Chapter TWENTY: Third (2)

"This looks very pleasant," he said, surveying the company, a piece of chocolate in his hand.

"Sit down, Mr. Clark; I want to ask you something," said Mrs. Morrison. "It is about the song Frances is always singing,--

"'The bridge is broke--'"

"What is the rest of it?"

"I will tell you all I know, but that isn't much," he replied, crossing his legs and looking into the fire. "I used to like to hear it from my grandfather when I was a child, and I found it interested Mark, my nephew, when he was a little chap. This is the way it goes.

"A man was once taking a long journey on foot. After walking several hours he came to a deep, swift stream over which there had once been a bridge, but now it was not to be seen. On the opposite side of the river a man was chopping wood, and the traveller called to him to know what had become of the bridge. The reply--and this is always sung--was:--

"'The bridge is broke and I have to mend it,
Fol de rol de ri do, fol de rol de ri do,
The bridge is broke and I have to mend it,
Fol de rol de ri.'

"'How deep is the river?' the traveller then asked.

"'Throw in a stone, 'twill sink to the bottom,
Fol de rol de ri do, fol de rol de ri--' etc.

"'How can I get across?' was the next question.

"'The ducks and the geese they all swim over,
Fol de rol de ri do--' etc.

"And that is all."

"Doesn't the poor man ever get across?" asked Mrs. Morrison.

"I have told you all I know, madam," the Spectacle Man answered, with a little wave of his hand.

"I think there is a story hidden in it, and that is perhaps why children enjoy it; it is like having a picture to look at." It was Miss Sherwin who spoke.

"That is a bright idea," said Mr. Clark; "but who will find the hidden story for us?"

"I believe Miss Sherwin herself can find it," suggested Mrs. Morrison. "Suppose we give her two weeks to hunt for it, and then have a meeting to hear it."

"Oh, please--" began Miss Sherwin.

"Don't say a word, Lil, you know you can," urged Miss Moore, as her friend tried to make herself heard above the chorus of approval.

"The meeting to be held in my study," added the Spectacle Man.

"But suppose I can't do it," cried Miss Sherwin.

"Father could, if he were here," put in Frances; "he is splendid for stories!"

"Is he the John Chauncey Morrison who writes so charmingly?" asked Miss Sherwin.

"Why, do you know him?" exclaimed Frances.

"No, but I have read his stories."

"I think he writes the nicest ones in the world," said the little girl.

"But we don't expect everybody else to think so, Wink," her mother added, laughing.

CHAPTER SEVENTH.

A PORTRAIT.

One pleasant afternoon Emma came to ask if Frances might go with her to carry home some sewing her mother had finished.

Mrs. Morrison looked a little doubtful, but, before she could speak, Frances exclaimed: "Do please say yes, mother. It is a great lovely house, and I do so want to see it."

"What do you know about it?" asked her mother.

"Emma has told me. May I go? It is such a lovely day."

"I am not sure that it is quite the thing for two little girls to go so far alone."

"But we'll take care of each other, and--it seems to me that what you want to do is never the thing!" Frances said impatiently.

Her mother laughed; "I have known other persons who thought that. Who lives in this wonderful house?" she asked.

"Mrs. Marvin, but she is not at home now; there is no one there but the housekeeper," replied Emma.

"If I let you go you must promise not to stay any longer than is necessary for Emma's errand."

They both agreed eagerly to this, and Emma ran down to get ready.

"You mustn't turn into a little Bohemian, Wink," Mrs. Morrison said, kissing the rosy face under the big hat.

"I don't know what it is, so I guess I couldn't turn into it," laughed Frances, as she followed Emma.

The two children were in a gale of delight over their expedition, and, although they meant to be very dignified, found it impossible to walk more than a few steps without breaking into a skip.

"I wish my hair was like yours," Emma said, looking admiringly at her companion's waving brown locks.

"But braids aren't half so much bother. I have to wear mine this way because daddy likes it; and if you want to, you know, you can put your hair up on kids. That is what Gladys Bowen does; hers doesn't curl one bit."

"Gladys goes to our school, and I don't like her," remarked Emma.

"Why not? Don't you think she is pretty?"

"Yes; but she is so proud of herself. She doesn't like to go with me because my clothes aren't as nice as hers,--I know."

"She gets that from her mother," Frances said sagely. "Whenever I go there Mrs. Bowen asks me who made my dress or something."

"I know I don't have very pretty dresses, but my mother hasn't time," said Emma, rather sorrowfully.

"I think you always look nice, Emma, and I like you better than I do Gladys."

"Oh, Frances! do you really? Then I shan't mind," cried Emma.

She was supremely happy at having Frances for a companion on her walk, and at the prospect of showing her this wonderful house; but when at length they paused before the tall iron gate, she was seized with the fear that it might not seem very grand to one who had seen so much of the world.

Frances' critical eye was pleased, however; "I really think it does look like a palace," she said, with the air of having lived among palaces.

It was a somewhat imposing mansion, with a row of graceful columns across the front, and a broad flight of steps leading to the entrance. It stood in the midst of a beautiful green lawn on which were a few fine old trees and shrubs.

"Just wait till you see the inside," said Emma, delightedly, as they stood before the stately door; but alas! when it was opened the hall was seen all dismantled; evidently house-cleaning was going on.

After some hesitation the servant showed them into a room which was, like the hall, in disorder. It seemed to be a library, but the furniture was all covered, the floor was bare, and the sun streamed in through uncurtained windows. The most prominent object in the room was a picture which hung over the mantel, and this at once caught Frances' attention.

It was the portrait of a girl apparently about her own age, whose sunny eyes smiled down in the friendliest way. Her brown hair curled loosely over her shoulders; her dress, of some soft, silken brocade of warm, rich colors, was quaintly made and fell almost to her feet; her neck and arms were bare, and her dimpled hands clasped lightly before her. There was a grace and buoyancy in the pose which was very charming; Frances was enchanted.

"Isn't she lovely! Who is she, do you suppose?" she asked; but Emma could tell her nothing about it, she had never been in this room before.

"I believe she is like you, Frances," she said, looking critically at the picture.

"I am sure I am not half so pretty as that! She makes me think of something-- I don't know exactly what," and Frances wrinkled her brow in a puzzled way. She was completely fascinated, and continued to gaze at the portrait all the while Emma was talking to the woman who came to see her about the work, hearing nothing till her own name caught her ear.

"It is some relative of Miss Frances," was what she heard, evidently in reply to a question from Emma.

As soon as they were on the street she inquired who Miss Frances was, and Emma said she thought she was Mrs. Marvin, the lady who owned the house. "She is coming home before long, and they are getting ready for her," she added.

"I should like to have that picture," said Frances, with a sigh. "Emma, do you know what a Bohemian is?"

"I know what the 'Bohemian Girl' is; it is music."

"It can't be that, for mother said father wouldn't like it if I turned into one."

As Frances was unbuttoning her shoes that night she suddenly exclaimed, "Why, it is the little girl in the golden doorway!

"What is?" her mother asked.

"I mean that is what the portrait reminded me of. It has just come into my head. Isn't it funny?"

"Almost any portrait of a little girl might suggest it, I should think," said Mrs. Morrison.

"I wish you could see her, mother. Do you think I can go again with Emma sometime? I do want to see her once more."

"I don't know, dear."

"Mother, is it being a Bohemian to want to go?"

Mrs. Morrison laughed. "Not exactly, Wink. It is difficult to explain, but a Bohemian is perhaps a person who habitually does what is not 'the thing.'"

"That must be fun," said Frances.

There was silence for a long time, then she asked, "Mother, aren't you glad a certain person is abroad?"

Mrs. Morrison looked at her in surprise. "What do you mean?" she said.

"Oh, I was just thinking!"

"But what put it into your head to think of a certain person?"

"Well, the girl in the golden doorway always makes me think of him; and you know, mother, father said he didn't mind leaving us here because he was abroad."

"You have been drawing on your imagination, Wink, you can't have understood father; but now you must go to bed and not talk any more."

CHAPTER EIGHTH.

THE STORY OF THE BRIDGE.

An atmosphere of great sociability pervaded the quaint room that the Spectacle Man called his study, when on Friday evening, two weeks after the candy pulling, his expected guests arrived.

He had closed his shop an hour earlier than usual, and spent the time in getting out certain treasures of china and silver, and placing them where they could be seen to the best advantage. When the lamps were lighted, the hearth brushed, and the big Japanese bowl heaped up with apples and grapes, he paused and looked around him with satisfaction.

He was reflecting how pleasant it was to be giving a party, when the hall door opened to let in Peterkin and closed again in what might have seemed a mysterious manner but for the sound of stifled laughter on the outside. On the inside Peterkin stood looking cross-eyed in a vain endeavor to see the frill that adorned his neck.

"So they have dressed you for the occasion, my friend," remarked his master; "it must recall the days when Mark was at home."

A few minutes later Emma and Frances appeared, looking very demure and bringing with them Gladys, who, happening in in the afternoon, had been invited to stay and hear the story. The rest of the party soon followed, and Mr. Clark's face beamed with pleasure as he stepped briskly about getting every one seated. The children chose the sofa at the side of the fireplace, where they sat, three in a row with Frances in the middle, until Miss Moore begged to know if there was not room for her, and of course there was.

"I am afraid you are trying to excite our envy, Mr. Clark," Mrs. Morrison said, touching a little dish of old Wedgwood.

"I have a few odds and ends of things," was his reply; "but most of what you see belongs to my nephew, Mark Osborne. A great-aunt left him her property when she died, this house, and a good deal of what Mark himself disrespectfully calls plunder."

"You have never told us about the Toby jug," put in Frances. "Does that belong to Mark?"

"No, that is my own, and sometime I'll tell you all I know about it; but now we want to hear Miss Sherwin's story. That is the first business of the evening;" and, his guests being seated to his satisfaction, the Spectacle Man crossed his knees and prepared to listen.

"I am not sure that it is at all interesting," said the young lady, as all eyes turned toward her. "Shall I read it or tell it?"

"Tell it, please," cried the children in a chorus.

So she began, at first a little timidly, and with a glance now and then at her paper, but gaining courage as she went on.

"I have called it," she said, "'The Story of the Missing Bridge.'

"Once upon a time a young man set out on a journey. The tender beauty of the springtime was upon the grass and trees, the wheat fields were turning from gold to rose, and the sky was a soft, deep blue.

"He was a sturdy young fellow and carried a light heart, as one could tell from the smile in his eyes and the merry tune he whistled as he strode along. And he had reason to be happy, for on the next day at sunset he was to be married to the fairest girl in all the country round.

"After a time the path he followed left the open fields and entered the cool, dim forest, where all was so still and peaceful that involuntarily he changed his tune to one more grave.

"A truly happy heart is certain to be a kind one, and, eager though he was to reach his journey's end, he paused once and again to lend a helping hand. Now it was to a peddler who was vainly trying to piece together the broken strap that had held his pack, again to restore a young bird to its nest, and then to release a white rabbit which had caught its foot in a trap and was moaning piteously.

"These incidents delayed him somewhat, and it was late in the afternoon when he reached the river several miles beyond which lay his destination. It was a wild and treacherous stream that rushed down from the hills, boiling and bubbling over rocks and between high, precipitous banks. Many years before a strong bridge had been thrown across it at the point where the path emerged from the forest, but to-day, to his utter surprise and bewilderment, there was no bridge to be seen. His journey was brought to a sudden stop.

"He looked about him; could he have missed his way? This was impossible, he had travelled it too often. On the other side of the river he saw a man chopping wood, and presently called to him to know what had become of the bridge.

"'The bridge is broke and I have to mend it,
Fol de rol de ri do, fol de rol de ri do,
The bridge is broke and I have to mend it,
Fol de rol de ri.'

"This was the man's reply, sung in a merry rollicking tune as he continued his work.

"'How deep is the stream?' asked the traveller.

"'Throw in a stone, 'twill sink to the bottom,
Fol de rol de ri do, fol de rol de ri do--'

"'How can I get across?'

"'The ducks and the geese they all swim over,
Fol de rol de ri do, fol de rol de ri do--'

"came across the stream in the same mocking tune.

"Angry and almost in despair, the young farmer sat down beneath a tree to consider what was to be done.

"The secret of all his trouble was this. In an old red stone castle, the turrets of which were just visible above the trees on the other side of the stream, there lived a magician who had long had his eye upon the beautiful maiden who was the young man's promised bride. To win her he appeared as a wealthy middle-aged suitor, ready to lay all his riches at her feet, his real character being carefully concealed; but all his arts had been plied in vain; no gold or gems or promises of future splendor could turn her heart from her young lover. Her parents, however, were inclined to look with favor upon the magician's suit, and their daughter was made most unhappy by their reproaches.

"The last resort of the magician was to insinuate doubts of her lover's faithfulness; and after long and careful scheming, with her father and mother as allies, a promise was wrung from the maiden that, if the bridegroom failed by so much as an hour to appear at the appointed time, she would wed his rival. So sure was she of her lover, so ignorant of the magician's power.

"It now only remained to hinder the coming of the bridegroom. This the magician wished to contrive in such a way that the young farmer should arrive upon the scene just too late, and that he himself might have the exquisite pleasure of witnessing his despair. This was not without its difficulties, for the forest that extended almost to the water's edge was inhabited by fairies who were well disposed toward mortals, and took frequent delight in frustrating the schemes of the evil-minded magician.

"He therefore set himself to work to win their good will, and after establishing friendly relations went to the queen with what seemed an innocent request. An enemy of his was about to pass through the wood, and it was all-important that he should be hindered from crossing the river until after a certain hour. All he asked of the fairies was the promise that they would not reveal the plan by which he meant to accomplish this. The promise was readily given, for what possible harm could come to any one through being detained on the bank of the river for a few hours?

"The fairies often amused themselves by trying the temper of those who passed through the forest, and the peddler, the bird, and the rabbit had all been contrived to test the kindliness of the chance traveller; and by his quick response to these calls for help the young farmer had won their favor. So now, as he sat at the foot of the oak tree almost ready to weep in his despair, he heard a tiny voice singing:--

"'The bridge is broke and you'll have to mend it,
Fol de rol de ri do, fol de rol de ri do.'

"'If some kind friend would only tell me how!' he exclaimed.

"'Is it then so necessary to your happiness?' asked the voice; and looking all about, he at length discovered a little creature sitting on a toadstool just at his feet. In her hand she held a large leaf which till now had served to hide her from his view.

"Having heard that the wood was the abode of fairies, he was not surprised; and in the hope that they would be able and willing to help him, he told his story. The fairy listened intently, marvelling at the magician's craftiness.

"'And when must you be there?' she asked.

"'Not one minute later than sunset to-morrow. I set out a day sooner than needful because of a mysteriously worded message I received, warning me to make all haste lest I lose my bride,' was the reply.

"'You have an enemy,' said the fairy, 'but we may be able to help you. You must wait the hour of audience, which is on the stroke of midnight;' with this she disappeared.

"The young man, left alone, seemed to hear all about him mocking voices singing:--

"'The ducks and the geese they all swim over--'

"and again and again he went to the water's edge, resolved to attempt to cross on the rocks, but the sight of the wild torrent told him it would be certain death.

"As night came on he at length fell into a troubled sleep with his head against the trunk of the oak tree. He was aroused by soft music and twinkling lights, and beheld before him, ranged in a semicircle, the fairy queen and her attendants. The queen addressed him:--

"'Mortal, we have heard your story from Sadonia, one of our ladies, and, as you have proved yourself kind and true-hearted, we would help you; but we are bound by a sacred vow not to reveal the secret of the bridge until sunset to-morrow.'

"'Ah, then it will be too late!' cried the young man.

"One of the attendant fairies now stepped out and knelt before the queen. It was the one called Sadonia, with whom he had spoken.

"'Your Majesty remembers,' she said, 'that for a certain fault I was condemned to take the form of a white rabbit, and with my foot in a trap wait to be released by some kind traveller. When I was in despair, this mortal freed me, and I ask that I may show my gratitude now by aiding him.'

"'Can this be done without breaking the vow which binds us all?' asked the queen.

"'Your Majesty, I promise neither by word or sign to reveal the secret of the bridge. I shall only ask him to obey me in a single command. The result rests with himself.'

"The queen was silent for a moment, then she said, 'Is this mortal courageous enough, is his love deep enough, to keep him unfaltering in the face of death?'

"'Death met in trying to reach the one I love will be far better than life without her!' cried the young man.

"'Then,' said the queen, 'Sadonia is permitted to use all her powers to aid you, but without revealing by word or sign the secret of the bridge.' She waved her wand, and in a breath lights and fairies disappeared and he was left alone. Not alone, for he heard Sadonia singing:--

"'The ducks and the geese they all swim over--'

"and there, dimly seen in the moonlight, she sat on a toadstool, wrapped in a mantle of green.

"'It is time, mortal, for you to be up and away. In yonder red castle lives a magician; it was he you saw cutting wood--this is the hour when he sleeps. Is your courage strong? Are you ready to do the impossible?' While she spoke the young man sprang to his feet.

"'Do you see the star straight before us in the heavens?' she asked. 'Keep your eyes fixed upon it, and think of her who is now dreaming of you; then if you obey me, all will be well.'

"She led him to the edge of the cliff, below him was the rushing stream; 'Look at the star and go on,' she cried.

"For one instant he hesitated. Go on? Where would the next step take him? Beneath were the rocks and the foaming torrent, but above him was the glowing star. He stepped bravely out. Louder and louder roared the torrent, brighter and brighter burned the star, firm and solid was the mysterious path. Confidence grew as he went on, his heart full of a great joy, and presently he felt the turf under his feet; the stream was crossed!

"As he paused to look back the truth flashed upon him: the bridge was where it had always been, but some strange spell had made it invisible!

"He went on his way, and all around him he seemed to hear fairy voices singing:--

"'The ducks and the geese they all swim over,
Fol de rol de ri do, fol de ri do--'

"He stopped and, lifting his hat, said softly, 'Thank you, Sadonia!' and hoped she heard.

"On the next day the maiden and her lover had a joyous wedding, and the evil-minded magician slunk away in a rage to his castle, having discovered that love is stronger than magic; for no evil power can destroy the bridge between true and loving hearts, and faith and courage can always find the way."

* * * * *

"Well!" exclaimed Mr. Clark, as Miss Sherwin paused, with a very becoming color in her cheeks, "who would have thought there was such a story hidden away in my old song."

"I am so pleased that we asked her to do it," said Mrs. Morrison, smiling across the table at the story-teller. "I had my suspicions before, and now they are confirmed," she added.

"I am just proud of you, Lil," said Miss Moore, beaming on her friend.

"I think it is a lovely story, but couldn't you have more about the fairies, Miss Sherwin?" Frances asked.

"And about the wedding and what the bride had on," suggested Gladys.

"But did you really make it all up?" inquired Emma.

The young lady laughed. "No, I only found it between the lines of the song, and I certainly think it can be improved."

"The moral is such a fine one," remarked Mrs. Morrison.

"That faith and courage can always find a way--yes, isn't it, if one could only live up to it," said Miss Moore.

"It has given me a great deal to think about," added the Spectacle Man. "The bridge is broke--but faith and courage will find the way; yes, I like it," and he nodded his head emphatically.

"I thought morals weren't interesting," said Frances, at which they all laughed, and Miss Sherwin said she hoped she had not made hers too prominent. "I feel very grateful to you for liking it," she added.

"I want you to elaborate it a little and send it to _The Young People's Journal_," Mrs. Morrison said.

Miss Sherwin shook her head, but Miss Moore declared she would see that it was done.

Peterkin, who had been completely forgotten in the interest of the story, created a sensation just here by catching one of his sharp lower teeth in his frill, thereby causing temporary lockjaw. He was promptly released by Miss Moore, who declared he should not be dressed up again.

After he had gone into seclusion under the sofa, and the rest of the company were eating grapes and apples, Mr. Clark took down the Toby jug from the mantel shelf.

"It seems hardly right to tell another story to-night after the beautiful one we have listened to," he said, "but this is a very short one, and I promised Frances. This brown ware is called Rockingham, and you see how the likeness of a very fat old gentleman is embossed upon it. It is said that there once lived a jolly toper named Toby Fillpot. In the course of time he died and was buried, and then, according to an old drinking song:--

"'His body when long in the ground it had lain,
And time into clay had resolved it again,
A potter found out in its covert so snug,
And from part of fat Toby he formed this brown jug.'

"In fact, I believe he made a number of them, and dedicated them to friendship, mirth, and mild ale."

"It seems to suggest Dickens; doesn't he somewhere mention a Toby jug?" asked Mrs. Morrison.

"I don't remember, but it is likely," answered Mr. Clark.

"Was your grandfather an Englishman?" Miss Sherwin asked.

"Yes, he was English and my mother was French."

"I was sure there was French somewhere," said Mrs. Morrison.

The children thought the jug very funny and interesting, but Frances did not want to touch it after she had heard the story.

"It might really be true," she said, putting her hands behind her.

"Is this supposed to be one of the originals?" asked Miss Moore.

"Well, that is as you choose to believe. It is over one hundred years old, at any rate," was Mr. Clark's reply.

CHAPTER NINTH.

FINDING A MORAL.

In spite of her disapproval of the place where the Morrisons had gone to live, Gladys was very often there. She liked Frances, and at the house of the Spectacle Man there seemed never to be any lack of something to do. There were glorious games of "I spy" in the halls when Emma was off duty, or visits to the studio where Miss Sherwin illustrated her stories and was delighted to have them pose for her, or if it were a rainy afternoon Mr. Clark did not object to their coming into the shop. He kept some glasses especially to lend to them on these occasions, and if business happened to be very dull he would entertain them with stories of his childhood, of which they never tired. Any chance customer must have been amused at the sight of three little girls in spectacles, seated in a row listening to the old man.

Gladys tyrannized over Emma and patronized her by turns, the latter being too timid to resent it openly; and Frances enjoyed playing the part of protector and defender. Naturally this state of affairs sometimes led to war, for Frances was quick-tempered and impulsive, and Gladys very stubborn.

One afternoon Mrs. Morrison went out, leaving the three children deeply interested in a new game. Everything went smoothly until Emma, who was sometimes rather slow in understanding things, made a wrong play that resulted in Gladys's defeat. When this was discovered Gladys in the excitement of the moment accused her of cheating, whereupon Emma began to cry and Frances became very angry.

"She didn't cheat, Gladys Bowen, you know she didn't; and you haven't any right to say so!" she exclaimed, with blazing eyes.

"She did," asserted Gladys, with a dogged conviction in her tone that infuriated Frances, and sweeping the dominoes from the table she cried:--

"I'll never play with you again, never!"

"No, you will never have a chance," was the cool reply. "I won't play with either of you; and I'd be ashamed of myself if I were you, Frances."

"Oh, never mind!" urged Emma, aghast at the scene.

"I will mind. She knows it is a story--and--" Frances could get no further, her tears choked her, and rushing from the room she shut the door behind her.

Mrs. Morrison, coming in, found Gladys putting on her things with an air of injured innocence quite impressive, while Emma stood helplessly looking at her. The dominoes lay scattered on the floor.

"Where is Frances?" she asked.

"In the other room; she's mad," Gladys explained briefly.

Mrs. Morrison knew it would be useless to ask questions at this stage, so she only said she was sorry, and waited till Gladys left, then went to find her daughter.

Frances was lying on the bed crying convulsively.

"What is the matter?" her mother asked gently.

The child sat up, exclaiming between her sobs, "Gladys is so hateful. She said Emma cheated--and it's a story--and I'll never play with her again!"

"Oh, my little girl! I am so sorry," was all Mrs. Morrison said, as she left the room.

Sorry about what? Frances wondered as her anger cooled. Because Gladys had been so hateful? or was it because she had been in a passion?--but then she had a right to be angry. As she lay quiet for a while, feeling languid, now the storm had passed, a sense of shame stole over her.

Presently she went softly into the sitting room. It was growing dark, and her mother sat alone among the cushions of the couch; Frances nestled down beside her, and there in the firelight and the stillness she couldn't help feeling sorry, even though she still felt sure she had a right to be angry.

She wished her mother would speak, but as she did not, Frances asked, "Don't you think Gladys was very unkind?"

"She ought to have been very certain of the truth of what she said, before she accused any one of cheating."

"I think so too; and I had a right to be angry." She began to feel quite certain of this.

"I have been talking it over with Emma," said Mrs. Morrison, "and I find she did not understand the game. She really played as Gladys said, but she did it by mistake."

"Did she? But Gladys ought to have known Emma wouldn't cheat."

"And of course there was nothing for you to do, but throw down the dominoes and accuse Gladys of telling a story?"

"But, mother--" Frances hesitated.

"Suppose you had told Gladys that there must be some mistake, and then had tried to find out what it was."

"But I was so provoked."

"Yes, and you lost your self-control. You let yourself be ruled by your temper. It is sometimes right to be angry, but it is never right to be in a passion."

"Don't you think I am getting better of my temper?" Frances asked meekly.

"Yes, dear; I have thought so lately, and it was right for you to want to defend Emma; but to throw the dominoes on the floor, to be in such a fury--my darling, it makes me afraid for you! You might sometime do something that all your life would be a sorrow to you. God meant you to rule your feelings and passions, not be ruled by them. You are like a soldier who has surrendered to the enemy he might have conquered."

"I'll ask him to forgive me," Frances whispered.

"You know father and I want our little girl to grow into a sweet, gracious woman--"

"Just like you," Frances interrupted, with her arms around her mother's neck.

"No, not just like me," answered Mrs. Morrison, smiling; "you must be your own self, Wink. I have tried not to spoil you, but of course I have made mistakes, and now you are getting old enough to share the responsibility with me."

"Do you think you ought to punish me, mother?"

"Dear, I think the punishment will be the trying to set things right again."

Nothing more was said on the subject that evening, but the next day Frances came to her mother with a bright face; "I have found out what it means," she said.

"What what means?" Mrs. Morrison asked.

"The story of the bridge. You know Gladys is mad with me and won't come here any more-- Emma says she said she would never speak to me again--and that is a broken bridge and I have to mend it; but I don't know how," she added.

"Perhaps you can find a way if you try," replied her mother, thinking it best to let her solve her own problems.

All day Frances' thoughts kept going back to the unfortunate quarrel, and even when she was not thinking about it she was not happy. The storm clouds hung low and made the atmosphere heavy.

At twilight she slipped downstairs and peeped into the study where Dick had just lit the lamp and Peterkin lay stretched at his ease before the bright fire. She stole in and sat beside him on the rug and stroked him softly. He purred gently, looking up in her face with so much wisdom in his yellow eyes she felt like telling him about the trouble.

Presently the Spectacle Man came with the evening paper, and was surprised and pleased to see her.

"Mr. Clark," she began, "I have a broken bridge to mend."

"Is that so? I hope it will not give you much trouble."

Frances sighed and put her face down on Peterkin's soft coat for a moment. "I am afraid it will," she said, and then she told the story.

The Spectacle Man listened gravely. "I don't believe the bridge is really broken," he said; "it is only invisible beneath the clouds of anger and unkindness."

Frances drew a very deep breath. "Then what can I do?" she asked.

"How was it in the story?"

"But the young man had a fairy to help him.

"I don't think you need one; love and courage can find a way," said Mr. Clark.

Frances went upstairs very soberly. "Mother, I believe I'll write to Gladys," she said, going at once to her desk. It took a good deal of time and thought, but it was finished at last, and she felt a weight lifted from her heart as she put it in the envelope. This is what she wrote:--

"DEAR GLADYS: I am sorry I behaved so the other day. I was mad
because you said Emma cheated, and I thought I had a right to be;
but I know now I ought not to have been in a passion. It was a
mistake; Emma did play wrong, but she didn't know any better.
Gladys, I have found the moral of the story. The bridge between
you and me is invisible because of the clouds of anger. I want to
find it again, don't you?

"Your friend,
"FRANCES MORRISON."

This note was despatched by Wilson, and bright and early next day Gladys answered it in person. She went to Frances and kissed her. "I am not mad with you any more," she said; "it was nice of you to write that note, and I am sorry I said Emma cheated."

After this, Frances was as merry as a cricket, and went about singing:--

"The bridge is broke and I have to mend it,"

till her mother was forced to beg for a little variety.

Meanwhile the story of "The Missing Bridge," with some changes and additions, and accompanied by two charming illustrations, had gone to seek its fortune in the office of _The Young People's Journal_, and it was no longer a secret that Miss Sherwin was in the habit of writing stories and had already met with considerable success.

Frances thought this a strong bond between them, "For father writes stories too, you know," she would often say.

It was about this time that the first letters, so long waited for, arrived from Honolulu, giving such glowing accounts of the voyage and the climate, and written in such evident good spirits, and so full of love for the two left behind, that they had to be read at least once a day for a week.

CHAPTER TENTH.

THE PORTRAIT AGAIN.

Frances wished very much to go to school, but for several reasons her mother did not think it wise, so she studied at home every morning, going upstairs at twelve o'clock to Miss Sherwin for a drawing lesson.

Emma thought this a delightful arrangement, but Frances looked with envy upon the children who passed, swinging their school bags. "It is because I wasn't strong last winter and mother thinks it wouldn't be good for me to be shut up in a schoolroom, but I shall go next year," she explained.

As the fall weather was beautiful they spent a great deal of time out of doors, and when Mrs. Morrison did not care to go herself she would send Frances with Zenobia for a walk or a ride on the cars, to the delight of the latter, who adored her young charge.

These two were returning from a long walk one cold day, when they met Emma Bond, who said she was going to Mrs. Marvin's with some work, and asked them to go back with her.

"I don't know whether mother would like me to; do you think she would care, Zenobia?" Frances asked.

It was only a short distance, and Zenobia couldn't see any harm in stopping a moment; so they went in with Emma and sat in the hall while she ran upstairs to speak to the housekeeper.

Everything was in perfect order to-day, and Frances gave a little sigh of satisfaction as she looked about her; it was all so warm and beautiful, with a stately sort of beauty that was very impressive. She sat as still as a mouse, listening to the ticking of some unseen clock.

Emma stayed a long time, and presently Frances whispered, "Zenobia, there is a picture I want to see, and I am just going to peep in that door; I'll be back in a minute;" and she stole softly across the hall as if afraid she might break the stillness.

The room she entered was a library, spacious and beautiful; but Frances thought of nothing but the portrait, which in the softened light that came from the curtained windows was more charming than ever.

"Little girl, I wish I knew you," she said half aloud, standing before it, her eyes bright from her walk in the keen air, her cheeks the deepest rose.

On the hearth a wood fire smouldered, breaking into little gleams of flame now and then.

"If you would only come down and talk to me, and tell me who you are," Frances continued under her breath, unconsciously taking the attitude of the picture girl who smiled down on her so brightly.

The fire purred softly, and there was added to this sound after a little a gentle rustle which, though she heard it, seemed so a part of the quiet that she gave it no thought. Then, suddenly, as if she had been awakened from a dream, she became conscious of the presence of some one near her.

Turning, her eyes met those of a very stately person who stood only a few feet away leaning on the back of a chair. She had silvery hair and a proud, handsome face, and for a second or two Frances continued to gaze at her, the two pairs of eyes holding each other as if by some magnetic power.

Then it flashed into Frances' mind that this must be Mrs. Marvin, and the spell was broken. She had come home--and what must she think of a girl who roamed about her house without leave! The child wanted to explain, but words were not easy to find, and the lady did not speak.

"I did not know--" she began, then hesitated and tried again; "I thought--" her throat felt very dry, and she wondered if she had spoken at all. It was so strange and uncomfortable that tears rose to her eyes.

"I wish you would tell me who you are;" the lady spoke in a strange, cold voice.

The feeling that she was not being fairly treated, together with her determination not to cry, made Frances intensely dignified, and it was with a haughtiness almost equal to the lady's own that she replied, "My name is Frances Morrison," and with a movement of her head which seemed to add, "it is useless to try to explain," she turned away.

A singular expression came into the stranger's face; she sat down in the nearest chair. "I wish you would not go," she said; "I am afraid I startled you as much as you did me. Come and tell me how you happen to be here." Her tone was no longer cold, and she held out her hands appealingly.

The smile transformed her face, which was all sweetness and graciousness now, and impulsive little Frances was instantly won. She went quickly to the lady's side, saying in a breathless way she had when excited, "I thought perhaps you did not like it,--but I didn't know any one was here, and I wanted to see the picture again, so while Emma was upstairs I thought I'd just peep in, but I'm sorry--" she paused; evidently her words had not been heard. This strange person held her hands and gazed at her in the oddest way.

"And so you are a real little girl!" she said at length.

The child smiled uneasily, and seeing it, the lady put her arm around her and drew her closer. "Forgive me, dear, for not listening," she said. "You came with--whom?"

Again Frances explained, but perhaps she did not make it very clear, for her companion still looked puzzled.

"Do you live here?" she asked.

"No, we are spending the winter here, mother and I."

"Your mother and you--" the questioner repeated.

"Yes, while father is away; he has gone to Honolulu. We stopped here because mother was ill, and then the _Eastern Review_ wanted father to go to Hawaii, so we thought we'd just stay. We have a flat at the Spectacle Man's--I mean Mr. Clark's--and it is very nice."

"Is it?" The stranger's eyes travelled over the dainty figure. "You will think I am asking a great many questions, but where did you get your name?" she added.

"It was my great-grandmother's. Mother wanted to put Chauncey in. That is father's name, John Chauncey Morrison. Perhaps you have read his stories." Again Frances saw that strange expression in the face before her.

"Do you know who I am?" the lady asked.

"I suppose you are Mrs. Marvin. Emma said you had not come home yet, but that you were coming very soon, and when I saw you I knew who it must be, and-- I hope you'll excuse me," she added, remembering she had offered no apology.

Emma and Zenobia, who had been standing in the door for several minutes, now succeeded in catching Frances' eye. "I must go," she said, "they are waiting for me."

Mrs. Marvin glanced in their direction. "Will you come to see me again?" she asked.

"I don't know whether mother will let me," Frances replied doubtfully.

The lady suddenly took the child's face in her hands and kissed her lips,--such a strange, passionate kiss it was; and then Frances felt herself almost pushed away.

She had hardly any answer for Emma's excited questions, which began as soon as they were outside the door, but walked along with an absent expression that was rather provoking.

"I can't see what makes you so funny, Frances," said her friend.

"Why, Wink, how late you are!" Mrs. Morrison exclaimed, meeting them at the head of the steps, having spent the last half hour at the window.

Frances put her arms around her mother's neck. "Oh, mother, I have seen such a beautiful lady, and she kissed me, and it made me feel like crying!"

By degrees Mrs. Morrison had the whole story, and looked rather grave over it. "I am sorry you went in at all, dear, and it was very wrong to go wandering about the house, even though you thought the owner was away."

"But I don't think she minded; at least she asked me to come again, so I think she must have liked me."

Mrs. Morrison smiled as she kissed her little daughter; she saw nothing improbable in this.

"I think I won't tell Jack about it," she said to herself, "For it would only worry him; but I'll be careful to have it understood that Frances is not to go into any house unless I am with her or have given my permission. It can't happen again. Marvin is not a name I ever heard Jack mention, I am quite sure of that."

CHAPTER ELEVENTH

MRS. MARVIN IS PERPLEXED.

"Jack's little girl! can it be? It is the strangest thing that ever happened to me. I do not understand it." Mrs. Marvin paced restlessly back and forth, an expression of pain and perplexity on her handsome face.

"Why should I care?" she thought; "what is it to me? I gave it all up long ago.-- And yet--that dear little girl--those eyes--a Morrison every inch of her! There can be no mistake, but it is all a mystery how she happened to come here. How weak I am! why should it torture me so? Oh, Jack, Jack!" She hid her face in her hands.

It showed, however, no trace of emotion when half an hour later she encountered her housekeeper in the upper hall.

"Caroline, who is the little girl who came to see you this afternoon?" she asked.

"I suppose it was Emma Bond, Miss Frances; her mother has been hemstitching some pillow cases."

"Do you know anything about the child who was with her? I think she said she lived in the same house."

"I don't know who she is, Miss Frances. She is a pretty child, but I don't remember her name if I ever heard it."

"I saw her and was rather attracted to her. She seemed not quite the sort of child you would expect to find in a tenement house. There was a very respectable looking maid with her."

Caroline smiled. She was a bright-faced Swiss woman who had lived with her mistress for nearly thirty years, knew her thoroughly, and loved her devotedly. She was not deceived by the air of indifference with which the lady moved away; she understood that for some reason her mistress wished to find out all she knew about this little girl.

"It isn't what you'd call a tenement house," she said; "the man who owns it has made it into flats. He lives there himself, and has his shop, and Mrs. Bond keeps house for him. It is a real nice place."

"I fail to see the difference," was the reply; "but, Caroline, why did she think I was Mrs. Marvin? She called me so."

"I don't know, Miss Frances, unless it was Emma Bond's mistake. Her mother did some sewing for Mrs. Marvin when she was staying here."

"Well, Caroline, if you see Mrs. Bond you need not say anything about the mistake. You understand? I have a reason for wishing them to think I am Mrs. Marvin, as in fact I am."

"I should like to know what it means," Caroline said to herself as her mistress walked away.

"This is all very melodramatic and absurd, but I must have time to consider," the lady was thinking as she entered her own room, and closed the door behind her. "I must contrive to see her again."

Going to a cabinet, she took from an inner compartment a box, then she had a long search for the key, and after it was found she sat with the box on her lap gazing absently before her.

It was thirteen--almost fourteen years since she had lifted that lid. She had thought never to open it, unless--well, unless the impossible happened, and now a pair of brown eyes had aroused an irresistible longing to look once more on something that lay hidden there. In vain she told herself it was foolish, idle, worse than childish. She recalled the burning anger and resentment with which she had put the box away so long ago. Yes, and had she not just cause? But the touch of those young lips was still fresh upon her own, and whether she would or not, was carrying her back, back to the dear old days.

There was really very little in it, she reflected, as she began to look over the contents; but a few trifles can mean so much sometimes. There was a light brown curl, some photographs that showed how a certain chubby, dimpled baby had developed into a manly boy of sixteen, a bundle of letters in a schoolboy hand, and down at the very bottom, the thing she was so anxious to see again, a lovely miniature of a boy of seven.

She gazed at it long and earnestly. Such a dear little face! and this afternoon she had seen the same smile, had looked into the same eyes! Jack's daughter! was it possible?

He had called her Frances, too; he had not quite forgotten. It was, of course, a family name, and with all his independence Jack had a great deal of family pride. And the air with which she had said, "Perhaps you have read his stories,"--she could have laughed, but for the pain of the thought that she who had once been first had now no part in his life. Others had the right to be proud of him, but not she.

She closed the lid and put the box away: the past could not be recalled, she must try to forget, as she had tried all these years; but even as she made the resolve her heart was saying, "I must see that child again,--I must, must!"

CHAPTER TWELFTH.

AT CHRISTMAS TIME.

"Hurrah!" said the Spectacle Man, "Mark's coming home for Christmas." He waved a letter above his head as he spoke, and looked as if he might be going to dance a jig.

"Is he? I am very glad," replied Frances, who had run down to speak to the postman, and now paused in the open door of the shop.

"I was really afraid we couldn't manage it, travelling costs so much, but one of his friends has given him a pass. Mark is a great fellow for such things!" Mr. Clark's face beamed with pleasure.

Frances wished she might bring her books and study her lessons in the shop, it was so sunny and cheerful, with Peterkin stretched out in lazy comfort before the fire, his master busy at his work-table over some lenses.

"Mother, do you know it will be Christmas in two weeks?" she asked, as she entered the sitting room; "and Mark is coming home," she added. "Do you think he will be nice?"

"We may as well give him the benefit of any doubt," said Mrs. Morrison, answering the last question. "What do you want to do for Christmas, Wink?"

"What can we do without father?" the little girl exclaimed, thinking of the merrymakings of other years in which he had always been prime mover.