Chapter II: Part 2

For she had chosen Browning's "Pied Piper of Hamelin." That was surely "good;" and if it was long, why, it was "so interesting." As she went along she could almost see the rats as they "fought the dogs and killed the cats." She could almost see the great Mayor tremble as the people flocked to him and threatened to "send him packing" if he did n't find some means to rid them of those awful rats. She could almost hear the Pied Piper's voice as he offered to clear the town of the pests; and it seemed to her she could hear the music of his pipe as he stepped into the street and began to play, while the rats from every hole and cranny followed him to the very banks of the Weser, where they were drowned in the rolling tide.

It seemed awful that after promising the Piper those fifty thousand guilders, the Mayor should break his word; and it certainly was terrible, when the Piper found he had been duped, that he should again begin to pipe, and that the children--yes, every one in Hamelin Town--should follow him just as the rats had done, and that by and by he should lead them to the mountain-side, that it should open, and that, lo! after they had all passed in, it should close again, leaving only one little lame boy outside, weeping bitterly because he had not been able to walk fast enough to keep up with the merry crowd. It was all so distinct and plain.

She wondered where the children went after the hill-side shut them in. She wondered what they saw. She thought the Piper's music must have been very odd indeed to charm them so. She could almost hear-- _What was that_? She gave a start; for sure as you live, she heard the sound of a fife piping shrill and loud round the corner. She flung down the book and ran into the street. The air was cold and sharp and made her shiver, but she did not stop to think of that; she was listening to that Piper who was coming around the side of the house,--nearer and nearer. She meant to follow him, whoever he was. There! How the wind whistled and the leaves scurried!

Wind! Leaves! Why, it was the Pied Piper himself with his puffed cheeks and tattered coat; and before him ran the host of children, dancing, as they went, to the tune of the Piper's fife.

Away--away--

With a bound Doris left the door-step and followed after, running and fluttering, skipping and skurrying, sometimes like a little girl and sometimes like a big leaf,--she had n't time to ask herself which she really was; for all the while she was listening to that wonderful fife as it whistled and wailed, shrieked and sighed, and seemed to coax them on all the while.

She followed blindly after the rest of the whirling crowd.

Away they went, always more and more,--away they went, clear out of town and into the bare country,--away they went; and the Piper behind them made his fife-notes shriller and louder, so that all could hear, and they seemed to be carried along in spite of themselves.

It was like a race in a dream. Their feet seemed not to touch the ground. The leaves rustled--no, the children chattered as they fluttered--no, hurried along. Doris could catch little sentences here and there; but they seemed to be in a strange tongue, and she did not understand. But by and by she grew very familiar with the sounds, and, strangely enough, she found she could make out the meaning of the queer words.

"It 's German," she thought; "I know they're talking German;" and so she listened very attentively.

"Sie ist eine Fremde," she heard one say to another; "sie gehoert nicht zu uns,"--which she immediately knew meant: "She is a stranger; she doesn't belong to us."

"Nein," replied the other; "aber sie scheint gut und brav zu sein." At which Doris smiled; she liked to be thought "good and sweet."

On and on they went; and after a time things began to have a very foreign look, and this startled Doris considerably.

"We can't have crossed the ocean," she thought. But when she asked her nearest neighbor where they were and whether they had crossed the Atlantic, he smiled and said,--

"Ja, gewiss; wir sind in Deutschland. Wir gehen, schon, nach Hamelin,"--which rather puzzled Doris; for she found they had crossed the sea and were in Germany and going to Hamelin.

"It must be the Piper's wonderful way," she thought.

But she did not feel at all homesick nor tired nor afraid; for the Piper's fife seemed to keep them all in excellent spirits, and she found herself wondering what she would do when they came to the fabled hill-side,--for she never doubted they would go there. On they went, faster and faster, the Piper behind them playing all the while.

She saw the broad river; and all the children shouted, "Die Weser."

One little flaxen-haired girl told her they were nearing Hamelin.

"It used to have a big wall around it, with twenty towers and a large fort; but that was all blown up by the French, years and years ago," she explained.

"But it has a chain-bridge," she remarked proudly,--"a chain-bridge that stretches quite across the Weser."

Doris was just about to say: "Why, that's nothing! We have a huge suspension bridge in New York;" but the words seemed to twist themselves into a different form, and the memory of home to melt away, and she found herself murmuring, "Ach, so?" quite like the rest of the little Teutons.

But at length the fife ceased playing, and the children stopped.

There they were in quaint old Hamelin, with its odd wooden houses, and its old Munster that was all falling to ruin, and its rosy-cheeked children, who did not seem to notice the new-comers at all.

"We must be invisible," thought Doris; and indeed they were.

Then the Pied Piper came forward and beckoned them on, and softly they followed him to the very hill-side, that opened, as Doris knew it would, and they found themselves in a vast hall. A low rumbling startled Doris for a moment, but then she knew it was only the hill-side closing upon them. She seemed to hear a faint cry as the last sound died, away, and was tempted to run back, for she feared some child had been hurt; but her companion said,--

"It can't be helped, dear; he _always_ gets left outside, and then he weeps. You see he is lame, and he cannot keep up with us."

So Doris knew it was the self-same little lad of whom Browning had written in his story of the Piper.

What a chattering there was, to be sure; and what a crowd was gathered about the Piper at the farther end of the hall! Every once in a while all the children would laugh so loudly that the very ceiling shook. It was such a merry throng.

"Tell me," said Doris to her little neighbor,--"tell me, are you always so gay here? Do you never quarrel? and have you really lived in this hillside all this long, long time,--ever since the Piper first came to Hamelin five hundred years ago?"

"Ja, wohl," replied the girl, nodding her flaxen head. "We are always so happy; we never quarrel; therefore we are ever young, and what thou callest five hundred years are as nothing to us. Ah! we are well cared for here, and the Piper teaches us, and we him; and we play and frolic and sometimes travel, 'und so geht's.'"

"But what can you teach _him_?" asked Doris, wondering.

"Ah! many things. We teach him to tune his fife to the sounds of our laughter, so that when he travels he may pipe new songs. Ah! thou foolish one, thou thoughtest him the _wind_. And we teach him to be as a little child, and then he keeps young always, and his heart is warm and glad. And we teach him-- But thou shalt see;" and she nodded again, and smiled into Doris's wondering eyes.

The hall they were in was long and wide, and hung all about the walls were the most beautiful pictures, that seemed to shift and change every moment into something more strange and lovely. And as Doris looked she seemed to know what the pictures were,--and they were only reflections of the children's pure souls that shone out of their eyes.

"How beautiful!" she thought.

But the Piper was singing to them now; and as she drew nearer him she saw he had two little tots in his arms, and was putting them to sleep on his breast.

So the children were still while the Piper sang his lullaby, and presently the two little ones began to nod; and the Piper did not move, but held them to his kind heart until they were fast asleep. Then he rose and carried them away and laid them down somewhere. Doris could not see where, but it must have been far enough away to be out of the sound of their voices; for when he came back he did not lower his tones, but spoke up quite naturally and laughed gayly as he said,--

"Well, what now, Children? Shall we show the new friend our manufactory?"

And they were all so anxious to do whatever he proposed that in a moment they had formed quite a bodyguard about the Pied Piper, and were following and leading him down the vast hall.

"What is the manufactory?" asked Doris of a boy who happened to be beside her.

"Wait and thou shalt see!" he replied. "We always are patient until the Herr Piper is ready to tell us what he wishes; then we listen and attend."

Doris would have felt that the boy was snubbing her if his eyes had not been so kind and his voice so sweet. As it was she took it all pleasantly, and determined to ask no more questions, but to content herself with as much information as the Piper was willing to bestow upon her.

But now they had passed out of the first great hall and into another that seemed even more vast. At first it seemed quite empty to Doris, but as soon as her eyes grew accustomed to the strange light, she saw its walls were flanked by any number of wee spinning-wheels; and above them on shelves lay stacks of something that looked like golden flax, and shimmered and glittered in a wonderful way. The floor was carpeted with something very soft and of a tender, fresh green, and Doris's feet seemed to sink into it at every step; and then a sweet perfume seemed to rise up like that one smells on an early spring-day when one goes into the country and is the first to lay foot on the fresh young grass. The ceiling was so high that at first Doris thought it was no ceiling at all, but just the sky itself, and it was a deep, clear blue.

"This is our Spring-room, little Doris," explained the Piper. "Now, Children!"

And at these words they broke away from him, leaving only Doris by his side; and each group began a different task. One new to the stacks of gold and separated them into long, heavy skeins; while another spun the threads back and forth till they sparkled and danced and seemed to turn into sunbeams that at length broke away and glanced into the blue above, where they played about just as the sunlight does on a bright spring-day. Others, again, knelt down upon the soft carpet, and seemed to be whispering something very sweet to some one or something hidden below; and before very long up sprang long, tender shoots, and then thin buds appeared, and by and by the buds swelled and burst, and then where every bud had been was a flower. And all this time there had been a sound as of falling drops that seemed to be keeping time to a soft little melody the children were crooning.

The Piper, looking at Doris's wondering face, said, smiling: "Thou dost not comprehend, dear heart? Well, I will explain. As I said, this is our Spring-room, and in it all the sunshine and flowers and clouds and rain are made that go to make up a spring day. They," he said, pointing to the first group, "are separating the golden skeins so that they can be spun into sunbeams. It takes great patience before they are completely finished; and if one of the spinners should sigh while weaving, it would ruin the beam and make it dull and heavy. So, you see, the sunbeam-children must be very light-hearted. Then those others are coaxing the flowers to spring up and bud. After they are all well above ground the flower-children hide a secret in the heart of each blossom, and a very beautiful secret it is, and so wonderful that very few ever succeed in finding it out. But it is worth searching for, and one or two world-people have really discovered it. Thou mayst guess what a difficult task is that of my flower-children; for at first the flowers are drowsy and would prefer to slumber yet awhile; and my children must whisper to them such beautiful thoughts that they forget everything else and spring up to hear more. The singing thou nearest is the lullaby the rain-children are singing to the drops. Thou knowest that the clouds are the rain-cradles, and when my children sing slumber songs and rock the clouds gently to and fro, the drops grow sleepy and forget to fall. But sometimes they are too restless to remain in their beds, and then they fall to earth; and if we could wait so long we might hear the children teach them their patter-song. But we have much else to see, and must go forward. Now, Children!"

At this there was a slight commotion while the deft hands put aside their tasks; but it was over in a moment, and the Piper once more in the midst of the merry crowd, who laughed gayly and chattered like magpies, while Doris looked her admiration and delight, and the Piper smiled approvingly.

"The next is the Summer-room," he said, as they wandered on. "Thou seest we are never idle. The world is so large, there is always plenty to do; and what would become of it if it were not for the children? They are the ones who make the world bright, little Doris; and so everything depends upon their keeping their hearts glad; and one 's heart cannot be glad if one's soul is not beautiful. Thou thoughtest not so much depended upon the children, didst thou, dear heart?"

Oh, the wonders of that Summer-room! The perfect chorus that rose as the fresh young voices taught the birds to sing; the beauty of the rainbows, the glory of the sunsets. It was all so wonderful that Doris scarcely knew how to show her appreciation of it all.

The Autumn-room was scarcely less bewildering, and the Winter-room was so dazzling that Doris shut up her eyes for very wonder.

In the Autumn-room all the little musicians set about transposing the melody of the bird-songs from the major to the minor key, and they taught the Piper to bring his fifing into harmony with their voices. The small artists began changing the sky-coloring, and brought about such wonderful effects that it was marvellous to see, and Doris could scarcely realize at all that such wonders could be.

After they had shown her the Winter-room and had seen her amazement at the glory of the snow-crystals and the mysterious way in which the rainbow colors were hidden in the ice, the Piper nodded his head, and they all turned back and began to retrace their steps.

"I suppose thou didst wonder where we had been when thou didst join us, little friend," said the Piper. "I will tell thee. In the spring we all set out on our travels; for my children must see and learn, besides showing and teaching others. So in the spring we leave this place and go into the world. Then I go wandering about with my fife north and south, east and west, and the people think me the wind. But my dear children could not bear such fatigue; so they take up their abode in the trees, and remain there guiding the seasons and seeing that all is well; whispering to me as I pass and to one another, and singing softly to the stars and the clouds, and then every one mistakes and thinks them simply rustling leaves. Then, when I have finished my journeying, I give them a sign, and they dress themselves in gala-costume,--for joy at the thought of coming home,--and when every one is gay in red, purple, and yellow, they all slip down from the trees and away we go. People have great theories about the changing of the foliage, but it is a simple matter; as I tell you, it is only that my children are getting ready to go home.

"During the winter we leave the world to sleep, for it grows very weary and needs rest. My children arrange its snow-coverlets for it, and then it slumbers, and the moon and stars keep watch. So now thou knowest all, little maid, and thou canst be one of us, and make the world bright and glorious if thou wilt. It only needs a beautiful soul, dear Doris; then one remains ever young, and can work many wonders."

"Oh, I will, I will!" cried Doris, instantly.

"But," said the Piper, "it takes such long experience. Thou seest my children had long years of it; and until thou canst make life bright within, thou couldst not venture without. But if thou wilt try, and be content to work in patience,--there are many children who are doing this--"

"Oh, I will, I will!" said Doris, again.

Then the children laughed more happily than ever, and the Piper raised his fife to his lips and blew a loud, glad note.

What was this? The children had disappeared, the Piper was gone, and Doris sat by the window, and her book had dropped to the floor. She rubbed her eyes.

"It was a dream," she said. "It is the Piper's wonderful way; he has left me here to work and wait, so that I may make the world beautiful at last." And she smiled and clapped her hands as the wind swept round the corner.

MARJORIE'S MIRACLE.

"Shall we have to wait until all these folks have been taken?" asked Marjorie, looking from the crowd of people who thronged the fashionable photograph-gallery to her mother, who was threading her way slowly through the press to the cashier's desk.

"Yes, dear, I 'm afraid so. But we must be patient and not fret, else we shall not get a pleasant picture; and that would never do."

While she paid the clerk for the photographs and made her arrangements with him as to the desired size and style, Marjorie busied herself with looking around and scanning the different faces she saw.

"There!" she thought; "what for, do you s'pose, have I got to wait for that baby to have its picture taken? Nothing but an ugly mite of a thing, anyway! I should n't guess it was more than a day old, from the way it wiggles its eyes about. I wonder if its mother thinks it's a nice baby? Anyhow, I should think I might have my picture taken first. And that hump-backed boy! Guess I have a right to go in before him! He 's not pretty one bit. What a lovely frock that young lady has on,--all fluffy and white, with lace and things! She keeps looking in the glass all the time, so I guess she knows she 's pretty. When I am a young lady I 'll be prettier than she is, though, for my hair is goldener than hers, and my eyes are brown, and hers are nothing, but plain blue. I heard a gentleman say the other day I had 'a rare style of beauty,' he did n't know I heard (he was talking to Mamma, and he thought I had gone away, but I had n't). I 'm glad I have 'a rare style of beauty,' and I 'm glad my father 's rich, so I can have lovely clothes and-- Seems to me any one ought to see that I 'm prettier than that old lady over there; she 's all bent over and wrinkled, and when she talks her voice is all kind of trembly, and her eyes are as dim-- But she 'll go in before me just the same, and I 'll get tireder and tireder, until I-- Mamma, won't you come over to that sofa, and put your arm around me so I can rest? I 'm as sleepy as I can be; and by the time all these folks get done being _taken_, I 'll be dead, I s'pose. _Do_ come!"

Her mother permitted herself to be led to the opposite side of the room, where a large lounge stood, and seating herself upon it, took her little daughter within the circle of her arm; whereupon Marjorie commenced complaining of the injustice of these "homely" people being given the advantage over her pretty self.

"Oh, Marjorie, Marjorie!" whispered her mother, "what a very foolish little girl you are! I think it would take a miracle to make you see aright. Don't you know that that dear baby is very, very sick, and that probably its sad little mother has brought it here to have its picture taken, so that if it should be called away from her, she might have something to gaze at that looked like her precious little one? And that poor crippled boy! He has a lovely face, with its large, patient eyes and sensitive mouth. How much better he is to look at than that young woman you admire so much, whose beauty does not come from her soul at all, and will disappear as soon as her rosy cheeks fade and her hair grows gray! Now, that sweet old lady over there is just a picture of goodness; and her dear old eyes have a look of love in them that is more beautiful than any shimmer or shine you could show me in those of your friend Miss Peacock."

"Why do you call her 'Miss Peacock'? You don't know her, do you?" queried Marjorie.

"No, I don't know her in one sense, but in another I do. She is vain and proud, and the reason I called her Miss Peacock was because of the way in which she struts back and forth before that pier-glass,--just like the silly bird itself. But I should not have called her names. It was not a kind thing to do, even though she _is_ so foolish; and I beg her pardon and yours, little daughter."

Marjorie did not ask why her mother apologized to her. She had a dim sort of an idea that it was because she had set her an example that she would be sorry to have her follow. Instead, she inquired suddenly,--

"How do they take pictures, Mamma? I mean, what does the man do, when he goes behind that queer machine thing and sticks his head under the cloth, and then after a while claps in something that looks like my tracing-slate and then pops it out again? What makes the picture?"

"The sun makes the picture. It is so strong and clear that though it is such a long distance away it shines down upon the object that is to be photographed and reflects its image through a lens in the camera upon a plate which is _sensitized_ (that is, coated with a sort of gelatine that is so sensitive that it holds the impression cast upon it until by the aid of certain acids and processes it can be made permanent, that is, lasting). I am afraid I have not succeeded in explaining so you understand very clearly; have I, Sweetheart?"

Marjorie nodded her head. "Ye-es," she replied listlessly. "I guess I know now. You said--the sun--did--it; the sun took our pictures. It's very strange--to think--the sun--does--it."

"Come, Marjorie! Want to go travelling?" asked a voice.

"No, thank you; not just now," replied Marjorie, slowly. "I am going to have my photograph taken in a little while,--just as soon as all these stupid folks get theirs done. I should n't have time to go anywhere hardly; and besides it 'd tire me, and I want to look all fresh and neat, so the picture will be pretty."

"But suppose we promised, honor bright--"

"Begging your pardon," broke in another voice, "that's understood in any case,--a foregone conclusion, you know. Our honor would _have_ to be bright."

"Suppose we promised faithfully," continued the first voice, pretending not to notice the interruption, "to bring you back in time to go in when your turn comes, would n't you rather take a journey with us and see any number of wonderful things than just to sit here leaning against your mother's arm and watching these people that you think so 'stupid'?"

"Of course," assented Marjorie, at once. "It 's awful tiresome,--this; it makes me feel just as sleepy as can be. But what 's the use of talking? I can't leave here or I 'd lose my chance, and besides Mamma never lets me go out with strangers."

"We 're not strangers," asserted the voice, calmly; "we are as familiar to you as your shadow,--in fact, more so, come to think of it. You have always known us, and so has your mother. She 'd trust you to us, never fear! Will you come?"

Marjorie considered a moment, and then said: "Well, if you're perfectly sure you 'll take care of me, and that you 'll bring me back in time, I guess I will."

No sooner had she spoken than she felt herself raised from her place and borne away out of the crowded room in which she was,--out, out into the world, as free as the air itself, and being carried along as though she were a piece of light thistle-down on the back of a summer breeze.

That she was travelling very fast, she could see by the way in which she out-stripped the clouds hurrying noiselessly across the sky. One thing she knew,--whatever progress she was making was due, not to herself (for she was making absolutely no effort at all, seeming to be merely reclining at ease), but was the result of some other exertion than her own. She was not frightened in the least, but, as she grew accustomed to the peculiar mode of locomotion, became more and more curious to discover the source of it.

She looked about her, but nothing was visible save the azure sky above her and the green earth beneath. She seemed to be quite alone. The sense of her solitude began to fill her with a deep awe, and she grew strangely uneasy: as she thought of herself, a frail little girl, amid the vastness of the big world.

How weak and helpless she was,--scarcely more important than one of the wild-flowers she had used to tread on when she was n't being hurried through space by the means of--she knew not what. To be sure, she was pretty; but then they had been pretty too, and she had stepped on them, and they had died, and she had gone away and no one had ever known.

"Oh, dear!" she thought, "it would be the easiest thing in the world for me to be killed (even if I _am_ pretty), and no one would know it at all. I wonder what is going to happen? I wish I had n't come."

"Don't be afraid!" said the familiar voice, suddenly. "We promised to take care of you. We are truth itself. Don't be afraid!"

"But I _am_ afraid," insisted Marjorie, in a petulant way, "and I 'm getting afraider every minute. I don't know where I 'm going, nor how I 'm being taken there, and I don't like it one bit. Who are you, anyway?"

For a moment she received no reply; but then the voice said: "Hush! don't speak so irreverently. You are talking to the emissaries of a great sovereign,--his Majesty the Sun."

"Is _he_ carrying me along?" inquired Marjorie presently, with deep respect.

"Oh, dear, no," responded the voice; "we are doing that. We are his vassals,--you call us beams. He never condescends to leave his place,--he could not; if he were to desert his throne for the smallest fraction of a second, one could not imagine the amount of disaster that would ensue. But we do his bidding, and hasten north and south and east and west, just as he commands. It is a very magnificent thing to be a king--"

"Of course," interrupted Marjorie; "one can wear such elegant clothes, that shine and sparkle like everything with gold and jewels, and have lots of servants and--"

"No, no," corrected the beam, warmly. "Where did you get such a wrong idea of things? That is not at all where the splendor of being a king exists. It does not lie in the mere fact of one 's being born to a title and able to command. That would be very little if that were all. It is not in the gold and jewels and precious stuffs that go to adorn a king that his grandeur lies, but in the things which these things represent. We give a king the rarest and the most costly, because it is fitting that the king should have the best,--that he is worthy of the best; that only the best will serve one who is so great and glorious. They mean nothing in themselves; they only describe his greatness. The things that one sees are not of importance; it is the things that they are put there to represent. Do you understand? I don't believe you do. I 'll try to make it more clear to you, like a true sunbeam. Look at one of your earth-kings, for instance. He is nothing but a man just like the rest of you; but what makes him great is that he is supposed to have more truth, more wisdom, more justice and power. If he has not these things, then he would better never have been a king; for that only places him where every one can see how unworthy he is,--makes his lacks only more conspicuous. Your word _king_ comes from another word, _könning_; which comes from still another word, _canning_, that means _ableman_. If he is not really an ableman, it were better he had never worn ermine. And there, too; ermine is only a fur, you know. It is nothing in itself but fur; but you have come to think of it as an emblem of royalty because kings use it. So you see, Marjorie, a thing is not of any worth really except as it represents something that is great and noble, something _true_."

Marjorie was very silent for a little; she was trying to understand what the sunbeam meant, and found it rather difficult. After a while she gave it up and said,--

"Will you tell me how you are carrying me, and where we are going, and all about it?"

"Certainly," replied the beam, brightly. "You are in a sort of hammock made out of threads of sunshine. We sunbeams can weave one in less than no time, and it is no trouble at all to swing a little mortal like you way out into the clearness and the light, so that a bit of it can make its way into your dark little soul, and make you not quite so blind as you were."

"Why, I 'm not blind at all," said Marjorie, with a surprised pout. "I can see as well as anything. Did you think I couldn't?"

"I _know_ you can't," replied the beam, calmly. "That is, you can't see any farther than the outside part of things, and that is almost worse than seeing none of them at all. But here we are nearing the court of the king. Now don't expect to see _him_, for that is impossible. He is altogether too radiant for you; your eyes could not bear so much glory. It would be just as if you took one of your own little moles or bats (creatures that are used to the dark) and put them in the full glare of a noonday sun. The sun would be there, but they could not see it, because their eyes would be too weak and dim. Even yourself,--have n't you often tried to look the sun full in the face? Yes; and you have had to give it up and turn your face away because it hurt your eyes. Well, his Majesty only lets the world have a glimpse of his glory. But here we are at our journey's end."

With these words Marjorie felt herself brought to a gentle halt, and found herself in a place most wondrously clear and light and high, from which she could look off,--far, far across and over and down to where something that looked like a dim ball was whirling rapidly.

"That is your earth," whispered the sunbeam in her ear,--"the earth that you have just left."

Marjorie was so astounded that for a time she was unable to say a word. Then she managed to falter out: "But it always looked so big and bright, and now it is nothing but a horrid dark speck--"

"That is just it, Marjorie,--just what I said. When you look at the world simply as a planet, it is small and dark enough, not nearly so large as some of the others you see about you; but when you look at it as a place on which God has put his people to be good and noble, to work out a beautiful purpose, then-- But wait a moment."

Marjorie felt a strange thrill pass through her; across her eyes swept something that felt like a caressing hand, and when she looked again everything was changed, and she seemed gazing at a wonderful sort of panorama that shifted and changed every moment, showing more lovely impressions each instant.

"What is it?" she gasped, scarcely able to speak for delight and breathless with amazement.

"Only pictures of your world as it really is. Pictures taken by his Highness the Sun, who does not stop at the mere outer form of things, but reveals the true inwardness of them,--what they are actually. He does not stop with the likeness of the surface of things; he makes portraits of their hearts as well, and he always gets exact likenesses,--he never fails."

Marjorie felt a sudden fear steal over her at these words; she did not precisely know why, but she had a dim sort of feeling that if the sun took photographs of more than the outside of things (of the hearts as well), some of the pictures he got might not be so pretty, perhaps. But she said nothing, and watched the scroll as it unrolled before her with a great thrill of wonderment.

With her new vision the world was more beautiful than anything she had ever imagined. She could see everything upon its surface, even to the tiniest flower; but nothing was as it had seemed to her when she had been one of its inhabitants herself. Each blade of grass, each tree and rock and brook, was something more than a mere blade or tree or rock or brook,--something so much more strange and beautiful that it almost made her tremble with ecstasy to see.

"Now you can see," said the voice; "before you were blind. Now you understand what I meant when I said the objects one sees are of themselves nothing; it is what they represent that is grand and glorious and beautiful. A flower is lovely, but it is not half so lovely as the thing it suggests--but I can't expect you to understand _that_. Even when you were blind you used to love the ocean. Now that you can see, do you know why? It is because it is an emblem of God's love, deep and mighty and strong and beautiful beyond words. And so with the mountains, and so with the smallest weed that grows. But we must look at other things before you go back--"

"Oh, dear!" faltered Marjorie, "when I go back shall I be blind again? How does one see clear when one goes back?"

"Through truth," answered the beam, briefly.

But just then Marjorie found herself looking at some new sights. "What are these?" she whispered tremblingly.

"The _proofs_ of some pictures you will remember to have half seen," replied the beam.

And sure enough! with a start of amaze and wonder she saw before her eyes the people who had sat in the crowded gallery with her before she had left it to journey here with her sunbeam guide; but, oh! with such a difference.

The baby she had thought so ugly was in reality a white-winged angel, mild-eyed and pitying; while the hump-backed boy represented a patience so tender that it beautified everything upon which it shone. She thought she recognized in one of the pictures a frock of filmy lace that she remembered to have seen before; but the form it encased was strange to her, so ill-shapen and unlovely it looked; while the face was so repulsive that she shrank from it with horror.

"Is that what I thought was the pretty girl?" she murmured tremulously.

"Yes," replied the beam, simply.

The next portrait was that of the silver-haired old lady whom Marjorie had thought so crooked and bowed. She saw now why her shoulders were bent. It was because of the mass of memories she carried,--memories gathered through a long and useful life. Her silver hair made a halo about her head.

"The next is yours," breathed the voice at her side, softly. "Will you look?"

Marjorie gave a quick start, and her voice quivered sadly as she cried,--

"Oh, blessed sunbeam, don't force me to see it! Let me go back and try to be better before I see my likeness. I am afraid now. The outside prettiness is n't anything, unless one's spirit is lovely too; and I--I could not look, for I know--I know how hateful mine would be. I have learned about it now, and it's like a book; if the story the book tells is not beautiful, the pictures won't be good to see. I have learned about it now, and I know better than I did. May I--oh, may I try again?"

She waited in an agony of suspense for the answer; and when it came, and the voice said gently, "It is your turn next," she cried aloud,--

"Not yet, oh, not yet! Let me wait. Let me try again."

And there she was, with her cheeks all flushed and tear-stained, her hair in loose, damp curls about her temples, and her frock all rumpled and crushed in her mother's arms; and her mother was saying,--

"Bad dreams, sweetheart? You have had a fine, long nap; but it is your turn next, and I have had to wake you. Come, dear! Now we must see if we cannot get a good likeness of you,--just as you really are."

WHAT HAPPENED TO LIONEL.

It is not to be supposed that such things happen every day. If they were to happen every day, one would get so familiar with them that they would not seem at all extraordinary; and if there were no extraordinary things in the world, how very dull one would be, to be sure! As it is-- But to go back.

The beggar had stood before the area-gate for a long time, and no one had paid the slightest attention to him. He was an old man with long gray hair, and a faded, ragged coat, whose tatters fluttered madly to and fro every time the wind blew. He was very tall and gaunt, and his back was bent. On his head was a big slouched hat, whose brim fell forward over his eyes and almost hid them entirely in its shadow. He carried a basket upon one arm, and a cane with a crook for a handle hung upon the other. He seemed very patient, for he was waiting, unmurmuringly, for some one to come in answer to the ring he had given the area-bell some fifteen minutes before. No one came, and he appeared to be considering whether to ring again or go away, when Lionel skipped nimbly from his chair by the drawing-room window, slipped noiselessly down the basement stairs, and opened the area-door just in time to prevent the beggar from taking his departure.

"What do you want, sir?" inquired Lionel, politely, through the tall iron gate.

The beggar turned around at the sound of the child's voice, and replied:

"I have come to beg--"

"Oh, yes, I know," cried Lionel, hurriedly (he was afraid some one might come, and then he would be snatched unceremoniously away from the open door, and the beggar sent smartly about his business by one of the pert-tongued maids); "but is it for cold victuals or money?"

The beggar looked down at the little lad, and a smile, half of pity, half of amusement, lit up his grave features for a moment. "I have come to beg," he said slowly, "that you will receive from me, not that you will give to me."

Lionel's eyes widened with amazement. "That I will receive from you?" he repeated slowly. "Then you are n't a beggar at all?"

"Most assuredly I am," responded the old man, promptly. "Do I not beg of you? What is a beggar? 'One who begs or entreats earnestly or with humility; a petitioner.' That is how your dictionary has it. It does n't say for what he begs or entreats. Where I come from things are so different,--there it is a mark of distinction, I can assure you, to be a beggar. One must have lived such a long life of poverty and self-sacrifice before one is permitted to beg--to beg others to receive one's benefits. Ah, yes, there it is so different!"

"Yes, it must be," assented Lionel. "Here beggars are just persons who go about and ask for cold bits or pennies; and we don't think much of them at all."

"That is because they are not the right kind of almsfolk, nor you the right kind of almoners," responded the beggar; and then he repeated: "Ah, yes, there it is so different!"

"Where?" inquired Lionel. "Won't you tell me about it?"

"Dear child," replied the beggar, gently, "it can't be described. It must be seen to be appreciated. If you once entered into that estate, you would never wish to return to this."

"Is it as nice as all that?" questioned Lionel, eagerly. "Guess I 'll go, then. Will you take me ?" he asked.

The beggar smiled down at him kindly. "I can't take you, dear boy," he said. "I have to travel on. But I can set you on the road, and you will reach there in safety if you follow my directions."

Lionel waited breathlessly for the beggar to continue; but the man almost seemed to have forgotten his existence, for he was gazing dreamily over his head into the darkness of the hallway, apparently seeing nothing but what was in his own mind's eye.

"Well?" asked Lionel, a little impatiently. "You were going to give me the directions, you know."

"Oh, yes!" returned the beggar, with a slight start. "Well, the directions are: _Always turn to the right_!"

Lionel considered a moment, and then he said: "But if I always turn to the right I should n't get anywhere at all. I 'd be only going round and round."

"No, no!" replied the beggar, hastily; "you must always go _square_, you know. And you 'll find you 'll get along beautifully if you always keep to the right."

"But s'pose," suggested Lionel, "I come to a place where the road is to the left,--some of the roads might be not to the right,--some might go quite the other way."

"Yes," assented the beggar, wistfully. "They _all_ go the other way,--that is, they _seem_ to go the other way. But when they seem to go to the wrong and you don't see any that go to the right, just keep as near to the right as you can, and by and by you 'll see one and it will be lovely. But if you turn down to the wrong, you run a chance of losing your way entirely. It is always so much harder to go back."

"But are those all the directions you are going to give me?" inquired Lionel, with a doubtful glance.

"They are sufficient," replied the beggar. "You 'll find them sufficient;" and before Lionel could say another word the beggar had vanished from before his very eyes. He had not slipped away, nor slunk away, nor walked away, nor sped away,--he had simply vanished; and Lionel was left alone behind the grated door of the area-way gazing out upon a vacant space of pavement where, an instant before, the beggar had stood. The little boy rubbed his eyes and looked again. No, the beggar was gone, in very truth, and had left not so much as a rag behind him. But, look! what was that? Something lay upon the stone step just outside the gate, and it gleamed brightly from out its dusky corner. Lionel reached up and unlatched the heavy fastening. The great gate swung slowly in, and Lionel stepped briskly out. He bent down and grasped the shining object; it proved to be a little rule, and it was made of solid gold. He clasped it to his bosom.

"How beautiful!" he murmured. "Now I can measure things and carve them with my jack-knife, and they 'll be just exactly right. Before they have n't been quite straight, and when I 'd try to put the parts together they wouldn't fit; but now--"

And then suddenly the thought flashed across his mind: "Perhaps it belongs to the beggar and he might want it;" and without a moment's thought to his bare head, he passed quickly through the gateway and out into the street.

"It's such a beautiful rule," he thought, as he flew along. "I never saw such a darling. If it were mine, how I should hate to lose it! I must certainly find him and give it back to him; for I know he must feel just as I should if it were mine."

It never entered into his head to keep the thing; his one idea seemed to be to find the beggar and return to him his property. But before very long his breath began to come in gasps, and he found himself panting painfully and unable to run any farther. He paused and leaned against the huge newel-post at the foot of some one's outer steps. His cheeks were aglow, his eyes flashing, his thick curls rough and tumbled, and his bang in fine disorder. The deep embroidered cuffs and collar upon his blouse were crushed and rumpled; his little Zouave jacket was wind-blown and dusty, and his pumps splashed with mud from the gutter-puddles through which he had run. At home they would have said he "looked like distress;" but here, leaning wearily against the post, he was a most picturesque little figure.

Suddenly he felt a light touch upon his head, and then his bang was brushed back from his temples as though by the stroke of some kindly hand. He looked up, and there beside him stood the oddest-looking figure he had ever seen.

The stranger was clad from head to foot in a suit of silver gray. Upon his head he wore a peaked cap, upon his feet were the longest and most pointed of buskins; his doublet and hose were silver gray, and over his shoulders hung a mantle about which was a jagged border made after the most fantastic design, which shone and glittered like ice in sunlight. About his hips was a narrow girdle from which hung a sheathed dagger whose hilt was richly studded with clear, white crystals that looked to Lionel like the purest of diamonds.

Lionel felt that when he spoke it would probably be after some old-century fashion which he could scarcely understand; but there he was mistaken, for when the stranger addressed him, it was in the most modern manner and with great kindliness.

"Well, my son," he said cheerily, "tired out? I saw you run. You have a fine pair of heels. They have good speed in them."

"I wanted to catch up with someone,--an old beggar-man who lost something in our area-way. I wanted to return it to him," explained Lionel, breathlessly.

The stranger gazed down at him more kindly than ever. "So? But one can't expect to catch up with folks when one gets _winded_ and has to stop every now and then for breath. Better try my mode."

"Please, sir, what is your mode?" inquired Lionel, with his politest manner.

"To begin with," explained his companion, "I have to accomplish the most astonishing feats in the manner of speed. Literally I have to travel so fast that I am in two places at once. You will the better believe me when I tell you who I am,--Jack Frost, at your service, sir. Now, by what means do you think I manage it ?"

"I 'm sure I don't know. I should like immensely to find out," Lionel returned.

"How do you get to places yourself?" inquired Jack Frost. "Do you always run?"

"Oh, no, indeed. I almost always ride on my bicycle. Then I can _go_ like anything, 'specially down _coasts_. Upgrades are kind of hard sometimes, but not so very. Oh, I can go quick enough when I have my bicycle."

"Now then," broke in Jack Frost, "you use a bicycle,--that is, a machine having two wheels. Now _I_ use a something having but one wheel; consequently it goes twice as fast,--oh! much more than twice as fast."

"One wheel?" repeated Lionel, thoughtfully; "seems to me I never heard of that kind of an one."

"Suppose you guess," proposed Jack Frost. "I 'll put it in the form of a conundrum: If a thing having two wheels is called a _bi_cycle, what would a thing having but one be called?"

"Oh, that's an old one. I 've heard that before, and the answer is, a wheelbarrow, you know."

Jack Frost shook his head, "I see I shall have to tell you," he said. "If a thing having two wheels is called a _bi_cycle, a thing having but one would naturally be an _i_cicle. Of course you might have known I should use an icicle."

"But oh, Mr. Frost," objected Lionel, "I never saw an icicle with a wheel in my life, and I never saw one go either."

"That's because you have n't seen me on one; and even if you had seen me on one, you wouldn't have known it,--we travel so fast. Did you ever notice that when things are going at the very rapidest rate possible, they seem to be standing perfectly still? That's the way with icicles. They have tremendous speed in them. They go so fast you can't realize it, and then when they are slowing up they don't do it with a clumsy jerk as bicycles do; they just gradually melt out of sight."

"Yes, I 've seen them do that. I 've seen them go that way," admitted Lionel. "But will you take me to the beggar? I'm 'fraid I sha'n't be able to give him his rule if I don't hurry up."

"But do you know in what direction he went?" asked Jack Frost. "If one wants to catch up with any one, one needs to have _some_ idea of the direction he took. It's quite a _desideratum_,--when you get home, look that up."

Then Lionel felt deeply mortified. "What a silly I was!" he said. "Perhaps I was going just the opposite way from the one he went. Oh, dear! how can I ever give him back his rule? It is such a beauty. If it had been mine, I 'd just hate to lose it."

"Let us examine it," suggested Jack Frost, "and see if there is any sign upon it that would help to discover its owner;" and without a moment's doubt or hesitation Lionel drew it from his pocket and held it up for Jack Frost to see.

Then for a little space they both gazed at it carefully; Jack Frost bending down his tall head to get a nearer view of it, and Lionel standing upon the tips of his toes to accomplish the same purpose.

"Oh, see, see!" cried the boy, joyously. "It says, 'LIONEL,--HIS RULE FOR LIFE.' That means I can keep it for always, does n't it? Forever 'n' ever."