A GREAT EMERGENCY AND OTHER TALES. 

by

JULIANA HORATIA EWING

London:Society for Promoting Christian Knowledge, Northumberland Avenue, W. C. Brighton: 129, North Street. New York: E. & J. B. Young & Co. [Published under the direction of the General Literature Committee. ]

DEDICATED TO

JOHN, LORD BISHOP OF FREDERICTON, AND TO HIS DEAR WIFE

MARGARET, IN PLEASANT AND GRATEFUL MEMORY OF

NEW BRUNSWICK, BY J. H. E. 

CONTENTS. 

A GREAT EMERGENCY. 

I. Rupert's Lectures--The Old Yellow LeatherBook

II. Henrietta--A Family Chronicle--The SchoolMimic--My First Fight

III. School Cricket--Lemon-Kali--The Boys'Bridge--An Unexpected Emergency

IV. A Doubtful Blessing--A Family Failing--OldBattles--The Canal-Carrier's Home

V. The Navy Captain--Seven Parrots in a FuchsiaTree--The Harbour Lion and the SilverChain--The Legless Giants--Down Below--Johnson'sWharf

VI. S. Philip and S. James--The Monkey-Bargeand the Dog--War, Plague, and Fire--TheDulness of Everyday Life

VII. We Resolve to Run Away--Scruples--BabyCecil--I Prepare--I Run Away

VIII. We Go on Board--The Pie--An Explosion-Mr. Rowe the Barge-Master--The _WhiteLion_--Two Letters--We Doubt Mr. Rowe'sGood Faith

IX. A Coasting Voyage--Musk Island--LinnetFlash--Mr. Rowe an Old Tar--The Dog-Fancierat Home

X. Locks--We Think of Going on the Tramp--Pyebridge--WeSet Sail

XI. Mr. Rowe on Barge-Women--The River--NineElms--A Mysterious Noise--RoughQuarters--A Cheap Supper--John's Berth--WeMake Our Escape--Out into theWorld

XII. Emergencies and Policemen--FenchurchStreet Station--Third Class to CustomHouse--A Ship Forest

XIII. A Dirty Street--A Bad Boy--Shipping andMerchandise--We Stowaway on Board the'Atalanta'--A Salt Tear

XIV. A Glow on the Horizon--A Fantastic Peal--WhatI Saw when the Roof Fell In

XV. Henrietta's Diary--A Great Emergency

XVI. Mr. Rowe on the Subject--Our Cousin--WestonGets Into Print--The Harbour'sMouth--What Lies Beyond

A VERY ILL-TEMPERED FAMILY. 

I. A Family Failing

II. Ill-Tempered People and Their Friends--NarrowEscapes--The Hatchet-Quarrel

III. Warnings--My Aunt Isobel--Mr. Rampant'sTemper, and His Conscience

IV. Cases of Conscience--Ethics of Ill-Temper

V. Celestial Fire--I Choose a Text

VI. Theatrical Properties--I Prepare a Play--PhilipBegins to Prepare the Scenery--ANew Friend

VII. A Quarrel--Bobby is Willing--Exit Philip

VIII. I Hear from Philip--A New Part Wanted--ILose My Temper--We All Lose OurTempers

IX. Self-Reproach--Family Discomfort--Out onthe Marsh--Victory

 * * * * *

OUR FIELD

 * * * * *

MADAM LIBERALITY. 

PART I

PART II

A GREAT EMERGENCY. 

CHAPTER I. 

RUPERT'S LECTURES--THE OLD YELLOW LEATHER BOOK. 

We were very happy--I, Rupert, Henrietta, and Baby Cecil. The onlything we found fault with in our lives was that there were so fewevents in them. 

It was particularly provoking, because we were so well prepared forevents--any events. Rupert prepared us. He had found a fat old book inthe garret, bound in yellow leather, at the end of which were"Directions how to act with presence of mind in any emergency;" and hegave lectures out of this in the kitchen garden. 

Rupert was twelve years old. He was the eldest. Then came Henrietta, then I, and last of all Baby Cecil, who was only four. The day I wasnine years old, Rupert came into the nursery, holding up his handsomehead with the dignified air which became him so well, that I had morethan once tried to put it on myself before the nursery looking-glass, and said to me, "You are quite old enough now, Charlie, to learn whatto do whatever happens; so every half-holiday, when I am not playingcricket, I'll teach you presence of mind near the cucumber frame, ifyou're punctual. I've put up a bench. "

I thanked him warmly, and the next day he put his head into thenursery at three o'clock in the afternoon, and said--"The lecture. "

I jumped up, and so did Henrietta. 

"It's not for girls, " said Rupert; "women are not expected to dothings when there's danger. "

"_We_ take care of _them_" said I, wondering if my mouth looked likeRupert's when I spoke, and whether my manner impressed Henrietta asmuch as his impressed me. She sat down again and only said, "I stayedin all Friday afternoon, and worked in bed on Saturday morning tofinish your net. "

"Come along, " said Rupert. "You know I'm very much obliged to you forthe net; it's a splendid one. "

"I'll bring a camp-stool if there's not room on the bench, " saidHenrietta cheerfully. 

"People never take camp-stools to lectures, " said Rupert, and when wegot to the cucumber frame we found that the old plank, which he hadraised on inverted flower-pots, would have held a much larger audiencethan he had invited. Opposite to it was a rhubarb-pot, with the roundtop of a barrel resting on it. On this stood a glass of water. Adelightful idea thrilled through me, suggested by an imperfectremembrance of a lecture on chemistry which I had attended. 

"Will there be experiments?" I whispered. 

"I think not, " Henrietta replied. "There are glasses of water at themissionary meetings, and there are no experiments. "

Meanwhile Rupert had been turning over the leaves of the yellowleather book. To say the truth, I think he was rather nervous; but ifwe have a virtue among us it is that of courage; and after droppingthe book twice, and drinking all the water at a draught, he found hisplace, and began. 

"_How to act in an emergency_. "

"What's an emergency?" I asked. I was very proud of being taught byRupert, and anxious to understand everything as we went along. 

"You shouldn't interrupt, " said Rupert, frowning. I am inclined now tothink that he could not answer my question off-hand; for though helooked cross then, after referring to the book he answered me: "It's afire, or drowning, or an apoplectic fit, or anything of that sort. "After which explanation, he hurried on. If what he said next came outof his own head, or whether he had learned it by heart, I never knew. 

"There is no stronger sign of good-breeding than presence of mind inan--"

"--apoplectic fit, " I suggested. I was giving the keenest attention, and Rupert had hesitated, the wind having blown over a leaf too manyof the yellow leather book. 

"An _emergency_, " he shouted, when he had found his place. "Now we'llhave one each time. The one for to-day is--How to act in a case ofdrowning. "

To speak the strict truth, I would rather not have thought aboutdrowning. I had my own private horror over a neighbouring mill-dam, and I had once been very much frightened by a spring-tide at the sea;but cowardice is not an indulgence for one of my race, so I screwed upmy lips and pricked my ears to learn my duty in the unpleasantemergency of drowning. 

"It doesn't mean being drowned yourself, " Rupert continued, "but whatto do when another person has been drowned. "

The emergency was undoubtedly easier, and I gave a cheerful attentionas Rupert began to question us. 

"Supposing a man had been drowned in the canal, and was broughtashore, and you were the only people there, what would you do withhim?"

I was completely nonplussed. "I felt quite sure I could do nothingwith him, he would be so heavy; but I felt equally certain that thiswas not the answer which Rupert expected, so I left the question toHenrietta's readier wit. She knitted her thick eyebrows for someminutes, partly with perplexity, and partly because of the sunshinereflected from the cucumber frame, and then said, "We should bury him in a vault; Charlie and I _couldn't_ dig a gravedeep enough. "

I admired Henrietta's foresight, but Rupert was furious. 

"How _silly_ you are!" he exclaimed, knocking over the top of therhubarb-pot table and the empty glass in his wrath. "Of course I don'tmean a dead man. I mean what would you do to bring a partly drownedman to life again?"

"That wasn't what you _said_, " cried Henrietta, tossing her head. 

"I let you come to my lecture, " grumbled Rupert bitterly, as hestooped to set his table right, "and this is the way you behave!"

"I'm very sorry, Rupert dear!" said Henrietta. "Indeed, I only mean todo my best, and I do like your lecture so very much!"

"So do I, " I cried, "very, very much!" And by a simultaneous impulseHenrietta and I both clapped our hands vehemently. This restoredRupert's self-complacency, and he bowed and continued the lecture. From this we learned that the drowned man should be turned over on hisface to let the canal water run out of his mouth and ears, and thathis wet clothes should be got off, and he should be made dry and warmas quickly as possible, and placed in a comfortable position, with thehead and shoulders slightly raised. All this seemed quite feasible tous. Henrietta had dressed and undressed lots of dolls, and I picturedmyself filling a hot-water bottle at the kitchen boiler with an air ofresponsibility that should scare all lighter-minded folk. But thedirections for "restoring breathing" troubled our sincere desire tolearn; and this even though Henrietta practised for weeks afterwardsupon me. I represented the drowned man, and she drew my arms above myhead for "_inspiration_, " and counted "one, two;" and doubled them anddrove them back for "_expiration_;" but it tickled, and I laughed, andwe could not feel at all sure that it would have made the drowned manbreathe again. 

Meanwhile Rupert went on with the course of lectures, and taught ushow to behave in the event of a fire in the house, an epidemic in theneighbourhood, a bite from a mad dog, a chase by a mad bull, brokenlimbs, runaway horses, a chimney on fire, or a young lady burning todeath. The lectures were not only delightful in themselves, but theyfurnished us with a whole set of new games, for Henrietta and Izealously practised every emergency as far as the nature of thingswould allow. Covering our faces with wet cloths to keep off the smoke, we crept on our hands and knees to rescue a fancy cripple from animaginary burning house, because of the current of air which Ruperttold us was to be found near the floor. We fastened Baby Cecil's leftleg to his right by pocket-handkerchiefs at the ankle, and above andbelow the knee, pretending that it was broken, and must be kept steadytill we could convey him to the doctor. But for some unexplainedreason Baby Cecil took offence at this game, and I do not think hecould have howled and roared louder under the worst of real compoundfractures. We had done it so skilfully, that we were greatly disgustedby his unaccommodating spirit, and his obstinate refusal to be putinto the litter we had made out of Henrietta's stilts and a railwayrug. We put the Scotch terrier in instead; but when one end of thelitter gave way and he fell out, we were not sorry that the emergencywas a fancy one, and that no broken limbs were really dependent uponour well-meant efforts. 

There was one thing about Rupert's lectures which disappointed me. Hisemergencies were all things that happened in the daytime. Now I shouldnot have liked the others to know that I was ever afraid of anything;but, really and truly, I was sometimes a little frightened--not ofbreaking my leg, or a house on fire, or an apoplectic fit, or anythingof that sort, but--of things in the dark. Every half-holiday I hopedthere would be something about what to do with robbers or ghosts, butthere never was. I do not think there can have been any emergencies ofthat kind in the yellow leather book. 

On the whole, I fancy Rupert found us satisfactory pupils, for henever did give up the lectures in a huff, though he sometimesthreatened to do so, when I asked stupid questions, or Henriettaargued a point. 

CHAPTER II. 

HENRIETTA--A FAMILY CHRONICLE--THE SCHOOL MIMIC--MY FIRST FIGHT. 

Henrietta often argued points, which made Rupert very angry. He saidthat even if she were in the right, that had nothing to do with it, for girls oughtn't to dispute or discuss. And then Henrietta arguedthat point too. 

Rupert and Henrietta often squabbled, and always about the same sortof thing. I am sure he would have been _very_ kind to her if she wouldhave agreed with him, and done what he wanted. He often told me thatthe gentlemen of our family had always been courteous to women, and Ithink he would have done anything for Henrietta if it had not beenthat she would do everything for herself. 

When we wanted to vex her very much, we used to call her "Monkey, "because we knew she liked to be like a boy. She persuaded Mother tolet her have her boots made like ours, because she said the roadswere so rough and muddy (which they are). And we found two of herbooks with her name written in, and she had put "Henry, " and Rupertwrote Etta after it, and "Monkey" after that. So she tore the leavesout. Her hair was always coming out of curl. It was very dark, andwhen it fell into her eyes she used to give her head a peculiar shakeand toss, so that half of it fell the wrong way, and there was aparting at the side, like our partings. Nothing made Rupert angrierthan this. 

Henrietta was very good at inventing things. Once she invented acharade quite like a story. Rupert was very much pleased with it, because he was to act the hero, who was to be a young cavalier of avery old family--our family. He was to arrive at an inn; Henriettamade it the real old inn in the middle of the town, and I was theinnkeeper, with Henrietta's pillow to make me fat, and one of Nurse'sclean aprons. Then he was to ask to spend a night in the old Castle, and Henrietta made that the real Castle, which was about nine milesoff, and which belonged to our cousin, though he never spoke to us. And a ghost was to appear. The ghost of the ancestor in the miniaturein Mother's bedroom. Henrietta did the ghost in a white sheet; andwith her hair combed, and burnt-cork moustache, she looked so exactlylike the picture that Rupert started when she came in, and stared;and Mother said he had acted splendidly. 

Henrietta was wonderfully like the picture. Much more like than Rupertever was, which rather vexed him, because that ancestor was one of thevery bravest, and his name was Rupert. He was rather vexed, too, whenshe rode the pony bare-backed which had kicked him off. But I thinkthe pony was fonder of Henrietta, which perhaps made it easier for herto manage it. She used to feed it with bits of bread. It got them outof her pocket. 

One of the things Henrietta could not do as well as Rupert wascricket. Rupert was one of the best players in the school. Henriettaused to want to play with us at home, and she and I did play for abit, before breakfast, in the drying ground; but Rupert said, if Iencouraged her in being unladylike, he would not let me come to theschool matches. He said I might take my choice, and play either withgirls or boys, but not with both. But I thought it would be very meanto leave Henrietta in the lurch. So I told her I would stick by her, as Rupert had not actually forbidden me. He had given me my choice, and he always kept his word. But she would not let me. She pretendedthat she did not mind; but I know she did, for I could see afterwardsthat she had been crying. However, she would not play, and Mothersaid she had much rather she did not, as she was so afraid of hergetting hit by the ball. So that settled it, and I was very glad notto have to give up going to the school matches. 

The school we went to was the old town grammar school. It was a veryfamous one; but it was not so expensive as big public schools are, andI believe this was why we lived in this town after my father's death, for Mother was not at all rich. 

The grammar school was very large, and there were all sorts of boysthere--some of gentlemen, and tradesmen, and farmers. Some of the boyswere so very dirty, and had such horrid habits out of school, thatwhen Rupert was thirteen, and I was ten, he called a council at thebeginning of the half, and a lot of the boys formed a committee, anddrew up the code of honour, and we all subscribed to it. 

The code of honour was to forbid a lot of things that had been verycommon in the school. Lying, cheating over bargains, telling tales, bragging, bad language, and what the code called "conduct unbecomingschoolfellows and gentlemen. " There were a lot of rules in it, too, about clean nails, and shirts, and collars and socks, and things ofthat sort. If any boy refused to agree to it, he had to fight withThomas Johnson. 

There could not have been a better person than Rupert to make a codeof honour. We have always been taught that honour was the watch-wordof our family--dearer than anything that could be gained or lost, verymuch dearer than mere life. The motto of our arms came from anancestor who lost the favour of the King by refusing to do somethingagainst his conscience for which he would have been rewarded. It is"Honour before honours. "

I can just remember the man, with iron-grey hair and gold spectacles, who came to our house after my father's death. I think he was alawyer. He took lots of snuff, so that Henrietta sneezed when hekissed her, which made her very angry. He put Rupert and me in frontof him, to see which of us was most like my father, and I can recallthe big pinch of snuff he took, and the sound of his voice saying "Belike your father, boys! He was as good as he was gallant. And therenever lived a more honourable gentleman. "

Every one said the same. We were very proud of it, and always boastedabout our father to the new nursemaids, or any other suitable hearer. I was a good deal annoyed by one little maid, who when I told her, over our nursery tea, that my father had been the most honourable ofmen, began to cry about her father, who was dead too, and said he was"just the same; for in the one and twenty years he kept apublic-house, he never put so much as a pinch of salt into the beer, nor even a gill of water, unless it was in the evening at fair-time, when the only way to keep the men from fighting was to give them theirliquor so that it could not do them much harm. " I was very muchoffended by the comparison of _my_ father, who was an officer and agentleman of rank, with _her_ father, who was a village publican; butI should like to say, that I think now that I was wrong and Jane wasright. If her father gave up profit for principle, he _was_ like myfather, and like the ancestor we get the motto from, and like everyother honourable man, of any rank or any trade. 

Every time I boasted in the nursery of my father being so honourable, I always finished my saying, that that was why he had the wordHonourable before his name, as men in old times used to be called "theGood" or "the Lion Heart. " The nursemaids quite believed it, and Ibelieved it myself, till the first week I went to school. 

It makes me hot all over to remember what I suffered that week, andfor long, afterwards. But I think it cured me of bragging, which is amean ungentlemanly habit, and of telling everybody everything aboutmyself and my relations, which is very weak-minded. 

The second day I was there, one of the boys came up to me and said, with a mock ceremony and politeness which unfortunately took me in, "If I am not mistaken, sir, that esteemed lady, your mother, is anHonourable?"

He was nearly five years older than I; his name was Weston; he had athin cadaverous face, a very large nose, and a very melancholyexpression. I found out afterwards that he was commonly called "theclown, " and was considered by boys who had been to the London theatresto surpass the best professional comic actors when he chose to putforth his powers. I did not know this then. I thought him a littleformal, but particularly courteous in his manner, and not wishing tobe behindhand in politeness, I replied, with as much of his style as Icould assume, "Certainly, sir. But that is because my father was anHonourable. My father, sir, was the most honourable of men. "

A slight spasm appeared to pass over Weston's face, and then hecontinued the conversation in a sadder tone than the subject seemed torequire, but I supposed that this was due to his recalling that myfather was dead. 

I confess that it did not need many leading inquiries to draw from mesuch a narrative of my father's valour and high principle, as well asthe noble sentiments and conspicuous bravery which have marked ourfamily from Saxon times, as I was well accustomed to pour forth forthe edification of our nursemaids. I had not proceeded far, when mynew friend said, "Won't you walk in and take a seat?" It wasrecreation time, and the other boys were all out in the playground. Ihad no special friend as yet; Rupert had stuck to me all the firstday, and had now left me to find my own level. I had lingered near thedoor as we came out, and there Weston had joined me. He now led meback into the deserted school-room, and we sat down together on an oldblack oak locker, at the bottom of the room. 

How well I remember the scene! The dirty floor, the empty benches, thetorn books sprinkled upon the battered desks, the dusty sunshinestreaming in, the white-faced clock on the wall opposite, over whichthe hands moved with almost incredible rapidity. But when does timeever fly so fast as with people who are talking about themselves ortheir relations?

Once the mathematical master passed through the room. He glanced at uscuriously, but Weston's face was inscrutable, and I--tracing somesurprise that I should have secured so old and so fine-mannered a boyfor a friend--held up my head, and went on with my narrative, asfluently as I could, to show that I had parts which justified Westonin his preference. 

Tick, tack! went the clock. Click, clack! went my tongue. I fear thatquite half-an-hour must have passed, when a big boy, with an openface, blue eyes, and closely curling fair hair, burst in. On seeing ushe exclaimed, "Hulloh!" and then stopped, I suspect in obedience toWeston's eyes, which met his in a brief but expressive gaze. ThenWeston turned to me. 

"Allow me, " said he, "to introduce Mr. Thomas Johnson. He bears a veryhigh character in this school, and it will afford him the keenestsatisfaction to hear an authentic account of such a man as youresteemed father, whose character should be held up for the imitationof young gentlemen in every establishment for the education of youth. "

I blushed with pride and somewhat with nervousness as Mr. ThomasJohnson seated himself on the locker on the other side of me andbegged (with less elegance of expression than my first friend) that Iwould "go ahead. "

I did so. But a very few minutes exhausted the patience of my newhearer. When he had kicked a loose splinter of wood satisfactorily offthe leg of one of the desks he began to look at the clock, whichquickened my pace from my remoter ancestors to what the colonel of theregiment in which my father was an ensign had said of him. I completedmy narrative at last with the lawyer's remark, and added, "andeverybody says the same. And _that_ is why my father had '_TheHonourable_' before his name, just as--" &c. , &c. 

I had no sooner uttered these words than Johnson started from hisseat, and, covering his face with a spotted silk pocket-handkerchief, rushed precipitately from the school-room. For one brief instant Ifancied I heard him choking with laughter, but when I turned to Westonhe got up too, with a look of deep concern. "Mr. Johnson is taken veryunwell, I fear, " said he. "It is a peculiar kind of spasm to which heis subject. Excuse me!"

He hurried anxiously after his friend, and I was left alone in theschool-room, into which the other boys shortly began to pour. 

"Have you been all alone, old fellow?" said Rupert kindly; "I hopedyou had picked up a chum. "

"So I have, " was my proud reply; "two chums. "

"I hope they're decent fellows, " said Rupert. (He had a most pestilenttrick of perpetually playing monitor, to the wet-blanketing of allgood fellowship. )

"You know best, " said I pertly; "it's Weston and Johnson. We've beentogether a long time. "

"Weston?" cried Rupert. "I hope to goodness, Charlie, you've not beenplaying the fool?"

"You can ask them, " said I, and tossing my head I went to my properplace. 

For the rest of school-time I wore a lofty and Rupert an anxiousdemeanour. Secure on the level of a higher friendship, I was meanenough to snub the friendly advances of one or two of the youngerboys. 

When we went home at night, I found my mother much more ready thanRupert to believe that my merits had gained for me the regard of twoof the upper boys. I was exultingly happy. Not a qualm disturbed thewaking dreams in which (after I was in bed) I retold my family tale ateven greater length than before, except that I remembered one or twoincidents, which in the excitement of the hour I had forgotten when inschool. 

I was rather sorry, too, that, bound by the strictest of injunctionsfrom Rupert and my own promise, I had not been able, ever so casually, to make my new friends aware that among my other advantages was thatof being first cousin to a peer, the very one who lived at the Castle. The Castle was a show place, and I knew that many of my schoolfellowswere glad enough to take their friends and go themselves to be shownby the housekeeper the pictures of _my_ ancestors. On this point theycertainly had an advantage over me. I had not seen the pictures. Ourcousin never called on us, and never asked us to the Castle, and ofcourse we could not go to our father's old home like commonholiday-making townspeople. 

I would rather not say very much about the next day. It must seemalmost incredible that I could have failed to see that Weston andJohnson were making fun of me; and I confess that it was not for wantof warnings that I had made a fool of myself. 

I had looked forward to going to school with about equal measures ofdelight and dread; my pride and ambition longed for this first step inlife, but Rupert had filled me with a wholesome awe of its stringentetiquette, its withering ridicule, and unsparing severities. However, in his anxiety to make me modest and circumspect, I think he ratherover-painted the picture, and when I got through the first day withoutbeing bullied, and made such creditable friends on the second, I beganto think that Rupert's experience of school life must be due to somelack of those social and conversational powers with which I seemed tobe better endowed. And then Weston's acting would have deceived awiser head than mine. And the nursemaids had always listened sowillingly!

As it happened, Rupert was unwell next day and could not go toschool. He was obviously afraid of my going alone, but I had no fears. My self-satisfaction was not undone till playtime. Then not a boydispersed to games. They all gathered round Weston in the playground, and with a confident air I also made my way to his side. As he turnedhis face to me I was undeceived. 

Weston was accustomed--at such times as suited his caprice and hisresources--to give exhibitions of his genius for mimicry to the restof the boys. I had heard from Rupert of these entertainments, whichwere much admired by the school. They commonly consisted of funnydialogues between various worthies of the place well known toeverybody, which made Weston's audience able to judge of the accuracyof his imitations. From the head-master to the idiot who blew theorgan bellows in church, every inhabitant of the place who was giftedwith any recognizable peculiarity was personated at one time oranother by the wit of our school. The favourite imitation of all wassupposed to be one of the Dialogues of Plato, "omitted by some strangeover-sight in, the edition which graces the library of our learned andrespected doctor, " Weston would say with profound gravity. TheDialogue was between Dr. Jessop and Silly Billy--the idiot alreadyreferred to--and the apposite Latin quotations of the head-master andhis pompous English, with the inapposite replies of the organ-blower, given in the local dialect and Billy's own peculiar jabber, weresupposed to form a masterpiece of mimicry. 

Little did I think that my family chronicle was to supply Weston witha new field for his talents!

In the midst of my shame, I could hardly help admiring the clever wayin which he had remembered all the details, and twisted them into acomic ballad, which he had composed overnight, and which he nowrecited with a mock heroic air and voice, which made every point tell, and kept the boys in convulsions of laughter. Not a smile crossed hislong, lantern-jawed face; but Mr. Thomas Johnson made no effort thistime to hide a severe fit of his peculiar spasms in his spottedhandkerchief. 

Sometimes--at night--in the very bottom of my own heart, when thedarkness seemed thick with horrors, and when I could not make up mymind whether to keep my ears strained to catch the first sound ofanything dreadful, or to pull the blankets over my head and run therisk of missing it, --in such moments, I say, I have had a passingprivate doubt whether I had inherited my share of the family instinctof courage at a crisis. 

It was therefore a relief to me to feel that in this moment ofdespair, when I was only waiting till the boys, being no longeramused by Weston, should turn to amuse themselves with me, my firstand strongest feeling was a sense of relief that Rupert was not atschool, and that I could bear the fruits of my own folly on my ownshoulders. To be spared his hectoring and lecturing, his hurt pride, his reproaches, and rage with me, and a probable fight with Weston, inwhich he must have been seriously hurt and I should have beenblamed--this was some comfort. 

I had got my lesson well by heart. Fifty thousand preachers in fiftythousand pulpits could never have taught me so effectually as Weston'sballad, and the laughter of his audience, that there is lessdifference than one would like to believe between the vanity ofbragging of one's self and the vanity of bragging of one's relations. Also that it is not dignified or discreet to take new acquaintanceinto your entire confidence and that even if one is blessed withfriends of such quick sympathy that they really enjoy hearing aboutpeople they have never seen, it is well not to abuse the privilege, and now and then to allow them an "innings" at describing _their_remarkable parents, brothers, sisters, and remoter relatives. 

I realized all this fully as I stood, with burning cheeks and downcasteyes, at the very elbow of my tormentor. But I am glad to know that Iwould not have run away even if I could. My resolution grewstubborner with every peal of laughter to bear whatever might comewith pluck and good temper. I had been a fool, but I would show that Iwas not a coward. 

I was very glad that Rupert's influenza kept him at home for a fewdays. I told him briefly that I had been bullied, but that it was myown fault, and I would rather say no more about it. I begged him topromise that he would not take up my quarrel in any way, but leave meto fight it out for myself, which he did. When he came back I think heregretted his promise. Happily he never heard all the ballad, but theodd verses which the boys sang about the place put him into a fury. Itwas a long time before he forgave me, and I doubt if he ever quiteforgave Weston. 

I held out as well as I could. I made no complaint, and kept mytemper. I must say that Henrietta behaved uncommonly well to me atthis time. 

"After all, you know, Charlie, " she said, "you've not done anything_really wrong or dishonourable_. " This was true, and it comforted me. 

Except Henrietta, I really had not a friend; for Rupert was angry withme, and the holding up at school only made me feel worse at home. 

At last the joke began to die out, and I was getting on very well, butfor one boy, a heavy-looking fellow with a pasty face, who was alwayscreeping after me, and asking me to tell him about my father. "JohnsonMinor, " we called him. He was a younger brother of Thomas Johnson, thechampion of the code of honour. 

He was older than I, but he was below me in class, and though he wasbigger, he was not a very great deal bigger; and if there is any truthin the stories I have so often told, our family has been used to fightagainst odds for many generations. 

I thought about this a good deal, and measured Johnson Minor with myeye. At last I got Henrietta to wrestle and box with me for practice. 

She was always willing to do anything Tomboyish, indeed she wasgenerally willing to do anything one wanted, and her biceps were ashard as mine, for I pinched them to see. We got two pairs of gloves, much too big for us, and stuffed cotton wool in to make them likeboxing-gloves, as we used to stuff out the buff-coloured waistcoatwhen we acted old gentlemen in it. But it did not do much good; for Idid not like to hurt Henrietta when I got a chance, and I do not thinkshe liked to hurt me. So I took to dumb-belling every morning in mynight-shirt; and at last I determined I would have it out with JohnsonMinor, once for all. 

One afternoon, when the boys had been very friendly with me, and weregoing to have me in the paper chase on Saturday, he came up in the oldway and began asking me about my father, quite gravely, like a sort ofpoor imitation of Weston. So I turned round and said, "Whatever myfather was--he's dead. Your father's alive, Johnson, and if youweren't a coward, you wouldn't go on bullying a fellow who hasn't gotone. "

"I'm a coward, am I, Master Honourable?" said Johnson, turningscarlet, and at the word _Honourable_ I thought he had broken my nose. I never felt such pain in my life, but it was the only pain I felt onthe occasion; afterwards I was much too much excited, I am sorry thatI cannot remember very clearly about it, which I should have liked todo, as it was my first fight. 

There was no time to fight properly. I was obliged to do the best Icould. I made a sort of rough plan in my head, that I would cling toJohnson as long as I was able, and hit him whenever I got a chance. Idid not quite know when he was hitting me from when I was hitting him;but I know that I held on, and that the ground seemed to be alwayshitting us both. 

How long we had been struggling and cuffing and hitting (lessscientifically but more effectually than when Henrietta and Iflourished our stuffed driving gloves, with strict and constantreference to the woodcuts in a sixpenny Boxer's Guide) before I gotslightly stunned, I do not know; when I came round I was lying inWeston's arms, and Johnson Minor was weeping bitterly (as he believed)over my corpse. I fear Weston had not allayed his remorse. 

My great anxiety was to shake hands with Johnson. I never felt morefriendly towards any one. 

He met me in the handsomest way. He apologized for speaking of myfather--"since you don't like it, " he added, with an appearance ofsincerity which puzzled me at the time, and which I did not understandtill afterwards--and I apologized for calling him a coward. We werealways good friends, and our fight made an end of the particular chaffwhich had caused it. 

It reconciled Rupert to me too, which was my greatest gain. 

Rupert is quite right. There is nothing like being prepared foremergencies. I suppose, as I was stunned, that Johnson got the best ofit; but judging from his appearance as we washed ourselves at theschool pump, I was now quite prepared for the emergency of having todefend myself against any boy not twice my own size. 

CHAPTER III. 

SCHOOL CRICKET--LEMON-KALI--THE BOYS' BRIDGE--AN UNEXPECTED EMERGENCY. 

Rupert and I were now the best of good friends again. I cared more forhis favour than for the goodwill of any one else, and kept as muchwith him as I could. 

I played cricket with him in the school matches. At least I did notbat or bowl, but I and some of the junior fellows "fielded out, " andwhen Rupert was waiting for the ball, I would have given my life tocatch quickly and throw deftly. I used to think no one ever looked sohandsome as he did in his orange-coloured shirt, white flanneltrousers, and the cap which Henrietta made him. He and I had spent allour savings on that new shirt, for Mother would not get him a new one. She did not like cricket, or anything at which people could hurtthemselves. But Johnson Major had get a new sky-blue shirt and cap, and we did not like Rupert to be outdone by him, for Johnson's fatheris only a canal-carrier. 

But the shirt emptied our pockets, and made the old cap look worsethan ever. Then Henrietta, without saying a word to us, bought someorange flannel, and picked the old cap to pieces, and cut out a newone by it, and made it all herself, with a button, and a stiff peakand everything, and it really did perfectly, and looked very well inthe sunshine over Rupert's brown face and glossy black hair. 

There always was sunshine when we played cricket. The hotter it wasthe better we liked it. We had a bottle of lemon-kali powder on theground, and I used to have to make a fizzing-cup in a tin mug for theother boys. I got the water from the canal. 

Lemon-kali is delicious on a very hot day--so refreshing! But Isometimes fancied I felt a little sick _afterwards_, if I had had agreat deal. And Bustard (who was always called Bustard-Plaster, because he was the doctor's son) said it was the dragons out of thecanal water lashing their tails inside us. He had seen them under hisfather's microscope. 

The field where we played was on the banks of the canal, the oppositeside to the town. I believe it was school property. At any rate we hadthe right of playing there. 

We had to go nearly a quarter of a mile out of the way before therewas a bridge, and it was very vexatious to toil a quarter of a miledown on one side and a quarter of a mile up on the other to get at ameadow which lay directly opposite to the school. Weston wrote aletter about it to the weekly paper asking the town to build us abridge. He wrote splendid letters, and this was one of his very best. He said that if the town council laughed at the notion of building abridge for boys, they must remember that the Boys of to-day were theMen of to-morrow (which we all thought a grand sentence, thoughMacDonald, a very accurate-minded fellow, said it would really be someyears before most of us were grown up). Then Weston called us theRising Generation, and showed that, in all probability, the PrimeMinister, Lord Chancellor, and Primate of the years to come now played"all unconscious of their future fame" in the classic fields that laybeyond the water, and promised that in the hours of our cominggreatness we would look back with gratitude to the munificence of ournative city. He put lots of Latin in, and ended with some Latin versesof his own, in which he made the Goddess of the Stream plead for us asher sons. By the stream he meant the canal, for we had no river, whichof course Weston couldn't help. 

How we watched for the next week's paper! But it wasn't in. They neverdid put his things in, which mortified him sadly. His greatestambition was to get something of his own invention printed. Johnsonsaid he believed it was because Weston always put something personalin the things he wrote. He was very sarcastic, and couldn't helpmaking fun of people. 

It was all the kinder of Weston to do his best about the bridge, because he was not much of a cricketer himself. He said he was tooshort-sighted, and that it suited him better to poke in the hedges forbeetles. He had a splendid collection of insects. Bustard used to saythat he poked with his nose, as if he were an insect himself, and itwas a proboscis but he said too that his father said it was a pleasureto see Weston make a section of anything, and prepare objects for themicroscope. His fingers were as clever as his tongue. 

It was not long after Rupert got his new shirt and cap that a very sadthing happened. 

We were playing cricket one day as usual. It was very hot, and I wasmixing some lemon-kali at the canal, and holding up the mug to temptWeston over, who was on the other side with his proboscis among thewater-plants collecting larvae. Rupert was batting, and a new fellow, who bowled much more swiftly than we were accustomed to, had the ball. I was straining my ears to catch what Weston was shouting to mebetween his hands, when I saw him start and point to the cricketers, and turning round I saw Rupert lying on the ground. 

The ball had hit him on the knee and knocked him down. He struggledup, and tried to stand; but whilst he was saying it was nothing, andscolding the other fellows for not going on, he fell down againfainting from pain. 

"The leg's broken, depend upon it, " said Bustard-Plaster; "shall I runfor my father?"

I thanked him earnestly, for I did not like to leave Rupert myself. But Johnson Major, who was kicking off his cricketing-shoes, said, "It'll take an hour to get round. I'll go. Get him some water, andkeep his cap on. The sun is blazing. " And before we could speak he wasin the canal and swimming across. 

I went back to the bank for my mug, in which the lemon-kali wasfizzing itself out, and with this I got some water for Rupert, and atlast he opened his eyes. As I was getting the water I saw Weston, unmooring a boat which was fastened a little farther up. He wasevidently coming to help us to get Rupert across the canal. 

Bustard's words rang in my ears. Perhaps Rupert's leg was broken. Bustard was a doctor's son, and ought to know. And I have oftenthought it must be a very difficult thing _to_ know, for people's legsdon't break right off when they break. My first feeling had been utterbewilderment and misery, but I collected my senses with thereflection that if I lost my presence of mind in the first realemergency that happened to me, my attendance at Rupert's lectures hadbeen a mockery, and I must be the first fool and coward of my family. And if I failed in the emergency of a broken leg, how could I everhope to conduct myself with credit over a case of drowning? I did feelthankful that Rupert's welfare did not depend on our pulling his armsup and down in a particular way; but as Weston was just coming ashore, I took out my pocket-handkerchief, and kneeling down by Rupert said, with as good an air as I could assume, "We must tie the broken leg tothe other at the--"

"_Don't touch it_, you young fool!" shrieked Rupert. And thoughdirectly afterwards he begged my pardon for speaking sharply, he wouldnot hear of my touching his leg. So they got him into the boat thebest way they could, and Weston sat by him to hold him up, and the boywho had been bowling pulled them across. I wasn't big enough to doeither, so I had to run round by the bridge. 

I fancy it must be easier to act with presence of mind if theemergency has happened to somebody who has not been used to order youabout as much as Rupert was used to order me. 

CHAPTER IV. 

A DOUBTFUL BLESSING--A FAMILY FAILING--OLD BATTLES--THECANAL-CARRIER'S HOME. 

When we found that Rupert's leg was not broken, and that it was only asevere blow on his knee, we were all delighted. But when weeks andmonths went by and he was still lame and very pale and always tired, we began to count for how long past, if the leg had been broken, itwould have been set, and poor Rupert quite well. And when JohnnyBustard said that legs and arms were often stronger after being brokenthan before (if they were properly set, as his father could do them), we felt that if Gregory would bowl for people's shins he had betterbreak them at once, and let Mr. Bustard make a good job of them. 

The first part of the time Rupert made light of his accident, andwanted to go back to school, and was very irritable and impatient. Butas the year went on he left off talking about its being all nonsense, and though he suffered a great deal he never complained. I used quiteto miss his lecturing me, but he did not even squabble with Henriettanow. 

This reminds me of a great fault of mine--I am afraid it was a familyfailing, though it is a very mean one--I was jealous. If I was"particular friends" with any one, I liked to have him all to myself;when Rupert was "out" with me because of the Weston affair, I was"particular friends" with Henrietta. I did not exactly give her upwhen Rupert and I were all right again, but when she complained oneday (I think _she_ was jealous too!) I said, "I'm particular friendswith you _as a sister_ still; but you know Rupert and I are bothboys. "

I did love Rupert very dearly, and I would have given up anything andeverything to serve him and wait upon him now that he was laid up; butI would rather have had him all to myself, whereas Henrietta was nowhis particular friend. It is because I know how meanly I felt about itthat I should like to say how good she was. My Mother was verydelicate, and she had a horror of accidents; but Henrietta stood atMr. Bustard's elbow all the time he was examining Rupert's knee, andafter that she always did the fomentations and things. At first Rupertsaid she hurt him, and would have Nurse to do it; but Nurse hurt himso much more, that then he would not let anybody but Henrietta touchit. And he never called her Monkey now, and I could see how she triedto please him. One day she came down to breakfast with her hair alldone up in the way that was in fashion then, like a grown-up younglady, and I think Rupert was pleased, though she looked rather funnyand very red. And so Henrietta nursed him altogether, and used to readbattles to him as he lay on the sofa, and Rupert made plans of thebattles on cardboard, and moved bits of pith out of the elder-treeabout for the troops, and showed Henrietta how if he had had themoving of them really, and had done it quite differently to the waythe generals did, the other side would have won instead of beingbeaten. 

And Mother used to say, "That's just the way your poor father used togo on! As if it wasn't enough to have to run the risk of being killedor wounded once or twice yourself, without bothering your head aboutbattles you've nothing to do with. "

And when he did the battle in which my father fell, and planted thebattery against which he led his men for the last time, and where hewas struck under the arm, with which he was waving his sword over hishead, Rupert turned whiter than ever, and said, "Good Heavens, Henrietta! Father _limped_ up to that battery! He led his men for twohours, after he was wounded in the leg, before he fell--and here Isit and grumble at a knock from a cricket-ball!"

Just then Mr. Bustard came in, and when he shook Rupert's hand he kepthis fingers on it, and shook his own head; and he said there was "anabnormal condition of the pulse, " in such awful tones, that I wasafraid it was something that Rupert would die of. But Henriettaunderstood better, and she would not let Rupert do that battle anymore. 

Rupert's friends were very kind to him when he was ill, but thekindest of all was Thomas Johnson. 

Johnson's grandfather was a canal-carrier, and made a good deal ofmoney, and Johnson's father got the money and went on with thebusiness. We had a great discussion once in the nursery as to whetherJohnson's father was a gentleman, and Rupert ran down-stairs, and intothe drawing-room, shouting, "Now, Mother! _is_ a carrier a gentleman?"

And Mother, who was lying on the sofa, said, "Of course not. Whatsilly things you children do ask! Why can't you amuse yourselves inthe nursery? It is very hard you should come and disturb me for such anonsensical question. "

Rupert was always good to Mother, and he shut the drawing-room doorvery gently. Then he came rushing up to the nursery to say that Mothersaid "Of course not. " But Henrietta said, "What did you ask her?" Andwhen Rupert told her she said, "Of course Mother thought you meant oneof those men who have carts to carry things, with a hood on the topand a dog underneath. "

Johnson's father and grandfather were not carriers of that kind. Theyowned a lot of canal-boats, and one or two big barges, which took allkinds of things all the way to London. 

Mr. Johnson used to say, "In my father's time men of business livednear their work both in London and the country. That's why my house isclose to the wharf. I am not ashamed of my trade, and the place isvery comfortable, so I shall stick to it. Tom may move into the townand give the old house to the foreman when I am gone, if he likes toplay the fine gentleman. "

Tom would be very foolish if he did. It is the dearest old house onecould wish for. It was built of red brick, but the ivy has covered itso thickly that it is clipped round the old-fashioned windows like ahedge. The gardens are simply perfect. In summer you can pick as manyflowers and eat as much fruit as you like, and if that is not the useand beauty of a garden, I do not know what is. 

Johnson's father was very proud of him, and let him have anything heliked, and in the midsummer holidays Johnson used to bring hisfather's trap and take Rupert out for drives, and Mrs. Johnson usedto put meat pies and strawberries in a basket under the seat, so thatit was a kind of picnic, for the old horse had belonged to Mr. Bustard, and was a capital one for standing still. 

It was partly because of the Johnsons being so kind to Rupert thatJohnson Minor and I became chums at school, and partly because thefight had made us friendly, and I had no Rupert now, and was ratherjealous of his taking completely to Henrietta, and most of all, Ifancy, because Johnson Minor was determined to be friends with me. Hewas a very odd fellow. There was nothing he liked so much as wonderfulstories about people, and I never heard such wonderful stories as hetold himself. When we became friends he told me that he had nevermeant to bully me when he asked about my father; he really did want tohear about his battles and so forth. 

But the utmost I could tell him about my father was nothing to thetales he told me about his grandfather, the navy captain. 

CHAPTER V. 

THE NAVY CAPTAIN--SEVEN PARROTS IN A FUCHSIA TREE--THE HARBOUR LIONAND THE SILVER CHAIN--THE LEGLESS GIANTS--DOWN BELOW--JOHNSON'S WHARF. 

The Johnsons were very fond of their father, he was such a good, kindman; but I think they would have been glad if he had had a professioninstead of being a canal-carrier, and I am sure it pleased them tothink that Mrs. Johnson's father had been a navy captain, and that hisportrait--uniform and all--hung over the horsehair sofa in thedining-room, near the window where the yellow roses used to come in. 

If I could get the room to myself, I used to kneel on the sofa, on oneof the bolsters, and gaze at the faded little picture till I lost mybalance on the slippery horsehair from the intensity of my interest inthe hero of Johnson Minor's tales. Every time, I think, I expected tosee some change in the expression of the captain's red face, adaptingit better to what, by his grandson's account, his character must havebeen. It seemed so odd he should look so wooden after having seen somuch. 

The captain had been a native of South Devon. 

"Raleigh, Drake, my grandfather, and lots of other great sailors wereborn in Devonshire, " Johnson said. He certainly did brag; but he spokeso slowly and quietly, that it did not sound as like bragging as itwould have done if he had talked faster, I think. 

The captain had lived at Dartmouth, and of this place Johnson gave mesuch descriptions, that to this day the name of Dartmouth has aromantic sound in my ears, though I know now that all the marvels wereJohnson's own invention, and barely founded upon the real quaintnessof the place, of which he must have heard from his mother. It becamethe highest object of my ambition to see the captain's native city. That there must be people--shopkeepers, for instance, and a man tokeep the post office--who lived there all along, was a fact that Icould not realize sufficiently to envy them. 

Johnson--or Fred, as I used to call him by this time--only exaggeratedthe truth about the shrubs that grow in the greenhouse atmosphere ofSouth Devon, when he talked of the captain's fuchsia trees being asbig as the old willows by the canal wharf; but the parrots must havebeen a complete invention. He said the captain had seven. Two green, two crimson, two blue, and one violet with an orange-coloured beak andgrey lining to his wings; and that they built nests in the fuchsiatrees of sandal-wood shavings, and lined them with the captain's silkpocket-handkerchiefs. He said that though the parrots stole thecaptain's handkerchiefs, they were all very much attached to him; butthey quarrelled among themselves, and swore at each other in sevendialects of the West Coast of Africa. 

Mrs. Johnson herself once showed me a little print of Dartmouthharbour, and told me it was supposed that in old times an iron chainwas stretched from rock to rock across its mouth as a means ofdefence. And that afternoon Fred told me a splendid story about thechain, and how it was made of silver, and that each link was worthtwenty pounds, and how at the end where it was fastened with a padlockevery night at sunset, to keep out the French, a lion sat on the ledgeof rock at the harbour's mouth, with the key tied round his neck by asea-green ribbon. He had to have a new ribbon on the first Sunday inevery month, Fred said, because his mane dirtied them so fast. A storywhich Fred had of his grandfather's single-handed encounter with thislion on one occasion, when the gallant captain would let a brig indistress into the harbour after sunset, and the lion would not let himhave the key, raised my opinion of his courage and his humanity tothe highest point. But what he did at home was nothing to the exploitswhich Fred recounted of him in foreign lands. 

I fancy Fred must have read some real accounts of South America, thetropical forests, the wonderful birds and flowers, and the ruins ofthose buried cities which have no history; and that on these realmarvels he built up his own romances of the Great Stone City, wherethe captain encountered an awful race of giants with no legs, whocarved stones into ornaments with clasp-knives, as the Swiss cut outpretty things in wood, and cracked the cocoa-nuts with their fingers. I am sure he invented flowers as he went along when he was telling meabout the forests. He used to look round the garden (which would havesatisfied any one who had not seen or heard of what the captain hadcome across) and say in his slow way, "The blue chalice flower wasabout the shape of that magnolia, only twice as big, and just thecolour of the gentians in the border, and it had a great white tasselhanging out like the cactus in the parlour window, and all the leaveswere yellow underneath; and it smelt like rosemary. "

If the captain's experiences in other countries outshone what hadbefallen him in his native land, both these paled before the wondershe had seen, and the emergencies he had been placed in at sea. Fredtold me that his grandfather had a diving-bell of his own on board hisown ship, and the things he saw when he went down in it must have madehis remembrances of the South American forests appear tame bycomparison. 

Once, in the middle of the Pacific, the captain dropped down in hisbell into the midst of a society of sea people who had no hair, butthe backs of their heads were shaped like sou'-wester hats. The frontrim formed one eyebrow for both eyes, and they could move the peakbehind as beavers move their tails, and it helped them to go up anddown in the water. They were not exactly mermaids, Fred said, they hadno particular tail, it all ended in a kind of fringe of seaweed, whichswept after them when they moved, like the train of a lady's dress. The captain was so delighted with them that he stayed below muchlonger than usual; but in an unlucky moment some of the sea people letthe water into the diving-bell, and the captain was nearly drowned. Hedid become senseless, but when his body floated, it was picked up andrestored to life by the first mate, who had been cruising, with tearsin his eyes, over the spot in the ship's boat for seven days withouttaking anything to eat. --"_He_ was a Dartmouth man, too, " said FredJohnson. 

"He evidently knew what to do in the emergency of drowning, " thought I. 

I feel as if any one who hears of Fred's stories must think he was aliar. But he really was not. Mr. Johnson was very strict with the boysin some ways, though he was so good-natured, and Fred had been taughtto think a lie to get himself out of a scrape or anything of that sortquite as wrong as we should have thought it. But he liked _telling_things. I believe he made them up and amused himself with them in hisown head if he had no one to listen. He used to say, "Come and sit inthe kitchen garden this afternoon, and I'll _tell_ you. " And whetherhe meant me to think them true or not, I certainly did believe in hisstories. 

One thing always struck me as very odd about Fred Johnson. He was veryfond of fruit, and when we sat on the wall and ate the white currantswith pounded sugar in a mug between us, I believe he always ate morethan I did, though he was "telling" all the time, and I had nothing todo but to listen and eat. 

He certainly talked very slowly, in a dreary, monotonous sort ofvoice, which suited his dull, pasty face better than it suited thesubject of his exciting narratives. But I think it seemed to make oneall the more impatient to hear what was coming. A very favouriteplace of ours for "telling" was the wharf (Johnson's wharf, as it wascalled), where the canal boats came and went, and loaded and unloaded. We made a "coastguard station" among some old timber in the corner, and here we used to sit and watch for the boats. 

When a real barge came we generally went over it, for the men knewFred, and were very good-natured. The barges seemed more like shipsthan the canal boats did. They had masts, and could sail when they gotinto the river. Sometimes we went down into the cabin, and peeped intothe little berths with sliding shutter fronts, and the lockers, whichwere like a fixed seat running round two sides of the cabin, with lidsopening and showing places to put away things in. I was not famous inthe nursery for keeping my things very tidy, but I fancied I couldstow my clothes away to perfection in a locker, and almost cook my owndinner with the bargeman's little stove. 

And every time a barge was loaded up, and the bargemaster took hispost at the rudder, whilst the old horse strained himself tostart--and when the heavy boat swung slowly down the canal and passedout of sight, I felt more and more sorry to be left behind upon thewharf. 

CHAPTER VI. 

S. PHILIP AND S. JAMES--THE MONKEY-BARGE AND THE DOG--WAR, PLAGUE, ANDFIRE--THE DULNESS OF EVERYDAY LIFE. 

There were two churches in our town. Not that the town was so verylarge or the churches so very small as to make this needful. On thecontrary, the town was of modest size, with no traces of having everbeen much bigger, and the churches were very large and very handsome. That is, they were fine outside, and might have been very imposingwithin but for the painted galleries which blocked up the arches aboveand the tall pews which dwarfed the majestic rows of pillars below. They were not more than a quarter of a mile apart. One was dedicatedto S. Philip and the other to S. James, and they were commonly called"the brother churches. " In the tower of each hung a peal of eightbells. 

One clergyman served both the brother churches, and the services wereat S. Philip one week and at S. James the next. We were so accustomedto this that it never struck us as odd. What did seem odd, and perhapsa little dull, was that people in other places should have to go tothe same church week after week. 

There was only one day in the year on which both the peals of bellswere heard, the Feast of SS. Philip and James, which is also May Day. Then there was morning prayer at S. Philip and evening prayer at S. James, and the bells rang changes and cannons, and went on ringing byturns all the evening, the bell-ringers being escorted from one churchto another with May garlands and a sort of triumphal procession. Thechurches were decorated, and flags put out on the towers, andeverybody in the congregation was expected to carry a nosegay. 

Rupert and I and Henrietta and Baby Cecil and the servants alwaysenjoyed this thoroughly, and thought the churches delightfully sweet;but my Mother said the smell of the cottage nosegays and the noise ofthe bells made her feel very ill, which was a pity. 

Fred Johnson once told me some wonderful stories about the brotherchurches. We had gone over the canal to a field not far from thecricketing field, but it was a sort of water-meadow, and lower down, and opposite to the churches, which made us think of them. We hadgone there partly to get yellow flags to try and grow them in tubs asJohnson's father did water-lilies, and partly to watch for acanal-boat or "monkey-barge, " which was expected up with coal. Fredknew the old man, and we hoped to go home as part of the cargo if theold man's dog would let us; but he was a rough terrier, with anexaggerated conscience, and strongly objected to anything coming onboard the boat which was not in the bill of lading. He could not evenreconcile himself to the fact that people not connected with bargestook the liberty of walking on the canal banks. 

"He've been a-going up and down with me these fifteen year, " said theold man, "and he barks at 'em still. " He barked so fiercely at us thatFred would not go on board, to my great annoyance, for I never feelafraid of dogs, and was quite sure I could see a disposition to wagabout the stumpy tail of the terrier in spite of his "bowfs. "

I may have been wrong, but once or twice I fancied that Fred shirkedadventures which seemed nothing to me; and I felt this to be very odd, because I am not as brave as I should like to be, and Fred is grandsonto the navy captain. 

I think Fred wanted to make me forget the canal-boat, which I followedwith regretful eyes, for he began talking about the churches. 

"It must be splendid to hear all sixteen bells going at once, " saidhe. 

"They never do, " said I, unmollified. 

"They do--_sometimes_, " said Fred slowly, and so impressively that Iwas constrained to ask "When?"

"In great emergencies, " was Fred's reply, which startled me. But wehad only lived in the place for part of our lives, and Fred's familybelonged to it, so he must know better than I. 

"Is it to call the doctor?" I asked, thinking of drowning, and brokenbones, and apoplectic fits. 

"It's to call everybody, " said Fred; "that is in time of war, when thetown is in danger. And when the Great Plague was here, S. Philip andS. James both tolled all day long with their bells muffled. But whenthere's a fire they ring backwards, as witches say prayers, you know. "

War and the plague had not been here for a very long time, and therehad been no fire in the town in my remembrance; but Fred said thatawful calamities of the kind had happened within the memory of man, when the town was still built in great part of wood, and that onenight, during a high gale, the whole place, except a few houses, hadbeen destroyed by fire. After this the streets were rebuilt of stoneand bricks. 

These new tales which Fred told me, of places I knew, had a terribleinterest peculiarly their own. For the captain's dangers were over forgood now, but war, plague, and fire in the town might come again. 

I thought of them by day, and dreamed of them by night. Once Iremember being awakened, as I fancied, by the clanging of the twopeals in discordant unison, and as I opened my eyes a bright light onthe wall convinced me that the town was on fire. Fred's vividdescriptions rushed to my mind, and I looked out expecting to see S. Philip and S. James standing up like dark rocks in a sea of dancingflames, their bells ringing backwards, "as witches say prayers. " Itwas only when I saw both the towers standing grey and quiet above thegrey and quiet town, and when I found that the light upon the wallcame from the street lamp below, that my head seemed to grow clearer, and I knew that no bells were ringing, and that those I fancied Iheard were only the prolonged echoes of a bad dream. 

I was very glad that it was so, and I did not exactly wish for war orthe plague to come back; and yet the more I heard of Fred's tales themore restless I grew, because the days were so dull, and because wenever went anywhere, and nothing ever happened. 

CHAPTER VII. 

WE RESOLVE TO RUN AWAY--SCRUPLES--BABY CECIL--I PREPARE--I RUN AWAY. 

I think it was Fred's telling me tales of the navy captain's boyhoodwhich put it into our heads that the only way for people at our age, and in our position, to begin a life of adventure is to run away. 

The captain had run away. He ran away from school. But then the schoolwas one which it made your hair stand on end to hear of. The mastermust have been a monster of tyranny, the boys little prodigies ofwickedness and misery, and the food such as would have been rejectedby respectably reared pigs. 

It put his grandson and me at a disadvantage that we had no excuses ofthe kind for running away from the grammar school. Dr. Jessop was alittle pompous, but he was sometimes positively kind. There was noteven a cruel usher. I was no dunce, nor was Fred-though he was belowme in class--so that we had not even a grievance in connection withour lessons. This made me feel as if there would be something meanand almost dishonourable in running away from school. "I think itwould not be fair to the Doctor, " said I; "it would look as if he haddriven us to it, and he hasn't. We had better wait till the holidays. "

Fred seemed more willing to wait than I had expected; but he plannedwhat we were to do when we did go as vigorously as ever. 

It was not without qualms that I thought of running away from home. Mymother would certainly be greatly alarmed; but then she was greatlyalarmed by so many things to which she afterwards became reconciled!My conscience reproached me more about Rupert and Henrietta. Not oneof us had longed for "events" and exploits so earnestly as my sister;and who but Rupert had prepared me for emergencies, not perhaps suchas the captain had had to cope with, but of the kinds recognized bythe yellow leather book? We had been very happy together--Rupert, Henrietta, Baby Cecil, and I--and we had felt in common the one defectof our lives that there were no events in them; and now I was going tobegin a life of adventure, to run away and seek my fortune, withouteven telling them what I was going to do. 

On the other hand, that old mean twinge of jealousy was one of mystrongest impulses to adventure-seeking, and it urged me to perform myexploits alone. Some people seem to like dangers and adventures whilstthe dangers are going on; Henrietta always seemed to think that thepleasantest part; but I confess that I think one of the best partsmust be when they are over and you are enjoying the credit of them. When the captain's adventures stirred me most I looked forward with athrill of anticipation to my return home--modest from a justifiablepride in my achievements, and so covered with renown by my deeds ofdaring that I should play second fiddle in the family no more, andthat Rupert and Henrietta would outbid each other for my "particular"friendship, and Baby Cecil dog my heels to hear the stories of myadventures. 

The thought of Baby Cecil was the heaviest pang I felt when I wasdissatisfied with the idea of running away from home. Baby Cecil wasthe pet of the house. He had been born after my father's death, andfrom the day he was born everybody conspired to make much of him. Dandy, the Scotch terrier, would renounce a romping ramble with us tokeep watch over Baby Cecil when he was really a baby, and was onlycarried for a dull airing in the nursemaid's arms. I can quiteunderstand Dandy's feelings; for if when one was just preparing for apaperchase, or anything of that sort, Baby Cecil trotted up and, flinging himself head first into one's arms, after his usual fashion, cried, "Baby Cecil 'ants Charlie to tell him a long, long story--_somuch!_" it always ended in one's giving up the race or the scramble, and devoting one's self as sedately as Dandy to his service. But Iconsoled myself with the thought of how Baby Cecil would delight inme, and what stories I should be able to tell him on my return. 

The worst of running away now-a-days is that railways and telegramsrun faster. I was prepared for any emergency except that of beingfound and brought home again. 

Thinking of this brought to my mind one of Fred's tales of thecaptain, about how he was pursued by bloodhounds and escaped bygetting into water. Water not only retains no scent, it keeps notrack. I think perhaps this is one reason why boys so often go to seawhen they run away, that no one may be able to follow them. It helpedmy decision that we would go to sea when we ran away, Fred and I. Besides, there was no other road to strange countries, and no otherway of seeing the sea people with the sou'-wester heads. 

Fred did not seem to have any scruples about leaving his home, whichmade me feel how much braver he must be than I. But his head was sofull of the plans he made for us, and the lists he drew up of naturalproducts of the earth in various places on which we could live withoutpaying for our living, that he neglected his school-work, and got intoscrapes about it. This distressed me very much, for I was working myvery best that half on purpose that no one might say that we ran awayfrom our lessons, but that it might be understood that we had gonesolely in search of adventure, like sea-captains or any other grown-uptravellers. 

All Fred's tales now began with the word "suppose. " They were notstories of what had happened to his grandfather, but of what mighthappen to us. The half-holiday that Mr. Johnson's hay was carted wesat behind the farthest haycock all the afternoon with an old atlas onour knees, and Fred "supposed" till my brain whirled to think of allthat was coming on us. "Suppose we get on board a vessel bound forSingapore, and hide behind some old casks--" he would say, coastingstrange continents with his stumpy little forefinger, as recklessly asthe captain himself; on which of course I asked, "What is Singaporelike?" which enabled Fred to close the atlas and lie back among thehay and say whatever he could think of and I could believe. 

Meanwhile we saved up our pocket-money and put it in a canvas bag, asbeing sailor-like. Most of the money was Fred's, but he was verygenerous about this, and said I was to take care of it as I was moremanaging than he. And we practised tree-climbing to be ready for themasts, and ate earth-nuts to learn to live upon roots in case we werethrown upon a desert island. Of course we did not give up our propermeals, as we were not obliged to yet, and I sometimes felt ratherdoubtful about how we should feel living upon nothing but roots forbreakfast, dinner, and tea. However, I had observed that whenever thecaptain was wrecked a barrel of biscuits went ashore soon afterwards, and I hoped it might always be so in wrecks, for biscuits go a longway, especially sailors' biscuits, which are large. 

I made a kind of handbook for adventure-seekers, too, in an oldexercise book, showing what might be expected and should be preparedfor in a career like the captain's. I divided it under certain heads:Hardships, Dangers, Emergencies, Wonders, &c. These were subdividedagain thus: Hardships--I, Hunger; 2, Thirst; 3, Cold; 4, Heat; 5, NoClothes; and so forth. I got all my information from Fred, and I readmy lists over and over again to get used to the ideas, and to feelbrave. And on the last page I printed in red ink the word "Glory. "

And so the half went by and came to an end; and when the old Doctorgave me my three prizes, and spoke of what he hoped I would do nexthalf, my blushes were not solely from modest pride. 

The first step of our runaway travels had been decided upon long ago. We were to go by barge to London. "And from London you can goanywhere, " Fred said. 

The day after the holidays began I saw a canal-boat lading at thewharf, and finding she was bound for London I told Fred of it. But hesaid we had better wait for a barge, and that there would be one onThursday. "Or if you don't think you can be ready by then, we can waitfor the next, " he added. He seemed quite willing to wait, but(remembering that the captain's preparations for his longest voyagehad only taken him eighteen and a half minutes by the chronometer, which was afterwards damaged in the diving-bell accident, and which Ihad seen with my own eyes, in confirmation of the story) I said Ishould be ready any time at half-an-hour's notice, and Thursday wasfixed as the day of our departure. 

To facilitate matters it was decided that Fred should invite me tospend Wednesday with him, and to stay all night, for the barge was tostart at half-past six o'clock on Thursday morning. 

I was very busy on Wednesday. I wrote a letter to my mother in which Ihoped I made it quite clear that ambition and not discontent wasleading me to run away. I also made a will, dividing my things fairlybetween Rupert, Henrietta, and Baby Cecil, in case I should be drownedat sea. My knife, my prayer-book, the ball of string belonging to mykite, and my little tool-box I took away with me. I also took thematch-box from the writing-table, but I told Mother of it in theletter. The captain used to light his fires by rubbing stickstogether, but I had tried it, and thought matches would be muchbetter, at any rate to begin with. 

Rupert was lying under the crab-tree, and Henrietta was reading tohim, when I went away. Rupert was getting much stronger; he could walkwith a stick, and was going back to school next half. I felt a veryunreasonable vexation because they seemed quite cheerful. But as I wasleaving the garden to go over the fields, Baby Cecil came runningafter me, with his wooden spade in one hand and a plant of chick weedin the other, crying: "Charlie, dear! Come and tell Baby Cecil astory. " I kissed him, and tied his hat on, which had come off as heran. 

"Not now, Baby, " I said; "I am going out now, and you are gardening. "

"I don't want to garden, " he pleaded. "Where are you going? Take mewith you. "

"I am going to Fred Johnson's, " I said bravely. 

Baby Cecil was a very good child, though he was so much petted. Hegave a sigh of disappointment, but only said very gravely, "Will youpromise, _onyer-onner_, to tell me one when you come back?"

"I promise to tell you lots _when I come back_, on my honour, " was myanswer. 

I had to skirt the garden-hedge for a yard or two before turning offacross the meadow. In a few minutes I heard a voice on the other side. Baby Cecil had run down the inside, and was poking his face through ahole, and kissing both hands to me. There came into my head a wonderwhether his face would be much changed next time I saw it. I littleguessed when and how that would be. But when he cried, "Come back_very soon_, Charlie dear, " my imperfect valour utterly gave way, andhanging my head I ran, with hot tears pouring over my face, all theway to Johnson's wharf. 

When Fred saw my face he offered to give up the idea if I feltfaint-hearted about it. Nothing that he could have said would havedried my tears so soon. Every spark of pride in me blazed up to rejectthe thought of turning craven now. Besides, I longed for a life ofadventure most sincerely; and I was soon quite happy again in theexcitement of being so near to what I had longed for. 

CHAPTER VIII. 

WE GO ON BOARD--THE PIE--AN EXPLOSION--MR. ROWE THE BARGE-MASTER--THE'WHITE LION'--TWO LETTERS--WE DOUBT MR. ROWE'S GOOD FAITH. 

The dew was still heavy on the grass when Fred and I crossed thedrying-ground about five o'clock on Thursday morning, and scrambledthrough a hedge into our "coastguard" corner on the wharf. We did notwant to be seen by the barge-master till we were too far from home tobe put ashore. 

The freshness of early morning in summer has some quality which seemsto go straight to the heart. I felt intensely happy. There lay thebarge, the sun shining on the clean deck, and from the dewy edges ofthe old ropes, and from the barge-master's zinc basin and pail put outto sweeten in the air. 

"She won't leave us behind this time!" I cried, turning triumphantlyto Fred. 

"Take care of the pie, " said Fred. 

It was a meat-pie which he had taken from the larder this morning;but he had told Mrs. Johnson about it in the letter he had left behindhim; and had explained that we took it instead of the breakfast weshould otherwise have eaten. We felt that earth-nuts might not beforthcoming on the canal banks, or even on the wharf at Nine Elms whenwe reached London. 

At about a quarter to six Johnson's wharf was quite deserted. Thebarge-master was having breakfast ashore, and the second man had goneto the stable. "We had better hide ourselves now, " I said. So we creptout and went on board. We had chosen our hiding-place before. Not inthe cabin, of course, nor among the cargo, where something extrathrown in at the last moment might smother us if it did not lead toour discovery, but in the fore part of the boat, in a sort of well or_hold_, where odd things belonging to the barge itself were stowedaway, and made sheltered nooks into which we could creep out of sight. Here we found a very convenient corner, and squatted down, with thepie at our feet, behind a hamper, a box, a coil of rope, a sack ofhay, and a very large ball, crossed four ways with rope, and with arope-tail, which puzzled me extremely. 

"It's like a giant tadpole, " I whispered to Fred. 

"Don't nudge me, " said Fred. "My pockets are full, and it hurts. "

_My_ pockets were far from light. The money-bag was heavily ladenwith change--small in value but large in coin. The box of matches waswith it and the knife. String, nails, my prayer-book, a pencil, somewriting-paper, the handbook, and a more useful hammer than the one inmy tool-box filled another pocket. Some gooseberries and a piece ofcake were in my trousers, and I carried the tool-box in my hands. Weeach had a change of linen, tied up in a pocket-handkerchief. Fredwould allow of nothing else. He said that when our jackets andtrousers were worn out we must make new clothes out of an old sail. 

Waiting is very dull work. After awhile, however, we heard voices, andthe tramp of the horse, and then the barge-master and Mr. Johnson'sforeman and other men kept coming and going on deck, and for a quarterof an hour we had as many hairbreadth escapes of discovery as thecaptain himself could have had in the circumstances. At last somebodythrew the barge-master a bag of something (fortunately soft) which hewas leaving behind, and which he chucked on to the top of my head. Then the driver called to his horse, and the barge gave a jerk, whichthrew Fred on to the pie, and in a moment more we were gliding slowlyand smoothly down the stream. 

When we were fairly off we ventured to peep out a little, and stretchour cramped limbs. There was no one on board but the barge-master, and he was at the other end of the vessel, smoking and minding hisrudder. The driver was walking on the towing-path by the old greyhorse. The motion of the boat was so smooth that we seemed to be lyingstill whilst villages and orchards and green banks and osier-beds wentslowly by, as though the world were coming to show itself to us, instead of our going out to see the world. 

When we passed the town we felt some anxiety for fear we should bestopped; but there was no one on the bank, and though the towers of S. Philip and S. James appeared again and again in lessening size as welooked back, there came at last a bend in the canal, when a high bankof gorse shut out the distance, and we saw them no more. 

In about an hour, having had no breakfast, we began to speak seriouslyof the pie. (I had observed Fred breaking little corners from thecrust with an absent air more than once. ) Thinking of the firstsubdivision under the word Hardships in my handbook, I said, "I'mafraid we ought to wait till we are _worse hungry_. "

But Fred said, "Oh no!" And that out adventure-seeking it was quiteimpossible to save and plan and divide your meals exactly, as youcould never tell what might turn up. The captain always said, "Takegood luck and bad luck and pot-luck as they come!" So Fred assured me, and we resolved to abide by the captain's rule. 

"We may have to weigh out our food with a bullet, like Admiral Bligh, next week, " said Fred. 

"So we may, " said I. And the thought must have given an extra relishto the beefsteak and hard-boiled eggs, for I never tasted anything sogood. 

Whether the smell of the pie went aft, or whether something else madethe barge-master turn round and come forward, I do not know; but whenwe were encumbered with open clasp-knives, and full mouths, we saw himbearing down upon us, and in a hasty movement of retreat I lost mybalance, and went backward with a crash upon a tub of potatoes. 

The noise this made was not the worst part of the business. I wastightly wedged amongst the odds and ends, and the money-bag beingsharply crushed against the match-box, which was by this time wellwarmed, the matches exploded in a body, and whilst I was putting asheroic a face as I could on the pain I was enduring in my rightfunny-bone, Fred cried, "Your jacket's smoking. You're on fire!"

Whether Mr. Rowe, the barge-master, had learnt presence of mind out ofa book, I do not know; but before Fred and I could even think of whatto do in the emergency, my jacket was off, the matches wereoverboard, and Mr. Rowe was squeezing the smouldering fire out of mypocket, rather more deliberately than most men brush their hats. Then, after civilly holding the jacket for me to put it on again, he tookoff his hat, took his handkerchief out of it, and wiped his head, andreplacing both, with his eyes upon us, said, more deliberately still, "Well, young gentlemen, this is a nice start!"

It was impossible to resist the feeling of confidence inspired by Mr. Rowe's manner, his shrewd and stolid appearance, and his promptness inan emergency. Besides, we were completely at his mercy. We appealed toit, and told him our plans. We offered him a share of the pie too, which he accepted with conscious condescension. When the dish wasempty he brought his handkerchief into use once more, and then said, in a peculiarly oracular manner, "You just look to me, younggentlemen, and I'll put you in the way of every think. "

The immediate advantage we took of this offer was to ask aboutwhatever interested us in the landscape constantly passing before oureyes, or the barge-furniture at our feet. The cord-compressed ballswere shore-fenders, said Mr. Rowe, and were popped over the side whenthe barge was likely to grate against the shore, or against anothervessel. 

"Them's osier-beds. They cuts 'em every year or so for basket-work. Wot's that little bird a-hanging head downwards? It's a titmouselooking for insects, that is. There's scores on 'em in the osier-beds. Aye, aye, the yellow lilies is pretty enough, but there's a lake theother way--a mile or two beyond your father's, Master Fred--wherethere's white water-lilies. They're pretty, if you like! It's a rumthing in spring, " continued Mr. Rowe, between puffs of his pipe, "tosee them lilies come up from the bottom of the canal; the leavespacked as neat as any parcel, and when they git to the top, they turnsdown and spreads out on the water as flat as you could spread a clothupon a table. "

As a rule, Mr. Rowe could give us no names for the aquatic plants atwhich we clutched as we went by, nor for the shells we got out of themud; but his eye for a water-rat was like a terrier's. It was the onlything which seemed to excite him. 

About mid-day we stopped by a village, where Mr. Rowe had business. The horse was to rest and bait here; and the barge-master told us thatif we had "a shilling or so about" us, we might dine on excellentbread and cheese at the _White Lion_, or even go so far as poachedeggs and yet more excellent bacon, if our resources allowed of it. Wewere not sorry to go ashore. There was absolutely no shelter on thedeck of the barge from the sunshine, which was glaringly reflected bythe water. The inn parlour was low, but it was dark and cool. I feltdoubtful about the luxury even of cheese after that beefsteak-pie butFred smacked his lips and ordered eggs and bacon, and I paid for themout of the canvas-bag. 

As we sat together I said, "I wrote a letter to my mother, Fred. Didyou write to Mrs. Johnson?"

Fred nodded, and pulled a scrap of dirty paper from his pocket, saying, "That's the letter; but I made a tidy copy of it afterwards. "

I have said that Fred was below me in class, though he is older; andhe was very bad at spelling. Otherwise the letter did very well, except for smudges. 

 "DEAR MOTHER, "Charlie and I are going to run away at least by the time you get this we have run away but never mind for wen weve seen the wurld were cumming back we took the pi wich I hope you wont mind as we had no brekfust and I'll bring back the dish we send our best love and I've no more to tell you to-day from your affectionate son FRED. "

I saw Mr. Rowe myself very busy in the bar of the _White Lion_, with asheet of paper and an old steel pen, which looked as if the point hadbeen attenuated to that hair-like fineness by sheer age. He startedat the sight of me, which caused him to drop a very large blot of inkfrom the very sharp point of the pen on to his paper. I left himwiping it up with his handkerchief. But it never struck me that he waswriting a letter on the same subject as Fred and I had been writingabout. He was, however: and Mr. Johnson keeps it tied up with Fred'sto this day. The spelling was of about the same order. 

 "MR. JOHNSON. HONERD SIR. 

 "i rites in duty bound to acqaint you that the young genlemen is with me, looking out for Advenchurs and asking your pardon i wish they may find them as innercent as 2 Babes in the Wood on the London and Lancingford Canal were they come aboard quite unknown to me and blowed theirselves up with lucifers the fust go off and you've no need to trubble yourself sir ill keep my I on them and bring em safe to hand with return cargo and hoping you'll excuse the stamp not expecting to have to rite from the fust stoppige your obedient humble servant

 "SAMUEL ROWE. "

As I have said, we did not suspect that Mr. Rowe had betrayed us bypost; but in the course of the afternoon Fred said to me, "I'll tellyou what, Charlie, I know old Rowe well, and he's up to any trick, and sure to want to keep in with my father. If we don't take carehe'll take us back with him. And what fools we shall look then!"

The idea was intolerable; but I warned Fred to carefully avoidbetraying that we suspected him. The captain had had worse enemies tooutwit, and had kept a pirate in good humour for a much longer voyageby affability and rum. We had no means of clouding Mr. Rowe'sparticularly sharp wits with grog, but we resolved to be amiable andwary, and when we did get to London to look out for the firstopportunity of giving the barge-master the slip. 

CHAPTER IX. 

A COASTING VOYAGE--MUSK ISLAND--LINNET FLASH--MR. ROWE AN OLD TAR--THEDOG-FANCIER AT HOME. 

It was a delightful feature of our first voyage--and one which wecould not hope to enjoy so often in voyages to come--that we werealways close to land, and this on both sides. We could touch eithercoast without difficulty, and as the barge stopped several timesduring the day to rest the horse, Fred and I had more than one chanceof going ashore. 

I hope to have many a voyage yet, and to see stranger people andplaces than I saw then, but I hardly hope ever to enjoy myself so muchagain. I have long ago found out that Fred's stories of the captain'sadventures were not true stories, and as I have read and learned moreabout the world than I knew at that time, I know now that there areonly certain things which one can meet with by land or by sea. Butwhen Fred and I made our first voyage in emulation of his grandfatherthere was no limit to my expectations, or to what we were prepared tosee or experience at every fresh bend of the London and LancingfordCanal. 

I remember one of Fred's stories about the captain was of his spendinga year and a day on an island called Musk Island, in the Pacific. Hehad left the ship, Fred said, to do a little exploring alone in hisgig. Not knowing at that time that the captain's gig is a boat, I wasa good deal puzzled, I remember, to think of Mrs. Johnson's red-facedfather crossing the sea in a gig like the one Mr. Bustard used to gohis professional "rounds" in. And when Fred spoke of his "pullinghimself" I was yet more bewildered by the unavoidable conclusion thatthey had no horse on board, and that the gallant and ever-readycaptain went himself between the shafts. The wonder of his getting toMusk Island in that fashion was, however, eclipsed by the wonders hefound when he did get there. Musk-hedges and bowers ten feet high, with flowers as large as bindweed blossoms, and ladies with pale goldhair all dressed in straw-coloured satin, and with such lovely facesthat the captain vowed that no power on earth should move him till hehad learned enough of the language to propose the health of the MuskIsland beauties in a suitable speech after dinner. "And there he wouldhave lived and died, I believe, " Fred would say, "if that first mate, who saved his life before, had not rescued him by main force, andtaken him back to his ship. "

I am reminded of this story when I think of the island in Linnet Lake, for we were so deeply charmed by it that we very nearly broke ourvoyage, as the captain broke his, to settle on it. 

Mr. Rowe called the lake Linnet Flash. Wherever the canal seemed tospread out, and then go on again narrow and like a river, thebarge-master called these lakes "flashes" of the canal. There is noother flash on that canal so large or so beautiful as Linnet Lake, andin the middle of the lake lies the island. 

It was about three o'clock, the hottest part of a summer's day, andFred and I, rather faint with the heat, were sitting on a coil of ropeholding a clean sheet, which Mr. Rowe had brought up from the cabin toprotect our heads and backs from sunstroke. We had refused to takeshelter below, and sat watching the fields and hedges, which seemed topalpitate in the heat as they went giddily by, and Mr. Rowe, who stoodquite steady, conversing coolly with the driver. The driver had beenon board for the last hour, the way being clear, and the old horsequite able to take care of itself and us, and he and the barge-masterhad pocket-handkerchiefs under their hats like the sou'-wester flapsof the captain's sea-friends. Fred had dropped his end of the sheetto fall asleep, and I was protecting us both, when the driver bawledsome directions to the horse in their common language, and thebarge-master said, "Here's a bit of shade for you, Master Fred;" andwe roused up and found ourselves gliding under the lee of an islandcovered with trees. 

"Oh, _do_ stop here!" we both cried. 

"Well, I don't mind, " said Mr. Rowe, removing his hat, and moppinghimself with his very useful pocket-handkerchief. "Jem, there's a bitof grass there, let her have a mouthful. "

"I thought you'd like this, " he continued; "there ain't a prettier bitbetween here and Pyebridge. "

It was so lovely, that the same idea seized both Fred and me: Why notsettle here, at least for a time? It was an uninhabited island, onlywaiting to be claimed by some adventurous navigator, and obviouslyfertile. The prospect of blackberries on the mainland was particularlyfine, and how they would ripen in this blazing sun! Birds sang in thetrees above; fish leaping after flies broke the still surface of thewater with a musical splash below; and beyond a doubt there must bethe largest and the sweetest of earth-nuts on the island, easy to getout of the deep beds of untouched leaf-mould. And when Mr. Rowe cried"Look!" and we saw a water-fowl scud across the lake, leaving a sharptrail like a line of light behind her, we felt that we might spend allour savings in getting to the Pacific Ocean, and not find when we gotthere a place which offered more natural resources to the desertislander. 

If the barge-master would have gone ashore on the mainland out of theway, and if we could have got ashore on the island without help, weshould not have confided our plans to so doubtful a friend. As it was, we were obliged to tell Mr. Rowe that we proposed to found asettlement in Linnet Lake, and he was completely opposed to the idea. 

It was only when he said (with that air of reserved and fundedknowledge which gave such unfathomable depth to his irony, and madehis sayings so oracular)--"There's very different places in the worldto Linnet Flash"--that we began to be ashamed of our hasty enthusiasm, and to think that it would be a pity to stop so short in ouradventurous career. 

So we decided to go on; but the masterly way in which Mr. Rowe spokeof the world made me think he must have seen a good deal of it, andwhen we had looked our last upon the island, and had crept withlowered mast under an old brick bridge where young ferns hung downfrom the archway, and when we were once more travelling between flatbanks and coppices that gave us no shelter, I said to thebarge-master--"Have you ever been at sea, Mr. Rowe?"

"Seven_teen_ year in the Royal Navy, " said Mr. Rowe, with a strongemphasis upon _teen_, as if he feared we might do him the injustice ofthinking he had only served his Queen and country for seven. 

For the next two hours Fred and I sat, indifferent alike to thesunshine and the shore, in rapt attention to Mr. Rowe's narrative ofhis experiences at sea under the flag that has

 "Braved a thousand years the battle and the breeze. "

I believe Fred enjoyed them simply as stories, but they fanned in myheart that restless fever for which sea-breezes are the only cure. Ithink Mr. Rowe got excited himself as he recalled old times. And whenhe began to bawl sea-songs with a voice like an Atlantic gale, andwhen he vowed in cadence

 "A sailor's life is the life for me, "

I felt that it was the life for me also, and expressed myself sostrongly to that effect that Mr. Rowe became alarmed for theconsequences of his indiscretion, and thenceforward told ussea-stories with the obvious and quite futile intention of disgustingme with what I already looked upon as my profession. 

But the barge-master's rapid change of tactics convinced me more andmore that we could not safely rely on him to help us in our plans. 

About five o'clock he made tea on board, and boiled the water on thelittle stove in the cabin. I was very anxious to help, and it was Iwho literally made the tea, whilst Mr. Rowe's steadier hand cut thickslices of bread-and-butter from a large loaf. There was only one cupand saucer. Fred and I shared the cup, and the barge-master took thesaucer. By preference, he said, as the tea cooled quicker. 

The driver had tea after we returned to the deck and could attend tothe horse and boat. 

Except the island in Linnet Lake, the most entertaining events of thefirst day of our voyage were our passing villages or detached houseson the canal banks. 

Of the latter by far the most interesting was that of a dog-fancier, from whose residence melodious howls, in the dog-dialect of everytribe deserving to be represented in so choice a company, were waftedup the stream, and met our ears before our eyes beheld thelanding-stage of the establishment, where the dog-fancier and some ofhis dogs were lounging in the cool of the evening, and glad to see thebarge. 

The fancier knew Mr. Rowe, and refreshed him (and us) with shandy-gaffin horn tumblers. Some of the dogs who did not, barked incessantly atus, wagging their tails at the same time, however, as if they had somedoubts of the correctness of their judgment in the matter. One verysmall, very white, and very fluffy toy-dog, with a dove-colouredribbon, was--no doubt--incurably ill-tempered and inhospitable; but alarge brindled bull-dog, trying politely but vainly to hide his teethand tongue, wagged what the fancier had left him of a tail, anddribbled with the pleasure of making our acquaintance, after the wontof his benevolent and much-maligned family. I have since felt prettycertain that Mr. Rowe gave his friend a sketch of our prospects andintentions in the same spirit in which he had written to Mr. Johnson, and I distinctly overheard the dog-fancier make some reply, in whichthe words "hoffer a reward" were audible. But the barge-master shookhis head at suggestions probably drawn from his friend's professionaltraditions, though the fancier told him some very good story about theill-tempered toy-dog, to which he referred with such violent jerks ofthe head as threatened to throw his fur cap on to that of the brindledgentleman who sat dripping and smiling at his feet. 

When Mr. Rowe began to tell him something good in return, and in spiteof my utmost endeavours not to hear anything, the words "Linnet Flash"became audible, I blushed to hear the fancier choking over hisshandy-gaff with laughter, and I feared at our project for settling onthe island. 

The interview was now at an end, but as Mr. Rowe stepped briskly onboard, the fur cap nodded to the forehatch, where Fred and I weresitting on coiled ropes, and the fancier said very knowingly, "Thebetter the breed the gamier the beast. "

He patted the bull-dog as he said it, and the bull-dog kissed hisdirty hand. 

"Hup to hanythink, " were Mr. Rowe's parting words, as he went aft, andthe driver called to his horse. 

He may have referred to the bull-dog, but I had some doubts about it, even then. 

CHAPTER X. 

LOCKS--WE THINK OF GOING ON THE TRAMP--PYEBRIDGE--WE SET SAIL. 

During our first day's voyage we passed two locks. There was one notvery far from home, and Fred and I had more than once been to see abarge pass it, sitting on the bank whilst the boat gradually sank tothe level of the water below. 

It was great fun being on board whilst the barge went down and down, though I must say we did not feel anything peculiar, we sank sogradually. 

"Just fancy if it was a hole in the ship's bottom, " said Fred, "and wewere settling down with all on board. Some ships do, and are neverheard of again. "

We amused ourselves as we went along by guessing beforehand on whichshore the next house or hamlet would appear. We betted shillings onthe result, but neither of us won or lost, for however often theshillings changed hands, they remained in the canvas bag. 

Perhaps places look more as if events happened in them if you do notif now them well. I noticed that even our town looked more interestingfrom the water than I had ever seen it look, so I dare say tostrangers it does not appear so dull as it is. All the villages on thecanal banks looked interesting. We passed one soon after tea, wherethe horse rested under some old willows by the towing-path, and we andMr. Rowe went ashore. Whilst the barge-master delivered a parcel to afriend, Fred and I strolled into a lane which led us past cottageswith very gay gardens to the church. The church was not at all like S. Philip or S. James. It was squat, and ivy-covered, and carefullyrestored; and it stood in a garden where the flowers almost hid thegraves. Just outside the lych-gate, four lanes met, and all of themwere so shady and inviting, and it was so impossible to say what theymight not lead to, that I said to Fred, "You said the only way to run away besides going to sea was to_tramp_. It sounds rather low, but we needn't beg, and I think walkingwould be nice for a change, and I don't believe it would be muchslower than the barge, and it would be so much shadier. And we couldget off from Old Rowe at once, and hide if we heard anybody coming. Iwonder how far it is to London now?"

"Not far, I dare say, " said Fred, who was pleased by the idea; "and ifwe keep on we must get there in time. And we can get things to eat inthe hedges, which we can't do on the barge. "

At this moment there passed a boy, to whom I said, "Which is the wayto London, if you please?" for there were four roads to choose from. 

"What d' say?" said the boy. 

I repeated my question. 

"Dunno, " he replied, trying to cram half his hand into his mouth. Thecaptain would have thought him very stupid if he had met him as anative in one of the islands of the Pacific, I am sure; but I followedhim, and begged him to try and think if he had not heard of peoplegoing to London. 

At last his face brightened. He was looking over my head down thelane. "There's a man a-cummin yonder's always a-going to Lunnon, " saidhe. Visions of a companion on our tramp--also perhaps in search ofadventures--made me look briskly round. "Him with the pipe, as b'longsto the barge, " the boy exclaimed. 

It was indeed Mr. Rowe come to look for us, and we had to try and seemglad to see him, and to go on board once more. 

Towards evening the canal banks became dotted with fishers of all agesand degrees, fishing very patiently, though they did not seem to catchmuch. 

Soon after dark we reached the town of Pyebridge. 

When the barge lay-to for the night, and the driver was taking thehorse away to the stable, Mr. Rowe confronted us, in his firmestmanner, with the question, "And where are you going to sleep, younggentlemen?"

"Where are _you_ going to sleep, Mr. Rowe?" said I, after a thoughtfulpause. 

"_I_ sleeps below, but the captain's cabin is guv up to no one--unlessit be the Queen, " replied the barge-master, humorously but decidedly. 

"We should like to sleep on deck, " said I. 

But Mr. Rowe would not hear of it, on account of various dreadfuldiseases which he assured us would be contracted by sleeping "in thedamps of the water, " "the dews of the _h_air, " and "the rays of themoon. "

"There's a hotel--" he began; but I said at once, "We couldn't afforda hotel, but if you know of any very cheap place we should be muchobliged. "

Mr. Rowe took off his hat and took out his handkerchief, though it wasno longer hot. Having cleared his brain, he said he "would see, " andhe finally led us along one of the pebbled streets of Pyebridge to asmall house with a small shop-window for the sale of vegetables, andwith a card announcing that there were beds to let. A very little oldwoman got up from behind a very big old geranium in the window as weentered, and with her Mr. Rowe made our arrangements for the night. Wegot a clean bed, and had a mug of milk and a slice of bread andtreacle apiece for breakfast the next morning, and I paid twoshillings. As I thanked the old lady and bade her good day, she calledto me to hold out my hat, which she filled with cherries, and thenstood at the door and watched us out of sight. 

There was a railway station in Pyebridge, and we might easily haveescaped from Mr. Rowe, and gone by train to London. But besides thefact that our funds were becoming low, the water had a new attractionfor us. We had left the canal behind, and were henceforward on ariver. If the wind favoured us we were to sail. 

"A canal's nothing to a river, " said Mr. Rowe, "same as a river'snothing to the sea, " and when Fred had some difficulty in keeping hishat on in the gusty street (mine was in use as a fruit-basket), andthe barge-master said it was a "nice fresh morning, " I felt that lifeon Linnet Island would have been tame indeed compared to the hopes andfears of a career which depended on the winds and waves. 

And when the boom went up the barge's mast, and the tightly cordedroll of dark canvas began to struggle for liberty, and writhe and flapwith throttling noises above our heads, and when Mr. Rowe wrestledwith it and the driver helped him, and Fred and I tried to, and wereall but swept overboard in consequence, whilst the barge-masterencouraged himself by strange and savage sounds--and when the sunshinecaught our nut-brown sail just as she spread gallantly to the breeze, our excitement grew till we both cried in one breath, "This is something _like_ being at sea!"

CHAPTER XI. 

MR. ROWE ON BARGE-WOMEN--THE RIVER--NINE ELMS--A MYSTERIOUSNOISE--ROUGH QUARTERS--A CHEAP SUPPER--JOHN'S BERTH--WE MAKE OURESCAPE--OUT INTO THE WORLD. 

Mr. Rowe is quite right. A canal is nothing to a river. 

There was a wide piece of water between us and one of the banks now, and other barges went by us, some sailing, some towing only, and twoor three with women at the rudder, and children on the deck. 

"I wouldn't have my wife and fam'ly on board for something!" said Mr. Rowe grimly. 

"Have you got a family, Mr. Rowe?" I inquired. 

"Yes, sir, " said the barge-master. "I have, like other folk. But womenand children's best ashore. "

"Of course they are, " said I. 

"If you was to turn over in your mind what they _might_ be good fornow, " he continued, with an unfathomable eye on the mistress of apassing canal-boat, "you'd say washing the decks and keeping the potsclean. And they don't do it as well as a man--not by half. "

"They seem to steer pretty well, " said I. 

"I've served in very different vessels to what I'm in now, " said Mr. Rowe, avoiding a reply, "and I _may_ come as low as a monkey-barge andcoal; but I'm blessed if ever I see myself walk on the towing-path andleave the missus in command on board. "

At this moment a barge came sailing alongside of us. 

"Oh look!" cried Fred, "it's got a white horse painted on the sail. "

"That's a lime barge, sir, " said Mr. Rowe; "all lime barges is markedthat way. "

She was homeward bound, and empty, and soon passed us, but we went ata pretty good pace ourselves. The wind kept favourable, a matter inwhich Fred and I took the deepest interest. We licked our fingers, andheld them up to see which side got cooled by the breeze, and wheneverthis experiment convinced me that it was still behind us, I could nothelp running back to Fred to say with triumph, "The wind's dead aft, "as if he knew nothing about it. 

At last this seemed to annoy him, so I went to contain myself bysitting on the potato-tub and watching the shore. 

We got into the Thames earlier than usual, thanks to the fair wind. 

The world is certainly a very beautiful place. I suppose when I getright out into it, and go to sea, and to other countries, I shallthink nothing of England and the Thames, but it was all new andwonderful to Fred and me then. The green slopes and fine trees, andthe houses with gardens down to the river, and boats rocking by thesteps, the osier islands, which Mr. Rowe called "Aits, " and thebridges where the mast had to be lowered, all the craft on thewater--the red-sailed barges with one man on board--the steamers withcrowded decks and gay awnings--the schooners, yachts, and pleasureboats--and all the people on shore, the fishers, and the people withwater-dogs and sticks, the ladies with fine dresses and parasols, andthe ragged boys who cheered us as we went by--everything we saw andheard delighted us, and the only sore place in my heart was where Ilonged for Rupert and Henrietta to enjoy it too. 

Later on we saw London. It was in the moonlight that we passedChelsea. Mr. Rowe pointed out the Hospital, in which the pensionersmust have been asleep, for not a wooden leg was stirring. In less thanhalf-an-hour afterwards we were at the end of our voyage. 

The first thing which struck me about Nine Elms was that they were notto be seen. I had thought of those elms more than once under theburning sun of the first day. I had imagined that we should land atlast on some green bank, where the shelter of a majestic grove mighttempt Mr. Rowe to sleep, while Fred and I should steal gently away tothe neighbouring city, and begin a quite independent search foradventures. But I think I must have mixed up with my expectations astory of one of the captain's escapes--from a savage chief in amango-grove. 

Our journey's end was not quite what I had thought it would be, but itwas novel and interesting enough. We seemed to have thoroughly got tothe town. Very old houses with feeble lights in their paper-patchedwindows made strange reflections on the river. The pier looked darkand dirty even by moonlight, and threw blacker and stranger shadowsstill. 

Mr. Rowe was busy and tired, and--we thought--a little inclined to becross. 

"I wonder where we shall sleep!" said Fred, looking timidly up at thedark old houses. 

I have said before that I find it hard work to be very brave afterdark, but I put a good face on the matter, and said I dared say oldRowe would find us a cheap bedroom. 

"London's an awful place for robbers and murders, you know, " saidFred. 

I was hoping the cold shiver running down my back was due to what thebarge-master called "the damps from the water"--when a wail like thecry of a hurt child made my skin stiffen into goose-prickles. A wildermoan succeeded, and then one of the windows of one of the dark houseswas opened, and something thrown out which fell heavily down. Mr. Rowewas just coming on board again, and I found courage in the emergencyto gasp out, "What was that?"

"Wot's wot?" said Mr. Rowe testily. 

"That noise and the falling thing. "

"Somebody throwing, somethin' at a cat, " said the barge-master. "Standaside, sir, _if_ you please. "

It was a relief, but when at length Mr. Rowe came up to me with hiscap off, in the act of taking out his handkerchief, and said, "Isuppose you're no richer than you was yesterday, young gentlemen--howabout a bed?"--I said, "No--o. That is, I mean if you can get us acheap one in a safe--I mean a respectable place. "

"If you leaves a comfortable 'ome, sir, " moralized the barge-master, "to go a-looking for adventures in this fashion, you must put up withrough quarters, and wot you can get. "

"We'll go anywhere you think right, Mr. Rowe, " said I diplomatically. 

"I knows a waterman, " said Mr. Rowe, "that was in the Royal Navy likemyself. He lives near here, and they're decent folk. The place is apoor place, but you'll have to make the best of it, young gentlemen, and a shilling 'll cover the damage. If you wants supper you must payfor it. Give the missis the money, and she'll do the best she can, andbring you the change to a half-farthing. "

My courage was now fully restored, but Fred was very much overwhelmedby the roughness of the streets we passed through, the drunken, quarrelling, poverty-struck people, and the grim, dirty old houses. 

"We shall be out of it directly, " I whispered, and indeed in a fewminutes more Mr. Rowe turned up a shabby entry, and led us to one ofseveral lower buildings round a small court. The house he stopped atwas cleaner within than without, and the woman was very civil. 

"It's a very poor place, sir, " said she; "but we always keep a berth, as his father calls it, for our son John. "

"But we can't take your son's bed, " said I; "we'll sit up here, if youwill let us. "

"Bless ye, love, " said the woman, "John's in foreign parts. He's asailor, sir, like his father before him; but John's in the merchantservice. "

Mr. Rowe now bade us good-night. "I'll be round in the morning, " saidhe. 

"What o'clock, Mr. Rowe?" I asked; I had a reason for asking. 

"There ain't much in the way of return cargo, " he replied; "but I've abit of business to do for your father, Mr. Fred, that'll take me untilhalf-past nine. I'll be here by then, young gentlemen, and show youabout a bit. "

"It's roughish quarters for you, " added the bargemaster, lookinground; "but you'll find rougher quarters at sea, Master Charles. "

Mr. Howe's moralizings nettled me, and they did no good, for my wholethoughts were now bent on evading his guardianship and getting to sea, but poor Fred was quite overpowered. "I wish we were safe home again, "he almost sobbed when I went up to the corner into which he hadhuddled himself. 

"You'll be all right when we're afloat, " said I. 

"I'm so hungry, " he moaned. 

I was hungry myself, and decided to order some supper, so when thewoman came up and civilly asked if she could do anything for us beforewe went to bed, I said, "If you please we're rather hungry, but wecan't afford anything very expensive. Do you think you can get usanything--rather cheap--for supper?"

"A red herring?" she suggested. 

"What price are they?" I felt bound to inquire. 

"Mrs. Jones has them beautiful and mild at two for a penny. You _can_get 'em at three a penny, but you wouldn't like 'em, sir. "

I felt convinced by the expression of her face that I should not, so Iordered two. 

"And a penny loaf?" suggested our landlady, getting her bonnet frombehind the door. 

"If you please. "

"And a bunch of radishes and a pint of fourpenny would befivepence-half-penny the lot, sir. "

"If you please. And, if you please, that will do, " said I, drawing ashilling from the bag, for the thought of the herrings made meravenous, and I wanted her to go. She returned quickly with the bread, and herrings. The "fourpenny" proved to be beer. She gave mesixpence-half-penny in change, which puzzled my calculations. 

"You said _fourpenny_, " said I, indicating the beer. 

"Yes, sir, but it's a pint, " was the reply; and it was only when inafter-years I learned that beer at fourpence a quart is known to somepeople as "fourpenny" that I got that part of the reckoning of thecanvas bag straight in my own mind. 

The room had an unwholesome smell about it, which the odour from ourfried herrings soon pleasantly overpowered. The bread was good, andthe beer did us no harm. Fred picked up his spirits again; when Mr. Rowe's old mate came home he found us very cheerful and chatty. Fredasked him about the son who was at sea, but I had some more importantquestions to put, and I managed so to do, and with a sufficientlycareless air. 

"I suppose there are lots of ships at London?" said I. 

"In the Docks, sir, plenty, " said our host. 

"And where are the Docks?" I inquired. "Are they far from you?"

"Well, you see, sir, there's a many docks. There's the East IndiaDocks, St. Katharine's Docks, and the Commercial Docks, and VictoriaDock, and lots more. "

I pondered. Ships in the East India Dock probably went only to India. St. Katharine conveyed nothing to my mind. I did not fancy CommercialDocks. I felt a loyal inclination towards the Victoria Dock. 

"How do people get from here to Victoria Dock now, if they want to?" Iasked. 

"Well, of course, sir, you can go down the river, or part that way andthen by rail from Fenchurch Street. "

"Where is Fenchurch Street, Mr. Smith?" said I, becoming a good dealashamed of my pertinacity. 

"In the city, sir, " said Mr. Smith. 

The city! Now I never heard of any one in any story going out into theworld to seek his fortune, and coming to a city, who did not go intoit to see what was to be seen. Leaving the king's only daughter andthose kinds of things, which belong to story-books, out of thequestion, I do not believe the captain would have passed a new citywithout looking into it. 

"You go down the river to Fenchurch Street--in a barge?" I suggested. 

"Bless ye, no, sir!" said Mr. Smith, getting the smoke of his pipedown his throat the wrong way with laughing, till I thought hiscoughing-fit would never allow him to give me the importantinformation I required. "There's boats, sir, plenty on 'em. I couldtake you myself, and be thankful, and there's steamers calls at thewharf every quarter of an hour or so through the day, from nine in themorning, and takes you to London Bridge for threepence. It ain't manyminutes' walk to Fenchurch Street, and the train takes you straight tothe Docks. "

After this we conversed on general seafaring matters. Mr. Smith wasnot a very able-bodied man, in consequence of many years' service inunhealthy climates, he said; and he complained of his trade as a"poor one, " and very different from what it had been in his father'stime, and before new London Bridge was built, which "anybody andanything could get through" now without watermen's assistance. In hispresent depressed condition he seemed to look back on his seafaringdays with pride and tender regret, and when we asked for tales of hisadventures he was checked by none of the scruples which withheld Mr. Rowe from encouraging me to be a sailor. 

"John's berth" proved to be a truckle-bed in a closet which just heldit, and which also held more nasty smells than I could have believedthere was room for. Opening the window seemed only to let in freshones. When Fred threw himself on his face on the bed, and said, "Whata beastly hole!" and cried bitterly, I was afraid he was going to beill; and when I had said my prayers and persuaded him to say his andcome to bed, I thought that if we got safely through the night wewould make the return voyage with Mr. Rowe, and for the future leaveevents and emergencies to those who liked danger and discomfort. 

But when we woke with the sun shining on our faces, and through thelittle window beheld it sparkling on the river below us, and on thedistant city, we felt all right again, and stuck to our plans. 

"Let's go by the city, " said Fred, "I should like to see some of thetown. "

"If we don't get off before half-past nine we're lost, " said I. 

We found an unexpected clog in Mr. Smith, who seemed inclined to stickto us and repeat the stories he had told us overnight. At abouthalf-past eight, however, he went off to his boat, saying he supposedwe should wait for Mr. Rowe, and when his wife went into a neighbour'shouse I laid a shilling on the table, and Fred and I slipped out andmade our way to the pier. 

Mr. Rowe was not there, and a church clock near struck nine. This wasechoed from the city more than once, and then we began to lookanxiously for the steamer. Five, ten minutes must have passed--theyseemed hours to me--when I asked a man who was waiting also when thesteamer from London Bridge would come. 

"She'll be here soon, " said he. 

"So will old Rowe, " whispered Fred. 

But the steamer came first, and we went on board; and the paddlesbegan to splash, and our escape was accomplished. 

It was a lovely morning, and the tall, dirty old houses looked almostgrand in the sunlight as we left Nine Elms. The distant city camenearer and shone brighter, and when the fretted front of the Housesof Parliament went by us like a fairy palace, and towers and blocks ofbuildings rose solidly one behind another in shining tints of whiteand grey against the blue summer sky, and when above the noise of ourpaddle-wheels came the distant roar of the busy streets--Fred pressedthe arm I had pushed through his and said, "We're out in the world atlast!"

CHAPTER XII. 

EMERGENCIES AND POLICEMEN--FENCHURCH STREET STATION--THIRD CLASS TOCUSTOM HOUSE--A SHIP FOREST. 

Policemen are very useful people. I do not know how we should have gotfrom the London Bridge Pier to the Fenchurch Street Station if it hadnot been that Fred told me he knew one could ask policemen the way toplaces. There is nothing to pay, which I was very glad of, as thecanvas bag was getting empty. 

Once or twice they helped us through emergencies. We had to go fromone footpath to another, straight across the street, and the streetwas so full of carts and cabs and drays and omnibuses, that one couldsee that it was quite an impossibility. We did it, however, for thepoliceman made us. I said, "Hadn't we better wait till the crowd hasgone?" But the policeman laughed, and said then we had better takelodgings close by and wait at the window. So we did it. Fred said thecaptain once ran in a little cutter between two big ships that werefiring into him, but I do not think that can have been much worse thanrunning between a backing dray, full of rolling barrels, and a hansomcab pulled up and ramping like a rocking-horse at the lowest point ofthe rockers. 

When we were safely on the other pavement we thanked the policemanvery much, and then went on, asking our way till we got to FenchurchStreet. 

If anything could smell nastier than John's berth in Nine Elms it isFenchurch Street Station. And I think it is worse in this way; John'sberth smelt horrible, but it was warm and weather-tight. You neverswallow a drop of pure air in Fenchurch Street Station, and yet youcannot find a corner in which you can get out of the draughts. 

With one gale blowing on my right from an open door, and another galeblowing on my left down some steps, and nasty smells blowing fromevery point of the compass, I stood at a dirty little hole in a dirtywooden wall and took our tickets. I had to stand on tiptoe to make theyoung man see me. 

"What is the cheapest kind of tickets you have, if you please?" Iinquired, with the canvas bag in my hand. 

"Third class, " said the young man, staring very hard at me, which Ithought rather rude. "Except working men's tickets, and they're notfor this train. "

"Two third-class tickets for Victoria Dock, then, if you please, " saidI. 

"Single or return?" said he. 

"I beg your pardon?" I said, for I was puzzled. 

"Are you coming back to-day?" he inquired. 

"Oh dear, no!" said I, for some of the captain's voyages had lastedfor years; but the question made me anxious, as I knew nothing ofrailway rules, and I added, "Does it matter?"

"Not by no means, " replied the young man smartly, and he began towhistle, but stopped himself to ask, "Custom House or Tidal Basin?"

I had no alternative but to repeat "I _beg_ your pardon?"

He put his face right through the hole and looked at me. "Will youtake your ticket for Custom House or Tidal Basin?" he repeated;"either will do for Victoria Docks. "

"Then whichever you please, " said I, as politely as I could. 

The young man took out two tickets and snapped them impatiently insomething; and as a fat woman was squeezing me from behind, I was gladto take what I could get and go back to Fred. 

He was taking care of our two bundles and the empty pie-dish. 

That pie-dish was a good deal in our way. Fred wanted to get rid ofit, and said he was sure his mother would not want us to be botheredwith it; but Fred had promised in his letter to bring it back, and hecould not break his word. I told him so, but I said as he did not liketo be seen with it I would carry it. So I did. 

With a strong breeze aft, we were driven up-stairs in the teeth of agale, and ran before a high wind down a platform where, after annoyingone of the railway men very much by not being able to guess which wasthe train, and having to ask him, we got in among a lot ofrough-looking people, who were very civil and kind. A man with a blackface and a white jacket said he would tell us when we got to CustomHouse, and he gave me his seat by the window, that I might look out. 

What struck me as rather odd was that everybody in the third-classcarriage seemed to have bundles like ours, and yet they couldn't allbe running away. One thin woman with a very troublesome baby hadthree. Perhaps it is because portmanteaus and things of that sort arerather expensive. 

Fred was opposite to me. It was a bright sunny morning, a fresh breezeblew, and in the sunlight the backs of endless rows of shabby houseslooked more cheerful than usual, though very few of the gardens hadanything in them but dirt and cats, and very many of the windows hadthe week's wash hanging out on strings and poles. The villages we hadpassed on the canal banks all looked pretty and interesting, but Ithink that most of the places we saw out of the window of the trainwould look very ugly on a dull day. 

I fancy there were poplar-trees at a place called Poplar, and that Ithought it must be called after them; but Fred says No, and we havenever been there since, so I cannot be sure about it. If not, I musthave dreamt it. 

I did fall asleep in the corner, I know, I was so very much tired, andwe had had no breakfast, and I sat on the side where the wind blowsin, which I think helped to make me sleepy. I was wakened partly bythe pie-dish slipping off my lap, and partly by Fred saying in aneager tone, "Oh, Charlie! LOOK! _Are they all ships_?"

We stuffed our heads through the window, and my hat was nearly blownaway, so the man with the black face and the white jacket gave it tothe woman with the troublesome baby to take care of for me, and heheld us by our legs for fear we should fall out. 

On we flew! There was wind enough in our faces to have filled thebarge-sail three times over, and Fred licked his lips and said, "I dobelieve there's salt in it!"

But what he woke me up to show me drove me nearly wild. When I hadseen a couple of big barges lying together with their two bare mastsleaning towards each other I used to think how dignified and beautifulthey looked. But here were hundreds of masts, standing as thick astree-trunks in a fir-wood, and they were not bare poles, but lofty andslender, and crossed by innumerable yards, and covered with ropes inorderly profusion, which showed in the sunshine as cobwebs shine outin a field in summer. Gay flags and pennons fluttered in the wind;brown sails, grey sails, and gleaming white sails went up and down;and behind it all the water sparkled and dazzled our eyes like theglittering reflections from a mirror moving in the sun. 

As we ran nearer the ropes looked thicker, and we could see thedevices on the flags. And suddenly, straining his eyes at the yards ofa vessel in the thick of the ship-forest, on which was somethingblack, like a spider with only four legs, Fred cried, "It's a sailor!"

I saw him quite well. And seeing him higher up than on any tree onecould ever climb, with the sunny sky above him and the shining waterbelow him, I could only mutter out with envious longing--"How happy hemust be!"

CHAPTER XIII. 

A DIRTY STREET--A BAD BOY--SHIPPING AND MERCHANDISE--WE STOWAWAY ONBOARD THE 'ATALANTA'--A SALT TEAR. 

The man in the white jacket helped us out, smiling as he did so, sothat his teeth shone like ivory in his black face. We took thepie-dish and our bundles, and thanked him very much, and the trainwent on and took him with it, which we felt sorry for. For when one_is_ out in the world, you know, one sometimes feels rather lonely, and sorry to part with a kind friend. 

Everybody else went through a little gate into the street, so we didthe same. It was a very dirty street, with houses on one side and therailway on the other. There were cabbages and carrots and old shoesand fishes' heads and oyster-shells and potato-peelings in the street, and a goat was routing among it all with its nose, as if it had lostsomething and hoped to find it by and by. 

Places like this always seemed to depress Fred's courage. Besideswhich, he was never in good spirits when he had to go long withoutfood, which made me fear he would not bear being cast adrift at seawithout provisions as well as his grandfather had done. I was notsurprised when he said, "_What_ a place! And I don't believe one can get anything fit to eat, and I am so hungry!"

I looked at the houses. There was a pork-butcher's shop, and a realbutcher's shop, and a slop shop, and a seedy jeweller's shop withsecond-hand watches, which looked as if nothing would ever make themgo, and a small toy and sweetmeat shop, but not a place that lookedlike breakfast. I had taken Fred's bundle because he was so tired, andI suppose it was because I was staring helplessly about that a dirtyboy a good deal bigger than either of us came up and pulled his dirtyhair and said, "Carry your things for you, sir?"

"No, thank you, " said I, moving on with the bundles and the pie-dish;but as the boy would walk by me I said, "We want some breakfast very much, but we haven't much money. " And, remembering the cost of our supper, I added, "Could we get anythinghere for about twopence-half-penny or threepence apiece?"

There was a moment's pause, and then the boy gave a long whistle. 

"Vy, I thought you was swells!" said he. 

I really do not know whether it was because I did not like to besupposed to be a poor person when it came to the point, or whether itwas because of that bad habit of mine of which even Weston's balladhas not quite cured me, of being ready to tell people more about myaffairs than it can be interesting for them to hear or discreet for meto communicate, but I replied at once: "We are gentlemen; but we aregoing in search of adventures, and we don't want to spend more moneythan we can help till we see what we may want it for when we get toforeign countries. "

"You're going to sea, then, _h_are you?" said the boy, keeping up withus. 

"Yes, " said I; "but could you tell us where to get something to eatbefore we go?"

"There's a shop I knows on, " said our new friend, "where they sellsprime pudding at a penny a slice. The plums goes all through and nomistake. Three slices would be threepence: one for you, one for him, and one for my trouble in showing you the way. Threepence more's aquart of stout, and we drink fair by turns. Shall I take your purseand pay it for you? They might cheat a stranger. "

"No, thank you, " said I; "but we should like some pudding if you willshow us the way. "

The slices were small, but then they were very heavy. We had two each. I rejected the notion of porter, and Fred said he was not thirsty; butI turned back again into the shop to ask for a glass of water formyself. The woman gave it me very civilly, looking as she did so witha puzzled manner, first at me and then at my bundles and the pie-dish. As she took back the tumbler she nodded her head towards the dirtyboy, who stood in the doorway, and said, "Is that young chap a companion of yours, my dear?"

"Oh, dear no, " said I, "only he showed us the way here. "

"Don't have nothing to do with him, " she whispered "he's a bad un. "

In spite of this warning, however, as there was no policeman to beseen, and the boy would keep up with us, I asked him the way toVictoria Dock. 

It was not so easy to get to the ships as I had expected. There weregates to pass through, and they were kept by a porter. He let somepeople in and turned others back. 

"Have you got an order to see the docks?" asked the boy. 

I confessed that we had not, but added that we wanted very much to getin. 

"My eyes!" said the bad boy, doubling himself in a fit of amusement, "I believe you're both going for stowaways. "

"What do you mean by stowaways?" I asked. 

"Stowaways is chaps that hides aboard vessels going out of port, toget their passage free gratis for nothing. "

"Do a good many manage it?" I asked with an anxious mind. 

"There ain't a vessel leaves the docks without one and sometimes moreaboard. The captain never looks that way, not by no accidentwhatsoever. He don't lift no tarpaulins while the ship's in dock. Butwhen she gets to sea the captain gets his eyesight back, and he takesit out of the stowaways for their wittles then. Oh, yes, rather so!"said the bad boy. 

There was a crowd at the gates. 

"Hold your bundles down on your right side, " said the boy, "and go inquickly after any respectable-looking cove you see. "

Fred had got his own bundle now, and we followed our guide'sdirections, and went through the gates after an elderly, well-dressedman. The boy seemed to try to follow us, squeezing very close up tome, but the gatekeeper stopped him. When we were on the other side Isaw him bend down and wink backwards at the gatekeeper through hisstraddled legs. Then he stood derisively on his head. After which hewent away as a catherine-wheel, and I saw him no more. 

We were among the ships at last! Vessels very different from Mr. Rowe's barge, or even the three-penny steamboat, Lofty and vast, withshining decks of marvellous cleanliness, and giant figure-heads likedismembered Jins out of some Arabian tale. Streamers of many colourshigh up in the forest of masts, and seamen of many nations on thedecks and wharves below, moved idly in the breeze, which was redolentof many kinds of cargo. Indeed, if the choice of our ship had not beenour chief care, the docks and warehouses would have fascinated uslittle less than the shipping. Here were huge bales of cotton packedas thickly as bricks in a brick-field. There were wine-casksinnumerable, and in another place the air was aromatic with so large acargo of coffee that it seemed as if no more could be required in thiscountry for some generations. 

It was very entertaining, and Fred was always calling to me to look atsomething new, but my mind was with the shipping. There was a gooddeal of anxiety on it too. The sooner we chose our ship and "stowedaway" the better. I hesitated between sailing-vessels and steamers. Idid not believe that one of the captain's adventures happened onboard any ship that could move faster than it could sail. And yet Iwas much attracted by some grand-looking steamships. Even their hugefunnels had a look of power, I thought, among the masts, like old andhollow oaks in a wood of young and slender trees. 

One of these was close in dock, and we could see her well. There weresome casks on deck, and by them lay a piece of tarpaulin which caughtmy eye, and recalled what the bad boy had said about captains andstowaways. Near the gangway were standing two men who did not seem tobe sailors. They were respectably dressed, one had a book and apencil, and they looked, I thought, as if they might have authority toask our business in the docks, so I drew Fred back under shelter ofsome piled-up boxes. 

"When does she sail?" asked the man with the book. 

"To-morrow morning, sir, " replied the other. 

And then they crossed the gangway and went into a warehouse opposite. 

It was noon, and being the men's dinner-time, the docks were not verybusy. At this moment there was not a soul in sight. I grasped Fred'sarm, and hoisted the bundle and pie-dish well under my own. 

"That's our ship, " I said triumphantly; "come along!"

We crossed the gangway unperceived. "The casks!" I whispered, and wemade our way to the corner I had noticed. If Fred's heart beat aschokingly as mine did, we were far too much excited to speak, as wesettled ourselves into a corner, not quite as cosy as our hiding-placein the forehold of the barge; and drew the tarpaulin over our heads, resting some of the weight of it on the casks behind, that we mightnot be smothered. 

I have waited for the kitchen kettle to boil when Fred and I wanted tomake "hot grog" with raspberry-vinegar and nutmeg at his father'shouse; I have waited for a bonfire to burn up, when we wanted to roastpotatoes; I have waited for it to leave off raining when my motherwould not let us go out for fear of catching colds; but I never knewtime pass so slowly as when Fred and I were stowaways on board thesteam-ship _Atalanta_. 

He was just beginning to complain, when we heard men coming on board. This amused us for a bit, but we were stowed so that we could not seethem, and we dared not look out. Neither dared we speak, except whenwe heard them go a good way off, and then we whispered. So secondafter second, and minute after minute, and hour after hour went by, and Fred became very restless. 

"She's to sail in the morning, " I whispered. 

"But where are we to get dinner and tea and supper?" asked Fredindignantly. I was tired, and felt cross on my own account. 

"You said yourself we might have to weigh out our food with a bulletlike Admiral Bligh, next week. "

"He must have had something, or he couldn't have weighed it, " retortedFred; "and how do we know if they'll ever give us anything to eat onboard this ship?"

"I dare say we can buy food at first, till they find us something todo for our meals, " said I. 

"How much money is there left?" asked Fred. 

I put my hand into my pocket for the canvas bag--but it was gone!

There could be little doubt that the bad boy had picked my pocket atthe gate, but I had a sense of guiltiness about it, for most of themoney was Fred's. This catastrophe completely overwhelmed him, and hecried and grumbled till I was nearly at my wits' end. I could not stophim, though heavy steps were coming quite close to us. 

"Sh! sh!" muttered I, "if you go on like that they'll certainly findus, and then we shall have managed all this for nothing, and might aswell have gone back with old Rowe. "

"Which wind and weather permitting, young gentlemen, you will, " saida voice just above us, though we did not hear it. 

"I wish we could, " sobbed Fred, "only there's no money now. But I'mgoing to get out of this beastly hole any way. "

"You're a nice fellow to tell me about your grandfather, " said I, indesperate exasperation; "I don't believe you've the pluck for a commonsailor, let alone a Great Discoverer. "

"You've hit the right nail on the head there, Master Charles, " saidthe voice. 

"Fiddlesticks about my grandfather!" said Fred. 

In the practical experiences of the last three days my faith in Fred'stales had more than once been rather rudely shaken; but thecontemptuous tone in which he disposed of our model, the Great SeaCaptain, startled me so severely that I do not think I felt anyadditional shock of astonishment when strong hands lifted thetarpaulin from our heads, and--grave amid several grinning faces--wesaw the bargemaster. 

How he reproached us, and how Fred begged him to take us home, and howI besought him to let us go to sea, it would be tedious to relate. Ihave no doubt now that he never swerved from his intention of takingus back, but he preferred to do it by fair means if possible. So hefubbed me off, and took us round the docks to amuse us, and talked ofdinner in a way that went to Fred's heart. 

But when I found that we were approaching the gates once more, Istopped dead short. As we went about the docks I had replied to thebarge-master's remarks as well as I could, but I had never ceasedthinking of the desire of my heart, and I resolved to make onepassionate appeal to his pity. 

"Mr. Rowe, " I said, in a choking voice, "please don't take me home! Iwould give anything in the world to go to sea. Why shouldn't I be asailor when I want to? Take Fred home if he wants to go, and tell themthat I'm all right, and mean to do my duty and come back a credit tothem. "

Mr. Rowe's face was inscrutable, and I pleaded harder. 

"You're an old navy man, you know, Rowe, " I said, "and if yourecommended me to the captain of one of these ships for a cabin-boy, I'll be bound they'd take me. "

"Mr. Charles, " said the old man earnestly, "you couldn't go for acabin-boy, you don't know--"

"You think I can't rough it, " I interrupted impatiently, "but try me, and see. I know what I'm after, " I added, consequentially; "and I'llbear what I have to bear, and do what I'm set to do if I can getafloat. I'll be a captain some day, and give orders instead of takingthem. "

Mr. Rowe drew up to attention and took off his hat. "And wanting anable-bodied seaman in them circumstances, sir, for any voyage youlikes to make, " said he emphatically, "call for Samuel Rowe. " He thenwiped the passing enthusiasm from the crown of his head with hishandkerchief, and continued--with the judicious diplomacy for which hewas remarkable--"But of course, sir, it's the Royal Navy you'll beginin, as a midshipman. It's seamanship _you_ wants to learn, notswabbing decks or emptying buckets below whilst others is aloft. Yourfather's son would be a good deal out of place, sir, as cabin-boy in acommon trading vessel. "

Mr. Rowe's speech made an impression, and I think he saw that it did. 

"Look here, Master Charles, " said he, "you've a gentleman's feelings:come home now, and bear me out with your widowed mother and your onlysister, sir, and with Master Fred's father, that I'm in duty bound to, and promised to deliver safe and sound as return cargo, wind andweather permitting. "

"Oh, come home! come home!" reiterated Fred. 

I stood speechless for a minute or two. All around and above me rosethe splendid masts, trellised with the rigging that I longed to climb. The refreshing scent of tar mingled with the smells of the variouscargoes. The coming and going of men who came and went to and fro theends of the earth stirred all my pulses to restlessness. And above thenoises of their coming and going I heard the lapping of the water ofthe incoming tide against the dock, which spoke with a voice morepowerful than that of Mr. Rowe. 

And yet I went with him. 

It was not because the canvas bag was empty, not because Fred wouldnot stay with me (for I had begun to think that the captain's grandsonwas not destined to be the hero of exploits on the ocean), but whenMr. Rowe spoke of my widowed mother and of Henrietta, he touched asore point on my conscience. I had had an uneasy feeling from thefirst that there was something rather mean in my desertion of them. Pride, and I hope some less selfish impulse, made me feel that I couldnever be quite happy--even on the mainmast top--if I knew that I hadbehaved ill to them. 

I could not very well speak, but I turned round and began to walk inthe direction of the dock gates. Mr. Rowe behaved uncommonly kindly. He said nothing more, but turned as if I had given the word ofcommand, and walked respectfully just behind me. I resolved not tolook back, and I did not. I was quite determined too about one thing:Mr. Rowe should never be able to say he had seen me make a fool ofmyself after I had made up my mind. But in reality I had very hardwork to keep from beginning to cry, just when Fred was beginning toleave off. 

I screwed up my eyes and kept them dry, however, but as we wentthrough the gate there came in a sailor with a little bundle likeours, and a ship's name on his hat. His hat sat as if a gale were justtaking it off, and his sea-blue shirt was blown open by breezes thatmy back was turned upon. In spite of all I could do one tear gotthrough my eyelashes and ran down, and I caught it on my lips. 

It was a very bitter tear, and as salt as the salt, salt sea!

CHAPTER XIV. 

A GLOW ON THE HORIZON--A FANTASTIC PEAL--WHAT I SAW WHEN THE ROOF FELLIN. 

It was the second day of our return voyage. Mr. Rowe had been verykind, and especially so to me. He had told us tales of seafaring life, but they related exclusively to the Royal Navy, and not unfrequentlybore with disparagement on the mercantile marine. 

Nowhere, perhaps, are grades of rank more strongly marked withprofessional discipline and personal independence better combined thanin the army and navy. But the gulf implied by Mr. Rowe between theyoungest midshipman and the highest seaman who was not an officer was, I think, in excess of the fact. As to becoming cabin-boy to a tradingvessel in hopes of rising to be a captain, the barge-master contrivedto impress me with the idea that I might as well take the situation ofboot and knife cleaner in the Royal Kitchen, in hopes of its provingthe first step towards ascending the Throne. 

We seemed to have seen and done so much since we were on the canalbefore, that I felt quite sentimental as we glided into Linnet Flash. 

"The old place looks just the same, Barge-master, " said I with atravelled air. 

"So it do, sir, " said Mr. Rowe; and he added--"There's no place likeHome. "

I hardly know how near we were to the town, but I know that it wasgetting late, that the dew was heavy on the towing-path, and thatamong the dark pencilled shadows of the sallows in the water the fullmoon's reflection lay like a golden shield; when the driver, who wasahead, stepped back and shouted--"The bells are ringing!"

When we got a little nearer we heard them quite clearly, and just whenI was observing a red glow diffuse itself in the cold night sky abovethe willow hedge on our left, Mr. Rowe said, "There must be a queerkind of echo somewhere, I heard sixteen bells. "

And then I saw the driver, whose figure stood out dark against themoonlit moorland on our right, point with his arm to the fastcrimsoning sky, and Mr. Rowe left the rudder and came forward, andFred, who had had his head low down listening, ran towards us from thebows and cried, "There _are_ sixteen, and they're ringing backwards--_it's a fire_!"

The driver mounted the horse, which was put to the trot, and wehurried on. The bells came nearer and nearer with their fantasticclanging, and the sky grew more lurid as they rang. Then there was abend in the canal, and we caught sight of the two towers of S. Philipand S. James, dark against the glow. 

"The whole town is in flames!" cried Fred. 

"Not it, " said the barge-master; "it's ten to one nothing but arubbish-heap burning, or the moors on fire beyond the town. "

Mr. Rowe rather snubbed Fred, but I think he was curious about thematter. The driver urged his horse, and the good barge _Betsy_ swungalong at a pace to which she was little accustomed. 

When we came by the cricket-field Mr. Rowe himself said--"It's in themiddle of the town. "

Through the deafening noise of the bells I contrived to shout in hisear a request that I might be put ashore, as we were now about on alevel with my home. Mr. Rowe ran a plank quickly out and landed me, without time for adieux. 

I hastened up to the town. The first street I got into was empty, butit seemed to vibrate to S. Philip's peal. And after that I pushed myway through people, hurrying as I was hurrying, and the nearer I gotto home the thicker grew the crowd and the ruddier became the glow. And now, in spite of the bells, I caught other noises. The roar ofirresistible fire, --which has a strange likeness to the roar ofirresistible water, --the loud crackling of the burning wood, and themoving and talking of the crowd, which was so dense that I couldhardly get forward. 

I contrived to squeeze myself along, however, and as I turned into ourstreet I felt the warmth of the fire, and when I looked at my old homeit was a mass of flames. 

I tried to get people to make way for me by saying--"It's my house, please let me through!" But nobody seemed to hear me. And yet therewas a pause, which was only filled by that curious sound when a crowdof people gasp or sigh; and if every man had been a rock it could nothave been more impossible to move backwards or forwards. It was dark, except for the moonlight, where I stood, but in a moment or two theflames burst from the bedroom windows, and the red light spreadfarther, and began to light up faces near me. I was just about toappeal to a man I knew, when a roar began which I knew was not that ofthe fire. It was the roar of human voices. And when it swelled louder, and was caught up as it came along, and then broke into deafeningcheers, I was so wild with excitement and anxiety that I began to kickthe legs of the man in front of me to make him let me go to the homethat was burning before my eyes. 

What he would have done in return, I don't know, but at this momentthe crowd broke up, and we were pushed, and pressed, and jostledabout, and people kept calling to "Make way!" and after tumbling down, and being picked up twice, I found myself in the front row of a kindof lane that had been made through the crowd, down which several menwere coming, carrying on their shoulders an arm-chair with people init. 

As they passed me there was a crash, which seemed to shake the street. The roof of our house had fallen in!

As it fell the flames burst upon every side, and in the sudden glarethe street became as bright as day, and every little thing about oneseemed to spring into sight. Half the crowd was known to me in amoment. 

Then I looked at the chair which was being carried along; and by alarge chip on one of the legs I knew it was my father's old arm-chair. 

And in the chair I saw Rupert in his shirt and trousers, and Henriettain a petticoat and an out-door jacket, with so white a face that eventhe firelight seemed to give it no colour, and on her lap was BabyCecil in his night-gown, with black smut marks on his nose and chin. 

CHAPTER XV. 

HENRIETTA'S DIARY--A GREAT EMERGENCY. 

Rupert never was a fellow who could give descriptions of things, andHenrietta was ill for some time after the fire, and Mr. Bustard saidshe wasn't to talk about it. 

But she knew I wanted to know, so one day when she was down-stairswith me in the "Miniature Room" (it was at the Castle) she gave me amanuscript book, and said, "It's my diary, Charlie, so I know youwon't look. But I've put in two marks for the beginning and end of thebit about the fire. I wrote it that evening, you know, before Mr. Bustard came, and my head got so bad. "

Of course I made her show me exactly where to begin and leave off, andthen I read it. This was it. 

_"It had been a very hot day, and I had got rather a headache and goneto bed. The pain kept me awake a good bit, and when I did get to sleepI think I slept rather lightly. I was partly awakened by noises whichseemed to have been going in my head all night till I could bear themno longer, so I woke up, and found that people were shouting outside, and that there was a dreadful smell of burning. I had got on myflannel petticoat when Rupert called me and said, 'Henny dear, thehouse is on fire! Just put something round you, and come quickly. '

"Just outside the door we met Cook; she said, 'The Lord be thanked!it's you, Miss Henrietta. Come along!'

"Rupert said, 'Where's Mother, Cook?'

"'Missus was took with dreadful fainting fits, ' she replied, 'andthey've got her over to the_ Crown. _We're all to go there, andeverything that can be saved. '

"'Where's Baby, ' said I, 'and Jane?'

"'With your Ma, miss, I expect, ' Cook said; and as we came out sheasked some one, who said, 'I saw Jane at the door of the_ Crown _justnow. ' I had been half asleep till then, but when we got into thestreet and saw the smoke coming out of the dining-room window, Rupertand I wanted to stay and try to save something, but one of the men whowas there said, 'You and your brother's not strong enough to be of nogreat use, miss; you're only in the way of the engine. Everybody'sdoing their best to save your things, and if you'll go to the_ Crown_to your mamma, you'll do the best that could be. '

"The people who were saving our things saved them all alike. Theythrew them out of the window, and as I had seen the big blue china jarsmashed to shivers, I felt a longing to go and show them what to do;but Rupert said, 'The fellow's quite right, Henny, ' and he seized meby the hand and dragged me off to the_ Crown. _Jane was in the hall, looking quite wild, and she said to us, 'Where's Master Cecil?' Ididn't stop to ask her how it was that she didn't know. I ran outagain, and Rupert came after me. I suppose we both looked up at thenursery window when we came near, and there was Baby Cecil standingand screaming for help. Before we got to the door other people hadseen him, and two or three men pushed into the house. They came outgasping and puffing without Cecil, and I heard one man say, 'It's toofar gone. It wouldn't bear a child's weight, and if you got up you'dnever come down again. '

"'God help the poor child!' said the other man, who was the chemist, and had a large family, I know. I looked round and saw by Rupert'sface that he had heard. It was like a stone. I don't know how it was, but it seemed to come into my head: 'If Baby Cecil is burnt it willkill Rupert too. ' And I began to think; and I thought of the backstairs. There was a pocket-handkerchief in my jacket pocket, and Isoaked it in the water on the ground. The town burgesses wouldn't buya new hose when we got the new steam fire-engine, and when they usedthe old one it burst in five places, so that everything was swimming, for the water was laid on from the canal. I think my idea must havebeen written on my face, for though I didn't speak, Rupert seemed toguess at once, and he ran after me, crying, 'Let me go, Henrietta!'but I pretended not to hear. 

"When we got to the back of the house the fire was not nearly so bad, and we got in. But though it wasn't exactly on fire where we were, thesmoke came rolling down the passage from the front of the house, andby the time we got to the back stairs we could not see or breathe, inspite of wet cloths over our faces, and our eyes smarted with thesmoke. Go down on all fours, Henny, ' said Rupert. So I did. It waswonderful. When I got down with my face close to the ground there wasa bit of quite fresh air, and above this the smoke rolled like acloud. I could see the castors of the legs of a table in the hall, butno higher up. In this way we saw the foot of the back stairs, andclimbed up them on our hands and knees. But in spite of the bit offresh air near the ground the smoke certainly grew thicker, and it gothotter and hotter, and we could hear the roaring of the flames comingnearer, and the clanging of the bells outside, and I never knew whatit was to feel thirst before then! When we were up the first flight, and the smoke was suffocating, I heard Rupert say, 'Oh, Henny, yougood girl, shall we ever get down again!' I couldn't speak, my throatwas so sore, but I remember thinking, 'It's like going up through theclouds into heaven; and we shall find Baby Cecil there. ' But afterthat it got rather clearer, because the fire was in the lower part ofthe house then, and when we got to the top we stood up, and found ourway to the nursery by hearing Baby Cecil scream. 

"The great difficulty was to get him down, for we couldn't carry himand keep close to the ground. So I said, 'You go first on your handsand knees backwards, and tell him to do as you do, and I'll come last, so that he may see me doing the same and imitate me. ' Baby was verygood about it, and when the heat worried him and he stopped, Rupertsaid, 'Come on, Baby, or Henny will run over you, ' and he scrambleddown as good as gold. 

"And when we got to the door the people began to shout and to cheer, and I thought they would have torn Baby to bits. It made me verygiddy, and so did the clanging of those dreadful bells; and then Inoticed that Rupert was limping, and I said, 'Oh, Rupert, have youhurt your knee?' and he said, 'It's nothing, come to the_ Crown. ' _Butthere were two of the young men from Jones's shop there, and theysaid, 'Don't you walk and hurt your knee, sir; we'll take you. ' Andthey pushed up my father's arm-chair, which had been saved and wasoutside, and Rupert sat down, I believe, because he could not stand. Then they said, 'There's room for you, miss, ' and Rupert told me tocome, and I took Baby on my lap; but I felt so ill I thought I shouldcertainly fall out when they lifted us up. 

"The way the people cheered made me very giddy; I think I shall alwaysfeel sick when I hear hurrahing now. 

"Rupert is very good if you're ill. He looked at me and said, 'You'rethe bravest girl I ever knew, but don't faint if you can help it, orBaby will fall out. '

"I didn't; and I wouldn't have fainted when we got to the_ Crown _if Icould have stopped myself by anything I could do. "_

CHAPTER XVI. 

MR. ROWE ON THE SUBJECT--OUR COUSIN--WESTON GETS INTO PRINT--THEHARBOUR'S MOUTH--WHAT LIES BEYOND. 

Mr. Rowe's anxiety to see Rupert and Henrietta, and to "take theliberty of expressing himself" about their having saved Baby Cecil'slife was very great, but the interview did not take place for sometime. The barge _Betsy_ took two voyages to Nine Elms and home againbefore Henrietta was down-stairs and allowed to talk about the fire. 

Rupert refused to see the barge-master when he called to ask afterHenrietta; he was vexed because people made a fuss about the affair, and when Rupert was vexed he was not gracious. When Henrietta gotbetter, however, she said, "We ought to see old Rowe and thank him forhis kindness to Charlie;" so the next time he called, we all went intothe housekeeper's room to see him. 

He was very much pleased and excited, which always seemed to make himinclined to preach. He set forth the noble motives which must havemoved Rupert and Henrietta to their heroic conduct in the emergency, so that I felt more proud of them than ever. But Rupert frowned, andsaid, "Nonsense, Rowe, I'm sure I never thought anything of the kind. I don't believe we either of us thought anything at all. "

But Mr. Rowe had not served seventeen years in the Royal Navy to beput down when he expounded a point of valour. 

"That's where it is, Master Rupert, " said he. "It wouldn't have beenyou or Miss Henrietta either if you had. 'A man overboard, ' saysyou--that's enough for one of your family, sir. _They_ never stops tothink 'Can I swim?' but in you goes, up the stairs that wouldn't holdthe weight of a new-born babby, and right through the raging flames. "

"Oh, dear!" cried Henrietta, "that's just what Cook and all kinds ofpeople will say. But it was the front stairs that were on fire. Weonly went up the back stairs, and they weren't burning at all. "

The barge-master smiled in reply. But it was with the affability ofsuperior knowledge, and I feel quite sure that he always told thestory (and believed it) according to his impossible version. 

It was on the third day after the fire that our cousin called at the_Crown_. He had never been to see us before, and, as I have said, wehad never been to the Castle. But the next day he sent a closecarriage for Henrietta and my mother, and a dog-cart for Rupert andme, and brought us up to the Castle. We were there for three months. 

It was through him that Rupert went to those baths abroad, which curedhis knee completely. And then, because my mother could not afford todo it, he sent him to a grander public school than Dr. Jessop's oldgrammar school, and Mr. Johnson sent Thomas Johnson there too, for Tomcould not bear to be parted from Rupert, and his father never refusedhim anything. 

But what I think was so very kind of our cousin was his helping me. Rupert and Henrietta had been a credit to the family, but I deservednothing. I had only run away in the mean hope of outshining them, andhad made a fool of myself, whilst they had been really great in doingtheir duty at home. However, he did back me up with Mother about goingto sea, and got me on board the training-ship _Albion_; and my highesthope is to have the chance of bringing my share of renown to myfather's name, that his cousin may never regret having helped me to myheart's desire. 

Fred Johnson and I are very good friends, but since our barge voyagewe have never been quite so intimate. I think the strongest tiebetween us was his splendid stories of the captain, and I do notbelieve in them now. 

Oddly enough, my chief friend--of the whole lot--is Weston. Rupertalways said I had a vulgar taste in the choice of friends, so it seemscurious that of our old schoolmates Johnson should be his friend andWeston mine. For Johnson's father is only a canal-carrier, and Westonis a fellow of good family. 

He is so very clever! And I have such a habit of turning my pocketsinside out for everybody to see, that I admire his reticence; andthen, though he is so ironical with himself, as well as other people, he has very fine ideas and ambitions and very noble and uprightprinciples--when you know him well. 

"It's an ill wind that blows nobody good, " and the fire that burneddown our house got Weston into print at last. 

It was not a common letter either, in the "correspondence" part, withsmall type, and the editor not responsible. It was a leading article, printed big, and it was about the fire and Rupert and Henrietta. Thomas Johnson read it to us, and we did not know who wrote it; but itwas true, and in good taste. After the account of the fire came aquotation from Horace, "Fortes creantur fortibus et bonis. "

And Johnson cried--"That's Weston, depend upon it. He's in the _WeeklySpectator_ at last!"

And then, to my utter amazement, came such a chronicle of the valiantdeeds of Rupert's ancestors as Weston could only have got from onesource. What had furnished his ready pen with matter for a comicballad to punish my bragging had filled it also to do honour to Rupertand Henrietta's real bravery, and down to what the colonel of myfather's regiment had said of him--it was all there. 

Weston came to see me the other day at Dartmouth, where ourtraining-ship _Albion_ lies, and he was so charmed by the old townwith its carved and gabled houses, and its luxuriant gardens rich withpale-blossomed laurels, which no frost dwarfs, and crimson fuchsiasgnarled with age, and its hill-embosomed harbour, where the people ofall grades and ages, and of both sexes, flit hither and thither intheir boats as landlubbers would take an evening stroll--that I feltsomewhat justified in the romantic love I have for the place. 

And when we lay in one of the _Albion's_ boats, rocking up and down inthat soothing swell which freshens the harbour's mouth, Weston made metell him all about the lion and the silver chain, and he called me aprig for saying so often that I did not believe in it now. I rememberhe said, "In this sleepy, damp, delightful Dartmouth, who but a prigcould deny the truth of a poetical dream?"

He declared he could see the lion in a cave in the rock, and that thepoor beast wanted a new sea-green ribbon. 

Weston speaks so much more cleverly than I can, that I could notexplain to him then that I am still but too apt to dream! But theharbour's mouth is now only the beginning of my visions, which stretchfar over the sea beyond, and over the darker line of that horizonwhere the ships come and go. 

I hope it is not wrong to dream. My father was so modest as well asambitious, so good as well as so gallant, that I would rather die thandisgrace him by empty conceit and unprofitable hopes. 

Weston is a very religious fellow, though he does not "cant" at all. When I was going away to Dartmouth, and he saw me off (for we weregreat friends), one of the last things he said to me was, "I say, don't leave off saying your prayers, you know. "

I haven't, and I told him so this last time. I often pray that if everI am great I may be good too; and sometimes I pray that if I try hardto be good God will let me be great as well. 

The most wonderful thing was old Rowe's taking a cheap ticket andcoming down to see me last summer. I never can regret my voyage withhim in the _Betsy_, for I did thoroughly enjoy it, though I oftenthink how odd it is that in my vain, jealous wild-goose chase afteradventures I missed the chance of distinguishing myself in the onlyGreat Emergency which has yet occurred in our family. 

A VERY ILL-TEMPERED FAMILY. 

 "Finding, following, keeping, struggling, Is HE sure to bless?"

_Hymn of the Eastern Church. _

CHAPTER I. 

A FAMILY FAILING. 

We are a very ill-tempered family. 

I want to say it, and not to unsay it by any explanations, because Ithink it is good for us to face the fact in the unadorned form inwhich it probably presents itself to the minds of our friends. 

Amongst ourselves we have always admitted it by pieces, as it were, orin negative propositions. We allow that we are firm of disposition; weknow that we are straightforward; we show what we feel. We haveopinions and principles of our own; we are not so thick-skinned assome good people, nor as cold-blooded as others. 

When two of us quarrelled (and Nurse used to say that no two of usever agreed), the provocation always seemed, to each of us, greatenough amply to excuse the passion. But I have reason to think thatpeople seldom exclaimed, "What grievances those poor children areexasperated with!" but that they often said, "What terrible tempersthey all have!"

There are five of us: Philip and I are the eldest; we are twins. Myname is Isobel, and I never allow it to be shortened into the uglyword _Bella_ nor into the still more hideous word _Izzy_, by eitherthe servants or the children. My aunt Isobel never would, and neitherwill I. 

"The children" are the other three. They are a good deal younger thanPhilip and I, so we have always kept them in order. I do not mean thatwe taught them to behave wonderfully well, but I mean that we madethem give way to us elder ones. Among themselves they squabbleddreadfully. 

We are a very ill-tempered family. 

CHAPTER II. 

ILL-TEMPERED PEOPLE AND THEIR FRIENDS--NARROW ESCAPES--THEHATCHET-QUARREL. 

I do not wish for a moment to defend ill-temper, but I do think thatpeople who suffer from ill-tempered people often talk as if they werethe only ones who do suffer in the matter; and as if the ill-temperedpeople themselves quite enjoyed being in a rage. 

And yet how much misery is endured by those who have never got thevictory over their own ill-temper! To feel wretched and exasperated bylittle annoyances which good-humoured people get over with a shrug ora smile; to have things rankle in my mind like a splinter in theflesh, which glide lightly off yours, and leave no mark; to be unableto bear a joke, knowing that one is doubly laughed at because onecan't; to have this deadly sore at heart--"I _cannot_ forgive; I_cannot_ forget, " there is no pleasure in these things. The tears ofsorrow are not more bitter than the tears of anger, of hurt pride orthwarted will. As to the fit of passion in which one is giddy, blind, and deaf, if there is a relief to the overcharged mind in saying thesharpest things and hitting the heaviest blows one can at the moment, the pleasantness is less than momentary, for almost as we strike weforesee the pains of regret and of humbling ourselves to beg pardonwhich must ensue. Our friends do not always pity as well as blame us, though they are sorry for those who were possessed by devils long ago. 

Good-tempered people, too, who I fancy would find it quite easy not tobe provoking, and to be a little patient and forbearing, really seemsometimes to irritate hot-tempered ones on purpose, as if they thoughtit was good for them to get used to it. 

I do not mean that I think ill-tempered people should be constantlyyielded to, as Nurse says Mrs. Rampant and the servants have given wayto Mr. Rampant till he has got to be quite as unreasonable and nearlyas dangerous as most maniacs, and his friends never cross him, for thesame reason that they would hot stir up a mad bull. 

Perhaps I do not quite know how I would have our friends treat us whoare cursed with bad tempers. I think to avoid unnecessary provocation, and to be patient with us in the height of our passion, is wise aswell as kind. But no principle should be conceded to us, and rightsthat we have unjustly attacked should be faithfully defended when weare calm enough to listen. I fancy that where gentle Mrs. Rampant iswrong is that she allows Mr. Rampant to think that what really areconcessions to his weakness are concessions to his wisdom. And what isnot founded on truth cannot do lasting good. And if, years ago, beforehe became a sort of gunpowder cask at large, he had been asked if hewished Mrs. Rampant to persuade herself, and Mrs. Rampant, the littleRampants, and the servants to combine to persuade him, that he wasright when he was wrong, and wise when he was foolish, and reasonablewhen he was unjust, I think he would have said No. I do not believeone could deliberately desire to be befooled by one's family for allthe best years of one's life. And yet how many people are!

I do not think I am ever likely to be so loved and feared by those Ilive with as to have my ill-humours made into laws. I hope not. But Iam sometimes thankful, on the other hand, that GOD is moreforbearing with us than we commonly are with each other, and does notlead us into temptation when we are at our worst and weakest. 

Any one who has a bad temper must sometimes look back at the yearsbefore he learned self-control, and feel thankful that he is not amurderer, or burdened for life by the weight on his conscience ofsome calamity of which he was the cause. If the knife which furiousFred threw at his sister before he was out of petticoats had hit thechild's eye instead of her forehead, could he ever have looked intothe blinded face without a pang? If the blow with which impatientAnnie flattered herself she was correcting her younger brother hadthrown the naughty little lad out of the boat instead of into thesailor's arms, and he had been drowned--at ten years old a murderess, how could she endure for life the weight of her unavailing remorse?

I very nearly killed Philip once. It makes me shudder to think of it, and I often wonder I ever could lose my temper again. 

We were eight years old, and out in the garden together. We hadsettled to build a moss-house for my dolls, and had borrowed thehatchet out of the wood-house, without leave, to chop the stakes with. It was entirely my idea, and I had collected all the moss and most ofthe sticks. It was I, too, who had taken the hatchet. Philip had beenvery tiresome about not helping me in the hard part; but when I haddriven in the sticks by leaning on them with all my weight, and hadput in bits of brushwood where the moss fell out and Philip laughed atme, and, in short, when the moss-house was beginning to look quitereal, Philip was very anxious to work at it, and wanted the hatchet. 

"You wouldn't help me over the hard work, " said I, "so I shan't giveit you now; I'll make my moss-house myself. "

"No, you won't, " said Philip. 

"Yes, I shall, " said I. 

"No, you won't, " he reiterated; "for I shall pull it down as fast asyou build it. "

"You'd better not, " I threatened. 

Just then we were called in to dinner. I hid the hatchet, and Philipsaid no more; but he got out before me, and when I returned to work Ifound that the moss-house walls, which had cost me so much labour, were pulled to pieces and scattered about the shrubbery. Philip wasnot to be seen. 

My heart had been so set upon my project that at first I could onlyfeel the overwhelming disappointment. I was not a child who oftencried, but I burst into tears. 

I was sobbing my hardest when Philip sprang upon me in triumph, andlaughing at my distress. 

"I kept my promise, " said he, tossing his head, "and I'll go on doingit. "

I am sure those shocks of fury which seize one like a fit must be adevil possessing one. In an instant my eyes were as dry as the desertin a hot wind, and my head reeling with passion. I ran to thehatchet, and came back brandishing it. 

"If you touch one stake or bit of moss of mine again, " said I, "I'llthrow my hatchet at your head. I can keep promises too. "

My intention was only to frighten him. I relied on his not daring tobrave such a threat; unhappily he relied on my not daring to carry itout. He took up some of my moss and threw it at me by way of reply. 

I flung the hatchet!--

My Aunt Isobel has a splendid figure, with such grace and power as onemight expect from her strong health and ready mind. I had not seen herat the moment, for I was blind with passion, nor had Philip, for hisback was turned towards her. I did not see distinctly how she watched, as one watches for a ball, and caught the hatchet within a yard ofPhilip's head. 

My Aunt Isobel has a temper much like the temper of the rest of thefamily. When she had caught it in her left hand she turned round andboxed my ears with her right hand till I could see less than ever. (Ibelieve she suffered for that outburst for months afterwards. She wasafraid she had damaged my hearing, as that sense is too often damagedor destroyed by the blows of ill-tempered parents, teachers, andnurses. )

Then she turned back and shook Philip as vigorously as she had boxedme. "I saw you, you spiteful, malicious boy!" said my Aunt Isobel. 

All the time she was shaking him, Philip was looking at her feet. Something that he saw absorbed his attention so fully that he forgotto cry. 

"You're bleeding, Aunt Isobel, " said he, when she gave him breathenough to speak. 

The truth was this: the nervous force which Aunt Isobel had summonedup to catch the hatchet seemed to cease when it was caught; her armfell powerless, and the hatchet cut her ankle. That left arm wasuseless for many months afterwards, to my abiding reproach. 

Philip was not hurt, but he might have been killed. Everybody told meso often that it was a warning to me to correct my terrible temper, that I might have revolted against the reiteration if the facts hadbeen less grave. But I never can feel lightly about thathatchet-quarrel. It opened a gulf of possible wickedness and life-longmisery, over the brink of which my temper would have dragged me, butfor Aunt Isobel's strong arm and keen eye, and over which it mightsucceed in dragging me any day, unless I could cure myself of mybesetting sin. 

I never denied it. It was a warning. 

CHAPTER III. 

WARNINGS--MY AUNT ISOBEL--MR. RAMPANT'S TEMPER, AND HIS CONSCIENCE. 

I was not the only scarecrow held up before my own mind. 

Nurse had a gallery of historical characters, whom she kept as beaconsto warn our stormy passions of their fate. The hot-tempered boy whokilled his brother when they were at school; the hot-tempered farmerwho took his gun to frighten a trespasser, and ended by shooting him;the young lady who destroyed the priceless porcelain in a pet; thehasty young gentleman who kicked his favourite dog and broke itsribs;--they were all warnings: so was old Mr. Rampant, so was my AuntIsobel. 

Aunt Isobel's story was a whispered tradition of the nursery for manyyears before she and I were so intimate, in consequence of hergoodness and kindness to me, that one day I was bold enough to say toher, "Aunt Isobel, is it true that the reason why you never marriedis because you and he quarrelled, and you were very angry, and he wentaway, and he was drowned at sea?"

Child as I was, I do not think I should have been so indelicate as tohave asked this question if I had not come to fancy that Nurse madeout the story worse than it really was, for my behoof. Aunt Isobel wasso cheerful and bright with us!--and I was not at that time able tobelieve that any one could mend a broken heart with other people'sinterests so that the marks should show so little!

My aunt had a very clear skin, but in an instant her face was thickwith a heavy blush, and she was silent. I marvelled that these werethe only signs of displeasure she allowed herself to betray, for thequestion was no sooner out of my mouth than I wished it unsaid, andfelt how furious she must naturally feel to hear that her sad andsacred story was bandied between servants and children as anursery-tale with a moral to it. 

But oh, Aunt Isobel! Aunt Isobel! you had at this time progressed faralong that hard but glorious road of self-conquest which I had hardlyfound my way to. 

"I beg your pardon, " I began, before she spoke. 

"You ought to, " said my aunt--she never spoke less than decisively--"Ithought you had more tact, Isobel, than to tell any one what servantshave said of one's sins or sorrows behind one's back. "

"I am _very_ sorry, " I repeated with shame; "but the thing is, Ididn't believe it was true, you always seem so happy. I am _very_sorry. "

"It is true, " said Aunt Isobel. "Child, whilst we are speaking ofit--for the first and the last time--let it be a warning for you toillustrate a very homely proverb: 'Don't cut off your nose to spiteyour own face. ' Ill-tempered people are always doing it, and I did itto my life-long loss. I _was_ angry with him, and like Jonah I said tomyself, 'I do well to be angry. ' And though I would die twenty deathsharder than the death he died to see his face for five minutes and beforgiven, I am not weak enough to warp my judgment with my misery. Iwas in the right, and he was in the wrong. But I forgot how muchharder a position it is to be in the wrong than in the right in aquarrel. I did not think of how, instead of making the return pathdifficult to those who err, we ought to make it easy, as GODdoes for us. I gave him no chance of unsaying with grace or creditwhat he could not fail to regret that he had said. Isobel, you have aclear head and a sharp tongue, as I have. You will understand when Isay that I had the satisfaction of proving that I was in the right andhe was in the wrong, and that I was firmly, conscientiouslydetermined to make no concessions, no half-way advances, though ourFather _goes to meet_ His prodigals. Merciful Heaven! I had thesatisfaction of parting myself for all these slow years from the mosthonest--the tenderest-hearted--"

My Aunt Isobel had overrated her strength. After a short and vainstruggle in silence she got up and went slowly out of the room, resting her hand for an instant on my little knick-knack table by thedoor as she went out--the only time I ever saw her lean upon anything. 

 * * * * *

Old Mr. Rampant was another of my "warnings. " He--to whose face no onedared hint that he could ever be in the wrong--would have been moreastonished than Aunt Isobel to learn how plainly--nay, howcontemptuously--the servants spoke behind his back of his unbridledtemper and its results. They knew that the only son was somewhere onthe other side of the world, and that little Mrs. Rampant wept tearsfor him and sent money to him in secret, and they had no difficulty indeciding why: "He'd got his father's temper, and it stood to reasonthat he and the old gentleman couldn't put up their horses together. "The moral was not obscure. From no lack of affection, but for want ofself-control, the son was condemned to homelessness and hardships inhis youth, and the father was sonless in his old age. 

But that was not the point of Nurse's tales about Mr. Rampant whichimpressed me most, nor even the endless anecdotes of his unreasonablepassions which leaked out at his back-door and came up our back-stairsto the nursery. They rather amused us. That assault on the butcher'sboy, who brought ribs of beef instead of sirloin, for which he wassummoned and fined; his throwing the dinner out of the window, andgoing to dine at the village inn--by which the dogs ate the dinner andhe had to pay for two dinners, and to buy new plates and dishes. 

We laughed at these things, but in my serious moments, especially onthe first Sunday of the month, I was haunted by something else whichNurse had told me about old Mr. Rampant. 

In our small parish--a dull village on the edge of a marsh--the HolyCommunion was only celebrated once a month. It was not because he wasirreligious that old Mr. Rampant was one of the too numerousnon-communicants. "It's his temper, poor gentleman, " said Nurse. "Hecan't answer for himself, and he has that religious feeling hewouldn't like to come unless he was fit. The housekeeper overheardMrs. Rampant a-begging of him last Christmas. It was no listeningeither, for he bellowed at her like a bull, and swore dreadful thatwhatever else he was he wouldn't be profane. "

"Couldn't he keep his temper for a week, don't you think?" said Isadly, thinking of my mother's old copy of the _Weeks Preparation_ forthe Lord's Supper. 

"It would be as bad if he got into one of his tantrums directlyafterwards, " said Nurse: "and with people pestering forChristmas-boxes, and the pudding and turkey, and so many things thatmight go wrong, it would be as likely as not he would. It's a sadthing too, " she added, "for his neck's terribly short, and they sayall his family have gone suddenly with the apoplexy. It's an awfulthing, Miss Isobel, to be taken sudden--and unprepared. "

The awe of it came back on me every month when the fair white linencovered the rustiness of the old velvet altar-cloth which the marshdamps were rotting, and the silver vessels shone, and the villageorganist played out the non-communicants with a somewhat inappropriatetriumphal march, and little Mrs. Rampant knelt on with buried face aswe went out, and Mr. Rampant came out with us, looking more glum thanusual, and with such a short neck!

_Now_ I think poor Mr. Rampant was wrong, and that he ought to havegone with Mrs. Rampant to the Lord's Supper that Christmas. He mighthave found grace to have got through all the little ups and downs anddomestic disturbances of a holiday season without being veryferocious; and if he had tried and failed I think GOD wouldhave forgiven him. And he might--it is possible that he_might_--during that calm and solemn Communion, have forgiven his sonas he felt that Our Father forgave him. So Aunt Isobel says; and Ihave good reason to think that she is likely to be right. 

I think so too _now_, but _then_ I was simply impressed by the thoughtthat an ill-tempered person was, as Nurse expressed it, "unfit" tojoin in the highest religious worship. It is true that I was alsoimpressed by her other saying, "It's an awful thing, Miss Isobel, tobe taken sudden and unprepared;" but there was a temporary compromisein my own case. I could not be a communicant till I was confirmed. 

CHAPTER IV. 

CASES OF CONSCIENCE--ETHICS OF ILL-TEMPER. 

Confirmations were not very frequent in our little village at thistime. About once in three years the Bishop came to us. He came when Iwas twelve years old. Opinions were divided as to whether I was oldenough, but I decided the matter by saying I would rather wait tillthe next opportunity. 

"I may be more fit by that time, " was my thought, and it was probablynot unlike some of Mr. Rampant's self-communings. 

The time came, and the Bishop also; I was fifteen. 

I do not know why, but nobody had proposed that Philip should beconfirmed at twelve years old. Fifteen was thought to be quite earlyenough for him, and so it came about that we were confirmed together. 

I am very thankful that, as it happened, I had Aunt Isobel to talk to. 

"You're relieved from one perplexity at any rate, " said she, when Ihad been speaking of that family failing which was also mine. "Youknow your weak point. I remember a long talk I had, years ago, withMrs. Rampant, whom I used to know very well when we were young. Shesaid one of her great difficulties was not being able to find out herbesetting sin. She said it always made her so miserable when clergymenpreached on that subject, and said that every enlightened Christianmust have discovered one master passion amongst the others of hissoul. She had tried so hard, and could only find a lot, none muchbigger or much less than the others. Some vanity, some selfishness, some distrust and weariness, some peevishness, some indolence, and alapful of omissions. Since she married, " continued my aunt, slowlypulling her thick black eyelashes, after a fashion she had, "I believeshe has found the long-lost failing. It is impatience with Mr. Rampant, she thinks. "

I could not help laughing. 

"However, Isobel, we may be sure of this, people of soft, gentletemperaments have their own difficulties with their own souls which weescape. Perhaps in the absence of such marked vices as bring one toopen shame one might be slower to undertake vigorous self-improvement. You and I have no difficulty in seeing the sin lying at _our_ door. "

"N--no, " said I. 

"Well, _have you_?" said Aunt Isobel, facing round. "Bless me, " sheadded impetuously, "don't say you haven't if you have. Never let anyone else think for you, child!"

"If you'll only have patience and let me explain--"

"I'm patience its very self!" interrupted my aunt, "but I do hate a Nothat means Yes. "

_My_ patience began to evaporate. 

"There are some things, Aunt Isobel, _you know_, which can't beexactly squeezed into No and Yes. But if you don't want to be botheredI won't say anything, or I'll say yes or no, which ever you like. "

And I kicked the shovel. (My aunt had shoved the poker with _her_slipper. ) She drew her foot back and spoke very gently:

"I beg your pardon, my dear. Please say what you were going to say, and in your own way. "

There is no doubt that good-humour--like bad--is infectious. I drewnearer to Aunt Isobel, and fingered the sleeve of her dresscaressingly. 

"You know, dear Aunt Isobel, that I should never think of saying tothe Rector what I want to say to you. And I don't mean that I don'tagree to whatever he tells us about right and wrong, but still I thinkif one can be quite convinced in the depths of one's own head, too, it's a good thing, as well as knowing that he must be right. "

"Certainly, " said Aunt Isobel. 

"To begin with, I don't want you to think me any better than I am. When we were very very little, Philip and I used to spit at eachother, and pull each other's hair out. I do not do nasty or unladylikethings now when I am angry, but, Aunt Isobel, my 'besetting sin' isnot conquered, it's only civilized. "

"I quite agree with you, " said Aunt Isobel; which rather annoyed me. Igulped this down, however, and went on:

"The sin of ill-temper, _if it is a sin_, " I began. I paused, expecting an outburst, but Aunt Isobel sat quite composedly, andfingered her eyelashes. 

"Of course the Rector would be horrified if I said such a thing at theconfirmation-class, " I continued, in a dissatisfied tone. 

"Don't invent grievances, Isobel, for I see you have a realstumbling-block, when we can come to it. You are not at theconfirmation-class, and I am not easily horrified. "

"Well, there are two difficulties--I explain very stupidly, " said Iwith some sadness. 

"We'll take them one at a time, " replied Aunt Isobel with anexasperating blandness, which fortunately stimulated me toplain-speaking. 

"Everybody says one ought to 'restrain' one's temper, but I'm not sureif I think one ought. Isn't it better to _have things out_? Look atPhilip. He's going to be confirmed, and then he'll go back to school, and when he and another boy quarrel, they'll fight it out, and feelcomfortable afterwards. Aunt Isobel, I can quite understand feelingfriendly after you've had it out, even if you're the one who isbeaten, if it has been a fair fight. Now _restraining_ your tempermeans forcing yourself to be good outside, and feeling all the worseinside, and feeling it longer. There is that utterly stupid littleschoolroom-maid, who is under my orders, that I may teach her. AuntIsobel, you would not credit how often I tell her the same thing, andhow politely she says 'Yes, miss!' and how invariably she doesn't doit after all. I say, 'You _know_ I told you only yesterday. What _is_the use of my trying to teach you?' and all kinds of mild things likethat; but really I quite hate her for giving me so much trouble andtaking so little herself, and I wish I might discharge her. Now, ifonly it wasn't wrong to throw--what are those things hot-temperedgentlemen always throw at their servants?"

"Don't ask me, my dear; ask Mr. Rampant. "

"Oh, he throws everything. Bootjacks--that's it. Now, if only I mightthrow a bootjack at her, it would waken her up, and be such a reliefto my feelings, that I shouldn't feel half so unforgiving towards herall along. Then as to swearing, Aunt Isobel--"

"Swearing!" ejaculated my aunt. 

"Of course swearing is very wrong, and all profane-speaking but I dothink it _would be_ a help if there was some innocent kind of stronglanguage to use when one feels strongly. "

"If we didn't use up all our innocent strong language by callingthings awful and horrible that have not an element of awe or horror inthem, we should have some left for our great occasions, " said AuntIsobel. 

"Perhaps, " said I, "but that's not exactly what I mean. Now do youthink it would be wrong to invent expletives that mean nothing bad? Asif Mr. Rampant were to say, 'Cockatoos and kingfishers! where are myshooting-boots?' For you know I do think it would make him morecomfortable to put it in that way, especially if he had been keptwaiting for them. "

I paused, and Aunt Isobel turned round. 

"Let us carry your idea well forward, Isobel. Bootjacks and expletiveswould no doubt be a relief to the thrower when hurled at servants orsome one who could not (or from principle would not) retaliate, andthe angry feelings that propelled them might be shortened by 'lettingoff the steam, ' so to speak. But imagine yourself to have thrown abootjack at Philip to relieve your feelings, and Philip (to relievehis) flinging it back at you. This would only give fresh impetus to_your_ indignation, and whatever you threw next would not be likely tosoothe _his_. "

"Please don't!" said I. "Aunt Isobel, I could never throw a hatchetagain. "

"You are bold to promise to stop short anywhere when relievingpassionate feelings by indulgence has begun on two sides. And, mydear, matters are no better where the indulgence is in words insteadof blows. In the very mean and undignified position of abusing thosewho cannot return your abuse it might answer; but 'innocent stronglanguage' would cease to be of any good when it was returned. If to'Cockatoos and kingfishers! where are my shooting-boots?' an equallyviolent voice from below replied, 'Bats and blackbeetles! look forthem yourself!' some stronger vent for the steam of hot temper wouldhave to be found, and words of any kind would soon cease to relievethe feelings. Isobel, I have had long and hard experience, and yourideas are not new ones to me. Believe me, child, the only real reliefis in absolute conquest, and the earlier the battle begins, the easierand the shorter it will be. If one can keep irritability under, onemay escape a struggle to the death with passion. I am not crammingprinciples down your throat--I say as a matter of personal practice, that I do not know, and never hope to find a smoother or a shorterway. But I can say also--after Victory comes Peace. "

I gave a heavy sigh. 

"Thank you, Aunt Isobel, I will try; but it makes my second difficultyall the worse. I can fancy that I might possibly learn self-control; Ican fancy by main force holding my tongue, or compelling it to speakvery slowly and civilly: but one can't force one's feelings. AuntIsobel, if I had been very much insulted or provoked, I might keep onbeing civil for years on the outside, but how I should hate! You can'tprevent yourself hating. People talk about 'forgive and forget. ' Ifforgiving means doing no harm, and forgetting means behaving quitecivilly, as if nothing had happened, one could. But of course it'snonsense to talk of making yourself really _forget_ anything. And Ithink it's just as absurd to talk of making yourself forgive, ifforgiveness means feeling really kindly and comfortable as you didbefore. The very case in which I am most sure you are right aboutself-control is one of the worst the other way. I ought to be ashamedto speak of it--but I mean the hatchet-quarrel. If I had been verygood instead of very wicked, and had restrained myself when Philippulled all my work to pieces, and jeered at me for being miserable, I_couldn't_ have loved him again as I did before. Forgive and forget!One would often be very glad to. I have often awoke in the morning andknown that I had forgotten something disagreeable, and when it didcome back I was sorry; but one's memory isn't made of slate, or one'sheart either, that one can take a wet sponge and make it clean. Ohdear! I wonder why ill-tempered people are allowed to live! They oughtto be smothered in their cradles. "

Aunt Isobel was about to reply, but I interrupted her. 

"Don't think me humble-minded, Aunt Isobel, for I'm not. Sometimes Ifeel inclined to think that ill-tempered people have more sense ofjustice and of the strict rights and wrongs of things--at least ifthey are not very bad, " I interpolated, thinking of Mr. Rampant--"thanpeople who can smile and look pleasant at everything and everybodylike Lucy Lambent, who goes on calling me darling when I know I'mscowling like a horned-owl. Nurse says she's the 'sweetest temperedyoung lady she ever did know!' Aunt Isobel, what a muddle life is!"

"After some years of it, " said my aunt, pulling her lashes hard, "_I_generally say, What a muddle my head is! Life is too much for it. "

"I am quite willing to put it that way, " sighed I, laying mymuddle-head on the table, for I was tired. "It comes to much the samething. Now--there is my great difficulty! I give in about the otherone, but you can't cure this, and the truth is, I am not fit to go toa confirmation-class, much less to the Holy Communion. "

"Isobel, " said my aunt, folding her hands on her lap, and bending hervery thick brows on the fire, "I want you to clearly understand that Ispeak with great hesitation, and without any authority. I can donothing for you but tell you what I have found myself in _my_struggles. "

"Thank you a thousand times, " said I, "that's what I want. You know Ihear two sermons every Sunday, and I have a lot of good books. Mrs. Welment sends me a little book about ill-temper every Christmas. Thelast one was about saying a little hymn before you let yourself speakwhenever you feel angry. Philip got hold of it, and made fun of it. Hesaid it was like the recipe for catching a sparrow by putting salt onits tail, because if you were cool enough to say a hymn, there wouldthen be no need for saying it. What do you think, Aunt Isobel?"

"My dear, I have long ago given up the idea that everybody's weakpoints can all be strengthened by one plaster. The hymn might be veryuseful in some cases, though I confess that it would not be in mine. But prayer is; and I find a form of prayer necessary. At the same timeI have such an irritable taste, that there are very few forms ofdevotion that give me much help but the Prayer-Book collects andJeremy Taylor. I do not know if you may find it useful to hear that inthis struggle I sometimes find prayers more useful, if they are nottoo much to the sore point. A prayer about ill-temper might tend tomake me cross, when the effort to join my spirit with thetemptation-tried souls of all ages in a solemn prayer for the ChurchUniversal would lift me out of the petty sphere of personal vexations, better than going into my grievances even piously. I speak merely ofmyself, mind. "

"Thank you, " I said. "But about what I said about hating. Aunt Isobel, did you ever change your feelings by force? Do you suppose anybodyever did?"

"I believe it is a great mistake to trouble one's self with thespiritual experiences of other people when one cannot fully know theircircumstances, so I won't suppose at all. As to what I am sure of, Isobel, you know I speak the truth. "

"Yes, " said I; it would have been impertinence to say more. 

"_I_ have found that if one fights for good behaviour, GODmakes one a present of the good feelings. I believe you will find itso. Even when you were a child, if you had tried to be good, and hadmanaged to control yourself, and had not thrown the hatchet, I amquite sure you would not have hated Philip for long. Perhaps you wouldhave thought how much better Philip used to behave before your fatherand mother died, and a little elder-sisterly, motherly feeling wouldhave mixed with your wrath at seeing him with his fat legs plantedapart, and his shoulders up, the very picture of wilful naughtiness. Perhaps you might have thought you had repulsed him a little harshlywhen he wanted to help, as you were his chief playmate and twinsister. "

"Please don't, " said I. "How I wish I had! Indeed I don't know how Ican ever speak of hating one of the others when there are so few ofus, and we are orphans. But everybody isn't one's brother. And--oh, Aunt Isobel, at the time one does get so wild, and hard, and twistedin one's heart!"

"I don't think it is possible to overrate the hardness of the firstclose struggle with any natural passion, " said my aunt earnestly; "butindeed the easiness of after-steps is often quite beyond one'sexpectations. The free gift of grace with which GOD perfectsour efforts may come in many ways, but I am convinced that it is thecommon experience of Christians that it does come. "

"To every one, do you think?" said I. "I've no doubt it comes to you, Aunt Isobel, but then you are so good. "

"For pity's sake don't say I am good, " said my aunt, and she kickeddown all the fire-irons; and then begged my pardon, and picked them upagain. 

We were silent for awhile. Aunt Isobel sat upright with her handsfolded in her lap, and that look which her large eyes wear when she istrying to see all the sides of a question. They were dilated with asorrowful earnestness when she spoke again. 

"There _may_ be some souls, " she said, "whose brave and bitter lot itis to conquer comfortless. Perhaps some terrible inheritance of strongsin from the father is visited upon the son, and, only able to keephis purpose pure, he falls as fast as he struggles up, and stillstruggling falls again. Soft moments of peace with GOD andman may never come to him. He may feel himself viler than a thousandtrumpery souls who could not have borne his trials for a day. Child, for you and for me is reserved no such cross and no such crown astheirs who falling still fight, and fighting fall, with their facesZionwards, into the arms of the Everlasting Father. 'As one whom hismother comforteth' shall be the healing of _their_ wounds. "

There was a brisk knock at the door, and Philip burst in. 

"Look here, Isobel, if you mean to be late for confirmation-class I'mnot going to wait for you. I hate sneaking in with the benches allfull, and old Bartram blinking and keeping your place in the catechismfor you with his fat forefinger. "

"I am _very_ sorry, Philip dear, " said I; "please go without me, andI'll come on as quickly as I can. Thank you very much for coming toremind me. "

"There's no such awful hurry, " said Philip in a mollified tone; "I'llwait for you down-stairs. "

Which he did, whistling. 

Aunt Isobel and I are not demonstrative, it does not suit us. She tookhold of my arms, and I laid my head on her shoulder. 

"Aunt Isobel, GOD help me, I will fight on to the very end. "

"HE _will_ help you, " said Aunt Isobel. 

I could not look at her face and doubt it. Oh, my weak soul, neverdoubt it more!

CHAPTER V. 

CELESTIAL FIRE--I CHOOSE A TEXT. 

We were confirmed. 

As Aunt Isobel had said, I was spared perplexity by the unmistakablenature of my weakest point. There was no doubt as to what I shouldpray against and strive against. But on that day it seemed not only asif I could never give way to ill-temper again, but as if the trumperycauses of former outbreaks could never even tempt me to do so. As thelines of that ancient hymn to the Holy Ghost--"_Veni Creator_"--rolledon, I prayed humbly enough that my unworthy efforts might yet becrowned by the sevenfold gifts of the Spirit; but that a soul whichsincerely longed to be "lightened with celestial fire" could betempted to a common fit of sulks or scolding by the rub of nurserymisdeeds and mischances, felt then so little likely as hardly to beworth deprecating on my knees. 

And yet, when the service was over, the fatigue of the mental strainand of long kneeling and standing began to tell in a feeling that camesadly near to peevishness. I spent the rest of the day resolutely inmy room and on my knees, hoping to keep up those high thoughts andemotions which had made me feel happy as well as good. And yet I allbut utterly broke down into the most commonplace crossness becausePhilip did not do as I did, but romped noisily with the others, andteased me for looking grave at tea. 

I just did not break down. So much remained alive of the "celestialfire, " that I kept my temper behind my teeth. Long afterwards, when Ilearnt by accident that Philip's "good resolve" on the occasion hadbeen that he would be kinder to "the little ones, " I was very gladthat I had not indulged my uncharitable impulse to lecture him onindifference to spiritual progress. 

That evening Aunt Isobel gave me a new picture for my room. It was afine print of the Crucifixion, for which I had often longed, a Germanwoodcut in the powerful manner of Albert Dürer, after a design byMichael Angelo. It was neither too realistic nor too mediæval, and theface was very noble. Aunt Isobel had had it framed, and below on anilluminated scroll was written--"What are these wounds in ThineHands? Those with which I was wounded in the house of My friends. "

"I often think, " she said, when we had hung it up and were looking atit, "that it is not in our Lord's Cross and Passion that His patiencecomes most home to us. To be patient before an unjust judge or brutalsoldiers might be almost a part of self-respect; but patience with thedaily disappointments of a life 'too good for this world, ' as peoplesay, patience with the follies, the unworthiness, the ingratitude ofthose one loves--these things are our daily example. For wounds in thehouse of our enemies pride may be prepared; wounds in the house of ourfriends take human nature by surprise, and GOD only can teach us tobear them. And with all reverence I think that we may say that ourshave an element of difficulty in which His were wanting. They aremixed with blame on our own parts. "

"That is why you have put that text for me?" said I. My aunt nodded. 

I was learning to illuminate, and I took much pride in my room. Idetermined to make a text for myself, and to choose a very plainpassage about ill-temper. Mrs. Welment's books supplied me withplenty. I chose "Let not the sun go down upon your wrath, " but Iresolved to have the complete text as it stands in the Bible. Itseemed fair to allow myself to remember that anger is not always asin, and I thought it useful to remind myself that if by obstinateill-temper I got the victory in a quarrel, it was only because thedevil had got the victory over me. So the text ran full length:--"Beye angry, and sin not; let not the sun go down upon your wrath:neither give place to the devil. " It made a very long scroll, and Iput it up over my window, and fastened it with drawing-pins. 

CHAPTER VI. 

THEATRICAL PROPERTIES--I PREPARE A PLAY--PHILIP BEGINS TO PREPARE THESCENERY--A NEW FRIEND. 

Philip was at school during the remainder of the year, but I tried toput my good resolves in practice with the children, and it made us amore peaceful household than usual. When Philip came home for theChristmas holidays we were certainly in very pleasant moods--for anill-tempered family. 

Our friends allow that some quickness of wits accompanies thequickness of our tempers. From the days when we were very young ourprivate theatricals have been famous in our own little neighbourhood. I was paramount in nursery mummeries, and in the children's charadeparties of the district, for Philip was not very reliable when steadyhelp was needed; but at school he became stage-manager of thetheatricals there. 

I do not know that he learned to act very much better than I, and Ithink Alice (who was only twelve) had twice the gift of either of us, but every half he came back more ingenious than before in matters forwhich we had neither the talent nor the tools. He glued together yardsof canvas or calico, and produced scenes and drop-curtains which wereambitious and effective, though I thought him a little reckless bothabout good drawing and good clothes. His glue-kettles and size-potswere always steaming, his paint was on many and more inappropriateobjects than the canvas. A shilling's-worth of gilding powder wentsuch a long way that we had not only golden crowns and goldensceptres, and golden chains for our dungeon, and golden wings for ourfairies, but the nursery furniture became irregularly andunintentionally gilded, as well as nurse's stuff dress, when she saton a warrior's shield, which was drying in the rocking-chair. 

But these were small matters. Philip gave us a wonderful account ofthe "properties" he had made for school theatricals. A dragon paintedto the life, and with matches so fixed into the tip of him that theboy who acted as the life and soul of this ungainly carcase could waga fiery tail before the amazed audience, by striking it on thatparticular scale of his dragon's skin which was made of sand-paper. Rabbit-skin masks, cotton-wool wigs and wigs of tow, seven-leagueboots, and witches' hats, thunder with a tea-tray, and all the phasesof the moon with a moderator lamp--with all these things Philipenriched the school theatre, though for some time he would not take somuch trouble for our own. 

But during this last half he had written me three letters--and threevery kind ones. In the latest he said that--partly because he had beenmaking some things for us, and partly because of changes in theschool-theatrical affairs--he should bring home with him a box of veryvaluable "properties" for our use at Christmas. He charged me at onceto prepare a piece which should include a prince disguised as a woollybeast on two legs with large fore-paws (easily shaken off), a fairygodmother with a tow wig and the highest hat I could ever hope to see, a princess turned into a willow-tree (painted from memory of the oldone at home), and with fine gnarls and knots, through which theprincess could see everything, and prompt (if needful), a disconsolateparent, and a faithful attendant, to be acted by one person, with asmany belated travellers as the same actor could personate into thebargain. These would all be eaten up by the dragon at the right wing, and re-enter more belated than ever at the left, without stoppinglonger than was required to roll a peal of thunder at the back. Thefifth and last character was to be the dragon himself. The forestscene would be wanted, and I was to try and get an old cask for acave. 

I must explain that I was not expected to write a play. We never tookthe trouble to "learn parts. " We generally took some story whichpleased us out of _Grimm's Fairy Tales_ or the _Arabian Nights_, andarranged for the various scenes. We each had a copy of thearrangement, and our proper characters were assigned to us. After thiswe did the dialogue as if it had been a charade. We were wellaccustomed to act together, and could trust each other and ourselves. Only Alice's brilliancy ever took us by surprise. 

By the time that Philip came home I had got in the rough outline ofthe plot. He arrived with a box of properties, the mere size of whichraised a cheer of welcome from the little ones, and red-hot for ourtheatricals. 

Philip was a little apt to be red-hot over projects, and to coolbefore they were accomplished; but on this occasion we had noforebodings of such evil. Besides, he was to play the dragon! When hedid fairly devote himself to anything, he grudged no trouble andhesitated at no undertakings. He was so much pleased with my plot andwith the cave, that he announced that he should paint a new forestscene for the occasion. I tried to dissuade him. There were so manyother things to be done, and the old scene was very good. But he hadlearnt several new tricks of the scene-painter's trade, and was bentupon putting them into practice. So he began his new scene, and Iresolved to work all the harder at the odds and ends of ourpreparations. To be driven into a corner and pressed for time alwaysstimulated instead of confusing me. I think the excitement of it ispleasant. Alice had the same dogged way of working at a crisis, and wefelt quite confident of being able to finish up "at a push, " whateverPhilip might leave undone. The theatricals were to be on TwelfthNight. 

Christmas passed very happily on the whole. I found my temper muchoftener tried since Philip's return, but this was not only because hewas very wilful and very fond of teasing, but because with the youngerones I was always deferred to. 

One morning we were very busy in the nursery, which was our workshop. Philip's glue-pots and size-pots were steaming, there were colouredpowders on every chair, Alice and I were laying a coat of invisiblegreen over the cave-cask, and Philip, in radiant good-humour, wasgiving distance to his woodland glades in the most artful manner withpowder-blue, and calling on us for approbation--when the housemaidcame in. 

"It's _not_ lunch-time?" cried Alice. "It can't be!"

"Get away, Mary, " said Philip, "and tell cook if she puts on any moremeals I'll paint her best cap pea-green. She's sending up luncheonsand dinners all day long now: just because she knows we're busy. "

Mary only laughed, and said, "It's a gentleman wants to see you, Master Philip, " and she gave him a card. Philip read it, and we waitedwith some curiosity. 

"It's a man I met in the train, " said he, "a capital fellow. He livesin the town. His father's a doctor there. Granny must invite him tothe theatricals. Ask him to come here, Mary, and show him the way. "

"Oughtn't you to go and fetch him yourself?" said I. 

"I can't leave this, " said Philip. "He'll be all right. He's asfriendly as possible. "

I must say here that "Granny" was our maternal grandmother, with whomwe lived. My mother and father were cousins, and Granny's husband wasof that impetuous race to which we belonged. If he had been alive hewould have kept us all in good order, no doubt. But he was dead, andGranny was the gentlest of old ladies: I fear she led a terrible lifewith us all!

Philip's friend came up-stairs. He _was_ very friendly; in fact Aliceand I thought him forward, but he was several years older than Philip, who seemed proud of the acquaintance. Perhaps Alice and I were biasedby the fact that he spoilt our pleasant morning. He was one of thosepeople who look at everything one has been working at with suchunintelligent eyes that their indifference ought not to disheartenone; and yet it does. 

"It's for our private theatricals, " said Philip, as Mr. Clinton'samazed stare passed from our paint-covered selves to the new scene. 

"My cousins in Dublin have private theatricals, " said Mr. Clinton. "Myuncle has built on a room for the theatre. All the fittings and scenescome from London, and the first costumiers in Dublin send in all thedresses and everything that is required on the afternoon before theperformance. "

"Oh, we're in a much smaller way, " said Philip; "but I've someproperties here that don't look bad by candlelight. " But Mr. Clintonhad come up to the cask, and was staring at it and us. I knew by theway Alice got quietly up, and shook some chips with a decided air outof her apron, that she did not like being stared at. But her movementonly drew Mr. Clinton's especial attention. 

"You'll catch it from your grandmamma for making such a mess of yourclothes, won't you?" he asked. 

"I _beg_ your pardon?" said Alice, with so perfect an air of nothaving heard him that he was about to repeat the question, when sheleft the nursery with the exact exit which she had made as a DiscreetPrincess repelling unwelcome advances in last year's play. 

I was afraid of an outburst from Philip, and said in hasty civility, "This is a cave we are making. "

"They'd a splendid cave at Covent Garden last Christmas, " said Mr. Clinton. "It covered half the stage. An enormously tall man dressed incloth of silver stood in the entrance, and waved a spear ten or twelvefeet long over his head. A fairy was let down above that, so you maybe sure the cave was pretty big. "

"Oh, here's the dragon, " said Philip, who had been rummaging in theproperty box. "He's got a fiery tail. "

"They were quite the go in pantomimes a few years ago, " said Mr. Clinton, yawning. "My uncle had two or three--bigger than that, ofcourse. "

Philip saw that his friend was not interested in amateurproperty-making, and changed the subject. 

"What have you been doing this morning?" said he. 

"I drove here with my father, who had got to pass your gates. I say, there's splendid shooting on the marsh now. I want you to come outwith me, and we'll pot a wild duck or two. "

"I've no gun, " said Philip, and to soften the statement added, "there's no one here to go out with. "

"I'll go out with you. And I say, we could just catch the train backto the town, and if you'll come and lunch with us, we'll go out a bitthis afternoon and look round. But you must get a gun. "

"I should like some fresh air, " said Philip, "and as you've come overfor me--"

I knew the appealing tone in his voice was for my ears, for my facehad fallen. 

"Could I be going on with it?" I asked, nodding towards the forestscene. 

"Oh dear no! I'll go at it again to-night. It ought all to be paintedby candlelight by rights. I'm not going to desert my post, " he added. 

"I hope not, " said I as good-humouredly as I could; but dismay was inmy heart. 

CHAPTER VII. 

A QUARREL--BOBBY IS WILLING--EXIT PHILIP. 

Philip came back by an evening train, and when he had had something toeat he came up to the nursery to go on with the scene. We had goteverything ready for him, and he worked for about half-an-hour. But hewas so sleepy, with cold air and exercise, that he did not paint well, and then he got impatient, and threw it up--"till the morning. "

In the morning he set to work, talking all the time about wild duckand teal, and the price of guns; but by the time he had put lastnight's blunders straight, the front door bell rang, and Maryannounced "Mr. Clinton. "

Philip was closeted in his room with his new friend till twelveo'clock. Then they went out into the yard, and finally Mr. Clintonstayed to luncheon. But I held my peace, and made Alice hold hers. Mr. Clinton went away in the afternoon, but Philip got the plate-powderand wash-leather, and occupied himself in polishing the silverfittings of his dressing-case. 

"I think you might do that another time, Philip, " said I; "you've notbeen half-an-hour at the properties to-day, and you could clean yourbottles and things quite as well after the theatricals. "

"As it happens I just couldn't, " said Philip; "I've made a bargain, and bargains won't wait. "

Alice and I screamed in one breath, "You're _not_ going to give awaythe dressing-case!"--for it had been my father's. 

"I said a _bargain_" replied Philip, rubbing harder than ever; "youcan't get hold of a gun every day Without paying down hard cash. "

"I hate Mr. Clinton!" said Alice. 

It was a very unfortunate speech, for it declared open war; and whenthis is done it cannot be undone. There is no taking back those sharpsayings which the family curse hangs on the tips of our tongues. 

Philip and Alice exchanged them pretty freely. Philip called usselfish, inhospitable, and jealous. He said we grudged his enjoyinghimself in the holidays, when he had been working like a slave for usduring the half. That we disliked his friend because he _was_ hisfriend, and (not to omit the taunt of sex) that Clinton was too manlya fellow to please girls, etc. , etc. In self-defence Alice was muchmore out-spoken about both Philip and Mr. Clinton than she hadprobably intended to be. That Philip began things hotly, and that hiszeal cooled before they were accomplished--that his imperiousness laidhim open to flattery, and the necessity of playing first-fiddlebetrayed him into second-rate friendships, which were thrown after thediscarded hobbies--that Mr. Clinton was ill-bred, and with thatvulgarity of mind which would make him rather proud than ashamed ofgetting the best of a bargain with his friend--these things were notthe less taunts because they were true. 

If the violent scenes which occur in ill-tempered families _felt_ halfas undignified and miserable as they _look_, surely they would be lesscommon! I believe Philip and Alice would have come to blows if I hadnot joined with him to expel her from the room. I was not happy aboutit, for my sympathy was on her side of the quarrel, but she had beenthe one to declare war, and I could not control Philip. In short, itis often not easy to keep the peace and be just too, as I should liketo have said to Aunt Isobel, if she had been at home. But she was tobe away until the 6th. 

Alice defeated, I took Philip seriously to task. Not about hisfriend--the subject was too sore, and Alice had told him all that wethought, and rather more than we thought on that score--but about thetheatricals. I said if he really was tired of the business we wouldthrow it up, and let our friends know that the proposed entertainmenthad fallen through, but that if he wanted it to go forward he mustdecide what help he would give, and then abide by his promise. 

We came to terms. If I would let him have a day or two's fun with hisgun, Philip promised to "spurt, " as he called it, at the end. I toldhim we would be content if he would join in a "thorough rehearsal, "the afternoon before, and devote himself to the business on the day ofthe performance. 

"Real business, you know, " I added, "with nobody but ourselves. Nobodycoming in to interrupt. "

"Of course, " said Philip; "but I'll do more than that, Isobel. There'sthe scene--"

"_We'll_ finish the scene, " said I, "if you don't aggravate Alice sothat I lose her help as well as yours. "

Alice was very sulky, which I could hardly wonder at, and I workedalone, except for Bobby, the only one with anything like a good temperamong us, who roasted himself very patiently with my size-pot, andhammered bits of ivy, and of his fingers, rather neatly over the cave. But Alice was impulsive and kind-hearted. When I got a bad headache, from working too long, she came round, and helped me. Philip wasalways going to do so, but as a matter of fact he went out every daywith the old fowling-piece for which he had given his dressing case. 

When the ice bore Charles also deserted us, but Alice and I workedsteadily on at dresses and scenery. And Bobby worked with us. 

The 5th of January arrived, the day before the theatricals. Philipspent the morning in cleaning his gun, and after luncheon he broughtit into the nursery to "finish" with a peculiarly aggravating air. 

"When shall you be ready to rehearse?" I asked. 

"Oh, presently, " said Philip, "there's plenty of time yet. It's agreat nuisance, " he added, "I'll never have anything to do withtheatricals again. They make a perfect slave of one. "

"_You've_ not slaved much, at any rate, " said Charles. 

"You'd better not give me any of your cheek, " said Philipthreateningly. 

"We've done without him for a week, I don't know why we shouldn't dowithout him to-morrow, " muttered Alice from the corner where she wassewing gold paper stars on to the Enchanted Prince's tunic. 

"I wish you could, " growled Philip, who took the suggestion morequietly than I expected; "anybody could do the Dragon, there's noacting in it!"

"I won't, " said Charles, "Isobel gave me the Enchanted Prince or theWoolly Beast, and I shall stick to my part. "

"Could I do the Dragon?" asked Bobby, releasing his hot face from thefolds of an old blue cloak lined with red, in which he was rehearsinghis walk as a belated wayfarer. 

"Certainly not, " said I, "you're the Bereaved Father and the FaithfulAttendant to begin with, and I hope you won't muddle them. And you'reTwelve Travellers as well, and the thunder, remember!"

"I don't care how many I do, if only I can, " said Bobby, drawing hiswilling arm across his steaming forehead. "I should like to have afiery tail. "

"You can't devour yourself once--let alone twelve times, " said Isternly. "Don't be silly, Bob. "

It was not Bob I was impatient with in reality, it was Philip. 

"If you really mean to desert the theatricals after all you promised, I would much rather try to do without you, " said I indignantly. 

"Then you may!" retorted Philip. "I wash my hands of it and of thewhole lot of you, and of every nursery entertainment henceforward!"and he got the fragments of his gun together with much clatter. ButCharles had posted himself by the door to say his say, and to be readyto escape when he had said it. 

"You're ashamed of it, that's it, " said he; "you want to sit among thegrown-ups with a spy-glass, now you've got Apothecary Clinton's sonfor a friend, "--and after this brief and insulting summary of thefacts, Charles vanished. But Philip, white with anger, was too quickfor him, and at the top of the back-stairs he dealt him such a heavyblow that Charles fell head-long down the first flight. 

Alice and I flew to the rescue. I lived in dread of Philip reallyinjuring Charles some day, for his blows were becoming serious ones ashe grew taller and stronger, and his self-control did not seem to waxin proportion. And Charles's temper was becoming very aggressive. Onthis occasion, as soon as he had regained breath, and we found that nobones were broken, it was only by main force that we held him backfrom pursuing Philip. 

"I'll hit him--I'll stick to him, " he sobbed in his fury, shaking hishead like a terrier, and doubling his fists. But he was rather sickwith the fall, and we made him lie down to recover himself, whilstAlice, Bobby, and I laid our heads together to plan a substitute forPhilip in the Dragon. 

When bed-time came, and Philip was still absent, we became uneasy, andas I lay sleepless that night I asked myself if I had been to blamefor the sulks in which he had gone off. In fits of passion Philip hadoften threatened to go away and never let us hear of him again. Iknew that such things did happen, and it made me unhappy when he wentoff like this, although his threats had hitherto been no more than acommon and rather unfair device of ill-temper. 

CHAPTER VIII. 

I HEAR FROM PHILIP--A NEW PART WANTED--I LOSE MY TEMPER--WE ALL LOSEOUR TEMPERS. 

Next morning's post brought the following letter from Philip:--

"MY DEAR ISOBEL, "You need not bother about the Dragon--I'll do it. But I wish youwould put another character into the piece. It is for Clinton. He sayshe will act with us. He says he can do anything if it is a leadingpart. He has got black velvet knickerbockers and scarlet stockings, and he can have the tunic and cloak I wore last year, and the flaphat; and you must lend him your white ostrich feather. Make him somekind of a grandee. If you can't, he must be the Prince, and Charlescan do some of the Travellers. We are going out on the marsh thismorning, but I shall be with you after luncheon, and Clinton in theevening. He does not want any rehearsing, only a copy of the plan. Let Alice make it, her writing is the clearest, and I wish she wouldmake me a new one; I've torn mine, and it is so dirty, I shall neverbe able to read it inside the Dragon. Don't forget. 

"Your affectionate brother, "PHILIP. "

There are limits to one's patience, and with some of us they are notvery wide. Philip had passed the bounds of mine, and my naturalindignation was heightened by a sort of revulsion from last night'sanxiety on his account. His lordly indifference to other people'sfeelings was more irritating than the trouble he gave us by changinghis mind. 

"You won't let him take the Woolly Beast from me, Isobel?" criedCharles. "And you know you promised to lend _me_ your ostrich plume. "

"Certainly not, " said I. "And you shall have the feather. I promised. "

"If Mr. Clinton acts--I shan't, " said Alice. 

"Mr. Clinton won't act, " said I, "I can't alter the piece now. But Iwish, Alice, you were not always so very ready to drive things into aquarrel. "

"If we hadn't given way to Philip so much he wouldn't think we canbear anything, " said Alice. 

I could not but feel that there was some truth in this, and that itwas a dilemma not provided against in Aunt Isobel's teaching, thatone may be so obliging to those one lives with as to encourage, if notto teach them to be selfish. 

Perhaps it would have been well if on the first day when Philipdeserted us Alice and I, had spent the afternoon with Lucy Lambent, and if we had continued to amuse ourselves with our friends whenPhilip amused himself with his. We should then have been forced into acommon decision as to whether the play should be given up, and, without reproaches or counter-reproaches, Philip would have learnedthat he could not leave all the work to us, and then arrange anddisarrange the plot at his own pleasure, or rather, he would neverhave thought that he could. But a plan of this kind requires to becarried out with perfect coolness to be either justifiable oreffective. And we have not a cool head amongst us. 

One thing was clear. I ought to keep faith with the others who hadworked when Philip would not. Charles should not be turned out of hispart I rather hustled over the question of a new part for Mr. Clintonin my mind. I disliked him, and did not want to introduce him. I saidto myself that it was quite unreasonable--out of the question infact--and I prepared to say so to Philip. 

Of course he was furious--that I knew he would be; but I was firm. 

"Charles can be the Old Father, and the Family Servant too, " said he. "They're both good parts. "

"Then give them to Mr. Clinton, " said I, well knowing that he wouldnot. "Charles has taken a great deal of pains with his part, and theseare his holidays as well as yours, and the Prince shall not be takenfrom him. "

"Well, I say it shall. And Charles may be uncommonly glad if I let himact at all after the way he behaved yesterday. "

"The way _you_ behaved, you, mean, " said I--for my temper was slippingfrom my grasp;--"you might have broken his neck. "

"All the more danger in his provoking me, and in your encouraginghim. "

I began to feel giddy, which is always a bad sign with us. It rang inmy mind's ear that this was what came of being forbearing with a bullylike Philip. But I still tried to speak quietly. 

"If you think, " said I through my teeth, "that I am going to let youknock the others about, and rough-ride it over our theatricals, youare mistaken. "

"_Your_ theatricals!" cried Philip, mimicking me. "I like that! Whomdo the properties belong to, pray?"

"If it goes by buying, " was my reply to this rather difficultquestion, "most of them belong to Granny, for the canvas and thepaints and the stuff for the dresses, have gone down in the bills; andif it goes by work, I think we have done quite as much as you. And ifsome of the properties _are_ yours, the play is mine. And as to thescene--you did the distance in the middle of the wood, but Alice and Ipainted all the foreground. "

"Then you may keep your foreground, and I'll take my distance, " roaredPhilip, and in a moment his pocket-knife was open, and he had cut ahole a foot-and-a-half square in the centre of the Enchanted Forest, and Bobby's amazed face (he was running a tuck in his cloak behind thescenes) appeared through the aperture. 

If a kind word would have saved the fruits of our week's hard labour, hot one of us would have spoken it. We sacrifice anything we possessin our ill-tempered family--except our wills. 

"And you may take your play, and I'll take my properties, " continuedPhilip, gathering up hats, wigs, and what not from the costumes whichAlice and I had arranged in neat groups ready for the green-room. "I'll give everything to Clinton this evening for his new theatre, andwe'll see how you get on without the Fiery Dragon. "

"Clinton _can't_ want a fiery dragon when he's got you, " said Charles, in a voice of mock compliment. 

The Fairy Godmother's crabstick was in Philip's hand. He raised it, and flew at Charles, but I threw myself between them and caughtPhilip's arm. 

"You shall not hit him, " I cried. 

Aunt Isobel is right about one thing. If one _does_ mean to stop shortin a quarrel one must begin at a very early stage. It is easier tosmother one's feelings than to check one's words. By the time it comesto blows it is like trying to pull up a runaway horse. The first pinchPhilip gave to my arm set my brain on fire. When he threw me heavilyagainst the cave with a mocking laugh, and sprang after Charles, Icould not have yielded an inch to him to save my life--not to earnFortunatus' purse, or three fairy wishes--not to save whatever I mostvalued. 

What would have induced me? I do not know, but I know that I am veryglad it is not quite so easy to sell one's soul at one bargain asfairy-tales make out!

My struggle with Philip had given Charles time to escape. Philip couldnot find him, and rough as were the words with which he returned tome, I fancy they cost him some effort of self-control, and theybetrayed to Alice's instinct and mine that he would have been glad toget out of the extremity to which our tempers had driven matters. 

"Look here!" said he in a tone which would have been perfect if wehad been acting a costermonger and his wife. "Are you going to makeClinton the Prince or not?"

"I am not, " said I, nursing my elbow, which was cut by a nail on thecask. "I am not going to do anything whatever for Mr. Clinton, and Iought to be cured of working for you. "

"You have lost an opening to make peace, " said an inner voice. "You'vegiven the yielding plan a fair trial, and it has failed, " saidself-justification--the swiftest pleader I know. "There are somepeople, with self-satisfied, arbitrary tempers, upon whom gentlenessis worse than wasted, because it misleads them. They have that remnantof savage notions which drives them to mistake generosity forweakness. The only way to convince them is to hit them harder thanthey hit you. And it is the kindest plan for everybody concerned. "

I am bound to say--though it rather confuses some of my ideas--thatexperience has convinced me that this last statement is not withouttruth. But I am also bound to say that it was not really applicable toPhilip. He is not as generous as Alice, but I had no good reason tobelieve that kindly concession would be wasted on him. 

When I had flung my last defiance, Philip replied in violent words ofa kind which girls in our class of life do not (happily!) use, evenin a rage. They were partly drowned by the clatter with which hedragged his big box across the floor, and filled it with properties ofall kinds, from the Dragon to the foot-light reflectors. 

"I am going by the 4. 15 to the town, " said he, as he pulled the boxout towards his own room. "You need not wait for either Clinton or me. Pray 'ring up' punctually!"

At this moment--having fully realized the downfall of thetheatricals--Bobby burst into a howl of weeping. Alice scolded him forcrying, and Charles reproached her for scolding him, on the score thather antipathy to Mr. Clinton had driven Philip to this extreme pointof insult and ill-temper. 

Charles's own conduct had been so far from soothing, that Alice hadabundant material for retorts, and she was not likely to be a loser inthe war of words. What she did say I did not hear, for by that time Ihad locked myself up in my own room. 

CHAPTER IX. 

SELF-REPROACH--FAMILY DISCOMFORT--OUT ON THE MARSH--VICTORY. 

If I could have locked myself up anywhere else I should have preferredit. I would have justified my own part in the present family quarrelto Aunt Isobel herself, and yet I would rather not have been alonejust now with the text I had made and pinned up, and with my newpicture. However, there was nowhere else to go to. 

A restless way I have of pacing up and down when I am in a rage, hasoften reminded me of the habits of the more ferocious of the wildbeasts in the Zoological Gardens, and has not lessened my convictionson the subject of the family temper. For a few prowls up and down myden I managed to occupy my thoughts with fuming against Philip'sbehaviour, but as the first flush of anger began to cool, there was nokeeping out of my head the painful reflections which the sight of mytext, my picture, and my books suggested--the miserable contrastbetween my good resolves and the result. 

"It only shows, " I muttered to myself, in a voice about as amiable asthe growlings of a panther, "it only shows that it is quite hopeless. We're an ill-tempered family--a hopelessly ill-tempered family; and totry to cure us is like patching the lungs of a consumptive family, Idon't even wish that I _could_ forgive Philip. He doesn't deserve it. "

And then as I nursed the cut on my elbow, and recalled the long hoursof work at the properties, the damaged scene, the rifling of thegreen-room, and Philip's desertion with the Dragon, his probableindustry for Mr. Clinton's theatricals, and the way he had left us toface our own disappointed audience, fierce indignation got the upperhand once more. 

"I don't care, " I growled afresh; "if I have lost my temper, I believeI was right to lose it--at least, that no one could have been expectednot to lose it, I will never beg his pardon for it, let Aunt Isobelsay what she will. I should hate him ever after if I did, for theinjustice of the thing. Pardon, indeed!"

I turned at the top of the room and paced back towards the window, towards the long illuminated text, and that

 "---- Noble face, So sweet and full of grace, "

which bent unchangeable from the emblem of suffering andself-sacrifice. 

I have a trick of talking to myself and to inanimate objects. Iaddressed myself now to the text and the picture. 

"But if I don't, " I continued, "if after being confirmed with Philipin the autumn, we come to just one of our old catastrophes in the verynext holidays, as bad as ever, and spiting each other to the last--Ishall take you all down to-morrow! I don't pretend to be able topersuade myself that black is white--like Mrs. Rampant; but I am not ahypocrite, I won't ornament my room with texts, and crosses, andpictures, and symbols of Eternal Patience, when I do not even mean to_try_ to sacrifice myself, or to be patient. "

It is curious how one's faith and practice hang together. I felt verydoubtful whether it was even desirable that I should. Whether we didnot misunderstand GOD'S will, in thinking that it is wellthat people in the right should ever sacrifice themselves for thosewho are in the wrong. I did not however hide from myself, that to saythis was to unsay all my resolves about my besetting sin. I decided totake down my texts, pictures, and books, and grimly thought that Iwould frame a fine photograph Charles had given me of a lioness, andwould make a new inscription, the motto of the old Highland ClanChattan--with which our family is remotely connected--"_Touch not thecat but a glove_. "[1]

[Footnote 1: _Anglicè_ "without a glove. "]

"Put on your gloves next time, Master Philip!" I thought. "I shallmake no more of these feeble attempts to keep in my claws, which onlytempt you to irritate me beyond endurance. We're an ill-temperedfamily, and you're not the most amiable member of it. For my own part, I can control my temper when it is not running away with me, and befairly kind to the little ones, so long as they do what I tell them. But, at a crisis like this, I can no more yield to your unreasonablewishes, stifle my just anger, apologize for a little wrong to you whoowe apologies for a big one, and pave the way to peace with my ownbroken will, than the leopard can change his spots. "

"And yet--_if I could_!"

It broke from me almost like a cry, "If my besetting sin _is_ a sin, if I have given way to it under provocation--if this moment is thevery hardest of the battle, and the day is almost lost--and if now, even now, I could turn round and tread down this Satan under my feet. If this were to-morrow morning, and I had done it--O my soul, whattriumph, what satisfaction in past prayers, what hope for the future!

"Then thou shouldest believe the old legends of sinners numbered withthe saints, of tyrants taught to be gentle, of the unholy learning to bepure--for one believes with heartiness what he has experienced--thentext and picture and cross should hang on, in spite of frailty, and inthis sign shalt thou conquer. "

One ought to be very thankful for the blessings of good health andstrong nerves, but I sometimes wish I could cry more easily. I shouldnot like to be like poor Mrs. Rampant, whose head or back is alwaysaching, and whose nerves make me think of the strings of an Æolianharp, on which Mr. Rampant, like rude Boreas, is perpetually playingwith the tones of his voice, the creak of his boots, and the bang ofhis doors. But her tears do relieve, if they exhaust her, andback-ache cannot be as bad as heart-ache--hot, dry heart-ache, orcold, hard heart-ache. I think if I could have cried I could have feltsofter. As it was I began to wish that I could do what I felt surethat I could not. 

If I dragged myself to Philip, and got out a few conciliatory words, Ishould break down in a worse fury than before if he sneered or rodethe high horse, "as he probably would, " thought I. 

On my little carved Prayer-book shelf lay with other volumes a copy ofÀ Kempis, which had belonged to my mother. Honesty had alreadywhispered that if I deliberately gave up the fight with evil thismust be banished with my texts and pictures. At the present moment afamiliar passage came into my head:

 "When one that was in great anxiety of mind, often wavering between fear and hope, did once humbly prostrate himself in prayer, and said, 'O if I knew that I should persevere!' he presently heard within him an answer from GOD, which said, 'If thou didst know it, what would'st thou do? Do what thou would'st do then, and thou shalt be safe. '"

Supposing I began to do right, and trusted the rest? I could try tospeak to Philip, and it would be something even if I stopped short andran away. Or if I could not drag my feet to him, I could take AuntIsobel's advice, and pray. I might not be able to speak civilly toPhilip, or even to pray about him in my present state of mentalconfusion, but I could repeat _some_ prayer reverently. Would it notbe better to start on the right road, even if I fell by the way?

I crossed the room in three strides to the place where I usually saymy prayers. I knelt, and folded my hands, and shut my eyes, and beganto recite the Te Deum in my head, trying to attend to it. I did attendpretty well, but it was mere attention, till I felt slightly softenedat the verse--"Make them to be numbered with Thy saints in gloryeverlasting. " For my young mother was very good, and I always thinkof her when the choir comes to that verse on Sundays. 

"Vouchsafe, O Lord, to keep us this day without sin. " "It's too lateto ask that, " thought I, with that half of my brain which was notattending to the words of the Te Deum, "and yet there is a little bitof the day left which will be dedicated either to good or evil. "

I prayed the rest, "O Lord, have mercy upon us, have mercy upon us. OLord, let Thy mercy lighten upon us, as our trust is in Thee. O Lord, in Thee have I trusted, let me never be confounded!" and with the lastverse there came from my heart a very passion of desire for strengthto do the will of GOD at the sacrifice of my own. I flung myself onthe floor with inarticulate prayers that were very fully to the pointnow, and they summed themselves up again in the old words, "In Thee, OLord, have I trusted, let me never be confounded!"

When I raised my head I caught sight of the picture, and for aninstant felt a superstitious thrill. The finely drawn face shone witha crimson glow. But in a moment more I saw the cause, andexclaimed--"_The sun is setting_! I must speak to Philip before itgoes down. "

What should I say? Somehow, now, my judgment felt very clear anddecisive. I would not pretend that he had been in the right, but Iwould acknowledge where I had been in the wrong. I _had_ beendisobliging about Mr. Clinton, and I would say so, and offer to repairthat matter. I would regret having lost my temper, and say nothingabout his. I would not offer to deprive Charles of his part, or breakmy promise of the white feather; but I would make a new part for Mr. Clinton, and he should be quite welcome to any finery in my possessionexcept Charles's plume. This concession was no difficulty to me. Badas our tempers are, I am thankful to say they are not mean ones. If Idressed out Mr. Clinton at all, it would come natural to do itliberally. I would do all this--_if I could_. I might break down intopassion at the mere sight of Philip and the properties, but at least Iwould begin "as if I knew I should persevere. "

At this moment the front door was shut with a bang which shook thehouse. 

It was Philip going to catch the 4. 15. I bit my lips, and began topull on my boots, watching the red sun as it sank over the waste ofmarshland which I could see from my window. I must try to overtakehim, but I could run well, and I suspected that he would not walkfast. I did not believe that he was really pleased at the break-up ofour plans and the prospect of a public exposure of our squabbles, though as a family we are always willing to make fools of ourselvesrather than conciliate each other. 

My things were soon on, and I hurried from my room. In the window-seatof the corridor was Alice. The sight of her reproached me. She sleptin my room, but I jealously retained full power over it, and when Ilocked myself in she dared not disturb me. 

"I'm afraid you've been wanting to come in, " said I. "Do go in now. "

"Thank you, " said Alice, "I've nowhere to go to. " Then tightening herlips, she added, "Philip's gone. "

"I know, " said I. "I'm going to try and get him back. " Alice stared inamazement. 

"You always do spoil Philip, because he's your twin, " she said, atlast; "you wouldn't do it for me. "

"Oh, Alice, you don't know. I'd much rather do it for you, girls areso much less aggravating than boys. But don't try and make it harderfor me to make peace. "

"I beg your pardon, Isobel. If you do, you're an angel. I couldn't, tosave my life. "

At the head of the stairs I met Charles. 

"He's gone, " said he significantly, and bestriding the balustrades, heshot to the foot. When I reached him he was pinching the biceps muscleof his arm. 

"Feel, Isobel, " said he, "It's hard, isn't it?"

"Very, Charles, but I'm in a hurry. "

"Look here, " he continued, with an ugly expression on his face, "I'mgoing into training. I'm going to eat bits of raw mutton, anddumb-bell. Wait a year, wait half a year, and I shall be able tothrash him. I'll make him remember these theatricals. I don't forget. I haven't forgot his bursting my football out of spite. "

It is not pleasant to see one's own sins reflected on other faces. Icould not speak. 

By the front door was Bobby. He was by way of looking out of theportico window, but his swollen eyes could not possibly have seenanything. 

"Oh, Isobel, Isobel!" he sobbed, "Philip's gone, and taken theD--d--d--dragon with him, and we're all m--m--m--miserable. "

"Don't cry, Bobby, " said I, kissing him. "Finish your cloak, and bedoing anything you can. I'm going to try and bring Philip back. "

"Oh, thank you, thank you, Isobel! If only he'll come back I don'tcare what I do. Or I'll give up my parts if he wants them, and be ascene-shifter, if you'll lend me your carpet-slippers, and make me apaper cap. "

"GOD has given you a very sweet temper, Bobby, " said I, solemnly. "I wish I had one like it. "

"You're as good as gold, " said Bobby. His loving hug added strengthto my resolutions, and I ran across the garden and jumped the ha-ha, and followed Philip over the marsh. I do not know whether he heard mysteps when I came nearly up with him, but I fancy his pace slackened. Not that he looked round. He was much too sulky. 

Philip is a very good-looking boy, much handsomer than I am, though weare alike. But the family curse disfigures his face when he is crossmore than any one's, and the back view of him is almost worse than thefront. His shoulders get so humped up, and his whole figure is stiffwith cross-grained obstinacy. 

"I shall never hold out if he speaks as ungraciously as he looks, "thought I in despair. "But I'll not give in till I can hold out nolonger. "

"Philip!" I said. He turned round, and his face was no prettier tolook at than his shoulders. 

"What do you want?" (in the costermonger tone. )

"I want you to come back, Philip"--(here I choked). 

"I dare say, " he sneered, "and you want the properties! But you've gotyour play, and your amiable Charles, and your talented Alice, and yourubiquitous Bobby. And the audience will be entertained with anunexpected after-piece entitled--'The disobliging disobliged. '"

Oh it _was_ hard! I think if I had looked at Philip's face I must havebroken down, but I kept my eyes steadily on the crimson sun, whichloomed large through the marsh mists that lay upon the horizon, as Ianswered with justifiable vehemence:

"I have a very bad temper, Philip" (I checked the disposition toadd--"and so have you"), "but I never tell a lie. I have _not_ comeafter the properties. The only reason for which I have come is to tryand make peace. " At this point I gathered up all my strength andhurried on, staring at the sun till the bushes near us and the levelwaste of marsh beyond seemed to vanish in the glow. "I came to saythat I am sorry for my share of the quarrel. I lost my temper, and Ibeg your pardon for that. I was not very obliging about Mr. Clinton, but you had tried me very much. However, what you did wrong, does notexcuse me, I know, and if you like to come back, I'll make a new partas you wanted. I can't give him Charles's part, or the feather, butanything I can do, or give up of my own, I will. It's not because ofto-night, for you know as well as I do that I do not care twopencewhat happens when I'm angry, and, after all, we can only say thatyou've taken the things. But I wanted us to get through these holidayswithout quarrelling, and I wanted you to enjoy them, and I want to tryand be good to you, for you are my twin brother, and for my share ofthe quarrel I beg your pardon--I can do no more. "

Some of this speech had been about as pleasant to say as eatingcinders, and when it was done I felt a sudden sensation (very rarewith me) of unendurable fatigue. As the last words left my lips thesun set, but my eyes were so bedazzled that I am not sure that Ishould not have fallen, but for an unexpected support. What Philip hadbeen thinking of during my speech I do not know, for I had avoidedlooking at him, but when it was done he threw the properties out ofhis arms, and flung them around me with the hug of a Polar bear. 

_"You_ ill-tempered!" he roared. "You've the temper of an angel, oryou would never have come after me like this. Isobel, I am a brute, Ihave behaved like a brute all the week, and I beg _your_ pardon. "

I retract my wishes about crying, for when I do begin, I cry in such avery disagreeable way--no spring shower, but a perfect tempest oftears. Philip's unexpected generosity upset me, and I sobbed till Ifrightened him, and he said I was hysterical. The absurdity of thisidea set me off into fits of laughing, which, oddly enough, seemed todistress him so much that I stopped at last, and found breath to say, "Then you'll come home?"

"If you'll have me. And never mind about Clinton, I'll get out of it. The truth is, Isobel, you and Alice did snub him from the first, andthat vexed me; but I _am_ disappointed in him. He does brag so, andI've had to take that fowling-piece to the gunsmith's already, so Iknow what it's worth. I did give Clinton a hint about it, and--wouldyou believe it?--he laughed, and said he thought he had got the bestof _that_ bargain. I said, 'I hope you have, if it isn't an even one, for I should be very sorry to think _I_ had cheated a friend!' But heeither did not or wouldn't see it. He's a second-rate sort of fellow, I'm sure, and I'm sorry I promised to let him act. But I'll get out ofit, you shan't be bothered by him. "

"No, no, " said I, "if you promised I'd much rather. It won't bother meat all. "

(It is certainly a much pleasanter kind of dispute when the struggleis to give, and not to take!)

"You can't fit him in now?" said Philip doubtfully. 

"Oh yes, I can. " I felt sure that I could. I have often been short oftemper for our amusements, but never of ideas. Philip tucked theproperties under one arm, and me under the other, and as we ranhomewards over the marsh, I threaded Mr. Clinton into the plot withperfect ease. 

"We'll have a second Prince, and he shall have an enchanted shield, which shall protect him from you--though he can't kill you--for Charlesmust do that. He shall be in love with the Princess too, but just whenhe and Charles are going to fight for her, the Fairy Godmother shallsprinkle him with the Waters of Memory, and break a spell which had madehim forget his own Princess in a distant land. You know, Philip, if he_does_ act well, he may make a capital part of it. It will be a splendidscene. We have two real metal swords, and as they are flashing in theair--enter the Fairy with the carved claret jug. When he is sprinkled hemust drop his sword, and put his hands to his head. He will recall thepicture of his own Princess, and draw it out and kiss it (I can lend himmy locket miniature of great-grandpapa). Charles and he must sweareternal friendship, and then he will pick up his sword, and exit rightcentre, waving the golden shield, to find his Princess. It will lookvery well, and as he goes out the Princess can enter left in distractionabout the combat, and she and Charles can fall in each other's arms, andbe blessed by the Fairy. "

"Capital!" said Philip. "What a head you have! But you're out ofbreath? We're running too fast. "

"Not a bit, " said I, "it refreshes me. Do you remember when you and Iused to run hand in hand from the top to the bottom of Breakneck Hill?Oh, Philip, I do wish we could never quarrel any more! I think wemight keep our tempers if we tried. "

"_You_ might, " said Philip, "because you are good. But I shall alwaysbe a brute. "

(Just what _I_ said to Aunt Isobel! Must every one learn his ownlessons for himself? I had a sort of unreasonable feeling that myexperience ought to serve for the rest of our ill-tempered family intothe bargain. )

Philip's spirits rose higher and higher. Of course he was delighted tobe out of the scrape. I am sure he was glad to be friendly again, andhe was hotter than ever for the theatricals. 

So was I. I felt certain that they would be successful now. But farabove and beyond the comfort of things "coming right, " and thepleasure of anticipated fun, my heart was rocked to a higher peace. Inmy small religious experiences I had never known this triumph, thisthankfulness before. Circumstances, not self-control, had helped meout of previous quarrels; I had never really done battle, and gained aconquest over my besetting sin. Now, however imperfectly andawkwardly, I yet _had_ fought. If Philip had been less generous Imight have failed, but the effort had been real--and it had beensuccessful. Henceforth my soul should fight with the prestige ofvictory, with the courage that comes of having striven and won, trusted and not been confounded. 

The first person we met after we got in was Aunt Isobel. She hadarrived in our absence. No doubt she had heard the whole affair, butshe is very good, and never _gauche_ and she only said--

"Here come the stage-managers! Now what can I do to help? I have hadsome tea, and am ready to obey orders till the curtain rings up. "

Boys do not carry things off well. Philip got very red, but Isaid--"Oh, please come to the nursery, Aunt Isobel. There are lots ofthings to do. " She came, and was invaluable. I never said anythingabout the row to her, and she never said anything to me. That is whatI call a friend!

The first thing Philip did was to unlock the property-box in his roomand bring the Dragon and things back. The second thing he did was tomend the new scene by replacing the bit he had cut out, glueing canvason behind it, and touching up with paint where it joined. 

We soon put straight what had been disarranged. Blinds were drawn, candles lighted, seats fixed, and the theatre began to look likeitself. Aunt Isobel and I were bringing in the footlights, when we sawBobby at the extreme right of the stage wrapped in his cloak, andcontemplating, with apparent satisfaction, twelve old hats and sixpasteboard bandboxes which were spread before him. 

"My dear Bobby, what are these?" said Aunt Isobel. Bobbyhastily--almost stammeringly--explained, "I am Twelve Travellers, you know, Aunt Isobel. "

"Dear me!" said Aunt Isobel. 

"I'll show you how I am going to do it, " said Bobby. 

"Here are twelve old hats--I have had such work to collect them!--andsix bandboxes. "

"Only six?" said Aunt Isobel with commendable gravity. 

"But there are the lids, " said Bobby; "six of them, and six boxes, make twelve, you know. I've only one cloak, but it's red on one sideand blue on the other, and two kinds of buttons. Well; I come on leftfor the First Traveller, with my cloak the red side out, and thiswhite chimney-pot hat. "

"Ah!" said Aunt Isobel. 

"And one of the bandboxes under my cloak. The Dragon attacks me in thecentre, and drives me off the right, where I smash up the bandbox, which sounds like him crunching my bones. Then I roll the thunder, turn my cloak to the blue side, put on this wideawake, and come onagain with a bandbox lid and crunch that, and roll more thunder, andso on. I'm the Faithful Attendant and the Bereaved Father as well, "added Bobby, with justifiable pride, "and I would have done the Dragonif they would have let me. "

But even Bobby did not outdo the rest of us in willingness. Alice'sefforts were obvious tokens of remorse; she waited on Philip, wasattentive to Mr. Clinton (who, I think, to this day believes that hemade himself especially acceptable to "the young ladies"), andsurpassed herself on the stage. Charles does not "come round" soquickly, but at the last moment he came and offered to yield the whiteplume. I confess I was rather vexed with Mr. Clinton for accepting it, but Alice and I despoiled our best hats of their black ostrichfeathers to make it up to Charles, and he said, with some dignity, that he should never have offered the white one if he had not meant itto be accepted. 

One thing took us by surprise. We had had more trouble over thedressing of the new Prince than the costumes and make-up of all therest of the characters together cost--he was only just torn from thebig looking-glass by his "call" to the stage, and, to our amazement, he seemed decidedly unwilling to go on. 

"It's a very odd thing, Miss Alice, " said he in accents so pitiablethat I did not wonder that Alice did her best to encourage him, --"it'sa most extraordinary thing, but I feel quite nervous. "

"You'll be all right when you're once on, " said Alice; "mind you don'tforget that it depends on you to explain that it's an invincibleshield. "

"Which arm had I better wear it on?" said Mr. Clinton, shifting itnervously from side to side. 

"The left, the left!" cried Alice. "Now you ought to be on. "

"Oh what shall I say?" cried our new hero. 

"Say--'Devastating Monster! my arm is mortal, and my sword was forgedby human fingers, but this shield is invincible as ----'"

"Second Prince, " called Charles impatiently, and Mr. Clinton washustled on. 

He was greeted with loud applause. He said afterwards that this puthis part out of his head, that Alice had told him wrong, and that theshield was too small for him. 

As a matter of fact he hammered and stammered and got himself and thepiece into such confusion, that Philip lost patience as he layawaiting his cue. With a fierce bellow he emerged from his cask, androaring, "Avaunt, knight of the invincible shield and craven heart!"he crossed the stage with the full clatter of his canvas joints, andchased Mr. Clinton off at the left centre. 

Once behind the scenes, he refused to go on again. He said that he hadnever played without a proper part at his uncle's in Dublin, andthought our plan quite a mistake. Besides which, he had got toothache, and preferred to join the audience, which he did, and the play went onwithout him. 

I was acting as stage-manager in the intervals of my part, when Inoticed Mr. Clinton (not the ex-Prince, but his father, the surgeon)get up, and hastily leave his place among the spectators. But just asI was wondering at this, I was recalled to business by delay on thepart of Bobby, who ought to have been on (with the lights down) as theTwelfth Traveller. 

I found him at the left wing, with all the twelve hats fitted one overanother, the whole pile resting on a chair. 

"Bob, what are you after? You ought to be on. "

"All right, " said Bob, "Philip knows. He's lashing his tail and doingsome business till I'm ready. Help me to put this cushion under mycloak for a hump-back, will you? I didn't like the twelfth hat, it'stoo like the third one, so I'm going on as a Jew Pedlar. Give me thatbox. Now!" And before I could speak a roar of applause had greetedBobby as he limped on in his twelve hats, crying, "Oh tear, oh tear!dish ish the tarkest night I ever shaw. "

But either we acted unusually well, or our audience was exceptionallykind, for it applauded everything and everybody till the curtain fell. 

 * * * * *

"Behind the scenes" is always a place of confusion after amateurtheatricals; at least it used to be with us. We ran hither andthither, lost our every-day shoes, washed the paint from our faces, and mislaid any number of towels, and combs, and brushes, ate supperby snatches, congratulated ourselves on a successful evening, and werekissed all around by Granny, who came behind the scenes for thepurpose. 

All was over, and the guests were gone, when I gave an invitation tothe others to come and make lemon-brew over my bedroom fire as anappropriate concluding festivity. (It had been suggested by Bobby. ) Ihad not seen Philip for some time, but we were all astonished to hearthat he had gone out. We kept his "brew" hot for him, and Charles andBobby were both nodding--though they stoutly refused to go tobed, --when his step sounded in the corridor, and he knocked and camehastily in. 

Everybody roused up. 

"Oh, Philip, we've been wondering where you were! Here's your brew, and we've each kept a little drop, to drink your good health. "

("Mine is _all_ pips, " observed Bobby as a parenthesis. ) But Philipwas evidently thinking of something else. 

"Isobel, " he said, standing by the table, as if he were making aspeech, "I shall never forget your coming after me to-day. I told youyou had the temper of an angel. "

"So did I, " said Alice. 

"Hear! hear!" said Bobby, who was sucking his pips one by one andlaying them by--"to plant in a pot, " as he afterwards explained. 

"You not only saved the theatricals, " continued Philip, "you saved mylife I believe. "

No "situation" in the play had been half so startling as this. Weremained open-mouthed and silent, whilst Philip sat down as if he weretired, and rested his head on his hands, which were dirty, and stainedwith something red. 

"Haven't you heard about the accident?" he asked. 

We all said "No. "

"The 4. 15 ran into the express where the lines cross, you know. Isobel, _there were only two first-class carriages, and everybody inthem was killed but one man_. They have taken both his legs off, andhe's not expected to live. Oh, poor fellow, he did groan so!"

Bobby burst into passionate tears, and Philip buried his head on hisarms. 

Neither Alice nor I could speak, but Charles got up and went round andstood by Philip. 

"You've been helping, " he said emphatically, "I know you have. You'rea good fellow, Philip, and I beg your pardon for saucing you. I amgoing to forget about the football too. I was going to have eaten rawmeat, and dumb-belled, to make myself strong enough to thrash you, "added Charles remorsefully. 

"Eat a butcher's shop full, if you like, " replied Philip withcontempt. And I think it showed that Charles was beginning to practiseforbearance, that he made no reply. 

 * * * * *

Some years have passed since those Twelfth Night theatricals. TheDragon has long been dissolved into his component scales, and we neverhave impromptu performances now. The passing fame which a terriblerailway accident gave to our insignificant station has also faded. Butit set a seal on our good resolutions which I may honestly say has notbeen lightly broken. 

There, on the very spot where I had almost resolved never to forgivePhilip, never to try to heal the miserable wounds of the family peace, I learned the news of the accident in which he might have beenkilled. Philip says that if anything could make him behave better tome it is the thought that I saved his life, as he calls it. But ifanything could help me to be good to him, surely it must be theremembrance of how nearly I did not save him. 

I put Alice on an equality in our bedroom that night, and gave herpart-ownership of the text and the picture. We are very happytogether. 

We have all tried to improve, and I think I may say we have beenfairly successful. 

More than once I have heard (one does hear many things people saybehind one's back) that new acquaintances--people who have only knownus lately--have expressed astonishment, not unmixed with a generousindignation, on hearing that we were ever described by our friendsas--A VERY ILL-TEMPERED FAMILY. 

OUR FIELD. 

 Though nothing can bring back the hour Of splendour in the grass, of glory in the flower; We will grieve not, rather find Strength in what remains behind, In the primal sympathy Which, having been, must ever be. 

 * * * * *

 And, O ye fountains, meadows, hills, and groves, Think not of any severing of our loves! Yet in my heart of hearts I feel your might;

 * * * * *

 Thanks to the human heart by which we live, Thanks to its tenderness, its joys, and fears: To me the meanest flower that blows can give Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears. 

_Wordsworth_. 

OUR FIELD

There were four of us, and three of us had godfathers and godmothers. Three each. Three times three make nine, and not a fairy godmother inthe lot. That was what vexed us. 

It was very provoking, because we knew so well what we wanted if wehad one, and she had given us three wishes each. Three times threemake nine. We could have got all we wanted out of nine wishes, andhave provided for Perronet into the bargain. It would not have beenany good Perronet having wishes all to himself, because he was only adog. 

We never knew who it was that drowned Perronet, but it was Sandy whosaved his life and brought him home. It was when he was coming homefrom school, and he brought Perronet with him. Perronet was not at allnice to look at when we first saw him, though we were very sorry forhim. He was wet all over, and his eyes shut, and you could see hisribs, and he looked quite dark and sticky. But when he dried, hedried a lovely yellow, with two black ears like velvet. Peoplesometimes asked us what kind of dog he was, but we never knew, exceptthat he was the nicest possible kind. 

When we had got him, we were afraid we were not going to be allowed tohave him. Mother said we could not afford him, because of the tax andhis keep. The tax was five shillings, but there wanted nearly a yearto the time of paying it. Of course his keep began as soon as he couldeat, and that was the very same evening. We were all very miserable, because we were so fond of Perronet--at least, Perronet was not hisname then, but he was the same person--and at last it was settled thatall three of us would give up sugar, towards saving the expense of hiskeep, if he might stay. It was hardest for Sandy, because he wasparticularly fond of sweet things; but then he was particularly fondof Perronet. So we all gave up sugar, and Perronet was allowed toremain. 

About the tax, we thought we could save any pennies or half-pennies wegot during the year, and it was such a long time to the time forpaying, that we should be almost sure to have enough by then. We hadnot any money at the time, or we should have bought a savings-box; butlots of people save their money in stockings, and we settled that wewould. An old stocking would not do, because of the holes, and I hadnot many good pairs; but we took one of my winter ones to use in thesummer, and then we thought we could pour the money into one of mygood summer ones when the winter came. 

What we most of all wanted a fairy godmother for was about our"homes. " There was no kind of play we liked better than playing athouses and new homes. But no matter where we made our "home, " it wassure to be disturbed. If it was indoors, and we made a palace underthe big table, as soon as ever we had got it nicely divided into roomsaccording to where the legs came, it was certain to be dinner-time, and people put their feet into it. The nicest house we ever had was inthe out-house; we had it, and kept it quite a secret, for weeks. Andthen the new load of wood came and covered up everything, our bestoyster-shell dinner-service and all. 

Any one can see that it is impossible really to fancy anything whenyou are constantly interrupted. You can't have any fun out of arailway train stopping at stations, when they take all your carriagesto pieces because the chairs are wanted for tea; any more than you canplay properly at Grace Darling in a life-boat, when they say the oldcradle is too good to be knocked about in that way. 

It was always the same. If we wanted to play at Thames Tunnel underthe beds, we were not allowed; and the day we did Aladdin in thestore-closet, old Jane came and would put away the soap, just whenAladdin could not possibly have got the door of the cave open. 

It was one day early in May--a very hot day for the time of year, which had made us rather cross--when Sandy came in about four o'clock, smiling more broadly even than usual, and said to Richard and me, "I've got a fairy godmother, and she's given us a field. "

Sandy was very fond of eating, especially sweet things. He used tokeep back things from meals to enjoy afterwards, and he almost alwayshad a piece of cake in his pocket. He brought a piece out now, andtook a large mouthful, laughing at us with his eyes over the top ofit. 

"What's the good of a field?" said Richard. 

"Splendid houses in it, " said Sandy. 

"I'm quite tired of fancying homes, " said I. "It's no good; we alwaysget turned out. "

"It's quite a new place, " Sandy continued; "you've never been there, "and he took a triumphant bite of the cake. 

"How did you get there?" asked Richard. 

"The fairy godmother showed me, " was Sandy's reply. 

There is such a thing as nursery honour. We respected each other'spretendings unless we were very cross, but I didn't disbelieve in hisfairy godmother. I only said, "You shouldn't talk with your mouthfull, " to snub him for making a secret about his field. 

Sandy is very good-tempered. He only laughed and said, "Come along. It's much cooler out now. The sun's going down. "

He took us along Gipsy Lane. We had been there once or twice, forwalks, but not very often, for there was some horrid story about itwhich rather frightened us. I do not know what it was, but it was ahorrid one. Still we had been there, and I knew it quite well. At theend of it there is a stile, by which you go into a field, and at theother end you get over another stile, and find yourself in the highroad. 

"If this is our field, Sandy, " said I, when we got to the first stile, "I'm very sorry, but it really won't do. I know that lots of peoplecome through it. We should never be quiet here. "

Sandy laughed. He didn't speak, and he didn't get over the stile; hewent through a gate close by it leading into a little sort of bye-lanethat was all mud in winter and hard cart-ruts in summer. I had neverbeen up it, but I had seen hay and that sort of thing go in and comeout of it. 

He went on and we followed him. The ruts were very disagreeable towalk on, but presently he led us through a hole in the hedge, and wegot into a field. It was a very bare-looking field, and went ratheruphill. There was no path, but Sandy walked away up it, and we wentafter him. There was another hedge at the top, and a stile in it. Ithad very rough posts, one much longer than the other, and the crossstep was gone, but there were two rails, and we all climbed over. Andwhen we got to the other side, Sandy leaned against the big post andgave a wave with his right hand and said, "This is our field. "

It sloped down hill, and the hedges round it were rather high, withawkward branches of blackthorn sticking out here and there without anyleaves, and with the blossom lying white on the black twigs like snow. There were cowslips all over the field, but they were thicker at thelower end, which was damp. The great heat of the day was over. The sunshone still, but it shone low down and made such splendid shadows thatwe all walked about with grey giants at our feet; and it made thebright green of the grass, and the cowslips down below, and the top ofthe hedge, and Sandy's hair, and everything in the sun and the mistbehind the elder bush which was out of the sun, so yellow--so veryyellow--that just for a minute I really believed about Sandy'sgodmother, and thought it was a story come true, and that everythingwas turning into gold. 

But it was only for a minute; of course I know that fairy tales arenot true. But it was a lovely field, and when we had put our hands toour eyes and had a good look at it, I said to Sandy, "I beg yourpardon, Sandy, for telling you not to talk with your mouth full. It isthe best field I ever heard of. "

"Sit down, " said Sandy, doing the honours; and we all sat down underthe hedge. 

"There are violets just behind us, " he continued. "Can't you smellthem? But whatever you do, don't tell anybody of those, or we shan'tkeep our field to ourselves for a day. And look here. " He had turnedover on to his face, and Richard and I did the same, whilst Sandyfumbled among the bleached grass and brown leaves. 

"Hyacinths, " said Richard, as Sandy displayed the green tops of them. 

"As thick as peas, " said Sandy. "This bank will be blue in a fewweeks; and fiddle-heads everywhere. There will be no end of ferns. Mayto any extent--it's only in bud yet--and there's a wren's nest inthere----" At this point he rolled suddenly over on to his back andlooked up. 

"A lark, " he explained; "there was one singing its head off, thismorning. I say, Dick, this will be a good field for a kite, won't it?_But wait a bit_. "

After every fresh thing that Sandy showed us in our field, he alwaysfinished by saying, "_Wait a bit"_; and that was because there wasalways something else better still. 

"There's a brook at the bottom there, " he said, "with lots offresh-water shrimps. I wonder whether they would boil red. _But wait abit_. This hedge, you see, has got a very high bank, and it's worninto kind of ledges. I think we could play at 'shops' there--_but waita bit_. "

"It's almost _too_ good, Sandy dear!" said I, as we crossed the fieldto the opposite hedge. 

"The best is to come, " said Sandy. "I've a very good mind not to letit out till to-morrow. " And to our distraction he sat down in themiddle of the field, put his arms round his knees, as if we wereplaying at "Honey-pots, " and rocked himself backwards and forwardswith a face of brimming satisfaction. 

Neither Richard nor I would have been so mean as to explore on our ownaccount, when the field was Sandy's discovery, but we tried hard topersuade him to show us everything. 

He had the most provoking way of laughing and holding his tongue, andhe did that now, besides slowly turning all his pockets inside-outinto his hands, and mumbling up the crumbs and odd currants, saying, "Guess!" between every mouthful. 

But when there was not a crumb left in the seams of his pockets, Sandyturned them back, and jumping up, said--"One can only tell a secretonce. It's a hollow oak. Come along!"

He ran and we ran, to the other side of Our Field. I had read ofhollow oaks, and seen pictures of them, and once I dreamed of one, with a witch inside, but we had never had one to play in. We werenearly wild with delight. It looked all solid from the field, but whenwe pushed behind, on the hedge side, there was the door, and I creptin, and it smelt of wood, and delicious damp. There could not be amore perfect castle, and though there were no windows in the sides, the light came in from the top, where the polypody hung over like afringe. Sandy was quite right. It was the very best thing in OurField. 

Perronet was as fond of the field as we were. What he liked were thelittle birds. At least, I don't know that he liked them, but they werewhat he chiefly attended to. I think he knew that it was our field, and thought he was the watch-dog of it, and whenever a bird settleddown anywhere, he barked at it, and then it flew away, and he ranbarking after it till he lost it; and by that time another had settleddown, and then Perronet flew at him, and so on, all up and down thehedge. He never caught a bird, and never would let one sit down, if hecould see it. 

We had all kinds of games in Our Field. Shops--for there werequantities of things to sell--and sometimes I was a moss-merchant, forthere were ten different kinds of moss by the brook, and sometimes Iwas a jeweller, and sold daisy-chains and pebbles, and coral sets madeof holly berries, and oak-apple necklaces; and sometimes I keptprovisions, like earth-nuts and mallow-cheeses, and mushrooms; andsometimes I kept a flower-shop, and sold nosegays and wreaths, andumbrellas made of rushes, I liked that kind of shop, because I am fondof arranging flowers, and I always make our birthday wreaths. Andsometimes I kept a whole lot of shops, and Richard and Sandy bought mythings, and paid for them with money made of elder-pith, sliced intorounds. The first shop I kept was to sell cowslips, and Richard andSandy lived by the brook, and were wine merchants, and made cowslipwine in a tin mug. 

The elder-tree was a beauty. In July the cream-coloured flowers wereso sweet, we could hardly sit under it, and in the autumn it wascovered with berries; but we were always a little disappointed thatthey never tasted in the least like elderberry syrup. Richard used tomake flutes out of the stalks, and one really did to play tunes on, but it always made Perronet bark. 

Richard's every-day cap had a large hole in the top, and when we werein Our Field we always hung it on the top of the tallest of the twostile-posts, to show that we were there; just as the Queen has a flaghung out at Windsor Castle, when she is at home. 

We played at castles and houses, and when we were tired of the houses, we pretended to pack up, and went to the seaside for change of air bythe brook. Sandy and I took off our shoes and stockings and werebathing-women, and we bathed Perronet; and Richard sat on the bank andwas a "tripper, " looking at us through a telescope; for when theelder-stems cracked and wouldn't do for flutes, he made them intotelescopes. And before we went down to the brook we made jam of hipsand haws from the hedge at the top of the field, and put it into acorncups, and took it with us, that the children might not be short ofrolypolies at the seaside. 

Whatever we played at we were never disturbed. Birds, and cows, andmen and horses ploughing in the distance, do not disturb you at all. 

We were very happy that summer: the boys were quite happy, and theonly thing that vexed me was thinking of Perronet's tax-money. Formonths and months went on and we did not save it. Once we got as faras twopence half-penny, and then one day Richard came to me and said, "I must have some more string for the kite. You might lend me a pennyout of Perronet's stocking, till I get some money of my own. "

So I did; and the next day Sandy came and said, "You lent Dick one ofPerronet's coppers; I'm sure Perronet would lend me one, " and thenthey said it was ridiculous to leave a half-penny there by itself, sowe spent it in acid drops. 

It worried me so much at last, that I began to dream horrible dreamsabout Perronet having to go away because we hadn't saved histax-money. And then I used to wake up and cry, till the pillow was sowet, I had to turn it. The boys never seemed to mind, but then boysdon't think about things; so that I was quite surprised when one day Ifound Sandy alone in our field with Perronet in his arms, crying, andfeeding him with cake; and I found he was crying about the tax-money. 

I cannot bear to see boys cry. I would much rather cry myself, and Ibegged Sandy to leave off, for I said I was quite determined to tryand think of something. 

It certainly was remarkable that the very next day should be the daywhen we heard about the flower-show. 

It was in school--the village school, for Mother could not afford tosend us anywhere else--and the schoolmaster rapped on his desk andsaid, "Silence, children!" and that at the agricultural show there wasto be a flower-show this year, and that an old gentleman was going togive prizes to the school-children for window-plants and for the bestarranged wild flowers. There were to be nosegays and wreaths, andthere was to be a first prize of five shillings, and a second prize ofhalf-a-crown, for the best collection of wild flowers with the namesput to them. 

"The English names, " said the schoolmaster; "and there maybe--silence, children!--there may be collections of ferns, or grasses, or mosses to compete, too, for the gentleman wishes to encourage ataste for natural history. "

And several of the village children said, "What's that?" and Isqueezed Sandy's arm, who was sitting next to me, and whispered, "Fiveshillings!" and the schoolmaster said, "Silence, children!" and Ithought I never should have finished my lessons that day for thinkingof Perronet's tax-money. 

July is not at all a good month for wild flowers; May and June are farbetter. However, the show was to be in the first week in July. 

I said to the boys, "Look here: I'll do a collection of flowers. Iknow the names, and I can print. It's no good two or three peoplemuddling with arranging flowers; but; if you will get me what I want, I shall be very much obliged. If either of you will make anothercollection, you know there are ten kinds of mosses by the brook; andwe have names for them of our own, and they are English. Perhapsthey'll do. But everything must come out of Our Field. "

The boys agreed, and they were very good. Richard made me a box, rather high at the back. We put sand at the bottom and damped it, andthen Feather Moss, lovely clumps of it, and into that I stuck theflowers. They all came out of Our Field. I like to see grass withflowers, and we had very pretty grasses, and between every bunch offlowers I put a bunch of grass of different kinds. I got all theflowers and all the grasses ready first, and printed the names onpieces of cardboard to stick in with them, and then I arranged them bymy eye, and Sandy handed me what I called for, for Richard was busy atthe brook making a tray of mosses. 

Sandy knew the flowers and the names of them quite as well as I did, of course; we knew everything that lived in Our Field; so when Icalled, "Ox-eye daisies, cock's-foot grass, labels; meadow-sweet, fox-tail grass, labels; dog-roses, shivering grass, labels;" and soon, he gave me the right things, and I had nothing to do but to putthe colours that looked best together next to each other, and to makethe grass look light, and pull up bits of moss to show well. And atthe very end I put in a label, "All out of Our Field. "

I did not like it when it was done; but Richard praised it so much, itcheered me up, and I thought his mosses looked lovely. 

The flower-show day was very hot. I did not think it could be hotteranywhere in the world than it was in the field where the show was; butit was hotter in the tent. 

We should never have got in at all--for you had to pay at thegate--but they let competitors in free, though not at first. When wegot in, there were a lot of grown-up people, and it was very hard workgetting along among them, and getting to see the stands with thethings on. We kept seeing tickets with "1st Prize" and "2nd Prize, "and struggling up; but they were sure to be dahlias in a tray, orfruit that you mightn't eat, or vegetables. The vegetablesdisappointed us so often, I got to hate them. I don't think I shallever like very big potatoes (before they are boiled) again, particularly the red ones. It makes me feel sick with heat and anxietyto think of them. 

We had struggled slowly all round the tent, and seen all thecucumbers, onions, lettuces, long potatoes, round potatoes, andeverything else, when we saw an old gentleman, with spectacles andwhite hair, standing with two or three ladies. And then we saw threenosegays in jugs, with all the green picked off, and the flowers tiedas tightly together as they would go, and then we saw some prettierones, and then we saw my collection, and it had got a big label in itmarked "1st Prize, " and next to it came Richard's moss-tray, with theHair-moss, and the Pincushion-moss, and the Scale-mosses, and a lot ofothers with names of our own, and it was marked "2nd Prize. " And Igripped one of Sandy's arms just as Richard seized the other, and weboth cried, "Perronet is paid for!"

 * * * * *

There was two-and-sixpence over. We never had such a feast! It was apicnic tea, and we had it in Our Field. I thought Sandy and Perronetwould have died of cake, but they were none the worse. 

We were very much frightened at first when the old gentleman invitedhimself; but he would come, and he brought a lot of nuts, and he didget inside the oak, though it is really too small for him. 

I don't think there ever was anybody so kind. If he were not a man, Ishould really and truly believe in Sandy's fairy godmother. 

Of course I don't really believe in fairies. I am not so young asthat. And I know that Our Field does not exactly belong to us. 

I wonder to whom it does belong? Richard says he believes it belongsto the gentleman who lives at the big red house among the trees. Buthe must be wrong; for we see that gentleman at church every Sunday, but we never saw him in Our Field. 

And I don't believe anybody could have such a field of their very own, and never come to see it, from one end of Summer to the other. 

MADAM LIBERALITY. 

 "Like little body with a mighty heart. "

 _King Henry V. , Act 2. _

PART I. 

It was not her real name: it was given to her by her brothers andsister. People with very marked qualities of character do sometimesget such distinctive titles, to rectify the indefiniteness of thosethey inherit and those they receive in baptism. The ruling peculiarityof a character is apt to show itself early in life, and it showeditself in Madam Liberality when she was a little child. 

Plum-cakes were not plentiful in her home when Madam Liberality wasyoung, and such as there were, were of the "wholesome" kind--plenty ofbread-stuff, and the currants and raisins at a respectful distancefrom each other. But few as the plums were, she seldom ate them. Shepicked them out very carefully, and put them into a box, which washidden under her pinafore. 

When we grown-up people were children, and plum-cake and plum-puddingtasted very much nicer than they do now, we also picked out the plums. Some of us ate them at once, and had then to toil slowly through thecake or pudding, and some valiantly dispatched the plainer portion ofthe feast at the beginning, and kept the plums to sweeten the end. Sooner or later we ate them ourselves, but Madam Liberality kept herplums for other people. 

When the vulgar meal was over--that commonplace refreshment ordainedand superintended by the elders of the household--Madam Liberalitywould withdraw into a corner, from which she issued notes ofinvitation to all the dolls. They were "fancy written" on curl papersand folded into cocked hats. 

Then began the real feast. The dolls came, and the children with them. Madam Liberality had no toy tea-sets or dinner-sets, but there wereacorn-cups filled to the brim, and the water tasted deliciously, though it came out of the ewer in the night nursery, and had not evenbeen filtered. And before every doll was a flat oyster-shell coveredwith a round oyster-shell, a complete set of complete pairs, which hadbeen collected by degrees, like old family plate. And when the uppershell was raised, on every dish lay a plum. It was then that MadamLiberality got her sweetness out of the cake. 

She was in her glory at the head of the inverted tea-chest; and ifthe raisins would not go round, the empty oyster-shell was hers, andnothing offended her more than to have this noticed. That was herspirit, then and always. She could "do without" anything, if thewherewithal to be hospitable was left to her. 

When one's brain is no stronger than mine is, one gets very muchconfused in disentangling motives and nice points of character. I havedoubted whether Madam Liberality's besetting virtue were a virtue atall. Was it unselfishness or a love of approbation, benevolence orfussiness, the gift of sympathy or the lust of power? Or was itsomething else? She was a very sickly child, with much pain to bear, and many pleasures to forego. Was it, as doctors say, "an effort ofnature, " to make her live outside herself and be happy in thehappiness of others?

Equal doubt may hang over the conduct of her brothers and sistertowards her. Did they more love her, or find her useful? Was theirgratitude--as gratitude has been defined to be--"a keen sense offavours to come"? They certainly got used to her services, and tobegging and borrowing the few things that were her "very own, " withoutfear of refusal. But if they rather took her benevolence for granted, and thought that she "liked lending her things, " and that it was herway of enjoying possessions, they may have been right; for next toone's own soul, one's own family is perhaps the best judge of one'stemper and disposition. 

And they called her Madam Liberality, so Madam Liberality she shallremain. 

It has been hinted that there was a reason for the scarceness of theplums in the plum-cake. Madam Liberality's father was dead, and hermother was very poor, and had several children. It was not an easymatter with her to find bread for the family, putting currants andraisins out of the question. 

Though poor, they were, however, gentle-folk, and had, for thatmatter, rich relations. Very rich relations indeed! Madam Liberality'smother's first cousin had fifteen thousand a year. His servants didnot spend ten thousand. (As to what he spent himself, it wascomparatively trifling. ) The rest of the money accumulated. Not thatit was being got together to do something with by and by. He had nointention of ever spending more than he spent at present. Indeed, witha lump of coal taken off here, and a needless candle blown out there, he rather hoped in future to spend less. 

His wife was Madam Liberality's godmother. She was a good-heartedwoman, and took real pleasure in being kind to people, in the way shethought best for them. Sometimes it was a graceful and appropriateway, and very often it was not. The most acceptable act of kindnessshe ever did to her god-daughter was when the child was recoveringfrom an illness, and she asked her to visit her at the seaside. 

Madam Liberality had never seen the sea, and the thought of it proveda better stimulus than the port wine which her doctor ordered soeasily, and her mother got with such difficulty. 

When new clothes were bought, or old ones refurbished, MadamLiberality, as a rule, went to the wall. Not because her mother wasever guilty of favouritism, but because such occasions afforded anopportunity of displaying generosity towards her younger sister. 

But this time it was otherwise; for whatever could be spared towards"summer things" for the two little girls was spent upon MadamLiberality's outfit for the seaside. There was a new dress, and ajacket "as good as new, " for it was cut out of "mother's" cloth cloakand made up, with the best binding and buttons in the shop, by thevillage tailor. And he was bribed, in a secret visit, and with muchcoaxing from the little girls, to make real pockets instead of braidedshams. The _second best_ frock was compounded of two which hadhitherto been _very bests_--Madam Liberality's own, eked out by"Darling's" into a more fashionable fullness, and with a cape tomatch. 

There was a sense of solid property to be derived from being able totake in at a glance the stock of well-mended under-garments, half ofwhich were generally at the wash. Besides, they had been added to, andall the stockings were darned, and only one pair in the legs where itwould show, below short petticoat mark. 

Then there was a bonnet newly turned and trimmed, and a pair and ahalf of new boots, for surely boots are at least half new when theyhave been (as the village cobbler described it in his bill) "souledand healed"?

Poor little Madam Liberality! When she saw the things which coveredher bed in their abundance, it seemed to her an outfit for a princess. And yet when her godmother asked Podmore, the lady's-maid, "How is thechild off for clothes?" Podmore unhesitatingly replied, "She'venothing fit to be seen, ma'am, " which shows how differently the samethings appear in different circumstances. 

Podmore was a good friend to Madam Liberality. She had thatopen-handed spirit which one acquires quite naturally in a house whereeverything goes on on a large scale, at somebody else's expense. NowMadam Liberality's godmother, from the very largeness of herpossessions, was obliged to leave the care of them to others, in suchmatters as food, dress, the gardens, the stables, etc. So, like manyother people in a similar case, she amused herself and exercised hereconomical instincts by troublesome little thriftinesses, by makingcheap presents, dear bargains, and so forth. She was by nature amanaging woman; and when those very grand people, the butler, thehousekeeper, the head-gardener, and the lady's-maid had divided herhousehold duties among them, there was nothing left for her to beclever about, except such little matters as joining the fag-ends ofthe bronze sealing-wax sticks which lay in the silver inkstand on themalachite writing-table, and being good-natured at the cheapest rateat which her friends could be benefited. 

Madam Liberality's best neckerchief had been very pretty when it wasnew, and would have been pretty as well as clean still if thewasherwoman had not used rather too hot an iron to it, so that theblue in the check pattern was somewhat faded. And yet it had felt verysmart as Madam Liberality drove in the carrier's cart to meet thecoach at the outset of her journey. But when she sat against the richblue leather of her godmother's coach as they drove up and down theesplanade, it was like looking at fairy jewels by daylight when theyturn into faded leaves. 

"Is that your best neckerchief, child?" said the old lady. 

"Yes, ma'am, " blushed Madam Liberality, So when they got home her godmother went to her odds-and-ends drawer. 

Podmore never interfered with this drawer. She was content to bedespotic among the dresses, and left the old lady to faddle to herheart's content with bits of old lace and ribbon which she herselfwould not have condescended to wear. 

The old lady fumbled them over. There were a good many half-yards ofribbon with very large patterns, but nothing really fit for MadamLiberality's little neck but a small Indian scarf of many-colouredsilk. It was old, and Podmore would never have allowed her mistress todrive on the esplanade in anything so small and youthful-looking; butthe colours were quite bright, and there was no doubt but that MadamLiberality might be provided for by a cheaper neck-ribbon. So the oldlady shut the drawer, and toddled down the corridor that led toPodmore's room. 

She had a good general idea that Podmore's perquisites were large, butperquisites seem to be a condition of valuable servants in largeestablishments, and then anything which could be recovered from whathad already passed into Podmore's room must be a kind of economy. Soshe resolved that Podmore should "find something" for MadamLiberality's neck. 

"I never noticed it, ma'am, till I brought your shawl to thecarriage, " said Podmore. "If I had seen it before, the young ladyshouldn't have come with you so. I'll see to it, ma'am. "

"Thank you, Podmore. "

"Can you spare me to go into the town this afternoon, ma'am?" addedthe lady's-maid. "I want some things at Huckaback and Woolsey's. "

Huckaback and Woolsey were the linendrapers where Madam Liberality'sgodmother "had an account. " It was one of the things on a large scaleover the details of which she had no control. 

"You'll be back in time to dress me?"

"Oh dear, yes, ma'am. " And having settled the old lady's shawl on hershoulders, and drawn out her cap-lappets, Podmore returned to herwork. 

It was a work of kindness. The old lady might deal shabbily with herfaded ribbons and her relations, but the butler, the housekeeper, andthe lady's-maid did their best to keep up the credit of the family. 

It was well known that Madam Liberality was a cousin, and Podmoreresolved that she should have a proper frock to go down to dessert in. 

So she had been very busy making a little slip out of a few yards ofblue silk which had been over and above one of the old lady's dresses, and now she betook herself to the draper's to get spotted muslin tocover it and ribbons to trim it with. 

And whilst Madam Liberality's godmother was still feeling a fewtwinges about the Indian scarf, Podmore ordered a pink neckerchiefshot with white, and with pink and white fringes, to be included inthe parcel. 

But it was not in this way alone that Podmore was a good friend toMadam Liberality. 

She took her out walking, and let her play on the beach, and evenbring home dirty weeds and shells. Indeed, Podmore herself was notabove collecting cowries in a pill-box for her little nephews. 

When Mrs. Podmore met acquaintances on the beach, Madam Liberalityplayed alone, and these were her happiest moments. She played amongstthe rotting, weed-grown stakes of an old pier, and "fancied" roomsamong them--suites of rooms in which she would lodge her brothers andsister if they came to visit her, and where--with cockle-shells forteacups, and lava for vegetables, and fucus-pods for fish--theyshould find themselves as much enchanted as Beauty in the palace ofthe Beast. 

Again and again she "fancied" Darling into her shore-palace, thedelights of which should only be marred by the growls which sheherself would utter from time to time from behind the stakes, in thecharacter of a sea-beast, and which should but enhance the momentwhen she would rush out and throw her arms round Darling's neck andreveal herself as Madam Liberality. 

"Darling" was the pet name of Madam Liberality's sister--her onlysister, on whom she lavished the intensest affection of a heart whichwas always a large one in proportion to her little body. It seemed sostrange to play at any game of fancies without Darling, that MadamLiberality could hardly realize it. 

She might be preparing by herself a larger treat than usual for theothers; but it was incredible that no one would come after all, andthat Darling would never see the palace on the beach, and thestate-rooms, and the limpets, and the seaweed, and the salt-watersoup, and the real fish (a small dab discarded from a herring-net)which Madam Liberality had got for her. 

Her mind was filled with day-dreams of Darling's coming, and of howshe would display to her all the wonders of the seashore, which wouldreflect almost as much credit upon her as if she had inventedrazor-shells and crabs. She thought so much about it that she beganquite to expect it. 

Was it not natural that her godmother should see that she must belonely, and ask Darling to come and be with her? Perhaps the old ladyhad already done so, and the visit was to be a surprise. MadamLiberality could quite imagine doing a nice thing like this herself, and she hoped it so strongly that she almost came to believe in it. 

Every day she waited hopefully, first for the post, and then for thetime when the coach came in, the hour at which she herself hadarrived; but the coach brought no Darling, and the post brought noletter to say that she was coming, and Madam Liberality's hopes weredisappointed. 

Madam Liberality was accustomed to disappointment. 

From her earliest years it had been a family joke that poor MadamLiberality was always in ill-luck's way. 

It is true that she was constantly planning; and if one buildscastles, one must expect a few loose stones about one's ears now andthen. But, besides this, her little hopes were constantly beingfrustrated by fate. 

If the pigs or the hens got into the garden, Madam Liberality's bedwas sure to be laid waste before any one came to the rescue. When apicnic or a tea-party was in store, if Madam Liberality did not catchcold, so as to hinder her from going, she was pretty sure to have aquinsy from fatigue or wet feet afterwards. When she had a treat shepaid for the pleasurable excitement by a headache, just as when sheate sweet things they gave her toothache. 

But if her luck was less than other people's, her courage and goodspirits were more than common. She could think with pleasure about thetreat when she had forgotten the headache. One side of her little facewould look fairly cheerful when the other was obliterated by a flannelbag of hot camomile flowers, and the whole was redolent of everyhorrible domestic remedy for toothache, from oil of cloves andcreosote to a baked onion in the ear. No sufferings abated her energyfor fresh exploits, or quenched the hope that cold, and damp, andfatigue would not hurt her "this time. "

In the intervals of wringing out hot flannels for her own quinsy, shewould amuse herself by devising a desert island expedition on a largerand possibly a damper scale than hitherto, against the time when sheshould be out again. 

It is a very old simile, but Madam Liberality really was like a corkrising on the top of the very wave of ill-luck that had swallowed upher hopes. Her little white face and undaunted spirit bobbed up aftereach mischance or malady as ready and hopeful as ever. 

Though her day-dream about Darling and the shore palace was constantlydisappointed, this did not hinder her from indulging new hopes andfancies in another place to which she went with Podmore; a place whichwas filled with wonders of a different kind from the treasures of thepalace on the shore. 

It was called the Bazaar. It would be a very long business to say whatwas in it. But amongst other things there were foreign cage-birds, musical-boxes, and camp-stools, and baskets, and polished pebbles, andpaper patterns, and a little ladies' and children's millinery, and agood deal of mock jewellery, and some very bad soaps and scents, andsome very good children's toys. 

It was Madam Liberality's godmother who first took her to the bazaar. A titled lady of her acquaintance had heard that wire flower-basketsof a certain shape could be bought in the bazaar cheaper (bytwo-pence-halfpenny each) than in London; and after writing to herfriend to ascertain the truth of the statement, she wrote again toauthorize her to purchase three on her behalf. So Madam Liberality'sgodmother ordered out the blue carriage and pair, and drove with herlittle cousin to the bazaar. 

And as they came out, followed by a bearded man, bowing very low, andcarrying the wire baskets, Madam Liberality's godmother stopped nearthe toy-stall to button her glove. And when she had buttoned it (whichtook a long time, because her hands were stout, and Podmore generallydid it with a hook), she said to Madam Liberality, "Now, child, I wantto tell you that if you are very good whilst you are with me, andPodmore gives me a good report of you, I will bring you here beforeyou go home, and buy you a present. "

Madam Liberality's heart danced with delight. She wished her godmotherwould stand by the toy-stall for an hour, that she might see what shemost hoped the present would be. But the footman tucked them into thecarriage, and the bearded man bowed himself back into the bazaar, andthey drove home. Then Madam Liberality's godmother directed the butlerto dispatch the wire baskets to her ladyship, which he did by coach. And her ladyship's butler paid the carriage, and tipped the man whobrought the parcel from the coach-office, and charged these items inhis account. And her ladyship wrote a long letter of thanks to MadamLiberality's godmother for her kindness in saving her unnecessaryexpense. 

The old lady did not go to the bazaar again for some time, but MadamLiberality went there with Podmore. She looked at the toys andwondered which of them might one day be her very own. The white chinatea-service with the green rim, big enough to make real tea in, wastoo good to be hoped for, but there were tin tea-sets where the lidswould come off, and wooden ones where they were stuck on; and therewere all manner of toys that would be invaluable for all kinds ofnursery games and fancies. 

They helped a "fancy" of Madam Liberality even then. She used to standby the toy-stall, and fancy that she was as rich as her godmother, andwas going to give Christmas-boxes to her brothers and sister, and heramusement was to choose, though she could not buy them. 

Out of this came a deep mortification. She had been playing at thisfancy one afternoon, and having rather confused herself by changingher mind about the toys, she went through her final list in anundertone, to get it clearly into her head. The shopman was serving alady, and Madam Liberality thought he could not hear her as shemurmured, "The china tea-set, the box of beasts, the doll's furniturefor Darling, " etc. , etc. But the shopman's hearing was very acute, andhe darted forward, crying, "The china tea-set, did you say, miss?"

The blood rushed up to poor Madam Liberality's face till it seemed tochoke her, and the lady, whom the shopman had been serving, saidkindly, "I think the little girl said the box of beasts. "

Madam Liberality hoped it was a dream, but having pinched herself, shefound that it was not. 

Her mother had often said to her, "When you can't think what to say, tell the truth. " It was not a very easy rule, but Madam Liberalitywent by it. 

"I don't want anything, thank you, " said she; "at least, I mean I haveno money to buy anything with: I was only counting the things I shouldlike to get if I had. "

And then, as the floor of the bazaar would _not_ open and swallow herup, she ran away, with her red face and her empty pocket, to shelterherself with Podmore at the mock-jewellery stall, and she did not goto the bazaar any more. 

Once again disappointment was in store for Madam Liberality. The endof her visit came, and her godmother's promise seemed to be forgotten. But the-night before her departure, the old lady came into her roomand said, "I couldn't take you with me to-day, child, but I didn't forget mypromise. Podmore says you've been very good, and so I've brought you apresent. A very _useful_ one, I hope, " added the old lady, in a toneas if she were congratulating herself upon her good sense. "And tellCatherine--that's your mother, child--with my love, always to have youdressed for the evening. I like to see children come in to dessert, when they have good manners--which I must say you have; besides, itkeeps the nurses up to their work. "

And then she drew out from its paper a little frock of pink_mousseline-de-laine_, very prettily tacked together by the youngwoman at the millinery-stall, and very cheap for its gay appearance. 

Down came all Madam Liberality's visions in connection with thetoy-stall: but she consoled herself that night with picturingDarling's delight when she gave her (as she meant to give her) thepink dress. 

She had another source of comfort and anticipation--_thescallop-shells_. 

But this requires to be explained. The greatest prize which MadamLiberality had gained from her wanderings by the seashore was acomplete scallop-shell. When washed the double shell was as clean andas pretty as any china muffin-dish with a round top; and now herambition was to get four more, and thus to have a service for doll'sfeasts which should far surpass the oyster-shells. She was talkingabout this to Podmore one day when they were picking cowries together, and Podmore cried, "Why, this little girl would get you them, miss, I'll be bound!"

She was a bare-footed little girl, who sold pebbles and seaweed, andsalt water for sponging with, and she had undertaken to get thescallop-shells, and had run off to pick seaweed out of a newly landednet before Madam Liberality could say "Thank you. "

She heard no more of the shells, however, until the day before shewent away, when the butler met her as she came indoors, and told herthat the little girl was waiting. And it was not till Madam Liberalitysaw the scallop-shells lying clean and pink in a cotton handkerchiefthat she remembered that she had no money to pay for them. 

Here was another occasion for painful truthtelling! But to makehumiliating confession before the butler seemed almost beyond evenMadam Liberality's moral courage. He went back to his pantry, however, and she pulled off her pretty pink neckerchief and said, "I am _very_ sorry, little girl, but I've got no money of my own; butif you would like this instead--" And the little girl seemed quitepleased with her bargain, and ran hastily off, as if afraid that theyoung lady would change her mind. 

And this was how Madam Liberality got her scallop-shells. 

 * * * * *

It may seem strange that Madam Liberality should ever have beenaccused of meanness, and yet her eldest brother did once shake hishead at her and say, "You're the most meanest and the _generoustest_person I ever knew!" And Madam Liberality wept over the accusation, although her brother was then too young to form either his words orhis opinions correctly. 

But it was the touch of truth in it which made Madam Liberality cry. To the end of their lives Tom and she were alike and yet different inthis matter. Madam Liberality saved, and pinched, and planned, andthen gave away, and Tom gave away without the pinching and saving. This sounds much handsomer, and it was poor Tom's misfortune that healways believed it to be so; though he gave away what did not belongto him, and fell back for the supply of his own pretty numerous wantsupon other people, not forgetting Madam Liberality. 

Painful experience convinced Madam Liberality in the end that his waywas a wrong one, but she had her doubts many times in her life whetherthere were not something unhandsome in her own decided talent foreconomy. Not that economy was always pleasant to her. When people arevery poor for their position in life, they can only keep out of debtby stinting on many occasions when stinting is very painful to aliberal spirit. And it requires a sterner virtue than good-nature tohold fast the truth that it is nobler to be shabby and honest than todo things handsomely in debt. 

But long before Tom had a bill even for bull's-eyes and GibraltarRock, Madam Liberality was pinching and plotting, and saving bits ofcoloured paper and ends of ribbon, with a thriftiness which seemed tojustify Tom's view of her character. 

The object of these savings was twofold: birthday presents andChristmas-boxes. They were the chief cares and triumphs of MadamLiberality's childhood. It was with the next birthday or theapproaching Christmas in view that she saved her pence instead ofspending them, but she so seldom had any money that she chiefly reliedon her own ingenuity. Year by year it became more difficult to makeanything which would "do for a boy;" but it was easy to pleaseDarling, and "Mother's" unabated appreciation of pincushions, and ofneedle-books made out of old cards, was most satisfactory. 

To break the mystery in which it always pleased Madam Liberality toshroud her small preparations, was to give her dire offence. As arule, the others respected this caprice, and would even feign a littlemore surprise than they felt, upon occasion. But if during herpreparations she had given umbrage to one of the boys, her retreat wassoon invaded with cries of--"Ah! I see you, making birthday presentsout of nothing and a quarter of a yard of ribbon!" Or--"There you are!At it again, with two old visiting cards and a ha'porth of flannel!"And only Darling's tenderest kisses could appease Madam Liberality'swrath and dry her tears. 

She had never made a grander project for Christmas, or had greaterdifficulty in carrying it out, than in the winter which followed hervisit to the seaside. It was in the house of her cousin that she hadfirst heard of Christmas-trees, and to surprise the others with aChristmas-tree she was quite resolved. But as the time drew near, poorMadam Liberality was almost in despair about her presents, and thiswas doubly provoking, because a nice little fir-tree had been promisedher. There was no blinking the fact that "Mother" had been providedwith pincushions to repletion. And most of these made the needlesrusty, from being stuffed with damp pig-meal, when the pigs and thepincushions were both being fattened for Christmas. 

Madam Liberality sat with her little pale face on her hand and herslate before her, making her calculations. She wondered whatemery-powder cost. Supposing it to be very cheap, and that she couldget a quarter of a pound for "next to nothing, " how useful a presentmight be made for "Mother" in the shape of an emery pincushion, tocounteract the evil effects of the pig-meal ones! It would be anovelty even to Darling, especially if hers were made by glueing atiny bag of emery into the mouth of a "boiled fowl cowry. " MadamLiberality had seen such a pincushion in Podmore's work-basket. Shehad a shell of the kind, and the village carpenter would always lether put a stick into his glue-pot if she went to the shop. 

But then, if emery were only a penny a pound, Madam Liberality had nota farthing to buy a quarter of a pound with. As she thought of thisher brow contracted, partly with vexation, and partly because of ajumping pain in a big tooth, which, either from much illness or manymedicines, or both, was now but the wreck of what a tooth should be. But as the toothache grew worse, a new hope dawned upon MadamLiberality. Perhaps one of her troubles would mend the other!

Being very tender-hearted over children's sufferings, it was hermother's custom to bribe rather than coerce when teeth had to be takenout. The fixed scale of reward was sixpence for a tooth without fangs, and a shilling for one with them. If pain were any evidence, thistooth certainly had fangs. But one does not have a tooth taken out ifone can avoid it, and Madam Liberality bore bad nights and painfuldays till they could be endured no longer; and then, because she knewit distressed her mother to be present, she went alone to the doctor'shouse to ask him to take out her tooth. 

The doctor was a very kind old man, and he did his best, so we willnot say anything about his antique instruments, or the number of timeshe tied a pocket-handkerchief round an awful-looking claw, and putboth into Madam Liberality's mouth without effect. 

At last he said he had got the tooth out, and he wrapped it in paper, and gave it to Madam Liberality, who, having thought that it was herhead he had extracted from its socket, was relieved to get away. 

As she ran home she began to plan how to lay out her shilling for thebest, and when she was nearly there she opened the bit of paper tolook at her enemy, and it had no fangs!

"I'm _sure_ it was more than a sixpenny one, " she sobbed; "I believehe has left them in. "

It involved more than the loss of half the funds she had reckonedupon. Perhaps this dreadful pain would go on even on Christmas Day. Her first thought was to carry her tears to her mother; her secondthat, if she only could be brave enough to have the fangs taken out, she might spare mother all distress about it till it was over, whenshe would certainly like her sufferings to be known and sympathizedwith. She knew well that courage does not come with waiting, andmaking a desperate rally of stout-heartedness, she ran back to thedoctor. 

He had gone out, but his assistant was in. He looked at MadamLiberality's mouth, and said that the fangs were certainly left in andwould be much better out. 

"Would it hurt _very_ much?" asked Madam Liberality, trembling. 

The assistant blinked the question of "hurting. "

"I think I could do it, " said he, "if you could sit still. Not if youwere jumping about. "

"I will sit still, " said Madam Liberality. 

"The boy shall hold your head, " said the assistant. 

But Madam Liberality rebelled; she could screw up her sensitive nervesto endure the pain, but not to be coerced by "the boy. "

"I give you my word of honour I will sit still, " said she, withplaintive earnestness. 

And the assistant (who had just remembered that the boy was out withthe gig) said, "Very well, miss. "

We need not dwell upon the next few seconds. The assistant kept hisword, and Madam Liberality kept hers. She sat still, and went onsitting still after the operation was over till the assistant becamealarmed, and revived her by pouring some choking stuff down herthroat. After which she staggered to her feet and put out her hand andthanked him. 

He was a strong, rough, good-natured young man, and little MadamLiberality's pale face and politeness touched him. 

"You're the bravest little lady I ever knew, " he said kindly; "and youkeep your word like a queen. There's some stuff to put to the place, and there's sixpence, miss, if you'll take it, to buy lollipops with. You'll be able to eat them now. "

After which he gave her an old pill-box to carry the fragments of hertooth in, and it was labelled "three to be taken at bed-time. "

Madam Liberality staggered home, very giddy, but very happy. Moralistssay a great deal about pain treading so very closely on the heels ofpleasure in this life, but they are not always wise or grateful enoughto speak of the pleasure which springs out of pain. And yet there is abliss which comes just when pain has ceased, whose rapture rivals eventhe high happiness of unbroken health; and there is a keen relishabout small pleasures hardly earned, in which the full measure ofthose who can afford anything they want is sometimes lacking. 

Relief is certainly one of the most delicious sensations which poorhumanity, can enjoy! Madam Liberality enjoyed it to the full, and shehad more happiness yet in her cup, I fear praise was very pleasant toher, and the assistant had praised her, not undeservedly, and she knewthat further praise was in store from the dearest source ofapprobation--from her mother. Ah! how pleased she would be! And sowould Darling, who always cried when Madam Liberality was in greatpain. 

And this was only the beginning of pleasures. The sixpence wouldamply provide "goodies" for the Christmas-tree, and much might be donewith the forthcoming shilling. And if her conduct on the presentoccasion would not support a request for a few ends of candles fromthe drawing-room candle-sticks, what profit would there be in being aheroine?

When her mother gave her two shillings instead of one, MadamLiberality felt in honour bound to say that she had already beenrewarded with sixpence; but her mother only said, "You quite deserved it, I'm sure, " and she found herself in possessionof no less than half-a-crown. 

And now it is sad to relate that misfortune again overtook MadamLiberality. All the next day she longed to go into the village to buysweetmeats, but it snowed and rained, and was bitterly cold, and shecould not. 

Just about dusk the weather slightly cleared up, and she picked herway through the melting snow to the shop. Her purchases were mostsatisfactory. How the boys would enjoy them! Madam Liberality enjoyedthem already, though her face was still sore, and the pain had spreadto her throat, and though her ideas seemed unusually brilliant, andher body pleasantly languid, which, added to a peculiar chilltrembling of the knees--generally forewarned her of a coming quinsy. But warnings were thrown away upon Madam Liberality's obduratehopefulness. 

Just now she could think of nothing but the coming Christmas-tree. Shehid the sweetmeats, and put her hand into her pocket for the twoshillings, the exact outlay of which, in the neighbouring town, bymeans of the carrier, she had already arranged. But--the two shillingswere gone! How she had lost them Madam Liberality had no idea. 

She trudged through the dirty snow once more to the shop, and thecounter was examined, and old Goody looked under the flour scales andin the big chinks of the stone floor. But the shillings were notthere, and Madam Liberality kept her eyes on the pavement as she ranhome, with as little result. Moreover, it was nearly dark. 

It snowed heavily all night, and Madam Liberality slept very littlefrom pain and anxiety; but this did not deter her from going out withthe first daylight in the morning to rake among the snow near thedoor, although her throat was sore beyond concealment, her jaws stiff, and the pleasant languor and quick-wittedness had given way torestless fever. 

Her conscience did prick her a little for the anxiety she was bringingupon her mother (her own sufferings she never forecast); but she couldnot give up her Christmas-tree without a struggle, and she hoped by afew familiar remedies to drive back the threatened illness. 

Meanwhile, if the shillings were not found before eleven o'clock itwould be too late to send to the town shop by the carrier. But theywere not found, and the old hooded cart rumbled away without them. 

It was Christmas Eve. The boys were bustling about with holly. Darlingwas perched on a very high chair in the kitchen, picking raisins inthe most honourable manner, without eating one, and Madam Liberalityought to have been the happiest of all. 

Even now she dried her tears, and made the best of her ill-luck. Thesweetmeats were very good; and it was yet in her power to please theothers, though by a sacrifice from which she had shrunk. She coulddivide her scallop-shells among them. It was economy--economy ofresources--which made her hesitate. Separated--they would please theboys once, and then be lost. Kept together in her own possession--theywould be a constant source of triumph for herself, and of treats forher brothers and sister. 

Meanwhile, she would gargle her throat with salt and water. As shecrept up-stairs with this purpose, she met her mother. 

Madam Liberality had not looked in the looking-glass lately, so shedid not understand her mother's exclamation of distress when they met. Her face was perfectly white, except where dark marks lay under hereyes, and her small lips formed between them the rigid line of pain. It was impossible to hold out any longer, and Madam Liberality brokedown and poured forth all her woes. 

"I'll put my feet in hot water, and do anything you like, motherdear, " said she, "if only you'll let me try and have a tree, and keepit secret from the others. I do so want to surprise them. "

"If you'll go to your room, my darling, and do as I tell you, I'llkeep your secret, and help you with your tree, " said her mother. "Don't cry, my child, don't cry; it's so bad for your throat. I thinkI can find you some beads to make a necklace for Darling, and threepencils for the boys, and some paper which you can cut up intodrawing-books for them. "

A little hope went a long way with Madam Liberality, and she began totake heart. At the same time she felt her illness more keenly nowthere was no need for concealing it. She sat over the fire and inhaledsteam from an old teapot, and threaded beads, and hoped she would beallowed to go to church next day, and to preside at her Christmas-treeafterwards. 

In the afternoon her throat grew rapidly worse. She had begged--almostimpatiently--that Darling would not leave the Christmas preparationsto sit with her, and as talking was bad for her, and as she hadsecret preparations to make on her own account, her mother hadsupported her wish to be left alone. 

But when it grew dusk, and the drawing-books were finished, MadamLiberality felt lonely. She put a shawl round her head, and went tothe window. There was not much to be seen. The fields were deeplyburied in snow, and looked like great white feather beds, shaken upunequally against the hedges. The road was covered so deeply that shecould hardly have traced it, if she had not known where it was. Howdark the old church tower looked amid so much whiteness!

And the snow-flakes fell like sugar-plums among the black trees. Onecould almost hear the keen wind rustling through the bending sedges bythe pond, where the ice looked quite "safe" now. Madam Liberalityhoped she would be able to get out before this fine frost was over. She knew of an old plank which would make an admirable sledge, and shehad a plan for the grandest of winter games all ready in her head. Itwas to be called Arctic Discovery--and she was to be the chiefdiscoverer. 

As she fancied herself--starving but scientific, chilled to the bone, yet undaunted--discovering a north-west passage at the upper end ofthe goose pond, the clock struck three from the old church tower. Madam Liberality heard it with a pang. At three o'clock--if he hadhad her shillings--she would have been expecting the return of thecarrier, with the presents for her Christmas-tree. 

Even as she thought about it, the old hooded waggon came lumberingdown among the snow-drifts in the lane. There was a bunch of mistletoeat the head, and the old carrier went before the horse, and the dogwent before the carrier. And they were all three up to their knees insnow, and all three had their noses down, as much as to say, "Such islife; but we must struggle on. "

Poor Madam Liberality! The sight of the waggon and the mistletoeoverwhelmed her. It only made matters worse to see the waggon cometowards the house. She rather wondered what the carrier was bringing;but whatever it was, it was not the toys. 

She went back to her seat by the fire, and cried bitterly; and, as shecried, the ball in her throat seemed to grow larger, till she couldhardly breathe. She was glad when the door opened, and her mother'skind face looked in. 

"Is Darling here?" she asked. 

"No, mother, " said Madam Liberality huskily. 

"Then you may bring it in, " said her mother to some one outside, andthe servant appeared, carrying a wooden box, which she put down beforeMadam Liberality, and then withdrew. "Now don't speak, " said hermother, "it is bad for you, and your eyes have asked fifty questionsalready, my child. Where did the box come from? The carrier broughtit. Who is it for? It's for you. Who sent it? That I don't know. Whatis inside? I thought you would like to be the first to see. My idea isthat perhaps your godmother has sent you a Christmas-box, and Ithought that there might be things in it which would help you withyour Christmas-tree, so I have not told any one about it. "

To the end of her life Madam Liberality never forgot thatChristmas-box. It did not come from her godmother, and the name of thegiver she never knew. The first thing in it was a card, on which waswritten--"A Christmas-box from an unknown friend;" and the secondthing in it was the set of china tea-things with the green rim; andthe third thing was a box of doll's furniture. 

"Oh, Mother!" cried Madam Liberality, "they're the very things I wascounting over in the bazaar, when the shopman heard me. "

"Did anybody else hear you?" asked her mother. 

"There was a lady, who said, 'I think the little girl said the box ofbeasts. ' And, oh! Mother, Mother! here _is_ the box of beasts! They'renot common beasts, you know--not wooden ones, painted; they're rough, something like hair. And feel the old elephant's ears, they're quiteleathery, and the lion has real long hair for his mane and the tip ofhis tail. They are such thorough beasts. Oh, how the boys will likethem! Tom shall have the darling brown bear. I do think he is the verybest beast of all; his mouth is a little open, you know, and you cansee his tongue, and it's red. And, Mother! the sheep are curly! Andoh, what a dog! with real hair. I think I _must_ keep the dog. And Ishall make him a paper collar, and print 'Faithful' on it, and let himalways stand on the drawers by our bed, and he'll be Darling's and mywatch-dog. "

Happiness is sometimes very wholesome, but it does not cure a quinsyoff hand. Darling cried that night when the big pillow was broughtout, which Madam Liberality always slept against in her quinsies, tokeep her from choking. She did not know of that consolatoryChristmas-box in the cupboard. 

On Christmas Day Madam Liberality was speechless. The quinsy hadprogressed very rapidly. 

"It generally breaks the day I have to write on my slate, " MadamLiberality wrote, looking up at her mother with piteous eyes. 

She was conscious that she had been greatly to blame for what she wassuffering, and was anxious to "behave well about it" as an atonement. She begged--on her slate--that no one would stay away from church onher account, but her mother would not leave her. 

"And now the others are gone, " said Mother, "since you won't let theChristmas-tree be put off, I propose that we have it up, and I dressit under your orders, whilst the others are out, and then it can bemoved into the little book-room, all ready for to-night. "

Madam Liberality nodded like a china Mandarin. 

"But you are in sad pain, I fear?" said her mother, "One can't have everything, " wrote Madam Liberality on her slate. Manyillnesses had made her a very philosophical little woman; and, indeed, if the quinsy broke and she were at ease, the combination of goodthings would be more than any one could reasonably expect, even atChristmas. 

Every beast was labelled, and hung up by her orders. The box offurniture was addressed to herself and Darling, as a joint possession, and the sweetmeats were tied in bags of muslin. The tree lookedcharming. The very angel at the top seemed proud of it. 

"I'll leave the tea-things up-stairs, " said Mother. 

But Madam Liberality shook her head vigorously. She had been making upher mind, as she sat steaming over the old teapot; and now she wroteon her slate, "Put a white cloth round the tub, and put out thetea-things like a tea-party, and put a ticket in the slop-basin--_ForDarling. With very_, VERY _Best Love_. Make the last 'very' very big. "

Madam Liberality's mother nodded, but she was printing a ticket; muchtoo large a ticket, however, to go into the green and whiteslop-basin. When it was done she hung it on the tree, under the angel. The inscription was--_From Madam Liberality_. 

When supper was over, she came up to Madam Liberality's room, andsaid, "Now, my dear, if you like to change your mind and put off the treetill you are better, I will say nothing about it. "

But Madam Liberality shook her head more vehemently than before, andher mother smiled and went away. 

Madam Liberality strained her ears. The book-room door opened--sheknew the voice of the handle--there was a rush and a noise, but itdied away into the room. The tears broke down Madam Liberality'scheeks. It was hard not to be there now. Then there was a patter upthe stairs, and flying steps along the landing, and Madam Liberality'sdoor was opened by Darling. She was dressed in the pink dress, and hercheeks were pinker still, and her eyes full of tears. And she threwherself at Madam Liberality's feet, crying, "Oh _how_ good, how _very_ good you are!"

At this moment a roar came up from below, and Madam Liberality wrote, "What is it?" and then dropped the slate to clutch the arms of herchair, for the pain was becoming almost intolerable. Before Darlingcould open the door her mother came in, and Darling repeated thequestion, "What is it?"

But at this moment the reply came from below, in Tom's loudest tones. It rang through the house, and up into the bedroom. 

"Three cheers for Madam Liberality! Hip, hip, hooray!"

The extremes of pleasure and of pain seemed to meet in MadamLiberality's little head. But overwhelming gratification got the upperhand, and, forgetting even her quinsy, she tried to speak, and after abrief struggle she said, with tolerable distinctness, "Tell Tom I am very much obliged to him. "

But what they did tell Tom was that the quinsy had broken, on which hegave three cheers more. 

PART II. 

Madam Liberality grew up into much the same sort of person that shewas when a child. She always had been what is termed old-fashioned, and the older she grew the better her old-fashionedness became her, sothat at last her friends would say to her, "Ah, if we all wore as wellas you do, my dear! You've hardly changed at all since we remember youin short petticoats. " So far as she did change the change was for thebetter. (It is to be hoped we do improve a little as we get older!)She was still liberal and economical. She still planned and hopedindefatigably. She was still tender-hearted in the sense in which Grayspeaks, "To each his sufferings, all are men Condemned alike to groan, The tender for another's pain, The unfeeling for his own. "

She still had a good deal of ill-health and ill-luck, and a good dealof pleasure in spite of both. She was still happy in the happiness ofothers, and pleased by their praise. But she was less headstrong andopinionated in her plans, and less fretful when they failed. It ispossible, after one has cut one's wisdom-teeth, to cure one's selfeven of a good deal of vanity, and to learn to play the second fiddlevery gracefully; and Madam Liberality did not resist the lessons oflife. 

GOD teaches us wisdom in divers ways. Why He suffers somepeople to have so many troubles and so little of what we call pleasurein this world we cannot in this world know. The heaviest blows oftenfall on the weakest shoulders, and how these endure and bear up underthem is another of the things which GOD knows better than we. 

I will not pretend to decide whether grown-up people's troubles areharder to bear than children's troubles, but they are of a graverkind. It is very bitter when the boys melt the nose of one's dearestdoll against the stove, and living pets with kind eyes and friendlypaws grow aged and die; but the death of friends is a more serious andlasting sorrow, if it is not more real. 

Madam Liberality shed fewer tears after she grew up than she had donebefore, but she had some heart-aches which did not heal. 

The thing which did most to cure her of being too managing for thegood of other people was Darling's marriage. If ever Madam Liberalityhad felt proud of self-sacrifice and success, it was about this. Butwhen Darling was fairly gone, and "Faithful"--very grey with dust andyears--kept watch over only one sister in "the girls' room, " he mighthave seen Madam Liberality's nightly tears if his eyes had been madeof anything more sensitive than yellow paint. 

Desolate as she was, Madam Liberality would have hugged her grief ifshe could have had her old consolation, and been happy in thehappiness of another. Darling never said she was not happy. It waswhat she left out, not what she put into the long letters she sentfrom India that cut Madam Liberality to the heart. 

Darling's husband read all her letters, and he did not like the homeones to be too tender--as if Darling's mother and sister pitied her. And he read Darling's letters before they went away by the mail. 

From this it came about that the sisters' letters were verycommonplace on the surface. And though Madam Liberality cried whenDarling wrote, "Have swallows built in the summer-house this year?Have you put my old doll's chest of drawers back in its place sincethe room was papered? What colour is the paper?"--the Major only saidthat stuff like that was hardly worth the postage to England. And whenMadam Liberality wrote, "The clump of daffodils in your old bed wasenormous this spring. I have not touched it since you left. I madeMother's birthday wreath out of the flowers in your bed and mine. Jemima broke the slop-basin of the green and white tea-set to-day. Itwas the last piece left. I am trying to forgive her, "--the Major madeno harsher remark than, "A storm in a slop-basin! Your sister is not abrilliant letter-writer, certainly. "

The source of another heart-ache for Madam Liberality was poor Tom. Hewas as liberal and hospitable as ever in his own way. He invited hisfriends to stay with his mother, and when they and Tom had gone, MadamLiberality and her mother lived without meat to get the housekeepingbook straight again. Their great difficulty in the matter was theuncertain nature of Tom's requirements. And when he did write formoney he always wrote in such urgent need that there was no refusinghim if by the art of "doing without" his wants could be supplied. 

But Tom had a kindly heart; he sent his sister a gold locket, andwrote on the box, "For the best and most generous of sisters. "

Madam Liberality liked praise, and she dearly liked praise from Tom;but on this occasion it failed to soothe her. She said curtly, "Isuppose it's not paid for. If we can't afford much, we can afford tolive at our own expense, and not on the knavery or the forbearance oftradesmen. " With which she threw the locket into a box of odds andends, and turned the key with some temper. 

Years passed, and Madam Liberality was alone. Her mother was dead, andTom--poor Tom!--had been found drowned. Darling was still in India, and the two living boys were in the colonies, farming. 

It seemed to be an aggravation of the calamity of Tom's death that hedied, as he had lived, in debt. But, as regards Madam Liberality, itwas not an unmixed evil. It is one of our bitterest pangs when wesurvive those we love that with death the opportunity has passed forbeing kind to them, though we love them more than ever. By whatearthly effort could Madam Liberality's mother now be pleased, whom solittle had pleased heretofore?

But for poor Tom it was still possible to plan, to economize, to beliberal--and by these means to pay his debts, and save the fair nameof which he had been as reckless as of everything else which hepossessed. 

Madam Liberality had had many a hard struggle to get Tom a birthdaypresent, but she had never pinched and planned and saved on his behalfas she did now. There is a limit, however, to the strictest economies. It would have taken a longer time to finish her labour of love butfor "the other boys. " They were good, kind fellows, and having had toearn daily bread where larks do not fall ready cooked into the mouth, they knew more of the realities of life than poor Tom had everlearned. They were prosperous now, and often sent a few pounds toMadam Liberality "to buy a present with. "

"And none of your old 'Liberality' tricks, mind!" George wrote on oneoccasion. "Fit yourself thoroughly out in the latest fashions, and dous credit!"

But it all went to Tom's tailor. 

She felt hardly justified in diverting George's money from hispurpose; but she had never told the boys of Tom's debts. There wassomething of her old love of doing things without help in this, andmore of her special love for Tom. 

It was not from the boys alone that help came to her. MadamLiberality's godmother died, and left her fifty pounds. In one lumpshe had now got enough to finish her work. 

The acknowledgments of these last payments came on Tom's birthday. More and more courteous had grown the tradesmen's letters, and MadamLiberality felt a foolish pleasure in seeing how respectfully they allspoke now of "Your lamented brother, Madam!"

The jeweller's bill was the last; and when Madam Liberality tied upthe bundle, she got out Tom's locket and put a bit of his hair intoit, and tied it round her throat, sobbing as she did so, "Oh, Tom, ifyou _could_ have lived and been happy in a small way! Your debts arepaid now, my poor boy. I wonder if you know. Oh, Tom, Tom!"

It was her greatest triumph--to have saved Tom's fair name in theplace where he had lived so foolishly and died so sadly. 

But the triumphs of childhood cast fewer shadows. There was no one nowto say, "Three cheers for Madam Liberality!"

 * * * * *

It was a very cold winter, but Madam Liberality and Jemima, themaid-of-all-work, were warmer than they had been for several previouswinters, because they kept better fires. Time heals our sorrows inspite of us, and Madam Liberality was a very cheerful little body now, and as busy as ever about her Christmas-boxes. Those for her nephewsand nieces were already despatched. "The boys" were married; MadamLiberality was godmother to several children she had never seen; butthe Benjamin of his aunt's heart was Darling's only child--Tom--thoughshe had not seen even him. 

Madam Liberality was still in the thick of her plans, which werechiefly to benefit the old people and the well-behaved children of thevillage. All the Christmas-boxes were to be "surprises, " and Jemimawas in every secret but the one which most concerned her. 

Madam Liberality had even some plans for her own benefit. George hadtalked of coming home in the summer, and she began to think of savingup for a new carpet for the drawing-room. Then the last time she wentto the town she saw some curtains of a most artistic pattern, andparticularly cheap. So much good taste for so little money was rare inprovincial shops. By and by she might do without something which wouldbalance the cost of the curtains. And she had another ambition--toprovide Jemima with black dresses and white muslin aprons forafternoon wear in addition to her wages, that the outward aspect ofthat good soul might be more in accordance than hitherto with herintrinsic excellence. 

She was pondering this when Jemima burst in in her cooking apron, followed up the passage by the steam of Christmas cakes, and carryinga letter. 

"It's a big one, Miss, " said she. "Perhaps it's a Christmas-box, Miss. " And beaming with geniality and kitchen warmth, Jemima returnedto her labours. 

Madam Liberality made up her mind about the dresses and aprons; thenshe opened her letter. 

It announced the death of her cousin, her godmother's husband. Itannounced also that, in spite of the closest search for a will, whichhe was supposed to have made, this could not be found. 

Possibly he had destroyed it, intending to make another. As it was hehad died intestate, and succession not being limited to heirs male, and Madam Liberality being the eldest child of his nearestrelative--the old childish feeling of its being a dream came over her. 

She pinched herself, however, to no purpose. There lay the letter, andafter a second reading Madam Liberality picked up the thread of thenarrative and arrived at the result--she had inherited fifteenthousand a year. 

The first rational idea which came to her was that there was nodifficulty now about getting the curtains; and the second was thattheir chief merit was a merit no more. What is the good of a thingbeing cheap when one has fifteen thousand a year?

Madam Liberality poked the fire extravagantly, and sat down to think. 

The curtains naturally led her to household questions, and those tothat invaluable person, Jemima. That Jemima's wages should be doubled, trebled, quadrupled, was a thing of course. What post she was to fillin the new circumstances was another matter. Remembering Podmore, andrecalling the fatigue of dressing herself after her pretty numerousillnesses. Madam Liberality felt that a lady's-maid would be a comfortto be most thankful for. But she could not fancy Jemima in thatcapacity, or as a housekeeper, or even as head housemaid or cook. Shehad lived for years with Jemima herself, but she could not fit herinto a suitable place in the servants' hall. 

However, with fifteen thousand a year, Madam Liberality could buy, ifneedful, a field, and build a house, and put Jemima into it with aservant to wait upon her. The really important question was about hernew domestics. Sixteen servants are a heavy responsibility. 

Madam Liberality had very high ideas of the parental duties involved inbeing the head of a household. She had suffered--more than Jemima--overJemima's lack of scruple as to telling lies for good purposes. Now afootman is a young man who has, no doubt, his own peculiar temptations. What check could Madam Liberality keep upon him? Possibly she might--underthe strong pressure of moral responsibility--give good general advice tothe footman; but the idea of the butler troubled her. 

When one has lived alone in a little house for many years one getstimid. She put a case to herself. Say that she knew the butler to bein the habit of stealing the wine, and suspected the gardener ofmaking a good income by the best of the wall fruit, would she have themoral courage to be as firm with these important personages as if shehad caught one of the school-children picking and stealing in theorchard? And if not, would not family prayers be a mockery?

Madam Liberality sighed. Poor dear Tom! He had had his faultscertainly; but how well he would have managed a butler!

This touched the weak point of her good fortune to the core. It hadcome too late to heap luxuries about dear "Mother"; too late to opencareers for the boys; too late to give mad frolics and girlishgaieties to light hearts, such as she and Darling had once had. Ah, ifthey could have enjoyed it together years ago!

There remained, however, Madam Liberality's old consolation: one canbe happy in the happiness of others. There were nephews and nieces tobe provided for, and a world so full of poor and struggling folk thatfifteen thousand a year would only go a little way. It was, perhaps, useful that there had been so many articles lately in the papers aboutbegging letters, and impostors, and, the evil effects of theindiscriminate charity of elderly ladies; but the remembrance of themmade Madam Liberality's head ache, and troubled her dreams thatnight. 

It was well that the next day was Sunday. Face to face with thosegreater interests common to the rich and the poor, the living and thedead, Madam Liberality grew calmer under her new cares and prospects. It did not need that brief pause by her mother's grave to remind herhow little money can do for us: and the sight of other peoplewholesomely recalled how much it can effect. Near the church porch shewas passed by the wife of a retired chandler, who dressed in very finesilks, and who was accustomed to eye Madam Liberality's old clothes asshe bowed to her more obviously than is consistent with good breeding. The little lady nodded very kindly in return. With fifteen thousand ayear one can afford to be _quite_ at ease in an old shawl. 

The next day was Christmas Eve. Madam Liberality caught herselfthinking that if the legacy had been smaller--say fifty pounds ayear--she would at once have treated herself to certain littleembellishments of the old house, for which she had long beenambitious. But it would be absurd to buy two or three yards of rosebudchintz, and tire herself by making covers to two very oldsofa-cushions, when the point to be decided was in which of threegrandly furnished mansions she would first take up her abode. Sheordered a liberal supper, however, which confirmed Jemima in hersecret opinion that the big letter had brought good news. 

When, therefore, another letter of similar appearance arrived, Jemimasnatched up the waiter and burst breathlessly in upon MadamLiberality, leaving the door open-behind her, though it was bitterlycold and the snow fell fast. 

And when Madam Liberality opened this letter she learned that hercousin's will had been found, and that (as seems to be natural) he hadleft his money where it would be associated with more money and keptwell together. His heir was a cousin also, but in the next degree--anold bachelor, who was already wealthy; and he had left MadamLiberality five pounds to buy a mourning ring. 

It had been said that Madam Liberality was used to disappointment, butsome minutes passed before she quite realized the downfall of herlatest visions. Then the old sofa-cushions resumed their importance, and she flattened the fire into a more economical shape, and setvigorously to work to decorate the house with the Christmasevergreens. She had just finished and gone up-stairs to wash her handswhen the church clock struck three. 

It was an old house, and the window of the bedroom went down to thefloor, and had a deep window-seat. Madam Liberality sat down in it andlooked out. She expected some linsey-woolsey by the carrier, to makeChristmas petticoats, and she was glad to see the hooded waggonploughing its way through the snow. The goose-pond was firmly frozen, and everything looked as it had looked years ago, except that thecarrier's young son went before the waggon and a young dog went beforehim. They passed slowly out of sight, but Madam Liberality sat on. Shegazed dreamily at the old church, and the trees, and the pond, andthought of the past; of her mother, and of poor Tom, and of Darling, and she thought till she fancied that she heard Darling's voice in thepassage below. She got up to go down to Jemima, but as she did so sheheard a footstep on the stairs, and it was not Jemima's tread. It wastoo light for the step of any man or woman. 

Then the door opened, and on the threshold of Madam Liberality's roomstood a little boy dressed in black, with his little hat pushed backfrom the loveliest of baby faces set in long flaxen hair. Thecarnation colour of his cheeks was deepened by the frost, and hisbright eyes were brighter from mingled daring and doubt and curiosity, as he looked leisurely round the room and said in a slow, high-pitched, and very distinct tone, "Where are you, Aunt Liberality?"

But, lovely as he was, Madam Liberality ran past him, for anotherfigure was in the doorway now, also in black, and, with a widow's cap;and Madam Liberality and Darling fell sobbing into each other's arms. 

"This is better than fifteen thousand a year, " said Madam Liberality. 

 * * * * *

It is not necessary to say much more. The Major had been killed by afall from horseback, and Darling came back to live at her old home. She had a little pension, and the sisters were not parted again. 

It would be idle to dwell on Madam Liberality's devotion to hernephew, or the princely manner in which he accepted her services. Thathis pleasure was the object of a new series of plans, and presents, and surprises, will be readily understood. The curtains were bought, but the new carpet had to be deferred in consequence of an extravagantoutlay on mechanical toys. When the working of these brought a deepertint into his cheeks, and a brighter light into his eyes, MadamLiberality was quite happy; and when he broke them one after another, his infatuated aunt believed this to be a precocious development ofmanly energies. 

The longest lived, if not the favourite, toys with him were the oldset of scallop-shells, with which he never wearied of making feasts, to which Madam Liberality was never weary of being invited. He hadmore plums than had ever sweetened her childhood, and when they sattogether on two footstools by the sofa, and Tom announced the contentsof the dishes in his shrillest voice and lifted the covers, MadamLiberality would say in a tone of apology, "It's very odd, Darling, and I'm sure at my time of life it'sdisgraceful, but I cannot feel old!"

We could hardly take leave of Madam Liberality in pleasantercircumstances. Why should we ask whether, for the rest of her life, she was rich or poor, when we may feel so certain that she wascontented? No doubt she had many another hope and disappointment tokeep life from stagnating. 

As a matter of fact she outlived the bachelor cousin, and if he diedintestate she must have been rich after all. Perhaps she was. Perhapsshe never suffered again from insufficient food or warmth. Perhaps theillnesses of her later years were alleviated by skill and comfortssuch as hitherto she had never known. Perhaps Darling and she enjoyeda sort of second spring in their old age, and went every year to theContinent, and grew wonderful flowers in the greenhouse, and sent Tomto Eton, and provided for their nephews and nieces, and built churchesto their mother's memory, and never had to withhold the liberal handfrom helping because it was empty; and so passed by a time of wealthto the hour of death. 

Or perhaps the cousin took good care to bequeath his money where therewas more money for it to stick to. And Madam Liberality pinched outher little presents as heretofore, and kept herself warm with a hotbottle when she could not afford a fire, and was too thankful to haveDarling with her when she was ill to want anything else. And perhapsDarling and she prepared Tom for school, and (like many anotherwidow's son) he did them credit. And perhaps they were quite happywith a few common pot-plants in the sunny window, and kept theirmother's memory green by flowers about her grave, and so passed by alife of small cares and small pleasures to where

 "Divided households re-unite. "

Of one thing we may be quite certain. Rich or poor, she was always

MADAM LIBERALITY. 

_Richard Clay & Sons, Limited, London, & Bungay_. 

_The present Series of Mrs. Ewing's Works is the only authorized, complete, and uniform Edition published_. 

_It will consist of 18 volumes, Small Crown 8vo, at 2s. 6d. Per vol. , issued, as far as possible, in chronological order, and these willappear at the rate of two volumes every two months, so that the Serieswill be completed within 18 months. The device of the cover wasspecially designed by a Friend of Mrs. Ewing_. 

_The following is a list of the books included in the Series_--

1. MELCHIOR'S DREAM, AND OTHER TALES. 

2. MRS. OVERTHEWAY'S REMEMBRANCES. 

3. OLD-FASHIONED FAIRY TALES. 

4. A FLAT IRON FOR A FARTHING. 

5. THE BROWNIES, AND OTHER TALES. 

6. SIX TO SIXTEEN. 

7. LOB LIE-BY-THE-FIRE, AND OTHER TALES. 

8. JAN OF THE WINDMILL. 

9. VERSES FOR CHILDREN, AND SONGS. 

10. THE PEACE EGG--A CHRISTMAS MUMMINGPLAY--HINTS FOR PRIVATETHEATRICALS, &c. 

11. A GREAT EMERGENCY, AND OTHERTALES. 

12. BROTHERS OF PITY, AND OTHER TALESOF BEASTS AND MEN. 

13. WE AND THE WORLD, Part I

14. WE AND THE WORLD, Part II. 

15. JACKANAPES--DADDY DARWIN'S DOVE-COTE--THESTORY OF A SHORT LIFE. 

16. MARY'S MEADOW, AND OTHER TALESOF FIELDS AND FLOWERS. 

17. MISCELLANEA, including The Mystery of theBloody Hand--Wonder Stories--Tales of theKhoja, and other translations. 

18. JULIANA HORATIA EWING AND HERBOOKS, with a selection from Mrs. Ewing'sLetters. 

S. P. C. K. , NORTHUMBERLAND AVENUE, LONDON, W. C.