eyes, looked much more like a subject for home-sickness than her merry
companion. In the course of the conversation she discovered that their
home was in a Southern town, and that Miss Moore, who was the oldest
daughter in a large family, was studying kindergarten in order to
support herself. What Miss Sherwin was doing was not so clear. She had
no home ties and was free to go where she pleased, and it was evident
that her friend looked up to her with deep admiration.
While Mrs. Morrison and Miss Moore were talking, Frances and Miss
Sherwin were making friends over their favorite story-books, and before
the call was over they all had the pleasant feeling of being old
acquaintances; and the acquaintance was not allowed to languish.
The very next evening Frances and Emma in great glee knocked at the door
of what Miss Moore called their sky parlor, with an invitation to a
candy pulling. It was just the night for a little fun, being Friday and
stormy, and the young ladies promptly accepted.
Delicious odors were finding their way into the sitting room when the
guests entered, Miss Sherwin looking pretty and pensive in her big
apron, Miss Moore as flyaway and merry as usual.
Mrs. Morrison met them at the door and led the way to the kitchen, where
the children were watching the kettle that gave forth the pleasant
fragrance. "Frances wanted something to do, and as Friday evening is a
sort of holiday, I thought perhaps our neighbors would join us in
pulling candy," she said.
They made molasses candy first, and while this was being pulled Mrs.
Morrison made some chocolate caramels; and even Miss Sherwin was unable
to resist the laughing and nonsense that went on, and was presently
taking part in it as merrily as anybody.
They were sitting around the fire in a sociable group enjoying the
fruits of their labor, when the Spectacle Man knocked at the door. He
had to come to see Mrs. Morrison on business, but when Frances invited
him in to have some candy he did not decline.
"This looks very pleasant," he said, surveying the company, a piece of
chocolate in his hand.
"Sit down, Mr. Clark; I want to ask you something," said Mrs. Morrison.
"It is about the song Frances is always singing,--
"'The bridge is broke--'"
"What is the rest of it?"
"I will tell you all I know, but that isn't much," he replied, crossing
his legs and looking into the fire. "I used to like to hear it from my
grandfather when I was a child, and I found it interested Mark, my
nephew, when he was a little chap. This is the way it goes.
"A man was once taking a long journey on foot. After walking several
hours he came to a deep, swift stream over which there had once been a
bridge, but now it was not to be seen. On the opposite side of the river
a man was chopping wood, and the traveller called to him to know what
had become of the bridge. The reply--and this is always sung--was:--
"'The bridge is broke and I have to mend it,
Fol de rol de ri do, fol de rol de ri do,
The bridge is broke and I have to mend it,
Fol de rol de ri.'
"'How deep is the river?' the traveller then asked.
"'Throw in a stone, 'twill sink to the bottom,
Fol de rol de ri do, fol de rol de ri--' etc.
"'How can I get across?' was the next question.
"'The ducks and the geese they all swim over,
Fol de rol de ri do--' etc.
"And that is all."
"Doesn't the poor man ever get across?" asked Mrs. Morrison.
"I have told you all I know, madam," the Spectacle Man answered, with a
little wave of his hand.
"I think there is a story hidden in it, and that is perhaps why children
enjoy it; it is like having a picture to look at." It was Miss Sherwin
who spoke.
"That is a bright idea," said Mr. Clark; "but who will find the hidden
story for us?"
"I believe Miss Sherwin herself can find it," suggested Mrs. Morrison.
"Suppose we give her two weeks to hunt for it, and then have a meeting
to hear it."
"Oh, please--" began Miss Sherwin.
"Don't say a word, Lil, you know you can," urged Miss Moore, as her
friend tried to make herself heard above the chorus of approval.
"The meeting to be held in my study," added the Spectacle Man.
"But suppose I can't do it," cried Miss Sherwin.
"Father could, if he were here," put in Frances; "he is splendid for
stories!"
"Is he the John Chauncey Morrison who writes so charmingly?" asked Miss
Sherwin.
"Why, do you know him?" exclaimed Frances.
"No, but I have read his stories."
"I think he writes the nicest ones in the world," said the little girl.
"But we don't expect everybody else to think so, Wink," her mother
added, laughing.
CHAPTER SEVENTH.
A PORTRAIT.
One pleasant afternoon Emma came to ask if Frances might go with her to
carry home some sewing her mother had finished.
Mrs. Morrison looked a little doubtful, but, before she could speak,
Frances exclaimed: "Do please say yes, mother. It is a great lovely
house, and I do so want to see it."
"What do you know about it?" asked her mother.
"Emma has told me. May I go? It is such a lovely day."
"I am not sure that it is quite the thing for two little girls to go so
far alone."
"But we'll take care of each other, and--it seems to me that what you
want to do is never the thing!" Frances said impatiently.
Her mother laughed; "I have known other persons who thought that. Who
lives in this wonderful house?" she asked.
"Mrs. Marvin, but she is not at home now; there is no one there but the
housekeeper," replied Emma.
"If I let you go you must promise not to stay any longer than is
necessary for Emma's errand."
They both agreed eagerly to this, and Emma ran down to get ready.
"You mustn't turn into a little Bohemian, Wink," Mrs. Morrison said,
kissing the rosy face under the big hat.
"I don't know what it is, so I guess I couldn't turn into it," laughed
Frances, as she followed Emma.
The two children were in a gale of delight over their expedition, and,
although they meant to be very dignified, found it impossible to walk
more than a few steps without breaking into a skip.
"I wish my hair was like yours," Emma said, looking admiringly at her
companion's waving brown locks.
"But braids aren't half so much bother. I have to wear mine this way
because daddy likes it; and if you want to, you know, you can put your
hair up on kids. That is what Gladys Bowen does; hers doesn't curl one
bit."
"Gladys goes to our school, and I don't like her," remarked Emma.
"Why not? Don't you think she is pretty?"
"Yes; but she is so proud of herself. She doesn't like to go with me
because my clothes aren't as nice as hers,--I know."
"She gets that from her mother," Frances said sagely. "Whenever I go
there Mrs. Bowen asks me who made my dress or something."
"I know I don't have very pretty dresses, but my mother hasn't time,"
said Emma, rather sorrowfully.
"I think you always look nice, Emma, and I like you better than I do
Gladys."
"Oh, Frances! do you really? Then I shan't mind," cried Emma.
She was supremely happy at having Frances for a companion on her walk,
and at the prospect of showing her this wonderful house; but when at
length they paused before the tall iron gate, she was seized with the
fear that it might not seem very grand to one who had seen so much of
the world.
Frances' critical eye was pleased, however; "I really think it does look
like a palace," she said, with the air of having lived among palaces.
It was a somewhat imposing mansion, with a row of graceful columns
across the front, and a broad flight of steps leading to the entrance.
It stood in the midst of a beautiful green lawn on which were a few fine
old trees and shrubs.
"Just wait till you see the inside," said Emma, delightedly, as they
stood before the stately door; but alas! when it was opened the hall was
seen all dismantled; evidently house-cleaning was going on.
After some hesitation the servant showed them into a room which was,
like the hall, in disorder. It seemed to be a library, but the furniture
was all covered, the floor was bare, and the sun streamed in through
uncurtained windows. The most prominent object in the room was a picture
which hung over the mantel, and this at once caught Frances' attention.
It was the portrait of a girl apparently about her own age, whose sunny
eyes smiled down in the friendliest way. Her brown hair curled loosely
over her shoulders; her dress, of some soft, silken brocade of warm,
rich colors, was quaintly made and fell almost to her feet; her neck and
arms were bare, and her dimpled hands clasped lightly before her. There
was a grace and buoyancy in the pose which was very charming; Frances
was enchanted.
"Isn't she lovely! Who is she, do you suppose?" she asked; but Emma
could tell her nothing about it, she had never been in this room before.
"I believe she is like you, Frances," she said, looking critically at
the picture.
"I am sure I am not half so pretty as that! She makes me think of
something-- I don't know exactly what," and Frances wrinkled her brow in
a puzzled way. She was completely fascinated, and continued to gaze at
the portrait all the while Emma was talking to the woman who came to see
her about the work, hearing nothing till her own name caught her ear.
"It is some relative of Miss Frances," was what she heard, evidently in
reply to a question from Emma.
As soon as they were on the street she inquired who Miss Frances was,
and Emma said she thought she was Mrs. Marvin, the lady who owned the
house. "She is coming home before long, and they are getting ready for
her," she added.
"I should like to have that picture," said Frances, with a sigh. "Emma,
do you know what a Bohemian is?"
"I know what the 'Bohemian Girl' is; it is music."
"It can't be that, for mother said father wouldn't like it if I turned
into one."
As Frances was unbuttoning her shoes that night she suddenly exclaimed,
"Why, it is the little girl in the golden doorway!
"What is?" her mother asked.
"I mean that is what the portrait reminded me of. It has just come into
my head. Isn't it funny?"
"Almost any portrait of a little girl might suggest it, I should think,"
said Mrs. Morrison.
"I wish you could see her, mother. Do you think I can go again with Emma
sometime? I do want to see her once more."
"I don't know, dear."
"Mother, is it being a Bohemian to want to go?"
Mrs. Morrison laughed. "Not exactly, Wink. It is difficult to explain,
but a Bohemian is perhaps a person who habitually does what is not 'the
thing.'"
"That must be fun," said Frances.
There was silence for a long time, then she asked, "Mother, aren't you
glad a certain person is abroad?"
Mrs. Morrison looked at her in surprise. "What do you mean?" she said.
"Oh, I was just thinking!"
"But what put it into your head to think of a certain person?"
"Well, the girl in the golden doorway always makes me think of him; and
you know, mother, father said he didn't mind leaving us here because he
was abroad."
"You have been drawing on your imagination, Wink, you can't have
understood father; but now you must go to bed and not talk any more."
CHAPTER EIGHTH.
THE STORY OF THE BRIDGE.
An atmosphere of great sociability pervaded the quaint room that the
Spectacle Man called his study, when on Friday evening, two weeks after
the candy pulling, his expected guests arrived.
He had closed his shop an hour earlier than usual, and spent the time in
getting out certain treasures of china and silver, and placing them
where they could be seen to the best advantage. When the lamps were
lighted, the hearth brushed, and the big Japanese bowl heaped up with
apples and grapes, he paused and looked around him with satisfaction.
He was reflecting how pleasant it was to be giving a party, when the
hall door opened to let in Peterkin and closed again in what might have
seemed a mysterious manner but for the sound of stifled laughter on the
outside. On the inside Peterkin stood looking cross-eyed in a vain
endeavor to see the frill that adorned his neck.
"So they have dressed you for the occasion, my friend," remarked his
master; "it must recall the days when Mark was at home."
A few minutes later Emma and Frances appeared, looking very demure and
bringing with them Gladys, who, happening in in the afternoon, had been
invited to stay and hear the story. The rest of the party soon followed,
and Mr. Clark's face beamed with pleasure as he stepped briskly about
getting every one seated. The children chose the sofa at the side of the
fireplace, where they sat, three in a row with Frances in the middle,
until Miss Moore begged to know if there was not room for her, and of
course there was.
"I am afraid you are trying to excite our envy, Mr. Clark," Mrs.
Morrison said, touching a little dish of old Wedgwood.
"I have a few odds and ends of things," was his reply; "but most of what
you see belongs to my nephew, Mark Osborne. A great-aunt left him her
property when she died, this house, and a good deal of what Mark himself
disrespectfully calls plunder."
"You have never told us about the Toby jug," put in Frances. "Does that
belong to Mark?"
"No, that is my own, and sometime I'll tell you all I know about it; but
now we want to hear Miss Sherwin's story. That is the first business of
the evening;" and, his guests being seated to his satisfaction, the
Spectacle Man crossed his knees and prepared to listen.
"I am not sure that it is at all interesting," said the young lady, as
all eyes turned toward her. "Shall I read it or tell it?"
"Tell it, please," cried the children in a chorus.
So she began, at first a little timidly, and with a glance now and then
at her paper, but gaining courage as she went on.
"I have called it," she said, "'The Story of the Missing Bridge.'
"Once upon a time a young man set out on a journey. The tender beauty of
the springtime was upon the grass and trees, the wheat fields were
turning from gold to rose, and the sky was a soft, deep blue.
"He was a sturdy young fellow and carried a light heart, as one could
tell from the smile in his eyes and the merry tune he whistled as he
strode along. And he had reason to be happy, for on the next day at
sunset he was to be married to the fairest girl in all the country
round.
"After a time the path he followed left the open fields and entered the
cool, dim forest, where all was so still and peaceful that
involuntarily he changed his tune to one more grave.
"A truly happy heart is certain to be a kind one, and, eager though he
was to reach his journey's end, he paused once and again to lend a
helping hand. Now it was to a peddler who was vainly trying to piece
together the broken strap that had held his pack, again to restore a
young bird to its nest, and then to release a white rabbit which had
caught its foot in a trap and was moaning piteously.
"These incidents delayed him somewhat, and it was late in the afternoon
when he reached the river several miles beyond which lay his
destination. It was a wild and treacherous stream that rushed down from
the hills, boiling and bubbling over rocks and between high, precipitous
banks. Many years before a strong bridge had been thrown across it at
the point where the path emerged from the forest, but to-day, to his
utter surprise and bewilderment, there was no bridge to be seen. His
journey was brought to a sudden stop.
"He looked about him; could he have missed his way? This was impossible,
he had travelled it too often. On the other side of the river he saw a
man chopping wood, and presently called to him to know what had become
of the bridge.
"'The bridge is broke and I have to mend it,
Fol de rol de ri do, fol de rol de ri do,
The bridge is broke and I have to mend it,
Fol de rol de ri.'
"This was the man's reply, sung in a merry rollicking tune as he
continued his work.
"'How deep is the stream?' asked the traveller.
"'Throw in a stone, 'twill sink to the bottom,
Fol de rol de ri do, fol de rol de ri do--'
"'How can I get across?'
"'The ducks and the geese they all swim over,
Fol de rol de ri do, fol de rol de ri do--'
"came across the stream in the same mocking tune.
"Angry and almost in despair, the young farmer sat down beneath a tree
to consider what was to be done.
"The secret of all his trouble was this. In an old red stone castle, the
turrets of which were just visible above the trees on the other side of
the stream, there lived a magician who had long had his eye upon the
beautiful maiden who was the young man's promised bride. To win her he
appeared as a wealthy middle-aged suitor, ready to lay all his riches at
her feet, his real character being carefully concealed; but all his arts
had been plied in vain; no gold or gems or promises of future splendor
could turn her heart from her young lover. Her parents, however, were
inclined to look with favor upon the magician's suit, and their daughter
was made most unhappy by their reproaches.
"The last resort of the magician was to insinuate doubts of her lover's
faithfulness; and after long and careful scheming, with her father and
mother as allies, a promise was wrung from the maiden that, if the
bridegroom failed by so much as an hour to appear at the appointed time,
she would wed his rival. So sure was she of her lover, so ignorant of
the magician's power.
"It now only remained to hinder the coming of the bridegroom. This the
magician wished to contrive in such a way that the young farmer should
arrive upon the scene just too late, and that he himself might have the
exquisite pleasure of witnessing his despair. This was not without its
difficulties, for the forest that extended almost to the water's edge
was inhabited by fairies who were well disposed toward mortals, and took
frequent delight in frustrating the schemes of the evil-minded
magician.
"He therefore set himself to work to win their good will, and after
establishing friendly relations went to the queen with what seemed an
innocent request. An enemy of his was about to pass through the wood,
and it was all-important that he should be hindered from crossing the
river until after a certain hour. All he asked of the fairies was the
promise that they would not reveal the plan by which he meant to
accomplish this. The promise was readily given, for what possible harm
could come to any one through being detained on the bank of the river
for a few hours?
"The fairies often amused themselves by trying the temper of those who
passed through the forest, and the peddler, the bird, and the rabbit had
all been contrived to test the kindliness of the chance traveller; and
by his quick response to these calls for help the young farmer had won
their favor. So now, as he sat at the foot of the oak tree almost ready
to weep in his despair, he heard a tiny voice singing:--
"'The bridge is broke and you'll have to mend it,
Fol de rol de ri do, fol de rol de ri do.'
"'If some kind friend would only tell me how!' he exclaimed.
"'Is it then so necessary to your happiness?' asked the voice; and
looking all about, he at length discovered a little creature sitting on
a toadstool just at his feet. In her hand she held a large leaf which
till now had served to hide her from his view.
"Having heard that the wood was the abode of fairies, he was not
surprised; and in the hope that they would be able and willing to help
him, he told his story. The fairy listened intently, marvelling at the
magician's craftiness.
"'And when must you be there?' she asked.
"'Not one minute later than sunset to-morrow. I set out a day sooner
than needful because of a mysteriously worded message I received,
warning me to make all haste lest I lose my bride,' was the reply.
"'You have an enemy,' said the fairy, 'but we may be able to help you.
You must wait the hour of audience, which is on the stroke of midnight;'
with this she disappeared.
"The young man, left alone, seemed to hear all about him mocking voices
singing:--
"'The ducks and the geese they all swim over--'
"and again and again he went to the water's edge, resolved to attempt to
cross on the rocks, but the sight of the wild torrent told him it would
be certain death.
"As night came on he at length fell into a troubled sleep with his head
against the trunk of the oak tree. He was aroused by soft music and
twinkling lights, and beheld before him, ranged in a semicircle, the
fairy queen and her attendants. The queen addressed him:--
"'Mortal, we have heard your story from Sadonia, one of our ladies, and,
as you have proved yourself kind and true-hearted, we would help you;
but we are bound by a sacred vow not to reveal the secret of the bridge
until sunset to-morrow.'
"'Ah, then it will be too late!' cried the young man.
"One of the attendant fairies now stepped out and knelt before the
queen. It was the one called Sadonia, with whom he had spoken.
"'Your Majesty remembers,' she said, 'that for a certain fault I was
condemned to take the form of a white rabbit, and with my foot in a trap
wait to be released by some kind traveller. When I was in despair, this
mortal freed me, and I ask that I may show my gratitude now by aiding
him.'
"'Can this be done without breaking the vow which binds us all?' asked
the queen.
"'Your Majesty, I promise neither by word or sign to reveal the secret
of the bridge. I shall only ask him to obey me in a single command. The
result rests with himself.'
"The queen was silent for a moment, then she said, 'Is this mortal
courageous enough, is his love deep enough, to keep him unfaltering in
the face of death?'
"'Death met in trying to reach the one I love will be far better than
life without her!' cried the young man.
"'Then,' said the queen, 'Sadonia is permitted to use all her powers to
aid you, but without revealing by word or sign the secret of the
bridge.' She waved her wand, and in a breath lights and fairies
disappeared and he was left alone. Not alone, for he heard Sadonia
singing:--
"'The ducks and the geese they all swim over--'
"and there, dimly seen in the moonlight, she sat on a toadstool, wrapped
in a mantle of green.
"'It is time, mortal, for you to be up and away. In yonder red castle
lives a magician; it was he you saw cutting wood--this is the hour when
he sleeps. Is your courage strong? Are you ready to do the impossible?'
While she spoke the young man sprang to his feet.
"'Do you see the star straight before us in the heavens?' she asked.
'Keep your eyes fixed upon it, and think of her who is now dreaming of
you; then if you obey me, all will be well.'
"She led him to the edge of the cliff, below him was the rushing stream;
'Look at the star and go on,' she cried.
"For one instant he hesitated. Go on? Where would the next step take
him? Beneath were the rocks and the foaming torrent, but above him was
the glowing star. He stepped bravely out. Louder and louder roared the
torrent, brighter and brighter burned the star, firm and solid was the
mysterious path. Confidence grew as he went on, his heart full of a
great joy, and presently he felt the turf under his feet; the stream was
crossed!
"As he paused to look back the truth flashed upon him: the bridge was
where it had always been, but some strange spell had made it invisible!
"He went on his way, and all around him he seemed to hear fairy voices
singing:--
"'The ducks and the geese they all swim over,
Fol de rol de ri do, fol de ri do--'
"He stopped and, lifting his hat, said softly, 'Thank you, Sadonia!' and
hoped she heard.
"On the next day the maiden and her lover had a joyous wedding, and the
evil-minded magician slunk away in a rage to his castle, having
discovered that love is stronger than magic; for no evil power can
destroy the bridge between true and loving hearts, and faith and courage
can always find the way."
* * * * *
"Well!" exclaimed Mr. Clark, as Miss Sherwin paused, with a very
becoming color in her cheeks, "who would have thought there was such a
story hidden away in my old song."
"I am so pleased that we asked her to do it," said Mrs. Morrison,
smiling across the table at the story-teller. "I had my suspicions
before, and now they are confirmed," she added.
"I am just proud of you, Lil," said Miss Moore, beaming on her friend.
"I think it is a lovely story, but couldn't you have more about the
fairies, Miss Sherwin?" Frances asked.
"And about the wedding and what the bride had on," suggested Gladys.
"But did you really make it all up?" inquired Emma.
The young lady laughed. "No, I only found it between the lines of the
song, and I certainly think it can be improved."
"The moral is such a fine one," remarked Mrs. Morrison.
"That faith and courage can always find a way--yes, isn't it, if one
could only live up to it," said Miss Moore.