"This way, Madame," said the young woman, opening a door at the side. It led into a little dark passage, and, at the end of it, there was another door, standing open, and through this door came the sound of children's voices.

Auntie stood still a moment to listen—the first words made her smile.

"Him wants to go home now," said the well-known voice. "Little girl, why won't you listen? Him wants to go home, and so does Minet. Doesn't you hear?"

The little girl must have been very much puzzled, for auntie heard her trying her best, in her baby talk, to make this queer little stranger understand that they were to stay out in the garden till her mother called them in.

"Him wants to go home, and so does Minet," repeated poor Baby, and his voice began to quiver and shake, as if he were going to cry. Auntie could stand it no longer. She hurried out into the little garden.

"You shall go home now, Baby dear," she said. "Auntie has come to fetch you."

Baby looked up eagerly at the sound of a well-known voice. He ran to her and held up his little face for a kiss. He looked very pleased, but not at all surprised. It was one of Herr Baby's funny ways, that he almost never seemed surprised.

"Him is so glad you's come," he said. "You'll help him to carry home the shiny jugs, for Minet's raver tired, and him might have to carry her and the money-box. But you won't tell mother about the jugs, will you? You'll let him run in wif them him's self, won't you, auntie? Won't mother be pleased?"

"But you must tell me all about it, dear," said auntie; "did you come off all alone to get the glasses? Why didn't you ask some one to come with you?"

Baby looked a little troubled.

"Him didn't come alone," he said. "Him told Minet, and Minet comed too, only her's werry tired. And it were for the party, auntie," he added, looking up wistfully, "Lisa said mother had no pitty jugs for her's party. And oh, auntie, p'ease do be kick, 'fear we shall be too late."

Auntie took his hand and led him back into the shop, where the old man was wrapping up the jugs with a great show of soft paper, that auntie should see how careful he was.

"Has my little boy paid you?" she asked.

"Oh yes," said Herr Baby, understanding, though she did not speak English. "See in him's money-box;" he held out the money-box with some difficulty for, having Minet under the other arm, it was not easy for him to get his hands free; "him had two yellow pennies, one big and one little, him gived the big one for the shiny jugs."

"Was that the price of the jugs?" auntie asked the man.

"No, Madame, I have the change to give the little gentleman. See here," and he held out two large silver coins, the size of crowns, which auntie took.

"I don't think the jugs are dear," she said, with a smile, turning to the young woman, who looked pleased. "And some day," she went on, "we will come to see you, and bring you some little thing for your little girl, as you have been so kind to my little boy. Come now, Baby dear, we must get home as quick as we can."

"But the little girl, the pitty little girl," said Herr Baby, "him must say good-bye to her."

"There she is beside you," said auntie, thinking, of course, that he meant the young woman's little girl, "say good-bye to her."

"No, no," said Baby, "him doesn't mean her. Him means the pitcher little girl, her," he went on, pointing to the young woman, "her gottened her down for him to see, 'cos him were trying to reach up to kiss her."

That was why the picture was no longer in the window then? Where was it? Auntie turned round as she felt Baby pulling her.

"Her's there," he said, pointing to a chair on which the picture had been set down hurriedly with the face the other way. Auntie turned it round. Dear little face! It smiled at her again with the pretty half wistful, half wise expression, which had so taken her fancy. Now it seemed to her to be saying—

"I am so glad you have found him. I knew where he was. I am so glad to have helped you to find him;" and when Baby lifted his little face to kiss, with his rosy living lips, the picture of the child, who had once been living and loving like him, I can hardly tell you the strange feeling that went through auntie's heart.

"She must have been a dear good little girl, whoever she was," she thought to herself. "It would be nice to leave a sweet feeling behind one in the world long after one is dead, such as that little face gives. I should like to have that picture. I must see about it."

But to-day there was no time to be wasted.

Auntie took Baby by the hand, persuading him to let her carry the precious jugs, as Minet and the money-box were already more than enough for him. And, even with her help, it was not so easy to manage at all, and auntie was very glad to meet Mademoiselle Lucie a little way down the street, and get her to carry part.

Mademoiselle Lucie was delighted, as you can fancy, to see Herr Baby again. She had been coming back in great trouble to look for auntie; for very unluckily, as she thought, she had found that her brother was out, and she had not therefore gone to the police office.

"A very good thing, after all," said auntie; "it would only have been giving trouble for nothing, as we have found him."

But she said to Mademoiselle Lucie, in a low voice, to say nothing about the police before Herr Baby, as it might frighten him.

"Would it not, perhaps, be a good thing to frighten him a little?" said Mademoiselle Lucie; "he would not run off again."

Auntie shook her head.

"Not in that way," she said. "We will make him understand how he has frightened us. That will be the best way."

"How did he mean to get home alone, I wonder," said Mademoiselle Lucie; "how could he have carried all he had, and Minet too?"

"I don't know, I'm sure," said auntie. "How did you mean to carry everything home, Baby dear?"

Baby looked puzzled.

"Him doesn't know," he said. "P'r'aps him thought Minet would carry some," he added, with a smile.

Auntie smiled too. Mademoiselle Lucie looked up for auntie to explain to her, for she did not understand Baby's talk any better than he did hers.

Suddenly another idea struck auntie.

"How did you manage to tell the old man in the shop what you wanted to buy?" she said.

Baby considered.

"Him sawed the pitty little girl," he said; "her was looking at the shiny glasses—always—her was keeping them for him. Him asked her to. Then him touched them; him climbed up on a chair in the shop and touched them, and then him showed all him's pennies to the old man; but the lady wif the baby knowed the best what him wanted. Her were very nice, but the pitty little girl were the goodest, weren't her?"

Auntie listened quietly, for Baby spoke quite gravely.

"It would be nice to have that pretty picture, wouldn't it, Baby?"

"Yes," said Baby; but he didn't look quite pleased. "Auntie," he said, "him doesn't like you to call her a pitcher. Him thinks her's a zeal little girl, a zeal fairy little girl. Her tookened care of the shiny glasses so nice for him, didn't her?"

And auntie smiled again.



CHAPTER IX.

"EAST OR WEST, HAME IS BEST"

"But home is home wherever it is, When we're all together and nothing amiss." Irish Ballad.

By this time, of course, it was quite dark. It had been quite light when auntie and Mademoiselle Lucie set off, but at Santino the darkness comes on very quickly. Poor Baby, he would have been in trouble if auntie had not come to look, for him—- that is to say if the old man and the young woman had allowed him to set off on his journey home alone. I don't think he would ever have got there, for in the dark he could not have found his way, and he certainly could never have got the shiny jugs and Minet and the money-box all home in safety!

The ladies and gentlemen who were coming to dine at the Villa had all arrived. Mother was sitting in the drawing-room talking to them, and trying her best to look as if there was nothing the matter, to prevent grandfather finding out that there was. Poor mother, it was not very easy for her, was it? Grandfather was a good deal put out, as it was, at auntie's being so late. He, too, tried not to look cross, poor old gentleman, but any one who knew him at all well could not help seeing as he moved about the room, sometimes giving a poke to the wood fire which was burning quite brightly as it was, sometimes sharply pulling open one of the window-shutters and looking out, as if he could see anything with the light inside and the dark out of doors!—any one could see that he was very much put out. He sat down now and then for a minute or two and spoke very politely—for grandfather was a very polite old gentleman—to one or other of the stranger ladies, but even to them he could not help showing what was in his mind.

"It is very strange, really most exceedingly strange, of my eldest daughter," he said, "not to be in before this. I really feel quite ashamed of it, my dear Madam."

"But you are not uneasy, I hope," said the lady, kindly. "There cannot be anything the matter with Miss Leonard?" ("Miss Leonard" was what Fritz called auntie's "stuck-up name," and "Lady Aylmer" was mother's.) "You don't feel uneasy about her?"

(This lady did not know there was anything the matter, for she was quite at the other end of the room from mother. Mother had whispered to the lady beside her, who was an old and dear friend, how frightened she was about Herr Baby, and the old lady, who was very kind and nice, was talking and smiling as much as she could to help poor mother.)

"Uneasy," said grandfather, rather sharply, and not quite so politely as he generally spoke, "oh no, of course I'm not uneasy. My daughter Helen can take care of herself. I am only very much surprised at her doing such an extraordinary thing as forgetting the hour like this."

But in his heart I fancy what the lady said did make grandfather begin to think there might be something to be uneasy about, and this made him still crosser. She was not such a sensible lady as old Mrs. Bryan in the arm-chair opposite, who chattered the more the more she saw grandfather's worried look grow worse, and the pain grew plainer on poor mother's white face.

"May," he called out at last, "I think it is nonsense waiting dinner any longer. Tell one of the children to ring and order it up at once. Why, they're not here! Why are none of the children down, May? Everything seems at sixes and sevens."

"We are not waiting for Nelly, father dear," said mother. "I don't know why dinner isn't ready yet, but I think it can't be long. I will hurry them," and she got up to ring herself.

"But the children—why aren't they down?" said grandfather again.

Mother hesitated—

"It is rather late for them," she said. "The girls have been a long walk and are tired."

She did not know what to say, poor thing. She had not dared to let the three children come into the drawing-room, for fear their white faces and red eyes should make grandfather find out that there was something wrong, and indeed neither Celia, nor Denny, nor Fritz, would have been able to stay still in the room for five minutes. They were peeping out of the nursery every few seconds, running along to the end of the balcony, and straining their eyes and ears in trying to see or hear anything coming in the shape of good news.

Long, long afterwards they used to speak in the nursery, with deep breaths, of "that terrible evening when Herr Baby was lost."

But it was, of course, the worst for poor mother. It was bad enough in the nursery, where the tea, that nobody had cared to touch, was set out as neatly as usual on the table; the chairs drawn round, the one that Baby always had with a footstool on it—to make up for there being no high chair at the Villa—in its place, though the well-known, funny little figure was not perched on it. And Lisa, with a face swollen so that no one would have known her, fussing away to have the kettle boiling, so that her darling should have some hot tea as soon as ever he came in—for she wouldn't allow but that he would soon come in, though sad little stories kept running through Celia's and Denny's heads about children that had been lost and never found, or found only when it was no longer they themselves but only their poor little bodies, drowned, perhaps, or "choked in the snow," as Denny said. And she got rather cross when Celia reminded her that there was no snow, so it couldn't be that, any way.

All this was bad enough, but still they were free to talk about their fears, and to cry if they felt inclined, and to keep running to the window or the door. But for poor mother, as you can fancy, it was much worse. There she had to sit smiling and talking as if everything were quite nice and comfortable, not only for the sake of the friends who had come to dine with them, but still more for poor grandfather's sake, who kept growing more and more fidgety and put out, and at the bottom of his heart, though he would not own it even to himself, really frightened and anxious.

At last his patience was exhausted.

"May," he said, speaking across the fireplace to mother. She was talking to the lady beside her, and did not at first hear him. "May," said grandfather again, and if the children had been in the room I think his voice would have made them jump, "it is using our friends very badly to keep them waiting so long for dinner. Be so good as to ring again and tell the servants we will not wait any longer."

Poor mother—she looked up—it was all she could do not to burst into tears!

"Yes," she said, "I will tell them."

She was half rising from her seat, whispering to the lady beside her (the lady who did know all about it), "I don't know how I shall get through dinner," when—what was it?—no bell had rung, there was no sound that any one else heard, what could it have been that mother heard? I don't know what it was, and I daresay mother herself could not have told, but something she did hear. For she stopped short, and a sort of eager look came into her eyes and a flush into her cheeks. And then the other people in the room seemed to catch the infection, and everybody else looked up to see what was coming, and in the silence a sort of fumbling was heard at the door. It only lasted a second or two, then somehow the handle turned, much more quickly than was usually the case when it was Baby's small hands that were stretching up to reach it—I rather think some one must have been behind to help him—the door opened and—oh such a funny little figure came in! You know who it was of course, but it would be very difficult to tell you exactly what he looked like. He was dressed just as he had been for playing in the garden—a little short thick jacket over his holland blouse, which was no longer very clean; his short scarlet socks and oldest boots on his legs, the bare part of which looked very red and cold, and what had been his best straw hat with part of the brim dangling down, on his curly head. But he seemed quite pleased with himself—that was another of Herr Baby's "ways"; he always did seem quite pleased with himself, best of all, I think, when he had his oldest clothes on—he trotted into the room just as he would have trotted into the garden, even though there were a good many rather finely-dressed ladies and gentlemen sitting round—for his whole mind was filled with the thoughts of two big paper parcels which he carried in his arms. They could not have been as heavy as they were big, or else he could not possibly have carried them! And close at his heels, making him look still funnier, came Minet, very pleased, I am sure, to find herself again in sight of a fire.

Herr Baby looked round him for a moment, only for a moment, for though the lights in the room and the number of people dazzled and puzzled him a little, he did not need to look round for which was mother. Forgetting all about everything, except that her baby was found, up jumped mother, a rosy flush coming over her face which had looked so white and sad, pretty mother with her silvery silky dress and her sweet eyes filled with tears, and rushing over to Baby caught him up in her arms, poor little cold, tired, red-legged Herr Baby, and for a minute or so, greatly to grandfather's surprise, she hid her face somehow among the wee man's curls without speaking.



Grandfather was surprised but not alarmed, for just behind in the open doorway stood auntie, who came quietly forward and explained to him that Baby had gone out on his own account and they had been afraid of his losing his way, that was what had kept her out so late, and she was so sorry. Auntie had such a nice clear simple way of speaking, grandfather's vexation seemed to melt away as he listened. He glanced at the little figure still clasped in mother's arms, and a queer look came into his eyes.

"Poor children!" he said, "poor children! May, you should have told me."

But he knew why they hadn't told him. The ladies and gentlemen came round auntie to hear what she was saying. They were all very kind and very sorry and very glad. But it was difficult not to smile when a little voice was heard saying,

"Mother, p'ease put him down. Him's got somesing so pitty, but him's afraid of breaking them."

And sliding down to the ground, he managed somehow to set the two parcels safely on the floor, and began undoing them. They all watched him, but he didn't care, and he would let nobody help him. He got one out at last, and held it up with a beautiful happiness in his little face.

"See, mother!" he cried, "shiny jugs! Him's got them all himself wif him's own pennies. Two! Them's for you, mother, 'cos him boked you's 'nother ones. Him founded them himself in a shop. Him's been as quick as him could, 'cos of mother's party, to make the table pitty."

"My darling," said mother, hugging him again, and when she looked up half smiling, half crying, and tried to say to the ladies and gentlemen that she hoped they would not think her silly, there were tears in some other eyes besides in hers.

But Herr Baby was quite himself.

"You is p'eased," he said contentedly. "Then him'll go to tea, for him's raver hungry. But p'ease put the shiny jugs on the table to make it pitty."

He held up his face for another kiss. Then grandfather came forward and in his turn lifted the little truant into his arms.

"He is tired, the poor little man," he said, looking round: "you are so kind; I should ask you to forgive our want of politeness, but I am sure you will. I will be back in a moment."

And it was grandfather himself who carried off Herr Baby and gave him over to Lisa, weeping for joy now, as she caught her darling in her arms.

There was a happy tea in the nursery that night after all. Baby was very tired, but so exceedingly pleased with himself that his face grew rosy and his eyes bright, as if he had only just wakened up in the morning, as he sat at the table answering all the questions of Celia and Denny and Fritz and Lisa about his adventures. How had he found his way? How had he made the old man understand what he wanted? Hadn't he been frightened? Had he been pleased to see auntie? Had he carried Minet all the way? Oh, there were more questions than I could tell you—almost more than Herr Baby could answer; and Minet, too, came in for a share of the petting.

When they had got most of their questions answered, they all found out they were very hungry, and they set to work at their tea, and for a while there was silence in the nursery. Suddenly Baby leant his two elbows on the table and looked round.

"It were all the pitty little girl that keeped the shiny glasses for him. Her are so pitty."

"What little girl?" said the children, all together.

"Do you mean the young woman's little girl in the shop?"

"No," said Herr Baby, "not that kind of little girl. Him means a little girl up on the wall—a pitcher girl; but him thinks her are a fairy."

And having thus given his opinion, Baby looked round again with great satisfaction, and Celia and Denny whispered to each other that really Baby sometimes said very funny things for such a little boy!

They were all dressed as usual, and Denny and Baby went in to dessert, while Celia and Fritz waited, as became such big young people, in the drawing-room. Everybody was very kind to the children, and Baby, had he been any one else but Herr Baby, would have been spoilt by all the petting the ladies wanted to give him. But his eyes were fixed on one thing, or rather on two things, on the table, one in front of mother at one end, one in front of grandfather at the other, there they stood, two queerly-shaped glass jugs, sparkling and shining with many colours like a rainbow, filled with the brightest and clearest water which might have been drawn at a fairy well. And what pleasure shone in Baby's face as he looked at them.

"You is p'eased?" he said again to mother, as he bade her good-night.

It was a little difficult for mother to have to make "him" understand that much as she loved him for remembering how sorry she had been to have the first jugs broken, and how sweet she thought it of him to have got her new ones, that still he must never again think of doing such things by himself and without telling or asking any one.

She did not say anything to him that night; she could not bear to spoil his pretty pleasure, but the next day she made him understand; and Baby "p'omised" he would never again set off on his own account, or settle any plan without asking mother or auntie, or perhaps Celia, about it.

And so the end of the story of the broken jugs was quite a happy one.

* * * * *

Herr Baby's birthday came in the late spring. They were all back in England by then. The old garden was no longer "lonely," for the children's voices were heard all over it, and the sunlight through the leaves flickered on to their curly heads as they ran about in delight, seeking for all their old favourite corners. The "labbits" were well and happy; Jones and Thomas had come to meet them at the railway station with broad smiles on their honest faces; all the house looked bright and smiling, too, it had been so well rubbed up to receive them—altogether Herr Baby thought "coming back" was a very nice and happy thing, though he had enjoyed himself so much at Santino that he told Lisa he didn't think he would much mind if they did go there again next winter, when it began to get cold at home, as was already spoken of, as Santino had done grandfather so much good this time.

So, as I was saying, it was a very happy little man, indeed, that woke up in his "own dear little bed,"—which, wonderful to say, had not grown too small for him all the months they had been away,—on the morning of Herr Baby's fifth birthday. He could hardly stand still to be dressed, so eager was he to run off to mother's room to get her birthday kiss, and to see the presents which he knew would not have been forgotten. They turned out even prettier than he had expected; indeed, it would take me too long were I to tell you all about the beautiful box of bricks, big enough to build real houses almost, Baby thought, from grandfather, and the lovely pair of toy horses with real hair, in a stable, from mother, and the coachman's whip to crack at them from Fritz, and the pair of slippers Celia and Denny had worked for him, one foot each, and the birthday cake all snowed over with sugar, and with his name on in pink, from grandfather and mother together, "'asides their other presents." It quite took Herr Baby's breath away to think all these lovely things were for him; he sat at the nursery table quite unable to eat his breakfast, something like Fritz the morning they were starting on their journey, do you remember? till Lisa persuaded him to eat, by telling him if he didn't, he would be so tired that he wouldn't enjoy his birthday at all, which made him set to work at his bread and milk. Lisa, too, had remembered the day, for she had made him the prettiest little penny purse you ever saw, knitted in bright-coloured silk, so that now he was very well off, indeed, with his "scented" purse for his gold and silver, and Lisa's one for pennies and halfpennies, and his money-box to store up the rest in when the purses were full. He had all his presents set out in a row, so that he could see them while he was eating, and just when he was at nearly the last spoonful, he was quite startled by a voice beside him, saying, "And what about my present, Baby, dear? Did you think I had forgotten your birthday?"

It was auntie. She had come in so quietly that Herr Baby had not heard her. She leant over his chair, and he put his arms round her neck and kissed her.

"Him is so happy, auntie dear," he said; "him has such lots of p'esents, him never thought about your p'esent."

"Didn't you, dear?" said auntie, smiling. "Well, I didn't forget it—indeed, I thought of it a long time ago, as you will see. Come with me, for I see you have finished your breakfast."

Auntie took him by the hand. Baby wondered where she was going to, and he was rather surprised when she led him to his own room—that is to say, to the pretty nursery where he and Denny had their two little white beds side by side.

"Look up, Baby," said auntie.

And looking up, what do you think he saw? On the wall, at the side of his own little bed, where his eyes could see it the first thing in the morning, and the last at night, hung the picture of the blue-eyed little girl, the dear little girl of long ago, with her sweet rosy face, and queer old-fashioned white frock, smiling down at him, with the sort of wise, loving look, just as she had smiled down at him in the old shop at Santino.

"Oh, auntie, auntie!" cried Baby. But then he seemed as if he could say no more. He just stared up at the sweet little face, clasping his hands, as if he was too pleased to speak. Then, at last, he turned to auntie and hugged her.

"Oh, auntie!" he said again. "Oh, him is so p'eased to have him's own pitty little girl always smiling at him. Him will always have her, won't him, auntie?"

"I hope so, dear. She is your very own."

"Him will keep her till him is kite old. Him will show her to him's children and him's g'anchildren, won't him?" went on Baby solemnly.

"I hope so, dear," said auntie again, smiling at his flushed little face.

"Her is so pitty," said Baby. "Her is as sweet as a fairy. Auntie, him would so like to hear all the story about her. Couldn't you find it out, auntie?"

"Perhaps," said auntie, "or, what would be still better, perhaps the little girl will whisper it to you some night when you are asleep."

"That would be nice," said Baby. Then another thought struck him. "Auntie," he said, "will you ask mother to let him bring up the shiny jugs to show them to the pitty little girl? Her would like to see them so nice, and not brokened at all wif the packing. Oh, auntie, what a bootiful birfday—him are so happy!"

THE END.

Printed by R. & R. CLARK, Edinburgh.