THE PROFESSIONAL AUNT

By Mary C. E. Wemyss

Chapter I

A boy's profession is not infrequently chosen for him by hisparents, which perhaps accounts for the curious fact that the shrewd, business-like member of a family often becomes a painter, while theartistic, unpractical one becomes a member of the Stock Exchange, incourse of time, naturally. 

My profession was forced upon me, to begin with, by my sisters-in-law, and in the subsequent and natural order of things by their children--mynephews and nieces. 

Zerlina says it is the duty of one woman in every family to be an aunt. By that she means of course a professional aunt. She says she does notunderstand the longing on the part of unattached females--the expressionis hers, not mine--for a larger sphere of usefulness than that whichaunt hood offers. She considers that it affords full scope for theenergies of any reasonably constituted woman; and no doubt, if theprofessional aunt was all that Zerlina says she should be, she wouldhave her time fully occupied in the discharging of her duties. 

Zerlina cannot see that it is not exactly a position of a woman's ownchoosing, although under strong pressure she has been known to admitthat there have been cases in which women have been made aunts whetherthey would or no; and she thinks it is perhaps by way of protest againstsuch usage that they so shamefully neglect their duties in that walkof life to which their bothers and sister-in-law have seen fit to callthem. 

Of course, when an aunt marries, she loses at once all the perfectingof the properly constituted aunt; and that is a thing to be seriouslyconsidered. Is she wise in leaving a profession for which all hersisters-in-law think she is admirably fitted, for one which the mostexperienced pronounce a lottery?

This is all of course written from Zerlina's point of view. She requiresof a professional aunt many things. She must, to begin with, rememberthe birthdays of all her nephews and nieces, of Zerlina's childrenin particular. If she remembers their birthdays, it stand to reason, Zerlina's reason, that the sequence of thought is--presents. 

The really successful aunt knows the particular taste of each nephew andniece. She knows, moreover, the exact moment at which the taste changesfrom a love for woolly rabbits to a passion for steam engines. Instincttells her at what age a child maybe promoted, with safety, from wool topaint, and she knows the critical moment in a boy's life when a Bibleshould be bestowed. It usually, or perhaps I should say my experience isthat it usually, follows the first knife, an ordinary two-bladed knife, and comes the birthday before a knife--"with things in it. " The realboy must have a knife with things in it: a corkscrew, --I wonder why acorkscrew?--a buttonhook, a thing to take stones out of horses' hoofs, a thing to mend traces with--I know I am ignorant of the technicalterms--but the hardest-hearted shop-assistant will never fail to help aprofessional aunt in the choice of a knife, unless by chance he shouldbe unhappy enough never to have been a boy, and such cases are rare. 

I used often to wonder why boys wanted all these things. Now I know, because I asked Dick and he said, "You see, Aunt Woggles, I use them forother things. " I am not sure that most of us don't do the same thingwith many of our most cherished possessions in life. 

As regards steam-engines Zerlina lays down a distinct law. They mustnever burst--that is an injury no sister-in-law would ever forgive--andpaint must never come off. If Zerlina had known and loved the taste ofcrimson lake in the days of her youth, she would never draw so hard andfast a line. 

From the earliest moment in a baby's career, the professional aunt takesupon herself serious responsibilities. She may not, for instance, likeany ordinary aunt, pass the baby in his perambulator, out walking. Anyother aunt may, with perfect propriety, say, "Hullo, duckie, where'sauntie?" and pass on. She knows the danger of stopping, and seeks toavoid it. Not so the professional aunt. She realizes the danger andfaces it. She knows she will have to wait, for the sake of the child'scharacter, until he shall choose to say, "Ta-ta. "

He will probably, if he is a healthy child, say everything he knowsbut that. He will go through his limited vocabulary in a patheticallyobliging manner, making the most beautiful "moo-moos" and"quack-quacks, " but he will not say, "Ta-ta. " Why should he? Onpersuasion, and more especially if the interview should take place ata street-corner on a windy March day, he will repeat the "moo-moos" and"quack-quacks" even more successfully than before, and he will wonderin what way they fall short of perfection, since he earns no praise. Helikes to be rewarded with, "Kevver boy. " We all do, just as a matter ofform, if nothing else. Surely ordinary politeness demands it. 

He will not say, "Ta-ta, " though. Who knows but what it is innatepoliteness on his part and his way of saying, "Oh, don't go! What aflying visit!"

However, the professional aunt cannot be sure of this, although she canguess; so she must wait patiently, for the sake of Baby's morals andnurse's feelings, until he does say, "Ta-ta. " We may suppose that heat last loses his temper and says it, meaning, no doubt, "For goodnesssake, go!" if not something stronger. The nurse is satisfied, the auntis released, and the conscientious objector is wheeled away. 

Besides ministering to the soul of a baby the aunt must tend to itsbodily needs, and for this reason she must be a good needlewoman. 

Before the arrival of the first nephew or niece, when she is veryunprofessional, she will hastily put her work under the sofa or behindthe cushion when any one comes into the room. As she grows older andmore professional, and the nephews and nieces become more numerous, shewill give up hiding her work. People who are intimately connected withthe family will show no surprise, and to inquisitive strangers, unlessshe is very religious, she can murmur something about a crèche, so long, of course, as Zerlina is not there. 

The really successful aunt, one who is at the top of her profession, can perfectly well be trusted to take all the children to the Zoo alone;that is to say, without a nurse, and of course without the mother. Themother knows how pleased and gratified an aunt feels on being given theentire charge of the children. The nurse is gratified too; in factevery one is pleased, with perhaps the exception of the aunt. But it isagainst professional etiquette for her to say so. She only wonders whymothers think a privilege they hold so lightly--taking the childrento the Zoo--should be so esteemed by other women. But as the oldstory goes, "Hush, darling, hush, the doctor knows best, " so must wesay, --"Mothers know best. "

Another qualification in a professional aunt, desirable if notindispensable, is tact. If she should be possessed of ever so little, itwill save her a considerable amount of bother. She won't, in a moment ofmental aberration, praise dark-eyed children to Zerlina, whose childrenhave blue eyes. Should she do so, by some unlucky chance, it would takeseveral expeditions to the Zoo, and probably one to Kew, before thingswere as they were. If Zerlina, however, should, by the expedition ofthe aunt and children to Kew, be enabled to do something she very muchwanted to do, and couldn't, because the nurse's father was ill, and thenursery-maid anemic, the little misunderstanding will have disappearedby the time the aunt returns from Kew, and Zerlina will say, aftercarefully counting the children, --it is this mathematical tendencyin mothers that hurts an aunt, --"I do trust you implicitly with thechildren, dear. You know that; it isn't every one I could trust; you areso capable! I wish I were, but one can't be everything. Of course youdon't understand a mother's feelings. "

I sometimes wonder why Zerlina always says this to me. I have neverpretended to be anything but an aunt. 

But to return to my profession. As the children grow older the duties ofthe aunt become more arduous. For the benefit of schoolboy nephews withexeats, she must have an intimate acquaintance with the Hippodrome, anyexhibition going, every place of instruction, of a kind, or amusement. She must be thoroughly up in matinees, and know what plays arefrightfully exciting, and she must have a nice taste in sweets. She neednot necessarily eat them; it is perhaps better if she does not. But shemust know where the very best are to be procured. She must never gettired. She must love driving in hansoms and going on the top of 'buses. She must know where the white ones go, and where the red ones don't, although a mistake on her part is readily forgiven, if it prolongs thedrive without curtailing a performance of any kind. This requires greatexperience. She must set aside, moreover, a goodly sum every year forprofessional expenses. 

The foregoing are a few of the qualifications which Zerlina thinksessential in aunts. There are others, and the greatest of them is love. Zerlina forgot to mention that. 

Chapter II

But Diana! That is another story. Open the windows wide, let in thefresh air, the whispering of trees, the song of the birds, and all thatis good and beautiful in nature. The very thought of Diana is sunshine. She is as God meant us to be, happy and good, believing in the goodnessof others, slow to find evil in them, quick to forgive it, infinitelypitiful of the sorrows of the suffering. This is Diana, and she hasthree children, Betty, Hugh, and Sara. Allah be praised!

You do not imagine that I dislike Zerlina, do you? I should be sorry togive that impression. But a professional aunt must be above all thingsabsolutely straightforward and truthful. 

I had been engaged for weeks to go to Hames for the first shoot, and anurgent telegram from Zerlina, followed by a feverish letter, failed tomove me from my purpose. The telegram, by the way, ran as follows: "Canyou Tuesday for fortnight. Do. Urgent. ZERLINA. " I wondered why Zerlinaelected to leave out "come. " If I had been strictly economizing, Ishould have saved on the "do. " The letter followed in due course oftime:--

Dear Betty, I have just sent a wire in frantic haste asking you to come[that was exactly what she had not done] on Tuesday for a fortnight. I should so much like you to see something of the children, and Babyreally is very fascinating. She is such a fat child, much fatter thanMuriel's baby, who is six months older. The fact is, Jim is rather rundown; nothing much, of course, but I think a change would do him good, and the Staveleys have asked us to go to them, and I don't like torefuse, and we thought it would be such a good opportunity to have mybedroom re-papered and painted. I don't believe you would smell thepaint, and in any case I believe there is some new kind of paint whichsmells delicious, like stephanotis, I am told, so I will order that. Iwould not ask you to come just as we are going away, because I shouldlike to be at home to see you, but I could go away so happily if youwere with the children; I often think for a woman without children, you are so wonderfully understanding, about children, I mean. You couldmanage nurse, too, I am sure. She is in one of her moods just now, and Ifeel I must get away from all worries for a little. 

Yours, ZERLINA

P. S. --Jim is so well, and would send his love if he were here. 

I telegraphed back, of course, directly I got Zerlina's telegram, saying I could not come, and answered the letter at leisure. It is asa sister-in-law in relation to the aunt that Diana particularly shines. This aunt she looks upon as something more than useful, and asks herto stay at other times than when the children have measles, andwhooping-cough, or the bedroom is to be re-papered. Zerlina perhaps isunfortunate. She says, "Have you ever noticed how the children alwayshave something when you come to stay?" Zerlina is quite pretty when sheputs her head on one side. I answer, "Yes, Zerlina, I have noticed itcuriously enough, " but I do not say that I suspect that at the veryfirst sound of a cough, at the very first appearance of a rash, thisaunt is urged to come and stay. 

Diana accepts such services; the mother of such creatures as Betty, Hugh, and Sara is forced to do so by very reason of their existence. Butthose services she accepts with generous appreciation; not that an auntwants thanks, but being human, pitifully so, even the most professionalof them, she is conscious where they are not expressed, in some form orother. A smile is enough. 

So to Hames I went, in spite of Zerlina's appeal, with treasures deepdown in my box for Betty, Hugh, and Sara. Sara is of all babes in theworld the most fascinating, say sisters-in-law other than Diana whatthey will. As a tribute to this fascination, the largest white rabbit, woolly to a degree undreamed of--at least I hoped so--in Sara's world, was carefully packed in my box, wrapped cunningly in tissue-paper, andguarded on all sides by clothing of a soft description. I have known achiffon skirt put to strange uses in the interests of Sara. 

I found the carriage waiting for me, and was touched to see that Croft, the old coachman, had come to meet me himself. It is an honor he doesthe family with perhaps two or three exceptions. When he comes to meetme, there is a regular program to be gone through. It varies only in avery slight degree and begins like this:--

I say, "Well, Croft, it is very nice to see you, " and he says, "The sameto you, miss, and many of them. " He then begins to "riminize"; the wordis his own. He begins with the auspicious day on which I was born, anddescribes how he himself went to fetch the doctor in the dead of thenight. He describes minutely his costume and the part the elementsplayed on the occasion; they were evidently very much upset. He thengoes on to say how he held me on my first pony, and taught me to rideand drive. Having finally certificated me as competent to drive a pairof horses under any circumstances, I ask how the children are, Sara inparticular. Here Croft looks heavenward, and says she looks a picture, and adds that she looks very like me. The footman knows that here theprogram is at an end, Croft having no greater praise to bestow on mortalwoman, and he opens the carriage door and I get in. 

Diana knows what it is to travel t he distance of three miles in thesuffocating embraces of Hugh and Betty; otherwise she would probablyhave sent the children to meet me. 

The smell of the brougham brought my childhood vividly back to me. Ishut my eyes and instinctively put out my hand; and that hand that wasalways held out to us as children took mine in its loving clasp, and Iwas a child again, home from a visit, so glad to feel that hand againand to see that mother from whom it was agony to be parted, for even ashort space of time. 

Chapter III

When I arrived at Hames, Diana, tall, fair, and beautiful as a Dianashould be, was on the doorstep to meet me. Diana, by the way, had beenchristened "Diana Elizabeth, " in case she should have turned out shortand dumpy and, by some miraculous chance, dark. I looked for Sara in thetail of Diana's gown, --I am afraid this is a literary license, as Dianadoes not wear tails to her gowns in the country as a rule, --but Sara wasnot there. 

"She is not there, " said Diana. "The children are in the wildest stateof excitement, and will you faithfully promise to go up and see themdirectly you have had tea?"

I would willingly have gone then and there, and murmured something aboutmy box, and Diana said she hoped I had not brought them anything. 

"Oh! nothing, " I said; "only the smallest things possible"; knowing allthe time that the woolly rabbit was, of its kind, unrivaled. But theseare professional expenses, and what I spend does not afterwards giveme a moment's worry. I have seen David, on the other hand, speechlesslymiserable after buying a mezzotint, for the time being only, of course;the joy cometh in the morning, when Diana proves to him that it was theonly thing to do, and that it was really quite wonderful, the way inwhich he was led to buy it. He had had no idea of doing so. Not theslightest! And yet something within him urged him to buy it. Absolutelyurged him!

Then, Diana said, it was clearly meant. If a man deliberately set outon a fine morning, bent on spending more than he could afford, then--!Diana's "then" is always so comforting. 

I am so afraid you will spoil the children, she said; "they expectpresents, which is so dreadful. Hugh bet sixpence at lunch that youwould bring him something, and he said to poor Mr. Hardy, You didn't. "

"But he will next time, Diana, " I said. 

"Of course he will; that is the dreadful part of it. "

It is right that Diana should feel like that. A mother's point of viewand another's, an aunt's, for instance, are totally different things, and I told Diana that, while fully appreciating her anxieties regardingthe characters of her children, considered that to destroy a child'sfaith in an aunt was little short of criminal. But I promised that thenext time I came I would, perhaps, not bring them anything. "But I shallgive them fair warning. "

Diana admitted the justice of this, and she said, with a sigh of relief, "I can't bear the children to be disappointed; a disappointed Sara is--"

"Diana, " I interrupted, "is it wise to begin Saraing at this time ofday?"

In reality the woolly rabbit was tugging at my heartstrings andclamoring to be unpacked. After a hurried tea, which I was obliged tohave for the sake of Bindon's feelings, I went upstairs, resolved todisinter at all costs, without delay, the rabbit. I felt great anxietylest in transit the machinery which made the rabbit squeak in a way thatsurely no rabbit, mechanical or otherwise, --particularly the otherwise, I hoped, --had ever squeaked before, might be impaired; happily it wasnot. 

Having carefully shut the door and silenced the attendant housemaid, Itook the precaution of burying the rabbit partially under the eider-downquilt before testing the squeak, so that no noise should reach thechildren. I am afraid I "mothered" the squeak of that rabbit if Iimagined it could reach anywhere so far; it was in reality such a verysmall one. But such as it was, it was perfect, in spite of the deadeningeffect of the quilt, and I pictured Sara's dimples dimpling. How shewould love it! The treasure was carefully wrapped up again, and I triedhard to make it look like anything rather than a rabbit, in case Sarashould try, by feeling it, to discover its nature. 

Jane, the housemaid, said that no one could tell, no matter how muchthey tried; if they tried all day, they wouldn't, that she knew forsure; which was very consoling. 

I then examined Hugh's train and Betty's cooking-stove, and found themintact, with, the exception of a saucepan lid. This, after a search, we found under the wardrobe. Why do things always go under things? Janedidn't know--she only knew they did. Then I opened the door and called. 

Suddenly I heard a noise unearthly in its shrillness: it was Hughcalling his Aunt Woggles. He threw himself into my arms, keeping oneeye, I could not help noticing, on the parcels. During the hug, whichgave him plenty of time to make up his mind, he evidently decidedwhich was for him; for he relaxed his hold and went to the table by thewindow, on which the parcels lay, whistling in as careless a manner as aboy bursting with excitement could do. First of all he stood on one leg, then on the other, and looked knowingly at me out of the corner of hiseye. He was too honest to pretend that he thought the parcel was forsome other boy, since there was no other. When the excitement becamemore than he could bear, he sang in a sing-song voice, "I see it, I seeit!"

"Open it, then, " I said, which he proceeded to do with great energy, ifwith little success. 

"I b'lieve it's a knife with things in it, " he said. 

My heart sank. "Oh, it's much too big for a knife, Hugh, " I replied. 

"I 'spect it is, all the same, " he said with a nod; "you've made it bigon purpose; I positively know you have. "

At last it was opened, and I said, aunt-like, "Do you like it, Hugh?"

"Awfully, thanks. " Then he added a little wistfully, "Tommy's got aknife with things in it, a button'ook. "

Perhaps he saw I looked disappointed, for he added magnanimously, "Ilike trains next best, Aunt Woggles; only you see I didn't exactly prayfor a train, that's why. What's Betty's?"

"Betty must open it herself. "

"Don't you suppose, " he said, "that she would like me to open it forher, because it is a hard thing opening parcels--and Betty says I mayalways open all her parcels when she is out. "

"Hugh!" I exclaimed. 

He rushed to the door. "Come on, Betty, " he shouted. "Aunt Woggles wantsyou. "

If Betty's entrance was less tempestuous than Hugh's, her embrace wasnot less ecstatic. She put her arms round my neck and took her legs offthe ground, --a quite simple process, and known to most aunts, I expect. The ultimate result would, no doubt, be strangulation. No one knows, ofcourse, but among aunts it is a very general belief. Unlike Hugh, Bettykept her eyes religiously away from parcels, and she got very pink whenI drew her attention to the very nobly one which was hers. Hugh stoodby, urging her to open it, and offering to help her; but this Bettywould not allow, and she opened it, her lips trembling with excitement. 

"Is it for my very own?" she whispered. 

"Absolutely for your very own, Betty, " I answered. 

"Oh!" said Betty. "Hugh, it's all for my very, very own; Aunt Wogglessays so; but you may play with it when you are very good. "

This in Hugh's eyes seemed so remote a contingency as to be scarcelyworth consideration. 

When the cooking-stove stood revealed in all its glory, Betty was silentfor a moment; then she said in a voice choked with emotion, "I shallcook dinners for you, all for your very own self--nobody else. "

My heart sank. "You will eat the things, won't you?" she asked, "if Imake proper things, just like real things?"

"Of course, " I said. "Where's Sara?"

"She wouldn't have her face washed, " said Betty, "so she's waiting tillshe's good. "

Poor Sara! A strict disciplinarian is Betty!

The regeneration of Sara was evidently a matter of moments only, forthe words were hardly out of Betty's mouth when Sara, in all her clean, delicious dumpiness, appeared in the doorway. If there is one thing moredelicious than a grubby Sara, it is a clean Sara. Sara after gardeningis delicious, but Sara clean is assuredly the cleanest thing on God'searth. I have never seen a child look so new, and so straight out oftissue-paper, as Sara can look. She stared solemnly at her Aunt Woggles, and then proceeded to walk away in the opposite direction, which was aninvitation on her part to me to follow and snatch her up in my arms. Shebore the hug stoically for a reasonable time, and then said, "Oo 'urt. "

I realized, with the agony of remorse, that a very large aunt can bymeans of a brooch inflict exquisite torture on a very small niece. 

She wriggled herself free and began to rearrange her ruffled garments. "Yaya's got noo soos, " she announced; "ved vuns. "

"No, blue, darling, " I said. 

"Ved, " said Sara. 

"No, sweetest, blue, " I repeated in a somewhat professional but whollyaffectionate manner. 

"Ved, " said Sara with great decision; so I gave it up. 

"Sara always thinks blue is red, " said Betty; "don't you, darling?"

"No, boo, " replied Sara; so the matter dropped. 

"Oo's tummin' to see Yaya's toys, " said Sara. 

"Am I, darling? When?"

"Now. "

"But Aunt Woggles has got something for you, " I said in a triumphantvoice. 

Sara showed no interest and pulled me by the hand toward the door. 

"Hand me that, Betty, " I said, pointing to the parcel on the table. 

Betty handed it to me. 

"Here, Sara, " I said, "I have got a darling white rabbit for you! Sara! Abunny!"

"Yaya's got a blush upstairs, a lubbly blush, " she said, disdaining evento look at the parcel. I held it toward her, undid it, I squeaked thesqueak, I called the rabbit endearing names; but to no purpose. Saralooked the other way. A look I at last persuaded her to bestow upon therabbit; but she gazed at its charms, unmoved. 

"Yaya doesn't yike nasty bunnies, only nice blushes, " she said. 

"It's a hearth-brush dressed up, " whispered Betty, "and it's dressed upin my dolly's cape, at least in one of my dolly's capes; she loves it. Aunt Woggles, do you think it is a good thing to make hearth-brushes saytheir prayers? Sara does. "

I followed Sara disconsolately to the nursery and was shown the beautiesof the "lubbly blush. "

Nannie bemoaned her darling's taste, and the nursery-maid blushed forvery shame. 

"Not but what it's quite clean, miss, " Nannie said; "it's beenthoroughly washed in carbolic. "

Meanwhile Sara was rocking herself backward and forward in a mannertruly maternal and singing her version of "Jesus Tender" to her "lubblyblush. "

"I thought she would love the rabbit, " I said, and Nannie, by way ofconsolation, assured me that there was really nothing Sara loved somuch as a rabbit. I suppose Nannie knew, and that it was only anotherinstance of the folly of judging from appearances. 

"You will love your bunny, won't you, darling?" said Nannie; "nicebunny!"

"Nasty bunny, " said Sara with great decision. 

"That's naughty, baby, " said Nannie; "nice bunny!"

"Naughty bunny, " said Sara, "vake Yaya's yubbly vitty blush. " And sheresumed her singing with religious fervor. 

Nannie was really quite upset, and apologized for her charge. I acceptedthe apology and resolved then and there to send the despised rabbitto the Children's Hospital by the next post. Have you ever given atoy-balloon to a child, and had the child say, "Balloons don't amuse?" Ihave. 

Nannie then, by way of consolation, suggested that Sara should say herprayers at my knee. It was the greatest compliment she could payany one. Sara consented after much pressure, and she knelt down andproceeded to pack up her face. No other word to my mind describes theprocess. First of all she shut her eyes tight. To keep them tight seemedto require a great physical effort; this was done by tightly screwingup her nose. Next she proceeded to gather her eyebrows into the smallestpossible compass, and then she drew a deep breath, folded her smallhands, and started off at a terrific pace, "Gaw bess parver yan muvveryan nannie yan hughyan betty yan dicky an aunt woggles yan ellen yanemma yan croft--yan blusby yan all ve vitty children yan make dem vellygood boys yan make my nastyole bunnyagoodgirl. May Yaya get up?"

"Not yet, baby, think, " said Nannie. 

Sara thought, and then with a fresh access of solemnity repeatedan entirely new version of the Lord's Prayer. Nannie understood itevidently, for at a point quite unintelligible to me, Nannie said, "Goodgirl!" and Sara jumped up. 

Nannie told me that nothing would induce Sara to pray that she mightbe made good. She was always very ready to make such petitions on thebehalf of Betty and Hugh, but for herself, no. She is not like Betty, who at her age prayed, "Dear God, please make me a good little girl, butif you can't manage it, don't bother about it; Nannie will soon do it. "

Difficult and tedious as the task may have appeared to Betty, I thinkit was assuredly within the power of God to make her good without theintervention of Nannie. Dear Betty!

Sara was then put to bed, and while Nannie brushed her hair, Sarabrushed the hearth-brush's hair. Sara was very anxious to have it in herbath with her, but here Nannie was firm. 

Later the hearth-brush was dressed in a nightgown and laid beside Sarain her little bed. The last thing she did before going to sleepwas to gaze at her darling "blush" with rapture and say, "Nasty--'ollid--bunny!"

Her eyelashes fluttered and then gently fell on her cheek, as abutterfly hovers and then settles on the petal of a rose. 

"Leave it here, miss, " said Nannie; "she'll see it when she wakes. "

I left the despised bunny and went to dress for dinner. Betty waswaiting for me outside. "Is the cooking-stove for my very own self, AuntWoggles?"

"Absolutely, Betty. Why?"

"Only because Hugh wondered if it wasn't or him, too. He only wondered, and I said I didn't suppose one present could be for two people, becausethen it wouldn't be such a very real present, would it?"

I said, "Of course not"; and I told her the story of the two men whoowned one elephant, and one man said to the other: "I don't know whatyou are going to do with your half; I am going to shoot mine!"

"And did he, Aunt Woggles?" asked Betty, her eyes wide with horror. 

"I wonder, " I said. "I'll race you to the end of the passage. "

"I won, " cried Betty. "No, we both of us did, " she added, slipping herhand into mine. 

That evening Diana told me that a few days before, she had heard thefollowing conversation between Hugh and Betty:

"I am going to shoot my cock. "

"Hugh!" said Betty, "don't, it's a darlin' cock. "

"But it doesn't lay eggs, " said Hugh. 

"I don't think cocks are supposed to lay eggs, " said Betty thoughtfully. 

"Well, I don't see why they shouldn't, " said Hugh; "widowers havechildren. "

Chapter IV

Suppose all aunts, that is to say, all professional aunt, know what itis to be visited at seven o'clock in the morning by nephews and nieces, fresh, vigorous, and rosy after a night's rest. Fresh, and oh! sovigorous and deliciously rosy were Hugh and Betty when they appeared atmy bedside at seven o'clock the next morning. 

"Hullo!" said Hugh, "we've come. May we get into your bed? I'll get upsteam and take a long run and jump in. Shall I?"

I braced myself up for the shock. There is no need to go through themorning's program; I suppose every aunt knows it. Bears, camel-rides, robbers, and various other things, all of a distinctly energetic nature. At half past seven-you see it doesn't take long, any aunt can bear halfan hour--Nannie appeared, carrying a deliciously rosy Sara with her hairdone on the top, which makes her more than ever fascinating; and inher arms she carried her bunny--Sara's arms, I mean, of course. "Nicebunny, " she said. 

"Who gave you your bunny?" I asked. 

"Jesus!" said Sara, triumphantly nodding her head and opening her eyesvery wide. "Jesus makes all ve bunnies, and all ve vitty dickey birds, and all ve vitty fowers, and all ve big fowers and all ve ponge cakes, and Yaya. "

"And what is Sara going to do with her bunny?" I asked. 

"Vuv it, " she said with ecstasy. 

"Shall I leave her?" asked Nannie. 

"What a foolish question, Nannie!" I said. "Could any one send away ablue dressing-be-gowned Sara?"

"And shall I take the others, miss?"

"Do, " I replied. 

They went and left me in sole possession of Sara. 

"Shall I tell Sara a story?" I said. She nodded her head. 

"A storlie all about bunnies. "

So I began, "Once upon a time there was a big bunny. "

"A vitty bunny, " said Sara. 

"A little bunny, " I said. "Once upon a time there was a little bunny. "

"A velly, velly vitty bunny, " said Sara. 

"Once upon a time there was a very, very little bunny, " I repeated, emphasizing the "very, very little, " as Sara had done. She cuddled intothe bedclothes, evidently quite satisfied with the beginning as it nowstood. "And the very, very little bunny lived in a nice hole--"

"A nice bed, " said Sara, "a velly nice bed and not in a vitty bed, butin a velly big bed, a velly, velly big bed with Aunt Woggles. "

"In a nice big bed with Aunt Woggles, " I said, "and he was a very goodlittle bunny. "

At this Sara rose in the bed and looked at me very severely. 

"Did he say his palayers eberly day?" she asked. 

"No, not prayers, darling. Bunnies don't say prayers; children sayprayers. "

"Naughty bunnies!" said Sara with great severity. 

Dreading a religious discussion, which Sara loves, I proposed changingthe story to "The Three Bears. " She acquiesced with jumps of joy up anddown, just where one would not choose to be jumped upon, and said, "Vefelee belairs. "

Here I fared no better: my version of the story was so hopelessly wrong, and I received such crushing correction at the hands of Sara, that Iwas glad to relinquish my office of story-teller and suggested that sheshould tell a story instead. 

This was evidently what she had wanted to do all along, for she began atonce. She tells a story very much as she says her prayers, at the sameterrific pace certainly. First of all she swallowed and took a deepbreath, then she began, "Vunce there was a vitty blush--and not a badnasty blush--it said its palayers ebery morning an nannie said goodgirly an then the blush vent to sleep in a vitty bed with Yaya. "

"Go slower, darling, " I said. "Aunt Woggles can't quite understand. "

"Yan--ven--Yaya--voke up ve vitty--belush said, 'Good-morning, ' yan Yayasaid, 'Good-morning, ' yan it was a nice bunny yan not a nasty bunny anymore. "

Here Sara's thoughts were distracted, and the story ended abruptly forwant of breath, or possibly of story. She refused to go on, and whenpressed said with great decision, "Dey's all dead. "

She then had her share of camel-rides and bears, and by the time Nanniecame I began to feel that I had earned my breakfast. I was one of thefirst down, and Bindon was evidently waiting for me, because as I wentinto the dining-room he took up his position behind a certain chair, which action on his part plainly indicated that I was to sit there. I wondered why. Could it be that I had arrived at the age when it isadvisable for a woman to sit back to the light at breakfast? Was thisonly another instance of Bindon's devotion to us all? That the credit ofthe family is paramount in his mind, I know! All this flashed throughmy mind, but I saw a moment later that it was not of my complexion thatBindon thought, for on a plate before the chair behind which he stood, lay a small dark gray wad about the size of a five-shilling piece. Ihesitated, and Bindon said in an undertone, "Miss Betty made it. " Not amuscle of his face moved. 

I sat down and gazed at the awful result of my present to Betty. The--what shall I call it?--was gray, as I said before; it had acrisscross pattern on it, deeply indented, and snugly sunk in the middleof it was a currant. I sighed. My duty as a professional aunt was clear:had I not in a moment of weakness said I would eat anything Betty made, provided it was a proper thing? Had I here a loophole of escape? No, itwas certainly, according to Betty's lights, a most proper thing. But whydoes dough, in the hands of the cleanest child, become dark gray?

Bindon, having done his duty by Betty, and not being able on thisoccasion to do it by both of us, made no further explanation. Like thefirst step, it is no doubt the first bite that costs most dearly; andwhile I was pondering whether to take two bites or swallow it whole, Mr. Dudley came in and sat down opposite me. He is a young man who thinksthat no woman he doesn't know can be worth knowing. When by force ofcircumstances he comes to know a fresh one, he always tells her he feelsas if he had known her all her life, and talks of a previous existence, and so gets over a difficulty. I felt that it was a tribute to Dianathat he treated me so kindly, and I earned his gratitude and commandedhis respect by refusing food at his hands. I said I liked helping myselfat breakfast. He insisted, however, on passing me the toast. This I feltwas apart from Diana altogether. 

After a few moments the little gray wad attracted his attention, and hiseyebrows expressed a wish to know what it was. 

"Betty made it, " I said. 

"And what is it?"

"I wonder!" I said. "I think it must come under the head of blackbread. "

"What are you going to do with it?" he asked. 

I answered, "Why, eat it, of course; only I can't make up my mind how. What should you say, two bites or a swallow?"

His interest was now thoroughly aroused; he had evidently never beforemet an aunt professionally. He looked at me solemnly and said, "You aregoing to eat that?"

"I am an aunt, you see, " said; "a professional aunt. "

"A what?" he asked. 

"A professional aunt, " I answered. "You are an uncle, I suppose. "

"I am constantly getting wires to that effect, but I am hanged if I haveever eaten mud-pies. "

"No, that is part of the profession, " I said; "you see, I promisedBetty. "

Mr. Dudley relapsed into silence. I had given him food for reflection. 

Here Betty appeared, "not to eat anything, " she carefully explained. Hugh came next, followed a moment later by Sara, who was beside herselfwith excitement, which was centered in the blue ribbon in her hair, towhich she had that morning been promoted. A red curl had become morerebellious than its fellows, and it was tied up with a blue ribbon, inthe fashion beloved of young mothers. Diana dislikes any reference madeto poodles. 

"Yaya's got a ved vimvirn in her har, " she announced. 

We all expressed the keenest interest and unbounded surprise. One verywell-meaning person put down his knife and fork and said he was toosurprised to eat any more breakfast; whereupon Hugh said, "You needn'tbe so very funny, because Sara doesn't understand those sort of jokes. "

Whether Sara understood it or not, it seemed to encourage her to furtherrevelations, and she announced with bated breath, "Yaya's got vedvimvims in her--" She opened her eyes very wide and nodded verymysteriously, and was about to suit her actions to her words anddisclose the ribbons in question, when Diana, with a promptitude quitesplendid, administered a banana. Sara ate some with relish, paused, andsaid in a loud voice, subdued by banana, "jormalies. " She was not goingto be put off with a banana. 

Betty was very much shocked, and with a face of virtuous indignationwhispered in my ear, "Sara means-" I hastily stopped Betty because herwhispers are louder than Sara's loudest conversation and very muchmore distinct. And after all there is everything in the way a word ispronounced. Without any context I think "jormalies" might pass anywhereas a perfectly right and proper word, to be used on any occasion. 

Hugh, too, had something to say on the absorbing topic of ribbons, and on such a subject I thought he might safely be trusted. On what anunsafe foundation is built the faith of an aunt!

"Aunt Woggles, " he said, "has got pink ribbons in her nightie; it'slovely, and she doesn't do her hair in funny little things like--"

Here David distracted Hugh's attention by telling him an absoluteuntruth concerning a fox to be seen out of the window. The first ofApril is the only day in the whole year on which the word "fox" won'ttake him flying to the window. 

Betty, perhaps by way of changing the conversation, said, "You did eatmy cake, didn't you, Aunt Woggles?"

"Of course I did, Betty. "

"Don't you believe it, " said Mr. Dudley. 

"I always believe my Aunt Woggles, " said Betty with infinite scorn. "Wasit nice, Aunt Woggles?" Mercifully she didn't wait for an answer, butcontinued: "I lost the currant three times, but I found it all right. I thought I had trodden on it, but I hadn't, because I looked on thebottom of my shoe and it wasn't there. I did have lots of currants, onlywhen I dropped them Mungo ate them all up, except this one. He didn'teat this one because I stopped him. I said, 'Drop it, Mungo!' and hedid. It was a good thing he didn't eat it, wasn't it? I made linesacross, did you see? All across the cake! I made those with a hairpin. It was a good plan, wasn't it?"

Somehow or other my breakfast had fallen short of my expectations. Butwhat I had lost in appetite I had perhaps gained in other ways, for Ihad until then undoubtedly existed in the mind of Mr. Dudley only underthe shadow of Diana's charming personality. I now took my stand alone, as the Aunt Woggles who ate mud-pies, I am afraid; but still it issomething to have a separate existence. Is it?

Chapter V

Diana's children are of a distinctly religious turn of mind. I thinkmost children are, and what wonderful, curious thing their religionis! Looking back to my own childhood, I remember thinking, or ratherknowing, that the Holy Ghost was a Shetland shawl. We called our shawls"comforters"; we wore them when we went to parties in the winter. "I willnot leave you comfortless, " could mean nothing else. To complete theillusion, we had in the nursery a picture of the Pentecost, the HolyGhost descending in the form of a cloudy substance, not unlike aShetland shawl. I was so sure that I was right, that I never thought ofasking any one. When I grew older and told my mother, she said, "But whydidn't you ask me, darling?" forgetting that when a child knows a thingit never asks; when in doubt it will ask, but not when it knows. It isa difficult and dangerous thing to shake a child's belief, and apity, too. For if we could all believe as simply as a child does, howdifferent it would make life! If Diana has a fault, it is that shetakes her children too seriously. She thinks it is wrong to tell them, "Children should be seen and not heard, " simply because they have askeda question she can't answer. Aunts have been known to do it as a lastresource, on occasions of great danger. 

Hugh wants to know if God put in the quack before he made the duck. Itis difficult, isn't it, to answer that sort of question?

On another occasion he asked Betty if God was alive. Betty, eager toinstruct, said, "My dear Hugh, God is a Spirit. "

"Then we can boil our milk on him. " That was a poser for Betty. 

Diana was at a loss, too, when Hugh announced his intention of going toHeaven. She asked him what he would do when he got there. I thought thequestion a little unwise at the time. "Oh!" said Hugh, "stroll roundwith Jesus, I suppose, and have a shot at the rabbits. "

Diana's position was a difficult one. It was this: if she told Hughthere were no rabbits in Heaven, he wouldn't pray to go there; and ifshe said there was no shooting in Heaven, Hugh would know for certainthat his father wouldn't want to go there, and it wouldn't do for Hughto think his father didn't want to go to Heaven. It was a difficulty, but Hugh's Heaven was or is a very real and very happy place to him. Itis strangely like Hames; and isn't the home of every happy child verynear to Heaven? Surely it lies at its very gates, which we could seeif it was not for the mountains which intervene, those beautiful snowmountains, which foolish grown-ups call clouds. 

Diana has come triumphantly out of situations more difficult, and shewill no doubt surmount those connected with the spiritual upbringing ofHugh, Betty, and Sara. 

It is the custom of Diana to read the Bible every morning with herchildren, and they resent any deviation from custom. 

After breakfast on the particular Sunday over which this shooting-partyextended, Hugh marched through the hall (where most of us wereassembled) with his Bible under his arm, followed by Betty, carryinga smaller Bible. Hugh's seemed particularly cumbersome. He cast areproachful glance at his mother and her guests, and said to Betty, "I will teach you, darling. "

Betty said, "Can you, Hugh?" and he said, "Rather!"

Into the drawing-room he stumped, followed by the impressed Betty. 

"You may come, Aunt Woggles, " he said, "if you don't talk. "

I promised not to talk, and sat down to write letters. 

Hugh sat down on the sofa and Betty plumped down beside him. Shecarefully arranged her muslin skirts over her long black-stockingedlegs, and then told Hugh to begin. 

"What's it going to be about?" she asked. 

"All sorts of things, " said Hugh grandly. "Perhaps about Adam andEve, and Jonah and the whale, and Samson and Elijah. Do you know thediff'rence between Enoch and Elijah? That's the first thing. "

"No, I don't, " said Betty reluctantly. 

"Well, darling, you must remember the diff'rence is that Enoch onlywalked with God, but the carriage was sent for Elijah!"

"Was it a carriage and pair, Hugh?"

"More, I expect. "

"What next, Hugh?"

"We'll just look until we find something. " And Hugh opened the Bible. 

"It's upside down, " whispered Betty. 

Hugh assumed the expression my spaniel puts on when he meets a dogbigger than himself--an expression of extreme earnestness of purposecombined with a desire to look neither to the right nor to the left, butto get along as fast as he can. 

Hugh assumed an immense dignity and looked straight in front of him, just to show Betty he was thinking and had not heard what she said, while he turned the Bible round. 

"Go on, Hugh, " said Betty humbly, feeling it was she who had made themistake. How often do men make women feel this!

"Now, Betty, " he said, "you must listen properly and not talk, becauseit's a proper lesson, just like mother gives us when visitors aren'there. " A pause, then Hugh said in a very solemn voice, "You know, darling, Jesus would have been born in the manger, but the dog in themanger wouldn't let him!"

I stole out of the room. 

"You don't disturb us, Aunt Woggles, " called out Hugh; "you truthfullydon't. "

Hugh had evidently told all he knew, for in a few minutes he came out ofthe drawing-room and joined us in the hall. "We've done!" he exclaimed;"we've had our lesson all the same. "

"I am sorry, Hugh, " said Diana. 

He slipped his hand in hers as a sign of forgiveness, and by way ofmaking matters quite right, I said, "You know, Hugh, mothers must lookafter their guests. Their children are always with them, but friendsonly occasionally. "

Why do aunts interfere? Retribution speedily follows. 

"Visitors are mostly always here, " said Hugh plaintively. "When you havechildren of your own, Aunt Woggles, then--"

"A fox, a fox, Hugh!" cried some one. 

He rushed to the window. 

"That's two foxes today that weren't there when I looked, " said Hugh; "Ishan't look next time. "

This was a desperate state of affairs; an attack might come at any time, and we should have exhausted our ammunition. 

"The best thing, " said Diana, "is for those who are going to church toget ready. "

Betty and Hugh were of course going; Sara wanted to, but those inauthority deemed it wiser that she should wait till she was older. This offended her very much, as did any reference to her age. But thedecision was a wise one: she prayed too fervently, she sang too lustily, and she talked too audibly, to admit of reverent worship on the part ofthe younger members of the congregation, and of the older ones, too, Iam afraid. 

One memorable Sunday she did go to church, as a great treat; andwhen the hymn--"Peace, perfect peace" was given out, a beatific smileillumined her face, and with her hymn-book upside-down she was preparingto sing, when Diana said, --whispered rather--You don't know this, darling. "

"Yes, I do, mummy, peace in the valley of Bong. "

Betty walked to church with me. "Aunt Woggles, " she said, "you know thegentleman in the Bible who lived inside the whale?"

"Yes, darling, " I said, "I do remember. " My heart sank at thedifficulties presented by Jonah as gentleman. 

"Well, " she said, "what dye suppose he did without candles in the darkpassages of the whale?"

Betty evidently pictured the dark passages of the whale to be whatHaines used to be before electric light was installed. The whale, likea house, must be modernized to meet the requirements of the day. WhenBetty starts asking questions, she mercifully quickly follows one withanother, and does not wait for answers. The interior economy of thewhale suggested various trains of thought, and she went skipping alongbeside me, or rather in front of me, propounding the most astoundingtheories. I was quite glad when Mr. Dudley and Hugh caught us up. 

"You did come along fast, old man, " said Mr. Dudley. 

"It wasn't me, it was you, " panted Hugh. "It truthfully was, AuntWoggles, and he wasn't going to church at all till I told him you weregoing. I'm awfully out of breath because he wanted to catch you up, soit wasn't me all the time. "

I was sorry Hugh and Mr. Dudley had caught us up. 

Mr. Dudley murmured something about "Young ruffian, " and I felt it myduty as well as my pleasure to tell Hugh not to talk so much. 

"I 'sect you want to sit next my Aunt Woggles, don't you?" said Hughto Mr. Dudley; "but you can't, because I said, 'bags I sit next AuntWoggles in church' before she came to stay, ever so long before, before two Christmases ago, I should think it was, or nearly before twoChristmases ago!"

Betty's grasp on my hand tightened, and I returned it with a reassuringpressure, as much as to say, "There are two sides to every aunt inchurch, dear Betty; it is a comfort to know that. "

"I may sit next you, mayn't I?"

"Yes, Betty, " I said. 

"You are very rosy, Aunt Woggles, " said Hugh. "Do you love my AuntWoggles?" he continued, dancing backward in front of Mr. Dudley. 

"Of course he does, " I said boldly, taking the bull by the horns. "Mr. Dudley loves even his enemies, especially on Sundays. "

Hugh looked puzzled, and pondered. Before he had come to any definiteconclusion as to how this affected Mr. Dudley's feelings towards me, wereached the lichgate, where we found the rest of the party awaiting us. We all separated: Diana took Betty, who gazed at me mournfully, butwas too loyal to her mother to say anything; Hugh gave a series oftriumphant jumps, which added pain to Betty's already disappointedexpression. 

In church I found myself allotted to what we call the overflow pew, which is at right angles to the family pews and in full view of them. It is the children's favorite pew only, I imagine, because they don'talways sit there. Hugh sat very close to me, and kept on giving littlewriggles and gazing up at me, then at Mr. Dudley, and snuggling closerto me as if to emphasize the superiority of his position over that ofMr. Dudley. 

"Hugh, " I whispered, "you must behave. "

"He didn't sit next you, after all, " he whispered. 

I say whispered, but must explain that Hugh's whisper is a veryfar-reaching thing. He loves a victory. I hope that when he grows up hewill be a generous victor. He says he is going to be a dangerous man; Ican believe it. 

Betty, the vanquished one, stared solemnly in front of her, not deigningto notice Hugh's triumph. What pleasure is there to children in sittingnext to some particular person in church? I remember, as a child, it wasa matter of earnest prayer during the week that on Sunday I might sitnext, some particular person in church. "And, O Lord, if it be for mygood, let me sit next the door. " A child's religion is a very real thingto him, and not only a Saturday-to-Monday thing. 

I looked at Betty's serious little face and wished that I could for onemoment read her thoughts. Her eyes, such lovely eyes, were fixed onthe preacher's face. What did his sermon convey to her? It was aparticularly uninteresting one, I remember, an appeal on behalf of thecurates' fund. Her eyes never left his face--such solemn, searching, truthful eyes. I think a child like Betty should not be allowed to goto church on such occasions, for what is the use of preaching againstmatrimony on the one hand, and that, I suppose, is what the moral ofsuch a sermon should be, --and on the other hand holding up an incentiveto matrimony in the very alluring shape of Betty? For, personally, Ithink Betty would be a very wonderful possession for any curate to have. 

Hugh was growing restless and I was bearing the brunt of it. Nannie, feeling for me, leaned over from the back pew and said, "Don't rest yourhead on your Aunt Woggles. "

"I came to church on purpose to rest my head on my Aunt Woggles'schest, " said Hugh, again in what he calls a whisper. A moment later, heasked, "Is it done?"

It was, and he jumped up. 

"May I sit next you next Sunday, Aunt Woggles?" he said, so soon as wegot outside the church door. 

"No, Hugh, " I said. 

"I bet I do, all the same, " he said. 

"Aunt Woggles, " said Betty, as we walked home, "I collect for theprevention of children; do you suppose Mr. Dudley would give me apenny?"

"I am sure he would, darling, but it is the prevention of cruelty tochildren--the prevention of cruelty. "

"That's such a long thing to say, Aunt Woggles, don't you suppose hewould understand if I did say it a little wrong?"

"Perhaps, darling, but it is always best to say things right. "

"Yes, I will, but I was only supposing, supposing I didn't. "

At luncheon Diana cautioned Betty against swallowing a fish-bone. "Youmight die, darling, if you did. "

"Then I shall swallow every single bone I can, " announced Betty. 

"But, darling, " said Diana, "why do you say that? You don't want to die. You are quite happy, aren't you?"

"Yes, I'm very happy, but I want to die, all the same. "

"Oh, darling, don't say that, " said Diana; "there is a great deal foryou to do in this world before you die. "

"Yes, but you see, darling, " said Betty, "if I don't die soon, I shallbe too old to sit on Jesus' knee. "

Diana is very particular about the children's manners, and Hugh cameface to face with a great difficulty a moment later, over his gingerbeer. "If I don't say I thank you, mother doesn't like it, and if I dosay I thank you, Bindon stops pouring. "

Chapter VI

In answer to a really desperate telegram from Zerlina, I left Hameshurriedly, and arrived at Zerlina's, to find her out and all thechildren apparently well. I was shown upstairs into the drawing-room. InDiana's house I am never "shown" anywhere; however, in Zerlina's I am, so it is no use discussing that question. The drawing-room into which Iwas shown was empty of furniture except for the sofas and chairs whichwere arranged round the room against the wall. As Zerlina's room doesnot err as a rule on the side of emptiness, I realized that there wasgoing to be a party. I felt like the child who said, "There's been awedding, I smell rice!" One knows these things by instinct. 

The butler solemnly informed me that there was going to be a party, andthat Miss Hyacinth would be down in a moment. 

I thought it odd that Zerlina should have said nothing about a party;but then she never says anything about measles, or whooping-cough, orre-painting rooms, until I am within the doors and unable to escape. Iremembered she had urged me on this occasion to come early. I sat downon a sofa and sadly fixed my gaze on the parquet floor. How differenthad been my arrival at Hames! My conscience smote me. I had no train, nocooking stove, no woolly rabbit in my box. But then neither was therea Hugh, Betty, and Sara. At Hames should I have sat in the drawing-room?Never! Of course I know what some people will say: that it is my fault;if I had treated the children as I treated Betty, Hugh, and Sara, itwould have made all the difference; but it wouldn't, really. It is, themother of the children who makes the difference; it is her attitude tothe aunt which is adopted by the children. If Diana had been out, the house would have resounded with shrieks for Aunt Woggles. But inZerlina's house children never shriek, people never rush to the nursery. The children are always tidied before they are brought down to see me. 

Of course some people will again say, "Quite right"; and it is quiteright that for such people they should be tidied; but do those peoplerealize what a wall tidiness builds between child and grown-up? Havethey ever thought what a boy feels when his mother comes down to see himat school and the first thing she does when he comes into the room isto say that his collar is dirty, or that his hands want washing? Atthat moment, perhaps, she lays the first brick in the wall which buildsbetween mother and son. He is a happy boy and she a blessed mother whostand always with no wall between them. All a boy demands of his motherwhen she comes to see him at school is that she shall behave justlike other people, and that she shall dress properly. If she can bebeautiful, so much the better: it will redound enormously to his credit. Boys are very sensitive about their belongings, but when praise canbe bestowed they bestow it, as in the case of Tommy, who wrote to hisfather, who had been down to the school to play in a match, Fathersagainst Sons, "Dear father, you did look odd, but you made the secondbiggest score. "

While I was pondering over these things, the door opened and my nieceHyacinth came in. 

"Hullo!" she said; "mum's out. "

"So I hear, " I said; "won't you kiss me?"

"Oh! I forgot, " she said, twirling round on one leg and holding out acheek to be kissed. "There's going to be a party to it. "

"So I see, " I said; "what sort of a party?"

"Oh! it's the end-up of the dancing class, four to seven; that's why mumasked you to come early. "

"She isn't in yet?" I asked innocently. 

"Oh! she's not coming, " said Hyacinth, raising her eyebrows andlaughing; "she always has something to do on dancing days. The Frauleinsget on her nerves. They sit all round the room. "

And Hyacinth indicated the position of the Frauleins with a sweep of herarm. 

"What time is it now?" I asked. 

"Half past three, " she said; "I'm ready. "

"I'm not, " I said savagely. 

I went upstairs, vowing vengeance on Zerlina. I could have shakenHyacinth, poor child, and why? Because her legs were too long, or herskirts too short, or the bow in her hair too large? What a disagreeable, cross-grained professional aunt I was! Or did I miss the hug Hyacinthmight have given me?

I was only just ready when the children began to arrive. I flewdownstairs and found not only children in every shape and form, butmothers in big hats and trailing skirts, and Frauleins in small hats andskirts curtailed, mademoiselles and nannies. The nannies I handed overto the nursery department, and the mothers and the Frauleins and themademoiselles I arranged in a dado round the room, making inappropriateremarks to each in turn. No surprise was expressed at the absence ofZerlina. 

The children began to dance. There was a particularly painstaking littleboy in a white silk shirt and black velvet knickerbockers, very tight inplaces, who danced assiduously, looking neither to the right nor to theleft. "Right leg, To-mus, left leg, To-mus!" came in stentorian tonesfrom a Fraulein in the corner, who suited her actions to her words bythe uplifting of the leg corresponding to that recommended to Tomus'sconsideration, and bringing it down with emphasis on the parquet floor. 

By the sudden quickening of leg-action on the part of my painstakingfriend, I knew him to be Tomus, and by that only, so many of the boyslooked as if they might be Tomus. The real Tomus asserted himselfmanfully, however, by using the exactly opposite leg to that ordered byFraulein. I liked this spirit of independence, and determined to makefriends with him so soon as that dance should be over. I took theliberty of introducing myself; he made no remark but took me by the handand led me out on to the landing, and there he found two chairs in theorthodox position. Into one of these he wriggled himself by a backwardand upward movement, and I sat in the other. How absurdly easy it is fora grown-up to sit down! I waited for Thomas to make a remark; I might bewaiting still, if I had not made a beginning. He looked at me under hiseyelashes, and tried not to smile. It was an effort, I could see, and Icould tell just where the dimples would come. When the effort became toogreat and the dimples asserted themselves beyond recall, he lookedaway and put out a minute portion of his tongue. Having done that, hesubsided into grave self-possession. 

I began to feel embarrassed, and asked him how old he was. He smiled. "Do you like dancing, Thomas?" I said. 

He looked away, and every time I addressed him he seemed to retreatfarther into his chair, until I had fears that he would disappearaltogether from my sight. His waist-line seemed to be thevanishing-point. I made no further effort, and relapsed into silence. Thomas continued to gaze at me and smile. At last he extended a fatlittle hand, uncurled one by one four soft little fingers, and revealed, lying in his palm, a short screw. It was evidently his greatesttreasure, for the moment. 

"Is that for me, Thomas?" I asked. "Nope, " he said, shaking his head. 

"Is it your very own?"

"Yeth, " said Thomas, drawing in his breath. He shut his little hand, putout his tongue just the smallest bit, and became serious and silent. 

"Is it a present?" I asked. Having got so far, it seemed a pity notto go on. He had done me the greatest honor that a small boy can do awoman, which, by the way, was what our Nannie said when she told us thata strange man had proposed to her on a penny steamboat. 

Thomas shook his head and said, "Nope. "

"Did you find it?" I asked. 

He nodded. "I always find fings, " he said. 

Beyond that I could get nothing out of him. I have not often sat outwith a more embarrassing partner. To be continually stared at andnever spoken to would, I think, make the boldest woman shy. There wasa stolidity about Thomas that promised well for England's future. Therewas a steady resistance from attack that was really admirable; but I wasnot altogether sorry when Fraulein pounced upon him. As she led him offI heard him say, "Parties do last a long time, don't they, Leilein?"

Having lost Thomas, I sought a new partner. A tall, fair girl withwide, gray eyes, a pink-and-white complexion, a beautiful mouth, and adelicately refined nose, interested me, as I imagine she has continuedto do every one who has met her. She reminded me of spring, with birdssinging and flowers flowering and trees bursting, just as Diana does. As it was quite the correct thing for girls to dance with one another, Imade so bold as to ask her for a dance. With the timidity of a boy justout of Etons, or perhaps I should say, of a shy boy just out of Etons, Iapproached her. "Right-o, " she said, "let's see. "

She puckered her penciled eyebrows and studied her program. "The thirdafter the two next?"

She bowed gravely, and I said, "Thank you. " I felt very young andinexperienced as I returned the bow. 

"That's all right, " she said. "Where shall I find you? It doesn'tmatter, I shall know you again"; and she had the audacity to write onher program, for I saw her do it, "white dress, red hair. "

She was borne off by a triumphant boy, who looked at me as much as tosay, "You're jolly well sold if you think you are going to nab thisdance. "

I asked a hungry-looking boy with many freckles who she was. "Oh! that'sDolly, " he said; "she is a flyer, isn't she?"

"Dolly who?" I asked. 

"Oh! just Dolly; that does. " He looked away, looked back, hesitated, and swallowed. I, feeling that he perhaps needed the assistance a mansometimes requires of a woman, encouragement, smiled at him. 

"You wouldn't dance this, I suppose?" he said. 

"Certainly, " I answered. 

We danced. He was a nice boy, very much in earnest, very much afraid oftiring me, very much afraid of letting me go, too shy to stop, until Isuggested it, for which act of consideration he seemed grateful. 

He told me he had five brothers, all older than himself; that he neverhad new trousers, always the other boys' cut down; that he liked school;wanted a bicycle more than anything in the world--of his very own, ofcourse; wanted a pony of his very own; wanted a dog of his very own. Hehadn't anything of his very own. 

I said I supposed he thought his eldest brother very lucky. 

"Because of the trousers?" he asked. 

I said, "Well, yes, I suppose he has the new ones. "

"Well, " he said, "you see he doesn't. That's the chowse of the wholething. He is the eldest, but you see Dick's the biggest, so he gets thenew trousers. It is hard, isn't it?"

I said it was indeed. 

"The best of it is, " he said, "I am catching jackup. He is in an awfulwax. I shouldn't be surprised if I were bigger than him next holidays. Do you like dancing? I simply loathe it--not with you, I don't mean I. "

He told me many other confidences, and I was really sorry when heremembered, with an evident pang, that he had to dance with that "rumlittle kid over there. "

I was quite certain that he would never break a promise. I could picturehim going through life always keeping promises, rashly made, no doubt. I wondered what he would talk to girls about at dances yearshence--trousers? Hardly. By that time he would have trousers of his veryown, and they would cease, in consequence, to be things of interest. 

He would be a soldier--of that I could have no doubt. He was the kind ofboy England wants and can still get, thank God! say pessimists what theywill. 

While I was awaiting my Dolly dance, I came upon a small, disconsolateboy. 

"I'm looking for an empty partner, " he said. 

I captured a passing girl, very small, and they danced away together. The boy I could see was very energetic, the girl was very small and fat. As they passed me I heard her say, "I--can't--go--so--fast!"

"Very sorry, " said the small boy, "but I must keep up with the music. "

Dolly found me. "I think I had better dance gentleman, " she said; "Ithink I am as tall as you. " With a tremendous effort she drew her slimfigure to its full height, and, gazing up into my face she had theaudacity to say, "Yes, I do just look down upon you; anyhow, menaren't always taller than girls. My cousin says so, and she goes todances--heaps--and she is six foot. "

We started off, I felt at once, on a perilous course. "You see, " shesaid, "I had better--steer--because" (bump we went into somebody), "because--I dance once a week--always" (crash), "sometimes oftener--soI get--plenty of practice" (bang) "in steering, and that helps. I lovedancing--don't you? Oh, that's all right--it's--only--the stupid--oldmantelpiece--I always go into that--it sticks out so--doesn't it? It ishard--rather!"

Dolly was a flyer and no mistake. I was brought to a standstill at lastby colliding with Thomas's Fraulein. 

"It's all right, " said Dolly generously, "you didn't hurt us!"

Fraulein was hurled on to a sofa and made no remark. She gave uptemporarily the management of Thomas's left leg. 

"Shall we sit out?" said Dolly. "It is hot, isn't it?"

She fanned herself with a very small program and tossed her hair backfrom her face. It was such lovely hair. 

"Hair is beastly stuff, isn't it?" she said. "Wouldn't you love to bea boy? Oh, I promised mother not to say I 'beastly'; that's one of thethings I would like to be a boy for, because boys may do such an awfullot of things. "

I soon found out that Dolly liked boys better than girls. 

She loved horses and dogs. 

She hated and detested bearing-reins. 

She didn't want to come out. 

She thought grown-ups silly, except some--

She loved the country and strawberry ice. 

She hated dull lessons, and I very soon discovered that there were noneother than dull. 

She collected stamps. 

She longed to have a pet monkey or a brother, she didn't much mindwhich. 

At the mention of brothers I looked down at Dolly's slim legs, clothedin fine black silk stockings, at the valenciennes lace on her muslinfrock, and I imagined that if she had any brothers, the younger oneswould be quite likely to have started life in trousers of their own. Yes, Dolly looked like it. I learned a great deal from her in the timeit had taken me to get "yeth" and "nope" out of Thomas. 

The energetic boy who had been obliged to keep up with the music at allcosts, the little fat girl's in particular, came up to me, and said inan aggrieved voice, "Miss Daly has spoilt my program; she can't write, and she has written big D's all over it. Will you write me out a freshone?"

Which I, of course, did. Really it was very careless of Miss Daly. 

The children danced hard, with intervals for tea and refreshment; andas seven o'clock struck, there was a transformation scene. Withconscientious punctuality the party-dressed children turned, into littleor big woolen bundles, as the case might be. The last bundle I saw was apink woolen one, weeping bitterly. My heart was wrung. The noisy cryingof a child is bad enough, but when it is the soft weeping of a brokenheart, it is unbearable. Of course it was my friend Thomas. I stood onthe staircase unable to do anything, for he was quickly borne from thearms of Fraulein by a big footman, and no doubt deposited in a broughamin the outer darkness. Poor Thomas!

I hoped that the right sort of mother would be at home to unroll thatpink bundle, a mother who would pretend that it could not be her darlingwho was crying, but a strange little boy with a face quite unknown toher. Where could he have come from? And so on, until Thomas would beashamed to be seen with a strange face, and would smile, and then hismother would say, "What is it, my darling?" because, of course, it washer own darling who was crying, and she would never rest till she knewwhy. 

I went back to the drawing-room quite happy that Thomas should beunrolled by the right sort of mother, and as I walked across the room, my foot slipped on something. I looked to see what it was I had troddenon. It was a short screw, Thomas's precious possession. "That was whythe poor pink bundle was crying!"

"Hyacinth, " I said, "who was Thomas?"

"Which one? There was little Thomas and the Thomas who lives a long wayoff, and then just plain Thomas. "

"I mean the fat little Thomas who danced so hard. "

"Oh! that's the little Thomas, " said Hyacinth. 

"Where does he live?" I asked. 

"Oh, quite close; when we go to tea there we walk. He hasn't got amother, so there's no drawing-room. She died, " added Hyacinth, as if itwas an every-day occurrence that Thomas should be left without a mother, instead of its being a heart-breaking tragedy. A child with no mother, no mother to unwrap the pink bundle, no mother to grieve for the screw, no mother to understand things. Perhaps his mother had been a Diana sortof mother. 

"Oh, Thomas, " I thought, "I must send you back your screw. " I didn'tcare what any one said--he should have it. 

If he had had a mother, it wouldn't have mattered, because she wouldhave known it was a screw he had lost, and she would have known justwhat comfort he would have needed; whereas a Fraulein would know nothingabout a screw, beyond the German for it, and the gender, of course. Andof what use is that to a child? It may sound very unconventional, and Isuppose it was so, to go to a strange house and ask for Thomas, and myonly excuse a small screw. But still I went!

I pictured a lonely child in a large house with a Fraulein and a nurse, perhaps two; those I could face. A tall, sad father I had never thoughtof! I am afraid I am not suited for the profession, I am too impulsive. 

I rang the bell. The door was opened by a solemn man-servant, who didnot show the surprise he must have felt when I asked for Master Thomas. Another, still more solemn, showed me into a downstairs room. I refusedto give my name, and a very large, serious Thomas rose from a chair as Iwas ushered in, "A lady to see Master Thomas. " So my errand was in partexplained, but the part left to tell was by far the most difficult. Ifonly Thomas had lost anything but a screw! No father could be expectedto know how it had been treasured. Supposing Thomas had been cryingbecause he had a pain, which sometimes comes to children after tea?Supposing he hadn't been crying for his screw at all? Supposing herepudiated all knowledge of it?

But here I was, screw in hand, and my story to tell. I told it. I wasgrateful to the tall, sad Thomas for being so solemn, and not evensmiling, when I mentioned the screw. He said he was very grateful for mykindness, and he went so far as to say he was sure Thomas had valued thescrew. 

While some one was coming, for whom he had rung, he told me that when hehad taken Thomas to the Zoo, the only thing which he was really excitedabout was the mouse in the elephant's house! Somehow or other thatlittle story put me at my ease, for it showed that the big Thomas atleast understood in part the mind of a child. 

A nurse, not sad-looking I was glad to see, came in answer to the bell, and the big Thomas asked if the little Thomas had lost a screw? In thatI was disappointed, the best nurse in the world might not know of ascrew. But the big Thomas did not wait to hear; he was sure the littleThomas had, and he said we were coming upstairs to restore it to him. Ofcourse I had said by this time that I was Zerlina's sister-in-law. 

We went upstairs, I following the tall Thomas, past the drawing-room, past that bedroom whose door I knew was closed. A mother's bedroom isnearly always in the same place in a London house, a child blindfoldedcould find it, and the handle of a mother's door is always within thereach of the smallest child; and so easily does it turn, that the dooropens at the slightest pressure of the smallest fingers. 

Up we went to Thomas's own bedroom. There in his bed he sat, no longercrying, but still sad and solemn, with evidences in his face of a sorrowthat rankled. He smiled when he saw me, too much of a gentleman to showany surprise at seeing me in his bedroom. 

"Thomas, " I said, "I have brought you back your screw which you lost. " Iput it in his outstretched hand, and a smile rippled all over his face. 

Suddenly from out the darkness came a stentorian voice, "Right hand, Tomus!" It was Fraulein! Thomas put out his right hand, and I, puttingaside all convention, gave him a real "Sara hug" for the sake of thatmother whose door was closed. It then began to dawn upon me how veryunconventional it was of me to be hugging a comparatively strange child, in a perfectly strange house, and I hastily said good-night to thesmall Thomas and the big Thomas, nurses and Fraulein, and literally randownstairs, followed of course by the big Thomas. At the foot of thestairs I ran into the arms of Mr. Dudley. 

His exclamation of "Aunt Woggles" was involuntary, I felt sure, and hehad every right to visit a sad, tall Mr. Thomas. But I thought Dianaought to have told me that I was likely to meet him at--Well, astranger's house; so how could she? The only thing that consoled me wasthat in all probability Mr. Dudley would explain my profession inlife, and that I had a screw loose. Yes, that would exactly explain theposition. Otherwise I didn't exactly know how he could describe me. 

Well, Zerlina of course said I was mad. She didn't agree with me thatthe screw could not possibly have been sent back in an envelope with afew words of explanation. She said she would have bought a nice toy forthe child. What's the good of a toy to a child when he has lost a screwwhich he found his very own self, any more than a squeaking rabbit isto a child who has a "lubbly blush"? That was a lesson I had latelylearned. 

I didn't say all that to Zerlina, because, you see, she is a mother, andI couldn't understand these things. She was very much surprised at beinglate for the party, so surprised. She was full of apologies. 

It was so good of me to help her! Had the darling children enjoyedthemselves?

I said, yes, they had, and the adorable mothers, and the deliciousFrauleins, and the heavenly mademoiselles. At this Zerlina looked alittle pained, and I was sorry I was cross, but I felt her want ofsympathy for Thomas. But then she had never passed that closed door. 

Chapter VII

As a professional aunt must live somewhere, if only to simplify thedelivery of telegrams, it is as well perhaps to explain where I live andwhy. The answer to the where, is London, and to the why, because itis the best place for all professionals to live in. Many were thesuggestions that I should live in the country. Careful relatives andgood housewives saw a chance of cheap and fresh eggs, cheap and largechickens, and cheap and freshly gathered vegetables, which showed, inthe words of Dr. Johnson, a triumph of hope over experience, for I havealways found that there are no eggs so dear as those laid by the hens offriends, no chickens so thin as those kept by relatives, no vegetablesso expensive as those grown by acquaintances. But a professional auntwould of course be expected to make special terms, although her hens, like those of other people, would eat corn, and railways would chargejust the same for carrying her goods, whether they were consigned tosisters-in-law or not, and the expense of the carriage is the reasoninvariably given why things are so dear when bought from friends. Friends, too, have a way of sending chickens with their feathers on, whereas the chickens one knows by sight, laid in rows in poulterers'shops, have no association with feathers. Don't you dislike the countryfriend who asks you to spend a night, and then tells you at breakfastthat the pillow you slept on was filled with the feathers of departedhens known and loved by her?

Then there was Nannie, and my living in London added a great importanceto her position. She became at once chaperon, housekeeper, counselor, and friend. It was a great joy to her to think that she shielded mefrom the dangers of London; and she would willingly have fetched mefrom dinners and parties generally, and saw nothing incongruous in theannouncement, "Miss Lisle's nurse is at the door. "

"Not that I should be at the door, " said Nannie; "I never go anywherebut what I am asked inside and treated as such. " Nannie still thinks ofus as children, and will continue to do so, no doubt until she who hasrocked so many babies to sleep shall herself be enfolded in the arms ofMother Earth--and tenderly bidden to sleep. 

Personally I had a leaning toward a flat, so many of my friends told meof the joys of shutting it up when one goes away, which, by the way, Ifind they never, or very rarely, do. But Nannie didn't hold with flats. It is curious what things people don't hold with. After reading of aterrible murder in a railway carriage, I cautioned my little housemaid, who was going home one Sunday, to be careful not to be thrown out ofa window. She replied, "I don't hold with girls who are thrown out ofwindows. "

Well, Nannie didn't hold with flats. To please me and to show heropen-mindedness, she went with me to look at flats, but there was atactless integrity about her criticism. I discovered that she judged ofeverything from a nursery point of view; and when I ventured to suggestthat, as there were no children, a nursery was not of very greatimportance, she said, "You never can tell. " In this instance I felt Icould most distinctly tell, and wondered whether I might too tell Nannieof something I didn't hold with. But I didn't. I remember once long agoone of us asking Nannie if any one could have children without beingmarried, and Nannie answered in a very matter of fact voice, "They can, dear, but it's better not. " Anyhow, she didn't hold with flats. "There'sthe porters for one thing, " she said. That, of course, settled it, andwe looked at small houses. 

"I suppose you will get married one of these days, " she said, as westood on a doorstep waiting to be let in. 

"Perhaps no one will have me, " I said. 

"Well, they might; people marry you least expect to. Look at MariaDewberry; you would never have--"

The door opened, or we will presume so, as my knowledge of Maria'smovements after her surprising marriage is nil. 

Looking over houses is not without excitement, and certainly not withoutsurprises; but I was spared the experience some unknown person had whocame one day to see our house when we all lived in London, but happenedto be away. Having a house in the country, we very often did let theLondon house, which accounts for the agent's mistake. 

One day, just as Archie was going out, he found on the doorstep acharming lady with a very pretty daughter. 

"May we see over the house?" she asked. 

"Certainly, " said Archie. 

He showed them all over the house, from cellar to garret. He says heinitiated them into the mysteries of the dark cupboard, and he says heshowed them everything of historic interest in the family. The daughter, he vows, was tremendously interested. When they had seen everything andArchie had brought them back to the hall, the charming mother said, "Andwhen is the house to let?"

"Oh! it's not to let, " said Archie. 

He says he assured them it was no trouble at all, etc. !

In every small house we went, Nannie trudged laboriously up to thetop, and I heard her murmuring, "Night, day, " as she went backward andforward, from one room to the other. At last we found a small house inChelsea of which she thoroughly approved. She couldn't exonerate theagent from all blame in saying that there were views of the river fromthe window. "Not but what there might be if we, leaned out far enough, but we can't because of the bars. " It was the very bars that hadattracted her in the first instance, from the outside. Bars meant anursery. Iron bars may not make a cage, but they undoubtedly make anursery. 

She stood at the top window and looked out on the green trees, and ablackbird was obliging enough, at that very moment, to sing a love-song. Perhaps it was about nurseries, and Nannie understood it; at all eventsshe decided there and then to take the house. "Of course, " she said, "Iknow there's no nursery wanted, but I don't hold with houses that can'thave nurseries in them, if they want to. " That gave me an idea! It camelike a flash. Nannie should have her nursery!

Of course this all happened some years ago, when the home at Hames wasbroken up. With the help of Diana I managed it beautifully. It was kepta dead secret. Diana collected, or rather allowed me to collect, all thethings Nannie had specially loved in the home nursery, which I am surecost Diana a pang, as she was very anxious her children should abide bytradition and grow up among the things their father had loved as a boy;but she sent them all, even the rocking-horse, to me for my nursery. 

The walls I had papered just as our nursery had been papered. Even theold kettle was rescued from oblivion, and stood on the hob. It wasso old that any jumble sale would have been pleased to have it. Thekettle-holder hung on the wall, with its cat on a green ground, whichhad been lovely in the day of its youth. One of us had worked it; Nannieof course knew which. The tea-set was there with its green, speckledground. 

But while all this was being arranged, Nannie had a very bad time. Itwas not for long, certainly, but she said it was pretty bad while itlasted. To insure the complete secrecy of our nursery plan, we arrangedthat she should go to Hames while we were doing it all, never thinkingof what she would feel on going into the Hames nursery and finding allher treasures gone, and finding another woman reigning in her place; forall through our grown-up years the nursery had been left for Nannie asit had been when we were children. The nurse in her place hurt most. 

"'Mrs. ' here and 'Mrs. ' there, certificated and teaching. It's all verywell, but I'm not sure they don't go too far in this teaching business. No amount of teaching will--Well, it's there, so what's the use? Iexpect Eve knew how to handle Cain right enough. "

"He wasn't very well brought up, though, Nannie, " I said. 

"Poor child!" said Nannie. "How do we know it wasn't Abel's fault? Hemay have been an aggravating child; some are born so, and I've seen achild, many a time, go on at another till he's almost worried himinto a frenzy just saying, 'I see you, ' over and over again, doesit sometimes. Children will do it, of course; besides, there were nocommandments then, and you can't expect children to do right withoutrules and regulations. That's all discipline is, rules and regulations, which is commandments, so to speak. "

"You think, then, Nannie, " I said, "that Eve forgot to tell Cain not tokill Abel?"

"Well, " said Nannie, "Eve had a lot to do; we can't blame her. She musthave had a lot to do. Think what a worry Adam must have been: he had noexperience, no nothing; he couldn't be a help to a woman, brought up ashe was, always thinking of himself as first, as of course he was! Now, there's Parker--he is a good husband: he rolls the beef on Sunday tosave Mrs. Parker trouble, and prepares the vegetables; he is a goodhusband, no trouble in the house whatsoever. He never brings in dirt, Mrs. Parker says, wipes his feet ever so before he comes, on the finestday just the same. "

I thought the comparison a little hard on Adam, but still I didn't sayso, and Nannie reverted to the modern nurse, after informing me that menand horses were sacred beasts!

"Well, about nurses, 'Mrs. ' before a nurse's name doesn't soothe afretful child, nor make her more patient or loving. It might make herless patient, if she took to wishing the 'Mrs. ' was real instead ofsham; some women are like that, all for marrying. I dare say, " saidNannie, when going over her experiences, "my face did look blank when Imissed all my treasures, but f said nothing, although it was a blow whenI thought of all the lovely times you had had with that rocking-horse. You remember the hole in it? Well, that was cut out solid because of allthe things that were inside that rocking-horse; almost all the thingsthat had been lost for years we found in that horse. My gold chain, forone thing, to say nothing of other things. The tail came out, and thatis how the things got lost. The boys, always up to mischief, just poppedanything they came across down that hole and put in the tail again, sono one knew anything about it. Well, then, your father lost somethingvery special, I forget what, and there was a to-do! And Jane said shebelieved there was a power of things down that rocking-horse, so we gotJane's sister's young man, who was a carpenter, or by way of being, to come and cut out a square block out of the underneath--well, thestomach--of that horse--and then we found things! Things we had lostfor years. Then we put the block back, and no one would have noticedparticularly, not unless they had looked. Well, that's what I missed, the rocking-horse, but still I said nothing. Then we had tea out of newcups, and still I said nothing, because tea-cups will get broken, andyou can't expect young girls to take care of cups like we did. Thekettle-holder was gone! Then Mrs. David came in. Oh! she is lovely andlike your mother in some ways, --the ways of going round and speakingto every one, --and she laid her hand on Betty's head, just as I've seenyour mother do a hundred times on yours, and that was hard to bear. Anyhow, it's a good thing it wasn't some one else who got Hames. There's that to be thankful for. It begins with 'Z, ' you know. "

"Nannie!" I said. 

"Z for Zebra, " said Nannie. 

When the new nursery was all ready, Nannie was sent for. A dozen timesthat day I ran up that narrow staircase, and in the morning I laid thetea to see how it would look, and it looked so pretty that I left it. At four o'clock the fire was lighted and the kettle was put on to boil. Nannie drove up in a four wheeler. I was in the hall to meet her. She lingered to look at everything. She went round and round thedining-room, up to the drawing-room, even into the spare room, but noword of nursery. "Which is my room?" she said. 

"It's upstairs, " I said. "Won't you come and look at it?"

"There's no hurry, is there, miss?"

I could see it was the nursery floor she dreaded. 

"Well, there is rather a hurry, Nannie, " I said. "I am so anxious to seeif you like all the house. "

At last I got her upstairs. I threw open the nursery door. It was toosudden, no doubt. At the sight of the kettle, the rocking-horse, thetea-set, she burst into tears. 

"Dear, dear Nannie, " I said, "it is your own nursery; it's all fromHames. "

She paused in her sobs. "The robin mug's wrong, " she said, and shemoved it to the opposite side of the table; "he always sat there. " "He"applied to a little brother who had died, not to the mug. 

"It's a very small nursery, Nannie, " I said apologetically. 

"Well, there are no children to make it untidy, " she answered. 

So Nannie and I settled down in our nursery, and through the darkeningof that first evening she talked to me of my mother. It seems to me verywonderful how one woman can so devotedly love the children of another, but was it not greatly for the love of that other woman that Nannieloved us so much? It is her figure, I know, that Nannie sees when sheshuts her eyes and re-peoples the nursery in her dreams, --that lovelymother, the center of that nursery and home; that mother so quick topraise, so loath to blame, so ready to find good in everything, sotender to suffering, so pitiful to sin!

"Tell me about her when she was quite young, Nannie, " I said. 

And Nannie talked on, telling me the stories I knew by heart and lovedso dearly; and then, I remember, she started up. 

"What is it, Nannie?" I asked. 

"I thought she was calling, " she replied; "I often seem to hear hervoice. "

Dear Nannie! I believe she is ready to answer that call at any moment, for all the love of her new nursery. 

That is how I came to live in London. 

Chapter VIII

Most people, I imagine, who live in London are asked by their relativesand friends who live in the country to shop for them. My post is often nothing more upsetting than on a very hot summer's morning, or a wetwinter's one, to find an envelope on my plate, or beside it, addressedin Cousin Anastasia's large handwriting. "Dearest, " the letter insideit begins, "if" (heavily underlined) "you should be passing PaternosterRow, will you choose me a nice little prayer-book, without a crosson it, please; people tell me they are cheaper there than elsewhere, prayer-books, I mean, for Jane, who is going to be confirmed. Sheis such a nice clean girl. I do hope she will be as clean after herconfirmation, but one never can tell. In any case I feel I ought to giveher something, and a prayer-book, under the circumstances, seems themost suitable thing. "

Jane, I remember, is a kitchen-maid. Of course I never pass PaternosterRow, but that to a country cousin of Anastasia's mental caliber is notworth consideration. She has no knowledge of geography, London's orotherwise, and is doubtless one of those people who think New Zealand isanother name for Australia. 

On another occasion she writes to say that Martha, the head housemaid, "such an excellent servant, " (all heavily under lined), who has beenwith them seventeen years, is going to marry a nice, clean widower withsix children. She must give her a nice present; "nice" is underlinedseveral times. She has heard that in the Edgeware Road there are to behad, complete in case, for three-and-sixpence, excellent clocks. Shedoesn't know the name of the shop, but she believes it begins with "P, "and if I could look in as I pass, she would be most grateful. As will beguessed, Anastasia is a wealthy woman with no sense of humor. She knowsshe has none, and she says she doesn't know what rich people want itfor. Of course for poor people it is an excellent thing, because itenables them to look at the bright side of things; but as Anastasia'sthings, life in particular, are bright on all sides, she doesn't needthat particular sense. 

Then there is another country cousin she is so sweet and diffident aboutasking me to do anything, that I feel I ought willingly to look intoevery shop window in the Edgeware Road beginning with "P" or any otherletter, however wet or hot the day! And I am not sure that I wouldn't!Her writing is as meek as Anastasia's is aggressive, and she neverdescends to the transparency of an underlined "if. " She says, would Imind sending her a book, called so-and-so, by such and such an author, price so much? It is all plain sailing with Cousin Penelope. She knowsjust what she wants and where to get it; so much so that I sometimeswonder why she doesn't send straight to the shop. But country cousinsnever do that; for wherein would lie the use of London cousins, if theydidn't shop for their country cousins? How would they occupy their time?She would like me please to get it at Bumpus's, because they are sovery civil and they knew her dear father. I might mention his name if Ithought fit! Now, I know quite well that it is impossible that anyone at Bumpus's, be he ever so venerable, can ever have known CousinPenelope's father. The name, being Smith, may no doubt be familiar. Ofcourse Cousin Penelope would repay any expense I incurred. In fact shemust insist on so doing. 

"Insist" seems too strong a word to apply to any power that CousinPenelope could enforce. It would be something so gentle; persistent, perhaps, but insistent? Never! "I beg, I implore, I entreat, " would allbe suitable, but "I insist" does not suggest Cousin Penelope. 

Dear Cousin Penelope, we are told, had a love-story in her youth, thesadness of which ruined her life. It must have been a very beautifulthing, that sorrow, to have made her what she is. One feels that itmust be a very wonderful love that is laid away in the wrappings ofsubmission and tied with the ribbons of resignation. There is assuredlyno bitterness about it, and I sometimes wonder if one's own sorrowwhich tears and tugs at one's heart will some day leave such a recordof holiness and patience on one's face! I am afraid not. I look in theglass, but I see nothing in the reflection which in the least resemblesCousin Penelope, nor can I believe that time will do it, nor am I braveenough to wish it. I cannot yet pray for a peace like hers. People saytime can do everything, but

 "Time is Too slow for those who wait, Too swift for those who fear, Too long for those who grieve, Too short for those who rejoice, But for those who love Time is Eternity. "

So it is written on a sun-dial I know, and when I have a sun-dial of myown, those words shall be written thereon. 

I think time lies heavily sometimes on Hugh's hands. He said one day, "The days pass by, Betty, and we don't grow up!"

To return to booksellers. There is "Truslove and Hanson" in my more orless immediate neighborhood, who are civil to a degree, but they didnot know Cousin Penelope's father, therefore they are not speciallyqualified to sell a book to his daughter! So to Bumpus I must go, andI love it. A bookshop is a joy to me; the feel of books, the smell ofbooks, the look of books, I love! I even enjoy cutting the pages of abook, which I believe every one does not enjoy. 

Then there is another country cousin, Pauline. When her letter comes, I open it with mixed feelings, in which the feeling of fondnesspredominates. One can't help loving her. She never asks one to shop forher, but with her, which is perhaps an even greater test of friendship. On a particularly hot day, I remember, a letter came from Pauline whichannounced her immediate arrival. I was, waiting in the hall for her, ready to start, which is a stipulation she always makes, as she saysit is such a pity to waste time. She greeted me in the same rathertempestuous manner that I am accustomed to at the hands of Betty andHugh, and then she ran down the steps again to tell the cabman that hehad a very nice horse, which she patted, and said, "Whoa, mare!"She always does that. She then asked the cabman how long he had beendriving, whether it was difficult to drive at night, and whether it wastrue he could only see his horse's ears; and I think she asked if he hadany children, but of that I am not quite sure. If she didn't, it was alapse of memory on her part. Even the cab-runner interested her. Hadn'tI noticed what a sad face he had?

I said I hadn't noticed anything except that he was rather dirty. Pauline said, "Of course he is dirty; what would you be, if you ranafter cabs all day?" I wondered. 

Talking of cab-runners, I told her of the children's party I went towith Cousin Penelope, who, very much afraid that she was late, said inher sweetest manner to a man who opened the cab-door for us, "Are welate?" And the man answered, "I really cannot say, madam; I have onlyjust this moment arrived myself. "

He was in rags, which I did not tell her; the sponge cake would havestuck in her throat at tea if I had. But I gave him something for hisready wit, and wished for weeks afterwards that I had plunged into thedarkness after him. "What a charming man!" said Cousin Penelope. But toreturn to Pauline. 

"What a glorious day we are going to have!" she said. "It is good of youto say I may stay the night, and if I go to a ball, you won't mind? Ihave brought a small box, --as you see. "

I did see, and to my mind its size bordered on indecency. I like a boxto look sufficiently large to take all I think a woman ought to needfor a night's stay. Pauline often assures me it does hold everything, squashed tight, of course. I say it must be squashed very tight, andshe says it is. "That's the beauty of the present-day fashion of fluffythings: everything is so easily squashed, and yet you can't squash them;an accordion-pleated thing, for instance. "

To a man whose admiration for a woman is gauged by the amount of luggageshe can travel without, Pauline would prove irresistible. I know one whoprides himself on his packing, and who has a horror of much luggage. Hewas all packed ready to go to Scotland, when his wife asked him if hecould lend her a collar-stud for her flannel shirts, and he said, "Yes, but you must carry it yourself, I'm full up!"

To that man Pauline, I am sure, would be very attractive. 

When Pauline and I started off on our shopping expedition, she demurredat taking a hansom, although she loves driving in them; but she said'buses were so much more amusing. "People in 'buses say such funnythings, " she said, and so they do. The old lady in particular who, whenthe horse got his leg over the trace without hurting himself or any oneelse, got up and announced to the 'bus in general: "There, I always didsay I hated horses and dogs, " and sat down again. I loved her for thatand for other things too, among them her apple-cheeks and poke bonnet. 

Another reason why I insisted upon a hansom is that Pauline is not to betrusted in a 'bus; her interest in her fellow-creatures is embarrassing. I have, moreover, sat opposite babies in 'buses with Pauline, and wherea baby is concerned, she has no self-control. So I was firm, and westarted off in a hansom. I was continually besought to look at somedelicious baby, first this side, then that. 

Pauline calmly avers that she would go mad if she lived in London. Shecouldn't stand seeing so many beautiful children, or babies, beautifulor otherwise. It is curious how babies in perambulators hold out theirhands to Pauline as she passes, and laugh and gurgle at her. 

Once in Piccadilly, beautiful babies became less plentiful, and Paulineturned her thoughts and sympathies to horses and bearing-reins. She wasinstantly plunged into the depths of despair. Couldn't I do something, she asked, to remedy such a crying evil? She said it was the duty ofevery woman in London--Something in the catalogue she was carryingarrested her attention, and what it was the duty of every woman to do Iam not sure. I did not ask, but was grateful for the peace which ensued. 

Pauline was glad the sales were on. She loved them, and yet she didn'tlike them, because she didn't think they brought out the best side of awoman's character. "I think, " she said, "a woman's behavior at sales isa test, don't you?"

I said I thought her behavior as regarded swing-doors was a surer one. She said she hadn't thought of that. 

"But I know what you mean; I do dislike the flouncing, pushing woman. Ithink every one should be taught to be courteous and gentle, don't you?"She added, "I hate being pushed. "

I told her of a woman next me in a 'bus one day, who said, "You'rea-sittin' on me!" How I rose and politely begged her pardon, whereuponshe said, "Now you're a-standin' on me!" And we agreed that there is nopleasing some people. 

Pauline returned to the perusal of the catalogue, in which she had puta large cross against the picture of a coat and skirt. She said she wasstock-size. She didn't suppose any really smart women were. "Or wouldown to it, " I suggested, but she didn't answer; she never does if shedetects any savor of malice in a remark. She was very anxious I shouldadmire the illustration. I did, but I felt it my duty as a London cousinto a country cousin to tell her that the illustration might lead herto expect too much. She warmly agreed that of course as regarded thefigure, etc. , the illustration was misleading, because she, of course, could never look so beautifully willowy as that. She was inclined tocome out where the illustration went in, and she could never be soslanty, never; but apart from that, of course the coat and skirt wouldbe exactly as it was pictured. Her figure would be to blame, of course. Her figure happens to be a very pretty one, but she didn't give metime to say so. I repeated that I should not put implicit faith in theillustration. She was a little hurt. She did not think it right to castaspersions on the character of so respectable a firm as that whose nameheaded the catalogue. I said I didn't see it quite in the same light. Pauline looked at me reproachfully, and said drawing a lie was as bad astelling one. 

The argument was beyond me; besides, I like Pauline to lookreproachfully at me, she is so pretty. Being as pretty as sheundoubtedly is, I often wonder why she is not more effective. 

The right kind of country beauty is very convincing to the jadedLondoner; but to convince, one must be convinced, and that is exactlywhat Pauline is not. She never thinks whether she is beautiful or not, and I am sure it often lies with the woman herself, how beautiful peoplethink her, except in the rare cases of real beauty, when there canbe but one opinion. But in the case of ordinary beauty, the woman isappraised at her own value. Then there is the art of putting on clothes, of which Pauline is absolutely ignorant. There is even a studieduntidiness which passes under the name of picturesque. All of this isa closed book to Pauline, and, after all, she is a delightful creature;but the trouble to me was that, at the time she came up to shop with me, she didn't wear good boots, and to do that I hold is part, or should bepart, of a woman's creed. She gets her boots from the village shoemakerbecause his wife died. Her eyes filled with tears at the mere thought ofthe man, and she told me she thought it right to encourage local talent. In the boots I saw evidences of locality, --bumps, for instance, --but notof talent. Pauline was very indignant and said she had no bumps on herfeet. "But you see my position?" I did, but I persuaded her to have somegood boots made in London. This she consented to do, rather unwillinglyand on the distinct understanding that in the country she shouldcontinue to encourage local talent. "On wet days, " I ventured. 

And at flower-shows, she added. 

I have seen Pauline in the country, against a background of golden beechtrees and brown bracken, look even beautiful; but in London she lackssomething, possibly the right background. She has glorious hair, but hermaid can't do it. Pauline admits it, but she says she can't send a nicewoman away on that account; besides, she suffers from rheumatism, andPauline's particular part of the country suits her better than anyother. 

"Couldn't she learn?" I suggested. 

"No, she can't, " said Pauline. "She had lessons once, and she came backand did my hair like treacle, all over my head, --no idea, absolutely. Ishould never look like you, whatever I did. "

"My dear Pauline, " I said, "what nonsense!"

"It's not nonsense. Father was saying only the other day that you are abeautiful creature, only no one seems to see it. "

"Dear Uncle Jim, " I said; "how delightful, and how like him!"

"But it's true you are beautiful; only the part about the peoplenot seeing it isn't true: that's father's way of putting it. You arebeautiful!"

"My dear child!"

"Why do you say 'dear child' to me? People would think you were yearsand years older than I am. Why do you always talk as if life were over?Have you a secret sorrow?"

If Pauline, warm-hearted, loving Pauline had really thought I had, shewould have been the last person to ask such a question. 

"Do I look it?" I asked. 

"No-o. Only when people seem to spend the whole of their life in doingthings for other people, it makes one suspect that they are sayingto themselves, 'As we can't be happy ourselves, we can see that otherpeople are. '"

"What a philosopher you are, Pauline! If you go on that supposition, youmust have a terrible sorrow somewhere hidden behind that happy face ofyours. "

Pauline is not meant to live in London. She thanks people in a crowd forletting her pass. If she is pushed off the pavement, she is only sorrythat the person can be so rude as to do it. She never gets into a 'busor takes any vehicular advantage over a widow, and she feels choky ifshe sees any one very old. "Do you know why?" she asked. "Because theyare, so near Heaven, and sometimes I think you see the reflection of itin their faces. "

"Like Cousin Penelope, " I said. 

We arrived at the shop where the coat and skirt were to be had, andPauline, having admired the horse and thanked the cabman, and thecommissionaire, who held his arm over a perfectly dry wheel, followed meinto the shop. She admired everything as she went through the differentdepartments, and apologized to the shop walkers for not being able tobuy everything; but she lived in the country, and although the thingswere lovely, they would be no use to her--dogs on her lap most of theday, and so on. 

Everyone looked at Pauline; and old ladies, to whom she always appealsvery much, put their heads on one side, as old ladies do when theyadmire anything very much, anything which reminds them of their ownyouth, and smiled. Old ladies have this privilege, that when they arriveat a certain age, they are allowed to think they were beautiful in theiryouth, and to tell you so. It is a recognized thing, and one of therecompenses of old age. We all know that every one had a beautifulgrandmother--one at least; and if a portrait of one grandmother beliesthe fact, then there is the other one to fall back upon, of whom, unfortunately, no portrait exists, and she was abs--so--lute--leelovely!

The coat and skirt were found and eagerly compared with theillustration, and Pauline turned to me and said with a triumphantringing her voice: "It wasn't an exaggeration. I knew it wouldn't be. Mother has dealt here for years. "

Then we went upstairs to try it on. In a few minutes Pauline haddiscovered that the fitter was supporting her deceased sister's husbandand six children, the eldest of whom wasn't quite right and the youngesthad rickets. She was so distressed that she didn't want the back of hercoat altered, the woman already had so much to bear. But I prevailedupon her to have the alteration made regardless of the woman's domesticanxieties. I felt sure it would make no difference. But I cannot helpfeeling that Pauline's visit to that shop did make a difference to thatpoor woman, if only for a few moments in her life. And I think thosechildren's lives were made happier too; but it is difficult to getPauline to talk of these things. 

Then we went to the shoemaker, and Pauline told him all about thewidower bootmaker, and of her scruples about having boots made by anyone else. The bootmaker evidently thought that a foot like Pauline's wasworthy of a good boot and Pauline said there were occasions on which onehad to sink one's own feelings. She was scandalized at London prices, and told the man so. "But of course it means higher pay for the men, soit's all right. "

On our way home I said to Pauline that I couldn't understand why she wasso economical--ready-made coats and skirts, and afraid of paying a fairprice for good boots! Was her allowance smaller than it used to be? Shegot pink and didn't answer. I determined she should, and at last shedid. 

"Well, you see, I pay a woman to come and wash the shoemaker's childrenon Saturday evenings. "

I smiled. "That can't cost much, unless she provides the soap. "

Pauline got pinker still. "Well, I pay for the village nurse, and a fewother little things. Then there's a little baby, " she dropped her voice, "who has no mother--she died--and who never had a father, and every onedoesn't care for those sort of babies. --You do like my coat and skirt, don't you?"

Chapter IX

I think, by the way, that it was on that very day that Mr. Dudley metPauline. She, of course, would know the exact date and hour, but I amalmost sure of it, for although it may mean a day of less ecstaticjoy to me than it does to her, it brought much peace and subsequenthappiness into my life, and therefore is writ in red letters in my bookof days. For the visits of Dick Dudley had latterly become more frequentthan I cared for, and much as I liked him, I began to wish that Ihad remained in his estimation under the shadow of Diana's charmingpersonality, for so he had tolerated me until the fateful day on which Ihad partaken of Betty's gray wad. That act of professional valor igniteda spark of feeling for me in his breast, which, fostered by Hugh'sconstant suggestion, sprang into something warmer than I could havewished, and was fanned into flame on the day on which he found me payinga visit of consolation to the small fat Thomas. Now, strangely enough, that small fat person was nephew to Dick Dudley. How small the world is!And the mother turned out to have been exactly the sort of mother I hadthought she must be. One of the nicest things about Dick Dudley was theway he spoke of that sister, and we had long talks about her, until Iawoke to the fact that that sister and I must have been twins, so alikewere we; then I began to be afraid. For I couldn't tell him that therewas some one far away, for whom I was waiting from day to day. Onecan hardly barricade one's self behind such an announcement. Theclassification of women is incomplete. There are those who are engagedand who care; there are those who are engaged and who don't care; thereare those who don't care and, who are not engaged; then there are thosewho care and who are not engaged, so cannot say. It is not theirfault if, sometimes, they wound a passing lover. Mercifully there arePauline's in this world to relieve one of unsought affections, and Iliked Dick Dudley well enough, and not too much to be glad when I sawhim give ever such a small start when he walked into my drawing-room andsaw Pauline sitting there, clothed in cool green linen and looking hervery best. I had done her glorious hair on the top--that, I think isthe expression--and she sat in the window so that her hair shone likeburnished gold, and she was saying in a voice fraught with emotion, "If I had my way, there should be no sorrow or suffering, " which of allsentiments was the most likely to appeal to Dick Dudley, for he is oneof those who look upon sorrow and suffering as bad management on thepart of some one, since the world is really such an awfully jolly place, if only people didn't make a muddle of their lives. He says it is allvery well to talk of high ideals, you can't live up to them, the bestyou can do is to live up to the highest practical ideal. But then hisstandard of ideal is very much higher since he saw Pauline for the firsttime. Pauline blushed when a strange man walked into the room, which wasall for the best, and made the day a happier one for me. Not that DickDudley was not very loyal to me. He tried, I could see it was an effortnot to talk too much to Pauline, although the topic of bearing-reins, under certain circumstances, was a very engrossing one, and spaniels anever-ending one. Pauline expressed her surprise that Mr. Dudley shouldask her if she lived in London. 

"I thought every one could see I lived in the country, " she said. "Didyou mean it for a compliment?" she asked kindly. 

Dick Dudley was a little overcome by this, and he said he would hardlyhave dared to pay her a compliment, since every one knew that girls wholived in the country away from bearing-reins and other hardening andworldly influences, and in close proximity to spaniels, black, liver andwhite, cocker, clumber, and otherwise, were so vastly superior to theirLondon sisters. Here Dick got a little deep and Pauline kindly rescuedhim. 

"A compliment to my clothes, I meant, " she said; "because all my friendsin London tell me my clothes are so countrified. "

Dick listened very, very seriously to the reasons why Pauline wasobliged to have most of her clothes made in the country, and I could seethat every moment he thought less of the importance of clothes andtheir makers, and more and more of the qualities essential in woman, simplicity, goodness, frankness, and an absence of artificiality. I sawit all on his face, dawning slowly and surely. By the time we had hadtea, I could see it was a matter of mutual satisfaction to both Dick andPauline to find that they were going to the same dance that night. Theresponsibility of chaperoning Pauline was not mine. 

My anxiety as to the ball dress emerging from the small box was relievedby Pauline telling me that it was to come from the dressmaker justin time for her to dress for the ball; which it did. She came to beinspected by Nannie and me before she started, and she really lookeddelicious. Her assets as a country girl counted heavily that night, shelooked so fresh, so natural, and so full of the joy of living. Her haircounted, every hair of it. Nannie was so touched that she wept aloud andsaid it was what I ought to be doing. But I told her professionalaunts went only to children's parties, where they could be of some use. Pauline wished I was going. "Betty, " she said and paused, "I am sure Mr. ---- is his name Dudley? feels very much your not going. " I laughed, and marked it down against her that she should have said, "Is his nameDudley?" It was the first evidence of feminine guile I had detected inher. Men are answerable for a very great deal. 

I woke to greet Pauline when she came into my sunlit room at fiveo'clock in the morning, looking still fresh, untired, and more than everfull of the joy of living. "Oh, it was lovely, " she said, sitting downon my bed. 

"Who saw you home?" I asked professionally. 

"Oh, Aunt Adela to the very door; she even waited till I shut it. "

"Who did you dance with?" I asked. 

"Heaps and heaps of people. I was lucky; all Thorpshire seemed to bethere; and then Mr. Dudley. Betty, I understand now. "

"What?" I said, alarmed by the note of tragic kindness in her voice. 

"About Mr. Dudley, he talked about you so beautifully. He agrees withme absolutely about your character, and he told me about his sister. "Pauline's voice became hushed. 

"Did he say she was just a little like you, Pauline?"

"Yes, he did. You knew her, then? He said I reminded him of her sostrangely. I think he would make a woman very happy. I do really. "

"So do I, dear Pauline, really. "

"Then won't you?"

"No, darling goose. "

"Why?"

"Because I am not the woman. Go to bed, Pauline. "

She went--to sleep? I cannot say. I forget whether a girl goes to sleepthe first night after she has fallen in love. Night? I suppose I shouldsay morning. But it depends on the hour when she takes the first stepinto that bewildering fairyland of first love. For a fairyland itassuredly is, if she is lucky enough to find the right guide. He must, to begin with, believe in the fairyland. He must know that the path maybe rough at times, stony and overgrown with weeds, but he will know thatall the difficulties will be worth while when he brings her out into theopen, and they look away to the limitless horizon of happiness. 

A few hours later, Pauline said to me at breakfast, "Betty, I think Ishall tell that bootmaker to make me two pairs of boots and two pairsof shoes. It is better to have enough while one is about it, don't youthink so?"

So began the regeneration of Pauline, regeneration in the matter offootgear, I mean, and to wear good boots did her character no harm, northe pocket of the country shoemaker either, I am sure. Good boots couldnot turn her feet from the pathway of truth and goodness which from herearliest childhood she had set out to tread, never pausing except topick up some one who lagged behind, or to help some one who had strayedfrom the path. 

Dick Dudley, whose pathway through life had zigzagged considerably, wasastonished to find how easy the pathway was to keep, guided by Pauline, and how alluring the goal of goodness. He gave himself up gladly to herguidance, and was touched to find how much there was of latent goodnessin him. He had never before realized, that was all, how much he lovedhis fellow-creatures, how he longed to help them all, how the conditionsof the laboring-classes made his blood boil with indignation, how heidolized babies, loved old women, reverenced old men. 

It was all a revelation to him. It was, moreover, delightful to be toldby Pauline how wonderful she found all these things in him, and howunexpected. This, she explained, was nothing personal. "But I oftenwondered if I should ever meet a man like you. "

"Darling, " he answered humbly, "I don't think I am that sort of man;really, I'm awfully and frightfully ordinary. "

Then Pauline, to prove the contrary, would ask him if he didn't feelthis or that or the other? And of course he could truthfully say he did, because he felt all and everything Pauline wished him to feel, with herbeautiful eyes fixed upon him and the flush of enthusiasm on hercheeks. Here was something to inspire a man, this splendidly generous, magnanimous creature. Of course he had always felt all these things; hehad been groping after goodness. It was the goodness in Diana, and hewas kind enough to say in the professional aunt, which had appealed tohim. He had been feeling after, it for years, but it was only Paulinewho had revealed it to him, in himself. Well, he was very much in love. Most men engaged to charming girls feel their own unworthiness, andthe girl is sweetly content that they should do so. Not so Pauline. Sherevealed to her astonished lover a depth of goodness in his characterthat he had least suspected, and he gradually began to feel how littlehe had been understood. 

Now this is an excellent basis on which to start an engagement. I forgetexactly how and when they became engaged, but it was certainly beforeDick said humbly, "Darling, I don't think I am that sort of man; really, I'm awfully and frightfully ordinary, " because, with all Pauline'skindness to sinners, there was none hardened enough to address her as"darling" without being first engaged to her; so by that I know theywere engaged that evening at the opera, because it was in a Wagnerianpause that Dick said those words, in a loud voice from the back of thebox. How else should a professional aunt know these things?

Between meeting Dick and becoming engaged to him, Pauline went home andcame back with a larger box and stayed quite a long time, as time goes, although, as a time in which to become engaged, it was very short, andNannie, feeling this, asked Pauline if she knew much about Mr. Dudley, and was she wise? In spite of this anxiety on Nannie's part, she enjoyedit all immensely, and wept to her heart's content when the engagementwas announced. Now Dick Dudley was a rich young man, and I wonderedwhether other people wept too from motives less pure and simple thanNannie's. 

Pauline wanted me to join a society called "The Deaf Dog Society. " Theobligation enforced on members was that they should kneel down, puttheir arms round the neck of any deaf dog they should chance to meet, and say, "Darling, I love you. "

"You see, " she said, "a deaf dog doesn't know he is deaf, he onlywonders why no one ever speaks to him, why no one ever calls him. So yousee what a splendid society it is, and there is no subscription. "

Dick made a stipulation that the benefits of the society should beconferred on dogs only. He made a point of that. 

Chapter X

As there was nothing to wait for, happy people, it was agreed by allparties that the wedding should take place in August, which kept merather late in town; it was hardly worth going away, to come back again, as back again I had to come, as Betty and Hugh were coming to staywith me for a night on their way to Thorpshire. It is not astonishing, perhaps, that two children, modern children in particular, and anursery-maid can fill to overflowing a small London house, but it isastonishing how demoralizing a thing it is. A visiting child to peoplewho have children of their own means nothing, beyond the changing fromone room to another of some particular child, or the putting up ofan extra bed, or perhaps the joy supreme to some child of sleeping insomething that is not a real bed. We all remember that joy. Except forthat one child, it is an every-day thing and fraught with no particularexcitement. The servants, for instance, in a house where children arean every-day thing, remain quite calm, if good tempered, when a visitingchild is expected, and the kitchen-maid, no doubt, cleans the doorstepas usual, and, no doubt, takes in the milk. But this I know, that if Ihad happened to possess such a thing when Betty and Hugh were comingto stay, my doorstep would never have been cleaned. For once I wasglad that I depended on the services of a very small boy, who thinkshe cleans it. Staid and level-headed as were my maids, they answered nobells that morning, which was perhaps natural, as I believe none ringup to the nursery. Of course they had to be interested in Nannie'sarrangements. 

It was a hot August day, I remember, and I sat at the window writing, orpretending to write. As a matter of fact, I was listening. Among otherthings to the "Austrian Anthem, " played over and over again, first righthand, then left, then both, but not together, by, I guessed, a childabout ten years old, next door. 

Poor, hot child, how I pitied her. 

"Never mind, " I thought, "take courage, seaside time is coming. Withina few days, no doubt, an omnibus will come to the door empty, to go awayfull, filled with luggage, crowned by a perambulator and a baby's bath!"It is only a woman who can travel with a perambulator and a bath; theyare the epitome of motherhood. A father is always too busy to go by thatparticular train. 

I heard the twitter of sparrows, the jingle of bells, the hooting of asiren, or was it my neighbor singing "A rose I gave to you"? of courseit was, --the rumble of a post-office van, and the cry of children'svoices, rather peevish voices, poor mites! Never mind, seaside time iscoming. 

Listening more intently, I beard in the far distance, yet distinct, thecries of the children who ought to go to the seaside, children who havenever been to the seaside, never paddled, never built castles, nevercaught crabs, never seen sea-anemones or starfish, children whose facesare wan and whose mothers are too tired to be kind to them. It is oftenthat, I am sure, too tired to be kind!

Listening again, I heard faintly--it is not with the ears that one hearsthese things--the unuttered complaints of those tired mothers, worn-outwomen, despairing men, and the singing, in dark alleys and in hot areas, of caged birds. There are thousands of caged creatures, other thanbirds, in London in August, men, women, and children. Hats off, then, to the little feathered Christians who sing for their fellow-prisonersa paean of praise. It is perhaps easier to sing to the patch of blue skywhen you do not know that it will be hidden behind clouds tomorrow. 

"They've come, " cried Nannie. 

"O Aunt Woggles!" said Hugh, "I've brought you a lovely caterpillarwrapped up in grass. "

"And I've brought you one of my very own bantam eggs, " said Betty. "I'vekept it ever so long for you. "

Then it will be bad, said Hugh. 

"Oh, not so long as to be bad, " said Betty. "You will eat it, won't you, Aunt Woggles?"

Nannie was radiantly happy at tea that day, but I think her happinesswas supreme when she fetched me later to look at the children asleep. We stole into Betty's room together, and Nannie shaded the candle asshe held it, for me to look at what is assuredly the loveliest thing onGod's earth--a sleeping child. 

Nannie, in an eloquent silence, pointed to the chair on which layBetty's clean clothes, folded ready for the morning, and to her hairyhorse which she had brought for company. Her blue slippers were besidethe bed. Then we went into Hugh's room. He, too, lay peaceful andbeautiful, his clothes folded ready for the morning, and his pistolbeside him in case he was "attacked. " His slippers were red, and Nannie, at the sight of them, cried quietly. To some happy mothers a child'sslippers mean nothing more than size two or three, and serve only toremind her how quickly children grow out of things!

But to Nannie they brought back memories of years of happiness, throughwhich little feet, in just the same sort of slippers, had pattered, stumbling here, falling there, picked up, and guided by her. But shethought most of the little feet in just that sort of slippers, that hadstopped still forever early on their life's journey. It is the voicesthat are hushed that call most distinctly, the footsteps that stop thatare most carefully traced. It is the children who have gone that standand beckon!

Chapter XI

Pauline's wedding-day dawned gloriously bright and beautiful. The wholevillage was up and doing, very early, putting the finishing touches tothe decorations. 

The widower shoemaker and his children, and the woman who washedthem--the children, I mean--on Saturdays, had all combined to erect atriumphal arch of, great splendor, and the woman showed such sensibilityin the choice of mottoes, and such a nice appreciation of the joys ofmatrimony, together with a decided leaning towards the bridegroom'sside of the arch, that the shoemaker suggested that she should suit heractions to her words--that was how he expressed it--and marry him, whichshe agreed to do. But she afterwards explained, in breaking the news toher friends, that they could have knocked her down with a leaf! Whetherthis was due to the weakened state of her heart, or to her precariousposition on the ladder, I do not know. 

Everybody and everything was in a bustle, with the exception of AuntCecilia, who sat through it all as calm and as beautiful as ever. Notthat she did not feel parting with Pauline, but her love for everybodyand everything was of a nature so purely unselfish that it neveroccurred to her to count the cost to herself. 

I have never met any one who so completely combines in her charactergentleness and strength as does Aunt Cecilia: so gentle in spirit andjudgment, and so strong in her fight for principles and beliefs. If shehas a weakness, and I could never wish any one I love to be without one, it lies in her love for Patience. She does not think it right to play inthe morning, but sometimes, being unable to withstand the temptation ofso doing, she plays it in an empty drawer of her writing-table, and ifshe hears any one coming, she can close the drawer!

Her greatest interest in life, next to her husband and children, is hergarden and other people's gardens. In fact, she looks at life generallyfrom a gardening point of view, and is apt to regard men as gardeners, possible gardeners, or gardeners wasted. As gardeners they have theirvery distinct use, and as such deserve every consideration, but if aman will not till the soil, he is a cumberer thereof. She, at least, inclines that way in thought. Life, she says, is a garden, children theflowers, parents the gardeners. "If we treated children as we do roses, they would be far happier. We don't call roses naughty when they growbadly and refuse to flower as they ought to; we blame the gardeners orthe soil. "

"But, Aunt Cecilia, " I say, "one can recommend an unsatisfactorygardener to a friend, but one can't so dispose of unsatisfactoryparents. "

"You must educate them, dear. "

Now all this sounds very convincing when said by Aunt Cecilia, because, for one thing, she says it very charmingly, and for another, she isstill a very beautiful woman. She is too fond, perhaps, of extinguishingher beauty under a large mushroom hat, and is given to bending too muchover herbaceous borders, and so hiding her beautiful face. But I daresay the flowers love to look at it, and to see mirrored in it their ownloveliness. 

Aunt Cecilia wears a bonnet sometimes, and thereby hangs a tale. So fewaunts wear a bonnet nowadays that the fact of one doing so is almostworth chronicling. She doesn't wear it very often, only at thechristenings of the head gardener's babies. From a christening point ofview that is very often, but from a bonnet point of view I suppose itmight be called seldom--once a year? I know that bonnet well, because ithas been sent to me often for renovation. On one particular occasionit arrived in a cardboard box. On the top of the bonnet was a bunch offlowers, beautiful enough to make any bonnet accompanying it welcome, inwhatever state of dilapidation. Aunt Cecilia has a knack of sendingjust the right sort of flowers, and they always bring a message, whicheverybody's flowers don't do. 

The bonnet I renovated to the best of my ability and sent it back. Inthe course of a few days I received a slightly agitated note from AuntCecilia. "It doesn't suit me, dearest, and after all the trouble youhave taken!"

Knowing Aunt Cecilia, I wrote back, "Did you try it on in bed with yourhair down?"

She answered by return, "Dearest, I did! It really suits me very wellnow that I have tried it on in my right mind. I am going to wear itat the last little Shrub's christening, this afternoon. It is just intime. "

When David and Diana were singled out by night for the particularattention of a burglar, Aunt Cecilia wrote to sympathize and said, "I amso thankful, dearest, David did not meet the poor, misguided man!"

May we all be judged as tenderly!

This is a digression, but it perhaps explains Pauline and Pauline'swedding, and the joy with which all the people in the village enteredinto it. 

The strangest people kept on arriving the morning of the wedding. It wasverily a gathering of the halt, the lame, and the blind--all friends ofPauline's. Whenever Uncle Jim was particularly overcome, it was sure tomean that some old soldier, officer or otherwise, had turned up, who hadserved with him in some part of the world, long before Pauline was born. Aunt Cecilia welcomed them all in her inimitable manner, which made eachone feel that he was the one and most particularly honored guest. Forall her apparent absent-mindedness, she knew exactly who belonged toMrs. Bunce's department and who not. 

Mrs. Bunce, the old housekeeper, was very busy, every button doing itsduty! A wedding didn't come her way every day. The sisters-in-law, ofcourse, came with their belongings. 

Zerlina was distressed at the nature of many of the presents; andwondered if Pauline would have enough spare rooms to put them in; whichshowed how little she knew her. If Pauline had told her that she valuedthe alabaster greyhound under a glass case, subscribed for by theold men and women in the village, over seventy, Zerlina wouldn't havebelieved her any more than did old Mrs. Barker when Diana told her Sarawas named after a dear old housemaid and not after the Duchess. 

Betty and Hugh were among the bridesmaids and pages, and Hugh shockedBetty very much by saying, in the middle of the service "When may I playwith my girl?"

Some one described Uncle Jim as looking like one of the Apostles, andAunt Cecilia certainly looked like a saint. Ought I, by the way, tobracket an apostle and a saint? But nothing was so wonderful or sobeautiful as the expression on Pauline's face. I am sure that, as shewalked up the aisle, she was oblivious to everything and every oneexcept God and Dick. 

It is assuredly a great responsibility for a man to accept such a loveas hers. 

A wedding is nearly always a choky thing, and Pauline's was particularlyso. As she left the church, she stopped in the churchyard to speak toher friends, and for one old woman she waited to let her feel her dress. 

"Is it my jewels you want to feel, Anne?" she said, as the old handstremblingly passed over her bodice. "I have on no jewels. "

The old hands went up to Pauline's face and gently and reverentlytouched it. "God bless her happy face, " said the old woman. "I had toknow for sure. " Pauline kissed the old fingers gently. We all knew forsure, but then we had eyes to see. 

Pauline went away in the afternoon, and the villagers danced far intothe evening, and there was revelry in the park by night. 

After Pauline and Dick had gone away, I walked across the park tothe post office to send a telegram to Julia, who was kept at home byillness, to her very great disappointment. There is nothing she adoreslike a wedding. I was glad to escape for a few minutes. I wrote out thetelegram and handed it to the postmaster, who, reading it, said, I'mglad it went off so well. "There's nobody what wouldn't wish her well. "Then he counted the words. "Julia Westby?" he said. "Um-um-um-um. Eleven, miss. You might as well give her the title. " I laughed andadded, or rather he added, the "Lady. "

Julia is not a sister-in-law really, but she likes to call herself so, since she might have been one, having been for one ecstatic week inArchie's life engaged to him. She is wont now to lay her hand on hishead, in public, for choice, and say, "He was almost mine. " She saysshe still loves him as a friend. "But, you see, dearest Betty, there iseverything that is delightful in the relationship of a poor friend, buta poor husband! That is another thing. To begin with, it is not fairto a man that he should have to deny his wife things. It is bad for hischaracter and, of course, for hers. He becomes a saint at her expense, whereas the expense should always be borne by the husband. William is sodelightfully rich, but he is not an Archie, of course! But then husbandsare not supposed to be. "

Hugh, going to bed, wondered if the angels would bring Pauline a babythat night, a darling little baby!

And Betty said, in her great wisdom, "Oh, darling, I think it would betoo exciting for Pauline to be married and have a baby all on one day. "

Then Hugh suggested the glorious possibility of the angels bringingit to Fullfield, whereupon Hyacinth said that was not at all likely, because she knew that when a baby was born, it was usual for one orother parent to be present!

We stayed for a few days at Fullfield, and Hugh and Betty enjoyedthemselves immensely. Hyacinth said it was just like staying for a weekat the pantomime, and Betty said, with a deep sigh, that it was muchnicer, a billion times nicer. 

Pauline's brother Jack most nearly resembled any one in a pantomime, andthe children loved him. One day at lunch he went to the side-table tofetch a potato in its jacket, and coming back he laid it on Uncle Jim'sslightly bald head and said, "Am I feverish, father?"

"It Good Heavens, my boy!" exclaimed Uncle Jim; "you must be in an awfulstate!"

After that, the eyes of the children never left Jack during any mealat which they happened to be present, and whenever he got up to fetchanything, Hugh began dancing with joy and saying in a loud whisper, "He's going to do something funny"; and if Jack remained silent, Hughwas sure he was thinking of something to do. It is difficult to live upto those expectations. 

One morning at breakfast Hugh said suddenly, "Aunt Woggles, have you gota mole?"

I said I believed I had. 

"It's frightfully lucky. I have, " he said, pulling up his sleeve anddisclosing a mole on his very white little arm. "It is lucky. "

"I've got one too, " said Betty, diving under the table. 

"All right, darling, " I said, "you needn't show us. "

"I couldn't, Aunt Woggles, at least not now. If you come to see me in mybath, you can; but it's truthfully there. "

I said I was sure it was. 

"I 'spect she's sitting on it, " said Hugh in aloud whisper; "that'swhy. "

"We asked Mr. Hardy once if he had a mole, and he got redder andredder;" we asked him at lunch, said Betty. 

"He got redder and redder, " said Hugh, by way of corroboration. "Mothersaid moles weren't good things to ask people about, so we asked him ifhe had any little children, and he hadn't; then we didn't know what toask. "

"We only asked about moles because we wanted him to be lucky, " saidkindhearted Betty. 

"Last time I went to the Zoo, " said Hugh, "I gave all my bread to oneanimal. He was a lucky animal, wasn't he?"

"It was the hippopotamus, I think; he was lucky. "

"Perhaps he has a mole, Hugh, " I said. 

We'll look, said Hugh. "I 'spect he has. "

The proverbial difficulty of finding a needle in a haystack seemedchild's play compared to that of finding a mole on a hippopotamus. 

Chapter XII

Another aunt, Anna by name, suggested that as I was at Fullfield, Imight take the opportunity of paying her a visit at Manwell, why becauseI was at Fullfield I don't know, as they are miles apart, counties apartI should say. However, I went because it is difficult to refuse AuntAnna anything; she accepts no excuses. It is as well for any one whowishes to see Aunt Anna at her best to see her in her own home. She, according to Aunt Cecilia, does best in her own soil. Moreover, she isnothing without her family, it so thoroughly justifies her existence. 

Aunt Anna is one of those jewels who owe a certain amount to theirsetting. 

Her husband calls her a jewel, and as such she is known by the familyin general which recalls to my mind an interesting biennial custom whichwas said to hold good in the Manwell family. Every time a lesser jewelmade its appearance, the mother-jewel was presented with a diamond andruby ornament of varying magnificence, with the words "The price of agood woman is far above rubies" conveniently inscribed thereon. 

Aunt Anna took it all very seriously, from the tiara downward, and ifdiamond and ruby shoe-buckles had not involved twins, I think she wouldhave hankered after those, but even as it was, she came in time topossess a very remarkable collection of rubies and diamonds. 

Aunt Anna is very prosperous, very happy, very rich, and very contented. 

She prides herself on none of these things, but only on the unprejudicedstate of her maternal mind. 

"Of course, " she says, "I cannot help seeing that my children are morebeautiful than other people's. It would be ludicrously affected andhypocritical of me if I pretended otherwise. If they were plain, Ishould be the first to see it, and--"

I think she was going to add "say it, " but she stopped short; sheinvariably does at a deliberate lie, because she is a very truthfulwoman, and thinks a lie is a wicked thing unless socially a necessity. 

I arrived at tea-time which is a thing Aunt Anna expects of her guests. I noticed that she looked a little less contented than usual, and thatshe even gave way to a gesture of impatience when Mrs. Blankley askedfor a fifth cup of tea. Mrs. Blankley is a great advocate of temperance. In connection with which, Aunt Anna once said that she thought thereshould be temperance in all things beginning with "t. " Which vaguesaying, as illustrative of her wit, was treasured up by her indulgenthusband and quoted "As Anna so funnily said. "

Now as Aunt Anna, we know, never says witty things unless under strongprovocation, she rarely says them, for she is of an amazingly eventemperament. She often says she considers cleverness a very dangerousgift. It is not one I seek for either myself or my children. It is soeasy to say clever, unkind things. Every one can do it if they choose;the difficulty is not to say them. 

It is evident that Aunt Anna chooses the harder part. 

Mrs. Blankley, having disposed of the fifth cup of tea, expressed adesire to see the pigs. Aunt Anna never goes to see pigs, nor demandsthat sacrifice of Londoners, for which act of consideration I honor her;not but what I am fond of pigs, black ones and small. Aunt Anna knowsthat there are such things because of the continual presence of baconin her midst. She also knows that pigs are things that get prizes. She still clings to her childish belief that streaky bacon comes fromfeeding the pigs one day and not the next. 

Every one, like Mrs. Blankley, had a thirst to see something, and Iwas left alone with Aunt Anna, to discuss Pauline's wedding. As arule, there is nothing Aunt Anna would sooner discuss, but I saw thatsomething was worrying her, and I guessed that the unburdening of ararely perturbed mind was imminent. It was. 

"Is anything wrong?--" I asked. "Any of the children worrying you?" Shenodded and pointed to a diamond and ruby brooch and said plaintively. "This one, Claud, just a little worrying. "

I tried to hide a smile. "Oh, that's Claud, is it? I get a littlemixed. "

"I dare say, dear, " she said; "but it's quite simple, really. Jack wasthe tiara, and so on. "

"What has Claud been doing?" I asked. "Oh, nothing he can help, I feelsure. He has a temperament, I believe. What it is I don't quite know;people grow out of it, I am told. It's not so much doing things assaying them; and his friends are odd, decidedly odd. They wear curiousties, have disheveled hair, and are distinctly décolleté. I don't knowif I should apply the word to men, but they are. "

I suggested that these little indiscretions on the part of extreme youthneed not worry her. But she said they did, in a way, because herother children were so very plain sailing. They never took any one bysurprise. She then told me of poor Lady Adelaide, a near neighbor, atleast as near as it was possible for any neighbor to be, consideringthe extent of the Manwell property, one of whose boys had written a bookwithout her knowledge, and the other had married under exactly similarconditions. 

I said I thought the writing of a book a minor offense compared tothe matrimonial venture. She agreed, but said they were both upsettingbecause unexpected. As an instance, did I remember when Lady Victoriawas butted by her pet lamb, when she was showing the Prince her whitefarm? It wasn't the upsetting she minded, so much as the unexpectednessof it, because the lamb had a blue ribbon round its neck!

"A black sheep in a white farm, Aunt Anna!" I said. 

"No, dear, it was white, and it was a lamb. "

But to return to Lady Adelaide. Now that Aunt Anna came to think of it, the marriage was the better of the two shocks, because financially itwas a success, and the book wasn't. "Books aren't, " She added. 

"Is that all Claud does, or, rather, his friends do?" I asked. 

"No, it's not, " she said. "Ever since he went to Oxford he has changedcompletely. He has got into his head that we are a self-centered family, and that I am a prejudiced mother, when it is the only thing I am not. I may be everything else for all I know, I may be daily breaking allthe commandments without knowing it! But a prejudiced mother I am not!Before he went to Oxford he came into my bedroom one morning, and hesaid that he thought Maud and Edith were quite the most beautiful girlshe had ever seen, and he had sat behind some famous beauty in a theatrea few nights before. I didn't ask him! I was suffering from neuralgia atthe time, I remember, and he might, under the circumstances, have agreedjust to soothe me, but he said it of his own accord, and he wondered ifthey would go up to London and walk down Bond Street with him. I saidit should be arranged. They walked with him three times up and down BondStreet; he only asked for once. I am only telling you this because youwill then realize what this change in him means to me. He came backfrom Oxford after one term and he said nothing about the girls' beauty, although I thought them improved. I didn't say so; I made some littlejoke about Bond Street, which he pretended not to understand. So I justsaid I thought the girls improved, or rather were looking very pretty, and he said, 'My dear mother, we must learn to look at these things fromthe point of view of the outsider. Place yourself in the position of aman of the world seeing them for the first time. '"

To begin with, Aunt Anna proceeded to explain, she could never placeherself in a position to which she was not born; she did not think itright. She said that Claud then urged her to look at it from stranger'spoint of view, since that of man of the world was impracticable, whichAunt Anna said was a thing no mother could do, nor would she wish to doit. She left such things to actresses. Talking of actresses reminded herthat Claud had even found fault with Maud as an actress, when everyone knew how very excellent she was. Several newspapers, the SouthshireHerald in particular, had alluded to her as one of our most talentedactresses. 

"We had a professional down to coach her, and he said there was reallynothing he could teach her. He was a very nice man, and had all hismeals with us. I went, " continued Aunt Anna, "to see the great Frenchactress who was in London in the spring, you remember? And if ever amother went with an unprejudiced mind, I was that mother. I was preparedto think she was better than Maud, and if she had been, I should havebeen the first to say it. But she was not, at least not to my mind! Maudis always a lady, even on the stage, and that woman was not. "

I ventured to suggest that she was perhaps not supposed to be a lady inthe part. Aunt Anna said, "Perhaps not, but that does not matter;Maud would be a lady under any circumstances, whatever character sheimpersonated, laundress or lady. Claud says she will never act tillshe learns to forget herself I trust one of my daughters will never dothat!"

I strove to pacify Aunt Anna, but her tender heart was wounded and shewas hard to comfort. 

"Claud must admire Edith's violin playing, " I ventured. 

Aunt Anna shook her head. "He begged me to eliminate from my mind allpreconceived notions and to judge her from the unprejudiced point ofview. I told Edith to put away her violin. Claud says I must call it afiddle. I could not bear to see it. I never thought there could be suchdissension in our united family. "

By way of distraction, I asked if the young man at tea with thedisheveled hair and startlingly unorthodox tie was a friend of Claud's, and she said, "His greatest!"

At that moment Claud came into the room, wearing a less earnestexpression than usual and Aunt Anna held out a hand of forgiveness. Hewarmly clasped it. "Mother, " he said, "Windlehurst has just told me, instrict confidence, that he considers Maud's the most beautiful face hehas ever seen, except, of course, in the best period of ancient Greekart. I knew you wanted to hear the unprejudiced opinion of an unbiasedoutsider. "

I wondered how Windlehurst would like the description! Claud went on: "Ithink Edith every bit as good looking, more so in some ways. Now thatI have heard an unprejudiced opinion I can express mine, which you haveknown all along. You see, mother, people say we are a self-centered andegotistical family. I have proved that we are not. "

"Dear, dearest Claud, your tie is disarranged, " murmured his mother, struggling to reduce it to the dimensions of the orthodox sailor knot. "Do wait and listen to all dear Betty is telling me of dearest Pauline'swedding. So interesting. Go on, dear Betty; where had we got to?"

Chapter XIII

My correspondence regarding my summer plans was varied, and thesuggestions contained therein numerous. Here are some of the letters. 

Diana's:

Darling Betty, --What do you say to the Cornish coast, coves, cream, andchildren! As much of the coast and cream, and as little of the childrenas you like! David has a bachelor shoot in view, and I think sea airwould do the children good. I do not propose leaving any nurses at home, or sending them away; they shall all come and run after Sara should sheget into the sea, when she ought not to, but you and I will have the joyof watching her. She really is delicious paddling. Think of therocks, and the coves, and the sands, and not of the wind or of otherdisadvantages that may strike you. As much as you like you shall read, and whatever you like, so long as you will, at intervals, look up andsmile at me. I shall love to feel you are there, so do come, not as aprofessional aunt, as you sometimes describe yourself, but as your owndear self. 

 Your loving DIANA

Zerlina's:

Dearest Betty, --I know how difficult you are to find disengaged, but dotry and come to Cornwall with us. The children would love to have you, and I know you enjoy tearing about after them on the sands! Nurse mustgo home for her holiday, and the nursery-maid is so useless. But youshall do exactly as you like. I know you wouldn't mind if I left youfor a day or two. Jim is so keen that I should go to the Cross-Patches, being in the neighborhood, more or less. Do write and say you will come. I do get such headaches at the seaside, and I look so awful when I getsun burnt, but it suits you. 

 Yours, ZERLINA

Julia's:

Betty dear, --You have simply got to come. Diana tells me she is askingyou to Cornwall, and that, I know, you will not refuse, because forsome extraordinary reason you can't refuse her anything. Oh! for Diana'scharm for one day a week! What wouldn't I do! That woman wastes herlife; I've always said so. But go to Cornwall, blazes, or anywhere youlike, but come here on your way back--everywhere is on the way back fromCornwall. Because the house is to be full of William's friends and heis never perfectly at ease unless there is a bishop among them, and abishop drives me to desperate deeds of wickedness. They always like me!Betty, in your capacity of professional something, think of me. I wanthelping more than any one. I don't ask you to give up Cornwall, butafterwards, don't disappoint your

 JULIA. 

A girl's:

Dear Miss Lisle, --I wonder if you will remember me. I am almost afraidto hope so. But I met you last summer at the Anstells' garden-party, and you passed me an ice, vanilla and strawberry mixed! I have neverforgotten it. It was not so much passing the ice, lots of people didthat, as the way you did it. I was very unhappy at the time, and therewas something in your expression as you did it that made me feel youwere unlike any one else I had ever met. I wore green muslin!

I am wondering whether you would come to Cornwall, to stay with us. The coast is lovely, and in its wildness one can forget one's self, and that, I think, is what one most wants to do! I know what a help youwould be to me, if you could come, and I will tell you all my troubleswhen we have been together some days. One gets to know people by the seavery quickly, I think, don't you? Although I feel as if I had known youall my life. My hat was brown, mushroom. 

 Your sincere friend and admirer, VERONICA VOKINS

P. S. --I forgot to say that my father and mother will be delighted tosee you. I have ten brothers and sisters, but there is miles of coast, and I and my five sisters have a sitting-room all to ourselves. Fathersays "he" must pass his examinations first. I tell you this because youwill then understand. "He" won the obstacle race at the Anstells', buthe was in a sack, so I expect you did not notice him!

The big, sad Thomas:

Dear Miss Lisle, --For months, in fact since the day you restored thescrew to my small son, I have been trying to write to you on a subjectthat may or may not be distasteful to you. That it will come as asurprise I feel sure. My love for my boy must be my excuse; nothing elsecould justify my writing to any woman as I am about to write to you. Will you be a mother to my Thomas? It would not be honest on my partto pretend that I can offer you in myself anything but a very sad andlonely man, the best of me having gone. No one could ever, --or shallever, take the place of my beloved wife in my heart, the remains ofwhich I offer unreservedly to you. For the sake of my boy I am preparedto sacrifice myself, and I can at least promise you that you shall neverregret by any action of mine whatever sacrifice it may entail on yourpart. I shall not insult you by the mention of money matters or any suchthings, for I feel sure that the fact of my being a rich man will makeno difference in your decision as to whether or no you will be a motherto my Thomas. 

 Yours very sincerely, THOMAS GLYNNE

Lady Glenburnie's:

Dear Betty, --If you should be in the North, --and why not make acertainty of it?--don't forget us! A line to say when and where to meetyou is all we want, and you will find the warmest of welcomes awaitingyou, and your own favorite room in the turret. Don't mention nephews ornieces in answering this. 

 Your affectionate MARY GLENBURNIE

Brother Archie's:

Angel Betty, --Help a brother in distress. I'm desperately in love. Firstof all, --how long do you suppose it will last? Forever, I think. But Ican't live at this pitch for long, and my summer plans depend on it. Sheis lovely. Makes me long to sing hymns on Sunday evenings; you knowthe kind of thing--feeling, I should say! She's like Pauline, only morebeautiful, I think. I will tell you all about it when we meet. There arecomplications. My first trouble is this: I have taken a small place inSkye with Coningsby. Now it is perfectly impossible to live with Conwhen one is in love; of all the unsympathetic, dried-up old crabs, heis the worst. Now the question is, can I buy him out? Have you to stayinstead, ask my beloved too, save her from drowning, which in Skyeshould be easy, and then live happily ever afterwards. I am consumedwith a desire to save her from something. It is a symptom, I know, but, Betty dear, it is serious this time. Her eyes look as if they saw intoanother world, which makes me feel hopeless! I don't mind you hintingsomething about it to Julia, if you should see her. You needn't enterinto details!

 Yours ever, ARCHIE

Of all the letters, Diana's was the most tempting. 

Zerlina's had no power to lure. Dear Archie's little--he had so oftenwritten the same--sort of letters. Veronica Vokins' less, and the sad, big Thomas! What a curious letter! I hardly knew whether to laugh or tocry. How careful he was to point out the sacrifice on his part entailedin his offer. It was hardly flattering to me, except that he refrainedfrom mentioning his worldly goods, or the advantages to me accruing fromthe bestowal thereof. I had at least looked unworldly when I had visitedthe small Thomas in bed; of that I was glad. And, after all, why shouldI mind? It is something, perhaps, to be asked to be a mother to a smallfat Thomas. I wrote, refusing as kindly as I could. I dare say there arewomen who would accept the position. Let us hope, if one be found to doso, that she will not forget the mother part!

Dear Lady Glenburnie's letter had something of temptation lurking init somewhere. The turret room, commanding its views of purple hills andsunsets, and the warmest of welcomes! But, again, the most aching ofmemories. I could not go there again under circumstances so different. If ever it could be again as it had been, how I should love it! So thatinvitation I declined, saying I should be in Cornwall with Diana. LadyGlenburnie would forgive the mention of Diana, I knew, and of Betty, Hugh, and Sara I said nothing, as she had stipulated. 

Then I wrote to Julia saying I would go to her after I had been toCornwall. She might need consoling by then, should Archie have provedhimself recovered of the wounds inflicted by her. This I did not tellher. If I waited a little, there might be nothing to tell. 

Chapter XIV

So to Cornwall I went, and found the sands and the coves and the rocksand the sea, just as Diana had said, nor was I disappointed in the backview of Sara with her petticoats tucked into her bathing-drawers. It wasdivine. She was delicious, too, paddling, and there were enough nursesto prevent her doing more, if necessary, and Diana and I could, if weliked, lie on the sands and watch the children. But it so happens that Ilove building castles and making puddings, and, curiously enough, Dianadoes too, and we were children once more with perhaps less hinge in ourbacks than formerly, but still we enjoyed ourselves immensely. 

Betty, the first day, full of faith, tried to walk on the sea, and waspulled out very wet and disappointed, and her faith a little shaken, perhaps, for the moment. Hugh told her she didn't have faith hardenough. "You must go like this, " and he held his breath, threatening tobecome purple in the face. 

"Could you now?" said Betty wistfully, when Hugh was at his reddest. 

"No!" he said, "because I burst. Aunt Woggles looked at me when I wasjust believing very hard. "

Betty forgot that trouble in her infinite delight at discovering whereHeaven really was. She knew if she could just row out to the silverpathway across the sea, it would lead straight to Heaven. "I know itwould, " she said. 

Hugh objected because Heaven was in the sky, that he knew! Betty saidhow did he know?

"Well, look, " said Hugh; "you can see it's all bright and blue andshining, and angels fly, and you can't fly on the sea, so that shows. "

Betty wasn't sure of that because of flying-fish; she'd seen them ina book where "F" was for flying-fish, so she knew. But Hugh knew thatangels weren't fish, because fish is good to eat and angels aren't. I was glad the culinary knowledge of Hugh and Betty didn't extend to"angels on horseback, " or where should we have been in the abysses ofargument?

We made expeditions which, as expeditions, were not a success. Saraobjected to leaving the object of her passing affections, a starfishperhaps, and Hugh and Betty also always found treasures of their veryown, which they must just watch for just a little time, in case theydid something exciting. These things hinder! But still we did sometimesreach another cove, and one day, in a very secluded one, I caught sightof a pair of lovers. One can tell the most discreet of them at a glance, and more than a glance I should never have given this pair had not thegirl, so much of her as I could see under a brown mushroom hat, beenvery pretty. Her dress too was green muslin, which was in itselfcompelling, and the boy with her, I felt sure, had passed noexaminations. And yet they were deliriously happy, that I could tell. So the father wasn't so cruel, after all, and I doubted whether I shouldhave been the comfort to Veronica that she had anticipated. In fact, I could easily imagine how greatly in the way I should have been. Poorprofessional friend! That I had at least been spared from becoming. 

Veronica, no less than Betty, had discovered where Heaven really was, and the boy had a clearer definition of angels than Hugh. Hugh was rightso far--they were in no way related to, or bore any resemblance to, fish. They were angels pure and simple, and the most beautiful of them, the most enchanting of them, wore a green muslin and a brown mushroomhat. 

If I had been that young man, I should have objected to the dimensionsof that hat, but he didn't, I suppose. Not having passed hisexaminations may have made a difference. He would later on, no doubt. Itis a pity, perhaps, that men have to pass examinations; it robs them ofmuch of their simplicity. 

Chapter XV

Zerlina discovered, to her immense surprise, that she was near enoughto bring all her party to play with ours, and it was arranged that sheshould do so on the first fine day. 

It so happened that all the days were fine, so every day Diana and Iwatched for the small cloud in the distance that should herald theirapproach, and one day it appeared, no bigger than a man's hand. Whenit came nearer it was considerably bigger, and it finally assumedthe dimensions of Zerlina, Hyacinth, the twins, Teddy, and a smallnursery-maid. Betty was immensely delighted with the twins, her oneambition in life being to have twins of her own. Failing that, and everybirthday only brought fresh disappointment in its wake, the care ofsomebody else's was the next best thing. 

They really were delicious people, so round and so solemn. Hugh, forthe moment, was engrossed in Teddy; Teddy having, among other things, a knife with "things in it, " most of which he was mercifully unable toopen. It was the certainty of being able to do so on the part of Hugh, which made him so deliriously busy. Sara was out of it, having no oneas yet to play with, and she was proud and disdainful in consequence. Iknew that Betty would shortly have one twin to spare, perhaps two, butthis Sara could not guess, knowing nothing of twins. 

"Now, Sara, " I said, "we will build a castle all for our very ownselves. "

"Our velly, velly own selves, " said Sara, hugging her spade withecstasy. "A velly, velly big castle. "

"Very, very big, " I replied. 

"A bemormous castle?"

"An enormous castle, " I said, starting to dig the foundations. 

"Dat's a velly, velly vitty hole, " said Sara. 

"It's going to be a castle, darling. "

"For Yaya to live in?"

"Perhaps. "

"And Nannie and Aunt Woggles and Hugh and Betty and muvver?"

Sara danced with joy at the prospect, and Sara dancing inbathing-drawers was distracting. I dug industriously, however, and itwas very hot. Sara looked on, occasionally watering the castle and metoo. 

"Not too much water, darling, " I said, "because it makes Aunt Woggles sowet. "

Sara subsided for the moment. "Is it a velly big castle?" she askedevery now and then with evident anxiety. 

"It's going to be, darling, " I said. 

"It's a velly, velly small castle now, " she said sadly. 

I dug harder and harder, and it seemed to me that the castle wasbecoming quite a respectable size, but Sara's interest had flagged. 

"Aunt Woggles, " she said. 

"Yes, darling, " I answered. 

"Sall we dig a velly, velly deep hole, velly, velly deep, for all vecwabs, and all ve vitty fish, and Nannie and Aunt Woggles?"

"A very big hole, " I said; "but look at the lovely castle!"

"Yaya doesn't yike 'ollid ole castles, " she said. 

I began to dig a hole. One does these things, I find, for the Saras ofthis world, and Sara was for the moment enchanted, but it didn't lastlong. 

"Yaya's so sirsty, " she said. "Yaya wants a 'ponge cake. "

"I think you would rather have some milk, darling, " I said. 

"Yaya's so sirsty, " she said in a very sad voice. "Yaya would yike a'ponge cake!"

"Very well, darling; but don't you want to dig any more?"

"No, " she said. "Yaya doesn't yike digging. "

Now was that fair?--digging, indeed, when it was the poor aunt who hadbeen digging all the time. When I told Diana of this she shook her headand said, -- "Betty, it frightens me. Do you think Sara will grow up thatsort of woman?"

"What sort of woman?"

"Like Polly in Charles Dudley Warner's 'My Summer in a Garden. ' Youremember when the husband says, 'Polly, do you know who planted thatsquash, or those squashes?'"

"'James, I suppose. '

"'Well, yes, perhaps James did plant them, to a certain extent. But whohoed them?'

"'We did. '"

"Well, it seems to me, " I said, "that she was rather a delightfulperson. "

"In a book, absolutely delightful. I am only thinking of Sara's husband, poor man! You see Polly's husband was an American, and that makes allthe difference. You remember I told you of a man I met who in decoratinghis house wanted to have red walls as a background to his beautifulpictures, and his wife wanted to have green. I asked him what he did, and he said he made a compromise. I said how clever of him, how did hedo it? and he said, 'We had green!' You see, Betty, what an Americanhusband means!"

"Well, to return to Sara's, you need not worry. I think he will, inall probability, be in such raptures over the possession of anythingso delicious as Sara promises to be, that he will overlook these littlepluralities on her part. "

"Yes, Betty, of course; but does that sort of thing last?"

"You ought to know, to a certain extent. "

"Ah! but then David is such a dear. "

"I think it is quite likely that Sara will find a dear too. "

"I hope so, oh! how I hope so!" said Diana. "I often wonder what it mustbe to find you have given your daughter to some one who is unkind toher. I can hardly imagine so great a sorrow! I dare not even think ofDavid the day Betty marries. He says he thinks it must be worse for afather than a mother. "

"I wonder, " I said. "I think a mother perhaps has a greater belief inthe goodness of men; a woman, a happy woman certainly, has so littleknowledge of men, other than her own. "

"Yes, " said Diana, "a good father and a good husband give one a verydeep rooted faith and belief in the goodness of mankind generally. Howwe are prosing, Betty!"

Zerlina meanwhile sat on a rock, of the hardness of which shecomplained. She found fault with our cove, the sun was too hot and thewind was too strong. But then she had driven ten miles in a wagonetteunder Teddy and the twins, so it was no wonder she grumbled a little. 

"I can't think, " she said plaintively, "why my hair doesn't look nicewhen it blows about in the wind, and I hate myself sun burnt. I can'tbear seeing my nose wherever I look. You and Betty are the stuff martyrsare made of. It would be comparatively easy to walk to the stake if youhad the right amount of hair hanging down behind; without it, no amountof religious conviction would avail. Oh dear, I used to have such lots, before I had measles! I hardly knew what to do with it!"

"That's rather what we find with Betty's, " said Diana; "we plait it upas tight as we can, don't we, darling?" she said, re-tying the ribbonwhich secured Betty's very thick pigtail. 

"I had twice as much as Betty, at her age, I'm sure, " said Zerlina, forgetting a photograph which stands on Jim's dressing-table, of a smallfat girl with very little hair and that rather scraggy. But what does itmatter? These are the sort of traditions women cling to. 

Someone suggested building a steamship in the sand, grown-ups, children, and all, and Hugh was told to go and make a second-class berth. Heretired to a short distance, and no sound coming from his direction, welooked round and saw him in ecstatic raptures, rocking himself backwardand forward. 

"What are you doing, Hugh?" we said. 

"Well, " said Hugh, "I was told to make a second-class berth. I supposethat means twins, and I 'm nursing them. "

Zerlina took it quite well, and was easily persuaded that there was noinsult intended to her twins in particular. 

A few minutes later Sara appeared, triumphant, having apparently found asmall child to play with. 

"Who is your little friend, Sara?" I asked. 

She shook her head. She didn't know, but he was delicious to play withfor all that, and she bore him off in triumph. 

He was not long unsought, for a young girl came anxiously towards us andsaid, "Have you seen a little boy?"

It reminded me a little of the story, the other way round, of a lost boywho asked a man, "Please, sir, have you seen a man without a little boy, because if you have, I'm the little boy. "

She looked as anxious and as distraught as that little boy must havelooked, I am sure. 

"I think, " said Diana, "you will find him behind that rock. --Sara, "called Diana, "bring the little boy here. "

A small portion of Sara's person appeared round the rock:--"We're vellybusy, " she said. 

So rapidly do women make friendships!

"He's quite safe, " said Diana; "your little brother, I suppose?"

The girl blushed. "No, I'm his mother, " she said. 

She looked so young and so pretty, and her hair must have moved Zerlinato tears, it was so beautiful, and grew so prettily on her forehead. Butshe looked too young to be searching for lost babies all by herself. 

"How old is he?" asked Diana. 

"He's three, " she said; then added, "his father never saw him; he wentto the war soon after we were married, and he was killed. Baby is justlike him, " and she unfastened a miniature she wore on a chain round herneck and handed it to Diana. 

I am sure Diana saw nothing but a blur, but she managed to say, "Youmust be glad! Come and see my little girl, she is very much the sameage. "

"What an extraordinarily communicative person!" said Zerlina as theywalked off. "Just imagine telling strangers the whole of your historylike that. I wonder if her husband left her well off. "

"Can't you see he did?" I said. 

"No; I don't think she is very well dressed, but you never can tell withthat picturesque style of dressing. It may or may not be expensive; eventhat old embroidery only means probably that she had a grandmother. It is a terrible thing for a girl of that age to be left with a boy tobring up. I know, Betty, just what you are thinking--cold, heartless, mercenary Zerlina! But I'm practical. "

When Diana came back, I could see in her face that she knew all aboutthe poor little widow. It is wonderful what a comfort it seems to beeven to strangers to confide in Diana. For one thing I feel sure theyknow that she won't tell, and that makes all the difference. It is arelief sometimes to tell some one, although some things can be betterborne when nobody knows. But I imagine there was little bitterness inthe sorrow of this girl widow. She too had learned something from Diana, for she turned to me and said, "Are you a relation of Captain Lisle?"

"If his name is Archie, " I said, "I am his sister. "

"I've met him, " and she blushed. 

This, then, was the girl Archie longed to save from drowning, and whoinspired him with a desire to sing hymns on Sunday evenings. Dear oldArchie! I could imagine his tender, susceptible heart going out to thelittle widow. But I said to myself, "It's no good, Archie dear, not yetat all events, not while she looks as she does over the sea, " for I wassure it was far away in a grave on the lonely veldt that her heart wasburied. 

"He is so devoted to children, isn't he?" she said. "He was so good tomy baby. I find that men are so extraordinarily fond of children. I amafraid they will spoil him. "

Whereupon the baby burst into a long dissertation on a present he hadlately received. It sounded something like this:--

"Mormousman give boy a yockerile an a epelan, anye yockerile yanan yanall over de jurnmer yunder de hoha an eberelyyare. "

He then proceeded to turn bead over heels, or try to, and was sharplyrebuked by Sara, who rearranged his garments with stern severity, and then was about to show him the right method, when she in turn wasstopped by Nannie. 

One of the twins arrived at this moment to say that Hugh had called himbad names. Betty the peacemaker explained that Hugh had called hima wicket keeper, and the twin had thought he had called him a wickedkeeper. So that was all right. We suggested that, in any case, the twinwasn't the best person to be wicket keeper. But he went in twice runningto make up, and Hugh gave him several puddings as well. "Puddings, " thenursery-maid explained, were first balls, and didn't count. 

"Betty, " I said, "you've got a hole in your stocking!"

"I hope it 's not a Jacob's ladder, " said Betty. 

"Hush, darling, hush, " said Hugh; "you know we mustn't be irreverent!"

It was during an interval when we rested and drank milk and ate cake, those of us who would or could, that we discovered that the little widowwas staying with a very old friend of my father's and mother's. 

"And where does Lady Mary live?" asked Diana. 

"Just over there. Do come and see her; she will be so delighted to seeyou and to show you the garden, which is quite famous. "

Chapter XVI

The following day Diana got a delightful letter from Lady Mary asking usto go to luncheon, or to tea, or to both, or whatever we liked best, solong as it was at once, and that we stayed a long time, and brought allthe children. She offered to send for us, but going in a donkey-cart wasa stipulation on the part of the children, otherwise they could not orwould not tear themselves away from the sand and all its fascinations. Sara was particularly offended at having to get out to tea, and more soat not being allowed to go in her bathing-drawers. But a mushroom hattrimmed with daisies appeased her, and even at that early age she sawthe incongruity of that hat and those nether garments. They were packed, Hugh, Betty, Sara, and the nursery-maid, into the donkey-cart. Betty wassupposed to drive, but Hugh and Sara had so large a share in the stagedirection of that donkey, that I wonder we ever arrived. We did. Our approach was not dignified. The donkey would eat the lawn at thecritical moment, and neither the stern rebukes of Sara, nor the gentlepersuasion of Betty, had any effect; neither, to tell the truth, had thechastisements of Hugh. Of Diana's efforts and mine it is unnecessaryto speak; they only made us very hot. As to Nannie, she said she wouldrather have ten children to deal with. 

There were horribly tidy and beautifully dressed people walking about onthe lawn, people who had never, I felt sure, been called upon to speakunkindly to a donkey. It was a little tactless of them, I thought, inview of our flushed cheeks, to appear so calm and cool, but they werequite kind, and I noticed that Diana as usual held a little court of herown, not entirely as the mother of Sara, either. Hugh and Betty too madefriends, and hearing shouts of laughter coming from Hugh's audience, Iwent, aunt-like, to see what was happening, and I heard Hugh saying:--

"I've got another! What did the skeleton--"

"Hugh, " I said, "I want you!"

"I'm asking riddles, Aunt Woggles. "

"Yes, but have you seen the tortoise?"

The situation was saved. 

I look back to the rest of that afternoon, and it is all blur andconfusion. I remember the loveliness of the gardens, the peeps ofdistant moorland through arches of pink ramblers. I remember how the sunshone and how beautiful everything was, and above all and through allthose confused memories I hear the quiet, gentle voice of Lady Mary asshe talked to me of things of which I had thought no one knew anything. She asked me, I remember, if I would like to see the garden, and I lovedher for her graciousness, her affection, and for her love for my mother. I could see even in the way she looked at me that it was of my mother hewas thinking, and I remember, in answer to her question whether I likedthe garden, saying I thought it was quite beautiful and so peaceful!

She said, "That is what I feel, the peace of it all. But you, dearBetty, are too young to feel that. It is as we grow older that thepromise of peace holds out so much. But to the young, life is beforethem!"

All that, I remember quite clearly, and a little more. I can still seeLady Mary, so beautiful, so calm, so confident in the peace which thefuture held for her. Then all of a sudden came these words, "Betty, Iliked your hero so much; what happened?"

It was a too sudden opening of prison doors. I was blinded by the light. I could say nothing. My secret, I felt, was wrested from me. I hadceased almost to try to hide it, it seemed so safe. What--could I say?

Lady Mary went on: "It is not from curiosity that I ask, but from a veryreal and deep interest. Your dear mother used so often to talk of yourfuture. Her love for you was very wonderful, Betty. "

I looked away to the purple hills and longed to escape, but she laid herhand on mine with a gentle pressure. "I liked him so much. His gentlechivalry appealed to me; it is a thing one does not meet every day. Someone, I remember, described him as being as hard as nails and full ofsentiment, which was a charming description of a delightful characterand a rare combination. All women, I think, would have their heroesstrong, and the sentiment makes all the difference in life. If it ismoney, Betty dear, as I imagine it is, that must come right. It wasmoney?"

"His father got into difficulties, no fault of his own, that--andfriends made mischief. "

"And he is helping his father, " continued Lady Mary. "And while he isdoing that, he thinks he has no right to bind a woman. "

How could I say when I didn't know? "Men make that mistake; they forgethow much easier it is for a woman to wait bound than to be free, notknowing. They don't distinguish between the woman who wants to getmarried and the woman who loves. Remember, Betty, how hard it must befor him. I am not sure that his is not the harder part. "

"If he cares, " I said. 

"I am sure he cares, " said Lady Mary softly. "There are secrets that arenot mine, Betty, but there is one that is--the money shall come right. Ihad been looking out for a hero for some time when I met yours. Thisis strictly between ourselves, and you must remember that all my youngpeople are so ludicrously well off, that an old woman doing as she likeswith her own will do no one any harm. If I had had children, that, ofcourse, would have made a difference. To me, who have lived the quietlife I have lately lived, the soldier, the man of action, appeals verystrongly. Much as I love this place, it seems to me that I should loveit still more if it came as quiet after a storm, a haven of rest afterthe battle of life. "

Then she spoke of Diana. "Hers is a wonderful character, and I oftenthink how beautiful it is that she should follow your dear mother atHames. "

"You feel that?" I said. 

"Very, very strongly, dear. How happy it must have made her to feel thather grandchildren should have such a mother. I may be wrong, and youwill smile at an old woman's prejudice and think that she is lookingback with prejudiced eyes into that wonderful past which is always somuch better than any present. I am not, but still it seems to me thatDiana has something that all young people have not got nowadays, areverence for the old, an admiration for the good, and a pity for thepoor and distressed. These things take you far through life, dear, and, combined with her wonderful vitality and beauty, make her a power. 

"Talking of your beautiful mother, it was said years ago that she wasthe only woman of whom I had ever been jealous. I am old enough totell you these things. It is the privilege of the old to enlist thesympathies of the young! But it was not true. I had every reason to bejealous, as had most women I ever saw, but jealousy in connection withanything so perfect as your mother, I think, was not possible. Herbeauty was of the kind which disarms jealousy. It was beyond comparisonor criticism. It seemed to belong to another world, and yet she was sotender to the sinners, so understanding, so full of loving kindness. Hers was a beauty of the soul as well as the body, and that beauty is asremote from the everyday prettiness as the earth is from the stars. Herexpression had something of the divine in it, as if she had seen Godface to face. I see the same look coming in Diana's face. Old Sir Georgeused to say it would be worth committing a sin to be forgiven by yourmother. He said her look was a benediction. "

As I said good-by to Lady Mary, she held my hand and said, "Betty dear, you will some day forgive an interfering old woman, and in days to come, when you look to these distant hills, you will remember this day with akind thought for your beautiful mother's old friend. "

"Isn't Lady Mary a darling?" said Diana, as we walked home through thescented lanes on that most wonderful of summer evenings. "You look as ifyou had been seeing visions, Betty, quite dazed like, as Nannie used tosay. "

"I often see visions, " I said. 

"Have you been crying, Aunt Woggles?" said Hugh. "Were all the peachesgone when you got back?"

Betty slipped her little hand into mine. "You promised to let me walkwith you for a little. Shall we pick honeysuckle, supposing we see any?"

"Yes, we will, darling. "

"Supposing you can't reach it, " she said. 

"There is always some within reach. "

"I suppose grown-ups can always reach things, " said Betty. 

Later, in the quiet darkness of the night, I could picture the garden, the roses, the distant moor, Lady Mary's beautiful face, but I could notbring myself to believe that I had really heard those words, "I am surethat he cares. "

Surely I had dreamed them, or Lady Mary had, because if they were true, why had he said nothing? How should he have told her what he could nottell me?

Chapter XVII

Then came that wonderful morning on which I read that Captain PaulBuchanan was coming home, was expected to arrive that very day. I openedthe paper at breakfast, as usual and my eyes caught the word that atany time had the power to set my heart thumping and to send the bloodrushing to my head, a word common enough, and which to most people, beyond relating to a country always interesting, means little--Africa. It is curious that a day that is to change the whole of one's lifeshould begin exactly like any other day. Of the most important things wehave no premonition, most of us. 

That what I longed and prayed for every hour of my life should come topass was not wonderful, but that a day on which I was to be called tomake the greatest sacrifice of my life should steal stealthily upon meseems strange. 

That morning when I came downstairs, my little house in Chelsea lookedexactly like it always had done. The sun shone as the sun does shinein the early winter in London, and no more, until after I had read thatparagraph; then, behold a new world was born. Why had my eyes beenblind to the gloriousness of the morning? Why had I thought the day anordinarily dull one with just the amount of pale sunshine which is metedout to those happy people who are wise enough to live within easy reachof the river? Yes, I know, some people do say that Chelsea is foggy. 

It depends so much on their lives. No place could be foggy to me thatday. My fear was that Nannie should read the news in my face. I lookedaway when she said, "Anything in the paper?" as she had said a hundredtimes before. She always came to see me eat my breakfast, so she said, but I knew it was really to hear the news. I handed her the paper, although I hated to let the words out of my sight, and she glanced atit. She paused and walked to the window. Kind Nannie, she was giving metime. She blew her nose, she was crying, she knew. A double knock at thedoor brought my heart to a standstill. Lady Mary was right, he did care. It seemed hours before the telegram was brought to me. I hardly daredto open it. There is some happiness too great to bear. I opened it andread:--

Sara very ill. Come at once. 

 DIANA

"Nannie, " I said, "I am going to Hames. "

"To-day?" she said. She knew it was my day of days. 

"I must, Nannie. Will you come?"

"No; I'll stay here. Poor Mrs. David, whatever will she do?"

I could hardly imagine, and I am glad to remember that my sorrow seemeda small thing compared to hers. 

It would be impossible for me to describe that journey. The train creptalong. It seemed to stop hours at the station. No one seemed to rememberthat Sara was ill. I felt the grip of a cold hand on my heart. ShouldI ever arrive? I did at last, and found a groom waiting for me at thestation, with a dogcart. His mouth twitched, and he could hardly controlhis voice to tell me that there was no fresh news. The carriages werewanted for the doctors; did I mind the dogcart? Mind? I could have urgedthe horse to a gallop, and yet I dreaded to arrive. 

It was strange to pass through the quiet, deserted hall, up the stairs, and to hear no sound. A nurse opened a door and spoke in a whisper. Iwent into the room, and not until I saw Diana, so lovely in her grief, did I realize the agony of her suffering. She put out her hand andsilently pressed mine. I turned away so that she should not see my face. 

A man, a stranger to me, sat by the bedside, his eyes fixed on the childlying there. He was the great London doctor, in whom I could see allhope was centered. There were other doctors and nurses, I believe, butit all seemed confusion to me now; but poor, broken hearted Nannie Iremember. She stood at a distance. Not a sound was uttered, and I tookup my watch with the others, to watch that precious life ebbing away. The soft flitting backward and forward of nurses, a word now and thenfrom the great man who held not only the life of Sara in his hands, but, it seemed to me, the life of my beautiful Diana, only broke the intensesilence. The night came on and we still watched. 

The doctor's face became sterner and graver and the little life weaker, or so it seemed to me. Diana knelt at the side of the bed. She nevermoved. 

As the dawn broke, Sara opened her eyes and said, "Nannie. "

Diana rose and beckoned to Nannie. Nannie hesitated, and Diana, takingher hand, whispered, "Dear Nannie, I am so glad, " and gave up her place. It is not given to all of us to reach great heights, but Diana at thatmoment, I think, reached the divine in human nature. Then came themoment, too wonderful to think of, when the doctor told Diana that thegreat danger was over. 

Later he said to David, "My boy, you have given your children thegreatest of all blessings in their mother. Thank God for her everymoment of your life. I've seen many mothers and many sick children, but--thank God, and don't forget it. "

Dear David, I think most of us thank God oftener than we know and inmany and divers ways, and I am not sure that David does not do it everytime he looks at Diana. 

Chapter XVIII

Sara, having got over the crisis and being on the fair road torecovery, --children recover quickly, --my heart turned towards home--anda longing to get back obsessed me. I could think of nothing but home, now that Diana's immediate need of me was over. She begged me to staywith her. To fail her at such a moment was a great grief to me, but Icould make no further sacrifice. I must go home. 

"I must go, David, " I urged. 

"Of course, if you must, you must, Betty, but I should have thoughtafter all Diana has gone through, you would have stayed with her. Youhave always been so much to each other. "

How he hurt me, as if I wouldn't do anything in the world for Diana; butI must go home. 

"David, " I said in desperation, "I must go. If I promise to come backdirectly, you won't misunderstand my going?"

"I'll try to understand, Betty, that you have some very strong reasonfor going back. "

"Thank you, David, " I said. 

"But, " he continued, "you must tell Diana yourself. "

I went to her room, where she was lying down. "Diana, darling, " I said, "I want very much to go home, if only for a day. "

"Of course, Betty, you must go. But don't look so distressed. I musthave been selfish if I gave you the impression that I would not let yougo. It is only that I love so having you, you are such a rock, andoh! it seems like some awful and terrible dream we have been through, doesn't it? Sara asked for her darling bunny today. Think what thatmeans! Darling Betty, I pray that some great happiness may come to yousome day. I begin to believe that the greatest joys come through thegreatest sorrows. "

"Don't, Diana, " I whispered. "I can't bear you to be too kind. I supposeit's all we've been through, but I feel. "

"I know, Betty, " she whispered. "I lie here too tired to do anything butthank God. I ache with thankfulness, for you among other blessings. Comeback soon. "

"What did Diana say?" asked David, who was waiting outside the door. "Did she understand?"

"Understand? Did you ever know a time when Diana didn't understand?"

I went. Oh, the joy of setting out towards home! That ridiculously smallhouse in Chelsea in which were centered all my hopes. Some word mightbe there waiting for me. Nannie might have thought nothing of sufficientimportance to forward at such a moment. How I hoped that was it, andthat it might be there, else all my hopes were shattered. 

I opened the door with my latchkey. I looked. No telegram lay on thetable; that I saw at a glance. Then Nannie appeared. She was crying. 

"Nannie, " I said, "don't cry, she is much better, and is going to getquite well; only I had to come home. "

How explain to Nannie that I had left Sara and Diana at such a moment!

"Your bat's crooked, " said Nannie. 

"You ridiculous old person, " I said, "what does that matter?" Nanniesniffed. I put my hat straight. "Is that better?"

"Yes, it's better, it'll do, " she answered, not quite satisfied, evidently. I wondered why she asked no questions. Why had I come home tothis? No wonder David had been surprised at my leaving Diana! What wasthe use?

Then Nannie said with a startling suddenness, "Some one is waiting foryou upstairs. "

"Someone for me, Nannie. What do you mean?"

"He's waiting, " she said, between laughter and sobs. "He's waiting. "

I often wonder how I had the strength to go upstairs and open thedoor. But I did, and there surely enough he stood, only a few feet ofgreen-painted boards separating us. How I crossed them I never knew. Hecame halfway, no doubt. 

I should never have done the journey alone, and I wondered too how itwas we met as lovers! That was the most wonderful part of all. How, whenI did not even know that he cared, could it have happened? It was alltoo wonderful, and I was too dazed with happiness to question anythingat the moment. I only knew that the world had become a paradise, andthat the past years of doubt and perplexity had fallen away like adisused garment. 

Then we began to talk, and the mystery deepened. He spoke of a telegram. I had never received one! And my telegram? I had never sent one! Helaughed, and when I said I didn't understand, he said what was the useof understanding when knowing was sufficient?

It was all very puzzling, but I was content. There was so much to talkof, so many explanations to make and to hear! But in time we came backto the telegram. There had been no such thing!

He laughed. "I have it here, " he said, putting his hand on hiscoat-pocket. 

"Show it to me, " I pleaded. 

Never; it was his, and his alone. 

"But nothing is yours now that is not mine, " I urged, "at least, if youhave asked me to marry you. "

"Betty, " he said, "I quite forgot. I came home for the express purposeof doing so. I have thought and dreamed of nothing else, all through thelong marches in Africa; all the way home I have thought of that and ofyour answer. Betty, will you marry me?"

"I shall be delighted, Captain Buchanan. But where is my telegram toyou, your telegram to me?"

"It. I think Nannie must have one. "

"And did she answer it? Oh, what did she say?"

"Never mind; she said exactly the right thing. Don't let's discussNannie's telegram when we have to make up for the silence of years!O Betty! shall I wake up?"

A little later he said, "Tell me, did you care that night at theFrasers'?"

I said I never remembered a time when I didn't care. 

"O Betty! if only you hadn't been so proud!"

"Or you so horribly ununderstandable!"

Chapter XIX

"You wonderful Nannie, " I said later, as I sat at her feet, "how did youdo it?"

"Quite easily, " said Nannie. "When I saw that you must go to Hames, asof course you had to, I thought to myself, I'll wait! Years ago my ladysaid to me, I Nannie, don't let my child throw away her own chance ofhappiness. I feel that a day may come when she will be called upon tomake a sacrifice, and she will make it, regardless of her own feelings. You were always giving up your toys and things to the boys; that's whatmade your mother think of it. The day she spoke of came the morning thetelegram came from Hames. I had been waiting and waiting so as to besure to do what your mother told me, and the day came. You see, I sawthe paper, and I knew!"

"How, Nannie? No one knew, I thought. "

"Ah, nannies know things; much use they'd be in this world if theydidn't? I know lots of things I'm not supposed to! Well, I waited, andno telegram came from him that day. There were all sorts of things abouthim in the evening paper, being a hero and a lion and all those sort ofthings. Then the next day the telegram came. The ship had been late; younever can tell with ships. Leave ships to sailors, I say. Well, I openedthe telegram. It said, 'Will you see me if I come straight to you?' orsome such words, and I answered it. "

"What did you say, Nannie?"

"I don't see that that matters. There's nothing in words, and I'm noscholar. "

"Nannie dear, it does matter. It meant everything in the world to me. Ifonly you knew how happy I am, how ridiculously happy. "

"It's all right, then. I've done what she said. " A rapturous smileilluminated her old face. 

"All right, Nannie?"

Only a hug can express some things. Nannie straightened her cap. "Well, then, " she said, drawing herself up, "I couldn't do it for sixpence, it cost ninepence halfpenny. I said, 'Come. Been waiting for you foryears. '"

"Nannie!" I exclaimed. 

THE END