"A REAL PLUCKY LITTLE MAID!"
"DONALD, Donald! Oh, there you are! I've had a letter from Mrs. Ford
by the afternoon post, and she says she's writing to Aunt Ann to ask
if she may invite you to tea sometimes!"
The speaker was Josephine. She had come hurrying into the kitchen
garden in search of Donald, who was standing by watching his sister
weeding the corner which was her own garden. It was shaded by a big
apple tree and did not get enough sunshine to grow flowers; but ferns
flourished there, and May had turned it from a waste corner into a
beautiful fernery.
It was April, the week after Easter, and very soon Donald would be
going back to boarding-school at Exeter. He had discarded his crutch
altogether now.
"Oh, I say, how jolly of her!" he replied, his blue eyes sparkling.
"Did you put it to her that she might?" he asked.
Josephine shook her dark head smilingly.
"No," she said, "but I told her that you had no friends in Exeter.
She's taken a little furnished house, you know, and is doing war work
in different ways—nursing, and attending at the stations with
refreshments for the wounded as the Red Cross trains go through."
Her face saddened as she spoke of the Red Cross trains.
"Oh, Josephine, I forgot to tell you something!" May exclaimed. "Who
do you think is helping at the soldier's hospital at Midbury now? But
you'll never guess! Mrs. Cummings! Yes, actually! She met Aunt Ann in
Midbury yesterday and told her so."
"I shouldn't like Mrs. Cummings to nurse me," remarked Donald, "she'd
give me the doldrums."
"But she's doing cooking, not nursing," May explained; "she told Aunt
Ann that with her daughter generally away the best part of the day
she could well spare the time to help at the hospital. Aunt Ann says
she seemed much brighter than usual; she thought it must be because
she had found something to take her thoughts from herself."
"When are we going to see Miss Cummings, May?" asked Josephine. "You
know we told her we would call to see her during the holidays, and a
week of them has gone. Couldn't we go to-morrow afternoon?"
"I should think so," May answered; "we could walk into the town
early, look at the shops, and then call on Miss Cummings. If she's
at home she'll be sure to want us to stay to tea."
Accordingly the following afternoon, about four o'clock, found the
two little girls at the door of their governess' home. In response
to May's knock Margaret Cummings herself came to the door. Her grave
face lit up with a smile at sight of her visitors; she was evidently
glad to see them.
"Oh, come in, come in!" she cried hospitably. Then, as they obeyed
and followed her into the front sitting-room, she drew chairs for
them into the little bay window which commanded a view of the road,
and said: "Mother will be here presently—she's at the hospital. You
must stop to tea. I've put the kettle on."
"We intended to stay if you asked us," Josephine replied frankly,
"didn't we, May?"
May assented.
"Aunt Ann said we might," she remarked; "but she thought that perhaps
you would not want us—that you had enough of us in term time."
The young governess laughed. "I am very pleased to see you," she
declared, "very pleased indeed! Are you enjoying the holidays?"
"Oh, yes!" May answered. "Aunt Ann has been taking us for some nice
drives, and we have been doing a good bit of gardening."
"Uncle John has given me a piece of ground for my very own,"
Josephine said, "and May has helped me to put it in order. I heard
from father yesterday, Miss Cummings. He is quite safe and well."
"I am so glad, dear! Oh, here's mother! Now I'll go and make
the tea."
Mrs. Cummings was pleased to find that her daughter had visitors.
She sat down and talked to them about her new work till they were
called into the back sitting-room to tea. There she presided at the
tea-table, and for once in a way said nothing of a depressing nature.
By and by she mentioned the fact that her daughter spent her Sunday
afternoons at the hospital. "She sings to the soldiers, you know,"
she said; "they never tire of listening to her."
"Why, I didn't even know you could sing!" May exclaimed, regarding
her governess with so much astonishment that she broke into a merry
laugh.
"She has a beautiful voice," remarked Mrs. Cummings, "but she never
sang in public till lately. It was Dr. Farrant who persuaded her
to sing at the hospital, and now she likes doing it, don't you,
Margaret?"
Her daughter assented. "It makes me very happy to see my singing
gives pleasure," she said. "Last Sunday I sang 'Fight the good
fight,'" she continued, with a smile at Josephine; "I generally
choose well-known hymns and ask the soldiers to join in singing
them."
"And do they?" questioned Josephine eagerly.
"Oh, yes! Of course some do not know the words, but those who do
enjoy to sing with me. And then every one joins in singing 'God save
the King.'"
After tea a move was made into the front sitting-room, and shortly
afterwards the visitors rose to leave. Their governess said she would
go part way home with them, and accompanied them as far as Tor hill,
where she turned back.
"I used to think I could never like Miss Cummings," May said gravely,
as she and Josephine walked on towards the Glen; "but, do you know,
I believe I'm getting quite fond of her? I've found out since the war
began how really kindhearted she is. See how she's helped us with our
work for the poor Belgians, and the soldiers! And it's kind of her to
sing at the hospital, isn't it?—especially as she's rather a shy sort
of person? Oh, here comes Donald to meet us! Oh, I wonder if he will
ever be able to walk better than that? It's dreadful to think he will
always be lame!"
"Here you are at last!" was Donald's greeting.
"At last?" echoed May. "Why, it isn't late! We've had tea with Miss
Cummings and her mother. Aunt Ann said we might."
"I came to meet you to warn you that there's a bull straying about
the lanes somewhere," the boy said; "I knew you'd be scared if you
met him."
"I should think so!" cried May, who was afraid of all horned cattle,
even cows. "But how do you know?"
"I was standing at the garden gate when a boy came along and told
me," Donald explained; "he said it was Farmer Bond's bull, and that
the farmer and several men were searching for him. He broke out of
a meadow, it seems."
"Oh, let us get home as soon as we can!" cried May nervously. She had
turned pale and was all of a shake. "I know Farmer Bond's bull is a
savage one!" she added.
Donald looked at her with a twinkle of amusement in his eyes, and
laughed.
"It would be no laughing matter if we encountered the bull and he
turned upon us," Josephine said; "May is right, let us hurry home."
"Listen!" exclaimed May. "Oh, he's coming! Run! Oh, run!"
From a lane at no great distance, which led into the high road, came
the sounds of men's voices shouting and a dog barking. The little
girls began to run, and Donald followed them—he could not run on
account of his lame knee, but he might have quickened his footsteps
if he had liked.
"You little cowards!" he shouted, "I'm not going to hurry! I'm not
afraid of—"
He broke off abruptly. He had been walking close to the hedge, and
had caught his foot in a trailing bramble. The next instant he
measured his length on the ground.
Meanwhile the little girls had reached a five-barred gate. May
climbed it nimbly, and dropped into the field on the other side.
Josephine was about to follow her example when she glanced back
to look for Donald, and saw, to her dismay—for the sounds which had
alarmed her and May were drawing nearer—what had happened.
"Quick! quick!" cried May. "Where's Donald?"
"He's fallen, but he's getting up," Josephine answered. "Oh, May,
the bull's coming! I see it! And a sheep-dog after it! Run, Donald,
run!"
But Donald, pale to the lips, had sunk down on the ground again.
Josephine darted back the road and seized him by the arm.
"Get up, get up!" she cried imperatively, "the bull's coming!"
"I know!" he groaned. "Don't stop! I've twisted my bad knee!
I'll hide in the ditch—the brute mayn't see me!"
As he spoke he rolled himself into a shallow ditch by the hedge.
There was no time for Josephine to return to the gate; so she took
refuge in the ditch too, and crouched beside the boy. Never in her
life had she been so frightened before.
Would the bull see them? It seemed impossible that he would not.
He was galloping along the road, bellowing loudly, evidently
infuriated by the big sheep-dog who was trying to get ahead of him
to turn him. With lowered head and fixed gaze he came on; but his
fixed gaze was not on the terror-stricken occupants of the ditch,
but on a little figure which stood right in the centre of the road
in front of the five-barred gate, waving a white pocket-handkerchief.
A moment more and he had passed by, whilst the little figure fled
to the gateway and vanished. Another moment and the bull and dog
had vanished too.
At this point in the proceedings two men, panting with running,
appeared upon the scene, one being the bull's owner, Farmer Bond.
Josephine scrambled out of the ditch, and ran with them to the
gateway. The gate was closed, and safely imprisoned in the field
beyond was the bull, guarded by the sheep-dog, who had ceased
barking, whilst outside the gate, leaning against it for support
and nearly in a state of collapse, stood May.
Josephine put her arms around her, hugging and kissing her, whereupon
she burst into tears; she tried to check them when Donald, white and
shaking, appeared upon the scene, anxiety on her account having made
him impervious to pain for the time being.
The farmer whistled to his dog, who left the bull and came to him;
then he looked at May and inquired—
"Was it you who opened the gate and let the bull into the field,
missie?"
She nodded assent, but it was some minutes before she grew
sufficiently composed to explain how she had managed. She had found
the gate was not locked, arid as soon as she had realized Josephine
and Donald's peril, had deliberately placed herself in the middle of
the road and attracted the bull's attention. That done she had opened
the gate wide, and stood behind it whilst the sheep-dog had driven
the bull into the field; then she had come into the road again, and
closed the gate.
"Well, missie, all I can say is that you're a real plucky little
maid!" Farmer Bond declared admiringly.
"Oh, no!" May cried; "you wouldn't say that if you knew how
frightened I was!"
"That made it all the pluckier of you to keep your head and act as
you did. The bull's safe enough where he is, and by and by when he's
quieted down we shan't have any difficulty in head-roping him and
taking him home. I am more than sorry he should have given you all
such a fright, and very grateful to you, missie, for what you've
done. I hope you feel better now?"
May glanced at Farmer Bond's concerned countenance and tried
to smile.
"Yes, thank you," she answered, but her voice sounded faint and
tremulous.
"And you, sir?" the farmer asked, turning to Donald, who suddenly
flushed crimson, "you are all of a shake—"
"I fell and twisted my injured knee," interposed Donald hastily;
"that's why I was obliged to hide in the ditch."
"Oh, Donald," cried May, "have you hurt your knee badly? I'm afraid
you have! Then you ought not to try to walk home!"
"Oh, as to that, my man and I will take him home," said Farmer Bond;
"we'll cross arms and clasp hands, and so make a seat for him to ride
on."
Thus was Donald conveyed to the Glen. He was in a good deal of pain,
but Dr. Farrant, who was immediately sent for, said if he rested his
knee a few days it would be as well as it was before. The boy was
greatly relieved to hear that, for he was most anxious that nothing
should happen to prevent his return to school.
During the next few days he followed the doctor's orders and rested
his knee, May waiting on him with unselfish attention. Many times she
caught his gaze fixed on her thoughtfully, and on one of these
occasions she asked—
"What are you thinking of, Donald?"
"Of you," he answered promptly; "I was thinking that very likely you
saved my life and Josephine's; I believe the bull would have seen us
and gone for us if you hadn't stood out in the road as you did.
Dr. Farrant said you were a real heroine when he heard about it.
And yet you say you were frightened?"
"Oh, dreadfully!—when I saw you and Josephine in the ditch and the
bull coming! But I prayed to God for help, and then it flashed upon
me what to do. So you see God answered my prayer."
The boy was silent. It was very wonderful that his timid little
sister should have proved herself capable of such courage.
"If I was brave it was only because I felt God was near me,"
she added after a pause; "yes, that was how it was, I am sure!"