"Came," Chris explained with brevity. "What's up?"
"Guess—only guess! I'll give you—twenty guesses!"
"New doll?"
"No, it isn't a new doll—not exactly."
"Well, you may as well say. New frock, I suppose," with calm disdain.
Hecla whirled again, three times round. "No, it isn't a new frock," she cried gleefully.
"Then I don't know what it is. Girls only care for dolls and frocks."
"It's—it's—Chris, it's the loveliest news! Only think! A dear little darling girl is coming to live with us. Really to live with us, Chris. A real, true cousin!" By which, she rather unkindly meant to point the difference between this connection and the sham relationship which Chris enjoyed.
But the arrow fell harmless, for Chris was sublimely indifferent to cousinships.
"And I'm going to do heaps of things for her. And she's to have all my toys, and the dolls most especially, for I sha'n't want dolls now I'm going to have Ivy. She'll be ever so much nicer than dolls, and I'll always play with her. And perhaps I'll be allowed to dress and undress her."
"You'll jolly soon get sick of that."
"No, I sha'n't. I'll never get tired of her. And I've got to show I can be trusted, and I don't mean ever to forget things again. And then they'll know I can."
Chris laughed.
"You needn't laugh, Chris—not like that—truly you needn't, because I do mean it you know."
Chris was delicately tickling the frog with a straw to induce it to leap. Hecla paused in her outpour to watch his proceedings. She always loved to look at what he might be doing.
"So it's a baby, is it?" he presently vouchsafed to ask.
"The frog?" inquired absent-minded Hecla.
"You dunderhead! The cousin, of course!"
"She's near a baby—but not quite. She's five years old."
"And you're only eight—pretty much the same."
This was too insulting—even from Chris.
"Why, Chris!"—getting crimson. "Oh, Chris, how can you? Why, I'm eight and a half, and a whole month besides. And I can read, and I can hem pocket-handkerchiefs, and I can spell and do lots of sums. And I know history. And she's only a tiny wee mite!"
Then Hecla reminded him that even he was only ten and a half, just two years older than herself—which he always treated as a huge difference—and she tried to reason out the fact that he was less older than herself than she was older than Ivy. She saw the comparison in her mind, but only managed to bring it out confusedly.
And Chris's sole comment was, "Bosh!"
Then the frog made up his mind what to do, and went off in a series of long leaps. Chris rushed after him, and Hecla would have done the same but for Aunt Anne's voice calling.
So she had to go home, feeling rather flat, for her joy in Ivy's coming had met with small sympathy from her chum.
Buttons and Button-holes
THREE weeks passed, and little Ivy came. Think how happy Hecla was. She felt it to be a thousand million times better than having a present of the biggest doll ever made—even a doll which could open and shut its eyes, and would make a noise when pinched about the waist.
Her most ardent wish now—a wish which had grown stronger every day of the three weeks—was to be trusted sometimes to take care of little Ivy. She was always thinking about this. She wanted to be allowed really to help with the child; to tie and untie her strings, to button and unbutton her clothes; to amuse her; to keep her happy; to be a "little mother" to Ivy. It was Aunt Anne who had put this last idea into Hecla's head.
She had remarked, "Poor little Ivy will miss her dear mother so much! We shall have to try our best to make up to her for that great loss!"
And then Hecla began to wonder if she could not act the part of a sort of imitation-mother to Ivy.
It was in her busy little head that she would be so good, so sensible, so careful, so unforgetful, that her aunts would feel sure they might trust Ivy with her anywhere, out in the garden as well as indoors, and even perhaps—wouldn't that be grand?—on the road as far as the Vicarage, which really was only a few minutes away. What fun—if she might be allowed sometimes to trot little Ivy round there, and to have games with Chris in the nice Vicarage garden!
She thought and thought this over, in her funny absent fashion, during the three weeks. And while she was planning hard about all that she meant to be and to do in the future, her mind was quite away from present duties, and more than ever she forgot all sorts of things which she ought to have attended to each day.
Elisabeth was not going away. At first Miss Storey said that this would have to be. She felt that she ought to find an older servant to look after Ivy.
But everybody was unhappy at the thought. Elisabeth was such a nice girl, so true and honest and careful and dependable and conscientious—really, the number of virtues which had to be tacked to her name was quite astonishing, when one came to count them over.
Miss Storey first spoke to Elisabeth about parting with her, three or four days after it was settled that Ivy would come; and Elisabeth simply cried and cried until her eyes nearly disappeared. And Hecla cried, and Miss Anne cried, and the household generally became so appallingly tearful, that poor Miss Storey, who cried as much as anybody, was quite at her wits' end, and didn't know which way to turn.
Then old Mrs. Prue, who never cried, but showed her feelings by getting fearfully cross and scolding everybody all round—even her mistresses, and they always took it meekly, because they said it was just dear old faithful Prue's way, and they supposed she wasn't feeling very well, and ought to take a tonic—old Mrs. Prue made a suggestion.
She said she couldn't for the life of her see why in the world Elisabeth shouldn't stay on, and take care of Miss Ivy. For her part, she'd sooner have Elisabeth than a dozen of them giddy flaunting girls, going about with red feathers in their hats and gaudy blue silk blouses as was a disgrace to the parents that had brought them up. And Elisabeth, if she was young, had got a head on her shoulders, and was used to children in her own home; and she'd be willing to learn, which was more than could be said for that other sort of girl; and if help was wanted, why, she herself would be ready enough to lend a hand.
And while Hecla, who overheard all this, was wondering what a girl would be like who hadn't any head on her shoulders, Miss Anne chimed in with further entreaties, and said how she meant to do everything herself for the little darling, and how she would dress and undress her, and take her out and teach her to read. Aunt Millicent wanted nothing more than to keep Elisabeth, for she hated new faces and new ways. So at last it was settled, and Elisabeth's poor blistered face became quite radiant with happiness.
"And I can help," Hecla said confidently. "I can button all the buttonholes, can't I, Auntie Anne?—And lots of things besides."
"But you mustn't forget things, if you promise to do them," Miss Anne warned her.
Hecla was perfectly sure that she never would forget any single thing to do with Ivy. Miss Anne could not feel so sure, but she began to hope that having Ivy in the house might in time really make Hecla more careful.
The looked-for day came at last; and little Ivy was brought by her mother, who stayed one night in "The Cottage."
There is no need, I think, to describe the parting next day. All who have seen such partings know only too well what they mean. And Hecla knew, for she had had to say a worse good-bye to her own dear mother, less than two years before. Young as she was, she had not forgotten that sad time.
Ivy was a tender-hearted, loving little child, and poor Mrs. Croft tried hard for her sake not to give way; and Ivy, too, struggled not to sob, because she had been told that it would distress her mother. But when the fly had driven away, she cried most bitterly and seemed quite broken-hearted. Hecla, who at first sight had tumbled over head and ears in love with the little girl, was rather astonished that she could not be comforted by either toys or "sweeties," which last Hecla had bought with the saved-up pence of three weeks.
"Never mind, she will be better by-and-by," Aunt Anne whispered, as the sobbing child turned away to hide her face on Miss Anne's shoulder.
Indeed, that was the only thing which seemed to comfort her—being held tightly in those kind arms and petted and kissed.
But happily little children soon cheer up, and by next morning, though she still looked forlorn and tears were near at hand, she was able to take her breakfast, and to be interested in things around.
Hecla was allowed to leave her lessons and to play with Ivy, and she did her very best. She brought her toys and sat on the ground putting them out, and making lavish presents to the younger girl of anything that Ivy seemed to admire. A good while passed pleasantly thus, and then, when Ivy began to cry suddenly for "Mummie!" Miss Anne came and sat down with them on the floor, and comforted her and told one or two funny stories to make her smile.
"Now I think we might go for a walk," she said. "What do you think, Ivy? Wouldn't that be nice?"
Hecla bounded up.
"And oh, auntie, may I button all the buttonholes?" she cried.
Miss Anne laughed at the droll way in which she expressed herself, and Ivy asked seriously—
"Why-because does she want?"
Hecla gave Ivy a rapturous hug.
"Oh, you dear little pet!" she cried. "Auntie, may we go down by the river? I want to show Ivy the bridge-part, and how boats go under and out again."
"Yes, I think we can go there."
Hecla danced upstairs, turning round every other step to explain about the river and the "bridge-part," as she called it, and Ivy followed slowly, step by step, holding Miss Anne's hand. Hecla was allowed to stand by, while Aunt Anne put on little Ivy's pretty blue walking-frock and blue hat.
"Now you may button this, Hecla," she said.
And Hecla, who was not clever with her fingers, struggled till she was scarlet in the face to get a rather difficult button into its hole. She stopped at length in despair, and to their surprise Ivy's little fingers did it at once quite deftly.
"Clever little thing!" Aunt Anne murmured.
"She's cleverer than me, isn't she—lots?" cried Hecla, overhearing what she was not meant to hear.
"Mummie always lets me dress myself," said Ivy.
"Then you shall do it another day," promised Miss Anne.
It was a lovely spring day, early spring, yet warm and sunny. They went outside the town; not towards the windmill, where Hecla had gone with Elisabeth one day, but in another direction, past the Vicarage and the old grey Church, and along a country road, with a little river beside it.
Presently they reached a place where the river disappeared under the road for a short distance, coming out soon on the other side. All this covered part was arched over, just like a particularly wide bridge, and that was what Hecla meant when she talked of the "bridge-part."
It was a grand play-place for the children of Nortonbury. They loved to throw in sticks and small boughs and sometimes little wooden boats at the upper end of the covered part, and then to rush to the lower end and watch for the said sticks or boughs or boats to come out, carried by a swift current through the long arch. The river just there was both deeper and more rapid than elsewhere, because it had to flow in a narrower channel.
Above the covered-over part the banks were steep; and the children would stand at the edge and fling in their boats. But at the lower end, there was a more shelving bank, so that they could easily climb down to the water brink, and could take them out, if the boats floated near enough.
Chris and his schoolfellows would often play here on their half-holidays, when not engaged with cricket or football. Each would launch a boat, half-a-dozen or a dozen being started at the same moment; and then they would tear frantically down to the lower opening, watching whose boat would appear first. Hecla loved to look on at such times, if only she could persuade Miss Anne or Elisabeth to take her there. She was delighted if Chris' boat came out first from under the archway, and was disappointed if he failed to win. For Chris was her chum and her hero, and the dearest and best boy that the world had ever seen, in her opinion.
Chris was fond of Hecla too, but he did not tell her so, or condescend to say pretty things to her. Ten years old is not an age when boys flatter girls. He always let her know that she was "only a girl," and that she couldn't be expected to do things so well as he could; and Hecla regretfully agreed. She often wished that she had been a boy, instead of only a girl.
On this particular occasion, when Miss Anne Storey and the two children arrived at the spot, who should they find but Chris himself, all alone for once, preparing to send a small boat on its voyage under the road.
And the astonishing thing was that he had hardly looked at little Ivy, in her blue frock, with her long soft hair, and her small serious face, before he seemed just as much taken with her as everybody else was. He actually put his boat into her tiny plump hands, and allowed her to throw it in herself while he stood close by, watching. And that was a thing he had never allowed Hecla to do. He always seemed to think it was quite honour and glory enough for Hecla, if she just stood by and saw him doing it.
Hecla felt a wee bit sore and hurt in her mind, it must be confessed, when she saw her chum actually leading the small newcomer to the edge of the bank, holding her fast, lest she should slip, and guiding her grasp as she threw the boat. Twice it fell short; and each time he scrambled down the almost perpendicular bank, at the imminent risk of rolling headlong into the water, brought it up, and made her try again. And Hecla looked on, not jealous, for happily she was not a jealous child, but just a little grieved to think that he had never taken the trouble to do so much for her.
The boat, off at last, disappeared quickly under the arching road; and he caught Ivy's hand and raced with her to the opening of the river below. He ran down the shelving bank, still holding Ivy by the hand; and as the boat floated out, he flung himself down flat, reaching out to seize it.
Aunt Anne, rather in a fright lest Ivy should slip into the water, hurried after them with Hecla; and they arrived in time to see Chris lift Ivy up the bank and put his boat into her hands.
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"Why—because is it mine?" she asked.
"It's yours, if you like," he said.
Ivy's big brown eyes looked into his, wonderingly.
"Why-because is it mine?" she asked.
"Why—because I give it to you. It's yours, and you may keep it."
Ivy hugged the wet boat to her chest, not improving the blue frock. "I love it," she said. "Thank you, kind boy."
Chris looked immensely gratified.
Then the same play was acted over again. Miss Anne kept running alongside of the children, for she did not feel sure how far she might trust Chris to be careful; yet she would not stop him. It was so nice to see the little one's look of delight; and she seemed to turn so prettily to Chris, almost more than she had yet been disposed to turn to anyone except Aunt Anne herself.
"Chris likes Ivy," Hecla murmured, with a small sigh.
Miss Anne understood.
"Yes; and I think he is sorry for her, Hecla. That is nice of Chris. Boys don't always trouble themselves to be kind to little girls who are in trouble. I'm glad Chris does."
Hecla smiled and felt comforted. She loved to hear Chris praised.
Another Side of Ivy
IT was very good for Hecla to have her little cousin in the house. She had always been an only child among grown-up people, and they had given way to her, and had tried to make her happy. But now there was a younger child who had to be given way to, and to be made happy; and Hecla was expected to take her share in this.
And she was most willing to do so. Hecla had her faults, as we have seen, and some very tiresome faults; but selfishness was not one of them. She was ready to give up anything to Ivy, and wanted to make presents of half her toys to the younger child. If Ivy admired something of hers, Hecla would give it to her directly.
Another good point, already noted, was that she seldom showed jealousy. Though she did just at first feel a little hurt to see her chum doing things for the new little girl which he had never done for his older friend, that was only a passing feeling, and it did not make her cross or unhappy. It did not trouble her to see Ivy being petted and fondled by Aunt Anne, because she was so small and lonely. And when even Miss Storey, who in general was not fond of children, seemed from the first to take to this little one, Hecla was not jealous, not in the least. That was nice of her, was it not? Jealousy is such a disagreeable, ugly fault.
And she just loved to be allowed to help in any way with Ivy. She wanted ever so much to be trusted sometimes to take care of her. That, too, was a good thing for Hecla, for it made her not quite so impulsive and heedless as she had been.
By "impulsive," I mean that whatever came into her head she would do straight off, not stopping for a moment to think whether it was right or wrong. She was naturally what we call "impulsive,"—quick thoughts and wishes and intentions springing up into her little mind, and being instantly acted upon, without an idea of what might come after. Ivy was not impulsive, but quiet and thoughtful. That made it much easier for Ivy to fall into fewer blunders than Hecla. It made the fight against heedlessness much harder for Hecla than for Ivy.
Ivy's pretty gentle movements seemed made for the two aunts. They were exactly what Miss Storey thought nice and proper, and what she had tried in vain to teach Hecla. Hecla would bounce into a room, slamming the door behind her or leaving it flung wide open, whereas Ivy would walk quietly in, closing the door with no noise at all, and never tumbling over chairs or stools or rug-edges.
"She is such a little lady," Miss Storey sometimes said, with great approval.
And Hecla wondered how anybody not grown-up could be a "lady."
It was curious to see the two children together; Hecla, years the older, all excitement and restlessness, like quicksilver, and Ivy, so small and young, so dignified and sensible.
Hecla really was trying to be different; but the habits of her life could not be conquered in a day or a month, and a great deal of hard fighting lay ahead, before she could hope to become as quiet and thoughtful as little Ivy was by nature. Not that Hecla did not think! She thought a great deal, but unfortunately she always seemed to give her mind to anything and everything except the present duty.
Besides much fighting, much praying for help was needed, and that was a habit which Hecla had to learn, as we all have to learn it. Praying is quite as hard as fighting, if not much harder. But the more we pray for help, the easier becomes the fighting. I think Hecla was only just beginning to learn the A B C of that great knowledge—how to pray.
Some days she really did look up and ask in her very heart that God would help her, for the sake of His dear Son; and some days she said her prayers like a lesson, and never thought about the meaning of the words.
But it often puzzled Hecla to see how things which were difficult to her were easy to Ivy; and she would wonder why. She was too young to understand the great difference that there is between different people's natures. This difference, which made it much easier for Ivy to be gentle-mannered, made it also worth a great deal more when Hecla was gentle and considerate, for with Ivy it was natural, but with Hecla it meant a hard fight and a victory. And a victory is always worth gaining. The harder the fight, the more the victory is worth.
Another thing sometimes puzzled Hecla. It was that when Ivy asked questions, the aunts never seemed to mind, and always took pains to answer her. While, if Hecla burst out with strings of questions, she was told not to chatter so much. She did not quickly find out the real reason—that Ivy asked because she really wanted to understand something, while Hecla's questions were merely because she wanted to talk, and did not care what she said or what replies came.
But, of course, little Ivy too had her faults. She was not by any means perfect. All children have faults; and so had she; though they were different in kind from Hecla's faults.
For instance, though she was pretty in her ways, and generally so sensible and reasonable, she would now and then get a sudden odd fit of obstinacy, and would utterly refuse to do something that was wished. No particular reason could be found for the little naughty fit; but there it was.
The first time this happened was two or three weeks after her arrival, when she was quite settled in and at home, and things were going smoothly and happily. Miss Anne was teaching her as usual for half-an-hour how to read, and she was spelling the easy words, one after another, when she came to the word cat.
Ivy spelt it in her slow, quiet way, as she had done before—very deliberate, and never in a hurry.
"C-a-t—tac!" she said.
"Not tac, but cat, Ivy."
Ivy immediately said "Cat," all right, and went on. Soon the same word came again and again she spelt "C-a-t—tac."
Miss Anne corrected her afresh; and then it happened a third time, and a fourth time; for the page she was reading was all about a cat. Aunt Anne thought it funny and forgetful of her, and put her back at the beginning of the lesson. And behold each time that Ivy came upon that unfortunate word, she always said "C-a-t—tac."
"Ivy, I really don't think you can have forgotten so soon! Try to remember," urged Miss Anne. "C-a-t spells cat, not tac. Think of Auntie Millicent's pussy."
Ivy held her little head very upright, and her small mouth took a positive set. Miss Anne began to understand that this was not forgetfulness, but naughtiness. She was puzzled, for Ivy had been very good over her lessons till that day.
"Once more, darling. Try this time," urged Aunt Anne.
Ivy was taught to call the Misses Storey "Auntie," though really they were cousins. It seemed nicer that they should be the same to her as to Hecla.
"Try to do better," she said.
Not a bit of it! The page was read again, and all through "cat" was "tac."
"I think we will stop now," Miss Anne said gravely. "You must be a little sleepy, dear. We will leave the rest."
Ivy did not seem to mind. She played solemnly with her doll till Hecla was free, and behaved just as usual all day; so Miss Anne Storey hoped it was only a queer little fancy, which would soon be forgotten.
But she did not know Ivy yet!
Next morning, lessons took place as always, and the same page was begun upon anew. And every single time that Ivy came upon "c-a-t," she regularly called it "tac." She would say "cat" properly after Miss Anne; and as soon as the word recurred it was "tac" once more.
It really was too silly, wasn't it? I wonder if any little girl who reads this can tell me why Ivy chose to say this particular word wrong all through?
Miss Anne put the book down.
"Ivy, I'm afraid this is naughtiness," she said gravely.
Ivy held up her head straight, and pursed her lips together.
"What makes you behave so? Why do you not try to read better, dear?"
No answer came. Ivy said not a word.
"I don't want to punish my little pet," Miss Anne said, in her gentle way. "But, of course, I cannot let you go on, doing wrong on purpose. Now, I am going to try once more if you will say it rightly; and if not, we won't do any more lessons this morning, but you must sit for the rest of the half-hour with your face to the wall."
Ivy read five more words, then said "tac" very clearly.
Miss Anne got up slowly, with a grieved face, and put the book away. After which she turned Ivy's chair so that the little girl's face was towards the wall, and she could not see out of the window.
"You must sit there, Ivy, till I give you leave to move. Unless you will come and promise me to read differently."
Ivy did not like this at all. She loved having lessons with Aunt Anne; and she was a clever little girl, too, and really wished to be able to read nice books. But pride would not let her give in. So she sat upright and silent, staring at the wall, while big tears slowly gathered and rolled down her cheeks, and a pitiful look grew in the wide open eyes. It made Miss Anne's heart ache. Still she said nothing till the half-hour was ended. Then she took Ivy on her knees, and wiped away the tears.
"Sweet Ivy, what was the use of it all?" she asked.
Ivy gave a great sigh, and nestled in Miss Anne's arms, murmuring—
"I want—want—mummie."
"But mummie wouldn't like her little Ivy to be naughty."
"I want—mummie," was all Ivy would say.
"Isn't it nicer to read well—to do your best? Think—how dear mummie out in Africa will want to hear that her little girl is getting on. Wouldn't she be sorry to hear about to-day?"
"I—don't—know," whispered Ivy.
"I think you do know. And, Ivy pet, there is Someone else, too, Who is grieved when His little lambs give way to a naughty spirit. Don't you think our dear Lord Jesus wants His little Ivy to be good? I am quite sure He does."
Ivy sighed afresh. Miss Anne kissed her, and put her down.
"Now we are going for a walk," she said; "and we are going to forget about naughty ways and silly mistakes. To-morrow, I hope things will be quite different. We'll make a new start, and Ivy will do her very best."
When the morrow came, Ivy really did do her best, and she never once said "tac" for "cat."
And for some days lessons went beautifully.
And then, all at once, with no rhyme or reason—which was the more odd, as she commonly seemed such a reasonable little girl—all at once she started off again after the same fashion, and nothing would stop it.
For three mornings she persevered, always saying "tac" for "cat," and holding her little head stiffly up, and pursing her lips together, and refusing to be good.
Miss Anne began to think there would be nothing for it but to put the little girl to bed, as a punishment for her obstinacy. And, just as she was considering this, on the third morning, in walked Chris, with a note from the Vicar.
"Hallo!" he uttered, at the sight of Ivy seated solemnly with her face to the wall. "I say—what's up now!"
Miss Anne Storey told him. Then she got up, and said—
"I must look out the paper that your uncle wants. Will you wait here for a minute, Chris?"
"May I speak to Ivy?" asked the boy.
"Certainly," Miss Anne answered, for she knew she could trust Chris.
Miss Anne left the room, and Chris walked straight across to where the deplorable little figure sat, picked up Ivy bodily, took her place, and planted her on his knee. Ivy submitted without a word.
"I say, this is uncommon dull!" was his first remark. "I shouldn't like to sit here for half-an-hour! Un—common—dull!"
Ivy drew a sobbing breath. She was getting very tired of the position.
"So you can't spell cat, eh? Not spell cat! Why, you must be the densest little dunderhead of a mortal that ever existed. Not able to spell cat! I never heard of such a thing!" The boy spoke with disdainful severity, while with one hand, he stroked the long golden-brown hair.
Ivy held her head as high as it was possible to hold it.
"I can spell cat," she whispered.
"Spell it," commanded Chris. "Sharp!"
"C-a-t," began Ivy, and from sheer force of habit she said what she did not mean to say—"tac."
Chris went into roars of laughter. He shook beneath her like a small earthquake. He clutched Ivy, to keep her from rolling over, and roared afresh with fit after fit of merriment, each following closely on the last. Never before had the calm and decorous walls of "The Cottage" echoed to such peals of laughter.
Ivy grew redder and redder, more and more shamefaced.
"Tac! Tac! Tac!" gasped Chris. "Oh, you little goosey-gander! So I s'pose you'd say, 'Come here, pretty tac! Stroke tac's tail!' Oh, I say!"
"C-a-t—cat," spelt Ivy with dignity.
Chris began to recover himself. "Now you're going to say that sixteen times, to get it right," he ordered. "Come—quick—c-a-t—cat, c-a-t—cat!"
Ivy obeyed orders. She spelt the word sixteen times, patiently, and then hid her blushing face against his shoulder.
Chris didn't mind—much—as they were alone. He was rather gratified than otherwise. Had he known that Miss Anne was standing in the doorway, looking on with great enjoyment, he would have promptly changed the position of affairs.
"Now you understand! You're not going to be a little stupid any more, eh?"
"No," murmured Ivy.
Chris' watchful ears detected a suspicious creak, and he pulled up the drooping figure of the little girl with a jerk.
"That's all right. Come along and tell Miss Anne you're good. Come!"
And quite meekly Ivy walked up to Miss Anne, murmuring, "C-a-t—cat."
They heard no more of "tac" at lessons, but Ivy heard a good deal of it from Chris. Many weeks passed before he ceased asking her on all occasions, "Well, how's the pretty tac? Tac's tail all right, eh?"
It was a complete cure—of that particular word. But other words sometimes went wrong in the same way, for little Ivy's chief fault was a mixture of pride and obstinacy; quite different, you see, from Hecla's faults. Each little girl had a battle to fight, and the battle for each was not exactly the same.
Hecla in Charge
ONE Sunday Miss Storey had a very bad headache. It was a rather unfortunate day for this to happen. Elisabeth had been sent home for two nights, to meet a sister whom she had not seen for three years; and Mrs. Prue, in consequence, was extra busy, and extra cross.
Miss Anne Storey always had to go out after early dinner, to the Sunday school, where she was superintendent of the girls' classes; and it was very difficult for her to stay away. Yet the question was—how could she leave poor Aunt Millicent in charge of the two children, with nobody to help? It would have been different, if Hecla had been a staid, dependable child—or if Ivy had been the elder of the two. Hecla was such an erratic little person; one never could guess what she might do next; and if left alone, she was sure to get into mischief.
"I wonder if I ought to stay at home. If I do, I must send word to the Vicar," Miss Anne said anxiously, before dinner, when she came back from church with Hecla and Ivy.
Little as Ivy was, she always begged to be allowed to go with the others. And, while Hecla fidgeted and fussed, twisted her fingers and kicked the hassock, dropped her Prayer-book and turned over the leaves of her hymn-book, Ivy would sit as still and as quiet as a woman of thirty.
"I am sure you ought not, and I could not let you, my dear," Miss Storey answered bravely. She had been on her bed all the morning, and had dragged herself downstairs before their return, looking very white, and hardly able to hold up her head. "I shall do quite well. The children will be good, I am sure. And the Vicar could not manage without you."
"He would—if I sent him word that I must stay away."
"It would be wrong. He has so much on his hands. And you told me yesterday that your three best teachers are ill. You must certainly go. I will not hear of anything else."
She tried to sit up at dinner, and pretended to take some food; but she soon had to give in, and lie down on the sofa, with her eyes shut.
"I wish I knew what to do," sighed Miss Anne, feeling herself pulled in two.
Hecla spoke up eagerly. "Auntie, won't you let me take care of Ivy this afternoon? I'll be most dreadfully good, if only you will. Please—please—"
Miss Anne smiled. "I am sure you will do your best," she said. "If you will think of Auntie Millicent, and will not talk loudly or knock things down, that will be a real help."
"I promise I will, auntie. And I'll amuse Ivy. Mayn't I have the pictures to show her? I'll keep her ever so quiet."
Miss Anne thought that of the two Ivy would need less "keeping quiet" than Hecla; but she did not say so. "Yes, I hope you will," she replied. "Any noise makes Auntie Millicent's head worse. You shall have the pictures; only you must turn them over carefully, and not crumple the corners."
Hecla clapped her hands.
"Oh, I forgot!" she said, as Miss Anne put a finger to her lips. "I won't again."
"Try to remember. I would leave you both with Prue, but she has Elisabeth's work to do as well as her own, so she cannot attend to you. Mind, Hecla, you are the older, and I shall count you responsible. Do you know what that means?"
Hecla weighed the question. "No," she said. "Is sponresible something nice?"
"It means that if things go wrong, you will be the one blamed, and not Ivy, because she is so little. But Ivy must be good too."
"Mayn't we go into the garden, please? I do love being there. I'll take such heaps of care of Ivy."
"You shall go into the garden when I come back; and I shall try to be early. Till then you must play in the bow-window, while Auntie Millicent lies on the drawing-room sofa. Suppose you try to teach Ivy a little about some of the pictures."
"Oh, that'll be lovely!" exclaimed Hecla, with a leap in her chair. "I know!—we'll have Sunday school. And I'll have a class; and Ivy shall be my class."
"Very well. But remember, dear, Bible pictures don't mean fun. You must tell her reverently—remembering that the Bible Is God's Book. Can I trust you, Hecla?"
"Yes, auntie."
They went into the drawing-room; and Aunt Millicent lay down on the easy sofa, with a shawl over her; and Miss Anne settled the children in the big sunny bow-window, bringing the promised pictures before she went off to the school.
Hecla would much have preferred to be left in sole charge. But as Miss Storey had her face towards the wall, and could not see what they were doing, this was next best. She began energetic preparations for holding her "class," dragging a chair for herself, and then running into the passage for a small bench which always stood there. Pulling this along made a considerable clatter, and Miss Storey asked wearily, "What are you doing?"
"I'm only getting this for my class, auntie. I won't go on making noises," promised Hecla cheerfully. "It's only just a teeny minute—and it will bump and flump so."
Miss Storey sighed, and endured as best she might.
"You're to sit there, Ivy, 'cause you've got to be my class," eagerly explained Hecla. "And you're four little girls. When you're there, right-top of the class, you're Ivy; and when you're there, you're Mary; and the next is Jane; and the next is Susan. And you've got to slide along—so—" She whisked the submissive child aside, and showed how it was to be done. "And so you'll be all the little girls. And if Ivy can't answer a question, you'll slip along and be Mary. And if Mary can't, you'll slip along and be Jane. Don't you see?"
Ivy did not see, though her eyes were solemnly wide open and attentive. Hecla plumped down into her own chair, took up a book, and asked with an important air—
"How many people got into the Ark, children?"
Silence. Ivy stared calmly and helplessly. The arrangement was too complicated.
"Can't you tell me, Ivy? Then Mary must. Shove along!"—in an authoritative whisper. "Hurry!"—and Hecla herself gave the needed push. "Now you're Mary; and you're to hold out your hand—right out!—'cause you've got to know. You're to say—'Six'—no, I mean—auntie, how many was there in the Ark?"
Miss Storey was trying to get to sleep.
"What, dear?" she inquired drowsily.
"How many people was it that got into the Ark, auntie?"
"Eight," murmured Miss Storey. "Don't ask me any more questions."
"No, auntie, I won't. Now then, Mary, you've got to say—'eight.' Say—'eight'—Ivy."
Ivy made no effort.
"Oh dear me, you don't understand yet! Get up, and I'll show you. Now, you ask me, and I'll answer. I'm the class now. Ask me—'How many people were there in the Ark?'
"Well—I'll pretend that you have. Look—I'm Hecla, and I can't answer. Now I'm Mary, and I can't answer. Hecla and Mary are stupid. Now I'm Jane, and Jane is cleverer, and I can answer. And I stick out my hand like that—I've seen the children do it!—And I shout out—'Eight!'"
Hecla did shout too, forgetting all about poor Miss Storey.
But it was too bewildering for little Ivy, who never did anything in a hurry. Hecla's lightning rapidity of movement overpowered her. Tears filled her eyes, and she muttered—"I want—mummie!"
"Oh dear, oh dear!—You're not going to cry! Why, I only meant to amuse you. Don't cry!—Please don't cry, Ivy darling. Wouldn't you rather be a class? I should like it, if I was you."
"I want mummie." And there was a small sob.
Hecla plumped down beside her, and began an energetic hug.
"Don't cry. We won't have a class. We'll do something different. You've got to be good, you know, 'cause of Auntie Millicent. I know what—I'll show you the pictures straight off; and you'll be you, and I'll be me; and we won't be teacher and children. I'll show you the pictures that I like most of all. There's four of them. Look—isn't that a beauty? It's Daniel in the lions' den, you know; and there's King Darius peeping in. Isn't Daniel a nice dear man? And that's such a sweet lion that's got his head against Daniel's knee. And he was so hungry, and he wouldn't eat Daniel."
"Why-because wouldn't he eat Daniel?" asked Ivy, comforted.
"Because he mightn't. Because Daniel was such a good, good man, and God took care of him. Lots of care! And He shut all the lions' mouths quite tight, so they couldn't bite Daniel."
"That lion's got his mouth wide open," remarked Ivy, pointing to one in the background.
"That's only because he doesn't like the king peeping through the window-hole, and the king was naughty, not good like Daniel, and so the lion's roaring at him. And he couldn't roar with his mouth shut, I s'pose. And the king was most dreadfully unhappy, because he thought he was going to find his nice dear Daniel eaten all up. And he didn't."
"Why-because didn't he?"
"Why, Ivy, I've just told you why. You know quite well. And now I am going to show you my most particular pet picture of all."
"But I want to see Daniel and the nice lion," complained Ivy.
"Well, you shall see them again presently. I want to show you David and the giant. David was another nice good man—there's such lots of nice men in the Bible. And I do like that giant, he's so big and fierce, and he's got, oh, such a big staff and sword. And David is such a little mite of a man. But David's face is pretty, and the giant's is ugly. Isn't that a beauty picture?"
Ivy was so long taking it in, that Hecla grew impatient.
"Why-because is that man so big?"
"Why, he was a giant, and his name is Goliath. All giants are big, you know. If they weren't, they wouldn't be giants. Now I'm going to show you a lovely picture—it's the man that got hung in a tree. Oh dear, where is he? I can't remember his name, but he was King David's naughty son—King David that killed the wicked giant. And he's got a most beautiful dress—lots of colours."
Hecla was frantically turning over the pictures, forgetting her promise to be careful of the edges; and the rustle tried poor Aunt Millicent not a little. She said nothing, however, as Hecla was trying hard to keep Ivy happy.
"Here he is—stuck right up in the tree," exclaimed Hecla, with triumph. "And look, he's caught by his chin. Auntie Anne says the painter's made it wrong, 'cause he really was caught by his hair. He'd grown lots and lots of hair, more like what you've got, and his hair caught tight, and he was running away, and the horse galloped off, and he just hung there and couldn't get down, and he was killed. And now I'm going to show you—"
"But I want to look at that man. Why-because didn't he get down out of the tree?"
"Why, he couldn't, Ivy. His hair was all twisted in and out of the branches. Don't you see? I know his name—it's Absalom. You can look at him while I'm hunting for the next. I want to find the little Syrian maid. She's such a dear; and her mistress is sitting all doubled up, so funny, on a big cushion. Auntie Anne says they do sit like that in some places, and not properly on chairs like we do."
"Ablomson's got pretty hair," remarked Ivy.
"Yes; all yellow, isn't it? And now you'd like to see the giant again, wouldn't you? And I'll tell you the whole real story, if you'll sit on my lap and be good."
Hecla's lap was rather small, but she managed to perch Ivy in a safe position; and the story-telling proved such a success that Ivy listened, entranced, and kept saying, "More!" if Hecla showed signs of stopping.
Hecla much flattered, kept on, and the two were so quiet that Miss Storey actually managed to drop asleep for a few minutes, which did her a great deal of good.
And then, unexpectedly, Miss Anne stood close by, smiling down on the children.
"You have been good," she said. "And now I am going to take you both out in the garden, till tea is ready."
"Auntie Anne, why, you've got back ever so quick."
"Yes; somebody else took my place the last part of the time. I didn't feel sure that you would manage so nicely as you have done, Hecla."
Hecla danced all the way upstairs. "I think it's nice to be good," she said. "I won't ever be naughty again."
"You'll try not, at all events," Miss Anne suggested.
"Yes, I'll try," repeated Hecla.
Such a Temptation
"AUNTIE ANNE, may we go to the bridge-part this afternoon? Please mayn't we? I want to go most dreadfully."
"Perhaps we may; but I should like you to get that sum done first."
"Oh, please say 'yes!' Please don't say only 'perhaps.' Chris is going to be there, and he's got a most lovely little boat for me, all for myself. He told me so."
"Is that what you have been thinking about all the morning?"
Hecla looked rather abashed. Lessons had not gone well before dinner; and her easy little sum had been three times returned, to be done over again. When she was about to go for her walk with Elisabeth and Ivy, it was again given back, with a line drawn through the "answer," and the words, "You must get this right later in the day."
Miss Storey had an engagement to luncheon with some friends, and Miss Anne told Hecla that she had better do the sum directly after her early afternoon rest. "And then we will go out," added Miss Anne.
"I don't like sums, auntie," Hecla said, as she sat at the table, with one leg twisted round each front leg of her chair.
"I dare say not, dear. People seldom like things that they do badly. But we all have to do things we don't like."
"Not grown-up people!"
"Yes; certainly; very often."
"But there isn't anybody that could tell you to stop indoors when you want to go out—like there is with me."
"If not, I have to say so to myself."
This was a new idea. Hecla considered it, and drew a long squeaking line on her slate with the pencil. "I shouldn't ever tell myself to stop in," she remarked.
"I hope you would, if you knew it to be right. The man or woman who cannot say 'must' to himself or herself is a very poor sort of creature, and of very little use in the world. And if you don't learn to say 'must' to yourself now, while you are a child, you will find it doubly hard when you are grown-up."
Hecla crinkled her forehead seriously, and stared out of the window, where the sun shone and the birds sang in a most inviting way. And again the thought sprang up of Chris and the lovely boat he had promised.
"I shall like that boat," she exclaimed.
"Wouldn't it be wiser not to think about the boat at all, till you have finished your sum?"
"But, auntie, I can't help thinking. I do want that boat—oh, most dreadfully. I want it all through me—every bit of me. I want to go out this very minute."
Aunt Anne said nothing; and Hecla looked down at her slate.
"Four times five—" she murmured. "Auntie, why does a policeman wear a blue jacket?"
"You may ask me by-and-by, if you like. Not now."
Another pause. Hecla's pencil squeaked again.
"I wonder why slate-pencils make that noise, and other pencils don't."
Miss Anne was silent.
"Auntie, I really will!"
"I think you will be wise not to lose any more time."
Hecla sighed, and huddled herself in a bunch over the slate.
"Four times seven is—Four times seven—"
She saw in her mind the lovely running water, as it flowed under the bridge and came pouring out again into daylight; and the multiplication-table seemed to slide away out of her head. And then she looked up at the clock; and suddenly she knew that if she went on much longer like this, she would have no chance of being in time for Chris and the boat.
"I know we shall be late," she cried in desperation.
"I am afraid we shall, if you waste more time."
"Auntie—oh, I will, I will do it."
Miss Anne came round to her side.
"You can quite well, if you choose, Hecla. It only means one little brave try to do your very best. Now I am going upstairs to get ready, and to dress Ivy; and then we shall start. I hope I shall be able to take you too—not have to leave you behind to do the sum, and to have a walk with Elisabeth later."
Hecla flung herself flat on the table, in a dire fright at the idea, grappling with her task. She could not endure the thought of not meeting Chris, of not having the boat; and now she realised that Miss Anne was in earnest.
And all that was needed was just to try, as Miss Anne had said. Ten minutes later, when she and Ivy came downstairs, Hecla flew to meet them, slate in hand. "It's done! It's done!" she cried.
Miss Anne glanced through the sum. "Yes, it is quite right," she said. "I am glad. Now run and dress, dear. Ivy shall put away your slate for you, and we will wait here."
"I sha'n't be one minute," shouted Hecla gleefully, as she rushed away.
But everything seemed to conspire to hinder her. First she broke her shoe-string, and though she managed to tie it somehow, that took time, as she was not handy with her fingers. Then she could not find her everyday hat, and she remembered leaving it in the greenhouse.
A furious rush downstairs, and a wild stampede through the passage into the greenhouse, resulted in finding the hat was not there; so she flew after Elisabeth, only to be told in Mrs. Prue's tartest tones that Elisabeth was gone out to take a note, and she didn't know nothing about hats. Upstairs again tore Hecla, and dragged open drawer after drawer, to discover the hat at last in the most unlikely one of all, where no doubt she had thrust it herself in one of her scuffles.
Though she was not yet nine years old, her aunts were doing their best to teach her to look after her things, to put them neatly away, and to be careful; but thus far, the teaching had not been always successful.
Hecla rammed the hat on her head, and then her gloves and tie had vanished. Though she would gladly have raced off without either, she knew she would only be sent back again to find them; and these too had to be hunted for high and low. When, after fifteen minutes' delay, she ran downstairs, she found a girl talking to Miss Anne, who stood listening with a troubled face.
"You have been rather long getting ready, dear," she said. "But I am glad we have not started, for Mrs. Gilpin's poor little baby has been badly hurt, and I must go to see it. I will be as short a time as possible. You and Ivy will wait here for me. You are not to go out till I return."
"But, auntie—auntie—we sha'n't be in time to catch Chris."
"I think we shall. I will do my best. I must tell Mrs. Gilpin how to manage till the doctor comes."
"I couldn't find my hat and things. I know, I know we shall be late!" Hecla was almost in tears.
"I hope not; but think of the poor baby! Wait here for me, both of you."
Then Miss Anne went off, hardly grasping the fact that she left the children with nobody in charge. She had forgotten for the moment that Elisabeth was out. Mrs. Prue, of course, was in the kitchen; but Miss Anne, full of the accident to their gardener's baby, did not think of pausing to mention to Prue the state of affairs. Since the cottage was only just outside their garden she expected to return in a few minutes.
"I know we shall be late. I know, I'm perfectly sure we shall be late. I know we sha'n't get there in time,"' Hecla kept saying, as she roved about the room, gazed out of the window, and consulted the clock.
Ivy had seated herself contentedly in a corner with her doll. She was not impatient like Hecla. "Why-because sha'n't we be there in time?" she inquired.
"Why, Chris will be gone. He's got to be back at school at four o'clock. And he's promised to give me a lovely new boat. It's a better boat than that boat he gave to you. And he said he would be there. And I want it most dreadfully. And I know Auntie Anne won't get back soon enough."
It was a good deal past three o'clock, for which no doubt Hecla had only herself to thank. But she was not in a mood to be reasonable.
"I don't believe I can wait much longer," she cried, kicking a footstool about the room, as a relief to her feelings.
"Why-because can't you wait much longer?" murmured Ivy, arranging her doll's hat.
"Why, I told you! You know quite well. I want to get there in time to catch Chris before he goes back to school. Oh dear, I do hate waiting. I like everything to come quick—all in a minute. I wish people wouldn't go and get hurt, just when I want to go out. I'm sure I can't wait much longer."
But of course she had to wait. She and Ivy could not go off alone.
Minute after minute crept past, and the hand of the clock travelled on and on, and still Miss Anne remained away. It was too provoking! Hecla roved round the room, and jumped on and off the chairs, and three times ran out to the back door; but no Aunt Anne was in sight.
"I believe she's forgotten all about it. She won't come for ever and ever so long. I know she won't. And I sha'n't have my boat. And Chris 'll perhaps never give it to me, 'cause I told him I'd be there; and he'll think I don't care. And I can't be there, and I do care! Oh dear!" she wailed dolefully.
"What's wrong?" asked a voice, and a big, plump, rosy girl of fourteen, daughter of a widow lady who lived a little way down the road, stepped in. "I found the door open, so I didn't ring," she said. "Mother has sent a note to your Auntie Millicent, and I'm to wait for the answer. What's the matter, Hecla?"
"Auntie Millicent's out and Auntie Anne's out, and we've got to wait, and I know we shall be late at the bridge-part," explained Hecla in a half-crying voice.
Mildred Smith laughed. She was a good-humoured, thoughtless girl, not much of a favourite with the Miss Storeys, though sometimes in and out.
"What makes you want to be there?" she asked.
And Hecla poured forth her tale.
"Well, that's easily put right. My governess has had to go off in a hurry, so it's a holiday for me. Come along. I'll take you to the river."
"Will you? May we?" gasped Hecla. She looked upon their caller as next-door to grown-up; still she knew that she and Ivy had never been sent out alone with Mildred. And more than that, she remembered Miss Anne's parting command—"You and Ivy will wait here for me. You are not to go out till I return."
Hecla was perfectly well aware that to go with Mildred, in the face of that command, would be wrong. It would be direct disobedience.
But Aunt Anne had not meant to stay away so long; and she had not known that Mildred would come. Hecla was wild to start; and the temptation was terribly strong. It did not seem as if she could say No. Her whole mind was set on having that little boat for her own, and seeing it go under the archway and come out again. She felt as if it were utterly impossible to delay. Chris would soon have to start for afternoon school; and then her chance would be gone. Couldn't she—mightn't she—just this once! Oh, she must, she must do it. Perhaps Auntie Anne wouldn't really be angry. There was still time to catch Chris, but in a few minutes, it would become hopeless.
One of those sudden sharp temptations to wrong-doing had come to Hecla which sooner or later come to everybody, even to little boys and girls. And she had not been trying to do her best for some days past; had not been praying hard, and fighting steadily. So when the temptation arrived, it did not find her strong to resist.
"I do want to go so very, very much!" she sighed.
"Come along then," cried thoughtless Mildred, never pausing to consider whether she had any right to take the children without leave. She had a great liking for little Ivy, and had often wanted to get possession of her for an hour or two. "See here," she said, "I'll write on this scrap of paper—'Mildred Smith has gone on with Hecla and Ivy to the river,'—and then your aunt will come after us, and it will be all right. Come along."
"Come, Ivy," shrieked Hecla, dancing wildly about.
Ivy went, of course. She was too young to understand that it was wrong, when the elder girls told her to do it. She trotted off contentedly, with her doll in one arm and her other hand held by Mildred.
Great Danger
THOUGH Hecla ran and jumped, she could not feel happy. A voice kept saying, deep down in her heart, "You are wrong—you are wrong!" And it would not be silenced.
She was frightened too, when she thought of Miss Anne going indoors to find the children gone. Yet still she went on, drawn river-wards by her vehement longing to find Chris and to have the little boat.
Running nearly all the way, as they did, till Ivy was quite tired and out of breath, it did not take long to reach the covered part of the river, where the stream, fuller and more rapid than usual from recent heavy rain, disappeared for a space and then came flowing out again. And when they arrived, Chris was nowhere to be seen.
"But he said he'd come. He promised he would," cried Hecla.
"Oh, well, I suppose he's changed his mind," Mildred observed, as if it did not matter much either way. "Never mind. I dare say he'll turn up presently."
"But he's got to go to school. There isn't time now," Hecla said dolefully.
"It's ten minutes to four. He could run to school from here in five minutes. We'll wait, anyhow. Come, let's throw in sticks."
She chose one, and flung it in herself, and they ran down the stream, to see it float out from under the arch. Then they raced back in high glee, and threw in three sticks all at the same moment, careering down the road to see which of the three would be foremost.
Once in a while a stick would refuse to appear, having been caught fast somewhere under the arch; and the knowledge that this might happen added to the excitement of their game.
Hecla's stick came out first, whereat she was immensely excited, and called out loudly in her delight. Mildred's appeared next; and Ivy's never turned up at all.
They raced up the stream again, Hecla keeping pace with Mildred, while Ivy toiled more slowly after, her little legs aching with such violent exercise. As she arrived above the covered part, Mildred and Hecla were starting anew, having just flung two biggish boughs into the river.
"Come along," they called to Ivy; but they did not wait to see whether she obeyed.
She was too tired to be off instantly, and also she wanted to follow their example. A storm of wind, two nights earlier, had blown down many boughs, and several lay near at hand.
She chose one taller than herself, lifted it with a great effort, and staggered to the edge of the steep bank, to drop it in.
By this time Mildred was running back; and when she saw what the child was about to do, she raised a shout of warning. "Stop! Stop, Ivy!" she called. "Don't!"
But this had just an opposite result to what Mildred intended. Instead of making Ivy step back, it only made her start and turn, with her back to the river. She was close to the edge; and the sudden movement caused her to over-balance herself. With a sharp cry, she fell backwards into the water, still clasping the bough, and was swept downward towards the covered way.
Hecla and Mildred screamed aloud; and Mildred rushed to the spot from which the little one had fallen—only to see her disappearing under the archway. Then she turned and tore down the stream, frantic with terror; and Hecla rushed thither also, shrieking wildly.
But somebody was before them!
Mildred and Hecla, full of their sport, had not noticed a quiet figure coming along the road from lower down the river. Miss Storey had been to luncheon with friends in that direction, and she was now returning alone. She expected to find her sister and the children somewhere about here, since she was aware of Miss Anne's intention to take them to the river, if Hecla were good.
And as she drew near, walking in her quiet and staid and gentle way, wearing her best black silk gown and beaded black mantle, with new grey kid gloves, she noted three figures some distance ahead, and made out that two of them were Hecla and Ivy. But the third puzzled her. She was rather shortsighted; still she felt sure that her sister Anne never raced about as that third person was doing. So she supposed that somebody else had joined them, and that Miss Anne was near at hand, sitting out of sight and keeping watch.
She followed with her gaze the two elder children racing down the stream and leaving little Ivy alone, and she recognised Mildred, but still saw no signs of Miss Anne anywhere, which seemed strange; so she came faster. And then, to her horror, she noted little Ivy, all by herself with a bough in her arms, going close to the steep edge of the stream, and leaning fearlessly over to pitch the bough in.
It was of no use for Miss Storey to call. Her voice was weak, and she was not near enough. She could only hurry breathlessly on, as she saw the elder children again rushing up the road, and heard Mildred's cry of warning.
And then her heart seemed to stand still, and she turned sick and faint, and a shower of black specks danced before her eyes, as Ivy toppled backwards into the river.
No time was this for giving way to feelings of weakness. Not for one moment did Miss Storey hesitate. She fought the faintness and struggled on, though her knees gave way under her, straight down to the brink. She knew that Ivy might easily be carried past, out of reach; and it was she—little, delicate, timid, nervous Miss Storey—who had to save the child. She could not depend upon Mildred, and nobody else was within sight.
"Oh, auntie, auntie, auntie!" Hecla was screaming from above. "Oh, auntie! Oh, auntie!"
Miss Storey hardly even heard the sound. Her whole mind was bent upon the one thought—that Ivy had to be saved. She was praying that she might be able; not saying words, but lifting up her heart to God, like a child holding out imploring hands with a great silent cry for help. She stepped into the stream, which was swift and strong for so small a river. It swirled round her feet, and lifted her silk skirt, and the chill of it made her shiver and tremble like a person with the ague. Yet she took two more steps, deeper in. For if Ivy were in the middle of the stream, she might not otherwise be able to get hold of her. In a moment—in a moment—one moment more—Ivy would come floating out from under the arch. She paid no attention to the cries of Mildred and Hecla. She was now up to her knees in water, and she had to brace herself against the current, using her silk parasol as a stick. Each instant seemed fearfully long, and a great dread was on her lest the little one should be caught and held somewhere under the archway, as toy-boats were sometimes detained there.
Yet very few seconds passed before a helpless little form was swept to view, in the middle of the current, where it flowed fastest—so few, indeed, that Mildred, tearing down the road, could not be in time. It seemed as if the heavier body of the child was borne along much more rapidly than little boats and sticks; for when Mildred reached the lower end of the covered part, Ivy was already beyond her reach, and had Miss Storey not been standing in the water, some thirty or forty paces below, Ivy must have been carried far down.
Then, in a moment, when it came to the point of action, Miss Storey was strong and calm. She went one step deeper still, bent forward, and caught the little girl in a firm grip, turning to draw her to land. Before they were out, Mildred, wading in, gave help.
Miss Storey sank upon the bank, spent and exhausted, unable to say a word. Her heart was beating in slow, heavy thumps, and she all but lost consciousness. But Mildred roughly strove to rouse her, and Hecla's terrified cries chimed in, and she came to herself, to find a small limp figure lying upon her, the pretty eyes closed, the pretty hair dank and streaming.
"We must get her home at once—at once!" Miss Storey said, in a weak voice, for all her strength seemed gone. "Can you help me to carry her, Mildred? I am a little—shaken." She tried to get up, and fell back, but made a fresh effort, and gained her feet, saying feebly as she stood, "We must make haste."
"I'll carry her. Don't you try!" And Mildred heaved up the dripping, senseless little form. Though big and strong for her age, she was amazed at Ivy's weight, and found it no easy task.
"Hurry, hurry! We must hurry!" Miss Storey spoke like one talking in a dream; Hecla must run home—and tell Aunt Anne.
"Oh, I daren't!" sobbed Hecla.
And at that moment Miss Anne herself appeared, coming fast along the road. She had been kept much longer than she had expected with the baby, and on finding Mildred's scribbled note she had hurried off with all speed to follow the children, very much displeased.
Think what a fright it gave her now to see her sister, soaking wet and white as paper, and hardly able to stagger along, and Mildred carrying that poor little limp figure.
But she took in the whole at once, and wasted no time in questions.
"Mildred, you must take my sister home, and tell Mrs. Prue to see to her," she said. "I shall go straight to Dr. Evans."
She took Ivy from Mildred as she spoke, and though she was so slight and far from strong, an unnatural power seemed to come to her, for she ran almost the whole way from the bridge to the doctor's house, which was nearer than her own home, with that heavy dead weight of the senseless child in her arms.
Happily she found both the doctor and his wife indoors, and not a moment was lost. Everything was instantly done that could be done to save the little life; and in less than half-an-hour, they knew that Ivy was living, though a much longer time passed before she opened her eyes, and longer still before she seemed to know anybody.
Even then she could not be spoken of as out of danger, for the shock had been severe, and the greatest possible care had to be taken. Miss Anne never left her for hours. And the doctor only went away, after a while, to see how Miss Storey was getting on. The two houses being near, he could easily go to and fro.