CHARITY PLAYS TRUANT
THE very next day the three little girls met Lionel and Fairfax Melville at the village shop.
Charity was shopping for her aunt, and she was doing it with her most important air. Hope and Faith were outside the door looking in at the window, and wondering if it would be very wicked in war-time to buy two pennyworth of sweets. Suddenly two cyclists dashed up and dismounted. They were boys of fourteen and fifteen, and had come to the shop to buy some machine oil. They did not notice Faith and Hope, but stared at Charity, and then the elder, Lionel, who had a very frank, easy way with him, said:
"I believe you're Carrots, aren't you? The Pater calls you that."
"Yes," said Charity beaming, "and you're Lionel and Fairfax. We've seen your pictures."
She had finished her shopping, and did not like to linger, but as she was going out she said:
"If we were boys, we could chum up together, but we're girls."
"Yes," said Lionel, with an awkward laugh; "I suppose you don't fish? Girls never do."
"We could learn," said Charity. "Good-bye!"
Then she walked out of the shop; and wished harder than ever that she was a boy.
"They're too big for us," said Hope dejectedly. "Charlie is more our sort. I wish he would make haste and get well."
They did not see the boys again for some days, and then Charity met with a nasty accident, and Fairfax came to her aid. She was trying to get some marshmallows that grew by the side of the river, and in stretching out for them, she fell in. Happily a tree stretched over the water, and she managed to get hold of a branch, and cling on to it, whilst she called wildly for help. Fairfax and Lionel were fishing a short distance off, and Fairfax came up and soon pulled her up to the bank again.
"What a little duffer to fall in!" he said.
Charity stood and shivered in her wet clothes, but resented his tone.
"Anybody may have an accident," she said loftily.
"Run home and change your clothes," said Fairfax.
Charity walked away trying to appear dignified, but she was very near tears.
"I'll race you," said Fairfax. "Girls ought to be able to run."
Charity prided herself upon her swiftness. Dignity was forgotten. She sped away, and Fairfax could not outdistance her.
"I say, you can leg it!" he said.
When Charity arrived at the Cottage she stopped, and turned to him quite graciously, though she could hardly speak from breathlessness.
"Thank you for pilling me out," she said. "You're the one that likes books, aren't you?" Fairfax nodded.
"And you're the one who has been reading some of my books in the library," he said, "and my Greek legend book is missing."
"Sir George said I could borrow it. Do you mind?"
He laughed.
"Of course I don't, if you take care of it. We're going to take our lunch out to-morrow, we're walking out to the keeper's cottage the other side of our coverts. It's at the top of Hobbs Hill, it's A1 there. Like to come? Can you do three miles there and three back?"
"Oh, I could easy! Oh, how I should like to come, but we do lessons! And we aren't having holidays like you."
Charity's face fell.
"Take a day off! Play truant! Here's somebody! I'm off!"
He scampered back as Aunt Alice came to the gate. She was so concerned at Charity's wet state that she could not listen to her account of her misfortune. She popped her in bed and gave her a hot drink, and then Hope and Faith came upstairs to hear all about it.
Charity did not like staying in bed and protested loudly; then Aunt Alice scolded her, and said she deserved a punishment for being so careless, and Charity pursed up her mouth in a naughty way, and said:
"Then I shall do it to-morrow."
Hope asked her what she should do, but she would not say.
The next morning they settled down to lessons as usual. From nine to ten they worked steadily, and then Miss Vale took Hope to her music lesson. There was a small piano in the corner of the room. Charity and Faith were working at their arithmetic whilst the music was going on.
Presently Charity slipped out of the room. Nobody noticed her absence or thought it strange till Faith happened to hear the click of the garden gate, and looking out, saw Charity in her coat and hat running away from the cottage as fast as she could. She stared out as if she could not believe her eyes. What was Charity doing? Then she tried to bring her attention back to her sum, but it was quite impossible.
When Miss Vale left the piano and came back, she scolded her sharply for her idleness.
"You have only done one tiny sum this whole half-hour! For shame, Faith!"
Faith hung her head.
"I couldn't seem to think it out," she said.
"Where is Charity? I did not hear her leave the room."
Faith made no reply. After waiting a little, Miss Vale went to the door and called. There was no answer. Aunt Alice came out of the kitchen, and said she had not seen her. Hope was sent upstairs to look for her, and came back to say she was nowhere in the house. Faith's cheeks were burning, and there was such a troubled look in her eyes that Miss Vale noticed it.
"You know where she is, Faith. Tell me."
Faith wriggled in her seat. It was a point of honour with the sisters never to tell tales of each other.
"I don't know where she is now, Miss Vale, I really don't," Faith murmured at last.
"Tell me what you know about her."
Faith shook her head.
"She couldn't tell tales, Miss Vale," said Hope, "'specially if Charity's doing something she oughtn't. It's quite exciting! I do wonder where she is?"
"I'm afraid, Faith, you must tell me what you know," said Miss Vale.
And then Faith began to cry.
"I don't know anything," she sobbed; "I only saw her from the window going out at the gate."
She felt she had betrayed her sister most meanly, but Miss Vale had such a determined way with her, that she was compelled to tell the truth.
It all seemed strange and perplexing.
Then Miss Vale said lessons must continue, and for the rest of the morning she had two pupils with very wandering thoughts and divided attention.
When lessons hours were over, Charity was still absent. Miss Vale went home, and the children had their dinner. Granny was anxious, and Aunt Alice cross.
"I can't conceive how she dared behave so," Aunt Alice said. "She has never before gone off like this."
Then Hope suddenly guessed.
"I believe Fairfax Melville asked her to go out with him to-day," she said. "He pulled her out of the water, you know. Charity told him she couldn't go because of lessons. I shouldn't wonder if she has done it."
"It she has, she will have to be severely punished," said Aunt Alice.
But she and Granny seemed relieved by this possibility.
Faith and Hope played with their dolls in the orchard in the afternoon, but they talked a great deal about Charity.
"Isn't she daring?" said Hope. "I wish children could do those kind of things without getting punished. It's the afterwards that's so dreadful!"
But she spoke in admiring tones, and could not understand why Faith was so distressed about it.
"She has only played truant like children do in books, only it's easier to manage if you go to school."
"But think, when she walks in and has to meet Granny and Aunt Alice," said Faith. "Why, I should be ready to die, if I had to do it."
"Oh, Charity isn't so soft as you. Perhaps she'll get Sir George to bring her back, and then Granny won't be so angry."
"Granny is only sorry, not angry," said Faith; "but Aunt Alice is very angry indeed. She said to Granny that she deserved a whipping."
Hope and Faith looked at each other with awed eyes. The afternoon seemed long to them. Tea-time came and passed, still no Charity. At last, at half-past seven, just as Faith was being sent to bed, the truant arrived. She walked up to the door with firm step and head lifted high, but there was a nervous look in her eyes, and she was pale and was biting her lips, a trick which was her custom when perturbed.
Aunt Alice met her in the passage.
"Well, Charity, what is the meaning of this?"
"I only missed two hours' lessons," said Charity, trying to speak grandly; "and I thought I'd make them up to-morrow. I knew it was no good asking, but I've been spending the day out with Lionel and Fairfax, and—" here she paused, then rushed the words breathlessly and defiantly—"I've had a glorious time!"
This was no repentant sinner.
Aunt Alice marched her upstairs to her own bedroom, and she was closeted there with her a good half-hour.
Faith and Hope were both in bed when Charity came into the room. She had been crying. Her sisters felt sorry for her, but intensely curious. They had hardly ever seen her cry, and they felt that they would not shame her by showing her that they saw it, so they pretended to be asleep and covered their heads over with the bedclothes, leaving a little hole to peep out of, and watch her secretly.
Charity soon discovered this. She faced them boldly.
"You needn't peep at me like that! I'm not going to speak to you or tell you anything at all, so you can just go to sleep."
Then Hope threw back the bedclothes.
"We're so sorry for you, Charity."
"I hate your sorriness!"
Charity's tone was furious, and Hope dared say no more. Very soon she and Faith were fast asleep, but Charity lay awake, and sobbed her heart out. Some time later, the door of the children's room opened very softly. It was Granny. She came to Charity's bed, shielding her lighted candle with her hand, so that the rays should not disturb the sleeping children.
Charity lay very still and quiet, with closed eyes, feigning sleep, but Granny saw the swollen, reddened eyelids.
"Poor little soul!" she murmured, and then she knelt down by the bedside and bowed her head in prayer. Her whispered words were heard distinctly by Charity.
"Oh, Loving Father, pity and forgive, and save this dear child from the evils of self-will and waywardness. May her strong character be for good and not for evil, and teach us how to train her for her Saviour's sake. Amen."
Then there was a convulsive movement in the small bed, and Charity's arms were round Granny's neck.
"I'm awake, and I'm sorry and miserable, Granny, and I never will behave so wickedly again. Don't leave off loving me. Aunt Alice has. She's simply furious!"
"No, no, my darling, your Aunt is vexed. She has a right to be, but she has forgiven you already."
"But I'm to be punished to-morrow."
"To stamp it upon your memory," said Granny; then she kissed Charity very lovingly:
"Tell God what you have told me, my child, and go to sleep. You have a fresh day to begin to-morrow, and wake up good."
Then Granny went away. She never said much to the children, but she knew that Aunt Alice's words to her niece had been many and severe, and she did not wish to add to them.
It was a very subdued Charity who came to lessons next morning. She apologised to Miss Vale for what she had done, and for the whole of that afternoon Charity sat in the schoolroom writing an imposition for her aunt. It was only one sentence she had to write over and over again, many hundreds of times.
"Self-will and independence, unless under authority, always lead to disaster. Charity Blair."
Her back ached, her fingers ached, and her head ached before she had finished, but Charity had learned her lesson, and she never played truant again.
She told Faith and Hope afterwards about her day, and though she joined the boys, and actually caught a fish with a rod which they lent her, and though she had talked and laughed with them and was as jolly as she could be, underneath all was the miserable feeling of having done wrong.
"It doesn't really pay," she said.
Later on the three little girls spent an afternoon at the Hall with some other boys and girls. Charlie was well enough to be out again, and he was there.
Faith felt sorry for him when he could not join the boys in a game of hockey, but his spirits were good, and Sir George took him and Faith to see a small museum of curiosities, which interested them greatly.
He gave them each a small Roman coin with a hole pierced through, and told them that it was used in the time when our Lord was in the Holy Land.
"Do you think," said Faith, "that it could possibly be that Jesus Christ had this in His own Hand. Could He, do you think?"
"I shouldn't like to say," said Sir George.
When Faith got home, she put her coin in a little box which she kept carefully locked, and every night she would open it and finger it lovingly.
Charity warned her against making an idol of it.
Faith asked how a piece of money could be an idol.
"Anything is an idol if you worship it, or love it better than God," said Charity, with her superior air.
"But I don't worship it, and I only love it because it might have belonged to Jesus."
"I think that's very irreverent," said Charity.
"If you don't love it more than you ought to do, will you give it to me?"
"Never, never! It's my very own."
Faith shut up her box hastily and pocketed the key. After that she only took it out and looked at it when she was quite alone.
Lionel and Fairfax soon went back to school, and Charlie began his lessons again.
Then one Saturday afternoon, just before three o'clock, the Pirate's high dogcart appeared in charge of a groom. A note was sent in, which demanded an answer, and it was addressed to "Little Miss Moth."
Faith's fingers trembled as she opened the envelope.
"Will little Miss Moth keep a lonely old man company this afternoon? If so, she must return in the trap."W. CARDWELL."
A very short note, but it sent the colour flying into Faith's cheeks and the light into her eyes.
"Oh, Granny, Aunt Alice, may I go?"
Permission was given. Charity and Hope were very disappointed that they were not asked too. They went out and talked to the groom whilst Faith was getting ready to go, and Hope stroked the bay mare's nose and talked affectionately to her. They were not quite so disappointed when they heard that the Pirate was in London.
"It wouldn't be much fun to sit and talk to an old man the whole time," said Hope.
"No," said Charity; "Faith is so funny; she likes talking to Timothy. So dull, I think."
Faith drove off with a radiant face, and she entered the invalid's room with the same expression.
"Ah!" said the old man. "You're glad to come, then? You don't look so perturbed as when you saw me first."
"I love coming," said Faith.
She settled herself down in a chair which was put in readiness for her by the old man's side, and she and he talked away about all kinds of things. Then very mysteriously Faith brought out of her pocket her precious little box.
"I want to show you something wonderful," she said, "I thought you might like to see it."
FAITH'S OLD FRIEND
OLD Mr. Cardwell admired the coin, but was not quite so much impressed as Faith considered he ought to be. He rang the bell for his servant, and told him to bring a small cabinet. Then he asked for his bunch of keys, and he made Faith unlock it, and take out some old coins that he had collected.
"These are all B.C.," he said. "Hundreds of years before."
Faith looked at them, asked what "B.C." meant, and in her turn was not much impressed.
"I shouldn't care for them so much," she said. "It's only because this might—it might, you know—have lain in the Hand of Jesus."
"Oh, you little piece of superstition!" said the old man. "You ought to have been born an R.C. Then you would have believed anything."
"But I might be right," said Faith. "Nobody could make sure I'm not, and I like to think it, very, very much."
"Why are you so religious? Is it the way in your family? Children aren't as a rule. What makes you such a little sober-sides?"
Faith shook her curls.
"I can't tell you," she said, "but I don't feel sober when I come to see you. I feel I could dance for joy, and I don't think I'm religious—we're pretty naughty, as a rule."
Then she put her coin back carefully in its box.
"I think the children who lived in the Bible time when Jesus Christ went about their villages were the most fortunate children in the world."
There was a pause in their conversation.
Then her little face brightened.
"But I suppose we're fortunate, too, for we have the Comforter going about with us in the world now."
"Ah!" said old Mr. Cardwell, "I thought you would start that hare again. How's the old shepherd? Seen him lately?"
"Yes, one day last week. I met him in the road, taking his sheep to another field, and Sandy was with him. Timothy knows you. I asked him if he did. And he feels very sorry for our Pirate, because he wanted to go to the war, didn't he? And they wouldn't have him, because he had a bad heart?"
"That was the way of it. Bad luck has been in this house for twenty years—ever since I lost my wife."
"Did she die?" Faith asked with interest.
"Yes, caught a cold—and died after three days' illness. Everything went wrong after that."
"You must have felt just like the disciples did," said Faith thoughtfully.
The old man did not reply. A shadow had come across his face, but there was a softer look in his eyes as he thought about the wife he had adored.
"Me and Timothy sat down in a field together under a tree," went on Faith, "while he ate his dinner. He had some cold bacon and bread. It was very nice, I tasted it. And then he told me the story of the disciples. You see, it was simply awful for them when Jesus went away from them like your wife did! Shall I tell you what Timothy told me?"
"Oh, yes, tell me anything you like."
"You see, they thought all along Jesus wouldn't die. They wouldn't and couldn't believe it when He told them He was going away from them. And they hoped to the last He wouldn't die, and then He did. It was awful black and dark, and no good to live any more, they thought. Timothy said they'd always told Jesus all their troubles, and He had understood, and they'd loved Him so, and they'd followed and lived with Him, and when He was silent and dead their hearts nearly broke. Timothy says they felt what we feel when one we love best dies—you felt like that about your wife, didn't you? I almost wished when Timothy was talking that I had somebody I loved very much who died. But I did know a little girl at our school in London who died, and we cried a good deal, because she was in my class, and she came to tea once, and I was sorry after that I didn't let her have one of my dolls' hats. She asked for it, I remember!"
Faith paused for breath; her thoughts had flown away on another track. The invalid looked at her with some amusement in his eyes.
Then she returned to the subject of Timothy's conversation.
"Well, just before their hearts quite broke, Jesus rose out of his grave on Easter Sunday, and then they were most joyful again. And He often came and talked to them, but then came another dreadful disappointment. He went away from them for good and all, and never came back again. And He hasn't come yet, though He will one day."
Faith paused.
"Of course you know all this don't you? Because it's in the Bible, but Timothy makes it quite real when he tells it. Shall I go on—the best part is just coming—"
"Go on. I'm listening."
"Well, they were told by angels when Jesus went up to Heaven that the Comforter was coming to them, and they must just pray and wait for Him. And then one wonderful day they were all together, and there was a rushing mighty wind, and the Comforter came."
Faith's eyes were big now with delight and awe. She waved her small hands in the air in her excitement:
"He came right on them and into them, and they dried their tears and never cried again; and they found they could do anything they wanted now, and weren't afraid of the wicked Jews or of death, or any of the fearful things that come into the world to make us unhappy and sad. And then they began to see that what Jesus said was quite, quite true. The Comforter went about with them everywhere and kept them good and happy, and made them remember every single word Jesus had ever said to them. And they lived happy ever after till they died, and then the Comforter carried them up to heaven, and they've been there ever since. Isn't that a beautiful ending?"
Old Mr. Cardwell gazed at the child's shining face and was speechless for a minute, then he said:
"But you don't think that the same thing happens to us?"
"Timothy says it does, really it does. And everybody who feels when they've got their dear soldiers dying and leaving them that they can never be happy again, are making a little mistake. Because the Comforter is only too glad to come and make it up to them, and dry their tears and make them quite happy again. I asked Timothy if we all heard the wind when the Comforter came. He says He comes very gently now. But yesterday, all day, there was such a rushing wind round our cottage and in the orchard, that I wondered if the Comforter was coming to a whole lot of unhappy people all at once, like He did to the disciples. What do you think? Did He come to you when your wife died in a very soft way, or in a loud way?"
"He's never come near me at all," said the old man with a bitter smile.
image005
A RED AND BROWN BUTTERFLY FLEW IN.
Faith looked at him in a perplexed fashion.
"Well, then, I suppose He is waiting to be asked, like with me. I never asked Him to come to me before Timothy told me about Him. I really didn't understand. But I asked Him as soon as I could. And Timothy says He is with me. I s'pose—"
Faith stopped, and a slow, dreamy smile came upon her lips: "I s'pose whatever happens to me when I grow up and when I get quite old—if a earthquake shakes me, or Granny and Aunt Alice and Charity and Hope are all taken to Heaven first, and me left behind quite alone, and if the most awful things you can imagine would happen—I shall never, never be unhappy, because the Comforter will be drying my tears as fast as they come, and holding me in His Arms and loving me."
There was dead silence. A little breeze blew in at the open window, and then a red and brown butterfly flew in and alighted on the rug that covered the invalid's legs.
Childlike, Faith jumped up to look at it. Her grave talk was forgotten.
"I suppose a moth isn't as pretty as a butterfly is it? You will always call me Miss Moth, won't you? I do love it."
"Well, little Miss Moth, I'm much obliged for your dear little sermon. We'll have the rest of it another day."
The butterfly flew away, and Faith watched it alight on a rhododendron outside. Then she turned:
"Oh, dear, everybody tells me I give sermons! I don't mean to. And I'm not partickly fond of sermons myself, they're so long and dry. But I do love talking about the Comforter. Charity and Hope won't listen; they say they don't want any comfort at all. I s'pose if you're never unhappy you don't. But they do get miserable sometimes."
She stopped. Tea was being brought in, and she had the supreme joy of handling the silver teapot, and pouring out cups of tea for herself and the old man. She chattered away now of the Cottage, and of the village, and of all that she and her sisters meant to do in the summer holidays; and when the time came for her to go, she parted from her old friend with real regret.
But she was made happy by the invitation to come and spend every Saturday afternoon with him. And when she got home her tongue went fast. Charity told her that she would get sick and tired of the old invalid before long.
"It's only because he's new. After two or three weeks you'll feel quite dull, and won't want to go any more."
"I shall always want to go," said Faith emphatically; "he talks nearly as nice as Timothy, only different, but they both talk to me in a understanding way."
Charity laughed.
"It isn't very hard to understand you," she said.
Faith coloured and crept away with her feelings a little hurt. Hope came after her.
"Never mind, Faith. Let's come and put Rose and Violet to bed. They're up in the apple tree. Charity is always saying nasty things, but she doesn't mean them. But she says you're trying to get religious like the children in books. And that's priggy, you know!"
"I'm sure I don't mean to be," said Faith disconsolately.
But she cheered up when they were out in the sunny orchard; and the putting of the dolls to bed was a serious business, and occupied her time and thoughts. Faith had been going to the Towers for two or three weeks, when one Saturday afternoon she arrived home in a state of the greatest excitement, bearing a covered basket in her arms.
"Oh, Aunt Alice," she cried, as she met her Aunt at the door, "I have the loveliest, darlingest little black and white puppy, and he's all my own. Mr. Cardwell gave him to me. We were looking out of the window at his mother rolling him over and over, and there were three more, one yellow and brown, and the other all black and—"
"Stop, stop! Not quite so fast," said Aunt Alice. "I don't want to disappoint you, but we cannot keep dogs here, and you should not have brought him before asking leave first."
"But Mr. Cardwell gave him to me, he really did."
"Yes, very kind of him, but I can't let you have a dog. There are many reasons against it."
Aunt Alice walked down to the gate and asked the groom to wait. He had as usual brought Faith back in the dogcart.
Faith stood hugging her basket with scarlet cheeks and excited eyes. Charity and Hope besought her to open the basket. She did so.
"Oh, I must keep him!" she cried. "I must, I must. Aunt Alice wouldn't be so cruel! He's such a darling! He licked my face and fingers with his dear little pink tongue!"
The puppy looked at the three little faces anxiously bending over him, and gave a feeble squeak of approval. Aunt Alice came hurriedly into the Cottage and sat down at her desk to write a note. The children looking at her felt the puppy's fate was sealed, and Faith burst into a flood of tears.
"It's a shame!" she sobbed. "I've been planning all the way home about him, and where he will live. There's an old tub in the yard, and I will go without some of my breakfast and dinner so as to give him some!"
"Yes, we all will," said Charity eagerly. "I'm sure Granny would let us keep him. I'll run and ask her."
But Granny was out, and Aunt Alice was quite determined. Faith actually had a tiny struggle with her aunt before the basket could be taken out of her arms; but it was no good; the puppy was delivered back to the groom with the note for Mr. Cardwell, and Aunt Alice turned to confront three very miserable and rather sullen little nieces.
"Don't be foolish, unreasonable children!" she said. "And, Faith, stop crying at once. We are not well enough off to start keeping a dog in these war times. The licence would be expensive to begin with, and we want every crumb of food ourselves. I have to keep a cat because of the mice, and I can't have another animal to feed as well. It was very kind of Mr. Cardwell, but I have explained to him that we never have kept dogs, and cannot begin it now. Granny would be quite of the same opinion as myself. It was only the other day she refused the offer of a spaniel from Sir George."
Faith rushed away out into the orchard, sobbing her heart out. There was a thick hedge at the bottom of it, and here behind as old apple tree out of sight of the house she cried most bitterly. It was a grievous disappointment to her. She could not follow her Aunt's reasons, and thought she was cross and unkind to act so.
"Aunt Alice might understand—she doesn't care a bit, she's always being cross now. Oh, my darling puppy! It's cruel to take you away!"
As the tears fell fast, recollection came to her. Was there any need to go on crying so? Was not the Comforter close by?
"I don't want to stop crying!" she sobbed to herself. "I've a right to cry. Aunt Alice has made me cry, and she doesn't care a bit. She's horrid and unkind. No, I really don't want the Comforter at all. I want to cry."
And so with more anger than sorrow in her little heart, she sobbed on.
When supper time came, Charity came to hunt for her, and brought her indoors with a tear-stained face.
Aunt Alice took no notice of her unhappiness, but talked very cheerfully about taking them all out on an expedition in a few days' time.
"I have heard of a place where some wild strawberries grow, and we will take our dinner with us and bring home as many as we can carry. I have told Miss Vale that she must give you a whole holiday."
Charity and Hope clapped their hands; but Faith did not even smile. Her Granny spoke to her lovingly before she went to bed, but she made little response. Aunt Alice told her not to be sulky, and that made her feel worse. When she went upstairs to bed she felt she was the most ill-used little girl in all the world. But when she knelt down to say her prayers, better thoughts began to come to her.
"I did think I should never feel unhappy again because of the Comforter," she thought. "I suppose He has gone away quite disgusted with me, I don't feel Him near me now. I just feel angry still, because I'm so disappointed! And I don't care about the strawberries a bit. I wanted the puppy. But nobody cares. Even Charity and Hope, who seemed to want him, have quite forgotten all about him now, and they laugh and talk and think me silly not to laugh too. Oh, please, God, do send the Comforter back. Perhaps He would make me feel good again. I don't feel it now. I'm sorry for being so cross."
Faith was getting rather near comfort now. When once she had owned that she had been in the wrong she began to feel better.
And before she fell asleep that night she had the feeling that the Comforter was near her, and that she was being made happy once more.
When the next morning dawned she found that the sun was shining and the birds singing, and life before her was bright, as it always was.
And she was quite ready to talk enthusiastically over the strawberry gathering. Charity and Hope were accustomed to her moods. They knew she felt things more deeply than they did, and were thankful to see her scamper out into the orchard before breakfast, and come in singing under her breath, as she pulled her chair towards the table.
Nobody alluded to the trouble of yesterday, and, child-like, Faith soon pushed it into the background, and threw herself into the present without a shadow of care or disappointment upon her little face.
STRAWBERRY PICKING
THE strawberry gathering was a great success. It was a long walk, but when at last they reached the spot, and found a sloping and rather uncultivated piece of ground covered with red strawberries, the children screamed with delight. There was a stream at the bottom, and a wood on the upper side. Hope said with ecstasy:
"It has everything we want, Aunt Alice. We can get wood to light a fire, and water for the kettle to boil."
"Yes," said Aunt Alice, who seemed as happy as the children: "I only wish that dear Granny was here to enjoy it too, but it would have been too long a walk for her. I have a dream sometimes of getting a donkey and a little trap, then Granny could drive and enjoy the country as we do."
"Oh, Aunt Alice, how lovely! Do get a donkey," pleaded the children.
But Aunt Alice shook her head.
"How do you think we could afford to buy one? It's just as much as we can do to feed and clothe you all."
"It's a pity we aren't birds," said Faith; "then we could fly about and feed ourselves. Don't you think we might live on wild things? Strawberries and nuts and mushrooms—they don't cost money, do they?"
"We won't talk of money now," said Aunt Alice cheerfully, "let us all pick as hard as we can. If we get a great many baskets full, I may be able to make some jam."
So they set to work. The strawberries were very small, and it took a long time to fill a basket, but the little girls were perfectly happy. The novelty of it delighted them.
And then when dinner time came, Aunt Alice said they would all have an hour's rest. She sat down with a newspaper at the foot of a tree, but the children could not keep still. They dashed into the wood and brought out armfuls of sticks, and Aunt Alice gave them a match. It was some time before the fire would burn. They had not much experience in fire building out of doors, but at last they were successful, and then the little tin kettle, which Aunt Alice had brought in her basket, was taken down to the stream and filled with water, and placed on the fire.
Aunt Alice put down her newspaper, and unpacked her basket. The kettle soon boiled, and cups of tea, with bread and cheese sandwiches, hard-boiled eggs and plain slices of cake seemed a very nice and unusual dinner to the children.
"Oh," said Hope, "if only we could always have meals out of doors."
"Then one day," said Aunt Alice, "you would all come to me and say:
"'Please, for a very great treat may we have dinner indoors to-day? It would be so lovely to sit up on proper chairs and a real table, and have no buzzing flies or nasty caterpillars crawling over our food.'"
As she finished speaking, Aunt Alice fished a caterpillar out of her tea.
Charity looked thoughtful.
"Perhaps we should feel like that," she said; "it's because we never do it that we like to do it now."
"That's it," said her Aunt; "it's the unexpected and unusual that pleases us so."
"But if I was rich," said Charity, knitting her brows, "I could have something new every day. I should like to have a big house and a lot of visitors, and I would give them surprises every day."
"Well now, let's pretend you are rich," said Hope, "and Granny and Aunt Alice and Faith and I would come and see you. What surprises could you give us? Tell."
Charity sat up and hugged her knees. Her eyes were away on some distant hills. She was silent for a moment or two, then she began to speak.
"The first morning after breakfast I would lead Granny down the steps, and there would be waiting for her a beautiful little pony carriage painted blue with white velvet cushions, and two white Arab ponies with flowing manes and tails, and a little boy would get up on the seat behind and fold his arms and Granny would step in and take the reins in her hands and drive away miles into the most beautiful country she has ever seen. Granny likes driving herself. She always used to do that, when she was rich, didn't she, Aunt Alice?"
"I don't think dear Granny was ever rich," said Aunt Alice, laughing.
"Oh, go on, Charity! What about me?" asked Hope.
Charity smiled radiantly.
"Oh, of course, I would give you a horse to ride, and six dogs, and a part of the garden, which would be wired into a little zoo, and there would be all kinds of animals in it, and at the side a hospital where you would doctor the sick ones and mend their broken legs."
"Oh, how heavenly!"
"And Faith," went on Charity, "would have to come out with me, and pay visits to all kinds of wonderful old men with beards. Some would live in cottages, and give her baked apples for tea, some would live in beautiful houses, but they would all be very glad to see her and would sit up and talk with her for hours."
"Oh," cried Faith, clapping her hands, "I think I should have the best, for my surprise would be fresh every day. I could see one new old man every day, and Charity and Granny would soon come to the end of theirs. What about Aunt Alice?"
Charity looked thoughtful.
"I should take her one day into the drawing-room, and there would be a tall, nice, smiling man, with manners like a prince. And then I should shut the door and go away, and he would ask her to marry him, and he would take her away to a house nearly as big as mine—not quite, perhaps."
"You ridiculous child!" laughed Aunt Alice.
"Mrs. Cox always said you ought to get married," said Charity, "she said you were too young and pretty to be an old maid."
"Well," said Aunt Alice, "you would be quite a fairy godmother to us all, Charity, but, my dear child, the novelty of riches even wears off after a time. If you can have everything you want, you soon want nothing, and that stage brings discontent as well as content."
The children could not follow this.
They finished their lunch, washed their cups and plates up in the stream; then set to work picking strawberries again.
Later on they had an early tea before they started to walk home. And as they were in the middle of it who should come riding by but the Pirate. He recognised the children and rode up to them, dismounting, and talking to Aunt Alice for some minutes. Then she asked him if he would like a cup of tea, and he said he would love it. So he tied his horse to a tree stump, and sat down upon the ground with them. The little girls chattered to him freely; and he told them some very funny stories about people and animals he had met abroad. He stayed quite a long time; and agreed with the children that meals in the open air tasted much better than in the house.
"Give me a tent and a gun and a fishing rod," he said, "and I would want nothing else if sport were good."
"Have you ever had a tent?" asked Hope.
"Yes, I went a shooting expedition in Africa with two Kaffirs," he said; "but that journey ended disastrously for me. I had to swim a river and couldn't change my clothes, and had a bout of rheumatic fever which nearly finished me, and has left me a crock to the end of my days!"
A shadow came over his face. They all felt very sorry for him, and then he laughed but not very happily.
"So that's why I funk at home, instead of taking my place in the fighting line," he said.
"There's a lot of hard fighting being done at home," said Aunt Alice quietly.
He looked at her, and when their eyes met, they understood each other. The young man was not the only one who was doing his duty at home without getting any praise or honour for it. Aunt Alice was doing the same, and she knew that it was hard work sometimes.
He accompanied them home and let the little girls ride his horse in turn, he walking by their side and talking to Aunt Alice about many things.
"My Nora is as quiet and steady as a rock," he said; "so you need not be afraid she will run away from you."
"She likes to walk with you, doesn't she?" said observant Hope; "she keeps looking round to see if you are there!"
"Yes, Nora and I are fast friends. We've been twelve years together now."
He insisted upon carrying most of the baskets, and when they reached home Faith hastily whispered something into her Aunt's ear.
She smiled.
"Faith wants to send your father some of these strawberries to taste. What do you think about it?"
"He'll be awfully pleased, of course."
So Faith ran indoors and got a tiny pet basket of her own, and filled it with strawberries. She tied a red ribbon round it, and asked the young man to give it to his father with her "dearest love."
He promised to do so, and then the little girls ran indoors to tell Granny of their happy day.
Faith was much delighted the next day when a note arrived for her from old Mr. Cardwell. She opened it with much pride and showed it to everyone:
"DEAR LITTLE MISS MOTH,"I thank you for your kind thought for a cross old man. The berries were really too pretty to be eaten. But to please you I have devoured them, and have been taken back to my boyhood's days. I know the spot where they grow. When you come next Saturday, I will tell you an anecdote concerning them."Your old friend,"W. CARDWELL."
"He isn't a cross old man to me," said Faith. "I like him next to Timothy."
"I shouldn't like to be called Miss Moth," said Charity; "a moth is a horrid, dusty thing—lives on old clothes; the Bible says it corrupts, that's an awful thing to do."
Faith's face fell.
"I hope I don't corrupt," she said; "what does it mean?"
"Well, you do like old things," said Hope; "you like old men, so that part fits you."
"I think corrupt means make rotten or bad," said Charity.
"How dreadful!" said Faith. "I'm sure Mr. Cardwell didn't mean to call me anything horrid. I'll ask him. But I think he thought I looked like a moth, he said I came into his room like one."
"And you're easily crushed," said Charity laughing; "yes, you're rather like a moth in that way."
Then she said:
"Hope and I mean to get a special friend. Of course we have Sir George, but we mean to get somebody else. And I know who it will be!"
"Who is it?" asked Faith.
But Charity nodded her head mysteriously.
"Somebody I've met. You haven't met them. It's awfully nice in the country, we're always finding out new people."
She would say nothing more to Faith, but whispered in corners to Hope; and Faith did not like that at all.
Charity was a little bit jealous of Faith going off to the Towers every Saturday afternoon. Nothing stopped it. If it was a wet day, a closed carriage arrived for her.
And Hope said, laughing, one day when Charity, with a sulky face, watched Faith driving away, "We won't be like Cinderella's sisters, Charity. Faith is rather like Cinderella, isn't she? But we won't be cross about it."
And then it was that Charity began to think about finding some new friend to be quits with Faith.
She was marvellously successful.
One Saturday she and Hope were taking a walk across some fields to a farm; their Aunt had sent them to fetch some eggs. On the way they passed a lady sitting on a campstool making a sketch of an old ruined mill by the stream. She looked up and smiled at them as they passed her, and made some remark about the weather. The little girls were rather shy and went on to the farm. They discovered that the artist's name was Miss Huntingdon, and that she had come to the farm to lodge for the summer. Mrs. Davis, the farmer's wife, loved to talk, and she told the children all about her.
"I did use to be her nurse—Miss Mary was always my favourite—she had three brothers—and now she lives in a big house in London with her father—he have got war work and so did Miss Mary have—but she broke down, and the doctors said she must rest in the country, and so she have come down here. A beautiful painter she be! She always painted, Miss Mary did, and many's the time I punished her for daubing her white pinnies all over with paint."
The little girls listened to this and much more, and they had seen Miss Huntingdon several times since, and thought she had a very nice face. Charity now determined to make friends with her.
She and Hope set out one warm afternoon in July to track her down. They knew she painted by the river, and it was not long before they found her. But it needed some courage to go up and begin making acquaintance with her.
Hope's courage gave out: she hid behind a tree, whilst Charity crept boldly forwards, until she reached Miss Huntingdon, who was very busy making a pretty sketch of the river and the fields beyond.
"Oh," sighed Charity, "how I wish I could paint!"
Miss Huntingdon turned her head and smiled at her. "Do you? Have you ever tried?"
"We paint pictures for scrap-books," said Charity, waxing confidential; "but we haven't very good paints. Not like yours. May I watch you? And may Hope? She's afraid to come near."
"Oh, you mustn't be afraid of me," said Miss Huntingdon, laughing; "and I'm rather a sociable person. I like to have people to talk to. You see, I can paint and talk at the same time. I have seen you before, haven't I? Do you live near here?"
Charity beckoned to Hope, then began eagerly telling Miss Huntingdon all about themselves. Before long Hope was brave enough to put in her word, and Miss Huntingdon plainly showed them that she would like to be friendly. Charity told her that they knew Mrs. Davis and often got eggs from her.
"Next time you come over you must let me know you are there. I have such a dear old sitting-room at the Farm."
"May we be friends with you?" asked Charity eagerly.
Miss Huntingdon laughed aloud.
"You are the quaintest children I have ever seen!" she said.
Hope felt compelled to explain Charity's somewhat forward behaviour.
"It's really because Faith makes friends with old men, and we want to make friends with somebody else. Faith goes out to tea every Saturday to the Towers, and Charity and I have to stay at home."
"Oh, I see daylight. Faith is your other sister, is she not? And you would like to come to tea with me on Saturday? I shall be delighted. It will cheer me up. And I'll get Mrs. Davis to make one of her big tea-cakes. That's settled, then, and I shall expect you next Saturday at four o'clock."
Charity and Hope were very uncomfortable. Charity said:
"We never meant to ask you to ask us. And Granny and Aunt Alice mightn't let us come. It's very kind of you, but if you'll let us come and talk to you while you are painting sometimes and be friends, we would like to do that, without coming to tea."
Miss Huntingdon looked at Charity's red cheeks and Hope's downcast eyes and understood.
"Very well," she said; "we'll just be friends and tea will come later on. Now I've finished my sketch for to-day, so must say good-bye to you. And I shall be here every afternoon this week, so you will know where to find me."
Charity and Hope went home and informed Faith that they had got a charming friend and would be very often away in the woods with her.
Faith of course was curious, but for some time she could not find out who it was.
And then one day Granny and Aunt Alice went to tea with Lady Melville and met Miss Huntingdon, and Aunt Alice and she became the greatest friends. But Charity and Hope still maintained that they had the first claim upon her, and the invitation to take tea with her came and was accepted.
They went to the Farm when Faith went to the Towers and all seemed satisfied.
THE GREY DONKEY
THE summer holidays came at last and Miss Vale said good-bye to her pupils for six weeks.
Charlie Evans had been away with his mother for a month at the seaside. Now he returned looking as brown as a berry and much stronger in every way. He came round to the Cottage the first evening after his return home, and the little girls took him into the orchard, where they had been trying to erect a kind of tent with an old piece of sacking and four stout sticks, which wobbled about in the ground at the least touch. Charlie did not think much of their attempt.
"Why don't you get a man to put the poles in?" he said. "I know a chap who would do it. The blacksmith's son. He comes once a week to do up our garden."
"But he would want to be paid," said Charity, anxiously.
"No, he wouldn't. He's very fond of me. I'll ask him as a favour. What's the tent going to be? A wigwam or a hunting box or a gipsy encampment?"
"Which do you think would be nicest?" asked Hope.
Charlie cocked his head on one side and considered.
"A hunting box—at least, a tent pitched near an African jungle. If you get it made tight and taut, I'll come round to-morrow morning with some of my hunting trophies, and I'll still be Captain, and my wife must make the tent comfortable and do the cooking, and Bolt and Ben must come out hunting with me. Will your aunt let me spend the day here, if I bring some food? You can't hunt unless you have the whole day out."
"Oh, we'll ask her," said Charity excitedly; "but you must get the tent fixed properly."
"All right," said Charlie, "I'll go and get the man, and you go in and tell your aunt about it."
He marched off up the village, and Granny and Aunt Alice were besought by the little girls for leave to spend a whole day out in the orchard without any interruption.
"And if you could give me something real to cook," said Charity, following her aunt into the kitchen, "something that I could put into a pot, and boil over a real fire."
Aunt Alice not only gave them leave to have Charlie for the whole day, but said she would give them what they wanted for dinner and tea.
"Only mind this," she said, "you must not be running backwards and forwards to the house all day long. Get what you want in the morning, and stay out all day, as if you were having a picnic miles off from home. I shall not expect you in till tea-time, and you must get your wood for the fire yourselves, not take any of mine from the wood-shed. And be sure to have your fire out of reach of the apple trees, or you will be burning them."
The children were delighted.
"It is nice to have Charlie back," said Hope; "he always thinks of such jolly things."
Charlie was as good as his word. John Lucas, the blacksmith's son, came along, and soon made the tent firm for the children. He brought a couple of extra poles and made a splendid framework for a tent. Charity got hold of some more old sacks, and the little girls worked hard all that day making their tent as comfortable as they could.
The next morning they could hardly eat any breakfast from excitement. Aunt Alice gave them a little kettle and an old saucepan, and a few cracked cups and saucers. Then she made up a basket of food, and delivered it into Charity's hands.
When they went out into the orchard at nine o'clock, they found Charlie had already arrived. He had trundled a small wheelbarrow down from his home, with a lot of his pet possessions. They spent nearly an hour in adorning their tent. He had an old leopard skin, which was placed on the ground. Some curious assegais and old bows and arrows he fastened up inside, and then he showed the little girls about a dozen skins of different small animals, which he had cured and mounted himself. There was a badger's skin, a stoat's, a grey rat's, and four or five mole skins. These he pinned up round the tent with great pride. Then over the entrance, he fastened up with string a dreadful-looking skull. It really belonged to an old sheep, but he said:
"This keeps away Indians and bushrangers. It shows I kill my enemies with the greatest ease."
Then underneath the skull, he put up a big printed paper. The letters were all painted in red ink.
"Here lives Captain Charles, the Great Hunter and Lion Killer. Trespassers will be shot without warning."
"What will you shoot them with?" asked Charity.
Charlie produced his fire-arms promptly. He had an air gun, a bow and arrow, and a toy pistol. The little girls were quite awed.
Then began a very delightful day. Charity was perfectly happy peeling and boiling some potatoes and onions, and putting a bit of bacon in her saucepan over a wood fire, just outside the hut. Charlie went across the fields with Hope and Faith, tracking all kinds of wild animals. The only thing that spoiled Faith's enjoyment was that he actually shot a rat with his air gun; and when he pursued it into a corner behind a haystack, he finished it with a stout stick. Faith fled from him shuddering, when he held it up to her by its tail.
"You little stupid! It's a—a skunk—an awful smelling animal which needs to be buried at once, but it is a very good kind of creature to kill."
"Oh, bury it quick!" cried Faith, "Don't let me see the poor thing—it's cruel to kill anything."
"But I'm a hunter," said Charlie. "Oh, what a shame it is I have only girls to play with!"
"I'm not like Faith," asserted Hope. "Don't mind her, she's always fussing over dead things. Aunt Alice lets Spicer catch the mice, and this is a rat. There's no difference."
Faith tried to hide her horror. She liked the stalking after game, but she was always glad when the rabbit fled away, and the bird flew off out of reach of Charlie's gun.
At seven o'clock that evening, Aunt Alice went out to call the little girls in. She found them all sitting on the ground inside the tent listening to one of Charlie's stories. The fire was blazing away merrily outside. They were very loth to leave their play. Aunt Alice made them put out the fire, and Charlie took a reluctant departure. He left all his skins with them.
"I'm going to drive with Dad to-morrow, but perhaps I can come round the next day," he said. And then he went off.
"Oh, Aunt Alice, we have enjoyed ourselves," Charity said. "And our dinner was delicious. And in the afternoon I joined the hunters and we went through the woods for miles, and we saw a squirrel and a weasel. Charlie knows such a lot about the woods, and he knows every bird by name."
"Well, he can come over another day. As long as you do not get into any mischief, I don't mind him being with you."
So this was the beginning of many delightful days, and the holidays slipped by so fast that the little girls were quite sorry to think that lessons would soon begin again.
One afternoon, Faith was making a frock for one of her dolls. It had been raining. She was in the schoolroom alone. Charity and Hope were helping their aunt to make jam in the kitchen. Suddenly the schoolroom door opened and Hope dashed in.
"Faith, quick, come! There's a boy at the gate wants to see you, and he has such a beautiful big grey donkey."
Faith ran out of the house down to the gate. Then her face lighted up in pleased recognition.
"Why, it's Dan," she cried, "the gipsy boy who spilled his milk! How is your mother, Dan?"
"Dead," he said, meeting Faith's gaze very bravely.
Faith was quite shocked.
"Folks never left us alone," the boy said sadly. "They hustled mother into Infirmary, and then us heard father were shot dead, and we sold the van, and mother she said to me:"
"'I'd like that little girl to have Topsy. Take her to her, and tell her I'm dyin' happy—and don't forget what she telled me.'"
"We sold our horse—but I've tramped close on twenty-five mile with Topsy—she'll only want a field to feed in. Father used her for a small cart, but us got rid of that when he went to war, and mother's just kept Topsy on; her couldn't bear parting with her. She follers like a dog."
"Oh, Dan, it's a wonderful present!" cried Faith, with shining eyes. "But I feel I ought to pay for Topsy, and we can't do that because we're so poor."
"Mother left her to you. She didn't want her sold. She wanted her to have a good home."
"Oh, wait a minute! I must tell Aunt Alice. It would be too glorious if she lets me have her."
Faith dashed back to the house, and Aunt Alice came out, and had a long talk with the boy. He was going to join his uncle, who kept another van, but who did not want the donkey. And after a long talk Aunt Alice said that Faith might keep Topsy.
She was taken into the orchard, where she began to munch the grass very contentedly, and Dan was invited into the cottage. Aunt Alice gave him a cup of cocoa and some bread and cheese in the kitchen, and thanked him very much for bringing the donkey to Faith.
As for the little girls, they could hardly contain their joy. They hung round Topsy watching her every movement, but when Dan took his leave, Faith walked to the gate with him and wished him good-bye very gravely.
"We'll take the greatest care of Topsy, and if you ever pass this way again, you'll come and see her, won't you? Are you always going to live in a gipsy van? How lovely!"
"I just can't live in a stuffy 'ouse," Dan said.
And then he marched away, and Faith ran back to the orchard, thinking herself the happiest little girl in the whole world.
There was great discussion that evening as to how they should use Topsy.
"I suppose a saddle is very, very expensive?" Faith asked her aunt. "Of course, we could ride on a sack, couldn't we?"
"Yes, I'm afraid we can't afford a saddle at present," said Aunt Alice cheerfully. "I don't know that a cheap little cart wouldn't be better for you all. Then Granny could drive in it."
"Oh, that would be like Charity's story coming true," said Faith, with great delight.
"Let us all save up our money," suggested Charity.
But Hope and Faith said dolefully, "It would take years and years before we could get enough."
They had to be content with riding Topsy bare-backed. Hope thought nothing of jumping on her back and having a gallop. Faith and Charity went more gently with her—and then one day something wonderful happened.
It was Granny's birthday. The little girls had for some weeks been busily making their presents for her. Granny told them she always valued anything that they made her much more than what they bought for her.
So Charity had been making a big box pincushion out of an old soapbox. Hope had knitted her a warm pair of cuffs, and Faith had made her a bag to keep her knitting in, and had worked in big letters across it "Granny." These were put on the breakfast table in the morning, and Aunt Alice, who had bought a book, put her present with them.
Granny was always a delightful receiver of gifts. She looked so astonished, and delighted, and was so full of praise and thanks, that her grandchildren had the feeling that their presents were really wonderful, and "just the things Granny was wanting!"
They were all talking and kissing and laughing, when there came a sharp knock at the door. Aunt Alice went to open it, and found there the groom from the Hall with a note from Sir George. Whilst Granny was reading it, the little girls happened to look-out of the window, and there they saw outside the gate a delightful little basket carriage with brown cushions and brown wheels. In their excitement, they flew out of the cottage to inspect it, and in a minute, Granny came down to the gate with tears in her eyes.
"It's too much!" she murmured. "Too good altogether!"
And then the children were told that it was a birthday present for Granny from Sir George and Lady Melville. And in the little carriage was packed a complete set of brown harness. Granny let the children see her birthday letter:
"MY DEAR OLD FRIEND,"My wife and I join in giving you loving and heartfelt wishes for your birthday. I have not forgotten the date, and as I have heard of the addition of a donkey to your household, I venture to hope that this little basket tub may be useful to you all. If I see you driving about our lanes, it will remind me of old times, and I know that your unselfish heart will rejoice that your birthday gift can be shared by your little family. May you be spared to us for many years. Mary sends her best love."One of your old boys,"GEORGE MELVILLE."
The excitement was intense now. Aunt Alice felt glad that they had a stable in which they could house the little carriage. Of course that same afternoon Topsy was harnessed, and the children and Granny had a triumphal drive through the village, Aunt Alice walking after them. Topsy did not go very fast—but nobody wished her to do so at present. It was quite enough joy to the children to sit in state and watch Granny drive.
Faith was perhaps the most happy of all, for was it not her donkey that was the cause of Granny's wonderful birthday present?
Before many days had passed, all the little girls had learnt to drive, and Topsy was so reliable and steady that they could be trusted to drive about the lanes alone. Charity came in after her first time as driver in a great state of excitement:
"I really must write to Mrs. Cox," she said. "I have been meaning to do it for ever so long. I must tell her what a splendid time we are having. She always insisted we should be miserable in the country and be wishing ourselves back in London."
So she got out her little desk, and wrote the following letter—Hope and Faith both helped her with it. They had a great desire to impress Mrs. Cox with their prosperity—
"MY DEAR MRS. COX,"I told you I would write and tell you how we got on in the country. We find it a very perfect place. We have a house, and a stable, and a field, all to ourselves. There is no next door on either side. We have apples all over our field, and grass as long as we like to let it grow. We have made a great many new friends who ask us to tea, and play games with us. One of Faith's friends gave her a beautiful present of a donkey. She is grey, and she loves bits of bread. We all ride her when we want to. One of Granny's friends gave her a carriage on her birthday, so we drive for miles whenever we have time. We have a governess and lessons, but it is holidays now."We have a tent in our field, and we have a boy friend who comes nearly every day to shoot and to fish with us. We have all kinds of wild animals near us. Rabbits and owls and squirrels and weasels. And there are hundreds of birds who all sing at once early in the morning. We have fields where little strawberries grow wild, and we can pick them without paying anything. And we never go out for a walk without seeing somebody we know. We have all kinds of friends, a lady who paints pictures, a shepherd who keeps a dog to drive his sheep, a boy who has a raft of his own, a man who plays he is a pirate, an old man who lies on a couch, and is very fond of Faith, a man who has a house full of books, and his wife who always smiles when she sees us, and they both have horses and ponies which Hope likes to ride. And they have two boys who are very nice, but we like Charlie best."And now, Mrs. Cox, you see how happy we are in the country, and we hope you are well, and if you would ever be able to come and see us we will be very glad to take you round and show you everything."From your affectionate friends,"CHARITY, HOPE and FAITH."
"It doesn't sound as if we are bragging?" said Hope a little doubtfully after Charity had read this long letter through with much pride.
"No, for we only tell her what is true," Charity replied.
"I should like you to tell her a little more about Timothy," said Faith. "Mrs. Cox would be made quite happy if Timothy talked to her."
"Mrs. Cox would never be happy," said Charity firmly; "she's one of those people who are happy when they're unhappy."
"Let me put a postscript," begged Faith.
Charity assented, and Faith sat down at the table and wrote very carefully as follows:
"My friend Timothy tells me about God the Comforter Who lives now in the world going about and drying people's tears. Do you know Him, Mrs. Cox? He will make the people you tell us about who are sick of life quite, quite joyful. I wish you knew Timothy. He does talk me into being happy, and you would be happy too. But the Comforter is in London and in your street. I told Timothy where you lived and he said He was."FAITH."
Charity and Hope looked at each other when they had read what Faith had written.
Charity shrugged her shoulders.
"Faith will get too good to live soon," she said; "but she's simply cracked over her old Timothy."
Faith coloured up, but said nothing. She could never argue, and found it wisest to be silent.
But she was not sorry that she had sent Mrs. Cox that postscript.