a messenger had come from the Abbey for the bread-bill. Susan always
made out the bills, for although she had not had many writing-lessons,
she had taken great pains to learn, and wrote in a neat, clear hand.
It is true she was in no mood to write or add now, but the work must
be done. Having carefully ruled lines for the pounds, shillings and
pence, she made out the bill and gave it to the boy who waited for it.
Then she said to herself she would make out the other bills, for many
of the people in the village had bought a few loaves and rolls of her
making. "And when these are done, I may go down to the meadow to take
leave of my poor lamb."
But Susan could not find her slate, and when she did find it many of
the figures were blurred, for Barbara had sat upon it. And then the
numbers seemed to dance before her, and each time that she added, the
answer was different. She went over and over the sums until her head
ached. The table was covered with little square bits of paper on which
she had written the bills when her father came in, holding in his hand
an account.
"Look at this, Susan!" he said, handing it to her. "How could you be
so careless, child? What have you been thinking about to let a bill
like that go to the Abbey? Luckily, I met the messenger and asked to
see how much it was. Look at it."
Susan looked and blushed. Instead of "loaves" she had written "lambs."
She altered the mistake and handed the bill to her father. He,
meantime, was looking at the papers lying on the table.
"What are all these, child?" he asked.
"Some of them were wrong, and I wrote them out again."
"Some of them! All of them as far as I can see," said her father
rather angrily, pointing to the papers.
Susan read the bills. Most of them were for lambs instead of for
loaves or rolls. Her thoughts had indeed been running upon the pet she
was to part with so soon.
Once more she wrote the bills, and her father, who was struck by the
patient way she set to work, said he would himself collect the money.
He would be proud to be able to say to the neighbors that it was all
earned by his own little daughter. Susan heard him sigh as he passed
the knapsack she had packed for him, but she thought she would keep
the pleasure of telling him of his week's leave until he came home. He
had said he would have supper in her mother's room. She would tell the
good news then. "How delighted he will be when he hears," she said to
herself, "but I know he will be sorry too for poor Daisy."
Susan thought she would now have time to run down to the meadow by the
river-side to see her favorite, but just as she had tied on her straw
hat the clock struck four. This was the hour at which she always went
to fetch her brothers from the school near the village. So, as she
knew that the little boys would be sorry if she were late, she put off
her visit to the lamb and went at once to meet them.
VI
THE BLIND HARPER
The dame-school, which was about a mile from the village, was a long,
low house with a thatched roof. It was sheltered by a few old oaks,
under which the grandparents and great-grandparents of the children
now at school had played long ago. The play-green sloped down from the
front of the school, and was enclosed by a rough paling. The children
obeyed and loved the dame who taught them, for she was ever quick to
praise them when they did well, and to give them all the pleasure she
could. Susan had been taught by her, and the dame often told her
little pupils that they must try to be like her, wise and modest,
gentle and kind. As she now opened the gate, she heard the merry
voices of the little ones, and saw them streaming out of the narrow
door and scattering over the green.
"Oh, there's Susan!" cried her two little brothers, running, leaping
and bounding up to her; and many of the other rosy boys and girls
crowded round her to tell of their games.
Susan always liked to hear of all that made others happy, but she had
to tell the children that if they all spoke at once she would not be
able to hear what any of them said. The voices were still raised one
above the other, all eager to tell about ninepins, or marbles, or
tops, or bows and arrows, when suddenly music was heard. The children
at once became silent, and looked round to see whence the sound came.
Susan pointed to the great oak-tree, and they saw, sitting under its
shade, an old man playing upon his harp. The children all drew near
quietly, for the music was solemn; but as the harper heard little
footsteps coming towards him, he played one of his more lively tunes.
The merry troop pressed nearer and nearer to the old man. Then some of
those who were in front whispered to each other, "He is blind." "What
a pity!" "He looks very poor." "What a ragged coat he wears!" "He must
be very old, for his hair is white; and he must have come a long way,
for his shoes are quite worn out."
All this was said while the harper tuned his harp. When he once more
began to play, not a word was spoken, but every now and again there
was a cry of delight. The old man then let the children name the airs
they would like best to hear. Each, time Susan spoke, he turned his
face quickly to where she stood, and played the tune she asked for
over and over again.
"I am blind," he said, "and cannot see your faces, but I can tell
something about each of you by your voices."
"Can you indeed?" cried Susan's little brother William, who was now
standing between the old man's knees. "It was my sister Susan who
spoke last. Can you tell us something about her?"
"That I can, I think," said the harper, lifting the little boy on his
knee. "Your sister Susan is good-natured."
William clapped his hands.
"And good-tempered."
"Right," said little William, clapping louder than before.
"And very fond of the little boy who sits on my knee."
"Oh! right, right, quite right!" exclaimed the child, and "quite
right" echoed on all sides.
"But how do you know so much, when you are blind?" said William,
looking hard at the old man.
"Hush!" whispered John, who was a year older than his brother and very
wise, "you should not remind him that he is blind."
"Though I am blind," said the harper, "I can hear, you know, and I
heard from your sister herself all that I told you of her, that she
was good-tempered and good-natured and fond of you."
"Oh, that's wrong--you did not hear all that from her, I'm sure," said
John, "for nobody ever hears her praising herself."
"Did not I hear her tell you," said the harper, "when you first came
round me, that she was in a great hurry to go home, but that she would
stay a little while, since you wished it so much? Was not that
good-natured? And when you said you did not like the tune she liked
best, she was not angry with you, but said, 'Then play William's
first, if you please.' Was not that good-tempered?"
"Oh, yes," said William, "it's all true; but how did you find out she
was fond of me?"
"That is such a hard question," said the harper, "that I must take
time to think."
He tuned his harp, as he thought, or seemed to think, and at this
instant two boys, who had been searching for birds' nests in the
hedges and who had heard the sound of the harp, came blustering up,
and pushing their way through the circle, one of them exclaimed,
"What's going on here? Who are you, my old fellow? A blind harper!
Well, play us a tune, if you can play a good one--play--let's see,
what shall he play, Bob?" added he, turning to his companion. "Play
'Bumper Squire Jones.'"
The old man, though he did not seem quite pleased with the way in
which he was asked, played "Bumper Squire Jones." Several tunes were
afterwards named by the same rough voice.
The little children shrunk back shyly, as they looked at the bold boy.
He was the son of Attorney Case, and as his father had not cured his
temper when he was a child, it became worse and worse as he grew up.
All who were younger and weaker than himself were afraid of him and
disliked him. When the old harper was so tired that he could play no
more, a lad who usually carried his harp for him came up, and held his
master's hat to those around, saying, "Will you please remember us?"
The children readily gave their halfpence to this poor, good-natured
man, who had taken so much pains to amuse them. It pleased them better
even than to give them to the gingerbread-woman, whose stall they
loved to visit. The hat was held to the Attorney's son before he chose
to see it. At last he put his hand into his pocket and pulled out a
shilling. There was sixpenny-worth of halfpence in the hat. "I'll take
these halfpence," said he, "and here's a shilling for you."
"God bless you, sir," said the lad; but as he took the shilling which
the young gentleman had slyly put into the blind man's hand, he saw
that it was not worth one farthing. "I am afraid It is not good, sir,"
said the lad, whose business it was to look at the money for his
master.
"I am afraid, then, you'll get no other," said young Case, with a rude
laugh.
"It never will do, sir, look at it yourself; the edges are all yellow.
You can see the copper through it quite plain. Sir, nobody will take
it from us."
"I have nothing to do with that," said the rude boy, pushing away his
hand. "You may pass it, you know, as well as I do, if you look sharp.
You have taken it from me, and I shan't take it back again, I can tell
you."
A whisper of "that's very unjust," was heard.
"Who says it's unjust?" cried the Attorney's son sternly, looking down
upon his judges.
"Is any one here among yourselves a judge of silver?" said the old
man.
"Yes, here's the butcher's boy," said the Attorney's son; "show it to
him."
He was a quiet, timid boy, and young Case fancied that he would be
afraid to say what he thought. However, after turning the shilling
round several times, the butcher's lad said that so far as he could
tell, although he would not like to be quite sure of it, the coin was
not a good one. Then, seeing the Attorney's son scowl angrily at him,
he turned to Susan saying that she knew more than he did about money,
as so much passed through her hands in payment of the bread she made.
"I'll leave it to her," said the old harper. "If she says the shilling
is good, we will keep it."
The coin was then handed to Susan, who had not yet spoken, but now
that she was called upon she did not shrink from telling the truth. In
a gentle but firm tone she said, "I think the shilling is a bad one."
"There's another then," cried the Attorney's son; "I have plenty of
shillings and sixpences. They are nothing to me." And he walked away.
The children now all started for their homes, and the old harper
begged that Susan would show him the way to the village, if she were
going there. The lad took up the harp and little William led the old
man by the hand, while John ran on before to gather buttercups in the
meadows. When they reached a little brook which they must cross by a
narrow plank, Susan was afraid to leave the harper to the care of his
little guide, so she herself took his hand and led him safely to the
other side.
Soon they reached the road, and Susan told the boy who carried his
master's harp that he could not now lose his way. She then said
good-by to the harper, adding that she and her brothers must take the
short path across the fields, which would not be so pleasant for him
because of the stiles.
"I am afraid Miss Somers will be waiting," said Susan to to her
brothers as they ran along together. "You know she said she would call
at six o'clock, and I am sure by the length of our shadows that it is
getting late."
VII
GOOD NEWS
When they came to their own cottage-door, they heard voices, and they
saw, when they entered, two ladies standing in the kitchen.
"Come in, Susan," said Miss Somers, "I fancy you forgot that we
promised to pay you a visit this evening; but you need not blush so
much, there is no great harm done; we have only been here about five
minutes and we have been admiring your neat garden and your tidy
shelves. Is it you, Susan, who keeps these things in such nice order?"
went on Miss Somers, looking round the kitchen.
Before Susan could reply, little William pushed forward and answered,
"Yes, ma'am, it is my sister Susan that keeps everything neat; and she
always comes to school for us too, which was what caused her to be so
late."
"Because," went on John, "she would not refuse to let us hear a blind
man play on the harp. It was we who kept her, and we hope, ma'am, as
you seem so good, you won't take it amiss."
Miss Somers and her sister smiled as they listened to Susan's little
brothers, but what they heard made them feel sure that Susan was
indeed as kind a sister as the housekeeper had said.
When the ladies left the cottage, they took Susan with them through
the village.
"I fancy we shall find what we want here," said Miss Somers, stopping
before a shop-window where ribbons of all colors were displayed, and
where lace collars, glass buttons and sheets of pins were laid out in
order. They went in, and on the shelves behind the counter saw gay,
neat linens and calicoes.
"Now, Susan, choose yourself a gown," said Miss Somers. "Because you
are a busy girl and behave well, we wish others to see that such is
the conduct we approve."
The shopkeeper was the father of Susan's friend, Rose. He stretched
his arm to the highest shelf, then dived into drawers beneath the
counter, sparing no pains to show the best goods to his customers.
Susan did not show the interest that might have been expected. She was
thinking much of her lamb and more of her father. Miss Somers had put
a bright guinea into her hand and told her to pay for her own gown.
But Susan felt that this was a great deal of money to spend upon a
frock for herself, and yet she did not know how to ask if she might
keep it for a better purpose. Although Susan said nothing, Miss Somers
read in her face that she was perplexed. "She does not like any of
these things," whispered the lady to her sister.
"She seems to be thinking of something else," was the low reply.
"If you do not fancy any of these calicoes," said the shopkeeper to
Susan, "we shall have a larger choice soon."
"Oh," answered Susan, with a smile, and a blush, "these are all too
good for me, but--"
"But what, Susan?" asked Miss Somers. "Tell us what is passing in your
little mind."
Susan said nothing.
"Well then, it does not matter. You do not know us very well yet. When
you do, you will not, I am sure, be afraid to be frank. Put the guinea
in your pocket and make what use of it you please. From what we know
and from what we have heard of you, we are sure you will make a good
use of it."
"I think, madam," said the shopkeeper, "I have a pretty good guess
what will become of that guinea, but I say nothing."
"No, that is right," said Miss Somers; "we leave Susan to do just as
she likes with it, and now we must not keep her any longer. Good
night, Susan, we shall soon come again to your neat cottage."
Susan courtesied and looked gratefully at the ladies, but did not
speak. She wished to say, "I cannot explain to you here, with people
around, what I want to do with my guinea, but when you come to our
cottage you shall know all."
After Susan had left, Miss Somers turned to the obliging shopkeeper
who was folding up all the goods he had opened. "You have had a great
deal of trouble," she said, "and as Susan will not choose a gown for
herself, I must find one for her," and she chose the prettiest.
While the man rolled up the parcel, Miss Somers asked him many
questions about Susan, and he was only too glad to be able to tell
what he knew about the good girl.
"No later than last May morning," he said, "Susan acted as it will
please you to hear. She was to have been Queen of the May, which among
the children in our village is a thing a good deal thought of. But
Susan's mother was ill, and Susan, after being up with her all night,
would not go out in the morning, even when they brought the crown to
her. She put it upon my daughter Rose's head with her own hands, and
to be sure Rose loves her as well as if she were her own sister. If I
praise Susan it is not that I am any relation of the Prices, but just
that I wish her well, as does every one that knows her. I'll send the
parcel up to the Abbey, shall I, ma'am?"
"If you please," said Miss Somers, "and as soon as your new goods come
in, let us know. You will, I hope, find us good customers and
well-wishers," she added, with a smile, "for those who wish others
well surely deserve to have well-wishers themselves."
But to return to Susan. When she left the shop she carefully put the
bright guinea into the purse with the twelve shillings her little
friends had given her on Mayday. She next added, as far as she could
remember them, the bills for bread that were owing to her, and found
they came to about thirty-eight shillings. Then she hoped that by some
means or other she might, during the week her father was to remain at
home, make up the nine guineas that would enable him to stay with them
altogether. "If that could but be," she said to herself, "how happy it
would make my mother! She is already a great deal better since I told
her my father would stay for a week longer. Ah! but she would not have
blessed Attorney Case, if she had known about my poor Daisy." Susan
had now reached the path that led to the meadow by the river-side. She
wanted to go there alone and take leave of her lamb. But her little
brothers, who were watching for her return, ran after her as soon as
they saw her and overtook her as she reached the meadow.
"What did that good lady want with you?" cried William; but looking up
in his sister's face, he saw tears in her eyes, and he was silent and
walked on quietly. Susan saw her lamb by the water-side.
"Who are those two men?" said William. "What are they going to do with
Daisy?"
The two men were Attorney Case and the butcher. The butcher was
feeling whether the lamb was fat.
Susan sat down upon the bank in silent sorrow. Her little brothers ran
up to the butcher and asked whether he was going to do any harm to the
lamb. The butcher did not answer, but the Attorney replied, "It is not
your sister's lamb any longer; it's mine."
"Yours!" cried the children with terror; "and will you kill it?"
"No, that is what the butcher will do."
The little boys now burst into loud cries. They pushed away the
butcher's hand; they threw their arms round the neck of the lamb; they
kissed its forehead. It bleated. "It will not bleat to-morrow!" said
William, and he wept bitterly.
The butcher looked aside, and hastily rubbed his eyes with the corner
of his blue apron. The Attorney stood unmoved; he pulled up the head
of the lamb, which had just stooped to crop a mouthful of clover. "I
have no time to waste," he said. "Butcher, I leave it to you. If it's
fat--the sooner the better. I've nothing more to say." And he walked
off, deaf to the prayers of the poor children. As soon as the Attorney
was out of sight, Susan rose from the bank where she was seated, came
up to her lamb, and stooped to gather some of the fresh dewy clover,
that she might feed her pet for the last time. Poor Daisy licked the
well-known hand.
"Now, let us go," said Susan.
"I'll wait as long as you please," said the butcher.
Susan thanked him, but walked away quickly, without looking back. Her
little brothers begged the man to stay a few minutes, for they had
gathered a handful of blue speedwell and yellow crowsfoot, and they
were decking the poor animal. As it followed the boys through the
village, the children looked after them as they passed, and the
butcher's own son was among the number. The boy remembered Susan's
firmness about the shilling, for it had saved him a beating. He went
at once to his father to beg him to spare the lamb.
"I was thinking about it myself," said the butcher. "It's a sin to
kill a pet lamb, I'm thinking. Anyway, it's what I'm not used to, and
don't fancy doing. But I've a plan in my head and I'm going
straightway to Attorney Case. But he's a hard man, so we'll say
nothing to the boys, lest nothing comes of it. Come, lads," he went
on, turning to the crowd of children, "it is time you were going your
ways home. Turn the lamb in here, John, into the paddock for the
night." The butcher then went to the Attorney.
"If it's a good, fat, tender lamb you want for Sir Arthur," he said,
"I could let you have one as good or better than Susan's and fit to
eat to-morrow."
As Mr. Case wished to give the present to Sir Arthur as soon as he
could, he said he would not wait for Susan's lamb, but would take the
one offered by the butcher. In the meantime Susan's brothers ran home
to tell her that the lamb was put into the paddock for the night. This
was all they knew, but even this was some comfort to the poor girl.
Rose was at Farmer Price's cottage that evening, and was to have the
pleasure of hearing Susan tell her father the good news that he might
stay at home for one week longer. Mrs. Price was feeling better and
said that she would sit up to supper in her wicker armchair. As Susan
began to get ready the meal, little William, who was standing at the
house-door watching for his father's return, called out suddenly,
"Susan, why here is our old man!"
"Yes," said the blind harper, "I have found my way to you. The
neighbors were kind enough to show me where-abouts you lived; for,
though I didn't know your name, they guessed who I meant by what I
said of you all."
Susan came to the door, and the old man was delighted to hear her
speak again. "If it would not be too bold," said he, "I'm a stranger
in this part of the country, and come from afar off. My boy has got a
bed for himself here in the village; but I have no place. Could you be
so kind as to give an old blind man a night's lodging?"
Susan said she would step in and ask her mother, and she soon returned
with an answer that he was heartily welcome, if he could sleep upon
the children's bed, which was but small.
The old man entered thankfully, and, as he did so, struck his head
against the low roof. "Many roofs that are twice as high do not
shelter folk so kind," he said. For he had just come from the house of
Mr. Case, and Barbara, who had been standing at the hall-door, said he
could have no help there. The old man's harp was set down in Farmer
Price's kitchen, and he promised to play a tune for the boys before
they went to bed, as their mother had given them leave to sit up to
supper with their father.
The farmer came home with a sad face, but how soon did it brighten,
when Susan, with a smile, said to him, "Father, we've good news for
you! good news for us all!--You have a whole week longer to stay with
us; and perhaps," she went on, putting her little purse into his
hands--"perhaps with what's here, and the bread-bills, and what may
somehow be got together before a week's at an end, we may make up the
nine guineas. Who knows, dearest mother, but we may keep him with us
for ever!" As she spoke, she threw her arms round her father, who
pressed her to him without speaking, for his heart was full. It was
some little time before he could believe that what he heard was true;
but the smiles of his wife, the noisy joy of his little boys, and the
delight that shone in Susan's face at last convinced him that he was
not in a dream.
As they sat down to supper, the old harper was made welcome to his
share of the simple meal.
Susan's father, as soon as supper was finished, even before he would
let the harper play a tune for his boys, opened the little purse which
Susan had given him. He was surprised at the sight of the twelve
shillings, and still more, when he came to the bottom of the purse to
see the bright golden guinea.
"How did you come by all this money, Susan?" said he.
"How, I can't make out, except by the baking," said her proud mother.
"Hey, Susan, is this your first baking?"
"Oh, no, no," said her father, "I have the money for her first baking
snug here, besides, in my pocket. I kept it for a surprise, to do your
mother's heart good, Susan. Here's twenty-nine shillings, and the
Abbey bill, which is not paid yet, comes to ten more. What think you
of this, wife? Have we not a right to be proud of our Susan? Why," he
went on, turning to the harper, "I ask your pardon for speaking before
strangers in praise of my own child; but the truth is the fittest
thing to be spoken, I think, at all times. Here's your good health,
Susan. Why, by and by she'll be worth her weight in gold--in silver at
least. But tell us, child, how came you by all this wealth, and how
comes it that I don't go to-morrow? The happy news makes me so gay,
I'm afraid I shall hardly understand it rightly. Speak on, child--but
first bring us a bottle of the good mead you made last year from your
own honey."
Susan did not like to tell the story of her guinea-hen, of the gown,
and of her poor lamb. Part of this would seem as if she were speaking
of her own good deeds, and part of it she did not like to remember.
But her mother begged to know the whole, and she told it as simply as
she could. When she came to the story of her lamb, her voice faltered,
and everybody present was touched. The old harper sighed once, and
cleared his throat several times. He then asked for his harp, and
after tuning it for long, he played the air he had promised to the
boys.
VIII