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Mrs. (Mary Louisa) Molesworth

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Title: The Man with the Pan Pipes
       and other Stories

Author: Mrs. (Mary Louisa) Molesworth

Illustrator: W. J. Morgan

Release Date: February 4, 2012 [EBook #38761]

Language: English

Character set encoding: ASCII

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    THE MAN WITH THE PAN-PIPES _AND OTHER STORIES_

    BY MRS. MOLESWORTH


    ILLUSTRATED BY W. J. MORGAN


    Society for Promoting Christian Knowledge
    LONDON
    Northumberland Avenue W.C.
    NEW YORK
    E & J.B. YOUNG & Co


    LONDON:
    ENGRAVED AND PRINTED BY EDMUND EVANS
    RACQUET-CT., FLEET-ST., E.C.




    CONTENTS.


                                   PAGE
    THE MAN WITH THE PAN-PIPES        7
    PIG-BETTY                        30
    THE DORMOUSE'S MISTAKE           51
    THE CHRISTMAS GUEST              59
    OLIVE'S TEA-PARTY                67
    A LIVE DUMMY                     76
    A QUEER HIDING-PLACE             83
    BLUE FROCKS AND PINK FROCKS      90




THE MAN WITH THE PAN-PIPES

[Illustration: The man with the Pan-pipes.]


CHAPTER I.

When I was a little girl, which is now a good many years ago, there
came to spend some time with us a cousin who had been brought up in
Germany. She was almost grown-up--to me, a child of six or seven, she
seemed _quite_ grown-up; in reality, she was, I suppose, about fifteen
or sixteen. She was a bright, kind, good-natured girl, very anxious to
please and amuse her little English cousins, especially me, as I was
the only girl. But she had not had much to do with small children;
above all, delicate children, and she was so strong and hearty herself
that she did not understand anything about nervous fears and fancies.
I think I was rather delicate, at least, I was very fanciful; and as I
was quiet and gave very little trouble, nobody noticed how constantly
I was reading, generally in a corner by myself. I now see that I read
far too many stories, for even of good and harmless things it is
possible to have too much. In those days, fortunately for me, there
were not nearly so many books for children, so, as I read very fast, I
was often obliged to read the same stories over and over again. This
was much better for me than always getting new tales and galloping
through them, as I see many children do now-a-days, but still I think
I lived too much in story-book world, and it was well for me when
other things forced me to become more, what is called, "practical."

My cousin Meta was full of life and activity, and after awhile she
grew tired of always finding me buried in my books.

"It isn't good for you, Addie," she said. "Such a dot as you are, to
be always poking about in a corner reading."

She was quite right, and when mamma's attention was drawn to it she
agreed with Meta, and I was given some pretty fancy-work to do and
some new dolls to dress, and, above all, I was made to play about in
the garden a good deal more. It was not much of a garden, for our home
was then in a town, still it was better than being indoors. And very
often when kind Meta saw me looking rather forlorn, for I got quickly
tired with outdoor games, she would come and sit with me in the
arbour, or walk about--up and down a long gravel path there
was--telling me stories.

That was her great charm for me. She was really splendid at telling
stories. And as hitherto she had only done me good, and mamma knew
what a sensible girl she was, Meta was left free to tell me what
stories she chose. They were all nice stories, most of them very
interesting. But some were rather too exciting for such a tiny mite as
I was. Meta had read and heard quantities of German fairy-tales and
legends, many of which I think had not then been printed in
books--certainly not in English books. For since I have been grown-up
I have come across several stories of the kind which seemed new to
most readers, though I remember my cousin telling them to me long,
long ago.

[Illustration: Tales of Gnomes & Kobolds]

There were wonderful tales of gnomes and kobolds, of the strange
adventures of the charcoal-burners in lonely forests, of water-sprites
and dwarfs. But none of all these made quite as great an impression on
me as one which Meta called "The Man with the Pan-pipes," a story
which, much to my surprise, I found years after in a well-known poem
called "The Pied Piper of Hamelin." It was the very same story as to
the facts, with just a few differences; for instance, the man in the
poem is not described as playing on _pan-pipes_, but on some other
kind of pipe. But though it is really the same, it seems quite, quite
different from the story as I heard it long ago. In the poem there is
a wonderful brightness and liveliness, and now and then even fun,
which were all absent in Meta's tale. As she told it, it was strangely
dark and mysterious. I shall never forget how I used to shiver when
she came to the second visit of the piper, and described how the
children slowly and unwillingly followed him--how he used to turn
round now and then with a glance in his grim face which made the
squeal of the pipes still more unearthly. There was no beauty in his
music, no dancing steps were the children's whom he dragged along by
his power; "they just _had_ to go," Meta would say. And when she came
to the mysterious ending, my questions were always the same.

"Are they still there--shut up in the cave?" I would ask.

Meta supposed so.

"Will they never come out--never, never?" I said.

She shook her head.

"And if they ever did," I said, "would they be grown-up people, or
quite old like--like that man you were telling me about. Rip--Rip--"

"Rip van Winkle," she said.

"Yes, like Rip van Winkle, or would they have _stayed_ children like
the boy the fairies took inside the hill to be their servant?"

Meta considered.

"I almost _think_," she said, seriously, "they would have stayed
children. But, of course, it's only a story, Addie. I don't suppose
it's true. You take things up so. Don't go on puzzling about it."

I would leave off speaking about it for the time; I was so dreadfully
afraid of her saying she would not tell it me again. And even though I
knew it quite well, and could correct Meta if ever she made any part
of it the least different, I was never tired of hearing the story. I
would ask for it over and over again, and I used to have exactly the
same feelings each time she told it, and always at the part where the
children began to come out of their houses, some leaving their
dinners, some tiny ones waking up out of their sleep, some only
half-dressed, but all with the same strange look on their faces, I
used to catch hold of Meta's hand and say to her, "Hold me fast, I'm
so afraid of fancying I hear him," and then she would burst out
laughing at me, and I would laugh at myself. For she was far too kind
a girl to think of frightening me, and, indeed, except for a curious
"coincidence"--to use a very long word which means something of the
same kind as another thing happening at or about the same time--I do
not think the story would have really taken hold of my fancy as it
did.

One of my questions Meta was not able for some time to answer to my
satisfaction.

[Illustration: and Dwarfs]

"What are Pan-pipes?" I asked. The word "pipe" was so mixed up in my
mind with white clay pipes, out of which we used to blow soap bubbles,
that I could not understand it having to do with any kind of music.

"Oh," said Meta, "they're made of reeds, you know, all in a row like
this," and she held up her fingers to her lips, "and you play them by
whistling along them, do you see? It sounds something like when you
fasten tissue-paper on a comb and blow along it. And they're called
'Pan'-pipes because--oh, I forgot, of course you haven't learnt
mythology yet--'Pan' was one of the old pagan gods, a sort of fairy or
wood sprite, you know, Addie, and the pictures and figures of him
always show him playing on these reed pipes!"

I said "Yes," but I didn't really understand her description. It left
a queer jumble in my head, and added to the strange, dreamy medley
already there. But, though it was not till years afterwards that I
learnt about "Pan," before Meta left us I was able to see for myself a
set of his "pipes."


CHAPTER II.

It was _just_ before my merry cousin left us, to return to her own
home across the sea.

One day several of us were out walking together. Meta was in front
with mamma and one of my elder brothers, I was behind with Tony and
Michael, the two nearer my own age. Suddenly Meta glanced round.

"Look, Addie," she called back, "there's a set of Pan-pipes; you
wanted to know what they were like. They're a very doleful set,
certainly; did you _ever_ see such a miserable object? He must be
silly in his head, poor thing, don't you think, aunty? May I give him
a penny--or Jack will."

For even Meta did not seem inclined to go too near to the poor man,
whom she was indeed right in calling "a miserable object."

Jack ran forward with the penny, and we all stopped for a moment, so I
had a full view of the Pan-pipes. They were fastened somehow on to the
man's chest, so that their top just came near his lips, and as he
moved his head slowly backwards and forwards along them, they gave out
the most strange kind of music, if music it could be called, which you
ever heard. It was a sort of faint squeak with just now and then a
_kind_ of tone in it, like very doleful muffled whistling. Perhaps the
sight of the piper himself added to the very "creepy" feeling it gave
one. He was not only a piper, he was, or rather had been, an
organ-grinder too, for he carried in front of him, fastened by straps
round his neck in the usual way, the remains of a barrel organ. It had
long ago been smashed to pieces, and really was now nothing but an old
broken-in wooden box, with some fragments of metal clinging to it, and
the tatters of a ragged cover. But the handle was still there; perhaps
it had been stuck in again on purpose; and all the time, as an
accompaniment to the forlorn quaver of the reed pipes, you heard the
hollow rattle of the loose boards of what had been the barrel-organ.
He kept moving the handle round and round, without ever stopping,
except for a moment, when Jack half threw, half reached him the penny,
which brought a sort of grin on to his face, as he clutched at the
dirty old tuft of shag on the top of his head, which he doubtless
considered his cap.

"Poor creature," said mamma, as we turned away. "I suppose he thinks
he's playing lovely music."

"I've seen him before," said Jack. "Not long after we came here."
(Perhaps I should explain that my father was an officer, and we had to
go about wherever his regiment was sent.) "But I've not seen him
lately. There's some story about him, but I know some of the boys at
school declare he's not mad a bit, that he finds it pays well to sham
he is."

"Any way he doesn't need to be afraid of his organ wearing out," said
Tony, gravely, at which the others couldn't help laughing.

[Illustration: Jack, half threw, half reached him the penny]

"I shouldn't think it likely he is only pretending," said mamma. "He
looks almost _too_ miserable."

"And sometimes there's quite a crowd of children after him," Jack went
on; "they seem to think him quite as good to run after as a proper
barrel-organ man."

"I hope they don't hoot and jeer at him," said mamma.

"His Pan-pipes are nearly as bad as his organ," said Meta. "Still,
Addie, you know now what they're like, though you can't fancy how
pretty they sound sometimes."

It did not need her words to remind me of the story. My head was full
of it, and I think what Jack said about the crowds of children that
sometimes ran after the strange musician, added very much to the
feelings and fancies already in my mind. And unfortunately Meta left
us the very next morning, so there was no one for me to talk to about
it, for my brothers were all day at school and did not know anything
about our story-tellings. I do remember saying to Meta that evening,
that I hoped we should never meet that ugly man again, and Meta could
not think what I meant, till I said something about Pan-pipes. Then
she seemed to remember.

"Oh, he didn't play them at all nicely," she said. "One of the boys at
home had a set, and he really made them sound lovely. When you come to
Germany, Addie," for that was a favourite castle in the air of ours--a
castle that never was built--that I should one day pay a long visit to
my cousins in their quaint old house, "Fritz will play to you, and you
will then understand the story better."

I daresay I should have told her the reason why I so hoped I should
never meet the poor man again, if I had had time. But even to her I
was rather shy of talking about my own feelings, and it was also not
easy to explain them, when they were so mixed up and confused.

It was only a few days after Meta left, that we met the man with the
Pan-pipes again. This time I was out walking with our nurse and the
baby, as we still called him, though he was three years old. I don't
think nurse noticed the man, or perhaps she had seen him before, but I
heard the queer squeal of his pipes and the rattle of his broken box
some way off, and when I saw him coming in the distance I asked her if
we might turn down a side street and go round another way.

She said she did not mind, but though she was kind, she was not very
noticing, and did not ask my reason, so for that day it was got over
without my needing to explain. But for some time after that, we seemed
to be always meeting the poor "silly" organ-man, and every time I saw
him, I grew more and more frightened, till at last the fear of seeing
him came quite to spoil the pleasure of my walks, even when I was out
with mamma herself. Now I dare say all sensible children who read this
will say, "Why didn't Addie tell her nurse, or, any way, her mother,
all about it?" and if they do say so, they are quite right. Indeed, it
is partly to show this very thing--how much better it is to tell some
kind wiser person all about any childish fear or fancy, than to go on
bearing it out of dread of being laughed at or called babyish--that I
am relating this simple little story. I really cannot quite explain
why I did not tell about it to mamma--I think it was partly that being
the only girl, I had a particularly great fear of being thought
cowardly--for she was always very kind; and I think, too, it was
partly that from having read so many story-books _to myself_, I had
got into the habit of being too much inside my own thoughts and
fancies. I think story-books would often do much more good, and give
really much more lasting pleasure if children were more in the habit
of reading aloud to each other. And if this calls for some
unselfishness, why, what then? is it not all the better?

But to return to my own story. There came a day when my dread of the
man with the pipes got quite beyond my control--happily so for me.


CHAPTER III.

Hitherto, every time I had seen the man, it had been either in some
large public street where a crowd would not have been allowed to
collect, or in one of the quieter roads of private houses, where we
generally walked, and where poor children seldom were to be seen.

But one day mamma sent Baby and me with nurse to carry some little
comfort to one of the soldier's wives, who was so ill that she had
been moved to the house of relations of hers in the town. They were
very respectable people, but they lived in quite a tiny house in a
poor street. Baby and I had never been there before, and we were much
interested in watching several small people, about our own size,
playing about. They were clean, tidy-looking children, so nurse, after
throwing a glance at them, told us we might watch them from the door
of the house while she went in to see the sick woman.

We had not stood there more than a minute or two when a strange,
well-known sound caught my ears, squeak, squeal, rattle, rattle,
rattle. Oh, dear! I felt myself beginning to tremble; I am sure I grew
pale. The children we were watching started up, and ran some paces
down the street to a corner, when in another moment appeared what I
already knew was coming--the man with the Pan-pipes! But never had the
sight of him so terrified me. For he was surrounded by a crowd of
children, a regular troop of them following him through the poor part
of the town where we were. If I had kept my wits, and looked on
quietly, I would have soon seen that the children were not the least
afraid, they were chattering and laughing; some, I fear, mocking and
hooting at the poor imbecile. But just at that moment the last touch
was added to my terror by my little brother pulling his hand out of
mine.

[Illustration: "He was surrounded by a crowd of children"]

"Baby wants to see too," he said, and off he trotted down the street.

My senses seemed quite to go.

"He's piping them away," I screamed, and then I am ashamed to say I
turned and fled, leaving Baby to his fate. Why I did not run into the
house and call nurse, I do not know; if I thought about it at all, I
suppose I had a hazy feeling that it would be no good, that even nurse
could not save us. And I saw that the crowd was coming my way, in
another minute the squeaking piping would be close beside me in the
street. I thought of nothing except flight, and terrified that I too
should be bewitched by the sound, I thrust my fingers into my ears,
and dashed down the street in the opposite direction from the
approaching crowd. That was my only thought. I ran and ran. I wonder
the people I passed did not try to stop me, for I am sure I must have
looked quite as crazy as my imaginary wizard! But at last my breath
got so short that I had to pull up, and to my great relief I found I
was quite out of hearing of the faint whistle of the terrible pipes.

Still I was not completely reassured. I had not come very far after
all. So I set off again, though not quite at such a rate. I hurried
down one street and up another, with the one idea of getting further
and further away. But by degrees my wits began to recover themselves.

"I wish I could find our home," I thought. "I can't go on running for
always. Perhaps if I told mamma all about it, she'd find some way of
keeping me and Baby safe."

[Illustration: "He's piping them away I screamed"]

But with the thought of Baby came back my terrors. Was it too late to
save him? Certainly there were no rocks or caves to be seen such as
Meta had described in her story. But she had said outside the
town--perhaps the piper was leading all the children, poor darling
Baby among them, away into the country, to shut them up for ever as
had been done in Hamelin town. And with the dreadful thought, all my
terrors revived, and off I set again, but this time with the more
worthy intention of saving Baby. I must go home and tell mamma so that
she would send after him. I fancied I was in a street not far from
where we lived, and I hurried on. But, alas! when I got to the end it
was all quite strange. I found myself among small houses again, and
nearly dead with fatigue and exhaustion, I stopped in front of one
where an old woman was sweeping the steps of her door.

"Oh, please," I gasped, "please tell me where Clarence Terrace is."

The old woman stopped sweeping, and looked at me. She was a very clean
old woman, though so small that she was almost a dwarf, and with a
slight hump on her shoulders. At another time I might have been so
silly as to be frightened of her, so full was my head of fanciful
ideas. But now I was too completely in despair to think of it. Besides
her face was kind and her voice pleasant.

"Clarence Terrace," she squeaked. "'Tis a good bit from here. Have you
lost your way, Missy?"

"I don't know," I said, "I----" but then a giddy feeling came over me,
and I almost fell. The old woman caught me, and the next thing I knew
was that she had carried me into her neat little kitchen, and was
holding a glass of water to my lips, while she spoke very kindly. Her
voice somehow brought things to a point, and I burst into tears. She
soothed me, and petted me, and at last in answer to her repeated,
"What's ado, then, lovey?" I was able to explain to her some part of
my troubles. Not all of course, for even upset as I was, I had sense
to know she would have thought _me_ not "right in my head," if I had
told her my cousin's strange fantastic story of the piper in the old
German town.

[Illustration: "I thrust my fingers into my ears & dashed down the
street"]

"Frightened of old Davey," she said, when I stopped. "Dear dear,
there's no call to be afeared of the poor old silly. Not but what I've
said myself he was scarce fit to be about the streets for the look of
him, though he'd not hurt a fly, wouldn't silly Davey."

"Then do you know him?" I asked, with a feeling of great relief. All
the queer nightmare fears seemed to melt away, when I heard the poor
crazy piper spoken of in a matter-of-fact way.

"Know him," repeated my new friend, "I should think we did. Bless you
he comes every Saturday to us for his dinner, as reg'lar as the clock
strikes, and has done for many a day. Twelve year, or so, it must be,
since he was runned over by a bus, and his poor head smashed in, and
his organ busted, and his pipes broke to bits. He was took to the
'orspital and patched up, but bein' a furriner was against him, no
doubt," and the old woman shook her head sagely. "He couldn't talk
proper before, and since, he can say nothink as any one can make head
or tail of. But as long as he's free to go about with his rattlin' old
box as was onst a' orgin, he's quite happy. They give 'im new pipes at
the 'orspital, but he can't play them right. And a bit ago some
well-intending ladies had 'im took off to a 'sylum, sayin' as he
wasn't fit to be about. But he nearly died of the bein' shut up, he
did. So now he's about again, he has a little room in a street near
here, that is paid for, and he gets a many pennies, does Davey, and
the neighbours sees to him, and he's quite content, and he does no
harm, and all the town knows silly Davey."

"But don't naughty children mock at him and tease him sometimes?" I
asked.

"Not so often as you'd think, and they're pretty sure to be put down
if they do. All the perlice knows Davey. So now, my dear, you'll never
be afeared of the poor thing no more, will you? And I'll step round
with you to your 'ome, I will, and welcome."

So she did, and on the way, to my unspeakable delight, we came across
nurse and Baby, nearly out of their wits with terror at having lost
me. For Baby had only followed the piper a very short way, and did not
find him interesting.

"Him were a old silly, and couldn't make nice music," said sensible
Baby.

And though we often met poor crazy Davey after that, and many of my
weekly pennies found their way to him as long as we stayed in the
place, I never again felt any terror of the harmless creature.
Especially after I had told the whole story to mamma, who was wise
enough to see that too many fairy stories, or "fancy" stories are
_not_ a good thing for little girls, though of course she was too kind
and too just to blame Meta, who had only wished to entertain and amuse
me.




PIG-BETTY

[Illustration: "PIG-BETTY" BY MRS. MOLESWORTH]


PART I.

I am going to tell you a story that mother told us. _We_ think
mother's stories far the most interesting and nicest of any we hear or
read. And we are trying to write them all down, so that our children,
if ever any of us have any, may know them too. We mean to call them
"Grandmother's Stories." One reason why they are nice is, that nearly
all of them are real, what is called "founded on fact." By the time
_our_ children come to hear them, mother says her stories will all
have grown dreadfully old-fashioned, but we tell her that will make
them all the nicer. They will have a scent of long-ago-ness about
them, something like the faint lavendery whiff that comes out of
mother's old doll-box, where she keeps a few of the toys and dolls'
clothes she has never had the heart to part with.

The little story, or "sketch"--mother says it isn't worth calling a
"story"--I am going to write down now, is already a long-ago one. For
it isn't really one of mother's own stories; it was told her by _her_
mother, so if ever our book comes to exist, this one will have to have
a chapter to itself and be called "_Great_-grandmother's Story," won't
it? I remember quite well what made mother tell it us. It was when we
were staying in the country one year, and Francie had been frightened,
coming through the village, by meeting a poor idiot boy who ran after
us and laughed at us in a queer silly way. I believe he meant to
please us, but Francie's fright made her angry, and she wanted nurse
to speak to him sharply and tell him to get away, but nurse wouldn't.

"One should always be gentle to those so afflicted," she said.

When we got home we told mother about it, and Francie asked her to
speak to nurse, adding, "It's very disagreeable to see people like
that about. _I_ think they should always be shut up, don't you,
mother?"

"Not always," mother replied. "Of course, when they are at all
dangerous, likely to hurt themselves or any one else, it is necessary
to shut them up. And if they can be taught anything, as some can be,
it is the truest kindness to send them to an asylum, where it is
wonderful what patience and skill can sometimes make of them. But I
know about that boy in the village. He is perfectly harmless, even
gentle and affectionate. He has been at a school for such as he, and
has learnt to knit--that is the only thing they could succeed in
teaching him. It was no use leaving him there longer, and he pined for
home most sadly. So as his relations are pretty well off, it was
thought best to send him back, and he is now quite content. I wish I
had told you about him. When you meet him again you must be sure to
speak kindly--they say he never forgets if any one does so."

[Illustration: Of course we all said "yes"]

"Poor boy," said Ted and I; but Francie did not look quite convinced.

"I think he should be shut up," she repeated, in rather a low voice.
Francie used to be a very obstinate little girl. "And _I_ shan't speak
to him kindly or any way."

Mother did not answer, though she heard. I know she did. But in a
minute or two she said:

"Would you like to hear a story about an idiot, that your grandmother
told me? It happened when she was a little girl."

Of course we all said "yes," with eagerness.

And this was the story.

"'Pig-Betty' isn't a very pretty name for a story, or for a person, is
it? But Pig-Betty was a real person, though I daresay none of you have
the least idea what the word 'pig' added to her own name meant," said
mother. No, none of us had. We thought, perhaps, it was because this
"Betty" was very lazy, or greedy or even dirty, but mother shook her
head at all those guesses. And then she went on to explain. "Pig," in
some parts of Scotland, she told us, means a piece of coarse crockery.
It is used mostly for jugs, though in a general way it means any sort
of crockery. "And long ago," mother went on--I think I'll give up
putting 'mother said,' or 'mother went on,' and just tell it straight
off, as she did.

Long ago then, when _my_ mother was a little girl, she and her
brothers and sisters used to spend some months of every year in a
rather out-of-the-way part of Scotland. There was no railway and no
"coach," that came within at all easy reach. The nearest town was ten
or twelve miles away, and even the village was two or three. And a
good many things, ordinary, common things, were supplied by pedlars,
who walked long distances, often carrying their wares upon their
backs. These pedlars came to be generally called by what they had to
sell, as a sort of nickname. You may think it was a very hard life,
but there were a good many nice things about it. They were always sure
of a welcome, for it was a pleasant excitement in the quiet life of
the cottages and farm-houses, and even of the big houses about, when
one of these travelling merchants appeared; and they never needed to
feel any anxiety about their board and lodging. They could always
count upon a meal or two and on a night's shelter. Very often they
slept in the barn of the farm-house--or even sometimes in a clean
corner of the cows' "byre." They were not very particular.

[Illustration: "They were always sure of a welcome"]

Among these good people there were both men and women, and poor
Pig-Betty was one of the latter.

My mother and the other children used always to ask as one of their
first questions when they arrived at Greystanes--that was the name of
their uncle's country house--on their yearly visit, if Pig-Betty had
been there lately, or if she was expected to come soon. One or other
was pretty sure to be the case.

They had several reasons for their interest in the old woman. One was
that they were very fond of blowing soap-bubbles, which they seldom
got leave to do in town, and they always bought a new supply of white
clay pipes the first time Pig-Betty appeared; another was that she had
what children thought very wonderful treasures hidden among the coarse
pots and dishes and jugs that she carried in a shapeless bundle on her
bent old back. And sometimes, if she were in a very good humour, she
would present one of the little people with a green parrot rejoicing
in a whistle in its tail, or with a goggle-eyed dog, reminding one of
the creatures in Hans Andersen's tale of "The Three Soldiers." And the
third reason was perhaps the strongest, though the strangest of all.

[Illustration: OLD BETTY'S TREASURES]


PART II.

The third reason why the children were so interested in the old pedlar
woman was, I said, the strongest, though the strangest of all. She was
an idiot! They were almost too young to understand what being an idiot
really meant, but they could see for themselves that she was quite
unlike other people, and her strangeness gave her a queer charm and
attraction for them--almost what is called "fascination." When she was
at Greystanes, where she always stayed two or three days, they were
never at a loss for amusement, for they did little else than run here
and there to peep at her and tell over to each other the odd way she
trotted about, nodding and shaking her head and talking on to herself
as if she were holding long conversations. It did not do to let her
see they were watching her, for it would have made her angry. Indeed,
several times the children had been warned not to do so, and their
nurse had been told to keep them out of the old woman's way; but, as
everybody knows, children are contradictory creatures, and in the
country, nurse could not keep as close a look out on them as in town.
Then it was well known that Pig-Betty was very gentle, even when she
was angry--and she did have fits of temper sometimes--she had never
been known to hurt anyone.

[Illustration: 'Well, Betty, my woman, and how are ye?']

And, of course, she was not quite without sense. She was able to
manage her little trade well enough and to see that she was paid
correctly for the "pigs" she sold. She was able, too, to tell the
difference between Sunday and other days, for on Sunday she would
never "travel," and would often, if she were near a village, creep
into the "kirk" and sit in a corner quite quietly. Perhaps "idiot" is
hardly the right word to use about her, for there were a few old folk
who said they had been told that she had not always been quite so
strange and "wanting," but that a great trouble or sorrow that had
happened in her family had made her so. The truth was that no one knew
her real story. She had wandered into our part of the country from a
long way off, thirty or forty years ago, and as people had been kind
to her, there she had stayed. No one knew how old she was. Uncle
James, himself an elderly man, said she had not changed the least all
the years he had known her.

Uncle James was one of the people she had a great affection for. She
would stand still whenever he passed her with a kindly, "Well, Betty,
my woman, and how are ye?" bobbing a kind of queer curtsey till he was
out of sight, and murmuring blessings on the "laird." He never forgot
her when she was at Greystanes, always giving orders that the poor
body should be made comfortable and have all she wanted.

One of his little kindnesses to her was the cause of a good deal of
excitement to the children when they were with Uncle James. At that
time gentlepeople dined much earlier than they do now, especially in
the country. At Greystanes four o'clock was the regular dinner hour.
The children used always to be nicely dressed and sent down "to
dessert." And when Pig-Betty was there, Uncle James never failed to
pour out a glass of wine and say, "Now, who will take this to the old
woman?"

[Illustration: "The procession of five"]

Pig-Betty knew it was coming, for she always managed to be in the
kitchen at that time, and however busy the servants were, they never
thought of turning her out. There was a good deal of superstitious awe
felt about her, in spite of her gentleness; and the children would
look at each other, half-wishing, half-fearing to be the cup-bearer.

"I will," Johnny would say; and as soon as he spoke all the others
followed.

"No, let me," Hughie would cry, and then Maisie and Lily joined in
with their "I will," or "Do let me, Uncle James."

"First come, first served," Uncle would reply, as he handed the
well-filled glass to Johnny or Maisie, or whichever had been the
first. Then the procession of five would set off, walking slowly, so
as not to spill the wine, down the long stone passages leading to the
kitchen and offices of the old house. And what usually happened was
this.

As they got to the kitchen door, Johnny--supposing it was he who was
carrying the wine--would go more and more slowly.

"I don't mind, after all, letting _you_ give it, Maisie," or "Hughie,"
he would say.

"No, thank you, Johnny," they would meekly reply. And Lily, who was
the most outspoken, would confess,

"I always _think_ I'd like to give it her, but I do get _so_
frightened when I see her close to me, that I really daren't," which
was in truth the feeling of all four!

So it was pretty sure to end by number five coming to the front.
Number five was little Annette, the youngest. She was a sweet,
curly-haired maiden, too sunny and merry herself to know what fear
meant.

"_I_'ll dive it poor old Pig-Betty," she always cried, and so she did.
Inside the kitchen the glass was handed to her, and she trotted up to
the old woman in her corner with it, undismayed by the near sight of
the queer wizened old face, like a red and yellow withered apple, and
the bright piercing eyes, to be seen at the end, as it were, of a sort
of overhanging archway of shawls and handkerchiefs and queer frilled
headpiece under all, which Betty managed in some mysterious way to
half bury herself in.

She always murmured blessings on the child as she drank the wine, and
no doubt this little ceremony was the beginning of her devotion to the
baby of the family.

This devotion was made still greater by what happened one day.

There were unkind and thoughtless people at Greystanes as well as
everywhere else. And one summer there came some "new folk" to live in
one of the cottages inhabited by Uncle James's farm-labourers. This
did not often happen, as he seldom changed his people. These strangers
were from some distance, and had never happened to come across the
poor half-witted old woman, and there were two or three rough boys in
the family who were spoilt and wild, and who thought themselves far
above the country people, as they had lived for some time in a small
town. And so one day--Oh, dear! I am getting this chapter of mother's
story too long. I must begin a new one.


PART III.

Well, one day, as I was saying, the children, who had not seen old
Betty for several weeks, were on their way to the village--two miles
off--when near the corner of a lane, they heard a great noise. Loud
voices and jeering laughter, and a kind of strange shrill shrieking,
which made them stare at each other in wonder and almost fear. Nurse
was not with them, they were to meet her further down the road, as she
had gone on first with a message to a woman who was ill.

"What can it be?" said Maisie.

They hurried on to see, and the mystery was soon explained. There in
the midst of a little group of boys, and two or three girls also, I am
afraid, stood the poor old idiot. She was convulsed with rage,
screaming, shrieking, almost foaming with fury, while first one then
another darted forward and gave a pull to her skirts or jacket from
behind, and as quickly as she turned, a fresh tormentor would catch at
her from the other side, all shouting together at the top of their
voices, "Wha is't this time, my Leddy Betty? Thaur, ye have him noo."

They were not _hurting_ her, but it was the insult she felt so keenly,
for she was used to respectful treatment. The Simpson boys, the new
comers, were in the front of the fray, of course.

For a moment the five Greystanes children stood speechless with
horror. Then Johnny darted to the idiot's side, he did it with the
best intentions, but Betty, confused and blinded, did not distinguish
him from the others, and dealt him a blow which sent him staggering
back, as she howled out to him, "Ye ill-faured loon, tak' that."

[Illustration: Betty's Tormentors]

"Run, Johnny, run," shrieked Maisie, which Hughie and Lill, who were
twins and always kept together, had already done, not out of cowardice
but in search of help. But little Annette rushed forward.

"Bad boys that you are," she shouted with her little shrill baby voice
that seemed to have suddenly grown commanding, "off with you. You
shall not torment my guid auld Betty." For though the children's
mother was most careful that their speech should be "English," strong
excitement would bring out their native tongue. And as the child
uttered the last words she flung her arms round the poor woman, who,
weak and feeble as soon as her fury began to lessen, tottered to the
ground, where they clung together--the sorrow-crushed aged creature
and the cherub-faced child--sobbing in each other's arms. For
Pig-Betty had known her little friend in an instant.

[Illustration: "My bonny wee leddy she murmured"]

"My bonny wee leddy," she murmured, "auld Betty's ain wee leddy," and
with her trembling fingers she untied the knotted corners of her
bundle of "pigs," and searching for the best of her treasures, the
best and biggest of her "whustling polls," she stuffed it into
Annette's hands.

Strange to say the ruffianly group had already dispersed and were not
again seen!

It was soon after that that the children went back again for the
winter to their London home. Next year saw them once more in the
north, and as nurse unpacked their trunks she came upon the green
parrot, which Annette would never part from.

"I wonder if Pig-Betty's still alive," she said.

Oh yes--so far as was known at Greystanes, she was rambling about as
usual, but she had not been there for some weeks. Fortunately for the
children, however, it was near the time for her visit, as you shall
hear.

A few days after their arrival they were all out together, when they
happened to pass by a cottage, whose owner was famed for a very choice
breed of dogs he kept.

"Let's peep over the wall into Sandy's yard, and see if he has any new
puppies," said Johnny, and they all did so. No, there were no puppies
to be seen, only an older dog which the boys remembered by the name of
"Jock," and they called out to him.

But Jock took no heed. He was moving about the little enclosure in a
queer, restless way, his head hanging down, his tail between his legs.

"Poor Jock," said Hughie, "how dull he looks! What a shame of Sandy to
have gone out and left him alone!" For evidently there was no one at
home in the cottage. Truth to tell, Sandy was off for the dog-doctor.

"Let's let him out," said Johnny, "and cheer him up a bit. He'll know
us once he's out."

They did not hear a quick but shuffling step up the lane, nor a
panting, quavering voice, "Bairns, bairns, dinna ye----"

It was Pig-Betty, just arrived that morning, and left by Sandy in
charge of his cottage and the suspiciously suffering Jock--a charge
she was quite able for.

[Illustration: Let's peep over the wall! and they all did so.]

"Let no one gang near him," Sandy had said; "and, my woman, just ye
sit at the gate there till I'm back. I'll no be lang."

But, alas, the children had come round by the fields behind the
cottage.

It was too late--the yard gate was opened, and Jock, after sniffing
and turning about came slowly out.

"Poor old Jockie," said Annette, always fearless, stooping to stroke
him.

He turned upon her with a dreadful growl, he was not yet quite mad,
but the poison was in him. And in another instant the deadly fangs
would have been in the baby's tender flesh, but for the well-aimed
blow which flung the dog back, though only for a moment. It was Betty,
dashing at him with her bundle of "pigs," the only weapon at hand--the
poor pigs smashing and crashing; but they only diverted Jock's attack.
When Sandy and the dog-doctor came rushing up, she was on the ground,
and Jock had already bitten her in two or three places. But all she
said was, "My wee leddy, haud him aff my wee leddy."

And they were able to secure him, so that no one else was bitten.

No, Betty did not die of hydrophobia. She lived for a few months, not
longer, her old nerves and feeble frame had got their death blow. But
she was tenderly cared for in a peaceful corner of the hospital at the
neighbouring town. Uncle James and the children's parents took care
that she should want for nothing, and as her bodily strength failed
her mind seemed to clear. When little Annette was taken to say
good-bye to the brave old woman, poor Pig-Betty was able to whisper a
word or two of loving hope that she and her "wee leddy" might meet
again--in the Better Land.




THE DORMOUSE'S MISTAKE.


They lived at the corner of the common. Papa, Mamma, Fuzz and
Brown-ears, Snip and Peepy, their four children. It was a lovely place
to live at, but as they had never seen any other part of the world, I
am not sure that they thought it quite so delightful as they might
otherwise have done. The children, that is to say--Papa and Mamma of
course were wiser. They had _heard_ of very different sorts of places
where some poor dormice had to live; small cooped-up nests called
cages, out of which they were never allowed to run about, or to enjoy
the delightful summer sunshine, and go foraging for hazel nuts and
haws, and other delicacies, for themselves. For an ancestor of theirs
had once been taken prisoner and shut up in a cage, whence, wonderful
to say, he had escaped and got back to the woods again, where he
became a great personage among dormice, and was even occasionally
requested to give lectures in public to the squirrels and water-rats,
and moles and rabbits, and other forest-folk, describing the strange
and marvellous things he had seen and heard during his captivity. He
had learnt to understand human talk for one thing, and had taught it
to his children; and his great-grandson, the Papa of Fuzz and
Brown-ears, Snip and Peepy, had begun to give them lessons in this
foreign language in their turn, for, as he wisely remarked, there was
no saying if it might not turn out useful some day.

The cold weather set in very early this year. Already, for some days,
Fuzz and Brown-ears, Snip and Peepy had begun to feel a curious
heaviness stealing over them now and then; they did not seem inclined
to turn out in the morning, and were very glad when one evening their
mother told them that the store cupboards being now quite full, they
need none of them get up the next day at all unless they were
inclined.

"For my part," she added, "I cannot keep awake any longer, nor can
your Papa. We are going to roll ourselves up to-night. You young folk
may keep awake a week or two longer perhaps, but if this frost
continues, I doubt it. So good-night, my dears, for a month or two;
the first mild day we shall all rouse up, never fear, and have a good
meal before we snooze off again."

And sure enough next morning, when the young people turned out a good
deal later than usual, Papa and Mamma were as fast asleep as the seven
sleepers in the old story, which had given their name to the German
branch of the dormouse family! Fuzz and Brown-ears, Snip and Peepy
felt rather strange and lonely; two round furry balls seemed a very
queer sort of exchange for their active, bright-eyed father and
mother. But as there was plenty to eat they consoled themselves after
a bit, and got through the next two or three weeks pretty comfortably,
every day feeling more and more drowsy, till at last came a morning
on which six neat little brown balls instead of two lay in a row--the
dormouse family had begun their winter repose. And all was quiet and
silent in the cosy nest among the twigs of the low-growing bushes at
the corner of the common.

[Illustration: THE LECTURE.]

It seemed as if winter had really come. For three or four weeks there
was but little sunshine even in the middle of the day, and in the
mornings and evenings the air was piercingly cold.

"I suppose all the poor little wood-creatures have begun their winter
sleep," said Cicely Gray one afternoon as she was hastening home from
the village by a short cut through the trees. "I must say I rather
envy them."

"_I_ don't," said her brother, "I shouldn't like to lose half my life.
Hush, Cicely, there's a rabbit. What a jolly little fellow! How he
scuds along! There's another, two, three! Oh, Cis, I do hope I shall
get some shooting when I come home at Christmas."

Cicely sighed. "I hate shooting," she said. "I'm sure it would be
better to sleep half one's life than to stay awake to be shot."

But it was too cold to linger talking. The brother and sister set off
running, so that their cheeks were glowing and their eyes sparkling by
the time they got to the Hall gates.

Three days later Harry had gone off to school. Cicely missed him very
much; especially as a most pleasant and unexpected change had come
over the weather. A real "St. Martin's summer" had set in. What
delightful walks and rambles Harry and she could have had, thought
Cicely, if only it had come a little sooner!

The mild air found its way into the nest where the six little brown
balls lay side by side, till at first one, then another, then all six
slowly unrolled themselves, stretched their little paws, unclosed
their eyes, and began to look about them.

"Time for our first winter dinner," said Mrs. Dormouse sleepily; "it's
all ready over there in the corner under the oak leaves. Help
yourselves my dears, eat as much as you can; you'll sleep all the
better for it. And don't be long about it; it's as much as I can do
to keep my eyes open."

Mr. Dormouse and the others followed her advice. For a few minutes
nothing was heard but the little nibbling and cracking sounds which
told that a raid had been made on the winter stores.

"Good-night again, my dears," said Papa, who was still sleepier than
Mamma.

[Illustration: "Hush, Cicely there's a Rabbit"]

"Good-night" was repeated in various tones, but one little voice
interrupted--it was that of Fuzz.

"I'm not sleepy, Papa and Mamma; I'm not a bit sleepy. I'm sure it's
time to wake up, and that the summer's come back again. Brown-ears,
Snip and Peepy, won't you come out with me? Papa and Mamma can sleep a
little longer if they like."

"Nonsense," Mrs. Dormouse said sleepily.

And "Nonsense, brother," repeated the others, "don't disturb us."

But Fuzz was obstinate and sure he knew best.

He trotted off, looking back contemptuously at the five balls already
rolled up again.

"Dear, dear! how silly they are to be sure," he said, when he found
himself out on the grass. "Why, it's certainly summer again! The
sunshine's so bright and warm, the birds are chirping so merrily. I
feel quite brisk. I think I'll take a ramble over the common to the
wood where our cousins the squirrels live, and hear what they have to
say about it."

[Illustration: JUST WAKEING UP A LITTLE.]

He cocked his ears and peeped about with his little sparkling eyes.
Suddenly he caught sight of something white at the foot of one of the
old trees. It was Cicely Gray in her summer flannel, which had been
pulled out of the wardrobe again to do honour to St. Martin.

"Good morning, little dormouse," she said in her pretty soft voice,
"what are you doing out of your nest in late November? Do you think
summer's come back again already, my little man? If so, you've made a
great mistake. Take warning, and don't stray far from your home, or
you may find yourself in a sad plight. This lovely weather can't last
many days."

Fuzz looked at her.

"Thank you, miss," he replied, for, you see, he understood human talk,
though it is to be doubted if Cicely understood _him_. "She must
surely know," he reflected wisely, "and perhaps after all mamma was in
the right."

So he scampered in to the nest again and rolled himself up beside the
others.

That very evening the wind changed; the cold set in in earnest, and
for three months it was really severe.

"I saw a little dormouse at the corner of the common yesterday," said
Cicely the next morning. "I advised him to go home again; he had come
out by mistake, thinking winter was over."

"You funny girl," said her mother. "I hope he understood you and
followed your advice, poor little chap."




THE CHRISTMAS GUEST.

FROM A TRUE INCIDENT.


She was a very poor little girl, very poor indeed; often--indeed
almost always--hungry, and thinly-clad, and delicate, but yet not
altogether miserable. No, far from it, for she had a loving mother who
did her poor best for her children. There were three or four of them
and Emmy was the eldest. She was only six, but she was looked upon as
almost grown-up, for father had died last year, and Emmy had to help
mother with "the little ones," as she always called them.

They lived in a single room in one of the poorest and most crowded
parts of great London; in a street which was filled with houses of
one-room homes like their own. There was much misery and much
wickedness, I fear, too, in their neighbourhood; drinking, and
swearing, and fighting, as well as hunger, and cold, and sickness. But
compared with several years ago, when Emmy's mother herself had been a
girl living in much such a home as she now strove "to keep together"
for her fatherless babies, compared with that time, as she, and others
too, used often to say, "it was a deal better." There was less
drinking and bad language; there was less misery. For friends--friends
able and earnestly anxious to help--had taken up their abode in the
very next street to little Emmy's; the church had been "done up
beautiful," and _there_ there was always a welcome and a rest from the
troubles and worries at home; and the clergyman, as well as the kind
ladies who had come to live among their toiling, struggling brothers
and sisters, knew all about everybody and everything, knew who was ill
and who was out of work, knew who were "trying to be good" even among
the children, knew even the tiniest tots by name, and had always a
kind word and smile, however busy and hurried they were.

[Illustration: "Emmy had to help Mother with the little ones"]

And, thanks greatly to these kind friends, Emmy's life was not without
its pleasures. She loved the infant school on Sundays, she loved the
"treats"; once last summer--and Emmy was old enough now to remember
last summer well, though it seemed a very long time ago--there had
been a treat into the country, a real day in the country, where, for
the first time in her life, the child saw grass and trees.

But it was far from summer time now, it was midwinter. Christmas was
close at hand, and winter had brought more than its usual troubles to
the little family. There were worse things this year than cold and
scant food, chapped hands and chilblained feet. Tiny, as they called
the baby but one, was very ill with bronchitis, the doctor could not
say if she would get better, and sometimes it seemed to the poor
mother as if it was hardly to be wished that she should.

"She suffers so, poor dear, and seeing to her hinders me sadly with
my work. I do feel as if I'd break down at last altogether," she said
one evening--it was Christmas Eve--to a neighbour who had looked in to
see how things were going on.

"And Emmy's looking pale," said the visitor, "she wants cheering up a
bit too. Let her come to church with me for a change. I'm going to the
evening service now."

Emmy brightened up at this. She had not been at church last Sunday,
and, like most children, she was especially fond of going in the
evening. It seemed grander and more solemn somehow, when all was dark
outside. And the lights and warmth, and above all the music, were very
pleasant to the little girl. So with a parting word of advice to the
mother to keep up heart a bit longer--"things allus starts mending
when they get to the worst"--the kind neighbour set off, holding Emmy
by the hand.

It was beautiful in church, the Christmas "dressing up," as Emmy
called it, had been completed that afternoon; to the child it seemed a
sort of fairy-land, though of fairy-land she had never heard. But she
had heard of heaven, which was better.

"It could scarce be finer there," she thought to herself dreamily, as
she listened to the words of the service with a feeling that all was
sweet and beautiful, though she could actually understand but little.

The sermon was short and simple. But Emmy was getting sleepy, and the
thought of poor mother, and Tiny with her hacking cough, mingled with
what she heard, till suddenly something caught her ear which startled
her into attention. The preacher had been speaking of the first
Christmas-day, concluding with some words about the morrow, when again
the whole Christian world would join in welcoming their Lord. For
"again He will come to us; again Jesus Himself will be here in the
midst of us, ready as ever to listen to our prayers, to comfort and
console."

[Illustration: It was beautiful in church]

Emmy was wide awake now. She scarcely heard the words of the carol,
she was in a fever of eager hopefulness.

"_What_ a good thing I came to-night," she said to herself, "else I
mightn't ever have knowed it. I _would_ like to see Him first of all.
There'll be such a many, and He'll have such a deal to do. But it
wouldn't take Him that long to come round with me to see Tiny, and if
He does, like in the story, He'll cure her in 'alf a minute. I know
what I'll do"--and a little scheme formed itself in the childish
mind--"though I'll not tell mother," thought Emmy, "just for fear
like, I should be too late to catch Him."

"'Twas a lovely sermon, and so touchin' too," said Emmy's friend to
another woman as they walked home.

[Illustration: A LITTLE FIGURE CURLED UP IN THE PORCH.]

"It strengthens one up a bit, it do," agreed her companion. "I'll try
my best to be round for the seven o'clock service in the morning."

"Seven o'clock in the morning!" said Emmy to herself. "I'll best be
here soon after six."

Christmas morning was _very_ cold. There was some frozen snow lying
hard and still white in the streets, and there was moonlight, pale and
clear. So it was light enough for one of the Sisters, entering the
church betimes, to distinguish a little figure curled up darkly in the
porch. A thrill of fear ran through her for a moment. Supposing it
were some poor child turned out by a drunken father, as sometimes
happened, frozen to death this bitter night? But no--the small
creature started to its feet.

"Is it He? Has Jesus come?" she exclaimed. "Oh! do let me speak to Him
first."

"My child!" exclaimed the sister, "what is it? Have you been dreaming?
Why, it is little Emmy Day. Have you been here all night?"

"No, no," Emmy replied, her teeth chattering with cold, and the sob of
a half-feared disappointment in her voice. "No, no; I slipped out
while mother and all was still asleep. I'm waiting to ask Him to come
to our Tiny;" and she went on to tell what she had heard last night,
and what she had planned and hoped.

Her friend took her into her own room for a few minutes, and there
gently and tenderly explained to Emmy her sweet mistake. And though
her tears could not all at once be stopped, the little girl trotted
back to her mother with comfort in her heart, and strange and
wonderful, yet beautiful new thoughts in her mind.

"He is _always_ near, I can _always_ pray to Him," she whispered to
herself.

And her prayers were answered. Tiny recovered, and thanks to the kind
Sisters, that Christmas Day was the beginning of better things for the
little family.




OLIVE'S TEA-PARTY.

[Illustration: WRITING THE INVITATIONS]


"Mamma," said Olive one day, "I want to have a tea party."

"Well, dear," mamma answered, "I dare say it could be managed. You
must talk to Cara and Louie about it, and settle whom you would all
like to ask."

"No, no," said Olive, "I don't mean that. I won't have my sisters,
mamma. They like to ask big ones, and I want a party for my own self,
and no big ones. I want to fix everything myself, and I won't have
Cara and Louie telling us what to eat at tea, and what games to play
at. You may tell aunty to 'avite them to her house that day, mamma,
and let me have my own party; else I won't have it at all."

Olive was eight. She was the youngest of three. It oftens happens that
the "youngest of three" fancies herself "put upon," especially when
the two elders are very near of an age and together in everything. But
this sudden stand for independence was new in Olive. Mamma looked at
her curiously. Had some foolish person been putting nonsense in her
little girl's head?

"Cara and Louie are always kind to you about your little pleasures,
Olive," she said. "I don't understand why you should all at once want
to do without them."

Olive wriggled. "But I do," she said. "Lily Farquhar says her big
sisters spoil her parties so, and they call her and her friends 'the
babies,' and laugh at them."

"Are you going to invite Lily to your party?" asked mamma.

"Yes, of course. She's my best friend, and she knows lots of games."

"Very well. Then fix your day and invite your friends, and I will take
care that your sisters don't interfere."

Olive looked very pleased. "I think next Wednesday would do," she
said. "It's our half-holiday, and if Cara will help me on Tuesday
evening I can get my lessons done, so that I needn't do any on
Wednesday. It's _howid_ to have to do lessons after a party," added
Olive, with a languid air.

But mamma took her up more sharply than she expected. "Nay, nay,
Olive," she said, "that won't do. If your sisters are to have none of
the _pleasure_ of your party, you can't expect them to take any
trouble. You must manage your lessons as best you can."

Olive pouted, but did not dare to say anything. Truth to tell, her
lessons at no time sat very heavily on her mind.

"It won't be my fault if I don't do them on Wednesday," she said to
herself. "It'll be Cara's, and--and mamma's--so I don't care."

She found the writing the invitations more trouble than she had
expected, and more than once did she wish she could have applied for
help to Louie, whose handwriting was so clear and pretty, and who
possessed such "ducky" little sheets of note-paper of all colours,
with a teapot and "come early" in one corner. Olive's epistles were
rather a sight to be seen; nearly all of them were blotted, and the
spelling of some of her friends' names was peculiar, to say the least.
Still they did their purpose, for in the course of the next day or two
the little hostess received answers, all accepting her "kind
invitation," except poor Amabel Pryce, who had so bad a sore-throat
that there was no chance of her being able to go out by Wednesday. And
in one note--from a little girl called Maggie Vernon--was something
which did not suit Olive's present frame of mind at all.

"Harriot and I," wrote Maggie--Harriot was Maggie's sister--"will be
so pleased to come. We love a party at your house, because your big
sisters are always so kind."

Olive showed this to her adviser and confidante, Lily.

"Nonsense," said Lily, "she only puts that in because she thinks it
looks polite. She's a goose, and so is Harriot; they make such a fuss
about each other. They haven't the least bit of independence. Well,
never mind. If they don't like _your_ party, Olive, they needn't come
again."

Olive felt consoled. But still--in her heart of hearts there was some
misgiving. What should she do if they all wanted to play different
games?--or if Bessy Grey tore her frock or spilt her tea and got one
of her crying fits, as happened sometimes, and there was no one--no
Cara or Louie to pet the nervous little girl into quiet and content
again? What should she do, if----? But Lily did not leave her time to
conjure up any more misfortunes.

"What are you in a brown study about, Olive?" she said. "You _are_ so
stupid sometimes."

To which Olive retorted sharply, and the friends ended their council
of war by a quarrel, which did not raise Olive's spirits.

The great day came. Not very much had been said about it in the family
circle, naturally, for when one member of the family chooses to "set
up" for himself or herself, and keep all the rest "out of it," there
cannot be as much pleasant talk as when everybody is joined together
in the interest and preparation. And Olive could not help a little
sigh when, just before her guests came, she was called down to the
dining-room to see the tea all set out. It did look so nice! Mamma had
ordered just the cakes and buns Olive liked, and there were two or
three pretty plants on the table, and everything was just perfect.

[Illustration: "The sound of subdued crying in one corner"]

"I would have liked Cara and Louie to see it," thought Olive. "They
needn't have gone out quite so early."

But the sound of the front-door bell ringing made her start. She ran
off quickly to be ready in the school-room to receive her little
friends. There were six of them. Lily Farquhar, of course, first and
foremost; then Maggie and Harriot, Bessie Grey looking rather
frightened and very shy, and two little cousins, Mary and Augusta
Meadowes, who lived next door.

They all knew each other pretty well, so they were not _very_ silent
or stiff. Still as Olive could not speak to everybody at once, and was
very anxious that no one should feel neglected, she was not sorry when
the tea-bell rang. Lily was to pour out the chocolate, and Olive
herself to make the tea. It passed off pretty well, except for Lily's
spilling a good deal, and Olive's forgetting to put more water into
the teapot, so that the tea became dreadfully dark and strong. But the
cakes were approved of, and every one seemed content. Then came the
great question of "What shall we play at?" Lily, who was clever at
games, made herself a sort of leader, but she was not sensible enough
to fill the post well. She was selfish and impatient, and being only a
little girl herself, the others did not care "to be ordered about by
her." Then Bessie Grey got knocked down at Blind Man's Buff, and of
course she began to cry, and to say she wouldn't play any more if they
were so rough. Maggie Vernon tried to soothe her, but Bessie pushed
her away saying she didn't "understand," she wanted her mother, or
next best, Cara or Louie, who were always "so kind." And the little
Meadowes, being themselves but very small people, looked as if they
were going to cry too; declaring that they would rather not play at
all if they needed to run about so very fast. So Blind Man's Buff was
given up and something quieter tried--Dumb Crambo, I think. But it was
not very successful either, the little Meadowes needed so much
"explaining," which no one was patient enough, or perhaps wise enough,
to give clearly. And Lily insisted on being first always, and there
was no one in authority to keep her "in her place," where, when she
really felt she _must_ stay there, she could be a pleasant and bright
little girl. So game after game came to a bad end, and as the children
grew tired and their spirits went down, things grew worse and worse,
till at last--no, I can best describe it by telling what mamma
saw--when feeling rather anxious as to the results of Olive's fit of
independence, she put her head in at the school-room door an hour or
two after tea.

There was silence in the room except for the sound of subdued crying
in one corner, which came, not from Bessie Grey--that would not have
been surprising--but from the smallest Meadowes child, who had torn
her frock and refused to listen to comfort from either her sister or
Maggie. Harriot stood close by, and ran forward as the door opened.

"Oh, has our nurse come?" she said eagerly. "She's so kind, I'm sure
she'd mend Gussie's frock, and then _her_ nurse wouldn't scold."

"Our nurse isn't cross really," said Mary. "It's only that Gussie's
silly. I think she's too little to come to a party."

Then catching sight of "mamma" the little girl grew red, and all the
others looked frightened--such of them as saw mamma, that is to say.
For Bessie Grey, after a long fit of sobbing, had fallen asleep on the
floor, poor child, and--what _do_ you think Olive and Lily were doing?
Each with a story-book in her hand, they were comfortably reading at
different corners of the room, heedless of the other children's
dullness and tiredness.

"I want to go home," wailed Gussie. On which Bessie suddenly awoke,
and began to cry again.

"Please, Gussie _is_ rather tired," said the motherly little Mary. "Do
you think we might go home without waiting for nurse, as it's so
near?"

"And might we be getting our things on too?" said Maggie and Harriot.

Poor Mamma! She could scarcely speak, so ashamed did she feel.

"_Olive!_" she exclaimed. How Olive and Lily too did jump! "Is this
the way you take care of your guests?"

"They were so stupid," murmured Olive. "And Lily would be leader, and
she was so cross. I thought it was best to leave off playing."

"Come, my poor dear children," said mamma, turning to the five little
girls. "Don't cry, Bessie dear, or you either, Gussie. We'll get your
frock mended in a minute, and Cara and Louie will give you a nice game
of musical chairs in the drawing-room to cheer you up before you go
home. There is some fruit waiting for you too."

She marshalled them all off, smiles and chatter soon replacing the
tears and yawns. Mamma stopped at the doorway.

"Miss Lily Farquhar," she said, quietly, "you had best remain here and
enjoy your book till you are sent for."

To Olive she said not one word. But it was a very humble and penitent
little girl who came that evening to tell her mother and sisters _how_
sorry she was, and _how_ foolish and selfish and ungrateful she now
saw that she had been.

If Olive ever gives another tea-party I think the _first_ guests she
invites will be her kind big sisters, Cara and Louie.




A LIVE DUMMY.


The Merediths were spending the autumn on the French coast, at a
sea-bathing place called Sablons-sur-mer. It is a nice bright little
place. I am afraid the inhabitants would be offended if they heard it
called "little," for they think it a very important town! It consists
of two long streets--one facing the sea, one inland, where the shops
and the houses of the people who live there all the year round, are.
And between these two streets run smaller ones--so small that they are
more passage-ways than streets. The most imposing one is called an
"arcade"; in it are the best shops, a bazaar of all sorts of fancy
things to delight children's eyes, from tin buckets and spades to dig
with in the sands, to rocking-horses, though not of a very expensive
kind. At one corner of this arcade is a large, ready-made tailor's
establishment; this shop, for reasons I will explain to you, divided
the children's attention with the bazaar.

There were ever so many Merediths; three girls and two boys and a
couple of cousins. The Sablons people are accustomed to English
visitors, so the sight of this band of children was not startling to
them; and the little _messieurs_, and the _jeunes mees_, soon had
several friends in the place, whom they never passed without a
friendly nod and a _bon jour_ or _bon soir_, as the case might be.

The cousins I have mentioned were not with the Merediths on their
first arrival. There had been some doubt of finding a house large
enough to take the whole party in, so Bessie and Hugh had waited at
their own home in the country in England in a state of frantic
anxiety, till one fine day came a letter from their aunt with the
delightful news that the children might be despatched as soon as they
could be got ready.

Bessie and Hugh had never paid a visit to France before; so the two
new-comers had plenty of "guides" to explain everything to them, and
show them the "lions" of Sablons-sur-mer. Only one condition was made
by Lilian, the eldest and nearly "grown up" Meredith girl. Bessie and
Hugh _must_ manage not to seem like English tourists "gaping about
with guide-books in their hands, and looking as if they had never been
out of an English country village."

"But we scarcely ever have been," said Bessie; "at least, only when we
go to grandmamma's at Cheltenham, and Hugh was once three days in
London."

"That doesn't matter," said Miss Meredith; "you needn't look like some
of the English people one sees over here. I feel quite ashamed
sometimes to own them for my country people."

Bessie was too much in awe of her big cousin to ask her to explain
more exactly what it was she was not to do, or to "look." But she
resolved to herself to be on her very best behaviour, and Madge and
Letty assured her it would be "all right"--she needn't talk French
when there was any one who "mattered" to hear, and she needn't _seem_
as if things were strange to her, that was what Lilian minded.

[Illustration: The Arcade]

"Mayn't I look in at the shop-windows, even?" asked Bessie, rather
dolefully.

Shop-windows were very delightful and charming to the little country
cousin.

"Of course you may. Every body does," said Letty; "especially at the
bazaar. It's not windows; it's all open, you know, like stalls at a
market," explained Madge; "it's a regular bazaar. Not look at it!--why
it's _made_ to be looked at. And oh; Bessie," Letty went on again,
"you _will_ be amused at the big tailor's, or ready-made clothier's,
as mamma calls it, at the corner of the arcade. It's something like
Madame Tussaud's--such a lot of wax dummies at the door. And they
change their clothes every few days. Some of them are quite big, like
men; and some little boys. They've got one now which they _think_ is
dressed like an English sailor-suit boy--you never saw such a
costume! And there's a man in a red coat--our boys say he is meant to
be an English 'milord' dressed for 'the hunt.'"

[Illustration: The Dummies]

When Bessie saw the bazaar she was as full of admiration of it as even
Madge and Letty could desire, especially of the big tailor's. There
was a brilliant show of figures, from the little wax boy in imaginary
English sailor costume, to a moustached gentleman elaborately got up
in evening suit, white tie and all.

"Oh, how funny they are!" Bessie exclaimed. "But I don't see the one
in the red coat."

"He's not there to-day," said Madge. "Perhaps we'll see him again
to-morrow, in something different."

"It must be great fun dressing, and undressing them," said Bessie. "Do
they change them nearly every day?"

"Oh no, not so often as that. But we watch them always, to see."

But for the next two or three days there was no change. Bessie looked
in vain for the red-coated one she was so curious to see.

[Illustration: The New Dummy]

Now I must tell you that there was sometimes a regiment, or part of a
regiment, at Sablons. They came for rifle-practice on the sands; and
there was always a great excitement when a new detachment came in. And
a few days after Bessie and Hugh made their appearance, the town was
awakened early one morning by the tramp of a number of red-coats, who
had marched over from an inland town, where there were large barracks.
Next day on their way home, as usual, from their morning bath, the
little girls passed through the arcade. Madge and Letty did not give
the dummies more than a passing glance, till suddenly they noticed
that Bessie had stayed behind.

"There she is," said Letty; "she's staring at the figures. Why--is
that--?" and she hesitated.

There she was, sure enough--Bessie, that is to say--standing in front
of a tall figure, a red-coated one in all the glory of a scarlet
uniform, and with several medals on the right breast, which the little
girl on her tip-toes was reaching up to and examining, one after
another, with great interest. Letty and Madge drew near and looked at
her with a curious misgiving. She glanced round.

"Letty, Madge," she said, "do come here and look at this new dummy.
It's got a lot of medals, and----"

She stopped with a little shriek. The "new dummy" had suddenly raised
its right arm, saluting Bessie with military precision as it stepped
slightly to one side, with the words--

"_A votre service, Mademoiselle._"

"Oh, oh!" gasped Bessie. "It's alive--it's--it's a man, a living
soldier."

And so the supposed dummy was! A young officer, who, happening like
the children themselves to be standing in front of the tailor's
staring at the figures, had actually been mistaken by Bessie for one
of the waxen group. He had entered into the joke, and remained
perfectly motionless while the little girl made her investigation,
doubtless explaining all to himself by the fact of her being a _jeune
mees_--one of that extraordinary English nation of whom it is
impossible to say what they won't do next.

Oh, how ashamed Bessie was! How scarlet grew Letty and Madge! But
there was nothing to be done. The officer had already disappeared at
the other end of the arcade with a second friendly and smiling though
respectful salute.

One thought struck the three children--Susanne, the maid, was
fortunately a little in advance and had not seen the strange mistake.

"_Don't_ let's tell Lilian," they said. "She'd never get over it, she
really wouldn't."

But mother--aunty as she was to Bessie--_was_ told, and comforted the
mortified and shamefaced little girl as well as she could.

"After all," she said, "it was nothing _naughty_; Bessie had not meant
to be rude; and she was quite sure the officer had not thought her
so."

Nor had he. But it was a very amusing story to relate; and if
Bessie had been within hearing of him when he told it to his
brother-officers, I think she _could_ not but have joined in their
laughter.

[Illustration: Oh, Oh! It's ALIVE!]




A QUEER HIDING-PLACE

[Illustration: A QUEER HIDING-PLACE BY MRS MOLESWORTH]


"Don't forget to give Theresa the pound from mamma," said Mabel, as
she kissed her cousin Eleanor one afternoon when saying good-bye. "I
must be quick; it's getting quite dark, and I was to be home early.
Come along, Fred."

"You're sure you've got the pound, are you, Nelly?" asked Fred
mischievously. "Mamma told Mabel about it ever so many times. She's so
famous at remembering things herself, I like hearing her tell _you_
not to forget."

Eleanor put her hand into her pocket.

"I _think_ I've got it," she said; "I remember it was wrapped in a
piece of blue paper, wasn't it? You gave it me just before we sat down
to play our duet, and I was to say it was for aunt's subscription
to--to--oh dear, I've forgotten," and she stood there in the hall,
where she had come down to see the last of her visitors, looking the
picture of perplexity.

"Oh, you silly girl!" said Mabel, impatiently. "It is mamma's
subscription to Theresa's Christmas dinners' card. There now, don't
you remember? You are so dreadfully absent, Eleanor!"

"I remember now--oh yes, of course. I won't forget again," said the
girl; "little" girl one could scarcely call her, for though she was
only thirteen she was as tall as her elder sister of eighteen.
"Good-night again, Mabel. I must be quick, for I have to write to
Charley before dinner. You know I dine late just now during the
holidays," she added proudly.

"But the pound--the pound itself--have you got it?" repeated Fred.

Again went Eleanor's hand to her pocket.

"Oh dear, I forgot I was feeling for the pound," she exclaimed. "Yes,
here it is! I'll give it to Theresa quite rightly, you'll see."

Eleanor hurried away to write her letter to Charley, for to-morrow
would be Indian mail-day, and she had put it off too late the week
before.

[Illustration: for a course or two the pound was safe]

"Now I _must_ give the pound to Theresa at once," she said, again
depositing it in her pocket when she changed her dress for dinner.
Something or other put it out of her head in the drawing-room--poor
Eleanor's head was not a very secure place to keep anything in for
long! It was not till she and her mother and Theresa and her
seventeen-years' old brother Mark were at table, and half way through
dinner, that the unlucky coin again returned into her memory. No
thanks to her memory that it did so! It was only when she pulled out
her handkerchief that the little paper packet came out with it and
fell onto the floor.

"Oh," said Eleanor, as she stooped to pick it up, "what a good thing
I've remembered it! Here, Theresa, here's a pound for you from aunty,
for your--for the--oh, what is it? Your subscription for Christmas
cards--no, I mean your subscription-card for Christmas dinners--yes,
that's what it's for."

"All right," said Theresa, quietly, "I understand. But I wish you had
given it me up-stairs, Nelly, I haven't got a pocket in this thin
skirt. Never mind," and she unwrapped it as she spoke, and placed it
on the table beside her.

"There now," she said, "I can't forget it. It is too conspicuous on
the white cloth."

The sisters were sitting next each other; that is to say, Theresa was
at one end with Mark opposite, and their mother and Eleanor were at
the sides. The table was small, though large enough for a party of
four.

Not long was the gold coin allowed to rest peacefully where Theresa
had placed it. Eleanor's fingers soon picked it up. First she examined
it curiously by the light of the candle beside her, then when she had
satisfied herself as to its date and some other particulars, she took
to "spinning" it on the table. This was not very successful; to spin a
coin well requires a hard surface for it to twirl on. Eleanor tried
once or twice, then ended by "spinning" the sovereign on to the floor.
Down she ducked to pick it up again, thereby attracting her mother's
notice.

"Nelly, my dear, what are you stooping down so awkwardly for?" she
said.

"Oh," said Theresa, "it is all that pound. Do leave it alone, child,
or it will be getting lost altogether," and she took it out of her
sister's hand and put it under her wine-glass. "There," she said,
"don't touch it again."

And for a course or two the pound was safe. But Theresa forgot that
wine-glasses are not a fixture; after a while the table was cleared of
them and the crumbs brushed away for dessert. The shining sovereign
was again exposed to full view. Mother, Theresa, and Mark were talking
busily about something interesting, Eleanor's ears were
half-listening, but her restless fingers were unoccupied. They seized
on the coin again, and a new series of experiments with it was the
result, even though she herself was but vaguely conscious what she was
about. At last just as she had found a new trick which amused the
babyish side of her brain greatly, came a remark which thoroughly
caught her attention.

[Illustration: A diving process into the said pocket ensued]

"The day after to-morrow, Nelly, don't forget," said Theresa, "I'm
going to have the Leonards at afternoon tea."

And the talk ran upon the Leonards, till they rose to go upstairs to
the drawing-room. Then came the exclamation from Theresa. "My pound,
Nelly, have you touched it? I put it under my wine-glass, but of
course I forgot--the wine-glasses were changed. Henry," to the
footman, "didn't you see it when you moved the glasses? It _was_
there."

Henry grew red and stared.

"Yes, ma'am, it was there. I saw it. I left it on the cloth."

Eleanor stared too, though she did not grow red.

"Yes," she said, "it was there. I took it up again, but I'm sure I did
nothing with it."

Nevertheless a diving process into her pocket ensued--in vain; then
she got up and shook herself; then everybody began creeping and
crawling about on the floor--in vain; then Mark got down a candle
under the table, thereby, as it was in a high silver candle-stick,
nearly setting everything on fire; then--then--I need not describe the
well-known and most disagreeable experience of hunting for a lost
object, which of course

        "ere it comes to light,
    We seek in every corner but the right."

On the whole poor Henry had the worst of it. He was told to examine
"my tray," and to overhaul "my pantry," from top to bottom, which he
did with no result. I think he would gladly have gone down the
drain-pipe leading from "my sink," if he could have got into it.

"It is an uncomfortable affair," said Nelly's mother gravely. "You see
the young man has so newly come."

"But, mother, I am _sure_ I saw it after the dessert was on the table,
and the servants out of the room," said Eleanor eagerly.

"Then, my dear, where is it?"

You can fancy what an unsettled, spoilt evening it was. The ladies
went upstairs at last, but Mark would not give in. He stayed in the
dining-room by himself, searching like a detective. Suddenly there
came a shout of triumph.

"I have found it," he called upstairs; "it is all right, Nelly."

So it was--and where do you think it was?

I will help you to guess by telling you one circumstance. There had
been _nuts_ at dessert.

Well, what of that?

The salt-cellars had been left on the table. And buried in one of
them, shining yellow and bright in the white powder, lay the coin! Was
it not clever of Mark to have thought of it?

"Oh yes," said Eleanor, looking uncommonly ashamed of herself, "I
remember--I pressed it down on to the salt, and then I covered it up.
It looked so comfortable. Oh I _am_ so sorry!"

See what comes of letting your fingers get into the way of "tricks,"
and letting your wits go wool-gathering.

But poor Henry's character was saved.




BLUE FROCKS AND PINK FROCKS

[Illustration: BLUE FROCKS AND PINK FROCKS BY MRS MOLESWORTH]


Rosalind and Pauline Wyvill were not twins, though at first sight
nearly every one thought they were. Rosy was eleven and Paula only
nine-and-a-half, but Paula was very tall for her age, and Rosy, if
anything, small for eleven, so they were almost exactly the same
height. And though Paula was much fairer than her sister, who had
brown hair and rather dark grey eyes, still there was a good deal of
likeness between them, and they were generally dressed exactly the
same, which made them seem still more like twins.

Their mother was particular about their dressing the same, but now and
then it was a little difficult to manage, for somehow Paula's frocks
and hats and jackets generally got shabby long before Rosy's, and if
an accident--such as tearing or burning or staining--was to happen,
it was perfectly sure to come to Paula's clothes, and not to her
sister's. In such cases, however, the misfortune had often to be
endured, for their mother could not of course afford to get new things
every time Paula's came to grief, though now and then she had to get
an extra frock or jacket of some stronger or stouter material for the
little girl to wear, if those the same as her sister's had been spoilt
past repair.

It came to pass, one Christmas holiday, that the two children were
invited to spend a week with an aunt by themselves. It was the first
visit they had ever paid on their own account, and they were both
pleased and excited about it.

This aunt was their father's elder sister. She was very kind, but not
_very_ much accustomed to young people, and in some of her ideas she
was perhaps extra particular and what people now-a-days call rather
"old-fashioned."

"You must show your aunt that I have taught you to be very neat and
tidy," said their mother, a few days before the little girls were to
go, "for she is rather strict about such things; it may be a little
difficult for you, as you will have no maid of your own with you.
Whatever you do, be sure always to be dressed exactly alike, that is
one of the things that your aunt will notice the most."

"Which of us must fix what we are to wear?" said Paula; "mayn't we
take it in turns?"

"I don't think there should be any difficulty about it," said their
mother. "I should think it would be the nicest to consult together,
without any fixed rule."

[Illustration: _The Aunt_ She was very kind but rather old-fashioned]

"Oh, I daresay it will be all right," said Rosy, thinking to herself
that, as she was older than her sister, it would be only fair for her
generally to have the first choice. "Do you think we shall have the
same room, mamma?"

"No," their mother replied. "I was forgetting to tell you that you are
to have two small separate rooms, as there will be other people
staying in the house, and the larger rooms will be needed for them, so
I have told Ann to pack up your things in two small boxes instead of
together, but remember you have everything exactly alike, so that
there will be no excuse for your not always being dressed the same.
And, Paula, I do hope you will manage not to spoil anything during
these few days."

"No, mamma, I'll try not," Paula replied, but she spoke rather
absently, for she was not really attending to her mother's last words.

"What a lot of settling it will take, every time we dress," she was
thinking to herself. "I hope we shan't quarrel about it." For it must
be owned that though Rosy was a very kind elder sister, she was
sometimes rather masterful, and that, though Paula would give in
readily enough when spoken to gently, _she_ could sometimes be very
obstinate, if not taken exactly in the right way.

[Illustration: "she burst into tears"]

This is not a story, as you might expect, of Paula's misfortunes in
the way of accidents to her clothes during their week's visit. More by
luck than good management, probably, no very important disaster of the
kind occured, and the first two or three days at their aunt's passed
prosperously. Paula gave in to Rosy's wishes as to what frocks they
were to wear, and indeed during the daytime there was not much chance
of difference of opinion, as, being winter, they had only two each,
Sunday and every-day ones. But their kind mother had given them some
new and pretty evening dresses, prettier than they had ever had
before, and the little girls were very much pleased with them.
Unluckily, however, they had a disagreement of taste about them, Rosy
preferring the pink ones and Paula the blue.

On the third evening of their visit, an hour or so before it was time
to dress, they began talking about what they should put on, for coming
into the drawing-room before dinner.

"It is the turn for our pink frocks to-night," said Rosy, in the very
decided way that always rather roused Paula's spirit of contradiction.
"And I'm very glad of it, for I like them ever so much the best."

"I don't," replied Paula, rather crossly, "I think the blues twenty
times prettier, and we never fixed that we were to wear them in
turns."

"Perhaps the blue suits you best," said Rosy, "but the pink suits me;
I heard somebody say so the night we came, and to-night is rather
particular, for you know it's uncle's birthday, and we are to go in to
dessert and sit up an hour later. It is only fair that I should have
what I like best, as I'm the eldest, besides it's the turn of the
pinks."

"Nonsense about turns," said Paula, more crossly than before, "why
shouldn't I look nice too, on uncle's birthday? _I'll_ wear the blue."

"And I'll wear the pink," said Rosy, with the most determined air.

"You'll be punished for it if you do," said Paula, "just think how
vexed aunt will be if we're different, particularly to-night, when it
is going to be a regular dinner-party."

"I shan't be punished worse than you," was Rosy's reply, "and I shan't
deserve it, and you will."

It was not often the little sisters' quarrels went so far as this.
Paula felt herself getting so angry that she was afraid what she
mightn't be tempted to say next.

She ran out of the room, banging the door behind her I am afraid, and
rushed upstairs, where she burst into tears; for anger makes children
cry quite as often as sorrow. But before she had been many minutes in
her own room, her tears grew gentler, for she was a kind-hearted and
loving little girl, and when she had bathed her face, to take away the
redness from her eyes, she ran downstairs again to look for Rosy and
make friends. But Rosy was not to be found anywhere--her aunt had
called her into the conservatory to help her with some flowers she was
arranging there, and after searching for her sister everywhere she
could think of, Paula had to go upstairs to dress, as the first gong
sounded.

[Illustration: "MY DEAR CHILDREN, WHY ARE YOU NOT DRESSED ALIKE?"]

"As soon as I have done my hair, I'll run to Rosy's room," she thought
to herself, but then another idea struck her, she would give Rosy a
pleasant surprise. "I'll put on the pink frock without telling her,"
she thought, "she _will_ be pleased when she sees me with it on." And
she made haste with her dressing so that Rosy might find her already
in the drawing-room when she came down.

Thus it was that when Rosy, who was a little late of being ready,
looked into Paula's room on her way downstairs, she found her sister
gone. And what do you think happened? there was Paula smiling and
pleased in the _pink_ frock, as Rosy, also smiling and pleased with
herself, walked in in the _blue_!

But Aunt Margaret, when she caught sight of them, looked neither
smiling nor pleased.

"My dear children," she said, in a tone of vexation, "why are you not
dressed alike? On your uncle's birthday too."

The little girls' faces fell.

"Oh, auntie," said Rosy, "it's all my fault, but I meant to please
Paula, by putting on the blue."

"And I meant to please Rosy," said Paula, "by wearing the pink."

And then the whole story was explained to their aunt, who could not
help smiling at the odd result of their wish to make up their quarrel.

"Change your frocks," she said, "while we're at dinner, so that you
may be the same at dessert, that will put it all right."

She made rather a mistake, for of course only one frock needed to be
changed; which it was I cannot tell you. I only know that they came
into dessert and took their place one on each side of their uncle,
dressed alike--in blue _or_ pink!




Transcriber's Notes:


Inconsistent and archaic spelling and punctuation retained.

P. 60: "tiniest trots by name" changed to "tiniest tots by name".







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