"The ladies themselves think not, of course," was Aunt Judy's reply.

"Well, but what do you think, Aunt Judy?"

"Oh, I don't think it matters what I think. The question is, what do cooks and boys in buttons think?"

"But, Aunt Judy, ladies are never tiresome, and idle, and impertinent, like cooks and boys in buttons. Oh! if you had but heard the REAL Cook Stories those ladies told! I say, let me tell you one or two—I do think I can remember them, if I try."

"Then don't try on any account, dear No. 6," exclaimed Aunt Judy. "I like make-believe Cook Stories much better than real ones."

"So do I!" cried No. 7, "they're so much the more entertaining."

"And not a bit less useful," subjoined Aunt Judy, with a sly smile.

"Well, I didn't see much good in the real ones," pursued No. 7, in a sort of muse.

"Let us tell you another make-believe one, then," cried No. 6, who saw that Aunt Judy was moving off, and wanted to detain her.

"Then it's MY turn!" shouted No. 8, jumping up, and stretching out his arm and hand like a young orator flushed to his work. And actually, before the rest of the little ones could put him down or stop him, No. 8 contrived to tumble out the Cook Story idea, which had probably been brewing in his head all the time of Aunt Judy's talk.

It was very brief, and this was it, delivered in much haste, and with all the earnestness of a maiden speech.

"I had a button boy too, and he was a—what d'ye call it—oh, a RASCAL, that was it;—he was a rascal, and liked the currants in mince-pies, so he took them all out, and ate them up, and put in glass beads instead. So when the people began to ear, their teeth crunched against the beads! Ah! bah! how nasty it was!"

No. 8 accompanied this remark with a corresponding grimace of disgust, and then observed in conclusion:-

"Perhaps he found it in a book, but I don't know where," after which he lowered his outstretched arm, smiled, and sat down.

The company clapped applause, and No. 4 especially must have been very fond of laughing, for the glass-bead anecdote set her off again as heartily as ever, and the rest followed in her wake, and while so doing, never noticed that Aunt Judy had slipped away.

They soon discovered it, however, when their mirth began to subside; but before they had time to wonder much, there appeared from behind the door of the wardrobe a figure, which in their secret souls they knew to be Aunt Judy herself, although it looked a great deal stouter, and had a thick-filled cap on its head, a white linen apron over its gown, and a pair of spectacles on its nose. At sight of it they showed signs of clapping again, but stopped short when it spoke to them as a stranger, and willingly received it as such.

Ah! it is one of the sweet features of childhood that it yields itself up so readily to any little surprise or delusion that is prepared for its amusement. No nasty pride, no disinclination to be carried away, no affected indifference, interfere with young children's enjoyment of what is offered them. They will even help themselves into the pleasant visions by an effort of will; and perhaps, now and then, end by partly believing what they at first received voluntarily as an agreeable make-believe.

If, therefore, after the cook figure of Aunt Judy had seated itself by the doll's table, and the little ones had looked and grinned at it for some time, hazy sensations began to steal over one or two minds, that this WAS somehow really a cook, it was all in the natural course of things, and nobody resisted the feeling.

Aunt Judy's altered voice, and odd, assumed manner, contributed, no doubt, a good deal to the impression.

"Dear, dear! what pretty little darlings you all are!" she began, looking at them one after another. "As sweet as sugar-plums, when you have your own way, and are pleased. Eh, dears? But you don't think you can take old Cooky in, do you? No, no, I know what ladies and gentlemen, and ladies' and gentlemen's YOUNG ladies and YOUNG gentlemen are, pretty well, dears, I can tell you! Don't I know all about the shiny hair and smiling faces of the little pets in the parlour, and how they leave parlour-manners behind them sometimes, when they run to the kitchen to Cook, and order her here and there, and want half-a-dozen things at once, and must and will have what they want, and are for popping their fingers into every pie!

"Well, well," she proceeded, "the parlour's the parlour, and the kitchen's the kitchen, and I'm only a cook. But then I conduct myself AS Cook, even when I'm in the scullery, and I only wish ladies, and ladies' YOUNG ladies too, would conduct themselves as ladies, even when they come into the kitchen; that's what I call being honourable and upright. Well, dears, I'll tell you how I came to know all about it. You see, I lived once in a family where there were no less than eight of those precious little pets, and a precious time I had of it with them. But, to be sure, now it's past and gone- -I can make plenty of excuses for them, poor things! They were so coaxed and flattered, and made so much of, what could be expected from them but tiresome, wilful ways, without any sense?

"'If your mamma would but put YOU into the scullery, young miss, to learn to wash plates and scour the pans out, she'd make a woman of you,' used I to think to myself when a silly child, who thought itself very clever to hinder other people's work, would come hanging about in the kitchen, doing nothing but teaze and find fault, for that's what a girl can always do.

"It was very aggravating, you may be sure, dears, (you see I can talk to you quite reasonably, because you're so nicely behaved;)—it was very aggravating, of course; but I used to make allowances for them. Says I to myself, 'Cook, you've had the blessing of being brought up to hard work ever since you were a babby. You've had to earn your daily bread. Nobody knows how that brings people to their senses till they've tried; so don't you go and be cocky, because ladies and gentlemen, and ladies' and gentlemen's YOUNG ladies and YOUNG gentlemen, are not quite so sensible as you are. Who knows but what, if you'd been born to do nothing, you might have been no wiser than them! It's lucky for you you're only a cook; but don't you go and be cocky, that's all! Make allowances; it's the secret of life!'

"So you see, dears, I DID make allowances; and after the eight little pets was safe in bed till next morning, I used to feel quite composed, and pitiful-like towards them, poor little dears! But certainly, when morning came, and the oldest young master was home for the holidays, it was a trying time for me, and I couldn't think of the allowances any longer. Either he wouldn't get up and come down till everyone else had had their breakfast, and so he wanted fresh water boiled, and fresh tea made, and another muffin toasted, and more bacon fried; or else he was up so outrageous early, that he was scolding because there was no hot water before the fire was lit— bless you, he hadn't a bit of sense in his head, poor boy, not a bit! And how should he? Why, he went to school as soon as he was out of petticoats, and was set to all that Latin and Greek stuff that never puts anything useful into folks' heads, but so much more chatter and talk; so he came back as silly as he went, poor thing! Dear me, on a wet day, after lesson-time, those boys were like so many crazy creatures. 'Cook, I must make a pie,' says one. 'There's a pie in the oven already, Master James,' says I. 'I don't care about the pie in the oven,' says he, 'I want a pie of my own. Bring me the flour, and the water, and the butter, and all the things—and, above all, the rolling-pin—and clear the decks, will you, I say, for my pie. Here goes!' And here used to go, my dears, for Master James had no sense, as I told you; and so he'd shove all my pots and dishes away, one on the top of the other; and let me be as busy as I would, and dinner ever so near ready, the dresser must be cleared, and everything must give way to HIS pie! His pie, indeed—I wish I had had the management of his pie just then! I'd have taught him what it was to come shaking the rolling-pin at the head of a respectable cook, who wanted to get her business done properly, as in duty bound!

"But he wasn't the only one. There was little Whipper-snapper, his younger brother, squeaking out in another corner, 'I shan't make a pie, James, I shall make toffey; it's far better fun. You'd better come and help me. Where's the treacle pot, Cook? Cook! I say, Cook! where's the treacle-pot? And look at this stupid kettle and pan. What's in the pan, I wonder? Oh, kidney-beans! Who cares for kidney-beans? How can I make toffey, when all these things are on the fire? Stay, I'll hand them all off!'

"And, sure enough, if I hadn't rushed from Master James, who was drinking away at my custard out of the bowl, to seize on Whipper- snapper, who had got his hand on the vegetable-pan already, he would have pulled it and the kettle, and the whole concern, off the fire, and perhaps scalded himself to death.

"Then, of course, there comes a scuffle, and Master Whipper-snapper begins to roar, and out comes Missus, who, poor thing, had no more sense in her head than her sons, though she'd never been to school to lose it over Latin and Greek; and, says she, with all her ribbons streaming, and her petticoats swelled out like a window-curtain in a draught—says she:-

"'Cook! I desire that you will not touch my children!'

"'As you please, ma'am,' says I, 'if you'll be so good as to stop the young gentlemen from touching my pans, and—' I was going to say 'custard,' but Master James shouts out quite quick:-

"'Why, I only wanted to make a pie, mamma.'

"'And I only wanted to make some toffey!' cries Whipper-snapper; and then mamma answers, like a duchess at court:-

"'There can't possibly be any objection, my dears; and I wish, Cook, you would he a little more good-natured to the children;—your temper is sadly against you!'

"And out she sails, ribbons and window-curtains and all; and, says I to myself, as I cooled down, (for the young gentlemen luckily went away with their dear mama,)—says I to myself, 'It's a very fine thing, no doubt, to go about in ribbons, and petticoats, and grand clothes; but, if one must needs carry such a poor, silly head inside them, as Missus does, I'd rather stop as I am, and be a cook with some sense about me.'

"I don't say, my dears," continued the supposed cook, "that I spoke very politely just then; but who could feel polite, when their dinner had been put back at least half-an-hour over such nonsense as that? Missus used to say the 'dear boys' came to the kitchen on a wet day, because they'd got NOTHING ELSE TO DO! Nothing else to do! and had learnt Latin and Greek, and all sorts of schooling besides! So much for education, thought I. Why, it would spoil the best lads that ever were born into the world. For, of course, you know if these young gentlemen had been put to decent trades, they'd have found something else to do with their fingers besides mischief and waste. And, dear me, I talk about not having been polite to Missus just then, but now you tell me, dears, what Missus, with all her education, would have said if she'd been in my place, when one young gentleman was drinking her custard, and another young gentleman was pulling her pans on the floor! Do you think she'd have been a bit more polite than I was? Wouldn't she have called me all the stupid creatures that ever were born, and told the story over and over to all her friends and acquaintance to make them stare, and say there were surely no such simpletons in the world as ladies and gentlemen, and ladies' and gentlemen's young ladies and young gentlemen?

"However, I did not go as far as that, because, you see, I had some sense about me, and could make allowances for all the nonsense the poor things are brought up to."

There was no resisting the twinkle in Aunt Judy's eye when she came to this point, though it shone through an old pair of Nurse's spectacles; and the little ones clapped their hands, and declared it was every bit as good as a Cook story, ONLY A GREAT DEAL BETTER! That twinkle had quite brought Aunt Judy back to them again, in spite of her cook's attire, and No. 6 cried out:-

"Oh! don't stop, Aunt Judy! Do go on, Cooky dear! do tell some more! Did you always live in that place, please?"

"There now!" exclaimed Aunt Judy, throwing herself back in the chair, "isn't that a regular young lady's question, out and out? Who but a young lady, with no more sense in her head than a pin, would have thought of asking such a thing? Why, miss, is there a joint in the world that can bear basting for ever? No, no! a time comes when it must be taken down, if any good's to be left in it; and so at the end of three years my basting-time was over, and the time for taking down was come.

"'Cook,' says I to myself, 'you must give in. If you go on with those cherubs (that was their company name, you know) much longer, there won't be a bit of you left!' And, sure enough, that very morning, dears, they'd come down upon me with a fresh grievance, and I couldn't stand it, I really couldn't! The sweeps had been by four o'clock to the kitchen chimney, and I'd been up and toiling every minute since, and hadn't had time to eat my breakfast, when in they burst—the young ladies, not the sweeps, dears, I mean:- and there they broke out at once—I hadn't fed their sea-gulls before breakfast—(a couple of dull-looking grey birds, with big mouths, that had come in a hamper over night as a present to the cherubs;) and it seems I ought to have been up before daylight almost, to look for slugs for them in the garden till they'd got used to the place!

"Oh, these ladies and gentlemen! they'd need know something of some sort to make amends, for there are many things they never know all their life long!

"'Young ladies,' says I, 'I didn't come here to get meals ready for sea-gulls, but Christian ladies and gentlemen. If the sea-gulls want a cook, your mamma must hire them one on purpose. I've plenty to do for her and the family, without looking after such nonsense as that!'

"'That's what you always say,' whimpers the youngest Miss; 'and you know they don't want any cooking, but only raw slugs! And you know you might easily look for them, because you've got almost nothing to do, because it's such an easy place, mamma always says. But you're always cross, mamma says that too, and everybody knows you are, because she tells everybody!'

"When little Miss had got that out, she thought she'd finished me up; and so she had, for when I heard that Missus was so ungenteel as to go talking of what I did, to all her acquaintance, and had nothing better to talk about, I made up my mind that I'd give notice that very day.

"'Very well, miss,' says I, 'your mamma shall soon have something fresh to talk about, and I hope she'll find it a pleasant change.'

"There was some of them knew what I meant at once, for after they'd scampered off I heard shouts up and down the stairs from one to the other, 'Cook's going!' 'We shall have a new cook soon!' 'What a lark we'll have with the toffey and the pies! We'll make her do just as we choose!'

"'There, now,' thought I to myself, 'there'll be somebody else put down to baste before long. Well, I'm glad my time's over.' And thereupon I fell to wishing I was back again in father and mother's ricketty old cottage, that I'd once been so proud to leave, to go and live with gentlefolks. But, you see, it was no use wishing, for I'd my bread to earn, and must turn out somewhere, let it be as disagreeable as it would. Father and mother were dead, and there was no ricketty cottage for me to go back to, so I wiped my eyes, and told myself to make the best of what had to be.

"Well, dears," pursued Cooky, after a short pause, during which the little ones looked far more inclined to cry than laugh, "Missus was quite taken aback when she heard I wouldn't stay any longer.

"'Cook,' she said, 'I'm perfectly astonished at your want of sense in not recognizing the value of such a situation as mine! and as to your complaints about the children, anything more ridiculously unreasonable I never heard! Such superior, well-taught young people, you are not very likely to meet with again in a hurry!'

"'Perhaps not, ma'am,' says I, 'in French, and crochet, and the piano, and Latin, and things I don't understand, being only a cook. But I know what behaviour is, and that's what I'm sure the young ladies and gentlemen have never been taught; or if they have, they're so slow at taking it in, that I think I shall do better with a family where the behaviour-lessons come first!'

"Missus was very angry, and so was I; but at last she said:-

"'Cook, I shall not argue with you any longer; you know no better, and I suppose I must make allowances for you.'

"'I'm much obliged to you, ma'am, I'm sure,' was my answer; 'it's what I've always done by you ever since I came to the house, and I'll do it still with pleasure, and think no more of what's been said.'

"I spoke from my heart, I can tell you, dears, for I felt very sorry for Missus, and thought she was but a lady after all, and perhaps I'd hardly made allowances enough. I'd lost my temper, too, as I knew after she went away. But, you see, while she was there, it was so mortifying to be spoken to as if all the sense was on her side, when I knew it was all on mine, wherever the French and crochet may have been. Well, but the day before I left, I broke down with another of them, as it's fair that you should know.

"I'd felt very lonely that day, busy as I was, and in the afternoon I took myself into the scullery to give the pans a sort of good-bye cleaning, and be out of everybody's way. But there, in the midst of it, comes the eldest young gentleman flinging into the kitchen, shouting, 'Cook! Cook! Where's Cook?' as usual. I thought he was after some of his old tricks, and I HAD been fretting over those pans, thinking what a sad job it was to have no home to go to in the world, so I gave him a very short answer.

"'Master James,' says I, 'I've done with nonsense now, I can't attend to you. You must wait till the next cook comes.'

"But Master James came straight away to the scullery door, and says he, 'Cook, I'm not coming to teaze. I've brought you a needle-book. There, Cook! It's full of needles. I put them all in myself. Keep it, please.'

"Dear, dear, I can't forget it yet," pursued Cook, "how Master James stood on the little stone step of the scullery, with his arm stretched out, and the needle-book that he'd bought for me in his hand. I don't know how I thanked him, I'm sure; but I had to go back to the sink and wash the dirt off my hands before I could touch the pretty little thing, and then I told him I would keep it as long as ever I lived.

"He laughed, and says he, 'Now shake hands, Cooky,' and so we shook hands; and then off he ran, and I went back to my pans and fairly cried.

"'Why, Cook,' says I to myself, 'that lad's got as good a heart as your own, after all. And as to sense and behaviour, they haven't been forced upon him yet, as they have upon you. Latin's Latin, and conduct's conduct, and one doesn't teach the other; and it's too bad to expect more of people than what they've had opportunity for.'

Well, dears, that was the rule I always went by, and I've been in many situations since—with single ladies, and single gentlemen, and large families, and all; and there was something to put up with in all of them; and they always told me there was a good deal to put up with in me, and perhaps there was. However, it doesn't matter, so long as Missus and servant go by one rule—TO MAKE ALLOWANCES, AND NOT EXPECT MORE FROM PEOPLE THAN WHAT THEY'VE HAD OPPORTUNITY FOR; and, above all, never to be cocky when all the advantage is on their own side. It's a good rule, dears, and will stop many a foolish word and idle tale, if you'll go by it."

Aunt Judy had finished at last, and she took off the old spectacles and laid them on the doll's table, and paused.

"It IS a good rule," observed No. 4, "and I shall go by it, and not tell real Cook Stories when I grow up, I hope."

"I love old Cooky," cried No. 6, getting up and hugging her round the neck; "but is it wrong, Aunt Judy, to tell funny make-believe Cook Stories, like ours?"

"Not at all, No. 6," replied Aunt Judy. "My private belief is, that if you tell funny make-believe Cook Stories while you're little, you will be ashamed of telling stupid real ones when you're grown up."



RABBITS' TAILS.



"Death and its two-fold aspect! wintry—one, Cold, sullen, blank, from hope and joy shut out; The other, which the ray divine hath touch'd, Replete with vivid promise, bright as spring." WORDSWORTH.

"Well then; but you must remember that I have been ill, and cannot be expected to invent anything very entertaining."

"Oh, we do remember, indeed, Aunt Judy; we have been so miserable," was the answer; and the speaker added, shoving her little chair close up to her sister's:-

"I said if you were not to get better, I shouldn't want to get better either."

"Hush, hush, No. 6!" exclaimed Aunt Judy, quite startled by the expression; "it was not right to say or think that."

"I couldn't help it," persisted No. 6. "We couldn't do without you, I'm sure."

"We can do without anything which God chooses to take away," was Aunt Judy's very serious answer.

"But I didn't want to do without," murmured No. 6, with her eyes fixed on the floor.

"Dear No. 6, I know," replied Aunt Judy, kindly; "but that is just what you must try not to feel."

"I can't help feeling it," reiterated No. 6, still looking down.

"You have not tried, or thought about it yet," suggested her sister; "but do think. Think what poor ignorant infants we all are in the hands of God, not knowing what is either good or bad for us; and then you will see how glad and thankful you ought to be, to be chosen for by somebody wiser than yourself. We must always be contented with God's choice about whatever happens."

No. 6 still looked down, as if she were studying the pattern of the rug, but she saw nothing of it, for her eyes were swimming over with the tears that had filled into them, and at last she said:-

"I could, perhaps, about some things, but ONLY NOT THAT about you. Aunt Judy, you know what I mean."

Aunt Judy leant back in her chair. "ONLY NOT THAT." It was, as she knew, the cry of the universal world, although it broke now from the lips of a child. And it was painful, though touching, to feel herself the treasure that could not be parted with.

So there was a silence of some minutes, during which the hand of the little sister lay in that of the elder one.

But the latter soon roused up and spoke.

"I'll tell you what, No. 6, there's nothing so foolish as talking of how we shall feel, and what we shall do, if so-and-so happens. Perhaps it never may happen, or, if it does, perhaps we may be helped to bear it quite differently from what we have expected. So we won't say anything more about it now."

"I'm so glad!" exclaimed No. 6, completely reassured and made comfortable by the cheerful tone of her sister's remark, though she had but a very imperfect idea of the meaning of it, as she forthwith proved by rambling off into a sort of self-defence and self- justification.

"And I'm not really a baby now, you know, Aunt Judy! And I do know a great many things that are good and bad for us. I know that YOU are good for us, even when you scold over sums."

"That is a grand admission, I must own," replied Aunt Judy, smiling; "I shall remind you of it some day."

"Well, you may," cried No. 6, earnestly; and added, "you see I'm not half as silly as you thought."

Aunt Judy looked at her, wondering how she should get the child to understand what was passing through her own mind; wondering, too whether it was right to make the attempt; and she decided that on the whole it was; so she answered:-

"Ay, we grow wise enough among ourselves as we grow older, and get to know a few more things. You are certainly a little wiser than a baby in long petticoats, and I am a little wiser than you, and mamma wiser than us both. But towards God we remain ignorant infants all our lives. That was what I meant."

"But surely, Aunt Judy," interrupted No. 6, "mamma and you know—" There she stopped.

"Nothing about God's dealings," pursued Aunt Judy, "but that they are sure to be good for us, even when we like them least, and cannot understand them at all. We know so little what we ought really to like and dislike, dear No. 6, that we often fret and cry as foolishly as the two children did, who, while they were in mourning for their mother, broke their hearts over the loss of a set of rabbits' tails."

No. 6 sprang up at the idea. She had never heard of those children before. Who were they? Had Aunt Judy read of them in a book, or were they real children? How could they have broken their hearts about rabbits' tails? It must be a very curious story, and No. 6 begged to hear it.

Aunt Judy had, however, a little hesitation about the matter. There was something sad about the story; and there was no exact teaching to be got out of it, though certainly if it helped to shake No. 6's faith in her own wisdom, a good effect would be produced by listening to it. Also it was not a bad thing now and then to hear of other people having to bear trials which have not fallen to our own lot. It must surely have a tendency to soften the heart, and make us feel more dependent upon the God who gives and takes away. On the whole, therefore, she would tell the story, so she made No. 6 sit quietly down again, and began as follows:-

"There were once upon a time two little motherless girls."

No. 6's excitement of expectation was hardly over, so she tightened her hand over Aunt Judy's, and ejaculated:-

"Poor little things!"

"You may well say so," continued Aunt Judy. "It was just what everybody said who saw them at the time. When they went about with their widowed father in the country village where 'they lived, even the poor women who stood at their cottage door-steads, would look after them when they had passed, and say with a sigh:-

"'Poor little things!'

"When they went up to London in the winter to stay with their grandmamma, and walked about in the Square in their little black frocks and crape-trimmed bonnets, the ladies who saw them,—even comparative strangers,—would turn round arid say:-

"'Poor little things!'

"If visitors came to call at the house, and the children were sent for into the room, there was sure to be a whispered exclamation directly among the grown-up people of, 'Poor little things!' But oh, No. 6! the children themselves did not think about it at all. What did they know,—poor little things,—of the real misfortune which had befallen them! They were sorry, of course, at first, when they did not see their mamma as usual, and when she did not come back to them as soon as they expected. But some separation had taken place during her illness; and sometimes before, she had been poorly and got well again; and sometimes she had gone out visiting, and they had had to do without her till she returned; and so, although the days and weeks of her absence went on to months, still it was only the same thing they had felt before, continued rather longer; and meantime the little events of each day rose up to distract their attention. They got up, and dined, and went to bed as usual. They were sometimes merry, sometimes naughty, as usual. People made them nice presents, or sent for them to pleasant treats, as usual—perhaps more than usual; their father did all he could to supply the place of the lost one, but never could name her name; and soon they forgot that they had ever had a mamma at all. Soon? Ay, long before friends and strangers lead left off saying 'Poor little things' at sight of them, and long before the black frocks and crape-trimmed bonnets were laid aside, which, indeed, they wore double the usual length of time."

"And how old were they?" asked No. 6, in a whisper.

"Four and five," replied Aunt Judy; "old enough to know what they liked and disliked from hour to hour. Old enough to miss what had pleased them, till something else pleased them as well. But not old enough to look forward and know how much a mother is wanted in life; and, therefore, what a terrible loss the loss of a mother is."

"It's a very sad story I'm afraid," remarked No. 6.

"Not altogether," said Aunt Judy, smiling, "as you shall hear. One day the two little motherless girls went hand in hand across one of the courts of the great Charity Institution in London, where their grandmamma lived, into the old archway entrance, and there they stood still, looking round them, as if waiting for something. The old archway entrance opened into a square, and underneath its shelter there was a bench on one side, and on the other the lodge of the porter, whose business it was to shut up the great gates at night.

The porter had often before looked at the motherless children as they passed into the shadow of his archway, and said to himself, 'Poor little things;' for just so, during many years of his life, he had watched their young mother pass through, and had exchanged words of friendly greeting with her.

"And even now, although it was at least a year and a half since her death, when he saw the waiting children seat themselves on the bench opposite his door, the old thought stole over his mind. How sad that she should have been taken away so early from those little ones! How sad for them to be left! No one—nothing—in this world, could supply the loss of her protecting care.—POOR LITTLE THINGS!—and not the less so because they were altogether unconscious of their misfortune; and here, with the mourning casting a gloom over their fair young faces, were looking with the utmost eagerness and delight towards the doorway,—now and then slipping down from their seats to take a peep into the Square, and see if what they expected was coming,—now and then giggling to each other about the grave face of the old man on the other side of the way.

"At last, one, who had been peeping a bit as before, exclaimed, with a smothered shout, 'Here he is!' and then the other joined her, and the two rushed out together into the Square and stood on the pavement, stopping the way in front of a lad, who held over his arm a basket containing hares' and rabbits' skins, in which he carried on a small trade.

"They looked up with their smiling faces into his, and he grinned at them in return, and then they said, 'Have you got any for us to-day?' on which he set down his basket before them, and told them they might have one or two if they pleased, and down they knelt upon the pavement, examining the contents of his basket, and talked in almost breathless whispers to each other of the respective merits, the softness, colour, and prettiness, of—what do you think?"

At the first moment No. 6, being engrossed by the story, could not guess at all; but in another instant she recollected, and exclaimed:-

"Oh, Aunt Judy, do you mean those were the rabbits' tails you told about?"

"They were indeed, No. 6," replied Aunt Judy; "their grandmamma's cook had given them one or two sometime before, and there being but few entertaining games which two children can play at alone, and these poor little things being a good deal left to themselves, they invented a play of their own out of the rabbits' tails. I think the pleasant feel of the fur, which was so nice to cuddle and kiss, helped them to this odd liking; but whatever may have been the cause, certain it is they did get quite fond of them—pretended that they could feel, and were real living things, and talked of them, and to them, as if they were a party of children.

"They called them 'Tods' and 'Toddies,' but they had all sorts of names besides, to distinguish one from the other. There was, 'Whity,' and 'Browny,' and 'Softy,' and 'Snuggy,' and 'Stripy,' and many others. They knew almost every hair of each of them, and I believe could have told which was which, in the dark, merely by their feel.

"This sounds ridiculous enough, does it not, dear No. 6?" said Aunt Judy, interrupting herself.

No. 6 smiled, but she was too much interested to wish to talk; so the story proceeded.

"Now you must know that I have looked rather curiously at hares' and rabbits' tails myself since I first heard the story; and there actually is more variety in them than you would suppose. Some are nice little fat things—almost round, with the hair close and fine; others longer and more skinny, and with poor hair, although what there is may be of a handsome colour. And as to colour, even in rabbits' tails, which are white underneath, there are all shades from grey to dark brown one the upper side; and the patterns and markings differ, as you know they do on the fur of a cat. In short, there really is a choice even in hares' and rabbits' tails, and the more you look at them, the more delicate distinctions you will see.

"Well, the poor little girls knew all about this, and a great deal more, I dare say, than I have noticed, for they had played at fancy- life with them, till the Tods had become far more to them than any toys they possessed; actually, in fact, things to love; and I dare say if we could have watched them at night putting their Tods to bed, we should have seen every one of them kissed.

"It was a capital thing, as you may suppose, for keeping the children quiet as well as happy in the nursery, at the top of the London house, in one particular corner of which the basket of Tods was kept. But when grandmamma's bell rang, which it did day by day as a summons, after the parlour breakfast was over, the Tods were put away; and it was dolls, or reasonable toys of some description, which the motherless little girls took down with them to the drawing-room; and I doubt whether either grandmamma or aunt knew of the Tod family in the basket up-stairs.

"After the affair had gone on for a little time, the children were accidentally in the kitchen when the rabbit-skin dealer called, and the cook begged him to give them a tail or two; and thenceforth, of course, they looked upon him as one of their greatest friends; and if they wanted fresh Tods, they would lie in wait for him in the archway entrance, for fear he should go by without coming in to call at their grandmamma's house. And on the day I have described, two new brothers, 'Furry' and 'Buffy,' were introduced to the Tod establishment, and the talking and delight that ensued, lasted for the whole afternoon.

"Nobody knew, I believe; but certainly if anybody had known how the hearts of those children were getting involved over the dead rabbits' tails, it would have been only right to have tried to lead their affection into some better direction. What a waste of good emotions it was, when they cuddled up their Tods in an evening; invented histories of what they had said and done during the day, and put them by at last with caresses something very nearly akin to human love!"

"Oh, dear Aunt Judy," exclaimed No. 6, "if their poor mamma had but been there!"

"All would have been right then, would it not, No. 6?"

No. 6 said "Yes" from the very depths of her heart.

"AS IT SEEMS TO US, you should say," continued Aunt Judy; "but that is all. It could not have seemed so to the God who took their mother away."

"Aunt Judy—"

"No. 6, I am telling you a very serious truth. Had it indeed been right for the children that their mother should have lived, she would NOT have been taken away. For some reason or other it was necessary that they should be without the comfort, and help, and protection, of her presence in this world. We cannot understand it, but a time may come when we may see it all as clearly as we now see the folly of those children who so doted upon senseless rabbits' tails."

"Oh, Aunt Judy, but it was still very, very sad."

"Yes, about that there cannot be a doubt, and I am as much inclined as anybody else to say, 'Poor little things' every time I mention them. But now let me go on with the story, for it has a sort of end as well as beginning. The Tod affair came at last to their grandmamma's ears."

"I am so glad," cried No. 6.

"You will not say so when I tell you how it happened," was Aunt Judy's rejoinder. "The fact was, that one unfortunate day one of the Tods disappeared. Whether it lead been left out of the basket when grandmamma's bell rang, and so got swept away by the nurse and burnt, I cannot say; but, at any rate, when the children went to their play one morning, 'Softy,' their dear little 'Softy,' was gone. He was the fattest-furred and finest-haired of all the Tod family, and the one about whom they invented the prettiest stories; he was, in fact, the model, the out-of-the-way-amiable pattern Tod. They could not believe at first that he really was gone. They hunted for him in every hole and corner of their nursery and bed-room; they looked for him all along the passages; they tossed all the other Tods out of the basket to find him, as if they really were—even in their eyes— nothing but rabbits' tails; they asked all the servants about him, till everybody's patience was exhausted, and they got angry; and then at last the children's hope and temper were both exhausted too, and they broke out into passionate crying.

"This was vexatious to the nurse, of course; but her method of consolation was not very judicious.

"'Why, bless my heart,' was her beginning, 'what nonsense! Didn't the children know as well as she did, that hares' and rabbits' tails were not alive, and couldn't feel? and what could it signify of one of them was thrown away and lost? They'd a basket-full left besides, and it was plenty of such rubbish as that! They were all very well to play with up in the nursery, but they were worth nothing when all was said and done!'

This was completely in vain, of course. The children sat on the nursery floor and cried on just the same; and by-and-by went away to the corner of the room where the Tod-basket was kept, and bewailed the loss of poor 'Softy' to his brothers and sisters inside.

"As the time approached, however, for grandmamma's summoning bell, the nurse began to wonder what she could do to stop this fretting, and cool the red eyes; so she tried the coaxing plan, by way of a change.

"'If she was such nice little girls with beautiful dolls and toys, she never would fret so about a rabbit's tail, to be sure! And, besides, the boy was sure to be round again very soon with the hare and rabbit skins; and if they would only be good, and dry their eyes, she would get him to give them as many more as they pleased. Quite fresh new ones. She dared say they would be as pretty again as the one that was lost.'

"If nurse had wished to hit upon an injudicious remark, she could not have succeeded better. What did they care for 'fresh new' Tods instead of their dear 'Softy?' And the mere suggestion that any others could be prettier, turned their regretful love into a sort of passionate indignation; yet the nurse had meant well, and was astonished when the conclusion of what was intended to be a kind harangue, was followed by a louder burst of crying than ever.

"It must be owned that the little girls had by this time got out of grief into naughtiness; and there was now quite as much petted temper as sorrow in their tears; and lo! while they were in the midst of this fretful condition, grandmamma's summoning bell was heard, and they were obliged to go down to her.

"You can just imagine their appearance when they entered the drawing- room with their eyes red and swelled, their cheeks flushed, and anything but a pleasant expression over their faces. Of course, grandmamma and aunt immediately made inquiries as to the reason of so much disturbance, but the children were scarcely able to utter the usual 'good morning;' and when called upon to tell their cause of trouble, did nothing but begin to cry afresh.

"Whereupon their aunt was dispatched up-stairs to find out what was amiss; and then, for the first time, she heard from the nurse the history of the Tod family, the children's devotion to them, and their present vexatious grief about the loss of a solitary one of what she called their stupid bits of nonsense.

"Foolish as the whole affair sounds in looking back upon it, it certainly was one which required rather delicate handling, and I doubt whether anybody but a mother could have handled it properly. Grandmamma and aunt had every wish to do for the best, but they hardly took enough into consideration, either the bereaved condition of those motherless little ones, or their highly fanciful turn of mind. Yet nobody was to blame; the children spent all the summer with their father in the country, and all the winter with their grandmamma in London; and, therefore, no continued knowledge of their characters was possible, for they were always birds of passage everywhere. Certainly, however, it was a great mistake, under such circumstances, for grandmamma and aunt to have broken rudely into the one stronghold of childish comfort, which they had raised up for themselves."

Aunt Judy paused, and No. 6 really looked frightened as to what was coming next, and asked what Aunt Judy could mean that they did. "Were they very angry?"

"No, they were not very angry," Aunt Judy said; "perhaps if they had been only that, the whole thing would have passed over and been forgotten.

"But they held grave consultation upon the subject, and made it too serious, in my opinion, and I dare say you will think so too. Meantime the naughty children were turned out of the room while they talked, and the mystery of this, sobered their temper considerably; so that they made no further disturbance, but wandered up and down the stairs, and about the hall, in silent discomfort.

"At one time they thought they heard the drawing-room door open, and their aunt go up-stairs towards the nursery department again; but then for a long while they heard no more; and at last, childlike, began to amuse themselves by seeing how far along the oil-cloth pattern they could each step, as they walked the length of the hall, the great object being to stretch from one particular diamond to another, without touching any intermediate mark.

"In the midst of the excitement of this, they heard their aunt's voice calling to them from the middle of the last flight of stairs. There was something in her face, composed as it was, which alarmed them directly, and there they stood quite still, gazing at her.

"'Grandmamma and I,' she began, 'think you have been very silly indeed in making such a fuss about those rabbits' tails; and you have been very naughty indeed to-day, VERY NAUGHTY, in crying so ridiculously, and teazing all the servants, because of one being lost. You can't play with them rationally, nurse is sure, and so we think you will be very much better without them. Grandmamma has sent me to tell you—YOU WILL NEVER SEE THE TODS, AS YOU CALL THEM, ANY MORE.'

"Aunt Judy, it was horrible!" cried No. 6; "savage and horrible!" she repeated, and burst the next instant into a flood of tears.

"Oh, my old darling No. 6," cried Aunt Judy, covering the sobbing child quite round with both her arms, "surely YOU are not going into hysterics about the rabbits' tails too! I doubt if even their little mammas did that. Come! you must cheer up, or mamma will leave to be sent for to say that if you are so unreasonable, you must never listen to Aunt Judy's stories any more."

No. 6's emotion began to subside under the comfortable embrace, and Aunt Judy's joke provoked a smile.

"There now, that's good!" cried Aunt Judy; "and now, if you won't be ridiculous, I will finish the story. I almost think the prettiest part is to come."

This was consolation indeed; but No. 6 could not resist a remark.

"But, Aunt Judy, wasn't that aunt—"

"Hush, hush," interrupted Aunt Judy, "I apologized for both aunt and grandmamma before I told you what they did. They meant to do for the best, and

'The best can do no more.'

They cured the evil too, though in what you and I think rather a rough manner. And rough treatment is sometimes very effectual, however unpleasant. It was but a preparation for the much harder disappointments of older life."

"Poor little things!" ejaculated No. 6, once more. "Just tell me if they cried dreadfully."

"I don't think I care to talk much about that, dear No. 6," answered her sister. "They had cried almost as much as they could do in one day, and were stupified by the new misfortune, besides which, they had a feeling all the time of having brought it on themselves by being dreadfully naughty. It was a sad muddle altogether, I must confess. The shock upon the poor children's minds at the time must have been very great, for the memory of that bereavement clung to them through grown-up life, as a very unpleasant recollection, when a thousand more important things had passed away forgotten from their thoughts. In fact, as I said, the motherless little girls really broke their hearts over a parcel of rabbits' tails. But I must go on with the story. After a day or two of dull desolation, the children wearied even of their grief. And both grandmamma and aunt became very sorry for them, although the fatal subject of the Tods was never mentioned; but they bought them several beautiful toys which no child could help looking at or being pleased with. Among these presents was a brown fur dog, with a very nice face and a pair of bright black eyes, and a curly tail hung over his back in a particularly graceful manner; and this was, as you may suppose, in the children's eyes, the gem of all their new treasures. The feel of him reminded them of the lost Tods; and in every respect he was, of course, superior. They named him 'Carlo,' and in a quiet manner established him as the favourite creature of their play. And thus, by degrees, and as time went on, their grief for the loss of the Tods abated somewhat; and at last they began to talk about them to each other, which was a sure sign that their feelings were softened.

"But you will never guess what turn their conversation took. They did not begin to say how sorry they had been, or were; nor did they make any angry remarks about their aunt's cruelty; but one day as they were sitting playing with Carlo, in what may be called the Tod corner of the nursery, the eldest child said suddenly to her sister, in a low voice

"'What do you think our aunt has REALLY done with the Tods?'

"A question which seemed not at all to surprise the other, for she answered, in the same mysterious tone:-

"'I don't know, but I don't think she COULD burn them.'

"'And I don't, either,' was the rejoinder. 'Perhaps she has only put them somewhere where WE cannot get at them.'

"The next idea came from the younger child:-

"'Do you think she'll ever let us have them back again?'

"But the answer to this was a long shake of the head from the wiser elder sister. And then they began to play with Carlo again.

"But after that day they used often to exchange a few words together on the subject, although only to the same effect—their aunt COULD not have burnt them, they felt sure. She never said she had burnt them. She only said, 'YOU WILL NEVER SEE THE TODS ANY MORE.'

"Perhaps she had only put them by; perhaps she had put them by in some comfortable place; perhaps they were in their little basket in some closet, or corner of the house, quite as snug as up in the nursery.

"And here the conversation would break off again. As to asking any questions of their aunt, THAT was a thing that never crossed their minds. It was impossible; the subject was so fatally serious! . . . But I believe there was an involuntary peeping about into closets and out-of-the-way places whenever opportunity offered; yet no result followed, and the Tods were not found.

"One night, two or three months later, and just before the little things were moved back from London to their country home; and when they were in bed in their sleeping room, as usual, and the nurse had left them, and had shut the door between them and the day nursery, where she sat at work, the elder child called out in a whisper to the younger one:-

"'Sister, are you asleep?'

"'No. Why?'

"'I'll tell you of a place where the Tods may be.'

"'Where?'

"'The cellar.'

"'Do you think so?'

"'Yes. I think we've looked everywhere else. And I think perhaps it's very nice down there with bits of sawdust here and there on the ground. I saw some on the bottle to-day, and it was quite soft. Aunt would be quite sure we should never see them there. I dare say it's very snug indeed all among the barrels and empty bottles in that cellar we once peeped into.'

"The younger child here began to laugh in delighted amusement, but the elder one bade her 'hush,' or the nurse would hear them; and then proceeded whispering as before

"'It's a great big place, and they could each have a house, and visit each other, and hide, and make fun.'

"'And I dare say Softy was put there first,' interposed the younger sister.

"'Ay, and how pleased the others would be to find him there! Only think!'

"And they DID think. Poor little things, they lay and thought of that meeting when 'the others' were put in the cellar where 'Softy' already was, ready to welcome them to his new home; and they talked of all that might have happened on such an occasion, and told each other that the Tods were much happier altogether there, than if the others had remained in the nursery separated from dear little Softy. In short, they talked till the door opened, and the nurse, unsuspicious of the state of her young charges, went to bed herself, and sleep fell on the whole party.

"But a new world had now opened before them out of the very midst of their sorrow itself. The fancy home of the Tods was almost a more available source of amusement, than even playing with the real things had been; and sometimes in the early morning, sometimes for the precious half-hour at night, before sleep overtook them, the little wits went to work with fresh details and suppositions, and they related to each other, in turns, the imaginary events of the day in the cellar among the barrels. Each morning, when they went down- stairs, Carlo was put in the Tod corner of the nursery and instructed to slip away, as soon as he could manage it, to the Tods in the cellar, and hear all that they had been about.

"And marvellous tales Mr. Carlo used to bring back, if the children's accounts to each other were to be trusted. Such running about, to be sure, took place among those barrels and empty bottles. Such playing at bo-peep. Such visits of 'Furry' and his family to 'Buffy' and HIS family, when the little 'Furrys' and 'Buffys' could not be kept in order, but would go peeping into bungholes, and tumbling nearly through, and having to be picked out by Carlo, drabbled and chilled, but ready for a fresh frolic five minutes after!

"Such comical disputes, too, they had, as to how far the grounds round each Tod's house extended; such funny adventures of getting into their neighbour's corner instead of their own, in the dim light that prevailed, and being mistaken for a thief; when Carlo had to come and act as judge among them, and make them kiss and be friends all round!

"Such dinners, too, Carlo brought them, as he passed through the kitchen on his road to the cellar, and watched his opportunity to carry off a few un-missed little bits for his friends below. Dear me! his contrivances on that score were endless, and the odd things he got hold of sometimes by mistake, in his hurry, were enough to kill the Tods with laughing—to say nothing of the children who were inventing the history!

"Then the care they took to save the little drops at the bottom of the bottles, for Carlo, in return for all the trouble he had, was most praiseworthy; and sometimes, when there was a rather larger quantity than usual, they would have SUCH a feast!—and drink the healths of their dear little mistresses in the nursery up-stairs.

"In short, it was as perfect a fancy as their love for the Tods, and their ideas of enjoyment could make it. Nothing uncomfortable, nothing sad, was ever heard of in that cellar-home of their lost pets. No quarrelling, no crying, no naughtiness, no unkindness, were supposed to trouble it. Nothing was known of, there, but comfort and fun, and innocent blunders and jokes, which ended in fun and comfort again. One thing, therefore, you see, was established as certain throughout the whole of the childish dream:- the departed favourites were all perfectly happy, as happy as it was possible to be; and they sent loving messages by Carlo to their old friends to say so, and to beg them not to be sorry for THEM, for, excepting that they would like some day to see those old friends again, they had nothing left to wish for in their new home:-

"And here the Tod story ends!" remarked Aunt Judy, in conclusion, "and I beg you to observe, No. 6, that, like all my stories, it ends happily. The children had now got hold of an amusement which was safe from interference, and which lasted—I am really afraid to say how long; for even after the fervour of their Tod love had abated, they found an endless source of invention and enjoyment in the cellar-home romance, and told each other anecdotes about it, from time to time, for more, I believe, than a year."

When Aunt Judy paused here, as if expecting some remark, all that No. 6 could say, was:-

"Poor little things!"

"Ay, they were still that," exclaimed Aunt Judy, "even in the midst of their new-found comfort. Oh, No. 6, when one thinks of the strange way in which they first of all created a sorrow for themselves, and then devised for themselves its consolation, what a pity it seems that no good was got out of it!"

It was not likely that No. 6 should guess what the good was which Aunt Judy thought might have been got out of it; and so she said; whereupon Aunt Judy explained:-

"Did it not offer a quite natural opportunity,—if any kind friend had but known of it,—of speaking to those children of some of the sacred hopes of our Christian faith?—of leading them, through kind talk about their own pretty fancies, to the subject of WHAT REALLY BECOMES of the dear friends who are taken away from us by death?

"Had I been THEIR Aunt Judy," she continued, "I should have thought it no cruelty, but kindness then, to have spoken to them about their lost mother, and told them that she was living now in a place where she was much, much happier, than she had ever been before, and where one of the very few things she had left to wish for, was, that one day she might see them again: not in this world, where people are so often uncomfortable and sad, but in that happy one where there is no more sorrow, or crying, for God Himself wipes away the tears from all eyes.

"I should have told them besides," pursued Aunt Judy, "that it would not please their dear mother at all for them to fret for her, and FANCY THEY COULDN'T DO WITHOUT HER, and be discontented because God had taken her away, and think it would have been much better for them if He had not done so—(as if He did not know a thousand times better than they could do:)—but that it would please her very much for them to pray to God to make them good, so that they might all meet together at last in that very happy place.

"In short, No. 6, I would have led them, if possible, to make a comforting reality to themselves of the next world, as they had already got a comforting fancy out of the cellar-dream of the Tods. And that is the good, dear child, which I meant might have been got out of the Tod adventure."

Aunt Judy ceased, but there was no chance of seeing the effect of what she had said on No. 6's face, for it was laid on her sister's lap; probably to hide the tears which would come into her eyes at Aunt Judy's allusion to what she had said about HER.

At last a rather husky voice spoke:-

"You can't expect people to like what is so very sad, even if it is— what you call—right—and all that."

"No! neither does God expect it!" was Aunt Judy's earnest reply. "We are allowed to be sorry when trials come, for we feel the suffering, and cannot at present understand the blessing or necessity of it. But we are not allowed to 'sorrow without hope;' and we are not allowed, even when we are most sorry, to be rebellious, and fancy we could choose better for ourselves than God chooses for us."

Aunt Judy's lesson, as well as story, was ended now, and she began talking over the entertaining part of the Tod history, and then went on to other things, till No. 6 was quite herself again, and wanted to know how much was true about the motherless little girls; and when she found from Aunt Judy's answer that the account was by no means altogether an invention, she went into a fever-fidget to know who the children were, and what had become of them; and finally settled that the one thing in the world she most wished for, was to see them.

Nor would she be persuaded that this was a foolish idea, until Aunt Judy asked her how she would like to be introduced to a couple of VERY old women, with huge hooked noses, and beardy, nut-cracker chins, and be told that THOSE were the motherless little girls who had broken their hearts over rabbits' tails!—an inquiry which tickled No. 6's fancy immensely, so that she began to laugh, and suggest a few additions of her own to the comical picture, in the course of doing which, she fortunately quite lost sight of the "one thing" which a few minutes before she had "most wished for in the world!"



"OUT OF THE WAY"



"Oh wonderful Son that can so astonish a Mother!" HAMLET.

"What a horrid nuisance you are, No. 8, brushing everything down as you go by! Why can't you keep out of the way?"

"Oh, you mustn't come here, No. 8. Aunt Judy, look! he's sitting on my doll's best cloak. Do tell him to go away."

"I can't have you bothering me, No. 8; don't you see how busy I am, packing? Get away somewhere else."

"You should squeeze yourself into less than nothing, and be nowhere, No. 8."

The suggestion, (uttered with a jocose grin,) came from a small boy who had ensconced himself in the corner of a window, where he was sitting on his heels, painting the Union Jack of a ship in the Illustrated London News. He had certainly acted on the advice he gave, as nearly as was possible. Surely no little boy of his age ever got into so small a compass before, or in a position more effectually out of everybody's possible way. The window corner led nowhere, and there was nothing in it for anybody to want.

"No. 8, I never saw anything so tiresome as you are. Why will you poke your nose in where you're not wanted? You're always in the way."

"'He poked his flat nose into every place;'"

sung, sotto voce, by the small boy in the window corner.

No. 8 did not stop to dispute about it, though, in point of fact, his nose was not flat, so at least in that respect he did not resemble the duck in the song.

He had not, however, been successful in gaining the attention of his friends down-stairs, so he dawdled off to make an experiment in another quarter.

"Why, you're not coming into the nursery now, Master No. 8, surely! I can't do with you fidgetting about among all the clothes and packing. There isn't a minute to spare. You might keep out of the way till I've finished."

"Now, Master No. 8, you must be off. There's no time or room for you in the kitchen this morning. There's ever so many things to get ready yet. Run away as fast as you can."

"What ARE you doing in the passages, No. 8? Don't you see that you are in everybody's way? You had really better go to bed again."

But the speaker hurried forward, and No. 8 betook himself to the staircase, and sat down exactly in the middle of the middle flight. And there be amused himself by peeping through the banisters into the hall, where people were passing backwards and forwards in a great fuss; or listening to the talking and noise that were going on in the rooms above.

But be was not "out of the way" there, as he soon learnt. Heavy steps were presently heard along the landing, and heavy steps began to descend the stairs. Two men were carrying down a heavy trunk.

"You'll have to move, young gentleman, if you please," observed one; "you're right in the way just there!"

No. 8 descended with all possible speed, and arrived on the mat at the bottom.

"There now, I told you, you were always in the way," was the greeting he received. "How stupid it is! Try under the table, for pity's sake."

Under the table! it was not a bad idea; moreover, it was a new one— quite a fresh plan. No. 8 grinned and obeyed. The hall table was no bad asylum, after all, for a little boy who was always in the way everywhere else; besides, he could see everything that was going on. No. 8 crept under, and squatted himself on the cocoa-nut matting. He looked up, and looked round, and felt rather as if he was in a tent, only with a very substantial covering over his head.

Presently the dog passed by, and was soon coaxed to lie down in the table retreat by the little boy's side, and the two amused themselves very nicely together. The fact was, the family were going from home, and the least the little ones could do during the troublesome preparation, was not to be troublesome themselves; but this is sometimes rather a difficult thing for little ones to accomplish. Nevertheless, No. 8 had accomplished it at last.

"Capital, No. 8! you and the dog are quite a picture. If I had time, I would make a sketch of you."

That was the remark of the first person who went by afterwards, and No. 8 grinned as he heard it.

"Well done, No. 8! that's the best contrivance I ever saw!"

Remark the second, followed by a second grin.

"Why, you don't mean to say that you're under the table, Master No. 8? Well you ARE a good boy! I'm sure I'll tell your mamma."

Another grin.

"You dear old fellow, to put yourself so nicely out of the way! You're worth I don't know what."

Grin again.

"Master No. 8 under the table, to be sure! Well, and a very nice place it is, and quite suitable. Ever so much better than the hot kitchen, when there's baking and all sorts of things going on. Here, lovey! here's a little cake that was spared, that I was taking to the parlour; but, as you're there, you shall have it."

No. 8 grinned with all his heart this time.

"I wish I'd thought of that! Why, I could have painted my ship there without being squeezed!"

It needs scarcely to be told that this was the observation of the small boy who had watched an opportunity for emerging from the window corner without fuss, and was now carrying his little paint-box up- stairs to be packed away in the children's bag. As he spoke, he stooped down to look at No. 8 and the dog, and smiled his approbation, and No. 8 smiled in return.

"No. 8, how snug you do look!"

Once more an answering grin.

"No. 8, you're the best boy in the world; and if you stay there till Nurse is ready for you, you shall have a penny all to yourself."

No. 8's grin was accompanied by a significant nod this time, to show that he accepted the bargain.

"My darling No. 8, you may come out now. There! give me a kiss, and get dressed as fast as you can. The fly will be here directly. You're a very good boy indeed."

"No. 8, you're the pattern boy of the family, and I shall come with you in the fly, and tell you a story as we go along for a reward."

No. 8 liked both the praise, and the cake, and the penny, and the kiss, and the promise of the rewarding story for going under the table; but the why and wherefore of all these charming facts, was a complete mystery to him. What did that matter, however? He ran up- stairs, and got dressed, and was ready before anyone else; and, by a miracle of good fortune, was on the steps, and not in the middle of the carriage-drive, when the fly arrived, which was to take one batch of the large family party to the railway station.

No one was as fond of the fly conveyance as of the open carriage; for, in the first place, it was usually very full and stuffy; and, in the second, very little of the country could be seen from the windows.

But, on the present occasion, Aunt Judy having offered her services to accompany the fly detachment, there was a wonderful alteration of sentiment, as to who should be included. Aunt Judy, however, had her own ideas. The three little ones belonged to the fly, as it were by ancient usage and custom, and more than five it would not hold.

Five it would hold, however, and five accordingly got in, No. 4 having pleaded her own cause to be "thrown in:" and at last, with nurses and luggage and No. 5 outside, away they drove, leaving the open carriage and the rest to follow.

Nothing is perfect in this world. Those who had the airy drive missed the story, and regretted it; but it was fair that the pleasure should be divided.

And, after all, although the fly might be a little stuffy and closely packed, and although it cost some trouble to settle down without getting crushed, and make footstools of carpet bags, and let down all the windows,—the commotion was soon over; and it was a wonderful lull of peace and quietness, after the confusion and worry of packing and running about, to sit even in a rattling fly. And so for five minutes and more, all the travellers felt it to be, and a soothing silence ensued; some leaning back, others looking silently out at the retreating landscape, or studying with earnestness the wonderful red plush lining of the vehicle itself.

But presently, after the rest had lasted sufficiently long to recruit all the spirits, No. 7 remarked, not speaking to anybody in particular, "I thought Aunt Judy was going to tell us a story."

No. 7 was a great smiler in a quiet way, and he smiled now, as he addressed his remark to the general contents of the fly.

Aunt Judy laughed, and inquired for whom the observation was meant, adding her readiness to begin, if they would agree to sit quiet and comfortable, without shuffling up and down, or disputing about space and heat; and, these points being agreed to, she began her story as follows:-

"There were once upon a time a man and his wife who had an only son. They were Germans, I believe, for all the funny things that happen, happen in Germany, as you know by Grimm's fairy tales.

"Well! this man, Franz, had been a watchmaker and mender in an old- fashioned country town, and he had made such a comfortable fortune by the business, that he was able to retire before he grew very old; and so he bought a very pretty little villa in the outskirts of the town, had a garden full of flowers with a fountain in the middle, and enjoyed himself very much.

"His wife enjoyed herself too, but never so much as when the neighbours, as they passed by, peeped over the palings, and said, 'What a pretty place! What lucky people the watchmaker and his wife are! How they must enjoy themselves!'

"On such occasions, Madame Franz would run to her husband, crying out, 'Come here, my dear, as fast as you can! Come, and listen to the neighbours, saying, how we must enjoy ourselves!'

"Franz was very apt to grunt when his wife summoned him in this manner, and, at any rate, never would go as she requested; but little Franz, the son, who was very like his mother, and had got exactly her turn-up nose and sharp eyes, would scamper forward in a moment to hear what the neighbours had to say, and at the end would exclaim:-

"'Isn't it grand, mother, that everybody should think that?'

"To which his mother would reply:-

"'It is, Franz, dear! I'm so glad you feel for your mother!' and then the two would embrace each other very affectionately several times, and Madame Franz would go to her household business, rejoicing to think that, if her husband did not quite sympathize with her, her son did.

"Young Franz had been somewhat spoilt in his childhood, as only children generally are. As to his mother, from there being no brothers and sisters to compare him with, she thought such a boy had never been seen before; and she told old Franz so, so often, that at last he began to believe it too. And then they got all sorts of masters for him, to teach him everything they could think of, and qualify him, as his mother said, for some rich young lady to fall in love with. That was her idea of the way in which he was one day to make his fortune.

"At last, a time came when his mother thought the young gentleman quite finished and complete; fit for anything and anybody, and likely to create a sensation in the world. So she begged old Franz to dismiss all his masters, and give him a handsome allowance, that he might go off on his travels and make his fortune, in the manner before mentioned.

"Old Mr. Franz shook his head at first, and called it all a parcel of nonsense. Moreover, he declared that Master Franz was a mere child yet, and would get into a hundred foolish scrapes in less than a week; but mamma expressed her opinion so positively, and repeated it so often, that at last papa began to entertain it too, and gave his consent to the plan.

"The fact was, though I am sorry to say it, Mr. Franz was henpecked. That is, his wife was always trying to make him obey her, instead of obeying him, as she ought to have done; and she had managed him so long, that she knew she could persuade him, or talk him (which is much the same thing) into anything, provided she went on long enough.

"So she went on about Franz going off on his travels with a handsome allowance, till Papa Franz consented, and settled an income upon him, which, if they had been selfish parents, they would have said they could not afford; but, as it was, they talked the matter over together, and told each other that it was very little two old souls like themselves would want when their gay son was away; and so they would draw in, and live quite quietly, as they used to do in their early days before they grew rich, and would let the lad have the money to spend upon his amusements.

"Young Franz either didn't know, or didn't choose to think about this. Clever as he was about many things, he was not clever enough to take in the full value of the sacrifices his parents were making for him; so he thanked them lightly for the promised allowance, rattled the first payment cheerfully into his purse, and smiled on papa and mamma with almost condescending complacency. When he was equipped in his best suit, and just ready for starting, his mother took him aside.

"'Franz, my dear,' she said, 'you know how much money and pains have been spent on your education. You can play, and dance, and sing, and talk, and make yourself heard wherever you go. Now mind you do make yourself heard, or who is to find out your merits? Don't be shy and downcast when you come among strangers. All you have to think about, with your advantages, is to make yourself agreeable. That's the rule for you! Make yourself agreeable wherever you go, and the wife and the fortune will soon be at your feet. And, Franz,' continued she, laying hold of the button of his coat, 'there is something else. You know, I have often said that the one only thing I could wish different about you is, that your nose should not turn up quite so much. But you see, my darling boy, we can't alter our noses. Nevertheless, look here! you can incline your head in such a manner as almost to hide the little defect. See—this way—there—let me put it as I mean—a little down and on one side. It was the way I used to carry my head before I married, or I doubt very much whether your father would have looked my way. Think of this when you're in company. It's a graceful attitude too, and you will find it much admired.'

"Franz embraced his mother, and promised obedience to all her commands; but he was glad when her lecture ended, for he was not very fond of her remarks upon his nose. Just then the door of his father's room opened, and he called out:-

"'Franz, my dear, I want to speak to you.'

"Franz entered the room, and 'Now, my dear boy,' said papa, 'before you go, let me give you one word of parting advice; but stop, we will shut the door first, if you please. That's right. Well, now, look here. I know that no pains or expense have been spared over your education. You can play, and dance, and sing, and talk, and make yourself heard wherever you go.'

"'My dear sir,' interrupted Franz, 'I don't think you need trouble yourself to go on. My mother has just been giving me the advice beforehand.'

"'No, has she though?' cried old Franz, looking up in his son's face; but then he shook his head, and said:-

"'No, she hasn't, Franz; no, she hasn't; so listen to me. We've all made a fuss about you, and praised whatever you've done, and you've been a sort of idol and wonder among us. But, now you're going among strangers, you will find yourself Mr. Nobody, and the great thing is, you must be contented to be Mr. Nobody at first. Keep yourself in the background, till people have found out your merits for themselves; and never get into anybody's way. Keep OUT of the way, in fact, that's the safest rule. It's the secret of life for a young man—How impatient you look! but mark my words:- all you have to attend to, with your advantages, is, to keep out of the way.'

"After this bit of advice, the father bestowed his blessing on his dear Franz, and unlocked the door, close to which they found Mrs. Franz, waiting rather impatiently till the conference was over.

"'What a time you have been, Franz!' she began; but there was no time to talk about it, for they all knew that the coach, or post-wagon, as they call it in Germany, was waiting.

"Mrs. Franz wrung her son's hand.

"'Remember what I've said, my dearest Franz!' she cried.

"'Trust me!' was Mr. Franz's significant reply.

"'You'll not forget my rule?' whispered papa.

"'Forget, sir? no, that's not possible,' answered

Mr. Franz in a great hurry, as he ran off to catch the post-wagon; for they could see it in the distance beginning to move, though part of the young gentleman's luggage was on board.

"Well! he was just in time; but what do you think was the next thing he did, after keeping the people waiting? A sudden thought struck him, that it would be as well for the driver and passengers to know how well educated he had been, so he began to give the driver a few words of geographical information about the roads they were going.

"'Jump in directly, sir, if you please,' was the driver's gruff reply.

"'Certainly not, till I've made you understand what I mean,' says Master Franz, quite facetiously. But, then, smack went the whip, and the horses gave a jolt forwards, and over the tip of the learned young gentleman's foot went the front wheel.

"It was a nasty squeeze, though it might have been worse, but Franz called out very angrily, something or other about 'disgraceful carelessness,' on which the driver smacked his whip again, and shouted:-

"'Gentlemen that won't keep out of the way, must expect to have their toes trodden on.' Everybody laughed at this, but Franz was obliged to spring inside, without taking any notice of the joke, as the coach was now really going on; and if he had began to talk, he would have been left behind.

"And now," continued Aunt Judy, stopping herself, "while Franz is jolting along to the capital town of the country, you shall tell me whose advice you think he followed when he got to the end of the journey, and began life for himself—his father's or his mother's?"

There was a universal cry, mixed with laughter, of "His mother's!"

"Quite right," responded Aunt Judy. "His mother's, of course. It was far the most agreeable, no doubt. Keeping out of the way is a rather difficult thing for young folks to manage."

A glance at No. 8 caused that young gentleman's face to grin all over, and Aunt Judy proceeded:-

"After his arrival at the great hotel of the town, he found there was to be a public dinner there that evening, which anybody might go to, who chose to pay for it; and this he thought would be a capital opportunity for him to begin life: so, accordingly, he went up- stairs to dress himself out in his very best clothes for the occasion.

"And then it was that, as he sat in front of the glass, looking at his own face, while he was brushing his hair and whiskers, and brightening them up with bear's-grease, he began to think of his father and mother, and what they had said, and what he had best do.

"'An excellent, well-meaning couple, of course, but as old-fashioned as the clocks they used to mend,' was his first thought. 'As to papa, indeed, the poor old gentleman thinks the world has stood still since he was a young man, thirty years ago. His stiff notions were all very well then, perhaps, but in these advanced times they are perfectly quizzical. Keep out of the way, indeed! Why, any ignoramus can do that, I should think! Well, well, he means well, all the same, so one must not be severe. As to mamma now—poor thing—though she IS behindhand herself in many ways, yet she DOES know a good thing when she sees it, and that's a great point. She can appreciate the probable results of my very superior education and appearance. To be sure, she's a little silly over that nose affair;- -but women will always be silly about something.'

"Nevertheless, at this point in his meditations, Master Franz might have been seen inclining his head down on one side, just as his mother had recommended, and then giving a look at the mirror, to see whether the vile turn-up did really disappear in that attitude. I suspect, however, that he did not feel quite satisfied about it, for he got rather cross, and finished his dressing in a great hurry, but not before he had settled that there could be only one opinion as to whose advice he should be guided by—dear mamma's.

"'Should it fail,' concluded he to himself, as he gave the last smile at the looking-glass, 'there will be poor papa's old-world notion to fall back upon, after all.'

"Now, you must know that Master Franz had never been at one of these public dinners before, so there is no denying that when he entered the large dining-hall, where there was a long table, set out with plates, and which was filling fast with people, not one of whom he knew, he felt a little confused. But he repeated his mother's words softly to himself, and took courage: 'DON'T BE SHY AND DOWNCAST WHEN YOU COME AMONG STRANGERS. ALL YOU HAVE TO THINK ABOUT, WITH YOUR ADVANTAGES, IS TO MAKE YOURSELF AGREEABLE;' and, on the strength of this, he passed by the lower end of the table, where there were several unoccupied places, and walked boldly forward to the upper end, where groups of people were already seated, and were talking and laughing together.

"In the midst of one of these groups, there was one unoccupied seat, and in the one next to it sat a beautiful, well-dressed young lady. 'Why, this is the very thing,' thought Mr. Franz to himself. 'Who knows but what this is the young lady who is to make my fortune?'

"There was a card, it is true, in the plate in front of the vacant seat, but 'as to that,' thought Franz, 'first come, first served, I suppose; I shall sit down!'

"And sit down the young gentleman accordingly did in the chair by the beautiful young lady, and even bowed and smiled to her as he did so.

"But the next instant he was tapped on the shoulder by a waiter.

"'The place is engaged, sir!' and the man pointed to the card in the plate.

"'Oh, if that's all,' was Mr. Franz's witty rejoinder, 'here's another to match!' and thereupon he drew one of his own cards from his pocket, threw it into the plate, and handed the first one to the astonished waiter, with the remark:-

"'The place is engaged, my good friend, you see!'

"The young goose actually thought this impudence clever, and glanced across the table for applause as he spoke. But although Mamma Watchmaker, if she had heard it, might have thought it a piece of astonishing wit, the strangers at the public table were quite of a different opinion, and there was a general cry of 'Turn him out!'

"'Turn me out!' shouted Mr. Franz, jumping up from his chair, as if he intended to fight them all round; and there is no knowing what more nonsense he might not have talked, but that a very sonorous voice behind him called out,—a hand laying hold of him by the shoulders at the same time -

"'Young man, I'll trouble you to get out of my chair, and' (a little louder) 'out of my way, and' (a little louder still) 'to KEEP out of my way!'

"Franz felt himself like a child in the grasp of the man who spoke; and one glimpse he caught of a pair of coal-black eyes, two frowning eye-brows, and a moustachioed mouth, nearly frightened him out of his wits, and he was half way down the room before he knew what was happening; for, after the baron let him go, the waiter seized him and hustled him along, till he came to the bottom of the table; where, however, there was now no room for him, as all the vacant places had been filled up; so he was pushed finally to a side-table in a corner, at which sat two men in foreign dresses, not one word of whose language he could understand.

"These two fellows talked incessantly together too, which was all the more mortifying, because they gesticulated and laughed as if at some capital joke. Franz was very quiet at first, for the other adventure had sobered him, but presently, with his mother's advice running in his head, he resolved to make himself agreeable, if possible.

"So, at the next burst of merriment, he affected to have entered into the joke, threw himself back in his chair and laughed as loudly as they did. The men stared for a second, then frowned, and then one of them shouted something to him very loudly, which he did not understand; so he placed his hand on his heart, put on an expressive smile, and offered to shake hands. Thought he, that will be irresistible! But he was mistaken. The other man now called loudly to the waiter, and a moment after, Franz found himself being conveyed by the said waiter through the doorway into the hall, with the remark resounding in his ears:-

"'What a foolish young gentleman you must be! Why can't you keep out of people's way?'

"'My good friend,' cried Mr. Franz, 'that's not my plan at present. I'm trying to make myself agreeable.'

"'Oh—pooh!—bother agreeable,' cried the waiter. 'What's the use of making yourself agreeable, if you're always in the way? Here!—step back, sir! don't you see the tray coming?'

"Franz had not noticed it, and would probably have got a thump on the head from it, if his friend the waiter had not pulled him back. The man was a real good-natured, smiling German, and said:-

"'Come, young gentleman, here's a candle;—you've a bed-room here, of course. Now, you take my advice, and go to bed. You WILL be out of the way there, and perhaps you'll get up wiser to-morrow.'

"Franz took the candlestick mechanically, but, said he:-

"'I understood there was to be dancing here tonight, and I can dance, and—'

"'Oh, pooh! bother dancing,' interrupted the waiter. 'What's the use of dancing, if you're to be in everybody's way, and I know you will; you can't help it. Here, be advised for once, and go to bed. I'll bring you up some coffee before long. Go quietly up now—mind. Good night.'

"Two minutes afterwards, Mr. Franz found himself walking up-stairs, as the waiter had ordered him to do, though he muttered something about 'officious fellow' as he went along.

"And positively he went to bed, as the officious fellow recommended; and while he lay there waiting for the coffee, he began wondering what COULD be the cause of the failure of his attempts to make himself agreeable. Surely his mother was right—surely there could be no doubt that, with his advantages—but he did not go on with the sentence.

"Well, after puzzling for some time, a bright thought struck him. It was entirely owing to that stupid nose affair, which his mother was so silly about. Of course that was it! He had done everything else she recommended, but he could not keep his head down at the same time, so people saw the snub! Well, he would practise the attitude now, at any rate, till the coffee came!

"No sooner said than done. Out of bed jumped Mr. Franz, and went groping about for the table to find matches to light the candle. But, unluckily, he had forgotten how the furniture stood, so he got to the door by a mistake, and went stumbling up against it, just as the waiter with the coffee opened it on the other side.

"There was a plunge, a shout, a shuffling of feet, and then both were on the floor, as was also the hot coffee, which scalded Franz's bare legs terribly.

"The waiter got up first, and luckily it was the 'officious fellow' with the smiling face. And said he:-

"'What a miserable young man you must be, to be sure! Why, you're NEVER out of the way, not even when you're gone to bed!'

This last anecdote caused an uproar of delight in the fly, and so much noise, that Aunt Judy had to call the party to order, and talk about the horses being frightened, after which she proceeded:-

"I am sorry to say Mr. Franz did not get up next morning as much wiser as the waiter had expected, for he laid all the blame of his misfortunes on his nose instead of his impertinence, and never thought of correcting himself, and being less intrusive.

"On the contrary, after practising holding his head down for ten minutes before the glass, he went out to the day's amusements, as saucy and confident as ever.

"Now there is no time," continued Aunt Judy, "for my telling you all Mr. Franz's funny scrapes and adventures. When we get to the end of the journey, you must invent some for yourselves, and sit together, and tell them in turns, while we are busy unpacking. I will only just say, that wherever he went, the same sort of things happened to him, because he was always thrusting himself forward, and always getting pushed back in consequence.

"Out of the public gardens he got fairly turned at last, because he would talk politics to some strange gentlemen on a bench. They got up and walked away, but, five minutes afterwards, a very odd-looking man looked over Franz's shoulder, and said significantly, 'I recommend you to leave these gardens, sir, and walk elsewhere.' And poor Franz, who had heard of such things as prisons and dungeons for political offenders, felt a cold shudder run through him, and took himself off with all possible speed, not daring to look behind him, for fear he should see that dreadful man at his heels. Indeed, he never felt safe till he was in his bed-room again, and had got the waiter to come and talk to him.

"'Dear me,' said the waiter, 'what a very silly young gentleman you must be, to go talking away without being asked!'

"'But,' said Franz, 'you don't consider what a superior education I have had. I can talk and make myself heard—'

"'Oh, pooh! bother talking,' interrupted the waiter; 'what's the use of talking when nobody wants to listen? Much better go to bed.'

"Franz would not give in yet, but was comforted to find the waiter did not think he would be thrown into prisons and dungeons; so he dined, and dressed, and went to the theatre to console himself, where however he MADE HIMSELF HEARD so effectually—first applauding, then hissing, and even speaking his opinions to the people round him—that a set of young college students combined together to get rid of him, and, I am sorry to add, they made use of a little kicking as the surest plan; and so, before half the play was over, Mr. Franz found himself in the street!