"That time, then, shall not be long," answered Tom, "for I am coming."

"Stop him! stop him!" cried James. "Here, Will--and you, Hodge,"

speaking to the young carter, "have at him, he shan't come out so soon

as he wishes;" and giving a whoop and a shout, the three boys, James,

William, and Hodge, set to to drive Tom back again whenever he

attempted to get out of the heap of mire upon the dry ground.

There were three against one, and Tom had the disadvantage of very

slippery footing, so that he was constantly driven back at every

attempt, and so very roughly too, that he was thrown down more than

once; but he fell on soft ground, and got no harm beyond being covered

with mire from head to foot.

The whole yard rang with the shouts and screams of the boys; and this

might have lasted much longer if an old labouring servant had not come

into the yard, and insisted that there was enough of it, driving Hodge

away, and crying shame on his young masters. When Tom was let loose, he

walked away into the house, as Henry supposed, to get himself washed;

and James and William, being very hot, called Henry to go with them

across the field into the barn, in one corner of which they had a

litter of puppies. They were a long time in this barn, for after they

had looked at the puppies they had a game at marbles, and Henry was

much amused.

William Burke was generally the quietest of the family, and almost all

strangers liked him best; but he had his particular tempers, and as

those tempers were never kept under by his parents, when they broke out

they were very bad. James did something in the game which he did not

think fair, so he got up from the ground where they were sitting or

kneeling to play, kicked the marbles from him, told his brother that he

was cheating, in so many plain words, and was walking quietly away,

when James followed him, and seized his arm to pull him back.

William resisted, and then the brothers began to wrestle; and from

wrestling half playfully, they went on to wrestle in earnest. One gave

the other a chance blow, and the other returned an intended one, and

then they fought in good earnest, and did not stop till William had got

a bloody nose; and perhaps they might not have stopped then, if Henry

Fairchild had not begun to cry, running in between them, and begging

them not to hurt each other any more.

"Poor child!" cried James, as he drew back from William, "don't you

know that we were only in play? Did you never see two boys playing

before?"

"Not in that way," replied Henry.

"That is because you have no brother," answered James. "It is a sad

thing for a boy not to have a brother."

They all then left the barn, and William went to wash his nose at the

pump.

Whilst he was doing this, James turned over an empty trough which lay

in the shade of one of the buildings in the fold-yard, and he and Henry

sat down upon it; William soon came down to them. He had washed away

the blood, and he looked so sulky, that anyone might have seen that he

would have opened out the quarrel again with James had not Henry

Fairchild been present; for, though he did not care for the little boy,

yet he did not wish that he should give him a bad name to his father.

Henry Fairchild was learning the best lesson he had ever had in his

life amongst the unruly children of Mr. Burke; but this lesson was not

to be learned only by his ears and eyes; it would not have been enough

for him to have seen Tom soused in the mire, or William with his bloody

nose; his very bones were to suffer in the acquirement of it, and he

was to get such a fright as he had never known before.

But before the second part of his adventures that morning is related,

it will be as well to say, in this place, that Mr. Fairchild was taken

first by Mr. Burke to the poor widow's cottage, where he found her

almost crippled with rheumatism. She had parted with much of her

furniture and clothes to feed the poor children, but was gentle and did

not complain.

From the cottage Mr. Burke drove Mr. Fairchild to the park, and there

Mr. Fairchild had an opportunity of speaking of the poor grandmother

and the little children to Mr. and Mrs. Darwell.

Mr. Darwell said that if the cottage required repair, Mr. Burke must

look after it, and then speak to him, as the affair was not his, as he

was only Sir Charles Noble's tenant.

Mrs. Darwell seemed to Mr. Fairchild to be a very fine lady, and one

who did not trouble herself about the concerns of the poor; but there

was one in the room who heard every word which Mr. Fairchild said, and

heard it attentively.

This was little Miss Darwell. She was seated on a sofa, with a piece of

delicate work in her hand; she was dressed in the most costly manner,

and she looked as fair and almost as quiet as a waxen doll.

Who can guess what was going on in her mind whilst she was listening to

the history of the poor grandmother and her little ones?

Miss Darwell, in one way, was as much indulged as Mr. Burke's children,

but of course she was not allowed to be rude and vulgar; therefore, if

her manners were better than those of the little Burkes, it was only

what might be expected; but, happily for her, she had been provided

with a truly pious and otherwise a very excellent governess, a widow

lady, of the name of Colvin; but Mrs. Colvin seldom appeared in the

drawing-room.

Mr. Darwell was proud of his little girl; he thought her very pretty

and very elegant, and he wanted to show her off before Mr. Fairchild,

who he knew had some little girls of his own; so before Mr. Fairchild

took leave, he called her to him, and said:

"Ellen, my dear, speak to this gentleman, and tell him that you should

be glad to see his daughters, the Misses Fairchild; they are about your

age, and, as I am told, are such ladies as would please you to be

acquainted with."

The little lady rose immediately, and came forward; she gave her hand

to Mr. Fairchild, and turning to her father:

"May I," she said, "ask the Misses Fairchild to come to my feast upon

my birthday?"

"You may, my love," was the answer.

"Then I will write a note," she said; and Mr. Fairchild saw that the

pretty waxen doll could sparkle and blush, and look as happy as his own

children often did.

She ran out of the room, and a minute afterwards came back with a neat

little packet in her hand. There was more in it than a note, but she

asked Mr. Fairchild to put it into his pocket, and not look at it.

Mr. Fairchild smiled and thanked her, and at that very moment other

morning visitors were brought in, and took up the attention of Mr. and

Mrs. Darwell.

Mr. Fairchild was rising, when the little girl, bending forward to him,

said in a low voice:

"I heard what you said, sir, about those poor little children, and I

will try to help them."

How pleasant was it to Mr. Fairchild to hear those words from that fair

little lady! And he came away quite delighted with her, and pleased

with Mr. Darwell.

He found Mr. Burke in his gig at the gates, with the horse's head

turned towards home.

As they were driving back, Mr. Fairchild spoke of Miss Darwell, and

said how very much he had been pleased with her.

Mr. Burke said that "she was a wonder of a child, considering how she

was indulged, and that she seemed to have no greater pleasure than in

doing good to the poor, especially to the children." They then talked

of the old woman.

Mr. Burke said he would, on his own responsibility, have the cottage

put to rights. "It should have been done before," he added. "And I will

see that she receives some help from the parish for the children; she

has had a little for herself all along. And my wife shall send her some

soup, and, may be, I could find something for Edward to do, if it be

but to frighten away the birds from the crops; so let that matter

trouble you no more, Mr. Fairchild."

Story of Henry's Adventure

[Illustration: Kind Mrs. Burke gave him a piece of bread and honey]

Henry Fairchild sat with William and James Burke for some time under

the shade of the building, and had the pleasure of hearing the two

brothers sparring on each side of him, though they did not come to

blows again. Whatever one said the other contradicted; if one said such

a thing _is_, the other said, "I am sure it is _not_;" or, "There you

go--that's just you." "Nonsense" was a favourite word of James's.

"Nonsense, Will," was his constant answer to everything his brother

proposed; and they used many words which Henry did not understand.

All this time Tom did not appear, and his brothers did not seem to

think about him.

After a while William said:

"Let us go into the cornfield, and see what the men are about; this

yard is very dull."

"No," said James, "let us show Master Fairchild the young bull."

"No! no!" cried Henry, "I do not want to see it."

Both the boys laughed outright at Henry's cry of "I do not want to see

it;" and then they assured him that the creature was well tied up--he

was in the cattle stall, just opposite to them, and could not hurt

them; and they laughed again till Henry was ashamed, and said that he

would go with them to look at him.

The cattle stall was a long, low, and narrow building, which ran one

whole side of the yard. At some seasons it was filled with cattle, each

one having a separate stall, and being tied in it, but at this time

there was no creature in it but this bull.

Now it must be told that, whilst the boys were in the barn, and just

about the time in which James and William had been scuffling with each

other and making much noise, Tom, who had not yet taken the trouble to

wash himself, had got to the top of the cattle shed, and had been

amusing himself by provoking the bull through an air-hole in the roof.

First he had thrown down on his head a quantity of house-leek which

grew on the tiles, and then he had poked at him with a stick till the

creature got furious and began to beat about him, and at length to set

up a terrible bellowing.

Tom knew well that he should get into trouble if it was found out that

he had been provoking the creature; so down he slipped, and was off in

another direction in a few minutes.

The labourers were all in the field, and Henry and his companions were

in the barn, so that no one heard distinctly the bellowing of the bull

but the girl in the dairy, and she had been too long accustomed to the

noises of a farm to give it a second thought. The animal, however, was

so furious that he broke his fastenings, snapping the ropes, and coming

out of the stall, and even trying to force the door of the shed; but

in this he failed, as there was a wooden bar across it on the outside.

After a little while he ceased to bellow, so no one was aware of the

mischief which had been done, and no one suspected that the bull was

loose.

James walked first to the door of the cattle shed, William came next,

and afterwards Henry.

James did not find it easy to move the bar, so he called William to

help him. The reason why it was hard to move was, that the head of the

bull was against the door, and he was pressing it on the bar; the

moment the bar was removed, the bull's head forced open the door, and

there stood the sullen frowning creature in the very face of poor

Henry, with nothing between them but a few yards of the court. The

other two boys were, by the sudden opening of the door, forced behind

it, so that the bull only saw Henry; but Henry did not stay to look at

his fiery eyes, or to observe the temper in which he lowered his

terrible head to the ground and came forward.

"Run, run for your life!" cried William and James, from behind the

door; and Henry did run, and the bull after him, bellowing and tearing

up the ground before him; and he came on fast, but Henry had got the

start of a few yards, and that start saved his life. Still he ran, the

bull following after. Henry had not waited to consider which way he

ran. He had taken his way in the direction of a lane which ran out of

the yard; the gate was open--he flew through--the terrible beast was

after him--he could hear his steps and his deep snortings and puffings;

in another minute he would have reached Henry, and would probably have

gored him to death, when all at once every dog about the farm, first

called and then urged on by William and James, came barking and yelping

in full cry on the heels of the bull.

The leader of these was a bulldog of the true breed, and though young,

had all his teeth in their full strength. Behind him came dogs of every

kind which is common in this country, and if they could do little else,

they could bay and yelp, and thus puzzle and perplex the bull.

James and William, each with a stick in their hands, were behind them,

urging them on, calling for help, and putting themselves to great

danger for the sake of Henry. Tom was not there to see the mischief he

had wrought.

Another moment, and the bull would have been up with Henry, when he

found himself bitten in the flank by the sharp fangs of Fury meeting in

his flesh. The animal instantly turned upon the dog; most horribly did

he bellow, and poor Henry then indeed felt that his last moment was

come.

The noises were becoming more dreadful every instant; the men came

running from the fields, pouring into the lane from all sides: the

women and girls from the house were shrieking over the low wall from

the bottom of the court, so that the noise might be heard a mile

distant.

Henry Fairchild never looked back, but ran on as fast as he possibly

could, till, after a little while, seeing a stile on his left hand, he

sprang up to it, tumbled over in his haste, fell headlong on the

new-shorn grass, and would have gotten no hurt whatever, had not his

nose and his upper lip made too free with a good-sized stone. Henry's

nose and lip being softer than the stone, they of course had the worst

of it in the encounter.

A very few minutes afterwards, but before the labourers had got the

bull back into its place, which was no easy matter, one of the men,

running from a distant field towards the noise, found poor Henry, took

him up far more easily than he would have taken up a bag of meal, and

carried him, all bloody as he was, to the mistress, by a short cut

through the garden.

Henry's nose had bled, and was still bleeding, when the man brought him

to the house; but no one even thought of him till the fierce bull was

safe within four walls. But it had been a dangerous affair, as the men

said, "to get _that_ job done;" nor was it done till both Fury and the

bull were covered with foam and blood.

When everything was quiet in and about the yard, Mrs. Burke began to

look up, not only her own children, but all the careless young people

about.

"Where is Tom?" was the mother's first cry. Dick and Jane had made her

know that they were not far off, by the noise they were both making.

"Tom is quite safe," replied someone.

"And Master Fairchild?" said Mrs. Burke.

Every one then ran different ways to look for Henry, and when he was

found, all covered in blood, in the kitchen, Mrs. Burke was, as she

said, ready to faint away. Everybody, however, was glad when they found

no harm was done to the child, beyond a bloody nose and a lip swelled

to a monstrous size. Kind Mrs. Burke herself took him up to her boys'

room, where she washed him and made him dress himself in a complete

suit of Tom's, engaging to get his own things washed and cleaned for

him in a few hours.

She then brought him down into the parlour, set him on the sofa, gave

him a piece of bread and honey, and begged him not to stir from thence

till his father returned; nor had Henry any wish to disobey her.

Henry was hardly seated on the couch with his bread and honey in his

hand, when first one and then another of the children came in: the last

who came was James, lugging in Tom.

Now, it is very certain that Tom stood even in more need of a scouring

and clean clothes than Henry had done; for he had not used water nor

changed his clothes since he had been rolled by his brothers in the mud

in the yard. This mud had dried upon him, and no one who did not expect

to see him could possibly have known him. He was lugged by main force

into the parlour, though he kicked and struggled, and held on upon

everything within his reach. He came in as he had gone out; but when he

was fairly in, he became quite still, and stood sulking.

"I'll tell you what, mother," said James, "you may thank Tom for all

the mischief--and he knows it."

"Knows what?"

"That it was through him the bull got loose, and that poor Fury is

nearly killed."

"I am sure it was not," answered Tom.

"I say it was," replied James; and then all the brothers and sisters

began to speak at once.

_Judy._ "Just like you, Tom."

_Mary._ "And see what a condition he is in."

_William._ "You know Hodge saw you, Tom, on the top of the shed."

_Tom._ "I am sure he did not."

_Elizabeth._ "What a dirty creature you are, Tom; and how you smell of

the stable!"

_Jane._ "Mother! mother! I want some bread and honey, like Master

Fairchild."

_Dick._ "I want a sop in the pan, mother--mayn't I have a sop?"

In the midst of all this noise and confusion, in walked Mr. Fairchild

and Mr. Burke. The men in the yard had told them of what had happened;

and it had been made plain to Mr. Burke that Tom had been at the bottom

of the mischief.

Mr. Fairchild hastened in all anxiety to his poor boy; and was full of

thankfulness to God for having saved him from the dreadful danger which

had threatened him; and Mr. Burke began to speak to his son Tom with

more severity than he often used. He even called for a cane, and said

he would give it him soundly, and at that minute too; but Mrs. Burke

stepped in and begged him off; and as she stood between him and his

father he slunk away, and kept out of his sight as long as Henry and

Mr. Fairchild stayed.

If Tom never came within sight of his father all the rest of that day,

Henry never once went out of the reach of his father's eye.

After dinner and tea, Henry was again dressed in his own clothes, which

Mrs. Burke had got washed and cleaned for him, and in the cool of the

evening he walked quietly home with his father.

"Oh, papa!" said Henry, when they came again under the shade of

Blackwood, "I do not now wish to have my own way, as I did this

morning, I am now quite sure that it does not make people happy to have

it."

"Then, my boy," replied Mr. Fairchild, "you have learned a very good

lesson to-day, and I trust that you will never forget it."

The Story in Emily's Book. Part I.

[Illustration: Lucy and Emily had now each a doll]

The little books brought by Lucy were not even looked at until the

evening came which was to be given up to reading the first of them.

Henry had begged that his book might be read last, because he said that

he should be sure to like it best; so Emily's was to afford the

amusement for the first evening.

Mr. Fairchild gave notice in the morning of his being able to give up

that evening to this pleasure; not that he wished to hear the story,

but that he meant to be of the party, and the root-house in the wood

was the place chosen.

Lucy and Emily had now each a doll to take, and there was some bustle

to get them ready after lessons.

Henry took his knife and some little bits of wood to cut and carve

whilst the reading was going on; Mrs. Fairchild took her needlework;

and there was a basket containing nice white cakes of bread made for

the purpose, a little fruit, a bottle of milk, and a cup. The little

ones, by turns, were to carry this basket between them. Mr. Fairchild

took a book to please himself; and at four o'clock they set out.

When they all got to the hut they were soon all settled. There were

seats in the hut; Henry took the lowest of them. Mrs. Fairchild took

out her work; Mr. Fairchild stretched himself on the grass, within

sight of his family. Emily and Lucy were to read by turns, and Lucy was

to begin. She laid her pretty doll across her lap, and thus she began:

The Story in Emily's Book

"On the borders of Switzerland, towards the north, is a range of hills,

of various heights, called the Hartsfells, or, in English, the Hills of

the Deer. These hills are not very high for that country, though in

England they would be called mountains. In winter they were indeed

covered with snow, but in summer all this snow disappeared, being

gradually melted, and coming down in beautiful cascades from the

heights into the valleys, and so passing away to one or other of the

many lakes which were in the neighbourhood.

"The tops of some of the Hartsfells were crowned with ragged rocks,

which looked, at a distance, like old towers and walls and battlements;

and the sides of these more rocky hills were steep and stony and

difficult. Others of these hills sloped gently towards the plain below,

and were covered with a fine green sward in the summer--so fine and

soft, indeed, that the little children from the villages in the valleys

used to climb up to them in order to have the pleasure of rolling down

them.

"These greener hills were also adorned with large and beautiful trees

under which the shepherds sat when they drove their flocks up on the

mountain pastures, called in that country the Alps, to fatten on the

short fine grass and sweet herbs, which grew there in the summer-time.

"Then the flowers--who can count the numbers and varieties of the

flowers which grew on those hills, and which budded and bloomed through

all the lovely months of spring, of summer, and of autumn? Sometimes

the shepherds, as they sat in the shade watching their sheep, would

play sweet tunes on their pipes and flutes, for a shepherd who could

not use a flute was thought little of in those hills. It was sweet to

hear those pipes and flutes from a little distance, when all was quiet

among the hills, excepting the ever restless and ever dancing waters.

There were many villages among the hills, each village having a valley

to itself; but there is only one of these of which this story speaks.

"It was called Hartsberg, or the Town of the Deer, and was situated in

one of the fairest valleys of the Hartsfells. The valley was accounted

to be the fairest, because there was the finest cascade belonging to

those hills rushing and roaring at the very farthest point of the

valley; and the groves, too, on each side of the valley were very grand

and old.

"The village itself was built in the Swiss fashion, chiefly of wood,

with roofs of wooden tiles, called shingles; and many of them had

covered galleries round the first floor. The only house much better

than the others was the Protestant pastor's, though this was not much

more than a large cottage, but it stood in a very neat garden.

"There were a few, but a very few, houses separate from this village

itself, built on the sides of the hills; and those belonged to

peasants, or small farmers.

"In the summer-time strangers sometimes came from a distance to look

at the famous waterfall, and to gather such scarce flowers as they

could find on the hills. It was a good thing for Heister Kamp, the

widow who kept the little inn in the village, when these strangers

came, for it not only put money into her pocket, but gave her something

to talk of. She was the greatest gossip in the valley, and, like all

gossips, the most curious person also, for nothing could pass but she

must meddle and make with it; and it was very seldom that things were

the better for her meddling.

"Most of the inhabitants of the village were Protestants, but there

were a few Roman Catholics, and these had a priest, an elderly man, who

was a great friend of Heister Kamp, and might often be seen in her

kitchen, talking over with her the affairs of the village. He was

called Father St. Goar, and he had a small chapel, and a little bit of

a house attached to it. His chapel was less than the Protestant church,

but it looked far more grand within, for there was an altar dressed

with artificial flowers, and burnished brass candlesticks, and over it

waxen figures of the Virgin Mary and her Child, in very gaudy though

tarnished dresses.

"And now, having described the place, and some of the people, there is

nothing to hinder the story from going on to something more amusing.

"On the right hand of the great waterfall, and perched high on the

hill, was an old house standing in a very lovely and fruitful garden;

the garden faced the south, and was sheltered from the north and east

winds by a grove of ancient trees.

"The garden abounded with fruit and flowers and vegetables, and there

were also many bee-hives; behind the house were several sheds and other

buildings, and a pen for sheep.

"This house was the property of a family which had resided there longer

than the history of the village could tell. The name was Stolberg, and

the family, though they had never been rich, had never sought help from

others, and were highly respected by all who knew them.

"At the time of this history the household consisted of the venerable

mother, Monique Stolberg, her son Martin, a widower, and the three

children of Martin; Ella, Jacques, and Margot.

"Ella was not yet fourteen; she was a tall girl of her age, and had

been brought up with the greatest care by her grandmother, though made

to put her hand to everything required in her station. Ella was spoken

of as the best-behaved, most modest, and altogether the finest and

fairest of all the girls in the valley.

"Heister Kamp said that she was as proud and lofty as the eagle of the

hills. But Ella was not proud; she was only modest and retiring, and

said little to strangers.

"Jacques was some years younger than Ella; he loved his parents and

sisters, and would do anything for them in his power; but he was hot

and hasty, especially to those he did not love.

"Margot was still a little plump, smiling, chattering, child, almost a

baby in her ways; but everyone loved her, for she was as a pet lamb,

under the eye of the shepherd.

"Monique had received her, before she could walk, from her dying

mother, and she had reared her with the tenderest care.

"As to Martin, more need not be said of him but that the wish to please

God was ever present with him. He had been the best of sons; and, when

his wife died, he was rewarded for his filial piety by the care which

his mother took of his children and his house.

"Monique had had one other child besides Martin; a daughter, who had

married and gone over the hills with her husband into France; but her

marriage had proved unfortunate. She had resided at Vienne, in the

south of France, and there she had left one child, Meeta, a girl of

about the age of Ella.

"When Martin heard of the death of his sister, and the forlorn state of

the orphan, he set himself to go to Vienne; it was winter-time, and he

rode to the place on a little mountain pony which he had; but he walked

back nearly the whole way, having set Meeta, with her bundle, on the

horse.

"Everyone at home was pleased with Meeta when she arrived, though

Monique secretly wondered how she could be so merry when her parents

were hardly cold in their graves. Meeta was not, however, cold-hearted,

but she was thoughtless, and she enjoyed the change of scene, and was

pleased with her newly-known relations and their manner of life.

"Little plump baby-like Margot was scarcely less formed in her mind

than Meeta, though Meeta was as old as Ella: and of the two, Margot, as

will be seen by-and-by, was more to be depended on than Meeta. Margot,

when duly admonished on any point, could be prudent, but Meeta could

not; yet Meeta was so merry, so obliging, and so good-humoured, that

everyone in the cottage soon learned to love her; though some of them,

and especially Monique, saw very clearly that there was much to be done

to improve her and render her a steady character.

"She was quick, active, and ready to put her hand to assist in

anything; but she had no perseverance; she got tired of every job

before it was half done, and she could do nothing without talking about

it. As to religious principles and religious feelings, her grandmother

could not find out that she had any. She was so giddy that she could

give no account of what she had been taught, though Monique gathered

from her that her poor mother had said much to her upon religious

subjects during her last short illness. The snow was still thick upon

the hills when Martin Stolberg brought Meeta to Hartsberg; so that the

young people were quite well acquainted with each other before the

gentle breezes of spring began to loosen the bands of the frost, and

dissolve the icicles which hung from the rocks on the sides of the

waterfall.

"During that time poor Martin Stolberg was much tried by several heavy

losses amongst his live stock: a fine cow and several sheep died, and

when the poor man had replaced these, he said, with a sigh to his

mother, that he must deny himself and his children everything which

possibly could be spared, till better days came round again.

"His mother answered, with her usual quiet cheerfulness:

"'So be it, my son, and I doubt not but that all is right, for if

everything went smooth in this world we should be apt to forget that we

are strangers and pilgrims here, and that this is not our home.'

"When Monique told Ella what her father had said, the young girl got

leave to go down to the village, and, when there, she went to Madame

Eversil, the pastor's lady, and having told her of her father's

difficulties, she asked her if she could point out any means by which

she might get a little money to help in these difficulties.

"Monsieur Eversil, though a very simple man, was not so poor as many

Swiss pastors are. He had no children, and his lady had had money.

Madame wished to assist Ella, whom she much loved; but she rather

hesitated before she said to her:

"'I have been accustomed to have my linen taken up to be washed and

bleached upon the mountains every summer. The woman who did this for me

is just gone out of the country; if you will do it, you will gain

enough during the summer to make up for the loss of the cow. But are

you not above such work as this, Ella? They say of you that you are

proud--is this true?'

"The bright dark eyes of Ella filled with tears, and she looked down

upon the polished floor of the parlour in which she was talking with

Madame Eversil.

"'I know not, Madame,' she answered, 'whether I am proud or not, but I

earnestly desire not to be so; and I thank you for your kind proposal,

and as I am sure that I know my grandmother's mind, I accept it most

joyfully.'

"It was then settled that Madame Eversil should send all the linen

which had been used during the winter, to be washed and whitened and

scented with sweet herbs, up to the hill as soon as the snow was

cleared from the lower Alps. And Ella went gaily back to tell her

grandmother and Meeta what she had done.

"They were both pleased; Meeta loved the thoughts of any new

employment, and Monique promised her advice and assistance. Even

Jacques, when he came in, said he thought he might help also in drawing

water and spreading the linen on the grass.

"'And I,' said little Margot, 'can gather the flowers to lay upon the

things--can't I, Ella?'

"So this matter was settled, and everyone in the family was pleased.

The winter at length passed away: the cascades flowed freely from the

melting snow; the wind blew softly from the south; the grass looked of

the brightest, freshest green; and every brake was gay with flowers,

amongst which none were more beautiful or abundant than the

rose-coloured primrose or the blue gentian. The sheep, which had been

penned up during the winter, were drawn out on the fresh pastures, and

strangers began to come to the valley to see the waterfall, near to

which they climbed by the sheep-path, which ran just under the hedge of

Martin Stolberg's garden. Even before May was over, Jacques, who was

all day abroad on the hills watching his sheep, counted eight or nine

parties, which came in carriages to the inn, and climbed the mountain

on foot.

"Heister Kamp was quite set up by the honour of receiving so many noble

persons in her house, and still more pleased in pocketing the silver

she got from them.

"There was great benefit also to Father St. Goar from the coming of

these strangers, for he never failed to drop in just about the time

that the guests had finished their dinner, and was always invited to

taste of any savoury dish which remained, to which Heister generally

added a bottle of the ordinary wine of the country.

"Things were being carried on in this sort of way when, one morning in

the beginning of June, Margot and Meeta and Jacques went higher up the

hill towards the waterfall to gather sweet herbs and flowers to strew

upon the linen that was spread on the sward before the cottage door.

"Margot could not reach the roses which grew above her head, so she

busied herself in plucking the wild thyme and other lowly flowers which

grew on either side of the path, putting them into her little basket

and calling out from one moment to another:

"'See, Jacques! see, see, Meeta! see how pretty!'

"But Meeta and Jacques were too busy to attend to her, for Meeta had

climbed on a huge piece which had fallen from the rock, and was

throwing wreaths of roses to Jacques, who was gathering them up; but at

length it was impossible for them not to give some attention to the

little one, she was calling to them with such impatience.

"'Come, Jacques! come, Meeta!' she cried, 'I have found such a pretty

little green fishing-net, all spotted with moons; and it has got rings,

pretty gold rings; and there are yellow fish in it.' And she quite

stamped with eagerness.

"'What does she say?' cried Meeta; 'little magpie, what is it?'

"'A pretty little net,' replied Margot, 'and fish in it, and moons and

rings. Oh, come, come!'

"'She has found something strange,' said Jacques; 'I hope nothing that

will hurt her.' And down he came tumbling, in his own active way,

straight to his little sister, being quickly followed by Meeta.

"Margot was holding up what she had found, crying:

"'Pretty, pretty, pretty!' for it was quite bright and sparkling in the

sun.

"'It is a purse!' said Jacques.

"'A green silk purse,' added Meeta, 'with gold spangles and tassels,

and gold rings, and it is full of louis d'ors; give it to me, Margot.'

"'No, no, no!' cried the little girl; 'no, it is for grandmother; I

shall take it to her.'

"'It is a valuable purse,' said Jacques; 'somebody has lost it; now

grandmother will be rich! Let me see it, Margot; let me see what is in

it.'

"'No, no, no!' cried the little one, clasping it in both her dimpled

hands; 'you shall not have it! it is for grandmother.'

"'Only let me carry it to the door,' said Jacques, 'for fear you should

drop anything out of it; and when you come to the door, I will put it

into your own hands.'

"Jacques never said what was not true to Margot, and Margot knew it;

she, therefore, was content to give the purse to him; and the three

then set off to run home as fast as they could.

"They supposed that no one had seen them when they were talking about

the purse, but they were mistaken; Father St. Goar was not far off,

though hidden from them by a part of the rock which projected between

them.

"He heard Margot cry and talk of having found a net, and golden fish in

it; but when Meeta and Jacques came near to the child, he could hear no

more, because they spoke lower than before. He had heard enough,

however; and when he went back to the village, he told Heister Kamp

what he had seen, and made her more curious than himself to find out

what it could be, though she felt pretty sure that it must be a purse

of gold.

"How astonished was Monique when little Margot put the purse in her

lap, for she was sitting at work just within the door.

"Meeta would not let Margot tell her own story, but raised her voice so

high that Martin himself from one side, and Ella from another, came to

see what could have happened. They came in just in time to see Monique

empty the purse, and count the golden pieces. There were as many as

fifteen on the one side of the purse, and on the other was a ring with

a precious stone in it, and four pieces of paper curiously stamped.

Martin Stolberg saw at once that these pieces of paper were worth many

times the value of the gold, for he or any man might have changed them

for ten pounds each.

"'Son,' said Monique, 'Margot found this near the waterfall; it must

have been lost by some of the visitors; it is a wonder that we have

heard of no one coming to look after it. What can we do with it?'

"'Buy a cow, father,' said Jacques.

"Martin Stolberg shook his head.

"'It is not ours, Jacques,' he said, 'though we have found it; we must

keep it honestly for the owner, should he ever come to claim it.'

"'Father,' said Jacques, 'I was not thinking, or I hope I should not

have said those words.'

"'I know you spoke hastily, Jacques,' replied Martin; and then having

given Margot a few little pieces of copper money as reward for her

giving up the little net to her grandmother, he took his venerable

parent by the hand, and led her into an inner room, where they settled

what was to be done with the purse.

"Martin said that the children must all be seriously enjoined never to

mention the subject, because many dishonest persons might, if they

could get at the description of the purse and its contents, come

forward to claim it, and thus it might be lost to the real owner.

"'But,' he added, 'lest I should be tempted to use any of the money for

myself, I will take the purse down to-morrow to the pastor's, and leave

it in his care. Where it is, however, must not be known even to the

children, lest we should bring inconvenience upon him. In the meantime,

dear mother, do you stow the treasure safely away, and charge the young

ones not to mention what we have found to anyone.'

"Martin then left the house; and Monique, going up to the room where

she slept, and where the great family chest was kept, called all her

grandchildren, and letting them see where she put the purse, she

charged them, one and all, not to speak one word to any person out of

the house about the treasure which had been found.

"'Why must not we, grandmother?' said Margot.

"'Because,' replied Monique, 'if any thieves were to hear that we had

got so much money in the house, they might come some time when your

father was out, and break open the chest and steal it.'

"'And perhaps they might kill us,' replied Margot, trembling all over.

"'We must not speak of it, then,' said Ella, 'to anyone.'

"'Our best way,' remarked Jacques, 'will be not to mention it to each

other. We will never speak of it.'

"'How can we help it?' said Meeta; 'I can never help talking of what I

am thinking about.'

"'That is a mistake of yours, Meeta,' said Monique; 'you never talk of

some things which happened at Vienne, which you think would be no

credit to you.'

"'You mean about our being so very poor, and being forced to sell our

clothes, grandmother? I don't think that I should go to talk of that to

strangers.'

"'Then you can keep some things to yourself, Meeta,' said Monique; 'and

we shall not excuse you if you are so imprudent as to let out this

affair of the treasure we have found to anyone.'

"'Don't fear me, grandmother,' returned Meeta; 'nobody shall hear from

me--but we must watch little Margot.'

"That same evening, Martin Stolberg carried the purse and all the

contents down to the house of the good pastor. He gave as his reason

for so doing, that, being himself somewhat pressed for money, he did

not dare to trust himself with this treasure."

The Story in Emily's Book. Part II.

[Illustration: Going gaily down the hill]

Lucy had read first, and when she had finished the half of the story,

Mrs. Fairchild proposed that they should take what was in the basket,

before they went on to the second part.

Mr. Fairchild was called in, and Mrs. Fairchild served each person from

the store.

"I am quite sure," said Emily, "that Monique Stolberg never made nicer

cakes than these."

"Papa," said Lucy, "I cannot help thinking that your book is not half

so pretty as ours. You don't know what a pleasant story we have been

reading, and we have half of it left to read. Shall I tell it to you,

papa?" she added; and springing up, she placed herself close to him,

putting one arm round his neck, and in a few minutes she made him as

well acquainted with Monique, and Martin, and Ella, and Meeta, and

Jacques, and Margot, and Heister Kamp, and Father St. Goar, as she was

herself; "and now, papa," she said, "will any of the children, do you

think, betray the secret?"

"Yes," said Mr. Fairchild, smiling, "one of them will."

"And who will that be, papa?" said Emily.

"Not Jacques," replied Henry, though he was not asked; "I am sure it

will not be Jacques."

"Wherefore, Henry?" said Mr. Fairchild.

"Because he is a boy," replied Henry, "and boys never tell secrets."

"And are never imprudent!" answered Mr. Fairchild, smiling; "that is

something new to me; but in this case I do not think it will be Jacques

who will tell this secret."

"Not Ella, papa?" asked Lucy.

"I am sure it will not be Ella," added Lucy; "it must be between Meeta

and little Margot."

"Probably," said Mr. Fairchild; "and I have a notion which of the two

it will be; and I shall whisper my suspicions to Henry; as he, being a

boy, will be sure to keep my secret till the truth comes out of itself.

Of course he might be trusted with a thing much more important than

this."

Mr. Fairchild then whispered either the name of Meeta or Margot to

Henry; at any rate, he whispered a name beginning with an "M," and

Henry looked not a little set up in having been thus chosen as his

father's confidant.

When every one of the children were satisfied, they placed the cup and

the fragments in the basket, and then they all settled themselves in

readiness for the rest of the story.

* * * * *

"We must now turn, a little while, from the quiet, happy family in

Martin Stolberg's cottage to Heister Kamp. What Father St. Goar had

told her about Stolberg's children having found something curious near

the waterfall had worked in her mind for above a week, for so long it

was since Margot had found the purse; and she had watched for some of

the children passing by her door every day since.

"On the Sunday morning they did indeed pass by to go to church, but

their father and grandmother were with them; and she knew well enough

that she should have no chance of any of them when the older and wiser

people were present.

"The family came to church in the afternoon, but Heister was at chapel

then.

"In the evening, however, she made up her mind to climb the hill as far

as the cascade, hoping there to meet one or two of the children

standing about the place.

"It was hot work for Heister to make her way up the hill so far, but

what will not curious people do to satisfy their curiosity? And just

then the village was particularly dull and quiet, as no stranger had

happened to come for the last ten days, and many of the poor women had

left their houses and gone up with their flocks to the chalets on the

mountains.

"When Heister got near Stolberg's cottage she met Jacques. He was going

down on an errand to the pastor's from his father. He made a bow, and

would have passed, when Heister stopped him to ask after his

grandmother's health. When she had got an answer to this inquiry, she

asked him various other questions about the lambs, the bees, and other

matters belonging to the farm and garden; and then, with great seeming

innocence, she said:

"'You were looking for some herbs the other day, were you not, by the

waterfall, and your sister found a very rare one, did she not? I ask

you because I have many a chance of parting with scarce plants, dried

and put into paper, to the strangers who come into the house.'

"'I don't think,' answered Jacques, 'that little Margot would know a

scarce plant if she found one.'

"'But she did find something very curious that day,' said Heister.

"'What day?' asked Jacques.

"'It might be ten days since,' said Heister.

"'Ten days?' repeated Jacques; 'what makes you remember ten days ago so

particularly?'

"'Well, but was it not about ten days ago,' returned Heister, 'that she

found something very curious in the grass, and called on you to come

and look at it?'

"'There is scarce a day,' answered Jacques, 'in which she does not call

me to come to her and see something she has met with more wonderful

than ordinary. What was it she said when she called me that day you

speak of? If you can tell me, why then I shall better know how to

answer you.'

"'She spoke of having found a net with golden fish and moons,' replied

Heister; 'what could she mean?'

"'It is difficult to know what she does mean sometimes,' said Jacques;

'for the dear little lamb talks so fast that we do not attend to half

she says. But is she not a nice little creature, Madame Kamp, and a

merry one too?'

"'Yes, to be sure,' replied Heister; 'but about the net and the

fish--what could the little one mean?'

"'Who heard her talk of them?' asked Jacques. 'Ask those who heard her,

madame. _They_ ought to be able to tell you more about it. But I must

wish you good evening, as I am in haste to go to the pastor's.'

"Heister saw that she could make nothing of Jacques, so she let him go,

pretending that she was herself going no higher, but about to turn

another way.

"As soon, however, as Jacques was out of sight, she came back into the

path which ran at the bottom of the cottage garden, and there she saw

little Margot seated on the bank under the hedge, with a nosegay in her

hand.

"The little one was dressed in her clean Sunday clothes, in the fashion

of the country, and she wore a full striped petticoat which Monique had

spun of lamb's-wool, a white jacket with short sleeves like the body of

a frock, and a flowered chintz apron. Her pretty hair was left to curl

naturally, and no child could have had a fairer, softer, purer

complexion.

"'Now,' thought Heister, 'I shall have it;' and she walked smilingly up

to the child, and spoke fondly to her, asking her, 'where she got that

pretty new apron?'

[Illustration: "_Margot rose and made a curtsey._"--Page 262.]

"Margot rose, made a curtsey, as she had been taught, and said:

"'Grandmother made it, madame.'

"Heister praised her pretty face, her bright eyes, her nice curling

hair; and then she asked her if she had any pretty flowers to give her.

"Margot immediately offered her nosegay, but she refused it, saying she

did not want such flowers as those, but such curious ones as she

sometimes found near the waterfall.

"'I have got none now,' answered Margot.

"'But you found a very curious one the other day, did you not, my

pretty little damsel?' said Heister.

"'Yes, madame,' said Margot, brightening up; 'yes, madame, I did.'

"'Ay, I have it now,' thought Heister; and she patted the little one as

she said, 'Was it not bright and shining like gold, and was there not

something about it like moons?'

"'Oh, no, madame,' replied the child; 'it was some pretty blue flowers

that come every year. Jacques said they are called gentians; but I call

them fairies' eyes, for they are just the very colour I always fancy

the fairy of the Hartsfell's eyes must be--they are so very blue.'

"'Well, well!' exclaimed Heister, hastily, 'I dare say they were

very pretty; but did you not find something more curious on the

mountains than flowers? What was it you found, that Monique praised you

for finding, and told you you were a good child for giving it up to

her?'

"'Oh! it was the wild strawberries,' cried Margot; 'the pretty mountain

strawberries. Grandmother thanked me for bringing her home the

strawberries, for she said she had not tasted them since she was a

girl.'

"'Pshaw, child,' said Heister Kamp impatiently; 'it is not that I want

to know. What was it you called a golden fish and moons?'

"'Moons!' repeated Margot, colouring up to her very brow, 'moons,

madame?'

"'Ay, moons, child. What do you mean by moons?'

"Poor little Margot! she was sadly put to for an answer, for she

remembered what her grandmother had told her about keeping the secret

of the purse; and not being old enough to evade a direct reply, she

burst into tears, taking up her apron to her face.

"'So you will not tell me what you call moons?' said Heister angrily;

then, softening her tone, she added, 'Here, my pretty Margot, is a sou

(or penny) for you, if you will tell me what you mean by moons and

golden fish.' But seeing the child irresolute, she added, 'If you do

not choose to tell, get out of my way, you little sulky thing.'

"Margot waited no more, but the next moment the prudent little girl was

up the bank and in the cottage, where she found her grandmother alone,

to whom she told her troubles. Monique kissed her, wiped away her

tears, and, taking her on her knee, she made the little one's eyes once

more beam forth with smiles."

* * * * *

"There," said Henry, "just as papa said--he knew it would be Meeta."

"Oh, Henry!" said Mrs. Fairchild, smiling, "how nicely you have kept

papa's secret! You see you would not have done so well as little Margot

did with Heister Kamp."

Henry made no answer, and Emily went on.

* * * * *

"Jacques had made up his mind never to allude to the affair of the

treasure by a single word, so he kept his meeting with Heister to

himself; and when you have read a little more, you will say how unlucky

it was that he did so, or that Meeta was not present when Margot had

been with her grandmother; but when you have read to the end, you will

say it was all right as it was.

"In the evening of the next day, Ella, with the help of Monique and

Meeta, finished the getting up of a portion of the fine linen of Madame

Eversil. It was therefore placed neatly in a basket covered with a

white cloth, and sprinkled over with the fairest and choicest of

flowers which could be gathered; and then Ella, being neatly dressed,

raised it on her head, and set off with it to the village.

"I wish we had a picture of Ella, just as she was that evening, going

gaily down the hill with the basket so nicely balanced on her head,

that she hardly ever put her hand to steady it, though she went

skipping down the hill like the harts which in former times had given

their name to the place.

"She was dressed much as her little sister had been the evening before,

only that she wore a linen kerchief and a linen cap, and her dark hair

was simply braided. She loved to go to the pastor's, and she loved to

be in motion; so she was very happy.

"Her light basket travelled safely on her head, and nothing happened to

disarrange it, excepting that one end of a long wreath of scarlet roses

escaped from the inner part of the basket, and hung down from thence

by the side of the fair cheeks of the young girl.

"When Ella entered the little street, she saw no one till she came

opposite the _Lion d'Or_, or _Golden Lion_, the house of Madame Kamp,

and there she saw Heister, seated in the porch, knitting herself a

petticoat of dyed wool in long stripes of various colours, with needles

longer than her arm.

"Heister liked knitting--it is the most convenient work for one who

loves talking; the fingers may go whilst the tongue is most busy.

"Ella would have gone on without noticing Madame Kamp, but Heister had

no mind that she should.

"'Good evening, Ella Stolberg,' she cried, 'whither away in such

haste?--but I know, to Madame Eversil's. Can't you stop a minute? I

have a word to say to you.'

"Ella stopped, though not willingly.

"'You look very bright and fair this evening, Ella,' said the cunning

woman; 'and that garland hanging from your basket would be an ornament

to Saint Flora herself; whose fancy was that, my girl? But it is a

shame, Ella, that such a girl as you should be employed in getting up

other people's linen--you above all, when there is no manner of

necessity for it. I am much mistaken,' she added, with a cunning look,

'if there are not more gold-fish in your father's net than ever found

their way into mine.'

"Ella was a little startled at this speech, and felt herself getting

redder than she wished. She suddenly caught at her basket, brought it

down from her head, and said, 'What garland is it you mean, neighbour?'

and she busied herself in arranging the flowers again.

"'Well, but the fish, Ella--the silver and golden fish in the net,'

said Heister, 'what have you to say about them?'

"Ella placed the basket on her head as she replied gaily:

"'If there are gold and silver fish in plenty in the Hartsberg lakes,

neighbour, it is but fair that they should sometimes be caught in nets.

Fishes have no reason to guide them from danger; they are easily caught

in nets. I must not, then, take example from them, else I shall, too,

some day, perhaps, be caught. Jacques lays many a snare or nets for the

birds of the mountains,' she added, as if to turn the conversation;

'and once Margot found a young one caught, but she cried so bitterly

about it that we took it home and nursed it till it got well. Did you

ever see our starling, neighbour?'

"'A pretty turn off!' said Heister; 'but you know that I mean the gold

and silver fish to be louis-d'ors and francs, Ella. Has not your father

now, girl, got more of these than he ever had in his life before?'

"'I know this,' replied Ella, calmly, 'that I do firmly believe that my

father never was so short of money as he is now: and this reminds me I

must not linger, as I promised Madame Eversil a portion of her linen

to-day: so good-evening, madame.'

"Heister looked after Ella as she walked away, and muttered:

"'The saucy cunning girl! but I am not deceived; I can trust Father St.

Goar better than any one of those Stolbergs.'

"About an hour before Ella had passed the _Lion d'Or_, a wild dark

woman had come to the house to sell horn and wooden spoons. Heister had

taken a few, and in return had given her a handful of broken victuals

and a cup of wine; she had not carried these things away to eat and

drink them, but had merely gone round the corner of the house, and sat

herself down there in the dust. She was so near that she could hear

all that had passed between Ella and Heister; above all, that Ella had

said her father was decidedly short of money.

"Ella had hardly turned into the gate of the pastor's house when Meeta

appeared, going along after her. Monique had forgotten to send by Ella

a pot of honey which she meant as a present to the pastor; and Meeta

had offered to carry it, saying that she would have great pleasure in

the errand, and would return with Ella. Monique gave permission; and

Meeta appeared opposite to the _Golden Lion_ not five minutes after

Ella was gone.

"'A very good evening to you, Meeta,' cried Heister from the porch;

'whither away in such haste? Stop a bit, I beseech you, and give a few

minutes of your company to a neighbour. And how are all at home on the

hill? I have been telling Ella, your cousin Ella, that she looked like

the saint of the May. But you, Meeta, why, you might be painted for our

Lady herself--so fresh and blooming, with your bright eyes and ruddy

cheeks. But Ella tells me that things go hard with poor good Martin

Stolberg--that he is short of money; and I am sorry, for I hoped that

he had met with some good luck lately, and I fear that what I heard is

not true.'

"'What luck?' asked Meeta.

"'Someone told me,' said Heister, 'that the little one had found a

purse.'

"'A purse?' repeated Meeta.

"'What is a net,' answered Heister, 'with gold fish in it but a purse

with gold pieces inside?'

"'Where--where,' cried Meeta, 'could you have heard that? for

grandmother was so very particular in making us promise not to mention

it.'

"'Heard it!' repeated the cunning widow; 'why, is not everything known

that is done in the valley?'

"'But how?' asked Meeta; 'yet I can guess: Margot has told you. I said

I thought Margot would tell all about it. But do tell me, how came you

to hear it?'

"'Oh! there are a thousand ways of getting at the truth,' replied

Heister; 'for if anything does happen out of the very commonest way, is

it not talked of in my house by those who come and go? But this thing

is in everybody's mouth, and people don't scruple to say that there

were a vast number of golden pieces in the purse--some say a hundred.'

"'Nay, nay,' replied Meeta, 'that is overdoing it; I really don't think

there are more than fifteen.'

"'Well,' returned Heister, 'I don't want to know exactly how many there

are--I am not curious; no one troubles herself less with other people's

affairs than I do; but I am glad this good luck has come to Martin

Stolberg, above all others in the valley.'

"'That is very kind of you,' replied Meeta, 'but I do not see what luck

it is to him, for the money is not his, and he could not think of

spending it: it is all put by in some safe place in the house.'

"'Very good, very right,' answered Heister. 'No, no! Martin could never

have such a thought. But where in the world can you find a place in the

house safe enough for so many pieces? I should doubt whether they could

count as many together even at Madame Eversil's. So you say there are

fifteen, pretty Meeta? and though no doubt they take but little

house-room, yet I should be sorry to keep so many in my poor little

cottage, for I know not where I could stow them safely. I suppose

neighbour Monique keeps them in her blue cupboard near the

kitchen-stove?--a very good and a very safe place, no doubt, for them.'

"'Oh, no,' cried Meeta, 'she has them in her chest above stairs, and

my uncle keeps the key himself, and carries it about with him; but what

am I doing here, lingering? Ella will have left the pastor's before I

have reached there, if I stay with you, neighbour, any longer. So

good-even,' she added, 'and pray don't say a word about where my Uncle

Stolberg keeps the money, or else grandmother will think I have told

you, and she will, perhaps, be angry with me.'

"'And who else did tell me but yourself, giddy one?' cried Heister

Kamp, laughing. 'It was all guess with me, I promise you, till you had

it all out. Ella and Jacques, and even little Margot, would not tell me

a word about it; and I really began to think that Father St. Goar had

mistaken what the little one had said, till you let the cat out of the

bag. But you ought to make haste after Ella, so don't let me hinder

you.' And she arose and went laughing into the house, whilst Meeta

hastened after her cousin.

"We cannot suppose that Meeta's reflections were very pleasant, for, as

soon as she was left to herself, she felt how very imprudent she had

been. She tried, however, to comfort herself with thinking that she had

done no harm. 'For what can it signify,' she said to herself, 'if

Heister does know the truth?' But she would take care not to mention at

home what she had said to Madame Kamp; and in this Meeta found, to her

cost, that she could keep a secret."

* * * * *

"There now!" cried Henry, as Emily was turning over a leaf, "papa was

right; he told me who would betray the secret."

"We all guessed," said Lucy; "but, Emily, do go on."

* * * * *

"The gipsy, or zingara (as they call such people in Switzerland and

Germany), for such she was, had heard every word which had passed

between Madame Kamp and Meeta; and as the coast was quite clear, she

put the remains of her broken victuals into her bag and skulked away,

like a thief as she was; and nobody thought of her, nor saw her go.

"Three or four days passed quietly after the evening in which Meeta and

Ella went to the village; but on the fourth morning a message came from

Madame Eversil to Monique, to tell her that she had just heard of a

party of persons of great consequence who were coming from a distance

to dine at her house; she sent to beg her to come down immediately to

help in getting the dinner, and, if she had no objection, to bring Ella

with her to wait on the ladies and at table.

"Martin Stolberg had gone off early that morning to market, at the

nearest town, three leagues off; Jacques had gone up on the higher

pastures with the flocks; and when Monique and Ella went down to the

pastor's, only Meeta and Margot were left at the cottage.

"Ella dressed herself in her Sunday clothes, and carried the basket,

which her grandmother had packed, down the hill. Monique had filled the

basket with everything she thought might be useful--a bottle of cream,

new-laid eggs, and fresh flowers. She bade Margot and Meeta be good

girls, and keep close at home, when she parted from them, with a kiss

to each; and the next minute she and Ella were going down the hill."

* * * * *

"I know what is coming next," cried Henry, as Emily turned over a leaf;

"but do make haste, Emily."

* * * * *

"Nothing could be more still and quiet than the cottage and all about

it seemed to be when Meeta and Margot were left in it; for nothing was

heard, when the children were not talking, but the rushing of the

waterfall, the humming of the bees, and the bleating of the distant

flocks, and now and then the barking of a sheep-dog.

"Every cottager on those hills keeps a dog. Wolf was the name of Martin

Stolberg's dog: Wolf was of the true shepherd's breed, and a most

careful watch he kept both day and night; but he had gone that morning

with Jacques to the Alps above the waterfall.

"Monique had told the two girls that they might have peas for dinner,

so it was their first business to gather these peas, and bring them

into the house. Margot then sat down to shell them, but she did not sit

within the house, because of the litter she always made when she

shelled peas; so she sat on a little plot of grass under a tall tree,

on one side of the straight path which led from the garden-gate to the

house-door. Meeta remained within, being busy in setting the kitchen in

order before she sat down to her sewing; and thus they were both

engaged, when Margot saw two people come up to the wicket. Margot was

very shy, as children are who do not see many strangers, and without

waiting to look again at these persons, she jumped up and hid herself

behind the large trunk of a tree, peeping at the people who were

walking on to the house. The first was a very tall large woman: she

wore a petticoat, all patched with various colours, which hardly came

down to her ankles; she had long black and gray hair, which hung loose

over her shoulders; a man's hat, and a cloak thrown back from the

front, and hanging in jags and tatters behind. She came up the path

with long steps like a man's, and was followed by a young man, perhaps

her son, who seemed, by his ragged dirty dress, to be fit to bear her

company.

"Meeta did not see these people till the large form of the woman

darkened the gateway. She was placing some cups on the shelf, and had

her back to the door; when she turned, she not only saw the woman, but

the man peeping over her shoulder, and though she was frightened she

tried not to appear to be so.

"'Mistress!' said the woman in a loud harsh voice, 'I am dying with

thirst; can you give me anything to drink?' and as she said so, she

walked in and sat herself on the first seat she could find. The man

came in after her, and began looking curiously about him.

"'I have nothing but water or milk to offer you,' answered Meeta, whose

face was become as white as the cloth she held in her hand.

"'It does not matter,' said the woman; 'we have other business here

besides satisfying our thirst; it was you, was it not, that told the

hostess of the inn below that your uncle found a purse of gold and put

it by? The purse is ours, we lost it near this place; we are come to

claim it.'

"'Yes,' said the man, advancing a step or two towards Meeta; 'it is

ours, and we must have it.'

"'My uncle,' answered the trembling girl, 'is not at home; I cannot

give you the purse.'

"'You can't?' replied the man; 'we will see to that, young mistress; we

knew your uncle was out when we came here, else we had not come; but we

heard you say that you could tell, as well as he could, where he put

the purse; if you do not do it willingly, we will make you.'

"Meeta began to declare and profess most solemnly that she did not know

where the keys were kept; indeed, she believed that her grandmother had

taken them away in her pocket.

"The fierce man used such language as Meeta had never heard before; and

the woman, laying her heavy hand on her shoulder, gave her a terrible

shake.

"'Tell us,' said she, 'where is the chest into which the purse was

put, or I will throw you on the ground and trample you under my feet.'

"Meeta, in her excessive terror, uttered two or three fearful shrieks;

and would, no doubt, have gone on shrieking, if the horrible people had

not threatened to silence her voice for ever.

"Little Margot, from behind her tree, heard those cries; and it is

marvellous how the wits of a little child are sometimes sharpened, in

cases of great trial; she thought, and thought truly, that she could do

Meeta no good by running to her, but that she might help her by flying,

as fast as her young feet could carry her, to the village. It was down

hill all the way, and it was all straight running, if she could get

unseen into the path on the other side of the hedge. So she threw

herself on her hands and feet, and crept on all fours to where the

hedge was thinnest, and, neither minding tears nor scratches, the hardy

child came tumbling out on the path on the side of the village, jumping

up on her feet; and no little lapwing could have flown the path more

swiftly than she did."

* * * * *

"Well done, Margot!" cried Henry; but Emily did not stop to answer him.

* * * * *

"Jacques, at the very time in which Margot had begun to run down the

hill, was watching his flock on the side of a green and not very steep

peak, scarcely a quarter of a mile, as a bird would fly, from the

cottage, though, to drive his flock up to it, he had perhaps the

greater part of a mile to go. On the top of this peak were a few dark

pines which might be seen for miles. Jacques was seated quietly beneath

the shade of one of these trees; his sheep were feeding about him, his

dog apparently sleeping at his feet, and his eyes being occupied at one

moment in taking a careful glance at his flocks, and again fixed on a

small old book which he held in his hand. Nothing could have been more

quiet than was the mountain in that hour, nearly the hottest of the

day; and how little did Jacques Stolberg imagine what was then going

forward so near to him.

"Wolf had been supposed by his master to be asleep some minutes, when

suddenly the creature uttered a short sleepy bark, and then, raising

his head and pricking his ears, he remained a minute in the attitude of

deep attention and anxious listening.

"'What is it, Wolf?' said Jacques: 'what is it, boy?'

"The dog drew his ears forward, every hair in his rough coat began to

bristle itself; he sprang upon his four feet--he stood a moment.

"'What does he see?' cried Jacques, getting up also, and grasping his

crooked staff; 'eh, Wolf, what is it?'

"The dog heeded not his master's voice. He had heard some sound as he

lay with his ear to the ground; he had made out the quarter from which

it came whilst he stood listening at Jacques' feet. He had judged that

there was no time for delay; and the next moment he was bounding down

the slope, straight as an arrow in its course. There Jacques saw him

bounding and leaping over all impediments, reaching the bottom of a

ravine, or dry watercourse, at the foot of a small hill, and again

running with unabated speed up the opposite bank. Jacques thought he

was going directly towards the cottage, for the young shepherd could

see him all the way; but as if on second thoughts, the faithful

creature left the cottage, when near to it, on the right, and passing

over the brow of the hill, was soon out of sight in the direction of

the village.

"Jacques knew not what to think, but he had little doubt that the dog

was aware of something wrong; so the boy did not waver; his sheep were

quiet, he was forced to trust that they should not stray if he left

them a little while, and he hesitated not to follow Wolf; though he

could not so speedily overcome the difficulties of the way as the dog

had done.

"Whilst Margot was running to the village, Wolf running after Margot

(for such he afterwards proved was his purpose), and Jacques after

Wolf, the fierce man had frightened poor Meeta out of all the small

discretion which she ever had at command; and she told him that she had

seen her grandmother put the purse in the great chest above stairs,

that she did not know whether her uncle had taken the key, though,

perchance, little Margot might know, as she slept with her grandmother.

"She could not have done a more imprudent thing than mention Margot,

for the woman immediately started, like one suddenly reminded of an

oversight, at the mention of the child's name, and ran out instantly to

seek her; at the same time the man drove Meeta before him up the ladder

or stairs to where the great old chest which contained all the spare

linen and other treasures of the family stood, and had stood almost as

long as the house had been a house. There, without waiting the ceremony

of looking for the key, he wrenched the chest open, pulling out every

article which it contained, opening every bundle, and scattering

everything on the floor, telling Meeta that, if he did not find the

purse, she should either tell him where it was or suffer his severest

vengeance.

"So dreadful were the oaths he used that the poor girl was ready to

faint, and the whitest linen in that chest was not so white as her

cheeks and lips.

"The woman, in the meantime, was seeking Margot, and, with the cunning

of a gipsy, had traced the impression of the little feet to the corner

of the garden, where a bit of cloth torn from the child's apron showed

the place where she had crept through the hedge. The gipsy could not

creep through the opening as the child had done, but she could get over

the hedge; and this she speedily did, and saw the little one before

her, running with all her might. At the noise the woman made at

springing from the hedge, Margot looked back, and set up a shriek, and

that shriek was probably what first roused Wolf, who was lying with his

ear on the earth.

"Now there were four running all at once; Margot first, the gipsy after

her and gaining fast upon her, Wolf springing over every impediment and

gaining ground on the gipsy, and Jacques after the dog; and there was

another party too coming to where Margot was. These last were coming

from the pastor's house; and there was a lady seated on Madame

Eversil's mule, on a Spanish saddle, and a little page in a rich livery

was leading the mule. The pastor was walking immediately behind her

with two gentlemen, her husband and her son. This lady was a countess,

and she it was who had lost the purse a few weeks before, when she had

come to see the cascade.

"In going home that day the carriage had been overturned, and she had

been so much hurt that she never thought of her purse until a few days

afterwards, and then she supposed that it must have been lost where the

carriage had been overturned. She caused great search to be made about

that place; and it might have appeared to be quite by accident that

Monsieur Eversil heard of that search; but there is nothing which

happens in this world by accident. He knew the count and countess, and

wrote to them to tell them that if they would come again to Hartsberg

and take dinner in his humble house, he would give them good news of

the purse.

"When they came he told them of the honesty of the family of the

Stolbergs; and when he had placed the purse in the hands of the

countess, and she had seen that nothing had been taken out of it, the

pastor brought the venerable Monique and the fair Ella before the noble

lady, and she was as much pleased with one as with the other. Her mind,

therefore, was full of some plan for rewarding these poor honest

people, and more especially when Monique told her how the least of the

family had found the net and the golden fish and the moons.

"'I must see that little Margot,' she said, 'and if she is like her

sister, I shall love her vastly;' and then it was settled that the mule

should be saddled, and that she and the gentlemen should go up the

hill, whilst Madame Eversil remained to look after dinner.

"This party were also on the hill, though lower down and hidden by the

winding of the way, when Margot set out to run; but none of Margot's

friends would have been in time to save her, if it had not been for

Wolf. The wicked gipsy had resolved, if she could catch her, to stop

her cries one way or another; to take her in her arms, hold her hand

over her mouth, and to run with her to some place in the hills, not far

off, some cave or hole known only to herself and her own people; and if

the poor child had once been brought there, she would never have been

suffered to go free again among her friends to tell where the zingari

hole was.

"When Margot knew that the woman was after her she increased her speed,

but all in vain; the gipsy came on like the giant with the

seven-leagued boots; she caught the terrified child in her arms, put a

corner of her ragged cloak into her mouth, and, turning out of the path

down into a hollow of the hills, hoped to be clear in a minute more.

"But she was not to have that minute; Wolf was behind; he had flown

with the swiftness of the wild hart, and when within leaping distance

of the old woman, he sprang upon her, and caused his fangs to meet in

her leg. She uttered a cry, and tried to shake him off, but he only let

go in one place to seize another, so she was forced to drop the

struggling child in order to defend herself from the dog, for she

expected next that he would fly at her throat. It was a fearful battle

that, between the hardy gipsy and the enraged dog. The howlings and

bayings of the furious animal were terrible, his fangs were red with

the gipsy's blood; the woman, in her fear and pain, uttered the most

horrid words, whilst little Margot shrieked with terror. Though the

battle hardly lasted two minutes, it gave time for Jacques to come in

sight of it on one side; the pastor, the count, and his son at another.

"Jacques did not understand the cause of this terrible war; he only saw

that his dog was tearing the flesh of a woman; he did not at first see

Margot, who had sunk in terror on the grass; therefore he called off

his dog with a voice of authority, and the moment Wolf had loosed his

hold of the woman, she fled from the place, and was never more seen in

that country. But now all this party had met round Margot, looking all

amazement at each other, whilst the little one sat sobbing on the

ground, and Wolf stood looking anxiously at his young master, panting

from his late exertions, and licking his bloody fangs, for there was no

one to explain anything but the child.

"'What is all this, Jacques?' asked the pastor.

"'What is it, Margot?' said Jacques, taking his little sister in his

arms, and soothing her as he well knew how to do; whilst she, clinging

close to him, could not at first find one word to say.

"Jacques carried the child, and they all went back into the path, where

the countess sat, anxiously waiting for them, on her mule.

"All that Margot could say to be understood was:

"'Run, run, to poor Meeta--they will kill her; the man will kill her,

and Wolf is not there.'

"Jacques repeated her words to the pastor.

"'I have it, Jacques,' replied the good man; 'these vagrants are after

the treasure; maybe there are others in the cottage; put the child

down, my boy, leave her to walk by the lady, and let us all run

forward.'

"'Nay, nay,' said the lady, 'put the sweet child in my arms and hasten

on.' So it was done, and the gentle lady took the little peasant before

her, whilst she soothed her with her gentle tones and kindly words.

"'And what,' said she, 'was that naughty woman going to do with you?

and who was it that saved you?'

"'Good Wolf came, madame,' said the child, 'and he saved me; but poor

Meeta--they will kill poor Meeta!'

"When Jacques and those who were with him had reached the cottage, they

found the doors all open, but no one below; they went up the stairs,

and there they found Meeta extended on the floor in a deep fainting

fit. The chest stood open, and all its contents scattered about, but no

man was there; he had probably taken alarm at the various cries and

howlings which he had heard, and had made good his escape.

"Meeta was lifted up and laid on the bed, and water being dashed in her

face, she opened her eyes, but for a while could say nothing to be

understood.

"She was soon able to arise, and to come down the stairs with the arm

of the pastor, though her head was still dizzy and she trembled all

over. In the kitchen they found the lady and little Margot; and it was

then that, between Meeta and Margot, they were able to make out what

had happened. Then it was that everyone patted the head of Wolf and

smiled upon him, calling him 'Good dog'; and Margot kissed him, and he

wagged his tail, and went about to be caressed.

"'And so,' said the countess to the little one, 'it was you, my pretty

child, who found the silken net with the golden fish and pretty moons;

and it was through my carelessness in losing it that all this mischief

of to-day is come. I cannot bear to think of what might have happened

to you, poor baby;' and the lady stooped and kissed the child, and it

was seen that she had tears in her eyes.

"'All is now well, lady, through the care of Providence,' said the

pastor, 'and we will rejoice together, and I trust be grateful to Him

from whom all mercies flow; for if we had lost our little Margot, it

would have been a thousandfold worse than the loss of the purse. But

one thing puzzles me: how did these vagrants discover that this

treasure had been found? Who could have told it? I thought it had been

known only to this family and me.'

"'I am the guilty person,' said Meeta, coming forward; 'I will not

throw suspicion on others by hiding my fault;' and she then repeated

her conversation with Heister Kamp, but she could give no account of

how the secret had passed on to the gipsies.

"'I am sure,' said the pastor, 'that Heister would be above having to

do with such people; but she is a woman of excessive curiosity, and

such people are dangerous to others, as well as injurious to

themselves.'

"'A secret, my good girl,' said the countess, smiling, 'may be compared

to a bird in a cage; whilst shut up within our own breasts, it is safe;

but when we open the door, either of the cage or of the heart, to let

the inmate out, we can never tell whither it may fly; but you have

owned the truth, and you have suffered severely--let all be

forgotten.'

"'I have a proposal to make,' said the pastor; 'we will go back and

dine, and in the evening we will all come up and sup together; the good

man shall find us feasting when he comes home.'

"'Agreed,' cried the count and countess; 'you must set the house in

order, and we will send up the entertainment,' she added, speaking to

Meeta and Jacques; 'and we will be with you in a few hours. Let us then

see this little fair one in all the bravery of her Sunday attire.'

"And all was done as the lady and pastor wished. Meeta set everything

in proper order. Jacques brought his flocks from the pasture, and gave

his best help. All the Sunday dresses were put on, and Margot was

standing at the wicket in her very best apron, when the mule and the

lady appeared again, followed by the pastor and Monique, Ella, and

people without number, bearing the things needful for such a supper as

had not often been enjoyed under that roof.

"Oh, what a happy meeting was that! How delighted was the lady with

Margot, and what a beautiful little enamelled box for containing

sweetmeats did she give her from her pocket! But there were no

sweetmeats in it; there were what Margot called golden fish.

"Wolf had a glorious evening; he went about again to be patted, and he

had as much to eat, for once in his life, as he could conveniently

swallow.

"Meeta was forgiven by everyone, because she had not hidden her fault;

and the whole party were just sitting down to supper before the porch

when Martin Stolberg came home.

"Who shall say how astonished he was, or how grateful when the countess

placed in his hand all the gold which had been found in the purse?--the

count adding, that in a few days he might look for a fine young cow and

two sheep from his own farm, in the vicinity of his castle; and also

saying, at the same time, that he and his lady should have great

pleasure in doing anything for him and his family at any time when they

might apply to them.

"The lady did not overlook Meeta and Ella; she assured them that she

would remember them when the cow was brought; and truly there was an

ample store of linen and flowered aprons, and kerchiefs and caps of

fine linen, in packets directed to each. But the little one, like

Benjamin, had more than her share even of these presents also; and she

had well deserved them, for she had shared her golden fish with her

brother, sister, and cousin.

"The young count took upon himself to make presents to Jacques; he sent

him a strong set of gardener's and carpenter's tools, and a Sunday suit

of better clothes than Jacques had ever worn before.

"Martin put his gold into the pastor's hands till he should require it,

being in no mind to keep much treasure in his house.

"It is only necessary to add, that the count took proper steps for

finding the wicked gipsy and her son, but they had left the country and

could not be found; neither were they ever again seen by the peasants

of the Hartsberg."

* * * * *

"Well," said Henry, when Emily had finished reading, "that is a

beautiful book: it made me so hot when they were all running, my feet

felt as if they would run too--they quite shook--I could not keep them

quiet."

"And how nicely you kept papa's secret!" said Mrs. Fairchild; "you

showed that you were not much more clever than Meeta."

"But then, mamma," replied Henry, "papa's secret was not of so much

consequence as Meeta's was."

"Now, mamma," said Emily, "when do you think the day will come for

Henry's story?"

Mrs. Fairchild answered:

"Papa will tell us when he can spare an evening."

"My book, I am certain," said Henry, "will be prettier than yours,

Emily."

"Why must it be prettier?" asked his mother.

"Because Lucy said it is all about boys; I like boys' stories--there

are so few books about boys."

"But I think it is a grave story," said Lucy.

"Never mind," answered Henry, "if it be about boys."

[Illustration: "_Meeta offered to carry the honey._"--Page 269.]

Guests at Mr. Fairchild's

[Illustration: "She does not know that I made a slit in my frock"]

The night after Emily's story had been read, there was a violent

thunderstorm and rain, which continued more or less till daybreak; it

was fine again after sunrise.

At breakfast a note was brought by a boy from Mrs. Goodriche: these

were the words of it:

"DEAR MR. FAIRCHILD,

"Since that happy day we spent together, we have been in what

Sukey calls a peck of troubles; and, to crown all, last night one

of our old chimneys was struck with lightning: part of it fell

immediately, but I am thankful to be able to say, that by the care

of Providence no one was hurt.

"We are all got into a corner out of the reach of it, should it

fall, though it might yet stand for years as it is. I have other

things to talk to you about, and was thinking of coming over to

you if this accident had not happened. Now I must ask you to come

to me; I have sent for workmen to consult about this chimney, but

I shall have more confidence if you are here."

"I must be off immediately after breakfast," said Mr. Fairchild; and he

did set off, in his little carriage, as soon as he had set Henry to

work.

Mr. Fairchild saw the top of the ragged chimney over the trees in the

garden. As soon as he came up to the gate, he himself put up the horse

and carriage, for he could see no man about, and then went in at the

back door, expecting to find Mrs. Goodriche at that end of the house

farthest from the chimney.

Sukey was the first person he saw.

"Oh, sir," she said, "I am so glad you are come! We shall be all right

now."

"Nay," said Mr. Fairchild, jestingly, "I hope you don't expect _me_ to

repair the chimney."

"Is that Mr. Fairchild?" cried the cheerful voice of Mrs. Goodriche;

and the next minute she came out of her parlour, followed by a tall

round-faced girl of about twelve years of age, in very deep mourning.

"My niece, Mr. Fairchild," said Mrs. Goodriche; "but tell me, have you

breakfasted?" And when she heard that he had; "Come with me, kind

friend," she said, "we will first look at the ruin, and then I have

other things to talk to you, and to consult you about. So, Bessy, do

you stay behind; you are not to make one in our consultations."

Mrs. Goodriche and Mr. Fairchild then walked into the garden; and we

will tell, in as few words as possible, what they talked about.

First they spoke of the chimney, and Mr. Fairchild said that he could

give no opinion about it till the owner of the house and the masons

came, and they were expected every hour.

Mrs. Goodriche said that she had lived in that house nearly twenty

years, and should be sorry to leave it; but that she and Sukey, on

windy nights, often felt that they should be glad to be out of it.

"And yet," said Mr. Fairchild, "it may stand long after you and I;

still it is a wide, dull place for two persons, and very solitary."

"I wish I could get a house your way," replied Mrs. Goodriche; "though

now we shall be more than myself and Sukey; and this brings me to the

subject I wanted to consult you about before the business of the

chimney."

Mr. Fairchild knew that Mrs. Goodriche had had one only brother, who

had gone abroad, when young, as a merchant. He had married, and had one

son; this son had also married, and Bessy was the only child of this

son. Mrs. Goodriche's brother had died years ago, as had also his son's

wife; at which time her nephew had sent his daughter home and placed

her in a school in some seaport in the south of England, where she had,

it seems, learned little or nothing.

Within the last month, Mrs. Goodriche had heard of the death of her

nephew, and that she was left as guardian of his daughter.

"I had an acquaintance going to Plymouth only last week," she added;

"and I got him to take charge of Bessy and bring her here. She has been

with me only a few days, and is very glad to leave school, which does

not speak well for her governess; or if not for her governess, for

herself. As to what she is, I can as yet say little," added the old

lady, "except that she seems to be affectionate and good-tempered; but

she is also idle, wasteful, and ignorant in the extreme. She can't read

even English easily enough to amuse herself with any book; and as to

sewing, she is ready at a sampler, but could not put the simplest

article of clothing together. With regard to any knowledge of the

Bible, I much doubt if she can tell if the tower of Babel was built

before or after the Flood. She is a determined gossip and a great

talker; but Sukey, to whom she is always chattering, assures me that

she has never heard her say anything bad beyond nonsense."

"You mean to keep her with you?" asked Mr. Fairchild.

"I do," said Mrs. Goodriche; "I think it my duty, and I am far from

disliking the poor thing. She has had so much schooling, and gained so

little by it, that if I could get a good writing and maybe a ciphering

master to attend her, I think I could do the rest myself, and impart to

her some of the old-fashioned notions of industry, and neatness, and

management. But this is a subject I wanted to consult you and Mrs.

Fairchild about, for I so much like your plans with your own dear

children."

Mrs. Fairchild had asked her husband to invite Mrs. Goodriche to their

house until the chimney should be repaired; but Mr. Fairchild was

doubtful whether this message should be delivered, when he heard that

Miss Bessy was to remain with her great-aunt. After a little thought,

however, he gave the message, stating his difficulty at the same time.

"Well," said Mrs. Goodriche, "I hardly know what to say: I should like

to come to you, and I should like Bessy to see your children and your

family plans; but as I know so little of her, I know not whether it

would be right to let her mix with your children. You shall think the

matter over, my good friend, and consult your wife; and be sure,

whichever way the thing is settled, I shall not be offended."

When the men came to look at the chimney, it was found that the

mischief might be remedied by a few days' work, so far as to make the

chimney safe; but it was also seen that the house wanted many repairs.

"I think," said Mrs. Goodriche, "that I must give notice to quit this

coming Midsummer. I shall still have half a year to look about me. The

fright last night seems to have been sent to oblige me to settle my

plans. I feel that this place is not exactly what will suit my

niece--young people must have company; and if they are not where they

can find their equals, they will fly to their inferiors. Bessy will

make intimacies with every cottager in the wood, and I shall not be

able to help it."

"I believe you are right, Mrs. Goodriche," replied Mr. Fairchild; "and

I wish we could find a house for you in our village."

Mr. Fairchild looked very anxiously at Bessy when he saw her again.

There was a great appearance of good temper and kindness about her

which pleased him. She had a round rosy face and laughing eyes; but her

clothes, although quite new, were already out of place, and falling

from one shoulder. She talked incessantly, whether heeded or not, and

seldom said anything to the purpose.

"If I were to begin to find fault with her," said Mrs. Goodriche to Mr.

Fairchild, "I could never have done: not that she is constantly

committing heavy offences, but she never does anything in the right

way. What shall I do with her, my good friend?"

"We will talk over the affair at home," replied Mr. Fairchild; "and you

shall see me again to-morrow."

The next day accordingly brought Mr. Fairchild, and with him Mrs.

Fairchild.

"Well, my good madam," said he, "we have settled it; we shall be glad

to see you and Miss Bessy. We have spoken to Lucy and Emily; and they

have promised to attend to all our wishes, and to inform us if

anything should be said or done which they think we should not

approve. So when shall I fetch you?--say to-morrow?"

"To-morrow, then," replied Mrs. Goodriche; "to-morrow evening, by which

time I shall have settled things at home, and provided a person to be

with Sukey."

After an early dinner, Mr. and Mrs. Fairchild went home.

The next morning Mrs. Fairchild had some conversation with her little

girls.

"You have never, my dears," she said, "been in a house for any time

with a young person whose character we do not know; but it seems that

it is required of us now to receive such a one. Mrs. Goodriche is an

old and very dear friend; she is in trouble, and she has some hopes

that her niece may be benefited by being for a while in an orderly

family. You and Emily may be some help to her; but if you are led by

her, or are unkind to her, or show that you think yourselves better

than she is, you may not only be hurt yourselves, but very much hurt

her instead of doing her good."

"Oh, mamma," replied Lucy, "I hope that we shall not do that: pray tell

us every day exactly what to do."

"Be assured that I will, my children," said Mrs. Fairchild; "and we

will not fear. You will not dislike Bessy--she is a good-tempered,

merry girl; but you must not let her be alone with Henry: her very good

humour may make her a dangerous companion to him."

Mr. Fairchild went, after dinner, to fetch Mrs. Goodriche and Bessy;

and just before tea Henry came in to say the carriage was coming. He

ran out again as fast as he could to set the gate open.

Mrs. Fairchild and the little girls met their visitors at the door.

Bessy jumped out of the carriage, and without waiting for the names to

be spoken, gave her hands to Lucy and Emily. She kissed Lucy, and would

have kissed Emily if she had not got behind Mrs. Fairchild.

"And that was Henry," she said, "who stood at the gate: he is a nice

little fellow! I know all the names, and John's and Betty's too. Sukey

has told me about Betty--just such another as herself. What a pretty

place this is!--not like aunt's old barn of a house. I feel at home

here already."

Whilst the young lady was prattling in this manner, Mrs. Fairchild was

showing Mrs. Goodriche to her sleeping-room. She had put up a little

couch-bed in the corner of the same room for Bessy, as she had no other

room to give; and this had been settled between the ladies the day

before. Mrs. Goodriche had told her niece to follow her upstairs, which

Miss Bessy might perchance have done, after a while, had not Betty

appeared coming from the kitchen to carry up the luggage.

"That is Betty," said Miss Bessy. "How do you do, Betty? Sukey told me

to remember her to you."

"Very well, thank you, Miss," said Betty, with a low curtsey, as she

bustled by with a bandbox.

Mrs. Goodriche now appeared, and speaking to her niece from the

stair-head said:

"Come up, Bessy, and put yourself to rights before tea."

"Shan't I do, Miss Lucy?" said Bessy; "aunty is so particular; she does

not know that I made a monstrous slit in my frock as I got into the

carriage. I pinned it up, however, as well as I could, though I was

forced to take the pins out of my dress for it. I shall run it up

to-morrow, for, if she sees it, poor I will be forced to darn it thread

by thread; so do lend me a pin or two, dear girls."

Betty now appeared again with a message to the young lady to go

upstairs to her aunt, and then Bessy hurried off so rapidly, taking two

steps at a time, that Lucy and Emily expected she would have a second

slit in her dress to mend the next day. She did not appear again till

told that tea was ready, when she came down after her aunt. Mrs.

Goodriche looked all kind and calm as usual; she seemed quite pleased

to find herself with her friends, though no doubt she was a little

uneasy lest her niece should disgrace herself. As Bessy passed Lucy to

go to a seat near Mrs. Fairchild, she whispered:

"Aunt has found out the slit, and poor I will be set to the darning

to-morrow."

The whole party were seated before Henry came in; he had been seeing

John put up the carriage. John had been busy, and Henry trying to

help--so Henry was not like the boy who helped his brother to do

nothing.

"Well, Master Henry," said Miss Bessy, calling over to the other end of

the table, "so you speak to my aunt, and say you are glad she is come,

and you don't speak to me."

"Because, ma'am----" Henry began.

"Eh?" cried Miss Bessy, "don't call me ma'am;" and she burst into a

giggle, which made Henry open his eyes and look very hard at her.

This made her laugh the more; and, as she had her teacup in her hand,

she spilt a quantity of tea on the unfortunate black frock.

"Bessy," said Mrs. Goodriche gently, "you had better set down your cup

and wipe your frock, or I shall have to ask Mrs. Fairchild to lend you

one of Henry's pinafores."

"It is not hurt, aunt; it will all come out. I threw a cup of milk over

it the other day, and no one could see the mark unless I stood quite

opposite them, and they looked quite hard at it."

"Well, then, Miss Bessy," said Mrs. Goodriche, "when you wear that

frock, or any other of your frocks which people should not look hard

at, I would advise you to keep in the background."

"Aunt is making sport of me, Mrs. Fairchild," said Bessy, with another

giggle; "do you know what she means? She is advising me, in her cunning

way, always to keep in the background of company."

"Always?" said Mr. Fairchild, smiling; "why, have you not any dresses

which would bear close inspection?"

"Not many, I fear!" replied Miss Bessy; "I was always uncommon unlucky

in tearing my clothes and getting them stained."

"Suppose we say careless," said Mrs. Goodriche; "but it is no laughing

matter, niece. Have you never heard the old saying, 'Wilful waste makes

woful want'?"

"Well, well," replied the niece, with something like a sigh, "I can't

help it--I never could;" but before Mrs. Goodriche could say another

word, she cried out, "You have got a magpie--have you not, Henry?"

"How could you know that?" asked Henry.

"Sukey told me," she answered, "and Mary Lampet told her. Mary was with

the person who gave you the magpie, when she sent it to you."

"Who is Mary Lampet?" said Henry.

"One of Bessy's new friends," said Mrs. Goodriche; "a woman who

sometimes comes for a day's work to my house."

"And such a curious old body," said Miss Bessy; "she wears a blue

striped petticoat, and she generally has a pipe in her mouth."

"Never mind her, my dear," said Mrs. Goodriche: "Mr. and Mrs.

Fairchild and I have a good deal to say to each other; we do not often

meet, and we wish to have our share of talking; it is not for one

person, and that one of the youngest, to have all the talk to herself."

Instead of noticing this remark, Miss Bessy looked round the table.

"One, two, three, four, five, six, seven," she said; "aunt, you are

wrong, I am not one of the youngest; there are three older, and three

younger than me. I am Jack in the middle; and therefore I have a right

to talk to the old people, and to the young ones too; and therefore I

may talk most."

Henry was being gradually worked up by Miss Bessy to think that he

might be as free as she was; and he began with, "Well now, is not that

very odd?"

"My dear Henry," said Mr. Fairchild, "did not you hear Mrs. Goodriche

say she thought that young people should not have all the talk to

themselves?"

"Don't scold him," said Bessy; "he meant no harm."

Mrs. Goodriche looked distressed; her niece saw it, and was quiet for

at least a minute or two, and then she began to talk again as if

nothing had happened.

When tea was over, and everybody risen from the table, before it was

settled what was to be done next, Henry walked out through the glass

doors into the garden--he was going to feed Mag.

Bessy saw him, and called after him; he did not answer her--perhaps he

did not hear her. She called again--he was farther off, and did not

turn.

"You little rogue!" she cried out; "but I will pay you;" and off she

ran after him.

He heard her step and her voice as she called him; he took to his heels

through the shrubbery, and to the gate of the fold-yard--into the

yard--round the barn--amongst the hay-ricks--across a new-mown field,

and over a five-barred gate, using all his speed, and yet gaining no

ground upon her; so back again then he came to where he knew John would

be, and making up to him, he got so behind him that he put him between

Bessy and himself.

There the three were in the fold-yard, Bessy trying to catch Henry, who

was dodging about round John, when Mr. Fairchild, who had followed

Bessy, came up.

"Miss Goodriche," he said, "let me lead you to your aunt, she is asking

for you. My dear young lady," he added, drawing her a little aside,

"let me venture to point out to you, as a father, that it is not

becoming in a girl of your years to be romping with a servant man."

"I was after Henry, sir!" she replied: "it was after him I was going,

sir, I assure you."

"I dare say you set off to run after Henry, my dear young lady," he

replied; "but when I first saw you, you were pushing John about, first

on one side and then on the other, in a way I should call romping; and

am I not right when I say that I think, even now, you have not spoken

one word to him, and that you only guess he is my servant John? What

would you think, Miss Goodriche, if you were to see my daughter Lucy

suddenly run and do the same by yonder labourer in that meadow?--and

yet she may know him quite as well, if not better, than you do John."

"La! Mr. Fairchild," cried Miss Bessy, laughing, "how you do put

things! I never thought what I was doing. It must have looked uncommon

strange, but I hope I shan't do it again."

"Then you had better go in with me to your aunt, and if she approves,

you shall help Lucy and Emily in their little gardens."

[Illustration: "_Cutting off faded flowers, and picking up the dead

leaves._"--Page 299.]

Mrs. Fairchild and Mrs. Goodriche were only waiting for Miss Bessy to

follow the little girls into the garden; and there, whilst they worked

and chatted together, Lucy and Emily and Miss Goodriche were employed

in cutting off faded flowers, and picking up the dead leaves from the

ground.

[Illustration: "_Off she ran after him._"--Page 295.]

More about Bessy

[Illustration: She saw Bessy amongst some gooseberry bushes]

It may be supposed that Mrs. Goodriche gave some good advice to her

niece whilst they were in their room, for Miss Bessy came down looking

rather sulky, and said very little at breakfast; only that she

attempted several times to hold discourse with Lucy in whispers, for

which they were quietly called to order by Lucy's father.

Mr. Fairchild said:

"You must not whisper at table, my dears, for we are met to make

ourselves agreeable either by talking or attentive listening."

After breakfast Mrs. Fairchild said:

"As we hope your visit, Mrs. Goodriche, will be a long one, we will, if

you please, go on with our plans. I shall go into my school-room with

my little girls, and leave you and Bessy to yourselves; you will see us

again about twelve o'clock."

"Very right," replied Mrs. Goodriche, with a smile; "and I trust that

Bessy and I shall be as busy as you will be."

So Mrs. Goodriche went to her room, and when she came back with two

large bags and several books, there was no Miss Bessy to be found.

She, however, was, for an old person, very active, with all her senses

about her, and off she trotted after her niece, finding her, after some

trouble, chattering to Mag, who was hung in a cage before the kitchen

window. She brought her into the parlour, saying:

"Come, niece, let us follow a good example, and make the best use of

these quiet morning hours."

Bessy muttered something which Mrs. Goodriche did not choose to hear,

but when she got into the parlour, she threw herself back on the sofa

as if she were dying of fatigue.

Mrs. Goodriche handed a Bible to her, saying:

"We will begin the morning with our best book: you shall read a chapter

whilst I go on with my work; come, find your place--where did we leave

off?"

Bessy opened the Bible, fetching at the same time a deep sigh, and,

after some minutes, began to read.

Mrs. Goodriche could have sighed too, but she did not.

Bessy was a most careless reader; she hated all books; indeed, her aunt

thought that, from never having been exercised in anything but learning

columns of spelling, she had hardly the power of putting any sense, in

her own mind, to the simplest story-book which could be put into her

hands.

It was heavy work to sit and hear her blunder through a chapter; but,

when that was finished, the kind aunt tried at some little explanation;

after which she set her to write in a copy-book. Mrs. Goodriche

dictated what she was to write: it was generally something of what she

had herself said about the chapter; but what with blots, and bad

spelling, and crooked lines, poor Bessy's book was not fit to be seen.

This exercise filled up nearly an hour, and a most heavy hour it was:

and then Mrs. Goodriche produced a story-book--one lent to her by Mrs.

Fairchild--which, being rather of a large size, did not quite appear to

be only fit for children; what this book was I do not know.

"Now, my dear," she said, "you will have great pleasure in reading this

book to me, I am sure; but before we begin I must fetch another bit of

work: I have done what I brought down."

"La!" said Miss Bessy, "how fond you are of sewing!"

"Don't you remember, Bessy," replied Mrs. Goodriche, "that I never

attend to anything you say when you begin with 'la'!"

"We always said it at school," she answered.

"May be so," replied Mrs. Goodriche, "and you may say it here, if you

please; but, as I tell you, I shall never attend to anything you say

when you put in any words of that kind."

"La!" cried Miss Bessy again, really not knowing that she was saying

the word.

Mrs. Goodriche went up for her work, and when she returned, as she

might have expected, her bird was flown; and when she looked for her,

she saw her amongst some gooseberry bushes, feeding herself as fast as

she could. When she got her into the parlour again, "Bessy," she said,

"did you ever read the story of Dame Trot and her Cat?"

"I know it," answered Bessy.

"Now," added Mrs. Goodriche, "I am thinking that I am very like Dame

Trot; she never left her house but she found her cat at some prank when

she returned, and I never leave the room but I find you off and at

some trick or another when I come back; but now for our book."

Bessy, before she took her book, rubbed her hands down the sides of her

frock to clean them from any soil they might have got from the

gooseberries. It was a new black cotton, with small white spots, and

was none the better for having been made a hand-towel.

Mrs. Goodriche saw this neat trick, but she felt that if she found

fault with everything amiss in her niece, she should have nothing else

to do; so she let that pass.

Bessy, at last, opened the book and began to read.

The first story began with the account of a lady and gentleman who had

one son and a daughter, of whom they were vastly fond, and whom they

indulged in everything they could desire, which (as the writer sagely

hinted) they had cause to repent before many years had passed.

"Whilst their children were little, there was nothing in the shape of

toys which were not got for them; dolls, whips, tops, carts, and all

other sorts of playthings, were heaped up in confusion in their

play-room; but they were not content with wooden toys--they had no

delight in those but to break them in pieces. They were ever greedy

after nice things to eat, and when they got them, made themselves often

sick by eating too much of them. Once Master Tommy actually ate up----"

In this place Bessy stopped to turn over a leaf with her thumb, and

then went on, first repeating the last words of the first page.

"--Master Tommy actually ate up the real moon out of the sky."

"What! What!" cried Mrs. Goodriche; "ate the moon? Are you sure,

Bessy?"

[Illustration: "_'What! What!' cried Mrs. Goodriche._"--Page 305.]

"Yes, it is here," replied Bessy; "the real moon out of the sky--these

are the very words."

"Nonsense!" said Mrs. Goodriche; "dear child, you are reading nonsense;

don't you perceive it?"

"I don't know," replied Bessy, gaping; "I was not attending--what is

it?"

"Don't you know what you have been reading?" asked Mrs. Goodriche.

"To be sure I do," answered Bessy, "or how could I have told the words

right?"

"But the sense?" asked Mrs. Goodriche.

"I was not happening," replied Bessy, "just to be thinking about that.

I was thinking just then, aunt, of the horrid fright Sukey was in when

the bricks came rolling down, and how she did scream."

"Give me the book," said Mrs. Goodriche, almost at the end of her

patience; "we will read no more to-day; go up and fetch that

unfortunate bombazine frock, it must be darned; you have no other here,

or indeed made, but that you have on."

Away ran Bessy, glad to be moving; and when Mrs. Goodriche had looked

at the book, she found that Bessy had turned over two leaves,--that

Tommy had once eaten a whole pound-cake in a very short time, and that

he had cried the whole of the evening for the real moon out of the sky.

It might have been thought, from the time that she was absent, that

Bessy had gone to the top of the barn to fetch her frock; the truth is,

that it was some time before she could find it; she had thrown it on

the drawers when she had taken it off, and it had slipped down behind

them, to use an expression of her own. It was all covered over with

dust, and the trimming crumpled past recovery; but she gave it a good

shaking, and down she came, not in the least troubled at the accident.

When she got into the parlour, she found Lucy and Emily seated each

with her small task of needlework; their other lessons were finished;

and Mrs. Fairchild, too, appeared with her work.

Mrs. Goodriche had desired to hear the story in Emily's new book, and

they were each to read four pages at once, then to pass the book; and

they had settled to begin with the eldest.

"I always think," said Lucy, "that when everything is done but our

work, it is so comfortable; and when there is to be reading, I work so

fast."

There was a little delay whilst Bessy was set to darn, and then Mrs.

Goodriche read her four pages, and read them very pleasantly. The book

was next given to Mrs. Fairchild, who passed it to Bessy.

"Where does it begin?" she said.

"At the top of the ninth page, Bessy," said Mrs. Fairchild.

There was another pause; and then Bessy started much like a person

running a race, reading as fast as she could, till, like the same

runner, when he comes to a stumbling-stone, she broke down over the

first hard word, which happened to be at the end of the second

sentence.

Mrs. Fairchild gently set her right, and she went on a little till she

came to another word, which she miscalled, so that Mrs. Goodriche, who

had not heard the story before, could not understand what she was

reading about.

Emily looked down, and became quite red.

Lucy looked up full of wonder, and half inclined to smile; but a gentle

look from her mother reminded her what civility and kindness required

of her. Her mother's look seemed to say, "You ought to pity and not to

laugh at one who has not been so well taught as yourself;" and she

instantly looked down, and seemed to give her whole thoughts to her

work.

"Bessy," said Mrs. Goodriche, "you had best pass the book to Lucy; I

am sure that you will try to improve yourself against the next time you

are asked to read aloud in company."

"I shall never make much of reading, aunt," she answered carelessly; "I

hate it so."

The reading then went on till one o'clock, and there was enough of the

story left for another day. The work was then put up, and the children

were at liberty till dinner-time; but the day was very hot, so there

could be no walk till the evening.

"Now," said Mrs. Goodriche, "before we part, you shall see something

out of this bag; it is full of pieces from my old great store-chest;

there are three pieces of old brocade silk," and she spread them out on

the table. They all looked as if they had been short sleeves; one was

green, with purple and gold flowers as large as roses; another was

pink, what is called _clouded_ with blue, green, and violet: and the

third was dove-colour, with running stripes of satin. "Now," she said,

"each of you, my little girls, shall have one of these pieces, and you

shall make what you please of it; and when you have made the best you

can of the silk, you shall show your work to me, and I shall see who is

worthy of more pieces, for I have more in this bag."

"If any of you, my dears," said Mrs. Fairchild, "should want little

bits of ribbon or lining to help out what you wish to make, I shall

gladly supply them; indeed," she added, "I may as well give what may be

wanted now;" and having fetched a bag of odds and ends, she gave out

some bits of coloured ribbon to suit the silks, with sewing silks and

linings, such as her bag would afford, placing her gifts in equal

portions on the three pieces of silk.

"And now," said Mrs. Goodriche, "who is to choose first?"

"Lucy and Emily," said Bessy; and Lucy wished Bessy to choose first.

After a little while this matter was settled; Emily had the green with

the golden flowers, Lucy the clouded pink, and Bessy the striped; but

before they took them from the table, Mrs. Goodriche told them that

they were only to have them on these conditions--that they were not to

consult each other about the use they were to make of them; nor to get

anybody to help in cutting them out, and not to tell what they were

doing till they brought what they had made to her.

"Then, Lucy, you must not ask me," said Emily; "I will not ask you."

"I shall make no inquiries," said Mrs. Fairchild; "you may work at your

things in any of your play hours excepting the walking time. Emily may

work in my room, and Lucy in her own, because you must not be together;

and if I come into my room, I shall not look at what you are doing,

Emily."

Lucy and Emily took up their bits, all joy and delight, and full of

thought; but Bessy was not so well pleased; she hated work as much as

reading, and perhaps from the same reason, that she had neither got

over the drudgery of work nor of reading. The beginning of all learning

is dry, and stupid, and painful; but many things are delightful, when

we can do them easily, which are most disagreeable when we first begin

them.

After this day, things passed on till the end of the week much as we

have said. Lucy and Emily were always very busy in their different

places, from dinner to tea-time. Henry was often, at those times, with

John; and where Miss Bessy was Mrs. Goodriche did not know, because she

had proposed to go and work in Henry's arbour. Her aunt could not

follow her everywhere, so she only made herself sure that she did not

go beyond the garden, and she did not ask whether she spent half her

time in the kitchen, for she was not afraid that Betty would hurt her.

"When am I to see the pieces of work?" said Mrs. Goodriche on the

Saturday morning.

"Before tea, ma'am," replied Lucy; "Emily and I are ready, but we don't

know whether Bessy is--we can wait if she is not."

"Oh, I am ready," answered Bessy; "my silk is done."

The tea-things were on the table when Emily came in first with an open

basket--whatever was in it was hidden by a piece of white paper. Lucy

followed with a neat little parcel, carefully rolled up; and Bessy

followed, with a hand in one of her pockets, and a smile on her face,

though she looked red and rather confused.

"I shall look at the little market-woman with her basket first," said

Mrs. Goodriche; and Emily went up to her with a sweet pleasant smile,

as if she felt sure that she had some very pretty things to show. She

took up the white paper, and discovered three pin-cushions, very nicely

made: they were so contrived that there was a gold and purple flower in

the centre of each pin-cushion on both sides: the cushions were square,

well stuffed, and pinched in the middle of each side; they had a tassel

at every corner, made of the odd bits of silk roved, and to each of

them was a long bit of ribbon. Emily's face flushed like a rosebud when

she laid them on the table. "Very, very good," said Mrs. Goodriche;

"and you did them all yourself?"

"Yes, ma'am," said Emily. "I made the insides first, and stuffed them

with bran, before I put the silk on."

"Now for Lucy," said Mrs. Goodriche; and Lucy, opening her parcel,

showed an old-fashioned housewife with many pockets: she had managed

her silk so, that the clouds upon it formed borders for the outside

and each pocket; she had overcast a piece of flannel for the needles,

and put a card under that part of the housewife; she had lined it to

make it strong, and had put some ribbon to tie it with, and had made a

case for it of printed calico, and a button and a button-hole.

"Very, very good, too," said Mrs. Goodriche; "let it be placed by the

pin-cushions; and now for Bessy."

Bessy began to giggle and to move herself about in a very uneasy way.

"If you have nothing to show, Bessy," said her aunt; "or if you are not

ready, we will excuse you."

"It does not signify," answered Bessy, "I am as ready now as I ever

shall be. I can make nothing of the silk."

"Have you lost it?" asked her aunt.

"No," she answered; "I have it--you may as well see it at once;" and

diving again into her pocket, she brought out what looked very like a

piece of blotting-paper which had been well used, and laid it on the

table. "I could not help it," she said; "but I had it on the table one

morning, when I was in this room alone, and I tumbled over the inkstand

right upon it; and I thought it was lucky that almost all the ink had

fallen on the silk, and not on the cloth; so, as it was spoiled

already, I used it to wipe up the rest of the ink, and that is the

whole truth."

Mrs. Goodriche, though vexed, could not keep herself from smiling,

which Bessy seeing, tried to turn the whole affair into a laugh; but it

was not a merry laugh.

"Well, take it away, my dear," said Mrs. Goodriche; "put it by to wipe

your pens with;" and away ran Bessy out of the room, not to laugh when

by herself, but to cry: and this, we are glad to say, was not the first

time that the poor motherless girl had shed tears for her own follies

within the last day or two.