Chapter II: Part 2

I was by now in one of the handsome side streets, running parallel with the great avenue. It was quieter here; there were fewer carriages or foot passengers, so that on the wide road, even a small group was plainly seen, and happening to glance backwards, I saw a sad little procession making its way slowly along. Two men, dressed in black, were carrying a little coffin--no heavy burden, it was plain--yet heavy was the sorrow of the two mourners following close behind. It was but the funeral of a tiny child, a baby, or scarce more than a baby to judge by the size of the coffin, "the only one" of the poor father and mother alone in their grief, who walked behind. They were of the very poor class of Paris working people, though decently clad, as is almost always the case in France, but too poor to have got mourning for themselves, even for the funeral of their child. The woman, it is true, had a black skirt, but over it she wore, perhaps to conceal its shabbiness, a clean checked cotton apron, and the poor father had no attempt at mourning, except a little band of rusty black fastened round the left sleeve of his blue working blouse. They were both weeping, the mother openly, her poor eyes swollen and red as if with many hours of tears, the husband trying to keep calm, as he from time to time wiped his weather beaten cheeks with his sleeve. Their poverty was shown in another way; there was not a single flower, much less a wreath or cross on the little black-draped coffin--so sad, so piteously desolate a funeral it has seldom been my lot to see in Paris. Yet poor as it was, it met with the outward marks of respect and sympathy which I often wish we could see in England, for every head was uncovered as it passed on its sorrowful way. I stood still for an instant to watch it; suddenly a small figure, rushing across the road, darting nimbly in front of a quickly advancing carriage, as if afraid of being too late, caught my eyes. It was my little friend of the violets! There was no mistaking him--and his grandfather's, it seemed to me, almost familiar figure, waiting and looking after the child from the other side of the road. What is the boy in such a hurry for? Ah--I see now, and my own eyes are not free from tears.

Breathless and eager he runs up to the poor little procession, with blushing face and gentle hands he lays on the tiny coffin his treasured violets--beautiful in themselves, doubly beautiful as the gift of a sweet and pitiful heart--and without waiting for the thanks ready to burst forth from the over-laden hearts of the two parents, hastens back again to his old grandfather, whose face I can distinguish lit up with a smile of tender approval.

"God bless him," the poor father murmurs. I am near enough to hear it--"God bless him," the weeping mother repeats.

"God bless him," I whisper to myself.

"Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these My brethren, ye have done it unto Me."

A CANARY TRAGEDY.

When I was a little girl--that is about three years ago--I am now thirteen--my own particular pets were a pair of canaries. We had lots of other pets; it would take me a very long time merely to give you the list of them even without telling you anything about them, and all their adventures and funny ways. But a good many of them had in one way or another come to grief, poor things, and as my brothers grew older and had less time to take care of them, my mother said we must really give up having so many.

So one summer, just before the holidays, there was a regular flitting--the turtle-doves we gave to a little neighbour, a very gentle boy, who we knew would be kind to them; the old crow was taken to a house more in the country than ours, where there were plenty of nice, dark, crowy-looking trees; the rabbits were already all dead, and so was the tortoise, and as one of the dormice had got loose and gone off to live with the house-mice, we sent the other to a friend who had several. There remained only the dog, whom _of course_ we couldn't give away and my canaries, whom I got leave to keep.

These canaries had a history of their own. One, we had reared ourselves from an egg, and as it was the only baby canary that had grown up of all we had had, we did think it very remarkable. Its name was "Frise-tete," which means "curly head," because it had a funny little tuft of yellow feathers right on the top of its head, and he was the cock canary, though Frise-tete sounds more like a girl's name, doesn't it? And the little hen canary was called "Coo-coo," because when she first came to us she really did make a sort of cooing noise. Where she came from we never knew--she flew in at the open window of the schoolroom one day, having evidently got out of her cage and lost her way. She was a sweet-tempered little bird, but not at all sharp or clever. She didn't seem to mind in the least that she had got into a strange place, but was quite content and happy to take up house, or "cage," with Frise-tete. This little couple made the last of our pet canaries, and they were always counted mine. I think we had had Frise-tete two years, and Coo-coo more than a year, when there came the clearing-out of pets that I told you of. But we never knew Coo-coo's age exactly, you see.

That summer we were going in different directions. My two big sisters were to spend it with our grandmother, and one of my brothers with them. The other brother and I were to go to Germany with Mamma. We were very proud of being chosen to go with her, and we had never been to Germany before, at least not to stay any length of time there, and we were in great spirits about it. There was only one thing that troubled me, and that was about the canaries. I was so afraid Mamma would not consent to take them, and yet I could not bear the idea of leaving them behind. I was sure that the person who was to take care of the house would forget to feed them, or let the cat get to them or something, and at last I told Mamma that I really would be too unhappy if I mightn't take them. Mamma was very kind--she didn't like the idea of the pretty little couple being starved or killed any more than I did, still she warned me that I should find them a good deal of trouble on the way, and that I mustn't grumble at it, which, of course, I promised I wouldn't.

So when we set off late one hot summer evening, on our long journey, I carried carefully, a queer-looking package in one hand. It was the cage, all covered up in a sort of brown holland bag, which contained my beloved Frise-tete and Coo-coo.

They _were_ a great worry. I often wished I had left them at home, I can assure you. We had to travel two nights, and most part of two or three days before we got quite to our journey's end, though we stopped two or three times on the way, and it was so hot that we felt very tired and uncomfortable, and it was not easy to keep good-humoured even without the birds! Very often I had to sit with the cage on my knee if the railway carriage happened to be rather low, and there was not room for it up beside the cloaks and rugs. And then I had to have water in a bottle to keep the poor things supplied, and very often it spilt all over, and so did the seed, and our fellow passengers looked very cross at me. And sometimes at the stations, the guards and railway people wouldn't let me pass without undoing all the cover and everything to see what the wonderful bundle was. Oh, we were very glad when we found ourselves at last safe at the place we were to stay at! It was a very old-fashioned little town, but it was almost like being in the country. There were such beautiful walks all about, and from the end of every street one could see the fields and trees, so you see it wasn't a bit like a town.

We had rooms in a very nice funny old hotel. Mamma said it was quite like an old-fashioned English inn, such as they used to be in the coaching days. The ceilings were low, and the staircase very wide, and the furniture _so_ old-fashioned. We had a nice large sitting-room, and two bed-rooms out of it, and on the wide window-sill of our bedroom I established Frise-tete and Coo-coo. They were very sensible, poor things, they only fluttered and fussed about for a short time, and then settled down quite contentedly, which, I am sure, was very good behaviour after being so much covered up.

I could tell you lots of stories about our life in the old German town, but I must remember that this story is to be all about the canaries. It was beautiful sunny weather, and they spent nearly their whole time at the open window--I used only to bring them in at night. And every morning I cleaned the cage out nicely, and put fresh sand and water, and seed, and groundsel. The people at the opposite side of the street got to know me quite well by sight, and would smile and nod to me. And all was as happy as possible till one sad day which I will tell you about.

Mamma had two or three times said to me, "Take care, Sally, when you put the cage on the window-sill to see that it is quite steady. The sill is broad and even, inside, but outside the stone slopes downward," and I _had_ always taken care.

But this morning, just as I had finished cleaning and all, I saw a piece of sugar on the table, which, it suddenly struck me would be a nice treat for the canaries. I sprang across the room hastily to get the sugar, and was just turning back with it, when a smashing, crashing noise made me start. It was--no I can hardly tell it, even now I remember the horrible feeling--it was the cage falling, _fallen_ out of the window, down into the street below. I screamed and rushed into the furthest corner of the room, shutting my eyes and clasping my hands over my ears. It was very silly I know, but I was really almost out of my mind.

"They are dead, they are killed!" I cried screaming again so loud that Mamma rushed in from the next room to see what was the matter. She saw it in an instant without my speaking, and indeed I was by this time choking with sobs.

"Stay there, Sally," said she, and down stairs she ran. I just took my fingers out of my ears for an instant, but I heard a hubbub in the street below, and I shuddered and put them back again. It was _too_ horrible.

In a few minutes Mamma came up, carrying something in her hand, and looking very sad.

"Sally dear, I am very sorry for you," she said, "but it might have been still sadder. Coo-coo seems very little the worse--she has had a wonderful escape. But poor Frise-tete is dead. I have brought him up--I think he must have been killed at once, and not have suffered."

It was some time before she could persuade me to look at my poor pet. It was indeed a sad sight. Even the death of a little bird is sad, I still think. His pretty yellow feathers all rumpled and torn, his bright eyes glazed and filmy.

"Oh, my dear, sweet Frise-tete," I said. "To think that I should have brought you all the way from home for this."

And poor Mamma was so sorry for me that she actually cried too!

We made a little coffin out of some cardboard, and wrapped him in cotton-wool, and buried him in the old garden of the inn. That was the end of our canary nursling. I have a good deal more to tell you about Coo-coo, but for the present I will leave off with this piece of advice. "Never put bird-cages on the window-sill."

COO-COO'S SECOND HUSBAND.

I told you the sad end of poor Frise-tete, but the history of Coo-Coo is by no means finished yet. She had not escaped without any injury, though at first we thought she was not hurt. But as soon as she recovered a little from her dreadful fright we saw to our great sorrow that one of her wings hung down in a most sad and helpless manner. I turned away shuddering.

"Is it quite broked, Mamma?" asked my little brother Charley. He looked at it with the greatest interest and curiosity. "Horrid little boy, I said to myself! And it does seem sometimes as if boys had very little feeling, though I don't really think so of poor Charley.

"Oh, Mamma," I said, still shutting my eyes, "if she is so badly hurt, it would be better to put her out of her agony at once. Couldn't you give her chloroform or some stuff like what they kill horses with in the streets in Paris?"

"It's not so bad as all that," said Mamma cheerfully. "Sally, you mustn't be silly. Open your eyes--there is nothing dreadful to see."

I had to open my eyes then--Mamma was holding Coo-coo tenderly in her hand. I wondered how she had courage to do it. The poor little thing seemed to know her, and to nestle down confidingly.

"I don't think it hurts her except when she tries to stick it out," said Charley.

"No, I don't think it does," said Mamma, "but I'd like some one who understands little birds, to see her."

"If the gracious lady will excuse me saying so," said the landlord's daughter, who was standing close by full of sympathy, "there is a gentleman near here who makes it his business to bring up little canaries from eggs. He is very clever. We might go to see him, and ask him to look at the poor wing."

"Certainly," said Mamma, "that would be a very good idea. But I don't quite know how to take Coo-coo. I am afraid it is not good for her to hold her so long in my hand, and the cage is completely smashed."

"We have an empty cage--a very small one, that used to hang at the door with our old starling," said the good-natured Anna, and off she ran for it.

We settled Coo-coo as well as we could with some cotton-wool for her to rest upon. But once in the cage, so long as she did not attempt to flutter about, she did not seem very bad, and my spirits rose a little. Still we must have seemed rather a doleful procession making our way along the street, for my face and eyes were swollen with crying, and Charley looked very grave, as we followed Mamma and Anna, Mamma carrying the starling's cage containing poor Coo-coo, as if it was the most wonderful treasure that ever was seen. And all the people came out of the shops and houses to look at us, for already the news had spread of the terrible misfortune that had happened to the little "foreign" lady, and several people whose shops we had sometimes been to nodded their heads, and said, "Poor little Miss," very sympathizingly, as we passed. I couldn't help feeling rather ashamed, and I wished my eyes were not quite so red.

It was such a funny place where the gentleman of the canaries, as Anna called him, lived. We went down a very narrow passage, and, across a little court-yard and down another passage and up a rickety stair and at last found ourselves in a room filled with birds--nothing but birds, and all canaries! There were cages and cages full of them--grown up ones and old ones, and baby ones just hatched. Some were singing brilliantly, so that we could scarcely hear ourselves speak, and the man who had come forward to meet us took us into another room, a little kitchen, where there were only one or two cages and no noise.

He was a shoemaker as well as a birdfancier--he had on a leather apron, and he had a half-made boot in his hand when we went in. But plainly, what he considered his real calling in life was canaries--I think indeed he thought the world was made for canaries, and he only looked at us with interest because "we belonged to Coo-coo," as Charley said.

"It is not broken," he said, after he had carefully examined the poor wing, stretching it out in a way that made me shiver to see; "it is only sprained. It will get better, but it will perhaps never be quite well. See--this is all that can be done," and he took a feather from a cup with some fine oil in it, standing on a table. "You must paint it with oil--so--two or three times a day. You see?" and Mamma nodded her head, and said, yes, she quite understood.

"She will get better," repeated the man, "she will not die of her wing, but she will die of loneliness. You must get her a companion."

I came forward eagerly.

"Mamma," I said, "would he sell us one? I have two marks." A mark is the same as a shilling.

Mamma asked him the question. He looked round his many cages doubtfully. "I did not want to sell any just now," he said, and I really don't think he did. "But it would be a shame for her to pine to death. Yes--I can let you have one of these young birds for three marks. Choose which you like," and he pointed to a cage containing three or four.

"I have only two marks," I whispered.

"And there is a new cage to get," said Charley. But Mamma was very kind.

"I will help you," she said. "Yes, sir, we will take one of these. You are sure they will be friends?"

"No fear," said the man in his queer, jerky way, "and this young bird will sing like a heavenly angel next spring. Will you take him now, or shall I bring him this evening?"

"We have to get a new cage," said Mamma; "I should be glad if you would bring him."

Then we set off again with Coo-coo in the starling's cage, and we had another procession down the street to the ironmonger's shop, where we chose a beautiful cage. It was awfully kind of Mamma, wasn't it?

And that evening after poor little Frise-tete was buried in the garden under a little rose-bush we made the new cage all ready, and Coo-coo and the new bird, whom we fixed to call "Fritz," as he was a German, took up their quarters in it. They were very good friends--indeed Charley and I thought it rather horrid of Coo-coo to be so quickly consoled.

"I don't believe she has any heart at all," I said. "I don't believe a bit that she would have pined alone."

But the "canary-gentleman," every time he came--and he was really very good, he came every two or three days to see how the wing was and would not take any more money--assured us that if she had not had a companion she would have died.

And certainly I must say that Fritz deserved her to like him. He was so good to her. You could scarcely believe a little bird could have had so much sense. For some days she could only move about stiffly, and it was difficult for her to pick up seeds. And just fancy, Fritz used to bring her seeds in his beak and feed her! It was the prettiest sight possible.

Her wing never got quite well, though it left off hurting her. But she never could stretch it out quite evenly with the other. And about a year ago, after two years of peaceful life with Fritz, she died quite suddenly. She was perfectly well the evening before, and early the next morning she was lying in a little rumpled-up heap in a corner, dead! Poor Coo-coo--they thought she died of old age. I can't help wondering where birds go to when they die--they are so innocent!

Still they are very heartless. That very morning beside his poor little dead wife, Fritz was pecking away at his seeds and singing as if nothing were the matter. So we have not troubled to get a new companion for him, and when he dies I don't much think I shall care to keep any more pet birds. He is very alive at present however. He really sings so very loudly sometimes that we are obliged to cover him up with a dark cloth to pretend it is night.

I hear him carrolling away now as brilliantly as possible!

HARRY'S REWARD

By Mrs. Molesworth.]

"I hate the sea, I hate bathing, and I don't want to learn to swim. What's the use of learning to swim? I'm not going to be a sailor. I don't like ships, and I don't want ever to go in one, and I just wish, oh, I do wish papa hadn't come here!"

"Harry! how can you?" said his sister Dora. "Papa who is so kind, and when we have all been looking forward so to his coming."

"I know--that's the worst of it," said Harry. "I've been looking forward as much as any one, and now it's all spoilt by his saying I must learn to swim."

"I only wish _I_ could learn!" sighed Dora. She was two years older than Harry, but she had lately had a bad fever. The family had come to the seaside to give her change of air, but not for some weeks yet, if at all this summer, was poor Dora to be allowed to bathe. And she loved the sea, and bathing, and boating, and everything to do with the sea. She was like her father, who, though not a sailor, had travelled much and far, both by land and water; whereas Harry "took after," as the country people say, his mother, who had lived in her youth in a warm climate, and shivered at every breath of cold or even fresh air. It did not matter so much for a delicate lady to be afraid of the wind and the sea, but it was a great pity for a healthy boy to be fanciful or timid; and Harry's mother herself was very anxious that he should become more manly. She was very disappointed that she could not get him to bathe when they came to the seaside, but it was no use, and she and nurse and Dora all agreed that the only thing to do was to "wait till Papa came."

Papa had come now, and Harry had had his first "dip." It wasn't so _very_ bad after all, but just when he was getting up his spirits again, and thinking ten minutes or so every morning were quickly over, all his fears and dislike grew worse than ever when his father told him that in a day or two he should begin to teach him to swim.

"Everybody, especially every English man and boy, should know how to swim," Papa had said. "There is never any knowing the use it may be of, both for one's self and others."

"Isn't it very hard to learn?" Harry asked, not venturing to say more.

"It takes some patience," his father said. "But by the time I have to go--in three weeks or so--you should be able to swim fairly well, if you have a lesson every day."

And Harry came home to tell Dora his troubles, which he worked himself up to think were very great ones indeed.

There was no shirking it however. Papa, though very kind, was very firm, and once he said a thing, it had to be done. So with a rather white face, and looking very solemn, poor Harry set off every day for his swimming lesson.

He was a quick and clever boy, and a strong boy, and this his father knew. He would not have forced Harry to do anything for which he was unfit, or that could have done him any harm. And after the first shivers of fear and tremulous clinging to his father's hand were got over, it went on better and faster than could have been expected. Harry didn't mind its being difficult once he had left off being afraid, and a day or two before his father had to leave them, Harry had the pleasure of hearing him say to his mother, "He swims already very nearly as well as I do myself."

Now I shall tell you why I have called this little story "Harry's Reward."

Seacliff, the place at which these children were spending the summer, was not a fashionable watering-place, with terraces and donkey-carriages and bathing-machines, but a little village, where one or two cottages were to be had for the season. There were also a few gentlemen's houses in the neighbourhood, so that in fine weather merry groups met at the little sheltered bay among the rocks, where the bathing was pleasantest.

One day, not very long before they were to leave Seacliff, Harry, having finished his own morning swim, set off to walk home at his ease, whistling as he went. He had chosen what was called the high path, a footpath up above the lane, which was the regular road from the village to the beach, but from which the lane could be seen all the way.

It was a lovely morning--bright and peaceful--and Harry, as he went, wished that poor Dora had got leave to bathe.

"Next year," he thought, "I hope we shall come again, and then what fun we shall have. Dolly will learn to swim in no time."

Suddenly a sound disturbed his pleasant thoughts. A horse and cart or carriage of some kind was rushing wildly along, coming nearer and nearer. Surely the horse, or pony, as Harry now saw it to be, was running away. The boy who had never been a coward except about "sea things," tumbled down the steep grassy slope in no time, and stood in the middle of the road eager to see what he could do. The flying vehicle was near enough now for him to see that it was the pony-carriage of two girls, a little older than Dora, whose home was one of the pretty houses a little way from Seacliff. He had often seen them drive down in it to the shore to bathe.

But what a queer figure was driving now. The pony was not running away, on the contrary, it seemed as if it could not run fast enough to please the driver; a girl with hair streaming, dressed only in a blue flannel bathing gown, streaming too, who stood upright in the carriage, lashing the poor pony as if she were mad, while from time to time she screamed, in a shrill and yet choking voice, "Help, help--for God's sake, help!"

"What is it?" screamed Harry too, as she passed. She would not stop, but she threw back some words on the wind.

"My sister--Alice--drowning. Going to the village to fetch some one--can swim."

And then again came the terrible cry, as if she hardly knew what she was saying, "Help, help!"

"Oh," thought Harry, "if she could have stopped and taken me back, we'd have been at the shore in a moment. _I_ can swim. _I_ can swim."

And he could run too. It was not so very far from the bathing-place. How he got there Harry never could tell. On he rushed, tearing off his clothes as he went. Off flew hat, jacket, collar and shirt, till there was nothing but trousers and tennis-shoes to pitch away, as in his little clinging woven drawers only, brave Harry flung himself, fearless and dauntless, into the sea, and struck out for the round dark object, poor Alice's head, which it had taken but an instant to point out to him.

"I can _swim_! I can _swim_!" were the magic words with which he was able at once to push off the friendly hands that would have drawn him back, whose owners now stood watching him with flushed faces and tearful eyes, murmuring many a fervent prayer for his success, or saying aloud with clasped hands, "The brave boy, the splendid little fellow! It is her only chance!"

It _was_ her only chance. Long before poor Lilian, for all her headlong drive, was back with a sailor she had met just outside the village, Alice would have sunk to rise no more. She had been caught by the current and carried out far beyond her depth, and when Harry, panting, labouring, but swimming valiantly still, got near enough to catch the long plait of hair, and so draw her gently after him to shore, she had all but lost consciousness. Better so, perhaps, for had she struggled or clung to him, both would have been lost.

As it was, there were plenty of hands to carry them to land, once they were within a safe distance; but Harry was the hero, Harry, alone and unaided, had saved a human life, for of all the score or so of watchers on the beach, not one knew how to swim.

Was not this worthy to be called his "Reward?" even if the thanks of the two pretty sisters and their parents had been less fervent and heartfelt.

Harry and Dora go often to Seacliff now, even without the rest of the family; for there is a house near there where they are always most welcome visitors, and where the only fear is that if Harry were not a very sensible boy, the attentions of Alice and Lilian _might_ spoil him.

Mamma was very fond of mushrooms. I don't mean to say that she was a greedy person or fond of eating, but if she _had_ a weakness, it was for mushrooms. When she was a little girl, she had lived in a country place where they grew in abundance, and she had often told the children how delightful it was to go mushroom gathering, how pretty the creamy-white heads looked, sometimes almost hidden in the grass, like eggs in a mossy nest, and what shrieks of fun and eagerness used to be heard when some specially fine one was suddenly caught sight of.

But Mamma's _own_ children, Lancey and Dick--Mamma was not very rich in children, she had only these two little sturdy boys, Lancey was nine and Dick was seven--had never had the good fortune to live in a mushroom country. All they knew of mushrooms was when they sometimes happened to catch sight of them in the kitchen, when cook had bought a little basket of them, paying very dear for it, no doubt, because "Missis was so partial to them." And there was great rejoicing, as you can fancy, when one autumn Mamma told her little boys that they were going down into the country to spend September with an old aunt, who lived not far from where Mamma herself had lived when she "was a little girl."

"And is there those funny things--mush--mush--I forget the name--there?" asked Dick.

"Mushrooms?" said Mamma. "Oh, yes, in September there will be plenty, no doubt," she replied.

"And your birthday's in September," said Lancey. "Oh, Mamma, oh, Dick!" he went on, giving a great spring in his delight, "just think--we can gather mushrooms for it--nice, _wild_ mushrooms, that taste ever so much better than the ones you buy in the shops, don't they, Mamma, darling?"

"Than forced mushrooms, you mean, Lancey," she replied. "Yes, forced mushrooms, that means mushrooms grown in hot-houses, or hot-beds;" for she saw on the boys' lips the question, "what are forced mushrooms, please?" "never have the same flavour, I am sure. Besides, one hasn't the fun of hunting for them, and gathering them one's self. I am sure you will enjoy that part of it."

"I am sure we shall. I am sure we shall like Fernimoor _much_ better than the seaside," said both boys--"even though we have liked it very much," added tender-hearted Dick. He was so afraid of Mamma being at all hurt, if she fancied he meant that they had _not_ enjoyed the seaside after all the trouble and expense she and papa had been at to take them there. For, as he told Lancey afterwards, he was sure he had seen Papa pay _three_ gold pounds for their railway tickets at the station the day they came.

"I hope you will enjoy it very much," said Mamma kindly, "and I am sure you will, and so shall I. It will be so nice to show my little boys some of the places I loved when I was as little as they are."

"And to teach us how to find musherrooms," said Dick, quite satisfied he had got the hard word right this time.

Fernimoor turned out to be very nice, quite as nice as the boys' pleasantest fancies had pictured it. The old-fashioned house was the funniest and prettiest in the world, so was the garden, and the uncle and aunt were the kindest and nicest of old uncles and aunts. There was only one disappointment--and that was the mushrooms!

There had been a good crop of them, said Auntie, a week or two ago, but since then it had been so dry--the whole season had been unusually dry--that there were none at all. Possibly in another ten days or so, _if_ it rained, there might be another crop, but then one scarcely dared wish for rain, it would be so bad for the harvest.

So Mamma and her two little squires wandered about the fields in vain, seeking for the pretty creamy egg-like balls among the grass, which Mamma had so often described.

"It can't be helped," she said. "It's better than if it had done nothing but rain. That would have spoilt our visit, even if we had had basketfuls of mushrooms."

But Lancey and Dick didn't seem quite sure that they agreed with her. They had got the idea of mushrooms so in their heads that I don't think they would have grumbled even if it _had_ rained.

"If only there are some before Mamma's birthday, it won't matter so much," said hopeful little Dick.

Mamma's birthday was the thirteenth of September, and that year it fell on a Monday. All Friday and Saturday it had rained--really poured--and every one was surprised that Lancey and Dick did not grumble at it. By Sunday morning it cleared, and Lancey who was dressed first, ran out into the garden for a stroll before breakfast. Here he met a friend of his--an under-gardener, who had come to do some little piece of work about the hot-houses, which could not be neglected even on Sunday.

"Fine morning, Master Lancey," said the lad. "My, how it did pour yesterday!"

"Griffith," said Lancey, "will the rain have brought up any mushrooms, do you think?"

"Bless you, yes. See here, Master Lancey, just you go down the lane to the left of the lodge till you come to a cottage, then creep through the gate opposite--it's awkward to open, but you'll easily get through--and see if you don't find mushrooms. There'll be lots by to-morrow if we've some sun to-day."

"It's to-morrow I want to get them--to-morrow morning early," said Lancey. "Thank you, Griffith."

After breakfast, Dick in turn went out for a little fresh air--_he_ strolled towards the stables, as he was very fond of one of the dogs there. On his way he came across a groom called Nicholls.

"Good morning, Nicholls," said Dick. "Should you think, Nicholls, there'd be any mushrooms by to-morrow morning?"

"Sure to be, Master Dick. If you're up early, I'll show you the best field in the place for them. Come out to the stable-yard as soon as you're dressed, and I'll show you the way."

"Thank you, Nicholls," said Dick. "Yes, I'll come. Don't tell anybody else, Nicholls."

"No, no, sir, we'll keep it a secret."

Lancey and Dick went to church together and were together as usual all day. But strange to tell, not one word was said by either boy to the other about their plans for the next morning. Some mischievous sprite had put it into their heads, for almost the first time in their lives, to have a secret, and not a kind secret either, each from the other.

"I'm the eldest," thought Lancey. "I think it's only fair I should get the mushrooms for Mamma's birthday."

"Lancey's bigger and stronger than I am," thought Dick. "If he went with me, he'd gather ever so many more, and Mamma wouldn't think it was me at all that had got them."

Monday morning came. The boys slept in separate rooms at Auntie's. Each had a tiny dressing-room with a sofa-bed, so it was easy to get up and dress without "brother" knowing. Lancey was first, but it took him some little time to find Griffith, and to ask him again where to go, which he had partly forgotten. Dick was luckier, for Nicholls was waiting for him, and took him by what he called a short cut, to the field he had described, and helped him over the hedge, telling him the mushrooms grew thickest "a bit up the field."

Up the field trotted Dick, but he had not gone far before he stopped short in surprise. Who was that coming towards him from the other end?

And "who can that be?" thought the new-comer, as a small, stout figure caught _his_ eye--a round, brown-holland little person, not unlike a mushroom button on two legs. "I do believe," he said aloud, "I do believe it's Dick."

"I do believe," said Dick. "I do believe it's Lancey."

They stared at each other for a few minutes, not quite sure what to say or do. Then they thought better of it and burst out laughing.

"It's no good doing without each other," said both together.

The mushrooms were plentiful, and the gathering of them proved quite as nice as Mamma had told them. And it was two very happy little boys who carried up a splendid plateful with "many happy returns" to her door that morning.

But when Mamma had kissed and thanked them, each looked at the other.

"Mamma," said both together, "we weren't going to have been quite good about them," and then they told the whole. "But it was all right at the end," they said, "and oh, Mamma, how do you like the mushrooms cooked? Fried or with sauce? Auntie told us to ask."

"I don't mind," said Mamma, "they are sure to taste good any way, now that they are flavoured with Lancey's and Dick's brotherly love."

A REMARKABLE WATCH.

"May we bathe this morning, Mamma?" said the children, putting their heads in at the door of the drawing-room.

Mamma glanced at the time-piece.

"It is rather late," she said doubtfully. "You would have to be very quick. Which of the big ones are going with you?"

"None of them," answered Joan, the smallest of the small party. "They've all gone for a walk except Lilly, and she's drawing in the garden, but I'm sure she'd come if we asked her. Lilly's always so kind--if only you'd say we might."

"It _is_ so fine and sunny, and the tide won't suit again for ever so many days," added two or three imploring voices.

"Very well, then if Lilly will go you may bathe, but you _must_ be quick. I can't have luncheon kept waiting again," said Mamma.

In another moment loud eager cries from the garden reached her through the open window. "Lilly, Lilly, where are you? Mamma says if you will come--" and then the voices faded away in the distance.

"Poor Lilly," thought Mamma, with a smile. "I wonder if it's a shame of me to let those wild children torment her. I dare say she was counting on a quiet morning."

But whether Lilly was disappointed or not, no sign of anything but content and pleasure appeared on her pretty, bright face when the little group of bathers, all brushed up and tidy again, took their places round the luncheon-table.

"That's right," said Mamma. "You really have been very expeditious this morning. Whom am I to praise?"

She knew before it came what the answer would be.

"Oh, Lilly. Lilly, of course," said Joan, always ready to be spokeswoman. "Lilly made us promise to do exactly as she told us before we went."

"She timed us," said Bill.

"Yes," Joan went on, "wasn't it a good plan? Lilly put her watch on a rock and gave us five minutes to undress in, and a quarter of an hour to stay in the sea, and ten minutes to dress in. Bill and Humphrey were in the gentlemen's dressing-room, of course--that's what we call the other little bay--and Lilly had to roar out to them, 'one minute more only,'--'two minutes more,' just like a railway man at a station. It _was_ such fun, and--"

"My dear Joan, you will never eat your dinner if you chatter so," said her mother, "and we can't wait for you. I am going a long drive this afternoon, and I shall only just have time," and Mamma looked at her watch. "I hope I am a little fast," she added. "What time do you make it, Lilly dear? Your watch is always to be relied on."

Lilly's hand instinctively went to her watch-pocket--then she suddenly looked up with a rather startled expression.

"My watch!" she exclaimed. "I must have left it up stairs. Mamma--_might_ I run up for a moment and see, if you don't mind?"

Mamma nodded. She knew that Lilly's watch was one of the girl's most prized treasures. It was a handsome, though rather bulky one, which had been left to her by her godmother, and Lilly cared for it both because she had loved her godmother, and also for its own sake. It kept excellent time, and never got out of order as the little fairy-like watches that are now the fashion are rather apt to do.

Lilly's moment extended to several minutes without her coming back, and the faces round the table grew rather concerned-looking.

"May I--" Joan was beginning, but just as she spoke Lilly appeared. She was pale, and almost seemed as if she had difficulty in keeping back her tears.

"Mamma," she said, "I can't forgive myself, I am dreadfully afraid my dear watch is gone. I must have left it on the shore."

Up started Bill and Humphrey.

"You'll let us go, Mamma. We don't care about any more dinner. We know where Lilly left it--no one's likely to have been there."

"And the people about here are so honest," said Joan.

"But," said Mamma, "was the stone where you laid it, Lilly, out of reach of the tide? It was almost low tide when you bathed."

All looked startled at this, but the boys persisted.

"All the more reason to go at once," they said, and off they set.

Lilly would fain have gone too, but she gave in to her Mother, and sat quietly, trying to eat, though I fear her luncheon was flavoured by some drops of salt water.

And in a few minutes the whole party started down the road to meet the boys and hear the news.

Alas! as soon as Bill and Humphrey appeared, even in the distance, all hopes were gone. Both boys shook their heads sadly.

"You saw nothing of it?" asked their Mother eagerly. Poor Lilly was past speaking.

"Nothing--as well as we could make out, the tide must have covered the stones where the girls dressed, some time ago," they replied.

"Then I fear there is nothing to be done," said Mamma. "Poor Lilly, I am so sorry for you."

"And to think it was all my own carelessness," sobbed Lilly. "My dear watch and chain--there was the chain too, Mamma."

But Lilly was so seldom careless, and even if she had been so for once, it was in the service of others, that no one would let her blame herself, and all the family joined to try to console her.

"There is one chance," said Bill to Humphrey, when they were alone,--their Mother and elder sisters having gone out for the afternoon,--"the watch is heavy, and the sea is calm. It _may_ be left there when the tide goes back. Let's see--it will be high tide by about five, and low again by eleven. Those stones should be uncovered by ten o'clock, and it is bright moonlight just now. I tell you what, Humphrey, we'll get Mamma's leave to sit up later to-night, and we'll go off to the shore and have another try for the watch and chain."

Humphrey's eyes sparkled with sympathy.

"We'll say nothing to Lilly--it would be cruel to raise her hopes again on such a chance," he said. "We'll only tell Mamma."

The plan was carried out. At ten o'clock that evening, just as poor Lilly was going to bed, and thinking sadly how strange it seemed to have no watch to wind up, two small figures might have been seen in the moonlight, carefully picking their way among the stones over which the little waves were still softly lapping, for the special group of small rocks they were in search of was not yet uncovered.

It was more difficult than they had expected to find the exact spot. The moonlight and the sheen it cast on the water were rather dazzling. The boys crept along slowly and carefully.

"I say, what a beautiful night it is," said Bill. "It's a good thing the watch is a gold one; if it were silver there wouldn't be much chance of seeing it--everything looks silver, and--"

But Humphrey interrupted him.

"This is the place--I'm sure it is--look, the smooth sand just beyond is where the girls jumped in, and--"

In his turn he was interrupted.

"You're right," cried Bill, "and--I do believe--no, there's a little wave hiding it again--now, look, Humphrey--_isn't_ there something glittering still more than the wet stones, down there--on that smooth flat rock?"

Yes--another wave or two came gently lapping in, as if to say good-bye to the treasure they had been playing with, and then the boys stepped forward over the slippery stones, and Bill stooped down and quickly stood up again, with a shout of triumph, for the rescued prize was in his hands.

"And it really doesn't seem much the worse," said he and Humphrey to each other, as they made their way home.

Lilly was not in her first sleep--she was too unhappy to fall asleep as quietly as usual--when a tap at the door made her jump up. There stood her brothers, and behind them Mamma, smiling with pleasure, and for a minute or two Lilly's delight almost stupefied her. She could scarcely believe it was her own dear watch that Bill held out, and when she did believe it, she could not kiss and thank him and Humphrey enough.

The watch had to go to a watch-doctor, of course, and it cost several shillings to put it right, but that is now many years ago, and it still keeps time as well as ever.

By

MRS MOLESWORTH.]

Nora and Hilary were staying in the country with their cousins. It was a new part of the world to them, for their own home, though not actually in a town, was not far from one, and therefore far less rich in wild flowers and mushrooms and blackberries, and all such delightful things than the _real_ country place where these fortunate cousins lived.

Had it not been for the newness and the freedom of it all, they might have found it a little dull, for there was only one child in the family at all near their ages--Nora was eight and Hilary six--and this was a boy of seven called Cecil. Cecil was very much younger than his brothers and sisters, and seemed even younger than his age, for he was small and delicate, and very quiet. Hilary, a great big strong fellow, seemed much older; indeed if you had seen the two together you would certainly have guessed that Cecil and not his cousin was the, so to say, town-bred boy. Cecil had never been so happy in his life as since the two little visitors had come to stay with him. They seemed to find out all sorts of new things that had never struck him before; pleasures and interests springing all about and close at hand which he had never thought of.

They found everything delightful; as the summer gradually faded into autumn, and the bright flowers grew scarcer and less tempting to gather, the wild fruit in its turn began to ripen. Day by day the children watched the blackberries with the greatest eagerness, as the small red heads steadily got rounder and deeper in colour, till at last one day some of the big people said in the children's hearing, "a couple of days' sunshine and the blackberries will be at their prime; there's a splendid show of them this year."

Nora and Hilary could scarcely keep from jumping with joy, and they made Cecil nearly as eager as themselves. The sun seemed to enter into their feelings, for the very next morning he showed a more smiling face than for some time past, and continued in this amiable humour for several days, so that the children were able on the third day to set off, armed with baskets nearly as big as themselves, for a regular good blackberrying.

All went well for some time. They had been told where and how far they might go, and though it took _rather_ longer than they had expected, to fill even one of the baskets, they worked on cheerfully, nowise disheartened, chattering to each other from time to time, when a strange thing happened.

Nora was just saying that the _only_ thing she was ever afraid of in the woods was "snakes," and Cecil was assuring her that he was quite certain there were none in "our woods," when he was startled by her giving a little scream.

"What's the matter?" he called out, half thinking that a snake had appeared after all.

"Hush, Cecil, oh, hush!" said Nora in a low and startled voice; "come here, and you, Hilary, come close here, but don't make any noise."

Wondering, and a little frightened, the two boys crept through the bushes to her side.

"What is it, Nora?" they both whispered in an awestruck tone.

"I don't know," she replied. "Cecil, do _you_ know of anything _queer_ in these woods? Are there any dwarfs or--or creatures like in fairy stories? For I am sure I saw a very, very little black or dark-brown man with a red jacket and cap--he wasn't as high as up to my waist--scrambling among the bushes over there, and picking and eating blackberries."

Cecil and Hilary stared at her.

"You must have fancied it, Nora," said Cecil. "I never heard of a--" but he was interrupted by a sort of smothered scream.

"There, there," whispered Nora, clutching hold of both the boys, "there he is again!"

And sure enough there "he" was, and just exactly as Nora had described him. A tiny dark-brown creature, like a wee old man, with a little red jacket, and a small red skull-cap on the top of his head. He seemed to have come up suddenly from among the bushes; he was holding the branch of a blackberry tree in one hand, and with the other greedily plucking and eating the fruit as fast as he could.

"Who can he be?" said Nora, who had grown very pale.

"I wish I'd a gun here," said Hilary, who was rather given to boasting.

"Nonsense," said Nora, "if he's some kind of a man,--and he can't be an _animal_--animals don't wear jackets and caps--it would be very wrong, and if he's a--a wood-spirit, or anything like that, shooting would be no good."

But Hilary and she had raised their voices in this discussion without knowing it. Suddenly the small man turned round, placed one hand behind his big black ear, as if listening, and then, seemingly catching sight of the children, sprang forward, stretching out his two long arms before him in a curious way towards the little group.