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LITTLE FOLKS:

_A Magazine for the Young._

_NEW AND ENLARGED SERIES._

CASSELL AND COMPANY, LIMITED:

_LONDON, PARIS & NEW YORK._

[ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.]

[Illustration: A QUEEN OF THE BEACH.]

LITTLE FOLKS.

A LITTLE TOO CLEVER.

_By the Author of "Pen's Perplexities," "Margaret's Enemy," "Maid
Marjory," &c._

CHAPTER I.--THE MOOR.

Crimson and gold. As far as one could see across the moor it was one
broad expanse of purply heather, kindled into a glowing crimson by the
blaze of ruddy sunshine, and lighted here and there by bright patches of
the thorny golden rod. Dame Nature had evidently painted out of her
summer paint-box, and had not spared her best and brightest colours.
Crimson-lake, children; you know what a lovely colour it is, and how
fast it goes, for you are very fond of using it, and there is only one
cake in each of your boxes. But here was crimson-lake enough to have
emptied all the paint-boxes in the world, you might suppose, and the
brightest of goldy yellows, and the greenest of soft transparent greens,
such as no paint-box ever did, nor ever will, possess; and over all the
most azure of blues, flecked with floating masses of soft indescribable
white, looking to Elsie like the foamy soapsuds at the top of the tub
when mother had been having a rare wash, but to Duncan like lumps of
something he had once tasted and never forgotten, called cocoa-nut ice.

It seemed a pity when Dame Nature had spent her colours so lavishly that
there should be no one to see her bright handiwork. Yet, sad to tell,
there lay the broad sheet of crimson and gold day after day unnoticed
and unheeded, till, in despair, it at length began to wither and blacken
and die.

For this was a lonely moor, where the heather and gorse bloomed so
bravely, so lonely that even along the road which skirted it the number
of those who passed by in a day could be counted on the fingers of your
hand; and as for the moor itself, it seldom had any visitors but the
cows from the little farm which nestled away in one corner; and do you
suppose such lazy, cupboard-loving creatures cared whether the heather
bloomed or not, so long as they found grass enough to eat?

But the glorious moor had a worse indignity than this to endure, for
there was a cottage here and there whose inhabitants frequently crossed
by the beaten tracks, and never so much as lifted their eyes as they
passed along, to notice the gorgeous dress their moor had put on. They
were so used to it. Had she not worn it every year since they could
remember? and so they sauntered by, thinking about eating or drinking,
or how they would serve their neighbours out, sometimes even quarrelling
loudly, and never giving so much as a passing thought to all the beauty
God had spread around them, and which we who dwell in towns would give
so much to see.

The sun was shining down very hotly, but it had not yet begun to wither
the heather and gorse, on the day when I want you to notice two little
children going across the moor. I told you there were cottages here and
there, and in a pretty little green hollow just beyond a fair-sized
hillock was one where lived the MacDougalls. These two children were
Elsie and Duncan MacDougall. They very often crossed the moor, for the
farm was on the other side of it, and the milk and butter had all to be
fetched from it, the milk twice a day, whether the sun blazed, or the
chilly Scottish drizzle blotted out the hills in a misty haze, or the
north wind swept across it, and shook the gaunt fir-trees to and fro in
its noisy wrath.

"Ain't you coming on, Elsie?" Duncan cried impatiently, for Elsie had
seated herself on a big stone, pushed back her sun-bonnet from her damp
freckled forehead, crossed her brown arms defiantly over her holland
pinafore, and was swinging her bare feet as if she never meant to move
another step to-night.

"No, I ain't coming, Duncan, and that's all about it," Elsie replied,
sulkily, only she said it in a broad Scottish accent which you would
hardly have understood had you heard it, and certainly could make
nothing of if I were to try to write it.

"Then we'll get beaten when we get back," Duncan said, miserably.
"Mother's always scolding, and it's your fault, Elsie."

Elsie looked at him contemptuously. "Go on by yourself," she cried; "I
ain't afraid. It's only Robbie that they're in such a hurry to get the
milk for, and I'm not going to hurry for Robbie. Go on by yourself, do."

But this was more than Duncan dared do, and Elsie knew it, for, in the
first place, it would have seemed as if he sided with Robbie against
Elsie, which would have been quite untrue; and, in the second, it would
have got Elsie into trouble with their mother, and that Duncan would not
have done for anything in the world. If Elsie had been a queen, then
Duncan would have been one of her most willing subjects, and done her
bidding whatever it might cost.

So there stood Duncan, fidgeting to get on, yet bound to the spot where
Elsie stayed by a bond stronger than links of iron. It was in vain that
he fidgeted from one bare foot to the other, or vented his impatience by
flinging his Scottish bonnet high in the air and catching it again.
Elsie was immovable, for Elsie was in one of her very contrariest moods
to-day, and I can hardly describe to you how very contrary she could be.

At last, very slowly and deliberately, she got off the stone, and began
slowly to stretch herself. "Do make haste!" cried Duncan, almost tired
out.

"I can't be hurried," Elsie replied, with a grand air, stooping down to
pick up the milk-can, which she had deposited at the side of the stone.
"It's much too hot and I'm much too tired, and I don't see why I should
be expected to fetch the milk at all. You and Robbie ought to do it.
You're boys, and I'm a girl. It's a shame, and I mean to tell mother
so."

Duncan gazed at her in amazement. He knew Elsie was very daring, but did
she really mean to tell their mother that?

"Me and Robbie?" he gasped. "Robbie never goes nowhere with us, Elsie,
don't you know?"

"Yes, I know, child," Elsie replied, with a lofty toss of her head.
"It's just what I do know. Robbie stops at home while you and me do all
the errands and everything else too, and it isn't fair."

"But you wouldn't like Robbie to come with us: you know you wouldn't,"
Duncan exclaimed, in perplexity.

"With _us!_ No, indeed," Elsie cried, with a little contemptuous laugh.
"I don't want any spoilt little namby-pamby cry-babies along with me;
but that's no reason why I, a girl, should fetch milk for Robbie to
drink while he stays at home. Can't you see that, stupid-head?"

Duncan said "Yes," but he didn't, all the same. He and Elsie went
together, and it never had occurred to him that it ought to be
different. He didn't care for Robbie: Elsie didn't, and so he didn't.
Elsie said he was a spoilt baby, therefore Duncan knew he must be one;
and certainly he couldn't scamper over the moor, and climb the trees,
and fly here, there, and everywhere, like he and Elsie could.

Elsie had begun to move slowly along, carrying the basin, in which was
butter wrapped in wet cloths and a cool cabbage-leaf. Duncan had the
milk-can, and would have been almost home by now, had he not been
obliged to keep on waiting for Elsie to come up with him, his eager
footsteps continually carrying him far on ahead of her sauntering pace.

"I'm just not going over that hill," she said, deliberately, when at
length they reached the purple hillock on the other side of which stood
the cottage. "Come on, Duncan; I'm going round."

"But it's ever so much longer, and we're so late," grumbled Duncan.

"Who cares?" cried Elsie, stolidly. "I'm a girl and I'm not going to
climb up the hill in this heat."

Duncan stared again. He had never heard Elsie complain of the hill
before. Usually they scampered up it, and rolled down the steepest
side--not, truly, when there was milk to carry, but at other times. And
now Elsie was walking along in a languid, mincing fashion, as if she had
no more fun in her than Robbie himself, and had never scampered
bare-foot over the moor six days out of every week, no matter what the
weather might be.

"There's Robbie at the garden gate beckoning us. I expect mother's very
angry," cried Duncan, despairingly.

"Who cares? let him beckon," Elsie replied, with the most provoking
indifference. "Run on by yourself if you're afraid."

Most unkind taunt of all. Did not Elsie well know that Duncan was bound
to her by the chains of a most unswerving, unquestioning loyalty? and
that though he was, so to speak, ready to jump out of his skin with
impatient anxiety, to forsake Elsie would never enter his simple little
head.

When Robbie saw that they did not hurry, he came running towards them,
calling out, "Elsie, Duncan, do make haste! Mother's so cross. You are
late."

"Are we? And are you in a hurry, Robbie? because if you are you'd better
fetch the milk yourself another time. Duncan and I are not your
servants," Elsie replied, loftily.

Robbie stared, as well he might. "I only know mother's very cross," he
reiterated dubiously, as if not quite knowing what to say; "and I don't
think you know how late it is."

"Look here," cried Elsie, standing stock still: "suppose I tip this milk
over on to the heather, what'ud you say to that?" and she lifted up the
lid, and tilted the can, until the foaming white milk was just ready to
pour over the side.

"Oh! Elsie, Elsie, what are you doing?" cried Duncan, in a panic; while
Robbie exclaimed, "Wouldn't mother make you go back and fetch some more,
Elsie, with the pennies out of your box?"

Perhaps Elsie thought it might be so. Any way, she put the can straight,
and moved on again, but as she did so she said to Robbie, "You'd like to
tell mother what I said, wouldn't you, duckie? So you can if you like; I
don't care what you tell mother."

"No, I don't want to tell," Robbie said, almost angrily, with a pink
face and a moist look in the eyes.

As the three children walked along you could hardly help noticing what a
difference there was between the two elder and Robbie. Elsie and Duncan
were big-limbed, ruddy-cheeked children, with high cheek-bones,
fair-skinned, but well freckled and tanned by the sun. Their younger
brother was like them, and yet so different. His skin was fair, but of
milky whiteness, showing too clearly the blue veins underneath it. The
ruddy colour in their faces was in his represented by the palest tinge
of pink. His bare arms were soft and white and thin. Their abundant
straw-coloured hair had in his case become palest gold, of silky
texture, falling in curling locks almost on to his shoulders. He was, in
short, a smaller, weaker, more delicate edition of these two elder ones.
They looked the very embodiment of health and strength, he fragile,
timid, and delicate. No wonder he never scampered across the heath or
rolled down the hillsides. The mists were too chilly for him, the sun
too hot; and so it came about that Elsie and Duncan went together, and
Robbie was left behind, for Elsie was selfish, and hadn't it in her
nature to wait about for the little one, and suit her steps or her play
to his, and Duncan did whatever she did. Perhaps their mother did not
care to trust the little fellow with Elsie, knowing too well that she
was thoughtless, and unable in her own robust strength to understand
the fatigue and listlessness of her little brother. Elsie told him he
would run well enough without shoes and stockings, but their mother had
most particularly charged him that he was never to take them off without
special permission, for he was too delicate to run the risk of damping
his feet. Elsie and Duncan thought it great nonsense, and both pitied
and despised Robbie for being such a miserable molly-coddle.

"Now here's mother herself coming after us," cried Duncan, anxiously
scanning Elsie's face to see how she would act now.

But Elsie was still unflurried. Duncan almost held his breath, for there
were signs of a storm. Mrs. MacDougall's face was red, her mouth
ominously screwed up; she waved her hand angrily towards them--an action
which Elsie pretended not to see.

"Where have you been all this time, madam?" she burst forth, when they
reached her. "I will teach you to hasten your footsteps. Did I not send
Robbie to the gate to beckon you to be quick? You suppose you may do as
you like, but you are mistaken, you lazy, ill-behaved wench. The new
frock I had bought you shall be given to Nannie Cameron, and you shall
wear your old one to the kirk. How will that suit your vanity? And you
may be off to bed now directly, without any supper. There are twigs
enough for a birch rod, my lady, if bed does not bring you to a better
frame of mind. Run in now, and don't let me see your face before six
o'clock to-morrow morning."

What could Elsie be thinking of? She did not run. Robbie looked at her
in piteous distress; Duncan was beside himself. He cast a beseeching
glance at Elsie, a momentary one of resentful anger at his mother, an
impatient one at Robbie, the unfortunate messenger of their mother's
anger.

Then a look of great determination settled over their mother's face. "Do
you dare me?" she cried. "Did I ever threaten and not perform? Will you
compel me to whip you? Then if you would not have it so, hasten your
footsteps at once."

Duncan caught hold of Elsie's hand and tried to pull her, but those
sturdy, legs had the very spirit of obstinacy in them. "Be quiet," she
said; "I want to be whipped."

"Mother means it," Duncan cried. "She has never done it before, but she
will now, Elsie."

Elsie had often dared her mother, but never so flagrantly as this; and
Mrs. MacDougall was not a woman to be dared with impunity. Elsie was
going a little too far; every one saw that except herself.

"Stay here," Mrs. MacDougall said sternly to the two boys when they
entered the cottage kitchen. Then she took Elsie by the shoulder, and
marched her up the few stairs. Robbie and Duncan stood stock still,
looking blankly at each other.

[Illustration: "HE CAME RUNNING TOWARDS THEM" (_p. 3_).]

Presently there came from the room overhead a low sobbing sound, and a
minute or two afterwards Mrs. MacDougall appeared, stern and frowning.

It was an unhappy supper they sat down to. Robbie was very wretched, and
as for Duncan, each mouthful threatened to choke him. Mrs. MacDougall
wore a troubled face. After it was ended Duncan crept away to his
sister's room.

"I knew mother would," he said, sympathisingly, "and I know she'll do it
again, if you do it. You wouldn't, would you, Elsie? Mother never
whipped you before, never in all our lives, Elsie, but you didn't care.
What was the matter with you?"

"You little stupid!" Elsie replied patronisingly; "I won't fetch the
milk at all, not if mother whips me every day. I don't care. You don't
know what I know, and you don't know what I'm going to do, but I know
myself; and you little cowardy custard, you don't know what secret I
could tell you if I liked."

CHAPTER II.--WHAT ELSIE FOUND.

Duncan crept away to his own little bedchamber with an uneasy feeling of
trouble. It was next to Elsie's, separated from it only by a little
square bit of landing, and, like hers, was a tiny apartment under the
roof, with a ceiling of the bare rafters which supported the tiles. In
each was a small wooden bedstead, a deal stand, with basin and jug of
coarse white earthenware, and a small deal box, which served both to
keep clothes in and as a chair.

Everything was scrupulously clean, even to the dimity vallance that hung
across the low window. In autumn and winter the bleak wind whistled
through the chimneys and rattled the casements in a way that would have
prevented a town-bred child from sleeping, and up in those bare rooms
there was cold enough to pinch you black and blue; but Elsie and Duncan
had never thought much of that, for they had been accustomed to it from
babyhood, and only threw on their thick homespun garments in greater
haste.

Just now the weather was unusually hot, and the little lofts had gone
to the other extreme, and were more like ovens than anything else.
Duncan had scarcely taken off his jacket when he heard Elsie calling. He
ran to see what she wanted. "I s'pose you won't go telling any tales
about what I said just now," she exclaimed shortly.

"Of course I shan't," Duncan replied, indignantly; "but what was it you
said? There wasn't anything to tell tales about except that you said you
weren't going to fetch the milk."

Elsie's mind was so full of her own affairs that it was quite a shock to
her to find that Duncan had taken so little heed of her words. "It's a
good thing I'm not such a silly baby as you are," she said,
contemptuously--a way in which she so often spoke to Duncan that he
quite believed Elsie to be the cleverest, most daring, and bravest
creature in existence.

"This place is like a furnace," she cried, irritably throwing the sheet
which covered her down on to the floor. "Why should I be poked up here
and Robbie sleep downstairs with mother and grandmother, eh, Duncan?"

"I s'pose it's because he always does," Duncan replied dubiously.

"Stupid-head!" cried Elsie. "And why does he always?"

Duncan thought a minute. "P'raps it's because he's the youngest, and was
the baby when you and me was bigger," he answered presently.

Elsie turned over with an angry grunt. "It isn't anything of the sort,"
she cried; "and you might have known I didn't want you to answer me."

"I thought you asked me," Duncan said, in much perplexity.

"You ought to have said you didn't know, and then you'd have told the
truth," Elsie said shortly. "Hush! there's some one coming up. Crawl
under the bed, in case they come in."

A slow dragging footstep came up the steep stairs, and presently a voice
called softly, "Dooncan?"

Duncan began to crawl out from under the bedstead, answering as he did
so, "Yes, grandmother, here I am."

Elsie dangled her foot over the side of the bed, and gave Duncan a
pretty sharp kick as he emerged.

"What's that for?" he stopped to ask.

"Only because you're such a ridiculously silly little softie, that
nobody could put a grain of sense into your head," Elsie replied,
angrily. "Supposing it had been mother. A nice row you'd have got us
into. Why couldn't you keep quiet, and she'd have thought we were both
in bed and asleep."

"But I knew it was grandmother's voice," said Duncan.

"Dooncan," called the voice again, "I want you."

Duncan opened the door this time. His grandmother did not seem to notice
that he was in a forbidden place, but asked, with an anxious quaver in
her voice, "Did mother beat Elsie, Duncan?"

"I think so," Duncan replied indignantly.

"Eh, well, Duncan," she said, consolingly, "mother's often threatened
and never done it before, and Elsie's a wilful child, with a spirit and
temper that must needs be broken. But what was the matter now?"

"It was about fetching the milk," Duncan replied. "Elsie don't like it,
and she wouldn't be quick."

"Eh, well; but it's the place of the young to fetch and carry," said the
old woman, in a much more cheerful tone than she had used before. "But
Duncan, my laddie, have you picked up a wee bit of paper with writing on
it, what grandmother has dropped?"

"No, granny, I haven't never picked up a piece," Duncan replied.

"Nor seen it lying about neither, dearie? Come now, think if you picked
it up and threw it in the fire. I won't be angry if you tell the truth."

"I never saw it at all," said Duncan again.

"Ah, well! I thought perhaps that it was about that mother was angry
with Elsie, but it wasn't, after all; you're sure of that, Duncan?"

"Oh no; it was about the milk," Duncan returned, readily.

"And Elsie's asleep now. Well, well, youth must be chastised sometimes,"
crooned the old woman, softly. "You needn't talk about the paper I've
lost, Duncan. It's safe enough in the fire, no doubt; but if you see a
scrap of paper lying anywhere, bring it to grandmother, and she'll give
you a penny for sharp eyes."

Then the old dame went cautiously downstairs, feeling the way with her
thick stick, and Duncan once more went off to bed.

He woke very early the next morning, wondering whether Elsie would keep
her vaunted threat of refusing to fetch the milk, and if so, what would
happen: for if Elsie were obstinate, their mother was firm as a rock in
doing a duty, and Duncan well knew she would not be overborne by any
one. So it was with a vague uneasiness that he put on his clothes and
went downstairs. To his surprise and relief, Elsie was already in the
kitchen and was busily, though with a sulky-enough expression, rinsing
out the can. Elsie's valour, like that of many an older person, was
greater in words than action, and there is no doubt that the previous
night's punishment had had its effect.

But that Duncan should think so was the last thing that Elsie would
wish. Directly they were outside the door, she said in a careless tone,
"It's nice and cool this morning across the moor: much better out here
than in that little loft."

"And won't you come this afternoon?" asked simple, straightforward
Duncan.

"I don't know," Elsie answered sharply. "It depends upon whether I feel
inclined. Duncan, what was that granny was asking about a piece of
paper?"

"She only asked me if I'd picked a piece up with writing on it, and said
she'd give me a penny if I found it."

"I dare say she would," laughed Elsie; "but you won't ever get the
penny, Duncan, so don't expect it. She didn't ask if I'd picked it up?"

"No, she didn't; but have you found it, Elsie? because I'll take it to
her, and give you the penny," Duncan remarked.

"A penny indeed!" laughed Elsie contemptuously. "I wonder whether you
really could keep a secret, Duncan?"

Duncan was rather hurt at the implied doubt. "I never told tales of you,
Elsie, never," he said, earnestly.

"Look here," Elsie exclaimed, "I was weeding my bit of garden just under
the kitchen window yesterday, and granny was sitting at the window, yet
never saw me. She was reading some old letters, peering at them ever so
hard through her spectacles, and talking to herself all the time. I
expect she'd taken them out of mother's drawer, for she kept on looking
round to see if any one was coming, and the best of it was I was
watching all the time, and she never knew it. I saw her put one piece of
paper down on the window-sill; she was saying very funny things to
herself. 'Meg shouldn't have done it; she wouldn't take my advice. Ah!
she'll rue it some day, I well believe,' and all on like that. Of course
Meg means mother, and I was just wondering what it was she was talking
about, when the wind blew quite a puff, and blew the piece of paper
right on to my garden. I was just going to peep at it, and see what it
was mother shouldn't have done. Then granny gets up, and goes peering
all round to see where the paper's gone. She pulled all the cushions out
of the chair, and turned up the matting, and looked over her letters
ever so many times, and never noticed that it had blown out of the
window. Presently I put my head through the window, and cried out,
'What's the matter, granny?' 'It's only I've dropped a little bit of
paper, my dear,' she says to me. 'Just come and see if your young eyes
can find it.' I went in and looked all round. Of course I didn't find
it, and I was almost dying of laughing all the time."

"And have you got it now, Elsie?" Duncan asked, with wide eyes.

"Yes, I have," Elsie replied shortly; "and it's much more interesting
than I thought it would be. It's about you and me."

"You and me?" echoed Duncan, who was of a matter-of-fact mind, and was
always content with things just as he found them.

"Yes, stupid," said Elsie, crossly; "I always said mother favoured
Robbie, and so she does. Why he has new things much oftener than you,
and you're older too. Do you and me have boots and stockings for
week-a-days? then why should Robbie? Don't you wonder why mother pets
him so?"

"No," Duncan answered truthfully. "He's ever so much more babyish than
me."

"Well, I say it's a shame," continued Elsie. "Look at this old
sun-bonnet. Do you think I ought to wear such a thing as that? Didn't I
always say I'd love a long feather like the ladies at the manse? and why
shouldn't I have one, and a silk pelisse, and gloves upon my hands, and
sweet little shoes for walking in?"

"Why, you'd be just a lady," Duncan said.

Elsie laughed a pleased soft laugh. "A lady, just a bonny lady," she
said over to herself; "and wouldn't you love to be a little laird,
Duncan?"

"I don't know what it's like, Elsie," Duncan said thoughtfully.

"It isn't like fetching milk and sleeping in a loft," Elsie said
sharply. "It isn't like porridge for breakfast and porridge for supper.
It would be like----everything that's nice," she said, after a minute or
two's pause, for she really did not know anything about it, and was
suddenly pulled up in her description by that fact.

CHAPTER III.--THE LETTER.

The boy walked along, silently thinking over what Elsie had been saying,
in a muddly, confused sort of way. Robbie, and granny's letter, and
Elsie's beating, lairds and ladies, and something secret and mysterious
that Elsie knew, were mingled hazily in his mind, in such chaotic
fashion that he had nothing to say, not knowing how to put his ideas
into the form of a question.

It was not until they were on their road home again that he suddenly
asked, "Whose letter is it, Elsie?"

"What do you mean?" Elsie returned, with more than usual quickness. "I
say it's mine and yours. Mother'd say 'twas hers, most likely; perhaps
granny might say 'twas hers; I say it's ours as much as ever it's
theirs, and the person what wrote it is our father; so there, Duncan."

"Mine too!" Duncan echoed, in greater bewilderment than before. "Then,
if it's mine too, Elsie--

"Well, what?"

"I ought to read it, an' see what's in it."

Elsie laughed. "Of course you ought," she replied encouragingly. "That's
just what I said to myself when I caught sight of it; and when I'd read
it, an' saw that it was all about you and me, an' told a secret too,
what granny an' mother have always kept away from us, d'you think I was
goin' to give it up? no, not if I know it. An' to think they fancy it's
lost--leastways, granny does--an' mother don't know anything about it at
all. What fun it is! D'you know, Duncan, I don't so very much like
mother."

Duncan looked at her in alarm. Scottish children of all classes are
brought up in very strict notions of filial duty and affection, and
these were no exceptions to the rule. Duncan looked all round anxiously,
as though he feared a bird might carry the dreadful treason to their
mother's ears.

Elsie looked as if she were enjoying the sensation she had made. "I've
got a good reason," she said, nodding her head knowingly. "You'll see it
when you've read the letter. I always thought I wasn't so very fond of
her, and now I see why it was. It wouldn't have been right if I had; an'
when she beat me, I can't tell you how I felt. I couldn't like any one
who beat me!" Elsie continued, grinding her teeth together with rage at
the memory, "even if it was my own mother."

"You seemed as if you wanted to make mother do it," said Duncan, who was
often much distracted between his allegiance to rebellious Elsie and the
strict sense of duty and obedience in which he had always been trained.

"P'raps I did," Elsie replied. "But I don't care; and mother shan't have
the chance again. I don't think our father'd let her if he knew it."

"Our father?" faltered Duncan. "Why, our father's dead."

"Is he?" asked Elsie, enigmatically. "Robbie's father is."

"And isn't that ours?" Duncan asked contemptuously.

"That's just it," Elsie replied, with some excitement. "That's just what
the letter's about. Now, if you sit down here I'll read it to you."

"We shall be late again," Duncan said, nervously. "Don't let's stop now,
Elsie, and make mother cross. Could we do it after school?"

"P'raps I'd better tear it up, or give it back to granny," Elsie said,
with a taunting air. "It don't matter to you."

"Oh, don't!" pleaded Duncan, divided again between the sense of duty,
his own curiosity, and a fear of offending Elsie. "Do keep it till after
school."

"Yes, I will," Elsie replied. "And mind you bring home an atlas with
you, for, now I think of it, I must have a map of England and Scotland."

"But we mustn't bring home books," Duncan urged.

"Never mind; you must do it by mistake. We must have a map, I tell you;
and if I've had the trouble of getting the letter, you can take the
trouble to get the map. Mind you do, now, or else I shan't tell you
anything about it. You can take it back in the afternoon. 'Tisn't
stealing."

No, nor disobedience, nor deceit, nor telling a lie, eh, Elsie?
Evidently Elsie did not stop to think of that any more than she had
stopped to consider whether she had any business to read that old letter
of her mother's when it fluttered out of the window.

They reached the cottage in good time. Robbie and their grandmother had
only just come downstairs. Mrs. MacDougall seemed to be in an unusually
pleasant temper this morning. "I'm glad you've hastened, my child," she
said to Elsie. "Sit down to the table, and get slicing that cucumber
I've just cut. It'll be more refreshing with some bread-and-butter and a
cup o' milk than the porridge, and a change too."

Duncan glanced at Elsie with a half shame-faced expression, as much as
to say, "Mother is kind, you see, when you're good. She's sorry you had
to be beaten last night." But Elsie only replied by a look of defiance,
as though to say, "That doesn't make up at all."

"Let's see: what's to-day?" Mrs. MacDougall continued, pleasantly, as
she poured out the milk into the children's cups. "Can it be the
thirty-first?"

"No, no, Meg; surely not," quavered the old grandmother, who, for
reasons of her own, wished to appear ignorant. Was it not to refresh her
failing memory about what happened just about this time of year, a long
while ago, that she had gone to her daughter's desk, and got out those
old faded letters? Mrs. MacDougall would not have minded her reading
them, but she would mind having them lost, for she was very methodical;
and besides, many of these letters were important ones, written by hands
long since folded in death.

"And to-morrow's Robbie's birthday," Mrs. MacDougall continued, laying
her rough, strong hand very gently on the child's fair curls. "Very well
do I remember this time seven years ago."

"Yes," sighed the old grandmother. "Poor little dears! and Nannie a
bonny lass too."

Mrs. MacDougall glanced at her mother with something like a frown. "I
never think of Robbie's birthday without thinking about poor Aunt
Nannie," she said to the children.

They knew well enough why, for they had heard the tale often enough.
Their Aunt Nannie had been their mother's beautiful young sister, and
the news of her death had come to them when Robbie was a baby of a week
old. They had never even seen her, for Duncan was but a year old, and
Elsie not three, when she died, and she had been living in England with
her English husband at the time.

"Robbie reminds me so of her," Mrs. MacDougall said softly. "She was
fair. He takes after her wonderfully, doesn't he, mother?"

"Very much indeed," the old dame replied.

"Ah well! Robbie must have some fresh cakes to-morrow for his birthday
and a plate of plums, and you can have your tea under the big alder an'
Elsie shall pour it out."

"Oh, thank you, mother, how nice!" the little boys exclaimed. Elsie's
ungracious silence passed unnoticed by all but Duncan.

"P'raps I shan't be here to pour it out," she said, in a careless tone,
when they were outside the door. "Mind you don't forget the atlas,
Duncan."

Then they started off to school. It was a longish walk across the moor
and along a dusty road to the nearest village. Robbie, although seven
years old, was exempted from going on account of the distance and his
delicacy. Elsie bore in mind that Duncan had gone before he was that
age, but Robbie was such a petted baby. He was not nearly so strong as
Duncan had been at his age.

Duncan's was a very placid, slow sort of mind. He went through his tasks
without any excitement or distraction, although occasionally a vague
curiosity as to what Elsie could want the atlas for, and what the letter
said about them, did wander through his brain. When school was ended he
slipped out unobserved with a small atlas, which he had had difficulty
to secure, under his jacket.

Elsie was waiting for him at the edge of the moor. They sat down on some
stones, and Elsie pulled the letter from inside the neck of her dress.

"I shan't say anything; I shall read it to you," she began; "and if you
can't make anything of it I s'pose I must explain it afterwards. It's
from our father to Mrs. MacDougall."

"What, to mother?" Duncan asked.

"H'm, you'll see presently," Elsie said impatiently. "Worst of it is,
there's a piece torn off all along, which makes it difficult to read. It
begins, 'Dear Mrs. MacDougall.' Oh, I forgot. It's put at the top,
'Kensington, London.' That's the capital of England, you know, and it
means that the person what wrote it lived there."

"But father didn't, did he?" began Duncan.

"Hold your tongue till I've read it," Elsie replied. "I can't stop to
explain beforehand. This is it:--

  "'DEAR MRS. MACDOUGA
    I have to be
  teller of very bad new
  sister, my poor wife die
  morning. It will not be a
  shock to you than it wa
  me. I had no thought
  it was likely to happen
  a few hours previous
  sent her love to you
  her mother.
    The two little things ar
  but I have been
  what I can do with th
  I have not seen them'"

(here the page turns over and the missing words are from the
commencement of the line)--

                                    "'night and I don't feel
                                  to see them yet. The sound
                                   ir voices is too much for
                                       hat can I, a helpless
                                       wer do for them. They
                                   be better off among their
                                          kinsfolk than left
                                 mercy of strangers. I often
                                         I made a mistake in
                                   nging poor Nannie to this
                                  cat crowded city away from
                                    ive moors.
                                      The children I am told
                                     eak and delicate. There
                                      be a chance for them'"

(here the fresh page begins)--

  "'in their mother's native
  The woman who has charge
  trustworthy. She shall brin
  to you, if you will take
  they live, bring them up with
  your own, and as your own.
  the girl turns out anything
  her mother, she will be we
  enough. I shall not interfe
  the children. All I want to
  is that they are well care
  In a year or two I may
  able to interest myself
  them. For the pres'"

(fresh page)--

                                     "'likely I shall wander
                                            t, Reply at once
                                     Yours truly,
                                        R. GROSVENOR.'"

When Elsie had finished reading she sat looking at Duncan. "It doesn't
seem very plain," he ventured to say, presently; "and there wasn't
anything about you or me in it. You said there was."

[Illustration: "MRS. MACDOUGALL GLANCED AT HER MOTHER" (_p. 8_).]

"Stupid little thing! isn't there some of it torn off? and when you put
the words in it's easy enough to read. I've put them in to myself. First
of all, it's about Aunt Nannie dying, isn't it?"

"I s'pose it is," Duncan agreed; "and it's writ by Uncle Richard, isn't
it?"

"If you call him Uncle Richard. I say it's our father what wrote
it--yours and mine, Duncan."

Duncan stared at her in puzzled silence. "But Aunt Nannie was our Aunt
Grosvenor, wasn't she?" he asked.

"If you call her Aunt Grosvenor. I say she was our mother. I'm sure she
was," said Elsie.

"Our mother!" Duncan said, under his breath. "What do you mean, Elsie?"

"The letter says something about two little babies," Elsie began.

"Does it?" Duncan asked. "I didn't hear it."

"Well, it says, the 'little things,' and that's the same; and it's all
about sending them to Aunt Nannie's native place. Well, this is Aunt
Nannie's native place; and who were the two little things, eh?"

"I'm sure I dunno," Duncan said slowly.

"Well, they weren't Robbie, were they? Then, who were they? Why, you an'
me, of course. It says 'the girl' somewhere, an' of course that's me. So
now, isn't the letter about us? an' that's why granny was so afraid of
losing it. Do you see now, little silly? It's plain enough."

"But why did they?" murmured Duncan.

"That's the funny part of it. They ought to have told us. Why didn't
she?"

"Who?"

"Why, Robbie's mother, of course. She isn't our mother, an' I'm not
going to call her mother; I shall call her 'she.' You can call her what
you like. Why does she pretend to be our mother when she isn't? It's
different with granny, 'cos she's our granny right enough. Didn't I hear
her say 'Meg 'ud rue it?' It's a shame to have made a secret of it."

Duncan had been turning it over in his poor little mind. He formed ideas
very slowly, but there was often more sense in them when formed than in
the quick conclusions of cleverer children.

"But if Uncle Grosvenor is our father, Elsie, why don't we live with
him? He never's been to see us, never. He'd be sure to know Aunt Nannie
was our mother, and not--you know--'she.'"

"I believe," said Elsie, in a mysterious voice, "that 'R. Grosvenor'
thinks we're dead."

"Oh, Elsie! but we aren't at all," gasped Duncan.

"No, I shouldn't, think so. Doesn't the letter say they are weak and
delicate (what a beautiful letter it is, Duncan. I'm sure R. Grosvenor
is a grand gentleman), and 'bring them up with your own and as your own
for a year or two?' That was till we got strong; and she's kept us
always. Of course R. Grosvenor (I'm not going to say uncle), doesn't
know that we're quite well now. I'm sure he thinks we're dead. Who does
'your own' mean but Robbie. Oh, how dull you are, Duncan! Can't you see
now why she pets that boy so, and makes such a fuss over him? He's her
own, and we're not; she loves him and doesn't love us. Did she ever beat
Robbie?"

"Robbie isn't naughty," Duncan protested; "at least, only a very little
sometimes."

Elsie uttered an impatient exclamation. "Does Robbie have to fetch milk,
and go to school, and pick up wood? No; he's treated different. Now you
know why I don't like her."

Duncan gave vent to a sigh of perplexity. There rose up in his mind a
sort of uncomfortable feeling that everything was going topsy-turvy.
Somehow or another he seemed to see Robbie's mother sitting by the side
of Elsie's bed when she had the fever last winter, and bustling about to
get nice things for her, hushing the others with a strange look in her
eyes that made them quiet at once, for they could see she was troubled.
Or he seemed to smell the grateful smell of the hot cakes waiting, crisp
and tempting, before the big cheerful fire, to greet them on their
return from afternoon school on a dreary winter day. She had been kind,
though she was so strict, especially to Elsie, and Duncan was feeling
something very much like sorrow to think that, after all, she was not
their mother.

"What are you going to do, Elsie?" he asked presently.

"I've just been wondering when you were going to ask me that. Of course
it can't stop like this. Haven't you heard granny say how rich Uncle
Grosvenor was, and what a grand place it was where he lived? Well, then,
he's a grand laird, an' if we lived with him you'd be a little laird,
and me a lady. Does he think we have to fetch milk and butter, and go
after the hens, an' all that? But I'm goin' to let him know all about
it."

"How, Elsie?"

"Well," Elsie replied, "I've been thinking of that, an' it's just a real
difficult matter; for I'd never get time to write all the long
explanation, with that _she_ always prying after me. She'd find it out,
an' stop the letter, even if I could find the paper; an' I dunno' as I
can spell all the long words it 'ud take to explain it. An' more too, I
couldn't wait an' wait for the answer. We ought to go an' see Uncle--R.
Grosvenor. I've almost made up my mind, Duncan, that I'll go to England
an' find him."

"You couldn't do it," Duncan said.

"Couldn't I?" Elsie said scornfully, "It isn't so very far. England's
another country, but it joins on. You only step out o' one into the
other, for I looked most particular; an' there wasn't even mountains to
get over. There's only what folk call the border, an' I'm sure that
isn't much. P'raps it's a line, or a road, or a ditch, or something like
it. You go straight out of Scotland--as straight as ever you can go.
I've looked on the map. Give it me now. If you go from Dunster you've
only to keep in a straight line till you get into England, an' any
one'll tell you the way to London."

"I'm sure it's a dreadful long way," Duncan said disconsolately. "I
should be frightened while you was gone, till you came back."

"Come back," said Elsie. "I shan't never do that, I hope. When I find my
father he'll take care o' me. Now then, will you come with me, Duncan?"

"I don't think I'd go, Elsie. We might get lost," Duncan urged. "I wish
you could write a letter instead."

"I've made up my mind to go if I do anything at all," Elsie said, in a
tone of decision. "You needn't come unless you like."

Duncan looked perplexed again. This was indeed an awkward predicament.
The thought of running away to England didn't seem nice, somehow, but if
Elsie went and he stayed, how frightened he'd be all the time about her;
and when they questioned him, how would he be able to keep her secret,
especially if Robbie's mother had that troubled look in her eyes? and
how lonely it would be going backwards and forwards across the moor all
alone without Elsie.

"I wish you wouldn't go, Elsie," he said to her presently.

"Most likely I shall," Elsie replied. "Mind you tell no tales. We must
be quick home now. Come along; I shall have to think of ever so many
things before we go, so you'll have plenty o' time to know whether
you'll come or stay behind. Oh, I know I shall be a real lady, Duncan,
an' have bonny clothes. Of course I shouldn't like fetching milk an'
things when I'm a little lady born. Isn't it a shame, Duncan?"

"I dunno; _I_ don't mind," Duncan then said.

"Give me the atlas," Elsie said; "I must get away an' have a goodish
look at it when we get in, for you must be quite sure and take it back
this afternoon."

But Elsie was not to "get away," for Mrs. MacDougall was waiting at the
gate with a basket by her side.

"You've been loiterin' again," she cried briskly. "I've been waitin'
this half-hour for you to take these beans down to the shop. Here's a
bit o' bread you can eat along the road, an' you'll have just to make
haste."

Elsie cast a defiant glance at the basket as she took it slowly up. She
knew too well its destination. The neatly tied-up bundles of young
well-grown beans lying on the fresh cabbage-leaves would be one of the
attractions of the village shop. A day or two ago all the plums that
were ripe had gone the same way, to the children's disgust. Mrs.
MacDougall was a clever gardener, and had a ready sale for her small
stock of produce. To-day Elsie and Duncan would get no dinner beyond the
bit of bread. That was the result of their loitering. They had lost the
valuable time through their talk over the letter.

But Elsie quite lost sight of the fact that she alone was responsible
for losing it, and was very angry about it.

"I have quite decided," she said to Duncan. "This is what I'll do; to
England I will go!"

(_To be continued._)

LITTLE MISS PROPRIETY.

  "Dainty little maiden,
    Sitting there in state,
  While the music's calling,
    And the dancers wait.

  "A courtly little beau
    For your hand is waiting:
  What is it, my dear,
    That you are debating?

  "Do the pretty slippers
    Pinch your tiny feet?
  Tell me quickly, dearie,
    Why you keep your seat."

  Little maiden answers,
    Anger in her face,
  "We's not bin intodoost:
    It's twite a disgwase!"

MARY LANG.

[Illustration: "SHE SAW A CAT'S FACE LOOKING UP AT HER."]

FIGHTING WITH A SHADOW.

"It is much pleasanter to be by oneself, then there is no one to quarrel
with," said Pussy.

And she stretched herself out on the soft, mossy turf, and half closed
her eyes, purring gently. She was a young cat, and got into much trouble
at home, for she was constantly quarrelling with her brothers and
sisters. She said it was their fault, and they said it was hers. And
Mrs. Grimalkin, the old cat, said that there were faults on both sides.

"I'm _not_ a bad temper," said Pussy; "and I never quarrel with people
unless they quarrel with me." So saying, she opened her eyes wider, and
looked round. She liked the warm sunshine, and the scent of the flowers,
and the soft velvet turf.

How pleasant it was!

"I should like to live here always," she said. "Then Tib, Frisk, and
Kitty would not be able to tease me as they do. It is very annoying to
be tormented all the time, and if one says a word in one's own defence,
one gets blamed for being quarrelsome. The idea of my quarrelling with
any one: it is perfectly absurd."

And Pussy purred and looked round complacently.

Presently she crept down to the water's edge, and peeped over into the
smooth glassy stream; and as she did so she saw a cat's face looking up
at her. She stretched out her paw to give it a pat, and the other cat
did the same. Then she drew away, and raised her back as high as she
could. So did the other cat, only it seemed to Pussy as if she were
upside down.

"So provoking," said Pussy; "just as I fancied I was all alone here, to
find that there is a cat under the water coming up to trouble me.
Probably she has a large family down there, and they will come swarming
up and be as disagreeable as my own sisters and brothers. And how
exceedingly mean of her not to give notice that she was coming. I should
have heard the faintest mew, for everything is so quiet here. It is
evident that her intentions are hostile, or she would not steal up like
a thief. But I will certainly not stand such behaviour."

And again she put out her paw.

So did the other cat.

"Where do you come from?" asked Pussy. But she received no answer.

"Speak!" said she, impatiently waving her tail.

The other cat waved in return, but no answer came. Then Pussy began to
get very angry. So did the other cat.

And they grew fiercer and fiercer, making strange faces at each other,
until at length Pussy became so much enraged that she prepared to spring
upon her enemy, and would the next moment have plunged into the water,
had not some one suddenly seized the tip of her tail.

She turned to avenge herself upon the new offender, when lo! who should
it be but her own mother, Mrs. Grimalkin, who happened to be out on a
foraging expedition, and chanced to pass that way.

"You foolish young creature," said she; "if I had not been here you
would have been drowned. Don't you see that it is but your own image in
the water: there isn't another cat there; it is only your own shadow.
But cats as quarrelsome as you are, when they can find no one else to
fight with, will fight even with a shadow."

J. G.

PRETTY WORK FOR LITTLE FINGERS.

EMBROIDERED GLASS-CLOTH.

[Illustration: FIG. 1.--PATTERN SQUARE.]

This is very pretty and easy work, just the thing for any little folk
who are anxious to help a fancy sale for some good cause, or to make a
nice useful present to a friend, but who have not time or skill to
undertake anything long and difficult. It is very quickly done, and can
be used for toilet-covers and mats (these should be edged with narrow
torchon lace), night-dress cases, aprons, comb-bags, and a number of
useful articles; it is much admired, and always sells well at a bazaar.

[Illustration: FIG. 2.--BORDER.]

All you have to do is to get some common glass-cloth, tolerably fine,
with cross-bars of red or blue, and some red or navy blue
knitting-cotton, which you can buy either by the pound or the ball.

[Illustration: FIG. 3.--WORKED WITH COTTON.]

Two ounces will do a quantity of work, and cost about the same as a
ball. With this, which may be either the same colour as that of the
material or the contrasting one, the pattern is worked upon the squares
formed by the cross-bars, as in Fig. 1, and in this way a number of
pretty devices can be formed. Toilet-covers and large aprons should have
a border as in Fig. 2; for mats a single border will suffice. Bags, &c,
may be worked in checquers, every alternate square, or in large
cross-bars, by carrying on Fig. 2 over the whole surface, but when you
choose a large pattern, always count the squares before you cut off your
piece, or you may find the pattern break off in the middle.

[Illustration: FIG. 4.--WORKED WITH WOOL.]

I have seen a very effective-looking bag, all the squares of which were
worked over with dark blue cotton, the bars being blue, and two tiny red
stitches worked as in Fig. 3, wherever a simple cross was formed by the
cotton intersecting the stripe of the material.

Use a darning or crewel needle, and a very long thread, or you will have
to be continually taking fresh. This work is sometimes done with crewel
wool, and in rather a different way, see Fig. 4; but it is not so neat
and pretty, in my opinion, as that done with cotton, and is more
extravagant, since the wool must be used double and every stitch
repeated.

I once saw a large apron with bib and pocket bordered with squares
worked in this style with bright dark ultramarine crewels, and with
ribbon strings of the same colour; it had a handsome effect. I shall
only say in conclusion that I have no doubt the clever brains and nimble
fingers of some of my young readers will soon be able to improve upon
these simple elementary designs, and to produce some new and more
elaborate ones which will give them all the more pleasure for being of
their own creating.

SOMERSET.

STORIES TOLD IN WESTMINSTER ABBEY.

_By_ EDWIN HODDER ("OLD MERRY").

[Illustration: CLOISTER. WESTMINSTER ABBEY.]

I.--HOW THE ABBEY WAS BUILT.

One day some children came to me, and said, "Oh, do please take us out
somewhere on our half-holiday, and show us some of the great sights of
London." Remembering how it had once been my privilege to be one of a
party invited to go over Westminster Abbey, under the guidance of the
late Dean Stanley, and how, from his graphic descriptions, the Abbey had
ever since had an additional wealth of interest to me, I proposed to
these young people that they should meet me some Saturday afternoon, and
I would take them over the Abbey, and tell them all I could remember or
read up about its history. They were delighted with the proposal, and
so to the Abbey we went.

I should like to take all the readers of LITTLE FOLKS in the same way,
but I remember the story of the British Princess, named St. Ursula, who
undertook to "personally conduct" eleven thousand young maidens to Rome,
and how she came to grief on the return journey, as any one may see who
goes to Cologne, where all their bones are preserved in a church; and as
I should have a great many more followers than she, I think it will be
better if I try in the next six numbers to tell you what I told the
young people who went with me on that Saturday afternoon and on other
afternoons, and as nearly as I can in the same words.

Now, girls and boys, before we enter the portals of Westminster Abbey, I
want you first to come with me and walk round about it, so as to see it
well from the outside; and first of all, we will post ourselves near to
the great hall built by William Rufus as a portion of his intended
palace. It was upon this spot that Edward the Confessor dwelt, and for
fifteen years watched the erection of the Abbey. But you must not
imagine that the beautiful building that rises so grandly before us as
we stand here to-day is the same that the Confessor reared, for of his
famous church only one or two columns and low-browed arches are now in
existence. Of the edifice we now behold, the central portions were built
by Henry III., the nave was added under the Edwards and Henry V., the
gorgeous eastern chapel was raised by Henry VII., and bears his name,
and the western towers rose when George III. was king.

But I shall have more to say to you presently about these various
additions. Let us cross over now to St. Margaret's Churchyard, and as we
stroll round the Abbey, I will tell you how it came to be built at all.
To get at the very beginning, we shall have to go back to a time long
before Edward the Confessor sat watching his workmen--to the days when
London was a Roman city, and when the site of modern Westminster was a
marshy tract of ground, crossed by various streams and channels. At that
time the river Thames and one of these channels enclosed an island about
a quarter of a mile long and somewhat less in breadth. It was a marshy
wilderness, and had the character of being "a terrible place," and
amongst its swamps and thickets the huge red deer, with his immense
antlers, and the wild ox found a refuge. When it received a name, it
became known as Thorn-Ey, that is, Isle of Thorns; in later days people
called it Thorney Island. Tradition says that in the midst of the
wilderness there was erected, in the year 154 A.D., a Temple of Apollo.
We are next told that King Lucius, who was said to have been the founder
of a great many English churches, turned the temple into a Christian
sanctuary. Then we hear that in 616 A.D., Sebert, King of Essex, founded
an Abbey here, and dedicated it to St. Peter, "in order to balance the
compliment he had made to St. Paul on Ludgate Hill." All this is very
doubtful, but from the earliest times in history there has been shown a
grave of Sebert as that of the founder of the Abbey.

Twelve monks of the Benedictine order were placed here by Dunstan, and
suffered a great deal from the Danes, who in these times did much
mischief in England. The last of the Saxon kings who kept up the long
struggle with these pagans was Edward, who by his exile to escape from
their tyranny won the title of Confessor. He was a very strange man, who
seemed never thoroughly happy except when he was sitting in church or
when he was hunting in the woods. He had milk-white hair and beard, rosy
cheeks, "thin white hands, and long transparent fingers." He was
sometimes gentle, sometimes furious; sometimes very grave, going about
with eyes fixed on the ground, sometimes bursting out into wild fits of
laughter.

Edward returned from his exile accompanied by Norman courtiers and
Norman priests, and full of Norman ideas. He appears to have been very
much delighted with his visits to the great continental cathedrals, so
different from the simple structures of the Saxons. During his troubles
he had vowed to make a pilgrimage to Rome; but the Pope gave him leave
to build an Abbey to St. Peter instead. Edward accordingly resolved to
restore the monastery on the Isle of Thorns, on a very different scale
from anything that had been before attempted in England.

According to a legend told in after years, there was near Worcester a
holy hermit "of great age, living on fruits and roots," who dwelt "far
from men in a wilderness on the slope of a wood, in a cave deep down in
the grey rock." To this holy man St. Peter appeared one night, and bade
him tell the king that he was released from his pilgrimage, and that at
Thorney, near the city, he must build a Benedictine Abbey, which should
be "the gate of heaven, the ladder of prayer, whence those who serve St.
Peter there shall be by him admitted into Paradise." The hermit wrote
out his dream on parchment, and sent it to the king, who compared it
with the message to the same purpose just received from Rome, and at
once set to work on the project.

Another story was told to show that Thorney was specially under the
patronage of St. Peter. It was said that on the evening before Mellitus,
first Bishop of London, was about to consecrate the monastery built here
by King Sebert, a fisherman named Edric was engaged by a venerable
stranger to ferry him across to the island. The stranger entered the
church, and assisted by a host of angels, who descended with sweet
odours and flaming candles, dedicated the church with all the usual
ceremonies. Then returning to the awe-struck fisherman, the mysterious
stranger declared himself to be St. Peter, Keeper of the Keys of Heaven,
and that he had consecrated his own Church of St. Peter, Westminster.
When the king and Bishop Mellitus arrived next day, Edric told his
story, and pointed out the marks of the twelve crosses on the church,
the walls within and without moistened with holy water, the letters of
the Greek alphabet written twice over distinctly on the sand, the traces
of the oil, and even the droppings of the angelic candles. The bishop
could not presume to add any further ceremonial, but retired.

Edward restored the old royal palace close by, and dwelt there fifteen
years, superintending the erection of the Abbey. Dean Stanley says he
spent upon it one-tenth of the property of the kingdom. His end was
approaching when he dedicated the Abbey, on Innocents Day, 1065, and on
the last day of the year he died. I shall tell you about his funeral
later on.

The edifice stood pretty much as Edward the Confessor left it till the
reign of Henry III., who showed his love for the Abbey first by adding
to it, and then by demolishing it almost entirely, and raising in its
place the building that has been called "the most lovely and lovable
thing in Christendom." In this rebuilding St. Peter was almost lost
sight of, and the Shrine and Chapel of Edward the Confessor became, as
it were, the central idea of the whole. Very lavishly did King Henry
spend his money over the restored Abbey: the cost was at least half a
million, as we should reckon it. His work includes the apse and choir,
the two transepts, one arch of the nave, and the chapter-house; Under
the Edwards the nave unfolded itself farther west, and the Abbot's House
and Jerusalem Chamber were built. Richard II. was very fond of the
Abbey, and rebuilt, at great expense, the famous north portal, often
spoken of as "The Beautiful Gate," or "Solomon's Porch." By Henry V. the
nave was prolonged nearly to its present length. It was just completed
in time for the grand procession to sweep along it when the _Te Deum_
was sung for the victory at Agincourt. The architect by whom the work
was carried out was Dick Whittington, Lord Mayor of London.

The next important addition to the Abbey took place in the reign of
Henry VII., when the large eastern chapel which bears that monarch's
name was built. The great wars of York and Lancaster were now over, but
amongst the chief actors in those tragic events there was one who, by
his saintly goodness and sufferings, had left a revered name upon the
lips of Englishmen. Images of Henry VI. were seen in great churches
throughout the country, and stories of his good works and miracles were
everywhere told. Henry VII. promised to build at Westminster a
magnificent chapel, in memory of Henry VI. The Pope promised
"canonisation" (as the making of a new saint is called), and the king
obtained from the Westminster Convent £500 (equal to £5,000 nowadays)
for the transference thither of the holy remains. But they were never
brought from Windsor. Henry dreaded the immense expense, and completed
the chapel as a grand sepulchre for himself and his new dynasty.

There is one feature of the Abbey, as seen from the outside, of which I
have not spoken--the western towers. These were built as far as the roof
by Abbot Islip, who witnessed the erection of Henry VII.'s Chapel. Two
hundred and thirty years afterwards Sir Christopher Wren restored
Islip's work, and designed the upper portions. The edifice is not yet
complete, as the square central tower requires a lofty spire to complete
it.

And so, young people, in the course of centuries, from out "the terrible
place" in the wilderness-island has risen the famous Abbey of
Westminster, the full title of which is the "Collegiate Church, or
Abbey, of St. Peter." We have now got over the dry part of our subject,
so we will enter the Abbey, and as we tread its holy shades together I
shall have more interesting things to tell you about some of the famous
men and women and stormy events that have made it for ever memorable.

MADGE'S DOVE

  "Now, Madge," cried Hal, and bent his bow,
    "Just watch this famous shot;
  See that old willow by the brook--
    I'll hit the middle knot."
  Swift flew the arrow through the air,
    Madge watched it eager-eyed;
  But, oh! for Harry's gallant vaunt,
    The wayward dart flew wide.

  Flew wide, and struck his cousin's dove
    As, wheeling round and round,
  It hovered near--the wounded bird
    Fell fluttering to the ground.
  And in a moment o'er her pet
    Dear Madge is bending low.
  Oh, how she blames the faithless dart,
    The cruel, cruel bow!

  The dove, soft folded in her hands,
    She presses to her breast;
  The bird that brought the olive spray
    Was never more caressed.
  Her tears upon its plumage fall,
    They fall like soft warm rain--
  Sure if the bird were dead such love
    Would give it life again.

  Poor Hal stands by, and tries to speak
    His sorrow and regret;
  Madge scarcely hears a word he says
    For pity of her pet.
  But time, the gentle healer, cures
    The wounds of doves and men--
  The days restore to faithful Madge
    Her bonnie bird again.

ROBERT RICHARDSON.

[Illustration: THE WOUNDED DOVE (_See p._ 16.)]

OUR SUNDAY AFTERNOONS.

SOLOMON'S DREAM AT GIBEON.

It had been a great day at Gibeon. A thousand animals had been
slaughtered, and laid upon the altar of burnt-offering; and, as the
successive sacrifices were consumed, the flames had ascended, and the
smoke, in curling clouds, had gone up towards heaven in token of
acceptance.

A new king had come to the throne, a grand, and great, and mighty king,
Solomon, the most comely of the sons of David. The fierce fightings of
David, the man of war, were over. The glittering crown of Israel had
been placed upon the head of Solomon the Peaceable; and the people hoped
great things, and celebrated his accession with loud and hearty
rejoicings. The dominion of Israel extended, as had been promised to
Abraham, from the Euphrates to the river of Egypt. David and his mighty
men had fought and conquered. And now the people of Israel were entering
into rest, and into the enjoyment of that which his sword had won for
them.

So Solomon, in his gratitude, offered up his thousand burnt-offerings;
and the people, with heart and soul, joined him in praise to God, and
their joyous psalms of thanksgiving went up with the ascending smoke.

Gibeon, which was a priestly city, lay in the tribe of Benjamin, about
six miles and a half from Jerusalem; and there, in the reign of David,
the Tabernacle, which had been at Shiloh, had somehow come to be
pitched.

So Gibeon had become an important place; and thither Solomon went to
offer up his sacrifice.

The flames that had consumed the last animal had died away, and the
cloud of smoke had ceased to go up. The sun that had lighted up the
world had sunk below the horizon, amid clouds of gold and purple,
seemingly well pleased to have witnessed, on this sin-stained earth, so
grand and noble a scene as that of a young and happy, handsome and rich
king, recognising God's providence, and offering up so worthy a
sacrifice of praise and thanksgiving to Him who had placed him upon the
throne.

The shades of night had fallen upon all, and the joyous king himself had
retired to rest. With a clear conscience and a light heart, he had lain
down, and, after the fatigues of the eventful day, had fallen into a
peaceful sleep.

For all his subjects loved and honoured Solomon, and gloried in having
him for their king.

Well might his heart be light and his sleep be sweet. Well might his
face be radiant with joy, even as he lay unconscious upon his bed. But
soon an expression of still greater joy overspread his countenance. A
still brighter light came into his face, and his heart leaped within
him; for, in a dream of the night, God drew near this chosen and
well-beloved son of David, to heap upon him still greater favours.

Pleased with the love and gratitude and devotion, to which the young
king had given expression by his costly sacrifice, God, who loves a
thankful heart, and pours into it still more of His goodness, visited
the sleeping Solomon in the stillness of the night.

"Ask what I shall give thee," He said; and as the voice fell upon
Solomon's ear--

  "The heart of the sleeper beat high in his breast,
        Joy quickened his pulse;"

for that was the voice that he then most loved, and most desired to
hear.

And what an exceedingly gracious offer it made! To get whatever he
should desire! Had ever grandest king been so favoured? But what should
he ask for--this youthful king, to whom life was just opening out as a
pleasant paradise, offering him all that seemed worth the coveting? Was
there anything yet wanting to him? How many things he might have
requested!

His father is said to have died, at the age of seventy years, feeble and
broken down. Would he, in so short a time, be tired of living? Would he,
so soon, be ready to leave the glory and honour to which he had been
called? Should he ask for length of days? Should he request that, till
he had reached an age exceeding that of Methuselah, the cold hand of
death might not be laid upon him, and the greedy and all-devouring tomb
might not claim him as its victim? Should he ask that he might plant his
feet upon the neck of all his enemies, not one daring to raise up a
finger against him? Or should he desire that the vast riches, that had
been heaped up by his father during his long and victorious wars, and
that had been left to him, might be still further increased, and that he
might be the richest and grandest king on the face of the earth? Or
should he ask that he might become so famous, that so long as the world
should endure, his name might be a household word, not only amongst his
own people, but in distant lands, from east to west, and from north to
south, wherever the foot of man might tread?

[Illustration: VIEW NEAR GIBEON.]

Oh, no! All these things, which many would have desired, were to him but
empty things of earth, trifles that must pass away, vain bubbles that
must burst and disappear, leaving behind them no true and lasting
benefit. His thoughts did not dwell upon them, but upon higher, and
better, and nobler things.

He, the last born of David's sons, had been chosen before all his
brethren, to sit upon the glorious throne of his father. Those over whom
he had been called to rule were the chosen people of God. They had been
taken out of all the nations of the world to be His own peculiar people,
and to witness, amidst the idolatrous nations around them, to the living
and true God. The heart of God was set upon them. His love was freely
poured out upon them, and He had bound them to Himself, closely as a man
bound around him his valued girdle. They were the descendants of
faithful Abraham, of Isaac, and Jacob. They had become great, and mighty,
and powerful, spreading themselves out like the cedars of Lebanon, and
flourishing like the stately palms. All the surrounding nations looked
upon them as the favoured of Heaven, and feared them.

And he was called to rule them--he, so young and so inexperienced! It
was his mission to rule them with justice, to train them in the paths of
righteousness, and to bring them still nearer to Him who had chosen
them.

And how should he accomplish it? How small and insignificant he felt,
and how utterly worthless! How he seemed to dwindle into nothing beside
the great work that he was called to do! And yet how anxious he was to
do it well! How he longed to be like his father David, a true shepherd
to his people! How his heart yearned over his subjects; and how greatly
he desired to govern them aright, and to be the channel through which
the blessings of the great King of Heaven might be poured down upon
them!

Yes, that was the one thing he desired--worthily to perform the great
work which had been given him to do. And young and inexperienced as he
was, he could not do it of himself, and he must ask for the needful
wisdom.

A shade of regret for a moment darkened the face of the sleeper as he
thought of his own inefficiency. But it soon passed away. There was
wisdom for the asking; and his bright red lips moved in humble prayer.

"O Lord," he murmured in deep reverence, "Thou hast showed great mercy
unto David my father, and hast made me to reign in his stead. And Thy
servant is in the midst of Thy people, which thou hast chosen--a great
people that cannot be counted for multitude. I am but a little child. I
know not how to go out, or to come in. Give me now wisdom and knowledge,
for who can judge this Thy people that is so great?"

How pleasing to God were the deep humility expressed in this prayer, the
discernment of the great work that he was called to do; the earnest
desire to be fitted to do it nobly and well, and the utter forgetfulness
of all earthly glory and fame!

There was no word of reproach, no saying that as the son of David he
ought to be well qualified for governing. Only the gracious answer came,
that, because all this was in the heart of the young king, because he
had made the worthy fulfilment of his mission the grand aim of his life,
wisdom and knowledge were granted to him. And because he had desired
these rather than long life, or riches, or honour, or the lives of his
enemies, there should also be given to him riches, and wealth, and
honour, such as no king had ever enjoyed before him or should ever know
after him. And if he served God faithfully, as his father David had
done, length of days, also, should be added unto him.

The young king awoke, "and, behold it was a dream." But it was not one
of those fanciful dreams, that come and go, and mean nothing. It was a
dream from God, a great reality, as he was soon to prove.

From that time Solomon became noted for his wisdom and knowledge. On
the most difficult points he was able to give a just judgment, that
astonished all who heard it. "And the people feared him; for they saw
that the wisdom of God was in him."

His wisdom excelled that of all the wise men of the east, and the
understanding of even the wise men of Egypt sank into the shade when
compared with his.

He gave his people three thousand proverbs. He wrote a thousand and five
songs; one of them which is called the "Song of Songs," or the "Song of
Solomon," and which has a place in the Bible, having a depth of
beautiful meaning, which only the very wise can understand. He knew all
about the trees, from the kingly cedar that reared its proud head on the
famous heights of Lebanon, to the humble hyssop that sprang out of the
wall. He could tell the nature of each, describe its flowers and its
fruit, and point out of what it was symbolic. The beasts of the earth,
the fowls of the air, the fishes of the sea, and even the creeping
things were all to him as an open book. He could tell for what each was
created, and what lesson each was intended to convey. He could answer
the most difficult questions that any one could put to him; and his fame
rapidly spread through all the countries of the then known world.

He became so rich, too, that silver and gold were as common as the
stones that he saw lying in the streets, as he rode through Jerusalem in
his open chariot, clothed in white, threads of glittering gold mixed
with his jet black hair.

He erected the glorious temple, which for grandeur and magnificence
stood unrivalled; and time would fail to tell of the splendour of his
throne, of his palace, and of the palace which he built for his
favourite wife.

In almost all countries, his name has been familiar; and, to this day,
the wild Arabs will tell wondrous stories about him, as they gather at
night round their blazing fires. His grandeur and wisdom have ever since
been proverbial; and even Jesus, when He wished to compare the lilies of
the field with something very magnificent, spoke of "Solomon in all his
glory."

The great king, however, did not get length of days, because he
afterwards grievously fell. But, without darkening this story with the
account of his subsequent sins, let us try rather to learn some of the
useful lessons that it is intended to teach. Perhaps you have already
found them out.

Like Solomon, we have all in life a great work to do, and we all lack
wisdom. But we have only, as St. James tells us, to "ask of God," who
giveth to _all_ men liberally, without reproaching them for their
foolishness. And if we seek the wisdom that comes from above--the wisdom
of Jesus Christ, we need have no fear; for, as the great Master Himself
tells us, all other things will be added unto us.

H. D.

BIBLE EXERCISES FOR SUNDAY AFTERNOONS.

1. Which is the only miracle of our Lord that is related by all the four
Evangelists?

2. What city, after its destruction, was sown with salt, as a sign of
the barrenness and desolation that its enemies wished to see come upon
it?

3. How many lepers are we told, were cleansed by our Lord?

4. Whence did Solomon procure the pattern according to which he built
the Temple?

5. Where does the psalmist call God the health of the countenance?

6. What is the only occasion on which we read of Jesus sleeping?

7. Where is Mary, the mother of Jesus, last mentioned.

8. Where do we read that, while, in the reign of David, the old
Tabernacle remained at Gibeon, a new tent was pitched at Jerusalem for
the ark of the Lord?

9. In which place, after the pitching of the new Tabernacle, did the
high priest officiate?

10. Where do we find that Solomon, on his accession, recognised the
sanctity of both places?

11. Where is there a prophecy of Jonah concerning Israel, not recorded
in the Bible, alluded to in the history of the kings?

12. From what words of St. Paul do we gather that other Christians;
besides Stephen, were put to death during the persecution at Jerusalem?

ANSWERS TO BIBLE EXERCISES (61-72. See Vol. XIX., p. 346).

61. In Lev. xix. 14, and Deut. xxvii. 18.

62. In St. Matt. xxvi. 30, and St. Mark xiv. 26.

63. In Gen. xviii. 14; Jer. xxxii. 17, 27; Job xlii. 2; St. Matt. xix.
26; St. Mark x. 27, xiv. 36; St. Luke i. 37, xviii. 27.

64. In St. Mark xii. 41-44; St. Luke xxi. 1-4; and 2 Cor. viii. 12.

65. Of the mother of Samson, Judges xiii. 2-24, xiv. 2-9; and Hannah,
the mother of Samuel, 1 Sam. i., ii. 1-10, 18-21.

66. In Judges xiv. 12-19; and Ezek. xvii. 1-10.

67. Proverbs xii. 10.

68. In St. Matt. vi. 25-34; and St. Luke xii. 22-30.

69. In St. Matt, xxiii. 5.

70. St. John xvii. 4.

71. In Lev. xix. 13; and Deut. xxiv. 14, 15.

72. In Deut. xxi. 22, 23.

NESSIE'S ADVENTURE.

[Illustration: "THEY BROUGHT HER HOME IN TRIUMPH, A MERRY SIGHT TO
SEE."]

  Nessie was lost--her brothers
    Had sought her high and low:
  Where in the world was Baby?
    Nobody seemed to know.

  "Mother," at last said Harry,
    "Now don't you be afraid;
  We'll make up a grand search party,
    And find our little maid."

  Harry led forth his followers,
    Down by the willowed pond,
  Past the old grey turnstile,
    And into the woods beyond.

  They searched by stream and meadow,
    They searched 'neath hedge and tree;
  "Where," said the puzzled children,
    "Where can the truant be?"

  At last, at last they found her,
    In a meadow far away,
  Under a sheltering haystack,
    Asleep 'mid the fragrant hay.

  They brought her home in triumph,
    A merry sight to see,
  With flags and banners flying,
    And songs of victory.

TOO YOUNG FOR SCHOOL.

_By the Author of "Harry Maxwell; or, Schoolboy Honour."_

"Here, I say, old fellow! what's the matter? you look as sulky as a
brown bear. And where's your cap gone? I say now, _do_ wake up! You'll
catch it if old Jacky catches you."

"Let me be. You would look sulky if you had a little chap of a brother
sent to school, miles too young to come at all, and had got to look
after him and keep him out of scrapes, and show him how to get on with
his lessons, and keep the fellows from bullying him."

"Why in the world did he come, Graham?"

"Oh, don't bother, Johnny, old man," and as he spoke, Hubert Graham drew
his arm away from the parapet over which he was leaning with book in
hand, and turning round a frank, honest-looking face towards the boy who
was questioning him, passed his hand over his eyes, and added, "What can
have come to Uncle Charlie to make him send Chris off like this, I can't
think. Middle of term too!"

"Well, how is it?--explain to me--but--I say, old fellow, where's your
cap? you'll be in no end of a row if you lose it, you know."

Up went Hubert Graham's hand to his head, as he answered in a bewildered
way, "Cap! Haven't I got--" and then hastily turning, and looking over
the parapet, he exclaimed, "Oh! I say, Seton, just look there!" and he
burst out into a hearty laugh as he added "One of those barge boys has
just fished it up out of the water, and he's holding it up in triumph to
me. I must have been dreaming. It's out of bounds," he went on, with a
face of dismay.

[Illustration: "LEANING WITH BOOK IN HAND" (_p. 21_).]

"I wonder if the fellow will bring it up to me."

"Not he," said Seton.

Dr. Thornley's boys were not allowed to go, without special leave, any
nearer the town on the outskirts of which the school was situated than
the bridge over which Hubert had been leaning. The approach of a master
solved the difficulty. Hubert Graham went up to him. "If you please,
sir, I was leaning over the parapet, and my cap fell into the river. A
bargee has picked it up. May I run and get it?"

The master looked over, and laughed. "Perhaps he won't give it up. You
may go and try."

When Hubert Graham returned to the bridge in triumph so far as the
possession of a very wet cap was concerned, but rather low in his mind
at having had to pay the exacting bargee a shilling out of his somewhat
scanty store of pocket-money, he found John Seton lingering about for
him.

"I say," he said, "I want to know about your uncle, and the little one.
He's a jolly little man though; I expect he'll make his way."

"But there's a terrible set in the lower school for him to make his way
with, and he a mere baby."

"Well! he's seven--and that seems like a baby to us, to be sure," said
magnificent fourteen years, speaking in the person of John Seton; "and
you're right. They _are_ a set; I wish I was the prefect in his
dormitory, but I'm not. Tell me how he came here in such a hurry?"

"Well, you needn't talk about it to the other fellows. Father and mother
are in India. Father's regiment was ordered abroad four years ago, and
mother went with him. There were three of us, and we were sent to Uncle
Charlie to take care of. I was eight years old then, Nellie was five,
and Chris three years old. Uncle was jolly and kind, and sent me here
when I was ten. Just before the summer holidays were over Uncle Charlie
married, and I'm sure our new aunt does not care for us to be there. But
I never thought they'd send Chris to school. I wonder what they'll do
with Nellie?"

"Can't you write to your father?"

"I will directly, but it's so long before I can hear."

A poor little fellow taken from the nursery. A brave, bright little man
enough, but oh! so young, so pitifully young to be sent to a school
where there were fifty or sixty boys in what was called the lower school
only! Poor little Christopher! If his mother could have seen him! He
came--bright--happy--full of life, determined to like it; but before two
days were over his little soul was full of misery. The boys of ten and
eleven years became his dread and torment. On the second day he saw
nothing of Hubert till the evening, and then he said, "Hubert, why
couldn't I go to our grandfather?"

"Nobody even thought of such a thing, Chris. I don't expect our
grandfather would like us."

"How do you know?" said the child.

"Oh! don't bother," returned his brother. "Only by what I've heard nurse
say. She was talking one day to Jane, and she said, 'The children would
have gone to General Graham's, only, you know, he was angry with master
for marrying, and so master never asked him to have them.' I asked nurse
what she meant, and she was vexed that I'd heard it, and said it was
nothing I could understand."

"But I am so miserable here."

"Try to like it. Seton says you can go into his study to-night, and do
your exercises. The fellows in the school don't leave you alone, do
they, Chris?"

"No," said poor little Chris; "they don't." And sitting in Seton's
little study that night the child found comfort for the first time.

And for a few days things seemed better. But it was not to last. Those
boys in the lower school, who had tormented him before, were worse than
ever, now that they thought he was being made a favourite of by one of
the senior boys, and the poor little fellow had no peace. He complained
bitterly to his brother, but it was no good. Hubert said it would only
make the boys ten times worse if he interfered. "And never mind, old
fellow," he said; "it's half-holiday to-morrow, and you'll get some
jolly games."

"Jolly games," thought poor little Christopher; "I know better. They
won't be very jolly to _me_."

And then Christopher made up his mind, and in his brave little heart
determined to tell no one, but to run away, if he only could, to his
grandfather. He knew the way to the station from the school, and he knew
that trains went direct to a station called Kingsdown, where Uncle
Charlie always went when he visited grandfather. "After all, he can't be
worse than the boys," he said to himself. "And Hubert can't help me."

But Hubert did care. His smothered indignation and anxiety knew no
bounds, and the very night that Chris made up his mind to run away, long
after the other boys in his dormitory were asleep, Hubert lay awake
thinking how he could help his little brother. He fancied he heard a
noise in one of the dormitories. It seemed, he thought, to come from the
direction of the one in which Christopher was. He raised himself on his
elbow to listen, and muttered to himself, "They shall only wait till
to-morrow, and then those two fellows, Howard and Peters, shall have a
piece of my mind. They're the ringleaders. It shall be the worse for
them if they've been frightening him to-night."

[Illustration: SITTING IN SETON'S LITTLE STUDY]

And he lay there listening till all seemed quiet, and then saying to
himself, "The poor little chap is at peace now, I expect," he turned
round, and dropped off to sleep.

But he had not been listening quite long enough.

Little Christopher waited till all the boys in his room were sound
asleep, pinching himself to keep himself awake; then out of bed he
crept, felt for his clothes, which were close at hand, huddled them on,
put his feet into his felt slippers, as he dared not put on any boots,
and got out in the passage. His bed was near the door, which was
fortunate, for he thought, if he had had to pass many of the boys' beds,
his courage would have failed him. Down the stairs he stole--oh! how
they creaked--and unfastening the shutters of one of the school-room
windows, got out of it into the garden. But ah! he hadn't calculated on
the big dog, whose kennel was hard by, and who was out in a moment.

"Dear, darling Ponto," cried the poor little fellow; "don't bark, my
dear." And up he went, and stroked and patted the great mastiff, who,
already knowing the little fellow, put his paws on his shoulders, and
licked his face with great appreciation. For Christopher was tenderly
kind to animals, and he was rewarded for this now in his day of deep
distress. Ponto did not bark.

Christopher whispered to him. "Ponto, I'm very unhappy. I'm running
away. I wish I could take you with me. I only love you here; excepting
Hubert, and he can't help me;" and away he stole.

As he got into the high road the early dawn of morning gave him a little
light.

All was consternation in the school later, in the morning. A boy
missing! Dr. Thornley summoned the whole school before him. Could any
boy give him any information?

[Illustration: "HUBERT LAY AWAKE" (_p. 23_).]

Hubert came forward. "He said he should run away yesterday, sir; but I
had no notion the poor boy would or could, or I'd never have left him
last night."

"Why?--for what reason?" said Dr. Thornley, his face growing sterner and
graver.

John Seton came forward. "I'm afraid, sir, there's very bad bullying in
the lower school."

"So bad as this, that a boy should run away!" said the doctor; "and you
a prefect!"

The colour mounted high in John Seton's fine young face.

"I've not had anything to do with the discipline the three weeks since
Graham minor has been here, sir; but some of us meant to speak. It could
not go on."

"May I go after him, sir?" said Hubert, his voice quivering with
anxiety.

"I have sent to search for him in all directions," said the doctor. "A
poor little child like that might meet with many mishaps. I am
surprised," and his voice shook, "that none of you bigger boys let me
know of any of this base, low, ungentlemanly conduct."

The expression on the countenances of some of the boys of the lower
school, as these words fell from the doctor's lips, may be imagined.

Dr. Thornley was the kindest-hearted of men, but there were certain
offences that moved him greatly; and when moved to wrath, the boys knew
he could be terrible.

"I must find this all out; and if the boys who have been bullying little
Graham have not the bravery to come forward, and confess it of their own
free will, I must take measures to discover who they were. But I warn
them," added the doctor, "that if I find them out before they have come
forward and freely confessed their base conduct, their time at this
school will be short. To-day is a half-holiday. All the lower school
will keep within bounds to-day."

At that instant "Old Jacky," as the boys called him, the school porter,
brought the doctor a telegram. His face wore a look of great relief as
he read it. And he turned to poor Hubert.

"Your brother is safe." Then to the school he said, "I have just had
this telegram, which I will read, 'General Sir Henry Graham, Sefton
Court, to Dr. Thornley, Middleborough. Christopher Graham safe with me.
Shall make full inquiries.'"

[Illustration: "FAST ASLEEP, WITH HIS HEAD ON THE DOG" (_p. 25_).]

At Sefton Court the same morning all was lazy and quiet. The blinds
drawn down the entrance door side of the house to keep out the sun, but
doors and windows thrown wide open. An old gentleman sitting in his
library, reading his paper. Something made the old gentleman restless.
He fidgeted. Something was wrong with his glasses. Then to himself he
said, "I wish Henry was here. Shall write by next mail. Why shouldn't
his wife come home, and bring the children here? I don't half like it
now that Charlie's married. Perhaps she won't like the children. Got a
craze on education too. They overdo it. Dear me! I wonder where that
fellow Thomas is?"

And up got the old gentleman, and walked to the door. He had no sooner
opened it than he gave a great start. "Hullo! What on earth is this?"
What was it he saw?

His own old dog, Bevis, whose favourite sleeping-place was the mat at
his door, lying there as usual, but not asleep. Wide awake, as if on
guard. And marvel of marvels! a dear little fair-haired boy fast, fast
asleep, with his head on the dog, who was lying so as to make himself
into as comfortable a pillow as possible.

The old gentleman stared hard for a minute, then began to shout for
Thomas, which woke the child, and he began to sob.

[Illustration: "THEY WERE ALL THREE ASSEMBLED" (_p. 26_).]

"There, there!" said the old general. "Who are you? You oughtn't to have
come in without leave." By this time poor little Christopher, for it
was he, had collected his scattered faculties, and catching hold of one
of General Graham's hands, cried, "You're grandfather. Do take care of
me. I'm so unhappy at school; I think I'm too little. So I said I'd come
off to you. You wouldn't be as bad as the boys!"

"Who? who?" stammered the poor old general.

"I'm little Christopher Graham. Uncle Charlie sent me to school, and I'm
too little, I expect. I ran away. I know it was naughty, but forgive me,
and don't send me back. I had five shillings in my box, and I ran away
in the night, and came here by the train in the morning; and I asked
where you lived, and I walked here from the station, and I saw the door
wide open, and I thought as it was grandfather's house I might come in;
and I was afraid of the dog, but he didn't hurt me, and I knelt down to
pat him, and I suppose I was very tired, for I can't remember any more."

But he needed to say no more, for he was in his grandfather's arms. And
Thomas was close by, and brought some warm tea very quickly; and a
kind-looking old lady came, who said to Christopher she was his great
Aunt Susan, and that he must be undressed and have a warm bath, and go
to bed to get a sound sleep before they let him tell them anything else.

The very next evening Aunt Susan called Christopher into the library.
There was his very own Nellie sitting on grandfather's knee, and Hubert
standing by!

Dr. Thornley had given Hubert one day's holiday to go and see
Christopher. Later in the evening they were all three assembled in a
pleasant cosy room, looking over funny old picture-books, which kind
Aunt Susan turned out of her treasures.

"'All's well that ends well,'" said Hubert; "but you mustn't run away
from school when you're bigger, old boy. You're only forgiven because
you're a baby, you know."

And his grandfather said to him later on--

"My boy, in the battle-field no soldier worthy to bear the name of
'Englishman' ever turned his back on the enemy. What you had to bear was
hard; but you turned your back on your enemy when you ran away. And you
bear an ancient name, and you come of a noble race. We must do our Duty,
come what will."

And Christopher never forgot these words.

THE HOME OF THE BEADS.

Who would believe it?

You may well open your eyes, and shake your little heads incredulously,
but nevertheless it is a positive fact, that Venice, the fair Queen of
the Adriatic, sends forth every year no less than three thousand tons of
glass beads, for the adornment of your sisters big and little in all the
four quarters of the globe.

[Illustration: GONDOLA.]

The largest buyers of these pretty dainty toys are the Roman peasant
women. America follows closely in their footsteps, Great Britain's turn
comes next, then Germany puts in a modest claim, while the worst
customers of all are the Scandinavians, to whose deep, earnest,
thoughtful nature the glittering baubles appear mere useless trifles.
Among the Russian, Turkish, and Hungarian women, only the richest
classes indulge in these ornaments; they are scarcely ever seen among
the people, which may perhaps be explained by the fact that they would
not at all suit the various national costumes.

All those customers, however, who belong in reality to the civilised
nations (for, as a rule, the higher the cultivation, the less are these
shining ornaments appreciated), only demand the cheaper kinds of glass
beads. The best and dearest, the so-called _perle di luce_, find their
way to India and Africa, to the half-civilised and wholly savage races.
And here, the long strings of gay glistening beads do not merely serve
as finishing-touches to the costume, but form the principal ornament,
and cover the neck, arms, hair, and slender ankles of many a Hindoo or
Malay maiden, while among the Ethiopians they often represent the sole
article of dress. By these people, the glass pearls are indeed looked
upon as treasures, and the pretty string of Roman or Venetian beads
which you, my little maiden, lay aside so carelessly, is among them the
cause of as much heart-burning and anxious hopes and fears as the most
costly diamond necklace would be among English people.

Japan, too, is not a bad market for their sale; whereas China again will
have none of them, and turns her back rudely on fair Venice and its
industry.

But come! Here lies a gondola ready to our hand--the boatman seems
intuitively to have read our wishes, and as we glide over the blue
rippling waters in which the stately palaces are mirrored clear and
lifelike, we seem to see a second Venice reflected beneath us. Gradually
we approach the island of Murano, on which is situated the largest of
the seven great bead manufactories of Venice, and here Herr Weberbeck, a
German, employs no less than 500 men and women. Altogether about 6,000
people earn their livelihood (and a poor one it is), by this wonderfully
pretty industry, while the value of the exports amounts yearly to the
sum of £300,000.

The manufacture itself surprises us by the great simplicity which
characterises it. The first stage is getting the liquid mass of glass
about to be operated upon into a thorough state of toughness and
pliability: one should be able to pull it like rosin or sealing-wax. The
colouring of the mass is done while it is still in the furnace, by
adding various chemicals, the principal of which are arsenic, saltpetre,
antimony, and lead.

The next process is drawing out the long glass pipes. This is most
interesting. Let us, therefore, watch the man yonder, one of the
glass-blowers, as, by means of an iron rod, he carefully lifts a ball of
liquid glass, about the size of a small melon, from the open furnace,
and with another simple instrument makes an indentation in the outer
circle, nearly the size of that one sees at the bottom of a wine-bottle.
His colleague, meanwhile, has done exactly the same to another ball of
glass, and as they both press their balls together, the two outer
circles merge into one, and the air inside the hollow spaces is
completely shut off. Now the workmen draw back the iron rods, which are
still attached to the hot mass, and a glass thread is seen connecting
them to the centre ball. Then, keeping the strictest military time, the
glass-blowers march off in opposite directions, to about the distance of
a hundred yards, and the glowing glass thread spins itself off from both
balls, until it is exhausted, or until the cold air hardens it. The
imprisoned air has likewise, however, been spun out, and thus a hollow
pipe, instead of a solid rod, has been formed, and so prepared the hole
for the future beads.

The glass threads vary in thickness, from that of a pencil to that of a
very thin knitting-needle. Those intended for beads of mixed colours are
drawn out just in the same way, the only difference being that in that
case the glass ball, as soon as it is taken from the furnace, is dipped
in various coloured masses of liquid glass, which then form layers, one
over the other, like the layers of an onion.

Sometimes, very tiny lumps of coloured glass are stuck on the glass
balls, which then form parti-coloured stripes on the glass threads. The
separating and sorting of the threads or pipes, which are now broken up
into lengths of about three feet, is a widely-spread home-industry in
Venice, and if we go down to the lower parts of the Lagoon city, where
the people dwell, we shall see numbers of women and children seated
before large baskets, out of which glass pipes protrude like the quills
of a gigantic porcupine. With fingers spread wide apart, they carefully
weigh and feel the contents of the baskets, till they have sorted all
the pipes, according to their sizes. The different bundles are then
carried back to the factory, where they are placed in a machine, not
unlike a chaff-cutter, and cut up into small pieces. It is amusing to
watch the coloured shower as it falls. Do not be afraid, but just place
your hand beneath, to catch the glittering stream, and it will almost
seem as if you had taken hold of a shower of hailstones.

Any pointed or jagged bits having been cut off, the beads are now rolled
in fine sand, which has been carefully heated in earthen jars, until
just warm enough to soften the outside of the glass, so that a gentle
friction would rub off the sharp edges. The sand gets into the holes in
the beads, prevents them from closing up during this process, and ere
we can believe it possible, they come forth round, perfect, and
complete. The larger and smaller ones are now separated and sorted by
simply shaking them in different-sized sieves, and any beads that
require an extra amount of polish are thrown into small bags filled with
marl, and vigorously tossed and shaken.

Much more complicated is the manufacture of the _perle di luce_, or
beads of light, which so delight the natives of India and Africa. The
name is taken from the way in which they are prepared, namely, by means
of a jet of intense flame, and great skill and dexterity is required on
the part of the workman, who can display his talent and originality by
ornamenting them with flowers and arabesques. The combined effects of
light and colour are often very beautiful, and seem a fit adornment for
all those eastern and southern nations over whom a halo of fable and
romance is cast.

In the interior of Africa, these _perle di luce_ are frequently used as
payment instead of coin, and the cunning Arab, in whose hands almost the
whole of the trade lies, generally turns to his own profit the delight
that the innocent negresses exhibit at his gay wares.

But contrary to what one might expect, the black, woolly-headed children
of Nature show a strange distaste for _glossy_ beads; so much so indeed,
that the Venetians find it necessary to deaden the natural brilliancy
which all glass obtains when it becomes cold, by grinding it, and thus
softening the otherwise shining surface.

Notwithstanding all this, however, the bead industry of Venice is but a
poorly-paid one; only the most skilful among the hands can manage to
make a decent livelihood. Not very many of the women can earn more than
about 4½d. a day, so that for them all the fast-days decreed by their
Church are quite superfluous; _their_ fasts last from Ash Wednesday to
Ash Wednesday. Even polenta, that very frugal Italian national dish, is
for them only a Sunday's treat; the rest of the week nature provides
them with turnips and other roots, great piles of which, cooked on an
open hearth, greet us in all the streets of Venice, where they are
eagerly devoured by the hungry crowd. And yet these poor people work
hard to give pleasure and delight to both great and little folk.

Truly they exemplify the old proverb, "Some must sow, that others may
reap."

M. H.

[ANSWER TO "OUR IMAGINARY DISSOLVING VIEWS"--VI. (_See Vol. XIX., p.
351._) 1. Henrietta, Maria. 2. Vandyke's picture of Charles I. and his
queen: the children were afterwards Charles II. and James II. 3. The
Fronde. 4. Trial of Charles I. in Westminster Hall.]

A PRACTICAL JOKE.

  'Twas noon-tide on a summer day,
  And in a hammock Bruin lay,
  Studying the price of pork and veal,
  And wondering how to get a meal,
  And what his little ones would do
  If all the papers said was true.

  The sun was very warm that day,
  And having trudged a weary way
  In search of food, 'twas no surprise
  That Mr. Bruin shut his eyes
  Now and again, and did not see
  Two monkeys o'er him in the tree.

  "Hurrah!" they whispered, "here's a chance
  Of making Mr. Bruin dance!
  Oft has he put us in a fix:
  We'll pay him out now for his tricks,
  And let him know that, though we're small,
  We're not so harmless after all!"

[Illustration: "'TWAS NOON-TIDE ON A SUMMER DAY, AND IN A HAMMOCK BRUIN
LAY."]

[Illustration: "UPON THE GROUND, WITH ACHING BONES, POOR BRUIN MINGLED
SIGHS AND GROANS."]

  Then, knife in hand, one monkey passed
  From branch to branch, until at last
  He reached the bough wherefrom was hung
  Old Bruin's hammock, firmly slung;
  And made one sudden vigorous slash
  Through all the ropes: then--crash, crash, crash!

  Upon the ground, with aching bones,
  Poor Bruin mingled sighs and groans,
  Compelled to linger there and hear
  The monkeys' frequent taunt and jeer,
  While "What's the price, of bear's grease, please?"
  Went echoing through the forest trees.

G. W.

LITTLE TOILERS OF THE NIGHT.

I.--THE PRINTER'S READING-BOY.

It is a gusty Friday night just after Easter. A night full of wind which
comes in sudden blasts and drives the sharp shining rain along the
streets so that it seems to pierce through coats and umbrellas, and
makes such a quick pattering sound upon the pavement that people who are
indoors, and just going to bed, pull aside their window-curtains, look
out at the flickering lights, and feel glad to be at home.

Looking up from between the tall flat walls of the houses in a narrow
court in Fleet Street, London, any one who has eyes can see the gleam of
the moon, and the two or three stars that hang in the long strip of blue
overhead. They can hear the rumble of the late cab, and the tramp of the
policeman outside so plainly that these sounds are quite startling. For
all day long Fleet Street is a busy place, with thousands of people
going up and down, and hundreds of carts, cabs, waggons, cars, and
carriages, hustling in the roadway, and people who have only seen and
heard it in the day-time are surprised to find how silent and deserted
it is at midnight.

But in the narrow court, and in many other courts and passages close by,
there are other sounds and other lights than the noise of the
policeman's boots and the gleaming of the stars. Any one who is standing
there may hear a curious buzzing, and now and then a dull thump, and
looking about may see more than one big building with its windows all
aglow, and the shadows of people moving across them. Now and then a door
will open, and a lad, perhaps without a cap, and with his jacket tied
round his neck by the sleeves, will rush out as though the place were on
fire and he had been sent to fetch an engine.

If you are standing near the door you will have to get out of the way of
that lad, or he will be likely to run you down, or jam you against the
wall, for he is in a hurry. He is not going to fetch an engine, for if
you watch him he scampers down the next court, or perhaps across Fleet
Street, and in less time than you can get your breath properly, is back
with a tray piled with steaming mugs, and plates of thick
bread-and-butter; and while you are wondering how he can have got them
so quickly, and whether he will ever carry them up that steep flight of
stairs behind the door of the big building, he gives a shout that seems
to make twenty echoes, and then you lose sight of him.

In those big buildings with the dark doors and the lighted windows the
news of the week is being printed, that people may read it in the
papers. There the printers are at work, and will be at work all night;
the lad who has just gone in is a printer's lad, and because of some
part of the work he has to do he is called a "reading-boy."

Nearly every day this week numbers of letters and telegrams and written
accounts of various things that have taken place in different parts of
the world have been coming in to this building. When they come in the
editor looks at them and sends them up to the chief compositor. The
"compositors," up in the top rooms where the lights are shining, stand
before large wooden trays or "cases," each of which is divided into a
number of small squares, like boxes without lids. These boxes hold what
are called the types. The types are little slips of metal, and on the
end of each slip is stamped a letter. One of the boxes in the tray holds
the a's, another the b's, another the c's, and the capital letters and
the stops also have their proper places. When the compositor has the
writing before him on his case, he takes a small metal box open at one
end, and of the proper width, in his left hand, and with his right hand
picks up one by one the metal letters that spell the words which are on
the page. These he places in the box with the letter end upwards,
putting a slip of metal without any letter upon it to make a space
between each word. When he has filled his box he lifts all the letters
carefully out without jumbling any of them up together, stands them in a
tray, and keeps them from falling down by placing a flat rule of brass
against the side of them. When he has set up so many of these metal
letters that they are enough, when properly arranged in columns, to make
a whole page of printing, they are all brought close together and then
tightly fastened in a kind of frame, so that they are quite firm. They
are next sent downstairs and placed on the _press_, or printing-machine.
Large smooth rollers spread a thin coating of ink upon this metal page,
and then the sheet of white paper is brought very firmly against it by a
strong machine, which presses so evenly that the ink is stamped from the
metal page of the types on to the paper. When that paper is removed it
is a printed page, with the same words upon it that the compositor read
upon the letter or written page sent in a little while ago. All night
long these types with the letters upon them are being set up, all night
long patient men pick up the metal letters and form them into pages;
all night long the steam engine is going, and the letters from the inky
metal pages are being stamped upon the clean white paper, which, when it
is printed all over, will contain the week's history of the world, and
will be read by thousands of people.

There are many lads in this printing-office, and all night they are
running up and down with letters and sheets of writing and printing, or
are cleaning the inky surface of the metal pages, or helping to fix up
the frames. But why are some of them called "reading-boys?"

Of course when the metal letters are set up mistakes will occur now and
then; so in the first impression printed from the type, before it is
made up into the pages for printing already referred to and fastened
into the metal frame, these mistakes must be put right. To do this one
person takes the writing from which the type was set up, and another the
impression from the type, and the man or boy who has the writing reads
it aloud distinctly, while the other, who has the impression from the
type, reads that to himself at the same time, and compares what he sees
there with what he hears being read. If he comes to a word where there
is a mistake he makes a mark against it, and sets it right. When the
mistakes are all marked, the compositor sets them right by putting in
the proper letters and words, instead of the wrong ones, and then
another impression is printed to see whether all is right this time.
These impressions that are read for mistakes are called "proofs,"
because they prove whether the work has been properly done. Sometimes,
if the reading-boy is very clever, he can read the first writing, but
the writing is very often so bad that even the men who set up the metal
types can hardly read it. It is not pleasant work to sit all night in a
close little hot room, with the gas flaring, and to hear the din, and
feel the rolling of the great machinery, while you have to read all
sorts of things that you don't care much for, and haven't time to think
about; but that is what the "reading-boy" has often to do, though he
sometimes has a good deal of running up and down stairs, and now and
then rushes out to fetch tea, bread-and-butter, bacon, and other things
for the men, or for himself and his companions. It is to get a second
supply of these dainties that the boy whom we saw just now comes out
again head-first, and with no jacket at all on this time. He carries the
tray full of empty mugs, and before he can quite stop himself he comes
suddenly against a burly, weather-beaten looking man, who is walking up
the court, and seems to be lurching from side to side of the pavement.
Before the lad can stop short, the edge of the tray comes against this
man's elbow, and crash goes one of the mugs on the stones of the court.

"Now, then, stoopid!" shouts the boy. "Why can't you keep on your right
side?"

"Is that the way you speaks to your uncle, Bennie?" says the big man,
laughing. He is a short broad man, dressed in rough blue cloth, and with
a shiny sou'-wester on his head. He looks like a pilot, but he is really
a fisherman and a sailor, and he has come up all the way from Yarmouth
on purpose to see Benny's mother, who is his own sister.

"Well, uncle, who _could_ ha' thought of seeing you here; haven't you
been to mother's?"

"No, my boy, I got to London by the late train, and so I thought I'd try
and find you out, and we'll go home together. What a place this London
is, to be sure, and what a stifly sort of alley this here is to be
workin' in all night; it don't seem quite right for a lad of your age,
Benny."

"Come, don't you go running down our court," says the boy. "I'm all
right, uncle, specially since you was so kind as to pay for me to go to
the classes. Why, bless you, I'm learning French and Latin now, and I'm
put on to reading regular. I shouldn't wonder if I was to come to be a
printer's reader, instead of a reading-boy, and earn ever so much a week
by-and-by."

"What do you get now, Benny?"

"Eight shillings a week, uncle, and then you know I can help mother in
the shop a bit; but I say, you don't mind waitin' a minute, while I go
to the house over the way. There's only one or two places that keep open
after twelve, because of our wanting tea, and ham, and rolls, and
coffee, and all sorts o' things, to keep us going. It makes you precious
faint to keep up night work without anything to eat, I can tell you,
uncle."

"Well, I'll come with you, Benny, and wait for you at the shop, where I
can fill my pipe. But where's your jacket, and where's your cap?"

"Oh, we don't have time to think about that. Something's wanted, and the
bell rings, and somebody shouts down the speaking-tube, and off you go.
It is precious cold sometimes, though, for the men at our place keep the
room so hot. They can't bear a breath of air here, and for fear of a
draught, and then getting their fingers cold so that they can't feel the
type, they paste paper over every crack, and have all the windows
fastened down, and make you pay a fine for leaving the door open. Why,
uncle, you don't a bit know what it is. Talk about the hardships at sea,
and being out night after night off what I've heard you call the Dogger
Bank to catch codfish, they're nothing to being a boy in a printin'
office where the machine's always going, and you've I don't know how
many masters to order you about; but never you mind, I'm going to stick
to it, and if they don't give me a rise to ten shillings next week, I'll
leave and go into another place where they'll be proud of my talent, and
admire me for my strength. Though I think I would rather be aboard the
_Saucy Nancy_ with you, after all. I should 'like 'a life on the ocean
wave, uncle, and I do get so tired of the night work sometimes."

"Bless your heart, my boy; there's lads no bigger than you at the
fishing stations that have as much night work as you do. Hard work in
the cold and the wind and the wet, and often hungry work, and a good
deal of danger too. There, get along, and fetch your coat, Benny. I'll
wait here, and then we'll go home together to see mother, and as she
tells me you're to have a holiday, Saturday to Monday night, you shall
come home along o' me, and then we will just see what it's like to be a
Fisher Boy."

THOMAS ARCHER.

THEIR ROAD TO FORTUNE.

THE STORY OF TWO BROTHERS.

_By the Author of "The Heir of Elmdale," &c, &c._

CHAPTER I.--A VISITOR TO RIVERSDALE.

"How I wish it was a boy. I don't like girls!" Bertie Rivers cried,
tossing aside his book. "Do come out, Eddie, and let us watch for the
carriage."

Eddie laid aside his book a little reluctantly, and followed his brother
through the open French window of the study. They were two bright,
handsome lads, of twelve and thirteen: Edward the elder, but scarcely as
tall as Bertie, and far slighter, with a grave reserved air, and rather
thoughtful face; Bertie sturdy, gay, careless, and frank, with restless,
observant blue eyes, and a somewhat unceremonious way of dealing with
people and things. Eddie called him rough and boisterous, and gave way
to him in everything, not at all because Bertie's will was the stronger,
but that Eddie, unless very much interested, was too indolent to assert
himself, and found it much easier to do just as he was asked on all
occasions than argue or explain.

There was a visitor expected at Riversdale that day, and they were very
curious concerning her, though in different ways: Bertie openly,
restlessly, questioningly; Eddie with a quiet, rather gloomy,
expectation.

"I wonder if she will like us?" Bertie said, as he climbed to the top of
a gate, and looked anxiously down the white dusty road.

"I wonder if we shall like _her_?" Eddie replied: "that's of more
importance, I think."

"I do wish she was a boy," Bertie repeated for about the hundredth time
in the course of three days. "One never knows what to do with a girl
cousin. Of course she won't care about cricket, though Lillie Mayson
likes it, and she will be afraid of the dogs, and scream at old Jerry. I
wonder we never even heard of her before, or of Uncle Frank either. I
wonder----"

"What's the use of wondering, Bert?" Eddie interrupted, a little
impatiently. "Papa told us all he wished us to know, I dare say. Come
along for a walk. What's the good of idling here all the morning? It
won't bring the carriage a minute sooner to stand watching for it."

"No, of course not; but I want to rush down the road to meet it, and we
can't go for a walk till it comes. It would be a poor sort of welcome
for Cousin Agnes;" and Bertie took another long look down the road,
where nothing was visible save a cloud of fine white dust.

Three mornings before Mr. Rivers had summoned both boys to his study,
and very gravely informed them that their Uncle Frank was dead, and his
only child, Agnes Rivers, was coming to reside at Riversdale.

"She has no home, no friends, no money, no mother. Try and be kind to
her, boys. Don't ignore her, Edward; don't tease her, Bertie; and ask
her no questions about her parents or her past history, remember that!"

The boys promised; they always obeyed their father implicitly: indeed,
absolute unquestioning obedience was one thing Mr. Rivers exacted from
every person he came in contact with.

But Bertie was far from satisfied with the very meagre information he
had received, and directly he got a favourable opportunity, he besieged
Mrs. Mittens, the old housekeeper, with questions concerning the new
relation who was coming to make her home with them, and of the Uncle
Frank whose name he had never heard before. Eddie did not share his
curiosity, or perhaps concluded that his father's command to ask no
questions was a general one; Bertie insisted it only referred to Agnes
herself, and repeated his father's exact words to the housekeeper.

"I think, Master Bertie, your papa meant you to ask no questions of
anybody; and I have very little to tell," she said, gravely. "But this
much I think you may know. Your Uncle Frank was your papa's only
brother: he displeased your grandpapa, and left home in consequence."

"But what did he do?" Bertie cried eagerly.

"Everything he should not have done; but his worst fault was
disobedience, and a world of trouble it got him into. Remember that,
Master Bertie: your grandpapa would be obeyed, and your papa is his own
son in that respect. So take care, my dear, take care!" and the old lady
shook her forefinger warningly. "But everything's forgot and forgave
now," she added, more cheerfully; "and right glad I am Miss Agnes is
coming here!"

[Illustration: "MR. RIVERS HAD SUMMONED BOTH BOYS TO HIS STUDY" (_p.
32_).]

Bertie turned away grumbling; he was not a whit wiser than he had been
before, and he felt somehow that he had been reproved, and, more than
that, warned. But he was not very seriously impressed, and he determined
some day to find out the whole history of his Uncle Frank: know exactly
what he did, and why he did it; and as he turned the matter over in his
mind, as he sat perched on the gate, he came to the conclusion that his
was a very strange family, and that there were a great many skeletons
concealed in Riversdale.

"Perhaps Aunt Amy will be sending us a boy or girl cousin some day or
other," he said to Eddie suddenly. "I shouldn't be a bit surprised."

Eddie started from a reverie, and looked questioningly at his brother.
"Aunt Amy? what put her into your head, Bert?"

"I don't know, I'm sure, unless it's Uncle Frank. Don't you think it's
very funny to have a lot of relations you never see, hear from, or speak
about--very exciting, too, to have cousins drop in on you when you least
expect it. I hope, Ned, when you're master of Riversdale, you won't
banish me, and forget my very existence till I'm dead. What did Aunt Amy
do, I wonder?"

"She married some one papa did not approve of--an artist, I think:
that's all," Eddie said gravely. "I think Aunt Amy is very happy, and
I'm sure she is very beautiful. She does not come to Riversdale, because
papa is always ill, I suppose; and perhaps she likes London better, and
she has not got any boys or girls."

"Oh!" Bertie said, opening his eyes wide; "you seem to know all about
them. Who told you?"

"Papa. I asked him one day."

"Oh! and Uncle Gregory: what did he do? He never comes here either;" and
Bertie looked up the road again, as if he did not care very much to hear
the probable reason of that relative's absence.

"Uncle Gregory is a merchant, and has to attend to his business, I
suppose," Eddie replied, rather loftily. "He came here often enough--too
often, I believe--when our mother was alive, and then papa and he
disagreed, and he has not come since."

"Hum!" Bertie said, slipping down and stretching himself. "How did you
find out, Eddie?"

"Why, I didn't find out. Papa talks to me sometimes about our relatives;
you talk as if it were a crime for people not to come here when they
have their own houses and things to attend to. You might just as well
ask why we always stay at home."

"Oh! but that's different: Riversdale is such a jolly place. Why, I
wouldn't live anywhere else for anything, would you, Eddie?"

"I don't know; I think it would be wise to see other places before
deciding. I should like to see a great city--London for instance."

"I wonder if Agnes is coming from London?" Bertie cried; "if so, she can
tell us all about it."

"But I'd like to see for myself, to travel everywhere, visit all the
famous places in the world--Italy, Greece, Egypt--see pictures, statues,
beautiful churches."

"I think I'd prefer to stay at home: those places are such a long way
off. I dare say I should be tired before I got there; and I don't care
for pictures much, except of dogs and horses. I'd just like to stay here
always, hunt and shoot and fish when I grow up, and play cricket and
football, and just enjoy myself all the time," Bertie said soberly.

"That's because you're ignorant, Bertie, and have no taste or ambition,"
Eddie replied. "You know what Doctor Mayson says: 'Travel improves the
mind, and enlarges the understanding.'"

"Yes, but that's only in a copy-book!" Bertie exclaimed triumphantly.
"Besides, papa is the cleverest man in the world, and he's happy enough
here. Oh! the carriage at last. Come and welcome our new cousin;" and in
a moment Bertie had vaulted over the gate and shouted to the coachman to
stop, while Eddie followed in a more orthodox fashion, and both boys
stood bowing, with their caps in their hands, to a little girl dressed
in black, with a small pale face, and a quantity of light hair pushed
back from her forehead. She clung to Mrs. Mittens nervously with one
hand, while she extended the other first to Bertie, then to Eddie and
said, "Thank you, cousins," for their welcome in the sweetest, saddest
voice in the world. Then the carriage drove on before Bertie had quite
recovered his astonishment at the fact that the little girl seemed no
more than a baby, yet wore blue glasses, and spoke with the voice of a
grown-up person. He had meant to spring into the carriage, give her a
hearty kiss and a noisy greeting, and go on to the house with her; but
such familiarities were entirely out of the question with the grave
little lady in black. Turning round, he looked questioningly at Eddie,
who had returned to the grounds. "Well," he cried, "what do you think?"

"I think Cousin Agnes is an ugly, sickly little thing, not more than
seven!" he cried scornfully. "The idea of a girl in blue spectacles!
Come and have a walk." For once Bertie followed instead of leading,
though he was strongly inclined to return to the house. He did not think
his cousin was ugly, and he pitied her for being so pale and
sad-looking; but somehow he felt disappointed too, and out of humour
with himself, and Eddie, and every one else, and in an unusually silent
mood he set off for a ramble in the woods. Both boys were disappointed
in Agnes, but in a different way.

CHAPTER II.--AGNES FINDS A FRIEND.

"I hope you will be very happy here, child, and make yourself at home.
Take care of her, Mittens, and see that the boys don't tease her;" and
Mr. Rivers kissed the trembling, nervous little girl on the forehead,
and waved her out of the room. The interview had been brief, and
conducted with absolute silence on the child's part. She was overpowered
by the magnificence and awed by the solemnity of her new home.

"Is that grand gentleman Uncle Hugh, ma'am?" she asked timidly, as she
clung to the good-natured housekeeper's hand.

"Yes, my dear; and very kind and good you will find him if you always do
just as he tells you. Now you must come to my room, and have a cup of
tea before dinner. Your cousins never have any luncheon, and dine with
me at three o'clock. Your Uncle Hugh always dines in his own apartments:
indeed, he seldom leaves them, except for a turn on the terrace. The
children go in every evening to see him for half an hour, and you will
go with them. We have breakfast at nine, and tea at seven. Your cousins
drive in to Wakeley every day to Doctor Mayson's school; they leave at
half-past nine, and get back by three. Sometimes they ride their ponies,
but oftener they drive in the little dog-cart; and I dare say a young
person will come to give you lessons, but the master has not made any
arrangement yet. You're to sleep in the room next to mine; and Prudence
Briggs, the under housemaid, will wait upon you. But the first thing you
must do, my dear Miss Agnes, is to get well, and strong, and rosy. You
have been ill, surely."

"No, ma'am, not worse than usual; but I have been up a good deal at
night with father."

"You up at night, child! Dear, dear! what could folk be thinking of to
let you?"

"There was no one else, ma'am, and father had to have his medicine
regularly," Agnes replied gravely. "Even when Doctor Evans did send a
nurse, she used to fall asleep at night, and forget poor father."

Mrs. Mittens took off her spectacles, wiped them carefully, put them on
again, and looked earnestly at the child seated opposite to her. But
either her eyes or the glasses were dim again in a moment. That poor,
fragile little creature up at night, ministering to the wants of a dying
man! It seemed incredible, and yet the child's face and voice and words
bore the living impress of truth.

"How old are you, my dear?"

"Twelve last birthday. I know I'm very little and weak, and my back
aches dreadfully sometimes; but Doctor Evans said rest and care would do
wonders for me. I never had much rest at home, and I was always very
anxious about poor father; ever since my darling mamma died, four years
ago, I had to take care of him."

"Dear heart alive! Why did you never write to your uncle?" Mrs. Mittens
cried, holding up both her hands.

"I never knew I had an uncle till after father's death; then Doctor
Evans told me, and sent me here. He was very, very kind, and so was my
Aunt Amy. Was it not strange to have an aunt in London and never know
it? But she came at once, and took me away to her house--ever so much a
finer house than the one we lodged in, but not nearly so fine or
beautiful as this; and she made my black frocks, and took me to dear
father's funeral in a carriage. Aunt Amy was very kind, and kissed me
very often, and said she wished she could keep me always, but Uncle
Clair said it was best for me to come to Riversdale. Do you think it was
best?"

"Yes, my dear, of course. Certainly it was best for you to come," the
old lady replied briskly.

"And do you think my cousins will love me?"

"I'm quite sure of it, Miss Agnes. They are the best and dearest boys in
the world."

"And Uncle Hugh?" Agnes added wistfully.

"Well, my dear, your uncle is not quite like other people. He suffers a
great deal with his nerves, and he has had a many sorrows, which he
keeps all to himself; but he's the most just and most generous gentleman
in the world, and I'm sure he will be very kind to you; only you must do
just what he says, my dear. All the troubles in the world came of
disobedience, I think, and have done so since the Garden of Eden. If
poor Mr. Frank had only----but there, what is the use of talking?" and
Mrs. Mittens sighed.

"Did you know my father, ma'am?"

"Yes, indeed! I carried him about in my arms many a time."

"Did you love him, please?"

"Love him, Miss Agnes? _that_ I did! Who could help loving his bright
bonnie face? Why, we all loved him, dearie: he was the light and life of
the house, but he would have his own way--he would have it, and I fear
it led him through a tangled, thorny path."

Agnes looked up at Mrs. Mittens.

"Please, please tell me one thing more, ma'am," she whispered nervously,
yet eagerly. "Did my Uncle Hugh love my father?"

"As the apple of his eye, my dearie: there's no mistake about that; he
would have given his heart's best blood for him!"

"Did he know my dear father was so sad and so sorry, so poor, so
friendless, so--so unhappy?"

"No, child, that he did not. Your father would have none of him; he was
proud with the pride that goes before destruction. My master would have
loved him, but Master Frank would not."

"Then there has been some dreadful mistake somewhere, ma'am," Agnes said
gently, but firmly. "My father was an angel and a martyr. He was not
proud or unforgiving, and he suffered, oh, so much! But if you tell me
my uncle knew nothing of it, I cannot blame him."

"I tell you more, dearie," said the old housekeeper earnestly, holding
both the child's hands, and looking into her pale, earnest face. "My
master would have given half his fortune to have made your father happy,