{"collection":"myth-cosmogony","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_38761/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_38761","id":"gutenberg_38761","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/38761","summary":null,"tags":["Category: Children & Young Adult Reading","Category: Mythology, Legends & Folklore","Category: Short Stories","Children -- Conduct of life -- Juvenile fiction","Children's stories","Christian life -- Juvenile fiction","Conduct of life -- Juvenile fiction"],"text":"Produced by Delphine Lettau, Matthew Wheaton and the Online\nDistributed Proofreading Canada Team at\nhttp://www.pgdpcanada.net\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n    THE MAN WITH THE PAN-PIPES _AND OTHER STORIES_\n\n    BY MRS. MOLESWORTH\n\n\n    ILLUSTRATED BY W. J. MORGAN\n\n\n    Society for Promoting Christian Knowledge\n    LONDON\n    Northumberland Avenue W.C.\n    NEW YORK\n    E & J.B. YOUNG & Co\n\n\n    LONDON:\n    ENGRAVED AND PRINTED BY EDMUND EVANS\n    RACQUET-CT., FLEET-ST., E.C.\n\n\n\n\n    CONTENTS.\n\n\n                                   PAGE\n    THE MAN WITH THE PAN-PIPES        7\n    PIG-BETTY                        30\n    THE DORMOUSE'S MISTAKE           51\n    THE CHRISTMAS GUEST              59\n    OLIVE'S TEA-PARTY                67\n    A LIVE DUMMY                     76\n    A QUEER HIDING-PLACE             83\n    BLUE FROCKS AND PINK FROCKS      90\n\n\n\n\nTHE MAN WITH THE PAN-PIPES\n\n[Illustration: The man with the Pan-pipes.]\n\n\nCHAPTER I.\n\nWhen I was a little girl, which is now a good many years ago, there\ncame to spend some time with us a cousin who had been brought up in\nGermany. She was almost grown-up--to me, a child of six or seven, she\nseemed _quite_ grown-up; in reality, she was, I suppose, about fifteen\nor sixteen. She was a bright, kind, good-natured girl, very anxious to\nplease and amuse her little English cousins, especially me, as I was\nthe only girl. But she had not had much to do with small children;\nabove all, delicate children, and she was so strong and hearty herself\nthat she did not understand anything about nervous fears and fancies.\nI think I was rather delicate, at least, I was very fanciful; and as I\nwas quiet and gave very little trouble, nobody noticed how constantly\nI was reading, generally in a corner by myself. I now see that I read\nfar too many stories, for even of good and harmless things it is\npossible to have too much. In those days, fortunately for me, there\nwere not nearly so many books for children, so, as I read very fast, I\nwas often obliged to read the same stories over and over again. This\nwas much better for me than always getting new tales and galloping\nthrough them, as I see many children do now-a-days, but still I think\nI lived too much in story-book world, and it was well for me when\nother things forced me to become more, what is called, \"practical.\"\n\nMy cousin Meta was full of life and activity, and after awhile she\ngrew tired of always finding me buried in my books.\n\n\"It isn't good for you, Addie,\" she said. \"Such a dot as you are, to\nbe always poking about in a corner reading.\"\n\nShe was quite right, and when mamma's attention was drawn to it she\nagreed with Meta, and I was given some pretty fancy-work to do and\nsome new dolls to dress, and, above all, I was made to play about in\nthe garden a good deal more. It was not much of a garden, for our home\nwas then in a town, still it was better than being indoors. And very\noften when kind Meta saw me looking rather forlorn, for I got quickly\ntired with outdoor games, she would come and sit with me in the\narbour, or walk about--up and down a long gravel path there\nwas--telling me stories.\n\nThat was her great charm for me. She was really splendid at telling\nstories. And as hitherto she had only done me good, and mamma knew\nwhat a sensible girl she was, Meta was left free to tell me what\nstories she chose. They were all nice stories, most of them very\ninteresting. But some were rather too exciting for such a tiny mite as\nI was. Meta had read and heard quantities of German fairy-tales and\nlegends, many of which I think had not then been printed in\nbooks--certainly not in English books. For since I have been grown-up\nI have come across several stories of the kind which seemed new to\nmost readers, though I remember my cousin telling them to me long,\nlong ago.\n\n[Illustration: Tales of Gnomes & Kobolds]\n\nThere were wonderful tales of gnomes and kobolds, of the strange\nadventures of the charcoal-burners in lonely forests, of water-sprites\nand dwarfs. But none of all these made quite as great an impression on\nme as one which Meta called \"The Man with the Pan-pipes,\" a story\nwhich, much to my surprise, I found years after in a well-known poem\ncalled \"The Pied Piper of Hamelin.\" It was the very same story as to\nthe facts, with just a few differences; for instance, the man in the\npoem is not described as playing on _pan-pipes_, but on some other\nkind of pipe. But though it is really the same, it seems quite, quite\ndifferent from the story as I heard it long ago. In the poem there is\na wonderful brightness and liveliness, and now and then even fun,\nwhich were all absent in Meta's tale. As she told it, it was strangely\ndark and mysterious. I shall never forget how I used to shiver when\nshe came to the second visit of the piper, and described how the\nchildren slowly and unwillingly followed him--how he used to turn\nround now and then with a glance in his grim face which made the\nsqueal of the pipes still more unearthly. There was no beauty in his\nmusic, no dancing steps were the children's whom he dragged along by\nhis power; \"they just _had_ to go,\" Meta would say. And when she came\nto the mysterious ending, my questions were always the same.\n\n\"Are they still there--shut up in the cave?\" I would ask.\n\nMeta supposed so.\n\n\"Will they never come out--never, never?\" I said.\n\nShe shook her head.\n\n\"And if they ever did,\" I said, \"would they be grown-up people, or\nquite old like--like that man you were telling me about. Rip--Rip--\"\n\n\"Rip van Winkle,\" she said.\n\n\"Yes, like Rip van Winkle, or would they have _stayed_ children like\nthe boy the fairies took inside the hill to be their servant?\"\n\nMeta considered.\n\n\"I almost _think_,\" she said, seriously, \"they would have stayed\nchildren. But, of course, it's only a story, Addie. I don't suppose\nit's true. You take things up so. Don't go on puzzling about it.\"\n\nI would leave off speaking about it for the time; I was so dreadfully\nafraid of her saying she would not tell it me again. And even though I\nknew it quite well, and could correct Meta if ever she made any part\nof it the least different, I was never tired of hearing the story. I\nwould ask for it over and over again, and I used to have exactly the\nsame feelings each time she told it, and always at the part where the\nchildren began to come out of their houses, some leaving their\ndinners, some tiny ones waking up out of their sleep, some only\nhalf-dressed, but all with the same strange look on their faces, I\nused to catch hold of Meta's hand and say to her, \"Hold me fast, I'm\nso afraid of fancying I hear him,\" and then she would burst out\nlaughing at me, and I would laugh at myself. For she was far too kind\na girl to think of frightening me, and, indeed, except for a curious\n\"coincidence\"--to use a very long word which means something of the\nsame kind as another thing happening at or about the same time--I do\nnot think the story would have really taken hold of my fancy as it\ndid.\n\nOne of my questions Meta was not able for some time to answer to my\nsatisfaction.\n\n[Illustration: and Dwarfs]\n\n\"What are Pan-pipes?\" I asked. The word \"pipe\" was so mixed up in my\nmind with white clay pipes, out of which we used to blow soap bubbles,\nthat I could not understand it having to do with any kind of music.\n\n\"Oh,\" said Meta, \"they're made of reeds, you know, all in a row like\nthis,\" and she held up her fingers to her lips, \"and you play them by\nwhistling along them, do you see? It sounds something like when you\nfasten tissue-paper on a comb and blow along it. And they're called\n'Pan'-pipes because--oh, I forgot, of course you haven't learnt\nmythology yet--'Pan' was one of the old pagan gods, a sort of fairy or\nwood sprite, you know, Addie, and the pictures and figures of him\nalways show him playing on these reed pipes!\"\n\nI said \"Yes,\" but I didn't really understand her description. It left\na queer jumble in my head, and added to the strange, dreamy medley\nalready there. But, though it was not till years afterwards that I\nlearnt about \"Pan,\" before Meta left us I was able to see for myself a\nset of his \"pipes.\"\n\n\nCHAPTER II.\n\nIt was _just_ before my merry cousin left us, to return to her own\nhome across the sea.\n\nOne day several of us were out walking together. Meta was in front\nwith mamma and one of my elder brothers, I was behind with Tony and\nMichael, the two nearer my own age. Suddenly Meta glanced round.\n\n\"Look, Addie,\" she called back, \"there's a set of Pan-pipes; you\nwanted to know what they were like. They're a very doleful set,\ncertainly; did you _ever_ see such a miserable object? He must be\nsilly in his head, poor thing, don't you think, aunty? May I give him\na penny--or Jack will.\"\n\nFor even Meta did not seem inclined to go too near to the poor man,\nwhom she was indeed right in calling \"a miserable object.\"\n\nJack ran forward with the penny, and we all stopped for a moment, so I\nhad a full view of the Pan-pipes. They were fastened somehow on to the\nman's chest, so that their top just came near his lips, and as he\nmoved his head slowly backwards and forwards along them, they gave out\nthe most strange kind of music, if music it could be called, which you\never heard. It was a sort of faint squeak with just now and then a\n_kind_ of tone in it, like very doleful muffled whistling. Perhaps the\nsight of the piper himself added to the very \"creepy\" feeling it gave\none. He was not only a piper, he was, or rather had been, an\norgan-grinder too, for he carried in front of him, fastened by straps\nround his neck in the usual way, the remains of a barrel organ. It had\nlong ago been smashed to pieces, and really was now nothing but an old\nbroken-in wooden box, with some fragments of metal clinging to it, and\nthe tatters of a ragged cover. But the handle was still there; perhaps\nit had been stuck in again on purpose; and all the time, as an\naccompaniment to the forlorn quaver of the reed pipes, you heard the\nhollow rattle of the loose boards of what had been the barrel-organ.\nHe kept moving the handle round and round, without ever stopping,\nexcept for a moment, when Jack half threw, half reached him the penny,\nwhich brought a sort of grin on to his face, as he clutched at the\ndirty old tuft of shag on the top of his head, which he doubtless\nconsidered his cap.\n\n\"Poor creature,\" said mamma, as we turned away. \"I suppose he thinks\nhe's playing lovely music.\"\n\n\"I've seen him before,\" said Jack. \"Not long after we came here.\"\n(Perhaps I should explain that my father was an officer, and we had to\ngo about wherever his regiment was sent.) \"But I've not seen him\nlately. There's some story about him, but I know some of the boys at\nschool declare he's not mad a bit, that he finds it pays well to sham\nhe is.\"\n\n\"Any way he doesn't need to be afraid of his organ wearing out,\" said\nTony, gravely, at which the others couldn't help laughing.\n\n[Illustration: Jack, half threw, half reached him the penny]\n\n\"I shouldn't think it likely he is only pretending,\" said mamma. \"He\nlooks almost _too_ miserable.\"\n\n\"And sometimes there's quite a crowd of children after him,\" Jack went\non; \"they seem to think him quite as good to run after as a proper\nbarrel-organ man.\"\n\n\"I hope they don't hoot and jeer at him,\" said mamma.\n\n\"His Pan-pipes are nearly as bad as his organ,\" said Meta. \"Still,\nAddie, you know now what they're like, though you can't fancy how\npretty they sound sometimes.\"\n\nIt did not need her words to remind me of the story. My head was full\nof it, and I think what Jack said about the crowds of children that\nsometimes ran after the strange musician, added very much to the\nfeelings and fancies already in my mind. And unfortunately Meta left\nus the very next morning, so there was no one for me to talk to about\nit, for my brothers were all day at school and did not know anything\nabout our story-tellings. I do remember saying to Meta that evening,\nthat I hoped we should never meet that ugly man again, and Meta could\nnot think what I meant, till I said something about Pan-pipes. Then\nshe seemed to remember.\n\n\"Oh, he didn't play them at all nicely,\" she said. \"One of the boys at\nhome had a set, and he really made them sound lovely. When you come to\nGermany, Addie,\" for that was a favourite castle in the air of ours--a\ncastle that never was built--that I should one day pay a long visit to\nmy cousins in their quaint old house, \"Fritz will play to you, and you\nwill then understand the story better.\"\n\nI daresay I should have told her the reason why I so hoped I should\nnever meet the poor man again, if I had had time. But even to her I\nwas rather shy of talking about my own feelings, and it was also not\neasy to explain them, when they were so mixed up and confused.\n\nIt was only a few days after Meta left, that we met the man with the\nPan-pipes again. This time I was out walking with our nurse and the\nbaby, as we still called him, though he was three years old. I don't\nthink nurse noticed the man, or perhaps she had seen him before, but I\nheard the queer squeal of his pipes and the rattle of his broken box\nsome way off, and when I saw him coming in the distance I asked her if\nwe might turn down a side street and go round another way.\n\nShe said she did not mind, but though she was kind, she was not very\nnoticing, and did not ask my reason, so for that day it was got over\nwithout my needing to explain. But for some time after that, we seemed\nto be always meeting the poor \"silly\" organ-man, and every time I saw\nhim, I grew more and more frightened, till at last the fear of seeing\nhim came quite to spoil the pleasure of my walks, even when I was out\nwith mamma herself. Now I dare say all sensible children who read this\nwill say, \"Why didn't Addie tell her nurse, or, any way, her mother,\nall about it?\" and if they do say so, they are quite right. Indeed, it\nis partly to show this very thing--how much better it is to tell some\nkind wiser person all about any childish fear or fancy, than to go on\nbearing it out of dread of being laughed at or called babyish--that I\nam relating this simple little story. I really cannot quite explain\nwhy I did not tell about it to mamma--I think it was partly that being\nthe only girl, I had a particularly great fear of being thought\ncowardly--for she was always very kind; and I think, too, it was\npartly that from having read so many story-books _to myself_, I had\ngot into the habit of being too much inside my own thoughts and\nfancies. I think story-books would often do much more good, and give\nreally much more lasting pleasure if children were more in the habit\nof reading aloud to each other. And if this calls for some\nunselfishness, why, what then? is it not all the better?\n\nBut to return to my own story. There came a day when my dread of the\nman with the pipes got quite beyond my control--happily so for me.\n\n\nCHAPTER III.\n\nHitherto, every time I had seen the man, it had been either in some\nlarge public street where a crowd would not have been allowed to\ncollect, or in one of the quieter roads of private houses, where we\ngenerally walked, and where poor children seldom were to be seen.\n\nBut one day mamma sent Baby and me with nurse to carry some little\ncomfort to one of the soldier's wives, who was so ill that she had\nbeen moved to the house of relations of hers in the town. They were\nvery respectable people, but they lived in quite a tiny house in a\npoor street. Baby and I had never been there before, and we were much\ninterested in watching several small people, about our own size,\nplaying about. They were clean, tidy-looking children, so nurse, after\nthrowing a glance at them, told us we might watch them from the door\nof the house while she went in to see the sick woman.\n\nWe had not stood there more than a minute or two when a strange,\nwell-known sound caught my ears, squeak, squeal, rattle, rattle,\nrattle. Oh, dear! I felt myself beginning to tremble; I am sure I grew\npale. The children we were watching started up, and ran some paces\ndown the street to a corner, when in another moment appeared what I\nalready knew was coming--the man with the Pan-pipes! But never had the\nsight of him so terrified me. For he was surrounded by a crowd of\nchildren, a regular troop of them following him through the poor part\nof the town where we were. If I had kept my wits, and looked on\nquietly, I would have soon seen that the children were not the least\nafraid, they were chattering and laughing; some, I fear, mocking and\nhooting at the poor imbecile. But just at that moment the last touch\nwas added to my terror by my little brother pulling his hand out of\nmine.\n\n[Illustration: \"He was surrounded by a crowd of children\"]\n\n\"Baby wants to see too,\" he said, and off he trotted down the street.\n\nMy senses seemed quite to go.\n\n\"He's piping them away,\" I screamed, and then I am ashamed to say I\nturned and fled, leaving Baby to his fate. Why I did not run into the\nhouse and call nurse, I do not know; if I thought about it at all, I\nsuppose I had a hazy feeling that it would be no good, that even nurse\ncould not save us. And I saw that the crowd was coming my way, in\nanother minute the squeaking piping would be close beside me in the\nstreet. I thought of nothing except flight, and terrified that I too\nshould be bewitched by the sound, I thrust my fingers into my ears,\nand dashed down the street in the opposite direction from the\napproaching crowd. That was my only thought. I ran and ran. I wonder\nthe people I passed did not try to stop me, for I am sure I must have\nlooked quite as crazy as my imaginary wizard! But at last my breath\ngot so short that I had to pull up, and to my great relief I found I\nwas quite out of hearing of the faint whistle of the terrible pipes.\n\nStill I was not completely reassured. I had not come very far after\nall. So I set off again, though not quite at such a rate. I hurried\ndown one street and up another, with the one idea of getting further\nand further away. But by degrees my wits began to recover themselves.\n\n\"I wish I could find our home,\" I thought. \"I can't go on running for\nalways. Perhaps if I told mamma all about it, she'd find some way of\nkeeping me and Baby safe.\"\n\n[Illustration: \"He's piping them away I screamed\"]\n\nBut with the thought of Baby came back my terrors. Was it too late to\nsave him? Certainly there were no rocks or caves to be seen such as\nMeta had described in her story. But she had said outside the\ntown--perhaps the piper was leading all the children, poor darling\nBaby among them, away into the country, to shut them up for ever as\nhad been done in Hamelin town. And with the dreadful thought, all my\nterrors revived, and off I set again, but this time with the more\nworthy intention of saving Baby. I must go home and tell mamma so that\nshe would send after him. I fancied I was in a street not far from\nwhere we lived, and I hurried on. But, alas! when I got to the end it\nwas all quite strange. I found myself among small houses again, and\nnearly dead with fatigue and exhaustion, I stopped in front of one\nwhere an old woman was sweeping the steps of her door.\n\n\"Oh, please,\" I gasped, \"please tell me where Clarence Terrace is.\"\n\nThe old woman stopped sweeping, and looked at me. She was a very clean\nold woman, though so small that she was almost a dwarf, and with a\nslight hump on her shoulders. At another time I might have been so\nsilly as to be frightened of her, so full was my head of fanciful\nideas. But now I was too completely in despair to think of it. Besides\nher face was kind and her voice pleasant.\n\n\"Clarence Terrace,\" she squeaked. \"'Tis a good bit from here. Have you\nlost your way, Missy?\"\n\n\"I don't know,\" I said, \"I----\" but then a giddy feeling came over me,\nand I almost fell. The old woman caught me, and the next thing I knew\nwas that she had carried me into her neat little kitchen, and was\nholding a glass of water to my lips, while she spoke very kindly. Her\nvoice somehow brought things to a point, and I burst into tears. She\nsoothed me, and petted me, and at last in answer to her repeated,\n\"What's ado, then, lovey?\" I was able to explain to her some part of\nmy troubles. Not all of course, for even upset as I was, I had sense\nto know she would have thought _me_ not \"right in my head,\" if I had\ntold her my cousin's strange fantastic story of the piper in the old\nGerman town.\n\n[Illustration: \"I thrust my fingers into my ears & dashed down the\nstreet\"]\n\n\"Frightened of old Davey,\" she said, when I stopped. \"Dear dear,\nthere's no call to be afeared of the poor old silly. Not but what I've\nsaid myself he was scarce fit to be about the streets for the look of\nhim, though he'd not hurt a fly, wouldn't silly Davey.\"\n\n\"Then do you know him?\" I asked, with a feeling of great relief. All\nthe queer nightmare fears seemed to melt away, when I heard the poor\ncrazy piper spoken of in a matter-of-fact way.\n\n\"Know him,\" repeated my new friend, \"I should think we did. Bless you\nhe comes every Saturday to us for his dinner, as reg'lar as the clock\nstrikes, and has done for many a day. Twelve year, or so, it must be,\nsince he was runned over by a bus, and his poor head smashed in, and\nhis organ busted, and his pipes broke to bits. He was took to the\n'orspital and patched up, but bein' a furriner was against him, no\ndoubt,\" and the old woman shook her head sagely. \"He couldn't talk\nproper before, and since, he can say nothink as any one can make head\nor tail of. But as long as he's free to go about with his rattlin' old\nbox as was onst a' orgin, he's quite happy. They give 'im new pipes at\nthe 'orspital, but he can't play them right. And a bit ago some\nwell-intending ladies had 'im took off to a 'sylum, sayin' as he\nwasn't fit to be about. But he nearly died of the bein' shut up, he\ndid. So now he's about again, he has a little room in a street near\nhere, that is paid for, and he gets a many pennies, does Davey, and\nthe neighbours sees to him, and he's quite content, and he does no\nharm, and all the town knows silly Davey.\"\n\n\"But don't naughty children mock at him and tease him sometimes?\" I\nasked.\n\n\"Not so often as you'd think, and they're pretty sure to be put down\nif they do. All the perlice knows Davey. So now, my dear, you'll never\nbe afeared of the poor thing no more, will you? And I'll step round\nwith you to your 'ome, I will, and welcome.\"\n\nSo she did, and on the way, to my unspeakable delight, we came across\nnurse and Baby, nearly out of their wits with terror at having lost\nme. For Baby had only followed the piper a very short way, and did not\nfind him interesting.\n\n\"Him were a old silly, and couldn't make nice music,\" said sensible\nBaby.\n\nAnd though we often met poor crazy Davey after that, and many of my\nweekly pennies found their way to him as long as we stayed in the\nplace, I never again felt any terror of the harmless creature.\nEspecially after I had told the whole story to mamma, who was wise\nenough to see that too many fairy stories, or \"fancy\" stories are\n_not_ a good thing for little girls, though of course she was too kind\nand too just to blame Meta, who had only wished to entertain and amuse\nme.\n\n\n\n\nPIG-BETTY\n\n[Illustration: \"PIG-BETTY\" BY MRS. MOLESWORTH]\n\n\nPART I.\n\nI am going to tell you a story that mother told us. _We_ think\nmother's stories far the most interesting and nicest of any we hear or\nread. And we are trying to write them all down, so that our children,\nif ever any of us have any, may know them too. We mean to call them\n\"Grandmother's Stories.\" One reason why they are nice is, that nearly\nall of them are real, what is called \"founded on fact.\" By the time\n_our_ children come to hear them, mother says her stories will all\nhave grown dreadfully old-fashioned, but we tell her that will make\nthem all the nicer. They will have a scent of long-ago-ness about\nthem, something like the faint lavendery whiff that comes out of\nmother's old doll-box, where she keeps a few of the toys and dolls'\nclothes she has never had the heart to part with.\n\nThe little story, or \"sketch\"--mother says it isn't worth calling a\n\"story\"--I am going to write down now, is already a long-ago one. For\nit isn't really one of mother's own stories; it was told her by _her_\nmother, so if ever our book comes to exist, this one will have to have\na chapter to itself and be called \"_Great_-grandmother's Story,\" won't\nit? I remember quite well what made mother tell it us. It was when we\nwere staying in the country one year, and Francie had been frightened,\ncoming through the village, by meeting a poor idiot boy who ran after\nus and laughed at us in a queer silly way. I believe he meant to\nplease us, but Francie's fright made her angry, and she wanted nurse\nto speak to him sharply and tell him to get away, but nurse wouldn't.\n\n\"One should always be gentle to those so afflicted,\" she said.\n\nWhen we got home we told mother about it, and Francie asked her to\nspeak to nurse, adding, \"It's very disagreeable to see people like\nthat about. _I_ think they should always be shut up, don't you,\nmother?\"\n\n\"Not always,\" mother replied. \"Of course, when they are at all\ndangerous, likely to hurt themselves or any one else, it is necessary\nto shut them up. And if they can be taught anything, as some can be,\nit is the truest kindness to send them to an asylum, where it is\nwonderful what patience and skill can sometimes make of them. But I\nknow about that boy in the village. He is perfectly harmless, even\ngentle and affectionate. He has been at a school for such as he, and\nhas learnt to knit--that is the only thing they could succeed in\nteaching him. It was no use leaving him there longer, and he pined for\nhome most sadly. So as his relations are pretty well off, it was\nthought best to send him back, and he is now quite content. I wish I\nhad told you about him. When you meet him again you must be sure to\nspeak kindly--they say he never forgets if any one does so.\"\n\n[Illustration: Of course we all said \"yes\"]\n\n\"Poor boy,\" said Ted and I; but Francie did not look quite convinced.\n\n\"I think he should be shut up,\" she repeated, in rather a low voice.\nFrancie used to be a very obstinate little girl. \"And _I_ shan't speak\nto him kindly or any way.\"\n\nMother did not answer, though she heard. I know she did. But in a\nminute or two she said:\n\n\"Would you like to hear a story about an idiot, that your grandmother\ntold me? It happened when she was a little girl.\"\n\nOf course we all said \"yes,\" with eagerness.\n\nAnd this was the story.\n\n\"'Pig-Betty' isn't a very pretty name for a story, or for a person, is\nit? But Pig-Betty was a real person, though I daresay none of you have\nthe least idea what the word 'pig' added to her own name meant,\" said\nmother. No, none of us had. We thought, perhaps, it was because this\n\"Betty\" was very lazy, or greedy or even dirty, but mother shook her\nhead at all those guesses. And then she went on to explain. \"Pig,\" in\nsome parts of Scotland, she told us, means a piece of coarse crockery.\nIt is used mostly for jugs, though in a general way it means any sort\nof crockery. \"And long ago,\" mother went on--I think I'll give up\nputting 'mother said,' or 'mother went on,' and just tell it straight\noff, as she did.\n\nLong ago then, when _my_ mother was a little girl, she and her\nbrothers and sisters used to spend some months of every year in a\nrather out-of-the-way part of Scotland. There was no railway and no\n\"coach,\" that came within at all easy reach. The nearest town was ten\nor twelve miles away, and even the village was two or three. And a\ngood many things, ordinary, common things, were supplied by pedlars,\nwho walked long distances, often carrying their wares upon their\nbacks. These pedlars came to be generally called by what they had to\nsell, as a sort of nickname. You may think it was a very hard life,\nbut there were a good many nice things about it. They were always sure\nof a welcome, for it was a pleasant excitement in the quiet life of\nthe cottages and farm-houses, and even of the big houses about, when\none of these travelling merchants appeared; and they never needed to\nfeel any anxiety about their board and lodging. They could always\ncount upon a meal or two and on a night's shelter. Very often they\nslept in the barn of the farm-house--or even sometimes in a clean\ncorner of the cows' \"byre.\" They were not very particular.\n\n[Illustration: \"They were always sure of a welcome\"]\n\nAmong these good people there were both men and women, and poor\nPig-Betty was one of the latter.\n\nMy mother and the other children used always to ask as one of their\nfirst questions when they arrived at Greystanes--that was the name of\ntheir uncle's country house--on their yearly visit, if Pig-Betty had\nbeen there lately, or if she was expected to come soon. One or other\nwas pretty sure to be the case.\n\nThey had several reasons for their interest in the old woman. One was\nthat they were very fond of blowing soap-bubbles, which they seldom\ngot leave to do in town, and they always bought a new supply of white\nclay pipes the first time Pig-Betty appeared; another was that she had\nwhat children thought very wonderful treasures hidden among the coarse\npots and dishes and jugs that she carried in a shapeless bundle on her\nbent old back. And sometimes, if she were in a very good humour, she\nwould present one of the little people with a green parrot rejoicing\nin a whistle in its tail, or with a goggle-eyed dog, reminding one of\nthe creatures in Hans Andersen's tale of \"The Three Soldiers.\" And the\nthird reason was perhaps the strongest, though the strangest of all.\n\n[Illustration: OLD BETTY'S TREASURES]\n\n\nPART II.\n\nThe third reason why the children were so interested in the old pedlar\nwoman was, I said, the strongest, though the strangest of all. She was\nan idiot! They were almost too young to understand what being an idiot\nreally meant, but they could see for themselves that she was quite\nunlike other people, and her strangeness gave her a queer charm and\nattraction for them--almost what is called \"fascination.\" When she was\nat Greystanes, where she always stayed two or three days, they were\nnever at a loss for amusement, for they did little else than run here\nand there to peep at her and tell over to each other the odd way she\ntrotted about, nodding and shaking her head and talking on to herself\nas if she were holding long conversations. It did not do to let her\nsee they were watching her, for it would have made her angry. Indeed,\nseveral times the children had been warned not to do so, and their\nnurse had been told to keep them out of the old woman's way; but, as\neverybody knows, children are contradictory creatures, and in the\ncountry, nurse could not keep as close a look out on them as in town.\nThen it was well known that Pig-Betty was very gentle, even when she\nwas angry--and she did have fits of temper sometimes--she had never\nbeen known to hurt anyone.\n\n[Illustration: 'Well, Betty, my woman, and how are ye?']\n\nAnd, of course, she was not quite without sense. She was able to\nmanage her little trade well enough and to see that she was paid\ncorrectly for the \"pigs\" she sold. She was able, too, to tell the\ndifference between Sunday and other days, for on Sunday she would\nnever \"travel,\" and would often, if she were near a village, creep\ninto the \"kirk\" and sit in a corner quite quietly. Perhaps \"idiot\" is\nhardly the right word to use about her, for there were a few old folk\nwho said they had been told that she had not always been quite so\nstrange and \"wanting,\" but that a great trouble or sorrow that had\nhappened in her family had made her so. The truth was that no one knew\nher real story. She had wandered into our part of the country from a\nlong way off, thirty or forty years ago, and as people had been kind\nto her, there she had stayed. No one knew how old she was. Uncle\nJames, himself an elderly man, said she had not changed the least all\nthe years he had known her.\n\nUncle James was one of the people she had a great affection for. She\nwould stand still whenever he passed her with a kindly, \"Well, Betty,\nmy woman, and how are ye?\" bobbing a kind of queer curtsey till he was\nout of sight, and murmuring blessings on the \"laird.\" He never forgot\nher when she was at Greystanes, always giving orders that the poor\nbody should be made comfortable and have all she wanted.\n\nOne of his little kindnesses to her was the cause of a good deal of\nexcitement to the children when they were with Uncle James. At that\ntime gentlepeople dined much earlier than they do now, especially in\nthe country. At Greystanes four o'clock was the regular dinner hour.\nThe children used always to be nicely dressed and sent down \"to\ndessert.\" And when Pig-Betty was there, Uncle James never failed to\npour out a glass of wine and say, \"Now, who will take this to the old\nwoman?\"\n\n[Illustration: \"The procession of five\"]\n\nPig-Betty knew it was coming, for she always managed to be in the\nkitchen at that time, and however busy the servants were, they never\nthought of turning her out. There was a good deal of superstitious awe\nfelt about her, in spite of her gentleness; and the children would\nlook at each other, half-wishing, half-fearing to be the cup-bearer.\n\n\"I will,\" Johnny would say; and as soon as he spoke all the others\nfollowed.\n\n\"No, let me,\" Hughie would cry, and then Maisie and Lily joined in\nwith their \"I will,\" or \"Do let me, Uncle James.\"\n\n\"First come, first served,\" Uncle would reply, as he handed the\nwell-filled glass to Johnny or Maisie, or whichever had been the\nfirst. Then the procession of five would set off, walking slowly, so\nas not to spill the wine, down the long stone passages leading to the\nkitchen and offices of the old house. And what usually happened was\nthis.\n\nAs they got to the kitchen door, Johnny--supposing it was he who was\ncarrying the wine--would go more and more slowly.\n\n\"I don't mind, after all, letting _you_ give it, Maisie,\" or \"Hughie,\"\nhe would say.\n\n\"No, thank you, Johnny,\" they would meekly reply. And Lily, who was\nthe most outspoken, would confess,\n\n\"I always _think_ I'd like to give it her, but I do get _so_\nfrightened when I see her close to me, that I really daren't,\" which\nwas in truth the feeling of all four!\n\nSo it was pretty sure to end by number five coming to the front.\nNumber five was little Annette, the youngest. She was a sweet,\ncurly-haired maiden, too sunny and merry herself to know what fear\nmeant.\n\n\"_I_'ll dive it poor old Pig-Betty,\" she always cried, and so she did.\nInside the kitchen the glass was handed to her, and she trotted up to\nthe old woman in her corner with it, undismayed by the near sight of\nthe queer wizened old face, like a red and yellow withered apple, and\nthe bright piercing eyes, to be seen at the end, as it were, of a sort\nof overhanging archway of shawls and handkerchiefs and queer frilled\nheadpiece under all, which Betty managed in some mysterious way to\nhalf bury herself in.\n\nShe always murmured blessings on the child as she drank the wine, and\nno doubt this little ceremony was the beginning of her devotion to the\nbaby of the family.\n\nThis devotion was made still greater by what happened one day.\n\nThere were unkind and thoughtless people at Greystanes as well as\neverywhere else. And one summer there came some \"new folk\" to live in\none of the cottages inhabited by Uncle James's farm-labourers. This\ndid not often happen, as he seldom changed his people. These strangers\nwere from some distance, and had never happened to come across the\npoor half-witted old woman, and there were two or three rough boys in\nthe family who were spoilt and wild, and who thought themselves far\nabove the country people, as they had lived for some time in a small\ntown. And so one day--Oh, dear! I am getting this chapter of mother's\nstory too long. I must begin a new one.\n\n\nPART III.\n\nWell, one day, as I was saying, the children, who had not seen old\nBetty for several weeks, were on their way to the village--two miles\noff--when near the corner of a lane, they heard a great noise. Loud\nvoices and jeering laughter, and a kind of strange shrill shrieking,\nwhich made them stare at each other in wonder and almost fear. Nurse\nwas not with them, they were to meet her further down the road, as she\nhad gone on first with a message to a woman who was ill.\n\n\"What can it be?\" said Maisie.\n\nThey hurried on to see, and the mystery was soon explained. There in\nthe midst of a little group of boys, and two or three girls also, I am\nafraid, stood the poor old idiot. She was convulsed with rage,\nscreaming, shrieking, almost foaming with fury, while first one then\nanother darted forward and gave a pull to her skirts or jacket from\nbehind, and as quickly as she turned, a fresh tormentor would catch at\nher from the other side, all shouting together at the top of their\nvoices, \"Wha is't this time, my Leddy Betty? Thaur, ye have him noo.\"\n\nThey were not _hurting_ her, but it was the insult she felt so keenly,\nfor she was used to respectful treatment. The Simpson boys, the new\ncomers, were in the front of the fray, of course.\n\nFor a moment the five Greystanes children stood speechless with\nhorror. Then Johnny darted to the idiot's side, he did it with the\nbest intentions, but Betty, confused and blinded, did not distinguish\nhim from the others, and dealt him a blow which sent him staggering\nback, as she howled out to him, \"Ye ill-faured loon, tak' that.\"\n\n[Illustration: Betty's Tormentors]\n\n\"Run, Johnny, run,\" shrieked Maisie, which Hughie and Lill, who were\ntwins and always kept together, had already done, not out of cowardice\nbut in search of help. But little Annette rushed forward.\n\n\"Bad boys that you are,\" she shouted with her little shrill baby voice\nthat seemed to have suddenly grown commanding, \"off with you. You\nshall not torment my guid auld Betty.\" For though the children's\nmother was most careful that their speech should be \"English,\" strong\nexcitement would bring out their native tongue. And as the child\nuttered the last words she flung her arms round the poor woman, who,\nweak and feeble as soon as her fury began to lessen, tottered to the\nground, where they clung together--the sorrow-crushed aged creature\nand the cherub-faced child--sobbing in each other's arms. For\nPig-Betty had known her little friend in an instant.\n\n[Illustration: \"My bonny wee leddy she murmured\"]\n\n\"My bonny wee leddy,\" she murmured, \"auld Betty's ain wee leddy,\" and\nwith her trembling fingers she untied the knotted corners of her\nbundle of \"pigs,\" and searching for the best of her treasures, the\nbest and biggest of her \"whustling polls,\" she stuffed it into\nAnnette's hands.\n\nStrange to say the ruffianly group had already dispersed and were not\nagain seen!\n\nIt was soon after that that the children went back again for the\nwinter to their London home. Next year saw them once more in the\nnorth, and as nurse unpacked their trunks she came upon the green\nparrot, which Annette would never part from.\n\n\"I wonder if Pig-Betty's still alive,\" she said.\n\nOh yes--so far as was known at Greystanes, she was rambling about as\nusual, but she had not been there for some weeks. Fortunately for the\nchildren, however, it was near the time for her visit, as you shall\nhear.\n\nA few days after their arrival they were all out together, when they\nhappened to pass by a cottage, whose owner was famed for a very choice\nbreed of dogs he kept.\n\n\"Let's peep over the wall into Sandy's yard, and see if he has any new\npuppies,\" said Johnny, and they all did so. No, there were no puppies\nto be seen, only an older dog which the boys remembered by the name of\n\"Jock,\" and they called out to him.\n\nBut Jock took no heed. He was moving about the little enclosure in a\nqueer, restless way, his head hanging down, his tail between his legs.\n\n\"Poor Jock,\" said Hughie, \"how dull he looks! What a shame of Sandy to\nhave gone out and left him alone!\" For evidently there was no one at\nhome in the cottage. Truth to tell, Sandy was off for the dog-doctor.\n\n\"Let's let him out,\" said Johnny, \"and cheer him up a bit. He'll know\nus once he's out.\"\n\nThey did not hear a quick but shuffling step up the lane, nor a\npanting, quavering voice, \"Bairns, bairns, dinna ye----\"\n\nIt was Pig-Betty, just arrived that morning, and left by Sandy in\ncharge of his cottage and the suspiciously suffering Jock--a charge\nshe was quite able for.\n\n[Illustration: Let's peep over the wall! and they all did so.]\n\n\"Let no one gang near him,\" Sandy had said; \"and, my woman, just ye\nsit at the gate there till I'm back. I'll no be lang.\"\n\nBut, alas, the children had come round by the fields behind the\ncottage.\n\nIt was too late--the yard gate was opened, and Jock, after sniffing\nand turning about came slowly out.\n\n\"Poor old Jockie,\" said Annette, always fearless, stooping to stroke\nhim.\n\nHe turned upon her with a dreadful growl, he was not yet quite mad,\nbut the poison was in him. And in another instant the deadly fangs\nwould have been in the baby's tender flesh, but for the well-aimed\nblow which flung the dog back, though only for a moment. It was Betty,\ndashing at him with her bundle of \"pigs,\" the only weapon at hand--the\npoor pigs smashing and crashing; but they only diverted Jock's attack.\nWhen Sandy and the dog-doctor came rushing up, she was on the ground,\nand Jock had already bitten her in two or three places. But all she\nsaid was, \"My wee leddy, haud him aff my wee leddy.\"\n\nAnd they were able to secure him, so that no one else was bitten.\n\nNo, Betty did not die of hydrophobia. She lived for a few months, not\nlonger, her old nerves and feeble frame had got their death blow. But\nshe was tenderly cared for in a peaceful corner of the hospital at the\nneighbouring town. Uncle James and the children's parents took care\nthat she should want for nothing, and as her bodily strength failed\nher mind seemed to clear. When little Annette was taken to say\ngood-bye to the brave old woman, poor Pig-Betty was able to whisper a\nword or two of loving hope that she and her \"wee leddy\" might meet\nagain--in the Better Land.\n\n\n\n\nTHE DORMOUSE'S MISTAKE.\n\n\nThey lived at the corner of the common. Papa, Mamma, Fuzz and\nBrown-ears, Snip and Peepy, their four children. It was a lovely place\nto live at, but as they had never seen any other part of the world, I\nam not sure that they thought it quite so delightful as they might\notherwise have done. The children, that is to say--Papa and Mamma of\ncourse were wiser. They had _heard_ of very different sorts of places\nwhere some poor dormice had to live; small cooped-up nests called\ncages, out of which they were never allowed to run about, or to enjoy\nthe delightful summer sunshine, and go foraging for hazel nuts and\nhaws, and other delicacies, for themselves. For an ancestor of theirs\nhad once been taken prisoner and shut up in a cage, whence, wonderful\nto say, he had escaped and got back to the woods again, where he\nbecame a great personage among dormice, and was even occasionally\nrequested to give lectures in public to the squirrels and water-rats,\nand moles and rabbits, and other forest-folk, describing the strange\nand marvellous things he had seen and heard during his captivity. He\nhad learnt to understand human talk for one thing, and had taught it\nto his children; and his great-grandson, the Papa of Fuzz and\nBrown-ears, Snip and Peepy, had begun to give them lessons in this\nforeign language in their turn, for, as he wisely remarked, there was\nno saying if it might not turn out useful some day.\n\nThe cold weather set in very early this year. Already, for some days,\nFuzz and Brown-ears, Snip and Peepy had begun to feel a curious\nheaviness stealing over them now and then; they did not seem inclined\nto turn out in the morning, and were very glad when one evening their\nmother told them that the store cupboards being now quite full, they\nneed none of them get up the next day at all unless they were\ninclined.\n\n\"For my part,\" she added, \"I cannot keep awake any longer, nor can\nyour Papa. We are going to roll ourselves up to-night. You young folk\nmay keep awake a week or two longer perhaps, but if this frost\ncontinues, I doubt it. So good-night, my dears, for a month or two;\nthe first mild day we shall all rouse up, never fear, and have a good\nmeal before we snooze off again.\"\n\nAnd sure enough next morning, when the young people turned out a good\ndeal later than usual, Papa and Mamma were as fast asleep as the seven\nsleepers in the old story, which had given their name to the German\nbranch of the dormouse family! Fuzz and Brown-ears, Snip and Peepy\nfelt rather strange and lonely; two round furry balls seemed a very\nqueer sort of exchange for their active, bright-eyed father and\nmother. But as there was plenty to eat they consoled themselves after\na bit, and got through the next two or three weeks pretty comfortably,\nevery day feeling more and more drowsy, till at last came a morning\non which six neat little brown balls instead of two lay in a row--the\ndormouse family had begun their winter repose. And all was quiet and\nsilent in the cosy nest among the twigs of the low-growing bushes at\nthe corner of the common.\n\n[Illustration: THE LECTURE.]\n\nIt seemed as if winter had really come. For three or four weeks there\nwas but little sunshine even in the middle of the day, and in the\nmornings and evenings the air was piercingly cold.\n\n\"I suppose all the poor little wood-creatures have begun their winter\nsleep,\" said Cicely Gray one afternoon as she was hastening home from\nthe village by a short cut through the trees. \"I must say I rather\nenvy them.\"\n\n\"_I_ don't,\" said her brother, \"I shouldn't like to lose half my life.\nHush, Cicely, there's a rabbit. What a jolly little fellow! How he\nscuds along! There's another, two, three! Oh, Cis, I do hope I shall\nget some shooting when I come home at Christmas.\"\n\nCicely sighed. \"I hate shooting,\" she said. \"I'm sure it would be\nbetter to sleep half one's life than to stay awake to be shot.\"\n\nBut it was too cold to linger talking. The brother and sister set off\nrunning, so that their cheeks were glowing and their eyes sparkling by\nthe time they got to the Hall gates.\n\nThree days later Harry had gone off to school. Cicely missed him very\nmuch; especially as a most pleasant and unexpected change had come\nover the weather. A real \"St. Martin's summer\" had set in. What\ndelightful walks and rambles Harry and she could have had, thought\nCicely, if only it had come a little sooner!\n\nThe mild air found its way into the nest where the six little brown\nballs lay side by side, till at first one, then another, then all six\nslowly unrolled themselves, stretched their little paws, unclosed\ntheir eyes, and began to look about them.\n\n\"Time for our first winter dinner,\" said Mrs. Dormouse sleepily; \"it's\nall ready over there in the corner under the oak leaves. Help\nyourselves my dears, eat as much as you can; you'll sleep all the\nbetter for it. And don't be long about it; it's as much as I can do\nto keep my eyes open.\"\n\nMr. Dormouse and the others followed her advice. For a few minutes\nnothing was heard but the little nibbling and cracking sounds which\ntold that a raid had been made on the winter stores.\n\n\"Good-night again, my dears,\" said Papa, who was still sleepier than\nMamma.\n\n[Illustration: \"Hush, Cicely there's a Rabbit\"]\n\n\"Good-night\" was repeated in various tones, but one little voice\ninterrupted--it was that of Fuzz.\n\n\"I'm not sleepy, Papa and Mamma; I'm not a bit sleepy. I'm sure it's\ntime to wake up, and that the summer's come back again. Brown-ears,\nSnip and Peepy, won't you come out with me? Papa and Mamma can sleep a\nlittle longer if they like.\"\n\n\"Nonsense,\" Mrs. Dormouse said sleepily.\n\nAnd \"Nonsense, brother,\" repeated the others, \"don't disturb us.\"\n\nBut Fuzz was obstinate and sure he knew best.\n\nHe trotted off, looking back contemptuously at the five balls already\nrolled up again.\n\n\"Dear, dear! how silly they are to be sure,\" he said, when he found\nhimself out on the grass. \"Why, it's certainly summer again! The\nsunshine's so bright and warm, the birds are chirping so merrily. I\nfeel quite brisk. I think I'll take a ramble over the common to the\nwood where our cousins the squirrels live, and hear what they have to\nsay about it.\"\n\n[Illustration: JUST WAKEING UP A LITTLE.]\n\nHe cocked his ears and peeped about with his little sparkling eyes.\nSuddenly he caught sight of something white at the foot of one of the\nold trees. It was Cicely Gray in her summer flannel, which had been\npulled out of the wardrobe again to do honour to St. Martin.\n\n\"Good morning, little dormouse,\" she said in her pretty soft voice,\n\"what are you doing out of your nest in late November? Do you think\nsummer's come back again already, my little man? If so, you've made a\ngreat mistake. Take warning, and don't stray far from your home, or\nyou may find yourself in a sad plight. This lovely weather can't last\nmany days.\"\n\nFuzz looked at her.\n\n\"Thank you, miss,\" he replied, for, you see, he understood human talk,\nthough it is to be doubted if Cicely understood _him_. \"She must\nsurely know,\" he reflected wisely, \"and perhaps after all mamma was in\nthe right.\"\n\nSo he scampered in to the nest again and rolled himself up beside the\nothers.\n\nThat very evening the wind changed; the cold set in in earnest, and\nfor three months it was really severe.\n\n\"I saw a little dormouse at the corner of the common yesterday,\" said\nCicely the next morning. \"I advised him to go home again; he had come\nout by mistake, thinking winter was over.\"\n\n\"You funny girl,\" said her mother. \"I hope he understood you and\nfollowed your advice, poor little chap.\"\n\n\n\n\nTHE CHRISTMAS GUEST.\n\nFROM A TRUE INCIDENT.\n\n\nShe was a very poor little girl, very poor indeed; often--indeed\nalmost always--hungry, and thinly-clad, and delicate, but yet not\naltogether miserable. No, far from it, for she had a loving mother who\ndid her poor best for her children. There were three or four of them\nand Emmy was the eldest. She was only six, but she was looked upon as\nalmost grown-up, for father had died last year, and Emmy had to help\nmother with \"the little ones,\" as she always called them.\n\nThey lived in a single room in one of the poorest and most crowded\nparts of great London; in a street which was filled with houses of\none-room homes like their own. There was much misery and much\nwickedness, I fear, too, in their neighbourhood; drinking, and\nswearing, and fighting, as well as hunger, and cold, and sickness. But\ncompared with several years ago, when Emmy's mother herself had been a\ngirl living in much such a home as she now strove \"to keep together\"\nfor her fatherless babies, compared with that time, as she, and others\ntoo, used often to say, \"it was a deal better.\" There was less\ndrinking and bad language; there was less misery. For friends--friends\nable and earnestly anxious to help--had taken up their abode in the\nvery next street to little Emmy's; the church had been \"done up\nbeautiful,\" and _there_ there was always a welcome and a rest from the\ntroubles and worries at home; and the clergyman, as well as the kind\nladies who had come to live among their toiling, struggling brothers\nand sisters, knew all about everybody and everything, knew who was ill\nand who was out of work, knew who were \"trying to be good\" even among\nthe children, knew even the tiniest tots by name, and had always a\nkind word and smile, however busy and hurried they were.\n\n[Illustration: \"Emmy had to help Mother with the little ones\"]\n\nAnd, thanks greatly to these kind friends, Emmy's life was not without\nits pleasures. She loved the infant school on Sundays, she loved the\n\"treats\"; once last summer--and Emmy was old enough now to remember\nlast summer well, though it seemed a very long time ago--there had\nbeen a treat into the country, a real day in the country, where, for\nthe first time in her life, the child saw grass and trees.\n\nBut it was far from summer time now, it was midwinter. Christmas was\nclose at hand, and winter had brought more than its usual troubles to\nthe little family. There were worse things this year than cold and\nscant food, chapped hands and chilblained feet. Tiny, as they called\nthe baby but one, was very ill with bronchitis, the doctor could not\nsay if she would get better, and sometimes it seemed to the poor\nmother as if it was hardly to be wished that she should.\n\n\"She suffers so, poor dear, and seeing to her hinders me sadly with\nmy work. I do feel as if I'd break down at last altogether,\" she said\none evening--it was Christmas Eve--to a neighbour who had looked in to\nsee how things were going on.\n\n\"And Emmy's looking pale,\" said the visitor, \"she wants cheering up a\nbit too. Let her come to church with me for a change. I'm going to the\nevening service now.\"\n\nEmmy brightened up at this. She had not been at church last Sunday,\nand, like most children, she was especially fond of going in the\nevening. It seemed grander and more solemn somehow, when all was dark\noutside. And the lights and warmth, and above all the music, were very\npleasant to the little girl. So with a parting word of advice to the\nmother to keep up heart a bit longer--\"things allus starts mending\nwhen they get to the worst\"--the kind neighbour set off, holding Emmy\nby the hand.\n\nIt was beautiful in church, the Christmas \"dressing up,\" as Emmy\ncalled it, had been completed that afternoon; to the child it seemed a\nsort of fairy-land, though of fairy-land she had never heard. But she\nhad heard of heaven, which was better.\n\n\"It could scarce be finer there,\" she thought to herself dreamily, as\nshe listened to the words of the service with a feeling that all was\nsweet and beautiful, though she could actually understand but little.\n\nThe sermon was short and simple. But Emmy was getting sleepy, and the\nthought of poor mother, and Tiny with her hacking cough, mingled with\nwhat she heard, till suddenly something caught her ear which startled\nher into attention. The preacher had been speaking of the first\nChristmas-day, concluding with some words about the morrow, when again\nthe whole Christian world would join in welcoming their Lord. For\n\"again He will come to us; again Jesus Himself will be here in the\nmidst of us, ready as ever to listen to our prayers, to comfort and\nconsole.\"\n\n[Illustration: It was beautiful in church]\n\nEmmy was wide awake now. She scarcely heard the words of the carol,\nshe was in a fever of eager hopefulness.\n\n\"_What_ a good thing I came to-night,\" she said to herself, \"else I\nmightn't ever have knowed it. I _would_ like to see Him first of all.\nThere'll be such a many, and He'll have such a deal to do. But it\nwouldn't take Him that long to come round with me to see Tiny, and if\nHe does, like in the story, He'll cure her in 'alf a minute. I know\nwhat I'll do\"--and a little scheme formed itself in the childish\nmind--\"though I'll not tell mother,\" thought Emmy, \"just for fear\nlike, I should be too late to catch Him.\"\n\n\"'Twas a lovely sermon, and so touchin' too,\" said Emmy's friend to\nanother woman as they walked home.\n\n[Illustration: A LITTLE FIGURE CURLED UP IN THE PORCH.]\n\n\"It strengthens one up a bit, it do,\" agreed her companion. \"I'll try\nmy best to be round for the seven o'clock service in the morning.\"\n\n\"Seven o'clock in the morning!\" said Emmy to herself. \"I'll best be\nhere soon after six.\"\n\nChristmas morning was _very_ cold. There was some frozen snow lying\nhard and still white in the streets, and there was moonlight, pale and\nclear. So it was light enough for one of the Sisters, entering the\nchurch betimes, to distinguish a little figure curled up darkly in the\nporch. A thrill of fear ran through her for a moment. Supposing it\nwere some poor child turned out by a drunken father, as sometimes\nhappened, frozen to death this bitter night? But no--the small\ncreature started to its feet.\n\n\"Is it He? Has Jesus come?\" she exclaimed. \"Oh! do let me speak to Him\nfirst.\"\n\n\"My child!\" exclaimed the sister, \"what is it? Have you been dreaming?\nWhy, it is little Emmy Day. Have you been here all night?\"\n\n\"No, no,\" Emmy replied, her teeth chattering with cold, and the sob of\na half-feared disappointment in her voice. \"No, no; I slipped out\nwhile mother and all was still asleep. I'm waiting to ask Him to come\nto our Tiny;\" and she went on to tell what she had heard last night,\nand what she had planned and hoped.\n\nHer friend took her into her own room for a few minutes, and there\ngently and tenderly explained to Emmy her sweet mistake. And though\nher tears could not all at once be stopped, the little girl trotted\nback to her mother with comfort in her heart, and strange and\nwonderful, yet beautiful new thoughts in her mind.\n\n\"He is _always_ near, I can _always_ pray to Him,\" she whispered to\nherself.\n\nAnd her prayers were answered. Tiny recovered, and thanks to the kind\nSisters, that Christmas Day was the beginning of better things for the\nlittle family.\n\n\n\n\nOLIVE'S TEA-PARTY.\n\n[Illustration: WRITING THE INVITATIONS]\n\n\n\"Mamma,\" said Olive one day, \"I want to have a tea party.\"\n\n\"Well, dear,\" mamma answered, \"I dare say it could be managed. You\nmust talk to Cara and Louie about it, and settle whom you would all\nlike to ask.\"\n\n\"No, no,\" said Olive, \"I don't mean that. I won't have my sisters,\nmamma. They like to ask big ones, and I want a party for my own self,\nand no big ones. I want to fix everything myself, and I won't have\nCara and Louie telling us what to eat at tea, and what games to play\nat. You may tell aunty to 'avite them to her house that day, mamma,\nand let me have my own party; else I won't have it at all.\"\n\nOlive was eight. She was the youngest of three. It oftens happens that\nthe \"youngest of three\" fancies herself \"put upon,\" especially when\nthe two elders are very near of an age and together in everything. But\nthis sudden stand for independence was new in Olive. Mamma looked at\nher curiously. Had some foolish person been putting nonsense in her\nlittle girl's head?\n\n\"Cara and Louie are always kind to you about your little pleasures,\nOlive,\" she said. \"I don't understand why you should all at once want\nto do without them.\"\n\nOlive wriggled. \"But I do,\" she said. \"Lily Farquhar says her big\nsisters spoil her parties so, and they call her and her friends 'the\nbabies,' and laugh at them.\"\n\n\"Are you going to invite Lily to your party?\" asked mamma.\n\n\"Yes, of course. She's my best friend, and she knows lots of games.\"\n\n\"Very well. Then fix your day and invite your friends, and I will take\ncare that your sisters don't interfere.\"\n\nOlive looked very pleased. \"I think next Wednesday would do,\" she\nsaid. \"It's our half-holiday, and if Cara will help me on Tuesday\nevening I can get my lessons done, so that I needn't do any on\nWednesday. It's _howid_ to have to do lessons after a party,\" added\nOlive, with a languid air.\n\nBut mamma took her up more sharply than she expected. \"Nay, nay,\nOlive,\" she said, \"that won't do. If your sisters are to have none of\nthe _pleasure_ of your party, you can't expect them to take any\ntrouble. You must manage your lessons as best you can.\"\n\nOlive pouted, but did not dare to say anything. Truth to tell, her\nlessons at no time sat very heavily on her mind.\n\n\"It won't be my fault if I don't do them on Wednesday,\" she said to\nherself. \"It'll be Cara's, and--and mamma's--so I don't care.\"\n\nShe found the writing the invitations more trouble than she had\nexpected, and more than once did she wish she could have applied for\nhelp to Louie, whose handwriting was so clear and pretty, and who\npossessed such \"ducky\" little sheets of note-paper of all colours,\nwith a teapot and \"come early\" in one corner. Olive's epistles were\nrather a sight to be seen; nearly all of them were blotted, and the\nspelling of some of her friends' names was peculiar, to say the least.\nStill they did their purpose, for in the course of the next day or two\nthe little hostess received answers, all accepting her \"kind\ninvitation,\" except poor Amabel Pryce, who had so bad a sore-throat\nthat there was no chance of her being able to go out by Wednesday. And\nin one note--from a little girl called Maggie Vernon--was something\nwhich did not suit Olive's present frame of mind at all.\n\n\"Harriot and I,\" wrote Maggie--Harriot was Maggie's sister--\"will be\nso pleased to come. We love a party at your house, because your big\nsisters are always so kind.\"\n\nOlive showed this to her adviser and confidante, Lily.\n\n\"Nonsense,\" said Lily, \"she only puts that in because she thinks it\nlooks polite. She's a goose, and so is Harriot; they make such a fuss\nabout each other. They haven't the least bit of independence. Well,\nnever mind. If they don't like _your_ party, Olive, they needn't come\nagain.\"\n\nOlive felt consoled. But still--in her heart of hearts there was some\nmisgiving. What should she do if they all wanted to play different\ngames?--or if Bessy Grey tore her frock or spilt her tea and got one\nof her crying fits, as happened sometimes, and there was no one--no\nCara or Louie to pet the nervous little girl into quiet and content\nagain? What should she do, if----? But Lily did not leave her time to\nconjure up any more misfortunes.\n\n\"What are you in a brown study about, Olive?\" she said. \"You _are_ so\nstupid sometimes.\"\n\nTo which Olive retorted sharply, and the friends ended their council\nof war by a quarrel, which did not raise Olive's spirits.\n\nThe great day came. Not very much had been said about it in the family\ncircle, naturally, for when one member of the family chooses to \"set\nup\" for himself or herself, and keep all the rest \"out of it,\" there\ncannot be as much pleasant talk as when everybody is joined together\nin the interest and preparation. And Olive could not help a little\nsigh when, just before her guests came, she was called down to the\ndining-room to see the tea all set out. It did look so nice! Mamma had\nordered just the cakes and buns Olive liked, and there were two or\nthree pretty plants on the table, and everything was just perfect.\n\n[Illustration: \"The sound of subdued crying in one corner\"]\n\n\"I would have liked Cara and Louie to see it,\" thought Olive. \"They\nneedn't have gone out quite so early.\"\n\nBut the sound of the front-door bell ringing made her start. She ran\noff quickly to be ready in the school-room to receive her little\nfriends. There were six of them. Lily Farquhar, of course, first and\nforemost; then Maggie and Harriot, Bessie Grey looking rather\nfrightened and very shy, and two little cousins, Mary and Augusta\nMeadowes, who lived next door.\n\nThey all knew each other pretty well, so they were not _very_ silent\nor stiff. Still as Olive could not speak to everybody at once, and was\nvery anxious that no one should feel neglected, she was not sorry when\nthe tea-bell rang. Lily was to pour out the chocolate, and Olive\nherself to make the tea. It passed off pretty well, except for Lily's\nspilling a good deal, and Olive's forgetting to put more water into\nthe teapot, so that the tea became dreadfully dark and strong. But the\ncakes were approved of, and every one seemed content. Then came the\ngreat question of \"What shall we play at?\" Lily, who was clever at\ngames, made herself a sort of leader, but she was not sensible enough\nto fill the post well. She was selfish and impatient, and being only a\nlittle girl herself, the others did not care \"to be ordered about by\nher.\" Then Bessie Grey got knocked down at Blind Man's Buff, and of\ncourse she began to cry, and to say she wouldn't play any more if they\nwere so rough. Maggie Vernon tried to soothe her, but Bessie pushed\nher away saying she didn't \"understand,\" she wanted her mother, or\nnext best, Cara or Louie, who were always \"so kind.\" And the little\nMeadowes, being themselves but very small people, looked as if they\nwere going to cry too; declaring that they would rather not play at\nall if they needed to run about so very fast. So Blind Man's Buff was\ngiven up and something quieter tried--Dumb Crambo, I think. But it was\nnot very successful either, the little Meadowes needed so much\n\"explaining,\" which no one was patient enough, or perhaps wise enough,\nto give clearly. And Lily insisted on being first always, and there\nwas no one in authority to keep her \"in her place,\" where, when she\nreally felt she _must_ stay there, she could be a pleasant and bright\nlittle girl. So game after game came to a bad end, and as the children\ngrew tired and their spirits went down, things grew worse and worse,\ntill at last--no, I can best describe it by telling what mamma\nsaw--when feeling rather anxious as to the results of Olive's fit of\nindependence, she put her head in at the school-room door an hour or\ntwo after tea.\n\nThere was silence in the room except for the sound of subdued crying\nin one corner, which came, not from Bessie Grey--that would not have\nbeen surprising--but from the smallest Meadowes child, who had torn\nher frock and refused to listen to comfort from either her sister or\nMaggie. Harriot stood close by, and ran forward as the door opened.\n\n\"Oh, has our nurse come?\" she said eagerly. \"She's so kind, I'm sure\nshe'd mend Gussie's frock, and then _her_ nurse wouldn't scold.\"\n\n\"Our nurse isn't cross really,\" said Mary. \"It's only that Gussie's\nsilly. I think she's too little to come to a party.\"\n\nThen catching sight of \"mamma\" the little girl grew red, and all the\nothers looked frightened--such of them as saw mamma, that is to say.\nFor Bessie Grey, after a long fit of sobbing, had fallen asleep on the\nfloor, poor child, and--what _do_ you think Olive and Lily were doing?\nEach with a story-book in her hand, they were comfortably reading at\ndifferent corners of the room, heedless of the other children's\ndullness and tiredness.\n\n\"I want to go home,\" wailed Gussie. On which Bessie suddenly awoke,\nand began to cry again.\n\n\"Please, Gussie _is_ rather tired,\" said the motherly little Mary. \"Do\nyou think we might go home without waiting for nurse, as it's so\nnear?\"\n\n\"And might we be getting our things on too?\" said Maggie and Harriot.\n\nPoor Mamma! She could scarcely speak, so ashamed did she feel.\n\n\"_Olive!_\" she exclaimed. How Olive and Lily too did jump! \"Is this\nthe way you take care of your guests?\"\n\n\"They were so stupid,\" murmured Olive. \"And Lily would be leader, and\nshe was so cross. I thought it was best to leave off playing.\"\n\n\"Come, my poor dear children,\" said mamma, turning to the five little\ngirls. \"Don't cry, Bessie dear, or you either, Gussie. We'll get your\nfrock mended in a minute, and Cara and Louie will give you a nice game\nof musical chairs in the drawing-room to cheer you up before you go\nhome. There is some fruit waiting for you too.\"\n\nShe marshalled them all off, smiles and chatter soon replacing the\ntears and yawns. Mamma stopped at the doorway.\n\n\"Miss Lily Farquhar,\" she said, quietly, \"you had best remain here and\nenjoy your book till you are sent for.\"\n\nTo Olive she said not one word. But it was a very humble and penitent\nlittle girl who came that evening to tell her mother and sisters _how_\nsorry she was, and _how_ foolish and selfish and ungrateful she now\nsaw that she had been.\n\nIf Olive ever gives another tea-party I think the _first_ guests she\ninvites will be her kind big sisters, Cara and Louie.\n\n\n\n\nA LIVE DUMMY.\n\n\nThe Merediths were spending the autumn on the French coast, at a\nsea-bathing place called Sablons-sur-mer. It is a nice bright little\nplace. I am afraid the inhabitants would be offended if they heard it\ncalled \"little,\" for they think it a very important town! It consists\nof two long streets--one facing the sea, one inland, where the shops\nand the houses of the people who live there all the year round, are.\nAnd between these two streets run smaller ones--so small that they are\nmore passage-ways than streets. The most imposing one is called an\n\"arcade\"; in it are the best shops, a bazaar of all sorts of fancy\nthings to delight children's eyes, from tin buckets and spades to dig\nwith in the sands, to rocking-horses, though not of a very expensive\nkind. At one corner of this arcade is a large, ready-made tailor's\nestablishment; this shop, for reasons I will explain to you, divided\nthe children's attention with the bazaar.\n\nThere were ever so many Merediths; three girls and two boys and a\ncouple of cousins. The Sablons people are accustomed to English\nvisitors, so the sight of this band of children was not startling to\nthem; and the little _messieurs_, and the _jeunes mees_, soon had\nseveral friends in the place, whom they never passed without a\nfriendly nod and a _bon jour_ or _bon soir_, as the case might be.\n\nThe cousins I have mentioned were not with the Merediths on their\nfirst arrival. There had been some doubt of finding a house large\nenough to take the whole party in, so Bessie and Hugh had waited at\ntheir own home in the country in England in a state of frantic\nanxiety, till one fine day came a letter from their aunt with the\ndelightful news that the children might be despatched as soon as they\ncould be got ready.\n\nBessie and Hugh had never paid a visit to France before; so the two\nnew-comers had plenty of \"guides\" to explain everything to them, and\nshow them the \"lions\" of Sablons-sur-mer. Only one condition was made\nby Lilian, the eldest and nearly \"grown up\" Meredith girl. Bessie and\nHugh _must_ manage not to seem like English tourists \"gaping about\nwith guide-books in their hands, and looking as if they had never been\nout of an English country village.\"\n\n\"But we scarcely ever have been,\" said Bessie; \"at least, only when we\ngo to grandmamma's at Cheltenham, and Hugh was once three days in\nLondon.\"\n\n\"That doesn't matter,\" said Miss Meredith; \"you needn't look like some\nof the English people one sees over here. I feel quite ashamed\nsometimes to own them for my country people.\"\n\nBessie was too much in awe of her big cousin to ask her to explain\nmore exactly what it was she was not to do, or to \"look.\" But she\nresolved to herself to be on her very best behaviour, and Madge and\nLetty assured her it would be \"all right\"--she needn't talk French\nwhen there was any one who \"mattered\" to hear, and she needn't _seem_\nas if things were strange to her, that was what Lilian minded.\n\n[Illustration: The Arcade]\n\n\"Mayn't I look in at the shop-windows, even?\" asked Bessie, rather\ndolefully.\n\nShop-windows were very delightful and charming to the little country\ncousin.\n\n\"Of course you may. Every body does,\" said Letty; \"especially at the\nbazaar. It's not windows; it's all open, you know, like stalls at a\nmarket,\" explained Madge; \"it's a regular bazaar. Not look at it!--why\nit's _made_ to be looked at. And oh; Bessie,\" Letty went on again,\n\"you _will_ be amused at the big tailor's, or ready-made clothier's,\nas mamma calls it, at the corner of the arcade. It's something like\nMadame Tussaud's--such a lot of wax dummies at the door. And they\nchange their clothes every few days. Some of them are quite big, like\nmen; and some little boys. They've got one now which they _think_ is\ndressed like an English sailor-suit boy--you never saw such a\ncostume! And there's a man in a red coat--our boys say he is meant to\nbe an English 'milord' dressed for 'the hunt.'\"\n\n[Illustration: The Dummies]\n\nWhen Bessie saw the bazaar she was as full of admiration of it as even\nMadge and Letty could desire, especially of the big tailor's. There\nwas a brilliant show of figures, from the little wax boy in imaginary\nEnglish sailor costume, to a moustached gentleman elaborately got up\nin evening suit, white tie and all.\n\n\"Oh, how funny they are!\" Bessie exclaimed. \"But I don't see the one\nin the red coat.\"\n\n\"He's not there to-day,\" said Madge. \"Perhaps we'll see him again\nto-morrow, in something different.\"\n\n\"It must be great fun dressing, and undressing them,\" said Bessie. \"Do\nthey change them nearly every day?\"\n\n\"Oh no, not so often as that. But we watch them always, to see.\"\n\nBut for the next two or three days there was no change. Bessie looked\nin vain for the red-coated one she was so curious to see.\n\n[Illustration: The New Dummy]\n\nNow I must tell you that there was sometimes a regiment, or part of a\nregiment, at Sablons. They came for rifle-practice on the sands; and\nthere was always a great excitement when a new detachment came in. And\na few days after Bessie and Hugh made their appearance, the town was\nawakened early one morning by the tramp of a number of red-coats, who\nhad marched over from an inland town, where there were large barracks.\nNext day on their way home, as usual, from their morning bath, the\nlittle girls passed through the arcade. Madge and Letty did not give\nthe dummies more than a passing glance, till suddenly they noticed\nthat Bessie had stayed behind.\n\n\"There she is,\" said Letty; \"she's staring at the figures. Why--is\nthat--?\" and she hesitated.\n\nThere she was, sure enough--Bessie, that is to say--standing in front\nof a tall figure, a red-coated one in all the glory of a scarlet\nuniform, and with several medals on the right breast, which the little\ngirl on her tip-toes was reaching up to and examining, one after\nanother, with great interest. Letty and Madge drew near and looked at\nher with a curious misgiving. She glanced round.\n\n\"Letty, Madge,\" she said, \"do come here and look at this new dummy.\nIt's got a lot of medals, and----\"\n\nShe stopped with a little shriek. The \"new dummy\" had suddenly raised\nits right arm, saluting Bessie with military precision as it stepped\nslightly to one side, with the words--\n\n\"_A votre service, Mademoiselle._\"\n\n\"Oh, oh!\" gasped Bessie. \"It's alive--it's--it's a man, a living\nsoldier.\"\n\nAnd so the supposed dummy was! A young officer, who, happening like\nthe children themselves to be standing in front of the tailor's\nstaring at the figures, had actually been mistaken by Bessie for one\nof the waxen group. He had entered into the joke, and remained\nperfectly motionless while the little girl made her investigation,\ndoubtless explaining all to himself by the fact of her being a _jeune\nmees_--one of that extraordinary English nation of whom it is\nimpossible to say what they won't do next.\n\nOh, how ashamed Bessie was! How scarlet grew Letty and Madge! But\nthere was nothing to be done. The officer had already disappeared at\nthe other end of the arcade with a second friendly and smiling though\nrespectful salute.\n\nOne thought struck the three children--Susanne, the maid, was\nfortunately a little in advance and had not seen the strange mistake.\n\n\"_Don't_ let's tell Lilian,\" they said. \"She'd never get over it, she\nreally wouldn't.\"\n\nBut mother--aunty as she was to Bessie--_was_ told, and comforted the\nmortified and shamefaced little girl as well as she could.\n\n\"After all,\" she said, \"it was nothing _naughty_; Bessie had not meant\nto be rude; and she was quite sure the officer had not thought her\nso.\"\n\nNor had he. But it was a very amusing story to relate; and if\nBessie had been within hearing of him when he told it to his\nbrother-officers, I think she _could_ not but have joined in their\nlaughter.\n\n[Illustration: Oh, Oh! It's ALIVE!]\n\n\n\n\nA QUEER HIDING-PLACE\n\n[Illustration: A QUEER HIDING-PLACE BY MRS MOLESWORTH]\n\n\n\"Don't forget to give Theresa the pound from mamma,\" said Mabel, as\nshe kissed her cousin Eleanor one afternoon when saying good-bye. \"I\nmust be quick; it's getting quite dark, and I was to be home early.\nCome along, Fred.\"\n\n\"You're sure you've got the pound, are you, Nelly?\" asked Fred\nmischievously. \"Mamma told Mabel about it ever so many times. She's so\nfamous at remembering things herself, I like hearing her tell _you_\nnot to forget.\"\n\nEleanor put her hand into her pocket.\n\n\"I _think_ I've got it,\" she said; \"I remember it was wrapped in a\npiece of blue paper, wasn't it? You gave it me just before we sat down\nto play our duet, and I was to say it was for aunt's subscription\nto--to--oh dear, I've forgotten,\" and she stood there in the hall,\nwhere she had come down to see the last of her visitors, looking the\npicture of perplexity.\n\n\"Oh, you silly girl!\" said Mabel, impatiently. \"It is mamma's\nsubscription to Theresa's Christmas dinners' card. There now, don't\nyou remember? You are so dreadfully absent, Eleanor!\"\n\n\"I remember now--oh yes, of course. I won't forget again,\" said the\ngirl; \"little\" girl one could scarcely call her, for though she was\nonly thirteen she was as tall as her elder sister of eighteen.\n\"Good-night again, Mabel. I must be quick, for I have to write to\nCharley before dinner. You know I dine late just now during the\nholidays,\" she added proudly.\n\n\"But the pound--the pound itself--have you got it?\" repeated Fred.\n\nAgain went Eleanor's hand to her pocket.\n\n\"Oh dear, I forgot I was feeling for the pound,\" she exclaimed. \"Yes,\nhere it is! I'll give it to Theresa quite rightly, you'll see.\"\n\nEleanor hurried away to write her letter to Charley, for to-morrow\nwould be Indian mail-day, and she had put it off too late the week\nbefore.\n\n[Illustration: for a course or two the pound was safe]\n\n\"Now I _must_ give the pound to Theresa at once,\" she said, again\ndepositing it in her pocket when she changed her dress for dinner.\nSomething or other put it out of her head in the drawing-room--poor\nEleanor's head was not a very secure place to keep anything in for\nlong! It was not till she and her mother and Theresa and her\nseventeen-years' old brother Mark were at table, and half way through\ndinner, that the unlucky coin again returned into her memory. No\nthanks to her memory that it did so! It was only when she pulled out\nher handkerchief that the little paper packet came out with it and\nfell onto the floor.\n\n\"Oh,\" said Eleanor, as she stooped to pick it up, \"what a good thing\nI've remembered it! Here, Theresa, here's a pound for you from aunty,\nfor your--for the--oh, what is it? Your subscription for Christmas\ncards--no, I mean your subscription-card for Christmas dinners--yes,\nthat's what it's for.\"\n\n\"All right,\" said Theresa, quietly, \"I understand. But I wish you had\ngiven it me up-stairs, Nelly, I haven't got a pocket in this thin\nskirt. Never mind,\" and she unwrapped it as she spoke, and placed it\non the table beside her.\n\n\"There now,\" she said, \"I can't forget it. It is too conspicuous on\nthe white cloth.\"\n\nThe sisters were sitting next each other; that is to say, Theresa was\nat one end with Mark opposite, and their mother and Eleanor were at\nthe sides. The table was small, though large enough for a party of\nfour.\n\nNot long was the gold coin allowed to rest peacefully where Theresa\nhad placed it. Eleanor's fingers soon picked it up. First she examined\nit curiously by the light of the candle beside her, then when she had\nsatisfied herself as to its date and some other particulars, she took\nto \"spinning\" it on the table. This was not very successful; to spin a\ncoin well requires a hard surface for it to twirl on. Eleanor tried\nonce or twice, then ended by \"spinning\" the sovereign on to the floor.\nDown she ducked to pick it up again, thereby attracting her mother's\nnotice.\n\n\"Nelly, my dear, what are you stooping down so awkwardly for?\" she\nsaid.\n\n\"Oh,\" said Theresa, \"it is all that pound. Do leave it alone, child,\nor it will be getting lost altogether,\" and she took it out of her\nsister's hand and put it under her wine-glass. \"There,\" she said,\n\"don't touch it again.\"\n\nAnd for a course or two the pound was safe. But Theresa forgot that\nwine-glasses are not a fixture; after a while the table was cleared of\nthem and the crumbs brushed away for dessert. The shining sovereign\nwas again exposed to full view. Mother, Theresa, and Mark were talking\nbusily about something interesting, Eleanor's ears were\nhalf-listening, but her restless fingers were unoccupied. They seized\non the coin again, and a new series of experiments with it was the\nresult, even though she herself was but vaguely conscious what she was\nabout. At last just as she had found a new trick which amused the\nbabyish side of her brain greatly, came a remark which thoroughly\ncaught her attention.\n\n[Illustration: A diving process into the said pocket ensued]\n\n\"The day after to-morrow, Nelly, don't forget,\" said Theresa, \"I'm\ngoing to have the Leonards at afternoon tea.\"\n\nAnd the talk ran upon the Leonards, till they rose to go upstairs to\nthe drawing-room. Then came the exclamation from Theresa. \"My pound,\nNelly, have you touched it? I put it under my wine-glass, but of\ncourse I forgot--the wine-glasses were changed. Henry,\" to the\nfootman, \"didn't you see it when you moved the glasses? It _was_\nthere.\"\n\nHenry grew red and stared.\n\n\"Yes, ma'am, it was there. I saw it. I left it on the cloth.\"\n\nEleanor stared too, though she did not grow red.\n\n\"Yes,\" she said, \"it was there. I took it up again, but I'm sure I did\nnothing with it.\"\n\nNevertheless a diving process into her pocket ensued--in vain; then\nshe got up and shook herself; then everybody began creeping and\ncrawling about on the floor--in vain; then Mark got down a candle\nunder the table, thereby, as it was in a high silver candle-stick,\nnearly setting everything on fire; then--then--I need not describe the\nwell-known and most disagreeable experience of hunting for a lost\nobject, which of course\n\n        \"ere it comes to light,\n    We seek in every corner but the right.\"\n\nOn the whole poor Henry had the worst of it. He was told to examine\n\"my tray,\" and to overhaul \"my pantry,\" from top to bottom, which he\ndid with no result. I think he would gladly have gone down the\ndrain-pipe leading from \"my sink,\" if he could have got into it.\n\n\"It is an uncomfortable affair,\" said Nelly's mother gravely. \"You see\nthe young man has so newly come.\"\n\n\"But, mother, I am _sure_ I saw it after the dessert was on the table,\nand the servants out of the room,\" said Eleanor eagerly.\n\n\"Then, my dear, where is it?\"\n\nYou can fancy what an unsettled, spoilt evening it was. The ladies\nwent upstairs at last, but Mark would not give in. He stayed in the\ndining-room by himself, searching like a detective. Suddenly there\ncame a shout of triumph.\n\n\"I have found it,\" he called upstairs; \"it is all right, Nelly.\"\n\nSo it was--and where do you think it was?\n\nI will help you to guess by telling you one circumstance. There had\nbeen _nuts_ at dessert.\n\nWell, what of that?\n\nThe salt-cellars had been left on the table. And buried in one of\nthem, shining yellow and bright in the white powder, lay the coin! Was\nit not clever of Mark to have thought of it?\n\n\"Oh yes,\" said Eleanor, looking uncommonly ashamed of herself, \"I\nremember--I pressed it down on to the salt, and then I covered it up.\nIt looked so comfortable. Oh I _am_ so sorry!\"\n\nSee what comes of letting your fingers get into the way of \"tricks,\"\nand letting your wits go wool-gathering.\n\nBut poor Henry's character was saved.\n\n\n\n\nBLUE FROCKS AND PINK FROCKS\n\n[Illustration: BLUE FROCKS AND PINK FROCKS BY MRS MOLESWORTH]\n\n\nRosalind and Pauline Wyvill were not twins, though at first sight\nnearly every one thought they were. Rosy was eleven and Paula only\nnine-and-a-half, but Paula was very tall for her age, and Rosy, if\nanything, small for eleven, so they were almost exactly the same\nheight. And though Paula was much fairer than her sister, who had\nbrown hair and rather dark grey eyes, still there was a good deal of\nlikeness between them, and they were generally dressed exactly the\nsame, which made them seem still more like twins.\n\nTheir mother was particular about their dressing the same, but now and\nthen it was a little difficult to manage, for somehow Paula's frocks\nand hats and jackets generally got shabby long before Rosy's, and if\nan accident--such as tearing or burning or staining--was to happen,\nit was perfectly sure to come to Paula's clothes, and not to her\nsister's. In such cases, however, the misfortune had often to be\nendured, for their mother could not of course afford to get new things\nevery time Paula's came to grief, though now and then she had to get\nan extra frock or jacket of some stronger or stouter material for the\nlittle girl to wear, if those the same as her sister's had been spoilt\npast repair.\n\nIt came to pass, one Christmas holiday, that the two children were\ninvited to spend a week with an aunt by themselves. It was the first\nvisit they had ever paid on their own account, and they were both\npleased and excited about it.\n\nThis aunt was their father's elder sister. She was very kind, but not\n_very_ much accustomed to young people, and in some of her ideas she\nwas perhaps extra particular and what people now-a-days call rather\n\"old-fashioned.\"\n\n\"You must show your aunt that I have taught you to be very neat and\ntidy,\" said their mother, a few days before the little girls were to\ngo, \"for she is rather strict about such things; it may be a little\ndifficult for you, as you will have no maid of your own with you.\nWhatever you do, be sure always to be dressed exactly alike, that is\none of the things that your aunt will notice the most.\"\n\n\"Which of us must fix what we are to wear?\" said Paula; \"mayn't we\ntake it in turns?\"\n\n\"I don't think there should be any difficulty about it,\" said their\nmother. \"I should think it would be the nicest to consult together,\nwithout any fixed rule.\"\n\n[Illustration: _The Aunt_ She was very kind but rather old-fashioned]\n\n\"Oh, I daresay it will be all right,\" said Rosy, thinking to herself\nthat, as she was older than her sister, it would be only fair for her\ngenerally to have the first choice. \"Do you think we shall have the\nsame room, mamma?\"\n\n\"No,\" their mother replied. \"I was forgetting to tell you that you are\nto have two small separate rooms, as there will be other people\nstaying in the house, and the larger rooms will be needed for them, so\nI have told Ann to pack up your things in two small boxes instead of\ntogether, but remember you have everything exactly alike, so that\nthere will be no excuse for your not always being dressed the same.\nAnd, Paula, I do hope you will manage not to spoil anything during\nthese few days.\"\n\n\"No, mamma, I'll try not,\" Paula replied, but she spoke rather\nabsently, for she was not really attending to her mother's last words.\n\n\"What a lot of settling it will take, every time we dress,\" she was\nthinking to herself. \"I hope we shan't quarrel about it.\" For it must\nbe owned that though Rosy was a very kind elder sister, she was\nsometimes rather masterful, and that, though Paula would give in\nreadily enough when spoken to gently, _she_ could sometimes be very\nobstinate, if not taken exactly in the right way.\n\n[Illustration: \"she burst into tears\"]\n\nThis is not a story, as you might expect, of Paula's misfortunes in\nthe way of accidents to her clothes during their week's visit. More by\nluck than good management, probably, no very important disaster of the\nkind occured, and the first two or three days at their aunt's passed\nprosperously. Paula gave in to Rosy's wishes as to what frocks they\nwere to wear, and indeed during the daytime there was not much chance\nof difference of opinion, as, being winter, they had only two each,\nSunday and every-day ones. But their kind mother had given them some\nnew and pretty evening dresses, prettier than they had ever had\nbefore, and the little girls were very much pleased with them.\nUnluckily, however, they had a disagreement of taste about them, Rosy\npreferring the pink ones and Paula the blue.\n\nOn the third evening of their visit, an hour or so before it was time\nto dress, they began talking about what they should put on, for coming\ninto the drawing-room before dinner.\n\n\"It is the turn for our pink frocks to-night,\" said Rosy, in the very\ndecided way that always rather roused Paula's spirit of contradiction.\n\"And I'm very glad of it, for I like them ever so much the best.\"\n\n\"I don't,\" replied Paula, rather crossly, \"I think the blues twenty\ntimes prettier, and we never fixed that we were to wear them in\nturns.\"\n\n\"Perhaps the blue suits you best,\" said Rosy, \"but the pink suits me;\nI heard somebody say so the night we came, and to-night is rather\nparticular, for you know it's uncle's birthday, and we are to go in to\ndessert and sit up an hour later. It is only fair that I should have\nwhat I like best, as I'm the eldest, besides it's the turn of the\npinks.\"\n\n\"Nonsense about turns,\" said Paula, more crossly than before, \"why\nshouldn't I look nice too, on uncle's birthday? _I'll_ wear the blue.\"\n\n\"And I'll wear the pink,\" said Rosy, with the most determined air.\n\n\"You'll be punished for it if you do,\" said Paula, \"just think how\nvexed aunt will be if we're different, particularly to-night, when it\nis going to be a regular dinner-party.\"\n\n\"I shan't be punished worse than you,\" was Rosy's reply, \"and I shan't\ndeserve it, and you will.\"\n\nIt was not often the little sisters' quarrels went so far as this.\nPaula felt herself getting so angry that she was afraid what she\nmightn't be tempted to say next.\n\nShe ran out of the room, banging the door behind her I am afraid, and\nrushed upstairs, where she burst into tears; for anger makes children\ncry quite as often as sorrow. But before she had been many minutes in\nher own room, her tears grew gentler, for she was a kind-hearted and\nloving little girl, and when she had bathed her face, to take away the\nredness from her eyes, she ran downstairs again to look for Rosy and\nmake friends. But Rosy was not to be found anywhere--her aunt had\ncalled her into the conservatory to help her with some flowers she was\narranging there, and after searching for her sister everywhere she\ncould think of, Paula had to go upstairs to dress, as the first gong\nsounded.\n\n[Illustration: \"MY DEAR CHILDREN, WHY ARE YOU NOT DRESSED ALIKE?\"]\n\n\"As soon as I have done my hair, I'll run to Rosy's room,\" she thought\nto herself, but then another idea struck her, she would give Rosy a\npleasant surprise. \"I'll put on the pink frock without telling her,\"\nshe thought, \"she _will_ be pleased when she sees me with it on.\" And\nshe made haste with her dressing so that Rosy might find her already\nin the drawing-room when she came down.\n\nThus it was that when Rosy, who was a little late of being ready,\nlooked into Paula's room on her way downstairs, she found her sister\ngone. And what do you think happened? there was Paula smiling and\npleased in the _pink_ frock, as Rosy, also smiling and pleased with\nherself, walked in in the _blue_!\n\nBut Aunt Margaret, when she caught sight of them, looked neither\nsmiling nor pleased.\n\n\"My dear children,\" she said, in a tone of vexation, \"why are you not\ndressed alike? On your uncle's birthday too.\"\n\nThe little girls' faces fell.\n\n\"Oh, auntie,\" said Rosy, \"it's all my fault, but I meant to please\nPaula, by putting on the blue.\"\n\n\"And I meant to please Rosy,\" said Paula, \"by wearing the pink.\"\n\nAnd then the whole story was explained to their aunt, who could not\nhelp smiling at the odd result of their wish to make up their quarrel.\n\n\"Change your frocks,\" she said, \"while we're at dinner, so that you\nmay be the same at dessert, that will put it all right.\"\n\nShe made rather a mistake, for of course only one frock needed to be\nchanged; which it was I cannot tell you. I only know that they came\ninto dessert and took their place one on each side of their uncle,\ndressed alike--in blue _or_ pink!\n\n\n\n\nTranscriber's Notes:\n\n\nInconsistent and archaic spelling and punctuation retained.\n\nP. 60: \"tiniest trots by name\" changed to \"tiniest tots by name\".","title":"The Man with the Pan-Pipes, and Other Stories","tradition":"myth-cosmogony","translated_text":null,"word_count":16710}