The two girls bounded upon their chairs; Susan's eyes grew round, and Bessie's long; the one said, "O Papa!" and the other, "Oh, thank you!" and they looked so overwhelmed with ecstasy, and all the three elders laughed.

"Then you will behave discreetly, young women?"

"I'll try," said Susan; "and Bessie always does. Oh, thank you, Papa!"

"Grandmamma should be thanked; she asked me to bring a child or two, to be with Mamma when I go down to Portsmouth. We had thought of Susan; but I think Betty deserves some amends for what she has undergone."

"Oh yes, Papa! thank you!" cried Susan, Sam, and David, from their hearts; John and Annie because the others did so.

"Then you won't kick her out if she shares your berth, Sue?"

"Oh, I am so glad, Papa! It is so nice to go together."

"Then, Miss Fosbrook, will you be kind enough to rig them out? I must drive into Southminster at ten o'clock; and if you would be so good as to see them smartened up for London there, I should be much obliged to you."

The mere drive to the country town was a great event in itself, even without the almost incredible wonder that it was to lead to; and the delights of which Ida and Miss Fosbrook had told them in London went so wildly careering through the little girls' brains, that they hardly knew what they said or did, as they danced about the house, and ran up-stairs to get ready, long before ten o'clock.

Mr. Carey had been informed that his pupils would not come to him during the few days of their father's stay; and Sam begged to ride in on his pony by the side of the carriage; but he was desired to fetch his books, and call Henry, as his uncle wished to give them both an examination. Was this the beginning of captivity to Uncle John? David and Johnnie were quite angry. They considered it highly proper that Hal should be shut up with Uncle John, but they thought it very hard that Sam should be so used too; and Sam himself looked very round-backed, reluctant, and miserable, partly at the task, partly at being deprived of the sight of his father for several hours of one of those few precious days.

Miss Fosbrook wished Susan to have sat on the front seat of the old phaeton with her father; but he would not consent to this, and putting the two little girls together behind, handed the governess to the place of honour beside him, where she felt rather shy, in spite of his bright easy manner.

"I am afraid," he said, after having flourished his whip merrily at Johnnie, Annie, and Davie, who were holding open the iron gate, "that you have had a tough job with those youngsters! We never meant you to have been left so long to their mercy."

"I know—I know; I only wish I could have done better."

"You have done wonders. My brother hardly knows where he is—never saw those children so mannerly."

Miss Fosbrook could not show how delighted she was.

"I could hardly have ventured on taking those two girls to town unless you had broken them in a little. I would say nothing last night till I had watched Susan; for my mother is particular, and if my wife was to be always worrying herself about their manners, they had better be at home."

"Indeed, I think you may quite trust to their behaving well. Those two and Sam are so thoroughly trustworthy, that I had no real difficulty till this unhappy business."

The Captain wanted to talk this over with her, and hear her account of it once more. She gave it fully, thinking he ought to know exactly how his children had acted in the matter, and wishing to explain where she thought she had made mistakes. When she had finished, he said, "Thank you," and considered a little while; then said, "A thing like this brings out a great deal of character; and a new eye sometimes sees more what is in a child than those that bred him up."

"It has been a touchstone, indeed," she answered.

"Poor Hal!" he said sadly; then resumed, "I've said nothing of it yet to the boys—but Admiral Penrose has promised to let me take out one with me. I had thought most of Hal; he seemed to me a smarter fellow, more likely to make his way than his brother; but this makes me doubt whether there can be stuff enough in him. I might not be able to look after him, nor do I know what his messmates may be; and I should not choose to risk it, except with a boy I could thoroughly trust."

"Those young Grevilles seem to me Hal's bane and temptation."

"Ay, ay; but if a boy is of the sort, he'll find someone to be his bane, wherever he goes. I'll have no more of the Grevilles though. If he should not go with me, my brother John would take him into his house, and keep a sharp look out after him. Just tell me, if you have no objection, how the boy strikes you. Most people think him the most taking of the lot."

"So he is," said Christabel thoughtfully; "he has more ease and readiness, and he is affectionate and warm-hearted; but then he is a great talker, and fond of boasting."

"Exactly. I told him that was the very way he learnt falsehood."

"I am afraid, too," she was obliged to add, "that his resolutions run away in talk. He has not much perseverance; and he is easily led."

"Well, I believe you are right; but then what's to be done? I can hardly afford to lose this chance; but Sam was always backward; and I doubt his even caring to go to sea."

"Oh! Captain Merrifield!"

"What! has he given you reason to think that he does?" She told him how she had found Sam struggling with his longing for the sea and his father; and how patiently the boy had resigned himself to see his brother put before him, and himself condemned for being too dull and slow.

"Did I say so? I suppose he had put me past my patience with blundering over his lessons. I never meant to make any decision; but I did not think he wished it."

"He said it had been his desire from the time he could remember, especially when he felt the want of you during your last voyage."

"Very odd; how reserved some boys are! I declare I was vexed that it had gone out of his head; though I thought it might be for the best. You know I was not born to this place. I never dreamt of it till my poor brother Sam's little boy went off in a fever six years ago, and we had to settle down here. Before that, we meant my eldest to follow my own profession; but when he seemed to take to the soil so kindly, I thought, after all, he might make the happier squire for never having learnt the smell of salt water, nor the spirit of enterprise; but if it were done already, the first choice is due to him. You are sure?"

"Ask the girls."

He leant back and shouted out the question, "Sue! do you know whether Sam wishes to go to sea?"

"There's nothing he ever wished so much," was the answer.

"Then why didn't he say so?"

"Because he thought it would be no use," screamed Susan back.

"No use! why?"

"Because Hal says Admiral Penrose promised him. O Papa! are you going to take Sam?"

"Oh dear! we can't get on without him!" sighed Elizabeth.

"Are you sure he would like it?" said her father. "I thought he never cared to hear of the sea."

"He can't bear to talk of it, because it makes him so sorry," said Susan.

"And," cried Bessie, "he burnt his dear little ship, the Victory, because he couldn't bear to look at it after you said THAT, Papa."

"After I said what?"

"That he was not smart enough to learn the ropes."

"Very silly of him," said the Captain, "to take in despair what was only meant to spur him on. I suppose now I shall find he has dawdled so much that he couldn't get through an examination."

This shut up the mouths of both the girls, who were afraid that he might not, since they saw a good deal of his droning habits over his lessons, and heard more of Hal's superior cleverness.

Miss Fosbrook ventured to say, "You may expect a great deal of a boy who works on a pure principle of obedience."

"You think a great deal of that youngster," said the Captain, highly gratified. "It is the first time I ever knew a stranger take to him."

"I did not take to him as a stranger. I thought him uncouth and dull. I only learnt to love and respect him, as I felt how perfectly I might rely on him, and how deep and true his principles are. If the children have gone on tolerably well in your absence, it is because he has always stood by me, and his weight of character has told on them."

Captain Merrifield did not answer at once; he bit his lip, then blew his nose, and cleared his throat, before he said, "Miss Fosbrook, you have made me very happy; it will make his mother so. She always rated him so high, that I half thought it was a weakness for her eldest son; but there! I suppose he was down-hearted about this fancy of his, poor boy; and that hindered him from making the most of himself. I wonder what sort of a figure he is cutting before his uncle!"

The town was at length reached; and the shopping was quite wonderful to the sisters. Miss Fosbrook found a shop where the marvellous woman undertook to send home two grey frocks trimmed with pink, by the next evening; and found two such fashionable black silk jackets, that Susie felt quite ashamed of herself, though rather pleased; and Bessie only wished she could see her own back, it must look so like Ida's. Then there were white sleeves, and white collars, that made them feel like young women; and little pink silk handkerchiefs for their necks; and two straw hats, which Miss Fosbrook undertook to trim with puffs of white ribbon, and a pink rosette at each ear. Bessie thought they would be the most beautiful things that had ever been in her possession, and was only dreading that Sam would say they were like those on Ida Greville's donkey's best harness; while Susan looked quite frightened at them, whispered a hope that Mamma would not think them too fine, and that Miss Fosbrook would not let them cost too much money; and when assured that all fell within what Papa had given to be laid out, she begged that Annie and little Sally might have the like.

But as they were not going to London, Miss Fosbrook could not venture on this; and as Bessie had set her affections upon a certain white chip hat, with a pink border and a white feather, both sisters remained wishing for something—as is sure to happen on such occasions.

However, Elizabeth recovered from the hat when she was out of sight of it; and they went and saw the cathedral, where the painted windows and grave grand arches filled her with a truer and wiser sense of what was beautiful; and then they walked a long time up and down under its buttressed wall, waiting for Papa, till they grew tired and hungry; but at last he came in a great hurry, and sorry to have been hindered. With naval politeness, he gave his arm to Miss Fosbrook, and carried them off to a pastry-cook's, where he bade them eat what they pleased, and spend the rest of the florin he threw them on buns for the little ones, while he fetched the carriage; and so they all drove home again, and found the rest of the party ravenous, having waited dinner for three-quarters of an hour.

Wonderful to relate, Uncle John had not eaten anybody up! not even Baby; though Papa advised Susan to make sure that she was safe, and then sent Sam to ask Purday for a salad. Perhaps this was by way of getting rid of this constant follower while he asked his brother what he thought of the boys' attainments.

Uncle John could not speak very highly of the learning of either; but he said, "Sam knows thoroughly what he does know. As to the other, he thinks he knows everything, and makes most awful shots. When I asked them who Dido's husband was, Sam told me he did not know, and Hal, that he was Diodorus Siculus—AT LEAST, Scipio—no, he meant Sicyon."

"Then you think neither could stand an examination for the cadetship?"

"I could not be sure of Sam; but I am quite sure that Hal could not."

Here the dinner-bell rang; the hungry populace rushed to the dining- room, and the meal was gone through as merrily as could be, while still the father never spoke to Henry. Uncle John was as pleasant and good-natured as possible. Who would have thought of the marked difference he made between dining with barbarians, or young gentlefolks!

Dinner over, Captain Merrifield called Sam,—or rather, since that was not necessary, as Sam was never willingly a yard from his elbow, he ordered the others not to follow as they went into the garden together.

"Sam," he said, "Admiral Penrose is kind enough to offer me a berth in the Ramilies for one of you. If you can pass the examination, should you wish to avail yourself of the offer?"

Sam grew very red in the face, looked down, and twirled the button of his sleeve. He certainly was not a gracious boy, for all he said was in a gruff hoarse voice, without even thanks, "Not if it is for this."

"For this! What do you mean, Sam?" said Captain Merrifield, thinking either that the boy was faint-hearted, or that his wish had been the mere fancy of the girls.

"Not if it is to punish Hal," said Sam, with another effort.

"That is not the question. Do you wish it?"

Sam hung his head, and made his eyebrows come down, as if they were to serve as a veil to those horrid tears in his eyes; and after all, his voice sounded sulky, as he said, "Yes."

"Is that all?" said the Captain, angry and disappointed. "Is that the way you take such an offer? If you had rather stay here, and be bred up to be a country squire, say so at once; don't mince the matter!"

"O Papa!" cried Sam indignantly, "how can you think that? Didn't I always want to be like you?"

"Then why can't you say so?"

"Because I can't bear to cut Hal out!" said Sam, putting his arm over his eyes, as a way he considered secret of disposing of his tears.

"Put that out of your head, Sam; or if you don't fancy the sea, have it out at once."

"O Papa! please listen. You know, though Miss Fosbrook is very jolly, we couldn't help getting nohow when you were away, US two particularly."

"You have no mischief to confess, surely, Sam?" said his father, really imagining that this preference to Hal was acting on him so as to make him mention some concealed misdemeanour; "if you have, you know truth is the best line."

"But I haven't, Papa," said Sam, looking up, quite surprised. "You know I am a year older, and couldn't help caring more; and Miss Fosbrook is so nice, one couldn't bother her; but you see the Grevilles WOULD put it into Hal's head that it was stupid and like a girl to mind her. It is all their fault; and they were sneaks about the turkey-cock, and wouldn't pay—and I know he would have ended by putting the money back when he could, only Davie made such a row before he could; and he did so reckon on the navy—he would pay it back the first thing." The last sentences came between gasps, very like sobs.

"Have done with Hal," said Captain Merrifield, still with displeasure. "I wouldn't take him now on any account. If the Grevilles lead him wrong, what would he do among the mids? If he acts dishonourably here, we should have him disgracing himself and his profession. Since he can't take it, and you won't, I shall try to make some exchange of the chance till John or David will be old enough."

"But Papa, I—" began Sam.

"I don't want to force you to it," continued Captain Merrifield, in his vexed voice. "I never mean to force my sons to any profession if I can help it; and you have a right to be considered. It has always been a disadvantage to me, and to this place, that I was bred to the sea instead of to farming; and though you can't live on the property without some profession, it may be quite as well that you should turn your mind to something else—only if it be the army, I can't help you on in it."

"I had rather go to sea, if you please," said Sam.

"Don't say so to please me," said his father. "I tell you, the examinations are a pretty deal harder than they were in my time. It is not a trade for a youngster to be idle in; and I won't have you, just when you've knocked about a few years, and are getting fit to be of use on board and nowhere else, calling yourself heartily sick of it, and turning round to say it was my doing."

"I'll never do that, Papa," said poor Sam, unable to understand why his father should speak as though scolding him.

"No? And mind, you must take the rough with the smooth, if you sail with me, and not be always running after me, Papa-ing me. I can't see after you, and should only get you ill will if I tried."

"I had rather go," said Sam.

"I'm sure I don't know what to make of you," said his father, looking at him in a puzzle. "However, if you do mean to go, you may tell Freeman to get your things ready to come up with me on Thursday; only if you don't really like the notion, find out your own mind, and let me know in time, that's all."

The Captain turned away, and gave a long whistle—an accustomed signal—that brought children and dogs all rushing and tumbling about him together, to walk with him about the farm, and his brother among them; but Sam hung back. He had not the heart to go with that merry throng; for he did not know whether his father were not displeased with him, and he therefore thought he must be to blame.

People who, like Sam, rather cultivate the habit of gruffness and reserve, and prefer to be short and rude, become so utterly unable to express what they mean, that on great occasions they are misunderstood, and give pain by supposed ingratitude and dislike, even when they feel most warmly. Captain Merrifield could only judge from looks and words; and even when Sam had been satisfied about Henry, he had shown so little alacrity or satisfaction, as really to leave a doubt whether he were not unwillingly yielding to his father's wishes; which would have been a mistaken act, as the Captain thought no one ought to be a sailor unless with a very strong desire that way. Thus Sam really perplexed and distressed his father, when he least intended it; and unable to understand what was the matter, yet feeling heavy and sad, he turned aside from the rest, and, by way of the quietest place he could find, climbed up a tall pear-tree, to the very highest branch he could reach. He put himself astride on one bough, his feet upon another below, and his back leaning against the main stem. No one could see him up so high among the thick leaves; but he could see all around the village, and over the house; he could look down into the farm-court at the pigs burying themselves in the straw; and out beyond at the geese and ducks in the meadow, and the broods of chickens pecking and scratching about, or the older poultry rolling in the dust-holes they had scraped for themselves. He could see Purday among his cabbages in the garden; and further off, could watch the walking-party through the fields, his father with little George in his arms, and Uncle John as often as possible by his side; while the others frisked about, sometimes spreading out like a flock of sheep in the pasture land, or when they came to the narrow paths in the cornfields, all getting into single file, and being lost sight of all but their heads.

Sam recollected how, the day when he had heard that he was not likely to be a sailor, he had felt as if he hated Stokesley, and as if it would be a prison to him, and how everything reminding him of the sea had been a misery to him. He would not then have believed anyone who had told him that he would really hear of his appointment and be so little glad. Yet for two whole years the loss of the hope had weighed on him, and made him dull whenever he thought of grown-up life, heard of the sea, or was asked what he was to be: and almost always, at his prayers, he had that meaning in his mind, when he said "Thy Will be done;" he had really submitted patiently, and tried to put away the longing from his mind, and would, there can be no doubt, have been happy and dutiful at home; but at length the wish of his heart was suddenly granted.

And then, wish though it still were, there came all this grief and discomfort. The gladness was in him somewhere, but he could not get at it, either for his own comfort, or that of his father. He missed his mother exceedingly. SHE would know what he meant, and tell Papa that he did care to go. Yet, did he care so very much? Only think of beginning to be a stranger at this dear old home! and seeing no mother, no Susie, nor any of them, for years together—probably not his father after the first voyage! However, the sailor was too strong in Sam for that grief not to pass off; and his chief trouble was the sense of supplanting Henry. He knew the disappointment would be most bitter; and he could not get rid of the sense of having taken an unfair advantage of the disgrace of Henry's adventure. As to his father's manner, he got over that more easily, for his conscience was free; he knew that the tone of displeasure would be gone at the next meeting, and he was too sure of his own love of the sea to fear that he should not show it enough. After all, he was to be a naval cadet! He could not be sorry. Nay, he felt he had his wish; the very wish he had thought it wrong to put into a prayer. He thought he ought to be thankful that it was granted, in the same way as he had been when his mother began to recover. So he put his hands together, and looked up into the summer blue sky through the leaves, and his lips moved, as he whispered his thanks, and asked to be helped in being a good brave sailor, and that something as good might happen to poor Henry.

After this, somehow, the weight was gone, he knew not where. All he recollected was, that he should see Mamma in two days, and that he was to sail with Papa if he could get through his examination. There was a sort of necessity of doing something comical; and just then spying Miss Fosbrook with a book walking slowly below, he could not resist the temptation of sending down on her a shower of little hard pears and twigs.

Bob came one down on her book, and another on her bonnet. She looked up, and saw a leg stretching out for a branch, apparently in such a dangerous manner, that she did not know whether she should not have Sam himself on her head next, and started back, watching as he swung himself from branch to branch, and then slid down, embracing the trunk.

"Did I hit you!" said he. "I couldn't help trying it; it was such fun."

It was a great liberty; but she was so good-humoured as to laugh, and said he had taken good aim.

"Please, Miss Fosbrook," next said he, "would you hear how many propositions I can say!" And as she opened her eyes at this holiday amusement, he added, "Papa has got the appointment after all, and means me to have it."

"I am so glad, Sam! I give you joy!" she said, and took his hand to shake it heartily.

"I wish Hal could go too," said Sam.

"Dear Sam," she said kindly, and guessing his feelings, as having gone along with them, "I don't wonder you are sorry for him; but indeed I think it is better for him to be sheltered from beginning real life just now."

"Papa said he would not have taken him," said Sam; "but it seems so hard to have all his life changed for a thing that sounds worse than he meant it to be."

"Sam," said Miss Fosbrook, "I once read a sermon, that said that our conduct in little things does decide the tenor of our lives. You know one moment of hastiness cost Moses the Promised Land; and only a little while ago, we heard how Joash had but few victories allowed to him, because he did not think it worth while to strike the ground as often as Elisha told him. It is the little things that show whether we are to be trusted with great."

"It is such a tremendous punishment," said Sam, "when he would have put it back again."

"My brother knew a banker's clerk who was transported for borrowing what he meant to put back again. No, Sam; people must bear the result of their doings; and your father judges for Hal as much in kindness as in anger."

"I know he knows best."

"You may see it as well as trust. With all his grand talk, do you really think that Hal would not be upset at the first hardship, or that he could face bullying or danger? Remember the bull, that was at least a vicious cow, and turned out to be a calf."

Sam could not help laughing, as he said, "Yes, that would never do at sea; and he would be done for if he were cowardly there. But I wish I could get out of sight of him till I am gone. And please hear my Euclid; I'll get the book, if you'll stay out here."

"Therefore, if the two sides of two triangles be equal to one another, and the adjacent angles be equal each to each," resounded through the laurels, as the walking party returned.

"Hallo! al fresco Euclid!" exclaimed Uncle John, as Sam with a blush ran after his blotted diagrams, as a sudden gust of wind blew them dancing over the garden. Captain Merrifield caught one, and restored it to Sam, with a pat on the back that made his teeth rattle in his head, but which made him as happy as a young sea-king, showing that they perfectly understood each other.

But to be ever so good a boy does not carry one through the examinations that stand at the door of every road of life for those who are not wealthy. Sam knew he was the dull boy of Mr. Carey's four pupils; and though from sheer diligence he was less often turned back than the rest, yet they could all excel him whenever they chose: his lessons all went against the grain, and were a sore trouble to him; and his uncle had shown much wrath to-day at his ignorance and backwardness. He was therefore in a great fright, and gave himself and Miss Fosbrook no peace, running after her every moment with his Euclid, his Colenso, or his slate.

"That boy will stupefy himself and his admirable cramming machine!" exclaimed Uncle John, when coming out into the court after tea to talk to Purday, the two brothers heard, "The complement A E is equal to the complement D E," proceeding out of the school-room window.

"A truce with your complements to-night," shouted the Captain; "come down, Sam; I must have a game at hide-and-seek!"

Though hide-and-seek on the lawn with Papa was the supremest bliss that life had yet offered to the young Merrifields, and though Susan, Bessie, Annie, and Johnnie, had all severally burst into the room to proclaim it and summon Sam, he had refused them all; but this call settled it; he broke off in the middle of his rectangle, and dashed down stairs, to the great relief of kind Miss Fosbrook, who, with all her good-will, found her head beginning to grow weary of angles and right-angles on a hot evening in the height of summer.

The summer-house was to be HOME, and there the party were assembled— nine in number, for not only Papa, but Uncle John, was going to play; and Henry, though forlorn and unnoticed, had wandered about with the rest all day, trying to do as usual, to forget the heavy load that pressed on him, and to believe that he was not going to be punished for mere unluckiness in borrowing, and for not answering impertinent questions. The world was very unlike itself to him; and he saw the enjoyment without being able to enter into it, just as a sick person sees the sunshine without feeling the warmth; but instead of penitence, he merely tried to shake off his compunction.

So there he stood in the ring, as Susan was finding out who was to be the first to hide, by pointing to each, at each word of the formula,

"Eggs, butter, cheese, bread, Sticks, stocks, stones, dead."

"Dead" came to Uncle John, as perhaps Susan had contrived; and shrugging up his shoulders, he went off to hide, and his whoop was presently heard. He was not VERY good game; maybe he did not wish to be very long sought, for he was no further than in the tall French beans, generally considered as a stupid place to hide in. The children had been in hopes that he would catch Papa, which was always a very difficult matter, for the sailor was lighter of foot, as well as, of course, longer in limb, than any of the children; but they saw that Uncle John had not the slightest chance with him, and it was Bessie who was caught in her homeward race.

Bessie was rather a good hider, and was searched for far and wide before Sam's "I spy! I spy!" gave the signal that a bit of the spotty cotton had been seen peeping out from under Purday's big potato-basket in the tool-house, and the whole party flew towards home. Bessie would not aim at Papa, for if so, she would certainly catch no one; but she hunted down David, who was too sturdy to be a quick runner, and who was very well pleased to be caught.

"I'll have Papa!" he said, as she captured him. "I know of such a cunning place."

David's place proved to be in among his likenesses, the cabbages, immediately in front of the summer-house. There he lay flat on the very wet mould, among the stout cabbages, all of which had a bead of wet in every wrinkle of their great leaves, so that when Susan had at length spied him, and he came plunging out, his brown-holland—to say nothing of his knees—was in a state that would have caused most mammas to send him to be instantly undressed; but nobody even saw it, and he charged instantly towards the door of the summer-house, not pursuing anyone in particular, but cutting all off from their retreat. He slipped aside, however, and let all the lesser game pass by uncaught; his soul soared higher than even Uncle John, who looked on exceedingly amused at the small man's stratagem, and at the long dodging that took place between him and his father, the quick lithe Captain skipping hither and thither, and trying to pop in one side while his enemy was on the other; and the square, determined, little, puffing, panting boy, guarding his door, hands on knees, ever ready for a dart wherever the attempt was made. The whole party in the home nearly went into fits at the fun, and at the droll remarks Uncle John made at this hare and tortoise spectacle; till at last either the Captain gave in, or Davie made a cleverer attack than ever, for with a great shout he flew upon Papa, and held him fast by the legs. Everyone shrieked with delight; Papa hid in such clever places, and when found, he roared so splendidly, that it struck the little ones with terror, and did the hearts of the elders good, to hear him; indeed, the greatest ambition Johnnie entertained was to roar like Papa. Then he could make his voice sound as if out of any place he chose, so that no one could guess by his "whoop" where to look for him; and this time it seemed to be quite out at the other end of the kitchen-garden, where they were all looking, when another "whoop" came apparently down from Sam's pear-tree on the lawn; and while they were peeping up into it, "whoop" re-echoed from the stables! At last, as Annie was gazing up and round as if she even thought it as well to look right into the sky for Papa, she suddenly beheld the two merriest eyes in the world, on the roof of the summer-house itself. He had been lying there on the thatch, watching at his ease all the wanderings of the seekers, and uttering those wonderful whoops to bewilder them.

"I spy! I spy!" shrieked Annie, flying in, even while her father sprang to the ground, and with Davie's manoeuvre on a larger scale, seemed to be taking his choice of all the fugitives rushing up from all parts.

One elder boy, and one younger, he was hunting down the gooseberry- path, when just as he was about to pounce on the former, he said that it was not Sam, stood still, and folded his arms. A shriek made him look round; little David stood sobbing and crying piteously.

"Davie! what, Davie! What is it, my man? Where are you hurt!"

"No, no! I'm not hurt! Catch Hal, Papa."

"No, David. I do not play with boys that act like Henry."

"Speak to him, Papa; oh, speak!"

"I shall, before I go," said the Captain gravely.

"Now, now! Papa. Oh, do! I did want him to be punished, but not like this."

"No, David. If he can expect to play with me, and be treated like the others, he is not in the state to receive forgiveness. There, have done crying; let us go on with the game."

But David could not go on playing; he was too unhappy. Not to be forgiven, even if punished, seemed to him too dreadful to happen to anyone; and he thought that he had brought it all on Henry by his letter of accusation. Tardily and dolefully he crept into the house; and Miss Fosbrook met him, looking so woe-begone, that she too thought he had hurt himself. She took him, dirt and all, on her lap; and there he sobbed out that Papa wouldn't speak to Hal, and it was very dreadful; and he wished there were no such things as pigs, or money, or secrets; they only made people miserable!

"Dear Davie, they only make people miserable when they care too much about them. Papa will forgive Hal before he goes away, I am sure; only he is making him sorry first, that he may never do such a thing again."

"I don't like it." And David cried sadly, perhaps because partly he was tired with having been on his legs more than usual that day; but his good and loving little self was come home again. He at least had forgiven his brother the wrong done to himself; and there was no hanging back that night from the fulness of prayer; no, he rather felt that he had been unkind; and the last thing heard of him that night was, that as Sam and Hal were coming up-stairs to bed, a little white figure stood on the top of the stairs, and a small voice said, "Hal, please kiss me! I am so sorry I told Papa about—"

"There, hold your tongue," said Hal, cutting him short with the desired kiss, "if you hadn't told, someone else would."

But long after Sam was asleep, Hal was wetting his pillow through with tears.



CHAPTER XV.



Still the silence lasted. Henry had tried at first to persuade himself that it was only by chance that he never heard his own name from lips that used to call it more often than any other. Indeed, he was so much used to favour, that it needed all the awe-struck pity of the rest to prove to him its withdrawal; and he was so much in the habit of thrusting himself before Samuel, that even the sight and sound of the First Book of Euclid, all day long, failed to convince him that his brother could be preferred; above all, as Nurse Freeman had been collecting his clean shirts as well as Sam's, and all the portmanteaus and trunks in the house had been hunted out of the roof. Once, either the spirit of imitation, or his usual desire of showing himself off, made him break in when Sam was knitting his brows frightfully over a sum in proportion. Hal could do it in no time!

So he did; but he put the third term first, and multiplied the hours into the minutes, instead of reducing them to the same denomination; so that he made out that twenty-five men would take longer to cut a field of grass than three, and then could not see that he was wrong; but Miss Fosbrook and Sam both looked so much grieved for him, that a start of fright went through him.

Some minds really do not understand a fault till they see it severely visited; and "at least" and "couldn't help" had so blinded Henry's eyes that he had thought himself more unlucky than to blame, till his father's manner forced it on him that he had done something dreadful. Vaguely afraid, he hung about, looking so wretched that he was a piteous sight; and it cut his father to the heart to spend such a last day together. Mayhap the Captain could hardly have held out all that second day, if he had not passed his word to his brother.

The travellers were to set off at six in the morning, to meet the earliest train: and it was not till nine o'clock at night, when the four elder ones said good-night, that the Captain, following them out of the room, laid his hand on Henry as the others went up-stairs, and said, "Henry, have you nothing to say to me?"

Henry leant against the baluster and sobbed, not knowing what else to do.

"You can't be more grieved than I am to have such a last day together," said his father, laying his hand on the yellow head; "but I can't help it, you see. If you will do such things, it is my duty to make you repent of them."

Hal threw himself almost double over the rail, and something was heard about "sorry," and "never."

"Poor little lad!" said his father aloud to himself; "he is cut up enough now; but how am I to know if his sorrow is good for anything?"

"O Papa! I'll never do such a thing again!"

"I wish I knew that, Hal," said the Captain, sitting down on the stairs, and taking him between his knees. "There, let us talk it over together. I don't suppose you expected to steal and deceive when you got up in the morning."

"Oh no, no!"

"Go back to the beginning. See how you came to this."

As he waited for an answer, Hal mumbled out after some time, "You said we need not go to church on a week-day."

"Well, what of that?"

"I didn't go in case the telegraph should come."

"There are different ways of thinking," said his father. "Church was the only place where I COULD have gone that St. Barnabas' Day."

"I would have gone," said the self-contradictory Henry, "only the Grevilles are always at one for being like a girl."

"Ha! now we see daylight!" said the Captain.

"'The Grevilles are at one,'—that's more like getting to the bottom of it."

"Yes, Papa," said Hal, glad to make himself out a victim to circumstance; "you can't think what a pair of fellows those are for not letting one alone; Purday says they haven't as much conscience between them as a pigeon's egg has meat; and going down to Mr. Carey's with them every day, they let one have no peace."

"You will find people everywhere who will let you have no peace, unless you do not care for them; though you will not be left to the Grevilles any longer."

"Yes, Papa; when I am away from them, you will see—"

"No, Hal, I shall not see, I shall hear."

"Shall not I sail with you, then, Papa?"

"You will not sail at all: I thought you knew that."

"I thought the Admiral must have given you two appointments," said Hal timidly.

"He gave me ONE, for one of my sons. The first choice is Sam's right, even if he had not deserved it by his brave patient obedience."

Hal hung his head; then said, "But, Papa, if Sam broke down in his examination, please mightn't I—"

"No, Henry. Not only does your uncle say that though Sam's success is very doubtful, your inaccuracy would make your failure certain; but if your knowledge were ever so well up to the mark, I could not put you into the navy. Left to yourself here, you have been insubordinate, vain, weak, shuffling: can I let you go into greater temptation, where disgrace would be public and without remedy?"

"Oh, but, Papa! Papa! Away from the Grevilles, and not under only a governess—"

"You shall be away from the Grevilles, and not under a governess. Your uncle is kind enough to take you with him to his house, and will endeavour to make you fit to try to get upon the foundation by the time there is a vacancy."

"O Papa! don't," sobbed Henry.

"I can't help it, Hal! You have shown yourself unfit either for the sea or for home. What can I do with you?"

"Try me—only try me, Papa. I would—"

"I cannot go by what you say you would be, but what you are. Deeds, not words."

"But if you won't let me go into the navy, only let me be in real school."

"No, Henry; I have not the means of sending you there: excepting on the foundation; and if you get admittance there at all, it will only be by great diligence, and your uncle's kindness in preparing you."

Henry cried bitterly. It was a dreadful prospect to do his lessons alone with Uncle John in the boys' play-hours, and be kept in order by Aunt Alice when his uncle was in school. Perhaps his father would not have liked it himself, for his voice was very pitying, though cheering, as he said, "One half year, Hal, very likely no more if you take pains, and you'll get into school, and be very happy, so long as you don't make a Greville of every idle chap you meet."

Henry cried as though beyond consolation.

"I hate leaving you this way," continued his father; "but by the time I come home you will see it was the best thing for you; and look up to Uncle John as your best friend. Why, Hal, boy, you'll be a tall fellow of fourteen! Let me find you godly and manly: you can't be one without the other. There now, good night, God bless you."

More might have been said to Henry on his fault and what had led to it; but what his father did say was likely to sink deeper as he grew older, and had more sense and feeling.

From him Captain Merrifield went to the school-room, where Miss Fosbrook was packing up for the little girls, and putting last stitches to their equipments, with hearty good-will and kindness, as if she had been their elder sister.

He thanked her most warmly; and without sending away the girls, who were both busy tacking in little white tuckers to the evening frocks, he began to settle about the terms on which she was to remain at Stokesley. He said that he could not possibly have left his wife without a person on whose friendly help and good management of the children he could depend. Important as it was to him to be employed, he must have refused the appointment if Miss Fosbrook had been discontented, or had not had the children so well in hand. He explained that he had reason to think that Mrs. Merrifield's present illness had been the effect of all she had gone through while he was in the Black Sea during the Crimean War. She had been a very strong person, and had never thought of sparing herself; but she and all her little children had had to get into Stokesley in his absence; she had to manage the estate and farm, teach the elder children, and take care of the babies, with no help but Nurse Freeman's: and though he had been wounded when with the Naval Brigade, and had been at death's door with cholera, the effects had done him no lasting harm at all; while the over-strain of the anxiety and exertion that she had undergone all alone had so told upon her, that she had never been well since, and he much feared, would never be in perfect health again. He must depend upon Miss Fosbrook for watching over her and saving her, as his little Susie could not yet do; and for letting him know from time to time how she was going on, and whether he ought to give up everything and come home.

He had tears in his eyes as he thanked Christabel for her earnest promise to watch and tend Mrs. Merrifield with a daughter's care; and her heart swelled with strong deep feeling of sorrow and sympathy with these two brave-hearted loving people, doing their duty at all costs so steadily; and she was full of gladness and thankfulness that they could treat her as a true and trusty friend. He walked away, feeling far too much to bear any eye upon him; and Susan was found to be crying quietly, making her thread wet through, and her needle squeak at every stitch, at the sad news that Mamma never was to be quite well, even though assured that she was likely to be much better than she had been for months past.

Bessie shed no tears; but Miss Fosbrook, who had been hindered all day by Sam's Euclid and Colenso, and had sat up till half-past eleven o'clock to make the two Sunday frocks nice enough for the journey, on going into the bed-room to lay them out for the morning, saw a little face raised from the pillow of one of the small white beds, and found her broad awake. Bessie never could go to sleep properly when anything out of the common way was coming to pass, so that was the less wonder; but she had a great deal in her head, and she was glad to get Christabel to kneel down by her, to listen to her whispers.

"Dear Christabel, I am so sorry. I never cared about it before!"

"About what, my dear?"

"What Papa said about when he was in the Black Sea. I never knew Mamma cared so much."

"I dare say not, my dear; you were much younger then."

"And I didn't know all about it," said Bessie, "or else I've forgotten. I have been trying to remember whether we ever thought about Mamma; and oh, Christabel! do you know—I believe we only thought she was cross! Oh dear! it was so naughty and bad of us!"

"I can guess how it happened, my dear. You were not old enough to be made her friends, and you could not understand quiet sorrow."

"To think we should have said she was cross!"

"That was wrong, because it was disrespectful. You see, my dear, when grown people are in trouble, you young ones can't enter into their feelings, nor always even find out that anything is amiss; and you get vexed at there being a cloud over the house, and call it crossness."

"Grown-up people are sometimes cross, aren't they?" said Bessie. "Nurse is; and I heard Papa say Aunt Alice was."

"We have tempers, certainly," said Miss Fosbrook; "and unless we have conquered them as children, there will be signs of them afterwards; but very few people, and certainly no children, can tell when grave looks, or words sharper than usual, come from illness or anxiety or sorrow; and it is the only way to save great grief and self-reproach to give one's own faults the blame, and try to be as unobtrusive and obliging as possible."

"And I am older now, and can understand," said Bessie; "but then, it is Susie that is right hand, and does everything."

"There's plenty in your own line, Bessie—plenty of little kindly services that are very cheering; and above all—"

"What?"

"Attending to your Mamma's troubles will drive away your own grievances. Only I will not talk to you any more now, for I want you to go to sleep; if you lie awake, you will be tired to-morrow, and that will incline you to be fretful."

"Fretful to-morrow!"

Bessie could not believe it possible; and indeed Miss Fosbrook did not think the chance great, as long as there was amusement and excitement. The danger would be in the waitings and disappointments that will often occur, even in the height of enjoyable schemes.

It would take too long to tell of all the good-byes. The children old enough to enter into the parting were setting off too; and Miss Fosbrook felt more for the little ones than they did for themselves, as they watched their father and uncle and two sisters into the gig, and the boys into the cart, with Purday to drive them and the boxes, Sam sitting on his father's old midshipman's chest, trying, as well as the jolting would let him, to con over that troublesome Thirty- fifth Proposition, which nine times repetition to Miss Fosbrook had failed to put into his head.

Johnnie and Annie wished themselves going to sea, or to London, or anywhere, rather than having the full force of Miss Fosbrook on their lessons! She did not make them do more, but she took the opportunity of making everything be done thoroughly, and, as they thought, bothered them frightfully about pronouncing their words in reading, and holding their pens when they wrote. After a little while, however, they found that really their hands were much less tired, and their lines much smoother and more slanting, than when they crooked their fingers close down over the ink. Absolutely they began to know the pleasure of doing something well, and they felt so comfortable, that they were wonderfully good; and the pig fund might have had a chance, but David did not seem to think of reviving it. Perhaps his great vehemence had tired itself out; and maybe he was ashamed of the great disturbance he had made and all that had come upon Henry, and did not wish to think of it again, for St. Katherine's fair-day passed over without a word of the pig.

The young ladies were not great letter-writers; and all that was known of them was that Mamma was better, they had been to the Zoological Gardens and the hyena was so funny, and Mrs. Penrose was so nice. Then that Papa and Sam were gone to Portsmouth, and that they had telegraphed that Sam had succeeded.

If it had been her own brother, Miss Fosbrook could not have been much happier; and in honour of it she and the three children all went to drink tea in the wilderness, walking in procession, each with a flag in hand, painted by her for the occasion.

Three days after, when the post came in, there was a letter directed to Master David Douglas Merrifield, Stokesley House, Bonchamp. It was a great wonder; for David was not baby enough, nor near enough to the youngest, to get letters as a pet, nor was he old enough to be written to like an elder one. He spelt the address all over before he made up his mind to open it, and then exclaimed, "But it is not a letter! It's green!"

"It is a post-office order, Davie," said Miss Fosbrook. "Let me look. Yes, for ten shillings. Write your name there; and if we take it to the post-office at Bonchamp, they will give you ten shillings."

"Ten shillings! Oh, Davie!" cried Johnnie, "I wish it was to me!"

"It just makes up for what Hal took, and more too," said Annie. "Where can it come from, Davie?"

"From the Queen," said Davie composedly; "the Queen always does justice."

Miss Fosbrook was quite sorry to confess, for truth's sake, that she did not think the Queen could have heard of the loss of the pig fund, and that it was more likely to be from someone who wished to make up for the disaster—who could it be? She looked at the round stamp upon the green-lettered paper, and read "Portsmouth." Could it be from Papa? Then she looked at the cover; but it was not a bit like the Captain's writing; it was pretty, lady-like, clear-looking hand- writing, and puzzled her a great deal more. If the children had once had a secret of their own, there was a very considerable one to puzzle them now; and they could hardly believe that Miss Fosbrook knew nothing about it, any more than themselves.

So restless and puzzled were they, that she thought they would never be able to settle quietly to their lessons, and that it would save idleness if she walked with them at once to Bonchamp to get the money. It was two miles; but all three were stout walkers, and they were delighted to go; indeed, they would have fancied that someone else might run away with the ten shillings if they had not made haste to secure it. So "David Douglas Merrifield" was written, with much difficulty to make it small enough, in the very best and roundest hand. The boys were put into clean blouses, Annie's striped cotton came to light; and off set the party through the lanes, each with sixpence in their hand, for it was poor fun to go to Bonchamp, unless one had something to spend there. David wanted a knife, Johnnie wanted a whip, Annie nothing in particular, only to go into a shop, and buy—she didn't know what.

But the wonderful affair at the post-office must have the first turn; and very grand did David feel as the clerk peeped out from his little hole, and looked amused and gracious as the little boy stood on tiptoe to give in his green paper.

"Will you have it in gold or silver, Sir?" he asked.

"In gold, please," said David.

It was something to have a bit of gold in one's possession for the first time in one's life; and David felt as if he had grown an inch taller, and were as good as six years old, as he walked away with the half sovereign squeezed into his hot little palm.

The toy-shop was at the end of the street, and in they went; Johnnie to try all the whistles in the handles of the whips, and be much disgusted that all that had a real sound lash cost a shilling; David to open and shut the sixpenny knives with the gravity of a judge examining their blades; and Annie to gape about, and ask the price of everything, after the tiresome fashion of people, old or young, when they come out bent on spending, but without any aim or object. However, Annie was kind, if she were silly, and she was very fond of Johnnie; so it ended, after a little whispering, in her sixpence being added to his, to buy a real good whip, such as would crack, and not come to pieces.

Just then, what should the children espy, but a nice firm deal box, containing a little saw, a little plane, a hammer, a gimlet, a chisel, and sundry different sizes of nails. Was there ever anything so delightful, especially to David, who loved nothing so well as running after George Bowles the carpenter, and handling his tools. What was the price of them?

Just ten shillings and sixpence. They were very cheap, the woman of the toy-shop said. They had been ordered by an old lady at her grandson's entreaty; but afterwards a misgiving had seized her that the young gentleman would cut his fingers, and she would not take them.

"Miss Fosbrook," whispered David, "may I give back the knife? then I could buy it."

"You have bought and paid for it," said Christabel.

"Somebody else will buy the box," said David wistfully.

Miss Fosbrook, within herself, thought this unlikely, for nobody went to Bonchamp for costly shopping; and she saw that the woman would gladly have had the knife back, if she could have sold the tool-box, which, even at this reduced price, was much too dear for the little boys who frequented the shop.

"Come away now, my dear," she said decidedly. "No, another time, thank you."

David was as nearly crying as ever he was, as he was forced to follow her out of the shop. Those tools were so charming; his fingers tingled to be hammering, sawing, boring holes. Had he lost the chance for that poor blunt knife? Must he wait a whole fortnight for another sixpence, and find the delicious tool-chest gone?

"Dear Davie, I am very sorry," said Christabel when they were in the street.

"That nasty knife!" cried David.

"It is not the knife, Davie," said she; "but that I want to think—I want you to think—why these ten shillings must have been sent."

"Because we lost the money for the pig," said David. "But Kattern Hill fair is over, and I don't want a pig now; I do want the gimlet to make holes—"

"Yes, David; but you know what was saved for the pig came from all of you; you would have had no right to spend it on anything else, unless they all had consented."

"This is my very own," said David; "it was sent to me—myself—me."

"So it seems now; but just suppose you were to have a letter to say that someone—poor Hal himself, perhaps—or Papa—had sent ten shillings to make up the money for the pig, and directed it to you because you cared so much, would it not be a shame to have spent the money upon yourself?"

"Then they should not have sent it without saying," said David.

Miss Fosbrook thought the same, when she saw how hard the trial was to the little boy; but she hoped she was taking the kindest course, as she said, "Now, David, in nine days time, if you are good, you will have had another sixpence. I see no chance of the tools being sold; or if they are, I could send for such a box from London. By that time, perhaps, something will have happened to show who sent the money, and why."

"And if it is all for myself, I may have the tools!" cried David.

"You shall have them, if you really think it is right, when Monday week comes."



CHAPTER XVI.



Ideas were slow in both entering or dying out of David's mind; but while there they reigned supreme. Carpentry had come in as the pig had gone out, and with the more force, because a new window was being put into Mamma's room; and George Bowles was there, with all his delightful tools, letting the little boys amuse themselves therewith, till they had hardly three sound fingers between them; and Nurse Freeman, when she dressed their wounds, could not think what was the use of a lady if she could not keep the children from hurting themselves; but Miss Fosbrook thought that it was better that boys should get a few cuts and bruises than that they should be timid and unhandy.

One evening, all the party walked to carry to Hannah Higgins's little girl a pinafore that Annie had been making. She was a nice, tidy woman, but there was little furniture in her house, and she looked very poor. The garden was large, and in pretty good order; and there was an empty pig-sty, into which Annie peeped significantly.

"No, Miss Annie, we haven't no pig," said Mrs. Higgins. "Ben says, says he, 'Mother, when I'm taken on for carter boy, see if I don't get you a nice little pig, as will eat the garden stuff, and pay the rent.'

"Oh, but—" began Annie, and there she came to a sudden stop.

"Is he likely soon to be a carter boy?" asked Miss Fosbrook.

"No, Ma'am; he is but ten years old, and they don't often take them on under twelve; but he is a good boy to his mother, and a terrible one for leasing."

Miss Fosbrook was obliged to have it explained to her that "leasing" meant gleaning; and she saw the grand pile of small neat bundles of wheat put out to dry on the sunny side of the house.

"O Davie!" cried Annie, as soon as they were outside the gate, "sha'n't we get the pig for Hannah?"

"It is my money, not yours; I shall do what I please with it," said David, rather crossly.

Miss Fosbrook pulled Annie back, and desired her to let David alone; herself wondering what would be the effect of what he had seen.

He had been eager to do good to Hannah when no desire of his own stood in the way; but a formed wish had arisen in his mind, and he loved himself better than Hannah. Christabel dreaded the clearing-up of the secret of the post-office order, lest he should be proved to love himself more than right and justice.

There were not many letters from the absent pair of sisters; they seemed to be much too busy and happy to write, and appeared to be "seeing everything," and to be only just able to put down the names of the wonders. The chief of all, however, was that kind Mrs. Penrose had actually taken them to Portsmouth for a couple of nights, to see the Ramilies, in which she was going to remain till it sailed. They had sat in the Admiral's cabin, and had slept upon "dear little sofas," where they wished they always slept; they had been in Papa's cabin, which was half filled up with a great gun, that can only be fired out at the window (scratched out, and "port-hole" put in.)

"Oh, how delightful! I wish I had a big gun in my room!" cried Johnnie.

And they had seen Sam's chest; and Sam did look so nice in his uniform; and he had dined with them every day. They had dined late, with the grown-up people; and the Admiral was so kind, only rather funny.

Annie wished she were as old as Bessie, as much as John wished to have a gun filling up his whole bed-room.

The next day, their Papa had taken them into the country to see Lady Seabury, Bessie's godmother, a very old lady indeed, older than Grandmamma, and who could not move out of her chair. "She gave me—" wrote Bessie. There again something had been scratched out, and "a kiss" written overhead.

That something was quite a long word, but it had been very completely blotted out; not like the "window," which had only a couple of cross bars, through which it could be plainly read; but there had plainly been first an attempt at smearing it out with the finger, and that not succeeding, an immense shiny black mess, like the black shade of a chafer grub, had been put down on it, and had come off on the opposite side of the sheet.

What could the word be? Annie and David were both sure they could read the lines through all the blot. The first letter was certainly S.

"But," said Miss Fosbrook, "do you think it is quite honourable to try to read what Bessie did not mean us to see?"

They did not quite enter into this, but they left off trying.

"Mamma had been out in the carriage several times; and they were all coming home on Saturday week"—that was the best news of all—"and then we have a secret too for Miss Fosbrook."

David said he was tired of secrets, and would not guess. Annie guessed a great deal; but Miss Fosbrook thought more about the word she would not try to read. She began to have a strong suspicion from whom the post-office order had come, and was the more uneasy about the spending of David's half sovereign; but she durst say nothing, for she knew it could do no good if he felt himself compelled against his own will; and she saw that he was full of thought.

One day the lawn had been mown, and the children where all very busy wheeling their little barrows, and loading them with the short grass; David was with them at first, but when Purday left off work, he marched after the old man in his grave deliberate way, and was seen no more till nearly tea-time, when he walked into the school-room with a very set look upon his solemn face, and sat himself down cross-legged on the locker, with a sigh that seemed to come out of the very depths of his heart.

"What's the matter, David?"

He made no answer, and Miss Fosbrook let him alone; but Annie presently bounced in, crying out, "Davie, Davie! where were you? we have been hunting for you everywhere! Where did you go?"

"I went with Purday."

"What, to milk the cows?"

"Yes."

"And then?"

"I went with him to Farmer Long's, to see his little Chinese pigs."

"And you have bought one! O Davie!"

"Purday is to ask the farmer about the price to-morrow morning, because he wasn't at home."

"Then you won't get the carpenter's tools?" said Annie.

"No," said David; "Purday said tools that they make for little boys never will cut."

"So you told Purday all about it?"

David nodded his head.

"Oh, do tell me what Purday said!" continued Annie.

"It's nothing to you," said David bluntly. But by and by, when John came in, and a few more questions were asked, David let out that Purday had said, "Well, he thought sure enough if the money was sent to Master David for that intent, he did not ought to spend it no other ways; and whether or not, Hannah Higgins was a deserving woman; and Master Davie didn't know what it was like never to have a bit of bacon ne'er a Sunday in the winter. He couldn't say but it was hard that those poor folks should get nothing but bread and cabbages from week's end to week's end, just that Master Davie might spoil bits of deal board with making chips of them."

And when David was sure he shouldn't spoil his wood, Purday had told him that them toy-shop young gentleman's tools were made to sell, and not made to cut. Best save up his money, and buy one real man's tool after another; and then he'd get a set equal to George Bowles's in time!

Though so young, David was long-sighted and patient enough to see the sense of this, and had already made up his mind that he would begin with a gimlet. And though he did not say so, and the first resolution had cost a very tough struggle, his heart seemed to have freed itself in that one great sigh, and he was at peace with himself.

Miss Fosbrook was very glad he had gone to so wise and good an adviser as Purday, and was almost as happy as David himself. She gave him and John leave to go with Purday the next day to bargain for the pig, as David was very anxious for one in especial, whose face he said was so jolly fat; and it was grand to see the two little boys consequentially walking on either aide of Purday, who had put on his whitest round frock for the great occasion.

Farmer Long was at home; he came out and did the honours of his ten little pigs; and when he found which was David's favourite, he declared that it was the best of the lot, and laughed till David blushed, at the young gentleman's having got such an eye for a pig. "It was a regular little Trudgeon," said Purday, (meaning perhaps a Trojan;) and it was worth at least twelve shillings, but the farmer in his good-nature declared that little Master should have it for the ten, as it was for a present. Hannah's boy was working for him, and was a right good lad, and he would give him some straw for the pig's bed when he went home at night. Then he took the two boys into the parlour, and while Purday had a glass of beer in the kitchen, Mrs. Long gave each of them a big slice of plum-cake, and wanted very much to have given them some wine, but that they knew they must not have; and she inquired after their Mamma and Papa, and made them so much of visitors, that David was terribly shy, and very glad when it was over, though John liked it, and talked fast.

As to the giving the pig, that was a serious business; and David felt hot and shy, and wanted to get it over as soon as possible without a fuss.

So he bolted into Mrs. Higgins's cottage, put his hands behind his back, and spoke thus:- "Please, Mrs. Higgins, put your pig-sty in order! We've all done it—at least they all wanted to—and a green order came down in a letter—and we've bought the pig, and Ben will drive it home when he comes from work!"

And then, as if he had been in a great fright, he ran away; while Johnnie stayed, and, when Hannah understood, received so many curtsies, and listened to so much pleasure, that he could hardly think of anything else, and felt very glad that SOME pence of his had been in Toby Fillpot.

Annie said that it was not fair that she had not been at the giving the pig; and Miss Fosbrook was a little disappointed too; but then it was much better that David should not want to make a display, so she would not complain, and comforted Annie by putting her in mind that they could go and see the little pig in his new quarters.

A few days more, and the carriage was driving up to the door with dear Mamma in it, and—why, there were three little girls, not two! One look, and the colour came into Christabel's face. It was her youngest little sister, Dora, who sat beside Bessie! Mrs. Merrifield had gone to see Mrs. Fosbrook, and ask if she could take anything for her to her daughter; and she had been so much shocked at the sight of the little pale London faces, that she had begged leave to take home one of the children to spend a month with her sister at Stokesley, since Miss Fosbrook could not be spared to go home at present. Was not that a secret for Christabel? How these two sisters did hug each other!

But the Stokesley secrets have lasted long enough; and there is no time to tell of the happy days of Dora's visit, and the good care that Johnnie took of her whenever she went out, and of her pretty quiet ways that made Bessie take her for her dearest of friends. And still less can be told of the smooth, peaceful, free spirit that seemed to have come home with Mamma, even though she was still able to do little among the children, for the very having her in the house appeared to keep things from going wrong.

One thing must be told, however, and that is, that when Annie told all the wonderful story of the post-office order and the Chinese pig, Bessie grew redder and redder in the face, and Susan squeezed both her hands tight together, and said "May I tell, Bessie!"

THE END