Part II

Story of Miss Crosbie's Presents

[Illustration: Miss Crosbie spoke kindly to her]

We will begin this history again, by telling what had happened since

the first part was concluded.

Sir Charles and Lady Noble had left their fine place soon after the

funeral of their daughter, and it was supposed would never return; for

the house and park were advertised to be let. After a few months it was

taken by a family of the name of Darwell, said to be immensely rich:

this family had an only daughter.

No other changes had taken place; everybody else lived where they did

in the last part of our history, which is very pleasant, as we may hope

to see our old friends all again.

Mr. Fairchild had had a few hundred pounds left him by a friend, from

whom he had expected nothing; on the strength of which he bought a

plain roomy carriage, which would hold himself and Mrs. Fairchild in

the front seat, with a child between them, and two children behind.

The pillion was put aside, and the old horse put in the shafts: and

though, to be sure, he went but slowly, and not very far at a time, yet

the whole family found great pleasure in the change.

The winter was past, and the sweet spring was beginning to show itself,

when that happened which shall be related without delay.

One morning when Henry was with his father in the study, and Lucy and

Emily were busy with their needles, seated in the parlour window

together, and alone, they saw a gentleman's carriage stop at the gate,

and a lady get out. A great number of bandboxes were taken from

different parts of the carriage by a servant who was attending the

carriage; and before the little girls could make anything of all these

wonders, they saw their father first, and then their mother, run out

and shake hands with the lady, and seem to invite her to come in.

Henry, too, had gone out after his papa, and had been sent back, as

they thought, to fetch Betty; for Betty soon appeared, and began, with

the help of Henry, who seemed to be delighted at this interruption of

his lessons, to carry the boxes into the house.

Lucy and Emily soon discovered that this lady was the elder Miss

Crosbie; but they wondered how she had happened to come that day. Miss

Crosbie had come from London, where she had been for some time, and was

now so far on her way to visit a friend in the country.

She had come to Mr. Fairchild's door in another friend's carriage, and

she was come to ask Mr. Fairchild to take her in until the Monday

morning.

Mr. and Mrs. Fairchild both assured her that they were most glad to see

her; expressed a hope that she would stay longer than Monday, and

showed themselves so kind and hospitable, that Miss Crosbie was quite

at her ease, and everything was settled about her staying, before Mr.

Fairchild brought her into the parlour. But there was quite time

enough, before Miss Crosbie came in, for Lucy and Emily to say many

things, for which, I am happy to add, they were afterwards very sorry.

Lucy spoke first.

"What a quantity of boxes she has brought!" she said; "some finery, I

dare say, in all of them; how silly for such an old person to be fond

of dress!"

"It is very silly," replied Emily, "and particularly for one so ugly.

Don't you think Miss Crosbie uncommonly ugly?"

"To be sure I do," she answered; "everybody must: with her little nose,

and her gray eyes, and her wide mouth."

"And to be so fond of finery after all!" said Emily. "I am sure if I

was like Miss Crosbie, instead of dressing myself out, I would wear a

veil and hide my face."

In this way the two little girls kept on chattering; and I fear my

reader will say that they are not improved since last she heard

anything of them.

When Miss Crosbie came into the parlour, she kissed them both, and made

some remarks upon their looks, which showed that she was quite pleased

with their appearance. Mrs. Fairchild employed them a little time in

going backwards and forwards to Betty, and helping in many things; for

when people keep but one maidservant, they must occasionally assist

her.

When the room was ready for Miss Crosbie, and a fire lighted, and all

the boxes and packages carried up, Mrs. Fairchild showed the lady to

her room; and Miss Crosbie, having asked when dinner would be ready,

said:

"Well, I shall just have time to change my dress."

"Oh, pray do not trouble yourself to dress," said Mrs. Fairchild; "you

are very nice now, and we are plain people."

"You are very good," answered Miss Crosbie, "but I shall not be

comfortable in the dress in which I travelled."

Mrs. Fairchild said no more; but having told her little girls, who had

gone up with her to the visitor's room, to go and make themselves neat

in their Sunday frocks, she hastened to give some orders, and perhaps

some help, in the kitchen.

We will not repeat what Lucy and Emily said to each other whilst they

were in their little room: all that passed was of the same kind, if not

worse than what they had said in the parlour; one encouraging the

other, and carrying their ridicule of their mother's visitor farther

than either of them intended when they began. When the little girls

were dressed, they went into the best parlour, or tea-room, as their

mother called it in the old-fashioned way; and there they found a fire

burning, and everything in order. John was laying the cloth in the next

room, and Henry soon came to them in his Sunday dress, and soon

afterwards their father and mother; but Miss Crosbie did not appear

till dinner was being served up. She came dressed in a muslin gown,

with a long train, and large full sleeves, tied in several places with

crimson ribbons; she had her hair frizzed and powdered, and a turban of

crimson satin on her head. Her dress was quite out of place; but

persons who are always used to be rather over-dressed are not judges of

the times and places in which to put on their finery. At the sight of

her, Lucy and Emily gave each other a look, which seemed to say, "How

very silly!"

The dinner-time passed off very well. Miss Crosbie had a great deal to

tell about London and her journey down into the country; and soon after

dinner the children had leave to go to their play-room. They were not

in the humour to do much good there: they began with talking nonsense,

and finished off with getting pettish with each other. Henry said that

he did not want to hear any more of Miss Crosbie and her finery. Lucy

called him cross; and Emily said that he was not to hinder them talking

of what they pleased. They were called to tea about six o'clock, and

when the tea-things were removed, Miss Crosbie said:

"Now, Mrs. Fairchild, you shall see some of the things which I have

brought from London; will you come to my room, or shall I send for the

bandbox down here?"

"Oh, pray," said Mr. Fairchild, "let us have the box down here, that

Henry and I may see the fine sights also."

"You don't mean to say," answered Miss Crosbie, laughing, "that a

sensible man like you, Mr. Fairchild, can be amused by the sight of

specimens of the fashions?"

"I am amused with anything," said Mr. Fairchild, "which entertains my

family. I make a point of enjoying everything which they do, as far as

I can."

"Well, then," said Miss Crosbie, "if I had my bandbox here----"

The children all at once offered to fetch it--she explained which they

were to bring out of the many which had come with her, and in a very

few minutes they had brought it down and set it on the table. Miss

Crosbie sent them up again to look in her workbag for her keys, and to

bring down a small parcel wrapped in brown paper, which was to be found

in the same bag.

The parcel and the keys soon appeared. Miss Crosbie opened the parcel

and presented Henry with a neat pocket-book, inside of which were a

pencil, a leaf of ass's-skin, a penknife, and a pair of scissors.

"Oh, thank you, thank you, ma'am," said Henry, "how good you are!"

And his father and mother joined in the boy's thanks. There was nothing

on Henry's mind particularly to render that gift bitter to him; he had

not joined in the ridicule of Miss Crosbie.

She next opened the bandbox, and took out of it two bonnets and two

tippets of grass-green silk, lined with pale pink satin. There were

also two neatly plaited lace caps to wear under the bonnets, and waist

ribbons to suit.

"These, I hope, will please you, my dear Miss Lucy and Miss Emily," she

said; "I brought them for you, and I trust you will like them."

It was well at the moment that Emily was not struck by this kindness in

the way that Lucy was. She was one full year younger than her sister,

and could hardly be supposed to be able to reflect so deeply: she

therefore _could_ look joyful, _could_ run forwards to kiss Miss

Crosbie, and was ready almost to dance with delight, when she looked at

the beautiful things on the table.

Had she not, as it were, pushed herself first, Miss Crosbie must have

been struck, as Mrs. Fairchild was, with the manner of Lucy: the little

girl first flushed up to her brow, and all over her neck. She came

forward to Miss Crosbie but slowly, and with her eyes cast down. She

stood one moment, and then, throwing her arms round her neck and

pressing her face against her shoulder, she sobbed deeply.

Miss Crosbie was certainly surprised; she did not expect that her

present could have made the little girl feel so much. She spoke very

kindly to her, put her arms round her, kissed her several times, and

said:

"But, my dear, a bonnet and a tippet are not worthy of such deep

gratitude; you make me ashamed that I have done so little for you."

"But you are so good, ma'am, so very good!" sobbed Lucy.

Miss Crosbie continued to soothe the little girl, and say kind things

to her, which only made her seem to feel the more. Mr. and Mrs.

Fairchild were certainly surprised, but they took no notice; and after

a little while Lucy became calm, and the affair passed off, Miss

Crosbie appearing to be rather pleased at the manner in which her

present had been received.

Lucy became quite calm after her fit of crying, but her mother observed

that she sighed deeply once or twice. When eight o'clock came, the

children, at a hint from their mother, were wishing their friends

good-night, when Miss Crosbie asked leave for their staying to supper.

Mrs. Fairchild said:

"Not to-night, if you please, Miss Crosbie, but to-morrow night--we

will all sup together to-morrow."

Miss Crosbie kissed Lucy affectionately before she left the room, and

Mrs. Fairchild again saw the tears in the eyes of her little girl, but

she did not appear to take notice of it.

When Lucy and Emily had got into their own room, Lucy at once gave way

to her feelings.

"Oh, Emily, Emily!" she said, as she laid her new bonnet and tippet on

the drawers, "I am so unhappy; I have been so wicked! to think how kind

Miss Crosbie was to bring those beautiful things for us, and to know

how I laughed at her, and said cruel things about her, and called her

ugly! I have been naughtier than you, because I am older, and because,

at the time I did it, I knew I was wrong; and when I saw those

beautiful bonnets, I felt as if there had been a thorn put into my

heart."

"It is odd," said Emily, "that I did not think of it, even when I saw

you crying."

"If Miss Crosbie had not been so kind," replied Lucy, "I should not

have cared. I can't forgive myself--I can't forget it!"

Then Lucy cried again, and Emily with her; and they were still weeping

when sleep came over them. They were leaning back on their pillow;

Emily had her arm over Lucy, and their cheeks were still wet with

tears, when their mother came in before she went to bed to look at

them.

She was again surprised to see their tears, and stood a while looking

at them, being uneasy to think what could have caused them. They did

not wake, and she did not like to disturb them; but she went to bed

rather uneasy, though she hoped that there was no great cause for being

so; and in the morning all her fears were soon removed, for she heard

the voices of her little girls before she had quite finished dressing.

They were knocking at her door, and asking to speak to her. She went to

them immediately, and Lucy told her at once all that had made them

unhappy the last evening, telling how they had prayed to be kept from

such naughtiness again, and saying what pain Miss Crosbie's kindness

had given them.

Mrs. Fairchild heard all they had to say without interrupting them, but

her face looked kind and full of pity. When the story was told she put

her arms round both of them, and kissed them tenderly, and then talked

to them for some time of the want of kindness and good feeling they had

shown towards their guest.

"Oh, mamma," said Lucy, "the more you talk the more vexed I am with

myself. What am I to do? Shall I go and beg Miss Crosbie's pardon?"

"Shall we, mamma?" added Emily.

"No, no, my children," answered Mrs. Fairchild, half smiling. "What!

would you give the poor lady pain by telling her wherefore you come to

beg her pardon?"

"No," replied Lucy, thoughtfully, "that will not do, I see."

"But we will not wear our bonnets to-day, mamma," said Emily, "though

it is so fine."

"She wishes to see you in them," answered their mother; "she must not

be disappointed."

"Now wipe away your tears, my little girls," she added. "We must try to

make this day as pleasant as possible to poor Miss Crosbie."

And all went most pleasantly from the time that they met at breakfast

till they parted after supper; and Miss Crosbie said:

"Well, Mrs. Fairchild, I have certainly had a most delightful day, and

I wish that I could spend all my Sundays with you as I have done this;

for, in general, I must confess I do find the Sunday the dullest day of

all the seven."

"Then, ma'am," said Lucy, "I hope you will come often again;" and Mrs.

Fairchild joined in the invitation.

A Visit to Mrs. Goodriche

[Illustration: In the summer parlour]

Nothing happened for some weeks after Miss Crosbie went away which

could be put down in this history, because almost every day was like

another, unless we were to say what lessons the children did, and what

the doll was dressed in, and what walks were taken. The spring came on,

and a very fine spring it was; and Henry found a place among the trees

where he thought a very beautiful arbour might be made, and he got

leave to make it, and John helped, and Lucy and Emily were very busy

about it, and a most pleasant place it was. The hut in the wood was too

far off for the children to run to when they had but little time; but

Henry's arbour could be reached in three minutes by the shortest way.

Mr. Fairchild was so good as to pay John Trueman to make a thatched

roof and sides to it, and the man-servant John found some old boards

for seats; but he could not find time to finish the seats as soon as

Henry wished.

During this time Mrs. Goodriche came over to visit Mrs. Fairchild, and

she then invited all the family to come and spend a whole day with her

in the summer, and she promised that on that day, if all was well, she

would tell them another story about old Mrs. Howard.

But the happiest times of people's lives are often those in which there

is least to write and talk about; so we must pass over the spring, and

go on to the month of June, the very first day of which was that fixed

for the visit to Mrs. Goodriche.

It was a bright morning when the party set out in the carriage which

Mr. Fairchild had bought. The dew was not off the ground, for they were

to breakfast at Mrs. Goodriche's; but, as Henry said, the day would be

too short anyhow, for these happy children thought many days too short.

What a curious old house Mrs. Goodriche's was! it was the very house in

which Mrs. Howard had lived, and it had been scarcely altered for Mrs.

Goodriche. There was what the old lady had called her summer parlour,

because she never sat in it in cold weather; it was low and large, and

had double glass doors, which opened upon the old-fashioned garden; and

there was a short walk which went from the door to the old arbour. The

walls of the room were painted blue, the windows were casements, and

had seats in them, and there was a step up from the floor into the

garden.

The visitors found Mrs. Goodriche in this summer parlour.

After breakfast the two elder ladies took out their work. Mr. Fairchild

walked away somewhere with a book, and the children went into the

arbour. Lucy and Emily had their doll's work, and Henry had his knife

and some bits of wood; it was very hot, so that they could not run

about.

"I love this arbour," said Henry.

_Lucy._ "So do I; don't you remember, Henry, that we were sitting here

once, thinking of poor Emily when she had the fever, when Mrs.

Goodriche came to us and told us that Emily was so much better and the

fever gone, and how glad we were, and how we jumped and screamed? Oh!

that was a dreadful time."

"To me it was not dreadful," replied Emily; "I think I may say it was a

happy time, Lucy, for I had thoughts put into my mind in that illness

which make everything seem different to me ever since. You know what I

mean, Lucy, I can't explain it."

_Lucy._ "I know what you mean, Emily."

_Emily._ "I never felt anything like that till I had the fever, so I

call the fever a happy time."

"I wish you would not talk about it," said Henry; "Lucy and I were

miserable then; were not we, Lucy?"

Mrs. Goodriche dined very early, and after dinner she and Mrs.

Fairchild came into the arbour, and there she told the story which she

had promised.

Story of the Last Days of Mrs. Howard

[Illustration: When Betty returned, Mrs. Howard was well satisfied]

"It was about half a year after the things had happened which are

related in the last story of Mrs. Howard, that Betty, one evening when

she returned from market upon Crop, came into the parlour to her

mistress and said:

"'Ma'am, I have heard a bit of news; Mr. Bennet is going to leave the

country.'

"'Indeed, Betty,' said Mrs. Howard: 'how has that happened?'

"'Some relation towards London has left him a property, and our county

is glad of anything that takes off the family.'

"'Well, well, Betty,' said Mrs. Howard, and Betty knew that when her

mistress said, 'Well, well,' it was a hint to her to say no more on the

subject. Mrs. Howard soon heard from other quarters that the Bennets

were going, but they were not to be off till the Lady Day next.

"A week or two before that time, Betty had occasion to go again to

town. Many things were wanted, and on such occasions Crop did not

object to carry panniers.

"When Betty was quite ready, and Crop at the door, and the woman in the

house who always came to take care of things on such occasions, she

came to ask her mistress if there was anything more not yet mentioned.

"Betty never travelled in cold weather without a long blue cloak, and a

black felt hat tied over her mob.

"'Yes, Betty,' replied Mrs. Howard, 'but you must be very

particular--you must get me two small neat Bibles with gilt edges,

bound in morocco, scarlet or green; I should wish them alike, and a

clear print; besides which you must bring a young gentleman's

pocket-book, all complete and handsome, with a silver clasp; and

lastly, you must bring me a genteel equipage in chased silver, the

furniture quite complete and as it should be, and mind it is well

wrapped in paper.'

"'Oh, ma'am,' said Betty, 'how shall I be able to choose one that will

exactly suit for what you want? I am quite afraid to undertake the

bringing of a genteel equipage, there is such a difference of opinion

about so tasty a thing.'

"'Betty,' replied Mrs. Howard, 'you know I am always pleased with your

taste; and if anyone in the world knows what I like, it is you, my good

girl.'

"Mrs. Howard often called Betty a good girl, though she was too old to

be so called; but it was a habit in those days in which the old lady

lived.

"'I should know your taste, ma'am,' said Betty, smiling, 'by this time,

I should think--me who has lived in yours and your lady mother's

service four-and-forty years next Candlemas;' and so saying Betty set

out."

"Pray, ma'am," asked Lucy, "what is an equipage?"

"A fine carriage and horses, to be sure, Lucy," said Henry. "Lady Noble

had an equipage. I heard John once say, 'That's a fine equipage,' when

he saw Lady Noble riding by."

"Oh, Henry," said Emily, "surely what Betty was to bring with her could

not be a carriage and horses wrapped in paper."

Mrs. Goodriche smiled, and explained to the children what Mrs. Howard

meant: she told them that an equipage was a little case which held a

thimble, scissors, a pencil, or other such little matters, and, being

either of gold or silver, was hung to the girdle to balance the great

watches worn by the grandmothers and great-grandmothers of people now

living.

"Thank you, ma'am," said Lucy; "and now please to go on, and tell us

what Mrs. Howard meant to do with this equipage."

"When Betty returned," continued Mrs. Goodriche, "Mrs. Howard was well

satisfied with what she had done; and the very next Sunday evening she

took occasion, after service, to speak to Master and Miss Bennet, and

to invite them to tea for the next evening.

"'I wonder,' said Master Jacky to Miss Polly, as they walked home

together by their mother, 'what she can want with us. I promise you I

shan't go.'

"'What's that you are saying, Jacky?' said Mrs. Bennet.

"Miss Polly then told her mother of the invitation and what her brother

had said.

"'You had best go,' said Mrs. Bennet, 'and you may, perhaps, get some

pretty present. I was told by one who was told by another, that Betty

was in town last week, and laying out money at the silversmith's, and

at Mr. Bates the bookseller's, so I would have you go: you don't know

but that the old lady may have some keepsakes to give you.'

"'Well then,' said Jacky, 'if Polly goes, I will; for I don't see why

she is to have the presents, and me nothing--but as to anything that

Mrs. Howard ever gave me yet,' added the rude boy, 'I might put it into

my eye and see none the worse.'

"'And whose fault is that?' said Miss Polly.

"'It don't become you to talk, Miss,' replied Jacky; 'for if I have had

nothing, you have had no more--so there is half a dozen for one and six

for another.'

"By this discourse we may see," said Mrs. Goodriche, "that no great

change for the better had yet passed on these rude children.

"But they had got a notion that, as Jacky said, there were presents in

the wind, and they set out for Mrs. Howard's determining to behave

their best, though they did not tell their thoughts to each other, for

Jacky hoped that Polly would disgrace herself and get nothing, and

Polly had the same kind wishes for Jacky.

"Mrs. Howard received them in the summer parlour, and they both behaved

themselves very well, but more out of spite for each other than from

love of what is right in itself; but you shall hear by-and-by how I

came to the knowledge of these their thoughts.

"Betty had made a cake, and there was a roast fowl and hot apple-tart

for supper; and between tea and supper Mrs. Howard showed them many

curious things, pictures, and dolls dressed in the fashions of her

youth, and a number of other things which she kept in a Japan cabinet,

which always stood in the summer parlour while she lived in this house.

"It was not till after supper that she brought out the two Bibles and

the pocket-book and equipage. She then laid them before her on the

table, and she spoke to the two children:

"She began by saying that as they were going out of the country and she

was far in years, she might, perhaps, never see them again in this

world. She then spoke, in her own sweet warm way, of what our dear

Saviour has done for us, and when she had said as much as she thought

the children could bear, she presented each a Bible, having written

their names in them. She next took the other presents in her hands:

"'And these, my dears,' she said, 'I ask you to accept. I am sorry if

on former occasions I may have seemed harsh to you, but these little

gifts are to prove that I am truly sorry if ever I gave you pain; when

you look at them you will think of me, and know that nothing would ever

give me more delight than to hear that you were both walking in the

ways of holiness.'

"She then put the pocket-book into Jacky's hand, and the equipage into

Miss Polly's; but she hardly expected what followed. The two children

burst into tears; Jacky rubbed his eyes to hide his; but Miss Polly

sprang from her chair, and fell weeping into Mrs. Howard's arms.

"'We will, we will try to do better, ma'am,' she said; 'we will

indeed.'

"As the children walked home they said not one word to each other; and

a very few days afterwards the family left the country, Mr. Bennet not

having had even the decency to call and say good-bye to the old lady.

"Mrs. Howard was half-way between sixty and seventy when the Bennets

left the country, and was supposed by many to be older, for she had

dressed like an old woman for many years; her hair had long been gray,

and she had always been a weakly person, very small and very pale.

"She, however, continued to live in this house as many as seventeen

years after the Bennets were gone, and every year till the last had her

children's party; but a change was coming on her household--Crop had

died years before, and Betty afterwards always went to town in the

market-cart; but what was the loss of Crop to the loss of Betty?

"Betty was younger than Mrs. Howard, but she was called away before

her; she had lived forty years with Mrs. Howard in this very house, and

the loss could not be made up to her in this world.

"Mrs. Howard had a great-nephew, a surgeon, of the name of Johnson, who

lived in a fair village, called Pangbourne, in Berkshire; and when he

heard of the death of Betty, and how low his aunt was, he came to her,

and persuaded her to leave the country, and go and reside near to him.

She was at first unwilling to go, but was at last persuaded; she took

nothing with her but her favourite chair, her old round table, her

books, and her cabinet. Her nephew got her some very pleasant rooms in

a house called the Wood House, about half a mile from the village,

towards the hills which are near the place. That side of Pangbourne was

in those days almost a continued wood coppice, with occasional tall

trees towards the hills, and there was a narrow road and raised path

through the wood to the town.

"Mrs. Howard's parlour had an old-fashioned bow-window in it, looking

to the road, though somewhat raised above it; and Mrs. Howard, as old

people do, loved in fine weather to sit in the bow, and see the few

people who passed.

"Every day her kind nephew came to see her, and now and then she

returned his visit; but she was getting very infirm, though she had

lost neither sight nor hearing, could read and work as in her younger

days, and having got over the first shock of losing Betty, and the

fatigue of the change, her faith in God's love was making her as happy

as she had been before; she liked the people also who kept the house,

and made herself very pleasant to them. Though she went to Pangbourne

in the autumn, she did not, until the month of April, find the pleasure

of sitting in the bow-window.

"It was then that she first noticed two little girls passing and

returning every day at certain hours to and from the village.

"They were so near of a size that she thought they must be twins. They

were very fair, and very pretty, and very neat. They wore light green

stuff frocks, with lawn aprons and tippets, and little tight neat silk

bonnets of the colour of their frocks. They both always carried a sort

of satchel, as if they were going and coming from school; and there was

often with them, when they went to the village, either a man or woman

servant, such as might be supposed to belong to a farmhouse. They

often, however, passed by the window in the evening without a servant,

and sometimes were met by a servant near the house. These little ones

could not, from their appearance, have been more than seven years of

age.

"As Mrs. Howard watched them from day to day, she thought them the

pleasantest little people she had seen for a long time; and all her

ancient love for children, which age and weakness had almost made her

fancy was nipped and blighted, began to spring up again and blossom as

flowers in May. She wished to get acquainted with these fair ones, but

she took her own way to do so.

"She began one morning, when her window was open, by giving them a kind

smile as they were walking gravely by, with a man in a smock-frock

behind them. On seeing this smile they both stopped short and dropped

formal curtseys.

"From that time, for a week or more, these smiles and these curtseys

passed between the old lady and the twins twice every day regularly.

Before the end of the week the children had left off looking grave at

the lady, and gave smile for smile. You may be sure that Mrs. Howard,

though she had not poor Betty and Crop to send on her errands, did

manage to get some pretty toys ready to give these little girls

whenever the time should come when she should think it right to make

herself better acquainted with them; but she thought that she would

observe their ways first, and in doing so she saw several things which

pleased her. Once she saw them give a poor beggar some of what had been

put in their satchels for their dinners; and she saw them another time

pick up something which a very old man had dropped, and give it him as

politely as they would have done to my lord judge, though it was only a

potato which he had dropped from a basket. Seeing this it reminded her

of the old man and his bundle of sticks, and of the ill-behaviour of

Master Bennet; and then all those old days came fresh to her mind. Mrs.

Howard had sent to a friend in London to get the toys--two dolls

exactly alike, and the histories of Miss Jemima Meek and Peter Pippin

were the things she sent for; and they had not arrived a week when Mrs.

Howard found a use for them. It was the beginning of July, and a very

hot close day; Mrs. Howard sat at her window, and saw the little ones

go as usual towards the village; it was Saturday, and she knew that

they would be back again about one, for it was a half-holiday. The heat

became greater and greater towards noon; there was not a breath of air,

and the sun was hidden by a red glaring mist.

"'We shall have a tempest,' said Mrs. Howard to a maid who had been

hired to wait upon her; 'I hope the little girls will get home before

it comes on--have they far to go?'

"When Mrs. Howard had explained what little girls she meant, the maid

told her that they were the children of a farmer of the name of

Symonds, and that the house was not a half-mile distant up the lane.

"Whilst Mrs. Howard was talking with the servant, the heavens had grown

black, the clouds hung low; there was a creaking, groaning sort of

sound among the trees, and the larger birds arose and flew heavily over

the woods, uttering harsh cryings.

"'It's coming,' said the servant; and at the same instant the two

little ones appeared walking from the village.

"'There they are,' cried Mrs. Howard; and at the same moment a

tremendous flash of lightning covered the whole heavens, followed by a

peal of awful thunder. Mrs. Howard put her head out of the window, and

called the little girls, who, from very fright, were standing still.

"They gladly obeyed the call, the maid went down to meet them, and the

next minute they stood curtseying within the parlour-door. The maid had

seen a boy who had been sent to meet them, and sent him back to tell

his mistress that the Misses were with the lady, and that she would

keep them till the storm was over.

"'What lady am I to say?' asked the boy.

"'Our lady,' replied the maid; 'Surgeon Johnson's aunt.'

"The boy ran home, and told Mrs. Symonds not to be uneasy, for the

little Misses were safe with Madam Johnson, who lodged at the Wood

House; so Mrs. Symonds was made easy about her pretty daughters.

"'Well, my dears,' said Mrs. Howard, putting her hands out to the

little people, 'I am glad to see you in my parlour.'

"'Thank you, ma'am,' said one of them; and the other repeated the same

words.

"As they spoke they came near, and put each a hand into Mrs. Howard's.

"'Let me look at you, my children,' said the old lady in her pleasant

smiling way; 'you are like two lilies growing out of one root; I cannot

tell one from the other; what are your names?'

"'I am Mary, ma'am,' said the eldest.

"'And I am Amelia,' added the other.

"'Amelia,' said Mrs. Howard, 'why, that is my name: but which is the

oldest?'

"'We came to our mother the same day,' replied Mary; 'but I came first,

only a very little while though.'

"'Indeed!' said Mrs. Howard.

"Mrs. Baynes had come into the parlour after the children, to see and

hear what was going forward; and now she thought it time to put in a

word.

"'Yes, ma'am,' she said, 'they are twins; they are the only ones their

mother ever had, and they are two pretty Misses, and very good

children. Are not you very good, my precious dears?'

"The two little ones turned to her; and answered both together:

"'No, ma'am.'

"Mrs. Howard rather wondered at this answer, and said:

"'Not good, my dears, how is that?'

"'We wish to be good, ma'am,' said one of the little girls, 'but we are

not.'

"'Well to be sure!' remarked Mrs. Baynes; 'but you have a very good

mamma, my little dears.'

"'Mamma is good to us,' said Mary.

"'But God is the only real good person,' added Amelia.

"Mrs. Howard was rather surprised, but as the storm was still getting

more frightful, she moved her chair, shut the window, and sat in the

middle of the room; the two little ones in their fear clinging to her,

whilst she put an arm round each of them.

"Mrs. Baynes went out to close the windows, and they were left

together.

"Peal came after peal, and flash after flash; and the old lady and

children trembled.

"'We ought not to fear,' said Mrs. Howard; 'it is wrong; is not the

lightning in the hands of God?'

"'We will try not to be afraid,' said the little ones; and they clung

closer to Mrs. Howard.

"And now there came a fearful hailstorm, patter, patter, against the

window; and when the hail ceased the rain came pouring down.

"'Now, my loves, let us thank God,' said Mrs. Howard, 'the danger is

past.'

"The little ones, with that quick obedience which we see in children

only who are well brought up, joined their hands and said, 'Thank God!'

but they expressed some fear lest their mother should be frightened

about them.

"'We will see about that,' said Mrs. Howard; and she rang the hand-bell

which always stood on the table, for bells were not then fixed on

cranks and wires in every room as they are now.

"Up came Mrs. Baynes again, and told the little ones that their mother

knew where they were, for she had sent her a message by the boy.

"'Then we can stay, ma'am,' said the children, quite pleased: and Mrs.

Howard asked to have the dinner sent up, requesting Mrs. Baynes to make

up a little more from her own pantry, if she could.

"'That shall be done, ma'am,' she answered; and she added some eggs

and bacon and a currant tart to Mrs. Howard's four bones of roast lamb.

"'We should like to dine with you, ma'am,' said one of the little

girls, 'and to drink tea with you sometimes.'

"Mrs. Howard did not yet know one from the other, but she felt that all

her old love for children was burning up again in her heart.

"'I am old, my dears,' she answered, 'and cannot bear noise and bustle;

if you can be quiet, I shall be glad to see you often, but if you tire

me I cannot have you.'

"'I hope we shall be quiet,' they answered; and then they asked her if

she was _very, very_ old.

"She told them she was eighty-two; and they said to each other, 'Then

we _must_ be very quiet.'

"The maid came in to lay the cloth, and they seemed quite amused by

looking at her. The table was very small, but they said there would be

quite room; and by Mrs. Howard's direction they went to her bedroom,

took off their bonnets, and the maid combed their pretty curling hair.

"They behaved as well as children could possibly do at table, though

they prattled a little, and told Mrs. Howard of the animals they had at

home, their kittens and the old cat, and an owl in the garden called

Ralph, and many other things. When the dinner was removed, Mrs. Howard

said she had a great treat for them.

"'What is it, ma'am?' they said.

"'Something very nice,' replied the old lady; and going to the corner

cupboard, she brought out a doll's cradle, and a small trunk full of

doll's clothes, and the two new dolls both wrapped in the paper in

which they had come from London.

"'Now,' she said, 'these are dolls which I keep for my visitors, and

when you are here you may play with them. I do not call them yours,

only when you are here; but you may choose which you will call your own

in this house. Their names are Mary and Amelia.'

"'Oh, ma'am! Oh, ma'am!' cried the children; they were too glad to say

another word.

"'You may take out the clothes from the trunk and dress them; but,

before you go, you must put on their night-dresses, and put them to bed

in the cradle, and restore all the other clothes to the trunk.' The

little ones quite trembled with joy; they were past speaking. 'Now,'

said Mrs. Howard, 'go into the bow-window. The lightning is past. I

must keep in my chair, and you must not disturb me. If the day was

finer I should let you go into the garden to play, but to-day you

cannot.'

[Illustration: "_The happy little girls went with the dolls into the

bow-window._"--Page 174.]

"The happy little girls went with the dolls into the bow-window, and

Mrs. Howard got her usual short sleep. They did not make any noise. In

all their behaviour they showed that they had been well brought up.

"They drank tea with Mrs. Howard, and were very busy after tea in

showing all the clothes to their old kind friend, and in packing them

up in the trunk, and putting the dolls in the cradle, and restoring all

the things to the place from whence they had been taken.

"Mrs. Howard saw them kiss the dolls, and heard them wish them a

good-night when they had done.

"Mrs. Symonds had sent her green market cart and cloaks for her little

girls. When the cart came they both kissed Mrs. Howard, and asked her

if they had been quiet.

"'Very quiet, my dears,' she answered.

"'Then may we come again?'

"'You may, my darlings,' answered the old lady; 'and next Saturday

shall be the day, if all is well.'

"The fair little creatures did come on the day fixed, and the man

who fetched them home that night brought Mrs. Howard a small cream

cheese and several pats of fresh butter, with many, many thanks from

Mrs. Symonds for her great kindness to her children.

"From the day of the thunderstorm till the end of the summer the little

girls spent Saturday afternoon, every week, with Mrs. Howard, and now

and then stopped an hour with her on other days; and never passed the

window without speaking to her, often coming in with flowers, or fruit,

or a fresh egg, or some little thing from the garden or poultry-yard.

Thus such a friendship grew up between the old lady and these little

girls, that one might have thought that Mrs. Howard must have been

their grandmother.

"Often and often she would hear them read a chapter, or repeat a hymn,

and do what she could to improve their minds; she taught them to sing

some fine old psalm tunes, and she also taught them some new stitches

in the samplers they were working. Many times she walked between them a

little way in the wood, whilst they carried the dolls, and in these

walks she often told them stories, so that they loved her more and more

every day, and tried more and more to please her.

"All this time Mrs. Symonds had been so busy with the work of the farm

that she had not found time to come herself to thank Mrs. Howard for

all she was doing for her little ones; and it was rather strange that

all this time she had understood that the kind old lady's name was

Johnson. The children never called her anything but 'our nice lady,'

and never thought of any other name for her.

"But the harvest-time being over, Mr. Symonds told his wife that she

must not put off calling on the lady any longer.

"'And be sure,' he said, 'that you take something nice in your hand, or

let the boy carry it after you; some nice cakes and butter pats, or

anything else; and you may as well go and meet the children as they

come home this evening, and go in with them.'

"Mrs. Symonds was one of those old-fashioned wives who never went

anywhere but to church, and as her church was not at Pangbourne she

seldom passed the Wood House. She, however, made up her basket of

presents, and having dressed herself neatly, she took the boy and went

to meet her children.

"She met them a little above the Wood House, and they turned back with

her, and soon brought her to the door of Mrs. Howard's parlour: there

they knocked, and the old lady having called to them to come in, the

twins entered, leading their mother.

"But how great was their surprise when their mother, at the sight of

Mrs. Howard, uttered a cry, ran forwards and threw her arms round the

old lady's neck.

"'Oh, dear, dear Mrs. Howard,' she said, 'is it you? Can it be you?'

"Mrs. Howard did not know Mrs. Symonds, and as she drew herself civilly

from her arms, she said:

"'Indeed, ma'am, I have not the pleasure of knowing you.'

"'Not remember Polly Bennet?' replied Mrs. Symonds, 'but I remember

you, my best and dearest friend, and shall remember you, for I have

cause to do so, when time shall be no more.'

"Mrs. Howard now herself came forward and kissed Mrs. Symonds. The

tears stood in the old lady's eyes, and she placed her old thin hands

in the other's.

"'And are you,' she said, 'the mother of these dear little girls? and

have I lived near you so long and not known you? Now I think I can

trace the features; sit down, my dear friend, and tell me all about

yourself and your family.'

"'I have not much to say,' answered Mrs. Symonds; 'my parents are dead,

and my brother living far off: and I have been blessed beyond my

deservings in a good husband and these dear children.'

"'Dear, indeed,' said Mrs. Howard.

"'But how can I value enough what you have done for me, Mrs. Howard?'

said Mrs. Symonds, 'and through me, in some sort, to my mother and

father before their death.'

"'I do not understand you,' said Mrs. Howard.

"Mrs. Symonds then told the old lady how she had been affected by the

last kindness which she had shown to her and her brother.

"'When you sent for us, dear madam,' she said, 'we accepted your

invitation because we expected presents; but with presents we expected

also, what we had well deserved, a severe lecture. But when you spoke

to us, as you did, with such amazing kindness--when you even almost

begged our pardons if you had been hard upon us, which you never

were--when you spoke to us of our Saviour, whilst your eyes filled with

tears, we were cut to the heart and filled with shame, and we then

resolved to read the Bibles you gave us. And we never could forget your

words.

"'The work, indeed, is of God; but you, dear lady, were made the

minister of it in the commencement. You were the first person who made

me and my brother to understand that the new spirit imparted by God to

His children is the spirit of love.'

"Mrs. Symonds said much more; indeed she went on speaking till Mrs.

Howard burst into tears of joy and thankfulness.

"The little ones were frightened to see their mother and Mrs. Howard

weeping, and could not at first be made to understand that they were

crying for very joy. When they understood that Mrs. Howard was an old

dear friend of their mother's, they became happy again.

"What a pleasant party there was that evening in the bow-window! the

white cakes and fresh butter and cream were added to the feast; and

what a delightful story was there to tell to Mr. Symonds when his wife

and children got home!

"'Tell the old lady,' said Mr. Symonds, 'that I should be ever ready to

serve her to the last drop of my blood.'

"From that time," continued Mrs. Goodriche, "till the death of Mrs.

Howard, which happened in her ninetieth year, Mr. and Mrs. Symonds were

a son and daughter to her. Mary and Amelia never both left her;

sometimes one, and sometimes both, being continually with her."

"This is a beautiful story," said Lucy.

"I wish it was longer," said Henry; "can't you tell us more, ma'am?"

"Not now, my dear," said Mrs. Goodriche, "we must go in now; and,

indeed, I know not that I have any more to tell."

It was late when the family got home. As they were returning, Mrs.

Fairchild told Mr. Fairchild the story of old Mrs. Howard, which

pleased him much.

The Fair Little Lady

[Illustration: The coach came in sight]

It was not long after that delightful day at Mrs. Goodriche's, when the

children, having done their morning lessons, had just gone out of the

hall-door, on their way to Henry's arbour, when they heard the wheels

of a carriage sounding from a distance.

The sound was not like that of a waggon, which goes along heavily,

crashing and breaking the stones in its passage, whilst the feet of the

horses come down with a heavy beat upon the ground; but horses and

wheels went lightly, and as if the carriage was coming near quickly.

Very few light carriages passed that way, and therefore when anything

of the kind was heard or seen, everybody left off what they were doing

to look, let them be ever so busy. Lucy and Emily and Henry ran down to

the gate which opened on the road. Henry climbed to the top of the

highest bar; but the little girls stood on one side, where they were

half hidden by a rose-bush.

When they were got there the carriage was heard more plainly: and

Henry was hardly fixed upon the top of the gate before John came up,

with a hoe and a basket in his hand.

"So, Master Henry," he said, "you are come to see the coach; I just

caught sight of it as it went round the corner below, and I promise you

it is worth seeing; it beats Sir Charles Noble's to nothing--but here

they come."

At first there appeared a groom, dressed in a glazed hat, and a livery,

and shining boots; and he was riding a fine horse, and he went forward

quickly; he had several dogs running by him. Lucy and Emily were glad

that John, with his hoe, was close by, for they did not love strange

dogs.

But the groom and his dogs were very soon out of sight; he was riding

on to see that the gates were open where the coach was going.

Immediately afterwards the coach came in sight--and a fine new coach it

was; and there were four horses, with postillions whipping and cutting

away; and ladies and gentlemen in the coach.

Lucy and Emily and Henry did not look at the grown people, but at a

very pretty little lady, of Emily's age perhaps, who was looking out of

the window on their side.

They saw her face, which was fair and very pale, and they saw her

curling light hair, and her blue satin hat, which had white feathers in

it; and they knew that she saw them, for she rather smiled and looked

pleased, and turned to speak about them, they thought, to the lady next

to her. But the coach was gone in a minute, not rattling like a

hack-chaise, but making a sort of low rumbling sound, and that sound

was not heard long.

"Who are those?" said Henry, as he stood at the very top of the gate,

like a bird upon a perch, "who are those fine people?"

"They are the great folks," replied John, "who are come to live at Sir

Charles Noble's. They call them Honourable--by way of distinction--the

Honourable Mr. and Mrs. Darwell, and they are immensely rich; and that

is their only child, for they have but one--and she, to be sure, is no

small treasure, as people say, and they never can make enough of her."

"What is her name, John?" asked Lucy.

"Don't ask me, Miss," replied John; "for though I have heard the name,

I could not pretend to speak it properly, it is so unaccountably fine."

"I should like to hear it," said Emily.

"And that you will be sure to do soon, Miss," answered John; "for all

the country is talking about the family, and they say they are uncommon

grand."

"But, John," said Henry, "when will you come and nail the benches in my

hut? Will you come now? Shall I fetch the hammer and nails?"

"No, master," returned John, "you need not fetch them, for I have them

here in this basket, and was just going when I saw the coach."

"Away then," cried Henry, jumping from the top of the gate, and running

before, whilst John followed close behind him, and Lucy and Emily came

afterwards, talking of the fair little lady.

Story of a Holiday

[Illustration: Henry looked along the road]

One day a letter came from Mrs. Goodriche to say that she was going

early the next day to the town, in a hired chaise, and that she hoped

to be back again in the evening; she added that, as she should be quite

alone, it would be a great pleasure to her to take up Mrs. Fairchild

and one of the little people to go with her to town, and she would set

them down again at their gate.

Mrs. Fairchild thought this a very neighbourly offer, and it was soon

settled that she should go, and take Lucy with her, and that Mr.

Fairchild should get the horse he often rode and attend the carriage.

Lucy very much pressed her mother to take Emily instead of herself, but

it was Lucy's turn to go out when there was a scheme only for one, and

I don't think that Emily would have taken it from her on any account.

So an answer was written to Mrs. Goodriche, and her kind invitation

accepted.

There was a good deal of talking and settling with Lucy about what

Emily and Henry wanted her to get for them in the town, before they

went to bed. Emily had one shilling and sixpence, and Henry tenpence,

and it was of great consequence to them that this money should be spent

to the best advantage.

It was at last settled that Lucy should choose a book for each of

them--Henry's book was to be about a boy--and the rest of their money,

if any was left, was to be spent as Lucy thought might please them

best. So she took their money, and put it into her purse with her own.

She had two shillings, and she had settled it in her own mind that she

would buy nothing for herself, but spend some, if not all of it, for

her sister and brother.

The family were all up at six o'clock, and soon afterwards they might

be seen seated before the open window of the parlour at breakfast,

those who were going being quite ready.

Emily and Henry, who were to be left, were to have no lessons to do,

but their father and mother advised them not to tire themselves in the

early part of the day by running about, but to amuse themselves during

the very hottest hours with something quiet. Mr. Fairchild also

reminded them that they must not go beyond the bounds in which they

were always allowed to play.

"I hope we shall be good, mamma," said Emily, "I hope we shall!" And

Henry said the same.

Henry ran out to the gate to look for the carriage after he had taken

breakfast, and he got to the very highest bar, and looked along the

road, which he could see a great way, because it came down a steep hill

from Mrs. Goodriche's house.

It was hardly more than a black speck on the white road when he first

saw it, and then he lost sight of it as it descended into the valley,

and he heard it rattle and jingle before he got sight of it again; but

when he was sure of it, he ran to the house, and you might have heard

Lucy's name from the very cellar to the roof.

Emily was with Lucy in their little room, and she was holding her

gloves whilst Lucy tied her bonnet, and she was talking over the things

that were to be bought, when their brother's voice came up the stairs

as loud and sharp as if a stage-coach was coming, which would not wait

one moment for those who were going.

"I hope we shall not get into a scrape to-day," said Emily: "Henry has

forgotten the day when mamma and papa went out, and we behaved so ill;

what can we do to keep ourselves out of mischief?"

Lucy had no time to answer, for Henry was at the door, and there was

such a rub-a-dub-dub upon it that her voice could not have been heard.

At the same minute the hack-chaise had come jingling up to the gate,

and Mrs. Goodriche was looking out with her pleasant smiling face.

John, too, had brought the horse to the gate, and everybody who

belonged to the house was soon out upon the grass-plot; the dog was

there, and quite as set up as Henry himself; and Betty came too, though

nobody knew why. Mrs. Fairchild got in first, and then Lucy; and

everybody said good-bye as if those who were going were not to come

back for a month; and the post-boy cracked his whip, and Mr. Fairchild

mounted his horse, and away they went.

Emily and Henry watched them till the turn of the road prevented them

from seeing them any longer; and then Henry said:

"Let us run to the chesnut-trees at the top of the round hill, and then

we shall be able to see the carriage again going up on the other side;

I saw it come down from Mrs. Goodriche's."

"Stay but one moment," said Emily, and she ran upstairs, put on her

bonnet and tippet, and was down again in one minute, with her doll on

her arm and a little book in her hand.

"Come, come," said Henry, and away they ran along a narrow path, among

the shrubs in the garden, out at a little gate, and up the green slope.

They were very soon at the top of the small hill, and under the shade

of the chesnut-trees. They passed through the grove to the side which

was farthest from their house, and then they sat down on the dry and

bare root of one of the trees.

For a minute or more they could not see the carriage, because it was

down in the valley beneath them, and the road there was much shaded by

willows and wych-elms and other trees that love the neighbourhood of

water, for the brook which turned the mill was down there. But when the

carriage began to go up on the other side, they saw it quite plain;

there was the post-boy in his yellow jacket, jogging up and down on his

saddle, and Mr. Fairchild sometimes a little before and sometimes a

little behind the carriage.

Henry was still in very high spirits; he was apt to be set up by any

change, and when he was set up, he was almost sure to get into a

scrape, unless something could be thought of to settle him down

quietly.

Emily had thought of something, and got it ready; but whilst the

carriage was in sight nothing was to be done, for Henry had picked up a

branch which had fallen from one of the trees, and as he sat on the

root, was jogging up and down, waving his branch like a whip, and

imitating those sort of odd noises which drivers make to their horses;

such as gee-up! so-ho! and now and then he made a sort of smacking with

his lips.

"Are you driving a waggon or a coach?" asked Emily.

"A coach, to be sure," said Henry; "don't you see that I have got a

chaise from the Red Lion, and that I am driving Mrs. Fairchild and Mrs.

Goodriche and Miss Lucy Fairchild to the town, and here we go on?"

The carriage was long getting up the hill, for it was a very steep one;

but when it had reached the top, it got in among trees again, and was

soon out of sight; and then Emily said:

"Now, Henry, I am going to curl my doll's hair, and dress her over

again, for she is not tidy, and I have got a little book here which you

may read to me."

"What book is it?" said Henry.

"You never saw it," she answered; "mamma found it yesterday in a box

where she keeps many old things--she did not know that she had saved

it--it was hers when she was a little child, and she supposed that it

was lost."

"Let me see it, Emily," said Henry.

"Will you read it to me then?" asked Emily.

Henry was a good-natured boy, and loved his sisters, and had much

pleasure in doing what they wished him to do; he therefore said at

once, "Yes," threw away his branch of fir, and took the book.

This little book, which Mrs. Fairchild had found in her old chest,

could not have been much less than a hundred years old; it was the size

of a penny book, and had a covering of gilt paper, with many old cuts;

its title was, "The History of the Little Boy who, when running after

the Echo, found his Papa."

When Henry had seen how many pictures there were, and when he had read

the title, he was quite in a hurry to begin the story, and Emily was so

much pleased at hearing it, although she had read it before, that she

forgot her doll altogether, and let her lie quietly on her lap.

Little Edwy and the Echo

[Illustration: He turned away from the terrible bird]

"It was in the time of our good Queen Anne, when none of the trees in

the great forest of Norwood, near London, had begun to be cut down,

that a very rich gentleman and lady lived there: their name was Lawley.

"They had a fine old house and large garden, with a wall all round it,

and the woods were so close upon this garden, that some of the high

trees spread their branches over the top of the wall.

"Now, this lady and gentleman were very proud and very grand, and

despised all people poorer than themselves, and there were none whom

they despised more than the gipsies, who lived in the forest all about.

"There was no place in all England then so full of gipsies as the

forest of Norwood.

"Mr. and Mrs. Lawley had been married many years, and had no children;

at length they had one son--they called him Edwy, and they felt they

could not make too much of him, or dress him too fine.

"When he was just old enough to run about without help, he used to wear

his trousers inlaid with the finest lace, with golden studs and laced

robings; he had a plume of feathers in his cap, which was of velvet,

with a button of gold to fasten it up in front under the feathers, so

that whoever saw him with the servants who attended him, used to say,

'Whose child is that?'

"He was a pretty boy, too, and, when his first sorrow came, was still

too young to have learned any of the proud ways of his father and

mother.

"No one is so rich as to be above the reach of trouble, therefore pride

and self-sufficiency are never suitable to the state of man.

"Trouble was long in coming to Mr. and Mrs. Lawley, but when it came it

was only the more terrible.

"One day, when the proud parents had been absent some hours on a visit

to a friend a few miles distant, Edwy was nowhere to be found on their

return--his waiting-maid was gone, and had taken away his finest

clothes; at least, these were also missing.

"The poor father and mother were almost beside themselves with grief,

and all the gentlemen and magistrates about rose up together to find

the child, and discover those who had stolen him, but all in vain; of

course, the gipsies were suspected and well examined, but nothing could

be made of it; nor was it ever made out in what way the little boy was

got off; but got off he had been by the gipsies, and carried away to a

country among hills, on the borders of the two shires of Worcester and

Hereford."

"Did not I know it?" cried Henry, as he stopped to turn over a leaf; "I

knew it from the first that the gipsies had him."

"In that country," he continued, as he read on, "there is a valley

where two watercourses meet deep in a bottom; where there are many

trees, and many bushes, and much broken irregular ground, where also

there are rocks, and caves, and holes in these rocks, and every

possible convenience for the haunt of wild people. To this place the

gipsies carried the little boy, and there they kept him, all the

following winter, warm in a hut with some of their own children.

"They had stripped him of his velvet, and feathers, and lace, and gold

clasps, and studs, and clothed him in rags, and daubed his fair skin

with mud; but they fed him well; and after a little while he seemed to

be unconscious of any change.

"Now, the part which comes next of this true and wonderful history has

nothing to go upon but the confused and imperfect recollections of a

little child.

"The story nowhere tells the age of Edwy when he was stolen, but he had

been lost to his parents from the time that the leaves in the forest of

Norwood were becoming sear and falling off, till the sweet spring was

far advanced towards the summer.

"Probably the cunning gipsies had hoped that during the long months of

winter the little child would quite forget the few words which he had

learned to speak distinctly in his father's house, or that he would

forget also to call himself Edwy; or to cry, as he remembered that he

often did, 'Oh, mamma, mamma! papa, papa! come to little Edwy.' The

gipsies tried to teach him that his name was not Edwy, but Jack or Tom,

or some such name; and to make him say mam and dad, and call himself

the gipsy boy, born in a barn. But after he had learned all these

words, whenever anything hurt or frightened him, he would cry again,

'Mamma! papa! come to Edwy.' The gipsies could not take him out, of

course, whilst there was danger of his breaking out in this way; and

after he came to that hut in the valley, he did not remember ever going

out with any of the people when they went their rounds of begging, and

pilfering, and buying rags; telling fortunes meanwhile, as gipsies

always do.

"When left behind, there were always two or three children, a great

girl, an old woman, or a sick person, staying with him, until the day

which set him free from his troubles. It was in the month of May. Who

would not like to live like a gipsy in a wood, if all the year round

was like that month of May? It was about noon, and Edwy, who had been

up before the sun, to breakfast with those who were going out for their

day's begging and stealing, had fallen asleep on a bed of dry leaves in

the hut, as soon as most of the people were gone; one old woman, who

was too lame to tramp, was left with him.

"He slept long, and when he awoke he sat up on his bed of leaves, and

looked about him to see who was with him; he saw no one within the hut,

and no one at the doorway.

"Little children have great dread of being alone. He listened to hear

if there were any voices without, but he could hear nothing but the

rush of a waterfall close by, and the distant cry of sheep and lambs.

The next thing the little one remembered that he did, was to get up and

go out of the door of the hut. The hut was built of rude rafters and

wattles in the front of a cave or hole in a rock; it was down low in

the glen at the edge of the brook, a little below the waterfall. When

the child came out, he looked anxiously for somebody, and was more and

more frightened when he could see no creature of his own kind amid all

the green leaves, and all along the water's edge above and below.

"Where was the old woman all this time? who can say? but perhaps not

far off; perhaps she might have been deaf, and, though near, did not

hear the noise made by the child when he came out of the hut.

"Edwy did not remember how long he stood by the brook; but this is

certain that the longer he felt himself to be alone, the more

frightened he became, and soon began to fancy terrible things. There

was towards the top of the rock from which the waters fell a huge old

yew-tree, or rather bush, which hung forward over the fall. It looked

very black in comparison with the tender green of the fresh leaves of

the neighbouring trees, and the white and glittering spray of the

water. Edwy looked at it and fancied that it moved; his eye was

deceived by the dancing motion of the water.

"Whilst he looked and looked, some great black bird came out from the

midst of it uttering a harsh croaking noise. The little boy could bear

no more; he turned away from the terrible bush and the terrible bird,

and ran down the valley, leaving hut and all behind, and crying, as he

always did when hurt or frightened, 'Papa! mamma! Oh, come, oh, come to

Edwy!'

"He ran and ran, whilst his little bare feet were pierced with pebbles,

and his legs torn with briars, until he came to where the valley became

narrower, and where one might have thought the rocks and banks on each

side had been cleft by the hand of a giant, so nicely would they have

fitted could they have been brought together again. The brook ran along

a pebble channel between these rocks and banks, and there was a rude

path which went in a line with the brook; a path which was used only by

the gipsies and a few poor cottagers, whose shortest way from the great

road at the end of the valley to their own houses was by that solitary

way.

"As Edwy ran, he still cried, 'Mamma! mamma! papa! papa! Oh, come, oh,

come to Edwy!'--and he kept up his cry from time to time as he found

breath to utter it, till his young voice began to be returned in a sort

of hollow murmur.

"When first he observed this, he was even more frightened than before;

he stood and looked round, and then he turned with his back towards the

hut, and ran and ran again, till he got deeper amongst the rocks. He

stopped again, for the high black banks frightened him still more, and

setting up his young voice he called again, and his call was the same

as before.

"He had scarcely finished his cry, when a voice, from whence he knew

not, seemed to answer him; it said, 'Come, come to Edwy;' it said it

once, it said it twice, it said it a third time, but it seemed each

time more distant.

"The child looked up, the child looked round, he could never describe

what he felt; but in his great agitation he cried more loudly, 'Oh,

papa! mamma! Come, come to poor Edwy!' It was an echo, the echo of the

rocks which repeated the words of the child; and the more loudly he

spoke, the more perfect was the echo; but he could catch only the few

last words; this time he only heard, 'Poor, poor Edwy!' Edwy had not

lost all recollection of some far distant happy home, and of some kind

parents far away; and now at that minute he believed that what the echo

said came from them, and that they were calling to him, and saying,

'Poor, poor Edwy!' But where were those who called to him? alas! he

could not tell. Were they in the holes in the rocks?--his mind was then

used to the notion of people living in caves--or were they at the top

of the rocks? or were they up high in the blue bright heavens?

"It would have been a sorrowful sight to behold that pretty boy

looking up at the rocks and the sky, and down among the reeds, and

sedges, and alders by the side of the brook, for some persons to whom

the voice might belong; in hopes of seeing that same lady he sometimes

dreamed of, and that kind gentleman he used to call papa; and to see

how the tears gushed from his eyes when he could not find anyone.

"After a while he called again, and called louder still. 'Come, come,'

was his cry again, 'Edwy is lost! lost! lost!' Echo repeated the last

words as before, 'Lost! lost! lost!' and now the voice sounded from

behind him, for he had moved round a corner of a rock.

"The child heard the voice behind, and turned and ran that way; and

stopped and called again, and then heard it the other way; and next he

shrieked from fear, and echo returned the shriek once more, and thrice,

finishing off with broken sounds, which to Edwy's ears appeared as if

somebody a long way off was mocking him.

"His terror was now at its highest; indeed he could never remember what

he did next, or when he turned to go down the valley; but turn he did,

after having run back many paces.

"His steps, however, were guided by One whose eye was never off him,

even his kind and heavenly Father; and on he went, neither heeding

stones nor briars; every step taking him nearer to the mouth of the

glen, and the entrance on the great high road.

"And who had been driving along that road in a fine carriage with four

horses?"

* * * * *

"Who?" cried Henry Fairchild, turning over another leaf; "who, but his

own papa?--but I must go on."

* * * * *

"Mr. and Mrs. Lawley had given up all hopes of finding their little boy

near Norwood, and they had set out in their coach to go all over the

country in search of him. They had come the day before to a town near

to the place where the gipsies had kept Edwy all the winter, and there

they had made many inquiries, particularly about any gipsies who might

be in the habit of haunting that country: but people there were afraid

of the gipsies, and did not like to say anything which might bring them

into trouble with them. The gipsies never did much mischief in the way

of stealing near their own huts, and were always civil when civilly

treated.

"The poor father and mother, therefore, could get no information there;

and the next morning they had come on across the country, and along the

road into which the gipsies' valley opened.

"Wherever these unhappy parents saw a wild country, full of woods, and

where the ground was rough and broken, they thought, if possible, more

than ever of their lost child; and at those times Mrs. Lawley always

began to weep--indeed, she had done little else since she had missed

her boy. The travellers first came in sight of the gipsies' valley, and

the vast sweep of woods on each side of it, just as the horses had

dragged the coach to the top of a very high hill or bank over which the

road went; and then also those in the coach saw before them a very

steep descent, so steep that it was thought right to put the drag upon

the wheels.

"Mr. Lawley proposed that they should get out and walk down the hill.

Mrs. Lawley consented; the coach stopped, everyone got down from it,

and Mr. Lawley walked first, followed closely by his servant William;

whilst Mrs. Lawley came on afterwards, leaning on the arm of her

favourite little maid Barbara. The poor parents, when their grief

pressed most heavily on them, were easier with other people than with

each other.

"'Oh, Barbara!' said Mrs. Lawley, when the others were gone forward;

'when I remember the pretty ways of my boy, and think of his lovely

face and gentle temper, and of the way in which I lost him, my heart is

ready to break; and I often remember, with shame and sorrow, the pride

in which I indulged, before it pleased God to bring this dreadful

affliction upon me.'

"The little maid who walked by her wept too; but she said:

"'Oh, dear mistress! if God would give us but the grace to trust in

Him, our grief would soon be at an end. I wish we could trust in Him,

for He can and will do everything for us to make us happy.'

"'Ah, Barbara!' said the lady; and she could add no more--she went on

in silence.

"Mr. Lawley walked on before with the servant. He, too, was thinking of

his boy, and his eye ranged over the wild scene on the right hand of

the road. He saw a raven rise from the wood--he heard its croaking

noise--it was perhaps the same black bird that had frightened Edwy.

"William remarked to his master that there was a sound of falling

water, and said there were sure to be brooks running in the valley. Mr.

Lawley was, however, too sad to talk to his servant; he could only say,

'I don't doubt it,' and then they both walked on in silence.

"They came to the bottom of the valley even before the carriage got

there. They found that the brook came out upon the road in that place,

and that the road was carried over it by a little stone bridge.

"Mr. Lawley stopped upon the bridge; he leaned on the low wall, and

looked upon the dark mouth of the glen. William stood a little behind

him.

"William was young; his hearing and all his senses were very quick. As

he stood there, he thought he heard a voice; but the rattling of the

coach-wheels over the stony road prevented his hearing it distinctly.

He heard the cry again; but the coach was coming nearer, and making it

still more difficult for him to catch the sound.

"His master was surprised to see him vault over the low parapet of the

bridge the next moment, and run up the narrow path which led up the

glen.

"It was the voice of Edwy, and the answering echo, which William had

heard. He had got at just a sufficient distance from the sound of the

coach-wheels at the moment when the echo had returned poor little

Edwy's wildest shriek.

"The sound was fearful, broken, and not natural; but William was not

easily put out; he looked back to his master, and his look was such

that Mr. Lawley immediately left the bridge to follow him, though

hardly knowing why.

"They both went on up the glen, the man being many yards before the

master. Another cry and another answering echo again reached the ear of

William, proceeding as from before him. The young man again looked at

his master and ran on. The last cry had been heard by Mr. Lawley, who

immediately began to step with increasing quickness after his servant,

though, as the valley turned and turned among the rocks, he soon lost

sight of him.

"Mr. Lawley was by this time come into the very place where the echo

had most astonished Edwy, because each reverberation which it had made

seemed to sound from opposite sides; and here he heard the cry again,

and heard it distinctly. It was the voice of a child first, crying,

'No! no! no! Papa! mamma! Oh, come! Oh, come!'--and then a fearful

shriek or laugh of some wild woman's voice.

"Mr. Lawley rushed on, winding swiftly between the rocks, whilst

various voices, in various tones, which were all repeated in strange

confusion by the echoes, rang in his ears; but amid all these sounds he

thought only of that one plaintive cry, 'Papa! mamma! Oh, come! Oh,

come!' Suddenly he came out to where he saw his servant again, and with

him an old woman, who looked like a witch. She had the hand of a little

ragged child, to which she held firmly, though the baby, for such

almost he was, struggled hard to get free, crying, 'Papa! mamma! Oh,

come! Oh, come!'

"William was arguing with the woman, and he had got the other hand of

the child.

"Mr. Lawley rushed on, trembling with hope, trembling with fear--could

this boy be his Edwy? William had entered his service since he had lost

his child; he could not therefore know him; nor could he himself be

sure--so strange, so altered, did the baby look.

"But Edwy knew his own father in a moment; he could not run to meet

him, for he was tightly held by the gipsy, but he cried:

"'Oh, papa! papa is come to Edwy!'

"The old woman knew Mr. Lawley, and saw that the child knew him. She

had been trying to persuade William that the boy was her grandchild;

but it was all up with her now; she let the child's hand go, and whilst

he was flying to his father's arms, she disappeared into some

well-known hole or hollow in the neighbouring rocks.

"Who can pretend to describe the feelings of the father when he felt

the arms of his long-lost boy clinging round his neck, and his little

heart beating against his own? or who could say what the mother felt

when she saw her husband come out from the mouth of the valley,

bearing in his arms the little ragged child? Could it be her own--her

Edwy? She could hardly be sure of her happiness till the boy held out

his arms to her, and cried, 'Mamma! mamma!'"

[Illustration: "_Could it be her own--her Edwy? She could hardly be

sure of her happiness._"--Page 202.]

* * * * *

"This story is too short," said Henry; "I wish it had been twice as

long; I want to hear more of that little boy and of the gipsies."

"It is getting very hot," said Emily, when they had done talking; "let

us go into the house, and we will not come out again until it is cool.

I hope we shall not be naughty to-day, Henry, but do what papa and

mamma will think right."

"Come, then," replied Henry. And they went back to the house and spent

the rest of the morning in their play-room: and I am sure that they

were very happy in a quiet way, for Henry was making a grotto of moss

and shells, fixed on a board with paste; and Emily was just beginning

to make a little hermit to be in the grotto, till they both changed

their minds a little, and turned the grotto into a gipsy's hut, and

instead of a hermit an old woman was made to stand at the door.

[Illustration: "Oh Papa! Mamma! Come to Edwy!"]

Further Story of a Holiday

[Illustration: "She will get amongst the shrubs," said Emily]

The evening was very cool and pleasant, when Emily and Henry went out

to play. Mary Bush had given Henry a young magpie; she had taught it to

say a few words, to the great delight of the children. It could say,

"Good morning!" "How do you do?" "Oh, pretty Mag!" "Mag's a hungry."

"Give Mag her dinner." "A bit of meat for poor Mag." To be sure the

bird's words did not come out very clearly. But it was quite enough, as

Henry said, if he understood them.

Mag had a large wicker cage, which generally hung up on a nail in the

kitchen; but her master, being very fond of her company, used often to

take the cage down, with the bird in it, and take it into his play-room

or his hut, or hang it upon the bough of a tree before the parlour

window, that Mag might enjoy the fresh air. Sometimes, too, Henry let

the bird out, that she might enjoy herself a little, for as the

feathers of one of her wings were cut close, she could not fly; and she

was very tame, and never having known liberty, she was as fond of her

cage, when she was tired or hungry, as some old ladies are of their

parlours.

"Let us take Mag with us out of doors," said Henry; and the cage was

taken down and carried out between the two children, whilst Mag kept

chattering all the way, and was, if anything, more pert and brisk than

spoiled magpies generally are. They first went to the hut, and set the

cage on the bench, whilst Henry and Emily busied themselves in putting

a few things to rights about the place, which had been set wrong by a

hard shower which had happened the night before. There were a few

fallen leaves which had blown into the hut from some laurels growing on

the outside; and Henry said:

"I do hate laurels; for they are always untidy, and scattering about

their yellow leaves when all the trees about them are in their best

order."

Whilst the children were going in and out after these leaves, to pick

them up and throw them out of sight, Mag kept hopping from one perch to

another, wriggling her tail, twisting her head to one side and another,

and crying, "Oh, pretty Mag!" "Mag's a hungry," in a voice more like

scolding than anything else.

"What now, mistress?" said Henry.

"She is not in the best possible temper," replied Emily.

"She wants to be out," answered Henry; "she does not like to be shut

up."

"But," said Emily, "it would be dangerous to let her out here, so far

from the house, and amongst the trees."

Henry was in a humour common not only to small but great boys on

occasions. He chose, just then, to think himself wiser than his sister,

and, without another word, he opened the cage door, and out walked

Mag, with the air of a person who had gained a point, and despised

those who had given way to her.

And first she strutted round the inside of the hut, crying, "Oh, pretty

Mag!" with a vast deal of importance, and then she walked out at the

entrance, trailing her tail after her, like a lady in a silk gown.

"She will get amongst the shrubs," said Emily; "and how shall we get

her out of them?"

"Never fear," returned Henry; "you know that she cannot fly."

One would have thought that the bird knew what they said, for whilst

they spoke, she laid her head on one side, as if turning an ear--stood

still a minute, and then paraded onwards--I say paraded, for if she had

been walking at a coronation she could not have taken more state upon

herself.

"Let us see which way she goes," said Henry.

And the two children walked after her; Emily bringing the light wicker

cage with her.

Mag knew as well that they were after her as if she had been what the

country people call a Christian, meaning a human creature. And she

walked on, not taking to the shrubs, which grew thick about the hut,

but along a bit of grass-plot, at the farthest end of which was a row

of laurels and other evergreens. These trees hid the back yard of the

house from the garden and small portion of land near to it, which Mr.

Fairchild had given up to flowering shrubs and ornamental trees.

Behind these evergreens was a row of palings, and as Mag drew near to

these laurels, Henry ran forward, crying:

"She will get through the palings, if we don't mind, and into the

yard."

Mag let him come near to her, and then gave a long hop, standing still

till he was only at arm's length from her. Then she gave a second hop,

alighting under a branch of laurel; and when Henry rushed forward to

catch her there, she made another spring, and was hidden among the

leaves.

"Stop! stop!" cried Henry, "stop there, Emily, where you are; and I

will run round and drive her back; and you must be ready to catch her."

And away he ran to the nearest wicket, and was on the other side of the

laurels and the paling, in the fold-yard, not a minute afterwards.

Emily heard him making a noise on the opposite side of the shrubs, as

if he thought Mag was between him and his sister, among the laurels;

and he called also to her, bidding her to be ready when the bird

appeared.

Emily watched and watched, but no bird came out; and not a minute

afterwards she heard Henry cry:

"O there! there! I see her going across the yard towards the barn! Come

round! leave the cage! come quickly, Emily!"

She obeyed the call in an instant; down went the cage on the grass. She

was at the wicket and in the fold-yard in a minute, and there she saw

Mag pacing along the yard, in her coronation step, towards the barn,

being, to all appearance, in no manner of hurry, and seeming to be

quite unconscious of the near neighbourhood of her master and his

sister.

"Hush, hush!" whispered Henry; "don't make a noise." And the two

children trod softly and slowly towards the side of the yard where the

bird was, as if they had been treading on eggs or groping through the

dark and afraid of a post at every step. They thought that Maggy was

not conscious of their approach; though Emily did not quite like the

cunning way in which the bird laid her head on every side, as if the

better to hear the sound.

Once again Henry was at arm's length from her, and had even extended

himself as far forward as he could, and stretched out his hand to catch

her, when his foot slipped, and down he came at full length in the

dust. At the same instant Maggy made a hop, and turned to look back at

Henry from the very lowest edge of the thatch of the barn, or rather of

a place where the roof of the barn was extended downwards over a low

wood-house.

Henry was up in a minute, not heeding the thick brown powder with which

his face and hands and pinafore were covered; and Emily had scarcely

come up to the place where he had fallen, before he was endeavouring to

catch at the bird on the low ledge to which she had hopped.

But Maggy had no mind to be thus caught; she had gotten her liberty,

and she was disposed to keep it a little longer; and when she saw the

hand near her, she made another hop, and appeared higher up on the

slanting thatch.

After some little talking over the matter, Henry proposed getting up

the thatch; and how he managed to persuade Emily to do the same, or

whether she did not want much persuasion, is not known; but this is

very certain, that they both soon climbed upon this thatch, having

found a ladder in the yard, which John used in some of his work, and

having set it against the wood-house, and from the top of the

wood-house made their way to the roof of the barn.

"Now we shall have her!" cried Henry, as he made his way on his hands

and knees along the sloping thatch; and again his hand was stretched

out to seize the bird, when she made another upward hop, and was as far

off as she had been when she sat on the edge of the thatch and he lay

in the dust.

"What a tiresome creature!" cried Henry.

"I am sure she does it on purpose," said Emily, "only to vex us; and

there she sits looking down upon us, and crying, 'Oh, pretty Mag!' I

knew, when she was in the hut, that she was in a wicked humour."

"Let us sit down here a little," said Henry, "and seem not to be

thinking about her. Let us seem to be looking another way; perhaps she

will then come near to us of her own accord."

"We will try," replied Emily. And the children seated themselves

quietly on the thatch; and if they had not been uneasy about the

magpie, would never have been better pleased with their seats.

But it might seem that Mag did not choose to be thus passed over, and

not to have her friends busy and troubled about her; for as soon as

Emily and Henry had planned not to notice her, and to seem to look

another way, she began to cry in her usual croaking voice, "How do you

do, sir? Good morning, sir! Oh, pretty Mag! Mag's hungry!"

"What a tiresome bird it is," said Henry, impatiently. And Emily began

to coax and invite her to come near, holding out her hand as if she had

something in it.

Mag was not a bit behind in returning Emily's empty compliments, for

she hopped towards her, and very nearly within reach of her hand, still

crying, "Good morning! Oh, pretty Mag!"

Emily now thought she had her, and was putting out her arm to catch her

when the bird turned swiftly round, and hopping up the thatch, took her

station on the very point of the roof.

Henry lost no time, but, turning on his hands and knees, crept up the

slope of the roof, and was followed by his sister, who was quite as

active as himself. They were not long in reaching the place where Mag

was perched; but, before they could catch hold of her, she had walked

down very leisurely on the other side, and hopped off into the field.

Henry was after her, half sliding down the thatch, but Emily more

wisely chose to go back by the wood-house as she had come, and in a

very few minutes afterwards they were in the field. Henry had never

lost sight of his bird since he had found her in the fold-yard; but he

was none the nearer to catching her.

She waited at a respectful distance till Emily came up; and then,

between walking and hopping, made her way across the field, and perched

herself on the upper bar of a gate.

The children were now in serious trouble, because they were not

suffered, when alone, to go beyond the bounds of the next field.

Beyond the second field was the lane, into which they had followed the

pig on that unfortunate day in which they had been left under the care

of John; and if the magpie should go over into this lane, what could

they do? They did wish to obey their parents this day.

In order, however, to prevent this misfortune, Henry did the very worst

thing he possibly could; he began to run and cry, "Mag! Mag!" with a

raised voice, whilst the bird, as if resolved to torment him, hopped

forward across the other field, perched herself on the stile, and, as

he drew near, flew right down from thence into the lane.

When Emily came up, there was poor Henry sitting across the stile in

the greatest possible trouble, being more than half tempted to break

bounds, and yet feeling that he ought not to do it. And there was Mag,

walking up and down, pecking and picking, and wagging her tail; and

now and then looking with one cunning eye towards her little master,

as much as to say, "Why don't you come after me? Here I am."

It is often by very small things that the strength of our resolutions

to be good is tested.

Henry was hardly tried, yet strength was given him to resist the

temptation; and by Emily's persuasion he was induced to wait a little

before he ventured to go down into the lane. And Mag seemed as well

content to wait, or rather more so than he was.

The children were in hopes that some one might come by who would help

them in their distress. And they had not waited a minute before they

could see two children just coming in sight, at the very farthest point

where the lane was visible from the stile.

These children were--a very ragged boy, without shoes, stockings, or

hat, about nine or ten years of age, and a little girl, worse clothed,

if possible, than himself, for her petticoat was all in fringes,

showing her little legs above the ankle; they both looked miserably

thin. Mag waited saucily till these had come nearly opposite the stile,

and then only stepped aside; whilst Henry, calling to the boy, told him

his trouble, pointing out the bird to him, and asking his help.

The boy looked towards the bird, and then, turning cheerfully to Henry,

he said:

"Never fear, master, but I'll catch her for you;" and, dropping the

hand of the little girl, he pulled off his ragged jacket, and crept

towards Maggy.

Cunning as the creature was, she did not understand that she had a

deeper hand to deal with than that of her young master. She therefore

let the boy come as near to her as she had let Henry do many times

during the chase, and in this way she gave him the opportunity he was

seeking of throwing his jacket over her, and seizing her as she lay

under it.

"He has her!" cried Emily and Henry at once, and the ragged little girl

set up quite a shriek of joy.

"Yes, I has her," added the boy; "but she pulls desperate hard, and

would bite me, if she could, through the cloth. Suppose I wraps her in

it, and carries her home for you, for we must not let her loose again.

Hark! how she skirls, master and miss!"

Henry and Emily approved of this scheme; the boy kept Maggy in the

folds of the old jacket, and Emily helped the little girl to get over

the stile; and the four children walked quickly towards the house. When

they had crossed the two fields, Emily ran forward to fetch the cage,

and the boy managed to get Mag into it without getting his fingers bit;

after which Henry and Emily had leisure to ask the boy who he was, for

they had never seen him before.

He told them that his name was Edward, and that his little sister was

called Jane, and that they had no father or mother, but lived with

their grandmother in a cottage on the common, just by Sir Charles

Noble's park; and that their grandmother was very bad, and could not

work, but lay sick in bed; and that they were all half-starved, and he

was come out to beg--"Miss and Master," added the boy, "for we could

not starve, nor see granny dying of hunger."

What a sad thing it is that stories of this kind are often told to

deceive people, and get money out of them on false pretences! But Emily

and Henry saw how thin and ragged these poor children were, and Emily

thought of a plan of giving them a supper without taking what they gave

from her father. So she proposed her scheme to Henry, and he said:

"That will just do; I did not think of it."

Emily then said to the children:

"Sit down here; we will take naughty Mag into the house, and come back

to you;" and she and Henry were off in a minute. They ran in to Betty,

and asked her what she had for their supper. Betty was shelling peas in

the kitchen, and she told them that she was going to cook them for her

master and mistress; and she said:

"I suppose, Miss Emily, you and your brother will sup with your parents

to-night."

"But, if you please, we would rather have our supper now," said Emily.

"That we would," cried Henry; "so please, Betty, do give us something

now."

"Then you must not have a second supper, Master Henry," said Betty, "if

I give you something to eat now."

"Very well, Betty," replied both children at once; "but we would like

it now, instead of waiting later for papa and mamma."

So Betty gave each a currant turnover or puff, and a slice of bread and

some milk.

"May we take our supper out of doors, Betty?" said Emily.

"If you please," replied Betty; and she put the turnovers, as she

called the puffs, into a little basket, with two large slices of bread

and two cans of milk, and put the basket into Emily's hands.

"You have made beautiful ears and eyes to the turnovers, Betty," said

Henry; "I always call them pigs when they are made in that way."

"And they taste much better, don't they, Master Henry?" asked Betty.

"To be sure they do," answered Henry, and away he walked after his

sister.

So Emily and Henry gave their supper to the little children; and they

were very much pleased with them, because, when they had eaten part of

the bread and drunk the milk, they asked leave to take what was left

home to their grandmother.

[Illustration: "_Emily and Henry gave their supper to the little

children._"--Page 215.]

Emily fetched them a piece of paper to wrap the puffs in, and then she

and Henry watched them back into the lane, and afterwards walked

quietly home, to be ready when their parents and Lucy should come back.

[Illustration: "_The magpie on the stile._"--Page 209.]

The Happy Evening

[Illustration: Preparing the peas for supper]

Henry had just finished washing his hands and combing his hair, and

Emily had only that minute changed her pinafore, when the distant sound

of the carriage was heard.

Betty was preparing the peas for supper, and John laid the cloth, when

Henry and Emily ran out upon the lawn.

What a happy moment was that when the carriage stopped at the gate, and

John opened the door and let down the step, and Lucy jumped out and ran

to meet Emily and Henry. One would have thought that the children had

been parted a year instead of a day.

The chaise went on with Mrs. Goodriche, and all the family came into

the parlour.

"How nice the peas smell!" said Mr. Fairchild; "and I really want my

supper."

"So do I, papa," said Lucy.

"And so do I," whispered Henry to Emily.

"But you must not say so," returned Emily.

"No, no," said Henry firmly; "I know _that_; we agreed about _that_

before."

John came in with a very large basket, well packed, out of the chaise;

Lucy was running to begin to unpack it, when Mr. Fairchild said:

"Let us have our supper first, dear child, and the basket shall be our

dessert."

"Very well, papa," answered Lucy, "so we will;" and her young heart was

filled with joy on account of the things that were in it, though she

did not know of one thing for herself.

John came in with a nice smoking leg of lamb; and he then went out and

brought some peas and young potatoes, to which he added a hot current

and raspberry pie. Everybody sat down; Mr. Fairchild said grace, and

began to help those at the table from the lamb, whilst Mrs. Fairchild

served the peas. Lucy being helped, Mr. Fairchild said to Emily:

"Are you very hungry, my dear? Shall I give you much or little?"

"None, thank you, papa," was the answer.

"A few peas, my dear, then?" said her mother.

"None, thank you, mamma," replied Emily.

Mrs. Fairchild offered potatoes or tart.

"None, thank you, mamma," was Emily's answer to every offer.

Mrs. Fairchild seemed rather surprised, but was still more so when

Henry, who was always provided with a good appetite, gave exactly the

same answers which Emily had done. She supposed, however, that the

children had supped already, and said:

"What did Betty give you, my dears?"

Emily told her mother, but coloured very much while speaking, and

there was something their parents thought rather odd in both their

faces.

"What is it?" said Mr. Fairchild; "there is some little mystery here;

let us hear it. What has happened? I trust that you have not been

playing in the sun and made yourselves unwell."

"No, papa," replied Henry, "we are not"--he was going to say hungry,

but that would not have been true. "We are not--we do not--we do not

wish for any supper; do we, Emily?"

"What!" said Mr. Fairchild, with a smile, and yet at the same time a

little alarmed--"what! did you and Emily talk the affair over before,

and agree together that you would not have any supper with us?"

"We did, papa," replied Henry bravely, "and when the things are taken

away we will tell you all about it."

"I do beg," said Mr. Fairchild, "that you will tell us all about it,

even before we begin to eat; for there is your mamma looking anxious;

Emily looking ready to cry, and Lucy, too, with her. What is this great

secret?"

"I will tell you, papa," said Henry, getting up, and walking round to

his father's knee. "I opened the door, papa," he said; "it was not

Emily's fault, she told me not to do it--and then she came out--and she

went to the top of the barn, and we went after her--and she chattered

to us--and then she went, and then we came after her--and then she sat

on the gate, and went on and came to the stile, talking all the way,

almost as if she had been making game of us. Did she not, Emily?"

"Really, my dear boy," replied Mr. Fairchild, forcing himself to smile,

"you must try to make your story plainer, or we shall be more in the

dark at the end of it than we were at the beginning. All I now

understand is, that you and Emily climbed over the roof of the barn

after somebody. Well, and I hope you got no fall in this strange

exploit?"

"You are not angry, papa?" said Lucy. "Henry has often been on the

thatch of the barn and never got hurt."

"I did not say I was angry, my dear," replied Mr. Fairchild. "I might

say that it was neither safe nor prudent for little girls to scramble

up such places, and I might say, do not try these things again; but if

no harm was intended, why was I to be angry? But I must hear a more

straightforward story than Henry has told me; he has not given me the

name of the person who went chattering before him and Emily; was it a

fairy, a little spiteful fairy, Emily? Did you let her out of a box, as

the princess did in the fairytale? And what has all this to do with

your refusing your suppers? Come, Emily, let us hear your account of

this affair."

Poor Emily had been sadly put out by all that had passed between Henry

and her father; and she, therefore, looked very red when she began her

story. But she got courage as she went on, and told it all, just as it

is related in the last chapter; only she passed slightly over the

wilfulness which her brother had shown in opening the cage door. She

finished by saying, that as they had given away their suppers, they had

agreed together not to eat another; "and we settled not to tell our

reasons till the things were taken away."

"Yes, papa," added Henry, "we did."

"And this is all, my Emily?" said Mrs. Fairchild. "I will own that I

was fearful there was something much amiss;" and she put out her hand

to her little girl and boy, and having kissed them, she added, "Now, my

children, sit down and eat."

"And we will all sup together," cried Lucy, with her brightest,

happiest smile, "and afterwards open the basket."

"And I will do more than give each of you a slice of lamb," said Mr.

Fairchild. "I am going to-morrow to pay a visit to Mr. Darwell; I have

put this visit off too long; and I will call on Mr. Burke, Sir Charles

Noble's steward, and inquire about these poor people. What is the name

of the old woman, my dears?"

"Edward, papa," cried Henry.

"Edward," said Emily, "is the boy's name, not the old woman's--we did

not ask her name."

"I thought that was likely," answered Mr. Fairchild, smiling. "Well,

Henry, I will tell you what must be done--you must be ready at six

o'clock to-morrow morning, and we will walk, whilst it is cool, to Mr.

Burke's, and get our breakfast there, and you must help us to find

these poor people."

"Oh, papa!" said Henry: he could not say another word for joy.

After supper, and when everything but the candles was cleared from the

table, the basket was set on it, and Mrs. Fairchild began to unpack it.

First she took out a number of parcels of rice, and sugar, and pepper,

and mustard, and such things as children do not care to see. These were

put aside, and then came a smooth long parcel, which she opened; it

contained a piece of very nice muslin to make Lucy and Emily best

frocks.

There was no harm in the little girls being very pleased at the sight

of this; they had been taught to be thankful for every good and useful

thing provided for them. These, too, were put aside; and next came a

larger parcel, tied up in a paper with care, and the name of "Lucy,

from Mrs. Goodriche," written upon it. It was handed to Lucy; she did

not expect it, and her hands quite shook while she untied the string.

It contained a beautiful doll, the size of Emily's famous doll; and I

could not say which of the two little sisters was most delighted. The

two largest parcels were at the bottom of the basket, and came last;

one was directed with a pencil by Lucy to Emily, and the other to

Henry; and when these were opened it was found out that Lucy had spent

all her own money to make these parcels richer. Each contained a

beautiful book with many pictures; and in Emily's parcel were a pair of

scissors for doll's work, and needles and cotton, and lots of bright

penny ribbon, and a bundle of ends of bright chintz for dolls' frocks.

They were the very things that would please Emily most, and, as she

said, would help so nicely to dress Lucy's doll.

Henry, besides his book, had a large rough knife, a ball of string, an

awl, a little nail-passer, a paper of tacks, and some other little

things which happened to be just what he wanted most of all things in

the world, for he was always making things in wood.

Well, that was a happy evening indeed; it had been a happy day, only

Mag had given some trouble; but, as Emily said, "Even Mag's mischief

had turned out for some good, because the poor little children had got

a supper by it."

The next day was almost, if not quite, as pleasant as the day before.

Henry was out with his father; and Lucy and Emily had all the day given

to them for dressing the new doll and settling her name; so they called

her Amelia, after Mrs. Howard.

Breakfast at Mr. Burke's

[Illustration: A sturdy boy of four, roaring and blubbering]

We will leave Lucy and Emily making their doll's clothes, and go with

Mr. Fairchild and Henry.

They were off by six o'clock in the morning for the Park. Sir Charles

Noble's place was about two miles from Mr. Fairchild's house, but Mr.

Burke, the steward, lived as much as half a mile nearer, on Mr.

Fairchild's side, so that Henry had not two miles to walk, for his

father was to leave him at Mr. Burke's, whilst he went on to pay his

visit to Mr. Darwell.

The first part of their walk lay along a lane, deeply shaded on one

side by a very deep dark wood--it was Blackwood.

Henry saw the chimneys of the old house just rising above the trees;

they were built of brick, and looked as if several of them had been

twisted round each other, as the threads of thick twine are twisted;

they looked quite black, and parts of them had fallen.

Mr. Fairchild and Henry next crossed the corner of a common, where they

saw several huts built of clay, with one brick chimney each, and very

ragged thatch; and going a little farther, they saw Mr. Burke's house

before them. It was a large farmhouse, with a square court before it,

and behind it a quantity of buildings and many ricks. Mr. Burke was the

steward of the estate, and he was also a farmer, and he was reckoned to

be a rich man; but he and his wife were very plain sort of people, and

though they had got up in the world, they carried with them all their

old-fashioned ways.

They had eight children; the eldest was in his sixteenth year, the

youngest between two and three. There were four boys and four girls,

and they had come in turns; first a boy, and then a girl, and so on.

The three elder boys and the three elder girls went to boarding-schools;

but it was holiday time, and they were all at home.

There was no sign about the old people themselves of being rich,

excepting that they had both grown very stout; but they were hearty and

cheerful.

Mr. Burke spied Mr. Fairchild before he got to the house, and called to

welcome him over a hedge, saying:

"You have done right to take the cool of the morning; and you and the

little gentleman there, I dare say, are ready for your breakfasts. Go

on, Mr. Fairchild, and I will be with you before you get to the house."

Mr. Fairchild and Henry crossed the fold-yard, and coming into the

yard, which was surrounded by a low wall, with a paling at the top of

it, they saw Mrs. Burke standing on the kitchen steps, and feeding an

immense quantity of poultry of all sorts and kinds. She called to

welcome her visitors; but though she spoke in a high key, it was

impossible to hear a word she said for the noise made by the geese,

ducks, hens, turkeys, and guinea-fowl--all crowding forward for their

food. Besides which, there was a huge dog, chained to a kennel, which

set up a tremendous barking; and, before he could be stopped, was

joined by other dogs of divers sorts and sizes, which came running into

the yard, setting up their throats all in different keys. They did not,

however, attempt to do more than bark and yelp at Henry and his father.

"Come in, come in, Mr. Fairchild," said Mrs. Burke, when they could get

near to her through the crowd of living things; "come in, the tea is

brewing; and you must be very thirsty." And she took up an end of her

white apron and wiped her brow, remarking that it was wonderful fine

weather for the corn.

Mr. Fairchild and Henry followed Mrs. Burke through an immense kitchen

into a parlour beyond, which was nothing in size compared to the

kitchen; and there was a long table set out for breakfast.

The table was covered with good things; a large pasty, which had been

cut; a ham, from which many a good slice had already been taken; a pot

of jam, another of honey; brown and white loaves; cream and butter and

fruit; and the tea, too, was brewing, and smelt deliciously.

Mr. Burke followed them in almost immediately, and shook Mr. Fairchild

by the hand; complimenting Henry by laying his large rough hand on his

head, and saying:

"You are ready for your breakfast, I doubt not, little master;" adding,

"Come, mistress, tap your barrel. But where are the youngsters?" He had

hardly spoken, when a tall girl, very smartly dressed, though with her

hair in papers, looked in at the door, and ran off again when she saw

Mr. Fairchild.

Her father called after her:

"Judy, I say, why don't you come in?" But Miss Judy was gone to take

the papers out of her hair.

The next who appeared was little Miss Jane, the mother's pet, because

she was the youngest. She came squalling in to tell her mother that

Dick had scratched her, though she could not show the scratch; and

there was no peace until she was set on a high chair by her mother, and

supplied with a piece of sugared bread-and-butter.

A great sturdy boy in petticoats, of about four years old, followed

little Miss Jane, roaring and blubbering because Jane had pinched him

in return for the scratch; but Mrs. Burke managed to settle him also

with a piece of ham, which he ate without bread--fat and all. Dicky was

presently followed into the room by the three elder boys, James,

William, and Tom. Being admonished by their father, they gave Mr.

Fairchild something between a bow and a nod. James's compliment might

have been called a bow; William's was half one and half the other; and

Tom's was nothing more than a nod. These boys were soon seated, and

began to fill their plates from every dish near to them.

Mrs. Burke asked James if he knew where his sisters were; and Tom

answered:

"Why, at the glass to be sure, taking the papers out of their hair."

"What's that you say, Tom?" was heard at that instant from someone

coming into the parlour. It was Miss Judy, and she was followed by Miss

Mary and Miss Elizabeth.

These three paid their compliments to Mr. Fairchild somewhat more

properly than their brothers had done; and in a very few minutes all

the family were seated, and all the young ones engaged with their

breakfasts.

It was Mr. Fairchild's custom always, when he had business to do, to

take the first opportunity of forwarding it: so he did not lose this

opportunity, but told his reasons for begging a breakfast that morning

from Mrs. Burke.

Mr. Burke entered kindly into what his neighbour said, and had no

difficulty, though the surname was not known, in finding out who the

grandmother of Edward and Jane was.

He told Mr. Fairchild that she bore a good character--had suffered many

afflictions--and, if she were ill, must be in great need. It was then

settled that as he was going in his little gig that morning to the

park, Mr. Fairchild should go with him; that they should go round over

the common to see the old woman, who did not live very near to the

farm, and that Henry should be left under Mrs. Burke's care, as the gig

would only carry two persons.

When Mr. Burke said the gig would only hold two, James looked up from

his plate, and said:

"I only wish that it would break down the very first time you and

mother get into it."

"Thank you, Jem, for your good wishes," said Mr. Burke.

"For shame, Jem!" cried Miss Judy.

"I don't mean that I wish you and mother to be hurt," answered the

youth; "but the gig is not fit for such a one as you to go in. I

declare I am ashamed of it every time you come in sight of our

playground in it; the boys have so much to say about it."

"Well, well, Jem!" said Miss Judy.

"Well, well, Jem!" repeated the youth; "it is always 'Well, well!' or

'Oh fie, Jem!' but you know, Judy, that you told me that your governess

herself said that father ought to have a new carriage."

"I don't deny that, Jem," said Judy; "Miss Killigrew knows that father

could afford a genteel carriage, and she thinks that he ought to get

one for the respectability of the family."

"Who cares what Miss Killigrew thinks?" asked Tom.

"I do," replied Judy; "Miss Killigrew is a very genteel, elegant

woman, and knows what's proper; and, as she says, has the good of the

family at heart."

"Nonsense!" replied James; "the good of the family! you mean her own

good, and her own respectability. She would like to see a fine carriage

at her door, to make her look genteel; how can you be bamboozled with

such stuff, Judy?"

Mr. Burke seemed to sit uneasily whilst his children were going on in

this way. He was thinking how all this would appear before Mr.

Fairchild--that is, he was listening for the moment with Mr.

Fairchild's ears.

When we keep low company we are apt to listen with their ears; and when

we get into good company we do the same: we think how this will sound,

and that will sound to them, and we are shocked for them, at things

which at another time we should not heed; this is one way in which we

are hurt by bad company, and improved by good.

Mr. Burke had never thought his children so ill-bred as when he heard

them, that morning, with Mr. Fairchild's ears; and as he was afraid of

making things worse by checking them, he invited him to walk out with

him, after he saw that he had done his breakfast, to look at a famous

field of corn near the house.

When this had been visited the gig was ready, and they set out, leaving

Henry at the farm; and it was very good for Henry to be left, for he

had an opportunity of seeing more that morning than he had ever yet

seen of the sad effects of young people being left to take their own

way.

The Unruly Family

[Illustration: They had a game at marbles]

After Mr. Fairchild was gone out with Mr. Burke, the young people, who

still sat round the table, all began to speak and make a noise at once.

The two youngest were crying for sugar, or ham, or more butter. Tom was

screaming every moment, "I am going to the river a-fishing--who comes

with me?" looking at the same time daringly at his mother, and

expecting her to say, "No, Tom; you know _that_ is forbidden;" for the

river was very dangerous for anglers, and Mr. Burke had given his

orders that his boys should never go down to it unless he was with

them.

James and Judy were squabbling sharply and loudly about Miss Killigrew

and her gentility; William, in a quieter way, and with a quiet face,

was, from time to time, giving his sister Mary's hair a violent pull,

causing her to scream and look about her for her tormenter each time;

and Elizabeth was balancing a spoon on the edge of her cup, and letting

it fall with a clatter every moment. Children never mind

noise--indeed, they rather like it; and, if the truth must be told,

Henry was beginning to think that it would not be unpleasant if his

father would let him and his sisters have their own ways, as these

children of Mr. Burke seemed to have, at least on holidays and after

lesson hours.

When Miss Jane's mouth was well filled with jam, and Dick's with fat

meat, Tom's voice was heard above the rest; he was still crying, "I am

going a-fishing; who will come with me?" his large eyes being fixed on

his mother, as if to provoke her to speak.

"You are not going to do any such thing, Tom," she at length said; "I

shall not allow it."

Tom looked as if he would have said, "How can you help it, mother?" but

he had not time to say it, had he wished; for Miss Judy, who had a

great notion of managing her brothers, took him up, and said:

"I wonder at you, Tom. How often have you been told that you are not to

go down to fish in the river?"

"Pray, miss, who made you my governess? If it's only to vex you, I will

go to the river--if I don't fish I will bathe. Will that please you

better?"

Henry Fairchild could not make out exactly what was said next, because

three or four people spoke at once in answer to Tom's last words, and

as all of them spoke as loud as they could in order to be heard, as

always happens in these cases, no two words could be made out clearly.

But Henry perceived that Tom gave word for word to his sisters, and

was, as he would himself have said, "quite even with them." After a

little while, James, at the whisper of his mother, cried, "Nonsense,

nonsense! no more of this;" and taking Tom by the arm, lugged him out

of the room by main force; whilst the youngster struggled and tugged

and caught at everything as he was forced along, the noise continuing

till the two brothers were fairly out of the house.

[Illustration: "_The noise continued till the two brothers were fairly

out of the house._"--Page 230.]

Mrs. Burke then turned to Henry; and thinking, perhaps, that some

excuse for her boy's behaviour was necessary, she said:

"It is all play, Master Fairchild. Tom is a good boy, but he loves a

little harmless mischief; he has no more notion of going down to the

river than I have."

"La, mother," said Miss Judy, "that is what you always say, though you

know the contrary; Tom is the very rudest boy in the whole country, and

known to be so."

"Come with me, Master Fairchild," said William, in a low voice to

Henry, "come with me. Now Judy is got on her hobby-horse, she will take

a long ride."

"What is my hobby-horse, Master William?" said Judy sharply.

"Abusing your brothers, Miss Judy," replied William.

She set up her lip and turned away, as if she did not think it worth

while to answer him, for he was younger than herself; but the next

sister took up the battle, and said something so sharp and tart, that

even William, the quietest of the family, gave her a very rude and

cutting answer. Henry did not understand what he said, but he was not

sorry when Mrs. Burke told him that he had better go out with William

and see what was to be seen.

William led Henry right through the kitchen and court into the

fold-yard: it was a very large yard, surrounded on three sides by

buildings, stables, and store-houses, and cattle-sheds and stalls. In

the midst of it was a quantity of manure, all wet and sloppy, and upon

the very top of this heap stood that charming boy, Master Tom, with his

shoes and stockings all covered with mire.

On one side of the yard stood James, talking to a boy in a labourer's

frock. These last were very busy with their own talk, and paid no

heed to Tom, who kept calling to them.

"You said," he cried, "that I could not get here--and here I am, do you

see, safe and sound?"

"And I do not care how long you stay there," at length answered the

eldest brother; "we should be free from one plague for the time at

least."