CHAPTER I.--WHAT IS 'BRAVE?'

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[Illustration: FLOSSIE'S CONFESSION. Page 44.]

THE GREEN CASKET

AND OTHER STORIES

BY Mrs. MOLESWORTH

AUTHOR OF 'THE CUCKOO CLOCK,' 'US,' 'CARROTS,' 'THE RECTORY CHILDREN,'

'NESTA,' ETC.

W. & R. CHAMBERS

LONDON AND EDINBURGH

1890

Edinburgh:

Printed by W. & R. Chambers.

[Illustration]

CONTENTS.

PAGE

THE GREEN CASKET 9

LEO'S POST-OFFICE 55

BRAVE LITTLE DENIS 77

[Illustration]

[Illustration]

The Green Casket.

CHAPTER I.--RUTH'S START IN LIFE.

'Then good morning, Mrs. Perry. It all promises very nicely, I think.

You may depend upon our taking good care of Ruth, and doing our best to

train her well. Naylor takes great pride in her training. You will tell

Ruth what I say, and impress upon her those two or three broad rules,

and if she attends to those, it will be all right.'

Mrs. Perry courtesied--her best courtesy, you may be sure; for it was not

every day she was honoured with an interview by so grand a personage as

old Lady Melicent Bourne of the Tower House, at Hopley. She had known

Lady Melicent all her life, for before she married, Mrs. Perry's own home

had been at Hopley; but I hardly think this in any way lessened her awe

of the great old lady--rather the opposite. And there had been no small

excitement in the neat cottage beside the forge at Wharton, five miles

from Hopley, when the postman brought a letter from my lady's own maid,

own cousin to Mrs. Perry, the blacksmith's wife, to say that the place of

under-housemaid was vacant at last, and Ruth was to be sent over to be

seen by Lady Melicent herself. Ruth went, and was approved of, and came

home with a message desiring her mother to go in her turn to the Tower

House for a talk with her daughter's future mistress. For Lady Melicent

was old-fashioned enough to take personal interest in her servants; even

the younger ones were safe to be 'known all about' by her.

'And she said it that nicely, mother,' Ruth added eagerly, for she had

returned full of admiration and enthusiasm about the sweet old lady.

'You are not to ill-convenience yourself; any morning saving Friday

would do, she said, from eleven to twelve, and Cousin Ellen is to see

that you stay to dinner. Her ladyship remembers you as well as can be;

she thinks I favour you a bit, and she hopes as I'll favour you in my

ways too. And so do I, I'm sure, dear mother.'

And on the child chattered, for a child she was--not yet sixteen--and

the only sister among several brothers who had joined with their parents

in taking 'choice care' of little Ruth. Yet she was not spoilt; her

mother was too sensible to have allowed anything of that kind. Ruth was

unselfish, well-meaning, and straightforward, though with some weak

points which her sheltered life at home had scarcely yet tested fairly.

She was standing at the cottage door--'father' allowed no hanging about

the forge or gossip with the neighbours--scarcely in sight herself, but

eagerly looking out for her mother, when Mrs. Perry appeared, walking

rather slowly up the hill which led from the little railway station. In

a moment Ruth's hat was on, and she had flown to meet her mother.

'Yes, love,' said Mrs. Perry, in answer to the girl's breathless,

half-unspoken inquiry. 'It's all right. You're to go on Thursday week.

And a very lucky girl you are, take it all together. Eight pounds wages,

to be raised to ten in a year if you stop on and do well, church and

Sunday-school every Sunday, and now and then an evening service if

Cousin Ellen can take you; pleasant work and not too much of it, and

best of all, a real good kind lady for your mistress.'

'I don't see as how it could be nicer, and not so far from home

neither,' said Ruth. 'Why do you say "take it all together," mother?

I see no wrong side at all.'

Mrs. Perry smiled.

'There's that to most things in this world, I misdoubt me, Ruthie. But

I'm rather tired, child. We'll have a talk when I've got my things off,

and have rested a little. It's hot to-day, and I've been on my feet a

good bit. Cousin Ellen, she would have me to see all there was to be

seen--she took me round the fields and showed me the cows and the dairy

and the poultry-yard and the gardens. It's a sweet place, though not

large of course.'

'Lady Melicent's been there a good many years, hasn't she?' asked Ruth,

as they slowly ascended the hill.

'Nigh upon twenty-five. Ever since her husband's death, when she had

to leave Bourne Park. She had no son, only Miss Rosalind, who's now Mrs.

Vyner; so the Park went to a cousin, and my lady took the Tower House,

not caring to stay as a widow too near to where she had been so happy as

a wife. I remember her coming--her and Miss Rosalind--as if it had been

yesterday. I was a girl of fifteen. Well, here we are, and I shall be

glad to sit me down, I can tell you, Ruth.'

'And there'll be a cup of tea for you in half a minute, mother. It's all

ready. I set the kettle on when I heard the train whistling--and it's

just on the boil now. There's some hot toast too. Father and the boys'll

not be in for over an hour; we'll have nice time for our talk.'

She took her mother's shawl and bonnet and ran off with them, returning

with the good woman's slippers. Then she drew close to Mrs. Perry's

arm-chair the little table on which she had already set out the

tea-things, and stooped for the crisp slice of toast, which she began to

butter. It was all done neatly and carefully--with even more care than

usual, for Ruth was touched and grateful for all her mother was doing

for her, and the coming event of her leaving home for the first time was

casting a tender shadow over these little duties and services--a shadow

which the girl hardly herself as yet understood.

'Now then, mother,' she went on, when Mrs. Perry's first cup of tea had

somewhat refreshed her, 'tell me the rest. What is it you're not so sure

I'll like at the Tower House?'

'Nay, child. I didn't say that. It's nothing to mind. My lady spoke most

kind and sensible. There's just two or three rules she's strict about,

I was to tell you, and talkin' of them'll explain other things. She will

have those about her to speak the truth, first and foremost, and to be

civil and respectful when they're found fault with; and if you meet with

any accident, Ruth--breaking or spoiling anything in your charge, you're

to up and tell it, straight away. These rules she will have attended to.

Others, like about being up in time in the morning, and never going out

without the housekeeper's leave, you'd find in every house. But I can

see that my lady's very keen about truth-speaking and no underhand

ways.'

'_Of course_,' said Ruth, with a little surprise. 'But so would any

right-thinking lady be, mother.'

'I don't know as to that--there's many as don't care much so long as the

work's well done, about how things go on that don't come under their own

notice. But of course no lady likes things broke and not told of.'

'I'd never think of not telling, never, mother,' said Ruth, proudly.

'I'd be only too anxious to make it good too, out of my own money.'

'There's many times that's impossible,' said Mrs. Perry. 'But here

comes in the difficulty you may find yourself in. You'll not be under

Cousin Ellen, you see, child--Mrs. Mossop, as they call her at the

Tower House--being as she's the lady's-maid, but it's Naylor, the

head-housemaid, you must look to. She's a good-principled woman, so my

lady says, and so Ellen says; but she's inclined to be jealous, and she

has a very queer temper. You must try and not put her out, and if so be

as you should do so ever--for nobody's perfect--you must bear it patient,

and not go complaining to Ellen. Ellen couldn't stand it, she says so

herself: it'd make such trouble, and my lady couldn't have it neither.

So it won't be all roses, Ruthie, but still nothing so very bad after

all. A little patience, and taking care to be quite straightforward, and

you'll make your way.'

Ruth looked grave.

'Do you mean, mother, that if I broke anything by accident I must tell

Naylor and no one else? I'm sure I hope I shan't break anything; but if

I did, I'd much rather tell Cousin Ellen, or even my lady herself. She

seems that kind.'

'Well, but that's just what you mustn't do, my dear. It'd make ever such

a deal of trouble. If there was anything very serious--but that I hope

there never would be--you might better tell her ladyship than Ellen. It

would never do to vex her, so kind as she is, and speakin' for you for

the place and all--and it would never do to trouble Lady Melicent if

you could possibly make shift without. You must just try and be very

careful, Ruth, and don't go and get afraid of Naylor; she's a good woman

at heart.'

'Yes,' said the girl, 'I'll do my best;' but she gave a little sigh

nevertheless. There is no such thing as perfect happiness in this world,

Ruth was beginning to find.

The next few days were full of bustle, rather pleasant bustle than

otherwise. There were her 'things' to see to, one or two new dresses to

get made, the choosing of which had been deferred till her prospects

were certain, though Mrs. Perry was far too neat and methodical not to

have the rest of her daughter's modest wardrobe in good order. There was

the purchase of her box, and the presenting of different little gifts

by her brothers and some of her school-fellows; there was the bidding

goodbye to the neighbours, and the farewell tea-drinking in the vicarage

nursery, where Ruth was a great favourite, and had sometimes spent a few

days when extra help had been needed. Altogether the little maiden felt

herself something of a heroine in her way, and though the tears were not

_very_ far off when the eventful Thursday came, she managed to keep them

from falling, and to wave back a last goodbye to mother, with a smiling

face, from the window of the third-class railway carriage as the train

whizzed out of Wharton station.

She had hardly time to realise she was off before it pulled up again at

Hopley. Ruth could almost have found it in her heart to wish she had

been going a _little_ farther away; it would have seemed rather grander!

But here she was; and there was Cousin Ellen on the platform looking out

for her, a vision which Ruth was by no means sorry to see, in spite of

her valour.

'How good of you to come to meet me, Cousin Ellen!' said the girl

gratefully, as she kissed her.

'I thought you'd be glad to have me,' said Mossop, as we must call her.

She glanced round a little nervously as she spoke. The Tower House

dog-cart was standing at the gate, and a young groom was directing the

porter to lift up the box. He was scarcely within earshot, but Mossop

lowered her voice. 'I just wanted to tell you, Ruth, love,' she said,

'you must call me Mrs. Mossop now as the others do. And I must not seem

to favour you, you know--mother explained, didn't she?'

'Yes,' said Ruth, 'yes, cou----, Mrs. Mossop I mean. I'll be particular,'

but her heart sank a little--it seemed so formal and strange. Mossop saw

the look on her face.

'Don't look so frightened, dear,' she said. 'You'll get used to it all,

soon. Only I wanted you to understand, so that you won't feel hurt if

I treat you just as I would another in your place. Now jump in--that's

right. Yes, thank you, Joseph, that's all,' and off they drove.

It was not quite strange to Ruth. She had been several times at Hopley,

and once, as we have seen, to the Tower House. But places wear a

different air when we know we have come to them 'for good,' and though

all looked bright and pleasant that still summer afternoon, Ruth caught

herself wondering if she would ever think Hopley as pretty as Wharton,

or the newly-restored church, of which she caught a glimpse through the

trees, as beautiful as the old, ivy-covered one 'at home.'

There was no question of seeing Lady Melicent that evening, but to Ruth

the making acquaintance with her seven or eight fellow-servants was even

more formidable. Naylor, a thin, grave-faced, middle-aged woman, shook

hands with her civilly enough, and told Betsy the kitchenmaid to take

her up to the bedroom they were to share together. Then came tea in the

servants' hall, at which Mrs. Mossop was not present. But the others were

kindly, and after it was over Naylor took her up-stairs and showed her

what there was to do in the evening, adding that she had better get her

box unpacked, so as to be ready to begin work regularly the next morning.

'And if there's anything you don't understand,' the upper-housemaid went

on, 'be sure you ask me. Don't go on muddling for want of a word or two.'

'Thank you,' said Ruth. But she felt rather confused. The house seemed

very large to her, and compared with the vicarage at Wharton, which had

been hitherto her model of elegance and spaciousness, it was so. And

being rambling and old-fashioned, it appeared to a stranger larger than

it really was.

'The first thing you have to do of a morning is to sweep and dust my

lady's "boudore,"' said Naylor, 'and the book-room at the end of the

passage opening from it. Then you'll come to me in the drawing-room,

and I'll show you what to do. But there's no need for you to touch

the ornaments, neither in the "boudore" nor the book-room. I do those

myself, the last thing when the rooms are finished.'

'Yes, thank you,' said Ruth again.

'My lady is very particular about her china. She has some very rare,

though the best is behind glass and under lock and key, I'm glad to say.'

Then she sent the girl off to her unpacking, which would not have taken

her long had she not lost her way by wandering up a wrong stair, and

having to come down again to the kitchen to ask for Betsy's guidance,

which made all the servants laugh except Naylor, who looked rather sour.

But she smoothed down again when Ruth reappeared in a quarter of an

hour, armed with her little work-box, to announce that her things were

all arranged, and she was ready to do any sewing required. Naylor soon

found her some pillowcases in want of repair, and Ruth sat quietly at

work till supper, for her, soon followed by bedtime.

And so her first evening passed, and if some tears fell on her Testament

as she read her verses, they were not very many nor bitter.

'I'll do my best,' she thought, 'and it'll be nice to write home in a

few days and tell dear mother and all, that I'm getting on well.'

CHAPTER II.--AN ACCIDENT AND A SCOLDING.

The Tower House, as I have said, was rambling and old-fashioned. Lady

Melicent's boudoir was a pretty, simply-furnished room on the first

floor; a long passage with windows at one side led from this to what

most people would have called the library, but for which my lady

preferred the less imposing name of book-room. This book-room was in

the square tower which gave its name to the house; it had a window on

every side, and all the wall-space that was not window was covered with

well-filled bookshelves. It had a second door besides the one out of

the passage; this second door led on to another and narrower lobby from

which a stair ran down to the back part of the house. So that when Ruth

had finished her morning sweeping and dusting of these rooms, she did

not need to pass through them again, but withdrew with her brushes and

dusters down the back-stairs.

The ornaments of which Naylor had spoken were some delicate old china

cups and saucers and teapots on the boudoir mantelpiece, and on one or

two brackets in the corners. In the book-room there were fewer; only

a handsome old timepiece above the fireplace and some punch-bowls and

Indian vases on a side-table. It was all very interesting and wonderful

to Ruth when she found herself installed in the boudoir for her cleaning

the next morning. She took the greatest pains to do it thoroughly and

neatly, and was careful to put back everything, even to my lady's

paper-knife on her little table, exactly as she had found it.

Then, looking round with satisfaction, she turned to the passage leading

to the book-room. The morning sun was streaming in brightly, for the

windows were to the east, and as Ruth stepped along, her eyes fell with

admiration on an old carved cabinet standing against the wall. It had

glass doors, and was filled with delicate and costly china, principally

figures, which Ruth admired more than cups and saucers. On the top of

the cabinet, outside, were also some beautiful things. A box, or casket,

especially attracted her; it was of bright green--malachite was the name

of the stone, but that Ruth did not know--set in gold, and it gleamed

brilliantly in the sunshine.

'My goodness!' thought the little housemaid, 'it is splendid. I never

saw such a colour. But how dusty the top of the cabinet is! How I would

like to lift all the things off--there's not so many--and dust it well;

but I mustn't, I suppose. Naylor said none of the ornaments.'

So she only gave another admiring glance and hastened to the book-room,

just finishing her work there in time to tidy herself a little for

prayers.

Lady Melicent read these herself, and when they were over, she called

back Naylor, who led Ruth forward.

'I am glad to see you, Ruth,' said the old lady with the smile that had

so won her young handmaiden's heart. 'You will feel a little strange at

first, but that will soon go off. Pay great attention to what Naylor

tells you, and I have no doubt you will get on nicely.'

Then with a word or two of inquiry after her mother, she dismissed the

eager blushing girl.

'A sweet girl and a good one, or I am much mistaken,' thought Lady

Melicent, as she poured out her coffee. 'I am sure I shall be able to

trust Flossie with her, and there will be some time before that for her

to get used to the place, and for Naylor to judge of her.'

The next few days passed quickly. Ruth was fully occupied in learning

her work, of which, though not too much, there was enough. It was only

at night sometimes, if she happened to be lying awake after placid,

good-natured Betsy was asleep, not to say snoring, that Ruth felt a

little, 'a very little,' she said to herself, homesick. But it always

passed off again by the next morning, and she wrote cheerfully to her

mother. Of Cousin Ellen she saw little, but this she was prepared for.

On Sundays, however, Mossop generally managed to have a little walk and

talk with her young relative, and often got leave for Ruth to go with

her to the evening service.

Ruth had been about three weeks at the Tower House when the first cloud

appeared on her fair horizon. It happened thus. At eleven o'clock every

morning a small basin of beef-tea was carried up to Lady Melicent in her

boudoir. Mrs. Mossop always saw to this herself, and herself as a rule

carried down the pretty china bowl with a cover and stand in which the

soup was served. For this bowl was a favourite of the old lady's; it had

been a present from her daughter. Now one day Lady Melicent had a slight

cold, and as it was chilly and rainy, a fire was lighted by Naylor at

her desire in the boudoir, early in the morning. It so happened that

Mossop was unusually busy, and after having carried up the beef-tea, she

did not return to the boudoir to fetch the empty basin. Later in the day

Ruth met Naylor on the back-stairs.

'Oh dear,' said the housemaid, whose arms were filled with linen from

the laundry, 'I do hope my lady's fire's all right. Run in, Ruth,

there's a good girl, and see to it. My lady's down at luncheon in the

dining-room.'

Off flew willing Ruth. Doubly willing on account of Naylor's

graciousness. For it was not often the upper-housemaid was so amiable.

She was only just in time to rescue the fire, but with a little skill

and patience she got it to burn brightly, and getting up from her knees

she turned to leave the room. As she did so, she caught sight of the

china basin.

'Cousin Ellen has forgotten it,' she said to herself; 'I'll take it

down.'

She reached forward to lift it, but she was a little embarrassed by

the wood and coals she was carrying, and somehow--who ever can say

exactly how such things happen?--her hand slipped, or the bowl slipped,

or her foot slipped--anyway the china fell to the ground, and darting

forward to pick it up, Ruth saw to her horror that the basin was broken

into several pieces. The poor girl was sadly distressed. Still she did

not think it so _very_ bad, for she knew nothing of the history of the

china. She gathered it together, and went slowly down-stairs in search

of Naylor. She met her just at the kitchen door.

'O Naylor,' she said anxiously, 'I am so sorry. I've had an accident,

and my lady's soup-bowl is broke.'

She held it out as she spoke; she was not afraid; she was just simply,

as she said 'so sorry,' but quite unprepared for the storm that burst

upon her. How Naylor did scold! Every sharp word she could think of was

hurled at Ruth; strangest of all she was almost the _most_ blamed for

having done as she had been told, in at once and straight-forwardly

telling what had occurred.

'Bold, impudent, and impertinent girl that you are, to come like that,

as cool as a cucumber. "O Naylor, I've broke my lady's bowl,"' and here

she imitated the girl's tone and voice in a very insulting way, 'as if

you'd something pleasant to tell.'

Pale and trembling, Ruth stood endeavouring to keep back her tears. 'If

I could match it,' she said, 'I'd do anything.'

'Match it!' said Naylor contemptuously. 'Why, Mrs. Vyner brought it

herself from Paris, or somewhere farther off still. It's china as you

never sees the likes of in a shop. _Match_ it, indeed!'

'I didn't know'---- began the girl, but it was no use; her sobs and tears

burst out, and she rushed away--up to her own room, nearly knocking down

Mossop on the stair.

'Why, child, whatever's the?'---- she began; but Ruth only shook her head

and flew on. She had been warned not to complain to Cousin Ellen, and

she wasn't going to do so. She cried till her eyes were 'like boiled

gooseberries,' and then, suddenly remembering where she was, and that

she had her work to do, she tried to cure them by plunging her face into

cold water, and with aching head and still more sorely aching heart,

crept down-stairs with her needlework to the corner of the servants'

hall where she sat of an afternoon.

'If only I could run away! oh, if only I could run home!' she said to

herself.

Betsy consoled her in her own way, which was not a very wise one, though

kindly meant, when the two girls were alone in their room at night.

'_I_ wouldn't take on like that for all the chinay bowls in the world,'

she said. 'Things must get broken sometimes. Not but what you brought it

on yourself by telling. I'd have left it there where it fell, and let

them think the cat did it.'

'But, Betsy, I promised my lady and mother too, as I'd always tell if I

had any accident,' wept Ruth.

'And what did my lady promise?' said Betsy. 'Leastways _I_ was promised

as I'd never be scolded if I up and told if I broke anything. Catch me!

I'll not risk it. And if you'd any sense, you'd not trust their fine

words no more than I do.'

'It wasn't my lady. I don't believe she'd scold. But Naylor is really

_dreadful_ when she loses her temper,' and Ruth shivered at the mere

recollection.

'Then take my advice, and don't you tell on yourself never again, whatever

happens.'

Ruth did not answer. She was tired out, and did not feel as if she could

argue with Betsy. The next day things had calmed down again. Naylor was

quiet and rather subdued, and nothing more, rather to Ruth's surprise,

was said about the bowl. But the girl felt nervous and upset. It seemed

to her as if it would be long before she got back the happy bright

confidence she had been so full of.

But Ruth was very young; at her age troubles _do_ melt away, however

terrible they seem at the time. She had felt inclined at first to write

off a long letter to her mother, telling her how miserable she was, and

how she didn't think she _could_ bear it. But a little reflection showed

her that this would only make Mrs. Perry very dull and uneasy about her,

and still more that if 'father or the boys' got hold of the letter--and

it would, she knew, be rather hard for mother to keep it from them--they

might insist on her being fetched home again, and there would be a nice

ending to her first start in life! How everyone would laugh at her,

and besides--would she not _deserve_ to be laughed at, if she showed so

little courage and patience? On the whole she decided to wait a bit,

and in this I think she was right. It is a very different thing when a

girl away from home conceals from her parents anything really _wrong_:

Ruth had not done wrong; and indeed no one was much to blame for the

trouble, except Naylor for losing her temper. And--and--after all, Ruth

asked herself, would it be _quite_ nice for her to write off a long

description of the housemaid's infirmity, for a real infirmity it was?

She did not want to lower Lady Melicent's household, and perhaps have

Naylor gossiped about in the neighbourhood through her. For there was no

saying how her indignant brothers might chatter. Anyway she would wait

till she could have a talk with Cousin Ellen.

This came on Sunday. As Ruth was starting for the children's service in

the afternoon, which she had been told she might always attend, as it

only came once a month, she heard some one calling her, and standing

still to see who it was, in another moment Mrs. Mossop appeared.

'O Cousin Ellen,' said Ruth joyfully, 'are you coming to church? I am

so glad.'

'I thought maybe you'd like a walk and a talk with me,' said the

lady's-maid. 'I've not seen you to speak to since Wednesday, and I

thought it best not to seem to be seeking you. But I _was_ sorry, child;

sorry both for you and for the accident. You must be very careful, Ruth.'

'I was as sorry as sorry could be,' said the girl. 'Indeed I'd have

done _anything_ if I could have got another bowl. But--did you know how

Naylor spoke to me, Cousin Ellen?' and Ruth hesitated a little. 'It was

just awful.'

'I know how she is,' said Mossop, 'but it's no use thinking about it.

I was just glad of one thing, and that was that you told at once.'

Ruth hardly seemed to feel this cheering.

'I could almost have wished I hadn't told,' she said. 'I don't know

_what_ I'll do if ever I have to tell anything again.'

'Don't say that, my dear,' said Mossop, eagerly. 'After all, Naylor

isn't my lady, and it's her temper. You'll find it much worse in the end

if you hid anything, believe me. Have you written to your mother about

it?'

'No,' said Ruth, 'I thought I'd wait,' and she went on to explain her

reasons. Mossop approved of them.

'Yes,' she said, 'wait a bit. Writing makes things seem so much worse.

Telling is different. Maybe I'll be going over to Wharton some day, and

I could tell your mother. You'll feel all right again soon, and it's to

be hoped you'll have no more bad luck. I can't say but what I was very

put out myself about that basin--real "Severs" it was. I suppose, to go

to the roots of things, it was my fault for having left it about. I said

so to my lady.'

'Oh dear, Cousin Ellen, I'm sure no one could ever think _you_ to blame,'

said Ruth. 'Indeed, indeed, I will try to be careful.'

Her tone was rather melancholy still. Mossop looked at her with a little

smile.

'I'm much mistaken if you won't be hearing something in a day or two

that'll cheer you up. But I mustn't tell you about it.'

And Ruth could not persuade her to say more.

[Illustration]

CHAPTER III.--THE OLD CABINET IN THE PASSAGE.

The very day that Ruth was crying about the broken basin, a conversation

which concerned her, though she little knew it, was going on a good many

miles away.

In a pretty room in a large country-house--a much larger and 'grander'

house than the Towers, a lady, sweet and young, was lying on a sofa.

In front of her stood a little girl--a pretty little creature of eight

or nine. She had a bright expression usually, but just now she seemed

uncomfortable and ill at ease. She fidgeted from one foot to the other,

and frowned as she looked down, and her face was flushed.

'Tell me, Flossie,' said the lady. 'You're quite old enough to explain.

Why don't you want to go to grandmamma's? I should feel so happy about

you with her while I am away, and then papa and I will come to fetch you

when I am quite strong again.'

'Mayn't I go with you, mamma?' said the child.

Mrs. Vyner shook her head.

'No, dear, it is impossible. You must either go to grandmamma's or stay

here with Miss Kelly. And if you don't go to the Towers, I must tell

grandmamma that you don't want to go.'

'No, no,' said Flossie, 'don't do that, mamma; I'll go, but please don't

be long away. And please tell grandmamma that I'm too little to be always

in her room. Mayn't I have a nursery, like at home?'

'I thought you loved being a great deal with grandmamma,' said Mrs. Vyner

in a disappointed tone. 'I don't understand you, Flossie. However, you

are to have a sort of nursery, and there is a very nice young servant

there who is to take you out and amuse you. For I should be sorry to

disappoint Miss Kelly of her holiday when she has had none for so long.'

Florentia's face brightened a little.

'I'll go into the boudoir as seldom as I can, and _never_ along the

passage to the book-room,' she murmured to herself, but her mother did

not catch the words.

It was a week or so after this--fully a week, it may have been ten days,

after Ruth's accident--that Lady Melicent sent for her one morning to

speak to her. Ruth felt just a little frightened; surely nothing was

going to be said about the basin _now_, so long after?

But the old lady's kind face reassured her.

'I sent for you, Ruth,' she said, 'to tell you that for a few weeks your

work is going to be a little changed. Not disagreeably so, I hope. My

little grand-daughter, Miss Vyner--Miss Flossie they generally call

her--is coming to stay with me while her parents are abroad. Her nursery

governess is to have a holiday, so we must take care of her ourselves.

Mossop will superintend, but you, Ruth, will be with her altogether. You

will dress her, and take her out and amuse her. I feel that I may have

confidence in you, for you have been carefully brought up, and you have

shown that you are obedient and straightforward. I was sorry for my bowl

to be broken, and I hope in future you will be more careful, but I was

very glad you told about it.'

Ruth flushed a little; partly with shame, for she did feel she had been

careless, but more with pleasure. She was glad to have pleased Lady

Melicent, and she was delighted to hear the news. To be under Cousin

Ellen instead of Naylor was nice of itself, and to have the care of

little Miss Flossie _would_ be a treat!

'Thank you very much, my lady,' she said timidly. 'I will do my best,

and indeed I will try to be more careful.'

She felt in such good spirits the next day or two, that she did not mind

the _rather_ grim looks she got from Naylor. Not that Naylor minded a

little extra work to oblige my lady, but she felt sure Ruth would have

her head turned once she was removed from _her_ authority, even for a

time.

A week, then a fortnight, passed. All was ready for the little visitor.

Two days before her arrival Ruth was sweeping the passage leading to the

book-room early one morning, when her glance again fell on the cabinet

and its contents. It was a very sunny day, and the bright rays showed

off as before the green casket, and revealed at the same time that the

cabinet was very dusty indeed. Ruth drew near. To a very tidy, expert

housemaid there is a sort of fascination in dust. Her fingers quivered.

'I'm _sure_ Naylor often forgets that cabinet,' she said. 'She'd much

better let me do it. And what's more, I will, just for this once.'

She lifted off carefully some of the ornaments, and placed them safely

on the floor. Then she raised the green casket, admiring it as she did

so, when, oh horror! The lid seemed in some extraordinary way to detach

itself, and fell to the ground with a sharp sound; and when the girl,

trembling with fear, stooped to pick it up, she saw it was in two pieces;

a corner, a good-sized corner, was broken off! For a moment or two, Ruth

was really too appalled to move; then she looked at it closely. It was

a neat fracture, by replacing it on the box, and 'standing' the whole

on the cabinet again, the breakage did not show. Just then Ruth heard

Naylor's voice; quick as thought she put back the two or three uninjured

ornaments beside the casket as usual, and flew down the passage to the

book-room, and there Naylor found her a few minutes later, quietly

dusting. The temptation to conceal this new misfortune was too great,

and Ruth yielded to it.

At first she only said to herself she would wait till the evening--Naylor

was in a fussy humour, she could see. But evening came, and then next

morning, and her courage grew ever fainter, till at last came the

day Miss Flossie was expected, and _then_ Ruth felt it was too late.

She could not tell _now_, and have a scene like the last time, just

as the little lady arrived. And evidently Naylor had not discovered

the breakage, though the cabinet and the ornaments were carefully

dusted. This puzzled Ruth a little; she could only suppose that the

upper-housemaid dusted with her feather brush without moving the things

about. And she tried to put the matter altogether out of her mind,

though there were times--when she knelt to say her prayers, morning and

evening, was the worst time--that she could not succeed in doing so, and

more than one night she cried herself to sleep, crying more bitter tears

than even the day Naylor had been so harsh and unkind. For _then_ Ruth's

conscience was clear. Ah, the difference that makes!

Florentia proved to be a quiet, easily-managed child. Indeed she was

rather too quiet in the opinion of her grandmother and the old servants,

who had known her much more lively.

'Are you quite well, darling?' asked Lady Melicent one day. 'I never

hear you racing about and laughing as you did in the winter. Wouldn't

you like a nice game of ball in the long passage? You could play with

Ruth at the end near the book-room where there is no furniture.'

'No, thank you, Granny,' the little girl replied. 'I'd rather go out

a walk with Ruth. I like best playing in the garden.'

'And you like Ruth, dear? She is kind to you, I am sure?'

'Yes, thank you, grandmamma. I like Ruth, and she likes playing in the

garden best too.'

A sudden thought struck Lady Melicent. 'Flossie,' she said, 'will you

run and fetch me the atlas which you will see lying on the side-table in

the book-room. Your mother wants me to show you where they are now, on

the map.'

Flossie hesitated. Lady Melicent and she were in the boudoir.

'In the book-room?' she repeated.

'Yes,' said her grandmother decidedly, 'in the book-room. Be quick,

dear.'

Flossie went. But she was not quick, and when after some minutes she

returned, she seemed rather out of breath.

'Why have you been so long? It doesn't take a minute to run down the

passage,' said the old lady.

Flossie grew red.

'I went the other way,' she said. 'I don't like the passage. I went

down-stairs, and up the back-stairs.'

Her grandmother looked at her keenly.

'What a strange idea!' she said. 'Do you think there is an ogre in the

passage?'

But Flossie did not laugh or even smile. And just then Ruth came to

fetch her. Lady Melicent sighed when she was left alone. 'I wonder,' she

thought, 'if I took Ruth into my confidence, if perhaps she might help

to make Flossie tell. I can see the child will not be happy till she

does, and I do not want to ask her. I should be so afraid of making her

deny it. Ruth behaved so well about my beef-tea bowl, I am sure she has

nothing underhand about her.'

And the old lady looked quite anxious and depressed.

Ruth and her little charge meanwhile were sauntering slowly up and down

the garden. In spite of Flossie's saying that it amused her to 'play'

in the garden, it did not look very like it. She seemed spiritless and

dull, and Ruth too appeared to have lost her usual bright happy eagerness.

Neither spoke for some time; at last Ruth half started, as it suddenly

struck her that she was scarcely fulfilling her duty.

'Miss Flossie, dear,' she said, 'wouldn't you like a game? It's not warm

to-day, and we're walking along so slowly. Shall I fetch your ball or

your hoop? Or would you like to run races?'

'No, thank you; I'd rather just walk along,' said the child. Then after

a moment's silence she went on. 'I don't like much being at the Tower

House now. Do you like it, Ruth? Would you not rather be at your own

home?'

Ruth hesitated.

'Yes, for some things I would,' she said. 'But I was very pleased to

come here.'

'_Were_ you?' said Flossie, rather incredulously. 'You don't look very

happy. I thought so the first day. I wrote to mother that you had a kind

face, but not a happy one.'

'_Did_ you, Miss Flossie?' exclaimed Ruth, rather taken aback. 'Well, at

home I was called the merriest of everybody, and, and--I've been merry

here sometimes.'

'But you're not now, Ruth,' said Flossie gravely. Then she peered up

into the little maid's face with her big gray eyes. 'I'll tell you what,

Ruth,' she said, 'I believe you've something on your mind. It's very bad

to have something on your mind. _I know about it_,' she went on

mysteriously.

Ruth grew scarlet.

'You know about me having something on my mind, Miss Flossie,' she said.

'What do you mean?'

Flossie did not at once answer.

'I hate passing that way,' she murmured to herself. 'I shut my eyes

tight not to see the cabi----. What are you staring at me like that for,

Ruth?' she broke off suddenly, finding the girl's eyes fixed upon her.

'I only said it's very bad to have something on your mind, and so it

is.'

Ruth by this time was as pale as she had been red.

'But what do you mean--how do you know, Miss Flossie? How do you know

I have anything on my mind, and what were you saying about the old

cabinet?'

'I was speaking to myself. You shouldn't listen,' said Flossie crossly.

'_I've_ something on my mind, but you needn't ask about it. You may be

sorry for me, just as I'm sorry for you, but you needn't ask questions

about what it is.'

'I--I wasn't asking questions,' said Ruth, more and more bewildered. 'I

was only wondering why--what--what made you speak of the old cabinet in

the passage? Did anyone--Naylor or anyone--say anything about it since

you came, Miss Flossie?'

It was Flossie's turn to start.

'No,' she said, 'of course not. Nobody knows--oh, I wish I hadn't come

here!' she suddenly broke off, 'and I wish you wouldn't speak of horrid

things, Ruth. You weren't here in the winter; you couldn't know. And oh,

I _am_ so unhappy,' and throwing herself into Ruth's arms, the little

girl burst into loud weeping.

[Illustration]

CHAPTER IV.--A DOUBLE CONFESSION.

This was what was on little Flossie's mind, and on her grandmother's

mind too, for that matter! It had happened several months ago, during

the child's last visit to the Tower House.

One day Flossie had a cold. Not a very bad one, but enough to make her

cross and uncomfortable. She was tired of reading, tired of her dolls,

tired of everything, and it was a very woebegone-looking little girl

that came to say good-night to grandmamma.

'I wish I'd something to amuse me,' she said dolefully. 'If my cold

isn't better to-morrow and I can't go out, I don't know what to do all

day.'

Lady Melicent considered.

'I'll tell you what, Flossie,' she said. 'You might make some bead-mats.

That would amuse you. I have some very pretty beads in the green casket

that stands on the old cabinet in the passage--at least I think they're

there. I'll see to-morrow.'

Flossie jumped with pleasure.

'Oh, that would be nice, granny. Can't you look for them to-night? I

might make a mat for mamma's birthday. Mayn't I go and look for them?'

'No, dear. The passage is cold, and besides that, the cabinet is too

high for you to reach up to. You might pull over some of the heavy

ornaments and hurt yourself. Wait till to-morrow, and I will find the

beads for you. I won't forget.'

Flossie was sitting reading in the boudoir the next morning, when Lady

Melicent came in with two or three little cardboard boxes in her hand.

She looked at the child.

'Flossie,' she said quietly, 'here are the beads. I found them up-stairs

in my work-box. They were not in the green casket.'

'Thank you, grandmamma,' said Flossie. But she scarcely looked up.

'Don't you care about making the mats now, Flossie?' said Lady Melicent.

'You seemed so pleased with the idea last night.'

'I would like to make a mat for mother very much,' said Flossie, getting

up and coming round to her grandmother.

But that was all she said, and two days after, the little girl left

rather suddenly, as her father came over to fetch her and her cold was

better. And ever since then there had been a little ache in grandmother's

heart about Flossie. For that morning, when she went to look for the

beads in the malachite casket, she had found it broken, and speaking of

it to Naylor, the housemaid had thought it right to tell her that it was

Miss Flossie's doing.

'I saw her climbing up on a chair, when I was in the book-room,' said

Naylor. 'And I heard something fall. It was the green box. She put it

back again in its place, but the lid was broke off the hinges, and one

corner off. I'm very sorry, and I'm sure Miss Flossie was, for I heard

her crying.' Flossie was a great favourite of Naylor's.

'I wish she had told me about it herself,' said the old lady with a

sigh. 'But don't say anything about it, Naylor. She will forget about it

probably for the time, but when she comes back again, I hope she will

tell me.'

Flossie did not forget about it, though she tried to do so. But the

broken casket was the mysterious 'something on her mind,' of which she

had spoken to Ruth. And the remembrance of it was what had prevented her

enjoying as usual the thought of a visit to the Tower House, and given

her such a dislike to the long passage which had once been her favourite

play-room.

You can now understand with what a strange mixture of feelings Ruth

listened to Flossie's story. She soothed the poor little girl as well

as she could, though feeling dreadfully ashamed when Flossie went on to

blame herself bitterly.

'It was so naughty and mean of me not to tell granny,' she sobbed,

'for she's always so kind. And sometimes I've been afraid she'd think

somebody else had broken it. Do you think granny has never found it out,

Ruth?'

'I can't say, I'm sure, Miss Flossie,' said Ruth sadly. 'But it's clear

there's only one thing to be done now, and that's for you to tell my

lady yourself all about it.'

'I'll tell her when I go to have my good-night talk with her,' said

Flossie. 'O Ruth, I'll _never_ hide anything again.'

Her words were fervently echoed in Ruth's heart. She was on the point of

confessing her own secret to the little girl, but a moment's reflection

made her hesitate. No, she too must tell all to Lady Melicent herself,

and it must be for her to judge if Flossie should be told.

'And if my lady thinks me not fit to be trusted any more, and I have to

go home in disgrace, I must just bear it. It's my own fault,' thought

Ruth.

It was a tearful but a happy little girl who came trotting up to be

undressed and put to bed at the Tower House that evening.

'Granny has been so kind,' she said, 'and I am so glad I've told her.

It was dreadful to have it on my mind, Ruth dear. And granny has been

telling me how good you were about the basin, and I said to her it was

you that said I must tell. And do you know, she _did_ know I'd broken

it, only she waited for me to tell myself. It's never been mended, but

now she's going to send it to be done.'

Ruth sympathised in Flossie's joy, and the child was too happy to notice

the girl's sadness. All Florentia said only made her own confession the

more difficult.

'There is no real need for it,' said the tempter. 'No one can be blamed

now. Indeed, it was not you who broke it after all.'

But Ruth had a conscience.

Late that evening there came a timid knock at my lady's door, and in

answer to her 'come in,' a pale and trembling girl appeared.

'Ruth!' exclaimed the old lady in surprise. 'Is there anything wrong?'

'Oh no, my lady. Miss Flossie's in bed and asleep, quite happy. It's not

about her. It's--it's--oh, my lady, it's about me. I--I broke, at least

I didn't, but I thought I did, and that's just as bad. I thought I broke

the green casket, and--and--I couldn't bear to tell--just as there'd

been such trouble about the bowl, and--if I must go home, I'll not

complain, my lady. I'--but here she broke down into sobs.

Lady Melicent stared at her in concern.

'You broke or thought you broke the green casket,' she said. 'Why,

Flossie has just been telling me, what indeed I knew already--that _she_

broke it,' and she looked at Ruth as if she half feared that the girl

was dreaming.

'That was how I came to tell myself,' said Ruth. 'Miss Flossie has been

so unhappy about it that at last she could bear it no longer, and this

afternoon in the garden she told me. And then I felt that ashamed to

think that I, more than twice her age, and knowing how wrong it was,

had been hiding what I thought I'd done. It was last week--I knew

I shouldn't touch the cabinet, but it looked so dusty one morning I

felt somehow tempted to do it, and the green box, leastways the lid,

slipped--of course I see now how it was. The hinges were loose, and it

was broke already. But I _thought_ I'd done it, and I couldn't bear to

tell for fear your ladyship should think me really too bad, and just as

Miss Flossie was coming and all. So I waited, and then I got so as I

couldn't tell. I wondered Naylor never noticed it. I wouldn't have let

another be blamed for it. But when she didn't seem to have found it was

broke, I thought I needn't. And now I'm quite ready to go home; it's

only what I deserve.'

'No, Ruth, I should be very sorry for you to go home. I am very glad you

have told me now. You did not tell Miss Flossie?'

'No, my lady. I thought it best to tell you first.'

'That was wise. I think there is no need for Miss Flossie to be told of

it. She has had a lesson herself, and she respects you, Ruth. It may make

you feel ashamed, but that you must bear. I should not like her to lose

her feeling of looking up to you. And I am sure you will be even more

anxious than before to teach her to be perfectly open and straightforward.'

Ruth could scarcely speak; her tears, though they were tears of relief

and gratitude, nearly choked her.

'And,' continued my lady, going on speaking partly for the sake of

giving the girl time to recover her composure, 'I do not think it will

be necessary to tell Naylor, either.'

'Oh, thank you, my lady,' said Ruth fervently. And she could not help

smiling a little, as she caught sight of Lady Melicent's face.

'As for Mossop,' added Lady Melicent, 'I will leave it to you. I daresay

you will like to tell her when you have an opportunity, as you are away

from your mother.'

'Yes, thank you, my lady,' said Ruth again. 'And indeed--I don't think

you will ever have reason to regret your kindness.'

She could scarcely speak yet: the tears were still so near. But little

Flossie was not the only person in the Tower House who fell asleep that

night with a lightened heart and warm gratitude to the dear old lady.

The rest of Flossie's visit passed most cheerily, and Lady Melicent had

not reason to complain that she no longer heard her little visitor's

merry voice and laugh about the house. And a very unexpected event came

to pass before the end of the summer, which greatly added to Ruth's

happiness at Tower House. Naylor got married! Her husband was the

gardener at a neighbouring house; a very meek and mild little man who

gave in to her in everything, so it is to be hoped her temper improved.

The new upper-housemaid was quite as good at 'training' as Naylor, and

by no means so great at scolding, which, I think, no one regretted. And

Lady Melicent lived long enough for Ruth herself in time to be promoted

to what had once been Naylor's post, which she filled with honourable

faithfulness till her dear mistress's death.

In the old lady's will she left 'to her faithful servant Ruth Perry, a

casket of green malachite.' That was many years ago. The green casket

has for long been the most valued ornament of the best room in Ruth's

comfortable farmhouse, and her children, and grandchildren too, have

all heard its story.

[Illustration]

LEO'S POST-OFFICE.

'Oh dear!' said Leo's mother, 'there, I have run out of stamps again.

And I don't like getting them from the servants. It is so apt to cause

mistakes. It is really very stupid of me. Have you any, Marion?'

Marion was Leo's big sister. She was fifteen.

'I have one or two--yes, three,' Marion answered. 'Will that do, mamma?'

'It must do; oh yes, I think there are only three letters that really

matter. I can't send for any so late. The servants are all busy; these

letters can be put in the pillar-box just opposite. But I really must

not let myself run out of stamps in this way.'

'Some days you have so many more letters than others. It must be

difficult to know how many stamps you need,' said Marion, who thought

mamma so perfect that she did not even like to hear her calling herself

'stupid' for running short of stamps.

'I wish we had a post-office in the house,' said Cynthia, the next

sister. 'I did so want a postcard to send to Fletcher's to order my new

piece of music, and when I was out I forgot to get any, though mamma

said I might buy a whole packet. It's cheaper--for you get twelve for

eightpence, and if you buy one at a time it's a penny each.'

'Or two for three-halfpence,' said Leo. 'That would make ninepence for

twelve, not eightpence.'

'That's just like Leo,' said Cynthia; 'he's always counting about money

and things like that. You're a regular little merchant, Leo.'

'Don't laugh at him,' said his mother. 'He is very careful and exact,

and being careful and exact doesn't need to make anyone selfish or

miserly. Leo has always money ready for birthdays and Christmas

presents.'

Leo looked pleased, but he did not say anything; he was always rather

a silent little boy. But later that same evening, when he knew that his

mother would be alone, he came up to her quietly.

'Mamma,' he said, 'I want to ask you something. Would you mind letting

me have a little money out of my packet?'

'What for, dear?' she asked.

Leo grew rather red.

'It was what you were saying about running out of stamps that put it

in my head,' he said. 'And what Cynthia said too about my being like a

merchant--I would like to be a merchant, mamma, if that means selling

things. I'd awfully like to have a shop, but of course I can't--at least

not a proper shop. But oh, mamma, I've been thinking if I might have a

post-office,' and Leo's eyes gleamed with eagerness.

'A post-office, my dear boy!' said his mother, 'how _could_ you have a

post-office?'

'Oh, of course I don't mean a regular post-office. I couldn't have

telegraphs, nor get people to post their letters in our letter-box. You

wouldn't like it, would you, mamma?' he said gravely. 'But I just mean

a post-office for selling stamps, and postcards, and perhaps newspaper

wrappers. And wouldn't it be nice for you, mamma, always to be able to

get stamps in a minute, however late it was--you'd never have to say

you'd run out of them, then?'

[Illustration: THE LARGE ORDER]

Mamma smiled.

'Yes, that would be very nice, certainly,' she said. 'But it wouldn't

be much good to _you_, Leo, if you gave your trouble and lent your

money for nothing? You should make some profit, even if it were only

a halfpenny on a dozen stamps.'

'Or a penny on twelve postcards,' said Leo consideringly. 'I might buy a

whole packet and sell them in ones or twos. That would be very nice. But

even without that, I would so like to have a post-office, mamma. It

would really be a help to you.'

So it was settled. Mamma gave Leo five shillings out of his 'packet,'

which was a private savings-bank she kept for him, and Leo, as happy as

a king, set off to the chemist's shop round the corner, which was the

nearest post-office in the neighbourhood, and laid out the whole five

shillings in penny stamps, halfpenny stamps, a packet of postcards,

another of newspaper wrappers, a few twopence-halfpenny stamps, and two

or three foreign postcards, just in case mamma were writing to France,

or Germany, as she sometimes did. The chemist did look rather astonished

at such extensive purchases, but he was very civil and obliging; and as

he was a nice man, Leo felt glad he had gone to him instead of to the

big post-office a quarter of a mile off.

'For he must gain something on as much as five shillings,' thought Leo.

Then he came home and began to make his arrangements. He had to

consult his sisters about them, but they were very kind and very much

interested, and were quite pleased that the post-office should be in the

schoolroom, which of course was as much their room as Leo's.

There was a little old-fashioned cupboard or bookcase in the schoolroom,

in which, above the enclosed part which had glass doors, were two little

drawers not used for anything in particular. On these drawers Leo had

set his heart. 'They would be just the thing,' he thought. And luckily

Marion and Cynthia thought the same. So the drawers were cleared of such

contents as they had, and Leo set to work.

In one drawer he arranged all his wares, as neatly as possible--using

the lids of some old cardboard boxes as divisions. There were the penny

stamps in one, the halfpenny ones in another, the wrappers and post-cards

behind. And as of course Leo could not stand all day long at the

post-office to wait for people coming to buy, he made the second drawer

into his 'till.' In this he made divisions too, one for the money paid

for stamps, another for that for postcards, and so on. Each division was

marked accordingly, so that every morning or evening he could count up

his sales, and see that all was right. Besides all this, he wrote out

in his neatest, roundest writing a set of _rules_ for 'Hertford Square

Post-office,' as he called it, and to the card on which these rules were

written he fastened a pencil by a long string, as he had seen done in

real post-offices for telegrams, and a number of tiny little papers on

which everybody who bought stamps was to mark down the number they had

had, and to drop the little paper into the drawer.

And then with great triumph he summoned mamma and his sisters, and Miss

Nesbitt, and nurse, and the butler, and in short everybody he could get

hold of, to come and admire.

'It is really very neat and nice,' said mamma; and by way of 'handsel'

or 'good-luck' to the new post-office, she immediately bought six stamps,

for which she gave a whole penny extra, though Leo explained that of

course he did not expect that _usually_.

'I hope your rules will be kept,' said Marion who had been reading them

over. 'The principal one is about paying at once. Well, of course,

that's a very good rule. It is so easy to forget to pay for such little

things, if one doesn't do it at once. And then about the time of closing

every evening.'

'At eight o'clock--when I go to bed,' Leo said. 'I shall come round then

for the last time and shut up.'

'But,' said Cynthia, '_supposing_ mamma wanted a stamp quite late at

night. It might happen, you know, and that was to be the good of having

a post-office in the house. And if you had locked them all up'----

'I can't lock them up,' said Leo; 'there's no key.'

'Well then,' said Marion, 'I think you should make a rule that if mamma

wants anything after eight, she should be allowed to have it, or if

any one else does, they might too, if they got her to sign one of the

papers. Of course it wouldn't often happen, but just in case.'

'Very well,' Leo agreed; 'I'll add on that new rule,' and so he did.

All went well for some time. The stock, of stamps especially, was sold

out several times in the course of the first week or two, and everybody

paid regularly. Once or twice, it must be owned, Cynthia forgot to pay,

and more than once or twice people forgot to mark down what they had

taken. But Cynthia was always ready with her pennies as soon as Leo

asked her, and except for this the money was all right. More than

all right indeed, for one day a friend of his mother's made such big

purchases that he was quite cleared out, and had to set off to the

chemist's at once, and thanks to this and to other smaller profits, by

the end of the first week he had gained threepence, and by the end of

the second, twopence-halfpenny more.

So Leo began to think his post-office a great success.

But one morning he had a start.

He had left all quite correct the evening before; the money was right,

and he knew exactly how many stamps he had left, when he had made his

last round, as he called it, at bedtime; but this morning, though the

money was the same, the stamps were not; three penny ones were gone.

[Illustration: One morning he had a start.]

Leo counted them all over and over again, 'to be quite sure,' even

though in his heart he had been quite sure from the first. Then he ran

up-stairs to ask his mother if possibly she had taken them after he was

in bed, and forgotten to mark them down. No, mamma had not had any. Leo

began to look quite distressed.

'Don't worry about it,' said his mother. 'It's the first time anything

has gone wrong. I will pay the threepence, dear. It has just been some

mistake.'

Leo thanked her and ran off, determining to count more carefully than

ever. And for two or three days all was right. Then again, one morning,

it happened again that stamps were missing. Two penny and one halfpenny

this time!

'Dear, dear,' thought Leo, 'I don't like this at all,' and again mamma

was consulted. 'If this goes on,' he said, 'I must give it up.'

But mamma advised him to wait a little; perhaps some one would remember

having taken them.

So Leo waited, though far from easy in his mind. Only one thing consoled

him.

'If it was a robber,' he thought, 'they'd have been _more_ likely to

take the pennies than the stamps.'

[Illustration: "IT REALLY IS VERY QUEER"]

For some days poor Leo was in great trouble about the strange

disappearance of his stamps. He asked everybody, but nobody had had any

they had not paid for. And he was sure nobody in the house would say

what was not true. He began to think of robbers and burglars, only, as

Benjamin the footman reminded him, 'It wasn't common-sense to suppose

burglars'd steal postage-stamps and nought else; not that there was much

chance of silver plate about. Mr. Trev, the butler, and he--Benjamin

himself--was a deal too sharp.'

Benjamin seemed a little cross about the stamps, and so did Trev, Leo

thought. And mamma advised him to say no more about it. If it happened

again--well, she began to be afraid he would have to give up his

post-office, and for some evenings, to make quite sure, she counted them

over herself with him at bedtime, and as they each time proved right the

next morning, she almost thought Leo must have miscounted.

But alas! Two mornings after that, and again stamps were missing, two

this time, and, by way of variety this time, a newspaper wrapper!

'It really is very queer,' said Leo's mother when he flew to tell her

of the new troubles. 'I really do feel as if I would like to find out

who takes them. I've a great mind to sit up late one evening and watch.'

'Oh no, mamma, please don't,' said poor Leo, looking quite frightened;

'at least if you do, you must let me sit up too. Just think if it was

real robbers,' for he could not quite get the idea out of his head that

burglars after all might have to do with it.

Mamma laughed, but still she promised him that she would choose a night

when his father was at home.

'I don't think I should care to sit up late all alone,' she said, 'even

though I don't think it likely that burglars are stealing your stamps,

Leo.'

Now I must explain that Leo's father was a _very_ busy man. Some

evenings he did not get home till long after not only Leo, but his big

sisters and even his mother, were in bed, and sometimes he had to go off

so early in the morning that for several days together, now and then,

they scarcely saw him. This was a great trouble to them all, for they

were very fond indeed of their father, and he was very fond of them. But

it could not be helped for the present, though Leo was already looking

forward to the time when he should 'be a man,' and able to help papa.

Lately, since Leo had started his post-office, his father had been even

extra busy, and if he had heard about the matter at all, he had not paid

much attention, or else he had quite forgotten it. The schoolroom in

these children's house was at the end of the hall, and between it and

the dining-room was a tiny little book-room or study, where their father

kept all his own papers, and where he used to write when he _was_ at

home. Sometimes when he came home very late and let himself in with his

latchkey, he would go straight to this little room, where a good fire

was kept up, and there he would write answers to any letters he found

waiting for him, and leave them on the hall-table all ready to be posted

the _very_ first thing in the morning by whichever of the servants was

the earliest about; but I don't think any of the children or their

mother knew of this custom of his, as it had never happened to come in

their way.

The very evening of the day on which Leo and his mother had been talking

so seriously about the missing stamps, papa, for a wonder, came home

quite early. It was really a great treat to them all. He had dinner quite

comfortably with mamma, and after dinner, when Marion and Cynthia and

Leo were all in the drawing-room as usual, they kept saying to each

other _how_ nice it was to have papa with them.

'If only you could come home every day as early as this,' said Cynthia

to him.

'But perhaps if I could, you wouldn't think so much of me,' said her

father laughing.

'And I'm afraid mamma wouldn't let me sit up till nine _every_ night,'

said Leo, who had got an hour's grace this evening. 'Mamma,' he went on,

coming close to her and whispering, 'do you think you'll sit up to-night

and _watch_? I wouldn't mind you doing it with papa, you know.'

'I'll see about it,' said his mother, smiling, while his father looked

up and asked what they were whispering about--it was a shame to have

secrets from him when he was so seldom at home!

And as he spoke, he got up slowly from his comfortable chair by the

fire.

'I'm afraid I must go down-stairs to the study,' he said. 'I have some

letters to write, though I do feel very lazy about it.'

But immediately a cry was set up.

'O papa, do wait till we've gone to bed,' said the three voices. 'We

shall be going in half an hour.'

So of course papa gave in.

Mamma had an interesting book to read after the children had gone to

bed, and their father had left her to write his letters. She read on for

some time, and then she began to feel chilly, and looking up she saw

that the fire was getting low.

'I'll go down to the study,' she thought. 'There's sure to be a good

fire there.'

As she went down-stairs it struck her that she would take a look into

the schoolroom, and just notice if the 'post-office' drawers were shut,

and all looking as usual.

'I might even,' she said to herself, 'count the stamps and compare my

counting with Leo's to-morrow.'

But it was dark in the schoolroom. The fire, however, was not quite out;

she turned to look for a match or a spill to light one of the candles.

Her back was turned to the door, but as she stood there she heard it

creak a little as some one pushed it open and came into the room. And

this some one, much to her surprise, marched straight up to the stamp

drawer, not to the money one, as if well acquainted with the arrangements,

and by the light which came in from the hall stood quietly helping himself

to some stamps. And who do you think it was? Why no one in the world but

Leo's father himself!

Mamma all but burst out laughing, but she managed to stay quite still

for a moment. Then she called out: 'What _are_ you doing in that drawer?'

It was papa's turn to jump then! But he soon got over his start.

'What are you doing there all by yourself in the dark?' he said. 'And

what should I be doing but taking a stamp or two, of course,' he went

on, coolly. 'I've always forgotten to say what a good idea it is to have

stamps and wrappers and things so handy here. I never knew you kept them

here till a few nights ago, when I came in here to see if there was any

coal, as my fire was nearly out, and the drawer was open.'

'Ah,' thought Mamma, 'Leo did say he had asked Cynthia to shut it the

night he had a headache, and no doubt she forgot.'

'And,' papa went on, 'I was so glad to see where the stamps were, as I

sometimes run short. Since then I've helped myself to whatever I wanted,

two or three times.'

[Illustration: The Culprit]

'So _you_ are the culprit,' Leo's mother exclaimed, laughing. And then

she told the whole story.

* * * * *

His father was very much interested, and very sorry to have caused any

anxiety. He put a whole shilling into the 'till,' which more than put

Leo's accounts straight. And the next day he did something still nicer.

He brought Leo home the neatest little letter-weigher you ever saw, and

told him to add a new rule, to say that letters should be weighed at a

charge of a farthing each, in case anyone was in doubt how many stamps

to put on. And he also gave Leo a present of a packet of big envelopes

of different sizes, which he told him he might sell for a halfpenny

each, as they were thick and strong. So Leo's business is flourishing

and increasing very much, and he has even thoughts of adding luggage

labels and registered-letter envelopes to his stock in trade.

And since the night that mamma watched for the burglars, not a single

stamp or postcard or anything has ever been missing.

[Illustration]

[Illustration: DENIS IS FRIGHTENED. Page 121.]

BRAVE LITTLE DENIS.

The brave man is not he who feels no fear,

For that were stupid and irrational;

But he whose noble soul its fear subdues,

And bravely dares the danger nature shrinks from.

JOANNA BAILLIE.

CHAPTER I.--WHAT IS 'BRAVE?'

The news had come up to the nursery, and there was great excitement and

rejoicing. Linda and Nettie chattered so fast, and had so many questions

to ask, that the 'big' boys, Alex and Lambert, when they came in to tea

could not at first find out what it was all about, or get anyone to

explain. And when at last baby--Miss Baby, who was two years old and

quite understood that, when nurse wanted to speak, it was not the time

to pull her shoes off and complain that 'hers toes was told'--condescended

to be quiet and let poor nurse answer, the noise did not grow any less,

I can assure you.

'Going to Baronscourt for Christmas. Hurrah!' shouted Alex. 'Three

cheers for Granny, Lambert,' which Lambert was only too ready to join in.

'Do you think Granny will make us a Christmas-tree, nurse?' asked Nettie.

'She _should_,' said Linda, 'because of missing last year, you know.'

'Me kismas-tee, too,' said Baby.

'Silly little girl, everybody can't have a Christmas-tree for themselves,'

said Linda; at which snub Baby began her preparations for a scream, which

was only averted by Alex good-naturedly picking up his little sister and

instructing her to give three cheers for Granny.

'Now join too, Denis,' said Linda. 'Why don't you cheer too?'

Denis raised his grave little face.

'I want to finish this story,' he said, dropping his eyes again on the

book in his hands.

'What a fancy he's taken for reading, all of a sudden,' said Linda in

a lower voice to nurse. 'I don't believe he understands it. He reads

awfully slowly when he's at his lessons.'

'Well, Miss Linda, he's only five,' said nurse. 'It's nice for him to

find something to keep him quiet sometimes. But he is rather strange

this afternoon. I don't know what he's got in his head, sitting there

by himself, though to be sure he's always a good bit quieter than his

brothers.'

'He's such a baby for his age,' said Linda, rather contemptuously. 'When

Alex was seven--that's only two years older than Denis is now--he could

do all sorts of things--jump his pony and play cricket, and'----

'I don't think you can remember much about it, Linda,' said Alex, who

had overheard her. 'When I was seven you were only five, and that's

three years ago, and when Lam was five he couldn't do any better than

Den.'

'Because Lambert was delicate, and Denis is not a bit delicate; he's

just very babyish,' said Linda, turning away, as if that settled the

question.

Denis looked up and opened his lips as if going to speak, but then shut

them again and said nothing.

'Aren't you glad to go to Baronscourt, Den?' said gentle little Nettie,

the sister who came next him in age. She was sitting beside him at the

tea-table, and spoke in rather a low voice. 'Don't you remember how

pretty it is there? It's only six months since we were there last. You

can't have forgotten it.'

'No,' said Denis; 'I've not forgotten it.'

'Then, aren't you glad to go?'

'I'm glad to see Granny and Prince,' said Denis; but that was all Nettie

could get out of him.

He was always a quiet little boy, but during the next few days, if

anyone had noticed him closely, it would have been seen that he was even

quieter than usual. But these next few days were very busy ones, for the

Christmas visit to Baronscourt had been decided on hurriedly, and the

nursery arrangements were rather upset. Only once, when the children's

mother had come up to see them, she noticed Denis sitting silently in a

corner with a very grave look on his little face.

'Is he not well?' she asked nurse, and nurse, after a glance in the

child's direction, replied 'that she did not think he was ill; he was

often very quiet--it would pass off again.'

'The change to Baronscourt will brighten him up,' said his mother. And

then she went on to tell nurse some of the arrangements.

'I had a letter this morning,' she said. 'The house will be very full,

but they can take us all in. The girls will have the little room next to

mine, and the boys will have the turret room at the end of the picture

gallery.'

A movement beside her made her stop and look round. Denis had left his

corner and was standing beside her, listening with all his ears, and

gazing up in her face with his large soft blue eyes.

'And where will nurse, and 'Liza, and baby, and me sleep,' he asked.

His mother laughed.

'You won't be forgotten,' she said. 'Nurse and baby will have the old

nursery, and you will have a little cot beside them, I daresay.'

A look of satisfaction crept over his face.

'And 'Liza?' he asked.

'Oh, poor 'Liza won't be forgotten either,' said his mother.

Denis grew brighter after this conversation, and at tea that afternoon,

when all the children were talking, he joined in as usual.

'Mother told me where you'se all to sleep at Granny's house,' he announced,

impatiently. 'I'm to sleep with nurse and baby.'

'Yes, of course, because you're such a baby yourself,' said Linda.

'Nettie and I are to have a room to ourselves like we have at home.

I hope it'll be the turret room at the end of the gallery. I do so

love the gallery--at night, you know, when the moon comes in through

the coloured glass and makes all the faces of the pictures look so

queer--red and purple, and blue and green. The red ones look quite

jolly, but the green and blue ones look dreadful.'

'Like ghosts,' suggested Lambert.

'Yes, something like that, I suppose,' said Linda, as if she was in the

habit of seeing ghosts, and knew quite what they were like.

'Or like us when we play snapdragon--at the end, you know, when they

throw salt in among the brandy,' suggested Nettie.

'Don't talk about that, please, Nettie,' whispered Denis, tugging softly

at his sister's arm.

Nettie looked surprised, but she understood Den better than did any of

the others, so she said no more; but later in the evening, when they

were alone, she asked him what he meant.

'I don't know,' said Denis; 'don't ask me; I want to forget about it,'

and he gave a little shiver.

And question as Nettie would, he could not be got to explain further.

There was only one Sunday at home before the day came for going. It was

a cold and snowy day; too cold, it was decided, for the children to go

to church, so in the afternoon their mother sent for them all to read

with her. The stormy weather led to their talking about adventures in

winter--about poor travellers being lost in the snow, and the brave

things that had been done to rescue them sometimes, and the children's

mother told them some stories which they thought very interesting.

'What is "brave?"' asked Denis suddenly. He was sitting beside his

mother, and was holding her hand.

Mother looked round.

'Suppose you each answer Denis's question?' she said. 'I'll begin with

you, Alex, as you're the oldest. What does true bravery mean?'

'Den didn't say "true" bravery, mother,' objected Linda, who had already

shrugged her plump shoulders contemptuously at her little brother's

question, with a muttered 'So silly--anybody could tell that.'--'He only

said, "what does 'brave' mean?" If you say "true bravery," it gets more

puzzling.'

Mother looked at Linda with a rather amused expression.

'That is why I added the word you object to, my dear Linda. I _want_ you

all to think about it a little, not just to answer what "anybody can

tell," without reflecting at all.' Linda blushed. _Sometimes_ it was

annoying that mother had such quick ears. But she said nothing. 'Come,

Alex,' continued mother, 'what is true bravery?'

'Oh, I don't know. _I_ don't see anything puzzling,' said Alex, looking

puzzled, nevertheless. 'It just means not being afraid of anything.

It's just the way people are made. Some are afraid, and some aren't.

I'm never afraid, but it's just that I'm made that way,' he went on.

'But if that's it, it has nothing to do with being good,' said Lambert,

who was more thoughtful than Alex. 'I mean, it's no use thinking about

a thing that comes of itself like that, mother. And yet being brave is

always counted as if it was something good, something to be praised for.'

He raised his face to his mother's, questioningly.

'Well, try and put your feeling about it into words,' she said.

Lambert hesitated.

'I know,' said Linda, confidently. 'Mother means that true bravery is

when there's no pretending about it. Some people who are really afraid

_pretend_ they're not--boastingly, you know.'

'And that is _one_ sort of cowardice,' said her mother. 'They don't own

the truth, because they're afraid of being thought afraid. You're right

so far, Linda; but you do not go quite far enough.'

A little eager sound from Nettie caught her attention.

'Well, Nettie, have you something to say?' she asked.

'I don't quite know,' Nettie began. 'I thought I could see it, but I'm

not sure. But isn't it a little like this, mother--that whether one's

afraid or not, one should try to do anything that's right to do?'

Her mother smiled.

'Yes, that is something like it,' she said. 'That's what I have been

wanting you to get to see. The _mastering the fear_--that is the truest

bravery of all. Not for what others may or may not think of us, but

because it is right. When a duty comes in the way, something right or

good or kind to do, a really brave person, man, woman, or child, will

do it even if it is something which they fear to do.'

'But still,' Lambert objected, 'there are some people praised for being

brave who don't feel fear--like what Alex said. Should they not be

praised, mother?'

'Certainly they should be praised for doing right at risk to

themselves,' said his mother. 'It is a great blessing to be naturally

brave--what is called physically brave. But I doubt if even the

naturally bravest men have never known fear. It is the determination to

do their duty at all costs that keeps them brave and gives strength and

courage. And this even the most timid by nature can learn; so this is

what I call true bravery. Not the unreasoning courage of a lion or a

bulldog, but the courage of a man who knows his duty and will do it.'

The children sat silent--each in his or her own way thinking over their

mother's words. One only had said nothing, but he was pondering deeply,

and his mother, glancing round, saw Denis gazing before him with a curious

look in his innocent blue eyes.

'Do you understand a little, Denis, my boy?' she asked, with a smile.

'I fink so,' he answered softly, and she felt him squeeze the hand he

held. But that was all he said.

[Illustration]