cottage and went in search of the man to whom he had paid the money.
The man was quite willing to return it, as there were many others, he
said, who would be willing to give him the same sum or more for his
services. The moment Price got the money he took it straight to Mr.
Case, laid it on his desk and was going away, when the Attorney called
out, "Not so fast, you have forgotten your lease."
"Ah yes! my lease, I had forgotten it. Let me have it."
"Pardon me," said the Attorney with a cruel smile, "but I cannot let
you have it. On reading it over I find that owing to a mistake you may
be turned out of the farm at any time. I must keep it to show to Sir
Arthur. I have no doubt he will want me to look after things for him
as I did for his brother. Now perhaps you wish you had quietly let me
add the field to my garden."
Farmer Price said nothing, but dragged himself home a sad man.
III
SUSAN'S GUINEA-FOWL
When Susan had heard her father's story, she quite forgot the loss of
her guinea-hen, and thought only of her poor mother who, try as she
might, could not bear the bad news. In the middle of the night Susan
was roused, as Mrs. Price had become ill, and it was not until early
morning that the poor woman fell asleep, her daughter's hand locked
fast in hers. Susan remained sitting by the bedside, breathing
quietly. Then seeing the candle burn low, she gently withdrew her
hand, and on tiptoe went to put out the light, lest the unpleasant
smell should wake her mother. All was silent. The gray light of dawn
stole into the little room; the sun rose slowly, and Susan peered
through the small panes of the lattice window at the glorious sight. A
few birds began to chirp, and as the little girl listened to them, her
mother started and spoke in her sleep. Susan quickly hung up a white
apron before the window to keep out the light, and at the same moment
she heard in the distance the voices of the village children singing
their Mayday songs. Soon she could see them, Philip leading the way
playing upon his pipe and tabor, the others following with nosegays
and garlands in their hands. They were coming towards the cottage.
Quickly but quietly Susan unlatched the door and ran to meet them.
"Here she is!--here's Susan!" they exclaimed joyfully.
"Here's the Queen of the May!"
"And here's her crown!" cried Rose, pressing forward.
But Susan put her finger to her lips, and pointed to her mother's
window. Philip's pipe stopped at once.
"Thank you," said Susan, "but my mother is ill. I can't leave her, you
know." Then as she gently put aside the crown, her companions asked
her to say who should wear it for her.
"Will you, dear Rose?" she said, placing the garland upon her friend's
head. "It's a charming May morning," she added, with a smile;
"good-by. We shall not hear your voices or the pipe when you have
turned the corner into the village, so you need only stop till then,
Philip."
"I shall stop for all day," said Philip: "I've no wish to play any
more."
"Good-by, poor Susan! It is a pity you can't come with us," said all
the children.
Little Mary ran after Susan to the cottage door. "I forgot to thank
you," she said, "for the cowslips. Look how pretty they are, and smell
how sweet the violets are that I wear, and kiss me quick or I shall be
left behind."
Susan kissed the little breathless girl, and returned softly to the
side of her mother's bed. "How grateful that child is to me for a
cowslip only! How can I be grateful enough to such a mother as this?"
she said to herself, as she bent over the pale face of her sleeping
mother.
Her mother's unfinished knitting lay upon a table near the bed, and
Susan sat down in her wicker armchair, and went on with the row, in
the middle of which Mrs. Price had stopped the evening before. "She
taught me to knit, she taught me everything that I know," thought
Susan, "and best of all, she taught me to love her, to wish to be like
her." Mrs. Price, when she awoke, felt much better, but slowly there
came back to her memory the sad news she had heard the evening before.
She asked herself if it could have been a dream, but no, it was all
too true. She could recall her husband's look as he had said, "I must
leave you in three days." Then suddenly she roused herself. "Why!
he'll want, he'll want a hundred things," she said. "I must get his
linen ready for him. I'm afraid it's very late. Susan, why did you let
me sleep so long?"
"Everything shall be ready, dear mother; only don't hurry," said
Susan. And indeed her mother was not able to bear any hurry, or to do
any work that day. Susan's loving help was never more wanted. She
understood so well, she obeyed so exactly, and when she was left to
herself, judged so wisely, that her mother had little trouble in
directing her. She said that Susan never did too little or too much.
Susan was mending her father's linen, when Rose tapped softly at the
window, and beckoned to her to come out. She went.
"How is your mother, in the first place?" said Rose.
"Better, thank you."
"That is nice, and I have a little bit of good news for you
besides--here," she said, pulling out a purse, in which there was
money. "We'll get the guinea-hen back again--we have all agreed about
it. This is the money that has been given to us in the village this
May morning. At every door they gave silver. See how generous they
have been--twelve shillings. Now we are a match for Miss Barbara. You
won't like to leave home, so I'll go to her, and you shall see your
guinea-hen in ten minutes."
Rose hurried away, filled with joy at the thought that soon she would
return to Susan with her lost bird.
Miss Barbara's maid, Betty, was the first person she saw on reaching
the Attorney's house. Rose said she must see Barbara and was shown
into a parlor where the young lady sat reading a book.
"How you startled me! Is it only you?" she said, looking up and seeing
no one but the maid. Then, as she caught sight of Rose, she went on,
"You should have said I was not at home. Pray, my good girl, what do
you want?" she said, turning to Rose. "Is it to borrow or to beg that
you are here?"
"The person from whom I come does not wish either to borrow or to beg,
but to pay for what she asks," answered Rose. Then opening her
well-filled purse, she held out to Barbara a bright shilling, saying,
"Now please be so good as to give me Susan's guinea-hen."
"You may keep your shilling," replied Barbara. "It would have been
enough if it had been paid yesterday when I asked for it, but I told
Susan that as it was not paid then I should keep the hen, and I shall.
You may go back and tell her so."
While Barbara spoke she had been looking into the open purse in Rose's
hand. She thought she could count at least ten shillings. Could she
not manage to get at least five of them for the guinea-hen, she
wondered?
Rose little guessed what was going on in Barbara's mind, and exclaimed
angrily, "We must have Susan's favorite hen, whatever it costs. If one
shilling won't do, take two. If two won't do, take three," and she
flung the coins one after the other on the table.
"Three won't do," said Barbara.
"Then take four."
Barbara shook her head.
A fifth shilling was offered, but Barbara, seeing that she had the
game in her own hands, was silent.
Then Rose threw down shilling after shilling, till twelve bright
pieces lay on the table, and her purse was empty.
"Now you may take the guinea-hen," said Barbara.
Rose pushed the money towards the greedy girl, but at the same moment
remembered that it had not belonged to herself alone. At once she
seized the silver coins, and saying that she must first see if the
friends with whom she shared them were willing to part with them, she
ran off.
When the children heard Rose's story, they were amazed, that even
Barbara could be so mean, but they all agreed that at any cost the
guinea-fowl must be set free. In a body they went to Susan and told
her so, at the same time handing her the purse. Then they ran off
without waiting to be thanked. Rose only stayed behind. Susan knew
that she must accept the present gladly, just as she would give one
gladly. She was much touched by the kindness of her friends, but she
took the purse as simply as she would have given it.
"Well," said Rose, "shall I go back for the guinea-hen?"
"The guinea-hen!" said Susan, starting from a dream into which she had
fallen as she looked at the purse. "Certainly I do long to see my
pretty guinea-hen once more; but I was not thinking of her just
then--I was thinking of my father."
Now Susan had often that day heard her mother wish that she had but
money enough in the world to pay to the man who was willing to be
trained to fight instead of her husband.
"This, to be sure, will go but a little way," thought Susan; "but
still it may be of some use." She told her thought to Rose, and ended
by saying that if the money was given to her to spend as she pleased,
she would give it to her father.
"It is all yours, my dear, good Susan!" cried Rose. "This is so like
you!--but I'm sorry that Miss Bab must keep your guinea-hen. I would
not be her for all the guinea-hens, or guineas either, in the whole
world. Why, the guinea-hen won't make her happy, and you'll be happy
even without it, because you are good. Let me come and help you
to-morrow," she went on, looking at Susan's work, "if you have any
more mending to do--I never liked work till I worked with you. I won't
forget my thimble or my scissors," she added, laughing--"though I used
to forget them when I was a wilder girl. I assure you I am clever with
my needle now--try me."
Susan told her friend that she would most gladly accept her help, but
that she had finished all the needlework that was wanted at present.
"But do you know," she went on, "I shall be very busy to-morrow. I
won't tell you what it is that I have to do, for I am afraid I shall
not succeed, but if I do succeed, I'll come and tell you directly,
because you will be so glad."
IV
SUSAN VISITS THE ABBEY
Susan, who had always been attentive to what her mother taught her,
and who had often helped her when she was baking bread and cakes for
the family at the Abbey, now thought that she could herself bake a
batch of bread. One of the new servants from the Abbey had been sent
all round the village in the morning in search of loaves, and had not
been able to procure any that were eatable. Mrs. Price's last baking
had failed for want of good yeast. She was not now strong enough to
attempt another herself, and when the brewer's boy came to tell her
that he had some fine fresh yeast, she thanked him, but sighed and
said she feared it would be of little use to her. But Susan went to
work with great care, and the next morning when her bread came out of
the oven, it was excellent: at least her mother said so, and she was a
good judge. It was sent to the Abbey, and as the family had not tasted
any good bread since they had come there, they also were warm in its
praise. With some surprise, they heard from the housekeeper that this
excellent bread was made by a young girl only twelve years old. The
housekeeper, who had known Susan since she was a child, was pleased to
have a chance to speak about her.
"She is the busiest little creature, ma'am, in the world," she said to
her mistress. "I can't so well call her little now though, since she's
grown tall and slender to look at; and glad I am she is grown up good
to look at; for handsome is that handsome does, ma'am. She thinks no
more of her being handsome than I do myself; yet she has as proper a
respect for herself, ma'am, as you have; and I always see her neat,
and she is always with her mother, or fit people, as a girl should be.
As for her mother, she dotes upon her, as well she may; for I should
myself if I had half such a daughter, ma'am; and then she has two
little brothers, and she's as good to them and, my boy Philip says,
taught them to read more than the school-mistress did; but I beg your
pardon, ma'am, I cannot stop myself when I once begin to talk of
Susan."
"You have really said enough to make me wish to see her," said her
mistress. "Pray send for her now; we can see her before we go out to
walk."
The kind housekeeper gladly sent off her boy Philip for Susan, who was
never so untidy that she could not come at once when sent for. She had
been very busy, but orderly people can be busy and neat at the same
time. Putting on her usual straw hat, she set out for the Abbey. On
the way she overtook Rose's mother, who was going there too with a
basket of fresh muslin. When Susan reached the Abbey, her simple dress
and manners and the good sense with which she answered the questions
put to her, pleased the ladies greatly. They saw that the housekeeper
had not spoken too highly of the farmer's daughter.
These two ladies were the sisters of Sir Arthur Somers. They were kind
and wise; kind in wishing to spread happiness among their poor
neighbors, and wise in wishing these people to be happy in their own
way. They did not wish to manage them, but only to help them. As Sir
Arthur was always willing to aid his sisters, it seemed as if they
would prove a blessing in in the village near which they had come to
live. When Susan took leave of the ladies, she was told they would
call at her home that evening at six o'clock. Such a grand event as
Susan's visit to the Abbey soon became known to Barbara Case and her
maid, and together they watched for her return.
"There she is! She has just gone into her garden," cried Bab; "we'll
run in at once and hear all about it."
Susan was gathering some marigolds and parsley for her mother's soup.
"Well, Susan, and how are things going with you to-day?" asked
Barbara.
"My mother is rather better, she says; thank you, ma'am."
"'Ma'am, how polite we have grown all of a sudden!" said Bab, winking
at her maid. "One can see you have been in good company. Come, tell us
all about it."
"Did you see the ladies themselves," asked Betty, "or only the
housekeeper?"
"What room were you in?" went on Bab. "Did you see Miss Somers or Sir
Arthur?"
"Miss Somers," replied Susan.
"Betty, she saw Miss Somers! I must hear about it. Susan, stop
gathering those things, and have a chat with us."
"I can't indeed, Miss Barbara, for my mother wants her soup, and I am
in a hurry." And Susan ran home.
"Would you believe it, her head is full of soup now?" said Bab to her
maid. "She seems to think nothing of her visit to the Abbey. My papa
may well call her _Simple Susan_. But simple or not I mean to get what
I want out of her. Maybe when she has settled the grand matter of the
soup, she'll be able to speak. I'll step in and ask to see her mother.
That will put her in a good humor in a trice."
Barbara went to the cottage and found Susan standing over a pot on the
fire. "Is the soup ready?" she asked. "I'll wait till you take it in
to your mother and go in with you. I want to ask her how she is,
myself."
"Sit down then, miss," said Susan, "I have put in the parsley, so the
soup is nearly ready."
Barbara sat down and plied Susan with questions. How was Miss Somers
dressed? Were the sisters dressed alike? What were they having for
dinner at the Abbey? Above all, what could Miss Somers mean by saying
she would call at Farmer Price's cottage at six o'clock that evening?
"What do you think she could mean?" asked Barbara.
"What she said," replied Susan, "that she would be here at six
o'clock."
"That's plain enough," said Barbara, "but what else do you think she
meant? People, you know, often mean more or less than they say."
"They do," answered Susan, with a smile that made Barbara guess of
whom she was thinking.
But Bab did not mean Susan to know that she guessed, so she said, "I
suppose you think that Miss Somers meant more than she said?"
"I was not thinking of Miss Somers when I said what I did," replied
Susan.
There was a pause, and then Bab remarked, "How nice the soup looks!"
Susan had poured it into a basin, and as she dropped over it the
bright yellow marigold, it looked very tempting. She tasted it and
added a little salt; tasted it again, and added a little more. Then
she thought it was just as her mother liked it.
"Oh, I must taste it!" said Bab, seizing the basin greedily.
"Won't you take a spoon?" said Susan, trembling as she saw the big
mouthfuls Barbara took with a loud noise.
"Take a spoon, indeed!" exclaimed Bab. "How dare you, how dare you
speak so to me? 'Take a spoon, pig!' was what you meant to say! I'll
never enter your cottage again!" And she flounced out of the house.
Susan stood still, amazed at the beginning of Barbara's speech, but
her last words explained the sudden outburst.
Some years before this time, when Susan was a very little girl and
could scarcely speak, as she was eating a basin of bread and milk for
supper at the cottage door, a great pig came up and put his nose into
the basin. Susan was willing that the pig should have some share of
the bread and milk, but as she ate with a spoon and he with his large
mouth, she soon found that he was likely to have more than his share;
and she said to him, "Take a poon, pig." The saying became a proverb
in the village, and Susan's little companions quoted it when any one
claimed more than his share of anything good. Barbara, who was then
not Miss Barbara, but plain Bab, and who played with all the poor
children in the village, was often reproved by Susan's proverb. Susan,
as she grew up, forgot the childish saying, but Barbara remembered it,
and it was this that she thought was in Susan's mind when she asked
her to take a spoon.
"Indeed, miss," said Betty, when she found Barbara in a passion upon
her return from the cottage, "indeed I wonder you set your foot within
the door. Your own papa has been at the Abbey all morning, and you can
hear all you wish to know from him."
Barbara at once ran to her father's parlor, but saw at a glance that
he was in no mood to answer questions. Instead of leaving him alone,
she did all in her power to find out why he had been at the Abbey, and
what he had seen and heard there. And when she found that her father
would tell her nothing, she ran back to her maid, saying, "Papa is so
cross! I cannot put up with him."
V
SUSAN'S PET LAMB
It is true that Attorney Case was not in a happy mood. His visit to
the Abbey had made him feel sure that Sir Arthur and he would not
agree about the treatment of the farmers who lived on the estate. One
matter they had talked about was Sir Arthur's wish to enlarge his
grounds and make a drive round them. A map of the estate lay upon the
table and they looked at it together.
"Ah! but I see this new road for the drive would run through Farmer
Price's garden," said Sir Arthur. "That would never do."
"It need not trouble you," said Attorney Case, "you may do as you like
with Price's land."
"How so?" asked Sir Arthur. "His lease will not be out for ten years,
I believe."
"True, that would have been the case had there not been a mistake in
it. I have the lease and can show you." The heartless man then went on
to explain to Sir Arthur what the mistake was.
Sir Arthur remained silent.
"Oh! I see," said the Attorney. "You do not wish to annoy Farmer
Price. But just put the matter into my hands and I will manage it for
you."
"You seem to forget that to take the farm out of this poor man's hands
would be to ruin him," replied Sir Arthur, quietly.
"Indeed," said the wicked Attorney, "indeed I should be sorry for
that, if it were not that Farmer Price is such an unruly, stubborn
man."
"An unruly man, is he? If that be so, the sooner he leaves the place
the better. When you go home, you will be good enough to send me the
lease that I may, for myself, see the mistake."
Attorney Case got up to go. But before he went, he thought he must try
to find out if Sir Arthur was going to employ him to look after the
estate, that is, if he was to be the agent. "I will not trouble you
about this lease, Sir Arthur," he said, "but will hand it to your
agent, if you will inform me who is to have that post."
"I mean to be my own agent," answered Sir Arthur, "and will myself
look after the happiness of the people among whom I have come to
live."
It was the surprise of this reply that had sent Attorney Case home so
cross that Barbara had said to Betty she could not put up with him.
When his daughter had left him atone, the Attorney walked up and down
the room deep in thought. "At any rate," he said to himself at last,
"if Sir Arthur means to manage the estate himself in summer, he at
least will need an agent in winter. I must try to get the post." And
he still walked up and down, trying to think of some plan by which he
would find favor at the Abbey. Now that morning he had heard the
housekeeper at the Abbey ask the servants if any lamb were to be had
in the village, as Sir Arthur would like to have it one day soon for
dinner.
Knowing that he himself treated those farmers best who from time to
time gave him presents, Attorney Case thought that if he sent a gift
to Sir Arthur, it might help him to get what he wished.
No sooner had the idea struck him than the Attorney went to the
kitchen. Standing at the door was a shepherd-boy. Barbara, too, was
there.
"Do you know of a nice fat lamb?" the Attorney asked the lad.
Before the shepherd-boy could answer, Barbara exclaimed, "I know of
one. Susan Price has a pet lamb that is as fat as fat can be."
At once Attorney Case walked over to Farmer Price's cottage. He found
Susan packing her father's little wardrobe, and as she looked up, he
saw she had been in tears.
"How is your mother to-day, Susan?" inquired the Attorney.
"Worse, sir. My father goes to-morrow."
"That's a pity."
"It can't be helped," said Susan, with a sigh.
"It can't be helped--how do you know that?" said Mr. Case.
"Sir, dear sir!" cried she, looking up at him, and a sudden ray of
hope beamed in her sweet face.
"What if you could help it, Susan?" he said.
Susan clasped her hands in silence.
"You can help it, Susan." She started up. "What would you give now to
have your father at home for a whole week longer?"
"Anything!--but I have nothing."
"Yes, you have a lamb," said the hard-hearted Attorney.
"My poor little Daisy!" said Susan; "but what good can she do?"
"What good can any lamb do? Is not lamb good to eat? Why do you look
so pale, girl? Are not sheep killed every day, and don't you eat
mutton? Is your lamb better than anybody else's, think you?"
"I don't know," said Susan, "but I love her dearly."
"More silly you," said he.
"She feeds out of my hand, she follows me about; I have always taken
care of her; my mother gave her to me."
"Well, say no more about it, then; if you love your lamb better than
both your father and your mother, keep it, and good morning to you."
"Stay, oh stay!" cried Susan, catching his coat with an eager,
trembling hand--"a whole week, did you say? My mother may get better
in that time. No, I do not love Daisy half so well." The struggle in
her mind ceased, and with a calm voice she said, "Take the lamb."
"Where is it?" said the Attorney.
"Grazing in the meadow, by the river-side."
"It must be brought up before nightfall for the butcher, remember."
"I shall not forget it," said Susan, steadily.
As soon, however, as the cruel man turned his back and left the house,
Susan sat down, and hid her face in her hands. She was soon roused by
the sound of her mother's feeble voice calling her from the inner room
where she lay. Susan went in.
"Are you there, love? I thought I heard some strange voice just now
talking to my child. Something's amiss, Susan," her mother went on,
raising herself as well as she could in bed, to look at her daughter's
face.
"Would you think it amiss, then, my dear mother," said Susan, stooping
to kiss her--"would you think it amiss if my father was to stay with
us a week longer?"
"Susan! you don't say so?"
"He is, indeed, a whole week--but how burning hot your hand is
still."
"Are you sure he will stay?" asked her mother. "How do you know? Who
told you so? Tell me all quick!"
"Attorney Case told me so; he can get him leave for a week longer, and
he has promised he will."
"God bless him for it for ever and ever!" said the poor woman, joining
her hands. "May the blessing of Heaven be with him!"