“Then, papa, this is what you mean when you say, this world is a state of trial; for it is not only a trial when we are poor and miserable, but when we are rich and happy—I never thought of that before, but then we can never be at peace, papa, nor enjoy being happy.”
“Yes, my child, we can be so, by endeavouring to bring eternity more constantly before us, and by giving to things present only their proper value: this will not prevent our enjoying them where consistent with duty, but will prevent our feeling as if all were lost when they are taken away; for God has promised to ‘keep him in perfect peace, whose mind is stayed on Him.’ If we could only keep constantly in mind, that every event, whether happy or mournful, if properly received, will work together for our everlasting good, we should indeed enjoy ‘that peace which passeth all understanding.’ Go then, my dear child, and enjoy the many blessings which surround you, with a grateful heart.”
“Yes, papa, I will go to Charles, and tell him you have made me well again: he thinks I am ill, which will make him sorry, for you don’t know what a kind brother he is to me, and I like him so very much; he is one of my blessings, and I think he will work for good, for he always tells me what is right—good-bye, papa.”
THE young people were all impatience next morning to visit Peggy Dobie’s cottage. They met Mr. Howard returning from it, who told them they would find Peggy much recovered. He had found her up, sitting by the fire reading her Bible, and full of gratitude and thanksgiving for the blessings which surrounded her.
“My bairns,” she said as they entered, and she closed her Bible and laid aside her spectacles, “you have come at the right moment—I hae been giving praise to Him that has lifted me out o’ my sair tribulations, and it is here I hae found the words, and noo may He put into my heart what I should say to you; how can I ever thank you enough for all I see about me, for all you have done for me?”
“You need not thank us, Peggy,” Leila answered; “for we are as happy as you are; and it is so joyful that you should be alive, and so wonderful, that we can scarce believe it;—and so you like your house?”
“Like it, Miss Leila! ’deed that’s no’ the word to testify my wonderment at all I see around me. I hae been looking at that cupboard, wi’ all the tumblers and glasses sparkling and shining like a leddy dressed out in her diamonds, and praying that my auld head may not be turned all the gether wi’ the vanities o’ life; but to feel that I hae come to sic a haven o’ rest, to lie down on that bed last night, and to think it was my ain; to think that I am no longer a wanderer on the face o’ the earth, without a covering to my auld head, or a friend to speak the word o’ comfort to my crushed spirit—no, it’s no’ just at ance that I can get into a measure o’ composedness for sic a change as this. I am in a bewilderment o’ joy and gratitude—and there’s Dash, bonnie man, wagging his tail, and aye looking in my face; he is telling me we are in the land o’ Canaan noo. O let me ever thank God for all his mercies; and let me thank you also, my dear bairns, for all your kindness to me; for never did I think to have seen your bit canty faces again in the land o’ the living, for it’s out o’ the swellings o’ Jordan that puir auld Peggy has been delivered by an arm o’ strength.”
“It is so nice to hear you speaking Scotch again,” Matilda said; “I like it so much. That word canty is such a nice word, and it is so niceto have you back again when we thought you dead; but how did it all happen? Were you not washed overboard in the storm? You must tell us all about it. How were you saved?”
“Yes,” Leila said, “it will be such an interesting story, and so long; for you must tell us every thing from the very beginning. But you are not to tell it all in one day, for that would tire you. You are very, very thin, Peggy,” and Leila took Peggy’s withered hand in hers; “can we do nothing to make you better? If it will tire you to speak, we will wait for the story till another day.”
“No, my dear bairn, it will no tire me; and it’s weel my part to do all I can to pleasure you or yours, though I will not just say but what I may feel a wee thought ashamed to tell sic a lang tale afore all the young ladies, and this fine young gentleman.”
“But Peggy,” Leila said eagerly, “he is not a fine young gentleman; he is so kind and good-natured, he will like to hear the history of all that has happened to you very much; and if he does not understand all the Scotch words, I will explain them to him afterwards; he is my brother Charles now, you need not be afraid of him.”
“Your brother, is he? Weel, weel, sae letit be for the present, my bonnie lamb. And noo where am I to begin in this lang tale?”
“At the very beginning,” Leila and Matilda both exclaimed at once; “at the very beginning, Peggy, when you first embarked with all the pets.”
“Ay, ay, and to think I hae no had the grace to ask after the puir dumb things; but I am sair bewildered, and I kent they needs be safe, for there’s my cat that was amang them, just lying afore the fire quite contented, and no ways strange, puir thing. That civil gentleman, Master Bill, (I think they call him,) brought it up to me this morning, and my trunk too with my big Bible, and all the bits o’ things that are sae valuable to me.”
“But the story, the story, Peggy,” Matilda exclaimed, rather emphatically.
“Yes, my bairn, that’s true, I was forgetting, and it’s aye the story, the story, wi’ you young things. Weel then, to begin at the very beginning, as you say. We got into the ship, (that is, the pets, as Miss Leila calls them, and me,) and it was a bonnie day, and the sea sparkling like diamonds, and wi’ a most deceitfu’ and canny look; but it was all put on; no a word o’ truth in it, for it’s a most unchancy and awfu’ element, and in no ways to be trusted by a Christian woman. Weel, my first discomfiturewas when I was telt that I was by no means to go near the pets, or to take any charge, for they would have better care than mine; deed, and I was in no ways weel pleased, forbye that I had been thinking the parrots would have been gude company, and that I could hae given them some gude instruction maybe, puir things, and got them into a manner o’ more sensible discourse than aye crying, ‘pretty poll,’ and the like o’ thae vain and silly things. But it was no to be, so I turned my mind to some wee helpless bairns that were aye wailing and wearying for something; for ye ken Peggy must aye be doing. They had lost their mother, puir things, and the father o’ them was sadly put about when night came, and all their bits o’ clothes to take off, and the strings o’ them aye getting into knots, and he wi’ no manner o’ skill or judgment to gang to work in the right manner; so I took them all in my ain hands, and got them into their bits o’ cribs wi’ a kind o’ comfort, and the wee thing who was but a babby clinging round my neck in the dark, and saying, ‘Mamma was come back again, and she was no to gang away ony more.’ Deed it was just a moving scene, and minded me sae o’ my ain bonnie flowers; and John, for that was his name, was sae gratified, and could no’ say enough for the little I could do.And so we got on wi’ a measure o’ comfort all the next day, till the wind began to roar like a demented creature, wi’ no manner o’ discretion, ranting and tearing wi’ the steadfast resolution no to leave a hale rag in the ship; and there were the bairns, puir things, wailing and tumbling about on the floor, and nae marvel either, seeing that them that had come to the years o’ discretion could na keep their feet; and the captain, there was he crying to put in the dead lights, which was no just civil to say the least, and we wi’ the breath o’ life still in our bodies. Waes me, but it was an unco’ dispensation for him to be making preparations for a dead wake afore the living folk. He might hae thought, the ungodly man, that there was an arm o’ strength that could lift us out o’ the deepest pit of our tribulation.—But where was I? for ’deed I am sair bewildered wi’ all that happened.”
“You were telling about the storm, Peggy,” Matilda said, eagerly. “Oh, do go on, it is so very interesting.”
“Ay, that’s true, I was telling about the storm; but waes me, words are weak to tell o’ that awfu’ scene. Weel, naething would serve me but I maun be upon deck to see the warst o’ it; and there I stood, clinging aye to John, and Dash at my side, wi’ the sense o’ a man o’ fifty,holding me fast by the gown; but it was na waves I saw, but mountains rising to the black heavens, and the white foam o’ them looking ghastly white in the darkness o’ the night, and every now and then a flash o’ fire like a curtain o’ flame in the sky, and a sound like guns mingling wi’ the roar o’ the awfu’ blast; and there was the captain again, wi’ a lang thing like a trumpet in his mouth, and he thinking, wi’ his puir feckless breath, to lift his voice above the anger o’ Heaven. I could na stand that, so I turned down to the cabin again; but oh, my bairns, never while the breath o’ life is in my body will I forget the sound that ere I was at the foot o’ the stairs met my ear. I canna speak o’ it, I dare na think o’ it. Them that had stood at my side the minute afore in life and strength, sent to their last account, and without the power o’ a hand being stretched out to save them. I am no clear in my mind o’ what happened for a while after that; but then there was a cry that the wind was no just sae strong, and that a boat had come off from the shore for the passengers for Scarborough; it was for Scarborough John was bound, to take up his abode wi’ a sister, a widow-woman weel to do in the world, and he was loath to part wi’ me, and leave me in sic tribulation; and the bairns they aye cried that mammy maun gangtoo, and I was down the side o’ the ship, and in the boat wi’ the wee babby in my arms afore I kent where I was, and Dash holding on again by my gown as he did afore; and how we e’er reached the shore was the gracious providence of God, for man had nought to do wi’ it; and we were up in the air the one minute, and in the watery pit o’ destruction the next, and no a dry stitch upon us when we were lifted out wi’ scarce the breath o’ life in our bodies; but all but gratitude to Heaven was forgotten when we sat that night in quietness and in comfort by that widow-woman’s cheerful fire-side. And to see the bairns round the table at their tea, wi’ their bit blythe faces, and ilk are wi’ a jolly piece in its hand, for, as I said afore, she was well to do in the world that widow-woman, and had all things in a superior way. ’Deed it was a scene to lift the heart wi’ gratitude and joy, and at night when I found myself in a quiet comfortable bed, and nae mair heizing up and down wi’ all thae outlandish sounds in my ear, ’deed I could na sleep wi’ very pleasure, so I took to musing on the uses o’ the sea, and I could na make it weel out at all; it seemed to me as if it was a fearfu’ scourge, aye ready to be let loose on our sinfu’ heads, and made for naething but our destruction; but then I minded me o’ the fine caller haddys, and thae herringsat ten a penny, sic a blessing for the puir, and then I thought that there might be a measure o’ comfort in it after all, so wi’ that I fell asleep. The next morning I thought to hae gone on my way, but they would nae hear o’ it, and the bairns they aye clung to me, and said I was to stay and be their mamma. ’Deed, auld as I was, I could nae but think o’ sic a proposal afore John’s very face; and he, honest man, no ways willing. The day after that John set out wi’ me to put me on my road, and he wrote me out a paper o’ all the towns I was to gang through, and sae we parted, and I gaed on my way, thinking it wad be but a pleasant walk; but waes me, I had little thought or comprehension o’ what was afore me. But I am thinking I have said enough for this present time; you will be weary wi’ sic a lang tale.”
“Oh no, Peggy,” Leila exclaimed, “I am quite sure none of us are weary. Do go on, for we wish so much to hear how you got here at last.”
“And ’deed, my bairn, that’s no easy to tell, for I have but a confused thought o’ all that happened. Every day I walked on and on, and when I came to the towns, I sleeped at big houses that they call houses o’ entertainment: but ’deed it was no diversion to me, the money they aye asked frae me in the mornings; so Itook to sleeping at farm-houses, and that answered better. To be sure sometimes I had but the barn or the hay-loft, and but a short word o’ welcome; but others that were mair civil let me sleep in the big chair by the kitchen fire-side; and clean and comfortable mony o’ the kitchens were, dishes and platters on the walls shining like silver, and big hams hanging from the roof, wi’ the greatest plenty to eat and drink, and blythe bairns running about, looking sae like their meat, that it did my heart good to see them. I was aye happy when I got to a farm-house at night; but sometimes I was not just sae lucky; and what wi’ paying for a night’s lodgings, and for a ride in a wagon or a cart now and then, and for a loaf o’ bread and a draught o’ beer, my money was fast melting away, and my heart no that light; for aye when I asked if I was near London yet, they said it was a weary way, and ower far for sic an auld woman as me to compass. But it was only when the days were fast shortening, and the long nights setting in, that the like o’ thae reflections crushed my spirit; yet the morning’s sun made all right again and warmed my auld heart, and I felt there was a Providence abune that could make the roughest way plain and the langest way short to me. I was aye fond o’ the song o’ the robin, and whiles I would sit down by the sideo’ a hedge and hearken to them in the trees abune my head, and then I would throw them some crumbs frae my loaf o’ bread to pleasure them puir things; and the bonnie creatures would come down to the ground and look up in my face, as if I had been a kent friend. And Dash, the wise animal, he would keep his distance, and lie as if the breath o’ life was out of his body, till they had ta’en their breakfast wi’ comfort and discretion. From all that I hae experienced in my lang travel, I think the robins are o’ the same nature as in my ain land, just as frank and as kindly. But oh, my bairns! sic a difference in the rivers; instead of the clear bonnie Esk that I had been used to, wi’ the sand lying at the bottom sparkling like diamonds in some parts, and in others springing over the big stones like bairns let loose frae the school, there I came to rivers as quiet and lazy as mill-ponds, and looking as black and drumlie as if they had washed all the dishes in thae big towns in them; but ’deed it’s no wise discreet in me to be making thae reflections; for if their waters are no just sae clear, surely I am come to a land flowing with milk and honey, and need na mind. But I am wandering from my road again.”
“Yes, Peggy,” Matilda said, “you are forgetting to tell us how your money lasted, and what you did when it was done. Oh! it must havebeen so dreadful when you began to be starved to death.”
“ ‘Deed, and it was no ways pleasant; but it was no just sae bad as that; and I aye keepit a thought on Him who feedeth the fowls o’ the air, and was no that down-hearted; still it was a serious thought, and I was at my last shilling when the pedlar was graciously sent to me.”
“The pedlar, Peggy, how was that?”
“You see, Miss Matilda, I was sitting by the road-side one morning, taking counsel wi’ my ain thoughts and looking at the shilling, and turning it round and round in my hand wi’ a serious countenance, nae doubt, when an honest man wi’ a pack upon his back came up to me. ‘Mistress,’ he said, ‘you are looking at that shilling as if there werena mony ahint it, and you were loath to part company.’ ‘’Deed,’ I said, ‘you hae made a gude guess and are no far wrong; for it’s the very last shilling I hae in the world, and a long journey, I reckon, is still afore me.’ Wi’ that we fell into discourse, and I telt him all my story; for he was frae my ain country, and my heart warmed to him. He said that for that day and the next our road lay in the same direction, and that he would be blythe o’ my company. Was I to refuse sic a civil invitation?—by no means. So we gaed on our way thegither, and had muckle pleasant discourse;for he was far travelled, and had great learning and experience o’ the world, and was, forbye, a God-fearing and civil man, and had but one fault that I could discern, he was ower fond o’ beer; preserve me, but I would hae sleepit sound, and ower sound, as he, puir man, found that night, if I had ta’en all he offered me, for he was no ways niggardly; and when I spoke o’ asking up-pitting for the night at a farm-house, he would na hear it; he would treat me, he said, baith to a supper and a bed, and be blythe to do so. Weel, when night came on, we turned into a comfortable-looking house by the road-side, where they selt the beer he was ower fond o’; and it was a canty scene that big kitchen, that lifted the very heart o’ me. There was the mistress frying bacon on the warm red fire, and mair than one hungry man sitting on low stools, listening wi’ delight to the hissing sound o’ it; and a wee baby in a cradle, no thinking o’ sleep, but lying so pleased, wi’ the great een o’ it wide open, and staring at its brothers and sisters, dancing in a corner o’ the room to the music o’ a blind fiddler; they were near to a table where some men were drinking, and there was a man sat there wi’ a face I could no get out o’ my mind at all. He had a down look and an ill look to my thought; and I noticed that though he had his tankard o’ beerafore him like the rest, when he thought nae body was looking that way, he lifted the tankard that had been put down afore the puir blind fiddler, and took a lang pull out o’ it. I would na hae been that sorry if it had choked him, and I felt in my mind that the man would surely come to shame and want. Aweel, when the mistress showed me the room I was to sleep in, I could na get this man’s ill face out o’ my mind, and I asked her if the men that were drinking at the table were to bide all night. ‘Some of them might,’ she said, ‘and some might not; but I need not be frightened, for my friend the pedlar was to sleep in the next room to me, and there was a door through frae my room to his. You see,’ she said, ‘there is only a latch to it, for the key has been lost; but as he is an honest man nae doubt, and your friend, you will no mind that; but this is a decent house, and you need fear no disturbance;’ and wi’ that she left me. I had not been long in bed afore I heard the pedlar, honest man, snoring soundly. I was weary, weary, and yet for a lang time I could no get to sleep, for the fiddle seemed aye sounding in my ears, and the bit bairnies dancing afore me, and that man’s ill face aye taking anither look at me, but after a time I heard steps passing up the stairs, and the front door was barred in, and quietness fell upon the house;and then, though it was no just sleep that came over me, it was a kind o’ a dover, and how lang it lasted I canna tell, but suddenly it seemed to me as if I heard a step in the passage and some one stopping at my door,—I started up in my bed and listened; a lock turned, but it was na in my room, but in the next; and then I saw a light under the door that had the latch. I sprang up and looked through the key-hole; the ill face o’ that awfu’ man seemed glaring on me, I could scarcely breathe, for I felt sure he saw me, but he turned away and went straight up to the bed; he seemed to listen for a moment, bending over it, then softly lifting up a worsted plaid that was lying over a chair by the bed-side, he seized the pack which the plaid was covering, and turned to the door again. He had his back to me then; I lifted the latch and sprang in, and the next moment I had him by the throat, the ill rascal, wi’ a scream that wakened the whole house. He let fall the pack, shook me off as if I had been a feather, and darted along the passage. He took me for a ghaist, nae doubt; for, for decency’s sake, I had put the white sheet about me. Aweel, we looked for him all over the house, but saw naething but a window wide open, and doubtless out o’ that window the ill-conditioned creature had gone on his evil way. It was na muckle sleep that eitherthe pedlar or me got that night, I reckon, for I heard nae mair snoring.”
“Oh, Peggy!” more than one voice exclaimed, “how frightful and how interesting; but go on, go on, tell us more.”
“Aweel, in the morning he could na be grateful enough, honest man, for what I had done for him. ‘For himself,’ he said, ‘he did na’ fancy riding much, but it would be a rest to me; so all that day we rode thegither in a wagon like ladies and gentlemen, he treating me to the best o’ every thing, and himsel’ no taking just sae muckle o’ the beer. The next morning after that, when we parted, he would force upon me twa bonnie white half-crowns, and telt me aye to ride when I could, for that he did not think I was that strong for sic an undertaking as I had still before me. I would fain hae refused the money, for it seemed to me like taking payment for doing only what was natural to do; but I thought also that pride might have something to do wi’ refusing, and pride was na’ for a Christian woman, so I took the siller. I took his advice too, for I felt that I was not that strong; so I aye rode when I could get a cart or a wagon, but it took mair money than I could weel spare. Many o’ the wagoners and carters spoke a language I could na’ weel make out, but they aye contrived to make it plain to me that theywanted siller. Every day my pocket got lighter and lighter, and my heart heavier; for I came to my last penny, and still a lang way lay afore me. I need na’ vex your hearts wi’ all I suffered wi’ want and lang travel. Some of the folk were kind to me, and some were not; I dinna weel mind all that happened, I ken only that aye when I was at my last extremity, He that I serve had pity upon me; and I aye remembered that ‘He had not where to lay His head,’ and took courage. One night I came to a farm-house, the door was shut, but I looked through the kitchen window, and, oh! but it was a cheerfu’ canty scene. There was a cat as big and as sleek as a fat lamb lying afore the warm fire, and the mistress and the gudeman, and the bairns, and the farm servants, all round a big table at their supper, and the greatest plenty o’ every thing, and sic a smoke from the big dishes o’ meat and o’ potatoes, and sic a speaking and laughing, that I had to tap many a time afore they heard me; but at last the mistress hersel’ came to the door, and wi’ her a bonnie wee lassie at her side. I was all in a tremble, and I telt her my story, and asked for a night’s lodging; but the pleasant face o’ her entirely changed. ‘And how am I to know,’ she said, ‘that there is a word of truth in all this? always the story that they have lost their way, or lost theirmoney, or some such thing. It was but last night that I gave lodging to an old woman, who looked as respectable as you do, and she was off this morning by daybreak with two of my best night-caps that were drying before the fire. No, no, you must take the road again, and be thankful you have a clear moon above your head.’ ‘Oh, mother, mother!’ I heard the wee thing say, but she shut the door in my face. I was weary, and I was faint wi’ hunger too, for I had tasted little that day; to gang on my way was no possible, for the very life seemed sinking out o’ me; so I crept round by the back o’ the house to seek some sheltered nook to lie down in, no wishing ever to rise again. All my desire was to lay myself down in a quiet corner and there to be found dead in the morning. I was leaning against a wall sair spent, and Dash keeping close at my side, as he aye did, striving, puir thing, to keep me warm, when a mist came afore my eyes—it cleared away, and I seemed to see my ain bonnie bairns wi’ the faces o’ angels beckoning to me, and I heard my husband’s voice speaking words o’ comfort, and then a door at the back of the house softly opened, and the bonnie lamb I had seen afore stepped out into the moonlight; she looked about her for a moment on every side, and when the light fell on the face o’ her, it seemed to me as if she toowas a kind spirit frae anither world. She was passing to the front o’ the house when she saw me, and, oh!—but it was a sweet voice that sounded in my ear when she took my hand, and said,—‘There is a sixpence and a penny for you, it is all the money I have, but maybe it will get you a bed at a house you will soon come to on the road-side; and here is some bread and cheese for your supper, for I am sure you are hungry.’ I was trying to say something, when a voice cried out, ‘Alice, Alice, where are you?’ and the mistress hersel’ came up to where we were standing. ‘Oh, mother!’ the dear bairn said, ‘do not put her away for she looks so sorrowful and she can scarcely walk; do let her sit at the kitchen fire all night—I am sure she is an honest woman.’ The mistress looked in my face. ‘Well,’ she said, I may have judged you wrongfully, so I will take Alice’s word for it; for it’s not my usual custom to turn my face from the poor of the land, so come in, old woman, and you shall have some supper.’ She took me into the warm kitchen, and seated me at the fire, and the best o’ every thing was set afore me, and bonnie wee Alice took a low stool and set herself down at my feet, and she aye looked up in my face wi’ her kindly smile, and seemed to enjoy every morsel I put in my mouth; and she could na make enough o’ Dash,and was sae pleased when the mistress hersel’ set a plate o’ bones afore him that might have served a king. Aweel, we took our supper wi’ thanksgiving, and in a closet off the kitchen I had a clean comfortable bed to lie down on, which was a great refreshment. The mistress took to me in an uncommon way. I telt her where I was going, and all about it; and in the morning she gave me my breakfast and a white shilling out o’ her ain pocket. I was fain to gie little Alice back her sixpence and the penny, but she was affronted and would na hear tell o’ it; so I laid them down on the wee pillow o’ her bed when she was looking anither way.”
The tears were in Leila’s eyes: “Oh, Peggy,” she said, “what a dear little girl Alice must have been! how I wish I could thank her for being so very kind to you; but you are not to stop yet, you have more to tell us.”
“Not much more, Miss Leila, for mony o’ the days after that seem to have passed out o’ my mind. I think it was but twice after that that I had onything like a decent bed to lie down on; it was getting darkish one day when I was passing through a village, a heap o’ bairns came running past just out o’ school, and a wild laddie had something tied up in a napkin, and he aye cried he was going to drown it, and they maun come and see. My mind misgave me that itwas a kitten, puir thing, so I followed on to a pond that I saw afore me, and just as I got near I heard sic a wild screech, and there was a wee lassie struggling in the water; I cried loud to Dash, and he was into the pond in no time, and afore anither minute was over, the puir half-drowned thing was laid at my feet. Aweel, I took it up in my arms and turned back to the village. The mother o’ it was like to go out o’ her judgment wi’ fright and wi’ joy; I stayed to help to put the bairn into a warm bed, the puir lamb would nae be comforted. Aye when we thought that she was dropping over to sleep she started up again in an unco tremble, and crying out, ‘No, no, mother, don’t be angry, I will never, never go near the pond again;’ and when Dash came up to the bed wagging his tail, and trying to make acquaintance wi’ her, she was like to go out o’ her judgment, wi’ no manner o’ knowledge or gratitude for what he had done for her. Aweel, she fell into a sleep at last; ‘Oh, my darling,’ the mother said, ‘many’s the time I have told her to keep away from those wicked boys, and by no means to go near that ugly pond, for my mind misgave me that something might happen; but she has been punished enough, poor thing, she will not again forget my warning;’ and she leaned over the dear bairn wi’ sic joy and thankfulness, and kissed herover and over again. Though it was getting late, I thought now to have gone on my way again, but though she was but a widow woman, and seemed to have naught to spare, she would na hear of it, so I stayed wi’ her that night, and she did all she could to make me comfortable. The next circumstance that I remember was when I found myself in a town, and sae spent wi’ hunger I could scarcely walk; I had parted wi’ my warm cloak afore, and I think shame to tell you how many salt tears that had cost me, (but it was a present from my gudeman,) and I was thinking if there was onything else I could sell, and holding by the rails, for I could scarcely stand, when a decent-looking young woman, wi’ a most pleasant face, came up to me. ‘What is the matter, poor woman,’ she said, in a kindly voice, ‘you are surely ill?’ I telt her I was starving. ‘Waes me,’ she said, ‘and I have no money to give you, for I have just been disappointed myself: but come with me, you shall have something to eat at least.’ She took me by the arm and helped me on, and we entered a big house, where a great mony people seemed to be living, for I heard voices o’ men and women, and bairns, some crying and some laughing. ‘My sister and I have a room here,’ she said, as we gaed up the stairs; then taking me by the hand along a dark passage, she opened adoor, and I saw a young woman sitting close to the window working busily, though it was getting dark. ‘Jessie,’ she said, ‘you will have thought me long away, and after all I have come back without the money for the shirts, for Mrs. Churchill was not at home.’ ‘Without the money,’ Jessie repeated, ‘and not a morsel in the house beyond our night’s supper, and not a farthing to buy more! Oh, Ellen, this is sorrowful news. But who is this you have got with you?’ Ellen told her how she had fallen in wi’ me, and it was beautiful to see the kindness o’ baith the sisters. There was but a small fire, but they gathered up the cinders, and made me sit close to it, and they rubbed my hands and spoke words o’ comfort to me; and Ellen brought some bread and cheese out of a cupboard, and set it afore me, and baith o’ them pressed me to eat. Just then there was a tap at the door. ‘That will be the nurse,’ Ellen said, jumping up; ‘I forgot to tell you that she said she might perhaps be able to bring the money if her mistress came home in time.’ It was the nurse sure enough, and oh, sic joy as it was to the kind-hearted creatures when the nurse counted down ten bonnie shillings on the table. ‘Put on the tea-kettle,’ Ellen said, ‘and I will be back in a moment with some tea and sugar; and, Mistress Nurse, perhaps you will stay and take a cup oftea, you have always been such a kind friend to us.’ But Mistress Nurse said she could by no means stay, for her lady might want her; and she was just going away when she noticed Dash. ‘Bless me,’ she said, ‘what a fine animal, but how thin he is; he looks half-starved; my heart is sore for the creature, tea is not just the thing for him, but if I can get hold of the stable-boy when I go home, I will send him up with a plate of scraps; he will like that better.’ And she was as good as her word; Dash had such a supper as he had not seen for many a day. And how the sisters were pleased and diverted when the creature picked out the largest bone he could find in all the platter, and laid it at my feet. Aweel, we had our tea in comfort, and the best o’ butter, which Ellen said was a treat by ordinar, and muckle pleasant discourse; and I telt them about you, Miss Selina, getting your speech again, and about Miss Leila in the island. They said it was like a fairy tale, and that they had naething to tell me about themselves sae romantic. They had lost baith father and mother, and they worked for their bread, and had come through great straits; sometimes they had plenty to do, and were comfortable enough, and sometimes they were sair put about, and at their last penny; but their mother had been a God-fearing woman, and had given them the best o’counsel, and they aye kept up their hearts, for there was a Providence abune, they said, that kent what was best for them. The room was clean and neat, though the furniture was scant. There was but one bed, but they borrowed a mattress from a kind neighbour, and I lay baith warm and comfortable on it. In the morning I had a sair struggle, for they would hae me to take one o’ their hard-earned shillings; but I would by no means hear o’ it, and I was the more positive as they had telt me that I was but a day’s journey or so frae Richmond, and need na gang through that awfu’ London, which was a great ease to my mind. So I took only some small change Ellen had gotten in from the tea, and gaed on my way. It was a clear bright day, but it was hard frost when night came on, and I was stiff wi’ cold, and weary, weary; and I could get naething better than a barn to lie down in, for I had but a penny to offer, and they jeered at me, and said a barn was ower good for sic payment. The next morning seems all like a confused kind o’ dream, I remember naething but that I crawled on and on, often stopping and feeling unco’ sleepy, but aye feared to lie down lest I should ne’er waken again; but though I kent Richmond could na be far off now, I was but the mair sorrowful, for I could bear it no longer; I could na moveanither step, but sunk down by the road-side. A mist came afore my eyes, I ken naething mair, but that I seemed to waken in Heaven, for when I opened my eyes again, your dear faces were all around me.” Peggy ceased speaking, and clasped her hands together as if in prayer. There were tears in most eyes; even Charles, who seemed to think it unmanly to give way, had to struggle hard with his emotion.
“Leila,” he said, as they returned home, “I can well understand what your grief must have been in thinking Peggy lost to you. I am going to write all her story down, it is so interesting, and it will be my first lesson in the Scotch language; I would not have missed hearing her tell it for the world.”
AFEW days more, and solitude and silence seemed to have fallen on Woodlands. The whole party had dispersed. Mrs. Roberts had come back from paying a visit to her sister, and even the Stanleys had returned home. Leila had felt the parting with so many kind friends a good deal, and the holidays seemed to her now as but one bright day too quickly past. But there were alleviations; Sherborne Park, the residence of Mr. Herbert, was but an hour’s ride from Woodlands; Leila could now manage Selim with ease; Charles was still to be one week more at home, and on the first Saturday after the breaking up of the party, he promised to be early at Woodlands on his pony, to escort Mr. Howard and Leila to Sherborne Park: besides this, her joy and thankfulness at having recovered Peggy and her dear Dash, bid defiance to all approaches to any depression of spirits. She was buoyant as ever, and each morning, on her way to her Aunt Stanley’s, shestopped for a few moments at Peggy’s cottage to say a few kind words to her, and bring joy and sunshine to the old woman’s heart.
Most of the neighbouring families had called at Woodlands; amongst others, Mr. and Mrs. Mildmay, with their daughter Lydia. Leila liked Lydia’s appearance; she was a pretty looking girl, remarkably well dressed, with a beautiful complexion, fine hair, and a very animated expression of face; she praised every thing she saw, was delighted with the pets, said they were happy creatures to have such a dear, pretty little mistress, and kissed Leila twice at parting, and hoped they would always be great friends. Leila was much gratified, and was tempted for the first time to think Selina might be wrong, and too hasty in her judgments. She was made very happy a few days after, by her Aunt Stanley telling her she had obtained her papa’s consent to her remaining to dinner, as Mr. Mildmay, having county business with Mr. Stanley was, with his wife and daughter, to dine with them that day.
It was a very agreeable day to Leila; she liked Lydia more and more. She had now quite made up her mind to think Selina’s character of her a mistaken one. Lydia seemed full of heart and affection for all of them, but apparently to prefer Selina to the others; alwayslistening when she spoke, and always declaring that she must know best, and in all their little discussions coming over to her way of thinking. But Leila would have been the first to retract the too favourable opinion she had formed, had she been present at a conversation which took place in the school-room before tea. Lydia and Matilda were alone together, they had been talking of Leila. “Yes,” Lydia said, “I don’t wonder you like her, she took my fancy very much; there is some life and spirit in her. I am sure I hope Selina will not make her as prim as she is herself, for she seems to have taken quite a passion for that dear sister of yours.”
Matilda’s colour mounted to her forehead. “I thought you were very fond of Selina,” she said, in an offended tone of voice; “I am sure you always talk to her as if you were.”
“And who tells you I am not?”
“You yourself do; you would not talk in that way of one you really liked. Ah, Lydia, that is not being sincere.” Selina’s warning came forcibly into her mind at that moment; but she was sorry she had said so much, for Lydia seemed extremely angry; looking very red, she said,
“Matilda, that idea would never have entered your head; I know who has——” She stopped,and with a changed expression of look and tone she continued, “But this is quite foolish, we are getting angry with each other for no reason whatever, for we are quite of the same opinion on this subject; I am sure you cannot have a higher opinion of Selina than I have. I only wish I could be more like her,” and she sighed heavily; “but still you must not be angry if I love my own little Matilda even more,” and she drew Matilda towards her, and kissed her cheek.
Matilda felt at this moment she would rather that she had not done so, but still she was gratified and flattered that one generally allowed to be so clever and accomplished as Lydia, and who was several years older than herself, should make quite a friend of her, and even often condescend to ask her advice. Had Matilda reflected further, she would have been aware that though she did so, she seldom or ever followed it. Lydia, in fact, always ended by taking her own way in every thing, though apparently yielding to the judgment of others. She now, as if to change the subject, observed, “What nice-looking books you have got on those shelves; your school-room always looks so cheerful and so comfortable. What a pretty book that seems to be at the top there; I should like to see it.”
“Oh, that is a beautiful book,” Matilda answered; “but it belongs to Mrs. Roberts. There are sketches in it which were drawn by her husband; she has the greatest value for it, and she shows it to us sometimes; but she has forbidden us ever to touch it when she is not by.”
“Oh, she is afraid, I suppose, of Alfred’s dirty little hands, for you know he is for ever grubbing in the earth, hunting after snails or spiders, or some such creatures; but a young lady’s hands are very different,” and she drew off her nice kid glove, and displayed her pretty little white hand, on which a beautiful ring sparkled which had often been Matilda’s admiration. “You cannot suppose,” she continued, “that she would have any objections to my looking at the book; and as she is so very obliging and good-natured, she will be quite gratified, I am sure, that I should admire her book.” She drew a chair towards her and was mounting upon it.
Matilda held her back. “Oh pray don’t,” she said; “I don’t wish to disobey Mrs. Roberts, and I promised not to touch or look at it when she was not by.”
“Well, don’t touch it, my little pattern miss,” Lydia said; “don’t touch it; put your hands behind your back, and then you can swear you did not; you need not even look at it; shut your eyes and turn your back, my pretty dear, and Iwill describe, to you the beautiful scenes as I turn over the pages; for I have no pleasure when it is not shared.” Then changing her tone of raillery, she continued: “But what has come over my little Matilda? I scarcely know her again—she that used to be so obliging and so affectionate towards me—have I indeed lost my little friend?”
“Oh, no, no!” Matilda exclaimed, and tears were in her eyes. “I am still your little friend; don’t be angry with me. You will love me again, won’t you?”
Lydia’s smile was that of triumph; but Matilda did not see it—she was now covering her eyes with her hands.
Lydia jumped up on the chair and took down the book; then gently removing Matilda’s hands, she said,—“Come, darling, don’t be foolish; let me see my sweet Matilda again; let us be friends as we have ever been.”
Poor Matilda! all her sense of what was right, all her good resolutions, vanished before Lydia’s bland smile. Selina’s repeated warnings, and yet more, the texts of the morning, had been entirely forgotten.—“Show me thy ways, O Lord; teach me thy paths.” And the answer: “Trust in the Lord with all thy heart, and lean not unto thine own understanding; in all thy ways acknowledge Him, and He shall direct thypaths.” Alas! had she asked in sincerity to be shown His ways, to be guided in His paths? had she not leant to her own understanding, and listened to the voice of the tempter? how then could she expect that God would direct her ways when God was not in all her thoughts? She turned over the pages of the book for Lydia, she explained the sketches, and praised them extravagantly, with a confused idea that she was atoning to Mrs. Roberts in some degree by doing so, and she gave herself completely up to the enjoyment of the moment.
“Well,” Lydia said, as she turned the last page, “now we have finished; we have had our pleasure, and what the worse, I should like to know, is the pretty book of our admiration? Come, let us put it up again in the book-case.”
Matilda jumped up to assist her, and in her haste overturned an ink-glass on the table, which she herself had neglected to put into the inkstand again; a small portion of the ink fell on the beautiful binding of the book; Matilda was horror-struck.
“Oh! what shall I do? what shall I do?” she exclaimed, as she stood in helpless distress gazing upon it.
But Lydia did not lose her presence of mind for a moment; tearing out a sheet of blotting-paper from a book which lay before them, shequickly soaked up the ink, then seizing a sponge which Selina had been using for her drawing, she dipped it in a tumbler of water, and dexterously effaced almost every trace of the stain. The book was bound in white vellum, highly glazed, so that the ink had not sunk in, scarcely a trace of it was discernible.
“Now is not this well and cleverly done?” Lydia said. “Come, cheer up, Matilda, don’t think of it another moment; it was awkward enough in you, to be sure; butmum’s the word, and it never will be perceived; I must put it in the book-case again, and as far back as I can.” She was jumping up on the chair, but Matilda took the book from her hand and looked at it earnestly for a moment.
“Oh! you need not be afraid, and look so dismal; I really don’t think it possible it can be found out.”
Matilda still retained the book in her hand, and rose as if about to leave the room.
“Where are you going?” Lydia impatiently asked.
“To show this to Mrs. Roberts,” Matilda answered, timidly.
“To show it to Mrs. Roberts! Are you mad, Matilda? Surely you would not be such a fool—oh! I beg your pardon for calling you so; how mamma would be shocked if sheheard me talking in this vulgar manner—there is nothing she dislikes so much as vulgarity. I beg your pardon, but you did put me in such a passion.” Then changing her tone from that of anger, she continued, mournfully,—“And so you would bring me into this scrape and get me punished, I who have ever loved you, ever been your friend—I who would have stood by you till the last moment! Oh, Matilda! but go—go and leave me.”
Matilda stood irresolute. She covered her face with her hands, the tears trickled down between her fingers, but she softly repeated to herself, “Trust in the Lord with all thy heart, and He shall direct thy path.” She removed her hands, she looked up, and in a firm voice she said,—“Lydia, it was I who overturned the ink, and it is I who shall bear the punishment;” and she left the room.
She found Selina and Leila with Mrs. Roberts; the expression of her face instantly arrested their attention. “What has happened, Matilda?” they both exclaimed; “what is the matter?”
She put them back with her hand, and steadily advancing to the table where Mrs. Roberts sat, she laid the book before her, and pointing to where the stain had been, she said,—“Mrs. Roberts, I spilt the ink upon your book; I amvery sorry——” She tried to say more, she could not, she was weeping.
Mrs. Roberts looked much distressed. “Matilda,” she said, “it is not on account of any injury my book has sustained that I am so distressed—and indeed I do not think I should have observed it—but you have disobeyed my express command, and you have also broken your promise to me; for it was yourself who voluntarily gave that promise—I did not ask it of you.”
“Oh! yes; I remember that quite well; I have been very, very wrong; I deserve to be punished, and I will try to bear it well.”
Selina looked earnestly at her; then throwing her arms round her neck, she whispered,—“Tell me, dear Matilda, did Lydia ask you to show her that book?”
Matilda made no answer; she kissed Selina fondly, then turning round, she said,—“Mrs. Roberts, I know I must be punished, what do I deserve?”
“Not a very severe punishment, Matilda; for you have already lessened your fault by confessing it to me; and you will still further, I am sure, atone for it by confessing it to God and imploring His forgiveness. I see that you feel it deeply and are really penitent; I shall,therefore, leave your punishment with yourself. Say, then, what it shall be.”
Matilda stood for some moments looking on the ground, her colour varying at every moment. “I had rather that you should have punished me,” she said. “But if I do not come into the room to-morrow, or next day, or the next, when you read aloud to us, will that be enough, do you think? I assure you it will be a great punishment to me.”
Mrs. Roberts was in the habit of reading out some interesting story to them for an hour every day while they were employed in working for the poor. Matilda used to call it her happy hour, and the tears again filled her eyes at the thoughts of such a banishment. Mrs. Roberts saw it would indeed be punishment enough. She assented, and taking Matilda in her arms and kissing her, she said,—“You have my forgiveness, my child; now go to your room and ask forgiveness of your heavenly Father for your Saviour’s sake, and strength from the Holy Spirit to walk more and more in His blessed ways.”
When Matilda returned to the school-room a short time afterwards, to invite Lydia to go to tea, her countenance was quite cheerful again. Lydia looked at her attentively. “Well,” she said, “I see you have got it over, and wellover; I only hope you have not committed me; what did you say, Matilda? how much did you tell?”
“I told only that I had spilt the ink on the book.”
“And you did not mention my name?”
“No, I did not.”
But Lydia seemed to understand the tone and manner in which those few words were said, and hastened to efface the bad impression she had made. “You are a generous, noble girl, Matilda,” she said, “and though younger, far better than I am; you must teach me to be like you;” she twined her arms fondly round her waist, and they left the room together.
As Matilda finished reading the Bible that evening, she closed the book, and sat for some minutes in deep thought. “Am I a noble, generous girl?” she asked herself; “and does Lydia really think so? perhaps she only said it to flatter me; I wish I really knew; I wish I could ask Selina,—that would be betraying Lydia. No, I am not a noble girl—I often do wrong things; I wish I had not liked the praise so much, or believed Lydia. I wish I did not like her so; perhaps she does me no good; but it is not kind to Lydia to think so.” She knelt down and said her prayers, and fervently she asked to be forgiven for her disobedience andfor having broken her promise. She asked also to have the love of praise more taken out of her heart; to be meek and lowly like Him she was taught to serve; and she got into bed more peaceful, almost happy, and soon fell asleep.
Saturday came, and Charles was faithful to his appointment. It was a bright morning, every thing looked gay in the sunshine, the ground sparkled with a light frost; but Selim was the most sure-footed of ponies. Leila rode between her papa and Charles—how could she be afraid? She was in high spirits, it was her first ride of any considerable length; she was quite elated by the dignity of her situation, and every now and then she touched Selim lightly with her whip, and sprang on a few yards before the others, and then looked back and laughed at their grave looks. By degrees she became more bold, more anxious to show off before Charles, and to prove to him that she had become quite an excellent horsewoman. She touched Selim less gently—he sprang forward, and from a brisk canter was soon at full gallop, Leila’s light figure seeming as if raised every moment into mid air.
The others held back; they knew the danger of following too closely. “Oh, my child! my child!” Mr. Howard repeatedly exclaimed. Itwas to both a moment of extreme agitation, for a turn in the road now hid Leila from their sight. But Leila, though much frightened at first, did not lose her presence of mind. She allowed Selim to proceed for some time without opposition, then gently checked him as Charles had instructed her to do, the obedient animal first slackened his pace, and then stood entirely still. Her papa and Charles came up, both looking much alarmed. Charles did not speak, he was extremely pale. Leila looked at them both and burst into tears. “Oh! how I have frightened and distressed you,” she said; “I have been so wrong, so silly; do forgive me papa—do not be angry—I am so sorry.”
“You have indeed been wrong, and very imprudent,” Mr. Howard answered; “and you have much reason to be grateful for the escape you have made. You are far too ignorant a horsewoman to be aware of the danger you exposed yourself to; but don’t let us talk of it any more at present; you have now got a lesson which I am sure you will not forget; keep close to us, my dear child, for you are still far too inexperienced to be trusted for a moment alone.”
They now proceeded without further interruption. Mina was watching for them at the park gate, and ran by their side all up the approach,they walking their horses that they might keep pace with her, and Leila chatting to her as gaily as ever. Mrs. Herbert’s reception of them was all that was kind and affectionate, as she welcomed Leila to her second home; and in rambling with Charles and Mina all over the grounds, the day was passed in much enjoyment. The place was extensive and kept in the most beautiful order. Leila, however, did not admire it quite so much as Woodlands; but what interested her greatly was a small picturesque-looking church which stood in the grounds and its adjoining parsonage. With this scene she was delighted; and when Charles told her the parsonage would probably one day be his future home, as he wished to take holy orders, and the living was in his father’s gift, she thought she had never seen any thing so charming.
“And it looks so comfortable,” she said, “so much nicer than a large house. How I wish Woodlands were no bigger than this parsonage!—how happy will you be, Charles, when you have such a house, and when I come to visit here—you will often ask Mina and me to come to tea, and you will let us make tea for you, time about, won’t you?—But, Charles,” she continued, “you are not so merry as you used to be, and you don’t say you would behappy to see us to tea—ah! I know what it is; you are angry with me.”
“Angry with you, Leila?—oh, no! how can you think so?”
“Yes, because I know I deserve it; it was so foolish of me to wish you to admire me, and to think you would.”
“And do you think that would be so difficult, Leila?” he asked.
“I don’t know; I don’t understand about that; but I know you should not—you should not admire any thing vain, and I should not wish it; and if you are to be a clergyman, you know, you should teach me to be meek and lowly in heart. I am sure my papa will be so glad when I tell him you are to be a clergyman; for he will think, as you grow taller and older, you will help him to make me better. But if you are not angry with me, Charles, why are you so grave?—you have not told me that; what can you be thinking about?—do tell us!”
“I am thinking,” he answered, “how delightful all this is!” he continued; “and on Monday how the scene will be changed!”
“And why changed?” she inquired.
“Because on Monday I return to school, and there, instead of having you and Mina to talk to, I shall be surrounded by a parcel of such noisy fellows.”
“And you don’t like them, then?”
“O yes, I do; that is to say, some of them—some of them are excellent fellows and I like them very much; but don’t let us talk of them now, let us enjoy the present; Easter will come in time, and then I shall be home again. You won’t forget me, Leila? will you promise me that?”
“To be sure I will not, but it is needless to promise; do you think I could forget the only brother I have in the world? You know I have already told you, that now I do not think you too tall to be my brother; so you may grow as tall as ever you choose, and you will still always be my brother.”
When Leila was alone with her papa that evening, she immediately recurred to what had taken place during the ride.
“Papa,” she said, “I must have frightened you very much.”
“You did, indeed, my love; I was extremely alarmed. You were not aware of what the fatal consequences might have been, and very rash indeed to urge on Selim as you did.”
“Yes, and you will be more sorry, papa, when I tell you why—it was what you call the foot of pride—it entered into me, papa, and I did it all on purpose—yes, I whipped Selim on, that I might show off before Charles, and that he mightadmire my riding, and say how well I kept my seat: once I heard him say, that Selina kept her seat so well, and I wished him so much to say the same of me; you did not know this, papa?”
“Yes, my love, I was aware of your motive, and you may therefore suppose what my feelings must have been, when I thought my child’s life might fall a sacrifice to her vanity and love of admiration.”
“My life, papa?”
“Yes, my dear Leila, you might not be aware of all the risk you ran, but it was God’s goodness alone that saved you; for you braved the danger, and it was great.”
“O papa, how wrong I have been, and God might have punished me—He might even have taken my life, and He did not; yet He saw into my heart, and knew how vain and foolish I was—how can He love me, how can He forgive me?”
“My Leila, God cannot love the sin, yet has He compassion on the sinner. Do you remember what St. John says—‘So God loved the world, that He gave His only-begotten Son, to the end that all that believe in Him should not perish, but have everlasting life!’ and in the fourth chapter, he says, ‘Herein is love, not that we loved God, but that He loved us, and sent His Son to be the propitiation for our sins.’ Yes,my child, it is the righteousness of One who has never sinned, that is this propitiation, which has been procured for us. In our own strength we cannot walk; it is clad in the righteousness of our Saviour Jesus Christ alone, that we can stand in the presence of a pure and holy God; and we are also told, that ‘We have not an High Priest, which cannot be touched with a feeling of our infirmities; but was, in all points, tempted like as we are, yet without sin.’ You may meet with those who will tell you that vanity and pride are but trifling faults, mere human weaknesses; but do not listen to them—think often to what in your own case they might have led; and, above all, try to keep ever in your mind the example of Him whom you love and serve; think of His deep humility, His meekness, His lowliness of heart; for our blessed Saviour not only died for us, but He lived for us—He left the glory of His Father’s kingdom, to take our nature upon Him; that we might learn of Him; He has compassion on our weaknesses, for He knew them all, and it is His example that should ever dwell in our minds, as His sacrifice should ever dwell in our inmost hearts.”
“But, papa, I know this—I know that our Saviour Jesus Christ was humble and meek, and I know He can see into my heart, and yetI have been foolish and vain—it is so difficult—and then I am but a little child, how can I follow so great an example?”
“You can only do so by praying constantly for the grace of God to give you strength; He can make the hardest duty easy to you; and for your encouragement you should think also of how your blessed Saviour loved little children. Do you remember that when the disciples were disputing together who should be the greatest, our Lord set a child before them as an example of the simplicity and humility of which He approved, and which He wished them to imitate? Strive then, my dearest Leila, to become a meek and humble child, such as your Saviour loves; kneel before Him in all your weakness, and from Him you will receive strength to help in time of need.”
Leila threw her arms round her father’s neck, and softly whispered, “I will try, papa, and you will also pray for me.”
“NOW there is only one day more,” Matilda exclaimed, as she darted into the school-room, (which Mrs. Roberts had just left,) and clasped Selina round the neck so tightly as almost to choke her; “only one day more, my sweet sisterDemure, and my punishment will be ended, and you will be, I do believe, as happy as I am; for I know you have not half enjoyed the stories without me, nor you either, Leila—now tell me, have you not missed me very much?”
Both assured her that they had.
“I knew it,” she continued, “for you are so tender-hearted; but I hope Mrs. Roberts has been tender-hearted also, and that she has not begun to read to you the account of Lavalette’s escape yet: you know she said she would abridge it for us, and last night, when I saw her writing, I was so afraid she would read it to you to-day—it would be very cruel of her if she has done so.”
“But she was not cruel,” Leila answered quickly; “I think she stopped on purpose that you might be with us—to-day she only read to us some anecdotes of cats.”
“Of cats! O I don’t care so much about cats; what could put that into Mrs. Roberts’s head?”
“I had been telling her of the sad fright Selina gave me last night, that made her think of cats.”
“And you did not tell me about Selina,” Matilda said, reproachfully; “though I don’t care much for other people’s cats, you know I always do for yours—I like every thing that you like, Leila.”
“Yes, I know you do; and you are not to look vexed now, for I don’t like that; the reason I did not like to tell you was, that we began lessons the moment I arrived, for I was later than usual to-day, because I staid to talk to Peggy Dobie about a bee-hive; I am going to get her a bee-hive; I have money for it now, and it will be ready for spring. She is so fond of bees; she says they are the best of company, an example to old and young, and the very hum of them is pleasant to her heart, and brings back her thoughts to her own land, and to days long gone by.”
“But what about Selina?” Matilda inquired.
“O yes, I was almost forgetting to tell you. She gave me such a fright. You know I am taming a linnet, for I read a story once about a little boy having tamed a linnet, and taught it to call persons by their names, and to imitate sounds, and whistle like nightingales and larks; and this linnet lived for forty years, and was only killed by an accident; so I thought if my linnet lived for forty years, it would be a comfort to me in my old age; and now I daresay it will be, for you can’t think how tame it is getting since you saw it, and it seems to love me more and more every day. Whenever I go into my room it flies to the side of the cage, and puts up its bill to kiss me, and then it hops down to the door, and stands watching till I open it and let it out. Yesterday, after I had let it out, I put a saucer of water on the table, that it might wash itself, for it likes so much to splash about in the water; and then I went into the drawing-room for a book. I staid a little, for I had opened the book at an interesting place, and I began to read, and forgot my dear little Mimi. Suddenly I heard something rush past me—it was Selina with my bird in her mouth. She darted under the sofa quite out of sight; I did not dare to lift up the cover of the sofa, for I thought I should see Mimi torn to pieces. I covered my face with my hands, andwas trembling to hear it scream. Oh, I was so frightened! and so dreadfully angry, if I had had a stick, I believe I could have killed Selina. Think only if I had done it! My own Selina! I looked up and saw a strange cat with large eyes glaring at me: I flew at it, and dashed it out of the room in a great rage, and then Selina came softly out from below the sofa, and gently laid down Mimi quite safe at my feet. It was to save it from this strange cat that Selina had run away with it.”[A]