"Oh, come now," replied Roberts; "you are too hard on printers, you are. If they were not clear-headed I don't see how they could set up their type without more mistakes than they make. Why, I've had relations myself in the printing line, and Mr. Burnet is a master-printer himself."

"Is he now?" said Rowles.

"That's what we're down here for. He's bought up half the Thames Valley Times and Post, and he wants to live near the works, and while we are looking out for a house we have to stay at the hotel. Mr. Leonard is going into the business too, as soon as he is old enough."

Roberts had just reached this point when Mr. Burnet came out from the house. Rowles looked with more interest at the old gentleman who was in the same line with Thomas Mitchell, and from that moment began to think better of printers in general.

The sky was rapidly clearing, so the three visitors turned the cushions of the boat, and stepping into it went through the lock, and were soon going up between the green banks and hedges, all deliciously freshened by the heavy summer rain.

"He's a nice old fellow," Rowles muttered to himself; "but then all printers are not like him. Here, Phil, see what you can do to put the Fairy in order again. But as for that Juliet, if my wife was not so soft-hearted I would turn the girl out to run home or to get her own living."



CHAPTER VIII

BETTERING HERSELF.

Juliet Mitchell had gone up to the little room which she shared with Emily Rowles. It did not contain much furniture, and what there was had seen its best days long before. The chest of drawers had lost most of its handles; the looking-glass which stood on the drawers swung round the wrong way unless it was propped up by a book or by a box. It had swung round in this manner, but had stuck half-way. When Juliet entered the room she came face to face with the glass, and consequently face to face with herself.

What she saw was enough to frighten her, and did frighten her. The scowling brows, the flushed cheeks, the pushed-out lips, were more like those of some fierce and raging animal than the features of a young girl in a Christian land. She stopped short and glared at her own reflection. It glared back as angrily at her. "What a horrid, ugly, cross thing, you are!" said Juliet.

The face in the glass said the very same words with its lips, though it made no sound. Then Juliet stood still and talked with herself.

"You are the ugliest, the crossest, most stupid, awkward creature I ever did come near; and so I tell you plainly, Juliet Mitchell. Since you came into this house not a thing but what is tiresome have you done. Why, if your aunt was to jaw you from morning to night you would do no better; and you can't stand being jawed, you know. And your aunt just looks at you in a way that is more piercing than if she was to talk for weeks! And your uncle, he's your own mother's own brother; but there! he'd be glad enough if you was to take yourself off. And that's about the best thing you can do. Take yourself off and get your own living like other girls of your age. Nobody wants you, here or in London. There's a many little places going; and when you've shown that you can take care of yourself and don't want none of their advice, nor none of their money either, then won't they be pleased to get a letter from you!"

Like many another young girl—ay, and boy too—Juliet had a great notion of independence—of getting away from advice and restraint, and of earning money for herself. In London more than in the country, girls go off and engage themselves as servants or in some other capacity, and so start alone in the world like little boats putting out on a stormy sea without sail or oar, rudder or compass. And many, many are wrecked on the first rock; and many go through wild tempests and suffer terrible hardships. A few battle through the winds and waves and reach a happy shore.

Had Juliet asked advice of anyone, or had she knelt and implored guidance from her Heavenly Father, she would not have made the mad resolve which now shaped itself in her mind. It was the resolve to go away from Littlebourne Lock, on that side of the river which she knew least—away from her relations, from the village, from the church, from the railway, to find a situation with some stranger in a place where no one knew her; in a word, to provide for herself.

As her resolve grew more fixed she felt calmer, and even pleased. Smiles began to flicker over her features; and when she next looked in the glass she murmured to her reflection, "I say, you ain't so bad-looking after all!"

A knock on the door roused her. Mrs. Rowles came in.

The good aunt sat down on the foot of the bed and drew the girl towards her, putting her motherly arm round the little figure, and smoothing the ruffled hair. Mrs. Rowles went on to explain to Juliet the great danger which she had run, and the extreme naughtiness of flat disobedience; and all the while Juliet stood with a calm face and silent manner, so that her aunt thought she was penitent. But this quietness was caused by her having so fully made up her mind as to what she would do next. She let Mrs. Rowles speak on, and appeared meek and humble; but in reality her thoughts were not on anything that she heard.

"And so," said Mrs. Rowles, rising at length and unclasping the sheltering arms, "when you have been with us a little longer, and have learnt a little more, we will get you a nice situation—and Mrs. Webster knows all the good situations that are going,—and you shall have a start in life; and I've written to your mother to tell her what I think of doing for you. We shall have her answer the day after to-morrow."

Juliet said coldly, "All right."

"I thought you might like another frock," said Mrs. Rowles, "so I have been making one for you out of a gown of my own; and here are two new print aprons, and I've put a fresh ribbon on your hat. You are quite set up now, my dear."

"I suppose," said Juliet without thanking her aunt, "that them things are good enough for going to service."

"Oh yes, quite good enough—if you should happen to hear of a little place to suit you. Don't you like them?"

"They are right enough," said Juliet.

Then Mrs. Rowles turned and went away, wondering that so young a girl should be so hard, and totally unsuspicious of the resolve which was in that young hard heart.

It was a resolve which could not be put in execution at once; Juliet must needs wait for a favourable opportunity. Two days went by and she did not find one; then came a letter from her mother saying that if Juliet could find a situation in the country it would be better than coming back to overcrowded London, where young girls in swarms were looking out for means of earning their livings. Mrs. Mitchell said little more; all were pretty well except baby, who was always poorly.

Juliet now considered that she had got a sort of permission from her mother to do what she wished to do. She thought she could defy her uncle and aunt if they found any fault with her actions.

The eventful moment arrived.

Mrs. Rowles and Emily had gone to the village to buy a few things for the lodgers who were expected shortly. Mr. Rowles was busy at the lock; Philip was going to take out the Fairy for her first trip after her repairs.

Juliet came down from the attic. She wore her new-made frock, her re-trimmed hat, and carried a parcel containing the print aprons. Phil did not notice what she wore or what she carried.

"Take me in the boat, Phil," she said coaxingly.

"I thought you had had enough of the boat," he replied.

"But you will be in it, this time."

"Oh, I don't want you," said the boy.

"Well, then, just set me down on the opposite bank."

"I don't mind doing that; but you may have to wait a long time before I come back for you."

"All right," said Juliet; "I don't care how long you are."

She stepped into the Fairy, and sat quite still while Philip rowed her to the far-off bank. Then she got out very gravely, and sat down on the grass until he was out of sight.

Fields came down to the water's edge. Where Juliet sat there was a muddy bit of gravel shelving to the river. She did not know what made this break in the bank. It had been formed by cows and horses coming down to drink. In the field there were now no animals; had there been she would have hesitated about remaining in it. But as soon as Phil had disappeared she stood and looked about her, and perceived that there was no living creature in sight, except the larks singing on high and the grasshoppers chirping among the grass.

Juliet walked swiftly across the field to a gate which stood open, and through which she passed. Hardly had she entered the second field when she saw at the further side of it about a dozen cows. Her heart fell. Like most London girls she was horribly afraid of cows. Yet to go back would be to undo her plan; besides the animals had already seen her, and all their heads were turned in her direction.

"I must not irritate them," she thought, "and yet I must get on out of this field. If I creep along under the hedge they will not notice me."

Her frock was a dark green, and her hat a black one. She sidled along close to the hedge, keeping her eyes on the cows, which presently resumed their feeding. But as she did not look where she was treading she went down, splash! into a ditch.

Mud and duckweed covered her boots, several dirty marks were made on her frock, the parcel fell out of her hand, and probably the black stains on the paper had penetrated to the contents. This was her first misfortune.

She got herself out of the ditch and went on more carefully, keeping still in the shade of the hedge. Then a great spray of bramble caught a bow of ribbon on her hat and lifted the whole thing off her head. It flew up in the air, and only after repeated jumps could she get hold of it and bring it down again. This was her second misfortune.

Her tumblings and jumpings had attracted the attention of the cows once more, and a calf being young and inquisitive thought he would like to have a nearer view of the intruder, and began to follow Juliet. This was her third misfortune.

Her first impulse was to run, but a second thought told her that the cows would be sure to run after her. So she did not run, but walked as fast as she could, the calf walking faster and gaining on her. She stumbled and tripped and panted, and fixed her eyes on a gate, hoping that she might reach it before the calf came up with her. On she went with terrified steps, arrived at the gate, and found it fastened.

She threw the parcel over, climbed up the five wooden bars, and was going to climb down on the other side when she felt the great, warm, wet lips of the calf playing with her left ankle. She gave one screech of horror and threw herself head-foremost to the ground. It was soft and mossy, and she rose, shaken and bruised, and with a hole in the knee of each stocking.

But she had escaped from the calf. The copse or wood into which she had entered was dark and cool. A pathway went curving in and out among the trees. At a sharp turn she came suddenly upon a big man with a beard, who pointed a gun full at her, and said, "Stand, or I'll fire!"

This was her fourth misfortune.

Here was a dreadful, cruel robber such as she had read about in badly-printed penny books, and he would shoot her dead in half a minute. She gave a scream and turned to run back, but the man strode after her and laid a huge hand on her shoulder. At this she screamed and danced with terror.

"Now, now," roared the man, "stop that row! What are you doing here?"

"I want to go away!" cried Juliet.

"So you shall. But answer my questions first."

Glancing up at him Juliet perceived that he was laughing. All her fears vanished and she began to laugh too.

"What are you doing here?" asked the man again.

"I'm only walking through the wood," said Juliet, recovering her courage. "There ain't no law against that, I suppose."

"Yes, but there is. 'Trespassers will be prosecuted with the utmost rigour of the law.' Where do you come from?"

"From over there," and Juliet pointed behind her.

"Oh! And where are you going?"

"Over there," and she pointed before her.

The man whistled. "If you're not a Londoner, I'm a Dutchman. You're pretty sharp, you are."

"No, I ain't," said Juliet, stolidly; "I'm that stupid and awkward that I can't do nothing right. So I want a general place, I do."

"Oh!" said the big man, laughing; "awkward and stupid wants a place. Hope you'll get it, miss. Well, now, look here. Go right on and get out of the wood as quick as ten thousand lightnings, or else you'll be prosecuted with the utmost rigour of the law."

Juliet wriggled away from under his heavy hand and ran right ahead, thankful to escape from the gun.

She came soon to the edge of the wood and found a fence easy to climb. On the other side of this she came into a lane which led out on a highroad. It was now late in the day; the sun was getting low, and the shadows grew longer and the air sweeter. She walked on quietly, thinking herself safe from pursuit. How surprised every one would be when they discovered that she had started in life by herself! Perhaps they would see that she was not so stupid and awkward as they thought.

"But I've got no place yet," said the girl to herself. "I must find one pretty sharp or I shall have nowhere to sleep to-night. Here's two houses; either on 'em would do for me."

Two small brick houses stood by the roadside. They had green doors, and shutters outside the windows, and little gardens in front.

"There ain't not a bit of use in being shy," said Juliet to herself, her courage all the while sinking lower and lower. "I'm as bold as brass, I always was. Here goes!"

She walked up to the door of the first cottage and rapped on it with her knuckles.

It was opened by a tall, thin, elderly woman in a high black bonnet. "What do you want?" she said.

"Please, missus, I want a place; general servant, like."

The woman looked at her from the crown of her hat to the heels of her boots. "Oh, do you? Where have you been living?"

"Over there," said Juliet.

"Over where?"

"Littlebourne way."

The woman seemed to be thinking deeply.

"Got a first-rate character, I suppose?"

"Oh, well," said Juliet hastily, "I've not been in a regular situation, as the saying is, but helping a friend, you know."

"It's a pity you've left her," said the woman. "What wages were you getting?"

Juliet said, lamely enough, "I didn't have no regular wages. They kep' me, and gave me these," showing the aprons.

"Ah! Did they send you away?"

"No, missus; I just took French leave and come away when it suited me. I want to better myself."

"I see. Well, come in. I'll try you. My name is Bosher. Do you hear—Mrs. Bosher?"

While Juliet stood in the narrow passage Mrs. Bosher locked and bolted the door, and at every sound the poor, foolish girl grew more and more unhappy, and more cut off from all hope and all happiness. Mrs. Bosher's bonnet and Mrs. Bosher's name were enough to terrify any young person with a bad conscience.

"Yes," said Juliet's new mistress, "my name is Bosher"—here the bonnet nodded,—"and now you are my servant, and while you are in my service you will do precisely everything that I tell you. I have a brother who has a gun; sometimes he shoots rooks, sometimes he shoots—other things. He lives next door. If you do a single thing that displeases me, you shall be prosecuted with the utmost rigour of the law."

Juliet longed to scream, or kick, or run away; but she did not dare to move. "The utmost rigour of the law" might mean something awful: it might mean being hanged, or being shot by Mrs. Bosher's brother. The passage was almost dark, and Juliet stood trembling beside her dreadful mistress. Oh, if only it were possible to be back once more at the lock! Oh, if only she could escape from this new situation! Locked doors, and windows shuttered on the outside, made this cottage a very prison. The man with the gun living-next door, the unknown rigour of the law hanging over her head, Mrs. Bosher glaring through the twilight—how endure them even for a night? And how get away from them in the morning?

She was pushed into a kitchen and bidden to wash up some cups and saucers. "And woe betide you if you break one of them!" said Mrs. Bosher, her bonnet nodding so strangely that it seemed to be the speaker rather than its wearer.

Juliet was so fearful lest she might let slip a cup or saucer that she spent about half an hour in washing the crockery. While she did this at a side table, Mrs. Bosher was ironing linen at the table in the middle of the room. From time to time the sharp, sensible eyes of the woman rested upon the face of the girl, and at such moments the top of the black bonnet nodded as if it were alive.

When Juliet had finished her task Mrs. Bosher said, "Now, you shall have bread-and-milk for supper, and then go to bed."

"I don't like bread-and-milk," returned Juliet, "and it is too early to go to bed."

"Indeed. What do you like for supper? And at what hour do you prefer to go to bed?"

"I like bread and cheese; and we went to bed at ten o'clock when uncle's work was done."

The bonnet nodded faster than before.

"You will eat bread-and-milk or nothing, and if your aunt let you sit up till ten o'clock I am not so foolish."

A basin of the food which Juliet declined to eat was set before her. She was very hungry, but having refused it already she let it lie untasted. Meanwhile Mrs. Bosher lighted a lamp.

"It is nearly nine o'clock. Now you go to bed. Come along."

There was a door which Mrs. Bosher opened, revealing a flight of stairs. She pushed Juliet up them, and though the girl would have liked to rebel, she did not dare to do so. In fact, she thought the wisest plan would be to go quietly up to the bed-room, and, as soon as Mrs. Bosher herself was in bed, to get out by the window and make her way back to Littlebourne Lock. There was a full moon, and the night was almost as light as the day.

So she let herself be pushed upstairs into an almost empty little room in the roof, and when she heard the door locked upon her she laughed silently, thinking that the cruel woman had done the very thing her prisoner wished her to do. Mrs. Bosher's heavy steps went down the wooden stairs; the door of the house was opened, shut, and locked, and Juliet's spirits rose when she knew that she was alone. She might as well run away at once.

She looked at the window. It was in the roof—a skylight. There was no means of getting up to it, and no means of opening it that Juliet could perceive. Oh, she was caught in a trap! One or two large stars stared down through the small panes, and the diffused light of the moon was enough to show the girl how hopeless was her condition. She was in prison, caught, with no chance of escape. What a terrible position she had brought herself into! If her aunt could see her! If her own dear mother could see her!

Juliet threw herself on the little hard bed and wept bitterly. Not a sound could she hear! Alone, hungry, miserable!

After a while her sobs ceased and she felt sleepy. She pulled up a blanket and quilt which she had been lying on and thought that she might as well sleep a little, and waken with fresh courage and fresh plans. Like many other people Juliet made her most earnest prayers when she was in trouble. She turned and knelt upon the bed, saying all her petitions with earnestness; then she lay down again, and her dreams took her far away from all her many misfortunes.



CHAPTER IX.

BACK IN LONDON.

When Juliet awoke in the early morning she could not at first remember where she was. It was not the old home in London, crowded with father, mother, and children. It was not the new home at Littlebourne, where Emily's bed lay beside that of her cousin. Oh, but it was the prison in which the dreadful Mrs. Bosher and her bonnet had shut up an unhappy girl and kept her all night!

Looking round the room, Juliet saw on the boards close to the door the same basin of bread-and-milk which she had refused to eat on the previous evening. Mrs. Bosher must have put it in noiselessly while her prisoner was asleep. The prisoner could not resist her fare this morning, but ate it all up, though the milk was just what she called "on the turn."

She did not know what the time was; the sun rose so early that he shone as brightly at five o'clock as at seven o'clock. What did it matter? Juliet could not get out until her jailer chose to release her. As soon as Mrs. Bosher opened the house-door, or sent her out for water, or for a cabbage, or to hang up wet linen, she would make off and run away somewhere. Not through the wood, lest the awful brother might be there again, and the utmost rigour of the law prosecute the trespasser; but somewhere, anywhere.

Juliet lay down and slept again. She was disturbed by the door of the room being opened, and the bonnet nodding in.

"Oh, you are not up. Come down and wash in the scullery."

The bonnet went down the stairs, and Juliet followed. It stood over her while she washed and brushed her hair, and made herself tidy. Then it gave her a toasting-fork and some slices of bread, and set her in front of the kitchen fire. While thus obeying Mrs. Bosher the mind of Juliet was trying to strike out some plan of escape; but when she saw the brother outside in the road she put off running away. The clock told her that the hour was eight. The Littlebourne family was now at breakfast too. How they must be fretting for want of Juliet!

As it happened, they were not fretting at all, but talking together cheerfully.

Juliet did not want much more in the way of breakfast. She sat, cross and ugly, scowling at Mrs. Bosher.

When breakfast was ended and the dinner put to cook in the oven, Juliet began once more to look about for a chance of escape. The brother was not to be seen from the window. There must come the right moment presently. Mrs. Bosher left the kitchen. Now the right moment had come. Juliet put on her hat, and went into the passage.

"That is a good girl," said the deep voice, "I'm ready too."

A strong hand took Juliet by the arm, and the hat and the bonnet went out together. Speechless with terror, the girl could not resist. She was hurried along the road in the direction furthest from Littlebourne, past the brother's house, and past several other houses. What could it all mean? Whither were they going?

At the corner of a cross-road there stood the brother himself, but without the gun. Mrs. Bosher led Juliet to him, and his hand took the place of his sister's.

"Here's the runaway," said Mrs. Bosher. "She'll be safe with you."

"Rather," said the big man; "or she shall know the rigour of the law." It was odd how his eyes laughed while his mouth was so awful.

"So you'll dispose of her, Jim; and I'll run back, for I've left the door open."

The bonnet went nodding away, and the burly Jim dragged Juliet along faster than she could walk, and almost as fast as she could run. She was soon tired and out of breath. Neither spoke.

They went along one road and turned down another, and crossed the Thames by a bridge, and passed through a street of shops, and then, by a dirty lane among gas-works, arrived at a place which Juliet had seen before.

"Why, it is Littlebourne station!" she exclaimed.

And there, on the platform where the sun was beating down with fierce heat, stood Mr. and Mrs. Webster. The big man took Juliet up to them and placed her in front of them, saying, "Here she is; I've done my part of the business, and I place her safely in your charge."

Mrs. Webster was looking at Juliet with pitying eyes; the vicar of Littlebourne appeared sterner than his wife.

"Very good," he said to Mrs. Bosher's brother; "we will take her in charge. It happens very fortunately that we are going to London to-day, and so can dispose of her. How much anxiety and trouble her bad conduct has caused! It was very clever of Mrs. Bosher to guess who the girl was."

"Yes, sir, so it was. When my sister came in last night to tell me how a young thing from Littlebourne had come to her house, having run away from home seemingly, I should never have seen my way to finding out the truth. But then women are quicker-witted than men, though they are not so steady-headed. And my sister says, 'She must have come across the fields somehow.' And I says, 'I met a slip of a girl in the wood, and made believe that I was going to shoot her.' And says Mrs. Bosher, 'It's the same girl, take my word for it,' says she. 'And, you, Jim,' she says, 'step over to the lock the first thing in the morning, and ask Mrs. Rowles if they have seen a girl coming through the fields in this direction.' Which I did."

To all this Juliet was listening eagerly.

"And two words settled it," said Mrs. Bosher's brother; "two words with Mrs. Rowles. 'Why,' says she, 'it must be our niece Juliet who ran away last night, and we have been in a state ever since.' And then she described her niece, and I saw plain enough that it was this identical girl. There came an old gentleman in a boat just then, and so I said good-morning and went to tell my sister what I had heard."

"They did not wish to have the girl brought back to them?"

"Oh, no, sir; they'd had enough of her. They said she must go to her home in London. And Mrs. Rowles knew that you would be going to town to-day, and she promised to send word to you that I would bring this runaway here to meet you; and Mrs. Rowles said she knew you would see her safe home, because you are always ready to help everybody."

Mrs. Webster smiled. "And what did Mr. Rowles say about his niece?"

"Oh, he said she was a regular bad un; went off alone in the boat and got shipwrecked. He said she had a father who never thought of getting up to work until other folks were going to bed, and what else could you expect from the daughter of such a man as that? But the old gentleman who had got out of the boat said, 'Tut, nonsense!' and seemed to want to have an argument with Rowles after I had left. And now, sir, I see your train coming, and I have talked myself out; so good-morning to you and to your good lady."

Lifting his hat, Mrs. Bosher's brother went away, and Juliet saw no more of him. She was pushed into a carriage with the vicar and Mrs. Webster. Indignant she was, and unhappy; all her folly and all her wickedness were coming back upon her now.

During the long, hot journey up to London Mr. Webster several times spoke very severely to Juliet. He knew enough of her story to be aware that she was selfish and conceited, unwilling to be taught, and resolved to have her own way. He told her how she might have lived most happily at the lock until a nice little situation had been found for her; but she had spoilt everything, and made her uncle and aunt glad to get rid of her. He told her that unless she could become more humble and teachable she would never learn anything good; that it is the childlike, humble souls which grow in wisdom and in favour with God and man.

Mrs. Webster did not say much, but looked so gently at Juliet that her looks had almost as much effect as her husband's words. The experience of the last few days, her frights, her misfortunes, the gun of Mrs. Bosher's brother, the locking up in Mrs. Bosher's house, this sudden journey home, all showed Juliet that she had tried the patience of grown-up people more than they could bear. She looked with hazy eyes on the country that they were passing through; she hardly saw the fields and trees. But at length she noticed that the houses were more numerous, and then that the fields were gone, and then that she was in London—hot, smoky, noisy London once more.

"It is very annoying for you," said Mr. Webster to his wife in a low tone, which yet was distinct enough to Juliet's young ears—"very annoying for you to be obliged to go to the other side of the city, when your mother expects you at eleven o'clock. But there is no help for it. I have to go down to Westminster. I don't suppose I shall see you till we meet at Paddington to come back by the 7:45 train. I will put you and the child into an omnibus in Praed Street, and when you get out Juliet Mitchell must guide you to her home."

Even the West-end was hot and steamy on that broiling August day. Never before had Juliet thought London so unpleasant; the reason being that this was the first time she could contrast the town with the country. It seemed to her that the further she went through the streets the thicker the air became, the dimmer the light, the dingier the houses. And so indeed it was. And when she brought Mrs. Webster into the street which contained No. 103, she wondered how that lady would like to exchange Littlebourne vicarage for an East-end vicarage.

An almost similar thought was passing through Mrs. Webster's mind, or rather, the same thought reversed.

"Juliet," she said, "I wonder how your father and mother would like to leave London and come and live at Littlebourne?"

"I don't know, ma'am," answered Juliet.

"I have heard a good deal about them from Mrs. Rowles. Your father would have better health if he lived in the country."

By this time they had reached No. 103. Juliet's heart was beating at the sight of the well-known door-step of her home. She forgot all about Mrs. Webster, and ran on. There were lots of boys and girls playing in the street; some called out to her, some stared at Mrs. Webster. But Juliet took no notice; only ran on, climbed up the dear old dirty, steep stairs without bannisters, and got to the door of the back attic, followed closely by her companion.

The girl did not knock, but rushed in, and then stood aghast. A strange woman was there but no one else.

"Where is mother?" cried Juliet.

"Whose mother?" responded the strange woman.

"My mother."

"Ain't she got e'er a name?"

"Yes; she's Mrs. Mitchell."

"Oh, the Mitchell lot has gone into the front room, if you please. Going up again in the world, I can tell you."

Juliet turned and dashed into the front room. There she found another surprise.

Her father lay sleeping; her mother was sewing at some black hats and bits of crape. The other children, all but Albert, stood round about the room; some crying silently, some watching their mother, who paused every now and then in her work to wipe away tears which quickly returned.

But there was one whom Juliet missed.

"Mother," she said, as Mrs. Mitchell's arms clasped closely round her, "where is baby?"

Tears poured down from the mother's eyes. "Oh, baby, baby, our darling baby is gone! He was took with the croup yesterday morning, and he just went off in the evening. There was too many of you, and now he's gone!"

A sad silence fell upon the room. Thomas Mitchell moaned in his sleep, as if his dreams were painful. Outside in the street there was a sound of angry voices—two women quarrelling. Mrs. Webster had once had a baby of her own; it had died. She felt, she knew, all that Mrs. Mitchell was feeling now.

The bits of black on which the mother was at work were poor and skimpy, but they betokened a real sorrow. And though Mrs. Mitchell knew that the "home for little children" was far, far better for them than the busy, hard world, yet she could not bring her heart to be thankful that baby was taken; all that she could say was, "Thy will be done!"

In the mortuary belonging to the church lay the little, thin, pale body of baby Thomas Mitchell. Life, though short, had been very hard for him, and he had gone out of it at the first call from his Father in heaven—at the first sound of that voice which is sweeter and more drawing than the voice of a mother.

Other children had gone before him; but because he was the baby his loss was more acutely felt than that of the others had been. Juliet sat and thought of the many times she had bumped his tender head against the wall, and how often she had let him slip off her lap, or left him lying in the rain or in the fierce sunshine. And now the darling baby had died, and she away from home! She had not watched his last sigh, she had not given him one farewell kiss! Already he was in his tiny coffin, and she would never in this life see him again, save in those blessed dreams which now and then restore to us for a time our loved and lost ones.

Juliet could not have explained—perhaps it could not be explained—how it was that the death of baby during her absence seemed to be connected with her bad conduct. It is certain that this sudden shock affected her greatly. It was, as it were, a break in her life; her old ill-tempered, unteachable childhood went into the past, and a gentle womanhood sprang up in the future. For the present there was a sad, humble, penitent girl.

When she began once more to know what was going on in that room, she found that Mrs. Webster was telling Mrs. Mitchell, in very mild terms, of the reasons why Juliet was sent home.

"I am quite a stranger," said the lady, "and I feel myself an intruder in your time of sorrow. You have my deepest sympathy. And I trust that Juliet will henceforth do better. She has had some severe lessons. Do you think your husband would be stronger if he lived in the country?"

"Yes, ma'am; the doctor at the dispensary says that country air would do wonders for him. But then he can't leave his work; it is no use to live in the country and have a good appetite if you have no means of getting victuals for your appetite."

"No, of course not," said Mrs. Webster.

"We are doing better now," continued Mrs. Mitchell. "He's at work again, and Miss Sutton—that's a kind lady—is trying to bring us women face to face with our employers and no middleman between. But I don't know how it will act. I've done work for Miss Sutton and her friends, but the same people don't keep on wanting mantles. I could have borne anything if I hadn't to make up crape for ourselves!"

Mrs. Webster pressed Mrs. Mitchell's hand kindly, and took her leave.



CHAPTER X.

THE ADVENTURE OF THE "TURKEYS PIN."

The disappearance of Juliet Mitchell from Littlebourne Lock the second time did not surprise or frighten her relations nearly so much as her flight had done on the first occasion.

"Oh, she'll come home," said Mrs. Rowles; "never fear. When she is hungry she'll turn up, or someone will bring her."

But as the evening closed in, and neither meal-time nor bed-time brought the wanderer home, some alarm began to spread through the house. Philip had taken his boat to the place where he had left Juliet, but she was not there. He went again and shouted for her, but there was no reply. Then Mr. Rowles shouted from the lock in a voice that must have been heard at half a mile's distance. Still no sign of Juliet.

"You should not have left her there, Phil," said Mrs. Rowles.

"I've often set Emily down at the same place," was Phil's defence, "to gather king-cups or forget-me-nots."

"Yes, I know; but Juliet is not Emily."

This could not be denied. It accounted for Juliet's absence, but it did not bring her home.

Dozens of boats went up the river, and dozens went down. Rowles said to the occupants of each of them, "If you should see a girl of thirteen what has got lost, be so good as to tell her to come home double-quick, or it will be worse for her."

Some of the people laughed, and some said "Very well;" but evening deepened into night without bringing Juliet.

The last boat was that of the old gentleman's butler, or valet, or whatever he liked to call himself. When Rowles made his speech about the missing girl, the man replied, "I know; that is the child whose father is a printer. Mr. Burnet takes an interest in that child, being himself a master-printer, and the son of a journeyman printer."

"The son of a journeyman printer!" Rowles repeated. "You don't say so, Mr. Robert?"

"Yes, I do say it. My Mr. Burnet's father began life at the bottom of the ladder, and ended it near the top; and my Mr. Burnet began life near the top, and is ending it quite at the top. Hard work, Mr. Rowles, hard work, perseverance, honesty, and temperance; that's what does it. Your little girl's father may get to the top of the tree yet."

"Not with his bad health," replied Rowles, shaking his head; "and not without his proper night's sleep."

"They make up their sleep in the daytime," said the other, beginning to push his boat out of the lock which was now full. "I've got relations of my own in the same line, so I know they can make up their sleep in the daytime. Well, good-night; if I see the girl I'll hurry her home."

"Good—night, Mr. Robert. I'm glad you've learnt to manage your boat."

As Roberts went off his voice was heard saying, "It is hard work, and perseverance, and honesty, and temperance that does it." And he was not wrong.

Ten o'clock came. The lock-house was closed, and all its inmates went to bed. Mrs. Rowles had little sleep, watching all night for Juliet's knock. But it did not come.

At six o'clock next morning Mr. Rowles went out to look up and down the river, and to prophesy the weather. It was still and cloudless and warm. While he was standing idly beside the running water, listening to the twitter of birds and the lowing of cows, he heard yet another cry, that of a man; and presently he saw on the far-off bank the figure of a big, burly man with a bushy beard.

"I do believe it's Mrs. Bosher's brother!"

"Over! over!" bawled the man, as if hailing a ferry-boat.

"Well, if that ain't a joke! I ain't the ferry. Here you, Phil, jump into the Fairy and go and see what that man wants."

So Phil played the part of the ferry and brought Mrs. Bosher's brother to the lock-eyot.

He told his story. The previous evening he had met a young girl in the wood, and as it was private property, he had warned her out of it. Afterwards he found that she had gone to his sister's house, evidently a runaway, and had engaged herself as a general servant. But Mrs. Bosher, who was one that never took no rest, never even took off her bonnet, saw through that girl, and knew right well that she had come from the Littlebourne side of the river; and perhaps Mrs. Rowles could state what family had lost a little maid-servant.

Yes, Mrs. Rowles could tell him all about Juliet; and after giving him some breakfast sent him back in the Fairy to his own side of the river, with a request that Mrs. Bosher would take Juliet to the station, where someone would meet the tiresome girl and convey her to her home in London.

The big man promised to do all this, and went out with Rowles intending to have a pipe and a gossip with him, when down came a boat rowed by Leonard Burnet, and steered by the old master-printer; and so the gossip was cut short, though not the pipe.

"I am not going through," said Mr. Burnet from the boat. "Help me to land, Rowles; I want to have a talk with you. Who is that man?" looking at the big person who had just gone off in the little Fairy.

"Oh, that is Mrs. Bosher's brother. I hope you are well, sir, and the young gentleman; likewise Mr. Robert."

"Yes, thanks, Leonard and I are very well; but Roberts has a smart touch of rheumatism, and will not come on the river to-day. May I sit here, Rowles?" added Mr. Burnet, pointing to a seat under some small trees.

"If you please, sir. Why, Emma, where are you a-going?"

Mrs. Rowles curtsied to Mr. Burnet. "I am going, Ned, to the vicarage. I heard say that Mr. and Mrs. Webster are going to London to-day, and if they would take charge of Juliet it would save my time and money."

Mrs. Rowles hurried off, and caught Mrs. Webster, who most kindly undertook the charge of Juliet if Mrs. Bosher should bring her to the station, and to see her safe to her own home in London.

While Mrs. Rowles was absent on this errand, her husband was having a very important conversation with Mr. Burnet under the small trees. Neither Leonard nor Phil heard what passed, as they were not within earshot; but when they presently came near their fathers they caught these words from Mr. Burnet:

"I hope that he will consent to do as we suggest. It was really my boy who first thought that it would be a good move. These young people sometimes get hold of ideas which are worth carrying out. And then Roberts took it up, knowing as he does from his relations the difficulties of that kind of life in London."

"I'm sure, sir," said Rowles doubtfully, "it is very kind of you to think of doing such kindness to a stranger. But I'm much afeard that Thomas Mitchell is so used to his topsy-turvy way of living, that he will not fit in with the morning for getting up and the night for going to bed."

"I will endeavour to get him to try it, at all events. I have taken a lease of the Bourne House; very likely you know it."

"I should think I did! A good old gentleman used to live there when I was a boy, as like to you, sir, as one pea is to another; and, what is more, Mrs. Bosher's brother farms all the arable land belonging to it."

"Does he? Of course I know all about my future tenant, but I did not know he was Mrs. Bosher's brother. Well, Rowles, there is a nice little cottage on the property which your brother-in-law can rent cheap from me; and I will put him on the Thames Valley Times and Post, which only comes out once a week, and does not keep the men up at night. We also do a good deal of handbill printing, and catalogues for sales, and that kind of work, which is easy enough. And I hope to see your friends settled down here by the beginning of the week after next."

Rowles shook his head, feeling certain that the arrangement would not answer. But Mr. Burnet was determined to try it, and Leonard was delighted with the project.

"Your cousins," said Leonard to Philip, "will have to learn all about country things. I don't suppose they know a garden when they see one."

"No, they don't," was Phil's answer. "When Juliet saw the first of the country from the train window, she says to mother, 'It's a pretty churchyard!' says she."

Mr. Burnet looked very sad for a few moments, then he stood up and said that he must be going back, as he had to meet Mrs. Bosher's brother and talk over the barns and the stables and the farm-buildings. "And on Monday," he added, "I think I shall go to town and see your brother-in-law, and offer him a place at my printing-office. I have already inquired his character of his present employers."

Rowles's head was shaking again; but he only held the boat for Mr. Burnet and Leonard to step into it, and his forebodings of failure on Mitchell's part were for the moment kept to himself.

There were also forebodings of failure in the mind of Roberts, when his master talked so hopefully of what was going to happen to Juliet's father.

"Don't make too sure, Mr. Leonard, of anything. I daresay that Juliet's father will have better health living in the country, but as for his getting to be foreman of your printing-office, I have my doubts."

Perhaps Roberts's doubts were due to his attack of rheumatism. He was at this time suffering so much from it that he was almost cross. He was laid up the very day that Mr. Burnet took possession of the Bourne House, and sat wrapped in flannel, though the weather was very warm.

"Don't talk to me any more," he said savagely when a tremendous twinge seemed to be piercing between his bones, "about your Juliet's father and your Mrs. Bosher's brother. If people have not got names of their own I don't want to hear about such people."

The housekeeper who was waiting on him began to say, "The name of Mrs. Bosher's brother—"

"Hold your tongue, do! How this arm does ache, to be sure!"

Leonard was in the room. He got as far as, "The name of Juliet's father—"

"I won't hear it!" cried poor Roberts, kicking out his right foot, in which the pain was steely cold.

"We want you to go and see him on Monday," said Leonard.

"Then you may want!" and he flung out the left foot in which the pain was red-hot.

The housekeeper signed to Leonard to leave the invalid to himself. When this attack was over Roberts would be himself again—kind and gentle and polite.

But there was no chance of his being able to go to London to make arrangements for the move of the Mitchell family. Mr. Burnet was in the habit of leaving a great deal to Roberts, being himself old and ailing, and easily upset. On the Sunday, a lovely, sweet, clear day, it was plain that Roberts would not be of any use for another week or more.

Mr. Burnet and his son were walking back from evening service, and enjoying the calm of Sunday evening. Everything had been beautiful; the hymns, the sermon in church; the hymns of the birds and the sermons of the harvest, in the fields.

"Delicious!" said Mr. Burnet, pausing as he entered his own large grounds. "How I wish poor Roberts was well enough to enjoy it all. I am afraid his exertions at the oar, and his exposure to the evening damps, have brought on this painful attack. The only thing I can do is to go to town myself to see this Thomas Mitchell, and I really do not feel up to it."

The father and son walked on side by side. Presently Leonard said, "Do you think I could go and make the arrangements with Mitchell?"

Mr. Burnet stopped in his walk, and leaning on his stick said, "Upon my word, Leonard, I do not see why you could not."

"Then let me do it, father; and if you give me a note to the head of the press where Mitchell works, perhaps he would let me look round, and take a practical lesson in the business."

"A good idea!" exclaimed Mr. Burnet.

It was settled in that way; and on the Monday, Mr. Burnet being very gouty, and Roberts very rheumatic, there was no one who could possibly go to town except Leonard. He went off, armed with directions and papers from his father.

Arrived in London he presented himself at the great printing-office where Mitchell worked; was courteously received by one of the heads of it, and was shown some of the type, the presses, the paper, and other things used for printing that morning journal which deprived Thomas Mitchell and many others of almost every night's rest. Having seen as much as he could remember, he said to the gentleman who was explaining matters, "I think I must now speak to Mitchell, who is to leave you on Saturday, and to begin work with us on Monday next."

"I will send for him," replied the gentleman. "He is a good, steady fellow, and if his health becomes stronger will deserve your confidence and regard."

Then, speaking down a telephone, "Send Thomas Mitchell to me."

The answer came back: "Mitchell has this moment knocked off work and gone."

"Provoking!" said the gentleman.

"It does not matter," said Leonard. "I know his address, and I can go there and speak to him."

He set off, having a vague notion of the neighbourhood in which the Mitchells lived. Leonard was not much used to London, especially that part of it, and as he went he saw many things to interest him. The day was hot and close, and the narrower streets were far from pleasant. He was struck by the number of small grocers' shops, and the smell of paraffin which pervaded this part of London. He also noticed how dry the vegetables appeared, and how moist the fruits which were exposed for sale; further, how shabby and threadbare were the carpets floating at the pawnbrokers' doors, and how fusty the odour from them. In a word, Leonard could not help seeing that this was a very poor region.

It did not strike him that poverty and crime are near neighbours; that the circumstances which make the honest man poor, make the lazy man a thief. Leonard was too young to be suspicious. He scarcely saw a shambling poorly-dressed rather wasted man whom he passed, and who afterwards stumbled along a very little way behind him. Nor did he specially notice two rather well-dressed but coarse-looking men who kept just ahead of him.

But when these two began to talk loud he did notice them. When they stood in the middle of the narrow pavement, quarrelling, Leonard paused and looked on.

"You did!" said the one.

"I did not!" said the other.

"I'll make you confess it on your marrow-bones!"

"You shall have every bone in your body broke first!"

By this time a crowd had begun to collect. The two men seemed preparing for a fight.

"Part them, someone!" cried Leonard.

"Let them fight it out!" cried a costermonger, seating himself on his barrow.

"I'll see fair play!" roared a great unwashed man.

A voice behind Leonard said in his ear, "You come out of this, young fellow!" and looking round the lad saw the shabby, sickly man who had been following him.

The crowd hemmed them all four in the midst of it.

"Hallo! The bobbies!" was whispered.

The crowd opened a way through which one of the disputants rushed, all eyes fixed upon him.

An arm came over Leonard's shoulder, and a dirty hand clutched his turquoise breast-pin; another arm came over the other shoulder and another hand clutched the first one. At the same moment two policemen's helmets peered over the crowd, and a stern voice said, "What's up? What's your game?"

Then in some mysterious way the first hand and arm vanished, and only the second remained, and Leonard found himself thus hugged by a stranger, and confronted by two stalwart policemen.

When an English man or boy finds himself in the hands (or, as in this case, in the arms) of a stranger, his first impulse is to show fight. Naturally Leonard began to plunge and to double his fists. But he could not keep this up, for the man whose arm was round him quickly retired and stood a few paces off, looking wan and haggard, and very unlike a thief or ruffian.

The crowd had melted away. The two policemen stood with faces fixed in something between a grin and a scowl.

"What are you all up to?" said Leonard, in astonishment at the suddenness of the whole affair.

"Just this, young man," replied one of the policemen, "that if you want to walk about in this part of London you had better not wear such an enticing pin in your scarf."

Leonard put up his hand, and found that his turquoise pin was pulled half-way out of his scarf. He said angrily, "Then why don't you take the thief in charge?" And he pointed at the sickly-looking man who stood close by.

"Because he was too quick for us. He's on the other side of the river long before this."

"Why, there he stands!" cried Leonard, pointing again at the shabby figure.

"Begging your pardon, young sir, this is him that has saved your pin from them two thieves. You owe him many thanks, and something more substantial, in my humble opinion."

Then Leonard understood the affair, and how the poor delicate man had prevented the smart colleagues from making off with the valuable pin given him by his late mother, and therefore very greatly precious to him. He turned to his defender with warm thanks.

The two policemen sauntered away.

"I am awfully obliged to you, I'm sure," said Leonard. "You don't look well."

"No," replied the poor man; "I have had sickness and sorrow lately, and a little thing upsets me. I shall be better in a few minutes. You put your pin in your pocket, sir; and do not show any jewellery when you come through these shady slums."

"I think I must have come wrong."

"What street do you want?"

Leonard named it.

"Well, you have not come wrong exactly; but you had better have stuck to the main thoroughfares, and not have taken these short cuts, which are all very well for some of us, but not for young gents with 'turkeys' breast-pins. If you are not ashamed of my company I can take you straight to the street you've named."

After his late escape Leonard felt suspicious of every stranger in London; but as he really had reason to feel obliged to this man, he put aside that feeling and walked on for some time with his new acquaintance.



CHAPTER XI.

A THOROUGH CHANGE.

"I am afraid," Leonard said presently, "that I am taking you out of your way."

"Not at all, sir; I live in that same street. There's a good many of us live there. It is like a rabbit-warren."

"Really!" said Leonard.

"It swarms with old and young—young ones mostly. Too many of 'em. We ought not to grieve too much when they are taken from this hard world to rest and safety. But the mothers do grieve, poor things!—and the fathers too."

"Perhaps you have lost a child lately," said Leonard, very gently.

"He was buried yesterday."

They went on in silence until they turned into a street which appeared to begin much better than it ended. Leonard's guide said, "Here we are; this is your street."

"Oh, thank you; but don't come any further." And Leonard began to fumble in his pocket for a half-crown.

"It is my street too," said the poor man.

"All right then. I want No. 103."

"I live at 103 myself."

"That is curious. Do you know a Mr. Mitchell in that house?"

"I know him pretty well; I am Thomas Mitchell."

Then Leonard shook hands heartily with his guide, and as they walked slowly along the cooler side of the street he unfolded all the plans which Mr. Burnet had made for the Mitchell family. They were already known in part to the father and mother, but the children had not been informed of what was in store for them. Mrs. Mitchell had thought that such a prospect would excite them greatly, and that their disappointment would be great if anything occurred at the last moment to upset the plan.

But now it must be declared.

All the children were at home, it being holiday-time. Juliet sat at needlework, Albert was carpentering an old wooden box and turning it into a cupboard; the younger ones were playing with some firewood, and building castles with it. Mrs. Mitchell was stitching at one more mantle, and thinking over every little incident of her baby's life and death.

Into the midst of this quiet scene came Leonard Burnet, full of life and vigour, and overflowing with the happy message he had brought. He told them of the pretty cottage with honeysuckle on the porch, of the garden full of cauliflowers and scarlet-runners, of the clear bright river, of the open fields, of the shady woods, the winding lanes, and of all the pleasant things of rural life. Then he spoke of Mr. and Mrs. Rowles, and the lock, and the boats; of Philip and Emily; of the good vicar and Mrs. Webster; of Mrs. Bosher's brother, and the horses, cows, pigs, and poultry which he possessed.

How strange it all seemed to Juliet! How far away, and yet how well known! She was the only one of her family who had seen these places and persons, and the thought of them filled her with both sorrow and pleasure. Several times as Leonard talked he turned to her, saying, "You know the lock, Juliet?" or "You have seen Mrs. Bosher's brother, I think, Juliet?" or else "The fields and the river are very nice, are they not?" and to each of his appeals she had gravely bowed her head in assent.

In the end it was arranged that the following Monday should be spent by the Mitchell family in packing up the few goods which they possessed, and that on Tuesday they should send off those goods by the Littlebourne carrier, who would be directed by Mr. Burnet to call for them; and then they should all go by omnibus to Paddington station, and be met at Littlebourne station by Mr. Burnet, or Leonard, or Mr. Burnet's butler, or Mrs. Bosher's brother.

"Or perhaps by all of us!" said Leonard laughing.

These plans and hours being clearly understood, and Leonard having advanced Mitchell a sovereign to help pay for the move, he took his leave, his scarf-pin safe in his waistcoat-pocket. He left the whole family in a state of wonder and delight, which would have been even greater had they guessed what further surprises were in store for them.

No week ever seemed so short and so long to people as that week appeared to the Mitchells. There was not time enough to finish up everything that ought to be finished, and to say good-bye to every one who had been kind and friendly to them in London. Then there were notices to be given the school, and to the society and the dispensary which had helped Thomas Mitchell in his trouble. The clergyman and the schoolmaster and schoolmistress came to say farewell; and as for the neighbours, poor as they all were, and rude as some were, they crowded with wishes and gifts.

"Two gallipots," said one old woman, "for you to put your black currant jam in."

"A few cuttings of geraniums," said a young gardener who worked in Victoria Park; "try if you can get them to take."

"My school-prize," said a big girl, putting a red-and-gold-covered book into the hands of little Amy; "I've grown too old for it, so you may have it."

And Miss Sutton came with the good news that one great West-end draper had promised to meet his workwomen face to face, and no longer to employ any middlemen. "For which you will be thankful," said Miss Sutton to Mrs. Mitchell, "though you will not yourself reap the benefit."

Yes, Mrs. Mitchell was very thankful for many things; but there was one which brought ever-fresh tears to her eyes as she left the swarming city. "I leave three little graves!"

And Juliet! She hardly knew how she ought to feel or how she did. Certainly there was a great deal of shame in her heart; and equally certainly there was a great deal of pride—not the old pride of self-conceit, but a reasonable pride in knowing so much about the things of the country. She had enough to do to explain to her brothers and sisters the many new things which they saw from the train, and to answer their hundreds of questions.

At Littlebourne there was quite a sensation on their arrival. Mr. Burnet was there in his pony-carriage, and Leonard, and Mrs. Bosher's brother with a donkey-cart. Mrs. Rowles and Emily laughed and cried over their relations; and poor Mitchell became so faint from fatigue and emotion that Mrs. Webster, who now arrived on the scene, hurried him and his wife and little ones into a "fly" to get them out of the hubbub.

The station-master and the porters were quite glad when this party moved off.

They went slowly along the roads, in the soft air sweetened by recent showers, talking all together, all at the same time. What did it matter? Nobody wanted to hear anybody's words except his own. At the cottage they ceased talking, and all ran about through the small garden, up and down the flight of stairs, in and out the rooms.

Then Mrs. Webster laid down on the dresser a parcel containing home-made bread and fresh butter. Next Mrs. Bosher's brother brought from the donkey-cart some bacon, eggs, and milk. The pony-carriage had concealed under the seat some soap, candles, and cheese. Mrs. Rowles had a bundle of blankets as a loan, for the present moment; and Mrs. Bosher came in with sheets and towels for Mrs. Mitchell to use until her own arrived. All these kindnesses overpowered the London people, and they knew not how to thank their new friends.

To avoid being thanked Mrs. Bosher nodded her bonnet at Juliet and went away. Mrs. Webster also departed. Mr. Burnet asked Mitchell to meet him at the works next morning, and then he and Leonard drove off. Mrs. Bosher's brother hauled in a half-sack of coals and two great faggots from the donkey-cart, and then he, too, said good-bye.

The Rowles party stayed longer.

"Ned will come to see you, I hope," said Mrs. Rowles to her brother-in-law. "But he says he is afraid he can't come in the middle of the night; but would half-past ten be late enough?"

"Dear, dear!" said Mrs. Mitchell, somewhat puzzled. "Well, we must sit up for him if necessary; but I did hope that Thomas would have his proper nights' rests here in the country. We ought all to be in bed by ten o'clock."

"You see, Rowles cannot leave the lock unless he gets a deputy. Philip is hardly strong enough by himself. And Ned says that of course Tom can't come to the lock, being at work all night and asleep all day."

"That will not be the case here," said Mitchell smiling. "Besides, there's one or two things that I may as well explain to Rowles. Seems to me he's got some ideas upside down in his head."

"Oh, I don't know!" cried Mrs. Rowles; "but my idea is that you had better have your suppers now and go to bed as quick as you can. There'll be lots of new things to see to-morrow. And if Ned can't come you'll be sure to have Mr. Robert the butler at Bourne House, and the housekeeper. You see, they all know Juliet—" Here Mrs. Rowles broke off, and Juliet shrank away, feeling bitterly that they knew little that was good of her.

She was, however, able to eat her supper with the rest of her family, and to sleep on the shake-down of blankets, and to rise in the morning refreshed and happy and ready for the new life before her.

The carrier arrived about eleven o'clock that morning, and the few bits of furniture and so forth which had come from London were put, one by one, in new places. Mrs. Mitchell said that a pound of paint would touch them up quite smart-like.

Thomas Mitchell and Albert had not stayed at Honeysuckle Cottage to see the arrival of these goods, but had gone to the works to meet Mr. Burnet there at nine o'clock. They were told by the foreman to go into the office, and there they awaited the arrival of the master.

Mr. Burnet soon appeared, and after a few words of greeting took a key from his pocket and opened the letter-box. From it he took a large number of business letters. He laid them into several separate heaps. Then he pressed the button of an electric-bell, and a lad came in from some other part of the buildings.

"Here, Willie, take these letters, if you please. One for Mr. Toop, one for Mr. Richard Macnunn, two for Mr. Plasket, and here is a very fat one for 'Arthur George Rayner, Esq., Foreman at the Works of the Thames Valley Times and Post, Littlebourne, Berkshire, England.' It really looks like something important."

When the boy had gone off to deliver the letters, Mr. Burnet took Mitchell outside the office and pointed out to him the different parts of the building and the advantages of the position. One of these was that the Little Bourne, a small but rapid stream, flowed close by, supplying water. There were gas-works on the premises, and there was a small tramway for sending paper, &c., from one end to the other. There was handsome stabling, and there were lofty, airy work-rooms.

"Every appliance for making a good thing of it," said Mr. Burnet.

He held up his hand for silence as a strange, low sound rolled out from the works. Was it the roar of fire or an explosion of steam? But no sign of fire followed, and nothing shook or broke. Only there came a second roar, louder than the first, and then the great gates of the great yard burst open, and out poured a crowd of men, jumping, dancing, shouting, and apparently in great joy.

"A strike," said Mitchell, "or what?"

"I don't know," answered Mr. Burnet calmly but gravely; "I have no notion what can be the matter."

The men came nearer, some twenty in all, and in the midst of them was one man seated in a chair and carried by four others.

"What can they be doing with Rayner?" exclaimed Mr. Burnet. "Why are they chairing him?"

"Hurrah for Rayner! Hurrah for New Zealand! Hurrah for everybody! Half-time to-day and a sovereign apiece! Hurrah for Rayner and New Zealand!"

All this was most extraordinary; and yet even more extraordinary was the conduct and manner of Rayner. He laughed loudly, and then he plunged his face into his handkerchief and sobbed wildly. He shook hands with every one near, and then waved them away with a majestic air. In fact he seemed to have taken leave of his senses; the truth was, that his senses had taken leave of him for a season. And yet the sight of Mr. Burnet's perplexed face sobered him in a measure.

He swaggered up to his master, saying, "Shake hands, Burnet; I'm not too proud for that."

Mr. Burnet obeyed.

"Listen to me, I'll tell you something. Wonders will never cease. If you had a brother, Burnet, whom you had not seen for thirty-five years, would not your heart yearn towards him? Yes, even a letter from his lawyer would fill your heart with joy."

"No doubt," said Mr. Burnet.

"Here's a letter, come this minute; why, joy is nothing to it. I'm a made man, a rich man, snap my fingers at you all! Do you hear? My brother in New Zealand is dead. What do you say to that?"

"I am very sorry for you," said Mr. Burnet.

"Are you? You are that envious you don't know how to look me in the face! Thirty thousand pounds, Burnet! What do you say to that? Have you got thirty thousand pounds? I snap my fingers at you all!" And he did it.

"My poor brother died six months ago. Ah! sad, sad! Lonely old bachelor! Not a creature to weep for him but me. They have been six months finding out my address; and now I can go to New Zealand and live on my property worth thirty thousand pounds, or, the lawyer writes, the land can be sold and the cash sent over to me. I think I like cash better than land. Shake hands again, Burnet. I've told the men I'll give them a half-holiday, as there's not much doing, and a sovereign apiece, which you will advance to them. I'll give a cheque for it, you know."

Mr. Burnet did not respond.

"Now, some men," Rayner went on, wiping the heat from his streaming face, "would have their heads turned by such luck as the death of a rich bachelor brother; but I'm as cool as a cucumber, only the weather is rather warm. Shake hands, Burnet; you'll never find a bit of pride in me. Cheer again, mates, and off to your homes, and may you all have rich brothers and end with thirty thousand pounds!"

It was evident that poor Rayner's head was completely turned by his sudden prosperity. Perhaps few men could have taken such a change without some excitement; probably few men would have become so insane on account of what only changed his fortunes, not himself, or, rather, had so far only changed himself for the worse. All this bluster and talk made no impression on either Mr. Burnet or Mitchell, who waited quietly until Rayner's extravagant delight should have spent itself.

The other men, too, began to see how ridiculous Rayner was making himself. They soon moved off, by twos and threes, back to their work; and presently Rayner found himself alone with his employer and the new man just come down from London.

"I suppose," said Mr. Burnet calmly, "that you will not wish to work any longer, Rayner, in my factory?"

"That for your factory!" said Rayner, snapping his fingers again; "I'll never do another day's work as long as I live. I'll pay you what you like instead of a week's notice, or you may fine me what you like. But I'm off to London by the next train to see my lawyer, and to enjoy myself a bit. I'll send for my wife and the children when I'm ready for them."

"Hear one word," said Mr. Burnet. "I have no wish to detain you an hour if you wish to go, nor will I take any payment or fine. The only thing that troubles me is that not one of the other men is capable of filling your place, not one of them could undertake the position of foreman, even if I were willing to offer it."

"No," replied Rayner, "you can't fill my place with one of those duffers. But, I say, what about this chap from London? Can't you make him foreman?"

Mr. Burnet and Mitchell looked at each other; then said the master, "What do you think, Mitchell?"

"Settle it between you," cried Rayner, "it is no business of mine. Good-bye, and good luck to you! I shall see no more of that old Times and Post, I'm thankful to say. New times and a new post for me! So I'm off!"

And away he went, down the private road and into the highroad, and to his cottage home, where he astounded his wife by his words and manner, and from whence he betook himself and was seen no more in Littlebourne. A fortnight later, Mrs. Rayner, a quiet, sensible woman, took herself and her children out of the place, and Rayner and his thirty thousand pounds were only remembered as something to laugh over and wonder at.

As for Thomas Mitchell—well, it was almost too good to be true. He looked over the works, saw the presses, talked with the men, and came to the conclusion that he could undertake the duties of foreman. It was a great rise for him.

"I never thought of such a thing, sir, when I came down here."

"Nor did I, Mitchell. I only thought of bringing you into good air, and setting you up in health. If Rayner had not made room for you, you could only have been one of the journeymen printers."

"Seems to me," said Mitchell huskily, "that a kind Hand has led me here in a wonderful way. I see quite plainly that it is not myself that has brought me here."

"I see that too," answered Mr. Burnet. "I little thought when I found a naughty girl astray on the river that such events would occur. Your Juliet did not seem of any consequence to me, but when Rowles told me of her father's bad health I just said to myself that he would have a better chance in the country. And the idea put itself into shape, and you were brought down here, and then exactly at the right moment Rayner's good fortune—if it really turns out to be good fortune—came to him, and the post was open for you, and I believe you will prove to be the right man in the right place."



CHAPTER XII.

A WONDERFUL DISCOVERY.

There was one person who was much vexed that he could not have a hand in the late doings. This was Roberts, the butler, who still was far from well, and not allowed out except in the garden on dry days.

But he talked a good deal with the housekeeper; and one day, after one of these talks, she went to Mr. Burnet and said, "If you have no objection, sir, I should like to ask Mrs. Mitchell and Juliet to take tea with me some afternoon."

"By all means," replied Mr. Burnet. "You can give them some of your scones, Mrs. Johnson, and some of your new strawberry jam."

Accordingly a day was fixed for Mrs. Mitchell and Juliet to drink tea at Bourne House. They arrived at four o'clock, neatly dressed, and were taken by Mrs. Johnson into her own little room.

"You see," explained the housekeeper, "I am what is called cook-housekeeper; I do the cooking and manage the house. Then there is Mary the housemaid, under my orders; she is out this afternoon, so you won't see her. And there is the butler, who is not under my orders; and you won't see him, because he has his meals in his room, being still an invalid. I daresay your Juliet will take his tea up to him."

"Oh, yes, I will," cried Juliet. "He has been very kind to me."

"So have a good many people," said Mrs. Johnson. "Now, here you are. You'll find him in the first room on the right-hand side, at the top of the first flight of stairs."

As soon as Juliet had started with the tray on which Roberts's tea was arranged, Mrs. Johnson went on talking to Mrs. Mitchell.

"The house is not all furnished yet, and Roberts is not in the room which is really to be his. There are three reception rooms, a lovely drawing-room opening into the conservatory, good dining-room, and small study. Eight bed-rooms: Mr. Burnet's, Mr. Leonard's, the butler's, the housemaid's, mine, and there will be three spare rooms; so I suppose Mr. Burnet means to have a good deal of staying company."

"Eight bed-rooms!" repeated Mrs. Mitchell; "and only one housemaid for all of them! Why, however will she keep them all?"

"You may well ask that," said the housekeeper in a peculiar tone. "I'll show you over the house by and by, and you shall judge for yourself how Mary will manage it."

Juliet now returned.

"Well, how does he seem?"

"He seems pretty well," said Juliet; "and he was very kind."

"Ay, he's kind enough. Sugar, Mrs. Mitchell? Jam, Juliet? You are able to leave the little ones when you come out, I suppose?"

"Oh, yes," Mrs. Mitchell answered. "My second girl, Amy, is almost as big as Juliet, and a handy girl too. And you know we have no baby now."

"I know, I know," said the housekeeper. "So you did not feel much put about when Juliet was away from you?"

"Oh, no, not in that way."

"No, to be sure. Scones, Mrs. Mitchell? Milk, Juliet?"

When tea was ended Mrs. Johnson took her visitors over the house. They saw the sitting-rooms, only partly furnished, and all the bed-rooms except that in which Roberts was reposing himself. Some of these chambers were furnished, others were quite empty. Mary's room had two beds in it, two chests of drawers, two washstands, and so forth.

"Ah!" and Mrs. Johnson nodded her head; "yes, you see I got everything double. Do you understand?"

"Everything double!" said Mrs. Mitchell.

"And only Mary in the room."

"Only Mary in the room!"

"Well, I see you don't take in what I mean. It is this. When we get settled and have a lot of visitors in the house I shall want help in the kitchen, and Mary will want help in the rooms. What would you say to letting Juliet come and try how she would like the place?"

There was no doubt that Juliet would like it; her face said so. And Mrs. Mitchell, after looking serious for a few minutes, brightened up and said, "Do you think she would do? You know, she was so tiresome that her aunt could not keep her."

"Yes, I know; but she has had a stern lesson, and if she will try to be a good girl I should like to give her the chance. What do you say yourself, Juliet?"

Instead of saying as she used, "I'm that stupid and awkward that I can't do nothing," or that still worse thing, "I suppose I can do anything I want to," Juliet replied modestly, "I will try to do what you tell me."

"That's all I want," cried Mrs. Johnson kindly; "no girl can do better than what she is told. And as soon as I can settle it with Mr. Burnet I will come and settle it with you. Now, we will go out and look at the gardens, which are pretty though not to say large."

When there came a pause in the conversation Juliet said to her mother, "Mr. Robert was very kind, and would like to take you and me and father in a boat on the river some day soon. And he would like to go on Saturday afternoon if he is well enough. And he thinks Mrs. Bosher's brother would come too, and if Mr. Robert is not well enough to row, Mrs. Bosher's brother will row, and Mr. Robert will steer; and Mr. Robert says we are to meet him at the lock at three o'clock, which is between luncheon and dinner."

"And I hope you will have a nice trip," were Mrs. Johnson's last words as she said good-bye at the gate.

Juliet felt quite frightened at her good fortune; it seemed to make her want to cry more than poverty and trouble had done. And she said her prayers more earnestly than she had said them when she was naughty and unhappy. As the days went by and all was well, her father growing stronger, the children rosier, the house more comfortable, she did feel very deeply that the great blessings showered upon her had not been deserved, but were sent to make her better in the future than she had been in the past.

There was yet one more thing that she desired; that was to take her parents down the river to the place where she had been almost shipwrecked in the Fairy. They, too, wished to see the spot where their daughter had narrowly escaped a terrible death, which they shuddered even to think of.

Three o'clock on the afternoon of Saturday saw the whole Mitchell family at the lock. The children came to see their elders off, and to spend the afternoon with Philip and Emily.

"Glad to see you out in the daylight," said Mr. Rowles to Mr. Mitchell. "You are twice the man you were, now that you are keeping better hours."

Mitchell only smiled; he did not think it possible to quite overcome Rowles's prejudice.

"Here's the tub which Phil has brought up from the ferry. He thought you would like a flat-bottomed tub, Mary."

Mrs. Mitchell looked about, expecting to see a round thing similar to a washing-tub.

But her husband knew better. "Yes," said he, "when I was a young man I used to go to Battersea on holidays, I and some others, and nothing would suit us but outrigged gigs, randans, and such like; but now I'm growing old, and a flat-bottomed tub suits us better, my missus and me. Shall we get in, do you think, Ned?"

"Yes, get in. Here they come, four on 'em—two blue stripes, one red stripe, and one all gals. They can all go in together."

"In the water!" cried Mrs. Mitchell.

"No, Mary; in the lock. What a cockney you are!"

He went to work the paddles and the handles, and while he was so employed the others heard a tremendous halloo from the bank on the far side of the river. Juliet looked slightly alarmed and said to her mother, "I think it is Mrs. Bosher's brother."

And so it was. He had come down through the wood and the fields by the same path which Juliet had gone up on the sad day when she ran away from Littlebourne Lock. But he was not frightened by the cows, nor caught by the brambles, and had he met himself with a gun he would not have been at all terrified.

As soon as his loud deep voice was heard, Philip got into the Fairy and went across to fetch him. While this was doing the four boats got through the lock, and Rowles came back to talk to his friends.

"I suppose you can swim?" he said to Mitchell.

"Yes; and so can my boy Albert. Swimming-baths in London, you know, where you get clean and learn to swim all in one."

"A better bath here," returned Rowles, "and nothing to pay."

He looked lovingly at the beautiful river, rippled by the soft wind into a deeper blue than the clear blue overhead. Mitchell, too, was learning to love the Thames.

"And what are you waiting for now?" Mrs. Rowles asked.

"Why, for a friend; that is to say, Mr. Robert from the House."

"Ah, he can't get along very fast on account of his rheumatics. But he won't keep you standing about very long; and here's Mrs. Bosher's brother to fill up the time." And Rowles turned to greet the new arrival, who looked indeed big enough to fill up any amount of time or space, even had he been without the great yellow rose which he wore in his button-hole.

While they were in friendly talk with Mrs. Bosher's brother, the party on the eyot did not notice who was coming along the road from the village. It was a middle-aged man, who walked rather limpingly, and who made most extraordinary gestures as he approached the group. First he stood and stared, then he rubbed his eyes and stared again. Then he took out his spectacles and put them on, took them off, rubbed them, and put them on again.

He advanced a few steps, cast his hands up in the air, leaned heavily on his stick, and exclaimed under his breath, "I can't believe it! Who could have thought it? It is like a story-book!"

Then he went on a few steps further and came close behind the group, which was gathered round Mrs. Bosher's brother, listening to his loud, hearty remarks.

Rowles was the first who saw the new-comer. He looked over his shoulder and nodded. Then Mrs. Bosher's brother roared out, "Hullo! here you are at last! How do you feel?"

And before the new-comer could reply to this greeting all the other eyes were turned upon him, with expressions of surprise and bewilderment.

"You! What brings you here?"

"What brings you here?"

Mrs. Bosher's brother was the only person who remained calm. "What's the matter?" said he. "Are you old friends or old enemies?"

"It is so odd," said Mitchell; "I can't make it out."

"Well, shake hands," cried Roberts; and he shook hands all round.

When that was over Mr. Rowles said he would like to know what it was all about, and so at last matters were explained.

"It is Daniel Roberts, who married my poor sister Nan, that died nine years come the 1st of November." While Mitchell said this he was gazing harder than ever at Roberts.

"Why did you never tell me his name?" Mrs. Mitchell asked of Juliet.

"I did," Juliet replied. "I always called him Mr. Robert."

"Ain't he Mr. Robert then?" asked Rowles, still perplexed.

"No," said the butler; "I am Daniel Roberts. Roberts is my surname, and Robert is not my Christian name. But some people have no ear for music, and can't hear an S when it is at the end of the word."

Mrs. Mitchell turned to her children. "It is your Uncle Roberts. I am surprised at finding him here. Why, Daniel, Mrs. Johnson said she thought it was partly owing to you that Mr. Burnet had us brought down here."

"So it was, Mary. But, mind you, I did not know it was you. That girl there, they called her Juliet, and then they talked about Juliet's father being a printer and out of health, and all that; and I thinks to myself that there was Mitchell, poor Nan's brother, who was a printer, and I should not like to think that he was out of health and out of work, and that gave me a kind of feeling for all printers, and I put in a word for Juliet's father. But I little thought that Juliet's father was poor Nan's brother."

"Ain't you glad, man?" said Mrs. Bosher's brother, giving a squeeze to Roberts's rheumatic arm; "ain't you glad?"

"Glad—oh, it's agony!—yes, glad as I can be."

"Well, I can't make it out now!" said Mitchell, taking off his hat to cool his head. "Just to think that Mr. Robert the butler is my brother-in-law!"

"Are you sorry, man?" roared Mrs. Bosher's brother, putting his great rose into Mitchell's face; "are you sorry?"

"Sorry!—phew, it's delicious, but stifling—no, I'm certainly not sorry."

"Then get into the boat, and do the rest of your talking there."

They took the hint. Mrs. Bosher's brother rowed them gently down the stream to Banksome Weir, the scene of Juliet's escape, and afterwards he rowed them gently back again. He said he could do that kind of rowing in his sleep.

They were all very happy; a happy family party.

And not the least happy was Juliet Mitchell, who had put away from her all her former follies and ill-humours, and had begun a new life of gentleness, obedience, and industry.

Mr. Burnet and Leonard passed them in another boat, and smiled and nodded at them.

Mr. and Mrs. Webster passed them, walking on the towing-path, and nodded and smiled at them.

Mrs. Bosher's bonnet came to see them in the evening, and nodded more than ever.

And a very kind letter came from Miss Sutton, with a hymn-book as a special present to Juliet.

THE END.

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