THE TALKING DOLL
Mr. Evringham's horseback rides in these days were apt to be accompanied by
the stories, which Jewel related to him with much enthusiasm while they
cantered through wood-roads, and it is safe to say that the tales furnished
full as much entertainment at second hand as they had at first.
The golden dog had deeply impressed Jewel's fancy, and when she finished
relating the story, her face all alight, Mr. Evringham shook his head.
"Star is going to have his hands full, I can see," he remarked, restraining
Essex Maid's longing for a gallop.
"Why, grandpa?"
"To hold his own against that dog."
Jewel looked thoughtful. "I suppose it wouldn't be any use to try to teach
Star to dance, would it?" she asked.
"Oh, yes. Ponies learn to dance. We shall have to go to a circus and let
you see one; but how should you like it every time Star heard a band or a
hand-organ to have him get up on his hind legs and begin?"
Jewel laughed and patted her pony's glossy neck. "I guess I like Star best
the way he is," she replied, "but grandpa, did you ever _hear_ of such a
darling dog?"
"I confess I never did," admitted the broker.
"I should think there was some trick Star could learn," said Jewel
musingly.
"Why, of course there is. Tell Zeke you wish to teach Star to shake hands.
He'll help you."
This idea pleased Jewel very much, and in the fullness of time the feat was
accomplished; but by the time the black pony had learned that he must lift
his little hoof carefully and put it in his mistress's hand, before his
lump of sugar was forthcoming, he wished, like the Lady Gertrude, that
there had never been a yellow dog in the world.
When next Mrs. Evringham, Jewel, and Anna Belle settled in the ravine to
the reading of a story, it was Jewel's turn to choose. When her mother had
finished naming the remaining titles, the child hesitated and lifted her
eyebrows and shoulders as she gave the reader a meaning glance. Mrs.
Evringham wondered what was in her mind, and, after a minute's thought,
Jewel turned to Anna Belle, sitting wide-eyed against a tree.
"Just excuse me one minute, dearie," she said; then, coming close to her
mother's ear, she whispered:--
"Is there anything in 'The Talking Doll' to hurt Anna Belle's feelings?"
"No, I think she'd rather like it," returned Mrs. Evringham.
"You see," whispered Jewel, "she doesn't know she's a doll."
"Of course not," said Mrs. Evringham.
Jewel sat back: "I choose," she said aloud, "I choose 'The Talking Doll.'"
As Anna Belle only maintained her usual amiable look of interest, Mrs.
Evringham proceeded to read aloud as follows:--
* * * * *
When Gladys opened her eyes on her birthday morning, the sun was streaming
across her room, all decorated in rose and white. It was the prettiest room
any little girl could have, and everything about the child looked so
bright, one would have expected her to laugh just for sympathy with the gay
morning; but as she sat up in bed she yawned instead and her eyes gazed
soberly at the dancing sunbeams.
"Ellen," she called, and a young woman came into the room.
"Oh, you're awake, Miss Gladys. Isn't this a fine birthday Mother Nature's
fixed up for you?"
The pleasant maid helped the little girl to bathe and dress, and, as the
toilet went on, tried to bring a cheerful look into Gladys's face. "Now
what are you hoping your mother has for you?" she asked, at last.
"I don't know," returned the child, very near a pout. "There isn't anything
I want. I've been trying to think what I'd like to have, and I can't think
of a thing." She said this in an injured tone, as if the whole world were
being unkind to her.
Ellen shook her head. "You are a very unlucky child," she returned
impressively.
"I am not," retorted Gladys, looking at Ellen in astonishment. The idea
that she, whom her father and mother watched from morning until night as
their greatest treasure, could be called unlucky! She had never expressed a
wish in her life that had not been gratified. "You mustn't say such things
to me, Ellen," added the child, vexed that her maid did not look sorry for
having made such a blunder.
Ellen had taken care of her ever since she was born, and no one should know
better what a happy, petted life she had led; but Ellen only shook her head
now; and when Gladys was dressed she went down to the dining-room where her
parents were waiting to give her a birthday greeting.
They kissed her lovingly, and then her mother said:--
"Well, what does my little girl want for her gift?"
"What have you for me?" asked Gladys, with only faint interest. She had
closets and drawers full of toys and books and games, and she was like a
person who has been feasted and feasted, and then is asked to sit down
again at a loaded table.
For answer her mother produced from behind a screen a beautiful doll. It
was larger and finer than any that Gladys had owned, and its parted, rosy
lips showed pearly little teeth within.
Gladys looked at it without moving, but began to smile. Then her mother put
her hand about the doll's waist and it suddenly said: "Ma-ma--Pa-pa."
"Oh, if she can talk!" cried Gladys, looking quite radiant for a minute,
and running forward she took the doll in her arms.
"Her name is Vera," said the mother, happy at having succeeded in pleasing
her child. "Here is something that your grandmother sent you, dear. Isn't
it a quaint old thing?" and Gladys's mother showed her a heavy silver bowl
with a cover. On the cover was engraved, "It is more blessed to give than
to receive."
"I don't know where your grandma found such an odd thing nor why she sent
it to a little girl; but she says it will be an heirloom for you."
Gladys looked at the bowl and handled it curiously. The cover fitted so
well and the silver was so bright she was rather pleased at having, such a
grown-up possession.
"It is evidently valuable," said her mother. "I will have it put with our
silver."
"No," returned Gladys, and her manner was the willful one of a spoiled
child. "I want it in my room. I like it."
"Oh, very well," answered her mother. "Grandma will be glad that you are
pleased."
An excursion into the country had been planned for Gladys to-day. She had
some cousins there, a girl of her own age and a boy a little older. She had
not seen Faith and Ernest for five years. Their father and mother were away
on a long visit now, so the children were living in the old farmhouse with
an aunt of their father's to take care of them. Gladys's mother thought it
would be a pleasant change for her in the June weather, and it was an
attractive idea to Gladys to think of giving these country cousins a sight
of her dainty self, her fine clothes, and perhaps she would take them one
or two old toys that she liked the least; but the coming of Vera put the
toy idea completely out of her head. What would Faith say to a doll who
could talk!
Gladys was in haste now for the time to come to take the train; and as Vera
was well supplied with various costumes, the doll was soon arrayed, like
her little mamma, in pretty summer street-dress and ready to start.
Gladys's father had a guest to-day, so his wife remained at home with him,
and Ellen took charge of the birthday excursion.
Driving to the station and during the hour's ride on the train, Gladys was
in gay spirits, chattering about her new doll and arranging its pretty
clothes, and each time Vera uttered her words, the child would laugh, and
Ellen laughed with her. Gladys was a girl ten years old, but to the maid
she was still a baby, and although Ellen thought she saw the child's
parents making mistakes with her every day, she, like them, was so relieved
when Gladys was good-natured that she joined heartily in the little girl's
pleasure now over her birthday present.
"Won't Faith's eyes open when she sees Vera?" asked Gladys gayly.
"I expect they will," returned Ellen. "What have you brought with you for
her and her brother?"
The child shrugged her shoulders. "Nothing. I meant to but I forgot it,
because I was so pleased with Vera. Isn't her hair sweet, Ellen?" and
Gladys twisted the soft, golden locks around her fingers.
"Yes, but it would have been nice to bring something for those children.
They don't have so much as you do."
"Of course not. I don't believe they have much of anything. You know
they're poor. Mother sends them money sometimes, so it's all right." And
Gladys poked the point of her finger within Vera's rosy lips and touched
her little white teeth.
Ellen shook her head and Gladys saw it and pouted. "Why didn't _you_ think
of it, then, or mother?" she asked.
"You won't have somebody to think for you all your life," returned Ellen.
"You'd better be beginning to think about other people yourself, Gladys.
What's that it said on your grandmother's silver bowl?"
"Oh, I don't know. Something about giving and receiving."
"Yes. 'It is more blessed to give than to receive,' that's what it said,"
and Ellen looked hard at her companion, though with a very soft gaze, too;
for she loved this little girl because she had spent many a wakeful night
and busy day for her.
"Yes, I remember," returned Gladys. "Grandma had that put on because she
wanted me to know how much she would rather give me things than have people
give things to her. Anyway, Ellen, if you are going to be cross on my
birthday I wish mother had come with me, instead;" and a displeased cloud
came over the little-girl's face, which Ellen hastened to drive away by
changing the subject. She knew her master and mistress would reprove her
for annoying their idol. They always said, when their daughter was
unusually naughty or selfish, "Oh, Gladys will outgrow all these things. We
Won't make much of them."
By the time they reached the country station, Gladys's spirits were quite
restored and, carrying her doll, she left the train with Ellen.
Faith and Ernest were there to meet them. No wonder the children did not
recognize each other, for they had been so young when last they met; and
when Gladys's curious eyes fell upon the country girl, she felt like a
princess who comes to honor humble subjects with a visit.
Faith and Ernest had never thought about being humble subjects. Their rich
relative who lived in some unknown place and sometimes sent their mother
gifts of money and clothing had often roused their gratitude, and when she
had written that their cousin Gladys would like to visit the farm on her
birthday, they at once set their wits to work to think how they could make
her have a good time. They always had a good time themselves, and now that
vacation had begun, the days seemed very full of fun and sunshine. They
thought it must be hard to live in a city street as their mother had
described, it to them, and even though she was away now and could not
advise them, they felt as if they could make Gladys enjoy herself.
Faith's hair was shingled as short as her brother's, and her gingham frock
was clean and fresh. She watched each person descend from the train, and
when a pretty girl with brown eyes and curls appeared, carrying a large
doll, Faith's bright gaze grew brighter, and she was delighted to find that
it was Gladys. She took it for granted that kind-faced Ellen, so well
dressed in black, was her aunt, and greeted her so, but Gladys's brown eyes
widened.
"My mother couldn't come, for father needed her," she explained. "This is
my maid, Ellen."
"Oh," said Faith, much impressed by such elegance. "We thought aunt Helen
was coming. Ernest is holding the horse over here," and she led the way to
a two-seated wagon where a twelve-year-old boy in striped shirt and old
felt hat was waiting.
Faith made the introductions and then helped Gladys and Ellen into the back
seat of the wagon, all unconscious of her cousin's wonder at the absence of
silver mountings and broadcloth cushions. Then Faith climbed over the wheel
into the seat beside her brother, and the horse started. She turned about
so as to talk more easily with her guest.
"What a beautiful doll!" she said admiringly.
"Yes," returned Gladys, "this is my birthday, you know."
"Oh, then, is it new? I thought it was! Hasn't she the prettiest clothes?
Have you named her yet?"
"Her name is Vera. Mother says it means true, or truth, or something like
that."
Ernest turned half around to glance at the object of the girls' admiration;
but he thought Gladys herself a much more attractive creature than the
doll.
"I suppose your cousin Gladys can't ask you to admire her doll much, Master
Ernest," said Ellen. She liked these rosy children at once, and the fresh,
sunlit air that had painted their cheeks.
"Oh, it's pretty enough," returned Ernest, turning back and clucking to the
horse.
Gladys enjoyed Faith's pleasure. She would not try to show off Vera's
supreme accomplishment in this rattlety-banging wagon. How it did jounce
over occasional stones in the country road!
[Illustration: "I HEAR A SHEEP"]
Ellen smiled at her as the child took hold of her arm in fear of losing her
balance. "That was a 'thank-ye-ma'am,'" she said, as the wagon suddenly
bounded over a little hillock. "Didn't you see what a pretty curtsy we all
made?"
But Gladys thought it was rather uncomfortable and that Ernest drove too
fast, considering the state of the toads.
"This wagon has such nice springs," said Faith. She was eager to take Vera
into her own hands, but no wonder Gladys liked to hold her when she had
only had her such a short time.
Aunt Martha was standing on the piazza to welcome the company when they
arrived. She was an elderly woman with spectacles, and it had to be
explained to her, also, that Ellen was not Gladys's mother.
The maid was so well dressed in her quiet street suit that aunt Martha
groaned in spirit at first at the prospect of caring for a fashionable city
servant; and it was a relief when the stranger looked up and said
pleasantly: "I'm just Ellen."
There was an hour left before dinner, and Faith and Ernest carried Gladys
off to a place they called the grove. The farmhouse was painted in light
yellow and white. It was built on a grassy slope, and at the foot of a
gentle hill a pretty pond lay, and out from this flowed a brook. If one
kept quite still he could hear the soft babble of the little stream even
from the piazza. Nearer by was a large elm-tree, so wide-spreading that the
pair of Baltimore orioles who hung their swaying nest on one limb scarcely
had a bowing acquaintance with the robins who lived on the other side. The
air was full of pleasant scents, and Gladys followed her hosts willingly,
far to the right side of the house, where a stone wall divided the grounds
from a piece of woodland. Her cousins bounded over the wall, and she tried
to find a safe spot for her dainty, thin shoe, the large doll impeding her
movements.
"Oh, let me take her!" cried Faith eagerly, seeing her cousin's
predicament; and as she carefully lifted the beautiful Vera, she added:
"Help Gladys over, Ernest."
Ernest was very unused to girls who had to be helped, and he was rather
awkward in trying to give his cousin assistance, but as Gladys tetered on
the unsteady stones, she grasped his strong shoulder and jumped down.
"Father and Ernest cleared this grove out for us," explained Faith. All the
underbrush had been carried away and the straight, sweet-smelling pines
rose from a carpet of dry needles. A hammock was swung between two trees.
It was used more by the children's mother than by them, as they were too
active to care for it; but Gladys immediately ran toward it, her recovered
doll in her arms, and seated herself in the netting. Her cousins regarded
her admiringly as she sat there pushing herself with her dainty shoe-tips.
"I'll swing you," said Ernest, and running to her side began with such a
will that Gladys cried out:--
"Oh, not so hard, not so hard!" and the boy dropped his hands, abashed.
Now, while they were both standing before her, was a good time for Gladys
to give them her great surprise; so she put her hands about Vera's waist,
and at once "Ma-ma--Pa-pa" sounded in the still grove.
Ernest pricked up his ears. "I hear a sheep," he said, looking about.
Gladys flushed, but turning toward Faith for appreciation, she made the
doll repeat her accomplishment.
"It's that dear Vera!" cried Faith, falling on her knees in the pine
needles before Gladys. "Oh, make her do it again, Gladys, please do!"
Her visitor smiled and complied, pleased with her country cousin's delight.
"Think of a doll that can talk!" cried Faith.
"I think she bleats," laughed Ernest, and he mimicked Vera's staccato
tones.
Faith laughed, too, but Gladys gave him a flash of her brown eyes.
"A boy doesn't know anything about dolls," said Faith. "I should think
you'd be the happiest girl, Gladys!"
"I am," returned Gladys complacently. "What sort of a doll have you,
Faith?"
"Rag, tag, and bobtail," laughed Ernest.
"Now you keep still," said his sister. "I'll show you my dolls when we go
to dinner, Gladys. I don't play with them very much because Ernest doesn't
like to, and now it's vacation we're together a lot, you know; but I just
love them, and if you were going to stay longer we'd have a lot of fun."
Faith looked so bright as she spoke, Gladys wished she had brought
something for her. She wasn't so sure about Ernest. He was a nice-looking,
strong boy, but he had made fun of Vera. At present he was letting off some
of his superfluous energy by climbing a tree.
"Look out for the pitch, Ernest," said his sister warningly. "See, Gladys,
I have a horse out here," and Faith went to where the low-growing limb of
a pine sprang flexibly as she leaped upon it into an imaginary side-saddle.
Gladys smiled at her languidly, as she bounded gayly up and down.
"I have a pony," returned Gladys, rocking gently in her swinging cradle.
"That must be splendid," said Faith. "Ernest rides our old Tom bareback
around the pasture sometimes, but I can't."
Very soon the children were called to dinner, and wonderfully good it
tasted to Gladys, who took note of cottage cheese, apple-butter, and
doughnuts, and determined to order them at home the very next day.
As they were all rising from the table, a telegraph boy drove up in a
buggy, and a telegram was handed to Ellen. Her face showed surprise as she
read it, and she looked at aunt Martha.
"Could we stay here a few days?" she asked.
"What is it, Ellen?" demanded Gladys.
"Your father's friend wants him and your mother to take a trip with him,
and your mother thinks you might like to stay here a while. I'm to answer,
and she will send some clothes and things."
Aunt Martha had already learned to like good, sensible Ellen, and she
replied cordially; so a telegram went back by the messenger boy, and Faith
and Gladys both jumped up and down with pleasure at the prolonging of the
visit. Ernest looked pleased, too. In spite of Gladys's rather languid,
helpless ways, he admired her very much; so the children scampered away,
being left this time on a chair in the parlor.
"Do you like turtles?" asked Faith of the guest.
"I don't know," returned Gladys.
"Didn't you ever see any?" asked Ernest in astonishment.
"I don't believe so."
"Then come on!" cried the boy, with a joyous whoop. "We'll go
turtle-hunting."
Gladys skipped along with them until they reached the brook.
"Now Ernest will walk on that side of the water," said Faith, "and you and
I will go on this."
"But what are we going to do?"
"Watch for turtles. You'll see."
Ernest jumped across the brook. Gladys walked along the soft grass behind
Faith, and the bubbling little stream swirled around its stones and gently
bent its grasses as it ran through the meadow.
In a minute Faith's practiced eye caught sight of a dark object on a stone
directly in front of them.
It was a turtle sunning himself. His black shell was covered with bright
golden spots, and his eyes were blinking slowly in the warm light.
"Quick, Ernest!" cried Faith, for it was on his side.
He sprang forward, but not quickly enough. The turtle had only to give one
vigorous push of his hind feet and, plump, he fell into the water.
Instantly the brook became muddy at that point, for Mr. Turtle knew that he
must be a very busy fellow if he escaped from the eager children who were
after him.
He burrowed into the soft earth while Ernest and Faith threw themselves
flat on their stomachs. Gladys opened her brown eyes wide to see her
cousins, their sleeves stripped up, plunging their hands blindly about
hoping to trap their reluctant playfellow.
Ernest was successful, and bringing up the muddy turtle, soused him in the
water until his golden spots gleamed again.
"Hurrah!" cried Faith, "we have him. Let me show him to Gladys, please,
Ernest," and the boy put the turtle into the hand stretched across to him.
As soon as the creature found that kicking and struggling did not do any
good, it had drawn head, legs, and tail into its pretty shell house.
Faith put him into Gladys's hand, but the little city girl cried out and
dropped him on the grass.
"Oh, excuse me," laughed Faith. "I thought you wanted to see it."
"I do, but I don't believe I want to touch it."
"Why, they're the dearest, cleanest things," said Faith, and picking up the
turtle she showed her cousin its pretty under shell of cream color and
black, and the round splashes of gold on its black back.
"But I saw it kicking and scratching Ernest, and putting its head way out,"
said Gladys doubtfully, "and I don't like to hold it because it might put
out all its legs and things again."
Faith laughed. "It only has four legs and a cunning little tail; and we
know how to hold it so it can't scratch us, anyway; but it won't put out
its head again until it thinks we've gone away, because this is an old one.
See, the shell covers my hand all over. The littler ones are livelier and
more willing to put out their heads. I don't believe we've had this one
before, Ernest," added Faith, examining the creature. "We nearly always
use the big ones for horses," she explained, "and then there's a gimlet
hole through the shell."
"Who would do that?" exclaimed Gladys, drawing back.
"Ernest. Why!" observing her cousin's look of horror. "It doesn't hurt
them. We wouldn't hurt them for anything. We just love them, and if they
weren't geese they'd love us, too."
"Use them for horses? What do you mean?"
"Why, they draw my smallest dolls in lovely chariots."
"Oh," returned Gladys. This sounded mysterious and interesting. She even
took the clean, compact shell into her hands for a minute before Faith
gathered up her dress skirt and dropped the turtle into it, the three
proceeding along the brook side, taking up their watch again.
The warm, sunny day brought the turtles out, and the next one they saw was
not larger than the palm of Ernest's hand. It was swimming leisurely with
the current.
They all three saw it at once, but quick as Faith was, the lively little
creature was quicker. As she and Ernest both darted upon it, it scrambled
for her side and burrowed swiftly under the bank. This was the best
stronghold for the turtle, and the children knew it.
"I just can't lose him, I can't!" cried Faith, and Gladys wondered at the
fearless energy with which she dived her hand into the mud, feeling around,
unmindful which portion of the little animal she grasped if she only caught
him; and catch him she did. With a squeal of delight she pulled out the
turtle, who continued to swim vigorously, even when in mid air.
"He's splendid and lively!" exclaimed Faith. "You can see him go on the
grass, Gladys," and the little girl put the creature down, heading him away
from the brook, and he made good time, thinking he was getting away from
his captor. "You see, Ernest harnesses them to a little pasteboard box, and
I put in my smallest dolls and we have more _fun_;" but by this time the
turtle realized that he was traveling inland, and turned around suddenly in
the opposite direction.
"No, no, pet!" cried Faith gayly. "Not yet," and she picked up the lively
one. "See, you hold them this way;" she held the shell between her thumb
and middle finger and the sharp little claws sawed the air in vain. "There,
cunning," she added, looking into the turtle's bright eyes, "go see your
auntie or uncle, or whoever it is," and she put it into her dress with the
other one, and they walked on.
"I hope we shall find a prince," said Ernest, "Gladys ought to see one of
those."
"Yes, indeed," responded Faith. "They're snapping turtles, really, and they
grow bigger than these common ones; but they're so handsome and hard to
find we call them princes. Their shells are gray on top and smooth and
polished, like satin; and then, underneath, oh, they're beautiful;
sometimes plain ivory, and sometimes bright red; and they have lovely
yellow and black splashes where the lower shell joins the upper. I wish you
could see a baby turtle, Gladys. Once I found one no bigger than a quarter
of a dollar. I don't believe it had ever been in the water."
"I wish I could," returned Gladys, with enthusiasm. "I wouldn't be a bit
afraid of a little, _little_ one."
"Of course that one she found was just a common turtle, like these," said
Ernest, "but a baby prince is the thing we want."
"Yes, indeed," sighed Faith ecstatically. "If I could just once find a baby
prince with a red under shell, I don't know what I'd do! I'd be too happy
for anything. I've hunted for one for two whole summers. The big ones do
snap so that, though they're so handsome, you can't have much fun with
them."
The children walked on, Gladys now quite in the spirit of the hunt. They
found two more spotted turtles before they turned again to retrace their
steps.
Now it proved that this was to be a red-letter day in the history of their
turtle hunts, for on the way home they found the much sought baby prince.
He had been in this world long enough to become a polished little creature,
with all his points of beauty brought out; but not long enough to be
suspicious and to make a wild scramble when he saw the children coming.
Faith's trained eyes fell first upon the tiny, dark object, sunning himself
happily in all his baby innocence, and blinking at the lovely green world
surrounding his shallow stone. Her heart beat fast and she said to herself,
"Oh, I _know_ it's a common one!" She tiptoed swiftly nearer. It was not a
common one. It was a prince! It _was_ a prince!
She didn't know whether to laugh or cry, as, holding her skirt-bag of
turtles with one hand, she lightly tiptoed forward, and, falling on her
knees in front of the stone, gathered up the prince, just as he saw her
and pushed with his tiny feet to slip off the rock into the brook.
"Oh, oh, _oh_!" was all she could say as she sat there, swaying herself
back and forth, and holding the baby to her flushed cheek.
"What is it? What?" cried Ernest, jumping across the brook to her side. She
smiled at him and Gladys without a word, and held up her prize, showing the
pretty red under shell, while the baby, very much astonished to find
himself turned over in mid air, drew himself into his house.
"Oh, the cunning, _cunning_ thing!" cried Gladys, her eyes flashing
radiantly. "I'm so glad we found him!"
Gladys, like a good many beside herself, became fired with enthusiasm to
possess whatever she saw to be precious in the sight of others. Yesterday,
had she seen the baby prince in some store she would not have thought of
asking her mother to buy it for her; but to-day it had been captured, a
little wild creature for which Faith had been searching and hoping during
two summers; and poor Gladys had been so busy all her life wondering what
people were going to get for her, and wondering whether she should like it
very well when she had it, that now, instead of rejoicing that Faith had
such a pleasure, she began to feel a hot unrest and dissatisfaction in her
breast.
"He is a little beauty," she said, and then looked at her cousin and waited
for her to present to her guest the baby turtle.
"Why didn't I see it first?" she thought, her heart beating fast, for Faith
showed no sign of giving up her treasure. "Do you suppose we could find
another?" she asked aloud, making her wistfulness very apparent as they
again took up the march toward home.
"Well, I guess not," laughed Ernest. "Two of those in a day? I guess not.
Let me carry it for you, Faith. You have to hold up your dress skirt."
"Oh, thank you, Ernest, I don't mind, and he's _so_ cunning!"
Ernest kept on with the girls, now, on their side of the brook. It would be
an anti-climax to catch any more turtles this afternoon.
"If I could find one," said Gladys, "I would carry it home for my
aquarium."
"Oh, have you an aquarium?" asked Faith with interest.
"Yes, a fine one. It has gold and silver fish and a number of little water
creatures, and a grotto with plants growing around it."
"How lovely it must be," said Faith, and Gladys saw her press her lips to
the baby prince's polished back.
"She's an awfully selfish girl," thought Gladys. "I wouldn't treat company
so for anything!"
"You'll see the aquarium Faith and I have," said Ernest. "It's only a tub,
but we get a good deal of fun out of it. It's our stable, too, you see. Did
you notice we caught one of our old horses to-day? Let's see him, Faith,"
and Ernest poked among the turtles and brought out one with a little hole
made carefully in the edge of his shell.
"It seems very cruel to me," said Gladys, with a superior air.
"Oh, it isn't," returned Faith eagerly. "We'd rather hurt each other than
the turtles, wouldn't we, Ernest?"
"I guess so," responded the boy, rather gruffly. He didn't wish Gladys to
think him too good.
"It doesn't hurt them a bit," went on Faith, "but you know turtles are
lazy. They're all relations of the tortoise that raced with the hare in
Æsop's fable." Her eyes sparkled at Gladys, who smiled slightly. "And they
aren't very fond of being horses, so we only keep them a day or two and
then let them go back into the brook. I think that's about as much fun as
anything, don't you, Ernest?"
"Oh, I don't know," responded her brother, who was beginning to feel that
all this turtle business was a rather youthful pastime for a member of a
baseball team.
"You see," went on Faith, "we put the turtles on the grass only a foot or
two away from the brook, and wait."
"And we do have to wait," added Ernest, "for they always retire within
themselves and pull down the blind, as soon as we start off with them
anywhere."
"But we press a little on their backs," said Faith, "and then they put out
their noses, and when they smell the brook they begin to travel. It's such
fun to see them dive in, _ker-chug_! Then they scurry around and burrow in
the mud, getting away from us, just as if we weren't willing they should.
They are pretty silly, I must say," laughed Faith, "and it's the hardest
thing to make them understand that you love them; but," her tone changed
tenderly as she held up the baby prince, "_you'll_ know I love you, won't
you, dear, when I give you tiny little pieces of meat every day!"
The cloud on Gladys's face deepened.
"Come on, let's hustle and put the turtles away and go for a row. Do you
like to row, Gladys?" asked Ernest.
"Yes, I guess so," she responded, rather coldly.
They ran up the hill to the side of the house where was a shallow tub of
water with a rock in the middle, its top high and dry. There was also a
floating shingle; so the steeds could swim or sun themselves just as suited
their fancy. The upper edge of the tub was covered with tin so that sharp
little claws could not find a way to climb out.
"It's fun to see them go in," said Faith, placing one on the rock and one
on the shingle, where they rested at first without sign of life; but in a
minute out came head and legs and, spurning the perches with their strong
feet, plump the turtles went into the water and to the bottom, evidently
convinced that they were outwitting their captors.
"Don't you want to choose one special one for yours, Gladys? It's fun to
name them," said Faith.
The visitor hesitated only a moment. "I choose the baby, then," she said.
"You know I'm afraid of the big ones."
Ernest thought she was joking. It did not occur to him that any one who had
seen Faith's happiness in finding the prince could seriously think of
taking it from her.
"Yes," he laughed, "I guess you and I won't get a chance at that one,
Gladys."
Faith's expression changed and her eyes grew thoughtful. "Hurry up,
girls," continued Ernest, "come on, we won't have very much time."
So the turtles, prince and all, were left disporting themselves in the tub,
and the trio went down to the pond, where Ernest untied his boat. Faith
jumped in, but Gladys timorously placed her little foot upon the unsteady
gunwale, and the children had to help her into the boat as they had done
over the wall.
"I wish I'd brought Vera," she said when she was seated and Ernest was
pushing the boat off.
"Next time we will," replied Faith.
"I don't see why Ernest couldn't go back for her now," said Gladys. "I'm
not used to walking so much and I'm too tired to go myself."
"You want me to run up the hill after a _doll_!" asked the boy, laughing.
He began to believe his pretty cousin was very fond of joking. "Something
might happen to her before you saw her," he added mischievously.
The pond was a charming sheet of water. Trees lined its edges in summer,
and it was a great place for sport in winter. Faith and Ernest chattered to
their cousin of all the coasting and skating, and their bright faces and
jolly stories only increased the uncomfortable feeling that Gladys had
allowed to slip into her heart.
Her cousins had more fun than she did. It wasn't fair. She had no eyes for
the pretty scenery about her, as Ernest's strong arms sent the boat flying
along. Faith noticed her changed looks and for the first time wondered how
it was going to seem to have Gladys to take care of for--they couldn't tell
how long; but she only tried the harder to bring back the bright look her
cousin had worn at dinner time.
In a few minutes Gladys began to rock the boat from side to side.
"Don't do that, please," said Ernest.
There was a tone of command in his voice, and the spoiled child only rocked
the harder.
"None of that, I tell you, Gladys," he said sharply.
"Please don't," added Faith.
But the error that Gladys had let creep in was enjoying her cousin's
anxiety, and she smiled teasingly as she went on rocking. She had
condescended to come out to the farm, and she would let these country
children see if they could order her about.
Ernest said no more, but he promptly turned the boat around and pulled for
the shore.
"What are you doing?" asked Gladys.
"Going ashore."
"I don't want to," she exclaimed, her cheeks flushing. "I want to go up
there." She pointed to a spot in the distance. "I want to go around that
corner and see what there is there."
"Not to-day," replied Ernest, pulling sturdily.
We won't look into Gladys's heart and see what went on there then, because
it is too unpleasant.
"You see we're the crew," said Faith, a little scared by her cousin's
flashing eyes and crimson cheeks. "We have to do what Ernest says. He knows
a lot about boats, Gladys, and it _is_ dangerous to rock. The pond is real
deep."
"I shall come out in the boat alone, then," declared Gladys.
"Oh, no, you won't," remarked Ernest, smiling. "People that rock boats need
a keeper."
Faith's eyes besought him, "I'll take you out to-morrow if you'll promise
to sit still," he went on; "but if anything happened to the boat, you see I
couldn't save both of you, and I'd be likely to try to save Faith; so you'd
better go ashore now and think it over."
Gladys stared at him in utter amazement that any one could speak to her so.
Why had she ever come to the farm!
However, she quickly put on a little air of indifference and only said:--
"How silly to be so afraid!"
All she cared for now was to get to Ellen and pour out her troubles, and
she was quite silent while she jumped ashore, although the wavering boat
made her clutch Faith's hand hard.
Tender-hearted Faith felt very sorry for her cousin, so she began talking
about Vera as they went up the hill saying how anxious she was to hear her
speak again.
"I'll never let you!" exclaimed that strong error that had taken possession
of Gladys, but her lips set tight and she was glad to see Ellen come out on
the piazza.
As the children approached they saw that the maid had something bright in
her hand, and that she was smiling.
"Well, Gladys," she said, "your mother's sent a trunk, and this was with
your clothes. What do you think of that? I expect your mother thought you
might like to have it."
Gladys recognized the silver bowl with satisfaction. She was glad to have
Faith and Ernest see the sort of things she was used to.
"Oh, it looks like a wishing bowl," cried Faith in admiration.
"It is a solid silver bowl that my grandmother sent me for my birthday,"
remarked Gladys coolly, and she took it from Ellen.
"Let's see what it says on it," said Faith, and she read the inscription
aloud. Then she added: "It does look just like the wishing bowl in our
story."
"What was that?" asked Gladys.
"Why, it was a bright, beautiful silver bowl with a cover, and all you had
to do if you wanted something was to say:--
Pretty little silver dish,
Give me, pray, my dearest wish;
and then, when you took off the cover, whatever you had asked for was in
the bowl!"
Gladys shrugged her shoulders. Then she took hold of Ellen's hand and drew
her into the house and closed the door after them.
Faith and Ernest did not attempt to follow. They sat down on the steps and
looked at one another.
"She's hopping, isn't she?" said Ernest softly.
"Oh, dear," returned Faith dejectedly, "and it all began with the baby
prince."
"What do you mean?"
"She wants him for her aquarium."
Ernest paused a minute to think over his cousin's words and actions; then
he broke out indignantly; "Well, she won't get him."
"I have hunted for him so long!" mourned Faith, "and his shell is so red;
but, Ernest, didn't you notice what it said on that bowl?"
"Yes, I did; but Gladys is a great baby and she isn't going to get
everything. Tell her you'll exchange the prince for that baa-ing doll of
hers, if you like it. I tell you what, Faith, I've had about enough of her
after that boat business. If she's going to stay on here I shall go off
with the fellows."
Meanwhile Gladys had seized the beautiful Vera and drawn Ellen off upstairs
to their room. The maid saw the signs of storm in her face, and her own
grew troubled, for it was one thing to vex Gladys and quite another to
appease her.
"I'm not going to stay here," announced the little girl, as soon as the
door was closed, her breath coming fast. "Faith and Ernest are the most
selfish, impolite children I ever saw!"
Ellen sighed, and, sitting down, drew the child into her lap.
She continued excitedly: "We went turtle-hunting and found a lot of
scrabbly things that I couldn't bear, but Faith and Ernest like them. Then
when we found a pretty little young one that I wouldn't be a bit afraid of,
Faith kept it for herself. Just think, when I was company, and she had all
the others beside. I'm just crazy to have it, and they're _very_ hard to
find and we can't _ever_ find another. Shouldn't you think she'd feel
ashamed? Then when, we went out in the boat, just because I moved around a
little and made the boat rock, Ernest brought us in when I didn't want to
come a bit. I even _told_ him I didn't want to come in, because I wanted to
see a part of the pond that looked pretty, but he brought us just the same.
Did you ever _hear_ of such impoliteness?"
Ellen had had too much experience with the little girl not to know that
there was another side to this story; but she gathered Gladys down in her
arms with the curly head on her shoulder, and, while a few hot tears fell
from the brown eyes, she rocked her, and it comforted the little girl's
sore places to feel her nurse's love.
"I'm glad Ernest brought you in," said Ellen, after a minute of silent
rocking. "If anything happened to you, you know that would be the last of
poor Ellen. I could never go back to town."
Gladys gave a sob or two.
"These children haven't nearly so much as you have," went on Ellen quietly.
"Perhaps Faith was as happy over the little turtle as you are over your
talking doll. She hasn't any rich mother to give her things, you know."
"They have _lots_ of things. They have a great deal more fun in winter than
I do," returned Gladys hotly.
Ellen patted her. "You have too much, Gladys," she replied kindly. "When I
said this morning that you were unlucky, you couldn't understand it; but
perhaps this visit to the farm will make you see differently. There's such
a thing as having too much, dear, and that sentence on your silver bowl is
as true as true. Now there's the supper bell. Let me wash your face."
Gladys was deeply offended, but she was also hungry, and she began to
wonder if there would be apple-butter and cottage cheese again.
There was, and the little girl did full justice to the supper, especially
to aunt Martha's good bread and butter; but when the meal was over she
refused to go out and romp on the lawn with her cousins.
"Gladys isn't used to so much running around," said Ellen pleasantly to the
other children. "I guess she's a pretty sleepy girl and will get into bed
early."
So when Ellen had helped aunt Martha with the supper dishes, Gladys went
upstairs with her, to go to bed.
She was half undressed when some one knocked softly, and Faith came into
the room. The silver bowl stood on a table near the door, and the little
girl paused to look at it and examine the wreath of roses around its edge.
"I never saw one so handsome," she said. Then she came forward. "I thought
perhaps you'd let me see you undress Vera," she added.
"She is undressed," answered Gladys shortly.
"Oh, yes!" Faith went up to the bed where the doll lay in its nightdress.
"May I make her speak once?"
"No, I'm afraid you might hurt her," returned Gladys shortly, and Ellen
gave her a reproachful look. Gladys didn't care! How could a girl expect to
be so selfish as Faith, and then have everybody let her do just what she
wanted to?
Faith drew back from the bed. "I wish you'd let me see you wish once on
your bowl before I go away," she said.
"How silly," returned Gladys. "Do you suppose I believe in such things? You
can wish on it yourself, if you like."
"Oh, that wouldn't be any use," returned Faith eagerly, "because it only
works for the one it belongs to."
"Perhaps you wouldn't like to have me make a wish and get it," said
Gladys, thinking of the baby prince's lovely polished tints and bewitching
little tail.
"Yes, I would. I'd _love_ to. Do, Gladys, do, and see what happens."
Gladys curved her lips scornfully, but the strong wish sprang in her
thought, and with a careless movement she pulled off the silver cover.
Her mouth fell open and her eyes grew as big as possible; for she had
wished for the prince, and there he was, creeping about in the bowl and
lifting his little head in wonder at his surroundings.
"Why, Faith!" was all she could say. "Where did it come from?"
"The brook, of course," returned Faith, clapping her hands in delight at
her cousin's amazement. "Take him out and let's see whether he's red or
plain ivory underneath."
"Will he scrabble?" asked Gladys doubtfully.
"No-o," laughed Faith.
So the little city girl took up the turtle and lo, he was as beautiful a
red as the one of the afternoon.
"Isn't he lovely!" she exclaimed, not quite liking to look her cousin in
the eyes. "Where shall I put him for to-night?"
"We'll put a little water in your wash-bowl, not much, for they are so
smart about climbing out."
Ellen, also, was gazing at the royal infant. "He is a pretty little thing,"
she said, "but for pity's sake, Faith, fix it so he won't get on to my bare
feet!"
Later, when they were alone and Ellen kissed Gladys good-night, she looked
closely into her eyes "Now you're happier, I suppose," she said.
"Of course. Won't he be cunning in my aquarium?" asked Gladys, returning
her look triumphantly.
"Yes." Vera was in bed, also, and to please the child, Ellen stooped and
kissed the doll's forehead, too. "God be good," she said gently, "to the
poor little girl who gets everything she wants!"
A few minutes after the light was out and Ellen had gone, Gladys pulled
Vera nearer to her. "Wasn't that a silly sort of thing for Ellen to say?"
she asked.
"I don't think so," returned Vera.
Gladys drew back. "Did you answer me?" she said.
"Certainly I did."
"Then you really can talk!" exclaimed Gladys joyfully.
"At night I can," said Vera.
"Oh, I'm so glad. I'm so glad!" and Gladys hugged her.
"I'm not so sure that you will be," returned Vera coolly.
"Why not?"
"Because I have to speak the truth. You know my name is Vera."
"Well, I should hope so. Did you suppose I wouldn't want you to speak the
truth?" Gladys laughed.
"Yes. You don't hear it very often, and you may not like it."
"Why, what a thing to say!"
"Ellen tries, sometimes, but you won't listen."
Gladys kept still and her companion proceeded:
"She knows all the toys and books and clothes and pets that you have at
home, and she sees you forgetting all of them because Faith has just one
thing pretty enough for you to wish for."
By this time Gladys had found her tongue. "You're just as impolite as you
can be, Vera!" she exclaimed.
"Of course. You always think people are impolite who tell you the truth;
but I explained to you that I have to. Who was impolite when you rocked the
boat, although Ernest asked you not to?"
"He was as silly as he could be to think there was any danger. Don't you
suppose I know enough not to rock it too far? And then think how impolite
he was to say right out that he would save Faith instead of me if we fell
into the water. I can tell you my father would lock him up in prison if he
didn't save me."
"Well, you aren't so precious to anybody else," returned Vera. "Why would
people want a girl around who thinks only of herself and what she wants.
I'm sure Faith and Ernest will draw a long breath when you get on the cars
to go back."
"Oh, I don't believe they will," returned Gladys, ready to cry.
"What have you done to make them glad you came? You didn't bring them
anything, although you knew they couldn't have many toys, and it was
because you were so busy thinking how much lovelier your doll was than
anything Faith could have. Then the minute Faith found one nice thing"--
"Don't say that again," interrupted Gladys. "You've said it once."
"You behaved so disagreeably that she had to give it to you."
"You have no right to talk so. The prince came up from the brook, Faith
said so."
"Oh, she was playing a game with you and she knew you understood. It isn't
pleasant to have to say such things to you, Gladys, but I'm Vera and I have
to--I shouldn't think you could lift your head up and look Faith and Ernest
in the face to-morrow morning. What must Ernest think of you!"
Gladys's cheeks were very hot. "Didn't you see how glad Faith was when she
gave--I mean when I found the prince in the bowl? I guess you haven't read
what it says on that silver cover or you wouldn't talk so."
"Oh, yes, I have. That's truth, too, but you haven't found it out yet."
"Well, I wish I had brought them something," said Gladys, after a little
pause. "Why," with a sudden thought, "there's the wishing-bowl. I'll get
something for them right now!"
She jumped out of bed, and striking a match, lighted the candle. Vera
followed her, and as Gladys seated herself on one side of the little table
that held the silver bowl, Vera climbed into a chair on the other side.
Gladys looked into her eyes thoughtfully while she considered. She would
give Faith something so far finer than the baby prince that everybody would
praise her for her generosity, and no one would remember that she had ever
been selfish. Ah, she knew what she would ask for!
"For Faith first," she said, addressing Vera, then looking at the glinting
bowl she silently made her wish, then with eager hand lifted off the cover.
Ah! Ah! What did she behold! A charming little bird, whose plumage changed
from purple to gold in the candle light, stood on a tiny golden stand at
the bottom of the bowl.
Gladys lifted it out, and as soon as it stood on her hand, it began to
warble wonderfully, turning its head from side to side like some she had
seen in Switzerland when she was there with her mother.
"Oh, Vera, isn't it _sweet_!" she cried in delight.
"Beautiful!" returned Vera, smiling and clapping her little hands.
When the song ceased Gladys looked thoughtful again. "I don't think it's a
very appropriate present for Faith," she said, "and I've always wanted one,
but we could never find one so pretty in our stores."
Vera looked at her very soberly.
"Now you just stop staring at me like that, Vera. I guess it's mine, and I
have a right to keep it if I can think of something that would please Faith
better. Now let me see. I must think of something for Ernest. I'll just
give him something so lovely that he'll wish he'd bitten his tongue before
he spoke so to me in the boat."
Gladys set the singing bird in her lap, fixed her eyes on the bowl, and
again decided on a wish.
Taking off the cover, a gold watch was seen reposing on the bottom of the
bowl. "That's it, that's what I wished for!" she cried gladly, and she took
out the little watch, which was a wonder. On its side was a fine engraving
of boys and girls skating on a frozen pond. Gladys's bright eyes caught
sight of a tiny spring, which she touched, and instantly a fairy bell
struck the hour and then told off the quarters and minutes.
"Oh, it's a repeater like uncle Frank's!" she cried, "and so small, too!
Mother said I couldn't have one until I was grown up. Won't she be
surprised! I don't mean to tell her for ever so long where I got it."
"I thought it was for Ernest," remarked Vera quietly.
"Why, Vera," returned the child earnestly, "I should think you'd see that
no boy ought to have a watch like that. If it was a different _kind_ I'd
give it to him, of course."
"Yes, if it wasn't pretty and had nothing about it that you liked, you'd
give it to him, I suppose; and if the bird couldn't sing, and had dark,
broken feathers so that no child would care about it, you'd give it to
Faith, no doubt."
Gladys felt her face burn. She knew this was the truth, but oh, the
entrancing bird, how could she see it belong to another? How could she
endure to see Ernest take from his pocket this watch and show people its
wonders!
"Selfishness is a cruel thing," said Vera. "It makes a person think she can
have a good time being its slave until all of a sudden the person finds out
that she has chains on that cannot be broken. You think you can't break
that old law of selfishness that makes it misery to you to see another
child have something that you haven't. Poor, unhappy Gladys!"
"Oh, but this bird, Vera!" Gladys looked down at the little warbler. What
did she see! A shriveled, sorry, brown creature, its feathers broken. She
lifted it anxiously. No song was there. Its poor little beady eyes were
dull.
She dropped it in disgust and again picked up the watch. What had happened
to it? The cover was brass, the picture was gone. Pushing the spring had no
effect.
"Oh, Faith and Ernest can have them now!" cried Gladys. Presto! in an
instant bird and watch had regained every beauty they had lost, and
twinkled and tinkled upon the astonished child's eyes and ears until she
could have hugged them with delight; but suddenly great tears rolled from
her eyes, for she had a new thought.
"What does this mean, Vera? Will they only be beautiful for Faith and
Ernest?"
"You asked for them to enjoy the blessing of giving, you know, not to keep
for yourself. Beside, they showed a great truth when they grew dull."
"How?" asked Gladys tearfully.
"That is the way they would look to you in a few months, after you grew
tired of them; for it is the punishment of the selfish, spoiled child, that
her possessions disgust her after a while. There is only one thing that
lives, and remains bright, and brings us happiness,--that is thoughtful
love for others. There's nothing else, Gladys, there is nothing else. I am
Vera."
"And I have none of it, none!" cried the unhappy child, and rising, she
threw herself upon the bed, broken-hearted, and sobbed and sobbed.
Ellen heard her and came in from the next room.
"What is it, my lamb, what is it?" she asked, approaching the bed
anxiously.
"Oh, Ellen, I can't tell you. I can never tell you!" wailed the child.
"Well, move over, dearie. I'll push Vera along and there'll be room for us
all. There, darling, come in Ellen's arms and forget all about it."
Gladys cuddled close, and after a few more catches in her breath, she slept
soundly.
When she wakened, the sunlight was streaming through the plain room,
gilding everything as it had done in her rose and white bower yesterday at
home. Ellen was moving about, all dressed. Gladys turned over and looked at
Vera, pretty and innocent, her eyes closed and her lips parted over little
white teeth. The child came close to the doll. The wonderful dream returned
vividly.
"Your name is Vera. You had to," she whispered, and closed her eyes.
"How is the baby prince?" she asked, after a minute, jumping out of bed.
"He's lively, but I expect he's as hungry as you are. What's he going to
have?"
"Meat," replied Gladys, looking admiringly at the pretty little creature.
"I brought in my wash-bowl for your bath. I suppose princes can't be
disturbed," said Ellen.
While she buttoned Gladys's clothes, the little girl looked at the silver
bowl, and the chairs where she and Vera had sat last night in her dream.
She even glanced about to see some sign of watch and bird, but could not
find them. How busily her thoughts were working!
Sensible Ellen said nothing of bad dreams; and by the time Gladys went
downstairs, her face looked interested and happy. After all, it wasn't as
though there wasn't any God to help a person, and she had said a very
fervent prayer, with her nose buried in Vera's golden curls, before she
jumped out of bed.
She had the satin shell of the baby prince in her hand. He had drawn into
it because he was very uncertain what was going to happen to him; but
Gladys knew.
She said good-morning to her cousins so brightly that Faith was pleased;
but pretty as she looked, smiling, Ernest saw the prince in her hand and
was more offended with her than ever.
"I want to thank you, Faith," she said, "for letting the baby stay in my
room all night. I had the most fun watching him while I was dressing."
She put the little turtle into her cousin's hand.
"Oh, but I gave him to you," replied Faith earnestly.
"After you hunted for him for two summers, I couldn't be so mean as to take
him. I'm just delighted you found him, Faith," and Gladys had a very happy
moment then, for she found she _was_ happy. "Let's give him some bits of
meat."
"She's all right," thought Ernest, with a swift revulsion of feeling, and
he was as embarrassed as he was astonished when his cousin turned suddenly
to him:--
"If you'll take me in the boat again," she said, "I won't rock. I'm sorry I
did."
"It _is_ a fool trick," blurted out Ernest, "but you're all right, Gladys.
I'll take you anywhere you want to go."
Ellen had heard this conversation. Later in the morning she was alone for a
minute with Gladys, and the little girl said:--
"Don't you think it would be nice, Ellen, when we get home, to make up a
box of pretty things and send to Faith and Ernest?"
"I do, that," replied the surprised Ellen.
"I'm going to ask mother if I can't send them my music-box. They haven't
any piano."
"Why, you couldn't get another, Gladys."
"I don't care," replied the child firmly. "It would be so nice for evenings
and rainy days." She swallowed, because she had not grown tired of the
music box.
Ellen put her hands on the little girl's brow and cheeks and remembered the
sobbing in the night. "Do you feel well, Gladys?" she asked, with concern.
This unnatural talk alarmed her.
"I never felt any better," replied the child.
"Well, I wouldn't say anything to them about the music-box, dearie."
Gladys smiled. "I know. You think I'd be sorry after I let it go; but if I
am I'll talk with Vera."
Ellen laughed. "Do you think it will always be enough for you to hear her
say 'Ma-ma, Pa-pa?'" she asked.
Gladys smiled and looked affectionately at her good friend; but her lips
closed tightly together. Ellen knew all that Vera did; but the nurse loved
her still! The child was to have many a tussle with the hard mistress whose
chains she had worn all her short life, but Truth had spoken, and she had
heard; and Love was coming to help in setting her free.