Chapter IX: Missing! (1)

"What's he been doin', Margie?"

Ages had passed, so it seemed to Marjorie, since the departure of Mr. Warde, when Sandy's question reached her ear. All the boys were standing round, looking at her with inquisitive concern. Marjorie, a limp heap, inattentive, unready to listen to them, was a new experience. Ross and Orme had tender hearts, not yet hardened by contact with an unsympathetic world. The latter had dug his elbows into his sister's knees, and was looking up pitifully into the far-away eyes that did not even yet see him. Conscious of the blankness, Orme felt moved to whimper; Ross thumped with sturdy fists the limp knees which, hitherto, for baby weaknesses had provided firm support.

"What's he been doin', Margie?"

As the question reached her far-away consciousness, Marjorie came back to reality with a sudden start. Mr. Warde had forgotten that the boys were still in the garden, so occupied was he and so quiet were they. But as the tea-hour approached, first one, then another, finally all four pairs of eyes had been cautiously lifted above ground to survey the situation.

Something, perhaps, in Mr. Warde's appearance, some intuition of unwonted agitation in the interview going on under their eyes, had warned David against intrusion, and he had held Sandy back until the visitor was gone.

"Seems you're all struck of a heap, Margie," said David now. "Has he been scolding?"

"Not exactly," faltered Marjorie; she could not meet the inquiring glances bent on her from all sides. She felt sore and shaken; and the familiar faces brought back to her recollection the full meaning of the interview through which she had just passed. What had she done? what had she said? With a shock she realised that she had agreed to become Mr. Warde's wife. Her whole soul shrank.

"Ain't we goin' to have any tea?" Sandy inquired, his mind bent on an opportunity for the acquisition of stores.

"Is it tea-time?"

"Bell went ever so long ago."

"Didn't you hear it, Margie?" Ross inquired, much impressed at such absent-mindedness.

"No, Ross. Go in, all of you, and get clean," Marjorie ordered, glancing from one to another, feeling less like a victim under the eyes of her judges now that they too were in a position to be criticised.

"'Stead of eatin' much," Sandy had exhorted beforehand, "you've got to save."

If Marjorie had not been so occupied with her own perplexities, she must have noticed, first, the ravenous appetite of the four; next, the rapidity with which the bread-and-butter and cake disappeared. All the pockets were bulging when Ross was deputed to say grace, but the little boy's face looked very disconsolate indeed. Regardless of Sandy's frowns, after struggling through the formula, in accents of lingering unwillingness, he added--

"Ain't had a good tea--me hungry as hungry."

"Me, too," said Orme hopefully.

Marjorie glanced suspiciously round on the faces of her brothers, and then at the empty board. Even so preoccupied as she was, she could not but suspect that some means, other than natural ones, must have been used to banish all that food. And when the same thing happened the next afternoon also, when a more than usually varied abundance graced the table in honour of Barbara's visit, she spoke.

"I can't think," she was beginning to protest, when, to Sandy's delighted relief, Mrs. Lytchett was announced as being in the drawing-room, and asking specially for her.

"Oh, dear!" sighed Marjorie, her mind travelling back to all her misdemeanours. "What can it be? I hope not the cycling."

But it was. There was an amused flash in her mother's eyes, while Mrs. Lytchett's lips looked as though they were carved in stone, so very determined was her aspect.

"I hope it isn't true, Marjorie, what I hear?" she said in aggrieved tones.

"What is that?" asked Marjorie.

"Three of those horrid bicycles passed me this afternoon close, whirling by at a furious pace. I had been to the Deanery, to tell Charity how sorry the Bishop was to miss her music. She wasn't in; and passing the garden entrance--the garden entrance--ah, I see it is true!"

For Marjorie's aspect was unmistakable. It was one of guilt. She did nothing, but sat down in a somewhat limp manner in the chair near which she stood, and looked blankly at her inquisitor.

"So I asked; I could scarcely believe my eyes. That young footman was lounging near; I suppose he was waiting for the bicycles, wasting his time. And he said you have all been riding a long time."

"Not so very long," Marjorie answered in excusing accents. "Only about a month."

Mrs. Bethune laughed, though she looked at Marjorie anxiously. When they were not too bitter, she enjoyed the humour of the encounters between Mrs. Lytchett and Marjorie. Generally the latter showed fight; but all that day she had been unusually quiet.

"I thought you knew how much the Bishop and I hated the horrid things."

The tones were deeply reproachful.

"I thought--he--had changed," Marjorie stammered.

"No; he will never change, neither shall I"--in accents of certainty. "The Bishop thinks them most unbecoming. How did you learn? I hope that young footman----" She paused, unable to put into words the suspicion she had conjured up.

"We learnt--Mr. Pelham showed us--in the Deanery garden. It isn't difficult."

"I am sorry you didn't think more of your position in Norham before setting such an example. And they cost so much!"

"Mine was a present," murmured Marjorie, unwontedly gentle.

"A present! From Mr. Pelham?"

"It came with Charity's."

"From the Dean. Oh! that is different."

Marjorie's memory went back to the sunshiny afternoon under the chestnuts at the Deanery, when the two new glittering machines--just arrived from the maker--had been brought out to Charity's tea-table.

"One for me!" she had exclaimed, reading the label in delight. "How kind of the Dean!"

But when she thanked the Dean, in pretty gratitude, a little later, he had disclaimed the gift.

"Who sent for it for me? Can it really be for me? Not Mr. Pelham, surely?" (for it was he who, at the Dean's request, had ordered Charity's). He, too, disowned being the giver.

"But you know?" Marjorie asked.

"Yes, I know. The giver is one who has every right to give you pleasure."

Something in his manner put her on the track, and she remembered that the Bishop had been in the garden when the purchase had been talked about. When she saw him next, he did not disavow her thanks.

"I like to see you enjoying yourself, my dear," he answered in his kind tones. "I thought how bright and happy you both looked the other day. Only don't have any accidents."

"I don't think it was the Dean," Marjorie's truthful nature prompted her to answer now. "It was--the Bishop."

"And I asked him not! I begged him not to carry out his intention. Poor Norham!" with a sigh, "it has given in at last, and now you and Charity have started, every girl in the place will follow. I blame the Duchess."

When the visitor had gone, Marjorie stood for a moment at the window, anxiously watching Sandy speeding up the garden as fast as his legs could carry him.

"The boys have got some scheme on, I believe, mother," she said. "Dave and Sandy have been full of mystery all day, and Ross is pompous. I wish we weren't going to leave you alone to-night," she said tenderly.

"I like you to go with your father, dear--he will not stay for the music, so I shall not be alone long. And now--I must expect to lose you gradually, dear."

"Oh, not yet." With passion Marjorie pushed the thought away.

Many little hindrances occurred whilst she was dressing. One knock preceded the entrance of Sandy, an unwonted visitor at such a time. He looked eager and excited; but he stood fidgeting by Marjorie's dressing-table, watching the arrangement of her hair, and did not appear in any hurry to explain what he needed.

"Is all girl's hair done like that? What a bover it must be," he remarked after a little time. "I _should_ like that tiny, squinchy, soft brush, Margie."

"What for?"

"To brush Barbie's hair. It's in a awfle mess."

"Well, take it," said Marjorie kindly. "And it's time you took her home. She goes to bed at seven, and you promised."

"Yes, but"--objected Sandy eagerly--"not to-day. Mr. Pelham said she might stay a bit longer. Is your bed or mine biggest, Margie?"

"Mine. What a funny boy you are, Sandy."

"Could I have a blanket off your bed, Margie? Nurse'll fuss ever so, if I take ours--an' I can't poss'bly do wivout one."

Marjorie's thoughts had passed away from her little brother and his needs; and the absent assent she gave was enough for Sandy. He dragged the blanket from the bed, and ran off, hugging it in his arms. He found always that directness was his best aid. Not often did Sandy beat about the bush.

Marjorie went down, cloak and gloves in hand, a dainty, graceful figure in her soft white dress. Her father was waiting for her, sitting in unwonted idleness by her mother's sofa.

Marjorie looked at them curiously as she crossed the floor, noting, as she would not have noted another time, that her mother's hand was clasped in her father's. Love, the love she had pledged herself to, was theirs. They loved each other well, it was easy to see; though, to Marjorie, it seemed impossible that her dignified father could ever have told his love behind a door.

Her aspect was stern, like that of a young judge, as she looked down upon them now. Somehow, to her, love's outward features were no longer fair.

"You look very nice, Margie," her mother said softly, looking at the tall, slim form, crowned by its cold pure face. "That dress is a success. Look, father."

Mr. Bethune turned his eyes upon his daughter, and smiled.

"Yes," he said; "she looks sweet and clean. She is like you, Alysson," his voice lingering and breaking, "in the old days."

Marjorie heard, wondering. Alysson! How sweet the name sounded with that caressing accent on its second syllable. This was the first time she had ever heard her father call her mother thus.

She walked beside him through the evening sunset, down the Canons' Court, to the music of the cathedral chimes; her cloak cast round her emphasising the youthful slenderness, which made her seem so tall. Mr. Warde, from the Deanery steps, watched them approach, his heart bounding with delight at her fairness. Only when they reached the door, a thought occurred to Marjorie, and she turned to her father in a little concern.

"I saw nothing of the children. I quite forgot them. Did you see them?"

"Mother said"--it was work-a-day "mother" now, not the tenderly breathed "Alysson"--"that they had gone off, she thought, with Pelham's baby."

"Oh! I hope so," said Marjorie, with a little cold thrill of prophetic fear. "How careless of me not to see! However, mother will see that it is all right."

Charity's London friends had been late in arriving, and dinner had been put back a little to give them time to dress. It was about half-finished, and the timepiece on the mantelshelf was chiming half-past nine, when Marjorie saw a footman speaking to her father at the other end of the table.

Mr. Bethune asked a quick question or two, and then rose and slipped away.

Marjorie wondered for a moment, and then again grew interested in her neighbour's talk. When Charity's signal drew the ladies into the hall, she was detained a second by the enveloping skirt of one of the ladies.

A colloquy was going on at the hall door. The soft night air streamed in, feeling cool and grateful to Marjorie's heated cheek. As she lingered, she caught the hurried words in a familiar voice--

"Tell Mr. Pelham, please, immediate! Mr. Bethune is gone to the police--but he is to go, and Miss Bethune, at once to Mrs. Bethune. Poor lady, she is----"

With a little cry, Marjorie was at the door.

"What is it, nurse?" she asked breathlessly. "Barbara?"

Almost with a note of triumph at the importance of her news, the woman said, "Neither Miss Barbara nor any of the young gentlemen can be found anywhere, miss. They have all clean disappeared. Oh, sir," in accents of direful import, as Mr. Pelham reached Marjorie's side, "Miss Barbara is lost!"

Down the steps, waiting for no wrap, sped Marjorie; and the twilight, now descending on the Canons' Court, closed her in. For a second, through the dimness, Mr. Pelham saw the hasty, flying figure in its soft white robe, and caught a glimpse of her face. It was a vision that burnt itself on his memory.

Mr. Warde leapt with him down the wide steps.

"We shall soon find her, never fear," he said kindly--he had only heard the end of nurse's message. "I will call my servants, and be with you directly."

[END OF CHAPTER NINE.]

PROSPECT AND RETROSPECT.

By the Rev. George Matheson, M.A., D.D., F.R.S.E., St. Bernard's, Edinburgh.

"But many of the priests and Levites and chief of the fathers,
who were ancient men, that had seen the first house, when the
foundation of this house was laid before their eyes, wept with
a loud voice; and many shouted aloud for joy."--EZRA iii. 12.

One of the finest and most poetic touches of human nature occurs in the most prosaic book of the Bible--the Book of Ezra. It is like a single well-spring in a dry, parched land, like one lingering leaf of autumn in the heart of winter. It is found at that scene where the foundation of the new Temple is laid. The passage thus records the mingled feelings of the spectators: "But many of the priests and Levites and chief of the fathers, who were ancient men, that had seen the first house, when the foundation of this house was laid before their eyes, wept with a loud voice; and many shouted aloud for joy."

The passage is suggestive for all time. We see it repeated at the opening of every January. Nay, it is not limited to inauguration days; it recurs wherever youth and age are found side by side. At the presentation of every new thing there are two attitudes among the crowd--the young shout and the old weep. They are looking through two different glasses--hope and memory. Neither of them is worshipping in the building in which they stand. Youth sees the house gilded by the rays of to-morrow; age beholds it overshadowed by the light of yesterday. Youth claps its hands over its coming possibilities; age says, "It is nothing to what used to be in the old days." Youth disparages the first temple, and says the new is better; age exclaims with the Scottish poetess:--

"There ne'er shall be a new house
Can seem so fair to me."

You will observe that in neither of these cases is the attitude pessimistic. Both see roses; both are agreed that a happy time is somewhere; but they differ as to where the roses lie. Youth sees them at the end; age beholds them at the beginning. The one has placed its Garden of Eden in the future; the other has planted it in the past. Both are optimists; but they seek their goal by opposite ways. Youth is for advance; it cries with a loud voice, "Speak to the children of Israel, that they go forward." Age is for retreat, for regress toward a former day; it would say with the ancient poet, "Return unto thy rest, O my soul."

Which is right? Neither. Both are one-sided; each ignores something in the other. Let us begin with youth--the tendency to disparage the past, to set hope against memory. It forgets something--that hope is itself an inheritance of the past. Why does youth clap its hands previous to experience? It is because the young man has got in his blood the experience of past generations, and the result has been on the side of happiness rather than of misery. If the result had been on the side of misery, youth would not have hoped; it would have despaired. Instinct is the fruit of past habit; instinctive hope must come from long prosperity. Christianity itself has propagated from sire to son an inheritance of hope; Christ in us becomes the hope of glory. Paul declares that the highest ground for hope is to be found in the past: "He that spared not His own Son, shall He not with Him also freely give us all things?" He means that nothing in the future need be too much to expect after this exhibition of love in the past. The handing down of such a thought is alone sufficient to create sunshine. It causes the average child in a Christian population to be born an optimist--to come into the world with an expectation of blue sky, and to dream of a good for which he has no warrant in personal experience.

But if youth is one-sided in disparaging the past, age is also so in disparaging the future, in dwelling on the past exclusively. The old man tends to say that the former days were better than these. If he could get back to these former days, he would make a discovery. He would find that, in point of fact, there was not one of them which was not lit by to-morrow's sky. Take the boy's game. To one looking back through the years, it seems to have been a pure enjoyment of the hour; in truth, it was never so. What the boy saw was more than the game of play; it was the game of life. To him the game was an allegory: it represented something beyond itself--the chances of the world. That which made him glad in his success, that which made him sad in his defeat, was not mainly the fact but the omen. The game was to him rather a sign of the future than an event of the hour. Or take the girl's doll. Was that purely a pleasure of the hour? Nay; the hour had very little to do with it. She was living in a world of imagination--a world to come. The doll to her represented motherhood. She had already in fancy a house of her own. She reigned; she administered; she managed; she had put away childish things. There are no moments so speculative as our real moments; no sphere is so full of to-morrow as what we call the events of the hour.

But, although each view separately is one-sided, there is an extreme beauty in their union. It is one of the finest laws of Providence that youth should see the end at the beginning, and that age should see the beginning at the end. Let us glance at each in turn. Let us begin with youth. And let us remember what is the problem before youth: it is, how to advance. Now, I have no hesitation in saying that nothing causes us to advance but a vision of the future. Paradoxical as it may sound, if there is to be progress, the end must get behind the beginning and push it on. No other vision will impel us forward. The past will not. I do not think the effect even of _bright_ memories is stimulating; they tend rather to make us fold the hands. The present will not. How short is the effect of any actual joy! If a windfall comes to you, you contemplate it perhaps for a few moments exclusively; presently you say, "What will my friend think when he hears of it?" The thing itself is not sufficient. It cannot bear the weight even of five minutes. It is incapable of self-sustenance. It would die at its birth if it were not supported by to-morrow.

Therefore it is that God leads on the youth of individuals and communities, not by a sight of their environment, but by a vision of the end. He shows them the end without perspective--without the years between. He knows that by nature the child ignores all between--that in the presence of any coming joy he cries, "Not to-morrow, nor to-morrow, nor to-morrow, but the next day." And so our Father has always begun by showing us the next day. He came to Abraham and said, "Get thee out of thy country, and I will make of thee a great nation." He did not tell him that Egypt and the desert and the Jordan lay between. If He had, his steps would have been paralysed on the threshold. Did you ever ask yourself what is the earliest revealed doctrine of the New Testament? Is it justification, sanctification, effectual calling, the perseverance of the saints? No, it is none of these: it is the second coming of Christ--the completed glory of redeeming love. When Paul sat down to write his first epistle to the Thessalonians--the earliest book of the New Testament--he began at the end. He let the world hear the final bells ringing across the snow. He concealed the snow; he veiled the intervening years; he said, "To-morrow." He did not tell that a Red Sea of trouble and a desert of visionless waiting lay between. And he was right. Men heard only the bells, and the bells lured them on. They helped them to tread the snow; they nerved them to cross the sea. They sustained them to meet the desert. They sounded nearer than they were; they rang ever the one refrain, "Christ is coming"; and the persistent strain of to-morrow hid the jarring of the passing day.

But if it is benevolent that youth should see the end at the beginning, it is no less a bounteous provision that age should see the beginning at the end. "Say not that the former days were better than these" is a counsel wise and true. But it is none the less wise and true that to the eye of the old man the past ought to be _glorified_. It ought to be glorified because it _needs_ to be glorified. The past never got justice while it was passing. Childhood ignored it; youth disparaged it. The hour laid gems at our feet which we did not see, or which, seeing, we despised. We kept asking when Elias would come; and Elias had come already. To us, as to Moses, the hand of God was laid over the face while God was passing by; we did not discern the actual blessings of the day. Are we never to discern them here below? Must we go hence without seeing the world in which we dwell? Shall we be sent forth to gaze on things unseen before we have looked at the objects which have been actually in our hands? God says "No." He says the past must be righted, righted on the earth, righted _by_ the earth. He has appointed a day even here in which each man shall judge the world in which he has dwelt--in which he shall reverse his former judgment. The crooked shall be seen straight, the rough places shall appear plain, the glory of the Lord, which was veiled in passing, shall be recognised in retrospect; and the end will pronounce the beginning to have been indeed very good.

Therefore it is that the eyes of the aged men rest more on the old house than on the new. The old is to them really a new house. They have seen it for the first time. They did not see it when they were living in it; their eyes were then on the _coming_ temple, and the voice of the present God spoke to them unheard. Therefore, on the quiet road to Emmaus--the road of life's silent afternoon--God shows them the disappearing form of yesterday; and, like Jacob, they exclaim in deep surprise, "Surely the Lord was in this place, and we knew it not; this was none other than the house of God."

And this explains something which otherwise I could not understand. In the Book of Revelation the host of the redeemed in heaven are represented as singing two songs--the song of Moses and the song of the Lamb. Why two? The song of Moses I can readily understand; it is the triumph of the _future_--the shout over the coming emancipation. But why sing the song of the Lamb? Why chant a pæan over the sacrifices of yesterday? Why allow the dark memories of the past to dim the glory of the approaching day? Is there not something which jars upon the ear in the union of two anthems such as these?

(_Photo: J. Horsburgh and Son, Edinburgh._)]

No; there would be something jarring without it. All other heavens but that of the Bible sing the song of Moses alone; they ask nothing more than to be free from the pain of yesterday. The heaven of Christ would be content with no such aspiration. It deems it not enough to promise the joys of to-morrow--the golden streets, and the pearly gates, and the luscious fruits of an unfading summer's bloom. It seeks to connect the future with the past, to show that in some sense the glory had its birth in the gloom. It would reveal to us that the golden streets have arisen from our desert, that the pearly gates have opened from our brick walls, that the luscious fruits have sprung from the very ground which we used to deem barren. It would tell us that the crown has been made from the materials of our cross, that the day has come out of our dusk, and that we have climbed the heights of Olivet by ascending the steps of Calvary.

And is not the heaven of Christ true in this to human nature? What you and I are seeking is not merely nor even mainly emancipation. That would be something, but not all; I want a justification of my past bonds. It is not enough to be able to say "I am all right _now_." Have I not wasted time? Are there not years which the locusts have eaten? Might not this emancipation have come sooner? Why should I not always have been free? Is it any vindication of God's dealings with Job that at the end he gets back houses and brethren and lands? No; that is a mere appendage to the story. The patriarch wants to learn, and _we_ want to learn, why he was afflicted at all. We are not satisfied merely because the grey is followed by the gold. We wish to know that the grey has _made_ the gold. The song of Moses may tell how the peace came _after_ the storm; but the song of the Lamb alone can say, "God answered Job _out of_ the whirlwind."

Our future, then, like our present, must be a blending of memory and hope. The stones of the heavenly temple must be stones that have been hewn in the quarry of time; otherwise they will _not_ sparkle in the sun. The marriage supper of the Lamb is a union of to-morrow and yesterday; no other bells will ring Christ in for me. Grace is not enough; it must be justifying grace--grace that vindicates my past. In vain shall I walk by the crystal river, in vain shall I stand upon the glassy sea, if the light upon each be only the sun of to-morrow. My sea must be "glass mingled with _fire_"--calm that has been evolved by tempest, rest that has grown out of struggle, beauty that has shaped itself through seeming anarchy, joy that has been born of tears. To-morrow morning and yesterday evening must form together one day--a day in which the imperfections of the old house will explain the symmetry of the new, and in which the symmetry of the new will compensate for the short-comings of the old. So shall the first and second temple receive a common glory, and memory and hope shall be joined for evermore.

"NOT TOO LATE."

By the late Rev. Gordon Calthrop, M.A.

The cords were knotted round me fast,
I writhed and plucked them as I lay;
But Sin too well her net had cast--
I could not tear myself away.
Then hissed a voice, "Give up the strife;
Too late thou seek'st to change thy life."
Another spake--"Make God thy Friend,
And then 't is not too late to mend."

But I had scorned the proffered love,
And bidden Heav'n's angels from me flee;
How could I think that Heaven would move
To stretch a helping hand to me?
So hissed the voice, "Give up thy hope:
Some paths to hell _must_ downward slope."
The other said, "God is thy Friend;
Why should it be too late to mend?"

The time was bitter. Ah! how oft
I almost dashed aside the cup!
But Hope her banner waved aloft,
And God's great Son still held me up.
And if the voice hissed, "Thou art long
In conqu'ring foes so old and strong,"
The other cried, "With God thy Friend
It cannot be too late to mend."

And when the bitter day was done,
And forth the demons howling fled,
I went to strengthen many a one
Whom, like me, Sin had captive led:
I told them, though a voice of fear
Might speak of ruin in their ear,
Another said, "God is thy Friend,
It cannot be too late to mend."

AN AMERICAN BOY-EDITOR

AND HIS "BAREFOOT MISSION."

By Elizabeth L. Banks.

(_Photo: Eisenmann, New York._)]

"_The Sunny Hour_--A Monthly Magazine for Boys and Girls. Published and Edited by Tello d'Apery, a Boy twelve years old."

This was the inscription which appeared on the title-page of a new periodical which made its appearance in New York a few years ago. Editors of important daily and weekly newspapers, finding the pretty brown-covered magazine on their desks along with more ambitious-looking first numbers of other periodicals, stopped in the midst of their work to glance over the result of a twelve-year-old editor's work. Accustomed as they were to reading and hearing of prodigies in America, the land of prodigies, they were yet surprised at the enterprise, not to say the audacity, of the young boy who essayed to put himself before the public as the editor and proprietor of a magazine.

"The commercial instincts of the American nation show themselves in its very infants!" they reflected amusedly. "A few years hence that twelve-year-old, grown to be a man, is likely to make Wall Street hum."

Commercial instincts! Well, yes, perhaps, but of an order more likely to bring about results in the neighbourhood of Baxter Street and the other poverty-stricken haunts of the lowly East Side than among the brown-stone business palaces of Wall Street.

Turning to the first "leader" written by the young editor on his editorial page, the literary critics were told in childish language why so small a specimen of humanity had dared to venture into the world of letters.

"I am twelve years old," ran the leading article, "so I hope all the public will excuse any mistakes I make in my paper. I am publishing it to earn money to buy new boots and shoes and get old ones mended for poor boys and girls in New York who have to go barefooted. That's what I'm going to do with all the profits. I want to make enough money to rent a house where I can have my offices and lots of room for a Barefoot Mission, where the boys and girls in New York can come and get boots for nothing. I hope the public will buy my paper, which is a dollar a year and ten cents for single copies."

How to Manage Fathers and Mothers.

BY THE EDITOR.

I have had a father and mother twelve years, and I am said to
manage them pretty well, and I am going to tell all boys and
girls just how I do it, and it would do no harm for them to try
the same plan and see how it works in their cases.

FACSIMILE OF AN EXTRACT FROM NO. 1 OF "THE SUNNY HOUR."

So it happened that when the important editors of New York and other large cities read the leading article in the first copy of _The Sunny Hour_, there was a kindness and gentleness in their tones as they threw the little periodical over to the "exchange editors," saying, "Here, this little thing isn't a bad idea at all! Be sure you notice it in your reviews."

I doubt if any other new paper ever published received from its contemporaries such kind and encouraging "press notices" as did _The Sunny Hour_, and when it appeared upon the stalls for sale the newsdealers sold a great many copies.

When the first number of his magazine was off his hands, little Tello began to think of ways and means for insuring its success and getting as much money as he could for his Barefoot Mission. He decided that he must have patrons, and so with his own hands he folded up and addressed copies of his paper to many great people of whom he had heard. One of the papers went to the Queen of England, and along with it was posted a letter to her Majesty telling her all about his paper and his mission and asking her to let her name go first on his list of patrons. What mattered it to the Queen that she was simply addressed as "Dear Queen" by the little American boy who wanted her for his patron! In the reply which she sent through Sir Henry Ponsonby, she told him of her interest in his noble work and gladly became his first patron.

Letters and papers were also sent to the Empress of Russia, the Queen-Regent of Spain, Queen Olga of Greece, Queen Elizabeth of Roumania, the Khedive, and numerous other royalties, all of whom wrote to him and became his patrons and subscribers. The great Church dignitaries of America, Europe, and Asia, wrote charming letters to the boy-editor, subscribing for his paper and saying that they would like to be considered patrons of _The Sunny Hour_ Mission.

After the first number of the magazine appeared, the list of contributors became a very notable one indeed. The Queen of Roumania (Carmen Sylva) wrote several autograph poems for it, and sent an autographed photograph for publication. The Prince of Montenegro, Prince Albert of Monaco, Prince Roland Bonaparte, Osman Pasha (Grand Master of Ceremonies to the Sultan), Pierre Loti, Sir Edwin Arnold, Mr. Justin McCarthy, Sully-Prudhomme, the Rev. Edward Everett Hale, Marion Harland, and many other literary celebrities, had articles, stories, and poems in _The Sunny Hour_, for which they asked no reward, except the knowledge that they were helping to sell the paper and thus putting shoes on little bare feet.

With the money that came in from the subscriptions and advertisements for the paper, a building on Twenty-fourth Street was rented as an editorial and mission house. It was fitted up in the most practical way possible, with a play-room for the very little "Barefoots," a library for the older ones, a reception-room for "Barefoots," a storeroom for boots and shoes, and the editorial and publishing offices of _The Sunny Hour_. Though the help of grown-up people was always gladly received, only little folks were employed about the headquarters of the boy-editor and missionary. His assistant editor was a boy of his own age, Jack Bristol, whose happy face and manner gained for him the title of "Jolly Jack." Three small boys, friends of the editor, were the type-setters and printers. They had a small steam press on which they printed the magazine. Florencia Lewis, a young girl, acted as secretary and general manager.

I must not forget to mention another very important employee of the mission, who acted as carrier and distributer of boots and shoes to the little "Barefoots." He also was of very tender years--or rather I should say months, for Prince Roland Bonaparte, the St. Bernard puppy, though very much larger than many of the children who took the shoes he carried to them in his mouth, was only a few months old when the mission was started. "Prince," as he was called for short, was (and is) one of the most indefatigable and enthusiastic supporters of the Barefoot Mission in New York. As a puppy he always had a place of honour in the reception-room where the barefooted children went to make their requests. By the time he was four months old "Prince" learned to tell a "Barefoot" on sight, so that, as soon as a poor little shivering tot made its appearance, the puppy would wag his tail and gravely trot into the storeroom, procure a pair of boots, and, returning, lay them at the bare feet of the applicant. It must be confessed that "Prince's" sagacity, great though it was, did not always enable him to select just the right-sized boot for the would-be wearer. There were also a few occasions, during his initiation into his new duties, when he disgraced himself by chewing up one shoe while the "Barefoot" was putting on the other, but he has outgrown these puppyish proclivities. He now weighs one hundred and seventy-five pounds, and is one of the finest and most useful St. Bernards in New York. When out walking with his young master, he always stops in front of any shops where boots and shoes are displayed in the windows, and with a worldly-wise look in his eyes and numerous wags of his huge tail seems to be trying to calculate in his mind just how many applicants at the Barefoot Mission could have their feet shod if the shopkeepers did their duty. It takes all Tello's powers of coaxing and persuasion to keep him from entering the shop and carrying off by force (in his mouth) some of the wares displayed for sale.

Not all, perhaps only a very few, new enterprises in the literary world are able to meet all their expenses and show a profit during the first year of their existence, but the twelve-year-old boy's enterprise was able to do this. Beside meeting all his expenses, he had at the end of the first year been able to distribute 760 pairs of shoes to the poor children of New York. Not all of these were new. Some were old ones mended by Tello's special shoemaker in such a way as to make them almost as good as new in the matter of usefulness, if not in appearance. Then people began to send in stockings (some new, some old), dresses, boys' suits, underwear, old playthings, etc., until the Barefoot Mission became indeed a blessed place to the poor of New York. When Christmas came, the boy-editor provided a great Christmas tree and festival, where not only boots and shoes and clothing were distributed to the needy, but turkeys and ham, and cakes and "candies" were given out, to the great delight of the 700 children who attended it. Here is one of the many pathetic little letters the young editor received just before one of the Christmas festivals. It was published at the time in _The Sunny Hour_:--

"DEAR MR. TELLO,--Me and my little sister and the baby can't
have no crismus this year 'cause our father is dying and granma
is sick with perelisis and our little bruther died two weeks ago
and the city had to bury him. Mother is not working 'cause the
baby is too little--there's ten of us all counted. So if you
have any crismus won't you let us come, for we all haven't got
clothes to keep us warm nor shoes, and no coal except what my
big brother picks up--nothing to eat hardly. Yours respecfully."

Childish letters of appeal similar to the above have been coming in ever since the mission was started, and they have acted as a continual spur to the young missionary. The distributions increased until one day 3,032 pairs of shoes and stockings were given out, and about 2,000 flannel garments as well.

(_Of which there are only five in existence._)]

Meanwhile _The Sunny Hour_ magazine increased in interest and circulation. The list of eminent contributors and patrons became larger every month. Very busy men and women, for the product of whose pens the editors of the best periodicals were willing to pay liberally, sent in gratis to _The Sunny Hour_ stories and poems to be edited by a little boy.

(_Photo: D. Garber, New York._) (_Showing the Medals and Orders presented to him by European and Asiatic Sovereigns._)]

When the mission and the magazine had been running for about three years Tello d'Apery's health broke down from overwork, and through the kindness of a friend he made a trip round the world, leaving his paper and mission in the care of "Jolly Jack," the assistant editor. The boy carried copies of his little paper along with him, his object being to interest everyone he met in his work, and this object was attained to such an extent that on his return he numbered among his subscribers nearly every Oriental potentate. He was received in audience by the Sultan and the Khedive. The latter was especially kind to him, delegating one of his sons to show him about Cairo, and became so interested in the Barefoot Mission that he contributed one hundred dollars towards it. It was during his visit to Egypt that Tello d'Apery became distinguished as the only American boy who has ever been decorated by a foreign potentate. The Khedive conferred upon him the Order of the Medjidieh, which carried with it the title of Bey. Other orders, medals, and titles have been showered upon the young American. He is a Chevalier of the Order of Bolivar, conferred upon him by the President of Colombia. The Order of Umberto was also conferred upon him in Italy. He is also a Chevalier of the Order of St. Katherine, and another order gives him the title of "Don." He has received in all eighteen decorations and medals, and it is by special request that he has had his portrait taken with a number of his decorations fastened to his coat. In writing to me recently concerning this portrait, he says: "Of course, being an all-round and patriotic American boy, I could not use a title, and care only for my decorations because of the good friends who gave them to me and the interest that they show has been taken in my work by great people abroad."

With this issue I present the initial
number of THE SUNNY HOUR, modestly, as becomes so young an
editor, but hopefully, because I mean to try and make it worthy
of a place in every home where there are children.

If I find as much encouragement in my subscription list and
advertising patronage, as I hope, I shall enlarge my paper every
three months, and add new features. In any case it has come to
stay one year.

I shall devote my paper to such literature as mothers will
approve, and there will be no Indian Scalping, nor pistols, nor
any such thing. I shall always uphold the cause of temperance
and morality and so shall not touch upon politics, and it shall
be my earnest endeavor to deserve well of the public.

If my paper ever falls below expectations, please remember that
I am only twelve years old.--THE EDITOR.

_____________

SPECIAL NOTICE.

All paying subscribers, who desire it, are entitled to a cabinet
photograph of the editor, with his autograph. This is not done
from vanity, but because he thought perhaps some persons might
like to see what the youngest editor and publisher in the world
looks like.

FROM NO. 1 OF "THE SUNNY HOUR."

When Tello returned from his travels, much improved in health, his boy friends took a notion to call him "Chevalier d'Apery," but on pain of his sore displeasure the title was dropped, he declaring that it was not for publication but only as an evidence of good faith on the part of his decorators. A medal that he very highly prizes is a gold one given him by the venerable Patriarch of Alexandria, Sophronius, who had it struck when he had been fifty years in office. There are only four others like Tello's in the world. The Patriarch presented one to Tello, one to the Queen of Greece, one to the late Queen of Denmark, and one to the Empress Dowager of Russia. Sophronius is now one hundred and six years old, and is one of Tello's most devoted friends, writing frequent letters to him in Apostolic Greek.

Many also are the presents Tello d'Apery has received from noted people. Don Carlos of Spain, the Queen of Greece, and many other royalties, have sent him tokens of their interest and esteem, so that, besides his medals and decorations, he has a number of interesting and valuable scarf-pins, rings, etc. While in Athens the Queen of Greece entertained him at the palace, and begged him to make her a member of _The Sunny Hour_ Mission Club, which he did by himself pinning at her throat the pretty little badge of the Order of _The Sunny Hour_, the Queen repeating after him the promise made by all those who join the Club: "I promise to give one hour each week to some good action. I will be kind to my parents, to my brothers and sisters, to the poor and the unfortunate, and to animals."

These _Sunny Hour_ Mission Clubs are auxiliaries of _The Sunny Hour_ and Barefoot Mission, and have been formed in different parts of the world. There is one in Paris, which has been very prosperous, and there has also been one in London. There are a number of little persons belonging to royal families who wear the badge of _The Sunny Hour_. Among them are the little Lady Alexandra Duff, and the tiny Prince Boris of Bulgaria.

After his return from abroad Tello d'Apery published an account of his experiences in a book called "Europe Seen through a Boy's Eyes," all the profits of which went to buy shoes for the barefooted children of New York. He also, in order to get more money for his work, started a little book and stationery shop, spending a part of his time there behind the counter and a part of it behind his editorial desk. Recently his health has again failed, and he has been obliged to lessen some of his arduous labours. He is now trying to establish a mammoth boot- and shoe-mending shop of his own, where old foot-gear may be repaired at less expense than it is now. When this object is accomplished, some of the "Barefoots" themselves will learn the cobbler's trade and work in the establishment, thus helping others while helping themselves.

The idea is to rent a building, or at least a part of a building, for the purpose, and issue circulars to the residents of New York and vicinity, asking them to send their old boots and shoes to the building, or, better still, to have a horse and cart go about from house to house to collect them. Then two or three expert cobblers will be hired for a few months to mend them and to take a certain number of apprentices from among the "Barefoots" and teach them the trade of cobbling. Only such boys as show a liking and aptitude for the work will, of course, be chosen as apprentices. They will spend the whole day or only a few hours a day at the work, as their other duties permit. Not only will they be taught to mend boots--they will also be taught to make them. When they have learned their trade they will receive the same wages as other workmen are paid. Of course, when _The Sunny Hour_ "Barefoots" (or, rather, those who have been "Barefoots" in times gone by) become expert shoemakers, there is no reason why they should confine their efforts to making and mending boots for the New York poor alone. Tello d'Apery hopes that many orders for men's and women's and children's footgear will be received from well-to-do New Yorkers, so that not only will the expenses of the establishment be met, but an extra amount of money taken in for the mission. It is a magnificent scheme, and we can but hope that this noble American boy may be able to carry it out.

LITTLE LADY WILMERTON.

By the Rev. P. B. Power, M.A., Author of "The Oiled Feather," Etc.

Hard by the village of Hopedale, away from railways and their whistles, and indeed pretty nearly from the world in general, was a very beautiful castle, surrounded by pleasure grounds, and gardens for both fruit and flowers.

The place had been well kept up, because old Lord Wilmerton, the grandfather of the little lady of whom I am going to tell you, was a proud man; and he would not have it said that any of his properties were allowed to go to ruin, or even to run wild. But the old Lord himself never went there nor did his son, the father of the present little Lady Wilmerton. The place was too dull for them; they liked the gaieties of London and the Continent, and the country had no charms for them.

Little Lady Wilmerton's father and grandfather were now both dead. Her father died first, and her grandfather soon followed him to the grave. And now our little lady was a Countess, for in her family the title did not die out with the males, but, when there were no sons, passed on to the daughters, if there were any. And as with the title went most of the estates, the little Countess, who was only twelve years old, became the mistress of Hopedale Castle, and the village and, indeed, the country for, I might almost say, many miles round.

The last thing that anyone in Hopedale would have ever thought of was her little ladyship's coming to live at the Castle. Great, therefore, was the astonishment of everyone when they heard that she was to live there for a large part of the year--and, moreover, that she was coming almost at once.

At first the report was treated as an idle rumour, but when a carriage arrived one day at the Castle with an elderly gentleman and a much younger man, and a second carriage with a lady and her maid, there could be no doubt that something was about to take place. Moreover, the agent had been summoned to meet this old gentleman, and he and the new arrivals were known to have gone all over the Castle. This gentleman was the little Countess's guardian, and the younger man was his solicitor; and the lady was a distant relative of the little Countess, and was to be her caretaker--for her mother had been dead now three years.

Such a possibility as the Castle being inhabited could not take place without causing much talk in the village. Old and young had their say about it--some of the old, I am sorry to say, at the "Green Dragon," the village ale-house; and some at their cottage doors, or when they met in the street.

The children too had their ideas and speculations--very different, of course, from the older people's, but very decided, nevertheless.

As to the folk at the "Green Dragon," some were for the lady's coming and some were not, and each party were positive.

"I tell you," said old Joe Crupper, the saddler, "there ain't no good a-comin' out of this. We've got on very well hereabouts for many a year, without having anyone to worrit us from that place. Why can't they let it be as it has been so long? It don't want anyone to live in it to keep it warm. Why, I'm told that they've burnt thirty ton of coal in a winter to keep the place aired. We don't want no great people down here in these parts; we can get on well enough by ourselves. I didn't never know any good come of the haristockracy," said the saddler, giving the table a thump.

"But I'm told," chimed in a meek little man, who frequented the "Green Dragon" more for gossip than for drink, "that the new 'lord' is a little lady, and is only twelve years old."