"I think," said Mrs. Goodriche, "that I must give notice to quit this coming Midsummer. I shall still have half a year to look about me. The fright last night seems to have been sent to oblige me to settle my plans. I feel that this place is not exactly what will suit my niece—young people must have company; and if they are not where they can find their equals, they will fly to their inferiors. Bessy will make intimacies with every cottager in the wood, and I shall not be able to help it."

"I believe you are right, Mrs. Goodriche," replied Mr. Fairchild; "and I wish we could find a house for you in our village."

Mr. Fairchild looked very anxiously at Bessy when he saw her again. There was a great appearance of good temper and kindness about her which pleased him. She had a round rosy face and laughing eyes; but her clothes, although quite new, were already out of place, and falling from one shoulder. She talked incessantly, whether heeded or not, and seldom said anything to the purpose.

"If I were to begin to find fault with her," said Mrs. Goodriche to Mr. Fairchild, "I could never have done: not that she is constantly committing heavy offences, but she never does anything in the right way. What shall I do with her, my good friend?"

"We will talk over the affair at home," replied Mr. Fairchild; "and you shall see me again to-morrow."

The next day accordingly brought Mr. Fairchild, and with him Mrs. Fairchild.

"Well, my good madam," said he, "we have settled it; we shall be glad to see you and Miss Bessy. We have spoken to Lucy and Emily; and they have promised to attend to all our wishes, and to inform us if anything should be said or done which they think we should not approve. So when shall I fetch you?—say to-morrow?"

"To-morrow, then," replied Mrs. Goodriche; "to-morrow evening, by which time I shall have settled things at home, and provided a person to be with Sukey."

After an early dinner, Mr. and Mrs. Fairchild went home.

The next morning Mrs. Fairchild had some conversation with her little girls.

"You have never, my dears," she said, "been in a house for any time with a young person whose character we do not know; but it seems that it is required of us now to receive such a one. Mrs. Goodriche is an old and very dear friend; she is in trouble, and she has some hopes that her niece may be benefited by being for a while in an orderly family. You and Emily may be some help to her; but if you are led by her, or are unkind to her, or show that you think yourselves better than she is, you may not only be hurt yourselves, but very much hurt her instead of doing her good."

"Oh, mamma," replied Lucy, "I hope that we shall not do that: pray tell us every day exactly what to do."

"Be assured that I will, my children," said Mrs. Fairchild; "and we will not fear. You will not dislike Bessy—she is a good-tempered, merry girl; but you must not let her be alone with Henry: her very good humour may make her a dangerous companion to him."

Mr. Fairchild went, after dinner, to fetch Mrs. Goodriche and Bessy; and just before tea Henry came in to say the carriage was coming. He ran out again as fast as he could to set the gate open.

Mrs. Fairchild and the little girls met their visitors at the door.

Bessy jumped out of the carriage, and without waiting for the names to be spoken, gave her hands to Lucy and Emily. She kissed Lucy, and would have kissed Emily if she had not got behind Mrs. Fairchild.

"And that was Henry," she said, "who stood at the gate: he is a nice little fellow! I know all the names, and John's and Betty's too. Sukey has told me about Betty—just such another as herself. What a pretty place this is!—not like aunt's old barn of a house. I feel at home here already."

Whilst the young lady was prattling in this manner, Mrs. Fairchild was showing Mrs. Goodriche to her sleeping-room. She had put up a little couch-bed in the corner of the same room for Bessy, as she had no other room to give; and this had been settled between the ladies the day before. Mrs. Goodriche had told her niece to follow her upstairs, which Miss Bessy might perchance have done, after a while, had not Betty appeared coming from the kitchen to carry up the luggage.

"That is Betty," said Miss Bessy. "How do you do, Betty? Sukey told me to remember her to you."

"Very well, thank you, Miss," said Betty, with a low curtsey, as she bustled by with a bandbox.

Mrs. Goodriche now appeared, and speaking to her niece from the stair-head said:

"Come up, Bessy, and put yourself to rights before tea."

"Shan't I do, Miss Lucy?" said Bessy; "aunty is so particular; she does not know that I made a monstrous slit in my frock as I got into the carriage. I pinned it up, however, as well as I could, though I was forced to take the pins out of my dress for it. I shall run it up to-morrow, for, if she sees it, poor I will be forced to darn it thread by thread; so do lend me a pin or two, dear girls."

Betty now appeared again with a message to the young lady to go upstairs to her aunt, and then Bessy hurried off so rapidly, taking two steps at a time, that Lucy and Emily expected she would have a second slit in her dress to mend the next day. She did not appear again till told that tea was ready, when she came down after her aunt. Mrs. Goodriche looked all kind and calm as usual; she seemed quite pleased to find herself with her friends, though no doubt she was a little uneasy lest her niece should disgrace herself. As Bessy passed Lucy to go to a seat near Mrs. Fairchild, she whispered:

"Aunt has found out the slit, and poor I will be set to the darning to-morrow."

The whole party were seated before Henry came in; he had been seeing John put up the carriage. John had been busy, and Henry trying to help—so Henry was not like the boy who helped his brother to do nothing.

"Well, Master Henry," said Miss Bessy, calling over to the other end of the table, "so you speak to my aunt, and say you are glad she is come, and you don't speak to me."

"Because, ma'am——" Henry began.

"Eh?" cried Miss Bessy, "don't call me ma'am;" and she burst into a giggle, which made Henry open his eyes and look very hard at her.

This made her laugh the more; and, as she had her teacup in her hand, she spilt a quantity of tea on the unfortunate black frock.

"Bessy," said Mrs. Goodriche gently, "you had better set down your cup and wipe your frock, or I shall have to ask Mrs. Fairchild to lend you one of Henry's pinafores."

"It is not hurt, aunt; it will all come out. I threw a cup of milk over it the other day, and no one could see the mark unless I stood quite opposite them, and they looked quite hard at it."

"Well, then, Miss Bessy," said Mrs. Goodriche, "when you wear that frock, or any other of your frocks which people should not look hard at, I would advise you to keep in the background."

"Aunt is making sport of me, Mrs. Fairchild," said Bessy, with another giggle; "do you know what she means? She is advising me, in her cunning way, always to keep in the background of company."

"Always?" said Mr. Fairchild, smiling; "why, have you not any dresses which would bear close inspection?"

"Not many, I fear!" replied Miss Bessy; "I was always uncommon unlucky in tearing my clothes and getting them stained."

"Suppose we say careless," said Mrs. Goodriche; "but it is no laughing matter, niece. Have you never heard the old saying, 'Wilful waste makes woful want'?"

"Well, well," replied the niece, with something like a sigh, "I can't help it—I never could;" but before Mrs. Goodriche could say another word, she cried out, "You have got a magpie—have you not, Henry?"

"How could you know that?" asked Henry.

"Sukey told me," she answered, "and Mary Lampet told her. Mary was with the person who gave you the magpie, when she sent it to you."

"Who is Mary Lampet?" said Henry.

"One of Bessy's new friends," said Mrs. Goodriche; "a woman who sometimes comes for a day's work to my house."

"And such a curious old body," said Miss Bessy; "she wears a blue striped petticoat, and she generally has a pipe in her mouth."

"Never mind her, my dear," said Mrs. Goodriche: "Mr. and Mrs. Fairchild and I have a good deal to say to each other; we do not often meet, and we wish to have our share of talking; it is not for one person, and that one of the youngest, to have all the talk to herself."

Instead of noticing this remark, Miss Bessy looked round the table.

"One, two, three, four, five, six, seven," she said; "aunt, you are wrong, I am not one of the youngest; there are three older, and three younger than me. I am Jack in the middle; and therefore I have a right to talk to the old people, and to the young ones too; and therefore I may talk most."

Henry was being gradually worked up by Miss Bessy to think that he might be as free as she was; and he began with, "Well now, is not that very odd?"

"My dear Henry," said Mr. Fairchild, "did not you hear Mrs. Goodriche say she thought that young people should not have all the talk to themselves?"

"Don't scold him," said Bessy; "he meant no harm."

Mrs. Goodriche looked distressed; her niece saw it, and was quiet for at least a minute or two, and then she began to talk again as if nothing had happened.

When tea was over, and everybody risen from the table, before it was settled what was to be done next, Henry walked out through the glass doors into the garden—he was going to feed Mag.

Bessy saw him, and called after him; he did not answer her—perhaps he did not hear her. She called again—he was farther off, and did not turn.

"You little rogue!" she cried out; "but I will pay you;" and off she ran after him.

He heard her step and her voice as she called him; he took to his heels through the shrubbery, and to the gate of the fold-yard—into the yard—round the barn—amongst the hay-ricks—across a new-mown field, and over a five-barred gate, using all his speed, and yet gaining no ground upon her; so back again then he came to where he knew John would be, and making up to him, he got so behind him that he put him between Bessy and himself.

There the three were in the fold-yard, Bessy trying to catch Henry, who was dodging about round John, when Mr. Fairchild, who had followed Bessy, came up.

"Miss Goodriche," he said, "let me lead you to your aunt, she is asking for you. My dear young lady," he added, drawing her a little aside, "let me venture to point out to you, as a father, that it is not becoming in a girl of your years to be romping with a servant man."

"I was after Henry, sir!" she replied: "it was after him I was going, sir, I assure you."

"I dare say you set off to run after Henry, my dear young lady," he replied; "but when I first saw you, you were pushing John about, first on one side and then on the other, in a way I should call romping; and am I not right when I say that I think, even now, you have not spoken one word to him, and that you only guess he is my servant John? What would you think, Miss Goodriche, if you were to see my daughter Lucy suddenly run and do the same by yonder labourer in that meadow?—and yet she may know him quite as well, if not better, than you do John."

"La! Mr. Fairchild," cried Miss Bessy, laughing, "how you do put things! I never thought what I was doing. It must have looked uncommon strange, but I hope I shan't do it again."

"Then you had better go in with me to your aunt, and if she approves, you shall help Lucy and Emily in their little gardens."



Mrs. Fairchild and Mrs. Goodriche were only waiting for Miss Bessy to follow the little girls into the garden; and there, whilst they worked and chatted together, Lucy and Emily and Miss Goodriche were employed in cutting off faded flowers, and picking up the dead leaves from the ground.



More about Bessy



It may be supposed that Mrs. Goodriche gave some good advice to her niece whilst they were in their room, for Miss Bessy came down looking rather sulky, and said very little at breakfast; only that she attempted several times to hold discourse with Lucy in whispers, for which they were quietly called to order by Lucy's father.

Mr. Fairchild said:

"You must not whisper at table, my dears, for we are met to make ourselves agreeable either by talking or attentive listening."

After breakfast Mrs. Fairchild said:

"As we hope your visit, Mrs. Goodriche, will be a long one, we will, if you please, go on with our plans. I shall go into my school-room with my little girls, and leave you and Bessy to yourselves; you will see us again about twelve o'clock."

"Very right," replied Mrs. Goodriche, with a smile; "and I trust that Bessy and I shall be as busy as you will be."

So Mrs. Goodriche went to her room, and when she came back with two large bags and several books, there was no Miss Bessy to be found.

She, however, was, for an old person, very active, with all her senses about her, and off she trotted after her niece, finding her, after some trouble, chattering to Mag, who was hung in a cage before the kitchen window. She brought her into the parlour, saying:

"Come, niece, let us follow a good example, and make the best use of these quiet morning hours."

Bessy muttered something which Mrs. Goodriche did not choose to hear, but when she got into the parlour, she threw herself back on the sofa as if she were dying of fatigue.

Mrs. Goodriche handed a Bible to her, saying:

"We will begin the morning with our best book: you shall read a chapter whilst I go on with my work; come, find your place—where did we leave off?"

Bessy opened the Bible, fetching at the same time a deep sigh, and, after some minutes, began to read.

Mrs. Goodriche could have sighed too, but she did not.

Bessy was a most careless reader; she hated all books; indeed, her aunt thought that, from never having been exercised in anything but learning columns of spelling, she had hardly the power of putting any sense, in her own mind, to the simplest story-book which could be put into her hands.

It was heavy work to sit and hear her blunder through a chapter; but, when that was finished, the kind aunt tried at some little explanation; after which she set her to write in a copy-book. Mrs. Goodriche dictated what she was to write: it was generally something of what she had herself said about the chapter; but what with blots, and bad spelling, and crooked lines, poor Bessy's book was not fit to be seen.

This exercise filled up nearly an hour, and a most heavy hour it was: and then Mrs. Goodriche produced a story-book—one lent to her by Mrs. Fairchild—which, being rather of a large size, did not quite appear to be only fit for children; what this book was I do not know.

"Now, my dear," she said, "you will have great pleasure in reading this book to me, I am sure; but before we begin I must fetch another bit of work: I have done what I brought down."

"La!" said Miss Bessy, "how fond you are of sewing!"

"Don't you remember, Bessy," replied Mrs. Goodriche, "that I never attend to anything you say when you begin with 'la'!"

"We always said it at school," she answered.

"May be so," replied Mrs. Goodriche, "and you may say it here, if you please; but, as I tell you, I shall never attend to anything you say when you put in any words of that kind."

"La!" cried Miss Bessy again, really not knowing that she was saying the word.

Mrs. Goodriche went up for her work, and when she returned, as she might have expected, her bird was flown; and when she looked for her, she saw her amongst some gooseberry bushes, feeding herself as fast as she could. When she got her into the parlour again, "Bessy," she said, "did you ever read the story of Dame Trot and her Cat?"

"I know it," answered Bessy.

"Now," added Mrs. Goodriche, "I am thinking that I am very like Dame Trot; she never left her house but she found her cat at some prank when she returned, and I never leave the room but I find you off and at some trick or another when I come back; but now for our book."

Bessy, before she took her book, rubbed her hands down the sides of her frock to clean them from any soil they might have got from the gooseberries. It was a new black cotton, with small white spots, and was none the better for having been made a hand-towel.

Mrs. Goodriche saw this neat trick, but she felt that if she found fault with everything amiss in her niece, she should have nothing else to do; so she let that pass.

Bessy, at last, opened the book and began to read.

The first story began with the account of a lady and gentleman who had one son and a daughter, of whom they were vastly fond, and whom they indulged in everything they could desire, which (as the writer sagely hinted) they had cause to repent before many years had passed.

"Whilst their children were little, there was nothing in the shape of toys which were not got for them; dolls, whips, tops, carts, and all other sorts of playthings, were heaped up in confusion in their play-room; but they were not content with wooden toys—they had no delight in those but to break them in pieces. They were ever greedy after nice things to eat, and when they got them, made themselves often sick by eating too much of them. Once Master Tommy actually ate up——"

In this place Bessy stopped to turn over a leaf with her thumb, and then went on, first repeating the last words of the first page.

"—Master Tommy actually ate up the real moon out of the sky."

"What! What!" cried Mrs. Goodriche; "ate the moon? Are you sure, Bessy?"



"Yes, it is here," replied Bessy; "the real moon out of the sky—these are the very words."

"Nonsense!" said Mrs. Goodriche; "dear child, you are reading nonsense; don't you perceive it?"

"I don't know," replied Bessy, gaping; "I was not attending—what is it?"

"Don't you know what you have been reading?" asked Mrs. Goodriche.

"To be sure I do," answered Bessy, "or how could I have told the words right?"

"But the sense?" asked Mrs. Goodriche.

"I was not happening," replied Bessy, "just to be thinking about that. I was thinking just then, aunt, of the horrid fright Sukey was in when the bricks came rolling down, and how she did scream."

"Give me the book," said Mrs. Goodriche, almost at the end of her patience; "we will read no more to-day; go up and fetch that unfortunate bombazine frock, it must be darned; you have no other here, or indeed made, but that you have on."

Away ran Bessy, glad to be moving; and when Mrs. Goodriche had looked at the book, she found that Bessy had turned over two leaves,—that Tommy had once eaten a whole pound-cake in a very short time, and that he had cried the whole of the evening for the real moon out of the sky.

It might have been thought, from the time that she was absent, that Bessy had gone to the top of the barn to fetch her frock; the truth is, that it was some time before she could find it; she had thrown it on the drawers when she had taken it off, and it had slipped down behind them, to use an expression of her own. It was all covered over with dust, and the trimming crumpled past recovery; but she gave it a good shaking, and down she came, not in the least troubled at the accident. When she got into the parlour, she found Lucy and Emily seated each with her small task of needlework; their other lessons were finished; and Mrs. Fairchild, too, appeared with her work.

Mrs. Goodriche had desired to hear the story in Emily's new book, and they were each to read four pages at once, then to pass the book; and they had settled to begin with the eldest.

"I always think," said Lucy, "that when everything is done but our work, it is so comfortable; and when there is to be reading, I work so fast."

There was a little delay whilst Bessy was set to darn, and then Mrs. Goodriche read her four pages, and read them very pleasantly. The book was next given to Mrs. Fairchild, who passed it to Bessy.

"Where does it begin?" she said.

"At the top of the ninth page, Bessy," said Mrs. Fairchild.

There was another pause; and then Bessy started much like a person running a race, reading as fast as she could, till, like the same runner, when he comes to a stumbling-stone, she broke down over the first hard word, which happened to be at the end of the second sentence.

Mrs. Fairchild gently set her right, and she went on a little till she came to another word, which she miscalled, so that Mrs. Goodriche, who had not heard the story before, could not understand what she was reading about.

Emily looked down, and became quite red.

Lucy looked up full of wonder, and half inclined to smile; but a gentle look from her mother reminded her what civility and kindness required of her. Her mother's look seemed to say, "You ought to pity and not to laugh at one who has not been so well taught as yourself;" and she instantly looked down, and seemed to give her whole thoughts to her work.

"Bessy," said Mrs. Goodriche, "you had best pass the book to Lucy; I am sure that you will try to improve yourself against the next time you are asked to read aloud in company."

"I shall never make much of reading, aunt," she answered carelessly; "I hate it so."

The reading then went on till one o'clock, and there was enough of the story left for another day. The work was then put up, and the children were at liberty till dinner-time; but the day was very hot, so there could be no walk till the evening.

"Now," said Mrs. Goodriche, "before we part, you shall see something out of this bag; it is full of pieces from my old great store-chest; there are three pieces of old brocade silk," and she spread them out on the table. They all looked as if they had been short sleeves; one was green, with purple and gold flowers as large as roses; another was pink, what is called clouded with blue, green, and violet: and the third was dove-colour, with running stripes of satin. "Now," she said, "each of you, my little girls, shall have one of these pieces, and you shall make what you please of it; and when you have made the best you can of the silk, you shall show your work to me, and I shall see who is worthy of more pieces, for I have more in this bag."

"If any of you, my dears," said Mrs. Fairchild, "should want little bits of ribbon or lining to help out what you wish to make, I shall gladly supply them; indeed," she added, "I may as well give what may be wanted now;" and having fetched a bag of odds and ends, she gave out some bits of coloured ribbon to suit the silks, with sewing silks and linings, such as her bag would afford, placing her gifts in equal portions on the three pieces of silk.

"And now," said Mrs. Goodriche, "who is to choose first?"

"Lucy and Emily," said Bessy; and Lucy wished Bessy to choose first. After a little while this matter was settled; Emily had the green with the golden flowers, Lucy the clouded pink, and Bessy the striped; but before they took them from the table, Mrs. Goodriche told them that they were only to have them on these conditions—that they were not to consult each other about the use they were to make of them; nor to get anybody to help in cutting them out, and not to tell what they were doing till they brought what they had made to her.

"Then, Lucy, you must not ask me," said Emily; "I will not ask you."

"I shall make no inquiries," said Mrs. Fairchild; "you may work at your things in any of your play hours excepting the walking time. Emily may work in my room, and Lucy in her own, because you must not be together; and if I come into my room, I shall not look at what you are doing, Emily."

Lucy and Emily took up their bits, all joy and delight, and full of thought; but Bessy was not so well pleased; she hated work as much as reading, and perhaps from the same reason, that she had neither got over the drudgery of work nor of reading. The beginning of all learning is dry, and stupid, and painful; but many things are delightful, when we can do them easily, which are most disagreeable when we first begin them.

After this day, things passed on till the end of the week much as we have said. Lucy and Emily were always very busy in their different places, from dinner to tea-time. Henry was often, at those times, with John; and where Miss Bessy was Mrs. Goodriche did not know, because she had proposed to go and work in Henry's arbour. Her aunt could not follow her everywhere, so she only made herself sure that she did not go beyond the garden, and she did not ask whether she spent half her time in the kitchen, for she was not afraid that Betty would hurt her.

"When am I to see the pieces of work?" said Mrs. Goodriche on the Saturday morning.

"Before tea, ma'am," replied Lucy; "Emily and I are ready, but we don't know whether Bessy is—we can wait if she is not."

"Oh, I am ready," answered Bessy; "my silk is done."

The tea-things were on the table when Emily came in first with an open basket—whatever was in it was hidden by a piece of white paper. Lucy followed with a neat little parcel, carefully rolled up; and Bessy followed, with a hand in one of her pockets, and a smile on her face, though she looked red and rather confused.

"I shall look at the little market-woman with her basket first," said Mrs. Goodriche; and Emily went up to her with a sweet pleasant smile, as if she felt sure that she had some very pretty things to show. She took up the white paper, and discovered three pin-cushions, very nicely made: they were so contrived that there was a gold and purple flower in the centre of each pin-cushion on both sides: the cushions were square, well stuffed, and pinched in the middle of each side; they had a tassel at every corner, made of the odd bits of silk roved, and to each of them was a long bit of ribbon. Emily's face flushed like a rosebud when she laid them on the table. "Very, very good," said Mrs. Goodriche; "and you did them all yourself?"

"Yes, ma'am," said Emily. "I made the insides first, and stuffed them with bran, before I put the silk on."

"Now for Lucy," said Mrs. Goodriche; and Lucy, opening her parcel, showed an old-fashioned housewife with many pockets: she had managed her silk so, that the clouds upon it formed borders for the outside and each pocket; she had overcast a piece of flannel for the needles, and put a card under that part of the housewife; she had lined it to make it strong, and had put some ribbon to tie it with, and had made a case for it of printed calico, and a button and a button-hole.

"Very, very good, too," said Mrs. Goodriche; "let it be placed by the pin-cushions; and now for Bessy."

Bessy began to giggle and to move herself about in a very uneasy way.

"If you have nothing to show, Bessy," said her aunt; "or if you are not ready, we will excuse you."

"It does not signify," answered Bessy, "I am as ready now as I ever shall be. I can make nothing of the silk."

"Have you lost it?" asked her aunt.

"No," she answered; "I have it—you may as well see it at once;" and diving again into her pocket, she brought out what looked very like a piece of blotting-paper which had been well used, and laid it on the table. "I could not help it," she said; "but I had it on the table one morning, when I was in this room alone, and I tumbled over the inkstand right upon it; and I thought it was lucky that almost all the ink had fallen on the silk, and not on the cloth; so, as it was spoiled already, I used it to wipe up the rest of the ink, and that is the whole truth."

Mrs. Goodriche, though vexed, could not keep herself from smiling, which Bessy seeing, tried to turn the whole affair into a laugh; but it was not a merry laugh.

"Well, take it away, my dear," said Mrs. Goodriche; "put it by to wipe your pens with;" and away ran Bessy out of the room, not to laugh when by herself, but to cry: and this, we are glad to say, was not the first time that the poor motherless girl had shed tears for her own follies within the last day or two.

When she had left the room, Mrs. Goodriche said:

"Poor young creature! I am sorry for her."

"Yes, ma'am," said Lucy, "because she has had no mamma for many years; but Emily and I begin to love her, she is so good-tempered."

"God will bless her," said Mrs. Fairchild; "He has shown His love by giving her a friend who will be a mother to her."

"But now, my little girls," said Mrs. Goodriche, "these things which you have made so prettily are your own."

"Thank you, ma'am," they both answered; "and may we do what we like with them?"

"To be sure," replied Mrs. Goodriche.

"Then," said Emily, "I shall give one to Mary Bush, and another to Margery, and another to Mrs. Trueman, for their best pin-cushions."

"And I shall give this housewife to nurse," said Lucy.

"I suppose," said Mrs. Goodriche, "that you will like to have them furnished for the poor women; I will give what pins and needles can be found on Monday morning; and at the same time I have for each of you a piece of nice flowered chintz for your dolls."

The little girls kissed the old lady with all their hearts, and ran away with the things which they had made: it was agreed that they were not to talk of them again before Bessy.



Bessy's Misfortunes



The Sunday morning was very fine, and there was a nice large party going to church together. We have not mentioned Mr. Somers lately, but he was still there, and very much beloved. His mother had lately come to live with him; she was a very old friend of Mrs. Goodriche, and when the two old ladies saw each other from their pews, they were vastly pleased. They hastened to meet each other after service; and Mrs. Somers begged all Mrs. Goodriche's party to come into the Parsonage House, which was close to the church.

Mrs. Fairchild said there were too many for all to go in; so she directed Betty to see the young ladies home: they had some way to walk, but had hardly got out of the village when Betty said:

"We shall surely have a shower—we shall be caught in the rain if we are not sharp."

"May we run, Betty?" asked Lucy and Emily; and having got leave, they set off at full speed, and got into the house just in time.

"Come, Miss Goodriche," said Betty; "you can run, I know, as well as the best of them, so why don't you set off too? As for me, I have not got my best bonnet on, for I foresaw there would be showers, and I have nothing else that can hurt. A very few drops would make that pretty crape bonnet of yours not fit to be seen."

"We shall be at home before the rain comes," said Bessy; "and I am sure that if it is only a few drops they will not hurt my bonnet; I want to stay with you. I want to ask you about the people I saw at church. Come, now, tell me, Betty, what was that family that sat just before us?"

Betty was walking away as fast as she could, and she answered:

"Miss, I can't stop to talk—it has begun to rain behind us on the hills; we shall have it in no time; and there is no house this way to run into."

"O la! Betty," cried Miss Bessy next; "my shoe-string is unpinned: do, for pity, lend me a big pin."

"Why, Miss," said Betty, "sure you don't pin your shoe-strings?"

"Only when I am in a hurry," she answered.

Betty found a pin, and the shoe was put to rights as well as might be; but two minutes at least were lost whilst this was being done.

"Now come on, Miss, as fast as you can," said Betty; "the drops are already falling on the dust at our feet."

They went on a few paces without another word, and then Miss Bessy screamed:

"Oh, Betty, the other string has gone snap: have you another pin?"

"Miss, Miss!" said Betty, fumbling for a pin, and in her hurry not being able to find one. Once more Miss Bessy was what soldiers call in marching order, and they made, may be, a hundred paces, without any other difficulty but the falling of the rain, though as yet it was only the skirts of the shower. The house was in view, and was not distant three hundred yards by the road, and somewhat less over a field.

"Let us go over the field," said Bessy.

"No, no," replied Betty, bustling on. "If the gate on the other side should be locked—and John often keeps it so—we should be quite at fault."

"And what sort of a gate must it be," said Bessy, "that you and I could not get over?"

"We had better keep the road, Miss," replied Betty; "the grass must be wet already with the little rain which is come."

"And yet it has scarce laid the dust in the road," returned Bessy; "so if you choose to keep to the road, I shall take the field; so good-bye to you;" and the next minute she was over the stile, and running across the grass.

Betty looked after her a minute, and then saying, "Those who have the care of you have their hands full," she hurried on; but with all her haste she was like one who had been dipped in a well before she got in.

Almost the moment in which the two had parted, the shower had come down in right good earnest, driving and gathering and splashing the dust up on Betty's white stockings, and causing her to be very glad that she had not put on her best-made bonnet and new black ribbons. Betty had never worn a coloured bonnet in her life.

In the meantime Miss Bessy was flying along the field, throwing up the wet at every step from the long grass. The pins in her shoes at first acted as spurs, pricking her for many steps, and then crooking and giving way; so that she had the comfort of running slipshod the rest of the way. Her shoes, being of stuff, were so thoroughly soaked, in a little time, that they became quite heavy. The gate at the end of the field was locked, of course; who ever came to the end of a field in a pelting shower, and did not find it locked? It was a five-barred gate, and Bessy could have got over it easily if John had not most carefully interlaced the two upper bars with thorns and brambles—for what purpose we don't know, but so it was.

Bessy tried to pull some of them out, and in so doing thoroughly soaked her gloves, and then only succeeded in pulling aside one or two of them; but she mounted the gate, and in coming down, her foot slipping, she fell flat on the ground, leaving part of her frock on the thorns, which at the time she did not perceive.

"It can't be helped," she thought, as she rose again, and ran on to the house without further misfortune. She thought herself lucky in getting in by the front door without being seen; and her aunt was not at home, which was another piece of luck, she believed; and she hastened to change her dress, cramming all her wet things into a closet in the room used for hanging up frocks and gowns when taken off. She did not, as it happened, throw her frock and bonnet on the floor of the closet; and she thought she had been very careful when she hung the frock on a peg and the bonnet over it. She had some trouble in getting off her wet gloves, which stuck as close to her hands as if they had been part of them; and these, with the shoes and other inferior parts of her dress, found their places on the floor of the closet. They were all out of the way before her aunt could come; for though it had ceased to rain as soon as she came in, she knew it would take some time for the walk from the Parsonage House.

Such good use did Bessy make of her time that she had clean linen and her everyday gown on before Mrs. Goodriche came in.

The first inquiry which Mrs. Fairchild and Mrs. Goodriche made was whether the young people and Betty had escaped the shower. Lucy, who knew no more than that they had all come in soon after each other, answered:

"Oh yes, but we had a run for it."

Betty was not there to tell her story, and Bessy thought it was quite as well to let the affair pass.

Thoughtful people often wonder how giddy ones can be so thoughtless as they are, and giddy ones wonder how their thoughtful friends can attend to so many things as they do. Many persons are naturally thoughtless, but this fault may be repaired by management in childhood. Poor Bessy had had no such careful management; and her carelessness had come to such a pass, that from the time in which she had hung up her wet and spoiled clothes in the closet, she troubled herself about them no more till the time came when she wanted to put them on.

Still, she learned much, as it proved, from the misfortunes of that Sunday. After dinner it began to pour again, and Mrs. Fairchild took Bessy with her own children into a quiet room, and there she read the Bible and talked to them. Having been well used to talk to children and young people, she made all she said so pleasant, that Bessy was quite surprised when Betty knocked at the door and said tea was ready.

The rest of the Sunday evening passed off so very pleasantly that even Bessy yawned only three times, and that was just before supper—and yet it rained—rained—rained.

The next morning rose in great brightness, promising a charming day. The forenoon was spent as usual; and after the lessons and work, Mrs. Goodriche furnished the pin-cushions and the housewife, and gave out the two pieces of chintz for the dolls' frocks; and so busy were the old lady and the little girls, that it was time to lay the cloth for dinner before the things were quite put away.

Whilst all this business was going on, Bessy was somewhere about in the garden.

Now it was not a very common thing for a loud knock to be heard at Mr. Fairchild's door. But it was Mr. Somers who knocked, and he came in all in a hurry. He came to say that a lady, who lived about two miles distant in another parish, had called. He told the lady's name to Mrs. Fairchild: and Mrs. Fairchild said she knew her, though they had not visited. This lady had a nice house and a pretty orchard; and she had come, only an hour before, to say that Miss Pimlico, with all her young ladies, were coming to spend the evening with her, and that they were to have tea in the open air, and to amuse themselves in any way they liked. The lady hoped that Mr. Somers and his mother would come, and that they would, if possible, bring with them Mr. and Mrs. Fairchild and their nice children, and make a pleasant evening of it.

"We told her that Mrs. Goodriche and her niece were at Mr. Fairchild's," added Mr. Somers; "and she said, 'Let them come also, by all means; the more the merrier;' and then she kindly entered into what carriages we could muster.

"I told her," he continued, "that Mr. Fairchild had a carriage which would hold two grown-up persons and three little ones, and that mine could do as much if needful; proving that we had even one seat to spare—so come, you must all go. Mrs. Goodriche and my mother shall have the back seat of my carriage, and I shall make interest for Miss Lucy to sit by me in the front seat."

All the children present looked anxiously to hear Mr. Fairchild's answer, and glad were they when they heard him say, "At what hour should we be ready?"

"At four I shall hope to call for Mrs. Goodriche and Miss Lucy," said Mr. Somers. "I have a poor woman to call on by the way, if this lady does not object. We may therefore set out about half an hour before you. So now, good-bye;" and he walked away.



How merry and happy were the faces round the table at dinner! Mrs. Goodriche and Lucy had only just time to get ready before Mr. Somers came for them.

When they were gone the rest of the party found it was time to get dressed. John brought the carriage to the gate at the time fixed; and Henry, who had been watching for it ever since he had been dressed, came in to give notice. Emily and her father immediately went to the gate; and Mrs. Fairchild, thinking that Bessy might want a little attention and help, went to her room. As she knocked at the door she thought she heard low sobs within; she called Bessy twice, and no answer being given she walked in.

There was a sight indeed! Bessy was sitting at the foot of the bed without a frock, and sobbing and crying most piteously. On the floor, on one side of her, were her best shoes, shrunk up and wrinkled and covered with mud in the most extraordinary way. In another part of the floor lay the unfortunate frock, all draggled and splashed round the bottom, and, as Mrs. Fairchild could see without lifting it up, wanting a part of one breadth. On the drawers was the bonnet, which was of reeved crape made upon wire, and not one at all suited for a careless girl; but it was made by a milliner at Plymouth. What with soaking, crumpling, and here and there a rent from some bough, it had lost all appearance of what it had been: it looked a heap of old crape gathered carelessly together; and the pair of gloves, much in the state of the shoes, were lying near the bonnet on the drawers.

"Oh, ma'am! Oh, Mrs. Fairchild!" cried the unfortunate Bessy, "what can I do? What shall I do?"

Mrs. Fairchild lifted up the dress, but as hastily laid it down again, for she saw it would take some hours to make it fit to be worn. The bonnet, shoes, and gloves all equally required time and attention.

"I am afraid," she said kindly, "it will not do for you to attempt to put on these things; and, what is worse, I have none that will fit you. My dresses are as much too large as Lucy's are too small."

"Oh, do, dear Mrs. Fairchild," cried the sobbing Bessy, "at least, let me try one of your gowns."

Though aware the attempt would be useless, the kind lady brought one of her white dresses, to see if anyhow it could be made to fit; but even Bessy, after a while, acknowledged it would not do, being so very much too large for her.

Mrs. Fairchild next examined the young lady's everyday cotton; but, alas! that was too dirty to think of its being shown beside the best dresses of the other little misses. Then, too, if a dress could have been procured, bonnet, shoes, and gloves would have also been requisite; and these could not have been obtained even amongst Miss Bessy's own clothes; for if her best were unfit to be seen, her commoner ones were scarce worth picking up in the street.

"It will not do, I see," said Miss Bessy; "you had better go without me, Mrs. Fairchild."

"I am afraid it must be as you say," replied that lady, "and most sincerely sorry am I for you, my dear."

So saying, she left the room, and then came another burst of tears, and more sobs, for three or four minutes afterwards.

Bessy, who still sat on the bed, heard the carriage drive away. "Oh, how cruel!" she thought, or rather spoke—"how cruel of Mrs. Fairchild to go away, and hardly to say one word to me! But I know she despises me; she can think nobody worth anything but her own children:" then there was another burst of tears, and more sobs.

After a little time, all spent in crying, she heard her door open again, and turning round, she saw Mrs. Fairchild come in without her bonnet, in her usual dress, and with a work-bag in her hand. She came straight up to the weeping girl, and kissing her, "Now, Bessy," she said, "wipe away those tears, and we will have a happy and, I hope, useful evening. Betty will be ready to help us immediately, and we shall set to work and see what we can do in putting your things to rights. The carriage is gone with all the rest of the party, and I have sent a message to your aunt by Mr. Fairchild. He will make the best of the affair, and if you will help, we will try to put all these things to rights."

"Oh, Mrs. Fairchild," said Bessy, throwing herself into her arms, "and have you given up your pleasure for such a naughty girl as I am?"

"I have given up no pleasure so great as I shall receive, dear Miss Goodriche, if I can see you trying to do right this evening: trying for once to work hard, and to overcome those habits which give your aunt so much pain. Come, put on your frock, and let us set to work immediately."

The eyes of poor Bessy again filled with tears, but they were tears of gratitude and love; and she hastened to put on her frock, and then do anything which Mrs. Fairchild directed: and, first of all, the crape trimmings were taken from the bonnet and the skirt of the frock; Betty was then called, and she took them to her kitchen to do what might be done to restore them. The shoes were sent to John to stretch on a last, and to brush; and Mrs. Fairchild produced some pieces of bombazine from her store, and having matched the colours as well as she could, she carefully pinned the piecing, and gave it to Bessy to sew.

Poor Bessy's fingers had never plied so quickly and so carefully before. They were put in motion by a feeling of the warmest gratitude and love for Mrs. Fairchild.

No punishment, no severity, could have produced the effect wrought by this well-timed kindness of Mrs. Fairchild; and it gave to her the sweetest hopes of poor Bessy, when she observed how strongly and deeply she felt that kindness.

They worked and talked till tea-time, and after tea they set to work again. Betty came up about seven o'clock with the crape and the bonnet, the plaitings of which—for it was a reeved bonnet—she had smoothed with a small Italian iron, and restored wonderfully. Then she sat down and sewed with Miss Bessy at the frock, whilst Mrs. Fairchild trimmed the bonnet.

At eight o'clock the work was got on so finely that Bessy cried out:

"Another half-hour, if they will but stay away, and it will be done; and oh, how I do thank you, dear Mrs. Fairchild, and dear Betty! I will really try in future to do better; I never wished to do better as I do now."

"There is an early moon, miss," said Betty; "I should not wonder if they stayed till it was up."

It struck nine, and they were not come; another five minutes and the work was finished. Bessy jumped up from the foot of the bed and kissed Mrs. Fairchild first, and then Betty; and then came a bustle to put everything away.

Mrs. Fairchild showed Bessy how to lay aside her bonnet in the bandbox, and her frock in a drawer, with a clean handkerchief over each. The tippet, which was the only one thing which had escaped mischief, for the plain reason that it had not been worn on the Sunday with the frock, was laid in the same drawer; and then the needles and silk and cotton were collected, and the bits and shreds picked up, and the room restored to order as if nothing wonderful had happened.

The last thing Mrs. Fairchild did in that room was to take up the gloves and give them to Betty, to see what could be done with them the next day, and then she, with the happy young girl, put on shawls and walked on the gravel before the house, for it was still hot.

"Well, we have had a happy, happy evening, dear Mrs. Fairchild," said Bessy; "I never thought I should love you so much."

The party did not come home till ten o'clock; they had had such an evening as Lucy and Emily had never known before; but they had often thought of poor Bessy, and wished for her many times, and their mother too. Mrs. Goodriche had also been uneasy about Bessy. How surprised, then, they were to see her looking so cheerful, and Mrs. Fairchild also seeming to be equally happy.

"I will tell you all about it when we get to our room, aunt," whispered Bessy; "but I do not deserve such kindness. Mrs. Fairchild says I had better not speak about it now."

They had had tea and a handsome supper; so when they had talked the evening over, and Mr. Fairchild had read a chapter, they all went to their rooms.



The History of Little Bernard Low



The rest of Mrs. Goodriche's visit passed off very quietly and very pleasantly. Bessy became from day to day more manageable, and Lucy and Emily began to love her very much.

Mrs. Goodriche was inquiring everywhere for a house close by, and there was none which seemed as if it could be made to suit her. She and Bessy returned home therefore at the end of a fortnight, and Bessy was very sorry to leave her young friends.

It was four or five days after Mrs. Goodriche had left them before Mr. Fairchild proposed that they should read that famous book which Henry talked so much about.

"But where shall we go to read it?" he asked.

"Oh! to the hut in the wood, papa, if you please," answered Lucy; and in less than an hour everybody was ready to set out: and when everybody was seated as they had been the time before, the book was opened, and Lucy waited to read only till Henry and Emily had seen the picture at the beginning. I will tell you what the picture was when we come to the place of it in the story.

The History of Little Bernard Low

THE STORY IN HENRY'S BOOK

"Mr. Low was a clergyman, and had a good living in that part of this country where the hills of Wales extend towards the plains of England, forming sweet valleys, often covered with woods, and rendered fruitful and beautiful by rills which have their sources in the distant hills.

"Mr. Low never had but one brother; this brother had been a wild boy, and had run away many years before, and never had been heard of since.

"The name of the valley in which Mr. Low's living was situated was Rookdale; his own house stood alone amongst woods and waterfalls, but there was a village nearer to the mouth of the valley, and in that village, besides some farmers and many cottagers, lived another clergyman of the name of Evans. He was a worthy humble man, and came from the very wildest parts of Wales. He was a needy man, and was forced to work hard to get a decent living for himself, his sister, Miss Grizzy Evans, and an orphan nephew, Stephen Poppleton. Mr. Low gave him fifty pounds a year to help him in the care of his parish, which spread far and wide over the high grounds which surrounded Rookdale; and he added something to his gains by teaching the children of the farmers in the parish, and by taking in two or three boys as boarders; he could not take many, because his house was small and inconvenient. We shall know more of Mr. Evans when we have read the few next pages.

"Mr. Low's living was a very good one, and brought in much money. The house too was good, and he kept several servants, and lived handsomely. He had had four children, but two of them were dead. Mr. Low had but one daughter, her name was Lucilla; and the two eldest were sons, Alfred and Henry. Henry died a baby, but Alfred lived till he was eight years old, and then died, and was buried by the side of his infant brother. The fourth and last child of Mr. and Mrs. Low was Bernard; he was more than five years younger than Lucilla.

"When Bernard was born, it seemed as if no one could make too much of him. The old woman, Susan Berkley, who had been Mr. Low's own nurse, and had always lived in the family, was so fond of Bernard that she could not refuse him anything; and Mrs. Low was what people call so wrapped up in her boy, that she could never make enough of him. In this respect she was very weak, but those who have lost children well know how strong the temptation is to over-indulge those who are left. At first Mr. Low did not observe how far these plans of indulgence were being carried; indeed, he did not open his eyes fully to the mischief till Bernard was become one of the most troublesome, selfish boys in the whole valley. At five years old he was the torment of the whole house, though even then he was cunning enough to hide some of his worst tempers from his father. He had found out that when he pretended to be ill, mother, nurse, and sister were all frightened out of their senses, and that at such times he could get his way in everything, however improper. He did not care what pain he gave them if he could get what he wanted.

"His father, however, did at length find out the mischief that was going on; and as he feared that his wife and nurse would not have the firmness to check the boy if he remained always at home, he proposed that Bernard should be sent as a day boarder to Mr. Evans. His father wished that he should go every morning after breakfast, dine at school, and return to tea.

"'I have been much to blame,' said Mr. Low, 'in not speaking before of the way in which Bernard has been managed. I blame myself greatly for this neglect, and I now feel that no more time must be lost; and I think it will be easier for us to part with him for a few hours every day, than to send him to a distance.'

"Mrs. Low was a gentle person, and wished to do right; she shed tears, but made no resistance. Lucilla thought that her papa was right; she had lately seen how naughty Bernard was getting; so Mr. Low had no opposition either from his wife or daughter. When nurse, however, was told that her darling was to go to school to Parson Evans, she was very angry; and though she did not dare to speak her mind to her master, she had no fear of telling it to her mistress and the young lady.

"'Well, to be sure,' she said, 'master has curious notions, to think of sending such a delicate babe as Master Bernard to be kicked about by a parcel of boys, and to be made to eat anything that's set before him, whether he likes it or not. So good a child as he is too: so meek and so tender, that if he but suspects a cross word, he is ready to jump out of himself, and falls a-crying and quaking, and won't be appeased anyhow, till the fit's over with him. Indeed, mistress, if you give him up in this point, I won't say what the consequences may be.'

"'But, nurse,' said Lucilla, 'really Bernard does want to be kept a little in order.'

"'And that from you, Miss?' answered the nurse; 'what would you feel, was you to see him laid in his grave beside his precious little brothers?'

"Lucilla could not answer this question, and Mrs. Low could not speak for weeping; so nurse was left to say all she chose; and as Bernard came in before she had cooled herself down, she told him what was proposed, and said it would break her heart to part with him only for a few hours every day.

"On hearing this, Bernard thought it a proper occasion to show off his meek spirit, and so much noise did he make, and so rebellious and stubborn was his behaviour, that his father, who heard him from a distance, made up his mind to go that very evening to speak about him to Mr. Evans. Mr. Low did not find the worthy man at home; he had walked out with his nephew and three boys who boarded in the house; but Mr. Low found Miss Evans in a small parlour, dressed, as she always was in an evening, with some pretensions to fashion and smartness: she was very busy with a huge basket of stockings, which she was mending.

"When Mr. Low told her his business, she was quite delighted, for she had lived in that humble village till she thought Mr. Low one of the greatest men in the world, because she never saw any greater. She answered for her brother that he would receive Master Bernard and give him every care; 'and for me, sir,' she added, 'I promise you that the young gentleman shall have the best of everything our poor table will afford.'

"'I wish,' replied Mr. Low, 'that he may be treated exactly as the other boys, my good madam, and no bustle whatever made with him.'

"Soon after Mr. Low was gone, Mr. Evans and his nephew, and three pupils, passed the parlour window. Miss Grizzy tapped on the glass, and beckoned to her brother to come to her, which he did, immediately followed by his nephew.

"'Who do you think has been here, brother, whilst you have been out?' said she; 'who but Mr. Low?' and she told him what Mr. Low had come for, and that she had undertaken that Master Bernard should be received.

"'Very good, sister,' replied Mr. Evans, 'all is well;' and he went out again at the parlour door, seeming to be much pleased. Stephen remained behind, and the moment the door was shut, he said:

"'You seem to be much set up, Aunt Grizzy, at the thought of this boy's coming; you must know, surely, that he is a shocking spoiled child, and that there will be no possibility of pleasing him.'

"'We must try, however,' answered Miss Evans; 'I know, as well as you can do, what he is, a little proud, petted, selfish thing: for is he not the talk of the parish? I have often wondered how Mr. Low could have been so long blind to the need of sending him to school; but then think, nephew, Mr. Low offers as much as if the boy boarded here entirely, and he is only to dine; and I doubt not but that there will be pretty presents too—you know that both Mr. and Mrs. Low are very thoughtful in that way.'

"'But if you can't keep the little plague in good humour,' answered Stephen, 'instead of presents we may have disputes and quarrels; and where will you be then, aunt?'

"'I hope, Stephen, that you will not be creating these quarrels; that you will bear and forbear, and pay Master Low proper respect, and see that Meekin and Griffith and Price do the same: you know well that not one of them are of such high families as Master Low.'

"'You had best not say that to Griffith, aunt,' answered Stephen; 'he has a very high notion, I can tell you, of his family, though his father is only a shopkeeper.'

"Miss Evans put up her lip and said:

"'Well, mind me, Stephen, no quarrelling, I say, with Master Low, at least on your part; so now walk off to your place.'

"When nurse had said all that was in her mind, she became more calm upon the subject of Bernard's going to school; and so thoroughly did the child tease during the few days that passed before he went, that she was almost obliged to confess to herself that it was not altogether a very bad thing that he was to have lessons to learn, and some employment from home during part of every day.

"But when Bernard was actually to go, there was such a to-do about it, that he might just as well have stayed at home, as to any good which might be expected from it in the way of making him think less of himself.



"Lucilla had had a little pony for several years; this pony was to be saddled for Bernard, and he was to ride to and from school, whilst a servant attended him. His mother took the occasion to send a present of fruit and nice vegetables by this servant to Miss Grizzy; and there was a note written to Mr. Evans all about Bernard, and a great deal said in it about getting his feet wet; and shoes were sent that he might change them when he came in from play. Nurse also was sent down about two hours after him, with some messages to Miss Evans and to hear how the darling got on.

"Bernard was very sulky all that first morning. He was quite eight years old; Mr. Evans therefore was much surprised at his being a very poor reader. Indeed he could not in any way stammer out the first chapter in the Bible, and Mr. Evans was obliged to put him into the spelling-book at the first page. He called him up between each Latin lesson he gave, but found that each time he called him, he read rather worse than the time before. The simple truth is that he did not choose to do better.

"Griffith whispered to Meekin, the last time Bernard was up, 'Mind what I say, he is no better than a fool;' and Meekin passed the same words to Price, and then it was a settled thing with these three boys, that Bernard Low was a fool, and a very proper person to play any fun upon.

"But whilst these boys were settling this matter amongst them, Miss Grizzy had sent for Stephen into the parlour, and given him some of the fine pears and walnuts which Mrs. Low had sent.

"'Here, nephew,' she said, 'is the earnest of many more little presents which we may expect; but everything depends on your behaviour to the boy. We must keep him in good humour—we must show him every possible favour in a quiet way, and you must not let Griffith and the others tease him.'

"'This is an uncommon good pear,' said Stephen, as he bit a great piece out of one of them.

"'Is it not?' replied his aunt; 'but, Stephen, do you hear me? you must not let Griffith be playing his tricks on Master Low.'

"'I understand,' answered Stephen, taking another bite at the pear. 'Don't you think I know on which side my bread is buttered yet, aunt?' he asked; 'though I am near fifteen years of age, and half through Homer? but you must allow that Bernard Low is an abominably disagreeable fellow, and one that one should like to duck in a horse-pond—a whining, puling, mother-spoiled brat; however, I will see that he shan't be quizzed to his face, and I suppose that's all you require, is not it?'

"So he put all that remained of what his aunt had given him of the fruit into his pocket, for himself, and left the room. He went straight to the yard where the boys played, and scarcely got there in time to hinder Griffith from beginning his tricks with Bernard, for he had got a piece of whipcord, and was insisting that the boy should be tied with it between Meekin and Price, and that they should be the team and he the driver; and a pretty run would the first and last horse have given the middle one, had Griffith's plan been executed.

"Bernard was already beginning to whine and put his finger in his eye, when Stephen came in and called out:

"'Eh, what's that there? David Griffith, let the child alone; he has not been used to your horseplay.'

"And as Stephen was much bigger and stronger than the other boys, they all thought it best to give way.

"Bernard was let off, and he walked away, not in the best of tempers, into the house, and into Miss Evans's own parlour, where she was seated at her usual employment, darning stockings.

"'Well, Master Low,' she said, 'I hope you find everything agreeable; I am sure it shall not be my fault if you do not; you have only to say the word and anything you don't like shall be changed, if it is in my power.'

"'I don't like that boy,' answered Bernard; 'that David Griffith.'

"'Never mind him, never mind him, Master Low,' replied Miss Evans; 'any time that he don't make himself agreeable, only come to me; I am always glad to see you here to sit in my parlour, and warm yourself if it is cold. You know how much I respect your papa and mamma; there is nothing I would not do for them.'

"Bernard had been so much used to flattery and fond words, that he did not value them at all; he thought that they were only his due; and he did not so much as say 'Thank you' to Miss Evans, nor even look smiling nor pleasant; but he walked up to her round table, and curiously eyed the large worsted stocking which she was darning—'Whose is that?' he said.

"'My brother's, Master Low,' she answered.

"'Does he wear such things as those?' said Bernard; 'but I suppose he must, because he is poor, and a curate, and a schoolmaster—my papa wears silk.'

"'Your papa,' said Miss Evans, 'is a rich man, Master Low, and a rector; and he can afford many things we must not think of.'

"'When shall we dine?' asked the boy.

"'Very soon, my dear,' answered Miss Evans.

"And then Master Bernard turned off to some other question, as impertinently expressed as those he had put before.

"The dinner was set out in the room used for a schoolroom; an ill-shaped room, with walls that had been washed with salmon colour, but which were all scratched and inked. Each boy had a stool to sit upon; the cloth was coarse, though clean, and all the things set upon the table were coarse also.

"When called to dinner by a rough maidservant, Miss Evans led Bernard in by the hand, and set him by herself on a chair at the head of the table.

"'Sister,' said Mr. Evans, in a low voice, 'last come, last served—Master Low should sit below Price.'

"'Leave me to judge for myself, brother,' answered Miss Evans; 'you may depend on my judgment.'

"And Bernard kept his seat, and had the nicest bits placed on his plate.

"Bernard would have been quite as well contented, or, perhaps we may say, not in the least more discontented, had he been set down at once in his proper place, and served after the other boys.

"Then the other boys were not quite pleased; but Stephen was told to tell them that Master Low was a parlour-boarder; and though they did not quite understand what a parlour-boarder meant, they thought it meant something, and that Bernard was to have some indulgences which they were not to have.

"Many a trick would they have played him, no doubt, if Stephen had not watched them. But as Stephen hated the spoiled child as much as they did, he never hindered their speaking ill of him, and quizzing him, when he did not hear or understand.

"Griffith soon gave him a nickname—this name was Noddy; there was no wit in it, but the boys found great amusement in talking of this Noddy, and of all his faults and follies, before the face of Bernard himself. When he asked who this Noddy was, they told him that they were sure he must have seen him very often, for his family lived at Rookdale.

"Mr. Evans himself was the only person in the family at school who really strove to do his duty by Bernard—he gave his heart to improve him; and he did get him on in his learning more than might have been expected. But there were too many things against the poor child to make it possible for him to improve his temper and his character.

"He went to school from the autumn until Christmas: at Christmas he was at home for a month, and made even his nurse long for the end of the holidays; and then he went again after the holidays, and continued to go every day till the spring appeared again. There was no intention then of changing the plan, though Mr. Low was not at all satisfied with him.

"Bernard was now become so cunning that he did not show the worst of his tempers before his father, nor even before his mother; but to his sister he appeared just as he was, and he often made her very, very sad by his naughty ways.

"Lucilla was one of those young people who love God and all their fellow-creatures, and desire to do them good. She had always loved Bernard, and she loved him still, though she saw him getting more and more naughty from day to day. She believed, however, that he still loved her as well as he could love any person besides himself, and she thought a long time of some way which she might take to make him sensible of his faults.

"During that winter she had often spoken to him in her kind and gentle way, and shown him the certain end of evil behaviour; but she felt that he paid no more attention to her than he would have done to the buzzing of a fly; but now that the spring was come, and they could get out together into the fields and gardens and woods, before and after school-time, and on half-holidays, she thought she might have a better chance with him, and she formed a thousand plans for making the time they might thus pass together pleasant, before she could hit upon one which she thought might do.

"In a shadowy and sweet nook of the garden was an artificial piece of rock-work, which her mother, when first married, had caused to be made there, the fragments of rock having been brought from a little distance. There Lucilla, with the gardener's assistance, scooped a hollow place, a few feet square, and arranged a pretty little hermitage: dressing a doll like an old man, and painting a piece of glass to fix in the back of the hermitage, to look like the window of a chapel. She next sent and bought a few common tools, and thought, as Bernard was very fond of clipping and cutting, she could tempt him to work to help finish this hermitage. There was a root-house close to the place, where she thought they might set to work at this business. 'And if I can but engage Bernard,' she said to herself, 'to use his fingers, I might perhaps now and then say something to soften him, and make him feel it is wrong to go on as he does.'

"Mr. Evans always gave a week's holiday at Whitsuntide, and Lucilla thought that this should be her time for trying what she could do with Bernard."



Second Part of the History of Little Bernard Low



SECOND PART OF HENRY'S STORY

"Meekin and Griffith and Price went home to spend the Whitsun holidays on the Saturday evening, and Bernard came home also, with the expectation of an idle time, which was to last till the Monday after the next.

"The weather was very fine; all the early shrubs and flowers were in bloom, the cuckoo was still in the woods, and the leaves had not lost their tender young green.

"The young men in Rookdale were very fond of ringing the bells when there was a holiday, and they rang away great part of Sunday and of Monday also.

"The bells were soft and sweet, though rather sad; but the lads in the belfry found nothing sad in pulling at the ropes, and going up and down with them.

"Lucilla missed Bernard during several hours of the Sunday; she did not guess that he had gone into the belfry with the young men, and that he had persuaded the cook to give him a jug of beer to send to them. The men would not let him pull a bell, as he was not strong enough—even the beer would not tempt them.

"The Monday morning was as bright as the Sunday had been, and it was enough to make the old young again to hear the man who was mowing the lawn whetting his scythe whilst the dew was on the grass, and the various songs of the birds in the trees.

"Lucilla had fixed upon this day to show Bernard the hermitage; but she was rather put out, when she came down to breakfast, to see that there was a very sulky flush on his cheeks, and that he was complaining of his father to his mother, whilst his father was not in the room.

"'Now, mamma,' said Bernard, 'do ask papa; it's a holiday, and a fine day, and I want to go. And why can't I go? Papa is so cross.'

"'My dear, you can't go to L—— (that was the nearest town to Rookdale) to-day,' replied his mother; 'your papa is too busy to ride with you.'

"'Can't John go?' asked Bernard.

"'He is engaged also,' said Mrs. Low.

"'Can't Ralph go?' returned Bernard.

"'Ralph is too young to be trusted with your papa's horse,' said Mrs. Low.

"'But I must go.'

"'But indeed you can't.'

"'I can walk. What's to hinder my walking?'

"'Now do be content, my dear—stay with your sister—she has nothing to do but to be with you;' and thus the mother and son went on until Mr. Low came in, and then Bernard became what Griffith would have called glum, for Griffith used many odd words.

"There was no more said about going to L—— after Mr. Low came in; but it was quite certain that Bernard's sour looks were not lost on his father.

"When breakfast was over, Lucilla said:

"'Now, Bernard, come with me—I have a pleasure for you.' When she had put on her bonnet she led him to her grotto, and showed him what she had done already, and gave him the tools and some little bits of wood, and said, 'Now you must make my hermit a table and a chair—he must have a table; and whilst you make these I will finish his dress, and fasten the flax on for his beard, and make him a rosary with beads.'

"Lucilla watched her brother's face whilst she showed him the things, and told him what she hoped he would do; and she saw that he never smiled once. Spoiled children sometimes laugh loud, but they smile very little; they have generally very grave faces.

"When they had looked at the grotto, they went into the root-house; there were seats round it, and a table in the middle. Lucilla sat down, and pulled her needle and thread and beads and bits of silk and cloth out of her basket; and Bernard sat down too with the tools and bits of wood and board before him.

"He first took up one tool and then another, and examined them, and called them over. There was a nail-passer, and a hammer, and a strong knife, and one or two more things very useful to a young boy in making toys, or anything else in a small way; in short, everything that was safe for such a one to have. But Bernard was out of humour, and looked for something to find fault with, so of course he could find nothing to please him.

"'This nail-driver is too small, Lucilla,' he said; 'where did you get it?'

"'At L——,' she answered.

"'What did you give for it?' he asked. 'If you gave much, they have cheated you; and the hammer, what did you give for that?'

"Lucilla either did not remember, or did not choose to tell him; and, without noticing his questions, she said:

"'What will you make first?'

"Bernard did not answer.

"'Suppose you take this little square bit of deal,' said Lucilla, 'and put legs to it, Bernard?'

"The boy took up the deal, turned it about, and, as Lucilla hoped, was about to prepare a leg; for he took up a slender slip of wood, and began paring it. She then went on with her work, looking up from time to time, whilst Bernard went on cutting the slip. He pared and pared, and notched awhile, till that slip was reduced to mere splinters. Still Lucilla seemed to take no notice, but began to talk of anything she could think of. Amongst other things, she talked of the pleasant week they had before them, and of a scheme which their father had proposed of their all going to drink tea some evening at a cottage in the wood; she said, how pleasant it would be for them all to be together. No answer again—Bernard had just spoiled another slip of wood, which he finished off by wilfully snapping it in two; after which he stared his sister full in the face, as if he was resolved to make her notice him.

"She saw what he was about, and therefore seemed as if she did not even see him. She was sad, but she went on talking. The bells had struck up again: they sounded sweetly, and they seemed sometimes to come as if directly from the church, and then again as if from the woods and hills on the opposite side. Lucilla remarked how odd this was, and said she could not account for it; and then she added, 'Do you know, Bernard, that I never hear bells ring without thinking of Alfred? he used to love to hear them; he called them music, and once asked me if there would be bells in heaven. I was very little then, only in my seventh year, and I told him that there would be golden bells in heaven, because the pilgrims had heard them ring when they were waiting in the Land of Beulah to go over the River of Death.'

"'I say,' said Bernard, 'these bits of wood are not worth burning.'

"'You cut into them too deeply,' answered Lucilla.

"'There goes!' returned Bernard, snapping another; then, laying down the knife, he took up the nail-passer, using it to bore a hole in the board which formed the table of the root-house.

"'You must not do that,' said Lucilla, almost drawn out of her patience.

"'Who says so?' answered Bernard.

"'It is mischief,' said Lucilla. 'It is papa's table; he will be vexed if he sees it.'

"'What for?' said the tiresome boy.

"Lucilla did not answer.

"'What for?' repeated Bernard, throwing down the nail-passer, and taking up the hammer, with which he knocked away on the place where he had made the hole.

"'Oh, my beads!' cried his sister; for the hammering had overturned the little box in which they were, and she had only time to save them, or most of them, from rolling down on the gravel.

"'Well,' said Bernard, 'if that does not please you, what can I do next?'

"Lucilla sighed; she could not speak at the moment, she was so very sad, and so much disappointed.

"'I thought,' said Bernard, after a minute, 'that you promised me a pleasure. What is it?'

"Lucilla's eyes filled with tears; she rubbed them hastily away, and went on working, though without any delight in her work.

"Bernard yawned, then stretched; and after a while he said:

"'Come, Lucilla, let us have a walk.'

"'Anything,' thought Lucilla, 'that will put you into a better state of mind.' So she gathered up her work, put it into her basket, and arose, leaving the tools and the work on her table; then, giving one sad look at her grotto, she led the way to a wicket not very far off, which opened on a path made by her father through some part of the large and beautiful wood which skirted part of the garden. Bernard followed her, and they went on together for some time in silence.

"The path first led them down into a deep hollow, through the bottom of which ran a pure stream of water, which had its source in the hills above. The rays of the sun, which here and there shone through the trees, sparkled and danced in the running stream. A gentle breeze was rustling among the leaves; and besides the song of many birds, the clear note of the cuckoo was heard from some distance.

"The path led them to a little bridge of a single plank and a hand-rail, over which they crossed, and began to go up still among woods to the other side, where the bank was very much more steep.

"Still they spoke not: Lucilla was thinking of Bernard, and grieving for his wayward humours; and Bernard was thinking that Lucilla was not half such good company as Ralph the stable-boy, or even as Miss Evans or Stephen; and yet he had some sort of love for Lucilla, though he did not like her company. He was, however, the first to speak.

"'Lucilla,' he said, 'do you know a lad in the parish called Noddy?'

"'Noddy?' replied Lucilla.

"'There is such a one,' said Bernard; 'Griffith knows him well, and they say he is the oddest fellow—a sort of fool, and everybody's laughing-stock. They will have it that I have seen him often; but if I have, I don't know him.'

"'There may be many boys in the parish unknown to me,' answered Lucilla.

"'I have asked Ralph about him,' said Bernard; 'but I can't get anything out of him; he always falls a-laughing when I speak the word.'

"Lucilla felt herself more and more sad about her brother, and said to him:

"'Really, Bernard, you are too intimate with Ralph; he may be a very good boy, but you ought not to be so free with him as you are.'

"Bernard walked on, and made no answer.

"It was rather hard work, even for these two young people, to climb this bank, which was, indeed, the foot of a very steep hill; at last they came out on one side of the wood, on a very sweet field, covered with fine grass, but nearly as steep as the path by which they had come. The prospect from the top of this field was very lovely, for immediately below was the deep dell in which the water flowed, and up a little above it their father's house and garden, and beyond that the tower of the church and the trees in the churchyard were seen; and still farther on, hills of all shapes, near and far off, and woods, and downs, and farmhouses. What pleased the little girl most was a road which looked like a white thread winding away over the heights, and passing out of sight near around hill, with a clump of firs at the top.

"'Let us sit down here under the shade of a tree,' said Lucilla; and she sat down, whilst Bernard stretched himself by her side.

"Lucilla began to speak, after their long silence, by pointing out the different things which they saw before them, telling the names of the hills, and showing the farm-houses.

"'And there,' she said, 'look at that winding road and that round hill. Beyond that hill is a common covered with gorse, where there are many rabbits, and also many sheep. Nurse's son lives on that common: he was papa's foster-brother. You know he is nurse's only child, and has got a pretty cottage there. When poor little Alfred was beginning to get weak and unwell, soon after Henry died; and mamma was ill too, and obliged to go somewhere for her health, it was advised by the doctors that Alfred should also change the air: and as the air of that common was thought very fine, I went with my brother and nurse to spend the summer at her son's cottage; and, Bernard, though I was then but six years old, I remember everything there as if I had left it but yesterday, for nurse has so often talked about that time to me.

"'Sweet little Alfred! He seemed to get quite well and strong; he rode about the common on a donkey sometimes, and sometimes he played with me, and sometimes we used to sit on the little heaps covered with sweet short herbs, and talk of many things.

"'His chief delight was to talk of some place far away, where he always fancied we were to go soon: he was to see Henry there, and Henry would have wings, and his Saviour would be with them to take care of them, and I was to come, and papa and mamma. I suppose that he spoke the words of a baby; but the thoughts which were in his heart were very sweet. He was merry, too, Bernard, more merry than you are, and full of little tricks to make me laugh. But when we had been three months at the cottage he grew languid and pale again; he was brought home, and from that time grew worse and worse; and he died before Christmas. Oh, Bernard, he was the gentlest, sweetest child—so pale! so beautiful!'

"Lucilla for a minute could say no more; she covered her face with her hands, and large tears fell from her eyes. Bernard did not speak, but he had an odd feeling in his throat, and wished that Lucilla was not there to see him cry, for he felt he wanted to cry.

"Lucilla soon spoke again, and went on in the kindest, most gentle way, to tell her brother how much more bitter his ill-behaviour was to their mother than even the death of her elder boys; saying everything which a loving, gentle girl could say to lead him to better behaviour.

"Suddenly, whilst she was speaking, she saw her father and mother coming from the little wicket which lay in full view below them, and taking their way slowly, and as if talking to each other, along the path in the wood. Sometimes the trees partly hid them, then Lucilla saw them clearly again, and then not at all. She pointed them out to Bernard, and said:

"'Now, now, dear brother, is your time; you can run down one bank and up another in a few minutes; you can run to mamma, and beg her pardon for being sullen and disobedient to her this morning at breakfast; and then, my dear, dear brother, you will have made a good beginning, and we shall all be so happy.'

"Bernard had laid himself at full length on the grass, amusing himself, whilst his sister spoke, with kicking his legs. He was trying with all his might and main to harden himself against what she said; and succeeded in making himself as stupid as a mere brick.

"When she pressed him to run to his father, he drew up his legs and lay with his knees above all the rest of him, and his eyes staring up to the tree above his head, so that an owl could not have looked more stupid.

"Lucilla felt more sad than she had done before, when she saw how determined he was not to listen to her. She knew not what next to do or say; but whilst she was thinking, a dog was heard to bark on the other side the hedge which was behind them, and a voice saying, 'Be quiet, Pincher.'