“I was a child and she was a child

In this kingdom by the sea,

And we loved with a love that was more than love,

I and my Annabel Lee;

With a love that the winged seraphs of heaven

Coveted her and me.”

_Harduppe._—Yes, you can have this paper posted free to you for a year

if you send us three yearly subscribers. Thanks for kind wishes.

“Oh,” said Dolly, “you’ll really have to do something about Mervyn’s

hair, Phyl. You know there really was a letter, this month.” She

reached it out of the pigeon-hole that was marked—“Answers to

Correspondents,” and that always stood empty.

In the first chapter of “The Master of Malbrook Court,” Phyl had

said that “the morning sunshine streamed into the room and turned to

burnished gold the sunny hair of Mervyn Malbrook.” And alas! in the

seventh she had written, “Overcome with anguish Mervyn bowed her dusky

head upon her hands and gave herself up to a fit of bitter weeping.”

An anonymous correspondent, possibly one of those undergraduates, wrote

to point out the mistake.

“Lover of Truth,” wrote Phyl now, on that correspondence column. “We

sorrowfully note the discrepancy you speak of. Mervyn’s tresses have

certainly changed in some mysterious way during the course of seven

months from gold to raven. We had hitherto had rather a high opinion

of the young person’s character but now we feel reluctantly compelled

to admit she must have been of a designing nature and had some hair dye

or Peerless Gloss among her toilet appliances.”

CHAPTER XXIV

NEWS FROM THE FATHERLAND

“With laughing mouth but tear-wet eye.”

There came a day when Phyl and Dolly dashed in from the Post-office

with scarlet faces. There had been among the letters one with a queer

German stamp upon it, and, secure in a deserted road, they had raced

each other home as if they had still been in short frocks.

The news spread round the house, and the family gathered rapidly

together from orchard, garden, and verandahs, for this was the boy’s

first letter since his feet had touched on German soil.

In the hall impish Davey lingered with wistful eyes to catch a word or

two, and out in the kitchen Mary said, “Bless the little chap!” and

looked affectionately at a patch of ink he had one time spilt on her

spotless dresser.

“_Wiesbaden_, “_Jan. the something or other_.

“Hello the all of you” (_the letter ran_),

“And how’s things out there? I expect you are all roasting. Well,

I’m not, and that’s a fact. Cold! Why, if I put my nose outside this

morning it would never come in again, the wind snaps so, and I’d

have a beard of icicles and a snow moustache in five jiffys. Did

you get my other letter? I posted two of them at places we stopped

at, I forgot the blessed names,—oh! one of them was in the Sandwich

Islands, I remember that, because a fellow stuffed me there were

natural sandwiches there growing on the Bread-fruit Palms. I never

get taken in now though; you can’t help it at first, everything’s so

queer. Then I posted again—only I didn’t put a stamp on, at the place

we left the ship,—I forget the name, but it’s in Italy. You got it,

didn’t you? Old Ollendorf’s a rummy fellow; we went to a town called

Rome (it’s in Italy too, not far from that other town), and he poked

about all day among the smashed-up places. He gets tears in his eyes

and blows his nose hard whenever he gets excited, and he gets excited

over everything. Well, the more smashed-up a place was the more he’d

cry. While we were in that town he was crying most of the time. I got

tired of it, so I left him saying ‘Ach Gott’ and ‘Himmel’ and such

things in front of a lot of dirty old pictures, and young Clinch and

me went to a circus. Mein vord, it _was_ a circus. They’d kick such

a thing out of Australia, but anything does for these old Rome people.

[Illustration: “We went to a town called Rome.”]

“Well, then, we went to another place, I forget the name—oh,

Florence, I think. Didn’t think much of it, but it’s not quite so

tumble-down as the what’s-it’s-name town. Oh, I didn’t tell you

about the river at the other place. Old Olly had spouted about

it, the Tiber it’s called, all the way in the train, and I really

thought I was going to see something at last. Well, when we’d had

something to eat, he carted me out on to a bridge to look at it.

I give you my word I thought he was having a lark with me. The

dirtiest, miserablest bit of a river you ever saw. I didn’t want to

catch typhoid, so I held my nose and turned round to see if he was

holding his. But he wasn’t. He was blowing it hard and crying. Yes,

by Shimminy. I told him he just ought to see our Hawkesbury.

“Well, about Florence. It’s got a lot of buildings and things in

it, and some of them look rather nice; they’re higher too than the

buildings in Sydney. Clinch and me got sick of mooning about with

Olly, and there was one of the waiters, a real good sort, going to a

place five miles off to see some races, so you bet we went too. But

the horses were as smashed-up as the buildings are—not a goer in the

lot, so it wasn’t much fun. Australia could put them up to a thing or

two on racing, my word.

“I get awfully sick of only hearing this blessed German talked. We’ve

settled down in this town now for three months, and even the slaveys

here jabber it. Young Clinch is only eight, but I feel I can talk to

him all day and all night just because he doesn’t jabber-jabber. I’m

getting pretty smart at it myself though; you have to, or go hungry

here, they’re such a blessed set of idiots. You don’t know how I

wanted some bull’s-eyes one day, and do you think I could make any

of the thick heads in three shops understand? They all kept telling

me to go to the butcher’s. When I come back I’ll have to get three

pounds of them straight off to make up.

“Aunt Helene’s awfully queer; she’s as old as anything you know, and

yet she’s always doing lessons and things. I go for a walk with her

every day, and she makes me do the jabber, and does it herself all

the time, so sometimes I don’t talk much. But _she_ does,—all the

questions and answers in the Conversation-book, and I know she goes

into the shops and buys things just so she can ask for them in German.

“Yesterday it was such a lark; we were mooning up and down the street

and a horse backed on to the pavement, and she bolted into the first

shop,—she’s the nervousest woman I ever saw,—bar those little donkeys

Phyl and Dolly. Well, she likes to be dignified too, so when the

shop-walker johnnie came up to her she pretended she’d just come in

to buy something. Well, every time she speaks to any one, this is her

regular jabber, only I’m saying it in English, the other stuff is too

hard to spell. ‘Guten morgen’ (that means good-morning). ‘It is a

cold wind. Winter draws near. It freezes. It has frozen last night.’

The shop-walker johnnie says, ‘Ja, es ist schönes wetter’ (that

means, yes, it is very fine weather)—of course he doesn’t understand

what she has been saying. Then he says, ‘Be seated, Frau’ (once she

got her hair off and said, ‘Frau_lein_, gefalligst’).

“Then she says, ‘Show me, if you please,—she’s got that part very

pat,—das gloves, des ribbons, dem lace,’ or whatever she wants. Only

this was a man’s shop, and there were only shirts and trousers or

things about. Well, I thought I’d help her out of a hole; I knew she

didn’t want anything at a shop like that, but I thought she wouldn’t

like to go out without buying something after bolting in like she

did. So I told her she’d better get me some trousers, I wanted some.

Well, she got so red I thought she must have forgotten the word

for them, so I pointed to some tweed stuff on the counter, and then

pointed at my legs, and a man at a counter understood in a jiffy,

and began to get some down. But Aunt turned round and walked out of

the shop, and I had to follow, of course, and the shop-people must

have thought we were cracked. What do you think it was? It wasn’t

that she’d forgotten the word for trousers, but I know now she’d have

rather died than have said it. ‘Never refer to such horrible things

in a mixed assembly, Alfred,’ she said. I’m always treading on her

corns, but how on earth was I to know _trousers_ weren’t proper?

“She’s as finicky as that over everything; after I’ve been in her

room for an hour I just rush out on the hill and shout, and howl, and

roll about, you get so bottled up. She’s not much to look at, her

hair’s any colour, and her eyes are lightish blue, and she always

looks as ill as anything. She’s not a bit like that likeness of

mother. She’s always getting new dresses, really spiffing ones, all

silk things with roses and flowers worked all over them, and lace

things and everything; jolly greedy of her never to have sent mother

any.

“This is what we do all day. Well, we’re not at a hotel now,

Grandfather’s tired of them; this is a private sort of a house in the

suburbs, only you pay them for keeping you. Well, every one gets up

at six except Grandfather, and we have some sort of meal—you can’t

call it breakfast. There’s no cloth, only a table and a box of sugar

on it, and a tray full of hot rolls and a big pot of coffee. We just

go and help ourselves, and then Aunt Helene settles down and plays

the hideousest and hardest things on the piano for two mortal hours,

and I moon round the garden and lark with the fellow who cleans the

boots, an awfully nice fellow. Then I hear her saying in her squeaky,

proper little voice, ‘To me if you please the young Herr Alfred send,

Elizabeth.’ And sometimes the young Herr Alfred hides so he can’t

be sent, but sometimes he goes, she looks so lonely plugging along

up the hill by herself. Well, we lug along for about an hour, and

plug into churches and lug into ruins and plug along the river,—it’s

called the Rhine. And then we plug back, and now we’ve come to an

agreement that if I jabber going, she talks English coming back. So

coming back I talk the most; only she doesn’t seem to like to hear

about all of you, so I can’t think of much to say.

“Then when you get in there’s another meal, about ten—you can’t call

this breakfast either, no porridge or eggs or anything decent, only

fruit and little cakes and stupid things. Grandfather is up then,

and we go out in an old rattle-your-bones for miles and see things.

Then there’s mittagessen when you get back—that’s dinner. It’s not

so bad ’cause you needn’t eat just what they do. They have raw ham

and raw smoked fish stuffed with vegetables, raw herrings and salad.

There’s soup and meat and proper things like we have, but in between

the meat courses the slaveys hand round some mad thing like pancakes

or ices. Sometimes they have pigeons or partridges, and then they

hand round an ass of a dish of boiled apricots or plums, and the

Germaners, not us, you bet, take some on their plate with the game,

and put lettuce on that, and oil and sugar on that, and then fall

to and eat it. We all have a salt-cellar each, but they don’t put

spoons in them, you’re expected to help yourself with your knife. Do

you remember dropping on to me for that, old mother?—I can see just

where I was sitting at the table; Dolly was dreaming away over her

meat and wouldn’t pass the salt, and I leaned across her to get some

on my knife. It was haricot mutton for dinner, I remember, and there

was Queen’s Pudding after, and Phyl served it and gave me the pyramid

piece of icing, and Freddie got tears in his eyes because he wanted

it. I hate them having things to eat here like we did at home; there

was a big sago pudding the other day, and it made me feel as funny

as anything to look at it, you all seemed so far away.

“Old mother, don’t you think if I get on fast and learn everything

I could come back soon? I keep remembering what the Pater said, but

it makes you feel pretty sick to think you’ve got to stop here for

always. There’s a man coming here from to-morrow to give me lessons,

and I’m not going to play any larks on him or anything. I’m just

going to do Latin and any mortal thing he sticks on to me. I’ll know

an awful lot in a year, old mother, if I work like that, and I’d soon

get a good billet in Sydney, specially now I know German talk. Get

him to let me come back, mother; what’s the good of tin to you when

you don’t want to spend it?

“Your affectionate son,

“Alf.”

Letters followed from week to week.

“_Jan. 19, Strasburg._

“Dear Mother,

“We came to this town for a few days; there’s rather a good clock

here, it would interest you. Grandfather isn’t well. He’s rather a

little man, and his nose is a bit like a hook, and he gets gout. I

don’t like him much. He’s always asking you the past participle of

_pouvoir_, and saying just when you’re enjoying your pudding, and

don’t want all the table to look at you, ‘Dative plural of a sharp

weapon?’

“I think he gives Aunt Helene a pretty bad time; he’s always jumping

on her, and sometimes he tells her she couldn’t get married because

no one would have her with such a temper as she’s got. She never

says anything back, I don’t believe she’s got a temper at all, and

she’s jolly nice to him and looks after him like anything. I believe

she’d like to get married to Vollmar—he’s the chap that’s started to

teach me music; he wouldn’t have her of course, he’s as young and

nice as anything, and he’s gone on young Clinch’s governess, they’re

stopping near us in Wiesbaden. When he comes for my lessons she

dresses herself up like anything and keeps coming in the room, and

sometimes she drops books so that he has to pick them up, and once

she pretended she was fainting, and he had to hold her up, and he

looked as if he didn’t like it. Wish she would get married—that would

be one lot of money less to wait here for.

“I’m getting on like anything, mother. I heard Grandfather say

yesterday, ‘And what do you think of your pupil’s capabilities,

Herr Oppenheim?’ And old Opp Beir,—he’s a decent old boy—said,

‘Cababeelitays,—ach, ya, he brogress along with dem first glass.’ And

I really am getting on, mother, I never grafted like this before.

I asked Grandfather to let me learn shorthand, and he was quite

pleased, and said it would be very useful if he decided to let me

have any active share in the firm. Was it mean of me, old mother? He

lets me learn anything, and I couldn’t tell him I wanted to learn

so that I could get a billet in Sydney. Don’t you think if I cram

very hard all June I could come back? I wouldn’t be any expense to

the Pater now; I know music and whips of things I usen’t to, and I

could easily get something to do, and p’raps help to pay Freddie’s

school bills. Dear old mother, do let me,—honour bright, I’ve tried

like anything not to want to come back, but it’s pretty awful. If you

see a girl go running down the street and her hair’s brown you can’t

help thinking of Weenie. Sometimes just flowers make you feel sick;

there’s some here in the garden, and they’re jonquils like those old

Clif brought home for you that day, and I never go to that part of

the garden.

“Your loving old Alf.”

“_Same old Veesbaden, March 30._

“Darling old Mother, and all of you,

“Grandfather’s better again, but Aunt Helene is pretty ill. She

never goes walks now, but lies on the sofa nearly all the time. She

likes me to talk to her and tell her about my lessons, especially

my music. The doctor said to Grandfather last week she ought to go

for a sea-voyage, and said, ‘Take a run to Australia.’ My scrimmy, I

couldn’t help turning straight head over heels, and I made an awful

row, and Grandfather swore like anything. Then the doctor said if

we came straight away now she’d escape the rest of the cold weather

here, and I nearly turned over again. Oh, my scrimmy, think of seeing

you all in a month or two! Grandfather growled like anything, he

doesn’t seem to think any one but himself ought to be ill, and he

said he was very comfortable where he was, and he wasn’t going to lay

himself open to sea-sickness. And so I told him there was a fellow

when we came out, and he used to put cotton-wool in his ears and

wear smoked glasses, and pretend hard to himself for three days that

he was right away up country, and he was never sick at all hardly.

And Grandfather gave a roar at me and said, ‘Clear out.’ You never

know where to take that chap. I laid for the doctor, he’s a very

nice fellow, and I told him I thought Aunt ought to go the voyage

at once; she hardly ate anything at dinner, and there was roast

quales and things. And I told him I’d look after her like anything if

Grandfather liked to stop behind. I went round with him in his buggy

to all his places, and he talked and was as nice as anything; he said

he’d like to see Phyl and Dolly writing in that room old Clif and Ted

built; and I’d got that photo of Weenie up a tree in my pocket that

old Ted took, and he said she looked like the little youthful maiden

Hiney wrote about. Hiney’s a poet that lives somewhere out here, I

think, you often hear people talking about him. Well, the old brick

said he’d try to persuade Grandfather to come, he said the voyage

would do him good too. He’s a real Briton, that man, although he’s

made in Germany. I’ll keep letting you know things as fast as I find

them out.”

CHAPTER XXV

THE TRIALS OF WEENIE

Weenie was fourteen before Romance in any way affected her.

True she had occasionally been bitten with a desire to emulate her

sisters, and the results had been so unique that Mrs. Wise had carried

them off and placed them in her “put-away” drawer, an honour she rarely

bestowed on the prolific elder sisters.

There was the time for instance that Phyl and Dolly had written a play

which they had acted among themselves with much success. The doctor was

much amused one day while rehearsals were still going on to come across

Weenie sitting in the summer-house, biting her pen very hard.

“No, I protest,” he said; “look here, two authoresses are enough in the

family. For Heaven’s sake don’t you catch the disease.”

“I don’t see why they should be the only ones to write,” Weenie said;

“it’s ever so easy; I’m always going to do it.”

“Mother!” cried the doctor. Mrs. Wise was sewing just outside on the

grass. “Here’s Weenie with the most alarming symptoms setting in.”

“Oh, let it alone, if you love me, Weenie,” Mrs. Wise said. “I _do_

want one daughter who won’t burn the jam, and seam up four sides of a

pillow-case.”

[Illustration: “Two authoresses are enough in the family.”]

“You don’t make fun of the others,” Weenie said pettishly; “why don’t

you tell them to stop?”

“Their complaint has become chronic,” the doctor said, “but we should

like to save you while there is time.”

From the bottom of the garden came loud excited shouts and hurrahs.

“I do believe,” said Weenie, her face lighting up, her pen dropping

from her hands—“I do believe Freddie’s got that snake at last,” and her

long, black legs went flying down the orchard.

“Freddie, the physician, warranted to cure,” said the doctor.

Of course he had to read the forgotten result of so much pen-biting.

“_The Rival Suitors_,” by Wilhelmina Conway, said sprawling red letters

at the top of a sheet of foolscap. Then just underneath—

“DRAMMATIS PERSONS

Lord Regginald.—a lord in love with Susan.

Adolfus.— Another man, but he’s really the real Lord Regginald.

Mrs. Jones.— Adolfusse’s Mother.

Susan.— A girl.

Act I. Scene I.

_A drawing room of the Castel_

_Enter_ Susan (_attired in a blue sash and things_).

“Well, I always thought you were a murderer, Lord Regginald, and now

I know you are.”

_Exit_ Susan.

Act II. Scene I.

_Enter_ Adolfus.—But what this character had to say did not appear, as

the young dramatist was just wrestling with his speech when the doctor

had interrupted her.

Then there was the time that Weenie kept a diary.

Dolly and Phyl kept them, it goes without saying, but no one ever saw

theirs, they kept them so carefully hidden away. Weenie’s of course

flung about the house everywhere, and every one considered it “fair

game.” The boys had many a shriek of laughter over it after she had

gone to bed. The doctor made her a present of a proper Letts’s Diary

with three days on each page, when he found she so ardently desired to

do as Phyl and Dolly did. It cost Weenie real hard thinking, however,

to find sufficient occurrences in ordinary daily life to fill the

spaces for the one fortnight during which she wrote up the entries

every night.

This was one of the mildest sheets that Clif read aloud one night.

“_Monday._—Got up. Porridge, hot scones and marmerlade for breakfast.

Agnes and Lottie Green always have butter as well as marmerlade, we can

only have one. Went to school. Wore my brown dress. Got my sums wrong.

Came home. Won three connies off Freddie, only he would only give me

two. Played cricket, bowled Dolly out first shot. Had dinner—mutton and

things. Did lessons—went to bed.

“_Tues._—Got up. Had a row with Dolly. She will sit on the chair and

try to stop me coming in the room. Went after a snake with Richie going

to school but we lost him. Had lunch,—mutton sandwiches, apple pasty

and cake—only Phyl had made it and it wasn’t much good. Agnes and

Lottie’s mother gives them sixpence each and they get the loveliest

things, tarts and buns and things. Wish we were rich. Got a hole in my

stocking,—well, I couldent help it so Phyl needent have grumbled so.

There aren’t _any_ places to kneel down when you’re playing marbles

without stones.

“_Wed._—Curry and potatoes and cauliflower and sago pudding and rhubarb

pudding for dinner. Yesterday at Lottie and Agnes’ house they had

roast ducks and peas and asparrowgas and jellies and French pudding

with whiped cream. Won Dolly again, tipped her chair right up. Went to

school. Didn’t get kept in to-day at least only half-an-hour.”

When Weenie at last discovered her precious diary had been in the

unhallowed hands of the boys, and that all the family had been laughing

at it, her wrath knew no bounds.

Dolly and Phyl had been among the laughers—she directed her anger

against them.

“All right,” she said, “just you wait. I’ll get _your_ diaries and let

the boys laugh at _them_. I’m sure you put far sillier things in yours.”

“I haven’t a single doubt of it,” said Clif.

“Well, laugh at _them_,” said Weenie; “every one laughs at me, ’tisn’t

fair.”

One evening she came bursting into the dining-room where the boys were

with a closely-written diary page in her hand.

“Said I’d get it,” she screamed triumphantly; “such fun; just listen,

boys.”

“Don’t be a little sneak,” Clif said, “you know Dolly wouldn’t like it.”

“Pooh,” said Weenie, “she laughed at mine. _I_ didn’t like it.”

“You’re only a kid,” Clif said.

“Go on, let’s hear,” said Richie, “it’s quite fair—they laughed like

anything over Weenie’s.”

“_Jan. 24th:_” read Weenie. “Fifteen to-day, fifteen long years gone

over my head. Sometimes I ask myself what use I am in the world, and I

cannot help answering, not one bit. But from to-day I really will try

to do better. I will earnestly try to conquer my temper, to be more

patient with Weenie and the boys, and to help mother better.

“_Jan. 25th._—Weenie is really the most aggravating little wretch in

the world; no one could be patient and live long with her. But I will

_not_ give up my chair at the wash-stand.”

But here Dolly burst into the room, snatched the page away, called

Weenie dishonourable, mean, and other epithets.

“Now, I won’t help you with your essay,” she said as she went out of

the door again.

Weenie, the essay on her mind, wished she had let well alone.

“You help, will you, Clif?” she said.

“Not I,” said Clif, “I told you, you were a little sneak.”

Weenie’s young, brown face flamed with sudden passion.

“It’s always the way,” she said, “you’re always against _me_,

all of you—if it had been Dolly or Phyl—mother’s the same, and

doctor—t-t-think I don’t n-n-notice, don’t you?”

She flung away out of the room and went rushing blindly down the

orchard before the boys, startled at the suddenness of her outbreak,

could speak.

“What a little spit-fire!” Clif said; then settled comfortably down to

his pipe again.

He was very fond of these three little step-sisters of his, but he

never even attempted to understand the vagaries of such queer little

beings. To “girls’ ways” he and the other boys always used to put

everything down that they could not understand, and this sudden flaring

of Weenie’s was, he supposed, one of the “ways.”

But Weenie, unknown to every one, with her fourteenth birthday, and

the lengthened frocks her long legs demanded, had gotten to herself a

brand-new trouble that she hugged daily to keep warm. She had taken it

into her head that she was unappreciated by her family, misunderstood,

uncared for.

When she went to bed at night she used to lie and conjure up a pathetic

scene of her death-bed, when too late her family had learned her worth.

She would lie and blink at the patch of light made on the ceiling by

Dolly’s wash-stand candle, her throat swelling with self-pity. She saw

a picture of herself growing daily thinner and thinner, her cheeks

white, the eyes unnaturally large and bright. Yet all the family went

on with its own occupations, too engrossed to notice her failing

strength. And one by one her duties would be given up, meal after

meal and only her vacant chair would be at the table. And at last it

would be forced upon them all that the patient figure upon the sofa,

with the transparent hands and ethereal smile, was slipping from their

midst. She went further still one night, and actually buried herself

in an oak and silver coffin, piled up with wreaths and crosses of

fragrant flowers. Her family and all her school-fellows were standing

around looking their last on her as she lay, her face marble white and

peaceful, her still white hands filled with lilies, and crossed on her

breast. A sob rose from the bed at this heartrending picture.

“Whatever’s the matter?” Dolly said from the wash-stand.

There came another quivering breath.

Dolly dropped her pen and ran round to the bedside.

“Have you got a pain?—does your head ache?—what _is_ the matter,

Weenie?” she said, quite startled; “would you like me to fetch mother?”

Weenie shook her head languidly and turned her head tearfully aside.

“Go a-w-way,” she said.

But Dolly was not to be put off like that. She stroked the brown curls

on the pillow, she put loving arms round her, and kissed her healthy

brown cheek soothingly.

“Do tell me,” she said; “are you in a row at school? Tell me, little

old Weenie; isn’t it anything I can help?—poor old Wee, there, never

mind, nothing can be very bad—there, tell me, girlie dear.”

But Weenie turned away irritably. It was too bad to have one’s burial

interrupted in this fashion. Besides, it was vexatious to have Dolly

kind; to be in keeping with her mood the elder sister should have

bidden her harshly “be quiet,” or at least have scorned and reviled her

for her tears. She buried her nose in the pillow.

“I wish you’d let me alone,” she said peevishly, and Dolly was forced

to retire.

The keynote of all the trouble was, the child was missing Alf, and

without his invigorating companionship was forced to enter into the

curious and quieter paths of girlhood that her feet had avoided so long.

CHAPTER XXVI

MORE LETTERS

One week’s mail brought seven separate letters from the “German Sausage

Land.” It had evidently been a safety-valve for the excited lad to

actually seal and post a letter every day, although he was aware the

mail service between his longed-for native land and the “wretched

foreign hole” where he sojourned would not put itself out of the way to

deliver them in any hurry.

Mrs. Wise opened the budget and placed them in serial form, for Alf had

at last after earnest entreaty fallen into the habit of putting the

date and the name of his abiding city at the head of his letters.

“_Wiesbaden,_

“_May 7th_ (ran the first).

“Are you listening, all of you? Well, if you can’t understand take

the letter up to an asylum and they’ll explain it. I’m just as mad

as mad, and so would you be. I’m nearly dead sure we’re coming.

Grandfather said first she could go across the river to Homburg and

she could drink some water there and that would cure her, but she

fainted again this morning and she looked jolly bad, I can tell you,

and he said he’d see.

“My scrimmy, haven’t I just had a day of it! First of all I cut down

to the shops to get you all a present each, I’d got a sovereign to

spend.

“I got heaps of things with it,—pincushions and thimbles and books

for the girls and a big drum for Freddie and a collidescope affair,

and some jolly good marbles for Weenie and some chocolate for her and

a pipe for the Pater and a knife for Weenie. Well, it took me nearly

all day plugging down to the shops and lugging home the parcels.

Then there was supper but you bet I didn’t want any. I just cut

up-stairs and packed up everything. It took me nearly all night; it

was jolly hard to make everything go in and the drum takes up a lot

of room. It’s one o’clock now and I’ve just finished. I won’t be able

to have a bath in the morning, I’ve packed my shirts and things in

the bath-tub thing that’s like a portmanto, and they haven’t got a

bath-room in this house.

“Do you remember I said I’d never bathe in a scrimmagy mean little

bath like that when you bought it? but you’re jolly glad to; whips of

the places where we stop they haven’t got any bath-room. Won’t I have

a fine old splash when I get home! I’ve got my travelling suit on and

I’m not going to get undressed at all, so I’ll be ready to start in

the morning,—you never know when you’ll have to start. As soon as I

wake—only I shall never go to sleep—I’m going up to the doctor’s to

ask him to read in the shipping what day a ship goes from Hamburg.

They have such lunatic papers here you can’t read for yourself and

there are only women here, and they don’t understand ships.

“Alf the Mad.”

“_Same old place._

“_Next day._

“Hurresh, hurresh, hurresh! Ach! Gott! Himmel! (it’s not wicked to

say those words here, even the ladies do). Himmel! Gott! Ach! Ach!

There’s a boat goes on Thursday. The doctor wasn’t up when I got

there, it was only half-past five, but I woke the coachman and he

told me. It’s the _Friederich der Grosse_. Ach! ach! Gott! I’m nearly

off my head. I’m going to pack up again to-day, it’ll make the time

go, and I squashed things up a bit when I was hurrying last night.

Then to-morrow we’ll be in the train, and next day off. Tra-la-la,

tra-la-la, Hurresh!!

“Alf the Madder.”

“_Wednesday._

“Dear Mother,

“Everything’s up. I don’t care what happens now. I’d just as soon die

as anything. Grandfather said we’d go to the concert, and I couldn’t

help going in my brown suit,—it would have taken an awful time to

unpack another, and he said why, and I said I’d packed the others

up, and he was beastly horrid and snapped me up like anything and

said he had no intention of going at all; he says we’ll go to that

miserable Italy instead. I’m going up to the doctor’s to-night to try

to set him on to him but I know it’ll be no go,—I’ll just have to go

on stopping here always. I can’t believe it was only yesterday I was

packing up that drum and things and now none of you’ll get them. It

was such a stunning pipe too. Oh mother I’ll _have_ to come home,—oh

I can’t go on stopping here,—oh won’t you please write by next mail

to Grandfather and say you can’t spare me any longer. Please don’t

write,—cabel, I can’t wait mother dear.

“Alf.”

“_Thursday._

“Dear old Phillipena,

“Thank goodness Aunt’s getting worse so we may come after all. Of

course I don’t mean I’m glad she’s worse but I know she won’t be any

good till she’s had the voyage.

“I told you she was in love with Volly; well I never thought about

it and yesterday when we were out I told her that young Clinch’s

governess and him were going to be married next month—young Clinch

told me so it’s quite true. Anyroads he wouldn’t have thought of

marrying any one like Aunt; young Clinch’s governess is an A oner,

I’m in love with her myself. Well I’d a nice time of it. Aunt began

to faint and cry and go in hysterics all over the place. The buggy

had taken us up the river and the man had taken the horse out for a

drink so there was only me, and I had to fan her and throw water on

her and everything. She got alright pretty soon and going home she

gave me ten shillings and told me not to tell young Clinch she’d been

crying, she said she was crying because the little gray castle and

the river were so beautiful. But I know better. I told her the best

thing would be for her to come straight to Australia and she’d soon

forget him and praps get married to someone else; there are whips of

men on board ship and they all flirt with somebody. She got in an

awful wax with me and wouldn’t say anything else all the way home.

“Alf.”

“_Same old dirty place,_

“_Friday._

“Dear Mother,

“I went and bought a new toothbrush and a collar and a hairbrush to

day, I just _can’t_ unpack those bags again, I know if I do we’ll

never come. I’m wearing my brown suit all the time but no one has

noticed. I don’t think after all Aunt Helene could have been gone on

Volly; when I was having my lesson she came in dressed fit to kill

you, and she’d made her cheeks all red with dye or something,—my

goodness she did look a fright. And she shook hands and congratulated

him like anything and he told her all about Miss Allison, he’s quite

mad about her. He kept walking up and down and running his hand

through his hair while he talked. He said they were going to live in

a little brown house near the river and that as the gods of music and

love and youth would be under the roof it wouldn’t matter if they

had nothing to eat, and a lot more rot. I don’t think he has any

money scarcely, ’cause young Clinch says his mother keeps begging

Miss Allison not to get married till he’s got more pupils, but a girl

like that doesn’t care about a man’s money and they’re going to be

turned off on the second. Aunt was jolly nice to him I can tell you

and he talked to her as if she was his mother. Then after my lesson

I went out with her and she bought awfully gummy little chairs and

tables and pictures and books and even a piano and sent them round

to the house they’re going to live in. And she met Miss Allison and

said she’d sent a little thing or two, ‘An old maid’s privilege,’ she

said. My jimminy, she is getting changed; she’d have had a fit if any

one had called her an old maid a bit ago. But I must have been no end

of an ass to think she was sweet on Volly; she’d be scratching Miss

Allison’s eyes out instead of sending her wedding presents.

“Alf.”

“_Saturday._

“Dear Mother,

“The awfullest thing has happened. Aunt’s quite dead. She got her

palpitations again last night, but she went to bed as usual, and when

we got up she was dead. I keep thinking I’m dreaming it all, only I

know I’m not because I’ve got her canary in here and she liked it

better than anything and always had it in her room. She brought it

in to me last night when I was in bed and she said she’d give it to

me if I’d promise and swear never to forget to feed it. She said it

woke her up too early in a morning so she had to give it away. And

she brought her sewing things in, and she’d written ‘Little Dick’ on

about six bits of calico and she made me let her sew them into all

my coats so when I put one on in a morning I couldn’t help seeing it

on the lining and remembering to give it its water and food. I had

to unpack my things to get the coats out, but I’m glad now I did.

I wish I’d done more things for her, and oh I do wish young Clinch

and me hadn’t laughed at her when she talked German. I’d talk it

now to _her_ till my tongue fell out if it would do any good. The

doctor was here an awful time and people keep coming all the time

now. Grandfather doesn’t seem to care very much; he’s just sitting

in his usual chair in the salon, and he’s just looking straight out

the window all the time, and he’s drank an awful lot of brandy. The

doctor says he’s going to get him to go to Egypt, he says someone

must look after him and at Alexandrea there’s Aunt Helene’s cousin

and she’s married to a clergyman there, only he’s dead and she could

look after him.

“It’s pretty awful mother to think you’ve been horrid when she’s

dead. I used to hide often when she wanted to go out, and it was

lonely for her plugging down to the river alone. And she used to want

me to practise my things for Vollmar and I wouldn’t and she’d give

me shillings and half-crowns if I would. And I used to be always

laughing over her German,—it makes me feel pretty sick to night to

think how beastly I’ve been. Fraulein Schliessman made me go in and

look at her, and she looks the littlest whitest thing, and her hair

isn’t curled, it’s only just lying quiet and straight on the pillow

and she only looks as if she was very fast asleep, only they’ve put

so many flowers all over her you can’t help knowing she’s dead. I

took little Dick in and let him touch her hand, I knew she’d like it

and the little chap wasn’t a bit afraid and picked a violet out of

her hand. Oh mother I wish some of you were here; it’s awful to go to

bed and think of her being left in her room and no one with her just

because she’s dead. It’s the next room to mine and I feel all the

time I can see how quietly she’s lying and I can smell the flowers.

“Alf.”

That was the last of the packet of letters, and then mail after mail

came in and no envelopes with the black round writing on it came to

that quiet Australian suburb after long tossing on the great deep.

Week after week Phyl and Dolly, Weenie or the boys went up the long

hill to the Post-office, one after another sometimes to make quite

sure a letter had not been overlooked, to worry the postmistress, to

“just see if there was one sticking to the back of the pigeon-hole,”

or “to please look if there wasn’t a German letter mixed up with the

newspapers.”

Silence, silence, week after week, and all their hearts aching

miserably for the poor little homesick lad. Silence, silence. He was

in Alexandria now, they told themselves, and pictured him happier, for

the cousin had a family of boys. The girls read up all they knew about

the Nile and about that particular town, but they could not comfort

themselves by imagining him interested in the stupendous age of the

place; they knew he would compare the Nile with the Hawkesbury, greatly

to the detriment of the former. Phyl almost always went to sleep with

wet eyes induced by a mental picture of Alf’s solid, lonely little

figure standing solitary against the great Pyramid. Silence, silence!

CHAPTER XXVII

FINANCE AND FASHION

“‘Two added to one, if that could be done,’

It said, ‘with one’s fingers and thumbs,’

Recollecting with tears how in earlier years

It had taken no pains with its sums.”

“Really, this _is_ tiresome,” said Mrs. Wise; “I asked Dolly to make a

plum-pudding, as Mary was so busy, and she has put currants and sugar

and eggs and peel and suet, and no flour or bread-crumbs at all. Where

is she, Phyl?”

“Four and four and sevenpence-halfpenny, four and

elevenpence-halfpenny, minus threepence for stamps,” said Phyl, waving

a financial pen to excuse immediate reply; “gone to the post, I think,

mither dear; she’s mad after a letter, though I don’t know why. Oh,

these wretched accounts _won’t_ come right.”

“Here, I suppose I’ll have to lend a hand,” said Clif, from the lounge

where he was stretched smoking and reading, for the afternoon was the

pleasant, leisure one of Saturday.

He made a lazy way across the room to where Phyl, housekeeper for the

week, was wrestling with the accounts. She and Dolly were supposed to

take the management of the house alternate weeks for necessary domestic

education.

“Look,” said Phyl, “I have got everything down quite plainly,—just run

your eye down that column, Clif, and see what you make.”

“Which column?” said Clif, taking a sheet covered with hieroglyphics

and rough writing.

“Don’t tease,” Phyl said. “It’s quite plain, Clif; there, the middle

one,—oh, it goes over that side too, and just add on those items in the

left-hand corner, I had forgotten them before. I’m eight and ninepence

short somehow.”

“How much did you start with?” Clif said, and made a really heroic

effort to disentangle the confusion.

“Oh, that’s on the right-hand side,” Phyl said. “There was the ordinary

four pounds for the bills, and then four and eightpence extra because

Mary forgot to pay the baker’s bill and gave it back to me, and one

and six Ted had borrowed, and minus two shillings mother took out for

Freddie’s shoes mending,—oh, but she gave me a shilling of it back, so

put plus a shilling more, Clif.”

“Whoa—steady!” said Clif, figuring away,—“never mind ‘minusing’—just

give me your assets.”

He found the total came to £4 5s. 8d. “Now for the items of

expenditure,” he said, and attacked the wild sheet.

“Butcher, twelve and nine,” said Phyl’s statement. Then in brackets

against this was the note [“but it really is only eleven and eight,

because chops were ordered on Monday, not steak”]. “Baker, four and

two, and four and eight from last week. Greengrocer, five and ninepence

halfpenny, and a shilling for bananas from a boy at the door on Friday,

and fourpence for Freddie to get water-melon for his lunch; total

therefore for greengrocer, 6s. 1½d.”

“Well, there’s a shilling wrong there, my beautiful girl,” Clif said,

making the correction; and Phyl wrote on a scrap of paper with relief,

“Only 7s. 8½d. short.”

Wages, Milk, Butter, Ice, Grocer,—Clif unravelled their totals from the

mass of notes and set them down in a column. “I get it to make four

pounds three and twopence,” he said.

He compared it with Phyl’s total which said, “Four pounds four and

twopence minus sixpence Richie borrowed and two shillings deposit on

Weenie’s railway-ticket and two and six of my own money because the

iceman had no change and I borrowed sixpence from the Fines Box for a

poor man at the door. Therefore, total is four pounds four and eight,

and owing still to me is two and six, and owing to the Fines Box

sixpence.”

No wonder Phyl looked harassed.

“You see,” she said, “I ought to have one and sixpence change; that’s

plain, isn’t it?”

“I’ve seen plainer things,” said Clif.

“Oh,” she said, “I know you think it is a stupid way to do accounts,

but I get all wrong if I do them any other way. It’s as clear as

anything to me.”

Clif expressed admiration for the brain power that could penetrate such

a remarkable labyrinth, but Phyl took no notice.

“I ought to have one and six over,” she repeated; “and instead of that

I’m seven shillings and eightpence-halfpenny short. . . . I’ve not paid

the butter, and there’s my own halfcrown, and sixpence to be returned

to the Red Box.”

“Where’s your purse?” Clif said, and Phyl produced the bulky

housekeeping money-holder. There were receipts in it, little lists

of “Wanteds” from the grocer, a poem or two cut out from magazines,

and a review or two of their own little paper, now dead from want of

funds. Clif passed these over and searched the middle compartment that

contained four stamps, two shirt-buttons, sixpence, and the butter bill

wrapped up with four and sixpence inside it. Phyl pounced joyfully

on this. “I’d forgotten I’d paid that,” she said. “I missed the man

on Monday, and wrapped it up, and then must have paid out of that

sovereign. Oh, it’ll come out right now.”

Clif calculated rapidly again.

“We’ve got about two and tenpence too much now,” he said, and the

wrestling began again.

“Well, may I speak now?” said Mrs. Wise, who had gone on sewing while

the statement of accounts was involving undivided attention.

Phyl leaned back and gave her mother an impulsive kiss. “What a patient

little woman it is!” she said; “sometimes, Clif, when all of you are

away she has a dreadful time of it. I know she is often dying to tell

us something, but when she sees we are writing she bottles it all up

and tip-toes away again.”

“And then I forget,” said Mrs. Wise plaintively. “I’ll have to invest

in a phonograph, for sometimes it is a most interesting and important

thing I have wanted to say.”

“We do let you talk at lunch,” Phyl said kindly; “at least, almost

always.”

Mrs. Wise said the amendment was necessary. “They drag their

characters to table with them sometimes, Clif,” she said, “and I eat

my tomato-toast or scrambled egg to the accompaniment of a discussion

as to whether chloral would kill instantly and painlessly; or if snake

poison, injected hypodermically, would be a surer and swifter death.”

“Poor old mother!” Clif said. “There you are, Phyllida, my

Phyllida,—one and six to the good. It’s always the way, Mater; she has

the right change every time, but how she gets it beats me.”

Phyl thankfully put all her papers and boxes away. “My beautiful

youth,” she said, “this is nothing to the elaborate system we used to

pursue when we were small. Do you remember, mother, when you first

gave us an allowance of two shillings a week each, and we had to buy

all our little things out of it?”

“I do,” said Mrs. Wise, and ran a tuck with smiling recollection. “How

many match-boxes used you to have each?”

“Seven, I think,” said Phyl thoughtfully. “Let me see: there were

gloves, handkerchiefs, stockings, hair-ribbons, charity, pocket-money,

and books. We used to apportion our income into twopences and

fourpences, with the exception of hair-ribbons, for which we only laid

aside one penny a week. Gloves were half-a-crown for best ones and a

shilling for school ones, and, oh dear! how long it took to accumulate

enough in twopences to buy a pair! We should have considered it a

reckless and dishonest proceeding to apply stocking-money to glove

purposes; and as to buying a hair-ribbon with the twopences that were

lying waiting a charity call—why, we would almost as soon have stolen

the money from your purse, mother.”

Mrs. Wise was regarding her daughter critically. “I think some money

needs stealing from my purse at present,” she said. “Are you bankrupt,

Phyl, that you are wearing that old blue serge this afternoon?”

Phyl coloured a little.

“It really takes too long to be always changing your dress,” she said;

“once a day is quite enough, I think, unless one is going out. Anything

more is vanity.”

Mrs. Wise’s eyes were still busy. Phyl’s collar was almost carefully

awry; her hair, upon which she usually bestowed a good deal of

attention, was done up in any fashion. The mother remembered too seeing

Dolly go out also in her plain morning frock, and without any of the

little prettinesses of which both girls were so fond.

Phyl coloured again under the quiet scrutiny. “Well, really, mother,

it’s all very well for girls who have nothing else to do to make

themselves look nice,” she said, “but it is too much waste of time when

one has work to do.”

Then Clif laughed out—a great roar of laughter. “Don’t you see what it

is, Mater,” he said; “it’s the trail of Miss Phillipson. These little

donkeys think because they too waste good ink, they ought to look

slovenly, and pitchfork their clothes on them like that sweet creature

does.”

Then Mrs. Wise looked enlightened and also very determined. The girls

had become acquainted with a woman journalist, a clever, really

excellent woman, but one entirely devoid of any personal vanity. Ted

said he was convinced she only did her hair once a month, used her hat

for a pillow, and fashioned her dresses out of old bagging. Phyl and

Dolly, full of admiration for her powers, suddenly felt themselves

conceited little butterflies to be so fond of pretty, fresh muslins

and chiffon daintinesses and well-fitting shoes and gloves. They began

to think it necessary to live up to their profession, and hence that

careless collar and unchanged frock.

But the mother nipped the weakness ruthlessly, and for so gentle a

woman was quite scathing. The daintiest, most particular of her sex

herself, she had absolutely no tolerance for untidy, slip-shod women;

it was quite a creed with her that every girl should make the best of

her appearance, and that too little thought for clothes was even worse

than too much. The very poorest, she used to say, in these days of

cheap prints and materials, need never be other than fresh and neat.

“You may march yourself straight up-stairs, my lady,” she said, “and do

your hair again, and put on your pink blouse, and see your collar meets

exactly and precisely under your chin. And when Dolly comes in she may

do just the same. If I see any more of this, I shall treat you as if

you were in pinafores, and dress you myself.”

Phyl retired. Her mother in that attitude was not to be gainsaid, and

there was no doubt the fit and delicate tint of the pink cambric blouse

afforded her vanquished spirit some consolation as she put it on.

She did her hair in the more elaborate fashion, brushed every speck of

dust from her skirt, and descended again.

“I don’t a bit like to own it,” she said, “but I must say I feel

sprucer, body and soul, than I did before. I believe, after all, one

would begin to think and act in a slip-shod fashion if one dressed

slip-shoddily.”

Mrs. Wise smiled approval. “I am convinced no woman ever committed

suicide,” she said, “just after a cold bath, or while she was wearing a

freshly-got-up blouse—especially if it was of really pretty material.”

“Whoa there! Here’s copy going to waste,” said Clif. “Where’s your

note-book, Phillipina? ‘Clean Boiled Clothes as a Preventive of Crime.’

There’s a subject made to your hand. Any suggestions to offer as to

material, Mater? Would you say, for instance, muslin would ward off

Melancholia, or calico Kleptomania?”

Mrs. Wise laughed. “I can give you a headline, though, for the

article,” she said, “and from our wise old Wendell Holmes. ‘Dowdyism

is clearly an expression of imperfect vitality; the highest fashion is

intensely alive.’”

Phyl chuckled. “Then I shall invest in green leather shoes and green

Suède gloves,” she said. “I saw in a paper they were the dominant note

in Paris fashions.”

“Here comes Dolichus,” said Clif. “Get your breath up, Mater; you’ll

have to deliver your peroration again; she has the same frock on that

she wore at breakfast.”

But Dolly was wearing it even when she went to bed, and no one had said

her nay.

CHAPTER XXVIII

ONE GLORIOUS HOUR

“So lay that afternoon to sleep

Among your dearest pansy-knots,

The hushed herbarium where you keep

Your heart’s forget-me-nots.”

Downhill for a space, then over a feeble creek, and springing steeply

up again ran the green road that branched off from the red and more

important one of the lonely suburb, and once past the doctor’s house

narrowed into a bush-track that lost itself over the hill.

Perhaps half-a-dozen people traversed it in a day, for all patients,

visitors, and tradespeople used the straighter road that led to the

side of the house.

A fence ran along either side of the wide, green road, guarding

property which was wild bush at present, but might some day have a

value. And bracken and wild grass crept from beneath the two rail

barriers and boldly made a springing place of the road itself. Rarely

was buggy or cart so reckless of its internal economy as to make a way

across the ruts and tree-stumps, so the blue vine clambered at will

over the stumps and flung delicate tendrils and flower-smothered loops

to catch the feet.

Dolly was coming down this road while Phyl’s personal appearance was

under criticism. In her hand she grasped something white very, very

tightly. She was running almost all the time, stumbling over the ruts,

caught in the creepers. On, on she came, with a face where the scarlet

colours ebbed and flowed in the strangest way—on, on, over the shallow

little stream where Freddie gave the bull-frogs no peace. Up, up the

green rise—bursting in at the gate, and leaving it welcomely open for

the grateful, vagrant cow. Up a green bank and recklessly across the

flower-beds,—the circling drive was impossible—then up the steps and

into the hall. Here a loose mat caught her feet, and she found herself

on the floor. “Phyl! Phyl!” she called in a breathless voice; and now

her fingers went to slit open the white envelope. She did not attempt

to get up.

Phyl was in the hall. Clif was there, too, and the mother. At intervals

up the staircase occurred Weenie and Freddie and Richie. Ted put his

head over the banisters. “What’s the row?” he said.

And there, on the floor, was Dolly with a bit of paper in her hand,

laughing, choking, crying. She denied the last afterwards, but Freddie

declared her eyes were “as red as anything, and as wet as water.”

Some one shook her; perhaps it was Phyl, incredulous that Dolly could

have a secret that she had not shared.

Richie’s voice was heard urging her to “stop being a little donkey;”

and Dolly made a wild effort after the control of her lips and voice.

“I’ve—I’ve—I’ve——” she said, and excitement grasped her throat

again, and she merely laughed and choked. Some one shook her again.

“I’ve—written a b—book,” she said, thus urged.

Some one snatched the paper from her, half-a-dozen heads tried to crowd

round and read it at the same time. A most business-like epistle it

was, with the printed name of a well-known publisher at the top, and a

cable address, and other important things about it. And, “Dear Madam,”

it said,—such was Dolly’s excitement the very “Madam” appealed to her

as the most exquisitely humorous thing in the world.

“Dear Madam,

“The MS. you submitted I have read in due course. With the terrible

general depression in trade just now, I am exercising my powers as

agent very sparingly, preferring to send all MS. to London for the

consideration of the firm there. But from your communication I take

it you desire to negotiate for publication of your story without

delay. If you will acquaint me with your views as to what value you

place on your work I will write you further in the matter.

“Faithfully yours,

“James Ledman.”

“Pooh!” said Richie, disappointedly. “There’s nothing there to make a

fuss about.”

Even Clif said something about counting chickens too soon, and advised

Dolly to put her head under the tap to keep it cool till the “further”

letter came.

“It’s not refused,” said Dolly with a deep breath, “that’s all I care

about.”

Weenie looked on deprecatingly. “Will it be a really truly book with

covers on and everything?” she said. She only extended a kindly

contempt to the little magazine.

“Of course it will,” said Dolly, and rose from the floor and sat down

on a hall-chair as befitted her new dignity.

“I wouldn’t put your name on it, then,” said Weenie; “people would

laugh like anything at a scrap of a girl like you writing a book.”

“Oh, mother!” said Dolly, “you would put your name, wouldn’t you? At

first I was going to put ‘White Heather’ or ‘Hyacinth,’ like we did in

the paper, but the name looked _so_ nice.”

“Certainly put your name,” said Mrs. Wise, who was reading the letter

over and over again with cheeks quite pink with pleasure and pride.

Weenie on the staircase laughed shrilly. “Oh, she can’t, mother,” she

said. “Dolly Conway, Dolly Conway,—why, it sounds as silly as anything.

Look how different Charles Dickens and Emma Jane Worboise and Charlotte

Yonge sound! Dolly’s isn’t a proper-sounding name.”

“I put ‘Dorothy R. Conway,’” Dolly said. “I think it sounds as right

as anything—doesn’t it, Phyl? Oh, I can see it quite plainly—in little

gold letters, and written slantingly. Oh, I do hope they won’t print

it straight—and not red covers or blue. I _must_ have that lovely

sage-green—on brown Russian leather, Phyl, like the little Tennyson.

Oh, I _must_ have it in Russian leather. I think I’ll write at once.”

“I don’t like Dorothy R.,” objected Clif, “it’s got a Yankee

sound,—Silas H. Wiggins, Hiram T. Moneybags.”

But Dolly’s ear found Dorothy Conway too plain, and Dorothy Rankin

Conway too important, so she clung to the intermediate R.

“But, I say,” said Richie the practical, “how much shall you get? He

asked you to tell how much.”

“Yes,” said Dolly, “we’ll have to think of that. How much should you

say, mother?”

But Mrs. Wise was as ignorant as any of them as to book values. “How

long did it take you to write it?” she said. “You might arrive at an

idea of its value to you in that way.”

Dolly tried to calculate. “I began it on my birthday,” she said. “I

felt I would try to do something big that day. Then every day I kept

writing a little at it for ever so many weeks,—about eight. And then it

got hard, and I _couldn’t_ do it, and it all seemed stupid, and I threw

it behind the piano, and it stayed there for long enough. And then, one

day, I was dusting the room, and I knocked Alf’s portrait over, and it

fell behind too, so Davey and I had to pull the piano out, and I found

the story, and it all seemed easy to go on with, and I finished it in

about a week.”

“Say two months, then,” said Mrs. Wise.

Dolly calculated again. “We got two pound ten a month each from the

paper, and that took all our time. Do you think it would be too much to

ask five pounds?”

“Oh, I think you ought to get more than that, surely,” said Mrs. Wise.

“Five pounds is very little. I think large sums are paid for books.”

“Five pounds!” ejaculated Freddie. “I say, Dolly, the cricket-ball is

awful burst, you wouldn’t miss two and six out of five pounds.”

“Well, suppose I say _ten_ pounds,” said Dolly, looking round

questioningly; “perhaps it wouldn’t be too much. Ten pounds, and a copy

each all round. I oughtn’t to have to buy my own book.”

“Look here,” Clif said, “he wouldn’t have bothered to ask you what

value you put on it if he did not think it pretty good. I’d ask a cool

fifty; he is sure to beat you down, so perhaps you’ll get twenty-five

in the end.”

“Twenty-five pounds!” Dolly said, her eyes lustrous. “Oh, but, Clif,

I’m sure covers cost a lot; I don’t think they’d be able to pay

twenty-five pounds to me after the covers and printing and everything.”

Ted, who had disappeared for a time, now came back with several

magazines in his hand.

“I read an article in one of these about the prices authoresses get,”

he said; “perhaps we can get an idea this way.”

It was Phyl who found the exact paper and the exact article; she read

out the items in a voice whose excitement increased as she went along.

“Mrs. Humphrey Ward for _Robert Elsmere_, £10,000. Marie Corelli’s

income is in the thousands, and Mrs. Frances Hodgson Burnett is said to

have realized about £10,000 from _Little Lord Fauntleroy_.”

Incoherent screams of astonishment and unbelief met these statements.

Phyl went on to say that wise authors never sold their books outright,

but had a royalty on each copy; that Olive Schreiner had omitted to

insist upon this, and had received the sum of £12 only for her _African

Farm_, though some years later, after its enormous success, her

publishers gave her a royalty.

Dolly’s head was swimming. “I think I’ll write at once,” she said;

“come on, Phyl,” and she hurried off to the little study.

Phyl was rather quiet though she helped in the preparations, pushed

aside Richie’s useless inkstand, and placed a substantial one in its

place.

Dolly’s arms closed round her. “Was I horrid?” she said. “Phyl, Phyl,

are you vexed? Oh, Phyl!”

Phyl’s soft lips quivered a little. “Oh, no,” she said.

Dolly’s arms clung tighter. “Oh, don’t,” she said, “please, don’t, I

was going to tell you—oh, lots of times, but I thought you’d say I was

conceited, thinking I could write a _book_. So I thought I’d finish

it and send it first. But when I got the letter, all the way from the

post, I wouldn’t open it, because I wanted you to be there.”

Phyl looked mollified, and gave Dolly a sudden kiss.

“It’s all right, it was only at first I minded, but you know I’m

gladder about it than I could ever say. I’m so glad that I can’t think

of anything else.” All sorts of loving praise she gave. Dolly squeezed

her arm; there was moisture in her eyes at the generous words, her

mouth was unsteady.

“But how anxious, Dolly,—how _very_ anxious you must have been all the

time,” she said.

Dolly’s eyes looked out of the window to where an orange sun flamed

to its death. Overhead and all around the sky was suffused with

colour,—the very east burned gold and red of delicate shades, and

turned the edges of its clouds rosy, and the shadows of them purple. Up

very high in the broad blue hung the half moon.

When the girl spoke the hush of the dying day seemed to have crept into

her voice. “No, I wasn’t,” she said, “someway I _knew_ it was going

to be.” Then as Phyl’s eyes widened she tried to tell her something,

struggled, kept silence, tried again; such talk came easy to neither,

but deep currents were stirred to-day.

“Knew?” repeated Phyl.

“One night,” Dolly said, in the same low tone, “I felt I must do

_something_. I felt I couldn’t just go on doing little things

always,—staying at home and helping, and going to dances, and playing

tennis. I used to think I should like to go as a missionary,—not to

China, of course, only somewhere here where people were very poor and

miserable. But that night I didn’t seem to want anything but to write

books that people would love to read, and that might do them some good.”

“Well?” said Phyl, for Dolly had paused, and was looking with glowing

eyes at the happy sky.

“I just prayed, Phyl. It seemed so simple. God had said all things were

possible to faith,—that we were to Ask, and we should Receive, that

_all things whatsoever_ we should ask in prayer, believing, we should

receive. He didn’t say we were to stop to consider if the thing we

asked seemed impossible. He just said _all things whatsoever_. And I

prayed, Phyl, that I might write books. All my life seemed to go in the

prayer. And everything was—wonderful. I was kneeling by the window,

and the sky seemed to bend down all round me, it was so warm and close.

We have never known just what it is to have an own Father, Phyl, but I

knew that night. And I prayed and prayed, and I _knew_ He was answering

me. Oh, Phyl, if you could have seen the stars,—so large and kind!”

Phyl’s face was very soft and sweet.

“When mother was so ill, I prayed—just like that,” she said, “and I

went to sleep _knowing_ she would grow well.”

“This is only a little tiny book, of course,” Dolly said; “but it is

the beginning of the answer. I shall write the others yet. Oh, Phyl,

all my heart seems singing thanks.”

The laughing sunset sky had quietened as they talked, and the sweet

gravity of early evening was stealing over it. From the garden the

voices that had seemed music and part of the sunset when far away, came

closer, and now, hearty and unsoftened, brought the girls back to earth.

Dolly pushed back her hair, and picked up a pen.

“You must write a book now, Phyl,” she said.

“I’ll start this very week,” said Phyl. And she did, and in due course

a flattering letter of acceptance came, and nearly all the excitement

was repeated.

But this afternoon there was only the first book of the family in their

thoughts.

Dolly, after about ten different attempts, had her reply ready for the

publisher—

J. Ledman, Esq.

“Dear Sir (she wrote),

“The value I place upon the copyright of my story, _The Sins of

Six_, is £200. I also desire to have a royalty on every copy. I hope

you will let the book have artistic covers; I much dislike red or

bright blue, and shall be glad if you will let me have either white

parchment covers, with red lettering and rough edges, or dull green

Russian leather, with the name across it in careless gold lettering.

“Faithfully yours,

“Dorothy R. Conway.

“P.S.—I hope you will let me have twelve copies for myself.”

“That’s the very least number I could do with,” she said, as she laid

down her pen; “there are ten of us, and I know every one, even Freddie,

will demand a separate copy, so that only leaves two for outsiders.”

A loud noise of pummelling on the door was heard, so they went out.

Somebody said the family had been so overwhelmed with surprise, it had

not, it feared, paid due honours to its authoress, and was anxious to

make amends. Whereupon Weenie planted on Dolly’s head a wreath hastily

made of nasturtiums and honeysuckle; and Clif and Ted, with a cushion

on their crossed hands, carried her for an extremely jolting and

triumphal march round the drive and down the orchard and back.

They dropped her in a heap on the lawn.

[Illustration: Carried her for a triumphal march.]

“Here’s hoping you won’t think it necessary to bring a book out every

day,” Clif said, and mopped his streaming forehead.

“I want to know, as soon as any one can spare me any attention, what

the book is about,” said Mrs. Wise, packing up the tea-things that were

on the grass.

“Oh, it’s not much,” said Dolly candidly.

“I suppose that means it is one of your children’s stories,” said

Mrs. Wise.

“Yes,” said Dolly, and there was a faint shadow of regret in her eyes.

Ted sat upright again. He had pretended to be bowed down to the ground

with trembling fear about the subject.

“It just struck me it might be _Elvira and Alphonso_ in three books of

forty-nine cantos each,” he said.

“Or _The Spirits of the Nether World_,” said Clif. This wildly watery

version of _Paradise Lost_, and a certain Spanish tragedy, impossibly

long, were standing jokes in the house, yet the one shade on Dolly’s

intense happiness that afternoon was the fact that it was not one of

these ambitious efforts that was to see the light of print; she had a

very small opinion herself of the children’s stories she scribbled so

easily.

Freddie was round at Dolly’s elbow, assiduously offering her the

sugar—which she never took—and pointing out the piece of cake which was

richest in currants.

“Tommie Edwards at our school got a whole set for his birthday,—the bat

and stumps and bails as well as the ball, Dolly,” he said.

CHAPTER XXIX

AND THEN NO MORE

“Transportation for life was the sentence it gave,

And _then_ to be fined forty pounds.”

Ted’s chuckle over the inference Freddie left for Dolly to draw from

his remark gave place suddenly to an indignant shout.

A boy with a large parcel had just entered the gate, and had actually

had the temerity to approach the house in the way Dolly had done,

regardless of flower-borders. At the moment of Ted’s shout he was

setting a desecrating foot recklessly down upon the pansy-bed that was

the pride of the house.

Ted disentangled himself from the wiles of Weenie, who had occupied

herself by chaining him to a garden-seat with trails of wild clematis.

“I’ll knock the good-for-nothing little beggar’s head off,” he said,

and took a tempestuous step in the direction of the impertinent lad.

But Phyl was before him. One great gasp and choking cry she gave, then

she broke away from the tea-ring, rushed madly across the grass and

flower-beds, and to the incredulous astonishment of the family fell

upon the boy and his parcel and began to hug him in a way marvellous to

behold.

Up rose the family to investigate. And lo! it too found itself rushing

madly over the well-ordered pansy and primrose retreats, and also

falling upon the parcel-carrying youth and hugging him.

[Illustration: Rushed madly across the flower-beds.]

Freddie was the first to recover himself.

“I’ll be undoing the parcel, Alf,” he said, “I’d like just to have a

look at my drum.”

Then Alf laughed. He had been crying like a baby on his step-mother’s

shoulder until now.

“That’s all the luggage I brought, the rest’s on the ship,” he said,

and pulled the brown paper off his parcel.

“Chirrup, chirrup!” said the fat little yellow bird, and sang at the

sweet sun that the dark paper had hidden away.

“Get some water, Weenie, and a bit of green; all the voyage I couldn’t

get any green,” said Alf.

In through the gate came the doctor’s bicycle, and once again the

pansies suffered from the wild impetuosity of humans. Nobody in the

least believed their eyes, but each waited for the other to discredit

the apparition.

“Oh, I know we’re dreaming,” said Dolly; “in a minute we’ll all wake

up.”

“Oh, will we!” said Weenie contentedly. There had been no standing-room

for her in the general rush, and she had fallen on the grass, and was

still sitting there embracing the wanderer’s legs.

“If we do wake up,” said Alf, and there was a note of almost hysterical

gladness in his voice, “I’ll take a dose of your prussic acid, father.”

The father’s arm was round his little son’s shoulder; he knew that

nothing—no gold or promise of fame—could ever make him willingly let

the lad go again.

“You shall stop at home now,—there, old fellow, you shall never go

back again,” he said from time to time, and little Alf continued to

blubber happily.

“Just don’t ask me anything yet,” he said in a low tone to his father;

“just be as if I’ve only come in from school, will you?”

And Dr. Wise, recognizing the state of tension the lad was in, forbade

a single question being put to him.

But after dinner—there was Queen’s pudding, and the pyramid of icing

did not go to Freddie—he pulled himself together and told his story.

After he had written that last of his letters to his family and told

of his aunt’s sudden death, a strange thing had happened. He found at

the bottom of the bird-seed tin, which she had delivered into his hands

with so many injunctions, a sealed note.

“Here it is,” he said, and with a blurring of eyes took out gently from

his waistcoat pocket the short letter written in the stiff, would-be

German hand that had become part of herself.

The family read it silently, one after the other.

“Little Boy,” it said—

“When I feel ill as I do to-night my eyes grow clear-sighted. This is

no place for you, here with a soured old man and a sourer old maid;

you would have grown to far healthier manhood across the sea in that

merry family that I have never let you talk about just as much as you

wanted. But is it too late? I think you know the way back. I was not

blind to the looks you cast at Hamburg and Bremen on the boats that

happened to have Sydney for their destination. Suppose you break away

from us and make your way back to them all, little Alf? There are

times in the lives of many of us when breaking away from a life that

stifles the good in us is a necessary as well as a brave thing to do.

I was too weak always and have stayed here warping all my life.

“I am putting four ten-pound notes with this; they will carry you

across the water again if you have the courage to fling the big

fortune you would have had to the winds. You have no ties here;

grandfather is too old and lives too much to himself to care for you;

I would far rather spare you than keep you and watch you grow hard

and money-fond like us.

“Think of it, little Alf; your mother, my own sister that I played

dolls with, makes no softening feeling in me at all now when I think

of her. I made myself feel hard to her, years ago, and now when I

should like to change and would give the world to feel a natural gush

of love for her, I can wake no emotion at all; that is my punishment,

for the heart will not be trifled with.

“But you, warm from the hearts of all those sisters and brothers—oh,

go back to them and be poor and happy, and grow up in the healthy

atmosphere of ‘give and take’ instead of our most wretched one of

‘keep.’

“Little Alf, who has been the kindest, tenderest, most patient laddie

all these months, spare sometimes a loving thought to

“Your Aunt Helene.”

“But I wasn’t what she says at the end,” Alf said in a choking voice;

“I’ve been a beast to her,—think how I used to make fun of her in my

letters!”

But they who knew warm-hearted little Alf knew without telling just in

what way he had been a comfort to the lonely, mistaken woman.

“Pater,” the boy said wistfully when the general conversation was loud,

and the doctor so near he could hear a whisper, “I won’t be very much

expense,—are you very vexed with me for chucking the money? I came back

steerage, so I’ve got twenty-two pounds left out of the forty. That’ll

pay for my food for a long time.”

But the doctor, who had always been rather an impetuous, improvident

man, blew his nose as loudly as Herr Ollendorf was wont to do, and said—

“Hang the expense!” with great vigour. “Thank heaven, I’ve got you

again, old lad,” he added; “your punishment is, you’ll stop here now,

and be poor with the rest of us.”

A week later came a German letter. It was from the grandfather’s

solicitors, and bore strange news. Alf was his aunt’s heir.

Everything she had she had left to him unconditionally. Not a very

vast inheritance, it is true, for the poor little woman’s mania for

beautiful clothes had greatly crippled a once handsome income. Still,

three hundred a year would do many things, and at least keep away the

terrible necessity of Alf being compelled to teach German for a living.

The letter went on to state the fact of the boy’s disappearance;

inquiries had been made, and it seemed reasonable to conclude he had

run away from his grandfather’s care, and sailed for Australia by the

_Barbarossa_. “If this proved to be the case,” said the solicitors,

“and if the boy had returned, or in process of time did return to his

father, then his grandfather washed his hands of him for all time.”

The young reprobate leaned back when the reading of the letter reached

this point, and sighed relievedly.

“That’s something to be thankful for,” he said; “every night I’ve

dreamt he’d sent to get me back.”

“I’m afraid it’s a stony-hearted laddie,” Mrs. Wise said. “I don’t at

all like to picture to myself that lonely old man.”

“But he never cared a dump for me—you ask him; why, he nearly used to

get a fit sometimes if I came near him; he said I fidgeted so,” Alf

said excitedly.

“He’s precious glad I cleared, I’ll bet; he only wanted some one to

leave his rubbishy money to; the little mummies can have it, and

welcome.”

“The who?” said the doctor.

“Oh, those kids in Egypt,” said Alfred.

Dolly was in the corner reading the “further” letter from her

publisher-elect, and surely there was a smile wrapped up with the

kindly note.

“Hello, Dolly looks as if she couldn’t help it,” said Richie, the

speaker of slang.

“O-o-oh!” said Dolly ruefully, “neither I can.”

Down had come many of her card-castles; flat on the earth they lay. The

publisher would give her a royalty, and a fair one, on every copy, but—

“I cannot entertain paying you such a sum for copyright,” he wrote;

“you are entirely unknown as a juvenile writer, and your tale is very

short. I can only offer you fifteen pounds for that; but should the

book succeed as I expect, the royalties will total up no inconsiderable

sum each year.”

“Fifteen pounds!” repeated Dolly in a disappointed tone. Last night

she and Phyl had lain awake spending the two hundred pounds in most

magnificent fashion; a trip to Stevenson’s Samoa for their mother,

themselves, and Alf, being the choicest item on the list.

“Never mind,” said Freddie kindly, “I can do without the cricket things

now, Dolly—Alf’ll get them for me; won’t you, Alf?” and he fondled his

millionaire brother’s hand with the most respectful affection.

Dolly’s eyes went skimming along over the page to the agent’s

disquisition on “Covers.” Russian leather and white parchment with

rough edges were impossible, it seemed. Mr. Ledman wrote at length,

and with eloquence, of the beauties of gilt edges, and the chaste

and elegant appearance of some appropriate floral emblem on a bright

red, blue, or green ground. He said he proposed to include it in the

well-known “Bluebell Series,” of which they had sold one million copies.

But Dolly was not entirely vanquished. She had carried with her

for three long days the dear vision of sage-green Russian leather,

severely plain and artistic, and the crude colouring of her shelf of

“Bluebell Series” made her shudder. The voyage to the Happy Isles she

relinquished with a sigh, and wrote that she accepted the offer of

fifteen pounds and a royalty. But she added a most agitated couple

of pages whereon she made known her undying hatred of covers of the

“Bluebell” description.

The kindly agent soothed her in his next reply; she should not be

in the “Bluebell Series,” he promised, and she should have the most

artistic covers compatible with the fact that the book was for young

readers. So she took heart again, and speedily forgot Vailima and the

skies she might have seen, rough-edged parchment and everything in the

world but the fact that flying forward, forward through the shouting

seas was a ship, bearing in its breast that precious parcel of her very

own writing, that London magic would turn into a book, a book, a book!

Richard Clay & Sons, Limited,

BRUNSWICK STREET, STAMFORD STREET, S.E.,

AND BUNGAY, SUFFOLK.

Works by Ethel Turner

(MRS. H. R. CURLEWIS).

_Crown 8vo, cloth gilt, bevelled boards, gilt edges,_ 3s. 6d.

THE STOLEN VOYAGE.

Illustrated by J. Macfarlane and others.

“The book is prettily bound and profusely illustrated, and although it

is primarily intended for the young, one may safely say that when its

lucky boy or girl owner has to shut it up and trot off to bed, there

will be an older member of the family thankful for the opportunity of

getting a bit more read.”—_The Schoolmaster._

IN THE MIST OF THE MOUNTAINS.

“A story that will at once appeal to both boys and girls by reason of

its natural setting and its captivating dialogue. It is without doubt

one of the best of the season’s gift books.”—_The Teacher’s Aid._

THE WHITE ROOF-TREE.

Illustrations by A. J. Johnson.

“It is a charming picture of young life, painted as the authoress knows

how to depict it. She has a fresh and tender touch indeed, which has

singled her out as the happy successor of Miss Alcott, and won for her

the golden opinions of her juvenile readers.”—_The Leicester Post._

MOTHER’S LITTLE GIRL.

Illustrations by A. J. Johnson.

“A beautiful story. . . . One that draws out all the author’s wonderful

capacities for direct and naturally emotional and sentimental writing.

The grown-ups, the little folks and their every-day experiences are

portrayed and described with a realism that brings them very near to

the reader, affecting the feelings and impressing the memory.”—_The

Dundee Advertiser._

BETTY & CO.

Illustrated.

“Miss Ethel Turner has lost none of her freshness, her tenderness, her

charm, after so many years writing. . . . She comes very near genius in

depicting child-life, and she is Australian to the core.”—_The Queen._

LITTLE MOTHER MEG.

With Twenty-five Illustrations by A. J. Johnson.

This book is another of the Author’s delightful stories of child life,

full of the same charms which brought into popularity her earlier

stories; this new story is bound to enhance her reputation as one who

can picture child life in all its natural innocence.

THE STORY OF A BABY.

Illustrated by Frances Ewan and others.

“A pretty and graceful little narrative.”—_Daily Telegraph._

“A charming sketch of a girl-wife and the pitfalls of early married

life.”—_Liverpool Mercury._

THE RAFT IN THE BUSH.

With Sixteen Illustrations by H. C. Sandy and D. H. Souter.

SEVEN LITTLE AUSTRALIANS.

With Twenty-six Illustrations by A. J. Johnson.

“The pictures of their characters and careers seem taken from the life,

and there is a novelty in some of the surroundings of the household

which makes the volume eminently readable. . . . There are not wanting

passages of true pathos, and some vividly picturesque descriptions of

Australian scenery.”—_Daily Telegraph._

THE FAMILY AT MISRULE. A Sequel to the above.

With Twenty-nine Illustrations by A. J. Johnson.

“Delightful young people they are, with all their mistakes and

innocent naughtiness, yet so bright and natural they cannot fail to

charm.”—_Graphic._

“All who were delighted with ‘Seven Little Australians’—as all were who

read the charming story—will welcome ‘The Family at Misrule.’ . . . The

story is charmingly written.”—_Leeds Mercury._

THREE LITTLE MAIDS.

Illustrated by A. J. Johnson.

“A tale of absorbing interest. The book all through is written in a

vein that will afford genuine delight to those into whose hands it may

fall.”—_Morning Advertiser._

“A capital story, told with vivacity, point and humour. Admirably

calculated to interest young people.”—_Publishers’ Circular._

THE CAMP AT WANDINONG.

Illustrated by Frances Ewan and others.

“Ethel Turner has given us in ‘The Camp at Wandinong’ such an insight

into the thoughts and nature of childhood as is nothing short of

marvellous. It is no exaggeration to say that in our experience no

truer representations of child life have ever been brought before

the public. Mrs. Curlewis’s pathos is of that simple and intimate

description that will find its way straight to the hearts of her

readers.”—_Ladies’ Field._

MISS BOBBIE.

Illustrated by Harold Copping.

“Simply delightful. . . . In its humour and its penetrating insight

it is quite a masterpiece, comparable only with Miss Alcott’s ‘Little

Men.’”—_Daily Mail._

“In every way a delightful book. It is one of those simple histories of

everyday life that children of all ages like to read, full of fast and

furious fun.”—_British Weekly._

THE LITTLE LARRIKIN.

Illustrated by A. J. Johnson.

“This is a most delightful, pathetic, and humorous—yet neither too

pathetic nor too humorous—story.”—_Speaker._

“So brightly written, and so full of delicate touches of both humour

and pathos.”—_Pall Mall Gazette._

“An exceedingly clever and amusing story.”—_St. James’s Gazette._

London: WARD, LOCK & CO., LIMITED.

The ROYAL SERIES

_Large Crown 8vo, Cloth Gilt, each with Frontispiece._ 1s.

An important new series, which will aim at including

all the Classic Gift Books. Printed from new

type on good paper, and attractively bound, with

gilt side and back. It is believed the series will surpass

anything ever offered to the public at the price.

1 ROBINSON CRUSOE Daniel Defoe

2 THE PILGRIM’S PROGRESS John Bunyan

3 THE HOLY WAR John Bunyan

4 UNCLE TOM’S CABIN Mrs. H. B. Stowe

5 GRIMMS’ FAIRY TALES Bros. Grimm

6 GRIMMS’ FAIRY STORIES Bros. Grimm

7 ANDERSEN’S POPULAR TALES Hans Christian Andersen

8 ANDERSEN’S FAIRY STORIES Hans Christian Andersen

9 FROM LOG CABIN TO WHITE HOUSE W. M. Thayer

10 THE WIDE, WIDE WORLD E. Wetherell

11 MELBOURNE HOUSE E. Wetherell

12 DAISY E. Wetherell

13 DAISY IN THE FIELD E. Wetherell

14 LITTLE WOMEN L. M. Alcott

15 GOOD WIVES L. M. Alcott

16 THE PRINCE OF THE HOUSE OF DAVID J. H. Ingraham

17 BEULAH A. J. Evans Wilson

18 ST. ELMO A. J. Evans Wilson

19 THAT LASS O’LOWRIE’S Mrs. F. H. Burnett

20 DANESBURY HOUSE Mrs. Henry Wood

21 MINISTERING CHILDREN Mrs. Charlesworth

22 BEN-HUR Lew Wallace

23 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN Mrs. Craik

24 THE HEROES Charles Kingsley

25 A WONDER BOOK Nathaniel Hawthorne

26 THE CORAL ISLAND R. M. Ballantyne

27 MARTIN RATTLER R. M. Ballantyne

28 THE WORLD OF ICE R. M. Ballantyne

29 PETER THE WHALER W. H. G. Kingston

30 TOM BROWN’S SCHOOL DAYS Thomas Hughes

33 FEATS ON THE FIORD H. Martineau

34 THE BASKET OF FLOWERS G. T. Bedell

35 THE GORILLA HUNTERS R. M. Ballantyne

36 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE Chas. and M. Lamb

37 STEPPING HEAVENWARD E. Prentiss

39 THE MILL ON THE FLOSS George Eliot

40 OLD JACK W. H. G. Kingston

41 WHAT KATY DID AT HOME Susan Coolidge

42 WHAT KATY DID AT SCHOOL Susan Coolidge

43 THE LAMPLIGHTER Miss Cummins

44 UNGAVA R. M. Ballantyne

45 THE YOUNG FUR TRADERS R. M. Ballantyne

46 WESTWARD HO! Charles Kingsley

47 THE DAYS OF BRUCE Grace Aguilar

49 THE DOG CRUSOE R. M. Ballantyne

50 THE RED ERIC R. M. Ballantyne

51 TITUS F. M. Kingsley

53 THE THRONE OF DAVID Rev. J. H. Ingraham

54 HELEN’S BABIES John Habberton

55 OTHER PEOPLE’S CHILDREN John Habberton

56 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD Oliver Goldsmith

57 AT THE MERCY OF TIBERIUS A. J. Evans Wilson

58 THE OLD HELMET E. Wetherell

59 THE PILLAR OF FIRE J. H. Ingraham

60 HOLIDAY HOUSE Catherine Sinclair

61 THE WATER-BABIES Charles Kingsley

62 AGATHA’S HUSBAND Mrs. Craik

63 QUEECHY E. Wetherell

64 SANDFORD AND MERTON

65 EVENINGS AT HOME

66 ARABIAN NIGHTS’ ENTERTAINMENTS

67 ANDERSEN’S STORIES FOR THE YOUNG

68 ANDERSEN’S FAVOURITE TALES

69 THE SCOTTISH CHIEFS Jane Porter

70 INFELICE A. J. Evans Wilson

71 VASHTI A. J. Evans Wilson

72 MACARIA A. J. Evans Wilson

73 INEZ A. J. Evans Wilson

74 THE FLOWER OF THE FAMILY E. Prentiss

75 MABEL VAUGHAN Miss Cummins

77 SWISS FAMILY ROBINSON

78 WILLIS, THE PILOT Sequel to “Swiss Family Robinson”

79 NAOMI J. B. Webb

80 AESOP’S FABLES

81 ALICE’S ADVENTURES IN WONDERLAND Lewis Carroll

Transcriber’s note

Inconsistent hyphenation has been retained: bedtime/bed-time,

bookcase/book-case, child-life/child life, currant-bushes/currant

bushes, drawing-room/drawing room, eiderdown/eider-down,

everyday/every-day, forever/for ever, heartbroken/heart-broken,

hearthrug/hearth-rug, nightgown/night-gown, nightgowns/night-gowns,

someone/some one, washstand/wash-stand, washing-day/washing day.

The following words have been retained as printed: woful, wofully.

Occasional inconsistencies in character names (Phyl/Phil,

Phyllida/Phyllis, Clif/Cliff) have been regularised.