Colonel and girls on beach.Bessie at Sea Side. P. 252.
Bessie at Sea Side. P. 252.
By and by the colonel said he was tired, and thought he would go home. Mr. Bradfordand the other gentlemen said they would go with him, Mr. Bradford telling his little girls to come too.
"In a minute, papa," said Bessie; "my dolly's hat has come off, and I must put it on."
"We'll go on then," said her father; "you can run after us."
The gentlemen walked on, while Bessie began to put on Miss Margaret Horace Rush Bradford's hat.
"Oh, Maggie!" she said, "there's Lily Norris going out in the boat with her father, and mamma said we might ask her to tea. I know she'd yather come with us; you yun ask her, while I put on my dolly's hat, and then I'll come too."
Maggie ran on, leaving Bessie alone. The boy came a little nearer. Bessie put on her doll's hat, and was going after her sister, when she dropped her doll's parasol, and as she stooped to pick it up, she saw the pocket-book.
"Oh, there's my soldier's porte-monnaie!" she said to herself; "I know it is; I'll take itto him. My hands are so full, maybe I'll lose it. I'll put it in my bosom, and then it will be all safe."
She laid doll, parasol, and the little basket she held in her hand upon the rock, picked up the pocket-book, and pulling down the neck of her spencer, slipped it inside. Just at this moment the boy came up to her.
"Give me that," he said.
"What?" asked Bessie, drawing back from him.
"Don't you make believe you don't know,—that pocket-book. It's mine."
"It isn't," said Bessie; "it's the colonel's."
"No, 'taint; it's mine. Hand over now, else I'll make you."
"I sha'n't," said Bessie. "I know it's the colonel's. I've seen it a great many times, and just now he gave Mr. Howard some money out of it for the poor people who lost all their things."
"Are you going to give it to me?" said the boy, coming nearer to her.
"No," said Bessie, "I am not. I am going to give it to the colonel, and I shall tell him what a very naughty boy you are. Why, I'm afraid you're a stealer! Don't you know—"
Bessie was stopped by the boy taking hold of her, and trying to drag away the spencer, beneath which he had seen her slip the pocket-book. Just at this moment Maggie turned her head, to see if Bessie were coming, and saw her struggling in the grasp of the boy. Down went her new doll, happily in a soft place in the sand, where it came to no harm, and forgetting all fear, thinking only of her little sister, she ran back to her help.
"Leave my Bessie be! Leave my Bessie be!" she screamed, flying upon the boy, and fastening with both her hands upon the arm with which he was tearing away the spencer and feeling for the pocket-book, while he held Bessie with the other.
"Let go!" he said, fiercely, between his teeth. But Maggie only held the tighter, screaming,—
"Leave my Bessie be! Oh! papa, papa, do come!"
Both terrified children were now screaming at the top of their voices, and they were heard by their father and the other gentlemen, who turned to see what was the matter. Although they were at a distance, Mr. Bradford saw his little girls were in great trouble. Back he came, as fast as he could, Mr. Howard and Uncle John after him, the colonel, too, as quick as his crutches would carry him.
"Let go!" cried the boy, as he saw Mr. Bradford, letting go his own hold on Bessie, and giving Maggie a furious blow across the face. But fearing he would seize Bessie again, brave little Maggie held fast.
"Take that, then!" said the boy, giving her another and a harder blow.
Maggie fell, striking her head against the edge of the rock, and the boy turned to run before Mr. Bradford reached the spot. But all this time another pair of eyes had been upon him. Four swift feet were comingtoward him, and ever so many sharp teeth were set for a grip of him. While the children had been with their father, Toby, Mr. Jones' great white dog, had been seated on the edge of the bank before the house, watching the people as he was accustomed to do.
Now between Toby and Joe Sands, the boy who tried to take the pocket-book, there was great enmity. Joe never saw Toby without trying to provoke him to a quarrel by making faces at him, and throwing sticks and stones; but though the dog would growl and show his teeth, he had never yet tried to bite him.
This afternoon, the moment Joe appeared, Toby seemed to suspect mischief. He straightened himself up, put his head on one side, cocked up one ear and drooped the other. Toby was not a handsome dog at the best of times, and it was not becoming to him to hold his ears in this fashion. He looked very fierce as he sat thus, but Joe did not see him, or he might have been afraid to meddle with Bessie.
Toby never told whether he saw the colonel drop the pocket-book, but from the minute it fell, he looked all ready for a spring, and never took his eyes from Joe. When the boy spoke to Bessie, he appeared still more uneasy, rose to his feet, snarled, and gave short, angry barks, but did not think it was time to interfere till Joe laid his hand upon the little girl. Then his patience was at an end, and with a furious, rough bark, he rushed over the bank, down the beach, and just as Joe turned to run from Mr. Bradford, seized fast hold of his leg. Happily for Joe, he had on a thick, strong pair of boots; but even through these Toby's teeth came in a way far from pleasant. Not a step could he stir, and in an instant Mr. Bradford and the other gentlemen came up. Mr. Bradford stooped to pick up Maggie, while Mr. Howard collared Joe. Even then Toby would not let go, but gave Joe a good shake, which made him cry out with pain. Poor Maggie was quite stunned for a moment by the blow which Joe had given her, and therewas a bad cut on her head, where it had struck the rock, while one side of her face was much bruised and scratched. But when, a moment after, she came to herself, her first thought was still for Bessie, who was crying loudly with terror and distress for her sister.
"Oh, my Bessie, my Bessie! leave her be!" she said, as she slowly opened her eyes.
"Bessie is safe, my darling," said her father. "She is not hurt at all. My poor little Maggie!" and sitting down on the rock, with her on his knee, he tenderly bound up her head with his handkerchief. By this time, Colonel Rush and two or three more people had come up, and Uncle John went on to the house, to tell Mrs. Bradford what had happened, so that she might not be startled when she saw Maggie.
Mr. Howard kept his hand on Joe's shoulder, but there was not much need, for Toby still held him fast, and if he made the least move, gave him a hint to keep still, which Joe thought it best to mind.
Mr. Bradford carried Maggie to the house, and the rest followed; but it was a long time before any one could make out what had happened. Bessie was too much frightened to tell, Maggie too sick, and Joe too sullen. And Maggie did not know about the pocket-book. All she could tell was, that she had seen Bessie struggling with the boy, and had run to help her. At last Bessie was quieted, and then told the story in her straightforward way, putting her hand in her bosom and pulling out the pocket-book.
"Oh, you villain!" said Mrs. Jones, who was holding the basin while Mrs. Bradford washed the blood from Maggie's face and head. "Oh, you villain! Aint it enough to go robbin' orchards and melon patches, and farmers' wagons market-days, but you must be fighting and knocking down babies like these to get what's not your own? If you don't see the inside of the county jail for this, my name's not Susan Jones. And you'd have been there long ago, only for your poor mother,whose heart ye're breakin' with your bad ways. That's you, Toby, my boy; you know when you've a rascal fast; but you may let him go now, for there's your master, and he will take him in hand."
Mr. Jones was the constable, and Toby knew this quite as well as if he went on two feet instead of four. When Mr. Jones was sent to arrest any one, he always took Toby with him, and it was curious to see how the dog would watch the prisoner, and seem to feel that he had quite as much share as his master in bringing him to be punished for the wicked things he had done. As soon as Mr. Jones came in the room, he let go of Joe, but sat down close to him, ready to take another grip, if he tried to run away.
"And what's to be done about your poor mother?" said Mr. Jones, when he had heard the story. "I shall have to have you up for this. It will go nigh to kill her."
Joe made no answer, only looked more sullen and obstinate than ever.
"Mr. Jones," said Maggie, in a weak little voice, "please take him away; it frightens me to see him."
"I'm going to take him right off where he wont trouble you for one while," said Mr. Jones. "But how is it that you are afraid of him just standing here, and you weren't afraid of him when he was handling you and Bessie so rough?"
"I didn't think about that," said Maggie, "and if I had, I couldn't let anybody do anything to my Bessie. I thought he was going to kill her. Oh, dear! oh, dear!" and Maggie began to cry again; she could not have told why, except that she could not help it.
"Come along," said Mr. Jones, taking hold of Joe's arm.
"Mr. Jones," said Bessie, "are you going to take him to the jail?"
"I am going to take him to the squire, and I guess he'll give him a few days of it. Serve him right too."
"But I'm 'fraid it will break his mother'sheart," said Bessie; "Mrs. Jones said it would."
"He's breakin' his mother's heart fast enough, any way," said Mr. Jones. "Drinkin' and swearin' and stealin' and idlin' round, when he ought to be a help to her, poor, sick body! It isn't goin' to do him nor his mother no harm for him to be shut up for a little while where he can think over his bad ways. He wants bringin' up somewhere, and Toby knows it too."
Toby growled and wagged his tail, as if to say he agreed with Mr. Jones. The growl was for Joe, the wag for his master.
"You surely don't think he ought to be let off," said Mrs. Jones, "when he hurt Maggie that way? Why, she's going to have a black eye, sure as a gun!"
Joe walked away with Toby at his heels. Maggie's head was bound up, and her bruises washed with arnica, and both she and Bessie were petted and comforted.
As for the new doll, which Maggie hadthrown down in her haste to run to her little sister's help, it was picked up by one of the gentlemen, who brought it safe and unbroken to Maggie. To be sure, Miss Bessie Margaret Marion's dress was rather soiled by the wet sand on which she had fallen; but as it was of muslin, it could easily be washed, and Mrs. Jones soon made it quite clean again.
P"PAPA," said Maggie, the next morning, as she sat on his knee at the breakfast-table, leaning her aching little head against his breast,—"papa, is there anything in the paper about our 'sault and battery?"
"About what?"
"Our 'sault and battery," said Maggie. "The other day, Uncle John was reading to Aunt Helen how Mr. King was knocked down, and beaten by a man who didn't like him; and he called it an 'unprovoked 'sault and battery.' I thought that meant when somebody hit somebody that didn't do anything to him."
"So it does," said her father, trying not to smile, "and yours was a most 'unprovoked assault and battery,' my poor little woman; but there is nothing in the paper about it."
"Do you think that there should be?" asked Mrs. Bradford.
"Oh, no, mamma; I'm very glad there isn't. I thought maybe the paper-maker would hear about it, and put it into his paper; and I didn't want people to be reading about Bessie and me. Do you think he would do it another day, papa?"
"I think not, dear; you need not be afraid."
"I don't see what's the reason then," said Harry. "Maggie is a real heroine, and so is Bessie. Why, there isn't a boy at Quam, however big he is, that would dare to fight Joe Sands; and to think of our mite of a Bess standing out against him, and holding fast to the pocket-book, and Maggie running to the rescue!"
"Yes, you little speck of nothing ground down to a point," said Uncle John, catching Bessie up in his arms, "how dared you hold your ground against such a great rough boy as that?"
"Why, it was the colonel's pocket-book,"said Bessie, "and he was going to take it, and it wasn't his; so Ihadto take care of it, you know. I couldn't let him do such a naughty thing."
"They're bricks, both of them," said Harry.
"So they are," said Fred; for both of the boys were very proud of their little sisters' courage; "and Maggie has the right stuff in her, if she is shy. She is a little goose where there is nothing to be afraid of, and a lion where there is."
"Holloa! what is all this heap of pennies for?" asked the colonel, a while after, as he came into Mrs. Jones' parlor, and found Maggie and Bessie, like the famous king, "counting out their money." He had come up the bank and paid them a visit two or three times since Maggie's birthday, so that they were not very much surprised to see him.
"But first tell me how that poor little head and face are, Maggie? Why, you do look as if you'd been to the wars. Never mind, the bruises will soon wear away; and as for thecut, your hair will hide that. It is not every soldier that gets over his scars so easily; and you must not be ashamed of yours while they last. But you have not told me what you are going to do with so much money," he added, when he was comfortably seated in the arm-chair.
"Oh, it isn't much," said Maggie; "it is only a little, and we wish it was a whole lot."
"And what do you and Bessie want with a whole lot of money? I should think you had about everything little girls could wish for."
"Yes, we have," said Bessie, "and we don't want it for ourselves."
"Who for, then?"
"For those poor shipyecked people. Papa and Uncle John have gone over to see them; and mamma and Aunt Helen have gone to the village to buy some flannel and calico to make things for the poor little children who have lost theirs. Mr. Howard says there's a baby there that hasn't anything but a ni'-gown, and no mother, 'cause she was drowned. A sailorman has it, and he's going to take care of it, but he hasn't any clothes for it. And we wanted to help buy things, but we have such a very little money."
"Bessie has such a little, 'cause she spent all hers for my birthday present," said Maggie. "Mamma gives us six cents a week, but it's such a little while since my birthday, Bessie hasn't saved much. I have more than she has, but not a great deal."
"And she wanted mamma to let her hem a pock'-han'kerchief and earn some money," said Bessie, "but she can't, for the doctor says she musn't use her eye while it's so black."
"Well," said the colonel, "I think you two have fairly earned the right to dispose of at least half the money that was in that unfortunate pocket-book. You shall say what shall be done with it."
Maggie looked as if she did not know what to say.
"If you mean, sir," said Bessie, "that you're going to give us half that money, papaand mamma would not like it. They don't allow us to yeceive money from people who are not yelations to us."
"And they are quite right," said the colonel. "I should not like you to do it, if you were my little girls. But I do not mean that I will giveyouthe money, only that I will give it away for any purpose you may choose. Your father and mother can have no objection to that. There were fifty dollars in the pocket-book. Half of that is twenty-five. Now, shall I give it all to the shipwrecked people, or shall I give part to something else?"
"Will you please to 'scuse me if I whisper to Maggie?" said Bessie.
"Certainly," said the colonel.
They whispered together for a minute or two, and then Bessie said, "If you didn't mind it, sir, we would like to give half to Mrs. Sands; she's very poor, and sick too; and she's in such a trouble 'cause Joe's so bad. She has no one to work for her or do anything.Mamma sent Jane to see her, and she told us about her; and we're so very sorry for her."
"Well, you are two forgiving little souls," said the colonel. "Do you want me to give money to the mother of the boy who treated you so?"
"Shedidn't treat us so," said Maggie, "and we would like her to be helped 'cause she's so very poor. She cried about the pocket-book, and she is a good woman. She couldn't help it if Joe was so bad. We can't help being a little speck glad that Joe is shut up, he's such a dangerous boy; and we'd be afraid of him now; but his mother feels very bad about it. So if you want to do what we like with the money, sir, please give half to the baby in the shipwreck, and half to Joe's mother."
"Just as you please," said the colonel; "twelve and a half to the baby, twelve and a half to Mrs. Sands. I shall give the baby's money to Mrs. Rush, and ask her to buy what it needs. Will not that be the best way?"
The children said yes, and were much pleased at the thought that Mrs. Sands and the little orphan baby were to be made comfortable with part of the money which they had saved.
"Now, suppose we go out on the piazza," said the colonel; "Mrs. Rush is there talking to Grandpa Duncan, and I told them I would come out again when I had seen you."
"But there's no arm-chair out there," said Maggie.
"Never mind; the settee will do quite as well for a while."
But when Mrs. Jones happened to pass by, and saw the colonel sitting on the piazza, nothing would do but she must bring out the arm-chair, and make a great fuss to settle him comfortably. Maggie could not help confessing she was very kind, even if she did not always take the most pleasant way of showing it.
"What are you thinking of, Bessie?" asked the colonel, after he had talked to Mr. Duncan for some time.
Bessie was sitting on the piazza step, looking at Toby with a very grave face, as he lay beside her with his head in her lap.
"I am so sorry for Toby," she answered.
"Why, I think he is as well off as a dog can be. He looks very comfortable there with his head in your lap."
"But he hasn't any soul to be saved," said the child.
"He does not know that," said the colonel, carelessly; "it does not trouble him."
"But," said Bessie, "if he had a soul, and knew Jesus died to save it, he would be a great deal happier. It makes us feel so happy to think about that. Isn't that the yeason people are so much better and happier than dogs, grandpa?"
"That's the reason they should be happier and better, dear."
"There are some people who know they have souls to be saved, who don't think about it, and don't care if Jesus did come to die for them; are there not, grandpa?" said Maggie.
"Yes, Maggie, there are very many such people."
"Then they can't be happy," said Bessie,—"not as happy as Toby, for he don't know."
"I don't believe Joe thinks much about his soul," said Maggie.
"I am afraid not," answered Mr. Duncan.
"Grandpa," said Bessie, "if people know about their souls, and don't care, I don't think they are much better than Toby."
"But, grandpa," said Maggie, "Toby behaves just as if he knew some things are naughty, and other things right. How can he tell if he has no soul? How did he know it was naughty for Joe to steal the pocket-book; and what is the reason he knows Susie must not go near the fire nor the cellar stairs?"
"It is instinct which teaches him that," said grandpa.
"What is that?"
"We cannot tell exactly. It is something which God has given to animals to teach themwhat is best for themselves and their young. It is not reason, for they have no soul nor mind as men, women, and children have; but by it some animals, such as dogs and horses, often seem to know what is right and wrong. It is instinct which teaches the bird to build her nest. I am an old man, and I suppose you think I know a great deal, but if I wanted to build a house for my children, I would not know how to do it unless I were shown. But little birdie, untaught by any one,—led only by the instinct which God has given her,—makes her nest soft and comfortable for her young. It is instinct which teaches Toby to know a man or a boy who is to be trusted from one who is not; which makes him keep Susie from creeping into danger when he is told to take care of her."
"And, grandpa," said Bessie, "Toby had an instinct about our baby, too. The other day, when nurse left her asleep in the cradle, and went down stairs for a few minutes, she woke up and fretted. Toby heard her, andwent down stairs, and pulled nurse's dress, and made her come up after him to baby."
"Yes, that was his instinct," said Mr. Duncan. "He knew that baby wanted to be taken up, and that nurse should come to her."
"He did such a funny thing the other day," said Maggie, "when Fred played him a trick. You know he brings Mr. Jones' old slippers every evening, and puts them by the kitchen door, so Mr. Jones can have them all ready when he comes from his work. You tell it, Bessie, it hurts my face to speak so much."
"Well," said Bessie, who was always ready to talk, "Fred took the slippers, and hid them in his trunk, 'cause he wanted to see what Toby would do. Toby looked and looked all over, but the poor fellow could not find them. So at last he brought an old pair of yubber over-shoes, and put them by the kitchen door. Then he went away and lay down behind the door, and he looked so 'shamed, and so uncomf'able, Maggie and Ifelt yeal sorry for him, and we wanted to show him where the slippers were, but we didn't know ourselves, and Fred wouldn't tell us. Then Fred called him ever so many times, but he was very cross, and growled, and would not go at all till Fred said, 'Come, old dog, come, get the slippers.' Then he came out and yan after Fred, and we all yan, and it was so funny to see him. He was so glad, and he pulled out the slippers and put them in their place, and then he took the old yubbers and put them in the closet, and lay down with his paws on the slippers, as if he thought somebody would take them away again. And now Mrs. Jones says that every morning he hides them in a place of his own, where no one can find them but his own self. I think that is very smart; don't you, grandpa?"
"Very smart," said Mr. Duncan; "Toby is a wise dog."
"But, grandpa, don't Toby have conscience, too, when he knows what's good and what's naughty? Mamma says it's conscience thattells us when we're good, and when we're naughty."
"No, dear; Toby has no conscience. If he knows the difference between right and wrong in some things, it is partly instinct, partly because he has been taught. Conscience is that which makes us afraid of displeasing God, and breaking his holy laws, but Toby feels nothing of this. He is only afraid of displeasing his master; he has neither love nor fear of One greater than that master, for he does not know there is such a wise and holy being. If Toby should steal, or do anything wrong, God would not call him to account for it, because he has given to the dog no soul, no conscience, no feeling of duty to his Maker."
"Grandpa," said Bessie, "don't you mean that if Toby is naughty, God will not punish him when he dies, 'cause he didn't know about him?"
"Yes, dear; for Toby there is neither reward nor punishment in another world. For him, there is no life to come."
"Grandpa," said Maggie, "where will Toby's instinct go when he dies?"
"It will die with the dog. It is mortal; that is, it must die; but our souls are immortal; they will go on living for ever and ever, either loving and praising God through all eternity, or sinking down to endless woe and suffering. Toby is a good, wise, faithful dog, and knows a great deal, but the weakest, the most ignorant boy or girl—that poor idiot you saw the other day—is far better, of far more value in the sight of God, for he has a soul; and to save that precious soul, our Lord left his heavenly home, and died upon the cross. Think what a soul is worth when it needed that such a price be paid for its salvation!"
"I can't help being sorry for Toby, 'cause he has no soul," said Bessie; "but I'm a great deal sorrier for those people that don't think about their souls, and go to Jesus to be saved. How can they help it, when they know he wants them to come? Grandpa, don't they feel ungrateful all the time?"
"I am afraid not, Bessie. If they do not feel their need of a Saviour, they do not feel their ingratitude."
Bessie was silent for a minute or two, and sat gazing for a while far away over the water, with the thoughtful look she so often had in her eyes, and then she said slowly, as if speaking to herself,—
"I wonder if they think about for ever and ever and ever."
No one answered her. Not a word had the colonel said since Bessie had said that she thought those who did not care for their souls were no better than Toby; but he sat with his eyes sometimes on her, sometimes on the dog, and his face, which was turned from his wife and Mr. Duncan, had a vexed, troubled look. Mrs. Rush had often seen that look during the last few days, and now she guessed it was there, even though she did not see it. But, presently, when the carriage was seen coming back with Mrs. Bradford and Mrs. Duncan, he drove it away, and was soon laughing and talking as usual.
NNURSE and Jane had taken all the children for a long walk. About a mile up the shore lived the woman who took in Mrs. Bradford's washing. Mrs. Bradford wished to send her a message, and told Jane to go with it. There were two ways by which this house could be reached: one by the shore, the other by a road which ran farther back, part of the way through the woods. About a quarter of a mile this side of the washer-woman's, it turned off nearer to the shore; and here it was crossed by the brook, which also crossed the road to the station. It was wider here, and deeper, and ran faster towards the sea. Over it was built a rough bridge. Two beams were laid from bank to bank; on these were placed large round logs, a foot or two apart, and above these were theplanks, with a miserable broken rail. It was a pretty place though, and the walk to it was shady and pleasant,—pleasanter than the beach on a warm day.
Nurse said she would walk to the bridge with the children, and rest there, while Jane went the rest of the way. When Harry and Fred heard this, they said they would go too, for the brook was a capital place to fish for minnows. So they all set off, the boys carrying their fishing-rods and tin pails.
But when they reached the bridge, they found there would be no fishing. The rains of the great storm a few days ago had swollen the brook very much, and there had been several heavy showers since, which had kept it full, so it was now quite a little river, with a muddy current running swiftly down to the sea. The tiny fish were all hidden away in some snug hole, and the boys knew it was of no use to put out their lines.
"Oh, bother!" said Harry. "I thought the water would be lower by this time. Nevermind, we'll have some fun yet, Fred. Let's go in and have a wade!"
"I don't believe father would let us," said Fred. "He said we must not the day before yesterday, and the water is as high now as it was then."
"Let's go back, then," said Harry. "I don't want to stay here doing nothing."
"No," said Fred. "Let's go on with Jane to the washer-woman's. She has a pair of guinea-fowls, with a whole brood of young ones. Bessie and I saw them the other day, when Mr. Jones took us up there in his wagon. We'll go and see them again."
Maggie and Bessie asked if they might go too, but nurse said it was too far. Bessie did not care much, as she had seen the birds once, but Maggie was very much disappointed, for she had heard so much of the guinea-fowls, that she was very anxious to have a look at them. So Jane said, if nurse would let her go, she would carry her part of the way. So at last nurse said she might. Then Franky saidhe wanted to go too, but he was pacified by having a stick with a line on the end of it given to him, with which he thought he was fishing.
A tree which had been blown down by the gale lay near the bridge, and on this nurse sat down with baby on her knee, and Bessie and Franky beside her. Franky sat on the end of the log, toward the water, where he was quite safe, if he sat still, and nurse meant to keep a close eye on him. But something happened which made her forget him for a moment or two.
"And I'll tell you Cinderella," said nurse to Bessie, as the others went off.
"I'd yather hear about when you were a little girl on your father's farm," said Bessie.
Nurse liked to talk of this, so she began to tell Bessie of the time when she was young, and lived at home in far-off England. Bessie had heard it all very often, but she liked it none the less for that. Franky sat still, now and then pulling up his line, and saying,"Not one fis!" and then throwing it out again.
Suddenly the sound of wheels was heard, and looking round, they saw Miss Adams' pony carriage, with the lady driving, and the little groom behind.
Several times since the day when Miss Adams had teased Bessie, and Bessie had called her a kitchen lady, she had shown a wish to speak to the little girl; but she could never persuade her to come near her. Once or twice, as Bessie was passing through the hall of the hotel, Miss Adams had opened her door and called to her in a coaxing voice; but Bessie always ran off as fast as possible, without waiting to answer. As Miss Adams passed, she nodded, drove on a little way, and then turned back. She pulled in her horses close to nurse and Bessie. Baby crowed and shook her little hands at the carriage. It was a pretty affair, the low basket, softly cushioned, the black ponies with their bright, glittering harness, and the jaunty groom in hisneat livery; but Bessie had no wish to get in it when Miss Adams said, "Come, Bessie, jump in and take a ride."
"No, thank you, ma'am," said Bessie, drawing closer to nurse.
"Yes, come," said Miss Adams, coaxingly. "I'll give you a nice ride, and bring you back quite safe to your nurse, or take you home, as you like."
"I'd yather not," said Bessie, taking hold of nurse's dress, as if she feared Miss Adams might take her off by force.
"You don't know how pleasant it is," said Miss Adams,—"come."
"I don't want to yide," said Bessie.
All this time nurse had been looking very grim. She was quite an old woman, and had lived in the family a great many years, for she had taken care of Mrs. Bradford herself when she was a little girl. She loved her and her children dearly, and would have done anything in the world for them, and if any one brought harm or trouble to her nurslings, sheruffled up her feathers like an old hen, and thought herself at liberty to do or say anything she pleased.
"And she wouldn't be let, if she did want to," she said sharply to Miss Adams.
The young lady looked at the old woman with a sparkle in her eye.
"I'll take the baby, too, if you like," she said, mischievously; "I can drive quite well with her on my lap, and Bessie can sit beside me."
"My baby!" said nurse, who seemed to think the baby her own special property,—"my baby! Do you think I'd risk her neck in a gimcrack like that? There isn't one of them I'd trust a hand's breadth with ye, not if ye was to go down on your bended knees."
"I'm not likely to do that," said Miss Adams, turning round and driving off once more, "Well, good-by, Bessie, since you wont come."
She had gone but a short distance, when she drew in the ponies again, jumped out, tossedthe reins to the groom, and ran back to the bridge. "Bessie," she said, "I want to speak to you; will you come over on the other side of the road?"
Bessie looked as shy as Maggie might have done. "No, ma'am," she answered.
"But I have something very particular to say to you, and I shall not tease or trouble you at all. Come, dear, that is a good child. If you do not, I shall think you are angry with me still."
"No, I'm not," said Bessie. "Well, I'll go."
"Not with my leave," said nurse. "If you have anything to say, just say it here, miss. You can't have anything to tell this child her old nurse can't hear."
"Yes, I have," said Miss Adams. "Come, Bessie. I shall not pull your hair. I want to speak to you very much. Don't you wish to do as you would be done by?"
"I think I'd better go; bett'n't I?" said Bessie. "I don't want her to think I'm angry yet."
"Sit ye still," said nurse, without looking at Miss Adams. "I sha'n't let ye go to have I know not what notions put into your head."
Miss Adams looked vexed, and bit her lip, then she laughed. "Now, don't be cross, nurse. I am not going to say anything to Bessie which you or her mother would not approve."
"Maybe," said nurse, dryly.
"And if Mrs. Bradford were here, I am sure she would let Bessie come."
"Maybe," said nurse again, beginning to trot baby rather harder than she liked.
Miss Adams stood tapping the toe of her gaiter with her riding whip. "I promise you," she said, "that I will let her come back to you in a moment or two, and that I will not do the least thing which could trouble or tease her."
"Promises and fair words cost nothing," said nurse.
"How dare you say that to me?" she said, losing her temper at last. "Whatever else Imay have done, I have never yet broken my word! Bessie,"—she said this in a softer tone,—"don't think that of me, dear. I would not say what was not true, or break a promise, for the world." Then to nurse again: "You're an obstinate old woman, and—Look at that child!"
These last words were said in a startled tone and with a frightened look.
Nurse turned her head, started up, and then stood still with fear and amazement. Finding himself unnoticed, Master Franky had concluded that he had sat quiet long enough, and slipping off his stone, he had scrambled up the bank and walked upon the bridge. About the centre of this he found a broken place in the railing through which he put the stick and line with which he was playing to fish. Putting his head through after it, he saw that it did not touch the water and that just in front of him was the projecting end of one of the logs. Here, he thought, he could fish better, and slipping through, hewas now where Miss Adams told nurse to look at him, stooping over, with one fat hand grasping the railing and with the other trying to make his line touch the water. The bridge was four or five feet above the stream, and although a fall from it might not have been very dangerous for a grown person, a little child like Franky might easily have been swept away by the current, which was deepest and swiftest where he was standing.
"Don't speak," said Miss Adams, hastily, and darting round to the other side of the bridge, she walked directly into the water, and stooping down, passed under the bridge and came out under the spot where Franky stood. As she had expected, the moment he saw her, he started and fell, but Miss Adams was ready for him. She caught him in her arms, waded through the water, and placed him safe and dry on the grass.
"Oh, you naughty boy!" said nurse, the moment she had done so, "what am I to do with you now?"
"Nosin' at all; Franky dood boy. Didn't fall in water."
"And whose fault is that I should like to know," said Miss Adams, laughing and shaking her dripping skirts, "you little monkey? I do not know but I should have done better to let you fall into the water and be well frightened before I pulled you out."
"Franky not frightened; Franky brave soldier," said the child.
"You're a mischievous monkey, sir," said the young lady.
"That he is," said nurse, speaking in a very different way from that in which she had spoken before. "And where would he have been now but for you and the kind Providence which brought you here, miss? What would I have done, with the baby in my arms and he standing there? I'd never have thought of catching him that way. It was right cute of you, miss."
"I saw it was the only way," said Miss Adams. "I knew he would be off that slippery log if he was startled."
"I thank you again and again, miss," said the nurse, "and so will his mother; there's your beautiful dress all spoiled."
"Oh! that's nothing," said Miss Adams, giving her dress another shake; "it was good fun. But now, when I have saved one of your chickens from a ducking, you cannot think I would hurt the other if you let me have her for a moment."
"Surely I will," said nurse; "but you are not going to stand and talk in such a pickle as that? You'll catch your death of cold."
"No fear," said Miss Adams, "I am tough. Come now, Bessie." She held out her hand to the little girl, and now that she had saved her brother, she went with her willingly. She was not afraid of her any more, though she wondered very much what the lady could have to say to her which nurse might not hear.
"You'll excuse me for speaking as I did before, miss, but I'm an old woman, and cross sometimes, and then you see—" Nurse hesitated.
"Yes, I see. I know I deserved it all," said Miss Adams, and then she led Bessie to the other side of the road. "Suppose I lift you up here, Bessie; I can talk to you better." She lifted her up and seated her on the stone wall which ran along the road.
"Now," she said, leaning her arms upon the wall, "I want to ask you something."
"I know what you want to ask me," said Bessie, coloring.
"What is it, then?"
"You want me to say I'm sorry 'cause I said that to you the other day, and I am sorry. Mamma said it was saucy. But I didn't mean to be saucy. I didn't know how to help it, you asked me so much."
"You need not be sorry, Bessie. I deserved it, and it was not that I was going to speak about. I wanted to ask you to forgive me for being so unkind to you. Will you?"
"Oh, yes, ma'am! I did forgave you that day, and mamma told me something which made me very sorry for you."
"What was it? Would she like you to repeat it?"
"I guess she wont care. She said your father and mother died when you were a little baby, and you had a great deal of money, more than was good for you, and you had no one to tell you how to take care of it; so if you did things you ought not to, we ought to be sorry for you, and not talk much about them."
Miss Adams stood silent a moment, and then she said, slowly,—
"Yes, if my mother had lived, Bessie, I might have been different. I suppose I do many things I should not do if I had a mother to care about it; but there is no one to care, and I don't know why I should myself. I may as well take my fun."
"Miss Adams," said Bessie, "hasn't your mother gone to heaven?"
"Yes, I suppose so," said the young lady, looking a little startled,—"yes, I am sure of it. They say she was a good woman."
"Then don't she care up there?"
"I don't know. They say heaven is a happy place. I should not think my mother could be very happy even there, if she cared about me and saw me now."
"Do you mean she wouldn't like to see you do those things you say you ought not to do?"
"Yes."
"Then why don't you do things that will make her happy? I would try to, if my mother went to heaven."
"What would you do?"
"I don't know," said Bessie.
"I suppose you would not pull little girls' hair, or tease them, or behave like a kitchen lady."
"Please don't speak of that any more," said Bessie, coloring.
"And your mother thinks I have too much money; does she? Well, I do not know but I have, if having more than I know what to do with is having too much."
"Why don't you give some away?" Bessie asked.
"I do, and then am scolded for it. I drove down the other day to take some to those shipwrecked people, and the next day Mr. Howard came to me with his long face and told me I had done more harm than good; for some of them had been drinking with the money I gave them, and had a fight and no end of trouble. That is always the way. I am tired of myself, of my money, and everything else."
Bessie did not know what to make of this odd young lady, who was talking in such a strange way to her, but she could not help feeling sorry for her as she stood leaning on the wall with a tired, disappointed look on her face, and said these words in a troubled voice.
"Miss Adams," she said, "why don't you ask our Father in heaven to give you some one to take care of you and your money, and to make you—" Bessie stopped short.
"Well," said Miss Adams, smiling, "to make me what?"
"I am afraid you would not like me to sayit," said Bessie, fidgeting on her hard seat. "I think I had better go to nurse."
"You shall go, but I would like to hear what you were going to say. To make me what?"
"To make you behave yourself," said Bessie, gravely, not quite sure she was doing right to say it.
But Miss Adams laughed outright, then looked grave again.
"There are plenty of people would like to take care of my money, Bessie, and there are some people who try, or think they try, to make me behave myself; but not because they care for me, only because they are shocked by the things I do. So I try to shock them more than ever."
Bessie was sure this was not right, but she did not like to tell Miss Adams so.
"But I am sorry I shocked you, Bessie, and made you think me no lady. Now tell me that you forgive me, and shake hands with me. I am going away to-morrow, and may never see you again."
Bessie put her little hand in Miss Adams', and lifted up her face to her.
"I'll kiss you now," she said, "and I'm sorry I wouldn't that day."
The young lady looked pleased, and stooping, she kissed her two or three times, then took her hand to lead her back to nurse. Nurse was just rising from her seat and looking anxiously up at the sky.
"There's a cloud coming over the sun," she said; "I'm afraid it is going to rain."
"I expect it is," said Miss Adams; "I saw there was a shower coming as I drove down the hill, but I did not think it would be here for some time yet."
Just then the boys and Jane came running up to them, Jane carrying Maggie in her arms.
"Oh, nursey!" called Maggie, "it's going to gust. We thought you would be gone home. Why, there's Miss Adams!"—and Maggie stopped. Not only she, but all the rest of the party were very much surprised tosee Miss Adams standing there, and seeming so friendly with Bessie and nurse. But there was no time to say anything.
There was indeed a gust coming. The edge of a black cloud was just showing itself over the woods which had hidden it till now from nurse.
"Make haste!" cried Harry; "I never saw a cloud come up so fast."
"Quick, nurse!" said Miss Adams; "jump into the pony carriage with the little ones, and we will be home in less than no time. Quick, now!"
Nurse made no objections now to the "gimcrack." She thought of nothing but how to get her babies home before the storm should overtake them. She bundled into the carriage with baby, while Miss Adams, laughing as if she enjoyed the fun, packed in Maggie, Bessie, and Franky beside her. "Hurry up, now, Tip!" she said to the groom, and giving the ponies a crack with her whip, away they dashed down the road.
"Now, boys, try if we can outrun the clouds. See who'll be first at the bend in the road. One, two, three, and away!" and off she went, with Fred and Harry after her, while Jane stood still for a moment in amazement at the pranks of this strange young lady, and then followed as fast as her feet could carry her.
Meanwhile, on went the carriage with its precious load, nurse, as soon as they were fairly started, wishing they were all out again, and every minute begging Tip to drive carefully, and not upset them, to which he did not pay the least attention. But they reached home without accident, and found papa and Uncle John setting out to meet them.
It was growing very dark now. The black cloud had covered nearly the whole sky, and a white line was moving swiftly along the water, showing that a furious wind was sweeping over the waves. In another minute they were in the house, and right glad was the anxious mother to see her little ones.
"But where are Harry and Fred?" she said; "and how came you home in that?" looking at the carriage.
"Miss Adams sent us," said Maggie, "and the boys are coming with her."
"And she didn't let him fall in, mamma," said Bessie, "and she is all wet. But she only laughed. She's been talking to me, and I was sorry for her, and she's sorry 'cause she pulled my hair. I kissed her, so we are friends now."
"Miss Adams!" said Mrs. Bradford, in great surprise.
"Yes, ma'am, Miss Adams," said nurse, giving baby to her mother, "and surely I think she's turned over a new leaf. She's been talking to Bessie as tame as a lamb, and making friends with her, and that after me giving her a piece of my mind. And she saved that boy there (oh, you naughty fellow!) from drowning; for what could I have done?"
"Saved my boy from drowning!" said Mrs. Bradford, turning pale.
Then nurse told how Miss Adams' presence of mind had saved Franky from a fall, and probably from being carried away and drowned. Just as she finished her story, the young lady and the boys came up.
Mr. and Mrs. Bradford went out on the piazza, to meet Miss Adams, but she did not mean to come in, nor could she be persuaded to do so, though the large drops of rain were beginning to plash heavily down; nor would she listen to any thanks from Mrs. Bradford.
"But you are heated with your run," said Mrs. Bradford, "come in and have some dry clothes. You will be drenched in this pouring rain, and will take cold."
"No fear," said Miss Adams, laughing. "The second wetting will do me no harm; nothing ever hurts me. Good-by. Good-by, dear little Bessie." She stooped to kiss her, and running down the bank, snatched the reins from the groom, jumped into the carriage, and kissing her hand, drove away through all the rain.
"Strange, wild girl," said Mrs. Bradford, with a sigh, as she turned into the house.
"But there must be some good in her, mamma, when she gave up her carriage to the children, and walked or rather ran all the way here," said Harry; "and she didn't seem to think she'd done anything at all. How she did scud though! I don't like to see a woman act the way she does, and I can't quite forgive her about Carlo and Bessie; but I do think there's some good in her."
"Ah, Harry," said his mother. "There is some good in every one, if we only knew how to find it."
B"BESSIE," said Harry, as the children were at their supper, and he saw his little sister sitting with her spoon in her hand and her eyes fixed on the table as if she had forgotten the bread and butter and berries before her,—"Bessie, what are you thinking of."
"Of Miss Adams," said the little girl.
"Nurse said she was talking to you ever so long," said Fred; "what was she saying?"
"I don't think she meant me to talk about it," said Bessie; "she didn't want nurse to hear, and so I shall only tell mamma and Maggie. You know I must tell mamma everything, and I couldn't help telling my own Maggie."
"She is a queer dick," said Fred, "pulling your hair, and tormenting you out of yourlife one time, and telling you secrets another. The idea of a grown woman telling secrets to a little snip like you!"
"No snip about it!" said Maggie; "and if I was everybody, I'd tell Bessie every one of my secrets."
"That's right, Maggie. You always stand up for Bessie and fight her battles; don't you?"
"But, Bessie," said Harry, "did Miss Adams tell you you mustn't repeat what she said?"
"No," said Bessie.
"Then there's no harm in telling."
"Oh, Harry!" said Fred. "If Bessie knows Miss Adams don't want her to talk about it, she ought not to tell any more than if she had promised; ought she, father?"
"Certainly not," said Mr. Bradford; "it would be unkind as well as dishonorable."
"Yes," said Maggie; "it is not to do to others as I would that they should do to me."
"Exactly, little woman," said her father,"and remember, dear children, that is a very safe rule to be guided by, when we do not feel sure whether a thing is fair or not."
"Bessie," said Fred, "tell us what ails the colonel. I suppose you know, for all the grown-uppers seem to be telling you their secrets."
"Why, that's not a secret! His leg is cut off."
"Don't think I don't know that. I mean, what makes him so grumpy? He isn't like the same fellow he was when he first came down here."
"Fred," said Bessie, giving him a reproving look, "you're not polite at all to talk that way about my soldier. He's not a fellow, only boys are fellows, and he's a big gentleman. And he's not that other thing you called him,—I sha'n't say it, because it is a very ugly word."
"And it's saucy to say it about the colonel," said Maggie.
"I don't care," said Fred. "It's true;isn't it, Hal? He used to be the best company in the world,—always ready to tell us boys stories by the hour, and full of his fun and jokes. But for the last few days he has been as solemn as an owl, with no fun to be had out of him, and if one can get him to talk, it always seems as if he were thinking of something else. He's as cross as a bear too. Now don't fire up, Bess; it's so. Starr, his man, says he was never half so impatient or hard to please all the time he was sick as he has been for the last ten days."
"Fred," said Mrs. Bradford, "you should not talk to a servant of his master's faults."
"He didn't, mother," said Harry,—"at least, not in a way you would think wrong. The colonel was dreadfully dull and out of sorts the other day, though he declared that nothing ailed him, and seemed quite provoked that we should ask, though any one could see with half an eye that something was the matter. Starr was hanging round, bringing him this and that, books and newspapers, coaxing himto have something to eat or drink. At last he asked him if there wasnothinghe could do for him, and the colonel thundered at him and said, 'Yes, leave me alone.' Then he got himself up on his crutches and went off, and would not let Starr help him. The man looked as if he had lost every friend he had in the world. So Fred told him he didn't believe the colonel meant anything. Starr said he was sure he did not, for he was the best master that ever lived. But he was troubled about it, for he was sure that something was wrong with him. Fred said perhaps his wounds pained him worse; but Starr said no, the wounds were doing nicely, and the colonel was not a man to make a fuss about them if they did pain him, for all the time he was suffering so dreadfully that no one thought he could live, he never heard a complaint or a groan from him. And it was then he said the colonel was far harder to please, and more impatient than when he was so ill."
"Maybe he wants to get back to his regiment," said Fred.
"No, it is not that,—at least, Mrs. Rush says it is not; for this morning, when I was standing in the hall, the doctor came out of the room with Mrs. Rush, and he said her husband had something on his mind, and asked if he were fretting to be with his regiment. And she said, 'Oh, no, the colonel never frets himself about that which cannot be.'"
"Didn't she tell him what it was?" asked Fred.
"No, but I guess she, too, thinks there's something wrong with him, for the doctor told her she must not let anything worry him, and she did not say a word. And when he went, and she turned to go back to her room, her face was so very sad."
"She's just the sweetest little woman that ever was made," said Fred, who was a great admirer of Mrs. Rush, "and I don't know what he can have to make him fret. I should think he had everything a man could want."
"Except the one great thing," said Grandpapa Duncan, in a low voice to himself.
Mr. Bradford, who had been listening to what his children were saying, but had not spoken, now walked out on the piazza, where he stood watching the clearing away of the storm. In a moment or two Bessie followed him, and silently held out her arms to him to be taken up.
"Papa," she said, as he lifted her, "do you think my soldier has a trouble in his mind?"
"I think he has."
"Wont you help him, papa?" said Bessie, who, like most little children, thought her father able to help and comfort every one.
"I could only show him where he could find help, my darling, and I do not think he cares to have me tell him."
"Then is there no one that can help him, papa?"
"Yes, there is One who can give him all the help he needs."
"You mean the One who lives up there?" said Bessie, pointing to the sky.
"Yes. Will my Bessie pray that her friendmay receive all the help he needs from that great merciful Father?"
"Oh, yes, papa, and you'll ask him, and my soldier will ask him, and he'll be sure to listen; wont he?"
Mr. Bradford did not tell his little girl that the colonel would not ask such aid for himself; he only kissed her and carried her in. Bessie did not forget her friend that night when she said her evening prayers.
Maggie and Bessie went over to the hotel the next morning with their mother. After making a visit to their grandma, they thought they would go to see the colonel, so they ran away to his room. Mrs. Rush was there busy, and she told them the colonel was out on the piazza. He was reading the newspaper, but threw it down when they came, and was very glad to see them. Bessie looked at him earnestly, to see if she could see any signs of trouble about him. But he seemed much as usual, laughing and talking pleasantly with them. But she could not forget what Harryhad said, and she turned her eyes so often upon him with a questioning look that he noticed it, and said, "Well, my pet, what is it? What do you want to know?"
"Does something trouble you?" asked Bessie.
"Trouble me!" he repeated. "What should trouble me?"
"I don't know," she answered; "but I thought maybe something did."
"What have I to trouble me?" he again asked, carelessly. "Have I not the dearest little wife and two of the dearest little friends in the world, as well as pretty much everything else a reasonable man could want? To be sure, another leg would be a convenience, but that is a small matter, and we will see what Palmer can do for me one of these days; he will make me as good as new again."
Bessie was not quite satisfied. Though the colonel spoke so gayly, she felt sure there had been something wrong, if there was not now. She still watched him wistfully, and the colonel,looking into her loving eyes, said, "If I were in any trouble, you would help me out of it, Bessie; would you not?"
"If I could," she answered; "but I couldn't do very much, I'm too little. But we know who can help us; don't we? and we can tell Him. Mamma has a book named 'Go and tell Jesus.' Aint that a pretty name? I asked her to read it to me, and she said I couldn't understand it now. When I am older, she will; but I can understand the name, and I like to think about it when I have been naughty or have a trouble."
"May your troubles never be worse than they are now, little one," said the colonel fondly, with a smile; "and one of your troubles is done with, Bessie. Do you know that your enemy, Miss Adams, is gone?"
"Oh, she is not my enemy any more," said Bessie; "we are friends now, and I am glad of it, for I don't like to be enemies with people."
"Ho, ho!" said the colonel. "How did that come about? I thought she wanted tomake it up with you, but I did not see how it was to come about when you were off like a lamp-lighter every time she came near you."
Then Bessie told how Miss Adams' presence of mind had saved Franky from falling into the stream, "And then we talked a little," she said, "and I told her I was sorry I had been saucy, and kissed her, and so we are all made up."
"That was the way; was it?" said the colonel. "I do not think you were the one to ask pardon."
"Oh, she did too," said Bessie; "she said she was sorry she teased me."
"And what else did she say?"
"I don't think she meant me to talk about it, 'cause she didn't want nurse to hear."
"Then I wont ask you, honorable little woman."
"And she sent us home in the pony-carriage when the rain was coming, and ran all the way to our house herself, and mamma was very much obliged to her," said Maggie.
"Well," said the colonel, "I suppose I shall have to forgive her too, since she saved you from a wetting, and took a bad cold in your service. We all wondered how she came to be so drenched, but she would not tell us how it happened."
"Did she take cold?" asked Maggie. "Mamma said she would, but she said nothing ever hurt her."
"Something has hurt her this time. They say she was really ill when she went away this morning, and some of the ladies tried to persuade her to wait until she was better. But go she would, and go she did. Here comes Mrs. Rush to take me for a walk. Will you go with us?"
The children were quite ready, and, mamma's permission gained, they went off with their friends.
But although this was the last they saw of Miss Adams, it was not the last they heard of her. Mrs. Bradford was right. Miss Adams had been wet to the knees in the brook, andmuch heated by her long run; and then again thoroughly drenched in the rain, and when she reached home, the foolish girl, for the sake of making people wonder at her, would not change her clothes. She took a violent cold, but, as the colonel had said, insisted on travelling the next morning, and went on till she was so ill that she was forced to give up. She had a long illness, from which it was thought she would never recover, but she afterwards said that this was the happiest thing that had ever happened to her in her life.
Sometime after this, about Christmas time, came a letter and a little parcel to Bessie. The letter said,—