Chapter II: Part 2

“That is a phrase which we use,” replied the red cent. “I was high and dry in one sense,—quite lifted above the little streams of water that gurgled about among the paving-stones, though the rain-drops were not wiped off my face; and as I lay there I suddenly felt myself picked up by a most careful little finger and thumb, which had no desire to get wet or muddy. They belonged to a little girl about ten years old.

“‘You pretty red cent!’ she said, admiringly,—‘how bright and nice you do look! and how funny it is that I should find you—I never found anything before. I wonder how you came here—I hope some poor child didn’t lose you.’

“While she thus expressed her opinion I was busy making up mine, and truly it was a pleasant one. Her calico frock was of an indescribable brown, formed by the fading together of all the bright colours that had once enlivened it,—water and soap and long wear had done this. But water and soap had also kept it clean, and a very little starch spread it out into some shape, and displayed the peculiar brown to the best advantage. Instead of an old straw bonnet with soiled ribbons she had a neat little sun-bonnet; but this was made of a piece of new pink calico, and made her face look quite rosy. I could not see her feet and pantalettes, for my back was towards them, but I have no doubt they were in nice order—she was too nice a child to have it otherwise. Her hair was brushed quite smooth, only when she stooped to pick me up one lock had fallen down from under the sun-bonnet; and her face was as simple and good as it could be. With what contented eyes did she look at me! She didn’t wish I was an eagle—indeed I thought it doubtful whether she had ever heard of such a thing. But I saw that her cheeks were thin, and that they might have been pale but for the pink sun-bonnet. Whatever _she_ meant by ‘a poor child,’ little Nanny would surely have given the name to her.

“Suddenly she exclaimed,—

“‘Now I can get it!—O I’m so glad! Come little red cent, I must give you away, though I should like to keep you very much, for you’re very pretty; but you are all the money I’ve got in the world.’

“‘Now for the candy-store,’ thought I; for as she turned and began to walk away as fast as she could, I peeped into the little basket that hung on her arm and saw there a small loaf of bread—so I knew I was not to go for that commodity. She did not put me in the basket, but kept me fast in her hand as she tripped along, till we came to a large grocery. There she went in.

“‘Please sir to let me have a cent’s worth of tea?’ she said timidly.

“‘Got sixpence to pay for it?’ said one of the clerks to make the other clerks laugh, in which he succeeded.

“‘No sir, I’ve got this,’ she said, modestly showing me, and giving me a kind glance at the same time. ‘It’s only a cent, but it will get enough for mother, and she’s sick and wanted some tea so much.’

“The young men stopped laughing, and looked at the child as if she had just come out of the museum; and one of them taking down a canister measured out two or three good pinches of tea into a brown paper and folded it up. The child took it with a very glad face, laying me down on the counter with a joyful ‘Thank you, sir!’ which I by no means repeated—I wanted to go home with her and see that tea made. But we red cents can never know the good that our purchases do in the world.

“The clerk took me up and balanced me upon his finger, as if he had half a mind to give the child back her money, and pay the sum of one cent into the store out of his own private purse. But habit prevailed; and dropping me into the till I heard him remark as he closed it,—

“‘I say, Bill, I shouldn’t wonder now if that was a good child.’

“I shouldn’t have wondered, either.

“We were a dull company in the till that night, for most of the money was old; and it is a well-known fact that worn-down coins are not communicative. And some of the pieces were rusty through long keeping, and one disconsolate little sixpence which sat alone in the furthest corner of the till, was in a very sad state of mind; for he had just laid himself out to buy some rice for a poor family and now could do nothing more for them—and he was the last monied friend they had.

“In this inactive kind of life some time passed away, and though some of us were occasionally taken to market yet we never bought anything. But one evening a man came into the grocery and asked for starch, and we hoped for bright visiters; but I had no time to enjoy them, for I was sent to make change. The messenger was a manservant, and with the starch in his hand and me in his pocket he soon left the store and went whistling along the street. Then he put his other hand into the pocket and jingled me against the rest of the change in a most unpleasant manner—picking me up and dropping me again just as if red cents had no feeling. I was glad when he reached home, and ran down the area steps and into the kitchen. He gave the starch to the cook, and then marking down on a little bit of paper what he had bought and what he had spent, he carried it with the change into the parlour. But what was my surprise to find that I was in the very same house whence I had gone forth as a golden eagle!

“The old gentleman was asleep in his chair now, and a pretty-looking lady sat by, reading; while the little girl was playing with her doll on the rug. She jumped up and came to the table, and began to count the change.

“‘Two-and-sixpence, mamma—see, here’s a shilling and two sixpences and a fivepence and a red cent,—mamma, may I have this cent?’

“‘It isn’t mine, Nanny—your grandfather gave James the money.’

“‘Well, but you can pay him again,’ said the child; ‘and besides, he’d let me have it, I know.’

“‘What will you do with it, Nanny?’

“‘Don’t you know, mamma, you said you _thought_ you would give me one cent a month to spend?’

“‘To do what you liked with,’ said her mother. ‘Yes, I remember. But what will you do with this one?’

“‘O I don’t know, mamma—I’ll see if grandpa will let me have it.’

“‘Let you have what?’ said the old gentleman, waking up.

“‘This cent, grandpa.’

“‘To be sure you may have it! Of course!—and fifty more.’

“‘No, she must have but one,’ said the lady, with a smile. ‘I am going to give her an allowance of one cent a-month.’

“‘Fiddle-de-dee!’ said the old gentleman. ‘What can she do with that, I should like to know?—one red cent!—Absurd!’

“‘Why she can do just the fiftieth part of what she could with half-a-dollar,’ said the lady, ‘and that will be money matters enough for such a little head. So you may take the cent, Nanny, and spend it as you like,—only I shall want to be told about it afterwards.’

“Nanny thanked her mother, and holding me fast in one hand she sat down on the rug again by her doll. The old gentleman seemed very much amused.

“‘What will you do with it, Nanny?’ he said, bending down to her.—‘Buy candy?’

“Nanny smiled and shook her head.

“‘No, I guess not, grandpa—I don’t know—I’ll see. Maybe I’ll buy beads.’

“At which the old gentleman leaned back in his chair and laughed very heartily.

“From that time, whenever little Nanny went to walk I went too; and she really seemed to be quite fond of me, for though she often stopped before the candy stores or the toy shops, and once or twice went in to look at the beads, yet she always carried me home again.

“‘Mamma, I don’t know how to spend my red cent,’ she said one day.

“‘Are you tired of taking care of it, Nanny?’

“‘No mamma, but I want to spend it.’

“‘Why?’

“‘Why mamma—I don’t know—money’s _meant_ to spend, isn’t it?’

“‘Yes, it is meant to spend—not to throw away.’

“‘O no,’ said Nanny,—‘I wouldn’t throw away my red cent for anything. It’s a very pretty red cent.’

“‘How many ways are there of throwing away money?’ said her mother.

“‘O mamma—a great many! I couldn’t begin to count. You know I might throw it out of the window, mamma, or drop it in the street—or somebody might steal it,—no, then it would only be lost.’

“‘Or you might shut it up in your box and never spend it.’

“‘Why mamma!’ said Nanny opening her eyes very wide, ‘would it be thrown away then?’

“‘Certainly—you might just as well have none. It would do neither you nor any one else any good.’

“‘But I should have it to look at.’

“‘But that is not what money was made for. Your cent would be more really lost than if you threw it out of the window, for then some poor child might pick it up.’

“‘How surprised she would be!’ said Nanny with a very bright face. ‘Mamma, I think I should like to spend my money so. I could stand behind the window-curtain and watch.’

“Her mother smiled.

“‘Why, mamma? do you think there wouldn’t any poor child come along?’

“‘I should like to see that day, dear Nanny. But your cent _might_ fall into the grass in the courtyard, or into the mud, or a horse might tread it down among the paving-stones; and then no one would be the better for it.’

“‘But it’s only one cent, mamma,’ said Nanny,—‘it don’t matter so much, after all.’

“‘Come here Nanny,’ said her mother, and the child came and stood at her side. The lady opened her purse and took out a little gold dollar.

“‘What is this made of?’ said she.

“‘Why of gold, mamma.’

“‘Think again.’

“So Nanny thought and couldn’t think—and laid her head against her mother, and played with the little gold dollar. Then she laid it upon me to see how much smaller it was, and how much brighter. Then she cried out,—

“‘O I know now, mamma! it’s made of a hundred cents.’

“‘Then if every day you lose ‘only a cent,’ in one year you would have lost more than three dollars and a-half. That might do a great deal of good in the world.’

“‘How funny that is!’ said Nanny. ‘Well I’ll try and not lose my cent, mamma.’

“‘There is another reason for not losing it,’ said her mother. ‘In one sense it would make little difference whether or not I threw this little gold dollar into the fire—you see there are plenty more in my purse. But Nanny they do not belong to me.’ And taking up a Bible she read these words,—

“‘_The silver and gold are_ THE LORD’S.’

“‘Do you think, Nanny, that it pleases him to have us waste or spend foolishly what he has given us to do good with?’

“‘No mamma. I won’t get my beads then,’ said Nanny with a little sigh.

“‘That would not be waste,’ said her mother kissing her. ‘It is right to spend some of our money for harmless pleasure, and we will go and buy the beads this very afternoon.’

“So after dinner they set forth.

“It was a very cold day, but Nanny and her mother were well wrapped up, so they did not feel it much. Nanny’s fur tippet kept all the cold wind out of her neck, and her little muff kept one hand warm while the other was given to her mamma. When that got cold Nanny changed about, and put it in the muff and the other out. As for me I was in the muff all the time; and I was just wondering to myself what kind of a person the bead-woman would prove to be, when I heard Nanny say,—

“‘Mamma! did you see that little girl on those brown steps? She had no tippet, mamma, and not even a shawl, and her feet were all tucked up in her petticoat; and——’ and Nanny’s voice faltered—‘I think she was crying. I didn’t look at her much, for it made me feel bad, but I thought so.’

“‘Yes love,’ said her mother, ‘I saw her. How good God has been to me, that it is not my little daughter who is sitting there.’

“‘O mamma!’

“Nanny walked on in silence for about half a block—then she spoke again.

“‘Mamma—I’m afraid a great many poor children want things more than I want my beads.’

“‘I’m afraid they do, Nanny.’

“‘Mamma, will you please go back with me and let me give that little girl my red cent? wouldn’t she be pleased, mamma? would she know how to spend it?’

“‘Suppose you spend it for her, Nanny. People that are cold are often hungry too—shall we go to the baker’s and buy her something to eat?’

“‘O yes!’ said Nanny. ‘Will you buy it, mamma, or shall I?’

“‘You, darling.’

“And when they reached the shop Nanny looked round once more at her mother, and opening the shop-door with a very pleased and excited little face she marched up to the counter.

“‘If you please, sir,’ she said, laying me down on the counter. ‘I want something for a very poor little girl.’

“The baker was a large fat man, in the whitest of shirt-sleeves and aprons, and the blackest pantaloons and vest, over which hung down a heavy gold watch-chain. He put his hands on his sides and looked at Nanny, and then at me, and then at Nanny again.

“‘_What_ do you want, my dear?’ said he.

“Nanny looked round at her mother to reassure herself, and repeated her request.

“‘I want something for a very poor little girl, if you please, sir. She’s sitting out in the street all alone.’ And Nanny’s lips were trembling at the remembrance. Her mother’s eyes were full too.

“‘What will you have, my dear?’ said the baker.

“Nanny looked up at her mother.

“‘What would you like if you were hungry?’ replied her mother.

“‘O I should like some bread,’ said Nanny, ’and I guess the little girl would, too. But all those loaves are too big.’

“‘How would these do?’ said the baker, taking some rolls out of a drawer.

“‘O they’re just the thing!’ said Nanny, ’and I like rolls so much. May I take one sir? and is a cent enough to pay for it?’

“The baker gave a queer little shake of his head, and searching below the counter for a bit of wrapping-paper he laid the two largest rolls upon it.

“‘A cent is enough to pay for two,’ he said. ‘Shall I tie them up for you?’

“‘No thank you sir; you needn’t tie it—if you’ll only wrap them up a little. Mamma,’ said Nanny, turning again to her mother, ‘I’m afraid that poor little girl don’t know that ‘the silver and gold are the Lord’s,’ and she’ll only think that I gave it to her.’

“‘You can tell her, Nanny, that everything we have comes from God,’ said her mother; and they left the shop.”

“What a nice little girl!” said Carl. “I think I should like to marry that little girl when I grow up—if I was good enough.”

“The baker went right into the back room,” continued the red cent, “to tell the story to his wife, and I was left to my own reflections on the counter; but I had reason to be well satisfied, for it was certainly the largest cent’s worth I had ever bought in my life. But while I lay there thinking about it, a boy came into the shop; and seeing me, he caught me up and ran out again. At least he was running out, when he tripped and fell; and, as I am noted for slipping through people’s fingers, I slipped through his, and rolled to the furthest corner of the shop. There I lay all night; and in the morning when the baker’s boy was sweeping the floor, he found me and put me in the till, for he was honest. But just then Mr. Krinken came in with a string of fish, and the careless creature gave me with some other change for a parcel of miserable flounders. That’s the way I came here.”

“Why was he a careless boy?” said Carl. “I think he was very careful, to find you at all.”

“O because I didn’t want to quit the baker, I suppose,” said the red cent. “And I don’t like the smell of fish, anyhow—it don’t agree with me.”

“You won’t smell much of it when I’ve kept you awhile in my purse,” said Carl. “I’ll take good care of you, red cent, and I won’t spend you till I want to.”

* * * * *

The next day Carl had tired himself with a run on the sands. He used to tuck up his trowsers as high as they would go, and wade slowly in through the deepening water, to pick up stones and shells and feel the little waves splash about his legs. Then when a bigger wave than usual came rolling in, black and high, to break further up on the shore than the other great waves did, Carl would run for it, shouting and tramping through the water, to see if he could not get to land before the breaker which came rolling and curling so fast after him. Sometimes he did; and sometimes the billow would curl over and break just a little behind him, and a great sea of white foam would rush on over his shoulders and maybe half hide his own curly head. Then Carl laughed louder than ever. He didn’t mind the wetting with salt water. And there was no danger, for the shore was very gently shelving and the sand was white and hard; and even if a big wave caught him up off his feet and cradled him in towards the shore, which sometimes happened, it would just leave him there, and never think of taking him back again; which the waves on some beaches would certainly do.

All this used to be in the summer weather; at Christmas it was rather too cold to play tag with the breakers in any fashion. But Carl liked their company, and amused himself in front of them, this sunny December day, for a long time. He got tired at last, and then sat himself flat down on the sand, out of reach of the water, to rest and think what he would do next. There he sat, his trowsers still tucked up as far as they would go, his little bare legs stretched out towards the water, his curls crisped and wetted with a dash or two of the salt wave, and his little ruddy face, sober and thoughtful, pleasantly resting, and gravely thinking what should be the next play. Suddenly he jumped up, and the two little bare feet pattered over the sand and up on the bank, till he reached the hut.

“What ails the child!” exclaimed Mrs. Krinken.

But Carl did not stop to tell what. He made for the cupboard, and climbed up on a chair and lugged forth with some trouble, from behind everything, a clumsy wooden box. This box held his own treasures and nobody else’s. A curious boxful it was. Carl soon picked out his Christmas purse; and without looking at another thing shut the box, pushed it back, swung to the cupboard door, and getting down from his chair ran back, purse in hand, the way he came, the little bare feet pattering over the sand, till he reached the place where he had been sitting; and then down he sat again just as he was before, stretched out his legs towards the sea, and put the purse down on the sand between them.

“Now purse,” said he, “I’ll hear your story. Come,—tell.”

THE STORY OF THE PURSE.

“I don’t feel like story-telling,” said the purse. “I have been opening and shutting my mouth all my life, and I am tired of it.”

The purse looked very snappish.

“Why you wouldn’t be a purse if you couldn’t open and shut your mouth,” said Carl.

“Very true,” said the other; “but one may be tired of being a purse, mayn’t one? I am.”

“Why?” said Carl.

“My life is a failure.”

“I don’t know what that means,” said Carl.

“It means that I never have been able to do what I was meant to do, and what I have all my life been trying to do.”

“What’s that?” said Carl.

“Keep money.”

“You shall keep my cent for me,” said Carl.

“Think of that! A red cent! Anything might hold a red cent. I am of no use in the world.”

“Yes, you are,” said Carl,—“to carry my cent.”

“You might carry it yourself,” said the purse.

“No, I couldn’t,” said Carl. “My pockets are full.”

“You might lose it, then. It’s of no use to keep one cent. You might as well have none.”

“No, I mightn’t,” said Carl; “and you’ve got to keep it: and you’ve got to tell me your story, too.”

“Maybe you’ll lose me,” said the purse. “I wish your mother had.”

“No, I sha’n’t lose you,” said Carl; and he lifted up his two legs on each side of the purse and slapped them down in the sand again;—“I sha’n’t lose you.”

“It wouldn’t be the first time,” said the purse.

“Were you ever lost?” said Carl.

“Certainly I was.”

“Then how did you get here?”

“That’s the end of my story—not the beginning.”

“Well, make haste and begin,” said Carl.

“The first place where I was settled was in a big fancy-store in London,” the purse began.

“Where were you before that?” said Carl.

“I was in one or two rooms where such things are made, and where I was made.”

“Where were you before that?”

“I wasn’t a purse before that. I wasn’t anywhere.”

“What are you made of?” said Carl shortly.

“I am made of sealskin, the sides, and my studs and clasp are silver.”

“Where did the sides and the clasp come from?”

“How should I know?” said the purse.

“I didn’t know but you did,” said Carl.

“I don’t,” said the purse.

“Well, go on,” said Carl. “What did you do in that big shop?”

“I did nothing. I lay in a drawer, shut up with a parcel of other purses.”

“Were they all sealskin, with silver clasps?”

“Some of them; and some were morocco and leather, with steel clasps.”

“I’m glad you have got silver clasps,” said Carl,—“you look very bright.”

For Mrs. Krinken had polished up the silver of the clasp and of every stud along the seams, till they shone again.

“I feel very dull now,” said the purse. “But in those days I was as bright as a butterfly, and as handsome. My sides were a beautiful bright red.”

“I don’t believe it,” said Carl; “they are not red a bit now.”

“That’s because I have been rubbed about in the world till all my first freshness is worn off. I am an old purse, and have seen a good deal of wear and tear.”

“You aren’t torn a bit,” said Carl.

“If you don’t shut up, I will,” said the purse.

“I won’t,” said Carl. “And you’ve got to go on.”

“The next place I was in was a gentleman’s pocket.”

“How did you get there?”

“He came to buy a purse, and so a number of us were thrown out upon the counter, and he looked at us and tried us, and bought me and put me in his pocket.”

“What did you do there?”

“There my business was to hold guineas and half-guineas, and crowns and half-crowns, and all sorts of beautiful pieces of silver and gold.”

“And cents?” said Carl.

“Not such a thing. My master hadn’t any. He threw all his pennies away as fast as he got ’em.”

“Threw ’em where?” said Carl.

“Anywhere—to little boys, and beggars, and poor people, and gate-openers, and such like.”

“Why didn’t he keep ’em?”

“He had enough besides—gold and silver. He didn’t want pennies and halfpennies.”

“I wish you had kept some of them,” said Carl.

“I never had them to keep. I couldn’t keep but what he gave me, nor that either. He was always taking out and putting in.”

“Did _he_ wear the red off?” said Carl.

“No. I didn’t stay long enough with him. He was travelling in some part of England with a friend, riding over a wide lonely plain one day; and they saw a little distance ahead a cow in the road, lying down, right across their path. ‘Stapleton,’ said my master, ‘let us clear that cow.’ ‘Can’t your servant do that?’ said Mr. Stapleton. ‘Do what?’ said my master. ‘Clear that beast from the road,’ said his friend. ‘Pshaw!’ said my master,—‘I mean, let us clear her at a bound. Leave her in quiet possession of the road, and we take an air-line over her back.’ ‘Suppose she took a stupid notion to get out of our way just as we are in hers?’ said Mr. Stapleton. ‘I don’t suppose anything of the kind,’ said my master; ‘we shall be too quick for her.’ With that they put spurs to their horses, but it happened that Mr. Stapleton’s horse got the start and was a little ahead. _He_ cleared the cow well enough, but, unluckily it gave her an impression that just where she was it was a poor place to be; and she was throwing up her hind legs at the very minute my master came to take the leap. He was flung over and over, he and his horse, over and under each other—I don’t know how. I only know my master was killed.

“His friend and his servant picked him up and laid him by the roadside; and while Mr. Stapleton went full speed to the nearest town to get help, the other stayed behind to take care of his master, and do what could be done for him. But he very soon found that nothing could be done for him; and then, as nobody was in sight, he took the opportunity to do what he could for himself, by rifling his master’s pockets. He pulled out several things which I suppose he didn’t dare to keep, for he put them back again after a careful look at them, and after carefully taking off some seals from the watch-chain. I did not fare so well. He had me in his hands a long time, taking out and putting in silver and gold pieces,—afraid to keep too much, and not willing to leave a crown that might be kept safely; when a sudden step heard near, and the bursting out of a loud whistle, startled him. He jumped as if he had been shot; which was natural enough, as he was running a pretty good chance of getting hanged. I was dropped, or thrown behind him, in the grass; and before the countryman who came up had done asking questions, the horses of Mr. Stapleton and assistants were seen over the rising ground. They carried away my unfortunate first master, and left me in the grass.

“I knew I shouldn’t stay there long, but I was found sooner than I hoped. Before the evening had closed in, the sun was shining yet, I heard the tread of light feet,—somebody nearing the road and then crossing it. In crossing, this somebody came just upon me; and a kind sunbeam touching one of my silver points, I embraced the opportunity to shine as hard as I could. People say it is dangerous to have bright parts; I am sure I never found it out. I shone so she could not help seeing me. It was a girl about fifteen or sixteen years old: a slim figure, very tidy in her dress, with light brown hair nicely put back from her face; and her face a very quiet, sweet one. She looked at me, inside and out, looked up and down the road, as if to see where I had come from, and finally put me in her pocket. I was very glad nobody was in sight anywhere, for I knew by her face she would have given me up directly. She left the road then, and went on over the common, which was a wide, lonely, barren plain, grass-grown, and with here and there a bunch of bushes, or a low stunted tree. She was going after her cows, to bring them home; and presently, seeing them in the distance, she stood still and began to call them.”

“How did she call them?” said Carl.

“‘Cuff, cuff, cuff!’ That was while they were a good way off; when they came near,—‘Sukey’ and ‘Bessie,’ and ‘Jenny.’”

“And did they come when she called?”

“Left off eating as soon as they heard her; and then, when they had looked a little while to make sure it was she, they walked off slowly to come up to her.”

“How many cows were there?” said Carl.

“Sukey was a great black cow, and always marched first. Dolly was a beautiful red cow, and always was second. Three more came after her in a line, and when they got up with their little mistress she set off to go home, and the whole five of them followed gravely in order.

“The common was smooth and wide, not much broken with ups and downs and little footpaths—or cow-paths—tracking it in all directions. We wound along, my mistress and the cows, and I in my mistress’s pocket, through one and another of these; passing nothing in the shape of a house but a huge gloomy-looking building at some distance, which I afterwards found was a factory. A little way beyond this, not more than a quarter of a mile, we came to a small brown house, with one or two out-buildings. The house stood in a little field, and the outbuildings in another little field, close beside this one. Everything was small; house, and barn, and shed, and cow-field, and garden-field; but it was all snug, and neat, too.

“My little mistress—for she was slender, fair, and good, and such people we always call little——”

“But she wasn’t large, was she?” said Carl.

“She was not as large as if she had been grown up, but no more was she little for fifteen or sixteen. She was just right. She opened a gate of the barnyard, and held it while all the five cows marched slowly in, looking around them as if they expected to see some change made in the arrangements since they had gone out in the morning. But the old shed and manger stood just where they had left them, and Sukey stopped quietly in the middle of the barnyard and began to chew the cud, and Dolly and Bessie and Beauty took their stand in different places after her example; while Whiteface went off to see if she could find something in the mangers. She was an old cow that never had enough.”

“Was Beauty a handsome cow?” said Carl.

“No, she was the ugliest one of the whole set; one of her horns was broken, and the other lopped down directly over her left eye.”

“What was she called Beauty for, then?”

“Why, I heard say that she was a very pretty calf, and was named then in her youth; but when she grew older she took to fighting, and broke one of her horns, and the other horn bent itself down just in the wrong place. There is no knowing, while they are little, how calves or children will turn out.

“When their mistress had shut the gate upon the five cows, she opened another small gate in the fence of the field where the house stood; and there she went in, through two beds of roses and sweet herbs that were on each side of the narrow walk, up to the door. That stood open to let her in.

“It was the nicest place you ever saw. A clean scrubbed floor, with a thick coarse piece of carpet covering the middle of it; a dark wooden table and wooden chairs, nice and in their places, only one chair stood on the hearth, as if somebody had just left it. There was a big, wide, comfortable fire-place, with a fire burning in it, and over the fire hung a big iron tea-kettle, in the very midst of the flames, and singing already. On each side of the chimney brown wooden cupboards filled up the whole space from the floor to the ceiling. All tidy and clean. The hearth looked as if you might have baked cakes on it.

“The girl stood a minute before the fire, and then went to the inner door and called, ‘Mother!’

“A pleasant voice from somewhere said, ‘Here!’

“‘In the milk-room?’

“‘Yes!’

“And my little mistress went along a short passage—brown it was, walls, and floor, and all, even the beams overhead—to the milk-room; and that was brown, too, and as sweet as a rose.

“‘Mother, why did you put on the tea-kettle?’

“‘’Cause I wanted to have some tea, dear.’

“‘But I would have done it.’

“‘Yes, honey, I know. You’ve quite enough to do.’

“‘Look here what I’ve found, mother.’

“‘Can’t look at anything, daughter. Go along and milk and I will hear you at tea-time.’

“Then my little mistress took up the pails, and went out by another way, through another gate that opened directly into the cows’ yard; and there she stripped the yellow sweet milk into the pails, from every one of the five cows she had driven home. Not one of them but loved to be milked by her hand; they enjoyed it, every cow of them; standing quiet and sleepily munching the cud, except when now and then one of them would throw back her head furiously at some fly on her side; and then my mistress’s soft voice would say,—

“‘So, Beauty!’

“And Beauty was as good as possible to her, though I have heard that other people did not find her so.

“Mrs. Meadow took the milk-pails at the dairy door, and my mistress came back into the kitchen to get tea. She put up a leaf of the brown table and set a tray on it, and out of one of the cupboards she fetched two tea-cups and saucers; so I knew there were no more in the family. Then two little blue-edged plates and horn-handled knives, and the rest of the things; and when the tea was made she dressed up the fire, and stood looking at it and the tea-table by turns, till her mother showed herself at the door, and came in taking off her apron. She was the nicest-looking woman you ever saw.”

“She wasn’t as nice as my mother,” said Carl.

“Mrs. Krinken never was half so nice. She was the best-natured, cheerfullest, pleasantest-faced woman you could find, as bright as one of her own red apples.”

“Mine are bright,” said Carl.

“Yours are bright for Christmas, but hers were bright for every day. Everything about her was bright. Her spoons, and the apples, and the brass candlesticks, and the milk-pans, and the glass in the windows, and her own kind heart. The mother and daughter had a very cozy tea; and I was laid upon the table and my story told, or rather the story of my being found; and it was decided that I should remain in the keeping of the finder, whom her mother, by some freak of habit, rarely called anything but ‘Silky.’”

“What for?” said Carl.

“Maybe you’ll find out if you don’t ask so many questions,” said the purse snappishly. ‘It’s yours, Silky,’ Mrs. Meadow said, after looking at me and rubbing the silver mountings. ‘It’s odd such a handsome purse should have no money in it.’

“‘I’m not going to put it away out of sight, mother,’ said Silky; ‘I’m going to have the good of it. I’ll keep it to hold my milk-money.’

“‘Well, dear, here goes the first,’ said Mrs. Meadow;—‘here’s a silver penny I took for milk while you were after the cows.’

“‘Who came for it, mother?’

“‘Don’t know—a lady riding by—and she gave me this.’

“So a little silver coin was slipped into my emptiness, and my little mistress laid me on a shelf of the other cupboard, alongside of an old Bible. But she left the door a crack open; I could see them at work, washing up the tea-things, and then knitting and sewing upon the hearth, both of them by a little round table. By and by Mrs. Meadow took the Bible out and read, and then she and Silky kneeled down, close together, to pray. They covered up the fire after that, and shut the cupboard door, and went off to bed; and I was left to think what a new place I had come to, and how I liked it.

“It was a pretty great change. In my old master’s pocket I had kept company with wealth and elegance—the tick of his superb watch was always in my ear; now, on Mrs. Meadow’s cupboard shelf, I had round me a few old books, beside the Bible; an hour-glass; Mrs. Meadow’s tin knitting-needle case; a very illiterate inkstand, and stumpy clownish old pen; and some other things that I forget. There I lay, day and night; from there I watched my two mistresses at their work and their meals; from thence I saw them, every night and morning, kneel together and pray; and there I learned a great respect for my neighbour the Bible. I always can tell now what sort of people I have got among, by the respect they have for it.”

“My mother has one,” said Carl.

“Her great chest knows that,” said the purse. “I’ve been a tolerably near neighbour of that Bible for ten years; and it rarely gets leave to come out but on Sundays.”

“She reads it on Sunday,” said Carl.

“Yes, and puts it back before Monday. Mrs. Krinken _means_ to be good woman, but these other people _were_ good; there’s all the difference.

“My business was to lie there on the shelf and keep the milk-pennies, and see all that was going on. Silky sold the milk. The people that came for it were mostly poor people from the neighbouring village, or their children going home from the factory; people that lived in poor little dwellings in the town, without gardens or fields, or a cow to themselves, and just bought a penny’s worth, or a halfpenny’s, at a time—as little as they could do with. There were a good many of these families, and among them they took a pretty good share of the milk; the rest Mrs. Meadow made up into sweet butter—_honest_ sweet butter, she called it, with her bright face and dancing eye; and everything was honest that came out of her dairy.

“The children always stopped for milk at night, when they were going home; the grown people, for the most part, came in the morning. After I had been on the cupboard shelf awhile however, and got to know the faces, I saw there was one little boy who came morning and evening too. In the morning he fetched a halfpennyworth and in the evening a pennyworth of milk, in a stout little brown jug; always the same brown jug; and always in the morning he wanted a halfpennyworth and in the evening a pennyworth. He was a small fellow, with a shock of red hair, and his face all marked with the small-pox. He was one of the poorest-looking that came. There was never a hat on his head; his trowsers were fringed with tags; his feet bare of shoes or stockings. His jacket was always fastened close up; either to keep him warm or to hide how very little there was under it. Poor little Norman Finch! That was his name.

“He had come a good many mornings. One day early, just as Mrs. Meadow and Silky were getting breakfast, his little red head poked itself in again at the door with his little brown jug, and ‘Please, ma’am,—a ha’penn’orth.’

“‘Why don’t you get all you want at once, Norman?’ said Silky, when she brought the milk.

“‘I don’t want only a ha’penn’orth,’ said Norman.

“‘But you’ll want a pennyworth to-night again, won’t you?’

“‘I’ll stop for it,’ said Norman, casting his eyes down into the brown jug, and looking more dull than usual.

“‘Why don’t you take it all at once, then?’

“‘I don’t want it.’

“‘Have you got to go back home with this before you go work?’

“‘No——I must go,’ said Norman, taking hold of the door.

“‘Are you going to the factory?’

“‘Yes, I be.’

“‘How will your mother get her milk?’

“‘She’ll get it when I go home.’

“‘But not this, Norman. What do you want this for?’

“‘I want it—She don’t want it,’ said the boy, looking troubled,—‘I must go.’

“‘Do you take it to drink at the factory?’

“‘No—It’s to drink at the factory—She don’t want it,’ said Norman.

“He went off. But as Silky set the breakfast on the table she said,—

“‘Mother, I don’t understand; I am afraid there is something wrong about this morning milk.’

“‘There’s nothing wrong about it, honey,’ said Mrs. Meadow, who had been out of the room; ‘it’s as sweet as a clover-head. What’s the matter?’

“‘O, not the milk, mother; but Norman Finch’s coming after it in the morning. He won’t tell me what it’s for; and they never used to take but a pennyworth a day, and his jug’s always empty now at night; and he said it wasn’t and it _was_ to drink at the factory; and that his mother didn’t want it; and I don’t know what to think.’

“‘Don’t think anything, dear,’ said Mrs. Meadow, ‘till we know something more. We’ll get the child to let it out. Poor little creature! I wish I could keep him out of that place.’

“‘Which place, mother?’

“‘I meant the factory.’

“‘I don’t believe he can have a good home, mother, in his father’s house. I am sure he can’t. That Finch is a bad man.’

“‘It’s the more pity if it isn’t a good home,’ said Mrs. Meadow, ‘for it is very little he sees of it. It’s too much for such a morsel of a creature to work all day long.’

“‘But they are kind at the pin-factory, mother. People say they are.’

“‘Mr. Carroll is a nice man,’ said her mother. ‘But nine hours is nine hours. Poor little creature!’

“‘He looks thinner and paler now than he did six months ago.’

“‘Yes; and then it was winter, and now it is summer,’ said Mrs. Meadow.

“‘I wish I knew what he wants to do with that milk!’ said Silky.

“The next morning Norman was there again. He put himself and his jug only half in at the door, and said, somewhat doubtfully,—

“‘Please, ma’am, a ha’penn’orth?’

“‘Come in, Norman,’ said Silky.

“He hesitated.

“‘Come!—come in—come in to the fire; it’s chilly out of doors. You’re in good time, aren’t you?’

“‘Yes,—but I can’t stay,’ said the boy, coming in however, and coming slowly up to the fire. But he came close, and his two hands spread themselves to the blaze as if they liked it, and the poor little bare feet shone in the firelight on the hearth. It was early, very cool and damp abroad.

“‘I’ll get you the milk,’ said Silky, taking the jug;—‘you stand and warm yourself. You’ve plenty of time.’

“She came back with the jug in one hand and a piece of cold bacon in the other, which she offered to Norman. He looked at it, and then grabbed it, and began to eat immediately. Silky stood opposite to him with the jug.

“‘What’s this milk for, Norman?’ she said, pleasantly.

“He stopped eating and looked troubled directly.

“‘What are you going to do with it?’

“‘Carry it—home,’ he said, slowly.

“‘Now?—home now? Are you going back with it now?’

“‘I am going to take it to the factory.’

“‘What do you do with it there?’

“‘Nothing,’ said Norman, looking at his piece of bacon, and seeming almost ready to cry;—‘I don’t do nothing with it.’

“‘You needn’t be afraid to tell me, dear,’ Silky said, gently. ‘I’m not going to do you any harm. Does your mother know you get it?’

“He waited a good while, and then when she repeated the question, taking another look at Silky’s kind quiet face, he said half under his breath,—

“‘No—’

“‘What do you want it for, then, dear? I’d rather give it to you than have you take it in a wrong way.—Do you want it to drink?’

“Norman dropped his piece of bacon.

“‘No,’ he said, beginning to cry,—‘I don’t want it—I don’t want it at all!’—

“Silky picked up the bacon, and she looked troubled in her turn.

“‘Don’t cry, Norman,—don’t be afraid of me.—Who does want it?’

“‘Oh, don’t tell!—’ sobbed the child;—‘My little dog!—’

“‘Now don’t cry!’ said Silky.—‘Your little dog?’

“‘Yes!—my little dog,’—And he sighed deeply between the words.

“‘Where is your little dog?’

“‘He’s up yonder—up to the factory.’

“‘Who gave him to you?’

“‘Nobody didn’t give him to me. I found him.’

“‘And this milk is for him?’

“‘He wants it to drink.’

“‘Does your mother know you get it?’

“Norman didn’t answer.

“‘She don’t?’ said Silky. ‘Then where does the money come from, Norman?’ She spoke very gently.

“‘It’s mine,’ said Norman.

“‘Yes, but where do you get it?’

“‘Mr. Swift gives it to me.’

“‘Is it out of your wages?’

“Norman hesitated, and then said ‘Yes,’ and began to cry again.

“‘What’s the matter?’ said Silky. ‘Sit down and eat your bacon. I’m not going to get you into trouble.’

“He looked at her again and took the bacon, but said he wanted to go.

“‘What for?—it isn’t time yet.’

“‘Yes—I want to see my little dog.’

“‘And feed him? Stop and tell me about him. What colour is he?’

“‘He’s white all over.’

“‘What’s his name?’

“‘Little Curly Long-Ears.’

“‘What do you call him?—all that?’

“‘I call him Long-Ears.’

“‘But why don’t you feed him at home, Norman?’

“‘He lives up there.’

“‘And don’t he go home with you?’

“‘No.’

“‘Why not?’

“‘Father wouldn’t let him. He’d take him away, or do something to him.’

“Norman looked dismal.

“‘But where does he live?’

“‘He lives up to the factory.’

“‘But you can’t have him in the factory.’

“‘Yes, I have him,’ said Norman, ‘because Mr. Carroll said he was to come in, because he was so handsome.’

“‘But he’ll get killed in the machinery, Norman, and then you would be very sorry.’

“‘No, he won’t get killed; he takes care: he knows he mustn’t go near the ’chinery, and he doesn’t; he just comes and lies down where I be.’

“‘And does Mr. Swift let him?’

“‘He has to, ’cause Mr. Carroll said he was to.’

“‘But your money—where does it come from, Norman?’

“‘Mr. Swift,’ said Norman, very dismally.

“‘Then doesn’t your mother miss it, when you carry home your wages to her?’

“‘No.’

“‘She _must_, my child.’

“‘She don’t, ’cause I carry her just the same I did before.’

“‘How can you, and keep out a ha’penny a-day?’

“‘’Cause I get more now—I used to have fourpence ha’penny, and now they give me fi’pence.’

“And Norman burst into a terrible fit of crying, as if his secret was out, and it was all up with him and his dog too.

“‘Give me the milk and let me go!’ he exclaimed through his tears. ‘Poor Curly!—poor Curly!’

“‘Here ’tis,’ said Silky, very kindly. ‘Don’t cry—I’m not going to hurt you or Curly either. Won’t he eat anything but milk?—won’t he eat meat?’

“‘No—he can’t—’

“‘Why can’t he?’

“‘He don’t like it.’

“‘Well; you run off to the factory now and give Curly his milk; and stop again to-morrow.’

“‘And won’t you tell?’ said Norman, looking up.

“‘I shall not tell anybody that will get you into trouble. Run, now!’

“He dried his tears, and ran, fast enough, holding the little brown jug carefully at half-arm’s length, and his bare feet pattering over the ground as fast as his short legs could make them.

“Silky stood looking gravely after him.

“‘I’m so sorry for him, mother!’ she said. ‘This won’t do; it’s very wrong, and he’ll get himself into dreadful trouble besides.’

“‘Poor fellow!—we’ll see, honey;—we’ll try what we can do,’ said Mrs. Meadow.

“The next morning Norman came again, and Mrs. Meadow was there.

“‘How is Long-Ears, Norman? and how are you?’ she said cheerfully. But she did everything cheerfully.

“‘He’s well,’ said Norman, looking a little doubtfully at these civilities.

“‘And you are not well?’ said Mrs. Meadow, kindly. ‘Suppose you come and see me to-morrow?—it’s Sunday, you know, and you have no work—will you? Come bright and early, and we’ll have a nice breakfast, and you shall go to church with me, if you like.’

“Norman shook his head. ‘Curly’ll want to see me,’ he said.

“‘Well, about that just as you like. Come here to breakfast—_that_ you can do. Mother’ll let you.’

“‘Yes, she’ll let me,’ said Norman, ‘and I can go to see Long-Ears afterwards. You won’t tell?’ he added, with a glance of some fear.

“‘Tell what?’

“‘About _him_,’ said Norman, nodding his head in the direction of the factory.

“‘Long-Ears?—Not I! not a word.’

“So he set off, with a gleam of pleasure lighting up his little face, and making his feet patter more quick over the ground.

“‘Poor little creature!’ Mrs. Meadow said again, most heartily, and this time the tear was standing in her eye.

“The next morning it rained,—steadily, constantly, straight up and down. But at the usual time Mrs. Meadow and Silky were getting breakfast.

“‘It does come down!’ said Mrs. Meadow.

“‘I’m so sorry, mother,’ said Silky; ‘he won’t come.’

“She had hardly turned her back to see to something at the fire, when there he was behind her, standing in the middle of the floor; in no Sunday dress, but in his everyday rags, and those wet through and dripping. How glad and how sorry both mother and daughter looked! They brought him to the fire and wiped his feet, and wrung the water from his clothes as well as they could: but they didn’t know what to do; for the fire would not have dried him in all the day; and sit down to breakfast dry, with him soaking wet at her side, Mrs. Meadow could not. What to put on him was the trouble; she had no children’s clothes at all in the house. But she managed. She stripped off his rags, and tacked two or three towels about him; and then over them wound a large old shawl, in some mysterious way, fastening it over the shoulders: in such a manner that it fell round him like a loose straight frock, leaving his arms quite free. Then, when his jacket and trowsers had been put to dry, they sat down to breakfast.

“In his odd shawl wrapper, dry and warm, little Norman enjoyed himself, and liked very much his cup of weak coffee, and bread and butter, and the nice egg which Mrs. Meadow boiled for him. But he did not eat like a child whose appetite knew what to do with good things; he was soon done; though after it his face looked brighter and cheerier than it ever had done before in that house.

“Mrs. Meadow left Silky to take care of the breakfast things; and, drawing her chair up on the hearth, she took the little boy on her lap and wound her arms about him.

“‘Little Norman,’ said she kindly, ‘you won’t see Long Ears to-day.’

“‘No,’ said Norman, with a sigh, in spite of breakfast and fire,—‘he will have to go without me.’

“‘Isn’t it good that there is one day in the week when the poor little tired pin-boy can rest?’

“‘Yes—it is good,’ said Norman, quietly; but as if he was too accustomed to being tired to take the good of it.

“‘This is God’s day. Do you know who God is, Norman?’

“‘He made me,’ said Norman,—‘and every body.’

“‘Yes, and every thing. He is the great King over all the earth; and he is good, and he has given us this day to rest and to learn to be good and please him. Can you read the Bible, Norman?’

“‘No, I can’t read,’ said Norman. ‘Mother can.’