"'Why, that is Stephen,' cried Bernard, jumping on his feet; 'what can he be doing here?'

"He flew to the hedge, he sprang up the bank, and called to Stephen, who was walking along the path on the other side with his dog Pincher.

"'Stop, stop!' cried Bernard; 'stop and I will come to you. Good-bye, Lucilla, you can go home by yourself;' and the next minute the rude boy had tumbled over the fence, and was running after Stephen.

"Poor Bernard little thought what he lost when he refused to listen to Lucilla, and what great pleasure he would have gained, had he done what she required of him, and run to beg his father's pardon.

"No one can say what a day may bring forth; and who could have foreseen the very strange thing which had happened whilst Lucilla and Bernard were out that morning? It was an affair of very serious business, which must be told: but as most young people hate business, it shall be told as shortly as possible.

"Mr. Low's brother had been a very wild boy, and had run away; so that for many years Mr. Low had heard nothing about him. At last he got a letter; it was a kind and humble one: in this letter Mr. John Low sent word, that after many adventures he had made some money, and bought a farm in America, on the banks of the Hudson, above New York; that he was doing very well, that he had never married, and only wished that his brother would come and see him. Mr. Low had answered this letter as a brother should do; and every year since, they had written to each other, and sent each other presents. But this morning a letter had come from Mr. John Low, entreating his brother to come to him, if possible, and to bring his family; stating that he had a disease upon him that must soon finish his life; and telling him that he had engaged the captain of the Dory, who brought the letter, to take him and his family back with him to America, he having undertaken to pay all the costs. The letter finished with the most earnest entreaties that they would all come.

"With Mr. John Low's letter came another from Captain Lewis, of the Dory, saying he should go back in less than a fortnight, and pressing Mr. Low to attend to his brother's request; adding that he almost feared that his friend, Mr. John Low, would hardly be found alive when they reached New York.

"Mr. and Mrs. Low were talking over this letter, and forming their plans about it, when their children saw them walking so gravely in the wood. They had come to the resolution to go with Captain Lewis, and they had a long discourse about Bernard. They resolved at once to take Lucilla with them; they wished her to see her uncle, and to see the New World, and her company would be pleasant to them; but they had many doubts about Bernard. Mr. Low was quite against taking him, and he took this occasion to tell his wife that they had both been to blame in spoiling him as they had done, and that he considered his present ill-behaviour as a punishment which he himself deserved, for having suffered his boy to be so spoiled.

"Mrs. Low had not much to say; she thought her husband was right.

"Now, had Bernard listened to Lucilla, and had he come just at that minute before his parents and begged pardon for his ill-behaviour, he might have changed his father's determination—for fathers are very forgiving—and then his mother, too, would have been on his side; and so he might have got the pleasure of going that long journey into the New World.

"Everything was settled after Mr. Low had made up his mind, even before Bernard returned; for Stephen was going a long walk to see Meekin's father, who was a farmer in the next parish, and Bernard went with him. Stephen would not take him, however, till he had come back to where Lucilla was, to ask her if she thought Mr. Low would be pleased if he took him.

"Stephen could speak very properly and well, when it served his turn to do so; and Lucilla thought him a very nice person, and to be trusted, for he was older than Bernard, by several years, and was often trusted to walk with the boys. She could not say that she could give leave, but she promised to tell her father where Bernard was gone, and with whom. Everything was therefore settled before the spoiled boy came home late in the evening. Mr. Low agreed with Mr. Evans that he should take care of his church; and as Mr. Evans was going to have his house painted and a new schoolroom built, it was also settled that he should come and reside at the rectory until Mr. Low returned. Miss Evans was immensely pleased at the thought of this. Bernard was to remain under Mr. Evans's care; Mr. Low's servants were all to be put on board wages and sent home, excepting the gardener. Even nurse was to go to her son, for Mr. Low said that nurse was the one who spoiled Bernard most. The boys were to have a large laundry, which was in the yard, for their schoolroom, and the drying yard for their play-ground; and Mr. Evans and his family were to come in the day Mr. Low left.

"Mr. Low had also to ask leave for being absent from his living, and Mrs. Low had packing to do; so that there was a vast deal to get through, for it was necessary for them to be in London, where Captain Lewis was, in a very few days.

"As Lucilla, who had not yet heard of all this great bustle, walked quietly home, her heart was very sad on account of her brother. She came back by the grotto, and took up her work-basket, putting away the hermit and the tools and bits of wood in a corner of the little cave out of sight; and taking her basket in her hand, she walked towards home, thinking to return to her little hermitage the next day at latest.

"Poor Lucilla could not help shedding a few tears as she passed slowly along the shrubbery, to think how all her little plans had ended in nothing. She did not just then remember that verse, 'Cast thy bread upon the waters, and after many days thou shalt find it.'"



Third Part of the History of Little Bernard Low



THIRD PART OF HENRY'S STORY

"As this history has been very long, and there is more to write about it, we will not say much of what happened the next seven days; for both houses, that is, Mr. Low's and Mr. Evans's, were all in a bustle, and everybody was pleased at the changes which were coming. Even Bernard, after he had roared, and cried, and sulked for the first two days, had altered his manner, and taken up the behaviour of Harry in the old spelling-book—what we may call the don't-care behaviour—for, as he told nurse, if his father did not love him enough to take the trouble of him in the voyage he was taking, he did not care, not he; he should be very happy at home without him. He should cry no more: he wondered why he cried at first, for he had not cared all the while; and so he went whistling about the house the tune of the 'Jolly Miller' which he had heard Ralph sing:

"'There was a jolly miller once Lived on the River Dee; He work'd and sang from morn till night, No man so blithe as he.

"'And this the burden of his song For ever used to be— I care for nobody, no, not I, And nobody cares for me.'

"Bernard, however, did not let his father hear him whistling this tune, nor did he say, 'I don't care,' before him.

"The Monday following that in which he had walked with Lucilla was the day fixed for the many changes. Very early in the morning, nurse's son brought a donkey for his mother. The old woman cried, and said she should have no peace till she came back again, and told Mrs. Low that she was sure she should never live in comfort with her son's wife Joan. She kissed Bernard twenty times, and begged him to come and see her; and Bernard did his best not to cry. There was an early breakfast, but nobody sat at the table two minutes together; something was to be done every moment. Mr. Low walked in and out five or six times. The housemaid and the cook came in to say good-bye; they were going to walk to their homes; and Ralph was to go with his sister, the cook. People, too, were coming with packages from Mr. Evans's, and the bustle kept Bernard from thinking very deeply on what was going to happen; and yet he could not eat his breakfast, nor whistle, for he was not in his usual spirits.

"At length the chaise came from the inn, and the trunks were brought down to be fastened on.

"Bernard placed himself at the window to look at what was being done without; and again he felt the same choking he had had on the hill.

"He heard his mother say, 'When shall we start, my dear?' and his father answer, 'In less than half an hour.' He saw his mother look at him with tears in her eyes. He could bear it no longer—he rushed out into the shrubbery, and having got behind a laurestinus, he gave full way to his tears—he could not then say, 'Who cares?'

"Lucilla saw him run out and followed him; she was weeping very bitterly; she threw her arms round him, and they both cried together. She kissed him many times, and they would not have parted then, had they not heard themselves called. Lucilla hastily then put a very pretty little Bible in his hand, and gave him another kiss.

"There only remained a tender parting between the boy and his parents; and whilst they were still blessing him they were driven away, and the poor child was left standing alone on the gravel. His eyes followed the carriage as long as it could be seen from that place; and then, observing some people coming in at the gate, he ran away. He took the path through the shrubbery, and across a field, to a high green bank, from which he could trace the road a long way, even as far off as where it passed under the round hill with the clump of firs on it, near to nurse's son's house.

"He sat down on the bank, waiting until the carriage should come in sight again: for when it got down into the bottom of the valley, where there were many trees, it was hid from his view.

"This was perhaps the first time in Bernard's life in which he ever had any really useful thoughts. He was made then to have some little notion that he owed his present trouble to his having been a very rebellious naughty boy; but with this good thought came also a bad one: 'But if papa loves me as he ought to do, he would not have been so cruel as to leave me. He would have forgiven me and overlooked the past, and tried me again.'

"Bernard did not consider that it would actually have been very dangerous to have taken a disobedient boy to sea, for no one could tell what mischief he might have got into on board ship.

"When Bernard saw the carriage again, it looked like a speck on the white road. The speck seemed to grow smaller and smaller, and at last it disappeared round the foot of the little hill. Then the poor boy cried and cried again, until he could cry no longer, and every tear seemed to be dried up.

"No one can say how long he sat there, but it was a long time; at last he heard a voice, saying, 'Master Low! Master Low! where are you?' and the next minute old Jacob, the gardener, appeared.

"Now Jacob was the only servant who had not helped to spoil Bernard, and therefore Bernard had never liked him, but always called him cross old Jacob. He was glad, however, to see him then; and yet he did not speak first to him.

"'I am glad I have found you, Master,' said the old man; 'I have been hunting you everywhere; and so has Mr. Evans. They be all come—Miss Grizzy herself, and the two maids, and Master Stephen, and a power of traps; and the lad that cleans the shoes and knives. But I shan't let him meddle with the horses, which he is forward enough to do. But you must come along with me. Master; they are all in trouble about you.'

"'Surely,' said Bernard, forgetting that one good thought which he had had a little before, 'I may go anywhere I please on my own papa's grounds; everything here is papa's, Jacob, and I am at home here.'

"'True,' replied Jacob, 'and so am I too; but neither you nor I is master here.'

"'That is just like you, Jacob,' answered Bernard; 'but I am the master's son, and you are a servant.'

"'I could answer you from Scripture,' said Jacob, 'if I would.'

"'Do then!' cried Bernard.

"'Now I say, that the heir, as long as he is a child, differeth nothing from a servant, though he be lord of all; but is under tutors and governors until the time appointed of the father' (Gal. iv. 1, 2).

"Bernard made no answer to this, but, getting up, walked before Jacob to the house. At the door he was met by Mr. Evans, who spoke to him kindly, said he hoped to make him happy, and to do everything for his good in his father's absence. He added also that Griffith and Meekin and Price were come, and were in the laundry, which was then to be called the schoolroom; but that he should not call any of them that day to lessons; only he hoped that he would not go far from the house, as he was now accountable for his safety.

"Mr. Evans then walked away, and Bernard went to his own room, where he had much difficulty to prevent himself from crying again; but happening to light upon some penny pictures and a pair of scissors, he amused himself with cutting them all to pieces; first cutting out the figures, then the houses, and then the trees, till he had spoiled them all.

"At one o'clock the bell rang for dinner. Bernard did not stir till somebody had had the trouble of coming up to call him. The dinner was laid in the family dining-room. Miss Grizzy was seated at the head of the table when Bernard came in; she was in very good humour, and smart as usual. Mr. Evans was in Mr. Low's place at the bottom; the boys on each side.

"'Master Low,' said Miss Evans, as he came in, 'I hope you are well; here we are, you see, in your papa's handsome room, and here is your chair by me. I don't ask you to sit down, for who has such a right to sit here as you have? Make room, Meekin. Surely there is room enough at this large table? Sit a little lower, Griffith; and now, Master Low, what shall we give you?'

"All that was proud and selfish in the heart of poor Bernard was awake and busy long before Miss Evans had finished her speech. The boy looked round the table for what he liked best; but instead of asking, told the servant to take his plate for it, saying:

"'Don't give me fat, I don't like it.'

"'No fat for Master Low,' cried Miss Evans: and then again speaking to the boy, 'You have a charming house here, Master Low; I had no notion how good it was till I went over it this morning. I tell the young gentlemen here that they must be very careful not to do mischief.'

"'They cannot do any, sister,' said Mr. Evans, 'if they keep to their places. They must not go into the garden, there is abundant room for them to play in elsewhere, and they shall have as much fruit as is good for them. Mind, boys, on honour, no going into the garden. You shall not need, for as Mr. Low kindly leaves us the use of the fruit, you shall have your full share.'

"'You hear, young gentlemen,' said Miss Evans; 'Master Meekin, Master Griffith, Master Price——'

"'And Master Low,' added Mr. Evans, 'you are, on honour, not to go into the garden.'

"'Master Low!' repeated Miss Grizzy; 'Master Low not to go into his papa's garden?'

"Mr. Evans never disputed with his sister before the boys, and not, indeed, very often when alone with her, for he loved peace and quietness, and she would always have many last words; so he said no more; and she, tapping Bernard gently on the back, said, in a low voice:

"'That would be hard, would not it, to keep you out of your dear papa's own garden?'

"'I should think so,' answered Bernard, in the same low voice.

"This was only the beginning; and as Miss Grizzy went on as she had begun, in setting up Bernard, and flattering him to the very utmost in her power, there is much reason to fear that he was not likely to be the better for being left with her.

"Griffith, with his friends Meekin and Price, would soon have given him a lesson or two of another kind, had not Stephen watched them; but Stephen had been well tutored by his aunt, and as much was gained them from Mr. Low's friendship, besides the honour of having Master Low at school, they cared for nothing so much as keeping the naughty boy in good humour.

"As to Mr. Evans, he was a simple, earnest man, not suspecting evil of others, and anxious to do good. He was kind to all his pupils; he never made a difference: and it was for his sake that any boys remained in the house; so that he really caused the family to prosper, whilst his sister fancied it was all her own doing.

"The next day Mr. Evans began to give his lessons; and kept them on most regularly till the Midsummer holidays. He was not aware that Bernard had any other indulgence but being helped first at table, which he did not quite like; and he kept him as close as the others at his lessons.

"But Miss Grizzy, and Stephen, and Bernard were too deep for him; and there was no end of the indulgences given in private to the boy. He had cakes, and puffs, and strawberries and cream given him, when nobody saw it, by Miss Evans.

"Stephen never took notice when he went beyond bounds unless his uncle was likely to catch him. He helped him privately at his lessons; and when set to hear him, often let him slip them altogether; and always took his part when there was a quarrel between him and the other boys. The holidays made but little difference with Bernard. Mr. Evans gave him a daily lesson, because he wanted to get him on. And as to other things, he could not be more spoiled and stuffed by Miss Grizzy at one time than at another.

"Miss Grizzy all this while disliked him as much as Stephen did, and that was with their whole hearts.

"Stephen called him a little proud, insolent puppy. And Miss Evans said he was the most greedy child she ever saw, and so wasteful and thankless, and one of the worst-mannered boys she ever had to deal with.

"Stephen said the same to Meekin and Griffith and Price; he laid all the partiality with which they charged him on his aunt, and said he only wished he could have his way with him, and he would soon bring down his airs, and teach him what he was made of.

"The same boys met again after the holidays, and things went on much in the same way.

"Several letters were received from Mr. Low from different places; at length one came, stating their arrival in New York, and their being about to go up the Hudson to Mr. John Low's house.

"The great indulgence with which Bernard was treated, and the bustle that was made about him, together with the real kindness of Mr. Evans, made him very hard and careless about his parents.

"He used often to say, 'I do very well here; if papa stays longer than he at first intended I shall not fret after him, and I dare say he will not fret after me, for if he had loved me so very much he would not have left me behind.'

"Bernard could not forgive his father for leaving him; but whenever he talked in this way not even Stephen could keep Griffith from speaking his mind to him.

"'There you go again,' Griffith would say; 'always blaming your father, when the fault is all your own. Don't you know, Bernard, that there is nobody that can bear with you who thinks they have not something to get by you?'

"The name Noddy, which Stephen had forbidden, was got up again after the Midsummer holidays; and everything that Bernard did to make himself disagreeable was set down to this Noddy.

"At last Bernard got to the truth of this matter by being told by Meekin that if he wished to see Noddy, he must take a peep in the looking-glass. On hearing this, Bernard struck Meekin, and if Stephen had not come in, the spoiled boy for once would have got his deserts.

"Letters were again received from Mr. Low about December; he said in them that his poor brother was very ill, not likely to live through the winter; that it was impossible for him to leave him, and that at all events he meant to stay till the season for crossing the sea should be better. Lucilla at the same time wrote a long letter to her brother.

"The Christmas holidays passed, and nothing particular happened; the same boys met again after Christmas, and another boy came also; but Bernard despised him as much as he did Meekin and Griffith and Price, because he had heard it said that his father kept a shop.

"January passed, and February, and March; another letter had come from Mr. Low; poor Mr. John Low was dead, and Mr. Low was busy settling his affairs. Mr. John Low had left his brother a good deal of money, but Mr. Low did not say anything about that; Miss Grizzy therefore made it out that there was none.

"Another letter arrived at the end of March to say that Captain Lewis was to sail for England in the Dory in a few days, and that Mr. Low hoped to come with him. There was another sweet letter from Lucilla, telling how many pretty things she had collected for her dear brother.

"It was about four weeks after these two last letters had been received, when one morning Mr. Evans came in a great hurry, and with a face of much trouble, into the school-room, and called out Stephen. Stephen came back five minutes afterwards, and told the boys that his uncle had been called suddenly away, and they had leave to play.

"'Good news—good news!' cried Griffith, and away ran the four pupils, with Stephen after them; whilst Bernard went into the house to see what he could get.

"As he came into the hall he saw that the parlour door was open, and he heard people talking within. Miss Grizzy was in the parlour, and she was talking to a neighbour who had dropped in. The coming of that neighbour, Bernard thought, had something to do with the holiday so suddenly given, and by listening he thought he might find something out about this holiday.

"The words Bernard heard were these:

"'I know, Mrs. Smith, better than most, that the family had nothing to depend upon but the living. To be sure, the living is very good, and much might be saved out of it for the children, but if what we hear is true they will come but poorly off, I fear.'

"'You forget, Miss Evans,' answered Mrs. Smith, 'that if what we hear be true—and I fear it is—there is only one left to provide for.'

"As Bernard drew closer to the door to hear more, he knocked his foot against it, and Miss Grizzy called out:

"'Who is there?'

"Bernard walked into the parlour at the call, in his usual manner, and without taking any notice of Mrs. Smith, he said:

"'I want some bread and butter.'

"'What, already?' cried Miss Grizzy tartly; 'don't you see that I am talking business with my neighbour, Master Low? Come, you had best go to play, and mind to shut the door after you.'

"Bernard looked at her with a look which seemed to say, 'What's the matter now?' and walked away, leaving the door as wide open as he could push it.

"He walked into the garden, but old Jacob was not there, and then he went to the back of the house to look for the other boys. He had heard their voices at a distance, when he got there, and saw them in the very field where he had sat with Lucilla. Their voices came straight over the valley; but it was a long way to go, down first and up again, to them. However, he set out to go, and in his way had to pass by the door of a cottage near the brook. In this cottage lived an old woman, who had been supported for some years by his father's family, though she could do little in return. She was sitting on the step, with her face on her knees, crying bitterly.

"'What now, Betty?' said Bernard.

"'Ah, Master Low!' she said, looking up, 'is it you, my precious master, and do you say, what's the matter now? Have not they told you? The hardened creatures to keep such news from you!'

"And she then told him the real cause of the breaking up of the school, the absence of Mr. Evans and Jacob, and the visit of Mrs. Smith. News had come that day to Rookdale, that the Dory had been lost at sea, and gone down with every creature on board: having been seen to founder by some other vessel, in a dreadful squall off some island.

"Mr. Evans had gone immediately to discover the truth of this account, which was in a newspaper. It is not known where he went, or to whom he wrote letters; but this is certain, that he only obtained confirmation of the dreadful news, and as weeks passed, and nothing was heard from Mr. Low or of the Dory, every one, of course, believed that poor Bernard was an orphan.

"Miss Grizzy began to think where the money was to come from to pay for Bernard's keep; for what had been said was very true, Mr. Low had had little to depend upon but his living; or if he had saved anything, it could not be known where his savings were, till his papers could be looked up, and that could not be done until it was as certain as might be that he was really dead.

"Poor Bernard!—now his time of trial had come: he was quite unprepared for the story old Betty told him. Mr. Evans had wished it might for the present be kept from him. He fell down like one struck with death when he heard the story.

"The old woman screamed; at her cry, Stephen and the boys, who were not far off, came running to her; more help was called, Bernard was lifted up, and carried to the house and put to bed.

"When laid on his bed, it was found that the sudden shock had made him very ill, and there was fear of inflammation of the brain. The doctor was sent for, he was bled more than once, his head was shaved, and a large blister put upon it. He was reduced to be as weak as a baby: he called often, when he knew not what he said, for his father and his mother, and his own sweet Lucilla; and when he recollected that he had heard they were dead, he called for his nurse.

"Nurse came the moment she heard of his illness; but Mr. Evans was not come home, he was absent more than ten days, and Miss Grizzy would not let nurse see him. In grief and anger the old woman went home, and took to her bed almost as ill as poor Bernard.

"Miss Grizzy was the person who watched by Bernard's bed, and saw that everything the doctor ordered was done; but Bernard fancied she was not the same Miss Grizzy that used to smile upon him and flatter him in past times, she looked so grave, and said so often, 'That must be done, Master Low.'

"Bernard, however, did not think much about her; his whole mind was filled, till his head got well, with thoughts of his parents and sister, and even of his little brothers, whom he had never seen. And in this time of suffering and weakness he began to be sincerely sorry for his past naughtiness.

"Mr. Evans came back without any hope respecting Mr. Low. He was very much grieved, especially for Bernard, and showed his kindness by visiting him often in his room; and when the boy was better, another friend showed himself; this was Griffith, who had made up his mind never again to quiz Bernard so long as he lived. He came often to him, and even read to him in the Bible Lucilla had given. Jacob too showed his deep affection for his little master. But Jacob himself was soon afterwards taken ill, and Miss Grizzy contrived that he should be sent away till he got better. So Bernard was made to feel that those were not his real friends who flattered him when all seemed to be well with him.

"Time passed on, Bernard's health was restored, and he was able to come down as usual. He went down to dinner the first day on a Sunday. He had been well enough to go down the Monday before, but Miss Grizzy had fixed on Sunday for the day; perhaps because her brother, who had two churches to serve, would not be at dinner. When Bernard came into the room, he looked at the place where he used to sit, but Master Larkin, the new pupil, was in it. There was a place kept for him by Stephen at the bottom of the table.

"'You are older than Larkin, Low,' said Stephen, 'and must give up the place of pet to him.' Bernard sat down. He did not just then understand the reason of being put out of his place—he had this to learn amongst other things. He was not asked what he would like, but helped in his turn; and when dinner was over, he was not asked if he would like to stay in the parlour, but told, if he felt tired, to go and lie on his own bed. At tea he was treated like the other boys, and at supper also, and from that time this went on. If Mr. Evans saw it, he did not interfere; but this good man was very absent, and many things passed before him which he did not notice.

"After a few days, one would have thought that Miss Evans and her nephew had ceased to care altogether about Bernard's feelings; they began to talk before him of who was to have the house and living, and that it was necessary to take great care of the house and furniture; and Bernard was told that he must not run rampaging about as he had done formerly; for, as Miss Grizzy said, there was little enough left, she feared, for his maintenance, and there was no need to make things worse.

"It was a hard lesson for the spoiled boy to be taught to be patient under these mortifications, and never to fire up and answer these cruel hints; but he was patient, he bore much and said little. He felt that he deserved to be humbled in this way, and he tried to be submissive.

"Another month or six weeks went, and Bernard had only two earthly comforts: one was from the gentleness of Mr. Evans, and the other from the rough kindness of Griffith, who gave Meekin a sound drubbing one day for calling Bernard Noddy.

"'Why,' said Meekin, 'did not you give him the name?'

"'I did,' answered Griffith; 'but he shan't hear it now, never again.'

"The season of Whitsuntide had come round, and the boys were to go home for a week, and only Meekin, Low, and Stephen were left. The bells were not set to ring as usual on Sunday morning; the ringers were thoughtful enough to refuse to ring; but Stephen was resolved to have a peal, and he and Meekin and the big boy who worked about the place, and one other whom they contrived to muster, had one peal on the Sunday, and several others on the Monday.

"The return of Whitsuntide made Bernard more unhappy than he had been for many days. He remembered that time a year ago so very exactly, and what everybody had then said and done—his own bad behaviour especially. He had a very sad Sunday, and got up even more sad on the Monday morning.

"Miss Grizzy had put him out of his old sleeping-room after his recovery, into a little room which looked over the stable yard. Before he was dressed he heard talking in the yard. He dressed in haste, and ran to the window, and there he saw just below him a young man called Benjamin, the same who had helped to ring the bells with Stephen and Meekin and the servant boy—all gathered together examining Lucilla's pony. Bernard could not hear what they said, and the bell rang for breakfast before he had time to ask.

"When he came down, he was sorry to find that Mr. Evans was gone out. He asked Meekin how long he was to stay from home; and Stephen answered:

"'Maybe all the week; maybe a month; maybe he wishes to try what sort of a schoolmaster I should make in his absence.'

"'Oh! I hope not,' said Bernard, speaking hastily and without thinking.

"'You do, do you?' answered Stephen spitefully; 'well, we shall see.'

"'It don't become you, Low, to speak in such a way now,' said Miss Grizzy, 'you are not master here, now. You can't count upon this place being yours more than my brother's any longer; it is just as well that you know the truth, and know at once what to expect. The living went from the family when your father died, and it is feared that there will not be much left for your keep when the things are sold, and everything paid.'

"The tears stood in Bernard's eyes—not that he attended to all the words Miss Grizzy said; he was thinking of that day a year ago, of his own ill behaviour, and of the kindness of his sweet Lucilla.

"'Oh!' he thought, 'how could I have run away from my gentle sister to go to that cruel Stephen?'

"Stephen and Meekin walked off in a hurry, after they had breakfasted, and Miss Grizzy sent Bernard after them. He followed them slowly, and yet did not like to stay long behind them.

"They were gone again into the yard, and there was Benjamin, and the servant boy, and the pony. Stephen was talking of the pony, and giving his orders: the pony had a long tail, and his mane wanted putting in order.

"'You must dock the tail close, Ben,' were the words that Bernard heard; 'she will sell for nothing in that fashion.'

"'Oh, no, no!' cried Bernard, running forward, 'Lucilla would not like it; she said she would always have it long to flitch away the flies.'

"'Who bid you speak?' said Stephen.

"'Is she not my horse now?' cried Bernard.

"'No more yours than mine,' replied Stephen.

"'Don't cut her tail, Benjamin,' returned Bernard.

"'Hold your peace,' said Stephen.

"'Only stay till Mr. Evans comes home,' said Bernard.

"'Do it now,' said Stephen.

"Bernard was beside himself; he called Stephen cruel, deceitful, and anything else he could think of, and he tried to seize the halter of the pony.

"Stephen dragged him away, and in the scuffle thought Bernard had struck him; Meekin swore that he did.

"Stephen, when set up, was furiously passionate, and without taking time for thought, he snatched a switch from the hand of Ben, and laid it on Bernard till his back and even the sides of his face were covered with wheals. The poor boy ran, and Stephen after him. Stephen was even the more provoked because Benjamin cried to him to desist.

"Bernard at last got away from him by a little gate which led into the garden, and he continued to run until he had come to the arbour and the grotto. He had never gone to that corner of the shrubbery since the news had come of the loss of the Dory; and at first, when he almost dropped down on one of the benches, he scarcely recollected where he was. He was seated exactly where he had sat with Lucilla on the last Whitsun-Monday. The mouth of the grotto was exactly before him; the winter's wind had driven the dead damp leaves into it, and there had been no one to clear them away. The highest point of the little window in the back, which Lucilla herself had painted on a piece of board, just peeped above the heap of leaves. Bernard thought of the tools Lucilla had bought; they were lying, no doubt, rusting in a corner.

"'Oh, Lucilla!' he cried; and bursting into tears, he laid his hands on the table, and stooped his face upon them: the board was quite wet with his tears when he looked up again.

"He was startled by the sudden ringing out of the bells. Stephen and the boys had gone to cool themselves in the belfry, after leaving the pony undocked in the field.

"How did those bells remind the unhappy boy of the year before, for he had heard them when sitting in that very place with Lucilla! He remembered his hardness and pride at that time, and like the Prodigal Son to his father, he cried to his God, 'I have sinned against heaven and before Thee, and am not worthy to be called Thy son.'

"Could Lucilla have foreknown in what spirit her dear brother would have spoken those words in that place, at the end of twelve months after she had brought him there, she would have been filled with joy, and would have said, 'My God, I thank Thee, for Thou hast heard my prayers.'

"When Bernard was getting more calm, his tears were made to flow again by the sight of the broken splinters and one of Lucilla's beads on the gravel at his feet. He took up the bead, wrapped it in a bit of paper, put it into his waistcoat pocket, and went out of the shrubbery by the wicket close by into the wood.

"As he walked along his wandering eye at last settled upon that spot of ground, at the foot of the round hill with the crown of fir-trees, where the carriage which had taken away his parents had disappeared. He thought then of his nurse, and that she had been one of those to whom he had behaved ill.

"'Poor nurse!' he said to himself, 'I will go to beg her pardon, and I will get her to let me live with her, and never let me come back to this place again. Nurse will give me bread, and I shall want nothing else. I will go;' and he got up and looked to see which was the shortest way to get to the round hill. When he fancied he had made this out, he got up and set off slowly, for by this time the stripes given him by the switch had got stiff; but he had set his mind on going to nurse's, and, indeed, he did not dare to go home.

"Oh, what a long and dreary way did he find it! The first half-mile was tolerably level, but the next two miles and a half were all uphill, only with a very little going down sometimes. The sun was shining without clouds, and his bones were sore, and he was getting hungry; and what was worse than all, his heart was very sad, and the road was solitary. He scarcely met anyone, excepting a party of people with asses; still he often caught sight of the round hill, and found himself getting nearer to it: he thought it looked higher, and higher, and higher as he went on, and he had to go beyond it. It was quite noonday before he reached the foot of it; and there he had to ask a man, who was breaking stones on the road, the nearest way to the common. The man showed him a deep lane a little further, up which he was to go, and when he had got to the end of it, he saw the common and the rabbit-burrows, and sheep, and geese, and many cottages. He asked at many doors before he could learn where nurse lived; but when he saw her house he was pleased, because it looked larger and neater than the others, and he thought there would be room for him. It stood in a pretty garden, surrounded with a neat quickset hedge, nicely shorn.

"He opened the wicket-gate without fear, and walked up to the door. He saw a neat kitchen within, for the door was half open; he knocked, and called, 'Is nurse at home?' No one answered at first, but soon he heard a step, and nurse's daughter-in-law appeared.

"She was a tall, hard-looking woman, and the first words she said, were:

"'Surely it is not you, Master Low, and in such a plight? Why, you have been a-fighting.'

"'I want nurse,' said Bernard.

"'What, mother-in-law?' answered the woman; 'you can't see her.'

"'Why?' answered Bernard.

"'She is sick in bed,' said the woman.

"'Let me go up and see her, if you please,' said Bernard.

"'You can't do no such thing,' said the woman; 'she is not in the house, and if she was she could not have much to say to you. Has not Miss Grizzy forbid her to come about you? and times are hard, Master Low. You has run away from school, I doubt not, by the look of you. You has been a-fighting. Don't think that we shall go to harbour you here, and get nothing but cross words for our pains. Miss Grizzy told mother that there would be nothing a-coming to you when all was paid. So go back as fast as you can; you can't come in. Go back, there's a good lad.'

"She then, in her great goodness, handed him a crust and a bit of dry cheese, and pushed him from the door; for she was afraid that her husband and his mother, who were both out, might come in before the child was gone.

"Bernard hardly knew what he did when he took the bread and cheese, and felt the hand of the woman pushing him out. He could not eat what was given him, for he was parched with thirst, and his young heart was almost broken by his disappointment. Even to nurse he had behaved ill, and now he thought that even she had forsaken him. He dragged himself back through the deep lane, and being again in the highroad at the foot of the hill, he sat, or rather stretched, himself on a green bank under a hedge; and having cried again till he could cry no longer, he fell into a sort of stupor, neither asleep nor otherwise, quite worn with tiredness, and thirst, and sorrow.

"About the time when Bernard was turned from nurse's door, the dinner-bell at his papa's house was ringing, and Miss Evans waiting at the head of the table ready to carve.

"Before the bell had done tinkling, Stephen and Meekin came in, and Miss Grizzy said:

"'Where is Low? I suppose he does not expect us to wait for him.'

"Stephen looked at Meekin, and Meekin looked at Stephen. Stephen was not quite easy in the thought of the severe beating which he had given Bernard; but as it was expected that Mr. Evans would not return till the evening of the next day, he trusted that there would be nothing about Bernard to lead his uncle to inquire about what had happened in his absence.

"'The boy is sulking somewhere,' he thought, 'and when he is hungry he will show himself;' and with this thought he went to the bottom of the table; and they had all just seated themselves, when in walked Mr. Evans.

"Miss Grizzy set up a shriek of wonder, and Stephen turned scarlet.

"Mr. Evans had set out with the intention of going to the Bishop, under whom he and Mr. Low lived, to ask him about some little difficulty which had arisen in the management of the parish, and to beg that things might remain as they were, until more decided news could be got of the loss of the ship.

"The worthy man was not thinking of himself, but of poor Bernard. He had hardly gone ten miles of the thirty he had to go, when he met the Bishop's coach, and had the opportunity of settling his business in a few minutes. And what had he then to do but to stop at a little inn by the wayside to refresh his horse, and go quietly home, much pleased by the kindness of the Bishop?

"When he had, in a few words, explained how it happened that he was at home so soon, he was preparing to sit down to dinner, when he missed Bernard.

"'Where is Master Low?' he said, looking round. 'Where is Bernard, sister? Stephen, where is the child?'

"There was a certain something in the flushed features and stammering answers of Stephen which struck even the unsuspicious Mr. Evans, and when he was once roused he could show great firmness. He insisted that the little boy should appear; and when he did not answer to any call, or to the repeated ringing of the bell, he ordered the dinner away.

"'No one in the house shall dine, sister Grizzy,' he said, 'till the orphan is found. Mind what I say. Do you, boys, run in all directions; let the women go also, and bring the poor child to me. You, Stephen, have been quarrelling with him.'

"'Sir,' said Meekin, 'he struck Mr. Stephen.'

"'No, Master Meekin,' said the boy who was waiting at table, 'I did not see as he did; nor Ben neither, and he was by.'

"'No matter now,' said Mr. Evans; 'be off, all of you, and bring the child to me.'

"And Mr. Evans sat down, having no expectation but that Bernard would be brought in, with the tear in his eye, but safe and sound, in a few minutes. He waited alone, maybe a quarter of an hour, and then went out, becoming more frightened every moment.

"There was a set of people, such as sell pottery, happening to pass up the road at the minute Mr. Evans went out of the gate; and he bethought himself of asking them if they had met a little boy in their way, describing Bernard.

"The old woman of the party told him that they had met such a boy, and told him also exactly where. It struck Mr. Evans at once that the child had set out to go to nurse's; and without losing another minute he called Tom, ordered him to saddle the pony, and was on his way towards nurse's not ten minutes after he had spoken to the old woman. He made the pony go at a very brisk trot, wherever the steepness of the road would allow.

"Bernard had really fallen asleep under the hedge after some time, and had only just awakened when Mr. Evans came trotting round the foot of the hill.

"The worthy man no sooner saw him than he came almost cantering up, sprang from the quiet pony, and caught him in his arms.

"'My son! my child!' he said, whilst his eyes filled with tears; 'my poor boy, why are you here? What has happened? Do you not know that when you lost a better father, you became to me like a son, and that I then resolved to be a father to you so long as you needed one? If anything goes wrong with you, my boy, under my roof, come to me and tell me, as you would have done to your own father, and be sure that so long as I have a loaf you shall have a son's portion of it.'

"No one can describe the effect of Mr. Evans's kindness on the heart of poor Bernard; again and again he fell on his neck and kissed him; and so full of love and gentleness was the child that he whispered:

"'Don't ask me why I ran away; I promise you that when I run again from the same people, I will run to you; and if you are out, I will only hide myself till you come back.'

"'It shall not happen again,' said Mr. Evans, who had observed the marks of the strokes on the child's face; 'it shall not happen again; I will prevent it; but I will ask no questions.'

"So saying, he lifted Bernard on the pony with the long tail, and taking the bridle in his hand, they set off together down the hill.

"Mr. Evans had gone off in such a hurry that he had not told anyone that he had heard of Bernard; and therefore, without planning any such thing, he had left the people at home in the greatest trouble, their alarm becoming more and more every minute in which the child could not be found.

"Mr. Evans and Bernard had first, in their way from the round hill, to go down a very steep bit of road, into a kind of hollow where were a brook and many trees, and then beyond which was a rise, and then another deep descent. When Bernard came to the brook, he begged that he might get off and drink a little water in the hollow of his hand; and when he had done so, he tried to make Mr. Evans mount the pony whilst he walked. But the kind man would not hear of any such thing; he lifted Bernard on the horse again, and they were just going to ascend the bank, when they heard a voice behind them, crying: 'Stop, stop, Master Bernard.'

"They looked back, and there was nurse; she had come home about an hour before, and having heard by some chance who had been at the cottage and been sent away, she had had a violent quarrel with her daughter-in-law, and had come posting after her boy.

"But before Mr. Evans and Bernard knew the voice, there was a sound of carriage-wheels coming from behind nurse; and so quick upon her was the carriage, that the horses' heads were in a line with her, when Bernard and Mr. Evans turned to see who called them. The road just there was not only steep but narrow.

"'That is nurse,' said Mr. Evans; 'but we must not stop just here, or the carriage will be upon us; a little above there is room for the pony to stand aside, and the ground is there more level for the feet.'

"So for the next minute or more the three parties all went on, Mr. Evans and Bernard going up slowly towards the level place; the carriage coming rapidly down the road, being drawn by horses used to steeper hills than that; and nurse behind at the top of her speed after the carriage.

"Those in the carriage had known nurse as they passed, though she never once looked up to them; and they knew also Bernard, and good Mr. Evans, and the long-tailed pony.

"When Mr. Evans had reached the bit of level ground, which might have been fifty feet, or more, from the bottom of the valley, he stopped, and lifted Bernard off the pony to wait for nurse.

"The carriage, too, stopped at the brook, and there was a cry from it. 'Bernard, Bernard! It is our dear, dear Bernard; open the door, open the door.' The door was burst open from within, and out sprang Lucilla, flying forward to her brother. She was followed by Mr. and Mrs. Low, as soon as the postboy could let down the steps.

"Bernard made one effort to rush to meet Lucilla, and then fell unconscious upon the ground.

"It is impossible to give an account of such a scene; the people who were present could tell nothing about it themselves. Mr. and Mrs. Low and Lucilla could not understand why everyone should be so surprised to see them; why Bernard should faint, why nurse should scream, and why Mr. Evans should look so white.

"They had suffered much in a terrible storm, and been driven far out of their course, and been obliged to lie for months in some far-off harbour for repairs, and had had a long and weary voyage. But they had written letters, and supposed all this was known at home. The letters, however, having been sent from a very out-of-the-way place, had never arrived, but this they could not know.

"They were not surprised at anything, when they found that all their friends and neighbours had thought them dead; and when Bernard, having had his temples bathed with water, opened his eyes and recovered his colour, and began to shed tears, they were no longer frightened about him. He was then lifted into the carriage, and held in the arms of his own father; nurse got upon a trunk behind, Mr. Evans mounted the pony, and on they went, having now only down hill to go to the village.

"'Let us pass quietly, if possible, through the village,' said Mr. Low, 'that we may get our dear boy home as soon as possible;' but Mr. Low could not have everything as he wished. The news was told at the very first house, which was the turn-pike, by Mr. Evans before the carriage, and by nurse behind it; and the whole street was up in a moment. There was such joy, that men, women, and children set up shouts; and four young men, who were enjoying the Whitsun holidays, flew to the church and set the bells a-ringing before the carriage came in sight of the rectory.

"'Surely,' said Miss Grizzy to the dairy-maid, 'those lads are not gone off to the belfry, and that plague of a boy, young Low, not found yet! I always said he was the most ill-conditioned child that ever lived; and I know now he is only hiding out of malice to my poor Stephen.'

"Before she could finish her speech there was a sound of wheels and of horses, and the barking of all the dogs about, and of doors opening; and the very next minute in came nurse with the news into the dairy.

"Miss Grizzy was almost as ready to faint as Bernard had been—but not from pleasure; all her unkindnesses to the child rose before her mind, and it was with the greatest difficulty that she could put on even the appearance of being glad, whilst her worthy brother's heart was lifted up with joy.

"When Stephen heard the news, as he came skulking in to tell his aunt he could find Bernard nowhere, he walked himself off with Meekin, and did not return till night; but he need not have done so, for Bernard never uttered a complaint against him or anybody else, though he spoke continually of the very great kindness of Mr. Evans.

"The happiness of Lucilla that evening was complete. Bernard had hardly spoken to her before she found how changed he was.

"Mr. Low was equally thankful; and Mrs. Low and nurse, though they did not understand the cause of the change so clearly, yet felt that their darling was a new and improved creature. Mr. Low, having it now in his power, did much to assist Mr. Evans in many ways; he felt all his kindnesses; he helped to furnish his new rooms, and raised his salary as a curate.

"Miss Grizzy and Stephen left him almost immediately. Miss Grizzy went to keep the house of a cross old uncle, and Stephen went to his parents. Mr. Evans took nurse for a housekeeper, and whether she managed well or ill for him people do not agree; but this is certain, that all the boys, especially the little ones, liked her so much that Mr. Evans soon found even his larger house too small for his pupils.

"The last we heard of Mr. Low's family was that Bernard and Lucilla had furnished the grotto so beautifully that every person in the neighbourhood came to see it; and that this brother and sister were the delight of their parents, and the comforters of every poor old person or orphan child in the parish."



The Birthday Feast



"Well," said Henry Fairchild, "it is just as I knew it would be; mine is the prettiest story, and it is the longest, and that is something."

"No, no!" replied Emily; "if a story is stupid, its being long only makes it worse."

"But it is not stupid," says Henry, "as it comes in at the end so nicely, and in so much bustle. I do love a story that ends in a great bustle."

"Well," said Emily, "my story finishes with as great a bustle as yours; and we must say that Lucy has chosen two very nice books; so, Lucy, we thank you with all our hearts."

We have been so busy over the stories which Lucy brought, that we have taken no notice of the note and parcel which came from Miss Darwell.

The note was to invite the Misses Fairchild and Master Fairchild to spend her birthday with her. She asked them to come very early, and they were to come in their playing dresses, and then they could bring others with them, because in the evening there would be company. She offered to send a carriage for them; and she said that a note would come to invite their parents to dinner. The little lady seemed to have thought of everything to make the day pleasant to them.

Mrs. Fairchild's children were not so rich as Miss Darwell, but they were as well brought up; and Mrs. Colvin had heard this, and was glad to have the opportunity of seeing these children.

The parcel contained a few small presents, which Emily and Lucy thought a great deal of, and put by amongst their treasures.

The day of Miss Darwell's birthday came, after what Henry called a very long time. Time seems very long to children; they think a month as long as old people think a year. Henry talked of a year or two past as of a time a long while ago.

Lucy and Emily looked out the very first thing that morning to see what weather it was; but Henry did more, he got up and went out as soon as he heard anyone stir, and saw John cleaning the horse, that he might be ready for Mr. and Mrs. Fairchild in the afternoon.

Soon after breakfast Mrs. Fairchild got the children ready, in their neatest morning dresses, according to Miss Darwell's desire; meaning to bring their evening things when she came. But they were hardly ready when a little pony-carriage, driven by a careful old man, came for them from Miss Darwell; for this young lady never forgot the chance of doing a kindness.

They got into the little carriage, and were driven away. Henry sat by the servant in front, and his sisters in the seat behind.

"My little lady," said the servant, "bade us be sure to bring you all safely, and very soon, Master Fairchild." And then he went on to say what a dear, good young lady she was. "But she bade me not tell what is to be done this evening; and you are not to ask anybody about it."

"Then I will not," said Henry; "though I want to know very much."

"To be sure you do, master,'" said the man; "but you will know by-and-by."

As they came near the park, they saw several fine carriages drawing towards the house.

"We are going to have a world of company," said the man; "but Miss Darwell has no visitors in her own rooms but you and your sisters, Master Fairchild. My lady would have had more invited, but Mrs. Colvin begged off; and so you and the young ladies are much favoured."

And then, giving his horse a fillip, away they went, bowling along over the park amid high fern brakes, lofty trees, and many deer.

"I see something white through the trees," said Henry; "look, look, all along under the branches—see, Lucy—see, Emily!"

"Do you, master?" answered the servant; "well, that is unaccountable; but look before you—what do you see there?"

"Only trees," replied Henry, "and fern."

"Look again, master," said the man.

And Henry looked again till he had quite passed the place where the white things might be seen, and indeed had forgotten them.

When they came to the house and drove to the door, a footman appeared, and was directed to lead the little ladies and gentleman to Miss Darwell's rooms. The man went before them upstairs and along the galleries to the door of that very room where they had been received by poor Miss Augusta Noble.

As the footman, having opened the door, mentioned their names, they saw that everything within the room was just the same as it had been. But there was a nice elderly lady, dressed in black silk, who sat near the open window. She seemed, by the book in her hand, to have been reading to a pretty fair girl, nearly of the age of Lucy, who sat on a stool at her feet.

These were Mrs. Colvin and Miss Darwell; and when they heard the names announced, they both rose and came to meet their visitors. They both smiled so sweetly, and spoke so pleasantly, that they took all fear at once from the children.

Mrs. Colvin herself took off the bonnets and tippets, and laid them aside; and Miss Darwell said, "I am glad you came so soon; I told Everard to make haste."

As soon as they were ready, Miss Darwell began to talk of what they were to play at. Mrs. Colvin gave them leave to go out for a time to play in the shade of what they called the cedar-grove, a place near the house, but they all begged her to go with them.

"Not to play, my dears," she said; "I can't run."

"No, ma'am," said Lucy; "but you can have a book and sit down and read, as then you can see us at play."

"Well, then," said Mrs. Colvin, smiling, "I will come." And away they all went to the cedar-grove.

As they were going Henry said:

"I am not to ask what is to be done this evening."

"No," replied Miss Darwell; "you ought not even to say, 'I am not to ask.'"

When they had got into the grove, and Mrs. Colvin was seated, they began to consult about what they should play at. As Miss Darwell had not often any children to play with, she did not know of half the games that others did.

"Let us play at Little Edwy and the Echo," said Lucy.

"But we have no echo here," said Miss Darwell.

"Then Henry shall be Edwy, and I will be the echo: and it is me you shall try to catch," replied Lucy; "and you shall have to run for it. Henry, you must call, and I will answer, but they shall not find me."

Lucy could run almost as quick as a greyhound, and she managed the game so well, that it took up the whole time Mrs. Colvin allowed them to stay out of doors. It was getting hot, and they went back into the house, and to their room.

"Now," said Mrs. Colvin, "you shall take your visitors into your play-room, Miss Darwell, and leave the door open, my dear, that I may hear you and see you; I know you like to have me near you."

"Yes, I do, dear Mrs. Colvin," said Miss Darwell; and she put her arms round the excellent governess's neck and kissed her; and then, running and opening a door, led her visitors into a large room which they had not seen before. It was furnished with shelves, on which many books and toys were ranged in order—for it was one of Mrs. Colvin's wishes to make her pupil neat.

Mr. Fairchild's children quite cried out at the sight of these things; there were enough to furnish a toy-shop, besides the books.

Miss Darwell said, "Which would you like?"

Henry fixed upon a large Noah's ark, and when it was reached down, he placed himself on the floor, and made a procession of its inmates. He placed Noah himself in front, with his little painted wife, and Shem, Ham, and Japhet, and their wives after him. Then came the beasts, and then the birds, and then the insects and creeping things. Lucy chose a dissected map of England and Wales, and another which formed a picture; and Emily, a box of bricks and doorways, and pillars and chimneys, and other things for building houses.

Mrs. Colvin had told the children that they were to keep themselves quiet till dinner-time; so Miss Darwell took her doll, and for a long time they were all very still with their toys: they were to dine at half-past one, and Henry had not done with his ark when a female servant came into the outer room to lay the cloth.



"It is time to put up now," said Mrs. Colvin, calling from the next room.

Lucy and Emily and Henry began immediately to put the things they had been playing with into the cases, and Lucy was putting her dissected map into the place from which she had taken it, when Miss Darwell said:

"Don't put it away, Miss Fairchild; it shall be tied up ready to go with the carriage."

Lucy did not understand her.

"Did you not choose it, Miss Lucy?" said Miss Darwell; "if you please to accept it, I will send it in the carriage to-night with the bricks and the ark."

"Thank you, dear Miss Darwell," Lucy answered; "but we must not take anything, unless your mamma and my mamma give leave."

At that instant Mrs. Colvin called Lucy.

"I called you, my dear, to tell you that you are quite right: you ought never to receive a present without your mamma's leave, and ought never to desire to receive one. But I have no doubt that Miss Darwell will remember to ask Mrs. Fairchild this evening if you may have them."

"I will," said Miss Darwell; "I hope I shall not forget it in the bustle."

"Shall I tell you of it?" said Henry.

Lucy and Emily got as red as scarlet when Henry said these words; but Mrs. Colvin whispered:

"Let him alone, he is very young, and he will get wiser as he gets older."

"I shall be obliged to you to remind me of it, Henry," said Miss Darwell; "and I will speak the moment I see Mrs. Fairchild."

How happily did the four children and the good governess dine together that day before the open window, where they could smell the sweet flowers in the garden below, and see a large pool which was beyond the trees, and still beyond that the green heights of the park.

"I see people," said Henry, whose eyes were everywhere, "going up the park by that pretty white building which looks like a temple with a porch—there they go—I see women and children—and there are men carrying baskets. What are they doing, ma'am?" he added, looking at Mrs. Colvin.

"Taking a pleasant walk this fine afternoon," she answered; "and we will walk too by-and-by, but upon one condition, as it is so very warm, that after dinner you will each of you take a book and sit quite still, until I speak the word for all to move."

"Might I play with Noah's ark, ma'am, instead?" said Henry; "I will not move."

"Very well," said Mrs. Colvin; and when they had dined, she directed Lucy and Emily to choose their books and sit down in any place they chose.

Miss Darwell also took a book, as did Mrs. Colvin; and so still was everyone, that it might have been thought that there was not a creature in the room but the Seven Sleepers, unless it might be two or three bees which came buzzing in and out.

"How pleasant," thought Mrs. Colvin, "it is to have to do with well-behaved children! I should not mind having these little Fairchilds always with me, at least till Henry is fit only to be managed by men."

Lucy and Emily wished much to know what was going to be done in the park, but they did not find the time long. Lucy had chosen the History of Mrs. Teachum, and Emily the Adventures of Robin, Dicksy, Flapsy, and Pecksy, quite a new book, which she had never seen before. The great people in the parlour were to dine at four o'clock, that they also might go into the park afterwards; and a little before four the waiting-maid came up with the best things for Master and the Misses Fairchild, packed in a bandbox, the pretty presents of Miss Crosbie not having been forgotten.

When Mrs. Colvin saw the box she called the children to her; they all came running but Henry.

"Now, my dears," she said, "you have been very quiet, and it is time to dress;" and she offered the maid's help to dress Lucy and Emily.

"No, thank you, ma'am," said Lucy; "we have no one to wait upon us at home; we always dress each other."

"I wish," said Miss Darwell, "that I had a little sister whom I might dress; but Mrs. Colvin always dresses me," she added in a whisper to Lucy, "because she loves me, and I love her."

"But where is Henry?" said Mrs. Colvin.

They went to look, and there was he, sound asleep on the floor in the play-room, with Shem, Ham, and Japhet in his hands, and all the birds and beasts about him.

"Well," said Mrs. Colvin, "I did think he was the quietest boy that I had ever known, but he has lost a little credit with me now; most boys are quiet when they are asleep."

Emily stooped down and kissed him, which caused him to wake; but when he was aroused he looked about him in such a surprised way that all the little girls laughed heartily, and he looked as if he felt ashamed.

Mrs. Colvin set him to pack up his ark, whilst she showed Emily and Lucy into a room to dress, saying:

"When you are ready, come to me, that I may see that all is right."

When they were dressed they called Henry, who was yet to be dressed, and then sought Mrs. Colvin; she, too, was ready, and Miss Darwell was standing by her.

The little lady, according to the taste of her mother, was set off with lace on her sleeves and feathers in her hat, and coloured shoes, and everything which could make a child fine; but her manner was not the least changed; she only seemed anxious that Lucy and Emily should look well. Mrs. Colvin turned them about, examining them, and made some amendment in the tying and pinning.

"Well," she said, "you look very nice; little girls should always attend to neatness; it is a compliment due to those who care for them; and now each of you give me a kiss, and we will be off, as I see Henry is now ready, and Everard is waiting." They all then went down, and found Everard at the hall-door with the pony-carriage. A boy was holding a small horse by the carriage. "Now," said Mrs. Colvin, "how is it to be managed, Miss Darwell? Suppose I walk?"

"No, no!" cried Miss Darwell; "Henry is to ride; I know he will like it, and Joseph shall walk by him, and you shall sit in front with Everard, and we little ones will go behind. There is quite room, and it is a very little way, and it will be so pleasant;" and thus it was settled, to the immense joy of Henry.

Away they went through one gate and another gate, till they came upon the green smooth drive which went quite round the park.

"Is not this pleasant?" said Miss Darwell, taking the hand of Lucy and Emily on each side; "but please first to call Henry, and tell him that I have settled about the things. I sent a note to Mrs. Fairchild whilst you were dressing, with a pencil to write yes or no, and she wrote the right word; so Henry will not have to remind me. Mrs. Colvin always tells me not to put things off. But now you shall know what we are going to do. Mamma lets me have a pleasure on my birthday, so I asked to have all the children in the parish invited to have tea in the park; and mamma has had tents put up, and we have got music, and the children are to play, and the old people are to come with the children. I was only afraid it would not be fine, but it is fine," she added, clapping her hands in her great delight; "but I would not tell you, that you might have something to guess about."

They first went up a rising ground, then they came to a grove; then they passed under the white building which Henry called a temple. Then they saw a lovely sparkling waterfall; then they came to an open place, green and smooth; then they came to another grove, and there they found that they were getting amongst the people, some of whom Henry had seen going to that place three or four hours before. When country people have a holiday, they like to make the most of it; and very soon they saw the tents through the trees.

Henry was first, and he looked back to his sisters as if he would have said, "These are the white things I saw this morning." There were four tents; they had pointed tops, but were open on the sides; tables were spread in each of them, and also under the trees in various places round about; and there sat several musicians on a bank. The people all about, men and women and children, were like bees swarming about the tents. There were parties of young people and children who had been playing and amusing themselves, but they all stood still when they saw the carriage coming, and the music struck up a fine merry tune to welcome the little lady.

There were none of the grand people from the house yet come; those that were there were chiefly the cottagers, but they had all their very best dresses on, and all the poor children were dressed exactly alike. They wore dark blue cotton frocks with white tippets, and aprons, and caps. There were a few persons present, seated in one of the tents, who were not among the poor. Henry immediately saw Mrs. Burke and her daughters, for Mrs. Burke smiled kindly at him; the boys were somewhere among the people.

But though there were so many, there was no fear that the feast would run short, for the tables were heaped up with bread and butter and cakes, and fruit, and tea and sugar, and there were pails of milk standing under the trees, and more bread, and more fruit, and more of everything. It was settled that when Miss Darwell came, the feast was to begin.

"Oh!" cried Lucy, "how pleasant everything looks!"

There was not time for any more to be said, for the carriage was getting close to the tents; it stopped, and Mrs. Colvin and the young people alighted.

Miss Darwell was received by many smiling faces; every child looked at her with innocent delight, and the women murmured, "Bless her sweet face!" And then orders were given that the feast was to begin, and the people settled themselves on the grass in small parties.

Mrs. Colvin having given Miss Darwell a hint, she went to speak to Mrs. Burke, and invited her and her daughters to come and assist in serving the people, and seeing that everyone had as much as they wished.

Kind Mrs. Burke was the very person to like to be asked to do such a thing, and the Misses Burke could not be offended when they saw Miss Darwell as busily engaged as she possibly could be.

"Now," said she to Lucy, and Emily, and Henry, "now you are to come with me; look at that little party under that oak; there is a very old woman and two children. There are more people near, but I don't want you to look at them—come close to them." And they all four walked towards them.

"Do not stir, do not speak," said Miss Darwell, to the two children and the old woman; "let Master and the Misses Fairchild see if they recognise you again."

The little ones under the tree entered into the joke, and sat quite still. The boy, indeed, laughed and chuckled; but the little girl kept her countenance. The old woman did not know Mr. Fairchild's children, so she had no trouble to keep herself from smiling.

All these three were neatly dressed, and their clothes looked quite new. The boy had a suit of what is called hodden-gray, with a clean shirt as white as the snow.

"I do not know them," said Lucy.

"But I do," cried Henry.

"And so do I," said Emily; "they are Edward and Jane."

"Yes, Miss," said the two little ones, jumping up.

"And it is all through you," added Edward, "that the good little lady has done everything for us: and the house is new thatched, and the walls made as white as paper; and more money given to grandmother; and me cowboy at Squire Burke's; and Jane in the school—don't Jane look well in them clothes, sir? Oh, that was a good day when we lighted on you, Master and Miss!" And the poor boy pulled the front lock of his hair and bowed I know not how many times.

When every person had as much as was good for them, and a few persons, perhaps, a little more, orders were given that what remained should be set in order in the tents for supper; and then the music struck up. And whilst the elder people were amusing themselves in other places, Miss Darwell called all the little girls to follow her into a pretty green glade among the trees, and hidden from the rest of the company.

Mrs. Colvin went with her, for she was never willing that her good governess should lose sight of her; and Lucy and Emily were equally anxious for her presence. Henry was the only boy allowed to come.

"Now, Lucy," said Miss Darwell, for she was getting quite fond of her, "now there is to be some play, but I do not know many games; so you and Emily must lead. What shall we have?"

"Lucy knows a thousand thousand games!" cried Henry.

After some talking, "Hunt the Hare" was chosen; and Lucy, who was a particularly quick runner, was chosen for the hare, and everyone was to follow Lucy in and out wherever she went.

All the children were to stand with joined hands in a circle; Lucy was to be in the middle. They began with dancing round her, and when they stopped she was to begin to run, and after ten had been counted, one other was let loose to follow her, and then the whole pack, as Henry called them, at a signal given.

Miss Darwell got between Henry and Emily in the circle; Lucy was put into the midst; and they danced round her, singing, "My leader, my leader, I will follow my leader wherever she goes!" Then they stood still, and Lucy began to run out under one pair of hands and in under another, and back again, and about and about like a needle in a piece of cloth; and when ten had been counted, Henry was let loose, and then the sport really began. They expected he would have caught her immediately; he was as quick as ever his little legs would allow, and as true to all her windings as the thread is to those of the needle. But when he was following Lucy the last time through the middle of the circle, he gave the signal for the whole party to loose hands and follow him, and away they all went. But they could not get on for laughing, for Lucy had as many pranks as Harlequin himself, so that several of the children, and amongst these Miss Darwell herself, fairly stood still to laugh.

This game lasted for some time. Then came "Puss in the Corner"; and then, as Mrs. Colvin thought there had been strong exercise enough, the evening being very hot, she made all the children sit down, and asked who could tell a story.

"Lucy can," said Emily; and Lucy then, without hesitation, told the story of "Edwy and the Echo," by the particular desire of Miss Darwell.

Lucy had one particularly pleasing quality, which arose in some degree from the habit of quick obedience in which she had been brought up; this was, that when, in company, desired by a proper person to do anything she could to make herself agreeable, she immediately tried; and when Mrs. Colvin had said, "If you can tell the story, Miss Lucy, do favour us with it," she took her place, and did it as easily as if Emily and Henry only had been by. Emily had the same wish to make herself pleasant as Lucy had, but she was naturally more shy. Everybody was so pleased with Lucy's story that she told another, and that was the story of "Margot and the Golden Fish," which delighted everyone, and was a useful story to the poor children.

But now the sun was beginning to dip its golden disc below the hills, and the sound was heard of carriages. Mr. and Mrs. Darwell, and those who had dined with them, were come up into the park.

Mrs. Colvin called on all the village children to put themselves in the neatest order, and to take their places two and two, she herself arranging Lucy and Emily and Miss Darwell in their bonnets and tippets; and then walked with her train to join the company.

A great number of fine ladies and gentlemen were in the midst and within the tents, and there were Mr. and Mrs. Fairchild.

Mrs. Darwell spoke civilly, but very coldly, to Lucy and Emily. Mr. Darwell spoke kindly. The ladies and gentlemen had a great deal to say to Miss Darwell, but she was become very reserved among so many strangers, and seemed to cling close to Mrs. Colvin.

The village people were then offered more refreshments, and as they could not take much, everything that was left was ordered to be given amongst them; but none of them had gone, when all who had come from the house returned to it.

"I am very sorry you are going, dear Lucy and Emily and Henry," said Miss Darwell; "I have had the happiest day I ever had in my life. I thought I should like you, but I did not know how very much it would be."

The little girls then kissed each other, and Mrs. Colvin gave them a note for their mother.

"This," she said, "is to tell Mrs. Fairchild, that I care not how often you and Miss Darwell meet. I can add no more to that."

The children were to go home with their father and mother; and if they loved Miss Darwell much already, they loved her more for her kindness when they saw three large brown paper parcels under the seat of the little carriage.

They had a sweet drive home, though they had not time to tell all that had happened to their mother till the next day; but their parents knew, from Mrs. Colvin's note, as soon as they got home, that their children had behaved very well.



Grandmamma Fairchild



After this very pleasant day at the park, and long before Lucy and Emily had left off talking about it, a note came from Miss Darwell, to say that they were all going to the sea, for which she was sorry, because she wanted to see them all again.

Lucy answered the note, and said that she and Emily were also very, very sorry; and this they truly were. Several weeks then passed, and nothing particular happened, till a letter came from their grandmamma, saying that her grand-daughter was very ill, and much desired to see her uncle. "Indeed," added the old lady, "I feel that I shall be required to give up my Ellen also; but God does all things well."

The letter came at breakfast-time, and Mr. Fairchild resolved to set out as soon as he possibly could get ready. There was a great bustle for the next hour, and then Mr. Fairchild took leave of his family, and was driven by John to the town—he was to go on from thence by the coach.

The children stood to see them off, and then walked back into the house. Their mother told them to take their needlework and sit down in the parlour; and she gave Henry a book to read whilst she was busy in another part of the house. It was a very hot day, the window was open, and all was still—even the children did not speak for some time; at last Lucy said:

"I hope poor cousin Ellen will not die. What will grandmamma do if she dies?"

"If she did not live so far off," said Emily, "perhaps we might comfort her."

"I never remember seeing her but twice," said Lucy, "and you never saw her, Henry."

They went on talking about their grandmother till Mrs. Fairchild came in and sat down with them, and they still went on with the subject, asking her many questions, especially wherefore their grandmother had come so seldom to see them, and why they had not been asked to see her. From one thing to another they went on till they heard a much more regular account of the history of their family than they had ever heard before.

"When I first knew your father's family, my dears," said Mrs. Fairchild, "your grandmother was living in Reading with two sons: the elder brother soon afterwards went to the East Indies, where he married and had several children. Your father was intended to have been a clergyman, but before he could be ordained he was attacked with an illness, which finished with such a weakness in the chest, that he knew he could never read the Service without danger. We had enough to live on, and we settled here, and here you were all born."

"Yes," said Lucy, "and we love this dear place. We shall never like another so well; it would grieve me to leave it."

"We must take things as they come," said Mrs. Fairchild, going on with her history. "Your uncle was abroad several years, and was enabled to make a very good fortune. Whilst you were a very little baby, Lucy, he returned to England, and then purchased that place where your grandmamma now lives, a place known by the name of The Grove, between Reading and London, on the banks of the Thames. His wife had died abroad, and several children also in infancy. He brought with him two little girls, of five and six years of age, Emily and Ellen; and they were lovely little creatures then," said Mrs. Fairchild; "their very paleness making them only look the more lovely. When I saw that sweet little Emily, I resolved, that if ever I had another girl, it should be an Emily.

"My nieces lost their father only one year after they came to England, and then their grandmother settled herself quite down to give all her attention to them; and truly, from the extreme delicacy of their health, they needed all the care that she could give them. From the very earliest period of their lives they were invariably gentle, humble, and attentive to the comfort of every person who came near to them."

"Were not they like Miss Darwell?" said Henry, who had dropped his book, and was listening with all his attention.

"I think they were, Henry," replied Mrs. Fairchild; "and their outward circumstances were much alike—they were, like her, the daughters of a rich man, and brought up very tenderly. It was about four years since," she continued, "that your lovely cousin Emily died of a rapid decline. A little before her death, seeing her sister weeping bitterly, she said, 'Do not cry, gentle sister, we shall not be parted long.' Ellen never forgot those words, though it was not till some time afterwards that she reminded your grandmamma of them."

"And do you think she will now die, mamma, and go to her Emily?" said Lucy.

"I cannot say," replied Mrs. Fairchild; "but she has certainly been gradually falling off ever since she lost her sister."

Mr. Fairchild wrote every day; his accounts from the first were bad; they became worse and worse as to the hopes respecting the poor young lady, and her grandmother's anxiety. At last a letter came to say that she was dead, but had died in great peace.

The children cried very much, but more for their grandmother than for their cousin; for they had not a doubt that she was happy. Then, too, Lucy and Emily began to think how they could make up the loss to the old lady, if she would but come and live with them; and then they began to plan what rooms she could have, and were a little puzzled because the house was very small; yet Lucy said she thought it might be contrived.

The next letter from Mr. Fairchild said that he had persuaded his mother to leave The Grove for a few weeks; and that she was to set out the next day with her maid, whilst he remained to settle everything.

The old lady was expected to come the day after the next, as she would sleep on the road; and there was much to be done to get everything ready, and to see after mourning.

Lucy and Emily had many plans for comforting their grandmother; and as the old lady was used to be wheeled about in a Bath-chair, John was sent to the Park to borrow one which had belonged to Sir Charles Noble's mother.

The elder Mrs. Fairchild was old, and had long been affected by lameness, which prevented her from walking with ease; and this her daughter-in-law knew. There was nothing she would not have done to make her comfortable. Henry cheerfully gave up his room for the maid, and had a little bed put up for him in the play-room. He had settled that he was to be his grandmother's horse as soon as he saw the Bath-chair.

The children had not known much of their cousins; they had been at their grandmother's only once since they could remember, for the very bad health of their cousins had prevented their going with their father when he went to see his mother; they could not therefore feel for their cousins as if they had known them well, but they thought very much of their grandmother's loss.

Mrs. Fairchild had settled that the old lady was to have the use of their little drawing-room, and no one but herself was to go to her in that room unless she wished it; and she told the children they must expect her to be very sad indeed till after the funeral, and that they must be very quiet, and not come in her sight unless she desired it.

She was not expected until the evening of the third day after they had heard she was coming; and then Henry went up to the top of the round hill to watch for the carriage, and to be the first to give notice of it.

It was not far from six o'clock when he first saw it coming down the hill towards the village, and he was not sure of it for some time; he then ran in, and went up with Lucy and Emily to their window to wait till it came.

After a while they heard the sound of it; then they saw John go to the gate and set it open; then they drew back a little, not to be seen, and came forward when the carriage stopped, but they did not see the old lady get out. Mrs. Fairchild was below to receive her, and to lead her into the house: but they saw the maid busy in seeing the things taken out of the carriage, and they heard her giving her orders. This maid was not the same who had for years waited on the old lady, but one who had taken the place whilst the old waiting-maid stayed behind to take care of the house. This new maid called herself Miss Tilney: her mistress called her Jane, but no one else took that liberty. She was dressed as smartly as she could be in deep mourning; and she gave orders in such a sharp tone that the children could hear every word she said.