[Illustration: THE GIRL’S OWN PAPER
VOL. VIII.—NO. 361. NOVEMBER 27, 1886. PRICE ONE PENNY.]
THE FLOWER GIRL.
[Illustration: THE FLOWER GIRL.]
_All rights reserved._]
What is she thinking of, what is she dreaming of,
Dreaming awhile ere the sun has quite set?
Is it the home of her earliest childhood
That for a brief hour she cannot forget,
Where the sweet violets grew blue in the wild wood
With dewdrops all wet?
All the day long in the great crowded city—
Crowded, yet lonely to each in the crowd—
“Violets, sweet violets, a bunch for a penny!”
She has been crying, still crying aloud.
She has been merry at selling so many,
Merry and proud.
Now as she watches the sun that is setting,
Far o’er the roofs and the masts of the ships,
Does her mind turn to the sweet unsold flowers,
Gathered by baby hands, pressed by child-lips,
While in a day-dream, through wild woodland bowers
Once more she trips?
Is it the fragrance that clings to her basket—
Fragrance of violets that rich men have bought—
That takes her to woodlands away from the city,
Where with blue violets the moss is enwrought?
Surely the wings of God’s angel of pity
Shadow her thought.
A. M.
MERLE’S CRUSADE.
BY ROSA NOUCHETTE CAREY, Author of “Aunt Diana,” “For Lilias,” etc.
CHAPTER VIII.
LABORARE EST ORARE.
My mistress (how I loved to call her by that name!) was beginning to
give me her confidence. In a little while I grew quite at my ease with
her.
She would sit down sometimes and question me about the book I was
reading, or, if we talked of the children, she would ask my opinion of
them in a way that showed she respected it.
She told me more than once that her husband was quite satisfied with
me; the children thrived under my care, Reggie especially, for Joyce
was somewhat frail and delicate. It gratified me to hear this, for a
longer acquaintance with Mr. Morton had not lessened my sense of awe in
his presence (I had had to feel the pressure of his strong will before
I had been many weeks in his house, and though I had submitted to his
enforced commands, they had cost me my only tears of humiliation, and
yet all the time I knew he was perfectly just in his demands). The
occasion was this.
It was a rule that when visitors asked to see the children, a very
frequent occurrence when Mrs. Morton received at home, that the head
nurse should bring them into the blue drawing-room, as it was called.
On two afternoons I had shirked this duty. With all my boasted courage,
the idea of facing all those strangers was singularly obnoxious; I
chose to consider myself privileged to infringe this part of my office.
I dressed the children carefully, and bade Hannah take them to their
mother. I thought the girl looked at me and hesitated a moment, but her
habitual respect kept her silent.
My dereliction of duty escaped notice on the first afternoon; Mr.
Morton was occupied with a committee, and Mrs. Morton was too gentle
and considerate to hint that my presence was desired, but on the second
afternoon Hannah came up looking a little flurried.
Master had not seemed pleased somehow; he had spoken quite sharply
before the visitors, and asked where nurse was that she had not brought
the children as usual, and the mistress had looked uncomfortable, and
had beckoned him to her.
I took no notice of Hannah’s speech, for I had a hasty tongue, and
might have said things that I should have regretted afterwards, but my
temper was decidedly ruffled. I took Reggie as quickly as possible from
her arms, and carried him off into the other room. I wanted to be alone
and recover myself.
I cried a good deal, much to Reggie’s distress; he kept patting my
cheeks and calling to me to kiss him, that at last I was obliged
to leave off. I had met with a difficulty at last. I could hear the
roaring of the chained lions behind me, but I said to myself that I
would not be beaten; if my pride must suffer I should get over the
unpleasantness in time. Why should I be afraid of people just because
they wore silks and satins and were strangers to me? My fears were
undignified and absurd; Mr. Morton was right; I had shirked my duty.
I hoped that nothing more would be said about it, and I determined that
the following Thursday I would face the ordeal; but I was not to escape
so easily.
When Mrs. Morton came into the nursery that evening to bid the children
good-night, I thought she looked a little preoccupied. She kissed them,
and asked me, rather nervously, to follow her into the night nursery.
“Merle,” she said, rather hurriedly, “I hope you will not mind what I
am going to say. My husband has asked me to speak to you. He seemed a
little put out this afternoon; it did not please him that Hannah should
take your place with the children.”
“Hannah told me so when she came up, Mrs. Morton.”
In spite of all my efforts to restrain my temper, I am afraid my voice
was a little sullen. I had never answered her in such a tone before. I
would obey Mr. Morton; I knew my own position well enough for that, but
they should both see that this part of my duty was distasteful to me.
To my intense surprise she took my hand and held it gently.
“I was afraid you would feel it in this way, Merle, but I want you
to look upon it in another point of view. You know that my husband
forewarned you that your position would entail difficulties. Hitherto
things have been quite smooth; now comes a duty which you own by your
manner to be bitterly distasteful. I sympathise with you, but my
husband’s wishes are sacred; he is very particular on this point. Do
you think for my sake that you could yield in this?”
She still held my hand, and I own that the foolish feeling crossed me
that I was glad that she should know my hand was as soft as hers, but
as she spoke to me in that beseeching voice all sullenness left me.
“There is very little that I would not do for your sake, Mrs. Morton,
when you have been so good to me. Please do not say another word
about it. Mr. Morton was right; I have been utterly in the wrong; I
feel that now. Next Thursday I will bring down the children into the
drawing-room.”
She thanked me so warmly that she made me feel still more ashamed of
myself; it seemed such a wonderful thing that my mistress should stoop
to entreat where she could by right command, but she was very tolerant
of a girl’s waywardness. She did not leave me even then, but changed
the subject. She sat down and talked to me for a few minutes about
myself and Aunt Agatha. I had not been home yet, and she wanted me to
fix some afternoon when Mrs. Garnett or Travers could take my place.
“We must not let you get too dull, Merle,” she said, gently. “Hannah is
a good girl, but she cannot be a companion to you in any sense of the
word.” And perhaps in that she was right.
I woke the following Thursday with a sense of uneasiness oppressing me,
so largely do our small fears magnify themselves when indulged. As the
afternoon approached I grew quite pale with apprehension, and Hannah,
with unspoken sympathy, but she had wonderful tact for a girl, only
hinted at the matter in a roundabout way.
I had dressed Reggie in his turquoise blue velvet, and was fastening
my clean frilled apron over my black gown, when Hannah said quietly,
“Well, it is no wonder master likes to show people what sort of nurse
he has got. I don’t think anyone could look so nice in a cap and apron
as you do, Miss Fenton. It is just as though you were making believe to
be a servant like me, and it would not do anyhow.”
I smiled a little at Hannah’s homely compliment, but I confessed it
pleased me and gave me courage. I felt still more like myself when my
boy put his dimpled arms round my neck, and hid his dear face on my
shoulder. I could not persuade him to loosen his hold until his mother
spoke to him, and there was Joyce holding tightly to my gown all the
time.
The room was so full that it almost made me giddy. It was good of Mrs.
Morton to rise from her seat and meet me, but all her coaxing speeches
would not make Reggie do more than raise his head from my shoulder. He
sat in my arms like a baby prince, beating off everyone with his little
hands, and refusing even to go to his father.
Everyone wanted to kiss him, and I carried him from one to another.
Joyce had left me at once for her mother. Some of the ladies questioned
me about the children. They spoke very civilly, but their inquisitive
glances made my face burn, and it was with difficulty that I made
suitable replies. Once I looked up, and saw that Mr. Morton was
watching me. His glance was critical, but not unkindly. I had a feeling
then that he was subjecting me purposely to this test. I must carry out
my theory into practice. I am convinced all this was in his mind as he
looked at me, and I no longer bore a grudge against him.
Not long afterwards I had an opportunity of learning that he could own
himself fallible on some points. He was exceedingly just, and could
bear a rebuke even from an inferior, if it proved him to be clearly in
the wrong.
One afternoon he came into the nursery to play with the children for
a few minutes. He would wind up their mechanical toys to amuse them.
Reggie was unusually fretful, and nothing seemed to please him. He
scolded both his father and his walking doll, and would have nothing
to say to the learned dog who beat the timbrels and nodded his head
approvingly to his own music. Presently he caught sight of his
favourite woolly lamb placed out of his reach on the mantelpiece, and
began screaming and kicking.
“Naughty Reggie,” observed his father, complacently, and he was taking
down the toy when I begged him respectfully to replace it.
He looked at me in some little surprise.
“I thought he was crying for it,” he said, somewhat perplexed at this.
“Reggie must not cry for things after that fashion,” I returned,
firmly, for I felt a serious principle was involved here. “He is only a
baby, but he is very sensible, and knows he is naughty when he screams
for a thing. I never give it to him until he is good.”
“Indeed,” a little dryly. “Well, he seems far off from goodness now.
What do you mean by making all that noise, my boy?”
Reggie was in one of his passions, it was easy to see that; the toy
would have been flung to the ground in his present mood; so without
looking at his father or asking his permission, I resorted to my usual
method, and laid him down screaming lustily in his little cot.
“There baby must stop until he is good,” I remarked, quietly, and I
took my work and sat down at some little distance, while Mr. Morton
watched us from the other room. I knew my plan always answered with
Reggie, and the storm would soon be over.
In two or three minutes his screams ceased, and I heard a penitent
“Gargle do;” then “Nur, nur.” I went to him directly, and in a moment
he held out his arms to be lifted out of the cot.
“Is Reggie quite good?” I asked, as I kissed him.
“Ood, ood,” was the triumphant reply, and the next moment he was
cuddling his lamb.
“I own your method is the best, nurse,” observed Mr. Morton,
pleasantly. “My boy will not be spoiled, I see that. I confess I should
have given him the toy directly he screamed for it; you showed greater
wisdom than his father.”
It is impossible to say how much this speech gratified me. From that
moment I liked as well as respected Mr. Morton.
My first holiday arrived somewhat unexpectedly. A little before the
nursery dinner Travers brought a message from Mrs. Morton that Joyce
was to go out with her in the carriage, and that if I liked to have
the afternoon and evening to myself, Mrs. Garnett could take charge of
Reggie.
The offer was too tempting to be refused. I do not think I ever knew
the meaning of the word holiday before. No schoolgirl felt in greater
spirits than I did during dinner time.
It was a lovely April afternoon. I took out of my wardrobe a soft
grey merino, my best dress, and a little grey velvet bonnet that Aunt
Agatha’s skilful hands had made for me. I confess I looked at myself
with some complacency. “No one would take me for a nurse,” I thought.
In the hall I encountered Mr. Morton; he was just going out. For the
moment he did not recognise me. He removed his hat hurriedly; no doubt
he thought me a stranger.
I could not help smiling at his mistake, and then he said, rather
awkwardly, “I did not know you, Miss Fenton. I am glad you have such
a lovely afternoon for your holiday; there seems a look of spring in
the air,” all very civilly, but with his keen eyes taking in every
particular of my dress.
I heard from Mrs. Garnett afterwards that he very much approved of Miss
Fenton’s quiet, ladylike appearance, and as he was a very fastidious
man, this was considered high praise. There was more than a touch of
spring in the air; the delicious softness seemed to promise opening
buds. Down Exhibition-road the flower-girls were busy with their
baskets of snowdrops and violets. I bought a few for Aunt Agatha, then
I remembered that Uncle Keith had a weakness for a particular sort of
scone, and I bought some and a slice of rich Dundee seed cake. I felt
like a schoolgirl providing a little home feast, but how pleasant it
is to cater for those we love. I was glad when my short journey was
over, and I could see the river shimmering a steely blue in the spring
sunshine. The old church towers seemed more venerable and picturesque.
As I walked down High-street I looked at the well-known shops with an
interest I never felt before.
When I reached the cottage I rang very softly, that Aunt Agatha
should not be disturbed. Patience uttered a pleased exclamation when
she caught sight of me. “Is it really yourself, Miss Merle? I could
hardly believe my eyes. Mistress is in there reading,” pointing to the
drawing-room. “She has not heard the bell, I’ll be bound, so you can
surprise her finely.”
I acted on Patience’s hint, and opened the door noiselessly. How cosy
the room looked in the firelight! and could any sight be more pleasant
to my eyes than dear Aunt Agatha sitting in her favourite low chair, in
her well-worn black silk and pretty lace cap. I shall never forget her
look of delight when she saw me.
“Merle! Oh, you dear child, do you mean it is really you? Come here and
let me look at you. I want to see what seven weeks of hard work have
done for you.”
But Aunt Agatha’s eyes were very dim as she looked.
“There, sit down, and get warm,” giving me an energetic little push,
“and tell me all about it. Your letters never do you justice, Merle. I
must hear your experience from your own lips.”
What a talk that was. It lasted all the afternoon, until Patience
came in to set the tea-table, and we heard Uncle Keith’s boots on the
scraper; even that sound was musical to me. When he entered the room I
gave him a good hug, and had put some of my violets in his button-hole
long before he had left off saying “Hir-rumph” in his surprise.
“She looks well, Agatha, does she not?” he observed, as we gathered
round the tea-table. “So the scheme has held out for seven weeks, eh?
You have not come to tell us you are tired of being a nurse?”
“No, indeed,” I returned, indignantly. “I am determined to prove to
you and the whole world that my theory is a sensible one. I am quite
happy in my work—perfectly happy, Uncle Keith. I would not part with my
children for worlds. Joyce is so amusing, and as for Reggie, he is such
a darling that I could not live without him.”
“It is making a woman of Merle, I can see that,” observed Aunt Agatha,
softly. “I confess I did not like the plan at first, but if you make it
answer, child, you will have me for a convert. You look just as nice
and just as much a lady as you did when you were leading a useless life
here. Never mind if in time your hands grow a little less soft and
white; that is a small matter if your heart expands and your conscience
is satisfied. You remember your favourite motto, Merle?”
“Yes, indeed, Aunt Agatha, ‘Laborare est orare.’ Now I must go, for
Uncle Keith is pulling out his watch, which means I have to catch my
train.”
But as I trudged over the bridge beside him in the starlight, and saw
the faint gleams lying on the dark, shadowy river, a voice seemed to
whisper to my inner consciousness, “Courage, Merle, a good beginning
makes a glad ending. Hold fast to your motto, ‘Laborare est orare.’”
(_To be continued._)
[Illustration]
THE BROOK AND ITS BANKS.
BY THE REV. J. G. WOOD, M.A., Author of “The Handy Natural History.”