CHAPTER VII.--THE CROFTER'S COTTAGE.

So far as speed went, the children might as well have walked. The poor

old horse, as miserable and starved-looking as his master, kept steadily

on, with a sort of halting trot, varied every now and then by an awkward

stumble, which was saved from being a fall by the man's prompt use of

the reins.

It seemed as if they were hours on the road. The murky atmosphere,

obscured by storm-clouds, made the evening grow dark earlier than is

usual in northern latitudes. The heavy rumbling of the wretched vehicle,

the cramped position in which they were obliged to sit, the fatigue of a

long day's walking without rest or refreshment, the dreariness of the

road and chill aspect of the weather, combined to make this journey as

miserable a one as it well could be. Yet it was only the very beginning

of the troubles Elsie had brought upon herself and Duncan.

She was not feeling in the best spirits just now, but she buoyed herself

up by thinking of the future, and telling herself that every one who

ever ran away from home had some adventures that seemed trying at the

time, though they were quite interesting to hear of afterwards, and she

tried to picture herself being put in a book as a heroine. And she was

not in the least daunted, only inclined to feel very cross and snappish.

Duncan sat huddled up in a corner, with a face that might have served

for a Dutch doll, it was so blank and wooden. He was not the sort of boy

to cry, but down in his heart there was a very forlorn feeling, which he

would not like Elsie to have known anything about.

Presently a drop of rain spattered on to Elsie's forehead--another, and

another--and then, down it came in torrents. To Elsie's despair, the

horse slackened his already slow pace, and finally stood still,

trembling and snorting. They were on an open road, with not even a tree

near by for shelter.

"Why don't he go on?" Elsie cried out.

"The rain blinds her. She can't see," the man replied.

"Then why don't you lead her?" Elsie cried, in her peremptory fashion.

Elsie was more inclined than ever to think that the man must be a little

daft. He got down, and did as she had told him. It seemed as if he had

not thought of it before. He was so dazed and muddle-headed, that he

would have sat apathetically on his seat, waiting for the horse to go

on, although he could certainly get no wetter than he was by walking.

The rain had added the last drop to their cup of discomfort. The

children were wet through in a very short time, and they were far better

clad than the man.

They went along in dismal procession, all reeking wet. It was now

tolerably dark, and not a soul passed them. There was clearly nothing

for it but to persuade the man to take them in at his cottage. Elsie

began now to wonder what sort of a place so miserable-looking a creature

lived in.

During this latter part of their journey, Duncan, too, had been

wondering where they would sleep; but it was no good asking, he said to

himself, for if Elsie didn't know she couldn't tell him, and he supposed

she'd find out some place as soon as she could.

At last Elsie, straining her eyes through the gloom, could make out a

twinkling light or two, and something like a cottage. The roadside was

no longer open, but had the low stone walls so familiar to Scottish

eyes. As they drew near Elsie could see that the tiny tenement was only

some crofter's cottage, and that the walls enclosed his bit of land, not

large enough to dignify with the name of farm. Then it suddenly dawned

upon her that their friend of the cart was most likely one of these

crofters, whose poverty and hardships she had often heard her mother and

grandmother talk of.

They stopped at last before another of these tiny hovels, much farther

up the road. A faint light struggled through the small thick panes of

glass of a window little more than a half-yard square. The door opened

as they drew up, and a woman came out, talking very fast and shrilly in

the native Gaelic, which the children had often heard spoken, but

understood scarcely at all. Elsie could make out that she was scolding

very much, but that was all. As she came near her eyes fell upon the two

children. She stood still for a moment, her voluble speech checked by

amazement and dismay.

Elsie sprang out, and seized the moment. "We are wet through with the

rain," she said; "and it is a long way yet to Killochrie. I have some

pennies I will give you if you will let us stay to-night in your

cottage."

The woman stood eyeing her cautiously. So little as Elsie could see of

her, she was not a pleasant-looking individual. She seemed to be a big

bony creature, with loose locks of hair hanging about her face, and

great bare arms held a-kimbo.

"Show me the money," the woman said, holding out her hand greedily.

Elsie hesitated, for the incident with the bread made her afraid of

letting her whole stock be seen, but the rain was still pouring down,

and a night's shelter must be secured somehow. She drew her handkerchief

out of her pocket, and untying the knots, tried to slip a few pennies

out, and keep the others unobserved among the folds.

[Illustration: "THE CHILDREN ... MADE THEIR WAY UP TO THE COTTAGE

DOOR."]

But the woman watched her fumbling movements very narrowly, and suddenly

made a dart at the handkerchief, chinking the copper coins together,

with a rattle that betrayed them at once.

"I will take care of them," the woman said, holding out her hand. "Go

in, then--you can," she added, with a shrug of the shoulder which did

not express a very warm welcome.

However, there was nothing else to be done, so the children, Elsie

leading Duncan by the hand, made their way up to the cottage door, while

the woman went off with her husband to some unknown region, either to

assist him with the horse, or, what was much more likely, to talk to him

about the strange load he had brought home with him.

Elsie thought she had never seen anything so horrible as the sight that

greeted her when she pushed the door wide open, and stood on the

threshold of the crofter's home.

[Illustration]

The tiny place was dirty in the extreme. The floor, which had been of

boards, had rotted away in several places, showing the bare ground

beneath. A broken rickety table and a few dilapidated chairs and stools

were the only furniture, with the exception of an old clock standing

against one of the walls. A shelf in one corner displayed a few odd

pieces of coarse crockery, for the most part chipped and cracked, and

some pieces of bread.

Elsie perceiving a door, ventured to lift the latch and look in. It

opened into a still smaller apartment, the principal part of which was

occupied by something on the floor intended for a bed, where two

children lay sleeping. The ceiling was very low, and had an open space

at one end, with a ladder, which appeared to lead into a kind of loft,

where onions seemed to be stored, by the odour coming from it. As far as

she could discover, these comprised the whole accommodation of the

crofter's cottage.

While Elsie was wondering where they would have to sleep, the man and

woman came in. Elsie had stripped off her soaking jacket, and was

standing near the smoky peat fire, endeavouring to dry her wet skirts

and feet. Poor Duncan had no outer coat to protect him, and was

consequently wet to the very skin. He was standing in his shirt-sleeves,

shivering, by Elsie's side.

"What is your name?" the woman asked of Elsie, in the slow measured

accents of one who speaks a language not perfectly familiar.

"Our name is Grosvenor," Elsie said, with a warning glance at Duncan,

which, however, the woman's quick eyes noted.

"What for you are going to Killochrie by yourselves?"

"Our mother is dead, and we are going to find our father," Elsie

replied. "We were living with some one who was unkind to us."

"Oh, Elsie!" Duncan whispered, under his breath; but Elsie checked him

peremptorily. Poor Duncan had never felt so wretched in his life before.

"Where was that?" the woman asked.

"Oh! a long way off," Elsie replied. "We've come miles and miles."

"What you call the place you ran away from?" the woman asked, angrily.

"It hadn't got any particular name," Elsie replied. "It was out on the

moor."

"You will know the way back?" the woman asked.

"But I am not going back," Elsie said, defiantly. "We are going to

Killochrie to-morrow morning."

The woman only smiled grimly, and pointing to two stools, signified to

the children that they might sit down.

"Will you give us something to eat?" Elsie asked. "We are hungry--he

took our bread and cheese."

"Cheese?" the woman said, eagerly. "Where is it?"

"He ate it," Elsie replied.

"The pig! the greedy one!" the woman cried, angrily, as she reached down

a plate of bread from the corner shelf.

It was coarse and stale, but the children were too hungry to be

disdainful. At home they would have scorned such a supper with infinite

disgust, but now they ate it readily.

Presently, however, the woman got some more plates, and taking the lid

off an iron pot that stood beside the fire, she ladled out a mass of

what proved to be boiled onions. Having served her husband and herself,

she handed a small quantity to the children, which they found palatable

and comfortable in their wet, cold condition.

When this frugal meal was ended, she signed to them to follow her, and

taking them into the next apartment, led the way up the ladder. They

found themselves presently in a tiny loft, where all sorts of rubbish

was stored, together with a stack of onions. The woman cleared a space

by piling the things together in a more huddled mass than they were

already, and bringing several sacks out of the confusion, threw them

down on the floor to form a bed.

"Is that where we are to sleep?" Elsie asked. "What are we to have over

us?"

The woman pointed to one of the sacks.

"Look how wet my frock is!" Elsie cried, almost in despair. "Can't you

give us something to put over us while our things are getting dry?"

The woman went rummaging among the lumber, and presently brought out a

ragged, old gown of her own. Elsie took it from her almost with a

shudder of loathing.

She took off her sopping frock, and gave it to the woman to hang up.

Then she rolled Robbie up in one of the sacks as well as she could, and

spread another for him to lie down upon, leaving herself one sack to

serve as a bed, and only the old rags the woman had given her for a

covering.

They lay down, not in the highest possible spirits. Elsie was so angry

at being robbed of her food and of her money, that she dwelt more upon

this grievance than the wretched discomfort they were enduring, until

she heard a faint sound of sobbing emerging from the sack in which

Duncan was encased.

That sound smote her with an uncomfortable sense of reproach. "Never

mind, dear," she whispered softly; "it'll be all right to-morrow. Get to

sleep and forget it."

"If it were not for being poked up in this loft, I'd slip out, without

bidding them 'good-bye,' as soon as it is light to-morrow morning,"

Elsie said to herself, with an uneasy reflection of what disagreeable

greedy people they seemed to be. "Any way, we won't stay a minute longer

than we're obliged."

Fortunately for Elsie, she had no idea how long that was to be. Nance

Ferguson knew what she was doing, and why she had put them up in the

loft.

(_To be continued._)

HINTS ON CANVASINE PAINTING.

This is the art of colouring a photograph so as to imitate an

oil-painting. Although we know that no imitation of this kind can ever

reach the perfection of the real article, yet we can obtain very fair

copies. The work, when well done, is really pretty, and it makes a good

show on the walls. It is not at all difficult, and those who have a

slight knowledge of painting can easily accomplish some creditable

pieces that they will enjoy seeing in their rooms, and that their

friends will consider welcome presents. The colours are unobjectionable

as regards smell, for they have none, and the work is clean, and can be

rapidly done.

The choice of the photograph is of importance, for it must be a good

one, and suitable for the purpose. Those taken from the pictures in the

Munich, Dresden, and Italian galleries will be found best to select

from. The outlines of the subject should be well defined, and the whole

photograph clear and distinct. It is advisable to begin on figure

subjects, as they are easiest, and certainly the most effective. The

picture should not contain many figures, or they must necessarily in

that case be small, and some difficulty will, in consequence, be met

with in colouring them. Young amateurs seem to think that small pieces

are more within their province: they are afraid to attempt a larger

size, but we assure them this is a fallacy. Minute details require great

care, and it is more awkward to get small washes level than larger ones.

The first thing to be done is to buy our materials, and these we can get

all neatly arranged in a box. The colours are: two flesh tints, light

and golden yellow, vermilion and carmine, blue, violet, purple, light

and wood brown, green, and black. All the colours are dry, except black;

and ordinary Chinese white is used, as there is no white specially made

for canvasine.

There are two bottles of medium, one adhesive and one preservative.

Camel's-hair brushes of various sizes, canvas and stretchers, a roller,

and a squeegee, or presser, are also requisite.

Having all our materials at hand, let us set to work. The stretcher has

been bought to suit the size of the photograph, but probably the latter

will have to be cut a little round the edges, to make it just about an

eighth of an inch smaller than the former. Take some of the prepared

canvas, and cut it an inch and a half larger than the photo; wet it

thoroughly, and fasten it to a board with drawing-pins, the prepared

side uppermost. The back of the photo will require to be rubbed with

glass-paper, if it is a thick one; not otherwise, for fear of making

holes in it. To manage this carefully is important.

A sheet of clean paper should be laid on a drawing-board, and the photo

placed on it face downwards, and firmly secured with drawing-pins. Now

rub it gently with the glass-paper, until the picture is rendered

semi-transparent. Then take it from the board, and give it a bath in the

solution. Lay it in a dish, and cover it entirely with the solution,

letting it remain there for a few minutes; lift it out, and again lay it

on the board face downwards, and with a small sponge dab off any

superfluity of liquid. Pour that which is left in the dish back into the

bottle.

The bottle of canvasine adhesive is next needed. With a brush well

filled with it, lay a thick coating all over the back of the photo as

evenly as possible, then take up the picture, and place it in exact

position on the canvas which is stretched on the board, and now the face

must be uppermost. Notice particularly that the photo lies straight with

the threads of canvas; if it is crookedly placed it cannot be expected

to look well; the perpendicular and horizontal threads should run

perfectly level with the top and bottom and sides of the picture. Press

down the photo with the hand, and then slightly roll it out.

Take another piece of canvas of the same size as the first: this has now

to be pressed thoroughly, the roller being passed in every direction

over the surface. Continue rolling it for five minutes or more, so that

the canvas lines become indented in the paper and are distinctly

visible. Watch it constantly during the process, and if it does not

adhere quite firmly to the stretched canvas, put a little more adhesive

solution round the edges, and pass the presser quickly up and down over

the photo, still with the spare canvas between, to rid it of all

air-bubbles; then repeat the rolling.

Not until every part of the photo adheres, and all the canvas lines are

clearly marked, must the process of rolling be discontinued. After this,

the photo must be allowed to dry gradually, still stretched on the

board. No painting must be attempted until it is quite dry, which it

will be in about three hours. Some prefer to paint it when it is so far

prepared, and afterwards to fix it on the stretcher; others consider the

better plan is to fix it first on the wooden stretcher and then to paint

it; but this is a matter of choice, and workers may follow either plan

with equal chances of success.

To stretch it, we must proceed in the following manner. Lay the canvas

evenly on the frame and nail it over the back; when all four sides are

thus secured, take the wedges, and hammer them into the holes made

purposely for them until the canvas is sufficiently stretched. Be

careful to place the board in a good light for painting; it takes much

longer to do, and cannot be done half as well either, if the worker sits

so that the shadow of her hand falls on the picture. A piece of clean

writing-paper to place at times under the hand to prevent finger-marks

may be found useful.

Now for the painting. We will begin with the face. In colouring

photographs, the paints have to be constantly washed off, and it is a

well-known fact that nothing does this so well as the tongue, because it

acts on the photo so as to remove all grease better than anything else

will: but some people will perhaps be somewhat afraid thus to wet the

surface, on account of the nature of the paints. The tongue may,

however, be used at any rate for the flesh parts, and a small wet sponge

can be employed for the rest of the picture. Wet the complexion over

with the tongue, then wash in the shadows with some flesh shadow

mixture, to which a little canvasine medium and water have been added,

and wipe it off again at once. Pay attention to the shadows that they

are of the right tints: for fair children they will be of a slightly

blue hue; for dark complexions a little wood brown must be added to the

shadow colour. Now lay over the complexion a wash of flesh-tint No. 1,

and wipe it off again directly; repeat the wash as often as necessary

until a good colour is obtained. Sometimes as many as six applications

are needed; the great point is to get a good even layer of colour. In

rendering dark complexions, a trifle of wood brown may be added to flesh

No. 2, and this will give the requisite depth of colour. Put in the warm

complexion-tints with flesh No. 2. Place a drop of it, modified with No.

1, over the whole cheek, and wipe it off again immediately. Repeat until

the right strength of colour is secured; deepen the tint as it nears the

centre of the cheek, so as to preserve the rounded appearance that is

one of the greatest charms that youth and beauty possess. Strengthen the

shadows under eyes and eyebrows, round the nostrils, and on the chin.

Mixtures of blue and brown, and of green and brown, serve for the

demi-tints which soften the deep shadows by gentle gradations into the

local colouring. The tints may be effectually blended into one another

by an occasional wash of flesh No. 1 being carried over the whole.

Between each operation the colour must be dabbed off as soon as it has

had time to sink into the photograph; it must not in any case be

allowed to rest long, or the wash will dry spotty, and when that

happens it is exceedingly difficult to remedy. The draperies are washed

in before the details of the face are begun, as when the latter are

painted the colours must not be wiped off afterwards; they are not

treated in the same way as the washes, but more as finishing-touches.

Draperies and backgrounds are laid in with a full brush in broad washes,

the photograph being first damped slightly with canvasine medium; the

colours are laid on freely with decisive strokes, and sponged off, the

washes being continued until the tint is dark enough. Skies may be

represented with blue tinged with green, and when dry, some light clouds

may be dabbled in with Chinese white.

Now we return to the face. With flesh No. 2 touch in the lips carefully,

and shade the tint off gently, for they must on no account look hard;

also mark in the nostrils with a little of the same, but now the colour

must not be washed off. For the eyes, use blue, brown, or grey, as

requisite; grey is composed of a mixture of blue and brown. The pupil of

the eye is put in with black, and the light with a touch of Chinese

white. In the corner of the eye a trifle of flesh No. 2 will be needed.

The eyebrows should be rather darker in colour than the hair, but they

must not be too heavily painted; the best plan is to wash them in with a

lighter tint first, working them up afterwards with a fine brush and

almost dry colour of a darker shade. The eyelashes, too, must be washed

in along the eyelid, and then a few hairs marked out with the point of

the brush. It would never do to put them in entirely in thin fine

strokes, for they would be sure to look hard. A little blue added to

brown will make a tint dark enough for most purposes, and the use of

black should be avoided whenever possible.

The hair will need our next consideration. For fair hair, golden brown

must be employed; it is applied in washes, wiped off as before, and

repeated until the desired depth of local colouring is obtained; the

shadows are worked in with light brown, the lights with a little Chinese

white. For dark hair, use wood-brown and sienna; and the darkest hair

may be rendered with washes of blue, which must be applied before the

sienna, with Chinese white used freely for the lights. Colour which has

once been allowed to sink in cannot be removed, therefore we must be

careful not to use a wrong one, or even too dark a shade. Then, again,

colours dry darker than they appear when first laid on, so we must take

the precaution to make our washes lighter than we intend them to be when

finished.

Beautiful tints can be produced by the admixture of the colours, and

charming effects by the juxtaposition of colours that form an agreeable

contrast.

[Illustration: "A FOX AND OTHER COUNTRY FOLK UPON THE BEACH HAD MET."]

A RACE ON THE SANDS.

One cool and pleasant afternoon,

Before the sun was set,

A fox and other country folk

Upon the beach had met.

The creeping tide far out had ebb'd,

And by the shelving strand

There stretch'd a wide and level plain

Of glist'ning yellow sand.

The hare, the hound, the neighing steed,

The lowing ox, the deer,

The sheep, the hog, the braying ass,

The sea-gulls hovering near,

With groups of various birds and beasts,

Of sorts both tall and scrimp,

Were gather'd there upon the sands;

And thither came a shrimp.

Now Reynard, who was eager bent

Upon some cunning wile,

Did boldly challenge any beast

To race with him a mile.

But when nor horse, nor hare, nor hound

His challenge would receive,

Up started Shrimp, and cried, "Good sir,

To race you give me leave."

A burst of merriment then brake

From all the beasts around,

The westward-sinking sun did smile,

Though he utter'd not a sound.

Then out spoke Reynard, red with rage,

"Thou mak'st a mocking boast!"

But near him whisper'd Master Hare,

"Forget not how I lost."

The race anon was quickly plann'd,

Eftsoons a judge was nam'd,

And Fox and Shrimp quite ready stood,

Though Shrimp seem'd half-asham'd.

And now they start, one, two, away!

See, Reynard darts ahead,

Unconscious that sly Shrimp had jump'd

Upon his tail outspread.

There snug he lay, so close and warm,

While Reynard tore apace,

And laugh'd, as only shrimps can laugh,

In his comfortable place.

At length, as Reynard near'd the goal,

He slowly slacken'd speed,

And stopping, ere he touch'd the post,

He turn'd--he did indeed.

Then off hopp'd Shrimp, and stood at once

Up at the winning-place;

While Reynard still look'd back and cried,

"How now, who wins the race!

Where are you, villain? where are you?

Not e'en in sight, I trow!"

"Nay, pardon, sir," behind him cried

That sly Shrimp with a bow.

Then Reynard, all abash'd, did stare

To find himself outdone!

While the jeering crowd, in high delight,

Went wild at all the fun.

But Reynard could not bear their gibes:

He slunk in haste away;

Nor ever guess'd how Shrimp contriv'd

To win the race that day.

THE KING AND QUEEN'S QUARREL.

(NARRATED BY A DOLL).

I was very pleased indeed, when I first came into the world, to find

that I was to become the property of a King and Queen. I had seen a

great deal of life through my shop-window, and had come to the

conclusion that I was formed for high society. So therefore, when my new

mistress said to me, "Dolly, I am the Queen to-day, and Bertie is the

King," I was not at all surprised, but held myself as firmly as before.

[Illustration: "THE KING AND QUEEN SAT TOGETHER."]

The King and Queen sat together on one chair, which I suppose is the

constant habit of Kings and Queens. They were both very nice and neat,

for the nurse had just brushed their hair. The Queen was four years old,

and the King was six. And they were both the very prettiest children you

could see.

The little Queen had a blue print frock, and a little round face. She

had pretty shy eyes that looked out from beneath a shock of curly hair.

The little King was very pretty too. And he liked to play with dolls,

which I always think is a nice trait of character in a boy.

"Oh, what a lovely doll!" cried the Queen, when she first saw me. I may

repeat it without vanity, for I suppose it was true. Anyway it is

exactly what everybody said the moment they set eyes on me. People

always praise dolls to their faces, and that is what makes us look so

conceited. Even when we are old, and battered, and worn-out we still

preserve a somewhat conceited air--we still look pleased and proud of

ourselves so long as there is one little child who loves us, and who

thinks us pretty still.

The King and Queen sat down together on their throne, and were as happy

as happy could be. The little Queen's feet dangled a good way off the

ground, but she did not mind that in the least. She put one chubby arm

round her brother to keep her quite firm, and the other arm was round

me.

When a nice little fat, dimpled arm holds me tightly against a loving

heart, I feel very pleased and happy. If I were a pussy-cat I should

purr, for I feel that I am in my right place.

"Now I am King and you are Queen," said the little boy; "and everybody

that comes in must bow to us."

"Dolly shall be the Princess," said the little girl, in a voice like

that of a cooing dove.

"Her name must be Sophonisba," said the little boy gravely. "That sounds

something like a Princess."

"Topanithba," repeated the little girl, very much pleased; and she

pressed me close to her heart.

Suddenly a cloud passed over the face of the little boy. He looked at me

hard for a minute, and then he spoke.

"No, that won't do at all," he said; "I am an old French King, and we're

under the old Salic law. She mustn't be a Princess, or she'll never come

to the throne. We must pretend she is a Prince, and we'll call her

Jack."

You should have seen the little girl's face at this. All the dimples

went out of it, and she looked quite frightened.

"Oh, don't call her Jack, dear," she cried; "it's so ugly. And I'd

rather she was a Princess."

[Illustration: "HE TURNED HIS BACK TO HER" (_p. 79_).]

"Then she'll never come to the throne," said the boy solemnly. "I read

it lately in my history."

Here the little girl looked much inclined to cry.

"Oh, don't say she won't come to the throne!" she cried piteously. "I

like my Princess Sophonisba so much."

"She'll never come to the throne," said the King, laying down the law

with his fore-finger; "a Princess is no good at all. She's a stupid."

"Well, she shan't be called Jack," said the Queen, plucking up a little

spirit.

[Illustration: "IN A MOMENT SHE WAS UPON A CHAIR" (_p. 81_).]

"Then I shan't play," said the little King, at once jumping down off the

chair.

The little Queen put her finger in her mouth, and looked as if she did

not quite know what to do. She did not care to play without Bertie, but

she wanted to have her own way. She glanced at Bertie out of the corner

of her eye. He turned his back to her directly, and would not look her

in the face. Yes, there was no doubt about it--she could tell it from

the look of his shoulders--Bertie was in the sulks.

All their play was spoilt. The throne was deserted, the sceptre laid

down. They did not care to be King or Queen by themselves.

"I shall go down to mamma, then," said the Queen, and she put me down on

the chair, and went off.

For some time Bertie stood in the corner, looking very cross. Then he

looked round, and began wondering when May would come back. Next he

commenced to cry.

"Naughty girl! naughty girl! I don't want her to come back!" and he took

a piece of string out of his pocket, and kept slashing it against his

sleeve as he spoke.

Suddenly, in the midst of his temper, he caught sight of me.

"Nasty doll!" he cried; "we should never have quarrelled if it hadn't

been for you! You shall be a boy," he added, sternly; "for I'll cut all

your hair off!"

A shudder went through me. Unfortunately the nursery scissors were lying

on the table--he took them up, and in a minute it was done. Clip, clip,

went the scissors, as if they were pleased, and nearly the whole of my

flaxen curls lay scattered on the floor. How I looked I don't know, but

I think Bertie was a little frightened when he saw what he had done. I

don't think he was anxious for his sister to see me, so he jumped up on

the fender and put me on top of the mantel-piece.

Here I lay, with my feet dangling down off the side, about as

uncomfortable as a doll could be. Nearly all my hair was cut short, my

hat had fallen off in the fray, and I found myself in a position of much

discomfort, and even danger. I could see nothing that went on in the

room, and the heat of the stove was fast melting my beautiful

complexion. I tried to look like a Princess, but it was hard.

The nursery-door opened, and the little girl came back. In a minute she

ran up to the chair where she had left me, and then looked at her

brother.

"Where's dolly?" she cried, and she looked anxiously round.

"I shan't tell you," said Bertie, beginning to look frightened.

"Oh, dolly, dolly; where is my dolly?" cried the little girl, and how I

longed for a voice that could answer her. I could hear her going all

round the room, pulling open drawers and cupboards, and hunting for me,

but I never said a word.

Suddenly I heard a cry. She had come to the hearth-rug, where lay the

scissors, and nearly all my beautiful flaxen curls on the floor.

[Illustration: "SO THEY MADE IT UP" (_p. 81_).]

"Oh, my dear dolly! my dear dolly! He's cut off her hair. Oh, you cruel

boy!" cried the little Queen, and she sat down and cried as if her heart

would break. Then she glanced up, and caught sight of where I lay,

placidly reposing on the mantel-piece with my eyes turned up to the

ceiling. In a moment she was upon a chair, and ready to fetch me down,

when what with the chair being unsteady, and her eyes being full of

tears, the chair slipped beneath her, and down she fell on the floor.

[Illustration: THE DISCONTENTED KINGFISHER. (_See p. 81._)]

Poor little Queen, she was in a very bad way! Her head fell against the

fender, and hurt her very much, she sobbed and cried both with the

fright and the pain. Nurse came running up, and took her on her knee,

and it was a long time before she could console her.

"My dolly, my dolly!" she cried between her tears, and the nurse took me

down from the mantel-piece, and gave me to her. How she did cry over me!

I felt dreadfully vexed, because tears are fatal to my complexion.

Bertie stood looking on frightened, and came up to look at his sister.

"Go away, you naughty boy," cried nurse; "it's all your doing, and your

sister will make herself ill with crying."

When my little Queen heard Bertie being blamed she grew very quiet all

at once. She gave her eyes a final wipe with her handkerchief, and she

got off nurse's knee, and turned to Bertie. Bertie was crying too, and

he had gone quite white with the fright that he got when he saw little

May fall down.

"Oh, May, I am so sorry, dear," he said; "will you kiss me, dear, and

make it up? Do, please."

No need to ask the little Queen twice; she threw her little arms round

Bertie.

"I am so sorry, May," he said; "I didn't know you would have cared so

much."

"Never mind, Bertie, dear," said the little Queen gently; and she tried

to look cheerful, though I knew she was grieved to the heart. "Perhaps

it's almost for the best," she whispered, softly; "for now she can be

Prince or Princess, just whichever you like."

So they made it up, and cried and laughed again, as is the way with

these inferior mortals. I had remained calm all the time, which is the

correct frame of mind in which a doll should take all vicissitudes of

fortune, but the poor little Queen had cried till she had washed nearly

all the colour off my face.

I lived with the children for a long time after this, but I never saw

them quarrel again. I took my part in many a game, and was sometimes a

Princess to please the Queen, and sometimes a Prince because the King

liked it best. I have even been dressed up as the Lord Chamberlain

before now, and sometimes I have taken the part of the scullery-maid.

But neither the King nor the Queen nor I have ever lost our temper

again, and I flatter myself whatever part I have taken I have borne

myself with dignity.

LUCIE COBBE.

THE KINGFISHER AND THE FISHES.

A Kingfisher sat on the edge of a boat that a young man had prepared for

a fishing expedition. A box of bait and a bucket to hold the fish were

on one of the benches, whilst a fishing-rod lay across the boat, and its

long line had a float at the end of it.

"What a shame it is!" said the Kingfisher, casting his eye upon the

float. "Why should this man be taking fish from this part of the river,

close by the spot where I have built my nest? And what a preparation he

has made! Hooks, and all kinds of cruelty are known to him. I should be

very sorry to be a man with such a love for killing."

And the Kingfisher shook his head gravely, and looked into the water.

"Yes," said he, "fish are moving towards that decoy. What a number of

them! I may as well make a pounce myself. Since the man has put it

there, why shouldn't I take advantage of it."

So saying he gently rose and spread out his wings as softly as he could,

but the movement scared the watchful fishes, who swam rapidly away

towards the river-bank, whither the Kingfisher pursued them, perching on

the bough of a tree and making a dart from it. He had almost succeeded

in capturing one, but it escaped him. And then an old fish popping up

her head for a minute said--

"People are very ready to condemn others for doing what they are

constantly doing themselves. Here are you trying to catch us yourself

and yet professing to be very angry with those who are wishing to do the

same."

Thus saying she disappeared, leaving the Kingfisher to moralise upon her

speech.

This he did, observing--

"There is something in what the fish says, and yet there's a difference

between me and the young gentleman to whom the boat belongs. I am

getting food for my family, whilst he is only amusing himself with

angling for the fishes. His killing is sport, mine is necessity."

G.

OUR SUNDAY AFTERNOONS.

THE DREAM OF THE BARLEY CAKE.

[Illustration: VIEW OF GAZA.]

The Israelites were wild with terror. With blanched faces and starting

eyes, they gazed upon one another in unspeakable agony, unable to ask

the question which was pressing so heavily upon each heart--What would

the end be?

They had seen locusts coming in the distance, in swarms so dense as to

darken the sky, more effectually than thickest, blackest clouds. They

had watched them settle down on tree, bush, bright green meadow, and

fields of waving corn. And they had trembled. For they knew that in an

incredibly short time not a vestige of anything green would be left. For

a swarm of locusts to visit the land they had thought one of the direst

calamities that could come upon them. But now invaders as numerous and

far more terrible had made their appearance.

Crossing the Jordan by the ford near Bethshean, and pouring, like a

torrent of infuriated waters, through the Valley of Jezreel, properly so

called, which was the central of the three eastern arms of the great

Plain of Esdraelon, had come vast hordes of Midianites, Amalekites, and

other children of the East, true sons of the desert, who, like the Arabs

of the present day, lived by plunder.

Foremost amongst them rode their two great sheiks, or kings, whose

haughty and lofty bearing bespoke their rank, and the obedience and

submission which they were accustomed to receive. They were mounted on

the finest of dromedaries, which seemed proud to carry their royal

masters. Over the gay scarlet cloaks in which they were attired they

wore chains of gold, with large drops, probably set with pearls; and

their many moon-shaped ornaments and long bright spears glittered in the

sunshine, as they rode proudly along.

By their side, and also mounted on dromedaries, and with long sharp

spears dangling over their shoulders, rode two subordinate sheiks, or

"princes," the dark complexion and jet black hair of the one having

given him the name of Oreb, or the raven, whilst the fierce countenance

of the other had gained for him the title of Zeeb, or the wolf.

Thousands upon thousands of men followed them, with ruthless faces

dreadful to behold.

On and on they went, through the Valley of Jezreel, across the smiling

Plain of Esdraelon, along the banks of the Kishon, and into the fertile

Plain of Akka, which lies round the Bay of Acre, and extends northwards

for some distance along the shores of the Mediterranean Sea.

Their object was not to conquer, only to plunder. But what terrible

ravages they made! Better, far better, if the most dreaded cloud of

locusts that had ever been known had come, and devoured all before them!

A few days, and the destructive insects would have disappeared; but as

for these heartless plunderers, when would their wild depredations

cease?

Before they entered the Plain of Esdraelon, fields of precious corn

nodded in the breeze, and long grasses waved to and fro. Oxen, sheep,

and asses grazed peacefully in rich green pastures; and the busy hum of

populous cities and thriving villages might be heard afar. But as they

went along, they destroyed or seized all that came in their way. The

animals were slaughtered, the corn was reaped, and the green grass was

trampled down by myriads of camels.

The inhabitants of the villages, and even of the walled cities, fled at

their approach, leaving, in their hurry, all their goods behind them,

and their homes, that had been so happy, were ransacked.

Never before had the verdant plains presented so desolate an appearance;

and not an Israelite dared tarry behind to witness the destruction.

The scared Israelites fled to the mountains, there taking refuge in the

holes or caves that were ready for them, or hewing out, in the hard

rock, rough chambers in which to hide.

And still the mighty host went on; and still they were followed by fresh

hordes as mighty and as reckless, till there seemed to be no end of them

and their camels.

Killing, plundering, laying waste, as they poured along, they left the

land a sorrowful wreck behind them, and having utterly spoiled the plain

of Akka, they turned southwards, and continued their march as far as

Gaza, the southern limit of the territory of Israel.

God was surely punishing them for their sins, the Israelites rightly

thought; and they began to call to mind how they had forsaken His ways,

and grieved Him with the blackness of their sins. What must become of

them they scarcely dared think, as they huddled together in the dark

holes in the rocks, their sunken-eyed wives wringing their hands in

despair, and their hungry children crying for bread. No one would ever

be able to drive out the terrible invaders. Not the boldest man in all

Israel dared face them. Unopposed, they would continue their ravages;

and the land that had flowed with milk and honey would soon be one vast

ruin.

The wild men of the desert spread their black tents over the land, and

for multitude they could only be compared to the sands of the sea-shore,

or uncountable myriads of locusts.

All the Israelites together would but be as a handful, compared with the

wild Arabs; and how could they hope ever to drive them out?

"O Israel, trust thou in the Lord: He is their help and their shield!"

When the human arm fails, there is help in the Lord Jehovah; and He can

drive out the most dreaded foe.

A solitary man, who was of the tribe of Manasseh, and who had got his

name of Gideon, or _the hewer_, from his stature and his great strength,

was threshing wheat by a winepress in Ophrah. His father had had a large

farm, with smiling cornfields and sunny meadows; and Gideon had seen the

day when he had ploughed with his yoked oxen, and when his patient

animals had trodden out for him heaps of precious corn, and there was no

sign of lack to any. But now, what a change had come! Instead of

well-stored barns, he had only a little wheat, which he had contrived to

conceal from the Arab invaders; and, instead of its being trodden out by

plump oxen, he was glad to beat it with a stick, not possessing even the

poor man's flail, and hiding in a winepress, where no one would expect

to find him.

Striking only gentle blows lest he should be discovered, and sorrowfully

contrasting the present with the past, his heart sank within him, when

raising his head he was startled to find that he was no longer alone.

Close beside him, under an oak-tree, sat One who appeared to be a

traveller resting, with his staff lying beside him. He was, however, no

traveller, but that wondrous Being who in the Old Testament is so often

called the _Angel of the Lord_; and He had come to the help of Israel.

"The Lord be with thee, thou mighty man of valour," he said, addressing

Gideon. But Gideon's sad heart gave no responsive throb. Tall and

powerful as he was, and strong as was his arm, he felt as he thought of

the fierce Arab sheiks but like a puny dwarf, who must sit down

helplessly and suffer.

"Thou shalt go in this thy might that I have sent thee," the heavenly

visitant continued; "and thou shalt save Israel from the Midianites."

"But, my lord," remonstrated Gideon, in conscious weakness and deep

humility, "how shall I ever be able to save Israel? I but belong to the

tribe of Manasseh, that has never taken the lead amongst the Twelve, and

even of my father's family I am not an important member."

Gideon thought that to overcome the terrible invader God must needs

raise up some tall giant, big as Og, the King of Bashan. But he was soon

to learn that the weak things of this world are used to confound the

mighty.

"_I_ will be with thee," the Angel of the Lord said, "and thou shalt

smite the hosts of Midian as one man."

The wondrous Being, in His great condescension, gave Gideon a sign that

He would fulfil His word, and by his hands save Israel from the dreaded

foe. He touched with his staff the rock on which Gideon had placed his

offering; and fire came out and consumed both the flesh and the sweet

cakes, and then He disappeared.

Then Gideon blew his trumpet, and the Israelites came out of their

holes, and rallied round him in great numbers. But still his heart

failed; for he could not recall his truant thoughts from the wolf-like

Arab chiefs, nor help contrasting his half-starved men who had suffered

so long from cruel oppression and famine with their strong sons of the

desert.

In his self-distrust he asked for two signs more, and God gave them to

him. First, a fleece of wool was saturated in the night with dew while

the ground all around was dry; and the next night the fleece was dry

while the ground was wet.

Thus re-assured, Gideon assembled his followers for the battle; but by

God's directions their number was reduced to only three hundred.

"By these three hundred men," God said, "will I save Israel, and deliver

the Midianites into thine hands."

Gideon encamped, with his three hundred men, by the spring of Jezreel,

on the slope of Mount Gilboa; while, on the north side of the valley,

but farther down the descent to the Jordan, was drawn up the host of

Midian.

From the height on which he stood Gideon could see the Midianites below,

spread over the land like countless grasshoppers. Only three hundred

weak men to face the wild Arabs with whom the valley was teeming! Would

his little handful of followers indeed be able to overcome them? he

wondered within himself. For though he believed God, who had brought

Israel through the Red Sea, still deep down in his heart, and

unexpressed, was a misgiving. And God, who does not scorn the littleness

of a sincere man's faith, but rather tries to increase it, gave him,

unasked and unexpected, another sign.

"Go down to the host," God said to him in the night; "for I have

delivered it into thine hand. But, if thou art afraid, go down first

with Phurah, thy servant, and hear what they say; and then shall thine

heart be strengthened for the battle."

So Gideon took Phurah, his servant, crept softly down the slope of the

mountain, and went along, under cover of the darkness, till he came

close enough to the outside of the Midianites' camp to hear any

conversation that might be going on.

The Arab host lay wrapped in deep sleep, whilst, all around, their

reposing camels were couched on the ground; and not a sound was to be

heard.

Presently, in one of the tents, in which lay two Midianites, there was a

slight movement. Gideon heard that one of them was waking the other, and

he drew near to listen.

"I have had such a dream," the disturbed sleeper said to his companion,

when he had roused him. "I dreamed that a cake of barley bread tumbled

into the host of Midian, and, rolling against a tent, overturned it, so

that it lay on the ground."

And his companion, who understood the dream better than himself,

replied in low tones, that told how great was his fear:--"This is

nothing else save the sword of Gideon; for into his hand hath God

delivered Midian and all the host."

The two weary men turned over and fell asleep again, trying to forget

the warning that they had received of the fate that awaited them. But

Gideon brightened up. His faith waxed strong, and he grasped his sword

tightly, feeling that whilst it was his sword it was pre-eminently "the

sword of the Lord."

He knew well the meaning of the dream--that the small round cake of

barley, which was inferior to wheat, and was a symbol of weakness, was

his own weak, insignificant self; and that, just as this tiny cake upset

a tent thousands of times bigger than itself and firmly fastened to the

ground with strong cords and long pegs, so by his weak arm the mighty

host, that now lay asleep, would be overthrown.

Re-ascending the valley he gave orders to his men, went down, and fell

upon the unsuspecting host, and with his few followers gained one of the

greatest victories ever won by the Israelites.

Before long, the proud kings, Zeba and Zalmunna, and their two fierce

princes, the Raven and the Wolf, with all their followers, lay in the

silence and helplessness of death; and the land, that had been so long

and so cruelly oppressed was freed from the formidable Arab invaders.

H. D.

BIBLE EXERCISES FOR SUNDAY AFTERNOONS.

13. Where does Jesus tell us that those who do the will of God are to

Him as brother, sister, and mother?

14. Where are we told that a brother is born for adversity?

15. Where is God said to be "slow to anger"?

16. From what passage in the New Testament is it seen that John the

Baptist followed the custom of the Jewish rabbis in giving his disciples

a form of prayer?

17. Where are we told that an angry man stirs up strife, while one who

is slow to anger appeases it?

18. Where do we read that he who is slow to anger is better than the

mighty?

19. Where in the Bible is Adam called "the son of God"?

20. From what passage in the New Testament do we see that Rahab became

the mother of the line from which David sprang?

21. Where does God call the rainbow "My bow"?

22. Where are rainbows mentioned in the New Testament?

23. What women are mentioned as ministering, with others, to the

temporal wants of Jesus?

24. Where are we assured that the Keeper of Israel neither slumbers nor

sleeps?

ANSWERS TO BIBLE EXERCISES (1-12. _See p. 20_).

1. The Feeding of the Five Thousand (St. Matt, xiv. 15-21; St Mark vi.

35-44; Luke ix. 12-17; St. John vi. 5-14.)

2. Shechem (Judges ix. 34, 45).

3. Eleven; the leper healed on our Lord's descent from the Mount of

Beatitudes (St. Matt. viii. 1-4; St. Mark 1. 40-45; St. Luke v. 12-15);

and the ten lepers, on the borders of Samaria and Galilee (St. Luke

xvii. 11-19).

4. It was given to him by David, who had received it from God (1 Chron.

xxviii. 11-19).

5. In Ps. xlii. 11; and xliii. 5.

6. In the boat, on the rising of the storm, on the Sea of Galilee (St.

Matt viii. 24; St. Mark. iv. 38; St. Luke viii. 23).

7. In Acts 1. 14.

8. In 2 Chron. 1. 3, 4; 1 Chron. xv. 1; 2 Sam. vi. 17.

9. At Gibeon (1 Chron. xvi. 39).

10. In 1 Kings iii. 4-15; 2 Chron. 1. 3-6.

11. In 2 Kings xiv. 25.

12. "And when _they_ were put to death," &c. (Acts xxvi. 10).

THE CHILDREN'S LIGHT BRIGADE.

[Illustration: "BUT JACK AND THE OLD UMBRELLA STOOD FIRM, AND KNEW NO

FEAR."]

Jack and Willie, and little maid May

Went down to the summer sea;

And it's merry and gay for a long holiday,

But what is their game to be?

They were tired of building castles

When serious Johnny said--

"Now what do you say, supposing we play

The Charge of the Light Brigade?

"This old umbrella that's been our tent

Will serve for a cannon--of course;

You two must play the Light Brigade,

And I'll be the Russian Force."

Willie and May ran up the beach,

Then charged straight down on Jack;

But Jack dropped cleverly on one knee,

And drove the onset back.

Again and again the charge came on

With a rush and a ringing cheer,

But Jack and the old umbrella

Stood firm, and knew no fear.

"Charge for the guns!" cried Willie once more,

There's a crack, and a moment after

The Russians (that's Jack) are rolled in the sand,

Amid shouts of conquering laughter.

Said Jack as he rose, "This isn't quite

According to the story;

We'll have this play again some day

We've done enough for glory."

ROBERT RICHARDSON.

SOME FAMOUS RAILWAY TRAINS AND THEIR STORY.

_By_ HENRY FRITH.

II.--THE "WILD IRISHMAN."

The "Wild Irishman" is the train which carries the Irish mails, the

American letter-bags, from Holyhead to London, and _vice versa_. There

are four "Irishmen," two in the daytime and two at night. The morning

Irish mail from London leaves Euston Square at a quarter-past seven, and

it is by this train which we have elected to travel, as we shall see the

country better.

Here we are at Euston. The engine is already attached to the train--a

fine, rather elegant-looking locomotive, with its name on a neat brass

plate on the great "driving" wheel. Perhaps we shall find it called the

"Lady of the Lake," or "Rokeby." At any rate, it looks very neat and

clean, though not such a giant as our friend the "Dutchman."

If your eyes are sharp and you are fond of engines, and like to "pat"

them, as I do, you will notice that the cranks and piston-rods work

outside the wheels, not between them, and underneath the boiler, as in

the Great Western engines. You will have just time to look at the wheels

and the name when the man on the platform will wave his flag, and the

"Irishman" will start very gently. As we are quite invisible, we just

step up beside the driver as the engine moves, and he knows nothing

about us. Ha! ha! Mr. Driver; but we intend to know something about your

"Wild Irishman!"

Our driver and fireman ("stoker," perhaps you call the latter) are very

great men. They have a great deal done for them. Do you think they light

the fire and polish the engine? Do you think they go and take in coal

and water at Crewe, or elsewhere, while they wait for a "return" train?

Oh dear no! Another pair of men are ready, and our "mail-men" go and sit

in the drivers' "cabin" and have their tea, and chat till the train is

ready to start again.

It is not at all a bad position, though a very responsible one, to be an

engine-driver on the London and North-Western Railway, particularly when

you have worked yourself up to the "top of the tree." I could tell you

many anecdotes of this railway, on which I lived for many years; but we

must not forget the "Wild Irishman" has run through Camden Town, and is

even now in the Primrose Hill tunnel.

It is very unpleasant being in a tunnel for the first time on an engine.

The noise is very great, and the smoke and water come down at times

unpleasantly. The end of the tunnel looks so tiny in the sunlight

beyond, and the opening gradually gets larger and larger till the engine

rushes out into the pure air again!

On we go! Stopping for a few minutes at Willesden Junction, our Irish

horse pulls harder, and bolts with us for Rugby and some intermediate

stations. It is just half-past seven a.m., a beautiful day. There is

Harrow on the left, we can see the well-known spire, and we recall the

days when we came up for the cricket-match against Eton, and how we all

went back in a body after the match.

Before we reach Watford, we come to the peculiar water arrangement by

which the thirsty engines are enabled to have a drink as they rush

along. Between the rails for a considerable distance is a tank, and into

this tank a pipe is let down from the tender of the engine. The speed at

which the train travels causes the water to be forced up the pipe, and

the supply of steam is assured.

Watford, named from the Roman road "Watling Street," which ran from

Dover through London northwards, is near St. Albans, renowned in English

history. But the "Wild Irishman" will not wait for us; he rushes through

the tunnel and by Berkhampstead to Bletchley, where he pauses for a

minute or two. We have scarcely time to look about when we are off

again, past Wolverton, where the North-Western Company make their

railway carriages, and where they used to repair their engines. We run

not very far from Naseby after a while, and think of the great battle

between Charles and Cromwell's troops. What would they think of our

"Wild Irishman"? I wonder.

Rugby is passed; Atherstone, near which was the great Battle of Bosworth

Field, lies behind us now. The struggle for the crown between Richard

and Richmond may be recalled, but we have no time to examine the field

seven miles away. We have to get to Crewe at eleven o'clock, and so we

shall. We run through Stafford-on-the-Sowe, a town celebrated as the

birthplace of Izaak Walton. The castle was demolished, like many others,

in the Civil War.

A long whistle warns us that Crewe is in sight, and before long we enter

the station, through which more than 200 trains pass daily. Here are the

celebrated Locomotive Works, which employ an army of workmen, for whose

children there are schools and playgrounds, with church, library, and

assembly-room for the whole railway working population.

A visit to Crewe to see the great engines will repay any little folk who

like machinery.

From Crewe to Chester is half an hour's run, and as we approach the old

city on the Dee we feel wrapped in history. Such a history has Chester

that we are afraid to enter upon it for fear we should be carried away,

and lose ourselves wandering around the dear old walls, towers, gates,

and ramparts. The Danes came here; the Saxons made it a port. Hugh

Lupus, at the Conquest, resided here. The city was made the

starting-point for expeditions against the Welsh by Edward I. Besieged

by the Parliament--but no more; the "Wild Irishman" whistles, and we

must go to you, my lad.

Hawarden Castle is close by. It was at one time of importance as a

fortress. It now derives its celebrity from its owner, Mr. Gladstone,

for the castle itself has almost disappeared. We soon pass Holywell, so

called from the holy well which sprang from the place where Princess

Winifrede's head fell. Caradoc, a Welsh prince, wickedly cut it off, and

it rolled down the hill. Where it stopped the spring burst forth; and

the head being picked up was placed on Miss Winifrede's body again. It

became fixed, and she lived for many years afterwards, a little red mark

round her white throat being the only token of her decapitation! So the

story goes.

We are now approaching Abergele, near which such a terrible accident

happened to the Irish mail in 1868. Some trucks had been shunted from a

train in front, and they, by some mistake, came running down the hill to

meet the "Irishman." The driver saw them, and the shock was not severe,

but unfortunately they were filled with oil barrels, which broke open,

the petroleum caught fire, and in two minutes all the fore part of the

train was enveloped in flames.

Nothing could be done; the poor people in the carriages--lords and

ladies and gentlemen--were burned, and with difficulty any escaped. This

was a fearful catastrophe, and quite puts aside any ordinary accidents

which (not a few) have happened to the "Wild Irishman."

Let us leave the scene and come on to Llandudno Junction and Conway

Castle, by which is the first "Tubular Bridge." We have all heard of

Conway Castle, founded by Edward I. If you little folk ever go to Conway

be sure and see the castle, and go all over the thick walls, which will

afford you a pretty view.

But I have something else to tell you about Conway "Tube"--the bridge

through which the railway runs over the river.

Once upon a time--a good many years ago--a lady and gentleman got

permission to walk through the new tubular bridge, which was then a

curiosity. A railway porter was with them and told them no train was

expected on that line, so they went into the tube and darkness.

A strange gentleman who had joined them went on first because the lady

could not go so quickly, and of course her husband remained to assist

her over the rails, and stones, and the girders which support the sides.

But when the lady and gentleman had got halfway through, the first man

was at the end, and saw the down Irish mail approaching on the very line

on which his acquaintances were! He called out--

"Take care of yourselves, a train is coming!" and then he waved his

hands to the engine-driver.

The lady and gentleman in the "tube" could not stand up at the side, and

so they hurried back. It was a terrible race. The "Wild Irishman"

whistling and roaring, hissing and straining at the brakes close behind;

in front only a few yards to the station, but such long yards! On came

the train, and just as the gentleman rushed from the "tube" and dragged

the lady down, the express came out grinding and growling. They were

only just saved by two yards from a terrible death.

Now let me tell you something else. The year after that nearly fatal

accident, I--the writer of this anecdote--was visiting the "Britannia"

Tubular Bridge which crosses the Menai Straits, and through which the

"Wild Irishman" rushes on its way to Holyhead. I was with my parents,

and we talked to the caretaker at the bridge.

"Yes, sir," he said, "it _is_ dangerous to go into the tubes. We do not

allow it now. Last year a lady and gentleman were nearly killed in the

Conway tube. I was the guard of the mail train; they had a very narrow

escape."

"What became of the tipsy porter who guided them in?" asked my father.

"He lay flat down, and the train went over him--he was dismissed--but

how did you know, sir?"

"Because this lady and myself were the two people who were in the tube,"

said my father. "I assure you we remember the incident very well

indeed."

That is what most people would, call a "curious coincidence," and it is,

moreover, quite true.

But we are nearing Holyhead. Our "Wild Irishman" has not far to run now.

We are through the "Britannia" bridge, upon whose unfinished summit we

have raced on slippery plates of iron, one hundred feet above the

straits, and gazed down into the Menai waters beneath, as the ships

went up almost touching the tube apparently. Ah! this was many years

ago, and even now as we rattle on we can recall the scene and shiver.

Away by Llanfair--something--a long Welsh word--away by the lake and the

river; over the marsh comes the scent of the sea, and then in ten

minutes the "Wild Irishman" walks down the pier. Mail-bags are put on

board the steamer; passengers hurry down; the carriage doors are shut.

The paddle-wheels revolve; we quit the harbour of Holyhead, and lose

sight of the "Wild Irishman."

MASTER TOM'S "RAINY WEATHER."

"Ettie," said Master Tom, "do you like to be naughty or good?"

"Naughty," replied Ettie promptly.

Ettie was five years old, and Master Tom nine.

Ettie and Master Tom were at the far end of the kitchen-garden, going

through the gate that led into a small paddock, when Ettie suddenly

said--

"Pigs."

"Where?" exclaimed Master Tom.

"Poor pigs in pen all shut up," answered Ettie.

"What a shame!" said Master Tom. "I say, Mrs. Pig, wouldn't you like

your little piggies to have a run this fine day?

"There's grass around in plenty

For the little ones to eat,

And in the kitchen-garden

There's cabbage for a treat.

Now, Ettie, get out of the way; I am going to open the door of the

pigstye."

And Master Tom threw the door wide open, and out rushed not only the ten

little pigs, but Mrs. Pig herself. They came with such a rush that

Ettie, not getting out of the way quickly enough, was knocked down. But

she did not cry; for she was used to falling in her expeditions with

Tom.

Through the garden gate, into the garden, over the beds, went the pigs,

and after them went Master Tom and Ettie, driving them until they went

into the middle of the crisp early cabbages.

"Now then, eat to your hearts' content," said Master Tom. "Eat away, eat

away! How they do enjoy themselves; there won't be a cabbage left. Won't

Joseph be surprised. Let us get up into the great pear-tree and watch

them. You can climb up if I push you."

"Yes," responded Ettie, grasping the trunk and putting her foot on a

jutting-out knob.

"That's famous," said Master Tom, as he helped his little sister up

until he landed her in one of the highest boughs.

"Isn't it nice?" said he.

And he began swaying the branches to and fro, whilst Ettie held on

tightly and laughed with delight.

"Oh dear! oh dear! how can the pigs have got in?"

"Oh dear! oh dear!" cried Master Tom from the pear-tree, mimicking the

gardener's voice.

"Oh dear! oh dear!" cried Ettie in her shrill voice.

"Oh dear! oh dear!" said Joseph in dismay; "the children up in the

pear-tree such a height; they'll tumble down and break their necks. Oh,

Master Tom, Master Tom, whatever did you go up there for, and take

little Missy with you? What shall I do?--the pigs, the children, the

children, the pigs! I daren't leave the children; and yet if I don't go

after the pigs the garden will be ruined. Oh, my lettuces, my peas, my

cauliflowers, my fine young cabbages!"

And then Joseph suddenly raised his voice and shouted as loud as he

could--

"Help! help! help! Hallo! hallo! hallo!"

In a few seconds out came several of the servants, and amongst them was

Nurse. "Oh! what is the matter?" she cried; "is it Master Tom again?"

"I should think it was," said Joseph; "he's in the pear-tree, and Miss

Ettie's with him. Jack, get a ladder to get her out of the tree."

Jack, the boy, went off, and now the branches were seen to sway

backwards and forwards, the two children chuckling with delight.

"And here I come first," said Master Tom, suddenly descending in so

rapid a manner that he seemed to tumble down amongst the group, and,

stumbling against Joseph, the gardener was tripped up and fell to the

ground.

Nurse tried to seize upon Master Tom, who, however, shook himself free,

leaving it to Joseph and the boy to get Ettie out of the pear-tree.

II.

When Nurse returned to the house with Ettie the first thing she saw was

the turf beneath the nursery window strewn with every possible thing

that Master Tom could find. He himself was looking out of the nursery

window with an armful of Ettie's frocks and sashes, which he aimed at

Nurse and her charge as they came nearer the house.

[Illustration: PLAYING AT RAINY WEATHER. (_See p. 90._)]

"Oh dear! shan't I be glad when you go back to school, Master Tom.

Here's an hour's good work for me in carrying back all these things."

And Nurse wrathfully ascended to the nursery, but Master Tom was not

there.

"Well," said Nurse, "it's a good thing he's gone off by himself, and not

got Miss Ettie with him. You stay here and play with your dolls, and

I'll run down and pick up your frocks and shoes."

So Nurse, having settled Ettie with her playthings, departed.

But she had not been gone a minute before Master Tom put his head in at

the door.

"Ettie," said he, "come down into the drawing-room, and we'll have the

greatest fun in the world. I've got a large umbrella and water-bottles,

so we'll play at rainy weather."

Up jumped Ettie.

"Hush! don't make a noise, or some one will hear us. Come very softly."

And Ettie, on tiptoes, followed Tom to the drawing-room, where, having

locked the door, he provided Ettie with a large umbrella.

"Now sit down on the floor," said he, "and hold it over you. You must

pretend that it is a rainy day, and that you are obliged to shelter

under it."

Down went Ettie on the floor, and up went the umbrella.

"Now," continued Master Tom (who had borrowed a pair of high boots so

that, at least, _he_ should not get wet), "I shall pour water over the

umbrella and it will splash down like rain. You must say, 'What a

dreadful day! What a dreadful storm!'"

"Yes," answered Ettie. "Splash, splash, splash! what a storm! what a

storm!"

And down came the water, splashing Ettie's velvet frock and wetting her

shoes, and making pools on the drawing-room carpet. What fun it was! so

Master Tom thought, and so did Ettie; and the more he emptied the

water-bottles the more they both shouted with glee.

Guided by the noise, Nurse soon arrived at the door.

"Open the door! open the door!"

But Master Tom took no notice. Nurse might batter away as she liked; he

was safe inside.

"What are you doing?"

"Playing at rain," cried Ettie; "my frock and my shoes all wet. It is

rainy day, Nurse."

"The road is all of puddles," said Master Tom; "splash, splash; don't

you hear it?"

Yes, Nurse _did_ hear it, and wondered what it was.

"I've finished the bottles," said Master Tom; "now for the watering-can,

it's quite full. It will come down like a shower-bath, Ettie."

"Oh! oh! oh!" gasped Ettie, for the umbrella slipped from her hand and

she received the contents of the watering-can on her head, neck, and

arms. Then Ettie, for the first time, began to cry.

"You bad boy," cried Nurse in a state of despair; "open the door or I

will have it broken open."

Master Tom unlocked the door, and then making a rapid retreat to one of

the windows, he leaped through it almost before Nurse had opened the

door.

Nurse held up her hands in dismay. The beautiful drawing-room carpet was

soaked with water, and in the midst, crouched on the floor, sat Ettie,

with her hair and her fine velvet frock dripping.

"Tom poured water," sobbed Ettie, as Nurse lifted her off the ground.

Nurse rang the bell lustily, and the housemaid came running to see what

was the matter.

"What will the mistress say?" said Jane as she looked at the carpet; "I

shouldn't wonder if it is spoiled altogether."

"I know what I should say, and what I shall say!" said Nurse; "I shall

tell the mistress that if something isn't done to curb Master Tom, he'll

be such a plague, that no one will care to see him. I've had such a day

with him to-day as I don't intend to have again!"

And Nurse carried Ettie off to the nursery, where she took off her wet

clothes, and put her into a warm bed. For Ettie was shivering, though it

was a hot day, and Nurse gave out that she thought Master Tom would make

his sister quite ill.

Which opinion reached Tom's ears; so he crept upstairs cautiously.

"Nurse, nurse," he said, "is Ettie very bad?"

"She's got a shivering and a shaking, and it may be an inflammation,"

said Nurse severely, "and what shall you say if, by your mischievous

doings, you have hurt your sister!"

Master Tom's soul was filled with terror.

"I don't know how it may end," continued Nurse, "but the best thing you

can do is to go downstairs and sit in the dining-room till master and

mistress come home. Go away from here."

And Nurse shut the door and bolted it; and Tom, feeling more miserable

than he had ever felt in his life, went away, but not to the

dining-room.

He went to his own little room, where, with a white face, he watched,

till his mother came home. He would tell her everything, and he knew

that she would let him just look at Ettie before he went to bed. And he

said to himself--

"I will never get into mischief again."

It was a good resolve; let us hope that he kept it.

THE MAIDS AND THE MAGPIE.

Three little maids and a magpie

Went out one day for a walk;

The little maids hunted for flowers,

The magpie did nothing but talk.

"I've three little maidens to care for,

Each one from dangers to save--

Wild dogs or runaway horses--

What a good thing I am brave!"

Soon they were laden with flowers--

Bunches of red, white, and blue;

Great ox-eyed, snowy-leaved daisies,

Harebells, and bright poppies too.

Then they turned homeward together,

Magpie still hopping before,

Passed through the wood and the village,

Came to the rectory door.

There stood a quiet grey pussy--

Magpie flew off in a fright.

So, after all his vain boasting,

Proved himself coward--not knight!

FRANCES HAY.

CHILDREN'S GAMES IN DAYS OF OLD.

[Illustration]

Both my little nieces had been unwell. They were not very ill, but they

were shut up in one room for a time, and they found it rather difficult

to amuse themselves all day long, without having their lessons to do or

their brothers to play with. I told them a tale every afternoon, when

the light was getting dim, and the fire was poked into a bright blaze;

but I came to the end of my store at last.

"Oh, auntie! what shall we do now if you can't tell us any more

stories?" said Maggie. "We read such a lot that we really don't want to

be read to."

"Let us have a nice talk," I said.

"But what shall we talk about?" asked Edith, looking into the fire, as

if she could read something there. "Oh, I know, auntie! tell us about

the time when you were a little girl; tell us all about your pet toys."

"Auntie has told us that so often," said Maggie.

"Let us talk about something very old, and yet quite new to both of

you," I said. "What do you think the children played with hundreds and

hundreds of years ago?"

"Didn't they have dolls?" asked Maggie.

"Yes, they had dolls, but not like yours. They were small, and their

arms and legs were fastened on with bits of wire or wood."

"What were they made of?" asked Edith.

"They were generally made of clay or terra-cotta, but sometimes of wood

or wax. The hair was often ornamented with rows of beads, and sometimes

the dolls were painted all over with very bright colours, to please the

little ones to whom they were given. They used to make little toy

animals, too, and in Greece they had those small dancing figures which

we call marionets."

"Have they found anything besides dolls?"

"Yes; there are some little toys at the British Museum which were found

in Greece and Turkey. One of them is a woman kneading bread; another is

a black boy sitting on a pony, with a basket of fruit in front of him.

If ever you see them, you will think you are very fortunate little

children to have such beautiful toys."

"But I don't care about dolls," said Edith, blushing a little, for she

had been grumbling because her mother would not buy her a new one. "I'd

rather have a big ball. Did those old children play at ball, auntie?"

"Oh, yes! The very oldest we know of--the Egyptian children--had balls

of leather and some of painted china."

"I shouldn't like that," remarked Edith. "Fancy Charlie with an

earthenware ball! he'd break all the windows in the house."

"I don't suppose they let the children throw the hard balls about much.

The Greeks in later times loved ball as much as you do, but they played

it in a different way. They used to sing and dance at the same time. Can

you think of any word that we have which means dancing, and yet sounds

like a game?"

"Like a game of ball, auntie?" said Maggie.

"I know!" cried Edith clapping her hands; "you've just said it,

Maggie--a _ball_. Don't you know people always dance at a ball."

The children were very much pleased to find out that the grown-up

people's amusement took its name from one of their toys, and that the

short songs, or _ballads_, which we sing came from the songs which the

Greeks sang whilst they played ball.

"Did they play ball in any other way?" asked Maggie.

"Sometimes it was put on the middle line, between the two parties

playing, and each party tried to seize it, and throw it over the

adversary's goal-line."

"Why, that's like our own football, isn't it, auntie?"

"Yes; the Epikoinos, or common game of ball played by the Greek

children, is really the great-great-great-grandfather of our football."

"Had those children any hoops?" asked Edith.

"The Romans had hoops, and even the same kind of hooked stick, but they

played very differently from what we do. They tried to snatch the hoop

from each other with the hook."

"I'm glad I am not a Roman, then," said Edith, "for I do love a good

straight run with my hoop; and that must have been more like fighting

than playing. But do tell us some more about those children's games. It

seems so strange to think they had balls and hoops like us."

"They had whip-tops, too," I said. "And some people say that the great

Emperor Augustus used to play at marbles when he was a boy. You have

seen Charlie and Tom play with knucklebones; the Greek children had them

too, and sometimes there were numbers on them, and each bone had a

different name. Backgammon and draughts were played by the Greeks, and

we see by some of the pictures on the tombs in Egypt that the game of

draughts was very popular there."

"But hadn't they any nice romping games?" asked Maggie.

"Yes. Blind man's buff was a great favourite with the Greeks and Romans.

And they were very fond of playing a game which was known as

oyster-shell."

"Do you mean making grottoes? I don't call that romping."

"The children were divided into equal numbers on each side of a line

drawn on the ground; one party would be called white, the other black.

They then tossed an oyster-shell into the air, and whichever side came

upwards, one of that party ran off. If it was the dark, one of the

blacks ran away, and one of the whites dashed after him. As soon as Mr.

Black was caught, he had to take Mr. White on his shoulders and carry

him to the camp, where he remained till all the others were caught. This

is the origin of our prisoner's base.'"

"But that is a boy's game," said Maggie. "I want to know about the

girls'."

"They played blind man's buff, as I told you just now; then there was

'runaway,' or 'touch,' which was like our game. One girl would shut her

eyes whilst the others hid. A place of refuge, or, as we call it,

_home_, was fixed upon, and she had to try and touch some of the others

before they could get safe there. Kiss-in-the-ring was very popular too,

but the girl used to hold the boy by the ears as she kissed him, and

this was called pitcher-fashion."

"Our pitchers have not two handles," remarked Edith.

"No, but they had a handle on each side in those days. Then the Greeks

used to play a game like our follow-my-leader, called 'Commands,' and

all sorts of funny things were ordered to be done by those who took part

in it."

Just then the bell rang for me to go down to dinner.

"Oh, auntie, don't go yet!" cried both children; "we haven't heard half

enough."

"I will just tell you one thing more, and then I must go," I said.

"There was a very favourite game played hundreds of years ago in Asia,

called 'Kings and Subjects.' One day a little boy named Cyrus was

playing at it with the children of the village in which he lived. This

little boy was about ten years old, and had been adopted by a shepherd.

He was chosen king by the boys, and having appointed his ministers, he

set each of his companions to do certain work. One boy refused, and

Cyrus ordered him to be flogged. The boy was angry, and ran off to tell

his father, who was one of the chief men in the place. This man was very

indignant that his boy should be beaten by a common shepherd's son, and

went to King Astyages to complain. The king sent for Cyrus, and asked

him how he dared to treat the son of a great man in that way.

"Cyrus answered bravely that he had only done what was just; he had been

chosen king, and he ought to have been obeyed. Astyages was very much

surprised by this answer, and began to look more closely at the fearless

boy; then he saw that he was very like himself. He sent for the

shepherd, and after many questions, he found that this little Cyrus was

his own grandson who was supposed to be dead. So the sham king really

became the heir to the throne, and in time was a real king."

"Why, auntie, that's as good as a fairy tale!" said Edith.

"Better," I replied; "for it is true, and it teaches us that we ought

always to try to do right, even in our games, and then we shall never be

ashamed."

E. M. W.

THEIR ROAD TO FORTUNE.

THE STORY OF TWO BROTHERS.

_By the Author of "The Heir of Elmdale," &c. &c._

[Illustration: "AUNT AMY HAD STEPPED FORWARD" (_p. 95_).]

CHAPTER IV.--A TERRIBLE SURPRISE.

Mr. Gregory and Mr. Clair arrived at Riversdale early the next day, and

Mr. Gregory at once took the management of everything into his own

hands. The greater part of the afternoon he was shut up in the library

with the lawyer, and when he found the boys in the dining-room, he

looked very grave and anxious, and even reproved Mr. Clair for amusing

the children by making caricatures, and illustrating some of their

story-books. No two people could be more unlike than those two uncles,

who would probably be the guardians of Edward and Bertie Rivers. Mr.

Gregory was a tall, portly gentleman, with grey hair and keen eager

eyes; his voice was loud, his manner always stern and abrupt. People

usually feared and respected him more than they loved him; he was always

very busy and fussy and important, and had an idea that nothing in

London would go on quite right without him. However, Mrs. Rivers had

been his only sister; the boys were her children, and he was their

nearest relative and natural protector. On his way down he had arranged

all his plans: the boys should go to school, and he would let Riversdale

till Edward came of age; he knew some one in the City who was just in

want of such a place. Mr. Clair, on the other hand, thought very little

of the future; he was sorry to see the children look so sad, and did his

best to cheer them up; but then, every one said Mr. Clair was the most

unpractical person in the world. He was an artist by profession, and had

married Mr. Rivers' sister Amy, an offence for which he was never

pardoned, either by Mr. Rivers or Mr. Gregory. However, as the marriage

proved a very happy one, Mr. Clair did not fret about that, neither was

he in the least offended at the coldness and neglect of his wife's

relatives. He loved his profession, he loved his wife, he loved his

shabby roomy old house in Fitzroy Square: in fact, the chief

characteristic of Mr. Harry Clair was that he loved everything and

everybody, and now he was quite willing to take to his heart his wife's

orphan nephews and niece. But Uncle Gregory was made of sterner stuff,

and the young heir of Riversdale, he thought, was a person to be

reverenced and treated with deference; besides, he was not either very

affectionate or very demonstrative in his manner, therefore the

children, who were hungry for love and sympathy, turned to Uncle Clair.

The next day Aunt Amy arrived, and both the boys felt they had found a

true and loving friend, while Agnes clung to her, trembling and sobbing,

for since her uncle's death she had felt strangely alone in the house,

just as if she belonged to nobody, and until it was known what provision

had been made for her, no one could say what was to become of her. As

the days passed Mr. Gregory looked more anxious and worried. A strange

gentleman from London remained in the house, and spent several hours

every day in the library examining letters and papers; lawyers were

constantly coming and going, and at last it became clear, even to the

boys, that something was wrong; the gloom deepened on every face, even

the servants stood in little groups and talked in whispers; only Uncle

Clair seemed unconcerned, though Aunt Amy's eyes often filled with tears

as she looked at the boys. But none of them seemed quite prepared for

the terrible tidings Mr. Gregory had to unfold. Mr. Rivers had been

buried in the family vault at Riversdale very quietly, as his wish had

always been. The boys, their uncles, the doctor and lawyer and the

strange gentleman, whose name and real business no one seemed to know,

attended as mourners, and when they returned to the house Mr. Gregory

led the way to the library, and the family lawyer read the will. It was

very simple: Riversdale to Edward; five thousand pounds to Bertie when

he came of age, and the choice of a profession, the expenses of which

were to be paid for out of the estate; and a few legacies to faithful

servants and deserving charities; not a word of poor little Agnes, for

the simple reason that the will was made several years before she came

to Riversdale; not a single word of any person else, except that Mr.

Frank Rivers, his brother, Mr. Gregory, his brother-in-law, and Mr.

Harry Clair, his brother-in-law, were appointed executors and guardians.

The boys' minority was to be spent according to their direction. Every

one breathed a sigh of relief: they had all expected much worse; but

Bertie, happening to glance at his Uncle Gregory's face, started, and

cried suddenly, "There's something else, sir. I'm sure there's something

you are keeping from us."

[Illustration]

"Yes, my lad, unfortunately there is. When your father made this will

his property was his own to bequeath how he liked; since then he has

been unfortunate. He has speculated largely in mines that he hoped would

prove a success: they have failed; a few days since the utter failure of

a bank in which his whole private fortune was invested gave him a shock

from which he never recovered. Riversdale is fully mortgaged; the income

of the estate will barely pay the interest now, for your father has

parted with most of his property. In a word, this is the state of

affairs: you must either sell Riversdale, then this gentleman tells me

there may be a few thousands to spare for you boys; or you may let the

place stand, put your shoulders to the wheel, and work both of you to

redeem your home. You are only boys, but some boys with energy,

patience, perseverance, and, above all, a cherished object in view, can

achieve much. This gentleman tells me that by careful management there

may be a trifle saved every year, which should go towards lessening the

principal, then every year will be making the interest less too. But the

grave question is, what in the meantime is to become of you boys?"

"And Agnes?" Bertie cried; "we must not forget Agnes?"

Mr. Gregory looked rather coldly at the shrinking, timid little girl;

she had not entered into his calculations at all. She was not his

sister's child, and he really saw no way of helping her.

"I am, as you know, only a London merchant," Mr. Gregory continued,

ignoring Bertie's earnest remark, "and I cannot do much for you, but

this I can offer: you may both have a place in my office, and, believe

me, many lads have found the humblest seat in a London counting-house

the road to fortune. Once started in business under my protection,

everything will depend on yourselves. Merit, industry, integrity must

make their own way. What do you say, Edward? Mind, as your guardian, I

have a right to command, but I want to hear what you think."

"I--I don't care for business, Uncle Gregory; I have no taste, no talent

for it," Eddie replied humbly, though his eyes flashed. "I always wished

to be an artist, and papa promised I should be one day."

"Unfortunately, many of your papa's promises are not easily fulfilled

_now_," Mr. Gregory said coldly. "If you will not enter my office, may I

ask what you intend to do, Edward?"

"I don't know, uncle. I had hoped to go to college, and then travel, and

study abroad, and become an artist."

"Impossible!" Mr. Gregory interrupted sharply. "Where's the money to

come from?"

"I don't know, uncle; I have not had time to think;" and Eddie cast an

imploring glance at his Uncle Clair.

"Well, my lad," that gentleman said, laying his hand kindly on Eddie's

shoulder, "if you really are determined to become an artist, I will do

all I can to assist you on certain conditions, and subject to the

approval of your other guardian. You can come and live with me, and I'll

teach you the groundwork and details of art: inspiration, genius,

success are not mine to bestow; nor shall I send you to a university. In

the first place, I can't afford it; in the next, I don't think it

necessary; but if I see you have a real love of and taste for art, I'll

send you to study abroad for a few years, if possible; but first of all

you must work. You can live with me; my house will be your home, your

aunt will take care of you. Your mornings must be spent in my studio,

your afternoons devoted to continuing your studies; but I want you

clearly to understand, lad, that you are not coming to visit or to play,

but to learn a profession--and an honourable profession. You will find

many things irksome perhaps, and have to perform many unpleasant duties,

but if you work with a single heart, and try to make the best of

everything, you will find, taking the rough with the smooth of it, that

art is a noble profession. But I cannot honestly call it the high road

to fortune. Your Uncle Gregory has made his proposal; I have made mine.

Think before you decide."

"I will go with you, Uncle Clair," Eddie answered, drawing nearer to the

artist. "There is no need to think; I never could be a merchant; I must

be a painter. My mind is thoroughly made up."

"As you will, boy. Your Uncle Clair has made you a liberal offer;

according to his means, he offers you of his best freely and kindly. I

hope you may prove worthy of his trust in you, but as I do not want my

sister's son to be entirely dependent on a stranger----"

"Uncle Harry said I could _work_," Eddie said, drawing still nearer to

his favourite relative.

"Yes, Mr. Gregory, the boy must be independent. If I find him useful,

I'll pay him a small salary," Mr. Clair replied gently, no way ruffled

by Mr. Gregory's cold, scornful tones. "That matter is decided: Edward

is to come to us."

"And you?" Mr. Gregory continued, turning to Bertie. "Are you also

anxious to become an artist?"

"No, uncle; I want to make my fortune and get back Riversdale."

"Well spoken, my lad. Then you decide to come with me?"

"Yes, please; I should like to be a great, rich, powerful merchant, and

own ships and things. But, Uncle Gregory, who's to take care of dear

little Cousin Agnes?"

"I am really quite at a loss to know," Mr. Gregory said, frowning. "Has

she no friends of her mother's? The child has no claim on me."

"But she has on us," Bertie replied promptly. "She's our cousin; her

papa was our Uncle Frank, and we must take care of her."

Mr. Gregory frowned and looked thoughtful, but Aunt Amy had stepped

forward, and taken Agnes into her arms. "We'll take care of her," she

said, with a loving look at Bertie, who had spoken so bravely for his

little cousin, while Eddie had entirely forgotten her. "Don't be afraid,

Bertie; while your Uncle Harry and I have a home Agnes shall share it."

"Thank you, aunt; and I hope Uncle Gregory will let me come and see you

often. It is so nice to think that we shall all be in London together;"

and then Bertie smothered a sigh as he remembered how he disliked cities

and loved the country, how he would miss the dear delights of

Riversdale, and how he dreaded the duties of an office. But he had

plenty of courage, and he resolved not to begin by being unhappy or

discontented; "besides, it mayn't be so bad," he said to himself; "and

Dr. Mayson declares it's worth a thousand a year to be able to look at

the bright side of everything."

[Illustration: "MR. GREGORY PLACED TWO SOVEREIGNS IN BERTIE'S HAND" (_p.

98_).]

Agnes was weeping silently with joy: no other arrangement could have

given her half as much pleasure as going back with her Aunt Amy and

Uncle Clair; she could surely pick up some crumbs of instruction in the

studio, and then she would always be at hand to help Eddie, and little

Agnes did not wish for any greater happiness than that. But Eddie did

not seem altogether so well pleased by the arrangement. He did not like

a rival, either in affection or talent, and he knew that both his Aunt

and Uncle Clair loved Agnes, and also that she was a great deal cleverer

with her pencil than himself, though she was very shy and nervous, and

distrusted her own powers. However, the arrangement was the only one

that seemed possible, and the very next day they all returned to London,

Agnes and Eddie going in a four-wheeler with their aunt and uncle to

Fitzroy Square, Bertie accompanying his Uncle Gregory to a splendid

house in Kensington Gardens, where he was rather coldly received by his

aunt and cousins, and informed that, for a time at least, it was to be

his home.

[Illustration]

CHAPTER V.--BERTIE BEGINS LIFE.

It was a long time before Eddie and Bertie Rivers could realise that

Riversdale was no longer their home--that they were quite poor lads,

dependent on the kindness of their relatives, and that if they wished to

win fame and fortune, there was nothing for it but hard work. Bertie

was the first to realise the great change in his position. Mr. Gregory

was not unkind, but he was stern and cold, and after introducing him to

the head clerk (who showed him a corner in the office where he might

sit, and explained his work), Mr. Gregory took no more notice of him

than of the other lads. After the first day, he found that he would have

to go to the City by himself, and return alone; his uncle gave him a

second-class season ticket, and desired him to catch the half-past eight

train every morning. He also told him where he was to have his dinner,

and for the first month desired one of the older clerks to see to him,

and pay only a certain sum; then he was to return to Kensington at

half-past five every evening, have his tea in the school-room, and read

or amuse himself as best he could till bed-time. His aunt, he rarely

saw; she was not up when he left in the morning, and always was either

entertaining visitors at home or going out to parties in the evening.

His two cousins were quite grown-up young ladies, who seldom

condescended to notice the little office-boy, as they called him, and

two other cousins, about his own age and Eddie's, were away at Eton. So

that poor Bertie would not have had a very lively time, had he not

possessed a wonderful capacity for enjoyment, and a perfect genius for

finding occupation and amusement for himself. He had undisturbed

possession of the deserted school-room, and before long it was a sort of

little museum. He had a number of pets; then he begged corks from the

butler, and manufactured ingenious flower-pots and stands, in which he

grew dainty little mosses and ferns; he made cork frames for some of

Agnes' pretty little pictures, and his grandest achievement was a boat

that he built and rigged entirely himself. Often in the early mornings

he would go for a walk as far into the country as he could, and

sometimes, before going home in the evenings, he would have a run in the

park, and those were all his pleasures. Mr. Gregory scarcely ever

thought of him out of the office; there he always observed every one

closely, and he saw that Bertie was quiet, attentive, industrious, and,

best of all, quick: he never had to be told to do anything a second

time. On Saturdays and Sundays he might go and see his brother, provided

he returned in good time, for he dined with the family on Sundays; but

Eddie was never invited to Gore House, and Uncle Clair was never

mentioned without contempt. But to Bertie, the hours spent in the dingy

old house in Fitzroy Square were the pleasantest of his life. He was too

happy when he got there to notice that Eddie looked gloomy sometimes,

but little Agnes was always sweet and happy, and Aunt Amy's welcome was

worth anything.

"How I do wish I could come and live here!" Bertie cried one wet

afternoon, when they were all gathered round the fire in Mrs. Clair's

old-fashioned parlour. "I should not mind being in the office a bit if I

could see you all in the evenings; but it is dull at home!"

"It's dull everywhere at times, dear," Aunt Amy said gently, remembering

how very gloomy Eddie often looked. "You must try and make the best of

it."

"I do, auntie," Bertie replied; "and I suppose I won't have to live with

Uncle Gregory always."

"Gore House is pleasanter than Fitzroy Square, I think," Eddie said, a

little crossly.

"And Fitzroy Square is ever so much pleasanter than Mincing Lane,"

Bertie replied. "Why, if you were in our office, Eddie, I don't know

what would become of you! You would have to sit on a high stool all day,

copying things into big books, or else copying things out of them. Then

you have to add up columns of figures till your eyes ache, and if you

are even one wrong, Mr. Wilson seems to know just by instinct. I

wonder," Bertie added suddenly, "how many columns I shall have to add

up, and how many ledgers fill with entries, before I begin to grow

rich?"

"I wonder how many pictures I'll have to paint before I begin to grow

famous?" Eddie replied; and then, as Aunt Amy left the room, he jumped

up impatiently. "I'll never be an artist, Bert, if Uncle Clair keeps me

drawing lines and triangles and cubes. Any one can do them; I want to

begin to paint!"

"Then why don't you do just as Uncle Harry says; he knows best!" Bertie

replied gravely. "I always do exactly as Uncle Gregory says, no matter

what it is; and now it's time for me to go back. Oh, I forgot to tell

you something: our cousins, Dick and Harry, are coming home in a few

weeks; I'll bring them to see you. It won't be so bad when they come,

but it is dull at home these long evenings."

"It does me good to see Bertie: he's always so happy and cheerful," Aunt

Amy said, after she had kissed him, and watched him a little way down

the street. "I wish, Eddie dear, you would try to be contented and

happy."

"I do try, Aunt Amy, but I can't while I have to do so many unpleasant

things," Eddie replied, drawing near her. One comfort was, he was always

sure of ready sympathy from her, while Uncle Harry sometimes laughed at

his fretful impatience. "If uncle would only let me begin a picture!"

"All in good time, dear. Be patient, Eddie: that's the alphabet of art,

and you must learn it; besides, Uncle Harry knows best, and remember,

the sooner you master the alphabet the sooner you can begin to work.

Just see how Agnes gets on!"