"And one of the bandboxes under my cloak. The Dragon attacks me in the

centre, and drives me off the right, where I smash up the bandbox,

which sounds like him crunching my bones. Then I roll the thunder,

turn my cloak to the blue side, put on this wideawake, and come on

again with a bandbox lid and crunch that, and roll more thunder, and

so on. I'm the Faithful Attendant and the Bereaved Father as well,"

added Bobby, with justifiable pride, "and I would have done the Dragon

if they would have let me."

But even Bobby did not outdo the rest of us in willingness. Alice's

efforts were obvious tokens of remorse; she waited on Philip, was

attentive to Mr. Clinton (who, I think, to this day believes that he

made himself especially acceptable to "the young ladies"), and

surpassed herself on the stage. Charles does not "come round" so

quickly, but at the last moment he came and offered to yield the white

plume. I confess I was rather vexed with Mr. Clinton for accepting it,

but Alice and I despoiled our best hats of their black ostrich

feathers to make it up to Charles, and he said, with some dignity,

that he should never have offered the white one if he had not meant it

to be accepted.

One thing took us by surprise. We had had more trouble over the

dressing of the new Prince than the costumes and make-up of all the

rest of the characters together cost—he was only just torn from the

big looking-glass by his "call" to the stage, and, to our amazement,

he seemed decidedly unwilling to go on.

"It's a very odd thing, Miss Alice," said he in accents so pitiable

that I did not wonder that Alice did her best to encourage him,—"it's

a most extraordinary thing, but I feel quite nervous."

"You'll be all right when you're once on," said Alice; "mind you don't

forget that it depends on you to explain that it's an invincible

shield."

"Which arm had I better wear it on?" said Mr. Clinton, shifting it

nervously from side to side.

"The left, the left!" cried Alice. "Now you ought to be on."

"Oh what shall I say?" cried our new hero.

"Say—'Devastating Monster! my arm is mortal, and my sword was forged

by human fingers, but this shield is invincible as ——'"

"Second Prince," called Charles impatiently, and Mr. Clinton was

hustled on.

He was greeted with loud applause. He said afterwards that this put

his part out of his head, that Alice had told him wrong, and that the

shield was too small for him.

As a matter of fact he hammered and stammered and got himself and the

piece into such confusion, that Philip lost patience as he lay

awaiting his cue. With a fierce bellow he emerged from his cask, and

roaring, "Avaunt, knight of the invincible shield and craven heart!"

he crossed the stage with the full clatter of his canvas joints, and

chased Mr. Clinton off at the left centre.

Once behind the scenes, he refused to go on again. He said that he had

never played without a proper part at his uncle's in Dublin, and

thought our plan quite a mistake. Besides which, he had got toothache,

and preferred to join the audience, which he did, and the play went on

without him.

I was acting as stage-manager in the intervals of my part, when I

noticed Mr. Clinton (not the ex-Prince, but his father, the surgeon)

get up, and hastily leave his place among the spectators. But just as

I was wondering at this, I was recalled to business by delay on the

part of Bobby, who ought to have been on (with the lights down) as the

Twelfth Traveller.

I found him at the left wing, with all the twelve hats fitted one over

another, the whole pile resting on a chair.

"Bob, what are you after? You ought to be on."

"All right," said Bob, "Philip knows. He's lashing his tail and doing

some business till I'm ready. Help me to put this cushion under my

cloak for a hump-back, will you? I didn't like the twelfth hat, it's

too like the third one, so I'm going on as a Jew Pedlar. Give me that

box. Now!" And before I could speak a roar of applause had greeted

Bobby as he limped on in his twelve hats, crying, "Oh tear, oh tear!

dish ish the tarkest night I ever shaw."

But either we acted unusually well, or our audience was exceptionally

kind, for it applauded everything and everybody till the curtain fell.

* * * * *

"Behind the scenes" is always a place of confusion after amateur

theatricals; at least it used to be with us. We ran hither and

thither, lost our every-day shoes, washed the paint from our faces,

and mislaid any number of towels, and combs, and brushes, ate supper

by snatches, congratulated ourselves on a successful evening, and were

kissed all around by Granny, who came behind the scenes for the

purpose.

All was over, and the guests were gone, when I gave an invitation to

the others to come and make lemon-brew over my bedroom fire as an

appropriate concluding festivity. (It had been suggested by Bobby.) I

had not seen Philip for some time, but we were all astonished to hear

that he had gone out. We kept his "brew" hot for him, and Charles and

Bobby were both nodding—though they stoutly refused to go to

bed,—when his step sounded in the corridor, and he knocked and came

hastily in.

Everybody roused up.

"Oh, Philip, we've been wondering where you were! Here's your brew,

and we've each kept a little drop, to drink your good health."

("Mine is _all_ pips," observed Bobby as a parenthesis.) But Philip

was evidently thinking of something else.

"Isobel," he said, standing by the table, as if he were making a

speech, "I shall never forget your coming after me to-day. I told you

you had the temper of an angel."

"So did I," said Alice.

"Hear! hear!" said Bobby, who was sucking his pips one by one and

laying them by—"to plant in a pot," as he afterwards explained.

"You not only saved the theatricals," continued Philip, "you saved my

life I believe."

No "situation" in the play had been half so startling as this. We

remained open-mouthed and silent, whilst Philip sat down as if he were

tired, and rested his head on his hands, which were dirty, and stained

with something red.

"Haven't you heard about the accident?" he asked.

We all said "No."

"The 4.15 ran into the express where the lines cross, you know.

Isobel, _there were only two first-class carriages, and everybody in

them was killed but one man_. They have taken both his legs off, and

he's not expected to live. Oh, poor fellow, he did groan so!"

Bobby burst into passionate tears, and Philip buried his head on his

arms.

Neither Alice nor I could speak, but Charles got up and went round and

stood by Philip.

"You've been helping," he said emphatically, "I know you have. You're

a good fellow, Philip, and I beg your pardon for saucing you. I am

going to forget about the football too. I was going to have eaten raw

meat, and dumb-belled, to make myself strong enough to thrash you,"

added Charles remorsefully.

"Eat a butcher's shop full, if you like," replied Philip with

contempt. And I think it showed that Charles was beginning to practise

forbearance, that he made no reply.

* * * * *

Some years have passed since those Twelfth Night theatricals. The

Dragon has long been dissolved into his component scales, and we never

have impromptu performances now. The passing fame which a terrible

railway accident gave to our insignificant station has also faded. But

it set a seal on our good resolutions which I may honestly say has not

been lightly broken.

There, on the very spot where I had almost resolved never to forgive

Philip, never to try to heal the miserable wounds of the family peace,

I learned the news of the accident in which he might have been

killed. Philip says that if anything could make him behave better to

me it is the thought that I saved his life, as he calls it. But if

anything could help me to be good to him, surely it must be the

remembrance of how nearly I did not save him.

I put Alice on an equality in our bedroom that night, and gave her

part-ownership of the text and the picture. We are very happy

together.

We have all tried to improve, and I think I may say we have been

fairly successful.

More than once I have heard (one does hear many things people say

behind one's back) that new acquaintances—people who have only known

us lately—have expressed astonishment, not unmixed with a generous

indignation, on hearing that we were ever described by our friends

as—A VERY ILL-TEMPERED FAMILY.

OUR FIELD.

Though nothing can bring back the hour

Of splendour in the grass, of glory in the flower;

We will grieve not, rather find

Strength in what remains behind,

In the primal sympathy

Which, having been, must ever be.

* * * * *

And, O ye fountains, meadows, hills, and groves,

Think not of any severing of our loves!

Yet in my heart of hearts I feel your might;

* * * * *

Thanks to the human heart by which we live,

Thanks to its tenderness, its joys, and fears:

To me the meanest flower that blows can give

Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears.

_Wordsworth_.

OUR FIELD

There were four of us, and three of us had godfathers and godmothers.

Three each. Three times three make nine, and not a fairy godmother in

the lot. That was what vexed us.

It was very provoking, because we knew so well what we wanted if we

had one, and she had given us three wishes each. Three times three

make nine. We could have got all we wanted out of nine wishes, and

have provided for Perronet into the bargain. It would not have been

any good Perronet having wishes all to himself, because he was only a

dog.

We never knew who it was that drowned Perronet, but it was Sandy who

saved his life and brought him home. It was when he was coming home

from school, and he brought Perronet with him. Perronet was not at all

nice to look at when we first saw him, though we were very sorry for

him. He was wet all over, and his eyes shut, and you could see his

ribs, and he looked quite dark and sticky. But when he dried, he

dried a lovely yellow, with two black ears like velvet. People

sometimes asked us what kind of dog he was, but we never knew, except

that he was the nicest possible kind.

When we had got him, we were afraid we were not going to be allowed to

have him. Mother said we could not afford him, because of the tax and

his keep. The tax was five shillings, but there wanted nearly a year

to the time of paying it. Of course his keep began as soon as he could

eat, and that was the very same evening. We were all very miserable,

because we were so fond of Perronet—at least, Perronet was not his

name then, but he was the same person—and at last it was settled that

all three of us would give up sugar, towards saving the expense of his

keep, if he might stay. It was hardest for Sandy, because he was

particularly fond of sweet things; but then he was particularly fond

of Perronet. So we all gave up sugar, and Perronet was allowed to

remain.

About the tax, we thought we could save any pennies or half-pennies we

got during the year, and it was such a long time to the time for

paying, that we should be almost sure to have enough by then. We had

not any money at the time, or we should have bought a savings-box; but

lots of people save their money in stockings, and we settled that we

would. An old stocking would not do, because of the holes, and I had

not many good pairs; but we took one of my winter ones to use in the

summer, and then we thought we could pour the money into one of my

good summer ones when the winter came.

What we most of all wanted a fairy godmother for was about our

"homes." There was no kind of play we liked better than playing at

houses and new homes. But no matter where we made our "home," it was

sure to be disturbed. If it was indoors, and we made a palace under

the big table, as soon as ever we had got it nicely divided into rooms

according to where the legs came, it was certain to be dinner-time,

and people put their feet into it. The nicest house we ever had was in

the out-house; we had it, and kept it quite a secret, for weeks. And

then the new load of wood came and covered up everything, our best

oyster-shell dinner-service and all.

Any one can see that it is impossible really to fancy anything when

you are constantly interrupted. You can't have any fun out of a

railway train stopping at stations, when they take all your carriages

to pieces because the chairs are wanted for tea; any more than you can

play properly at Grace Darling in a life-boat, when they say the old

cradle is too good to be knocked about in that way.

It was always the same. If we wanted to play at Thames Tunnel under

the beds, we were not allowed; and the day we did Aladdin in the

store-closet, old Jane came and would put away the soap, just when

Aladdin could not possibly have got the door of the cave open.

It was one day early in May—a very hot day for the time of year,

which had made us rather cross—when Sandy came in about four o'clock,

smiling more broadly even than usual, and said to Richard and me,

"I've got a fairy godmother, and she's given us a field."

Sandy was very fond of eating, especially sweet things. He used to

keep back things from meals to enjoy afterwards, and he almost always

had a piece of cake in his pocket. He brought a piece out now, and

took a large mouthful, laughing at us with his eyes over the top of

it.

"What's the good of a field?" said Richard.

"Splendid houses in it," said Sandy.

"I'm quite tired of fancying homes," said I. "It's no good; we always

get turned out."

"It's quite a new place," Sandy continued; "you've never been there,"

and he took a triumphant bite of the cake.

"How did you get there?" asked Richard.

"The fairy godmother showed me," was Sandy's reply.

There is such a thing as nursery honour. We respected each other's

pretendings unless we were very cross, but I didn't disbelieve in his

fairy godmother. I only said, "You shouldn't talk with your mouth

full," to snub him for making a secret about his field.

Sandy is very good-tempered. He only laughed and said, "Come along.

It's much cooler out now. The sun's going down."

He took us along Gipsy Lane. We had been there once or twice, for

walks, but not very often, for there was some horrid story about it

which rather frightened us. I do not know what it was, but it was a

horrid one. Still we had been there, and I knew it quite well. At the

end of it there is a stile, by which you go into a field, and at the

other end you get over another stile, and find yourself in the high

road.

"If this is our field, Sandy," said I, when we got to the first stile,

"I'm very sorry, but it really won't do. I know that lots of people

come through it. We should never be quiet here."

Sandy laughed. He didn't speak, and he didn't get over the stile; he

went through a gate close by it leading into a little sort of bye-lane

that was all mud in winter and hard cart-ruts in summer. I had never

been up it, but I had seen hay and that sort of thing go in and come

out of it.

He went on and we followed him. The ruts were very disagreeable to

walk on, but presently he led us through a hole in the hedge, and we

got into a field. It was a very bare-looking field, and went rather

uphill. There was no path, but Sandy walked away up it, and we went

after him. There was another hedge at the top, and a stile in it. It

had very rough posts, one much longer than the other, and the cross

step was gone, but there were two rails, and we all climbed over. And

when we got to the other side, Sandy leaned against the big post and

gave a wave with his right hand and said, "This is our field."

It sloped down hill, and the hedges round it were rather high, with

awkward branches of blackthorn sticking out here and there without any

leaves, and with the blossom lying white on the black twigs like snow.

There were cowslips all over the field, but they were thicker at the

lower end, which was damp. The great heat of the day was over. The sun

shone still, but it shone low down and made such splendid shadows that

we all walked about with grey giants at our feet; and it made the

bright green of the grass, and the cowslips down below, and the top of

the hedge, and Sandy's hair, and everything in the sun and the mist

behind the elder bush which was out of the sun, so yellow—so very

yellow—that just for a minute I really believed about Sandy's

godmother, and thought it was a story come true, and that everything

was turning into gold.

But it was only for a minute; of course I know that fairy tales are

not true. But it was a lovely field, and when we had put our hands to

our eyes and had a good look at it, I said to Sandy, "I beg your

pardon, Sandy, for telling you not to talk with your mouth full. It is

the best field I ever heard of."

"Sit down," said Sandy, doing the honours; and we all sat down under

the hedge.

"There are violets just behind us," he continued. "Can't you smell

them? But whatever you do, don't tell anybody of those, or we shan't

keep our field to ourselves for a day. And look here." He had turned

over on to his face, and Richard and I did the same, whilst Sandy

fumbled among the bleached grass and brown leaves.

"Hyacinths," said Richard, as Sandy displayed the green tops of them.

"As thick as peas," said Sandy. "This bank will be blue in a few

weeks; and fiddle-heads everywhere. There will be no end of ferns. May

to any extent—it's only in bud yet—and there's a wren's nest in

there——" At this point he rolled suddenly over on to his back and

looked up.

"A lark," he explained; "there was one singing its head off, this

morning. I say, Dick, this will be a good field for a kite, won't it?

_But wait a bit_."

After every fresh thing that Sandy showed us in our field, he always

finished by saying, "_Wait a bit"_; and that was because there was

always something else better still.

"There's a brook at the bottom there," he said, "with lots of

fresh-water shrimps. I wonder whether they would boil red. _But wait a

bit_. This hedge, you see, has got a very high bank, and it's worn

into kind of ledges. I think we could play at 'shops' there—_but wait

a bit_."

"It's almost _too_ good, Sandy dear!" said I, as we crossed the field

to the opposite hedge.

"The best is to come," said Sandy. "I've a very good mind not to let

it out till to-morrow." And to our distraction he sat down in the

middle of the field, put his arms round his knees, as if we were

playing at "Honey-pots," and rocked himself backwards and forwards

with a face of brimming satisfaction.

Neither Richard nor I would have been so mean as to explore on our own

account, when the field was Sandy's discovery, but we tried hard to

persuade him to show us everything.

He had the most provoking way of laughing and holding his tongue, and

he did that now, besides slowly turning all his pockets inside-out

into his hands, and mumbling up the crumbs and odd currants, saying,

"Guess!" between every mouthful.

But when there was not a crumb left in the seams of his pockets, Sandy

turned them back, and jumping up, said—"One can only tell a secret

once. It's a hollow oak. Come along!"

He ran and we ran, to the other side of Our Field. I had read of

hollow oaks, and seen pictures of them, and once I dreamed of one,

with a witch inside, but we had never had one to play in. We were

nearly wild with delight. It looked all solid from the field, but when

we pushed behind, on the hedge side, there was the door, and I crept

in, and it smelt of wood, and delicious damp. There could not be a

more perfect castle, and though there were no windows in the sides,

the light came in from the top, where the polypody hung over like a

fringe. Sandy was quite right. It was the very best thing in Our

Field.

Perronet was as fond of the field as we were. What he liked were the

little birds. At least, I don't know that he liked them, but they were

what he chiefly attended to. I think he knew that it was our field,

and thought he was the watch-dog of it, and whenever a bird settled

down anywhere, he barked at it, and then it flew away, and he ran

barking after it till he lost it; and by that time another had settled

down, and then Perronet flew at him, and so on, all up and down the

hedge. He never caught a bird, and never would let one sit down, if he

could see it.

We had all kinds of games in Our Field. Shops—for there were

quantities of things to sell—and sometimes I was a moss-merchant, for

there were ten different kinds of moss by the brook, and sometimes I

was a jeweller, and sold daisy-chains and pebbles, and coral sets made

of holly berries, and oak-apple necklaces; and sometimes I kept

provisions, like earth-nuts and mallow-cheeses, and mushrooms; and

sometimes I kept a flower-shop, and sold nosegays and wreaths, and

umbrellas made of rushes, I liked that kind of shop, because I am fond

of arranging flowers, and I always make our birthday wreaths. And

sometimes I kept a whole lot of shops, and Richard and Sandy bought my

things, and paid for them with money made of elder-pith, sliced into

rounds. The first shop I kept was to sell cowslips, and Richard and

Sandy lived by the brook, and were wine merchants, and made cowslip

wine in a tin mug.

The elder-tree was a beauty. In July the cream-coloured flowers were

so sweet, we could hardly sit under it, and in the autumn it was

covered with berries; but we were always a little disappointed that

they never tasted in the least like elderberry syrup. Richard used to

make flutes out of the stalks, and one really did to play tunes on,

but it always made Perronet bark.

Richard's every-day cap had a large hole in the top, and when we were

in Our Field we always hung it on the top of the tallest of the two

stile-posts, to show that we were there; just as the Queen has a flag

hung out at Windsor Castle, when she is at home.

We played at castles and houses, and when we were tired of the houses,

we pretended to pack up, and went to the seaside for change of air by

the brook. Sandy and I took off our shoes and stockings and were

bathing-women, and we bathed Perronet; and Richard sat on the bank and

was a "tripper," looking at us through a telescope; for when the

elder-stems cracked and wouldn't do for flutes, he made them into

telescopes. And before we went down to the brook we made jam of hips

and haws from the hedge at the top of the field, and put it into acorn

cups, and took it with us, that the children might not be short of

rolypolies at the seaside.

Whatever we played at we were never disturbed. Birds, and cows, and

men and horses ploughing in the distance, do not disturb you at all.

We were very happy that summer: the boys were quite happy, and the

only thing that vexed me was thinking of Perronet's tax-money. For

months and months went on and we did not save it. Once we got as far

as twopence half-penny, and then one day Richard came to me and said,

"I must have some more string for the kite. You might lend me a penny

out of Perronet's stocking, till I get some money of my own."

So I did; and the next day Sandy came and said, "You lent Dick one of

Perronet's coppers; I'm sure Perronet would lend me one," and then

they said it was ridiculous to leave a half-penny there by itself, so

we spent it in acid drops.

It worried me so much at last, that I began to dream horrible dreams

about Perronet having to go away because we hadn't saved his

tax-money. And then I used to wake up and cry, till the pillow was so

wet, I had to turn it. The boys never seemed to mind, but then boys

don't think about things; so that I was quite surprised when one day I

found Sandy alone in our field with Perronet in his arms, crying, and

feeding him with cake; and I found he was crying about the tax-money.

I cannot bear to see boys cry. I would much rather cry myself, and I

begged Sandy to leave off, for I said I was quite determined to try

and think of something.

It certainly was remarkable that the very next day should be the day

when we heard about the flower-show.

It was in school—the village school, for Mother could not afford to

send us anywhere else—and the schoolmaster rapped on his desk and

said, "Silence, children!" and that at the agricultural show there was

to be a flower-show this year, and that an old gentleman was going to

give prizes to the school-children for window-plants and for the best

arranged wild flowers. There were to be nosegays and wreaths, and

there was to be a first prize of five shillings, and a second prize of

half-a-crown, for the best collection of wild flowers with the names

put to them.

"The English names," said the schoolmaster; "and there may

be—silence, children!—there may be collections of ferns, or grasses,

or mosses to compete, too, for the gentleman wishes to encourage a

taste for natural history."

And several of the village children said, "What's that?" and I

squeezed Sandy's arm, who was sitting next to me, and whispered, "Five

shillings!" and the schoolmaster said, "Silence, children!" and I

thought I never should have finished my lessons that day for thinking

of Perronet's tax-money.

July is not at all a good month for wild flowers; May and June are far

better. However, the show was to be in the first week in July.

I said to the boys, "Look here: I'll do a collection of flowers. I

know the names, and I can print. It's no good two or three people

muddling with arranging flowers; but; if you will get me what I want,

I shall be very much obliged. If either of you will make another

collection, you know there are ten kinds of mosses by the brook; and

we have names for them of our own, and they are English. Perhaps

they'll do. But everything must come out of Our Field."

The boys agreed, and they were very good. Richard made me a box,

rather high at the back. We put sand at the bottom and damped it, and

then Feather Moss, lovely clumps of it, and into that I stuck the

flowers. They all came out of Our Field. I like to see grass with

flowers, and we had very pretty grasses, and between every bunch of

flowers I put a bunch of grass of different kinds. I got all the

flowers and all the grasses ready first, and printed the names on

pieces of cardboard to stick in with them, and then I arranged them by

my eye, and Sandy handed me what I called for, for Richard was busy at

the brook making a tray of mosses.

Sandy knew the flowers and the names of them quite as well as I did,

of course; we knew everything that lived in Our Field; so when I

called, "Ox-eye daisies, cock's-foot grass, labels; meadow-sweet,

fox-tail grass, labels; dog-roses, shivering grass, labels;" and so

on, he gave me the right things, and I had nothing to do but to put

the colours that looked best together next to each other, and to make

the grass look light, and pull up bits of moss to show well. And at

the very end I put in a label, "All out of Our Field."

I did not like it when it was done; but Richard praised it so much, it

cheered me up, and I thought his mosses looked lovely.

The flower-show day was very hot. I did not think it could be hotter

anywhere in the world than it was in the field where the show was; but

it was hotter in the tent.

We should never have got in at all—for you had to pay at the

gate—but they let competitors in free, though not at first. When we

got in, there were a lot of grown-up people, and it was very hard work

getting along among them, and getting to see the stands with the

things on. We kept seeing tickets with "1st Prize" and "2nd Prize,"

and struggling up; but they were sure to be dahlias in a tray, or

fruit that you mightn't eat, or vegetables. The vegetables

disappointed us so often, I got to hate them. I don't think I shall

ever like very big potatoes (before they are boiled) again,

particularly the red ones. It makes me feel sick with heat and anxiety

to think of them.

We had struggled slowly all round the tent, and seen all the

cucumbers, onions, lettuces, long potatoes, round potatoes, and

everything else, when we saw an old gentleman, with spectacles and

white hair, standing with two or three ladies. And then we saw three

nosegays in jugs, with all the green picked off, and the flowers tied

as tightly together as they would go, and then we saw some prettier

ones, and then we saw my collection, and it had got a big label in it

marked "1st Prize," and next to it came Richard's moss-tray, with the

Hair-moss, and the Pincushion-moss, and the Scale-mosses, and a lot of

others with names of our own, and it was marked "2nd Prize." And I

gripped one of Sandy's arms just as Richard seized the other, and we

both cried, "Perronet is paid for!"

* * * * *

There was two-and-sixpence over. We never had such a feast! It was a

picnic tea, and we had it in Our Field. I thought Sandy and Perronet

would have died of cake, but they were none the worse.

We were very much frightened at first when the old gentleman invited

himself; but he would come, and he brought a lot of nuts, and he did

get inside the oak, though it is really too small for him.

I don't think there ever was anybody so kind. If he were not a man, I

should really and truly believe in Sandy's fairy godmother.

Of course I don't really believe in fairies. I am not so young as

that. And I know that Our Field does not exactly belong to us.

I wonder to whom it does belong? Richard says he believes it belongs

to the gentleman who lives at the big red house among the trees. But

he must be wrong; for we see that gentleman at church every Sunday,

but we never saw him in Our Field.

And I don't believe anybody could have such a field of their very own,

and never come to see it, from one end of Summer to the other.

MADAM LIBERALITY.

"Like little body with a mighty heart."

_King Henry V., Act 2._

PART I.

It was not her real name: it was given to her by her brothers and

sister. People with very marked qualities of character do sometimes

get such distinctive titles, to rectify the indefiniteness of those

they inherit and those they receive in baptism. The ruling peculiarity

of a character is apt to show itself early in life, and it showed

itself in Madam Liberality when she was a little child.

Plum-cakes were not plentiful in her home when Madam Liberality was

young, and such as there were, were of the "wholesome" kind—plenty of

bread-stuff, and the currants and raisins at a respectful distance

from each other. But few as the plums were, she seldom ate them. She

picked them out very carefully, and put them into a box, which was

hidden under her pinafore.

When we grown-up people were children, and plum-cake and plum-pudding

tasted very much nicer than they do now, we also picked out the plums.

Some of us ate them at once, and had then to toil slowly through the

cake or pudding, and some valiantly dispatched the plainer portion of

the feast at the beginning, and kept the plums to sweeten the end.

Sooner or later we ate them ourselves, but Madam Liberality kept her

plums for other people.

When the vulgar meal was over—that commonplace refreshment ordained

and superintended by the elders of the household—Madam Liberality

would withdraw into a corner, from which she issued notes of

invitation to all the dolls. They were "fancy written" on curl papers

and folded into cocked hats.

Then began the real feast. The dolls came, and the children with them.

Madam Liberality had no toy tea-sets or dinner-sets, but there were

acorn-cups filled to the brim, and the water tasted deliciously,

though it came out of the ewer in the night nursery, and had not even

been filtered. And before every doll was a flat oyster-shell covered

with a round oyster-shell, a complete set of complete pairs, which had

been collected by degrees, like old family plate. And when the upper

shell was raised, on every dish lay a plum. It was then that Madam

Liberality got her sweetness out of the cake.

She was in her glory at the head of the inverted tea-chest; and if

the raisins would not go round, the empty oyster-shell was hers, and

nothing offended her more than to have this noticed. That was her

spirit, then and always. She could "do without" anything, if the

wherewithal to be hospitable was left to her.

When one's brain is no stronger than mine is, one gets very much

confused in disentangling motives and nice points of character. I have

doubted whether Madam Liberality's besetting virtue were a virtue at

all. Was it unselfishness or a love of approbation, benevolence or

fussiness, the gift of sympathy or the lust of power? Or was it

something else? She was a very sickly child, with much pain to bear,

and many pleasures to forego. Was it, as doctors say, "an effort of

nature," to make her live outside herself and be happy in the

happiness of others?

Equal doubt may hang over the conduct of her brothers and sister

towards her. Did they more love her, or find her useful? Was their

gratitude—as gratitude has been defined to be—"a keen sense of

favours to come"? They certainly got used to her services, and to

begging and borrowing the few things that were her "very own," without

fear of refusal. But if they rather took her benevolence for granted,

and thought that she "liked lending her things," and that it was her

way of enjoying possessions, they may have been right; for next to

one's own soul, one's own family is perhaps the best judge of one's

temper and disposition.

And they called her Madam Liberality, so Madam Liberality she shall

remain.

It has been hinted that there was a reason for the scarceness of the

plums in the plum-cake. Madam Liberality's father was dead, and her

mother was very poor, and had several children. It was not an easy

matter with her to find bread for the family, putting currants and

raisins out of the question.

Though poor, they were, however, gentle-folk, and had, for that

matter, rich relations. Very rich relations indeed! Madam Liberality's

mother's first cousin had fifteen thousand a year. His servants did

not spend ten thousand. (As to what he spent himself, it was

comparatively trifling.) The rest of the money accumulated. Not that

it was being got together to do something with by and by. He had no

intention of ever spending more than he spent at present. Indeed, with

a lump of coal taken off here, and a needless candle blown out there,

he rather hoped in future to spend less.

His wife was Madam Liberality's godmother. She was a good-hearted

woman, and took real pleasure in being kind to people, in the way she

thought best for them. Sometimes it was a graceful and appropriate

way, and very often it was not. The most acceptable act of kindness

she ever did to her god-daughter was when the child was recovering

from an illness, and she asked her to visit her at the seaside.

Madam Liberality had never seen the sea, and the thought of it proved

a better stimulus than the port wine which her doctor ordered so

easily, and her mother got with such difficulty.

When new clothes were bought, or old ones refurbished, Madam

Liberality, as a rule, went to the wall. Not because her mother was

ever guilty of favouritism, but because such occasions afforded an

opportunity of displaying generosity towards her younger sister.

But this time it was otherwise; for whatever could be spared towards

"summer things" for the two little girls was spent upon Madam

Liberality's outfit for the seaside. There was a new dress, and a

jacket "as good as new," for it was cut out of "mother's" cloth cloak

and made up, with the best binding and buttons in the shop, by the

village tailor. And he was bribed, in a secret visit, and with much

coaxing from the little girls, to make real pockets instead of braided

shams. The _second best_ frock was compounded of two which had

hitherto been _very bests_—Madam Liberality's own, eked out by

"Darling's" into a more fashionable fullness, and with a cape to

match.

There was a sense of solid property to be derived from being able to

take in at a glance the stock of well-mended under-garments, half of

which were generally at the wash. Besides, they had been added to, and

all the stockings were darned, and only one pair in the legs where it

would show, below short petticoat mark.

Then there was a bonnet newly turned and trimmed, and a pair and a

half of new boots, for surely boots are at least half new when they

have been (as the village cobbler described it in his bill) "souled

and healed"?

Poor little Madam Liberality! When she saw the things which covered

her bed in their abundance, it seemed to her an outfit for a princess.

And yet when her godmother asked Podmore, the lady's-maid, "How is the

child off for clothes?" Podmore unhesitatingly replied, "She've

nothing fit to be seen, ma'am," which shows how differently the same

things appear in different circumstances.

Podmore was a good friend to Madam Liberality. She had that

open-handed spirit which one acquires quite naturally in a house where

everything goes on on a large scale, at somebody else's expense. Now

Madam Liberality's godmother, from the very largeness of her

possessions, was obliged to leave the care of them to others, in such

matters as food, dress, the gardens, the stables, etc. So, like many

other people in a similar case, she amused herself and exercised her

economical instincts by troublesome little thriftinesses, by making

cheap presents, dear bargains, and so forth. She was by nature a

managing woman; and when those very grand people, the butler, the

housekeeper, the head-gardener, and the lady's-maid had divided her

household duties among them, there was nothing left for her to be

clever about, except such little matters as joining the fag-ends of

the bronze sealing-wax sticks which lay in the silver inkstand on the

malachite writing-table, and being good-natured at the cheapest rate

at which her friends could be benefited.

Madam Liberality's best neckerchief had been very pretty when it was

new, and would have been pretty as well as clean still if the

washerwoman had not used rather too hot an iron to it, so that the

blue in the check pattern was somewhat faded. And yet it had felt very

smart as Madam Liberality drove in the carrier's cart to meet the

coach at the outset of her journey. But when she sat against the rich

blue leather of her godmother's coach as they drove up and down the

esplanade, it was like looking at fairy jewels by daylight when they

turn into faded leaves.

"Is that your best neckerchief, child?" said the old lady.

"Yes, ma'am," blushed Madam Liberality,

So when they got home her godmother went to her odds-and-ends drawer.

Podmore never interfered with this drawer. She was content to be

despotic among the dresses, and left the old lady to faddle to her

heart's content with bits of old lace and ribbon which she herself

would not have condescended to wear.

The old lady fumbled them over. There were a good many half-yards of

ribbon with very large patterns, but nothing really fit for Madam

Liberality's little neck but a small Indian scarf of many-coloured

silk. It was old, and Podmore would never have allowed her mistress to

drive on the esplanade in anything so small and youthful-looking; but

the colours were quite bright, and there was no doubt but that Madam

Liberality might be provided for by a cheaper neck-ribbon. So the old

lady shut the drawer, and toddled down the corridor that led to

Podmore's room.

She had a good general idea that Podmore's perquisites were large, but

perquisites seem to be a condition of valuable servants in large

establishments, and then anything which could be recovered from what

had already passed into Podmore's room must be a kind of economy. So

she resolved that Podmore should "find something" for Madam

Liberality's neck.

"I never noticed it, ma'am, till I brought your shawl to the

carriage," said Podmore. "If I had seen it before, the young lady

shouldn't have come with you so. I'll see to it, ma'am."

"Thank you, Podmore."

"Can you spare me to go into the town this afternoon, ma'am?" added

the lady's-maid. "I want some things at Huckaback and Woolsey's."

Huckaback and Woolsey were the linendrapers where Madam Liberality's

godmother "had an account." It was one of the things on a large scale

over the details of which she had no control.

"You'll be back in time to dress me?"

"Oh dear, yes, ma'am." And having settled the old lady's shawl on her

shoulders, and drawn out her cap-lappets, Podmore returned to her

work.

It was a work of kindness. The old lady might deal shabbily with her

faded ribbons and her relations, but the butler, the housekeeper, and

the lady's-maid did their best to keep up the credit of the family.

It was well known that Madam Liberality was a cousin, and Podmore

resolved that she should have a proper frock to go down to dessert in.

So she had been very busy making a little slip out of a few yards of

blue silk which had been over and above one of the old lady's dresses,

and now she betook herself to the draper's to get spotted muslin to

cover it and ribbons to trim it with.

And whilst Madam Liberality's godmother was still feeling a few

twinges about the Indian scarf, Podmore ordered a pink neckerchief

shot with white, and with pink and white fringes, to be included in

the parcel.

But it was not in this way alone that Podmore was a good friend to

Madam Liberality.

She took her out walking, and let her play on the beach, and even

bring home dirty weeds and shells. Indeed, Podmore herself was not

above collecting cowries in a pill-box for her little nephews.

When Mrs. Podmore met acquaintances on the beach, Madam Liberality

played alone, and these were her happiest moments. She played amongst

the rotting, weed-grown stakes of an old pier, and "fancied" rooms

among them—suites of rooms in which she would lodge her brothers and

sister if they came to visit her, and where—with cockle-shells for

teacups, and lava for vegetables, and fucus-pods for fish—they

should find themselves as much enchanted as Beauty in the palace of

the Beast.

Again and again she "fancied" Darling into her shore-palace, the

delights of which should only be marred by the growls which she

herself would utter from time to time from behind the stakes, in the

character of a sea-beast, and which should but enhance the moment

when she would rush out and throw her arms round Darling's neck and

reveal herself as Madam Liberality.

"Darling" was the pet name of Madam Liberality's sister—her only

sister, on whom she lavished the intensest affection of a heart which

was always a large one in proportion to her little body. It seemed so

strange to play at any game of fancies without Darling, that Madam

Liberality could hardly realize it.

She might be preparing by herself a larger treat than usual for the

others; but it was incredible that no one would come after all, and

that Darling would never see the palace on the beach, and the

state-rooms, and the limpets, and the seaweed, and the salt-water

soup, and the real fish (a small dab discarded from a herring-net)

which Madam Liberality had got for her.

Her mind was filled with day-dreams of Darling's coming, and of how

she would display to her all the wonders of the seashore, which would

reflect almost as much credit upon her as if she had invented

razor-shells and crabs. She thought so much about it that she began

quite to expect it.

Was it not natural that her godmother should see that she must be

lonely, and ask Darling to come and be with her? Perhaps the old lady

had already done so, and the visit was to be a surprise. Madam

Liberality could quite imagine doing a nice thing like this herself,

and she hoped it so strongly that she almost came to believe in it.

Every day she waited hopefully, first for the post, and then for the

time when the coach came in, the hour at which she herself had

arrived; but the coach brought no Darling, and the post brought no

letter to say that she was coming, and Madam Liberality's hopes were

disappointed.

Madam Liberality was accustomed to disappointment.

From her earliest years it had been a family joke that poor Madam

Liberality was always in ill-luck's way.

It is true that she was constantly planning; and if one builds

castles, one must expect a few loose stones about one's ears now and

then. But, besides this, her little hopes were constantly being

frustrated by fate.

If the pigs or the hens got into the garden, Madam Liberality's bed

was sure to be laid waste before any one came to the rescue. When a

picnic or a tea-party was in store, if Madam Liberality did not catch

cold, so as to hinder her from going, she was pretty sure to have a

quinsy from fatigue or wet feet afterwards. When she had a treat she

paid for the pleasurable excitement by a headache, just as when she

ate sweet things they gave her toothache.

But if her luck was less than other people's, her courage and good

spirits were more than common. She could think with pleasure about the

treat when she had forgotten the headache. One side of her little face

would look fairly cheerful when the other was obliterated by a flannel

bag of hot camomile flowers, and the whole was redolent of every

horrible domestic remedy for toothache, from oil of cloves and

creosote to a baked onion in the ear. No sufferings abated her energy

for fresh exploits, or quenched the hope that cold, and damp, and

fatigue would not hurt her "this time."

In the intervals of wringing out hot flannels for her own quinsy, she

would amuse herself by devising a desert island expedition on a larger

and possibly a damper scale than hitherto, against the time when she

should be out again.

It is a very old simile, but Madam Liberality really was like a cork

rising on the top of the very wave of ill-luck that had swallowed up

her hopes. Her little white face and undaunted spirit bobbed up after

each mischance or malady as ready and hopeful as ever.

Though her day-dream about Darling and the shore palace was constantly

disappointed, this did not hinder her from indulging new hopes and

fancies in another place to which she went with Podmore; a place which

was filled with wonders of a different kind from the treasures of the

palace on the shore.

It was called the Bazaar. It would be a very long business to say what

was in it. But amongst other things there were foreign cage-birds,

musical-boxes, and camp-stools, and baskets, and polished pebbles, and

paper patterns, and a little ladies' and children's millinery, and a

good deal of mock jewellery, and some very bad soaps and scents, and

some very good children's toys.

It was Madam Liberality's godmother who first took her to the bazaar.

A titled lady of her acquaintance had heard that wire flower-baskets

of a certain shape could be bought in the bazaar cheaper (by

two-pence-halfpenny each) than in London; and after writing to her

friend to ascertain the truth of the statement, she wrote again to

authorize her to purchase three on her behalf. So Madam Liberality's

godmother ordered out the blue carriage and pair, and drove with her

little cousin to the bazaar.

And as they came out, followed by a bearded man, bowing very low, and

carrying the wire baskets, Madam Liberality's godmother stopped near

the toy-stall to button her glove. And when she had buttoned it (which

took a long time, because her hands were stout, and Podmore generally

did it with a hook), she said to Madam Liberality, "Now, child, I want

to tell you that if you are very good whilst you are with me, and

Podmore gives me a good report of you, I will bring you here before

you go home, and buy you a present."

Madam Liberality's heart danced with delight. She wished her godmother

would stand by the toy-stall for an hour, that she might see what she

most hoped the present would be. But the footman tucked them into the

carriage, and the bearded man bowed himself back into the bazaar, and

they drove home. Then Madam Liberality's godmother directed the butler

to dispatch the wire baskets to her ladyship, which he did by coach.

And her ladyship's butler paid the carriage, and tipped the man who

brought the parcel from the coach-office, and charged these items in

his account. And her ladyship wrote a long letter of thanks to Madam

Liberality's godmother for her kindness in saving her unnecessary

expense.

The old lady did not go to the bazaar again for some time, but Madam

Liberality went there with Podmore. She looked at the toys and

wondered which of them might one day be her very own. The white china

tea-service with the green rim, big enough to make real tea in, was

too good to be hoped for, but there were tin tea-sets where the lids

would come off, and wooden ones where they were stuck on; and there

were all manner of toys that would be invaluable for all kinds of

nursery games and fancies.

They helped a "fancy" of Madam Liberality even then. She used to stand

by the toy-stall, and fancy that she was as rich as her godmother, and

was going to give Christmas-boxes to her brothers and sister, and her

amusement was to choose, though she could not buy them.

Out of this came a deep mortification. She had been playing at this

fancy one afternoon, and having rather confused herself by changing

her mind about the toys, she went through her final list in an

undertone, to get it clearly into her head. The shopman was serving a

lady, and Madam Liberality thought he could not hear her as she

murmured, "The china tea-set, the box of beasts, the doll's furniture

for Darling," etc., etc. But the shopman's hearing was very acute, and

he darted forward, crying, "The china tea-set, did you say, miss?"

The blood rushed up to poor Madam Liberality's face till it seemed to

choke her, and the lady, whom the shopman had been serving, said

kindly, "I think the little girl said the box of beasts."

Madam Liberality hoped it was a dream, but having pinched herself, she

found that it was not.

Her mother had often said to her, "When you can't think what to say,

tell the truth." It was not a very easy rule, but Madam Liberality

went by it.

"I don't want anything, thank you," said she; "at least, I mean I have

no money to buy anything with: I was only counting the things I should

like to get if I had."

And then, as the floor of the bazaar would _not_ open and swallow her

up, she ran away, with her red face and her empty pocket, to shelter

herself with Podmore at the mock-jewellery stall, and she did not go

to the bazaar any more.

Once again disappointment was in store for Madam Liberality. The end

of her visit came, and her godmother's promise seemed to be forgotten.

But the night before her departure, the old lady came into her room

and said,

"I couldn't take you with me to-day, child, but I didn't forget my

promise. Podmore says you've been very good, and so I've brought you a

present. A very _useful_ one, I hope," added the old lady, in a tone

as if she were congratulating herself upon her good sense. "And tell

Catherine—that's your mother, child—with my love, always to have you

dressed for the evening. I like to see children come in to dessert,

when they have good manners—which I must say you have; besides, it

keeps the nurses up to their work."

And then she drew out from its paper a little frock of pink

_mousseline-de-laine_, very prettily tacked together by the young

woman at the millinery-stall, and very cheap for its gay appearance.

Down came all Madam Liberality's visions in connection with the

toy-stall: but she consoled herself that night with picturing

Darling's delight when she gave her (as she meant to give her) the

pink dress.

She had another source of comfort and anticipation—_the

scallop-shells_.

But this requires to be explained. The greatest prize which Madam

Liberality had gained from her wanderings by the seashore was a

complete scallop-shell. When washed the double shell was as clean and

as pretty as any china muffin-dish with a round top; and now her

ambition was to get four more, and thus to have a service for doll's

feasts which should far surpass the oyster-shells. She was talking

about this to Podmore one day when they were picking cowries together,

and Podmore cried, "Why, this little girl would get you them, miss,

I'll be bound!"

She was a bare-footed little girl, who sold pebbles and seaweed, and

salt water for sponging with, and she had undertaken to get the

scallop-shells, and had run off to pick seaweed out of a newly landed

net before Madam Liberality could say "Thank you."

She heard no more of the shells, however, until the day before she

went away, when the butler met her as she came indoors, and told her

that the little girl was waiting. And it was not till Madam Liberality

saw the scallop-shells lying clean and pink in a cotton handkerchief

that she remembered that she had no money to pay for them.

Here was another occasion for painful truthtelling! But to make

humiliating confession before the butler seemed almost beyond even

Madam Liberality's moral courage. He went back to his pantry, however,

and she pulled off her pretty pink neckerchief and said,

"I am _very_ sorry, little girl, but I've got no money of my own; but

if you would like this instead—" And the little girl seemed quite

pleased with her bargain, and ran hastily off, as if afraid that the

young lady would change her mind.

And this was how Madam Liberality got her scallop-shells.

* * * * *

It may seem strange that Madam Liberality should ever have been

accused of meanness, and yet her eldest brother did once shake his

head at her and say, "You're the most meanest and the _generoustest_

person I ever knew!" And Madam Liberality wept over the accusation,

although her brother was then too young to form either his words or

his opinions correctly.

But it was the touch of truth in it which made Madam Liberality cry.

To the end of their lives Tom and she were alike and yet different in

this matter. Madam Liberality saved, and pinched, and planned, and

then gave away, and Tom gave away without the pinching and saving.

This sounds much handsomer, and it was poor Tom's misfortune that he

always believed it to be so; though he gave away what did not belong

to him, and fell back for the supply of his own pretty numerous wants

upon other people, not forgetting Madam Liberality.

Painful experience convinced Madam Liberality in the end that his way

was a wrong one, but she had her doubts many times in her life whether

there were not something unhandsome in her own decided talent for

economy. Not that economy was always pleasant to her. When people are

very poor for their position in life, they can only keep out of debt

by stinting on many occasions when stinting is very painful to a

liberal spirit. And it requires a sterner virtue than good-nature to

hold fast the truth that it is nobler to be shabby and honest than to

do things handsomely in debt.

But long before Tom had a bill even for bull's-eyes and Gibraltar

Rock, Madam Liberality was pinching and plotting, and saving bits of

coloured paper and ends of ribbon, with a thriftiness which seemed to

justify Tom's view of her character.

The object of these savings was twofold: birthday presents and

Christmas-boxes. They were the chief cares and triumphs of Madam

Liberality's childhood. It was with the next birthday or the

approaching Christmas in view that she saved her pence instead of

spending them, but she so seldom had any money that she chiefly relied

on her own ingenuity. Year by year it became more difficult to make

anything which would "do for a boy;" but it was easy to please

Darling, and "Mother's" unabated appreciation of pincushions, and of

needle-books made out of old cards, was most satisfactory.

To break the mystery in which it always pleased Madam Liberality to

shroud her small preparations, was to give her dire offence. As a

rule, the others respected this caprice, and would even feign a little

more surprise than they felt, upon occasion. But if during her

preparations she had given umbrage to one of the boys, her retreat was

soon invaded with cries of—"Ah! I see you, making birthday presents

out of nothing and a quarter of a yard of ribbon!" Or—"There you are!

At it again, with two old visiting cards and a ha'porth of flannel!"

And only Darling's tenderest kisses could appease Madam Liberality's

wrath and dry her tears.

She had never made a grander project for Christmas, or had greater

difficulty in carrying it out, than in the winter which followed her

visit to the seaside. It was in the house of her cousin that she had

first heard of Christmas-trees, and to surprise the others with a

Christmas-tree she was quite resolved. But as the time drew near, poor

Madam Liberality was almost in despair about her presents, and this

was doubly provoking, because a nice little fir-tree had been promised

her. There was no blinking the fact that "Mother" had been provided

with pincushions to repletion. And most of these made the needles

rusty, from being stuffed with damp pig-meal, when the pigs and the

pincushions were both being fattened for Christmas.

Madam Liberality sat with her little pale face on her hand and her

slate before her, making her calculations. She wondered what

emery-powder cost. Supposing it to be very cheap, and that she could

get a quarter of a pound for "next to nothing," how useful a present

might be made for "Mother" in the shape of an emery pincushion, to

counteract the evil effects of the pig-meal ones! It would be a

novelty even to Darling, especially if hers were made by glueing a

tiny bag of emery into the mouth of a "boiled fowl cowry." Madam

Liberality had seen such a pincushion in Podmore's work-basket. She

had a shell of the kind, and the village carpenter would always let

her put a stick into his glue-pot if she went to the shop.

But then, if emery were only a penny a pound, Madam Liberality had not

a farthing to buy a quarter of a pound with. As she thought of this

her brow contracted, partly with vexation, and partly because of a

jumping pain in a big tooth, which, either from much illness or many

medicines, or both, was now but the wreck of what a tooth should be.

But as the toothache grew worse, a new hope dawned upon Madam

Liberality. Perhaps one of her troubles would mend the other!

Being very tender-hearted over children's sufferings, it was her

mother's custom to bribe rather than coerce when teeth had to be taken

out. The fixed scale of reward was sixpence for a tooth without fangs,

and a shilling for one with them. If pain were any evidence, this

tooth certainly had fangs. But one does not have a tooth taken out if

one can avoid it, and Madam Liberality bore bad nights and painful

days till they could be endured no longer; and then, because she knew

it distressed her mother to be present, she went alone to the doctor's

house to ask him to take out her tooth.

The doctor was a very kind old man, and he did his best, so we will

not say anything about his antique instruments, or the number of times

he tied a pocket-handkerchief round an awful-looking claw, and put

both into Madam Liberality's mouth without effect.

At last he said he had got the tooth out, and he wrapped it in paper,

and gave it to Madam Liberality, who, having thought that it was her

head he had extracted from its socket, was relieved to get away.

As she ran home she began to plan how to lay out her shilling for the

best, and when she was nearly there she opened the bit of paper to

look at her enemy, and it had no fangs!

"I'm _sure_ it was more than a sixpenny one," she sobbed; "I believe

he has left them in."

It involved more than the loss of half the funds she had reckoned

upon. Perhaps this dreadful pain would go on even on Christmas Day.

Her first thought was to carry her tears to her mother; her second

that, if she only could be brave enough to have the fangs taken out,

she might spare mother all distress about it till it was over, when

she would certainly like her sufferings to be known and sympathized

with. She knew well that courage does not come with waiting, and

making a desperate rally of stout-heartedness, she ran back to the

doctor.

He had gone out, but his assistant was in. He looked at Madam

Liberality's mouth, and said that the fangs were certainly left in and

would be much better out.

"Would it hurt _very_ much?" asked Madam Liberality, trembling.

The assistant blinked the question of "hurting."

"I think I could do it," said he, "if you could sit still. Not if you

were jumping about."

"I will sit still," said Madam Liberality.

"The boy shall hold your head," said the assistant.

But Madam Liberality rebelled; she could screw up her sensitive nerves

to endure the pain, but not to be coerced by "the boy."

"I give you my word of honour I will sit still," said she, with

plaintive earnestness.

And the assistant (who had just remembered that the boy was out with

the gig) said, "Very well, miss."

We need not dwell upon the next few seconds. The assistant kept his

word, and Madam Liberality kept hers. She sat still, and went on

sitting still after the operation was over till the assistant became

alarmed, and revived her by pouring some choking stuff down her

throat. After which she staggered to her feet and put out her hand and

thanked him.

He was a strong, rough, good-natured young man, and little Madam

Liberality's pale face and politeness touched him.

"You're the bravest little lady I ever knew," he said kindly; "and you

keep your word like a queen. There's some stuff to put to the place,

and there's sixpence, miss, if you'll take it, to buy lollipops with.

You'll be able to eat them now."

After which he gave her an old pill-box to carry the fragments of her

tooth in, and it was labelled "three to be taken at bed-time."

Madam Liberality staggered home, very giddy, but very happy. Moralists

say a great deal about pain treading so very closely on the heels of

pleasure in this life, but they are not always wise or grateful enough

to speak of the pleasure which springs out of pain. And yet there is a

bliss which comes just when pain has ceased, whose rapture rivals even

the high happiness of unbroken health; and there is a keen relish

about small pleasures hardly earned, in which the full measure of

those who can afford anything they want is sometimes lacking.

Relief is certainly one of the most delicious sensations which poor

humanity, can enjoy! Madam Liberality enjoyed it to the full, and she

had more happiness yet in her cup, I fear praise was very pleasant to

her, and the assistant had praised her, not undeservedly, and she knew

that further praise was in store from the dearest source of

approbation—from her mother. Ah! how pleased she would be! And so

would Darling, who always cried when Madam Liberality was in great

pain.

And this was only the beginning of pleasures. The sixpence would

amply provide "goodies" for the Christmas-tree, and much might be done

with the forthcoming shilling. And if her conduct on the present

occasion would not support a request for a few ends of candles from

the drawing-room candle-sticks, what profit would there be in being a

heroine?

When her mother gave her two shillings instead of one, Madam

Liberality felt in honour bound to say that she had already been

rewarded with sixpence; but her mother only said,

"You quite deserved it, I'm sure," and she found herself in possession

of no less than half-a-crown.

And now it is sad to relate that misfortune again overtook Madam

Liberality. All the next day she longed to go into the village to buy

sweetmeats, but it snowed and rained, and was bitterly cold, and she

could not.

Just about dusk the weather slightly cleared up, and she picked her

way through the melting snow to the shop. Her purchases were most

satisfactory. How the boys would enjoy them! Madam Liberality enjoyed

them already, though her face was still sore, and the pain had spread

to her throat, and though her ideas seemed unusually brilliant, and

her body pleasantly languid, which, added to a peculiar chill

trembling of the knees—generally forewarned her of a coming quinsy.

But warnings were thrown away upon Madam Liberality's obdurate

hopefulness.

Just now she could think of nothing but the coming Christmas-tree. She

hid the sweetmeats, and put her hand into her pocket for the two

shillings, the exact outlay of which, in the neighbouring town, by

means of the carrier, she had already arranged. But—the two shillings

were gone! How she had lost them Madam Liberality had no idea.

She trudged through the dirty snow once more to the shop, and the

counter was examined, and old Goody looked under the flour scales and

in the big chinks of the stone floor. But the shillings were not

there, and Madam Liberality kept her eyes on the pavement as she ran

home, with as little result. Moreover, it was nearly dark.

It snowed heavily all night, and Madam Liberality slept very little

from pain and anxiety; but this did not deter her from going out with

the first daylight in the morning to rake among the snow near the

door, although her throat was sore beyond concealment, her jaws stiff,

and the pleasant languor and quick-wittedness had given way to

restless fever.

Her conscience did prick her a little for the anxiety she was bringing

upon her mother (her own sufferings she never forecast); but she could

not give up her Christmas-tree without a struggle, and she hoped by a

few familiar remedies to drive back the threatened illness.

Meanwhile, if the shillings were not found before eleven o'clock it

would be too late to send to the town shop by the carrier. But they

were not found, and the old hooded cart rumbled away without them.

It was Christmas Eve. The boys were bustling about with holly. Darling

was perched on a very high chair in the kitchen, picking raisins in

the most honourable manner, without eating one, and Madam Liberality

ought to have been the happiest of all.

Even now she dried her tears, and made the best of her ill-luck. The

sweetmeats were very good; and it was yet in her power to please the

others, though by a sacrifice from which she had shrunk. She could

divide her scallop-shells among them. It was economy—economy of

resources—which made her hesitate. Separated—they would please the

boys once, and then be lost. Kept together in her own possession—they

would be a constant source of triumph for herself, and of treats for

her brothers and sister.

Meanwhile, she would gargle her throat with salt and water. As she

crept up-stairs with this purpose, she met her mother.

Madam Liberality had not looked in the looking-glass lately, so she

did not understand her mother's exclamation of distress when they met.

Her face was perfectly white, except where dark marks lay under her

eyes, and her small lips formed between them the rigid line of pain.

It was impossible to hold out any longer, and Madam Liberality broke

down and poured forth all her woes.

"I'll put my feet in hot water, and do anything you like, mother

dear," said she, "if only you'll let me try and have a tree, and keep

it secret from the others. I do so want to surprise them."

"If you'll go to your room, my darling, and do as I tell you, I'll

keep your secret, and help you with your tree," said her mother.

"Don't cry, my child, don't cry; it's so bad for your throat. I think

I can find you some beads to make a necklace for Darling, and three

pencils for the boys, and some paper which you can cut up into

drawing-books for them."

A little hope went a long way with Madam Liberality, and she began to

take heart. At the same time she felt her illness more keenly now

there was no need for concealing it. She sat over the fire and inhaled

steam from an old teapot, and threaded beads, and hoped she would be

allowed to go to church next day, and to preside at her Christmas-tree

afterwards.

In the afternoon her throat grew rapidly worse. She had begged—almost

impatiently—that Darling would not leave the Christmas preparations

to sit with her, and as talking was bad for her, and as she had

secret preparations to make on her own account, her mother had

supported her wish to be left alone.

But when it grew dusk, and the drawing-books were finished, Madam

Liberality felt lonely. She put a shawl round her head, and went to

the window. There was not much to be seen. The fields were deeply

buried in snow, and looked like great white feather beds, shaken up

unequally against the hedges. The road was covered so deeply that she

could hardly have traced it, if she had not known where it was. How

dark the old church tower looked amid so much whiteness!

And the snow-flakes fell like sugar-plums among the black trees. One

could almost hear the keen wind rustling through the bending sedges by

the pond, where the ice looked quite "safe" now. Madam Liberality

hoped she would be able to get out before this fine frost was over.

She knew of an old plank which would make an admirable sledge, and she

had a plan for the grandest of winter games all ready in her head. It

was to be called Arctic Discovery—and she was to be the chief

discoverer.

As she fancied herself—starving but scientific, chilled to the bone,

yet undaunted—discovering a north-west passage at the upper end of

the goose pond, the clock struck three from the old church tower.

Madam Liberality heard it with a pang. At three o'clock—if he had

had her shillings—she would have been expecting the return of the

carrier, with the presents for her Christmas-tree.

Even as she thought about it, the old hooded waggon came lumbering

down among the snow-drifts in the lane. There was a bunch of mistletoe

at the head, and the old carrier went before the horse, and the dog

went before the carrier. And they were all three up to their knees in

snow, and all three had their noses down, as much as to say, "Such is

life; but we must struggle on."

Poor Madam Liberality! The sight of the waggon and the mistletoe

overwhelmed her. It only made matters worse to see the waggon come

towards the house. She rather wondered what the carrier was bringing;

but whatever it was, it was not the toys.

She went back to her seat by the fire, and cried bitterly; and, as she

cried, the ball in her throat seemed to grow larger, till she could

hardly breathe. She was glad when the door opened, and her mother's

kind face looked in.

"Is Darling here?" she asked.

"No, mother," said Madam Liberality huskily.

"Then you may bring it in," said her mother to some one outside, and

the servant appeared, carrying a wooden box, which she put down before

Madam Liberality, and then withdrew. "Now don't speak," said her

mother, "it is bad for you, and your eyes have asked fifty questions

already, my child. Where did the box come from? The carrier brought

it. Who is it for? It's for you. Who sent it? That I don't know. What

is inside? I thought you would like to be the first to see. My idea is

that perhaps your godmother has sent you a Christmas-box, and I

thought that there might be things in it which would help you with

your Christmas-tree, so I have not told any one about it."

To the end of her life Madam Liberality never forgot that

Christmas-box. It did not come from her godmother, and the name of the

giver she never knew. The first thing in it was a card, on which was

written—"A Christmas-box from an unknown friend;" and the second

thing in it was the set of china tea-things with the green rim; and

the third thing was a box of doll's furniture.

"Oh, Mother!" cried Madam Liberality, "they're the very things I was

counting over in the bazaar, when the shopman heard me."

"Did anybody else hear you?" asked her mother.

"There was a lady, who said, 'I think the little girl said the box of

beasts.' And, oh! Mother, Mother! here _is_ the box of beasts! They're

not common beasts, you know—not wooden ones, painted; they're rough,

something like hair. And feel the old elephant's ears, they're quite

leathery, and the lion has real long hair for his mane and the tip of

his tail. They are such thorough beasts. Oh, how the boys will like

them! Tom shall have the darling brown bear. I do think he is the very

best beast of all; his mouth is a little open, you know, and you can

see his tongue, and it's red. And, Mother! the sheep are curly! And

oh, what a dog! with real hair. I think I _must_ keep the dog. And I

shall make him a paper collar, and print 'Faithful' on it, and let him

always stand on the drawers by our bed, and he'll be Darling's and my

watch-dog."

Happiness is sometimes very wholesome, but it does not cure a quinsy

off hand. Darling cried that night when the big pillow was brought

out, which Madam Liberality always slept against in her quinsies, to

keep her from choking. She did not know of that consolatory

Christmas-box in the cupboard.

On Christmas Day Madam Liberality was speechless. The quinsy had

progressed very rapidly.

"It generally breaks the day I have to write on my slate," Madam

Liberality wrote, looking up at her mother with piteous eyes.

She was conscious that she had been greatly to blame for what she was

suffering, and was anxious to "behave well about it" as an atonement.

She begged—on her slate—that no one would stay away from church on

her account, but her mother would not leave her.

"And now the others are gone," said Mother, "since you won't let the

Christmas-tree be put off, I propose that we have it up, and I dress

it under your orders, whilst the others are out, and then it can be

moved into the little book-room, all ready for to-night."

Madam Liberality nodded like a china Mandarin.

"But you are in sad pain, I fear?" said her mother,

"One can't have everything," wrote Madam Liberality on her slate. Many

illnesses had made her a very philosophical little woman; and, indeed,

if the quinsy broke and she were at ease, the combination of good

things would be more than any one could reasonably expect, even at

Christmas.

Every beast was labelled, and hung up by her orders. The box of

furniture was addressed to herself and Darling, as a joint possession,

and the sweetmeats were tied in bags of muslin. The tree looked

charming. The very angel at the top seemed proud of it.

"I'll leave the tea-things up-stairs," said Mother.

But Madam Liberality shook her head vigorously. She had been making up

her mind, as she sat steaming over the old teapot; and now she wrote

on her slate, "Put a white cloth round the tub, and put out the

tea-things like a tea-party, and put a ticket in the slop-basin—_For

Darling. With very_, VERY _Best Love_. Make the last 'very' very big."

Madam Liberality's mother nodded, but she was printing a ticket; much

too large a ticket, however, to go into the green and white

slop-basin. When it was done she hung it on the tree, under the angel.

The inscription was—_From Madam Liberality_.

When supper was over, she came up to Madam Liberality's room, and

said,

"Now, my dear, if you like to change your mind and put off the tree

till you are better, I will say nothing about it."

But Madam Liberality shook her head more vehemently than before, and

her mother smiled and went away.

Madam Liberality strained her ears. The book-room door opened—she

knew the voice of the handle—there was a rush and a noise, but it

died away into the room. The tears broke down Madam Liberality's

cheeks. It was hard not to be there now. Then there was a patter up

the stairs, and flying steps along the landing, and Madam Liberality's

door was opened by Darling. She was dressed in the pink dress, and her

cheeks were pinker still, and her eyes full of tears. And she threw

herself at Madam Liberality's feet, crying,

"Oh _how_ good, how _very_ good you are!"

At this moment a roar came up from below, and Madam Liberality wrote,

"What is it?" and then dropped the slate to clutch the arms of her

chair, for the pain was becoming almost intolerable. Before Darling

could open the door her mother came in, and Darling repeated the

question,

"What is it?"

But at this moment the reply came from below, in Tom's loudest tones.

It rang through the house, and up into the bedroom.

"Three cheers for Madam Liberality! Hip, hip, hooray!"

The extremes of pleasure and of pain seemed to meet in Madam

Liberality's little head. But overwhelming gratification got the upper

hand, and, forgetting even her quinsy, she tried to speak, and after a

brief struggle she said, with tolerable distinctness,

"Tell Tom I am very much obliged to him."

But what they did tell Tom was that the quinsy had broken, on which he

gave three cheers more.

PART II.

Madam Liberality grew up into much the same sort of person that she

was when a child. She always had been what is termed old-fashioned,

and the older she grew the better her old-fashionedness became her, so

that at last her friends would say to her, "Ah, if we all wore as well

as you do, my dear! You've hardly changed at all since we remember you

in short petticoats." So far as she did change the change was for the

better. (It is to be hoped we do improve a little as we get older!)

She was still liberal and economical. She still planned and hoped

indefatigably. She was still tender-hearted in the sense in which Gray

speaks,

"To each his sufferings, all are men

Condemned alike to groan,

The tender for another's pain,

The unfeeling for his own."

She still had a good deal of ill-health and ill-luck, and a good deal

of pleasure in spite of both. She was still happy in the happiness of

others, and pleased by their praise. But she was less headstrong and

opinionated in her plans, and less fretful when they failed. It is

possible, after one has cut one's wisdom-teeth, to cure one's self

even of a good deal of vanity, and to learn to play the second fiddle

very gracefully; and Madam Liberality did not resist the lessons of

life.

GOD teaches us wisdom in divers ways. Why He suffers some

people to have so many troubles and so little of what we call pleasure

in this world we cannot in this world know. The heaviest blows often

fall on the weakest shoulders, and how these endure and bear up under

them is another of the things which GOD knows better than we.

I will not pretend to decide whether grown-up people's troubles are

harder to bear than children's troubles, but they are of a graver

kind. It is very bitter when the boys melt the nose of one's dearest

doll against the stove, and living pets with kind eyes and friendly

paws grow aged and die; but the death of friends is a more serious and

lasting sorrow, if it is not more real.

Madam Liberality shed fewer tears after she grew up than she had done

before, but she had some heart-aches which did not heal.

The thing which did most to cure her of being too managing for the

good of other people was Darling's marriage. If ever Madam Liberality

had felt proud of self-sacrifice and success, it was about this. But

when Darling was fairly gone, and "Faithful"—very grey with dust and

years—kept watch over only one sister in "the girls' room," he might

have seen Madam Liberality's nightly tears if his eyes had been made

of anything more sensitive than yellow paint.

Desolate as she was, Madam Liberality would have hugged her grief if

she could have had her old consolation, and been happy in the

happiness of another. Darling never said she was not happy. It was

what she left out, not what she put into the long letters she sent

from India that cut Madam Liberality to the heart.

Darling's husband read all her letters, and he did not like the home

ones to be too tender—as if Darling's mother and sister pitied her.

And he read Darling's letters before they went away by the mail.

From this it came about that the sisters' letters were very

commonplace on the surface. And though Madam Liberality cried when

Darling wrote, "Have swallows built in the summer-house this year?

Have you put my old doll's chest of drawers back in its place since

the room was papered? What colour is the paper?"—the Major only said

that stuff like that was hardly worth the postage to England. And when

Madam Liberality wrote, "The clump of daffodils in your old bed was

enormous this spring. I have not touched it since you left. I made

Mother's birthday wreath out of the flowers in your bed and mine.

Jemima broke the slop-basin of the green and white tea-set to-day. It

was the last piece left. I am trying to forgive her,"—the Major made

no harsher remark than, "A storm in a slop-basin! Your sister is not a

brilliant letter-writer, certainly."

The source of another heart-ache for Madam Liberality was poor Tom. He

was as liberal and hospitable as ever in his own way. He invited his

friends to stay with his mother, and when they and Tom had gone, Madam

Liberality and her mother lived without meat to get the housekeeping

book straight again. Their great difficulty in the matter was the

uncertain nature of Tom's requirements. And when he did write for

money he always wrote in such urgent need that there was no refusing

him if by the art of "doing without" his wants could be supplied.

But Tom had a kindly heart; he sent his sister a gold locket, and

wrote on the box, "For the best and most generous of sisters."

Madam Liberality liked praise, and she dearly liked praise from Tom;

but on this occasion it failed to soothe her. She said curtly, "I

suppose it's not paid for. If we can't afford much, we can afford to

live at our own expense, and not on the knavery or the forbearance of

tradesmen." With which she threw the locket into a box of odds and

ends, and turned the key with some temper.

Years passed, and Madam Liberality was alone. Her mother was dead, and

Tom—poor Tom!—had been found drowned. Darling was still in India,

and the two living boys were in the colonies, farming.

It seemed to be an aggravation of the calamity of Tom's death that he

died, as he had lived, in debt. But, as regards Madam Liberality, it

was not an unmixed evil. It is one of our bitterest pangs when we

survive those we love that with death the opportunity has passed for

being kind to them, though we love them more than ever. By what

earthly effort could Madam Liberality's mother now be pleased, whom so

little had pleased heretofore?

But for poor Tom it was still possible to plan, to economize, to be

liberal—and by these means to pay his debts, and save the fair name

of which he had been as reckless as of everything else which he

possessed.

Madam Liberality had had many a hard struggle to get Tom a birthday

present, but she had never pinched and planned and saved on his behalf

as she did now. There is a limit, however, to the strictest economies.

It would have taken a longer time to finish her labour of love but

for "the other boys." They were good, kind fellows, and having had to

earn daily bread where larks do not fall ready cooked into the mouth,

they knew more of the realities of life than poor Tom had ever

learned. They were prosperous now, and often sent a few pounds to

Madam Liberality "to buy a present with."

"And none of your old 'Liberality' tricks, mind!" George wrote on one

occasion. "Fit yourself thoroughly out in the latest fashions, and do

us credit!"

But it all went to Tom's tailor.

She felt hardly justified in diverting George's money from his

purpose; but she had never told the boys of Tom's debts. There was

something of her old love of doing things without help in this, and

more of her special love for Tom.

It was not from the boys alone that help came to her. Madam

Liberality's godmother died, and left her fifty pounds. In one lump

she had now got enough to finish her work.

The acknowledgments of these last payments came on Tom's birthday.

More and more courteous had grown the tradesmen's letters, and Madam

Liberality felt a foolish pleasure in seeing how respectfully they all

spoke now of "Your lamented brother, Madam!"

The jeweller's bill was the last; and when Madam Liberality tied up

the bundle, she got out Tom's locket and put a bit of his hair into

it, and tied it round her throat, sobbing as she did so, "Oh, Tom, if

you _could_ have lived and been happy in a small way! Your debts are

paid now, my poor boy. I wonder if you know. Oh, Tom, Tom!"

It was her greatest triumph—to have saved Tom's fair name in the

place where he had lived so foolishly and died so sadly.

But the triumphs of childhood cast fewer shadows. There was no one now

to say, "Three cheers for Madam Liberality!"

* * * * *

It was a very cold winter, but Madam Liberality and Jemima, the

maid-of-all-work, were warmer than they had been for several previous

winters, because they kept better fires. Time heals our sorrows in

spite of us, and Madam Liberality was a very cheerful little body now,

and as busy as ever about her Christmas-boxes. Those for her nephews

and nieces were already despatched. "The boys" were married; Madam

Liberality was godmother to several children she had never seen; but

the Benjamin of his aunt's heart was Darling's only child—Tom—though

she had not seen even him.

Madam Liberality was still in the thick of her plans, which were

chiefly to benefit the old people and the well-behaved children of the

village. All the Christmas-boxes were to be "surprises," and Jemima

was in every secret but the one which most concerned her.

Madam Liberality had even some plans for her own benefit. George had

talked of coming home in the summer, and she began to think of saving

up for a new carpet for the drawing-room. Then the last time she went

to the town she saw some curtains of a most artistic pattern, and

particularly cheap. So much good taste for so little money was rare in

provincial shops. By and by she might do without something which would

balance the cost of the curtains. And she had another ambition—to

provide Jemima with black dresses and white muslin aprons for

afternoon wear in addition to her wages, that the outward aspect of

that good soul might be more in accordance than hitherto with her

intrinsic excellence.

She was pondering this when Jemima burst in in her cooking apron,

followed up the passage by the steam of Christmas cakes, and carrying

a letter.

"It's a big one, Miss," said she. "Perhaps it's a Christmas-box,

Miss." And beaming with geniality and kitchen warmth, Jemima returned

to her labours.

Madam Liberality made up her mind about the dresses and aprons; then

she opened her letter.

It announced the death of her cousin, her godmother's husband. It

announced also that, in spite of the closest search for a will, which

he was supposed to have made, this could not be found.

Possibly he had destroyed it, intending to make another. As it was he

had died intestate, and succession not being limited to heirs male,

and Madam Liberality being the eldest child of his nearest

relative—the old childish feeling of its being a dream came over her.

She pinched herself, however, to no purpose. There lay the letter, and

after a second reading Madam Liberality picked up the thread of the

narrative and arrived at the result—she had inherited fifteen

thousand a year.

The first rational idea which came to her was that there was no

difficulty now about getting the curtains; and the second was that

their chief merit was a merit no more. What is the good of a thing

being cheap when one has fifteen thousand a year?

Madam Liberality poked the fire extravagantly, and sat down to think.

The curtains naturally led her to household questions, and those to

that invaluable person, Jemima. That Jemima's wages should be doubled,

trebled, quadrupled, was a thing of course. What post she was to fill

in the new circumstances was another matter. Remembering Podmore, and

recalling the fatigue of dressing herself after her pretty numerous

illnesses, Madam Liberality felt that a lady's-maid would be a comfort

to be most thankful for. But she could not fancy Jemima in that

capacity, or as a housekeeper, or even as head housemaid or cook. She

had lived for years with Jemima herself, but she could not fit her

into a suitable place in the servants' hall.

However, with fifteen thousand a year, Madam Liberality could buy, if

needful, a field, and build a house, and put Jemima into it with a

servant to wait upon her. The really important question was about her

new domestics. Sixteen servants are a heavy responsibility.

Madam Liberality had very high ideas of the parental duties involved in

being the head of a household. She had suffered—more than Jemima—over

Jemima's lack of scruple as to telling lies for good purposes. Now a

footman is a young man who has, no doubt, his own peculiar temptations.

What check could Madam Liberality keep upon him? Possibly she might—under

the strong pressure of moral responsibility—give good general advice to

the footman; but the idea of the butler troubled her.

When one has lived alone in a little house for many years one gets

timid. She put a case to herself. Say that she knew the butler to be

in the habit of stealing the wine, and suspected the gardener of

making a good income by the best of the wall fruit, would she have the

moral courage to be as firm with these important personages as if she

had caught one of the school-children picking and stealing in the

orchard? And if not, would not family prayers be a mockery?

Madam Liberality sighed. Poor dear Tom! He had had his faults

certainly; but how well he would have managed a butler!

This touched the weak point of her good fortune to the core. It had

come too late to heap luxuries about dear "Mother"; too late to open

careers for the boys; too late to give mad frolics and girlish

gaieties to light hearts, such as she and Darling had once had. Ah, if

they could have enjoyed it together years ago!

There remained, however, Madam Liberality's old consolation: one can

be happy in the happiness of others. There were nephews and nieces to

be provided for, and a world so full of poor and struggling folk that

fifteen thousand a year would only go a little way. It was, perhaps,

useful that there had been so many articles lately in the papers about

begging letters, and impostors, and, the evil effects of the

indiscriminate charity of elderly ladies; but the remembrance of them

made Madam Liberality's head ache, and troubled her dreams that

night.

It was well that the next day was Sunday. Face to face with those

greater interests common to the rich and the poor, the living and the

dead, Madam Liberality grew calmer under her new cares and prospects.

It did not need that brief pause by her mother's grave to remind her

how little money can do for us: and the sight of other people

wholesomely recalled how much it can effect. Near the church porch she

was passed by the wife of a retired chandler, who dressed in very fine

silks, and who was accustomed to eye Madam Liberality's old clothes as

she bowed to her more obviously than is consistent with good breeding.

The little lady nodded very kindly in return. With fifteen thousand a

year one can afford to be _quite_ at ease in an old shawl.

The next day was Christmas Eve. Madam Liberality caught herself

thinking that if the legacy had been smaller—say fifty pounds a

year—she would at once have treated herself to certain little

embellishments of the old house, for which she had long been

ambitious. But it would be absurd to buy two or three yards of rosebud

chintz, and tire herself by making covers to two very old

sofa-cushions, when the point to be decided was in which of three

grandly furnished mansions she would first take up her abode. She

ordered a liberal supper, however, which confirmed Jemima in her

secret opinion that the big letter had brought good news.

When, therefore, another letter of similar appearance arrived, Jemima

snatched up the waiter and burst breathlessly in upon Madam

Liberality, leaving the door open-behind her, though it was bitterly

cold and the snow fell fast.

And when Madam Liberality opened this letter she learned that her

cousin's will had been found, and that (as seems to be natural) he had

left his money where it would be associated with more money and kept

well together. His heir was a cousin also, but in the next degree—an

old bachelor, who was already wealthy; and he had left Madam

Liberality five pounds to buy a mourning ring.

It had been said that Madam Liberality was used to disappointment, but

some minutes passed before she quite realized the downfall of her

latest visions. Then the old sofa-cushions resumed their importance,

and she flattened the fire into a more economical shape, and set

vigorously to work to decorate the house with the Christmas

evergreens. She had just finished and gone up-stairs to wash her hands

when the church clock struck three.

It was an old house, and the window of the bedroom went down to the

floor, and had a deep window-seat. Madam Liberality sat down in it and

looked out. She expected some linsey-woolsey by the carrier, to make

Christmas petticoats, and she was glad to see the hooded waggon

ploughing its way through the snow. The goose-pond was firmly frozen,

and everything looked as it had looked years ago, except that the

carrier's young son went before the waggon and a young dog went before

him. They passed slowly out of sight, but Madam Liberality sat on. She

gazed dreamily at the old church, and the trees, and the pond, and

thought of the past; of her mother, and of poor Tom, and of Darling,

and she thought till she fancied that she heard Darling's voice in the

passage below. She got up to go down to Jemima, but as she did so she

heard a footstep on the stairs, and it was not Jemima's tread. It was

too light for the step of any man or woman.

Then the door opened, and on the threshold of Madam Liberality's room

stood a little boy dressed in black, with his little hat pushed back

from the loveliest of baby faces set in long flaxen hair. The

carnation colour of his cheeks was deepened by the frost, and his

bright eyes were brighter from mingled daring and doubt and curiosity,

as he looked leisurely round the room and said in a slow,

high-pitched, and very distinct tone,

"Where are you, Aunt Liberality?"

But, lovely as he was, Madam Liberality ran past him, for another

figure was in the doorway now, also in black, and, with a widow's cap;

and Madam Liberality and Darling fell sobbing into each other's arms.

"This is better than fifteen thousand a year," said Madam Liberality.

* * * * *

It is not necessary to say much more. The Major had been killed by a

fall from horseback, and Darling came back to live at her old home.

She had a little pension, and the sisters were not parted again.

It would be idle to dwell on Madam Liberality's devotion to her

nephew, or the princely manner in which he accepted her services. That

his pleasure was the object of a new series of plans, and presents,

and surprises, will be readily understood. The curtains were bought,

but the new carpet had to be deferred in consequence of an extravagant

outlay on mechanical toys. When the working of these brought a deeper

tint into his cheeks, and a brighter light into his eyes, Madam

Liberality was quite happy; and when he broke them one after another,

his infatuated aunt believed this to be a precocious development of

manly energies.

The longest lived, if not the favourite, toys with him were the old

set of scallop-shells, with which he never wearied of making feasts,

to which Madam Liberality was never weary of being invited. He had

more plums than had ever sweetened her childhood, and when they sat

together on two footstools by the sofa, and Tom announced the contents

of the dishes in his shrillest voice and lifted the covers, Madam

Liberality would say in a tone of apology,

"It's very odd, Darling, and I'm sure at my time of life it's

disgraceful, but I cannot feel old!"

We could hardly take leave of Madam Liberality in pleasanter

circumstances. Why should we ask whether, for the rest of her life,

she was rich or poor, when we may feel so certain that she was

contented? No doubt she had many another hope and disappointment to

keep life from stagnating.

As a matter of fact she outlived the bachelor cousin, and if he died

intestate she must have been rich after all. Perhaps she was. Perhaps

she never suffered again from insufficient food or warmth. Perhaps the

illnesses of her later years were alleviated by skill and comforts

such as hitherto she had never known. Perhaps Darling and she enjoyed

a sort of second spring in their old age, and went every year to the

Continent, and grew wonderful flowers in the greenhouse, and sent Tom

to Eton, and provided for their nephews and nieces, and built churches

to their mother's memory, and never had to withhold the liberal hand

from helping because it was empty; and so passed by a time of wealth

to the hour of death.

Or perhaps the cousin took good care to bequeath his money where there

was more money for it to stick to. And Madam Liberality pinched out

her little presents as heretofore, and kept herself warm with a hot

bottle when she could not afford a fire, and was too thankful to have

Darling with her when she was ill to want anything else. And perhaps

Darling and she prepared Tom for school, and (like many another

widow's son) he did them credit. And perhaps they were quite happy

with a few common pot-plants in the sunny window, and kept their

mother's memory green by flowers about her grave, and so passed by a

life of small cares and small pleasures to where

"Divided households re-unite."

Of one thing we may be quite certain. Rich or poor, she was always

MADAM LIBERALITY.

_Richard Clay & Sons, Limited, London, & Bungay_.

_The present Series of Mrs. Ewing's Works is the only authorized,

complete, and uniform Edition published_.

_It will consist of 18 volumes, Small Crown 8vo, at 2s. 6d. per vol.,

issued, as far as possible, in chronological order, and these will

appear at the rate of two volumes every two months, so that the Series

will be completed within 18 months. The device of the cover was

specially designed by a Friend of Mrs. Ewing_.

_The following is a list of the books included in the Series_—

1. MELCHIOR'S DREAM, AND OTHER TALES.

2. MRS. OVERTHEWAY'S REMEMBRANCES.

3. OLD-FASHIONED FAIRY TALES.

4. A FLAT IRON FOR A FARTHING.

5. THE BROWNIES, AND OTHER TALES.

6. SIX TO SIXTEEN.

7. LOB LIE-BY-THE-FIRE, AND OTHER TALES.

8. JAN OF THE WINDMILL.

9. VERSES FOR CHILDREN, AND SONGS.

10. THE PEACE EGG—A CHRISTMAS MUMMING

PLAY—HINTS FOR PRIVATE

THEATRICALS, &c.

11. A GREAT EMERGENCY, AND OTHER

TALES.

12. BROTHERS OF PITY, AND OTHER TALES

OF BEASTS AND MEN.

13. WE AND THE WORLD, Part I

14. WE AND THE WORLD, Part II.

15. JACKANAPES—DADDY DARWIN'S DOVE-COTE—THE

STORY OF A SHORT LIFE.

16. MARY'S MEADOW, AND OTHER TALES

OF FIELDS AND FLOWERS.

17. MISCELLANEA, including The Mystery of the

Bloody Hand—Wonder Stories—Tales of the

Khoja, and other translations.

18. JULIANA HORATIA EWING AND HER

BOOKS, with a selection from Mrs. Ewing's

Letters.

S.P.C.K., NORTHUMBERLAND AVENUE, LONDON, W.C.