Chapter XI: Part II: Story of Miss Crosbie's Presents (3)

"I will tell you, papa," said Henry, getting up, and walking round to his father's knee. "I opened the door, papa," he said; "it was not Emily's fault, she told me not to do it--and then she came out--and she went to the top of the barn, and we went after her--and she chattered to us--and then she went, and then we came after her--and then she sat on the gate, and went on and came to the stile, talking all the way, almost as if she had been making game of us. Did she not, Emily?"

"Really, my dear boy," replied Mr. Fairchild, forcing himself to smile, "you must try to make your story plainer, or we shall be more in the dark at the end of it than we were at the beginning. All I now understand is, that you and Emily climbed over the roof of the barn after somebody. Well, and I hope you got no fall in this strange exploit?"

"You are not angry, papa?" said Lucy. "Henry has often been on the thatch of the barn and never got hurt."

"I did not say I was angry, my dear," replied Mr. Fairchild. "I might say that it was neither safe nor prudent for little girls to scramble up such places, and I might say, do not try these things again; but if no harm was intended, why was I to be angry? But I must hear a more straightforward story than Henry has told me; he has not given me the name of the person who went chattering before him and Emily; was it a fairy, a little spiteful fairy, Emily? Did you let her out of a box, as the princess did in the fairytale? And what has all this to do with your refusing your suppers? Come, Emily, let us hear your account of this affair."

Poor Emily had been sadly put out by all that had passed between Henry and her father; and she, therefore, looked very red when she began her story. But she got courage as she went on, and told it all, just as it is related in the last chapter; only she passed slightly over the wilfulness which her brother had shown in opening the cage door. She finished by saying, that as they had given away their suppers, they had agreed together not to eat another; "and we settled not to tell our reasons till the things were taken away."

"Yes, papa," added Henry, "we did."

"And this is all, my Emily?" said Mrs. Fairchild. "I will own that I was fearful there was something much amiss;" and she put out her hand to her little girl and boy, and having kissed them, she added, "Now, my children, sit down and eat."

"And we will all sup together," cried Lucy, with her brightest, happiest smile, "and afterwards open the basket."

"And I will do more than give each of you a slice of lamb," said Mr. Fairchild. "I am going to-morrow to pay a visit to Mr. Darwell; I have put this visit off too long; and I will call on Mr. Burke, Sir Charles Noble's steward, and inquire about these poor people. What is the name of the old woman, my dears?"

"Edward, papa," cried Henry.

"Edward," said Emily, "is the boy's name, not the old woman's--we did not ask her name."

"I thought that was likely," answered Mr. Fairchild, smiling. "Well, Henry, I will tell you what must be done--you must be ready at six o'clock to-morrow morning, and we will walk, whilst it is cool, to Mr. Burke's, and get our breakfast there, and you must help us to find these poor people."

"Oh, papa!" said Henry: he could not say another word for joy.

After supper, and when everything but the candles was cleared from the table, the basket was set on it, and Mrs. Fairchild began to unpack it. First she took out a number of parcels of rice, and sugar, and pepper, and mustard, and such things as children do not care to see. These were put aside, and then came a smooth long parcel, which she opened; it contained a piece of very nice muslin to make Lucy and Emily best frocks.

There was no harm in the little girls being very pleased at the sight of this; they had been taught to be thankful for every good and useful thing provided for them. These, too, were put aside; and next came a larger parcel, tied up in a paper with care, and the name of "Lucy, from Mrs. Goodriche," written upon it. It was handed to Lucy; she did not expect it, and her hands quite shook while she untied the string. It contained a beautiful doll, the size of Emily's famous doll; and I could not say which of the two little sisters was most delighted. The two largest parcels were at the bottom of the basket, and came last; one was directed with a pencil by Lucy to Emily, and the other to Henry; and when these were opened it was found out that Lucy had spent all her own money to make these parcels richer. Each contained a beautiful book with many pictures; and in Emily's parcel were a pair of scissors for doll's work, and needles and cotton, and lots of bright penny ribbon, and a bundle of ends of bright chintz for dolls' frocks. They were the very things that would please Emily most, and, as she said, would help so nicely to dress Lucy's doll.

Henry, besides his book, had a large rough knife, a ball of string, an awl, a little nail-passer, a paper of tacks, and some other little things which happened to be just what he wanted most of all things in the world, for he was always making things in wood.

Well, that was a happy evening indeed; it had been a happy day, only Mag had given some trouble; but, as Emily said, "Even Mag's mischief had turned out for some good, because the poor little children had got a supper by it."

The next day was almost, if not quite, as pleasant as the day before. Henry was out with his father; and Lucy and Emily had all the day given to them for dressing the new doll and settling her name; so they called her Amelia, after Mrs. Howard.

Breakfast at Mr. Burke's

We will leave Lucy and Emily making their doll's clothes, and go with Mr. Fairchild and Henry.

They were off by six o'clock in the morning for the Park. Sir Charles Noble's place was about two miles from Mr. Fairchild's house, but Mr. Burke, the steward, lived as much as half a mile nearer, on Mr. Fairchild's side, so that Henry had not two miles to walk, for his father was to leave him at Mr. Burke's, whilst he went on to pay his visit to Mr. Darwell.

The first part of their walk lay along a lane, deeply shaded on one side by a very deep dark wood--it was Blackwood.

Henry saw the chimneys of the old house just rising above the trees; they were built of brick, and looked as if several of them had been twisted round each other, as the threads of thick twine are twisted; they looked quite black, and parts of them had fallen.

Mr. Fairchild and Henry next crossed the corner of a common, where they saw several huts built of clay, with one brick chimney each, and very ragged thatch; and going a little farther, they saw Mr. Burke's house before them. It was a large farmhouse, with a square court before it, and behind it a quantity of buildings and many ricks. Mr. Burke was the steward of the estate, and he was also a farmer, and he was reckoned to be a rich man; but he and his wife were very plain sort of people, and though they had got up in the world, they carried with them all their old-fashioned ways.

They had eight children; the eldest was in his sixteenth year, the youngest between two and three. There were four boys and four girls, and they had come in turns; first a boy, and then a girl, and so on. The three elder boys and the three elder girls went to boarding-schools; but it was holiday time, and they were all at home.

There was no sign about the old people themselves of being rich, excepting that they had both grown very stout; but they were hearty and cheerful.

Mr. Burke spied Mr. Fairchild before he got to the house, and called to welcome him over a hedge, saying:

"You have done right to take the cool of the morning; and you and the little gentleman there, I dare say, are ready for your breakfasts. Go on, Mr. Fairchild, and I will be with you before you get to the house."

Mr. Fairchild and Henry crossed the fold-yard, and coming into the yard, which was surrounded by a low wall, with a paling at the top of it, they saw Mrs. Burke standing on the kitchen steps, and feeding an immense quantity of poultry of all sorts and kinds. She called to welcome her visitors; but though she spoke in a high key, it was impossible to hear a word she said for the noise made by the geese, ducks, hens, turkeys, and guinea-fowl--all crowding forward for their food. Besides which, there was a huge dog, chained to a kennel, which set up a tremendous barking; and, before he could be stopped, was joined by other dogs of divers sorts and sizes, which came running into the yard, setting up their throats all in different keys. They did not, however, attempt to do more than bark and yelp at Henry and his father.

"Come in, come in, Mr. Fairchild," said Mrs. Burke, when they could get near to her through the crowd of living things; "come in, the tea is brewing; and you must be very thirsty." And she took up an end of her white apron and wiped her brow, remarking that it was wonderful fine weather for the corn.

Mr. Fairchild and Henry followed Mrs. Burke through an immense kitchen into a parlour beyond, which was nothing in size compared to the kitchen; and there was a long table set out for breakfast.

The table was covered with good things; a large pasty, which had been cut; a ham, from which many a good slice had already been taken; a pot of jam, another of honey; brown and white loaves; cream and butter and fruit; and the tea, too, was brewing, and smelt deliciously.

Mr. Burke followed them in almost immediately, and shook Mr. Fairchild by the hand; complimenting Henry by laying his large rough hand on his head, and saying:

"You are ready for your breakfast, I doubt not, little master;" adding, "Come, mistress, tap your barrel. But where are the youngsters?" He had hardly spoken, when a tall girl, very smartly dressed, though with her hair in papers, looked in at the door, and ran off again when she saw Mr. Fairchild.

Her father called after her:

"Judy, I say, why don't you come in?" But Miss Judy was gone to take the papers out of her hair.

The next who appeared was little Miss Jane, the mother's pet, because she was the youngest. She came squalling in to tell her mother that Dick had scratched her, though she could not show the scratch; and there was no peace until she was set on a high chair by her mother, and supplied with a piece of sugared bread-and-butter.

A great sturdy boy in petticoats, of about four years old, followed little Miss Jane, roaring and blubbering because Jane had pinched him in return for the scratch; but Mrs. Burke managed to settle him also with a piece of ham, which he ate without bread--fat and all. Dicky was presently followed into the room by the three elder boys, James, William, and Tom. Being admonished by their father, they gave Mr. Fairchild something between a bow and a nod. James's compliment might have been called a bow; William's was half one and half the other; and Tom's was nothing more than a nod. These boys were soon seated, and began to fill their plates from every dish near to them.

Mrs. Burke asked James if he knew where his sisters were; and Tom answered:

"Why, at the glass to be sure, taking the papers out of their hair."

"What's that you say, Tom?" was heard at that instant from someone coming into the parlour. It was Miss Judy, and she was followed by Miss Mary and Miss Elizabeth.

These three paid their compliments to Mr. Fairchild somewhat more properly than their brothers had done; and in a very few minutes all the family were seated, and all the young ones engaged with their breakfasts.

It was Mr. Fairchild's custom always, when he had business to do, to take the first opportunity of forwarding it: so he did not lose this opportunity, but told his reasons for begging a breakfast that morning from Mrs. Burke.

Mr. Burke entered kindly into what his neighbour said, and had no difficulty, though the surname was not known, in finding out who the grandmother of Edward and Jane was.

He told Mr. Fairchild that she bore a good character--had suffered many afflictions--and, if she were ill, must be in great need. It was then settled that as he was going in his little gig that morning to the park, Mr. Fairchild should go with him; that they should go round over the common to see the old woman, who did not live very near to the farm, and that Henry should be left under Mrs. Burke's care, as the gig would only carry two persons.

When Mr. Burke said the gig would only hold two, James looked up from his plate, and said:

"I only wish that it would break down the very first time you and mother get into it."

"Thank you, Jem, for your good wishes," said Mr. Burke.

"For shame, Jem!" cried Miss Judy.

"I don't mean that I wish you and mother to be hurt," answered the youth; "but the gig is not fit for such a one as you to go in. I declare I am ashamed of it every time you come in sight of our playground in it; the boys have so much to say about it."

"Well, well, Jem!" said Miss Judy.

"Well, well, Jem!" repeated the youth; "it is always 'Well, well!' or 'Oh fie, Jem!' but you know, Judy, that you told me that your governess herself said that father ought to have a new carriage."

"I don't deny that, Jem," said Judy; "Miss Killigrew knows that father could afford a genteel carriage, and she thinks that he ought to get one for the respectability of the family."

"Who cares what Miss Killigrew thinks?" asked Tom.

"I do," replied Judy; "Miss Killigrew is a very genteel, elegant woman, and knows what's proper; and, as she says, has the good of the family at heart."

"Nonsense!" replied James; "the good of the family! you mean her own good, and her own respectability. She would like to see a fine carriage at her door, to make her look genteel; how can you be bamboozled with such stuff, Judy?"

Mr. Burke seemed to sit uneasily whilst his children were going on in this way. He was thinking how all this would appear before Mr. Fairchild--that is, he was listening for the moment with Mr. Fairchild's ears.

When we keep low company we are apt to listen with their ears; and when we get into good company we do the same: we think how this will sound, and that will sound to them, and we are shocked for them, at things which at another time we should not heed; this is one way in which we are hurt by bad company, and improved by good.

Mr. Burke had never thought his children so ill-bred as when he heard them, that morning, with Mr. Fairchild's ears; and as he was afraid of making things worse by checking them, he invited him to walk out with him, after he saw that he had done his breakfast, to look at a famous field of corn near the house.

When this had been visited the gig was ready, and they set out, leaving Henry at the farm; and it was very good for Henry to be left, for he had an opportunity of seeing more that morning than he had ever yet seen of the sad effects of young people being left to take their own way.

The Unruly Family

After Mr. Fairchild was gone out with Mr. Burke, the young people, who still sat round the table, all began to speak and make a noise at once. The two youngest were crying for sugar, or ham, or more butter. Tom was screaming every moment, "I am going to the river a-fishing--who comes with me?" looking at the same time daringly at his mother, and expecting her to say, "No, Tom; you know _that_ is forbidden;" for the river was very dangerous for anglers, and Mr. Burke had given his orders that his boys should never go down to it unless he was with them.

James and Judy were squabbling sharply and loudly about Miss Killigrew and her gentility; William, in a quieter way, and with a quiet face, was, from time to time, giving his sister Mary's hair a violent pull, causing her to scream and look about her for her tormenter each time; and Elizabeth was balancing a spoon on the edge of her cup, and letting it fall with a clatter every moment. Children never mind noise--indeed, they rather like it; and, if the truth must be told, Henry was beginning to think that it would not be unpleasant if his father would let him and his sisters have their own ways, as these children of Mr. Burke seemed to have, at least on holidays and after lesson hours.

When Miss Jane's mouth was well filled with jam, and Dick's with fat meat, Tom's voice was heard above the rest; he was still crying, "I am going a-fishing; who will come with me?" his large eyes being fixed on his mother, as if to provoke her to speak.

"You are not going to do any such thing, Tom," she at length said; "I shall not allow it."

Tom looked as if he would have said, "How can you help it, mother?" but he had not time to say it, had he wished; for Miss Judy, who had a great notion of managing her brothers, took him up, and said:

"I wonder at you, Tom. How often have you been told that you are not to go down to fish in the river?"

"Pray, miss, who made you my governess? If it's only to vex you, I will go to the river--if I don't fish I will bathe. Will that please you better?"

Henry Fairchild could not make out exactly what was said next, because three or four people spoke at once in answer to Tom's last words, and as all of them spoke as loud as they could in order to be heard, as always happens in these cases, no two words could be made out clearly. But Henry perceived that Tom gave word for word to his sisters, and was, as he would himself have said, "quite even with them." After a little while, James, at the whisper of his mother, cried, "Nonsense, nonsense! no more of this;" and taking Tom by the arm, lugged him out of the room by main force; whilst the youngster struggled and tugged and caught at everything as he was forced along, the noise continuing till the two brothers were fairly out of the house.

Mrs. Burke then turned to Henry; and thinking, perhaps, that some excuse for her boy's behaviour was necessary, she said:

"It is all play, Master Fairchild. Tom is a good boy, but he loves a little harmless mischief; he has no more notion of going down to the river than I have."

"La, mother," said Miss Judy, "that is what you always say, though you know the contrary; Tom is the very rudest boy in the whole country, and known to be so."

"Come with me, Master Fairchild," said William, in a low voice to Henry, "come with me. Now Judy is got on her hobby-horse, she will take a long ride."

"What is my hobby-horse, Master William?" said Judy sharply.

"Abusing your brothers, Miss Judy," replied William.

She set up her lip and turned away, as if she did not think it worth while to answer him, for he was younger than herself; but the next sister took up the battle, and said something so sharp and tart, that even William, the quietest of the family, gave her a very rude and cutting answer. Henry did not understand what he said, but he was not sorry when Mrs. Burke told him that he had better go out with William and see what was to be seen.

William led Henry right through the kitchen and court into the fold-yard: it was a very large yard, surrounded on three sides by buildings, stables, and store-houses, and cattle-sheds and stalls. In the midst of it was a quantity of manure, all wet and sloppy, and upon the very top of this heap stood that charming boy, Master Tom, with his shoes and stockings all covered with mire.

On one side of the yard stood James, talking to a boy in a labourer's frock. These last were very busy with their own talk, and paid no heed to Tom, who kept calling to them.

"You said," he cried, "that I could not get here--and here I am, do you see, safe and sound?"

"And I do not care how long you stay there," at length answered the eldest brother; "we should be free from one plague for the time at least."

"That time, then, shall not be long," answered Tom, "for I am coming."

"Stop him! stop him!" cried James. "Here, Will--and you, Hodge," speaking to the young carter, "have at him, he shan't come out so soon as he wishes;" and giving a whoop and a shout, the three boys, James, William, and Hodge, set to to drive Tom back again whenever he attempted to get out of the heap of mire upon the dry ground.

There were three against one, and Tom had the disadvantage of very slippery footing, so that he was constantly driven back at every attempt, and so very roughly too, that he was thrown down more than once; but he fell on soft ground, and got no harm beyond being covered with mire from head to foot.

The whole yard rang with the shouts and screams of the boys; and this might have lasted much longer if an old labouring servant had not come into the yard, and insisted that there was enough of it, driving Hodge away, and crying shame on his young masters. When Tom was let loose, he walked away into the house, as Henry supposed, to get himself washed; and James and William, being very hot, called Henry to go with them across the field into the barn, in one corner of which they had a litter of puppies. They were a long time in this barn, for after they had looked at the puppies they had a game at marbles, and Henry was much amused.

William Burke was generally the quietest of the family, and almost all strangers liked him best; but he had his particular tempers, and as those tempers were never kept under by his parents, when they broke out they were very bad. James did something in the game which he did not think fair, so he got up from the ground where they were sitting or kneeling to play, kicked the marbles from him, told his brother that he was cheating, in so many plain words, and was walking quietly away, when James followed him, and seized his arm to pull him back.

William resisted, and then the brothers began to wrestle; and from wrestling half playfully, they went on to wrestle in earnest. One gave the other a chance blow, and the other returned an intended one, and then they fought in good earnest, and did not stop till William had got a bloody nose; and perhaps they might not have stopped then, if Henry Fairchild had not begun to cry, running in between them, and begging them not to hurt each other any more.

"Poor child!" cried James, as he drew back from William, "don't you know that we were only in play? Did you never see two boys playing before?"

"Not in that way," replied Henry.

"That is because you have no brother," answered James. "It is a sad thing for a boy not to have a brother."

They all then left the barn, and William went to wash his nose at the pump.

Whilst he was doing this, James turned over an empty trough which lay in the shade of one of the buildings in the fold-yard, and he and Henry sat down upon it; William soon came down to them. He had washed away the blood, and he looked so sulky, that anyone might have seen that he would have opened out the quarrel again with James had not Henry Fairchild been present; for, though he did not care for the little boy, yet he did not wish that he should give him a bad name to his father.

Henry Fairchild was learning the best lesson he had ever had in his life amongst the unruly children of Mr. Burke; but this lesson was not to be learned only by his ears and eyes; it would not have been enough for him to have seen Tom soused in the mire, or William with his bloody nose; his very bones were to suffer in the acquirement of it, and he was to get such a fright as he had never known before.

But before the second part of his adventures that morning is related, it will be as well to say, in this place, that Mr. Fairchild was taken first by Mr. Burke to the poor widow's cottage, where he found her almost crippled with rheumatism. She had parted with much of her furniture and clothes to feed the poor children, but was gentle and did not complain.

From the cottage Mr. Burke drove Mr. Fairchild to the park, and there Mr. Fairchild had an opportunity of speaking of the poor grandmother and the little children to Mr. and Mrs. Darwell.

Mr. Darwell said that if the cottage required repair, Mr. Burke must look after it, and then speak to him, as the affair was not his, as he was only Sir Charles Noble's tenant.

Mrs. Darwell seemed to Mr. Fairchild to be a very fine lady, and one who did not trouble herself about the concerns of the poor; but there was one in the room who heard every word which Mr. Fairchild said, and heard it attentively.

This was little Miss Darwell. She was seated on a sofa, with a piece of delicate work in her hand; she was dressed in the most costly manner, and she looked as fair and almost as quiet as a waxen doll.

Who can guess what was going on in her mind whilst she was listening to the history of the poor grandmother and her little ones?

Miss Darwell, in one way, was as much indulged as Mr. Burke's children, but of course she was not allowed to be rude and vulgar; therefore, if her manners were better than those of the little Burkes, it was only what might be expected; but, happily for her, she had been provided with a truly pious and otherwise a very excellent governess, a widow lady, of the name of Colvin; but Mrs. Colvin seldom appeared in the drawing-room.

Mr. Darwell was proud of his little girl; he thought her very pretty and very elegant, and he wanted to show her off before Mr. Fairchild, who he knew had some little girls of his own; so before Mr. Fairchild took leave, he called her to him, and said:

"Ellen, my dear, speak to this gentleman, and tell him that you should be glad to see his daughters, the Misses Fairchild; they are about your age, and, as I am told, are such ladies as would please you to be acquainted with."

The little lady rose immediately, and came forward; she gave her hand to Mr. Fairchild, and turning to her father:

"May I," she said, "ask the Misses Fairchild to come to my feast upon my birthday?"

"You may, my love," was the answer.

"Then I will write a note," she said; and Mr. Fairchild saw that the pretty waxen doll could sparkle and blush, and look as happy as his own children often did.

She ran out of the room, and a minute afterwards came back with a neat little packet in her hand. There was more in it than a note, but she asked Mr. Fairchild to put it into his pocket, and not look at it.

Mr. Fairchild smiled and thanked her, and at that very moment other morning visitors were brought in, and took up the attention of Mr. and Mrs. Darwell.

Mr. Fairchild was rising, when the little girl, bending forward to him, said in a low voice:

"I heard what you said, sir, about those poor little children, and I will try to help them."

How pleasant was it to Mr. Fairchild to hear those words from that fair little lady! And he came away quite delighted with her, and pleased with Mr. Darwell.

He found Mr. Burke in his gig at the gates, with the horse's head turned towards home.

As they were driving back, Mr. Fairchild spoke of Miss Darwell, and said how very much he had been pleased with her.

Mr. Burke said that "she was a wonder of a child, considering how she was indulged, and that she seemed to have no greater pleasure than in doing good to the poor, especially to the children." They then talked of the old woman.

Mr. Burke said he would, on his own responsibility, have the cottage put to rights. "It should have been done before," he added. "And I will see that she receives some help from the parish for the children; she has had a little for herself all along. And my wife shall send her some soup, and, may be, I could find something for Edward to do, if it be but to frighten away the birds from the crops; so let that matter trouble you no more, Mr. Fairchild."

Story of Henry's Adventure

Henry Fairchild sat with William and James Burke for some time under the shade of the building, and had the pleasure of hearing the two brothers sparring on each side of him, though they did not come to blows again. Whatever one said the other contradicted; if one said such a thing _is_, the other said, "I am sure it is _not_;" or, "There you go--that's just you." "Nonsense" was a favourite word of James's. "Nonsense, Will," was his constant answer to everything his brother proposed; and they used many words which Henry did not understand.

All this time Tom did not appear, and his brothers did not seem to think about him.

After a while William said:

"Let us go into the cornfield, and see what the men are about; this yard is very dull."

"No," said James, "let us show Master Fairchild the young bull."

"No! no!" cried Henry, "I do not want to see it."

Both the boys laughed outright at Henry's cry of "I do not want to see it;" and then they assured him that the creature was well tied up--he was in the cattle stall, just opposite to them, and could not hurt them; and they laughed again till Henry was ashamed, and said that he would go with them to look at him.

The cattle stall was a long, low, and narrow building, which ran one whole side of the yard. At some seasons it was filled with cattle, each one having a separate stall, and being tied in it, but at this time there was no creature in it but this bull.

Now it must be told that, whilst the boys were in the barn, and just about the time in which James and William had been scuffling with each other and making much noise, Tom, who had not yet taken the trouble to wash himself, had got to the top of the cattle shed, and had been amusing himself by provoking the bull through an air-hole in the roof.

First he had thrown down on his head a quantity of house-leek which grew on the tiles, and then he had poked at him with a stick till the creature got furious and began to beat about him, and at length to set up a terrible bellowing.

Tom knew well that he should get into trouble if it was found out that he had been provoking the creature; so down he slipped, and was off in another direction in a few minutes.

The labourers were all in the field, and Henry and his companions were in the barn, so that no one heard distinctly the bellowing of the bull but the girl in the dairy, and she had been too long accustomed to the noises of a farm to give it a second thought. The animal, however, was so furious that he broke his fastenings, snapping the ropes, and coming out of the stall, and even trying to force the door of the shed; but in this he failed, as there was a wooden bar across it on the outside. After a little while he ceased to bellow, so no one was aware of the mischief which had been done, and no one suspected that the bull was loose.

James walked first to the door of the cattle shed, William came next, and afterwards Henry.

James did not find it easy to move the bar, so he called William to help him. The reason why it was hard to move was, that the head of the bull was against the door, and he was pressing it on the bar; the moment the bar was removed, the bull's head forced open the door, and there stood the sullen frowning creature in the very face of poor Henry, with nothing between them but a few yards of the court. The other two boys were, by the sudden opening of the door, forced behind it, so that the bull only saw Henry; but Henry did not stay to look at his fiery eyes, or to observe the temper in which he lowered his terrible head to the ground and came forward.

"Run, run for your life!" cried William and James, from behind the door; and Henry did run, and the bull after him, bellowing and tearing up the ground before him; and he came on fast, but Henry had got the start of a few yards, and that start saved his life. Still he ran, the bull following after. Henry had not waited to consider which way he ran. He had taken his way in the direction of a lane which ran out of the yard; the gate was open--he flew through--the terrible beast was after him--he could hear his steps and his deep snortings and puffings; in another minute he would have reached Henry, and would probably have gored him to death, when all at once every dog about the farm, first called and then urged on by William and James, came barking and yelping in full cry on the heels of the bull.

The leader of these was a bulldog of the true breed, and though young, had all his teeth in their full strength. Behind him came dogs of every kind which is common in this country, and if they could do little else, they could bay and yelp, and thus puzzle and perplex the bull.

James and William, each with a stick in their hands, were behind them, urging them on, calling for help, and putting themselves to great danger for the sake of Henry. Tom was not there to see the mischief he had wrought.

Another moment, and the bull would have been up with Henry, when he found himself bitten in the flank by the sharp fangs of Fury meeting in his flesh. The animal instantly turned upon the dog; most horribly did he bellow, and poor Henry then indeed felt that his last moment was come.

The noises were becoming more dreadful every instant; the men came running from the fields, pouring into the lane from all sides: the women and girls from the house were shrieking over the low wall from the bottom of the court, so that the noise might be heard a mile distant.

Henry Fairchild never looked back, but ran on as fast as he possibly could, till, after a little while, seeing a stile on his left hand, he sprang up to it, tumbled over in his haste, fell headlong on the new-shorn grass, and would have gotten no hurt whatever, had not his nose and his upper lip made too free with a good-sized stone. Henry's nose and lip being softer than the stone, they of course had the worst of it in the encounter.

A very few minutes afterwards, but before the labourers had got the bull back into its place, which was no easy matter, one of the men, running from a distant field towards the noise, found poor Henry, took him up far more easily than he would have taken up a bag of meal, and carried him, all bloody as he was, to the mistress, by a short cut through the garden.

Henry's nose had bled, and was still bleeding, when the man brought him to the house; but no one even thought of him till the fierce bull was safe within four walls. But it had been a dangerous affair, as the men said, "to get _that_ job done;" nor was it done till both Fury and the bull were covered with foam and blood.

When everything was quiet in and about the yard, Mrs. Burke began to look up, not only her own children, but all the careless young people about.

"Where is Tom?" was the mother's first cry. Dick and Jane had made her know that they were not far off, by the noise they were both making.

"Tom is quite safe," replied someone.

"And Master Fairchild?" said Mrs. Burke.

Every one then ran different ways to look for Henry, and when he was found, all covered in blood, in the kitchen, Mrs. Burke was, as she said, ready to faint away. Everybody, however, was glad when they found no harm was done to the child, beyond a bloody nose and a lip swelled to a monstrous size. Kind Mrs. Burke herself took him up to her boys' room, where she washed him and made him dress himself in a complete suit of Tom's, engaging to get his own things washed and cleaned for him in a few hours.

She then brought him down into the parlour, set him on the sofa, gave him a piece of bread and honey, and begged him not to stir from thence till his father returned; nor had Henry any wish to disobey her.

Henry was hardly seated on the couch with his bread and honey in his hand, when first one and then another of the children came in: the last who came was James, lugging in Tom.

Now, it is very certain that Tom stood even in more need of a scouring and clean clothes than Henry had done; for he had not used water nor changed his clothes since he had been rolled by his brothers in the mud in the yard. This mud had dried upon him, and no one who did not expect to see him could possibly have known him. He was lugged by main force into the parlour, though he kicked and struggled, and held on upon everything within his reach. He came in as he had gone out; but when he was fairly in, he became quite still, and stood sulking.

"I'll tell you what, mother," said James, "you may thank Tom for all the mischief--and he knows it."

"Knows what?"

"That it was through him the bull got loose, and that poor Fury is nearly killed."

"I am sure it was not," answered Tom.

"I say it was," replied James; and then all the brothers and sisters began to speak at once.

_Judy._ "Just like you, Tom."

_Mary._ "And see what a condition he is in."

_William._ "You know Hodge saw you, Tom, on the top of the shed."

_Tom._ "I am sure he did not."

_Elizabeth._ "What a dirty creature you are, Tom; and how you smell of the stable!"

_Jane._ "Mother! mother! I want some bread and honey, like Master Fairchild."

_Dick._ "I want a sop in the pan, mother--mayn't I have a sop?"

In the midst of all this noise and confusion, in walked Mr. Fairchild and Mr. Burke. The men in the yard had told them of what had happened; and it had been made plain to Mr. Burke that Tom had been at the bottom of the mischief.

Mr. Fairchild hastened in all anxiety to his poor boy; and was full of thankfulness to God for having saved him from the dreadful danger which had threatened him; and Mr. Burke began to speak to his son Tom with more severity than he often used. He even called for a cane, and said he would give it him soundly, and at that minute too; but Mrs. Burke stepped in and begged him off; and as she stood between him and his father he slunk away, and kept out of his sight as long as Henry and Mr. Fairchild stayed.

If Tom never came within sight of his father all the rest of that day, Henry never once went out of the reach of his father's eye.

After dinner and tea, Henry was again dressed in his own clothes, which Mrs. Burke had got washed and cleaned for him, and in the cool of the evening he walked quietly home with his father.

"Oh, papa!" said Henry, when they came again under the shade of Blackwood, "I do not now wish to have my own way, as I did this morning, I am now quite sure that it does not make people happy to have it."

"Then, my boy," replied Mr. Fairchild, "you have learned a very good lesson to-day, and I trust that you will never forget it."

The Story in Emily's Book. Part I.

The little books brought by Lucy were not even looked at until the evening came which was to be given up to reading the first of them. Henry had begged that his book might be read last, because he said that he should be sure to like it best; so Emily's was to afford the amusement for the first evening.

Mr. Fairchild gave notice in the morning of his being able to give up that evening to this pleasure; not that he wished to hear the story, but that he meant to be of the party, and the root-house in the wood was the place chosen.

Lucy and Emily had now each a doll to take, and there was some bustle to get them ready after lessons.

Henry took his knife and some little bits of wood to cut and carve whilst the reading was going on; Mrs. Fairchild took her needlework; and there was a basket containing nice white cakes of bread made for the purpose, a little fruit, a bottle of milk, and a cup. The little ones, by turns, were to carry this basket between them. Mr. Fairchild took a book to please himself; and at four o'clock they set out.

When they all got to the hut they were soon all settled. There were seats in the hut; Henry took the lowest of them. Mrs. Fairchild took out her work; Mr. Fairchild stretched himself on the grass, within sight of his family. Emily and Lucy were to read by turns, and Lucy was to begin. She laid her pretty doll across her lap, and thus she began:

The Story in Emily's Book

"On the borders of Switzerland, towards the north, is a range of hills, of various heights, called the Hartsfells, or, in English, the Hills of the Deer. These hills are not very high for that country, though in England they would be called mountains. In winter they were indeed covered with snow, but in summer all this snow disappeared, being gradually melted, and coming down in beautiful cascades from the heights into the valleys, and so passing away to one or other of the many lakes which were in the neighbourhood.

"The tops of some of the Hartsfells were crowned with ragged rocks, which looked, at a distance, like old towers and walls and battlements; and the sides of these more rocky hills were steep and stony and difficult. Others of these hills sloped gently towards the plain below, and were covered with a fine green sward in the summer--so fine and soft, indeed, that the little children from the villages in the valleys used to climb up to them in order to have the pleasure of rolling down them.

"These greener hills were also adorned with large and beautiful trees under which the shepherds sat when they drove their flocks up on the mountain pastures, called in that country the Alps, to fatten on the short fine grass and sweet herbs, which grew there in the summer-time.

"Then the flowers--who can count the numbers and varieties of the flowers which grew on those hills, and which budded and bloomed through all the lovely months of spring, of summer, and of autumn? Sometimes the shepherds, as they sat in the shade watching their sheep, would play sweet tunes on their pipes and flutes, for a shepherd who could not use a flute was thought little of in those hills. It was sweet to hear those pipes and flutes from a little distance, when all was quiet among the hills, excepting the ever restless and ever dancing waters. There were many villages among the hills, each village having a valley to itself; but there is only one of these of which this story speaks.

"It was called Hartsberg, or the Town of the Deer, and was situated in one of the fairest valleys of the Hartsfells. The valley was accounted to be the fairest, because there was the finest cascade belonging to those hills rushing and roaring at the very farthest point of the valley; and the groves, too, on each side of the valley were very grand and old.

"The village itself was built in the Swiss fashion, chiefly of wood, with roofs of wooden tiles, called shingles; and many of them had covered galleries round the first floor. The only house much better than the others was the Protestant pastor's, though this was not much more than a large cottage, but it stood in a very neat garden.

"There were a few, but a very few, houses separate from this village itself, built on the sides of the hills; and those belonged to peasants, or small farmers.

"In the summer-time strangers sometimes came from a distance to look at the famous waterfall, and to gather such scarce flowers as they could find on the hills. It was a good thing for Heister Kamp, the widow who kept the little inn in the village, when these strangers came, for it not only put money into her pocket, but gave her something to talk of. She was the greatest gossip in the valley, and, like all gossips, the most curious person also, for nothing could pass but she must meddle and make with it; and it was very seldom that things were the better for her meddling.

"Most of the inhabitants of the village were Protestants, but there were a few Roman Catholics, and these had a priest, an elderly man, who was a great friend of Heister Kamp, and might often be seen in her kitchen, talking over with her the affairs of the village. He was called Father St. Goar, and he had a small chapel, and a little bit of a house attached to it. His chapel was less than the Protestant church, but it looked far more grand within, for there was an altar dressed with artificial flowers, and burnished brass candlesticks, and over it waxen figures of the Virgin Mary and her Child, in very gaudy though tarnished dresses.

"And now, having described the place, and some of the people, there is nothing to hinder the story from going on to something more amusing.

"On the right hand of the great waterfall, and perched high on the hill, was an old house standing in a very lovely and fruitful garden; the garden faced the south, and was sheltered from the north and east winds by a grove of ancient trees.

"The garden abounded with fruit and flowers and vegetables, and there were also many bee-hives; behind the house were several sheds and other buildings, and a pen for sheep.

"This house was the property of a family which had resided there longer than the history of the village could tell. The name was Stolberg, and the family, though they had never been rich, had never sought help from others, and were highly respected by all who knew them.

"At the time of this history the household consisted of the venerable mother, Monique Stolberg, her son Martin, a widower, and the three children of Martin; Ella, Jacques, and Margot.

"Ella was not yet fourteen; she was a tall girl of her age, and had been brought up with the greatest care by her grandmother, though made to put her hand to everything required in her station. Ella was spoken of as the best-behaved, most modest, and altogether the finest and fairest of all the girls in the valley.

"Heister Kamp said that she was as proud and lofty as the eagle of the hills. But Ella was not proud; she was only modest and retiring, and said little to strangers.

"Jacques was some years younger than Ella; he loved his parents and sisters, and would do anything for them in his power; but he was hot and hasty, especially to those he did not love.

"Margot was still a little plump, smiling, chattering, child, almost a baby in her ways; but everyone loved her, for she was as a pet lamb, under the eye of the shepherd.

"Monique had received her, before she could walk, from her dying mother, and she had reared her with the tenderest care.

"As to Martin, more need not be said of him but that the wish to please God was ever present with him. He had been the best of sons; and, when his wife died, he was rewarded for his filial piety by the care which his mother took of his children and his house.

"Monique had had one other child besides Martin; a daughter, who had married and gone over the hills with her husband into France; but her marriage had proved unfortunate. She had resided at Vienne, in the south of France, and there she had left one child, Meeta, a girl of about the age of Ella.

"When Martin heard of the death of his sister, and the forlorn state of the orphan, he set himself to go to Vienne; it was winter-time, and he rode to the place on a little mountain pony which he had; but he walked back nearly the whole way, having set Meeta, with her bundle, on the horse.

"Everyone at home was pleased with Meeta when she arrived, though Monique secretly wondered how she could be so merry when her parents were hardly cold in their graves. Meeta was not, however, cold-hearted, but she was thoughtless, and she enjoyed the change of scene, and was pleased with her newly-known relations and their manner of life.

"Little plump baby-like Margot was scarcely less formed in her mind than Meeta, though Meeta was as old as Ella: and of the two, Margot, as will be seen by-and-by, was more to be depended on than Meeta. Margot, when duly admonished on any point, could be prudent, but Meeta could not; yet Meeta was so merry, so obliging, and so good-humoured, that everyone in the cottage soon learned to love her; though some of them, and especially Monique, saw very clearly that there was much to be done to improve her and render her a steady character.