Chapter VI: Haps and Mishaps (2)

"No, we cannot be as holy and good as Jesus, for he was without sin; but we can try to be like him, and then he will love us and be pleased with what he knows we wish to do. Maggie, the other day I heard you saying to your mother that pretty hymn, 'I am Jesus' Little Lamb;' now, if you are really one of Jesus' little lambs you will also be one of his blessed peace-makers. I think if you and Lily had not struck Mamie, she would have felt much more sorry and ashamed than she does now, when she thinks that you have hurt her as much as she hurt Bessie."

"Do you want me to be a peace-maker with Mamie, now?" asked Maggie.

"Yes, if you are not friends with her yet."

"Oh, no, we are not friends at all," said Maggie; "for she runs away every time she sees Lily or me; and we make faces at her."

"And do you like to have it so?"

"Yes," said Maggie slowly, "I think I do; I like to see her run."

"And do you think it is like Jesus' little lamb for you to feel so."

"No, I suppose not; I guess it's pretty naughty, and I won't make faces at her anymore. What shall I do to make friends, Tom?"

"Well," said Tom, "I cannot tell exactly; but suppose the next time that Mamie runs away from you, you call her to come and play with you; will not that show her that you wish to be at peace again?"

"Yes," said Maggie; "and if you think Jesus would want me to, I'll do it; but, Tom, we'll be very sorry if she comes. You don't know what an uncomfortable child she is to play with; she's as cross as--as cross as--_nine_ sticks."

"Perhaps you'll find some other way," said Tom, who could not help smiling. "If we wish for a chance to do good to a person we can generally find one. But I must go, for there is father beckoning to me to come out in the boat with him. You will think of what I have said, will you not, Maggie?"

"Oh, yes I will, and I will do it too, Tom; and if Mamie pinches Bessie again, I won't slap her, but only give her a good push, and then we'll run away from her."

Tom did not think that this was exactly the way to make friends, but he had not time to say anything more, for his father was waiting.

V.

_TOM'S SUNDAY-SCHOOL._

"There's Tom," said Maggie, on the next Sunday afternoon, as she looked out of the window; "he is talking to Mr. Jones, and now they are going to the barn. I wonder if he is going to swing on Sunday."

"Why, Maggie," said Bessie; "Tom wouldn't do such a thing."

"I thought maybe he forgot," said Maggie. "I forgot it was Sunday this morning, and I was just going to ask Mr. Jones to swing me. I wonder what they are doing. I can see in the door of the barn and they are busy with the hay. Come and look, Bessie."

Tom and Mr. Jones seemed to be very busy in the barn for a few minutes, but the little girls could not make out what they were doing. At last Tom came out and walked over to the house. Maggie and Bessie ran to meet him.

"Here you are," he said, "the very little people I wanted to see. I am going to have a Sunday-school class in the barn. Mr. Jones has given me leave, for I could find no place over at the hotel. We have been making seats in the hay. Will you come?"

"Oh, yes, indeed we will," said Maggie, clapping her hands.

Bessie shook her head sorrowfully. "Tom," she said, "mamma wont let me go to Sunday-school; she says I am too little."

"I think she will let you go to mine," said Tom; "we'll go and ask her."

They all went in together to the room where papa and mamma sat reading. "Mrs. Bradford," said Tom, when he had shaken hands with her, "I am going to hold a little Sunday-school class over in the barn; will you let Maggie and Bessie come?"

"Certainly," said Mrs. Bradford. "Who are you to have, Tom?"

"Only Lily, ma'am, and Mamie Stone, and a few more of the little ones from the hotel; they were running about and making a great noise in the hall and parlors, and I thought I could keep them quiet for a while if Mr. Jones would let me bring them over to his barn, and have a Sunday-school there. Walter is coming to help me."

"A good plan, too," said Mr. Bradford; "you are a kind boy to think of it, Tom."

"May I come?" asked Harry.

"And I, too?" said Fred.

"I don't know about you, Fred," said Tom; "I should like to have Harry, for neither Walter nor I can sing, and we want some one to set the tunes for the little ones. But I am afraid you will make mischief."

"Indeed I won't, Tom. Let me come and I will be as quiet as a mouse, and give you leave to turn me out if I do the first thing."

"Well, then, you may come, but I shall hold you to your word and send you away if you make the least disturbance. I don't mean this for play."

"Honor bright," said Fred.

They all went out and met Walter who was coming up the path with a troop of little ones after him. There were Lily and Eddie Norris, Gracie Howard, Mamie Stone, Julia and Charlie Bolton, and half a dozen more beside.

Tom marched them into the barn, where he and Mr. Jones had arranged the school-room.

And a fine school-room the children thought it; better than those in the city to which some of them went every Sunday. There were two long piles of hay with boards laid on top of them,--one covered with a buffalo robe, the other with a couple of sheep skins, making nice seats. In front of these was Tom's place,--an empty barrel turned upside-down for his desk, and Fred's velocipede for his seat. The children did not in the least care that hay was strewn all over the floor, or that the old horse who was in the other part of the barn, would now and then put his nose through the little opening above his manger, and look in at them as if he wondered what they were about.

"Oh, isn't this splendid?" said Maggie. "It is better than our Infant school-room, in Dr. Hill's church."

"So it is," said Lily. "I wish we always went to Sunday-school here, and had Tom for our teacher."

Some of the little ones wanted to play, and began to throw hay at each other; but Tom put a stop to this; he had not brought them there to romp, he said, and those who wanted to be noisy must go away. Then he told them all to take their seats.

Maggie had already taken hers on the end of one of the hay benches, with Bessie next to her, and Lily on the other side of Bessie. Gracie Howard sat down by Lily, and Mamie Stone was going to take her place next, when Gracie said, "You sha'n't sit by me, Mamie."

"Nor by me," said Lily.

"Nor me, nor me," said two or three of the others.

Now Mamie saw how she had made the other children dislike her by her ill-humor and unkindness, and she did not find it at all pleasant to stand there and have them all saying they would not sit by her.

"I want to go home," she said, while her face grew very red, and she looked as if she were going to cry.

"Who is going to be kind, and sit by Mamie," asked Tom.

"I should think none of them who know how she can pinch," said Fred.

"Oh, we are going to forget all that," said Tom. "Come, children, make room for Mamie."

"This bench is full," said Lily, "she can't come here."

Mamie began to cry. "There is plenty of room on the other bench," said Tom; "sit there, Mamie."

"I don't want to," answered Mamie; "there's nothing but boys there, and I want to go home."

"Why," said Tom, "what a bad thing that would be, to begin our Sunday-school by having one of our little scholars go home because none of the rest will sit by her. That will never do."

All this time Maggie had sat quite still, looking at Mamie. She was thinking of what Tom had said to her, and of being Jesus' little lamb. Here was a chance to show Mamie that she was ready to be friends with her, but it was hard work. She did not at all like to go away from her little sister whom she loved so much, to sit by Mamie whom she did not love at all, and who had been so unkind to Bessie. She rose up slowly from her seat, with cheeks as red as Mamie's and said,--

"Tom, I'll go on the other seat and sit by Mamie."

"And just get pinched for it," said Lily: "stay with us, Maggie."

Mamie took her hand down from her face and looked at Maggie with great surprise.

"She wants some one to sit with her," said Maggie, "and I had better go."

"Maggie is doing as she would be done by," said Tom.

Then Maggie felt glad, for she knew she was doing right. "Come, Mamie," she said, and she took hold of Mamie's hand, and they sat down together on the other bench.

"You are a good girl, Midget," said Harry, "and it's more than you deserve, Miss Mamie."

"I don't care," said Mamie. "I love Maggie, and I don't love any of the rest of you, except only Tom."

Here Tom called his school to order and said there must be no more talking, for he was going to read, and all must be quiet. He went behind his barrel-desk, and opening his Bible, read to them about the Saviour blessing little children. Then they sang, "I want to be an Angel." Harry and Fred, with their beautiful clear voices, started the tune, and all the children joined in, for every one of them knew the pretty hymn.

Next, Tom read how Jesus was born in Bethlehem of Judea, in a rough stable and laid not in a pretty cradle such as their baby brothers and sisters slept in, but in a manger where the wise men of the east came and worshipped Him: and how after Joseph and Mary had been told by God to fly into the land of Egypt with the infant Saviour, the wicked king, Herod, killed all the dear little babies in the land, with the hope that Jesus might be among them. When he came to any thing which he thought the children would not understand, he stopped and explained it to them. "Now we will sing again," he said, when he had done reading, "and the girls shall choose the hymns. Maggie, dear, what shall we sing first?"

Maggie knew what she would like, but she was too shy to tell, and she looked at Tom without speaking. Tom thought he knew, and said, "I'll choose for you, then. We will sing, 'Jesus, little lamb;' whoever knows it, hold up their hand."

Half a dozen little hands went up, but Tom saw that all the children did not know it. "What shall we do?" he said. "Maggie would like that best, I think; but I suppose all want to sing, and some do not know the words."

"Never mind," said Gracie Howard, who was one of those who had not held up her hand, "if Maggie wants it we'll sing it, because she was so good and went and sat by Mamie. If we don't know the words we can holler out the tune all the louder."

Some of the children began to laugh when Gracie said this, but Tom said, "I have a better plan than that. I will say the first verse over three or four times, line by line, and you may repeat it after me; then we will sing it, and so go on with the next verse."

This was done. Tom said the lines slowly and distinctly, and those who did not know the hymn repeated them. While they were learning the first verse in this way, Mamie whispered to Maggie, "Maggie, I love you."

"Do you?" said Maggie, as if she could not quite believe it.

"Yes, because you are good; don't you love me. Maggie?"

"Well, no, not much," said Maggie, "but I'll try to."

"I wish you would," said Mamie; "and I wont snatch your things, nor slap you, nor do anything."

"I'll love you if you do a favor to me," said Maggie.

"Yes, I will, if it is not to give you my new crying baby."

"Oh, I don't want your crying baby, nor any of your toys," said Maggie. "I only want you to promise that you won't pinch my Bessie again. Why, Mamie, you ought to be more ashamed of yourself than any girl that ever lived; her arm is all black and blue yet."

"I didn't mean to hurt her so much," said Mamie, "and I was sorry when Bessie cried so; but then you slapped me, and Lily slapped me, and Jane scolded me, and so I didn't care, but was glad I did it; but I am sorry, now, and I'll never do it again."

"And I sha'n't slap you, if you do," said Maggie.

"What will you do, then?"

"I'll just take Bessie away, and leave you to your own 'flections."

"I don't know what that means," said Mamie.

"I don't, either," said Maggie; "but I heard papa say it, so I said it. I like to say words that big people say. Bessie won't say a word if she don't know what it means; but I'd just as lief. I guess it means conscience."

"Oh, I guess it does, too," said Mamie, "for Walter said he should think I'd have a troubled conscience for hurting Bessie so; but I didn't. And Tom talked to me too; but I didn't care a bit, till you came to sit by me, Maggie, and now I am sorry. Did you tell Tom about it?"

"I talked to him about it, but he knew before. Why, everybody knew, Mamie, because your mamma made such an awful fuss about those little slaps."

Now Maggie made a mistake in saying this; she did not mean it to vex Mamie, but it did.

"They were not little slaps," she said, "they were hard slaps, and they hurt; and you sha'n't say my mamma makes an awful fuss."

Before Maggie had time to answer, Tom called upon the children to sing, and Maggie joined in with her whole heart. The first verse was sung over twice; and by the time this was done, Mamie felt good-natured again, for she remembered how Maggie had come to sit with her when none of the other little girls would do so. She had been quite surprised when Maggie had offered to do it, and had thought that she could not have been so good.

"I'll never be cross with Maggie again," she said to herself.

When Tom began to teach the second verse she whispered, "Maggie, will you kiss me and make up?"

"Yes, by and by, when some of the other children are gone," said Maggie.

"Why won't you do it, now?"

"I don't like to do it before them; I'm afraid they'll think I want them to see."

When Tom thought the children all knew the hymn pretty well, they sang it over two or three times, and then he told them a story. After they had sung once more, he dismissed the school; for he did not want to keep them too long, lest the little ones should be tired. He invited all those who liked it, to come again the next Sunday afternoon, for Mr. Jones had said that they might have Sunday-school in the barn as often as they liked. Every one of the children said that they would come. When most of them had left the barn, Maggie said, "Now I will kiss you, Mamie."

"I want to kiss Bessie, too," said Mamie, as the little girl came running up to her sister; "will you kiss me, Bessie?"

"Oh, yes," said Bessie; and Mamie kissed both of her little playmates, and so there was peace between them once more.

VI.

_THE POST-OFFICE_

On Monday Mr. Bradford went up to New York to attend to some business. He was to come back on Wednesday afternoon; and on the morning of that day, grandmamma sent over to know if Mrs. Bradford would like to have her carriage, and drive to the railway station to meet him. Mamma said yes; and told Maggie and Bessie they might go with her. She offered to take Harry and Fred, too; but they wanted to go clam-fishing with Mr. Jones; so she took Franky and baby instead, and carried baby herself, telling nurse and Jane that they might have a holiday for the afternoon. The little girls were delighted at the thought of going to meet their dear father; for he had been gone three days, and they had missed him very much.

The first part of the ride was through the sand, where the wheels went in so deep that the horses had hard work to draw the carriage and went very slowly, but the children did not mind that at all. They liked to hear the sound of the wheels grating through the sand, and to watch how they took it up and threw it off again as they moved round and round. At last the carriage turned off to the right, and now the road was firmer and harder, and, after a time, ran through the woods. This was delightful, it was so cool and shady. Baby seemed to think this was a good place for a nap, for she began to shut her eyes and nod her little head about, till mamma laid her down in her lap, where she went fast asleep. James took Franky in front with him and let him hold the end of the reins, and Franky thought he was driving quite as much as the good-natured coachman, and kept calling out "Get up," and "Whoa," which the horses did not care for in the least.

There was a little stream which ran along by the side of the road, and at last bent itself right across it, so that the carriage had to go over a small bridge. Just beyond the bridge the stream widened into quite a large pool. James drove his horses into it, and stopped to let them take a drink.

It was a lovely, shady spot. The trees grew close around the pool and met overhead, and there were a number of small purple flowers growing all around. James tried to reach some of them with his whip, but they were too far away, so the children were disappointed. When the horses had stopped drinking, there was not a sound to be heard but the twittering of the birds in the branches, and the little ripple of the water as it flowed over the stones.

"Let's stay here a great while, mamma," said Bessie, "it is so pleasant."

"And what would papa do when he came and found no one waiting for him?" said Mrs. Bradford.

"Oh, yes! let us make haste then," said Bessie; "we mustn't make him disappointed for a million waters."

But mamma said there was time enough; so they staid a few moments longer, and then drove on. At last they passed from the beautiful green wood into a space where there was no shade. There were bushes and very small trees to be sure, but they were low and scrubby and grew close together in a kind of tangled thicket. These reached as far as they could see on either side, and came so near to the edge of the road, that once, when James had to make way for a heavy hay wagon, and drew in his horses to let it pass, Maggie stretched her hand out of the carriage and pulled some sprigs from one of the bushes.

"Mamma, do you know that funny old man?" asked Bessie, as the driver of the hay wagon nodded to her mother, and Mrs. Bradford smiled and nodded pleasantly in return.

"No, dear; but in these lonely country places it is the custom for people to nod when they pass each other."

"Why, we don't do that in New York," said Maggie.

"No, it would be too troublesome to speak to every one whom we met in the streets of a great city; and people there would think it very strange and impertinent if you bowed to them when you did not know them."

"Mamma," said Maggie, "I don't like the kind of country there is here, at all. What makes all these bushes grow here?"

Then mamma told how all this ground was once covered with just such beautiful woods as they had passed through, and how they were set on fire by the sparks from a train of cars, how the fire spread for miles and miles, and burned for many days; and the people could do nothing to stop it, until God sent a change of wind and a heavy rain which put it out. She told them how many poor people were burnt out of their houses, and how the little birds and squirrels and other animals were driven from their cosy homes in the woods, and many of them scorched to death by this terrible fire. Then for a long time the ground where these woods had grown was only covered with ashes and charred logs, till at last these tangled bushes had sprung up. Mamma said she supposed that by and by the people would cut down the underbrush, and then the young trees would have space to grow.

By the time she had finished her long story they reached the Station and found that they had a few moments to wait, for it was not yet quite time for the train.

There was a locomotive standing on the track, and when the horses saw it they began to prick up their ears and to dance a little; so James turned their heads and drove them up by the side of the depot, where they could not see it. On the other side of the road was a small, white building, and over the door was a sign with large black letters upon it.

"P-O-S-T, porst," spelled Maggie.

"Post," said mamma.

"Post, O double F."

"O-F, of," said mamma again.

"O-F, of, F-I-C-E; oh, it's the post-office. I wonder if there is a letter there for us from Grandpapa Duncan."

"Perhaps there may be," said Mrs. Bradford. "I told Mr. Jones we would inquire for the letters. James, will it do for you to leave the horses?"

"I think not, ma'am," said James. "They are a little onasy yet, and if she squales they'll run."

"And I cannot go because of baby," said mamma; "we must wait till papa comes."

"I wish we could get our letter if it is there," said Maggie; "we could read it while we are waiting for papa."

"There's a nice civil man there, Mrs. Bradford," said James, "and if you didn't mind Miss Maggie going over, I could lift her out, and he'll wait on her as if it was yourself."

"Oh, James," said Maggie; "I couldn't do it, not for anything. I couldn't indeed, mamma."

"Well, dear, you need not, if you are afraid."

"But I would like to have our letter so much, mamma."

"So would I," said Bessie. "And when dear papa comes we will want to talk to him and not to yead our letter."

"Maybe it is not there," said Maggie.

"But we would like to know," said Bessie. "Could I go, mamma?"

"You are almost too little I think, dear."

"Well," said Maggie, slowly, "I guess I'll go. Mamma, will you look at me all the time?"

"Yes, dear, and there is nothing to hurt you. Just walk in at that door, and you will see a man there. Ask him if there are any letters to go to Mr. Jones's house."

"Yes, mamma, and be very sure you watch all the time."

James came down from his seat and lifted Maggie from the carriage. She walked very slowly across the road, every step or two looking back to see if her mother was watching her. Mrs. Bradford smiled and nodded to her, and at last Maggie went in at the door. But the moment she was inside, her mother saw her turn round and fly out of the post-office as if she thought something terrible was after her. She tore back across the road and came up to the carriage looking very much frightened.

"Why, Maggie, what is it, dear?" asked her mother.

"Oh, mamma, there is a hole there, and a man put his face in it; please put me in the carriage, James."

"Oh, foolish little Maggie," said mamma; "that man was the post-master, and he came to the hole as you call it, to see what you wanted. If you had waited and told him, he would have looked to see if there were any letters for us."

"He had such queer spectacles on," said Maggie.

"I wish I could go," said Bessie; "I wouldn't be afraid of him. I do want to know if Grandpapa Duncan's letter is there."

"Then you may try," said her mother; "take her out, James."

So Bessie was lifted out of the carriage, and went across the road as Maggie had done. She walked into the post-office and saw the hole Maggie had spoken of, but no one was looking out of it. It was a square opening cut in a wooden partition which divided the post-office. On one side was the place where Bessie stood, and where people came to ask for their letters; on the other was the postmaster's room, where he kept the letters and papers till they were called for.

Bessie looked around and saw no one. She always moved very gently, and she had come in so quietly that the post-master had not heard her. There was a chair standing in front of "the hole." Bessie pushed it closer, and climbing upon it, put her little face through, and looked into the post-master's side of the room. He was sitting there reading. He was an ugly old man, and wore green goggles, which Maggie had called "such queer spectacles." But Bessie was not afraid of him.

"How do you do, Mr. Post Officer?" she said. "I came for our letter."

The post-master looked up. "Well, you're a big one to send after a letter," he said. "Who is it for?"

"For Maggie and me, and it is from Grandpapa Duncan; has it come?"

"Where are you from?" asked the post-master, laughing.

"From Mr. Jones's house. Oh, I forgot, mamma said I was to ask if any letters had come for Mr. Jones's house."

"Then I suppose you are Mr. Bradford's daughter?"

"Yes, I am," said Bessie.

"And are you the little girl who came in here just now, and ran right out again?"

"Oh, no, sir; that was Maggie. Poor Maggie is shy, and she said you looked out of a hole at her."

"And you looked in a hole at me, but I did not run away. If I was to run away you could not get your letter."

"Is it here, sir?" asked Bessie.

"Well, I reckon it may be," said the post-master; "what's your name?"

"My name is Bessie, and my sister's is Maggie."

"Here is one apiece then," said the post-master, taking up some letters. "Here is one for Miss Bessie Bradford; that's you, is it? and one for Miss Maggie Bradford, that's your sister, I reckon."

"What! one for myself, and one for Maggie's self," said Bessie. "Are they from Grandpapa Duncan?"

"I don't know," said the post-master. "You will have to open them to find that out."

"Oh, how nice; please let me have them, sir; I am very much obliged to you."

"Stop, stop," cried the post-master, as Bessie jumped down from the chair, and was running off with her prizes. "Here are some more papers and letters for your folks."

But Bessie did not hear him; she was already out of the door, running over to the carriage with flushed cheeks and sparkling eyes, holding up a letter in each hand. "Oh, Maggie, Maggie," she called, "that nice post-officer gave me two letters, one for you, and one for me; wasn't he kind?"

"I think it was a kind Grandpapa Duncan, who took the trouble to write two letters," said Mrs. Bradford.

"So it was," said Maggie. "Mamma, will you read them for us?"

"In a moment," said Mrs. Bradford; and then she turned to speak to the post-master, who had followed Bessie to the carriage with the papers and letters which she had been in too great a hurry to wait for. She thanked him, and he went back and stood at the door watching the eager little girls while their mother read to them. She opened Maggie's letter first. It said,

"MY DEAR LITTLE MAGGIE:--

"I cannot tell you how pleased I was to receive the very
nice letter which you and Bessie sent me. I have put it in
a safe place in my writing desk, and shall keep it as long
as I live. As you wrote it together, perhaps you expected
that I would make one answer do for both; but I thought you
would be better pleased if I sent a letter for each one.

"I am glad to hear that you like Quam Beach so much; but
you must not let it make you forget dear old Riverside. I
am fond of the sea myself, and do not know but I may take a
run down to see you some day this summer. Do you think you
could give a welcome to the old man? and would Mrs. Jones
make him such a famous turnover as she made for you?

"I went this morning to see your friend Jemmy, for I
thought you would like to hear something about him. He
was out in the little garden, on the shady side of the
house, sitting in his chair with his books beside him,
and a happier or more contented boy I never saw. He was
alone, except for his dog and rabbits, for his mother was
washing, and Mary was out. Mrs. Bent brought me a chair,
and I sat and talked to Jemmy for some time. I asked him
which of all his books he liked best. 'Oh, my Bible, sir,'
he said. 'I think it is with the Bible and other books,
just like it is with people, Mr. Duncan.' 'How so?' I
asked. 'Why, sir,' he answered, 'when Mary and mother are
away, the neighbors often come in to sit with me and talk
a bit. They are very kind, and I like to have them tell me
about things; but no matter how much they make me laugh or
amuse me, 'tain't like mother's voice; and if I am sick, or
tired, or uncomfortable, or even glad, there ain't nobody
that seems to have just the right thing to say, so well as
her. And it's just so with the Bible, I think; it always
has just the very thing I want: whether it's comfort and
help, or words to say how happy and thankful I feel. The
other books I like just as I do the neighbors; but the
Bible I love just as I do mother. I suppose the reason is
that the Bible is God's own words, and he loved and pitied
us so that he knew what we would want him to say, just as
mother loves and pities me, and so knows what I like her
to say.' Happy Jemmy! he knows how to love and value God's
holy book, that most precious gift, in which all may find
what their souls need. May my little Maggie learn its worth
as the poor lame boy has done.

"I really think your chair has done Jemmy good. He looks
brighter, and has a better color and appetite since he has
been able to be out of doors so much. I do not suppose he
will ever be able to walk again, but he does not fret about
that, and is thankful for the blessings that are left to
him. If you and Bessie could see how much he enjoys the
chair, you would feel quite repaid for any pains you took
to earn it for him. And now, my darling, I think I must put
the rest of what I have to say, in your little sister's
letter. Write to me soon again, and believe me

"Your loving grandpapa,

"CHARLES DUNCAN."

Just as mama was finishing this letter, the train came in sight, and she said she must leave Bessie's letter till they were at home. In a few minutes they saw their dear father coming towards them, and a man following with his bag and a great basket. Then papa was in the carriage, and such a hugging and kissing as he took and gave. Franky came inside that he might have his share, too; and baby woke up, good-natured as she always was, and smiled and crowed at her father till he said he really thought she knew him, and was glad to see him. Mamma was quite sure she did.

When they had all settled down once more, and papa had asked and answered a good many questions, he said, "Maggie and Bessie, I met a very curious old gentleman to-day; what strange question do you think he asked me?"

The children were sure they did not know.

"He asked me if there were any little girls down this way who wrote letters to old gentleman?"

Maggie and Bessie looked at each other, and Maggie shook her head very knowingly; but they waited to hear what papa would say next.

"I told him I thought I knew of two such young damsels, and what do you think he did then?"

"What?" asked both the little girls at once.

"He handed me these two parcels and told me if I could find any such little letter-writers, to ask them if they would prove useful."

As Mr. Bradford spoke, he produced two parcels. Like the letters, they were directed one to Miss Maggie Bradford, and the other to Miss Bessie Bradford. They were quickly opened, and inside were two purple leather writing cases, very small, but as Bessie said, "perfaly pretty." They had steel corners and locks, and a plate with each little girl's name engraved upon her own. In each were found a small inkstand, a pen, and two pencils, two sticks of sealing wax, and best of all, tiny note paper and envelopes stamped M. S. B., and B. R. B.

It would have done Grandpapa Duncan good to have seen his pets' pleasure. Maggie fairly screamed with delight. "Oh, such paper, such lovely stamped paper."

"And such _embelopes_," said Bessie, "with our own name letters on them."

"I am going to write to every one I know in the world," cried Maggie.

"Mamma," said Bessie, when they had looked again and again at their beautiful presents, "I do think God has made all my people the very best people that ever lived. I don't think any little girls have such people as mine."

"I suppose every other little girl thinks the same thing, Bessie."

"Mamma, how can they? they don't have you, nor papa, nor Maggie, nor Grandpapa Duncan, nor grandmamma;" and Bessie went on naming all the people whom she loved, and who loved her.

Papa asked if they had not each had a letter from Grandpapa Duncan. The writing cases had almost made them forget the letters; but now they showed them to papa, and he told Bessie he would read hers. He let her open it herself, and taking her on his knee, read:

"MY DEAR LITTLE BESSIE,--

"Maggie will tell you how much I was pleased with the
letter you both sent me, but I must thank you for your
share in it. Your old grandpapa is very happy to know that
his little pets think about him, and care for him when they
are away. I am glad to hear that you are better, and hope
you will come home with cheeks as red as Maggie's.

"We are all well here except poor little Nellie, who is
cutting some teeth which hurt her very much, and make her
rather fretful. She has learned to say two or three words,
and among them she makes a curious sound which her mamma
declares to be a very plain grandpapa; as she looks at me
every time she says it, I suppose I must believe it is so;
but I must say it does not sound much like it to my ears.
However, she loves her old grandpapa dearly, which is a
great pleasure to me.

"Your little dog Flossy is growing finely. He is very
pretty and lively, and will make a fine playmate for you
and Maggie when you come home. I went down to Donald's
cottage the other day and found all four of the puppies
playing before the door while Alice sat on the steps
watching them. She says they are growing very mischievous
and have already broken two or three of Donald's fine
plants, so that when she lets them out for a play, she has
to keep her eye on them all the time. Alice asked about you
and Maggie, and I could not help wishing with her that you
were there to see your little doggie. It will be pleasant
to have you at Riverside again in the autumn. Send me
another letter, if you wish to please

"Your loving grandpapa,

"CHARLES DUNCAN."

VII.

_A NEW FRIEND._

One morning Bessie was sitting on a large rock on the beach, looking at the waves as they rolled up, one after another, and listening to the pleasant sound they made. The other children and Jane were playing a little way off.

Presently a lady and gentleman came walking slowly along the beach. The gentleman used crutches, for he had only one foot. They stopped at the rock where Bessie sat, and the lady said, "You had better sit down, Horace, you have walked far enough."

The gentleman sat down beside Bessie, who looked at him for a minute and then got up.

"I'll sit on that other stone," she said, "and then there'll be room for the lady: that is big enough for me."

"Thank you, dear," said the lady; and the gentleman said, "Well, you are a polite little girl."

Bessie liked his looks, but it made her sorry to see that he had only one foot. She sat opposite to him looking at him very gravely; and he looked back at her, but with a smile. Now that Bessie had given up her seat to the strangers, she felt they were her company and she must entertain them, so she began to talk.

"Is your foot pretty well, sir?" she said.

"Which foot?" asked the gentleman.

"The one that is cut off."

"How can it be pretty well if it is cut off?" he said; "you see it is not here to feel pretty well."

"I mean the place where it was cut off," said Bessie.

"It pains me a good deal," he said. "I am a soldier, and my foot was hurt in battle and had to be cut off, but I hope it will feel better one of these days. I have come down here to see what the sea air will do for me."

"Oh, then you'll feel better, soon," said Bessie. "I used to feel very _misable_, but now I am most well."

"Why, is your foot cut off, too?" asked the gentleman.

"Oh, no; don't you see I have both my two?"

"So you have," said the gentleman, laughing as she held up two little feet; "but there is not half as much in those two tiny feet, as there is in my one big one."

"I had yather have two little ones than one big one," said Bessie.

"So would I, but you see I cannot choose, and all the sea air in the world will not bring me back my other foot."

"Don't you like the sea, sir?" asked Bessie, "I do."

"Why do you like it so much?"

"Because I like to see the waves, and I think it sounds as if it was saying something all the time."

"What does it seem to say?"

"I don't know, sir. I listen to it a great deal, and I can't find out, but I like to hear it for all. I think it must be telling us to yemember our Father in heaven who made it."

"What a strange child," the gentleman whispered to the lady; "who is she like?"

"I do not know, but she is lovely;" said the lady; "I should like to take her picture as she sits there."

"What is your name, fairy?" asked the gentleman.

"Bessie," said the little girl.

"Bessie what?"

"Bessie Bradford."

"Bessie Bradford! and what is your father's name?"

"His name is Bradford, too."

"But what is his first name?"

"Mr." said Bessie, gravely.

The gentleman laughed. "Has he no other names?"

"Oh, yes;" said Bessie, "all his names are Mr. Henry, Lane, Bradford."

"I thought so," said the gentleman, "she is the very image of Helen Duncan. And where is your father, Bessie?"

"Up in the house, yeading to mamma," said Bessie, looking away from him to the lady. She was very pretty and had a sweet smile. Bessie liked her face very much and sat gazing at her as earnestly as she had before done at the gentleman who presently said, "Well, what do you think of this lady?"

"I think she is very pretty," said Bessie, turning her eyes back to him.

"So do I," said the gentleman, "do you think that I am very pretty, too?"

"No," said Bessie.

"Then what do you think about me?"

"I think you are pretty 'quisitive," said the little girl, at which both the lady and gentleman laughed heartily; but Bessie looked very sober.

"Will you give me a kiss, little one?" asked the stranger.

"No," said Bessie, "I had yather not."

"Why, you are not afraid of me?"

"Oh, no!" said Bessie, "I am not afraid of soldiers; I like them."

"Then why won't you kiss me?"

"I don't kiss strangers, if they're gentlemen," said Bessie.

"And that is very prudent, too," said the soldier, who seemed very much amused; "but then you see I am not quite a stranger."

"Oh, what a--I mean I think you are mistaken, sir," said Bessie.

"Don't tease her, dear," said the lady.

"But, little Bessie," said the gentleman, "do you call people strangers who know a great deal about you?"

"No," said Bessie; "but you don't know anything about me."

"Yes, I do; in the first place I know that you are a very kind and polite little girl who is ready to give up her place to a lame soldier. Next, I know that your father's name is Mr. Henry, Lane, Bradford, and that yours is Bessie Rush Bradford, and that you look very much like your aunt, Helen Duncan. Then I know that you have a little sister, whose name is--let me see, well, I think her name is Margaret, after your mother; and you have two brothers, Harry and Fred. There is another little one, but I have forgotten his name."

"Franky," said Bessie; "and we have baby, too."

"Ah, well, I have never made baby's acquaintance. And this is not your home, but you live in New York, at No. 15 ---- street, where I have spent many a pleasant hour. And more than all this, I know there is a lady in Baltimore named Elizabeth Rush, who loves you very much, and whom you love; and that a few days since you wrote a letter to her and told her how sorry you were that her brother who was 'shooted' had had his foot cut off."

While the gentleman was saying all this, Bessie had slipped off her stone and come up to him, and now she was standing, with one little hand on his knee, looking up eagerly into his face.

"Why, do you know the lady whom I call my Aunt Bessie?" she said.

"Indeed I do; and now if you are so sorry for Aunt Bessie's brother, would you not like to do something to help him?"

"I can't," said Bessie; "I am too little."

"Yes, you can," said the colonel, "you can give me a kiss, and that would help me a great deal."

"Why," said Bessie, again, "do you mean that you are Colonel Yush, dear Aunt Bessie's brother?"

"To be sure I am," said the colonel; "and now are you going to give me the kiss for her sake?"

"Yes, sir, and for your own sake, too."

"Capital, we are coming on famously, and shall soon be good friends at this rate," said the colonel as he stooped and kissed the rosy little mouth which Bessie held up to him.

"Will you tell me about it?" she said.

"About what?"

"About how you was in that country, called India, which papa says is far away over the sea, and how the wicked heathen named, named--I can't yemember."

"Sepoys?" said the colonel.

"Yes, Sepoys: how the Sepoys, who you thought were your friends, made a great fight, and killed the soldiers and put the ladies and dear little babies down a well. And how brave you was and how you was fighting and fighting not to let the Sepoys hurt some poor sick soldiers in the hospital; and the well soldiers wanted to yun away, but you wouldn't let them, but made the Sepoys yun away instead, and went after them. And then they came back with ever so many more to help them, and you and your soldiers had to go away, but you took all the sick men with you and did not let them be hurt. And you saw a soldier friend of yours who was dying, and he asked you not to let the Sepoys find him, and you put him on your horse and carried him away, and the Sepoys almost caught you. And how the very next day there was a dreadful, dreadful battle when more soldiers came, and your foot was shooted and your side; and your foot had to be cut off in the hospital, and would not get well for a long, long while. And how there was a lady that you wanted for your wife, and you came to our country to get her--oh, I guess that's the lady!" Bessie stopped as she looked at the pretty lady, and the colonel smiled as he said,--

"You are right, Bessie; and what more?"

"And when you were coming in the ship, there was a little boy who fell in the water and you forgot your lame foot and jumped in after him, and your foot was hurt so much it had to be cut off some more. So please tell me all about it, sir."

Bessie said all this just as fast as her little tongue would go, and the colonel sat watching her with a very amused look on his face. "Upon my word, you are well posted, little one. I do not know that I could tell the story better myself; how did you learn so much?"

"Oh, Aunt Bessie put it in the letters she yote to mamma, and mamma told us about it, and Harry yeads and yeads it; and Maggie made a nice play about it. Harry gets on the yocking horse and plays he is Colonel Yush, and Fred is the soldier that you helped."

"Very good," said the colonel, "and what are you and Maggie?"

"Oh! we are Harry's soldiers, I mean _your_ soldiers, and Franky is, too; and we have the nursery chairs for horses, and our dolls for sick soldiers, and we have the pillows for Sepoys, and we poke them; and nurse don't like it, 'cause she says we make a yumpus and a muss in the nursery."

"I should think so," said the colonel, laughing heartily.

"Will you tell me the story?" asked Bessie.

"I think I had better tell you another, since you know that so well," said Colonel Rush; "I will tell you one about a drummer boy."

But just as he began the story Bessie saw her father coming towards them, and in another minute he and the colonel were shaking hands and seeming so glad to see one another. Then Mr. Bradford turned and looked at the pretty lady, and the colonel said, "Yes, this is the lady of whom you have heard as Miss Monroe, now Mrs. Rush. She has taken charge of what is left of me."

"Isn't she _perfaly_ lovely, papa?" asked Bessie, as Mr. Bradford took off his hat and shook hands with the lady, and she saw a pretty pink color come into her cheeks which made her look sweeter than ever. Papa looked as if he quite agreed with his little daughter, but he only smiled and said, "My Bessie speaks her mind on all occasions."

"So I see," said the colonel, looking very much pleased.

"Did I talk too much, sir?" asked Bessie, not knowing exactly whether he meant to find fault with her, for she was sometimes told at home that she talked too much.

"Not one word," he answered; "and I hope you will often come and see me at my rooms in the hotel, and talk to me there. I am very fond of little children."

"If mamma will let me," said Bessie; "but I can't come _very_ often, 'cause I don't want to be away from Maggie."

"Oh, Maggie must come, too," said the colonel.

"Maggie is shy," said Bessie.

"Well, you bring her to my room, and we will see if I have not something there that will cure her shyness."

But papa called Maggie to come and see Colonel and Mrs. Rush, and when she heard that this was the brave English soldier about whom she had made the famous play, her shyness was forgotten at once, and she was quite as ready to be friends as Bessie, though she had not much to say.

"You know, Bessie," she said afterwards, "we're so very acquainted with him in our hearts, he is not quite a stranger."

The next morning, Mrs. Bradford went to the hotel to call on Mrs. Rush, taking Maggie and Bessie with her; and from this time the little girls and the colonel were the best friends possible, though Bessie was his particular pet and plaything, and she always called him her soldier. When he felt well enough, and the day was not too warm, he would come out and sit on the beach for an hour or two. The moment he came moving slowly along on his crutches, Bessie was sure to see him, and no matter what she was doing, off she would run to meet him. As long as he stayed she never left him, and her mother sometimes feared that the colonel might grow tired of having such a little child so much with him, but he told her it was a great pleasure to him; and indeed it seemed to be so, for though there were a great many people at Quam Beach who knew him and liked to talk to him, he never forgot the little friend who sat so quietly at his side, and had every now and then a word, or smile, or a touch of his hand for her.

Bessie had been taught that she must not interrupt when grown people were speaking; so, though she was a little chatterbox when she had leave to talk, she knew when it was polite and proper for her to be quiet.