CHAPTER XXIII.--BACK HOME AGAIN.

Elsie and her mother travelled all night, and reached Edinburgh early

the next morning. This time it was only a third-class carriage, crowded

by very ordinary-looking men and women--a very different journey from

the one with the wicked "fairy mother;" but the unhappy child, tired out

with all she had gone through, leant her head against her mother's

shoulder, and slept through the night with a sweet sense of safety and

protection to which she had long been a stranger.

They found Duncan still slowly mending, but looking a mere shadow of his

former bonnie self. Elsie was so overwhelmed at the sight of his poor

little wasted figure, and cried so bitterly, that the nurse promptly

ordered her out of the ward.

"Tell Elsie I'm quite well now," he said anxiously to Mrs. MacDougall.

"She needn't cry, because we are going home; aren't we, mother? You did

say we might."

"Yes, well all be happy again together soon, little lad," Mrs.

MacDougall replied.

"Perhaps they hurt Elsie," Duncan continued, still anxious for Elsie.

"They were bad people, mother;" and the little fellow shuddered.

They were obliged to calm him and turn his thoughts away. One of the

worst points of his illness had been the fits of terror that came over

him when a recollection of the Fergusons or the Murdochs passed through

his brain. It had been feared that his mind was seriously affected by

the fright he had undergone.

He was not yet fit to be moved, so Mrs. MacDougall decided to take Elsie

home, and come again to fetch Duncan when he was ready to leave, as she

had barely money enough left to take her to Dunster. Duncan was,

however, convalescent, and in a fair way of recovering.

It was only now that Mrs. MacDougall, the more pressing cares of her

mind relieved, had time to remember Elsie's curious statement before the

magistrates. "What did you mean, child, by saying that you didn't

rightly know your own name?" she asked. "Surely you were dazed with the

strange faces all round you. I feared you had lost your reason."

Elsie hung her head sheepishly. Although she had heard nothing from

any one on the subject, she had somehow a conviction in her mind that

she had been very silly. It was easy to talk grandly to Duncan, but

quite a different thing to tell the story to Mrs. MacDougall.

"I don't know. I did think that perhaps me and Duncan were the babies of

Aunt Nannie's what Uncle Grosvenor sent you to take care of," Elsie

stammered, growing very red.

"Good patience, child! What do you know about your aunt Nannie's

babies?" Mrs. MacDougall exclaimed, in amazement. "Who have been

tattling to you about what don't concern them?"

"Then we _are_ those babies!" Elsie cried, with a flash of excitement.

"You!" cried Mrs. MacDougall; "that you are not. What could make you

think such a thing? Whoever told you so much--an' I reckon your foolish

old grannie was the person--might as well have told the whole story,

which, however, it was my great wish should be kept quite a secret.

Robbie was your poor Aunt Nannie's bairn."

"Robbie!" Elsie exclaimed, slowly; "but there were two babies, mother."

"There were twin babies, but one died the next day after it reached me,

poor bairn. It was a girl baby, and the one the father took an interest

in; but it died, and he cared little or nothing about Robbie, so I kept

him my own self, for he was but a poor little lad, and could no bear a

rough life. Often I've been tempted to let the child go back to his own

flesh and blood, but I hadn't the heart, knowing there was none that

would look after him with the care he needed."

"Is Robbie better than we are, mother?" Elsie asked, with the old

jealousy cropping up once more. "Uncle Grosvenor is a grand laird, is he

not?"

[Illustration: "ROBBIE WAITED ON HIM" (_p. 329_).]

Mrs. MacDougall laughed. "He's just a well-to-do tradesman, though he

had mighty fine airs when he used to come to Dunster; but I never liked

the looks of him. He broke his poor wife's heart, and never believed it

till she lay dead, and then he was sorry, and tried to make some amends.

He was a bit touched when he saw his motherless bairns, and did a kind

deed when he sent them to me; but he soon grew blithe and gay again, and

troubled his head no more. I've never heard from him from that day to

this, except that he sends me payment for the babies still. He doesn't

even know that the little one died, for he has never written; and I

don't know where he is; but any day he may come, and just take it into

his head to fetch poor Nannie's bairn away from me: but I hope he won't,

for now that he's married again and has many children, as I am told,

poor Robbie will be ill-welcomed among them."

What a different tale this was from the one Elsie had concocted in her

own mind! How utterly foolish and ashamed she was feeling. She would

tell all, and would so ease her mind.

"Mother," she said, speaking quickly, "it was all through a letter I

picked up and read, and because I always thought Robbie was your

favourite more than me and Duncan. I thought he must be your little boy,

and that we were not. You did buy Robbie more things, and never sent him

for the milk."

"Ye're right enough, Elsie," Mrs. MacDougall said, with a sigh. "There's

many a time, when I've been sore pressed, I've been tempted to take the

money that Robbie's father sent to buy the clothes you and Duncan were

in need of; but I've always stood against it, and never spent a penny of

that money for any other purpose than the right one, and I've taken

care of the child more jealously than if he was my own. But the Evil One

himself must have put it in your heart to be jealous of that poor little

lad. With all my care, I doubt that he'll ever see manhood. And as for

the letter, I think I know the one you mean. If you found it, you'd no

call to read it."

"But I read it, and I kept it," Elsie confessed, seeing that her mother

had quite failed to comprehend all that she had tried to tell her. "It

was for that I wanted to run away--to go and find who I thought was our

own father--and I took Duncan with me. I thought it would be easy. I

didn't mean to hurt Duncan."

"I will be no harsh to you, Elsie," Mrs. MacDougall said, sorrowfully.

"It's a sore thing for a mother to think of; but God has taught you His

lesson in His own way. I doubt you'll never do the like again."

It was only by degrees that Mrs. MacDougall heard the whole history of

the children's wanderings, or Elsie fully understood the terrible

dangers to which she had, by her own act, willingly exposed herself and

Duncan. Never had she fully realised what the word "home" meant until

returning to it, after having been homeless, lonely, and outcast, she

was received with the glad welcome that no one else in all the wide

world would have extended to her.

Mrs. MacDougall was, like many of her race, a woman of few words, and

not given to demonstrations of affection, yet with a deeply-rooted,

fervent feeling of attachment to her own flesh and blood that nothing

could destroy, that was only equalled by her strong sense of religious

duty. In that terrible week of suspense, when she received no tidings of

the missing children, her hair had become grey, and her face aged by

many years. In seeking them out, she had spent unhesitatingly the

hardly-scraped savings of years, laid by for the decent burying of her

old mother and herself. These facts spoke more strongly than words. Even

Elsie knew well enough the terrible degradation an honest, respectable

Scottish woman would feel it that any of her birth and kin should fall

upon the charity of strangers.

Elsie had been ever a tiresome child. She was what people call

clever--that is to say, she had from an early age the power of thinking

for herself, and forming her own ideas on many subjects. This very

activity of brain often overwhelmed the better feelings of her heart,

which was not really bad. It was her own supposed cleverness that had

led her into such a grievous error concerning that unfortunate letter

she had found, her restless curiosity that had led her into the

temptation of reading it, whereas Duncan's slower brain would have

allowed his heart time to speak its protest against an action that he

had been trained to regard as mean and dishonourable. Cleverness is a

dangerous gift, apt to lead into very stray paths, unless there is firm

principle to weigh it. Lucy Murdoch was extremely clever. Better for her

to have been without one talent than to have used all ten to her own

utter ruin.

Mrs. MacDougall gave Elsie no bitter reproaches. She explained to her

how grievous a sin she had committed, and what sorrow she had brought on

those who had always shown her the truest kindness. She would allow no

one to speak to Elsie about it, except the good old minister at the

manse, who had known her from her birth. Farmer Jarrett greatly desired

to give her a good talking to, but Mrs. MacDougall said, in her true

Scottish fashion, "Nay, neighbour; the Lord had pointed His own moral,

an' we can no better it. She has the little brother she loves always

before her eyes to warn her." And this was true enough. Duncan had never

recovered the effects of the fever. He seemed to have lost all his old

robustness and vigour, taking little interest in anything, only caring

to sit quiet and undisturbed before the fire. No words could have

affected her more than that most pitiful sight. Mrs. MacDougall often

caught Elsie's eyes fixed on the child with a wistful, sorrowful

expression. She and Robbie waited on him continually, with patient

unfailing tenderness, and both the children vied with each other as to

who could be the more kind and thoughtful for him.

Mrs. MacDougall from that time changed her treatment of Robbie, and

moreover, explained to all three children the circumstances of his

birth. She believed that she had erred in practising even this

well-meant deceit, intended for the good both of Robbie and her own two

children, which had, however, resulted in the very jealousy she had

tried to prevent. Robbie benefited by the change, and was certainly far

happier. He grew less babyish--stronger both in mind and body. The old

jealousy died away, and Elsie liked him far better as a cousin--yet

treated in every way like herself--than she had done as a brother.

For several years no one dared to mention in Duncan's presence the sad

experience he had lived through. His terror and excitement were so

intense at the mere recollection of it, that the utmost care was

necessary. He could never go out alone, for if he met a person who

seemed to his morbid fancy to resemble either of the Fergusons or the

Murdochs, his shuddering fear was shocking to witness. He and Robbie had

quite changed places. It was he now who needed all the anxious,

watchful care that in former days Elsie would have called petting.

If no one reproached her, it is certain she reproached herself, more and

more bitterly as she grew older, and understood how grave a misfortune

she had brought upon Duncan, the one person she was most fond of in this

world. She had turned his very trust in her into the means of

sacrificing him. Sometimes she was so tortured by this thought that she

could hardly bear it. "I will never leave him as long as I live," she

often said to herself, as a sort of reparation for what he had suffered.

"I will take care of him till I die."

But there is a hope that in course of time, after he has passed the

years of boyhood, he may recover his old strength, and in this hope

Elsie lives.

THE END.

LITTLE PAPERS FOR LITTLE ART WORKERS.

IVORY MINIATURE PAINTING.

We all know the beautiful miniatures that grandmammas count as some of

their greatest treasures, mementoes of the friends of long ago. Some of

those little bits of ivory are now worth, over and over again, their

weight in gold. The names of Nicholas Hilliard, Isaac and Peter Oliver,

Samuel Cooper, Nathaniel Hone, and Richard Cosway, are well-known in

connection with the art of Miniature Painting. Photography now

supersedes all other modes of taking portraits on a small scale on

account of its rapidity, but no photograph, however carefully coloured,

ever did, or ever will, equal the exquisite little gems left to us by

the men we have reason to honour whose names I have mentioned already. I

should, for my part, be glad to see the art, which has never gone quite

out of fashion, restored to its old popularity.

The choice of a good piece of ivory is important. You can get the pieces

of various sizes from any good artist's colourman, and you must look out

for one that has as little grain as possible in the centre, because the

space the face will occupy should be free from streaks that would be

detrimental to the painting. The remainder of the ivory is not of so

much consequence, as in representing the drapery and background the

grain can generally be hidden. Large sizes can be obtained, but I should

not advise you to begin on one of them; a piece about 3-1/2 in. by 4-3/4

in. does very well for a first attempt. Ivory can be cut with a pair of

scissors, but it is a risky operation, and it is far better to get a

professional worker to cut it for you if you need the shape or size

altered; then, too, if you want an oval shape you will be pretty sure to

get a true oval, which very possibly you could not manage yourself. Red

sable brushes are used, and you should select those that will come to a

good point. You will not require more than three or four, a medium size

for washes, a smaller for stippling, and a very fine one for

finishing-touches. An oval china palette is also needed; the small slabs

sold in ordinary paintboxes are not serviceable for miniature painting,

as many colours and tints are necessary. Use the best water-colours if

you wish to succeed, and you will find those in pans or half pans are

preferable to the dry cakes, as time is not spent in rubbing them down.

These are the most useful colours:--Cobalt, French ultra, Prussian blue,

carmine, or pink madder, Indian red, vermilion, light red, sepia, burnt

umber, burnt sienna, Indian yellow, yellow ochre, ivory black, and

Chinese white. I do not consider more than these requisite for an

ordinary palette. Then you must have a firm drawing-board, and a bottle

of clear strong gum. Some pieces of old linen should be kept at hand for

cleaning the palette; if anything else be used for the purpose fluffy

particles will be left on it that will get mixed up with the colours,

and that we must do all in our power to avoid. I want to impress upon

you the importance of choosing a good light for your work; for one

reason you cannot get the delicate tints which are the great charm of

ivory miniature painting if you sit in a bad position for seeing well;

and for a second reason the work is so fine that there is the danger of

trying your eyes too much if you are not careful in this respect.

You must never continue the work if your eyes feel tired. Some person's

eyesight is so much stronger than that of others that you must judge for

yourselves whether or no it is harmful to you to produce such fine

paintings. It is best to sketch the portrait first correctly on paper;

not many amateurs will be able to do it direct on the ivory without some

guide, and as few alterations as possible must be made on the ivory. If

the sketch be tolerably dark it may be laid beneath the ivory, and so

traced off with a brush filled with light red. It is far easier, of

course, to work from a photograph; if you do this you need only to place

the ivory over it, and thus you have the features, and the principal

folds of the dress, ready to mark off with the brush on the

semi-transparent ground. You must be so very careful not to let the

ivory slip in the faintest degree out of place, or the likeness will

sure to prove a failure.

When you have all the principal points clearly defined, fix it by

gumming it at the top to a square of writing-paper, which must be white.

At the back of this lay three or four more squares of paper, until the

ivory thus mounted looks opaque. Bristol board is used sometimes instead

of paper, but it is liable to warp when exposed to heat. The ivory must

only be gummed at the top, for if gum were allowed to run under the face

the flesh-tints would be darkened; the papers also must be gummed

together at the top, and they should be somewhat larger than the ivory.

It must be placed aside until dry pressed in a book with a piece of

clean paper over it. Lay on the first flesh-tint evenly with a large

brush, leaving the whites of the eyes untouched. Light red, or Venetian

red, to which the slightest touch of yellow has been added, forms a good

tint to work upon; for dark complexion a little more yellow will be

requisite.

When the right depth of colour in the lights of the face is properly

secured, the shadows may be put in with a good-sized brush. It is a

great mistake ever to use very small brushes when larger ones can be

equally well employed. In every style of painting we should strive to

work as far as possible in a broad manner, and large brushes help us to

do this. So, too, we should whenever practicable lay on our colours in

washes; if we begin with stippling our drawings they will be "niggling,"

and will be sure to look poor and "spotty." The shadows differ in shape

and in colour on all faces, and to render these accurately is by no

means an unimportant part of taking a likeness; the expression depends

greatly upon the shadows, and we need to study nature closely if we

would represent all the delicate gradations faithfully. As a shadow

colour, cobalt, Venetian red, carmine or pink madder, and a suspicion of

yellow, will make a good foundation; but the tint must be varied as

occasion demands. Under the eyes, the shadows are blueish, whilst those

under the eyebrows and nostrils are warm in tint; Indian red serves well

for warming shadows. Beginners will very probably fear to lay in the

shadows too strongly, but when they see the effect produced, they are

likely to go to the opposite extreme and smear in the shadows heavily

for the sake of giving character to the likeness. The happy medium is

what we must strive to secure; we do not want our paintings to be weak,

but neither do we want them "dirty" in tone. The shadows on the throat

should be rather grey, but not so much so as to appear livid and

unnatural; here light red and cobalt will predominate. On the neck they

will be of a soft blue tone. They must all be clearly washed in without

reaching too far into the lights, as lights and shadows must

subsequently be softened into each other with the lovely demi-tints that

afford the pearl-like appearance of the natural clear complexion. These

half tints are formed of cobalt and light red, or of French ultra and

carmine; pink madder may take the place of carmine if preferred, for

though not so brilliant it is more lasting. A fair child's complexion

will require more vermilion and less carmine than that of an adult. To

keep the form of the lips true to nature is another point that demands

our strictest attention. Blue eyes are put in with cobalt, toned with

shadow colour; grey, with a mixture of blue and red. There are many

varieties of shade in brown eyes, and you must find out by experiment

what is best to use for them, as you may have, at one time or another,

to depict hazel, chestnut, and deep brown eyes that are called black.

You will find burnt terra sienna and shadow colour useful, and in the

case of the darkest brown shade, the employment of lake and sepia will

be necessary. The pupil is put in with sepia.

On no account must black be used in painting the eyes. Now we come to

the eyebrows and eyelashes. These are of the same colour as the hair,

but usually darker in tint. Do not try to make out the separate hairs,

or hardness, which is very undesirable, will ensue. Sometimes in

finishing the eyelashes you will improve them with a few fine strokes

after the wash of colour is laid on. The hair must be painted broadly in

large masses, and its natural fall on the forehead, its tendency to curl

or wave, must be truly rendered. For black hair use neutral tint, and a

little indigo for the lights; for the local colour, indigo, lake, and

gamboge. For brown hair, sepia, but should it be very dark add a little

lake. Burnt umber will give a beautiful chestnut brown if mixed with

lake modified with sepia. No part of a miniature should be finished off

until all the rest is close to completion; for one colour affects

another considerably when they are placed side by side, and so it is

impossible to judge of the strength of a tint until all its surroundings

are brought near to an equal state of finish. Select a colour for the

drapery that will suit the complexion and hair; one that will heighten

the effect of each, and produce a pleasing harmony. Nothing is more

charming than white for a young girl, who possesses a fair complexion;

the ivory itself forms a soft creamy white ground that needs only the

shadows and reflections to be thrown in, and a little Chinese white is

employed for the lights. If the dress is coloured you should manage to

introduce some white lace around the throat. Black velvet is also

extremely becoming; the lights are put in with Chinese white.

Brilliant colours for draperies should always be avoided, as there is so

little space in a miniature to be given to the accessories that they

must be kept low in tone if they are to be subordinate to the likeness.

A small quantity of gum is required in the background, and in the

draperies just a drop is mixed in with the colours for finishing off the

dress. The harmony of the whole will depend greatly on the tint chosen

for the background. It may be as dark as you like, only you must not let

it be heavy. A neutral tint of grey or brown is easy for a beginner to

manage, and a warm red-brown is admirable for the purpose. A soft blue

sky with fleecy-white clouds makes the best background for a fair girl

in a white dress. Wash in the background colour to the desired strength,

then stipple it to get it smooth.

With a few general remarks I must end these suggestions. "Stippling" is

the filling in with a small brush, but not too fine, of any spaces left

when the colour is washed in. The polished surface of the ivory will not

take the wash as paper does, and it requires a great deal of working up

before it appears level and smooth. Any touches may be put in with a

trifle of gum added to the colour. You will use sepia for the dark

touches on the eyebrows and eyelashes, carmine and sepia for those about

the mouth and nostrils. The spot of white in the eye must not be

forgotten. The lights are always left, not taken out afterwards. Any

hairs that may be found on the ivory after a tint is washed in must be

removed with a needle or the extreme point of a clean brush. Lay in your

colours with decision, and always try as far as you possibly can to work

in a broad free style.

FAITHFUL TO HER TRUST.

Far away in the mountains of Westmoreland there is a lonely ravine

called Far Easedale, and here was once a cottage called Blentarn Ghyll,

where a man named Green once lived with his wife and six children.

One day George Green and his wife went to a sale of furniture at

Grasmere. Before starting they spoke kindly to their eldest girl Agnes,

who was then only nine years old, and begged her to take special care of

all her little brothers and sisters.

"We shall be home to-night, dear," said Mrs. Green, "but you'll be a

little mother to them whilst we are away, won't you?"

Agnes promised gaily, thinking it would be rather fun to be left in

charge.

All went well till towards evening, when a terrible snow-storm came on.

The white flakes fell so fast that the door was blocked up; worse than

this, the snow made its way through the windows.

Having put the baby to bed, Agnes and the other children sat up till

midnight, hoping that their parents would come, but not a sound was

heard, as the snow fell silently thicker and thicker.

In the morning the snow had stopped falling, but it lay so deep that

Agnes dared not venture out.

The children were miserable, and Agnes, child as she was herself, forgot

her own trouble in trying to cheer and comfort them. Then she boiled

what milk there was in the house, to prevent its turning sour, and made

some porridge for breakfast, eating very little herself, for she feared

the little stock of meal might fail.

After breakfast she asked her two brothers to help her cut a way from

the door to the shed where the peat was kept, and they carried in as

much as they could. Then they closed the door till night came and they

forgot their troubles in sleep.

The next day a strong wind had blown away so much snow that Agnes

determined to try to find her way to Grasmere. It was a difficult task,

for there were brooks to cross; but the brave girl was urged on by the

memory of the little ones she had left behind, and made her way there.

Here she found that her father and mother had started for home on the

first night. As they had not since been heard of, she had little doubt

that they must have fallen into some hole or brook and have perished in

the snow.

Still faithful to her trust, the poor child returned to the cottage,

where she carefully watched over her brothers and sisters, until kind

friends found new homes for the little orphans.

E. M. W.

A MORNING VISIT.

[Illustration: "AND AT LAST NURSE SAYS I MAY CARRY UP HER MORNING

TEA."]

Darling mother! not to see her

For a whole week and a day!

It was hard; but she is better,

And at last nurse says I may

Carry up her morning tea.

Only one wee, tiny minute

Must I wait to kiss her cheek,

And to whisper how I missed her

Every day this long, long week,

And to ask if she missed me.

Often, while they thought me sleeping,

Did I lie an hour and more,

Crying--when the house was quiet--

Softly at her bedroom door,

Where she could not hear nor see.

Oh, it was so dull without her!

Every one was grave and sad;

But I think, now she is better,

Even the little birds look glad

As they hop from tree to tree.

MAGGIE MACDONALD.

GOING TO SEA IN A CAGE.

AN OLD SAILOR'S STORY.

Aye, aye, sir! I've seen a good many queer things in my time, sure

enough; but the queerest thing I ever saw was a bit of work aboard the

old _Mermaid_, when we were homeward bound from Hong Kong and Singapore.

Would you like to hear the story? Well, then, if you'll just come to an

anchor for a minute or two on this coil of rope, I'll tell you all about

it.

The very first day out from Hong Kong I took notice of one young lady,

who was lying on a kind of basket-work sofa, on the sunny side of the

poop-deck. She had the sweetest face I ever saw, but it went to my heart

to see how thin and pale she looked. And well she might, poor thing! for

it seems she had something wrong with her back, so as she couldn't walk

or stand up, or anything; and she was going to England to see some great

doctor or other, and try if _he_ could cure her.

All the passengers were very good to her, I will say _that_ for 'em; and

as for us blue-jackets, every man Jack of us would have jumped overboard

only to please her, when once we knew how it was. But she was too weak

to talk or read much, and the chief thing she had to amuse her was a

little grey Java sparrow, which she had with her in a cage. Whenever she

came on deck, the bird's cage was brought up too, and put close beside

her; and it was Bob Wilkins, the pantry-boy, who always had the carrying

of it.

It was a pretty little thing that bird was, and as sensible as any man;

fact, it was a deal more sensible than many men that _I_'ve met. When

she had a headache (and terrible headaches she used to have, poor lass)

that bird would be as quiet as a mouse. But when she was well enough to

stand it, she'd have the cage brought to her, and open it with her own

hands, and out the little fellow would pop, and flutter on to her

shoulder, and eat out of her hand, just as natural as could be. And then

she used to stroke its feathers with her poor thin fingers and smile

such a strange, sad kind of smile, that many a time I've had to go away

in a hurry for fear I should cry outright; and I can tell you I wasn't

the only one, neither.

But fond as we all were of that bird, there was somebody else that was

fonder still, and that was the captain's big tortoise-shell cat: and to

see the way it kept its eye on that Java sparrow, and watched for a

chance to get hold of it! you never saw the like.

Well, the captain was a kind man, and didn't want to hurt the poor cat,

specially as it was a great pet of his wife's; so he tied it up to keep

it out of mischief. But of course it took and squalled all night, till

nobody could sleep a wink for the noise, and he had to let it loose

again. So then he says to me--

"Thompson," says he, "just keep your eye on that cat, and if it ever

comes on to the poop-deck, drive it off again."

"Aye, aye, sir," says I, and I kept a bright lookout, sure enough. But

one day that cat _was_ too sharp for me, after all.

It was getting towards afternoon, on our second day from Port Said, and

Miss Ashton was lying on her couch on the poop-deck, with her bird's

cage hanging from one of the lashings of the awning, close beside her.

I'd just been down to fetch our third officer's telescope; and as I came

up again, something brushed past me. I saw the cat spring up at the

cage, the cord snapped, and down went bird, cage, cat, and all,

slap-dash into the sea!

The next moment there came a big splash, and there was our pantry-boy,

Bob Wilkins (the one that used always to carry the cage up on deck, you

know), overboard after 'em. And as if that wasn't enough, Bill Harris

the carpenter (who was a special chum of Bob's, and happened to be

standing by at the time) catches hold of a life-buoy, and overboard _he_

goes too. So there they all were, the cat after the bird, Bob after the

cat, and Bill Harris after Bob.

"Man overboard!" sang out half a dozen of us.

"Stop her!" cried the first officer. "Stand by to lower the boat! Cast

off the gripes! let go the davit-tackle!"

You should have seen how quick that boat was lowered, and how the men

made her fly along! When we picked 'em up, (though they were a long way

astern by this time) Bill was clinging to the life-buoy, and Bob had got

hold of it with one hand and the cage with the other. The bird was

fluttering about and looking precious scared, as if he didn't like going

to sea in a cage; and the cat was sitting on Bill's shoulder, and

holding on with every claw he had. The passengers sent round the hat for

Bob Wilkins, and a pretty deal of money they got; but I can promise you

he thought more of the thanks Miss Ashton gave him for the job than of

all the money twice over.

But I was just going to leave out the best part of the whole story. They

say it's "an ill wind that blows nobody good," and so it came out that

time, sure enough. When the young lady saw Bob jump overboard, and

thought he was going to be drowned in trying to save her bird, it gave

her such a fright, that _she_, who couldn't even sit up without help,

jumped right up on her feet and looked over the side after him! Well,

sir, from that day forth, to the end of her voyage, she was always

better able to move than before; and the great London doctor who cured

her afterward (for she was cured at last) said that "nervous shock," as

he called it, had been the saving of her, and that he'd had just such

another case already. Now, that's as true as I sit here; and if you

don't believe it, here comes Bob Wilkins, and you can ask him.

DAVID KER.

LITTLE MARGARET'S KITCHEN, AND WHAT SHE DID IN IT.--XII.

_By_ PHILLIS BROWNE, _Author of "A Year's Cookery," "What Girls Can Do,"

&c._

Many were the consultations which Margaret and Mary held together trying

to decide what was to be made at the last Cookery lesson. The last

lesson! something wonderful must be accomplished; but what was it to

be?--that was the question. Margaret felt as if she should like to take

advice on the subject.

"What should you make if you were going to cook something, and were

allowed to choose for yourself?" she asked her friend, Rosy Williams.

"I should make some toffee," said Rosy.

Toffee! Margaret had never thought of it, but of course it was the very

thing. She had been picturing to herself roasts and broils, and stews

and soups, but toffee was worth everything of the sort put together. If

only Mary would agree.

Mary was like Rosy, however: she decided instantly.

"And, as it must surely be very easy, why should we not try to make it

by ourselves, without mother?" said Margaret. "We might get to know how,

and then do it without any help at all."

"Of course you might," said Rosy. "After all the lessons in cookery you

have had, I should think you could make a little toffee. Toffee is so

easy to do. If you think I could help, I should be very glad to come: if

Mrs. Herbert would let me."

"Thank you!" said Margaret; "you are kind."

"My brother Tom could come too," continued Rosy. "Tom is very clever at

making toffee; he is quite accustomed to it. Whenever cook goes out for

a holiday Tom makes toffee."

So Margaret asked her mother to consent. At first Mrs. Herbert looked

rather doubtful; then she glanced at the eager little faces looking up

at her, and she smiled. The children at once clapped their hands. They

knew what the smile meant.

"Yes, dears, I think you may do as you wish. Only promise that you will

be careful not to burn yourselves. There is one thing in our favour:

toffee is best made over a slow fire, so there will be less danger. You

can make your toffee this afternoon if you wish, and I will tell cook to

put everything ready for you."

Punctually at the time appointed Rosy and her obliging brother Tom

appeared, and all the children went off to the kitchen, Tom taking the

place of master of the ceremonies.

"We shall want a simple brass pan," he said. "Yes, that is just the

kind," he added, as cook handed to him a small saucepan, which was so

bright inside that it shone like gold. "Now we must weigh out a quarter

of a pound of butter, let that melt, then put in half a pound of raw

sugar and half a pound of treacle. We stir this over the fire, and when

it has boiled a little we add two table-spoonfuls of vinegar, and keep

on boiling till it is ready."

"That is very easy," said Mary. "Shall I weigh the butter?"

"Yes," said Tom. "You weigh the butter, I will weigh the sugar, Rosy the

treacle, and Margaret measure the vinegar. It is such an advantage to

have so many helpers; we get the work done so quickly. There is a

proverb which says 'Many hands make light work.' It is quite true."

"How clever your brother is, Rosy!" said Margaret.

"Please, had we better not divide the work, then?" said Mary, "and take

it in turns to stir?"

"Yes, we will stir by the clock: six minutes each."

"Who is to begin?"

"Shall I begin, as I understand how to do it? Then Margaret can follow,

then Mary, then Rosy."

"But how shall we know when it is boiled enough?" said Margaret.

"That is just what I was going to tell you. We cannot say exactly how

long it has to boil, but we must try it. When a little of the toffee

which has been dropped into a cup of cold water makes a crackling

sound, or breaks clean between the teeth without sticking to them, the

toffee is done."

"Which of us is to try whether it is done, though?" said Margaret.

"As we are all going to make the toffee, I should say we had better all

try it. We can have four cups of water and four spoons, can't we,

Margaret?"

"Oh, yes!" replied Margaret. "Will you fetch them please, Mary?"

Mary went off as requested, but she was away so long that Tom and

Margaret had finished stirring, and they were ready for her to take the

spoon when she returned, looking hot and excited, but bearing the four

cups of water and four spoons on a tray.

"Aunt Bridget wouldn't let me have four cups at first," she remarked on

entering: "she said it was too many; but I got them at last."

"That's right," said Tom. "Shall we try if the toffee is nearly ready?"

"We had better not try too soon, because if four of us taste very often,

we shall eat so much before it is ready that there will be very little

to divide after it is ready."

"Quite true," said Tom; while Mary stirred enthusiastically until her

six minutes were gone.

"Now for my turn," said Rosy.

"I think we had better try whether it is done enough yet," said Tom.

"Tom, how unkind you are!" said Rosy. "Everybody has stirred but me, and

just as my turn has come you want to try it. Besides, how can I try it

when I am stirring?"

"Very well, we will wait," said Tom good-naturedly. "Don't cry, Rosy;"

and Rosy's face brightened, while all the children watched the spoon as

it went round and round, while the toffee gradually became darker and

darker in colour, and an odour more strong than agreeable filled the

kitchen.

At length the hand of the clock reached the point which marked Rosy's

six minutes. All four cups were brought forward, all four spoons were

dipped into the foaming liquid, and then emptied into the water. The

toffee fell to the bottom in a dark cake, which hardened almost

instantly, and which, when broken between the teeth, snapped without

sticking at all, and tasted--ugh!

At this moment Mrs. Herbert appeared.

"I am afraid you are letting the toffee burn," she said; "we can smell

it all over the house."

"It is rather burnt," said Tom.

"It does not taste so badly, though," said Margaret.

"Very likely we shall not taste the burnt part so much when it is cool,"

said Rosy.

"I am afraid you will have to throw the toffee away, my dears. It is

sadly burnt."

"Oh, no, no!" said all the children at once.

"I thought we should have done better as there were four of us," said

Margaret.

"Perhaps, after all, it is not an advantage to have so many helpers,"

said Tom.

"At any rate," said Mrs. Herbert; "you will have proved the truth of the

proverb, 'Too many cooks spoil the broth'--I mean the toffee. And after

all, in cookery, as in other things, nothing teaches like failure which

is made the most of."

"Never mind, Mary," whispered Margaret, as the burnt toffee was carried

off to cool. "We have made a good many excellent dishes when we two were

the only cooks, and mother was the teacher; we will try toffee again

another day, when we are by ourselves."

On that occasion I think we may perhaps venture to predict that the

toffee will be a greater success.

THE RIVAL MOTHERS.

[Illustration: MEASURING THE BABIES. (_See p. 337._)]

Said Mistress Bear to Mistress Fox,

"Your girl is very small."

Quoth Mistress Fox, "It is not so;

Your boy is not so tall."

"My boy is tall and sturdy too,"

Cried Mistress Bear with ire;

"And he's a handsome little lad,

The image of his sire."

"His sire! Ha, ha! why, all the world

Says, 'Ugly as a bear.'"

The very trees with laughter shook,

As thus they wrangled there.

"Ho, ho! dear ladies, what's the fuss?"

Two waggish bears stray'd by.

The gentle mothers told their tale,

A tear-drop in each eye.

"Call here the foxes," and they came.

One was an ancient sage.

"Now place the young folk back to back,

And simply state their age."

The dames obey'd, the infants laugh'd;

Spoke he, Reynard so wise,

"'Tis useless; size and beauty lie

In love's fond, partial eyes."

OUR SUNDAY AFTERNOONS.

SAVED BY A DREAM.

The sun shone brightly down upon the pretty village of Bethlehem, as,

from the top of the hill on which it stood, it overlooked the smiling

fields below. And how peaceful all looked, carrying one's thoughts back

to the old times, when the loving and gentle Ruth, who had come with her

bereaved mother-in-law, to cast in her lot with the people of God, went

after the gleaners in the fields of Boaz, and humbly picked up the ears

of corn, that were so considerately dropped for her! How greatly she was

afterwards blessed, and what an abundant reward was hers!

There in that very neighbourhood her great-grandson David quietly tended

his sheep, and, in sweetest strains, lifted up his voice, in love and

gratitude, to the Great Shepherd in the heavens. What a peaceful life he

led amongst his beloved flock! And how his careful tending of his sheep

prepared him for that higher care which he was to take of God's chosen

people! And how, ages afterwards, when some other peaceful shepherds

were watching over their flocks by night, a wondrous light shone round

about them, and a bright angel told them the good tidings of great joy

which should be to all people! How to their astonished gaze, there

suddenly appeared a whole host of beauteous beings, praising God for His

love and mercy to mankind, and filling the whole expanse of heaven with

melody sweeter than the sweetest ever before heard upon earth!

How, too, only one mile from where the shepherds lay, a happy mother

gazed long and tenderly on the face of her newly-born child, who was to

be called "The Son of the Highest," who was to take away the sins of the

world, and have given to Him the throne of His father David! And those

Wise Men, too, that had come from the far East--how they rejoiced when

they saw the bright star that had guided them to the land of the Jews

re-appear and twinkle over the lowly place where the heavenly Babe lay!

What praise and thanksgiving went up from their grateful hearts, as they

looked upon the child-face that they had travelled day and night to see!

Truly, it seemed as if, since the days of the fair and virtuous Ruth,

the blessing of God had rested upon that peaceful village, that had come

to be called "the city of David," and as if no sorrow was ever to visit

its soft green fields.

But, as if to draw our thoughts upwards, there is no spot on earth to

which, at some time or other, sorrow does not come; and the hitherto

peaceful Bethlehem was to have its full share.

A wicked king sat on the throne of Judea, whom nobody loved and many

abhorred. He was an old man, and terribly afflicted; and his temper,

which was always ferocious, had become more dreadful than that of the

wildest lion that had ever rushed up from the swelling of the Jordan.

His father, Antipater, was an Idumean, and a servitor in the temple of

Apollo at Ascalon, whilst his mother, Cypros, was an Arabian. He,

therefore, belonged to the despised Ishmaelites and the hated Edomites;

and the Jews were by no means inclined to look favourably upon him. To

please them he professed to follow their religion, but he was not a Jew

at heart. He trampled upon their feelings and prejudices, and leaned to

the side of the Romans; and they, therefore, mistrusted him, and longed

for the time when they should be freed from his misrule.

He had rebuilt their temple, and made it the most noble and magnificent

building on the face of the earth; and they gloried in seeing its white

marble pinnacles and golden roof glittering in the sunshine. For nine

years he had constantly employed 18,000 men in its re-erection, and for

upwards of thirty years more he had kept adding to its embellishments,

till for grandeur and costliness it stood unrivalled. But when it was

completed he set up over its chief gate the golden eagle of the Romans,

and at the sight of that abhorred ensign all their gratitude fled,

giving place to bitter resentment.

He married Jewish women, which was a compliment to their race; but his

unjust and cruel treatment of them roused up all their worst feelings,

and made them regard him for ever as an enemy.

The beautiful and virtuous Mariamne, who belonged to the Maccabees, the

noblest of their families, he, in a cruel fit of jealousy, ordered to be

put to death. Her brother, the youthful Aristobulus, who was

High-priest, he caused to be drowned before his eyes in pretended sport.

Her grandfather, the aged Hyrcanus, who had once saved the life of

Herod, when threatened by the Sanhedrin, he sent tottering to his death.

Her mother, Alexandra, fell a victim to his frenzy, and her two

sons,--Alexander and Aristobulus, when they were grown up, and had wives

and children dependent upon them, he ordered to be strangled in prison,

the chief crime of all these being, that they were justly esteemed and

beloved by the Jews.

No wonder that his subjects liked him not, and that he sat uneasily upon

his throne! No wonder that when the Wise Men came from the east to

Jerusalem, saying, "Where is he that is born king of the Jews?" he

trembled, for he knew well that should another aspirant to the crown

appear, the Jews would only be too ready to take his part.

Insecure as he felt himself to be, he determined on finding out who this

new king was, and taking immediate steps for ridding himself of him. So

under pretence of desiring to do honour to the young child, he directed

the Wise Men to make diligent search for the infant king, and then tell

him where He was; that he also might go and worship Him. But in his

heart he was anxious to know where the Baby-king was only that he might

send some secret assassin to take His life. He had done darker and more

difficult deeds than that, and had put safely out of his path far more

formidable enemies than a helpless babe. The Wise Men would soon come

back, as they had promised, and then in less than a day the dreaded

Child would have ceased to live, he would be able to breathe freely

again, and unpopular as he was, he would still retain his crown.

But the Magi did not return. Overwhelmed with joy at having at last

found the wondrous Babe, to which the strange star had guided them, they

lay down to rest, intending, in the early morning, to set out again for

Jerusalem. But the great Father above, who knew all the dark secrets of

Herod's heart, warned them in a dream not to go back to him; and they

returned to their own country by another way.

Herod waited and watched in his palace for the return of the Magi; and

his secret executioner was at hand, ready to set out for Bethlehem at

any moment. And when he found that they had discovered his hypocrisy and

wicked intentions, and that his infamous design was thwarted, his rage

knew no bounds; and he vowed to himself that the Child-King should not

escape him, and that he would be fully avenged.

From the information received from the Wise Men, he concluded that it

was within two years that the mysterious guiding star had first

appeared. And a dark and terrible thought came into his wicked heart. If

he could not tell which of the many babes in Bethlehem was the

long-expected Messiah of the Jews, the great King, whose advent had been

revealed in the far east by a bright orb of heaven, then he would kill

all the little ones that were two years old and under; and the One that

he feared would be sure to be slain amongst them.

To do the dark deed he hastily despatched some of his soldiers; and soon

the peaceful pasture lands of Bethlehem, which had so lately resounded

with the glad songs of angels with shining wings, rang with shrieks of

frantic mothers. For the soldiers of the cruel king entered house after

house, and snatching the innocent babes from their mothers' arms, ran

them through with their glittering swords; and the bodies of the pretty

little things that, but a few moments ago, were looking up with happy

smiles into the loving faces that bent tenderly over them, were cruelly

thrown on the ground, their red blood streaming along the floors.

Out of house after house the bereaved mothers, wild with grief, rushed

into the streets, uttering piercing cries, smiting their breasts,

throwing up their arms towards heaven, and calling down upon the

committer of the atrocious crime the just vengeance of Him who hears the

oppressed.

Never before had the quiet village sent up such cries of despair, or

witnessed so cruel a scene! Who could look unmoved upon the poor mothers

running frantically about the narrow streets, with wild tearless eyes,

dishevelled hair, and, on their blanched faces, looks of terror, that

told of the terrible blow that had been struck at their hearts' inmost

core? Oh, it was terrible! Yet the ruthless king cared not. His hands

were so deeply imbued with the noblest blood of Jerusalem, that the

lives of a few tiny babes were nothing in his sight. While the

broken-hearted mothers were wildly shrieking, he was rejoicing; assured

that the one Child, whose life might perhaps have been something to him,

was quieted for ever.

But his wicked design was nevertheless baffled. The great God above, who

had foreseen all, had watched over His own Son, and the Holy Child was

being borne safely along towards Egypt--that land where so many of his

countrymen had found refuge in times of persecution, distress, or

famine.

Probably the night before the massacre, whilst Joseph, the husband of

Mary, was sleeping peacefully on his bed, a beautiful bright angel

appeared to him in a dream, and warned him of the danger to which he was

exposed at the hands of the troubled king.

"Arise, and take the young child and His mother," the heavenly visitant

said to him, "and flee into Egypt, and be thou there until I bring thee

word; for Herod will seek the young child to destroy Him."

The face of the angel was beaming with love, and he had been sent on an

errand of mercy. But how his words thrilled through the just and

tenderhearted Joseph! Destroy his darling babe, that holy child whom God

had given to his good wife to nurse and bring up for Him! Kill the

little One about whom such great things had been said; at whose birth a

whole sky full of angels had sung for joy; and before whom the Wise Men,

who had been guided from the distant east by God Himself, had bowed in

humble adoration. Never. "Man proposes; but God disposes." Man may try

to hinder the great, purpose of God, by attempting to take the life of

the one whom He would raise up to accomplish it. But God can never be

baffled. And not all the plans that a thousand Herods, wicked as the one

that sat on the throne, could form, could bring His word to nought.

Suddenly, Joseph awoke; and starting to his feet, thought over the

dream. That it was sent from heaven he felt sure; and he must

immediately obey it.

He must rouse the mother; and under cover of the darkness, they must set

out at once. By the time that the bright sun lighted up the horizon it

might be too late; for, even then, the dread messengers of the cruel

king might be on their way.

Hastily he awoke Mary, telling her of the dream; and soon the

God-fearing man was on the road to Egypt, with the loving mother and her

precious child safe by his side.

The dark curtain of night had not yet been lifted from the earth; but

they went fearlessly along, trusting to the guidance of Him who had

bidden them set out. And when the agonising shrieks of the mothers of

Bethlehem rent the air and were re-echoed by the astonished hills,

Joseph, with his precious charge, was far away. So, though the swords of

Herod did a terrible work, they did not take that one life, to destroy

which he had commanded the massacre.

Still, Joseph and Mary journeyed along and along, till, at last, the

great Pyramids came in view, and they reached the farthest bank of the

river of Egypt, and were safe.

There, it is said, they remained two years, living at Matareeh, to the

north-east of Cairo, till the angel of the Lord came again to Joseph, in

a dream, to tell him of Herod's death, and bid him return to his own

land.

Then away they went, back again to the Holy Land, which was to be the

scene of Jesus' ministry, thinking as they went, how "The steps of a

good man are ordered by the Lord," and rejoicing that no plan formed

against His people shall prosper.

For even in their sleep He can warn them, by a dream, of the most secret

machinations of their enemies.

H. D.

BIBLE EXERCISES FOR SUNDAY AFTERNOONS.

61. Which of the Psalms gives us a short history of Joseph?

62. Where does St. Paul enumerate the several appearances of Christ

after His resurrection?

62. What restriction did Moses lay upon the Israelites with regard to

their election of a king, on their settling in the land of Canaan?

64. Where are we assured that the Almighty is not ashamed to be called

the God of those who have had faith in Him?

65. What women does St. Paul mention by name in his enumeration of

people remarkable for faith?

66. Where is it said that drowsiness shall clothe a man with rags?

67. Where are we told that those who go into great passions shall suffer

punishment?

68. Which of the Apostles speak of Jesus as the Shepherd of His people?

69. Which of the three Apostles who witnessed the Transfiguration

afterwards refers to it in his writings?

70. Where do we find it said that every word of God is pure?

71. "Then shall come to pass that saying that is written, 'Death is

swallowed up in victory.'" (1 Cor. xv. 54.) From which of the prophets

does St. Paul quote these words?

72. What king of a heathen nation did God call His shepherd?

ANSWERS TO BIBLE EXERCISES (49-60.--_See p. 308_).

49. The Wise Men (St. Matt. ii. 1, 2).

50. In Eccles. vii. 19, ix. 13-18; Prov. xxi. 22.

51. Only St. Luke (St. Luke xxiii. 7).

52. Solomon (Prov. xviii. 21).

53. St. James (James iii. 2, 5).

54. The Epistle of St. James iv. 4.

55. In Rev. v. 9, 10.

56. In Prov. xxi. 23, xiii. 3.

57. On his rebuking Elymas the Sorcerer at Paphos (Acts xiii. 8-11).

58. At Gibeon (2 Chron. i. 3-6).

59. Of blue (Exod. xxviii. 36, 37).

60. It is shown in the words, "It is finished" (St. John xix. 30).

LITTLE BAB AND THE STORY-BOOK.

_By the Author of "Clare Linton's Friend," "Mr. Burke's Nieces," &c._

[Illustration]

Who is this little girl, I wonder, comfortably seated, and with a great

book before her, on which she looks with delight? Her hair is tidily

brushed, and her nice white collar hangs over the edge of her dress. She

is a sweet, pretty little girl, I think, and yet if I tell you the story

of her day, and what had happened before she got that book, you will see

that she is not so happy after all. Just hear what she was doing two or

three hours before.

She stood at the window with a little white nose flattened against the

glass, and two big sorrowful, indignant eyes staring out at them, as the

merry party left the house. There was Uncle Jem, whom she _did_ love,

and whom she felt might have said a kind word for her; and Aunt

Anastasia, who was that sort of a person that no one since she was born

had ever thought of diminishing the five syllables by the use of any

shorter name given in playfulness or love. No one, till that moment at

least, had ever thought of calling her anything but Anastasia; but at

that moment naughty Bab, with her little flattened nose and big mournful

eyes, broke the spell by calling out, "Anasta-sia, indeed! Aunt Nasty, I

think!"

Then there was her Cousin Robert, whom poor Bab honestly believed to be

a much naughtier boy than she was a girl, and yet who generally managed

to keep out of scrapes; and Selina, demure and well-mannered, but whom

Bab's unruly, affectionate little heart had never been able to love; she

was followed by Miss Strictham, the governess. And then there was Mr.

Beresford, the kind, good-natured friend who was staying in the house;

and Bab, just for a minute, felt that she would rather have died than

that he should know she was in disgrace.

She watched them all go off under the bright blue sky, and then she

turned round, and with her back to the window, faced the rather dingy,

dull-looking schoolroom, and burst into a loud roar.

For Bab was only seven years old, and had not yet lost the first

intensity of crying with which power every baby is born. She roared for

two or three minutes, plenty of tears coming with the roar, after which

she felt a good deal better.

"I'm such a little thing to be punished," she said to herself. "I don't

think they ought to punish such a little thing as I am. I _must_ be

young when people live to be as old as grandpapa, with wrinkles over

every scrap of his face, till it looks just like no face at all, only

wrinkles."

[Illustration: "HOLDING HER DRESS UP" (_p. 344_).]

Then Bab examined her little round, rosy, pleasant face in a mirror over

the fireplace.

"Not a single wrinkle," said she. "I must be _very_ young; but if they

punish me this way, I shall _get_ wrinkles. I'm sure I shall, because

I'm so _miserable_!"

I am afraid poor Bab often deserved to be punished. She was idle at her

lessons and extremely saucy, and she was a quaint little thing, so that

sometimes she seemed to be impertinent when she really did not intend

it, though I must own that at other times she _did_ intend it as much as

any other young lady seven years old possibly could. On the present

occasion, when her governess scolded her for her idleness, she said she

had not been idle, but had been making a charade; and then she began

dancing about the schoolroom, and jumping on tables and chairs, and all

the time shouting loudly, "Selina, guess--this is the charade--guess,

Selina, guess! My first is what nobody should be, my second is what

everybody should eat, and my whole is--oh,--Strict-ham, Strict-ham. Why

don't you guess, Selina? Oh, why don't you?"

Miss Strictham marched her off in dire disgrace. The picnickers would be

absent four hours, and during that time Bab was not to quit the

schoolroom. Maria, the housemaid, would bring her dinner, and nurse

would look in on her now and then, but she was not to have the younger

children with her. She was to be a solitary prisoner in solitary

confinement, and she was on her parole. Her aunt made her promise not to

leave the room, and having done so, was content, for, as she said to

Uncle Jem in rather a complaining way, "It is a very odd thing that Bab

never tells a falsehood or breaks her promise. Robert and Selina both do

sometimes, and yet they are so much better children. Isn't it odd?"

Having enjoyed a good roar, and feeling wonderfully refreshed

thereby--for Bab was too proud to have shed a tear in Aunt Anastasia's

and Miss Strictham's presence--the poor little thing got hold of her

lesson-books and prepared to learn a French verb, some questions and

answers in English history, and to do a sum in compound addition, and

write a copy.

"As if it mattered to such a little thing as I am whether King John was

a good man or a bad one, or what sort of a thing Magna Charta was!" said

she, reproachfully, to her book; "as if it mattered to _any_body,

indeed, when it was such an extremely long time ago! Eleven hundred and

ninety-nine he came to the throne; and who'd care if he had never been

born or never come to the throne? And _we're_ not barons, and _we've_

not got Magna Charta; and it's all nothing at all, but a great pity it

ever happened, for if it hadn't happened, poor little children living

hundreds and hundreds of years afterwards would not be troubled about

it. I call it rubbish!" and with the word rubbish she tossed the little

book up, and down it came with a broken back.

Bab picked it up and held it with one corner. When she saw the

melancholy scrambling way in which the cover and the pages hung, she

went off into irresistible shouts of laughter--for Bab's laugh was as

loud and as hearty as her cry. Then she did her sums and wrote her copy,

and after that Maria brought in her dinner.

Bab clapped her hands for joy when she saw what the tray contained, and

then she began her dinner.

But now the lessons were over, the dinner was finished, and what was

poor little Bab to do for the rest of the time?

She went round the room, casting out first her right hand and then her

left, touching thus in turn everything in the apartment, but there was

nothing more interesting than a pen-wiper, a schoolroom inkstand, or a

grammar, so she called out "No, no, no" to everything, and then all of a

sudden down came her hand on a big book with scarlet and white binding,

and she gave a loud scream, a pirouet, and then said "Yes!"

Yes; I should think so. Why, it was Mr. Beresford's fairy book--the

beautiful book he was showing them last night.

Then she seized on the precious book, brought it over with quite a

struggle to the school desk, opened it there, and with elbows on table

and cheeks on hands, gave herself over to perfect enjoyment. And so it

was that we saw Miss Bab when our story began, sitting before the great

book enjoying herself.

Such beautiful, lovely pictures went round every page, with a little

verse set down right in the middle of the pictures. Fairies gorgeously

coloured, all twining together or mixing themselves up with butterflies

till you scarcely knew which was which, and not one bit of white paper

to be seen through or mid the brilliant creatures--actually a wide

border of fairies and butterflies, and nothing else, and the verse in

the middle was also in illuminated letters.

In her eagerness, hanging over the book to read it, Bab happened to lean

on the end of a pen standing up in art inkstand. She was too much

interested to know what it was, but it came spluttering out, and a

little speck of ink splashed on the white paper beyond the border.

"Oh, oh!" cried excited Bab; "is it not like some little bad fairy

running along to hurt them?"

It was very hot, and Bab's eyes shut after she had said that, and when

she opened them again she forgot the bad fairy, she was so shocked to

see the splash of ink on the paper. And then she felt the sun warmer and

warmer, and she shut her eyes once more.

"Look again," said a very little voice, but very sweet, oh, so sweet!

So she did look again. She saw all the beautiful painted fairies and

butterflies had risen up alive from the page, and were dancing and

gliding round and round it, never passing off the border to the outside

or the inside. It was a lovely sight to see, and little Bab laughed and

clapped her hands. Then a very grand and proud-looking fairy slipped out

of the dance, and stationed herself in front, where she could take a

good look at Bab.

"Little girl, why did you do that?" said the fairy, severely.

"Oh, what, please?" Bab was a brave child, but she did feel a little

shaky and nohow just then.

"Brought the bad fairy Blackame to creep in among us and eat up our

butterflies."

And had Bab really the power to bring a fairy Blackame over there when

she thought it was only a splash of ink? And she looked with a sort of

terror on the bad fairy Blackame when she thought she had brought her,

and could not send her away.

"Oh, fairy, fairy!" she cried, "do forgive me. But can that wretched

little black splashy thing--for you really _can't_ call it a splash--eat

your butterflies when there are so many of you to fight for them, and

they've got heaps and heaps of wings to fly away with?"

"But how can we manage that?" replied the fairy, sharply, "when we are

too timid to fight and the butterflies are too brave to fly away."

"Well, that _is_ inconvenient," sighed Bab; "but don't you think, since

the butterflies are so brave--how I do like them for being so

brave!--don't you think they might fight a little?"

"Butterflies fight!" screamed the fairy. "Were butterflies ever seen to

fight since the first butterfly? What will you say next? I think you are

a very disagreeable little girl. First you bring down Blackame, and then

you want to set all our dear pretty butterflies fighting."

"It was you who said they were so brave," murmured Bab, half penitent

and half injured.

"And pray, is there any reason why I should not be permitted to say that

butterflies are brave?" asked the fairy, with a sort of deadly

politeness.

"And so much as I used to long to see a fairy!" sighed Bab to herself;

"and now I really wish she would go away.

"What are you prepared to do about Blackame?--tell me," demanded the

fairy, suddenly.

She made Bab jump, but Bab did not mind that; she was a straightforward

child, and liked to go direct at a thing. She reflected, and then she

faced the difficulty she had got into bravely, and replied in a grave,

resolute way, "Anything you wish."

The fairy looked at her. "Why couldn't you say so before?" she said,

very sharply. "It would have saved all this trouble."

Again Bab felt that it was not fair--she thought the fairy was unfairer

even than Selina; _but_ she was a fairy, and besides that, Bab _had_

brought Blackame down upon them; so she said instantly, not meekly and

humbly; for that was not her way--but in a resolute, hearty manner, that

gave one confidence to see--"Just tell me, and I'll do it."

"_I'll_ tell you," said the fairy quite good-naturedly, "and _you'll_ do

it. That's quite fair. Well now, the thing to do is this: go out in the

evening with a long pole, and knock up high into the branches of the

trees, and glance up and down, holding your dress out, and singing:--

'I'm the girl that brought him in,

Blackame! What a rout!

Little birds that cannot sin.

Drive the wretched fellow out,

Blackame;'

And then you'll see----" but what she was to see Bab never knew;

something touched her, and then rushed with headlong sound through the

window. The fairy was gone, and, stranger still, the bright beautiful

book, with its butterflies and fairies, was gone too.

She looked lazily round her, and, to her surprise, saw Selina standing

at the other end of the table.

"Why are you home so early?"

"Home so early! It's half-past five, if you please. Why, you lazy little

thing, you've been asleep all the time!"

Bab looked at the clock on the mantel-piece, and saw it was a quarter to

six. _How_ quickly the time passes when you are with fairies! She knew

she had not been asleep, because she knew she had had the visit from the

fairy, and she was so anxious to know what would happen next. About

seven o'clock she thought she might go out with a long pole to the tree;

and she supposed the fairies had put the book somewhere, till the birds

should come and drive Blackame out of it, and she hoped very much Mr.

Beresford would not miss his beautiful book till then, when it would be

clear from the black splotch which she now knew was not Blackame.

"Where is Robert?" asked Miss Selina. "He dashed out of the carriage and

through here, and he must have gone out by the window. And you _must_

have been asleep, or you would have heard him."

Bab remembered the sound of the rush through the window, and she saw now

a spill of ink just by the place where the book had been. But Robert

could not have been there, because she was talking to the fairy at the

very time, and she must have noticed him, and felt him greatly in the

way.

When it was past seven o'clock, Bab slipped away, and took Mr.

Beresford's alpenstock out of the stand in the hall, and beat about the

branches of the elms and horse-chestnuts, and danced and sang, holding

her dress up, and did everything exactly as the fairy had told her to

do, and as you will see her doing in the picture.

[Illustration: "SHE STOOD BY HIM."]

But she had not been dancing and singing (Bab often recalled the scene,

when she was older, with pleasure) more than about twenty minutes before

Aunt Anastasia put her head out of the window, and told her to come in.

It was _much_ pleasanter to be dancing for the fairies up and down, with

outstretched frock, than to go into the house and find Blackame still on

the page, and have to confess she brought him there, and be in disgrace

for it.

Mr. Beresford held out a kind hand to her, and drew her to his side.

The book, when Mr. Beresford took it in his hands, naturally opened at

the page where it had been lying open that morning so long, and there

were all the fairies and butterflies lying flat and beautiful, and the

verses in the middle of the page. But there, instead of Blackame, were

five or six Blackames perhaps, intertwining together like the fairies

and the butterflies, but bearing to mortal eyes nothing but the

appearance of a thick smudge of ink.

"Oh, I didn't do that!" cried poor little Bab, and burst into tears.

"Who did, then?" inquired Mr. Beresford, quickly.

"Why, I saw Robert with the book in the hall soon after we came home,"

cried Selina, on impulse.

"Did you do it, Robert?" asked Mr. Beresford.

"Why does she say she didn't do it, and begin to blubber?" cried Robert,

politely designating Bab over his shoulder. "Wasn't she left at home?

Who could do it but she?"

"Because I _saw_ you do it," replied Mr. Beresford, and Robert's white

face became scarlet--the mean little fellow as he stood there before

them, who had committed a fault, and then tried to lay the blame on a

girl. "Bab was lying back in her chair fast asleep, and with bright

smiles on her face, that showed that she was having happy dreams, when

in you ran, jumped over desk, book, and all; threw a little of the ink

across the page by a kick with your foot, then looking with dismay at

your work, tucked the book under your arm, and jumped through the window

with it."

Robert blubbered at this. "I wanted to take the ink out."

"You have been a very bad boy," said his father. "You deserve a

flogging, and shall have it. I am very much grieved about your book,

Beresford."

Robert almost screamed.

"I think more of his laying the fault on this little girl," replied Mr.

Beresford, his hand among Bab's curls, "than of the book."

Bab sidled up to him. He sat at the table looking so kindly at her, and

she stood by him, her elbow on it, and with her pretty modest eyes fixed

on him. "But it doesn't seem quite as if he did that, does it?" she

asked; "he took the book away to make it well. If he had left it with

me, _everybody_ would have believed I did it, and he knew that quite

well."

"No, he had not laid a plot, but at the moment he put the blame on you."

"That was because he is such a coward. Pray, he couldn't help it; he was

too frightened. You were too frightened, weren't you, Robert? You _are_

such a coward!" Bab said plainly.

Robert, still crying, she made his excuses.

"And I am very sorry. I'd quite forgotten; but I did it too."

Mr. Beresford smiled.

"Did what, little Bab?"

"Ah, perhaps you'll be angry, and I shall be so _very_ sorry; but I must

tell. I did it too."

She sidled up a little nearer, and looked gently at him.

"Did what too?"

"I spurted a little--leetle ink by a spluttering pen, and it was a bad

fairy called Blackame; and another fairy was just telling me how to set

it right, when Robert must have rushed in and did it all; but if I

hadn't put the book _on_ the desk _near_ the ink, nothing would have

happened, and Robert would be happy. Oh, please, Uncle Jem, don't flog

Robert."

"Very well; you are a good little thing, Bab. Go to bed this moment,

sir; perhaps I may let you off, as your cousin is so kind."

Robert left the room, and his father followed to at least give him a

good scolding. Bab was left alone with Mr. Beresford. She stood near

him, with a wistful expression about both her face and her figure.

"Will it spoil the book? And it has all happened because I was naughty

and couldn't be taken. I think they had better take me next time, Mr.

Beresford, whatever I've done;" and a humorous look sparkled into Bab's

eyes.

"And the fairies came and talked to you? But do you know it was not

really a fairy, Bab? You were fast asleep, for I saw you myself; you

must have been dreaming."

"Oh dear! And was not it a fairy? then it was just a common dance I had

under the tree. But do you know I'm not quite sorry, for she was not

half as nice as fairies are; and that was not really a Blackame, was it?

Well, I'm sorry I could call up a bad fairy, only I do wish I had really

been dancing for birds."

"I wish you were not so often in disgrace, little Bab."

"So do I; but I don't _think_ I shall be next year. Father and mother

are coming home then from the Mauritius, and I shall be an own little

girl again."

Mr. Beresford kissed Bab affectionately when she said that, but Bab did

not know why he kissed her.

A HELPING HAND.

[Illustration: A HELPING HAND. (_p. 345_).]

Frank's road to school leads over ways

Where yet no trains approach,

And past the Yellow Dragon Inn,

Where stops the Dirleton coach:

Here the old horses, Duke and Ned,

Are daily watered, changed, and fed.

Frank knows them well, and one hot day,

As whistling home he sped,

He saw the patched old feeding-bag

That hung at Neddy's head

Fell too far down--Ned vainly tried

To reach the yellow corn inside.

No one was near--Ned tossed his head,

And strove, but still in vain,

Hungry as any horse might be,

To seize the tempting grain;

Frank checked his headlong homeward course,

And then approached the wearied horse.

With quick light hands he raised the bag,

And made the strappings tight;

Ned hid his nose among the corn,

And softly neighed delight.

For Frank it was sufficient prize

To read his thanks in Ned's bright eyes.

ROBERT RICHARDSON.

SOME FAMOUS RAILWAY TRAINS AND THEIR STORY.

_By_ HENRY FRITH.

IV.--THE CONTINENTAL MAIL AND "TIDAL" TRAINS.

We have to travel in two important trains now, and within twenty-four

hours will make two trips, the one by night, the other by day. Hitherto,

we have been standing with our drivers in full daylight, looking at the

pleasant country, and thinking of many historical events as we pass. Now

we have to mount our engine at night, and go all the way to Dover

without stopping.

We will start from Cannon Street this time, at ten minutes past eight

p.m. We could go at a quarter to eight or ten o'clock in the morning,

but it will be quite a new experience for us to travel on an engine by

night, and return from Folkestone, on another occasion, by daylight and

see the country as we fly along. Now let us start.

What a short train! Yes, it is, but then the Charing Cross portion with

the West-end passengers has not yet arrived. Before it comes in we shall

draw out to the bridge and back down upon the newly-arrived carriages.

Then the train will be complete, and we shall start punctually as

possible with "Her Majesty's Mails." Oh, what bags and sacks and vans

full of letters have been, and are being, thrown into the mail-train!

How roughly our poor little letters seem to be treated; tumbled out on

the ground, tossed into the carriage which seems already full, and then

hurriedly untied and sorted, by quick-fingered clerks, into the various

pigeon-holes, and tied up in the local bags, to be dropped, perhaps, as

the train flies past the various stations.

But the engine is waiting. We must turn away from the well-lighted

sorting-van, bright even in the gleam of the electric light, which

illuminates the great echoing station with its winking glare. On a

platform just outside are numerous arms and signals--one arm is lowered;

then another. The Charing-Cross portion of the mail is in now. It is

thirteen minutes past eight p.m.--no doubt the "official" time for

starting--and with a shriek we pass from the brilliant station to the

darkness of the river.

The Thames flows sullenly down in the lamplight, swirling under the

piers of the railway, and shimmering under the lights of London Bridge

as we curve round above Tooley Street; but we do not stop at London

Bridge Station on this occasion. We peep through the glasses in the

weatherboard and see such a number of red and green signals, that it

reminds us of the Crystal Palace devices in lamps, and even as we look

some turn green (is it with envy at our speed?) or red (is it with anger

at our passing on without saying good-night?) but our engine-driver, who

never moves his head or speaks to us, looks in front--we are nearly in

darkness now--and we look about us.

We feel warm about the feet and knees--the wind whistles around our

waist. We stand near the fireman, looking through his glass, and near a

hand-lamp, which shines on a water-gauge glass to tell the driver when

the boiler needs replenishing. We rush past Bermondsey all lighted up,

and we see in the distance blazing chimneys, down Deptford way, and red

lights on the Brighton Railway rushing at us in the air, and white and

green lights of engines rushing at us on the rails. We overtake and pass

a train whose passengers look nice and warm, and one little boy is

flattening his nose against the window, to see us pass, and no doubt

thinks _his_ train a very slow one, and _his_ engine-driver a "muff,"

for being beaten in the "race."

So we leave the ancient "Beormund's Eye" where many hundred years ago

was an abbey, and where now are tanneries and many trades with

accompanying and peculiar odours. Away we go in a direct line over the

Surrey Canal--the river and the ships we cannot see. We get a glimpse of

the lighted Crystal Palace and rush into Chislehurst, where the late

Emperor of the French and his son lie buried.

Puffing up hill as if it were short of breath the engine goes, and is

suddenly swallowed up in a great tunnel! Oh, the roaring, the

clattering, the clamp, clamp, clamp, the "dickery-dickery-dock" tune

which the wheels play upon the metals and chairs and joints of the line!

Suddenly we are out again under a starry sky; all the mist and fog and

smoke are gone. The light which surrounded us in the tunnel, the

flickering gleam which shone on us from roof and walls, is as suddenly

dispersed and hangs now overhead in the white curling steam, as the

fireman opens the furnace door, and the gleam dashes along with us like

a halo.

From Sevenoaks our speed increases; the driver slackens off the steam,

but we rush on faster and faster. Through another long tunnel, then into

the open air round a curve, flying along an embankment until we think we

_must_ go over it. Rush, roar, and rattle! Speed slackens, bump, thump,

whizz, a long whistle; green and red lights above and below, a big

station, engines beside us, people like phantoms on the platforms,

crash, bang! Tunbridge is passed, and we are running on level ground, in

a straight line for full twenty miles, to Ashford. Ah, we can breathe

again now. It _did_ seem rather alarming just then.

So on we go towards Folkestone and Dover. Now the salt-laden breeze

tells us we are near our destination. The sorting-clerks work harder and

faster. The Continental mail-bags, Indian mail-bags, Mediterranean and

China mail-bags, all are ready for transmission to the steamer. Into the

tunnel through the

"... Cliff, whose high and bending head

Looks fearfully on the confined deep"--

known as the Shakespeare cliff, in consequence of that description in

"King Lear."

We quickly reach Dover, so well known as the resting-place of Queen

Elizabeth's "Pocket Pistol," twenty-four feet long, on which is the

legend--

"Load me well and keep me clean

And I'll carry a ball to Calais Green."

The train glides down the pier, the carriage-doors are opened, mail-bags

and muffled travellers are hurried on board. The lights are

extinguished, the engine retreats into the darkness, then we jump off

and go to bed.

Next time we meet our engine it is waiting for the Tidal train at

Folkestone. This train starts from Charing Cross and from Paris daily,

each way, at hours when the Channel passage can be accomplished at or

near high water. We shall soon have a still faster service, and eight

hours between London and Paris will be the usual time.

The run up to London need not be dwelt upon. The pace is not excessive,

but punctuality is well observed, and the train runs in safety. We

remember one bad accident, though, to the Tidal train.

It was at Staplehurst in 1865. The Whitsuntide series of accidents which

disfigured that holiday season was closed by the terrible catastrophe

that happened to the Tidal train on its way from Folkestone to London.

This train is an erratic one. It travels at different hours each week,

and changes daily. On the 9th June in that year (1865), the railway near

Staplehurst was under repair. The men were working, and had taken up two

rails when the Tidal train was seen approaching.

The foreman had mistaken the time. There was no chance of avoiding an

accident. The express came dashing into the gap, and eight carriages

were flung over a bridge into a little stream beneath. The engine and

the tender jumped the vacant space of rail, and ran into the hedge, but

the carriages toppled over, leaving only two of them on the line at the

back, and the engine and luggage vans in front. So the eight other

carriages hung down and crushed into each other. Ten persons were killed

and many injured.

In the train was the late Charles Dickens, who was travelling to London.

He had with him the MS. (or proofs) of a tale he was then engaged upon,

and in the preface to the work he mentioned the occurrence. He was most

useful to the injured passengers, and with other gentlemen exerted

himself greatly to alleviate their sufferings. We need not dwell upon

the painful scene of the accident, which created quite a sensation, as

it occurred to the Continental express, by which so many holiday-makers

travel.

We have not mentioned many accidents in the few papers we have put

before you, for there is a sameness in them unfortunately; but we

remember one terrible accident which occurred in consequence of a little

boy playing on an engine, which ran away and caused a bad collision by

dashing into a train which it overtook in its wild race.

Perhaps you little readers of LITTLE FOLKS are not aware that boys begin

at a very early age to learn the mysteries of the locomotive engine.

These lads are "cleaners" first, and have to rub up the bright parts of

the engines, and clear out the fire-boxes. Accidents have happened to

the lads, even boys have been killed by going to sleep in the

fire-boxes, and when the fire was lighted next morning they have been

suffocated. The engine-driver expects his fire lighted and steam got up

for him when he comes down to the engine-shed, or "stable." You may,

perhaps, have noticed the round houses near the railway--say at York

Road, Battersea--those are the engine-"stables." Every engine is placed

in its "stall," so that its chimney is just under an opening, or flue.

It is also over a "pit," so that the fire can be raked out, or the

working examined from underneath before the engine goes into the station

next day to take the train away to the seaside, or to carry you to

school, or home for the holidays. The engine-driver or the fireman

examines the rods, cranks, and all the different joints, nuts, and

screws; oiling or "packing," "easing off," or "tightening up" the

various parts, so that the machinery may run easily and without heating.

One tiny bit of grit may wreck a train.

But our allotted space is now filled, and will not permit us to tell you

more concerning engine-boys. So we must say "good-bye" to you all.

"FATHER'S COMING!"

Oh, Father is coming!

Through all the long day

We thought of him often,

When he was away;

We knew he was working

While we were at play.

He'll be tired, I think;

I have set him a chair

In his own cosy corner--

He likes to sit there--

And we'll bring him his slippers,

His old favourite pair.

I think it's the nicest

To watch at the gate;

And Dolly sits by us

While thus we all wait.

He'll be here very soon--

It's so seldom he's late.

See, Baby knows too

Who is coming to-night;

She is crowing, and clapping

Her hands with delight!

There's his footstep at last!

Oh, hurrah! he's in sight.

[Illustration: 'FATHER'S COMING.' (_See p. 348._)]

THEIR ROAD TO FORTUNE.

THE STORY OF TWO BROTHERS.

_By the Author of "The Heir of Elmdale," &c. &c._

CHAPTER XVI.--"THE HEAD OF THE FAMILY."

"Tell me everything, Aunt Amy," Bertie said, as soon as he could find a

voice. "When did it happen? Was it an accident? Oh! why didn't you send

for me sooner?"

"It was very sudden, darling," Mrs. Clair replied. "I telegraphed for

you at once, for your uncle wished it, and asked for you as long as he

was conscious. But the doctor said from the first that there was no

hope, and even wondered how he had lived so long. I fancy your uncle

knew from the first that the attack would be fatal whenever it came. Do

you know why he asked for you so often, Bertie?"

"No, aunt, except that he always loved me, and was very, very good to

me."

"Yes, dear, and he trusted you too; almost his last words were, 'Tell

Bertie he must take care of you and Agnes: he must be the "head of the

family" now!' Uncle Harry's death will make a great difference to us,

dear."

"I'm so glad he said that, Aunt Amy; and _I will_ take care of you all,"

his glance including even Eddie, who sat silent in a corner. "It was

good of him to trust me!" and then the remembrance of his other uncle's

want of confidence and harshness rushed back on Bertie, and he sobbed

bitterly. Aunt Amy made him sit beside her, and comforted him tenderly

till his sobs ceased, and then listened with patient, loving sympathy

to all his troubles, which Eddie now confided in her.

"Do you think I did very wrong, Aunt Amy? do you think Uncle Gregory

should have been so unkind?" he asked, looking at her wistfully.

"I think, dear, that you behaved very well indeed, under the

circumstances. Of course, if you could have asked permission it might

have been better, but then you would have missed the owner of the bag.

What troubles me most is your having slept on the damp grass. I fear you

have caught cold."

"Not much, auntie; my throat is a little sore, but it'll be all right

again presently. When I wanted to see you so badly yesterday, I did not

dream I should be here to-day, and find you all so sad. I was only

selfishly thinking of my own trouble, and what a poor, pitiful affair it

seems, compared to yours. Oh! auntie, how good and patient you are!"

"No, no, Bertie, I'm very far from good, and not nearly so patient as

you think; but as we grow older, dear, we learn to suffer in silence,

and some griefs are too deep for words or tears. If we had only our own

strength to support us, how could we endure such sudden incurable losses

as mine?"

Bertie was silent for a few moments, then he stood up, and laid both his

hands on his aunt's shoulders and looked earnestly at her.

"I will take care of you; I will remember every word dear Uncle Harry

said. Can I begin now? Can I do anything at all, Aunt Amy, this very

day?"

"No, dear, except to lie down and rest, and get rid of your cold. I have

thought of nothing yet, except to telegraph for Nancy to come down and

take the children home, and to Mr. Williams. I have not another friend

in the world now, Bertie. We poor Rivers's are left to ourselves!"

"You forget Mr. Murray," Bertie said. "You can't think how kind and

generous he is; he will help us in every way; and surely Uncle Gregory

will come!"

"I fear not, dear. Uncle Gregory and Uncle Harry were not related, and

never very intimate; but indeed, there is nothing any one can do for us.

Besides, Uncle Harry's wishes are very plain; his will is not a dozen

lines," and Mrs Clair sighed deeply. She knew her husband had died

poor--not worth a couple of hundred pounds, perhaps--but she did not

know of the many small debts contracted through thoughtlessness, and

left unpaid through carelessness, or she would have been still more

anxious about the future. It was the sudden feeling of loneliness and

desolation, the sudden sense of responsibility and helplessness

combined, that seemed almost to stupefy her.

The worst of that first day of her bereavement was that she had nothing

to do: strangers performed all needful offices; but it was a comfort to

pet and nurse Bertie, because they had all been left in his care--a

circumstance Eddie bitterly resented, though he was quite silent on the

subject. Though reluctant to lie down, Bertie had not been many minutes

on the sofa before he was sound asleep, and when he awoke, he found

Nancy, the old housekeeper from Fitzroy Square, had arrived, and was

busy making preparations for their departure. Aunt Amy was with her, and

just at that moment Mr. Murray entered the room, holding a telegram in

his hand, and looking very much excited. As soon as she heard his voice,

Mrs. Clair came in, looking very pale, but quite composed. After a few

inquiries about Bertie, he placed the message in her hand, and as she

read it she smiled sadly.

"Just what I thought, Mr. Murray. Why should Mr. Gregory trouble himself

about us in our affliction? Because his sister married my brother gives

me no claim on him," she said gently.

"Perhaps not; but sorrow, friendlessness, death, give you a claim on

every man who deserves the name. I'm disappointed in Gregory, and I'll

take an early opportunity of telling him so."

"I can scarcely blame him, Mr. Murray, when my husband's oldest and

dearest friend fails me now; but he says if I let him know when the

funeral takes place he will try to attend."

"Very kind and truly considerate of him," Mr. Murray cried, scornfully.

"Will you be so good as to tell me the name of this true old friend?"

"It cannot matter much to you, Mr. Murray; but he's called Arthur

Williams, a well-known sculptor."

"Hum! I'll see if I can't give him a famous order some day, selfish

fellow!" he added, in an undertone. "And now, dear Mrs. Clair, may I ask

what you are going to do?"

"I do not know; I have not thought yet. I am so sorely disappointed."

"Then allow me to think for you," Mr. Murray interrupted; "but first

answer me one or two painful questions. Did your husband leave a will,

or express any wishes?"

Mrs. Clair handed him the half-sheet of note-paper, and he read it twice

carefully, then placed it in his pocket-book. "Simple and complete, Mrs.

Clair, your husband must have had a great capacity for business. Is

there anything else?"

"Nothing, except that he left us all to the care of Bertie. He's to be

'head of the family,' poor child;" and Aunt Amy stroked his hair

tenderly. "My husband had great faith in Bertie."

"Perhaps he was right: we shall see some day. Now I suggest that you go

up to town this evening, and take those two children with you. Bertie

and I will follow by the first train to-morrow morning. We will go

direct to Fitzroy Square, and I'll give all necessary instructions for

the funeral. Mr. Clair was a gentleman and an artist, and must go to his

long rest as such. After that you may tell me as much or as little of

your circumstances as you please; but always remember that I am able and

willing to help you."

And then Mr. Murray hurried away, and Bertie began his duties as "head

of the family" by telegraphing to Fitzroy Square to have fires lighted

in the rooms; but even in that Mr. Murray, who seemed to think of

everything, had been beforehand with him.

CHAPTER XVII.--PROBATION.

"I am so glad you have called, Mr. Murray. I do so want a long chat with

you," Mrs. Clair said one day, about a month after her husband's death.

"You have been such a kind friend, that I feel I may ask your advice."

"And I'll be very glad to give it, if you will only follow it. What's

the matter now?"

"First of all, I'm unhappy about Bertie; he is worked very hard, and I

am afraid his uncle is not very kind to him; I am grieved to see how

thin and pale he has grown. Then Mr. Gregory declares Eddie must do

something for himself, and suggests his entering a timber-merchant's

office, as there is no money to continue his artistic education. Of

course, my husband did everything for Eddie; and if there is any income

from Riversdale after paying the mortgages, he never heard anything of

it. I ventured to ask Mr. Gregory if he would pay for Eddie's classes,

and I'm sorry to say he refused, and declares that the lad must work

like other people. It will break poor Eddie's heart to go into that

timber place."

"Oh no, Mrs. Clair; boys' hearts are tough things. Is that all your

trouble?"

"No, indeed. I am perplexed about myself; this house is far too large

for me, and far too expensive. My husband was always a poor man: that

is, he lived up to his income; and his health was such that he could not

insure his life. A few hundred pounds and the lease and furniture of

this house were all he left; but every day I find bills unpaid, many of

them long-standing accounts, and my stock of money is diminishing

rapidly. I think I should have an auction, dispose of the lease if I

could, and go into cheap lodgings with Agnes and Eddie; but I fear I

shall not be able to pay for his classes and colours. Can you suggest

anything for me to do?"

"No; I think your ideas are very sensible. But would it not be better to

try to let this house furnished? I fancy I can find you a tenant, and

then you will have a certain, even if small, income. Then if both boys

are willing to work they will bring you in something every week."

"But, Mr. Murray, Eddie is to have no salary for three years, and Bertie

must remain with his Uncle Gregory," Mrs. Clair said, sadly. "Oh, how I

wish he could come and live with me! he is a dear boy!"

"Yes, yes; a good straight up-and-down lad, with plenty of backbone,

though his uncle does not quite understand him. However, I think Eddie

should do something at once, though I don't entirely approve of the

timber-yard; still, anything for a beginning. Now, Mrs. Clair, when

would you like to leave here?"

"As soon as possible; every day only lessens our little fund."

"I think I know a person who would take this house, if he could get it

at once. This is Wednesday; could you manage to leave if I found you

suitable lodgings by next Monday?"

"Quite easily, Mr. Murray; but are you sure you can let it? I do not

want the house to remain on your hands."

"Never mind that. In the name of a person I know intimately, I offer you

180 pounds a year for it: and it's cheap too. Of course there are a

great many things you can take away with you, such as plate, linen,

pictures: they will make your lodgings more comfortable."

"But the person who takes the house?"

"Has a great many things of his own--unconsidered trifles--that he must

find room for. It's a great comfort to give advice to a reasonable

person who is willing to follow it. As for the boys, don't worry about

them. Just as soon as you are settled, I'll have a talk with Eddie, and

then go and see Mr. Gregory."

Mr. Murray was no half-hearted friend; when he undertook to do a thing,

it was done well and promptly, so that before a week from her first

mentioning the matter Mrs. Clair was settled in very pleasant lodgings

not far from Hampstead Heath.

The rooms seemed very small at first, but they soon became used to that,

and the garden, with its prim walks, edged on either side with

old-fashioned autumn flowers, was delightful. Even Eddie looked happier,

and Agnes declared Hampstead was nearly as good as Brighton. When Bertie

came to see them, he could hardly keep from crying, it was all so cosy,

pretty, and homelike, compared with the gloomy grandeur of Gore House;

and, worst of all, his uncle was becoming more exacting and severe every

day. The secret of Mr. Gregory's unkindness to Bertie was the open

interest taken in him by Mr. Murray, who, in spite of many hints,

refused to have anything to do with Dick Gregory, and told his father

plainly that the boy had no taste or capacity for business. Poor Bertie

had to suffer for that disappointment: he was scolded, overworked,

reproved, but he bore it all patiently; never complained, never

answered, but he was plainly unhappy. And Eddie was a worry to him too:

he should be working for himself and Aunt Amy, instead of being a burden

to them. As "head of the family," he said so, and even went so far as to

say he thought Riversdale now a secondary consideration, and his own

savings in future would not go to the bank, but to buy little delicacies

for his aunt and cousin. When he heard about the timber-yard, he said at

once that Eddie should accept the situation. "One office is just like

another, Eddie," he cried; "tea or timber, what does it matter? one has

to go through the same routine to begin with. Besides, we must do

something to help Aunt Amy."

So Eddie agreed to accept Uncle Gregory's proposal.

"Bravo, Eddie, old fellow! I knew when it came to the point that you

would act rightly and generously," Bertie cried earnestly. "And if we're

both very saving, you may still be able to have classes in the evening,

and when I get a little rich you shall return to your painting; but we

must both put our shoulders to the wheel now, old boy, and be as saving

as ever we can."

"I've nothing to save," Eddie replied. "I've no salary for three years.

Still, I'll write to Uncle Gregory to-night: the sooner I begin the

better."

[Illustration: "THEY ARRIVED AT THE HALL DOOR" (_p. 355_).]

No one knew what an effort it cost Eddie to give in; still, in spite of

his pride and vanity, he was a right-hearted, independent lad at heart,

and the idea of being a burden to Aunt Amy was simply intolerable. When

Mr. Murray heard of his resolution, he puckered up his eyebrows, and

talked to himself for fully five minutes, then he patted Eddie on the

shoulder, and said he was glad he had sufficient real pride to enable

him to put his false pride in his pocket, and declared that he would

never lose his self-respect and the respect of others by honest hard

work. "But work for three years you _shall_ not!" he cried, suddenly.

"They must give you a small salary to begin with." So Eddie, the lofty,

the haughty, the often intolerant Eddie, went to the timber-yard with a

tolerably good grace, and when, at the end of the first week, he placed

his earnings in Aunt Amy's hands, he felt positively happy. Very soon

after, owing to the kind intervention of Mr. Murray, Bertie got

permission to live with Aunt Amy, his uncle paying ten shillings a week

extra for his board and lodgings, so that in all he had a pound, and it

seemed quite a large sum of money. Of course he had a long way to go to

the City; but what of that, when loving hands waved him an adieu from

the window? What did any extra amount of labour matter now that the

stiff formal dinners, and the terribly chilling evenings in the library

at Gore House were at an end for ever.

Mr. Murray often paid a visit to the little cottage at Hampstead, and

whenever he came he was always warmly welcomed, both by Agnes and Mrs.

Clair.

The tenant of the house in Fitzroy Square was behaving very well indeed:

the rent would be ready by quarter-day, and there were several things in

the house that he would be pleased if Mrs. Clair could take away: the

piano, for instance; he would consider it a real kindness if she could

remove that, he had no use whatever for it, and had a case of rare

butterflies that would stand very comfortably in its place. So the

instrument arrived one day at the lodgings, and gave the children more

enjoyment than anything else, for the evenings were drawing in, and it

was too dark for a run on the Heath after the boys returned from the

City.

They all sang and played by instinct, and Aunt Amy gave them a lesson

each every evening, and as the evenings became longer, and winter crept

towards them with "stealthy steps and slow," they settled down to a

regular course of study.

Bertie devoted most of his time to music; Eddie to reading up his French

and German--for he found both those languages would be very useful to

him in the City; while Agnes was busy over her drawing-board, tracing

designs for Christmas and Easter cards. She declared she was not going

to be the only drone in the hive, and bade fair to be successful later

on, for two of her little cards had already been accepted by a great

City publishing firm. When Mr. Murray dropped in of an evening he used

to have a long look from one to the other of their cheerful, contented

faces, and then he would have a little private conversation with himself

in a corner.

"They're too happy," he would mutter, "too content, too well occupied.

Good fortune would only spoil them now. I'll wait and watch a little

longer; and yet, people who bear poverty with such equanimity should

bear the accession of riches with humility; still, I'll wait a little.

My old friend's children are bearing their probation bravely." For to

Mr. Murray Mrs. Clair's income seemed absolute poverty: he paid some of

his own servants nearly as much; and the great City merchant was

learning, for the first time, that it is not the actual amount of income

one has, but the way it's spent, that constitutes poverty and wealth.

CHAPTER XVIII.--THE FORTUNE FOUND.

Mr. Gregory did not consent to Bertie Rivers leaving Gore House with a

very good grace, and he bitterly resented the interest Mr. Murray took

in both boys. He wished to keep them entirely under his own control--as,

indeed, he had the power to do, being their sole guardian since Mr.

Clair's death; but, on the other hand, he was not in a position to

refuse Mr. Murray a trifling favour, as he had just begged a very heavy

one from him. Things had been going on very badly in Mincing Lane for

some time, and Mr. Gregory had been peculiarly unfortunate in his

business transactions: he kept on losing large sums of money without in

the least retrenching his expenditure, and at length it became painfully

clear, even to himself, that nothing short of a large sum of ready money

could save him from failure and disgrace and ruin, and that there was

only one man in London who could and would assist him--for Mr. Gregory

was more respected than liked by his brother merchants. Mr. Murray was

willing to do all that he wanted, on certain conditions. First of all,

he wished Mr. Gregory to give up the guardianship of Eddie and Bertie

Rivers, and that their uncle willingly consented to, for he feared that

when Eddie came of age there might be some awkward questions to answer

about the management--or rather, mismanagement--of the property, if he

were called to give an account of his stewardship. Then Mr. Gregory, Mr.

Murray said, was too extravagant: he should curtail his expenses, and

live according to his income: cut down his establishment, and put the

boys to some profession or work of some sort, for he declared he had no

intention that his honestly and hard-earned money should be squandered

in unnecessary luxury. Mr. Gregory agreed to all Mr. Murray's

conditions, and at the time meant fully to perform his promises, but the

immediate pressure of his difficulties being removed, he went on in much

the same way, and Mr. Murray, who was observing closely, resolved never

again to advance money to maintain such senseless extravagance.

Though old Mr. Murray had quite made up his mind what he would do for

Eddie and Bertie Rivers, he determined to make sure first that they

deserved his kindness. It was good to see Mrs. Clair's cheerful face,

and hear her pleasant voice, as she recounted many instances of the

children's kindness and consideration: Bertie's hearty resolution not to

be daunted by anything; Eddie's supreme patience at the office and

steady work at home; and the untiring efforts of little Agnes to add

her mite to the general fund, though of course she often failed to

dispose of her cards, some of which, nevertheless, were adapting

themselves to other circumstances, and forming a very handsome screen to

keep the draughts from Aunt Amy's chair.

"We are not only living within our income, but saving something for the

proverbial 'rainy day,'" Mrs. Clair said one evening, when Mr. Murray

dropped in. "We have been here only three months, and have done ever so

much better than I expected, thanks to your good advice; and we are all

ever so much happier than I ever hoped to be again, which shows that

sorrow is but a short-lived suffering if we do not nurse and cherish it.

And then Eddie is so polite and attentive to every one now, and he used

to be so proud and haughty. I really can't understand the change in

him."

"'Sweet are the uses of adversity,'" Mr. Murray quoted, with a peculiar

smile. "There was talent and good sense in Eddie after all, though I

sometimes half doubted it. Some day he will see the wisdom of his

choice, and be glad to feel that he laboured with his hands to do the

thing that is right."

Winter came and went; spring broadened into summer; and still the boys

worked on bravely: Bertie at Mr. Gregory's office, Eddie at the

timber-yard, Agnes working pretty crewel mats and toilet-covers, by way

of change from painting; and Mrs. Clair, loving, guiding, counselling

them all. The fund for the "rainy day" had increased remarkably, so that

when November, "chill and drear," came round again, the boys were able

to have new warm overcoats and thick gloves, and even Agnes was armed

against the sudden changes of weather by a nice soft fur cape, and the

whole winter months passed so pleasantly, that they were all astonished

when Christmas was, so to speak, at the door.

One day, towards the middle of December, Mr. Murray came bustling in,

his whole face full of importance.

"Mrs. Clair, I've called to ask you all to spend Christmas with me at a

country house. I'm a lonely old man, with no near relations and few

friends; but I like young people about me whose hearts are gay and

green, even though circumstances may have aged their heads a little. I

like the boys; I like the demure little maiden; I like you. Will you all

come and cheer up a lonely old man for a week?"

"I shall be delighted indeed, Mr. Murray; and I can answer for each one

of the children, if the boys can only get so long a holiday. It's such a

very, very long time since I've really been in the country."

"Then promise to meet me at twelve o'clock at Paddington Station on

Christmas Eve: promise me, Mrs. Clair; I'll make it all right for the

boys. Just say you will come. I wanted to ask you all last Christmas;

I'm glad I did not now."

"I will come with pleasure and gratitude," Mrs. Clair replied, "if you

can make it right for the boys."

"I'll see to that. Remember, twelve o'clock on Christmas Eve--twelve

sharp, Paddington!" and then Mr. Murray vanished, his face puckered up

out of all recognition.

The probation of Eddie and Bertie Rivers had lasted a whole year, and

Mr. Murray was more than satisfied with them. He meant to keep their

destination a little secret, and so fairly ran away before Mrs. Clair

could ask any questions.

It wanted just two weeks to Christmas when Mr. Murray gave his

instructions, and during most of the waking hours of that time the

children spoke of little else. Bertie endeavoured to explain and

describe the grandeur and magnificence of Mr. Murray's town house, and

of course his country mansion would be still more splendid.

"I hope there will be plenty of frost," he said, with a very grave

glance at the sky, just as if the state of the sky in London ever could

be an index to what the weather might be anywhere else, "for there's

sure to be a pond, or mere, or something to skate on."

Eddie sighed as he thought of the beautiful lake at Riversdale, and then

said he hoped Mr. Murray might have some ponies, as he was longing for a

good canter.

Agnes wanted some pretty places to sketch, and Aunt Amy declared she

would give anything to see a good farm and poultry-yard again, just as

they had at home.

"You may be sure Mr. Murray will have everything," Bertie said,

confidently; "and a Christmas-tree too, with lots of presents: he always

did give us splendid things," remembering the steam-engine. "Oh! I say,

auntie, we're bound to have a glorious time;" and Bertie tossed his hat

in the air, and skilfully caught it coming down--a habit of his when

unusually excited.

At the appointed time Mrs. Clair and the children arrived at Paddington

Station, and there they found Mr. Murray pacing up and down, "just like

a lion in a cage," Bertie whispered irreverently. He paid the cabman

while they got out, and then hurried them across the platform and into a

first-class carriage that he had engaged; the door was shut with a loud

bang, and in another moment the engine whistled shrilly, and the train

went out of the station. Mr. Murray held all their tickets in his hand,

and in such a way that even Bertie's keen eyes could not detect their

destination, but as they got completely into the country the places

seemed strangely familiar. At last Eddie drew nearer Bertie, and took

his hand. "Look, Bert! that's Linkworth Station; the next will be

Riversdale," he whispered, his eyes filling with tears. "Oh! I do hope

we shall not stop there!" Even as he spoke the train seemed to slacken

speed again. The engine shrieked, and stopped at dear old Riversdale.

Mr. Murray sprang out briskly, and assisted Mrs. Clair; the others

followed; and in a few moments they were all driving along the familiar

road towards the old home of the Rivers's. As the carriage turned in at

the lodge gate, Bertie cried out, unable to restrain himself, "Oh! Aunt

Amy, we're _really_ going home to Riversdale. Hurrah!"

Eddie was perfectly silent: he could not trust himself to speak. Little

Agnes clung to her aunt, whose eyes were full of tears, and Mr. Murray

chatted away briskly about the weather, the beauty of the country in its

winter mantle--everything, in fact, but their destination. They arrived

at the hall door, where several of the old servants were waiting,

amongst them Mittens, the housekeeper, who kissed the children

individually and collectively, and laughed and cried at the same time.

"Come in! come in!" Mr. Murray cried, leading the way to the library;

"it's too cold to stand about. And now, children, how do you like your

old home?" he added, as they all stood silent and confused round the

blazing wood fire. Then he suddenly grew very serious, and turning to

Mrs. Clair, placed his hand on her arm. "This was your father's house;

now, through the variations of fortune, it is mine, Mrs. Clair; but one

day it will belong to one of those boys: I won't say which; but Eddie is

the elder, and I think he will deserve to be heir of Riversdale. Bertie

I know I can trust. Meantime, Mrs. Clair, it is your home, and the

little maiden's, and Eddie's. If he cares to continue his artistic

profession, he can have a master here to conduct his studies. If he is

worthy, he shall have Riversdale on his twenty-first birthday free from

all incumbrance; till then, Mrs. Clair, the home is yours, and I know

how happy Eddie will be with you. As for Bertie, he belongs to me for

the present; he is not to return to Mr. Gregory, and will try how he

likes Murray and Co. instead. Now I wish you all a very merry Christmas

and a glad new year, and welcome back to Riversdale."

It was a long speech for Mr. Murray, especially as they were all

clinging to him, sobbing, laughing, trying in vain to thank him; but he

broke away from them, rushing to the dining-room, where luncheon was

waiting, and laughing heartily at their surprise and pleasure. Then he

installed Mrs. Clair formally as mistress, treated Eddie with a good

deal of consideration as the heir-apparent, and looked at Bertie for

approval.

"I think it is better than waiting till I got rich in Mincing Lane,

sir," he replied, his eyes sparkling. "I don't believe Uncle Gregory's

office is the real road to fortune, after all."

"The Road to Fortune, boy, is honesty and industry, not anybody's

office," Mr. Murray said, gently. "However, you will have a try at mine,

and then, like regular City men, we'll come down from Saturday till

Monday, if they will have us. We can't afford to give up work yet, can

we?"

"No, sir; and I shouldn't care to."

"That's right, Bertie. Work is worship: that's one of Eddie's favourite

author's sayings."

"I've learned the truth of it, Mr. Murray," Eddie said gravely, "and in

future I shall practise it, and, I hope, prove to you that your great

kindness has not been wasted on us. If I had never left Riversdale and

become acquainted with so many troubles and sorrows, I never could feel

as happy as I am now."

And in that happiness we will leave Eddie and Bertie Rivers, trusting

that all who bear adversity so well may find fortune as kind and friends

as true.

THE END.

HEDWIG'S CHRISTMAS PRESENTS.

Supposing you had two brothers and two sisters, a father, a mother, and

no money, how would you get Christmas presents for them all? That is

what Hedwig wanted to know. You see, she was the eldest of the family,

and felt it her duty to look after the others; and in this case it so

happened that looking after them meant getting them Christmas presents.

You can't think what a trouble this was to little Hedwig. The worst of

it was, she couldn't ask her mother's advice. It must be kept a dark

secret. At last the twenty-fourth of December arrived, and in the

evening the gifts must all be ready, and Hedwig had not one.

When evening came, however, Hedwig's presents were there, and I will

tell you how she managed it.

Little Hedwig was a German girl. She lived in a small village in the

north of Germany. Her father and mother had not very much money. They

could buy black bread and meat for their children, but there was little

money left for playthings. Though they were not rich, they were a happy

family; and if they had not toys they had one another, and that was

quite enough.

Hedwig was a busy little girl; there were so many things she could do

for mother. The baby always was happy with his big sister, and his big

sister was very fond of him.

On the morning of the day before Christmas, Hedwig got up earlier than

usual. She dressed baby, gave him his breakfast, and then, putting on

her things, asked what she should buy in the town.

"Now, Hedwig, get all the things carefully; take the big basket to carry

everything; and be sure not to forget to take the soup to Aunt Molly."

These were her mother's last words.

"All right, mother, dear; I will be back in good time," said Hedwig,

and, shutting the door, downstairs she ran and out into the street.

"Now, then," she said to herself, as she pushed her way bravely along,

"presents I must have; but how I am to get them I really don't know.

Auntie is sure to give me a groschen (a penny) for bringing the soup,

and that will buy a cake for Karl and a cake for baby. But then there

are mother, father, and the twins. Mother and father might share a

present, but how about the twins?"

The twins certainly were rather a trouble. They were six years old, just

four years younger than Hedwig, and insisted on having everything alike.

It was a very cold day and a long walk from the village to the town; but

Hedwig, trotting along in her warm cloak and hood, was so busy thinking

of her presents that she was not cold. Just as she was entering the town

gates, she met her playmate Anna. Hedwig was very pleased, and

determined to tell her dear friend all her troubles.

"Anna," she began, "I haven't a present for----"

But here she was interrupted, for Anna exclaimed, "Isn't it a shame.

Hedwig? You know our big barn; well, a cat has made her home there, and

has two beautiful kittens. Aunt Ottilia found it out this morning, and

she says the kittens must be drowned."

Hedwig was quite as indignant as her friend.

"I know what I'll do," said Hedwig; "we'll capture the kittens, and then

I will take them home as my present for the twins."

"That will do very well, Hedwig. You go and buy the things for your

mother, and then we will get the kittens, and you can carry them home."

Hedwig set off and bought all the things at the shops, and took the soup

to her aunt. She seemed to be very fortunate that morning, for the old

lady at the grocer's gave her some odds and ends of ribbon. These she

intended to make into a bow for her mother, but she saved two long

pieces to tie round the kittens' necks.

Then, her shopping finished, she made her way back to Anna, who lived at

a farm a little distance out of town. Carefully and slowly they made

their way through the yard. It would not do for any one to see them, for

they might be stopped.

"Come along this way," said Anna; "there they are; now, are not they

sweet little things?"

For a few seconds Hedwig was lost in admiration, but then she remembered

that she must hurry, for it was time for her to be home again.

"Now, then, Anna, you take one, and I'll take the other; hide it under

your apron."

The two children set out with their burdens, but it was not easy work

getting back again into the garden, where Hedwig had left her basket.

As they were leaving the barn, they had forgotten to shut the door, and

a curious old hen had marched in. After some chasing they got the hen

out; but in the hurry to escape from the children, the bird tumbled into

a tub full of water.

Hedwig and Anna both dropped their kittens in order to rescue the

unfortunate hen. Anna screamed at the top of her voice, "Oh, she'll

drown! she'll drown!"

Just then the farmyard gate opened, and Anna, seeing that her old aunt

was coming, called to Hedwig to run and hide.

Hedwig had only just time to get back into the barn before Aunt Ottilia

appeared, and inquired what was the matter. She got the hen out of the

water, scolded Anna, and threatened to send her indoors. After the aunt

had returned to the house, Hedwig came out of her hiding-place. The two

kittens had of course disappeared by this time, and the two girls had a

difficulty in finding them.

After hunting for half an hour they were captured once more, and carried

to the basket. Then there was another hindrance. There was not room for

both kittens. One was placed in, and Hedwig agreed to carry the other in

her arms.

"Now, Hedwig, you had better be off; it is getting quite late," said

Anna.

"But can't you get me something to eat first; I am so hungry?"

"If I do I shall meet aunt. Haven't you anything with you? Why, there is

aunt coming; I must run." Anna did run, too, without thinking any more

of her friend. Hedwig had to set off without waiting longer, for it was

getting very late. She determined to spend her money in buying some

bread for herself, hoping to find something else for the boys. After

eating her bread she set off for home.

[Illustration: OFF TO THE TOWN. (_See p. 356_).]

It seemed such a long walk now, and the basket and kittens were very

heavy. Twice a kitten escaped, and she had to give chase, so that by the

time she reached home she was tired and hungry, for it was getting late

in the afternoon.

She took the kittens up into the loft and fastened them in, after giving

them a saucerful of milk. Then down she went to tell her mother about

her purchases.

"Why are you so late, Hedwig?" said her mother. "I have been expecting

you a very long time. Baby has been so tiresome, and the twins have made

themselves so untidy. They wanted to be black people, and I found

Gretchen painting Sophie black with ink. Fortunately they had not done

very much, but I am so tired with the worry that I think you must get

the Christmas tree ready."

Hedwig was sorry her mother was tired, but glad to get the tree ready.

She spread a white tablecloth on the little round table in the big room,

placed the tree on it, and then made the other tables ready. When all

was ready, the tree, decorated with candles and sweetmeats, was placed

in the centre of the room. The little gifts were arranged on small

tables. Then Hedwig ran upstairs to fetch the ribbon for her mother, and

the kittens. She found the latter scampering about the loft, and having

fine fun. She placed them in two baskets, and then carried them down.

Now all was ready, and Hedwig felt satisfied. The twins would have the

kittens, mother and father the ribbon, and she had found two small balls

of her own for Karl and baby. Very pleased with her work, she locked the

door and ran away to get tidied.

Half an hour afterwards the doors were thrown open, the candles lighted,

and the whole family entered. But what a state of confusion the room was

in! for everything was upset and disarranged.

"Oh, the kittens! the kittens!" cried Hedwig; "they must have done it."

Of course, immediately there was a cry of "Which kittens?"

This was soon answered by Gretchen suddenly calling out, in a tone of

great astonishment--

"There they are, the darlings, fast asleep on my new frock!"

Hedwig then explained everything. The twins were delighted with their

present; but her mother had to tell Hedwig how naughty it was of her to

take anything without having first asked leave.

"But, mother dear, they were going to be killed, and I could not bear

that," said Hedwig.

"Then you should have asked for them, dearie," said mother; "but never

mind now, to-morrow I will walk over with you, and we will explain

everything, and give them back again."

Hearing this, the twins began to cry bitterly. They did not want their

present to be taken from them, and they were not quiet until their

mother promised to see what she could do.

Then the whole family set to work to tidy up the room. Everything was

quickly in order, and the presents were given away. Everybody got just

what they wanted; and Hedwig's mother was very pleased with her ribbon,

and promised to let father share it. Next day her mother went over to

the farm with Hedwig, who begged Aunt Ottilia's pardon, and received the

kittens as a token of her forgiveness.

So, after all the trouble, Hedwig's presents were a great success.

MAGGIE BROWNE.

THE LEGEND OF THE REEDS.

What are the river reeds whispering,

In music so sweet and low?

Ah, these are the words they murmur,

"My tale would you like to know?"

"O reeds by the shining water,

I'll listen all day, all day,

If you will tell me your story

Whilst the river rolls away."

Spake the reed--"I'm a maid named Syrinx,

And there once lived a god named Pan;

He liked me, but I didn't like him,

So away to the woods I ran.

"I ran very swiftly, but swifter

The rough god Pan did pursue,

Then I cried to the gods, on Olympus,

'There are none to help me but you!'

"I came to a shining river,

And thirsty I stooped to drink,

And the kindly gods changed me into

A reed on the river's brink.

"Then Pan grew quite melancholy,

And gathered the reeds, and made

A pipe; and he thought of me ever

When he on his pan-pipe played."

A FEW WORDS ABOUT TATTOOING.

[Illustration: TATTOOED NEW ZEALANDER.]

Some of the readers of these pages, I dare say, saw King Tawhiao, the

Maori chief, who visited England in the summer of 1884. If so, they

could not have failed to notice the curious designs that were traced

upon his face. These scroll-like marks were the result of an operation

which lasted for six weeks, and which was attended with extreme pain.

The process is called tattooing, and a person who has undergone it is

said to be tattooed. It is practised very extensively amongst the

natives of New Zealand and the South Sea Islands generally, women as

well as men, whose bodies are covered with patterns of an elaborate, or

fantastic, or picturesque description, though sometimes the design is of

a comparatively simple sort. Nearly every British sailor has

tattoo-marks on his arm--an anchor, ship, initials, or what not--and

unless I am much mistaken, some of the lads now perusing these sentences

have now and then ornamented (or disfigured) their hands and arms with

similar signs.

In New Zealand the tattoo-marks run in unbroken lines, while in the

South Sea Islands they are in dotted lines. The pain of the process in

both cases is most acute, especially in the former. In New Zealand the

figures are formed by driving little chisels, which have been dipped in

some colouring-matter, through the skin. In the South Sea Islands a

series of punctures are made with a fish-bone, which is, however,

sometimes used as a needle. Every variety of design is employed--trees,

flowers, animals, weapons, and so forth. It is considered a disgrace for

the person being tattooed to give way to any sign of suffering, but as

the pain is so exquisite, cries of torture occasionally rise to the

lips. In order, therefore, to drown such cries, and so preserve the

patient's reputation for bravery, it is usual for a number of his female

friends to sing songs throughout the operation. Some tattooers acquire

great skill in their art, and will form a design which shall be

beautiful, elaborate, or otherwise, according to the fee. But in any

case it is well to deal liberally with the artist, lest he should allow

the chisel to slip "accidentally on purpose," and produce a permanent

disfigurement instead of a fine design. The colouring-matter in which

the tool is dipped is a thick mixture, prepared by rubbing down charcoal

in oil or water. The pattern appears black on a brown skin, and dark

blue on the skin of a white man, and is of course indelible.

Since the process is so painful, why do the Maoris and others submit

themselves to it? They look upon the tattooing as a kind of personal

adornment; and, you know, there is no accounting for tastes. The ways of

savage and civilised races are past finding out. Some wear articles in

their noses, ears, and lips; others flatten the heads of their babies.

Chinese ladies' feet are compressed to such an extent that they wobble

when they walk. The Zulus and other peoples arrange their hair in the

most extraordinary styles. These peculiar fashions are no doubt indulged

in under the impression that they add to the beauty of those who adopt

them. And so we find it in the case of tattooing, though the custom is

also supposed--in the case of men--to mark the transition from youth to

manhood, being performed usually at that period. To a small extent it is

also believed to be employed as a badge of mourning or sign of respect

for a departed friend. The tattoo is regarded as an honour, and is

reserved for free men only, slaves in New Zealand not being permitted to

undergo the operation. Oddly enough, those who are accustomed to see

tattooed people think that natives without it look bare and

"unfinished." Tattooing is said to be on the wane. If it be so, it is

quite possible that Macaulay's famous New Zealander may present none of

those marks which distinguished the features of King Tawhiao.

THE CHILDREN'S OWN GARDEN IN DECEMBER.

The present month undoubtedly presents fewer floral attractions than any

other in the whole year. Everything is in a torpid state of existence,

and the combined forces of frost, snow, wind, and rain render December

unpleasant both indoors and out. The only kinds of vegetation which seem

to flourish just now are the insignificant, but wonderfully beautiful,

mosses and lichens which everywhere clothe the rock and tree and hedge

with their diverse forms and hues. Unlike flowering plants, they do not

require culture of any sort, their beauty being wholly of a more or less

microscopic nature, and their nourishment is derived from the atmosphere

rather than by means of roots.

* * * * *

It is during such dull and lifeless months as December that our

attention becomes more engrossed with individual floral beauty, than it

does when the display is both extensive and varied. To obtain even a few

flowers at this time of the year much previous care and attention must

have been expended. Where one plant is detected in making more headway

than others its flowering-period may be greatly facilitated by carefully

guarding it from the evil effects of excessive rains and strong winds;

this may be easily done by placing an inverted bell-glass over the

plants, invariably lifting this off on fine and warm days, and whenever

there is no fear of damage from sudden winds or rains. Stifling hardy

plants by keeping them in a confined atmosphere, whether indoors or out,

is the worst possible plan to follow in order to procure early blooms.

* * * * *

An important feature in connection with next summer's display must now

be considered, and the preliminary arrangements carried out as far as

possible during the present month; it consists in the formation of new

shapes of beds, and a general reconstruction of design. But, as we have

previously intimated, it is most undesirable to have a small garden

chopped up into a number of beds, as then the greater part of space will

be needlessly taken up by walks. Too much uniformity is just as

undesirable as an excess of irregularities. No change of any sort should

be carried out without well considering whether such would be for the

better, and also whether the garden in its altered state would yield a

correspondingly greater amount of real pleasure, tantamount to the time

and trouble involved in effecting the change. Presupposing that some

change or other is to be done, great care must be taken not to destroy

the roots of various perennials, which may be hidden beneath the

surface, as many a rare and beautiful plant is in this manner often

destroyed.

* * * * *

The amount of planting to be done now is by no means extensive, but it

should only be done in dry weather. Narcissus, crocus, hyacinths, and

tulips should be all in the ground by the end of this month at the very

latest, and will produce bloom in very desirable succession to those

planted a month or two previously. A surfacing of cocoanut-fibre refuse,

which may be obtained from most seedsmen or nurserymen, will be found an

excellent protection against frosts, and also against the ravages of

slugs. The curious roots of ranunculus should be at once planted; these

roots consist of small, fleshy, spindle-shaped claws, which are united

at the crown. In planting, the claws should point _downwards_. Few late

spring flowering plants excel the ranunculus in richness of colour; and

to be grown with any degree of success a rich soil is essential, one of

light loam, leaf-mould, and spent hot-bed materials forming the best

compost. A distance of six inches apart each way, and a depth of about

two inches will suffice for these plants, and a warm sunny spot is most

suitable. The roots are very cheap, a dozen of various colours costing

only threepence or fourpence.

* * * * *

Anemones constitute a race of very pretty, delicate, and showy spring

flowers, having varieties of nearly every hue, both single and double,

but the former class is much preferable. They thrive best in good loamy

soil, which has been well manured the year previous to planting. Roots

should be obtained and planted--at about 4 in. apart--as soon as

possible, the sooner the better, so that the plants will be sturdy and

well grown before the very severe weather commences. Roots cost about

nine-pence or one shilling per dozen. Unless the charming lily of the

valley be already an inmate of our Children's Own Garden, a few "crowns"

should be now purchased and placed in almost any part of the garden, but

thorough drainage is most essential. Whilst thriving in any ordinary

soil, they produce very fine bloom when in a rich porous compost. The

roots should be taken up, divided, and replanted separately once in

every four years.

A RACE FOR A CAT.

A FAIRY STORY.

"Too small! too small!" so the birds sang, so the roses whispered, so

the bees hummed.

"She will creep in at the window," said the mother, who was kneeling

beside a little child. "Only a small child can do that."

[Illustration: "A CAT WAS LYING ... UPON A CHAIR" (_p. 363_).]

But the window shut down suddenly with a bang, and the house to which it

belonged began to move away, slowly at first, then quicker and quicker,

until it was out of sight altogether. The child began to sob, and said--

"Nan will run after it."

Ah! such a flutter among the roses, and such a twittering amongst the

birds, whilst the bees hummed--

"Too small, too small!

She should be tall,

If she would catch the house at all."

And the birds sang--

"She must grow,

We all do know;

And that's a process very slow."

"It will be years," said the mother, "before she grows tall."

"Pooh! porridge!" said a toy dog that was lying on the ground.

The mother turned round.

The little dog was standing upright, and had pricked up his ears.

"Porridge, porridge!" he said, and he kept saying it over so many times

that at last the mother thought there must be something in it.

II.

So the mother made some porridge, and Nan began to eat it.

At the first plateful she could look over the table; at the second she

reached up to her mother's shoulder; at the third she was taller than

her mother.

"Stop! stop!" said the mother, as Nan began upon the fourth plate;

"you'll be a giantess; and your legs are so thin, I am afraid they will

break in two. You look as if you were on stilts."

"One must have long legs," said Nan, "in order to run fast. It was the

woolly dog that thought of it," she added, and she would have stooped

down to pat the toy dog, with its red morocco collar, but she was so

high up that she found it a difficult matter to bend down. "I am as

stiff as a poker," said she.

The woolly dog, however, understood what she wanted, and he jumped upon

a chair, then upon the table, and finally into Nan's arms.

She would have given him some porridge, but her mother said--

"No; if he should grow as tall as you, we should not know what to do

with him."

Then the little dog laughed.

"Perhaps he will run away with the spoon," said Nan.

But no; he was an honest little dog, and did not think of doing anything

of the kind.

III.

On the opposite side of the house was an old gentleman in a velvet cap.

He had a paper in his hand, and was trying to teach something to a boy

who was on the other side of the trellis. But the boy was not attending

to him, though he kept his eyes fixed upon the paper.

No; he was muttering--

"The little cat was in the house, and the house moved away. It must have

been an enchanted house and an enchanted cat."

"What are you saying?" asked the old gentleman. "That is not on the

paper."

Then the boy looked up and said--

"If I'd seven-leagued boots, I'd go after them."

"That is certainly not written down there," answered the old gentleman.

"Of what are you thinking, Ulick?"

"Of the house that stood close by this house. I had a dream last night

that it moved away, and that the little cat with which I played had also

gone, and I want to go after them."

"You talk nonsense, Ulick. How can a house made of bricks and mortar and

heavy beams of wood move away?"

"That I know not; but it is gone. I hear it now rumbling away in the

distance, as if it were on great wheels--I do really," answered Ulick.