When she had left the room, Mrs. Goodriche said:

"Poor young creature! I am sorry for her."

"Yes, ma'am," said Lucy, "because she has had no mamma for many years;

but Emily and I begin to love her, she is so good-tempered."

"God will bless her," said Mrs. Fairchild; "He has shown His love by

giving her a friend who will be a mother to her."

"But now, my little girls," said Mrs. Goodriche, "these things which

you have made so prettily are your own."

"Thank you, ma'am," they both answered; "and may we do what we like

with them?"

"To be sure," replied Mrs. Goodriche.

"Then," said Emily, "I shall give one to Mary Bush, and another to

Margery, and another to Mrs. Trueman, for their best pin-cushions."

"And I shall give this housewife to nurse," said Lucy.

"I suppose," said Mrs. Goodriche, "that you will like to have them

furnished for the poor women; I will give what pins and needles can be

found on Monday morning; and at the same time I have for each of you a

piece of nice flowered chintz for your dolls."

The little girls kissed the old lady with all their hearts, and ran

away with the things which they had made: it was agreed that they were

not to talk of them again before Bessy.

Bessy's Misfortunes

[Illustration: Bessy was crying most piteously]

The Sunday morning was very fine, and there was a nice large party

going to church together. We have not mentioned Mr. Somers lately, but

he was still there, and very much beloved. His mother had lately come

to live with him; she was a very old friend of Mrs. Goodriche, and when

the two old ladies saw each other from their pews, they were vastly

pleased. They hastened to meet each other after service; and Mrs.

Somers begged all Mrs. Goodriche's party to come into the Parsonage

House, which was close to the church.

Mrs. Fairchild said there were too many for all to go in; so she

directed Betty to see the young ladies home: they had some way to walk,

but had hardly got out of the village when Betty said:

"We shall surely have a shower--we shall be caught in the rain if we

are not sharp."

"May we run, Betty?" asked Lucy and Emily; and having got leave, they

set off at full speed, and got into the house just in time.

"Come, Miss Goodriche," said Betty; "you can run, I know, as well as

the best of them, so why don't you set off too? As for me, I have not

got my best bonnet on, for I foresaw there would be showers, and I have

nothing else that can hurt. A very few drops would make that pretty

crape bonnet of yours not fit to be seen."

"We shall be at home before the rain comes," said Bessy; "and I am sure

that if it is only a few drops they will not hurt my bonnet; I want to

stay with you. I want to ask you about the people I saw at church.

Come, now, tell me, Betty, what was that family that sat just before

us?"

Betty was walking away as fast as she could, and she answered:

"Miss, I can't stop to talk--it has begun to rain behind us on the

hills; we shall have it in no time; and there is no house this way to

run into."

"O la! Betty," cried Miss Bessy next; "my shoe-string is unpinned: do,

for pity, lend me a big pin."

"Why, Miss," said Betty, "sure you don't pin your shoe-strings?"

"Only when I am in a hurry," she answered.

Betty found a pin, and the shoe was put to rights as well as might be;

but two minutes at least were lost whilst this was being done.

"Now come on, Miss, as fast as you can," said Betty; "the drops are

already falling on the dust at our feet."

They went on a few paces without another word, and then Miss Bessy

screamed:

"Oh, Betty, the other string has gone snap: have you another pin?"

"Miss, Miss!" said Betty, fumbling for a pin, and in her hurry not

being able to find one. Once more Miss Bessy was what soldiers call in

marching order, and they made, may be, a hundred paces, without any

other difficulty but the falling of the rain, though as yet it was only

the skirts of the shower. The house was in view, and was not distant

three hundred yards by the road, and somewhat less over a field.

"Let us go over the field," said Bessy.

"No, no," replied Betty, bustling on. "If the gate on the other side

should be locked--and John often keeps it so--we should be quite at

fault."

"And what sort of a gate must it be," said Bessy, "that you and I could

not get over?"

"We had better keep the road, Miss," replied Betty; "the grass must be

wet already with the little rain which is come."

"And yet it has scarce laid the dust in the road," returned Bessy; "so

if you choose to keep to the road, I shall take the field; so good-bye

to you;" and the next minute she was over the stile, and running across

the grass.

Betty looked after her a minute, and then saying, "Those who have the

care of you have their hands full," she hurried on; but with all her

haste she was like one who had been dipped in a well before she got in.

Almost the moment in which the two had parted, the shower had come down

in right good earnest, driving and gathering and splashing the dust up

on Betty's white stockings, and causing her to be very glad that she

had not put on her best-made bonnet and new black ribbons. Betty had

never worn a coloured bonnet in her life.

In the meantime Miss Bessy was flying along the field, throwing up the

wet at every step from the long grass. The pins in her shoes at first

acted as spurs, pricking her for many steps, and then crooking and

giving way; so that she had the comfort of running slipshod the rest of

the way. Her shoes, being of stuff, were so thoroughly soaked, in a

little time, that they became quite heavy. The gate at the end of the

field was locked, of course; who ever came to the end of a field in a

pelting shower, and did not find it locked? It was a five-barred gate,

and Bessy could have got over it easily if John had not most carefully

interlaced the two upper bars with thorns and brambles--for what

purpose we don't know, but so it was.

Bessy tried to pull some of them out, and in so doing thoroughly soaked

her gloves, and then only succeeded in pulling aside one or two of

them; but she mounted the gate, and in coming down, her foot slipping,

she fell flat on the ground, leaving part of her frock on the thorns,

which at the time she did not perceive.

"It can't be helped," she thought, as she rose again, and ran on to the

house without further misfortune. She thought herself lucky in getting

in by the front door without being seen; and her aunt was not at home,

which was another piece of luck, she believed; and she hastened to

change her dress, cramming all her wet things into a closet in the room

used for hanging up frocks and gowns when taken off. She did not, as it

happened, throw her frock and bonnet on the floor of the closet; and

she thought she had been very careful when she hung the frock on a peg

and the bonnet over it. She had some trouble in getting off her wet

gloves, which stuck as close to her hands as if they had been part of

them; and these, with the shoes and other inferior parts of her dress,

found their places on the floor of the closet. They were all out of the

way before her aunt could come; for though it had ceased to rain as

soon as she came in, she knew it would take some time for the walk from

the Parsonage House.

Such good use did Bessy make of her time that she had clean linen and

her everyday gown on before Mrs. Goodriche came in.

The first inquiry which Mrs. Fairchild and Mrs. Goodriche made was

whether the young people and Betty had escaped the shower. Lucy, who

knew no more than that they had all come in soon after each other,

answered:

"Oh yes, but we had a run for it."

Betty was not there to tell her story, and Bessy thought it was quite

as well to let the affair pass.

Thoughtful people often wonder how giddy ones can be so thoughtless as

they are, and giddy ones wonder how their thoughtful friends can attend

to so many things as they do. Many persons are naturally thoughtless,

but this fault may be repaired by management in childhood. Poor Bessy

had had no such careful management; and her carelessness had come to

such a pass, that from the time in which she had hung up her wet and

spoiled clothes in the closet, she troubled herself about them no more

till the time came when she wanted to put them on.

Still, she learned much, as it proved, from the misfortunes of that

Sunday. After dinner it began to pour again, and Mrs. Fairchild took

Bessy with her own children into a quiet room, and there she read the

Bible and talked to them. Having been well used to talk to children and

young people, she made all she said so pleasant, that Bessy was quite

surprised when Betty knocked at the door and said tea was ready.

The rest of the Sunday evening passed off so very pleasantly that even

Bessy yawned only three times, and that was just before supper--and yet

it rained--rained--rained.

The next morning rose in great brightness, promising a charming day.

The forenoon was spent as usual; and after the lessons and work, Mrs.

Goodriche furnished the pin-cushions and the housewife, and gave out

the two pieces of chintz for the dolls' frocks; and so busy were the

old lady and the little girls, that it was time to lay the cloth for

dinner before the things were quite put away.

Whilst all this business was going on, Bessy was somewhere about in the

garden.

Now it was not a very common thing for a loud knock to be heard at Mr.

Fairchild's door. But it was Mr. Somers who knocked, and he came in all

in a hurry. He came to say that a lady, who lived about two miles

distant in another parish, had called. He told the lady's name to Mrs.

Fairchild: and Mrs. Fairchild said she knew her, though they had not

visited. This lady had a nice house and a pretty orchard; and she had

come, only an hour before, to say that Miss Pimlico, with all her young

ladies, were coming to spend the evening with her, and that they were

to have tea in the open air, and to amuse themselves in any way they

liked. The lady hoped that Mr. Somers and his mother would come, and

that they would, if possible, bring with them Mr. and Mrs. Fairchild

and their nice children, and make a pleasant evening of it.

"We told her that Mrs. Goodriche and her niece were at Mr.

Fairchild's," added Mr. Somers; "and she said, 'Let them come also, by

all means; the more the merrier;' and then she kindly entered into what

carriages we could muster.

"I told her," he continued, "that Mr. Fairchild had a carriage which

would hold two grown-up persons and three little ones, and that mine

could do as much if needful; proving that we had even one seat to

spare--so come, you must all go. Mrs. Goodriche and my mother shall

have the back seat of my carriage, and I shall make interest for Miss

Lucy to sit by me in the front seat."

All the children present looked anxiously to hear Mr. Fairchild's

answer, and glad were they when they heard him say, "At what hour

should we be ready?"

"At four I shall hope to call for Mrs. Goodriche and Miss Lucy," said

Mr. Somers. "I have a poor woman to call on by the way, if this lady

does not object. We may therefore set out about half an hour before

you. So now, good-bye;" and he walked away.

[Illustration: "_At four I shall hope to call for Mrs. Goodriche and

Miss Lucy._"--Page 321.]

How merry and happy were the faces round the table at dinner! Mrs.

Goodriche and Lucy had only just time to get ready before Mr. Somers

came for them.

When they were gone the rest of the party found it was time to get

dressed. John brought the carriage to the gate at the time fixed; and

Henry, who had been watching for it ever since he had been dressed,

came in to give notice. Emily and her father immediately went to the

gate; and Mrs. Fairchild, thinking that Bessy might want a little

attention and help, went to her room. As she knocked at the door she

thought she heard low sobs within; she called Bessy twice, and no

answer being given she walked in.

There was a sight indeed! Bessy was sitting at the foot of the bed

without a frock, and sobbing and crying most piteously. On the floor,

on one side of her, were her best shoes, shrunk up and wrinkled and

covered with mud in the most extraordinary way. In another part of the

floor lay the unfortunate frock, all draggled and splashed round the

bottom, and, as Mrs. Fairchild could see without lifting it up, wanting

a part of one breadth. On the drawers was the bonnet, which was of

reeved crape made upon wire, and not one at all suited for a careless

girl; but it was made by a milliner at Plymouth. What with soaking,

crumpling, and here and there a rent from some bough, it had lost all

appearance of what it had been: it looked a heap of old crape gathered

carelessly together; and the pair of gloves, much in the state of the

shoes, were lying near the bonnet on the drawers.

"Oh, ma'am! Oh, Mrs. Fairchild!" cried the unfortunate Bessy, "what can

I do? What shall I do?"

Mrs. Fairchild lifted up the dress, but as hastily laid it down again,

for she saw it would take some hours to make it fit to be worn. The

bonnet, shoes, and gloves all equally required time and attention.

"I am afraid," she said kindly, "it will not do for you to attempt to

put on these things; and, what is worse, I have none that will fit you.

My dresses are as much too large as Lucy's are too small."

"Oh, do, dear Mrs. Fairchild," cried the sobbing Bessy, "at least, let

me try one of your gowns."

Though aware the attempt would be useless, the kind lady brought one of

her white dresses, to see if anyhow it could be made to fit; but even

Bessy, after a while, acknowledged it would not do, being so very much

too large for her.

Mrs. Fairchild next examined the young lady's everyday cotton; but,

alas! that was too dirty to think of its being shown beside the best

dresses of the other little misses. Then, too, if a dress could have

been procured, bonnet, shoes, and gloves would have also been

requisite; and these could not have been obtained even amongst Miss

Bessy's own clothes; for if her best were unfit to be seen, her

commoner ones were scarce worth picking up in the street.

"It will not do, I see," said Miss Bessy; "you had better go without

me, Mrs. Fairchild."

"I am afraid it must be as you say," replied that lady, "and most

sincerely sorry am I for you, my dear."

So saying, she left the room, and then came another burst of tears, and

more sobs, for three or four minutes afterwards.

Bessy, who still sat on the bed, heard the carriage drive away. "Oh,

how cruel!" she thought, or rather spoke--"how cruel of Mrs. Fairchild

to go away, and hardly to say one word to me! But I know she despises

me; she can think nobody worth anything but her own children:" then

there was another burst of tears, and more sobs.

After a little time, all spent in crying, she heard her door open

again, and turning round, she saw Mrs. Fairchild come in without her

bonnet, in her usual dress, and with a work-bag in her hand. She came

straight up to the weeping girl, and kissing her, "Now, Bessy," she

said, "wipe away those tears, and we will have a happy and, I hope,

useful evening. Betty will be ready to help us immediately, and we

shall set to work and see what we can do in putting your things to

rights. The carriage is gone with all the rest of the party, and I have

sent a message to your aunt by Mr. Fairchild. He will make the best of

the affair, and if you will help, we will try to put all these things

to rights."

"Oh, Mrs. Fairchild," said Bessy, throwing herself into her arms, "and

have you given up your pleasure for such a naughty girl as I am?"

"I have given up no pleasure so great as I shall receive, dear Miss

Goodriche, if I can see you trying to do right this evening: trying for

once to work hard, and to overcome those habits which give your aunt so

much pain. Come, put on your frock, and let us set to work

immediately."

The eyes of poor Bessy again filled with tears, but they were tears of

gratitude and love; and she hastened to put on her frock, and then do

anything which Mrs. Fairchild directed: and, first of all, the crape

trimmings were taken from the bonnet and the skirt of the frock; Betty

was then called, and she took them to her kitchen to do what might be

done to restore them. The shoes were sent to John to stretch on a last,

and to brush; and Mrs. Fairchild produced some pieces of bombazine from

her store, and having matched the colours as well as she could, she

carefully pinned the piecing, and gave it to Bessy to sew.

Poor Bessy's fingers had never plied so quickly and so carefully

before. They were put in motion by a feeling of the warmest gratitude

and love for Mrs. Fairchild.

No punishment, no severity, could have produced the effect wrought by

this well-timed kindness of Mrs. Fairchild; and it gave to her the

sweetest hopes of poor Bessy, when she observed how strongly and deeply

she felt that kindness.

They worked and talked till tea-time, and after tea they set to work

again. Betty came up about seven o'clock with the crape and the bonnet,

the plaitings of which--for it was a reeved bonnet--she had smoothed

with a small Italian iron, and restored wonderfully. Then she sat down

and sewed with Miss Bessy at the frock, whilst Mrs. Fairchild trimmed

the bonnet.

At eight o'clock the work was got on so finely that Bessy cried out:

"Another half-hour, if they will but stay away, and it will be done;

and oh, how I do thank you, dear Mrs. Fairchild, and dear Betty! I will

really try in future to do better; I never wished to do better as I do

now."

"There is an early moon, miss," said Betty; "I should not wonder if

they stayed till it was up."

It struck nine, and they were not come; another five minutes and the

work was finished. Bessy jumped up from the foot of the bed and kissed

Mrs. Fairchild first, and then Betty; and then came a bustle to put

everything away.

Mrs. Fairchild showed Bessy how to lay aside her bonnet in the bandbox,

and her frock in a drawer, with a clean handkerchief over each. The

tippet, which was the only one thing which had escaped mischief, for

the plain reason that it had not been worn on the Sunday with the

frock, was laid in the same drawer; and then the needles and silk and

cotton were collected, and the bits and shreds picked up, and the room

restored to order as if nothing wonderful had happened.

The last thing Mrs. Fairchild did in that room was to take up the

gloves and give them to Betty, to see what could be done with them the

next day, and then she, with the happy young girl, put on shawls and

walked on the gravel before the house, for it was still hot.

"Well, we have had a happy, happy evening, dear Mrs. Fairchild," said

Bessy; "I never thought I should love you so much."

The party did not come home till ten o'clock; they had had such an

evening as Lucy and Emily had never known before; but they had often

thought of poor Bessy, and wished for her many times, and their mother

too. Mrs. Goodriche had also been uneasy about Bessy. How surprised,

then, they were to see her looking so cheerful, and Mrs. Fairchild also

seeming to be equally happy.

"I will tell you all about it when we get to our room, aunt," whispered

Bessy; "but I do not deserve such kindness. Mrs. Fairchild says I had

better not speak about it now."

They had had tea and a handsome supper; so when they had talked the

evening over, and Mr. Fairchild had read a chapter, they all went to

their rooms.

The History of Little Bernard Low

[Illustration: Bessy was very sorry to leave her young friends]

The rest of Mrs. Goodriche's visit passed off very quietly and very

pleasantly. Bessy became from day to day more manageable, and Lucy and

Emily began to love her very much.

Mrs. Goodriche was inquiring everywhere for a house close by, and there

was none which seemed as if it could be made to suit her. She and Bessy

returned home therefore at the end of a fortnight, and Bessy was very

sorry to leave her young friends.

It was four or five days after Mrs. Goodriche had left them before Mr.

Fairchild proposed that they should read that famous book which Henry

talked so much about.

"But where shall we go to read it?" he asked.

"Oh! to the hut in the wood, papa, if you please," answered Lucy; and

in less than an hour everybody was ready to set out: and when everybody

was seated as they had been the time before, the book was opened, and

Lucy waited to read only till Henry and Emily had seen the picture at

the beginning. I will tell you what the picture was when we come to the

place of it in the story.

The History of Little Bernard Low

_THE STORY IN HENRY'S BOOK_

"Mr. Low was a clergyman, and had a good living in that part of this

country where the hills of Wales extend towards the plains of England,

forming sweet valleys, often covered with woods, and rendered fruitful

and beautiful by rills which have their sources in the distant hills.

"Mr. Low never had but one brother; this brother had been a wild boy,

and had run away many years before, and never had been heard of since.

"The name of the valley in which Mr. Low's living was situated was

Rookdale; his own house stood alone amongst woods and waterfalls, but

there was a village nearer to the mouth of the valley, and in that

village, besides some farmers and many cottagers, lived another

clergyman of the name of Evans. He was a worthy humble man, and came

from the very wildest parts of Wales. He was a needy man, and was

forced to work hard to get a decent living for himself, his sister,

Miss Grizzy Evans, and an orphan nephew, Stephen Poppleton. Mr. Low

gave him fifty pounds a year to help him in the care of his parish,

which spread far and wide over the high grounds which surrounded

Rookdale; and he added something to his gains by teaching the children

of the farmers in the parish, and by taking in two or three boys as

boarders; he could not take many, because his house was small and

inconvenient. We shall know more of Mr. Evans when we have read the few

next pages.

"Mr. Low's living was a very good one, and brought in much money. The

house too was good, and he kept several servants, and lived

handsomely. He had had four children, but two of them were dead. Mr.

Low had but one daughter, her name was Lucilla; and the two eldest were

sons, Alfred and Henry. Henry died a baby, but Alfred lived till he was

eight years old, and then died, and was buried by the side of his

infant brother. The fourth and last child of Mr. and Mrs. Low was

Bernard; he was more than five years younger than Lucilla.

"When Bernard was born, it seemed as if no one could make too much of

him. The old woman, Susan Berkley, who had been Mr. Low's own nurse,

and had always lived in the family, was so fond of Bernard that she

could not refuse him anything; and Mrs. Low was what people call so

wrapped up in her boy, that she could never make enough of him. In this

respect she was very weak, but those who have lost children well know

how strong the temptation is to over-indulge those who are left. At

first Mr. Low did not observe how far these plans of indulgence were

being carried; indeed, he did not open his eyes fully to the mischief

till Bernard was become one of the most troublesome, selfish boys in

the whole valley. At five years old he was the torment of the whole

house, though even then he was cunning enough to hide some of his worst

tempers from his father. He had found out that when he pretended to be

ill, mother, nurse, and sister were all frightened out of their senses,

and that at such times he could get his way in everything, however

improper. He did not care what pain he gave them if he could get what

he wanted.

"His father, however, did at length find out the mischief that was

going on; and as he feared that his wife and nurse would not have the

firmness to check the boy if he remained always at home, he proposed

that Bernard should be sent as a day boarder to Mr. Evans. His father

wished that he should go every morning after breakfast, dine at school,

and return to tea.

"'I have been much to blame,' said Mr. Low, 'in not speaking before of

the way in which Bernard has been managed. I blame myself greatly for

this neglect, and I now feel that no more time must be lost; and I

think it will be easier for us to part with him for a few hours every

day, than to send him to a distance.'

"Mrs. Low was a gentle person, and wished to do right; she shed tears,

but made no resistance. Lucilla thought that her papa was right; she

had lately seen how naughty Bernard was getting; so Mr. Low had no

opposition either from his wife or daughter. When nurse, however, was

told that her darling was to go to school to Parson Evans, she was very

angry; and though she did not dare to speak her mind to her master, she

had no fear of telling it to her mistress and the young lady.

"'Well, to be sure,' she said, 'master has curious notions, to think of

sending such a delicate babe as Master Bernard to be kicked about by a

parcel of boys, and to be made to eat anything that's set before him,

whether he likes it or not. So good a child as he is too: so meek and

so tender, that if he but suspects a cross word, he is ready to jump

out of himself, and falls a-crying and quaking, and won't be appeased

anyhow, till the fit's over with him. Indeed, mistress, if you give him

up in this point, I won't say what the consequences may be.'

"'But, nurse,' said Lucilla, 'really Bernard does want to be kept a

little in order.'

"'And that from you, Miss?' answered the nurse; 'what would you feel,

was you to see him laid in his grave beside his precious little

brothers?'

"Lucilla could not answer this question, and Mrs. Low could not speak

for weeping; so nurse was left to say all she chose; and as Bernard

came in before she had cooled herself down, she told him what was

proposed, and said it would break her heart to part with him only for a

few hours every day.

"On hearing this, Bernard thought it a proper occasion to show off his

meek spirit, and so much noise did he make, and so rebellious and

stubborn was his behaviour, that his father, who heard him from a

distance, made up his mind to go that very evening to speak about him

to Mr. Evans. Mr. Low did not find the worthy man at home; he had

walked out with his nephew and three boys who boarded in the house; but

Mr. Low found Miss Evans in a small parlour, dressed, as she always was

in an evening, with some pretensions to fashion and smartness: she was

very busy with a huge basket of stockings, which she was mending.

"When Mr. Low told her his business, she was quite delighted, for she

had lived in that humble village till she thought Mr. Low one of the

greatest men in the world, because she never saw any greater. She

answered for her brother that he would receive Master Bernard and give

him every care; 'and for me, sir,' she added, 'I promise you that the

young gentleman shall have the best of everything our poor table will

afford.'

"'I wish,' replied Mr. Low, 'that he may be treated exactly as the

other boys, my good madam, and no bustle whatever made with him.'

"Soon after Mr. Low was gone, Mr. Evans and his nephew, and three

pupils, passed the parlour window. Miss Grizzy tapped on the glass, and

beckoned to her brother to come to her, which he did, immediately

followed by his nephew.

"'Who do you think has been here, brother, whilst you have been out?'

said she; 'who but Mr. Low?' and she told him what Mr. Low had come

for, and that she had undertaken that Master Bernard should be

received.

"'Very good, sister,' replied Mr. Evans, 'all is well;' and he went out

again at the parlour door, seeming to be much pleased. Stephen remained

behind, and the moment the door was shut, he said:

"'You seem to be much set up, Aunt Grizzy, at the thought of this boy's

coming; you must know, surely, that he is a shocking spoiled child, and

that there will be no possibility of pleasing him.'

"'We must try, however,' answered Miss Evans; 'I know, as well as you

can do, what he is, a little proud, petted, selfish thing: for is he

not the talk of the parish? I have often wondered how Mr. Low could

have been so long blind to the need of sending him to school; but then

think, nephew, Mr. Low offers as much as if the boy boarded here

entirely, and he is only to dine; and I doubt not but that there will

be pretty presents too--you know that both Mr. and Mrs. Low are very

thoughtful in that way.'

"'But if you can't keep the little plague in good humour,' answered

Stephen, 'instead of presents we may have disputes and quarrels; and

where will you be then, aunt?'

"'I hope, Stephen, that you will not be creating these quarrels; that

you will bear and forbear, and pay Master Low proper respect, and see

that Meekin and Griffith and Price do the same: you know well that not

one of them are of such high families as Master Low.'

"'You had best not say that to Griffith, aunt,' answered Stephen; 'he

has a very high notion, I can tell you, of his family, though his

father is only a shopkeeper.'

"Miss Evans put up her lip and said:

"'Well, mind me, Stephen, no quarrelling, I say, with Master Low, at

least on your part; so now walk off to your place.'

"When nurse had said all that was in her mind, she became more calm

upon the subject of Bernard's going to school; and so thoroughly did

the child tease during the few days that passed before he went, that

she was almost obliged to confess to herself that it was not altogether

a very bad thing that he was to have lessons to learn, and some

employment from home during part of every day.

"But when Bernard was actually to go, there was such a to-do about it,

that he might just as well have stayed at home, as to any good which

might be expected from it in the way of making him think less of

himself.

[Illustration: "_But when Bernard was actually to go there was such a

to-do about it._"--Page 332.]

"Lucilla had had a little pony for several years; this pony was to be

saddled for Bernard, and he was to ride to and from school, whilst a

servant attended him. His mother took the occasion to send a present of

fruit and nice vegetables by this servant to Miss Grizzy; and there was

a note written to Mr. Evans all about Bernard, and a great deal said in

it about getting his feet wet; and shoes were sent that he might change

them when he came in from play. Nurse also was sent down about two

hours after him, with some messages to Miss Evans and to hear how the

darling got on.

"Bernard was very sulky all that first morning. He was quite eight

years old; Mr. Evans therefore was much surprised at his being a very

poor reader. Indeed he could not in any way stammer out the first

chapter in the Bible, and Mr. Evans was obliged to put him into the

spelling-book at the first page. He called him up between each Latin

lesson he gave, but found that each time he called him, he read rather

worse than the time before. The simple truth is that he did not choose

to do better.

"Griffith whispered to Meekin, the last time Bernard was up, 'Mind what

I say, he is no better than a fool;' and Meekin passed the same words

to Price, and then it was a settled thing with these three boys, that

Bernard Low was a fool, and a very proper person to play any fun upon.

"But whilst these boys were settling this matter amongst them, Miss

Grizzy had sent for Stephen into the parlour, and given him some of the

fine pears and walnuts which Mrs. Low had sent.

"'Here, nephew,' she said, 'is the earnest of many more little presents

which we may expect; but everything depends on your behaviour to the

boy. We must keep him in good humour--we must show him every possible

favour in a quiet way, and you must not let Griffith and the others

tease him.'

"'This is an uncommon good pear,' said Stephen, as he bit a great piece

out of one of them.

"'Is it not?' replied his aunt; 'but, Stephen, do you hear me? you must

not let Griffith be playing his tricks on Master Low.'

"'I understand,' answered Stephen, taking another bite at the pear.

'Don't you think I know on which side my bread is buttered yet, aunt?'

he asked; 'though I am near fifteen years of age, and half through

Homer? but you must allow that Bernard Low is an abominably

disagreeable fellow, and one that one should like to duck in a

horse-pond--a whining, puling, mother-spoiled brat; however, I will see

that he shan't be quizzed to his face, and I suppose that's all you

require, is not it?'

"So he put all that remained of what his aunt had given him of the

fruit into his pocket, for himself, and left the room. He went straight

to the yard where the boys played, and scarcely got there in time to

hinder Griffith from beginning his tricks with Bernard, for he had got

a piece of whipcord, and was insisting that the boy should be tied with

it between Meekin and Price, and that they should be the team and he

the driver; and a pretty run would the first and last horse have given

the middle one, had Griffith's plan been executed.

"Bernard was already beginning to whine and put his finger in his eye,

when Stephen came in and called out:

"'Eh, what's that there? David Griffith, let the child alone; he has

not been used to your horseplay.'

"And as Stephen was much bigger and stronger than the other boys, they

all thought it best to give way.

"Bernard was let off, and he walked away, not in the best of tempers,

into the house, and into Miss Evans's own parlour, where she was seated

at her usual employment, darning stockings.

"'Well, Master Low,' she said, 'I hope you find everything agreeable; I

am sure it shall not be my fault if you do not; you have only to say

the word and anything you don't like shall be changed, if it is in my

power.'

"'I don't like that boy,' answered Bernard; 'that David Griffith.'

"'Never mind him, never mind him, Master Low,' replied Miss Evans; 'any

time that he don't make himself agreeable, only come to me; I am always

glad to see you here to sit in my parlour, and warm yourself if it is

cold. You know how much I respect your papa and mamma; there is nothing

I would not do for them.'

"Bernard had been so much used to flattery and fond words, that he did

not value them at all; he thought that they were only his due; and he

did not so much as say 'Thank you' to Miss Evans, nor even look smiling

nor pleasant; but he walked up to her round table, and curiously eyed

the large worsted stocking which she was darning--'Whose is that?' he

said.

"'My brother's, Master Low,' she answered.

"'Does he wear such things as those?' said Bernard; 'but I suppose he

must, because he is poor, and a curate, and a schoolmaster--my papa

wears silk.'

"'Your papa,' said Miss Evans, 'is a rich man, Master Low, and a

rector; and he can afford many things we must not think of.'

"'When shall we dine?' asked the boy.

"'Very soon, my dear,' answered Miss Evans.

"And then Master Bernard turned off to some other question, as

impertinently expressed as those he had put before.

"The dinner was set out in the room used for a schoolroom; an

ill-shaped room, with walls that had been washed with salmon colour,

but which were all scratched and inked. Each boy had a stool to sit

upon; the cloth was coarse, though clean, and all the things set upon

the table were coarse also.

"When called to dinner by a rough maidservant, Miss Evans led Bernard

in by the hand, and set him by herself on a chair at the _head_ of the

table.

"'Sister,' said Mr. Evans, in a low voice, 'last come, last

served--Master Low should sit below Price.'

"'Leave me to judge for myself, brother,' answered Miss Evans; 'you may

depend on my judgment.'

"And Bernard kept his seat, and had the nicest bits placed on his

plate.

"Bernard would have been quite as well contented, or, perhaps we may

say, not in the least more discontented, had he been set down at once

in his proper place, and served after the other boys.

"Then the other boys were not quite pleased; but Stephen was told to

tell them that Master Low was a parlour-boarder; and though they did

not quite understand what a parlour-boarder meant, they thought it

meant something, and that Bernard was to have some indulgences which

they were not to have.

"Many a trick would they have played him, no doubt, if Stephen had not

watched them. But as Stephen hated the spoiled child as much as they

did, he never hindered their speaking ill of him, and quizzing him,

when he did not hear or understand.

"Griffith soon gave him a nickname--this name was Noddy; there was no

wit in it, but the boys found great amusement in talking of this Noddy,

and of all his faults and follies, before the face of Bernard himself.

When he asked who this Noddy was, they told him that they were sure he

must have seen him very often, for his family lived at Rookdale.

"Mr. Evans himself was the only person in the family at school who

really strove to do his duty by Bernard--he gave his heart to improve

him; and he did get him on in his learning more than might have been

expected. But there were too many things against the poor child to make

it possible for him to improve his temper and his character.

"He went to school from the autumn until Christmas: at Christmas he was

at home for a month, and made even his nurse long for the end of the

holidays; and then he went again after the holidays, and continued to

go every day till the spring appeared again. There was no intention

then of changing the plan, though Mr. Low was not at all satisfied with

him.

"Bernard was now become so cunning that he did not show the worst of

his tempers before his father, nor even before his mother; but to his

sister he appeared just as he was, and he often made her very, very

sad by his naughty ways.

"Lucilla was one of those young people who love God and all their

fellow-creatures, and desire to do them good. She had always loved

Bernard, and she loved him still, though she saw him getting more and

more naughty from day to day. She believed, however, that he still

loved her as well as he could love any person besides himself, and she

thought a long time of some way which she might take to make him

sensible of his faults.

"During that winter she had often spoken to him in her kind and gentle

way, and shown him the certain end of evil behaviour; but she felt that

he paid no more attention to her than he would have done to the buzzing

of a fly; but now that the spring was come, and they could get out

together into the fields and gardens and woods, before and after

school-time, and on half-holidays, she thought she might have a better

chance with him, and she formed a thousand plans for making the time

they might thus pass together pleasant, before she could hit upon one

which she thought might do.

"In a shadowy and sweet nook of the garden was an artificial piece of

rock-work, which her mother, when first married, had caused to be made

there, the fragments of rock having been brought from a little

distance. There Lucilla, with the gardener's assistance, scooped a

hollow place, a few feet square, and arranged a pretty little

hermitage: dressing a doll like an old man, and painting a piece of

glass to fix in the back of the hermitage, to look like the window of a

chapel. She next sent and bought a few common tools, and thought, as

Bernard was very fond of clipping and cutting, she could tempt him to

work to help finish this hermitage. There was a root-house close to the

place, where she thought they might set to work at this business. 'And

if I can but engage Bernard,' she said to herself, 'to use his fingers,

I might perhaps now and then say something to soften him, and make him

feel it is wrong to go on as he does.'

"Mr. Evans always gave a week's holiday at Whitsuntide, and Lucilla

thought that this should be her time for trying what she could do with

Bernard."

[Illustration: But when Bernard was actually to go there was such a

to-do]

Second Part of the History of Little Bernard Low

[Illustration: "Let us sit here under the shade of a tree"]

_SECOND PART OF HENRY'S STORY_

"Meekin and Griffith and Price went home to spend the Whitsun holidays

on the Saturday evening, and Bernard came home also, with the

expectation of an idle time, which was to last till the Monday after

the next.

"The weather was very fine; all the early shrubs and flowers were in

bloom, the cuckoo was still in the woods, and the leaves had not lost

their tender young green.

"The young men in Rookdale were very fond of ringing the bells when

there was a holiday, and they rang away great part of Sunday and of

Monday also.

"The bells were soft and sweet, though rather sad; but the lads in the

belfry found nothing sad in pulling at the ropes, and going up and down

with them.

"Lucilla missed Bernard during several hours of the Sunday; she did not

guess that he had gone into the belfry with the young men, and that he

had persuaded the cook to give him a jug of beer to send to them. The

men would not let him pull a bell, as he was not strong enough--even

the beer would not tempt them.

"The Monday morning was as bright as the Sunday had been, and it was

enough to make the old young again to hear the man who was mowing the

lawn whetting his scythe whilst the dew was on the grass, and the

various songs of the birds in the trees.

"Lucilla had fixed upon this day to show Bernard the hermitage; but she

was rather put out, when she came down to breakfast, to see that there

was a very sulky flush on his cheeks, and that he was complaining of

his father to his mother, whilst his father was not in the room.

"'Now, mamma,' said Bernard, 'do ask papa; it's a holiday, and a fine

day, and I want to go. And why can't I go? Papa is so cross.'

"'My dear, you can't go to L---- (that was the nearest town to

Rookdale) to-day,' replied his mother; 'your papa is too busy to ride

with you.'

"'Can't John go?' asked Bernard.

"'He is engaged also,' said Mrs. Low.

"'Can't Ralph go?' returned Bernard.

"'Ralph is too young to be trusted with your papa's horse,' said Mrs.

Low.

"'But I must go.'

"'But indeed you can't.'

"'I can walk. What's to hinder my walking?'

"'Now do be content, my dear--stay with your sister--she has nothing to

do but to be with you;' and thus the mother and son went on until Mr.

Low came in, and then Bernard became what Griffith would have called

glum, for Griffith used many odd words.

"There was no more said about going to L---- after Mr. Low came in; but

it was quite certain that Bernard's sour looks were not lost on his

father.

"When breakfast was over, Lucilla said:

"'Now, Bernard, come with me--I have a pleasure for you.' When she had

put on her bonnet she led him to her grotto, and showed him what she

had done already, and gave him the tools and some little bits of wood,

and said, 'Now you must make my hermit a table and a chair--he must

have a table; and whilst you make these I will finish his dress, and

fasten the flax on for his beard, and make him a rosary with beads.'

"Lucilla watched her brother's face whilst she showed him the things,

and told him what she hoped he would do; and she saw that he never

smiled once. Spoiled children sometimes laugh loud, but they smile very

little; they have generally very grave faces.

"When they had looked at the grotto, they went into the root-house;

there were seats round it, and a table in the middle. Lucilla sat down,

and pulled her needle and thread and beads and bits of silk and cloth

out of her basket; and Bernard sat down too with the tools and bits of

wood and board before him.

"He first took up one tool and then another, and examined them, and

called them over. There was a nail-passer, and a hammer, and a strong

knife, and one or two more things very useful to a young boy in making

toys, or anything else in a small way; in short, everything that was

safe for such a one to have. But Bernard was out of humour, and looked

for something to find fault with, so of course he could find nothing to

please him.

"'This nail-driver is too small, Lucilla,' he said; 'where did you get

it?'

"'At L----,' she answered.

"'What did you give for it?' he asked. 'If you gave much, they have

cheated you; and the hammer, what did you give for that?'

"Lucilla either did not remember, or did not choose to tell him; and,

without noticing his questions, she said:

"'What will you make first?'

"Bernard did not answer.

"'Suppose you take this little square bit of deal,' said Lucilla, 'and

put legs to it, Bernard?'

"The boy took up the deal, turned it about, and, as Lucilla hoped, was

about to prepare a leg; for he took up a slender slip of wood, and

began paring it. She then went on with her work, looking up from time

to time, whilst Bernard went on cutting the slip. He pared and pared,

and notched awhile, till that slip was reduced to mere splinters. Still

Lucilla seemed to take no notice, but began to talk of anything she

could think of. Amongst other things, she talked of the pleasant week

they had before them, and of a scheme which their father had proposed

of their all going to drink tea some evening at a cottage in the wood;

she said, how pleasant it would be for them all to be together. No

answer again--Bernard had just spoiled another slip of wood, which he

finished off by wilfully snapping it in two; after which he stared his

sister full in the face, as if he was resolved to make her notice him.

"She saw what he was about, and therefore seemed as if she did not even

see him. She was sad, but she went on talking. The bells had struck up

again: they sounded sweetly, and they seemed sometimes to come as if

directly from the church, and then again as if from the woods and hills

on the opposite side. Lucilla remarked how odd this was, and said she

could not account for it; and then she added, 'Do you know, Bernard,

that I never hear bells ring without thinking of Alfred? he used to

love to hear them; he called them music, and once asked me if there

would be bells in heaven. I was very little then, only in my seventh

year, and I told him that there would be golden bells in heaven,

because the pilgrims had heard them ring when they were waiting in the

Land of Beulah to go over the River of Death.'

"'I say,' said Bernard, 'these bits of wood are not worth burning.'

"'You cut into them too deeply,' answered Lucilla.

"'There goes!' returned Bernard, snapping another; then, laying down

the knife, he took up the nail-passer, using it to bore a hole in the

board which formed the table of the root-house.

"'You must not do that,' said Lucilla, almost drawn out of her

patience.

"'Who says so?' answered Bernard.

"'It is mischief,' said Lucilla. 'It is papa's table; he will be vexed

if he sees it.'

"'What for?' said the tiresome boy.

"Lucilla did not answer.

"'What for?' repeated Bernard, throwing down the nail-passer, and

taking up the hammer, with which he knocked away on the place where he

had made the hole.

"'Oh, my beads!' cried his sister; for the hammering had overturned the

little box in which they were, and she had only time to save them, or

most of them, from rolling down on the gravel.

"'Well,' said Bernard, 'if that does not please you, what can I do

next?'

"Lucilla sighed; she could not speak at the moment, she was so very

sad, and so much disappointed.

"'I thought,' said Bernard, after a minute, 'that you promised me a

pleasure. What is it?'

"Lucilla's eyes filled with tears; she rubbed them hastily away, and

went on working, though without any delight in her work.

"Bernard yawned, then stretched; and after a while he said:

"'Come, Lucilla, let us have a walk.'

"'Anything,' thought Lucilla, 'that will put you into a better state of

mind.' So she gathered up her work, put it into her basket, and arose,

leaving the tools and the work on her table; then, giving one sad look

at her grotto, she led the way to a wicket not very far off, which

opened on a path made by her father through some part of the large and

beautiful wood which skirted part of the garden. Bernard followed her,

and they went on together for some time in silence.

"The path first led them down into a deep hollow, through the bottom of

which ran a pure stream of water, which had its source in the hills

above. The rays of the sun, which here and there shone through the

trees, sparkled and danced in the running stream. A gentle breeze was

rustling among the leaves; and besides the song of many birds, the

clear note of the cuckoo was heard from some distance.

"The path led them to a little bridge of a single plank and a

hand-rail, over which they crossed, and began to go up still among

woods to the other side, where the bank was very much more steep.

"Still they spoke not: Lucilla was thinking of Bernard, and grieving

for his wayward humours; and Bernard was thinking that Lucilla was not

half such good company as Ralph the stable-boy, or even as Miss Evans

or Stephen; and yet he had some sort of love for Lucilla, though he did

not like her company. He was, however, the first to speak.

"'Lucilla,' he said, 'do you know a lad in the parish called Noddy?'

"'Noddy?' replied Lucilla.

"'There is such a one,' said Bernard; 'Griffith knows him well, and

they say he is the oddest fellow--a sort of fool, and everybody's

laughing-stock. They will have it that I have seen him often; but if I

have, I don't know him.'

"'There may be many boys in the parish unknown to me,' answered

Lucilla.

"'I have asked Ralph about him,' said Bernard; 'but I can't get

anything out of him; he always falls a-laughing when I speak the word.'

"Lucilla felt herself more and more sad about her brother, and said to

him:

"'Really, Bernard, you are too intimate with Ralph; he may be a very

good boy, but you ought not to be so free with him as you are.'

"Bernard walked on, and made no answer.

"It was rather hard work, even for these two young people, to climb

this bank, which was, indeed, the foot of a very steep hill; at last

they came out on one side of the wood, on a very sweet field, covered

with fine grass, but nearly as steep as the path by which they had

come. The prospect from the top of this field was very lovely, for

immediately below was the deep dell in which the water flowed, and up a

little above it their father's house and garden, and beyond that the

tower of the church and the trees in the churchyard were seen; and

still farther on, hills of all shapes, near and far off, and woods, and

downs, and farmhouses. What pleased the little girl most was a road

which looked like a white thread winding away over the heights, and

passing out of sight near around hill, with a clump of firs at the top.

"'Let us sit down here under the shade of a tree,' said Lucilla; and

she sat down, whilst Bernard stretched himself by her side.

"Lucilla began to speak, after their long silence, by pointing out the

different things which they saw before them, telling the names of the

hills, and showing the farm-houses.

"'And there,' she said, 'look at that winding road and that round hill.

Beyond that hill is a common covered with gorse, where there are many

rabbits, and also many sheep. Nurse's son lives on that common: he was

papa's foster-brother. You know he is nurse's only child, and has got a

pretty cottage there. When poor little Alfred was beginning to get weak

and unwell, soon after Henry died; and mamma was ill too, and obliged

to go somewhere for her health, it was advised by the doctors that

Alfred should also change the air: and as the air of that common was

thought very fine, I went with my brother and nurse to spend the summer

at her son's cottage; and, Bernard, though I was then but six years

old, I remember everything there as if I had left it but yesterday, for

nurse has so often talked about that time to me.

"'Sweet little Alfred! He seemed to get quite well and strong; he rode

about the common on a donkey sometimes, and sometimes he played with

me, and sometimes we used to sit on the little heaps covered with sweet

short herbs, and talk of many things.

"'His chief delight was to talk of some place far away, where he always

fancied we were to go soon: he was to see Henry there, and Henry would

have wings, and his Saviour would be with them to take care of them,

and I was to come, and papa and mamma. I suppose that he spoke the

words of a baby; but the thoughts which were in his heart were very

sweet. He was merry, too, Bernard, more merry than you are, and full of

little tricks to make me laugh. But when we had been three months at

the cottage he grew languid and pale again; he was brought home, and

from that time grew worse and worse; and he died before Christmas. Oh,

Bernard, he was the gentlest, sweetest child--so pale! so beautiful!'

"Lucilla for a minute could say no more; she covered her face with her

hands, and large tears fell from her eyes. Bernard did not speak, but

he had an odd feeling in his throat, and wished that Lucilla was not

there to see him cry, for he felt he wanted to cry.

"Lucilla soon spoke again, and went on in the kindest, most gentle way,

to tell her brother how much more bitter his ill-behaviour was to their

mother than even the death of her elder boys; saying everything which a

loving, gentle girl could say to lead him to better behaviour.

"Suddenly, whilst she was speaking, she saw her father and mother

coming from the little wicket which lay in full view below them, and

taking their way slowly, and as if talking to each other, along the

path in the wood. Sometimes the trees partly hid them, then Lucilla saw

them clearly again, and then not at all. She pointed them out to

Bernard, and said:

"'Now, now, dear brother, is your time; you can run down one bank and

up another in a few minutes; you can run to mamma, and beg her pardon

for being sullen and disobedient to her this morning at breakfast; and

then, my dear, dear brother, you will have made a good beginning, and

we shall all be so happy.'

"Bernard had laid himself at full length on the grass, amusing himself,

whilst his sister spoke, with kicking his legs. He was trying with all

his might and main to harden himself against what she said; and

succeeded in making himself as stupid as a mere brick.

"When she pressed him to run to his father, he drew up his legs and lay

with his knees above all the rest of him, and his eyes staring up to

the tree above his head, so that an owl could not have looked more

stupid.

"Lucilla felt more sad than she had done before, when she saw how

determined he was not to listen to her. She knew not what next to do or

say; but whilst she was thinking, a dog was heard to bark on the other

side the hedge which was behind them, and a voice saying, 'Be quiet,

Pincher.'

"'Why, that is Stephen,' cried Bernard, jumping on his feet; 'what can

he be doing here?'

"He flew to the hedge, he sprang up the bank, and called to Stephen,

who was walking along the path on the other side with his dog Pincher.

"'Stop, stop!' cried Bernard; 'stop and I will come to you. Good-bye,

Lucilla, you can go home by yourself;' and the next minute the rude boy

had tumbled over the fence, and was running after Stephen.

"Poor Bernard little thought what he lost when he refused to listen to

Lucilla, and what great pleasure he would have gained, had he done what

she required of him, and run to beg his father's pardon.

"No one can say what a day may bring forth; and who could have foreseen

the very strange thing which had happened whilst Lucilla and Bernard

were out that morning? It was an affair of very serious business, which

must be told: but as most young people hate business, it shall be told

as shortly as possible.

"Mr. Low's brother had been a very wild boy, and had run away; so that

for many years Mr. Low had heard nothing about him. At last he got a

letter; it was a kind and humble one: in this letter Mr. John Low sent

word, that after many adventures he had made some money, and bought a

farm in America, on the banks of the Hudson, above New York; that he

was doing very well, that he had never married, and only wished that

his brother would come and see him. Mr. Low had answered this letter

as a brother should do; and every year since, they had written to each

other, and sent each other presents. But this morning a letter had come

from Mr. John Low, entreating his brother to come to him, if possible,

and to bring his family; stating that he had a disease upon him that

must soon finish his life; and telling him that he had engaged the

captain of the _Dory_, who brought the letter, to take him and his

family back with him to America, he having undertaken to pay all the

costs. The letter finished with the most earnest entreaties that they

would all come.

"With Mr. John Low's letter came another from Captain Lewis, of the

_Dory_, saying he should go back in less than a fortnight, and pressing

Mr. Low to attend to his brother's request; adding that he almost

feared that his friend, Mr. John Low, would hardly be found alive when

they reached New York.

"Mr. and Mrs. Low were talking over this letter, and forming their

plans about it, when their children saw them walking so gravely in the

wood. They had come to the resolution to go with Captain Lewis, and

they had a long discourse about Bernard. They resolved at once to take

Lucilla with them; they wished her to see her uncle, and to see the New

World, and her company would be pleasant to them; but they had many

doubts about Bernard. Mr. Low was quite against taking him, and he took

this occasion to tell his wife that they had both been to blame in

spoiling him as they had done, and that he considered his present

ill-behaviour as a punishment which he himself deserved, for having

suffered his boy to be so spoiled.

"Mrs. Low had not much to say; she thought her husband was right.

"Now, had Bernard listened to Lucilla, and had he come just at that

minute before his parents and begged pardon for his ill-behaviour, he

might have changed his father's determination--for fathers are very

forgiving--and then his mother, too, would have been on his side; and

so he might have got the pleasure of going that long journey into the

New World.

"Everything was settled after Mr. Low had made up his mind, even before

Bernard returned; for Stephen was going a long walk to see Meekin's

father, who was a farmer in the next parish, and Bernard went with him.

Stephen would not take him, however, till he had come back to where

Lucilla was, to ask her if she thought Mr. Low would be pleased if he

took him.

"Stephen could speak very properly and well, when it served his turn to

do so; and Lucilla thought him a very nice person, and to be trusted,

for he was older than Bernard, by several years, and was often trusted

to walk with the boys. She could not say that she could give leave, but

she promised to tell her father where Bernard was gone, and with whom.

Everything was therefore settled before the spoiled boy came home late

in the evening. Mr. Low agreed with Mr. Evans that he should take care

of his church; and as Mr. Evans was going to have his house painted and

a new schoolroom built, it was also settled that he should come and

reside at the rectory until Mr. Low returned. Miss Evans was immensely

pleased at the thought of this. Bernard was to remain under Mr. Evans's

care; Mr. Low's servants were all to be put on board wages and sent

home, excepting the gardener. Even nurse was to go to her son, for Mr.

Low said that nurse was the one who spoiled Bernard most. The boys were

to have a large laundry, which was in the yard, for their schoolroom,

and the drying yard for their play-ground; and Mr. Evans and his family

were to come in the day Mr. Low left.

"Mr. Low had also to ask leave for being absent from his living, and

Mrs. Low had packing to do; so that there was a vast deal to get

through, for it was necessary for them to be in London, where Captain

Lewis was, in a very few days.

"As Lucilla, who had not yet heard of all this great bustle, walked

quietly home, her heart was very sad on account of her brother. She

came back by the grotto, and took up her work-basket, putting away the

hermit and the tools and bits of wood in a corner of the little cave

out of sight; and taking her basket in her hand, she walked towards

home, thinking to return to her little hermitage the next day at

latest.

"Poor Lucilla could not help shedding a few tears as she passed slowly

along the shrubbery, to think how all her little plans had ended in

nothing. She did not just then remember that verse, 'Cast thy bread

upon the waters, and after many days thou shalt find it.'"

[Illustration: "_He took up a slip of wood._"--Page 344.]

Third Part of the History of Little Bernard Low

[Illustration: There was no end of the indulgences given in private to

the boy]

_THIRD PART OF HENRY'S STORY_

"As this history has been very long, and there is more to write about

it, we will not say much of what happened the next seven days; for both

houses, that is, Mr. Low's and Mr. Evans's, were all in a bustle, and

everybody was pleased at the changes which were coming. Even Bernard,

after he had roared, and cried, and sulked for the first two days, had

altered his manner, and taken up the behaviour of Harry in the old

spelling-book--what we may call the don't-care behaviour--for, as he

told nurse, if his father did not love him enough to take the trouble

of him in the voyage he was taking, he did not care, not he; he should

be very happy at home without him. He should cry no more: he wondered

why he cried at first, for he had not cared all the while; and so he

went whistling about the house the tune of the 'Jolly Miller' which he

had heard Ralph sing:

"'There was a jolly miller once

Lived on the River Dee;

He work'd and sang from morn till night,

No man so blithe as he.

"'And this the burden of his song

For ever used to be--

I care for nobody, no, not I,

And nobody cares for me.'

"Bernard, however, did not let his father hear him whistling this tune,

nor did he say, 'I don't care,' before him.

"The Monday following that in which he had walked with Lucilla was the

day fixed for the many changes. Very early in the morning, nurse's son

brought a donkey for his mother. The old woman cried, and said she

should have no peace till she came back again, and told Mrs. Low that

she was sure she should never live in comfort with her son's wife Joan.

She kissed Bernard twenty times, and begged him to come and see her;

and Bernard did his best not to cry. There was an early breakfast, but

nobody sat at the table two minutes together; something was to be done

every moment. Mr. Low walked in and out five or six times. The

housemaid and the cook came in to say good-bye; they were going to walk

to their homes; and Ralph was to go with his sister, the cook. People,

too, were coming with packages from Mr. Evans's, and the bustle kept

Bernard from thinking very deeply on what was going to happen; and yet

he could not eat his breakfast, nor whistle, for he was not in his

usual spirits.

"At length the chaise came from the inn, and the trunks were brought

down to be fastened on.

"Bernard placed himself at the window to look at what was being done

without; and again he felt the same choking he had had on the hill.

"He heard his mother say, 'When shall we start, my dear?' and his

father answer, 'In less than half an hour.' He saw his mother look at

him with tears in her eyes. He could bear it no longer--he rushed out

into the shrubbery, and having got behind a laurestinus, he gave full

way to his tears--he could not then say, 'Who cares?'

"Lucilla saw him run out and followed him; she was weeping very

bitterly; she threw her arms round him, and they both cried together.

She kissed him many times, and they would not have parted then, had

they not heard themselves called. Lucilla hastily then put a very

pretty little Bible in his hand, and gave him another kiss.

"There only remained a tender parting between the boy and his parents;

and whilst they were still blessing him they were driven away, and the

poor child was left standing alone on the gravel. His eyes followed the

carriage as long as it could be seen from that place; and then,

observing some people coming in at the gate, he ran away. He took the

path through the shrubbery, and across a field, to a high green bank,

from which he could trace the road a long way, even as far off as where

it passed under the round hill with the clump of firs on it, near to

nurse's son's house.

"He sat down on the bank, waiting until the carriage should come in

sight again: for when it got down into the bottom of the valley, where

there were many trees, it was hid from his view.

"This was perhaps the first time in Bernard's life in which he ever had

any really useful thoughts. He was made then to have some little notion

that he owed his present trouble to his having been a very rebellious

naughty boy; but with this good thought came also a bad one: 'But if

papa loves me as he ought to do, he would not have been so cruel as to

leave me. He would have forgiven me and overlooked the past, and tried

me again.'

"Bernard did not consider that it would actually have been very

dangerous to have taken a disobedient boy to sea, for no one could tell

what mischief he might have got into on board ship.

"When Bernard saw the carriage again, it looked like a speck on the

white road. The speck seemed to grow smaller and smaller, and at last

it disappeared round the foot of the little hill. Then the poor boy

cried and cried again, until he could cry no longer, and every tear

seemed to be dried up.

"No one can say how long he sat there, but it was a long time; at last

he heard a voice, saying, 'Master Low! Master Low! where are you?' and

the next minute old Jacob, the gardener, appeared.

"Now Jacob was the only servant who had not helped to spoil Bernard,

and therefore Bernard had never liked him, but always called him cross

old Jacob. He was glad, however, to see him then; and yet he did not

speak first to him.

"'I am glad I have found you, Master,' said the old man; 'I have been

hunting you everywhere; and so has Mr. Evans. They be all come--Miss

Grizzy herself, and the two maids, and Master Stephen, and a power of

traps; and the lad that cleans the shoes and knives. But I shan't let

him meddle with the horses, which he is forward enough to do. But you

must come along with me. Master; they are all in trouble about you.'

"'Surely,' said Bernard, forgetting that one good thought which he had

had a little before, 'I may go anywhere I please on my own papa's

grounds; everything here is papa's, Jacob, and I am at home here.'

"'True,' replied Jacob, 'and so am I too; but neither you nor I is

master here.'

"'That is just like you, Jacob,' answered Bernard; 'but I am the

master's son, and you are a servant.'

"'I could answer you from Scripture,' said Jacob, 'if I would.'

"'Do then!' cried Bernard.

"'Now I say, that the heir, as long as he is a child, differeth nothing

from a servant, though he be lord of all; but is under tutors and

governors until the time appointed of the father' (Gal. iv. 1, 2).

"Bernard made no answer to this, but, getting up, walked before Jacob

to the house. At the door he was met by Mr. Evans, who spoke to him

kindly, said he hoped to make him happy, and to do everything for his

good in his father's absence. He added also that Griffith and Meekin

and Price were come, and were in the laundry, which was then to be

called the schoolroom; but that he should not call any of them that day

to lessons; only he hoped that he would not go far from the house, as

he was now accountable for his safety.

"Mr. Evans then walked away, and Bernard went to his own room, where he

had much difficulty to prevent himself from crying again; but happening

to light upon some penny pictures and a pair of scissors, he amused

himself with cutting them all to pieces; first cutting out the figures,

then the houses, and then the trees, till he had spoiled them all.

"At one o'clock the bell rang for dinner. Bernard did not stir till

somebody had had the trouble of coming up to call him. The dinner was

laid in the family dining-room. Miss Grizzy was seated at the head of

the table when Bernard came in; she was in very good humour, and smart

as usual. Mr. Evans was in Mr. Low's place at the bottom; the boys on

each side.

"'Master Low,' said Miss Evans, as he came in, 'I hope you are well;

here we are, you see, in your papa's handsome room, and here is your

chair by me. I don't ask you to sit down, for who has such a right to

sit here as you have? Make room, Meekin. Surely there is room enough at

this large table? Sit a little lower, Griffith; and now, Master Low,

what shall we give you?'

"All that was proud and selfish in the heart of poor Bernard was awake

and busy long before Miss Evans had finished her speech. The boy looked

round the table for what he liked best; but instead of asking, told the

servant to take his plate for it, saying:

"'Don't give me fat, I don't like it.'

"'No fat for Master Low,' cried Miss Evans: and then again speaking to

the boy, 'You have a charming house here, Master Low; I had no notion

how good it was till I went over it this morning. I tell the young

gentlemen here that they must be very careful not to do mischief.'

"'They cannot do any, sister,' said Mr. Evans, 'if they keep to their

places. They must not go into the garden, there is abundant room for

them to play in elsewhere, and they shall have as much fruit as is good

for them. Mind, boys, on honour, no going into the garden. You shall

not need, for as Mr. Low kindly leaves us the use of the fruit, you

shall have your full share.'

"'You hear, young gentlemen,' said Miss Evans; 'Master Meekin, Master

Griffith, Master Price----'

"'And Master Low,' added Mr. Evans, 'you are, on honour, not to go into

the garden.'

"'Master Low!' repeated Miss Grizzy; 'Master Low not to go into his

papa's garden?'

"Mr. Evans never disputed with his sister before the boys, and not,

indeed, very often when alone with her, for he loved peace and

quietness, and she would always have many last words; so he said no

more; and she, tapping Bernard gently on the back, said, in a low

voice:

"'That would be hard, would not it, to keep you out of your dear papa's

own garden?'

"'I should think so,' answered Bernard, in the same low voice.

"This was only the beginning; and as Miss Grizzy went on as she had

begun, in setting up Bernard, and flattering him to the very utmost in

her power, there is much reason to fear that he was not likely to be

the better for being left with her.

"Griffith, with his friends Meekin and Price, would soon have given him

a lesson or two of another kind, had not Stephen watched them; but

Stephen had been well tutored by his aunt, and as much was gained them

from Mr. Low's friendship, besides the honour of having Master Low at

school, they cared for nothing so much as keeping the naughty boy in

good humour.

"As to Mr. Evans, he was a simple, earnest man, not suspecting evil of

others, and anxious to do good. He was kind to all his pupils; he never

made a difference: and it was for his sake that any boys remained in

the house; so that he really caused the family to prosper, whilst his

sister fancied it was all her own doing.

"The next day Mr. Evans began to give his lessons; and kept them on

most regularly till the Midsummer holidays. He was not aware that

Bernard had any other indulgence but being helped first at table, which

he did not quite like; and he kept him as close as the others at his

lessons.

"But Miss Grizzy, and Stephen, and Bernard were too deep for him; and

there was no end of the indulgences given in private to the boy. He had

cakes, and puffs, and strawberries and cream given him, when nobody saw

it, by Miss Evans.

"Stephen never took notice when he went beyond bounds unless his uncle

was likely to catch him. He helped him privately at his lessons; and

when set to hear him, often let him slip them altogether; and always

took his part when there was a quarrel between him and the other boys.

The holidays made but little difference with Bernard. Mr. Evans gave

him a daily lesson, because he wanted to get him on. And as to other

things, he could not be more spoiled and stuffed by Miss Grizzy at one

time than at another.

"Miss Grizzy all this while disliked him as much as Stephen did, and

that was with their whole hearts.

"Stephen called him a little proud, insolent puppy. And Miss Evans said

he was the most greedy child she ever saw, and so wasteful and

thankless, and one of the worst-mannered boys she ever had to deal

with.

"Stephen said the same to Meekin and Griffith and Price; he laid all

the partiality with which they charged him on his aunt, and said he

only wished he could have his way with him, and he would soon bring

down his airs, and teach him what he was made of.

"The same boys met again after the holidays, and things went on much in

the same way.

"Several letters were received from Mr. Low from different places; at

length one came, stating their arrival in New York, and their being

about to go up the Hudson to Mr. John Low's house.

"The great indulgence with which Bernard was treated, and the bustle

that was made about him, together with the real kindness of Mr. Evans,

made him very hard and careless about his parents.

"He used often to say, 'I do very well here; if papa stays longer than

he at first intended I shall not fret after him, and I dare say he will

not fret after me, for if he had loved me so very much he would not

have left me behind.'

"Bernard could not forgive his father for leaving him; but whenever he

talked in this way not even Stephen could keep Griffith from speaking

his mind to him.

"'There you go again,' Griffith would say; 'always blaming your father,

when the fault is all your own. Don't you know, Bernard, that there is

nobody that can bear with you who thinks they have not something to get

by you?'

"The name Noddy, which Stephen had forbidden, was got up again after

the Midsummer holidays; and everything that Bernard did to make himself

disagreeable was set down to this Noddy.

"At last Bernard got to the truth of this matter by being told by

Meekin that if he wished to see Noddy, he must take a peep in the

looking-glass. On hearing this, Bernard struck Meekin, and if Stephen

had not come in, the spoiled boy for once would have got his deserts.

"Letters were again received from Mr. Low about December; he said in

them that his poor brother was very ill, not likely to live through the

winter; that it was impossible for him to leave him, and that at all

events he meant to stay till the season for crossing the sea should be

better. Lucilla at the same time wrote a long letter to her brother.

"The Christmas holidays passed, and nothing particular happened; the

same boys met again after Christmas, and another boy came also; but

Bernard despised him as much as he did Meekin and Griffith and Price,

because he had heard it said that his father kept a shop.

"January passed, and February, and March; another letter had come from

Mr. Low; poor Mr. John Low was dead, and Mr. Low was busy settling his

affairs. Mr. John Low had left his brother a good deal of money, but

Mr. Low did not say anything about that; Miss Grizzy therefore made it

out that there was none.

"Another letter arrived at the end of March to say that Captain Lewis

was to sail for England in the _Dory_ in a few days, and that Mr. Low

hoped to come with him. There was another sweet letter from Lucilla,

telling how many pretty things she had collected for her dear brother.

"It was about four weeks after these two last letters had been

received, when one morning Mr. Evans came in a great hurry, and with a

face of much trouble, into the school-room, and called out Stephen.

Stephen came back five minutes afterwards, and told the boys that his

uncle had been called suddenly away, and they had leave to play.

"'Good news--good news!' cried Griffith, and away ran the four pupils,

with Stephen after them; whilst Bernard went into the house to see what

he could get.

"As he came into the hall he saw that the parlour door was open, and he

heard people talking within. Miss Grizzy was in the parlour, and she

was talking to a neighbour who had dropped in. The coming of that

neighbour, Bernard thought, had something to do with the holiday so

suddenly given, and by listening he thought he might find something out

about this holiday.

"The words Bernard heard were these:

"'I know, Mrs. Smith, better than most, that the family had nothing to

depend upon but the living. To be sure, the living is very good, and

much might be saved out of it for the children, but if what we hear is

true they will come but poorly off, I fear.'

"'You forget, Miss Evans,' answered Mrs. Smith, 'that if what we hear

be true--and I fear it is--there is only one left to provide for.'

"As Bernard drew closer to the door to hear more, he knocked his foot

against it, and Miss Grizzy called out:

"'Who is there?'

"Bernard walked into the parlour at the call, in his usual manner, and

without taking any notice of Mrs. Smith, he said:

"'I want some bread and butter.'

"'What, already?' cried Miss Grizzy tartly; 'don't you see that I am

talking business with my neighbour, Master Low? Come, you had best go

to play, and mind to shut the door after you.'

"Bernard looked at her with a look which seemed to say, 'What's the

matter now?' and walked away, leaving the door as wide open as he could

push it.

"He walked into the garden, but old Jacob was not there, and then he

went to the back of the house to look for the other boys. He had heard

their voices at a distance, when he got there, and saw them in the very

field where he had sat with Lucilla. Their voices came straight over

the valley; but it was a long way to go, down first and up again, to

them. However, he set out to go, and in his way had to pass by the door

of a cottage near the brook. In this cottage lived an old woman, who

had been supported for some years by his father's family, though she

could do little in return. She was sitting on the step, with her face

on her knees, crying bitterly.

"'What now, Betty?' said Bernard.

"'Ah, Master Low!' she said, looking up, 'is it you, my precious

master, and do you say, what's the matter now? Have not they told you?

The hardened creatures to keep such news from you!'

"And she then told him the real cause of the breaking up of the school,

the absence of Mr. Evans and Jacob, and the visit of Mrs. Smith. News

had come that day to Rookdale, that the _Dory_ had been lost at sea,

and gone down with every creature on board: having been seen to

founder by some other vessel, in a dreadful squall off some island.

"Mr. Evans had gone immediately to discover the truth of this account,

which was in a newspaper. It is not known where he went, or to whom he

wrote letters; but this is certain, that he only obtained confirmation

of the dreadful news, and as weeks passed, and nothing was heard from

Mr. Low or of the _Dory_, every one, of course, believed that poor

Bernard was an orphan.

"Miss Grizzy began to think where the money was to come from to pay for

Bernard's keep; for what had been said was very true, Mr. Low had had

little to depend upon but his living; or if he had saved anything, it

could not be known where his savings were, till his papers could be

looked up, and that could not be done until it was as certain as might

be that he was really dead.

"Poor Bernard!--now his time of trial had come: he was quite unprepared

for the story old Betty told him. Mr. Evans had wished it might for the

present be kept from him. He fell down like one struck with death when

he heard the story.

"The old woman screamed; at her cry, Stephen and the boys, who were not

far off, came running to her; more help was called, Bernard was lifted

up, and carried to the house and put to bed.

"When laid on his bed, it was found that the sudden shock had made him

very ill, and there was fear of inflammation of the brain. The doctor

was sent for, he was bled more than once, his head was shaved, and a

large blister put upon it. He was reduced to be as weak as a baby: he

called often, when he knew not what he said, for his father and his

mother, and his own sweet Lucilla; and when he recollected that he had

heard they were dead, he called for his nurse.

"Nurse came the moment she heard of his illness; but Mr. Evans was not

come home, he was absent more than ten days, and Miss Grizzy would not

let nurse see him. In grief and anger the old woman went home, and took

to her bed almost as ill as poor Bernard.

"Miss Grizzy was the person who watched by Bernard's bed, and saw that

everything the doctor ordered was done; but Bernard fancied she was not

the same Miss Grizzy that used to smile upon him and flatter him in

past times, she looked so grave, and said so often, 'That _must_ be

done, Master Low.'

"Bernard, however, did not think much about her; his whole mind was

filled, till his head got well, with thoughts of his parents and

sister, and even of his little brothers, whom he had never seen. And in

this time of suffering and weakness he began to be sincerely sorry for

his past naughtiness.

"Mr. Evans came back without any hope respecting Mr. Low. He was very

much grieved, especially for Bernard, and showed his kindness by

visiting him often in his room; and when the boy was better, another

friend showed himself; this was Griffith, who had made up his mind

never again to quiz Bernard so long as he lived. He came often to him,

and even read to him in the Bible Lucilla had given. Jacob too showed

his deep affection for his little master. But Jacob himself was soon

afterwards taken ill, and Miss Grizzy contrived that he should be sent

away till he got better. So Bernard was made to feel that those were

not his real friends who flattered him when all seemed to be well with

him.

"Time passed on, Bernard's health was restored, and he was able to come

down as usual. He went down to dinner the first day on a Sunday. He had

been well enough to go down the Monday before, but Miss Grizzy had

fixed on Sunday for the day; perhaps because her brother, who had two

churches to serve, would not be at dinner. When Bernard came into the

room, he looked at the place where he used to sit, but Master Larkin,

the new pupil, was in it. There was a place kept for him by Stephen at

the bottom of the table.

"'You are older than Larkin, Low,' said Stephen, 'and must give up the

place of pet to him.' Bernard sat down. He did not just then understand

the reason of being put out of his place--he had this to learn amongst

other things. He was not asked what he would like, but helped in his

turn; and when dinner was over, he was not asked if he would like to

stay in the parlour, but told, if he felt tired, to go and lie on his

own bed. At tea he was treated like the other boys, and at supper also,

and from that time this went on. If Mr. Evans saw it, he did not

interfere; but this good man was very absent, and many things passed

before him which he did not notice.

"After a few days, one would have thought that Miss Evans and her

nephew had ceased to care altogether about Bernard's feelings; they

began to talk before him of who was to have the house and living, and

that it was necessary to take great care of the house and furniture;

and Bernard was told that he must not run rampaging about as he had

done formerly; for, as Miss Grizzy said, there was little enough left,

she feared, for his maintenance, and there was no need to make things

worse.

"It was a hard lesson for the spoiled boy to be taught to be patient

under these mortifications, and never to fire up and answer these cruel

hints; but he was patient, he bore much and said little. He felt that

he deserved to be humbled in this way, and he tried to be submissive.

"Another month or six weeks went, and Bernard had only two earthly

comforts: one was from the gentleness of Mr. Evans, and the other from

the rough kindness of Griffith, who gave Meekin a sound drubbing one

day for calling Bernard Noddy.

"'Why,' said Meekin, 'did not _you_ give him the name?'

"'I did,' answered Griffith; 'but he shan't hear it now, never again.'

"The season of Whitsuntide had come round, and the boys were to go home

for a week, and only Meekin, Low, and Stephen were left. The bells were

not set to ring as usual on Sunday morning; the ringers were thoughtful

enough to refuse to ring; but Stephen was resolved to have a peal, and

he and Meekin and the big boy who worked about the place, and one other

whom they contrived to muster, had one peal on the Sunday, and several

others on the Monday.

"The return of Whitsuntide made Bernard more unhappy than he had been

for many days. He remembered that time a year ago so very exactly, and

what everybody had then said and done--his own bad behaviour

especially. He had a very sad Sunday, and got up even more sad on the

Monday morning.

"Miss Grizzy had put him out of his old sleeping-room after his

recovery, into a little room which looked over the stable yard. Before

he was dressed he heard talking in the yard. He dressed in haste, and

ran to the window, and there he saw just below him a young man called

Benjamin, the same who had helped to ring the bells with Stephen and

Meekin and the servant boy--all gathered together examining Lucilla's

pony. Bernard could not hear what they said, and the bell rang for

breakfast before he had time to ask.

"When he came down, he was sorry to find that Mr. Evans was gone out.

He asked Meekin how long he was to stay from home; and Stephen

answered:

"'Maybe all the week; maybe a month; maybe he wishes to try what sort

of a schoolmaster I should make in his absence.'

"'Oh! I hope not,' said Bernard, speaking hastily and without thinking.

"'You do, do you?' answered Stephen spitefully; 'well, we shall see.'

"'It don't become you, Low, to speak in such a way now,' said Miss

Grizzy, 'you are not master here, now. You can't count upon this place

being yours more than my brother's any longer; it is just as well that

you know the truth, and know at once what to expect. The living went

from the family when your father died, and it is feared that there will

not be much left for your keep when the things are sold, and everything

paid.'

"The tears stood in Bernard's eyes--not that he attended to all the

words Miss Grizzy said; he was thinking of that day a year ago, of his

own ill behaviour, and of the kindness of his sweet Lucilla.

"'Oh!' he thought, 'how could I have run away from my gentle sister to

go to that cruel Stephen?'

"Stephen and Meekin walked off in a hurry, after they had breakfasted,

and Miss Grizzy sent Bernard after them. He followed them slowly, and

yet did not like to stay long behind them.

"They were gone again into the yard, and there was Benjamin, and the

servant boy, and the pony. Stephen was talking of the pony, and giving

his orders: the pony had a long tail, and his mane wanted putting in

order.

"'You must dock the tail close, Ben,' were the words that Bernard

heard; 'she will sell for nothing in that fashion.'

"'Oh, no, no!' cried Bernard, running forward, 'Lucilla would not like

it; she said she would always have it long to flitch away the flies.'

"'Who bid you speak?' said Stephen.

"'Is she not my horse now?' cried Bernard.

"'No more yours than mine,' replied Stephen.

"'Don't cut her tail, Benjamin,' returned Bernard.

"'Hold your peace,' said Stephen.

"'Only stay till Mr. Evans comes home,' said Bernard.

"'Do it now,' said Stephen.

"Bernard was beside himself; he called Stephen cruel, deceitful, and

anything else he could think of, and he tried to seize the halter of

the pony.

"Stephen dragged him away, and in the scuffle thought Bernard had

struck him; Meekin swore that he did.

"Stephen, when set up, was furiously passionate, and without taking

time for thought, he snatched a switch from the hand of Ben, and laid

it on Bernard till his back and even the sides of his face were covered

with wheals. The poor boy ran, and Stephen after him. Stephen was even

the more provoked because Benjamin cried to him to desist.

"Bernard at last got away from him by a little gate which led into the

garden, and he continued to run until he had come to the arbour and the

grotto. He had never gone to that corner of the shrubbery since the

news had come of the loss of the _Dory_; and at first, when he almost

dropped down on one of the benches, he scarcely recollected where he

was. He was seated exactly where he had sat with Lucilla on the last

Whitsun-Monday. The mouth of the grotto was exactly before him; the

winter's wind had driven the dead damp leaves into it, and there had

been no one to clear them away. The highest point of the little window

in the back, which Lucilla herself had painted on a piece of board,

just peeped above the heap of leaves. Bernard thought of the tools

Lucilla had bought; they were lying, no doubt, rusting in a corner.

"'Oh, Lucilla!' he cried; and bursting into tears, he laid his hands on

the table, and stooped his face upon them: the board was quite wet with

his tears when he looked up again.

"He was startled by the sudden ringing out of the bells. Stephen and

the boys had gone to cool themselves in the belfry, after leaving the

pony undocked in the field.

"How did those bells remind the unhappy boy of the year before, for he

had heard them when sitting in that very place with Lucilla! He

remembered his hardness and pride at that time, and like the Prodigal

Son to his father, he cried to his God, 'I have sinned against heaven

and before Thee, and am not worthy to be called Thy son.'

"Could Lucilla have foreknown in what spirit her dear brother would

have spoken those words in that place, at the end of twelve months

after she had brought him there, she would have been filled with joy,

and would have said, 'My God, I thank Thee, for Thou hast heard my

prayers.'

"When Bernard was getting more calm, his tears were made to flow again

by the sight of the broken splinters and one of Lucilla's beads on the

gravel at his feet. He took up the bead, wrapped it in a bit of paper,

put it into his waistcoat pocket, and went out of the shrubbery by the

wicket close by into the wood.

"As he walked along his wandering eye at last settled upon that spot of

ground, at the foot of the round hill with the crown of fir-trees,

where the carriage which had taken away his parents had disappeared. He

thought then of his nurse, and that she had been one of those to whom

he had behaved ill.

"'Poor nurse!' he said to himself, 'I will go to beg her pardon, and I

will get her to let me live with her, and never let me come back to

this place again. Nurse will give me bread, and I shall want nothing

else. I will go;' and he got up and looked to see which was the

shortest way to get to the round hill. When he fancied he had made this

out, he got up and set off slowly, for by this time the stripes given

him by the switch had got stiff; but he had set his mind on going to

nurse's, and, indeed, he did not dare to go home.

"Oh, what a long and dreary way did he find it! The first half-mile was

tolerably level, but the next two miles and a half were all uphill,

only with a very little going down sometimes. The sun was shining

without clouds, and his bones were sore, and he was getting hungry; and

what was worse than all, his heart was very sad, and the road was

solitary. He scarcely met anyone, excepting a party of people with

asses; still he often caught sight of the round hill, and found himself

getting nearer to it: he thought it looked higher, and higher, and

higher as he went on, and he had to go beyond it. It was quite noonday

before he reached the foot of it; and there he had to ask a man, who

was breaking stones on the road, the nearest way to the common. The man

showed him a deep lane a little further, up which he was to go, and

when he had got to the end of it, he saw the common and the

rabbit-burrows, and sheep, and geese, and many cottages. He asked at

many doors before he could learn where nurse lived; but when he saw her

house he was pleased, because it looked larger and neater than the

others, and he thought there would be room for him. It stood in a

pretty garden, surrounded with a neat quickset hedge, nicely shorn.

"He opened the wicket-gate without fear, and walked up to the door. He

saw a neat kitchen within, for the door was half open; he knocked, and

called, 'Is nurse at home?' No one answered at first, but soon he heard

a step, and nurse's daughter-in-law appeared.

"She was a tall, hard-looking woman, and the first words she said,

were:

"'Surely it is not you, Master Low, and in such a plight? Why, you have

been a-fighting.'

"'I want nurse,' said Bernard.

"'What, mother-in-law?' answered the woman; 'you can't see her.'

"'Why?' answered Bernard.

"'She is sick in bed,' said the woman.

"'Let me go up and see her, if you please,' said Bernard.

"'You can't do no such thing,' said the woman; 'she is not in the

house, and if she was she could not have much to say to you. Has not

Miss Grizzy forbid her to come about you? and times are hard, Master

Low. You has run away from school, I doubt not, by the look of you. You

has been a-fighting. Don't think that we shall go to harbour you here,

and get nothing but cross words for our pains. Miss Grizzy told mother

that there would be nothing a-coming to you when all was paid. So go

back as fast as you can; you can't come in. Go back, there's a good

lad.'

"She then, in her great goodness, handed him a crust and a bit of dry

cheese, and pushed him from the door; for she was afraid that her

husband and his mother, who were both out, might come in before the

child was gone.

"Bernard hardly knew what he did when he took the bread and cheese, and

felt the hand of the woman pushing him out. He could not eat what was

given him, for he was parched with thirst, and his young heart was

almost broken by his disappointment. Even to nurse he had behaved ill,

and now he thought that even she had forsaken him. He dragged himself

back through the deep lane, and being again in the highroad at the foot

of the hill, he sat, or rather stretched, himself on a green bank

under a hedge; and having cried again till he could cry no longer, he

fell into a sort of stupor, neither asleep nor otherwise, quite worn

with tiredness, and thirst, and sorrow.

"About the time when Bernard was turned from nurse's door, the

dinner-bell at his papa's house was ringing, and Miss Evans waiting at

the head of the table ready to carve.

"Before the bell had done tinkling, Stephen and Meekin came in, and

Miss Grizzy said:

"'Where is Low? I suppose he does not expect us to wait for him.'

"Stephen looked at Meekin, and Meekin looked at Stephen. Stephen was

not quite easy in the thought of the severe beating which he had given

Bernard; but as it was expected that Mr. Evans would not return till

the evening of the next day, he trusted that there would be nothing

about Bernard to lead his uncle to inquire about what had happened in

his absence.

"'The boy is sulking somewhere,' he thought, 'and when he is hungry he

will show himself;' and with this thought he went to the bottom of the

table; and they had all just seated themselves, when in walked Mr.

Evans.

"Miss Grizzy set up a shriek of wonder, and Stephen turned scarlet.

"Mr. Evans had set out with the intention of going to the Bishop, under

whom he and Mr. Low lived, to ask him about some little difficulty

which had arisen in the management of the parish, and to beg that

things might remain as they were, until more decided news could be got

of the loss of the ship.

"The worthy man was not thinking of himself, but of poor Bernard. He

had hardly gone ten miles of the thirty he had to go, when he met the

Bishop's coach, and had the opportunity of settling his business in a

few minutes. And what had he then to do but to stop at a little inn by

the wayside to refresh his horse, and go quietly home, much pleased by

the kindness of the Bishop?

"When he had, in a few words, explained how it happened that he was at

home so soon, he was preparing to sit down to dinner, when he missed

Bernard.

"'Where is Master Low?' he said, looking round. 'Where is Bernard,

sister? Stephen, where is the child?'

"There was a certain something in the flushed features and stammering

answers of Stephen which struck even the unsuspicious Mr. Evans, and

when he was once roused he could show great firmness. He insisted that

the little boy should appear; and when he did not answer to any call,

or to the repeated ringing of the bell, he ordered the dinner away.

"'No one in the house shall dine, sister Grizzy,' he said, 'till the

orphan is found. Mind what I say. Do you, boys, run in all directions;

let the women go also, and bring the poor child to me. You, Stephen,

have been quarrelling with him.'

"'Sir,' said Meekin, 'he struck Mr. Stephen.'

"'No, Master Meekin,' said the boy who was waiting at table, 'I did not

see as he did; nor Ben neither, and he was by.'

"'No matter now,' said Mr. Evans; 'be off, all of you, and bring the

child to me.'

"And Mr. Evans sat down, having no expectation but that Bernard would

be brought in, with the tear in his eye, but safe and sound, in a few

minutes. He waited alone, maybe a quarter of an hour, and then went

out, becoming more frightened every moment.

"There was a set of people, such as sell pottery, happening to pass up

the road at the minute Mr. Evans went out of the gate; and he bethought

himself of asking them if they had met a little boy in their way,

describing Bernard.

"The old woman of the party told him that they had met such a boy, and

told him also exactly where. It struck Mr. Evans at once that the child

had set out to go to nurse's; and without losing another minute he

called Tom, ordered him to saddle the pony, and was on his way towards

nurse's not ten minutes after he had spoken to the old woman. He made

the pony go at a very brisk trot, wherever the steepness of the road

would allow.

"Bernard had really fallen asleep under the hedge after some time, and

had only just awakened when Mr. Evans came trotting round the foot of

the hill.

"The worthy man no sooner saw him than he came almost cantering up,

sprang from the quiet pony, and caught him in his arms.

"'My son! my child!' he said, whilst his eyes filled with tears; 'my

poor boy, why are you here? What has happened? Do you not know that

when you lost a better father, you became to me like a son, and that I

then resolved to be a father to you so long as you needed one? If

anything goes wrong with you, my boy, under my roof, come to me and

tell me, as you would have done to your own father, and be sure that so

long as I have a loaf you shall have a son's portion of it.'

"No one can describe the effect of Mr. Evans's kindness on the heart of

poor Bernard; again and again he fell on his neck and kissed him; and

so full of love and gentleness was the child that he whispered:

"'Don't ask me why I ran away; I promise you that when I run again from

the same people, I will run to you; and if you are out, I will only

hide myself till you come back.'

"'It shall not happen again,' said Mr. Evans, who had observed the

marks of the strokes on the child's face; 'it shall not happen again; I

will prevent it; but I will ask no questions.'

"So saying, he lifted Bernard on the pony with the long tail, and

taking the bridle in his hand, they set off together down the hill.

"Mr. Evans had gone off in such a hurry that he had not told anyone

that he had heard of Bernard; and therefore, without planning any such

thing, he had left the people at home in the greatest trouble, their

alarm becoming more and more every minute in which the child could not

be found.

"Mr. Evans and Bernard had first, in their way from the round hill, to

go down a very steep bit of road, into a kind of hollow where were a

brook and many trees, and then beyond which was a rise, and then

another deep descent. When Bernard came to the brook, he begged that he

might get off and drink a little water in the hollow of his hand; and

when he had done so, he tried to make Mr. Evans mount the pony whilst

he walked. But the kind man would not hear of any such thing; he lifted

Bernard on the horse again, and they were just going to ascend the

bank, when they heard a voice behind them, crying: 'Stop, stop, Master

Bernard.'

"They looked back, and there was nurse; she had come home about an hour

before, and having heard by some chance who had been at the cottage and

been sent away, she had had a violent quarrel with her daughter-in-law,

and had come posting after her boy.

"But before Mr. Evans and Bernard knew the voice, there was a sound of

carriage-wheels coming from behind nurse; and so quick upon her was

the carriage, that the horses' heads were in a line with her, when

Bernard and Mr. Evans turned to see who called them. The road just

there was not only steep but narrow.

"'That is nurse,' said Mr. Evans; 'but we must not stop just here, or

the carriage will be upon us; a little above there is room for the pony

to stand aside, and the ground is there more level for the feet.'

"So for the next minute or more the three parties all went on, Mr.

Evans and Bernard going up slowly towards the level place; the carriage

coming rapidly down the road, being drawn by horses used to steeper

hills than that; and nurse behind at the top of her speed after the

carriage.

"Those in the carriage had known nurse as they passed, though she never

once looked up to them; and they knew also Bernard, and good Mr. Evans,

and the long-tailed pony.

"When Mr. Evans had reached the bit of level ground, which might have

been fifty feet, or more, from the bottom of the valley, he stopped,

and lifted Bernard off the pony to wait for nurse.

"The carriage, too, stopped at the brook, and there was a cry from it.

'Bernard, Bernard! It is our dear, dear Bernard; open the door, open

the door.' The door was burst open from within, and out sprang Lucilla,

flying forward to her brother. She was followed by Mr. and Mrs. Low, as

soon as the postboy could let down the steps.

"Bernard made one effort to rush to meet Lucilla, and then fell

unconscious upon the ground.

"It is impossible to give an account of such a scene; the people who

were present could tell nothing about it themselves. Mr. and Mrs. Low

and Lucilla could not understand why everyone should be so surprised

to see them; why Bernard should faint, why nurse should scream, and why

Mr. Evans should look so white.

"They had suffered much in a terrible storm, and been driven far out of

their course, and been obliged to lie for months in some far-off

harbour for repairs, and had had a long and weary voyage. But they had

written letters, and supposed all this was known at home. The letters,

however, having been sent from a very out-of-the-way place, had never

arrived, but this they could not know.

"They were not surprised at anything, when they found that all their

friends and neighbours had thought them dead; and when Bernard, having

had his temples bathed with water, opened his eyes and recovered his

colour, and began to shed tears, they were no longer frightened about

him. He was then lifted into the carriage, and held in the arms of his

own father; nurse got upon a trunk behind, Mr. Evans mounted the pony,

and on they went, having now only down hill to go to the village.

"'Let us pass quietly, if possible, through the village,' said Mr. Low,

'that we may get our dear boy home as soon as possible;' but Mr. Low

could not have everything as he wished. The news was told at the very

first house, which was the turn-pike, by Mr. Evans before the carriage,

and by nurse behind it; and the whole street was up in a moment. There

was such joy, that men, women, and children set up shouts; and four

young men, who were enjoying the Whitsun holidays, flew to the church

and set the bells a-ringing before the carriage came in sight of the

rectory.

"'Surely,' said Miss Grizzy to the dairy-maid, 'those lads are not gone

off to the belfry, and that plague of a boy, young Low, not found yet!

I always said he was the most ill-conditioned child that ever lived;

and I know now he is only hiding out of malice to my poor Stephen.'

"Before she could finish her speech there was a sound of wheels and of

horses, and the barking of all the dogs about, and of doors opening;

and the very next minute in came nurse with the news into the dairy.

"Miss Grizzy was almost as ready to faint as Bernard had been--but not

from pleasure; all her unkindnesses to the child rose before her mind,

and it was with the greatest difficulty that she could put on even the

appearance of being glad, whilst her worthy brother's heart was lifted

up with joy.

"When Stephen heard the news, as he came skulking in to tell his aunt

he could find Bernard nowhere, he walked himself off with Meekin, and

did not return till night; but he need not have done so, for Bernard

never uttered a complaint against him or anybody else, though he spoke

continually of the very great kindness of Mr. Evans.

"The happiness of Lucilla that evening was complete. Bernard had hardly

spoken to her before she found how changed he was.

"Mr. Low was equally thankful; and Mrs. Low and nurse, though they did

not understand the cause of the change so clearly, yet felt that their

darling was a new and improved creature. Mr. Low, having it now in his

power, did much to assist Mr. Evans in many ways; he felt all his

kindnesses; he helped to furnish his new rooms, and raised his salary

as a curate.

"Miss Grizzy and Stephen left him almost immediately. Miss Grizzy went

to keep the house of a cross old uncle, and Stephen went to his

parents. Mr. Evans took nurse for a housekeeper, and whether she

managed well or ill for him people do not agree; but this is certain,

that all the boys, especially the little ones, liked her so much that

Mr. Evans soon found even his larger house too small for his pupils.

"The last we heard of Mr. Low's family was that Bernard and Lucilla had

furnished the grotto so beautifully that every person in the

neighbourhood came to see it; and that this brother and sister were the

delight of their parents, and the comforters of every poor old person

or orphan child in the parish."

[Illustration: Bernard rushed to meet Lucilla]

The Birthday Feast

[Illustration: She only seemed anxious that Lucy and Emily should look

well]

"Well," said Henry Fairchild, "it is just as I knew it would be; mine

is the prettiest story, and it is the longest, and that is something."

"No, no!" replied Emily; "if a story is stupid, its being long only

makes it worse."

"But it is not stupid," says Henry, "as it comes in at the end so

nicely, and in so much bustle. I do love a story that ends in a great

bustle."

"Well," said Emily, "my story finishes with as great a bustle as yours;

and we _must_ say that Lucy has chosen two very nice books; so, Lucy,

we thank you with all our hearts."

We have been so busy over the stories which Lucy brought, that we have

taken no notice of the note and parcel which came from Miss Darwell.

The note was to invite the Misses Fairchild and Master Fairchild to

spend her birthday with her. She asked them to come very early, and

they were to come in their playing dresses, and then they could bring

others with them, because in the evening there would be company. She

offered to send a carriage for them; and she said that a note would

come to invite their parents to dinner. The little lady seemed to have

thought of everything to make the day pleasant to them.

Mrs. Fairchild's children were not so rich as Miss Darwell, but they

were as well brought up; and Mrs. Colvin had heard this, and was glad

to have the opportunity of seeing these children.

The parcel contained a few small presents, which Emily and Lucy thought

a great deal of, and put by amongst their treasures.

The day of Miss Darwell's birthday came, after what Henry called a very

long time. Time seems very long to children; they think a month as long

as old people think a year. Henry talked of a year or two past as of a

time a long while ago.

Lucy and Emily looked out the very first thing that morning to see what

weather it was; but Henry did more, he got up and went out as soon as

he heard anyone stir, and saw John cleaning the horse, that he might be

ready for Mr. and Mrs. Fairchild in the afternoon.

Soon after breakfast Mrs. Fairchild got the children ready, in their

neatest morning dresses, according to Miss Darwell's desire; meaning to

bring their evening things when she came. But they were hardly ready

when a little pony-carriage, driven by a careful old man, came for them

from Miss Darwell; for this young lady never forgot the chance of doing

a kindness.

They got into the little carriage, and were driven away. Henry sat by

the servant in front, and his sisters in the seat behind.

"My little lady," said the servant, "bade us be sure to bring you all

safely, and very soon, Master Fairchild." And then he went on to say

what a dear, good young lady she was. "But she bade me not tell what is

to be done this evening; and you are not to ask anybody about it."

"Then I will not," said Henry; "though I want to know very much."

"To be sure you do, master,'" said the man; "but you will know

by-and-by."

As they came near the park, they saw several fine carriages drawing

towards the house.

"We are going to have a world of company," said the man; "but Miss

Darwell has no visitors in her own rooms but you and your sisters,

Master Fairchild. My lady would have had more invited, but Mrs. Colvin

begged off; and so you and the young ladies are much favoured."

And then, giving his horse a fillip, away they went, bowling along over

the park amid high fern brakes, lofty trees, and many deer.

"I see something white through the trees," said Henry; "look, look, all

along under the branches--see, Lucy--see, Emily!"

"Do you, master?" answered the servant; "well, that is unaccountable;

but look before you--what do you see there?"

"Only trees," replied Henry, "and fern."

"Look again, master," said the man.

And Henry looked again till he had quite passed the place where the

white things might be seen, and indeed had forgotten them.

When they came to the house and drove to the door, a footman appeared,

and was directed to lead the little ladies and gentleman to Miss

Darwell's rooms. The man went before them upstairs and along the

galleries to the door of that very room where they had been received by

poor Miss Augusta Noble.

As the footman, having opened the door, mentioned their names, they saw

that everything within the room was just the same as it had been. But

there was a nice elderly lady, dressed in black silk, who sat near the

open window. She seemed, by the book in her hand, to have been reading

to a pretty fair girl, nearly of the age of Lucy, who sat on a stool at

her feet.

These were Mrs. Colvin and Miss Darwell; and when they heard the names

announced, they both rose and came to meet their visitors. They both

smiled so sweetly, and spoke so pleasantly, that they took all fear at

once from the children.

Mrs. Colvin herself took off the bonnets and tippets, and laid them

aside; and Miss Darwell said, "I am glad you came so soon; I told

Everard to make haste."

As soon as they were ready, Miss Darwell began to talk of what they

were to play at. Mrs. Colvin gave them leave to go out for a time to

play in the shade of what they called the cedar-grove, a place near the

house, but they all begged her to go with them.

"Not to play, my dears," she said; "I can't run."

"No, ma'am," said Lucy; "but you can have a book and sit down and read,

as then you can see us at play."

"Well, then," said Mrs. Colvin, smiling, "I will come." And away they

all went to the cedar-grove.

As they were going Henry said:

"I am not to ask what is to be done this evening."

"No," replied Miss Darwell; "you ought not even to say, 'I am not to

ask.'"

When they had got into the grove, and Mrs. Colvin was seated, they

began to consult about what they should play at. As Miss Darwell had

not often any children to play with, she did not know of half the games

that others did.

"Let us play at Little Edwy and the Echo," said Lucy.

"But we have no echo here," said Miss Darwell.

"Then Henry shall be Edwy, and I will be the echo: and it is me you

shall try to catch," replied Lucy; "and you shall have to run for it.

Henry, you must call, and I will answer, but they shall not find me."

Lucy could run almost as quick as a greyhound, and she managed the game

so well, that it took up the whole time Mrs. Colvin allowed them to

stay out of doors. It was getting hot, and they went back into the

house, and to their room.

"Now," said Mrs. Colvin, "you shall take your visitors into your

play-room, Miss Darwell, and leave the door open, my dear, that I may

hear you and see you; I know you like to have me near you."

"Yes, I do, dear Mrs. Colvin," said Miss Darwell; and she put her arms

round the excellent governess's neck and kissed her; and then, running

and opening a door, led her visitors into a large room which they had

not seen before. It was furnished with shelves, on which many books and

toys were ranged in order--for it was one of Mrs. Colvin's wishes to

make her pupil neat.

Mr. Fairchild's children quite cried out at the sight of these things;

there were enough to furnish a toy-shop, besides the books.

Miss Darwell said, "Which would you like?"

Henry fixed upon a large Noah's ark, and when it was reached down, he

placed himself on the floor, and made a procession of its inmates. He

placed Noah himself in front, with his little painted wife, and Shem,

Ham, and Japhet, and their wives after him. Then came the beasts, and

then the birds, and then the insects and creeping things. Lucy chose a

dissected map of England and Wales, and another which formed a picture;

and Emily, a box of bricks and doorways, and pillars and chimneys,

and other things for building houses.

Mrs. Colvin had told the children that they were to keep themselves

quiet till dinner-time; so Miss Darwell took her doll, and for a long

time they were all very still with their toys: they were to dine at

half-past one, and Henry had not done with his ark when a female

servant came into the outer room to lay the cloth.

[Illustration: "_For a long time they all very still with their toys._"

--Page 389.]

"It is time to put up now," said Mrs. Colvin, calling from the next

room.

Lucy and Emily and Henry began immediately to put the things they had

been playing with into the cases, and Lucy was putting her dissected

map into the place from which she had taken it, when Miss Darwell said:

"Don't put it away, Miss Fairchild; it shall be tied up ready to go

with the carriage."

Lucy did not understand her.

"Did you not choose it, Miss Lucy?" said Miss Darwell; "if you please

to accept it, I will send it in the carriage to-night with the bricks

and the ark."

"Thank you, dear Miss Darwell," Lucy answered; "but we must not take

anything, unless your mamma and my mamma give leave."

At that instant Mrs. Colvin called Lucy.

"I called you, my dear, to tell you that you are quite right: you ought

never to receive a present without your mamma's leave, and ought never

to desire to receive one. But I have no doubt that Miss Darwell will

remember to ask Mrs. Fairchild this evening if you may have them."

"I will," said Miss Darwell; "I hope I shall not forget it in the

bustle."

"Shall I tell you of it?" said Henry.

Lucy and Emily got as red as scarlet when Henry said these words; but

Mrs. Colvin whispered:

"Let him alone, he is very young, and he will get wiser as he gets

older."

"I shall be obliged to you to remind me of it, Henry," said Miss

Darwell; "and I will speak the moment I see Mrs. Fairchild."

How happily did the four children and the good governess dine together

that day before the open window, where they could smell the sweet

flowers in the garden below, and see a large pool which was beyond the

trees, and still beyond that the green heights of the park.

"I see people," said Henry, whose eyes were everywhere, "going up the

park by that pretty white building which looks like a temple with a

porch--there they go--I see women and children--and there are men

carrying baskets. What are they doing, ma'am?" he added, looking at

Mrs. Colvin.

"Taking a pleasant walk this fine afternoon," she answered; "and we

will walk too by-and-by, but upon one condition, as it is so very warm,

that after dinner you will each of you take a book and sit quite still,

until I speak the word for all to move."

"Might I play with Noah's ark, ma'am, instead?" said Henry; "I will not

move."

"Very well," said Mrs. Colvin; and when they had dined, she directed

Lucy and Emily to choose their books and sit down in any place they

chose.

Miss Darwell also took a book, as did Mrs. Colvin; and so still was

everyone, that it might have been thought that there was not a creature

in the room but the Seven Sleepers, unless it might be two or three

bees which came buzzing in and out.

"How pleasant," thought Mrs. Colvin, "it is to have to do with

well-behaved children! I should not mind having these little

Fairchilds always with me, at least till Henry is fit only to be

managed by men."

Lucy and Emily wished much to know what was going to be done in the

park, but they did not find the time long. Lucy had chosen the _History

of Mrs. Teachum_, and Emily the _Adventures of Robin, Dicksy, Flapsy,

and Pecksy_, quite a new book, which she had never seen before. The

great people in the parlour were to dine at four o'clock, that they

also might go into the park afterwards; and a little before four the

waiting-maid came up with the best things for Master and the Misses

Fairchild, packed in a bandbox, the pretty presents of Miss Crosbie not

having been forgotten.

When Mrs. Colvin saw the box she called the children to her; they all

came running but Henry.

"Now, my dears," she said, "you have been very quiet, and it is time to

dress;" and she offered the maid's help to dress Lucy and Emily.

"No, thank you, ma'am," said Lucy; "we have no one to wait upon us at

home; we always dress each other."

"I wish," said Miss Darwell, "that I had a little sister whom I might

dress; but Mrs. Colvin always dresses me," she added in a whisper to

Lucy, "because she loves me, and I love her."

"But where is Henry?" said Mrs. Colvin.