "i don't think it's any use your taking miss warwick to look for it," said nelson, getting up and laying aside her work. "i'll go with you, miss rosy, and if it's in your room i'll undertake to find it. and just you stay quietly here, miss bee. too many cooks spoil the broth." so bee was left alone again, alone, and even more unhappy than before, for she was _very_ sorry about rosy's necklace, and besides, she had a miserable feeling that if it was never found she would somehow be blamed for its loss. a quarter of an hour passed, then half an hour, what could rosy and nelson be doing all this time? the door opened and bee sprang up. "have you found it, rosy?" she cried eagerly. but it was not rosy, though she was following behind. the first person that came in was mrs. vincent. she looked grave and troubled. "beata," she said, "you have heard about rosy's necklace. tell me all about the last time you saw it." "it was when rosy let fixie have it to play with," began bee, and she told all she remembered. "and you are sure--_quite_ sure--you never have seen it since?" "_quite_ sure," said bee. "i never touch rosy's things without her leave." nelson gave a sort of cough. bee turned round on her. "if you've anything to say you'd better say it now, before mrs. vincent," said bee, in a tone that, coming from the gentle kindly little girl, surprised every one. "bee!" exclaimed mrs. vincent, "what do you mean? nelson has said _nothing_ about you." this was quite true. nelson was too clever to say anything right out. she had only hinted and looked wise about the necklace to rosy, giving her a feeling that bee was more likely to have touched it than any one else. bee was going to speak, but rosy's mother stopped her. "you have told us all you know," she said. "i don't want to hear any more. but i am surprised at you, bee, for losing your temper about being simply asked if you had seen the necklace. you might have forgotten at first if you had had it again for fixie, and you _might_ the second time have forgotten to put it back. but there is nothing to be offended at, in being asked about it." she spoke coldly, and bee's heart swelled more and more, but she dared not speak. "there is nothing to do," said mrs. vincent, "that i can see, except to find out if fixie could have taken it. i will write to martha at once and tell her to ask him, and to let us know by return of post." the letter was written and sent. no one waited for the answer more anxiously than beata. it came by return of post, as mrs. vincent had said. but it brought only disappointment. "master fixie," martha wrote, "knew nothing of miss rosy's necklace." he could not remember having had it to play with at all, and he seemed to get so worried when she kept on asking about it, that martha thought it better to say no more, for it was plain he had nothing to tell. "it is very strange he cannot remember playing with it that afternoon," said mrs. vincent. "he generally has such a good memory. you are sure you _did_ give it to him to play with, bee?" "we played with it together. i told him stories about each bead," the little girl replied. and her voice trembled as if she were going to burst into tears. "then his illness since must have made him forget it," said mrs. vincent. but that was all she said. she did not call bee to her and tell her not to feel unhappy about it--that she knew she could trust every word she said, as she once would have done. but she did give very strict orders that nothing more was to be said about the necklace, for though nelson had not dared to hint anything unkind about bee to mrs. vincent herself, yet rosy's mother felt sure that nelson blamed bee for the loss, and wished others to do so, and she was afraid of what might be said in the nursery if the subject was still spoken about. so nothing unkind was actually said to beata, but rosy's cold manner and careless looks were hard to bear. and the days were drawing near for the long looked forward to fete at summerlands. chapter xi. a parcel and a fright. "she ran with wild speed, she rushed in at the door, she gazed in her terror around." --southey. but beata could not look forward to it now. the pleasure seemed to have gone out of everything. "nobody loves me now, and nobody trusts me," she said sadly to herself. "and i don't know why it is. i can't think of anything i have done to change them all." her letter to her mother was already written and sent before the answer came from martha. bee had hurried it a little at the end because she wanted to have an excuse to herself for not telling her mother how unhappy she was about the loss of the necklace. "if an answer comes from martha that fixie had taken it away or put it somewhere, it will be all right again and i shall be quite happy, and then it would have been a pity to write unhappily to poor mother, so far away," she said to herself. and when martha's letter came and all was not right again, she felt glad that she could not write for another fortnight, and that perhaps by that time she would know better what to say, or that "somehow" things would have grown happier again. for she had promised, "faithfully" promised her mother to tell her truly all that happened, and that if by any chance she was unhappy about anything that she could not speak easily about to mrs. vincent,--though bee's mother had little thought such a thing likely,--she would still write all about it to her own mother. but a week had already passed since that letter was sent. it was growing time to begin to think about another. and no "somehow" had come to put things right again. bee sat at the schoolroom window one day after miss pink had left, looking out on to the garden, where the borders were bright with the early summer flowers, and everything seemed sunny and happy. "i wish i was happy too," thought bee. and she gently stroked manchon's soft coat, and wondered why the birds outside and the cat inside seemed to have all they wanted, when a little girl like her felt so sad and lonely. manchon had grown fond of bee. she was gentle and quiet, and that was what he liked, for he was no longer so young as he had been. and rosy's pullings and pushings, when she was not in a good humour and fancied he was in her way, tried his nerves very much. "manchon," said bee softly, "you look very wise. why can't you tell me where rosy's necklace is?" manchon blinked his eyes and purred. but, alas, that was all he could do. just then the door opened and rosy came in. she was dressed for going out. she had her best hat and dress on, and she looked very well pleased with herself. "i'm going out a drive with auntie," she said. "and mamma says you're to be ready to go a walk with her in half an hour." she was leaving the room, when a sudden feeling made bee call her back. "rosy," she said, "do stay a minute. rosy, i am so unhappy. i've been thinking if i can't write a letter to ask mother to take me away from here. i would, only it would make her so unhappy." rosy looked a little startled. "why would you do that?" she said. "i'm sure i've not done anything to you." "but you don't love me any more," said bee. "you began to leave off loving me when your aunt and nelson came,--i know you did,--and then since the necklace was lost it's been worse. what can i do, rosy, what can i say?" "you might own that you've lost it--at least that you forgot to put it back," said rosy. "but i _did_ put it back. even nelson says that," said bee. "i can't say i didn't when i know i did," she added piteously. "but nelson thinks you took it another time, and forgot to put it back. and i think so too," said rosy. to do her justice, she never, like nelson, thought that bee had taken the necklace on purpose. she did not even understand that nelson thought so. "rosy," said bee very earnestly, "i did _not_ take it another time. i have never seen it since that afternoon when fixie had had it and i put it back. rosy, _don't_ you believe me?" rosy gave herself an impatient shake. "i don't know," she said. "you might have forgotten. anyway it was you that had it last, and i wish i'd never given you leave to have it; i'm sure it wouldn't have been lost." bee turned away and burst into tears. "i _will_ write to mamma and ask her to take me away," she said. again rosy looked startled. "if you do that," she said, "it will be very unkind to _my_ mamma. yours will think we have all been unkind to you, and then she'll write letters to my mamma that will vex her very much. and i'm sure _mamma's_ never been unkind to you. i don't mind if you say _i'm_ unkind; perhaps i am, because i'm very vexed about my necklace. i shall get naughty now it's lost--i know i shall," and so saying, rosy ran off. bee left off crying. it was true what rosy had said. it _would_ make mrs. vincent unhappy and cause great trouble if she asked her mother to take her away. a new and braver spirit woke in the little girl. "i won't be unhappy any more," she resolved. "i know i didn't touch the necklace, and so i needn't be unhappy. and then i needn't write anything to trouble mother, for if i get happy again it will be all right." her eyes were still rather red, but her face was brighter than it had been for some time when she came into the drawing-room, ready dressed for her walk. "is that you, bee dear?" said mrs. vincent kindly. she too was ready dressed, but she was just finishing the address on a letter. "why, you are looking quite bright again, my child!" she went on when she looked up at the little figure waiting patiently beside her. "i'm very glad to go out with you," said bee simply. "and i'm very glad to have you," said mrs. vincent. "aunt lillias," said bee, her voice trembling a little, "may i ask you one thing? _you_ don't think i touched rosy's necklace?" mrs. vincent smiled. "_certainly_ not, dear," she said. "i did at first think you might have forgotten to put it back that day. but after your telling me so distinctly that you _had_ put it back, i felt quite satisfied that you had done so." "but," said bee, and then she hesitated. "but what?" said mrs. vincent, smiling. "i don't think--i _didn't_ think," bee went on, gaining courage, "that you had been quite the same to me since then." "and you have been fancying all kinds of reasons for it, i suppose!" said mrs. vincent. "well, bee, the only thing i have been not quite pleased with you for _has_ been your looking so unhappy. i was surprised at your seeming so hurt and vexed at my asking you about the necklace, and since then you have looked so miserable that i had begun seriously to think it might be better for you not to stay with us. if rosy or any one else has disobeyed me, and gone on talking about the necklace, it is very wrong, but even then i wonder at your allowing foolish words to make you so unhappy. _has_ any one spoken so as to hurt you?" "no," said bee, "not exactly, but--" "but you have seen that there were unkind thoughts about you. well, i am very sorry for it, but at present i can do no more. you are old enough and sensible enough to see that several things have not been as i like or wish lately. but it is often so in this world. i was very sorry for martha to have to go away, but it could not be helped, now, bee, think it over. would you rather go away, for a time any way, or will you bravely determine not to mind what you know you don't deserve, knowing that _i_ trust you fully?" "yes," said bee at once, "i will not mind it any more. and rosy perhaps," here her voice faltered, "rosy perhaps will like me better if i don't seem so dull." mrs. vincent looked grave when bee spoke of rosy, so grave that bee almost wished she had not said it. "it is very hard," she heard rosy's mother say, as if speaking to herself, "just when i thought i had gained a better influence over her. _very_ hard." bee threw her arms round mrs. vincent's neck. "dear auntie," she said, "_don't_ be unhappy about rosy. i will be patient, and i know it will come right again, and i won't be unhappy any more." mrs. vincent kissed her. "yes, dear bee," she said, "we must both be patient and hopeful." and then they went out, and during the walk beata noticed that mrs. vincent talked about other things--old times in india that bee could remember, and plans for the future when her father and mother should come home again to stay. only just as they were entering the house on their return, bee could not help saying, "aunt lillias, i _wonder_ if the necklace will never be found." "so do i," said mrs. vincent. "i really cannot understand where it can have gone. we have searched so thoroughly that even if fixie _had_ put it somewhere we would have found it. and, if possibly, he had taken it away with him by mistake, martha would have seen it." but that was all that was said. a day or two later rosy came flying into the schoolroom in great excitement. miss pinkerton was there at the time, for it was the middle of morning lessons, and she had sent rosy upstairs to fetch a book she had left in the nursery by mistake. "miss pink, bee!" she continued, "our dresses have come from london. i'm sure it must be them. just as i passed the backstair door i heard james calling to somebody about a case that was to be taken upstairs, and i peeped over the banisters, and there was a large white wood box, and i saw the carter's man standing waiting to be paid. do let me go and ask about them, miss pink." "no, rosy, not just now," said miss pink. she spoke more firmly than she used to do now, for i think she had learnt a lesson, and rosy was beginning to understand that when miss pink said a thing she meant it to be done. rosy muttered something in a grumbling tone, and sat down to her lessons. "you are always so ill-natured," she half whispered to bee. "if you had asked too she would have let us go, but you always want to seem better than any one else." "no, i don't," said bee, smiling. "i want dreadfully to see the dresses. we'll ask your mother to let us see them together this afternoon." rosy looked at her with surprise. lately beata had never answered her cross speeches like this, but had looked either ready to cry, or had told her she was very unkind or very naughty, which had not mended matters! rosy was right. the white wood box did contain the dresses, and though mrs. vincent was busy that day, as she and aunt edith were going a long drive to spend the afternoon and evening with friends at some distance, she understood the little girls' eagerness to see them, and had the box undone and the costumes fully exhibited to please them. they were certainly very pretty, for though the material they were made of was only cotton, they had been copied exactly from an old picture lady esther had sent on purpose. the only difference between them was that one of the quilted under skirts was sky blue to suit rosy's bright complexion and fair hair, and the other was a very pretty shade of rose colour, which, went better with bee's dark hair and paler face. the children stood entranced, admiring them. "now, dears, i must put them away," said mrs. vincent. "it is really time for me to get ready." "o mamma!" exclaimed rosy, "do leave them out for us to try on. i can tell nelson to take them to my room." "no, rosy," said her mother decidedly. "you must wait to try them on till to-morrow. i want to see them on myself. besides, they are very delicate in colour, and would be easily soiled. you must be satisfied with what you have seen of them for to-day. now run and get ready. it is already half-past three." for it had been arranged that rosy and bee, with nelson to take care of them, were to drive part of the way with mrs. vincent and her sister-in-law, and to walk back, as it was a very pretty country road. rosy went off to get ready, shaking herself in the way she often did when she was vexed; and while she was dressing she recounted her grievances to nelson. "never mind, miss rosy," said that foolish person, "we'll perhaps have a quiet look at your dress this evening when we're all alone. there's no need to say anything about it to miss bee." "but mamma said we were not to try them on till to-morrow," said rosy. "no, not to try them on by yourselves, very likely you would get them soiled. but we'll see." it was pretty late when the children came home. they had gone rather farther than mrs. vincent had intended, and coming home they had made the way longer by passing through a wood which had tempted them at the side of the road. they were a little tired and very hungry, and till they had had their tea rosy was too hungry to think of anything else. but tea over, bee sat down to amuse herself with a book till bed-time, and rosy wandered about, not inclined to read, or, indeed, to do anything. suddenly the thought of the fancy dresses returned to her mind. she ran out of the nursery, and made her way to her aunt's room, where nelson was generally to be found. she was not there, however. rosy ran down the passages at that part of the house where the servants' rooms were, to look for her, though she knew that her mother did not like her to do so. "nelson, nelson," she cried. nelson's head was poked out of her room. "what is it, miss rosy? it's not your bed-time yet." "no, but i want to look at my dress again. you promised i should." "well, just wait five minutes. i'm just finishing a letter that one of the men's going to post for me. i'll come to your room, miss rosy, and bring a light. it's getting too dark to see." "be quick then," said rosy, imperiously. she went back to her room, but soon got tired of waiting there. she did not want to go to the nursery, for bee was there, and would begin asking her what she was doing. "i'll go to mamma's room," she said to herself, "and just look about to see where she has put the frocks. i'm _almost_ sure she'll have hung them up in her little wardrobe, where she keeps new things often." no sooner said than done. off ran rosy to her mother's room. it was getting dusk, dark almost, any way too dark to see clearly. rosy fumbled about on the mantelpiece till she found the match-box, and though she was generally too frightened of burning her fingers to strike a light herself, this time she managed to do so. there were candles on the dressing-table, and when she had lighted them she proceeded to search. it was not difficult to find what she wanted. the costumes were hanging up in the little wardrobe, as she expected, but too high for her to reach easily. rosy went to the door, and a little way down the passage, and called nelson. but no one answered, and it was a good way off to nelson's room. "nasty, selfish thing," said rosy; "she's just going on writing to tease me." but she was too impatient, to go back to her own room and wait there. with the help of a chair she got down the frocks. bee's came first, of course, because it wasn't wanted--rosy flung it across the back of a chair, and proceeded to examine her own more closely than she had been able to do before. it _was_ pretty! and so complete--there was even the little white mob-cap with blue ribbons, and a pair of blue shoes with high, though not very high, heels! these last she found lying on the shelf, above the hanging part of the wardrobe. "it is _too_ pretty," said rosy. "i _must_ try it on." and, quick as thought, she set to work--and nobody could be quicker or cleverer than rosy when she chose--taking off the dress she had on, and rapidly attiring herself in the lovely costume. it all seemed to fit beautifully,--true, the pale blue shoes looked rather odd beside the sailor-blue stockings she was wearing, and she wondered what kind of stockings her mother intended her to wear at summerlands--and she could not get the little lace kerchief arranged quite to her taste; but the cap went on charmingly, and so did the long mittens, which were beside the shoes. "there must be stockings too," thought rosy, "for there seems to be everything else; perhaps they are farther back in the shelf." [illustration: by stretching a good deal she thought she could reach them.] she climbed up on the chair again, but she could not see farther into the shelf, so she got down and fetched one of the candles. then up again--yes--there were two little balls, a pink and a blue, farther back-by stretching a good deal she thought she could reach them. only the candle was in the way, as she was holding it in one hand. she stooped and set it down on the edge of the chair, and reached up again, and had just managed to touch the little balls she could no longer see, when--what was the matter? what was that rush of hot air up her left leg and side? she looked down, and, in her fright, fell--chair, rosy, and candle, in a heap on the floor--for she had seen that her skirts were on fire! and, as she fell, she uttered a long piercing scream. chapter xii. good out of evil. "sweet are the uses of adversity."--shakespeare. a scream that would probably have reached the nursery, which was not very far from mrs. vincent's room, had there been any one there to hear it! but as it was, the person who had been there--little bee--was much nearer than the nursery at the time of rosy's accident. the house was very silent that evening, and nelson had not thought of bringing a light; so when it got too dark to read, even with the book pressed close against the window-panes, bee grew rather tired of waiting there by herself, with nothing to do. "i wonder where rosy is," she thought, opening the door, and looking out along the dusky passages. and just then she heard rosy's voice, at some little distance, calling, "nelson, nelson." "if she is with nelson i won't go," thought bee. "i'll wait till she comes back;" and she came into the empty nursery again, and wished martha was home. "she always makes the nursery so comfortable," thought bee. then it struck her that perhaps it was not very kind of her not to go and see what rosy wanted--she had not heard any reply to rosy's call for nelson. "her voice sounded as if she was in aunt lillias's room," she said to herself. "what can she be wanting? perhaps i'd better go and see." and she set off down the passage. the lamps were not yet lighted; perhaps the servants were less careful than usual, knowing that the ladies would not be home till late, but bee knew her way about the house quite well. she was close to the door of mrs. vincent's room, and had already noticed that it stood slightly ajar, for a light was streaming out, when--she stood for a second half-stupefied with terror--what was it?--what could be the matter?--as rosy's fearful scream reached her ears. half a second, and she had rushed into the room--there lay a confused heap on the floor, for rosy, in her fall, had pulled over the chair; but the first glance showed bee what was wrong--rosy was on fire! it was a good thing she had fallen, otherwise, in her wild fright, she would probably have made things worse by rushing about; as it was, she had not had time to get up before bee was beside her, smothering her down with some great heavy thing, and calling to her to keep still, to "squeeze herself down," so as to put out the flames. the "great thing" was the blankets and counterpane of the bed, which somehow bee, small as she was, had managed to tear off. and, frightened as rosy was, the danger was not, after all, so very great, for the quilted under skirt was pretty thick, and her fall had already partly crushed down the fire. it was all over more quickly than it has taken me to tell it, and rosy at last, half choked with the heavy blankets, and half soaked with the water which bee had poured over her to make sure, struggled to her feet, safe and uninjured, only the pretty dress hopelessly spoilt! and when all the danger was past, and there was nothing more to do, nelson appeared at the door, and rushed at her darling miss rosy, screaming and crying, while beata stood by, her handkerchief wrapped round one of her hands, and nobody paying any attention to her. nelson's screams soon brought the other servants; among them, they got the room cleared of the traces of the accident, and rosy undressed and put to bed. she was crying from the fright, but she had got no injury at all; her tears, however, flowed on when she thought of what her mother would have to be told, and bee found it difficult to comfort her. "you saved me, bee, dear bee," she said, clinging to her. "and it was because i disobeyed mamma, and i might have been burnt to death. o bee, just think of it!" and she would not let beata leave her. it was like this that mrs. vincent found them on her return late in the evening. you can fancy how miserable it was for her to be met with such a story, and to know that it was all rosy's own fault. but it was not all miserable, for never had she known her little girl so completely sorry and ashamed, and so truly grateful to any one as she was now feeling to beata. and even aunt edith's prejudice seemed to have melted away, for she kissed bee as she said goodnight, and called her a brave, good child. so it was with a thankful little heart that beata went to bed. her hand was sore--it had got badly scorched in pressing down the blankets--but she did not think it bad enough to say anything about it except to the cook, who was a kind old woman, and wrapped it up in cotton wool, after well dredging it with flour, and making her promise that if it hurt her in the night she would call her. it did not hurt her, and she slept soundly; but when she woke in the morning her head ached, and she wished she could stay in bed! rosy was still sleeping--the housemaid, who came to draw the curtains, told her--and she was not to be wakened. "after the fright she had, it is better to sleep it off," the servant said, "though, for some things, it's to be hoped she won't forget it. it should be a lesson to her. but you don't look well, miss bee," she went on; "is your head aching, my dear?" "yes," bee allowed, "and i can't think why, for i slept very well. what day is it, phoebe? isn't it sunday?" "yes, miss bee. it's sunday." "i don't think i can go to church. the organ would make my head worse," said bee, sitting up in bed. "shall i tell any one that you're not well, miss bee?" asked phoebe. "oh no, thank you," said bee, "i daresay it will get better when i'm up." it did seem a little better, but she was looking pale when mrs. vincent came to the nursery to see her and rosy, who had wakened up, none the worse for her fright, but anxious to do all she could for poor bee when she found out about her sore hand and headache, "why did you not tell me about your hand last night, dear bee?" mrs. vincent asked. "it didn't hurt much. it doesn't hurt much now," said bee, "and fraser looked at it and saw that it was not very bad, and--and--you had had so many things to trouble you, aunt lillias," she added, affectionately. "yes, dear; but, when i think how much worse they might have been, i dare not complain," rosy's mother replied. bee did not go to church that day. her headache was not very bad, but it did not seem to get well, and it was still rather bad when she woke the next morning. and that next morning brought back to all their minds what, for the moment, had been almost forgotten--that it was within three days of the fete at summerlands!--for there came a note from lady esther, giving some particulars about the hour she hoped they would all come, and rejoicing in the promise of fine weather for the children's treat. rosy's mother read the note aloud. then she looked at aunt edith, and looked at the little girls. they were all together when the letter came. "what is to be done?" said miss vincent; "i had really forgotten the fãªte was to be on wednesday. is it impossible to have a new dress made in time?" "quite impossible," said mrs. vincent, "rosy must cheerfully, or at least patiently, bear what she has brought on herself, and be, as i am sure she is, very thankful that it was no worse." rosy glanced up quickly. she seemed as if she were going to say something, and the look in her face was quite gentle. "i--i--i _will_ try to be good, mamma," she broke out at last. "and i know i might have been burnt to death if it hadn't been for bee. and--and--i hope bee will enjoy the fãªte." but that was all she could manage. she hurried over the last words; then, bursting into tears, she rushed out of the room. "poor darling!" said aunt edith. "lillias, are you sure we can do nothing? couldn't one of her white dresses be done up somehow?" "no," said mrs. vincent. "it would only draw attention to her if she was to go dressed differently from the others, and i should not wish that. besides--oh no--it is much better not." she had hardly said the words when she felt something gently pulling her, and, looking down, there was bee beside her, trying to whisper something. "auntie," she said, "would you, oh! _would_ you let rosy go instead of me, wearing my dress? it would fit her almost as well as her own. and, do you know, i _wouldn't_ care to go alone. it wouldn't be _any_ happiness to me, and it would be such happiness to know that rosy could go. and i'm afraid i've got a little cold or something, for i've still got a headache, and i'm not sure that it will be better by wednesday." she looked up entreatingly in mrs. vincent's face, and then rosy's mother noticed how pale and ill she seemed. "my dear little bee," she said, "you must try to be better by wednesday. and, you know, dear, though we are all very sorry for rosy, it is only what she has brought on herself. i hope she has learnt a lesson--more than one lesson--but, if she were to have the pleasure of going to summerlands, she might not remember it so well." beata said no more--she could not oppose rosy's mother--but she shook her head a little sadly. "i don't think rosy's like that, aunt lillias," she said; "i don't think it would make her forget." beata's headache was not better the next day; and, as the day went on, it grew so much worse that mrs. vincent at last sent for the doctor. he said that she was ill, much in the same way that fixie had been. not that it was anything she could have caught from him--it was not that kind of illness at all--but it was the first spring either of them had been in england, and he thought that very likely the change of climate had caused it with them both. he was not, he said, anxious about bee, but still he looked a little grave. she was not strong, and she should not be overworked with lessons, or have anything to trouble or distress her. "she has not been overworked," mrs. vincent said. "and she seems very sweet-tempered and gentle. a happy disposition, i should think," said the doctor, as he hastened away. his words made mrs. vincent feel rather sad. it was true--bee had a happy disposition--she had never, till lately, seen her anything but bright and cheery. "my poor little bee," she thought, "i was hard upon her. i did not quite understand her. in my anxiety about rosy when her aunt and nelson came i fear i forgot bee. but i do trust all that is over, and that rosy has truly learnt a lesson. and we must all join to make little bee happy again." she returned to bee's room. the child was sitting up in bed, her eyes sparkling in her white face--she was very eager about something. "auntie," she said, "you see i cannot possibly go to-morrow. and you must go, for poor lady esther is counting on you to help her. auntie, you _will_ forgive poor rosy now _quite_, won't you, and let her go in my dress?" the pleading eyes, the white face, the little hot hands laid coaxingly on hers--it would not have been easy to refuse! besides, the doctor had said she was neither to be excited nor distressed. the tears were in mrs. vincent's eyes as she bent down to kiss the little girl, but she did not let her see them. "i will speak to rosy, dear," she said. "i will tell her how much you want her to go in your place; and i think perhaps you are right--i don't think it will make her forget." "_thank_ you, dear auntie," said bee, as fervently as if mrs. vincent had promised her the most delightful treat in the world. that afternoon bee fell asleep, and slept quietly and peacefully for some time. when she woke she felt better, and she lay still, thinking it was nice and comfortable to be in bed when one felt tired, as she had always done lately; then her eyes wandered round her little room, and she thought how neat and pretty it looked, how pleased her mother would be to see how nice she had everything; and, just as she was thinking this, her glance fell on a little table beside her bed, which had been placed there with a little lemonade and a few grapes. there was something there that had not been on the table before she went to sleep. in a delicate little glass, thin and clear as a soap-bubble, was the most lovely rose bee had ever seen--rich, soft, _rose_ colour, glowing almost crimson in the centre, and melting into a somewhat paler shade at the edge. [illustration: 'it's a rose from rosy.'] "oh you beauty!" exclaimed bee, "i wonder who put you there. i would like to scent you"--bee, like other children i know, always talked of "scenting" flowers; she said "smell" was not a pretty enough word for such pretty things--"but i am afraid of knocking over that lovely glass. it must be one of aunt lillias's that she has lent." a little soft laugh came from the side of her bed, and, leaning over, bee caught sight of a tangle of bright hair. it was rosy. she had been watching there for bee to wake. up she jumped, and, carefully lifting the glass, held it close to bee. "it isn't mother's glass," she said; "it's your own. it _was_ mother's, but i've bought it for you. mother let me, because i _did_ so want to do something to please you; and she let me choose the beautifullest rose for you, bee. i am so glad you like it; it's a rose from rosy. i've been sitting by you such a time. and though i'm so pleased you like the rose, i _have_ been crying a little, bee, truly, because you are so good, and about my going to-morrow." "you _are_ going?" said bee, anxiously. in rosy's changed way of thinking she became suddenly afraid that she might not wish to go. "yes," said rosy, rather gravely, "i am going. mother is quite pleased for me to go, to please you. in one way i would rather not go, for i know i don't deserve it; and i can't help thinking you wouldn't have been ill if i hadn't done that, and made you have a fright. and it seems such a shame for me to wear _your_ dress, when you've been quite good and _deserve_ the pleasure, and just when i've got to see how kind you are, and we'd have been so happy to go together. and then i've a feeling, bee, that i _shall_ enjoy it when i get there, and perhaps i shall forget a little about you, and it will be so horrid of me, if i do--and that makes me, wish i wasn't going." "but i want you to enjoy it," said bee, simply, in her little weak voice. "it wouldn't be nice of me to want you to go if i thought you wouldn't enjoy it. and it's nice of you to tell me how you feel. but i would like you to think of me _this_ way--every time you are having a very nice dance, or that any one says you look so nice, just think, "i wish bee could see me," or "how nice it will be to tell bee about it," and, that way, the more you enjoy it the more you'll think of me." "yes," said rosy, "that's putting it a very nice way; or, bee, if there are very nice things to eat, i might think of you another way. i might, perhaps, bring you back some nice biscuits or bonbons--any kind that wouldn't squash in my pocket, you know. i might ask mamma to ask lady esther." "yes," said bee, "i'm not very hungry, but just a few very nice, rather dry ones, you know, i would like." "i could keep them for fixie when he comes back," was the thought in her mind. she had not heard anything about when fixie and martha were coming back, but she was to have a pleasant surprise the next day. it was a little lonely; for, though rosy meant to be very, very kind, she was rather too much of a chatterbox not to tire bee after a while. "mamma said i wasn't to stay very long," she said; "but don't you mind being alone so much?" "no, i don't think so," said bee, "and, you know, phoebe is in the next room if i want her." "i know what you'd like," said rosy, and off she flew. in two minutes she was back again with something in her arms. it was manchon! she laid him gently down at the foot of bee's bed. "he's so 'squisitely clean, you know," she went on, "and i know you're fond of him." "_very_" said bee, with great satisfaction. "i like him better than i did," said rosy, "but still i think he's a sort of a fairy. why, it shows he is, for now that i'm so good--i mean now that i'm going to be good always--he seems to like me ever so much better. he used to snarl if ever i touched him, and to-day when i said 'i'm going to take you to bee, manchon,' he let me take him as good as good." but that evening brought still better company for bee. she went to sleep early, and she slept well, and when she woke in the morning who do you think was standing beside her? dear little fixie, his white face ever so much rounder and rosier, and kind martha, both smiling with pleasure at seeing her again, though feeling sorry, too, that she was ill. "zou'll soon be better, bee, and fixie will be so good to you, and then p'raps we'll go again to that nice place where we've been, for you to get kite well." so bee, after all, did not feel at all dull or lonely when rosy came in to say good-bye, in bee's pretty dress. and mrs. vincent, and even miss vincent, kissed her so kindly! even nelson, i forgot to say, had put her head in at the door to ask how she was; and when bee answered her nicely, as she always did, she came in for a moment to tell her how sorry she was bee could not go to the fete. "for i must say, miss bee," she added, "i must say as i think you've acted very pretty, very pretty, indeed, about lending your dress to dear miss rosy, bless her." "and, if there's anything i can do for you--" here bee's breakfast coming in interrupted her, which bee, on the whole, was not sorry for. she did not see rosy that evening, for it was late when they came home, and she was already asleep. but the next morning bee woke much better, and quite able to listen to rosy's account of it all. she had enjoyed it very much--of course not _as_ much as if bee had been there too, she said; but lady esther had thought it so sweet of bee to beg for rosy to go, and she had sent her the loveliest little basket of bonbons, tied up with pink ribbons, that ever was seen, and still better, she had told rosy that she had serious thoughts of having a large christmas-tree party next winter, at which all the children should be dressed out of the fairy tales. "wouldn't it be lovely?" said rosy. "we were thinking perhaps you would be red riding hood, and i the white cat. but we can look over all the fairy tales and think about it when you're better, can't we, bee?" beata got better much more quickly than fixie had done. the first day she was well enough to be up she begged leave to write two little letters, one to her mother and one to colin, who had been very kind; for while she was ill he had written twice to her, which for a schoolboy was a great deal, i think. his letters were meant to be very amusing; but, as they were full of cricket and football, bee did not find them very easy to understand. she was sitting at the nursery-table, thinking what she could say to show colin she liked to hear about his games, even though the names puzzled her a little, when fixie came and stood by her, looking rather melancholy. "what's the matter?" she said. "zou's writing such a long time," said fixie, "and rosy's still at her lessons. i zought when zou was better zou'd play wif me." "i can't play much," said bee, "for i've still got a funny buzzy feeling in my head, and i'm rather tired." "yes, i know," said fixie, with great sympathy, "mine head was like fousands of trains when i was ill. we won't play, bee, we'll only talk." "well, i'll just finish my letter," said bee. "i'll just tell colin he must tell me all about innings and outings, and all that, when he comes home. yes--that'll do. "your affectionate--t-i-o-n-a-t-e--bee." now i'll talk to you, fixie. what a pity we haven't got rosy's beads to tell stories about!" a queer look came into fixie's face. "rosy's beads," he said. "yes, rosy's necklace that was lost. and you didn't know where it was gone when martha asked you--when your mother wrote a letter about it." as she spoke, she drew their two little chairs to what had always been their favourite corner, near a window, which was low enough for them to look out into the pretty garden. "don't sit there," said fixie, "i don't like there." "why not? don't you remember we were sitting here the last afternoon we were in the nursery--before you went away. you liked it then, when i told you stories about the beads, before they were lost." "before _zem_ was lost," said fixie, his face again taking the troubled, puzzled look; "i didn't know it was _zem_--i mean it was somefin else of rosy's that was lost--lace for her neck, that i'd _never_ seen." bee's heart began to beat faster with a strange hope. she had seen fixie's face looking troubled, and she remembered martha saying how her questioning about the necklace had upset him, and it seemed almost cruel to go on talking about it. but a feeling had come over her that there was something to find out, and now it grew stronger and stronger. "lace for rosy's neck," she repeated, "no, fixie, you must be mistaken. lace for her neck--" and then a sudden idea struck her,--"can you mean a _necklace?_ don't you know that a necklace means beads?" fixie stared at her for a moment, growing very red. then the redness finished up, like a thundercloud breaking into rain, by his bursting into tears, and hiding his face in bee's lap. "i didn't know, i didn't know," he cried, "i thought it was some lace that martha meant. i didn't mean to tell a' untrue, bee. i didn't like martha asking me, 'cos it made me think of the beads i'd lost, and i thought p'raps i'd get them up again when i came home, but i can't. i've poked and poked, and i think the mouses have eatened zem." by degrees bee found out what the poor little fellow meant. the morning after the afternoon when bee and he had had the necklace, and bee had put it safely back, he had, unknown to any one, fetched it again for himself, and sat playing with it by the nursery-window, in the corner where the hole in the floor was. out of idleness, he had amused himself by holding the string of beads at one end, and dropping them down the mysterious hole, "like fishing," he said, till, unluckily, he had dropped them in altogether; and there, no doubt, they were still lying! he was frightened at what he had done, but he meant to tell bee, and ask her advice. but that very afternoon the doctor came, and he was separated from the other children; and, while he was ill, he seemed to have forgotten about it. when martha questioned him at the seaside, he had no idea she was speaking of the beads; but he did not like her questions, because they made him remember what he _had_ lost. and then he thought he would try to get the beads out of the hole by poking with a stick when he came home; but he had found he could not manage it, and then he had taken a dislike to that part of the room. all this was told with many sobs and tears, but bee soothed him as well as she could; and when his mother soon after came to the nursery and heard the story, she was very kind indeed, and made him see how even little wrong-doings, like taking the beads to play with without leave, always bring unhappiness; and still more, how wise and right it is for children to tell at once when they have done wrong, instead of trying to put the wrong right themselves. that was all she said, except that, as she kissed her poor little boy, she told him to tell no one else about it, except martha, and that she would see what could be done. bee and fixie said no more about it; but on that account, i daresay, like the famous parrot, "they thought the more." and once or twice that afternoon, fixie _could_ not help whispering to bee, "_do_ you fink mamma's going to get the beads hooked out?" or, "i hope they won't hurt the mouses that lives down in the hole. _do_ you fink the mouses has eaten it, p'raps?" beata was sent early to bed, as she was not yet, of course, counted as quite well; and both she and fixie slept very soundly--whether they dreamt of rosy's beads or not i cannot tell. but the next morning bee felt so much better that she begged to get up quite early. "not till after you've had your breakfast, miss bee," said martha. "but mrs. vincent says you may get up as soon as you like after that, and then you and miss rosy and master fixie are all to go to her room. she has something to show you." bee and fixie looked at each other. they felt sure _they_ knew what it was! but rosy, who had also come to bee's room to see how she was, looked very mystified. "i wonder what it can be," she said. "can it be a parcel come for us? and oh, martha, by-the-bye, what was that knocking in the nursery last night after we were in bed? i heard robert's voice, i'm sure. what was he doing?" "he came up to nail down something that was loose," said martha, quietly; but that was all she would say. they all three marched off to mrs. vincent's room as soon as beata was up and dressed. she was waiting for them. "i am so glad you are so much better this morning, bee," she said, as she kissed them all; "and now" she went on, "look here, i have a surprise for you all." she lifted a handkerchief which she had laid over something on a little table; and the three children, as they pressed forward, could hardly believe their eyes. for there lay rosy's necklace, as bright and pretty as ever, and there beside it lay another, just like it at the first glance, though, when it was closely examined, one could see that the patterns on the beads were different; but any way it was just as pretty. "two," exclaimed fixie, "_two_ lace-beads, what _is_ the name? has the mouses made a new one for bee, dear bee?" "yes, for dear bee," said his mother, smiling, "it is for bee, though it didn't come from the mouses;" and then she explained to them how "mr. furniture" had sent the second necklace for bee, but that she had thought it better to keep it a while in hopes of rosy's being found, as she knew that bee's pleasure in the pretty beads would not have been half so great if rosy were without hers. how happy they all looked! "what lotses of fairy stories we can make now!" said fixie--"one for every bead-lace, bee!" "and, mamma," said rosy, "i'll keep on being very good now. i daresay i'll be dreadfully good soon; and bee will be always good too, now, because you know we've got our talismans." mrs. vincent smiled, but she looked a little grave. "what is it, mamma?" said rosy. "should i say talis_men_, not talismans?" her mother smiled more this time. "no, it wasn't that. 'talismans' is quite right. i was only thinking that perhaps it was not very wise of me to have put the idea into your head, rosy dear, for i want you to learn and feel that, though any little outside help may be a good thing as a reminder, it is only your own self, your own heart, earnestly wishing to be good, that can really make you succeed; and you know where the earnest wishing comes from, and where you are always sure to get help if you ask it, don't you, rosy?" rosy got a little red, and looked rather grave. "i _nearly_ always remember to say my prayers," she answered. "well, let the 'talisman' help you to remember, if ever you are inclined to forget. and it isn't _only_ at getting-up time and going-to-bed time that one may _pray_, as i have often told you, dear children. i really think, rosy," she went on more lightly, "that it would be nice for you and bee to wear your necklaces always. i shall like to see them, and i believe it would be almost impossible to spoil or break them." "only for my fairy stories," said fixie, "i should have to walk all round bee and rosy to see the beads. you will let them take them off, _sometimes_, won't you, mamma?" "yes, my little man, provided you promise not to send them visits down the 'mouses' holes,'" said his mother, laughing. this is all i can tell you for the present about rosy and her brothers and little bee. there is more to tell, as you can easily fancy, for, of course, rosy did not grow "quite good" all of a sudden, though there certainly was a great difference to be seen in her from the time of her narrow escape--nor was beata, in spite of _her_ talisman, without faults and failings. nor was either of them without sorrows and disappointments and difficulties in their lives, bright and happy though they were. if you have been pleased with what i have told you, you must let me know, and i shall try to tell you some more. and again, dear children,--little friends, whom i love so much, though i may never have seen your faces, and though you only know me as somebody who is _very_ happy, when her little stories please you--again, my darlings, i wish you the merriest of merry christmases for 1882, and every blessing in the new year that will soon be coming! the end. the lady of the forest. a story for girls. by l. t. meade author of "the little princess of tower hill," "a sweet girl graduate," "the palace beautiful," "polly," "a world of girls," etc., etc. "tyde what may betyde, lovel shall dwell at avonsyde." illustrated edition. a. l. burt company, publishers, new york. contents chapter i.--fair little maids. chapter ii.--making terms. chapter iii.--preparing for the heir chapter iv.--a spartan boy. chapter v.--in the forest. chapter vi.--the tower bedroom. chapter vii.--"betyde what may." chapter viii.--the sacred cupboard. chapter ix.--a trysting-place. chapter x.--proofs. chapter xi.--the lady who came with a gift. chapter xii.--lost in the new forest. chapter xiii.--one more secret. chapter xiv.--the australians. chapter xv.--was he acting? chapter xvi.--lost. chapter xvii.--looking for the tankard. chapter xviii.--the marmadukes. chapter xix.--a tender heart. chapter xx.--punished. chapter xxi.--what the heir ought to be. chapter xxii.--right is right. chapter xxiii.--forest life. chapter xxiv.--a great alarm. chapter xxv.--a dream with a meaning. chapter xxvi.--love versus gold. chapter xxvii.--two mothers. chapter xxviii.--the lady who came with a gift. the lady of the forest. "tyde what may betyde lovel shall dwell at avonsyde." chapter i.--fair little maids. "and then," said rachel, throwing up her hands and raising her eyebrows--"and then, when they got into the heart of the forest itself, just where the shade was greenest and the trees thickest, they saw the lady coming to meet them. she, too, was all in green, and she came on and on, and----" "hush, rachel!" exclaimed kitty; "here comes aunt grizel." the girls, aged respectively twelve and nine, were seated, one on a rustic stile, the other on the grass at her feet; a background of splendid forest trees threw their slight and childish figures into strong relief. rachel's hat was tossed on the ground and kitty's parasol lay unopened by her side. the sun was sending slanting rays through the trees, and some of these rays fell on kitty's bright hair and lit up rachel's dark little gypsy face. "aunt grizel is coming," said kitty, and immediately she put on a proper and demure expression. rachel, drawn up short in the midst of a very exciting narrative, looked slightly defiant and began to whistle in a boyish manner. aunt griselda was seen approaching down a long straight avenue overshadowed by forest trees of beech and oak; she held her parasol well up, and her face was further protected from any passing gleams of sunlight by a large poke-bonnet. she was a slender old lady, with a graceful and dignified appearance. aunt griselda would have compelled respect from any one, and as she approached the two girls they both started to their feet and ran to meet her. "your music-master has been waiting for you for half an hour, rachel. kitty, i am going into the forest; you can come with me if you choose." rachel did not attempt to offer any excuse for being late; with an expressive glance at kitty she walked off soberly to the house, and the younger girl, picking up her hat, followed aunt griselda, sighing slightly as she did so. kitty was an affectionate child, the kind of child who likes everybody, and she would have tolerated aunt griselda--who was not particularly affectionate nor particularly sympathetic--if she had not disturbed her just at the moment when she was listening with breathless interest to a wonderful romance. kitty adored fairy tales, and rachel had a great gift in that direction. she was very fond of prefacing her stories with some such words as the following: "understand now, kitty, that this fairy story is absolutely true; the fairy was seen by our great-great-grandmother;" or "our great-uncle jonas declares that he saw that brownie himself as he was going through the forest in the dusk;" then kitty's pretty blue eyes would open wide and she would lose herself in an enchanted world. it was very trying to be brought back to the ordinary everyday earth by aunt griselda, and on the present occasion the little girl felt unusually annoyed. miss griselda lovel, or "aunt grizel" as her nieces called her, was a taciturn old lady, and by no means remarked kitty's silence. there were many little paths through the forest, and the two soon found themselves in comparative night. miss lovel walked quickly, and kitty almost panted as she kept up with her. her head was so full of rachel's fairy tale that at last some unexpected words burst from her lips. they were passing under a splendid forest tree, when kitty suddenly clutched aunt grizel's thin hand. "aunt grizel--is it--is it about here that the lady lives?" "what lady, child?" asked miss lovel. "oh, you know--the lady of the forest." aunt grizel dropped kitty's hand and laughed. "what a foolish little girl you are, kitty! who has been putting such nonsense into your head? see, my dear, i will wait for you here; run down this straight path to the eyres' cottage, and bring mrs. eyre back with you--i want to speak to her. i have had a letter, my dear, and your little cousin philip lovel is coming to avonsyde to-morrow." * * * * * avonsyde was one of the oldest places in the country; it was not particularly large, nor were its owners remarkable for wealth, or prowess, or deeds of daring, neither were the men of the house specially clever. it was indeed darkly hinted at that the largest portion of brains was as a rule bestowed upon the female side of the house. but on the score of antiquity no country seat could at all approach avonsyde. it was a delightful old place, homelike and bright; there were one or two acres of flower-garden not too tidily kept, and abounding in all kinds of old-fashioned and sweet-smelling flowers; the house had a broad frontage, its windows were small, and it possessed all the charming irregularities of a family dwelling-place which has been added to piece by piece. at one end was a tower, gray and hoary with the weight of centuries; at the further end were modern wings with large reception-rooms, and even some attempts at modern luxury and modern ornamentation. there were two avenues to the place: one the celebrated straight avenue, which must have been cut at some long-ago period directly out of the neighboring forest, for the trees which arched it over were giant forest oaks and beeches. this avenue was the pride of the place, and shown as a matter of course to all visitors. the other avenue, and the one most in use, was winding and straggling; it led straight up to the old-fashioned stone porch which guarded the entrance, and enshrined in the most protective and cozy manner the principal doors to the house. avonsyde had belonged to the lovels for eight hundred years. they were not a rich family and they had undergone many misfortunes; the property now belonged to the younger branch; for a couple of hundred years ago a very irate and fiery squire lovel had disinherited his eldest son and had bestowed all his fair lands and the old place upon a younger son. from that moment matters had not gone well with the family; the younger son who inherited the property which should have been his brother's made an unfortunate marriage, had sickly children, many of whom died, and not being himself either too strong-minded or in any sense overwise, had sustained severe money losses, and for the first time within the memory of man some of the avonsyde lands had to be sold. from the date of the disinheritance of the elder branch the family never regained either their wealth or prestige; generation after generation the lovels dwindled in strength and became less and less able to cope with their sturdier neighbors. the last squire of avonsyde had one sickly son and two daughters; the son married, but died before his father, leaving no son to inherit the old place. this son had also, in the family's estimation, married beneath him, and during the squire's lifetime his daughters were afraid even to mention the names of two bonny little lasses who were pining away their babyhood and early youth in poky london lodgings, and who would have been all the better for the fresh breezes which blew so genially round avonsyde. after the death of his son squire lovel became very morose and disagreeable. he pretended not to grieve for his son, but he also lost all interest in life. one by one the old pleasures in which he used to delight were given up, his health gave way rapidly, and at last the end drew near. there came a day when squire lovel felt so ill that he sent first of all for the family doctor and then for the family solicitor. he occupied the doctor's attention for about ten minutes, but he was closeted with the lawyer for two or three hours. at the end of that time he sent for his daughters and made some strong statements to them. "grizel," he said, addressing the elder miss lovel, "dr. maddon has just informed me that i am not long for this world." "dr. maddon is fond of exaggerating matters," said miss grizel in a voice which she meant to be soothing; "neither katharine nor i think you very ill, father, and--and----" the squire raised his eyebrows impatiently. "we won't discuss the question of whether maddon is a wise man or a silly one, griselda," he said. "i know myself that i am ill. i am not only ill, i am weak, and arguing with regard to a foregone conclusion is wearisome. i have much to talk to you and katharine about, so will you sit down quietly and listen to me?" miss griselda was a cold-mannered and perhaps cold-natured woman. miss katharine, on the contrary, was extremely tender-hearted; she looked appealingly at her old father's withered face; but she had always been submissive, and she now followed her elder sister's lead and sat down quietly on the nearest chair. "we will certainly not worry you with needless words, father," said miss griselda gently. "you have doubtless many directions to give us about the property; your instructions shall of course be carried out to the best of my ability. katharine, too, although she is not the strongest-minded of mortals, will no doubt, from a sense of filial affection, also respect your wishes." "i am glad the new poultry-yard is complete," here half-sobbed miss katharine, "and that valuable new breed of birds arrived yesterday; and i--i----" "try to stop talking, both of you," suddenly exclaimed the squire. "i am dying, and avonsyde is without an heir. griselda, will you oblige me by going down to the library and bringing up out of the book-case marked d that old diary of my great-grandfather's, in which are entered the particulars of the quarrel?" miss katharine looked in an awe-struck and startled way at her sister. miss griselda rose at once and, with a bunch of keys in her hand, went downstairs. the moment she had left the room miss katharine got up timidly and, with a certain pathos, stooped down and kissed the old man's swollen hand. the little action was done so simply and naturally that the fierce old face relaxed, and for an instant the wrinkled hand touched miss katharine's gray head. "yes, kitty, i know you love me; but i hate the feminine weakness of tears. ah, kitty, you were a fair enough looking maid once, but time has faded and changed you; you are younger than grizel, but you have worn far worse." miss katharine did not say a word, but hastily resumed her seat; and when miss lovel returned with the vellum-bound diary, she had not an idea that her younger sister had ever moved. sitting down by her father, she opened the musty old volume and read aloud certain passages which, written in fierce heat at the time, disclosed a painful family scene. angry words, bitter recriminations, the sense of injustice on one side, the thirst for revenge on the other, were faithfully portrayed by the dead-and-gone chronicler. the squire's lips moved in unspoken accompaniment to the words which his daughter read aloud, and miss katharine bent eagerly forward in order not to lose a syllable. "i am dying, and there is no male heir to avonsyde," said the squire at last. "griselda and katharine, i wish to state here distinctly that my great-great-grandfather made a mistake when he turned the boy rupert from the old place. valentine should have refused to inherit; it is doubtless because of valentine's weakness and his father's spirit of revenge that i die to-day without male issue to inherit avonsyde." "heaping recriminations on the dead won't help matters now," said miss griselda in a sententious voice. as she spoke she closed the diary, clasped it and locked it, and miss katharine, starting to her feet, said: "there are the children in london, your grandchildren, father, and our nearest of kin." the squire favored his younger daughter with a withering look, and even miss griselda started at what were very bold words. "those children," said the squire--"girls, both of them, sickly, weakly, with valentine's miserable pink-and-white delicacy and their low born mother's vulgarity; i said i would never see them, and i surely do not wish to hear about them now. griselda, there is now one plain and manifest duty before you--i lay it as my dying charge on you and katharine. i leave the search which you are to institute as your mission in life. while you both live avonsyde is yours, but you must search the world over if necessary for rupert lovel's descendants; and when you discover them you are to elect a bonny stalwart boy of the house as your heir. no matter whether he is eldest or youngest, whether he is in a high position or a low position in the social scale, provided he is a lineal descendant of the rupert lovel who was disinherited in 1684, and provided also he is strong and upright and well-featured, with muscle and backbone and manliness in him, you are to appoint him your heir, and you are to bequeath to him the old house, and the old lands, and all the money you can save by simple and abstemious living. i have written it down in my will, and you are tied firmly, both of you, and cannot depart from my instructions; but i wished to talk over matters with you, for katharine there is slow to take in a thing, and you, grizel, are prejudiced and rancorous in your temper, and i wish you both clearly to understand that the law binds you to search for my heir, and this, if you want to inherit a shilling from me during your lifetime, you must do. remember, however, and bear ever strongly in mind, that if, when you find the family, the elder son is weakly and the younger son is strong, it is to the sturdy boy that the property is to go; and hark you yet again, griselda and katharine, that the property is not to go to the father if he is alive, but to the young boy, and the boy is to be educated to take up his rightful position. a strong lad, a manly and stalwart lad, mind you; for avonsyde has almost ceased to exist, owing to sickly and effeminate heirs, since the time when my great-great-grandfather quarreled with his son, rupert lovel, and gave the old place to that weakly stripling valentine. i am a descendant of valentine myself, but, 'pon my word, i rue the day." "your directions shall be obeyed to the letter," said miss griselda; but miss katharine interrupted her. "and we--we have only a life-interest in the property, father?" she inquired in a quavering voice. the old squire looked up into his younger daughter's face and laughed. "why, what more would you want, kitty? no longer young nor fair and with no thought of marrying--what is money to you after your death?" "i was thinking of the orphan children in london," continued miss katharine, with increasing firmness of manner and increasing trembling of voice. "they are very poor, and--and--they are valentine's children, and--and--you have never seen them, father." "and never mean to," snapped the squire. "griselda, i believe i have now given implicit directions. katharine, don't be silly. i don't mean to see those children and i won't be worried about them." at this moment the door behind the squire, which was very thick and made of solid oak, worn nearly black with age, was opened softly, and a clear voice exclaimed: "why, what a funny room! do come in, kitty. oh, what a beautiful room, and what a funny, queer old man!" miss griselda and miss katharine both turned round abruptly. miss griselda made a step toward the door to shut it against some unexpected and unwelcome intruder. the old man muttered: "that is a child's voice--one of the village urchins, no doubt." but before miss griselda could reach the door--in short, before any of the little party assembled in the dying squire's bedroom could do anything but utter disjointed exclamations, a child, holding a younger child by the hand, marched boldly and with the air of one perfectly at home into the chamber. "what a very nice room, and what funny ladies, and oh! what a queer, cross old man! don't be frightened, kitty, we'll walk right through. there's a door at the other end--maybe we'll find grandfather in the room beyond the door at that end." the squire's lower jaw quite dropped as the radiant little creatures came in and filled the room with an unlooked-for light and beauty. they were dressed picturesquely, and no one for an instant could mistake them for the village children. the eldest child might have been seven; she was tall and broad, with large limbs, a head crowned with a great wealth of tangly, fuzzy, nut-brown hair, eyes deeply set, very dark in color, a richly tinted dark little face, and an expression of animation which showed in the dancing eyes, in the dancing limbs, in the smiling, dimpled, confident mouth; her proud little head was well thrown back; her attitude was totally devoid of fear. the younger child was fair with a pink-and-white complexion, a quantity of golden, sunny hair, and eyes as blue as the sky; she could not have been more than four years old, and was round-limbed and dimpled like a baby. "who are you, my dears?" said miss katharine when she could speak. miss katharine was quite trembling, and she could not help smiling at the lovely little pair. squire lovel and miss grizel were still frowning, but miss katharine's voice was very gentle. "who are you, my dear little children?" she repeated, gaining courage and letting an affectionate inflection steal into her voice. "i'm kitty," said the younger child, putting her finger to her lip and looking askance at the elder girl, "and she--she's rachel." "you had better let me tell it, kitty," interrupted rachel. "please, we are going through the house--we want to see everything. kitty doesn't want to as badly as me, but she always does what i tell her. we are going straight on into the next room, for we want to find grandfather. i'm rachel lovel and this is kitty lovel. our papa used to live here when he was a little boy, and we want to find grandfather, please. oh, what a cross old man that is sitting in the chair!" while rachel was making her innocent and confident speech, miss katharine's face turned deadly pale; she was afraid even to glance at her father and sister. the poor lady felt nearly paralyzed, and was dimly wondering how she could get such audacious intruders out of the room. rachel having finished her speech remained silent for a quarter of a minute; then taking kitty's hand she said: "come along, kit, we may find grandfather in the other room. we'll go through the door at that end, and perhaps we'll come to grandfather at last." kitty heaved a little sigh of relief, and the two were preparing to scamper past the deep embrasure of the mullioned window, when a stern voice startled the little adventurers, and arresting them in their flight, caused them to wheel swiftly round. "come here," said squire lovel. he had never spoken more sternly; but the mites had not a bit of fear. they marched up to him boldly, and kitty laid her dimpled baby finger, with a look of inquiry, on his swollen old hand: "what a funny fat hand!" "what did you say you called yourself?" said the squire, lifting rachel's chin and peering into her dark face. "griselda and katharine, i'll thank you not to stand staring and gaping. what did you call yourself? what name did you say belonged to you, child? i'm hard of hearing; tell me again." "i'm rachel valentine lovel," repeated the child in a confident tone. "i was called after my mamma and after father--father's in heaven, and it makes my mother cry to say valentine, so i'm rachel; and this is kitty--her real name is katharine--katharine lovel. we have come in a dog-cart, and mother is downstairs, and we want to see all the house, and particularly the tower, and we want to see grandfather, and we want a bunch of grapes each." all the time rachel was speaking the squire kept regarding her more and more fiercely. when she said "my mother is downstairs," he even gave her a little push away. rachel was not at all appalled; she knit her own black brows and tried to imitate him. "i never saw such a cross old man; did you, kitty? please, old man, let us go now. we want to find grandfather." "perhaps it's a pain him got," said kitty, stroking the swollen hand tenderly. "mother says when i's got a pain i can't help looking cross." the fierce old eyes turned slowly from one lovely little speaker to the other; then the squire raised his head and spoke abruptly. "griselda and katharine, come here. have the goodness to tell me who this child resembles," pointing as he spoke to rachel. "look at her well, study her attentively, and don't both answer at once." there was not the slightest fear of miss katharine interrupting miss griselda on this occasion. she only favored dark-eyed little rachel with a passing glance; but her eyes, full of tears, rested long on the fair little baby face of kitty. "this child in all particulars resembles the portrait of our great-uncle rupert," said miss griselda, nodding at rachel as she did so. "the same eyes, the same lift of the eyebrows, and the same mouth." "and this one," continued the squire, turning his head and pointing to kitty--"this one, griselda? katharine, you need not speak." "this one," continued miss griselda, "has the weakness and effeminate beauty of my dead brother valentine." "kitty isn't weak," interrupted rachel; "she's as strong as possible. she only had croup once, and she never takes cold, and she only was ill for a little because she was very hungry. please, old man, stop staring so hard and let us go now. we want to find our grandfather." but instead of letting rachel go squire lovel stretched out his hand and drew her close to him. "sturdy limbs, dark face, breadth of figure," he muttered, "and you are my grandchild--the image of rupert; yes, the image of rupert lovel. i wish to god, child, you were a boy!" "your grandchild!" repeated rachel. "are you my grandfather? kitty, kitty, is this our grandfather?" "him's pain is better," said kitty. "i see a little laugh 'ginning to come round his mouth. him's not cross. let us kiss our grandfader, rachel." up went two rosy, dimpled pairs of lips to the withered old cheeks, and two lovely little pairs of arms were twined round squire lovel's neck. "we have found our grandfather," said rachel. "now let's go downstairs at once and bring mother up to see him." "no, no, stop that!" said the squire, suddenly disentangling himself from the pretty embrace. "griselda and katharine, this scene is too much for me. i should not be agitated--those children should not intrude on me. take care of them--take particular care of the one who is like rupert. take her away now; take them both away; and, hark you, do not let the mother near me. i'll have nothing to say to the mother; she is nothing to me. take the children out of the room and come back to me presently, both of you." chapter ii.--making terms. the moment the two little girls found themselves outside their grandfather's door they wrenched their little hands away from miss griselda's and miss katharine's, and with a gay laugh like two wild, untamed birds flew down the wide oak staircase and across the hall to a room where a woman, dressed very soberly, waited for them. she was sitting on the edge of a hard cane-bottomed chair, her veil was down, and her whole attitude was one of tense and nervous watchfulness. the children ran to her with little cries of rapture, climbed together on her knee, pulled up her veil, and nearly smothered her pale dark face with kisses. "mother, mother, mother, he was so cross!" "he had pain, mother, and him's eyes was wrinkled up so." "but, mother, we gave him a kiss, and he said i was strong and kitty was weak. we have not seen the tower yet, and we haven't got our grapes, and there are two old ladies, and we don't like them much, and we ran away from them--and--oh, here they are!" the children clung tightly to their mother, who struggled to her feet, pushed them aside with a gesture almost of despair, and came up at once to the two miss lovels. "i know this visit is unwarranted; i know it is considered an intrusion. the children's father was born here, but there is no welcome for them; nevertheless i have brought them. they are beautiful children--look at them. no fairer daughters of your house ever were born than these two. look at rachel; look at kitty. is it right they should be brought up with no comforts in a poor london lodging? rachel, kiss your aunts. kitty, little one, kiss your aunts and love them." rachel skipped up gayly to the two stiff old ladies, but kitty began at last to be influenced by the frowns which met her on all sides; she pouted, turned her baby face away, and buried it in her mother's lap. "look at them--are they not beautiful?" continued the mother. "is it fair that they should be cooped up in a london lodging when their father belonged to this place? i ask you both--you who are my husband's sisters; you who were children when he was a child, who used to play with him and kiss him, and learn your lessons out of the same book, and to sleep in the same nursery--is it fair?" "it is not fair," said miss katharine suddenly. she seemed carried quite out of herself; her eyes shone, and the pink of a long-gone beauty returned with a transient gleam to her faded cheek. "it is not fair," she repeated. "no, griselda, i am not afraid of you. i will say what is in my mind. valentine's face speaks to me again out of the baby face of that dear little child. what was rupert lovel to us that we should place a likeness to him before a likeness to our own dead brother? i say it is unfair that valentine's children should have neither part nor lot in his old home. i, for one, am willing to welcome them to avonsyde." miss griselda had always a most placid face; she now said in her calmest tones: "there is no need to excite yourself, katharine. i too think the children have a claim on us. an arrangement can easily be made about the children--their mother is the difficulty." the face of the plainly dressed young woman could scarcely grow any paler. she gave a quick, very quick glance at handsome little rachel, who stood with her head thrown back and her eyes eagerly watching each movement of the excited group around her; then the mother's hand touched kitty's golden head with a very faint caressing touch, and then she spoke: "i have come to make terms. i knew i should be considered an obstacle, but that is a mistake. i will be none. i am willing--i am willing to obliterate myself. i would talk to you and make terms, but i would make them alone--i mean i would rather not make them in the presence of the children." "i will take the children," said miss katharine eagerly; "they want to see the house; i will take them round. they want grapes; i will take them to the vineries." "oh, yes, we want grapes," said rachel in an excited voice; "we want lots of grapes--don't we, kitty?" "yes; lots," answered kitty, turning her flushed little face once more to view. she had been hiding it for the last few minutes against her mother's black dress. "that is my father's bell," said miss griselda suddenly. "i must hurry to him. i will see you presently, mrs. lovel; and, katharine, you too must be present at our interview. i must ask mrs. martin to take the children round the place." miss griselda opened the thick oak door of the squire's bedroom and went in. her face was changed in expression and her usual self-possession had to a certain extent deserted her. "what an age you have been away, grizel," said the old man testily. "you might have known that i'd want you. did i not tell you to take the children out of the room and to come back to me presently? did you not hear me when i said, 'come back to me presently?' oh, i see how things are!" continued the irate old man, with a burst of fury. "i am weak and ill now and my commands are nothing--my wishes are not of the slightest consequence. i know how it will be when i'm gone. you and katharine promise faithfully to obey me now, but you'll forget your promises when i'm gone. even you, griselda, who have always had the character of being strong-minded, will think nothing of your given word when i'm in my grave." "you're tired, father," said miss griselda, "and the unexpected intrusion of the children has excited you. let me pour you out a dose of your restorative medicine. here, drink this; now you will feel better." the old squire's hand shook so much that he could not hold the glass which miss griselda tendered to him; but she held it herself to his lips, and when he had drained off its contents he grew a shade calmer. "one of those children is very like rupert lovel," he murmured. "a strong girl, with a bold, fine face. you never would have supposed that that weak stripling valentine would have had a child of that build, would you, grizel?" "no, father. but the little girl has a likeness to her mother, and it is about the mother i have now come to speak to you. oh, come now, you must try and listen to me. you must not get over-excited, and you must not begin to talk absolute rubbish about my disobeying your wishes; for you have positively got to settle something about valentine's children." "i said i'd have nothing to say to them." "very likely; but you said so before you saw them. having seen them, it is absolutely impossible for you to turn valentine's orphan children from the doors. their mother cannot support them, and she has brought them to us and we must not turn them away. i may as well tell you plainly that i will never consent to the children being sent away from avonsyde. i won't wait to disobey you until you are dead in that matter. i shall do so at once, and quite openly, for i could never have another easy night on my pillow if i thought valentine's children were starving." "who wants them to starve?" grumbled the squire. but miss griselda's firm words had an effect, and he lowered his chin on his chest and looked gloomily straight before him. "the mother has come here to make terms," said miss griselda. "now what shall they be?" "at least she shall not sleep under my roof! a low girl--no match for valentine! if i said it once i repeat it fifty times. i will never look on that woman's face, grizel!" "i don't want you to, father. i agree with you that she had better go. now let me tell you, in as few words as i can, what i intend to propose to katharine and to mrs. lovel, with your sanction, presently. the children must stay at avonsyde. if the heir is never found, well and good; they are provided for. if, on the other hand, the heir turns up, they are, according to the present conditions of your will, absolutely penniless. now i don't choose this. valentine's children must be provided for under any emergency, and you must make a fresh codicil to your will." "i will not!" "father, you must. valentine was your own son; these children are your rightful and legitimate heirs. i am heart and soul with you in your wish to find the lawful descendant of rupert lovel--i promise to devote my life to this search; but valentine's children must not go penniless. you must make a codicil to your will providing comfortably for them in case the lawful heir turns up." "how can i? the doctor says i have not many hours to live." "long enough for that, no doubt. we cannot, unfortunately, send for mr. baring from london, but i will send a man on horseback to southampton, and mr. terry, the barings' country partner, will be here in two or three hours." "i tell you i have only a few hours to live," repeated the squire, sinking his head lower on his chest and looking daggers at his daughter. "long enough for that," she repeated. she rose from her seat and went across the room to ring the bell. when the servant entered the room she gave some very clear and emphatic directions, and then desiring the nurse who waited on her father to be summoned, she left the room. her interview had scarcely been a peaceable one, and as she went downstairs her usually calm expression was considerably disturbed. "i can make terms with the mother now," she murmured. "but i am not going even to tell my father what they are." and she went downstairs. floating in through the open window came the sound of gay, childish mirth, and looking out she saw the little strangers dancing and laughing and chatting merrily to old mrs. martin, the housekeeper, as she took them round the grounds. then miss griselda went downstairs, and she and miss katharine had their interview with the grave, quiet young mother, who had come, as she said, to make terms. no one heard what they said to her nor what she said to them; no one knew what arrangements were arrived at between the three; no one guessed either then or long years afterward what the terms were. when the somewhat protracted interview had come to an end, the young mother left miss griselda's study with her veil drawn tightly over her face. if her eyes were red and her lips trembled, no one noticed those signs of grief through her thick crape veil. miss griselda offered her food, and miss katharine wanted to take her hand and wring it with a kindly pressure; but she shook her head at the one and drew back proudly from the other's proffered hand-shake. the dog-cart was waiting at a side entrance, and she got into it and drove away. nor did she once look back as she drove down the long straight avenue under the shade of the old forest trees. that night squire lovel said a word or two to his daughters. "so you have kept the children?" "we have kept the children," repeated miss griselda tersely. "it is nothing to me. i have made that codicil to my will. you have had your way in that." "you have done justice, father--you will die happier," replied miss griselda. "have you made arrangements with the mother?" questioned the squire. "the mother will not trouble us; we have arranged with her," answered the elder miss lovel. "we have made arrangements with her," echoed miss katharine, and here she bent her head and gave vent to a little choking sob. the squire was very restless all night, and several times the words "kitty" and "valentine" escaped his lips. the end was near and the poor old brain was wandering. toward morning he was left alone for a few moments with miss katharine. "father," she said suddenly, kneeling by his bedside, clasping his hand, and looking at him imploringly, "father, you would bid us be kind to valentine's children?" "valentine's children?" repeated the old man. "ay, ay, kitty. my head wanders. are they valentine's children or rupert's children?--the rupert who should have inherited avonsyde. somebody's children were here to-day, but i cannot remember whether they belonged to valentine or rupert." "father, they belong to valentine--to your son valentine. you are dying. may i bring them to you, and will you bless them before you go?" the old squire looked up at his daughter with dim and fading eyes. she did not wait to listen for any assent from his lips, but flying from the room, returned presently with two rosy, cherub-like creatures. "kiss your grandfather, kitty; his pain is bad. kiss him tenderly, dear little child." kitty pursed up her full red lips and gave the required salute solemnly. "now, rachel, kiss your grandfather; he is very ill." rachel too raised herself on tiptoe, and bending forward touched the old man's lips lightly with her own. "rupert's child," he murmured; "ay, ay, just like rupert." shortly afterward he died. chapter iii.--preparing for the heir "i wonder, rachel," said kitty, "i wonder when the heir will be found." rachel had curled herself up in a luxurious arm-chair, was devouring a new story-book, and was in consequence displeased with kitty for her question. "let me read, kitty. in half an hour i have to go to my drill, and then practicing, and then learning those tiresome lessons. i don't care if an heir is never found; do let me read!" "there's another one coming to-morrow," continued kitty in a by no means abashed voice; "his name is philip and his mother is coming with him. i heard aunt grizel telling mrs. eyre all about it, and, rachel--oh, rachel, do listen! they are to sleep in the bedroom directly under aunt katharine's and aunt grizel's room in the tower." this last piece of information was sufficiently interesting to rachel to make her fling down her book with an impetuous gesture. "what a tiresome kitty you are. i never can read when you come into the room. i was in a most exciting part, but never mind. my half-hour of quiet will be gone in no time. i had better keep the book until i can steal away into the forest and read it in peace." "but isn't it exciting," pursued kitty, "to think that they are going to sleep in the tower bedroom?" "and his name is philip!" repeated rachel, "philip is the name of this one--the last was guy, and the one before was ferdinand, and the one before that was augustus. i want an heir to come of the name of zerubbabel. i like zerubbabel, and it's uncommon. what a pity this one's name is philip!" "oh, he's not the real heir," said little kitty, shaking her head solemnly; "he's only another make-believe; but it's rather exciting his mother coming too and the tower room being prepared. rachel, aren't you almost certain that when the real, true heir comes his name will be rupert? why, of course it must be rupert--mustn't it, rachel?" "i don't know and i don't care," answered rachel, tumbling out of her luxurious chair and shaking back her dark, untidy locks. "how old is philip, kitty? poor philip, i wish him joy of the place! he'll find it dull enough, and he'll find aunt grizel very tiresome and aunt katharine very sweet, but very stupid, and he'll wish he wasn't the heir a thousand times in the twenty-four hours. how old is he, kitty-cat? just tell me quickly, for i must go." "he's eight years old," replied kitty in a very interested tone; "that's another thing that's exciting--his being so near to my age. aunt grizel says that he'll be a sort of a companion for me. i do hope he'll be a nice little boy." "i don't care anything at all about him," said rachel; "he may be the heir or he may not. i'm not in the least interested. i don't see anything exciting in the fact of a stupid little boy coming to avonsyde with his mother; it's a slow place and he'll have a slow life, and there's nothing to interest me about it." "oh, rachel, i never could guess that you found avonsyde slow. if you do, why do you laugh so merrily and why do you look so gay?" "i never said that i found avonsyde dull," answered rachel, turning round with a quick, flashing movement. "no place is slow or dull to me. but i'm not going to stay here; i'm going to school, and then afterward i'm going right round the world looking for mother. oh, that's my drill-sergeant's bell! what a worry he is! good-by, kitty-cat." rachel skipped out of the room, banging the door after her, and kitty climbed into her chair, and leaning back in it shut her pretty blue eyes. it was five years now since the children had come to avonsyde, and kitty had absolutely forgotten the dismal day of their arrival. she knew that she had a mother, for rachel reminded her of the fact; but she could recall no outline of her face. rachel not only spoke of her mother, but remembered her. vivid memories of a grave, sweet, sad face came to her at intervals, and when these memories visited the child longings came also. why had her mother gone away? why were kitty and she practically motherless? who were the wicked people who had divided this mother and these children? when these thoughts came rachel's dark little face would work with strong emotion; and if aunt griselda or aunt katharine happened to be near, she would feel tempted to answer them defiantly and to favor them with flashing, angry glances. "i miss my mother!" she would sob sometimes at night. "i wish--oh, how i wish i could give her a long, big, great kiss! well, never mind: when i am old enough i'll go all round the world looking for her, for i know she is not dead." these storms of grief did not come often, and on the whole the children had spent five very happy years at avonsyde. aunt grizel and aunt katharine had each in her own way been good to them--aunt grizel erring on the side of over-severity, aunt katharine on the side of over-indulgence. but the children had no fear in their natures, and were so bright and frank and charming that even aunt katharine's petting could not do them any harm. they were well taught and well cared for, and were universal favorites wherever they went--the extreme side of kitty being prone to over-tenderness; the extreme side of rachel to over-brusqueness and almost fierceness. miss griselda and miss katharine said very little about their affection for the children--very little either to the children themselves or to one another. they were reserved women and thought it undignified to speak of their feelings. neither rachel nor kitty was at all proud of being lovels of avonsyde; but miss griselda thought her position above that of a countess, and miss katharine supported her great honors with a meek little air of becoming pride. the old ladies' great object in life was to find the missing heir, and miss griselda had even once picked up sufficient courage to go to america, accompanied by the family lawyer and his wife, in search of him; but though many little boys came to avonsyde and many fathers and mothers sent in all kinds of extraordinary claims, the heir who could claim direct descent from rupert lovel, the strong and sturdy boy who was to bring back a fresh epoch of health and life and vigor to the old family tree, and not yet arrived. now, however, shortly after rachel's twelfth birthday and in the middle of a glorious summer, little philip lovel was expected. his mother was to bring him and he was to sleep in the tower room, which, as kitty said, was most exciting. miss griselda and miss katharine too were excited; and miss griselda said with an unusual burst of confidence to her younger sister: "if the boy turns out to be a true descendant of rupert's, and if he is blessed with good physical health, i shall feel a great load off my mind." miss katharine smiled in reply. "god grant the little boy may be the heir," she said; "but, griselda, i don't like the tone of the mother's letters." chapter iv.--a spartan boy. "philip?" "yes, mother." "you quite understand that you have got to be a very good little boy?" "oh, yes, mother, i understand." "it's a big, grand place--it's what is described as an ancient place, and dates back hundreds and hundreds of years, and you, you--why, what is the matter, philip?" "is it antediluvian?" asked philip, jumping up from his seat opposite his mother in the railway carriage. "oh, i do hope and trust it's antediluvian!" "how you do puzzle me with your queer words, philip. antediluvian!--that means before the flood. oh, no, avonsyde wasn't in existence before the flood; but still it is very old, and the ladies who live there are extremely grand people. you haven't been accustomed to living in a great ancient house, and you haven't been accustomed to the manner of such grand ancient ladies as the misses griselda and katharine lovel, and i do trust--i do hope you will behave properly." "hullo! there's a spider up in that window," interrupted the boy. "i must try to catch him. there! he has run into his hole. oh, mother, mother, look! there's a windmill! see, it's going round so fast! and, i say, isn't that a jolly river? i want to fish and to shoot when i get to the grand place. i don't care what else i do if only i have plenty of fishing and shooting." philip lovel's mother knit her brows. she was a tall, fashionably dressed woman, with a pale face, a somewhat peevish expression, and a habit of drawing her eyebrows together until they nearly met. "philip, you must attend to me," she said, drawing the little boy down to stand quietly by her side. "i have got you a whole trunkful of nice gentlemanly clothes, and i have spent a heap of money over you, and you must--yes, you must please the old ladies. why, phil, if this scheme fails we shall starve." "oh, don't, mother, don't!" said little phil, looking full up into his mother's face, and revealing as he did so two sensitive and beautiful brown eyes, the only redeeming features in a very plain little countenance. "don't cry, mother! i'll be a good boy, of course. now, may i go back and see if that spider has come out of his hole?" "no, philip, never mind the spider. i have you all to myself, and we shall be at avonsyde in less than an hour. i want to impress it upon you, so that you may keep it well in your memory what you are to do. now, are you listening to me, phil?" "i am trying to," answered philip. "i do hope, mother, you won't tell me too many things, for i never can remember anything for more than a minute at a time." philip smiled and looked up saucily, but mrs. lovel was far too much absorbed in what she was about to say to return his smiling glance. "philip, i trained you badly," she began. "you were let run wild; you were let do pretty much as you liked; you weren't at all particularly obedient. now, i don't at all want the miss lovels to find that out. you are never to tell how you helped betty with the cakes, and you are never to tell about polishing your own boots, and you are not to let out for a moment how you and i did our own gardening. if you speak of betty you must call her your nurse; and if you speak of jim, who was such a troublesome boy, you can mention him as the gardener, and not say that he was only twelve years old." "what a lot of lies i'm to tell," said philip, opening his eyes wider and wider. "go on, mother--what else am i to do?" mrs. lovel gave the little speaker a shake. "philip, what an exasperating child you are! of course you are not to be so wicked as to attempt to tell lies. oh, what a bad boy you are even to think of such a thing! i only want you to be a nice, gentlemanly little boy and not to speak of vulgar things, and of course it is very vulgar to allude to a maid-of-all-work like betty and to cleaning one's own boots; but as to lies--what do you mean, sir? oh, there, the train is slackening speed. we'll soon be at the station, and the carriage was to meet us. remember, philip, always be on your best behavior at avonsyde! don't speak unless you are spoken to, and always be on the lookout to please the old ladies. there are two little girls, i believe; but they are not of the slightest consequence. dear, dear, i feel quite trembling! i hope--i trust all will go well! philip, dear, you have not felt that pain in your side all day, have you?" "no, mother; i have not felt it for days. i am much better really." "i don't want you to speak of it, love. i am most anxious that the ladies should consider you a strong boy. the doctors say you are almost certain to get over the pain; and when the miss lovels appoint you their heir it will be time enough to mention it. if the pain comes on very badly you will keep it to yourself--won't you, phil? you won't groan or scream or anything of that sort; and you can always run up to my room and i can give you the drops. oh, phil, phil, if this scheme fails we shall simply starve!" philip, with his queer, old-fashioned face, looked full at his mother. "i'll be a spartan boy and bear the pain," he said. "i don't care a bit about being rich or having a big place; but i don't want you to starve, mother. oh, i say, there's that jolly little spider again!" when the london express halted at last at the small country station, philip was gazing in ecstasy at a marvelous complication of web and dust, at one or two entrapped flies, and at a very malicious but clever spider. his mother was shaking out her draperies, composing her features, and wondering--wondering hard how a very bold scheme would prosper. "jump down, phil. here we are!" she called to her boy. the child, an active, lithe little fellow, obeyed her. not a trace of anxiety could be discerned on his small face. in truth, he had forgotten avonsyde in the far more absorbing interest of the spider. * * * * * "i am glad to welcome you, mrs. lovel!" said miss griselda as she came forward to greet the new-comers. she was standing in the old hall, and the light from a western window of rich old stained glass fell in slanting hues on a very eager and interested group. behind miss griselda stood her shadow, miss katharine, and rachel's bold dark face and kitty's sunny one could be seen still further in the background. rachel pretended not to be the least interested in the arrival of the strangers, nevertheless her bright eyes looked singularly alert. kitty did not attempt to hide the very keen interest she took in the little boy who was so nearly her own age, and who was to be so greatly honored as to sleep in the tower room. miss griselda and miss katharine wore their richest black silks and some of their most valuable lace; for surely this was the real heir, and they intended to give him a befitting reception. the old housekeeper and one or two other servants might have been seen peeping in the distance; they were incredulous, but curious. mrs. lovel took in the whole scene at a glance; the aspect of affairs pleased her and her versatile spirits rose. she took philip's little hand in hers and led him up to miss griselda. "this," she said in a gentle and humble voice--"this is my little boy." "philip lovel," responded miss griselda, "look up at me, child--full in the face. ah! you have got the lovel eyes. how do you do, my dear? welcome to avonsyde!" "welcome to avonsyde!" repeated miss katharine, looking anxiously from the fashionably dressed mother to the precocious boy. "are you very tired, my dear? you look so pale." phil glanced from one old lady's face to the other. his mother felt herself shaking. she saw at once that he had forgotten their conversation in the train, and wondered what very malapropos remark he would make. phil had a habit of going off into little dreams and brown-studies. he looked inquiringly at miss katharine; then he gazed searchingly at miss griselda; then he shook himself and said abruptly: "i beg your pardon--what did you ask me?" "oh, phil, how rude!" interrupted mrs. lovel. "the ladies asked you if you were tired, love. tell them at once that you are not in the least so. pale children are so often considered delicate," continued mrs. lovel anxiously, "whereas they are quite acknowledged by many physicians to be stronger than the rosy ones. say you are not tired, phil, and thank miss katharine for taking an interest in your health." phil smiled. "i'm not tired," he said. "i had a pleasant journey. there was a spider in the carriage, and i saw a windmill. and oh! please, am i to call you auntie, or what?" "aunt katharine," interposed the lady. "aunt katharine, do you fish? and may i fish?" here kitty burst into a delighted chuckle of amusement, and going frankly up to phil took his hand. "i can fish," she said; "of course aunt katharine can't fish, but i can. i've got a rod, a nice little rod; and if you are not tired you may as well come and see it." "then i'm going out with my book," said rachel. "i'm going into the forest. perhaps i'll meet the lady there. good-by, kitty-cat; good-by, little boy." rachel disappeared through one door, kitty and phil through another, and mrs. lovel and the two old ladies of avonsyde were left to make acquaintance with one another. "come into the drawing-room," said miss griselda; "your little boy and the children will get on best alone. he is a muscular-looking little fellow, although singularly pale. where did you say he was born--in mexico?" "in mexico," replied mrs. lovel, repressing a sigh. "the true mexican lads are about the strongest in the world; but he of course is really of english parentage, although his father and his grandfather never saw england. yes, phil was born in mexico, but shortly afterward we moved into the american states, and before my husband died we had emigrated to australia. phil is a strong boy and has had the advantage of travel and constant change--that is why he is so wiry. the hot country in which he was born accounts for his pallor, but he is remarkably strong." mrs. lovel's words came out quickly and with the nervousness of one who was not very sure of a carefully prepared lesson. suspicious people would have doubted this anxious-looking woman on the spot, but neither miss griselda nor miss katharine was at all of a suspicious turn of mind. miss griselda said: "you have traveled over a great part of the habitable globe and we have remained--i and my sister and our immediate ancestors before us--in the privacy and shelter of avonsyde. to come here will be a great change for you and your boy." "a great rest--a great delight!" replied mrs. lovel, clasping her hands ecstatically. "oh, dear miss lovel, you don't know what it is to weary for a home as i have wearied." her words were genuine and tears stood in her pale blue eyes. miss griselda considered tears and raptures rather undignified; but miss katharine, who was very sympathetic, looked at the widow with new interest. "it is wonderfully interesting to feel that your little boy belongs to us," she said. "he seems a nice little fellow, very naã¯ve and fresh. won't you sit in this comfortable chair? you can get such a nice view of the forest from here. and do you take cream and sugar in your tea?" "a very little cream and no sugar," replied mrs. lovel as she leaned back luxuriously in the proffered chair. "what a lovely view! and what a quaint, beautiful room. i remember my husband telling me that avonsyde belonged to his family for nearly eight hundred years, and that the house was almost as old as the property. is this room really eight hundred years old? it looks wonderfully quaint." "you happen to be in the most modern part of the house, mrs. lovel," replied miss griselda icily. "this drawing-room and all this wing were added by my grandfather, and this special room was first opened for the reception of company when my mother came here as a bride. the exact date of this room is a little over half a century. you shall see the older part of the house presently; this part is very painfully modern." mrs. lovel bowed and sipped her tea as comfortably as she could under the impression of being snubbed. "i have never been in a very old house before," she said. "you know in mexico, in the states, in australia, the houses must be modern." "may i ask if you have brought your pedigree?" inquired miss griselda. "yes, katharine, you need not look at me in such a surprised manner. we neither of us have an idea of troubling mrs. lovel to show it to us now--not indeed until she has rested; but it is absolutely necessary to trace philip's descent from rupert lovel at as early a date as possible. that being correctly ascertained and found to be indisputable, we must have him examined by some eminent physician; and if the medical man pronounces him to be an extremely strong boy our quest is ended, and you and i, katharine, can rest in peace. mrs. lovel, you look very tired. would you like to retire to your room? katharine, will you ring the bell, dear? we will ask newbolt to accompany mrs. lovel to her room and to attend on her. newbolt is our maid, mrs lovel, and quite a denizen of the forest; she can tell you all the local traditions." "thank you," said mrs. lovel. "yes, i shall be glad to lie down for a little. i do hope philip is not tiring himself--not that he is likely to; he is so strong. thank you, miss lovel, i will lie down for a little. yes, of course i brought the pedigree--and--and--a very quaint house; even the new part looks old to me!" mrs. lovel tripped out of the room, and the two old ladies looked at one another. "what do you think of her, katharine?" inquired miss griselda. "you are dying to speak, so let me hear your sentiments at once!" "i don't quite like her," said miss katharine. "she seems very tired and very nervous, and perhaps it is unfair and unkind to say anything about her until she is rested. i can't honestly say, however, that my first impression is favorable, and she may be much nicer when she is not so tired and not so nervous. i don't like her much at present, but i may afterward. what are your opinions, griselda?" "katharine," said miss griselda, "you are the most prosaic and long-winded person i know. you don't suppose for an instant that i am going to say what i think of mrs. lovel to-day. after all, it is the boy in whom we are interested. time alone can show whether these two are not another couple of impostors. now, i wonder where that child rachel has taken herself!" chapter v.--in the forest. kitty and philip ran off together hand in hand. they were about the same height, but kitty's fair, healthy, flushed face showed in strong contrast to phil's pallor, and her round and sturdy limbs gave promise of coming health and beauty; whereas phil's slight form only suggested possible illness, and to a watchful eye would have betokened a short life. but the boy was wiry and just now he was strongly excited. it was delightful to be in the real country and more than delightful to go out with kitty. "you are my cousin, aren't you?" said the little maid, favoring him with a full, direct glance. "i suppose so," he answered. "yes, i suppose so. i don't quite know." kitty stamped her foot. "don't say that!" she replied. "i hate people who are not quite sure about things. i want to have a real boy cousin to play with. two or three make-believes came here, but they went away again. of course we all found them out at once, and they went away. i do trust you are not another make-believe, philip. you're very pale and very thin, but i do hope what's of you is real." "oh, yes; what's of me is real enough," said phil, with a little sigh. "where are you going to take me, kitty? into the forest? i want to see the forest. i wonder will it be as fine as the forest where ru----i mean where a cousin of mine and i used to play?" "oh, have you another cousin besides me? how exciting!" "yes; but i don't want to talk about him. are we going into the forest?" "if you like. you see those trees over there? all that is forest; and then there is a bit of wild moorland, and then more trees; and there is a pine wood, with such a sweet smell. it's all quite close, and i see it every day. it isn't very exciting when you see it every day. your eyes need not shine like that. you had much better take things quietly, especially as you are such a very thin boy. aunt katharine says thin people should never get excited. she says it wears them out. well, if you must come into the forest i suppose you must; but would you not like something to eat first? i know what we are to have for tea. shall i tell you?" "yes," said phil; "tell me when we have got under the trees; tell me when i am looking up through the branches for the birds and the squirrels. you have not such gay birds as ours, for i watched yours when i was coming in the train from southampton; but oh! don't they sing!" "you are a very queer boy," said kitty. "birds and squirrels and forest trees, when you might be hearing about delicious frosted cake and jam rolly-polies. well, take my hand and let's run into the forest; let's get it over, if we must get it over. i'll take you down to the avon to fish to-morrow. i like fishing--don't you?" "yes," said phil. "i like nearly everything. do you fish with flies or bait?" "oh, with horrid bait! that is the worst of it; but i generally get robert--one of our grooms--to bait my lines." the children were now under the shade of the trees, and kitty, after running about until she was tired, climbed into one of the branches of a wide-spreading beech tree and rocked herself in a very contented manner backward and forward. phil was certainly a very queer little boy, but she was quite convinced he must be her real true cousin, that he was not a make-believe, that he would stay on at avonsyde as the heir, and that she would always have a companion of her own age to play with. "he will get tired of the forest by and by," she said to herself, "and then he will like best to play with me, and we can fish all day together. how jolly that will be! what a good thing it is that he is so nearly my own age, and that he is not older; for if he were he would go every where with rachel and be her friend. i should not like that at all," concluded the little girl, with a very selfish though natural sigh of satisfaction. presently phil--having wandered about to his heart's content, having ascertained the color of several birds which sang over his head, having treasured up the peculiar quality of their different notes, and having ascertained beyond all doubt that the english forest was quite the quaintest and most lovely place in the world--came back and climbed into the tree by kitty's side. "i'd like him to see it awfully," he said. "who, phil?" "i can't tell you--that's my secret. kitty, you'll never find that i shall get accustomed to the forest--i mean so accustomed that i shan't want to come here. oh, never, never! a place like this must always have something new to show you. kitty, can you imitate all the birds' notes yet?" "i can't imitate one of them," said kitty, with an impatient frown coming between her eyebrows. "but i know what i want to be doing, and i only wish you had the same want." "perhaps i have. what is it?" "oh, no, you haven't. you're just like the goody-goody, awfully learned boys of the story-book. i do wish you wouldn't go into raptures about stupid trees and birds and things!" phil's little pale face flushed. "rupert--i mean--i mean my dearest friend--a boy you know nothing about, kitty--never spoke about its being goody-goody to love things of this sort, and he is manly if you like. i can't help loving them. but what is your want, kitty?" "oh, to have my mouth crammed full of jam rolly-poly! i am so hungry!" "so am i too. let's run back to the house." when philip and kitty had gone off together for their first exploring expedition, when the two little strangers to one another had clasped hands and gone out through the open hall-door and down the shady lawns together, rachel had followed them for a few paces. she stood still shading her eyes with one hand as she gazed after their retreating figures; then whistling to an english terrier of the name of jupiter, she ran round to the stables and encountered one of the grooms. "robert, put the side-saddle on surefoot and come with me into the forest. it is a lovely evening, and i am going for a long ride." robert, a very young and rather sheepish groom, looked appealingly at the bright and pretty speaker. "my mother is ill, miss rachel, and peter do say as i may go home and see her. couldn't you ride another evening, missy?" "no, i'm going to ride to-night. i wish to and i'm going; but you need not come with me; it is quite unnecessary. i should like nothing so well as having a long ride on surefoot all alone." "but the ladies do say, miss rachel, as you are not to ride in the forest by yourself. oh, if you will go, missy, why, i must just put off seeing my poor mother until to-morrow." rachel stamped her foot impatiently. "nonsense, robert!" she said. "i am going to ride alone. i will explain matters to my aunts, so you need not be at all afraid. put the side-saddle on surefoot at once!" robert's conscience was easily appeased. he ran off and quickly returned with the rough little forest pony, and rachel, mounting, cantered off. she was an excellent rider and had not a scrap of fear in her nature. she entered the forest by the long straight avenue; and surefoot, delighted to feel his feet on the smooth, velvety sward, trotted along gayly. "now i am free!" said the girl. "how delightful it is to ride all by myself. i will go a long, long way this beautiful evening." it was a perfect summer's evening, and rachel was riding through scenery of exquisite beauty. birds sang blithely to her as she flew lightly over the ground; squirrels looked down at her from among the branches of the forest oaks; many wild flowers smiled up at her, and all nature seemed to sympathize with her gay youth and beauty. she was a romantic, impulsive child, and lived more or less in a world of her own imaginings. the forest was the happiest home in the world to rachel; avonsyde was well enough, but no place was like the forest itself. she had a strong impression that it was still peopled by fairies. she devoured all the legends that mrs. newbolt, her aunt's maid, and john eyre, one of the agisters of the forest, could impart to her. both these good people had a lurking belief in ghosts and fairies. eyre swore that he had many and many a time seen the treacherous little jack-o'-lanterns. he told horrible stories of strangers who were lured into bogs by these deceitful little sprites. but mrs. newbolt had a far more wonderful and exciting tale to tell than this; for she spoke of a lady who, all in green, flitted through the forest--a lady with a form of almost spiritual etherealness, and with such a lovely face that those who were fortunate enough to see her ever after retained on their own countenances a faint reflection of her rare beauty. rachel had heard of this forest lady almost from the first moment of her residence at avonsyde. she built many brilliant castles in the air about her, and she and kitty most earnestly desired to see her. of course they had never yet done so, but their belief in her was not a whit diminished, and they never went into the forest without having a dim kind of hope that they might behold the lady. newbolt said that she appeared to very few, but she admitted that on one or two occasions of great and special moment she had revealed herself to some fair dames of the house of lovel. she never appeared to two people together, and in consequence rachel always longed to go into the forest alone. she felt excited to-night, and she said to herself more than once, "i wonder if i shall see her. she comes on great occasions; surely this must be a great occasion if the long-looked-for heir has come to avonsyde. i do wonder if that little boy is the heir!" rachel rode on, quite forgetful of time; the rapid motion and the lovely evening raised her always versatile spirits. her cheeks glowed; her dark eyes shone; she tossed back her rebellious curly locks and laughed aloud once or twice out of pure happiness. she intended to go a long way, to penetrate further into the shades of the wonderful forest than she had ever done yet; but even she was unconscious how very far she was riding. it is easy to lose one's way in the new forest, and rachel, accustomed as she was to all that part which immediately surrounded avonsyde, presently found herself in a new country. she had left rufus' stone far behind and was now riding down a gentle descent, when something induced the adventurous little lady to consult her watch. the hour pointed to six o'clock. it would be light for a long time yet, for it was quite the middle of summer, and rachel reflected that as tea-time was past, and as she would certainly be well scolded when she returned, she might as well stay out a little longer. "'in for a penny, in for a pound!'" she said. "the aunties will be so angry with me, but i don't care; i mean to enjoy myself to-night. oh, what a tempting green bank, and what a carpet of bluebells just there to the right! i must get some. surefoot shall have a rest and a nibble at some of the grass, and i'll pick the flowers and sit on the bank for a little time." surefoot was very well pleased with this arrangement. he instantly, with unerring instinct, selected the juiciest and most succulent herbage which the place afforded, and was happy after his fashion. rachel picked bluebells until she had her hands full; then seating herself, she began to arrange them. she had found a small clearing in the forest, and her seat was on the twisted and gnarled roots of a giant oak tree. her feet were resting on a thick carpet of moss; immediately before her lay broken and undulating ground, clothed with the greenest grass, with the most perfect fronds of moss, and bestrewn with tiny silvery stems and bits of branches from the neighboring trees. a little further off was a great foreground of bracken, which completely clothed a very gentle ascent, and then the whole horizon was bounded by a semicircle of magnificent birch, oak, and beech. some cows were feeding in the distance--they wore bells, which tinkled merrily; the doves cooed and the birds sang; the softest of zephyrs played among the trees; the evening sun flickered slant-wise through the branches and lay in brightness on the greensward; and rachel, who was intensely sensitive to nature, clasped her hands in ecstasy. "oh, it is good of god to make such a beautiful world!" she said, speaking aloud in her enthusiasm; but just then something riveted rachel's attention. she sprang to her feet, forgot her bluebells, which fell in a shower around her, and in this fresh interest became utterly oblivious to the loveliness of the scene. a lady in a plain dark dress was walking slowly, very slowly, between the trees. she was coming toward rachel, but evidently had not seen her, for her eyes were fixed on the pages of an open book, and as she read her lips moved, as though she were learning something to repeat aloud. this part of the forest was so remote and solitary for it was miles away from any gentleman's seat, that rachel for a moment was startled. "who can she be?" was her first exclamation; her second was a delighted-"oh, perhaps she is the lady of the forest!" then she exclaimed with vexation: "no, no, she cannot be. the lady always wears green and is almost transparent, and her face is so lovely. this lady is in dark clothes and she is reading and murmuring words to herself. she looks exactly as if she were learning a stupid lesson to say aloud. oh, i am disappointed! i had such a hope she might be the lady of the forest. i wonder where she can live; there's no house near this. oh, dear! oh, dear! she is coming this way; she will pass me. shall i speak to her? i almost think i will. she seems to have a nice face, although she is not very young and she is not very beautiful." the lady walked slowly on, her eyes still bent on her book, and so it happened that she never saw the radiant figure of pretty little rachel until she was opposite to her. her quiet, darkly fringed gray eyes were lifted then and surveyed the child first with astonishment; then with curiosity; then with very palpable agitation, wonder, and distress. rachel came a step nearer and was about to open her lips, when the lady abruptly closed her book, as abruptly turned on her heel, and walked rapidly, very rapidly, in the opposite direction away from the child. "oh, stop!" cried rachel. "i want to speak to you. who are you? it's very interesting meeting you here in the very midst of the forest! please don't walk away so fast! do tell me who you are! there, you are almost running, and i can't keep up with you! what a rude forest lady you are! well, i never knew any one so rude before!" the lady had indeed quickened her steps, and before rachel could reach her she had disappeared through a small green-covered porch into a tiny house, so clothed with innumerable creepers that at a distance it could scarcely be distinguished from the forest itself. rachel stood panting and indignant outside the door. she had forgotten surefoot; she had forgotten everything in the world but this rude lady who would not speak to her. rachel was a very passionate child, and in her first indignation she felt inclined to pull the bell and insist upon seeing and conversing with the strange, silent lady. before she could carry this idea into execution the door was opened and a neatly dressed elderly servant came out. "well, little miss, and what is your pleasure?" she said. "i want to see the lady," said rachel; "she is a very rude lady. i asked her some civil questions and she would not answer." the old servant laid her hand on rachel's arm and drew her a few steps away from the bowerlike house. "what is your name, little miss?" she said. "my name? rachel lovel, of course. don't you know? everybody knows me in the forest. i'm rachel lovel of avonsyde, and my pony's name is surefoot, and i have a sister called kitty." "well, missy," continued the old woman, "i have no reason at all to misdoubt your tale, but the forest is a big place, and even the grandest little ladies are not known when they stray too far from home. i have no doubt, missy, that you are miss lovel, and i have no doubt also that you have a kind heart, although you have a hasty tongue. now, you know, it was very rude of you to run after my lady when she didn't want to speak to you. my lady was much upset by your following her, and you have done great mischief by just being such a curious little body." "mischief, have i?" said rachel; then she laughed. "but that is quite impossible," she added, "for i never even touched the rude lady." "you may do mischief, miss lovel, by many means, and curiosity is one of the most spiteful of the vices. it's my opinion that more mischief can be laid to curiosity's door than to any other door. from eve down it was curiosity did the sin. now, missy, my lady is lonely and unhappy, and she don't want no one to know--no one in all the wide world--that she lives in this little wild forest house; and if you tell, if you ever tell that you have seen her, or that you know where she lives, why, you will break the heart of the sweetest and gentlest lady that ever lived." "i don't want to break any one's heart," said rachel, turning pale. "what very queer things you say. i don't want to break any one's heart. i think i'll go home now." "not until you have promised me first, miss lovel--not until you have promised me true and faithful." "oh, i'll only tell kitty and my aunties. i never care to talk to strangers about things. there's a new little boy come to avonsyde--a new little boy and his mother. of course i won't say anything to either of them, but i never keep secrets from kitty--never!" "very well, miss; then my lady will have to go away. she is very tired and not strong, and she has just settled down in this little house, where she wants to rest and to be near--to be in the forest; and if you tell those aunts of yours and your little sister--if you tell anybody in all the wide world--she will have to go away again. we must pack up to night and we will be off in the morning. we'll have to wander once more, and she'll be sad and ill and lonely; but of course you won't care." "what a cruel old woman you are!" said rachel. "of course i don't want anybody to be sad and lonely. i don't want to injure the forest lady, although i cannot make out why she should have to live so secret here. is she a wicked lady and has she committed a crime?" "wicked?" said the old woman, her eyes flashing. "ah, missy, that such words should drop from your lips, and about her! are the angels in heaven wicked? oh, my dear, good, brave lady! no, missy. she has to keep her secret, but it is because of a cruel sin and injustice done to her, not because of any wrong done by her. well, good-night, miss. i'll say no more. we must be off, we two, in the morning." "no, don't go!" called out rachel. "of course i won't tell. if she's such a dear, good lady, i'll respect her and love her and keep her secret; only i should like to see her and to know her name." "all in good time, my dear little missy. thank god, you will be faithful to this good and wronged lady." "yes, i'll be very faithful," said rachel. "not even to kitty will i breathe one word. and now i must really go home." "god bless you, dear little miss--eh, but you're a bonny child. and is the one you call kitty as fair to look at?" "as fair to look at?" laughed rachel. "why, i'm as brown as a nut and kitty is dazzling. kitty is pink and white, and if you only saw her hair! it's like threads of gold." "and the little gentleman, dear?--you spoke of a little gentleman as well. is he your brother, love?" "my brother?" laughed rachel. "i have no one but kitty. i have a mother living somewhere--she's lost, my mother is, and i'm going all round the world to look for her when i'm old enough; but i have no brother--i wish i had. philip lovel is a little new, strange boy who is going to be heir of avonsyde. he came to-day with his mother. i don't much like his mother. now good-night, old woman. i'll keep the good lady's secret most faithfully." rachel blew a kiss to the anxious-looking old servant, then ran gayly back to where she had left surefoot. in the excitement of the last half-hour she had quite forgotten her withered bluebells. mounting her pony, she galloped as fast as she could in the direction of avonsyde. it was very late when she got back, but, strange to say, the old aunts were so much interested in mrs. lovel and in mrs. lovel's boy that they forgot to scold her or to remark her absence. she longed intensely to tell kitty all about the thrilling and romantic adventure she had just gone through, but she was a loyal child, and having once passed her word, nothing would induce her to break it. kitty, too, was taken up with philip lovel, and rachel, finding she was not wanted, ran up to her bedroom and lost herself in the charms of a fairy tale. chapter vi.--the tower bedroom. avonsyde was a very old property. the fair lands had been bestowed by william rufus on a certain rupert lovel who was fortunate enough to earn the gratitude of this most tyrannical and capricious of monarchs. rupert lovel had laid the first stone of the present house and had lived there until his death. he was succeeded by many wild and lawless descendants. as time went on they added to the old house, and gained, whether wrongly or rightly no one could say, more of the forest lands as their own. avonsyde was a large property in the olden days, and the old squires ruled those under them by what was considered at that period the only safe and wholesome rule--that of terror. they were a proud, self-confident, headstrong race, very sure of one thing--that whatever happened avonsyde would never cease to be theirs. an old prophecy was handed down from father to son to this effect. it had been put into a couplet by a rhymer as great in his way as thomas of border celebrity: "tyde what may betyde, lovel shall dwell at avonsyde." these words were taken as the motto of the house, and could be deciphered in very quaint lettering just over the arch which supported a certain portion of the tower. the tower was almost if not quite seven hundred years old, and was another source of great pride and interest to the family. miss griselda and miss katharine could not have done little philip lovel a greater honor than when they arranged the tower bedroom for his reception. in their opinion, and in the opinion of every retainer of the family, they indeed showed respect to the child and the child's claim when they got this gloomy apartment into order for him and his mother; but when mrs. lovel, a timid and nervous woman, saw the room, she scarcely appreciated the honor conferred upon her and hers. avonsyde was a house which represented many periods; each addition was a little more comfortable than its predecessor. for instance, the new wing, with the beautiful drawing-rooms and spacious library, was all that was luxurious; the cozy bedrooms where rachel and kitty slept, with their thick walls and mullioned windows and deep old-fashioned cupboards, were both cheerful and convenient; but in the days when the tower was built ladies did without many things which are now considered essential, and mrs. lovel had to confess to herself that she did not like her room. in the first place, the tower rooms were completely isolated from the rest of the house; they were entered by a door at one side of the broad hall; this door was of oak of immense thickness, and when it was shut no sound from the tower could possibly penetrate to the rest of the house. at the other side of the oak door was a winding stone staircase, very much worn and hollowed out by the steps of many generations. the stairs wound up and up in the fashion of a corkscrew; they had no rail and were very steep, and the person who ascended, if at all timid, was very glad to lay hold of a slack rope which was loosely run through iron rings at intervals in the wall. after a great many of these steps had been climbed a very narrow stone landing was discovered; three or four steps had then to be gone down, and mrs. lovel found herself in an octagon-shaped room with a very low ceiling and very narrow windows. the furniture was not only old-fashioned, but shabby; the room was small; the bed was that monstrosity, a four-poster; the curtains of velvet were black and rusty with age and wear. in short, the one and only cheerful object which poor mrs. lovel found in the apartment was the little white bed in one corner which had been prepared for philip's reception. "dear, dear, what remarkably steep stairs; and what a small--i mean not a very large room! are all the bedrooms of avonsyde as small as this?" she continued, interrogating newbolt, who, starched and prim, but with a comely fresh face, stood beside her. "this is the tower bedroom, mem," answered the servant in a thin voice. "the heir has always slept in this room, and the ladies has the two over. that has always been the fashion at avonsyde--the heir has this room and the reigning ladies sleep overhead. this room is seven hundred years old, mem." mrs. lovel shivered. "very antiquated and interesting," she began, "but isn't it just a little cold and just a little gloomy? i thought the other part of the house so much more cheerful." newbolt raised her eyebrows and gazed at mrs. lovel as if she were talking the rankest heresy. "for them as don't value the antique there's rooms spacious and cheerful and abundantly furnished with modern vanities in the new part of the house," she replied. "miss rachel and miss kitty, for instance; their bedroom isn't built more than three hundred years--a big room enough and with a lot of sunlight, but terrible modern, and not to be made no 'count of at avonsyde; and then there are two new bedrooms over the drawing-rooms, where we put strangers. very large they are and quite flooded with sunlight; but of course for antiquity there are no rooms to be compared with this one and the two where the ladies sleep. i am sorry the room don't take your fancy, mem. i suppose, not being of the blood of the family, you can't appreciate it. shall i speak to the ladies on the subject?" "oh! by no means, my good creature," replied poor mrs. lovel in alarm. "the room of course is most interesting and wonderfully antiquated. i've never seen such a room. and do your ladies really sleep higher up than this? they must have wonderfully strong hearts to be able to mount any more of those steep--i mean curious stairs." newbolt did not deign to make any comment with regard to the sound condition of miss griselda's and miss katharine's physical hearts. she favored the new-comer with a not-too-appreciative glance, and having arranged matters as comfortably as she could for her in the dismal chamber, left her to the peace and the solitude of a most solitary room. the poor lady quite trembled when she found herself alone; the knowledge that the room was so old filled her with a kind of mysterious awe. after her experiences in the new world, she even considered the drawing-rooms at avonsyde by no means to be despised on the score of youth. those juvenile bedrooms of two hundred or three hundred years' standing where rachel and kitty reposed were, in mrs. level's opinion, hoary and weighted with age; but as to this tower-room, surely such an apartment should only be visited at noon on a sunny day and in the company of a large party! "i'm glad the old ladies do sleep overhead," she said to herself. "what truly awful attics theirs must be! i never saw such a terribly depressing room as this. i'm certain it is haunted; i'm convinced there must be a ghost here. if philip were not sleeping here i should certainly die. oh, dear! what a risk i am running for the sake of philip. much of this life would kill me! i find, too, that i am not very good at keeping in my feelings, and i'll have to act--act all the time i am here, and pretend i'm just in raptures with everything, when i am not. that dreadful newbolt saw through me about this room. oh, dear! i am a bad actor. well, at any rate i am a good mother to philip; it's a splendid chance for philip. but if he speaks about that pain in his side we are lost! poor phil! these steep stairs are extremely bad for him." there was plenty of daylight at present, and mrs. lovel could move about her ancient chamber without any undue fear of being overtaken by the terrors of the night. she took off her traveling bonnet and mantle, arranged her hair afresh before a mirror which caused her to squint and distorted every feature, and finally, being quite certain that she could never lie down and rest alone on that bed, was about to descend the stone stairs and to return to the more cheerful part of the house, when gay, quick footsteps, accompanied by childish laughter, were heard ascending, and philip, accompanied by kitty, bounded without any ceremony into the apartment. "oh, mother, things are so delightful here," began the little boy, "and kitty fishes nearly as well as rupert. and kitty has got a pony and i'm to have one; aunt grizel says so--one of the forest ponies, mother. do you know that the forest is full of ponies? and they are so rough and jolly. and there are squirrels in the forest--hundreds of squirrels--and all kinds of birds, and beetles and spiders, and ants and lizards! mother, the forest is such a lovely place! is this our bedroom, mother? what a jolly room! i say, wouldn't rupert like it just?" "if you're quick, phil," began kitty--"if you're very quick washing your hands and brushing your hair, we can go back through the armory--that's the next oldest part to the tower. i steal into the armory sometimes in the dusk, for i do so hope some of the chain-armor will rattle. do you believe in ghosts, phil? i do and so does rachel." "no, i'm not such a silly," replied phil. "mother, dear, how white you are! don't you like our jolly, jolly bedroom? oh! i do, and wouldn't rupert love to be here?" mrs. lovel's face had grown whiter and whiter. "phil," she said, "i must speak to you alone. kitty, your little cousin will meet you downstairs presently. oh, phil, my dear," continued the poor lady when kitty had succeeded in banging herself noisily and unwillingly out of the room--"phil, why, why will you spoil everything?" "spoil everything, mother?" "yes; you have spoken of rupert--you have spoken twice of rupert. oh, we had better go away again at once!" "dear rupert!" said little phil, with a sigh; "darling, brave rupert! mother, how i wish he was here!" "you will spoil everything," repeated the poor lady, wringing her hands in despair. "you know what rupert is--so strong and manly and beautiful as a picture; and you know what the will says--that the strong one, whether he be eldest or youngest, shall be heir. oh, phil, if those old ladies know about rupert we are lost!" phil had a most comical little face; a plain face decidedly--pale, with freckles, and a slightly upturned nose. to those who knew it well it had many charms. it was without doubt an expressive and speaking face; in the course of a few minutes it could look sad to pathos, or so brimful of mirth that to glance at it was to feel gay. the sad look now filled the beautiful brown eyes; the little mouth drooped; the boy went up and laid his head on his mother's shoulder. "do you know," he said, "i must say it, even though it hurts you. i want rupert to have everything. i love rupert very dearly, and i think it would be splendid for him to come here, and to own a lot of the wild ponies, and to fish in that funny little river which kitty calls the avon. rupert would let me live with him perhaps, and maybe he'd give me a pony, and i could find squirrels and spiders and ants in the forest--oh! and caterpillars; i expect there are splendid specimens of caterpillars here. mother, when my heart is full of rupert how can i help speaking about him?" mrs. lovel pressed her hand to her brow in a bewildered manner. "we must go away then, philip," she said. "as you love rupert so well, better even than your mother, we must go away. it was a pity you did not tell me something of this before now, for i have broken into my last--yes, my very last â£20 to come here. we have not enough money to take us back to australia and to rupert; still, we must go away, for the old ladies will look upon us as impostors, and i could not bear that for anything in the world." "it is not only rupert," continued phil; "it's gabrielle and peggy; and--and--mother, i can't help being fond of them; but, mother, i love you best!" "do you really, phil? better than that boy? i never could see anything in him. do you love me better than rupert, phil?" "yes, of course; you are my mother, and when father died he said i was always to love you and to do what you wanted. if you want avonsyde, i suppose you must have it some day when the old ladies die. i'll do my best not to talk about rupert, and i'll try to seem very strong, and i'll never, never tell about the pain in my side. give me a kiss, mother. you shan't starve nor be unhappy. oh! what an age we have been chattering here, and kitty is waiting for me, and i do so want to see the armory! i wonder if there are ghosts there? it sounds silly to believe in them; but kitty does, and she's a dear little girl, nearly as nice as gabrielle. good-by, mother; i'm off. i'll try to remember." chapter vii.--"betyde what may." in a handsomely furnished dining-room in a spacious and modern-looking house about three miles outside the city of melbourne, three children--two girls and a boy--were standing impatiently by a wide-open window. "gabrielle," said the boy, "have you any idea when the mails from england are due?" the boy was the taller of the three, splendidly made, with square shoulders, great breadth of chest, and head so set on the same shoulders that it gave to its young owner an almost regal appearance. the bright and bold dark eyes were full of fire; the expressive lines round the finely cut lips were both kindly and noble. "gabrielle, is that carlo riding past on jo-jo? if it is, perhaps he is bringing our letter-bag. father has gone to melbourne to-day; but he said if there were english letters he would send them out by carlo." "you are so impatient about england and english things, rupert," said little peggy, raising a face framed in by soft flaxen hair to her big brother. "oh, yes, i'll run to meet carlo, for of course you want me to, and i'll come back again if there's any news; and if there is not, why, i'll stay and play with my ravens, elijah and james grasper. elijah is beginning to speak so well and james grasper is improving. if carlo has no letters you need not expect me back, either of you." the little maid stepped quickly out of the open window, and ran fleet as the wind across a beautifully kept lawn and in the direction where a horse's quick steps were heard approaching. gabrielle was nearly as tall as her brother, with a stately bearing and a grave face. "if father does decide on taking you to europe, rupert, i wish to say now that i am quite willing to stay here with peggy. i don't want to go to school at melbourne. i would rather stay on here and housekeep, and keep things nice the way our mother would have liked. if peggy and i go away, belmont will have to be shut up and a great many of the servants dismissed, and that would be silly. i am thirteen now, and i think i am wise for my age. you will speak to father, won't you, rupert, and ask him to allow me to be mistress here while you are away." "if we are away," corrected rupert. "ah! here comes peggy, and the letter-bag, and doubtless a letter. what a good child you are, peggy white!" peggy dashed the letter-bag with some force through the open window. rupert caught it lightly in one hand, and detaching a small key from his watch-chain opened it. it only contained one letter, and this was directed to himself: "mr. rupert lovel, "belmont, "near melbourne, "victoria, "australia." "a letter from england!" said rupert. "and oh! gabrielle, what do you think? it is--yes, it is from our little cousin philip!" "let me see," said gabrielle, peeping over her brother's shoulder. "poor, dear little phil! read aloud what he says, rupert. i have often thought of him lately." rupert smiled, sat down on the broad window-ledge, and his sister, kneeling behind him, laid her hand affectionately on his shoulder. a little letter, written with considerable pains and difficulty, with rather shaky and blotted little fingers, and quite uncorrected, just, in short, as nature had prompted it to a small, eager, and affectionate mind, was then read aloud: "dear cousin rupert: you must please forgive the spelling and the bad writing, and the blots (oh! i made a big one now, but i have sopped it up). this letter is quite secret, so it won't be corrected, for mother doesn't know that i am writing. mother and i are in england, but she says i am not to tell you where we are. it isn't that mother isn't fond of you, but she has a reason, which is a great secret, for your not knowing where we are. the reason has something to do with me. it's something that i'm to have that i don't want and that i'd much rather you had. it's a beautiful thing, with spiders, and rivers, and caterpillars, and wild ponies, and ghosts, and rattling armor, and a tower of winding stairs. oh! i mustn't tell you any more, for perhaps you'd guess. you are never to have it, although i'd like you to. we are not very far from the sea, and we're going there to-morrow, and it is there i'll post this letter. now, i am quite determined that you and gabrielle and peggy shall know that i think of you always. mother and me, we are in a beautiful, grand place now--very grand--and most enormous old; and i have two little girls to play with, and i have got a pony, and a white pup, and i am taught by a tutor, and drilled by a drill-sergeant, and i fish and play cricket with kitty, only i can't play cricket much, because of my side; but, rupert, i want to say here, and i want you and peggy and gabrielle always and always to remember, that i'd rather be living with mother in our little cottage near belmont, with only betty as servant and with only jim to clean the boots and do the garden, for then i should be near you; and i love you, rupert, and gabrielle, and peggy, better than any one in the world except my mother. please tell peggy that i don't think much of the english spiders, but some of the caterpillars are nice; and please tell gabrielle that the english flowers smell very sweet, but they are not so bright or so big as ours, and the birds sing, oh! so beautiful, but they haven't got such gay dresses. good-by, rupert. do you shoot much? and do you ever think of me? and are you good to my little dog cato? "phil lovel. "p. s.--please, i'd like to hear from you, and as mother says you are not on no account to know where we are, will you write me a letter to the post-office at the town where this is posted? you will see the name of the town on the envelope, and please direct your letter: 'master phil lovel, 'post-office. 'to be called for.' "be sure you put 'to be called for' in big letters. "good-by again. love to everybody. phil." gabrielle and rupert read this very characteristic little epistle without comment. when they had finished it, rupert slipped it back into its envelope and gave it to his sister. "we must both write to the poor little chap," he said. "the postmark on the envelope is southampton. i suppose southampton, england, will find him." then he added after a pause: "i wonder what queer thing aunt bella is thinking about now?" "she always was the silliest person in the world," said gabrielle in a tone of strong contempt. "if she were my mother i shouldn't love her. i wonder how phil loves her. poor little phil! he always was a dear little fellow--not a bit like aunt bella, thank goodness!" rupert laughed. "why, gabrielle," he said, "you can have no observation; phil is the image of his mother. there is nothing at all belonging to his father about phil except his eyes." "and his nature," proceeded gabrielle, "and his dear, brave little soul. i am sure if trial came to him phil could be a hero. what matter that he has got aunt bella's uninteresting features? he has nothing more of her in him. oh, she always was a silly, mysterious person! just think of her not allowing phil to tell us where he is!" "my father says that there is method in aunt bella's silliness," continued rupert. "don't you remember how suddenly she sold her little house at the back of our garden, gabrielle, and how betty found her burning an english newspaper; and how queer and nervous and flurried she became all of a sudden; and then how she asked father to give her that â£200 he had of hers in the bank; and how she hurried off without saying good-by to one of us? we have not heard a word about her from that day until now, when phil's little letter has come." "she never even bid mother good-by," continued gabrielle in a pained voice. "mother always stood up for aunt bella. she never allowed us to laugh at her or to grumble at her funny, tiresome ways." "did mother allow us to laugh at any one?" continued rupert. "there was nothing at all remarkable in our mother being kind to poor aunt bella, for she was good to every one." "but there was something strange in aunt bella not bidding our mother good-by," pursued gabrielle, "for i think she was a little fond of mother, and mother was so weak and ill at the time. i saw tears in aunt bella's eyes once after mother had been talking to her. yes, her going away was certainly very queer; but i have no time to talk any more about it now. i must go to my work. rupert, shall we ride this afternoon? this is just the most perfect weather for riding before the great summer heat commences." "yes, we'll be in summer before we know where we are," said rupert; "it is the 4th of november to-day. i will ride with you at three o'clock, gabrielle--that is, if father is not back." the brother and sister left the room to pursue their different vocations, and a short time afterward an old servant, with a closely frilled cap tied with a ribbon under her chin, came into the room. she was the identical betty who had been mrs. lovel's maid-of-all-work, and who had now transferred her services to the young people at belmont. betty was old, wrinkled, and of irish birth, and sincerely attached to all the lovels. she came into the room under the pretext of looking for some needlework which gabrielle had mislaid, but her real object was to peer into the now open post-bag, and then to look suspiciously round the room. "i smell it in the air," she said, sniffing as she spoke. "as sure as i'm betty o'flanigan there's news of master phil in the air! was there a letter? oh, glory! to think as there might be a letter from my own little master, and me not to know. miss gabrielle's mighty close, and no mistake. well, i'll go and ask her bold outright if she has bad news of the darlint." betty could not find gabrielle's lost embroidery, and perceiving that the post-bag was absolutely empty, she pottered out of the room again and upstairs to where her young lady was making up some accounts in a pretty little boudoir which had belonged to her mother. "och, and never a bit of it can i see, miss gabrielle," said the old woman as she advanced into the room; and then she began sniffing the air again. "what are you making that funny noise for, betty?" said miss lovel, raising her eyes from a long column of figures. "i smell it in the air," said betty, sniffing in an oracular manner. "i dreamed of him three times last night, and that means tidings; and now i smell it in the air." "oh! you dreamed of little phil," said gabrielle in a kind tone. "yes, we have just had a letter. sit down there and i'll read it to you." betty squatted down instantly on the nearest hassock, and with her hands under her apron and her mouth wide open prepared herself not to lose a word. gabrielle read the letter from end to end, the old woman now and then interrupting her with such exclamations as "oh, glory! may the saints presarve him! well, listen to the likes of that!" at last gabrielle's voice ceased; then betty hobbled to her feet, and suddenly seizing the childish letter, not a word of which she could read, pressed it to her lips. "ah! miss gabrielle," she said, "that mother of his meant mischief. she meant mischief to you and yours, miss, and the sweet child has neither part nor lot in the matter. if i was you, miss gabrielle, i'd ferret out where mrs. lovel is hiding master phil. what business had she to get into such a way about a bit of an english newspaper, and to hurry off with the child all in a twinkling like, and to be that flustered and nervous? and oh! miss gabrielle, the fuss about her clothes; and 'did she look genteel in this?' and 'did she look quite the lady in that?' and then the way she went off, bidding good-by to no one but me. oh! she's after no good; mark my words for it." "but she can do us no harm, betty," said gabrielle. "neither my father nor rupert is likely to be injured by a weak kind of woman like aunt bella. i am sorry for little phil; but i think you are silly to talk as you do of aunt bella. now you may take the letter away with you and kiss it and love it as much as you like. here comes father; he is back earlier than usual from melbourne, and i must speak to him." mr. lovel, a tall, fine-looking man, with a strong likeness to both his son and daughter, now came hastily into the room. "i have indeed come back in a hurry, gabrielle," he said. "that advertisement has appeared in the papers again. i have had a long talk with our business friend, mr. davis, and the upshot of it is that rupert and i sail for europe on saturday. this is tuesday; so you will have your hands pretty full in making preparations for such a sudden move, my dear daughter." "is it the advertisement that appeared six months ago, father?" said gabrielle in an excited voice. "mother pointed it out to you then and you would take no notice of it." "these things are often put into newspapers simply as a kind of hoax, child," said the father, "and it all seemed so unlikely. however, although i appeared to take no notice, i was not unmindful of rupert's interests. i went to consult with davis, and davis promised to make inquiries in england. he came to me this morning with the result of his investigations and with this advertisement in the melbourne times. here it is; it is three months old, unfortunately. it appeared three months after the first advertisement, but davis did not trouble me with it until he had got news from england. the news came this morning. it is of a satisfactory character and to the effect that the last valentine lovel, of avonsyde, in the new forest, hampshire, died without leaving any male issue, and the present owners of the property are two unmarried ladies, neither of whom is young. now, gabrielle, you are a wise lass for your thirteen years, and as i have not your mother to consult with, i am willing to rely a little bit on your judgment. you read this, my daughter, and tell me what you make of it." as mr. lovel spoke he unfolded a sheet of the melbourne times, and pointing to a small paragraph in one of the advertisement columns which was strongly underscored with a blue pencil, he handed it to gabrielle. "read it aloud," he said. "they are strange words, but i should like to hear them again." gabrielle, in her clear and bright voice, read as follows: "lovel.--if any of the lineal descendants of rupert lovel, of avonsyde, new forest, hampshire, who left his home on the 20th august, 1684, are now alive and will communicate with messrs. baring & baring, 128 chancery lane, london, they will hear of something to their advantage. only heirs male in direct succession need apply." gabrielle paused. "read on," said her father. "the second part of the advertisement, or rather a second advertisement which immediately follows the first, is of more interest." gabrielle continued: "i, griselda lovel, and i, katharine lovel, of avonsyde, new forest, of the county of hampshire, england, do, according to our late father's will, earnestly seek an heir of the issue of one rupert lovel, who left avonsyde on the 20th august, 1684, in consequence of a quarrel between himself and his father, the then owner of avonsyde. by reason of this quarrel rupert lovel was disinherited, and the property has continued until now in the younger branch. according to our late father's will, we, griselda and katharine lovel, wish to reã«stablish the elder branch of the family, and offer to make a direct descendant of the said rupert lovel our heir, provided the said descendant be under fifteen years of age and of sound physical health. we refuse to receive letters or to see any claimant personally, but request to have all communications made to us through our solicitors, messrs. baring & baring, of 128 chancery lane, london, e. c. "'tyde what may betyde, lovel shall dwell at avonsyde." gabrielle's cheeks flushed brightly as she read. "oh, father!" she exclaimed, raising her eyes to the face of the tall man who stood near her, "do you really believe a little bit in it at last? don't you remember how i used to pray of you to tell me traditions of the old english home when i was a little child, and how often you have repeated that old rhyme to me, and don't you know how mother used to treasure the tankard with the family crest and 'tyde what may' in those queer, quaint english characters on it? mother was quite excited when the first advertisement appeared, but you said we were not to talk or to think of it. rupert is the rightful heir--is he not, father? oh, how proud i shall be to think that the old place is to belong to him!" "i believe he is the rightful heir, gabrielle," said her father in a grave voice. "he is undoubtedly a lineal descendant of the rupert lovel who left avonsyde in 1684, and he also fulfills the conditions of the old ladies' advertisement, for he is under fifteen and splendidly strong; but it is also a fact that i cannot find some very important letters which absolutely prove rupert's claim. i could swear that i left them in the old secretary in your mother's room, but they have vanished. davis, on the other hand, believes that i have given them to him, and will have a strict search instituted for them. the loss of the papers makes a flaw in my boy's claim; but i shall not delay to go to england on that account. davis will mail them to me as soon as ever they are recovered; and in the mean time, gabrielle, i will ask you to pack up the old tankard and give it to me to take to england. there is no doubt whatever that that tankard is the identical one which my forefather took with him when almost empty-handed he left avonsyde." "i will fetch it at once," said gabrielle. "mother kept it in the cupboard at the back of her bed. she always kept the tankard and our baptismal mugs and the diamonds you gave her when first you were married in that cupboard. i will fetch the tankard and have it cleaned, and i will pack it for you myself." gabrielle ran out of the room, returning in a few moments with a slightly battered old drinking-cup, much tarnished and of antique pattern. "here it is!" she exclaimed, "and betty shall clean it. is that you, betty? will you take this cup and polish it for me at once yourself? i have great news to give you when you come back." betty took the cup and turned it round and round with a dubious air. "it isn't worth much," she said; "but i'll clean it anyhow." "be careful of it, betty," called out gabrielle. "whatever you may think of it, you tiresome old woman, it is of great value to us, and particularly to your favorite, rupert." muttering to herself, betty hobbled downstairs, and gabrielle and her father continued their conversation. in about half an hour the old woman returned and presented the cup, burnished now to great brilliancy, to her young mistress. "i said it wasn't worth much," she repeated. "i misdoubt me if it's silver at all." gabrielle turned it round in her hand; then she uttered a dismayed exclamation. "father, do look! the crest is gone; the crest and the old motto, 'betyde what may,' have absolutely vanished. it is the same cup; yes, certainly it is the same, but where is the crest? and where is the motto?" mr. lovel took the old tankard into his hand and examined it narrowly. "it is not the same," he said then. "the shape is almost identical, but this is not my forefather's tankard. i believe betty is right, and this is not even silver; here is no crown mark. no letters, gabrielle, and no tankard! well, never mind; these are but trifles. rupert and i sail all the same for england and the old property on saturday." chapter viii.--the sacred cupboard. mr. lovel told gabrielle that the loss of the tankard and the letters were but trifles. his daughter, however, by no means believed him; she noticed the anxious look in his eyes and the little frown which came between his brows. "father's always like that when he's put out," she said. "father's a man who never yet lost his temper. he's much too big and too great and too grand to stoop to anything small of that kind, but, all the same, i know he's put out. he's a wonderful man for sticking out for the rights of things, and if he thinks rupert ought to inherit that old property in england he won't leave a stone unturned to get it for him. he would not fret; he would not think twice about it if it was not rupert's right; but as it is i know he is put out, and i know the loss of the tankard is not just a trifle. who could put a false tankard in the place of the real one? who could have done it? i know what i'll do. i'll go up to mother's room again and have a good look round." mrs. lovel was not a year dead, and gabrielle never entered the room which had known her loved presence and from which she had been carried away to her long rest without a feeling of pain. she was in many respects a matter-of-fact girl--not nearly as sensitive as rupert, who with all his strength had the tenderest heart; nor as little peggy, who kept away from mother's room and never spoke of her without tears filling her eyes. to enter mother's room seemed impossible to both rupert and peggy, but gabrielle found a certain sad pleasure in going there; and when she had shut the door now she looked around her with a little sigh. "i'll make it homelike, as if mother were here," she said to herself. "i'll make it homelike, and then sit by the open window and try and believe that mother is really asleep on that sofa, where she has lain for so many, many hours." her eyes brightened as this idea came to her, and she hastened to put it into execution. she drew up the window-blinds and opened the pretty bay-window, and let the soft delicious air of spring fill the apartment; then she took the white covers off the chairs and sofa, pulled the sofa forward into its accustomed position, and placed a couple of books on the little table which always stood by its side. these few touches transformed the large room; it lost its look of gloom and was once more bright and homelike. a wistaria in full bloom peeped in at the open window; the distant sounds of farm life were audible, and gabrielle heard peggy's little voice talking in endearing tones to the cross old ravens, elijah and grasper. she knelt by the open window and, pressing her cheeks on her hands, looked out. "oh, if only mother were on the sofa!" that was the cry which arose, almost to pain, in her lonely heart. "peggy and rupert and i have no mother, and now father and rupert are going to england and i shall have to do everything for peggy. peggy will lean on me; she always does--dear little peg! but i shall have no one." the thought of rupert's so speedily leaving her recalled the tankard to gabrielle's memory. she got up and unlocked the cupboard, which was situated at the back of her mother's bed. the cupboard was half-full of heterogeneous matter--some treasures, some rubbish; numbers of old photographs; numbers of childish and discarded books. some of the shelves were devoted to broken toys, to headless dolls, to playthings worthless in themselves, but treasured for memory's sake by the mother. tears filled gabrielle's eyes, but she dashed them away and was about to institute a systematic search, when rupert opened the door and came in. his ruddy, brightly colored, healthy face was pale; he did not see gabrielle, who was partly hidden by the large bedstead. he entered the room with soft, reverent footsteps, and walked across it as though afraid to make a sound. gabrielle started when she saw him; she knew that neither rupert nor peggy ever came to the room. what did this visit mean? why was that cloud on rupert's brow? from where she stood she could see without being seen, and for a moment or two she hesitated to make a sound or to let her brother know she was near him. he walked straight across the room to the open window, looked out as gabrielle had looked out, then turning to the sofa, laid one muscular brown hand with a reverent gesture on the pillow which his mother's head had pressed. the little home touches which gabrielle had given to the room were unnoticed by rupert, for he had never seen it in its shrouded and dismantled state. all his memories centered round that sofa with the flowering chintz cover; the little table; the small chair, which was usually occupied by a boy or girl as they looked into the face they loved and listened to the gentle words from the dearest of all lips. rupert made no moan as gabrielle had done, but he drew the little chair forward, and laying his head face downward on the pillow, gave vent to an inward supplication. the boy was strong physically and mentally, and the spiritual life which his mother had fostered had already become part of his being. he spoke it in no words, but he lived it in his upright young life. to do honor to his mother's memory, to reverence and love his mother's god, was his motto. gabrielle felt uncomfortable standing behind the bedstead. she coughed, made a slight movement, and rupert looked up, with wet eyelashes. "gabrielle!" he said, with a start of extreme surprise. "yes, rupert, i was in the room. i saw you come in. i was astonished, for i know you don't come here. i was so sorry to be in the way, and just at first i made no sound." "you are not a bit in the way," said rupert, standing up and smiling at her. "i came now because there are going to be immense changes, and--somehow i could not help myself. i--i--wanted mother to know." "yes," said gabrielle, going and standing by his side. "do you think she does know, rupert? do you think god tells her?" "i feel that she does," said rupert. "but i can't talk about mother, gabrielle; it is no use. what were you doing behind that bedstead?" he added in a lighter tone. "i was looking for the tankard." "what, the old avonsyde tankard? but of course it is there. it was always kept in what we used to call the sacred cupboard." "yes; but it is gone," said gabrielle. "it was there and it has vanished; and what is more wonderful, rupert, another tankard has been put in its place--a tankard something like it in shape, but not made of silver and without the old motto." "nonsense!" said rupert almost sharply. "we will both go and look in the cupboard, gabrielle. the real tankard may be pushed far back out of sight." "no; it is too large for that," said gabrielle. "but you shall come and see with your own eyes." she led the way, and the two began to explore the contents of the cupboard, the boy touching the sacred relics with almost more reverent fingers than the girl. the tankard, the real tankard, was certainly nowhere to be found. "father is put out about it," said gabrielle. "i know it by his eyes and by that firm way he compresses his lips together. he won't get into a passion--you know he never does--but he is greatly put out. he says the tankard forms important evidence, and that its being lost is very disastrous to your prospects." "my prospects?" said rupert. "then father is not quite sure about my being the lawful heir?" "oh, rupert, of course he is sure! but he must have evidence; he must prove your descent. rupert, dear, are you not delighted? are you not excited about all this?" "no, gabrielle. i shall never love avonsyde as i love belmont. it was here my mother lived and died." tears came into gabrielle's eyes. she was touched by rupert's rare allusion to his mother, but she also felt a sense of annoyance at what she termed his want of enthusiasm. "if i were the heir----" she began. "yes, gabrielle--if you were the heir?" "i should be--oh, i cannot explain it all! but how my heart would beat; how i should rejoice!" "i am glad too," said rupert; "but i am not excited. i shall like to see europe, however; and i will promise to write you long letters and tell you everything." chapter ix.--a trysting-place. rachel had a very restless fit on. she was a child full of impulses, with spirits wildly high one day and proportionately depressed the next; but the restlessness of her present condition did not resemble the capricious and ever-changing moods which usually visited her. the uneasy spirit which prevented her taking kindly to her lessons, which took the charm from her play-hours and the pleasure even from kitty's society, had lasted now for months; it had its date from a certain lovely summer's evening. had aunt griselda and aunt katharine known more about what their little niece did on that occasion, they might have attributed her altered mood to an over-long ride and to some physical weakness. but rachel was wonderfully strong; her cheeks bloomed; her dark eyes sparkled; and the old ladies were interested just now in some one whom they considered far more important than rachel. so the little girl neglected her lessons without getting into any very serious scrapes, and more than once rode alone into the forest on surefoot without being reprimanded. rachel would steal away from kitty and from little phil, and would imperiously order robert to saddle her pony and to ride with her just a very little way into the forest; but then the groom was not only allowed, but requested to turn off in another direction, and rachel would gallop as fast as possible past rufus' stone, and on as far as that lovely glade where she had sat and gathered bluebells in the summer. she always dismounted from surefoot here, and standing with her back to an old oak tree, waited with intense expectancy. she never went further than the oak tree; she never went down a narrow path which led to a certain cottage clothed completely in green; but she waited, with her hands clasped and her eyes fixed eagerly on the distant vista of forest trees. sometimes her eyes would sparkle, and she would clap her hands joyfully and run to meet a prim-looking old woman who came forward through the shades to meet her. sometimes she returned home without seeing anybody, and on these occasions she was apt to be morose--snappish to kitty, rude to mrs. lovel and phil, and, in short, disagreeable to every one, except perhaps her gentle aunt katharine. the old ladies would vaguely wonder what ailed the child, and miss griselda would hope she was not going to be famous for the lovel temper; but as their minds were very full of other things they did not really investigate matters. one frosty day about the middle of november, when phil and his mother had been quite four months at avonsyde, rachel started off earlier than usual for one of her long rides. the forest was full of a wonderful mystical sort of beauty at all times and seasons, and now, with the hoar-frost sparkling on the grass, with the sun shining brightly, and with many of the autumn tints still lingering on the trees, it seemed almost as delightful a place to rachel as when clothed in its full summer glory. the little brown-coated winter birds chirped cozily among the branches of the trees, and hundreds of squirrels in a wealth of winter furs bounded from bough to bough. rachel as usual dismissed her faithful attendant, robert, and galloping to her accustomed trysting-place, waited eagerly for what might befall. on this particular day she was not doomed to disappointment. the old servant was soon seen approaching. rachel ran to her, clasped her hands round her arm, and raising her lips to her face, kissed her affectionately. "ah, you are a good nancy to-day!" she exclaimed. "i was here on saturday and here on wednesday, and you never came. it was very unkind of you. i got so tired of standing by the oak tree and waiting. well, nancy, is the lady quite well to-day?" "middling, dearie; middling she ever is and will be until she claims her own again." "oh, you mysterious old woman! you are trying to make me desperately curious, but i don't believe there is anything in your talk. you worry me to keep a tremendous secret, and there's nothing in it, after all. oh, of course i'm keeping your secret; you needn't pretend to be so frightened. and when am i to see the lady of the forest, nancy?" "now, my dear, haven't i told you until i'm tired? you're to see her come your thirteenth birthday, love. the day you are thirteen you'll see her, and not an hour sooner." rachel stamped her foot angrily. "i shan't have a birthday till the beginning of may!" she said. "it's a shame; it's a perfect, perfect shame!" old nancy pushed back a rebellious curl from the child's bright head. "don't you fret, my pretty," she said tenderly. "the lady wants to see you a deal--a sight more than you want to see her. the lady has passed through many troubles, and not the least is the waiting to see your pretty face." rachel began eagerly to unbutton her habit, and taking from a little pocket just inside its lining a tiny bag, she pulled out a small ring and thrust it into nancy's hand. "there," she said, "that's the most precious thing i have, and i give it to her. it's all gold, and isn't that a beautiful pearl? i used to wear it on my finger when i wanted to be very grand, but i'd rather she had it. perhaps she won't feel so lonely when she wears it, for she will remember that it was given to her by a little girl who is so sorry for her, and who loves her--yes, isn't it queer?--although we have never met. you know, nancy," continued rachel, "i can quite sympathize with lonely people, for to a certain extent i know what it means. i miss my mother so very much. when i'm grown up, nancy, i'm going all round the wide world looking for her." "bless you, darling!" said old nancy. "yes, i'll give the ring and your pretty message. and now, love, tell me, how is the little gentleman getting on? have the old ladies made him their heir yet?" "not quite yet, nancy; but they like him--we all like him. he is a dear little boy, and aunt griselda and aunt katharine make such a fuss about him. do you know that a week ago i saw aunt griselda actually put her arms about his neck and kiss him! she kissed him three or four times. wasn't it wonderful? for she's such a cold person. i think people can't help being fond of little phil, though he's not exactly pretty. i heard aunt griselda and aunt katharine say that when they do really feel certain that he is the right heir they are going to have a great, tremendous party, and they will present him to every one as the heir of avonsyde, and then immediately afterward he is to be sent to a preparatory school for eton. oh, won't kitty cry when he goes away!" "do you make out that the ladies will soon come to a decision, miss rachel?" inquired the old servant in a dubious tone. "it's a wonderful important matter--choosing an heir. are they likely to settle it all in a hurry?" rachel laughed. "i don't know," she said. "phil has been with us for four months now; they haven't been in such a hurry. i do hope it will be soon, for i want the party. now, good-by, nancy; i'll come to see you before long again. be sure you give my ring to the lady of the forest." "one moment, missy," said old nancy, stretching out her hand and drawing the young girl back to her side. "one moment, miss rachel lovel; i'm fain to see that little boy. could you manage to bring him this way, missy? could you manage it without nobody finding out? is he the kind of little fellow who wouldn't tell if you asked him earnest, most earnest, not? i'd like to see him and the lady; but no matter, miss rachel, i misdoubt me that you could manage a clever thing like that." "oh, couldn't i?" said rachel, her eyes sparkling. "why, i'd like it of all things! i can easily coax phil to come here, for he's perfectly wild about squirrels and animals of all kinds, and i never saw such a lot of squirrels as there are in the oaks round here. phil has got a pony too, and he shall come for a ride with me, and robert of course can come to take care of us. oh, i'll manage it; but i didn't know you were such a curious woman, nancy." the sun was already showing signs of taking its departure, and rachel did not dare to prolong her interview another moment. chapter x.--proofs. mrs. lovel was becoming reconciled to her tower chamber. ghostly as it appeared, no ghosts had visited her there; on the contrary, she had slept soundly; and as the days wore on and she found the quiet, simple life at avonsyde soothing to her perturbed nerves and restoring vigor to her somewhat feeble frame, she came to the conclusion that the tower was a particularly healthy place to sleep in, and that some of the superabundant vigor which characterized miss griselda must be owing to the splendid air which night after night she inhaled in her lofty chamber. as soon as ever this idea took possession of mrs. lovel's mind, she would not have changed her ancient tower bedroom for the most modern and luxurious which avonsyde could offer. a thought--a pleasing thought--came ever and anon to the poor lady as she watched her boy's peaceful face when he lay asleep on his little white bed. "suppose the healthy air of the tower makes philip strong?" philip had been for some months at avonsyde, and no one yet had found out that he possessed any special delicacy. at first the pallor of his little face had been commented on; but people soon got accustomed to this, and the boy was so merry, so good-humored, so brave, that those who watched him would have found it difficult to associate any special weakness with such lithe and agile movements, with so gay a spirit, with so merry and ringing a laugh. miss griselda had begun by declaring, both in her sister's presence and also in that of philip's mother, that no decisive step could be taken until a doctor had thoroughly examined the boy; but of late she had ceased to speak of any doctor, and had nodded her head in an approving manner when phil had sung out to her from the tops of the tallest trees, or had galloped panting and laughing to her side on his rough forest pony. miss katharine said many times to her sister: "surely we need make no delay. there seems no doubt that the boy can absolutely trace his succession from rupert lovel. why should we waste money, griselda, in inserting that advertisement any more in the newspapers when we have found our heir?" miss lovel, however, was not to be unduly hurried in so momentous a matter. "we cannot be too careful, katharine. yes, we will insert the advertisement once or twice again. it was only yesterday i heard from mr. baring that some fresh claimants are writing to him through their lawyers. there is no hurry whatever, and we cannot be too careful." perhaps miss katharine took it rather too much as a matter of course that phil could trace his descent, without flaw, from the rupert lovel who had quarreled with his father long ago. she was so accustomed to hearing mrs. lovel say, "i have got all the proofs; i can trace the descent without a single break for you at any time," that she began to believe she had gone through the genealogical tree, and had seen with her own eyes that the child was the lineal descendant of the elder branch of her house. miss griselda was far sharper than her sister. miss griselda knew perfectly that phil's descent was not yet proved, but, unlike most old ladies in her position, she disliked genealogy. she said openly that it puzzled her, and on one occasion when mrs. lovel, in her half-timid, half-fretful voice, said, "shall i bring you the proofs of phil's descent now? are you at leisure to look into the matter to-day?" miss griselda replied somewhat sharply: "i hate genealogical trees. katharine can understand them, but i can't. i don't suppose, mrs. lovel, you would be so utterly devoid of all sense as to bring the boy here and to establish yourself in our house without having incontestable proofs that he is what you represent him to be. i take it for granted that phil is a direct descendant of rupert lovel, but i shall certainly not make him our heir until more competent eyes than mine examine your proofs. at present i am more interested in watching phil's health, for if he was fifty times descended from our ancestor and was weakly he should not inherit avonsyde. when i have quite made up my mind that your boy is strong i will ask mr. baring, our business man, to come to avonsyde and go into the proofs; then, all being satisfactory, the boy shall be announced as our heir, and we will of course undertake his maintenance and education from that moment." mrs. lovel breathed a slight sigh of relief. "having proclaimed phil as your heir, nothing would induce you to revoke your decision afterward?" she asked nervously. "certainly not. what a strange speech to make! the boy being strong, being the right age, and being an undoubted descendant of our house, what more could we want? rest assured, mrs. lovel, that when your boy is proclaimed heir of avonsyde, were fifty other claimants to come forward we should not even listen to their plea." a faint pink, born of intense gratification, colored mrs. level's pale cheeks. "i should like to be bold enough to ask you another question," she said. miss griselda smiled in a freezing manner. "ask me what you please," she answered. "you must forgive my saying that i have already observed how singularly restless and uncomfortable you are. i think i can guess what is the matter. you are intensely curious about us and our money. oh, no, i am not at all offended. pray ask what you want to know." mrs. lovel, though a timid, was a rather obtuse person, and she was not crushed by miss griselda's withering sarcasm. clearing her throat and pausing slightly before bringing out her words, she continued: "i have wondered--i could not help wondering--what you would do with your property if no heir turned up." this speech, which was as audacious as it was unexpected, caused miss lovel to raise her finely marked eyebrows with some scorn. "your question is indiscreet," she said; "but, as it happens, i do not mind answering it. did no true heir appear for avonsyde during our lifetime the place would be inherited by our nieces, rachel and kitty lovel; but they would only have a life-interest in the property, and would be solemnly bound over to continue our search for the missing heir." "rachel and kitty will, then, be disappointed when phil is announced as your representative," said mrs. lovel, rising with sudden alacrity to her feet. "thank you so much for your valuable information, miss lovel. you may be quite certain that i shall regard what you have been good enough to confide to me as absolutely confidential." "i have told you nothing that everybody doesn't know," answered miss griselda. "i never reveal secrets, and least of all to those who are not related to us. talk to any one you please about what i have said to you. as to my brother's children, i am thankful to say they have not yet attained an age when the absence or the presence of money is of the slightest moment to them. one word more, mrs. lovel, before we change our conversation. i have noticed without your telling me that you are extremely poor." mrs. lovel interrupted with a great sigh. "oh!" she said, throwing up her hands and speaking with marked emphasis, "i have known the sore pangs of poverty--of course, it has been genteel poverty. i could never forget phil's birth nor what i owed to my poor dear husband's position, and of course i made a great effort to descend to nothing menial; but, yes, i have been poor." "you need not excite yourself about the past. when phil's identity is established and his position assured, it is the intention of my sister and myself to settle upon you for your life an income of â£500 a year. pray don't thank me; we do it for our own sakes, as of course phil's mother has a certain position to keep up. we should recommend you to settle somewhere near your boy. what did you say? no, no; that cannot be. when everything is settled we must request you to remove to your own home." for mrs. lovel had interrupted with the almost incoherent words: "am i not to live at avonsyde always?" chapter xi.--the lady who came with a gift. rachel did not forget her promise to old nancy. she had never taken so much pains to cultivate phil's acquaintance as kitty had done. she had certainly joined in the almost universal chorus that he was a nice and lovable little boy, but she had not greatly troubled her head about his pursuits or his pleasures. she was too much taken up with the wonderful secret which she possessed with regard to the real existence of the lady of the forest. but now that the said lady seemed to wish to see phil, and now that she, rachel, had almost bound herself to bring phil to the trysting-place in the forest, she began to regard him with new interest. kitty and phil had long ere this established a world of their own--a world peopled by caterpillars of enormous size, by the most sagacious spiders that were ever known to exist, by beetles of rare brilliancy, by birds, by squirrels--in short, by the numerous creature-life of the great forest; and last, but not least, by the fairies and gnomes which were supposed to haunt its dells. kitty could tell many stories of forest adventures, of the wonderful and terrible bogs on which the luckless traveler alighted unawares, and from which, unless instant help arrived, he could never hope to extricate himself. she spoke about the malicious little jack-o'-lanterns which were supposed to allure the unwary into these destructive places, and phil, with a most vivid imagination of his own, loved to lie at her feet and embellish her tales with numerous inventions. the two children were scarcely ever apart, and doubtless one reason why rachel thought so much of her secret was because kitty was no longer her undivided companion. now, however, she must seek out kitty and phil, and enter into their pursuits and take a share in their interests if she hoped to induce phil to accompany her into the forest. accordingly one day, with a book in her hand, she sauntered out into a very sunny part of the grounds. phil, basking in the rays of the most brilliant sunshine, had thrown himself at the foot of an old sun-dial; kitty had climbed into the boughs of a small bare tree which stood near, and as usual the two were chatting eagerly. rachel, with her head full of the lady of the forest, came up, to hear kitty and phil discussing this very personage. "she's all in green," said kitty. "her dress is greener than the trees and her face is most beautiful, and her hair is gold and----" "no," interrupted rachel; "she's in gray; and her hair is not gold--it is dark." then she colored high and bit her lips with vexation, for she felt that in her eagerness she had given a clew to her dear real lady's identity. kitty raised her eyebrows in great surprise. "why, rachel," she said, "it was you who told me she was in green. how very queer and disagreeable of you to make her so ugly and uninteresting. people who wear gray are most uninteresting. you forget, rachel, our lady is in green--greener than the grass. i do wish you would tell phil all about her; you can describe her so much better than i can." "she has a face which is almost too lovely," continued rachel, taking up the cue on the instant and speaking with great animation. "she lives in the deepest shades of the forest, and she appears never, never, except to those who belong to the forest. those families who have belonged to the new forest for hundreds of years have seen her, but outsiders never do. when she does appear she comes with a gift in her hand. do you know what it is?" "no," said phil, raising himself on his elbow and looking with great intentness at rachel. "i know what i would wish her to give me--that is, if she ever came to see me; but of course i cannot possibly say what gifts she brings." "those who have seen her," said rachel, "catch just a shadow of the reflection of her lovely face, and they never lose it--never! some ladies of our house saw her, and their portraits are in our portrait-gallery, and they are much more beautiful than any of the other lovels. she does not give beauty of feature--it is of expression; and such a brightness shines from her. yes, her gift is the gift of beauty; and i do wish, and so does kitty, that we could see her." phil smiled a little scornfully. "is that all she gives?" he said. "that wouldn't be much to me. i mean if i saw her i know what i'd ask. i'd say, 'i am a boy, and beauty isn't of much use to a boy; so please give me instead--money!'" "oh, phil!" exclaimed both the little girls. "she wouldn't come to you," said kitty in a mournful tone. "she wouldn't look at any one so avaricious." "besides, phil," continued rachel, "when avonsyde is yours you'll be a rich man; and i don't think," she added, "that you are quite right when you say that beauty is of no use to a boy; for if you have the kind of beauty the lady gives, it is like a great power, and you can move people and turn them as you will; and of course you can use it for good, phil." "all right," said phil, "but i'd rather have money; for if i had money i'd give it to mother, and then i needn't be heir of avonsyde, and--and--oh, i mustn't say! kitty, i do wish we could go to southampton again soon. i want to go there on most particular business. do you think aunt grizel will take us before christmas?" "is it about the letter?" asked kitty. "but you couldn't have had an answer yet, phil. there is no use in your going to southampton before an answer can have arrived." "i suppose not," said phil in a gloomy voice. "it's a long, long time to wait, though." "what are you waiting for?" asked rachel. phil raised very mournful eyes to her face. "you have a look of him," he said. "oh, how i hate being heir of avonsyde! i wouldn't be it for all the world but for mother. kitty, shall we go into the forest and look for beetles?" "i'll come with you," said rachel. "you two are always together and i'm out in the cold, and i don't mean to be in the cold any longer. i may come with you both, may i not?" kitty smiled radiantly, phil linked his little brown hand inside rachel's arm, and the three set off. no little girl could make herself more fascinating than rachel when she pleased. she developed on the instant a most astonishing knowledge of beetles and spiders; she drew on her imagination for her facts, and deceived kitty, but not phil. phil was a born little naturalist, and in consequence he only favored his elder cousin with a shrewd and comical look, and did not trouble himself even to negative her daring assertions. seeing that she made no way in this direction, rachel started a theme about which she possessed abundant knowledge. the new forest had been more or less her nursery; she knew its haunts well; she knew where to look for the earliest primroses, the first violets, and also the very latest autumn flowers; she knew where the holly berries were reddest, where the robins had their nests, and where the squirrels were most abundant; and phil, recognizing the tone of true knowledge, listened first with respect, then with interest, then with enthusiasm. oh, yes, they must go to that dell; they must visit that sunny bank. before rachel and her sister and cousin came home that day they had planned an excursion which surely must give the mysterious lady of the forest that peep at phil which she so earnestly desired. rachel was sorry to be obliged to include kitty in the party, for kitty had not been asked to pass in review by old nancy. phil was the one whom nancy and the lady wished to see just once with their own eyes: phil, who was to be heir of avonsyde and who didn't like it. rachel went to bed quite jubilant, for she would have done anything to please the unknown lady who had won her capricious little heart. she did not guess that anything would occur to spoil her plans, and in consequence slept very peacefully. phil had been much excited by rachel's words. he was a very imaginative child, and though he did not believe in ghosts, yet he was certainly impressed by what both the little girls had told him of the lady of the forest. he quite believed in this lady, and did not care to inquire too closely whether she was fairy or mortal. she appeared at rare intervals to the sons and daughters of the house of lovel, and when she did she came with a gift. phil did not altogether believe that this lovely, graceful, and gracious lady would be so obdurate as only to bestow an unvalued gift of beauty. he thought that if he were lucky enough to see her he might so intercede with her that she would give him a bag of gold instead. he need keep no secrets from her, for if she was a fairy she must know them already; and he might tell her all about his difficulties, and how his small heart was torn with great love for rupert and great love for his mother. he might tell the lady of the forest how very little he cared for avonsyde, except as a possible future home for his gay and brave cousin rupert, and he might ask her to give him the bag of precious gold to satisfy his mother and keep her from starving. phil was dreadfully oppressed with all the secrets he had to keep. happy as he was at avonsyde, there were so many, many things he must not talk about. he must never mention rupert, nor gabrielle, nor peggy; he must never breathe the name of belmont nor say a word about his old nurse betty. all the delightful times he had spent with his australian cousins must be as though they had never been. he must not tell about the delicious hours he and betty had spent together in the little cottage behind the garden when his mother had been away in melbourne. he must not speak about the excursions that rupert had taken with him. a veil, a close veil, must be spread over all the past, and the worst of it was that he knew the reason why. his mother wanted him to get what rupert would have been so much more fitted for. well! well! he loved his mother and he could not break her heart, so he kept all these little longings and desires to himself, and only half let out his secrets a dozen times a day. on one point, however, he was firm and stanch as a little spartan: he never breathed a sigh nor uttered a groan which could be construed into even the semblance of physical pain. when he felt quite exhausted, so tired that it was an effort to move, he would spring up again at kitty's least word and, with the drops on his little brow, climb to the top of that straight, tall tree once more and hide his face at last in the friendly sheltering leaves until he got back his panting breath. the splendid air of avonsyde undoubtedly strengthened him, but the strain of always appearing bright and well was sometimes almost too much, and he wondered how long he could go on pretending to be quite the strongest little boy in the world. he fancied now how nice it would be to tell the kind lady of the forest how weak he really was; how his heart often beat almost to suffocation; what cruel pain came suddenly to stab and torture him. oh! he could show her plainly that money was the gift for him, and that rupert, who was so valiant, so strong, so splendid, was the only right heir to the old place. phil greatly enjoyed his tower bedroom. not a particle of the nervousness which made his mother uneasy assailed him. the only thing he did regret was that he could not sleep quite at the very top of the tower, in those attic rooms inhabited by miss griselda and miss katharine. when some of those bad attacks of pain and breathlessness assailed him, he liked, notwithstanding the exertion, to creep up and up those winding stone stairs, for he knew that when he got to the top and had attained his refuge he could really rest; he might throw off all the spartan and be a little human boy who could moan and sigh and even shed a few secret tears for the gallant rupert whom he loved. phil had got into a habit of not even telling his mother of those queer attacks of weakness and breathlessness which came over him. nothing annoyed and distressed her so much as to hear of them, and little phil was by degrees beginning to feel a sort of protective love toward the rather weak woman: their positions were being unconsciously reversed. mrs. lovel seldom came to the tower bedroom in the day-time. under the pretext that the stairs wearied her, she had begged to be allowed to have a dressing-room in a more modern part of the house, so phil could be quite alone and undisturbed when he chose to visit his room. one of miss griselda's excellent rules for children was that they must retire early to bed. phil, in australia, had sat up far later than was good for him, but now at avonsyde he and kitty were always expected to have entered the land of dreams not later than eight o'clock in the evening. mrs. lovel seldom came upstairs before midnight, and in consequence phil spent several hours alone every night in his quaint bedroom. he was often not at all sleepy, and on these occasions he would open one of the tiny deep-set windows, and look out into the night and listen to the hootings of some owls which had long ago made a home for themselves in a portion of the old tower. on other occasions he would amuse himself with one of kitty's story-books, or again he would arrange some very precious little collections of wild birds' eggs and other forest treasures. on this particular night, after rachel's and kitty's conversation, he was more than usually wakeful. he got into bed, for aunt griselda told him to be sure to undress and go to sleep as quickly as possible; but finding sleep very far away from his wakeful eyes he got up, and, after the fashion of a restless little boy, began to perambulate the room and to try to discover anything of interest to divert his attention. a very old horse-hair trunk of his mother's stood in one corner of the room; it had never been unpacked, for it was only supposed to contain books and some household treasures not immediately required by mrs. lovel. phil had once or twice coaxed his mother to unpack the old trunk, for among the books was his pet "robinson crusoe." there was also an old box of paints which rupert had given him, and a queer, old-fashioned cup, made of horn, which rupert and he always took with them when they went for a day's excursion into any of the neighboring forests. phil saw now, to his great delight, that the key was in the lock of the old trunk, and it occurred to him that he could pass an agreeable hour rummaging among its contents for his beloved "robinson crusoe" and his old horn cup. he accordingly set a candlestick on the floor, and opening the trunk knelt down by it and began to forage. he worked hard, and the exertion tired him and brought on an attack of breathlessness; but he was much interested in the sight of many old home treasures and had no idea how time was flying. he could not find either his "robinson crusoe" or his horn cup, but he came across another treasure wrapped up in an old piece of flannel which gave him intense delight. this was no other than a silver tankard of quaint device and very old-world pattern, with a coat of arms and the words "tyde what may" inscribed on one side. phil knew the tankard well, and raising it to his lips he kissed it tenderly. "why, this belongs to uncle rupert and to belmont!" he exclaimed. "the very same dear old tankard which gabrielle is so proud of. i've seen it dozens of times. well, i never thought uncle rupert would have given this dear old tankard to mother. how kind of him! i wonder mother never spoke of it. oh, dear, what stories gabrielle has told me about it! she used to call it a magical tankard and said it had a history. mother must have quite forgotten she had it in the old trunk. how delighted rachel and kitty will be when i show it to them to-morrow." phil was so excited over his discovery that he became instantly careless as to finding either his "robinson crusoe" or his horn cup, and pushing the rest of contents of the trunk back into their place and turning the lock, he crept into bed, carrying the beloved tankard with him. when his mother came upstairs presently she found the boy fast asleep, and little guessed what treasure he clasped in his arms. it is true that little phil had entered the land of dreams; it is also true that in that enchanted land he went through experiences so delightful, through adventures so thrilling, that when in the dull gray november morning he awoke to listen to his mother's monotonous breathing, he simply could do nothing but step out of bed and determine to follow his dreams if necessary to the end of the world. the light had scarcely come. he would dress himself hastily and, taking the enchanted tankard with him, go into the forest all alone, in the hopes of meeting the beautiful lady who came with a gift. chapter xii.--lost in the new forest. mrs. lovel slept very soundly, and phil did not disturb her when he opened the ponderous oak door of his bedroom, and clasping the tankard tightly in both hands went downstairs and out. it was very, very early, for phil had mistaken the shining of the moon for the first light of day. not a soul was up at avonsyde, but the little boy easily found a means of exit, and in a few moments was running quickly down the straight avenue which led into the forest. he was intensely happy and excited, for the fragrance of his delightful dreams was still surrounding him, and he felt confident that if he only ran far enough he must find that wonderful lady whose dress was greener than the trees and whose face was so radiantly beautiful. the morning was damp and gloomy, for the moon set very soon after phil started on his walk, and the sun had no idea of getting up for another couple of hours. the forest, which looked so pleasant and cheery by day, was now all that was dark and dismal; so of course the first thing that happened to poor little phil was completely to lose his way. he possessed a very high spirit, and such small disadvantages as stumbling in the dark and tearing himself with unseen briers, and altogether becoming a sadly chilled and damp little boy, could not quench the ardent hope which impelled him to go forward. he pushed on bravely, having a kind of confidence that the further he got from avonsyde the more likely he was to meet the lady. presently the darkness gave place to a gray, dim light, and then, in an incredibly short space of time, the little boy found himself surrounded by a delicious golden atmosphere. the sun climbed up into the heavens; the mist vanished; daylight and sunlight had come. phil took off his cap, and leaning against a tree laughed with pleasure. it wanted three weeks to christmas; but what a lovely morning, and how the sun glittered and sparkled on the frosty ground! some shy robin-redbreasts hopped about and twittered gleefully; the squirrels were intensely busy cracking their breakfast-nuts; and phil, raising his eyes to watch them, discovered that he was hungry. his hunger he could not gratify, but the thirst which also assailed him could be easily assuaged, for a brook babbled noisily not many feet away. phil ran to it, and dipping his tankard into the water took a long draught. he had not an idea where he was, but with the sun shining and the birds singing no part of the forest could be lonely, and he tripped on in gay spirits, hoping to see the lady with the green dress coming to meet him through the trees. he had listened to many stories about the forest lady from kitty. she appeared very, very seldom to any one, but when she did come she chose a solitary place and moment, for it was one of her unbroken rules never to reveal herself to two people together. phil, remembering this peculiarity of the beautiful lady, took care to avoid the high-road and to plunge deeper and deeper into the most shady recesses and the most infrequented paths. as he walked on, whether from exhaustion or from hunger, or from an under-current of strong excitement, he became really a little feverish; his heart beat a great deal too fast, and his imagination was roused to an abnormal extent. he knew that he had lost his way, but as the hours went on he became more and more convinced that he would find the lady, and of course when he saw her and looked in her face his troubles would be ended. he would pour out all his cares and all his longings into the ears of this wonderful being. she would soothe him; she would pity him; and, above all things, she would give him that golden store which would make his mother contented and happy. "perhaps she will carry me home too," thought little phil, "for though i am always making believe to be well, i am not really a strong boy, and i am very tired now." the hours went on, the daylight grew brighter, and then came an unexpected change. the sunny morning was treacherous, after all; dark clouds approached from the north; they covered the smiling and sunny sky, and then a cold rain which was half-sleet began to fall mercilessly. phil had of course not dreamed of providing himself with a great-coat, and though at first the trees supplied him with a certain amount of shelter, their branches, which were mostly bare, were soon drenched, and the little boy was wet through. he had climbed to the top of a rising knoll, and looking down through the driving rain he heard a stream brawling loudly about forty feet below. he fancied that if he got on lower ground he might find shelter, so he ran as quickly as he could in the direction of the hurrying water. oh, horror! what had happened to him? what was this? the ground shook under his little footsteps. when he tried to step either backward or forward he sank. phil caught his breath, laughed a little because he did not want to cry, and said aloud: "kitty is quite right; there are bogs in the forest, and i'm in one." he was a very brave child, and even his present desperate situation did not utterly daunt him. "now i'm in real danger," he said aloud. "in some ways it's rather nice to be in real danger. rupert and i used often to talk about it and wonder what we'd do, and rupert always said: 'phil, be sure when the time comes that you don't lose your presence of mind.' well, the time has come now, and i must try to be very cool. when i stay perfectly still i find that i don't sink--at least very little. oh, how tired i am! i wish some one would come. i wish the rain would stop. i know i'll fall presently, for i'm so fearfully tired. i wish the lady would come--i do wish she would! if she knew that i was in danger she might hurry to me--that is, if she's as kind and beautiful as kitty tells me she is. oh, dear! oh, dear! i know i shall fall soon. well, if i do i'm certain to sink into the bog, and--rupert will have avonsyde. oh, poor mother! how she will wonder where i've got to! now, i really don't want to sink in a bog even for rupert's sake, so i must keep my presence of mind and try to be as cheerful as possible. suppose i sing a little--that's much better than crying and will make as much noise in case any one is passing by." so phil raised a sweet and true little voice and tried to rival the robins. but a poor little half-starving boy stuck fast in a bog is so far a remarkable spectacle that the robins themselves, coming out after the shower to dry their feathers, looked at him in great wonder. he was a brave little boy and he sang sweetly, and they liked the music he made very well; but what was he doing there? perching themselves on the boughs of some low trees which grew near the brook, they glanced shyly at him out of their bright eyes, and then quite unknowingly performed a little mission for his rescue. they flew to meet a lady whom they knew well and from whose hand they often pecked crumbs, and they induced this lady to turn aside from her accustomed path and to follow them, as they hopped and flew in front of her; for the lady was suddenly reminded by the robins of some little birds at home for which she meant to gather a particular weed which grew near the bog. the rain was over, the sun was again shining brightly, when little phil, tired, sick unto death, raised his eyes and saw, with the sunlight behind her, a lady, graceful and gracious in appearance, coming down the path. he did not notice whether her dress was gray or green; he only knew that to him she looked radiant and lovely. "oh, you have been a long time coming, but please save me now!" he sobbed, and then he did tumble into the bog, for he suddenly fainted away. chapter xiii.--one more secret. when phil opened his eyes he was quite sure for several moments that all his best dreams were realized. he was in a very tiny parlor (he loved small rooms, for they reminded him of the cottage at the back of the garden); he was lying full length on an old-fashioned and deliciously soft sofa, and a lady with a tender and beautiful face was bending over him; the firelight flickered in a cozy little grate and the sunlight poured in through a latticed window. the whole room was a picture of comfort, and phil drew a deep sigh of happiness. "have you given mother the bag of gold? and are we back in the cottage at the back of the garden?" he murmured. "drink this, dear," said the quiet, grave voice, and then a cup of delicious hot milk was held to his little blue lips, and after he had taken several sips of the milk he was able to sit up and look round him. "you are the lady of the forest, aren't you? but where's your green dress?" "i am a lady who lives in the forest, my dear child. i am so glad i came down to that dreadful bog and rescued you. what is your name, my dear little boy?" "my name? i am phil lovel. do you know, it is so sad, but i am going to have avonsyde. i am the heir. i don't want it at all. it was principally about avonsyde i came out this morning to find you. yes, i had a great escape in the bog, but i felt almost sure that you would come to save me. it was very good of you. i am not a strong boy, and i don't suppose i could have stood up in that dreadful cold, damp bog much longer. although i'm not bad at bearing pain, yet the ache in my legs was getting quite terrible. well, it's all right now, and i'm so glad i've found you. are you very rich, lady of the forest? and may i tell you everything?" had phil not been absorbed in his own little remarks he might have noticed a curious change coming over the lady's face. for one brief instant her eyes seemed to blaze, her brows contracted as if with pain, and the band with which she held the restorative to phil's lips trembled. whatever emotion overcame her its effect was brief. when the boy, wondering at her silence, raised his eyes to look at her, it was only a sweet and quiet glance which met his. "i have heard of little philip lovel," she said. "i am glad to see you. i am glad i saved you from a terrible fate. if no one had come to your rescue you must eventually have sunk in that dreadful bog." "but i was quite sure you would come," answered phil. "do you know, i went out this morning expecting to meet you. betty and i have spoken of you so very, very often. we have made up lovely stories about you; but you have always been in green and your face dazzled. now you are not in green. you are in a dark, plain dress--as plain a dress as mother used to wear when we lived in the house behind the garden; and though you are beautiful--yes, i really think you are beautiful--you don't dazzle. well, i am glad i have met you. did you know that a little boy was wandering all over the forest looking for you to-day? and did you come out on purpose to meet him and to save him? oh, i trust, i do trust you have got the gift with you!" "i don't quite understand you, my dear little boy," said the lady. "no, i did not come to meet you. i simply took a walk between the showers. you are talking too much and too fast; you must be quiet now, and i will put this warm rug over you and you can try to sleep. when you are quite rested and warm, nancy, my servant, will take you back to avonsyde." phil was really feeling very tired; his limbs ached; his throat was dry and parched; he was only too glad to lie still on that soft sofa in that tiny room and not pretend to be anything but a sadly exhausted little boy. he even closed his eyes at the lady's bidding, but he soon opened them again, for he liked to watch her as she sat by the fire. no, she was scarcely dazzling, but phil could quite believe that she might be considered beautiful. her eyes were dark and gray; her hair was also dark, very soft, and very abundant; her mouth had an expression about it which phil seemed partly to know, which puzzled him, for he felt so sure that he had seen just such resolute and well cut lips in some one else. "it's rachel!" he said suddenly under his breath. "how very, very queer that rachel should have a look of the lady of the forest!" he half-roused himself to watch the face, which began more and more to remind him of rachel's. but as he looked there came a curious change over the lady's expressive face. the firm lips trembled; a look of agonized yearning and longing filled the pathetic gray eyes, and a few words said aloud with unspeakable sadness reached the little boy. "so kitty speaks of me--little, little kitty speaks of me." the lady covered her face with her hands, and phil, listening very attentively, thought he heard her sob. after this he really closed his eyes and went to sleep. when he awoke the winter's light had disappeared, the curtains were drawn across the little window, and a reading-lamp with a rose-colored shade made the center of the table look pretty. there was a cozy meal spread for two on the board, and when phil opened his eyes and came back to the world of reality, the lady was bending over the fire and making some crisp toast. "you have had a nice long sleep," she said in a cheerful voice. "now will you come to the table and have some tea? here is a fresh egg for you, which brownie, my dear speckled hen, laid while you were asleep. you feel much better, don't you? now you must make a very good tea, and when you have finished nancy will take you as far as rufus' stone, where i have asked a man with a chaise to meet her; he will drive you back to avonsyde in less than an hour." phil felt quite satisfied with these arrangements. he also discovered that he was very hungry; so he tumbled off the sofa, and with his light-brown hair very much tossed and his eyes shining, took his place at the tea-table. there he began to chatter, and did not at all know that the lady was leading him on to tell her as much as possible about rachel and kitty and about his life at avonsyde. he answered all her questions eagerly, for he had by no means got over his impression that she was really the lady whom he had come to seek. "i don't want avonsyde, you know," he said suddenly, speaking with great earnestness. "oh, please, if you are the lady of the forest and can give those who seek you a gift, let my gift be a bag of gold! i will take it back to mother in the chaise to-night, and then--and then--poor mother! my mother is very poor, lady, but when i give her your gold she will be rich, and then we can both go away from avonsyde." for a moment or two the lady with the sad gray eyes looked with wonder and perplexity at little phil--some alarm even was depicted on her face, but it suddenly cleared and lightened. she rose from her chair, and going up to the child stooped and kissed him. "you don't want avonsyde. then i am your friend, little phil lovel. here are three kisses--one for you, one for rachel, one for kitty. give my kisses as from yourself to the little girls. but i am not what you think me, phil. i am no supernatural lady who can give gifts or can dazzle with unusual beauty. i am just a plain woman who lives here most of the year and earns her bread with hard and daily labor. i cannot give money, for i have not got it. i can be your friend, however. not a powerful friend--certainly not; but no true friendship is to be lightly thrown away. why, my little man, how disappointed you look! are you really going to cry?" "oh, no, i won't cry!" said phil, but with a very suspicious break in his voice; "but i am so tired of all the secrets and of pretending to be strong and all that. if you are not the lady and have not got the bag of gold, mother and i will have to stay on at avonsyde, for mother is very poor and she would starve if we went away. you don't know what a dreadful weight it is on one's mind always to be keeping secrets." "i am very sorry, phil. as it happens i do know what a secret means. i am very sorry for you, more particularly as i am just going to add to your secrets. i want you to promise not to tell any one at avonsyde about my little house in the forest nor about me. i think you will keep my secret when i tell you that if it is known it will do me very grave injury." "i would not injure you," said phil, raising his sweet eyes to her face. "i do hate secrets and i find them dreadfully hard to keep, but one more won't greatly matter, only i do wish you were the real lady of the forest." when nancy came back to the little cottage after disposing of phil comfortably in the chaise and giving the driver a great many emphatic directions about him, she went straight into her lady's presence. she was a privileged old servant, and she did not dream of knocking at the door of the little sitting-room; no, she opened it boldly and came in, many words crowding to her lips. "this will upset her fine," she muttered under her breath. "oh, dear! oh, dear! i'll have to do a lot of talking to-night. i'm not one to say she gives way often, but when she do, why, she do, and that's the long and short of it." nancy opened the door noisily and entered the room with a world of purpose depicted on her honest, homely face. "now, ma'am," she began, "i have seen him off as snug and safe as possible, and the driver promises to deliver him sure as sure into his mother's arms within the hour. a pretty sort of a mother she must be to let a bit of a babe like that wander about since before the dawn and never find him yet. now, ma'am, you're not settling down to that needlework at this hour? oh, and you do look pale! why, mrs. lovel, what's the use of overdoing it?" the lady so addressed raised her sad eyes to the kindly pair looking down at her and said gently: "i am determined to be at least as brave as that brave little boy. he would not cry, although he longed to. i must either work or cry, so i choose to work. nancy, how many yards of the lace are now finished?" "ten, i should think," answered nancy, whose countenance expressed strong relief at the turn the conversation had taken. "i should say there was ten yards done, ma'am, but i will go upstairs and count them over if you like." "i wish you would. if there are ten yards upstairs there are nearly two here; that makes just the dozen. and you think it is quite the best lace i have made yet, nancy?" "oh, ma'am, beautiful is no word; and how your poor eyes stand the fine work passes my belief. but now, now, where's the hurry for to-night? why, your hands do shake terrible. let me make you a cup of cocoa and light a fire in your bedroom, and you go to bed nice and early, mrs. lovel." mrs. lovel threw down her work with a certain gesture of impatience. "i should lie awake all night," said mrs. lovel. "do you know, nancy, that the little boy spoke of kitty? he said my baby kitty often mentioned the lady of the forest--that he and she both did. at first i thought that he meant me and that kitty really spoke of her mother; but now i believe he was alluding to some imaginary forest lady." "the green forest lady," interposed nancy. "i don't say, ma'am, that she's altogether a fancy, though. there's them--yes, there's them whose words may be relied on who are said to have spoke with her." "well, no matter. i am finishing this lace to-night, nancy, because i mean to go to london to-morrow." "you, ma'am? oh, oh, and it ain't three months since you were there!" "yes, i must go. i want to see my husband's lawyers. nancy, this suspense is killing me!" "oh, my poor, dear, patient lady! but it ain't so many months now to wait. miss rachel's birthday comes in may." "nancy, the mother-hunger is driving me wild. if i could only see them both and kiss them once i should be satisfied." "you shall kiss them hundreds of times when may comes," answered the old servant. "and they are well and bonny and miss rachel loves you; and the little one, why, of course her heart will go out to you when you hold her in your arms again." "six years!" repeated the poor lady, clasping her hands, letting the lovely lace fall to the ground, and gazing into the glowing fire in the grate. "six years for a mother to starve! oh, nancy, how could good women be so cruel? i believe miss grizel and miss katharine are good. how could they be so cruel?" "old maids!" said nancy, with a little snort. "do you suppose, ma'am, that those old ladies know anything of the mother feel? well, mrs. lovel, the children are two bonny little lassies, and you have given up much for them. you did it for their good, ma'am--that they should have full and plenty and be provided for. you did it all out of real self-denial, ma'am." "i made up my mind the day kitty fainted for want of food," answered mrs. lovel. "i made up my mind and i never flinched; but oh! nancy, think of its being in vain! for, after all, that little boy is the true heir. he is a dear little fellow, and although i ought to hate him i can't. he is the true heir; and if so, you know, nancy, that my little girls come back to me. how have i really bettered them by giving them six years of luxury when, after all, they must return to my small life?" "and to the best of mothers," answered nancy. "and to two or three hundred pounds put by careful; and they hearty and bonny and miss rachel's education half-complete. no, ma'am, they are not worse off, but a deal better off for what you have done for them--that's if the worst comes. but how can you say that that little boy will have avonsyde? why, he hasn't no strength in him--not a bit. thin is no word for him, and he's as light as a feather, and so white! why, i carried him in my arms as far as the stone, and i didn't feel as if i had nothing in them. why, ma'am, all the country round knows that the ladies at avonsyde are looking out for a strong heir; they go direct against the will if they give the old place to a sickly one. no, ma'am, master phil lovel ain't the heir for avonsyde. and is it likely, ma'am, that the ladies would be putting advertisements in all the papers, foreign and otherwise, for the last five years and a half, and sending over special messengers to the other side of the globe, and never yet a strong, hearty, real heir turn up? why, of course, mrs. lovel, he ain't to be found, and that's why he don't come." mrs. lovel smiled faintly. "well, nancy," she said, "i must at least go to town to-morrow, and as that is the case i will take your advice and go up to my room now. no, i could not eat anything. good-night, dear nancy." when mrs. lovel left the little sitting-room nancy stayed behind to give it a good "redding-up" as she expressed it. with regard to sitting-rooms, and indeed all rooms arranged for human habitation, nancy was a strict disciplinarian; rigid order was her motto. chairs placed demurely in rows; a table placed exactly in the middle of the room; books arranged at symmetrical intervals round it; each ornament corresponding exactly to its fellow; blinds drawn to a certain level--these were her ideas of a nice cheerful apartment. could she have had her own choice with regard to carpets, she would have had them with a good dash of orange in them; her curtains should always be made of moreen and be of a bright cardinal tone. a tidy and a cheerful room was her delight; she shuddered at the tendencies, so-called artistic, of the present day. putting the little sitting-room in order now, her feet knocked against something which gave forth a metallic sound; stooping, she picked up from the floor phil's tankard. she examined it curiously and brought it to the light. the quaint motto inscribed on one of its sides--"tyde what may"--was well known to her as the motto of the house of lovel. "i know nothing about this old cup," she said to herself; "it may or may not be of value; but it looks old--uncommon old; and it has the family coat of arms and them outlandish, meaningless words on it. of course it was little master phil brought it in to-day and forgot all about it. well, well, it may mean something or it may not; but my name ain't nancy white if i don't set it by for the present and bide my time about returning it. ah, my dear, dear lady, it won't be nancy's fault if your bonny little girls don't get their own out of avonsyde!" chapter xiv.--the australians. messrs. baring & baring, the lawyers who transacted all the business matters for the misses lovel, were much worried about christmas-time with clients. the elder mr. baring was engaged with a gentleman who had come from the country to see him on special and urgent business, and in consequence his son, a bright-looking, intelligent man of thirty, was obliged to ask two gentlemen to wait in his anteroom or to call again, while he himself interviewed a sorrowful-looking lady who required immediate attention. the gentlemen decided to wait the younger mr. baring's leisure, and in consequence he was able to attend to his lady client without impatience. "the business which brings you to me just before christmas, mrs. lovel, must be of the utmost importance," he began. mrs. lovel raised her veil and a look of intense pain filled her eyes. "it is of importance to me," she said, "for it means--yes, i greatly fear it means that my six years of bitter sacrifice have come to nothing and the heir is found." mr. baring raised his eyebrows; he did not trouble to inquire to whom she had alluded. after a brief pause he said quietly: "there is no reason whatever for you to despair. at this present moment my father and i are absolutely aware of two claimants for the avonsyde heirship--only one can inherit the place and both may prove unsuitable. you know that the ladies will not bequeath their property to any one who cannot prove direct descent from the elder branch; also the heir must be strong and vigorous. up to the present neither my father nor i have seen any conclusive proof of direct succession. we are quite aware that a little boy of the name of lovel is at present on a visit at avonsyde, but we also know that the misses lovel will take no definite steps in the matter without our sanction. i would not fret beforehand, mrs. lovel. it seems tame and old-fashioned advice, but i should recommend you for your own sake to hope for the best." "i will do so," said mrs. lovel, rising to her feet. "i will do so, even though i can no longer buoy myself up with false dreams. i feel absolutely convinced that before rachel's birthday an heir will be found for the old place. let it be so--i shall not struggle. it may be best for my children to come back to me; it will certainly be best for me to have them with me again. i won't take up any more of your time this morning, mr. baring." "well, come again to-morrow morning. i have got some more work for you and of quite a profitable kind. by the way, the new claimants--they have just come from australia and i am to see them in a moment--are in a desperate taking about an old tankard which seems to have been a family heirloom and would go far to prove their descent. the tankard is lost; also a packet of valuable letters. you see, my dear madam, their claim, as it stands at present, is anything but complete." mrs. lovel said a few more words to mr. baring, and then promising to call on the morrow, left him. to effect her exit from the house she had to pass through the room where the australians were waiting. her interview had excited her; her pale face was slightly flushed; her veil was up. perhaps the slight color on those usually pale cheeks had brought back some of the old and long-forgotten girlish bloom. the winter's day was sunshiny, and as she walked through the waiting-room the intense light throwing her features into strong relief, so strongly and so vividly did that slight and rather worn figure stand out that a man who had been sitting quietly by started forward with an exclamation: "surely i am addressing rachel cunningdale?" the lady raised her eyes to the great, strong, bearded face. "you are rupert lovel," she answered quietly. "i am, and this is my boy. here, rupert, lad, this lady was once your mother's greatest friend. why, rachel, it is twenty years since we met. you were scarcely grown up and such a bright bit of a girl, and now----" "and now," answered mrs. lovel, "i have been a wife and a mother. i am now a widow and, i may say it, childless; and, rupert, the strangest part of all, my name too is lovel." "what a queer coincidence. well, i am delighted to meet you. where are you staying? my boy and i have just come over from australia, and your friend, my dear wife, she is gone, rachel. it was an awful blow; we won't speak of it. i should like to see more of you. where shall we meet?" mrs. lovel gave the address of the very humble lodgings which she occupied when in london. "the boy and i will look you up, then, this evening. i fear our time now belongs to the lawyer. good-by--good-by. i am delighted to have met you." mr. baring prided himself on being an astute reader of character, but even he was somewhat amazed when these fresh claimants for the avonsyde property occupied quite half an hour of his valuable time by asking him numerous and sundry questions with regard to that pale and somewhat insignificant client of his, mrs. lovel. mr. baring was a cautious man, and he let out as little as he could; but the lovels, both father and son, were furnished with at least a few clews to a very painful story. so excited and interested was rupert lovel, senior, that he even forgot the important business that had brought him all the way from australia, and the lawyer had himself gently to divert his client's thoughts into the necessary channel. finally the father and son left the barings' office a good deal perturbed and excited and with no very definite information to guide them. "look here, rupert, lad," said the elder lovel. "it's about the saddest thing in all the world, that poor soul depriving herself of her children and then hoping against hope that the heir won't turn up. why, of course, lad, you are the heir; not a doubt of that. poor rachel! and she was your mother's friend." "but we won't set up our claim until we are certain about everything--will we, father?" asked young lovel. "did you not hear mr. baring say that many false heirs had laid claim to avonsyde? the old ladies want some one who can prove his descent, and we have not got all the papers--have we, father?" "no. it is an extraordinary thing about those letters being lost, and also the old tankard. but they are safe to turn up. who could have stolen them? perhaps gabrielle has already written with news of their safety. we might have a cab now to the general post-office. i have no doubt a budget of letters awaits me there. why, rupert, what are you looking so melancholy about? the tankard and the letters may even now be found. what's the matter, lad? it doesn't do for a hearty young chap like you to wear such a dismal face. i tell you your claim is as good as established." "but i don't know that i want it to be established," said young rupert lovel. "it is not nice to think of breaking that lady's heart. i don't know what gabrielle would say to doing anything so cruel to our mother's friend." "tut, lad, what a lot of rubbish you talk! if you are the heir you are, and you can't shirk your responsibility, even if you don't quite like it. well, we'll have a long talk with rachel and get to the bottom of everything to-night." * * * * * "and now, rachel, you must just confide in me and make me your friend. oh, nonsense! were you not my wife's friend? and don't i remember you a bit of a bonny lass, as young, quite as young as rupert here? i have got two young daughters of my own, and don't you suppose i feel for a woman who is the mother of girls? you tell me your whole story, rachel. how is it that you, who have married a lovel of avonsyde, should be practically shut away from the house and unrecognized by the family? when i met you last in melbourne you looked free enough from cares, and your father was fairly well off. you were just starting for europe--don't you remember? now tell me your history from that day forward." "with the exception of my old servant, nancy, i have not given my confidence to any human being for years," answered mrs. lovel. then she paused. "yes, i will trust you, rupert, and my story can be told in a few words; but first satisfy me about one thing. when i was at mr. baring's to-day he told me that a fresh claimant had appeared on the scene for the avonsyde property. is your boy the claimant?" "he is, rachel. we will go into that presently." mrs. lovel sighed. "it is so hard not to welcome you," she said, "but you destroy my hopes. however, listen to my tale. i will just tell it to you as briefly as possible. shortly after we came to england my father died. he was not well off, as we supposed; he died heavily in debt and i was penniless. i was not sufficiently highly educated to earn my bread as a teacher--as a teacher i should have starved; but i had a taste for millinery and i got employment in a milliner's shop in a good part of london. i stayed in that shop for about a year. at the end of that time i married valentine lovel. we had very little money, but we were perfectly happy; and even though valentine's people refused to acknowledge me, their indifference during my dear husband's lifetime did not take an iota from my happiness. two babies were born, both little girls. i know valentine longed for a son, and often said that the birth of a boy would most probably lead to a reconciliation with his father. no son, however, arrived, and my dear husband died of consumption when my eldest little girl was five years old. i won't dwell on his death, nor on one or two agonized letters which he wrote to his hard old father. he died without one token of reconciliation coming to cheer him from avonsyde; and when i laid him in the grave i can only say that i think my heart had grown hard against all the world. "i had the children to live for, and it is literally true that i had no time to sit down and cry for valentine's loss. the little girls had a faithful nurse; her name was nancy white; she is with me still. she took care of my dear, beautiful babies while i earned money to put bread in all our mouths. i had literally not a penny in the world except what i could earn, for the allowance valentine had always received from his father was discontinued at his death. i went back to the shop where i had worked as a milliner before my marriage; there happened to be a vacancy, and they were good enough to take me back. of course we were fearfully poor and lived in wretched lodgings; but however much nancy and i denied ourselves, the children wanted for nothing. they were lovely children--uncommon. any one could see that they had come of a proud old race. the eldest girl was called after her father and me; she was not like valentine in appearance, neither did she resemble me. i am dark, but rachel's eyes were of the deepest, darkest brown; her hair was black as night and her complexion a deep, glowing rosy brown. she was a splendid creature; so large, so noble-looking--not like either of us; but with a look--yes, rupert, with a look of that boy of yours. kitty resembled her father and was a delicate, lovely, ethereal little creature; she was as fair as rachel was dark, but she was not strong, and i often feared she inherited some of valentine's delicacy. "for two years i worked for the children and supported them. for a year and a half all went fairly well. but then i caught cold; for a time i was ill--too ill to work--and my situation at the milliner's shop was quickly filled up. i had a watch and a few valuable rings and trinkets which valentine had given me. i sold them one by one and we lived on the little money they fetched. but the children were only half-fed, and one wretched day of a hot and stifling july kitty fainted away quietly in my arms. that decided me. i made up my mind on the spot. i had a diamond ring, the most valuable of all my jewels, and the one i cared for most, for valentine had given it me on our engagement. i took it out and sold it. i was fortunate; i got â£10 for it. i hurried off at once and bought material, and made up with nancy's help lovely and picturesque dresses for both the children. i believe i had a correct eye for color, and i dressed rachel in rich dark plush with lace, but kitty was all in white. when the clothes were complete i put them on, and nancy kissed the pets and fetched a cab for me, and we drove away to waterloo. i had so little money left that i could only afford third-class tickets, but i took them to lyndhurst road, and when we arrived there drove straight to avonsyde. the children were as excited and pleased as possible. they knew nothing of any coming parting, and were only anxious to see their grandfather and the house which their father had so often spoken to them about. they were children who had never been scolded; no harsh words had ever been addressed to them, consequently they knew nothing of fear. when they got into the lovely old place they were wild with delight. 'kitty,' said rachel, 'let us go and find our grandfather.' before i could restrain them they were off; but indeed i had no wish to hinder them, for i felt sure they would plead their own cause best. we had arrived at a critical moment, for that was the last day of the old squire's life. i saw his daughters--my sisters-in-law. we had a private interview and made terms with one another. these were the terms: the ladies of avonsyde would take my darlings and care for them and educate them, and be, as they expressed it, 'mothers' to them, on condition that i gave them up. i said i would not give them up absolutely. i told the ladies quite plainly why i brought them at all. i said it was out of no love or respect for the cruel grandfather who had disowned them; it was out of no love or respect for the sisters, who did not care what became of their brother's children: it was simply and entirely out of my great mother-love for the children themselves. i would rather part with them than see them starve or suffer. 'but,' i added, 'there are limits even to my self-denial. i will not give them up forever. name the term of years, but there must be a limit to the parting.' "then miss katharine, who seemed kinder-hearted than her sister, gave me one or two compassionate glances, and even said, 'poor thing!' once or twice under her breath. "i did not take the slightest notice of her. i repeated again, more distinctly: 'the parting must have a limit; name a term of years.' then the ladies decided that on rachel's thirteenth birthday--she was just seven then--i should come back to avonsyde, and if i so wished and my little girls so wished i should have one or both of them back again. the ladies told me at the same time of their father's will. they said that a most vigorous search was going to be commenced at once for an heir of the elder branch. at the same time they both stated their conviction that no such heir would be forthcoming, for they said that no trace or tidings had been heard of rupert lovel from the day, nearly two hundred years ago, when he left avonsyde. their conviction was that rupert had died without descendants. in that case, both the ladies said, the little girls must inherit the property; and miss griselda said further that she would try to make arrangements with her father to so alter his will that if no heir had been found on rachel's thirteenth birthday, valentine's children should have a life-interest in avonsyde. if, on the other hand, the heir was found before that date, they would also be provided for, although she did not mention how. "these arrangements satisfied me. they were the best terms i could make, and i went away without bidding either of my children good-by. i could bear a great deal, but that parting i could not have endured. i went back to london and to nancy, and in a week's time i heard from miss lovel. she told me that her father was dead, but that the necessary codicil had been added to the will, and that if no heir appeared before rachel's thirteenth birthday my children would have a life-interest in the place, and they themselves would be bound over to go on with the search. miss lovel further added that in any case the children should be educated and cared for in the best possible manner. "those were the entire contents of her letter. she sent me no message from my darlings, and from that hour to this i have never heard from her. from that hour, too, my terrible, terrible heart-hunger began. no one knows what i suffered, what i suffer for want of the children. were the sacrifice to be made again, i don't think i could go through it, and yet god only knows. for two or three years i made a very scanty livelihood; then i was fortunate enough to invent a certain showy-looking lace. i could make my own patterns and do it very quickly by hand. to my great surprise it took, and from that hour i have had more orders than i can execute. my wants are very few and i have even saved money: i have over â£400 put away. my dream of dreams is to have my children back with me--that is my selfish dream. of course it will be best for them to be rich and to have the old place, but in any case i will not consent to so absolute a separation as now exists between us. a year ago a gentleman and his wife who had been kind to me, although they knew nothing of my story, asked me if i would like to take charge of a little cottage of theirs in the new forest. it is a tiny place, apparently lost in underwood and bracken, which they themselves occupy for a fortnight or so in the course of the year. the temptation was too great. i accepted the offer, and since then i have lived, so to speak, on the threshold of the children's home. one day i saw rachel. well, i must not dwell on that. i did not speak to her. i fled from her, although she is my first-born child. it is now december. may will come by and by, and then the greatness of my trouble will be over." mrs. lovel paused. the australians, father and son, had listened with breathless interest to her words. "i don't want to take the property from your children," said young rupert, with passion. "after what you have said and suffered, i hate to be heir of avonsyde." "i forgot to mention," continued mrs. lovel, "that a little boy is now at avonsyde of the name of philip who is supposed to be the real heir. he is a little pale-faced boy with beautiful eyes and a very winning manner, and it is reported that the old ladies have both lost their hearts to him. i cannot say that i think he looks strong, but he is a dear little boy." "that must be our phil," said young rupert, speaking with great interest. "of course, father that explains his queer letter to me. poor dear little phil!" "just like his mother," growled the elder lovel. "a mischievous, interfering, muddle-headed woman, sure to put her foot in a thing and safe to make mischief. forgive me, rachel, but i feel strongly about this. has the boy got a mother with him?" "yes." "you are right then, rupert. it is your cousin phil. poor little chap! he has no voice in the matter, i am sure. what a meddlesome woman that mother of his is! well, rachel, my boy and i will say good-night now. these revelations have pained and bewildered me. i must sleep over all this news. don't leave london until you hear from me. i think you may trust me, and--god bless you!" chapter xv.--was he acting? "i can't help it, kitty; you really must not ask me. i'm a very much puzzled boy. i'm--i'm--kitty, did you ever have to pull yourself up short just when you wanted to say something most interesting? i'm always pulling myself up short, and i'm dreadfully, dreadfully tired of it." "it must be something like giving a sudden jerk to one of our ponies," said kitty. "i know--it must be a horrid feeling. does it set your teeth on edge, phil, and do you quite tremble with impatience?" "yes," said phil, throwing himself full length on the floor of the old armory, where he and kitty had ensconced themselves on a pouring wet day early in the month of february. "yes, kitty, if feeling very unpleasant all over means setting your teeth on edge, i do know it. i'm a little boy with lots of secrets, and i never can tell them, not to you nor to anybody at avonsyde--no, not to anybody. i'll get accustomed to it in time, but i don't like it, for naturally i'm the kind of boy who can't keep a secret.' "what a horrid man you'll grow up!" said kitty, eying her cousin with marked disapproval. "you'll be so reserved and cross-grained and disagreeable. you'll have been pulled up short so often that you'll look jerky. oh, dear me, phil, i wouldn't be you for a great deal!" "i wouldn't be myself if i could help it," said phil, with a sigh which he tried hard to smother. "oh, i say, kitty-cat, will you coax aunt grizel to take us into southampton soon? i am quite certain my letter must be waiting for me. you don't know, kitty, you can't possibly guess what a letter from his dearest friend means to a rather lonely kind of boy like me." "you had better ask aunt grizel yourself," answered kitty, with a little pout and a little frown. "she's so fond of you, phil, that she'll do it. she'll take you to southampton if you coax her and if you put on that funny kind of sad look in your eyes. it's the kind of look our spaniel puts on, and i never can say 'no' to him when he has it. i don't know how you do it, phil, nor why you do it; but you have a very sorry look in your eyes when you like. is it because you're always and always missing your dearest friend?" "it's partly that," answered phil. "oh, you don't know what he's like, kitty! he's most splendid. he has got such a grand figure, and he walks in such a manly way, and his eyes are as dark and wonderful-looking as rachel's, and--and--oh, kitty, was i telling you anything? please forget that i said anything at all; please don't remember on any account whatever that i have got a dearest friend!" "i think you are perfectly horrid!" said kitty, stamping her foot. "just the minute we begin talking about anything interesting you give one of those jerks, just as if you had a cruel rider on your back. i can't think what it all means. if you have a dearest friend, there's no harm in it; and if you had a betty to take care of you, there's no harm in that; and if you lived in a cottage in a plantation, that isn't a sin; and if you did go into the forest to meet the lady, and you didn't meet her, although you were nearly swallowed up by a bog, why--why--what's the matter, phil? how white you are!" "nothing," said phil, suddenly pressing his face down on the cushion against which he was lying--"nothing--kit--i--" he uttered one or two groans. "fetch me a little water, please!" the child's face had suddenly become livid. he clinched his hands and pressed them against his temples, and buried that poor little drawn, piteous face further and deeper into the soft cushion. at last the paroxysm of pain passed; he panted, raised himself slowly, and struggled to his feet. "kitty!" but kitty was gone. terrified, the little girl ran through the hall. the first person she met was mrs. lovel, who, dressed gracefully in a soft black silk, trimmed with lace, was walking languidly in the direction of the great drawing-room. "you had better come!" said kitty, rushing up to her and seizing her hand. "phil is very dreadfully ill. i think phil will die. he's in the armory. come at once!" without waiting for the lady's answer, little kitty turned on her heel and flew back the way she had come. phil had scarcely time to struggle to his feet, scarcely time to notice her absence, before she was back again at his side. putting her arms around his neck, she covered his face with passionate kisses. "phil, phil, i was so frightened about you! are you better? do say you are better. oh, i love you so much, and i won't be jealous, even if you have got a dearest friend!" phil could stand, but the sudden attack he had passed through was so sharp that words could scarcely come to his lips. kitty's embrace almost overpowered him, but he was so innately unselfish that he would not struggle to free himself, fearing to pain her. his mother's step was heard approaching. he made a great effort to stand upright and formed his little lips into a voiceless whistle. "why, phil, you have been overtiring yourself," said mrs. lovel. "oh, kitty, how you have exaggerated! phil does not look at all bad. i suppose you were both romping, and never ceased until you lost your breath; or you were having one of your pretense games, and phil thought he would frighten you by making out he was ill. ah, phil, phil, what an actor you are! now, my dear boy, i want you to come up to your bedroom with me. i want to consult you about one or two matters. fancy, kitty, a mother consulting her little boy! ought not phil to be proud? but he is really such a strong, brave little man that i cannot help leaning on him. it was really unkind of you to pretend that time, phil, and to give little kitty such a fright." phil's beautiful brown eyes were raised to his mother's face; then they glanced at kitty; then a smile--a very sorry smile kitty considered it--filled them, and giving his little thin hand to his mother, he walked out of the armory by her side. kitty lingered for a moment in the room which her companion had deserted; then she dashed away across the brightly lit hall, through several cozy and cheery apartments, until she came to a room brilliant with firelight and lamplight, where rachel lay at her ease in a deep arm-chair with a fairy story open on her knee. "phil is the best actor in all the world, rachel!" she exclaimed. "he turned as white as a sheet just now. he turned gray, and he groaned most awfully, and he wouldn't speak, and i thought he was dying, and i flew for some one, and i found mrs. lovel, and she came back to phil, and she laughed, and said there was nothing the matter, and that phil was only acting. isn't it wonderful, rachel, that phil can turn pale when he likes, and groan in such a terrible way? oh, it made me shiver to see him! i do hope he won't act being ill again." "he didn't act," said rachel in a contemptuous voice; "that's what his mother said. i wouldn't have her for a mother for a great deal. i'd rather have no mother. poor little phil didn't act. don't talk nonsense, kitty." "then if he didn't act he must be very ill," said kitty. then, her blue eyes filling with tears, she added: "i do love him so! i love him even though he has a dearest friend." rachel stretched out her hand and drew kitty into a corner of her own luxurious chair. she had not seen phil, and kitty's account of him scarcely made her uneasy. "even if he was a little ill, he's all right now," she said. "stay with me, kitty-cat; i scarcely ever see you. i think phil is quite your dearest friend." "quite," answered kitty solemnly. "i love him better than any one, except you, rachel; only i do wish--yes, i do--that he had not so many secrets." "he never told you what happened to him that day in the forest, did he, kitty?" "oh, no; he pulled himself up short. he was often going to, but he always pulled himself up. what a dreadfully jerky man he'll grow up, rachel." "he never quite told you?" continued rachel. "well, i don't want him to tell me, for i know." "rachel!" "yes, i know all about it. i'm going to see him presently, and i'll tell him that i know his secret. now, kitty, you need not stare at me, for i'm never going to breathe it to any one except to phil himself. there, kit, the dressing-gong has sounded; we must go and get ready for supper." meanwhile mrs. lovel, taking phil's hand, had led him out of the armory and to the foot of the winding stone stairs. once there she paused. the look of placid indifference left her face; she dropped the smiling mask she had worn in kitty's presence, and stooping down lifted the boy into her arms and carried him tenderly up the winding stairs, never pausing nor faltering nor groaning under his weight. when they reached the tower bedroom she laid him on his little bed, and going to a cupboard in the wall unlocked it and took from thence a small bottle; she poured a few drops from the bottle into a spoon and put the restorative between the boy's blue lips. he swallowed it eagerly, smiled, shook himself, and sat up in bed. "thank you, mother. i am much better now," he said affectionately. mrs. lovel locked the door, stirred the fire in the old-fashioned grate into a cheerful blaze, lit two or three candles, drew the heavy curtains across the windows, and then dragging a deep arm-chair opposite the glowing hearth, she lifted phil again into her arms, and sitting down in the comfortable seat, rocked him passionately to her breast. "my boy, my boy, was it very bad, very awful?" "yes, mother; but it's all right now." "did kitty hear you groan, phil?" "yes, mother; but not the loudest groans, for i buried my head in the cushion. i'm all right now, mother. i can go down again in a minute or two." "no, phil, you shan't go down to-night. i'll manage it with the old ladies; and phil, darling, darling, we have almost won; you won't have to pretend anything much longer. on the 5th of may, on rachel's birthday, you are to be proclaimed the heir. this is the middle of february; you have only a little more than two months to keep it all up, phil." "oh, yes, mother, it's very difficult, and the pain in my side gets worse, and i don't want it, and i'd rather rupert had it; but never mind, mammy, you shan't starve." he stroked his mother's cheek with his little hand, and she rocked him in her arms in an ecstasy of love and fear and longing. at that moment she loved the boy better than the gold. she would have given up all dreams of ease and comfort for herself if she could have secured real health for that most precious little life. "mother," said phil, "i do want to go to southampton so badly." "what for, dearest?" "because i'm expecting a letter, mother, from rupert. no, no, don't frown! i can't bear to see you frown. i didn't tell him anything, but i wrote to him, and i asked him to send his answer to the post-office at southampton, and it must be waiting there now; yes, it must, and i do want to fetch it so dreadfully. can you manage that i shall go, mother?" "i'll go for it myself, dear; i'll go to-morrow. there--doesn't mother love her boy? yes, i'll go for the letter to southampton to-morrow. there's the supper-gong, phil. i must go down, but you shan't. i'll bring you up something nice to eat presently." "oh, no, please; i couldn't eat. just let me lie on my bed quite still without talking. mother, my darling mother, how can i thank you for promising to fetch rupert's letter?" mrs. lovel laid phil back on his bed, covered him up warmly, and softly unlocking the door went downstairs. she had got a shock, a greater shock than she cared to own; but when she entered the long, low, old-fashioned dining-hall where miss griselda and miss katharine and the two little girls awaited her, her face was smiling and careless as usual. the poor, weak-minded, and bewildered woman had resumed her mask, and no one knew with what an aching heart she sat down to her luxurious meal. "is phil still pretending to be very, very dreadfully ill?" called out kitty across the table. miss griselda started at kitty's words, looked anxiously at mrs. lovel and at a vacant chair, and spoke. "is your boy not well? is he not coming to supper?" she inquired. "phil strained himself a little," answered mrs. lovel, "and he had quite a sharp pain in his side--only muscular, i assure you, dear miss griselda; nothing to make one the least bit uneasy, but i thought it better to keep him upstairs. he is going to bed early and won't come down again to-night. may i take him up a little supper presently?" "poor boy! he must be ravenously hungry," said miss griselda in a careless tone. "strained his side? dear, dear! children are always hurting themselves. i wanted him to go with me early to-morrow to collect mosses. i intend to drive the light cart myself into the forest, and i meant to take phil and kitty with me. phil is so clever at finding them." "oh, he's very strong. he'll be quite ready to go with you, miss griselda," answered the little boy's mother; but she bent her head as she spoke, and no one saw how pale her face was. the meal proceeded somewhat drearily. kitty was out of spirits at the loss of her favorite companion; rachel's little face looked scarcely childish, so intensely watchful was its expression; mrs. lovel wore her smiling mask; and the two old ladies alone were perfectly tranquil and indifferent. "may i take phil up some supper?" suddenly asked rachel. mrs. lovel suppressed a quick sigh, sat down again in her seat, for she was just rising to go back to phil, and almost ran her nails into her hands under the table in her efforts to keep down all symptoms of impatience. "thank you, dear," said miss griselda gratefully. "if you go up to phil his mother need not trouble herself about him until bedtime. we will adjourn to the drawing-room, if you please, mrs. lovel. i am anxious to have another lesson in that new kind of crochet. katharine, will you give rachel some supper to take up to phil?--plenty of supper, please, dear; he's a hearty boy and ought to have abundance to eat." miss katharine smiled, cut a generous slice of cold roast beef, and piled two mince-pies and a cheese-cake on another plate. when she had added to these a large glass of cold milk and some bread-and-butter, she gave the tray to rachel, and bidding her be careful not to spill her load, took kitty's hand and went with her into the drawing-room. rachel carried her tray carefully as far as the foot of the winding stairs; then looking eagerly up and down and to right and left, she suddenly wheeled round and marched off through many underground and badly lit passages, until she found herself in the neighborhood of the great old-fashioned kitchen. here she was met not by the cook, but by mrs. newbolt, the lady's-maid. "oh, newbolt, you'll do what i want. phil is ill, and his mother doesn't want any one to know about it. take all this horrid mess away and give me some strong, strong, beautiful beef tea and a nice little piece of toast. i'll wait here, and you won't be long, will you, dear newbolt?" newbolt loved phil and detested his mother. with a sudden snort she caught up rachel's tray, and returned presently with a tempting little meal suited to an invalid. "if the child is ill i'll come up with you to see him, miss rachel," she said. phil was lying on his back; his eyes were shut; his face looked very pinched and blue. true, however, to the little spartan that he was, when he heard rachel's step he started up and smiled and welcomed her in a small but very cheery voice. "thank you for coming to see me," he said, "but i didn't want any supper; i told mother so. oh, what is that--white soup? i do like white soup. and oysters? yes, i can eat two or three oysters. how very kind you are, rachel. i begin to feel quite hungry, that supper looks so nice." rachel carried the tempting little tray herself, but behind her came newbolt, whom phil now perceived for the first time. "have you come up to see me, newbolt?" he said. "but i am not at all ill. i happened to get tired, and mother said i must rest here." "the best place for a tired little boy to rest is in his bed, not on it," said newbolt. "if you please. master phil, i am going to put you into bed, and then miss rachel shall feed you with this nice supper. oh, yes, sir, we know you're not the least bit ill--oh, no, not the least bit in the world; but we are going to treat you as if you were, all the same." phil smiled and looked up at newbolt as if he would read her innermost thoughts. he was only too glad to accept her kind services, and quite sighed with relief when she laid him comfortably on his pillows. newbolt wrapped a little red dressing-jacket over his shoulders, and then poking the fire vigorously and seeing that the queer old tower room looked as cheerful as possible, she left the two children together. rachel and phil made very merry over his supper, and phil almost forgot that he had been feeling one of the most forsaken and miserable little boys in the world half an hour ago. rachel had developed quite a nice little amount of tact, and she by no means worried phil with questions as to whether his illness was real or feigned. but when he really smiled, and the color came back to his cheeks, and his laugh sounded strong and merry once more, she could not help saying abruptly: "phil, i have been wanting to see you by yourself for some time. i cannot tell kitty, for kitty is not to know; but, phil, what happened to you that day in the forest is no secret to me." phil opened his eyes very wide. "what do you mean, rachel?" he asked. "no, rachel, you cannot guess it, for i never, never even whispered about that secret." rachel's face had turned quite pale and her voice was trembling. "shall i whisper it back to you now?" she said. "shall i tell you where you went? you did not meet the myth lady--i begin really to be almost sure she is only a myth lady--but you did meet a lady. she was in gray and she had the saddest face in the world; and oh, phil, she took you home--she took you home!" "why, rachel," said little phil again, "you look just as if you were going to cry. how is it you found all this out? and why does it make you so sorrowful?" "oh, i want her," said rachel, trembling and half-sobbing. "i want her so badly. i long for her more than anything. i saw her once and i have not been quite happy since. she never took me inside her house. phil, i am jealous of you. phil, i want to hear all about her." "i'm so glad you know," said phil in cheerful tones. "i was told not to tell. i was told to keep it another secret; but if you found it out, or rather if you always knew about it, why, of course you and i can talk together about her. you don't know how nice it will be to me to be able to talk to you about one of my secrets. my dearest friend secret, and the betty secret, and the little house at the back of the garden secret i must never, never speak of; and the secret about my being a very, very strong boy--that i mustn't talk about; but you and i can chatter about the lady of the forest, rachel. oh, what a comfort it is!" "it will be a great comfort to me too," answered rachel. "let's begin at once. tell me every single thing about her. what did she wear? how did she speak? had she my ring on her finger?" phil smiled and launched forth into a long and minute narrative. not a single detail would sharp little rachel allow him to omit. whenever his memory was in danger of flagging she prodded it with vehemence, until at last even her most rapacious longing was satisfied. when phil had quite exhausted all his narrative she breathed a deep sigh and said again: "i envy you, phil. you have been inside her house and she has kissed you." "she was a very nice and kind lady," concluded phil, "and she was very good to me; but all the same, rachel, i would rather see that other lady--the lady in green with the lovely face who comes with a gift." "perhaps she's only a myth," said rachel. "please, rachel, don't say so. i want the bag of gold so badly." rachel stared and laughed. "i never thought you were greedy, phil," she said. "i cannot think, what a little boy like you can want with a bag of gold." "that's my secret," said phil, half-closing his eyes and again turning very pale. "a great many people would be happier if i had that bag of gold. rachel," he added, "i do trust i may one day see the lady. i went to look for her that day in the forest; i went miles and miles to find her, but i didn't, and i was nearly drowned in a bog." "it is not a bit necessary to go into the forest to see her," answered rachel; "she might come to you here, in this very room. you know this is the very oldest part of the house. this part of avonsyde is quite steeped in romance, and i dare say the lady has been here once or twice--that is, of course, if she isn't a myth. there is an old diary of one of our ancestors in the library, and i have coaxed aunt griselda now and then to let me read in it. one day i read an account of the lady; it was then i found out about her green dress and her lovely face. the diary said she was 'passing fair,' and those who looked on her were beautiful ever afterward. she showed herself but seldom, but would come now and then for a brief half-minute of time to the fairest and the best and to those who were to die young." "rachel," said little phil, "just before you came up that time i was lying with my eyes shut, and i was thinking of the beautiful lady, and i almost thought i saw her. i should be happy if she came to me." chapter xvi.--lost. phil's mother was in every sense a weak woman. she was not strong enough to be either very good or very bad; she had a certain amount of daring, but she had not sufficient courage to dare with success. she had a good deal of the stubbornness which sometimes accompanies weak characters, and when she deliberately set her heart on any given thing, she could be even cruel in her endeavors to bring this thing to pass. her husband and the elder rupert lovel, of belmont, near melbourne, were brothers. both strong and brave men, they had married differently. rupert's wife had in all particulars been a helpmeet to him; she had brought up his children to be brave and strong and honorable. she suffered much, for she was a confirmed invalid for many years before her death; but her spirit was so strong, so sweet, so noble, that not only her husband and children, but outsiders--all, in fact, who knew her--leaned on her, asked eagerly for her counsel, and were invariably the better when they followed her advice. philip lovel's wife was not a helpmeet to him; she was weak, exacting, jealous, and extravagant. she was the kind of woman whom a strong man out of his very pity would be good to, would pet and humor even more than was good for her. philip was killed suddenly in a railway accident, and his widow was left very desolate and very poor. her boy was then five years old--a precocious little creature, who from the moment of his father's death took upon himself the no light office of being his mother's comforter. he had a curious way even from the very first of putting himself aside and considering her. without being told, he would stop his noisy games at her approach and sit for an hour at a time with his little hand clasped in hers, while he leaned his soft cheek against her gown and was happy in the knowledge that he afforded her consolation. to see him thus one would have supposed him almost deficient in manly attributes; but this was not so. his gentleness and consideration came of his strength; the child was as strong in mental fiber as the mother was weak. in the company of his brave cousin rupert no merrier or gayer little fellow could have been found. his courage and powers of endurance were simply marvelous. poor little phil! that courageous spirit of his was to be tested in no easy school. soon after his sixth birthday those mysterious attacks of pain came on which the doctor in melbourne, without assigning any special cause for their occurrence, briefly spoke of as dangerous. phil was eight years old when his mother's great temptation came to her. she saw an english newspaper which contained the advertisement for the avonsyde heir. her husband had often spoken to her about the old family place in the home country. she had loved to listen to his tales, handed down to him orally from his ancestors. she had sighed, and groaned too, over his narratives, and had said openly that to be mistress of such an old ancestral home was her ideal of paradise. philip, a busy and active man, spent no time over vain regrets; practically he and his elder brother, rupert, forgot the existence of the english home. rupert had made a comfortable fortune for himself in the land of his adoption, and philip too would have been rich some day if he had lived. mrs. lovel, a discontented widow, saw the tempting advertisement, and quickly and desperately she made her plans. her little son was undoubtedly a lineal descendant of the disinherited rupert lovel, but also, and alas! he was not strong. in body at least he was a fragile and most delicate boy. mrs. lovel knew that if the ladies of avonsyde once saw the beautiful and brave young rupert, phil's chance would be nowhere. she trusted that rupert lovel the elder would not see the advertisement. she sold her little cottage, realized all the money she could, and without telling any one of her plans, started with her boy for england. before she left she did one thing more: she made a secret visit to belmont, and under the pretext of wishing to see her sister-in-law, sat with her while she slept, and during that sleep managed to abstract from the cupboard behind her bed the old silver tankard and a packet of valuable letters. these letters gave the necessary evidence as to the genuineness of the boy's descent and the tankard spoke for itself. mrs. lovel started for england, and during her long voyage she taught phil his lesson. he was to forget the past and he was to do his very utmost to appear a strong boy. she arrived at avonsyde, was kindly welcomed, and day after day, month after month, her hopes grew great and her fears little. phil played his part to perfection--so his mother said--not recognizing the fact that it was something in the boy himself, something quite beyond and apart from his physical strength, which threw a sweet glamour over those who were with him, causing them to forget the plainness of his face and see only the wonderful beauty of the soul which looked through the lovely eyes, causing them to cease to notice how fragile was the little frame which yet was so lithe and active, causing them never to observe how tired those small feet grew, and yet how willingly they ran in grateful and affectionate service for each and all. cold-hearted, cold-natured miss griselda was touched and softened as she had never been before by any mortal. she scarcely cared to have the boy out of her sight; she petted him much; she loved him well. mrs. lovel hoped and longed. if once rachel's birthday could be passed, all would be well. when the ladies appointed phil as their heir, he was their heir forever. surely nothing would occur to interfere with her darling projects during the short period which must elapse between the present time and that eventful day two months hence. as mrs. lovel grew more hopeful her manner lost much of its nervous affectation. in no society could she appear as a well-educated and well-read woman, but on the surface she was extremely good-natured, and in one particular she won on the old ladies of avonsyde. she was practiced in all the small arts of fancy needlework. she could knit; she could crochet; she could tat; she could embroider conventional flowers in crewels. the misses lovel detested crewel-work, but miss katharine was very fond of knitting and miss griselda affected to tolerate crochet. each night, as the three ladies sat in the smaller of the large drawing-rooms, the crochet and the knitting came into play; and when mrs. lovel ventured to instruct in new stitches and new patterns, she found favor in the eyes of the two old ladies. on the night of phil's illness the poor woman sat down with an inward groan to give miss griselda her usual evening lesson. no one knew how her heart beat; no one knew how her pulse throbbed nor how wild were the fresh fears which were awakened within her. suppose, after all, phil could not keep up that semblance of strength to the end! suppose an attack similar to the one he had gone through to-day should come on in miss griselda's presence. then, indeed, all would be lost. and suppose--suppose that other thing happened: suppose rupert lovel with his brave young son should arrive at avonsyde before the 5th of may. mrs. lovel could have torn her hair when phil so quietly told her that he had written to young rupert, and that even now a reply might be waiting for him at southampton. she knew well that rupert's father would remember how near avonsyde was to southampton. if the boy happened to show phil's letter to his father, all would be lost. mrs. lovel felt that she could not rest until she went to southampton and secured the reply which might be waiting for phil at the post-office. these anxious thoughts made her distraite; and bravely as she wore her mask, one or two sighs did escape from her anxious breast. "how silent you are!" suddenly exclaimed miss griselda in a snappish tone. "i have asked you the same question three times! am i to crochet twelve or thirteen stitches of chain? oh, you need not trouble to answer; i am putting away my work now. the pattern is not working out at all properly. perhaps you are anxious about phil. if so, pray do not let me detain you. it is a great mistake to coddle children, but i suppose a mother's foolishness must be excused." "you quite mistake. i am not the least anxious," answered poor mrs. lovel, who was in reality on thorns. "i am so very sorry that i did not hear your question, dear miss griselda. the fact is, i have been wondering if i might ask a little favor. i should like to go to southampton to-morrow morning. can you spare the carriage to send me to the railway station?" miss griselda stared. "can i spare the carriage?" she repeated haughtily. "i was not aware that you were a prisoner at avonsyde, mrs. lovel. of course you can go in or out as you please. pray send your own orders to the stables." mrs. lovel was profuse in her thanks, miss griselda as cross and ungracious as possible. the fact was the old lady was longing to pay phil a visit in his room, and would have done so had she not feared his mother accompanying her. the poor unhappy mother would have given worlds to be with her boy, but dreaded miss griselda's comments. the next day, early, mrs. lovel went to southampton, executed a few commissions in order to give color to her expedition, fetched phil's letter from the post-office, and returned home, burning with impatience to read its contents. she would not have scrupled to open the envelope had not phil implored of her, just when she was starting on her journey, to let him have this pleasure himself. phil was much as usual the next morning, and he and aunt grizel and kitty had gone off on an expedition into the forest to look for mosses. when mrs. lovel got back the little party had not returned. she had still to control her impatience, and after taking a hurried lunch went up to her tower bedroom. she laid the letter with the australian postmark on the writing-table and paced in a fever of anxiety up and down the small room. suddenly it occurred to her to beguile the slow moments with some occupation. why should she not open that trunk which contained old reminiscences and one or two articles of value? why should she not open it and put its contents in order, and take out the precious tankard and clean it? this task would give her occupation and cause the weary moments to pass quickly. she stooped down and was startled to find that the key was in the lock. how very, very stupid of her to have left it there! when had she been guilty of so dangerous a piece of negligence? with trembling fingers she raised the lid of the trunk and began to search for the tankard. of course she could not find it. suddenly she heard footsteps approaching and half-rose in an expectant attitude. her little son came quickly in. "oh, mother, have you brought my letter?" "yes; it is on the table. phil, there was a silver tankard in this trunk, and i can't find it." phil had flown to his letter and was opening it eagerly. "phil, do you hear me? i can't find the silver tankard." he went up at once to his mother. "i beg your pardon, mother. i am so dying to see what rupert says! a silver tankard? oh, yes; that old one they always had at belmont; the one gabrielle was so proud of. i did not know they had given it to you. oh, mother, i am sorry. do you know, i never thought of it until this minute." "thought of what? speak, child; don't keep me on thorns!" "i found it, mother, and i took it out with me that day when i was nearly drowned in the bog. i had it with me that day." "well, boy, well! where is it now?" "i don't know. i don't remember a single thing about it. i think i had it with me in the bog. i'm almost sure i had, but i can't quite recollect. perhaps i dropped it in the bog. mother, what is the matter?" "nothing, child. i could shake you, but i won't. this is terrible news. there! read your letter." "mother darling, let us read it together. mother, i didn't know it was wrong. kiss me, mammy, and don't look so white. oh! i am almost too happy. mother, rupert says when i am reading this he will be in england!" "then we are lost!" said mrs. lovel, pushing the slight little figure away from her. "no, no, i scarcely love you at this moment. don't attempt to kiss me. we are utterly lost!" chapter xvii.--looking for the tankard. when mrs. lovel spoke to phil with such passion and bitterness, and when, abruptly leaving the tower bedroom and slamming the door violently after her, the little boy found himself alone, he was conscious of a curious half-stunned feeling. his mother had said that she scarcely loved him. all his small life he had done everything for his mother; he had subdued himself for her sake; he had crushed down his love and his hope and his longing just to help her. what did he care for wealth, or for a grand place, or for anything in all the wide world, in comparison with the sweetness of rupert's smile, in comparison with the old happy days in belmont and of the old life, when he might be a boy with aches and pains if he liked, when he need not pretend to be possessed of the robust health which he never felt, when he need carry no wearisome secrets about with him? his mother had said, "i scarcely love you, phil," and she had gone away angry; she had gone away with defiance in her look and manner, and yet with despair in her heart. phil had guessed that she was despairing, for he knew her well, and this knowledge soon made his brief anger take the form of pity. "poor mother! poor darling mother!" he murmured. "i did not know she would mind my taking out the old belmont tankard. i am awfully sorry. i suppose it was quite careless of me. i did not know that mother cared for the tankard; but i suppose gabrielle must have given it to her, and i suppose she must love gabrielle a little. that is nice of her; that is very nice. i wish i could get the tankard back for her. i wonder where i did leave it. i do wish very much that i could find it again." phil now turned and walked to the window and looked out. it was a delicious spring day, and the soft air fanned his cheeks and brought some faint color to them. "i know what i'll do," he said to himself. "i'll go once again into the forest--i'm not likely to get lost a second time--and i'll look for the tankard. of course i may find it, and then mother will be happy again. oh, dear, to think rupert is in england! how happy his letter would have made me but for mother, and--hullo! is that you, kitty?" "yes; come down," called out kitty from the lawn in front of the house. "i've been watching you with aunt griselda's spy-glasses for the last couple of minutes, and you do look solemn." "i'm coming," phil called back. he thrust his beloved letter into one of his pockets, and a moment later joined his two cousins on the lawn. "you have been a time," said kitty, "and we have got some wonderful and quite exciting news to tell you--haven't we, rachel?" "you find it exciting, kitty," said rachel in an almost nonchalant voice, "but i dare say phil will agree with me that it's almost a bore." "what is it?" said phil. "oh, only this--the marmadukes are coming to-morrow to stay for ten days." "the marmadukes! who are they?" asked phil. "oh, some children from london. they are our relations--at least, so aunt griselda says; and she thinks it will be nice for us to know them. anyhow, they're coming--two boys and two girls, and a father and a mother, and a lady's-maid, and a pug dog, and a parrot. aunt grizel is so angry about the pug and the parrot; she wanted to write and tell them all that they couldn't come, and then aunt katharine cried and there was a fuss. it seems they're more aunt katharine's friends than aunt grizel's. anyhow, they're coming, and the pug and the parrot are to stay in newbolt's room all the time; so don't you ask to see them, phil, or you'll get into hot water. the best of it is that while they're here we are all to have holidays, and we can go a great deal into the forest and have picnics if the weather keeps fine. and in the evening aunt grizel says she will have the armory lighted, and we children may play there and have charades and tableaux and anything we fancy. oh, i call it great, splendid fun!" said kitty, ending with a caper. rachel's very dark eyes had brightened when kitty spoke about the tableaux and the charades. "it all depends on what kind of children the marmadukes are," she said; and then she took phil's hand and walked across the lawn with him. she had a fellow-feeling for phil just at present, for he and she shared a secret; and she noticed as he stood by kitty's side that his laugh was a little forced and that there were very dark lines under his eyes. "you're tired--aren't you, phil?" she said. "i?" asked the little boy, looking up with almost alarm in his face. "oh, please don't say that, rachel." "why shouldn't i say it? any one to look at you could see you are tired, and i'm sure i don't wonder, after being so ill last night. go in and lie down if you like, phil, and i'll pretend to aunt grizel that you are half a mile away in the forest climbing trees and doing all kinds of impossible things." "i do want to go into the forest," said phil, "but i won't go to-day, rachel. you were very kind to me last night. i love you for being so kind." "oh, it wasn't exactly kindness," said rachel. "i came to you because i was curious, you know." "yes; but you were kind, all the same. do you think, rachel, we shall often go into the forest and go a long, long way when the marmadukes are here?" "yes, i suppose so. it depends upon the weather, of course, and what kind of children they are. they may be such puny little londoners that they may not be able to walk a dozen steps. why do you want to know, phil? you look quite excited." "we have a secret between us--haven't we, rachel?" it was rachel's turn now to color and look eager. "yes," she said; "oh, yes." "some day," whispered phil--"some day, when the marmadukes are here, we might go near the lady's house--might we not?" rachel caught the boy's arm with a strong convulsive grasp. "if we might!" she said. "if we only dared! and you and i, phil, might steal away from the others, and go close to the lady's house, and watch until she came out. and we might see her--oh! we might see her, even if we did not dare to speak." "i want to go," said phil--"i want to go to that house again, although it is not because i want to see the lady. it is a secret; all my life is made up of secrets. but i will go if--if i have a chance. and if you see me stealing away by myself you will help me--won't you, rachel?" "trust me," said rachel, with enthusiasm. "oh, what a dear boy you are, phil! i can scarcely believe when i talk to you that you are only eight years old; you seem more like my own age. to be only eight is very young, you know." "i have had a grave sort of life," said phil, with a hastily suppressed sigh, "and i suppose having a great many secrets to keep does make a boy seem old." chapter xviii.--the marmadukes. the marmadukes were not at all a puny family; on the contrary, they were all rather above the ordinary size. mr. marmaduke was extremely broad and red and stout; mrs. marmaduke was an angular and bony-framed woman, with aquiline features and a figure which towered above all the other ladies present; the lady's-maid took after her mistress in stature and became newbolt's detestation on the spot; the pug dog was so large that he could scarcely be considered thoroughbred; and the parrot was a full-grown bird and the shrillest of its species. the four young marmadukes took after their parents and were extremely well developed. the eldest girl was thirteen; her name was clementina; she had a very fat face and a large appetite. the boys, named dick and will, were sturdy specimens; and abigail, or abby, the youngest of the group, was considerably spoiled and put on many airs, which made her insufferable to kitty and phil. the marmadukes arrived in a body, and without any efforts on their own parts or the smallest desire that way on the part of the old ladies they took avonsyde by storm. they seemed to fill the whole house and to pervade the grounds, and to make their presence felt wherever they turned. they entertained themselves and suggested what places they should go to see, and announced the hours at which they would like best to dine and what times they would wish the avonsyde carriage to be in attendance. miss griselda was petrified at what she was pleased to term the manners of the great babylon. miss katharine received several snubs at the style of friends she kept, and only the fact that they were distantly connected with the lovels, and that their visit must terminate within ten days, prevented miss griselda from being positively rude to such unwelcome inmates. "phil," said rachel on the second morning after the arrival of this obnoxious household, "if clementina thinks she is going to get the upper hand of me any more she is finely mistaken. what do i care for her kensington gardens and that pony she rides in the row! i don't suppose she knows how to ride--not really; for i asked her yesterday if she could ride barebacked, and she stared at me, and turned up her lip, and said in such a mincing voice, 'we don't do that kind of thing in london.' phil, i hate her; i really do! i don't know how i'm to endure her for the next week. she walks about with me and is so condescending to me; and i can't endure it--no, i can't! oh, i wish i could do something to humble her!" "poor rachel!" said phil in his sweet, pitying voice, and a tender, beautiful light which is born of sympathy filled his eyes. "i know clementina is not your sort, rachel," he said, "and i only wish she would talk to me and leave you alone." rachel laughed and leaned her hand affectionately on phil's shoulder. "i don't wish that," she said. "i don't want to ease myself by adding to your burdens; you have quite enough with dick and will. you must hate them just as much as i hate clementina." "oh, i don't hate them at all," said phil. "they are not my sort; they are not the style of boys i like best, but i get on all right with them; and as to hating, i never hated any one in all my life." "well, i have," said rachel. "and the one i hate most now in all the world is clementina marmaduke! oh, here they are, all coming to meet us; and doesn't poor kitty look bored to death?" phil glanced wistfully from one sister to another, and then he ran up to clementina and began to chat to her in a very eager and animated voice. he was evidently suggesting something which pleased her, for she smiled and nodded her head several times. phil said, "i'll bring them to you in a moment or two," and ran off. "what have you asked phil to do?" asked rachel angrily. "he's not a strong boy--at least, not very strong, and he mustn't be sent racing about." "oh, then, if he's not strong he won't ever get avonsyde," returned clementina. "how disappointed his mother will be. i thought phil was very strong." "you know nothing about it," said rachel, getting redder and more angry. "you have no right to talk about our private affairs; they are nothing to you." "i only know what my mamma tells me," said clementina, "and i don't choose to be lectured by you, miss rachel." here will and dick came eagerly forward, squared their shoulders, and said: "go it, girls! give it to her back, rachel. she's never happy except when she's quarreling." a torrent of angry words was bubbling up to rachel's lips, but here phil came panting up, holding a great spray of lovely scarlet berries in his hand. "here!" he said, presenting it to clementina. "that is the very last, and i had to climb a good tall tree to get it. let me twine it round your hat the way gabrielle used to wear it. here, just one twist--doesn't it look jolly?" the effect on clementina's dark brown beaver hat was magical, and the effect on her temper was even more soothing--she smiled and became good-tempered at once. rachel's angry words were never spoken, and sunshine being restored the children began to discuss their plans for the day. miss griselda had given a certain amount of freedom to all the young folk, and under supervision--that is, in the company of robert, the groom--they might visit any part of the forest not too far away. when the eager question was asked now, "what shall we do with ourselves?" phil replied instantly, "let's go into the forest. let's visit rufus' stone." rachel's eyes danced at this, and she looked eagerly and expectantly at her little cousin. "you have none of you seen the stone," proceeded phil. "there are splendid trees for climbing round there, and on a fine day like this it will be jolly. we can take our lunch out, and i'll show you lots of nests, will." "i'll go on one condition," said rachel--"that we ride. let's have our ponies. it is too horrid to be cooped up in a wagonette." "oh, we'd all much rather ride!" exclaimed the marmaduke children. "bob can drive the pony-cart to the stone," proceeded rachel, "and meet us there with our luncheon things. that will do quite well, for as there are such a lot of us we won't want a groom to ride as well. we know every inch of the road from here to the stone--don't we, phil?" "yes," answered phil softly. "well, that's splendid," said clementina, who felt that her berries were very becoming and who imagined that rachel was looking at them enviously. "but have you got horses enough to mount us all?" "we've got ponies," said rachel. "rough forest ponies; jolly creatures! you shall have brownie, as you're such a good rider; he's nice and spirited--isn't he, phil?" "yes," replied phil. "but i think clementina would have a jollier time with surefoot; he goes so easily. i think he's the dearest pony in the world." "but he's your own pony, phil. you surely are not going to give up your own pony?" phil laughed. "i'm not going to give him up," he said; "only i think i'd like to ride brownie this morning." rachel scarcely knew why she felt ashamed at these words; she certainly had no intention of offering her horse to clementina. "what queer ways phil has," she thought to herself. and then she saw a softened look in clementina's eyes and her heart gave a sharp little prick. half an hour later the riding party set out, and for a time all went smoothly. rachel was trying to curb her impatience; clementina amused herself by being condescending to philip; and dick, will, kitty, and abby rode amicably together. but the party was ill-assorted, and peace was not likely long to reign. surefoot was an extremely nice pony, and clementina rode well in front, and after a time began to give herself airs, and to arrange her fresh and very becoming habit, as if she were riding in the row. surefoot was gentle, but he was also fresh; and when clementina touched him once or twice with her riding-whip, he shook himself indignantly and even broke into a canter against her will. "you must not touch surefoot with a whip," sang out rachel. "he does not need it and it is an insult to him." clementina laughed scornfully. "all horses need the whip now and then," she said; "it freshens them up and acts as a stimulant. you don't suppose, rachel, that i don't know? i rather think there are very few girls who know more about riding than i do. why, i have had lessons from captain delacourt since i can remember." "is captain delacourt your riding-master?" asked rachel in an exasperating voice. "if so, he can't be at all a good one; for a really good riding-master would never counsel any girl to use the whip to a willing horse." "did your riding-master give you that piece of information?" inquired clementina in a voice which she considered full of withering sarcasm. "i should like to know his name, in order that i might avoid him." rachel laughed. "my riding-master was robert," she said, "and as he is my aunt's servant, you cannot get lessons from him even if you wish to. you need not sneer at him, clementina, for there never was a better rider than robert, and he has taught me nearly everything he knows himself. there isn't any horse i couldn't sit, and it would take a very clever horse indeed to throw me." clementina smiled most provokingly, and raising her whip gave gentle little surefoot a couple of sharp strokes. the little horse quivered indignantly, and rachel glanced at phil, who was riding behind on brownie. "oh, phil," she called out, "clementina is so unkind to your horse. it is well for you, clementina, that you are on surefoot's back. he is so sweet-tempered he won't resent even cruelty very much; but if you dared to whip my horse, ruby, you would have good reason to repent of your rashness." rachel was riding on a red-coated pony, a half-tamed creature with promises of great beauty and power by and by, but at present somewhat rough and with a wild, untamed gleam in his eyes. clementina glanced all over ruby, but did not deign another remark. she was forming a plan in her mind. by hook or by crook she would ride ruby home and show to the astonished rachel what captain delacourt's pupil was capable of. the children presently reached their destination, where bob and the light cart of refreshments awaited them. the day was very balmy and springlike, and the most fastidious could not but be pleased and the most ill-tempered could not fail for a time, at least, to show the sunny side of life. the children made merry. rachel and clementina forgot their disputes in the delights of preparing salads and cutting up pies; phil, the marmaduke boys, and abby went off on a foraging expedition; and kitty swung herself into the low-growing branch of a great oak tree, and lazily closing her eyes sang softly to herself. the picnic dinner turned out a grand success; and then clementina, who was fond of music and who had discovered that kitty had a particularly sweet voice, called her to her and said that they might try and get up some glees, which would sound delightfully romantic in the middle of the forest. the children sat round in a circle, clementina now quite in her element and feeling herself absolute mistress of the occasion. suddenly phil got up and strolled away. no one noticed him but rachel, who sat on thorns for a few minutes; then, when the singing was at its height, she slipped round the oak tree, flew down the glade, and reached the little boy as he was entering a thick wood which lay to the right. "phil! phil! you are going to see her?" "oh, don't, rachel--don't follow me now! if we are both missed they will come to look for us, and then the lady's house will be discovered and she will have to go away. she said if her house was discovered she would have to go away, and oh, rachel, if you love her--and you say you love her--that would be treating her cruelly!" "the children won't miss us," said rachel, whose breath came fast and whose cheeks were brightly colored. "the children are all singing as loudly as they can and they are perfectly happy, and robert is eating his dinner. i won't go in, phil; no, of course i won't go in, for i promised, and i would not break my word, to her of all people. but if i might stay at a little distance, and if i might just peep round a tree and see her, for she may come to talk to you, phil. oh, phil, don't prevent me! i will not show myself, but i might see without being seen." rachel was trembling, and yet there was a bold, almost defiant look on her face; she looked so like rupert that phil's whole heart was drawn to her. "you must do what you wish, of course," he said. "do you see that giant oak tree at the top of the glade? you can stand there and you can peep your head well round. see, let's come to it. see, rachel, you have a splendid view of the cottage from here. now i will go and try if i can get any tidings of gabrielle's tankard. good-by, rachel. remember your promise not to come any nearer." phil ran lightly away, and rachel saw him go into the little rose-covered porch of the cottage. he raised the tiny knocker, and in a moment or two nancy white answered his summons. "is the lady--the lady of the forest in, nancy?" asked the little boy. "the lady! bless my heart, if this ain't master phil lovel! well, my dear little gentleman, and what may you want?" "i want the lady. can i see her? perhaps she would come out to walk with me for a little, for i want to talk to her on a most important thing." "bless you, my dear, the lady ain't at home, and if she were she don't go taking walks at anybody's bidding. she's particular and retiring in her ways, the lady is, and when she's at home she keeps at home." "i'm sorry she's not at home to-day," said phil, leaning against the porch and getting back his breath slowly. "it's a great disappointment, for i find it very difficult to come so far, and what i wanted to say was really important. good-by, nancy. give my love to the lady when you see her." "don't go yet, master philip. you're looking very white. i hope you're quite strong, sir." "yes, i'm a strong boy," said phil in a slow voice. "you wouldn't like to come in and rest for a bit, little master? maybe i could do what you want as well as my missus." "maybe you could," said phil, his eyes brightening. "i never thought of that. no, i won't come in, thank you, nancy. nancy, do you remember the day i was nearly lost in the bog?" "of course i do, my dear little man; and a sorry pickle you was when my missus brought you home!" "had i anything in my hand when i was brought into the house, nancy? please think hard. had i anything rather important in my hand?" "you had a bit of a brier clutched tight in one hand. i remember that, my dear." "oh, but what i mean was something quite different--what i mean was a large silver drinking-mug. i cannot remember anything about it since i got lost in the bog, and i am afraid it must have gone right down into the bog. but i thought it just possible that i might have brought it here. you did not see it, did you, nancy?" "well, my dear, is it likely? whatever else we may be in this house, we ain't thieves." phil looked distressed. "i did not mean that," he said--"i did not mean that. i just thought i might have left it and that i would come and ask. mother is in great trouble about the mug; it means a great lot to mother, and it was very careless of me to bring it into the forest. i am sorry you did not see it, nancy." "and so am i, master lovel, if it's a-worrying of you, dear. but there, the grandest silver can that ever was made ain't worth fretting about. i expect it must have slipped into the bog, dear." "good-by, nancy," said phil in a sorrowful, polite little voice, and he went slowly back to where rachel watched behind the oak tree. chapter xix.--a tender heart. phil's heart was very low within him. during the last few days, ever since that terrible interview with his mother, he had built his hopes high. he had been almost sure that the tankard was waiting for him in the lady's house in the forest, that he should find it there when he went to make inquiries, and then that he might bring it back to his mother and so remove the shadow from her brow. "i never knew that mother could miss a thing gabrielle had given her so very, very much," thought the little boy. "but there's no doubt at all she does miss it and that she's fretting. poor, dear mother! she's not unkind to me. oh, no, she's never that except when she's greatly vexed; but, all the same, i know she's fretting; for those lines round her mouth have come out again, and even when she laughs and tries to be merry downstairs i see them. there's no doubt at all that she's fretting and is anxious. poor mother! how i wish i could find the green lady of the forest and that she would give me the bag of gold which would satisfy mother's heart." phil walked very slowly, his eyes fixed on the ground. he was now startled to hear a voice addressing him, and looking up with a quick movement, he saw the lady who lived in the pretty little cottage coming to meet him. he was not particularly elated at sight of her; he had nothing in particular to say to her; for as nancy had assured him that the tankard was not at the cottage, it was quite useless making further inquiries about it. "what are you doing here, philip?" asked the lady in a kind voice. she knew him at once, and coming up to him, took his hand and looked kindly into his face. "you are a long way from home. have you lost yourself in this dear, beautiful forest a second time, little man?" then phil remembered that if this lady of the forest meant nothing in particular to him she meant a great deal to rachel. he could not forget how rachel's eyes had shone, how rachel's face had looked when she spoke about her. the color flew into his own pale little face, and he spoke with enthusiasm. "i am glad i have met you," he said, "even though i don't know your name. will you come for a walk with me now through the forest? will you hold my hand and look at me while you speak? will you walk with me, and will you turn your face to the right, always to the right, as you go?" "you are a queer little boy," said the lady, and she laughed, almost merrily. "but i have just taken a very long walk and am tired. you also look tired, philip, and your face is much too white. suppose we alter the programme and yet keep together for a little. suppose you come into the cottage with me and have some tea, and nancy makes some of her delicious griddle-cakes." "that would be lovely. i should like it beyond anything; but may rachel come in too?" "rachel!" said the lady of the forest. she put her hand suddenly to her heart and stepped back a pace or two. "yes, my cousin, rachel lovel; she is standing up yonder, at the other side of the great oak tree. she wants to see you, and she is standing there, hoping, hoping. rachel's heart is very hungry to see you. when she speaks of you her eyes look starved. i don't understand it, but i know rachel loves you better than any one else in the world." "impossible!" said the lady; "and yet--and yet--but i must not speak to her, child, nor she to me. it--oh! you agitate me. i am tired. i have had a long walk. i must not speak to little rachel lovel." "she knows that," said phil in a sorrowful voice; for the lady's whiteness and agitation and distress filled him with the keenest sympathy. "rachel knows that you and she may not speak, but let her look at you. do! she will be so good; she will not break her word to you for the world." "i must not look on her face, child. there are limits--yes, there are limits, and beyond them i have not strength to venture. i have a secret, child; i have a holy of holies, and you are daring to open it wide. oh! you have brought me agony, and i am very tired!" "i know what secrets are," said little phil. "oh! they are dreadful; they give great pain. i am sorry you are in such trouble, lady of the forest, and that i have caused it. i am sorry, too, that you cannot take a very little walk with me, for it would give rachel such pleasure." "it would give rachel pleasure?" repeated the lady. and now the color came back to her cheeks and the light to her eyes. "that makes all the difference. i will walk with you, phil, and you shall take my hand and i will turn my face to the right. see: can rachel see my face now?" "yes," said phil; "she will peep from behind the oak tree. how glad, how delighted she will be!" the lady and phil walked slowly together, hand in hand, for nearly half an hour; during all that time the lady did not utter a single word. when the walk came to an end she stooped to kiss phil, and then, moved by an impulse which she could not restrain, she kissed her own hand fervently and waved it in the direction of the oak tree. a little childish hand fluttered in the breeze in return, and then the lady returned to the cottage and shut the door after her. * * * * * phil ran panting up to the oak tree and took rachel's hand. "i did what i could for you, rachel," he said. "you saw her--did you not? she kept her face turned to the right, and you must have seen her quite plainly." rachel's cheeks were blazing like two peonies; the pupils of her eyes were dilated; her lips quivered. "i saw her!" she exclaimed. "i looked at her, and my heart is hungrier than ever!" here she threw herself full length on the ground and burst into passionate sobs. "don't, rachel!" said phil. "you puzzle me. oh, you make my heart ache! oh, this pain!" he turned away from rachel, and leaning against the oak tree writhed in bodily agony. in a moment rachel had sprung to her feet; her tears had stopped; and raising phil's hat she wiped some drops from his white brow. "i ran a little too fast," he panted, after a moment or two. "i am a strong boy, but i can't run very fast; it gives me a stitch; it catches my breath. oh, yes, thank you, rachel; i am better now. i am a strong boy, but i can't run very fast." "you are not a bit a strong boy!" said rachel, wiping away her own tears vigorously. "i have discovered that secret too of yours, phil. you are always pretending to be strong, but it is only pretense." phil looked at his cousin in alarm. "if you guess my secrets you won't tell them?" he said. "of course i won't tell. what do you take me for? now you must not walk for a little, and the children are quite happy without us. is not this a nice soft bank? i will sit by your side and you shall tell me what the lady said to you and you to her." "no," said phil, with sudden energy. "i cannot tell you what she said." "you cannot tell me?" "no. i took the lady by surprise and she let out some of her secrets--not all, but some. it would not be fair to tell them to any one else. i asked her to walk with me, and she knew that you were watching. now, rachel, i am quite well again, as well as ever. shall we go back to the other children?" rachel rose slowly to her feet. "i hate secrets," she said, "and the very air seems full of them sometimes. you have lots of secrets, and my aunts have secrets, and the lady of the forest has a secret, and there is a secret about my mother, for i know she is not dead and yet i never see her. these secrets are enough to starve my heart. phil, how soon would a girl like me be supposed to be grown up?" "oh, rachel, how can i tell?" "i shall be thirteen in may and i am tall. when i am fifteen--that is, in two years' time--i shall begin to go round the world looking for my mother. i don't intend to wait any longer. when i am fifteen i shall begin to go." "in australia girls are nearly grown up at that age," said phil, who was thinking of gabrielle. "now, rachel, let us go back to the others." the others were getting impatient. they had played hide-and-seek, and hunted for squirrels, and climbed trees, and quarreled and made it up again, until all their resources had come to an end; and when rachel and phil made their appearance they found that robert had packed up the remains of the picnic, and that clementina and abby had already mounted their ponies, preparatory to riding home. robert was leading up the other ponies as the two missing children appeared. rachel's mind was still a good deal preoccupied, and it was not until she was preparing to mount her own pony that she discovered that clementina had secured ruby and was now seated comfortably on his back. "oh, clementina, it is not safe for you to ride ruby," she called out at once. "he's only just broken in and he's full of spirit." "thank you," replied clementina. "i prefer riding horses with spirit. i would not have another ride on that slow little creature, surefoot, for the world." "but indeed that is not the reason," said rachel, who felt herself, she scarcely knew why, both softened and subdued. "it is that ruby is not safe. i am the first girl who has ever been on his back. he knows me and will do what i tell him, but i am sure it is dangerous for you to ride him. is it not dangerous, robert, for miss marmaduke to ride ruby?" called out rachel to the groom. robert came up and surveyed the spirited little horse and the young rider critically. "if miss marmaduke don't whip him, and if she humors him a good bit and don't set him off in a canter, why, then no harm may be done," he said. "ruby's fresh, miss, and have a good deal of wild blood in him, and i only broke him in for miss rachel a fortnight back." clementina's color had risen very high during this discussion. "i presume," she said in an insolent tone, "that a pupil of captain delacourt's can ride any horse that a pupil of one of the grooms at avonsyde can manage! i'm sorry you're so disobliging as to grudge me your horse, rachel. i'll just ride on in front now, and you all can follow me when you are ready." she turned ruby's head as she spoke and rode away under the forest trees. "if she gives ruby a taste of the whip she'll repent of all her proud airs," muttered robert. "now, young ladies, you had better mount and get under way. i suppose, miss rachel, that that 'ere young lady knows the right road home?" "hadn't i better get on brownie and ride after her?" asked phil. "no, sir; no. ruby couldn't bear horses' hoofs a-galloping after him. it would set him off mad like, and there wouldn't be a hope for miss marmaduke. no; the only thing now is to trust that the young lady won't touch ruby with the whip and that she knows the way home." the other children mounted without any more discussion, and the ride home was undertaken with a certain sense of depression. no sign of clementina could be seen, and when they reached the stables at avonsyde neither she nor ruby had put in an appearance. chapter xx.--punished. clementina was a spoiled child, and in consequence was as disagreeable and as full of herself as such children are apt to be. she was neither beautiful nor clever; she had no outward gifts to counterbalance her imperious airs and selfish ways; consequently she was only popular with her parents and with herself. the marmadukes were very rich people, and although clementina had no real friends, she had many toadies--girls who praised her for the accomplishments she did not possess, for the beauty which had been denied her, and for the talents and cleverness which she knew nothing whatever about. clementina both believed in and appreciated flattery. flattery made her feel comfortable; it soothed her vanity and fed her self-esteem. it was not at all difficult to persuade her that she was clever, beautiful, and accomplished. but of all her acquirements there was none of which she was so very proud as of her riding. she was no coward, and she rode fairly well for a town girl. she had always the advantage of the best horses, the most stylish habits, and the most carefully equipped groom to follow her. on horseback her so-called friends told her she looked superb; therefore on horseback she greatly liked to be. rachel's words that morning and rachel's unconcealed contempt had stung clementina's vanity to the quick. she was quite determined to show this little nobody, this awkward country girl, what proper riding meant; and she galloped off on ruby with her heart beating high with pride, anger, and a sense of exultation; she would canter lightly away in the direction of the avonsyde stables, and be ready to meet rachel haughty and triumphant when she returned wearily home on that dull little pony, surefoot. surefoot, however, was not a dull pony. he was extremely gentle and docile and affectionate, and although he hated the rider he had on his back that morning, and resented to the bottom of his honest little heart the indignity of being whipped by her, still one sound from rachel's voice was sufficient to restrain him and to keep him from punishing the young lady who chose to ride him in the manner she deserved. clementina had ridden surefoot and he had instantly broken into a canter, but at the sound of rachel's voice he had moderated his speed clementina quite believed that surefoot had obeyed her firm hand; and now, as she galloped away on ruby, she laughed at the fears expressed for her safety by rachel and robert, the groom. "they're jealous," she said to herself; "they're both of them jealous, and they don't want me to have the only decent horse of the party. oh, yes, ruby, my fine fellow, you shall have a touch of the whip presently. i'm not afraid of you." she felt for her little silver-mounted riding-whip as she spoke and lightly flicked ruby's ears with it. back went the ears of the half-trained little horse at once, lightning glances seemed to flash from his red-brown eyes, and in a moment he had taken to his heels and was away. his movement almost resembled flying, and for a little time clementina persuaded herself that she enjoyed it. this was riding indeed! this was a gallop worth having! what splendid use she could make of it with her school-friends by and by. these were her first sensations, but they were quickly followed by others less pleasurable. ruby seemed to be going faster and faster; his legs went straight before him; he rushed past obstacles; he disdained to take the slightest notice of clementina's feeble little attempts to pull him in. she lost her breath, and with it in a great measure her self-control. were they going in the right direction? no; she was quite sure they were not; she had never seen that wide expanse of common; she had never noticed that steep descent; she had never observed that gurgling, rushing avalanche of water; and--oh, good god! ruby was rushing to it. she screamed and attempted violently to pull him in; he shook his head angrily and flew forward faster than before; for ruby was not of the gentle nature of surefoot, and he could not forgive even the very slight indignity which clementina had offered him. the wretched girl began to scream loudly. "i shall be killed! i shall be killed! oh! will no one save me?" she screamed. her cries seemed to madden ruby. he drew up short, put his head between his legs, and with an easy movement flung clementina off his back on to the ground. the next moment he himself was out of sight. clementina found herself sitting in the middle of a bog--a bog not deep enough to drown her, but quite wet enough, quite uncomfortable enough, to soak through her riding-habit and to render her thoroughly wretched. at first, when ruby had dislodged her from his back, her sensations were those of relief; then she was quite certain every bone in her body was broken; then she was equally convinced that the slow and awful death of sinking in a bog awaited her. she was miles from home; there was not a soul in sight; and yet, try as she would, she could not raise herself even to a standing position, for the treacherous ground gave way whenever she attempted to move. her fall had shaken her considerably, and for a time she sat motionless, trying to recover her breath and wondering if arms and legs were all smashed. "oh, what a wicked girl rachel is!" she said at last. "what right had she to go out on a wild horse like that? she must have done it for a trick; she must have done it on purpose; she meant me to ride ruby coming home, and so she tantalized me and tried to rouse my spirit. margaret and jessie dawson say that i am just full of spirit, and i never can brook that sneering way, particularly from a mere child like rachel. well, well, she's punished now, for i shall probably die of this. if all my bones aren't broken, and i firmly believe they are, and if i don't sink in this horrid bog--which i expect i shall--i'm safe to have rheumatic fever and to die of it, and then what will rachel do? she'll never know an easy moment again as long as she lives. she'll be sorry for the tricks she played me when she thinks of me lying in my early grave. oh, dear! oh, dear! what shall i do? what shall i do?" poor clementina threw up her hands, by so doing fastening herself more firmly in the odious bog, and burst into a loud wailing cry. she was cold and wet now, the excitement of her wild race was over, and as the moments flew on, lengthening themselves into half-hours and hours, she became thoroughly frightened. oh, how awful if the night should overtake her while she sat there! and yet what more likely? for not a soul had passed the place since her accident. as her anger cooled and her fright increased, several prickings of that dull conscience of hers smote the unhappy girl. after all, was rachel to blame for what had happened? had she not begged and even implored of her not to ride ruby? had not robert spoken freely of what would happen if she did so? oh, if only she had listened to their voices! if only she had not been so self-confident! she pictured them all safe and sound now at home at avonsyde. she imagined them sitting in the pleasant armory chatting over the day's adventures and most likely forgetting all about her. abby and the boys, if occupied over any exciting game, would be certain to forget her; little kitty, to whom she had always been specially cross, would most likely rejoice in her absence; rachel, if she had time to give her a thought, would be sure to be possessed with a sense of triumph; and phil--ah! well, somehow or other phil was different from other boys and girls. phil had a look in his eyes, phil had a way about him which clementina recognized as belonging to the rare and beautiful spirit of unselfishness. phil's small, thin, white face was ever and always alive and glowing with sympathy; his eyes would darken and expand at the mere mention of anybody's trouble, and again that little sensitive face would sparkle and glow with delight over anybody's joy. clementina, sitting now in the middle of the bog, the most lonely and wretched girl alive, could not help feeling comforted as she thought of phil; it was more than probable that if all the others forgot her phil might remember. while clementina was waiting in a state of absolute despair matters were not so hopeless for her as she supposed. the children when they reached avonsyde gave an instant alarm, and steps were at once taken to search for the missing girl. but it is one thing to be lost in the forest and another thing to be found. ruby had taken clementina in the opposite direction from avonsyde, and when she was submerged in the bog she was many miles away. robert, shaking his head and muttering that a willful girl must come to grief, and that it would be well if they ever saw miss marmaduke alive again, went off to saddle a fresh horse to go in search of her. other people also started on the same errand; and phil, whose pale little face was all aglow with excitement, rushed into the stables, and securing a horse, mounted it and rode away after the others. the boy was a splendid rider, having been accustomed to mounting all kinds of steeds from his babyhood; but he was tired now, and neither miss griselda nor his mother would have allowed him to go had they known anything about it. but the elder members of the family were all away, and the children and servants were only acting on their own responsibility. phil soon caught up robert, and the two trotted together side by side. "i'm quite certain i saw ruby turning to the left after he went down that steep bank," said phil. "then if he did he made for the bog and the waterfall as likely as not," said robert. "oh, robert, you don't suppose clementina has been drowned in one of the bogs?" exclaimed phil in an accent of terror. "you don't, you can't suppose that?" the man favored the boy with a queer glance. "if miss marmaduke was like you, master lovel, or like miss rachel or miss kitty, why, i'd say there weren't a hope of her; but being what she is--well, maybe she'll be given a little more time to mend her manners in." phil's face assumed a puzzled expression. he said nothing further, and the two rode hard and fast. in this manner they did at last find poor clementina, who, much subdued and softened, received them with almost rapture. "there's nothing like affliction for bringing characters of that sort low," muttered robert as he helped the young lady on his own horse. "and now, where's that little beauty ruby, i wonder? dashed hisself to pieces as likely as not agin' some of them rocks up there. oh, yes, and there'll be no 'count made at all of one of the prettiest little horses i ever broke in." robert had to run by clementina's side, who was really considerably shaken and who gave way to violent hysterics soon after they started. "somehow, phil, i thought you would remember," she said at last, turning to her little companion and speaking in a broken voice. "why, of course we all remembered," said phil. "we were all more sorry about you than i can say; and as to rachel, she has been crying like anything. it seems a pity, clementina, it really does, you know----" and then he stopped. "what seems a pity, phil?" "that you should be so obstinate. you know you were; and you were rude, too, for you should not have taken rachel's horse. it seems to me a great pity that people should try to pretend--everybody's always trying to pretend; and what is the use of it? now, if you had not tried to pretend that you could ride as well or better than rachel, you wouldn't have got into this trouble and we wouldn't have been so terribly sorry. where was the use of it, clementina?" added phil, gazing hard at the abashed and astonished young lady; "for nobody could expect you to ride as well as rachel, who is a country girl and has been on horseback such a lot, you know." phil delivered his lecture in the most innocent way, and clementina received it with much humility, wondering all the time why she was not furiously angry; for surely this was the strangest way to speak to a girl who had been for three seasons under captain delacourt. she made no reply to phil's harangue and rode on for some time without speaking. suddenly a little sigh from the boy, who kept so bravely at her side, reached her ears. she turned and looked at him. it was quite a new sensation for clementina to observe any face critically except her own; but she did notice now the weariness round the lips and the way the slight little figure drooped forward. "you're tired, phil," she said. "you have tired yourself out to find me." "i am tired," he replied. "we rode very fast, and my side aches, but it will be better by and by." "you can scarcely sit on your horse," said clementina in a tone of real feeling. "could not your groom--robert, i think, you call him--mount the horse and put you in front of him? he could put his arm round you and you would be nicely rested." "that's a good thought, miss," said robert, with sudden heartiness. "and, to be sure, master philip do look but poorly. it's wonderful what affliction does for them sort of characters," he muttered under his breath as he complied with this suggestion. when the little party got near home, phil, who had been lying against robert and looking more dead than alive, roused himself and whispered something to the groom. robert nodded in reply and immediately after lifted the boy to the ground. "i'm going to rest. please, clementina, don't say i am tired," he said; and then he disappeared down a little glade and was soon out of sight. "where is he going?" asked clementina of robert. "to a little nest as he has made for hisself, miss, just where the trees grow thickest up there. he and me, we made it together, and it's always dry and warm, and nobody knows of it but our two selves. he often and often goes there when he can't bear up no longer. i beg your pardon, miss, but i expect i have no right to tell. you won't mention what i have said to any of the family, miss?" "no," said clementina; "but i feel very sorry for phil, and i cannot understand why there should be any mystery made about his getting tired like other people." "well, miss, you ask his lady mother. perhaps she can tell you, for certain sure no one else can." clementina went into the house, where she was received with much excitement and very considerable rejoicing. she presented a very sorry plight, her habit being absolutely coated with mud, her hair in disorder, and even her face bruised and discolored. but it is certain that rachel had never admired her so much as when she came up to her and, coloring crimson, tried to take her hand. "phil said i was rude to you, rachel, and i am sorry," she muttered. "oh, never mind," answered rachel, whose own little face was quite swollen with crying. "i was so dreadfully, dreadfully unhappy, for i was afraid ruby had killed you, clementina." clementina was now hurried away to her own room, where she had a hot bath and was put to bed, and where her mother fussed over her and grumbled bitterly at having ever been so silly as to come to such an outlandish part of the country as avonsyde. "i might have lost you, my precious," she said to her daughter. "it was nothing short of madness my trusting you to those wild young lovels." "oh, mother, they aren't a bit to blame, and i think they are rather nice, particularly phil." "yes, the boy seems a harmless, delicate little creature. i wonder if the old ladies will really make him their heir." "i hope they will, mother, for he is really very nice." in the course of the evening, as clementina was lying on her pillows, thinking of a great many things and wondering if phil was yet rested enough to leave his nest in the forest, there came a tap at her door, and to her surprise phil's mother entered. in some ways mrs. lovel bore a slight resemblance to clementina; for she also was vain and self-conscious and she also was vastly taken up with self. under these circumstances it was extremely natural that the girl and the woman should feel a strong antipathy the one to the other, and clementina felt annoyed and the softened expression left her face as mrs. lovel took a chair by her bedside. "how are you now, my dear--better, i hope?" "thank you, i am quite well," answered clementina. "you had a wonderful escape. ruby is not half broken in. no one attempts to ride him except rachel." clementina felt the old sullen feeling surging up in her heart. "such a horse should not be taken on a riding-party," she said shortly. "i have had lessons from captain delacourt. i can manage almost any horse." "you can doubtless manage quiet horses," said mrs. lovel. "well, you have had a wonderful escape and ought to be thankful." "how is phil? questioned clementina after a pause. "phil? he is quite well, of course. he is in the armory with the other children." "he was not well when i saw him last. he looked deadly tired." "that was his color, my dear. he is a remarkably strong boy." clementina gave a bitter little laugh. "you must be very blind," she said, "or perhaps you don't wish to see. it was not just because he was pale that he could not keep his seat on horseback this afternoon. he looked almost as if he would die. you must be a very blind mother--very blind." mrs. level's own face had turned white. she was about to make a hasty rejoinder, when the door was again opened and miss griselda and miss katharine came in. "not a word, my dear! i will explain to you another time--another time," she whispered to the girl. and then she stole out of the room. chapter xxi.--what the heir ought to be. a few days after these exciting events the marmadukes went away. unless a sense of relief, they left no particular impression behind them. the grown-up people had not made themselves interesting to the old ladies; the lady's-maid and the parrot alike had disturbed newbolt's equanimity; and the children of avonsyde had certainly not learned to love the marmaduke children. clementina had been humbled and improved by her accident, but even an improved clementina could not help snubbing rachel every hour of the day, and rachel did not care to be snubbed. on the day they left phil did remark, looking wistfully round him: "it seems rather lonely without the marmadukes." but no one else echoed the sentiment, and in a day or two these people, who were so important in their own eyes, were almost forgotten at avonsyde. on one person, however, this visit had made a permanent impression: that person was poor mrs. lovel. she was made terribly uneasy by clementina's words. if clementina, an ignorant and decidedly selfish girl, could notice that phil was not strong, could assure her, in that positive, unpleasant way she had, that phil was very far from strong, surely miss griselda, who noticed him so closely and watched all he did and said with such solicitude, could not fail to observe this fact also. poor mrs. lovel trembled and feared and wondered, now that the tankard was lost and now that phil's delicacy was becoming day by day more apparent, if there was any hope of that great passionate desire of hers being fulfilled. just at present, as far as miss griselda was concerned, she had no real cause for alarm. miss griselda had quite made up her mind, and where she led miss katharine was sure to follow. miss griselda was certain that phil was the heir. slowly the conviction grew upon her that this little white-faced, fragile boy was indeed the lineal descendant of rupert lovel. she had looked so often at his face that she even imagined she saw a likeness to the dark-eyed, dark-browed, stern-looking man whose portrait hung in the picture-gallery. this disinherited rupert had become more or less of a hero in miss griselda's eyes. from her earliest years she had taken his part; from her earliest years she had despised that sickly younger line from which she herself had sprung. like most women, miss griselda invested her long-dead hero with many imaginary charms. he was brave and great in soul. he was as strong in mind as he was in physique. when she began to see a likeness between phil's face and the face of her old-time hero, and when she began also to discover that the little boy was generous and brave, that he was one of those plucky little creatures who shrink from neither pain nor hardship, had phil's mother but known it, his cause was won. miss griselda began to love the boy. it was beginning to be delightful to her to feel that after she was dead and gone little phil would have the old house and the lands, that he should reign as a worthy squire of avonsyde. already she began to drill the little boy with regard to his future duties, and often when he and she took walks together she spoke to him about what he was to do. "all this portion of the forest belongs to us, phil," she said to him one day. "my father often talked of having a roadway made through it, but he never did so, nor will katharine and i. we leave that as part of your work." "would the poor people like it?" asked phil, raising his eyes with their queer expression to her face. "that's the principal thing to think about, isn't it--if the poor people would like it?" miss griselda frowned. "i don't agree with you," she said. "the first and principal thing to consider is what is best for the lord of avonsyde. a private road just through these lands would be a great acquisition, and therefore for that reason you will have to undertake the work by and by." phil's eyes still looked grave and anxious. "do you think, then--are you quite sure that i am really the heir, aunt griselda?" he said. miss griselda smiled and patted his cheek. "well, my boy, you ought to know best," she said. "your mother assures me that you are." "oh, yes--poor mother!" answered phil. "aunt griselda," he continued suddenly, "if you were picturing an heir to yourself, you wouldn't think of a boy like me, would you?" "i don't know, phil. i do picture you in that position very often. your aunt katharine and i have had a weary search, but at last you have come, and i may say that, on the whole, i am satisfied. my dear boy, we have been employed for six years over this search, and sometimes i will own that i have almost despaired. katharine never did; but then she is romantic and believes in the old rhyme." "what old rhyme?" asked phil. "have you not heard it? it is part and parcel of our house and runs in different couplets, but the meaning is always the same: "'come what may come, tyde what may tyde, lovel shall dwell at avonsyde.'" "is that really true?" asked phil, his eyes shining. "i like the words very much. they sound like a kind of speech that the beautiful green lady of the forest would have made; but, aunt griselda, i must say it--i am sorry." "what about, dear?" "that you are satisfied with me as an heir." "my dear little phil, what a queer speech to make. why should not i be satisfied with a nice, good little boy like you?" "oh, yes, you might like me for myself," said phil; "but as the heir--that is quite a different thing. i'd never picture myself as an heir--never!" "what do you mean, phil?" "i know what i mean, aunt griselda, but it's a secret, and i mustn't say. i have a lovely picture in my mind of what the heir ought to be. perhaps there is no harm in telling you what my picture is like. oh, if you only could see him!" "see whom, philip?" "my picture. he is tall and strong and very broad, and he has a look of rachel, and his cheeks are brown, and his hair is black, and his arms are full of muscle, and his shoulders are perfectly square, and he holds himself up so erect, just as if he was drilled. he is strong beyond anybody else i know, and yet he is kind; he wouldn't hurt even a fly. oh, if you only knew him. he's my picture of an heir!" phil's face flushed and his lovely eyes shone. aunt griselda stooped down and kissed him. "you are a queer boy," she said. "you have described your ancestor, rupert lovel, to the life. well, child, may you too have the brave and kindly soul. phil, after the summer, when all is decided, you are to go to a preparatory school for eton and then to eton itself. all the men of our house have been educated there. afterward i suppose you must go to oxford. your responsibilities will be great, little man, and you must be educated to take them up properly." "mother will be pleased with all this," said phil; "only i do wish--yes, i can't help saying it--that my picture was the heir. oh, aunt grizel, do, do look at that lovely spider!" "i believe the boy is more interested in those wretched spiders and caterpillars than he is in all the position and wealth which lies before him," thought miss griselda. late on that same day she said to miss katharine: "phil this morning drew a perfect picture, both mental and physical, of our ancestor, katharine." "oh," said miss katharine; "i suppose he was studying the portrait. griselda, i see plainly that you mean to give the boy the place." "provided his mother can prove his descent," answered miss griselda in a gentle, satisfied tone. "but of that," she added, "i have not, of course, the smallest doubt." "does it occur to you, griselda, to remember that on the 5th of may rachel's and kitty's mother comes here to claim her children?" "if she is alive," said miss griselda. "i have my doubts on that head. we have not had a line from her all these years." "you told her she was not to write." "yes, but is it likely a woman of that class would keep her word?" "griselda, you will be shocked with me for saying so, but the young woman who came here on the day our father died was a lady." "katharine! she served in a shop." "no matter, she was a lady; her word to her would be sacred. i don't believe she is dead. i am sure she will come here on the 5th of may." chapter xxii.--right is right. when rupert lovel and his boy left the gloomy lodgings where rachel's and kitty's mother was spending a few days, they went home in absolute silence. the minds of both were so absorbed that they did not care to speak. young rupert was a precocious lad, old and manly beyond his years. little phil scarcely exaggerated when he drew glowing pictures of this fine lad. the boy was naturally brave, naturally strong, and all the circumstances of his bringing-up had fostered these qualities. his had been no easy, bread-and-butter existence. he had scarcely known poverty, for his father had been well off almost from his birth; but he had often come in contact with danger, and latterly sorrow had met him. he loved his mother passionately; even now he could scarcely speak of her without a perceptible faltering in his voice, without a dimness softening the light of his bright eagle eyes. rupert at fifteen was in all respects some years older than an english boy of the same age. it would have struck any parent or guardian as rather ridiculous to send this active, clever, well-informed lad to school. the fact was, he had been to nature's school to some purpose, and had learned deeply from this most wonderful of all teachers. when rupert and his father reached the hotel in jermyn street where they were staying, the boy looked the man full in the face and broke the silence with these words: "now, father, is it worth it?" "is it worth what, my son?" "you know, father. after hearing that lady talk i don't want avonsyde." the elder lovel frowned. he was silent for a moment; then he laid his hand on the boy's shoulder. "look me in the face, lad, and answer me a question." "yes, father." "do you trust me?" "why, of course. can you doubt it?" "then go to bed and to sleep, and believe that nothing shall be done which in the slightest degree shall tarnish your honor. go to bed, boy, and sleep peacefully, but just put one thought under your pillow. right is right and wrong is wrong. it sometimes so happens, rupert, that it is not the right and best thing to be simply magnanimous." rupert smiled. "i am quite certain you will decide as my mother would have liked best, sir," he said, and then he took his candle and left the room. the greater part of the night the elder lovel sat up. early the next morning he paid the family lawyers a visit. "i have made up my mind, mr. baring," he said to the younger of these gentlemen. "for the next few months i shall remain in england, but i shall not bring my son forward as an heir to the avonsyde property until i can claim for him unbroken and direct descent. as i told you yesterday, there are two unexpected obstacles in my way. i have sustained a loss--i don't know how. an old tankard and a parcel of valuable letters cannot be found. i am not leaving a stone unturned to recover them. when i can lay my hand on the tankard and when, even more important, i can produce the letters, i can show you by an unbroken chain of evidence that my boy is the eldest son of the eldest son in direct descent. i make no claim until i make all claim, mr. baring." "i have to-day had a letter from the old ladies at avonsyde," answered mr. baring. "they seem pleased with the boy who is at present claiming the property. from the tone of miss griselda's letter, i should judge that if your boy does not put in his appearance the child who is at present at avonsyde will be publicly recognized as the heir. even a public recognition does not really interfere with your son if you can prove his title; but undoubtedly it will be best for all parties that you should make your claim before the other child is put into a false position." "when do you anticipate that the old ladies will absolutely decide?" "they name a date--the 5th of may." "i think i can promise one thing: after the 5th of may neither rupert nor i will interfere. we make claim before or on that date, not afterward. the fact is, we know something of the child who is now at avonsyde." mr. lovel, after enjoining absolute secrecy on the lawyers, went his way, and that evening had a long interview with mrs. lovel. "i fear," he said in conclusion, "that in no case would your girls come into the place, except indeed under certain conditions." "what are they?" asked mrs. lovel. "that we find neither tankard nor letters and in consequence do not make our claim, and that little philip lovel dies." "is he so ill as that?" "he is physically unsound. the best doctors in melbourne have examined him and do not believe he will live to manhood. his mother comes of an unhealthy family, and the boy takes after her physically--not mentally, thank god!" "poor little phil! he has a wonderfully sweet face." "he has the bravest nature i ever met. my boy and girls would almost die for phil. the fact is, all this is most complicated and difficult, and much of the mischief would have been avoided if only that wretched sister-in-law of mine had been above-board." "yes," answered mrs. lovel; "but even her stealing a march on you does not give you back the tankard nor the letter." "true; and i don't suppose even she could have stolen them. well, rachel, we must all hope for the best." * * * * * "if there is a thing that worries me," said nancy white to herself--"if there is a thing that keeps coming and coming into my dreams and getting that fantastic and that queer in shape--one time being big enough to hold quarts and quarts of water, and another time so small that you'd think it would melt before your very eyes--it's this wretched silver can. it's in my mind all day long and it's in my dreams all night long. there! i wonder if the bit of a thing is bright enough now." as nancy spoke to herself she rubbed and polished and turned round and round and tenderly dusted the lost tankard of the house of lovel until it really shone like a mirror. "it takes a deal of trouble, and i'm sure it isn't worth it," she said to herself. "i just kept it more out of a bit of mischief than anything else in the beginning; but it just seems to me now as if i hated it, and yet i couldn't part with it. i believe it's a bit of a haunted thing, or it wouldn't come into my dreams after this fashion." nancy kept the tankard up in her bedroom. after giving it a last fond rub and looking at it queerly with an expression half of admiration, half of fear, she locked it up in a little cupboard in the wall and tripped downstairs to attend to her mistress' comforts. mrs. lovel kept no secrets from her old servant, and nancy knew about her mistress' adventures in london and her unexpected meeting with the friend of her early days, rupert lovel. still, nancy had a shrewd suspicion that not quite all was told her; she had a kind of idea that there was something in the background. "it comes over me," she said to herself--"it comes over me that unless i, nancy white, am as sharp as sharp and as cunning as cunning, my missus and my young ladies will be done. what is it that the missus is keeping in the back of her head to make her look that dreamy, and that wistful, and that despairing, and yet that hopeful? my word, if i haven't seen her smile as if she was almost glad once or twice. poor dear! maybe she knows as that little delicate chap can't be the heir; and as to the others--the old gentleman and the fine young lad from the other side of the earth--why, if they have a claim to make, why don't they make it? and if they don't make it, then, say i, it's because they can't. well, now, anything is better than suspense, and i'll question my missus on that very point straight away." accordingly, when nancy had arranged the tea-tray in the most tempting position and stirred the fire into the cheeriest blaze, she knelt down before it and began to make some crisp and delicious toast. nancy knew that mrs. lovel had a weakness for the toast she made, and she also knew that such an employment was very favorable to confidential conversation. "well, ma'am," she said suddenly, having coughed once or twice and gone through one or two other little maneuvers to attract attention--"well, ma'am, i wants to have my mind eased on a certain point. is it, ma'am, or is it not the case that the old gentleman from australia means to do you a mischief?" "what do you mean, nancy?" exclaimed mrs. lovel, laying down the lace which she was embroidering and gazing at her old servant in some astonishment. "the old gentleman from australia? why, rupert lovel cannot be more than forty. he is a man in his prime, splendidly strong; and as to his doing me a mischief, i believe, you silly old woman, that he is one of my best friends." "the proof of the pudding is in the eating," snorted nancy. "you'll excuse me, ma'am, but i'd like to prove that by his actions. he means that young son of his to get possession of avonsyde--don't he, ma'am?" "his son is the real heir, nancy. dear nancy, i wish to say something. i must not be covetous for my little girls. if the real and lawful heir turns up i have not a word to say. nay, more, i think if i can be glad on this subject i am glad that he should turn out to be the son of my early and oldest friend." "oh, yes, ma'am, i'm not a bit surprised about you. bother that toast, how it will burn! it's just like you, ma'am, to give up everything for six blessed years, and to have your heart well-nigh broke and your poor eyes dimmed with crying, and then in the end, when the cup that you have been so longing for is almost to your lips, to give up everything again and to be glad into the bargain. that's just like you, ma'am; but, you'll excuse me, it ain't like nancy white, and if you can be glad in the prospect of seeing your children beggared, i can't; so there!" "dear nancy," said mrs. lovel, laying her hand on the old servant's shoulder, "how am i to help myself? both might and right are against me. had i not better submit to the inevitable with a good grace?" "that bonny little miss rachel," continued nancy, "don't i see her now, with her eyes flashing as she looked up at me and that fine, imperious way she had, and 'tell the lady to wear my ring, nancy,' says she,'and tell her that i love her,' says she." "little darling," whispered the mother, and raising her hand she pressed a tiny ring which she wore to her lips. "miss rachel isn't meant for poverty," continued nancy, "and what's more, i'm very sure miss kitty isn't either; so, ma'am, i'd like to be sure whether they are to have it or not; and a question i'd dearly like to have answered is this: if the middle-aged man, mr. rupert lovel, and his son have a claim to avonsyde, why don't they make it? anything is better than suspense, say i. why don't we know the worst and have done with it?" "why, nancy, i thought i had told you everything. mr. lovel won't make a claim until he can make a perfect claim. the fact is, some of his credentials are lost." "the toast is done, ma'am. may i make bold to ask what you mean by that? you had better eat your toast while it is hot and crisp, mrs. lovel. the good gentleman from australia hasn't to go to the old ladies with a character in his hand, like a servant looking for a situation?" "no, no. nancy; but he has to bring letters and other tokens to prove his son's descent, to prove that his son is a true lovel of avonsyde of the elder branch, and unfortunately mr. lovel has lost some valuable letters and an old silver tankard which has been for hundreds of years in the family, and which was taken from avonsyde by the rupert lovel who quarreled with his relations." mrs. level's head was bent over her lace, and she never noticed how red nancy's face grew at this moment, nor how she almost dropped the steaming kettle with which she was about to replenish the tea-pot. "oh, my word!" she exclaimed hastily. "it seems as if toast and kettle and all was turned spiteful to-night. there's that boiling water flowed over on my hand. never mind, ma'am--it ain't nothing. what was it you were saying was lost, ma'am?" "letters, nancy, and a tankard." "oh, letters and a tankard. and what may a tankard be like?" "this was an old-fashioned silver can, with the lovel coat of arms and the motto of their house, 'tyde what may,' graved on one side. why, nancy, you look quite pale." "it's the burn, ma'am, that smarts a little. and so the silver can is lost? dear, dear, what a misfortune; and the fine young gentleman can't get the place noway without it. is that so or not, ma'am?" "well, nancy, the tankard seems to be considered a very important piece of evidence, and mr. lovel is not inclined to claim the property for his son without it. however, he is having careful search made in australia, and will probably hear tidings of it any day." "that's as providence wills, ma'am. it's my belief that if the middle-aged gentleman was to search australia from tail to head he wouldn't get no tidings of that bit of a silver mug. dear, dear, how this burn on my hand do smart!" "you had better put some vaseline on it, nancy. you look quite upset. i fear it is worse than you say. let me look at it." "no, no, ma'am; it will go off presently. dear, what a taking the gentleman must be in for the silver mug. well, ma'am, more unlikely things have happened than that your bonny little ladies should come in for avonsyde. did i happen to mention to you, ma'am, that i saw master phil lovel yesterday?" "no, nancy. where and how?" "he was with one of the old ladies, ma'am, in the forest. he was talking to her and laughing and he never noticed me, and you may be sure i kept well in the background. eh, but he's a dear little fellow; but if ever there was a bit of a face on which the shadow rested, it's his." "nancy, nancy, is he indeed so ill? poor, dear little boy!" "no, ma'am, i don't say he's so particular ill. he walked strong enough and he looked up into the old lady's face as bright as you please; but he had the look--i have seen it before, and i never could be mistaken about that look on any face. not long for this world was written all over him. too good for this world was the way his eyes shone and his lips smiled. dear heart, ma'am, don't cry. such as them is the blessed ones; they go away to a deal finer place and a grander home than any avonsyde." "true," said mrs. lovel. "i don't cry for that, but i think the child suffers. he spoke very sorrowfully to me." "well, ma'am, we must all go through it, one way or another. my old mother used to say to me long ago, 'nancy, 'tis contrasts as do it. i'm so tired out with grinding, grinding, and toiling, toiling, that just to rest and do nothing seems to me as if it would be perfect heaven.' and the little fellow will be the more glad some day because he has had a bit of suffering. dear, dear, ma'am, i can't get out of my head the loss of that tankard." "so it seems, nancy; the fact seems to have taken complete possession of you. were it not absolutely impossible, i could even have said that my poor honest old nancy was the thief! there, nancy, don't look so startled. of course i was only joking." "of course, ma'am; but you'll just excuse me if i go and bind up my burned hand." chapter xxiii.--forest life. the spring came early that year. a rather severe winter gave place to charming and genial weather. in april it was hot, and the trees made haste to clothe themselves with their most delicate and fairy green, the flowers peeped out joyfully, the birds sang from morning till night, and the forest became paradise. rachel, kitty, and phil almost lived there. miss griselda and miss katharine had become lenient in the matter of lessons. miss griselda was wise enough to believe in nature's lessons and to think fine fresh air the best tonic in all the world for both mind and body. phil was in his element in the forest. he was always finding new beetles and fresh varieties of chrysalides, which he and kitty carefully treasured; and as to the roots and the flowers and the mosses which these children collected, even good-natured newbolt at last gave vent to strong expressions of disapproval, and asked if the whole of the house was to be turned topsy-turvy with their messes. phil could do what he liked in his old tower bedroom; his mother never interfered with him there. this quaint old room was liberty hall to phil. here he could groan if he wanted to, or sigh if he wanted to, or talk his secrets to the silent, faithful walls if he wanted to; and here he brought his spiders and his beetles and his mosses, and kept them in odd bottles and under broken glasses, and messed away to his heart's content without any one saying him nay. downstairs mrs. lovel was a most careful and correct mother--never petting and never spoiling, always on her guard, always watchful and prim. miss griselda was wont to say that with all her follies she had never come across a more sagacious and sensible mother than mrs. lovel. as a mother she approved of her absolutely; but then miss griselda never saw behind the scenes; she never saw what went on in the tower bedroom, where mrs. lovel would take the boy in her arms, and strain him to her heart with passionate kisses, and pet him and make much of him, and consult him, and, above all things, faithfully promise him that after the 5th of may the burden which was crushing his young life should be removed, and he might be his own natural and unrestrained self again. mrs. lovel had got a dreadful fright when she first read young rupert's letter; but when day after day and week after week passed and no tidings of rupert or his father reached avonsyde, she began to hope that even though they were in england, they had come over on business in no way connected with the old family home; in short, even though they were in england, they had not seen those advertisements which had almost turned her head. the weeks passed quickly, and she began to breathe freely and to be almost happy once more. the loss of the tankard was certainly disquieting, but she felt sure that with the aid of the stolen letters she could substantiate her boy's claim, and she also reflected that if the tankard was lost to her it was also lost to her brother-in-law, rupert lovel. so life went quite smoothly at avonsyde, and day after day the weather became more balmy and springlike, and day after day miss griselda's face wore a softer and gentler expression; for the little heir-apparent was altogether after her own heart, and she was contented, as all women are when they find a worthy object to love. miss katharine too was smiling and happy in these early spring days. she had never forgotten the face of the mother who had left her two children in her charge nearly six years ago. that young and agonized face had haunted her dreams; some words which those poor trembling lips had uttered had recurred to her over and over. "it breaks my heart to part with the children," the mother had said, "but if in no other way i can provide for their future, i sacrifice myself willingly. i am willing to obliterate myself for their sakes." miss katharine had felt, when these words were wrung from a brave and troubled heart, that pride was indeed demanding a cruel thing; but for miss griselda she would have said: "come here with your children. you are valentine's wife, and for his sake we will be good to you as well as them." miss katharine had longed to say these words, but fear of her elder sister had kept her silent, and ever since her heart had reproached her. now she felt cheerful, for she knew that on rachel's birthday the mother of the children would return, and she knew also that when she came she would not go away again. rachel's charming little face had lost a good deal of its watchful and unrestful expression during the last few weeks. she had seen nancy white more than once, and nancy had so strongly impressed on her the fact that on the 5th of may the lady of the forest would reveal herself, and all the mystery of her secret and her seclusion be explained, that the little girl grew hopeful and bright and fixed her longing eyes on that birthday which was to mean so much to so many. kitty too looked forward to the 5th of may as to a delightful general holiday; in short, every one was excited about it, except the child to whom it meant the most of all. little phil alone was unconcerned about the great day--little phil alone lived happily in the present, and, if anything, rather put the future out of sight. to him the thought of the inheritance which on that day was to be forced upon him was felt to be a heavy burden; but, then, those little shoulders were already over-weighted, and god knew and little phil also knew that they could not bear any added burden. of late little phil had been very glad to feel that god knew about his secrets and his cares, and in his own very simple, childish little way he used lately to ask him not to add to them; and now that he was sure god knew everything, he ceased to trouble his head very much about all that was to happen on rachel's birthday. thus every one at avonsyde, with the exception of little phil, was happy in the future, but he alone was perfectly happy in the present. his collection of all kinds of natural curiosities grew and multiplied, and he spent more and more time in the lovely forest. the delicious spring air did him good, and his mother once more hoped and almost believed that health and strength lay before him. one day, quite toward the end of april, kitty, his constant companion, had grown tired and refused to stay out any longer. the day was quite hot, and the little boy wandered on alone under the shade of the trees. as usual when quite by himself, he chose the least-frequented paths, and as usual the vague hope came over him that he might see the lovely green lady of the forest. no such exquisite vision was permitted to him, but instead he came suddenly upon nancy white, who was walking in the forest and picking up small dry branches and sticks, which she placed in a large basket hung over her arm. when she saw phil she started and almost dropped her basket. "well i never!" she exclaimed. "you has gone and given me a start, little master." "how do you do, nancy?" said phil, going up to her, speaking in a polite voice, and holding out his hand. "how is the lady of the forest? please tell her that, i have kept her secret most carefully, that no one knows it but rachel, and she knew it long ago. i hope the lady is very well, nancy." "yes, my dear, she is well and hopeful. the days are going on, master philip lovel, and each day as it passes brings a little more hope. i am sure you are little gentleman enough to keep the lady's secret." "everybody speaks about the days passing and hope growing," said phil. "i--i--nancy, did you ever see the green lady about here? she could bring me hope. how i wish i could see her!" "now, don't be fanciful, my dear little gentleman," answered nancy. "them thoughts about fairies and such-like are very bad for growing children. you shouldn't allow your head to wander on such nonsense. little boys and girls should attend to their spelling lessons, and eat plenty, and go to bed early, and then they have no time for fretting after fairies and such. it isn't canny to hear you talk as you do of the green lady, master phil." "isn't it?" said phil. "i am sorry. i do wish to see her. i want a gift from her. good-by, nancy. give my love to the lady." "i will so, dear; and tell me, are you feeling any way more perky--like yourself?" "i'm very well, except when i'm very bad," answered phil. "just now i'm as well as possible, but in the evenings i sometimes get tired, and then it rather hurts me to mount up so many stairs to my tower bedroom; but oh! i would not sleep in any other room for the world. i love my tower room." "well, you'll be a very happy little boy soon," said nancy--"a very happy, rich little boy; for if folks say true everything has to be given to you on the 5th of may." "a lot of money and lands, you mean," said phil. "oh, yes; but they aren't everything--oh, dear, no! i know what i want, and i am not likely to have it. good-by, nancy; good-by." phil ran off, and nancy pursued her walk stolidly and soberly. "the look grows," she said to herself--"the look grows and deepens. poor little lad! he is right enough when he says that gold and lands won't satisfy him. well, now, i'm doing him no harm by keeping back the silver tankard. it's only his good-for-nothing mother as will be put out, and that middle-aged man in london and that other boy. what do i care for that other boy, or for any one in all the world but my missus and her dear little ladies? there, there, that tankard is worse than a nightmare to me. i hate it, and i'd give all the world never to have seen it; but there, now that i've got it i'll keep it." chapter xxiv.--a great alarm. "katharine," said miss griselda to her younger sister, "do you happen to remember the address of those lodgings in london where we wrote years ago to rachel's and kitty's mother? the 5th of may will be this day week, and although i dislike the woman, and of course cannot possibly agree with you as to her being in any sense of the word a lady, yet still when griselda lovel passes her word she does pass it, and i think it is right, however painful, to give the young woman the invitation for the 5th of may." "we wrote one letter nearly six years ago to no. 10 abbey street, marshall road, s.w., london," answered miss katharine in a sharp voice for her. "one letter to a mother about her own children; but that was the address, griselda." "no. 10 abbey street," repeated miss griselda. "i shall send the young woman an invitation to-day. of course it won't reach her, for she is dead long ago; but it is only right to send it. katharine, you don't look well this morning. is anything the matter?" "nothing more than usual," answered miss katharine. "one letter in six years to valentine's wife. oh, no, i was not likely to forget the address." "allow me to congratulate you on your excellent memory, my dear. oh, here comes phil's mother. i have much to talk over with her." miss katharine left the room; her head was throbbing and tears rose unbidden to her eyes. when she reached the great hall she sat down on an oak bench and burst into tears. "how cruel of griselda to speak like that of valentine's wife," she said under her breath. "if valentine's wife is indeed dead i shall never know another happy moment. oh, rachel and kitty, my dears, i did not see you coming in." "yes, and here is phil too," said kitty, dragging him forward. "why are you crying, aunt katharine? do dry your tears and look at our lovely flowers." "i am thinking about your mother, children," said miss katharine suddenly. "does it ever occur to you two thoughtless, happy girls that you have got a mother somewhere in existence--that she loves you and misses you?" "i don't know my mother," said kitty. "i can't remember her, but rachel can." "yes," said rachel abruptly. "i'm going all round the world to look for her by and by. don't let's talk of her; i can't bear it." the child's face had grown pale; a look of absolute suffering filled her dark and glowing eyes. miss katharine was so much astonished at this little peep into rachel's deep heart that she absolutely dried her own tears. sometimes she felt comforted at the thought of rachel suffering. if even one child did not quite forget her mother, surely this fact would bring pleasure to the mother by and by. meanwhile miss griselda was holding a solemn and somewhat alarming conversation with poor mrs. lovel. in the first place, she took the good lady into the library--a dark, musty-smelling room, which gave this vivacious and volatile person, as she expressed it, "the horrors" on the spot. miss griselda having secured her victim and having seated her on one of the worm-eaten, high-backed chairs, opened the book-case marked d and took from it the vellum-bound diary which six years ago she had carried to the old squire's bedroom. from the musty pages of the diary miss griselda read aloud the story of the great quarrel; she read in an intensely solemn voice, with great emphasis and even passion. miss griselda knew this part of the history of her house so well that she scarcely needed to look at the words of the old chronicler. "it may seem a strange thing to you, mrs. lovel," she said when she had finished her story--"a strange and incomprehensible thing that your white-faced and delicate-looking little boy should in any way resemble the hero of this quarrel." "phil is not delicate," feebly interposed mrs. lovel. "i said delicate-looking. pray attend to me. the rupert who quarreled with his father--i will confess to you that my sympathies are with rupert--was in the right. he was heroic--a man of honor; he was brave and stalwart and noble. your boy reminds me of him--not in physique, no, no! but his spirit looks out of your boy's eyes. i wish to make him the heir of our house." "oh, miss griselda, how can a poor, anxious mother thank you enough?" "don't thank me at all. i do it in no sense of the word for you. the boy pleases me; he has won on my affections; i--love him." miss griselda paused. perhaps never before in the whole course of her life had she openly admitted that she loved any one. after a period which seemed interminable to poor mrs. lovel she resumed: "my regard for the boy is, however, really of small consequence; he can only inherit under the conditions of my father's will. these conditions are that he must claim direct descent from the rupert lovel who was treated so unjustly two hundred years ago, and that he has, as far as it is possible for a boy to have, perfect physical health." mrs. lovel grew white to her very lips. "phil is perfectly strong," she repeated. miss griselda stared at her fixedly. "i have judged of that for myself," she said coldly. "i have studied many books on the laws of health and many physiological treatises, and have trusted to my own observation rather than to any doctor's casual opinion. the boy is pale and slight, but i believe him to be strong, for i have tested him in many ways. without you knowing it i have made him go through many athletic exercises, and he has often run races in my presence. i believe him to be sound. we will let that pass. the other and even more important matter is that he should now prove his descent. you have shown me some of your proofs, and they certainly seem to me incontestable, but i have not gone really carefully into the matter. my lawyer, mr. baring, will come down here on the afternoon of the 4th and carefully go over with you all your letters and credentials. on the 5th i have incited many friends to come to avonsyde, and on that occasion katharine and i will present philip to our many acquaintances as our heir. we will make the occasion as festive as possible, and would ask you to see that philip is suitably and becomingly dressed. you know more of the fashions of the world than we do, so we will leave the matter of device in your hands, of course bearing all the expense ourselves. by the way, you have observed in the history i have just read how the old silver tankard is mentioned. in that terrible scene where rupert finally parts with his father, he takes up the tankard and declares that 'tyde what may' he will yet return vindicated and honored to the old family home. that was a prophecy," continued miss griselda, rising with excitement to her feet; "for you have brought the boy and also the very tankard which rupert took away with him. i look upon your possession of the tankard, as the strongest proof of all of the justice of your claim. by the way, you have never yet shown it to me. do you mind fetching it now?" muttering something almost unintelligible, mrs. lovel rose and left the library. she crossed the great hall, opened the oak door which led to the tower staircase, and mounting the winding and worn stairs, presently reached her bedroom. the little casement windows were opened, and the sweet air of spring was filling the quaint chamber. mrs. lovel shut and locked the door; then she went to one of the narrow and slit-like windows and looked out. a wide panorama of lovely landscape lay before her; miles of forest lands undulated away to the very horizon; the air was full of the sweet songs of many birds; the atmosphere was perfumed with all the delicious odors of budding flowers and opening leaves. in its way nothing could have been more perfect; and it was for phil--all for phil! all the beauty and the glory and the loveliness, all the wealth and the comfort and the good position, were for phil, her only little son. mrs. lovel clasped her hands, and bitter tears came to her eyes. the cup was almost to the boy's lips. was it possible that anything could dash it away now? the tankard--she was sent to fetch the silver tankard--the tankard which phil himself had lost! what could she do? how could she possibly frame an excuse? she dared not tell miss griselda that her boy had lost it. she felt so timid, so insecure, that she dared not confess what an ordinary woman in ordinary circumstances would have done. she dreaded the gaze of miss griselda's cold, unbelieving gray eyes; she dreaded the short sarcastic speech she would be sure to make. no, no, she dared not confess; she must dissemble; she must prevaricate; on no account must she tell the truth. she knew that miss griselda was waiting for her in the library; she also knew that the good lady was not remarkable for patience; she must do something, and at once. in despair she rang the bell, and when newbolt replied to it she found mrs. lovel lying on her bed with her face partly hidden. "please tell miss lovel that i am ill, newbolt," she said. "i have been taken with a very nasty headache and trembling and faintness. ask her if she will excuse my going downstairs just for the present." newbolt departed with her message, and mrs. lovel knew that she had a few hours' grace. she again locked the door and, rising from her bed, paced up and down the chamber. she was far too restless to remain quiet. was it possible that the loss of the tankard might be, after all, her undoing? oh, no! the dearly loved possession was now so close; the auspicious day was so near; the certainty was at her door. no, no! the letters were proof of philip's claim; she need not be so terribly frightened. although she reasoned in this way, she felt by no means reassured, and it suddenly occurred to her that perhaps if she went into the forest she might find the tankard herself. it might be lying even now forgotten, unnoticed under some bush beside the treacherous bog which had almost swallowed up her boy. what a happy thought! oh, yes, she herself would go to look for it. mrs. lovel did not know the forest as phil and rachel and kitty did. the forest by itself had no charms whatever for her. she disliked its solitude; she saw no beauty in its scenery; no sweetness came to her soul from the song of its happy birds or the brilliance of its wild flowers. no, no--the city and life and movement and gayety for mrs. lovel; she was a poor artificial creature, and nature was not likely to whisper her secrets into her ears. when phil came up by and by his mother questioned him minutely as to the part of the forest into which he had wandered. of course he could not tell her much; but she got a kind of idea, and feeble as her knowledge was she resolved to act on it. early the next morning she rose from an almost sleepless bed, and carefully dressing so as not to awaken her sleeping boy, she stole downstairs and, as phil had done some months before, let herself out by a side entrance into the grounds. it was winter when phil had gone on his little expedition--a winter's morning, with its attendant cold and damp and gloom; but now the spring sun was already getting up, the dew sparkled on the grass, and the birds were having a perfect chorus of rejoicing. even mrs. lovel, unimpressionable as she was to all nature's delights, was influenced by the crisp and buoyant air and the sense of rejoicing which the birds and flowers had in common. she stepped quits briskly into the forest and said to herself: "my spirits are rising; that terrible depression i underwent yesterday is leaving me. i take this as a good omen and believe that i may find the tankard." phil had given her certain directions, and for some time she walked on bravely, expecting each moment to come to the spot where the boy had assured her the beaten track ended and she must plunge into the recesses of the primeval forest itself. of course she lost her way, and after wandering along for some hours, seated herself in an exhausted state at the foot of a tree, and there, without in the least intending to do so, fell asleep. mrs. lovel was unaccustomed to any physical exercise, and her long walk, joined to her sleepless night, made her now so overpoweringly drowsy that she not only slept, but slept heavily. in her sleep she knew nothing at all of the advance the day was making. the sun's rays darting through the thick foliage of the giant oak tree under which she slumbered did not in the least disturb her, and when some robins made their breakfast close by and twittered and talked to one another she never heard them. some rabbits and some squirrels peeped at her quite saucily, but they never even ruffled her placid repose. her head rested against the tree, her bonnet was slightly pushed back, and her hands lay folded over each other in her lap. presently there was a sound of footsteps, and a woman came up and bent over the sleeping lady in the forest. the woman was dressed in a short petticoat, strong boots, a striped jersey jacket, and a shawl thrown over her head; she carried a basket on her arm and she was engaged in her favorite occupation of picking sticks. "dearie me! now, whoever is this?" said nancy white as she bent over phil's mother. "dearie, dearie, a poor white-looking thing; no bone or muscle or go about her, i warrant. and who has she a look of? i know some one like her--and yet--no, it can't be--no. is it possible that she features pretty little master phil?" nancy spoke half-aloud, and came yet nearer and bent very low indeed over the sleeper. "she do feature master phil and she has got the dress of a fine lady. oh, no doubt she's his poor, weak bit of a mother! bless the boy! no wonder he's ailing if she has the mothering of him." nancy's words were all muttered half-aloud, and under ordinary occasions such sounds would undoubtedly have awakened mrs. lovel; now they only caused her to move restlessly and to murmur some return words in her sleep. "phil, if we cannot find that tankard we are undone." then after a pause: "it is a long way to the bog. i wonder if phil has left the tankard on the borders of the bog." on hearing these sentences, which were uttered with great distinctness and in accents almost bordering on despair, nancy suddenly threw her basket to the ground; then she clasped her two hands over her head and, stepping back a pace or two, began to execute a hornpipe, to the intense astonishment of some on-lookers in the shape of birds and squirrels. "ah, my lady fair!" she exclaimed, "what you have let out now makes assurance doubly sure. and so you think you'll find the precious tankard in the bog! now, now, what shall i do? how can i prevent your going any further on such a fool's quest? ah, my pretty little ladies, my pretty miss rachel and miss kitty, i believe i did you a good turn when i hid that tankard away." nancy indulged in a few more expressions of self-congratulation then, a sudden idea coming to her, she fumbled in her pocket for a bit of paper, and scribbling something on it laid it on the sleeping lady's lap. when mrs. lovel awoke, somewhere close on midday, she took up the little piece of paper and read its contents with startled eyes: "come what may come, tyde what may tyde, lovel shall dwell at avonsyde. "false heirs never yet have thriven; tankards to the right are given." the last two lines, which nancy had composed in a perfect frenzy of excitement and rapture at what she considered a sudden development of the poetic fancy, caused poor mrs. lovel's cheeks to blanch and her eyes to grow dim with a sudden overpowering sense of fear. she rose to her feet and pursued her way home, trembling in every limb. chapter xxv.--a dream with a meaning. phil had a dream which had a great effect on him. there were several reasons for this. in the first place, it wanted but two days to the great 5th of may; in the second place, he was feeling really ill, so was making greater efforts than usual to conceal all trace of languor or weariness; in the third place, rachel came to him about half an hour before he went upstairs to bed and burst out crying, and told him she knew something was going to happen. rachel was not a child who was particularly given to tears, but when she did cry she cried stormily. she showed a good deal of excitement of a passionate and over-wrought little heart to phil now, and when he questioned her and asked her why she was so excited about her birthday, she murmured first something about the lady of the forest and then about her mother, and then, afraid of her own words, she ran away before phil could question her further. phil's own mother, too, seemed to be in a most disturbed and unnatural state. she was always conning a piece of paper and then putting it out of sight, and her eyes had red rims round them, and when phil questioned her she owned that she had been crying, and felt, as she expressed it, "low." all these things combined caused phil to lay his head on his white pillow with a weary sigh and to go off into the land of dreams by no means a perfectly happy little boy. once there, however, he was happy enough. in the first place, he was out of his bed and out of the old house, where so many people just now looked anxious and troubled; and, in the second place, he was in a beautiful new forest, his feet treading on velvet grass, his eyes gazing at all those lovely sights in which his little soul delighted. he was in the forest and he was well, quite well; the tiredness and the aching had vanished, the weakness had disappeared; he felt as though wings had been put to his feet, as though no young eagle could feel a keener and grander sense of strength than did he. he was in the forest, and coming to meet him under the shadows of the great trees was a lady--the lady he had searched for so long and hitherto searched for in vain. she came quite naturally and gently up to him, took his little hand, looked into his eyes, and stooping down she touched his fore head with her lips. "brave little boy!" she said. "so you have come." "yes," answered phil, "and you have come. i have waited for you so long. have you brought the gift?" "beauty of face and of heart. yes, i bring them both," answered the lady. "they are yours; take them." "my mother," whispered phil. "your mother shall be cared for, but you and she will soon part. you have done all you could for her--all, even to life itself. you cannot do more. come with me." "where?" asked phil. "are you not tired of the world? come with me to fairyland. take my hand--come! there you will find perpetual youth and beauty and strength and goodness--come!" then phil felt within himself the wildest, the most intense longing to go. he looked in the lady's face, and he thought he must fly into her arms; he must lay his head on her breast and ask her to soothe all his life troubles away. "i know you," he said suddenly. "some people call you by another name, but i know who you are. you give little tired boys like me great rest; and i want beyond words to go with you, but there is my mother." "your mother will be cared for. come. i can give you something better than avonsyde." "oh, i don't want avonsyde! i am not the rightful heir." "the rightful heir is coming," interrupted the lady of the forest. "look for him on the 5th of may, and look for me too there. farewell!" she vanished, and phil awoke, to find his mother sitting by his bedside, her face bent over him, her eyes wide open with terror. "oh, my darling, how you have looked! are you--are you very ill?" "no, mammy dear," answered the little boy, sitting up in the bed and kissing her in his tenderest fashion. "i have had a dream and i know what is coming, but i don't feel very ill." mrs. lovel burst into floods of weeping. "phil," she said when she could speak through her sobs, "it is so near now--only one other day. can you not keep up just for one more day?" "yes, mother; oh, yes, mother dear. i have had a dream. hold my hand, mother, and i will try and go to sleep again. i have had a dream. everything is quite plain now. hold my hand, mammy dear. i love you; you know that." he lay back again on his pillows and, exhausted, fell asleep. mrs. lovel held the little thin hand and looked into the white face, and never went to bed that night. ever since her sleep in the forest she had been perturbed and anxious; that mysterious bit of paper had troubled her more than she cared to own. she was too weak-natured a woman not to be more or less influenced by superstition, and she could not help wondering what mysterious being had come to her and, reading her heart's secret, had told her to bid good-by to hope. but all her fears and apprehensions had been nothing, had been child's play, compared to the terror which awoke in her heart when she saw the look on her boy's face as she bent over him that night. she knew that he bad never taken kindly to her scheme; she knew that personally he cared nothing at all for all the honors and greatness she would thrust upon him. he was doing it for her sake; he was trying hard to become a rich man some day for her sake; he was giving up rupert whom he loved and the simple life which contented him for her. oh, yes, because, as he so simply said, he loved her. but she laid too heavy a burden on the young shoulders; the long strain of patient endurance had been too much, and the gallant little life was going out. on the instant, quick, quick as thought, there overmastered this weak and selfish woman a great, strong tide of passionate mother's love. what was avonsyde to her compared to the life of her boy? welcome any poverty if the boy might be saved! she fell on her knees and wept and wrung her hands and prayed long and piteously. when in the early, early dawn phil awoke, his mother spoke to him. "philip dear, you would like to see rupert again?" "so much, mother." "avonsyde is yours, but you would like to give it to him?" "if i might, mother--if i might!" "leave it to me, my son. say nothing--leave it to me, my darling." chapter xxvi.--love versus gold. "katharine!" "yes." "i have received the most extraordinary letter." "what about, grizel?" "what about? had you not better ask me first who from? oh, no, you need not turn so pale. it is not from that paragon of your life, rachel's and kitty's mother." "grizel, i do think you might speak more tenderly of one who has done you no harm and who has suffered much." "well, well, let that pass. you want to know who my present correspondent is. she is no less a person than the mother of our heir." "phil's mother! why should she write? she is in the house. surely she can use her tongue." "she is not in the house and is therefore obliged to have recourse to correspondence. listen to her words." miss griselda drew out of her pocket an envelope which contained a sheet of thick note-paper. the envelope was crested; so was the paper. the place from which it was written was avonsyde; the date was early that morning. a few words in a rather feeble and uncertain hand filled the page. "dear miss lovel: i hope you and miss katharine will excuse me. i have made up my mind to see your lawyer, mr. baring, in town. i know you intended him to come here this afternoon, but if i catch the early train i shall reach his office in time to prevent him. i believe i can explain all about proofs and credentials better in town than here. i shall come back in time to-morrow. don't let phil be agitated. yours humbly and regretfully, "bella lovel." "what does she mean by putting such an extra ordinary ending to her letter?" continued miss grizel as she folded up the sheet of paper and returned it to its envelope. "'yours humbly and regretfully!' what does she mean, katharine?" "it sounds like a woman who had a weight on her conscience," said miss katharine. "i wonder if phil really is the heir! you know, grizel, she never showed you the tankard. she made a great talk about it, but you never really saw it. don't you remember?" "nonsense!" snapped miss grizel. "is it likely she would even know about the tankard if she had not got it? she was ill that day. newbolt said she looked quite dreadful, and i did not worry her again, as i knew mr. baring was coming down to-day to go thoroughly into the whole question. she certainly has done an extraordinary thing in writing that letter and going up to london in that stolen sort of fashion; but as to phil not being the heir, i think the fact of his true title to the property is pretty clearly established by this time. katharine, i read you this letter in order to get a suggestion from you. i might have known beforehand that you had none to make. i might have known that you would only raise some of your silly doubts and make things generally uncomfortable. well, i am displeased with mrs. lovel; but there, i never liked her. i shall certainly telegraph to mr. baring and ask him to come down here this evening, all the same." miss griselda and miss katharine had held their brief little colloquy in the old library. they now went into the hall, where family prayers were generally held, and soon afterward miss griselda sent off her telegram. she received an answer in the course of a couple of hours: "have not seen mrs. lovel. will come down as arranged." but half an hour before the dog-cart was to be sent to the railway station to meet the lawyer another little yellow envelope was thrust into miss lovel's hands. it was dated from the lawyer's chambers and ran as follows: "most unexpectedly detained. cannot come to-night. expect me with mrs. lovel to-morrow." this telegram made miss griselda very angry. "what possible information can detain mr. baring when i summon him here?" she said to her younger sister. she was doomed, however, to be made yet more indignant. a third telegram arrived at avonsyde early in the evening; it also was from mr. baring: "disquieting news. put off your guests. expect me early to-morrow." miss griselda's face grew quite pale. she threw the thin sheet of paper indignantly on the floor. "mr. baring strangely forgets himself," she said. "put off our guests! certainly not!" "but, griselda," said miss katharine, "our good friend speaks of disquieting news. it may be--it may be something about the little girls' mother. oh, i always did fear that something had happened to her." "katharine, you are perfectly silly about that woman. but whatever mr. baring's news, our guests are invited and they shall come. katharine, i look on to-morrow as the most important day of my life. on that day, when i show our chosen and rightful heir to the world--for our expected guests form the world to us, katharine--on that day i fulfill the conditions of my dear father's will. do you suppose that any little trivial disturbance which may have taken place in london can alter plans so important as mine?" "i don't think mr. baring would have telegraphed if the disturbance was trivial," murmured miss katharine. but she did not venture to add any more and soon went sadly out of the room. meanwhile mrs. lovel was having a terribly exciting day. impelled by a motive stronger than the love of gold, she had slipped away from phil's bedside in the early morning, and, fear lending her wings, had gone downstairs, written her note to miss griselda, and then on foot had made her way to the nearest railway station at lyndhurst road. there she took the first train to london. she had a carriage to herself, and she was so restless that she paced up and down its narrow length. it seemed to her that the train would never reach its destination; the minutes were lengthened into hours; the hours seemed days. when, when would she get to waterloo? when would she see mr. baring? beside her in the railway carriage, beside her in the cab, beside her as she mounted the stairs to the lawyer's office was pale-faced fear. could she do anything to keep the boy? could any--any act of hers cause the avenger to stay his hand--cause the angel of death to withdraw and leave his prey untouched? in the night, as she had watched by his bedside, she had seen only too plainly what was coming. avonsyde might be given to phil, but little phil himself was going away. the angels wanted him elsewhere, and they would not mind any amount of mother's weeping, of mother's groans; they would take the boy from her arms. then it occurred to her poor, weak soul for the first time that perhaps if she appealed to god he would listen, and if she repented, not only in word, but in deed, he would stay his avenging hand. hence her hurried flight; hence her anguished longing. she had not a moment to lose, for the sands of her little boy's life were running out. she was early in town, and was shown into mr. baring's presence very soon after his arrival at his office. unlike most of the heirs-presumptive to the avonsyde property, phil had not been subjected to the scrutiny of this keen-eyed lawyer. from the very first miss griselda had been more or less under a spell as regards little phil. his mother in writing to her from australia had mentioned one or two facts which seemed to the good lady almost conclusive, and she had invited her and the boy direct to avonsyde without, as in all other cases, interviewing them through her lawyer. mr. baring therefore had not an idea who his tall, pale, agitated-looking visitor could be. "sit down," he said politely. "can i assist you in any way? perhaps, if all the same to you, you would not object to going very briefly into matters to-day; to-morrow--no, not to-morrow--thursday i can carefully attend to your case. i happen to be called into the country this afternoon and am therefore in a special hurry. if your case can wait, oblige me by mentioning the particulars briefly and making an appointment for thursday." "my case cannot wait," replied mrs. lovel in a hard, strained voice. "my case cannot wait an hour, and you need not go into the country. i have come to prevent your doing so." "but, madam----" "i am mrs. lovel." "another mrs. lovel? another heir forthcoming? god help those poor old ladies!" "i am the mother of the boy who to-morrow is to be publicly announced as the future proprietor of avonsyde." "you! then you have come from avonsyde?" "i have. i have come to tell you a terrible and disastrous story." "my dear madam, pray don't agitate yourself; pray take things quietly. would you like to sit in this easy-chair?" "no, thank you. what are easy-chairs to me? i want to tell my story." "so you shall--so you shall. i trust your boy is not ill?" "he is very ill; he is--good god! i fear he is dying. i have come to you as the last faint chance of saving him." "my dear mrs. lovel, you make a mistake. i am a lawyer, not a physician. 'pon my word, i'm truly sorry for you, and also for miss griselda. her heart is quite set on that boy." "listen! i have sinned. i was tempted; i sinned. he is not the heir." "my good lady, you can scarcely know what you are saying. you would hardly come to me with this story at the eleventh hour. miss lovel tells me you have proofs of undoubted succession. i was going to avonsyde this afternoon to look into them, but only as a form--merely as a form." "you can look into them now; they are correct enough. there were two brothers who were lineally descended from that rupert lovel who quarreled with his father two hundred years ago. the brothers' names were rupert and philip. philip died and left a son; rupert lives and has a son. rupert is the elder of the brothers and his son is the true heir, because--because----" here mrs. lovel rose to her feet. "because he has got what was denied to my only boy--glorious health and glorious strength. he therefore perfectly fulfills the conditions of the late squire lovel's will." "but--but i don't understand," said the lawyer. "i have seen--yes, of course i have seen--but pray tell me everything. how did you manage to bring proofs of your boy's title to the old ladies?" "why should i not know the history of my husband's house? i saw the old ladies' advertisement in a melbourne paper. i knew to what it alluded and i stole a march on rupert and his heir. it did not seem to me such a dreadful thing to do; for rupert and his boy were rich and phil and i were very poor. i stole away to england with my little boy, and took with me a bundle of letters and a silver tankard which belonged to my brother-in-law, but which were, i knew, equally valuable in proving little philip's descent. all would have gone well but for one thing--my little boy was not strong. he was brave--no boy ever was braver--and he kept in all tokens of terrible suffering for my sake. he won upon the old ladies; everybody loved him. all my plans seemed to succeed, and to-morrow he is to be appointed heir. to-morrow! what use is it? god has stretched out his hand and is taking the boy away. he is angry. he is doing it in anger and to punish me. i am sorry; i am terrified; my heart is broken. perhaps if i show god that i repent he will withdraw his anger and spare my only boy. i have come to you. there is not a moment to lose. here are the lost letters. find the rightful heir." mr. baring was disturbed and agitated. he got up and locked the door; he paced up and down his room several times; then he came up to the woman who was now crouching by the table, her face hidden in her hands. "are you aware," he said softly, for he feared the effect of his words--"are you aware that rupert lovel and his boy are now in london?" mrs. lovel raised her head. "i guessed it. thank god! then i am in time." "your news is indeed of the most vital importance. i must telegraph to avonsyde. i cannot go there this afternoon. the whole case must be thoroughly investigated, and at once. i require your aid for this. will you return with me to avonsyde to-morrow?" "yes, yes." "it will be a painful exposure for you. do you realize it?" "i realize nothing. i want to hold phil to my heart; that is the only desire i now possess." "poor soul! you have acted--i won't say how; it is not for me to preach. i will telegraph to miss griselda and then go with you to find rupert lovel and his boy." chapter xxvii.--two mothers. "here is a letter for you, ma'am." nancy was standing by her mistress, who, in a traveling cloak and bonnet, had just come home. "for me, nancy?" said the lady of the forest in a tired voice. "who can want to write to me? and yet, and yet--give it to me, nancy." "it has the london postmark, ma'am. dear heart, how your hands do shake!" "it is evening, nancy, and to-morrow will be the 5th of may. can you wonder that my hands shake? only one brief summer's night, and my day of bliss arrives!" "read your letter, ma'am; here it is." mrs. lovel received the envelope with its many postmarks, for it had traveled about and performed quite a little pilgrimage since it left avonsyde some days ago. something in the handwriting caused her to change color; not that it was in the ordinary sense familiar, but in a very extraordinary manner it was known and sacred. "the ladies of avonsyde have been true to the letter of their promise!" she exclaimed. "this, nancy," opening her letter and glancing hastily through it, "is the invitation i was promised six years ago for rachel's thirteenth birthday. it has been sent to the old, old address. the ladies have not forgotten; they have kept to the letter of their engagement. nancy dear, let me weep. nancy, to-morrow i can make my own terms. oh, i could cry just because of the lifting of the pain!" "don't, my dear lady," said nancy. "or--yes, do, if it eases you. the dear little lassies will be all right to-morrow--won't they, mrs. lovel?" "i shall see them again, nancy, if you mean that." "yes, of course; but they'll be heiresses and everything--won't they?" "of course not. what do you mean?" "i thought master phil had no chance now that the tankard is really lost and can never be found." "what do you know about the tankard?" "nothing. how could i? what less likely? oh! look, ma'am; there's a carriage driving through the forest, right over the green grass, as sure as i'm here. now it's stopping, and four people are getting out--a lady and three gentlemen; and they are coming here--right over to the cottage as straight as an arrow from a bow. oh, mercy me! what do this mean?" "only some tourists, i expect. nancy, don't excite yourself." "no, ma'am, begging your pardon, they ain't tourists. here they're all stepping into the porch. what do it mean? and we has nothing at all in the house for supper!" a loud peal was now heard from the little bell. nancy, flushed and agitated, went to open the door, and a moment later mr. baring, mrs. lovel, and rupert lovel and his son found themselves in the presence of the lady of the forest. nancy, recognizing mrs. lovel and concluding that she had discovered all about the theft of the tankard, went and hid herself in her own bedroom, from where she did not descend, even though she several times fancied she heard her mistress ring for her. this, however, was not the case; for a story was being told in that tiny parlor which caused the very remembrance of nancy to fade from all the listeners' brains. mrs. lovel, little philip's mother, was the spokeswoman. she told her whole story from beginning to end, very much as she had told it twice already that day. very much the same words were used, only now as she proceeded and as her eyes grew dim with the agony that rent her heart, she was suddenly conscious of a strange and unlooked-for sympathy. the other mother went up to her side and, taking her hand, led her to a seat beside herself. "do not stand," she whispered; "you can tell what you have to say better sitting." and still she kept her hand within her own and held it firmly. by degrees the poor, shaken, and tempest-tossed woman began to return this firm and sympathizing pressure; and when her words died away in a whisper, she turned suddenly and looked full into the face of the mysterious lady of the forest. "i have committed a crime," she said, "but now that i have confessed all, will god spare the boy's life?" the other mrs. lovel looked at her then with her eyes full of tears, and bending forward she suddenly kissed her. "poor mother!" she said. "i know something of your suffering." "will the boy live? will god be good to me?" "whether he lives or dies god will be good to you. try to rest on that." * * * * * that same evening miss katharine tried to soothe away some of the restlessness and anxiety which oppressed her by playing on the organ in the hall. miss katharine could make very wonderful music; this was her one great gift. she had been taught well, and when her fingers touched either piano or organ people were apt to forget that at other times she was nothing but a weak-looking, uninteresting middle-aged lady. seated at the organ, miss katharine's eyes would shine with a strange, new radiance. there was a power, a sympathy in her touch; her notes were seldom loud or martial, but they appealed straight to the innermost hearts of those who listened. miss katharine did not very often play. music with her meant something almost as sacred as a sacrament; she could not bring her melodies into the common everyday life; but when her soul burned within her, when she sought to express a dumb pain or longing, she went to the old organ for comfort. on this evening, as the twilight fell, she sat down at the organ and began to play some soft, pitiful strains. the notes seemed to cry, as if they were in pain. one by one the children stole into the hall and came up close to her. phil came closest; he leaned against her side and listened, his sweet brown eyes reflecting her pain. "don't!" he said suddenly. "comfort us; things aren't like that." miss katharine turned round and looked at the little pale-faced boy, from him to rachel--whose eyes were gleaming--to kitty, who was half-crying. "things aren't like that," repeated phil. "play something true." "things are like this," answered miss katharine; "things are very, very wrong." "they aren't," retorted phil. "any one to hear you would think god wasn't good." miss katharine paused; her fingers trembled; they scarcely touched the keys. "play joyfully," continued phil; "play as if you believed in him." "oh, phil, i do!" said the poor lady. "yes, yes, i will play as if i believed." tears filled her eyes. she struck the organ with powerful chords, and the whole little party burst out in the grand old chant, "abide with me." "now let us sing 'o paradise,'" said phil when it was ended. the children had sweet voices. miss katharine played her gentlest; miss griselda slipped unseen into the hall and sat down near phil. the children sang on, hymn after hymn, phil always choosing. at last miss katharine rose and closed the organ. "my heart is at rest," she said gently, and she stooped down and kissed phil. then she went out of the hall, rachel and kitty following her. phil alone had noticed miss griselda; he went up to her now and nestled down cozily by her side. he had a very confiding way and not a scrap of fear of any one. most people were afraid of miss griselda. phil's total want of fear in her presence made one of his greatest charms for her. "wasn't the music nice?" he said now. "didn't you like those hymns? hasn't rachel a beautiful voice?" "rachel will sing well," answered miss griselda. "she must have the best masters. philip, to-morrow is nearly come." "the 5th of may? yes, so it has." "it is a great day for you, my little boy." "yes, i suppose it is. aunt griselda, when do you think my mother will be home?" "i don't know, philip--i don't know where she has gone." "i think i do. i think she's gone to get you a great surprise." "she should not have gone away to-day, when there was so much to be done." "you won't say that when you know. aunt grizel, you'll always be good to mother--won't you?" "why, of course, dear; she is your mother." "but even if she wasn't my mother--i mean even if i wasn't there, you'd be good to her. i wish you'd promise me." "of course, phil--of course; but as you are going to be very much there, there's no use in thinking of impossible things." phil sighed. "aunt griselda," he said gently, "do you think i make a very suitable heir?" "yes, dear--very suitable." "i'm glad you love me; i'm very, very glad. tell me about the rupert lovel who went away two hundred years ago. he wasn't really like me?" "in spirit he was, i don't doubt." "yes; but he wasn't like me in appearance. i'm small and thin and pale, and he--aunt griselda, wouldn't your heart beat and wouldn't you be glad if an heir just like the old rupert lovel came home? if he had just the same figure, and just the same grand flashing eyes, and just the same splendid strength, wouldn't you be glad? wouldn't it be a joyful surprise to you?" "no, phil, for my heart is set on a certain little pale-faced boy. now don't let us talk about nonsensical things. come, you must have your supper and go to bed; you will have plenty of excitement to-morrow and must rest well." "one moment, please. aunt grizel, tell me--tell me, did you ever see the lady of the forest?" "phil, my dear child, what do you mean?" "the beautiful lady who wears a green dress, greener than the leaves, and has a lovely face, and brings a gift in her hand. did you ever see her?" "philip, i can't stay any longer in this dark hall. of course i never saw her. there is a legend about her--a foolish, silly legend; but you don't suppose i am so foolish as to believe it?" "i don't know; perhaps it isn't foolish. i wanted to see her, and i did at last." "you saw her!" "in a dream. it was a real dream--i mean it was the kind of dream that comes true. i saw her, and since then everything has been quite clear to me. aunt griselda, she isn't only the lady of the forest; she has another name; she comes to every one some day." "phil, you are talking very queerly. come away." that evening, late, mrs. lovel came quietly back. she did not ask for supper; she did not see the old ladies; she went up at once to her tower bedroom, where phil was quietly sleeping. bending down over the boy, she kissed him tenderly, but so gently that he did not even stir. "farewell all riches; farewell all worldly success; farewell even honor! welcome disgrace and poverty and the reproach of all who know me if only i can keep you, little phil!" poor mother! she did not know, she could not guess, that for some natures, such as phil's, there is no long tarrying in a world so checkered as ours. chapter xxviii.--the lady who came with a gift. a glorious day, warm, balmy, with the gentlest breezes blowing and the bluest, tenderest sky overhead. the forest trees were still wearing their brightest and most emerald green, the hawthorn was in full blossom, the horse-chestnuts were in a perfect glory of pink-and-white flower; the day, in short, and the day's adornments were perfect. it was still too early in the year for a garden-party, but amusements were provided for the younger guests in the grounds, and the whole appearance of avonsyde was festive without and within. the old ladies, in their richest velvet and choicest lace, moved gracefully about, giving finishing touches to everything. all the nervousness and unrest which had characterized miss katharine the night before had disappeared. to-day she looked her gentlest and sweetest--perhaps also her brightest. miss griselda was really very happy, and she looked it. happiness is a marvelous beautifier, and miss griselda too looked almost handsome. her dark eyes glowed with some of the fire which she fancied must have animated those of her favorite ancestors. her soft pearl-gray dress suited her well. rachel and kitty were in white and looked radiant. the marked characteristics of their early childhood were as apparent as ever: rachel was all glowing tropical color and beauty; kitty was one of old england's daintiest and fairest little daughters. the guests began to arrive, and presently mrs. lovel, accompanied by phil, came down and took her place in the great hall. it was here that miss griselda meant to make her little speech. standing at the upper end of the hall, she meant to present phil as her chosen heir to all her assembled guests. how strange, how very strange that mr. baring had not yet arrived! when mrs. lovel entered the hall miss griselda crossed it at once to speak to her. "i have given canning directions to let you know the very moment mr. baring comes," she said. "you and he can transact your business in the library in a few moments. mr. baring is sure to come down by the next train; and if all your proofs are ready, it will not take him very long to look through your papers." "everything is ready," replied mrs. lovel in a low, hushed voice. "that is right. pardon me, how very inappropriate of you to put on a black velvet dress to-day." mrs. lovel turned very white. "it--it--is my favorite dress," she half-stammered. "i look best in black velvet." "what folly! who thinks about their looks at such a moment? black here and to-day looks nearly as inappropriate as at a wedding. i am not superstitious, but the servants will notice. can you not change it?" "i--i have nothing else ready." "most inconsiderate. kitty dear, run and fetch mrs. lovel a bunch of those crimson roses from the conservatory. have at least that much color, mrs. lovel, for your boy's sake." miss griselda turned indignantly away, and mrs. lovel crossed over to that part of the hall where phil was standing. "mammy darling, how white you look!" "miss griselda wants me to wear crimson roses in my dress, phil." "oh, do, mother; they will look so nice. here comes kitty with a great bunch." "give me one," said mrs. lovel; "here, this one." her fingers shook; she could scarcely take the flower. "phil, will you put it into my dress? i won't wear more than one; you shall place it there. child, child, the thorn has pricked me--every rose has a thorn." "mother," whispered phil, "you are quite sure of the surprise coming?" "yes, darling. hush, dear. stay close to me." the time wore on. the guests were merry; the old place rang with unwonted life and mirth and laughter. it was many years since avonsyde had been so gay. the weather was so lovely that even the older portion of the visitors decided to spend the time out of doors. they stood about in groups and talked and laughed and chatted. tennis went on vigorously. rachel and kitty, like bright fairies, were flitting here, there, and everywhere. phil was strangely quiet and silent, standing always close to his mother. the chaise which had been sent to the railway station to meet mr. baring returned empty. this fact was communicated by canning to his mistress, and as the time wore on miss griselda's face certainly looked less happy. the guests streamed in to lunch, which was served in the great dining-hall in the old part of the house. then several boys and girls would investigate the tower and would roam through the armory and the old picture-gallery. "that man--that rupert lovel is phil's ancestor," the boys and girls remarked. "he is not a bit like phil." "no; the present heir is an awfully weakly looking chap," the boys said. "why, he doesn't look as if he had strength enough even to go in for a game of cricket." "oh, but he's so interesting," the girls said, "and hasn't he lovely eyes!" then the guests wandered out again to the grounds and commented and wondered as to when the crucial moment would arrive, and when miss griselda, taking phil's hand, would present him to them all as the long-sought-for heir. "it is really a most romantic story," one lady said. "that little boy represents the elder branch of the family; the property goes back to the elder branch with him." "how sad his mother seems!" remarked another; "and the boy himself looks dreadfully ill." "miss griselda says he is one of the most wiry and athletic little fellows she ever came across," said a third lady. and then a fourth remarked in a somewhat fretful tone: "i wish that good miss lovel would present him to us and get it over. one gets perfectly tired of waiting for one doesn't know what." just then there was a disturbance and a little hush. some fresh visitors had arrived--some visitors who came on foot and approached through the forest. miss griselda, feeling she could wait no longer for mr. baring's arrival, had just taken phil's hand and was leading him forward to greet her many guests, when the words she was about to say were arrested by the sudden appearance of these strangers on the scene. mr. baring was one of them; but nobody noticed, and in their intense excitement nobody recognized, the sleek little lawyer. a lady, dressed quietly, with a gentle, calm, and gracious bearing, came first. at sight of her rachel uttered a cry; she was the lady of the forest. rachel flew to her and, unrestrained by even the semblance of conventionality, took her hand and pressed it rapturously to her lips. "at last!" half-sobbed rachel--"at last i see you, and you don't turn away! oh, how i have loved you! how i have loved you!" "and i you, my darling--my beloved." "kitty, come here," called out rachel. "kitty, kitty, this is the lady of the forest!" "and your mother, my own children. come to my heart." but nobody, not even miss katharine, noticed this reunion of mother and children; for miss griselda's carefully prepared speech had met with a startling interruption. the mother had stopped with her children, but two other unbidden guests had come forward. one of them was a boy--a boy with so noble a step, so gallant, so gay, so courtly a mien that all the visitors turned to gaze in unspoken admiration. whose likeness did he bear? why did miss griselda turn so deadly pale? why did she drop phil's hand and take a step forward? the dark eyes, the eagle glance, the very features, the very form of that old hero of her life, the long-dead-and-gone rupert lovel, now stood before her in very deed. "aunt grizel," whispered little phil, "isn't he splendid? isn't he indeed the rightful heir? just what he should be, so strong and so good! aunt grizel, isn't it a great surprise? mother, mother, speak, tell her everything!" then little phil ran up to rupert and took his hand and led him up to miss grizel. "he always, always was the true heir," he said, "and i wasn't. oh, mother, speak!" then there was a buzz of voices, a knot of people gathered quickly round miss griselda, and phil, holding rupert's hand fast, looked again at his mother. the visitors whispered eagerly to one another, and all eyes were turned, not on the splendid young heir, but on the boy who held his arm and looked in his face; for a radiance seemed to shine on that slight boy's pale brow which we see once or twice on the faces of those who are soon to become angels. the look arrested and startled many, and they gazed longer and with a deeper admiration at the false heir than at the true. for a couple of moments mrs. lovel had felt herself turning into stone; but with phil's last appealing gaze she shook off her lethargy, and moving forward took her place by miss griselda's side, and facing the anxiously expecting guests said: "i do it for phil, in the hope--oh, my god!--in the vain hope of saving phil. i arranged with mr. baring that i would tell the story. i wish to humiliate myself as much as possible and to show god that i am sorry. i do it for phil, hoping to save him." then she began her tale, wailing it out as if her heart were broken; and the interested guests pressed closer and closer, and then, unperceived by any one, little phil slipped away. "i will go into the forest," he said to himself. "i can't bear this. oh, mother! oh, poor, poor mother! i will go into the forest. everything will be all right now, and i feel always happy and at rest in the forest." "phil," said a voice, and looking round he saw that his cousin rupert had followed him. "phil, you look ghastly. do you think i care for any property when you look like that?" "oh, i'll be better soon, rupert. i'm so glad you've come in time!" "where are you going now, little chap?" "into the forest. i must. don't prevent me." "no. i will go with you." "but you are wanted; you are the real heir." "time enough for that. i can only think of you now. phil, you do look ill!" "i'll be better soon. let us sit down at the foot of this tree, rupert. rupert, you promise to be good to mother?" "of course. your mother did wrong, but she is very brave now. you don't know how she spoke to my father and me yesterday. my father never liked her half as much as he does now. he says he is going to take aunt bella back with him--you and aunt bella, both of you--and you are always to live at belmont, and gabrielle and peggy will make a lot of you." "i'm so glad; but i'm not going, rupert. rupert, do ask gabrielle to be very good to mother." "of course. how breathless you are! don't talk--rest against me." "rupert, i must. tell me about yesterday. are all the links complete? is it quite, quite certain that you are the heir?" "yes, quite--even the tankard has been found. mrs. lovel--the lady of the forest, you remember--her servant picked it up and gave it to us last night." "did she?" answered phil. "i thought i had lost it in the bog. it fretted mother. i am glad it is found." "and do you know that the lady is rachel's and kitty's mother?" "oh, how nice! how glad rachel will be, and kitty too! isn't god very good, rupert?" "yes," answered rupert in a strong, manly young voice. "rupert, you'll be sure to love aunt grizel, won't you?" "yes, yes. i wish you wouldn't talk so much, little chap; you look awfully ill. do let me carry you home." "no; let me rest here on your shoulder. rupert, there is another lady of the forest. rachel's and kitty's mother is not the only one. i saw her in a dream. she is coming to me to-day; she said so, rupert." "yes." "i have suffered--awfully; but god has been very good--and i shan't suffer any more--i'm so happy." "dear little chap!" for about ten minutes the boys were silent--rupert afraid to move, his little cousin rapt in ecstatic contemplation. suddenly phil roused himself and spoke with strength and energy. "the lady is coming," he said--"there, through the trees! i see her! don't you? don't you? she is coming; she will rest me. oh, how beautiful she is! look, rupert, look!" but rupert could see nothing, nothing at all, although phil stretched out his arms and a radiant smile covered his worn little face. suddenly the arms fell; the eager words ceased; only the smile remained. rupert spoke, but obtained no answer. a little face, beautiful beyond all description now--a little face with a glory over it--lay against his breast, but phil himself had gone away. that is the story. sad? perhaps so--not sad for phil. the end. 