Transcriber's note: Unusual and inconsistent spelling is as printed.
SHE WENT ONE STEP DEEPER STILL, BENT FORWARD AND
CAUGHT THE LITTLE GIRL IN A FIRM GRIP.
By
AGNES GIBERNE
Author of "Sun, Moon and Stars," "Five Little Birdies,"
"Stories of the Abbey Precincts," "Through the Lynn," etc.
WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY DUDLEY TENNANT
LONDON
THE RELIGIOUS TRACT SOCIETY
4 Bouverie Street and 65 St. Paul's Churchyard E. C.
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER
LITTLE "WHY-BECAUSE"
Fidgets
"AUNTIE, what does 'ruthless' mean?"
"Why do you wish to know, Hecla?"
"I saw it in a book."
"You shall show me the passage by-and-by. Just now you have to work."
Hecla was hemming a small pocket-handkerchief, with red edges. She liked doing this, because it was for "Chris," but she did not love work for its own sake. She liked nothing which meant sitting still.
Hers was a rather curious name. She had been born in Iceland, under the shadow, so to speak, of Mount Hecla. That was why she was so called.
She sat at a small table in the middle of the room, with her back to the window, and Miss Storey, a slender, small, middle-aged lady, was near the fire. At Miss Storey's feet lay a fine black Persian cat, fast asleep; and in the window hung a gilt cage, the canary within ever hopping from perch to perch, except when it stopped to feed or to sing.
Sunshine streamed full upon the cage and upon the draped white curtains. It was a sunny day, but very cold, and patches of snow in the front garden told of a recent fall.
Miss Storey kept very upright and very still, and her small delicate fingers scarcely seemed to move as they knitted. But Hecla was neither upright nor still. She was a restless little mortal; quite as restless as the canary in its cage. She too was slim, and also rather tall for her age; and she had an anxious way of wrinkling her forehead, as if trying to do something beyond her power. She wore a brown holland pinafore over a brown stuff frock, and her hair hung in limp rats' tails down her back.
"Auntie, why does Chris learn Latin, and me not?"
"You may perhaps learn Latin some day, my dear. It is not necessary for you at present."
Hecla managed five stitches in silence.
"Auntie, isn't it most dreadfully cruel of the blackbirds to eat worms? Why don't they eat crumbs—that would be ever so much nicer? I do think it's cruel, don't you?"
"No more cruel than it is of Hecla to eat mutton."
Another pause. Hecla pushed her needle in and out.
"Auntie—"
"Go on with your work, dear."
"I'm going. Auntie—"
"My dear child, you will finish much sooner if you do not talk. Try now!"
Hecla did try. She screwed her forehead into all sorts of shapes, huddled herself into a bunch, and asked no questions for nearly two whole minutes. Her chair kept up a gentle creaking.
"You need not fidget, Hecla."
There were no sounds for quite thirty seconds. Then she forgot. Out went one foot and the other curled itself round the leg of her chair. Her elbow sprawled over the table, and down went a reel of cotton. It rolled away, so of course she had to run after it; and when she came back and plumped into her chair—crash followed.
"My dear Hecla!"
"Oh, auntie, it's my work-box! I'm so sorry!"
"Pick it up carefully. Then you must try to be quiet."
Picking up the fallen box and putting its contents straight was easy. But to be quiet—there lay the difficulty. Do what Hecla would, and try as she might, it always seemed as if the one impossible thing for her was to keep still.
"I've done one whole side of my handkerchief, auntie." She jumped up—and bang! again. Down went her chair, backwards.
"Hecla!"
"Oh dear! Things will tumble so, auntie."
"Not unless they are made."
"I didn't try—truly, I didn't!" Hecla's forehead was all over crinkles.
"No, dear. But did you try not?"
Hecla was not sure. She brought the handkerchief to her aunt, and stood waiting while Miss Storey put on her glasses. But you must not suppose for a moment that Hecla stood still and upright, like a soldier. Nothing of the sort! First she balanced herself on one leg, and then she balanced herself on the other; now she clasped her hands behind her back, and then she stretched them high over her head; next, she gave a skip, and pranced round to the back of Miss Storey's chair.
"Stand still."
Hecla said "Yes," and danced back.
"It is not badly done. One more side, and Elisabeth shall take you out."
That brought another prance. "Oh, I do like going out, and I love going with Elisabeth."
"But you must do as Elisabeth tells you."
"Oh yes, of course, auntie."
She sat down, began again, did six stitches, and sighed. "They are such long sides!"
"I wonder what you would feel if you had all round a great sheet to hem. I did that when I wasn't much older than you are now."
Hecla was deeply interested. She put down her work, and gazed earnestly at Miss Storey.
"Weren't you much older than me, auntie?"
"I was just ten years old."
"Ah, but I'm only eight and a half. I'm 'xactly eight and a half."
"Eighteen months is not so very much difference."
Privately Hecla thought the difference enormous. She felt that at ten years old she would be very nearly grown-up. But she only asked, "What made you hem the sheet? Was it—for punishment?"
"No, not at all. The sheet had to be hemmed, and I wanted to help my mother."
Hecla considered the question with knitted brows. She felt convinced that her aunt must have been an extraordinarily good little girl, far superior to all little girls whom she had known, especially superior to herself. Hecla was most anxious to be good, and her great desire was to please everybody; but the idea of hemming even one side of anything so vast as a sheet—that simply lay outside the world of things possible!
"Weren't you obliged to do it?" she inquired hopelessly.
"No, certainly not. I used to get up in the early morning, and get a piece done before breakfast."
More and more astonishing. "Not in winter, auntie."
"Yes, in winter."
Hecla gave it up as a hopeless case. She was generally wide-awake enough at night, but profoundly drowsy in the morning—at least, in winter mornings.
"I shouldn't like to have to hem a sheet. It would take me—oh, I think a whole, whole year."
"Not unlikely, at your present rate."
Hecla understood, and felt ashamed. She picked up the handkerchief which lay at her feet and set to work anew. Silence actually lasted for nearly five minutes, by which time she felt that she was almost rivalling Miss Storey's past goodness.
It was a fair-sized room in which they sat, crowded with heavy old-fashioned furniture. Each chair, not in use, stood rigidly with its back against the wall, only never touching it, for fear the pretty paper might be rubbed or scratched. The semi-grand piano—on which nobody ever played, for Hecla practised on another—was laden with handsome old china and framed photographs, always arranged in the same manner. On the mantelpiece were a number of valuable vases, placed in a row. An ornamental corner bookcase held many handsome calf-bound volumes, each of which had invariably the same neighbours.
Miss Storey and her sister disliked changes. They had lived here all their lives, seldom going away even for a short time; and they did their best to keep everything both inside and outside the house exactly what it had always been. That, at least, was Miss Storey's aim; and whether Miss Anne felt the same or not, she seldom differed from her sister.
Until the coming of little Hecla, some eighteen months before this date, nothing had disturbed the even tenor of their lives since Miss Storey's girlhood. Everything in the house had gone steadily on, as if by clockwork—like the aged timepiece in the hall, which never was known to lag behind or to run ahead.
Nothing and nobody under that roof had ever been in a hurry, or afflicted with fidgets. Certainly not Miss Storey, or Miss Anne Storey, or the elderly servant who had done most of the work, or the stolid young girl who helped her, or the silent old charwoman who sometimes came for a day's work, or even the dignified Persian cat. All had gone on calmly, smoothly, placidly.
But when their only sister died, leaving one little girl alone and friendless, it became their duty to take her. And they did not hesitate. They determined at once to have the child, though they—especially Miss Storey—felt that it would be a trial.
And it no doubt was a trial. Though they were very fond of the child, she worried them a good deal, without in the least meaning to do so.
Miss Storey was not really old. Many a woman of her age is still active and vigorous, and even young, and Miss Anne was many years the younger of the two. Still, they had lived so long in one particular way, that it was not easy for them to change.
And with the coming of little Hecla, an eager, affectionate, talkative, restless child of seven, accustomed to be made much of and to get her own way more than was perhaps wise, things were a good deal altered. It could not be otherwise.
For years and years the sisters had lived in quiet, and had had everything about them neat and regular and orderly. All at once, into the midst of this placid household came a little fidgety sprite, never for a moment still, never, if she could help it, for a moment silent, always on the go, always wanting to do something fresh, perpetually asking questions, never putting anything away into its right place, unable to write without scattering ink-spots, unable to kiss them without rumpling their nice white frills. It really was something of a trial at first even to Miss Anne, and it was a very great trial to Miss Storey. Not even eighteen months of it had made the elder sister grow used to the new state of things.
Do what they might, they could not shape the child into their own ways. She really was on the whole a good little girl, anxious to do what was right. But she forgot words of reproof almost as soon as they were spoken; and it seemed as if she positively had to dance and skip and prance and fidget and chatter the whole day long without a break.
Perhaps the aunts had done much the same in their childhood, and had forgotten; or, if Miss Anne remembered, she never said so. Perhaps they had been naturally less restless. There is a great difference between different children, just as there is a great difference between different grown-up people.
Hecla never for a moment dreamt what a trial her presence in the house was to her Aunt Millicent. She knew that she was always being told not to fidget, but she supposed that to be only because she had to learn to be proper and quiet.
Sometimes she wondered why the aunts liked to sit so still, and to move so slowly; and why she might not jump up and down and race round and round just as often as she felt inclined. But she never questioned in her little heart their real kindness and love; and it never so much as came into her head that she could be a trouble to either of them.
Quite Impossible
"THAT is done. Now you may go," said Miss Storey, quite as glad as Hecla was, for she had a great anxiety on her mind, and she was longing to be alone that she might consider what to say to her sister, Anne, who might come in at any moment.
Hecla rushed off like a small whirlwind, only to be called back.
"You are forgetting everything, my dear. Put your work away—neatly!—your thimble and cotton in the box—and pick up those bits of cotton. And set your chair in the right place. No, not there!" As Hecla ran it against another chair, with a bang.
Miss Storey sighed. "When I was your age, I did not need to be told the same things over and over every day."
"Not when you were ten years old!"
"No; nor when I was eight."
Hecla stood motionless; the chair tilted up on its back legs as she held it.
"Weren't you never naughty, auntie?"
"No doubt I was sometimes. All children are. But I do not think I often forgot things that I was told to do."
Hecla left the chair tilted on one side, with a foot on a stool, and came close to Miss Storey.
"Won't you tell me, please, about when you really truly were a naughty child, auntie? Please do."
Miss Storey gazed with rather puzzled eyes into the anxious little face.
"I think you ought rather to wish to hear about when I was good," she said patiently, though that crooked chair tried her dreadfully, and she did so long to be by herself.
"But you've told me that—oh, heaps of times! And I do want to know about when you did something naughty—ever so naughty!"
"Not now. Perhaps some other day, when you have been particularly good. I don't say you have been exactly naughty to-day, but still I should like to see you trying a little harder not to forget everything you are told. Now you have to go out."
And actually—again!—Hecla was marching off, without a thought of that unfortunate chair. Again she had to be called back, and again she rammed it hastily into the wrong place, banging the back of another chair against the wall-paper, which the two aunts were always so careful to guard from unsightly marks. Of course the bang left a dent, and when at length Hecla vanished, Miss Storey sighed and closed her eyes, and murmured—
"What a child it is! And to think of—another! Impossible!"
Back whisked Hecla, bursting open the door, and rushing across the room.
"Oh, auntie, please! May I go and see Chris?"
"Not to-day."
"Please! I want to see him—ever so much!"
"No, not to-day."
"Only just for one minute, auntie!"
"No. That is enough, Hecla. Do as you are told. You are to have a walk in the country—not to the shops. Remember."
Hecla went away slowly, and Miss Storey folded her hands together, setting herself to think. With that restless little being in the room, she had found thinking out of the question.
No sooner had she settled herself than the door opened again, this time very gently. A lady appeared, just a little taller than herself and quite as slim, but younger-looking. Miss Storey's hair was fast turning grey, while Miss Anne's was all a soft light brown. She wore a shady hat, and she had pretty, kind, blue eyes.
"Anne! Sit down, my dear. I want to tell you something."
Miss Anne obeyed slowly. She had been educated never to do anything in a hurry.
"The second post has brought me a letter from Frederick. He asks something unexpected—something which I really do not think we can grant. I do not see that it is possible." Miss Storey spoke in a troubled voice. "I really do not think we can!"
Miss Anne made a little movement, as if holding out her hand for the letter, but she checked herself.
"Yes, you shall see it. I wish you to see it. In fact, it is written to you as well as to me. But I wanted to prepare you first. It came upon me quite as a shock. All the morning I have had it on my mind, and Hecla has been more forgetful than ever—really very trying, poor child. But you will see what they ask—Frederick and Mary, I mean. He has the offer of a good appointment in a place very unhealthy for children. They cannot take little Ivy, and Mary says she cannot let her husband go without her. And they ask—us!"
Miss Anne read the letter slowly. Then she looked up at her sister and read it again.
"You see! The thing is impossible. Quite impossible! A child of five! To come here as if our hands were not full enough already! A child of five! What a dreadful idea!"
Miss Anne's soft blue eyes had a curious light in them. She did not look as if the idea were so dreadful to her.
"I cannot imagine what they are thinking about to ask such a thing," pursued Miss Storey, her little thin hands trembling. "Of course, when our dear sister was taken from us, there could be no question about giving a home to her child. But this is not at all the same. Frederick is only our cousin."
"Our only first cousin!" murmured Miss Anne.
"Yes, but still—he really has no right to expect anything of the sort. And—five years old! Such a troublesome, mischievous age. Hecla is trying enough, so careless and forgetful. Still, she does understand, when one explains to her. But—five years old—a mere baby! We should have to send Elisabeth away, and have an older servant. Impossible!"
"But—" uttered Miss Anne.
"You have read it all!"
"Twice through. You see, Frederick would not let it be any expense to us."
Miss Storey held up her head. "If the child came, I certainly would not be paid for it. Quite out of the question!"
"Frederick seems to think he ought not to refuse this offer."
"I suppose he ought not. But—Mary might remain behind for a time."
"And let him go alone? Oh no! And, Millicent, they have nowhere else to send the little one, except to school. Think! School at five years old! Poor wee pet!"
"Other people have the same difficulties, my dear Anne. I do not see that we are called upon to give a home to all the children in the Storey family. It is out of the question. Quite out of the question."
The sparkle in Miss Anne's blue eyes was quenched.
"Then I suppose you will write and tell Frederick that he must send Ivy to school."
"I shall write and explain. There is nothing else to be done."
Miss Storey gazed round the room, seeing in imagination a small rampageous infant rushing about, teasing the canary, worrying the cat, upsetting everything, behaving altogether precisely as little girls of five should not behave. "It is impossible," she said again. "Frederick ought not to have asked such a thing of us."
"If it cannot be, I suppose there is no more to be said," Miss Anne regretfully observed, standing up. "I am sorry. Poor little Ivy!"
"We are just beginning to get Hecla a little into order; and another child in the house would upset her completely. They would make one another naughty. No, dear Anne, it cannot be. I am quite decided."
"Then you will write," Miss Anne said, and she went out, that her sister might not see tears in her eyes.
In the passage, Hecla ran plump against her.
"Gently, dear. Where are you going?"
"Out for a walk." Hecla's face was all sunshine again, and she held it up for a kiss.
"Elisabeth and I are going."
"Where is Elisabeth?"
"She'd got to do something first in the kitchen, and she said she'd meet me at the back gate."
"I'll walk down the garden with you."
Sometimes, when Miss Storey was not at hand, Miss Anne would indulge in a little run with her niece; and she did so now. Hecla slipped an arm through hers, pulling hard, and Miss Anne ran briskly all down the back garden pathway.
"Auntie, I wish you'd come for a walk."
"I'm wanted indoors, dear. I have been out already."
"Elisabeth can't tell me stories; and I like stories. Auntie Anne, weren't you ever naughty when you were a little girl?"
"Very often naughty, I'm afraid."
That was consoling. "I'm glad. Won't you tell me some day all about your being naughty?"
"Perhaps, some day. But you mustn't be glad, Hecla. You ought to be sorry when people are naughty."
"If it was a grown-up person that was naughty!" suggested Hecla. "But not if it was once you, auntie."
Miss Anne was puzzled, not seeing what the child meant.
"Here is Elisabeth," she said. "Now be sure you get back in good time. Elisabeth has to lay the cloth, you know, at one o'clock. You have just an hour."
Hecla nodded, smiled, promised, and ran off, Elisabeth trying to catch her.
Miss Anne walked slowly back to the house, pausing on the way to look at her favourite flowers, and thinking hard about poor Frederick and Mary, obliged to leave their dear little child behind, and not knowing where to send her.
"If only we could take little Ivy in! I should love to have another," she whispered. "Children in the house make life so different!" Then she looked up, almost guiltily, as if it were wrong not to feel as her sister did. And yet again she murmured aloud: "Poor little Ivy! If only we might!"
Later she returned to the drawing-room, where Miss Storey sat as before, calmly knitting. A letter lay at her side, addressed and stamped.
"I have written to Frederick, Anne."
Something in Miss Storey's face brought a gleam of hope. She looked tired and pale, but the smile was unusual. Miss Anne almost held her breath.
"I have told Frederick that we will give little Ivy a home. I could not say anything else when I began to—Why, my dear Anne!"
For Miss Anne broke into a little cry of joy, and dropped down on her knees in front of Miss Storey's chair, looking up with eyes that overflowed.
"My dear Anne! You are quite agitated."
"I'm so glad—so glad!" almost sobbed Anne. "I could not bear to think of that poor little pet going away among strangers when we might—when perhaps we could have had her. Thank you, dear Millicent."
"Why did you not tell me that you wished it so much?"
"I could not, of course, if you felt that it was impossible."
"I did feel so at first, very strongly. But when I began to write, somehow there was nothing else to be done." Miss Storey hesitated, and a faint pink flush rose in her cheeks. "It seemed to me, I—saw—I seemed to see our dear Lord, when the little children were brought to Him—taking them in His Arms. And I wondered if, perhaps, He wanted us to take little Ivy for Him, and then—then—I could do nothing else but write and tell Frederick. It will be something of a trial, no doubt, but still—still—if it has to be—"
Miss Storey sighed, yet smiled bravely, and Miss Anne looked radiant.
"Dear Millicent, I'm sure you never will regret it. Ivy was such a little darling when we saw her last."
"Two and a half years old! But she is five now."
"She shall not be any trouble to you—if I can help it."
"Ah! But all will be right. We cannot do anything else," said Miss Storey.
The "Vicarage Dog"
"I WANT to go round by the windmill, Elisabeth."
"I'm afraid there ain't time, Miss Hecla. We haven't got but just an hour."
"Oh, but there is. I know there is. We can run, you know. Do please say yes—there's a dear Elisabeth!"
Hecla looked beseechingly into her companion's round, rosy face and honest eyes. Elisabeth was only sixteen years old, which is not really old, though Hecla looked upon her as very much grown-up indeed. She often wished to be sixteen herself, because she felt that then she would be able to do whatever she liked. Elisabeth had been in Miss Storey's service ever since leaving school at twelve years of age, and she was a careful, dependable girl. She was devoted to Hecla, and loved nothing better than taking the little girl out for a ramble.
"It's a good bit round by the windmill," she hesitated, pulling out her neat metal watch, of which she was very proud, for it had been given to her by Miss Storey on the day when she completed four years in the house.
"We'll race," urged Hecla. "Do, please, come!"
"It's two minutes past twelve, and we haven't got but hardly an hour, Miss Hecla."
"You said that before. Make haste. We're wasting time now—ever so much!"
"And I mustn't be one minute late. Not one minute," pursued Elisabeth stolidly, though she began to move. "If I am, Mrs. Prue will begin laying of the table, soon as ever the clock strikes, and then—my! I shan't hear the end of it."
"Prue," otherwise Prudence Brown, was the servant who had been with the Miss Storeys for thirty years past. And it was thought more respectful for a young girl like Elisabeth to call her "Mrs. Prue."
"But we won't be late," declared Hecla. "Come along. Let's hurry."
"I don't mind starting that way, and then we'll see," Elisabeth said. "If you won't stop to look at every single thing, we could do it, Miss Hecla."
"Of course I won't," cried Hecla, setting off full speed.
And the next minute she came to a standstill, as a small fox-terrier, with muddy feet, rushed up and began leaping upon her. "Trip, you sweet dog, how nice! Trip means to come with us for a walk. He may, mayn't he?"
"Oh dear me, what a mess he is making of your frock, Miss Hecla!"
"Down, Trip, down!" shrieked Hecla, in fits of laughter, as Trip struggled to lick her nose. "You dear!" And she hugged him vehemently. "Come along—come! We'll run now, won't we?" And she started again, all unmindful of the muddy streaks down her skirt.
Elisabeth looked ruefully at those streaks, but she gave in, and hurried after the scampering child and dog. If they only kept going at this pace, there would be no difficulty in getting back by one o'clock.
Trip was the "Vicarage Dog," known to everybody in this small town of Nortonbury, and a great friend of Hecla. When Chris was at school, and when his master was busy in the study, Trip would sally forth alone in search of amusement. Sometimes he had to be content with racing after birds; sometimes he had the delight of a mad scramble after a cat; but if only he could come across Hecla, he was perfectly happy.
Under no consideration might Trip be ever admitted into "The Cottage,"—that being the name of Miss Storey's pretty little house. Miss Storey had a great objection to dogs; partly on account of her dear cat, partly for fear of dusty or muddy footmarks on doorsteps and carpets. Trip was afflicted with an ardent longing to go where Hecla was; and he had tried, times without number, to sneak into "The Cottage" by a side entrance. But Mrs. Prue felt like her mistress, and waged war on his kind. The moment Trip's black nose showed itself, he was sure to be sent flying by broomstick or poker, to comfort himself outside at a safe distance with a fury of barks.
Here in the lanes he might follow the little girl to his heart's content; and nobody would find fault, if only he would refrain from jumping on Hecla with those muddy paws. Elisabeth scolded him in vain; for so soon as she began to scold, Hecla felt sure his feelings must be hurt, and then she tried to comfort him, which made him jump on her more vigorously than ever.
"I shall have to give you a good brushing the moment we get back," Elisabeth said despondingly. "And that'll take time too, Miss Hecla."
"But we won't be late," Hecla replied gaily.
Time fled fast, and one-half of the hour had slid away, as such hours do slide, out in the sunshine and the fresh air, when she cried—
"Oh, look! There's a dear sweet little robin!" And she stopped to seize Trip by the collar. "Look—look—just on the path. Hasn't he nice bright eyes? No, Trip—you shan't frighten the dear little robin. Oh, you naughty doggie!"
For Trip broke loose, and tore after the robin, which of course flew away. Trip pursued, then vanished into a small plantation, from which he did not come out in a hurry.
Hecla called, Elisabeth called, in vain. They tried coaxing, and they tried scolding; but Trip was a dog who liked his own way quite as much as little girls and boys do; and nearly ten minutes passed before it pleased him to walk out, with an innocent face, as if much surprised that anybody should be in a hurry.
"You bad, bad Trip, to keep us all this time!" Hecla pretended to beat him, and then kissed the top of his head, which of course meant more leaping up, and fresh attempts to lick her cheeks.
"And he's been and got into more wet mud, and he's making of your frock worse than ever!" declared Elisabeth ruefully.
Wherever the sun shone, a thaw went on, and this meant many muddy patches.
"Dear me, whatever will Mrs. Prue say?" Elisabeth again pulled out her watch. "We've got to turn back this minute, Miss Hecla. There ain't no time for the windmill to-day. Trip's hindered us a deal too long."
"What a pity! I do want to go round," exclaimed Hecla. "Couldn't we run very, very fast?"
"No, we couldn't, Miss Hecla, and we ain't agoing to try. I've had enough o' that!" Elisabeth turned resolutely round as she spoke, and set off.
And Hecla, after one deep sigh of disappointment, started running in advance.
Trip lagged behind, with drooping tail, very much disgusted, for he knew that this meant going home, and he didn't want to go home.
But Hecla, whatever her faults might be, was not in the habit of showing sulks when she could not have her own way.
"I know what I'll do," she cried suddenly. "I know what I'll do! The quarry is only just round that corner, and I do want to see if I can't find some snowdrops for Auntie Anne. It won't take a minute!"
She shouted the words, turning her head back; and before Elisabeth could open her mouth to protest, she was flying at full speed round the next turn to the right, down a little narrow lane, which led to a small quarry, long ago disused, and now well grown over with grass and bushes. A particularly steep path led to the bottom; and by the time Elisabeth arrived at the edge, Hecla had rushed down this path at break-neck pace—fortunately without any slip, or she might have rolled the whole way—and was diving eagerly among grass and moss in the farther corner.
Elisabeth stood waiting above, for she was not sure-footed, and she did not care to try that path.
"Come, Miss Hecla—come!" she kept calling.
And presently Hecla rushed back, scrambling up the steep path in great haste.
"I've got them! I've got them!" she cried, radiant with delight. "Look! Three lovely little snowdrops! Won't Auntie Anne be glad!"
"I can't stop one moment, Miss Hecla. We're late. It was downright naughty of you to run off there without leave. And you knowed I'd got to get back."
Good-natured Elisabeth was for once really vexed. She took firm hold of Hecla's hand, and they ran together till they were breathless, slackening then for a minute, only to run again.
But their efforts were in vain. As they entered the front door, panting and red-checked, and Hecla all over muddy marks, Mrs. Prue, with a particularly grim face, was seen carrying an empty tray from the dining-room. And Miss Anne came out and said—
"Elisabeth, you are not in time. You should have brought Miss Hecla home earlier. I thought I could depend upon you. It is ten minutes past one."
"I'm sorry, ma'am," Elisabeth answered, and not one word did she utter in self-defence.
But, though Hecla could be forgetful and careless, she could not stand by and see Elisabeth blamed for what was her fault.
"It was me, auntie," she said. "It wasn't Elisabeth. I wanted to get these snowdrops, and I ran into the quarry. They're for you, auntie—because I love you."
Aunt Anne bent a little towards the child, with a soft look in her eyes, yet she said—"I'm afraid I can't take the flowers to-day, Hecla. I'm sorry. I should like them—but I must not."
Hecla stood still, dismayed. She partly understood.
"You may go, Elisabeth. I am glad to know that it was not your fault."
And Elisabeth disappeared.
"Dear little Hecla, don't you know that love is best shown by doing what is right—by obeying orders? I love to know that you love me; but I want to see you thinking first of doing rightly. And then—to have the flowers would be so nice. But not if they made you disobey and get others into trouble. Now you had better run upstairs and wash your hands. After dinner you must change your frock, but there is not time now."
Hecla was glad to hurry away, for something had made a lump creep into her throat; and she hated that feeling of a lump. She washed her hands in a great hurry, and tried to brush off some of the muddy streaks. And then, to get rid more completely of the lump, she raced round and round the room several times, and jumped on and off a chair as hard as she could jump—never once thinking of her Aunt Millicent in the room below. It certainly did make her feel better, though not yet happy; for she knew that she had not done as she ought, out-of-doors; and when she glanced towards the poor little rejected snowdrops, lying on her table, the lump wanted to come back.
It was not surprising that, when she got downstairs, Miss Storey asked, "What have you been doing, Hecla,—to make such extraordinary noises overhead?"
"Oh, I only—jumped, auntie."
"Pray don't make such a noise another time."
Early dinner that day was rather a solemn meal. Miss Storey did not say anything about the late return, as she knew that Miss Anne had already spoken; but the usual chatter on Hecla's part was stopped, and the little girl was made to feel herself just a little in disgrace.
As they left the table, Miss Storey said to her sister—"I think, my dear Anne, that as Hecla has forgotten so many things to-day which she ought to have remembered, we will put off telling her our news until to-morrow."
"Perhaps it will be best," assented gentle Aunt Anne.
"What news, auntie?" cried Hecla. "I do love news. Oh, please tell me."
"Not to-day, Hecla. To-morrow, perhaps, if you are a good child."
"Auntie Millicent, I will be good. I'll be most dreadfully good, if only you'll tell me."
"We shall see," said Miss Storey. "Now you must go upstairs."
After dinner, Hecla always had to lie down on her bed for an hour, as her back was not very strong. Aunt Anne often came to read to her, which she loved, or to talk with her, which she counted still more delightful; but to-day for once Aunt Anne failed to appear.
So Hecla lay and pondered, kicking her legs about with impatience, as she tried to imagine what the news could possibly be. She worried and worried, guessed and guessed, ransacked her little brain for ideas, and felt as if she really did not know how to wait such a tremendous length of time as a whole afternoon and evening and night.
Was it something to do with Chris? Or was it something to do with Trip? Or had somebody sent her a nice present? Hecla loved presents. Or was someone coming to pay the aunts a visit? That did not happen often, but it was nice when it did happen. Or was there to be an excursion somewhere? What could it be?
Little Ivy
MISS STOREY'S cousin, Mr. Frederick Croft, read her letter silently, his young wife leaning against his shoulder and reading it also. They were alone together.
"Kind creature!" he said at length. "I didn't really expect it of her."
"I did, Fred. She is so dear—so really good."
"Anne would be ready enough. Anne loves children. But Millicent—"
"She would do anything she felt to be right."
"Yes; that's it. She writes sweetly; but it's because she thinks she ought. Not because she wants Ivy. And the question is—Were we right to ask it of her?"
"I don't see that there was anything else to be done."
"What I mean is—Am I right to let you come with me? That is the real question."
"I knew you meant that. But you can't help it, dear, because I am coming." Mary Croft spoke firmly.
"If I forbade it—you would not come."
"You are not going to forbid it."
"What if the climate should make you ill?"
"What if it should make you ill?" she asked.
"Then, of course—But it is my plain duty to go."
"And it is my duty, Fred, to go with you."
"It is not necessary for you, as it is for me."
"Fred, don't argue any more. My mind is made up. And you know you couldn't get on without me. You would be wretched, miserable. You know you would," repeated Mary Croft. "As for the climate, I am twice as strong as you are, and much less likely to be ill. And if you should be ill, I must be there to nurse you."
Neither said any more for two or three minutes. Perhaps Mr. Croft felt too strongly to reply. His next words were with a husky laugh, which sounded as if tears might not be very far distant.
"I wonder how poor little 'Why-because' will take it?"
"She will say—that," Mary answered, trying to conquer the shake in her voice. For, though she was quite determined not to stay behind when her husband went to Africa, it nearly broke her heart to think of leaving her darling Ivy.
"We must tell her."
"She is so sweet, so reasonable," murmured Mrs. Croft. "She will understand—that it has to be."
"I'll tell her. You must leave it to me."
"No, no, Fred. Not you. You have enough to think about. I shall do it!"
Mary Croft always tried to spare other people.
"I don't believe you can."
"Yes, I can. And I know you can't. I shall explain how it is. Somehow, one always talks to Ivy as one would to a grown-up person. Dear, you will write at once to Miss Storey. Tell her how grateful we are; how I love her for it; how sweet our pet is. I'll write too, but not to-day."
"Sh—sh!" murmured Mr. Croft, as the door opened, and a child came softly in.
Then, in a moment, he knew that he could not possibly make up his mind to tell little Ivy of the coming separation. He could not do it. He was a brave man, but that was beyond his powers.
"Yes, I'll go and write to the cousins," he said hurriedly, standing up.
And Mary Croft smiled faintly to herself, for she understood. He went out of the room, pausing by the way to bend over the child for one vehement kiss. After which he fled.
Ivy came forward, and stood beside the table, looking at her mother. She was such a dear little girl! No wonder her father and mother could hardly bear the thought of being parted from her. She held her head well up, like a small queen, and she had pretty plump fair arms, and soft velvety cheeks; and great billows of pale brown hair, which was shot with gold when the sun shone on it, rose over her forehead and fell curling all down her back; and her big thoughtful brown eyes were fixed wonderingly on Mrs. Croft's face.
When anything puzzled Ivy, she had a funny way of saying: "Why-because?"—pronouncing the two words in a soft, slow, questioning manner. Mr. Croft liked so much the way in which she did this, that he would not have her taught to speak differently. And that was how he had fallen into the habit of calling her, "Little Why-because."
Besides being so sweet to look at, Ivy was very sweet in character—a loving-hearted, gentle child—and indeed it was this which made her so sweet in face and manner. If she had been spoilt and ill-tempered and disagreeable and selfish, she might have been just as nice-looking a little girl in outward form, but everybody would not have loved her nearly so much. She would not have looked half so sweet and attractive. Nothing spoils the prettiest face like ill-temper.
As she stood by the table, she inquired—"Mummie, why-because is daddy crying?"
"Was daddy crying, darling?"
"I saw real live tears in his eyes, mummie." She meant that he was not merely pretending to cry, to amuse her, as sometimes he had done.
"He is sorry, pet, and so am I. We have to do something that we don't like to do, and it makes us sorry. And yet it has to be. Sometimes, you know, God tells us to do things that we would much rather not do."
"Why-because?"
"Always because He loves us, darling. We may be quite sure of that."
Ivy waited for more; quietly standing and waiting, as a grown-up person might have done; not fidgeting about, as Hecla would have done in her place. All her short life she had been much with her elders, and often she had a manner beyond her years. Yet she was a most happy little girl, full of enjoyment.
Mrs. Croft came round the table to where Ivy was, and sat down, putting her arm round the child.
"Sweet, do you remember last summer, when we were at the seaside, that daddy had to make you wear big blue spectacles when you were down on the shore? You didn't like them because they kept you from seeing the beautiful sea and waves properly. And you wanted to take them off; and mummie had to say 'No.' And then you asked, 'Why-because must you wear them?' And daddy explained that it was because Ivy's eyes were weak; and if she didn't wear the spectacles, the hot sun would make them worse, and then they might be weak always; but if she did as she was told, they would soon be stronger. And it was just because daddy and mummie do so love their little girl that they made her keep on wearing those tiresome ugly big spectacles. Don't you see? Not because we wanted to trouble our pet, but only because we loved her so."
Ivy smiled.
"And it is the same thing with our kind loving Father in Heaven, Ivy. Sometimes He sees that we need a trouble—something like wearing those spectacles—something that tries us and makes us sad—and yet He sees that if we don't have it, we shall not be strong and well in our spirits by-and-by. And so—because He so tenderly cares for us—He sends the trouble, and tells us to bear it patiently. Does my pet understand?"
A little nod came in reply. "But daddy did have real tears, mummie."
"I don't think that was wrong of daddy. When God has to send us trouble, He doesn't tell us not to mind, only to try to be patient, and always to be sure that He loves us. When our dear Lord was on earth, and had great troubles to bear, He shed tears, and He was very, very sad; but still He always said, 'Thy will be done!' And we must say the same."
Ivy gave a sigh, and leant her pretty head against her mother's shoulder. Mrs. Croft's other arm came round her tightly. Oh, how she wished that she could shield her darling from every sorrow! She would gladly have borne anything herself, if only Ivy might be perfectly happy.
"Sweet, how would you like to pay a visit to kind Cousin Millicent and Cousin Anne? You know what a beautiful present they sent you at Christmas."
"My big doll, mummie."
"Yes; with a lot of fine clothes that come off and on, and a cradle for dolly to sleep in. Wasn't it good of them? And now I hope Ivy is going to stay with them."
"Mummie and daddy too!"
"Mummie will take you there, darling. And then mummie and daddy have to go on somewhere else for a time."
"Where?"
"A good way off. Daddy has to go; and mummie can't let him go alone."
"Why-because must daddy go?"
"I'm afraid you can't understand that, Ivy. You are too little. By-and-by, when you are older, you will see why it had to be. You must believe now that daddy wouldn't go if it was not right. There are many things that we can't understand till we are older—things that daddy and mummie can't understand now, and never will till—by-and-by! And this is a thing that little Ivy can't understand yet. But you can trust daddy and mummie, darling. You know we wouldn't go if we could help it, if it wasn't for little Ivy's good in some way."
Perhaps poor Mrs. Croft was saying all this as much for her own comfort as for Ivy's; yet Ivy seemed in a way to understand.
And then Mrs. Croft added, "We should love to take our darling with us; but we must not."
"Why-because?" came promptly, as a matter of course.
"It is a place where little children cannot live. If we took you, you would soon fall ill. You would suffer terribly, and you could not run or play. Think how cruel that would be for us. You are healthy and strong now; and we want you to keep well. And so we are going to leave you for a while with those dear kind cousins, and they will take such care of our pet, till we come back."
"Why-because should I be ill, mummie?" Ivy spoke in a rather smothered voice.
"It is such a hot place, burning hot, and not fresh and cool like this. All little English children fall ill there; so their fathers and mothers dare not take them. Yet daddy has to go; and I know my little Ivy will be brave and good, and will wish mummie to go with daddy and to take care of him. And only think—" as she felt a heaving sob—"only think, sweet, what fun it will be for you to have Cousin Hecla to play with! She is only three or four years older than Ivy. You have never yet had another little girl belonging to you, in the same house. Won't that be delightful? You must take your new dolly, and you and Hecla can play with it together."
Though Ivy cried a little, as she nestled in her mother's arms, it was wonderful how bravely she took all this.
Of course she did not know what it really meant. She had no idea how far away her parents were going, or how long they might have to stay. She had never yet been parted from them; and she could not picture to her little self what it would be not to have them always at hand. She was so small.
But also she was, as her mother had said, "such a reasonable little girl." Though only five years old, she was remarkably sensible and full of thought. When once she knew that there were good reasons for what had to be, she would submit.
In this case she understood at least that "daddy" was obliged to go, and that "mummie" could not let him go alone; and that she might not go with them. And she submitted, not indeed without tears, but without resisting and fretting.
It seemed, too, as if the little child already knew something—already grasped just a beginning—of that which many people do not even begin to see till late in life—a full belief that God always knows what is best, and that whatever comes from Him comes in love.
The Wonderful News
HECLA had to wait next day till after early dinner, before hearing what the wonderful news was. Miss Storey felt sure that, if she were told sooner, she would not do a single lesson well that morning; so at breakfast, Aunt Anne promised that she should know directly dinner was over, if she were good meantime.
That "if" had wonderful power. Hecla, in alarm lest she should have to wait another day, did her very best, and did nicely. She actually kept from fidgeting, learnt her easy lessons, wrote neatly, made few ink-spots, and put almost everything away in its right place, without being reminded.
"So, you see, dear, you can do better when you choose," Aunt Millicent remarked. "What a pity you don't choose oftener!"
And it was a pity, was it not?
Then she went for her walk with Elisabeth, and Elisabeth seemed to know more than Hecla did, for she kept pursing up her lips in a most provoking fashion, and refusing to answer questions.
"You'll hear, all in good time," was the most she would say, when Hecla kept wondering and wondering what the "news" could possibly be.
"I believe you know all the time, and I don't see why I shouldn't too," she said in an injured tone, forgetting that but for her own fault she would have been told as soon as Elisabeth. "Do just say one thing! It isn't a doll, is it? A big, big doll that winks. I should love to have a doll that winks! It isn't that, I'm quite perfectly sure, because it's nobody's birthday now, and I do wish it was."
"If you're quite perfectly sure, Miss Hecla, there ain't no need for me to tell you."
"Elisabeth, you're just horrid!" cried Hecla, and she raced away, making Elisabeth race after her.
But, of course, she did not really mean that kind Elisabeth was horrid; and in three minutes she was back again by her side, putting endless questions.
In time the walk ended. They reached home punctually at one, and early dinner followed. Both aunts were smiling; and Hecla felt sure that the coming news must be good news. She was in such haste to be told, that she tried to get rid of her helping in a terrific hurry, and drew on herself more than one rebuke.
"My dear Hecla, you will certainly choke yourself," Miss Storey said seriously. "That is not the way to eat. Look at Aunt Anne and me. Do we stuff our food down in that fashion?"
Hecla was obliged to confess that they did not, as she watched the tiny morsels which were delicately inserted, one by one, between Miss Storey's lips.
"But I'm in such a dreadful hurry to-day, auntie."
Aunt Anne looked pleadingly at Aunt Millicent, and the latter said nothing. Hecla tried to copy Miss Storey's mode of eating; and so pleased was Miss Storey to see this that, when the meat went away, she observed—
"You have been a good girl this morning, and you shall not wait any longer."
And then the news was told.
Hecla listened with fixed eyes of amazement, hardly able to believe what she heard. She kept breaking in with questions, interrupting explanations, and repeating the words uttered, as if they conveyed no meaning to her mind. It was not that she was actually stupid, as a listener might have imagined, but that her own thoughts were racing at such a pace as to make it impossible for her to take in half of what was spoken. Naturally she became puzzled.
"A real little girl! Coming here! Coming to live! Truly, auntie! A real, live, little girl!"
"My dear Hecla, don't be silly," began Miss Storey, rather vexed.
And before she could utter another word, Hecla, suddenly grasping what the news meant, leaped from her chair, and hopped vigorously round the room.
Miss Storey looked in despair at her sister, who was smiling, and said, "Now, what is that for?"
"Just a little ebullition of feeling, dear Millicent," said Miss Anne.
And as Hecla, in her wild career, came close, she put out a firm hand and stopped the child. Hecla stood still, breathing hard with her exertions.
"What's 'ebullition,' auntie?"
Miss Anne did not take the trouble to reply, since she knew from experience that the explanation would be forgotten in five minutes. She only said—
"How will you like to have little Ivy?"
Hecla gasped with joy.
"And is her name Ivy, auntie?"
"We have told you so four times already," remarked Miss Storey. "Surely you knew that you had a little cousin named Ivy!"
Yes, of course Hecla had known it, but she had a provoking way of seeming to forget things, just when she ought to have remembered them.
"And will she be ever so much smaller than me?"
"Now, Hecla, why do you not ask sensible questions? Ivy is more than three years younger than you."
"And will she be here always, always?"
"For a time she will be here, while her father and mother are abroad."
Hecla wanted to hop again, but Miss Anne held her fast.
"That was what I expected," Miss Storey said, sighing. "We ought to have waited till after dinner, as I intended."
"Yes, you were right," agreed Miss Anne.
"Now, Hecla, you are to sit down and eat your pudding. No more hopping. You know that you are not allowed to get up in the middle of dinner."
"Unless Auntie Millicent wants me to ring the bell!"
"But she did not want you to ring the bell just now, so that has nothing to do with the question."
"Oh, but I'm so dreadfully glad, auntie."
Hecla danced round the table to her seat, and plumped into it.
"I don't want any pudding, please."
"But pudding is good for you." And Miss Storey sent a helping, as usual. "That is to be eaten, my dear."
Hecla began it in a distracted style. "Oh dear—what is Ivy like, auntie, please?"
"She was a very dear little girl when we saw her last," Miss Anne replied. "You and she will be great friends, I am sure."
Hecla gave a leap in her chair, which set the glasses rattling, and her spoon fell—handle and all—into her rice pudding.
"My dear Hecla!" protested Miss Storey, but she was unheard.
Hecla's cheeks were crimson.
"Auntie—oh, auntie—please—may I take care of Ivy? Please, mayn't I? I'd love to dress and undress her; like I do with my doll."
"And throw her into a corner, when you are tired of doing it?" asked Miss Anne.
"Oh no, no—I couldn't ever be tired of Ivy! May I?"
"Elisabeth, a fresh spoon for Miss Hecla. Finish your pudding," said Miss Storey.
"Mayn't I, auntie? Please say yes."
"If we find you growing very, very careful and particular, and always doing what you are told, perhaps some day you shall be allowed to help," Aunt Anne said. "But you must show us first that we can trust you, Hecla. You must not go on forgetting everything you are told."
Hecla swallowed a big mouthful with a gulp.
"I'll never, never, never forget one single thing ever again, auntie. And then you'll know I can be trusted—won't you?"
"Yes, I think we should know then," Miss Anne said.
And Miss Storey shook an unbelieving head.
"Auntie, I don't feel as if I could lie down quiet this afternoon," pleaded Hecla, as they rose from table. "I'm all over kicks and jumpiness all through every single bit of me. I do want to go out, and have a run. Please—mayn't I?"
The aunts spoke together in undertones; and Miss Anne turned to Hecla.
"Just for once we will let you off the lying down," she said. "You must be very good, and not ask it again. I am going to speak to Mr. Deane, and you may come with me."
Hecla flung herself on Aunt Anne, in rapturous gratitude.
Alas, for Miss Anne's beautiful frills! But she liked to be hugged, even though she gently tried to shelter the frills from being crushed.
"That will do, dear. Now we must get our hats."
"And perhaps I shall find Chris. I do want to tell Chris; and Uncle John too."
"Uncle John" was Mr. Deane, the Vicar of Nortonbury. He was not really Hecla's uncle, but since Chris, his nephew, always called him so, Hecla had fallen into the same way. Mr. Deane liked her to do it. He was very fond of children, and all children loved him.
During many years he had worked tremendously hard in a big poor London parish, till he became very ill, and was ordered to go into the country, to save his life. He was here still, three years after, always hoping to be some day strong enough to go back to his beloved London work; but at present he was not nearly so. He was not married, and he had one orphan nephew living with him, just as the Misses Storey had one little orphan niece.
Hecla and Chris were great chums. He was over ten, and of course he felt himself to be years and years older and wiser than a mere little girl of eight and a half; and, of course, he expected her to be properly meek and submissive. But, as she had an immense admiration for him, and never supposed that he could do wrong, he was really kind to her; and on the whole, he did not dislike to have her hanging round, and watching his every movement with dog-like devotion, only not quite so dumb as a dog's devotion, for whatever else happened or did not happen, Hecla always talked.
As Miss Anne Storey and Hecla reached the open door of the Vicarage—it generally stood wide open, as if inviting the people of the place to go in as often as they liked, which, indeed, was the Vicar's desire—a pale, thin, delicate-looking man, with a face which seemed made of sunshine, came out of the front room.
"What! Miss Anne and little Hecla! Come along. Come in," he said heartily. "How do you both do? Well, little one?"
Hecla burst out at once, "Oh, Uncle John, only think! There's a dear, sweet, little darling pet cousin coming!"
"Eh, how's that?" The Vicar led them in, put a chair for Miss Anne, and dropped into another himself.
Miss Anne began to explain, and Hecla broke in with further particulars, as she leant confidingly against the Vicar's knee.
"Hush, hush," he murmured. "Polite people don't interrupt, you know. Aunt Anne was saying something."
Hecla held her tongue exactly six seconds, and felt as if she had been silent for half-an-hour.
"Won't it be lovely?" she exclaimed, taking advantage of a tiny halt. "And I'm going perhaps to dress and undress Ivy, as soon as ever I've shown I can be properly trusted."
Mr. Deane's eyes twinkled. "Can't you be trusted yet? That is sad."
"Because I sometimes forget," Hecla said, hanging her head. "But," and she brightened up, "I'm beginning this very minute, so's to be ready when Ivy comes."
"It's a great thing to be trusted, Hecla. Worth trying hard for. Mind you do."
"And Ivy's only five years old, Uncle John."
"Ah, that ought to make a little woman of you. When she comes, you must remember that you will be the big girl, and she the little one. You will have to set her a good example. See?"
Hecla nodded, examining the Vicar's sleeve-stud.
"Little girls almost always try to do what they see big girls doing. So a great deal will depend upon you. If Ivy sees you careful and truthful and obedient, she will try to be the same. And if not—she will copy the other ways. I wonder if you are going to think about this, and be a help to Auntie Anne."
"I don't mean ever to forget anything ever again!"
"That's right. Aim high, little one. Always try for the best. And how are you going to do it?" He lifted his hand gravely upward. "That is the only way," he said. "You must ask God to make you able."
Hecla nodded shyly.
"And now I think you must run out into the garden while Aunt Anne and I have a talk. You'll find Chris there somewhere. Down the path to the little pond."
Hecla glanced at Miss Anne Storey for leave, and then, as he released her, she scampered cheerfully off, through the open front door, and down the side path of which the Vicar had spoken. This being Chris' half-holiday, she had been in great hopes of coming across him.
And, indeed, no sooner had she passed through a mass of bushes than she saw her friend. The path opened out upon a minute pond, and by its side stood a boy, hands in pockets, surveying a large frog. The frog sat motionless, apparently surveying him with no less interest. Christie, or Chris, as he was commonly called, had a merry, freckled face, and reddish hair.
"Chris!" she cried. "Only think—only think, Chris!"
"Well?" questioned Chris, not changing his attitude.
"Chris, it's going to be so lovely!"
"What is?"
Chris showed no overwhelming interest: A girl's news was not likely to be important.
Hecla whirled round like a little dancing Dervish as a relief to her spirits, and dropped down on the grass, only to spring up and whirl again.
"Hallo—I say, you're frightening my frog."
Hecla came to a standstill.
"Is he yours? How did you get him?"
"Came," Chris explained with brevity. "What's up?"
"Guess—only guess! I'll give you—twenty guesses!"
"New doll?"
"No, it isn't a new doll—not exactly."
"Well, you may as well say. New frock, I suppose," with calm disdain.
Hecla whirled again, three times round. "No, it isn't a new frock," she cried gleefully.
"Then I don't know what it is. Girls only care for dolls and frocks."
"It's—it's—Chris, it's the loveliest news! Only think! A dear little darling girl is coming to live with us. Really to live with us, Chris. A real, true cousin!" By which, she rather unkindly meant to point the difference between this connection and the sham relationship which Chris enjoyed.
But the arrow fell harmless, for Chris was sublimely indifferent to cousinships.
"And I'm going to do heaps of things for her. And she's to have all my toys, and the dolls most especially, for I sha'n't want dolls now I'm going to have Ivy. She'll be ever so much nicer than dolls, and I'll always play with her. And perhaps I'll be allowed to dress and undress her."
"You'll jolly soon get sick of that."
"No, I sha'n't. I'll never get tired of her. And I've got to show I can be trusted, and I don't mean ever to forget things again. And then they'll know I can."
Chris laughed.
"You needn't laugh, Chris—not like that—truly you needn't, because I do mean it you know."
Chris was delicately tickling the frog with a straw to induce it to leap. Hecla paused in her outpour to watch his proceedings. She always loved to look at what he might be doing.
"So it's a baby, is it?" he presently vouchsafed to ask.
"The frog?" inquired absent-minded Hecla.
"You dunderhead! The cousin, of course!"
"She's near a baby—but not quite. She's five years old."
"And you're only eight—pretty much the same."
This was too insulting—even from Chris.
"Why, Chris!"—getting crimson. "Oh, Chris, how can you? Why, I'm eight and a half, and a whole month besides. And I can read, and I can hem pocket-handkerchiefs, and I can spell and do lots of sums. And I know history. And she's only a tiny wee mite!"
Then Hecla reminded him that even he was only ten and a half, just two years older than herself—which he always treated as a huge difference—and she tried to reason out the fact that he was less older than herself than she was older than Ivy. She saw the comparison in her mind, but only managed to bring it out confusedly.
And Chris's sole comment was, "Bosh!"
Then the frog made up his mind what to do, and went off in a series of long leaps. Chris rushed after him, and Hecla would have done the same but for Aunt Anne's voice calling.
So she had to go home, feeling rather flat, for her joy in Ivy's coming had met with small sympathy from her chum.
Buttons and Button-holes
THREE weeks passed, and little Ivy came. Think how happy Hecla was. She felt it to be a thousand million times better than having a present of the biggest doll ever made—even a doll which could open and shut its eyes, and would make a noise when pinched about the waist.
Her most ardent wish now—a wish which had grown stronger every day of the three weeks—was to be trusted sometimes to take care of little Ivy. She was always thinking about this. She wanted to be allowed really to help with the child; to tie and untie her strings, to button and unbutton her clothes; to amuse her; to keep her happy; to be a "little mother" to Ivy. It was Aunt Anne who had put this last idea into Hecla's head.
She had remarked, "Poor little Ivy will miss her dear mother so much! We shall have to try our best to make up to her for that great loss!"
And then Hecla began to wonder if she could not act the part of a sort of imitation-mother to Ivy.
It was in her busy little head that she would be so good, so sensible, so careful, so unforgetful, that her aunts would feel sure they might trust Ivy with her anywhere, out in the garden as well as indoors, and even perhaps—wouldn't that be grand?—on the road as far as the Vicarage, which really was only a few minutes away. What fun—if she might be allowed sometimes to trot little Ivy round there, and to have games with Chris in the nice Vicarage garden!
She thought and thought this over, in her funny absent fashion, during the three weeks. And while she was planning hard about all that she meant to be and to do in the future, her mind was quite away from present duties, and more than ever she forgot all sorts of things which she ought to have attended to each day.
Elisabeth was not going away. At first Miss Storey said that this would have to be. She felt that she ought to find an older servant to look after Ivy.
But everybody was unhappy at the thought. Elisabeth was such a nice girl, so true and honest and careful and dependable and conscientious—really, the number of virtues which had to be tacked to her name was quite astonishing, when one came to count them over.
Miss Storey first spoke to Elisabeth about parting with her, three or four days after it was settled that Ivy would come; and Elisabeth simply cried and cried until her eyes nearly disappeared. And Hecla cried, and Miss Anne cried, and the household generally became so appallingly tearful, that poor Miss Storey, who cried as much as anybody, was quite at her wits' end, and didn't know which way to turn.
Then old Mrs. Prue, who never cried, but showed her feelings by getting fearfully cross and scolding everybody all round—even her mistresses, and they always took it meekly, because they said it was just dear old faithful Prue's way, and they supposed she wasn't feeling very well, and ought to take a tonic—old Mrs. Prue made a suggestion.
She said she couldn't for the life of her see why in the world Elisabeth shouldn't stay on, and take care of Miss Ivy. For her part, she'd sooner have Elisabeth than a dozen of them giddy flaunting girls, going about with red feathers in their hats and gaudy blue silk blouses as was a disgrace to the parents that had brought them up. And Elisabeth, if she was young, had got a head on her shoulders, and was used to children in her own home; and she'd be willing to learn, which was more than could be said for that other sort of girl; and if help was wanted, why, she herself would be ready enough to lend a hand.
And while Hecla, who overheard all this, was wondering what a girl would be like who hadn't any head on her shoulders, Miss Anne chimed in with further entreaties, and said how she meant to do everything herself for the little darling, and how she would dress and undress her, and take her out and teach her to read. Aunt Millicent wanted nothing more than to keep Elisabeth, for she hated new faces and new ways. So at last it was settled, and Elisabeth's poor blistered face became quite radiant with happiness.
"And I can help," Hecla said confidently. "I can button all the buttonholes, can't I, Auntie Anne?—And lots of things besides."
"But you mustn't forget things, if you promise to do them," Miss Anne warned her.
Hecla was perfectly sure that she never would forget any single thing to do with Ivy. Miss Anne could not feel so sure, but she began to hope that having Ivy in the house might in time really make Hecla more careful.
The looked-for day came at last; and little Ivy was brought by her mother, who stayed one night in "The Cottage."
There is no need, I think, to describe the parting next day. All who have seen such partings know only too well what they mean. And Hecla knew, for she had had to say a worse good-bye to her own dear mother, less than two years before. Young as she was, she had not forgotten that sad time.
Ivy was a tender-hearted, loving little child, and poor Mrs. Croft tried hard for her sake not to give way; and Ivy, too, struggled not to sob, because she had been told that it would distress her mother. But when the fly had driven away, she cried most bitterly and seemed quite broken-hearted. Hecla, who at first sight had tumbled over head and ears in love with the little girl, was rather astonished that she could not be comforted by either toys or "sweeties," which last Hecla had bought with the saved-up pence of three weeks.
"Never mind, she will be better by-and-by," Aunt Anne whispered, as the sobbing child turned away to hide her face on Miss Anne's shoulder.
Indeed, that was the only thing which seemed to comfort her—being held tightly in those kind arms and petted and kissed.
But happily little children soon cheer up, and by next morning, though she still looked forlorn and tears were near at hand, she was able to take her breakfast, and to be interested in things around.
Hecla was allowed to leave her lessons and to play with Ivy, and she did her very best. She brought her toys and sat on the ground putting them out, and making lavish presents to the younger girl of anything that Ivy seemed to admire. A good while passed pleasantly thus, and then, when Ivy began to cry suddenly for "Mummie!" Miss Anne came and sat down with them on the floor, and comforted her and told one or two funny stories to make her smile.
"Now I think we might go for a walk," she said. "What do you think, Ivy? Wouldn't that be nice?"
Hecla bounded up.
"And oh, auntie, may I button all the buttonholes?" she cried.
Miss Anne laughed at the droll way in which she expressed herself, and Ivy asked seriously—
"Why-because does she want?"
Hecla gave Ivy a rapturous hug.
"Oh, you dear little pet!" she cried. "Auntie, may we go down by the river? I want to show Ivy the bridge-part, and how boats go under and out again."
"Yes, I think we can go there."
Hecla danced upstairs, turning round every other step to explain about the river and the "bridge-part," as she called it, and Ivy followed slowly, step by step, holding Miss Anne's hand. Hecla was allowed to stand by, while Aunt Anne put on little Ivy's pretty blue walking-frock and blue hat.
"Now you may button this, Hecla," she said.
And Hecla, who was not clever with her fingers, struggled till she was scarlet in the face to get a rather difficult button into its hole. She stopped at length in despair, and to their surprise Ivy's little fingers did it at once quite deftly.
"Clever little thing!" Aunt Anne murmured.
"She's cleverer than me, isn't she—lots?" cried Hecla, overhearing what she was not meant to hear.
"Mummie always lets me dress myself," said Ivy.
"Then you shall do it another day," promised Miss Anne.
It was a lovely spring day, early spring, yet warm and sunny. They went outside the town; not towards the windmill, where Hecla had gone with Elisabeth one day, but in another direction, past the Vicarage and the old grey Church, and along a country road, with a little river beside it.
Presently they reached a place where the river disappeared under the road for a short distance, coming out soon on the other side. All this covered part was arched over, just like a particularly wide bridge, and that was what Hecla meant when she talked of the "bridge-part."
It was a grand play-place for the children of Nortonbury. They loved to throw in sticks and small boughs and sometimes little wooden boats at the upper end of the covered part, and then to rush to the lower end and watch for the said sticks or boughs or boats to come out, carried by a swift current through the long arch. The river just there was both deeper and more rapid than elsewhere, because it had to flow in a narrower channel.
Above the covered-over part the banks were steep; and the children would stand at the edge and fling in their boats. But at the lower end, there was a more shelving bank, so that they could easily climb down to the water brink, and could take them out, if the boats floated near enough.
Chris and his schoolfellows would often play here on their half-holidays, when not engaged with cricket or football. Each would launch a boat, half-a-dozen or a dozen being started at the same moment; and then they would tear frantically down to the lower opening, watching whose boat would appear first. Hecla loved to look on at such times, if only she could persuade Miss Anne or Elisabeth to take her there. She was delighted if Chris' boat came out first from under the archway, and was disappointed if he failed to win. For Chris was her chum and her hero, and the dearest and best boy that the world had ever seen, in her opinion.
Chris was fond of Hecla too, but he did not tell her so, or condescend to say pretty things to her. Ten years old is not an age when boys flatter girls. He always let her know that she was "only a girl," and that she couldn't be expected to do things so well as he could; and Hecla regretfully agreed. She often wished that she had been a boy, instead of only a girl.
On this particular occasion, when Miss Anne Storey and the two children arrived at the spot, who should they find but Chris himself, all alone for once, preparing to send a small boat on its voyage under the road.
And the astonishing thing was that he had hardly looked at little Ivy, in her blue frock, with her long soft hair, and her small serious face, before he seemed just as much taken with her as everybody else was. He actually put his boat into her tiny plump hands, and allowed her to throw it in herself while he stood close by, watching. And that was a thing he had never allowed Hecla to do. He always seemed to think it was quite honour and glory enough for Hecla, if she just stood by and saw him doing it.
Hecla felt a wee bit sore and hurt in her mind, it must be confessed, when she saw her chum actually leading the small newcomer to the edge of the bank, holding her fast, lest she should slip, and guiding her grasp as she threw the boat. Twice it fell short; and each time he scrambled down the almost perpendicular bank, at the imminent risk of rolling headlong into the water, brought it up, and made her try again. And Hecla looked on, not jealous, for happily she was not a jealous child, but just a little grieved to think that he had never taken the trouble to do so much for her.
The boat, off at last, disappeared quickly under the arching road; and he caught Ivy's hand and raced with her to the opening of the river below. He ran down the shelving bank, still holding Ivy by the hand; and as the boat floated out, he flung himself down flat, reaching out to seize it.
Aunt Anne, rather in a fright lest Ivy should slip into the water, hurried after them with Hecla; and they arrived in time to see Chris lift Ivy up the bank and put his boat into her hands.
"Why—because is it mine?" she asked.
"It's yours, if you like," he said.
Ivy's big brown eyes looked into his, wonderingly.
"Why-because is it mine?" she asked.
"Why—because I give it to you. It's yours, and you may keep it."
Ivy hugged the wet boat to her chest, not improving the blue frock. "I love it," she said. "Thank you, kind boy."
Chris looked immensely gratified.
Then the same play was acted over again. Miss Anne kept running alongside of the children, for she did not feel sure how far she might trust Chris to be careful; yet she would not stop him. It was so nice to see the little one's look of delight; and she seemed to turn so prettily to Chris, almost more than she had yet been disposed to turn to anyone except Aunt Anne herself.
"Chris likes Ivy," Hecla murmured, with a small sigh.
Miss Anne understood.
"Yes; and I think he is sorry for her, Hecla. That is nice of Chris. Boys don't always trouble themselves to be kind to little girls who are in trouble. I'm glad Chris does."
Hecla smiled and felt comforted. She loved to hear Chris praised.
Another Side of Ivy
IT was very good for Hecla to have her little cousin in the house. She had always been an only child among grown-up people, and they had given way to her, and had tried to make her happy. But now there was a younger child who had to be given way to, and to be made happy; and Hecla was expected to take her share in this.
And she was most willing to do so. Hecla had her faults, as we have seen, and some very tiresome faults; but selfishness was not one of them. She was ready to give up anything to Ivy, and wanted to make presents of half her toys to the younger child. If Ivy admired something of hers, Hecla would give it to her directly.
Another good point, already noted, was that she seldom showed jealousy. Though she did just at first feel a little hurt to see her chum doing things for the new little girl which he had never done for his older friend, that was only a passing feeling, and it did not make her cross or unhappy. It did not trouble her to see Ivy being petted and fondled by Aunt Anne, because she was so small and lonely. And when even Miss Storey, who in general was not fond of children, seemed from the first to take to this little one, Hecla was not jealous, not in the least. That was nice of her, was it not? Jealousy is such a disagreeable, ugly fault.
And she just loved to be allowed to help in any way with Ivy. She wanted ever so much to be trusted sometimes to take care of her. That, too, was a good thing for Hecla, for it made her not quite so impulsive and heedless as she had been.
By "impulsive," I mean that whatever came into her head she would do straight off, not stopping for a moment to think whether it was right or wrong. She was naturally what we call "impulsive,"—quick thoughts and wishes and intentions springing up into her little mind, and being instantly acted upon, without an idea of what might come after. Ivy was not impulsive, but quiet and thoughtful. That made it much easier for Ivy to fall into fewer blunders than Hecla. It made the fight against heedlessness much harder for Hecla than for Ivy.
Ivy's pretty gentle movements seemed made for the two aunts. They were exactly what Miss Storey thought nice and proper, and what she had tried in vain to teach Hecla. Hecla would bounce into a room, slamming the door behind her or leaving it flung wide open, whereas Ivy would walk quietly in, closing the door with no noise at all, and never tumbling over chairs or stools or rug-edges.
"She is such a little lady," Miss Storey sometimes said, with great approval.
And Hecla wondered how anybody not grown-up could be a "lady."
It was curious to see the two children together; Hecla, years the older, all excitement and restlessness, like quicksilver, and Ivy, so small and young, so dignified and sensible.
Hecla really was trying to be different; but the habits of her life could not be conquered in a day or a month, and a great deal of hard fighting lay ahead, before she could hope to become as quiet and thoughtful as little Ivy was by nature. Not that Hecla did not think! She thought a great deal, but unfortunately she always seemed to give her mind to anything and everything except the present duty.
Besides much fighting, much praying for help was needed, and that was a habit which Hecla had to learn, as we all have to learn it. Praying is quite as hard as fighting, if not much harder. But the more we pray for help, the easier becomes the fighting. I think Hecla was only just beginning to learn the A B C of that great knowledge—how to pray.
Some days she really did look up and ask in her very heart that God would help her, for the sake of His dear Son; and some days she said her prayers like a lesson, and never thought about the meaning of the words.
But it often puzzled Hecla to see how things which were difficult to her were easy to Ivy; and she would wonder why. She was too young to understand the great difference that there is between different people's natures. This difference, which made it much easier for Ivy to be gentle-mannered, made it also worth a great deal more when Hecla was gentle and considerate, for with Ivy it was natural, but with Hecla it meant a hard fight and a victory. And a victory is always worth gaining. The harder the fight, the more the victory is worth.
Another thing sometimes puzzled Hecla. It was that when Ivy asked questions, the aunts never seemed to mind, and always took pains to answer her. While, if Hecla burst out with strings of questions, she was told not to chatter so much. She did not quickly find out the real reason—that Ivy asked because she really wanted to understand something, while Hecla's questions were merely because she wanted to talk, and did not care what she said or what replies came.
But, of course, little Ivy too had her faults. She was not by any means perfect. All children have faults; and so had she; though they were different in kind from Hecla's faults.
For instance, though she was pretty in her ways, and generally so sensible and reasonable, she would now and then get a sudden odd fit of obstinacy, and would utterly refuse to do something that was wished. No particular reason could be found for the little naughty fit; but there it was.
The first time this happened was two or three weeks after her arrival, when she was quite settled in and at home, and things were going smoothly and happily. Miss Anne was teaching her as usual for half-an-hour how to read, and she was spelling the easy words, one after another, when she came to the word cat.
Ivy spelt it in her slow, quiet way, as she had done before—very deliberate, and never in a hurry.
"C-a-t—tac!" she said.
"Not tac, but cat, Ivy."
Ivy immediately said "Cat," all right, and went on. Soon the same word came again and again she spelt "C-a-t—tac."
Miss Anne corrected her afresh; and then it happened a third time, and a fourth time; for the page she was reading was all about a cat. Aunt Anne thought it funny and forgetful of her, and put her back at the beginning of the lesson. And behold each time that Ivy came upon that unfortunate word, she always said "C-a-t—tac."
"Ivy, I really don't think you can have forgotten so soon! Try to remember," urged Miss Anne. "C-a-t spells cat, not tac. Think of Auntie Millicent's pussy."
Ivy held her little head very upright, and her small mouth took a positive set. Miss Anne began to understand that this was not forgetfulness, but naughtiness. She was puzzled, for Ivy had been very good over her lessons till that day.
"Once more, darling. Try this time," urged Aunt Anne.
Ivy was taught to call the Misses Storey "Auntie," though really they were cousins. It seemed nicer that they should be the same to her as to Hecla.
"Try to do better," she said.
Not a bit of it! The page was read again, and all through "cat" was "tac."
"I think we will stop now," Miss Anne said gravely. "You must be a little sleepy, dear. We will leave the rest."
Ivy did not seem to mind. She played solemnly with her doll till Hecla was free, and behaved just as usual all day; so Miss Anne Storey hoped it was only a queer little fancy, which would soon be forgotten.
But she did not know Ivy yet!
Next morning, lessons took place as always, and the same page was begun upon anew. And every single time that Ivy came upon "c-a-t," she regularly called it "tac." She would say "cat" properly after Miss Anne; and as soon as the word recurred it was "tac" once more.
It really was too silly, wasn't it? I wonder if any little girl who reads this can tell me why Ivy chose to say this particular word wrong all through?
Miss Anne put the book down.
"Ivy, I'm afraid this is naughtiness," she said gravely.
Ivy held up her head straight, and pursed her lips together.
"What makes you behave so? Why do you not try to read better, dear?"
No answer came. Ivy said not a word.
"I don't want to punish my little pet," Miss Anne said, in her gentle way. "But, of course, I cannot let you go on, doing wrong on purpose. Now, I am going to try once more if you will say it rightly; and if not, we won't do any more lessons this morning, but you must sit for the rest of the half-hour with your face to the wall."
Ivy read five more words, then said "tac" very clearly.
Miss Anne got up slowly, with a grieved face, and put the book away. After which she turned Ivy's chair so that the little girl's face was towards the wall, and she could not see out of the window.
"You must sit there, Ivy, till I give you leave to move. Unless you will come and promise me to read differently."
Ivy did not like this at all. She loved having lessons with Aunt Anne; and she was a clever little girl, too, and really wished to be able to read nice books. But pride would not let her give in. So she sat upright and silent, staring at the wall, while big tears slowly gathered and rolled down her cheeks, and a pitiful look grew in the wide open eyes. It made Miss Anne's heart ache. Still she said nothing till the half-hour was ended. Then she took Ivy on her knees, and wiped away the tears.
"Sweet Ivy, what was the use of it all?" she asked.
Ivy gave a great sigh, and nestled in Miss Anne's arms, murmuring—
"I want—want—mummie."
"But mummie wouldn't like her little Ivy to be naughty."
"I want—mummie," was all Ivy would say.
"Isn't it nicer to read well—to do your best? Think—how dear mummie out in Africa will want to hear that her little girl is getting on. Wouldn't she be sorry to hear about to-day?"
"I—don't—know," whispered Ivy.
"I think you do know. And, Ivy pet, there is Someone else, too, Who is grieved when His little lambs give way to a naughty spirit. Don't you think our dear Lord Jesus wants His little Ivy to be good? I am quite sure He does."
Ivy sighed afresh. Miss Anne kissed her, and put her down.
"Now we are going for a walk," she said; "and we are going to forget about naughty ways and silly mistakes. To-morrow, I hope things will be quite different. We'll make a new start, and Ivy will do her very best."
When the morrow came, Ivy really did do her best, and she never once said "tac" for "cat."
And for some days lessons went beautifully.
And then, all at once, with no rhyme or reason—which was the more odd, as she commonly seemed such a reasonable little girl—all at once she started off again after the same fashion, and nothing would stop it.
For three mornings she persevered, always saying "tac" for "cat," and holding her little head stiffly up, and pursing her lips together, and refusing to be good.
Miss Anne began to think there would be nothing for it but to put the little girl to bed, as a punishment for her obstinacy. And, just as she was considering this, on the third morning, in walked Chris, with a note from the Vicar.
"Hallo!" he uttered, at the sight of Ivy seated solemnly with her face to the wall. "I say—what's up now!"
Miss Anne Storey told him. Then she got up, and said—
"I must look out the paper that your uncle wants. Will you wait here for a minute, Chris?"
"May I speak to Ivy?" asked the boy.
"Certainly," Miss Anne answered, for she knew she could trust Chris.
Miss Anne left the room, and Chris walked straight across to where the deplorable little figure sat, picked up Ivy bodily, took her place, and planted her on his knee. Ivy submitted without a word.
"I say, this is uncommon dull!" was his first remark. "I shouldn't like to sit here for half-an-hour! Un—common—dull!"
Ivy drew a sobbing breath. She was getting very tired of the position.
"So you can't spell cat, eh? Not spell cat! Why, you must be the densest little dunderhead of a mortal that ever existed. Not able to spell cat! I never heard of such a thing!" The boy spoke with disdainful severity, while with one hand, he stroked the long golden-brown hair.
Ivy held her head as high as it was possible to hold it.
"I can spell cat," she whispered.
"Spell it," commanded Chris. "Sharp!"
"C-a-t," began Ivy, and from sheer force of habit she said what she did not mean to say—"tac."
Chris went into roars of laughter. He shook beneath her like a small earthquake. He clutched Ivy, to keep her from rolling over, and roared afresh with fit after fit of merriment, each following closely on the last. Never before had the calm and decorous walls of "The Cottage" echoed to such peals of laughter.
Ivy grew redder and redder, more and more shamefaced.
"Tac! Tac! Tac!" gasped Chris. "Oh, you little goosey-gander! So I s'pose you'd say, 'Come here, pretty tac! Stroke tac's tail!' Oh, I say!"
"C-a-t—cat," spelt Ivy with dignity.
Chris began to recover himself. "Now you're going to say that sixteen times, to get it right," he ordered. "Come—quick—c-a-t—cat, c-a-t—cat!"
Ivy obeyed orders. She spelt the word sixteen times, patiently, and then hid her blushing face against his shoulder.
Chris didn't mind—much—as they were alone. He was rather gratified than otherwise. Had he known that Miss Anne was standing in the doorway, looking on with great enjoyment, he would have promptly changed the position of affairs.
"Now you understand! You're not going to be a little stupid any more, eh?"
"No," murmured Ivy.
Chris' watchful ears detected a suspicious creak, and he pulled up the drooping figure of the little girl with a jerk.
"That's all right. Come along and tell Miss Anne you're good. Come!"
And quite meekly Ivy walked up to Miss Anne, murmuring, "C-a-t—cat."
They heard no more of "tac" at lessons, but Ivy heard a good deal of it from Chris. Many weeks passed before he ceased asking her on all occasions, "Well, how's the pretty tac? Tac's tail all right, eh?"
It was a complete cure—of that particular word. But other words sometimes went wrong in the same way, for little Ivy's chief fault was a mixture of pride and obstinacy; quite different, you see, from Hecla's faults. Each little girl had a battle to fight, and the battle for each was not exactly the same.
Hecla in Charge
ONE Sunday Miss Storey had a very bad headache. It was a rather unfortunate day for this to happen. Elisabeth had been sent home for two nights, to meet a sister whom she had not seen for three years; and Mrs. Prue, in consequence, was extra busy, and extra cross.
Miss Anne Storey always had to go out after early dinner, to the Sunday school, where she was superintendent of the girls' classes; and it was very difficult for her to stay away. Yet the question was—how could she leave poor Aunt Millicent in charge of the two children, with nobody to help? It would have been different, if Hecla had been a staid, dependable child—or if Ivy had been the elder of the two. Hecla was such an erratic little person; one never could guess what she might do next; and if left alone, she was sure to get into mischief.
"I wonder if I ought to stay at home. If I do, I must send word to the Vicar," Miss Anne said anxiously, before dinner, when she came back from church with Hecla and Ivy.
Little as Ivy was, she always begged to be allowed to go with the others. And, while Hecla fidgeted and fussed, twisted her fingers and kicked the hassock, dropped her Prayer-book and turned over the leaves of her hymn-book, Ivy would sit as still and as quiet as a woman of thirty.
"I am sure you ought not, and I could not let you, my dear," Miss Storey answered bravely. She had been on her bed all the morning, and had dragged herself downstairs before their return, looking very white, and hardly able to hold up her head. "I shall do quite well. The children will be good, I am sure. And the Vicar could not manage without you."
"He would—if I sent him word that I must stay away."
"It would be wrong. He has so much on his hands. And you told me yesterday that your three best teachers are ill. You must certainly go. I will not hear of anything else."
She tried to sit up at dinner, and pretended to take some food; but she soon had to give in, and lie down on the sofa, with her eyes shut.
"I wish I knew what to do," sighed Miss Anne, feeling herself pulled in two.
Hecla spoke up eagerly. "Auntie, won't you let me take care of Ivy this afternoon? I'll be most dreadfully good, if only you will. Please—please—"
Miss Anne smiled. "I am sure you will do your best," she said. "If you will think of Auntie Millicent, and will not talk loudly or knock things down, that will be a real help."
"I promise I will, auntie. And I'll amuse Ivy. Mayn't I have the pictures to show her? I'll keep her ever so quiet."
Miss Anne thought that of the two Ivy would need less "keeping quiet" than Hecla; but she did not say so. "Yes, I hope you will," she replied. "Any noise makes Auntie Millicent's head worse. You shall have the pictures; only you must turn them over carefully, and not crumple the corners."
Hecla clapped her hands.
"Oh, I forgot!" she said, as Miss Anne put a finger to her lips. "I won't again."
"Try to remember. I would leave you both with Prue, but she has Elisabeth's work to do as well as her own, so she cannot attend to you. Mind, Hecla, you are the older, and I shall count you responsible. Do you know what that means?"
Hecla weighed the question. "No," she said. "Is sponresible something nice?"
"It means that if things go wrong, you will be the one blamed, and not Ivy, because she is so little. But Ivy must be good too."
"Mayn't we go into the garden, please? I do love being there. I'll take such heaps of care of Ivy."
"You shall go into the garden when I come back; and I shall try to be early. Till then you must play in the bow-window, while Auntie Millicent lies on the drawing-room sofa. Suppose you try to teach Ivy a little about some of the pictures."
"Oh, that'll be lovely!" exclaimed Hecla, with a leap in her chair. "I know!—we'll have Sunday school. And I'll have a class; and Ivy shall be my class."
"Very well. But remember, dear, Bible pictures don't mean fun. You must tell her reverently—remembering that the Bible Is God's Book. Can I trust you, Hecla?"
"Yes, auntie."
They went into the drawing-room; and Aunt Millicent lay down on the easy sofa, with a shawl over her; and Miss Anne settled the children in the big sunny bow-window, bringing the promised pictures before she went off to the school.
Hecla would much have preferred to be left in sole charge. But as Miss Storey had her face towards the wall, and could not see what they were doing, this was next best. She began energetic preparations for holding her "class," dragging a chair for herself, and then running into the passage for a small bench which always stood there. Pulling this along made a considerable clatter, and Miss Storey asked wearily, "What are you doing?"
"I'm only getting this for my class, auntie. I won't go on making noises," promised Hecla cheerfully. "It's only just a teeny minute—and it will bump and flump so."
Miss Storey sighed, and endured as best she might.
"You're to sit there, Ivy, 'cause you've got to be my class," eagerly explained Hecla. "And you're four little girls. When you're there, right-top of the class, you're Ivy; and when you're there, you're Mary; and the next is Jane; and the next is Susan. And you've got to slide along—so—" She whisked the submissive child aside, and showed how it was to be done. "And so you'll be all the little girls. And if Ivy can't answer a question, you'll slip along and be Mary. And if Mary can't, you'll slip along and be Jane. Don't you see?"
Ivy did not see, though her eyes were solemnly wide open and attentive. Hecla plumped down into her own chair, took up a book, and asked with an important air—
"How many people got into the Ark, children?"
Silence. Ivy stared calmly and helplessly. The arrangement was too complicated.
"Can't you tell me, Ivy? Then Mary must. Shove along!"—in an authoritative whisper. "Hurry!"—and Hecla herself gave the needed push. "Now you're Mary; and you're to hold out your hand—right out!—'cause you've got to know. You're to say—'Six'—no, I mean—auntie, how many was there in the Ark?"
Miss Storey was trying to get to sleep.
"What, dear?" she inquired drowsily.
"How many people was it that got into the Ark, auntie?"
"Eight," murmured Miss Storey. "Don't ask me any more questions."
"No, auntie, I won't. Now then, Mary, you've got to say—'eight.' Say—'eight'—Ivy."
Ivy made no effort.
"Oh dear me, you don't understand yet! Get up, and I'll show you. Now, you ask me, and I'll answer. I'm the class now. Ask me—'How many people were there in the Ark?'
"Well—I'll pretend that you have. Look—I'm Hecla, and I can't answer. Now I'm Mary, and I can't answer. Hecla and Mary are stupid. Now I'm Jane, and Jane is cleverer, and I can answer. And I stick out my hand like that—I've seen the children do it!—And I shout out—'Eight!'"
Hecla did shout too, forgetting all about poor Miss Storey.
But it was too bewildering for little Ivy, who never did anything in a hurry. Hecla's lightning rapidity of movement overpowered her. Tears filled her eyes, and she muttered—"I want—mummie!"
"Oh dear, oh dear!—You're not going to cry! Why, I only meant to amuse you. Don't cry!—Please don't cry, Ivy darling. Wouldn't you rather be a class? I should like it, if I was you."
"I want mummie." And there was a small sob.
Hecla plumped down beside her, and began an energetic hug.
"Don't cry. We won't have a class. We'll do something different. You've got to be good, you know, 'cause of Auntie Millicent. I know what—I'll show you the pictures straight off; and you'll be you, and I'll be me; and we won't be teacher and children. I'll show you the pictures that I like most of all. There's four of them. Look—isn't that a beauty? It's Daniel in the lions' den, you know; and there's King Darius peeping in. Isn't Daniel a nice dear man? And that's such a sweet lion that's got his head against Daniel's knee. And he was so hungry, and he wouldn't eat Daniel."
"Why-because wouldn't he eat Daniel?" asked Ivy, comforted.
"Because he mightn't. Because Daniel was such a good, good man, and God took care of him. Lots of care! And He shut all the lions' mouths quite tight, so they couldn't bite Daniel."
"That lion's got his mouth wide open," remarked Ivy, pointing to one in the background.
"That's only because he doesn't like the king peeping through the window-hole, and the king was naughty, not good like Daniel, and so the lion's roaring at him. And he couldn't roar with his mouth shut, I s'pose. And the king was most dreadfully unhappy, because he thought he was going to find his nice dear Daniel eaten all up. And he didn't."
"Why-because didn't he?"
"Why, Ivy, I've just told you why. You know quite well. And now I am going to show you my most particular pet picture of all."
"But I want to see Daniel and the nice lion," complained Ivy.
"Well, you shall see them again presently. I want to show you David and the giant. David was another nice good man—there's such lots of nice men in the Bible. And I do like that giant, he's so big and fierce, and he's got, oh, such a big staff and sword. And David is such a little mite of a man. But David's face is pretty, and the giant's is ugly. Isn't that a beauty picture?"
Ivy was so long taking it in, that Hecla grew impatient.
"Why-because is that man so big?"
"Why, he was a giant, and his name is Goliath. All giants are big, you know. If they weren't, they wouldn't be giants. Now I'm going to show you a lovely picture—it's the man that got hung in a tree. Oh dear, where is he? I can't remember his name, but he was King David's naughty son—King David that killed the wicked giant. And he's got a most beautiful dress—lots of colours."
Hecla was frantically turning over the pictures, forgetting her promise to be careful of the edges; and the rustle tried poor Aunt Millicent not a little. She said nothing, however, as Hecla was trying hard to keep Ivy happy.
"Here he is—stuck right up in the tree," exclaimed Hecla, with triumph. "And look, he's caught by his chin. Auntie Anne says the painter's made it wrong, 'cause he really was caught by his hair. He'd grown lots and lots of hair, more like what you've got, and his hair caught tight, and he was running away, and the horse galloped off, and he just hung there and couldn't get down, and he was killed. And now I'm going to show you—"
"But I want to look at that man. Why-because didn't he get down out of the tree?"
"Why, he couldn't, Ivy. His hair was all twisted in and out of the branches. Don't you see? I know his name—it's Absalom. You can look at him while I'm hunting for the next. I want to find the little Syrian maid. She's such a dear; and her mistress is sitting all doubled up, so funny, on a big cushion. Auntie Anne says they do sit like that in some places, and not properly on chairs like we do."
"Ablomson's got pretty hair," remarked Ivy.
"Yes; all yellow, isn't it? And now you'd like to see the giant again, wouldn't you? And I'll tell you the whole real story, if you'll sit on my lap and be good."
Hecla's lap was rather small, but she managed to perch Ivy in a safe position; and the story-telling proved such a success that Ivy listened, entranced, and kept saying, "More!" if Hecla showed signs of stopping.
Hecla much flattered, kept on, and the two were so quiet that Miss Storey actually managed to drop asleep for a few minutes, which did her a great deal of good.
And then, unexpectedly, Miss Anne stood close by, smiling down on the children.
"You have been good," she said. "And now I am going to take you both out in the garden, till tea is ready."
"Auntie Anne, why, you've got back ever so quick."
"Yes; somebody else took my place the last part of the time. I didn't feel sure that you would manage so nicely as you have done, Hecla."
Hecla danced all the way upstairs. "I think it's nice to be good," she said. "I won't ever be naughty again."
"You'll try not, at all events," Miss Anne suggested.
"Yes, I'll try," repeated Hecla.
Such a Temptation
"AUNTIE ANNE, may we go to the bridge-part this afternoon? Please mayn't we? I want to go most dreadfully."
"Perhaps we may; but I should like you to get that sum done first."
"Oh, please say 'yes!' Please don't say only 'perhaps.' Chris is going to be there, and he's got a most lovely little boat for me, all for myself. He told me so."
"Is that what you have been thinking about all the morning?"
Hecla looked rather abashed. Lessons had not gone well before dinner; and her easy little sum had been three times returned, to be done over again. When she was about to go for her walk with Elisabeth and Ivy, it was again given back, with a line drawn through the "answer," and the words, "You must get this right later in the day."
Miss Storey had an engagement to luncheon with some friends, and Miss Anne told Hecla that she had better do the sum directly after her early afternoon rest. "And then we will go out," added Miss Anne.
"I don't like sums, auntie," Hecla said, as she sat at the table, with one leg twisted round each front leg of her chair.
"I dare say not, dear. People seldom like things that they do badly. But we all have to do things we don't like."
"Not grown-up people!"
"Yes; certainly; very often."
"But there isn't anybody that could tell you to stop indoors when you want to go out—like there is with me."
"If not, I have to say so to myself."
This was a new idea. Hecla considered it, and drew a long squeaking line on her slate with the pencil. "I shouldn't ever tell myself to stop in," she remarked.
"I hope you would, if you knew it to be right. The man or woman who cannot say 'must' to himself or herself is a very poor sort of creature, and of very little use in the world. And if you don't learn to say 'must' to yourself now, while you are a child, you will find it doubly hard when you are grown-up."
Hecla crinkled her forehead seriously, and stared out of the window, where the sun shone and the birds sang in a most inviting way. And again the thought sprang up of Chris and the lovely boat he had promised.
"I shall like that boat," she exclaimed.
"Wouldn't it be wiser not to think about the boat at all, till you have finished your sum?"
"But, auntie, I can't help thinking. I do want that boat—oh, most dreadfully. I want it all through me—every bit of me. I want to go out this very minute."
Aunt Anne said nothing; and Hecla looked down at her slate.
"Four times five—" she murmured. "Auntie, why does a policeman wear a blue jacket?"
"You may ask me by-and-by, if you like. Not now."
Another pause. Hecla's pencil squeaked again.
"I wonder why slate-pencils make that noise, and other pencils don't."
Miss Anne was silent.
"Auntie, I really will!"
"I think you will be wise not to lose any more time."
Hecla sighed, and huddled herself in a bunch over the slate.
"Four times seven is—Four times seven—"
She saw in her mind the lovely running water, as it flowed under the bridge and came pouring out again into daylight; and the multiplication-table seemed to slide away out of her head. And then she looked up at the clock; and suddenly she knew that if she went on much longer like this, she would have no chance of being in time for Chris and the boat.
"I know we shall be late," she cried in desperation.
"I am afraid we shall, if you waste more time."
"Auntie—oh, I will, I will do it."
Miss Anne came round to her side.
"You can quite well, if you choose, Hecla. It only means one little brave try to do your very best. Now I am going upstairs to get ready, and to dress Ivy; and then we shall start. I hope I shall be able to take you too—not have to leave you behind to do the sum, and to have a walk with Elisabeth later."
Hecla flung herself flat on the table, in a dire fright at the idea, grappling with her task. She could not endure the thought of not meeting Chris, of not having the boat; and now she realised that Miss Anne was in earnest.
And all that was needed was just to try, as Miss Anne had said. Ten minutes later, when she and Ivy came downstairs, Hecla flew to meet them, slate in hand. "It's done! It's done!" she cried.
Miss Anne glanced through the sum. "Yes, it is quite right," she said. "I am glad. Now run and dress, dear. Ivy shall put away your slate for you, and we will wait here."
"I sha'n't be one minute," shouted Hecla gleefully, as she rushed away.
But everything seemed to conspire to hinder her. First she broke her shoe-string, and though she managed to tie it somehow, that took time, as she was not handy with her fingers. Then she could not find her everyday hat, and she remembered leaving it in the greenhouse.
A furious rush downstairs, and a wild stampede through the passage into the greenhouse, resulted in finding the hat was not there; so she flew after Elisabeth, only to be told in Mrs. Prue's tartest tones that Elisabeth was gone out to take a note, and she didn't know nothing about hats. Upstairs again tore Hecla, and dragged open drawer after drawer, to discover the hat at last in the most unlikely one of all, where no doubt she had thrust it herself in one of her scuffles.
Though she was not yet nine years old, her aunts were doing their best to teach her to look after her things, to put them neatly away, and to be careful; but thus far, the teaching had not been always successful.
Hecla rammed the hat on her head, and then her gloves and tie had vanished. Though she would gladly have raced off without either, she knew she would only be sent back again to find them; and these too had to be hunted for high and low. When, after fifteen minutes' delay, she ran downstairs, she found a girl talking to Miss Anne, who stood listening with a troubled face.
"You have been rather long getting ready, dear," she said. "But I am glad we have not started, for Mrs. Gilpin's poor little baby has been badly hurt, and I must go to see it. I will be as short a time as possible. You and Ivy will wait here for me. You are not to go out till I return."
"But, auntie—auntie—we sha'n't be in time to catch Chris."
"I think we shall. I will do my best. I must tell Mrs. Gilpin how to manage till the doctor comes."
"I couldn't find my hat and things. I know, I know we shall be late!" Hecla was almost in tears.
"I hope not; but think of the poor baby! Wait here for me, both of you."
Then Miss Anne went off, hardly grasping the fact that she left the children with nobody in charge. She had forgotten for the moment that Elisabeth was out. Mrs. Prue, of course, was in the kitchen; but Miss Anne, full of the accident to their gardener's baby, did not think of pausing to mention to Prue the state of affairs. Since the cottage was only just outside their garden she expected to return in a few minutes.
"I know we shall be late. I know, I'm perfectly sure we shall be late. I know we sha'n't get there in time,"' Hecla kept saying, as she roved about the room, gazed out of the window, and consulted the clock.
Ivy had seated herself contentedly in a corner with her doll. She was not impatient like Hecla. "Why-because sha'n't we be there in time?" she inquired.
"Why, Chris will be gone. He's got to be back at school at four o'clock. And he's promised to give me a lovely new boat. It's a better boat than that boat he gave to you. And he said he would be there. And I want it most dreadfully. And I know Auntie Anne won't get back soon enough."
It was a good deal past three o'clock, for which no doubt Hecla had only herself to thank. But she was not in a mood to be reasonable.
"I don't believe I can wait much longer," she cried, kicking a footstool about the room, as a relief to her feelings.
"Why-because can't you wait much longer?" murmured Ivy, arranging her doll's hat.
"Why, I told you! You know quite well. I want to get there in time to catch Chris before he goes back to school. Oh dear, I do hate waiting. I like everything to come quick—all in a minute. I wish people wouldn't go and get hurt, just when I want to go out. I'm sure I can't wait much longer."
But of course she had to wait. She and Ivy could not go off alone.
Minute after minute crept past, and the hand of the clock travelled on and on, and still Miss Anne remained away. It was too provoking! Hecla roved round the room, and jumped on and off the chairs, and three times ran out to the back door; but no Aunt Anne was in sight.
"I believe she's forgotten all about it. She won't come for ever and ever so long. I know she won't. And I sha'n't have my boat. And Chris 'll perhaps never give it to me, 'cause I told him I'd be there; and he'll think I don't care. And I can't be there, and I do care! Oh dear!" she wailed dolefully.
"What's wrong?" asked a voice, and a big, plump, rosy girl of fourteen, daughter of a widow lady who lived a little way down the road, stepped in. "I found the door open, so I didn't ring," she said. "Mother has sent a note to your Auntie Millicent, and I'm to wait for the answer. What's the matter, Hecla?"
"Auntie Millicent's out and Auntie Anne's out, and we've got to wait, and I know we shall be late at the bridge-part," explained Hecla in a half-crying voice.
Mildred Smith laughed. She was a good-humoured, thoughtless girl, not much of a favourite with the Miss Storeys, though sometimes in and out.
"What makes you want to be there?" she asked.
And Hecla poured forth her tale.
"Well, that's easily put right. My governess has had to go off in a hurry, so it's a holiday for me. Come along. I'll take you to the river."
"Will you? May we?" gasped Hecla. She looked upon their caller as next-door to grown-up; still she knew that she and Ivy had never been sent out alone with Mildred. And more than that, she remembered Miss Anne's parting command—"You and Ivy will wait here for me. You are not to go out till I return."
Hecla was perfectly well aware that to go with Mildred, in the face of that command, would be wrong. It would be direct disobedience.
But Aunt Anne had not meant to stay away so long; and she had not known that Mildred would come. Hecla was wild to start; and the temptation was terribly strong. It did not seem as if she could say No. Her whole mind was set on having that little boat for her own, and seeing it go under the archway and come out again. She felt as if it were utterly impossible to delay. Chris would soon have to start for afternoon school; and then her chance would be gone. Couldn't she—mightn't she—just this once! Oh, she must, she must do it. Perhaps Auntie Anne wouldn't really be angry. There was still time to catch Chris, but in a few minutes, it would become hopeless.
One of those sudden sharp temptations to wrong-doing had come to Hecla which sooner or later come to everybody, even to little boys and girls. And she had not been trying to do her best for some days past; had not been praying hard, and fighting steadily. So when the temptation arrived, it did not find her strong to resist.
"I do want to go so very, very much!" she sighed.
"Come along then," cried thoughtless Mildred, never pausing to consider whether she had any right to take the children without leave. She had a great liking for little Ivy, and had often wanted to get possession of her for an hour or two. "See here," she said, "I'll write on this scrap of paper—'Mildred Smith has gone on with Hecla and Ivy to the river,'—and then your aunt will come after us, and it will be all right. Come along."
"Come, Ivy," shrieked Hecla, dancing wildly about.
Ivy went, of course. She was too young to understand that it was wrong, when the elder girls told her to do it. She trotted off contentedly, with her doll in one arm and her other hand held by Mildred.
Great Danger
THOUGH Hecla ran and jumped, she could not feel happy. A voice kept saying, deep down in her heart, "You are wrong—you are wrong!" And it would not be silenced.
She was frightened too, when she thought of Miss Anne going indoors to find the children gone. Yet still she went on, drawn river-wards by her vehement longing to find Chris and to have the little boat.
Running nearly all the way, as they did, till Ivy was quite tired and out of breath, it did not take long to reach the covered part of the river, where the stream, fuller and more rapid than usual from recent heavy rain, disappeared for a space and then came flowing out again. And when they arrived, Chris was nowhere to be seen.
"But he said he'd come. He promised he would," cried Hecla.
"Oh, well, I suppose he's changed his mind," Mildred observed, as if it did not matter much either way. "Never mind. I dare say he'll turn up presently."
"But he's got to go to school. There isn't time now," Hecla said dolefully.
"It's ten minutes to four. He could run to school from here in five minutes. We'll wait, anyhow. Come, let's throw in sticks."
She chose one, and flung it in herself, and they ran down the stream, to see it float out from under the arch. Then they raced back in high glee, and threw in three sticks all at the same moment, careering down the road to see which of the three would be foremost.
Once in a while a stick would refuse to appear, having been caught fast somewhere under the arch; and the knowledge that this might happen added to the excitement of their game.
Hecla's stick came out first, whereat she was immensely excited, and called out loudly in her delight. Mildred's appeared next; and Ivy's never turned up at all.
They raced up the stream again, Hecla keeping pace with Mildred, while Ivy toiled more slowly after, her little legs aching with such violent exercise. As she arrived above the covered part, Mildred and Hecla were starting anew, having just flung two biggish boughs into the river.
"Come along," they called to Ivy; but they did not wait to see whether she obeyed.
She was too tired to be off instantly, and also she wanted to follow their example. A storm of wind, two nights earlier, had blown down many boughs, and several lay near at hand.
She chose one taller than herself, lifted it with a great effort, and staggered to the edge of the steep bank, to drop it in.
By this time Mildred was running back; and when she saw what the child was about to do, she raised a shout of warning. "Stop! Stop, Ivy!" she called. "Don't!"
But this had just an opposite result to what Mildred intended. Instead of making Ivy step back, it only made her start and turn, with her back to the river. She was close to the edge; and the sudden movement caused her to over-balance herself. With a sharp cry, she fell backwards into the water, still clasping the bough, and was swept downward towards the covered way.
Hecla and Mildred screamed aloud; and Mildred rushed to the spot from which the little one had fallen—only to see her disappearing under the archway. Then she turned and tore down the stream, frantic with terror; and Hecla rushed thither also, shrieking wildly.
But somebody was before them!
Mildred and Hecla, full of their sport, had not noticed a quiet figure coming along the road from lower down the river. Miss Storey had been to luncheon with friends in that direction, and she was now returning alone. She expected to find her sister and the children somewhere about here, since she was aware of Miss Anne's intention to take them to the river, if Hecla were good.
And as she drew near, walking in her quiet and staid and gentle way, wearing her best black silk gown and beaded black mantle, with new grey kid gloves, she noted three figures some distance ahead, and made out that two of them were Hecla and Ivy. But the third puzzled her. She was rather shortsighted; still she felt sure that her sister Anne never raced about as that third person was doing. So she supposed that somebody else had joined them, and that Miss Anne was near at hand, sitting out of sight and keeping watch.
She followed with her gaze the two elder children racing down the stream and leaving little Ivy alone, and she recognised Mildred, but still saw no signs of Miss Anne anywhere, which seemed strange; so she came faster. And then, to her horror, she noted little Ivy, all by herself with a bough in her arms, going close to the steep edge of the stream, and leaning fearlessly over to pitch the bough in.
It was of no use for Miss Storey to call. Her voice was weak, and she was not near enough. She could only hurry breathlessly on, as she saw the elder children again rushing up the road, and heard Mildred's cry of warning.
And then her heart seemed to stand still, and she turned sick and faint, and a shower of black specks danced before her eyes, as Ivy toppled backwards into the river.
No time was this for giving way to feelings of weakness. Not for one moment did Miss Storey hesitate. She fought the faintness and struggled on, though her knees gave way under her, straight down to the brink. She knew that Ivy might easily be carried past, out of reach; and it was she—little, delicate, timid, nervous Miss Storey—who had to save the child. She could not depend upon Mildred, and nobody else was within sight.
"Oh, auntie, auntie, auntie!" Hecla was screaming from above. "Oh, auntie! Oh, auntie!"
Miss Storey hardly even heard the sound. Her whole mind was bent upon the one thought—that Ivy had to be saved. She was praying that she might be able; not saying words, but lifting up her heart to God, like a child holding out imploring hands with a great silent cry for help. She stepped into the stream, which was swift and strong for so small a river. It swirled round her feet, and lifted her silk skirt, and the chill of it made her shiver and tremble like a person with the ague. Yet she took two more steps, deeper in. For if Ivy were in the middle of the stream, she might not otherwise be able to get hold of her. In a moment—in a moment—one moment more—Ivy would come floating out from under the arch. She paid no attention to the cries of Mildred and Hecla. She was now up to her knees in water, and she had to brace herself against the current, using her silk parasol as a stick. Each instant seemed fearfully long, and a great dread was on her lest the little one should be caught and held somewhere under the archway, as toy-boats were sometimes detained there.
Yet very few seconds passed before a helpless little form was swept to view, in the middle of the current, where it flowed fastest—so few, indeed, that Mildred, tearing down the road, could not be in time. It seemed as if the heavier body of the child was borne along much more rapidly than little boats and sticks; for when Mildred reached the lower end of the covered part, Ivy was already beyond her reach, and had Miss Storey not been standing in the water, some thirty or forty paces below, Ivy must have been carried far down.
Then, in a moment, when it came to the point of action, Miss Storey was strong and calm. She went one step deeper still, bent forward, and caught the little girl in a firm grip, turning to draw her to land. Before they were out, Mildred, wading in, gave help.
Miss Storey sank upon the bank, spent and exhausted, unable to say a word. Her heart was beating in slow, heavy thumps, and she all but lost consciousness. But Mildred roughly strove to rouse her, and Hecla's terrified cries chimed in, and she came to herself, to find a small limp figure lying upon her, the pretty eyes closed, the pretty hair dank and streaming.
"We must get her home at once—at once!" Miss Storey said, in a weak voice, for all her strength seemed gone. "Can you help me to carry her, Mildred? I am a little—shaken." She tried to get up, and fell back, but made a fresh effort, and gained her feet, saying feebly as she stood, "We must make haste."
"I'll carry her. Don't you try!" And Mildred heaved up the dripping, senseless little form. Though big and strong for her age, she was amazed at Ivy's weight, and found it no easy task.
"Hurry, hurry! We must hurry!" Miss Storey spoke like one talking in a dream; Hecla must run home—and tell Aunt Anne.
"Oh, I daren't!" sobbed Hecla.
And at that moment Miss Anne herself appeared, coming fast along the road. She had been kept much longer than she had expected with the baby, and on finding Mildred's scribbled note she had hurried off with all speed to follow the children, very much displeased.
Think what a fright it gave her now to see her sister, soaking wet and white as paper, and hardly able to stagger along, and Mildred carrying that poor little limp figure.
But she took in the whole at once, and wasted no time in questions.
"Mildred, you must take my sister home, and tell Mrs. Prue to see to her," she said. "I shall go straight to Dr. Evans."
She took Ivy from Mildred as she spoke, and though she was so slight and far from strong, an unnatural power seemed to come to her, for she ran almost the whole way from the bridge to the doctor's house, which was nearer than her own home, with that heavy dead weight of the senseless child in her arms.
Happily she found both the doctor and his wife indoors, and not a moment was lost. Everything was instantly done that could be done to save the little life; and in less than half-an-hour, they knew that Ivy was living, though a much longer time passed before she opened her eyes, and longer still before she seemed to know anybody.
Even then she could not be spoken of as out of danger, for the shock had been severe, and the greatest possible care had to be taken. Miss Anne never left her for hours. And the doctor only went away, after a while, to see how Miss Storey was getting on. The two houses being near, he could easily go to and fro.
Consequences
NOBODY had time to think about Hecla. Mildred took her home, and went off to change her own wet clothes; and for the first time in her life, Hecla was left to her own devices.
She felt utterly miserable, and did not know what to do with herself. Auntie Anne was away at the doctor's with Ivy; and Mrs. Prue and Elisabeth were both busy with Miss Storey in her room, where, wrapped in shawls and blankets, she sat shivering and icy-cold before a blazing fire, scarcely able to speak.
The house seemed so empty, so desolate. There was nobody to speak to. Hecla crept disconsolately from room to room, with a great weight upon her.
She could not help knowing that all this trouble and distress had come upon the household as a result of her own naughtiness. She wished now—oh, how she wished it!—that she had said No to Mildred's proposal, and had waited patiently for Auntie Anne's return from the gardener's cottage. If only she had listened to that warning voice which spoke so clearly in her heart, and had refused to do what she knew to be wrong, or had turned back in time, even after having started—how happy she might be now!
It had all been for no use. She had not found Chris; she had not received the boat. But even if she had, what would that have mattered in comparison?
The time seemed to her endless before at last Aunt Millicent's door opened, and Prue came out. Hecla was watching on the stairs, a few steps above, on the flight which led to the servants' room; and she ran downstairs after Prue, catching her skirt.
"Oh, please, Prue—please, dear Mrs. Prue—do tell me! Is Auntie Millicent better?"
Prue looked her grimmest.
"There, don't you be hindering of me, Miss Hecla! You've done mischief enough for one day."
"Is Auntie Millicent ill?" asked Hecla dolefully.
"I shouldn't wonder but she's going to be. She's all over shakes and shivers, and can't hardly say a word, she's that weak. It's pretty nigh enough to be the death of her!"
"Oh, Prue!"
"You just let go o' my dress, Miss Hecla—" as she bustled along, Hecla clinging still to her skirt. "I ain't got time for talk."
"But please tell me—I do want to know—about Ivy."
"She's opened her eyes; and that's about all. She don't know nobody."
"Doesn't she know Auntie Anne?"
"No—nor nobody."
"Won't she be quite well soon? Darling Mrs. Prue, please tell me!"
"Nobody can't tell. She may, and she mayn't," asserted Prue. "There's a lot o' mischief comes often after that sort o' accident, Miss Hecla. Why, dear me, I've had to do with a girl as fell into a river, and she wasn't never properly herself after, not all her life long she wasn't."
Mrs. Prue shook herself free and went off, and Hecla retreated into the dining-room. Plainly no comfort was to be had in that direction.
Would Ivy, sweet little Ivy, never be properly herself again? The suggestion was vague, and therefore all the more terrible. Hecla scarcely knew what she feared, but she did fear it. And she—she would be the cause. She crouched down in a corner, half-hidden by the heavy window-curtains, and felt very naughty and hopeless.
Then Elisabeth appeared; and even Elisabeth was for once severe. She brought the little girl her tea and bread-and-butter, and gave her also an admonition on her conduct, which really was not then needed, for Hecla was already as miserable as she knew how to be. Elisabeth's lecture proved just the one drop too much, and set her off crying helplessly. It was impossible to eat bread-and-butter when tears came streaming down and mixed with the food and fell into her cup, and sobs nearly choked her.
Mrs. Prue had called Elisabeth away, and Hecla was again alone. She left the tray, curled herself once more into the window-corner, and cried herself into a sound sleep.
There Chris found her. He had come in to see what was happening to his chum, half concerned for her sake, and more than half disposed to give her a piece of his mind respecting her behaviour. But when he saw the child's reddened and blistered face, and when he heard the pitiful little sobs which came from time to time even in her sleep, he changed his mind, and went straight back to the Vicarage. And ten minutes later the Vicar himself walked in.
Something awoke Hecla; she did not know what. Half unconscious still, she fancied it was her own mother kissing her. And then she opened her eyes and found herself on the Vicar's knees, with her head on his shoulder, and his kind arm supporting her.
It did not occur to her to wonder how she came there. She only felt how good it was to be so held, and not to be told that everything was her fault, which already she knew only too well. She gave one surprised look up into those kind eyes, and then she clung closer to him, trying to pull his arm more tightly round her. It was, oh, such a comfort to be no longer all alone and desolate.
The Vicar said nothing for some time. Busy man that he was, he might have had the whole day at his disposal, so long he remained thus, and so quietly he held the child. But presently, with a little added pressure, he said,—
"Tell me all about it, Hecla."
Hecla's dread broke out in words: "Will Ivy die? Must Ivy die?"
"I hope not, indeed."
"And Auntie Millicent?"
"She will be better soon, I think. Tell me how it all happened, my child."
A few questions drew forth the sad little tale. In his mind, the Vicar silently blamed Mildred even more than Hecla, for she was the older girl, and she had no business to ask the others to go with her, or to neglect Ivy when near the river. But he had at this moment only to do with Hecla's share.
"I didn't, didn't mean to be naughty," sobbed Hecla. "But I did want so very much to go—and—auntie—"
"If you had just waited to think, and had put up one little prayer to be kept from doing what was wrong, all this might have been avoided."
Hecla sighed and nestled into that kind encircling arm.
"Mrs. Prue says—Mrs. Prue says—Ivy perhaps won't ever be properly herself again."
"Mrs. Prue is anxious, no doubt, as we all are; but I hope there is no fear of that. The doctor says Ivy is doing nicely now."
"Does he? I'm so glad." Then after a break. "And Elisabeth says—says—"
"Yes."
"She says, God doesn't love me, because I'm so naughty."
"Elisabeth is wrong. People often say that kind of thing, and it is a very great mistake. I think she only means that God is sorry. But He loves you always—always—even when you are naughty. Never forget that. If little Ivy were naughty, do you think her mother could leave off loving her? That could never happen. And you are God's little child—His own dear little child. It is just because He loves you so dearly that He is grieved when you are disobedient. And then you have to come back to Him, and tell Him how sorry you are, and ask Him to forgive you and to make you a better child, for the sake of our dear Lord Jesus Christ. Would you like to come with me now to His footstool, and tell Him?"
"Please!" Hecla whispered.
The Vicar knelt down and made her kneel beside him, and his arm was still round the child. "Say after me," he murmured, and he led the way with words that she knew well, words which seemed just made for her at that moment: only he put "I" instead of "we," that she might speak for herself.
"Almighty and most merciful Father—I have erred and strayed from Thy
ways like a lost lamb—I have followed too much the devices and desires
of my own heart—I have offended against Thy holy laws—"
And so on to the end. Then came a few simple words of his own, telling in what way she had acted wrongly, and how sorry she was, and how he and she earnestly prayed that, if it were God's will, dear little Ivy and Miss Storey might both soon be quite well again.
After which the Vicar went back to his chair, taking Hecla again upon his knee, and she felt quiet and comforted. And presently Elisabeth came in.
"Miss Storey wants to see Miss Hecla, please, sir."
"You may run upstairs, my child," the Vicar said, putting her down. "And don't cry any more. I shall see you to-morrow morning again."
Hecla went gravely upstairs, wondering what Auntie Millicent would say, and whether she would be punished, and hoping she would not be told again that everything was her doing, because she knew that would bring more tears. But when she went into the room she saw Auntie Millicent in bed, looking pale and shaky, not a bit like her usual self.
And Miss Storey, instead of saying a word of blame, held out both arms.
Hecla crept into them and hid her face, and said not a word either, but only sobbed, forgetting that she was not to cry any more; and Auntie Millicent stroked her hair and fondled her with trembling fingers.
"I know you are sorry, Hecla," came at last in a whisper.
"Oh, auntie, I'm so dreadfully sorry," gasped the child, feeling as if she had never known before how much she loved this kind auntie.
"Yes, I know, and you will never do so again. And we must thank God—mustn't we?"
And they clung faster still together.
Then Dr. Evans walked in and said, "Hullo! This won't do."
"I had to see the child, Dr. Evans. I could not put off any longer."
"You should have asked my leave first."
"How is Ivy?" asked Miss Storey.
"Better, I hope. Sound asleep, and that is the great thing. Miss Anne will be with her all night. And you are not to be anxious."
Miss Storey smiled, for that was more easily ordered than obeyed.
"We will try," she said.
"Hecla must go to bed now and to sleep. And you have to rest. News shall be brought the first thing in the morning."
"Won't Auntie Anne come back?" Hecla asked in a very subdued voice.
The doctor answered, "No." Then he made Hecla say "Good-night," and sent her away with Elisabeth. And he told Mrs. Prue she must be in Miss Storey's room, in case anything were wanted in the night.
He did not tell them that there had been a time that day when he feared little Ivy might not live many hours. She had been in great danger of sinking from the severe shock and the sudden chill of her fall into the water. Think what it would have meant to Hecla and to Mildred if the little one had died! But mercifully she was now improving, and the doctor hoped that with great care she would soon be well.
She did get well, but it was nearly a week before she was allowed to be moved, and Miss Anne stayed all that time in the doctor's house; and Hecla was not allowed to see Ivy. The doctor was anxious that the little one should get really over her accident, and he insisted on keeping her very quiet, and having no excitement at all.
By the end of a week, however, he consented to Ivy being carried across to "The Cottage," wrapped in a blanket, for Miss Anne was longing to be at home. Miss Storey had been very poorly all through the week, and Elisabeth and Mrs. Prue had had to nurse her.
No doubt all this was in the end good for Hecla. She had to spend much time by herself, which meant a good deal of leisure for thinking, and she was dull and lonely, even though the Vicar and Chris kindly looked in as often as they possibly could to cheer her up. But in all her life afterwards, she would never forget that week. It seemed more like a year than only seven days. She could not but be deeply impressed in her little mind with the sad consequences which may follow on one small act of disobedience—not really small, for no wrong-doing is ever really small, only it seemed small to her. And so she would not forget the great danger of giving in to sudden temptation.
At last the day was fixed for Ivy's return, and on that very same day, the doctor gave leave for Miss Storey to come downstairs for the first time, just for an hour. Hecla was wild with joy.
That Delightful Toy-shop
"OH dear, I'm so happy. Oh, I'm so happy. I don't know what to do, I'm so happy!" exclaimed Hecla, dancing about the room after breakfast. "Elisabeth, I'm so dreadfully happy!"
"Well, don't you go and be naughty, 'cause you're happy," suggested Elisabeth, as she cleared away the breakfast things. She had had to see after the child's solitary meals all this past week.
"I don't mean to be naughty; truly and really I don't. I'll try to be ever so good. Oh!" And Hecla, catching sight of the Vicar's tall figure as he strode up the garden path, flew out to the front door. "Uncle John, I'm so happy, I don't know what to do."
"That is good news, little one,"—as he stooped to kiss her.
"Ivy's coming home this afternoon, and Auntie Millicent is going to be down to tea, and we shall all be as glad as glad can be. And I'm going to take such lots of care of dear, sweet, darling little Ivy."
The Vicar stroked her head.
"And I'm going out with Elisabeth this morning, presently, and Auntie Millicent says I may go to the toy-shop. Isn't that lovely? I'm going to get a present for Ivy, all by myself. Won't that be delicious, Uncle John?"
"Very delicious, I should think. How much money have you?"
"I've got just exactly ninepence three-farthings. I wish it was a lot more. I do love Ivy."
The Vicar pulled out his purse.
"I think we'll make it a trifle more, and then you can get something bigger. There is a farthing first, and now you have tenpence. And here are two pennies, which will make a shilling. And two threepenny bits, so you have one and sixpence. And here is a sixpence, so now you have two shillings. And here is a shilling, so now you have three shillings."
"Oh, Uncle John, how beautiful! Oh, thank you! But I did mean it to be all my very own present."
"I'm giving the money to you, and you shall give it to her. Won't that do?"
"Yes—I think it will," meditated Hecla. "But I'll tell her it wasn't all properly my very own, because she might think it was, you know."
"Do as you like, little one. You can't be too honest. Only choose something that Ivy will like. She's not very well yet, and you have to be gentle with her."
Hecla nodded. "I know! Auntie Millicent told me."
An hour later, she and Elisabeth started for the toy-shop. There was only one big toy-shop in the town, and to this they bent their steps, Elisabeth as usual walking staidly, and Hecla dancing and frisking like a little colt.
"I wonder what I shall choose. I do wonder what I shall choose," she kept saying. "What do you think Ivy would like, Elisabeth? Don't you think a box of soldiers in lovely red coats would be best?"
"If it was for a boy, Miss Hecla; but Miss Ivy ain't a boy. You'd a deal better get her a doll."
"Well, I can—of course—only she's got dolls, and she hasn't got soldiers. I think boys' toys are much the nicest. Wouldn't she like a tin train?"
"If I was you, I'd choose a doll, or else a nice box of toys. You might get a box of bricks, Miss Hecla; or else a sort of farmyard; or a map of them squares, with pictures on their sides, that's got to be put together."
"But I want a lot of things; not only one thing. That's so stupid. I want it to be a real s'prise packet. Don't you know? I mean to get a ninepence-three-farthings toy, and two penny toys, and two threepenny toys, and one thing for sixpence, and one thing for a shilling. And there's an extra farthing that's got to come in somewhere. And I'm going to tie them all up in parcels, and then I shall put them into my dear red and white basket, and heaps of moss with them—we've got to get the moss, Elisabeth. And then I shall give it all to her, and the basket too. Won't she be pleased? I know where to get the moss."
"You'll have to make haste, or there won't be time."
"Of course I shall make haste."
But when she found herself in the shop, it was no such easy matter. Making haste seemed impossible. Such a wealth of delightful things lay all around; and the nice shopwoman took so much trouble, bringing boxes and games and dolls from top shelves and out of the back room, that Hecla was bewildered. She stood with glowing eyes, alike fascinated and puzzled, giving a skip of approval at each new production, but quite unable to choose.
There were exquisite dolls, and splendid carts, and lovely horses, and magnificent trains, and a mail-cart which could be wound up to go, and a mouse that would run, and games without end, and boxes of treasures past description. But most of these were beyond her means. She had a great leaning towards boys' toys, for she liked whatever she knew that Chris would approve. Yet Elisabeth's objections had weight; and Elisabeth held to it that nothing could be more appropriate than a doll.
"If I was you, Miss Hecla, I'd get one of them nice china dolls, and a chair and table for the doll to use," she said. "Miss Ivy loves dolls, and she hasn't got a china one."
"Is it for little Miss Ivy?" asked the woman. "Poor little dear! I hope she ain't any the worse for her fall in the river."
"She's ever so much better," put in Hecla. "And she is coming home to-day, and I want to get her a lot of toys to amuse her. And I've got ninepence three-farthings of my own, and I want to get something with that all by itself, so that it would be just quite from me, you know. And Uncle John gave me a farthing and twopence and two threepennies, and a sixpence and a shilling to spend too."
The woman seemed fully to understand, and also to be much interested. She brought forward a number of fresh toys, costing exactly what Hecla wanted to give. Whether their prices really were so low as she named might be doubted. Elisabeth did doubt it, but she said nothing, and Hecla jumped with delight.
After a great deal of discussing and selecting and rejecting and counting up of pennies and farthings, the money was at last all spent; and the woman placed Hecla's purchases in a row, that she might see how nice they looked. They cost precisely three shillings, not one farthing more or less.
There was a china doll, very dainty and neat, and prettily dressed for one shilling.
There was a horse for the doll to ride, which cost sixpence—at least, that was all Hecla paid for it. And the doll really could sit sideways on the horse, though rather overpoweringly big for the size of the steed.
A chair for the doll to sit on and a table for it to use came next; and the price of these together oddly came to ninepence three-farthings. It was funny, Hecla thought, but most convenient.
"So that will be truly my very own present," she said.
There was also a minute box of dolls' tea-things, for which the woman charged threepence farthing, and a tray for the tea-things costing threepence.
A penny looking-glass and a penny hairbrush for the doll completed the array.
Hecla was crimson with excitement. She thought it was the most perfectly lovely assortment of toys that she had ever seen in her life. Nothing could have been better—except a train and some red-coated soldiers; but no doubt Ivy, being so little, would prefer these.
"I'd better send them round," the woman suggested.
Hecla would not hear of such an arrangement. She could not bear to part with her treasures. "Please tie them up, and please do put a lot of paper and string," she begged. "Because I'm going to do them up all separately, and I haven't got any paper or string."
"There's plenty at home, Miss Hecla," said Elisabeth.
But the woman insisted on tying them all up herself, just as Hecla wished; and she seemed quite to enjoy the work. She put up each toy separately in soft brown paper, and fastened each with pretty red and white string; and then she enclosed all the small packets in one large sheet of stout brown paper.
"You'd best let me carry it, Miss Hecla," said Elisabeth. "If you tumble down, you'll break something or other."
This was so likely an event that Hecla consented, and they started anew.
"It's near half-past twelve," Elisabeth said.
"Mayn't we go round behind the house? There's lots of moss on the bank," begged Hecla.
As there was just time, Elisabeth consented. Quantities of soft dry moss could be found there; and Hecla carried home an armful.
Then came dinner; her last solitary meal. Elisabeth remained as usual in the room, helping her, and looking after her wants.
When Elisabeth went off to her own dinner, Hecla untied the big parcel, and arranged all the smaller packets in her pretty basket, which she had had for years, and was really fond of. She tucked moss in between the packets, and covered the whole with a layer of the same, to look nice and mysterious.
And then she had to wait as best she could for the arrival of Aunt Anne and little Ivy.
At half-past three Miss Anne came, and with her the doctor, carrying Ivy himself in his arms, warmly wrapped up, for it was a windy day, and they were still afraid of any chill for the child, as well as of any fatigue or excitement.
She had lost her bright colour and looked much thinner; but when she saw Hecla she held out both her little arms, and a great hug between the children followed. Miss Anne looked on with tears in her eyes. She had seen Hecla many times in the course of the week herself.
"Now we are going to put Ivy into this cosy armchair," Miss Anne said, when Miss Storey, who was just down for the first time, had kissed the little one, thanking God in her heart, as she did so, that the darling had been given back to them all.
"And when may I bring my presents, auntie?" whispered Hecla.
"Suppose we wait till after tea," whispered Miss Anne. "We will all have tea together here to-day."
That was grand indeed; for generally Hecla and Ivy had theirs in the dining-room with Elisabeth. Yet, much as she enjoyed the rare event, she hardly knew how to wait till it was over.
Then she was allowed to bring her basket full of treasures, and give it to Ivy. And Ivy's little white face grew pink with pleasure.
"It's my present to you, darling," eagerly explained Hecla. "Only, part of it's from Uncle John too. He gave me a lot of money to spend for you, and he gave it to me, and I'm giving it to you. And there's two things that are really, really and truly my very ownest present to you, got with my own ninepence three-farthings, you darling little pet."
"I'M GIVING IT TO YOU, AND THERE'S TWO THINGS THAT ARE
REALLY MY VERY OWNEST PRESENT TO YOU."
It was a pretty sight to see them together, Ivy, with her cheeks pink and her brown eyes wide open, slowly making her way into packet after packet, and Hecla, kneeling by her side, in a state of rapturous delight.
Miss Storey and Miss Anne exchanged looks of pleasure, both of them smiling; and yet tears with both were not far off, as they thought of the little one's past danger, and her merciful preservation and recovery.
Happily, in a few days, little Ivy was herself again; and in a few weeks, she became as strong as ever, with no ill results from the accident.
Miss Storey was fairly well again, but not so strong as she had been, for at the best she was never strong. She had acted so bravely at the time, that it had been a great strain upon her; and it seemed to have left a weakness behind. She could not bear any sudden noise, and everything seemed to startle and frighten her; and she could stand very little fatigue.
Miss Anne had to keep the children as much as possible away from her. That made Miss Anne very busy, as you may imagine; the more so because Miss Storey now wanted more looking after, and depended more upon her companionship than before the accident.
Sometimes Miss Anne wondered whether it would be possible to go on very much longer like this. But she said nothing, only did her best day after day, and waited to see what might be the right plan in the end.
And Hecla was really trying to be good, trying to do what was right. That week had left its marks on her life. She knew her faults, and fought to conquer them. Often she forgot, and often she failed; but on the whole there was a steady improvement.
She and little Ivy did everything together, and were like sisters. And towards Ivy, it seemed that Hecla's carelessness was quite cured. She was so careful of the little one, so tender towards her, so full of thought for her comfort and safety, that the aunts often said thankfully one to the other, "Really, having Ivy here will be the making of our dear Hecla!"
Only Think
SOMETHING very unexpected was about to happen.
It was an ordinary day in July. The little girls woke up as usual, and dressed as usual, and had their breakfast as usual. And then as usual came lessons with Auntie Anne. And afterwards, as usual, they were sent out for a walk with Elisabeth.
All just the same as any other day. And yet something was drawing near, which nobody in the house suspected or had any idea of. Things often come like that in life; happy things or sad things, one after another, creeping step by step closer; and no one can see or hear or feel their approach till, suddenly—here they are.
What do you think it was that was coming? Can you guess? Wait, and presently you shall hear.
As they started for their walk, Ivy on one side of Elisabeth, walking demurely, and Hecla frisking on the other side, up ran Trip, the Vicarage dog.
"Come along, Trip. You dear delightful, Trip!" cried Hecla.
Trip was not so faithful in his affections as he might have been. Though Hecla, holding out hands of welcome, was his older friend, he unkindly passed her over and rushed at Ivy, fussing round the little girl and struggling to lick her face. It was a very nice face to lick, no doubt; but still he might just as well have said, "How do you do?" first to Hecla, if only as a matter of politeness.
When he had done with Ivy, he jumped on Hecla, and gave one little wet dab at the tip of her nose, and then made another dash at Ivy, Elisabeth all the while protesting, and telling the children on no account to let him lick them. It wasn't nice, she truly said.
"He may come with us, mayn't he?" cried Hecla. "Come along, Trip!"
And Ivy echoed—
"Come, Trip."
Trip fully meant to come, so these invitations were unnecessary. Chris was at school; and Trip liked companions.
They went through two or three fields, where cows were lazily munching, and dragon-flies swooped hither and thither, and birds sang and insects buzzed. It was warm and sunny and very pleasant. The trees were, of course, in full leaf now, and the sun blazed down hotly.
Hecla was in one of her question-asking moods. She had fits of it now and then; and Ivy would listen at such times, with her big brown eyes wide open, content to listen while Hecla chattered.
"Elisabeth, were you often naughty when you were a little girl?"
Elisabeth said she wouldn't wonder if she was.
"But I want to know, truly—were you? Grown-up people always won't say if they were naughty. And I do like to be told. What did you do that was naughty?"
"If I was naughty, my mother just smacked me, Miss Hecla."
"And did that make you very good directly?"
"If it didn't, it had ought to, Miss Hecla."
"I shouldn't like to be smacked. Auntie Anne doesn't smack me. Look at that big bird. Is it a rook? Why do the rooks say 'Caw' all day long?"
Elisabeth did not know. She supposed it was "their nature."
"I wish it was my nature. I don't see why we shouldn't say 'Caw, caw,' too, when we're happy! Elisabeth—what's a bob?"
"Whatever makes you want to know that, Miss Hecla?"
"I want to know heaps of things. I'd like to know everything. And I've heard people talk about a 'bob.' Somebody one day said he'd got 'two bob.' And somebody else said somebody had 'dropped a bob to the Vicar.' What did they mean?"
"It's a sort of a curtsey, I suppose, Miss Hecla."
"But it can't be that, possibly, you know. Why, you couldn't say a person had got two curtseys. It wouldn't be sense."
"It means money too." Elisabeth refrained from stating the value. "Little ladies don't talk about having two bob."
"Why don't they?"
"Because they don't, Miss Hecla."
"That's no reason at all. I'm learning how to make my curtsey quite nicely. If I was to see the King, I'd do it—so." Hecla made a profound dip. "Would he be pleased?"
"I shouldn't wonder but what he would, Miss Hecla."
Hecla made three more curtseys, and then went off on a fresh tack.
"What is it that makes people sneeze? Mrs. Prue sneezed six times this morning."
"Perhaps she'd got a cold."
"No, she said she hadn't. Not one bit of a cold. She said it was just her way. And Auntie Millicent said once—that was when Mrs. Prue was as cross as cross could be—she said it was just poor old Prue's way too. I think Mrs. Prue has a lot of 'ways.' Elisabeth! Oh, look at Trip."
A flock of geese, walking with slow and stately steps across the corner of their field, drew Trip's attention; and in a moment he was off, wildly charging the flock. Off too were the geese, at their best speed, careering along, legs aided by wings. Trip again and again all but overtook them, but the geese would make a fresh spurt and get ahead, and then the dog would urge himself to greater speed.
It was useless to call. He was not an obedient little dog. Elisabeth and Hecla shrieked after him in vain.
"Trip! Trip! Come back! Naughty Trip! Come back this instant!" they commanded again and again.
But Trip turned a deaf ear to all appeals. He was enjoying his chase, and he meant to have it out.
Would he kill or injure a goose, if he managed to get one into his grip? That was Elisabeth's fear. Hecla's dread was that the geese in their wrath might put an end to her beloved Trip.
Wisely the hunted geese thought of the pond, which lay low at one end of the large field. Cackling and protesting vehemently, they fled thither, pursued still by their relentless foe, and one and all plunged in. For the moment, Trip seemed non-plussed. He did not love water; and he ran round and round the pond, trying to get at his prey without wetting his feet. The geese swam vigorously to and fro, always avoiding that side where Trip happened to be. This lasted some little time, Elisabeth and Hecla still vainly ordering him to desist and to come away.
Then Trip made up his mind and plunged heroically in.
The game grew keener. Trip, snorting and gasping, pursued the big unwieldy birds, which in a terrific fright fled from him, to and fro, round and round the little pond. Again and again, as he overtook them, they splashed the water violently with their wings, half stifling the dog with showers of spray, and half swimming, half fluttering out of his reach. Trip, no whit daunted, though becoming more and more breathless, pursued them again; and this was repeated times without number.
"Oh dear, oh dear, I know they'll kill Trip," Hecla kept saying, almost crying. "Poor little Trip. Trip, do come away. Come, Trip. I know he'll be killed!"
"It's a deal more likely he'll kill one o' the geese, and there'll be a pretty kettle o' fish to fry," declared Elisabeth. "We can't stop longer, Miss Hecla. It's time to go home, and Miss Anne told me I was to be sure to be early, 'cause it worries Miss Storey so if we ain't."
"But we can't leave Trip. We can't possibly, Elisabeth. We must wait till he comes away. He'll get killed, if we go. Just look!—" As Trip, gasping for breath, reached the flock, and with a great fluttering and splashing, the geese once more skimmed across out of his reach. "Oh, you naughty naughty Trip. I know they'll kill him! He'll drown. Oh dear!"
"He'll take care of himself—never you fear. Miss Hecla, you've got to come. I can't stop, nor let you stop, if it was a dozen Trips. I've promised Miss Anne I wouldn't be late, and I ain't going to break my word. And you've made lots of promises that you'd be good; and if you don't come, you won't be good."
Yes, Hecla knew this; and she knew now the consequences that might spring from wrong-doing. She did not forget. But it was very, very hard. Poor dear Trip looked so exhausted, and swam so heavily, and gasped so hard for breath, that she felt sure he would soon fall into the clutches of those big noisy geese, and would sink and drown, and never rise again to the surface of the pond. And this might be her last sight of dear Trip. And Chris—what would Chris say?
But she had promised again and again. She had said she would try her very best to be good and obedient.
"Yes, I'll come," she murmured, turning her back upon the pond, and trying hard not to cry. "Please, mayn't we run very fast, and then we can send somebody to save poor little Trip?"
Elisabeth was quite willing, and they set off at full speed, each taking one of Ivy's hands to help her along.
And before they were half-way to the gate of that same field, Trip came flying cheerfully after them, none the worse for his exciting chase. So soon as he found himself alone, he left the geese, and followed his friends.
Hecla was immensely relieved, and did not know whether to scold him or to kiss him. So she did both by turns, and both had much the same effect on Trip. She was very, very glad that she had not given way to the temptation to disobey Elizabeth.
They reached "The Cottage" in good time; but the mid-day meal was not to be so punctual as usual that day. As they arrived at the front gate, a fly from the station drove up and stopped. And a voice cried from within,—
"Ivy! Ivy! My little darling!"
"It's mummie!" Ivy exclaimed, getting pink all over her face.
In a moment, two people were out of the cab, and Ivy was folded in her mother's tight embrace, while her father was kissing the top of her head, and trying to get hold of a little bit of his child.
Hecla stood looking on, and the two aunties came out, very much astonished.
But at first, neither Mr. nor Mrs. Croft could look at anybody or anything except their child, from whom they had been so many months parted.
Ivy's happy murmurs of "Mummie!" and "Daddy!" mingled with their smothered sounds of joy.
At last, they spoke to Aunt Millicent and Aunt Anne, Mrs. Croft still clasping Ivy, and the child still clinging to her.
"Yes, we have really, really come home," Mrs. Croft said.
"And you won't go away again, mummie?" Ivy entreated, as they went indoors, after a good deal of questioning, and of half answering, everybody speaking confusedly all at once.
"No, my sweet; never, never again, I hope!"
They had still to explain how it was that they had returned. It was Ivy who made them do so. Her little voice was heard very distinctly enquiring:
"Why-because have mummie and daddy got back?"
"Sweet little 'why-because!' I am so glad you have not cured her of that," Mrs. Croft said, as she hugged her child afresh.
Then she and her husband thanked Miss Storey and Miss Anne with all their hearts for taking such care of Ivy. She looked so well, they said; so rosy and strong and healthy and happy.
And then they explained "why-because" this had come about. Ivy's daddy had been ill, and the doctor had said that he ought not to stay in Africa. And they had been very much puzzled what to do, for it had been an expensive voyage out, and they did not see how they could afford to return so soon. And while they were wondering what to do, an old uncle had died suddenly; and this kind old uncle left them some money. And that had made it easy for them to give up Africa, and to come back to dear old England.
"But will Ivy have to go away from here?" asked Hecla in dismay. "I do hope she won't. I want Ivy always."
It would indeed have been a great trouble to both the children, had they been separated. Very soon, however, they found to their delight that this was not to be. Mr. and Mrs. Croft wanted to have Hecla with them—always. They meant to take a house at Nortonbury, as near as possible to the Miss Storeys, and to live there; and they wished to bring up Hecla with Ivy, because it was not good for Ivy to be an only child. They feared that their darling might be too much indulged, and spoilt.
Miss Anne was grieved at the thought of losing both the children; yet she knew that it was better so. And she perhaps felt a little relieved too. For Miss Storey was not strong enough, since the river accident, to stand children constantly about; and Miss Anne wanted to be free to devote herself more entirely to her elder sister.
Besides, if Mr. and Mrs. Croft lived near, the children would be perpetually running in and out; and that would keep the aunts cheerful.
And was it not curious? Aunt Anne knew of a nice, pretty house, just the right size, with a garden, standing empty round the next corner.
Mr. Croft went off to see it directly after dinner. And he liked the house and the garden so much, that in a few days everything was settled.
So, though Hecla would no longer be all day long with Miss Storey and Miss Anne, she would be less than five minutes off. Ivy was delighted to have her dear Hecla with her in the new home. And Mr. and Mrs. Croft were so good, and kind, and gentle with her, that very soon it almost felt to Hecla like the days when she had her own mother and father.
"Mummie, why-because does Hecla kiss you so very, very much?" Ivy one day asked.
"I suppose, pet, it is because she is a tender-hearted little girl, and likes to be loved," Mrs. Croft replied. "And she is very fond of Ivy too, I am sure—isn't she?"
"And I do love Hecla, mummie. I love her—heaps. And p'rhaps that's why-because she loves me," Ivy suggested, in her serious fashion.
THE END
LONDON: PRINTED BY WILLIAM CLOWES AND SONS, LIMITED.