"Fritz snipped my hand in the little door of the cage," sobbed Denny. "And Celia always takes Fritz's part."

Celia was beginning; to "answer back," when auntie stopped her by a look—the children were sometimes rather afraid of auntie's "looks."

"Dear me, young people," said grandfather from his end of the carriage, "you might be peaceable for five minutes, and then we shall be in London, and you shall have a good tea before we go on again."

The children all grew quiet. They were glad to hear of tea, and they were a little ashamed of themselves. Auntie moved over to their end of the carriage.

"Him would like some tea too, p'ease," said Baby, as she passed him, and auntie patted his head.

"They are all tired, I suppose," said mother; "but it really is too silly, the way they quarrel about nothing."

"Auntie," said Celia softly, "I think it was partly my fault. Denny and Fritz asked me to tell them a story, and I wouldn't. It would have kept them quiet."

"Well, never mind now," said auntie. "You must all try and be very good to-morrow. This is only the first day, you know. You can't be expected to be very clever travellers yet. And the very first lesson to learn in travelling is—do you know what?"

"Not to lose your things?" said Celia.

"To be ready in time?" said Fritz.

"To sit still in the railway?" said Denny, rather meekly.

"All those are very good things," said auntie; "but they're not the thing I was thinking of. It was to keep your temper."

The children got rather red, but I don't think any one noticed, for already the train was slackening, and in another minute or two they all got out and were standing together on the bustling platform, dimly lighted up by the gas lamps, which looked yellow and strange in the foggy air of a London November evening.

"Is zit London?" said Baby, and when Celia said "yes," he added rather mournfully, "Him doesn't sink London's pitty at all."



Poor little boys, for, after all, Fritz himself wasn't very big! They stood together hand in hand on the station platform, looking, and feeling, rather desolate. Lisa was busy helping with the rugs and bags that had been in the carriage; mother and auntie, as well as grandfather and Peters and the maid, were all busy about the luggage.

"Stay there a moment, children," said somebody; but Denny had no idea of staying anywhere. Off she trotted to have a look at the luggage too, and Celia was half inclined to follow her, when her glance fell on her two little brothers.

"Celia," said Baby, catching hold of her, "don't go away too. Fritz is taking care of him, but we might be lostened."

He spoke rather timidly, and Celia's heart was touched. She was a good deal older than the others—nearly twelve—Fritz and Denny were very near in age, and sometimes Celia was a little cross at mother for not making difference enough, as she thought, and for keeping her still a good deal in the nursery. Mother had her own good reasons, and it is not always wise for big people to tell children their reasons, as Celia got to know when she grew wiser and bigger herself. She sometimes spoke rather crossly to the younger ones, and it made them a very little afraid of her, but in her heart she was kind. Just now she stooped down to kiss Baby.

"Don't be frightened, poor old man," she said, "you won't be lost. Fritz wouldn't let you be lost, would you, Fritz?"

Fritz brightened up at that, as Celia had meant he should. He, too, had been feeling a little strange and queer—the long journey and the sleeping in the day, all so different from their life at home, had rather upset him—but he would not have liked to say so! And now he was quite pleased at Celia telling Baby that, of course, Fritz was big enough to take care of him. It is so easy for children—bigger ones above all—to please each other and give nice feelings, when they really try to feel with each other and for each other.

The little boys looked much happier a few minutes later, when they were seated at tea in a comfortable corner of the refreshment room. Grandfather had sent Peters on, as soon as they had got the luggage all safe, to see that a table was placed for them by themselves. He, himself, went off to get some real dinner, for, of course, it was not to be expected that a gentleman, and especially an old gentleman, would be contented with tea, and bread and butter, and buns, however nice, but, to the children's great pleasure, mother and auntie said they would far rather stay and have tea with the little people.

"It is a good thing, isn't it, for them to stay with us?" said Fritz to Celia, confidentially, "for we are none of us very big, are we? And you know we might get lost somehow, as Baby says, though I wouldn't say so to him for fear of frightening him, you know."

"No, of course not," said Celia, and looking up she was pleased to see mother smiling at her. Mother saw that Celia was trying to be kind and helpful, and she did so like to see the way the little ones clung to Celia when she was gentle. Mother must have been something like Baby in her mind, I think, for when she looked at the boys sitting there in the strange, big station-room, their little faces grave and rather tired looking, a sort of sorry feeling came over her too, as she thought of the snug, cosy nursery at home, and the neat nursery tea, with the pretty pink and white cups she had chosen, and the canaries and "Bully" twittering in the window. Poor "calanies" and poor Bully! they didn't know where they had got to! They had slept nearly all day, thinking, as they were meant to think, that it was night, I suppose, but now they must have given up thinking so, for they were fidgeting about in their cages in an unhappy, restless sort of way. They had plenty of seed, and Celia and Lisa took care that they should have fresh water, but still, poor little things, they were not very happy.

"Going away from their own home is really a trial for children," thought mother. She was a little tired herself, and being tired makes everything seem the wrong way.

But there was no help for it. They had all to make the best of things, and to set off again in another train and be rattled away to the sea. It was quite dark by now, of course, and it seemed very queer to start on another journey with so little rest between. I think, however, once they were all settled in the railway carriage, that the children slept the most of the way; Baby, at any rate, knew nothing more till he woke up to find himself in Lisa's arms, with a cold, fresh air—the air of the sea—blowing in his face, and making him lift up his head and look about him.

"Where is him?" he said. "Is him in the 'normous boat?"

"Not so, Herr Baby," said Lisa. "He shall first be undressed and have a nice sleep all night in bed, to rest him well. Lie still, mine child, and Lisa will keep you warm."

"Him likes the wind," said Baby. "It blowed his eyes open; him is quite awake now," and he tried to sit straight up in Lisa's arms.

"Oh, Herr Baby, I cannot hold you so," said Lisa.

"There is such a little way to go," said his mother, who was just behind, "lie still, dear, as Lisa tells you."

"Him would like to walk, him's legs is so 'tiff," said Baby. "P'ease let him walk if it's such a little way!"

His voice was so piteous that mother told Lisa to let him walk; they were going from the station to the hotel, a very little way, as mother had said. Lisa put Baby down on the ground; at first he really tumbled over, his legs felt so funny, but with Lisa's hand he soon got his balance again. It was a very dark night; they could not have seen their way but for the lights of the station and the town.

"What a dark countly zit is!" said Herr Baby. "Is there no moon in zit countly? Denny says in her hymn 'the moon to shine by night,' is there no moon 'cept in him's own countly?"

"What are you chattering about, little man?" said auntie.

"He's asking about the moon, auntie; he wants to know if there isn't any moon here. He thinks we've left it behind at home," said Denny.

A sort of roar from poor Baby interrupted her.

"Oh, Denny, don't, don't say that," he cried, "it makes him sink of the labbits, and Thomas, and Jones, and the trees, and the flowers, and him's dear little bed, and all the sings we'se leaved behind. Him doesn't like you to speak of leaved behind."

"Poor Baby," said Denny, "I'm so sorry." She stooped down to kiss him, but it was so dark it wasn't easy to find his mouth, and she only managed to kiss the tip of his nose, which was as cold as a little dog's. This made Herr Baby begin laughing, which was a good thing, wasn't it? And he was so taken up in explaining to Lisa how funny it felt when Denny kissed his nose, that he had not time to think of his sorrows again till they were at the foot of the large flight of steps leading up to the big hotel where they were to sleep.

"Nice big house," said Baby, looking round; and as he caught sight of some of the waiters running about, he asked Lisa if "them was new servants instead of Thomas and Jones."

"Him likes Thomas and Jones best," he went on, the corners of his mouth going down again, so that Lisa was obliged to assure him the servants were not going to be instead of Thomas and Jones, they were all only just going to stay one night at this big house, and to-morrow they would set off in the great ship to cross the sea.

The mention of the ship fortunately gave a new turn to Baby's thoughts; and he allowed Lisa to take him upstairs and warm him well before a good fire before she undressed him and put him to bed. The other children thought it great fun to sleep in strange rooms, in beds quite unlike those they had at home, and to have to hunt for their nightgowns and brushes and sponges in two or three wrong carpet bags before they came to the right one; but Baby's spirits were rather depressed, and it was not easy to keep him from crying in the sad little way he had when his feelings were touched.

"He is tired, poor little chap," said auntie, as she kissed him for good-night. "It is ever so much later than he has ever been up before. It is nearly ten."

"Him were up till ten o'clock on Kissmass," said Herr Baby, brightening up. "Him were up dedful late, till, till, p'raps till near twenty o'clock."

Auntie would have liked to laugh, but she took care not, for when Baby was in this sort of humour there was no telling whether other people's laughing might not make him take to crying, so she just said,

"Indeed! That must have been very late; well, go to sleep now, and sleep till twenty o'clock to-morrow morning, if you like. We don't need to start early," she added, turning to Lisa; and I think poor Lisa was not sorry to hear it!

If I were to go on telling you, bit by bit, all about the journey, and everything that happened big and little, it would take a good while, and I don't know that you would find it very interesting. Perhaps it is better to take a jump, as people do in real big story books, and to go on with Herr Baby's adventures a few days later, when he, and Denny, and Fritz, and Celia, and Lisa, and mother, and auntie, and grandfather, and the "bully," and the "calanies," and Tim, and Peepy-Snoozle, and Linley, mother's maid, and Peters, grandfather's man, and I forget if there was any one else, but I think not; and all the boxes and carpet-bags, and railway-rugs, were safely arrived at Santino, the pretty little town with mountains on one side and the sea on the other, where they were all going to spend the winter. I must not forget to tell you one thing, however, which, I daresay, some of you who may have crossed "over the sea," and not found it very delightful, may be anxious to know about. I mean about the voyage in the 'normous boat, which Baby had been so looking forward to, poor little fellow.

Well, wasn't it lucky, he was not at all disappointed? They had the loveliest day that ever was seen, and Baby thought 'normous boats far the nicest way of travelling, and he couldn't understand why grandfather couldn't make them go all the way to Santino in the nice boat, and when they explained to him that it couldn't be, because there was no sea for boats to go on all the way, he thought there must have been some great mistake in the way the world was made. And when they got to Santino, and the first thing he saw was the sea, blue and beautiful like a fairy dream, Baby was quite startled.

"Mother, auntie!" he said, reproachfully, "you toldened him there weren't no sea."

"We didn't mean that, Baby, dear," said mother; "we meant that there was no sea to come the shortest way; we would have had to come all round the land, and it would have been much longer. Look, it is like this," and mother traced with her parasol a sort of map on the sand, to show Baby that they had come a much nearer way. For they were standing by the sea-shore at the time.

"Yes," said Herr Baby, after looking on without speaking for a minute or two, "him under'tands now."

"So you've had your first lesson in geography," said auntie.

Baby stared up at her.

"Are that jography?" he said. "Him thought jography were awful, dedful difficult. Denny is so werry c'oss when her has jography to learn."

"Oh, because, of course, you know," said Denny, getting rather red, "my jography is real jography, with books and maps and ever so long rows of names to learn. Baby's so stupid—he always takes up things so; he'll be thinking now that if he makes marks on the sand, he'll be learning jography."

Denny turned away with a very superior air. Baby looked much hurt.



"Him's not stupid, are him?" he said; and in a moment Celia and Fritz were hugging him and calling Denny a naughty, unkind girl to tease him. Mother and auntie had walked on a little, so things might have gone on to a quarrel if Lisa hadn't stopped it.

"Mine children," she said, "it is too pity to be not friendly together. See what one beautifullest place this is—sky so blue and sea so blue, and all so bright and sunny. One should be nothing but happy here."

"Yes," said Celia, looking round, "it is an awfully pretty place."

Celia, you see, was just beginning to be old enough to notice really beautiful things in a way that when children are very little, they cannot quite understand, though some do much more than others.

"It is a very pretty place," she said again, as if she were speaking to herself, for Fritz and Denny had taken it into their heads to run races, of which Lisa was very glad, and Celia stood still by herself, looking round at the lovely sea and sky, and the little white town perched up above, with the mountains rising behind. Suddenly a little hand was slipped into hers.

"Him would like to live here everways," said Baby's voice; "it are so pitty—somefin like Heaven, p'raps."

"I don't know," said Celia, "I suppose Heaven must be prettier than anything we could fancy."

"There's gold streets in Heaven, Lisa says," said Baby; "him sinks blue sky streets would be much pittier."

"So do I," said Celia.

Then they walked on a little, watching Fritz and Denny, already like two black specks in front—they had run on so far—and, somehow, in the very bright sunshine, one seemed to see less clearly. Mother and auntie were in front too, and when Fritz and Denny raced back again, quite hot and out of breath, mother said it was time for them all to go in; it was still rather too hot to be out much near the middle of the day, though it was already some way on in November, and next month would be the month that Christmas comes in!

"How funny it seems," said Celia. "Why, when we left home it was quite winter. Just think how we were wrapped up when we started on the journey, and now we're quite warm enough with nothing at all over our frocks."

"It may be cold enough before long," said mother, who was more accustomed to hot climates than the children; "sometimes the cold hereabouts comes quite suddenly, and it even seems colder from having been so warm before. I daresay you will be glad of your thick clothes before Christmas. But we must get on a little quicker, or else grandfather will be in a hurry for his breakfast."

"Ganfather's werry lazy not to have had him's breakfast yet," said Baby. "Him's had him's breakfast ever so long ago, hundreds of years ago."

"Oh, Baby," said Denny, "how you do 'saggerate! It couldn't have been hundreds of years ago, because, you know, you weren't born then."

"Stupid girl!" said Baby, "how does you know? you wasn't there."

"Well, you weren't there," said Denny again.

"Children, don't contradict each other. It's not nice," said auntie.

"Him didn't begin," said Baby, "t'were Denny beginned."

"I didn't. I only said once that Baby wasn't born hundreds of years ago," said Denny, "and then he——"

"Onst is as wurst as twicet," said Baby.

Mother turned round at this. There was a funny look on her face, but still she spoke rather gravely.

"Baby, I don't know what's coming over you," she said. "It isn't like you to speak like that."

Baby's face grew red, and he turned his head away.

"Him didn't mean zeally that ganfather were lazy," he said, in a low voice.

"It wasn't that I was vexed with you for," said mother. "I know you were joking when you said that. I meant what you said to Denny."

"Him's werry sorry," said Baby, on the point of tears.

"Never mind. Don't cry about it," said mother, who really wanted the children to be very good and happy this first day. And she was a little afraid of Baby's beginning to cry, for, sometimes, once he had begun, it was not very easy to stop him.

"You don't understand about grandfather and his breakfast," said auntie. "Here nobody has big breakfast when they first get up except you children, who have the same that you have at home."

"No we don't," said Denny. "At home we have bread and milk every day except Sunday—on Sunday we have bacon or heggs, because that's the nothing-for-breakfast day."

Auntie stared at Denny.

"Really, Denny," she said, "it is sometimes a little difficult to be sure that you have got all your senses. How can you have 'nothing for breakfast' when you have bacon, and—who in the world ever taught you to say 'heggs'?"

"I meant to say 'neggs,'" said Denny very humbly. "Grandfather laughed at me because I didn't say 'hippotamus' right—I called it a 'nippotamus,' and he made me say 'hi-hi-hip,' and that's got me into the way of saying it to everything, like calling a negg, a hegg."

"A negg," repeated auntie slowly. "Can't you hear any difference between 'a negg,' and 'an egg'? Spell, a-n an, e-g-g egg."

Denny repeated it.

"What dedful jography Denny's having," observed Baby; "I can say a negg, quite right."

"And so you too call 'a negg' nothing for breakfast?" said auntie.

"Neggs and bacon is nothing for breakfast," answered Baby.

"Auntie," said Fritz, "you don't understand. We call it nothing for breakfast when there's not bread-and-milk, you know, for on bread-and-milk days we have just one little cup of tea and a bit of bread-and-butter after the bread-and-milk. But on Sundays, and birthdays, there's nothing for the first, and so we get better things, more like big people, and tea, and whatever there is, as soon as we begin. That's why we like 'nothing for breakfast,' do you see, auntie?"

"I see," said auntie, "but I certainly couldn't have guessed. I hope there's something for breakfast to-day for us, for I'm very hungry, and look, there's grandfather coming out to meet us, which looks as if he were hungry too. And what have you to say to it, old man?" she added, as Herr Baby came up the steps, one foot at a time, of course, "aren't you hungry after your walk?"

"Him's hungry for him's dinner, but not for him's breakfast; in course not," said Baby, with great dignity.



CHAPTER VI.

AN OLD SHOP AND AN OGRE

"Innocent face with the sad sweet eyes, Smiling on us through the centuries."

Baby and Fritz went out a walk that afternoon in the town with auntie and Lisa. Celia and Denny had gone for a drive with mother and grandfather, which the big people thought would make a good division. Grandfather was very fond of children, but in a carriage, he used to say, two small people were enough of a good thing. So Celia and Denny worried Lisa to get out their best hats and jackets—which were not unpacked, as grandfather had not yet decided whether they should stay at the hotel or get a house for themselves—and set off in great spirits on the back seat of the carriage.

Fritz and Baby were in very good spirits too. Fritz wanted to walk along the sort of front street of the town which faced the sea, for he was never tired of looking at boats and ships. Baby liked them too, but what he most wanted to see was the shops. Baby was very fond of shops. He was fond of buying things, but before he bought anything he used to like to be quite sure which was the best shop to get it at—I mean to say at which shop he could get it best—and he often asked the price two or three times before he fixed. And he had never before seen so many shops or such pretty and curious ones as there were at Santino, so he was quite delighted, though if you hadn't known him well you would hardly have guessed it, for he trotted along as grave as a little judge, only staring about him with all his eyes.

And indeed there were plenty of things to stare at. Fritz's tongue went very fast. He wanted auntie to stop every minute to look at something wonderful. The carts drawn by oxen pleased him and Baby very much.

"That's the working cows they told us about," said Fritz. "They're very nice, but I think I like horses best, don't you, Baby?"

"No, him likes cows best," said Baby, "when him's a man him will have a calliage wif hundreds of cows to pull it along, and wif lots and lots of gold bells all tinkling. Won't that be lubly?"

"Not half so nice as a lot of ponies, all with bells," said Fritz, "they'd make ever so much more jingling, 'cos they go so fast. Isn't it funny to see all the women with handkerchers on their heads and no bonnets, Baby?"

"When him's a man," said Baby again—he was growing more talkative now—"when him's a man, him's going to have auntie and Lisa," auntie and Lisa came first, of course, because they happened to be in his sight, "and mother, and Celia, and Denny all for his wifes, and them shall all wear most bootly hankerwifs on them's heads, red and blue and pink and every colour, and gold—lots of gold."

"Thank you," said auntie, "but by that time my hair, for one, will be quite gray; I shall be quite an old woman. I don't think such splendid trappings would suit me."

"Him said handkerwifs, not traps—him doesn't know what traps is," said Baby. "And him will be werry kind to you when you're old. Him will always let you come in and warm yourself, and give you halfpennies."

"Thank you, dear, I'm sure you will," said auntie. But she and Fritz looked at each other. That was one of Herr Baby's ideas, and they couldn't get him to understand, so mother settled it was better to leave it and he'd understand of himself when he grew bigger. He thought that everybody, however rich and well off they might be, had to grow quite, quite poor, and to beg for pennies in the streets before they died. Wasn't it a funny fancy? It was not till a good while afterwards that mother found out that what had made him think so was the word "old." He couldn't understand that growing old could mean only growing old in years—he thought it meant as well, poor and worn-out, like his own little old shoes. Just now it would have been no good trying to explain, even if mother had quite understood what was in his mind, which she didn't till he told her himself long after. For it only made him cry when people tried to explain and he couldn't explain what he meant. There was nothing vexed him so much! And I think there was something rather nice mixed up with this funny idea about getting old. It made Baby wish to be so kind to all poor old people. He would look at any poor old beggar in such a strange sad way, and he always begged to be allowed to give them a penny. And, though no one knew of it, in his own mind he was thinking that his dear little mother or his kind auntie would be like that some day, and he would like rich little boys to be kind to them then, just as he was now to other poor old people. Of course, he said to himself, "If him sees dear little mother and auntie when they get old, him will take care of them and let them rest at his house every time they come past, but p'raps him might be far away then."

And sometimes, when grandfather spoke about getting old and how white his hair was growing, Baby would look at him very gravely, for in his own mind he was wondering if the time was very soon coming for poor grandfather to be an old beggar-man. Baby thought it had to be, you see, he thought it was just what must come to everybody.

Just as auntie and he had finished talking about getting old they turned a corner and went down a street which led them away from the view of the sea. This street had shops at both sides, and some of them were very pretty, but they were not the kind of shops that the little boys cared much for—they were mostly dressmakers' and milliners' and shawl shops. Lots of grand dresses and hats and bonnets were to be seen, which would have pleased Celia and Denny perhaps, but which Fritz said were very stupid. Auntie did not seem to care for them either—she was in a hurry to go to an office where she was going to ask about a house that might do for them. So she walked on quickly, as quickly at least as Baby's short legs could go, for she held him by the hand, and Fritz and Lisa came behind. They left this street in a minute and crossed through two or three others before auntie could find the one she wanted. Suddenly Baby gave her a tug.

"Oh auntie," he said, "p'ease 'top one minute. Him sees shiny glass jugs like dear little mother's. Oh, do 'top."

Auntie stopped. They were passing what is called an old curiosity shop; it was a funny looking place, seeming very crowded even though it was a large shop, for it was so very full of all sorts of queer things. Some among them were more queer than pretty, but some were very pretty too, and in one corner of the window there were several jugs, and cups, and bottles, and such things, of very fine glass, with the same sort of soft-coloured shine on it that Baby remembered in the two jugs that he had pulled down in the tiny trunk. Baby's eyes had spied them out at once.



"Look, look, auntie," he said, again gently tugging her.

"Yes, Baby dear, very pretty," said auntie, but without paying much attention to the glass, for she was not thinking of Baby's adventure in the pantry at the moment, and did not know what jugs of his mother's he meant.

"There is two just like mother's," said Baby, but he spoke lower now, almost as if he were speaking to himself. An idea had come into his mind which he had hardly yet understood himself, and he did not want to speak of it to any one else. He just stood at the window staring in, his two eyes fixed on the glass jugs, and the great question he was saying to himself was, "How many pennies would they cost?"

"Them's a little smaller, him sinks," he murmured, "but p'raps mother wouldn't mind."

It was a mistake of his that they were smaller; they were really a little larger than the broken ones. Besides Baby had never seen the broken ones till they were broken. One of them had been much less smashed than the other, and mother had examined it to see if it could possibly be mended so as to look pretty as an ornament, even though it would never do to hold water, and, when she found nothing could be done, she had told Thomas to keep the top part of it as a sort of pattern, in case she ever had a chance of getting the same. I think I forgot to explain this to you before, and you may have wondered how Baby knew so well what the jugs had been like.

"Them is a little smaller," he said again to himself. He did not understand that things often look smaller when they are among a great many others of the same kind, and though there was not a very great deal of the shiny glass in the shop window, there was enough to make it rather a wonder that such a little boy as Baby had caught sight of the two jugs at all, for they were behind the rest. He had time to look at them well, for, though auntie had been rather in a hurry, she, too, stood still in front of the shop, for something had caught her eyes too.

"How very pretty, how sweet!" she said to herself, "I wish I could copy it. It seems to me beautifully done," and when Fritz, who had not found the shop so interesting as the others had done, in his turn gave her a tug and said, "Auntie, aren't you coming?" she pointed out to him what it was she was so pleased with.

"Isn't it sweet, Fritz?" said auntie.

"Yes," said Fritz, "but it's rather dirty, auntie, isn't it?"

Fritz was very, what is called, practical. The "it" that auntie was speaking about was an old picture, hanging up on the wall at the side of the door. It was the portrait of a little girl, a very little girl, of not more than three or four years old. She had a dear little face, sweet and bright, and yet somehow a very little sad, or else it was the long-ago make of the dress, and the faded look of the picture itself, beside the baby-like face that made it seem sad. You couldn't help thinking the moment you saw it, "Dear me, that little girl must be a very old woman by now or most likely she must be dead!" I think it was that that made one feel sad on first looking at the picture, for, after all, the face was bright and happy-looking: the rosy, roguish, little mouth was smiling, the soft blue eyes had a sort of twinkling fun in them, though they were so soft, and the fair hair, so fair that it almost seemed white, drawn up rather tight in an old-fashioned way, fell back again on one side as if little Blue-eyes had just been having a good run. And one fat, dimpled shoulder was poked out of the prim white frock in a way that, I daresay, had rather shocked the little girl's mother when the painter first showed her his work, for our little, old, great-great-grandfathers' and great-great-grandmothers', children, must have had to sit very, very still in their very best and stiffest frocks and suits when their pictures were painted, poor little things! They were not so lucky as you are nowadays, who have only to go to the photograph man's for half an hour, and keep your merry faces still for a quarter of a minute, if your mothers want to have a picture of you!

But Blue-eyes must have had some fun when her picture was painted, I think, or else that little shoulder wouldn't have got leave to poke itself out of its sleeve, and there wouldn't have been that mischievous look about the comers of her mouth.

"Isn't it a little dirty, auntie?" said Fritz.

"Wouldn't your face look a little dirty if it had been hanging up in a frame for over a hundred years?" said auntie, laughing, at which Fritz looked rather puzzled.

Then auntie's eyes went back to the picture again.

"It is sweet," she said, "very, very sweet, and so perfectly natural."

All this time, as I told you, Herr Baby's whole mind had been given to the shiny glasses. Suddenly the sound of his aunt's voice caught his ear, and he looked up.

"What is it that is so 'weet, auntie?" he said.

"The picture over there, dear. Hanging up by the door. The little girl."

Baby looked up, and in a moment his eyes brightened.

"Oh, what a dear little baby!" he said. "Oh, her is 'weet! Auntie, him would so like to kiss her."

"You darling!" said auntie, her glance turning from the sweet picture face above to the sweet living face beside her. "I wonder if you will ever learn to paint like that, Baby. I should very much like to copy it if I could have the loan of it. It would be sure to be very dear to buy," she added to herself. "But we must hurry, my little boys," she went on. "I was tempted to waste time admiring the picture, but we must be quick."

Fritz and Lisa turned away with auntie, but Baby waited one moment behind. He pressed his face close against the shop window and whispered softly,

"Pitty little girl, him would like to kiss you. Him will come a 'nother day. P'ease, pitty little girl, don't let nobody take away the shiny glasses, for him wants to buy them for mother."

Then, quite satisfied, he trotted down the street after the others, who were waiting for him a few doors off.

"Were you saying good-bye to the picture, Baby?" said auntie, smiling.

"Yes," said Baby gravely.

Auntie soon found the office where she was to hear about the house they were thinking of taking. The little boys stood beside her and listened gravely while she asked questions about it, though they couldn't understand what was said.

"Him wishes the people in this countly wouldn't talk lubbish talk," said Herr Baby to Fritz with a sigh. "Him would so like to know what them says."

"I want to know if we're going to have a house with a garden," said Fritz. "That's all I care about," and as soon as they were out in the street again, he asked auntie if "the man" had said there was a garden to the house.

"There are several houses that I have to tell your grandfather about," said auntie. "Some have gardens and some haven't, but the one we like the best has a garden, though not a very big one."

"Not as big as the one at home?" said Fritz.

"Oh dear no, of course not," said auntie. "It is quite different here from at home. People only come to stay a short time, they wouldn't care to be troubled with big gardens."

"I don't mind," said Fritz amiably, "if only it's big enough for us to have a corner to dig in, and somewhere to play in when Lisa's in a fussy humour."

"Mine child," said Lisa mildly. Poor Lisa, she was not a very fussy person! Indeed she was rather too easy for such lively young people as Fritz and Denny.

"And do you want a garden, too, very much, Baby?" said auntie.

Baby had hardly heard what they were saying. His mind was still running on the shiny jugs and the blue-eyed little girl.

"Him wants gate lots of pennies," he said, which didn't seem much of an answer to auntie's question.

"Lots of pennies, my little man," said auntie. "What do you want lots of pennies for?"

But Baby would not tell.

Just then they saw coming towards them in the street two very funny looking men. They had no hats or caps on their heads, so the children could see that they had no hair either, at least none on the top, where it was shaved quite off, and only a sort of fringe all round left. Then they had queer loose brown coats, with big capes, something like grandfather's Inverness cloak, Fritz thought, and silver chains hanging down at their sides, and, queerest of all, no stockings or proper boots or shoes, only things like the soles of shoes strapped on to their bare feet. These were called sandals, auntie said, and she told the boys that these funny looking men were monks, "Franciscans," she said they were called. They all lived together, and they never kept any money, and people said—but auntie thought that was not quite true—that they never washed themselves.

"Nasty dirty men," said Fritz, making a face. "I shouldn't like to be a Franciscan."

"Not in winter, Fritz?" said Baby. "Him wouldn't mind in winter when the water are so cold. Lisa," he went on, turning round to his nurse, "'member—when the werry cold mornings comes, him's going to be a Frantisker—will you 'member, Lisa?"

"But what about the pennies?" said auntie, laughing. "If you are a Frantisker, Baby, you won't have any pennies, and you said just now you wanted a great lot of pennies."

Baby looked very grave.

"Then him won't be a Frantisker," he said decidedly.

After that he spoke very little all the way home. He had a great deal on his mind, you see. And his last thought that night as he was falling asleep was, "Him are so glad him asked the little pitty girl to take care of the shiny jugs."

Funny little Herr Baby! How much was fancy, how much was earnest in his busy baby mind, who can tell?

A few days after this, they all moved from the Hotel to the pretty house with a garden which auntie had gone to ask about. It was a pretty house. I wish I could show it to you, children! It had not only a garden but a terrace, and this terrace overlooked the sea, the blue sunny sea of the south. And from one side, or from a little farther down in the garden, one could see the white-capped mountains, rising, rising up into the sky, with sometimes a soft mist about their heads which made them seem even higher than they were, "high enough to peep into heaven," said Baby; and sometimes, on very clear days, standing out sharply against the blue behind, so that one could hardly believe it would take more than a few minutes to run to the top and down again.

There were many interesting things in this garden—things that the children had not had in the old garden at home, nice though it was. It was not so beautifully neat as the flower part of the garden at home, but I do not think the children liked it any the less for that. The trees and bushes grew so thickly that down at the lower end it was really like a wilderness, a most lovely place for hide-and-seek. Then there was a fountain, a real fountain, where the water actually danced and fell all day long; and all round the windows of the house and the trellised balcony there were the most lovely red shaded leaves, such as one never sees in such quantities in the north. And in among the stones of the terrace there lived lizards—the most delightful lizards. One in particular grew so friendly that he used to come out at meal-times to drink a little milk which the children spilt for him on purpose; for the day nursery, or school-room, as Celia liked it to be called, opened on to the terrace too, though at the other end from the two drawing-rooms and grandfather's "study," and the windows were long and low, opening like doors, so that Lisa had hard work to keep the children quiet at table the first few days, for every minute they were jumping up to see some new wonder that they caught sight of. Altogether it was a very pretty home to spend the winter in, and every one seemed very happy. Bully and the "calanies" were as merry as larks, if it is true that larks are merrier than other birds, and Peepy-Snoozle and Tim, mistaking the bright warm sunshine for another summer, I suppose, got in the habit of being quite lively about the middle of the day as well as in the middle of the night, instead of spending all the daylight hours curled up like two very sleepy fairy babies with brown fur coats on, in their nice white cotton-wool nests.

There was so much to do and to think of the first few days that I think Baby forgot a little about what he had seen in the old curiosity shop. Auntie, too, was too busy to give any thought to the picture which had so taken her fancy, though neither she nor Baby really forgot the dear little face with its loving, half-merry, half-sad blue eyes. But auntie had to help mother to get everything settled; and of course there was a good deal to explain to the strange servants, for neither Peters nor Linley the maid knew "lubbish talk," as Baby would call it, at all, and it was very funny indeed to hear Peters trying to make the cook understand how grandfather liked his cutlets, or Linley "pounding" at the housemaid, as Fritz called it, to get it into her head that she didn't call it cleaning a room to sweep all the dirt into a corner where it couldn't be seen! Peters was more patient than Linley. When Linley couldn't make herself understood she used to shout louder and louder, as if that would make the others know what she meant, and then she used to say to Celia that it really was "a very hodd thing that the people of this country seemed not to have all their senses." And however Celia explained to her, she couldn't be got to see that she must seem just as stupid to them as they seemed to her! Peters was less put about. He had been in India with grandfather, so he said he was used to "furriners." He seemed to think everybody that wasn't English could be put together as "furriners"; but he had brought a dictionary and a book of little sentences in four languages, and he would sit on the kitchen table patiently trying one language after another on the poor cook, just as when one can't open a lock, one tries all the keys one can find, to see if by chance one will fit. The cook was a very mild, gentle man; he had a nice wife and two little children in the town, and he was inclined to be very fond of Herr Baby, and to pet him if ever he got a chance. But that wasn't for a good while, for Baby was at first terribly frightened of him. He had a black moustache and whiskers and very black eyes, and they looked blacker under his square white cook's cap, and the first time Baby saw him through the kitchen window, the cook happened to be standing with a large carving-knife in one hand, and a chicken which he was holding up by the legs, in the other. Off flew Herr Baby. A little way down the garden he ran against Denny, who was also busy examining their new quarters.

"Oh, Denny, Denny!" he cried, "this is a dedful place—there's a' ogre, a real tellable ogre in the house. Him's seen him in one of the windows under the dimey-room. Oh, Denny, Denny, p'raps him'll eaten us up."

Denny for the first moment was, to tell the truth, a little bit frightened herself. Common sense told her there were no such things as ogres, not now-a-days any way, at least not in England, their own country. But a dreadful idea struck her that this was not England; this might be one of the countries where ogres, like wolves and bears, were still occasionally to be found. There was no telling, certainly; but not for a good deal would Miss Denise Aylmer, a young lady of nine years old past, have owned to being frightened as long as she could possibly help it.

She caught Baby by the hand.

"What sall we do?" he said; "sall we go and tell mother?"

Denny considered.

"We'd better go and see again," she said very bravely. "You must have made a mistake, I think, Baby dear. I don't think there can be any ogres here."

Baby was much struck by Denny's courage. His hand slipped back a very little out of hers.

"Will you go and see, Denny?" he said. "Him will stay here till you comes back."

"Oh, no, you'd better come with me," said Denny, who felt that even Baby was better than nobody. "I shouldn't know where you saw the ogre," and she kept tight hold of his hand. "Which window was it?"

"It were at a tiny window really under the ground. Him was peeping to see if there was f'owers 'side of the wall," said Baby. "Him'll show you, Denny; him are so glad you isn't f'ightened."

They set off down the path, making their way rather cautiously as they got near the house. Suddenly Denny felt Baby squeeze her hand more tightly, and with a sort of scream he turned round and hid his face against her.

"There! There!" he cried. "Him sees the ogre coming."



Denny looked up. She saw a rather little man with a white apron and a white cap, carrying a couple of cackling hens or chickens in his arms, coming across the garden from the house. He was on his way to a little sort of poultry-yard, where he had fastened up half-a-dozen live chickens he had bought at the market that morning, meaning to kill two of them for dinner, but finding them not so fat as he had expected, he was putting them back among their friends for a day or two. Very like a real ogre, if Denny and Baby had understood all about it, which they didn't. Denny herself, for a minute or two, felt puzzled as to who this odd-looking man could be. But he was no ogre, that was certain, any way.

"Don't be frightened, Baby, it's not a' ogre," she said. "Look up, he's far too little."

Baby ventured to peep round. The little black-eyed, white-capped man came towards them smiling.

"Bon jour, Mademoiselle, bon jour, Monsieur Bebe," he said, looking quite pleased. And then he stroked down the ruffled feathers of the poor chickens, and held them out to the two children, chattering away at a great rate in Baby's "lubbish talk," hardly a word of which they understood.

"Can he be wanting to sell the chickens?" said Denny.

The cook, who had before this lived with families from England, understood the children's language better than they did his, which, however, is not saying a great deal.

"Yes, Mees, pairfectly," he said. "Me sell zem at ze marche the morning. Fine poulets, goot poulets, not yet strong—wait one, two, 'ree days—be strong for one grand dinner for Madame."

"Who are you? What's your name, please?" said Denny, still a little alarmed.

"Jean-Georges, Mademoiselle," said the little man, with a bow. "Jean-Georges compose charming plates for Mademoiselle and Monsieur Bebe. Jean-Georges loves little messieurs and little 'demoiselles. Madame permit Monsieur and Mademoiselle visit Jean-Georges in his cuisine one day."

Denny caught the word "cuisine," which, of course, children, you will know means "kitchen."

"He's the cook, Baby," she said, with great relief; "don't you remember grandfather said he must have a man cook? Good morning, Mr. Cook, we'll ask mother to let us go and see you one day in your kitchen, and you must make us very nice things to eat, please Mr. Cook."

"Pairfectly, Mademoiselle," said Jean-Georges, with as magnificent a bow as he could manage, considering the two chickens in his arms, and then he walked away.

"What a very nice man!" said Denny, feeling very proud of herself, and quite forgetting that she, too, had not been without some fears. "You see, Baby dear, how foolish it is to be frightened. I told you there couldn't be any ogres here."

Herr Baby did not answer for a moment. He had certainly very much admired Denny's courage, but still he wasn't quite sure that she had not been a very little afraid, just for a minute, when he had called out "There he is!"

"What would you have done if there had been a' ogre, Denny?" he said.

"Oh, bother," said Denny, "what's the good of talking about things that couldn't be? Talk of something sensible, Baby."

Baby grew silent again. They walked on slowly down the garden path.

"Denny," said Baby, in a minute or two, "didn't the little man say somefin about mother having a party?"

Denny pricked up her ears at this. Parties of all kinds pleased her very much.

"Did he?" she said, "I didn't notice. He said something about Madame's dinner, but I didn't think he meant a dinner-party. Perhaps he did though. We'll ask. I'd like mother to have some parties; it seems quite a long time since I had one of my best frocks on to come down to the drawing-room before dinner, the way we did at home. And I know mother and auntie have friends here. I heard that stupid little footman asking Linley what day 'Miladi' would 'receive,' that means have visitors, Baby."

Denny's tongue had run on so fast, that it had left Baby's wits some way behind. They had stopped short at the first idea of a party.

"Mother likes to make werry pitty dinners when she has parties," he said. "Mother told him that were why she were so solly when him breaked her's pitty glasses."

"I don't know what you're talking about, Baby," said Denny. "Let's have a race. I'll give you a start."



CHAPTER VII.

BABY'S SECRET

"'Pussy, only you I'll tell, For you can keep secrets well; Promise, pussy, not a word.' Pussy reared her tail and purred."

There was a cat at the Villa Desiree, Baby's, and Denny's, and "all of them's house," as Baby would have called it. Where the cat came from I don't know—whether it belonged to the villa and let itself out with it every winter, like the furniture, or whether it was really the cat of Madame Jean-Georges, and had followed Monsieur Jean-Georges back one evening when he had been home to see his "good friend" (that was what he called his wife), and his two "bebes," is what I cannot tell. I only know the cat was there, and that when Baby could get a chance of playing with it he was very pleased. He didn't often have a chance, in his own room, for "Mademoiselle," as Celia was always called by the new servants, a title which she thought much nicer than "Miss Aylmer," or "Miss Celia," Mademoiselle, said "the stupid little footman," had given strict orders that "Minet" was not to be allowed upstairs for fear of the "pets," the "calanies," and the Bully, and Peepy-Snoozle, and Tim, all of whom would have been very much to Minet's taste, I fear. It was very funny to see the way the little footman went "shoo-ing" at the poor cat the moment Celia appeared, for Celia had rather grand manners for her age, and the servants thought her very "distinguished," especially the stupid little footman. But Herr Baby was very sorry for poor Minet; he had no particular pet of his own here, nothing to make up for his "labbits," and so he took a great fancy to the pussy.

"Poor little 'weet darling," he would call it; "Celia's a c'uel girl to d'ive Minet away, Minet wouldn't hurt the calanies, or the Bully, or the sleepy-mouses; Minet is far too good."

"Pray, how do you know, Baby?" Celia would say. "Cats are cats all the world over, every one knows that."

"Minet aren't," Baby would have it, "Minet has suts a kind heart. Him asked Minet if her would hurt the calanies and the sleepy-mouses, and her said 'no, sairtingly not.'"

"Baby!" said Denny, "what stories! Cats can't talk. You shouldn't tell stories."

"Minet can talk," said Baby. "When him asks for somefin, her says 'proo-proo-oo,' and that means 'yes,' and if her means 'no,' her humps up her back and s'akes her tail. When him asked Minet if her would like to hurt the calanies, her humped up her back never so high, and sook and sook her tail, for no, no, NO!"

Celia could not find an answer to this. Baby went on stroking Minet with great satisfaction, as if there was nothing more to be said.

"All the same," said Celia at last, "I don't want Minet to come upstairs. She's quite as happy downstairs, and, you see, it would frighten the birds and the dormice if they saw her, for they mightn't understand that she wouldn't, on any account, hurt them."

"Werry well," said Baby, and he went on playing with his new pet.

"Herr Baby," said Lisa coming into the room a moment or two later; "mine child, how is it that your coat is so dirty? All green, Herr Baby, as if you had rubbed it on the wet grass."

"It's with his poking in among the bushes by the kitchen window," said Denny of the ready tongue; "yesterday, you know, Baby, when you thought——"

"Hush," said Baby, "don't talk to me. You distairb me and the cat—we'se busy."

Denny and Lisa looked at each other and smiled.

"Pussy, pitty pussy, dear Minet," went on Baby, who wanted to stop Denny's account of his fears.

"We're going out, Herr Baby," said Lisa. "There are commissions for your lady mamma. We are to go to the patissier and——"

"Who are the pattyser?" said Baby.

"The cumfectioner," said Denny.

Baby pricked up his ears.

"We are to go to the patissier," said Lisa, "to order some cakes for Miladi for to-morrow, when Miladi's friends come to dine; and perhaps we will buy some little cake for Herr Baby's tea. Come, mine child, leave Minet, and come."

Herr Baby got up from the corner of the room where he had been embracing the cat; there was a grave look on his face, but he did not say anything till he was out on the road with Lisa. Denny was not with them; she had got leave to go a walk with Celia and the lady who came every day to give her French lessons, which Denny thought much more grand than going out with Baby and Lisa.

"Lisa," said Baby, after a few minutes, "are mother going to have a party?"

"Not one very big party," said Lisa, "just some Miladis and some Herren—some genkelmen—to dine."

"Will it look very pitty?" asked Baby.

"Not so pretty as at home," said Lisa, who, now that she was away from it, of course looked upon The Manor—that was the name of "home"—as the most lovely place in the world; "there's no nice glass, no nice pretty dishes here. And Francois, he is so dumm—how you say 'dumm,' Herr Baby?"

"Dumm," repeated Baby, exactly copying Lisa's voice, staring up in her face.

"No, mine child, how you say it of English? Ah—I knows—stupid. Francois, he is too stupid. Peters and I, we will make the table so pretty as might be. Lisa will command some bon-bons."

"Mother will want the shiny jugs," thought poor Baby. "Him s'ould have brought him's pennies. Him would like to know if him has 'nuff pennies; perhaps him could go to the little girl's shop when Lisa is at the pattyser's."

But he said nothing aloud. How it was that he kept his thoughts to himself, why he had such a dislike to any one knowing what was in his mind, I cannot exactly tell; but so it was, and so it often is with very little children, even though quite frank and open by nature. Baby had, I think, a fear that mother might not like him to spend all his pennies on the shiny jugs, perhaps she might say she would pay them herself, and that would not have pleased him at all. Deep down in his honest little heart was the feeling that he had broken the glasses and he should pay for the new ones. But he said nothing to Lisa—he had never spoken of the jugs to her—mother had been "so kind," never to tell any one about what a silly little boy he had been, for mother knew that he didn't like being laughed at. Perhaps "they" would laugh at him now if he told about wanting to buy the shiny jugs—he wouldn't mind so much if he had bought them, but "'appose they wouldn't let him go to the shop to get them?" Poor little mother! She wouldn't have her pitty glasses then for the party—no, it was much best to settle it all his own self. Whom he meant by "they" I don't think Baby quite knew, he had a sort of picture in his mind of grandfather and auntie and mother all talking together, and Celia and Fritz and Denny all joining in, and saying that "Baby was far too little to go to shops to buy things." And by the time he had thought this all over, Herr Baby glancing up—for till now he had been walking along with Lisa's hand, seeing and noticing nothing—found that they were already in the street of the town where the biggest shops were, and that Lisa was looking about to find the shop where she was to give the orders for his mother.

It was a very pretty shop indeed—Baby had never seen such a pretty shop. The cakes and bon-bons were laid out so nicely on the tables round the wall, and they were all of such pretty colours. Baby walked round and round admiring, and, I think, considering he was such a very little boy, that it was very good of him not to think of touching any of the tempting dainties. In a few minutes Lisa had ordered all she wanted—then she chose some nice biscuits and a very few little chocolate bon-bons, which she had put up in two paper parcels, and when they came out of the shop she told Herr Baby that they were for him, his mother had told her to get him something nice. Baby looked pleased, but still he seemed very grave, and Lisa began wondering what he was thinking of.

"Are you tired, mine child?" she said.

No, Herr Baby was not at all tired. He wanted to walk down the street to the other end to see all the shops, he wanted to see all the streets and all the shops before they went home. Lisa was rather amused. She had not known Herr Baby was so very fond of shops, she said, and it would take far too long to see them all. But she went to the end of that street with him, and then back again down the opposite side, and then he begged her to turn down the other street they had crossed on their way to the confectioner's, and they had gone quite to the end of it, Baby staring in at all the shop windows in a way that really made Lisa smile, for he looked so grave and solemn, when all of a sudden, just as Lisa was thinking of saying they must go home, Baby gave a sort of little scream and almost jumped across the street.

"Him sees it, him sees it," he cried, and when Lisa asked him what he meant, all he would say was,

"That's the little street we went down with auntie the 'nother day," and Lisa, who had forgotten all about the old shop window with the shiny glass and the blue-eyed picture, wondered why he was so eager about it.

"Is that the way we came?" she said, "I am not sure. I not quite remember."

But "him wants to go home that way," persisted Baby, and he tugged Lisa along. They passed at the other side, but Baby did not mind that. He could see across quite plainly, for the street was narrow, and there were still the glasses in the corner and the sweet baby-girl face up on the wall, looking down on them.

And after that he was quite satisfied to go quietly home; he did not speak much on the way, but Lisa was accustomed to his grave fits, and did not pay much attention to them. He only asked her one question—just as they were getting close to the Villa.

"Is it to-morrow mother's going to have all the pitty things for dinner?" he said.

"Yes, Herr Baby, and Lisa will be busy, to show Francois how Miladi likes everything. Herr Baby and Fraeulein Denny will be goot and play peacefully in the garden to-morrow, so she can be busy," said Lisa, who was very proud of being of so much consequence.

"Yes," said Herr Baby, "him won't want you to take care of him."

After tea he got out his money-box. This he often did. He was such a careful little boy that mother let him keep his money himself, and it was a great pleasure to him to count over the different kinds of "pennies;" he called them all "pennies," brown, white, and even yellow pennies, for Baby had a pound and a ten shilling piece that had been given him on his last birthday, and that he had never been able to make up his mind how to spend. He looked at them now with great satisfaction.

"See, Denny," he said, "him has two yellow pennies, a big and a little, and free white pennies, a big and a little and a littler, and five brown pennies. Him knows there's five, for him can count up to five, 'cos five's just as old as him is going to be. See, Denny, isn't there a lot? And the yellow pennies could be turned into lots and lots of white pennies Lisa says, and the white pennies could be turned into lots of brown pennies, isn't it funny? Isn't him werry rich, Denny?"

"Yes, I suppose so," said Denny, "I really don't know. I wish you wouldn't chatter so, Baby. I can't learn my lessons."

Poor Baby! It was not often he was to blame for "chattering so." But he looked with great respect at Denny for having lessons to do, and was not at all offended. Denny was proud of being with Celia and the new governess, but I think her pleasure was a little spoilt by finding that the new governess had no idea of taking care of a little girl who didn't do any lessons, and this evening she was rather cross at a row of French words which she had to learn to say the next morning. Baby went quietly off into the corner with his money-box, but finding it rather dull to have no one to show his pennies to, he went out of the room, which you remember was downstairs, and, opening a door which led to the kitchen, peeped about in hopes of seeing his friend Minet. He had not long to wait—Minet had a corner of her own by the kitchen wall, on the other side of which was the stove, and where she found herself almost as warm as in the kitchen, when Monsieur Jean-Georges objected to her company. She was curled up in this corner when she heard Baby's soft voice calling her—"Minet, Minet, pussy, pussy," and up she got, slowly and lazily, as cats do when they are half asleep, but still willingly enough, for she dearly loved Herr Baby.

"Minet," said Baby, when she appeared, and coming up to him rubbed her furry coat against his little bare legs, "Minet, dear, come and sit wif him on the 'teps going down to the garden, and him'll tell you about his money."

But Lisa, coming by just then, said it was too cold now to sit on stone steps; for warm as it was in the day at Santino the evenings got quickly chilly.

"Us can't go back to the 'coolroom," said Baby; "Denny won't let dear Minet come there, and him must stay wif Minet, 'cos her waked up when him called her."

"Miss Denny must let you stay in the school-room," said Lisa. "There is no little birds there for Minet to touch."

She opened the door, and Denny was too busy with her lessons to scold.

"You will be very quiet, Herr Baby," said Lisa. So Baby and Minet went off into a corner with the money-box.

"Minet, dear," said Baby, in a low voice, "see what lots of pennies him has. Yellow pennies, and white pennies, and brown pennies."

Minet purred, naturally, for Baby was stroking her softly with one hand all the time he was holding up his pennies with the other.

"Dear Minet," said Baby, much gratified, "you is pleased that him has so many pennies. Now, Minet, him will tell you a secret, a gate, gate secret, about what him's going to do wif all him's pennies."

Here Minet purred again. Baby looked round. There was no one listening. Lisa was going backwards and forwards, putting away the tea-things; Denny was still groaning and grumbling over her row of words; Baby might safely tell Minet his secret. Still he lowered his voice so low that certainly no one but Minet could hear. And when he left off speaking, Minet purred more than ever. Only Baby thought it just as well to say to her, before Lisa took him away up to bed, "Minet, dear, you'll be sure not to tell nobody;" and I suppose Minet promised, for Baby seemed quite pleased.

He woke in the morning with his head quite full of his great idea. They were not to go a regular walk that day, Lisa told him, for in the afternoon she would be busy, and Herr Baby would be good and play quietly in the garden, would he not?

"All alone?" asked Baby.

"Perhaps Miss Denny will stay, too, if Herr Baby wishes," said Lisa; "she was going again with Miss Celia, but——"

"Oh no," said Baby, "him would rather be alone, kite alone, 'cept Minet. Fritz is very good to him, but Fritz will be at school. Fritz is never at home now 'cept Thursdays."

"No," said Lisa; "but Herr Fritz is very happy at school, and when Herr Baby is big he will go too."

"Yes," said Baby; but he didn't seem to think much what he was saying. Lisa thought he was dull about Fritz being at school—I forgot to tell you that Fritz went every day now to a very nice school in the town, where there were a few boys about his own age—but Lisa was mistaken.

That afternoon, any one passing the low hedge which at one side was all that divided the Villa garden from the road, would have seen a pretty little picture. There was Baby, seated on the grass, one arm fondly clasping Minet's neck, while with the other he firmly held the famous money-box. He was dressed in his garden blouse only, but for some reason he had his best hat on. And he kept looking about him, first towards the house and then towards the garden gate, in a funny considering sort of way.

At last he seemed to have made up his mind.

"Minet," he said to the cat, "him thinks we'll go now. 'Amember, Minet, you've p'omised to go wif him. If you get werry tired, Minet, him'll try to carry you. If you could carry the money-box, and him could carry you, then it would be kite easy. What a pity you haven't got two more paws, that would do for hands, Minet!"

Minet purred.

"Yes, poor Minet. Nebber mind, dear; but we must be going." And closely followed by the cat, who had no idea, poor thing, of what was before her, Baby made his way down the path to the garden gate. It was open, at least not latched. Baby easily pushed it wide enough for his little self to go through, and stood, with Minet and the money-box, triumphant on the highroad.

"It were the best way, thit way," he said to himself. For there was another gate to the Villa, leading out to the upper road. But this gate was guarded by a lodge, and the "concierge," as they called the lodge-keeper, came out to open it for every one who went in and out. And "p'raps," thought Baby, "the concierge mightn't have let him through, 'cos, of course, her didn't know why him was going out alone with Minet."

So Minet and he and the money-box found themselves out on the road on their own account.

All the family was scattered that afternoon. Celia and Denny had gone a long walk with their governess, Fritz was at school, mother and auntie had driven to see some friends a good way off, meaning to call for Fritz at his school on their way home. The servants, too, were all more busy than usual on account of the ladies and gentlemen coming to dinner. Lisa and Linley and Peters were all trying to make the strange servants understand just how they were used to have the table at home, and giving themselves a great deal more trouble than grandfather or mother would have wished had they known about it. Lisa was very clever at arranging flowers prettily, and she was so sure of Baby's quiet ways when he was left to himself, that she never gave a thought to him once she saw him safely settled in the garden with Minet. It was such a safe garden. There really was no part of it where a child could get into any trouble, for though there was a little water in the basin from which rose the fountain, it was so little, that not even Minet could have wetted much more than her paws in it. So Lisa went on quite comfortably doing the flowers and arranging the dessert in the pantry, by way of giving Francois a lesson, and now and then she would glance out of the window which looked on to the garden, and, seeing Baby there with Minet, she felt quite easy. She did once say to herself,

"I wonder why Herr Baby begged so to have his best hat to-day—but he is one good child, one should please him sometimes."

I am afraid the truth was that Lisa spoilt her dear Baby a little!

After a while she looked out again. She did not see Herr Baby this time, but she did not think anything of it.

"They will have gone to play among the bushes," she said to herself, meaning by "they" Baby and Minet of course, and she went on with what she was doing, and got so interested in helping Peters to explain to Francois that in England people always changed the wine glasses at the end of dinner, and put clean ones for dessert, that the time went on without it ever entering her head to say to herself, "What can have become of Herr Baby?"

Mother and auntie were later than they had expected of returning from their drive. They had gone a long way, and coming back it was mostly up-hill.

"Fritz will be thinking we have forgotten him," said mother, looking at her watch, "but I told him to be sure to wait till we came. He is too little to go home alone yet, at least till he knows his way quite well or can speak enough to ask."

"We might have told Celia and Denny to call for him, as they are out with Mademoiselle," said auntie.

Just then in turning a corner, for they were quite in the town now, auntie's eyes caught sight of the narrow street where the old curiosity shop was.

"By the by," she said, "I should so like to ask about that picture. I told you about it, you remember, May?"—May, you know, was the children's mother's name—"have we time to go that way?"

"I'm afraid not; we are late already," said mother. "I'm so sorry."

"Oh, never mind, another day will do quite well," said auntie, cheerfully.

So they drove home, quickly, just stopping a moment to pick up Fritz, who was waiting for them at the gate of his school.

If they had happened to go round by the old curiosity shop, how surprised they would have been; but what a great deal of trouble it would have saved them, as you shall hear.

Lisa met them as they got home, with a long story about the table and the flowers and the stupidness of Francois, which mother and auntie could hardly help laughing at.

"Never mind, Lisa," said mother; "it will do very well, I am sure. Where are the children?"

"Upstairs, Miladi, taking off their things. They have just come in," said Lisa, never thinking, somehow, as mother said the "children," but that she was talking of Celia and Denny. For, somehow, in this family—in every family there are little habits of the kind—Baby was not often spoken of among "the children." They had all got so used to the name of Herr Baby, which Lisa had called him by since he was quite a wee baby, that he was seldom spoken of by any other, and often Baby himself would talk gravely about "the children," without any one seeming to think it odd.

"Upstairs, are they?" said mother. "Well, run off, Fritz, dear, and try and get some of your lessons done before tea. Mademoiselle will help you a little, I daresay, before she goes."

Off ran Fritz. He was a very good boy about his lessons, and anxious to get on well. More to please Lisa and the others than that they cared, mother and auntie went into the dining-room. They were standing looking at the pretty flowers and leaves, when suddenly Fritz put his head in at the door again.

"Lisa," he said, "where's Baby? He's not upstairs, and he's not in the garden. Linley said you told him to play there this afternoon, but he's not there."

Lisa started, and her face grew white.

"Mine child!" she cried. "Ah, but he must be in the garden, Master Fritz! I saw him there so happy, with the cat, just—ah, how long ago was it? Have I forgotten him for so long? He must be hiding—to play, to—how do you say?" for Lisa's English was very apt to fly away when she got frightened or upset. "Ach, where can he be?" and off darted poor Lisa.

Mother and auntie and Fritz looked at each other.

"Can he be lost?" said Fritz, with a very frightened face.

"Oh no, no," said auntie. "Lisa is so easily startled. But still——"

"Let us all go and look for him at once," said mother. "What a good thing poor grandfather isn't back yet!"



CHAPTER VIII.

FOUND

——"he was not there: We searched the house, the grounds—in vain; We searched the green in our despair, And then we searched the house again."

It was a good thing grandfather was out, for—and this was what mother was thinking of—poor grandfather, though he looked such a fine, tall, gray-haired old gentleman, was not really very strong or well. It was a great deal for him that they had all come abroad this winter, and the doctors had told mother and auntie that anything to startle or distress him might make him very ill indeed. Poor grandfather! I can't tell you what a kind, good man he was. He had stayed a great many years in India, though he would have liked dreadfully to come home, because it was "his duty" he said, and this had made him seem older than he really was, for a hot country is very wearing out to people who are not born to it. And, though he was so fond of his grandchildren, I think if he had a pet among them, it was little Herr Baby. The mere idea of his tiny Raymond—Baby was named Raymond after grandfather—being lost, even for an hour or two, would have troubled him dreadfully, and thinking of this, auntie, too, repeated after mother,

"Yes, indeed, what a good thing grandfather isn't in. We mustn't let him know, May, till Baby's found."

They didn't stay to say anything more. Off they all set into the garden, for, though Fritz said he had looked all over, they couldn't feel sure that they might not find Baby in some corner, hiding, perhaps, for fun, even. But when they had all been round and round the garden in every direction—mother, and auntie, and Celia, and Denny, and Fritz, and Mademoiselle Lucie, and Lisa, and Linley, and Peters, and Francois, and, even at the end I believe, Monsieur Jean-Georges himself, and the rest of the French servants—when they had all looked, and peeped, and shouted, and whistled, and begged, and prayed Baby to come out if he was hiding, and there was no answer, then they gave it up. It was impossible that the little man could be in the garden.

Where could he be?

Fortunately there was nowhere in the garden where he could have hurt himself—no pit or pond into which he could have fallen. And it was surely impossible that any one could have come into the garden and stolen him away, as Celia, with a pale face, whispered to auntie. Where could he be, and what should they do?

Time was passing—the friends who were coming to dinner would be at the villa before long; grandfather was sure to appear in a few minutes. What could they do?

"We must not tell grandfather, that is certain," said auntie. "May, dear, it is very hard on you, I know, but I'll tell you how it must be. You must stay here quietly and be ready for the friends who are coming, and I will go off at once and do all, everything I can think of. Mademoiselle Lucie, you know the town, and you can tell me all about the police, and where to go to in case we don't find our darling at once, though I quite think we shall. I can't take you, Peters," for Peters was eagerly coming forward, "Sir Raymond would miss you, nor you, Lisa, for you must take care of the other children," at which Lisa all but broke out crying; "It was too good of Mademoiselle Helene to trust her; she didn't deserve it." "And Francois would be no good. You and I, Mademoiselle Lucie, will go at once. And you must tell grandfather that I was obliged to go out, for an hour or two, unexpectedly."

"I am afraid he will think it very strange," said mother, "but I will do my best."

Mother spoke quietly, but her face was very white.

"Do go, Nelly," she said, "as quick as you can."

And Celia and Denny, who had been thinking of bursting into tears, took example by her and auntie, and tried to look cheerful.

"Auntie," said Celia, running after her to the gate, "I'll be very good and try to comfort mother. And we'll not let grandfather think there's anything wrong. But oh, auntie dear, I hope you'll soon bring dear Baby safe home."

"So do I, darling," said auntie, stooping to kiss her, even though she was so hurried, and, for the first time, there was a little quiver in her voice, and Celia ran back to the others, thinking even more than before how good and brave auntie was.

They hastened down the road, auntie and little Mademoiselle Lucie, I mean. But when they had gone some little way, auntie stopped short.

"He may have gone by the other road, and we may miss him that way;" for, without thinking, auntie had hurried out by the little gate opening on to the lower road.

"I think not," said Mademoiselle Lucie, "at least the concierge would have been sure to see him, and we did ask her, and she had not seen him at all."

"To be sure," said auntie, "I forgot about the concierge."

"Besides," Mademoiselle Lucie continued, "to get to the town he must pass the way we are going, a little farther on where the two roads run together."

"To be sure," said auntie, again.

"It is to the town we are going?" asked Mademoiselle Lucie.

"Yes," said auntie, "I have an idea, but I did not like to say it to my sister for fear it should lead to nothing. There is a shop in the town where there is a picture that Baby took a great fancy to the other day. At least it was I that noticed it first, and he was so pleased with it. There was something else in the shop that he was looking at—I don't remember what—when we noticed the picture."

"Do you know where the shop is? Can we easily find it?"

"I think so; yes, I am sure I can find it," said auntie. "It is a shop of curiosities, a shop at a corner, the street is narrow."

"I know it," said Mademoiselle Lucie, "though it is not very well known. There are grander shops of curiosities which are more visited, but I know that shop, as I often pass it."

She told auntie the name of the owner of the shop, and of the street, and then auntie fixed, as they were now near the town, that she would go on alone to the shop, while Mademoiselle Lucie went to her brother, who, she hoped, would be at home at this hour, and get him to go with her to the police office, so that no time should be lost.

Auntie hurried on by herself, but though she went so fast that the easy-going peasants driving their sleepy bullocks, whom she met, looked after her in surprise, she did not, for one moment, leave off looking about her on every side, to see if by any chance she could discover the well-known little figure it would have given her such joy to see. But no. Once or twice a child in the distance made her heart beat a little quicker, but, as soon as she got near enough to see it clearly, her hopes sank again. There were very few houses on the country road leading from the villa till one was quite in the town. So auntie thought it not worth while to ask, for, in a street of houses and shops standing close together, and people constantly passing, it was much less likely that any one would have noticed a little tot like Herr Baby making his way.

"No," said auntie to herself, "it is no use stopping to ask. The best thing I can do is to find the shop at once, and if they can tell me nothing there, to follow Mademoiselle Lucie to the police office."

And, with a deep sigh, for, somehow, every step she took farther without seeing anything of the little truant, made auntie's heart feel heavier—she hurried on again.

She soon found the wide street—the street with the dressmakers' and milliners' shops, which Fritz had not cared to look at—then she turned one corner and went on a little farther, then another, and—yes, there was the little old shop, looking just the same as the day they had all stood there so happily. Auntie had been walking very quickly, almost running, but when she saw the shop just before her she stood still—she felt so anxious—what should she do if she could hear nothing of Baby?

When she got to the door she stopped and looked in; there seemed to be no one in the shop. Auntie glanced up to the side of the door where the little portrait had hung. It was gone! Could that have anything to do with Baby? auntie asked herself in a sort of puzzled way. Could Baby have thought of buying it? how much money had he? But it was stupid and foolish to stand there puzzling and wondering, instead of boldly going in to ask. Auntie took her courage in her two hands, as the saying is, and went in.

No one there; where could the owner of the shop be? The last time he had come forward at once when they were only looking in—a little-dried up old man, just the sort of person one would expect to find in such a shop, sitting in a dark corner like an old spider, watching to see what flies were passing his way. Auntie went right in without seeing any one, but she heard voices not far off, and, in her anxiety, she went forward to a door slightly open, leading into rooms behind the shop. She knocked—but for a moment no one took any notice. They were talking so eagerly inside that she had to knock again, and in the moment or two that had passed without them hearing her, she heard one or two words that made her eager to hear more.

"No, no," some one was saying, "much better go at once to the office. We may get into trouble."

"He seems so sensible," said another voice. "I say, better go with him and carry the things, and we shall soon see if he knows his way, and——"

Auntie could not wait any more. She pushed open the door and went in. There was, however, no Herr Baby to be seen, as she had almost expected there would be. There was the old man that she remembered having seen before, looking like a very startled spider this time, as he raised his two shrivelled old arms in surprise at her appearance, and beside him was a very pleasant, bright-faced, young woman, with a baby in her arms, talking, or at least looking as if she had just been talking very eagerly.

"Is he here?" said auntie, quite breathless, "my little boy, my little nephew, I mean. Is Baby here?"

The young woman looked at the old man with a sort of little nod of triumph.

"You see," she said quickly, "I said there was no need to frighten the poor darling by taking him to the police office." "Yes, Madame," she went on, turning to auntie, "the dear bebe is here—that is to say, he cannot but be the one you are looking for. I sent him out into the little garden with his cat and my little girl, while my grandfather and I talked about what to do. I would have sent him home, I mean we would have tried to find his home, if my husband had been here, but he is away."

"And I am too feeble, Madame, as you see, to walk far," said the old man, who seemed now anxious to be very amiable.

"But you talked of taking him to the police office," said the young woman, in a low voice, "the idea! to frighten a bebe like that."

"Hush, hush," said the old man, "all was to be done for the best. You shall see him, your dear child, Madame," he went on, bustling about.

"But tell me first—a moment——" said auntie, "What did he come for? Did he buy the picture?"

"The picture," repeated the old man, "no, surely. It was the glass jugs, the little gentleman wanted, and he had his money all right—I took but the just price, Madame—I would not deceive any one."

"They are very dear to my mind," said the young woman, "but there—I know nothing about old things. This is not our shop, Madame—I look in in passing, to see the grandfather sometimes, that is all."



"And Baby came to buy some jugs, you say," repeated auntie. There was a confused remembrance in her mind of something Baby had said about jugs, something he had asked her to look at the day they had stood at the shop window, but which she had since forgotten. Her only idea in coming to the little old shop had been the picture. "You said he came to buy some jugs?" she said again.

"Yes, Madame," said the old man "two glass jugs—Venetian glass."

"Ah!" said auntie, and then she remembered it all—about the glass jugs that Baby had broken at home, and what he had said to her about those in the shop window being like them. "And the picture?" she said, "is it no longer there? But first, let me have my little boy. He is in the garden, you say?"

She looked round, for there was no sign of a garden. The window of the little room in which they were, looked out only on to a blank wall.