THE LITTLE WHITE BIRD

OR ADVENTURES IN KENSINGTON GARDENS

By J. M. Barrie

CONTENTS

 I. David and I Set Forth Upon a Journey II. The Little Nursery Governess III. Her Marriage, Her Clothes, Her Appetite, and an Inventory of Her Furniture. IV. A Night-Piece V. The Fight For Timothy VI. A Shock VII. The Last of Timothy VIII. The Inconsiderate Waiter IX. A Confirmed Spinster X. Sporting Reflections XI. The Runaway Perambulator XII. The Pleasantest Club in London XIII. The Grand Tour of the Gardens XIV. Peter Pan XV. The Thrush's Nest XVI. Lock-Out Time XVII. The Little House XVIII. Peter's Goat XIX. An Interloper XX. David and Porthos Compared XXI. William Paterson XXII. Joey XXIII. Pilkington's XXIV. Barbara XXV. The Cricket Match XXVI. The Dedication

THE LITTLE WHITE BIRD

I. David and I Set Forth Upon a Journey

Sometimes the little boy who calls me father brings me an invitationfrom his mother: "I shall be so pleased if you will come and see me, "and I always reply in some such words as these: "Dear madam, I decline. "And if David asks why I decline, I explain that it is because I have nodesire to meet the woman. 

"Come this time, father, " he urged lately, "for it is her birthday, andshe is twenty-six, " which is so great an age to David, that I think hefears she cannot last much longer. 

"Twenty-six, is she, David?" I replied. "Tell her I said she looksmore. "

I had my delicious dream that night. I dreamt that I too was twenty-six, which was a long time ago, and that I took train to a place calledmy home, whose whereabouts I see not in my waking hours, and when Ialighted at the station a dear lost love was waiting for me, and we wentaway together. She met me in no ecstasy of emotion, nor was I surprisedto find her there; it was as if we had been married for years and partedfor a day. I like to think that I gave her some of the things to carry. 

Were I to tell my delightful dream to David's mother, to whom I havenever in my life addressed one word, she would droop her head and raiseit bravely, to imply that I make her very sad but very proud, and shewould be wishful to lend me her absurd little pocket handkerchief. Andthen, had I the heart, I might make a disclosure that would startle her, for it is not the face of David's mother that I see in my dreams. 

Has it ever been your lot, reader, to be persecuted by a pretty womanwho thinks, without a tittle of reason, that you are bowed down undera hopeless partiality for her? It is thus that I have been pursued forseveral years now by the unwelcome sympathy of the tender-hearted andvirtuous Mary A----. When we pass in the street the poor deluded soulsubdues her buoyancy, as if it were shame to walk happy before one shehas lamed, and at such times the rustle of her gown is whispered wordsof comfort to me, and her arms are kindly wings that wish I was a littleboy like David. I also detect in her a fearful elation, which I amunaware of until she has passed, when it comes back to me like a faintnote of challenge. Eyes that say you never must, nose that says whydon't you? and a mouth that says I rather wish you could: such is theportrait of Mary A---- as she and I pass by. 

Once she dared to address me, so that she could boast to David that Ihad spoken to her. I was in the Kensington Gardens, and she asked wouldI tell her the time please, just as children ask, and forget as theyrun back with it to their nurse. But I was prepared even for this, andraising my hat I pointed with my staff to a clock in the distance. Sheshould have been overwhelmed, but as I walked on listening intently, Ithought with displeasure that I heard her laughing. 

Her laugh is very like David's, whom I could punch all day in order tohear him laugh. I dare say she put this laugh into him. She has beenputting qualities into David, altering him, turning him forever on alathe since the day she first knew him, and indeed long before, and allso deftly that he is still called a child of nature. When you releaseDavid's hand he is immediately lost like an arrow from the bow. Nosooner do you cast eyes on him than you are thinking of birds. It isdifficult to believe that he walks to the Kensington Gardens; he alwaysseems to have alighted there: and were I to scatter crumbs I opine hewould come and peck. This is not what he set out to be; it is all thedoing of that timid-looking lady who affects to be greatly surprised byit. He strikes a hundred gallant poses in a day; when he tumbles, whichis often, he comes to the ground like a Greek god; so Mary A---- haswilled it. But how she suffers that he may achieve! I have seen himclimbing a tree while she stood beneath in unutterable anguish; she hadto let him climb, for boys must be brave, but I am sure that, as shewatched him, she fell from every branch. 

David admires her prodigiously; he thinks her so good that she will beable to get him into heaven, however naughty he is. Otherwise he wouldtrespass less light-heartedly. Perhaps she has discovered this; for, asI learn from him, she warned him lately that she is not such a dear ashe thinks her. 

"I am very sure of it, " I replied. 

"Is she such a dear as you think her?" he asked me. 

"Heaven help her, " I said, "if she be not dearer than that. "

Heaven help all mothers if they be not really dears, for their boywill certainly know it in that strange short hour of the day when everymother stands revealed before her little son. That dread hour ticksbetween six and seven; when children go to bed later the revelation hasceased to come. He is lapt in for the night now and lies quietly there, madam, with great, mysterious eyes fixed upon his mother. He is summingup your day. Nothing in the revelations that kept you together andyet apart in play time can save you now; you two are of no age, noexperience of life separates you; it is the boy's hour, and you havecome up for judgment. "Have I done well to-day, my son?" You have got tosay it, and nothing may you hide from him; he knows all. How like yourvoice has grown to his, but more tremulous, and both so solemn, sounlike the voice of either of you by day. 

"You were a little unjust to me to-day about the apple; were you not, mother?"

Stand there, woman, by the foot of the bed and cross your hands andanswer him. 

"Yes, my son, I was. I thought--"

But what you thought will not affect the verdict. 

"Was it fair, mother, to say that I could stay out till six, and thenpretend it was six before it was quite six?"

"No, it was very unfair. I thought--"

"Would it have been a lie if I had said it was quite six?"

"Oh, my son, my son! I shall never tell you a lie again. "

"No, mother, please don't. "

"My boy, have I done well to-day on the whole?"

Suppose he were unable to say yes. 

These are the merest peccadilloes, you may say. Is it then a littlething to be false to the agreement you signed when you got the boy?There are mothers who avoid their children in that hour, but this willnot save them. Why is it that so many women are afraid to be left alonewith their thoughts between six and seven? I am not asking this ofyou, Mary. I believe that when you close David's door softly there is agladness in your eyes, and the awe of one who knows that the God to whomlittle boys say their prayers has a face very like their mother's. 

I may mention here that David is a stout believer in prayer, and has hadhis first fight with another young Christian who challenged him to thejump and prayed for victory, which David thought was taking an unfairadvantage. 

"So Mary is twenty-six! I say, David, she is getting on. Tell her that Iam coming in to kiss her when she is fifty-two. "

He told her, and I understand that she pretended to be indignant. When Ipass her in the street now she pouts. Clearly preparing for our meeting. She has also said, I learn, that I shall not think so much of her whenshe is fifty-two, meaning that she will not be so pretty then. So littledoes the sex know of beauty. Surely a spirited old lady may be theprettiest sight in the world. For my part, I confess that it is they, and not the young ones, who have ever been my undoing. Just as I wasabout to fall in love I suddenly found that I preferred the mother. Indeed, I cannot see a likely young creature without impatientlyconsidering her chances for, say, fifty-two. Oh, you mysterious girls, when you are fifty-two we shall find you out; you must come into theopen then. If the mouth has fallen sourly yours the blame: all themeannesses your youth concealed have been gathering in your face. Butthe pretty thoughts and sweet ways and dear, forgotten kindnesses lingerthere also, to bloom in your twilight like evening primroses. 

Is it not strange that, though I talk thus plainly to David about hismother, he still seems to think me fond of her? How now, I reflect, whatsort of bumpkin is this, and perhaps I say to him cruelly: "Boy, you areuncommonly like your mother. "

To which David: "Is that why you are so kind to me?"

I suppose I am kind to him, but if so it is not for love of his mother, but because he sometimes calls me father. On my honour as a soldier, there is nothing more in it than that. I must not let him know this, forit would make him conscious, and so break the spell that binds him andme together. Oftenest I am but Captain W---- to him, and for the best ofreasons. He addresses me as father when he is in a hurry only, and neverhave I dared ask him to use the name. He says, "Come, father, " with anaccursed beautiful carelessness. So let it be, David, for a little whilelonger. 

I like to hear him say it before others, as in shops. When in shops heasks the salesman how much money he makes in a day, and which drawer hekeeps it in, and why his hair is red, and does he like Achilles, of whomDavid has lately heard, and is so enamoured that he wants to die to meethim. At such times the shopkeepers accept me as his father, and I cannotexplain the peculiar pleasure this gives me. I am always in two mindsthen, to linger that we may have more of it, and to snatch him awaybefore he volunteers the information, "He is not really my father. "

When David meets Achilles I know what will happen. The little boy willtake the hero by the hand, call him father, and drag him away to someRound Pond. 

One day, when David was about five, I sent him the following letter:"Dear David: If you really want to know how it began, will you come andhave a chop with me to-day at the club?"

Mary, who, I have found out, opens all his letters, gave her consent, and, I doubt not, instructed him to pay heed to what happened so that hemight repeat it to her, for despite her curiosity she knows not howit began herself. I chuckled, guessing that she expected somethingromantic. 

He came to me arrayed as for a mighty journey, and looking unusuallysolemn, as little boys always do look when they are wearing a greatcoat. There was a shawl round his neck. "You can take some of them off, "I said, "when we come to summer. "

"Shall we come to summer?" he asked, properly awed. 

"To many summers, " I replied, "for we are going away back, David, to seeyour mother as she was in the days before there was you. "

We hailed a hansom. "Drive back six years, " I said to the cabby, "andstop at the Junior Old Fogies' Club. "

He was a stupid fellow, and I had to guide him with my umbrella. 

The streets were not quite as they had been in the morning. Forinstance, the bookshop at the corner was now selling fish. I droppedDavid a hint of what was going on. 

"It doesn't make me littler, does it?" he asked anxiously; and then, with a terrible misgiving: "It won't make me too little, will it, father?" by which he meant that he hoped it would not do for himaltogether. He slipped his hand nervously into mine, and I put it in mypocket. 

You can't think how little David looked as we entered the portals of theclub. 

II. The Little Nursery Governess

As I enter the club smoking-room you are to conceive David vanishinginto nothingness, and that it is any day six years ago at two in theafternoon. I ring for coffee, cigarette, and cherry brandy, and take mychair by the window, just as the absurd little nursery governess comestripping into the street. I always feel that I have rung for her. 

While I am lifting the coffee-pot cautiously lest the lid fall into thecup, she is crossing to the post-office; as I select the one suitablelump of sugar she is taking six last looks at the letter; with the aidof William I light my cigarette, and now she is re-reading the deliciousaddress. I lie back in my chair, and by this time she has dropped theletter down the slit. I toy with my liqueur, and she is listening tohear whether the postal authorities have come for her letter. I scowl ata fellow-member who has had the impudence to enter the smoking-room, andher two little charges are pulling her away from the post-office. WhenI look out at the window again she is gone, but I shall ring for herto-morrow at two sharp. 

She must have passed the window many times before I noticed her. I knownot where she lives, though I suppose it to be hard by. She is takingthe little boy and girl, who bully her, to the St. James's Park, astheir hoops tell me, and she ought to look crushed and faded. No doubther mistress overworks her. It must enrage the other servants to see herdeporting herself as if she were quite the lady. 

I noticed that she had sometimes other letters to post, but thatthe posting of the one only was a process. They shot down the slit, plebeians all, but it followed pompously like royalty. I have even seenher blow a kiss after it. 

Then there was her ring, of which she was as conscious as if it ratherthan she was what came gaily down the street. She felt it through herglove to make sure that it was still there. She took off the glove andraised the ring to her lips, though I doubt not it was the cheapesttrinket. She viewed it from afar by stretching out her hand; she stoopedto see how it looked near the ground; she considered its effect on theright of her and on the left of her and through one eye at a time. Evenwhen you saw that she had made up her mind to think hard of somethingelse, the little silly would take another look. 

I give anyone three chances to guess why Mary was so happy. 

No and no and no. The reason was simply this, that a lout of a young manloved her. And so, instead of crying because she was the merest nobody, she must, forsooth, sail jauntily down Pall Mall, very trim as to hertackle and ticketed with the insufferable air of an engaged woman. Atfirst her complacency disturbed me, but gradually it became part of mylife at two o'clock with the coffee, the cigarette, and the liqueur. Nowcomes the tragedy. 

Thursday is her great day. She has from two to three every Thursday forher very own; just think of it: this girl, who is probably paid severalpounds a year, gets a whole hour to herself once a week. And what doesshe with it? Attend classes for making her a more accomplished person?Not she. This is what she does: sets sail for Pall Mall, wearing all herpretty things, including the blue feathers, and with such a sparkleof expectation on her face that I stir my coffee quite fiercely. Onordinary days she at least tries to look demure, but on a Thursday shehas had the assurance to use the glass door of the club as a mirror inwhich to see how she likes her engaging trifle of a figure to-day. 

In the meantime a long-legged oaf is waiting for her outside thepost-office, where they meet every Thursday, a fellow who always wearsthe same suit of clothes, but has a face that must ever make him free ofthe company of gentlemen. He is one of your lean, clean Englishmen, who strip so well, and I fear me he is handsome; I say fear, for yourhandsome men have always annoyed me, and had I lived in the duellingdays I swear I would have called every one of them out. He seems to bequite unaware that he is a pretty fellow, but Lord, how obviously Maryknows it. I conclude that he belongs to the artistic classes, he isso easily elated and depressed; and because he carries his left thumbcuriously, as if it were feeling for the hole of a palette, I haveentered his name among the painters. I find pleasure in deciding thatthey are shocking bad pictures, for obviously no one buys them. I feelsure Mary says they are splendid, she is that sort of woman. Hence therapture with which he greets her. Her first effect upon him is to makehim shout with laughter. He laughs suddenly haw from an eager exultingface, then haw again, and then, when you are thanking heaven that it isat last over, comes a final haw, louder than the others. I take them tobe roars of joy because Mary is his, and they have a ring of youthabout them that is hard to bear. I could forgive him everything save hisyouth, but it is so aggressive that I have sometimes to order Williamtestily to close the window. 

How much more deceitful than her lover is the little nursery governess. The moment she comes into sight she looks at the post-office and seeshim. Then she looks straight before her, and now she is observed, and herushes across to her in a glory, and she starts--positively starts--asif he had taken her by surprise. Observe her hand rising suddenly to herwicked little heart. This is the moment when I stir my coffee violently. He gazes down at her in such rapture that he is in everybody's way, andas she takes his arm she gives it a little squeeze, and then away theystrut, Mary doing nine-tenths of the talking. I fall to wondering whatthey will look like when they grow up. 

What a ludicrous difference do these two nobodies make to each other. You can see that they are to be married when he has twopence. 

Thus I have not an atom of sympathy with this girl, to whom London isfamous only as the residence of a young man who mistakes her for someoneelse, but her happiness had become part of my repast at two P. M. , andwhen one day she walked down Pall Mall without gradually posting aletter I was most indignant. It was as if William had disobeyed orders. Her two charges were as surprised as I, and pointed questioningly tothe slit, at which she shook her head. She put her finger to her eyes, exactly like a sad baby, and so passed from the street. 

Next day the same thing happened, and I was so furious that I bitthrough my cigarette. Thursday came, when I prayed that there mightbe an end of this annoyance, but no, neither of them appeared on thatacquainted ground. Had they changed their post-office? No, for her eyeswere red every day, and heavy was her foolish little heart. Love had putout his lights, and the little nursery governess walked in darkness. 

I felt I could complain to the committee. 

Oh, you selfish young zany of a man, after all you have said to her, won't you make it up and let me return to my coffee? Not he. 

Little nursery governess, I appeal to you. Annoying girl, be joyous asof old during the five minutes of the day when you are anything to me, and for the rest of the time, so far as I am concerned, you may be aswretched as you list. Show some courage. I assure you he must be a verybad painter; only the other day I saw him looking longingly into thewindow of a cheap Italian restaurant, and in the end he had to crushdown his aspirations with two penny scones. 

You can do better than that. Come, Mary. 

All in vain. She wants to be loved; can't do without love from morningtill night; never knew how little a woman needs till she lost thatlittle. They are all like this. 

Zounds, madam, if you are resolved to be a drooping little figure tillyou die, you might at least do it in another street. 

Not only does she maliciously depress me by walking past on ordinarydays, but I have discovered that every Thursday from two to three shestands afar off, gazing hopelessly at the romantic post-office where sheand he shall meet no more. In these windy days she is like a homelessleaf blown about by passers-by. 

There is nothing I can do except thunder at William. 

At last she accomplished her unworthy ambition. It was a wet Thursday, and from the window where I was writing letters I saw the forlorn soultaking up her position at the top of the street: in a blast of fury Irose with the one letter I had completed, meaning to write the others inmy chambers. She had driven me from the club. 

I had turned out of Pall Mall into a side street, when whom should Istrike against but her false swain! It was my fault, but I hit out athim savagely, as I always do when I run into anyone in the street. ThenI looked at him. He was hollow-eyed; he was muddy; there was not a hawleft in him. I never saw a more abject young man; he had not even thespirit to resent the testy stab I had given him with my umbrella. Butthis is the important thing: he was glaring wistfully at the post-officeand thus in a twink I saw that he still adored my little governess. Whatever had been their quarrel he was as anxious to make it up as she, and perhaps he had been here every Thursday while she was round thecorner in Pall Mall, each watching the post-office for an apparition. But from where they hovered neither could see the other. 

I think what I did was quite clever. I dropped my letter unseen at hisfeet, and sauntered back to the club. Of course, a gentleman who findsa letter on the pavement feels bound to post it, and I presumed that hewould naturally go to the nearest office. 

With my hat on I strolled to the smoking-room window, and was just intime to see him posting my letter across the way. Then I looked forthe little nursery governess. I saw her as woe-begone as ever; then, suddenly--oh, you poor little soul, and has it really been as bad asthat!

She was crying outright, and he was holding both her hands. It was adisgraceful exhibition. The young painter would evidently explode if hecould not make use of his arms. She must die if she could not lay herhead upon his breast. I must admit that he rose to the occasion; hehailed a hansom. 

"William, " said I gaily, "coffee, cigarette, and cherry brandy. "

As I sat there watching that old play David plucked my sleeve to askwhat I was looking at so deedily; and when I told him he ran eagerly tothe window, but he reached it just too late to see the lady who was tobecome his mother. What I told him of her doings, however, interestedhim greatly; and he intimated rather shyly that he was acquainted withthe man who said, "Haw-haw-haw. " On the other hand, he irritated me bybetraying an idiotic interest in the two children, whom he seemed toregard as the hero and heroine of the story. What were their names? Howold were they? Had they both hoops? Were they iron hoops, or just woodenhoops? Who gave them their hoops?

"You don't seem to understand, my boy, " I said tartly, "that had I notdropped that letter, there would never have been a little boy calledDavid A----. " But instead of being appalled by this he asked, sparkling, whether I meant that he would still be a bird flying about in theKensington Gardens. 

David knows that all children in our part of London were once birds inthe Kensington Gardens; and that the reason there are bars on nurserywindows and a tall fender by the fire is because very little peoplesometimes forget that they have no longer wings, and try to fly awaythrough the window or up the chimney. 

Children in the bird stage are difficult to catch. David knows that manypeople have none, and his delight on a summer afternoon is to go with meto some spot in the Gardens where these unfortunates may be seen tryingto catch one with small pieces of cake. 

That the birds know what would happen if they were caught, and are evena little undecided about which is the better life, is obvious to everystudent of them. Thus, if you leave your empty perambulator under thetrees and watch from a distance, you will see the birds boarding it andhopping about from pillow to blanket in a twitter of excitement; theyare trying to find out how babyhood would suit them. 

Quite the prettiest sight in the Gardens is when the babies stray fromthe tree where the nurse is sitting and are seen feeding the birds, nota grownup near them. It is first a bit to me and then a bit to you, and all the time such a jabbering and laughing from both sides of therailing. They are comparing notes and inquiring for old friends, and soon; but what they say I cannot determine, for when I approach they allfly away. 

The first time I ever saw David was on the sward behind the Baby's Walk. He was a missel-thrush, attracted thither that hot day by a hose whichlay on the ground sending forth a gay trickle of water, and David was onhis back in the water, kicking up his legs. He used to enjoy being toldof this, having forgotten all about it, and gradually it all came backto him, with a number of other incidents that had escaped my memory, though I remember that he was eventually caught by the leg with a longstring and a cunning arrangement of twigs near the Round Pond. He nevertires of this story, but I notice that it is now he who tells it to merather than I to him, and when we come to the string he rubs his littleleg as if it still smarted. 

So when David saw his chance of being a missel-thrush again he calledout to me quickly: "Don't drop the letter!" and there were tree-tops inhis eyes. 

"Think of your mother, " I said severely. 

He said he would often fly in to see her. The first thing he would dowould be to hug her. No, he would alight on the water-jug first, andhave a drink. 

"Tell her, father, " he said with horrid heartlessness, "always to haveplenty of water in it, 'cos if I had to lean down too far I might fallin and be drownded. "

"Am I not to drop the letter, David? Think of your poor mother withouther boy!"

It affected him, but he bore up. When she was asleep, he said, he wouldhop on to the frilly things of her night-gown and peck at her mouth. 

"And then she would wake up, David, and find that she had only a birdinstead of a boy. "

This shock to Mary was more than he could endure. "You can drop it, "he said with a sigh. So I dropped the letter, as I think I have alreadymentioned; and that is how it all began. 

III. Her Marriage, Her Clothes, Her Appetite, and an Inventory of HerFurniture

A week or two after I dropped the letter I was in a hansom on my way tocertain barracks when loud above the city's roar I heard that accursedhaw-haw-haw, and there they were, the two of them, just coming out ofa shop where you may obtain pianos on the hire system. I had the merestglimpse of them, but there was an extraordinary rapture on her face, andhis head was thrown proudly back, and all because they had been orderinga piano on the hire system. 

So they were to be married directly. It was all rather contemptible, but I passed on tolerantly, for it is only when she is unhappy thatthis woman disturbs me, owing to a clever way she has at such times oflooking more fragile than she really is. 

When next I saw them, they were gazing greedily into the window of thesixpenny-halfpenny shop, which is one of the most deliciously dramaticspots in London. Mary was taking notes feverishly on a slip of paperwhile he did the adding up, and in the end they went away gloomilywithout buying anything. I was in high feather. "Match abandoned, ma'am, " I said to myself; "outlook hopeless; another visit to theGovernesses' Agency inevitable; can't marry for want of a kitchenshovel. " But I was imperfectly acquainted with the lady. 

A few days afterward I found myself walking behind her. There issomething artful about her skirts by which I always know her, thoughI can't say what it is. She was carrying an enormous parcel that mighthave been a bird-cage wrapped in brown paper, and she took it intoa bric-a-brac shop and came out without it. She then ran rather thanwalked in the direction of the sixpenny-halfpenny shop. Now mysteryof any kind is detestable to me, and I went into the bric-a-bracshop, ostensibly to look at the cracked china; and there, still on thecounter, with the wrapping torn off it, was the article Mary had soldin order to furnish on the proceeds. What do you think it was? It was awonderful doll's house, with dolls at tea downstairs and dolls going tobed upstairs, and a doll showing a doll out at the front door. Lovinglips had long ago licked most of the paint off, but otherwise the thingwas in admirable preservation; obviously the joy of Mary's childhood, ithad now been sold by her that she might get married. 

"Lately purchased by us, " said the shopwoman, seeing me look at the toy, "from a lady who has no further use for it. "

I think I have seldom been more indignant with Mary. I bought the doll'shouse, and as they knew the lady's address (it was at this shop that Ifirst learned her name) I instructed them to send it back to her withthe following letter, which I wrote in the shop: "Dear madam, don't beridiculous. You will certainly have further use for this. I am, etc. , the Man Who Dropped the Letter. "

It pained me afterward, but too late to rescind the order, to reflectthat I had sent her a wedding present; and when next I saw her she hadbeen married for some months. The time was nine o'clock of a Novemberevening, and we were in a street of shops that has not in twenty yearsdecided whether to be genteel or frankly vulgar; here it minces in thefashion, but take a step onward and its tongue is in the cup of theice-cream man. I usually rush this street, which is not far from myrooms, with the glass down, but to-night I was walking. Mary was infront of me, leaning in a somewhat foolish way on the haw-er, and theywere chatting excitedly. She seemed to be remonstrating with him forgoing forward, yet more than half admiring him for not turning back, andI wondered why. 

And after all what was it that Mary and her painter had come out to do?To buy two pork chops. On my honour. She had been trying to persuadehim, I decided, that they were living too lavishly. That was why shesought to draw him back. But in her heart she loves audacity, and thatis why she admired him for pressing forward. 

No sooner had they bought the chops than they scurried away like twogleeful children to cook them. I followed, hoping to trace them to theirhome, but they soon out-distanced me, and that night I composed thefollowing aphorism: It is idle to attempt to overtake a pretty youngwoman carrying pork chops. I was now determined to be done with her. First, however, to find out their abode, which was probably within easydistance of the shop. I even conceived them lured into taking theirhouse by the advertisement, "Conveniently situated for the PorkEmporium. "

Well, one day--now this really is romantic and I am rather proud ofit. My chambers are on the second floor, and are backed by an anxiouslypolite street between which and mine are little yards called, I think, gardens. They are so small that if you have the tree your neighbour hasthe shade from it. I was looking out at my back window on the daywe have come to when whom did I see but the whilom nursery governesssitting on a chair in one of these gardens. I put up my eye-glass tomake sure, and undoubtedly it was she. But she sat there doing nothing, which was by no means my conception of the jade, so I brought afieldglass to bear and discovered that the object was merely a lady'sjacket. It hung on the back of a kitchen chair, seemed to be a furrything, and, I must suppose, was suspended there for an airing. 

I was chagrined, and then I insisted stoutly with myself that, as itwas not Mary, it must be Mary's jacket. I had never seen her wear sucha jacket, mind you, yet I was confident, I can't tell why. Do clothesabsorb a little of the character of their wearer, so that I recognisedthis jacket by a certain coquetry? If she has a way with her skirts thatalways advertises me of her presence, quite possibly she is as cunningwith jackets. Or perhaps she is her own seamstress, and puts in littletucks of herself. 

Figure it what you please; but I beg to inform you that I put on myhat and five minutes afterward saw Mary and her husband emerge from thehouse to which I had calculated that garden belonged. Now am I clever, or am I not?

When they had left the street I examined the house leisurely, and adroll house it is. Seen from the front it appears to consist of a doorand a window, though above them the trained eye may detect anotherwindow, the air-hole of some apartment which it would be just likeMary's grandiloquence to call her bedroom. The houses on each side ofthis bandbox are tall, and I discovered later that it had once beenan open passage to the back gardens. The story and a half of which itconsists had been knocked up cheaply, by carpenters I should say ratherthan masons, and the general effect is of a brightly coloured van thathas stuck for ever on its way through the passage. 

The low houses of London look so much more homely than the tall onesthat I never pass them without dropping a blessing on their builders, but this house was ridiculous; indeed it did not call itself a house, for over the door was a board with the inscription "This space to besold, " and I remembered, as I rang the bell, that this notice had beenup for years. On avowing that I wanted a space, I was admitted by anelderly, somewhat dejected looking female, whose fine figure was noton scale with her surroundings. Perhaps my face said so, for her firstremark was explanatory. 

"They get me cheap, " she said, "because I drink. "

I bowed, and we passed on to the drawing-room. I forget whether I havedescribed Mary's personal appearance, but if so you have a picture ofthat sunny drawing-room. My first reflection was, How can she have foundthe money to pay for it all! which is always your first reflection whenyou see Mary herself a-tripping down the street. 

I have no space (in that little room) to catalogue all the whim-whamswith which she had made it beautiful, from the hand-sewn bell-rope whichpulled no bell to the hand-painted cigar-box that contained no cigars. The floor was of a delicious green with exquisite oriental rugs; greenand white, I think, was the lady's scheme of colour, something cool, youobserve, to keep the sun under. The window-curtains were of some rarematerial and the colour of the purple clematis; they swept the floorgrandly and suggested a picture of Mary receiving visitors. The pianowe may ignore, for I knew it to be hired, but there were many daintypieces, mostly in green wood, a sofa, a corner cupboard, and a mostcaptivating desk, which was so like its owner that it could have satdown at her and dashed off a note. The writing paper on this desk hadthe word Mary printed on it, implying that if there were other Marysthey didn't count. There were many oil-paintings on the walls, mostlywithout frames, and I must mention the chandelier, which was obviouslyof fabulous worth, for she had encased it in a holland bag. 

"I perceive, ma'am, " said I to the stout maid, "that your master is inaffluent circumstances. "

She shook her head emphatically, and said something that I failed tocatch. 

"You wish to indicate, " I hazarded, "that he married a fortune. "

This time I caught the words. They were "Tinned meats, " and havinguttered them she lapsed into gloomy silence. 

"Nevertheless, " I said, "this room must have cost a pretty penny. "

"She done it all herself, " replied my new friend, with concentratedscorn. 

"But this green floor, so beautifully stained--"

"Boiling oil, " said she, with a flush of honest shame, "and ashillingsworth o' paint. "

"Those rugs--"

"Remnants, " she sighed, and showed me how artfully they had been piecedtogether. 

"The curtains--"

"Remnants. "

"At all events the sofa--"

She raised its drapery, and I saw that the sofa was built of packingcases. 

"The desk--"

I really thought that I was safe this time, for could I not see thedrawers with their brass handles, the charming shelf for books, thepigeon-holes with their coverings of silk?

"She made it out of three orange boxes, " said the lady, at last a littleawed herself. 

I looked around me despairingly, and my eye alighted on the hollandcovering. "There is a fine chandelier in that holland bag, " I saidcoaxingly. 

She sniffed and was raising an untender hand, when I checked her. "Forbear, ma'am, " I cried with authority, "I prefer to believe in thatbag. How much to be pitied, ma'am, are those who have lost faith ineverything. " I think all the pretty things that the little nurserygoverness had made out of nothing squeezed my hand for letting thechandelier off. 

"But, good God, ma'am, " said I to madam, "what an exposure. "

She intimated that there were other exposures upstairs. 

"So there is a stair, " said I, and then, suspiciously, "did she makeit?"

No, but how she had altered it. 

The stair led to Mary's bedroom, and I said I would not look at that, nor at the studio, which was a shed in the garden. 

"Did she build the studio with her own hands?"

No, but how she had altered it. 

"How she alters everything, " I said. "Do you think you are safe, ma'am?"

She thawed a little under my obvious sympathy and honoured me with someof her views and confidences. The rental paid by Mary and her husbandwas not, it appeared, one on which any self-respecting domestic couldreflect with pride. They got the house very cheap on the understandingthat they were to vacate it promptly if anyone bought it for buildingpurposes, and because they paid so little they had to submit to theindignity of the notice-board. Mary A---- detested the words "This spaceto be sold, " and had been known to shake her fist at them. She was aselated about her house as if it were a real house, and always trembledwhen any possible purchaser of spaces called. 

As I have told you my own aphorism I feel I ought in fairness to recordthat of this aggrieved servant. It was on the subject of art. "Thedifficulty, " she said, "is not to paint pictures, but to get frames forthem. " A home thrust this. 

She could not honestly say that she thought much of her master's work. Nor, apparently, did any other person. Result, tinned meats. 

Yes, one person thought a deal of it, or pretended to do so; wasconstantly flinging up her hands in delight over it; had even beencaught whispering fiercely to a friend, "Praise it, praise it, praiseit!" This was when the painter was sunk in gloom. Never, as I could wellbelieve, was such a one as Mary for luring a man back to cheerfulness. 

"A dangerous woman, " I said, with a shudder, and fell to examining apainting over the mantel-shelf. It was a portrait of a man, and hadimpressed me favourably because it was framed. 

"A friend of hers, " my guide informed me, "but I never seed him. "

I would have turned away from it, had not an inscription on the picturedrawn me nearer. It was in a lady's handwriting, and these were thewords: "Fancy portrait of our dear unknown. " Could it be meant for me? Icannot tell you how interested I suddenly became. 

It represented a very fine looking fellow, indeed, and not a day morethan thirty. 

"A friend of hers, ma'am, did you say?" I asked quite shakily. "How doyou know that, if you have never seen him?"

"When master was painting of it, " she said, "in the studio, he used tocome running in here to say to her such like as, 'What colour would youmake his eyes?'"

"And her reply, ma'am?" I asked eagerly. 

"She said, 'Beautiful blue eyes. ' And he said, 'You wouldn't make ita handsome face, would you?' and she says, 'A very handsome face. ' Andsays he, 'Middle-aged?' and says she, 'Twenty-nine. ' And I mind himsaying, 'A little bald on the top?' and she says, says she, 'Not atall. '"

The dear, grateful girl, not to make me bald on the top. 

"I have seed her kiss her hand to that picture, " said the maid. 

Fancy Mary kissing her hand to me! Oh, the pretty love!

Pooh!

I was staring at the picture, cogitating what insulting message I couldwrite on it, when I heard the woman's voice again. "I think she hasknown him since she were a babby, " she was saying, "for this here was apresent he give her. "

She was on her knees drawing the doll's house from beneath the sofa, where it had been hidden away; and immediately I thought, "I shall slipthe insulting message into this. " But I did not, and I shall tell youwhy. It was because the engaging toy had been redecorated by lovinghands; there were fresh gowns for all the inhabitants, and the paint onthe furniture was scarcely dry. The little doll's house was almost readyfor further use. 

I looked at the maid, but her face was expressionless. "Put it back, "I said, ashamed to have surprised Mary's pretty secret, and I left thehouse dejectedly, with a profound conviction that the little nurserygoverness had hooked on to me again. 

IV. A Night-Piece

There came a night when the husband was alone in that street waiting. Hecan do nothing for you now, little nursery governess, you must fight itout by yourself; when there are great things to do in the house the manmust leave. Oh, man, selfish, indelicate, coarse-grained at the best, thy woman's hour has come; get thee gone. 

He slouches from the house, always her true lover I do believe, chivalrous, brave, a boy until to-night; but was he ever unkind to her?It is the unpardonable sin now; is there the memory of an unkindnessto stalk the street with him to-night? And if not an unkindness, stillmight he not sometimes have been a little kinder?

Shall we make a new rule of life from tonight: always to try to be alittle kinder than is necessary?

Poor youth, she would come to the window if she were able, I am sure, to sign that the one little unkindness is long forgotten, to send youa reassuring smile till you and she meet again; and, if you are not tomeet again, still to send you a reassuring, trembling smile. 

Ah, no, that was for yesterday; it is too late now. He wanders thestreets thinking of her tonight, but she has forgotten him. In her greathour the man is nothing to the woman; their love is trivial now. 

He and I were on opposite sides of the street, now become familiarground to both of us, and divers pictures rose before me in which MaryA---- walked. Here was the morning after my only entry into her house. The agent had promised me to have the obnoxious notice-board removed, but I apprehended that as soon as the letter announcing his intentionreached her she would remove it herself, and when I passed by in themorning there she was on a chair and a foot-stool pounding lustily at itwith a hammer. When it fell she gave it such a vicious little kick. 

There were the nights when her husband came out to watch for thepostman. I suppose he was awaiting some letter big with the fate of apicture. He dogged the postman from door to door like an assassin or aguardian angel; never had he the courage to ask if there was a letterfor him, but almost as it fell into the box he had it out and tore itopen, and then if the door closed despairingly the woman who had been atthe window all this time pressed her hand to her heart. But if the newswas good they might emerge presently and strut off arm in arm in thedirection of the pork emporium. 

One last picture. On summer evenings I had caught glimpses of themthrough the open window, when she sat at the piano singing and playingto him. Or while she played with one hand, she flung out the other forhim to grasp. She was so joyously happy, and she had such a romanticmind. I conceived her so sympathetic that she always laughed before hecame to the joke, and I am sure she had filmy eyes from the very startof a pathetic story. 

And so, laughing and crying, and haunted by whispers, the little nurserygoverness had gradually become another woman, glorified, mysterious. Isuppose a man soon becomes used to the great change, and cannot recall atime when there were no babes sprawling in his Mary's face. 

I am trying to conceive what were the thoughts of the young husband onthe other side of the street. "If the barrier is to be crossed to-nightmay I not go with her? She is not so brave as you think her. When shetalked so gaily a few hours ago, O my God, did she deceive even you?"

Plain questions to-night. "Why should it all fall on her? What is theman that he should be flung out into the street in this terrible hour?You have not been fair to the man. "

Poor boy, his wife has quite forgotten him and his trumpery love. If shelives she will come back to him, but if she dies she will die triumphantand serene. Life and death, the child and the mother, are ever meetingas the one draws into harbour and the other sets sail. They exchange abright "All's well" and pass on. 

But afterward?

The only ghosts, I believe, who creep into this world, are dead youngmothers, returned to see how their children fare. There is no otherinducement great enough to bring the departed back. They glide into theacquainted room when day and night, their jailers, are in the grip, andwhisper, "How is it with you, my child?" but always, lest a strange faceshould frighten him, they whisper it so low that he may not hear. Theybend over him to see that he sleeps peacefully, and replace his sweetarm beneath the coverlet, and they open the drawers to count how manylittle vests he has. They love to do these things. 

What is saddest about ghosts is that they may not know their child. Theyexpect him to be just as he was when they left him, and they are easilybewildered, and search for him from room to room, and hate the unknownboy he has become. Poor, passionate souls, they may even do him aninjury. These are the ghosts that go wailing about old houses, andfoolish wild stories are invented to explain what is all so pathetic andsimple. I know of a man who, after wandering far, returned to his earlyhome to pass the evening of his days in it, and sometimes from his chairby the fire he saw the door open softly and a woman's face appear. She always looked at him very vindictively, and then vanished. Strangethings happened in this house. Windows were opened in the night. Thecurtains of his bed were set fire to. A step on the stair was loosened. The covering of an old well in a corridor where he walked was cunninglyremoved. And when he fell ill the wrong potion was put in the glass byhis bedside, and he died. How could the pretty young mother know thatthis grizzled interloper was the child of whom she was in search?

All our notions about ghosts are wrong. It is nothing so petty as lostwills or deeds of violence that brings them back, and we are not nearlyso afraid of them as they are of us. 

One by one the lights of the street went out, but still a lamp burnedsteadily in the little window across the way. I know not how ithappened, whether I had crossed first to him or he to me, but, afterbeing for a long time as the echo of each other's steps, we weretogether now. I can have had no desire to deceive him, but some reasonwas needed to account for my vigil, and I may have said something thathe misconstrued, for above my words he was always listening for othersounds. But however it came about he had conceived the idea that I wasan outcast for a reason similar to his own, and I let his mistake pass, it seemed to matter so little and to draw us together so naturally. We talked together of many things, such as worldly ambition. For longambition has been like an ancient memory to me, some glorious dayrecalled from my springtime, so much a thing of the past that I mustmake a railway journey to revisit it as to look upon the pleasant fieldsin which that scene was laid. But he had been ambitious yesterday. 

I mentioned worldly ambition. "Good God!" he said with a shudder. 

There was a clock hard by that struck the quarters, and one o'clockpassed and two. What time is it now? Twenty past two. And now? It isstill twenty past two. 

I asked him about his relatives, and neither he nor she had any. "Wehave a friend--" he began and paused, and then rambled into a not veryunderstandable story about a letter and a doll's house and some unknownman who had bought one of his pictures, or was supposed to have done so, in a curiously clandestine manner. I could not quite follow the story. 

"It is she who insists that it is always the same person, " he said. "Shethinks he will make himself known to me if anything happens to her. " Hisvoice suddenly went husky. "She told me, " he said, "if she died and Idiscovered him, to give him her love. "

At this we parted abruptly, as we did at intervals throughout the night, to drift together again presently. He tried to tell me of some thingsshe had asked him to do should she not get over this, but what they wereI know not, for they engulfed him at the first step. He would draw backfrom them as ill-omened things, and next moment he was going over themto himself like a child at lessons. A child! In that short year she hadmade him entirely dependent on her. It is ever thus with women: theirfirst deliberate act is to make their husband helpless. There are fewmen happily married who can knock in a nail. 

But it was not of this that I was thinking. I was wishing I had notdegenerated so much. 

Well, as you know, the little nursery governess did not die. At eighteenminutes to four we heard the rustle of David's wings. He boasts aboutit to this day, and has the hour to a syllable as if the first thing heever did was to look at the clock. 

An oldish gentleman had opened the door and waved congratulations tomy companion, who immediately butted at me, drove me against a wall, hesitated for a second with his head down as if in doubt whether to tossme, and then rushed away. I followed slowly. I shook him by the hand, but by this time he was haw-haw-hawing so abominably that a disgust ofhim swelled up within me, and with it a passionate desire to jeer oncemore at Mary A--

"It is little she will care for you now, " I said to the fellow; "Iknow the sort of woman; her intellectuals (which are all she has todistinguish her from the brutes) are so imperfectly developed that shewill be a crazy thing about that boy for the next three years. She hasno longer occasion for you, my dear sir; you are like a picture paintedout. "

But I question whether he heard me. I returned to my home. Home! As ifone alone can build a nest. How often as I have ascended the stairsthat lead to my lonely, sumptuous rooms, have I paused to listen tothe hilarity of the servants below. That morning I could not rest: Iwandered from chamber to chamber, followed by my great dog, and all werealike empty and desolate. I had nearly finished a cigar when I thoughtI heard a pebble strike the window, and looking out I saw David's fatherstanding beneath. I had told him that I lived in this street, and Isuppose my lights had guided him to my window. 

"I could not lie down, " he called up hoarsely, "until I heard your news. Is it all right?"

For a moment I failed to understand him. Then I said sourly: "Yes, allis right. "

"Both doing well?" he inquired. 

"Both, " I answered, and all the time I was trying to shut the window. It was undoubtedly a kindly impulse that had brought him out, but I wasnevertheless in a passion with him. 

"Boy or girl?" persisted the dodderer with ungentlemanlike curiosity. 

"Boy, " I said, very furiously. 

"Splendid, " he called out, and I think he added something else, but bythat time I had closed the window with a slam. 

V. The Fight For Timothy

Mary's poor pretentious babe screamed continually, with a note ofexultation in his din, as if he thought he was devoting himself to alife of pleasure, and often the last sound I heard as I got me out ofthe street was his haw-haw-haw, delivered triumphantly as if it weresome entirely new thing, though he must have learned it like a parrot. Ihad not one tear for the woman, but Poor father, thought I; to know thatevery time your son is happy you are betrayed. Phew, a nauseous draught. 

I have the acquaintance of a deliciously pretty girl, who is alwayssulky, and the thoughtless beseech her to be bright, not witting whereinlies her heroism. She was born the merriest of maids, but, being astudent of her face, learned anon that sulkiness best becomes it, and soshe has struggled and prevailed. A woman's history. Brave Margaret, whennight falls and thy hair is down, dost thou return, I wonder, to thynatural state, or, dreading the shadow of indulgence, sleepest thou evensulkily?

But will a male child do as much for his father? This remains to beseen, and so, after waiting several months, I decided to buy David arocking-horse. My St. Bernard dog accompanied me, though I have alwaysbeen diffident of taking him to toy-shops, which over-excite him. Hitherto the toys I had bought had always been for him, and as we durstnot admit this to the saleswoman we were both horribly self-consciouswhen in the shop. A score of times I have told him that he had muchbetter not come, I have announced fiercely that he is not to come. Hethen lets go of his legs, which is how a St. Bernard sits down, makingthe noise of a sack of coals suddenly deposited, and, laying his headbetween his front paws, stares at me through the red haws that make hiseyes so mournful. He will do this for an hour without blinking, for heknows that in time it will unman me. My dog knows very little, but whatlittle he does know he knows extraordinarily well. One can get out of mychambers by a back way, and I sometimes steal softly--but I can'thelp looking back, and there he is, and there are those haws askingsorrowfully, "Is this worthy of you?"

"Curse you, " I say, "get your hat, " or words to that effect. 

He has even been to the club, where he waddles up the stairs so exactlylike some respected member that he makes everybody most uncomfortable. I forget how I became possessor of him. I think I cut him out of an oldnumber of Punch. He costs me as much as an eight-roomed cottage in thecountry. 

He was a full-grown dog when I first, most foolishly, introduced himto toys. I had bought a toy in the street for my own amusement. Itrepresented a woman, a young mother, flinging her little son over herhead with one hand and catching him in the other, and I was entertainingmyself on the hearth-rug with this pretty domestic scene when I heardan unwonted sound from Porthos, and, looking up, I saw that noble andmelancholic countenance on the broad grin. I shuddered and was forputting the toy away at once, but he sternly struck down my arm withhis, and signed that I was to continue. The unmanly chuckle alwayscame, I found, when the poor lady dropped her babe, but the whole thingentranced him; he tried to keep his excitement down by taking hugedraughts of water; he forgot all his niceties of conduct; he sat in holyrapture with the toy between his paws, took it to bed with him, ate itin the night, and searched for it so longingly next day that I had to goout and buy him the man with the scythe. After that we had everything ofnote, the bootblack boy, the toper with bottle, the woolly rabbitthat squeaks when you hold it in your mouth; they all vanished asinexplicably as the lady, but I dared not tell him my suspicions, for hesuspected also and his gentle heart would have mourned had I confirmedhis fears. 

The dame in the temple of toys which we frequent thinks I want themfor a little boy and calls him "the precious" and "the lamb, " the whilePorthos is standing gravely by my side. She is a motherly soul, butover-talkative. 

"And how is the dear lamb to-day?" she begins, beaming. 

"Well, ma'am, well, " I say, keeping tight grip of his collar. 

"This blighty weather is not affecting his darling appetite?"

"No, ma'am, not at all. " (She would be considerably surprised ifinformed that he dined to-day on a sheepshead, a loaf, and threecabbages, and is suspected of a leg of mutton. )

"I hope he loves his toys?"

"He carries them about with him everywhere, ma'am. " (Has the one webought yesterday with him now, though you might not think it to look athim. )

"What do you say to a box of tools this time?"

"I think not, ma'am. "

"Is the deary fond of digging?"

"Very partial to digging. " (We shall find the leg of mutton some day. )

"Then perhaps a weeny spade and a pail?"

She got me to buy a model of Canterbury Cathedral once, she was soinsistent, and Porthos gave me his mind about it when we got home. Hedetests the kindergarten system, and as she is absurdly prejudiced inits favour we have had to try other shops. We went to the Lowther Arcadefor the rocking-horse. Dear Lowther Arcade! Ofttimes have we wanderedagape among thy enchanted palaces, Porthos and I, David and I, David andPorthos and I. I have heard that thou art vulgar, but I cannot see how, unless it be that tattered children haunt thy portals, those awful yetsmiling entrances to so much joy. To the Arcade there are two entrances, and with much to be sung in laudation of that which opens from theStrand I yet on the whole prefer the other as the more truly romantic, because it is there the tattered ones congregate, waiting to see theDavids emerge with the magic lamp. We have always a penny for them, and I have known them, before entering the Arcade with it, retire (butwhither?) to wash; surely the prettiest of all the compliments that arepaid to the home of toys. 

And now, O Arcade, so much fairer than thy West End brother, we are toldthat thou art doomed, anon to be turned into an eating-house or a hivefor usurers, something rankly useful. All thy delights are under noticeto quit. The Noah's arks are packed one within another, with clockworkhorses harnessed to them; the soldiers, knapsack on back, are kissingtheir hands to the dear foolish girls, who, however, will not be leftbehind them; all the four-footed things gather around the elephant, whois overful of drawing-room furniture; the birds flutter their wings; theman with the scythe mows his way through the crowd; the balloons tugat their strings; the ships rock under a swell of sail, everything isgetting ready for the mighty exodus into the Strand. Tears will be shed. 

So we bought the horse in the Lowther Arcade, Porthos, who thought itwas for him, looking proud but uneasy, and it was sent to the bandboxhouse anonymously. About a week afterward I had the ill-luck to meetMary's a husband in Kensington, so I asked him what he had called hislittle girl. 

"It is a boy, " he replied, with intolerable good-humour, "we call himDavid. "

And then with a singular lack of taste he wanted the name of my boy. 

I flicked my glove. "Timothy, " said I. 

I saw a suppressed smile on his face, and said hotly that Timothy was asgood a name as David. "I like it, " he assured me, and expressed a hopethat they would become friends. I boiled to say that I really could notallow Timothy to mix with boys of the David class, but I refrained, andlistened coldly while he told me what David did when you said his toeswere pigs going to market or returning from it, I forget which. Healso boasted of David's weight (a subject about which we are uncommonlytouchy at the club), as if children were for throwing forth for a wager. 

But no more about Timothy. Gradually this vexed me. I felt what aforlorn little chap Timothy was, with no one to say a word for him, andI became his champion and hinted something about teething, but withdrewit when it seemed too surprising, and tried to get on to safer ground, such as bibs and general intelligence, but the painter fellow was sowilling to let me have my say, and knew so much more about babies thanis fitting for men to know, that I paled before him and wondered why thedeuce he was listening to me so attentively. 

You may remember a story he had told me about some anonymous friend. "His latest, " said he now, "is to send David a rocking-horse!"

I must say I could see no reason for his mirth. "Picture it, " said he, "a rocking-horse for a child not three months old!"

I was about to say fiercely: "The stirrups are adjustable, " but thoughtit best to laugh with him. But I was pained to hear that Mary hadlaughed, though heaven knows I have often laughed at her. 

"But women are odd, " he said unexpectedly, and explained. It appearsthat in the middle of her merriment Mary had become grave and said tohim quite haughtily, "I see nothing to laugh at. " Then she had kissedthe horse solemnly on the nose and said, "I wish he was here to seeme do it. " There are moments when one cannot help feeling a drawing toMary. 

But moments only, for the next thing he said put her in a particularlyodious light. He informed me that she had sworn to hunt Mr. Anon down. 

"She won't succeed, " I said, sneering but nervous. 

"Then it will be her first failure, " said he. 

"But she knows nothing about the man. "

"You would not say that if you heard her talking of him. She says he isa gentle, whimsical, lonely old bachelor. "

"Old?" I cried. 

"Well, what she says is that he will soon be old if he doesn't takecare. He is a bachelor at all events, and is very fond of children, buthas never had one to play with. "

"Could not play with a child though there was one, " I said brusquely;"has forgotten the way; could stand and stare only. "

"Yes, if the parents were present. But he thinks that if he were alonewith the child he could come out strong. "

"How the deuce--" I began

"That is what she says, " he explained, apologetically. "I think she willprove to be too clever for him. "

"Pooh, " I said, but undoubtedly I felt a dizziness, and the next timeI met him he quite frightened me. "Do you happen to know any one, " hesaid, "who has a St. Bernard dog?"

"No, " said I, picking up my stick. 

"He has a St. Bernard dog. "

"How have you found that out?"

"She has found it out. "

"But how?"

"I don't know. "

I left him at once, for Porthos was but a little way behind me. Themystery of it scared me, but I armed promptly for battle. I engageda boy to walk Porthos in Kensington Gardens, and gave him theseinstructions: "Should you find yourself followed by a young womanwheeling a second-hand perambulator, instantly hand her over to thepolice on the charge of attempting to steal the dog. "

Now then, Mary. 

"By the way, " her husband said at our next meeting, "that rocking-horseI told you of cost three guineas. "

"She has gone to the shop to ask?"

"No, not to ask that, but for a description of the purchaser'sappearance. "

Oh, Mary, Mary. 

Here is the appearance of purchaser as supplied at the Arcade:--lookedlike a military gentleman; tall, dark, and rather dressy; fine Romannose (quite so), carefully trimmed moustache going grey (not at all);hair thin and thoughtfully distributed over the head like fiddlestrings, as if to make the most of it (pah!); dusted chair with handkerchiefbefore sitting down on it, and had other oldmaidish ways (I should liketo know what they are); tediously polite, but no talker; bored face; ageforty-five if a day (a lie); was accompanied by an enormous yellow dogwith sore eyes. (They always think the haws are sore eyes. )

"Do you know anyone who is like that?" Mary's husband asked meinnocently. 

"My dear man, " I said, "I know almost no one who is not like that, " andit was true, so like each other do we grow at the club. I was pleased, on the whole, with this talk, for it at least showed me how she hadcome to know of the St. Bernard, but anxiety returned when one day frombehind my curtains I saw Mary in my street with an inquiring eye onthe windows. She stopped a nurse who was carrying a baby and went intopretended ecstasies over it. I was sure she also asked whether by anychance it was called Timothy. And if not, whether that nurse knew anyother nurse who had charge of a Timothy. 

Obviously Mary suspicioned me, but nevertheless, I clung to Timothy, though I wished fervently that I knew more about him; for I still metthat other father occasionally, and he always stopped to compare notesabout the boys. And the questions he asked were so intimate, how Timothyslept, how he woke up, how he fell off again, what we put in his bath. It is well that dogs and little boys have so much in common, for it wasreally of Porthos I told him; how he slept (peacefully), how he wokeup (supposed to be subject to dreams), how he fell off again (with onelittle hand on his nose), but I glided past what we put in his bath(carbolic and a mop). 

The man had not the least suspicion of me, and I thought it reasonableto hope that Mary would prove as generous. Yet was I straitened inmy mind. For it might be that she was only biding her time to strikesuddenly, and this attached me the more to Timothy, as if I feared shemight soon snatch him from me. As was indeed to be the case. 

VI. A Shock

It was on a May day, and I saw Mary accompany her husband as far as thefirst crossing, whence she waved him out of sight as if he had boardedan Atlantic-liner. All this time she wore the face of a woman happilymarried who meant to go straight home, there to await her lord'sglorious return; and the military-looking gentleman watching her with abored smile saw nothing better before him than a chapter on the DomesticFelicities. Oh, Mary, can you not provide me with the tiniest littleplot?

Hallo!

No sooner was she hid from him than she changed into another woman; shewas now become a calculating purposeful madam, who looked around hercovertly and, having shrunk in size in order to appear less noticeable, set off nervously on some mysterious adventure. 

"The deuce!" thought I, and followed her. 

Like one anxious to keep an appointment, she frequently consulted herwatch, looking long at it, as if it were one of those watches that donot give up their secret until you have made a mental calculation. Onceshe kissed it. I had always known that she was fond of her cheap littlewatch, which he gave her, I think, on the day I dropped the letter, butwhy kiss it in the street? Ah, and why then replace it so hurriedly inyour leather-belt, Mary, as if it were guilt to you to kiss to-day, orany day, the watch your husband gave you?

It will be seen that I had made a very rapid journey from light thoughtsto uneasiness. I wanted no plot by the time she reached her destination, a street of tawdry shops. She entered none of them, but paced slowlyand shrinking from observation up and down the street, a very figure ofshame; and never had I thought to read shame in the sweet face of MaryA----. Had I crossed to her and pronounced her name I think it wouldhave felled her, and yet she remained there, waiting. I, too, waswaiting for him, wondering if this was the man, or this, or this, and Ibelieve I clutched my stick. 

Did I suspect Mary? Oh, surely not for a moment of time. But therewas some foolishness here; she was come without the knowledge of herhusband, as her furtive manner indicated, to a meeting she dreaded andwas ashamed to tell him of; she was come into danger; then it must beto save, not herself but him; the folly to be concealed could never havebeen Mary's. Yet what could have happened in the past of that honest boyfrom the consequences of which she might shield him by skulking here?Could that laugh of his have survived a dishonour? The open forehead, the curly locks, the pleasant smile, the hundred ingratiating wayswhich we carry with us out of childhood, they may all remain when theinnocence has fled, but surely the laugh of the morning of life must go. I have never known the devil retain his grip on that. 

But Mary was still waiting. She was no longer beautiful; shame hadpossession of her face, she was an ugly woman. Then the entanglementwas her husband's, and I cursed him for it. But without conviction, for, after all, what did I know of women? I have some distant memories ofthem, some vain inventions. But of men--I have known one man indifferentwell for over forty years, have exulted in him (odd to think of it), shuddered at him, wearied of him, been willing (God forgive me) tojog along with him tolerantly long after I have found him out; I knowsomething of men, and, on my soul, boy, I believe I am wronging you. 

Then Mary is here for some innocent purpose, to do a good deed that werebetter undone, as it so scares her. Turn back, you foolish, soft heart, and I shall say no more about it. Obstinate one, you saw the look onyour husband's face as he left you. It is the studio light by which hepaints and still sees to hope, despite all the disappointments of hisnot ignoble ambitions. That light is the dower you brought him, and heis a wealthy man if it does not flicker. 

So anxious to be gone, and yet she would not go. Several times she madelittle darts, as if at last resolved to escape from that detestablestreet, and faltered and returned like a bird to the weasel. Again shelooked at her watch and kissed it. 

Oh, Mary, take flight. What madness is this? Woman, be gone. 

Suddenly she was gone. With one mighty effort and a last terrified lookround, she popped into a pawnshop. 

Long before she emerged I understood it all, I think even as the doorrang and closed on her; why the timid soul had sought a street where shewas unknown, why she crept so many times past that abhorred shop beforedesperately venturing in, why she looked so often at the watch she mightnever see again. So desperately cumbered was Mary to keep her littlehouse over her head, and yet the brave heart was retaining a smilingface for her husband, who must not even know where her little treasureswere going. 

It must seem monstrously cruel of me, but I was now quite light-heartedagain. Even when Mary fled from the shop where she had left her watch, and I had peace of mind to note how thin and worn she had become, asif her baby was grown too big for her slight arms, even then I waslight-hearted. Without attempting to follow her, I sauntered homewardhumming a snatch of song with a great deal of fal-de-lal-de-riddle-o init, for I can never remember words. I saw her enter another shop, babylinen shop or some nonsense of that sort, so it was plain for whatshe had popped her watch; but what cared I? I continued to sing mostbeautifully. I lunged gayly with my stick at a lamp-post and missedit, whereat a street-urchin grinned, and I winked at him and slippedtwopence down his back. 

I presume I would have chosen the easy way had time been given me, butfate willed that I should meet the husband on his homeward journey, andhis first remark inspired me to a folly. 

"How is Timothy?" he asked; and the question opened a way so attractivethat I think no one whose dull life craves for colour could haveresisted it. 

"He is no more, " I replied impulsively. 

The painter was so startled that he gave utterance to a very oath ofpity, and I felt a sinking myself, for in these hasty words my littleboy was gone, indeed; all my bright dreams of Timothy, all my efforts toshelter him from Mary's scorn, went whistling down the wind. 

VII. The Last of Timothy

So accomplished a person as the reader must have seen at once that Imade away with Timothy in order to give his little vests and pinaforesand shoes to David, and, therefore, dear sir or madam, rail not overmuchat me for causing our painter pain. Know, too, that though his sympathyran free I soon discovered many of his inquiries to be prompted by amere selfish desire to save his boy from the fate of mine. Such areparents. 

He asked compassionately if there was anything he could do for me, and, of course, there was something he could do, but were I to propose it Idoubted not he would be on his stilts at once, for already I had reasonto know him for a haughty, sensitive dog, who ever became high at thefirst hint of help. So the proposal must come from him. I spoke of themany little things in the house that were now hurtful to me to lookupon, and he clutched my hand, deeply moved, though it was another housewith its little things he saw. I was ashamed to harass him thus, but hehad not a sufficiency of the little things, and besides my impulsivenesshad plunged me into a deuce of a mess, so I went on distastefully. Wasthere no profession in this age of specialism for taking away children'sgarments from houses where they were suddenly become a pain? Could Isell them? Could I give them to the needy, who would probably dispose ofthem for gin? I told him of a friend with a young child who had alreadyrefused them because it would be unpleasant to him to be reminded ofTimothy, and I think this was what touched him to the quick, so that hemade the offer I was waiting for. 

I had done it with a heavy foot, and by this time was in a rage withboth him and myself, but I always was a bungler, and, having adoptedthis means in a hurry, I could at the time see no other easy way out. Timothy's hold on life, as you may have apprehended, was ever of theslightest, and I suppose I always knew that he must soon revert to theobscure. He could never have penetrated into the open. It was no lifefor a boy. 

Yet now, that his time had come, I was loath to see him go. I seemto remember carrying him that evening to the window with uncommontenderness (following the setting sun that was to take him away), andtelling him with not unnatural bitterness that he had got to leave mebecause another child was in need of all his pretty things; and as thesun, his true father, lapt him in its dancing arms, he sent his love toa lady of long ago whom he called by the sweetest of names, not knowingin his innocence that the little white birds are the birds that neverhave a mother. I wished (so had the phantasy of Timothy taken possessionof me) that before he went he could have played once in the KensingtonGardens, and have ridden on the fallen trees, calling gloriously to meto look; that he could have sailed one paper-galleon on the Round Pond;fain would I have had him chase one hoop a little way down the laughingavenues of childhood, where memory tells us we run but once, on a longsummer-day, emerging at the other end as men and women with all the funto pay for; and I think (thus fancy wantons with me in these desolatechambers) he knew my longings, and said with a boy-like flush that thereason he never did these things was not that he was afraid, for hewould have loved to do them all, but because he was not quite like otherboys; and, so saying, he let go my finger and faded from before my eyesinto another and golden ether; but I shall ever hold that had he beenquite like other boys there would have been none braver than my Timothy. 

I fear I am not truly brave myself, for though when under fire, so faras I can recollect, I behaved as others, morally I seem to be deficient. So I discovered next day when I attempted to buy David's outfit, and found myself as shy of entering the shop as any Mary at thepawnbroker's. The shop for little garments seems very alarming when youreach the door; a man abruptly become a parent, and thus lost to afiner sense of the proprieties, may be able to stalk in unprotected, butapparently I could not. Indeed, I have allowed a repugnance to enteringshops of any kind, save my tailor's, to grow on me, and to my tailor's Ifear I go too frequently. 

So I skulked near the shop of the little garments, jeering at myself, and it was strange to me to reflect at, say, three o'clock that if I hadbeen brazen at half-past two all would now be over. 

To show what was my state, take the case of the very gentleman-like manwhom I detected gazing fixedly at me, or so I thought, just as I haddrawn valiantly near the door. I sauntered away, but when I returnedhe was still there, which seemed conclusive proof that he had smokedmy purpose. Sternly controlling my temper I bowed, and said with icypoliteness, "You have the advantage of me, sir. "

"I beg your pardon, " said he, and I am now persuaded that my wordsturned his attention to me for the first time, but at the moment I wassure some impertinent meaning lurked behind his answer. 

"I have not the pleasure of your acquaintance, " I barked. 

"No one regrets it more than I do, " he replied, laughing. 

"I mean, sir, " said I, "that I shall wait here until you retire, " andwith that I put my back to a shop-window. 

By this time he was grown angry, and said he, "I have no engagement, "and he put his back to the shop-window. Each of us was doggedlydetermined to tire the other out, and we must have looked ridiculous. Wealso felt it, for ten minutes afterward, our passions having died away, we shook hands cordially and agreed to call hansoms. 

Must I abandon the enterprise? Certainly I knew divers ladies who wouldmake the purchases for me, but first I must explain, and, ratherthan explain it has ever been my custom to do without. I was in thisdespondency when a sudden recollection of Irene and Mrs. Hickingheartened me like a cordial, for I saw in them at once the engine anddecoy by which David should procure his outfit. 

You must be told who they were. 

VIII. The Inconsiderate Waiter

They were the family of William, one of our club waiters who had beendisappointing me grievously of late. Many a time have I deferred diningseveral minutes that I might have the attendance of this ingrate. Hisefforts to reserve the window-table for me were satisfactory, and Iused to allow him privileges, as to suggest dishes; I have given himinformation, as that someone had startled me in the reading-room byslamming a door; I have shown him how I cut my finger with a pieceof string. William was none of your assertive waiters. We could haveplotted a murder safely before him. It was one member who said to himthat Saucy Sarah would win the Derby and another who said that SaucySarah had no chance, but it was William who agreed with both. Theexcellent fellow (as I thought him) was like a cheroot which may besmoked from either end. 

I date his lapse from one evening when I was dining by the window. I hadto repeat my order "Devilled kidney, " and instead of answering brightly, "Yes, sir, " as if my selection of devilled kidney was a personalgratification to him, which is the manner one expects of a waiter, hegazed eagerly out at the window, and then, starting, asked, "Did yousay devilled kidney, sir?" A few minutes afterward I became aware thatsomeone was leaning over the back of my chair, and you may conceive myindignation on discovering that this rude person was William. Let metell, in the measured words of one describing a past incident, what nexttook place. To get nearer the window he pressed heavily on my shoulder. "William, " I said, "you are not attending to me!"

To be fair to him, he shook, but never shall I forget his audaciousapology, "Beg pardon, sir, but I was thinking of something else. "

And immediately his eyes resought the window, and this burst from himpassionately, "For God's sake, sir, as we are man and man, tell me ifyou have seen a little girl looking up at the club-windows. "

Man and man! But he had been a good waiter once, so I pointed out thegirl to him. As soon as she saw William she ran into the middle of PallMall, regardless of hansoms (many of which seemed to pass over her), nodded her head significantly three times and then disappeared (probablyon a stretcher). She was the tawdriest little Arab of about ten years, but seemed to have brought relief to William. "Thank God!" said hefervently, and in the worst taste. 

I was as much horrified as if he had dropped a plate on my toes. "Bread, William, " I said sharply. 

"You are not vexed with me, sir?" he had the hardihood to whisper. 

"It was a liberty, " I said. 

"I know, sir, but I was beside myself. "

"That was a liberty again. "

"It is my wife, sir, she--"

So William, whom I had favoured in so many ways, was a married man. Ifelt that this was the greatest liberty of all. 

I gathered that the troublesome woman was ailing, and as one who likesafter dinner to believe that there is no distress in the world, Idesired to be told by William that the signals meant her return tohealth. He answered inconsiderately, however, that the doctor feared theworst. 

"Bah, the doctor, " I said in a rage. 

"Yes, sir, " said William. 

"What is her confounded ailment?"

"She was allus one of the delicate kind, but full of spirit, and yousee, sir, she has had a baby-girl lately--"

"William, how dare you, " I said, but in the same moment I saw that thisfather might be useful to me. "How does your baby sleep, William?" Iasked in a low voice, "how does she wake up? what do you put in herbath?"

I saw surprise in his face, so I hurried on without waiting for ananswer. "That little girl comes here with a message from your wife?"

"Yes, sir, every evening; she's my eldest, and three nods from her meansthat the missus is a little better. "

"There were three nods to-day?"

"Yes, sir. 

"I suppose you live in some low part, William?"

The impudent fellow looked as if he could have struck me. "Off DruryLane, " he said, flushing, "but it isn't low. And now, " he groaned, "she's afeared she will die without my being there to hold her hand. "

"She should not say such things. "

"She never says them, sir. She allus pretends to be feeling stronger. But I knows what is in her mind when I am leaving the house in themorning, for then she looks at me from her bed, and I looks at her fromthe door--oh, my God, sir!"

"William!"

At last he saw that I was angry, and it was characteristic of him to begmy pardon and withdraw his wife as if she were some unsuccessful dish. I tried to forget his vulgar story in billiards, but he had spoiledmy game, and next day to punish him I gave my orders through anotherwaiter. As I had the window-seat, however, I could not but see that thelittle girl was late, and though this mattered nothing to me and I hadfinished my dinner, I lingered till she came. She not only nodded threetimes but waved her hat, and I arose, having now finished my dinner. 

William came stealthily toward me. "Her temperature has gone down, sir, "he said, rubbing his hands together. 

"To whom are you referring?" I asked coldly, and retired to thebilliard-room, where I played a capital game. 

I took pains to show William that I had forgotten his maunderings, butI observed the girl nightly, and once, instead of nodding, she shook herhead, and that evening I could not get into a pocket. Next eveningthere was no William in the dining-room, and I thought I knew what hadhappened. But, chancing to enter the library rather miserably, Iwas surprised to see him on a ladder dusting books. We had the roompractically to ourselves, for though several members sat on chairsholding books in their hands they were all asleep, and William descendedthe ladder to tell me his blasting tale. He had sworn at a member!

"I hardly knew what I was doing all day, sir, for I had left her soweakly that--"

I stamped my foot. 

"I beg your pardon for speaking of her, " he had the grace to say. "ButIrene had promised to come every two hours; and when she came aboutfour o'clock and I saw she was crying, it sort of blinded me, sir, andI stumbled against a member, Mr. B----, and he said, 'Damn you!' Well, sir, I had but touched him after all, and I was so broken it sort ofstung me to be treated so and I lost my senses, and I said, 'Damn you!'"

His shamed head sank on his chest, and I think some of the readersshuddered in their sleep. 

"I was turned out of the dining-room at once, and sent here until thecommittee have decided what to do with me. Oh, sir, I am willing to goon my knees to Mr. B----"

How could I but despise a fellow who would be thus abject for a pound aweek?

"For if I have to tell her I have lost my place she will just fall backand die. "

"I forbid your speaking to me of that woman, " I cried wryly, "unless youcan speak pleasantly, " and I left him to his fate and went off tolook for B----. "What is this story about your swearing at one of thewaiters?" I asked him. 

"You mean about his swearing at me, " said B----, reddening. 

"I am glad that was it, " I said, "for I could not believe you guilty ofsuch bad form. The version which reached me was that you swore at eachother, and that he was to be dismissed and you reprimanded. "

"Who told you that?" asked B----, who is a timid man. 

"I am on the committee, " I replied lightly, and proceeded to talk ofother matters, but presently B----, who had been reflecting, said: "Doyou know I fancy I was wrong in thinking that the waiter swore at me, and I shall withdraw the charge to-morrow. "

I was pleased to find that William's troubles were near an end withoutmy having to interfere in his behalf, and I then remembered that hewould not be able to see the girl Irene from the library windows, which are at the back of the club. I was looking down at her, butshe refrained from signalling because she could not see William, andirritated by her stupidity I went out and asked her how her mother was. 

"My, " she ejaculated after a long scrutiny of me, "I b'lieve you areone of them!" and she gazed at me with delighted awe. I suppose Williamtells them of our splendid doings. 

The invalid, it appeared, was a bit better, and this annoying childwanted to inform William that she had took all the tapiocar. She was toindicate this by licking an imaginary plate in the middle of PallMall. I gave the little vulgarian a shilling, and returned to the clubdisgusted. 

"By the way, William, " I said, "Mr. B---- is to inform the committeethat he was mistaken in thinking you used improper language to him, soyou will doubtless be restored to the dining-room to-morrow. "

I had to add immediately, "Remember your place, William. "

"But Mr. B---- knows I swore, " he insisted. 

"A gentleman, " I replied stiffly, "cannot remember for many hours what awaiter has said to him. "

"No, sir, but--"

To stop him I had to say, "And--ah--William, your wife is decidedlybetter. She has eaten the tapioca--all of it. "

"How can you know, sir?"

"By an accident. "

"Irene signed to the window?"

"No. "

"Then you saw her and went out and--"

"How dare you, William?"

"Oh, sir, to do that for me! May God bl--"

"William. "

He was reinstated in the dining-room, but often when I looked at him Iseemed to see a dying wife in his face, and so the relations between uswere still strained. But I watched the girl, and her pantomime was soilluminating that I knew the sufferer had again cleaned the platter onTuesday, had attempted a boiled egg on Wednesday (you should have seenIrene chipping it in Pall Mall, and putting in the salt), but was in awoful state of relapse on Thursday. 

"Is your mother very ill to-day, Miss Irene?" I asked, as soon as I haddrawn her out of range of the club-windows. 

"My!" she exclaimed again, and I saw an ecstatic look pass between herand a still smaller girl with her, whom she referred to as a neighbour. 

I waited coldly. William's wife, I was informed, had looked like nothingbut a dead one till she got the brandy. 

"Hush, child, " I said, shocked. "You don't know how the dead look. "

"Bless yer!" she replied. 

Assisted by her friend, who was evidently enormously impressed byIrene's intimacy with me, she gave me a good deal of miscellaneousinformation, as that William's real name was Mr. Hicking, but that hewas known in their street, because of the number of his shirts, as ToffHicking. That the street held he should get away from the club beforetwo in the morning, for his missus needed him more than the club neededhim. That William replied (very sensibly) that if the club was short ofwaiters at supper-time some of the gentlemen might be kept waiting fortheir marrow-bone. That he sat up with his missus most of the night, andpretended to her that he got some nice long naps at the club. That whatshe talked to him about mostly was the kid. That the kid was in anotherpart of London (in charge of a person called the old woman), becausethere was an epidemic in Irene's street. 

"And what does the doctor say about your mother?"

"He sometimes says she would have a chance if she could get her kidback. "

"Nonsense. "

"And if she was took to the country. "

"Then why does not William take her?"

"My! And if she drank porty wine. "

"Doesn't she?"

"No. But father, he tells her 'bout how the gentlemen drinks it. "

I turned from her with relief, but she came after me. 

"Ain't yer going to do it this time?" she demanded with a falling face. "You done it last time. I tell her you done it"--she pointed to herfriend who was looking wistfully at me--"ain't you to let her see youdoing of it?"

For a moment I thought that her desire was another shilling, but by apiece of pantomime she showed that she wanted me to lift my hat to her. So I lifted it, and when I looked behind she had her head in the air andher neighbour was gazing at her awestruck. These little creatures arereally not without merit. 

About a week afterward I was in a hired landau, holding a newspaperbefore my face lest anyone should see me in company of a waiter and hiswife. William was taking her into Surrey to stay with an old nurse ofmine, and Irene was with us, wearing the most outrageous bonnet. 

I formed a mean opinion of Mrs. Hicking's intelligence from her pride inthe baby, which was a very ordinary one. She created a regrettable scenewhen it was brought to her, because "she had been feared it would notknow her again. " I could have told her that they know no one for yearshad I not been in terror of Irene, who dandled the child on her kneesand talked to it all the way. I have never known a bolder little hussythan this Irene. She asked the infant improper questions, such as "Ooknow who gave me this bonnet?" and answered them herself. "It wasthe pretty gentleman there, " and several times I had to affect sleep, because she announced, "Kiddy wants to kiss the pretty gentleman. "

Irksome as all this necessarily was to a man of taste, I sufferedstill more acutely when we reached our destination, where disagreeablecircumstances compelled me to drink tea with a waiter's family. Williamknew that I regarded thanks from persons of his class as an outrage, yethe looked them though he dared not speak them. Hardly had he sat downat the table by my orders than he remembered that I was a member of theclub and jumped up. Nothing is in worse form than whispering, yet againand again he whispered to his poor, foolish wife, "How are you now?You don't feel faint?" and when she said she felt like another womanalready, his face charged me with the change. I could not but concludefrom the way she let the baby pound her that she was stronger than shepretended. 

I remained longer than was necessary because I had something to say toWilliam which I feared he would misunderstand, but when he announcedthat it was time for him to catch a train back to London, at which hiswife paled, I delivered the message. 

"William, " I said, backing away from him, "the head-waiter asked me tosay that you could take a fortnight's holiday. Your wages will be paidas usual. "

Confound him. 

"William, " I cried furiously, "go away. "

Then I saw his wife signing to him, and I knew she wanted to be leftalone with me. 

"William, " I cried in a panic, "stay where you are. "

But he was gone, and I was alone with a woman whose eyes were filmy. Herclass are fond of scenes. "If you please, ma'am!" I said imploringly. 

But she kissed my hand; she was like a little dog. 

"It can be only the memory of some woman, " said she, "that makes you sokind to me and mine. "

Memory was the word she used, as if all my youth were fled. I suppose Ireally am quite elderly. 

"I should like to know her name, sir, " she said, "that I may mention herwith loving respect in my prayers. "

I raised the woman and told her the name. It was not Mary. "But she hasa home, " I said, "as you have, and I have none. Perhaps, ma'am, it wouldbe better worth your while to mention me. "

It was this woman, now in health, whom I intrusted with the purchase ofthe outfits, "one for a boy of six months, " I explained to her, "and onefor a boy of a year, " for the painter had boasted to me of David's rapidgrowth. I think she was a little surprised to find that both outfitswere for the same house; and she certainly betrayed an ignoble curiosityabout the mother's Christian name, but she was much easier to brow-beatthan a fine lady would have been, and I am sure she and her daughterenjoyed themselves hugely in the shops, from one of which I shall neverforget Irene emerging proudly with a commissionaire, who conducted herunder an umbrella to the cab where I was lying in wait. I think that wasthe most celestial walk of Irene's life. 

I told Mrs. Hicking to give the articles a little active ill-treatmentthat they might not look quite new, at which she exclaimed, not being inmy secret, and then to forward them to me. I then sent them to Mary andrejoiced in my devilish cunning all the evening, but chagrin came in themorning with a letter from her which showed she knew all, that I was herMr. Anon, and that there never had been a Timothy. I think I was neverso gravelled. Even now I don't know how she had contrived it. 

Her cleverness raised such a demon in me that I locked away her letterat once and have seldom read it since. No married lady should haveindited such an epistle to a single man. It said, with other thingswhich I decline to repeat, that I was her good fairy. As a sample of thedeliberate falsehoods in it, I may mention that she said David loved mealready. She hoped that I would come in often to see her husband, whowas very proud of my friendship, and suggested that I should pay him myfirst visit to-day at three o'clock, an hour at which, as I happened toknow, he is always away giving a painting-lesson. In short, she wantedfirst to meet me alone, so that she might draw the delicious, respectfulromance out of me, and afterward repeat it to him, with sighs and littlepeeps at him over her pocket-handkerchief. 

She had dropped what were meant to look like two tears for me upon thepaper, but I should not wonder though they were only artful drops ofwater. 

I sent her a stiff and tart reply, declining to hold any communicationwith her. 

IX. A Confirmed Spinster

I am in danger, I see, of being included among the whimsical fellows, which I so little desire that I have got me into my writing-chair tocombat the charge, but, having sat for an unconscionable time with penpoised, I am come agitatedly to the fear that there may be something init. 

So long a time has elapsed, you must know, since I abated of the ardoursof self-inquiry that I revert in vain (through many rusty doors) for thebeginning of this change in me, if changed I am; I seem ever to see thissame man until I am back in those wonderful months which were half ofmy life, when, indeed, I know that I was otherwise than I am now; nowhimsical fellow then, for that was one of the possibilities I put tomyself while seeking for the explanation of things, and found to beinadmissible. Having failed in those days to discover why I was drivenfrom the garden, I suppose I ceased to be enamoured of myself, as ofsome dull puzzle, and then perhaps the whimsicalities began to collectunnoticed. 

It is a painful thought to me to-night, that he could wake up gloriousonce, this man in the elbow-chair by the fire, who is humorously knownat the club as a "confirmed spinster. " I remember him well when hisyears told four and twenty; on my soul the proudest subaltern of myacquaintance, and with the most reason to be proud. There was nothing hemight not do in the future, having already done the biggest thing, thistoddler up club-steps to-day. 

Not, indeed, that I am a knave; I am tolerably kind, I believe, and mostinoffensive, a gentleman, I trust, even in the eyes of the ladies whosmile at me as we converse; they are an ever-increasing number, or so itseems to me to-night. Ah, ladies, I forget when I first began to noticethat smile and to be made uneasy by it. I think I understand it now, andin some vague way it hurts me. I find that I watch for it nowadays, butI hope I am still your loyal, obedient servant. 

You will scarcely credit it, but I have just remembered that I once hada fascinating smile of my own. What has become of my smile? I swear Ihave not noticed that it was gone till now; I am like one who revisitinghis school feels suddenly for his old knife. I first heard of my smilefrom another boy, whose sisters had considered all the smiles they knewand placed mine on top. My friend was scornful, and I bribed him tomention the plebiscite to no one, but secretly I was elated and amazed. I feel lost to-night without my smiles. I rose a moment ago to look forit in my mirror. 

I like to believe that she has it now. I think she may have some otherforgotten trifles of mine with it that make the difference between thatman and this. I remember her speaking of my smile, telling me it was myone adornment, and taking it from me, so to speak, for a moment to letme see how she looked in it; she delighted to make sport of me when shewas in a wayward mood, and to show me all my ungainly tricks of voiceand gesture, exaggerated and glorified in her entrancing self, like astar calling to the earth: "See, I will show you how you hobble round, "and always there was a challenge to me in her eyes to stop her if Idared, and upon them, when she was most audacious, lay a sweet mist. 

They all came to her court, as is the business of young fellows, totell her what love is, and she listened with a noble frankness, having, indeed, the friendliest face for all engaged in this pursuit that canever have sat on woman. I have heard ladies call her coquette, notunderstanding that she shone softly upon all who entered the listsbecause, with the rarest intuition, she foresaw that they must go awaybroken men and already sympathised with their dear wounds. All woundsincurred for love were dear to her; at every true utterance about loveshe exulted with grave approval, or it might be a with a little "ah!" or"oh!" like one drinking deliciously. Nothing could have been more fair, for she was for the first comer who could hit the target, which was herheart. 

She adored all beautiful things in their every curve and fragrance, sothat they became part of her. Day by day, she gathered beauty; had shehad no heart (she who was the bosom of womanhood) her thoughts wouldstill have been as lilies, because the good is the beautiful. 

And they all forgave her; I never knew of one who did not forgive her;I think had there been one it would have proved that there was a flaw inher. Perhaps, when good-bye came she was weeping because all the prettythings were said and done with, or she was making doleful confessionsabout herself, so impulsive and generous and confidential, and so devoidof humour, that they compelled even a tragic swain to laugh. She made alooking-glass of his face to seek wofully in it whether she was at allto blame, and when his arms went out for her, and she stepped back sothat they fell empty, she mourned, with dear sympathy, his lack ofskill to seize her. For what her soft eyes said was that she was alwayswaiting tremulously to be won. They all forgave her, because there wasnothing to forgive, or very little, just the little that makes a deargirl dearer, and often afterward, I believe, they have laughed fondlywhen thinking of her, like boys brought back. You ladies who areeverything to your husbands save a girl from the dream of youth, haveyou never known that double-chinned industrious man laugh suddenly ina reverie and start up, as if he fancied he were being hailed fromfar-away?

I hear her hailing me now. She was so light-hearted that her laugh iswhat comes first across the years; so high-spirited that she would havewept like Mary of Scots because she could not lie on the bare plainslike the men. I hear her, but it is only as an echo; I see her, but itis as a light among distant trees, and the middle-aged man can draw nonearer; she was only for the boys. There was a month when I could haveshown her to you in all her bravery, but then the veil fell, and fromthat moment I understood her not. For long I watched her, but she wasnever clear to me again, and for long she hovered round me, like a dearheart willing to give me a thousand chances to regain her love. She wasso picturesque that she was the last word of art, but she was as youngas if she were the first woman. The world must have rung with gallantdeeds and grown lovely thoughts for numberless centuries before shecould be; she was the child of all the brave and wistful imaginings ofmen. She was as mysterious as night when it fell for the first time uponthe earth. She was the thing we call romance, which lives in the littlehut beyond the blue haze of the pine-woods. 

No one could have looked less elfish. She was all on a noble scale, her attributes were so generous, her manner unconquerably gracious, hermovements indolently active, her face so candid that you must swear herevery thought lived always in the open. Yet, with it all, she was a wildthing, alert, suspicious of the lasso, nosing it in every man's hand, more curious about it than about aught else in the world; her quiveringdelight was to see it cast for her, her game to elude it; so mettlesomewas she that she loved it to be cast fair that she might escape as itwas closing round her; she scorned, however her heart might be beating, to run from her pursuers; she took only the one step backward, whichstill left her near them but always out of reach; her head on high now, but her face as friendly, her manner as gracious as before, she is yoursfor the catching. That was ever the unspoken compact between her and thehuntsmen. 

It may be but an old trick come back to me with these memories, butagain I clasp my hands to my brows in amaze at the thought that all thiswas for me could I retain her love. For I won it, wonder of the gods, but I won it. I found myself with one foot across the magic circlewherein she moved, and which none but I had entered; and so, I think, Isaw her in revelation, not as the wild thing they had all conceivedher, but as she really was. I saw no tameless creature, nothing wildor strange. I saw my sweet love placid as a young cow browsing. As Ibrushed aside the haze and she was truly seen for the first time, sheraised her head, like one caught, and gazed at me with meek affrightedeyes. I told her what had been revealed to me as I looked upon her, andshe trembled, knowing she was at last found, and fain would she havefled away, but that her fear was less than her gladness. She came to meslowly; no incomprehensible thing to me now, but transparent as a pool, and so restful to look upon that she was a bath to the eyes, like banksof moss. 

Because I knew the maid, she was mine. Every maid, I say, is for himwho can know her. The others had but followed the glamour in which shewalked, but I had pierced it and found the woman. I could anticipate herevery thought and gesture, I could have flashed and rippled and mockedfor her, and melted for her and been dear disdain for her. She wouldforget this and be suddenly conscious of it as she began to speak, whenshe gave me a look with a shy smile in it which meant that she knew Iwas already waiting at the end of what she had to say. I call this theblush of the eye. She had a look and a voice that were for me alone; hervery finger-tips were charged with caresses for me. And I loved even hernaughtinesses, as when she stamped her foot at me, which she couldnot do without also gnashing her teeth, like a child trying to lookfearsome. How pretty was that gnashing of her teeth! All her tormentingsof me turned suddenly into sweetnesses, and who could torment like thisexquisite fury, wondering in sudden flame why she could give herself toanyone, while I wondered only why she could give herself to me. It maybe that I wondered over-much. Perhaps that was why I lost her. 

It was in the full of the moon that she was most restive, but I broughther back, and at first she could have bit my hand, but then she camewillingly. Never, I thought, shall she be wholly tamed, but he who knowsher will always be able to bring her back. 

I am not that man, for mystery of mysteries, I lost her. I know not howit was, though in the twilight of my life that then began I groped forreasons until I wearied of myself; all I know is that she had ceased tolove me; I had won her love, but I could not keep it. The discovery cameto me slowly, as if I were a most dull-witted man; at first I knew onlythat I no longer understood her as of old. I found myself wondering whatshe had meant by this and that; I did not see that when she began topuzzle me she was already lost to me. It was as if, unknowing, I hadstrayed outside the magic circle. 

When I did understand I tried to cheat myself into the belief that therewas no change, and the dear heart bleeding for me assisted in that poorpretence. She sought to glide to me with swimming eyes as before, but itshowed only that this caressing movement was still within her compass, but never again for me. With the hands she had pressed to her breast shetouched mine, but no longer could they convey the message. The currentwas broken, and soon we had to desist miserably from our pretences. She could tell no more than I why she had ceased to love me; she wasscarcely less anxious than I that I should make her love me again, and, as I have said, she waited with a wonderful tolerance while I strovefutilely to discover in what I was lacking and to remedy it. And when, at last, she had to leave me, it was with compassionate cries and littlebackward flights. 

The failure was mine alone, but I think I should not have been soaltered by it had I known what was the defect in me through which I lether love escape. This puzzle has done me more harm than the loss of her. Nevertheless, you must know (if I am to speak honestly to you) that I donot repent me those dallyings in enchanted fields. It may not have beenso always, for I remember a black night when a poor lieutenant lay downin an oarless boat and let it drift toward the weir. But his distantmoans do not greatly pain me now; rather am I elated to find (as thewaters bring him nearer) that this boy is I, for it is something toknow that, once upon a time, a woman could draw blood from me as fromanother. 

I saw her again, years afterward, when she was a married woman playingwith her children. She stamped her foot at a naughty one, and I saw thegleam of her teeth as she gnashed them in the dear pretty way I can'tforget; and then a boy and girl, fighting for her shoulders, broughtthe whole group joyously to the ground. She picked herself up in the oldleisurely manner, lazily active, and looked around her benignantly, like a cow: our dear wild one safely tethered at last with a rope ofchildren. I meant to make her my devoirs, but, as I stepped forward, theold wound broke out afresh, and I had to turn away. They were but afew poor drops, which fell because I found that she was even a littlesweeter than I had thought. 

X. Sporting Reflections

I have now told you (I presume) how I became whimsical, and I fear itwould please Mary not at all. But speaking of her, and, as the cat'slight keeps me in a ruminating mood, suppose, instead of returning Maryto her lover by means of the letter, I had presented a certain clubmanto her consideration? Certainly no such whimsical idea crossed my mindwhen I dropped the letter, but between you and me and my night-socks, which have all this time been airing by the fire because I am subject tocold feet, I have sometimes toyed with it since. 

Why did I not think of this in time? Was it because I must ever remaintrue to the unattainable she?

I am reminded of a passage in the life of a sweet lady, a friend ofmine, whose daughter was on the eve of marriage, when suddenly her loverdied. It then became pitiful to watch that trembling old face trying topoint the way of courage to the young one. In time, however, there cameanother youth, as true, I dare say, as the first, but not so well knownto me, and I shrugged my shoulders cynically to see my old friend oncemore a matchmaker. She took him to her heart and boasted of him; likeone made young herself by the great event, she joyously dressed her paledaughter in her bridal gown, and, with smiles upon her face, she castrice after the departing carriage. But soon after it had gone, I chancedupon her in her room, and she was on her knees in tears before thespirit of the dead lover. "Forgive me, " she besought him, "for I am old, and life is gray to friendless girls. " The pardon she wanted was forpretending to her daughter that women should act thus. 

I am sure she felt herself soiled. 

But men are of a coarser clay. At least I am, and nearly twenty yearshad elapsed, and here was I burdened under a load of affection, like asack of returned love-letters, with no lap into which to dump them. 

"They were all written to another woman, ma'am, and yet I am in hopesthat you will find something in them about yourself. " It would havesounded oddly to Mary, but life is gray to friendless girls, andsomething might have come of it. 

On the other hand, it would have brought her for ever out of the wood ofthe little hut, and I had but to drop the letter to send them both backthere. The easiness of it tempted me. 

Besides, she would tire of me when I was really known to her. They alldo, you see. 

And, after all, why should he lose his laugh because I had lost mysmile?

And then, again, the whole thing was merely a whimsical idea. 

I dropped the letter, and shouldered my burden. 

XI. The Runaway Perambulator

I sometimes met David in public places such as the Kensington Gardens, where he lorded it surrounded by his suite and wearing the blank faceand glass eyes of all carriage-people. On these occasions I alwaysstalked by, meditating on higher things, though Mary seemed to think mevery hardhearted, and Irene, who had become his nurse (I forget how, but fear I had something to do with it), ran after me with messages, as, would I not call and see him in his home at twelve o'clock, at whichmoment, it seemed, he was at his best. 

No, I would not. 

"He says tick-tack to the clock, " Irene said, trying to snare me. 

"Pooh!" said I. 

"Other little 'uns jest says 'tick-tick, '" she told me, with a flush ofpride. 

"I prefer 'tick-tick, '" I said, whereat she departed in dudgeon. 

Had they had the sense to wheel him behind a tree and leave him, I wouldhave looked, but as they lacked it, I decided to wait until he couldwalk, when it would be more easy to waylay him. However, he was acautious little gorbal who, after many threats to rise, always seemed tocome to the conclusion that he might do worse than remain where he was, and when he had completed his first year I lost patience with him. 

"When I was his age, " I said to Irene, "I was running about. " Iconsulted them casually about this matter at the club, and they had allbeen running about at a year old. 

I made this nurse the following offer: If she would bring the dilatoryboy to my rooms and leave him there for half an hour I would look athim. At first Mary, to whom the offer was passed on, rejected it withhauteur, but presently she wavered, and the upshot was that Irene, looking scornful and anxious, arrived one day with the perambulator. Without casting eyes on its occupant, I pointed Irene to the door: "Inhalf-an-hour, " I said. 

She begged permission to remain, and promised to turn her back, and soon, but I was obdurate, and she then delivered herself of a passionatelyaffectionate farewell to her charge, which was really all directedagainst me, and ended with these powerful words: "And if he takes offyour socks, my pretty, may he be blasted for evermore. "

"I shall probably take off her socks, " I said carelessly to this. 

Her socks. Do you see what made Irene scream?

"It is a girl, is it not?" I asked, thus neatly depriving her ofcoherent speech as I pushed her to the door. I then turned round to--tobegin, and, after reflecting, I began by sitting down behind the hood ofhis carriage. My plan was to accustom him to his new surroundings beforebursting on the scene myself. 

I had various thoughts. Was he awake? If not, better let himwake naturally. Half-an-hour was a long time. Why had I not saidquarter-of-an-hour? Anon, I saw that if I was to sit there much longer Ishould have said an hour, so I whistled softly; but he took no notice. I remember trying to persuade myself that if I never budged till Irene'sreturn, it would be an amusing triumph over Mary. I coughed, but stillthere was no response. Abruptly, the fear smote me. Perhaps he is notthere. 

I rose hastily, and was striding forward, when I distinctly noticed acovert movement somewhere near the middle of the carriage, and heard alow gurgle, which was instantly suppressed. I stopped dead at this sharpreminder that I was probably not the only curious person in the room, and for a long moment we both lay low, after which, I am glad toremember, I made the first advance. Earlier in the day I had arrangedsome likely articles on a side-table: my watch and chain, my bunch ofkeys, and two war-medals for plodding merit, and with a glance at these(as something to fall back upon), I stepped forward doggedly, looking(I fear now) a little like a professor of legerdemain. David was sittingup, and he immediately fixed his eyes on me. 

It would ill become me to attempt to describe this dear boy to you, for of course I know really nothing about children, so I shall say onlythis, that I thought him very like what Timothy would have been had heever had a chance. 

I to whom David had been brought for judgment, now found myself beingjudged by him, and this rearrangement of the pieces seemed so naturalthat I felt no surprise; I felt only a humble craving to hear himsignify that I would do. I have stood up before other keen judges anddeceived them all, but I made no effort to deceive David; I wanted to, but dared not. Those unblinking eyes were too new to the world to behooded by any of its tricks. In them I saw my true self. They opened forme that pedler's pack of which I have made so much ado, and I foundthat it was weighted less with pretty little sad love-tokens than withignoble thoughts and deeds and an unguided life. I looked dejectedly atDavid, not so much, I think, because I had such a sorry display for him, as because I feared he would not have me in his service. I seemed toknow that he was making up his mind once and for all. 

And in the end he smiled, perhaps only because I looked so frightened, but the reason scarcely mattered to me, I felt myself a fine fellow atonce. It was a long smile, too, opening slowly to its fullest extent (asif to let me in), and then as slowly shutting. 

Then, to divert me from sad thoughts, or to rivet our friendship, orbecause the time had come for each of us to show the other what he coulddo, he immediately held one foot high in the air. This made him slidedown the perambulator, and I saw at once that it was very necessary toreplace him. But never before had I come into such close contact witha child; the most I had ever done was, when they were held up to me, toshut my eyes and kiss a vacuum. David, of course, though no doubt hewas eternally being replaced, could tell as little as myself how itwas contrived, and yet we managed it between us quite easily. Hisbody instinctively assumed a certain position as I touched him, whichcompelled my arms to fall into place, and the thing was done. I feltabsurdly pleased, but he was already considering what he should do next. 

He again held up his foot, which had a gouty appearance owing toits being contained in a dumpy little worsted sock, and I thought heproposed to repeat his first performance, but in this I did him aninjustice, for, unlike Porthos, he was one who scorned to do the samefeat twice; perhaps, like the conjurors, he knew that the audience weremore on the alert the second time. 

I discovered that he wanted me to take off his sock!

Remembering Irene's dread warnings on this subject I must say that Ifelt uneasy. Had he heard her, and was he daring me? And what dire thingcould happen if the sock was removed? I sought to reason with him, buthe signed to me to look sharp, and I removed the sock. The part of himthus revealed gave David considerable pleasure, but I noticed, as acurious thing, that he seemed to have no interest in the other foot. 

However, it was not there merely to be looked at, for after giving mea glance which said "Now observe!" he raised his bare foot and ran hismouth along the toes, like one playing on a barbaric instrument. He thentossed his foot aside, smiled his long triumphant smile and intimatedthat it was now my turn to do something. I thought the best thing Icould do would be to put his sock on him again, but as soon as I triedto do so I discovered why Irene had warned me so portentously againsttaking it off. I should say that she had trouble in socking him everymorning. 

Nevertheless I managed to slip it on while he was debating what to dowith my watch. I bitterly regretted that I could do nothing with itmyself, put it under a wine-glass, for instance, and make it turn intoa rabbit, which so many people can do. In the meantime David, occupiedwith similar thoughts, very nearly made it disappear altogether, and Iwas thankful to be able to pull it back by the chain. 

"Haw-haw-haw!"

Thus he commented on his new feat, but it was also a reminder to me, atrifle cruel, that he was not my boy. After all, you see, Mary had notgiven him the whole of his laugh. The watch said that five and twentyminutes had passed, and looking out I saw Irene at one end of the streetstaring up at my window, and at the other end Mary's husband staring upat my window, and beneath me Mary staring up at my window. They had allbroken their promise. 

I returned to David, and asked him in a low voice whether he would giveme a kiss. He shook his head about six times, and I was in despair. Thenthe smile came, and I knew that he was teasing me only. He now noddedhis head about six times. 

This was the prettiest of all his exploits. It was so pretty that, contrary to his rule, he repeated it. I had held out my arms to him, andfirst he shook his head, and then after a long pause (to frighten me), he nodded it. 

But no sooner was he in my arms than I seemed to see Mary and herhusband and Irene bearing down upon my chambers to take him from me, andacting under an impulse I whipped him into the perambulator and was offwith it without a license down the back staircase. To the KensingtonGardens we went; it may have been Manitoba we started for, but wearrived at the Kensington Gardens, and it had all been so unpremeditatedand smartly carried out that I remember clapping my hand to my head inthe street, to make sure that I was wearing a hat. 

I watched David to see what he thought of it, and he had not yet madeup his mind. Strange to say, I no longer felt shy. I was grownsuddenly indifferent to public comment, and my elation increased whenI discovered that I was being pursued. They drew a cordon round me nearMargot Meredith's tree, but I broke through it by a strategic movementto the south, and was next heard of in the Baby's Walk. They held bothends of this passage, and then thought to close on me, but I slippedthrough their fingers by doubling up Bunting's Thumb into Picnic Street. Cowering at St. Govor's Well, we saw them rush distractedly up the Hump, and when they had crossed to the Round Pond we paraded gaily in theBroad Walk, not feeling the tiniest bit sorry for anybody. 

Here, however, it gradually came into David's eyes that, after all, Iwas a strange man, and they opened wider and wider, until they were thesize of my medals, and then, with the deliberation that distinguisheshis smile, he slowly prepared to howl. I saw all his forces gatheringin his face, and I had nothing to oppose to them; it was an unarmed managainst a regiment. 

Even then I did not chide him. He could not know that it was I who haddropped the letter. 

I think I must have stepped over a grateful fairy at that moment, forwho else could have reminded me so opportunely of my famous manipulationof the eyebrows, forgotten since I was in the fifth form? I alone ofboys had been able to elevate and lower my eyebrows separately; whenthe one was climbing my forehead the other descended it, like the twobuckets in the well. 

Most diffidently did I call this accomplishment to my aid now, andimmediately David checked his forces and considered my unexpectedmovement without prejudice. His face remained as it was, his mouth opento emit the howl if I did not surpass expectation. I saw that, like thefair-minded boy he has always been, he was giving me my chance, andI worked feverishly, my chief fear being that, owing to his youth, he might not know how marvellous was this thing I was doing. It is anappeal to the intellect, as well as to the senses, and no one on earthcan do it except myself. 

When I paused for a moment exhausted he signed gravely, with unchangedface, that though it was undeniably funny, he had not yet decidedwhether it was funny enough, and, taking this for encouragement, at itI went once more, till I saw his forces wavering, when I sent my lefteyebrow up almost farther than I could bring it back, and with that Ihad him, the smile broke through the clouds. 

In the midst of my hard-won triumph I heard cheering. 

I had been vaguely conscious that we were not quite alone, but had notdared to look away from David; I looked now, and found to my annoyancethat I was the centre of a deeply interested gathering of children. There was, in particular, one vulgar little street-boy--

However, if that damped me in the moment of victory, I was soon totriumph gloriously in what began like defeat. I had sat me down on oneof the garden-seats in the Figs, with one hand resting carelessly on theperambulator, in imitation of the nurses, it was so pleasant to assumethe air of one who walked with David daily, when to my chagrin I sawMary approaching with quick stealthy steps, and already so near me thatflight would have been ignominy. Porthos, of whom she had hold, boundedtoward me, waving his traitorous tail, but she slowed on seeing that Ihad observed her. She had run me down with my own dog. 

I have not mentioned that Porthos had for some time now been a visitorat her house, though never can I forget the shock I got the first timeI saw him strolling out of it like an afternoon caller. Of late he hasavoided it, crossing to the other side when I go that way, and rejoiningme farther on, so I conclude that Mary's husband is painting him. 

I waited her coming stiffly, in great depression of spirits, and notedthat her first attentions were for David, who, somewhat shabbily, gaveher the end of a smile which had been begun for me. It seemed to relieveher, for what one may call the wild maternal look left her face, andtrying to check little gasps of breath, the result of unseemly running, she signed to her confederates to remain in the background, and turnedcurious eyes on me. Had she spoken as she approached, I am sure herwords would have been as flushed as her face, but now her mouth puckeredas David's does before he sets forth upon his smile, and I saw that shethought she had me in a parley at last. 

"I could not help being a little anxious, " she said craftily, but I mustown, with some sweetness. 

I merely raised my hat, and at that she turned quickly to David--Icannot understand why the movement was so hasty--and lowered her faceto his. Oh, little trump of a boy! Instead of kissing her, he seized herface with one hand and tried to work her eyebrows up and down with theother. He failed, and his obvious disappointment in his mother was asnectar to me. 

"I don't understand what you want, darling, " said she in distress, andlooked at me inquiringly, and I understood what he wanted, and lether see that I understood. Had I been prepared to converse with her, Ishould have said elatedly that, had she known what he wanted, still shecould not have done it, though she had practised for twenty years. 

I tried to express all this by another movement of my hat. 

It caught David's eye and at once he appealed to me with the mostperfect confidence. She failed to see what I did, for I shyly gave hermy back, but the effect on David was miraculous; he signed to her to go, for he was engaged for the afternoon. 

What would you have done then, reader? I didn't. In my great moment Ihad strength of character to raise my hat for the third time and walkaway, leaving the child to judge between us. I walked slowly, for I knewI must give him time to get it out, and I listened eagerly, but thatwas unnecessary, for when it did come it was a very roar of anguish. Iturned my head, and saw David fiercely pushing the woman aside, that hemight have one last long look at me. He held out his wistful arms andnodded repeatedly, and I faltered, but my glorious scheme saved me, and I walked on. It was a scheme conceived in a flash, and ever sincerelentlessly pursued, to burrow under Mary's influence with the boy, expose her to him in all her vagaries, take him utterly from her andmake him mine. 

XII. The Pleasantest Club in London

All perambulators lead to the Kensington Gardens. 

Not, however, that you will see David in his perambulator much longer, for soon after I first shook his faith in his mother, it came to him tobe up and doing, and he up and did in the Broad Walk itself, where hewould stand alone most elaborately poised, signing imperiously to theBritish public to time him, and looking his most heavenly just before hefell. He fell with a dump, and as they always laughed then, he pretendedthat this was his funny way of finishing. 

That was on a Monday. On Tuesday he climbed the stone stair of theGold King, looking over his shoulder gloriously at each step, andon Wednesday he struck three and went into knickerbockers. For theKensington Gardens, you must know, are full of short cuts, familiar toall who play there; and the shortest leads from the baby in longclothes to the little boy of three riding on the fence. It is called theMother's Tragedy. 

If you are a burgess of the gardens (which have a vocabulary of theirown), the faces of these quaint mothers are a clock to you, in which youmay read the ages of their young. When he is three they are said to wearthe knickerbocker face, and you may take it from me that Mary assumedthat face with a sigh; fain would she have kept her boy a baby longer, but he insisted on his rights, and I encouraged him that I might notchanother point against her. I was now seeing David once at least everyweek, his mother, who remained culpably obtuse to my sinister design, having instructed Irene that I was to be allowed to share him with her, and we had become close friends, though the little nurse was ever athreatening shadow in the background. Irene, in short, did not improvewith acquaintance. I found her to be high and mighty, chiefly, I think, because she now wore a nurse's cap with streamers, of which the littlecreature was ludicrously proud. She assumed the airs of an officialperson, and always talked as if generations of babies had passed throughher hands. She was also extremely jealous, and had a way of signifyingdisapproval of my methods that led to many coldnesses and evenbickerings between us, which I now see to have been undignified. Ibrought the following accusations against her:

That she prated too much about right and wrong. 

That she was a martinet. 

That she pretended it was a real cap, with real streamers, when she knewMary had made the whole thing out of a muslin blind. I regret havingused this argument, but it was the only one that really damped her. 

On the other hand, she accused me of spoiling him. 

Of not thinking of his future. 

Of never asking him where he expected to go to if he did such things. 

Of telling him tales that had no moral application. 

Of saying that the handkerchief disappeared into nothingness, when itreally disappeared into a small tin cup, attached to my person by apiece of elastic. 

To this last charge I plead guilty, for in those days I had a patheticfaith in legerdemain, and the eyebrow feat (which, however, is entirelyan affair of skill) having yielded such good results, I naturally castabout for similar diversions when it ceased to attract. It lost its holdon David suddenly, as I was to discover was the fate of all of them;twenty times would he call for my latest, and exult in it, and thetwenty-first time (and ever afterward) he would stare blankly, as ifwondering what the man meant. He was like the child queen who, when thegreat joke was explained to her, said coldly, "We are not amused, " and, I assure you, it is a humiliating thing to perform before an infant whointimates, after giving you ample time to make your points, that he isnot amused. I hoped that when David was able to talk--and not merelyto stare at me for five minutes and then say "hat"--his spoken verdict, however damning, would be less expressive than his verdict withoutwords, but I was disillusioned. I remember once in those later years, when he could keep up such spirited conversations with himself that hehad little need for any of us, promising him to do something exceedinglyfunny with a box and two marbles, and after he had watched for a longtime he said gravely, "Tell me when it begins to be funny. "

I confess to having received a few simple lessons in conjuring, in adimly lighted chamber beneath a shop, from a gifted young man with along neck and a pimply face, who as I entered took a barber's pole frommy pocket, saying at the same time, "Come, come, sir, this will neverdo. " Whether because he knew too much, or because he wore a trick shirt, he was the most depressing person I ever encountered; he felt none ofthe artist's joy, and it was sad to see one so well calculated to givepleasure to thousands not caring a dump about it. 

The barber's pole I successfully extracted from David's mouth, but thedifficulty (not foreseen) of knowing how to dispose of a barber's polein the Kensington Gardens is considerable, there always being politechildren hovering near who run after you and restore it to you. Theyoung man, again, had said that anyone would lend me a bottle or alemon, but though these were articles on which he seemed ever able tolay his hand, I found (what I had never noticed before) that there isa curious dearth of them in the Gardens. The magic egg-cup I usuallycarried about with me, and with its connivance I did some astonishingthings with pennies, but even the penny that costs sixpence isuncertain, and just when you are saying triumphantly that it willbe found in the egg-cup, it may clatter to the ground, whereon someungenerous spectator, such as Irene, accuses you of fibbing andcorrupting youthful minds. It was useless to tell her, through clenchedteeth, that the whole thing was a joke, for she understood no jokesexcept her own, of which she had the most immoderately high opinion, and that would have mattered little to me had not David liked them also. There were times when I could not but think less of the boy, seeinghim rock convulsed over antics of Irene that have been known to everynursemaid since the year One. While I stood by, sneering, he would giveme the ecstatic look that meant, "Irene is really very entertaining, isn't she?"

We were rivals, but I desire to treat her with scrupulous fairness, andI admit that she had one good thing, to wit, her gutta-percha tooth. Inearlier days one of her front teeth, as she told me, had fallen out, butinstead of then parting with it, the resourceful child had hammered itin again with a hair-brush, which she offered to show me, with the dentson it. This tooth, having in time passed away, its place was supplied byone of gutta-percha, made by herself, which seldom came out except whenshe sneezed, and if it merely fell at her feet this was a sign that thecold was to be a slight one, but if it shot across the room she knew shewas in for something notable. Irene's tooth was very favourably knownin the Gardens, where the perambulators used to gather round her to hearwhether it had been doing anything to-day, and I would not have grudgedDavid his proprietary pride in it, had he seemed to understand thatIrene's one poor little accomplishment, though undeniably showy, waswithout intellectual merit. I have sometimes stalked away from him, intimating that if his regard was to be got so cheaply I begged toretire from the competition, but the Gardens are the pleasantest club inLondon, and I soon returned. How I scoured the Gardens looking for him, and how skilful I became at picking him out far away among the trees, though other mothers imitated the picturesque attire of him, to Mary'sindignation. I also cut Irene's wings (so to speak) by taking her to adentist. 

And David did some adorable things. For instance, he used my pockets asreceptacles into which he put any article he might not happen to wantat the moment. He shoved it in, quite as if they were his own pockets, without saying, By your leave, and perhaps I discovered it on reachinghome--a tin-soldier, or a pistol--when I put it on my mantle-shelfand sighed. And here is another pleasant memory. One day I had beenover-friendly to another boy, and, after enduring it for some time Davidup and struck him. It was exactly as Porthos does, when I favour otherdogs (he knocks them down with his foot and stands over them, lookingvery noble and stern), so I knew its meaning at once; it was David'sfirst public intimation that he knew I belonged to him. 

Irene scolded him for striking that boy, and made him stand in disgraceat the corner of a seat in the Broad Walk. The seat at the corner ofwhich David stood suffering for love of me, is the one nearest to theRound Pond to persons coming from the north. 

You may be sure that she and I had words over this fiendish cruelty. When next we met I treated her as one who no longer existed, and atfirst she bridled and then was depressed, and as I was going away sheburst into tears. She cried because neither at meeting nor parting hadI lifted my hat to her, a foolish custom of mine, of which, as I nowlearned to my surprise, she was very proud. She and I still have ourtiffs, but I have never since then forgotten to lift my hat to Irene. I also made her promise to bow to me, at which she affected to scoff, saying I was taking my fun of her, but she was really pleased, and Itell you, Irene has one of the prettiest and most touching little bowsimaginable; it is half to the side (if I may so express myself), whichhas always been my favourite bow, and, I doubt not, she acquired it bywatching Mary. 

I should be sorry to have it thought, as you may now be thinking, that Ilook on children as on puppy-dogs, who care only for play. Perhaps thatwas my idea when first I tried to lure David to my unaccustomed arms, and even for some time after, for if I am to be candid, I must own thatuntil he was three years old I sought merely to amuse him. God forgiveme, but I had only one day a week in which to capture him, and I wasvery raw at the business. 

I was about to say that David opened my eyes to the folly of it, butreally I think this was Irene's doing. Watching her with children Ilearned that partial as they are to fun they are moved almost moreprofoundly by moral excellence. So fond of babes was this little motherthat she had always room near her for one more, and often have I seenher in the Gardens, the centre of a dozen mites who gazed awestruck ather while she told them severely how little ladies and gentlemen behave. They were children of the well-to-pass, and she was from Drury Lane, butthey believed in her as the greatest of all authorities on little ladiesand gentlemen, and the more they heard of how these romantic creatureskeep themselves tidy and avoid pools and wait till they come to a gate, the more they admired them, though their faces showed how profoundlythey felt that to be little ladies and gentlemen was not for them. Youcan't think what hopeless little faces they were. 

Children are not at all like puppies, I have said. But do puppies careonly for play? That wistful look, which the merriest of them sometimeswear, I wonder whether it means that they would like to hear about thegood puppies?

As you shall see, I invented many stories for David, practising thetelling of them by my fireside as if they were conjuring feats, whileIrene knew only one, but she told it as never has any other fairy-talebeen told in my hearing. It was the prettiest of them all, and wasrecited by the heroine. 

"Why were the king and queen not at home?" David would ask herbreathlessly. 

"I suppose, " said Irene, thinking it out, "they was away buying thevictuals. "

She always told the story gazing into vacancy, so that David thought itwas really happening somewhere up the Broad Walk, and when she cameto its great moments her little bosom heaved. Never shall I forget theconcentrated scorn with which the prince said to the sisters, "Neitherof you ain't the one what wore the glass slipper. "

"And then--and then--and then--, " said Irene, not artistically toincrease the suspense, but because it was all so glorious to her. 

"Tell me--tell me quick, " cried David, though he knew the tale by heart. 

"She sits down like, " said Irene, trembling in second-sight, "and shetries on the glass slipper, and it fits her to a T, and then the prince, he cries in a ringing voice, 'This here is my true love, Cinderella, what now I makes my lawful wedded wife. '"

Then she would come out of her dream, and look round at the grandees ofthe Gardens with an extraordinary elation. "Her, as was only a kitchendrudge, " she would say in a strange soft voice and with shining eyes, "but was true and faithful in word and deed, such was her reward. "

I am sure that had the fairy godmother appeared just then and touchedIrene with her wand, David would have been interested rather thanastonished. As for myself, I believe I have surprised this little girl'ssecret. She knows there are no fairy godmothers nowadays, but she hopesthat if she is always true and faithful she may some day turn into alady in word and deed, like the mistress whom she adores. 

It is a dead secret, a Drury Lane child's romance; but what an amount ofheavy artillery will be brought to bear against it in this sad London ofours. Not much chance for her, I suppose. 

Good luck to you, Irene. 

XIII. The Grand Tour of the Gardens

You must see for yourselves that it will be difficult to follow ouradventures unless you are familiar with the Kensington Gardens, as theynow became known to David. They are in London, where the King lives, andyou go to them every day unless you are looking decidedly flushed, butno one has ever been in the whole of the Gardens, because it is so soontime to turn back. The reason it is soon time to turn back is that yousleep from twelve to one. If your mother was not so sure that you sleepfrom twelve to one, you could most likely see the whole of them. 

The Gardens are bounded on one side by a never-ending line of omnibuses, over which Irene has such authority that if she holds up her fingerto any one of them it stops immediately. She then crosses with you insafety to the other side. There are more gates to the Gardens than onegate, but that is the one you go in at, and before you go in you speakto the lady with the balloons, who sits just outside. This is as near tobeing inside as she may venture, because, if she were to let go her holdof the railings for one moment, the balloons would lift her up, and shewould be flown away. She sits very squat, for the balloons are alwaystugging at her, and the strain has given her quite a red face. Once shewas a new one, because the old one had let go, and David was very sorryfor the old one, but as she did let go, he wished he had been there tosee. 

The Gardens are a tremendous big place, with millions and hundreds oftrees, and first you come to the Figs, but you scorn to loiter there, for the Figs is the resort of superior little persons, who are forbiddento mix with the commonalty, and is so named, according to legend, because they dress in full fig. These dainty ones are themselvescontemptuously called Figs by David and other heroes, and you have a keyto the manners and customs of this dandiacal section of the Gardens whenI tell you that cricket is called crickets here. Occasionally a rebelFig climbs over the fence into the world, and such a one was Miss MabelGrey, of whom I shall tell you when we come to Miss Mabel Grey's gate. She was the only really celebrated Fig. 

We are now in the Broad Walk, and it is as much bigger than the otherwalks as your father is bigger than you. David wondered if it beganlittle, and grew and grew, till it was quite grown up, and whether theother walks are its babies, and he drew a picture, which divertedhim very much, of the Broad Walk giving a tiny walk an airing in aperambulator. In the Broad Walk you meet all the people who are worthknowing, and there is usually a grown-up with them to prevent theirgoing on the damp grass, and to make them stand disgraced at the cornerof a seat if they have been mad-dog or Mary-Annish. To be Mary-Annishis to behave like a girl, whimpering because nurse won't carry you, orsimpering with your thumb in your mouth, and it is a hateful quality, but to be mad-dog is to kick out at everything, and there is somesatisfaction in that. 

If I were to point out all the notable places as we pass up the BroadWalk, it would be time to turn back before we reach them, and I simplywave my stick at Cecco's Tree, that memorable spot where a boy calledCecco lost his penny, and, looking for it, found twopence. There hasbeen a good deal of excavation going on there ever since. Farther up thewalk is the little wooden house in which Marmaduke Perry hid. There isno more awful story of the Gardens by day than this of Marmaduke Perry, who had been Mary-Annish three days in succession, and was sentenced toappear in the Broad Walk dressed in his sister's clothes. He hid inthe little wooden house, and refused to emerge until they brought himknickerbockers with pockets. 

You now try to go to the Round Pond, but nurses hate it, because theyare not really manly, and they make you look the other way, at the BigPenny and the Baby's Palace. She was the most celebrated baby of theGardens, and lived in the palace all alone, with ever so many dolls, sopeople rang the bell, and up she got out of her bed, though it was pastsix o'clock, and she lighted a candle and opened the door in her nighty, and then they all cried with great rejoicings, "Hail, Queen of England!"What puzzled David most was how she knew where the matches were kept. The Big Penny is a statue about her. 

Next we come to the Hump, which is the part of the Broad Walk where allthe big races are run, and even though you had no intention of runningyou do run when you come to the Hump, it is such a fascinating, slide-down kind of place. Often you stop when you have run abouthalf-way down it, and then you are lost, but there is another littlewooden house near here, called the Lost House, and so you tell the manthat you are lost and then he finds you. It is glorious fun racing downthe Hump, but you can't do it on windy days because then you are notthere, but the fallen leaves do it instead of you. There is almostnothing that has such a keen sense of fun as a fallen leaf. 

From the Hump we can see the gate that is called after Miss Mabel Grey, the Fig I promised to tell you about. There were always two nurses withher, or else one mother and one nurse, and for a long time she was apattern-child who always coughed off the table and said, "How do youdo?" to the other Figs, and the only game she played at was flinging aball gracefully and letting the nurse bring it back to her. Then oneday she tired of it all and went mad-dog, and, first, to show that shereally was mad-dog, she unloosened both her boot-laces and put out hertongue east, west, north, and south. She then flung her sash into apuddle and danced on it till dirty water was squirted over her frock, after which she climbed the fence and had a series of incredibleadventures, one of the least of which was that she kicked off both herboots. At last she came to the gate that is now called after her, out ofwhich she ran into streets David and I have never been in though we haveheard them roaring, and still she ran on and would never again have beenheard of had not her mother jumped into a bus and thus overtaken her. It all happened, I should say, long ago, and this is not the Mabel Greywhom David knows. 

Returning up the Broad Walk we have on our right the Baby Walk, which isso full of perambulators that you could cross from side to side steppingon babies, but the nurses won't let you do it. From this walk a passagecalled Bunting's Thumb, because it is that length, leads into PicnicStreet, where there are real kettles, and chestnut-blossom falls intoyour mug as you are drinking. Quite common children picnic here also, and the blossom falls into their mugs just the same. 

Next comes St. Govor's Well, which was full of water when Malcolm theBold fell into it. He was his mother's favourite, and he let her put herarm round his neck in public because she was a widow, but he was alsopartial to adventures and liked to play with a chimney-sweep who hadkilled a good many bears. The sweep's name was Sooty, and one day whenthey were playing near the well, Malcolm fell in and would have beendrowned had not Sooty dived in and rescued him, and the water had washedSooty clean and he now stood revealed as Malcolm's long-lost father. SoMalcolm would not let his mother put her arm round his neck any more. 

Between the well and the Round Pond are the cricket-pitches, andfrequently the choosing of sides exhausts so much time that there isscarcely any cricket. Everybody wants to bat first, and as soon as heis out he bowls unless you are the better wrestler, and while you arewrestling with him the fielders have scattered to play at somethingelse. The Gardens are noted for two kinds of cricket: boy cricket, whichis real cricket with a bat, and girl cricket, which is with a racquetand the governess. Girls can't really play cricket, and when youare watching their futile efforts you make funny sounds at them. Nevertheless, there was a very disagreeable incident one day when someforward girls challenged David's team, and a disturbing creature calledAngela Clare sent down so many yorkers that--However, instead of tellingyou the result of that regrettable match I shall pass on hurriedly tothe Round Pond, which is the wheel that keeps all the Gardens going. 

It is round because it is in the very middle of the Gardens, and whenyou are come to it you never want to go any farther. You can't be goodall the time at the Round Pond, however much you try. You can be good inthe Broad Walk all the time, but not at the Round Pond, and the reasonis that you forget, and, when you remember, you are so wet that you mayas well be wetter. There are men who sail boats on the Round Pond, such big boats that they bring them in barrows and sometimes inperambulators, and then the baby has to walk. The bow-legged childrenin the Gardens are these who had to walk too soon because their fatherneeded the perambulator. 

You always want to have a yacht to sail on the Round Pond, and in theend your uncle gives you one; and to carry it to the Pond the firstday is splendid, also to talk about it to boys who have no uncle issplendid, but soon you like to leave it at home. For the sweetestcraft that slips her moorings in the Round Pond is what is called astick-boat, because she is rather like a stick until she is in the waterand you are holding the string. Then as you walk round, pulling her, you see little men running about her deck, and sails rise magically andcatch the breeze, and you put in on dirty nights at snug harbours whichare unknown to the lordly yachts. Night passes in a twink, and againyour rakish craft noses for the wind, whales spout, you glide overburied cities, and have brushes with pirates and cast anchor on coralisles. You are a solitary boy while all this is taking place, for twoboys together cannot adventure far upon the Round Pond, and though youmay talk to yourself throughout the voyage, giving orders and executingthem with dispatch, you know not, when it is time to go home, where youhave been or what swelled your sails; your treasure-trove is all lockedaway in your hold, so to speak, which will be opened, perhaps, byanother little boy many years afterward. 

But those yachts have nothing in their hold. Does anyone return to thishaunt of his youth because of the yachts that used to sail it? Oh, no. It is the stick-boat that is freighted with memories. The yachts aretoys, their owner a fresh-water mariner, they can cross and recrossa pond only while the stick-boat goes to sea. You yachtsmen with yourwands, who think we are all there to gaze on you, your ships are onlyaccidents of this place, and were they all to be boarded and sunk by theducks the real business of the Round Pond would be carried on as usual. 

Paths from everywhere crowd like children to the pond. Some of them areordinary paths, which have a rail on each side, and are made by menwith their coats off, but others are vagrants, wide at one spot and atanother so narrow that you can stand astride them. They are called Pathsthat have Made Themselves, and David did wish he could see them doingit. But, like all the most wonderful things that happen in the Gardens, it is done, we concluded, at night after the gates are closed. We havealso decided that the paths make themselves because it is their onlychance of getting to the Round Pond. 

One of these gypsy paths comes from the place where the sheep get theirhair cut. When David shed his curls at the hair-dresser's, I am told, hesaid good-bye to them without a tremor, though Mary has never been quitethe same bright creature since, so he despises the sheep as they runfrom their shearer and calls out tauntingly, "Cowardy, cowardy custard!"But when the man grips them between his legs David shakes a fist at himfor using such big scissors. Another startling moment is when the manturns back the grimy wool from the sheeps' shoulders and they looksuddenly like ladies in the stalls of a theatre. The sheep are sofrightened by the shearing that it makes them quite white and thin, andas soon as they are set free they begin to nibble the grass at once, quite anxiously, as if they feared that they would never be wortheating. David wonders whether they know each other, now that they areso different, and if it makes them fight with the wrong ones. They aregreat fighters, and thus so unlike country sheep that every year theygive Porthos a shock. He can make a field of country sheep fly by merelyannouncing his approach, but these town sheep come toward him with nopromise of gentle entertainment, and then a light from last year breaksupon Porthos. He cannot with dignity retreat, but he stops and looksabout him as if lost in admiration of the scenery, and presently hestrolls away with a fine indifference and a glint at me from the cornerof his eye. 

The Serpentine begins near here. It is a lovely lake, and there is adrowned forest at the bottom of it. If you peer over the edge you cansee the trees all growing upside down, and they say that at night thereare also drowned stars in it. If so, Peter Pan sees them when he issailing across the lake in the Thrush's Nest. A small part only of theSerpentine is in the Gardens, for soon it passes beneath a bridge tofar away where the island is on which all the birds are born that becomebaby boys and girls. No one who is human, except Peter Pan (and he isonly half human), can land on the island, but you may write what youwant (boy or girl, dark or fair) on a piece of paper, and then twistit into the shape of a boat and slip it into the water, and it reachesPeter Pan's island after dark. 

We are on the way home now, though, of course, it is all pretence thatwe can go to so many of the places in one day. I should have had to becarrying David long ago and resting on every seat like old Mr. Salford. That was what we called him, because he always talked to us of a lovelyplace called Salford where he had been born. He was a crab-apple ofan old gentleman who wandered all day in the Gardens from seat to seattrying to fall in with somebody who was acquainted with the town ofSalford, and when we had known him for a year or more we actually didmeet another aged solitary who had once spent Saturday to Monday inSalford. He was meek and timid and carried his address inside his hat, and whatever part of London he was in search of he always went to theGeneral Post-office first as a starting-point. Him we carried in triumphto our other friend, with the story of that Saturday to Monday, andnever shall I forget the gloating joy with which Mr. Salford leapt athim. They have been cronies ever since, and I notice that Mr. Salford, who naturally does most of the talking, keeps tight grip of the otherold man's coat. 

The two last places before you come to our gate are the Dog's Cemeteryand the chaffinch's nest, but we pretend not to know what the Dog'sCemetery is, as Porthos is always with us. The nest is very sad. Itis quite white, and the way we found it was wonderful. We were havinganother look among the bushes for David's lost worsted ball, and insteadof the ball we found a lovely nest made of the worsted, and containingfour eggs, with scratches on them very like David's handwriting, so wethink they must have been the mother's love-letters to the little onesinside. Every day we were in the Gardens we paid a call at the nest, taking care that no cruel boy should see us, and we dropped crumbs, and soon the bird knew us as friends, and sat in the nest looking at uskindly with her shoulders hunched up. But one day when we went, therewere only two eggs in the nest, and the next time there were none. Thesaddest part of it was that the poor little chaffinch fluttered aboutthe bushes, looking so reproachfully at us that we knew she thought wehad done it, and though David tried to explain to her, it was solong since he had spoken the bird language that I fear she did notunderstand. He and I left the Gardens that day with our knuckles in oureyes. 

XIV. Peter Pan

If you ask your mother whether she knew about Peter Pan when she was alittle girl she will say, "Why, of course, I did, child, " and if youask her whether he rode on a goat in those days she will say, "Whata foolish question to ask; certainly he did. " Then if you ask yourgrandmother whether she knew about Peter Pan when she was a girl, shealso says, "Why, of course, I did, child, " but if you ask her whether herode on a goat in those days, she says she never heard of his having agoat. Perhaps she has forgotten, just as she sometimes forgets your nameand calls you Mildred, which is your mother's name. Still, she couldhardly forget such an important thing as the goat. Therefore there wasno goat when your grandmother was a little girl. This shows that, intelling the story of Peter Pan, to begin with the goat (as most peopledo) is as silly as to put on your jacket before your vest. 

Of course, it also shows that Peter is ever so old, but he is reallyalways the same age, so that does not matter in the least. His ageis one week, and though he was born so long ago he has never had abirthday, nor is there the slightest chance of his ever having one. Thereason is that he escaped from being a human when he was seven days'old; he escaped by the window and flew back to the Kensington Gardens. 

If you think he was the only baby who ever wanted to escape, it showshow completely you have forgotten your own young days. When David heardthis story first he was quite certain that he had never tried to escape, but I told him to think back hard, pressing his hands to his temples, and when he had done this hard, and even harder, he distinctlyremembered a youthful desire to return to the tree-tops, and with thatmemory came others, as that he had lain in bed planning to escape assoon as his mother was asleep, and how she had once caught him half-wayup the chimney. All children could have such recollections if they wouldpress their hands hard to their temples, for, having been birds beforethey were human, they are naturally a little wild during the first fewweeks, and very itchy at the shoulders, where their wings used to be. SoDavid tells me. 

I ought to mention here that the following is our way with a story:First, I tell it to him, and then he tells it to me, the understandingbeing that it is quite a different story; and then I retell it with hisadditions, and so we go on until no one could say whether it is morehis story or mine. In this story of Peter Pan, for instance, the baldnarrative and most of the moral reflections are mine, though not all, for this boy can be a stern moralist, but the interesting bits about theways and customs of babies in the bird-stage are mostly reminiscencesof David's, recalled by pressing his hands to his temples and thinkinghard. 

Well, Peter Pan got out by the window, which had no bars. Standingon the ledge he could see trees far away, which were doubtless theKensington Gardens, and the moment he saw them he entirely forgot thathe was now a little boy in a nightgown, and away he flew, right over thehouses to the Gardens. It is wonderful that he could fly without wings, but the place itched tremendously, and, perhaps we could all fly if wewere as dead-confident-sure of our capacity to do it as was bold PeterPan that evening. 

He alighted gaily on the open sward, between the Baby's Palace and theSerpentine, and the first thing he did was to lie on his back and kick. He was quite unaware already that he had ever been human, and thought hewas a bird, even in appearance, just the same as in his early days, andwhen he tried to catch a fly he did not understand that the reason hemissed it was because he had attempted to seize it with his hand, which, of course, a bird never does. He saw, however, that it must be pastLock-out Time, for there were a good many fairies about, all too busyto notice him; they were getting breakfast ready, milking their cows, drawing water, and so on, and the sight of the water-pails made himthirsty, so he flew over to the Round Pond to have a drink. He stooped, and dipped his beak in the pond; he thought it was his beak, but, ofcourse, it was only his nose, and, therefore, very little water came up, and that not so refreshing as usual, so next he tried a puddle, and hefell flop into it. When a real bird falls in flop, he spreads out hisfeathers and pecks them dry, but Peter could not remember what wasthe thing to do, and he decided, rather sulkily, to go to sleep on theweeping beech in the Baby Walk. 

At first he found some difficulty in balancing himself on a branch, butpresently he remembered the way, and fell asleep. He awoke long beforemorning, shivering, and saying to himself, "I never was out in such acold night;" he had really been out in colder nights when he was a bird, but, of course, as everybody knows, what seems a warm night to a birdis a cold night to a boy in a nightgown. Peter also felt strangelyuncomfortable, as if his head was stuffy, he heard loud noises that madehim look round sharply, though they were really himself sneezing. Therewas something he wanted very much, but, though he knew he wanted it, hecould not think what it was. What he wanted so much was his mother toblow his nose, but that never struck him, so he decided to appeal to thefairies for enlightenment. They are reputed to know a good deal. 

There were two of them strolling along the Baby Walk, with their armsround each other's waists, and he hopped down to address them. Thefairies have their tiffs with the birds, but they usually give a civilanswer to a civil question, and he was quite angry when these two ranaway the moment they saw him. Another was lolling on a garden-chair, reading a postage-stamp which some human had let fall, and when he heardPeter's voice he popped in alarm behind a tulip. 

To Peter's bewilderment he discovered that every fairy he met fled fromhim. A band of workmen, who were sawing down a toadstool, rushed away, leaving their tools behind them. A milkmaid turned her pail upside downand hid in it. Soon the Gardens were in an uproar. Crowds of fairieswere running this away and that, asking each other stoutly, who wasafraid, lights were extinguished, doors barricaded, and from the groundsof Queen Mab's palace came the rubadub of drums, showing that the royalguard had been called out. A regiment of Lancers came charging downthe Broad Walk, armed with holly-leaves, with which they jog the enemyhorribly in passing. Peter heard the little people crying everywherethat there was a human in the Gardens after Lock-out Time, but he neverthought for a moment that he was the human. He was feeling stuffier andstuffier, and more and more wistful to learn what he wanted done to hisnose, but he pursued them with the vital question in vain; the timidcreatures ran from him, and even the Lancers, when he approached them upthe Hump, turned swiftly into a side-walk, on the pretence that they sawhim there. 

Despairing of the fairies, he resolved to consult the birds, but now heremembered, as an odd thing, that all the birds on the weeping beech hadflown away when he alighted on it, and though that had not troubled himat the time, he saw its meaning now. Every living thing was shunninghim. Poor little Peter Pan, he sat down and cried, and even then he didnot know that, for a bird, he was sitting on his wrong part. It is ablessing that he did not know, for otherwise he would have lost faithin his power to fly, and the moment you doubt whether you can fly, youcease forever to be able to do it. The reason birds can fly and we can'tis simply that they have perfect faith, for to have faith is to havewings. 

Now, except by flying, no one can reach the island in the Serpentine, for the boats of humans are forbidden to land there, and thereare stakes round it, standing up in the water, on each of which abird-sentinel sits by day and night. It was to the island that Peter nowflew to put his strange case before old Solomon Caw, and he alighted onit with relief, much heartened to find himself at last at home, as thebirds call the island. All of them were asleep, including the sentinels, except Solomon, who was wide awake on one side, and he listened quietlyto Peter's adventures, and then told him their true meaning. 

"Look at your night-gown, if you don't believe me, " Solomon said, and with staring eyes Peter looked at his night-gown, and then at thesleeping birds. Not one of them wore anything. 

"How many of your toes are thumbs?" said Solomon a little cruelly, andPeter saw to his consternation, that all his toes were fingers. Theshock was so great that it drove away his cold. 

"Ruffle your feathers, " said that grim old Solomon, and Peter tried mostdesperately hard to ruffle his feathers, but he had none. Then he roseup, quaking, and for the first time since he stood on the window-ledge, he remembered a lady who had been very fond of him. 

"I think I shall go back to mother, " he said timidly. 

"Good-bye, " replied Solomon Caw with a queer look. 

But Peter hesitated. "Why don't you go?" the old one asked politely. 

"I suppose, " said Peter huskily, "I suppose I can still fly?"

You see, he had lost faith. 

"Poor little half-and-half, " said Solomon, who was not reallyhard-hearted, "you will never be able to fly again, not even on windydays. You must live here on the island always. "

"And never even go to the Kensington Gardens?" Peter asked tragically. 

"How could you get across?" said Solomon. He promised very kindly, however, to teach Peter as many of the bird ways as could be learned byone of such an awkward shape. 

"Then I sha'n't be exactly a human?" Peter asked. 

"No. "

"Nor exactly a bird?"

"No. "

"What shall I be?"

"You will be a Betwixt-and-Between, " Solomon said, and certainly he wasa wise old fellow, for that is exactly how it turned out. 

The birds on the island never got used to him. His oddities tickled themevery day, as if they were quite new, though it was really the birdsthat were new. They came out of the eggs daily, and laughed at him atonce, then off they soon flew to be humans, and other birds came outof other eggs, and so it went on forever. The crafty mother-birds, whenthey tired of sitting on their eggs, used to get the young one to breaktheir shells a day before the right time by whispering to them that nowwas their chance to see Peter washing or drinking or eating. Thousandsgathered round him daily to watch him do these things, just as you watchthe peacocks, and they screamed with delight when he lifted the cruststhey flung him with his hands instead of in the usual way with themouth. All his food was brought to him from the Gardens at Solomon'sorders by the birds. He would not eat worms or insects (which theythought very silly of him), so they brought him bread in their beaks. Thus, when you cry out, "Greedy! Greedy!" to the bird that flies awaywith the big crust, you know now that you ought not to do this, for heis very likely taking it to Peter Pan. 

Peter wore no night-gown now. You see, the birds were always begging himfor bits of it to line their nests with, and, being very good-natured, he could not refuse, so by Solomon's advice he had hidden what was leftof it. But, though he was now quite naked, you must not think that hewas cold or unhappy. He was usually very happy and gay, and the reasonwas that Solomon had kept his promise and taught him many of the birdways. To be easily pleased, for instance, and always to be really doingsomething, and to think that whatever he was doing was a thing of vastimportance. Peter became very clever at helping the birds to build theirnests; soon he could build better than a wood-pigeon, and nearly as wellas a blackbird, though never did he satisfy the finches, and he madenice little water-troughs near the nests and dug up worms for the youngones with his fingers. He also became very learned in bird-lore, andknew an east-wind from a west-wind by its smell, and he could see thegrass growing and hear the insects walking about inside the tree-trunks. But the best thing Solomon had done was to teach him to have a gladheart. All birds have glad hearts unless you rob their nests, and so asthey were the only kind of heart Solomon knew about, it was easy to himto teach Peter how to have one. 

Peter's heart was so glad that he felt he must sing all day long, just as the birds sing for joy, but, being partly human, he needed aninstrument, so he made a pipe of reeds, and he used to sit by the shoreof the island of an evening, practising the sough of the wind and theripple of the water, and catching handfuls of the shine of the moon, andhe put them all in his pipe and played them so beautifully that even thebirds were deceived, and they would say to each other, "Was that a fishleaping in the water or was it Peter playing leaping fish on his pipe?"and sometimes he played the birth of birds, and then the mothers wouldturn round in their nests to see whether they had laid an egg. If youare a child of the Gardens you must know the chestnut-tree near thebridge, which comes out in flower first of all the chestnuts, butperhaps you have not heard why this tree leads the way. It is becausePeter wearies for summer and plays that it has come, and the chestnutbeing so near, hears him and is cheated. 

But as Peter sat by the shore tootling divinely on his pipe he sometimesfell into sad thoughts and then the music became sad also, and thereason of all this sadness was that he could not reach the Gardens, though he could see them through the arch of the bridge. He knew hecould never be a real human again, and scarcely wanted to be one, butoh, how he longed to play as other children play, and of course thereis no such lovely place to play in as the Gardens. The birds brought himnews of how boys and girls play, and wistful tears started in Peter'seyes. 

Perhaps you wonder why he did not swim across. The reason was that hecould not swim. He wanted to know how to swim, but no one on the islandknew the way except the ducks, and they are so stupid. They were quitewilling to teach him, but all they could say about it was, "You sit downon the top of the water in this way, and then you kick out like that. "Peter tried it often, but always before he could kick out he sank. Whathe really needed to know was how you sit on the water without sinking, and they said it was quite impossible to explain such an easy thing asthat. Occasionally swans touched on the island, and he would give themall his day's food and then ask them how they sat on the water, but assoon as he had no more to give them the hateful things hissed at him andsailed away. 

Once he really thought he had discovered a way of reaching the Gardens. A wonderful white thing, like a runaway newspaper, floated high overthe island and then tumbled, rolling over and over after the manner of abird that has broken its wing. Peter was so frightened that he hid, butthe birds told him it was only a kite, and what a kite is, and that itmust have tugged its string out of a boy's hand, and soared away. Afterthat they laughed at Peter for being so fond of the kite, he loved itso much that he even slept with one hand on it, and I think this waspathetic and pretty, for the reason he loved it was because it hadbelonged to a real boy. 

To the birds this was a very poor reason, but the older ones feltgrateful to him at this time because he had nursed a number offledglings through the German measles, and they offered to show him howbirds fly a kite. So six of them took the end of the string in theirbeaks and flew away with it; and to his amazement it flew after them andwent even higher than they. 

Peter screamed out, "Do it again!" and with great good-nature they didit several times, and always instead of thanking them he cried, "Do itagain!" which shows that even now he had not quite forgotten what it wasto be a boy. 

At last, with a grand design burning within his brave heart, he beggedthem to do it once more with him clinging to the tail, and now a hundredflew off with the string, and Peter clung to the tail, meaning to dropoff when he was over the Gardens. But the kite broke to pieces in theair, and he would have drowned in the Serpentine had he not caught holdof two indignant swans and made them carry him to the island. After thisthe birds said that they would help him no more in his mad enterprise. 

Nevertheless, Peter did reach the Gardens at last by the help ofShelley's boat, as I am now to tell you. 

XV. The Thrush's Nest

Shelley was a young gentleman and as grown-up as he need ever expect tobe. He was a poet; and they are never exactly grown-up. They are peoplewho despise money except what you need for to-day, and he had all thatand five pounds over. So, when he was walking in the Kensington Gardens, he made a paper boat of his bank-note, and sent it sailing on theSerpentine. 

It reached the island at night: and the look-out brought it to SolomonCaw, who thought at first that it was the usual thing, a message from alady, saying she would be obliged if he could let her have a good one. They always ask for the best one he has, and if he likes the letter hesends one from Class A; but if it ruffles him he sends very funny onesindeed. Sometimes he sends none at all, and at another time he sends anestful; it all depends on the mood you catch him in. He likes you toleave it all to him, and if you mention particularly that you hope hewill see his way to making it a boy this time, he is almost sure to sendanother girl. And whether you are a lady or only a little boy who wantsa baby-sister, always take pains to write your address clearly. Youcan't think what a lot of babies Solomon has sent to the wrong house. 

Shelley's boat, when opened, completely puzzled Solomon, and he tookcounsel of his assistants, who having walked over it twice, first withtheir toes pointed out, and then with their toes pointed in, decidedthat it came from some greedy person who wanted five. They thought thisbecause there was a large five printed on it. "Preposterous!" criedSolomon in a rage, and he presented it to Peter; anything useless whichdrifted upon the island was usually given to Peter as a play-thing. 

But he did not play with his precious bank-note, for he knew what itwas at once, having been very observant during the week when he was anordinary boy. With so much money, he reflected, he could surely at lastcontrive to reach the Gardens, and he considered all the possible ways, and decided (wisely, I think) to choose the best way. But, first, he hadto tell the birds of the value of Shelley's boat; and though they weretoo honest to demand it back, he saw that they were galled, and theycast such black looks at Solomon, who was rather vain of his cleverness, that he flew away to the end of the island, and sat there very depressedwith his head buried in his wings. Now Peter knew that unless Solomonwas on your side, you never got anything done for you in the island, sohe followed him and tried to hearten him. 

Nor was this all that Peter did to gain the powerful old fellow's goodwill. You must know that Solomon had no intention of remaining in officeall his life. He looked forward to retiring by-and-by, and devoting hisgreen old age to a life of pleasure on a certain yew-stump in the Figswhich had taken his fancy, and for years he had been quietly filling hisstocking. It was a stocking belonging to some bathing person which hadbeen cast upon the island, and at the time I speak of it contained ahundred and eighty crumbs, thirty-four nuts, sixteen crusts, a pen-wiperand a boot-lace. When his stocking was full, Solomon calculated that hewould be able to retire on a competency. Peter now gave him a pound. Hecut it off his bank-note with a sharp stick. 

This made Solomon his friend for ever, and after the two had consultedtogether they called a meeting of the thrushes. You will see presentlywhy thrushes only were invited. 

The scheme to be put before them was really Peter's, but Solomon didmost of the talking, because he soon became irritable if other peopletalked. He began by saying that he had been much impressed by thesuperior ingenuity shown by the thrushes in nest-building, and thisput them into good-humour at once, as it was meant to do; for all thequarrels between birds are about the best way of building nests. Otherbirds, said Solomon, omitted to line their nests with mud, and as aresult they did not hold water. Here he cocked his head as if he hadused an unanswerable argument; but, unfortunately, a Mrs. Finch had cometo the meeting uninvited, and she squeaked out, "We don't build nests tohold water, but to hold eggs, " and then the thrushes stopped cheering, and Solomon was so perplexed that he took several sips of water. 

"Consider, " he said at last, "how warm the mud makes the nest. "

"Consider, " cried Mrs. Finch, "that when water gets into the nest itremains there and your little ones are drowned. "

The thrushes begged Solomon with a look to say something crushing inreply to this, but again he was perplexed. 

"Try another drink, " suggested Mrs. Finch pertly. Kate was her name, andall Kates are saucy. 

Solomon did try another drink, and it inspired him. "If, " said he, "afinch's nest is placed on the Serpentine it fills and breaks to pieces, but a thrush's nest is still as dry as the cup of a swan's back. "

How the thrushes applauded! Now they knew why they lined their nestswith mud, and when Mrs. Finch called out, "We don't place our nests onthe Serpentine, " they did what they should have done at first: chasedher from the meeting. After this it was most orderly. What they had beenbrought together to hear, said Solomon, was this: their young friend, Peter Pan, as they well knew, wanted very much to be able to cross tothe Gardens, and he now proposed, with their help, to build a boat. 

At this the thrushes began to fidget, which made Peter tremble for hisscheme. 

Solomon explained hastily that what he meant was not one of the cumbrousboats that humans use; the proposed boat was to be simply a thrush'snest large enough to hold Peter. 

But still, to Peter's agony, the thrushes were sulky. "We are very busypeople, " they grumbled, "and this would be a big job. "

"Quite so, " said Solomon, "and, of course, Peter would not allow youto work for nothing. You must remember that he is now in comfortablecircumstances, and he will pay you such wages as you have never beenpaid before. Peter Pan authorises me to say that you shall all be paidsixpence a day. "

Then all the thrushes hopped for joy, and that very day was begun thecelebrated Building of the Boat. All their ordinary business fell intoarrears. It was the time of year when they should have been pairing, butnot a thrush's nest was built except this big one, and so Solomon soonran short of thrushes with which to supply the demand from the mainland. The stout, rather greedy children, who look so well in perambulatorsbut get puffed easily when they walk, were all young thrushes once, andladies often ask specially for them. What do you think Solomon did? Hesent over to the house-tops for a lot of sparrows and ordered them tolay their eggs in old thrushes' nests and sent their young to the ladiesand swore they were all thrushes! It was known afterward on the islandas the Sparrows' Year, and so, when you meet, as you doubtless sometimesdo, grown-up people who puff and blow as if they thought themselvesbigger than they are, very likely they belong to that year. You askthem. 

Peter was a just master, and paid his workpeople every evening. Theystood in rows on the branches, waiting politely while he cut the papersixpences out of his bank-note, and presently he called the roll, andthen each bird, as the names were mentioned, flew down and got sixpence. It must have been a fine sight. 

And at last, after months of labor, the boat was finished. Oh, thedeportment of Peter as he saw it growing more and more like a greatthrush's nest! From the very beginning of the building of it he slept byits side, and often woke up to say sweet things to it, and after it waslined with mud and the mud had dried he always slept in it. He sleeps inhis nest still, and has a fascinating way of curling round in it, for itis just large enough to hold him comfortably when he curls round like akitten. It is brown inside, of course, but outside it is mostly green, being woven of grass and twigs, and when these wither or snap the wallsare thatched afresh. There are also a few feathers here and there, whichcame off the thrushes while they were building. 

The other birds were extremely jealous and said that the boat would notbalance on the water, but it lay most beautifully steady; they said thewater would come into it, but no water came into it. Next they said thatPeter had no oars, and this caused the thrushes to look at each otherin dismay, but Peter replied that he had no need of oars, for he had asail, and with such a proud, happy face he produced a sail which he hadfashioned out of his night-gown, and though it was still rather like anight-gown it made a lovely sail. And that night, the moon being full, and all the birds asleep, he did enter his coracle (as Master FrancisPretty would have said) and depart out of the island. And first, he knewnot why, he looked upward, with his hands clasped, and from that momenthis eyes were pinned to the west. 

He had promised the thrushes to begin by making short voyages, with themto his guides, but far away he saw the Kensington Gardens beckoning tohim beneath the bridge, and he could not wait. His face was flushed, buthe never looked back; there was an exultation in his little breast thatdrove out fear. Was Peter the least gallant of the English mariners whohave sailed westward to meet the Unknown?

At first, his boat turned round and round, and he was driven back to theplace of his starting, whereupon he shortened sail, by removing one ofthe sleeves, and was forthwith carried backward by a contrary breeze, tohis no small peril. He now let go the sail, with the result that he wasdrifted toward the far shore, where are black shadows he knew not thedangers of, but suspected them, and so once more hoisted his night-gownand went roomer of the shadows until he caught a favouring wind, whichbore him westward, but at so great a speed that he was like to be brokeagainst the bridge. Which, having avoided, he passed under the bridgeand came, to his great rejoicing, within full sight of the delectableGardens. But having tried to cast anchor, which was a stone at the endof a piece of the kite-string, he found no bottom, and was fain to holdoff, seeking for moorage, and, feeling his way, he buffeted against asunken reef that cast him overboard by the greatness of the shock, andhe was near to being drowned, but clambered back into the vessel. Therenow arose a mighty storm, accompanied by roaring of waters, such as hehad never heard the like, and he was tossed this way and that, andhis hands so numbed with the cold that he could not close them. Havingescaped the danger of which, he was mercifully carried into a small bay, where his boat rode at peace. 

Nevertheless, he was not yet in safety; for, on pretending to disembark, he found a multitude of small people drawn up on the shore to contesthis landing, and shouting shrilly to him to be off, for it was long pastLock-out Time. This, with much brandishing of their holly-leaves, andalso a company of them carried an arrow which some boy had left in theGardens, and this they were prepared to use as a battering-ram. 

Then Peter, who knew them for the fairies, called out that he was not anordinary human and had no desire to do them displeasure, but to be theirfriend; nevertheless, having found a jolly harbour, he was in no temperto draw off therefrom, and he warned them if they sought to mischief himto stand to their harms. 

So saying, he boldly leapt ashore, and they gathered around him withintent to slay him, but there then arose a great cry among the women, and it was because they had now observed that his sail was a baby'snight-gown. Whereupon, they straightway loved him, and grieved thattheir laps were too small, the which I cannot explain, except by sayingthat such is the way of women. The men-fairies now sheathed theirweapons on observing the behaviour of their women, on whose intelligencethey set great store, and they led him civilly to their queen, whoconferred upon him the courtesy of the Gardens after Lock-out Time, andhenceforth Peter could go whither he chose, and the fairies had ordersto put him in comfort. 

Such was his first voyage to the Gardens, and you may gather from theantiquity of the language that it took place a long time ago. But Peternever grows any older, and if we could be watching for him under thebridge to-night (but, of course, we can't), I daresay we should seehim hoisting his night-gown and sailing or paddling toward us in theThrush's Nest. When he sails, he sits down, but he stands up to paddle. I shall tell you presently how he got his paddle. 

Long before the time for the opening of the gates comes he steals backto the island, for people must not see him (he is not so human as allthat), but this gives him hours for play, and he plays exactly as realchildren play. At least he thinks so, and it is one of the patheticthings about him that he often plays quite wrongly. 

You see, he had no one to tell him how children really play, for thefairies were all more or less in hiding until dusk, and so know nothing, and though the birds pretended that they could tell him a great deal, when the time for telling came, it was wonderful how little they reallyknew. They told him the truth about hide-and-seek, and he often playsit by himself, but even the ducks on the Round Pond could not explain tohim what it is that makes the pond so fascinating to boys. Every nightthe ducks have forgotten all the events of the day, except the number ofpieces of cake thrown to them. They are gloomy creatures, and say thatcake is not what it was in their young days. 

So Peter had to find out many things for himself. He often played shipsat the Round Pond, but his ship was only a hoop which he had found onthe grass. Of course, he had never seen a hoop, and he wondered whatyou play at with them, and decided that you play at pretending theyare boats. This hoop always sank at once, but he waded in for it, andsometimes he dragged it gleefully round the rim of the pond, and he wasquite proud to think that he had discovered what boys do with hoops. 

Another time, when he found a child's pail, he thought it was forsitting in, and he sat so hard in it that he could scarcely get out ofit. Also he found a balloon. It was bobbing about on the Hump, quite asif it was having a game by itself, and he caught it after an excitingchase. But he thought it was a ball, and Jenny Wren had told him thatboys kick balls, so he kicked it; and after that he could not find itanywhere. 

Perhaps the most surprising thing he found was a perambulator. It wasunder a lime-tree, near the entrance to the Fairy Queen's Winter Palace(which is within the circle of the seven Spanish chestnuts), and Peterapproached it warily, for the birds had never mentioned such things tohim. Lest it was alive, he addressed it politely, and then, as it gaveno answer, he went nearer and felt it cautiously. He gave it a littlepush, and it ran from him, which made him think it must be alive afterall; but, as it had run from him, he was not afraid. So he stretched outhis hand to pull it to him, but this time it ran at him, and he was soalarmed that he leapt the railing and scudded away to his boat. You mustnot think, however, that he was a coward, for he came back next nightwith a crust in one hand and a stick in the other, but the perambulatorhad gone, and he never saw another one. I have promised to tell you alsoabout his paddle. It was a child's spade which he had found near St. Govor's Well, and he thought it was a paddle. 

Do you pity Peter Pan for making these mistakes? If so, I think itrather silly of you. What I mean is that, of course, one must pity himnow and then, but to pity him all the time would be impertinence. Hethought he had the most splendid time in the Gardens, and to think youhave it is almost quite as good as really to have it. He played withoutceasing, while you often waste time by being mad-dog or Mary-Annish. Hecould be neither of these things, for he had never heard of them, but doyou think he is to be pitied for that?

Oh, he was merry. He was as much merrier than you, for instance, as youare merrier than your father. Sometimes he fell, like a spinning-top, from sheer merriment. Have you seen a greyhound leaping the fences ofthe Gardens? That is how Peter leaps them. 

And think of the music of his pipe. Gentlemen who walk home at nightwrite to the papers to say they heard a nightingale in the Gardens, butit is really Peter's pipe they hear. Of course, he had no mother--atleast, what use was she to him? You can be sorry for him for that, butdon't be too sorry, for the next thing I mean to tell you is how herevisited her. It was the fairies who gave him the chance. 

XVI. Lock-Out Time

It is frightfully difficult to know much about the fairies, and almostthe only thing known for certain is that there are fairies whereverthere are children. Long ago children were forbidden the Gardens, andat that time there was not a fairy in the place; then the children wereadmitted, and the fairies came trooping in that very evening. They can'tresist following the children, but you seldom see them, partly becausethey live in the daytime behind the railings, where you are not allowedto go, and also partly because they are so cunning. They are not a bitcunning after Lock-out, but until Lock-out, my word!

When you were a bird you knew the fairies pretty well, and you remembera good deal about them in your babyhood, which it is a great pity youcan't write down, for gradually you forget, and I have heard of childrenwho declared that they had never once seen a fairy. Very likely if theysaid this in the Kensington Gardens, they were standing looking at afairy all the time. The reason they were cheated was that she pretendedto be something else. This is one of their best tricks. They usuallypretend to be flowers, because the court sits in the Fairies' Basin, and there are so many flowers there, and all along the Baby Walk, thata flower is the thing least likely to attract attention. They dressexactly like flowers, and change with the seasons, putting on white whenlilies are in and blue for blue-bells, and so on. They like crocus andhyacinth time best of all, as they are partial to a bit of colour, buttulips (except white ones, which are the fairy-cradles) they considergarish, and they sometimes put off dressing like tulips for days, sothat the beginning of the tulip weeks is almost the best time to catchthem. 

When they think you are not looking they skip along pretty lively, butif you look and they fear there is no time to hide, they stand quitestill, pretending to be flowers. Then, after you have passed withoutknowing that they were fairies, they rush home and tell their mothersthey have had such an adventure. The Fairy Basin, you remember, is allcovered with ground-ivy (from which they make their castor-oil), withflowers growing in it here and there. Most of them really are flowers, but some of them are fairies. You never can be sure of them, but a goodplan is to walk by looking the other way, and then turn round sharply. Another good plan, which David and I sometimes follow, is to stare themdown. After a long time they can't help winking, and then you know forcertain that they are fairies. 

There are also numbers of them along the Baby Walk, which is afamous gentle place, as spots frequented by fairies are called. Oncetwenty-four of them had an extraordinary adventure. They were a girls'school out for a walk with the governess, and all wearing hyacinthgowns, when she suddenly put her finger to her mouth, and then theyall stood still on an empty bed and pretended to be hyacinths. Unfortunately, what the governess had heard was two gardeners coming toplant new flowers in that very bed. They were wheeling a handcart withthe flowers in it, and were quite surprised to find the bed occupied. "Pity to lift them hyacinths, " said the one man. "Duke's orders, "replied the other, and, having emptied the cart, they dug up theboarding-school and put the poor, terrified things in it in five rows. Of course, neither the governess nor the girls dare let on that theywere fairies, so they were carted far away to a potting-shed, out ofwhich they escaped in the night without their shoes, but there was agreat row about it among the parents, and the school was ruined. 

As for their houses, it is no use looking for them, because they arethe exact opposite of our houses. You can see our houses by day but youcan't see them by dark. Well, you can see their houses by dark, but youcan't see them by day, for they are the colour of night, and I neverheard of anyone yet who could see night in the daytime. This does notmean that they are black, for night has its colours just as day has, but ever so much brighter. Their blues and reds and greens are like ourswith a light behind them. The palace is entirely built of many-colouredglasses, and is quite the loveliest of all royal residences, but thequeen sometimes complains because the common people will peep in to seewhat she is doing. They are very inquisitive folk, and press quite hardagainst the glass, and that is why their noses are mostly snubby. Thestreets are miles long and very twisty, and have paths on each side madeof bright worsted. The birds used to steal the worsted for their nests, but a policeman has been appointed to hold on at the other end. 

One of the great differences between the fairies and us is that theynever do anything useful. When the first baby laughed for the firsttime, his laugh broke into a million pieces, and they all went skippingabout. That was the beginning of fairies. They look tremendously busy, you know, as if they had not a moment to spare, but if you were to askthem what they are doing, they could not tell you in the least. They arefrightfully ignorant, and everything they do is make-believe. They havea postman, but he never calls except at Christmas with his little box, and though they have beautiful schools, nothing is taught in them; theyoungest child being chief person is always elected mistress, and whenshe has called the roll, they all go out for a walk and never come back. It is a very noticeable thing that, in fairy families, the youngestis always chief person, and usually becomes a prince or princess; andchildren remember this, and think it must be so among humans also, andthat is why they are often made uneasy when they come upon their motherfurtively putting new frills on the basinette. 

You have probably observed that your baby-sister wants to do all sortsof things that your mother and her nurse want her not to do: to stand upat sitting-down time, and to sit down at standing-up time, for instance, or to wake up when she should fall asleep, or to crawl on the floor whenshe is wearing her best frock, and so on, and perhaps you put this downto naughtiness. But it is not; it simply means that she is doing asshe has seen the fairies do; she begins by following their ways, andit takes about two years to get her into the human ways. Her fits ofpassion, which are awful to behold, and are usually called teething, are no such thing; they are her natural exasperation, because we don'tunderstand her, though she is talking an intelligible language. She istalking fairy. The reason mothers and nurses know what her remarks mean, before other people know, as that "Guch" means "Give it to me at once, "while "Wa" is "Why do you wear such a funny hat?" is because, mixing somuch with babies, they have picked up a little of the fairy language. 

Of late David has been thinking back hard about the fairy tongue, withhis hands clutching his temples, and he has remembered a number of theirphrases which I shall tell you some day if I don't forget. He had heardthem in the days when he was a thrush, and though I suggested to himthat perhaps it is really bird language he is remembering, he says not, for these phrases are about fun and adventures, and the birds talked ofnothing but nest-building. He distinctly remembers that the birds usedto go from spot to spot like ladies at shop-windows, looking at thedifferent nests and saying, "Not my colour, my dear, " and "How wouldthat do with a soft lining?" and "But will it wear?" and "What hideoustrimming!" and so on. 

The fairies are exquisite dancers, and that is why one of the firstthings the baby does is to sign to you to dance to him and then to crywhen you do it. They hold their great balls in the open air, in whatis called a fairy-ring. For weeks afterward you can see the ring on thegrass. It is not there when they begin, but they make it by waltzinground and round. Sometimes you will find mushrooms inside the ring, andthese are fairy chairs that the servants have forgotten to clear away. The chairs and the rings are the only tell-tale marks these littlepeople leave behind them, and they would remove even these were they notso fond of dancing that they toe it till the very moment of the openingof the gates. David and I once found a fairy-ring quite warm. 

But there is also a way of finding out about the ball before it takesplace. You know the boards which tell at what time the Gardens are toclose to-day. Well, these tricky fairies sometimes slyly change theboard on a ball night, so that it says the Gardens are to close atsix-thirty for instance, instead of at seven. This enables them to getbegun half an hour earlier. 

If on such a night we could remain behind in the Gardens, as the famousMaimie Mannering did, we might see delicious sights, hundreds oflovely fairies hastening to the ball, the married ones wearing theirwedding-rings round their waists, the gentlemen, all in uniform, holdingup the ladies' trains, and linkmen running in front carrying wintercherries, which are the fairy-lanterns, the cloakroom where they puton their silver slippers and get a ticket for their wraps, the flowersstreaming up from the Baby Walk to look on, and always welcome becausethey can lend a pin, the supper-table, with Queen Mab at the head of it, and behind her chair the Lord Chamberlain, who carries a dandelion onwhich he blows when Her Majesty wants to know the time. 

The table-cloth varies according to the seasons, and in May it is madeof chestnut-blossom. The ways the fairy-servants do is this: The men, scores of them, climb up the trees and shake the branches, and theblossom falls like snow. Then the lady servants sweep it together bywhisking their skirts until it is exactly like a table-cloth, and thatis how they get their table-cloth. 

They have real glasses and real wine of three kinds, namely, blackthornwine, berberris wine, and cowslip wine, and the Queen pours out, but thebottles are so heavy that she just pretends to pour out. There is breadand butter to begin with, of the size of a threepenny bit; and cakes toend with, and they are so small that they have no crumbs. The fairiessit round on mushrooms, and at first they are very well-behaved andalways cough off the table, and so on, but after a bit they are not sowell-behaved and stick their fingers into the butter, which is gotfrom the roots of old trees, and the really horrid ones crawl over thetable-cloth chasing sugar or other delicacies with their tongues. Whenthe Queen sees them doing this she signs to the servants to wash up andput away, and then everybody adjourns to the dance, the Queen walking infront while the Lord Chamberlain walks behind her, carrying two littlepots, one of which contains the juice of wall-flower and the other thejuice of Solomon's Seals. Wall-flower juice is good for reviving dancerswho fall to the ground in a fit, and Solomon's Seals juice is forbruises. They bruise very easily and when Peter plays faster and fasterthey foot it till they fall down in fits. For, as you know without mytelling you, Peter Pan is the fairies' orchestra. He sits in the middleof the ring, and they would never dream of having a smart dance nowadayswithout him. "P. P. " is written on the corner of the invitation-cardssent out by all really good families. They are grateful little people, too, and at the princess's coming-of-age ball (they come of age on theirsecond birthday and have a birthday every month) they gave him the wishof his heart. 

The way it was done was this. The Queen ordered him to kneel, and thensaid that for playing so beautifully she would give him the wish of hisheart. Then they all gathered round Peter to hear what was the wish ofhis heart, but for a long time he hesitated, not being certain what itwas himself. 

"If I chose to go back to mother, " he asked at last, "could you give methat wish?"

Now this question vexed them, for were he to return to his mother theyshould lose his music, so the Queen tilted her nose contemptuously andsaid, "Pooh, ask for a much bigger wish than that. "

"Is that quite a little wish?" he inquired. 

"As little as this, " the Queen answered, putting her hands near eachother. 

"What size is a big wish?" he asked. 

She measured it off on her skirt and it was a very handsome length. 

Then Peter reflected and said, "Well, then, I think I shall have twolittle wishes instead of one big one. "

Of course, the fairies had to agree, though his cleverness rathershocked them, and he said that his first wish was to go to hismother, but with the right to return to the Gardens if he found herdisappointing. His second wish he would hold in reserve. 

They tried to dissuade him, and even put obstacles in the way. 

"I can give you the power to fly to her house, " the Queen said, "but Ican't open the door for you. 

"The window I flew out at will be open, " Peter said confidently. "Motheralways keeps it open in the hope that I may fly back. "

"How do you know?" they asked, quite surprised, and, really, Peter couldnot explain how he knew. 

"I just do know, " he said. 

So as he persisted in his wish, they had to grant it. The way they gavehim power to fly was this: They all tickled him on the shoulder, andsoon he felt a funny itching in that part and then up he rose higher andhigher and flew away out of the Gardens and over the house-tops. 

It was so delicious that instead of flying straight to his old home heskimmed away over St. Paul's to the Crystal Palace and back by the riverand Regent's Park, and by the time he reached his mother's window he hadquite made up his mind that his second wish should be to become a bird. 

The window was wide open, just as he knew it would be, and in hefluttered, and there was his mother lying asleep. Peter alighted softlyon the wooden rail at the foot of the bed and had a good look at her. She lay with her head on her hand, and the hollow in the pillow was likea nest lined with her brown wavy hair. He remembered, though he hadlong forgotten it, that she always gave her hair a holiday at night. Howsweet the frills of her night-gown were. He was very glad she was such apretty mother. 

But she looked sad, and he knew why she looked sad. One of her armsmoved as if it wanted to go round something, and he knew what it wantedto go round. 

"Oh, mother, " said Peter to himself, "if you just knew who is sitting onthe rail at the foot of the bed. "

Very gently he patted the little mound that her feet made, and he couldsee by her face that she liked it. He knew he had but to say "Mother"ever so softly, and she would wake up. They always wake up at once if itis you that says their name. Then she would give such a joyous cryand squeeze him tight. How nice that would be to him, but oh, howexquisitely delicious it would be to her. That I am afraid is how Peterregarded it. In returning to his mother he never doubted that he wasgiving her the greatest treat a woman can have. Nothing can be moresplendid, he thought, than to have a little boy of your own. How proudof him they are; and very right and proper, too. 

But why does Peter sit so long on the rail, why does he not tell hismother that he has come back?

I quite shrink from the truth, which is that he sat there in two minds. Sometimes he looked longingly at his mother, and sometimes he lookedlongingly at the window. Certainly it would be pleasant to be her boyagain, but, on the other hand, what times those had been in the Gardens!Was he so sure that he would enjoy wearing clothes again? He popped offthe bed and opened some drawers to have a look at his old garments. Theywere still there, but he could not remember how you put them on. Thesocks, for instance, were they worn on the hands or on the feet? He wasabout to try one of them on his hand, when he had a great adventure. Perhaps the drawer had creaked; at any rate, his mother woke up, forhe heard her say "Peter, " as if it was the most lovely word in thelanguage. He remained sitting on the floor and held his breath, wondering how she knew that he had come back. If she said "Peter" again, he meant to cry "Mother" and run to her. But she spoke no more, shemade little moans only, and when next he peeped at her she was once moreasleep, with tears on her face. 

It made Peter very miserable, and what do you think was the firstthing he did? Sitting on the rail at the foot of the bed, he played abeautiful lullaby to his mother on his pipe. He had made it up himselfout of the way she said "Peter, " and he never stopped playing until shelooked happy. 

He thought this so clever of him that he could scarcely resist wakeningher to hear her say, "Oh, Peter, how exquisitely you play. " However, asshe now seemed comfortable, he again cast looks at the window. You mustnot think that he meditated flying away and never coming back. He hadquite decided to be his mother's boy, but hesitated about beginningto-night. It was the second wish which troubled him. He no longer meantto make it a wish to be a bird, but not to ask for a second wish seemedwasteful, and, of course, he could not ask for it without returning tothe fairies. Also, if he put off asking for his wish too long it mightgo bad. He asked himself if he had not been hardhearted to fly awaywithout saying good-bye to Solomon. "I should like awfully to sail in myboat just once more, " he said wistfully to his sleeping mother. He quiteargued with her as if she could hear him. "It would be so splendid totell the birds of this adventure, " he said coaxingly. "I promise to comeback, " he said solemnly and meant it, too. 

And in the end, you know, he flew away. Twice he came back from thewindow, wanting to kiss his mother, but he feared the delight of itmight waken her, so at last he played her a lovely kiss on his pipe, andthen he flew back to the Gardens. 

Many nights and even months passed before he asked the fairies for hissecond wish; and I am not sure that I quite know why he delayed so long. One reason was that he had so many good-byes to say, not only to hisparticular friends, but to a hundred favourite spots. Then he had hislast sail, and his very last sail, and his last sail of all, and so on. Again, a number of farewell feasts were given in his honour; and anothercomfortable reason was that, after all, there was no hurry, for hismother would never weary of waiting for him. This last reason displeasedold Solomon, for it was an encouragement to the birds to procrastinate. Solomon had several excellent mottoes for keeping them at their work, such as "Never put off laying to-day, because you can lay to-morrow, "and "In this world there are no second chances, " and yet here was Petergaily putting off and none the worse for it. The birds pointed this outto each other, and fell into lazy habits. 

But, mind you, though Peter was so slow in going back to his mother, he was quite decided to go back. The best proof of this was his cautionwith the fairies. They were most anxious that he should remain in theGardens to play to them, and to bring this to pass they tried to trickhim into making such a remark as "I wish the grass was not so wet, " andsome of them danced out of time in the hope that he might cry, "I dowish you would keep time!" Then they would have said that this was hissecond wish. But he smoked their design, and though on occasions hebegan, "I wish--" he always stopped in time. So when at last he saidto them bravely, "I wish now to go back to mother for ever and always, "they had to tickle his shoulders and let him go. 

He went in a hurry in the end because he had dreamt that his mother wascrying, and he knew what was the great thing she cried for, and that ahug from her splendid Peter would quickly make her to smile. Oh, he feltsure of it, and so eager was he to be nestling in her arms that thistime he flew straight to the window, which was always to be open forhim. 

But the window was closed, and there were iron bars on it, and peeringinside he saw his mother sleeping peacefully with her arm round anotherlittle boy. 

Peter called, "Mother! mother!" but she heard him not; in vain he beathis little limbs against the iron bars. He had to fly back, sobbing, tothe Gardens, and he never saw his dear again. What a glorious boy he hadmeant to be to her. Ah, Peter, we who have made the great mistake, howdifferently we should all act at the second chance. But Solomon wasright; there is no second chance, not for most of us. When we reach thewindow it is Lock-out Time. The iron bars are up for life. 

XVII. The Little House

Everybody has heard of the Little House in the Kensington Gardens, whichis the only house in the whole world that the fairies have built forhumans. But no one has really seen it, except just three or four, andthey have not only seen it but slept in it, and unless you sleep in ityou never see it. This is because it is not there when you lie down, butit is there when you wake up and step outside. 

In a kind of way everyone may see it, but what you see is not reallyit, but only the light in the windows. You see the light after Lock-outTime. David, for instance, saw it quite distinctly far away among thetrees as we were going home from the pantomime, and Oliver Bailey sawit the night he stayed so late at the Temple, which is the name ofhis father's office. Angela Clare, who loves to have a tooth extractedbecause then she is treated to tea in a shop, saw more than one light, she saw hundreds of them all together, and this must have been thefairies building the house, for they build it every night and alwaysin a different part of the Gardens. She thought one of the lights wasbigger than the others, though she was not quite sure, for they jumpedabout so, and it might have been another one that was bigger. But if itwas the same one, it was Peter Pan's light. Heaps of children have seenthe light, so that is nothing. But Maimie Mannering was the famous onefor whom the house was first built. 

Maimie was always rather a strange girl, and it was at night that shewas strange. She was four years of age, and in the daytime she wasthe ordinary kind. She was pleased when her brother Tony, who was amagnificent fellow of six, took notice of her, and she looked up to himin the right way, and tried in vain to imitate him and was flatteredrather than annoyed when he shoved her about. Also, when she was battingshe would pause though the ball was in the air to point out to youthat she was wearing new shoes. She was quite the ordinary kind in thedaytime. 

But as the shades of night fell, Tony, the swaggerer, lost his contemptfor Maimie and eyed her fearfully, and no wonder, for with dark therecame into her face a look that I can describe only as a leary look. It was also a serene look that contrasted grandly with Tony's uneasyglances. Then he would make her presents of his favourite toys (whichhe always took away from her next morning) and she accepted them with adisturbing smile. The reason he was now become so wheedling and she somysterious was (in brief) that they knew they were about to be sent tobed. It was then that Maimie was terrible. Tony entreated her not to doit to-night, and the mother and their coloured nurse threatened her, butMaimie merely smiled her agitating smile. And by-and-by when they werealone with their night-light she would start up in bed crying "Hsh! whatwas that?" Tony beseeches her! "It was nothing--don't, Maimie, don't!"and pulls the sheet over his head. "It is coming nearer!" she cries;"Oh, look at it, Tony! It is feeling your bed with its horns--it isboring for you, oh, Tony, oh!" and she desists not until he rushesdownstairs in his combinations, screeching. When they came up to whipMaimie they usually found her sleeping tranquilly, not shamming, youknow, but really sleeping, and looking like the sweetest little angel, which seems to me to make it almost worse. 

But of course it was daytime when they were in the Gardens, and thenTony did most of the talking. You could gather from his talk that hewas a very brave boy, and no one was so proud of it as Maimie. She wouldhave loved to have a ticket on her saying that she was his sister. Andat no time did she admire him more than when he told her, as he oftendid with splendid firmness, that one day he meant to remain behind inthe Gardens after the gates were closed. 

"Oh, Tony, " she would say, with awful respect, "but the fairies will beso angry!"

"I daresay, " replied Tony, carelessly. 

"Perhaps, " she said, thrilling, "Peter Pan will give you a sail in hisboat!"

"I shall make him, " replied Tony; no wonder she was proud of him. 

But they should not have talked so loudly, for one day they wereoverheard by a fairy who had been gathering skeleton leaves, from whichthe little people weave their summer curtains, and after that Tony was amarked boy. They loosened the rails before he sat on them, so that downhe came on the back of his head; they tripped him up by catching hisboot-lace and bribed the ducks to sink his boat. Nearly all the nastyaccidents you meet with in the Gardens occur because the fairies havetaken an ill-will to you, and so it behoves you to be careful what yousay about them. 

Maimie was one of the kind who like to fix a day for doing things, but Tony was not that kind, and when she asked him which day he was toremain behind in the Gardens after Lock-out he merely replied, "Justsome day;" he was quite vague about which day except when she asked"Will it be to-day?" and then he could always say for certain that itwould not be to-day. So she saw that he was waiting for a real goodchance. 

This brings us to an afternoon when the Gardens were white with snow, and there was ice on the Round Pond, not thick enough to skate on butat least you could spoil it for to-morrow by flinging stones, and manybright little boys and girls were doing that. 

When Tony and his sister arrived they wanted to go straight to the pond, but their ayah said they must take a sharp walk first, and as she saidthis she glanced at the time-board to see when the Gardens closed thatnight. It read half-past five. Poor ayah! she is the one who laughscontinuously because there are so many white children in the world, butshe was not to laugh much more that day. 

Well, they went up the Baby Walk and back, and when they returned to thetime-board she was surprised to see that it now read five o'clock forclosing time. But she was unacquainted with the tricky ways of thefairies, and so did not see (as Maimie and Tony saw at once) that theyhad changed the hour because there was to be a ball to-night. She saidthere was only time now to walk to the top of the Hump and back, and asthey trotted along with her she little guessed what was thrilling theirlittle breasts. You see the chance had come of seeing a fairy ball. Never, Tony felt, could he hope for a better chance. 

He had to feel this, for Maimie so plainly felt it for him. Her eagereyes asked the question, "Is it to-day?" and he gasped and then nodded. Maimie slipped her hand into Tony's, and hers was hot, but his was cold. She did a very kind thing; she took off her scarf and gave it to him!"In case you should feel cold, " she whispered. Her face was aglow, butTony's was very gloomy. 

As they turned on the top of the Hump he whispered to her, "I'm afraidNurse would see me, so I sha'n't be able to do it. "

Maimie admired him more than ever for being afraid of nothing but theirayah, when there were so many unknown terrors to fear, and she saidaloud, "Tony, I shall race you to the gate, " and in a whisper, "Then youcan hide, " and off they ran. 

Tony could always outdistance her easily, but never had she known himspeed away so quickly as now, and she was sure he hurried that he mighthave more time to hide. "Brave, brave!" her doting eyes were crying whenshe got a dreadful shock; instead of hiding, her hero had run out at thegate! At this bitter sight Maimie stopped blankly, as if all her lapfulof darling treasures were suddenly spilled, and then for very disdainshe could not sob; in a swell of protest against all puling cowards sheran to St. Govor's Well and hid in Tony's stead. 

When the ayah reached the gate and saw Tony far in front she thought herother charge was with him and passed out. Twilight came on, and scoresand hundreds of people passed out, including the last one, who alwayshas to run for it, but Maimie saw them not. She had shut her eyes tightand glued them with passionate tears. When she opened them somethingvery cold ran up her legs and up her arms and dropped into her heart. It was the stillness of the Gardens. Then she heard clang, then fromanother part clang, then clang, clang far away. It was the Closing ofthe Gates. 

Immediately the last clang had died away Maimie distinctly heard a voicesay, "So that's all right. " It had a wooden sound and seemed to comefrom above, and she looked up in time to see an elm tree stretching outits arms and yawning. 

She was about to say, "I never knew you could speak!" when a metallicvoice that seemed to come from the ladle at the well remarked to theelm, "I suppose it is a bit coldish up there?" and the elm replied, "Notparticularly, but you do get numb standing so long on one leg, " and heflapped his arms vigorously just as the cabmen do before they drive off. Maimie was quite surprised to see that a number of other tall trees weredoing the same sort of thing, and she stole away to the Baby Walk andcrouched observantly under a Minorca Holly which shrugged its shouldersbut did not seem to mind her. 

She was not in the least cold. She was wearing a russet-coloured pelisseand had the hood over her head, so that nothing of her showed except herdear little face and her curls. The rest of her real self was hidden faraway inside so many warm garments that in shape she seemed rather like aball. She was about forty round the waist. 

There was a good deal going on in the Baby Walk, when Maimie arrived intime to see a magnolia and a Persian lilac step over the railing and setoff for a smart walk. They moved in a jerky sort of way certainly, butthat was because they used crutches. An elderberry hobbled across thewalk, and stood chatting with some young quinces, and they all hadcrutches. The crutches were the sticks that are tied to young trees andshrubs. They were quite familiar objects to Maimie, but she had neverknown what they were for until to-night. 

She peeped up the walk and saw her first fairy. He was a street boyfairy who was running up the walk closing the weeping trees. The wayhe did it was this, he pressed a spring in the trunk and they shutlike umbrellas, deluging the little plants beneath with snow. "Oh, younaughty, naughty child!" Maimie cried indignantly, for she knew what itwas to have a dripping umbrella about your ears. 

Fortunately the mischievous fellow was out of earshot, but thechrysanthemums heard her, and they all said so pointedly "Hoity-toity, what is this?" that she had to come out and show herself. Then the wholevegetable kingdom was rather puzzled what to do. 

"Of course it is no affair of ours, " a spindle tree said after they hadwhispered together, "but you know quite well you ought not to be here, and perhaps our duty is to report you to the fairies; what do you thinkyourself?"

"I think you should not, " Maimie replied, which so perplexed them thatthey said petulantly there was no arguing with her. "I wouldn't ask itof you, " she assured them, "if I thought it was wrong, " and ofcourse after this they could not well carry tales. They then said, "Well-a-day, " and "Such is life!" for they can be frightfully sarcastic, but she felt sorry for those of them who had no crutches, and she saidgood-naturedly, "Before I go to the fairies' ball, I should like to takeyou for a walk one at a time; you can lean on me, you know. "

At this they clapped their hands, and she escorted them up to the BabyWalk and back again, one at a time, putting an arm or a finger roundthe very frail, setting their leg right when it got too ridiculous, andtreating the foreign ones quite as courteously as the English, thoughshe could not understand a word they said. 

They behaved well on the whole, though some whimpered that she had nottaken them as far as she took Nancy or Grace or Dorothy, and othersjagged her, but it was quite unintentional, and she was too much of alady to cry out. So much walking tired her and she was anxious to be offto the ball, but she no longer felt afraid. The reason she felt no morefear was that it was now night-time, and in the dark, you remember, Maimie was always rather strange. 

They were now loath to let her go, for, "If the fairies see you, " theywarned her, "they will mischief you, stab you to death or compel youto nurse their children or turn you into something tedious, like anevergreen oak. " As they said this they looked with affected pity at anevergreen oak, for in winter they are very envious of the evergreens. 

"Oh, la!" replied the oak bitingly, "how deliciously cosy it is to standhere buttoned to the neck and watch you poor naked creatures shivering!"

This made them sulky though they had really brought it on themselves, and they drew for Maimie a very gloomy picture of the perils that facedher if she insisted on going to the ball. 

She learned from a purple filbert that the court was not in its usualgood temper at present, the cause being the tantalising heart of theDuke of Christmas Daisies. He was an Oriental fairy, very poorly of adreadful complaint, namely, inability to love, and though he had triedmany ladies in many lands he could not fall in love with one of them. Queen Mab, who rules in the Gardens, had been confident that her girlswould bewitch him, but alas, his heart, the doctor said, remained cold. This rather irritating doctor, who was his private physician, felt theDuke's heart immediately after any lady was presented, and then alwaysshook his bald head and murmured, "Cold, quite cold!" Naturally QueenMab felt disgraced, and first she tried the effect of ordering the courtinto tears for nine minutes, and then she blamed the Cupids and decreedthat they should wear fools' caps until they thawed the Duke's frozenheart. 

"How I should love to see the Cupids in their dear little fools' caps!"Maimie cried, and away she ran to look for them very recklessly, for theCupids hate to be laughed at. 

It is always easy to discover where a fairies' ball is being held, as ribbons are stretched between it and all the populous parts of theGardens, on which those invited may walk to the dance without wettingtheir pumps. This night the ribbons were red and looked very pretty onthe snow. 

Maimie walked alongside one of them for some distance without meetinganybody, but at last she saw a fairy cavalcade approaching. To hersurprise they seemed to be returning from the ball, and she had justtime to hide from them by bending her knees and holding out her arms andpretending to be a garden chair. There were six horsemen in front andsix behind, in the middle walked a prim lady wearing a long train heldup by two pages, and on the train, as if it were a couch, reclined alovely girl, for in this way do aristocratic fairies travel about. Shewas dressed in golden rain, but the most enviable part of her was herneck, which was blue in colour and of a velvet texture, and of courseshowed off her diamond necklace as no white throat could have glorifiedit. The high-born fairies obtain this admired effect by pricking theirskin, which lets the blue blood come through and dye them, and youcannot imagine anything so dazzling unless you have seen the ladies'busts in the jewellers' windows. 

Maimie also noticed that the whole cavalcade seemed to be in a passion, tilting their noses higher than it can be safe for even fairies to tiltthem, and she concluded that this must be another case in which thedoctor had said "Cold, quite cold!"

Well, she followed the ribbon to a place where it became a bridge over adry puddle into which another fairy had fallen and been unable to climbout. At first this little damsel was afraid of Maimie, who most kindlywent to her aid, but soon she sat in her hand chatting gaily andexplaining that her name was Brownie, and that though only a poor streetsinger she was on her way to the ball to see if the Duke would have her. 

"Of course, " she said, "I am rather plain, " and this made Maimieuncomfortable, for indeed the simple little creature was almost quiteplain for a fairy. 

It was difficult to know what to reply. 

"I see you think I have no chance, " Brownie said falteringly. 

"I don't say that, " Maimie answered politely, "of course your face isjust a tiny bit homely, but--" Really it was quite awkward for her. 

Fortunately she remembered about her father and the bazaar. He had goneto a fashionable bazaar where all the most beautiful ladies in Londonwere on view for half-a-crown the second day, but on his return homeinstead of being dissatisfied with Maimie's mother he had said, "Youcan't think, my dear, what a relief it is to see a homely face again. "

Maimie repeated this story, and it fortified Brownie tremendously, indeed she had no longer the slightest doubt that the Duke would chooseher. So she scudded away up the ribbon, calling out to Maimie not tofollow lest the Queen should mischief her. 

But Maimie's curiosity tugged her forward, and presently at the sevenSpanish chestnuts, she saw a wonderful light. She crept forward untilshe was quite near it, and then she peeped from behind a tree. 

The light, which was as high as your head above the ground, was composedof myriads of glow-worms all holding on to each other, and so forminga dazzling canopy over the fairy ring. There were thousands of littlepeople looking on, but they were in shadow and drab in colour comparedto the glorious creatures within that luminous circle who were sobewilderingly bright that Maimie had to wink hard all the time shelooked at them. 

It was amazing and even irritating to her that the Duke of ChristmasDaisies should be able to keep out of love for a moment: yet out of lovehis dusky grace still was: you could see it by the shamed looks of theQueen and court (though they pretended not to care), by the way darlingladies brought forward for his approval burst into tears as they weretold to pass on, and by his own most dreary face. 

Maimie could also see the pompous doctor feeling the Duke's heart andhear him give utterance to his parrot cry, and she was particularlysorry for the Cupids, who stood in their fools' caps in obscureplaces and, every time they heard that "Cold, quite cold, " bowed theirdisgraced little heads. 

She was disappointed not to see Peter Pan, and I may as well tell younow why he was so late that night. It was because his boat had gotwedged on the Serpentine between fields of floating ice, through whichhe had to break a perilous passage with his trusty paddle. 

The fairies had as yet scarcely missed him, for they could not dance, soheavy were their hearts. They forget all the steps when they are sadand remember them again when they are merry. David tells me that fairiesnever say "We feel happy": what they say is, "We feel dancey. "

Well, they were looking very undancey indeed, when sudden laughter brokeout among the onlookers, caused by Brownie, who had just arrived and wasinsisting on her right to be presented to the Duke. 

Maimie craned forward eagerly to see how her friend fared, though shehad really no hope; no one seemed to have the least hope except Brownieherself, who, however, was absolutely confident. She was led before hisgrace, and the doctor putting a finger carelessly on the ducal heart, which for convenience sake was reached by a little trapdoor in hisdiamond shirt, had begun to say mechanically, "Cold, qui--, " when hestopped abruptly. 

"What's this?" he cried, and first he shook the heart like a watch, andthen put his ear to it. 

"Bless my soul!" cried the doctor, and by this time of course theexcitement among the spectators was tremendous, fairies fainting rightand left. 

Everybody stared breathlessly at the Duke, who was very much startledand looked as if he would like to run away. "Good gracious me!" thedoctor was heard muttering, and now the heart was evidently on fire, forhe had to jerk his fingers away from it and put them in his mouth. 

The suspense was awful!

Then in a loud voice, and bowing low, "My Lord Duke, " said the physicianelatedly, "I have the honour to inform your excellency that your graceis in love. "

You can't conceive the effect of it. Brownie held out her arms to theDuke and he flung himself into them, the Queen leapt into the arms ofthe Lord Chamberlain, and the ladies of the court leapt into the arms ofher gentlemen, for it is etiquette to follow her example in everything. Thus in a single moment about fifty marriages took place, for if youleap into each other's arms it is a fairy wedding. Of course a clergymanhas to be present. 

How the crowd cheered and leapt! Trumpets brayed, the moon came out, andimmediately a thousand couples seized hold of its rays as if they wereribbons in a May dance and waltzed in wild abandon round the fairy ring. Most gladsome sight of all, the Cupids plucked the hated fools' capsfrom their heads and cast them high in the air. And then Maimie wentand spoiled everything. She couldn't help it. She was crazy with delightover her little friend's good fortune, so she took several steps forwardand cried in an ecstasy, "Oh, Brownie, how splendid!"

Everybody stood still, the music ceased, the lights went out, and all inthe time you may take to say "Oh dear!" An awful sense of her perilcame upon Maimie, too late she remembered that she was a lost child in aplace where no human must be between the locking and the opening of thegates, she heard the murmur of an angry multitude, she saw a thousandswords flashing for her blood, and she uttered a cry of terror and fled. 

How she ran! and all the time her eyes were starting out of her head. Many times she lay down, and then quickly jumped up and ran on again. Her little mind was so entangled in terrors that she no longer knewshe was in the Gardens. The one thing she was sure of was that she mustnever cease to run, and she thought she was still running long after shehad dropped in the Figs and gone to sleep. She thought the snowflakesfalling on her face were her mother kissing her good-night. She thoughther coverlet of snow was a warm blanket, and tried to pull it over herhead. And when she heard talking through her dreams she thought it wasmother bringing father to the nursery door to look at her as she slept. But it was the fairies. 

I am very glad to be able to say that they no longer desired to mischiefher. When she rushed away they had rent the air with such cries as "Slayher!" "Turn her into something extremely unpleasant!" and so on, but thepursuit was delayed while they discussed who should march in front, and this gave Duchess Brownie time to cast herself before the Queen anddemand a boon. 

Every bride has a right to a boon, and what she asked for was Maimie'slife. "Anything except that, " replied Queen Mab sternly, and all thefairies chanted "Anything except that. " But when they learned how Maimiehad befriended Brownie and so enabled her to attend the ball to theirgreat glory and renown, they gave three huzzas for the little human, andset off, like an army, to thank her, the court advancing in frontand the canopy keeping step with it. They traced Maimie easily by herfootprints in the snow. 

But though they found her deep in snow in the Figs, it seemed impossibleto thank Maimie, for they could not waken her. They went through theform of thanking her, that is to say, the new King stood on her body andread her a long address of welcome, but she heard not a word of it. Theyalso cleared the snow off her, but soon she was covered again, and theysaw she was in danger of perishing of cold. 

"Turn her into something that does not mind the cold, " seemed a goodsuggestion of the doctor's, but the only thing they could think ofthat does not mind cold was a snowflake. "And it might melt, " the Queenpointed out, so that idea had to be given up. 

A magnificent attempt was made to carry her to a sheltered spot, butthough there were so many of them she was too heavy. By this time allthe ladies were crying in their handkerchiefs, but presently the Cupidshad a lovely idea. "Build a house round her, " they cried, and at onceeverybody perceived that this was the thing to do; in a moment a hundredfairy sawyers were among the branches, architects were running roundMaimie, measuring her; a bricklayer's yard sprang up at her feet, seventy-five masons rushed up with the foundation stone and the Queenlaid it, overseers were appointed to keep the boys off, scaffoldingswere run up, the whole place rang with hammers and chisels and turninglathes, and by this time the roof was on and the glaziers were puttingin the windows. 

The house was exactly the size of Maimie and perfectly lovely. One ofher arms was extended and this had bothered them for a second, but theybuilt a verandah round it, leading to the front door. The windows werethe size of a coloured picture-book and the door rather smaller, but itwould be easy for her to get out by taking off the roof. The fairies, asis their custom, clapped their hands with delight over their cleverness, and they were all so madly in love with the little house that they couldnot bear to think they had finished it. So they gave it ever so manylittle extra touches, and even then they added more extra touches. 

For instance, two of them ran up a ladder and put on a chimney. 

"Now we fear it is quite finished, " they sighed. But no, for another tworan up the ladder, and tied some smoke to the chimney. 

"That certainly finishes it, " they cried reluctantly. 

"Not at all, " cried a glow-worm, "if she were to wake without seeing anight-light she might be frightened, so I shall be her night-light. "

"Wait one moment, " said a china merchant, "and I shall make you asaucer. "

Now alas, it was absolutely finished. 

Oh, dear no!

"Gracious me, " cried a brass manufacturer, "there's no handle on thedoor, " and he put one on. 

An ironmonger added a scraper and an old lady ran up with a door-mat. Carpenters arrived with a water-butt, and the painters insisted onpainting it. 

Finished at last!

"Finished! how can it be finished, " the plumber demanded scornfully, "before hot and cold are put in?" and he put in hot and cold. Then anarmy of gardeners arrived with fairy carts and spades and seeds andbulbs and forcing-houses, and soon they had a flower garden to theright of the verandah and a vegetable garden to the left, and roses andclematis on the walls of the house, and in less time than five minutesall these dear things were in full bloom. 

Oh, how beautiful the little house was now! But it was at last finishedtrue as true, and they had to leave it and return to the dance. Theyall kissed their hands to it as they went away, and the last to go wasBrownie. She stayed a moment behind the others to drop a pleasant dreamdown the chimney. 

All through the night the exquisite little house stood there in the Figstaking care of Maimie, and she never knew. She slept until the dreamwas quite finished and woke feeling deliciously cosy just as morning wasbreaking from its egg, and then she almost fell asleep again, and thenshe called out, "Tony, " for she thought she was at home in the nursery. As Tony made no answer, she sat up, whereupon her head hit the roof, and it opened like the lid of a box, and to her bewilderment she saw allaround her the Kensington Gardens lying deep in snow. As she was not inthe nursery she wondered whether this was really herself, so she pinchedher cheeks, and then she knew it was herself, and this reminded herthat she was in the middle of a great adventure. She remembered noweverything that had happened to her from the closing of the gates up toher running away from the fairies, but however, she asked herself, hadshe got into this funny place? She stepped out by the roof, right overthe garden, and then she saw the dear house in which she had passed thenight. It so entranced her that she could think of nothing else. 

"Oh, you darling, oh, you sweet, oh, you love!" she cried. 

Perhaps a human voice frightened the little house, or maybe it now knewthat its work was done, for no sooner had Maimie spoken than it began togrow smaller; it shrank so slowly that she could scarce believe itwas shrinking, yet she soon knew that it could not contain her now. Italways remained as complete as ever, but it became smaller and smaller, and the garden dwindled at the same time, and the snow crept closer, lapping house and garden up. Now the house was the size of a littledog's kennel, and now of a Noah's Ark, but still you could see the smokeand the door-handle and the roses on the wall, every one complete. The glow-worm light was waning too, but it was still there. "Darling, loveliest, don't go!" Maimie cried, falling on her knees, for the littlehouse was now the size of a reel of thread, but still quite complete. But as she stretched out her arms imploringly the snow crept up on allsides until it met itself, and where the little house had been was nowone unbroken expanse of snow. 

Maimie stamped her foot naughtily, and was putting her fingers to hereyes, when she heard a kind voice say, "Don't cry, pretty human, don'tcry, " and then she turned round and saw a beautiful little naked boyregarding her wistfully. She knew at once that he must be Peter Pan. 

XVIII. Peter's Goat

Maimie felt quite shy, but Peter knew not what shy was. 

"I hope you have had a good night, " he said earnestly. 

"Thank you, " she replied, "I was so cosy and warm. But you"--and shelooked at his nakedness awkwardly--"don't you feel the least bit cold?"

Now cold was another word Peter had forgotten, so he answered, "I thinknot, but I may be wrong: you see I am rather ignorant. I am not exactlya boy, Solomon says I am a Betwixt-and-Between. "

"So that is what it is called, " said Maimie thoughtfully. 

"That's not my name, " he explained, "my name is Peter Pan. "

"Yes, of course, " she said, "I know, everybody knows. "

You can't think how pleased Peter was to learn that all the peopleoutside the gates knew about him. He begged Maimie to tell him what theyknew and what they said, and she did so. They were sitting by this timeon a fallen tree; Peter had cleared off the snow for Maimie, but he saton a snowy bit himself. 

"Squeeze closer, " Maimie said. 

"What is that?" he asked, and she showed him, and then he did it. Theytalked together and he found that people knew a great deal about him, but not everything, not that he had gone back to his mother and beenbarred out, for instance, and he said nothing of this to Maimie, for itstill humiliated him. 

"Do they know that I play games exactly like real boys?" he asked veryproudly. "Oh, Maimie, please tell them!" But when he revealed how heplayed, by sailing his hoop on the Round Pond, and so on, she was simplyhorrified. 

"All your ways of playing, " she said with her big eyes on him, "arequite, quite wrong, and not in the least like how boys play!"

Poor Peter uttered a little moan at this, and he cried for the firsttime for I know not how long. Maimie was extremely sorry for him, andlent him her handkerchief, but he didn't know in the least what to dowith it, so she showed him, that is to say, she wiped her eyes, and thengave it back to him, saying "Now you do it, " but instead of wiping hisown eyes he wiped hers, and she thought it best to pretend that this waswhat she had meant. 

She said, out of pity for him, "I shall give you a kiss if you like, "but though he once knew he had long forgotten what kisses are, and hereplied, "Thank you, " and held out his hand, thinking she had offered toput something into it. This was a great shock to her, but she felt shecould not explain without shaming him, so with charming delicacy shegave Peter a thimble which happened to be in her pocket, and pretendedthat it was a kiss. Poor little boy! he quite believed her, and to thisday he wears it on his finger, though there can be scarcely anyone whoneeds a thimble so little. You see, though still a tiny child, it wasreally years and years since he had seen his mother, and I daresay thebaby who had supplanted him was now a man with whiskers. 

But you must not think that Peter Pan was a boy to pity rather than toadmire; if Maimie began by thinking this, she soon found she was verymuch mistaken. Her eyes glistened with admiration when he told her ofhis adventures, especially of how he went to and fro between the islandand the Gardens in the Thrush's Nest. 

"How romantic, " Maimie exclaimed, but it was another unknown word, andhe hung his head thinking she was despising him. 

"I suppose Tony would not have done that?" he said very humbly. 

"Never, never!" she answered with conviction, "he would have beenafraid. "

"What is afraid?" asked Peter longingly. He thought it must be somesplendid thing. "I do wish you would teach me how to be afraid, Maimie, "he said. 

"I believe no one could teach that to you, " she answered adoringly, butPeter thought she meant that he was stupid. She had told him about Tonyand of the wicked thing she did in the dark to frighten him (she knewquite well that it was wicked), but Peter misunderstood her meaning andsaid, "Oh, how I wish I was as brave as Tony. "

It quite irritated her. "You are twenty thousand times braver thanTony, " she said, "you are ever so much the bravest boy I ever knew!"

He could scarcely believe she meant it, but when he did believe hescreamed with joy. 

"And if you want very much to give me a kiss, " Maimie said, "you can doit. "

Very reluctantly Peter began to take the thimble off his finger. Hethought she wanted it back. 

"I don't mean a kiss, " she said hurriedly, "I mean a thimble. "

"What's that?" Peter asked. 

"It's like this, " she said, and kissed him. 

"I should love to give you a thimble, " Peter said gravely, so he gaveher one. He gave her quite a number of thimbles, and then a delightfulidea came into his head! "Maimie, " he said, "will you marry me?"

Now, strange to tell, the same idea had come at exactly the same timeinto Maimie's head. "I should like to, " she answered, "but will there beroom in your boat for two?"

"If you squeeze close, " he said eagerly. 

"Perhaps the birds would be angry?"

He assured her that the birds would love to have her, though I am not socertain of it myself. Also that there were very few birds in winter. "Of course they might want your clothes, " he had to admit ratherfalteringly. 

She was somewhat indignant at this. 

"They are always thinking of their nests, " he said apologetically, "andthere are some bits of you"--he stroked the fur on her pelisse--"thatwould excite them very much. "

"They sha'n't have my fur, " she said sharply. 

"No, " he said, still fondling it, however, "no! Oh, Maimie, " he saidrapturously, "do you know why I love you? It is because you are like abeautiful nest. "

Somehow this made her uneasy. "I think you are speaking more like a birdthan a boy now, " she said, holding back, and indeed he was evenlooking rather like a bird. "After all, " she said, "you are only aBetwixt-and-Between. " But it hurt him so much that she immediatelyadded, "It must be a delicious thing to be. "

"Come and be one then, dear Maimie, " he implored her, and they set offfor the boat, for it was now very near Open-Gate time. "And you are nota bit like a nest, " he whispered to please her. 

"But I think it is rather nice to be like one, " she said in a woman'scontradictory way. "And, Peter, dear, though I can't give them my fur, Iwouldn't mind their building in it. Fancy a nest in my neck with littlespotty eggs in it! Oh, Peter, how perfectly lovely!"

But as they drew near the Serpentine, she shivered a little, and said, "Of course I shall go and see mother often, quite often. It is not asif I was saying good-bye for ever to mother, it is not in the least likethat. "

"Oh, no, " answered Peter, but in his heart he knew it was very likethat, and he would have told her so had he not been in a quaking fearof losing her. He was so fond of her, he felt he could not live withouther. "She will forget her mother in time, and be happy with me, " he keptsaying to himself, and he hurried her on, giving her thimbles by theway. 

But even when she had seen the boat and exclaimed ecstatically over itsloveliness, she still talked tremblingly about her mother. "You knowquite well, Peter, don't you, " she said, "that I wouldn't come unlessI knew for certain I could go back to mother whenever I want to? Peter, say it!"

He said it, but he could no longer look her in the face. 

"If you are sure your mother will always want you, " he added rathersourly. 

"The idea of mother's not always wanting me!" Maimie cried, and her faceglistened. 

"If she doesn't bar you out, " said Peter huskily. 

"The door, " replied Maimie, "will always, always be open, and motherwill always be waiting at it for me. "

"Then, " said Peter, not without grimness, "step in, if you feel so sureof her, " and he helped Maimie into the Thrush's Nest. 

"But why don't you look at me?" she asked, taking him by the arm. 

Peter tried hard not to look, he tried to push off, then he gave a greatgulp and jumped ashore and sat down miserably in the snow. 

She went to him. "What is it, dear, dear Peter?" she said, wondering. 

"Oh, Maimie, " he cried, "it isn't fair to take you with me if you thinkyou can go back. Your mother"--he gulped again--"you don't know them aswell as I do. "

And then he told her the woful story of how he had been barred out, andshe gasped all the time. "But my mother, " she said, "my mother"--

"Yes, she would, " said Peter, "they are all the same. I daresay she islooking for another one already. "

Maimie said aghast, "I can't believe it. You see, when you went awayyour mother had none, but my mother has Tony, and surely they aresatisfied when they have one. "

Peter replied bitterly, "You should see the letters Solomon gets fromladies who have six. "

Just then they heard a grating creak, followed by creak, creak, allround the Gardens. It was the Opening of the Gates, and Peter jumpednervously into his boat. He knew Maimie would not come with him now, andhe was trying bravely not to cry. But Maimie was sobbing painfully. 

"If I should be too late, " she called in agony, "oh, Peter, if she hasgot another one already!"

Again he sprang ashore as if she had called him back. "I shall come andlook for you to-night, " he said, squeezing close, "but if you hurry awayI think you will be in time. "

Then he pressed a last thimble on her sweet little mouth, and coveredhis face with his hands so that he might not see her go. 

"Dear Peter!" she cried. 

"Dear Maimie!" cried the tragic boy. 

She leapt into his arms, so that it was a sort of fairy wedding, andthen she hurried away. Oh, how she hastened to the gates! Peter, you maybe sure, was back in the Gardens that night as soon as Lock-out sounded, but he found no Maimie, and so he knew she had been in time. For longhe hoped that some night she would come back to him; often he thought hesaw her waiting for him by the shore of the Serpentine as his bark drewto land, but Maimie never went back. She wanted to, but she was afraidthat if she saw her dear Betwixt-and-Between again she would linger withhim too long, and besides the ayah now kept a sharp eye on her. But sheoften talked lovingly of Peter and she knitted a kettle-holder for him, and one day when she was wondering what Easter present he would like, her mother made a suggestion. 

"Nothing, " she said thoughtfully, "would be so useful to him as a goat. "

"He could ride on it, " cried Maimie, "and play on his pipe at the sametime!"

"Then, " her mother asked, "won't you give him your goat, the one youfrighten Tony with at night?"

"But it isn't a real goat, " Maimie said. 

"It seems very real to Tony, " replied her mother. 

"It seems frightfully real to me too, " Maimie admitted, "but how could Igive it to Peter?"

Her mother knew a way, and next day, accompanied by Tony (who was reallyquite a nice boy, though of course he could not compare), they went tothe Gardens, and Maimie stood alone within a fairy ring, and then hermother, who was a rather gifted lady, said, "My daughter, tell me, if you can, What have you got for Peter Pan?"

To which Maimie replied, "I have a goat for him to ride, Observe me cast it far and wide. "

She then flung her arms about as if she were sowing seed, and turnedround three times. 

Next Tony said, "If P. Doth find it waiting here, Wilt ne'er again make me to fear?"

And Maimie answered, "By dark or light I fondly swear Never to see goats anywhere. "

She also left a letter to Peter in a likely place, explaining what shehad done, and begging him to ask the fairies to turn the goat into oneconvenient for riding on. Well, it all happened just as she hoped, forPeter found the letter, and of course nothing could be easier for thefairies than to turn the goat into a real one, and so that is how Petergot the goat on which he now rides round the Gardens every night playingsublimely on his pipe. And Maimie kept her promise and never frightenedTony with a goat again, though I have heard that she created anotheranimal. Until she was quite a big girl she continued to leave presentsfor Peter in the Gardens (with letters explaining how humans play withthem), and she is not the only one who has done this. David does it, forinstance, and he and I know the likeliest place for leaving them in, andwe shall tell you if you like, but for mercy's sake don't ask us beforePorthos, for were he to find out the place he would take every one ofthem. 

Though Peter still remembers Maimie he is become as gay as ever, andoften in sheer happiness he jumps off his goat and lies kicking merrilyon the grass. Oh, he has a joyful time! But he has still a vague memorythat he was a human once, and it makes him especially kind to thehouse-swallows when they revisit the island, for house-swallows are thespirits of little children who have died. They always build in the eavesof the houses where they lived when they were humans, and sometimes theytry to fly in at a nursery window, and perhaps that is why Peter lovesthem best of all the birds. 

And the little house? Every lawful night (that is to say, every nightexcept ball nights) the fairies now build the little house lest thereshould be a human child lost in the Gardens, and Peter rides the marsheslooking for lost ones, and if he finds them he carries them on his goatto the little house, and when they wake up they are in it and when theystep out they see it. The fairies build the house merely because itis so pretty, but Peter rides round in memory of Maimie and because hestill loves to do just as he believes real boys would do. 

But you must not think that, because somewhere among the trees thelittle house is twinkling, it is a safe thing to remain in the Gardensafter Lock-out Time. If the bad ones among the fairies happen to be outthat night they will certainly mischief you, and even though they arenot, you may perish of cold and dark before Peter Pan comes round. Hehas been too late several times, and when he sees he is too late he runsback to the Thrush's Nest for his paddle, of which Maimie had told himthe true use, and he digs a grave for the child and erects a littletombstone and carves the poor thing's initials on it. He does this atonce because he thinks it is what real boys would do, and you must havenoticed the little stones and that there are always two together. Heputs them in twos because it seems less lonely. I think that quite themost touching sight in the Gardens is the two tombstones of WalterStephen Matthews and Phoebe Phelps. They stand together at the spotwhere the parishes of Westminster St. Mary's is said to meet the parishof Paddington. Here Peter found the two babes, who had fallen unnoticedfrom their perambulators, Phoebe aged thirteen months and Walterprobably still younger, for Peter seems to have felt a delicacy aboutputting any age on his stone. They lie side by side, and the simpleinscriptions read

 +-----------+ +-----------+ | | | | | W | | 13a. | | | | P. P. | | St. M | | 1841 | | | | | +-----------+ +-----------+

David sometimes places white flowers on these two innocent graves. 

But how strange for parents, when they hurry into the Gardens at theopening of the gates looking for their lost one, to find the sweetestlittle tombstone instead. I do hope that Peter is not too ready with hisspade. It is all rather sad. 

XIX. An Interloper

David and I had a tremendous adventure. It was this, he passed the nightwith me. We had often talked of it as a possible thing, and at last Maryconsented to our having it. 

The adventure began with David's coming to me at the unwonted hour ofsix P. M. , carrying what looked like a packet of sandwiches, but provedto be his requisites for the night done up in a neat paper parcel. Wewere both so excited that, at the moment of greeting, neither of uscould be apposite to the occasion in words, so we communicated ourfeelings by signs; as thus, David half sat down in a place where therewas no chair, which is his favourite preparation for being emphatic, andis borrowed, I think, from the frogs, and we then made the extraordinaryfaces which mean, "What a tremendous adventure!"

We were to do all the important things precisely as they are done everyevening at his own home, and so I am in a puzzle to know how it was suchan adventure to David. But I have now said enough to show you what anadventure it was to me. 

For a little while we played with my two medals, and, with the delicacyof a sleeping companion, David abstained on this occasion from askingwhy one of them was not a Victoria Cross. He is very troubled because Inever won the Victoria Cross, for it lowers his status in the Gardens. He never says in the Gardens that I won it, but he fights any boy ofhis year who says I didn't. Their fighting consists of challenging eachother. 

At twenty-five past six I turned on the hot water in the bath, andcovertly swallowed a small glass of brandy. I then said, "Half-pastsix; time for little boys to be in bed. " I said it in the matter-of-factvoice of one made free of the company of parents, as if I had said itoften before, and would have to say it often again, and as if there wasnothing particularly delicious to me in hearing myself say it. I triedto say it in that way. 

And David was deceived. To my exceeding joy he stamped his little foot, and was so naughty that, in gratitude, I gave him five minutes with amatchbox. Matches, which he drops on the floor when lighted, are thegreatest treat you can give David; indeed, I think his private heaven isa place with a roaring bonfire. 

Then I placed my hand carelessly on his shoulder, like one a triflebored by the dull routine of putting my little boys to bed, andconducted him to the night nursery, which had lately been my privatechamber. There was an extra bed in it tonight, very near my own, but differently shaped, and scarcely less conspicuous was the newmantel-shelf ornament: a tumbler of milk, with a biscuit on top of it, and a chocolate riding on the biscuit. To enter the room without seeingthe tumbler at once was impossible. I had tried it several times, and David saw and promptly did his frog business, the while, with anindescribable emotion, I produced a night-light from my pocket andplanted it in a saucer on the wash-stand. 

David watched my preparations with distasteful levity, but anon made anoble amend by abruptly offering me his foot as if he had no longeruse for it, and I knew by intuition that he expected me to take off hisboots. I took them off with all the coolness of an old hand, and thenI placed him on my knee and removed his blouse. This was a delightfulexperience, but I think I remained wonderfully calm until I camesomewhat too suddenly to his little braces, which agitated meprofoundly. 

I cannot proceed in public with the disrobing of David. 

Soon the night nursery was in darkness, but for the glimmer from thenight-light, and very still save when the door creaked as a man peeredin at the little figure on the bed. However softly I opened the door, aninch at a time, his bright eyes turned to me at once, and he always madethe face which means, "What a tremendous adventure!"

"Are you never to fall asleep, David?" I always said. 

"When are you coming to bed?" he always replied, very brave but ina whisper, as if he feared the bears and wolves might have him. Whenlittle boys are in bed there is nothing between them and bears andwolves but the night-light. 

I returned to my chair to think, and at last he fell asleep withhis face to the wall, but even then I stood many times at the door, listening. 

Long after I had gone to bed a sudden silence filled the chamber, and Iknew that David had awaked. I lay motionless, and, after what seemeda long time of waiting, a little far-away voice said in a cautiouswhisper, "Irene!"

"You are sleeping with me to-night, you know, David, " I said. 

"I didn't know, " he replied, a little troubled but trying not to be anuisance. 

"You remember you are with me?" I asked. 

After a moment's hesitation he replied, "I nearly remember, " andpresently he added very gratefully, as if to some angel who hadwhispered to him, "I remember now. "

I think he had nigh fallen asleep again when he stirred and said, "Is itgoing on now?"

"What?"

"The adventure. "

"Yes, David. "

Perhaps this disturbed him, for by-and-by I had to inquire, "You are notfrightened, are you?"

"Am I not?" he answered politely, and I knew his hand was groping in thedarkness, so I put out mine and he held on tightly to one finger. 

"I am not frightened now, " he whispered. 

"And there is nothing else you want?"

"Is there not?" he again asked politely. "Are you sure there's not?" headded. 

"What can it be, David?"

"I don't take up very much room, " the far-away voice said. 

"Why, David, " said I, sitting up, "do you want to come into my bed?"

"Mother said I wasn't to want it unless you wanted it first, " hesqueaked. 

"It is what I have been wanting all the time, " said I, and then withoutmore ado the little white figure rose and flung itself at me. For therest of the night he lay on me and across me, and sometimes his feetwere at the bottom of the bed and sometimes on the pillow, but he alwaysretained possession of my finger, and occasionally he woke me to saythat he was sleeping with me. I had not a good night. I lay thinking. 

Of this little boy, who, in the midst of his play while I undressed him, had suddenly buried his head on my knees. 

Of the woman who had been for him who could be sufficiently daring. 

Of David's dripping little form in the bath, and how when I essayed tocatch him he had slipped from my arms like a trout. 

Of how I had stood by the open door listening to his sweet breathing, had stood so long that I forgot his name and called him Timothy. 

XX. David and Porthos Compared

But Mary spoilt it all, when I sent David back to her in the morning, byinquiring too curiously into his person and discovering that I had puthis combinations on him with the buttons to the front. For this Iwrote her the following insulting letter. When Mary does anythingthat specially annoys me I send her an insulting letter. I once had aphotograph taken of David being hanged on a tree. I sent her that. Youcan't think of all the subtle ways of grieving her I have. No woman withthe spirit of a crow would stand it. 

"Dear Madam [I wrote], It has come to my knowledge that when you walkin the Gardens with the boy David you listen avidly for encomiums of himand of your fanciful dressing of him by passers-by, storing them in yourheart the while you make vain pretence to regard them not: whereforelest you be swollen by these very small things I, who now know Davidboth by day and by night, am minded to compare him and Porthos theone with the other, both in this matter and in other matters of graveraccount. And touching this matter of outward show, they are both verylordly, and neither of them likes it to be referred to, but they endurein different ways. For David says 'Oh, bother!' and even at times hitsout, but Porthos droops his tail and lets them have their say. Yet is heextolled as beautiful and a darling ten times for the once that David isextolled. 

"The manners of Porthos are therefore prettier than the manners ofDavid, who when he has sent me to hide from him behind a tree sometimescomes not in search, and on emerging tamely from my concealment I findhim playing other games entirely forgetful of my existence. WhereasPorthos always comes in search. Also if David wearies of you he scruplesnot to say so, but Porthos, in like circumstances, offers you his paw, meaning 'Farewell, ' and to bearded men he does this all the time (Ithink because of a hereditary distaste for goats), so that they conceivehim to be enamoured of them when he is only begging them courteously togo. Thus while the manners of Porthos are more polite it may be arguedthat those of David are more efficacious. 

"In gentleness David compares ill with Porthos. For whereas the oneshoves and has been known to kick on slight provocation, the other, whois noisily hated of all small dogs by reason of his size, remonstratesnot, even when they cling in froth and fury to his chest, but carriesthem along tolerantly until they drop off from fatigue. Again, David will not unbend when in the company of babies, expecting themunreasonably to rise to his level, but contrariwise Porthos, thoughterrible to tramps, suffers all things of babies, even to an explorationof his mouth in an attempt to discover what his tongue is like atthe other end. The comings and goings of David are unnoticed byperambulators, which lie in wait for the advent of Porthos. The strongand wicked fear Porthos but no little creature fears him, not thehedgehogs he conveys from place to place in his mouth, nor the sparrowsthat steal his straw from under him. 

"In proof of which gentleness I adduce his adventure with the rabbit. Having gone for a time to reside in a rabbit country Porthos was elatedto discover at last something small that ran from him, and developingat once into an ecstatic sportsman he did pound hotly in pursuit, thoughalways over-shooting the mark by a hundred yards or so and wonderingvery much what had become of the rabbit. There was a steep path, fromthe top of which the rabbit suddenly came into view, and the practice ofPorthos was to advance up it on tiptoe, turning near the summit togive me a knowing look and then bounding forward. The rabbit here didsomething tricky with a hole in the ground, but Porthos tore onwards infull faith that the game was being played fairly, and always returnedpanting and puzzling but glorious. 

"I sometimes shuddered to think of his perplexity should he catch therabbit, which however was extremely unlikely; nevertheless he did catchit, I know not how, but presume it to have been another than the one ofwhich he was in chase. I found him with it, his brows furrowed in thedeepest thought. The rabbit, terrified but uninjured, cowered beneathhim. Porthos gave me a happy look and again dropped into a weighty frameof mind. 'What is the next thing one does?' was obviously the puzzlewith him, and the position was scarcely less awkward for the rabbit, which several times made a move to end this intolerable suspense. Whereupon Porthos immediately gave it a warning tap with his foot, andagain fell to pondering. The strain on me was very great. 

"At last they seemed to hit upon a compromise. Porthos looked over hisshoulder very self-consciously, and the rabbit at first slowly and thenin a flash withdrew. Porthos pretended to make a search for it, but youcannot think how relieved he looked. He even tried to brazen out hisdisgrace before me and waved his tail appealingly. But he could notlook me in the face, and when he saw that this was what I insisted on hecollapsed at my feet and moaned. There were real tears in his eyes, andI was touched, and swore to him that he had done everything a dog coulddo, and though he knew I was lying he became happy again. For so long asI am pleased with him, ma'am, nothing else greatly matters to Porthos. Itold this story to David, having first extracted a promise from him thathe would not think the less of Porthos, and now I must demand the samepromise of you. Also, an admission that in innocence of heart, for whichDavid has been properly commended, he can nevertheless teach Porthosnothing, but on the contrary may learn much from him. 

"And now to come to those qualities in which David excels overPorthos--the first is that he is no snob but esteems the girl Irene(pretentiously called his nurse) more than any fine lady, and enviesevery ragged boy who can hit to leg. Whereas Porthos would have everyclass keep its place, and though fond of going down into the kitchen, always barks at the top of the stairs for a servile invitation beforehe graciously descends. Most of the servants in our street have hadthe loan of him to be photographed with, and I have but now seen himstalking off for that purpose with a proud little housemaid who islooking up to him as if he were a warrior for whom she had paid ashilling. 

"Again, when David and Porthos are in their bath, praise is due to theone and must be withheld from the other. For David, as I have noticed, loves to splash in his bath and to slip back into it from the hands thatwould transfer him to a towel. But Porthos stands in his bath droopingabjectly like a shamed figure cut out of some limp material. 

"Furthermore, the inventiveness of David is beyond that of Porthos, whocannot play by himself, and knows not even how to take a solitarywalk, while David invents playfully all day long. Lastly, when David isdiscovered of some offence and expresses sorrow therefor, he doesthat thing no more for a time, but looks about him for other offences, whereas Porthos incontinently repeats his offence, in other words, heagain buries his bone in the backyard, and marvels greatly that I knowit, although his nose be crusted with earth. 

"Touching these matters, therefore, let it be granted that David excelsPorthos; and in divers similar qualities the one is no more than a matchfor the other, as in the quality of curiosity; for, if a parcel comesinto my chambers Porthos is miserable until it is opened, and I havenoticed the same thing of David. 

"Also there is the taking of medicine. For at production of the vial allgaiety suddenly departs from Porthos and he looks the other way, but ifI say I have forgotten to have the vial refilled he skips joyfully, yet thinks he still has a right to a chocolate, and when I remarkeddisparagingly on this to David he looked so shy that there was revealedto me a picture of a certain lady treating him for youthful maladies. 

"A thing to be considered of in both is their receiving of punishments, and I am now reminded that the girl Irene (whom I take in this matterto be your mouthpiece) complains that I am not sufficiently severe withDavid, and do leave the chiding of him for offences against myself toher in the hope that he will love her less and me more thereby. Which wehave hotly argued in the Gardens to the detriment of our dignity. And Ihere say that if I am slow to be severe to David, the reason thereof isthat I dare not be severe to Porthos, and I have ever sought to treatthe one the same with the other. 

"Now I refrain from raising hand or voice to Porthos because his greatheart is nigh to breaking if he so much as suspects that all is not wellbetween him and me, and having struck him once some years ago never canI forget the shudder which passed through him when he saw it was Iwho had struck, and I shall strike him, ma'am, no more. But when he isdetected in any unseemly act now, it is my stern practice to cane mywriting table in his presence, and even this punishment is almost morethan he can bear. Wherefore if such chastisement inflicted on Davidencourages him but to enter upon fresh trespasses (as the girl Ireneavers), the reason must be that his heart is not like unto that of thenoble Porthos. 

"And if you retort that David is naturally a depraved little boy, andso demands harsher measure, I have still my answer, to wit, what is themanner of severity meted out to him at home? And lest you should shufflein your reply I shall mention a notable passage that has come to myears. 

"As thus, that David having heard a horrid word in the street, utteredit with unction in the home. That the mother threatened corporalpunishment, whereat the father tremblingly intervened. That Davidcontinuing to rejoice exceedingly in his word, the father spoke darklyof a cane, but the mother rushed between the combatants. That theproblematical chastisement became to David an object of romanticinterest. That this darkened the happy home. That casting from hispath a weeping mother, the goaded father at last dashed from the houseyelling that he was away to buy a cane. That he merely walked thestreets white to the lips because of the terror David must now befeeling. And that when he returned, it was David radiant with hope whoopened the door and then burst into tears because there was no cane. Truly, ma'am, you are a fitting person to tax me with want of severity. Rather should you be giving thanks that it is not you I am comparingwith Porthos. 

"But to make an end of this comparison, I mention that Porthos is everwishful to express gratitude for my kindness to him, so that lookingup from my book I see his mournful eyes fixed upon me with a passionateattachment, and then I know that the well-nigh unbearable sadness whichcomes into the face of dogs is because they cannot say Thank you totheir masters. Whereas David takes my kindness as his right. But forthis, while I should chide him I cannot do so, for of all the ways Davidhas of making me to love him the most poignant is that he expects it ofme as a matter of course. David is all for fun, but none may plumb thedepths of Porthos. Nevertheless I am most nearly doing so when I liedown beside him on the floor and he puts an arm about my neck. On mysoul, ma'am, a protecting arm. At such times it is as if each of us knewwhat was the want of the other. 

"Thus weighing Porthos with David it were hard to tell which is theworthier. Wherefore do you keep your boy while I keep my dog, and so weshall both be pleased. "

XXI. William Paterson

We had been together, we three, in my rooms, David telling me about thefairy language and Porthos lolling on the sofa listening, as one maysay. It is his favourite place of a dull day, and under him were somesheets of newspaper, which I spread there at such times to deceive myhousekeeper, who thinks dogs should lie on the floor. 

Fairy me tribber is what you say to the fairies when you want them togive you a cup of tea, but it is not so easy as it looks, for all ther's should be pronounced as w's, and I forget this so often that Davidbelieves I should find difficulty in making myself understood. 

"What would you say, " he asked me, "if you wanted them to turn youinto a hollyhock?" He thinks the ease with which they can turn you intothings is their most engaging quality. 

The answer is Fairy me lukka, but though he had often told me this Iagain forgot the lukka. 

"I should never dream, " I said (to cover my discomfiture), "of askingthem to turn me into anything. If I was a hollyhock I should soonwither, David. "

He himself had provided me with this objection not long before, butnow he seemed to think it merely silly. "Just before the time to witherbegins, " he said airily, "you say to them Fairy me bola. "

Fairy me bola means "Turn me back again, " and David's discovery mademe uncomfortable, for I knew he had hitherto kept his distance ofthe fairies mainly because of a feeling that their conversions arepermanent. 

So I returned him to his home. I send him home from my rooms under thecare of Porthos. I may walk on the other side unknown to them, but theyhave no need of me, for at such times nothing would induce Porthos todepart from the care of David. If anyone addresses them he growls softlyand shows the teeth that crunch bones as if they were biscuits. Thusamicably the two pass on to Mary's house, where Porthos barks hisknock-and-ring bark till the door is opened. Sometimes he goes inwith David, but on this occasion he said good-bye on the step. Nothingremarkable in this, but he did not return to me, not that day nor nextday nor in weeks and months. I was a man distraught; and David worehis knuckles in his eyes. Conceive it, we had lost our dear Porthos--atleast--well--something disquieting happened. I don't quite know what tothink of it even now. I know what David thinks. However, you shall thinkas you choose. 

My first hope was that Porthos had strolled to the Gardens and gotlocked in for the night, and almost as soon as Lock-out was over I wasthere to make inquiries. But there was no news of Porthos, thoughI learned that someone was believed to have spent the night in theGardens, a young gentleman who walked out hastily the moment the gateswere opened. He had said nothing, however, of having seen a dog. Ifeared an accident now, for I knew no thief could steal him, yet even anaccident seemed incredible, he was always so cautious at crossings; alsothere could not possibly have been an accident to Porthos without therebeing an accident to something else. 

David in the middle of his games would suddenly remember the great blankand step aside to cry. It was one of his qualities that when he knewhe was about to cry he turned aside to do it and I always respected hisprivacy and waited for him. Of course being but a little boy he wassoon playing again, but his sudden floods of feeling, of which we neverspoke, were dear to me in those desolate days. 

We had a favourite haunt, called the Story-seat, and we went back tothat, meaning not to look at the grass near it where Porthos used tosquat, but we could not help looking at it sideways, and to our distressa man was sitting on the acquainted spot. He rose at our approach andtook two steps toward us, so quick that they were almost jumps, thenas he saw that we were passing indignantly I thought I heard him give alittle cry. 

I put him down for one of your garrulous fellows who try to lurestrangers into talk, but next day, when we found him sitting on theStory-seat itself, I had a longer scrutiny of him. He was dandiacallydressed, seemed to tell something under twenty years and had a handsomewistful face atop of a heavy, lumbering, almost corpulent figure, whichhowever did not betoken inactivity; for David's purple hat (a conceit ofhis mother's of which we were both heartily ashamed) blowing off as weneared him he leapt the railings without touching them and was back withit in three seconds; only instead of delivering it straightway he seemedto expect David to chase him for it. 

You have introduced yourself to David when you jump the railings withouttouching them, and William Paterson (as proved to be his name) was atonce our friend. We often found him waiting for us at the Story-seat, and the great stout fellow laughed and wept over our tales like athree-year-old. Often he said with extraordinary pride, "You are tellingthe story to me quite as much as to David, ar'n't you?" He was of aninnocence such as you shall seldom encounter, and believed stories atwhich even David blinked. Often he looked at me in quick alarm if Davidsaid that of course these things did not really happen, and unable toresist that appeal I would reply that they really did. I never saw himirate except when David was still sceptical, but then he would say quitewarningly "He says it is true, so it must be true. " This brings me tothat one of his qualities, which at once gratified and pained me, hisadmiration for myself. His eyes, which at times had a rim of red, wereever fixed upon me fondly except perhaps when I told him of Porthos andsaid that death alone could have kept him so long from my side. ThenPaterson's sympathy was such that he had to look away. He was shy ofspeaking of himself so I asked him no personal questions, but concludedthat his upbringing must have been lonely, to account for his ignoranceof affairs, and loveless, else how could he have felt such a drawing tome?

I remember very well the day when the strange, and surely monstrous, suspicion first made my head tingle. We had been blown, the three ofus, to my rooms by a gust of rain; it was also, I think, the first timePaterson had entered them. "Take the sofa, Mr. Paterson, " I said, asI drew a chair nearer to the fire, and for the moment my eyes were offhim. Then I saw that, before sitting down on the sofa, he was spreadingthe day's paper over it. "Whatever makes you do that?" I asked, and hestarted like one bewildered by the question, then went white and pushedthe paper aside. 

David had noticed nothing, but I was strangely uncomfortable, and, despite my efforts at talk, often lapsed into silence, to be roused fromit by a feeling that Paterson was looking at me covertly. Pooh! whatvapours of the imagination were these. I blew them from me, and to proveto myself, so to speak, that they were dissipated, I asked him tosee David home. As soon as I was alone, I flung me down on the floorlaughing, then as quickly jumped up and was after them, and very sobertoo, for it was come to me abruptly as an odd thing that Paterson hadset off without asking where David lived. 

Seeing them in front of me, I crossed the street and followed. They werewalking side by side rather solemnly, and perhaps nothing remarkablehappened until they reached David's door. I say perhaps, for somethingdid occur. A lady, who has several pretty reasons for frequenting theGardens, recognised David in the street, and was stooping to addresshim, when Paterson did something that alarmed her. I was too far offto see what it was, but had he growled "Hands off!" she could not havescurried away more precipitately. He then ponderously marched hischarge to the door, where, assuredly, he did a strange thing. Instead ofknocking or ringing, he stood on the step and called out sharply, "Hie, hie, hie!" until the door was opened. 

The whimsy, for it could be nothing more, curtailed me of my sleep thatnight, and you may picture me trying both sides of the pillow. 

I recalled other queer things of Paterson, and they came back to mecharged with new meanings. There was his way of shaking hands. He nowdid it in the ordinary way, but when first we knew him his arm haddescribed a circle, and the hand had sometimes missed mine and comeheavily upon my chest instead. His walk, again, might more correctlyhave been called a waddle. 

There were his perfervid thanks. He seldom departed without thanking mewith an intensity that was out of proportion to the little I had donefor him. In the Gardens, too, he seemed ever to take the sward ratherthan the seats, perhaps a wise preference, but he had an unusual way ofsitting down. I can describe it only by saying that he let go of himselfand went down with a thud. 

I reverted to the occasion when he lunched with me at the Club. We hadcutlets, and I noticed that he ate his in a somewhat finicking manner;yet having left the table for a moment to consult the sweets-card, I saw, when I returned, that there was now no bone on his plate. Thewaiters were looking at him rather curiously. 

David was very partial to him, but showed it in a somewhat singularmanner, used to pat his head, for instance. I remembered, also, thatwhile David shouted to me or Irene to attract our attention, he usuallywhistled to Paterson, he could not explain why. 

These ghosts made me to sweat in bed, not merely that night, but oftenwhen some new shock brought them back in force, yet, unsupported, they would have disturbed me little by day. Day, however, had itsreflections, and they came to me while I was shaving, that ten minuteswhen, brought face to face with the harsher realities of life, we seethings most clearly as they are. Then the beautiful nature of Patersonloomed offensively, and his honest eyes insulted over me. No one come tonigh twenty years had a right to such faith in his fellow-creatures. Hecould not backbite, nor envy, nor prevaricate, nor jump at mean motivesfor generous acts. He had not a single base story about women. It allseemed inhuman. 

What creatures we be! I was more than half ashamed of Paterson's faithin me, but when I saw it begin to shrink I fought for it. An easy task, you may say, but it was a hard one, for gradually a change had come overthe youth. I am now arrived at a time when the light-heartedness hadgone out of him; he had lost his zest for fun, and dubiety sat in theeyes that were once so certain. He was not doubtful of me, not then, butof human nature in general; that whilom noble edifice was tottering. Hemixed with boys in the Gardens; ah, mothers, it is hard to say, but howcould he retain his innocence when he had mixed with boys? He heard yourtalk of yourselves, and so, ladies, that part of the edifice went down. I have not the heart to follow him in all his discoveries. Sometimeshe went in flame at them, but for the most part he stood looking on, bewildered and numbed, like one moaning inwardly. 

He saw all, as one fresh to the world, before he had time to breatheupon the glass. So would your child be, madam, if born with a man'spowers, and when disillusioned of all else, he would cling for a momentlonger to you, the woman of whom, before he saw you, he had heard somuch. How you would strive to cheat him, even as I strove to hide myreal self from Paterson, and still you would strive as I strove afteryou knew the game was up. 

The sorrowful eyes of Paterson stripped me bare. There were days when Icould not endure looking at him, though surely I have long ceased to bea vain man. He still met us in the Gardens, but for hours he and I wouldbe together without speaking. It was so upon the last day, one of thoseinnumerable dreary days when David, having sneezed the night before, was kept at home in flannel, and I sat alone with Paterson on theStory-seat. At last I turned to address him. Never had we spoken of whatchained our tongues, and I meant only to say now that we must go, forsoon the gates would close, but when I looked at him I saw that he wasmore mournful than ever before; he shut his eyes so tightly that a dropof blood fell from them. 

"It was all over, Paterson, long ago, " I broke out harshly, "why do welinger?"

He beat his hands together miserably, and yet cast me appealing looksthat had much affection in them. 

"You expected too much of me, " I told him, and he bowed his head. "Idon't know where you brought your grand ideas of men and women from. Idon't want to know, " I added hastily. 

"But it must have been from a prettier world than this, " I said: "areyou quite sure that you were wise in leaving it?"

He rose and sat down again. "I wanted to know you, " he replied slowly, "I wanted to be like you. "

"And now you know me, " I said, "do you want to be like me still? I am acurious person to attach oneself to, Paterson; don't you see that evenDavid often smiles at me when he thinks he is unobserved. I work veryhard to retain that little boy's love; but I shall lose him soon; evennow I am not what I was to him; in a year or two at longest, Paterson, David will grow out of me. "

The poor fellow shot out his hand to me, but "No, " said I, "you havefound me out. Everybody finds me out except my dog, and that is why theloss of him makes such a difference to me. Shall we go, Paterson?"

He would not come with me, and I left him on the seat; when I was faraway I looked back, and he was still sitting there forlornly. 

For long I could not close my ears that night: I lay listening, I knewnot what for. A scare was on me that made me dislike the dark, and Iswitched on the light and slept at last. I was roused by a great to-doin the early morning, servants knocking excitedly, and my door opened, and the dear Porthos I had mourned so long tore in. They had heard hisbark, but whence he came no one knew. 

He was in excellent condition, and after he had leaped upon me from allpoints I flung him on the floor by a trick I know, and lay down besidehim, while he put his protecting arm round me and looked at me with theold adoring eyes. 

But we never saw Paterson again. You may think as you choose. 

XXII. Joey

Wise children always choose a mother who was a shocking flirt inher maiden days, and so had several offers before she accepted theirfortunate papa. The reason they do this is because every offer refusedby their mother means another pantomime to them. You see you can't trustto your father's taking you to the pantomime, but you can trust toevery one of the poor frenzied gentlemen for whom that lady has wept adelicious little tear on her lovely little cambric handkerchief. It ispretty (but dreadfully affecting) to see them on Boxing Night gatheringtogether the babies of their old loves. Some knock at but one door andbring a hansom, but others go from street to street in private 'buses, and even wear false noses to conceal the sufferings you inflict uponthem as you grew more and more like your sweet cruel mamma. 

So I took David to the pantomime, and I hope you follow my reasoning, for I don't. He went with the fairest anticipations, pausing on thethreshold to peer through the hole in the little house called "PayHere, " which he thought was Red Riding Hood's residence, and askedpolitely whether he might see her, but they said she had gone to thewood, and it was quite true, for there she was in the wood gathering astick for her grandmother's fire. She sang a beautiful song about theBoys and their dashing ways, which flattered David considerably, but sheforgot to take away the stick after all. Other parts of the play werenot so nice, but David thought it all lovely, he really did. 

Yet he left the place in tears. All the way home he sobbed in thedarkest corner of the growler, and if I tried to comfort him he struckme. 

The clown had done it, that man of whom he expected things so fair. Hehad asked in a loud voice of the middling funny gentleman (then in themiddle of a song) whether he thought Joey would be long in coming, andwhen at last Joey did come he screamed out, "How do you do, Joey!" andwent into convulsions of mirth. 

Joey and his father were shadowing a pork-butcher's shop, pocketing thesausages for which their family has such a fatal weakness, and so whenthe butcher engaged Joey as his assistant there was soon not a sausageleft. However, this did not matter, for there was a box rather like anice-cream machine, and you put chunks of pork in at one end and turneda handle and they came out as sausages at the other end. Joey quiteenjoyed doing this, and you could see that the sausages were excellentby the way he licked his fingers after touching them, but soonthere were no more pieces of pork, and just then a dear little Irishterrier-dog came trotting down the street, so what did Joey do but popit into the machine and it came out at the other end as sausages. 

It was this callous act that turned all David's mirth to woe, and droveus weeping to our growler. 

Heaven knows I have no wish to defend this cruel deed, but as Joey toldme afterward, it is very difficult to say what they will think funny andwhat barbarous. I was forced to admit to him that David had perceivedonly the joyous in the pokering of the policeman's legs, and had calledout heartily "Do it again!" every time Joey knocked the pantaloon downwith one kick and helped him up with another. 

"It hurts the poor chap, " I was told by Joey, whom I was agreeablysurprised to find by no means wanting in the more humane feelings, "andhe wouldn't stand it if there wasn't the laugh to encourage him. "

He maintained that the dog got that laugh to encourage him also. 

However, he had not got it from David, whose mother and father and nursecombined could not comfort him, though they swore that the dog was stillalive and kicking, which might all have been very well had not Davidseen the sausages. It was to inquire whether anything could be done toatone that in considerable trepidation I sent in my card to the clown, and the result of our talk was that he invited me and David to have teawith him on Thursday next at his lodgings. 

"I sha'n't laugh, " David said, nobly true to the memory of the littledog, "I sha'n't laugh once, " and he closed his jaws very tightly as wedrew near the house in Soho where Joey lodged. But he also gripped myhand, like one who knew that it would be an ordeal not to laugh. 

The house was rather like the ordinary kind, but there was a convenientsausage-shop exactly opposite (trust Joey for that) and we saw apoliceman in the street looking the other way, as they always do lookjust before you rub them. A woman wearing the same kind of clothes aspeople in other houses wear, told us to go up to the second floor, andshe grinned at David, as if she had heard about him; so up we went, David muttering through his clenched teeth, "I sha'n't laugh, " and assoon as we knocked a voice called out, "Here we are again!" at which ashudder passed through David as if he feared that he had set himself animpossible task. In we went, however, and though the voice had certainlycome from this room we found nobody there. I looked in bewilderment atDavid, and he quickly put his hand over his mouth. 

It was a funny room, of course, but not so funny as you might expect;there were droll things in it, but they did nothing funny, you couldsee that they were just waiting for Joey. There were padded chairswith friendly looking rents down the middle of them, and a table and ahorse-hair sofa, and we sat down very cautiously on the sofa but nothinghappened to us. 

The biggest piece of furniture was an enormous wicker trunk, with a verylively coloured stocking dangling out at a hole in it, and a notice onthe top that Joey was the funniest man on earth. David tried to pull thestocking out of the hole, but it was so long that it never came to anend, and when it measured six times the length of the room he had tocover his mouth again. 

"I'm not laughing, " he said to me, quite fiercely. He even managed notto laugh (though he did gulp) when we discovered on the mantelpiece aphotograph of Joey in ordinary clothes, the garments he wore before hebecame a clown. You can't think how absurd he looked in them. But Daviddidn't laugh. 

Suddenly Joey was standing beside us, it could not have been moresudden though he had come from beneath the table, and he was wearing hispantomime clothes (which he told us afterward were the only clothes hehad) and his red and white face was so funny that David made gurglingsounds, which were his laugh trying to force a passage. 

I introduced David, who offered his hand stiffly, but Joey, instead oftaking it, put out his tongue and waggled it, and this was so droll thatDavid had again to save himself by clapping his hand over his mouth. Joey thought he had toothache, so I explained what it really meant, and then Joey said, "Oh, I shall soon make him laugh, " whereupon thefollowing conversation took place between them:

"No, you sha'n't, " said David doggedly. 

"Yes, I shall. "

"No, you sha'n't not. "

"Yes, I shall so. "

"Sha'n't, sha'n't, sha'n't. "

"Shall, shall, shall. "

"You shut up. "

"You're another. "

By this time Joey was in a frightful way (because he saw he was gettingthe worst of it), and he boasted that he had David's laugh in hispocket, and David challenged him to produce it, and Joey searched hispockets and brought out the most unexpected articles, including a duckand a bunch of carrots; and you could see by his manner that the simplesoul thought these were things which all boys carried loose in theirpockets. 

I daresay David would have had to laugh in the end, had there not been ahalf-gnawed sausage in one of the pockets, and the sight of it remindedhim so cruelly of the poor dog's fate that he howled, and Joey's heartwas touched at last, and he also wept, but he wiped his eyes with theduck. 

It was at this touching moment that the pantaloon hobbled in, alsodressed as we had seen him last, and carrying, unfortunately, atrayful of sausages, which at once increased the general gloom, for heannounced, in his squeaky voice, that they were the very sausages thathad lately been the dog. 

Then Joey seemed to have a great idea, and his excitement was soimpressive that we stood gazing at him. First, he counted the sausages, and said that they were two short, and he found the missing two up thepantaloon's sleeve. Then he ran out of the room and came back with thesausage-machine; and what do you think he did? He put all the sausagesinto the end of the machine that they had issued from, and turned thehandle backward, and then out came the dog at the other end!

Can you picture the joy of David?

He clasped the dear little terrier in his arms; and then we noticed thatthere was a sausage adhering to its tail. The pantaloon said we musthave put in a sausage too many, but Joey said the machine had not workedquite smoothly and that he feared this sausage was the dog's bark, whichdistressed David, for he saw how awkward it must be to a dog to have itsbark outside, and we were considering what should be done when the dogclosed the discussion by swallowing the sausage. 

After that, David had the most hilarious hour of his life, enteringinto the childish pleasures of this family as heartily as if he had beenbrought up on sausages, and knocking the pantaloon down repeatedly. Youmust not think that he did this viciously; he did it to please the oldgentleman, who begged him to do it, and always shook hands warmly andsaid "Thank you, " when he had done it. They are quite a simple people. 

Joey called David and me "Sonny, " and asked David, who addressed him as"Mr. Clown, " to call him Joey. He also told us that the pantaloon's namewas old Joey, and the columbine's Josy, and the harlequin's Joeykin. 

We were sorry to hear that old Joey gave him a good deal of trouble. This was because his memory is so bad that he often forgets whether itis your head or your feet you should stand on, and he usually begins theday by standing on the end that happens to get out of bed first. Thushe requires constant watching, and the worst of it is, you dare not drawattention to his mistake, he is so shrinkingly sensitive about it. Nosooner had Joey told us this than the poor old fellow began to turnupside down and stood on his head; but we pretended not to notice, andtalked about the weather until he came to. 

Josy and Joeykin, all skirts and spangles, were with us by this time, for they had been invited to tea. They came in dancing, and danced offand on most of the time. Even in the middle of what they were sayingthey would begin to flutter; it was not so much that they meant todance as that the slightest thing set them going, such as sitting in adraught; and David found he could blow them about the room like piecesof paper. You could see by the shortness of Josy's dress that she wasvery young indeed, and at first this made him shy, as he always is whenintroduced formally to little girls, and he stood sucking his thumb, andso did she, but soon the stiffness wore off and they sat together on thesofa, holding each other's hands. 

All this time the harlequin was rotating like a beautiful fish, andDavid requested him to jump through the wall, at which he is such anadept, and first he said he would, and then he said better not, for thelast time he did it the people in the next house had made such a fuss. David had to admit that it must be rather startling to the people on theother side of the wall, but he was sorry. 

By this time tea was ready, and Josy, who poured out, remembered to askif you took milk with just one drop of tea in it, exactly as her motherwould have asked. There was nothing to eat, of course, except sausages, but what a number of them there were! hundreds at least, strings ofsausages, and every now and then Joey jumped up and played skipping ropewith them. David had been taught not to look greedy, even though he feltgreedy, and he was shocked to see the way in which Joey and old Joeyand even Josy eyed the sausages they had given him. Soon Josy developednobler feelings, for she and Joeykin suddenly fell madly in love witheach other across the table, but unaffected by this pretty picture, Joeycontinued to put whole sausages in his mouth at a time, and then rubbedhimself a little lower down, while old Joey secreted them about hisperson; and when David wasn't looking they both pounced on his sausages, and yet as they gobbled they were constantly running to the top of thestair and screaming to the servant to bring up more sausages. 

You could see that Joey (if you caught him with his hand in your plate)was a bit ashamed of himself, and he admitted to us that sausages were apassion with him. 

He said he had never once in his life had a sufficient number ofsausages. They had maddened him since he was the smallest boy. He toldus how, even in those days, his mother had feared for him, though fondof a sausage herself; how he had bought a sausage with his first penny, and hoped to buy one with his last (if they could not be got in anyother way), and that he always slept with a string of them beneath hispillow. 

While he was giving us these confidences, unfortunately, his eyes cameto rest, at first accidentally, then wistfully, then with a horrid gleamin them, on the little dog, which was fooling about on the top of thesausage-machine, and his hands went out toward it convulsively, whereatDavid, in sudden fear, seized the dog in one arm and gallantly clenchedhis other fist, and then Joey begged his pardon and burst into tears, each one of which he flung against the wall, where it exploded with abang. 

David refused to pardon him unless he promised on wood never to look inthat way at the dog again, but Joey said promises were nothing to himwhen he was short of sausages, and so his wisest course would be topresent the dog to David. Oh, the joy of David when he understood thatthe little dog he had saved was his very own! I can tell you he was nowin a hurry to be off before Joey had time to change his mind. 

"All I ask of you, " Joey said with a break in his voice, "is to call himafter me, and always to give him a sausage, sonny, of a Saturday night. "

There was a quiet dignity about Joey at the end, which showed that hemight have risen to high distinction but for his fatal passion. 

The last we saw of him was from the street. He was waving his tongue atus in his attractive, foolish way, and Josy was poised on Joeykin's handlike a butterfly that had alighted on a flower. We could not exactly seeold Joey, but we saw his feet, and so feared the worst. Of course theyare not everything they should be, but one can't help liking them. 

XXIII. Pilkington's

On attaining the age of eight, or thereabout, children fly away from theGardens, and never come back. When next you meet them they are ladiesand gentlemen holding up their umbrellas to hail a hansom. 

Where the girls go to I know not, to some private place, I suppose, toput up their hair, but the boys have gone to Pilkington's. He is a manwith a cane. You may not go to Pilkington's in knickerbockers madeby your mother, make she ever so artfully. They must be realknickerbockers. It is his stern rule. Hence the fearful fascination ofPilkington's. 

He may be conceived as one who, baiting his hook with realknickerbockers, fishes all day in the Gardens, which are to him but apool swarming with small fry. 

Abhorred shade! I know not what manner of man thou art in the flesh, sir, but figure thee bearded and blackavised, and of a lean tortuoushabit of body, that moves ever with a swish. Every morning, I swear, thou readest avidly the list of male births in thy paper, and then arethy hands rubbed gloatingly the one upon the other. 'Tis fear of theeand thy gown and thy cane, which are part of thee, that makes thefairies to hide by day; wert thou to linger but once among their hauntsbetween the hours of Lock-out and Open Gates there would be left not onesingle gentle place in all the Gardens. The little people would flit. How much wiser they than the small boys who swim glamoured to thy craftyhook. Thou devastator of the Gardens, I know thee, Pilkington. 

I first heard of Pilkington from David, who had it from Oliver Bailey. 

This Oliver Bailey was one of the most dashing figures in the Gardens, and without apparent effort was daily drawing nearer the completionof his seventh year at a time when David seemed unable to get beyondhalf-past five. I have to speak of him in the past tense, for gone isOliver from the Gardens (gone to Pilkington's) but he is still a nameamong us, and some lordly deeds are remembered of him, as that hisfather shaved twice a day. Oliver himself was all on that scale. 

His not ignoble ambition seems always to have been to be wrecked uponan island, indeed I am told that he mentioned it insinuatingly in hisprayers, and it was perhaps inevitable that a boy with such an outlookshould fascinate David. I am proud, therefore, to be able to state onwood that it was Oliver himself who made the overture. 

On first hearing, from some satellite of Oliver's, of Wrecked Islands, as they are called in the Gardens, David said wistfully that he supposedyou needed to be very very good before you had any chance of beingwrecked, and the remark was conveyed to Oliver, on whom it madean uncomfortable impression. For a time he tried to evade it, butultimately David was presented to him and invited gloomily to sayit again. The upshot was that Oliver advertised the Gardens of hisintention to be good until he was eight, and if he had not been wreckedby that time, to be as jolly bad as a boy could be. He was naturally sobad that at the Kindergarten Academy, when the mistress ordered whoeverhad done the last naughty deed to step forward, Oliver's custom had beento step forward, not necessarily because he had done it, but because hepresumed he very likely had. 

The friendship of the two dated from this time, and at first I thoughtOliver discovered generosity in hasting to David as to an equal; he alsowalked hand in hand with him, and even reproved him for delinquencieslike a loving elder brother. But 'tis a gray world even in the Gardens, for I found that a new arrangement had been made which reduced Oliver tolife-size. He had wearied of well-doing, and passed it on, so to speak, to his friend. In other words, on David now devolved the task of beinggood until he was eight, while Oliver clung to him so closely that theone could not be wrecked without the other. 

When this was made known to me it was already too late to break thespell of Oliver, David was top-heavy with pride in him, and, faith, Ibegan to find myself very much in the cold, for Oliver was frankly boredby me and even David seemed to think it would be convenient if I wentand sat with Irene. Am I affecting to laugh? I was really distressed andlonely, and rather bitter; and how humble I became. Sometimes when thedog Joey is unable, by frisking, to induce Porthos to play with him, he stands on his hind legs and begs it of him, and I do believe Iwas sometimes as humble as Joey. Then David would insist on my beingsuffered to join them, but it was plain that he had no real occasion forme. 

It was an unheroic trouble, and I despised myself. For years I hadbeen fighting Mary for David, and had not wholly failed though she wasadvantaged by the accident of relationship; was I now to be knocked outso easily by a seven year old? I reconsidered my weapons, and I foughtOliver and beat him. Figure to yourself those two boys become asfaithful to me as my coat-tails. 

With wrecked islands I did it. I began in the most unpretentious way bytelling them a story which might last an hour, and favoured by many anunexpected wind it lasted eighteen months. It started as the wreck ofthe simple Swiss family who looked up and saw the butter tree, but soona glorious inspiration of the night turned it into the wreck of DavidA---- and Oliver Bailey. At first it was what they were to do when theywere wrecked, but imperceptibly it became what they had done. I spentmuch of my time staring reflectively at the titles of the boys' storiesin the booksellers' windows, whistling for a breeze, so to say, forI found that the titles were even more helpful than the stories. Wewrecked everybody of note, including all Homer's most taking charactersand the hero of Paradise Lost. But we suffered them not to land. Westripped them of what we wanted and left them to wander the high seasnaked of adventure. And all this was merely the beginning. 

By this time I had been cast upon the island. It was not my ownproposal, but David knew my wishes, and he made it all right for me withOliver. They found me among the breakers with a large dog, which hadkept me afloat throughout that terrible night. I was the sole survivorof the ill-fated Anna Pink. So exhausted was I that they had to carryme to their hut, and great was my gratitude when on opening my eyes, Ifound myself in that romantic edifice instead of in Davy Jones's locker. As we walked in the Gardens I told them of the hut they had built; andthey were inflated but not surprised. On the other hand they looked forsurprise from me. 

"Did we tell you about the turtle we turned on its back?" asked Oliver, reverting to deeds of theirs of which I had previously told them. 

"You did. "

"Who turned it?" demanded David, not as one who needed information butafter the manner of a schoolmaster. 

"It was turned, " I said, "by David A----, the younger of the twoyouths. "

"Who made the monkeys fling cocoa-nuts at him?" asked the older of thetwo youths. 

"Oliver Bailey, " I replied. 

"Was it Oliver, " asked David sharply, "that found the cocoa-nut-treefirst?"

"On the contrary, " I answered, "it was first observed by David, who immediately climbed it, remarking, 'This is certainly thecocos-nucifera, for, see, dear Oliver, the slender columns supportingthe crown of leaves which fall with a grace that no art can imitate. '"

"That's what I said, " remarked David with a wave of his hand. 

"I said things like that, too, " Oliver insisted. 

"No, you didn't then, " said David. 

"Yes, I did so. "

"No, you didn't so. "

"Shut up. "

"Well, then, let's hear one you said. "

Oliver looked appealingly at me. "The following, " I announced, "isone that Oliver said: 'Truly dear comrade, though the perils of thesehappenings are great, and our privations calculated to break thestoutest heart, yet to be rewarded by such fair sights I would endurestill greater trials and still rejoice even as the bird on yonderbough. '"

"That's one I said!" crowed Oliver. 

"I shot the bird, " said David instantly. 

"What bird?"

"The yonder bird. "

"No, you didn't. "

"Did I not shoot the bird?"

"It was David who shot the bird, " I said, "but it was Oliver who sawby its multi-coloured plumage that it was one of the Psittacidae, anexcellent substitute for partridge. "

"You didn't see that, " said Oliver, rather swollen. 

"Yes, I did. "

"What did you see?"

"I saw that. "

"What?"

"You shut up. "

"David shot it, " I summed up, "and Oliver knew its name, but I ate it. Do you remember how hungry I was?"

"Rather!" said David. 

"I cooked it, " said Oliver. 

"It was served up on toast, " I reminded them. 

"I toasted it, " said David. 

"Toast from the bread-fruit-tree, " I said, "which (as you both remarkedsimultaneously) bears two and sometimes three crops in a year, and alsoaffords a serviceable gum for the pitching of canoes. "

"I pitched mine best, " said Oliver. 

"I pitched mine farthest, " said David. 

"And when I had finished my repast, " said I, "you amazed me by handingme a cigar from the tobacco-plant. "

"I handed it, " said Oliver. 

"I snicked off the end, " said David. 

"And then, " said I, "you gave me a light. "

"Which of us?" they cried together. 

"Both of you, " I said. "Never shall I forget my amazement when I saw youget that light by rubbing two sticks together. "

At this they waggled their heads. "You couldn't have done it!" saidDavid. 

"No, David, " I admitted, "I can't do it, but of course I know that allwrecked boys do it quite easily. Show me how you did it. "

But after consulting apart they agreed not to show me. I was not showneverything. 

David was now firmly convinced that he had once been wrecked on anisland, while Oliver passed his days in dubiety. They used to argue itout together and among their friends. As I unfolded the story Oliverlistened with an open knife in his hand, and David who was not allowedto have a knife wore a pirate-string round his waist. Irene in her usualinterfering way objected to this bauble and dropped disparaging remarksabout wrecked islands which were little to her credit. I was for defyingher, but David, who had the knack of women, knew a better way; hecraftily proposed that we "should let Irene in, " in short, should wreckher, and though I objected, she proved a great success and recognisedthe yucca filamentosa by its long narrow leaves the very day she joinedus. Thereafter we had no more scoffing from Irene, who listened to thestory as hotly as anybody. 

This encouraged us in time to let in David's father and mother, thoughthey never knew it unless he told them, as I have no doubt he did. Theywere admitted primarily to gratify David, who was very soft-hearted andknew that while he was on the island they must be missing him very muchat home. So we let them in, and there was no part of the story he likedbetter than that which told of the joyous meeting. We were in need ofanother woman at any rate, someone more romantic looking than Irene, andMary, I can assure her now, had a busy time of it. She was constantlybeing carried off by cannibals, and David became quite an adept atplucking her from the very pot itself and springing from cliff to cliffwith his lovely burden in his arms. There was seldom a Saturday in whichDavid did not kill his man. 

I shall now provide the proof that David believed it all to be as trueas true. It was told me by Oliver, who had it from our hero himself. Ihad described to them how the savages had tattooed David's father, andOliver informed me that one night shortly afterward David was discoveredsoftly lifting the blankets off his father's legs to have a look at thebirds and reptiles etched thereon. 

Thus many months passed with no word of Pilkington, and you may beasking where he was all this time. Ah, my friends, he was very busyfishing, though I was as yet unaware of his existence. Most suddenly Iheard the whirr of his hated reel, as he struck a fish. I remember thatgrim day with painful vividness, it was a wet day, indeed I think it hasrained for me more or less ever since. As soon as they joined me I sawfrom the manner of the two boys that they had something to communicate. Oliver nudged David and retired a few paces, whereupon David said to mesolemnly, "Oliver is going to Pilkington's. "

I immediately perceived that it was some school, but so little did Iunderstand the import of David's remark that I called out jocularly, "Ihope he won't swish you, Oliver. "

Evidently I had pained both of them, for they exchanged glances andretired for consultation behind a tree, whence David returned to saywith emphasis, "He has two jackets and two shirts and two knickerbockers, all realones. "

"Well done, Oliver!" said I, but it was the wrong thing again, and oncemore they disappeared behind the tree. Evidently they decided that thetime for plain speaking was come, for now David announced bluntly:

"He wants you not to call him Oliver any longer. "

"What shall I call him?"

"Bailey. "

"But why?"

"He's going to Pilkington's. And he can't play with us any more afternext Saturday. "

"Why not?"

"He's going to Pilkington's. "

So now I knew the law about the thing, and we moved on together, Oliverstretching himself consciously, and methought that even David walkedwith a sedater air. 

"David, " said I, with a sinking, "are you going to Pilkington's?"

"When I am eight, " he replied. 

"And sha'n't I call you David then, and won't you play with me in theGardens any more?"

He looked at Bailey, and Bailey signalled him to be firm. 

"Oh, no, " said David cheerily. 

Thus sharply did I learn how much longer I was to have of him. Strangethat a little boy can give so much pain. I dropped his hand and walkedon in silence, and presently I did my most churlish to hurt him byending the story abruptly in a very cruel way. "Ten years have elapsed, "said I, "since I last spoke, and our two heroes, now gay young men, are revisiting the wrecked island of their childhood. 'Did we wreckourselves, ' said one, 'or was there someone to help us?' And the otherwho was the younger, replied, 'I think there was someone to help us, a man with a dog. I think he used to tell me stories in the KensingtonGardens, but I forget all about him; I don't remember even his name. '"

This tame ending bored Bailey, and he drifted away from us, but Davidstill walked by my side, and he was grown so quiet that I knew a stormwas brewing. Suddenly he flashed lightning on me. "It's not true, " hecried, "it's a lie!" He gripped my hand. "I sha'n't never forget you, father. "

Strange that a little boy can give so much pleasure. 

Yet I could go on. "You will forget, David, but there was once a boy whowould have remembered. "

"Timothy?" said he at once. He thinks Timothy was a real boy, and isvery jealous of him. He turned his back to me, and stood alone andwept passionately, while I waited for him. You may be sure I begged hispardon, and made it all right with him, and had him laughing and happyagain before I let him go. But nevertheless what I said was true. Davidis not my boy, and he will forget. But Timothy would have remembered. 

XXIV. Barbara

Another shock was waiting for me farther down the story. 

For we had resumed our adventures, though we seldom saw Bailey now. Atlong intervals we met him on our way to or from the Gardens, and, ifthere was none from Pilkington's to mark him, methought he looked at ussomewhat longingly, as if beneath his real knickerbockers a morsel ofthe egg-shell still adhered. Otherwise he gave David a not unfriendlykick in passing, and called him "youngster. " That was about all. 

When Oliver disappeared from the life of the Gardens we had loftedhim out of the story, and did very well without him, extending ouroperations to the mainland, where they were on so vast a scale that wewere rapidly depopulating the earth. And then said David one day, "Shall we let Barbara in?"

We had occasionally considered the giving of Bailey's place to someother child of the Gardens, divers of David's year having soughtelection, even with bribes; but Barbara was new to me. 

"Who is she?" I asked. 

"She's my sister. "

You may imagine how I gaped. 

"She hasn't come yet, " David said lightly, "but she's coming. "

I was shocked, not perhaps so much shocked as disillusioned, for thoughI had always suspicioned Mary A---- as one who harboured the craziestambitions when she looked most humble, of such presumption as this I hadnever thought her capable. 

I wandered across the Broad Walk to have a look at Irene, and she waswearing an unmistakable air. It set me reflecting about Mary'shusband and his manner the last time we met, for though I have had noopportunity to say so, we still meet now and again, and he has evendined with me at the club. On these occasions the subject of Timothy isbarred, and if by any unfortunate accident Mary's name is mentioned, weimmediately look opposite ways and a silence follows, in which I feelsure he is smiling, and wonder what the deuce he is smiling at. Iremembered now that I had last seen him when I was dining with him athis club (for he is become member of a club of painter fellows, andMary is so proud of this that she has had it printed on his card), whenundoubtedly he had looked preoccupied. It had been the look, I saw now, of one who shared a guilty secret. 

As all was thus suddenly revealed to me I laughed unpleasantly atmyself, for, on my soul, I had been thinking well of Mary of late. Always foolishly inflated about David, she had been grudging him even tome during these last weeks, and I had forgiven her, putting it down to amother's love. I knew from the poor boy of unwonted treats she had beengiving him; I had seen her embrace him furtively in a public place, herevery act, in so far as they were known to me, had been a challenge towhoever dare assert that she wanted anyone but David. How could I, notbeing a woman, have guessed that she was really saying good-bye to him?

Reader, picture to yourself that simple little boy playing about thehouse at this time, on the understanding that everything was going onas usual. Have not his toys acquired a new pathos, especially the engineshe bought him yesterday?

Did you look him in the face, Mary, as you gave him that engine? I envyyou not your feelings, ma'am, when with loving arms he wrapped you roundfor it. That childish confidence of his to me, in which unwittingly hebetrayed you, indicates that at last you have been preparing him for thegreat change, and I suppose you are capable of replying to me that Davidis still happy, and even interested. But does he know from you what itreally means to him? Rather, I do believe, you are one who would notscruple to give him to understand that B (which you may yet find standsfor Benjamin) is primarily a gift for him. In your heart, ma'am, what doyou think of this tricking of a little boy?

Suppose David had known what was to happen before he came to you, areyou sure he would have come? Undoubtedly there is an unwritten compactin such matters between a mother and her first-born, and I desire topoint out to you that he never breaks it. Again, what will the otherboys say when they know? You are outside the criticism of the Gardens, but David is not. Faith, madam, I believe you would have been kinder towait and let him run the gauntlet at Pilkington's. 

You think your husband is a great man now because they are beginning totalk of his foregrounds and middle distances in the newspaper columnsthat nobody reads. I know you have bought him a velvet coat, and thathe has taken a large, airy and commodious studio in Mews Lane, where youare to be found in a soft material on first and third Wednesdays. Timesare changing, but shall I tell you a story here, just to let you seethat I am acquainted with it?

Three years ago a certain gallery accepted from a certain artist apicture which he and his wife knew to be monstrous fine. But no onespoke of the picture, no one wrote of it, and no one made an offer forit. Crushed was the artist, sorry for the denseness of connoisseurs washis wife, till the work was bought by a dealer for an anonymous client, and then elated were they both, and relieved also to discover that I wasnot the buyer. He came to me at once to make sure of this, and remainedto walk the floor gloriously as he told me what recognition means togentlemen of the artistic callings. O, the happy boy!

But months afterward, rummaging at his home in a closet that is usuallykept locked, he discovered the picture, there hidden away. His wifebacked into a corner and made trembling confession. How could she submitto see her dear's masterpiece ignored by the idiot public, and her dearhimself plunged into gloom thereby? She knew as well as he (for hadthey not been married for years?) how the artistic instinct hungersfor recognition, and so with her savings she bought the great workanonymously and stored it away in a closet. At first, I believe, the manraved furiously, but by-and-by he was on his knees at the feet of thislittle darling. You know who she was, Mary, but, bless me, I seem to bepraising you, and that was not the enterprise on which I set out. WhatI intended to convey was that though you can now venture on smallextravagances, you seem to be going too fast. Look at it how one may, this Barbara idea is undoubtedly a bad business. 

How to be even with her? I cast about for a means, and on my lucky day Idid conceive my final triumph over Mary, at which I have scarcely as yetdared to hint, lest by discovering it I should spoil my plot. For therehas been a plot all the time. 

For long I had known that Mary contemplated the writing of a book, myinformant being David, who, because I have published a little volumeon Military tactics, and am preparing a larger one on the same subject(which I shall never finish), likes to watch my methods of composition, how I dip, and so on, his desire being to help her. He may have donethis on his own initiative, but it is also quite possible that in herdesperation she urged him to it; he certainly implied that she hadtaken to book-writing because it must be easy if I could do it. Shealso informed him (very inconsiderately), that I did not print my booksmyself, and this lowered me in the eyes of David, for it was for theprinting he had admired me and boasted of me in the Gardens. 

"I suppose you didn't make the boxes neither, nor yet the labels, " hesaid to me in the voice of one shorn of belief in everything. 

I should say here that my literary labours are abstruse, the tokenwhereof is many rows of boxes nailed against my walls, each labelledwith a letter of the alphabet. When I take a note in A, I drop its intothe A box, and so on, much to the satisfaction of David, who likes todrop them in for me. I had now to admit that Wheeler & Gibb made theboxes. 

"But I made the labels myself, David. "

"They are not so well made as the boxes, " he replied. 

Thus I have reason to wish ill to Mary's work of imagination, as Ipresumed it to be, and I said to him with easy brutality, "Tell herabout the boxes, David, and that no one can begin a book until they areall full. That will frighten her. "

Soon thereafter he announced to me that she had got a box. 

"One box!" I said with a sneer. 

"She made it herself, " retorted David hotly. 

I got little real information from him about the work, partly becauseDavid loses his footing when he descends to the practical, and perhapsstill more because he found me unsympathetic. But when he blurted outthe title, "The Little White Bird, " I was like one who had read thebook to its last page. I knew at once that the white bird was the littledaughter Mary would fain have had. Somehow I had always known that shewould like to have a little daughter, she was that kind of woman, andso long as she had the modesty to see that she could not have one, Isympathised with her deeply, whatever I may have said about her book toDavid. 

In those days Mary had the loveliest ideas for her sad little book, andthey came to her mostly in the morning when she was only three-partsawake, but as she stepped out of bed they all flew away like startledbirds. I gathered from David that this depressed her exceedingly. 

Oh, Mary, your thoughts are much too pretty and holy to show themselvesto anyone but yourself. The shy things are hiding within you. If theycould come into the open they would not be a book, they would be littleBarbara. 

But that was not the message I sent her. "She will never be able towrite it, " I explained to David. "She has not the ability. Tell her Isaid that. "

I remembered now that for many months I had heard nothing of herambitious project, so I questioned David and discovered that it wasabandoned. He could not say why, nor was it necessary that he should, the trivial little reason was at once so plain to me. From that momentall my sympathy with Mary was spilled, and I searched for some means ofexulting over her until I found it. It was this. I decided, unknown evento David, to write the book "The Little White Bird, " of which she hadproved herself incapable, and then when, in the fulness of time, sheheld her baby on high, implying that she had done a big thing, I was tohold up the book. I venture to think that such a devilish revenge wasnever before planned and carried out. 

Yes, carried out, for this is the book, rapidly approaching completion. She and I are running a neck-and-neck race. 

I have also once more brought the story of David's adventures toan abrupt end. "And it really is the end this time, David, " I saidseverely. (I always say that. )

It ended on the coast of Patagonia, whither we had gone to shoot thegreat Sloth, known to be the largest of animals, though we found hissize to have been under-estimated. David, his father and I had flungour limbs upon the beach and were having a last pipe before turning in, while Mary, attired in barbaric splendour, sang and danced before us. It was a lovely evening, and we lolled manlike, gazing, well-content, atthe pretty creature. 

The night was absolutely still save for the roaring of the Sloths in thedistance. 

By-and-by Irene came to the entrance of our cave, where by the light ofher torch we could see her exploring a shark that had been harpooned byDavid earlier in the day. 

Everything conduced to repose, and a feeling of gentle peace crept overus, from which we were roused by a shrill cry. It was uttered by Irene, who came speeding to us, bearing certain articles, a watch, a pair ofboots, a newspaper, which she had discovered in the interior of theshark. What was our surprise to find in the newspaper intelligence ofthe utmost importance to all of us. It was nothing less than this, thebirth of a new baby in London to Mary. 

How strange a method had Solomon chosen of sending us the news. 

The bald announcement at once plunged us into a fever of excitement, andnext morning we set sail for England. Soon we came within sight of thewhite cliffs of Albion. Mary could not sit down for a moment, so hot wasshe to see her child. She paced the deck in uncontrollable agitation. 

"So did I!" cried David, when I had reached this point in the story. 

On arriving at the docks we immediately hailed a cab. 

"Never, David, " I said, "shall I forget your mother's excitement. Shekept putting her head out of the window and calling to the cabby to goquicker, quicker. How he lashed his horse! At last he drew up at yourhouse, and then your mother, springing out, flew up the steps and beatwith her hands upon the door. "

David was quite carried away by the reality of it. "Father has the key!"he screamed. 

"He opened the door, " I said grandly, "and your mother rushed in, andnext moment her Benjamin was in her arms. "

There was a pause. 

"Barbara, " corrected David. 

"Benjamin, " said I doggedly. 

"Is that a girl's name?"

"No, it's a boy's name. "

"But mother wants a girl, " he said, very much shaken. 

"Just like her presumption, " I replied testily. "It is to be a boy, David, and you can tell her I said so. "

He was in a deplorable but most unselfish state of mind. A boy wouldhave suited him quite well, but he put self aside altogether and waspertinaciously solicitous that Mary should be given her fancy. 

"Barbara, " he repeatedly implored me. 

"Benjamin, " I replied firmly. 

For long I was obdurate, but the time was summer, and at last I agreedto play him for it, a two-innings match. If he won it was to be a girl, and if I won it was to be a boy. 

XXV. The Cricket Match

I think there has not been so much on a cricket match since the day whenSir Horace Mann walked about Broad Ha'penny agitatedly cutting down thedaisies with his stick. And, be it remembered, the heroes of Hambledonplayed for money and renown only, while David was champion of a lady. Alady! May we not prettily say of two ladies? There were no spectators ofour contest except now and again some loiterer in the Gardens who littlethought what was the stake for which we played, but cannot we conceiveBarbara standing at the ropes and agitatedly cutting down the daisiesevery time David missed the ball? I tell you, this was the historicmatch of the Gardens. 

David wanted to play on a pitch near the Round Pond with which he isfamiliar, but this would have placed me at a disadvantage, so I insistedon unaccustomed ground, and we finally pitched stumps in the Figs. Wecould not exactly pitch stumps, for they are forbidden in the Gardens, but there are trees here and there which have chalk-marks on themthroughout the summer, and when you take up your position with a batnear one of these you have really pitched stumps. The tree we selectedis a ragged yew which consists of a broken trunk and one branch, andI viewed the ground with secret satisfaction, for it falls slightlyat about four yards' distance from the tree, and this exactly suits mystyle of bowling. 

I won the toss and after examining the wicket decided to take firstknock. As a rule when we play the wit at first flows free, but on thisoccasion I strode to the crease in an almost eerie silence. David hadtaken off his blouse and rolled up his shirt-sleeves, and his teeth wereset, so I knew he would begin by sending me down some fast ones. 

His delivery is underarm and not inelegant, but he sometimes tries around-arm ball, which I have seen double up the fielder at square leg. He has not a good length, but he varies his action bewilderingly, andhas one especially teasing ball which falls from the branches just asyou have stepped out of your ground to look for it. It was not, however, with his teaser that he bowled me that day. I had notched a three andtwo singles, when he sent me down a medium to fast which got me in twominds and I played back to it too late. Now, I am seldom out on a reallygrassy wicket for such a meagre score, and as David and I changed placeswithout a word, there was a cheery look on his face that I found verygalling. He ran in to my second ball and cut it neatly to the on for asingle, and off my fifth and sixth he had two pretty drives for three, both behind the wicket. This, however, as I hoped, proved the undoing ofhim, for he now hit out confidently at everything, and with his score atnine I beat him with my shooter. 

The look was now on my face. 

I opened my second innings by treating him with uncommon respect, forI knew that his little arm soon tired if he was unsuccessful, and thenwhen he sent me loose ones I banged him to the railings. What cared Ithough David's lips were twitching. 

When he ultimately got past my defence, with a jumpy one which brokeawkwardly from the off, I had fetched twenty-three so that he neededtwenty to win, a longer hand than he had ever yet made. As I gave himthe bat he looked brave, but something wet fell on my hand, and then asudden fear seized me lest David should not win. 

At the very outset, however, he seemed to master the bowling, and soonfetched about ten runs in a classic manner. Then I tossed him a Yorkerwhich he missed and it went off at a tangent as soon as it had reachedthe tree. "Not out, " I cried hastily, for the face he turned to me wasterrible. 

Soon thereafter another incident happened, which I shall always recallwith pleasure. He had caught the ball too high on the bat, and I justmissed the catch. "Dash it all!" said I irritably, and was about toresume bowling, when I noticed that he was unhappy. He hesitated, tookup his position at the wicket, and then came to me manfully. "I am acad, " he said in distress, "for when the ball was in the air I prayed. "He had prayed that I should miss the catch, and as I think I havealready told you, it is considered unfair in the Gardens to pray forvictory. 

My splendid David! He has the faults of other little boys, but he hasa noble sense of fairness. "We shall call it a no-ball, David, " I saidgravely. 

I suppose the suspense of the reader is now painful, and therefore Ishall say at once that David won the match with two lovely fours, theone over my head and the other to leg all along the ground. When I cameback from fielding this last ball I found him embracing his bat, andto my sour congratulations he could at first reply only with hystericalsounds. But soon he was pelting home to his mother with the gloriousnews. 

And that is how we let Barbara in. 

XXVI. The Dedication

It was only yesterday afternoon, dear reader, exactly three weeks afterthe birth of Barbara, that I finished the book, and even then it wasnot quite finished, for there remained the dedication, at which I setto elatedly. I think I have never enjoyed myself more; indeed, it is myopinion that I wrote the book as an excuse for writing the dedication. 

"Madam" (I wrote wittily), "I have no desire to exult over you, yet Ishould show a lamentable obtuseness to the irony of things were I notto dedicate this little work to you. For its inception was yours, andin your more ambitious days you thought to write the tale of the littlewhite bird yourself. Why you so early deserted the nest is not for meto inquire. It now appears that you were otherwise occupied. In fine, madam, you chose the lower road, and contented yourself with obtainingthe Bird. May I point out, by presenting you with this dedication, thatin the meantime I am become the parent of the Book? To you the shadow, to me the substance. Trusting that you will accept my little offering ina Christian spirit, I am, dear madam, " etc. 

It was heady work, for the saucy words showed their design plainlythrough the varnish, and I was re-reading in an ecstasy, when, withoutwarning, the door burst open and a little boy entered, dragging in afaltering lady. 

"Father, " said David, "this is mother. "

Having thus briefly introduced us, he turned his attention to theelectric light, and switched it on and off so rapidly that, as was veryfitting, Mary and I may be said to have met for the first time to theaccompaniment of flashes of lightning. I think she was arrayed in littleblue feathers, but if such a costume is not seemly, I swear there were, at least, little blue feathers in her too coquettish cap, and that shewas carrying a muff to match. No part of a woman is more dangerous thanher muff, and as muffs are not worn in early autumn, even by invalids, Isaw in a twink, that she had put on all her pretty things to wheedle me. I am also of opinion that she remembered she had worn blue in the dayswhen I watched her from the club-window. Undoubtedly Mary is an engaginglittle creature, though not my style. She was paler than is her wont, and had the touching look of one whom it would be easy to break. Idaresay this was a trick. Her skirts made music in my room, but perhapsthis was only because no lady had ever rustled in it before. It wasdisquieting to me to reflect that despite her obvious uneasiness, shewas a very artful woman. 

With the quickness of David at the switch, I slipped a blotting-padover the dedication, and then, "Pray be seated, " I said coldly, but sheremained standing, all in a twitter and very much afraid of me, and Iknow that her hands were pressed together within the muff. Had therebeen any dignified means of escape, I think we would both have taken it. 

"I should not have come, " she said nervously, and then seemed to waitfor some response, so I bowed. 

"I was terrified to come, indeed I was, " she assured me with obvioussincerity. 

"But I have come, " she finished rather baldly. 

"It is an epitome, ma'am, " said I, seeing my chance, "of your wholelife, " and with that I put her into my elbow-chair. 

She began to talk of my adventures with David in the Gardens, and ofsome little things I have not mentioned here, that I may have done forher when I was in a wayward mood, and her voice was as soft as her muff. She had also an affecting way of pronouncing all her r's as w's, just asthe fairies do. "And so, " she said, "as you would not come to me to bethanked, I have come to you to thank you. " Whereupon she thanked me mostabominably. She also slid one of her hands out of the muff, and thoughshe was smiling her eyes were wet. 

"Pooh, ma'am, " said I in desperation, but I did not take her hand. 

"I am not very strong yet, " she said with low cunning. She said this tomake me take her hand, so I took it, and perhaps I patted it a little. Then I walked brusquely to the window. The truth is, I begun to thinkuncomfortably of the dedication. 

I went to the window because, undoubtedly, it would be easier to addressher severely from behind, and I wanted to say something that would stingher. 

"When you have quite done, ma'am, " I said, after a long pause, "perhapsyou will allow me to say a word. "

I could see the back of her head only, but I knew, from David's face, that she had given him a quick look which did not imply that she wasstung. Indeed I felt now, as I had felt before, that though shewas agitated and in some fear of me, she was also enjoying herselfconsiderably. 

In such circumstances I might as well have tried to sting a sand-bank, so I said, rather off my watch, "If I have done all this for you, whydid I do it?"

She made no answer in words, but seemed to grow taller in the chair, sothat I could see her shoulders, and I knew from this that she was nowholding herself conceitedly and trying to look modest. "Not a bit of it, ma'am, " said I sharply, "that was not the reason at all. "

I was pleased to see her whisk round, rather indignant at last. 

"I never said it was, " she retorted with spirit, "I never thought fora moment that it was. " She added, a trifle too late in the story, "Besides, I don't know what you are talking of. "

I think I must have smiled here, for she turned from me quickly, andbecame quite little in the chair again. 

"David, " said I mercilessly, "did you ever see your mother blush?"

"What is blush?"

"She goes a beautiful pink colour. "

David, who had by this time broken my connection with the head office, crossed to his mother expectantly. 

"I don't, David, " she cried. 

"I think, " said I, "she will do it now, " and with the instinct of agentleman I looked away. Thus I cannot tell what happened, but presentlyDavid exclaimed admiringly, "Oh, mother, do it again!"

As she would not, he stood on the fender to see in the mantel-glasswhether he could do it himself, and then Mary turned a most candid faceon me, in which was maternity rather than reproach. Perhaps no lookgiven by woman to man affects him quite so much. "You see, " she saidradiantly and with a gesture that disclosed herself to me, "I canforgive even that. You long ago earned the right to hurt me if you wantto. "

It weaned me of all further desire to rail at Mary, and I felt anuncommon drawing to her. 

"And if I did think that for a little while--, " she went on, with anunsteady smile. 

"Think what?" I asked, but without the necessary snap. 

"What we were talking of, " she replied wincing, but forgiving me again. "If I once thought that, it was pretty to me while it lasted and itlasted but a little time. I have long been sure that your kindness to mewas due to some other reason. "

"Ma'am, " said I very honestly, "I know not what was the reason. Myconcern for you was in the beginning a very fragile and even a selfishthing, yet not altogether selfish, for I think that what first stirredit was the joyous sway of the little nursery governess as she walkeddown Pall Mall to meet her lover. It seemed such a mighty fine thing toyou to be loved that I thought you had better continue to be loved for alittle longer. And perhaps having helped you once by dropping a letterI was charmed by the ease with which you could be helped, for you mustknow that I am one who has chosen the easy way for more than twentyyears. "

She shook her head and smiled. "On my soul, " I assured her, "I can thinkof no other reason. "

"A kind heart, " said she. 

"More likely a whim, " said I. 

"Or another woman, " said she. 

I was very much taken aback. 

"More than twenty years ago, " she said with a soft huskiness in hervoice, and a tremor and a sweetness, as if she did not know that intwenty years all love stories are grown mouldy. 

On my honour as a soldier this explanation of my early solicitude forMary was one that had never struck me, but the more I pondered it now--. I raised her hand and touched it with my lips, as we whimsical oldfellows do when some gracious girl makes us to hear the key in the lockof long ago. "Why, ma'am, " I said, "it is a pretty notion, and there maybe something in it. Let us leave it at that. "

But there was still that accursed dedication, lying, you remember, beneath the blotting-pad. I had no longer any desire to crush her withit. I wished that she had succeeded in writing the book on which herlongings had been so set. 

"If only you had been less ambitious, " I said, much troubled that sheshould be disappointed in her heart's desire. 

"I wanted all the dear delicious things, " she admitted contritely. 

"It was unreasonable, " I said eagerly, appealing to her intellect. "Especially this last thing. "

"Yes, " she agreed frankly, "I know. " And then to my amazement she addedtriumphantly, "But I got it. "

I suppose my look admonished her, for she continued apologetically butstill as if she really thought hers had been a romantic career, "I knowI have not deserved it, but I got it. "

"Oh, ma'am, " I cried reproachfully, "reflect. You have not got the greatthing. " I saw her counting the great things in her mind, her wondroushusband and his obscure success, David, Barbara, and the other triflingcontents of her jewel-box. 

"I think I have, " said she. 

"Come, madam, " I cried a little nettled, "you know that there is lackingthe one thing you craved for most of all. "

Will you believe me that I had to tell her what it was? And when I hadtold her she exclaimed with extraordinary callousness, "The book? Ihad forgotten all about the book!" And then after reflection she added, "Pooh!" Had she not added Pooh I might have spared her, but as it wasI raised the blotting-pad rather haughtily and presented her with thesheet beneath it. 

"What is this?" she asked. 

"Ma'am, " said I, swelling, "it is a Dedication, " and I walkedmajestically to the window. 

There is no doubt that presently I heard an unexpected sound. Yet ifindeed it had been a laugh she clipped it short, for in almost thesame moment she was looking large-eyed at me and tapping my sleeveimpulsively with her fingers, just as David does when he suddenly likesyou. 

"How characteristic of you, " she said at the window. 

"Characteristic, " I echoed uneasily. "Ha!"

"And how kind. "

"Did you say kind, ma'am?"

"But it is I who have the substance and you who have the shadow, as youknow very well, " said she. 

Yes, I had always known that this was the one flaw in my dedication, but how could I have expected her to have the wit to see it? I was verydepressed. 

"And there is another mistake, " said she. 

"Excuse me, ma'am, but that is the only one. "

"It was never of my little white bird I wanted to write, " she said. 

I looked politely incredulous, and then indeed she overwhelmed me. "Itwas of your little white bird, " she said, "it was of a little boy whosename was Timothy. "

She had a very pretty way of saying Timothy, so David and I went intoanother room to leave her alone with the manuscript of this poor littlebook, and when we returned she had the greatest surprise of the day forme. She was both laughing and crying, which was no surprise, for all ofus would laugh and cry over a book about such an interesting subjectas ourselves, but said she, "How wrong you are in thinking this book isabout me and mine, it is really all about Timothy. "

At first I deemed this to be uncommon nonsense, but as I considered Isaw that she was probably right again, and I gazed crestfallen at thisvery clever woman. 

"And so, " said she, clapping her hands after the manner of David when hemakes a great discovery, "it proves to be my book after all. "

"With all your pretty thoughts left out, " I answered, properly humbled. 

She spoke in a lower voice as if David must not hear. "I had onlyone pretty thought for the book, " she said, "I was to give it a happyending. " She said this so timidly that I was about to melt to her whenshe added with extraordinary boldness, "The little white bird was tobear an olive-leaf in its mouth. "

For a long time she talked to me earnestly of a grand scheme on whichshe had set her heart, and ever and anon she tapped on me as if to getadmittance for her ideas. I listened respectfully, smiling at this youngthing for carrying it so motherly to me, and in the end I had to remindher that I was forty-seven years of age. 

"It is quite young for a man, " she said brazenly. 

"My father, " said I, "was not forty-seven when he died, and I rememberthinking him an old man. "

"But you don't think so now, do you?" she persisted, "you feel youngoccasionally, don't you? Sometimes when you are playing with David inthe Gardens your youth comes swinging back, does it not?"

"Mary A----, " I cried, grown afraid of the woman, "I forbid you to makeany more discoveries to-day. "

But still she hugged her scheme, which I doubt not was what had broughther to my rooms. "They are very dear women, " said she coaxingly. 

"I am sure, " I said, "they must be dear women if they are friends ofyours. "

"They are not exactly young, " she faltered, "and perhaps they are notvery pretty--"

But she had been reading so recently about the darling of my youth thatshe halted abashed at last, feeling, I apprehend, a stop in her mindagainst proposing this thing to me, who, in those presumptuous days, hadthought to be content with nothing less than the loveliest lady in allthe land. 

My thoughts had reverted also, and for the last time my eyes saw thelittle hut through the pine wood haze. I met Mary there, and we cameback to the present together. 

I have already told you, reader, that this conversation took place nolonger ago than yesterday. 

"Very well, ma'am, " I said, trying to put a brave face on it, "I willcome to your tea-parties, and we shall see what we shall see. "

It was really all she had asked for, but now that she had got what shewanted of me the foolish soul's eyes became wet, she knew so well thatthe youthful romances are the best. 

It was now my turn to comfort her. "In twenty years, " I said, smilingat her tears, "a man grows humble, Mary. I have stored within me a greatfund of affection, with nobody to give it to, and I swear to you, on theword of a soldier, that if there is one of those ladies who can be gotto care for me I shall be very proud. " Despite her semblance of delightI knew that she was wondering at me, and I wondered at myself, but itwas true.