CHAPTER III.--THE LETTER.

The boy walked along, silently thinking over what Elsie had been saying,

in a muddly, confused sort of way. Robbie, and granny's letter, and

Elsie's beating, lairds and ladies, and something secret and mysterious

that Elsie knew, were mingled hazily in his mind, in such chaotic

fashion that he had nothing to say, not knowing how to put his ideas

into the form of a question.

It was not until they were on their road home again that he suddenly

asked, "Whose letter is it, Elsie?"

"What do you mean?" Elsie returned, with more than usual quickness. "I

say it's mine and yours. Mother'd say 'twas hers, most likely; perhaps

granny might say 'twas hers; I say it's ours as much as ever it's

theirs, and the person what wrote it is our father; so there, Duncan."

"Mine too!" Duncan echoed, in greater bewilderment than before. "Then,

if it's mine too, Elsie--

"Well, what?"

"I ought to read it, an' see what's in it."

Elsie laughed. "Of course you ought," she replied encouragingly. "That's

just what I said to myself when I caught sight of it; and when I'd read

it, an' saw that it was all about you and me, an' told a secret too,

what granny an' mother have always kept away from us, d'you think I was

goin' to give it up? no, not if I know it. An' to think they fancy it's

lost--leastways, granny does--an' mother don't know anything about it at

all. What fun it is! D'you know, Duncan, I don't so very much like

mother."

Duncan looked at her in alarm. Scottish children of all classes are

brought up in very strict notions of filial duty and affection, and

these were no exceptions to the rule. Duncan looked all round anxiously,

as though he feared a bird might carry the dreadful treason to their

mother's ears.

Elsie looked as if she were enjoying the sensation she had made. "I've

got a good reason," she said, nodding her head knowingly. "You'll see it

when you've read the letter. I always thought I wasn't so very fond of

her, and now I see why it was. It wouldn't have been right if I had; an'

when she beat me, I can't tell you how I felt. I couldn't like any one

who beat me!" Elsie continued, grinding her teeth together with rage at

the memory, "even if it was my own mother."

"You seemed as if you wanted to make mother do it," said Duncan, who was

often much distracted between his allegiance to rebellious Elsie and the

strict sense of duty and obedience in which he had always been trained.

"P'raps I did," Elsie replied. "But I don't care; and mother shan't have

the chance again. I don't think our father'd let her if he knew it."

"Our father?" faltered Duncan. "Why, our father's dead."

"Is he?" asked Elsie, enigmatically. "Robbie's father is."

"And isn't that ours?" Duncan asked contemptuously.

"That's just it," Elsie replied, with some excitement. "That's just what

the letter's about. Now, if you sit down here I'll read it to you."

"We shall be late again," Duncan said, nervously. "Don't let's stop now,

Elsie, and make mother cross. Could we do it after school?"

"P'raps I'd better tear it up, or give it back to granny," Elsie said,

with a taunting air. "It don't matter to you."

"Oh, don't!" pleaded Duncan, divided again between the sense of duty,

his own curiosity, and a fear of offending Elsie. "Do keep it till after

school."

"Yes, I will," Elsie replied. "And mind you bring home an atlas with

you, for, now I think of it, I must have a map of England and Scotland."

"But we mustn't bring home books," Duncan urged.

"Never mind; you must do it by mistake. We must have a map, I tell you;

and if I've had the trouble of getting the letter, you can take the

trouble to get the map. Mind you do, now, or else I shan't tell you

anything about it. You can take it back in the afternoon. 'Tisn't

stealing."

No, nor disobedience, nor deceit, nor telling a lie, eh, Elsie?

Evidently Elsie did not stop to think of that any more than she had

stopped to consider whether she had any business to read that old letter

of her mother's when it fluttered out of the window.

They reached the cottage in good time. Robbie and their grandmother had

only just come downstairs. Mrs. MacDougall seemed to be in an unusually

pleasant temper this morning. "I'm glad you've hastened, my child," she

said to Elsie. "Sit down to the table, and get slicing that cucumber

I've just cut. It'll be more refreshing with some bread-and-butter and a

cup o' milk than the porridge, and a change too."

Duncan glanced at Elsie with a half shame-faced expression, as much as

to say, "Mother is kind, you see, when you're good. She's sorry you had

to be beaten last night." But Elsie only replied by a look of defiance,

as though to say, "That doesn't make up at all."

"Let's see: what's to-day?" Mrs. MacDougall continued, pleasantly, as

she poured out the milk into the children's cups. "Can it be the

thirty-first?"

"No, no, Meg; surely not," quavered the old grandmother, who, for

reasons of her own, wished to appear ignorant. Was it not to refresh her

failing memory about what happened just about this time of year, a long

while ago, that she had gone to her daughter's desk, and got out those

old faded letters? Mrs. MacDougall would not have minded her reading

them, but she would mind having them lost, for she was very methodical;

and besides, many of these letters were important ones, written by hands

long since folded in death.

"And to-morrow's Robbie's birthday," Mrs. MacDougall continued, laying

her rough, strong hand very gently on the child's fair curls. "Very well

do I remember this time seven years ago."

"Yes," sighed the old grandmother. "Poor little dears! and Nannie a

bonny lass too."

Mrs. MacDougall glanced at her mother with something like a frown. "I

never think of Robbie's birthday without thinking about poor Aunt

Nannie," she said to the children.

They knew well enough why, for they had heard the tale often enough.

Their Aunt Nannie had been their mother's beautiful young sister, and

the news of her death had come to them when Robbie was a baby of a week

old. They had never even seen her, for Duncan was but a year old, and

Elsie not three, when she died, and she had been living in England with

her English husband at the time.

"Robbie reminds me so of her," Mrs. MacDougall said softly. "She was

fair. He takes after her wonderfully, doesn't he, mother?"

"Very much indeed," the old dame replied.

"Ah well! Robbie must have some fresh cakes to-morrow for his birthday

and a plate of plums, and you can have your tea under the big alder an'

Elsie shall pour it out."

"Oh, thank you, mother, how nice!" the little boys exclaimed. Elsie's

ungracious silence passed unnoticed by all but Duncan.

"P'raps I shan't be here to pour it out," she said, in a careless tone,

when they were outside the door. "Mind you don't forget the atlas,

Duncan."

Then they started off to school. It was a longish walk across the moor

and along a dusty road to the nearest village. Robbie, although seven

years old, was exempted from going on account of the distance and his

delicacy. Elsie bore in mind that Duncan had gone before he was that

age, but Robbie was such a petted baby. He was not nearly so strong as

Duncan had been at his age.

Duncan's was a very placid, slow sort of mind. He went through his tasks

without any excitement or distraction, although occasionally a vague

curiosity as to what Elsie could want the atlas for, and what the letter

said about them, did wander through his brain. When school was ended he

slipped out unobserved with a small atlas, which he had had difficulty

to secure, under his jacket.

Elsie was waiting for him at the edge of the moor. They sat down on some

stones, and Elsie pulled the letter from inside the neck of her dress.

"I shan't say anything; I shall read it to you," she began; "and if you

can't make anything of it I s'pose I must explain it afterwards. It's

from our father to Mrs. MacDougall."

"What, to mother?" Duncan asked.

"H'm, you'll see presently," Elsie said impatiently. "Worst of it is,

there's a piece torn off all along, which makes it difficult to read. It

begins, 'Dear Mrs. MacDougall.' Oh, I forgot. It's put at the top,

'Kensington, London.' That's the capital of England, you know, and it

means that the person what wrote it lived there."

"But father didn't, did he?" began Duncan.

"Hold your tongue till I've read it," Elsie replied. "I can't stop to

explain beforehand. This is it:--

"'DEAR MRS. MACDOUGA

I have to be

teller of very bad new

sister, my poor wife die

morning. It will not be a

shock to you than it wa

me. I had no thought

it was likely to happen

a few hours previous

sent her love to you

her mother.

The two little things ar

but I have been

what I can do with th

I have not seen them'"

(here the page turns over and the missing words are from the

commencement of the line)--

"'night and I don't feel

to see them yet. The sound

ir voices is too much for

hat can I, a helpless

wer do for them. They

be better off among their

kinsfolk than left

mercy of strangers. I often

I made a mistake in

nging poor Nannie to this

cat crowded city away from

ive moors.

The children I am told

eak and delicate. There

be a chance for them'"

(here the fresh page begins)--

"'in their mother's native

The woman who has charge

trustworthy. She shall brin

to you, if you will take

they live, bring them up with

your own, and as your own.

the girl turns out anything

her mother, she will be we

enough. I shall not interfe

the children. All I want to

is that they are well care

In a year or two I may

able to interest myself

them. For the pres'"

(fresh page)--

"'likely I shall wander

t, Reply at once

Yours truly,

R. GROSVENOR.'"

When Elsie had finished reading she sat looking at Duncan. "It doesn't

seem very plain," he ventured to say, presently; "and there wasn't

anything about you or me in it. You said there was."

[Illustration: "MRS. MACDOUGALL GLANCED AT HER MOTHER" (_p. 8_).]

"Stupid little thing! isn't there some of it torn off? and when you put

the words in it's easy enough to read. I've put them in to myself. First

of all, it's about Aunt Nannie dying, isn't it?"

"I s'pose it is," Duncan agreed; "and it's writ by Uncle Richard, isn't

it?"

"If you call him Uncle Richard. I say it's our father what wrote

it--yours and mine, Duncan."

Duncan stared at her in puzzled silence. "But Aunt Nannie was our Aunt

Grosvenor, wasn't she?" he asked.

"If you call her Aunt Grosvenor. I say she was our mother. I'm sure she

was," said Elsie.

"Our mother!" Duncan said, under his breath. "What do you mean, Elsie?"

"The letter says something about two little babies," Elsie began.

"Does it?" Duncan asked. "I didn't hear it."

"Well, it says, the 'little things,' and that's the same; and it's all

about sending them to Aunt Nannie's native place. Well, this is Aunt

Nannie's native place; and who were the two little things, eh?"

"I'm sure I dunno," Duncan said slowly.

"Well, they weren't Robbie, were they? Then, who were they? Why, you an'

me, of course. It says 'the girl' somewhere, an' of course that's me. So

now, isn't the letter about us? an' that's why granny was so afraid of

losing it. Do you see now, little silly? It's plain enough."

"But why did they?" murmured Duncan.

"That's the funny part of it. They ought to have told us. Why didn't

she?"

"Who?"

"Why, Robbie's mother, of course. She isn't our mother, an' I'm not

going to call her mother; I shall call her 'she.' You can call her what

you like. Why does she pretend to be our mother when she isn't? It's

different with granny, 'cos she's our granny right enough. Didn't I hear

her say 'Meg 'ud rue it?' It's a shame to have made a secret of it."

Duncan had been turning it over in his poor little mind. He formed ideas

very slowly, but there was often more sense in them when formed than in

the quick conclusions of cleverer children.

"But if Uncle Grosvenor is our father, Elsie, why don't we live with

him? He never's been to see us, never. He'd be sure to know Aunt Nannie

was our mother, and not--you know--'she.'"

"I believe," said Elsie, in a mysterious voice, "that 'R. Grosvenor'

thinks we're dead."

"Oh, Elsie! but we aren't at all," gasped Duncan.

"No, I shouldn't, think so. Doesn't the letter say they are weak and

delicate (what a beautiful letter it is, Duncan. I'm sure R. Grosvenor

is a grand gentleman), and 'bring them up with your own and as your own

for a year or two?' That was till we got strong; and she's kept us

always. Of course R. Grosvenor (I'm not going to say uncle), doesn't

know that we're quite well now. I'm sure he thinks we're dead. Who does

'your own' mean but Robbie. Oh, how dull you are, Duncan! Can't you see

now why she pets that boy so, and makes such a fuss over him? He's her

own, and we're not; she loves him and doesn't love us. Did she ever beat

Robbie?"

"Robbie isn't naughty," Duncan protested; "at least, only a very little

sometimes."

Elsie uttered an impatient exclamation. "Does Robbie have to fetch milk,

and go to school, and pick up wood? No; he's treated different. Now you

know why I don't like her."

Duncan gave vent to a sigh of perplexity. There rose up in his mind a

sort of uncomfortable feeling that everything was going topsy-turvy.

Somehow or another he seemed to see Robbie's mother sitting by the side

of Elsie's bed when she had the fever last winter, and bustling about to

get nice things for her, hushing the others with a strange look in her

eyes that made them quiet at once, for they could see she was troubled.

Or he seemed to smell the grateful smell of the hot cakes waiting, crisp

and tempting, before the big cheerful fire, to greet them on their

return from afternoon school on a dreary winter day. She had been kind,

though she was so strict, especially to Elsie, and Duncan was feeling

something very much like sorrow to think that, after all, she was not

their mother.

"What are you going to do, Elsie?" he asked presently.

"I've just been wondering when you were going to ask me that. Of course

it can't stop like this. Haven't you heard granny say how rich Uncle

Grosvenor was, and what a grand place it was where he lived? Well, then,

he's a grand laird, an' if we lived with him you'd be a little laird,

and me a lady. Does he think we have to fetch milk and butter, and go

after the hens, an' all that? But I'm goin' to let him know all about

it."

"How, Elsie?"

"Well," Elsie replied, "I've been thinking of that, an' it's just a real

difficult matter; for I'd never get time to write all the long

explanation, with that _she_ always prying after me. She'd find it out,

an' stop the letter, even if I could find the paper; an' I dunno' as I

can spell all the long words it 'ud take to explain it. An' more too, I

couldn't wait an' wait for the answer. We ought to go an' see Uncle--R.

Grosvenor. I've almost made up my mind, Duncan, that I'll go to England

an' find him."

"You couldn't do it," Duncan said.

"Couldn't I?" Elsie said scornfully, "It isn't so very far. England's

another country, but it joins on. You only step out o' one into the

other, for I looked most particular; an' there wasn't even mountains to

get over. There's only what folk call the border, an' I'm sure that

isn't much. P'raps it's a line, or a road, or a ditch, or something like

it. You go straight out of Scotland--as straight as ever you can go.

I've looked on the map. Give it me now. If you go from Dunster you've

only to keep in a straight line till you get into England, an' any

one'll tell you the way to London."

"I'm sure it's a dreadful long way," Duncan said disconsolately. "I

should be frightened while you was gone, till you came back."

"Come back," said Elsie. "I shan't never do that, I hope. When I find my

father he'll take care o' me. Now then, will you come with me, Duncan?"

"I don't think I'd go, Elsie. We might get lost," Duncan urged. "I wish

you could write a letter instead."

"I've made up my mind to go if I do anything at all," Elsie said, in a

tone of decision. "You needn't come unless you like."

Duncan looked perplexed again. This was indeed an awkward predicament.

The thought of running away to England didn't seem nice, somehow, but if

Elsie went and he stayed, how frightened he'd be all the time about her;

and when they questioned him, how would he be able to keep her secret,

especially if Robbie's mother had that troubled look in her eyes? and

how lonely it would be going backwards and forwards across the moor all

alone without Elsie.

"I wish you wouldn't go, Elsie," he said to her presently.

"Most likely I shall," Elsie replied. "Mind you tell no tales. We must

be quick home now. Come along; I shall have to think of ever so many

things before we go, so you'll have plenty o' time to know whether

you'll come or stay behind. Oh, I know I shall be a real lady, Duncan,

an' have bonny clothes. Of course I shouldn't like fetching milk an'

things when I'm a little lady born. Isn't it a shame, Duncan?"

"I dunno; _I_ don't mind," Duncan then said.

"Give me the atlas," Elsie said; "I must get away an' have a goodish

look at it when we get in, for you must be quite sure and take it back

this afternoon."

But Elsie was not to "get away," for Mrs. MacDougall was waiting at the

gate with a basket by her side.

"You've been loiterin' again," she cried briskly. "I've been waitin'

this half-hour for you to take these beans down to the shop. Here's a

bit o' bread you can eat along the road, an' you'll have just to make

haste."

Elsie cast a defiant glance at the basket as she took it slowly up. She

knew too well its destination. The neatly tied-up bundles of young

well-grown beans lying on the fresh cabbage-leaves would be one of the

attractions of the village shop. A day or two ago all the plums that

were ripe had gone the same way, to the children's disgust. Mrs.

MacDougall was a clever gardener, and had a ready sale for her small

stock of produce. To-day Elsie and Duncan would get no dinner beyond the

bit of bread. That was the result of their loitering. They had lost the

valuable time through their talk over the letter.

But Elsie quite lost sight of the fact that she alone was responsible

for losing it, and was very angry about it.

"I have quite decided," she said to Duncan. "This is what I'll do; to

England I will go!"

(_To be continued._)

LITTLE MISS PROPRIETY.

[Illustration]

"Dainty little maiden,

Sitting there in state,

While the music's calling,

And the dancers wait.

"A courtly little beau

For your hand is waiting:

What is it, my dear,

That you are debating?

"Do the pretty slippers

Pinch your tiny feet?

Tell me quickly, dearie,

Why you keep your seat."

Little maiden answers,

Anger in her face,

"We's not bin intodoost:

It's twite a disgwase!"

MARY LANG.

[Illustration: "SHE SAW A CAT'S FACE LOOKING UP AT HER."]

FIGHTING WITH A SHADOW.

"It is much pleasanter to be by oneself, then there is no one to quarrel

with," said Pussy.

And she stretched herself out on the soft, mossy turf, and half closed

her eyes, purring gently. She was a young cat, and got into much trouble

at home, for she was constantly quarrelling with her brothers and

sisters. She said it was their fault, and they said it was hers. And

Mrs. Grimalkin, the old cat, said that there were faults on both sides.

"I'm _not_ a bad temper," said Pussy; "and I never quarrel with people

unless they quarrel with me." So saying, she opened her eyes wider, and

looked round. She liked the warm sunshine, and the scent of the flowers,

and the soft velvet turf.

How pleasant it was!

"I should like to live here always," she said. "Then Tib, Frisk, and

Kitty would not be able to tease me as they do. It is very annoying to

be tormented all the time, and if one says a word in one's own defence,

one gets blamed for being quarrelsome. The idea of my quarrelling with

any one: it is perfectly absurd."

And Pussy purred and looked round complacently.

Presently she crept down to the water's edge, and peeped over into the

smooth glassy stream; and as she did so she saw a cat's face looking up

at her. She stretched out her paw to give it a pat, and the other cat

did the same. Then she drew away, and raised her back as high as she

could. So did the other cat, only it seemed to Pussy as if she were

upside down.

"So provoking," said Pussy; "just as I fancied I was all alone here, to

find that there is a cat under the water coming up to trouble me.

Probably she has a large family down there, and they will come swarming

up and be as disagreeable as my own sisters and brothers. And how

exceedingly mean of her not to give notice that she was coming. I should

have heard the faintest mew, for everything is so quiet here. It is

evident that her intentions are hostile, or she would not steal up like

a thief. But I will certainly not stand such behaviour."

And again she put out her paw.

So did the other cat.

"Where do you come from?" asked Pussy. But she received no answer.

"Speak!" said she, impatiently waving her tail.

The other cat waved in return, but no answer came. Then Pussy began to

get very angry. So did the other cat.

And they grew fiercer and fiercer, making strange faces at each other,

until at length Pussy became so much enraged that she prepared to spring

upon her enemy, and would the next moment have plunged into the water,

had not some one suddenly seized the tip of her tail.

She turned to avenge herself upon the new offender, when lo! who should

it be but her own mother, Mrs. Grimalkin, who happened to be out on a

foraging expedition, and chanced to pass that way.

"You foolish young creature," said she; "if I had not been here you

would have been drowned. Don't you see that it is but your own image in

the water: there isn't another cat there; it is only your own shadow.

But cats as quarrelsome as you are, when they can find no one else to

fight with, will fight even with a shadow."

J. G.

PRETTY WORK FOR LITTLE FINGERS.

EMBROIDERED GLASS-CLOTH.

[Illustration: FIG. 1.--PATTERN SQUARE.]

This is very pretty and easy work, just the thing for any little folk

who are anxious to help a fancy sale for some good cause, or to make a

nice useful present to a friend, but who have not time or skill to

undertake anything long and difficult. It is very quickly done, and can

be used for toilet-covers and mats (these should be edged with narrow

torchon lace), night-dress cases, aprons, comb-bags, and a number of

useful articles; it is much admired, and always sells well at a bazaar.

[Illustration: FIG. 2.--BORDER.]

All you have to do is to get some common glass-cloth, tolerably fine,

with cross-bars of red or blue, and some red or navy blue

knitting-cotton, which you can buy either by the pound or the ball.

[Illustration: FIG. 3.--WORKED WITH COTTON.]

Two ounces will do a quantity of work, and cost about the same as a

ball. With this, which may be either the same colour as that of the

material or the contrasting one, the pattern is worked upon the squares

formed by the cross-bars, as in Fig. 1, and in this way a number of

pretty devices can be formed. Toilet-covers and large aprons should have

a border as in Fig. 2; for mats a single border will suffice. Bags, &c,

may be worked in checquers, every alternate square, or in large

cross-bars, by carrying on Fig. 2 over the whole surface, but when you

choose a large pattern, always count the squares before you cut off your

piece, or you may find the pattern break off in the middle.

[Illustration: FIG. 4.--WORKED WITH WOOL.]

I have seen a very effective-looking bag, all the squares of which were

worked over with dark blue cotton, the bars being blue, and two tiny red

stitches worked as in Fig. 3, wherever a simple cross was formed by the

cotton intersecting the stripe of the material.

Use a darning or crewel needle, and a very long thread, or you will have

to be continually taking fresh. This work is sometimes done with crewel

wool, and in rather a different way, see Fig. 4; but it is not so neat

and pretty, in my opinion, as that done with cotton, and is more

extravagant, since the wool must be used double and every stitch

repeated.

I once saw a large apron with bib and pocket bordered with squares

worked in this style with bright dark ultramarine crewels, and with

ribbon strings of the same colour; it had a handsome effect. I shall

only say in conclusion that I have no doubt the clever brains and nimble

fingers of some of my young readers will soon be able to improve upon

these simple elementary designs, and to produce some new and more

elaborate ones which will give them all the more pleasure for being of

their own creating.

SOMERSET.

STORIES TOLD IN WESTMINSTER ABBEY.

_By_ EDWIN HODDER ("OLD MERRY").

[Illustration: CLOISTER. WESTMINSTER ABBEY.]

I.--HOW THE ABBEY WAS BUILT.

One day some children came to me, and said, "Oh, do please take us out

somewhere on our half-holiday, and show us some of the great sights of

London." Remembering how it had once been my privilege to be one of a

party invited to go over Westminster Abbey, under the guidance of the

late Dean Stanley, and how, from his graphic descriptions, the Abbey had

ever since had an additional wealth of interest to me, I proposed to

these young people that they should meet me some Saturday afternoon, and

I would take them over the Abbey, and tell them all I could remember or

read up about its history. They were delighted with the proposal, and

so to the Abbey we went.

I should like to take all the readers of LITTLE FOLKS in the same way,

but I remember the story of the British Princess, named St. Ursula, who

undertook to "personally conduct" eleven thousand young maidens to Rome,

and how she came to grief on the return journey, as any one may see who

goes to Cologne, where all their bones are preserved in a church; and as

I should have a great many more followers than she, I think it will be

better if I try in the next six numbers to tell you what I told the

young people who went with me on that Saturday afternoon and on other

afternoons, and as nearly as I can in the same words.

Now, girls and boys, before we enter the portals of Westminster Abbey, I

want you first to come with me and walk round about it, so as to see it

well from the outside; and first of all, we will post ourselves near to

the great hall built by William Rufus as a portion of his intended

palace. It was upon this spot that Edward the Confessor dwelt, and for

fifteen years watched the erection of the Abbey. But you must not

imagine that the beautiful building that rises so grandly before us as

we stand here to-day is the same that the Confessor reared, for of his

famous church only one or two columns and low-browed arches are now in

existence. Of the edifice we now behold, the central portions were built

by Henry III., the nave was added under the Edwards and Henry V., the

gorgeous eastern chapel was raised by Henry VII., and bears his name,

and the western towers rose when George III. was king.

But I shall have more to say to you presently about these various

additions. Let us cross over now to St. Margaret's Churchyard, and as we

stroll round the Abbey, I will tell you how it came to be built at all.

To get at the very beginning, we shall have to go back to a time long

before Edward the Confessor sat watching his workmen--to the days when

London was a Roman city, and when the site of modern Westminster was a

marshy tract of ground, crossed by various streams and channels. At that

time the river Thames and one of these channels enclosed an island about

a quarter of a mile long and somewhat less in breadth. It was a marshy

wilderness, and had the character of being "a terrible place," and

amongst its swamps and thickets the huge red deer, with his immense

antlers, and the wild ox found a refuge. When it received a name, it

became known as Thorn-Ey, that is, Isle of Thorns; in later days people

called it Thorney Island. Tradition says that in the midst of the

wilderness there was erected, in the year 154 A.D., a Temple of Apollo.

We are next told that King Lucius, who was said to have been the founder

of a great many English churches, turned the temple into a Christian

sanctuary. Then we hear that in 616 A.D., Sebert, King of Essex, founded

an Abbey here, and dedicated it to St. Peter, "in order to balance the

compliment he had made to St. Paul on Ludgate Hill." All this is very

doubtful, but from the earliest times in history there has been shown a

grave of Sebert as that of the founder of the Abbey.

Twelve monks of the Benedictine order were placed here by Dunstan, and

suffered a great deal from the Danes, who in these times did much

mischief in England. The last of the Saxon kings who kept up the long

struggle with these pagans was Edward, who by his exile to escape from

their tyranny won the title of Confessor. He was a very strange man, who

seemed never thoroughly happy except when he was sitting in church or

when he was hunting in the woods. He had milk-white hair and beard, rosy

cheeks, "thin white hands, and long transparent fingers." He was

sometimes gentle, sometimes furious; sometimes very grave, going about

with eyes fixed on the ground, sometimes bursting out into wild fits of

laughter.

Edward returned from his exile accompanied by Norman courtiers and

Norman priests, and full of Norman ideas. He appears to have been very

much delighted with his visits to the great continental cathedrals, so

different from the simple structures of the Saxons. During his troubles

he had vowed to make a pilgrimage to Rome; but the Pope gave him leave

to build an Abbey to St. Peter instead. Edward accordingly resolved to

restore the monastery on the Isle of Thorns, on a very different scale

from anything that had been before attempted in England.

According to a legend told in after years, there was near Worcester a

holy hermit "of great age, living on fruits and roots," who dwelt "far

from men in a wilderness on the slope of a wood, in a cave deep down in

the grey rock." To this holy man St. Peter appeared one night, and bade

him tell the king that he was released from his pilgrimage, and that at

Thorney, near the city, he must build a Benedictine Abbey, which should

be "the gate of heaven, the ladder of prayer, whence those who serve St.

Peter there shall be by him admitted into Paradise." The hermit wrote

out his dream on parchment, and sent it to the king, who compared it

with the message to the same purpose just received from Rome, and at

once set to work on the project.

Another story was told to show that Thorney was specially under the

patronage of St. Peter. It was said that on the evening before Mellitus,

first Bishop of London, was about to consecrate the monastery built here

by King Sebert, a fisherman named Edric was engaged by a venerable

stranger to ferry him across to the island. The stranger entered the

church, and assisted by a host of angels, who descended with sweet

odours and flaming candles, dedicated the church with all the usual

ceremonies. Then returning to the awe-struck fisherman, the mysterious

stranger declared himself to be St. Peter, Keeper of the Keys of Heaven,

and that he had consecrated his own Church of St. Peter, Westminster.

When the king and Bishop Mellitus arrived next day, Edric told his

story, and pointed out the marks of the twelve crosses on the church,

the walls within and without moistened with holy water, the letters of

the Greek alphabet written twice over distinctly on the sand, the traces

of the oil, and even the droppings of the angelic candles. The bishop

could not presume to add any further ceremonial, but retired.

Edward restored the old royal palace close by, and dwelt there fifteen

years, superintending the erection of the Abbey. Dean Stanley says he

spent upon it one-tenth of the property of the kingdom. His end was

approaching when he dedicated the Abbey, on Innocents Day, 1065, and on

the last day of the year he died. I shall tell you about his funeral

later on.

The edifice stood pretty much as Edward the Confessor left it till the

reign of Henry III., who showed his love for the Abbey first by adding

to it, and then by demolishing it almost entirely, and raising in its

place the building that has been called "the most lovely and lovable

thing in Christendom." In this rebuilding St. Peter was almost lost

sight of, and the Shrine and Chapel of Edward the Confessor became, as

it were, the central idea of the whole. Very lavishly did King Henry

spend his money over the restored Abbey: the cost was at least half a

million, as we should reckon it. His work includes the apse and choir,

the two transepts, one arch of the nave, and the chapter-house; Under

the Edwards the nave unfolded itself farther west, and the Abbot's House

and Jerusalem Chamber were built. Richard II. was very fond of the

Abbey, and rebuilt, at great expense, the famous north portal, often

spoken of as "The Beautiful Gate," or "Solomon's Porch." By Henry V. the

nave was prolonged nearly to its present length. It was just completed

in time for the grand procession to sweep along it when the _Te Deum_

was sung for the victory at Agincourt. The architect by whom the work

was carried out was Dick Whittington, Lord Mayor of London.

The next important addition to the Abbey took place in the reign of

Henry VII., when the large eastern chapel which bears that monarch's

name was built. The great wars of York and Lancaster were now over, but

amongst the chief actors in those tragic events there was one who, by

his saintly goodness and sufferings, had left a revered name upon the

lips of Englishmen. Images of Henry VI. were seen in great churches

throughout the country, and stories of his good works and miracles were

everywhere told. Henry VII. promised to build at Westminster a

magnificent chapel, in memory of Henry VI. The Pope promised

"canonisation" (as the making of a new saint is called), and the king

obtained from the Westminster Convent £500 (equal to £5,000 nowadays)

for the transference thither of the holy remains. But they were never

brought from Windsor. Henry dreaded the immense expense, and completed

the chapel as a grand sepulchre for himself and his new dynasty.

There is one feature of the Abbey, as seen from the outside, of which I

have not spoken--the western towers. These were built as far as the roof

by Abbot Islip, who witnessed the erection of Henry VII.'s Chapel. Two

hundred and thirty years afterwards Sir Christopher Wren restored

Islip's work, and designed the upper portions. The edifice is not yet

complete, as the square central tower requires a lofty spire to complete

it.

And so, young people, in the course of centuries, from out "the terrible

place" in the wilderness-island has risen the famous Abbey of

Westminster, the full title of which is the "Collegiate Church, or

Abbey, of St. Peter." We have now got over the dry part of our subject,

so we will enter the Abbey, and as we tread its holy shades together I

shall have more interesting things to tell you about some of the famous

men and women and stormy events that have made it for ever memorable.

MADGE'S DOVE

"Now, Madge," cried Hal, and bent his bow,

"Just watch this famous shot;

See that old willow by the brook--

I'll hit the middle knot."

Swift flew the arrow through the air,

Madge watched it eager-eyed;

But, oh! for Harry's gallant vaunt,

The wayward dart flew wide.

Flew wide, and struck his cousin's dove

As, wheeling round and round,

It hovered near--the wounded bird

Fell fluttering to the ground.

And in a moment o'er her pet

Dear Madge is bending low.

Oh, how she blames the faithless dart,

The cruel, cruel bow!

The dove, soft folded in her hands,

She presses to her breast;

The bird that brought the olive spray

Was never more caressed.

Her tears upon its plumage fall,

They fall like soft warm rain--

Sure if the bird were dead such love

Would give it life again.

Poor Hal stands by, and tries to speak

His sorrow and regret;

Madge scarcely hears a word he says

For pity of her pet.

But time, the gentle healer, cures

The wounds of doves and men--

The days restore to faithful Madge

Her bonnie bird again.

ROBERT RICHARDSON.

[Illustration: THE WOUNDED DOVE (_See p._ 16.)]

OUR SUNDAY AFTERNOONS.

SOLOMON'S DREAM AT GIBEON.

It had been a great day at Gibeon. A thousand animals had been

slaughtered, and laid upon the altar of burnt-offering; and, as the

successive sacrifices were consumed, the flames had ascended, and the

smoke, in curling clouds, had gone up towards heaven in token of

acceptance.

A new king had come to the throne, a grand, and great, and mighty king,

Solomon, the most comely of the sons of David. The fierce fightings of

David, the man of war, were over. The glittering crown of Israel had

been placed upon the head of Solomon the Peaceable; and the people hoped

great things, and celebrated his accession with loud and hearty

rejoicings. The dominion of Israel extended, as had been promised to

Abraham, from the Euphrates to the river of Egypt. David and his mighty

men had fought and conquered. And now the people of Israel were entering

into rest, and into the enjoyment of that which his sword had won for

them.

So Solomon, in his gratitude, offered up his thousand burnt-offerings;

and the people, with heart and soul, joined him in praise to God, and

their joyous psalms of thanksgiving went up with the ascending smoke.

Gibeon, which was a priestly city, lay in the tribe of Benjamin, about

six miles and a half from Jerusalem; and there, in the reign of David,

the Tabernacle, which had been at Shiloh, had somehow come to be

pitched.

So Gibeon had become an important place; and thither Solomon went to

offer up his sacrifice.

The flames that had consumed the last animal had died away, and the

cloud of smoke had ceased to go up. The sun that had lighted up the

world had sunk below the horizon, amid clouds of gold and purple,

seemingly well pleased to have witnessed, on this sin-stained earth, so

grand and noble a scene as that of a young and happy, handsome and rich

king, recognising God's providence, and offering up so worthy a

sacrifice of praise and thanksgiving to Him who had placed him upon the

throne.

The shades of night had fallen upon all, and the joyous king himself had

retired to rest. With a clear conscience and a light heart, he had lain

down, and, after the fatigues of the eventful day, had fallen into a

peaceful sleep.

For all his subjects loved and honoured Solomon, and gloried in having

him for their king.

Well might his heart be light and his sleep be sweet. Well might his

face be radiant with joy, even as he lay unconscious upon his bed. But

soon an expression of still greater joy overspread his countenance. A

still brighter light came into his face, and his heart leaped within

him; for, in a dream of the night, God drew near this chosen and

well-beloved son of David, to heap upon him still greater favours.

Pleased with the love and gratitude and devotion, to which the young

king had given expression by his costly sacrifice, God, who loves a

thankful heart, and pours into it still more of His goodness, visited

the sleeping Solomon in the stillness of the night.

"Ask what I shall give thee," He said; and as the voice fell upon

Solomon's ear--

"The heart of the sleeper beat high in his breast,

Joy quickened his pulse;"

for that was the voice that he then most loved, and most desired to

hear.

And what an exceedingly gracious offer it made! To get whatever he

should desire! Had ever grandest king been so favoured? But what should

he ask for--this youthful king, to whom life was just opening out as a

pleasant paradise, offering him all that seemed worth the coveting? Was

there anything yet wanting to him? How many things he might have

requested!

His father is said to have died, at the age of seventy years, feeble and

broken down. Would he, in so short a time, be tired of living? Would he,

so soon, be ready to leave the glory and honour to which he had been

called? Should he ask for length of days? Should he request that, till

he had reached an age exceeding that of Methuselah, the cold hand of

death might not be laid upon him, and the greedy and all-devouring tomb

might not claim him as its victim? Should he ask that he might plant his

feet upon the neck of all his enemies, not one daring to raise up a

finger against him? Or should he desire that the vast riches, that had

been heaped up by his father during his long and victorious wars, and

that had been left to him, might be still further increased, and that he

might be the richest and grandest king on the face of the earth? Or

should he ask that he might become so famous, that so long as the world

should endure, his name might be a household word, not only amongst his

own people, but in distant lands, from east to west, and from north to

south, wherever the foot of man might tread?

[Illustration: VIEW NEAR GIBEON.]

Oh, no! All these things, which many would have desired, were to him but

empty things of earth, trifles that must pass away, vain bubbles that

must burst and disappear, leaving behind them no true and lasting

benefit. His thoughts did not dwell upon them, but upon higher, and

better, and nobler things.

He, the last born of David's sons, had been chosen before all his

brethren, to sit upon the glorious throne of his father. Those over whom

he had been called to rule were the chosen people of God. They had been

taken out of all the nations of the world to be His own peculiar people,

and to witness, amidst the idolatrous nations around them, to the living

and true God. The heart of God was set upon them. His love was freely

poured out upon them, and He had bound them to Himself, closely as a man

bound around him his valued girdle. They were the descendants of

faithful Abraham, of Isaac, and Jacob. They had become great, and mighty,

and powerful, spreading themselves out like the cedars of Lebanon, and

flourishing like the stately palms. All the surrounding nations looked

upon them as the favoured of Heaven, and feared them.

And he was called to rule them--he, so young and so inexperienced! It

was his mission to rule them with justice, to train them in the paths of

righteousness, and to bring them still nearer to Him who had chosen

them.

And how should he accomplish it? How small and insignificant he felt,

and how utterly worthless! How he seemed to dwindle into nothing beside

the great work that he was called to do! And yet how anxious he was to

do it well! How he longed to be like his father David, a true shepherd

to his people! How his heart yearned over his subjects; and how greatly

he desired to govern them aright, and to be the channel through which

the blessings of the great King of Heaven might be poured down upon

them!

Yes, that was the one thing he desired--worthily to perform the great

work which had been given him to do. And young and inexperienced as he

was, he could not do it of himself, and he must ask for the needful

wisdom.

A shade of regret for a moment darkened the face of the sleeper as he

thought of his own inefficiency. But it soon passed away. There was

wisdom for the asking; and his bright red lips moved in humble prayer.

"O Lord," he murmured in deep reverence, "Thou hast showed great mercy

unto David my father, and hast made me to reign in his stead. And Thy

servant is in the midst of Thy people, which thou hast chosen--a great

people that cannot be counted for multitude. I am but a little child. I

know not how to go out, or to come in. Give me now wisdom and knowledge,

for who can judge this Thy people that is so great?"

How pleasing to God were the deep humility expressed in this prayer, the

discernment of the great work that he was called to do; the earnest

desire to be fitted to do it nobly and well, and the utter forgetfulness

of all earthly glory and fame!

There was no word of reproach, no saying that as the son of David he

ought to be well qualified for governing. Only the gracious answer came,

that, because all this was in the heart of the young king, because he

had made the worthy fulfilment of his mission the grand aim of his life,

wisdom and knowledge were granted to him. And because he had desired

these rather than long life, or riches, or honour, or the lives of his

enemies, there should also be given to him riches, and wealth, and

honour, such as no king had ever enjoyed before him or should ever know

after him. And if he served God faithfully, as his father David had

done, length of days, also, should be added unto him.

The young king awoke, "and, behold it was a dream." But it was not one

of those fanciful dreams, that come and go, and mean nothing. It was a

dream from God, a great reality, as he was soon to prove.

From that time Solomon became noted for his wisdom and knowledge. On

the most difficult points he was able to give a just judgment, that

astonished all who heard it. "And the people feared him; for they saw

that the wisdom of God was in him."

His wisdom excelled that of all the wise men of the east, and the

understanding of even the wise men of Egypt sank into the shade when

compared with his.

He gave his people three thousand proverbs. He wrote a thousand and five

songs; one of them which is called the "Song of Songs," or the "Song of

Solomon," and which has a place in the Bible, having a depth of

beautiful meaning, which only the very wise can understand. He knew all

about the trees, from the kingly cedar that reared its proud head on the

famous heights of Lebanon, to the humble hyssop that sprang out of the

wall. He could tell the nature of each, describe its flowers and its

fruit, and point out of what it was symbolic. The beasts of the earth,

the fowls of the air, the fishes of the sea, and even the creeping

things were all to him as an open book. He could tell for what each was

created, and what lesson each was intended to convey. He could answer

the most difficult questions that any one could put to him; and his fame

rapidly spread through all the countries of the then known world.

He became so rich, too, that silver and gold were as common as the

stones that he saw lying in the streets, as he rode through Jerusalem in

his open chariot, clothed in white, threads of glittering gold mixed

with his jet black hair.

He erected the glorious temple, which for grandeur and magnificence

stood unrivalled; and time would fail to tell of the splendour of his

throne, of his palace, and of the palace which he built for his

favourite wife.

In almost all countries, his name has been familiar; and, to this day,

the wild Arabs will tell wondrous stories about him, as they gather at

night round their blazing fires. His grandeur and wisdom have ever since

been proverbial; and even Jesus, when He wished to compare the lilies of

the field with something very magnificent, spoke of "Solomon in all his

glory."

The great king, however, did not get length of days, because he

afterwards grievously fell. But, without darkening this story with the

account of his subsequent sins, let us try rather to learn some of the

useful lessons that it is intended to teach. Perhaps you have already

found them out.

Like Solomon, we have all in life a great work to do, and we all lack

wisdom. But we have only, as St. James tells us, to "ask of God," who

giveth to _all_ men liberally, without reproaching them for their

foolishness. And if we seek the wisdom that comes from above--the wisdom

of Jesus Christ, we need have no fear; for, as the great Master Himself

tells us, all other things will be added unto us.

H. D.

BIBLE EXERCISES FOR SUNDAY AFTERNOONS.

1. Which is the only miracle of our Lord that is related by all the four

Evangelists?

2. What city, after its destruction, was sown with salt, as a sign of

the barrenness and desolation that its enemies wished to see come upon

it?

3. How many lepers are we told, were cleansed by our Lord?

4. Whence did Solomon procure the pattern according to which he built

the Temple?

5. Where does the psalmist call God the health of the countenance?

6. What is the only occasion on which we read of Jesus sleeping?

7. Where is Mary, the mother of Jesus, last mentioned.

8. Where do we read that, while, in the reign of David, the old

Tabernacle remained at Gibeon, a new tent was pitched at Jerusalem for

the ark of the Lord?

9. In which place, after the pitching of the new Tabernacle, did the

high priest officiate?

10. Where do we find that Solomon, on his accession, recognised the

sanctity of both places?

11. Where is there a prophecy of Jonah concerning Israel, not recorded

in the Bible, alluded to in the history of the kings?

12. From what words of St. Paul do we gather that other Christians;

besides Stephen, were put to death during the persecution at Jerusalem?

ANSWERS TO BIBLE EXERCISES (61-72. See Vol. XIX., p. 346).

61. In Lev. xix. 14, and Deut. xxvii. 18.

62. In St. Matt. xxvi. 30, and St. Mark xiv. 26.

63. In Gen. xviii. 14; Jer. xxxii. 17, 27; Job xlii. 2; St. Matt. xix.

26; St. Mark x. 27, xiv. 36; St. Luke i. 37, xviii. 27.

64. In St. Mark xii. 41-44; St. Luke xxi. 1-4; and 2 Cor. viii. 12.

65. Of the mother of Samson, Judges xiii. 2-24, xiv. 2-9; and Hannah,

the mother of Samuel, 1 Sam. i., ii. 1-10, 18-21.

66. In Judges xiv. 12-19; and Ezek. xvii. 1-10.

67. Proverbs xii. 10.

68. In St. Matt. vi. 25-34; and St. Luke xii. 22-30.

69. In St. Matt, xxiii. 5.

70. St. John xvii. 4.

71. In Lev. xix. 13; and Deut. xxiv. 14, 15.

72. In Deut. xxi. 22, 23.

NESSIE'S ADVENTURE.

[Illustration: "THEY BROUGHT HER HOME IN TRIUMPH, A MERRY SIGHT TO

SEE."]

Nessie was lost--her brothers

Had sought her high and low:

Where in the world was Baby?

Nobody seemed to know.

"Mother," at last said Harry,

"Now don't you be afraid;

We'll make up a grand search party,

And find our little maid."

Harry led forth his followers,

Down by the willowed pond,

Past the old grey turnstile,

And into the woods beyond.

They searched by stream and meadow,

They searched 'neath hedge and tree;

"Where," said the puzzled children,

"Where can the truant be?"

At last, at last they found her,

In a meadow far away,

Under a sheltering haystack,

Asleep 'mid the fragrant hay.

They brought her home in triumph,

A merry sight to see,

With flags and banners flying,

And songs of victory.

TOO YOUNG FOR SCHOOL.

_By the Author of "Harry Maxwell; or, Schoolboy Honour."_

"Here, I say, old fellow! what's the matter? you look as sulky as a

brown bear. And where's your cap gone? I say now, _do_ wake up! You'll

catch it if old Jacky catches you."

"Let me be. You would look sulky if you had a little chap of a brother

sent to school, miles too young to come at all, and had got to look

after him and keep him out of scrapes, and show him how to get on with

his lessons, and keep the fellows from bullying him."

"Why in the world did he come, Graham?"

"Oh, don't bother, Johnny, old man," and as he spoke, Hubert Graham drew

his arm away from the parapet over which he was leaning with book in

hand, and turning round a frank, honest-looking face towards the boy who

was questioning him, passed his hand over his eyes, and added, "What can

have come to Uncle Charlie to make him send Chris off like this, I can't

think. Middle of term too!"

"Well, how is it?--explain to me--but--I say, old fellow, where's your

cap? you'll be in no end of a row if you lose it, you know."

Up went Hubert Graham's hand to his head, as he answered in a bewildered

way, "Cap! Haven't I got--" and then hastily turning, and looking over

the parapet, he exclaimed, "Oh! I say, Seton, just look there!" and he

burst out into a hearty laugh as he added "One of those barge boys has

just fished it up out of the water, and he's holding it up in triumph to

me. I must have been dreaming. It's out of bounds," he went on, with a

face of dismay.

[Illustration: "LEANING WITH BOOK IN HAND" (_p. 21_).]

"I wonder if the fellow will bring it up to me."

"Not he," said Seton.

Dr. Thornley's boys were not allowed to go, without special leave, any

nearer the town on the outskirts of which the school was situated than

the bridge over which Hubert had been leaning. The approach of a master

solved the difficulty. Hubert Graham went up to him. "If you please,

sir, I was leaning over the parapet, and my cap fell into the river. A

bargee has picked it up. May I run and get it?"

The master looked over, and laughed. "Perhaps he won't give it up. You

may go and try."

When Hubert Graham returned to the bridge in triumph so far as the

possession of a very wet cap was concerned, but rather low in his mind

at having had to pay the exacting bargee a shilling out of his somewhat

scanty store of pocket-money, he found John Seton lingering about for

him.

"I say," he said, "I want to know about your uncle, and the little one.

He's a jolly little man though; I expect he'll make his way."

"But there's a terrible set in the lower school for him to make his way

with, and he a mere baby."

"Well! he's seven--and that seems like a baby to us, to be sure," said

magnificent fourteen years, speaking in the person of John Seton; "and

you're right. They _are_ a set; I wish I was the prefect in his

dormitory, but I'm not. Tell me how he came here in such a hurry?"

"Well, you needn't talk about it to the other fellows. Father and mother

are in India. Father's regiment was ordered abroad four years ago, and

mother went with him. There were three of us, and we were sent to Uncle

Charlie to take care of. I was eight years old then, Nellie was five,

and Chris three years old. Uncle was jolly and kind, and sent me here

when I was ten. Just before the summer holidays were over Uncle Charlie

married, and I'm sure our new aunt does not care for us to be there. But

I never thought they'd send Chris to school. I wonder what they'll do

with Nellie?"

"Can't you write to your father?"

"I will directly, but it's so long before I can hear."

* * * * *

A poor little fellow taken from the nursery. A brave, bright little man

enough, but oh! so young, so pitifully young to be sent to a school

where there were fifty or sixty boys in what was called the lower school

only! Poor little Christopher! If his mother could have seen him! He

came--bright--happy--full of life, determined to like it; but before two

days were over his little soul was full of misery. The boys of ten and

eleven years became his dread and torment. On the second day he saw

nothing of Hubert till the evening, and then he said, "Hubert, why

couldn't I go to our grandfather?"

"Nobody even thought of such a thing, Chris. I don't expect our

grandfather would like us."

"How do you know?" said the child.

"Oh! don't bother," returned his brother. "Only by what I've heard nurse

say. She was talking one day to Jane, and she said, 'The children would

have gone to General Graham's, only, you know, he was angry with master

for marrying, and so master never asked him to have them.' I asked nurse

what she meant, and she was vexed that I'd heard it, and said it was

nothing I could understand."

"But I am so miserable here."

"Try to like it. Seton says you can go into his study to-night, and do

your exercises. The fellows in the school don't leave you alone, do

they, Chris?"

"No," said poor little Chris; "they don't." And sitting in Seton's

little study that night the child found comfort for the first time.

And for a few days things seemed better. But it was not to last. Those

boys in the lower school, who had tormented him before, were worse than

ever, now that they thought he was being made a favourite of by one of

the senior boys, and the poor little fellow had no peace. He complained

bitterly to his brother, but it was no good. Hubert said it would only

make the boys ten times worse if he interfered. "And never mind, old

fellow," he said; "it's half-holiday to-morrow, and you'll get some

jolly games."

"Jolly games," thought poor little Christopher; "I know better. They

won't be very jolly to _me_."

And then Christopher made up his mind, and in his brave little heart

determined to tell no one, but to run away, if he only could, to his

grandfather. He knew the way to the station from the school, and he knew

that trains went direct to a station called Kingsdown, where Uncle

Charlie always went when he visited grandfather. "After all, he can't be

worse than the boys," he said to himself. "And Hubert can't help me."

But Hubert did care. His smothered indignation and anxiety knew no

bounds, and the very night that Chris made up his mind to run away, long

after the other boys in his dormitory were asleep, Hubert lay awake

thinking how he could help his little brother. He fancied he heard a

noise in one of the dormitories. It seemed, he thought, to come from the

direction of the one in which Christopher was. He raised himself on his

elbow to listen, and muttered to himself, "They shall only wait till

to-morrow, and then those two fellows, Howard and Peters, shall have a

piece of my mind. They're the ringleaders. It shall be the worse for

them if they've been frightening him to-night."

[Illustration: SITTING IN SETON'S LITTLE STUDY]

And he lay there listening till all seemed quiet, and then saying to

himself, "The poor little chap is at peace now, I expect," he turned

round, and dropped off to sleep.

But he had not been listening quite long enough.

Little Christopher waited till all the boys in his room were sound

asleep, pinching himself to keep himself awake; then out of bed he

crept, felt for his clothes, which were close at hand, huddled them on,

put his feet into his felt slippers, as he dared not put on any boots,

and got out in the passage. His bed was near the door, which was

fortunate, for he thought, if he had had to pass many of the boys' beds,

his courage would have failed him. Down the stairs he stole--oh! how

they creaked--and unfastening the shutters of one of the school-room

windows, got out of it into the garden. But ah! he hadn't calculated on

the big dog, whose kennel was hard by, and who was out in a moment.

"Dear, darling Ponto," cried the poor little fellow; "don't bark, my

dear." And up he went, and stroked and patted the great mastiff, who,

already knowing the little fellow, put his paws on his shoulders, and

licked his face with great appreciation. For Christopher was tenderly

kind to animals, and he was rewarded for this now in his day of deep

distress. Ponto did not bark.

Christopher whispered to him. "Ponto, I'm very unhappy. I'm running

away. I wish I could take you with me. I only love you here; excepting

Hubert, and he can't help me;" and away he stole.

As he got into the high road the early dawn of morning gave him a little

light.

All was consternation in the school later, in the morning. A boy

missing! Dr. Thornley summoned the whole school before him. Could any

boy give him any information?

[Illustration: "HUBERT LAY AWAKE" (_p. 23_).]

Hubert came forward. "He said he should run away yesterday, sir; but I

had no notion the poor boy would or could, or I'd never have left him

last night."

"Why?--for what reason?" said Dr. Thornley, his face growing sterner and

graver.

John Seton came forward. "I'm afraid, sir, there's very bad bullying in

the lower school."

"So bad as this, that a boy should run away!" said the doctor; "and you

a prefect!"

The colour mounted high in John Seton's fine young face.

"I've not had anything to do with the discipline the three weeks since

Graham minor has been here, sir; but some of us meant to speak. It could

not go on."

"May I go after him, sir?" said Hubert, his voice quivering with

anxiety.

"I have sent to search for him in all directions," said the doctor. "A

poor little child like that might meet with many mishaps. I am

surprised," and his voice shook, "that none of you bigger boys let me

know of any of this base, low, ungentlemanly conduct."

The expression on the countenances of some of the boys of the lower

school, as these words fell from the doctor's lips, may be imagined.

Dr. Thornley was the kindest-hearted of men, but there were certain

offences that moved him greatly; and when moved to wrath, the boys knew

he could be terrible.

"I must find this all out; and if the boys who have been bullying little

Graham have not the bravery to come forward, and confess it of their own

free will, I must take measures to discover who they were. But I warn

them," added the doctor, "that if I find them out before they have come

forward and freely confessed their base conduct, their time at this

school will be short. To-day is a half-holiday. All the lower school

will keep within bounds to-day."

At that instant "Old Jacky," as the boys called him, the school porter,

brought the doctor a telegram. His face wore a look of great relief as

he read it. And he turned to poor Hubert.

"Your brother is safe." Then to the school he said, "I have just had

this telegram, which I will read, 'General Sir Henry Graham, Sefton

Court, to Dr. Thornley, Middleborough. Christopher Graham safe with me.

Shall make full inquiries.'"

[Illustration: "FAST ASLEEP, WITH HIS HEAD ON THE DOG" (_p. 25_).]

At Sefton Court the same morning all was lazy and quiet. The blinds

drawn down the entrance door side of the house to keep out the sun, but

doors and windows thrown wide open. An old gentleman sitting in his

library, reading his paper. Something made the old gentleman restless.

He fidgeted. Something was wrong with his glasses. Then to himself he

said, "I wish Henry was here. Shall write by next mail. Why shouldn't

his wife come home, and bring the children here? I don't half like it

now that Charlie's married. Perhaps she won't like the children. Got a

craze on education too. They overdo it. Dear me! I wonder where that

fellow Thomas is?"

And up got the old gentleman, and walked to the door. He had no sooner

opened it than he gave a great start. "Hullo! What on earth is this?"

What was it he saw?

His own old dog, Bevis, whose favourite sleeping-place was the mat at

his door, lying there as usual, but not asleep. Wide awake, as if on

guard. And marvel of marvels! a dear little fair-haired boy fast, fast

asleep, with his head on the dog, who was lying so as to make himself

into as comfortable a pillow as possible.

The old gentleman stared hard for a minute, then began to shout for

Thomas, which woke the child, and he began to sob.

[Illustration: "THEY WERE ALL THREE ASSEMBLED" (_p. 26_).]

"There, there!" said the old general. "Who are you? You oughtn't to have

come in without leave." By this time poor little Christopher, for it

was he, had collected his scattered faculties, and catching hold of one

of General Graham's hands, cried, "You're grandfather. Do take care of

me. I'm so unhappy at school; I think I'm too little. So I said I'd come

off to you. You wouldn't be as bad as the boys!"

"Who? who?" stammered the poor old general.

"I'm little Christopher Graham. Uncle Charlie sent me to school, and I'm

too little, I expect. I ran away. I know it was naughty, but forgive me,

and don't send me back. I had five shillings in my box, and I ran away

in the night, and came here by the train in the morning; and I asked

where you lived, and I walked here from the station, and I saw the door

wide open, and I thought as it was grandfather's house I might come in;

and I was afraid of the dog, but he didn't hurt me, and I knelt down to

pat him, and I suppose I was very tired, for I can't remember any more."

But he needed to say no more, for he was in his grandfather's arms. And

Thomas was close by, and brought some warm tea very quickly; and a

kind-looking old lady came, who said to Christopher she was his great

Aunt Susan, and that he must be undressed and have a warm bath, and go

to bed to get a sound sleep before they let him tell them anything else.

The very next evening Aunt Susan called Christopher into the library.

There was his very own Nellie sitting on grandfather's knee, and Hubert

standing by!

Dr. Thornley had given Hubert one day's holiday to go and see

Christopher. Later in the evening they were all three assembled in a

pleasant cosy room, looking over funny old picture-books, which kind

Aunt Susan turned out of her treasures.

"'All's well that ends well,'" said Hubert; "but you mustn't run away

from school when you're bigger, old boy. You're only forgiven because

you're a baby, you know."

And his grandfather said to him later on--

"My boy, in the battle-field no soldier worthy to bear the name of

'Englishman' ever turned his back on the enemy. What you had to bear was

hard; but you turned your back on your enemy when you ran away. And you

bear an ancient name, and you come of a noble race. We must do our Duty,

come what will."

And Christopher never forgot these words.

THE HOME OF THE BEADS.

Who would believe it?

You may well open your eyes, and shake your little heads incredulously,

but nevertheless it is a positive fact, that Venice, the fair Queen of

the Adriatic, sends forth every year no less than three thousand tons of

glass beads, for the adornment of your sisters big and little in all the

four quarters of the globe.

[Illustration: GONDOLA.]

The largest buyers of these pretty dainty toys are the Roman peasant

women. America follows closely in their footsteps, Great Britain's turn

comes next, then Germany puts in a modest claim, while the worst

customers of all are the Scandinavians, to whose deep, earnest,

thoughtful nature the glittering baubles appear mere useless trifles.

Among the Russian, Turkish, and Hungarian women, only the richest

classes indulge in these ornaments; they are scarcely ever seen among

the people, which may perhaps be explained by the fact that they would

not at all suit the various national costumes.

All those customers, however, who belong in reality to the civilised

nations (for, as a rule, the higher the cultivation, the less are these

shining ornaments appreciated), only demand the cheaper kinds of glass

beads. The best and dearest, the so-called _perle di luce_, find their

way to India and Africa, to the half-civilised and wholly savage races.

And here, the long strings of gay glistening beads do not merely serve

as finishing-touches to the costume, but form the principal ornament,

and cover the neck, arms, hair, and slender ankles of many a Hindoo or

Malay maiden, while among the Ethiopians they often represent the sole

article of dress. By these people, the glass pearls are indeed looked

upon as treasures, and the pretty string of Roman or Venetian beads

which you, my little maiden, lay aside so carelessly, is among them the

cause of as much heart-burning and anxious hopes and fears as the most

costly diamond necklace would be among English people.

Japan, too, is not a bad market for their sale; whereas China again will

have none of them, and turns her back rudely on fair Venice and its

industry.

But come! Here lies a gondola ready to our hand--the boatman seems

intuitively to have read our wishes, and as we glide over the blue

rippling waters in which the stately palaces are mirrored clear and

lifelike, we seem to see a second Venice reflected beneath us. Gradually

we approach the island of Murano, on which is situated the largest of

the seven great bead manufactories of Venice, and here Herr Weberbeck, a

German, employs no less than 500 men and women. Altogether about 6,000

people earn their livelihood (and a poor one it is), by this wonderfully

pretty industry, while the value of the exports amounts yearly to the

sum of £300,000.

The manufacture itself surprises us by the great simplicity which

characterises it. The first stage is getting the liquid mass of glass

about to be operated upon into a thorough state of toughness and

pliability: one should be able to pull it like rosin or sealing-wax. The

colouring of the mass is done while it is still in the furnace, by

adding various chemicals, the principal of which are arsenic, saltpetre,

antimony, and lead.

The next process is drawing out the long glass pipes. This is most

interesting. Let us, therefore, watch the man yonder, one of the

glass-blowers, as, by means of an iron rod, he carefully lifts a ball of

liquid glass, about the size of a small melon, from the open furnace,

and with another simple instrument makes an indentation in the outer

circle, nearly the size of that one sees at the bottom of a wine-bottle.

His colleague, meanwhile, has done exactly the same to another ball of

glass, and as they both press their balls together, the two outer

circles merge into one, and the air inside the hollow spaces is

completely shut off. Now the workmen draw back the iron rods, which are

still attached to the hot mass, and a glass thread is seen connecting

them to the centre ball. Then, keeping the strictest military time, the

glass-blowers march off in opposite directions, to about the distance of

a hundred yards, and the glowing glass thread spins itself off from both

balls, until it is exhausted, or until the cold air hardens it. The

imprisoned air has likewise, however, been spun out, and thus a hollow

pipe, instead of a solid rod, has been formed, and so prepared the hole

for the future beads.

The glass threads vary in thickness, from that of a pencil to that of a

very thin knitting-needle. Those intended for beads of mixed colours are

drawn out just in the same way, the only difference being that in that

case the glass ball, as soon as it is taken from the furnace, is dipped

in various coloured masses of liquid glass, which then form layers, one

over the other, like the layers of an onion.

Sometimes, very tiny lumps of coloured glass are stuck on the glass

balls, which then form parti-coloured stripes on the glass threads. The

separating and sorting of the threads or pipes, which are now broken up

into lengths of about three feet, is a widely-spread home-industry in

Venice, and if we go down to the lower parts of the Lagoon city, where

the people dwell, we shall see numbers of women and children seated

before large baskets, out of which glass pipes protrude like the quills

of a gigantic porcupine. With fingers spread wide apart, they carefully

weigh and feel the contents of the baskets, till they have sorted all

the pipes, according to their sizes. The different bundles are then

carried back to the factory, where they are placed in a machine, not

unlike a chaff-cutter, and cut up into small pieces. It is amusing to

watch the coloured shower as it falls. Do not be afraid, but just place

your hand beneath, to catch the glittering stream, and it will almost

seem as if you had taken hold of a shower of hailstones.

Any pointed or jagged bits having been cut off, the beads are now rolled

in fine sand, which has been carefully heated in earthen jars, until

just warm enough to soften the outside of the glass, so that a gentle

friction would rub off the sharp edges. The sand gets into the holes in

the beads, prevents them from closing up during this process, and ere

we can believe it possible, they come forth round, perfect, and

complete. The larger and smaller ones are now separated and sorted by

simply shaking them in different-sized sieves, and any beads that

require an extra amount of polish are thrown into small bags filled with

marl, and vigorously tossed and shaken.

Much more complicated is the manufacture of the _perle di luce_, or

beads of light, which so delight the natives of India and Africa. The

name is taken from the way in which they are prepared, namely, by means

of a jet of intense flame, and great skill and dexterity is required on

the part of the workman, who can display his talent and originality by

ornamenting them with flowers and arabesques. The combined effects of

light and colour are often very beautiful, and seem a fit adornment for

all those eastern and southern nations over whom a halo of fable and

romance is cast.

In the interior of Africa, these _perle di luce_ are frequently used as

payment instead of coin, and the cunning Arab, in whose hands almost the

whole of the trade lies, generally turns to his own profit the delight

that the innocent negresses exhibit at his gay wares.

But contrary to what one might expect, the black, woolly-headed children

of Nature show a strange distaste for _glossy_ beads; so much so indeed,

that the Venetians find it necessary to deaden the natural brilliancy

which all glass obtains when it becomes cold, by grinding it, and thus

softening the otherwise shining surface.

Notwithstanding all this, however, the bead industry of Venice is but a

poorly-paid one; only the most skilful among the hands can manage to

make a decent livelihood. Not very many of the women can earn more than

about 4½d. a day, so that for them all the fast-days decreed by their

Church are quite superfluous; _their_ fasts last from Ash Wednesday to

Ash Wednesday. Even polenta, that very frugal Italian national dish, is

for them only a Sunday's treat; the rest of the week nature provides

them with turnips and other roots, great piles of which, cooked on an

open hearth, greet us in all the streets of Venice, where they are

eagerly devoured by the hungry crowd. And yet these poor people work

hard to give pleasure and delight to both great and little folk.

Truly they exemplify the old proverb, "Some must sow, that others may

reap."

M. H.

[ANSWER TO "OUR IMAGINARY DISSOLVING VIEWS"--VI. (_See Vol. XIX., p.

351._) 1. Henrietta, Maria. 2. Vandyke's picture of Charles I. and his

queen: the children were afterwards Charles II. and James II. 3. The

Fronde. 4. Trial of Charles I. in Westminster Hall.]

A PRACTICAL JOKE.

'Twas noon-tide on a summer day,

And in a hammock Bruin lay,

Studying the price of pork and veal,

And wondering how to get a meal,

And what his little ones would do

If all the papers said was true.

The sun was very warm that day,

And having trudged a weary way

In search of food, 'twas no surprise

That Mr. Bruin shut his eyes

Now and again, and did not see

Two monkeys o'er him in the tree.

"Hurrah!" they whispered, "here's a chance

Of making Mr. Bruin dance!

Oft has he put us in a fix:

We'll pay him out now for his tricks,

And let him know that, though we're small,

We're not so harmless after all!"

[Illustration: "'TWAS NOON-TIDE ON A SUMMER DAY, AND IN A HAMMOCK BRUIN

LAY."]

[Illustration: "UPON THE GROUND, WITH ACHING BONES, POOR BRUIN MINGLED

SIGHS AND GROANS."]

Then, knife in hand, one monkey passed

From branch to branch, until at last

He reached the bough wherefrom was hung

Old Bruin's hammock, firmly slung;

And made one sudden vigorous slash

Through all the ropes: then--crash, crash, crash!

Upon the ground, with aching bones,

Poor Bruin mingled sighs and groans,

Compelled to linger there and hear

The monkeys' frequent taunt and jeer,

While "What's the price, of bear's grease, please?"

Went echoing through the forest trees.

G. W.

LITTLE TOILERS OF THE NIGHT.

I.--THE PRINTER'S READING-BOY.

It is a gusty Friday night just after Easter. A night full of wind which

comes in sudden blasts and drives the sharp shining rain along the

streets so that it seems to pierce through coats and umbrellas, and

makes such a quick pattering sound upon the pavement that people who are

indoors, and just going to bed, pull aside their window-curtains, look

out at the flickering lights, and feel glad to be at home.

Looking up from between the tall flat walls of the houses in a narrow

court in Fleet Street, London, any one who has eyes can see the gleam of

the moon, and the two or three stars that hang in the long strip of blue

overhead. They can hear the rumble of the late cab, and the tramp of the

policeman outside so plainly that these sounds are quite startling. For

all day long Fleet Street is a busy place, with thousands of people

going up and down, and hundreds of carts, cabs, waggons, cars, and

carriages, hustling in the roadway, and people who have only seen and

heard it in the day-time are surprised to find how silent and deserted

it is at midnight.

But in the narrow court, and in many other courts and passages close by,

there are other sounds and other lights than the noise of the

policeman's boots and the gleaming of the stars. Any one who is standing

there may hear a curious buzzing, and now and then a dull thump, and

looking about may see more than one big building with its windows all

aglow, and the shadows of people moving across them. Now and then a door

will open, and a lad, perhaps without a cap, and with his jacket tied

round his neck by the sleeves, will rush out as though the place were on

fire and he had been sent to fetch an engine.

If you are standing near the door you will have to get out of the way of

that lad, or he will be likely to run you down, or jam you against the

wall, for he is in a hurry. He is not going to fetch an engine, for if

you watch him he scampers down the next court, or perhaps across Fleet

Street, and in less time than you can get your breath properly, is back

with a tray piled with steaming mugs, and plates of thick

bread-and-butter; and while you are wondering how he can have got them

so quickly, and whether he will ever carry them up that steep flight of

stairs behind the door of the big building, he gives a shout that seems

to make twenty echoes, and then you lose sight of him.

In those big buildings with the dark doors and the lighted windows the

news of the week is being printed, that people may read it in the

papers. There the printers are at work, and will be at work all night;

the lad who has just gone in is a printer's lad, and because of some

part of the work he has to do he is called a "reading-boy."

Nearly every day this week numbers of letters and telegrams and written

accounts of various things that have taken place in different parts of

the world have been coming in to this building. When they come in the

editor looks at them and sends them up to the chief compositor. The

"compositors," up in the top rooms where the lights are shining, stand

before large wooden trays or "cases," each of which is divided into a

number of small squares, like boxes without lids. These boxes hold what

are called the types. The types are little slips of metal, and on the

end of each slip is stamped a letter. One of the boxes in the tray holds

the a's, another the b's, another the c's, and the capital letters and

the stops also have their proper places. When the compositor has the

writing before him on his case, he takes a small metal box open at one

end, and of the proper width, in his left hand, and with his right hand

picks up one by one the metal letters that spell the words which are on

the page. These he places in the box with the letter end upwards,

putting a slip of metal without any letter upon it to make a space

between each word. When he has filled his box he lifts all the letters

carefully out without jumbling any of them up together, stands them in a

tray, and keeps them from falling down by placing a flat rule of brass

against the side of them. When he has set up so many of these metal

letters that they are enough, when properly arranged in columns, to make

a whole page of printing, they are all brought close together and then

tightly fastened in a kind of frame, so that they are quite firm. They

are next sent downstairs and placed on the _press_, or printing-machine.

Large smooth rollers spread a thin coating of ink upon this metal page,

and then the sheet of white paper is brought very firmly against it by a

strong machine, which presses so evenly that the ink is stamped from the

metal page of the types on to the paper. When that paper is removed it

is a printed page, with the same words upon it that the compositor read

upon the letter or written page sent in a little while ago. All night

long these types with the letters upon them are being set up, all night

long patient men pick up the metal letters and form them into pages;

all night long the steam engine is going, and the letters from the inky

metal pages are being stamped upon the clean white paper, which, when it

is printed all over, will contain the week's history of the world, and

will be read by thousands of people.

There are many lads in this printing-office, and all night they are

running up and down with letters and sheets of writing and printing, or

are cleaning the inky surface of the metal pages, or helping to fix up

the frames. But why are some of them called "reading-boys?"

Of course when the metal letters are set up mistakes will occur now and

then; so in the first impression printed from the type, before it is

made up into the pages for printing already referred to and fastened

into the metal frame, these mistakes must be put right. To do this one

person takes the writing from which the type was set up, and another the

impression from the type, and the man or boy who has the writing reads

it aloud distinctly, while the other, who has the impression from the

type, reads that to himself at the same time, and compares what he sees

there with what he hears being read. If he comes to a word where there

is a mistake he makes a mark against it, and sets it right. When the

mistakes are all marked, the compositor sets them right by putting in

the proper letters and words, instead of the wrong ones, and then

another impression is printed to see whether all is right this time.

These impressions that are read for mistakes are called "proofs,"

because they prove whether the work has been properly done. Sometimes,

if the reading-boy is very clever, he can read the first writing, but

the writing is very often so bad that even the men who set up the metal

types can hardly read it. It is not pleasant work to sit all night in a

close little hot room, with the gas flaring, and to hear the din, and

feel the rolling of the great machinery, while you have to read all

sorts of things that you don't care much for, and haven't time to think

about; but that is what the "reading-boy" has often to do, though he

sometimes has a good deal of running up and down stairs, and now and

then rushes out to fetch tea, bread-and-butter, bacon, and other things

for the men, or for himself and his companions. It is to get a second

supply of these dainties that the boy whom we saw just now comes out

again head-first, and with no jacket at all on this time. He carries the

tray full of empty mugs, and before he can quite stop himself he comes

suddenly against a burly, weather-beaten looking man, who is walking up

the court, and seems to be lurching from side to side of the pavement.

Before the lad can stop short, the edge of the tray comes against this

man's elbow, and crash goes one of the mugs on the stones of the court.

"Now, then, stoopid!" shouts the boy. "Why can't you keep on your right

side?"

"Is that the way you speaks to your uncle, Bennie?" says the big man,

laughing. He is a short broad man, dressed in rough blue cloth, and with

a shiny sou'-wester on his head. He looks like a pilot, but he is really

a fisherman and a sailor, and he has come up all the way from Yarmouth

on purpose to see Benny's mother, who is his own sister.

"Well, uncle, who _could_ ha' thought of seeing you here; haven't you

been to mother's?"

"No, my boy, I got to London by the late train, and so I thought I'd try

and find you out, and we'll go home together. What a place this London

is, to be sure, and what a stifly sort of alley this here is to be

workin' in all night; it don't seem quite right for a lad of your age,

Benny."

"Come, don't you go running down our court," says the boy. "I'm all

right, uncle, specially since you was so kind as to pay for me to go to

the classes. Why, bless you, I'm learning French and Latin now, and I'm

put on to reading regular. I shouldn't wonder if I was to come to be a

printer's reader, instead of a reading-boy, and earn ever so much a week

by-and-by."

"What do you get now, Benny?"

"Eight shillings a week, uncle, and then you know I can help mother in

the shop a bit; but I say, you don't mind waitin' a minute, while I go

to the house over the way. There's only one or two places that keep open

after twelve, because of our wanting tea, and ham, and rolls, and

coffee, and all sorts o' things, to keep us going. It makes you precious

faint to keep up night work without anything to eat, I can tell you,

uncle."

"Well, I'll come with you, Benny, and wait for you at the shop, where I

can fill my pipe. But where's your jacket, and where's your cap?"

"Oh, we don't have time to think about that. Something's wanted, and the

bell rings, and somebody shouts down the speaking-tube, and off you go.

It is precious cold sometimes, though, for the men at our place keep the

room so hot. They can't bear a breath of air here, and for fear of a

draught, and then getting their fingers cold so that they can't feel the

type, they paste paper over every crack, and have all the windows

fastened down, and make you pay a fine for leaving the door open. Why,

uncle, you don't a bit know what it is. Talk about the hardships at sea,

and being out night after night off what I've heard you call the Dogger

Bank to catch codfish, they're nothing to being a boy in a printin'

office where the machine's always going, and you've I don't know how

many masters to order you about; but never you mind, I'm going to stick

to it, and if they don't give me a rise to ten shillings next week, I'll

leave and go into another place where they'll be proud of my talent, and

admire me for my strength. Though I think I would rather be aboard the

_Saucy Nancy_ with you, after all. I should 'like 'a life on the ocean

wave, uncle, and I do get so tired of the night work sometimes."

"Bless your heart, my boy; there's lads no bigger than you at the

fishing stations that have as much night work as you do. Hard work in

the cold and the wind and the wet, and often hungry work, and a good

deal of danger too. There, get along, and fetch your coat, Benny. I'll

wait here, and then we'll go home together to see mother, and as she

tells me you're to have a holiday, Saturday to Monday night, you shall

come home along o' me, and then we will just see what it's like to be a

Fisher Boy."

THOMAS ARCHER.

THEIR ROAD TO FORTUNE.

THE STORY OF TWO BROTHERS.

_By the Author of "The Heir of Elmdale," &c, &c._

CHAPTER I.--A VISITOR TO RIVERSDALE.

"How I wish it was a boy. I don't like girls!" Bertie Rivers cried,

tossing aside his book. "Do come out, Eddie, and let us watch for the

carriage."

Eddie laid aside his book a little reluctantly, and followed his brother

through the open French window of the study. They were two bright,

handsome lads, of twelve and thirteen: Edward the elder, but scarcely as

tall as Bertie, and far slighter, with a grave reserved air, and rather

thoughtful face; Bertie sturdy, gay, careless, and frank, with restless,

observant blue eyes, and a somewhat unceremonious way of dealing with

people and things. Eddie called him rough and boisterous, and gave way

to him in everything, not at all because Bertie's will was the stronger,

but that Eddie, unless very much interested, was too indolent to assert

himself, and found it much easier to do just as he was asked on all

occasions than argue or explain.

There was a visitor expected at Riversdale that day, and they were very

curious concerning her, though in different ways: Bertie openly,

restlessly, questioningly; Eddie with a quiet, rather gloomy,

expectation.

"I wonder if she will like us?" Bertie said, as he climbed to the top of

a gate, and looked anxiously down the white dusty road.

"I wonder if we shall like _her_?" Eddie replied: "that's of more

importance, I think."

"I do wish she was a boy," Bertie repeated for about the hundredth time

in the course of three days. "One never knows what to do with a girl

cousin. Of course she won't care about cricket, though Lillie Mayson

likes it, and she will be afraid of the dogs, and scream at old Jerry. I

wonder we never even heard of her before, or of Uncle Frank either. I

wonder----"

"What's the use of wondering, Bert?" Eddie interrupted, a little

impatiently. "Papa told us all he wished us to know, I dare say. Come

along for a walk. What's the good of idling here all the morning? It

won't bring the carriage a minute sooner to stand watching for it."

"No, of course not; but I want to rush down the road to meet it, and we

can't go for a walk till it comes. It would be a poor sort of welcome

for Cousin Agnes;" and Bertie took another long look down the road,

where nothing was visible save a cloud of fine white dust.

Three mornings before Mr. Rivers had summoned both boys to his study,

and very gravely informed them that their Uncle Frank was dead, and his

only child, Agnes Rivers, was coming to reside at Riversdale.

"She has no home, no friends, no money, no mother. Try and be kind to

her, boys. Don't ignore her, Edward; don't tease her, Bertie; and ask

her no questions about her parents or her past history, remember that!"

The boys promised; they always obeyed their father implicitly: indeed,

absolute unquestioning obedience was one thing Mr. Rivers exacted from

every person he came in contact with.

But Bertie was far from satisfied with the very meagre information he

had received, and directly he got a favourable opportunity, he besieged

Mrs. Mittens, the old housekeeper, with questions concerning the new

relation who was coming to make her home with them, and of the Uncle

Frank whose name he had never heard before. Eddie did not share his

curiosity, or perhaps concluded that his father's command to ask no

questions was a general one; Bertie insisted it only referred to Agnes

herself, and repeated his father's exact words to the housekeeper.

"I think, Master Bertie, your papa meant you to ask no questions of

anybody; and I have very little to tell," she said, gravely. "But this

much I think you may know. Your Uncle Frank was your papa's only

brother: he displeased your grandpapa, and left home in consequence."

"But what did he do?" Bertie cried eagerly.

"Everything he should not have done; but his worst fault was

disobedience, and a world of trouble it got him into. Remember that,

Master Bertie: your grandpapa would be obeyed, and your papa is his own

son in that respect. So take care, my dear, take care!" and the old lady

shook her forefinger warningly. "But everything's forgot and forgave

now," she added, more cheerfully; "and right glad I am Miss Agnes is

coming here!"

[Illustration: "MR. RIVERS HAD SUMMONED BOTH BOYS TO HIS STUDY" (_p.

32_).]

Bertie turned away grumbling; he was not a whit wiser than he had been

before, and he felt somehow that he had been reproved, and, more than

that, warned. But he was not very seriously impressed, and he determined

some day to find out the whole history of his Uncle Frank: know exactly

what he did, and why he did it; and as he turned the matter over in his

mind, as he sat perched on the gate, he came to the conclusion that his

was a very strange family, and that there were a great many skeletons

concealed in Riversdale.

"Perhaps Aunt Amy will be sending us a boy or girl cousin some day or

other," he said to Eddie suddenly. "I shouldn't be a bit surprised."

Eddie started from a reverie, and looked questioningly at his brother.

"Aunt Amy? what put her into your head, Bert?"

"I don't know, I'm sure, unless it's Uncle Frank. Don't you think it's

very funny to have a lot of relations you never see, hear from, or speak

about--very exciting, too, to have cousins drop in on you when you least

expect it. I hope, Ned, when you're master of Riversdale, you won't

banish me, and forget my very existence till I'm dead. What did Aunt Amy

do, I wonder?"

"She married some one papa did not approve of--an artist, I think:

that's all," Eddie said gravely. "I think Aunt Amy is very happy, and

I'm sure she is very beautiful. She does not come to Riversdale, because

papa is always ill, I suppose; and perhaps she likes London better, and

she has not got any boys or girls."

"Oh!" Bertie said, opening his eyes wide; "you seem to know all about

them. Who told you?"

"Papa. I asked him one day."

"Oh! and Uncle Gregory: what did he do? He never comes here either;" and

Bertie looked up the road again, as if he did not care very much to hear

the probable reason of that relative's absence.

"Uncle Gregory is a merchant, and has to attend to his business, I

suppose," Eddie replied, rather loftily. "He came here often enough--too

often, I believe--when our mother was alive, and then papa and he

disagreed, and he has not come since."

"Hum!" Bertie said, slipping down and stretching himself. "How did you

find out, Eddie?"

"Why, I didn't find out. Papa talks to me sometimes about our relatives;

you talk as if it were a crime for people not to come here when they

have their own houses and things to attend to. You might just as well

ask why we always stay at home."

"Oh! but that's different: Riversdale is such a jolly place. Why, I

wouldn't live anywhere else for anything, would you, Eddie?"

"I don't know; I think it would be wise to see other places before

deciding. I should like to see a great city--London for instance."

"I wonder if Agnes is coming from London?" Bertie cried; "if so, she can

tell us all about it."

"But I'd like to see for myself, to travel everywhere, visit all the

famous places in the world--Italy, Greece, Egypt--see pictures, statues,

beautiful churches."

"I think I'd prefer to stay at home: those places are such a long way

off. I dare say I should be tired before I got there; and I don't care

for pictures much, except of dogs and horses. I'd just like to stay here

always, hunt and shoot and fish when I grow up, and play cricket and

football, and just enjoy myself all the time," Bertie said soberly.

"That's because you're ignorant, Bertie, and have no taste or ambition,"

Eddie replied. "You know what Doctor Mayson says: 'Travel improves the

mind, and enlarges the understanding.'"

"Yes, but that's only in a copy-book!" Bertie exclaimed triumphantly.

"Besides, papa is the cleverest man in the world, and he's happy enough

here. Oh! the carriage at last. Come and welcome our new cousin;" and in

a moment Bertie had vaulted over the gate and shouted to the coachman to

stop, while Eddie followed in a more orthodox fashion, and both boys

stood bowing, with their caps in their hands, to a little girl dressed

in black, with a small pale face, and a quantity of light hair pushed

back from her forehead. She clung to Mrs. Mittens nervously with one

hand, while she extended the other first to Bertie, then to Eddie and

said, "Thank you, cousins," for their welcome in the sweetest, saddest

voice in the world. Then the carriage drove on before Bertie had quite

recovered his astonishment at the fact that the little girl seemed no

more than a baby, yet wore blue glasses, and spoke with the voice of a

grown-up person. He had meant to spring into the carriage, give her a

hearty kiss and a noisy greeting, and go on to the house with her; but

such familiarities were entirely out of the question with the grave

little lady in black. Turning round, he looked questioningly at Eddie,

who had returned to the grounds. "Well," he cried, "what do you think?"

"I think Cousin Agnes is an ugly, sickly little thing, not more than

seven!" he cried scornfully. "The idea of a girl in blue spectacles!

Come and have a walk." For once Bertie followed instead of leading,

though he was strongly inclined to return to the house. He did not think

his cousin was ugly, and he pitied her for being so pale and

sad-looking; but somehow he felt disappointed too, and out of humour

with himself, and Eddie, and every one else, and in an unusually silent

mood he set off for a ramble in the woods. Both boys were disappointed

in Agnes, but in a different way.

CHAPTER II.--AGNES FINDS A FRIEND.

"I hope you will be very happy here, child, and make yourself at home.

Take care of her, Mittens, and see that the boys don't tease her;" and

Mr. Rivers kissed the trembling, nervous little girl on the forehead,

and waved her out of the room. The interview had been brief, and

conducted with absolute silence on the child's part. She was overpowered

by the magnificence and awed by the solemnity of her new home.

"Is that grand gentleman Uncle Hugh, ma'am?" she asked timidly, as she

clung to the good-natured housekeeper's hand.

"Yes, my dear; and very kind and good you will find him if you always do

just as he tells you. Now you must come to my room, and have a cup of

tea before dinner. Your cousins never have any luncheon, and dine with

me at three o'clock. Your Uncle Hugh always dines in his own apartments:

indeed, he seldom leaves them, except for a turn on the terrace. The

children go in every evening to see him for half an hour, and you will

go with them. We have breakfast at nine, and tea at seven. Your cousins

drive in to Wakeley every day to Doctor Mayson's school; they leave at

half-past nine, and get back by three. Sometimes they ride their ponies,

but oftener they drive in the little dog-cart; and I dare say a young

person will come to give you lessons, but the master has not made any

arrangement yet. You're to sleep in the room next to mine; and Prudence

Briggs, the under housemaid, will wait upon you. But the first thing you

must do, my dear Miss Agnes, is to get well, and strong, and rosy. You

have been ill, surely."

"No, ma'am, not worse than usual; but I have been up a good deal at

night with father."

"You up at night, child! Dear, dear! what could folk be thinking of to

let you?"

"There was no one else, ma'am, and father had to have his medicine

regularly," Agnes replied gravely. "Even when Doctor Evans did send a

nurse, she used to fall asleep at night, and forget poor father."

Mrs. Mittens took off her spectacles, wiped them carefully, put them on

again, and looked earnestly at the child seated opposite to her. But

either her eyes or the glasses were dim again in a moment. That poor,

fragile little creature up at night, ministering to the wants of a dying

man! It seemed incredible, and yet the child's face and voice and words

bore the living impress of truth.

"How old are you, my dear?"

"Twelve last birthday. I know I'm very little and weak, and my back

aches dreadfully sometimes; but Doctor Evans said rest and care would do

wonders for me. I never had much rest at home, and I was always very

anxious about poor father; ever since my darling mamma died, four years

ago, I had to take care of him."

"Dear heart alive! Why did you never write to your uncle?" Mrs. Mittens

cried, holding up both her hands.

"I never knew I had an uncle till after father's death; then Doctor

Evans told me, and sent me here. He was very, very kind, and so was my

Aunt Amy. Was it not strange to have an aunt in London and never know

it? But she came at once, and took me away to her house--ever so much a

finer house than the one we lodged in, but not nearly so fine or

beautiful as this; and she made my black frocks, and took me to dear

father's funeral in a carriage. Aunt Amy was very kind, and kissed me

very often, and said she wished she could keep me always, but Uncle

Clair said it was best for me to come to Riversdale. Do you think it was

best?"

"Yes, my dear, of course. Certainly it was best for you to come," the

old lady replied briskly.

"And do you think my cousins will love me?"

"I'm quite sure of it, Miss Agnes. They are the best and dearest boys in

the world."

"And Uncle Hugh?" Agnes added wistfully.

"Well, my dear, your uncle is not quite like other people. He suffers a

great deal with his nerves, and he has had a many sorrows, which he

keeps all to himself; but he's the most just and most generous gentleman

in the world, and I'm sure he will be very kind to you; only you must do

just what he says, my dear. All the troubles in the world came of

disobedience, I think, and have done so since the Garden of Eden. If

poor Mr. Frank had only----but there, what is the use of talking?" and

Mrs. Mittens sighed.

"Did you know my father, ma'am?"

"Yes, indeed! I carried him about in my arms many a time."

"Did you love him, please?"

"Love him, Miss Agnes? _that_ I did! Who could help loving his bright

bonnie face? Why, we all loved him, dearie: he was the light and life of

the house, but he would have his own way--he would have it, and I fear

it led him through a tangled, thorny path."

Agnes looked up at Mrs. Mittens.

"Please, please tell me one thing more, ma'am," she whispered nervously,

yet eagerly. "Did my Uncle Hugh love my father?"

"As the apple of his eye, my dearie: there's no mistake about that; he

would have given his heart's best blood for him!"

"Did he know my dear father was so sad and so sorry, so poor, so

friendless, so--so unhappy?"

"No, child, that he did not. Your father would have none of him; he was

proud with the pride that goes before destruction. My master would have

loved him, but Master Frank would not."

"Then there has been some dreadful mistake somewhere, ma'am," Agnes said

gently, but firmly. "My father was an angel and a martyr. He was not

proud or unforgiving, and he suffered, oh, so much! But if you tell me

my uncle knew nothing of it, I cannot blame him."

"I tell you more, dearie," said the old housekeeper earnestly, holding

both the child's hands, and looking into her pale, earnest face. "My

master would have given half his fortune to have made your father happy,

but the wrong was done before you were born; and it's righted at last,

thank Heaven! righted at last. Now, my poor lamb, we will talk of all

those things no more; your troubles are over, and all you have to do is

to get well and strong and rosy, and be as happy as ever you can; and

always remember, little one, you have a true friend in old Mittens. She

loved your father, and she will always love you; and now you must lie

down on that sofa, and rest for an hour. The boys are sure to be in for

dinner, and I want you to be nice and bright."

[Illustration: "AGNES LOOKED UP AT MRS. MITTENS" (_p. 35_).]

So Agnes lay down very contentedly.

"Oh, how I shall enjoy this place!" she said to herself. "How I shall

love it!--my own father's home, where he played as a child. Perhaps he

lay on this sofa, just like me, and looked across the beautiful park,

smelt the flowers, heard the birds sing. If he knew I was here now, how

happy he would be!" So Agnes mused aloud, resting in the warm summer

sunshine. Her thoughts flew back to the dreary London lodging where her

whole short life had been passed; her heart swelled as she thought of

the cares, troubles, anxieties, and bitter losses she had endured; and

then her eyes overflowed with gratitude at finding such kind friends and

such a beautiful home. At last, weary with her journey, she fell asleep.

After a while the sound of voices roused her, and in a bewildered kind

of way she looked round.

"I say she's an ugly, miserable-looking little thing. I shouldn't think

it worth my while to sketch her!" one voice said, contemptuously. "If

she had been pretty, now, she would have made a splendid Sleeping

Beauty!"

"She looks pale and ill, poor mite, and tired too; but she's not ugly,"

another voice said decidedly. "She might not make a nice picture, but

she looks pleasant enough curled up there. Come on away; don't let us

wake her."

"I am awake," said Agnes, sitting up, her cheeks flushed, her eyes full

of tears, but no one answered. The boys, who had been looking in at the

window of the housekeeper's room, had turned into the shrubbery, and

Agnes felt as if she had been guilty of a very mean, unworthy action in

listening, even involuntarily, to a conversation not intended for her

ears. Her cousins, too, she felt quite sure, would be exceedingly cross

if they knew she had overheard them; and yet she said to herself--"I was

only half awake. I did not want to listen, and I could not help it." It

would not mend matters in the least to tell them that she had overheard

their criticism, so she resolved to be silent, but when Mrs. Mittens

came, a little later, to conduct her to the dining-room, she was very

shy and nervous. As she took her place, she looked at the boys

wistfully, wondering which of them thought her "ugly," and which thought

her pleasant enough to look at curled up on the sofa. Secretly, she

hoped that Eddie was her champion, but before the dinner was over it

was easy enough to see that Bertie was going to be the shy little girl's

friend, for Eddie scarcely condescended to look at her, much less speak

to her, during the meal, while Bertie rattled on merrily, telling her of

all their favourite amusements and walks, and promising to show her all

his treasures and lend her his storybooks. Still, though Bertie was

kind, and Eddie cold and silent, Agnes thought her elder cousin was far

handsomer and cleverer than his brother. Perhaps he would be an artist,

like Uncle Clair; and when he knew that she too could use her pencil a

little, and loved pictures a great deal, he might be kinder to her.

CHAPTER III.--AN UNEXPECTED GUEST.

Three months passed away, and Agnes Rivers was feeling quite at home in

her uncle's house. She had lost much of her nervous shyness, but except

with Mrs. Mittens she was very quiet and reserved. She was a little

afraid of her uncle, as were the whole family; a little in awe of Eddie

too, who was still somewhat stately and grand in his manner; and she

always had an uncomfortable sort of feeling that Bertie was kind to her

just because she was little and weak, and his cousin.

But on the whole she was happy and contented. She ran about the park and

gardens all the morning, did no lessons whatever, and amused herself

sketching all the pretty bits of scenery, huge trees on the lawn, or

Mrs. Mittens' dog and cat, called Punch and Judy, who lived the most

useless, indolent, amiable life imaginable in the housekeeper's room.

She could hit off likenesses, too, in quite a startling way, and Eddie

said he would give her some lessons in painting if she wished. Agnes was

enthusiastic in her thanks for what was, after all, but a trifling

service, and while the lessons lasted Bertie was rather glum, as he had

to ramble about alone, and amuse himself as best he could. But Eddie

very soon grew tired of a pupil who after three lessons far excelled the

teacher, and as a change, proposed teaching her German. Agnes consented,

as she would have done to any plan or project of Eddie's. But that

course of instruction also came to an untimely end; perhaps Agnes was a

little dull, certainly Eddie was impatient. And then Bertie had his

turn: he taught his cousin how to play chess, to spin tops, play cricket

(theoretically), regretting every minute that she was not big and strong

like Lillie Mayson, the doctor's daughter--the doctor who kept the

grammar-school, not the one who came to see them when they were ill.

Once or twice Mrs. Mittens suggested to the master that some one should

come and teach Miss Agnes, saying that the child was left too much alone

during the day, as the boys went to school every morning. But Mr. Rivers

shook his head impatiently. "Leave the child alone; let her eat and

sleep and run wild till she's stronger. She ought not to be dull in

Riversdale."

Nor was she. How could any one with a deep instinctive love of Nature be

dull, or lonely, or sad with a beautiful park to wander in? who with an

observant eye could walk through the shady lanes or ramble in the woods

without seeing objects of interest and admiration at every step?

"How good of God to not only give us flowers, but eyes to see their

beauty and hearts to love them," the child said solemnly one day. "What

would the world be if there were not any flowers?"

Bertie, who chanced to overhear her soliloquy, remarked that he thought

they could get on better without flowers than trees, vegetables, or even

animals; "because, we cannot eat flowers, can we?"

"But if you had read a little about the subject, Bertie," Agnes replied,

"you would learn that we could have neither trees nor vegetables nor

fruit if we had not flowers first. But it's those dear little wild

things that seem to grow here just to make us happy that I love best. I

prefer painting flowers to anything."

"I don't; great artists never trouble about flowers," Eddie said,

joining them. "When I grow up, I'll paint splendid figures and grand

scenes, like the 'Raising of Lazarus,' or the 'Descent from the Cross':

those are the kind of pictures great men love to paint and the world to

look at."

"But Uncle Clair says people can't paint like the old masters now, and

that no one would buy their pictures if they did," Agnes replied.

"I wish some of you would paint up this mask for me like a North

American Indian," Bertie interrupted, pulling a hideous pasteboard face

from his pocket. "Will you, Eddie? If I attempt to put on the war-paint,

I shall make a mess of it." But Eddie indignantly refused to lend his

talent to such base uses, and Agnes declared she would paint the face

with pleasure, only she had not the least idea what an Indian was like.

That was an unforeseen difficulty, but Bertie suggested their looking in

the library for a book with pictures, and copying one.

As they approached the house, they were all surprised to see Dr. Bird's

carriage at the door. "Some one must be ill, surely--I hope it's not

papa," Eddie cried, hurrying on in advance, Bertie and Agnes following.

"He seemed quite well this morning. Oh! there's Lawyer Hurst's gig--what

can he want? Johnson," to a servant standing at the door, "whatever is

the matter? Is papa ill?"

"It's nothing, my dears--that is, nothing to be frightened about," Mrs.

Mittens said, as the boys, both startled-looking, rushed into the

dining-room. "Your papa had a turn this morning, and I thought it as

well to send for Doctor Bird."

"But why is Mr. Hurst here?" Eddie asked.

"I don't know, dearie. I think he just called by accident, or about some

ordinary business."

"Has papa asked for us--for me?"

"No, Master Edward. Now, don't look so scared; there's nothing the

matter, only, as I said, he got a turn. I think it was something in the

paper, for when I went in with his beef-tea, he had it in his hand, and

looked quite sad and white. I hoped he was not feeling bad, and he said

'No, no, Mittens. Put that down and leave me'; then when I was at the

door, he called out, 'Mittens, set the house in order. I'm going on a

journey; see to it without delay!' That's every word, Master Edward; but

knowing as the master has not been anywhere for so long, and seeing him

look pale and troubled like, I just took the liberty of sending a line

to Doctor Bird, asking him to look in quite in a friendly way. He came

at once, and he's with the master now. I left the room as you came in,

and the doctor said, 'Your master is no worse--rather better, I think.'

So _now_, my dears, will you sit down to dinner?"

Bertie's answer was practical compliance; Eddie stood for a few minutes

at the window, wondering if it were the death of another estranged

relative that had affected his father; then he, too, took his place, and

ate his dinner in silence. Presently the doctor's carriage drove away,

and both boys felt less anxious; but to Agnes there was something

terrible in the unusual hush of the house: it seemed as if the servants

moved about more noiselessly than at other times, and spoke in hushed

whispers. Eddie went to the library, and Bertie went out immediately

after dinner, and, left to herself, Agnes curled herself up in an easy

chair in the dining-room with a book, and after reading for an hour, she

fell asleep. It was dusk when she was roused by the sudden ringing of

bells and the hurrying of feet across the passage leading to Mr. Rivers'

apartments. For a few minutes she sat quite still, pale, frightened,

scarcely daring to breathe; then she opened the door and peeped out

timidly, but no one took the least notice of her. Mrs. Mittens crossed

the hall hurriedly, looking very pale and anxious; there were strange

voices too, somewhere. One, Agnes thought, seemed loud and angry. Then

she hurried back to the dining-room and shut the door, pressing both her

hands on her heart to stop its beating. Something dreadful was

happening, she felt sure, but in that household she was quite alone and

forgotten; no one thought of her at all.

The quiet, glorious autumn night closed in; still Agnes sat silent and

solitary, hoping the best, fearing the worst. It was quite eleven

o'clock when the dining-room door was opened softly, and a fair troubled

face peered in. It was Bertie. He alone had thought of her, even in his

own great sorrow--and Bertie was impulsive and passionate, and felt

things deeply. He remembered the poor lonely little girl, and asked

Prudence Briggs if his cousin had gone to bed. The girl started

guiltily; she had seen nothing of Miss Agnes all the evening; so Bertie

began a hunt over the house for her, and found her at last in the

dining-room alone.

"Oh, Agnes! what shall we do? Poor papa!" he cried, bursting into tears;

and she clung to him, weeping too, but trying to comfort him, and then

brokenly he told her all that had happened. At five o'clock Mr. Rivers

became suddenly worse. The doctor had stayed with him, and only sent

home his carriage, and when he saw the change he sent for the boys at

once. Eddie was in the library, Bertie was out in the grounds. "But it

was all the same," the lad added, brokenly; "he was quite unconscious

when Eddie reached the room. I was there half an hour after, but he

never spoke, and now it's all over! Oh, Agnes! what shall we do? I can't

believe papa is dead!"

"Telegraph for Aunt Amy and Uncle Clair," she replied, with the

promptness of a person used to act in an emergency; and then Bertie, who

had never thought of that, rushed off to the library to suggest it to

his brother, who seemed quite dazed by the sudden calamity, while Mrs.

Mittens entered the dining-room also in search of Agnes.

"It's all over, dearie; the master meant to go on a journey; instead, an

unexpected guest came to him. I'm all dazed and scared like, and can

hardly realise it yet; and would you believe it? four gentlemen came

from London this evening to see your uncle, and not one of them would

believe he was 'gone' till they saw him lying there so still and

restful, and one of them now acts just as if he was master of this

house, so I suppose he must be Master Edward's guardian. But I do wish

there was some one here to manage things!"

"Send for Aunt Amy," Agnes suggested again; and the housekeeper seized

the idea gladly.

"That I will, dearie, and for Mr. Gregory too, first thing to-morrow

morning. Surely, child, you have an old head on young shoulders! Now

come and help me to comfort the poor darling boys. Ah! Miss Agnes, you

are all orphans together now; and I how things are going to end is more

than I know!"

(_To be continued._)

About Some Famous Railway Trains.

SOME FAMOUS RAILWAY TRAINS AND THEIR STORY.

_By_ HENRY FRITH.

I.--THE "FLYING DUTCHMAN."

[Illustration]

"Where to, sir?" said the cab-driver, touching his hat.

"Great Western, please, Paddington," we replied, and in a moment the

trap of the hansom was shut, and we were bowling along Piccadilly.

A civil porter received us at Paddington Station, and took our luggage

for Swindon. We are going no farther to-day, because we want to see the

"Flying Dutchman," not only "flying," but at rest. So first we secure a

seat and then walk down the platform. We have some minutes to spare; the

clock points to 11.38; we must start at 11.45 by the Great Western

express, the "Dutchman," as it is familiarly called, after that

mysterious sailor who came and went with such alarming celerity.

Here we are then, the summer holidays before us; and perhaps many of the

readers of LITTLE FOLKS will be travelling by the "Flying (railway)

Dutchman," by the time these lines are before them. Come with me and

look at our big "iron horse," which will pull us to Swindon at the

average speed of fifty-three miles an hour, which means at times the

fine rate of sixty miles an hour.

Our "Dutchman's" engine on this occasion is named "Crimea," and a fine

fellow he is. This engine has eight wheels; two immense "driving wheels"

eight feet high, more than twenty-four feet round, so each time that

wheel revolves we travel (say) twenty-five feet, and when we are in full

swing we shall go about _thirty yards a second!_ The 11.45 down train

from Paddington, and the corresponding up train from Exeter, are the two

"Flying Dutchmen." There are two other trains which run equally fast, up

and down in the afternoon. These are the "Zulu" trains, for they were

started as expresses at the time the Prince Imperial was killed in

Zululand.

The great engine waits at the end of the platform, and as we are good

little people--like the fairies--we will jump up on the foot-plate of

the "Crimea" locomotive, and no one will notice us. Give me your

hand--there. Now you are standing on the foot-plate; the engine-tender,

full of water and topped with coal, is behind you, the great high boiler

with the furnace is in front. That long handle which comes from the

middle of the boiler on a level with your little head is the regulator,

which when pulled out lets the steam into the cylinders, and it then

moves the pistons and rods, and they move the big eight-feet wheels.

Perhaps, when we reach Swindon workshops, we shall go underneath an

engine and see the machinery.

"What is that other handle?" you say. That is "the lever." It is at the

side next the engine-driver, you see, and he can pull it back so as to

save his steam, and not use too much; he "expands" it and makes a little

keep the train going after it has once got into its pace. There are the

steam and water "gauges," to tell the "driver" and fireman when the

steam is at proper pressure, and when the water is high enough in the

boiler. The steam gauge is like a clock, or an Aneroid barometer, right

before the driver. Those other handles near it are the whistle-handles.

One whistle is small, and very shrill, to warn people on the line, and

to tell people the train is coming. The other is a deep-toned booming

whistle which tells of danger perhaps, and when blown means "Stop the

train, there is obstruction in front."

"Crimea" is now ready. The engine-driver pulls open the regulator, and

we glide back and are attached to the train. We have air-breaks worked

on the engine, vacuum-breaks which can pull us up quickly, and when all

the connections are made the "Flying Dutchman" is ready; he is harnessed

to his eight coaches full of people--the solemn and sorry; the glad and

the cheerful; and boys and girls, going on all sorts of errands.

"Right!" says the station-superintendent.

The clock over the platform is exactly 11.45 a.m. The fireman, who is

looking on, says "Right, Tom," the guard whistles, then the driver

touches the small whistle-handle in front; a shrill scream rouses the

many sleeping echoes in the roof, where they had got to be out of the

way perhaps, and the engine-driver opens the regulator valve--"Crimea"

fizzes a little in front of the cylinders. Off we go!

"Puff-puff," slowly at first, in a solemn and majestic manner. We cannot

expect such big wheels to hurry themselves. Under the bridge, puffing a

little more quickly, then we rattle through Westbourne Park and by

Wormwood Scrubs. Puff-puffing much more quickly now, but not quite so

loudly, as the driver has pulled the lever back and the steam goes up

with less force through the chimney: working quietly. Away, away, on our

iron steed through Ealing and Hanwell--across the viaduct over the River

Brent, which runs to Brentford--past the pretty church and the dull

lunatic asylum, and so on to Slough, which is passed in twenty-three

minutes after quitting Paddington. Then we reach Taplow, and have just

fifty-five miles to do within the hour. "Crimea" rushes across the

Thames below Maidenhead, with a parting roar, but we shall meet the

river again soon, and run alongside it, by picturesque Pangbourne,

Goring, and Moulsford.

Are we stopping? No, we are only just slackening for Reading. But we

cannot wait. The "Flying Dutchman" has only done about thirty-six of his

seventy-seven miles; he has been forty-two minutes already, and has got

forty-five minutes left to reach Swindon. A long shriek, and Reading is

behind us; then the river flashes out between the trees.

Hurrah! Hurrah! Didcot with its Banbury cakes and tumble-down station is

passed. Hurrah for the "Flying Dutchman," running easily and smoothly,

sixty miles an hour, well within himself. He is not tired, he does not

pant or whistle, he goes calmly, swiftly along.... Here is Swindon--what

o'clock is it? Look! Twelve minutes past one! "Crimea" is punctual to

the minute. Well done, "Dutchman!"

Good-bye, "Crimea," we are going to see your friends in the shops; we

are going to hear some anecdotes of your powers, and your friends'

speedy runs or adventures. We are going to be introduced to "Lightning,"

"Inkerman," and the "Morning Star," the first engine made for the

railway by George Stephenson.

At the works we are courteously received and conducted to the various

shops devoted to the manufacture of the engines and carriages--the

wheels, whistles, rails, cranks, and cylinders, and everything else

connected with the rolling-stock, which brings in money to the

shareholders, and proves that if "a rolling stone gathers no moss,"

rolling-stock does in plenty. Here we find young gentlemen who are

pupils and apprentices at work learning mechanical engineering, and how

to make the future "Flying Dutchmen" and "Zulus."

We see the old "nine feet" Bristol and Exeter engines, and are told how

one once went off the line with the "Dutchman" long ago; but it was a

trifling accident. Our "Dutchman," though he flies, is pretty safe; and

runs free from accident. We see an engine whose boiler burst the other

day, but fortunately hurt no one much. This engine looks very much

ashamed of itself in the shed, and has had to submit to a severe

operation to put it right again, which, perhaps, will be a lesson to it

in future.

Then we go under the engines and see the machinery, which works so

easily; and then we sit down, and ask the driver whether any adventures

have happened with the "Flying Dutchman."

"Nothing particular; but I can tell you a story about the railway which

will amuse you. It happened several years ago--but I won't tell you

where exactly, sir."

"Let us hear the tale," we said.

"It was in my father's time, before I was a driver, that it happened. An

aunt of mine--a youngish woman then--was travelling by the G. W. R.

('Great Way Round' they used to call us), when a young man entered the

carriage, where she was sitting alone, and asked where the train stopped

first. This was (say) at Paddington. My aunt said 'Reading' was the

first station, and the train immediately started.

"'Excuse me, ma'am,' said the gentleman; 'but will you oblige me by

cutting my hair a little.'

"My aunt thought the man was mad, but being alarmed by his manner,

consented.

"Then the young man changed his coat, his collar, his waistcoat, and

tie. He put on a pair of spectacles, and when my aunt dared to look at

him he was for all the world like a clergyman--an elderly gentleman in

spectacles!

"'Now,' said he; 'you must promise to be quiet, and never contradict me.

If you do you will rue it.' So my aunt--she was young then--promised,

and before they reached Reading the train was stopped. A guard and a

constable came up, and looked into every carriage.

"'Have you the tickets, dear?' said the man to my aunt.

"'All right, sir,' said the guard. 'We don't want to disturb you at all.

We are looking for some one else.'

"The train went on, but the 'old' clergyman, as he seemed, left the

train at Reading. He had committed forgery, but by disguising himself,

escaped. 'Clever rogue,' was he not?"

By the time we had heard this tale we were at Swindon Station again

waiting for the "Zulu," for we are bound for Bath and Bristol. Here it

comes just as the other train came, very punctually. We take a farewell

of our friend, and as we pass the shops on our way, we jot down in our

note-book what we have seen, and some of our pleasant experiences of the

"Flying Dutchman."

Mornings at the Zoo.

MORNINGS AT THE ZOO.

VI.--THE STORK FAMILY.

Whatever they may be in their native countries, the Storks at the

Zoological Gardens, London, are lone and melancholy birds. They seem to

take their pleasure sadly--as was once said of the English folk--but

they look so much like very wise and profound philosophers that perhaps

they view life gravely because they have themselves realised in their

own experience how serious a matter it is. In the Gardens they appear to

lead a hermit's existence. They are treated with severe neglect by the

bulk of the visitors, though possibly they consider the respect of an

occasional distinguished Royal Academician of greater value than the

homage of an indifferent multitude.

Yet in other lands than ours the Stork family is held in high honour. In

many parts of the Continent they are encouraged to build their nests in

chimneys, steeples, and trees near dwellings. Indeed, as an inducement

to them to pitch their quarters on the houses, boxes are sometimes

erected on the roofs, and happy is the household which thus secures the

patronage of a stork. Some of the people among whom they sojourn during

the warm summer days regard the presence of the bird as a kind of

safeguard against fire. And as an illustration of their love for their

young, a story is told of a stork which, rather than desert its helpless

offspring during a conflagration in Delft, in Holland, remained

heroically by their side and perished with them in the flames.

[Illustration]

In Morocco and in Eastern countries also storks are looked upon as

sacred birds. And with good reason, for they render very useful service

both as scavengers and as slayers of snakes and other reptiles. In most

of the towns a storks' hospital will be found. It consists of an

enclosure to which are sent all birds that have been injured. They are

kept in this infirmary--which is generally supported by voluntary

contributions--until they have regained health and strength. To kill a

stork is regarded as an offence. In Sweden also the stork is held as

holy, there being a legend in that country to the effect that this bird

flew around the cross of Christ, crying "Styrka!" "Styrka!"

("Strengthen!" "Strengthen!") But, as Dr. Brewer points out, this

tradition clashes with fact, inasmuch as stork's have no voice. For the

valuable offices which they perform in the removal of garbage they are,

in some countries, protected by law. At one time the White Stork was a

pretty common bird in England, where it helped the farmers by clearing

the soil of noxious insects. It disappeared, however, partly because it

was subjected to a good deal of persecution, but mainly because an

improved method of agriculture took away its occupation.

In India the stork's cousin is called the Adjutant, and a very

appropriate name it is. It is a familiar figure in most of the towns and

villages where its scavenging is of the greatest use. But the adjutant

is not endowed with so much wisdom as we should naturally expect such a

serviceable bird to possess. The following notes about an adjutant's

curious ways have been sent to the Editor of LITTLE FOLKS by a lady in

Calcutta, and will be read with interest.

"When the rainy season comes in Calcutta, the adjutants are soon seen

resting on one leg on the house-tops, kneeling in all kinds of funny

places, or stalking very grandly through the wet grass. Sometimes in the

dim lamp-light they look as they stand about on the edge of the flat

roofs like stiff, badly-arranged ornaments, and sometimes ten or twelve

settle on some tree, when it seems as if their heavy bodies must weigh

it down.

"They do not often come in numbers into the gardens of houses or the

outskirts of the town, but one was a very faithful visitor for a little

while in the neighbourhood of a house which was not at all central. This

house has a garden or compound, as Indians would say, which is connected

by a gate with a large square containing a large tank. There are many of

these tanks, in appearance like ponds or reservoirs at home, about

Calcutta and the neighbourhood. The natives fetch water to drink from

all, and in some they bathe and wash clothes. The tank now to be

described is enclosed by a wall with gates to the main road and into the

compounds of houses which come up to it. Round the tank is a broad

gravel-walk, and on either side the walk grows long rank grass. Frogs

abound in this grass, and crickets come out of holes in the ground, and

make a terrible whistling at night. For some time no adjutants appeared

in this tank square to feast on the rich supply of frogs; but at last

one day an adjutant was seen walking down the grass. With

self-important step and craning his long neck forward, he came slowly

on, hurrying a little when some frightened frog foolishly made a hop out

of his way. At last he reached a gate leading into one of the private

compounds, and there he paused. What he saw inside no one can guess, as

the grass is kept short; and except in one corner far, far away from the

gate, there were not half the fine fat frogs that Mr. Adjutant might

have found on his own side of the gate. Whatever he saw, certainly the

bird longed to get through. He poked his head through the bars as far as

he could on one side, took two steps to the other and tried that, back

again to the first, and so on, till that foolish, foolish bird had

walked twenty times to and fro. Then he went off in a huff, and stood on

one leg near the tank till dark, when it is to be hoped he recovered his

temper. About the same hour next day back came the adjutant to repeat

his yesterday's performance, except that he walked slowly round the tank

instead of standing on one leg when he found it a failure. Perhaps he

was thinking the thing over. He did not think to much purpose, for day

after day for more than a week back came the adjutant to walk like a

soldier on duty up and down, up and down, poking his head through the

bars each time. Sometimes he did it a score of times, sometimes only two

or three. After ten days he disappeared. Where is he? Has he gone to

find a blacksmith among the adjutants? or have his brother adjutants had

him shut up till he has sense to know the best way for a bird with wings

is, not to try to get through narrow bars, but to fly over the top?"

Unlike its white cousin, the Black Stork rather avoids the society of

man, frequenting solitary places and building its nest on the very top

of the very tallest trees. It is really, however, not an unamiable bird,

as was proved by Colonel Montagu in the case of one which he managed to

catch by means of a slight wound in the wing, and which lived with him

for upwards of a year. It used to follow its feeder about, and displayed

a most inoffensive disposition. With other birds it was on terms, of

peace, and goodwill, never threatening them with its big, strong bill.

An excellent angler, its skill in capture was seen to greatest advantage

when it had to encounter an unusually slippery eel.

Canon Tristram observed black storks among the shallows of the Dead Sea,

to which their prey was brought down by tributary streams. Surely no

picture more suggestive of utter solitude could be imagined than this of

the black storks, lovers of loneliness, fishing on the silent shores of

the Dead Sea.

JAMES A. MANSON.

The Children's Own Garden.

THE CHILDREN'S OWN GARDEN IN JULY.

[Illustration]

July being generally the hottest month of the year, plenty of water is

an important thing in connection with Gardening, and as we have

previously recommended, apply it right and left, to shrubs, grass,

trees, flowers, and walks. It is most important for the leaves and stems

of plants to be perfectly free from dust and dirt, as this is one of the

very first steps to securing a strong, healthy, and vigorous growth. A

writer once described the pleasure in dry weather of attaching a hose to

a main and sending a stream of water over and on to the tops of the

young trees and shrubs as well worth £100 a year to any lover of Nature.

A great drawback to town gardens, or gardens situated near crowded

thoroughfares, is that the plants there grown are almost invariably

smothered with dust: under such circumstances successful gardening

becomes simply a matter of impossibility, as hardly any plants will

thrive, or even live, under such conditions. A proper site is,

therefore, a matter of primary importance.

* * * * *

There is, however, plenty of work, other than watering, to be done this

month. Seed of a great number of plants should now be saved and

carefully placed in dry cool places until the time arrives for sowing

them. Cuttings of a multitude of perennials ought now to be secured and

immediately planted: those of such important plants as chrysanthemums,

pansies, snapdragons, stocks, and wallflowers, in particular; divisions

of auriculas and polyanthuses may now be made. If a cold frame be

available, utilise the same by keeping cuttings of the very hardy sorts

in it until they have thoroughly rooted, and transfer them to the open

border. Less hardy plants will need a protection of some sort through

the winter, and few things are more suitable for such a purpose than a

frost-proof frame, where air can be plentifully given every time the

state of the weather admits.

* * * * *

Dahlias will be now coming into full glory, and as the first three or

four flowers are usually worthless, cut them off before they fully

expand. Hollyhocks may now be frequently supplied with liquid manure.

Rose-trees will require looking after: give them plenty of rich food,

and, when the "perpetual" flowering section has done blooming, cut back

each shoot to about two or three buds from its base. Small pieces of

grass will periodically need mowing, and this ought to be done with a

proper mowing-machine, as a pair of shears invariably causes an

irregular and jagged after-growth. All unsightly vegetation, such as

dead leaves or flowers, dried up stems, &c., must be promptly removed;

weeds ought not to be allowed to grow a second pair of leaves--much less

to flower--before being exterminated. Trailing and climbing plants,

especially roses, will need careful attention, and keeping within

bounds: straggly or weakly shoots must be at once cut away.

* * * * *

The most important requirement just now in the kitchen-garden is water:

during hot weather completely saturate the ground with it. July is not a

very brisk month in the Children's Kitchen-garden; however, seeds of

such useful salads as lettuce and radish may still be sown; and a few

dwarf French beans can be put in if there is sufficient room. By sowing

a small quantity of the early sorts of peas, it is just possible to

obtain a fair crop, and particularly so if the autumn holds fine.

* * * * *

It may not be amiss to make a few remarks as regards gathering fruit,

flowers, and vegetables, as this is a much more important matter than is

usually thought. In gathering such salads as cress or mustard, and fruit

of every sort, an absolute rule is to exercise the utmost care; and such

"telltales" as broken branches, mutilated stems, and salads--cress, for

example--entirely up-rooted, will at once proclaim a slovenly method of

gardening. This, above all things, must be avoided. Skilful gardeners,

whether amateur or professional, will sever a flower with so much care

that its parent plant will scarcely be seen to shake whilst undergoing

the operation. In gathering peas, most people tug and pull at these as

if anxious to see how much strength the pods _can_ possibly bear. In

this instance, as in others where the same carelessness is employed, the

plants get severely disturbed, and a consequent short crop is put down

to the score of bad seed. Neatness, order, and care are principles of

great moment in Gardening.

A SUMMER HOUR.

[Illustration: "'TIS HERE THE CHILDREN LOVE TO COME" (_p. 45_).]

A wide expanse of yellow sand,

A breeze so fresh and free,

Which, gently rippling, scarcely wakes

The calm and tranquil sea.

Beneath the clear and shining wave

Bright shells and sea-weeds lie,

Reflecting all the golden light

Of the sweet summer sky.

And many a crystal pool is there,

Where hermits lurk below,

And restless shrimps in coat of mail

Flash swiftly to and fro.

A noon-day hush is over all,

Unbroken by a sound;

Till ... sudden peals of baby mirth

Wake all the echoes round.

'Tis here the children love to come,

On the bright sand to lie,

Or in the gleaming water hold

Their mimic revelry.

Oh, happy hearts! those gladsome day

Upon the golden shore

Will linger on in memory still,

A joy for evermore.

D. B. MCKEAN.

LITTLE MARGARET'S KITCHEN, AND WHAT SHE DID IN IT.--VII.

_By PHILLIS BROWNE, Author of "A Year's Cookery," "What Girls can Do,"

&c._

"I should like my little pupils to learn to roast meat to-day," said

Mrs. Herbert, as she entered the kitchen where the children were waiting

for her.

"You will let it be beef, though, won't you?" said Margaret. "If we have

to cook meat we might as well cook the best kind of meat there is."

"You consider beef the best kind of meat then, do you?" said Mrs.

Herbert.

"Oh, yes! I should think every one does. Father says there is nothing

like the roast beef of old England."

"English people generally like roast beef, I know," said Mrs. Herbert.

"Indeed, they have been so accustomed to take pains with it, that now it

is often said that English cooks roast well, if they do nothing else

well."

"It seems to me that there is nothing to do in roasting meat," said

Margaret. "The fire does all the work; we put the meat down to the fire,

and in a little time we take it up, and it is done."

"But the right kind of fire for roasting is not always made up in any

kitchen," said Mrs. Herbert. "The first thing which the cook who intends

to roast has to see after is the fire; and she ought to make it ready

quite an hour before she puts the meat down."

"Oh dear, what a trouble!" said Margaret.

"Please, ma'am, I know how to make up a fire for roasting," said Mary.

"I have done it many a time for my aunt."

"Then tell us what you know about it," said Mrs. Herbert.

"The fire must be a good size, larger than the meat which is to be

roasted before it. The cinders and dust must be cleared thoroughly away

from the bottom of the range, the live hot coals must be pushed to the

front, and the space at the back which is made empty must be filled up

with knobbly pieces of coal packed closely together, though not so

closely that the air cannot get through. The hearth must be swept up

tidily, and the cinders, mixed with a little damped coal-dust, must be

put at the back on the knobbly pieces of coal, and that is all."

"Very good indeed, Mary," said Mrs. Herbert, "you evidently know all

about this part of the business."

"But I don't see the good," said Margaret. "Why do we not make up the

fire when we are ready for it? It would last all the longer."

"Because we want to have the fire clear and bright, not dull and smoky.

It must be kept bright all the time too, and it must not be allowed to

get hollow in places. Can you tell us, Mary, what you are to do if the

fire needs to be mended before the joint is finished?"

"The live coal must be drawn to the front, ma'am, gently, so as not to

let any cinders go into the dripping-tin," said Mary. "But we ought not

to let the fire need mending; we must watch it and keep putting cinders

and pieces of coal on to keep it up."

"You see now, Margaret, how important it is to have the right kind of

fire," said Mrs. Herbert. "Have you heard that red meat which is to be

roasted should hang for a while before being cooked?"

"At any rate I have heard people say 'This meat is not tender; it has

not been hung long enough.'"

"Just so. It is very important that red meats which are to be roasted

should be left to hang till tender. When we have a cool airy larder, we

can hang meat for ourselves, when there is no such larder the butcher

will hang it for us. The time which the meat must hang depends upon the

weather. In dry cold weather it may hang a long time--two or three

weeks--but in hot weather it must be quickly cooked, or it will not

keep. In frosty weather, too, it should be put in a warm kitchen for

some hours before being roasted, or it will not be tender."

"What do you mean by red meats, ma'am?"

"I mean, Mary, meats red in colour when cut, such as beef, mutton, and

game. What are called white meats, such as veal, lamb, and pork, will

not keep, and they therefore have to be cooked when fresh. Can either of

you tell me what is the first thing to be done when you are going to

roast meat?"

The little girls thought for a minute, then Mary said, "When we were

going to boil the leg of mutton we weighed it, that we might know how

long we were to let it simmer."

"Quite right, Mary. So you must do with this piece of beef. Weigh it and

then allow for roasting a quarter of an hour for every pound, and a

quarter of an hour over. If the joint is thick and solid we allow twenty

minutes to the pound. In fact, we should always have a little

consultation with ourselves before we begin to roast, and say to

ourselves, 'Is this meat solid and thick with little bone, or is it thin

and small?'"

"How long must we give the sirloin of beef?"

"A quarter of an hour to the pound and a quarter of an hour over. Cook

is now going to put down the dripping-tin and screen for us. I should

like you to watch her and then try to remember what is necessary. Do you

notice that she puts a large slice of dripping into the pan first

thing?"

"What is that for?" said Margaret. "I thought the dripping dropped from

the fat."

"So it will in a little time, but we want some hot fat to baste the meat

with immediately. If we put a slice in the tin a few minutes before the

meat is hung on the hook, the fat will melt and be ready for our

purpose. Never wash the meat before roasting it. If you do, it will not

brown properly, and the juices will be drawn out. Some cooks are very

particular to wash meat, and they say that it is dirty not to do so, for

we never know by whom meat has been handled. For my part I never feel

uneasy about meat which has been bought of a good butcher. If I had any

doubt on the subject I should wipe it well, but not wash it."

"The dripping is quite melted now, mother. Shall we hang the meat on the

hook, and wind up the jack?" said Margaret.

"Yes, dear; wind the jack before you put the meat up. In hanging the

meat recollect to put the thickest part downwards, because the heat of

the fire will be greatest at the bottom. Be careful, too, to pass the

hook through a secure place where there is little juice, for the flesh

will give way with cooking, and if you do not provide for this your

joint may fall into the pan. Do you recollect that when we were boiling

meat we first plunged the meat into boiling water to harden the albumen

on the outside so as to make a case to keep in the juices."

"We cannot do that now, though," said Mary.

"We can do something of the same sort. If we put the meat close to the

fire and baste it with hot fat for a few minutes at the beginning we

shall harden the outside. Then we may draw it back and roast it more

slowly till done. Above all things, however, we must be careful to baste

it well. Stand at one side of the fire, take the fat up carefully with

the basting-spoon, and pour it over the lean part of the meat. The

basting-spoon will not become too hot if you put it in a plate by the

side, not in the tin. If you baste the meat well, it will not shrink or

become dry and hard, it will be juicy and savoury, and it will be a good

rich brown colour."

"How quickly the fat melts!" said Mary. "There is plenty of dripping in

the pan now."

"We will pour a little of the dripping away shortly, for we want to have

it a good colour," said Mrs. Herbert. "If we let it remain too long

before the fire it will be burnt and discoloured."

Very patiently and for a long time the little girls basted the roasting

joint, and at last they were rewarded by seeing it take a rich brown

colour.

"In another quarter of an hour the beef will be roasted enough, ma'am,"

at length said Mary, looking at the clock.

"It smells as if it would taste all right, does it not?" said Margaret.

"Now we must prepare for the gravy. Cook has put the dish for the meat

and the plates where they will get hot, for little girls cannot see

after everything. In this small saucepan is a little stock made by

stewing two or three bones and scraps (with no fat whatever), a sprig of

parsley, a few rings of onion, which have been fried till brown, an inch

of celery, and five or six peppercorns in water. I do not know whether

you noticed that this stock has been stewing by the side of the fire

ever since we came into the kitchen; I have skimmed it every now and

then, and covered it closely again."