the horse a little, for he shook visibly, and swayed to and fro. There
was evidently some "go" left in him, in spite of his dejected expression
of countenance. The shabby stirrup hung at his side. Dickie could just
reach it with his foot. He seized the mane, and, pulling hard, clambered
into the saddle. Once there, reins in hand, he clucked and encouraged
the time-worn steed to his best paces. To and fro, to and fro they
swung, faster, slower, Dickie beating with his heels, the wooden horse
curveting and prancing. It was famous! The dull thud of the rockers
echoed through the garret, and somebody sitting in the room below raised
his head to listen to the strange sound.
This somebody was an old man with white hair and a gray, stern face, who
sat beside a table on which were paper and lighted candles. A letter
lay before him, but he was not reading it. When the sound of the rocking
began, he started and turned pale. A little boy once used to rock in
that way in the garret overhead, but it was long ago, and for many years
past the garret had been silent and deserted. "Harry's horse!" muttered
the old man with a look of fear as he heard the sound. He half rose from
his chair, then he sat down again. But soon the noise ceased. Dickie had
caught sight of another thing in the garret which interested him, and
had dismounted to examine it. The old man sank into his chair again with
a look of relief, muttering something about the wind.
The thing which Dickie had gone to examine was a little arm-chair
cushioned with red. It was just the size for him, and he seated himself
in it with a look of great satisfaction.
"I wiss this chair was mine," he said. "P'waps Mally'll let me take it
home if I ask her."
A noise below attracted his attention. He peeped over the balusters and
saw an elderly woman, with a candle in her hand, coming up from the
lower story. She went into a room at the foot of the attic stair,
leaving the door open. "Hester! Hester!" called a voice from below. The
woman came from the room and went down again. She did not take the
candle with her: Dick could see it shining through the open door.
Like a little moth attracted by a flame, Dick wandered down the stair in
the direction of the light. The candle was standing on the table in a
bedroom,--a pretty room, Dickie thought, though it did not seem as if
anybody could have lived in it lately. He didn't know why this idea came
into his mind, but it did. It was a girl's bedroom, for a small blue
dress hung on the wall, and on the bureau were brushes, combs, and
hair-pins. Beside the bureau was a wooden shelf full of books. A
bird-cage swung in the window, but there was no bird in it, and the seed
glass and water cup were empty. The narrow bed had a white coverlid and
a great white pillow. It looked all ready for somebody, but it was
years since the girl who once owned the room had slept there. The old
housekeeper, who still loved the girl, came every day to dust and smooth
and air and sweep. She kept all things in their places just as they used
to be in the former time, but she could not give to the room the air of
life which once it had, and, do what she would, it looked deserted
always--empty--and dreary.
On the chimney-piece were ranged a row of toys, plaster cats, barking
dogs, a Noah's ark, and an enormous woolly lamb. This last struck Dick
with admiration. He stood on tip-toe with his hands clasped behind his
back to examine it.
"Oh, dear," he sighed, "I wiss I had that lamb." Then he gave a jump,
for close to him, in a small chair, he saw what seemed to be a little
girl, staring straight at him.
It was a big, beautiful doll, in a dress of faded pink, and a pink hat
and feather. Dick had never seen such a fine lady before; she quite
fascinated him. He leaned gently forward and touched the waxen hand. It
was cold and clammy; Dick did not like the feel, and retreated. The
unwinking eyes of the doll followed him as he sidled away, and made him
uncomfortable.
In the opposite room the old man still sat with his letter before him.
The letter was from the girl who once played with the big doll and slept
in the smooth white bed. She was not a child now. Years before she had
left her father's house against his will, and in company with a person
he did not like. He had said then that he should never forgive her, and
till now she had not asked to be forgiven. It was a long time since he
had known any thing about her. Nobody ever mentioned her name in his
hearing, not even the old housekeeper who loved her still, and never
went to bed without praying that Miss Ellen might one day come back. Now
Ellen had written to her father. The letter lay on the table.
"I was wrong," she wrote, "but I have been punished. We have suffered
much. My husband is dead. I will not speak of him, for I know that his
name will anger you; but, father, I am alone, ill, and very poor. Can
you not forgive me now? Do not think of me as the wild, reckless girl
who disobeyed you and brought sorrow to your life. I am a weary,
sorrowful woman, longing, above all other things, to be pardoned before
I die,--to come home again to the house where all my happy years were
spent. Let me come, father. My little Hester, named after our dear
nurse, mine and Harry's, is a child whom you would love. She is like me
as I used to be, but far gentler and sweeter than I ever was. Let me put
her in your arms. Let me feel that I am forgiven for my great fault, and
I will bless you every day that I live. Dear father, say yes. Your
penitent ELLEN."
Two angels stood behind the old man as he read this letter. He did not
see them, but he heard their voices as first one and then the other bent
and whispered in his ear.
"Listen," murmured the white angel with radiant moonlit wings. "Listen.
You loved her once so dearly. You love her still. I know you do."
"No," breathed the darker angel. "You swore that you would not forgive
her. Keep your word. You always said that she would come back as soon as
she was poor or unhappy, or that scamp treated her badly. It makes no
difference in the facts. Let her suffer; it serves her right."
"Remember what a dear child she used to be," said the fair angel, "so
bright, so loving. How she used to dance about the house and sing; the
sun seemed to shine always when she came into the room. She loved you
truly then. Her little warm arms were always about your neck. She loves
you still."
"What is love worth," came the other voice, "when it deceives and hurts
and betrays? All these long years you have suffered. It is her turn
now."
"Remember that it was partly your fault," whispered the spirit of good.
"You were harsh and stern. You did not appeal to her love, but to her
obedience. She had a high spirit; you forgot that. And she was only
sixteen."
"Quite old enough to know better," urged the spirit of evil. "Remember
the hard life you have led ever since. The neighbors speak of you as a
stern, cruel man; the little children run away when you appear. Whose
fault is that? Hers. She ought to pay for it."
"Think of the innocent child who never did you wrong, and who suffers
too. Think of the dear Lord who forgives your sins. Pray to him. He will
help you to forgive her,"--urged the good angel, but in fainter tones,
for the black angel spoke louder, and thrust between with his fierce
voice.
"The thing is settled. Why talk of prayer or pardon? Let her go her
way."
As this last whisper reached his ear the old man raised his bent head. A
hard, vindictive look was in his eyes. He seized the letter and tore it
in two. "Alas! alas!" sighed the sweet angel, while the evil one
rejoiced and waved his dark wings in triumph.
It was at this moment that Dickie, attracted by the rustle of paper,
appeared at the door. His eyes were beginning to droop a little. He
rubbed them hard as he crossed the entry. The pit-pat of his bare feet
made no sound on the carpeted floor, so that the old man had no warning
of his presence till, turning, he saw the little night-gowned figure
standing motionless in the door-way.
He sprang from his chair and stretched out his hands. He tried to speak,
but no voice came at first; then in a hoarse whisper he
said,--"Harry--is it you? Ellen--"
Dickie, terrified, fled back into the hall as if shod with wings. In one
moment he was in the attic, up the ladder, on the roof. The old man ran
blindly after him.
"Come back, Ellen--come back!" he cried. "I will forgive you,--come
back to your poor old father, dear child." His foot slipped as he spoke.
It was at the stair-head. He fell forward heavily, and lump, bump, bump,
down stairs he tumbled, and landed heavily in the hall below.
Hester and the housemaid ran hastily from the kitchen at the sound of
the fall. When they saw the old man lying in a heap at the foot of the
stair, they were terribly frightened. Blood was on his face. He was
quite unconscious.
"He is dead. Mr. Kirton is dead!" cried the housemaid, wringing her
hands.
"No,--his heart beats," said Hester. "Run for Doctor Poster, Hannah, and
ask Richard Wallis to come at once and help me lift the poor old
gentleman."
Hannah flew to do this errand. A moment after, Mr. Kirton opened his
eyes.
"Where is Ellen?" he said. Then he shut them again. Hester glanced at
the torn letter, which through all his fall the old man had held
tightly clasped in his hand, and gave a loud cry.
"Miss Ellen, come back!" she exclaimed. "My own Miss Ellen. God has
heard my prayers."
When Mr. Kirton's senses returned, late in the night, he found himself
in his own bed. His head felt strangely; one arm was tied up in a queer
stiff bandage, so that he could not move it. A cloth wet with water lay
on his forehead. When he stirred and groaned, a hand lifted the cloth,
dipped it in ice-water, and put it back again fresh and cool. He looked
up. Some one was bending over him, some one with a face which he knew
and did not know. It puzzled him strangely. At last, a look of
recognition came into his eyes. "Ellen?" he said, in a tone of question.
"Yes, dear father, it is I."
"Why did you come dressed as a little child to frighten me? You are a
woman," he said wonderingly; "your hair is gray!"
"I did not come as a little child, father. I am an old woman now. I have
come to be your nurse."
"I don't understand," muttered the old man, but he asked no more, and
presently dropped asleep. Ellen watched him for a long time, then she
went across the hall to her old room, where Hester stood looking at a
little girl, who lay on the bed sleeping soundly, with the pink doll
hugged tight in her arms.
"She is just like yourself, Miss Ellen," said Hester, with joyful tears
in her eyes,--"just like your old self, with a thought more brown in the
hair. Ah! good times have begun again for my poor old master; the light
has come back to the house."
But neither Hester nor Ellen saw the white-robed angel, who bent over
the old man's bed with a face of immortal joy, and sang low songs of
peace to make sleep deep and healing. The dark spirit has fled away.
Meantime Dickie, unconscious messenger of Fate, scrambling easily over
the roofs, had gained his own room, and was comfortably tucked up in his
little bed. His dreams were of dolls, rocking-horses, black cats. So
soundly did he sleep, that, when morning came, Mally had to shake him
and call loudly in his ear before she could wake him up.
"Why, Dick!" she cried, "look at your night-gown. It's all over dust,
and there are one--two--three tears in the cotton. What _have_ you been
doing?"
But Dickie could not tell.
"I dweamed that I walked about on the woof," he said. "But I guess I
didn't weally, did I?"
[Illustration]
LITTLE BO PEEP.
THE sun was setting at the end of an August day. Everybody was glad to
see the last of him, for the whole world felt scorched and hot,--the
ground, the houses,--even the ponds looked warm as they stretched in
the steaming distance. On the edge of the horizon the sun winked with a
red eye, as much as to say, "Don't flatter yourselves, I shall be back
again soon;" then he slowly sank out of sight. It was comforting to have
him go, if only for a little while. "Perhaps," thought the people, "a
thunder-storm or something may come along before morning, and cool him
off."
Little Mell Davis was as glad as anybody when the sun disappeared. It
had been a hard day. Her step-mother had spent it in making soap.
Soap-making is ill-smelling, uncomfortable work at all times, and
especially in August. Mrs. Davis had been cross and fractious, had
scolded a great deal, and found many little jobs for Mell to do in
addition to her usual tasks of dish-washing, table-setting, and looking
after the children. Mell was tired of the heat; tired of the smell of
soap, of being lectured; and when supper was over was very glad to sit
at peace on the door-steps and read her favorite book, a tattered copy
of the Fairy Tales. Soon she forgot the trials of the day. "Once upon a
time there lived a beautiful Princess," she read, but just then came a
sharp call. "Mell, Mell, you tiresome girl, see what Tommy is about;"
and Mrs. Davis, dashing past, snatched Tommy away from the pump-handle,
which he was plying vigorously for the benefit of his small sisters, who
stood in a row under the spout, all dripping wet. Tommy was wetter
still, having impartially pumped on himself first of all. Frocks,
aprons, jacket, all were soaked, shoes and stockings were drenched, the
long pig tails of the girls streamed large drops, as if they had been
little rusty-colored water-pipes.
"Look at that!" cried Mrs. Davis, exhibiting the half-drowned brood.
"You might as well be deaf and blind, Mell, for any care you take of
'em. Give you a silly book to read, and the children might perish before
your eyes for all you'd notice. Look at Isaphine, and Gabella Sarah.
Little lambs,--as likely as not they've taken their deaths. It shan't
happen again, though. Give me that book--" And, snatching Mell's
treasure from her hands, Mrs. Davis flung it into the fire. It flamed,
shrivelled: the White Cat, Cinderella, Beauty and the Beast,--all, all
were turned in one moment into a heap of unreadable ashes! Mell gave one
clutch, one scream; then she stood quite still, with a hard, vindictive
look on her face, which so provoked her step-mother that she gave her a
slap as she hurried the children upstairs. Mrs. Davis did not often slap
Mell. "I punish my own children," she would say, "not other people's."
"Other people's children" meant poor Mell.
It was not a very happy home, this of the Davis's. Mell's father was
captain of a whaler, and almost always at sea. It was three years now
since he sailed on his last voyage. No word had come from him for a
great many months, and his wife was growing anxious. This did not
sweeten her temper, for in case he never returned, Mell's would be
another back to clothe, another mouth to fill, when food, perhaps, would
not be easily come by. Mell was not anxious about her father. She was
used to having him absent. In fact, she seldom thought of him one way or
another. If Mrs. Davis had been kinder, and had given her more time to
read the Fairy Tales, she would have been quite a happy little girl, for
she lived in dreams, and it did not take much to content her. Half her
time was spent in a sort of inward play which never came out in words.
Sometimes in these plays she was a Princess with a gold crown, and a
delightful Prince making love to her all day long. Sometimes she kept a
candy-shop, and lived entirely on sugar-almonds and sassafras-stick.
These plays were so real to her mind that it seemed as if they _must_
some day come true. Her step-mother and the children did not often
figure in them, though once in a while she made believe that they were
all changed into agreeable people, and shared her good luck. There was
one thing in the house, however, which invariably took part in her
visions. This was a large wooden chest with brass handles which stood
upstairs in Mrs. Davis's room, and was always kept locked.
Mell had never seen the inside of this chest but once. Then she caught
glimpses of a red shawl, of some coral beads in a box, and of various
interesting looking bundles tied up in paper. "How beautiful!" she had
cried out eagerly, whereupon Mrs. Davis had closed the lid with a snap,
and locked it, looking quite vexed. "What is it? Are all those lovely
things yours?" asked Mell, and she had been bidden to hold her tongue,
and see if the kitchen fire didn't need another stick of wood. It was
two years since this happened. Mell had never seen the lid raised since,
but every day she had played about the big chest and its contents.
Sometimes she played that the chest belonged to the beautiful Princess,
and was full of her clothes and jewels. Sometimes a fairy lived there,
who popped out, wand in hand, and made things over to Mell's liking.
Again, Mell played that she locked her step-mother up into the chest,
and refused to release her till she promised never, never again, so long
as she lived, to scold about any thing. Mrs. Davis would have been very
vexed had she known about these plays. It made her angry if Mell so much
as glanced at the chest. "There you are again, peeping, peeping," she
would cry, and drive Mell before her downstairs.
So this evening, after the burning of the book, Mell's sore and angry
fancies flew as usual to the chest. "It's so big," she thought, "that
all the children could get into it. I'll play that a wicked enchanter
came and flew away with mother, and never let her come back. Then I
should have to take care of the children; and I'd get somebody to nail
some boards, so as to make five dear little cubby-houses inside the
chest. I'd put Tommy in one, Isaphine in another, Arabella Jane in
another, Belinda in another, and Gabella Sarah in another. Then I'd
shut the lid down and fasten it, and wouldn't I have a good time! When
dinner was ready I'd fetch a plate and spoon, feed 'em all round, and
shut 'em up again. It would be just the same when I washed their faces;
I'd just take a wet cloth and do 'em all with a couple of scrubs. They
couldn't get into mischief I suppose in there. Yet I don't know. Tommy
is so bad that he would if he could. Let me see,--what could he do? If
he had a gimlet he'd bore holes in the boards, and stick pins through to
make the others cry. I must be sure to see if he has any gimlets in his
pocket before I put him in. Oh, dear, I hope I shan't forget!"
Mell was so absorbed in these visions that she did not hear the gate
open, and when a hand was suddenly laid on her shoulder she gave a
little cry and a great jump. A tall man had come in, and was standing
close to her.
"Does Mrs. Captain Davis live here?" asked the tall man.
"Yes," said Mell, staring at him with her big eyes.
"Is she to home?"
"Yes," said Mell again. "She's in there," pointing to the kitchen.
The tall man stepped over Mell, and went in. Mell heard the sound of
voices, and grew curious. She peeped in at the door. Her step-mother was
folding a letter. She looked vexed about something.
"What time shall you start?" she said.
"Half-past five," replied the man. "I've my hands to pay at ten, and the
weather's so hot it's best to get off early."
"I suppose I must go," went on Mrs. Davis, "though I'd rather be whipped
than do it. You can stop if you've a mind to: I'll be ready."
"Very well," said the man. "You haven't got a drink of cider in the
house, have you? This dust has made me as dry as a chip."
"Mell, run down cellar and fetch some," said Mrs. Davis. "It was good
cider once, but I'm afraid it's pretty hard now." She bustled about;
brought doughnuts and a pitcher of water. The man drank a glass of the
sour cider and went away. Mrs. Davis sat awhile thinking. Then she
turned sharply on Mell.
"I've got to go from home to-morrow on business," she said. "Perhaps I
shall be back by tea-time, and perhaps I sha'n't. If there was anybody I
could get to leave the house with I would, but there isn't anybody. Now,
listen to me, Mell Davis. Don't you open a book to-morrow, not once; but
keep your eyes on the children, and see that they don't get into
mischief. If they do, I shall know who to thank for it. I'll make a
batch of biscuit to-night before I go to bed; there's a pie in the
cupboard, and some cold pork, and you can boil potatoes for the
children's breakfast and for dinner. Are you listening?"
"Yes'm," replied Mell.
"See that the children have their faces and hands washed," went on her
step-mother. "Oh, dear, if you were a different kind of girl how much
easier would it be! I wish your father would come home and look after
his own affairs, instead of my having to leave things at sixes and
sevens and go running round the country hunting up his sick relations
for him."
"Is it grandmother who is sick?" asked Mell timidly. She had never seen
her grandmother, but she had played about her very often.
"No," snapped Mrs. Davis. "It's your Uncle Peter. Don't ask questions;
it's none of your business who's sick. Mind you strain the milk the
first thing to-morrow, and wring out the dishcloth when you're through
with it. Oh, dear, to think that I should have to go!"
Mell crept to bed. She was so very tired that it seemed just one moment
before Mrs. Davis was shaking her arm, and calling her to get up at
once, for it was five o'clock. Slowly she unclosed her sleepy eyes. Sure
enough, the night was gone. A fiery red bar in the East showed that the
sun too was getting out of bed, and making ready for a hot day's work.
Mell rubbed her eyes. She wished that it was all a dream, from which she
had waked only to fall asleep again. But it was no use playing at dreams
with Mrs. Davis standing by.
Mrs. Davis was by no means in a humor for play. People rarely are at
five in the morning. She rushed about the house like a whirlwind, giving
Mell directions, and scolding her in advance for all the wrong things
she was going to do, till the poor child was completely stunned and
confused. By and by the tall man appeared with his wagon. Mrs. Davis got
in and drove away, ordering and lecturing till the last moment. "What's
the use of telling, for you're sure to get it all wrong," were her last
words, and Mell thought so too.
She walked back to the house feeling stupid and unhappy. But the quiet
did her good, and as gradually she realized that her step-mother was
actually gone,--gone for the whole day,--her spirits revived, and she
began to smile and sing softly to herself. Very few little girls of
twelve would, I think, have managed better than Mell did for the first
half of that morning.
First she got breakfast, only bread and milk and baked potatoes, but
there is a wrong as well as a right way with even such simple things,
and Mell really did all very cleverly. She swept the kitchen, strained
the milk, wound the clock. Then, as a sound of twittering voices began
above, she ran up to the children, washed and dressed, braided the red
pigtails, and got them downstairs successfully, with only one fight
between Tommy and Isaphine, and a roaring fit from Arabella Jane, who
was a tearful child. After breakfast, while the little ones played on
the door-steps, she tidied the room, mended the fire, washed plates and
cups, and put them away in the cupboard, wrung out the dishcloth
according to orders, and hung it on its nail. When this was finished she
looked about with pride. The children were unusually peaceful;
altogether, the day promised well. "Mother'll not say that I'm a
good-for-nothing girl _this_ time," thought Mell, and tried to recollect
what should be done next.
The kerosene can caught her eye.
"I'll clean the lamp," she said.
She had never cleaned the lamp before, but had seen her step-mother do
it very often. First, she took the lamp-scissors from the table drawer
and cut the wick, rather jaggedly, but Mell did not know that. Then she
tipped the can to fill the lamp. Here the misfortunes of the day began;
for the can slipped, and some of the oil was spilled on the floor. This
terrified Mell, for that kitchen-floor was the idol of Mrs. Davis's
heart. It was scrubbed every day, and kept as white as snow. Mell knew
that her step-mother's eyes would be keen as Blue Beard's to detect a
spot; and, with all the energy of despair, she rubbed and scoured with
soap and hot water. It was all in vain. The spot would not come out.
"I'll put a chair there," thought Mell. "Then perhaps she won't see it
just at first."
"I want that scissors," cried Tommy from the door.