trotted out into the darkness.  Her heavy shawl rather impeded her, so
she could not go very fast, and the road was rough and uneven for her
small feet.  She looked up to see if she could find any comfortable
twinkling star for a companion, but the sky was all black and overcast,
and there was no moon.  Then she said her evening prayer to herself, but
it was very short and did not last long, and then all the hymns she
knew, and then all the texts, and by that time she was nearly at the
bottom of the lane, when, oh misfortune!  She caught her foot in the
dangling end of the big shawl and fell flat in the mud.  It was very
hard to keep back the tears after that; but she gathered herself up as
well as she could and stumbled on, until at last she passed through the
white gate, which stood open, and reached the front door of the
Vicarage.  But her troubles were not over yet, for she found that, even
by standing on the very tips of her toes, she could reach neither bell
nor knocker.  She rapped as hard as she could with her soft little
knuckles, but they made no more noise on the great door than a bird's
beak would have done; and then she tried some little kicks, but no one
came.

She felt very lonely and miserable with the black night all round her,
and it seemed to make it worse to think of her brothers and sisters
enjoying themselves so much at Mr Chorley's.  How sorry they would be
for Nan if they knew!  And then she felt so sorry for herself, that she
was obliged to sit down on the stone steps and cry.  She was hungry, as
well as frightened and cold, for she had been much too excited to eat
anything at tea-time, and now it was past ten o'clock.  Oh to be in her
little white bed at home!  She cuddled herself up as close to the door
as she could, and laid her cheek against it, shrinking back from the
darkness which seemed to press against her, and presently, how it came
to pass she never know, her head began to nod and she went fast to
sleep.

The next thing she remembered was hearing a voice say, quite close to
her: "Why, it's little Nan!  How did the child get here?"  And then
someone took her up, and carried her with strong arms into a warm room
with bright lights.  And then she found herself on cousin Annie's knee,
and saw people standing round asking eager questions and looking very
much amused.  And no wonder, for Nan was a very funny-looking little
bundle indeed, in spite of her woe-begone appearance; her round face was
streaked with mud, and tears, and scarlet paint, and the odd little wig
had fallen over one eye in a waggish manner.  When the hood and shawl
were taken off, a more disconsolate little Jack-in-the-box could hardly
be imagined, for what with hunger, fatigue, and the comfort of feeling
cousin Annie's kind arms round her, Nan's tears fell fast and she could
not stop them.

They could just make out between her sobs something about "Sophy" and
"sleeping," but that was all; and at last cousin Annie said, "Never
mind, darling, you shall tell me all about it by and by."  And then poor
little weary Nan was carried upstairs, and washed, and put to bed, and
cousin Annie brought her some supper, and sat by her until she dropped
gently off to sleep.

It turned out afterwards that Fraulein in the excitement of the moment
had forgotten to deliver the message about Nan, so that none expected
her at the Vicarage.  When she went home the next day Tom said she was
quite a "little heroine."  Nan did not know what that meant, but she was
sure it was something pleasant.

And the best of it all was, that after this adventure Nan never felt so
frightened of the dark again.  But that she kept to herself.

STORY FIVE, CHAPTER 1.

PENELOPE'S NEEDLEWORK--A SHORT STORY.

One of the greatest trials of Penelope's life when she was ten years old
was music, and the other, needlework; she could not see any possible use
in learning either of them, and none of the arguments put forward by
nurse, governess, or mother, made the least impression on her mind.  It
was especially hard, she thought, that she had to go on with music,
because Ralph, her younger brother, had been allowed to leave off.
"Won't you have pity on me, and let me leave off too?" she asked her
mother one day imploringly.  But mother, though she was touched by the
pleading face, and though Penelope's music lessons were household
afflictions, thought it better to be firm.

"You see, darling," she said, "that now you have got on so much further
than Ralph it would be a pity to leave off.  You have broken the back of
it."

"Ah, no," sighed poor Penelope, "it's broken the back of me."

And then the needlework!  Could there be a duller, more unsatisfactory
occupation?  Particularly if your stitches _would_ always look crooked
and straggling, and when the thimble hurt your finger, and the needle
got sticky, and the thread broke when you least expected it.  It was
quite as bad as music in its way.  Penelope would sigh wearily over her
task, and envy the people in the Waverley novels, who, she felt sure,
never sewed seams or had music lessons.

For the Waverley novels were Penelope's favourite books, and she asked
nothing better than to curl herself up in some corner with one of the
volumes, and to be left alone.

Then, once plunged into the adventures of "Ivanhoe," or "Quentin
Durward," or the hero of "The Talisman," her troubles vanished.

She followed her hero in all his varying fortunes, and was present at
his side in battle; she saw him struggling against many foes, fighting
for the poor and weak, meeting treachery with truth, and falsehood with
faithfulness; she heard the clash of his armour, and watched his good
sword flash in the air at the tournament; she trembled for him when he
was sore wounded, and rejoiced with him when, after many a hard-won
fray, he was rewarded by the hand of his lady love.  Those were days
indeed!  There was something quite remarkably flat and stupid in sitting
down to hem a pocket-handkerchief when you had just come from the
tourney at Ashby de la Zouche, or in playing exercises and scales while
you were still wondering whether King Louis the Eleventh _would_ hang
the astrologer or not.

Penelope loved all her books.  She had a shelf of her own in the
play-room quite full of them, but the joy and pride of her heart were
the Waverley novels, which her father had given her on her last
birthday.

It was a great temptation to her to spend all her pocket-money in buying
new books, but she knew this would have been selfish, so she had made
the following arrangement.  She kept two boxes, one of which she called
her "charity-box," and into this was put the half of any money she had
given to her; this her mother helped her to spend in assisting any poor
people who specially needed it.  The money in the other box was saved up
until there was enough to buy a new book, but this did not occur very
often.  Penelope liked it all the better when it did, for, though she
could read some stories over and over again with pleasure, they did not
all bear constant study equally well, in some cases, she told her
mother, "it was like trying to dry your face on a wet towel."

One morning Penelope, or "Penny," as she was generally called, was
sitting in the nursery window-seat with a piece of sewing in her hands,
it seemed more tiresome even than usual, for there was no one in the
room but nurse, and she appeared too busy for any conversation.  Penny
had tried several subjects, but had received such short absent answers
that she did not feel encouraged to proceed, so there was nothing to
beguile the time, and she frowned a good deal and sighed heavily at
intervals.  At last she looked up in despair.

"What _can_ you be doing, nurse?" she said, "and why are you looking at
all those old things of mine and Nancy's?"

Nurse did not answer.  She held out a little shrunken flannel dress at
arm's-length between herself and the light and scanned it critically,
then she put it on one side with some other clothes and took up another
garment to examine with equal care.  Penny repeated her question, and
this time nurse heard it.

"I'm just looking out some old clothes for poor Mrs Dicks," she said.

"Do you mean _our_ Mrs Dicks?" asked Penny.  "What does she want
clothes for?"

"Well, Miss Penny," said nurse, proceeding to look through a pile of
little stockings, "when a poor woman's lost her husband, and is left
with six children to bring up on nothing, she's glad of something to
clothe them with."

Penny felt interested.  "Our Mrs Dicks" had been her mother's maid, and
after she married the children had often been to visit her, and
considered her a great friend.  Sometimes they went to tea with her, and
once she had given Nancy, Penny's second sister, a lovely fluffy kitten.

Penny was fond of Mrs Dicks, and it seemed dreadful to think that she
must now bring up six children on nothing.  She felt, however, that she
must inquire into the thing a little more.

"Why must she bring up her six children on nothing?" she asked, letting
her work fall into her lap.

"Because," said nurse shortly, "she hasn't got any money or anyone to
work for her.  But if I were you, Miss Penny, I'd get on with my
needlework, and not waste time asking so many questions."

"Well," said Penny, making fruitless attempts to thread her needle, "I
suppose mother will help her to get some money.  I shall ask her to let
me give her some out of the charity-box--only I'm afraid there isn't
much in it now."

"If you really wanted to help her," said nurse, who saw an excellent
opportunity for making a useful suggestion, "you might make some things
for her baby; she hasn't much time for sewing, poor soul."

"Oh, I couldn't possibly do that," said Penny decidedly, "because, you
know, I hate needlework so.  I couldn't do any extra, it would take all
my time."

Nurse rolled up a tight bundle of clothes and left the room without
answering, and Penny, with her frowning little face bent over her work,
went on thinking about Mrs Dicks and her six children.  She wondered
whether they had enough to eat now; if they were to be brought up on
nothing, they probably had not, she thought, and she felt anxious to
finish her task that she might run and ask mother about it, and how she
could best help with the money out of the charity-box.  So she cobbled
over the last stitches rather hastily, and put the work away; but she
found after all that her mother was too busy to attend to her just then.
The next step, therefore, was to ascertain the state of the
charity-box, and she took it down from the mantel-piece in the play-room
and gave it a little shake.  It made quite a rich sound; but Penny knew
by experience what a noise coppers can make, so she was not very hopeful
as she unscrewed the top and looked in.  And matters were even worse
than she feared, for all the box contained was this: two pennies, one
halfpenny, and one stupid little farthing.  Penny felt quite angry with
the farthing, for it was bright and new, and looked at the first glance
almost like gold.

"If you were a fairy farthing," she said, "you'd get yourself changed
into gold on purpose to help Mrs Dicks; but it's no use waiting for
that."

That afternoon Penny was to go out with her mother, instead of walking
with the other school-room children and the governess.  It was a great
honour and delight, and she had saved up so many questions to ask about
various subjects that she had scarcely time to tell her about Mrs Dicks
and the state of the charity-box.

They had just begun to talk about it, when Mrs Hawthorne stopped at a
house near their own home.

"Oh, mother!" cried Penny in some dismay, "are we going to see Mrs
Hathaway?"

"Yes," answered her mother, "she has promised to show me her
embroideries, and I think you will like to see them too."

Penny did not feel at all sure about that, she was rather afraid of Mrs
Hathaway, who was a severe old lady, noted for her exquisite needlework;
however, it was a treat to go anywhere with mother, even to see Mrs
Hathaway.

The embroideries were, indeed, very beautiful, and exhibited with a good
deal of pride, while Penny sat in modest silence listening to the
conversation.  She privately regarded Mrs Hathaway's handiwork with a
shudder, and thought to herself, "How very little time she must have for
reading!"

Scarcely any notice had been taken of her yet; but presently, when
everything had been shown and admired, Mrs Hathaway turned her keen
black eyes upon her, and said:

"And this little lady, now, is she fond of her needle?"

A sympathetic glance passed between Mrs Hawthorne and Penny, but she
knew she must answer for herself, and she murmured shyly though
emphatically:

"Oh, _no_."

"No!  Indeed," said Mrs Hathaway, "and why not?"

She was a very upright old lady, and when she said this she sat more
upright than ever, and fixed her eyes on Penny's face.

Penny felt very uncomfortable under this gaze, and wriggled nervously,
but she could find nothing better to say than:

"Because I _hate_ it so."

"I am afraid," put in Mrs Hawthorne, "that Penny doesn't quite
understand the importance of being able to sew neatly; just now she
thinks of nothing but her books, but she will grow wiser in time, and
become a clever needlewoman, I hope."

Mrs Hathaway had not taken her eyes off Penny with a strong expression
of disapproval; she evidently thought her a very ill brought-up little
girl indeed.  Now she turned to Mrs Hawthorne and said:

"I question whether all this reading and study is an advantage to the
young folks of the present day.  I do not observe that they are more
attractive in manner than in the time I remember, when a young lady was
thought sufficiently instructed if she could sew her seam and read her
Bible."

She turned to Penny again and continued: "Now, the other day I heard of
a society which I think you would do well to join.  It is a working
society, and the members, who are some of them as young as you are,
pledge themselves to work for half an hour every day.  At the end of the
year their work is sent to the infant Africans, and thus they benefit
both themselves and others.  Would you like to join it?"

"Oh, _no_, thank you," said Penny in a hasty but heartfelt manner.

"Why not?"

"Because I never could fulfil that promise.  I shouldn't like to belong
to that society at all.  I don't know the Africans, and if I work, I'd
rather work for Mrs Dicks."  Penny spoke so quickly that she was quite
out of breath.

"And who, my dear child," said Mrs Hathaway, surprised at Penny's
vehemence, "is Mrs Dicks?"

She spoke quite kindly, and her face looked softer, so Penny was
emboldened to tell her about the whole affair, and how Mrs Dicks was a
very nice woman, and had six children to bring up on nothing.

"I wanted to help her out of the charity-box," concluded Penny, "but
there's scarcely anything in it."

Mrs Hathaway looked really interested, and Penny began to think her
rather a nice old lady after all.  After she and her mother left the
house she walked along for some time in deep thought.

"What are you considering, Penny?" asked Mrs Hawthorne at last.

"I think," said Penny very deliberately, "that as there's so little in
the charity-box I should like to work for Mrs Dicks' children."

Mrs Hawthorne knew what an effort this resolve had cost her little
daughter.

"Well, dear Penny," she answered, "if you do that I think you will be
giving her a more valuable gift than the charity-box full of money."

"Why?" said Penny.

"Because you will give her what costs you most.  It is quite easy to put
your hand in your box and take out some money; but now, besides the
things you make for her, you will have to give her your patience and
your perseverance, and also part of the time you generally spend on your
beloved books."

"So I shall!" sighed Penny.

But she kept her resolve and did work for Mrs Dicks.  Very unpleasant
she found it at first, particularly when there was some interesting new
story waiting to be read.

Gradually, however, there came a time when it did not seem quite so
disagreeable and difficult, and she even began to feel a little pride in
a neat row of stitches.

The day on which she finished a set of tiny shirts for the baby Dicks
was one of triumph to herself, and of congratulation from the whole
household; Mrs Dicks herself was almost speechless with admiration at
Miss Penny's needlework; indeed the finest embroideries, produced by the
most skilful hand, could not have been more praised and appreciated.

"Penny," said Mrs Hawthorne, "have you looked in the charity-box
lately?"

"Why, no, mother," answered she, "because I know there's only twopence
three farthings in it."

"Go and look," said her mother.

And what do you think Penny found?  The bright farthing was gone, and in
its place there was a shining little half-sovereign.  How did it come
there?

That I will leave you to guess.

STORY SIX, CHAPTER 1.

THE BLACK PIGS--A TRUE STORY.

"I know what we must do--we must sell them at the market!"

"Where?"

"At Donnington."

"We shall want the cart and horse."

"Ask father."

"No.  _You_ ask him--you know I always stammer so when I ask."

The speakers were two dark, straight-featured little boys of ten and
twelve, and the above conversation was carried on in eager whispers, for
they were not alone in the room.

It was rather dark, for the lamp had not been lighted yet, but they
could see the back of the vicar's head as he sat in his arm-chair by the
fire, and they knew from the look of it that he was absorbed in thought;
he had been reading earnestly as long as it was light enough, and
scarcely knew that the boys were in the room.

"_You_ ask," repeated Roger, the elder boy, "I always stammer so."

Little Gabriel clasped his hands nervously, and his deep-set eyes gazed
apprehensively at the back of his father's head.

"I don't like to," he murmured.

"But you must," urged Roger eagerly; "think of the pigs."

Thus encouraged, Gabriel got up and walked across the room.  He thought
he could ask better if he did not face his father, so he stopped just at
the back of the chair and said timidly:

"Father."

The vicar looked round in a sort of dream and saw the little
knickerbockered figure standing there, with a wide-mouthed, nervous
smile on its face.

"Well," he said in an absent way.

"O please, father," said Gabriel, "may Roger and I have the cart and
horse to-morrow?"

"Eh, my boy?  Cart and horse--what for?"

"Why," continued Gabriel hurriedly, "to-morrow's Donnington market, and
we can't sell our pigs here, and he thought--I thought--we thought, that
we might sell them there."

He gazed breathless at his father's face, and knew by its abstracted
expression that the vicar's thoughts were very far away from any
question of pigs--as indeed they were, for they were busy with the
subject of the pamphlet he had been reading.

"Foolish boys, foolish boys," he said, "do as you like."

"Then we may have it, father?"

"Do as you like, do as you like.  Don't trouble, there's a good boy;"
and he turned round to the fire again without having half realised the
situation.

But Roger and Gabriel realised it fully, and the next morning between
five and six o'clock, while it was still all grey, and cold, and misty,
they set forth triumphantly on their way to market with the pigs
carefully netted over in the cart.  Through the lanes, strewn thickly
with the brown and yellow leaves of late autumn, up the steep chalk hill
and over the bare bleak downs, the old horse pounded steadily along with
the two grave little boys and their squeaking black companions.

There was not much conversation on the road, for, although Gabriel was
an excitable and talkative boy, he was now so fully impressed by the
importance of the undertaking that he was unusually silent, and Roger
was naturally rather quiet and deliberate.

They had to drive between five and six miles to Donnington, and at last,
as they wound slowly down a long hill, they saw the town and the
cathedral towers lying at their feet.

They were a good deal too early, for in their excitement they had
started much too soon.

"But that is all the better," said Roger, "because we shall get a good
place."

Presently the pen, made of four hurdles, was ready, the pigs safely in
it, and the boys took their station in front of it and waited events.

Donnington market was a large one, well attended by all the fanners for
miles round; gradually they came rattling up in their carts and gigs, or
jogging along on horseback, casting shrewd glances at the various beasts
which had already been driven in.  Some of the men knew the boys quite
well, and greeted them with, "Fine day, sir," and a broad stare of
surprise.

By the time the cathedral clock had sounded nine the market was in full
swing.

A medley of noises.  The lowing of cattle, the bleating of sheep, the
squeak of some outraged pig, mixed with the shouts of the drovers and
the loud excited voices of buyers and sellers.  In the midst of all this
turmoil the little boys stood steadily at their post, looking up
anxiously as some possible buyer elbowed his way past and stopped a
minute to notice the black pigs; but none got further than "Good-day,
sir," and a grin of amusement.

So the day wore on.  They had brought their dinner tied up in Roger's
handkerchief, and some acorns for the pigs, so at one o'clock they all
had a little meal together.  There was a lull just then, for most of the
farmers had poured into the "Blue Boar" to dinner, and the people who
were left were engaged in steadily munching the contents of the baskets
they had brought with them.

Roger and Gabriel had not lost heart yet, and still hoped to sell the
pigs, but they certainly began to feel very tired, especially Gabriel,
who, having remained manfully upright all the morning, now felt such an
aching in the legs that he was obliged to take a seat on a basket turned
upside down.

The afternoon waned, it grew a little dusk, still no buyer.  Soon the
boys knew that they must begin their long drive home.  But, to take the
pigs back again; it was too heartrending to think of.

Then there was suddenly a little bustle in the market, and people moved
aside to let a new-comer pass down the narrow space between the pens
opposite to where the boys had placed themselves.  It was a broad comely
gentleman of middle age, dressed in riding-boots, and cords, and a faded
green coat.  He had a riding-whip in his hand, with which he touched the
brim of his hat in acknowledgment of the greetings round him; his dog
followed close on his heels.  There was a pleased recognition on all the
faces, for everyone liked Squire Dale; he was a bold rider, and a good
shot, and a kind landlord.

"Hullo, boys," he said cheerily, for he knew Roger and Gabriel well,
"what are you doing here?  Is your father in the town?"

"N-n-no," replied Roger, stammering very much; "we c-came to sell our
p-p-p-pigs."

"And we can't," put in Gabriel rather mournfully from his basket.

The squire's eyes twinkled, though his face was perfectly grave.

"Pigs, eh?" he said.  "Whose pigs are they?"

"Our pigs," said Gabriel; "and if we sell them, we've got a plan."

The squire stood planted squarely in front of them with his hands in his
pockets, looking down at the serious little figures without speaking.

"Tiring work marketing, eh?" he said at last.

"G-Gabriel _is_ a little tired," replied Roger glancing at his younger
brother, whose face was white with fatigue.

"Well, now," continued Squire Dale, "it's an odd thing, but I just
happened to be walking through the market to see if I could find some
likely pigs for myself.  But," with a glance at the dusky occupants of
the pen, "they _must_ be black."

Gabriel forgot that he was tired.

"They're beautiful black pigs," he cried, jumping up eagerly, "as black
as they can be.  Berkshire pigs.  Look at them."

So the squire looked at them; and not only looked at them, but asked the
price and bought them, putting the money into a very large
weather-beaten purse of Roger's; and presently the two happy boys were
seated opposite to him in the parlour of the "Blue Boar" enjoying a
substantial tea.

With renewed spirits they chatted away to their kind host, whose jolly
brown face beamed with interest and good-humour as he listened.  At last
Gabriel put down his tea-cup with a deep-drawn sigh of contentment, and
said to his brother mysteriously:

"Shall we tell about the plan?"

Roger nodded.  He could not speak just then, for he was in the act of
taking a large mouthful of bread and jam.

"Shall I tell it," said Gabriel, "or you?"

"You," said Roger huskily.

"You see," began Gabriel, turning to the squire confidentially, "it is a
coperative plan."

"A what?" interrupted the squire.

"That's not the right word," said Roger; "he means co-co-co--"

"Oh yes, I know, co-operative.  Isn't that it?"

"Yes, that's it, of course," continued Gabriel, speaking very quickly
for fear that Roger should take the matter out of his hands.  "We're
going to put our money together, and Ben is going to put some money in
too, and then we shall buy a pig; and when it has a litter we shall sell
them, and perhaps buy a calf, and so we shall get some live stock, and
have a farm, and share the profits."

Gabriel sat very upright while he spoke, with a deepening flush on his
cheeks.  The squire leaned forward with a hand on each knee, and
listened attentively.

"Well," he said, "that seems a good plan.  Where's the farm to be?  In
the vicarage garden?"

"Father wouldn't like that," said Roger.

"Why, possibly not," said the squire; "you see it's not always nice to
have cattle and pigs too close to a house.  But I tell you what; you
know that little field of mine near the church, I'm wanting to let that
off, how would that do?"

"It would be just the very thing," said Roger, "but," he added
reflectively, "we couldn't afford to give you much for it."

"You must talk it over with Ben," said the squire rising, "it's not an
expensive little bit of land, and I should say about ten shillings a
year would be about the right price.  And now, boys, you must start for
home--as it is you won't be there much before dark."

The co-operative plan began very well indeed.  Roger and Gabriel, with a
little assistance and advice from their eldest brother Ben, built a
capital sty on Squire Dale's little bit of land, which was conveniently
near the vicarage, and soon, behold them the proud possessors of a sow
and nine black pigs!  The boys' pride and pleasure were immense, and
nothing could exceed their care and attention to the mother and her
children; perhaps these were overdone, which may account for the tragic
event which shortly took place.

The little pigs were about two weeks old, very "peart" and lively, and
everything was proceeding in a satisfactory manner, when one morning
Gabriel went to visit them as usual with a pail of food.  As he neared
the sty, he heard, instead of the low "choug, choug, choug," to which he
was accustomed, nothing but a chorus of distressed little squeaks.  He
quickened his steps; his heart beat very fast; he looked over the edge
of the sty, and, oh horror!  The sow was stretched flat on her side
quite dead, while her black family squeaked and struggled and poked at
each other with their little pointed snouts.

Quick as lightning he grasped the situation, and throwing down the pail
which he held rushed back to the house, almost stunning Roger, whom he
met on the way, with the dreadful news.  There was no time to be lost--
if the pigs were to be saved they must be fed at once.  In hot haste the
boys returned with a wheel-barrow, put the seven little creatures into
it, for two out of the nine were dead, and took them into the vicarage
kitchen.  Then each boy, with a pig held tenderly in his arms like a
baby, crouched in front of the broad hearth and tried to induce them to
swallow some warm milk.

"Choug, choug, choug," grunted Gabriel in fond imitation of the mother
pig.

"Ch-ch-choug," repeated Roger, dandling his his charge on the other
side.

Presently all the seven pigs were warmed and fed, and put into a large
rabbit-hutch just outside the kitchen door; they were quiet now, and lay
in a black contented heap, with their little eyes blinking lazily.  The
boys stood and looked at them gravely.

"We shall have to feed them every hour," said Roger, "Zillah says so."

"Oh!  Roger," cried Gabriel doubtfully, "do you think we shall ever
bring them up?"

"We _will_ bring them up," replied Roger, clenching his fist with quiet
determination.

But it really was not such an easy matter as some people might suppose,
and especially was it difficult to manage at night.  The boys divided
the work in a business-like manner, and took turns to go down every
alternate hour to feed their troublesome foster-children.  Zillah, the
cook, allowed the hutch to be brought into the kitchen at night, and
undertook to feed the pigs at six o'clock in the morning, but until then
the boys were responsible and never once flinched from what they had
undertaken.  It was getting cold weather now, and bed was delightfully
cosy and warm, but nevertheless little Gabriel would tumble out with his
eyes half shut, at Roger's first whisper of "Your turn now," and creep
through the lonely house and down the kitchen stairs.  They had arranged
an ingenious feeding apparatus with a quill inserted through the cork of
a medicine bottle, and the pigs took to it quite kindly, sucked away
vigorously, and throve apace.

But it was hard work, when the first excitement of it was over, and
Gabriel felt it particularly; he was a delicate boy, and after one or
two of these night excursions he would lie shivering in his little bed,
and find it impossible to go to sleep again, while Roger snored
peacefully at his side.

It need hardly be said that the vicar knew nothing of these proceedings,
and Ben was at college, so matters were allowed to go on in this way for
nearly a month, by which time Gabriel had managed to get a very bad cold
on his chest, and a cough.  As the pigs got fatter, and rounder, and
more lively, he became thinner, and whiter, and weaker--a perfect shadow
of a little boy; but still he would not give up his share of the work,
until one day he woke up from what seemed to him to have been a long
sleep, and found that he was lying in bed, in a room which was still
called the "nursery," and that he felt very tired and weak.  He pulled
aside the curtain with a feeble little hand, and saw Roger sitting there
quite quietly, with his head bent over a book.  How strange everything
was!  What did it all mean?  Then Roger raised his head.

"Oh, you're awake!" he said looking very pleased, "I will go and call
nurse."

He was going away on tip-toe, but Gabriel beckoned to him and he came
near.

"Roger," he said in a small whispering voice, "why am I in this room?"

"You're not to talk," said Roger.  "You've been ill for a long time--a
fever--and oh," clasping his hands, "how you have been going on about
the pigs!  You tried to get out of bed no end of times to go and feed
them; and I heard the doctor say to father, `We must manage to subdue
this restlessness--he _must_ have some quiet sleep.'  And oh, we were
all so glad when you went to sleep, and now you will get quite well
soon."

Gabriel tried to say, "How are the pigs?" but he was really too weak, so
he only smiled, and Roger hurried out of the room to call the nurse.

Later on, when he was getting quite strong again, he heard all about it,
and how, by his father's advice, the pigs had been sold to a
neighbouring farmer.

"And they _are_ such jolly pigs," said Roger; "he says he never saw such
likely ones.  And they knew me when I went to see them, and rubbed
against my legs.  You see," he added, "it was really best to sell them,
because father says we are to go to school at Brighton soon, and then we
couldn't see after the farm."

So this was the end of the co-operative plan.  Not carried out after
all, in spite of the patience and care bestowed upon it; but I feel sure
that in after years Roger and Gabriel were not unsuccessful men, if they
learnt their lessons at school and in life with half the determination
they used in rearing the black pigs.

THE END.