Our Frank, and other stories, by Amy Walton. 

________________________________________________________________________Here we have half-a-dozen short stories, in that wonderful Amy Waltonstyle, so very evocative of dear England as it used to be. 

Frank thinks life at home is a bit hard, as his father expects so muchof him, so he runs away. After several adventures he finds himself ina very awkward situation, as the young companion he had fallen in withturns out to be a thief. Luckily the thief's victim realises thatFrank is not a bad lad after all, makes no charge against him, and eventakes him home. So all is well that ends well. 

For the most part the other stories have a moral to tell, but they areall charming, and you will enjoy reading to them or listening to them. 

________________________________________________________________________OUR FRANK, AND OTHER STORIES, BY AMY WALTON. 

STORY ONE, CHAPTER 1. 

OUR FRANK--A BUCKINGHAMSHIRE STORY. 

 "_From east to west, At home is best_. " _German proverb_. 

It was a mild spring evening, and Mrs Frank Darvell was toiling slowlyup Whiteleaf Hill on her way back from market. She had walked everystep of the way there to sell her ducklings, and now the basket on herarm was heavy with the weight of various small grocery packets. Up tillnow she had not felt so tired, partly because she had been walking alongthe level high-road, and partly because the way had been beguiled by thechat of a friend; but after she had said good-night to her crony at thebeginning of the village, and turned up the steep chalky road which ledto the hills, her fatigue increased with every step, and the basketseemed heavier than ever. It was a very lonely mile she had to gobefore reaching home; up and up wound the rough white road, and thengave a sudden turn and ran along level a little while with dark woods oneither side. Then up again, steeper than ever, till you reached the topof the hill, and on one side saw the plain beneath, dotted over withvillages and church spires, and on the other hand wide sloping beechwoods, which were just now delicately green with their young springleaves. 

Mrs Darvell set her basket down on the ground when she reached thispoint, and drew a long breath; the worst of the walk was over now, andshe thought with relief how good it would be to pull off her boots, andhoped that Frank had not forgotten to have the kettle on for tea. Shepresently trudged on again with renewed spirits, and in ten minutes morethe faint blue smoke from a chimney caught her eye; that was neighbourGunn's cottage, and their own was close by. "And right thankful I be, "said Mrs Darvell to herself as she unlatched the little garden gate. 

The cottage was one of a small lonely cluster standing on the edge of anenormous beech wood. Not so very long ago the wood had covered thewhole place; but gradually a clearing had been made, the groundcultivated, and a little settlement had sprung up, which was known as"Green Highlands. " It belonged to the parish of Danecross, a village inthe plain below, three good miles away; so that for church, school, andpublic-house the people had to descend the long hill up which MrsDarvell had just struggled. Shops there were none, even in Danecross, and for these they had to go a mile further, to the market-town ofDaylesbury. But all this was not such a hardship to the people of GreenHighlands as might be supposed, and many of them would not have changedtheir cottage on the hill for one in the village on the plain; for theair of Green Highlands was good, the children "fierce, " which in thoseparts means healthy and strong, and everyone possessed a piece of gardenbig enough to grow vegetables and accommodate a family pig. 

So the people, though poor, were contented, and had a more prosperouswell-to-do air than some of the Danecross folk, who received higherwages and lived in the valley. 

The room Mrs Frank Darvell entered with a heavy, tired tread was agood-sized kitchen, one end of which was entirely occupied by a hugeopen fireplace without any grate; on the hearth burned and crackled abright little wood-fire, the flames of which played merrily round a bigblack kettle hung on a chain. A little checked curtain hung from themantel-shelf to keep away the draught which rushed down the wide openchimney, on each side of which was a straight-backed wooden settle. Thedark smoke-dried rafters were evidently used as larder and storehouse, for all manner of things hung from them, such as a side of bacon, tallowdips, and a pair of clogs. Two or three pieces of oak furniture, brought to a high state of polish by Mrs Darvell's industrious hands, gave an air of comfort to the room, though the floor was red-brick andbare of carpet; a tall brazen-faced clock ticked deliberately behind thedoor. On one of the settles in the chimney-corner sat Mrs Darvell's"man, " as she called her husband, smoking a short pipe, with his feetstretched out on the hearth; his great boots, caked with mud, stoodbeside him. He was a big broad-shouldered fellow, about forty, with afair smooth face, which generally looked good-tempered enough, andsomewhat foolish, but which just now had a sullen expression on it, which Mrs Darvell's quick eye noted immediately. He looked up andnodded when his wife came in, without taking the pipe out of his mouth. 

"Well, I'm proper tired, " she said, bumping her basket down with a sighof relief. "That Whiteleaf Hill do spend one so after a day'smarketing. " Then glancing at the muddy boots on the hearth: "Binploughin'?"

Mr Darvell nodded again, and looked inquiringly at his wife's basket. Answering this silent question she said:

"I sold 'em fairly well. Mrs Reuben got more; but hers was fatter. "

Mr Darvell smoked on in silence, and his wife busied herself inpreparing supper, consisting of cold bacon, bread, and tea without milk;it was not until they had both been seated at the meal for a littlewhile that she set down her cup suddenly and exclaimed:

"Why, whatever's got our Frank? Isn't he home yet?"

Mr Darvell's mouth was still occupied, not with his pipe, but with athick hunk of bread, on which was laid an almost equally thick piece offat bacon. Gazing at his wife across this barrier he nodded again, andpresently murmured somewhat indistinctly:

"Ah, he came home with me. "

"Then, " repeated Mrs Darvell, fixing her eyes sharply on him, "where_is_ the lad?"

Mr Darvell avoided his wife's gaze. 

"How should I know where he is?" he answered sullenly. "I haven't seenhim, not for these two hours. He's foolin' round somewheres with theother lads. "

"That's not like our Frank, " said Mrs Darvell, giving an anxious lookround at the tall clock. "Why, it's gone eight, " she went on. "What_can_ have got him?"

Her eyes rested suspiciously on her husband, who shifted about uneasily. 

"Can't you let the lad bide?" he said; "ye'll not rest till ye make hima greater ninny nor he is by natur. He might as well ha' bin a gell, anbetter, for all the good he'll ever be. "

"How did he tackle the ploughin'?" asked Mrs Darvell, pausing in theact of setting aside Frank's supper on the dresser. 

"Worser nor ever, " replied her husband contemptuously. "He'll never begood for nowt, but to bide at home an' keep's hands clean. Why, look atEli Redrup, not older nor our Frank, an' can do a man's work already. "

"Eli Redrup!" exclaimed Mrs Darvell in a shrill tone of disgust; "you'dnever even our lad to a great fullish lout like Eli Redrup, with a headlike a turmut! If Frank isn't just so fierce as some lads of his age, he's got more sense than most. "

"I tell 'ee, he'll never be good for nowt, " replied her husbanddoggedly, as he resumed his seat in the chimney-corner and lighted hispipe. 

"Onless, " he added after a moment's pause, "he comes to be aschoolmaster; and it haggles me to think that a boy of mine should takeup a line like that. "

Mrs Darvell made no answer; but as she washed up the cups and platesshe cast a curious glance every now and then at her husband's silentfigure, for she had a strong feeling that he knew more than he chose totell about "our" Frank's absence. 

"Our Frank" had more than once been the innocent cause of a seriousdifference of opinion between Mr and Mrs Darvell. He was their onlychild, and had inherited his father's fair skin and blue eyes, and hismother's quickness of apprehension; but here the likeness to his parentsended, for he had a sensitive nature and a delicate frame--thingshitherto unknown in Green Highlands. This did not matter so much duringhis childhood, when he earned golden opinions from rector andschoolmaster in Danecross, as a fine scholar, and one of the best boysin the choir; but the time came when Frank was thirteen, when he hadgone through all the "Standards, " when he must leave school, and beginto work for his living. It was a hard apprenticeship, for somethingquite different from brain-work was needed now, and the boy struggledvainly against his physical weakness. It was a state of things soentirely incomprehensible to Mr Darvell, that, as he expressed it, "itfairly haggled him. " Weakness and delicacy were conditions entirelyunknown to him and all his other relations, and might, he thought, beavoided by everyone except very old people and women; so Frank must behardened, and taught not to shirk his work. 

The hardening process went on for some time, but not with a verysatisfactory result, for added to his weakness the boy now showed anincreasing terror of his father. He shrank from the hard words or theuplifted hand with an evident fear, which only strengthened MrDarvell's anger, for it mortified him still more to find his lad acoward as well as a bungler over his work. 

Frank, on his side, found his life almost intolerable just now, and allhis trembling efforts "to work like a man" seemed utterly useless, forhe was crippled by fear as well as weakness. He could not take thingslike the other Green Highland lads of his age, who were tough of nerveand sinew, and thought nothing of cuffs on the head and abuse. It wasall dreadful to him, and he suffered as much in apprehension as in theactual punishment when it came. Mingled with it all was a hot sense ofinjustice, for he tried to do his best, and yet was always in disgraceand despair. Where was the use of having been such a good "scholard?"That seemed wasted now, for Frank's poor little brain felt so muddledafter a day's field-work, and he was altogether so spent with utterweariness, that the only thing to do was to tumble into bed, and bookswere out of the question. He was being "hardened, " as his father calledit, but not in a desirable way; for while his body remained slender andweak as ever, his mind became daily more stupid and unintelligent. 

Frank's only refuge in these hard times was his mother's love. Thatnever failed him, for the very incapacity that so excited the wrath ofhis father only drew him more closely to Mrs Darvell, and made herwatchful to shield him, if possible, from harsh treatment. She wasalways ready to do battle for him, and her strong big husband quailedbefore the small determined mother when she had her boy's cause in hand. For Mrs Darvell was gifted with a range of expression and a freedom ofspeech which had been denied to her "man, " and he had learned to dreadthe times when the missus was put out, as occasions when he stooddefenceless before that deadly weapon--the tongue. He was dreading itnow, although he sat so quietly smoking in the chimney-corner. The airhad that vaguely uneasy feeling in it that precedes a storm. Presentlythere would be the first clap of thunder. The clock struck nine. NoFrank. An unheard-of hour for any of the Green Highland folk to be outof their beds and awake. Mr Darvell rose, stretched himself, glancednervously at his wife, and suggested humbly:

"Shall us go to bed?"

"_You_ may, " she replied, "but I don't stir till I see the lad. If sobe, " she added, "you _can_ go to sleep with an easy mind while the lad'sstill out, you'd better do it. "

Her husband scratched his head thoughtfully, but made no answer; thenMrs Darvell rose and stood in front of him, shaking a menacing finger. 

"Frank Darvell, " she said slowly and solemnly, "you've bin leatherin'that lad. Don't deny it, for I know it. "

Mr Darvell did not attempt to deny it. He only shuffled his feet alittle. 

"An now, " continued his wife with increasing vehemence, "you've druv himat last to run away; don't deny it. "

"He ain't run away, " muttered Mr Darvell. "He ain't got pluck enoughto do that. He's a coward, that's what he is. "

"Coward!" cried his wife, now fairly roused, and standing in anaggressive attitude. "It's you that are the coward, you great, hulking, stupid lout, to strike a weak boy half yer size. An' to talk of goin'to bed, an' him wandering out there in the woods. My poor little gentlelad!"

She sank down on the settle and wrung her hands helplessly, but startedup again the next minute with a sudden energy which seemed to petrifyher husband. 

"Put on your boots, " she said, pointing to them; and as Mr Darvellmeekly obeyed she went on speaking quietly and rapidly. "Wake up JackGunn and send him down to Danecross. Tell him to ask at the rectory andat schoolmaster's if they've seen the lad. Take your lantern and gointo the woods. There's gypsies camping out Hampden way; go there, andtell 'em to look out for him. Don't you dare to come back without thelad. I'll stop here, and burn a light and keep his supper ready. Poorlittle lad, he'll be starved with hunger!"

But the night waned, and no tidings came of Frank. Jack Gunn came backfrom Danecross having learned nothing, and the poor mother's fearsincreased. The boy must be wandering in those weary woods, afraid tocome home--or perhaps lost. Such a thing had been known before now; andas the first streaks of light appeared in the sky, and she saw the dimfigure of her husband returning alone, Mrs Darvell's courage quiteforsook her. 

"I shall never see him no more, " she said to herself, and criedbitterly. 

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And where was "our Frank" meanwhile?

At the moment when Mrs Darvell began to climb Whiteleaf Hill with herheavy basket, Frank was lying at the foot of a big beech-tree in thewood near his home; his face was buried in his hands, and every now andthen sobs shook his little thin frame. For it had been a mostunfortunate day for him; everything had gone wrong, and by the time theevening came and work was over his father's wrath was high. Frank knewwhat to expect, and he also remembered that there would be no mother athome to shield him from punishment, so waiting a favourable moment heslipped off into the wood before he was missed. Then he flung himselfon the ground and cried, because he felt so tired, and weak, andhopeless; and as he thought of his father's angry face and heavyuplifted hand he shivered with terror. How he longed for someone tocomfort and speak kindly to him. Soon, he knew, his mother would be infrom market; there would be a blazing fire at home, and supper, and awarm corner. Should he venture back? But then, morning would comeagain, and the hard work, and he would have to stumble along the stickyfurrows all day, and there would be blows and threatenings to end with. No, he could not go back; it would be better even, he said to himself, to beg for his bread like the tramps he had seen sometimes in Danecross. 

As he came to this conclusion he sat up, rubbed his eyes, and lookedround him. It was about six o'clock, and already very dusk in the wood, though the little dancing leaves of the Leeches could not make muchshadow yet, for it was only April; all round the boy rose the greystraight stems of the trees, and tufts of primroses shone out whitelyhere and there on the ground. It was perfectly still and silent, exceptthat a cold little wind rustled the branches, and the birds were makinga few last twittering notes before they went to sleep--"a harmony, " asthe country folks called it. Frank got up and hurried on, for he knewthat directly mother returned search would be made for him. He must geta long way on before that, and hide somewhere for the night. That sideof the wood near Green Highlands was quite familiar to him, and thoughthere were no paths, and it all looked very much alike, he knew whatdirection to take for the hiding-place he had in view. A town boy wouldsoon have become confused, and perhaps have ended in finding himself atGreen Highlands again, but Frank knew better than that, and he stumbledsteadily along in his heavy boots, getting gradually and surely furtheraway from home and deeper in the wood. 

How quiet it was, and how fast the darkness seemed to close round him!All the birds were silent soon, except that a jay sometimes startled himwith its harsh sudden cry; once a rabbit rushed so quickly across hispath that he almost fell on it. On and on he went at a steady jog-trotpace, looking neither to right nor left. Now, if you have ever been ina beech wood, you must remember that winter and summer the ground iscovered with the old dead brown leaves that have fallen from the trees. So thick they lie, that in some places you can stand knee-deep in them, especially if there are any hollows into which they have been drifted bythe wind; this particular wood was full of such hollows, some of themwide and long enough for a tall man to lie down in, and Frank knewexactly where to find them. Turning aside, therefore, at a certainclump of bushes there was the very thing he wanted--bed and hiding-placeat once. It was a broad shallow pit or hollow filled quite up to thetop with the red-brown beech leaves. He scooped out a place just largeenough for himself, lay down in it, and carefully replaced the leaves upto his very chin. He even put a few lightly over his face, and whenthat was done no one would have imagined that a boy or any other livingthing was hidden there. 

Then the solemn hours of darkness came silently on; all the creatures inthe great wood slept, and even Frank in his strange leafy bed sleptalso, worn out with weariness. 

About the middle of the night the breeze freshened a little, and the dryleaves stirred and rustled. The sounds mingled with the boy's dreams, and he thought he was lying in his attic at home, and that a mouse wasrunning over his face; he felt its little tickling feet and its longtail quite plainly, and put up his hand to brush it away. Then he wokewith a start. The chill wind blew in his face and sighed among thetrees, and instead of the low attic beams there were waving branchesover his head. He was not at home, but alone, quite alone in WhiteleafWood, with thick darkness all round him. Frank was frightened withoutknowing why; it was all so "unked, " as he would have expressed it, andas he stared about with terrified eyes he seemed to see mysterious formsmoving near. Then he looked up towards the sky; and there, through aspace between the tops of the trees, was one solitary beautiful starshining down upon him like a kind bright eye. It was a comfort to seeit there, and by degrees, as he lay with his eyes fixed upon it, heforgot his fears a little, and began to think of other things. Firstthere came into his head one line of a hymn which he had often sung inthe choir at Danecross church:

"Brightest and best of the sons of the morning, " it began. From that hewent on to consider what a long time it was since he had said hisprayers, because he was always so sleepy and tired at night, and hethought he would say them now. But before he had finished them he fellinto a quiet slumber, which lasted till morning, when the sun, peeringthrough the trees, pointed suddenly down at his face with a fiery fingerand woke him up. 

CHAPTER TWO. 

The first thought that came into Frank's head was that he should nothave to go to plough that day. The second was, that it wasbreakfast-time, that he was very hungry, and that he had nothing to eat. This was not so pleasant; but proceeding to "farm" his pockets, whichin Buckinghamshire dialect means to rummage, he discovered a small pieceof very hard bread. With this scanty meal he was obliged to besatisfied, and presently continued his journey in a tolerably cheerfulframe of mind. Where he was going and how he was to earn his living hedid not know; but on one subject he was quite resolved, he would not goback till he was too big and strong for father to "whop" him. It washard to leave mother, and she would be sorry; but he thought he wouldmanage somehow to write her a letter, and put a stamp upon it with thefirst penny he earned. 

So reflecting, and varying the gravity of such thoughts by chasing thesquirrels and the grey rabbits that scudded across his path, hejourneyed on, and by degrees reached a part of the wood quite unknown tohim. He began to wonder now what he should do if he did not soon cometo a cottage or some place where he could ask for food, for it was manyhours since he had eaten, and he was faint with exhaustion. Never inhis life had he felt so dreadfully hungry, and there were not evenberries for him to eat at this time of the year. At last the cravingbecame so hard to bear, and his head was so queer and giddy that hethought he must rest a little while. As far as he could judge by thesun it was about four o'clock, and he must be a long way from GreenHighlands. He dropped down in a little crumpled heap at the foot of atree, and shut his eyes--nothing seemed to matter much, not even hisfather's anger; nothing but this dreadful gnawing pain. The only otherthing he was conscious of was a distant continuous sound like the sawingof wood. He did not take much notice of this at first, but by and by asit went on and on monotonously the idea shaped itself in his mind thatwhere that noise was there must be people, whom he could ask for food, and he got up and staggered on again. As he went the sound got louderand louder, and he could also hear a voice singing. This encouraged himso much that he quickened his pace to a run, and soon came to a greatclearing in the wood. And then he saw what had caused the noise. 

Felled trees were lying about in the round open space, and there weregreat heaps of curly yellow shavings, and strange-looking smooth piecesof wood carefully arranged in piles. Two little sheds stood at somedistance from each other, and in one of these sat a man turning a pieceof wood in a rudely fashioned lathe; as he finished it he handed it to aboy kneeling at his feet, who supplied him with more wood, and sang athis work in a loud, clear voice. And then a still more interestingobject caught Frank's eye, for in the middle of the clearing thereburned and crackled a lively little wood-fire, and over it, hanging froma triangle of three sticks, was a smoky black kettle. It held tea, hefelt sure, and near it were some tin mugs and some nice little bundlesof something tied up in spotted handkerchiefs. It all suggestedagreeable preparations for a meal, and he felt he must join it at anyrisk. 

He stood timidly at the edge of the wood observing all this for aminute, and then, as no one noticed him, he slowly advanced till he wasclose to the man and boy; then they looked up and saw him. 

A wayworn, weary little figure he was, with a white face and mournfulblue eyes; he had a shrinking, frightened air, like some hunted creatureof the woods; and here and there the dry brown leaves had stuck to hisclothes. Holding out his hand, and speaking in a low voice, for he feltashamed of begging when it came to the point, he said:

"Please can yer give me a morsel of bread?"

The man, who had kind slow brown eyes and a very placid face, looked athim without speaking, and shook his head at the outstretched hand. Butthe boy answered with a wide-mouthed grin:

"He's hard o' hearin', my pardner is. He don't know what yer say. "

He then rose, and going close to the man shouted shrilly in his ear:

"Little chap wants summat t'eat. "

The man nodded. 

"He's welcome to jine at tea, " he said, "and he can work it outarterwards. Where dost come from?" to Frank. 

Frank hesitated; then he thought of a village several miles beyondDanecross, and answered boldly, "Dinton. "

"And where art goin'?"

"I'm seekin' work, " said Frank. 

These answers having been yelled into his ear by the boy, the man askedno further questions, though he gravely considered the stranger with hislarge quiet eyes. Shortly afterwards, having been joined by the matewho was sawing in the other shed, the company disposed themselves roundthe fire, and to Frank's great joy the meal began. And what a meal itwas! Roasted potatoes, tea, thick hunches of bread, small fragments offat bacon, all pervaded with a slight flavour of smoke--could anythingbe more delicious to a famished boy? Frank abandoned himself silentlyto the enjoyment of it; and though his companions cast interestedglances at him from time to time, no one spoke. It was a very quietassembly. All round and above them the new little green leaves dancedand twinkled, and on the ground the old ones made a rich brown carpet;the blue smoke of the fire rose thinly up in the midst. 

At last Frank gave a deep sigh of contentment as he put down his tinmug, and the deaf man clapped him kindly on the shoulder. 

"Hast taken the edge off, little chap?" he said. 

Then the two men, stretched luxuriously on the ground, filled theirpipes and smoked in silence. The boy, who was about Frank's own age, but brown-faced and stoutly built, busied himself in clearing away theremains of the meal, and in carefully making up the fire with dry chipsand shavings; he seemed to have caught the infection of silence from hiscompanions, and eyed the stranger guest without speaking a word. ButFrank, who was revived and cheered by his food, felt inclined for alittle conversation; he was always of an inquisitive turn of mind, andhe was longing to ask some questions; so as the boy passed near him heventured to say, pointing to the neat piles of wood:

"What be yon?"

The boy stared. 

"Yon?" he repeated; "why, yon be legs and rungs of cheers--that's whatwe make 'em fur. "

"Where be the cheers?" pursued Frank. 

"We send all yon down to Wickham, to the cheer factory, " answered theboy; "we don't fit 'em together here. "

He seated himself at Frank's side as he spoke, and poked at the firewith a long pointed stick. 

"How do they get 'em down to Wickham?" asked Frank, bent on getting asmuch information as possible. 

The boy pointed to a broad cart-track, which descended abruptly from oneside of the clearing. 

"They fetch a cart up yonder, and take 'em down into the high-road. "

"And how fur is it?"

"A matter of two miles, and then three miles further to the factory, andthere they make 'em up into cheers, and then they send 'em up to LunnonTown by the rail. "

Frank remembered the great cart-loads of chairs that he had seen passingthrough Danecross, but what chiefly struck him in his companion's answerwere the two words "Lunnon Town. " They fell on his ear with a newmeaning. He had read of Lunnon Town, and heard schoolmaster talk of it, but had never imagined it as a place he could see, any more thanAmerica. Now, suddenly, an idea of such vast enterprise seized on hismind, that it stunned him into silence. He would go to Lunnon Town!Everyone became rich there. He would become rich too; then he would goback to Green Highlands, and give all his money to mother; there wouldbe no need for any more field-work, and they would all be happy. At thethought of mother his eyes filled with tears, for he knew how unhappyshe would be when he did not come back, and how she would stand at thedoor and look out for him. He longed to set about making this greatfortune at once, it seemed a waste of time to sit idle; but he knew hemust rest that night, for his legs felt stiff and aching; besides he hadto work out his meal. 

In half an hour the deaf man's lathe was hard at work again, and the twoboys busily employed near. Frank's new friend showed him how to arrangethe pieces of wood neatly in piles when they were turned and smoothed. He hummed a tune in the intervals of conversation and presently asked:

"Can yer sing?"

Frank _could_ sing--very well. He was one of the best singers inDanecross choir, and Mrs Darvell held her head very high when she heardher boy's voice in church; so he answered with a certain pride:

"Ah, I can sing proper well. "

"Sing summat, " said the boy. 

Frank waited a minute to choose a tune, and then sang "Ring the Bell, Watchman, " straight through. The boy listened attentively, and joined, after the second verse, in the chorus, which was also taken up in agruff and uncertain manner by the mate in the other shed. The deaf manlooked on approvingly, and the lathe kept up a grinding accompaniment. 

"That's fine, that is, " said the boy when the last notes of Frank'sclear voice died away. "Do yer know any more?"

"I know a side more, " said Frank, "and hymns too. "

"Can yer sing `Home Sweet Home?'" asked the boy. 

"Ah. "

But this song was not so successful, for after the chorus had been sungwith great animation, and the second verse eagerly expected, somethingchoked and gurgled in Frank's throat so that he could not sing any more. All that night, as he lay on the bed of shavings, which he shared withhis new companion, he waked at intervals to hear those words echoingthrough the woods: "Home Sweet Home--There's no place like Home. " Butwith the morning sun these sounds vanished, and he began his onwardjourney cheerily, refreshed by his rest and food. As he went down thecart-track the boy had pointed out to him he sang scraps of songs tohimself, the birds twittered busily above his head, and the distantsound of the deaf man's lathe came more and more faintly to his ears. He felt sure now that he was on his way to make his fortune, and thewood seemed full of voices which said, "Lunnon Town, Lunnon Town, " overand over again. The thought of his mother's sad face was, it is true, alittle depressing. "But, " he said to himself, "how pleased she'll bewhen I come back rich!" Then he considered what sort of shawl he wouldbuy for her with the first money he earned--whether it should be ascarlet one, or mixed colours with an apple-green border, like one hehad seen once in a shop at Daylesbury. 

These fancies beguiled the way, and he was surprised when, after whatseemed a short time, he found himself at the edge of the wood, and in abroad high-road; that must be the Wickham Road, and he had still threemiles to walk before reaching the town and the chair factories, where hemeant to ask for work as a first step on his way to London. 

It was not a busy-looking road, and the carts and people who passed nowand then seemed to have plenty of time and no wish to hurry; still, toFrank, who was used to the solitude of Green Highlands and the deeperquiet of the woods, it felt like getting into the world, and he lookeddown at his clothes, and wondered how they would suit a large town. Hewore a smock, high brown leather gaiters reaching almost to his thighs, and very thick hobnailed boots. He wished he had his Sunday coat oninstead of the smock, but the rest of the things would do very well, andthey were so strong and good that they would last a long time. So thispoint settled he trudged on again, till, by twelve o'clock, he sawWickham in the distance with its gabled red houses and tall factorybuildings. And now that he was so near, his courage forsook him alittle, and he felt that he was a very small weak boy, and that thefactories were full of bustling work-people who would take no notice ofhim. He stood irresolute in the street, wondering to whom he ought toapply, and presently his eye was attracted to the window of a smallbaker's shop near. Through this he saw a kind-looking round-facedwoman, who stood behind the counter knitting. Just in front of herthere was, curled round, a sleek black cat, and she stopped in her worknow and then to scratch its head gently with her knitting-pin. Somehowthis encouraged Frank, and entering he put his question timidly, in hisbroad Buckinghamshire accent. 

The woman smiled at him good-naturedly. 

"From the country, I reckon?" she said, not answering his question. 

"Ah, " replied Frank, "I be. "

"You're a dillicate little feller to be trampin' about alone seekin'work, " she said, considering him thoughtfully. "Is yer mother livin'?"

"Ah, " said Frank again, casting longing eyes at a crisp roll on thecounter. 

"Then why don't yer bide at home, " asked the woman, "and work there?"

"I want to get more wage, " said Frank, who was feeling hungrier everyminute with the smell of the bread. "I'll be obliged to yer if ye'lltell me how I could git taken on at the factory. "

"You must go and ask at the overseer's office up next street, where yousee a brass plate on the door--name of Green. But bless yer 'art, we'velads enough and to spare in Wickham; I doubt they won't want a countryboy who knows nought of the trade. "

"I can try, " said Frank; "and I learn things quick. Schoolmaster saidso. "

The woman shook her head. 

"You'd be better at home, my little lad, " she said, "till you're a bitolder. There's no place like home. "

Those same words had been sounding in Frank's ears all night. Theyseemed to meet him everywhere, he thought, like a sort of warning. Nevertheless he was not going to give up his plan, and having learnedthe direction of the overseer's office he turned to leave the shop. 

"And here's summat to set yer teeth in as you go along, " said the woman, holding out a long roll of bread. "Growing lads should allus beeatin'. "

"Thank you, ma'am, " said Frank, and he took off his cap politely, as hehad been taught at school, and went his way. 

"As pretty behaved as possible, " murmured the woman as she looked afterhim, "and off with his hat like a prince. What sort o' folks does hebelong to, I wonder!"

The overseer's office was a small dark room with a high desk in it, atwhich sat a sandy-haired red-faced man, with his hat very much on theback of his head. He was talking in a loud blustering voice to severalworkmen, and as Frank entered he heard the last part of the speech. 

"So you can tell Smorthwaite and the rest of 'em that they can come onagain on the old terms, but they'll not get a farthing more. Well, boy, " as he noticed Frank standing humbly in the background, "what do_you_ want?"

Mr Green's manner was that of an incensed and much-tried man, and Frankfelt quite afraid to speak. 

"Please, sir, " he said, "do you want a boy in the factory?"

"Do I want a boy!" repeated the overseer, addressing the ceiling in avoice of despair. "No, of course I don't want a boy. If I had my willI'd have no boys in the place--I'm sick of the sight of boys. "

He bent his eyes on a newspaper before him, and seemed to consider thematter disposed of; but Frank made one more timid venture. 

"Please, sir, " he said, going close up to the desk, "I'd work verystiddy. "

Mr Green peered over his high desk at the sound of the small persistentvoice, and frowned darkly. 

"Clear out!" he said with a nod of his head towards the door; "don'tstop here talking nonsense. Out you go!"

Frank dared not stay; he slunk out into the street crushed anddisappointed, for he felt he had not even had a chance. "He might alistened to a chap, " he said to himself. 

Just then the church clock struck one, dinner time, and a convenientdoorstep near, so he took the roll out of the breast of his smock-frockand sat down to eat it. As he had never been used to very luxuriousmeals it satisfied him pretty well; and then he watched the peoplepassing to and fro, and wondered what he could do to earn some money. The chair-factory was hopeless certainly, but there must surely be someone in Wickham who wanted a boy to run errands, or dig gardens, or helpin stables. What should he do? Without money he must starve; he couldneither go on to London or back to Green Highlands. 

The street was almost deserted now, for all the people who had dinnerswaiting for them had hurried home to eat them, and no one had noticedthe rustic little figure in the grey gaberdine crouched on the doorstep. Suddenly a dreadful feeling of loneliness seized on Frank, such as hehad not felt since leaving home. Even the great solitary wood had notseemed so cold and unfriendly as this town, full of human faces, wherethe very houses seemed to stare blankly upon him. He thought of thekind baker woman, and immediately her words sounded in his ear: "There'sno place like home. " If he went to her she would try to persuade him togo back, and that he was still determined not to do; but his goldenpictures of the future had faded a good deal since that morning, and ashe sat and looked wistfully at the hard red houses opposite he could nothelp his eyes filling with tears. Fortunately, he thought, there was noone to see them; but still he felt ashamed of crying, and bent his headon his folded arms. Sitting thus for some minutes, he was presentlystartled by a voice close by. 

"What's up, little un?" it said. 

Frank looked up quickly, and saw that the question came from a boystanding in front of him. He was a very tall, thin boy, about fifteenyears old, with a dark face and narrow twinkling black eyes. All hisclothes were ragged, and none of them seemed to fit him properly, forhis coat-sleeves were inconveniently long, and his trousers so shortthat they showed several inches of brown bony ankles. On his head hewore a rusty black felt hat with half a brim, which was turned down overhis eyes; his feet were bare; and he carried under his arm a cage fullof nimble crawling white mice. 

After a minute's observation Frank decided in his mind that this must bea "tramp. " Now and then these wandering folks passed through Danecrossand the neighbourhood on their way to large towns; and, as a rule, people looked askance at them. It was awkward to have them about whenducklings and chickens were being reared, and Frank had always heardthem spoken of with contempt and suspicion. Just now, however, anysympathy appeared valuable, and he smiled back at the twinkling blackeyes, and answered:

"There's nowt the matter with me. I'm wantin' work. "

The boy seemed to think this an amusing idea, for he grinned widely, showing an even row of very white teeth. Then he sat down on thedoorstep, put his cage of mice on the ground, and began to whistle; hisbright eyes keenly observing Frank from top to toe meanwhile, andfinally resting on his thick hobnailed boots. Then he asked briefly:

"Farm-work?"

"I'd ratherly get any other, " answered Frank. And feeling it his turnto make some inquiries, he said:

"What do yer carry them mice fur?"

The boy looked at him for a minute in silence; then he chuckled, andgave a long low whistle. 

"I say, little chap, " he said confidentially, "_ain't_ you a flat! Justrather. "

Seeing on Frank's face no sign of comprehension he continued:

"Without them little mice I should be what they calls a wagrant. Many atime they've saved me from the beak, and from being run in. Them's mybusiness; and a nice easy trade it is. Lots of change and wariety. Noone to wallop yer. Live like a jintleman. "

He waved his hand at his last words with a gesture expressive of largeand easy circumstances. Frank glanced at his bare feet and generallydishevelled appearance. 

"I don't want to live like a jintleman, " he said; "I want to workhonest, and git wage. "

"Why did yer cut and run then?" said his companion suddenly and sharply. "Did they wallop yer?"

Frank started. How could this strange boy possibly know that he had runaway? His alarmed face seemed to afford the tramp the keenestamusement; he laughed long and loud, leaning back on the steps in anecstasy, and said at breathless intervals:

"You're just the innocentest, greenest little chap. How old are yer?"

Frank did not answer; he was considering the best means of getting awayfrom this undesirable acquaintance, who presently, wiping his eyes withthe cuff of his jacket, remarked with recovered gravity:

"In course, yer know, no one 'ull take a boy what's run away. "

This was a new and alarming idea to Frank. 

"_Won't_ they?" he said earnestly. 

"Certingly not, " continued the tramp. "Where's yer carikter? You'ain't got none. "

Frank hung his head. He wondered he had not thought of this before. 

"This is where it lies, " pursued his companion, holding out a very dirtyhand dramatically in front of him. "You comes, as it might be, to meand you says, `I want a sitivation. ' Then I says, `Where's yercarikter?' Then you says, `I 'ain't got one. ' Then I says, `Out yergo. '"

Having thus placed the situation in a nutshell, as it were, he put hishands in his pockets and observed Frank covertly out of the corners ofhis eyes. Seeing how crestfallen he looked, the tramp presently spokeagain. 

"Now, in my line of bizness it's not so important a carikter isn't. Imight very likely look over it in takin' a pal if he asked me. Incourse it would be a favour; but still I might look over it. "

"Do you want a pal?" asked Frank, pushed to extremity. 

"Well, I don't, not to say _want_ a pal, " replied the tramp, "but Idon't mind stretching a pint in your case if you like to jine. "

The blue eyes and the glittering black ones met for an instant. 

"I'll jine yer, " said Frank with a sigh. 

The tramp held out his long-fingered brown hand. 

"Shake hands, " he said. "The terms is, halves all we git. "

The bargain concluded, he informed Frank that his name was Barney, andfurther introduced him to the mice, called respectively Jumbo, Alice, and Lord Beaconsfield. 

This last, a mouse of weak-eyed and feeble appearance, he took out ofthe cage and allowed to crawl over him, stroking it tenderly now andthen with the tip of his finger. 

"He's an artful one, he is, " he murmured admiringly. "I calls him Dizzyfor short. What's your name, little un?"

"Frank. "

"That sounds a good sort o' name too, " said Barney; "sort o' name yousee in gowld letters on a chany mug in the shop winders, don't it? Idon't fancy, though, I could bring my tongue to it, not as a _jineral_thing. I shall call yer `Nipper, ' if you don't mind. After a friend o'mine. "

The new name appearing rather an advantage than otherwise under hispresent circumstances Frank agreed to drop his own, and to be henceforthknown only as the "Nipper. " This change seemed to have broken the lastlink which bound him to Green Highlands and his own people. He wasFrank Darvell no longer; he belonged to no one; the wide world was hishome; Barney and the white mice his only friends and companions. 

CHAPTER THREE. 

In the wandering life that followed, Frank had excellent opportunitiesfor studying the character of his new comrade, and it did not take longto discover two prominent points in it. Barney was a liar and a thief. These accomplishments, indeed, had formed the principal features in poorBarney's education from his tenderest childhood. He had always beentaught that it was desirable and proper to lie and steal; the only wrongand undesirable thing was--to be found out. To do Barney justice hevery seldom _was_ found out; nimble of finger and quick of wit he hadprofited well by his lessons, and by the time Frank met him had longbeen a finished scholar, and able to "do" for himself. In spite ofthese failings he was a kind-hearted boy; he would not have hurt anyliving thing weaker than himself, and Frank's pale face and slender formsoon appealed to his protective instincts in much the same way that hiswhite mice did, for which he cherished a fond affection. 

If the night were cold he always managed that the Nipper had the warmestshelter, and when provisions were scarce the least tasty morsels werealways reserved for himself, as a matter of course. Then what anamusing companion he was! How his ingenious stories, mostly a tissue offalsehood, beguiled the weary way, and made Frank forget his achingfeet! He believed them all at first, and his innocent credulousnessacted as a spur to Barney's fertile invention and excited him to freshand wilder efforts. On one occasion, however, his imagination carriedhim beyond the limits of even Frank's capacity of belief, and from thatmoment suspicion began. He had been romancing about the riches andwealth of people who lived in London (where he had never been), andafter describing at great length that the houses were none of themsmaller than the whole town of Wickham put together, he added:

"An the folks niver uses ought but gowld to eat an drink off. "

Frank looked up quickly. 

"You're wrong there, " he said. "My mother's got a chany jug what usedto belong to her grandfather, and _he_ lived in Lunnon. " Observing atwinkle in the corner of Barney's eye he continued in an injured tone:

"You've bin lyin'. Lies is wicked, and stealin's wicked too. "

There was a sound of conscious superiority in his tone, which wasnaturally irritating to his companion, who laughed hoarsely. 

"Jest listen to him, " he said, addressing Lord Beaconsfield for want ofa more intelligent audience, "listen to him! Don't he preach fine? An'him a boy without a carikter too! Lies is wicked, eh? And stealin'swicked. Who told him that, I wonder?"

"It's in the catekizum, " continued Frank. "Parson allers said so, andSchoolmaster too. "

Barney made a gesture expressive of much contempt at the mention ofthese two dignitaries. 

"Parson and Schoolmaster!" he said derisively. "Why, in course theysaid so; they're paid to do it. That's how they earns their money. Butjest you please to remember, that yer not Parson, not yit Schoolmaster, but a boy without a carikter, so shut up with yer preachin'. "

Without a character! It was hard, Frank thought, that he, a respectableDanecross boy, who had been to school, and sung in the choir, and whosefolks had always worked honest and got good wages, should have come tothis! That a vagrant tramp, who could neither read nor write, and whogot his living anyhow, should be able to call him "a boy without acarikter!"

And the worst of it was, that it was true, he sadly thought, as heplodded along in the dust by Barney's side. He had thrown away hisright to be considered respectable--no one would employ him if they knewhe had run away, and still less if they knew he had been "on the tramp"with a boy like Barney. 

However, as time went on, such serious thoughts troubled him lessfrequently; as long as the sun shone, it was easy to avoid dwelling onthem amidst the change and uncertainty of his vagrant life. 

But there were not two days alike in it. Sometimes luck, plenty to eat, and a bed of dry straw in a barn--that was luxury. Sometimes a wearytramp in the pouring rain, no coppers and no supper. Under these lastcircumstances the "Nipper" was sharply reminded of the time when he wasFrank Darvell, and lived at Green Highlands; shivering and hungry, histhoughts would dwell regretfully on the comfort and security he hadleft. Mother's face would come before him sad and reproachful. Poormother! She would never have that shawl with the apple-green bordernow. Her Frank, instead of making a great fortune in London town, hadbecome a wanderer and a tramp; and indeed after a month's companionshipwith Barney he was so altered that she would hardly have known him. Sleeping under hedges or in outhouses had not improved his clothes, which were now stained and torn. His pale face was changed by wind andweather, and also by a plentiful supply of dust, seldom washed off, intoa dirty brown one, and his hair, once kept so neatly cropped, now hungabout in bushy tangles like Barney's. Only his bright blue eyes, withtheir innocent childishness of expression, were recognisable, and thesegained him many a copper when he carried round his cap after Barney'sfeeble performances with the white mice. 

But though changed outwardly, there was one good habit which Frank hadbrought away from Green Highlands, and to which he clung with apersistency which surprised and irritated his partner. This washonesty. Nothing would induce him to steal, or even to share stolenbooty; hunger, threats, bitterly sarcastic speeches were alike in vain, and at last Barney's scornful amusement at the "boy without a carikter"began to be mingled with a certain respect; not that he was the leastinclined to follow his example and give up pilfering himself, but hethought it was "game" of the little 'un to hold his own, and that was aquality he could understand and admire. After all, a chap that had beenbrought up by parsons and schoolmasters must have allowances made forhim, he supposed, and he soon gave up all idea of inducing Frank tothieve, and even kept his own exploits in the background, because the"Nipper" took it to heart. 

So, sharing sometimes hardships, and sometimes pleasures, theoddly-matched partners journeyed on, with an increasing attachment toeach other, and Frank's thoughts travelled back less and less often toGreen Highlands. 

For now the bright warm weather had set fairly in, and all the differentflowers came marching on in sweet procession, and filled the woods andfields. After the primroses, and while some still remained sprinkledabout in the sunny places, came the deep blue hyacinths, and then thegolden kingcups, and the downy yellow cowslips: last of all, a talltriumphant host of foxgloves spread themselves over forest and common. The wind, blowing softly from the west, brought with it little gentleshowers, just enough to freshen the leaves and wash the upturned facesof the blossoms; tramping was a luxury in such weather, and those peoplemuch to be pitied who had to work in close dark rooms, hidden away fromthe glorious sunshine. 

Certainly it was rather _too_ hot sometimes, and the roads were dustyand gritty, and the boys' throats got parched with thirst after a veryfew miles; but there was always the hope of coming to some delicious, cool green bit by the way, or to a stream of water, or to somecomfortable village seat under the shadow of a great tree. And thiskept up their spirits. One day they had walked far in a blazing Julysun along an unshaded high-road; it was evening now, and they werewondering where they should sleep, and how they should get some supper, when they came to a narrow lane turning off to the right, with steepbanks on each side of it. There was a sign-post, which, interpreted byFrank, said, To Crowhurst--one mile. 

The boys consulted a little, and soon determined to leave the high-road, which seemed endless, as far as they could see, and try their fortune inCrowhurst for the night. It was not long before they came to it, lyingin a hollow, and snugly sheltered by gently rising wooded ground. Itwas a very little village indeed. There was a small grey church with astumpy square tower, and a cheerful red-brick inn called the Holly Bush, with a swinging sign in front of it; there were half a dozen littlecottages with gay gardens, and, standing close to the road, there was along, low, many-gabled house which was evidently the vicarage. It wassuch a snug, smiling little settlement altogether that Barney and Frank, slouching along dusty and tired, felt quite out of place and uneasy atthe glances cast at them by the people standing at their open doors orin their trim gardens. However, there was a bench outside the inn, andthere they presently sat down to rest and look about them. The vicaragewas just opposite; and one of its wide lattice-windows being open, theboys could see plainly into the room, where the most prominent objectwas the figure of an old gentleman, with grey hair and a velvetskull-cap; he sat at a table writing busily, and everything was so quietand still that they could even hear the scratch of his quill pen, andthe rustle of the sheets of manuscript which he threw from time to timeon the floor. Sometimes he looked vaguely out of the window, andsometimes he took off his skull-cap and rubbed his bald head with hispocket handkerchief--then he bent busily over his writing again. Frank, watching him lazily, wondered what he could have to write so much about, and then it occurred to him that perhaps he might be the schoolmastercorrecting the boys' exercises; from that, his mind wandered back toDanecross and the school-room there, where it used to be so hot insummer, and the bees buzzed and murmured so in the garden outside, andthe boys within. And gradually, his ideas becoming confused betweenbees and boys, and being very tired, he forgot the old gentleman andfell asleep. 

But, meanwhile, the acute Barney, sitting by his side and apparentlyengrossed with his white mice, had been attentively observing the samescene. Unfortunately, whenever the old gentleman dipped his penabsently in the ink Barney's quick eye was attracted to a small objectwhich glittered brightly, and presently he made out that this was asilver inkstand. The more he looked, the more his fingers longed toclose round that shining object and make sure if it really could besilver, and I grieve to say that it was not from pressing necessity thathe coveted it, but simply from a strong desire to exercise an inborntalent. It was as natural to him to steal, particularly if it requiredcleverness and ingenuity, as it is for an artist or a poet to paint orwrite poetry, so all the while he looked, his mind was busy with a planto rob the old gentleman of his silver inkstand. 

Presently he glanced round at Frank, whose head was nodding forward inan uncomfortable attitude, and whose deep breathing showed him to beasleep. "If only he warn't sich a duffer, " said Barney to himself, "wemight do it easy, " then seeing that his partner was in danger offalling, he moved nearer to him, and placed the boy's head gentlyagainst his own shoulder so that he might rest easily. Meanwhile theold gentleman's pen went scribbling on at quite a furious pace, and theblack skull-cap seemed to nod complacently, as though its owner werepleased with what he wrote. 

Barney sat and waited with the sleeping boy's head on his shoulder--waited patiently, without stirring a muscle, though after a time thestiff position became painful. Shadows were lengthening--the cowssauntered through the village to be milked--it began to get a littledusk, but still the old gentleman went on writing and Frank went onsleeping, and Barney's bright glance was fixed on the shining objectopposite, much as a raven or a jackdaw will eye the silver spoon hemeans to steal by and by. "Everything comes to him who knows how towait, " and though Barney had never heard the proverb it was now verifiedin his case; the old gentleman paused in his writing, stuck his penabsently behind his ear, and proceeded to read over his manuscript. Itpleased him evidently, for he smiled several times, and shook his headwaggishly. Then he got up, yawned, stretched himself, and finally leftthe room, but only to reappear a moment later in the porch: thence hestrolled down the narrow brick path to the gate, with his hands in thepockets of his flowered dressing-gown, and looked up and down the road, and up at the sky, and finally at the two dusty figures opposite on thebench. It was on Frank that his gaze rested, and just then, aided by aquiet poke from Barney's elbow, the boy roused himself, sat up, andrubbed his eyes. 

"Jintleman wants yer, " said Barney, whispering hoarsely in his ear. 

Hardly awake, Frank stumbled across the road, and mechanically touchedhis cap. The old gentleman stood beaming benignly at him through hisspectacles. 

"What do you want, my lad?" he said in a kind voice. 

Directly Frank heard him speak he knew he could not be the schoolmaster, but the parson of the village. Parson at Danecross used to speak in thesame sort of way. He felt ashamed to beg, and looked back at Barney forsupport, who immediately came slouching up with his white mice, andbegan to speak in his usual professional whine. 

The old gentleman waved his hand impatiently. 

"Stop, " he said; "I don't want to hear any of those stories. You can'timpose upon me, so you needn't try. " Then he turned to Frank. "Are youwilling to work for your supper and a bed in the hay-loft to-night?"

"Oh yes, sir, " said Frank eagerly; "and so's Barney too. "

The rector, for such he was, glanced somewhat doubtfully at Barney. 

"Well, " he said, "there's an hour's weeding in my kitchen-garden thatyou can easily do before dark, and then you shall have bread and cheese, and may sleep in the loft. Where have you come from?"

He spoke to Frank, but the boy did not answer; and Barney, coming gliblyto the rescue, had in a few moments woven an ingenious fable, in whichhe frequently referred to his companion as "his little brother. "

The rector listened without further question, but his shrewd grey eyesrested suspiciously on Barney when he had finished his story. 

"Come this way, " he said, and led them round to the back of the house, where there was a neatly kept kitchen-garden, with borders of homelyflowers, and a small orchard at the end of it. Here he paused, andshowed the boys that one of the gravel walks was thickly covered withgrass weeds. A man leant on the orchard gate smoking a pipe. 

"Andrew, " said the rector, "when those two boys have weeded that paththey are to have supper and a bed in the loft. "

The man touched his cap with a very ill-pleased expression, and the oldgentleman strolled back into the house and left the boys to their work, which they undertook with very different feelings. On Barney's sidethere was a distinct sense of injury, and he performed his task withgreat bitterness of soul; for to work for anything was contrary to hisinmost nature, and to every principle of his life hitherto. So hesighed and groaned and held on to his long back with both hands atintervals, and managed to do as small a share of the weeding aspossible. Frank, on the contrary, went to work with a will, with apleasant sense that he was earning something, and he was careful to getthe weeds up by the roots, instead of slicing them off neatly at thetop, which was Barney's unprincipled method of gardening. MeanwhileAndrew's watchful eye never left the boys; and in answer to his master'sinquiries that night his opinion of them was thus delivered:

"Long un's no good, but t'other's bin taught to use his hands. He's notramp. "

Frank lay awake long that night in the fragrant hay-loft thinking. Thekind old rector, the work, the supper, had roused old memories in hismind, and his tramping life of late seemed suddenly distasteful. Helonged to "work honest and get wage, " and feel a respectable boy again. If only this nice old gentleman would let him stay and work in hisgarden; but that, Frank remembered with a sigh, was hopeless, because hehad "no carikter. " And then, there was Barney--Barney, who had alwaysbeen good to him, and who had helped him when he most wanted it, hecould not desert him now; and as for trying to turn him from his presentcourse of life, that was just the most hopeless thing of all. So, rather sorrowfully, he turned over on the other side, and very shortlyfell fast asleep. 

Barney slept too with the profound peacefulness of a mind at rest, as, indeed, it was; for with the morning's light he had firmly resolved tosteal the old gentleman's silver inkstand, and he was troubled with nodoubts either as to the propriety or success of the undertaking. Thefastening of that lattice-window would be easily managed by a dexteroushand, and before any of the folks were about he and Frank would bebeyond pursuit; only he must be careful not to wake the Nipper before hehad secured his booty, as he might make foolish and troublesomeobjections. 

So it came to pass that it was only just daylight next morning whenFrank was waked from a deep sleep by some one shaking his arm, and bythe dim grey light he saw Barney kneeling by him with an eager look inhis dark face. 

"Get up!" he whispered. 

"'Tain't time, " murmured Frank, rolling over sleepily. 

But Barney renewed his shaking, and at last succeeded in thoroughlyrousing his comrade, who sat up and stared at him with surprised blueeyes. 

"Why, Barney, " he said, "it's night still. What do yer want to go onfur? The old gentleman ull want to see us afore we start; we mustn't goyet. "

Barney frowned darkly. 

"I niver want to see that old cove, niver no more, " he said; and thiswas truer than Frank thought. "I calls it a mean act to make a poorchap work for a bit o' supper. He's no jintleman, he isn't. "

"Well, " said Frank, "I should like to a said `Thank yer;' it seemsongrateful. "

"Then you'd better stop and do it, " said Barney impatiently. "I'm off. I'm not goin' to stay an work in that blessed old garding any more. Youcan come arter me. "

He was already half-way down the loft steps as he spoke, with his mice'scage under his arm, when he looked back over his shoulder at hispartner's slight figure standing at the top in the dim light watchinghim. Turning suddenly, he was by Frank's side again in two long-leggedstrides. 

"Good-bye, Nipper, " he whispered, "good-bye, old pal!"

He patted the boy on the shoulder gently, and soon with stealthyswiftness passed from sight, and seemed to vanish in the grey morningmist. 

Then Frank, wondering a little, but more sleepy than curious, crept backto his still warm nest in the hay, and fell asleep again without loss oftime. 

He dreamt that Barney had come back to fetch him, and opened his eyessome hours later expecting to see him; but he was not there. Instead ofhim there was Andrew the gardener just coming up the steps in a greathurry. 

He seized Frank roughly by the arm. 

"Oh, you're here, are you, young scamp?" he said. Then looking roundthe loft. 

"Where's t'other?"

"He's gone on before, " answered Frank, surprised and confused at thistreatment. 

"Oh, I daresay, " said Andrew, giving him a shake. "And I suppose youdon't even know what he's got in his pocket. You're a nice younginnercent. You jest come along with me. "

He hurried the boy along, holding him tight by the collar of his smock, and thrust him into the room with the lattice-window, where the rectorhad been writing the night before. He was there now, walking feverishlybackwards and forwards, and looking thoroughly ill at ease. 

"Here's one on 'em, sir, " said Andrew triumphantly introducing the smalltrembling form of Frank, "an' t'other's not far off, I reckon. "

The rector looked more than ever perturbed. 

"Where was the boy, Andrew?" he asked. "Does he know anything of thematter?"

"He was in the loft, and he's just the most owdacious young rascal; sayst'other one's gone on before. He'll know more about it, I fancy, aftera day or two in the lock-up. "

Andrew administered a rousing shake to his captive as he spoke. He wasnot ill-pleased that the rector should at last see the result ofencouraging tramps. 

Hitherto Frank had been in a state of puzzled misery, and had scarcelyunderstood what was going on; but when Andrew mentioned the wordlock-up, the whole matter was clear to him. Barney had stolensomething; that was the meaning of his abrupt departure before daylight. 

The rector looked at him pityingly. 

"Where is your companion, my boy?" he said. 

Frank did not answer; he stood perfectly passive in Andrew's hands, andcast his eyes on the ground. 

"Don't yer hear his reverence?" shouted the latter in the boy's ear. 

"I dunno, " said Frank faintly. 

"You'd better let me run him over to Aylesford and have him locked up, sir, " said Andrew. "He'd find a tongue then. "

Frank raised his frightened blue eyes entreatingly to the rector's facewithout speaking; he saw something in the kind rugged features whichencouraged him, for with sudden energy he wriggled himself loose fromAndrew and threw himself on his knees. 

"Don't let them lock me up, sir, " he sobbed. "I've allers bin a honestlad. "

"Was it your companion who broke into this room this morning and stolemy inkstand?" pursued the rector. 

"I dunno, " repeated Frank. "I didn't see him steal nuthin', I wasasleep. "

"Would he be likely to do it?"

"I dunno, " said Frank under his breath, deeply conscious that he _did_know very well. 

"Is he your brother?"

"No, " cried Frank with a sudden burst of eloquence, "he's no kin to me. I'm Frank Darvell's lad, what lives at Green Highlands. And Parsonknows me--and Schoolmaster. And I've niver stolen nowt in my life. Don't ye let 'em lock me up!"

"A likely story!" growled Andrew. "Honest lads don't go trampin' roundwith thieves. "

The rector, whose face had softened at the boy's appeal, seemed to pullhimself together sternly at this remark; he frowned, and said, turningaway a little from Frank's tear-stained face: "I would gladly believeyou, my boy, but it is too improbable. As Andrew says, honest boys donot associate with thieves. "

"Ask any of 'em at Danecross, sir, " pleaded poor Frank in despair;"anyone ull tell ye I belong to honest folk. "

"That's no proof you're not a thief, " put in the persistent Andrew;"there's many a rotten apple hangs on a sound tree. "

The rector looked up impatiently. 

"Leave the boy alone with me, Andrew, " he said, "I wish to ask him somequestions;" and as the man left the room he seated himself in his bigleather chair and beckoned Frank to him. "Come here, " he said, "andanswer me truthfully. "

Frank stood at his elbow, trembling still in fear of being sent toprison, and yet with a faint hope stealing into his heart. 

Bit by bit he sobbed forth his story in answer to the rector'squestions, and finally raising his swollen eyelids to the kind face hesaid:

"If so be as mother was to know I wur sent to prison it 'ud break her'art. "

"Tell me, " said the rector, "have your parents lived long at GreenHighlands? Are they well-known there?"

"Father, he's lived there all his life, " said Frank; "and granther, heused to live there too. Father can do a better day's work nor any manin Danecross, " he added with conscious pride. 

"Ah!" said the rector, "it's a fine thing to be a good workman, and tohave earned a good name, isn't it?"

Frank hung his head. 

"But it isn't done by tramping about the country with bad companions. Agood name's a precious thing, and like all precious things it's got bytrouble and labour. It's the best thing a father can hand down to hisson. When he begins life, men say, `He's Frank Darvell's son, he comesof a good stock;' and so the `good name' his father earned is of greatuse to him. But he can't live on that; he has to make one of his owntoo, so that he can hand it on to _his_ sons and daughters and say, `There's my father's name, I've never disgraced it; now it's your turnto use it well. ' But suppose that the son doesn't value his father'sgood name. Suppose that he chooses an idle good-for-nothing life andhis own pleasure, rather than to work hard and live honestly; whathappens then? Why, then, men soon leave off trusting him, and say, `He's not the man his father was;' and so the name of Darvell, whichused to be so honoured and respected, comes to be connected with evilthings. Then, perhaps too late, the son finds that `a good name is moreto be desired than great riches, and loving favour rather than silverand gold. ' But he has thrown away the good name and the loving favourtoo, for he has drifted away from his old friends and companions. Hecan _never_ get back to where he started from. "

The solemn monotonous voice--for the rector had dropped unconsciouslyinto his sermon tones--and the emphasis on the last words completedFrank's misery of spirit. 

Clasping his hands, he fell on his knees and said imploringly:

"Let me go home, sir. Let me go back. I'd be proper glad to see 'emall again. "

"Whom would you like to see again?" asked the rector kindly. 

"There's mother first, " said Frank, "and father on Sundays, and thenSchoolmaster, and Jack Gunn, and little Phoebe Redrup. "

"My little lad, " said the rector, laying his hand on the boy's shoulder, "you see there's no place like home. Home, where people know us andlove us in spite of our faults. I think you won't want to run awayagain?"

"Niver no more, " sobbed Frank. 

"And now, " said the rector rising, and reassuming the air of severitywhich he had quite laid aside during the last part of the interview. "Iam going to write to the vicar of Danecross, who is a friend of mine. If I find that what you have told me is true we will say no more aboutthe inkstand, and I will believe that you had no knowledge of the theft. Until then you must be treated as under suspicion, though we will notsend you to prison. "

He summoned Andrew, and delivered Frank over to his charge. Disgustedto find that he was not to be "run in" as an example to tramps, fromwhom his master's orchard and garden had suffered so frequently, Andrewwas determined that his captive should have no chance of escape, and asrigorous a confinement as possible. Frank was therefore locked up in asmall harness-room, as the place of greatest security and discomfort;and here he passed the lonely day in much distress of mind, troubledwith many fears concerning his late friend and companion Barney. 

The rector himself was hardly more at his ease, however, for he wouldwillingly have dispensed with the zeal of his parishioners, who had beenscouring the country since daybreak in search of the thief, and kept himin a constant tremor. The good people of Crowhurst seldom had thechance of such an excitement as this unexpected robbery, and though fewthings would have embarrassed the rector more than a successful end tothe chase, he did not dare to check their ardour. 

His peaceful solitude was therefore perpetually disturbed throughout theday by the arrival of breathless parties of scouts. He would sally outto the gate to meet them, and ask nervously: "Well, my lads, seenanything of him, eh?" Deep was his inward relief when the day closed inwith no news of the thief, for he would have cheerfully sacrificed manysilver inkstands rather than have been obliged to deliver theunfortunate Barney into the hands of justice. 

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Two evenings later than this, the vicar of Danecross stood at the opendoor of the Darvells' cottage at Green Highlands, and looked into theroom. Mrs Darvell was alone, scrubbing away at her brick floor on herknees, and surrounded by a formidable array of pails, and brushes, andmops. The place had a comfortless air, and there was no fire on thehearth. 

"Late at work, Mrs Darvell, eh?" was the vicar's greeting as he stoodon the threshold. 

Mrs Darvell got up quickly, and dropped her usual brisk courtesy, buther face looked dull and spiritless. 

"I'm in too much of a muss to ask you in, sir, " she said, glancinground. 

"Oh, never mind, " said the clergyman; "where's Darvell? Isn't he backfrom work yet?"

Mrs Darvell shrugged her shoulders, and made an expressive movementwith her head in the direction of Danecross. 

"I reckon he's where he generally is now, " she answered moodily, "at the`Nag's Head. '"

"Why, that's something new, isn't it? I always consider Darvell one ofthe steadiest men in my parish. "

Mrs Darvell looked up defiantly. 

"Maybe it's partly my fault, " she said; "but we've never had a minute'scomfort since the little lad went. And things get worse and worse. Idon't care no more to keep the place nice, and I ups and speaks sharp toDarvell, and he goes off to the `Nag's Head. '"

The vicar nodded his head slowly, as though Darvell's conduct was notquite incomprehensible under such circumstances, and Mrs Darvellcontinued in a lower tone:

"You know, sir, it wur because my man lifted his hand to Frank that thelad went off; and I don't seem as how I can forget it. When I look atDarvell I keep on rememberin' as how, if he'd bin more patient with theboy we should ha' had him with us still. Darvell's been a good man tome, but I can't help speaking sharp to him; though maybe I'm sorry afterI done it, for there's only the two on us now, and we'll have to worryalong together. "

The vicar shook his head. 

"Hard blows are bad things, Mrs Darvell, but hard words do quite asmuch mischief in their way. If your husband has driven Frank from home, does it mend matters for you to drive your husband to the public-house?"

"There's truth in what you say, sir, " said Mrs Darvell, rubbing herarms with her apron; "but I don't seem as if I cared to do any differentnow the boy's gone. I've allers had a quick tongue from a gall, andDarvell, he must just take the consequences. "

"But suppose, " said the vicar, looking earnestly at her, "suppose thatFrank were to come back to you safe and well, and Darvell were topromise never to be so harsh to him again, wouldn't you try then to keepfrom saying sharp things?"

Mrs Darvell's black eyes fixed themselves keenly on the vicar's face. 

"You've heard summat, sir?" she said, laying one damp red hand on hiscoat-sleeve. "Is the lad livin'? Just tell me that. Is he livin'?"

"Look there, " said the vicar. 

He turned and pointed down the road, where, at the top of the hillleading up from Danecross, two figures were just visible. They camenearer and nearer. One was that of Darvell, broad-shouldered andheavily built, but the other one was small and slender, and had roughyellow hair. 

Mrs Darvell was a woman of decisive action as well as of a quicktongue. One look was enough for her. She immediately took off herpattens, which had iron rings to them, and were not adapted for rapidmovement, and placed them quickly and quite unconsciously in the vicar'sarms as he stood beside her. 

"Bless you, sir!" she said. 

Before he had realised his situation she had flown down the road, reached the two figures, and enveloped Frank in her embrace, Darvellstanding by meanwhile with a broad smile on his fair and foolishcountenance. 

The neighbours gathered round the group, and all the dogs, and pigs, andchickens belonging to the settlement also drew near. Jack Gunn's donkeylooked over the hedge, his furry ears showing a pointed interest in theaffair, and in the distance the vicar surveyed the scene from thecottage door, still holding Mrs Darvell's pattens. 

So Frank had got home again; and after all his wanderings he found that:

 "From east to west At home is best. "

STORY TWO, CHAPTER 1. 

FAITHFUL MOSES--A SHORT STORY. 

Those of you who live near any of the great high-roads that lead toLondon may remember to have been awake sometimes in the middle of thenight, and to have heard the sound of horses' feet, and of cart wheelsrumbling slowly and heavily along. 

If it be winter, frosty and dry, you hear them very sharply anddistinctly; and perhaps you wonder, drowsily, who it is that hasbusiness so late, and whither they are bound. "How cold it must beoutside!" you think, and it is quite a pleasure to snuggle cosily downin your comfortable bed and feel how warm you are. 

Gradually, as the sounds grow less and less, and die away mysteriouslyin the distance, your eyes close; soon you are fast asleep again, andthat is all you know about the cold, dark night outside. 

But Tim, the van-boy, knew a great deal more about it than this, for hehad now been "on the road" between Roydon and London for more than ayear. The carrier's cart started at eleven o'clock in the morning, andhaving distributed and received parcels on the way the driver put up hishorses at an inn called "The Magpie and Stump, " in a part of Londonnamed the Borough. So far it was all very well, and not at all hardwork; but then came the return journey at night, which began just at themoment when a boy, after a good warm supper, naturally thinks of goingto bed. This was trying, and at first Tim felt it a good deal, for henever got home until three o'clock in the morning; he was so anxious, too, to do his duty and fill his post well, that he would not haveclosed his eyes for the world, though he might well have taken a napwithout anyone's knowledge. His "mate" as he called him, whose name wasJoshua, sat in front driving his two strong black horses, and Tim'splace was at the other open end of the van, so that he might keep hiseye on the parcels and prevent their being stolen or lost. 

It was a responsible situation he felt for a boy of thirteen, and hemeant to do his very best to keep it now that he had been lucky enoughto get it; in the far-off future, too, he saw himself no longer thevan-boy, but in the proud position now occupied by Joshua as driver, andthis he considered, though a lofty, was by no means an unreasonableambition. 

When Tim first began his work it was summertime, and the nights were sobalmy, and soft, and light that it was not so very difficult to keepawake--there seemed so many other thing's awake too. After they werewell out of London, and the horses no longer clattered noisily over thestones, it was like getting into another world. The stars lookedbrightly down from the clear smokeless sky. Soft little winds blew athousand flowery scents from over the fields, and sometimes, singingquite close to the road, Tim heard the nightingale. Even Joshua, agruff man, was affected by the sweet influence of the season, for Timnoticed that he always sang one particular song on fine nights insummer. Joshua's voice was hoarse from much exposure to weather, butTim thought he sang with great expression. The words were not easy tofollow, because the middle of the verse always became inaudible; but bydegrees the boy made out that it was the description of a letterreceived by a rustic from his sweetheart. It began:

 "All _on_ a summer's day As _I_ pursued my way. "

Then came some lines impossible to hear, and then each verse ended with:

 "Com--_men_cing with `my dearest, ' And con--_clu_ding with her name--"

Joshua's song and the steady tramp, tramp of the horses were sometimesthe only sounds disturbing the still night, and Tim, a small erectfigure with widely opened eyes, would sit perched on a convenientpacking-case at the back of the cart, and listen admiringly. 

But the winter! That was another matter. Joshua did not sing then, butkept his teeth clenched, and his head bent, before the sleet, or wind, or driving rain. Then the brightly lighted London streets seemedcheerful, and much to be preferred to the lonely open country, where thebitter wind swept across the wide fields, and, gathering strength as itcame, rushed in among Tim and the parcels. That was hard to bear, butof all kinds of weather, and he knew them all pretty well now, hethought the very worst was a fog. It was not only that it penetratedeverywhere, and laid its cold damp finger on everything; but it spreadsuch a thick veil of dreadful mystery over well-known objects. Nothinglooked the same. The houses in the streets towered up like giantcastles, and if Tim had read fairy tales he might well have fancied theminhabited by ogres. But he had not. He only felt a dim sense ofdiscomfort and fear, as though he were lost in a strange place. Then itwas a comfort to know that Joshua was there, almost invisible indeed, but making himself evident by hoarse shouts, now of encouragement to hishorses, and now of derision at some luckless driver. Out in thecountry, when the heavily laden market carts loomed slowly out of thefog as they passed, they had the appearance of being miles up in theair, and as if they must inevitably topple over. Joshua knew all thecarters, not by sight, for he could not see them, but by the time andplace he met them on his nightly journey. Tim could reckon pretty wellthat after he had heard his gruff salutation of "a dark night, mate, "repeated a certain number of times, that they must be nearing home, forthey always met about the same number of Joshua's friends; as he had nowatch this was a comfort to him on the dark nights. Taught byexperience, he learned to contrive for himself a sort of Robinson Crusoebut with the various hampers and boxes, and in this he lay curled roundin tolerable comfort, covered with an old horse-cloth; nevertheless, itwas often very cold, and then the only consolation was in thinking thatJoshua must be cold also. It is always easier to bear things if thereis some one to bear them with you--unless you are a hero. 

One December evening the carrier's cart was just starting homewards fromthe door of the Magpie and Stump. Joshua, reins in hand, and closelybuttoned up to the chin, stood ready to mount to his perch, saying a fewlast words to the landlord, who was a crony of his; Tim was already inhis place. From where he sat he could see something which interestedand excited him a good deal, and this was an old woman close by who wasselling roasted chestnuts. They did look good! So beautifully done, with nice cracks in their brown skins showing just a little bit of thesoft yellow nut inside. Tim looked and longed, and fingered a penny inhis pocket. How jolly it would be to have a penn'orth of hot chestnutsto eat on his way home! They would keep his hands warm too. Joshuastill talked, there was yet time, he would give himself a treat. Hescrambled down from the cart and went up to the old woman, who satcrouched on a stool warming her hands over her little charcoal brazier. She looked a cross old thing, he thought, but she was not, for when hehad paid for his chestnuts she picked out an extra fine one and gave ithim "for luck, " with a kind grin on her wrinkled face. He was turningaway with a warm pocketful, when he saw, sitting on the edge of thepavement near, a very poor thin dog, who trembled with cold or fear, andblinked his eyes sorrowfully at the glowing coals. He was not at all apretty dog, and probably never had been, even in the days of hisprosperity, and these were evidently gone by. He was long-legged andrough-coated, with coarse black hair mingled with yellowish brown, andhis large bright eyes had a timid look in them as though he fearedill-treatment; he sat with his thin body drawn together as closely aspossible, as if anxious to escape observation. 

Tim stood and looked at him, and felt sorry. He was such a verymiserable dog, and yet so patient. 

"Is he your dog?" he asked the old woman. 

"Bless yer 'art, no, " she answered. "He's a stray, he is; he'll comeand sit there often at nights, and I sometimes give him a mouthful o'supper. "

"I suppose he's rare and 'ungry?" pursued Tim. 

"He's starving, that's what he is, " said the woman, "and he's hurt hisleg badly besides. The boys are allers ready to chuck stones at himwhen they see him prowlin' round. He don't belong to no one. "

Tim felt still more sorry; if he had seen the dog before, he thought, hewould have bought a "penn'orth" of liver for him instead of thechestnuts. Now he could do nothing for him. He looked round at the oldwoman, who was rocking herself to and fro with crossed arms, and said:

"Shall you give him any supper to-night?"

"Nay, " she said with a sort of chuckle; "he's come too late to-night. I've had my supper. There's many a one besides him as has to gosupperless. "

The dog during this conversation was evidently conscious that he wasbeing noticed, for he trembled more than ever, and gazed up at Tim withhis pleading eyes. 

"Pore feller, then, " said the boy. 

The kind voice woke some bygone memory in the animal; it reminded himperhaps of the days when he belonged to somebody, and was treatedgently. He got up, slowly reared his poor stiff limbs into a beggingattitude, and wagged his short tail. He soon dropped down again, for hewas evidently weak, but he looked apologetically from the old woman toTim, as much as to say:

"I know it was a poor performance, but it was the best I could do. Inold days it used to please. "

"See there now, " said the woman, "someone must a taught him that. Maybehe's bin a Punch's dog. "

Tim stood absorbed in thought. He had forgotten Joshua, and the cart, and his own important position as van-boy; one idea filled his mind. Could he, ought he, might he take the dog home with him and have him forhis own?

He was a prudent boy, and he considered that he would have to pay a taxfor him and feed him out of his wages. "But he could have 'arf mydinner, " he reflected; "and how useful he'd be to look after theparcels. And he do look so thin and poor. I'll ask Joshua. "

He looked round. Fortunately for him, Joshua and the landlord hadentered into a discussion as to the respective merits of warm mashes, and were still engaged upon it, so Tim had not been missed. He went upto the two men, and standing a little in front of them waited for aconvenient moment to make his request. He was glad to see that Joshualooked good-tempered just now; he had evidently had the best of theargument which had been going on, for there was a gleam of triumph inhis eye, and he repeating some assertion in a loud voice, while thelandlord stood in a dejected attitude with his thumbs in his waistcoatpockets. 

"_That's_ where it is, " said Joshua as he concluded, and then his eyefell on Tim's eager upturned face. 

"Dorg, eh?" he said, when the boy had made him understand what hewanted. "Where is he?"

"There, " said Tim, pointing to where the dog still sat shivering nearthe old chestnut woman. 

Joshua gazed at the animal in silence, and sucked a straw which he hadin his mouth reflectively. Tim looked anxiously up into his face. Would he take a fancy to him? The landlord had now drawn near, and alsoan inquisitive ostler. The old chestnut-seller ceased to rock herselfto and fro, and turned her head towards the group, so that the dog, solonely a few minutes ago, had suddenly become a centre of interest. Heseemed to wonder at this, but he scarcely moved his eyes, with a muteappeal in them, from his first friend, Tim. At last, after what seemedan immense silence, Joshua spoke. 

"He ain't a beauty--not to look at, " he said. 

This might have sounded discouraging to anyone who did not know Joshua, but it was rather the reverse to Tim. 

"He'd be werry useful in the cart, " he suggested, taking care not toappear too anxious. 

But now the landlord, feeling it time to offer his opinion, broke intothe discussion. 

"There's no doubt, as the boy says, that you'd find a dog useful, but Iwouldn't have a brute of a cur like that, if I was you. Now I couldgive you as pretty a pup to bring up to the business as you could wishto see. A real game un. Death to anything reasonable he'd be in ayear's time. Them nasty mongrels is never no good. "

Now this adverse opinion was, strange to say, sufficient to make upJoshua's mind in the dog's favour; he always took a contrary view ofthings to the landlord on principle, because it encouraged conversation, and this habit was so strong that he at once began to see the specialadvantages of a mongrel. 

"He's a werry faithful creetur, is a mongrel, if he's properly trained, "he said slowly and solemnly; "and as to _game_, where's the game he'dfind in a carrier's cart? You can bring him along, mate. "

Leaving the landlord in a temporarily crushed condition, he walked offto his horses, which stamped impatiently at all this delay. The dogsuffered Tim to take him in his arms without any resistance, though hewinced a little as if in pain, and the cart presently drove away fromthe small knot of interested spectators gathered round the inn door. Then, gently examining his new comrade, the boy found that one of hishind-legs was injured, so that he could not put it to the ground, andmoaned when it was touched, though he licked Tim's hand immediatelyafterwards in apology. 

"But I don't think it's broke, " said the boy encouragingly; "and when weget home I'll bathe it and tie it up, and I dessay I can find yer a bito' supper. "

Soothed perhaps by this prospect, and evidently feeling a sense ofcomfort and protection, the dog stretched out his thin, weary limbs, andsoon, sharing the warm shelter of Tim's horse-cloth, slept profoundly. 

And thus the new friends made their first journey together. 

STORY TWO, CHAPTER 2. 

FAITHFUL MOSES--A SHORT STORY--(CONTD). 

So from this time there was a van-dog as well as a van-boy; three"mates" travelling in the cart between Roydon and London--Joshua, Tim, and Moses, for after much consideration that was the name given to thedog. 

It was wonderful to see how, after a few weeks of food and kindness, he"plucked up a spirit, " as Joshua said. His whole aspect altered, for henow held his ears and tail valiantly erect, and quite a martial gleamappeared in his eye. He still, it is true, limped about on three legs, which is never a dignified attitude for a dog, but he already began toacquire distinct views concerning the parcels and the cart, and wasready to defend them, with hair bristling, and lips fiercely drawn backfrom glistening white teeth. 

"Not a beauty, " Joshua had said, and decidedly a mongrel according tothe landlord. Nobody could doubt that; but to Tim's eyes Moses wantedno attractions, he was perfect. Many and many a confidence was pouredinto his small, upright, attentive ear, as the two sat so close togetherat the back of the cart; Tim never considered whether he understood ornot, but it was such a comfort to tell him about things. The coldnights were comparatively easy to bear, now that he could put his armround Moses' hairy form and feel that he was warm and comfortable; mealsbecame more interesting though slighter than they used to be, now thatthey must be shared by Moses, who watched every morsel with brightexpectant eyes. Then he must be taught, and this was not difficult, forready intelligence and eager affection made him a good scholar; all hewanted was to know what was really required of him. This onceunderstood and successfully performed, what an ecstasy of delightfollowed on the part of both master and pupil, shown by the former incaresses, and by the latter in excited barks, and short quick rushesamong the parcels. 

As his education proceeded he learnt to distinguish all the differentsounds of Tim's voice, and would sit on guard for any length of time ifonce told to do so. When on duty in this way, a more conscientious dogcould not have been found, for not even the urgent temptation of acat-chase could lure him from his post--although, sometimes, a short cryof anguish would be wrung from him at being obliged to forego such apleasure. 

Joshua he regarded with a distant respect, Tim with intense affection, and the landlord of the Magpie and Stump with ill-concealed growls ofaversion, though the latter tried to ingratiate himself by savouryofferings of food. Moses would walk stiffly away from him with his tailheld very high, and the landlord would laugh sarcastically. "You're anice sample, you are, " he would say, "and as ugly a mongrel as ever Isee--"

As time went on, Tim began to place great reliance on the dog'strustworthiness, and to look upon him as quite equal to another boy. Heknew that he had only to hold up his ringer and say, "Watch, Moses!" andthe dog's vigilant attention was secure; trusting in this, therefore, hefelt it by no means so necessary as formerly to be very watchfulhimself, and began to take life much more easily. In the evening, whenJoshua stopped to deliver a parcel, Tim would rouse himself from acomfortable nap, and just murmur, "Watch, Moses!" then woe to anyone whoventured too near Moses and his property. 

Now this division of labour, or rather this shifting of responsibilityon to another's shoulders, had its bad results, for while the dogimproved every day in sharpness and conscientious performance of duty, the boy did the opposite. Tim became somewhat careless and lazy, andthough Joshua knew nothing of it, he did not really fill his post halfso well as before the dog came; he allowed things to get slack. Now, whether one is a van-boy or a lord-chancellor this is bad, for slacknessleads to neglect, and neglect to worse things. You shall hear whathappened in Tim's case. 

One evening the carrier's cart was standing in a little back street inthe Borough waiting for Joshua; he had matters to settle, he told Tim, which might take him an hour or more, and he added:

"Look alive, now, for it's a nasty neighbourhood to be standing aboutin, and there's some smallish parcels in the cart easy made off with. Don't you let your eye off 'em. "

Tim promised, and, taking his seat on the edge of the cart with his legsswinging, whistled to Moses, who was examining the neighbourhood in aninterested manner; he at once jumped up beside his master and assumed agravely watchful and responsible air. 

It was not an amusing street, but poor and squalid, full of smalllodging-houses, and little dingy shops; very few people were about, andin spite of Joshua's warning no one seemed even to notice the carrier'scart. 

Presently there walked slowly by, whistling carelessly, a boy aboutTim's own age; he was quite respectably, though poorly dressed, and worehis cap very much on one side with an air of smartness which Tim thoughtbecoming. He stopped and looked at the boy and the dog, and they lookedat him, Moses ready to be suspicious, and Tim to be conversational ifrequired. 

For some minutes the group remained in silent contemplation, then thenew-comer said inquiringly:

"Fer dog?"

"Ah, " said Tim, nodding his head. 

"Up to snuff, ain't he?" said the other boy. 

Tim nodded again, this time in a more friendly manner. 

"Wot's his name?"

"Moses. "

"Yer give it him?"

"Ah. "

"Where's yer boss?" (meaning master). 

"Yonder, " with a backward movement of the head. 

The boy leant his back against a lamp-post near, and seemed in no hurryto pursue his journey; Tim was not sorry, for a little conversationbeguiled the time, and his remark about Moses showed this to be anintelligent and discerning youth. 

"Wot can he do?" he asked presently, still with his eye on the dog. 

Tim ran through a list of Moses' acquirements eagerly, and finished upwith: "And he can watch the parcels as well as a Christian--he wouldn'tlet no one but me or Joshua come nigh 'em, not for anything. "

"Wouldn't he now?" said the boy admiringly. 

"You try, " suggested Tim, anxious to show off Moses' talents. 

The stranger came a little nearer, and stretched out his hand as if totouch one of the parcels; he quickly withdrew it, however, for Moses'bristling mane and angry growl were sufficient warnings of his furtherintentions. Both boys laughed, Tim triumphantly, and he patted the dogwith an air of proud proprietorship. 

"There's a Punch and Judy playin' in the next street, " remarked thestranger, "and they've got a dorg some'at like yours, he's a clever unhe is--wouldn't you like to see him?"

"I've seen 'em--scores o' times, " said Tim loftily. 

"Not such a good un as this, I lay. You come and see. It wouldn't takeyou not two minutes, and your dog'll watch the things. "

"No, " said Tim very quickly and decidedly, "I can't leave the cart. "

"You don't trust the dog much, then. You've bin humbuggin' about him, Ibet. "

"That I haven't, " said Tim angrily, "I could trust him not to stir forhours. "

"I should just like to see yer, " sneered the boy--"I don't b'lieve yerdare leave 'im a minute. Well, I wouldn't keep a stupid cur like that!"

The taunt was more than Tim could bear. He knew that Moses would cometriumphantly out of the ordeal, and besides, he would really like to goand see the clever Punch's dog in the next street; Joshua was safe foranother half-hour, and the place looked so quiet and deserted. It mustbe safe. He would go. 

He jumped down from the cart, and spoke to Moses in a certain voice:

"Watch, Moses!" he said, pointing to the parcels. 

The dog looked wistfully at his master, as though suspecting somethingwrong or unusual, but he did not attempt to follow him; he lay down withhis nose between his paws, his short ears pricked, and his bright eyeskeenly observant. Then the two boys set off running down the streettogether, and were soon out of his sight. 

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Half an hour later, Joshua, his business over, turned into the streetwhere he had left his cart. There it stood still, with the horses'heads turned towards him; but what was that choking savage growl whichmet his ear? Surely that was Moses' voice, though strangely stifled. 

With a hoarsely muttered oath Joshua quickened his pace to a run, stretched out his powerful arm, and seized hold of a boy about Tim'ssize, who, with several parcels in his arms, was trying in vain toescape. In vain--because, hanging fast on to one leg, with resolutegrip and starting fiery eyes, was the faithful Moses. Every separatehair of his rough coat bristled with excitement and rage, his head wasbleeding from a wound made by a kick or a blow, and he uttered all thetime the half-strangled growls which Joshua had heard. 

And where was Tim? Oh, sad falling off! Tim had deserted his post; hehad proved less faithful than the dog Moses. 

When a few minutes later he came hurrying back breathless, there were notraces of what had happened, except on Joshua's enraged red countenanceand Moses' bleeding head. The strange boy, who had so easily beguiledhim, had been quickly handed over to a policeman. And there were noparcels missing--thanks to Moses, but not, alas, to Tim. 

Disgraced and miserable, he stood before the angry Joshua, silent in themidst of a torrent of wrathful words. He deserved every one of them. Instant dismissal without a character was all he had to expect, and hewaited trembling for his fate. But, behold, an unlooked-forintercessor! Moses, seeing Joshua's threatening attitude and his dearmaster's downcast face, drew near to help him, and, as was his custom, stood up and put his paw on the boy's arm. Joshua looked at the dog;his silent presence pleaded eloquently in Tim's favour, and the angrytone was involuntarily softened. 

"If ever a boy deserved the sack, it's you, " he said; "and, as sure asmy name's Joshua, you should have it if it wasn't for that dog o' yourn. He's worth a score o' boys, that dog is, for he does his dooty, as wellas knows what it is. "

Tim breathed again; he flung his arms round Moses' neck, who licked hisface eagerly. 

"Give us another chance, " he cried imploringly, "we'll both work sohard, Moses and me, and I'll never leave the cart again. If you onlywon't turn us off I'll work without wage ever so long, that I will. "

"That, in course, you will, " said Joshua grimly, yet relenting, "andyou'll get a jolly good thrashing besides. And if you're not turned offyou've got the dog to thank. "

He got up into his seat as he spoke, and Tim crept thankfully in at theback of the cart with Moses. He had, indeed, "got the dog to thank. "Moses had paid his debt of gratitude now; he and Tim were equal. 

You will be glad to hear that Tim was not dismissed, and that he usedhis other "chance" well, for no amount of sharp London boys could havetempted him from his duty again. As for Moses, he was respected andtrusted by everyone on the road after this, and Joshua presented himwith a collar, whereon were inscribed his name and the date of thememorable fray in which he acquitted himself so well. In spite of thesehonours, however, all the love of his faithful heart continued to begiven to Tim; who, on his part, never forgot how it was and why it wasthat he had "got the dog to thank. "

STORY THREE, CHAPTER 1. 

LIKE A BEAN-STALK--A SHORT STORY. 

It had always been an uncontested fact in the Watson family that Bridgetwas plain. Even when she was a round toddling thing of five years old, with bright eyes and thick brown curls, aunts and other relations hadoften said in her presence:

"Bridget is a dear little girl, but she will grow up plain. "

Plain! Bridget was quite used to the sound of the word, and did notmind it at all, though she was conscious that it meant something to beregretted, because people always said "but" before it. "A good child, but plain. "

"A sweet-tempered little thing, but plain. "

However, it did not interfere with any pleasure or advantage thatBridget could see. She could run faster than most of her brothers andsisters, who were _not_ plain but pretty; she could climb a tree verywell indeed, with her stout little legs, and she could say a great manyverses of poetry by heart. Besides, she felt sure that Toto the blackpoodle, and Samson the great cat, and all the other pets, loved her aswell as the rest, and perhaps even better. So she did not mind beingplain at all, until she was about thirteen years old and the newgoverness came. 

Now about this time Bridget, who had hitherto been a compact sturdychild, short for her age, began to grow in the most alarming manner; the"Bean-stalk, " her brothers called her, and one really could almostbelieve she had shot up in a night, the growth was so sudden. Her armsand legs seemed to be everywhere, always sprawling about in aspider-like manner in unexpected places, so that she very often eitherswept things off the table or tripped somebody up. Her mother lookinground on the children at their dinner hour would say:

"My _dear_ Bridget, I believe you have grown an inch since yesterday!How very short those sleeves are for you!" and then there was a generalchuckle at the poor "Bean-stalk. "

Then visitors would come, and Bridget with the others would be sent forto the drawing-room; entering in gawky misery she well knew whatsentence would first strike her ear, and would try furtively to shelterherself in the background. No use!

"My dear Mrs Watson, " the lady would cry, with an expression of amusedpity on her face, "how your daughter Bridget has grown! Why, she is astall as my girl of eighteen;" etcetera, etcetera. 

Bridget got tired of it at last, and she very much dreaded the arrivalof the new governess, because she felt sure that she should be so"bullied, " as the boys said, about her height and awkwardness. Shewould cheerfully have sacrificed several inches of her arms and legs tobe comfortably short, but this could not be managed, so she must makethe best of it. 

Miss Tasker arrived. Bobbie saw her first, from an advantageous post hehad taken up for the purpose amongst the boughs of a large beech-tree infront of the house. 

He saw her cab drive up with boxes on the top, and Toto dancing roundand round it on the tips of his toes barking loudly, which I am sorry tosay was his reprehensible manner of receiving strangers. Bobbie partedthe boughs a little more. It was a situation full of interest. Wouldshe be frightened of Toto? He felt a good deal depended on this as asign of her future behaviour. 

It appeared, however, that Miss Tasker was not afraid of dogs, for atall thin figure presently descended from the cab in the midst of Toto'swildest demonstrations. Bobbie felt an increased respect for the newgoverness, but meanwhile the "others" must at once be told the result ofhis observations, and as she entered the house he slipped down from hisperch and scudded quickly away to find them. 

From this time Bridget's troubles increased tenfold; Miss Tasker hadsevere views about deportment, and besides this her attention wasspecially directed by Mrs Watson to Bridget's awkwardness. 

"I am particularly anxious, " she said, "about my daughter Bridget, andother lessons are really not of so much importance just now as that sheshould learn to hold herself properly. As it is, she is so clumsy inher movements that I almost tremble to see her enter the room. "

Poor Bridget! Her usual manner of entering a room was with her headeagerly thrust forward, and her long arms swinging; that was when shewas quite comfortable and unselfconscious, but all this must be changednow, and to achieve this Miss Tasker devised an ingenious method oftorture, which was practised every morning. It was this. Lessons beganat ten o'clock, at which time the children were expected to assemble inthe school-room, but now, instead of running in any how, they had to gothrough the following scene. 

Miss Tasker sat at her desk ready to receive each pupil with a gracioussmile and bow; then one by one they entered with a solemn bow or curtsyand said, "Good morning, Miss Tasker. "

"I call it humbug, " remarked the outspoken Bobbie, "as if we hadn't seenher once already at breakfast-time. "

How Bridget hated this ordeal!

To know that Miss Tasker was waiting there ready to fix a keen grey eyeon her deficiencies, and that she would probably say when the curtsy wasdone:

"Once again, Bridget, and remember to _round_ the elbows. "

How to round your elbows when they naturally stuck out likeknitting-pins, Bridget could not conceive, and I am afraid that, pushedto desperation, she soon left off even trying, and so became moreawkward than ever. 

But the ceremony once over, and lessons begun, Miss Tasker had no causefor complaint, for Bridget was a ready and ambitious pupil. She had agood memory, and being an imaginative child, it was a special pleasureto her to learn poetry, in repeating which she would quite forgetherself and her awkwardness and pour forth page after page without asingle mistake. 

At such times, Miss Tasker's chill remarks of "Your shoulders, Bridget"--"Don't poke, Bridget, " generally fell on unheeding ears, butthere was one occasion on which Bridget did feel them to be especiallytrying and out of place. 

She had been learning one of the "Lays of Ancient Rome, " and was nowrepeating it all through. In proud consciousness of not having missedone word, and in full enjoyment of the swing of the poetry, she stoodwith her head thrust forward and her chin in the air:

 "So he spake, and speaking sheathed His good sword by his side, And with his armour on his back Plunged headlong in the tide! No sound of--"

"My _dear_ Bridget, draw in your chin, " said the cold voice, and poorBridget, dropping suddenly down from the heights of heroic deeds todreary commonplace, felt that this was hard indeed. 

She had said it all without a mistake, and the only thing that seemed tomatter was how her chin, or her shoulders, or her arms looked. It wasunkind. It was unfair. It was too bad. She could not help beingawkward, and as they worried her so about it, she should not try to beany different. 

From this time forward she would be just herself--plain, awkwardBridget. So she resolved as she took the book back from Miss Tasker, and sat down sullenly in her place, and so she continued to resolve asseveral days went on. You know how, when one has once begun to be alittle naughty, everything that happens seems to increase the feeling, and so it was with Bridget; everything Miss Tasker said, or did, or evenlooked after this, made her feel more and more ill-used and injured, till one unfortunate day brought matters to a climax. 

If there was one day in the week that Bridget disliked more than anotherat this time it was Thursday, for Thursday was "dancing-day. " It wouldbe hard to give you an idea of how much misery that meant to her, or howfervently she used to pray for something to happen to prevent her goingto the class, which was held at a friend's house some miles away. Asprained ankle, or a slight earthquake, not bad enough to hurt anyone, were among her usual aspirations, but nothing of the kind ever occurred, and she was borne away with her brothers and sisters by the relentlessMiss Tasker to the scene of torture; the suffering of martyrs, whom shehad read about, were, in Bridget's opinion, not worthy of mention besidethose to be endured at a dancing-class. 

Everything seemed to go wrong on this particular day, perhaps becauseshe did not try to make them go right, and at last, after the wholeclass had been practising a step together, the dancing-mistress saidrather severely:

"I wish Miss Bridget Watson to do the minuet steps alone: all the othersmay sit down. "

With downcast eyes, and one shoulder pushed nervously up, Bridget stoodalone in the middle of the room. She felt that thousands of eyes, likethe little sharp pricks of so many needles, were transfixing herluckless figure, for there were a good many lady visitors presentbesides the children. 

"Now, if you please, Miss Watson. Straighten the shoulders. Take thedress gracefully between fingers and thumb. Raise the head. One--two--three--begin!"

The music played. Bridget was intensely nervous, but through it all shefelt a perverse pleasure in irritating Miss Tasker, so she performedsome grotesquely uncouth steps which raised a smile on almost everyface. 

"Again, if you please. "

It was done again, and if possible worse than before. 

"You may return to your seat. "

Which Bridget did with swift ungainly strides, feeling covered withdisgrace, and as she passed, an unfortunate whisper from one of thevisitors reached her ear:

"What a windmill of a child to be sure!"

She plunged into her seat, her eyes wet with tears of mortification, butno one saw them except Bobbie, who sat next her. He did not understandthe full extent of her distress, but he looked up in her face and puthis small hand in hers. It was a sympathetic but sticky clasp, forBobbie always carried sweets in his pockets for solace at odd moments, yet it comforted Bridget a little, and she gave it a silent squeeze inreturn. 

But, hurt and sore and angry as she felt, the cup was not quite fulluntil that evening, when Mrs Watson came into the school-room while thechildren were having tea. After her usual little chat with them shesaid just before going away:

"I am sorry to hear from Miss Tasker that Bridget does not seem to thinkit worth while to take pains with her dancing, though she knows howanxious I am about it. "

She looked at Bridget, who blushed hotly, but made no answer; and, indeed, she could not, for she felt as though Bobbie's largest ball weresticking in her throat. 

"I know, " continued her mother, "that you cannot all do the same thingsequally well, but you can at least try to do your best, however much youmay dislike any particular lesson. I should be more pleased to knowthat Bridget tried to hold herself upright and took pains with herdancing, than to hear that she had said all her lessons quite perfectly, because I know one is a difficulty to her and the other none. "

Mother looked very grave, and she so seldom reproved any of thechildren, that they felt this to be a solemn occasion, and their littleserious faces were all turned upon Bridget. 

She could not bear it. As her mother left the room she started upabruptly, upsetting her cup and saucer, and, heedless of Miss Tasker'swarning voice, rushed out into the garden blinded with her tears. 

She must go somewhere and cry alone, and her steps turned instinctivelyto the well-known refuge of "the barn, " an old out-building which thechildren had turned into a playground of their own; it was otherwisedisused, excepting that now and then some trusses of hay or straw wereput there, and it was a most splendid place to keep pets in. 

A numerous and motley family lived here in cages and hutches of allkinds, generally made out of old packing-cases. There was a largecolony of white rats, two dormice named Paul and Silas, a jackdaw, rabbits, and a little yellow owl, not to mention the pigeons whofluttered in and out through the open door at will. They came whirlinground Bridget now as she entered and settled on her shoulders and head, and pecked boldly at her shoes expecting to be fed. All the differentlittle creatures in cages roused themselves too, and gave signs thatthey knew her in their various ways--by small scratching noises, byruffling of feathers, and tiny squeaks. The jackdaw, who was free, atonce came down from the rafters, and, standing before her in slimelegance, raised his blue-grey crest and said "Jark, " the only word heknew. They all gave their little welcome. 

But Bridget could not take any notice of them to-day, her heart was toofull, though she felt with a dim sense of comfort that these were peopleto whom her awkwardness made no difference. Otherwise the world was allagainst her--Miss Tasker, the dancing-mistress, and now, to crown all, mother! She threw herself down on some trusses of straw at the end ofthe barn, and the tears which had made her eyes smart so all day flowedfreely. It was so unjust! That was what hurt her so. If she had beennaughty she would be sorry, that would be different. But she could notfeel that she was in fault at all. It was just because she was plainand awkward that they were all unkind to her, so she whispered toherself, and cried on. 

The barn was very quiet, only Bridget's sobs mingled with the cooing ofthe pigeons and the rustling noises in the cages round. One slantingray from the setting sun lay on the floor, but the corner where Bridgethad thrown herself was in dusky shadow. 

And presently a strange thing happened. 

"Bridget! Bridget!" said a little husky voice. 

Bridget raised herself on her elbow, and looked round astonished. Shedid not know the voice at all; and it sounded muffled, as though comingthrough a heap of feathers. 

"Bridget! Bridget!" it said again. 

This time it plainly came from the rafters over Bridget's head. Shelooked up, but there was nothing there except the little yellow owl, whowas sitting in his cage, with his eyes very round and bright. 

"How wise you look!" said Bridget aloud; "I wish you could help me. "

What was her astonishment when the owl at once replied, in the samestifled voice:

"What do you want?"

Bridget paused. What _did_ she want? Then she remembered that as theowl could talk, it must certainly be a fairy, and could do anything, soshe said:

"I want to be very graceful. "

The owl did not answer immediately, and Bridget kept a watchful eye onher arms and legs, almost expecting them to be changed into models ofgrace at once. Nothing of the sort happened, however; and the owl satas though in deep thought. At last it said:

"I can tell you a way, but it is difficult. "

"I don't care how difficult it is, " cried Bridget, now very muchexcited, "if you will only tell me what it is I will do it. "

"Try, " said the owl solemnly. 

"Try what?" asked Bridget anxiously. 

"Try, " repeated the owl, "nothing more; try. "

Bridget's face fell; she was very much disappointed. Every one had toldher that till she was sick of the word. The owl could not be a fairyafter all. 

"Is that all?" she said. "I always do that. "

"Always?" asked the owl. 

Bridget was silent a moment as she thought of the past week. 

"Why, not _quite_ always. "

"But it must be always, " said the owl, "that's the secret of it. If at_first_ you don't succeed, try, try, try again. You've heard that?"

"Of course I have, " said Bridget sorrowfully; "I've heard it much toooften. "

The owl did not answer, perhaps it was offended. 

"Can it be possible, " thought Bridget, "that I really haven't triedenough?"

Just then something cold and moist was thrust into her hand, and shestarted up bewildered, hardly able for the moment to make out where shewas. It was almost dark in the barn now, but presently she made out theform of Toto the poodle, who had come to look for his mistress, and nowstood with his eager affectionate eyes fixed on her from under hisfrizzled black hair. 

Bridget stretched out her arms to him, and leaning forward, kissed hisshaven nose; she felt wonderfully better, and looked up at the owl tothank it for its advice. It sat there blinking as though it had neverspoken in its life. 

"But you did, you know, " she said nodding at it, and she got up and ranout of the barn with Toto springing round her. 

She thought a good deal afterwards of what the owl had said, and came tothe conclusion that perhaps she had been a good deal in fault. At anyrate she would "try again" and see how it answered. Bridget was aresolute little character, and she took the matter in hand at once; butI can best tell you how it "answered" by describing a scene which tookplace a month later, on the last dancing-day before the holidays. 

The lesson was over, and the mistress was taking leave of her pupils;the usual visitors sat round the room looking on. 

"And now, " she said, "before we part, I must say a few special wordsabout one of my pupils, and that is, Miss Bridget Watson, whose markedimprovement during the past month I have been pleased to notice. I havealways felt that she had great difficulties to contend with, for whenyoung people are growing fast, it is not easy to manage the limbsgracefully. I have to congratulate her upon her efforts, and to hopethat you will all follow her example in trying to do your best. "

There was a murmur of satisfaction, for Bridget was a general favouriteamong her companions and they were all pleased to hear her praised. Every one was pleased; Miss Tasker, who was fond of Bridget, beamedbehind her spectacles, and carried home the good news to Mrs Watson, whose pleasure put a finishing touch to Bridget's exultation. Indeed, for some minutes she was more like a windmill than ever, through excessof joy, but it was holiday time, and even Miss Tasker said nothing. 

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You all know the story of the "Ugly Duckling, " and how, after all, itbecame a beautiful white swan. I cannot say whether, in like manner, Bridget grew up to be graceful and pretty, but one thing I am certainof, and that is, that she never regretted following the owl's advice to"try again. "

STORY FOUR, CHAPTER 1. 

ALL ALONE--A SHORT STORY. 

Nan was the youngest but one of the little Beresfords, and she was sixyears old when the baby came, so she was quite a responsible person andready to be a great help to nurse. Her round face and form assumed airsof dignity, and she strove valiantly to put away all babyish weaknessesas things of the past. 

But some of them were too strong for Nan, struggle as she would, and shefound to her dismay that though she was six years old, and "baby" nolonger, she was still afraid of the dark. 

It had always been a dreadful moment to her when, leaving the cheerfulnursery, she must be tucked up in her little bed and see nurse take awaythe candle. She would lie and stare with her bright round eyes into thethick blackness, and feel grateful if she could fix them on any littlefaint thread of light coming through chink or crevice. She could nothave told you what it was she feared, and perhaps this was the reasonwhy she never spoke of it to anyone--not even to mother. Besides, inthe bright morning light she forgot her fears, and being naturally acheerful and courageous child would have been ashamed to mention them. In a large family children are not encouraged to make too much of theirtroubles, for there is not time to attend to them; so no one knew thatmerry little Nan, who was afraid of nothing by daylight or candle-light, often lay awake at night long after she should have been asleep, andfelt very much afraid indeed. 

And now I am going to tell you how on one occasion Nan conquered herfears all by herself, with no help from anyone on earth; and you mustremember that it is a far braver thing to do what one is told in spiteof being afraid, than not to be afraid at all. 

At Ripley, which was the next village to that in which Mr Beresford, Nan's father, was rector, lived Squire Chorley, who had a large familyof boys and girls. They were fond of getting up concerts, andtheatricals, and readings for the poor people, and in all these thingsthe Beresfords were always asked over to help. And one Christmasholidays there was to be an unusually grand entertainment given by thechildren, which included a display of "Mrs Jarley's Wax-works. "

Nan would listen with absorbing interest to the discussion about whoshould represent the different characters in wax-work, and she wasallowed to be present at the rehearsals, but there was no question ofsuch a little thing taking a part. She thought all the figures verybeautiful, especially Joan of Arc, who was dressed in splendid tinselarmour and a crimson skirt, and was seated on a spotted rocking-horse. When she gracefully waved her sword Nan could hardly believe that itreally was her own sister Sophy, and afterwards when she read about Joanof Arc in the history of England she always fancied her looking justlike that, with long fair hair streaming down her back. 

There were a great many figures, as many as the stage would hold. And, as it was the first time the wax-works had been attempted, the childrenwere particularly anxious that it should go off well, and that thedresses should be especially brilliant. So everyone worked hard, andNan did her utmost to help, and was as excited about it as anyone. 

The evening before the performance there was to be a dress-rehearsal onthe stage which the carpenter had put up in the school-room, and sixexcited little Beresfords were packed into the wagonette with the Germangoverness, and driven over to Ripley. Fraulein was rather excited too, for she was to sing a song in an interval of the performance, and alsoto represent the Chinese giant in the wax-works. 

But when they reached the village school-room they found the othermembers of the company in low spirits, for they had received a blow. Johnnie Chorley, who was to have been "Jack-in-the-box, " had so bad acold that he was not to play. 

"I knew how it would be, " said Agatha, the eldest girl, despondingly, "when Johnnie wouldn't change his boots yesterday. And now there willbe no Jack-in-the-box; and it was one of the best. "

"Can't someone else take it?" said Tom Beresford, looking round. 

"No one small enough for the tub, " was the answer; "Johnnie is such amite, and made such good faces. "

Nan's heart beat fast. It was on her lips to say, "I am small enough, "but she did not dare. She only pushed herself a little in front, andstared up at Tom and Agatha with solemn, longing eyes. 

The former, a tall boy of fifteen, who was stage-manager on theseoccasions, stood whistling in a perplexed manner, and his eyes fell onthe compact little figure in front of him. 

"Hallo!" he said suddenly, "I have it. Here's your Jack!"

He took Nan up and stood her on a form near. 

"What, Nan?" said all the voices in different tones, and everyone lookedat her critically. 

Nan stood quite quietly, with her cheeks very red, and her eyesglistening, and her hands tucked into her little muff. She was soafraid that they would say she could not do it, and she felt so surethat she could. But it was settled that she might at least try; and, ohdelightful moment! She was lifted into the barrel, which was very coldand smelt of beer, and told what was expected of her. 

"You know, Nan, " said Tom, "that you are not to show the least littlebit of your head until you hear Mrs Jarley winding you up, and then youmust pop up suddenly, and make a nice little funny face as you have seenJohnnie do. "

Now, Nan was a most observant child, and had taken careful notes ofJohnnie's performance, which she very much admired; so, although herheart beat very quickly, she bobbed up just at the right minute withsuch a comical expression that there was a burst of applause, and "Welldone, Nan!" from the company. 

Happy Nan! They put a scarlet cloak on her, very full in the neck, anda queer little tow wig with a top-knot, and painted a red patch on eachcheek; and there she was, a member of the wax-works, and the happiestlittle soul in the county. 

She was to be a wax-work! The honour was almost too much, and the onlydrawback was poor Johnnie's disappointment. She thought of that, driving home that evening, and was so quiet that Fraulein thought shewas asleep, but she was only resolving that she would offer Johnnie herspotted guinea-pig to make up. 

So the eventful evening came, and everything was wonderfully successful;Mrs Jarley's wax-works was considered the best thing that had been seenin the village for years, and everyone laughed very much. Nan did hervery best to make a good Jack, and though she got very cramped in thetub, before her turn came to be exhibited, she made some most agilesprings, and was heartily applauded. Then the Vicar of Ripley made aspeech and thanked the performers, and all the people cheered, and theneveryone, including the wax-works, sang "God save the Queen, " and theentertainment was over. 

There was a great bustling and chattering afterwards in the green-room, where the actors were trying to find cloaks and shawls and hats, forthey were all to go to Mr Chorley's to supper, and no one seemed ableto get hold of the right things. 

Fraulein was fussing about her overshoes which she had lost, and therewas a general struggle and confusion. Nan stood in a corner in herquaint little dress, waiting for someone to wrap her up, and at last hersister Sophy saw her. 

"Why! There you are, you quiet little Nan, " she said, "I will find yourhood if I can. Here it is, and here is a shawl. " She bundled the childup warmly, and kissed her. "You were a jolly little Jack, " she went on, "and now you are to go home with cousin Annie and sleep at her houseto-night. Run into the school-room and find her. "

Cousin Annie was the Vicar of Ripley's wife, and had a little girl ofNan's own age, so it was a great treat to stay with her. Nan poked herway among the people who were still standing about in the school-roomchatting together before they dispersed, but she could not see anyoneshe knew. Then she waited a long while at the door, but there was nocousin Annie, she had evidently gone home. Nan peeped out. Down theroad which led to Mr Chorley's she heard distant voices and laughter, and saw the twinkling light of lanterns, but in the opposite directionit was all quite dark and silent, and that was the way to cousinAnnie's. She knew it as well as possible, and it was not very far, quite a short distance, in the _daylight_--you had only to go down thelane, and turn a little to the right, and go in at the white gate nearthe pond. A very simple matter in the daytime; but now! Nan steppedback into the room; she would go and tell them that cousin Annie hadgone, and then someone would go with her. But to her dismay she foundthe green-room dark and silent; they had all gone out by the other doorwithout coming through the school-room, and Nan was alone. She stoodirresolute, clutching the heavy shawl which Sophy had wrapped round her, and feeling half inclined to cry. There was only one thing to do now, and that was to go down the dark lane all by herself. Nan had beenbrought up in habits of the most simple obedience, and it never occurredto her to question any order. "You are to go to cousin Annie's, " Sophyhad said, so of course she must go. 

She choked down a little sob, and pulled open the door again, andtrotted out into the darkness. Her heavy shawl rather impeded her, soshe could not go very fast, and the road was rough and uneven for hersmall feet. She looked up to see if she could find any comfortabletwinkling star for a companion, but the sky was all black and overcast, and there was no moon. Then she said her evening prayer to herself, butit was very short and did not last long, and then all the hymns sheknew, and then all the texts, and by that time she was nearly at thebottom of the lane, when, oh misfortune! She caught her foot in thedangling end of the big shawl and fell flat in the mud. It was veryhard to keep back the tears after that; but she gathered herself up aswell as she could and stumbled on, until at last she passed through thewhite gate, which stood open, and reached the front door of theVicarage. But her troubles were not over yet, for she found that, evenby standing on the very tips of her toes, she could reach neither bellnor knocker. She rapped as hard as she could with her soft littleknuckles, but they made no more noise on the great door than a bird'sbeak would have done; and then she tried some little kicks, but no onecame. 

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

The next thing she remembered was hearing a voice say, quite close toher: "Why, it's little Nan! How did the child get here?" And thensomeone took her up, and carried her with strong arms into a warm roomwith bright lights. And then she found herself on cousin Annie's knee, and saw people standing round asking eager questions and looking verymuch amused. And no wonder, for Nan was a very funny-looking littlebundle indeed, in spite of her woe-begone appearance; her round face wasstreaked with mud, and tears, and scarlet paint, and the odd little wighad fallen over one eye in a waggish manner. When the hood and shawlwere taken off, a more disconsolate little Jack-in-the-box could hardlybe imagined, for what with hunger, fatigue, and the comfort of feelingcousin Annie's kind arms round her, Nan's tears fell fast and she couldnot stop them. 

They could just make out between her sobs something about "Sophy" and"sleeping, " but that was all; and at last cousin Annie said, "Nevermind, darling, you shall tell me all about it by and by. " And then poorlittle weary Nan was carried upstairs, and washed, and put to bed, andcousin Annie brought her some supper, and sat by her until she droppedgently off to sleep. 

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

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

STORY FIVE, CHAPTER 1. 

PENELOPE'S NEEDLEWORK--A SHORT STORY. 

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

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

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

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

For the Waverley novels were Penelope's favourite books, and she askednothing better than to curl herself up in some corner with one of thevolumes, and to be left alone. 

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

She followed her hero in all his varying fortunes, and was present athis side in battle; she saw him struggling against many foes, fightingfor the poor and weak, meeting treachery with truth, and falsehood withfaithfulness; she heard the clash of his armour, and watched his goodsword flash in the air at the tournament; she trembled for him when hewas sore wounded, and rejoiced with him when, after many a hard-wonfray, he was rewarded by the hand of his lady love. Those were daysindeed! There was something quite remarkably flat and stupid in sittingdown to hem a pocket-handkerchief when you had just come from thetourney at Ashby de la Zouche, or in playing exercises and scales whileyou were still wondering whether King Louis the Eleventh _would_ hangthe astrologer or not. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Well, " said Penny, making fruitless attempts to thread her needle, "Isuppose mother will help her to get some money. I shall ask her to letme give her some out of the charity-box--only I'm afraid there isn'tmuch in it now. "

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

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

Nurse rolled up a tight bundle of clothes and left the room withoutanswering, and Penny, with her frowning little face bent over her work, went on thinking about Mrs Dicks and her six children. She wonderedwhether they had enough to eat now; if they were to be brought up onnothing, they probably had not, she thought, and she felt anxious tofinish her task that she might run and ask mother about it, and how shecould best help with the money out of the charity-box. So she cobbledover the last stitches rather hastily, and put the work away; but shefound after all that her mother was too busy to attend to her just then. The next step, therefore, was to ascertain the state of thecharity-box, and she took it down from the mantel-piece in the play-roomand gave it a little shake. It made quite a rich sound; but Penny knewby experience what a noise coppers can make, so she was not very hopefulas she unscrewed the top and looked in. And matters were even worsethan she feared, for all the box contained was this: two pennies, onehalfpenny, and one stupid little farthing. Penny felt quite angry withthe farthing, for it was bright and new, and looked at the first glancealmost like gold. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

The embroideries were, indeed, very beautiful, and exhibited with a gooddeal of pride, while Penny sat in modest silence listening to theconversation. She privately regarded Mrs Hathaway's handiwork with ashudder, and thought to herself, "How very little time she must have forreading!"

Scarcely any notice had been taken of her yet; but presently, wheneverything had been shown and admired, Mrs Hathaway turned her keenblack eyes upon her, and said:

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

A sympathetic glance passed between Mrs Hawthorne and Penny, but sheknew she must answer for herself, and she murmured shyly thoughemphatically:

"Oh, _no_. "

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

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

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

"Because I _hate_ it so. "

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

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

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

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

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

"Why not?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Why?" said Penny. 

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

"So I shall!" sighed Penny. 

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

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

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

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

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

"Go and look, " said her mother. 

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

That I will leave you to guess. 

STORY SIX, CHAPTER 1. 

THE BLACK PIGS--A TRUE STORY. 

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

"Where?"

"At Donnington. "

"We shall want the cart and horse. "

"Ask father. "

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Father. "

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

"Well, " he said in an absent way. 

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

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

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

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

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

"Then we may have it, father?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then there was suddenly a little bustle in the market, and people movedaside to let a new-comer pass down the narrow space between the pensopposite to where the boys had placed themselves. It was a broad comelygentleman of middle age, dressed in riding-boots, and cords, and a fadedgreen coat. He had a riding-whip in his hand, with which he touched thebrim of his hat in acknowledgment of the greetings round him; his dogfollowed close on his heels. There was a pleased recognition on all thefaces, for everyone liked Squire Dale; he was a bold rider, and a goodshot, and a kind landlord. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Gabriel forgot that he was tired. 

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

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

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

"Shall we tell about the plan?"

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

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

"You, " said Roger huskily. 

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

"A what?" interrupted the squire. 

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

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

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

Gabriel sat very upright while he spoke, with a deepening flush on hischeeks. The squire leaned forward with a hand on each knee, andlistened attentively. 

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

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

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

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

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

------------------------------------------------------------------------

The co-operative plan began very well indeed. Roger and Gabriel, with alittle assistance and advice from their eldest brother Ben, built acapital sty on Squire Dale's little bit of land, which was convenientlynear the vicarage, and soon, behold them the proud possessors of a sowand nine black pigs! The boys' pride and pleasure were immense, andnothing could exceed their care and attention to the mother and herchildren; perhaps these were overdone, which may account for the tragicevent which shortly took place. 

The little pigs were about two weeks old, very "peart" and lively, andeverything was proceeding in a satisfactory manner, when one morningGabriel went to visit them as usual with a pail of food. As he nearedthe sty, he heard, instead of the low "choug, choug, choug, " to which hewas accustomed, nothing but a chorus of distressed little squeaks. Hequickened his steps; his heart beat very fast; he looked over the edgeof the sty, and, oh horror! The sow was stretched flat on her sidequite dead, while her black family squeaked and struggled and poked ateach other with their little pointed snouts. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

THE END.