The Project Gutenberg eBook ofLittle "Why-because"This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.Title: Little "Why-because"Author: Agnes GiberneIllustrator: C. Dudley TennantRelease date: August 7, 2024 [eBook #74200]Language: EnglishOriginal publication: London: The Religious Tract Society, 1907*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LITTLE "WHY-BECAUSE" ***
This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.
Title: Little "Why-because"Author: Agnes GiberneIllustrator: C. Dudley TennantRelease date: August 7, 2024 [eBook #74200]Language: EnglishOriginal publication: London: The Religious Tract Society, 1907
Title: Little "Why-because"
Author: Agnes GiberneIllustrator: C. Dudley Tennant
Author: Agnes Giberne
Illustrator: C. Dudley Tennant
Release date: August 7, 2024 [eBook #74200]
Language: English
Original publication: London: The Religious Tract Society, 1907
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LITTLE "WHY-BECAUSE" ***
Transcriber's note: Unusual and inconsistent spelling is as printed.
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SHE WENT ONE STEP DEEPER STILL, BENT FORWARD ANDCAUGHT THE LITTLE GIRL IN A FIRM GRIP.
By
AGNES GIBERNE
Author of "Sun, Moon and Stars," "Five Little Birdies,""Stories of the Abbey Precincts," "Through the Lynn," etc.
WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY DUDLEY TENNANT
LONDON
THE RELIGIOUS TRACT SOCIETY
4 Bouverie Street and 65 St. Paul's Churchyard E. C.
CONTENTS.
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CHAPTER
I. FIDGETS
II. QUITE IMPOSSIBLE
III. THE "VICARAGE DOG"
IV. LITTLE IVY
V. THE WONDERFUL NEWS
VI. BUTTONS AND BUTTON-HOLES
VII. ANOTHER SIDE OF IVY
VIII. HECLA IN CHARGE
IX. SUCH A TEMPTATION
X. GREAT DANGER
XI. CONSEQUENCES
XII. THAT DELIGHTFUL TOY-SHOP
XIII. ONLY THINK
LITTLE "WHY-BECAUSE"
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Fidgets
"AUNTIE, what does 'ruthless' mean?"
"Why do you wish to know, Hecla?"
"I saw it in a book."
"You shall show me the passage by-and-by. Just now you have to work."
Hecla was hemming a small pocket-handkerchief, with red edges. She liked doing this, because it was for "Chris," but she did not love work for its own sake. She liked nothing which meant sitting still.
Hers was a rather curious name. She had been born in Iceland, under the shadow, so to speak, of Mount Hecla. That was why she was so called.
She sat at a small table in the middle of the room, with her back to the window, and Miss Storey, a slender, small, middle-aged lady, was near the fire. At Miss Storey's feet lay a fine black Persian cat, fast asleep; and in the window hung a gilt cage, the canary within ever hopping from perch to perch, except when it stopped to feed or to sing.
Sunshine streamed full upon the cage and upon the draped white curtains. It was a sunny day, but very cold, and patches of snow in the front garden told of a recent fall.
Miss Storey kept very upright and very still, and her small delicate fingers scarcely seemed to move as they knitted. But Hecla was neither upright nor still. She was a restless little mortal; quite as restless as the canary in its cage. She too was slim, and also rather tall for her age; and she had an anxious way of wrinkling her forehead, as if trying to do something beyond her power. She wore a brown holland pinafore over a brown stuff frock, and her hair hung in limp rats' tails down her back.
"Auntie, why does Chris learn Latin, and me not?"
"You may perhaps learn Latin some day, my dear. It is not necessary for you at present."
Hecla managed five stitches in silence.
"Auntie, isn't it most dreadfully cruel of the blackbirds to eat worms? Why don't they eat crumbs—that would be ever so much nicer? I do think it's cruel, don't you?"
"No more cruel than it is of Hecla to eat mutton."
Another pause. Hecla pushed her needle in and out.
"Auntie—"
"Go on with your work, dear."
"I'm going. Auntie—"
"My dear child, you will finish much sooner if you do not talk. Try now!"
Hecla did try. She screwed her forehead into all sorts of shapes, huddled herself into a bunch, and asked no questions for nearly two whole minutes. Her chair kept up a gentle creaking.
"You need not fidget, Hecla."
There were no sounds for quite thirty seconds. Then she forgot. Out went one foot and the other curled itself round the leg of her chair. Her elbow sprawled over the table, and down went a reel of cotton. It rolled away, so of course she had to run after it; and when she came back and plumped into her chair—crash followed.
"My dear Hecla!"
"Oh, auntie, it's my work-box! I'm so sorry!"
"Pick it up carefully. Then you must try to be quiet."
Picking up the fallen box and putting its contents straight was easy. But to be quiet—there lay the difficulty. Do what Hecla would, and try as she might, it always seemed as if the one impossible thing for her was to keep still.
"I've done one whole side of my handkerchief, auntie." She jumped up—and bang! again. Down went her chair, backwards.
"Hecla!"
"Oh dear! Things will tumble so, auntie."
"Not unless they are made."
"I didn't try—truly, I didn't!" Hecla's forehead was all over crinkles.
"No, dear. But did you try not?"
Hecla was not sure. She brought the handkerchief to her aunt, and stood waiting while Miss Storey put on her glasses. But you must not suppose for a moment that Hecla stood still and upright, like a soldier. Nothing of the sort! First she balanced herself on one leg, and then she balanced herself on the other; now she clasped her hands behind her back, and then she stretched them high over her head; next, she gave a skip, and pranced round to the back of Miss Storey's chair.
"Stand still."
Hecla said "Yes," and danced back.
"It is not badly done. One more side, and Elisabeth shall take you out."
That brought another prance. "Oh, I do like going out, and I love going with Elisabeth."
"But you must do as Elisabeth tells you."
"Oh yes, of course, auntie."
She sat down, began again, did six stitches, and sighed. "They are such long sides!"
"I wonder what you would feel if you had all round a great sheet to hem. I did that when I wasn't much older than you are now."
Hecla was deeply interested. She put down her work, and gazed earnestly at Miss Storey.
"Weren't you much older than me, auntie?"
"I was just ten years old."
"Ah, but I'm only eight and a half. I'm 'xactly eight and a half."
"Eighteen months is not so very much difference."
Privately Hecla thought the difference enormous. She felt that at ten years old she would be very nearly grown-up. But she only asked, "What made you hem the sheet? Was it—for punishment?"
"No, not at all. The sheet had to be hemmed, and I wanted to help my mother."
Hecla considered the question with knitted brows. She felt convinced that her aunt must have been an extraordinarily good little girl, far superior to all little girls whom she had known, especially superior to herself. Hecla was most anxious to be good, and her great desire was to please everybody; but the idea of hemming even one side of anything so vast as a sheet—that simply lay outside the world of things possible!
"Weren't you obliged to do it?" she inquired hopelessly.
"No, certainly not. I used to get up in the early morning, and get a piece done before breakfast."
More and more astonishing. "Not in winter, auntie."
"Yes, in winter."
Hecla gave it up as a hopeless case. She was generally wide-awake enough at night, but profoundly drowsy in the morning—at least, in winter mornings.
"I shouldn't like to have to hem a sheet. It would take me—oh, I think a whole, whole year."
"Not unlikely, at your present rate."
Hecla understood, and felt ashamed. She picked up the handkerchief which lay at her feet and set to work anew. Silence actually lasted for nearly five minutes, by which time she felt that she was almost rivalling Miss Storey's past goodness.
It was a fair-sized room in which they sat, crowded with heavy old-fashioned furniture. Each chair, not in use, stood rigidly with its back against the wall, only never touching it, for fear the pretty paper might be rubbed or scratched. The semi-grand piano—on which nobody ever played, for Hecla practised on another—was laden with handsome old china and framed photographs, always arranged in the same manner. On the mantelpiece were a number of valuable vases, placed in a row. An ornamental corner bookcase held many handsome calf-bound volumes, each of which had invariably the same neighbours.
Miss Storey and her sister disliked changes. They had lived here all their lives, seldom going away even for a short time; and they did their best to keep everything both inside and outside the house exactly what it had always been. That, at least, was Miss Storey's aim; and whether Miss Anne felt the same or not, she seldom differed from her sister.
Until the coming of little Hecla, some eighteen months before this date, nothing had disturbed the even tenor of their lives since Miss Storey's girlhood. Everything in the house had gone steadily on, as if by clockwork—like the aged timepiece in the hall, which never was known to lag behind or to run ahead.
Nothing and nobody under that roof had ever been in a hurry, or afflicted with fidgets. Certainly not Miss Storey, or Miss Anne Storey, or the elderly servant who had done most of the work, or the stolid young girl who helped her, or the silent old charwoman who sometimes came for a day's work, or even the dignified Persian cat. All had gone on calmly, smoothly, placidly.
But when their only sister died, leaving one little girl alone and friendless, it became their duty to take her. And they did not hesitate. They determined at once to have the child, though they—especially Miss Storey—felt that it would be a trial.
And it no doubt was a trial. Though they were very fond of the child, she worried them a good deal, without in the least meaning to do so.
Miss Storey was not really old. Many a woman of her age is still active and vigorous, and even young, and Miss Anne was many years the younger of the two. Still, they had lived so long in one particular way, that it was not easy for them to change.
And with the coming of little Hecla, an eager, affectionate, talkative, restless child of seven, accustomed to be made much of and to get her own way more than was perhaps wise, things were a good deal altered. It could not be otherwise.
For years and years the sisters had lived in quiet, and had had everything about them neat and regular and orderly. All at once, into the midst of this placid household came a little fidgety sprite, never for a moment still, never, if she could help it, for a moment silent, always on the go, always wanting to do something fresh, perpetually asking questions, never putting anything away into its right place, unable to write without scattering ink-spots, unable to kiss them without rumpling their nice white frills. It really was something of a trial at first even to Miss Anne, and it was a very great trial to Miss Storey. Not even eighteen months of it had made the elder sister grow used to the new state of things.
Do what they might, they could not shape the child into their own ways. She really was on the whole a good little girl, anxious to do what was right. But she forgot words of reproof almost as soon as they were spoken; and it seemed as if she positively had to dance and skip and prance and fidget and chatter the whole day long without a break.
Perhaps the aunts had done much the same in their childhood, and had forgotten; or, if Miss Anne remembered, she never said so. Perhaps they had been naturally less restless. There is a great difference between different children, just as there is a great difference between different grown-up people.
Hecla never for a moment dreamt what a trial her presence in the house was to her Aunt Millicent. She knew that she was always being told not to fidget, but she supposed that to be only because she had to learn to be proper and quiet.
Sometimes she wondered why the aunts liked to sit so still, and to move so slowly; and why she might not jump up and down and race round and round just as often as she felt inclined. But she never questioned in her little heart their real kindness and love; and it never so much as came into her head that she could be a trouble to either of them.
Quite Impossible
"THAT is done. Now you may go," said Miss Storey, quite as glad as Hecla was, for she had a great anxiety on her mind, and she was longing to be alone that she might consider what to say to her sister, Anne, who might come in at any moment.
Hecla rushed off like a small whirlwind, only to be called back.
"You are forgetting everything, my dear. Put your work away—neatly!—your thimble and cotton in the box—and pick up those bits of cotton. And set your chair in the right place. No, not there!" As Hecla ran it against another chair, with a bang.
Miss Storey sighed. "When I was your age, I did not need to be told the same things over and over every day."
"Not when you were ten years old!"
"No; nor when I was eight."
Hecla stood motionless; the chair tilted up on its back legs as she held it.
"Weren't you never naughty, auntie?"
"No doubt I was sometimes. All children are. But I do not think I often forgot things that I was told to do."
Hecla left the chair tilted on one side, with a foot on a stool, and came close to Miss Storey.
"Won't you tell me, please, about when you really truly were a naughty child, auntie? Please do."
Miss Storey gazed with rather puzzled eyes into the anxious little face.
"I think you ought rather to wish to hear about when I was good," she said patiently, though that crooked chair tried her dreadfully, and she did so long to be by herself.
"But you've told me that—oh, heaps of times! And I do want to know about when you did something naughty—ever so naughty!"
"Not now. Perhaps some other day, when you have been particularly good. I don't say you have been exactly naughty to-day, but still I should like to see you trying a little harder not to forget everything you are told. Now you have to go out."
And actually—again!—Hecla was marching off, without a thought of that unfortunate chair. Again she had to be called back, and again she rammed it hastily into the wrong place, banging the back of another chair against the wall-paper, which the two aunts were always so careful to guard from unsightly marks. Of course the bang left a dent, and when at length Hecla vanished, Miss Storey sighed and closed her eyes, and murmured—
"What a child it is! And to think of—another! Impossible!"
Back whisked Hecla, bursting open the door, and rushing across the room.
"Oh, auntie, please! May I go and see Chris?"
"Not to-day."
"Please! I want to see him—ever so much!"
"No, not to-day."
"Only just for one minute, auntie!"
"No. That is enough, Hecla. Do as you are told. You are to have a walk in the country—not to the shops. Remember."
Hecla went away slowly, and Miss Storey folded her hands together, setting herself to think. With that restless little being in the room, she had found thinking out of the question.
No sooner had she settled herself than the door opened again, this time very gently. A lady appeared, just a little taller than herself and quite as slim, but younger-looking. Miss Storey's hair was fast turning grey, while Miss Anne's was all a soft light brown. She wore a shady hat, and she had pretty, kind, blue eyes.
"Anne! Sit down, my dear. I want to tell you something."
Miss Anne obeyed slowly. She had been educated never to do anything in a hurry.
"The second post has brought me a letter from Frederick. He asks something unexpected—something which I really do not think we can grant. I do not see that it is possible." Miss Storey spoke in a troubled voice. "I really do not think we can!"
Miss Anne made a little movement, as if holding out her hand for the letter, but she checked herself.
"Yes, you shall see it. I wish you to see it. In fact, it is written to you as well as to me. But I wanted to prepare you first. It came upon me quite as a shock. All the morning I have had it on my mind, and Hecla has been more forgetful than ever—really very trying, poor child. But you will see what they ask—Frederick and Mary, I mean. He has the offer of a good appointment in a place very unhealthy for children. They cannot take little Ivy, and Mary says she cannot let her husband go without her. And they ask—us!"
Miss Anne read the letter slowly. Then she looked up at her sister and read it again.
"You see! The thing is impossible. Quite impossible! A child of five! To come here as if our hands were not full enough already! A child of five! What a dreadful idea!"
Miss Anne's soft blue eyes had a curious light in them. She did not look as if the idea were so dreadful to her.
"I cannot imagine what they are thinking about to ask such a thing," pursued Miss Storey, her little thin hands trembling. "Of course, when our dear sister was taken from us, there could be no question about giving a home to her child. But this is not at all the same. Frederick is only our cousin."
"Our only first cousin!" murmured Miss Anne.
"Yes, but still—he really has no right to expect anything of the sort. And—five years old! Such a troublesome, mischievous age. Hecla is trying enough, so careless and forgetful. Still, she does understand, when one explains to her. But—five years old—a mere baby! We should have to send Elisabeth away, and have an older servant. Impossible!"
"But—" uttered Miss Anne.
"You have read it all!"
"Twice through. You see, Frederick would not let it be any expense to us."
Miss Storey held up her head. "If the child came, I certainly would not be paid for it. Quite out of the question!"
"Frederick seems to think he ought not to refuse this offer."
"I suppose he ought not. But—Mary might remain behind for a time."
"And let him go alone? Oh no! And, Millicent, they have nowhere else to send the little one, except to school. Think! School at five years old! Poor wee pet!"
"Other people have the same difficulties, my dear Anne. I do not see that we are called upon to give a home to all the children in the Storey family. It is out of the question. Quite out of the question."
The sparkle in Miss Anne's blue eyes was quenched.
"Then I suppose you will write and tell Frederick that he must send Ivy to school."
"I shall write and explain. There is nothing else to be done."
Miss Storey gazed round the room, seeing in imagination a small rampageous infant rushing about, teasing the canary, worrying the cat, upsetting everything, behaving altogether precisely as little girls of five should not behave. "It is impossible," she said again. "Frederick ought not to have asked such a thing of us."
"If it cannot be, I suppose there is no more to be said," Miss Anne regretfully observed, standing up. "I am sorry. Poor little Ivy!"
"We are just beginning to get Hecla a little into order; and another child in the house would upset her completely. They would make one another naughty. No, dear Anne, it cannot be. I am quite decided."
"Then you will write," Miss Anne said, and she went out, that her sister might not see tears in her eyes.
In the passage, Hecla ran plump against her.
"Gently, dear. Where are you going?"
"Out for a walk." Hecla's face was all sunshine again, and she held it up for a kiss.
"Elisabeth and I are going."
"Where is Elisabeth?"
"She'd got to do something first in the kitchen, and she said she'd meet me at the back gate."
"I'll walk down the garden with you."
Sometimes, when Miss Storey was not at hand, Miss Anne would indulge in a little run with her niece; and she did so now. Hecla slipped an arm through hers, pulling hard, and Miss Anne ran briskly all down the back garden pathway.
"Auntie, I wish you'd come for a walk."
"I'm wanted indoors, dear. I have been out already."
"Elisabeth can't tell me stories; and I like stories. Auntie Anne, weren't you ever naughty when you were a little girl?"
"Very often naughty, I'm afraid."
That was consoling. "I'm glad. Won't you tell me some day all about your being naughty?"
"Perhaps, some day. But you mustn't be glad, Hecla. You ought to be sorry when people are naughty."
"If it was a grown-up person that was naughty!" suggested Hecla. "But not if it was once you, auntie."
Miss Anne was puzzled, not seeing what the child meant.
"Here is Elisabeth," she said. "Now be sure you get back in good time. Elisabeth has to lay the cloth, you know, at one o'clock. You have just an hour."
Hecla nodded, smiled, promised, and ran off, Elisabeth trying to catch her.
Miss Anne walked slowly back to the house, pausing on the way to look at her favourite flowers, and thinking hard about poor Frederick and Mary, obliged to leave their dear little child behind, and not knowing where to send her.
"If only we could take little Ivy in! I should love to have another," she whispered. "Children in the house make life so different!" Then she looked up, almost guiltily, as if it were wrong not to feel as her sister did. And yet again she murmured aloud: "Poor little Ivy! If only we might!"
Later she returned to the drawing-room, where Miss Storey sat as before, calmly knitting. A letter lay at her side, addressed and stamped.
"I have written to Frederick, Anne."
Something in Miss Storey's face brought a gleam of hope. She looked tired and pale, but the smile was unusual. Miss Anne almost held her breath.
"I have told Frederick that we will give little Ivy a home. I could not say anything else when I began to—Why, my dear Anne!"
For Miss Anne broke into a little cry of joy, and dropped down on her knees in front of Miss Storey's chair, looking up with eyes that overflowed.
"My dear Anne! You are quite agitated."
"I'm so glad—so glad!" almost sobbed Anne. "I could not bear to think of that poor little pet going away among strangers when we might—when perhaps we could have had her. Thank you, dear Millicent."
"Why did you not tell me that you wished it so much?"
"I could not, of course, if you felt that it was impossible."
"I did feel so at first, very strongly. But when I began to write, somehow there was nothing else to be done." Miss Storey hesitated, and a faint pink flush rose in her cheeks. "It seemed to me, I—saw—I seemed to see our dear Lord, when the little children were brought to Him—taking them in His Arms. And I wondered if, perhaps, He wanted us to take little Ivy for Him, and then—then—I could do nothing else but write and tell Frederick. It will be something of a trial, no doubt, but still—still—if it has to be—"
Miss Storey sighed, yet smiled bravely, and Miss Anne looked radiant.
"Dear Millicent, I'm sure you never will regret it. Ivy was such a little darling when we saw her last."
"Two and a half years old! But she is five now."
"She shall not be any trouble to you—if I can help it."
"Ah! But all will be right. We cannot do anything else," said Miss Storey.
The "Vicarage Dog"
"I WANT to go round by the windmill, Elisabeth."
"I'm afraid there ain't time, Miss Hecla. We haven't got but just an hour."
"Oh, but there is. I know there is. We can run, you know. Do please say yes—there's a dear Elisabeth!"
Hecla looked beseechingly into her companion's round, rosy face and honest eyes. Elisabeth was only sixteen years old, which is not really old, though Hecla looked upon her as very much grown-up indeed. She often wished to be sixteen herself, because she felt that then she would be able to do whatever she liked. Elisabeth had been in Miss Storey's service ever since leaving school at twelve years of age, and she was a careful, dependable girl. She was devoted to Hecla, and loved nothing better than taking the little girl out for a ramble.
"It's a good bit round by the windmill," she hesitated, pulling out her neat metal watch, of which she was very proud, for it had been given to her by Miss Storey on the day when she completed four years in the house.
"We'll race," urged Hecla. "Do, please, come!"
"It's two minutes past twelve, and we haven't got but hardly an hour, Miss Hecla."
"You said that before. Make haste. We're wasting time now—ever so much!"
"And I mustn't be one minute late. Not one minute," pursued Elisabeth stolidly, though she began to move. "If I am, Mrs. Prue will begin laying of the table, soon as ever the clock strikes, and then—my! I shan't hear the end of it."
"Prue," otherwise Prudence Brown, was the servant who had been with the Miss Storeys for thirty years past. And it was thought more respectful for a young girl like Elisabeth to call her "Mrs. Prue."
"But we won't be late," declared Hecla. "Come along. Let's hurry."
"I don't mind starting that way, and then we'll see," Elisabeth said. "If you won't stop to look at every single thing, we could do it, Miss Hecla."
"Of course I won't," cried Hecla, setting off full speed.
And the next minute she came to a standstill, as a small fox-terrier, with muddy feet, rushed up and began leaping upon her. "Trip, you sweet dog, how nice! Trip means to come with us for a walk. He may, mayn't he?"
"Oh dear me, what a mess he is making of your frock, Miss Hecla!"
"Down, Trip, down!" shrieked Hecla, in fits of laughter, as Trip struggled to lick her nose. "You dear!" And she hugged him vehemently. "Come along—come! We'll run now, won't we?" And she started again, all unmindful of the muddy streaks down her skirt.
Elisabeth looked ruefully at those streaks, but she gave in, and hurried after the scampering child and dog. If they only kept going at this pace, there would be no difficulty in getting back by one o'clock.
Trip was the "Vicarage Dog," known to everybody in this small town of Nortonbury, and a great friend of Hecla. When Chris was at school, and when his master was busy in the study, Trip would sally forth alone in search of amusement. Sometimes he had to be content with racing after birds; sometimes he had the delight of a mad scramble after a cat; but if only he could come across Hecla, he was perfectly happy.
Under no consideration might Trip be ever admitted into "The Cottage,"—that being the name of Miss Storey's pretty little house. Miss Storey had a great objection to dogs; partly on account of her dear cat, partly for fear of dusty or muddy footmarks on doorsteps and carpets. Trip was afflicted with an ardent longing to go where Hecla was; and he had tried, times without number, to sneak into "The Cottage" by a side entrance. But Mrs. Prue felt like her mistress, and waged war on his kind. The moment Trip's black nose showed itself, he was sure to be sent flying by broomstick or poker, to comfort himself outside at a safe distance with a fury of barks.
Here in the lanes he might follow the little girl to his heart's content; and nobody would find fault, if only he would refrain from jumping on Hecla with those muddy paws. Elisabeth scolded him in vain; for so soon as she began to scold, Hecla felt sure his feelings must be hurt, and then she tried to comfort him, which made him jump on her more vigorously than ever.
"I shall have to give you a good brushing the moment we get back," Elisabeth said despondingly. "And that'll take time too, Miss Hecla."
"But we won't be late," Hecla replied gaily.
Time fled fast, and one-half of the hour had slid away, as such hours do slide, out in the sunshine and the fresh air, when she cried—
"Oh, look! There's a dear sweet little robin!" And she stopped to seize Trip by the collar. "Look—look—just on the path. Hasn't he nice bright eyes? No, Trip—you shan't frighten the dear little robin. Oh, you naughty doggie!"
For Trip broke loose, and tore after the robin, which of course flew away. Trip pursued, then vanished into a small plantation, from which he did not come out in a hurry.
Hecla called, Elisabeth called, in vain. They tried coaxing, and they tried scolding; but Trip was a dog who liked his own way quite as much as little girls and boys do; and nearly ten minutes passed before it pleased him to walk out, with an innocent face, as if much surprised that anybody should be in a hurry.
"You bad, bad Trip, to keep us all this time!" Hecla pretended to beat him, and then kissed the top of his head, which of course meant more leaping up, and fresh attempts to lick her cheeks.
"And he's been and got into more wet mud, and he's making of your frock worse than ever!" declared Elisabeth ruefully.
Wherever the sun shone, a thaw went on, and this meant many muddy patches.
"Dear me, whatever will Mrs. Prue say?" Elisabeth again pulled out her watch. "We've got to turn back this minute, Miss Hecla. There ain't no time for the windmill to-day. Trip's hindered us a deal too long."
"What a pity! I do want to go round," exclaimed Hecla. "Couldn't we run very, very fast?"
"No, we couldn't, Miss Hecla, and we ain't agoing to try. I've had enough o' that!" Elisabeth turned resolutely round as she spoke, and set off.
And Hecla, after one deep sigh of disappointment, started running in advance.
Trip lagged behind, with drooping tail, very much disgusted, for he knew that this meant going home, and he didn't want to go home.
But Hecla, whatever her faults might be, was not in the habit of showing sulks when she could not have her own way.
"I know what I'll do," she cried suddenly. "I know what I'll do! The quarry is only just round that corner, and I do want to see if I can't find some snowdrops for Auntie Anne. It won't take a minute!"
She shouted the words, turning her head back; and before Elisabeth could open her mouth to protest, she was flying at full speed round the next turn to the right, down a little narrow lane, which led to a small quarry, long ago disused, and now well grown over with grass and bushes. A particularly steep path led to the bottom; and by the time Elisabeth arrived at the edge, Hecla had rushed down this path at break-neck pace—fortunately without any slip, or she might have rolled the whole way—and was diving eagerly among grass and moss in the farther corner.
Elisabeth stood waiting above, for she was not sure-footed, and she did not care to try that path.
"Come, Miss Hecla—come!" she kept calling.
And presently Hecla rushed back, scrambling up the steep path in great haste.
"I've got them! I've got them!" she cried, radiant with delight. "Look! Three lovely little snowdrops! Won't Auntie Anne be glad!"
"I can't stop one moment, Miss Hecla. We're late. It was downright naughty of you to run off there without leave. And you knowed I'd got to get back."
Good-natured Elisabeth was for once really vexed. She took firm hold of Hecla's hand, and they ran together till they were breathless, slackening then for a minute, only to run again.
But their efforts were in vain. As they entered the front door, panting and red-checked, and Hecla all over muddy marks, Mrs. Prue, with a particularly grim face, was seen carrying an empty tray from the dining-room. And Miss Anne came out and said—
"Elisabeth, you are not in time. You should have brought Miss Hecla home earlier. I thought I could depend upon you. It is ten minutes past one."
"I'm sorry, ma'am," Elisabeth answered, and not one word did she utter in self-defence.
But, though Hecla could be forgetful and careless, she could not stand by and see Elisabeth blamed for what was her fault.
"It was me, auntie," she said. "It wasn't Elisabeth. I wanted to get these snowdrops, and I ran into the quarry. They're for you, auntie—because I love you."
Aunt Anne bent a little towards the child, with a soft look in her eyes, yet she said—"I'm afraid I can't take the flowers to-day, Hecla. I'm sorry. I should like them—but I must not."
Hecla stood still, dismayed. She partly understood.
"You may go, Elisabeth. I am glad to know that it was not your fault."
And Elisabeth disappeared.
"Dear little Hecla, don't you know that love is best shown by doing what is right—by obeying orders? I love to know that you love me; but I want to see you thinking first of doing rightly. And then—to have the flowers would be so nice. But not if they made you disobey and get others into trouble. Now you had better run upstairs and wash your hands. After dinner you must change your frock, but there is not time now."
Hecla was glad to hurry away, for something had made a lump creep into her throat; and she hated that feeling of a lump. She washed her hands in a great hurry, and tried to brush off some of the muddy streaks. And then, to get rid more completely of the lump, she raced round and round the room several times, and jumped on and off a chair as hard as she could jump—never once thinking of her Aunt Millicent in the room below. It certainly did make her feel better, though not yet happy; for she knew that she had not done as she ought, out-of-doors; and when she glanced towards the poor little rejected snowdrops, lying on her table, the lump wanted to come back.
It was not surprising that, when she got downstairs, Miss Storey asked, "What have you been doing, Hecla,—to make such extraordinary noises overhead?"
"Oh, I only—jumped, auntie."
"Pray don't make such a noise another time."
Early dinner that day was rather a solemn meal. Miss Storey did not say anything about the late return, as she knew that Miss Anne had already spoken; but the usual chatter on Hecla's part was stopped, and the little girl was made to feel herself just a little in disgrace.
As they left the table, Miss Storey said to her sister—"I think, my dear Anne, that as Hecla has forgotten so many things to-day which she ought to have remembered, we will put off telling her our news until to-morrow."
"Perhaps it will be best," assented gentle Aunt Anne.
"What news, auntie?" cried Hecla. "I do love news. Oh, please tell me."
"Not to-day, Hecla. To-morrow, perhaps, if you are a good child."
"Auntie Millicent, I will be good. I'll be most dreadfully good, if only you'll tell me."
"We shall see," said Miss Storey. "Now you must go upstairs."
After dinner, Hecla always had to lie down on her bed for an hour, as her back was not very strong. Aunt Anne often came to read to her, which she loved, or to talk with her, which she counted still more delightful; but to-day for once Aunt Anne failed to appear.
So Hecla lay and pondered, kicking her legs about with impatience, as she tried to imagine what the news could possibly be. She worried and worried, guessed and guessed, ransacked her little brain for ideas, and felt as if she really did not know how to wait such a tremendous length of time as a whole afternoon and evening and night.
Was it something to do with Chris? Or was it something to do with Trip? Or had somebody sent her a nice present? Hecla loved presents. Or was someone coming to pay the aunts a visit? That did not happen often, but it was nice when it did happen. Or was there to be an excursion somewhere? What could it be?
Little Ivy
MISS STOREY'S cousin, Mr. Frederick Croft, read her letter silently, his young wife leaning against his shoulder and reading it also. They were alone together.
"Kind creature!" he said at length. "I didn't really expect it of her."
"I did, Fred. She is so dear—so really good."
"Anne would be ready enough. Anne loves children. But Millicent—"
"She would do anything she felt to be right."
"Yes; that's it. She writes sweetly; but it's because she thinks she ought. Not because she wants Ivy. And the question is—Were we right to ask it of her?"
"I don't see that there was anything else to be done."
"What I mean is—Am I right to let you come with me? That is the real question."
"I knew you meant that. But you can't help it, dear, because I am coming." Mary Croft spoke firmly.
"If I forbade it—you would not come."
"You are not going to forbid it."
"What if the climate should make you ill?"
"What if it should make you ill?" she asked.
"Then, of course—But it is my plain duty to go."
"And it is my duty, Fred, to go with you."
"It is not necessary for you, as it is for me."
"Fred, don't argue any more. My mind is made up. And you know you couldn't get on without me. You would be wretched, miserable. You know you would," repeated Mary Croft. "As for the climate, I am twice as strong as you are, and much less likely to be ill. And if you should be ill, I must be there to nurse you."
Neither said any more for two or three minutes. Perhaps Mr. Croft felt too strongly to reply. His next words were with a husky laugh, which sounded as if tears might not be very far distant.
"I wonder how poor little 'Why-because' will take it?"
"She will say—that," Mary answered, trying to conquer the shake in her voice. For, though she was quite determined not to stay behind when her husband went to Africa, it nearly broke her heart to think of leaving her darling Ivy.
"We must tell her."
"She is so sweet, so reasonable," murmured Mrs. Croft. "She will understand—that it has to be."
"I'll tell her. You must leave it to me."
"No, no, Fred. Not you. You have enough to think about. I shall do it!"
Mary Croft always tried to spare other people.
"I don't believe you can."
"Yes, I can. And I know you can't. I shall explain how it is. Somehow, one always talks to Ivy as one would to a grown-up person. Dear, you will write at once to Miss Storey. Tell her how grateful we are; how I love her for it; how sweet our pet is. I'll write too, but not to-day."
"Sh—sh!" murmured Mr. Croft, as the door opened, and a child came softly in.
Then, in a moment, he knew that he could not possibly make up his mind to tell little Ivy of the coming separation. He could not do it. He was a brave man, but that was beyond his powers.
"Yes, I'll go and write to the cousins," he said hurriedly, standing up.
And Mary Croft smiled faintly to herself, for she understood. He went out of the room, pausing by the way to bend over the child for one vehement kiss. After which he fled.
Ivy came forward, and stood beside the table, looking at her mother. She was such a dear little girl! No wonder her father and mother could hardly bear the thought of being parted from her. She held her head well up, like a small queen, and she had pretty plump fair arms, and soft velvety cheeks; and great billows of pale brown hair, which was shot with gold when the sun shone on it, rose over her forehead and fell curling all down her back; and her big thoughtful brown eyes were fixed wonderingly on Mrs. Croft's face.
When anything puzzled Ivy, she had a funny way of saying: "Why-because?"—pronouncing the two words in a soft, slow, questioning manner. Mr. Croft liked so much the way in which she did this, that he would not have her taught to speak differently. And that was how he had fallen into the habit of calling her, "Little Why-because."
Besides being so sweet to look at, Ivy was very sweet in character—a loving-hearted, gentle child—and indeed it was this which made her so sweet in face and manner. If she had been spoilt and ill-tempered and disagreeable and selfish, she might have been just as nice-looking a little girl in outward form, but everybody would not have loved her nearly so much. She would not have looked half so sweet and attractive. Nothing spoils the prettiest face like ill-temper.
As she stood by the table, she inquired—"Mummie, why-because is daddy crying?"
"Was daddy crying, darling?"
"I saw real live tears in his eyes, mummie." She meant that he was not merely pretending to cry, to amuse her, as sometimes he had done.
"He is sorry, pet, and so am I. We have to do something that we don't like to do, and it makes us sorry. And yet it has to be. Sometimes, you know, God tells us to do things that we would much rather not do."
"Why-because?"
"Always because He loves us, darling. We may be quite sure of that."
Ivy waited for more; quietly standing and waiting, as a grown-up person might have done; not fidgeting about, as Hecla would have done in her place. All her short life she had been much with her elders, and often she had a manner beyond her years. Yet she was a most happy little girl, full of enjoyment.
Mrs. Croft came round the table to where Ivy was, and sat down, putting her arm round the child.
"Sweet, do you remember last summer, when we were at the seaside, that daddy had to make you wear big blue spectacles when you were down on the shore? You didn't like them because they kept you from seeing the beautiful sea and waves properly. And you wanted to take them off; and mummie had to say 'No.' And then you asked, 'Why-because must you wear them?' And daddy explained that it was because Ivy's eyes were weak; and if she didn't wear the spectacles, the hot sun would make them worse, and then they might be weak always; but if she did as she was told, they would soon be stronger. And it was just because daddy and mummie do so love their little girl that they made her keep on wearing those tiresome ugly big spectacles. Don't you see? Not because we wanted to trouble our pet, but only because we loved her so."
Ivy smiled.
"And it is the same thing with our kind loving Father in Heaven, Ivy. Sometimes He sees that we need a trouble—something like wearing those spectacles—something that tries us and makes us sad—and yet He sees that if we don't have it, we shall not be strong and well in our spirits by-and-by. And so—because He so tenderly cares for us—He sends the trouble, and tells us to bear it patiently. Does my pet understand?"
A little nod came in reply. "But daddy did have real tears, mummie."
"I don't think that was wrong of daddy. When God has to send us trouble, He doesn't tell us not to mind, only to try to be patient, and always to be sure that He loves us. When our dear Lord was on earth, and had great troubles to bear, He shed tears, and He was very, very sad; but still He always said, 'Thy will be done!' And we must say the same."
Ivy gave a sigh, and leant her pretty head against her mother's shoulder. Mrs. Croft's other arm came round her tightly. Oh, how she wished that she could shield her darling from every sorrow! She would gladly have borne anything herself, if only Ivy might be perfectly happy.
"Sweet, how would you like to pay a visit to kind Cousin Millicent and Cousin Anne? You know what a beautiful present they sent you at Christmas."
"My big doll, mummie."
"Yes; with a lot of fine clothes that come off and on, and a cradle for dolly to sleep in. Wasn't it good of them? And now I hope Ivy is going to stay with them."
"Mummie and daddy too!"
"Mummie will take you there, darling. And then mummie and daddy have to go on somewhere else for a time."
"Where?"
"A good way off. Daddy has to go; and mummie can't let him go alone."
"Why-because must daddy go?"
"I'm afraid you can't understand that, Ivy. You are too little. By-and-by, when you are older, you will see why it had to be. You must believe now that daddy wouldn't go if it was not right. There are many things that we can't understand till we are older—things that daddy and mummie can't understand now, and never will till—by-and-by! And this is a thing that little Ivy can't understand yet. But you can trust daddy and mummie, darling. You know we wouldn't go if we could help it, if it wasn't for little Ivy's good in some way."
Perhaps poor Mrs. Croft was saying all this as much for her own comfort as for Ivy's; yet Ivy seemed in a way to understand.
And then Mrs. Croft added, "We should love to take our darling with us; but we must not."
"Why-because?" came promptly, as a matter of course.
"It is a place where little children cannot live. If we took you, you would soon fall ill. You would suffer terribly, and you could not run or play. Think how cruel that would be for us. You are healthy and strong now; and we want you to keep well. And so we are going to leave you for a while with those dear kind cousins, and they will take such care of our pet, till we come back."
"Why-because should I be ill, mummie?" Ivy spoke in a rather smothered voice.
"It is such a hot place, burning hot, and not fresh and cool like this. All little English children fall ill there; so their fathers and mothers dare not take them. Yet daddy has to go; and I know my little Ivy will be brave and good, and will wish mummie to go with daddy and to take care of him. And only think—" as she felt a heaving sob—"only think, sweet, what fun it will be for you to have Cousin Hecla to play with! She is only three or four years older than Ivy. You have never yet had another little girl belonging to you, in the same house. Won't that be delightful? You must take your new dolly, and you and Hecla can play with it together."
Though Ivy cried a little, as she nestled in her mother's arms, it was wonderful how bravely she took all this.
Of course she did not know what it really meant. She had no idea how far away her parents were going, or how long they might have to stay. She had never yet been parted from them; and she could not picture to her little self what it would be not to have them always at hand. She was so small.
But also she was, as her mother had said, "such a reasonable little girl." Though only five years old, she was remarkably sensible and full of thought. When once she knew that there were good reasons for what had to be, she would submit.
In this case she understood at least that "daddy" was obliged to go, and that "mummie" could not let him go alone; and that she might not go with them. And she submitted, not indeed without tears, but without resisting and fretting.
It seemed, too, as if the little child already knew something—already grasped just a beginning—of that which many people do not even begin to see till late in life—a full belief that God always knows what is best, and that whatever comes from Him comes in love.
The Wonderful News
HECLA had to wait next day till after early dinner, before hearing what the wonderful news was. Miss Storey felt sure that, if she were told sooner, she would not do a single lesson well that morning; so at breakfast, Aunt Anne promised that she should know directly dinner was over, if she were good meantime.
That "if" had wonderful power. Hecla, in alarm lest she should have to wait another day, did her very best, and did nicely. She actually kept from fidgeting, learnt her easy lessons, wrote neatly, made few ink-spots, and put almost everything away in its right place, without being reminded.
"So, you see, dear, you can do better when you choose," Aunt Millicent remarked. "What a pity you don't choose oftener!"
And it was a pity, was it not?
Then she went for her walk with Elisabeth, and Elisabeth seemed to know more than Hecla did, for she kept pursing up her lips in a most provoking fashion, and refusing to answer questions.
"You'll hear, all in good time," was the most she would say, when Hecla kept wondering and wondering what the "news" could possibly be.
"I believe you know all the time, and I don't see why I shouldn't too," she said in an injured tone, forgetting that but for her own fault she would have been told as soon as Elisabeth. "Do just say one thing! It isn't a doll, is it? A big, big doll that winks. I should love to have a doll that winks! It isn't that, I'm quite perfectly sure, because it's nobody's birthday now, and I do wish it was."
"If you're quite perfectly sure, Miss Hecla, there ain't no need for me to tell you."
"Elisabeth, you're just horrid!" cried Hecla, and she raced away, making Elisabeth race after her.
But, of course, she did not really mean that kind Elisabeth was horrid; and in three minutes she was back again by her side, putting endless questions.
In time the walk ended. They reached home punctually at one, and early dinner followed. Both aunts were smiling; and Hecla felt sure that the coming news must be good news. She was in such haste to be told, that she tried to get rid of her helping in a terrific hurry, and drew on herself more than one rebuke.
"My dear Hecla, you will certainly choke yourself," Miss Storey said seriously. "That is not the way to eat. Look at Aunt Anne and me. Do we stuff our food down in that fashion?"
Hecla was obliged to confess that they did not, as she watched the tiny morsels which were delicately inserted, one by one, between Miss Storey's lips.
"But I'm in such a dreadful hurry to-day, auntie."
Aunt Anne looked pleadingly at Aunt Millicent, and the latter said nothing. Hecla tried to copy Miss Storey's mode of eating; and so pleased was Miss Storey to see this that, when the meat went away, she observed—
"You have been a good girl this morning, and you shall not wait any longer."
And then the news was told.
Hecla listened with fixed eyes of amazement, hardly able to believe what she heard. She kept breaking in with questions, interrupting explanations, and repeating the words uttered, as if they conveyed no meaning to her mind. It was not that she was actually stupid, as a listener might have imagined, but that her own thoughts were racing at such a pace as to make it impossible for her to take in half of what was spoken. Naturally she became puzzled.
"A real little girl! Coming here! Coming to live! Truly, auntie! A real, live, little girl!"
"My dear Hecla, don't be silly," began Miss Storey, rather vexed.
And before she could utter another word, Hecla, suddenly grasping what the news meant, leaped from her chair, and hopped vigorously round the room.
Miss Storey looked in despair at her sister, who was smiling, and said, "Now, what is that for?"
"Just a little ebullition of feeling, dear Millicent," said Miss Anne.
And as Hecla, in her wild career, came close, she put out a firm hand and stopped the child. Hecla stood still, breathing hard with her exertions.
"What's 'ebullition,' auntie?"
Miss Anne did not take the trouble to reply, since she knew from experience that the explanation would be forgotten in five minutes. She only said—
"How will you like to have little Ivy?"
Hecla gasped with joy.
"And is her name Ivy, auntie?"
"We have told you so four times already," remarked Miss Storey. "Surely you knew that you had a little cousin named Ivy!"
Yes, of course Hecla had known it, but she had a provoking way of seeming to forget things, just when she ought to have remembered them.
"And will she be ever so much smaller than me?"
"Now, Hecla, why do you not ask sensible questions? Ivy is more than three years younger than you."
"And will she be here always, always?"
"For a time she will be here, while her father and mother are abroad."
Hecla wanted to hop again, but Miss Anne held her fast.
"That was what I expected," Miss Storey said, sighing. "We ought to have waited till after dinner, as I intended."
"Yes, you were right," agreed Miss Anne.
"Now, Hecla, you are to sit down and eat your pudding. No more hopping. You know that you are not allowed to get up in the middle of dinner."
"Unless Auntie Millicent wants me to ring the bell!"
"But she did not want you to ring the bell just now, so that has nothing to do with the question."
"Oh, but I'm so dreadfully glad, auntie."
Hecla danced round the table to her seat, and plumped into it.
"I don't want any pudding, please."
"But pudding is good for you." And Miss Storey sent a helping, as usual. "That is to be eaten, my dear."
Hecla began it in a distracted style. "Oh dear—what is Ivy like, auntie, please?"
"She was a very dear little girl when we saw her last," Miss Anne replied. "You and she will be great friends, I am sure."
Hecla gave a leap in her chair, which set the glasses rattling, and her spoon fell—handle and all—into her rice pudding.
"My dear Hecla!" protested Miss Storey, but she was unheard.
Hecla's cheeks were crimson.
"Auntie—oh, auntie—please—may I take care of Ivy? Please, mayn't I? I'd love to dress and undress her; like I do with my doll."
"And throw her into a corner, when you are tired of doing it?" asked Miss Anne.
"Oh no, no—I couldn't ever be tired of Ivy! May I?"
"Elisabeth, a fresh spoon for Miss Hecla. Finish your pudding," said Miss Storey.
"Mayn't I, auntie? Please say yes."
"If we find you growing very, very careful and particular, and always doing what you are told, perhaps some day you shall be allowed to help," Aunt Anne said. "But you must show us first that we can trust you, Hecla. You must not go on forgetting everything you are told."
Hecla swallowed a big mouthful with a gulp.
"I'll never, never, never forget one single thing ever again, auntie. And then you'll know I can be trusted—won't you?"
"Yes, I think we should know then," Miss Anne said.
And Miss Storey shook an unbelieving head.
"Auntie, I don't feel as if I could lie down quiet this afternoon," pleaded Hecla, as they rose from table. "I'm all over kicks and jumpiness all through every single bit of me. I do want to go out, and have a run. Please—mayn't I?"
The aunts spoke together in undertones; and Miss Anne turned to Hecla.
"Just for once we will let you off the lying down," she said. "You must be very good, and not ask it again. I am going to speak to Mr. Deane, and you may come with me."
Hecla flung herself on Aunt Anne, in rapturous gratitude.
Alas, for Miss Anne's beautiful frills! But she liked to be hugged, even though she gently tried to shelter the frills from being crushed.
"That will do, dear. Now we must get our hats."
"And perhaps I shall find Chris. I do want to tell Chris; and Uncle John too."
"Uncle John" was Mr. Deane, the Vicar of Nortonbury. He was not really Hecla's uncle, but since Chris, his nephew, always called him so, Hecla had fallen into the same way. Mr. Deane liked her to do it. He was very fond of children, and all children loved him.
During many years he had worked tremendously hard in a big poor London parish, till he became very ill, and was ordered to go into the country, to save his life. He was here still, three years after, always hoping to be some day strong enough to go back to his beloved London work; but at present he was not nearly so. He was not married, and he had one orphan nephew living with him, just as the Misses Storey had one little orphan niece.
Hecla and Chris were great chums. He was over ten, and of course he felt himself to be years and years older and wiser than a mere little girl of eight and a half; and, of course, he expected her to be properly meek and submissive. But, as she had an immense admiration for him, and never supposed that he could do wrong, he was really kind to her; and on the whole, he did not dislike to have her hanging round, and watching his every movement with dog-like devotion, only not quite so dumb as a dog's devotion, for whatever else happened or did not happen, Hecla always talked.
As Miss Anne Storey and Hecla reached the open door of the Vicarage—it generally stood wide open, as if inviting the people of the place to go in as often as they liked, which, indeed, was the Vicar's desire—a pale, thin, delicate-looking man, with a face which seemed made of sunshine, came out of the front room.
"What! Miss Anne and little Hecla! Come along. Come in," he said heartily. "How do you both do? Well, little one?"
Hecla burst out at once, "Oh, Uncle John, only think! There's a dear, sweet, little darling pet cousin coming!"
"Eh, how's that?" The Vicar led them in, put a chair for Miss Anne, and dropped into another himself.
Miss Anne began to explain, and Hecla broke in with further particulars, as she leant confidingly against the Vicar's knee.
"Hush, hush," he murmured. "Polite people don't interrupt, you know. Aunt Anne was saying something."
Hecla held her tongue exactly six seconds, and felt as if she had been silent for half-an-hour.
"Won't it be lovely?" she exclaimed, taking advantage of a tiny halt. "And I'm going perhaps to dress and undress Ivy, as soon as ever I've shown I can be properly trusted."
Mr. Deane's eyes twinkled. "Can't you be trusted yet? That is sad."
"Because I sometimes forget," Hecla said, hanging her head. "But," and she brightened up, "I'm beginning this very minute, so's to be ready when Ivy comes."
"It's a great thing to be trusted, Hecla. Worth trying hard for. Mind you do."
"And Ivy's only five years old, Uncle John."
"Ah, that ought to make a little woman of you. When she comes, you must remember that you will be the big girl, and she the little one. You will have to set her a good example. See?"
Hecla nodded, examining the Vicar's sleeve-stud.
"Little girls almost always try to do what they see big girls doing. So a great deal will depend upon you. If Ivy sees you careful and truthful and obedient, she will try to be the same. And if not—she will copy the other ways. I wonder if you are going to think about this, and be a help to Auntie Anne."
"I don't mean ever to forget anything ever again!"
"That's right. Aim high, little one. Always try for the best. And how are you going to do it?" He lifted his hand gravely upward. "That is the only way," he said. "You must ask God to make you able."
Hecla nodded shyly.
"And now I think you must run out into the garden while Aunt Anne and I have a talk. You'll find Chris there somewhere. Down the path to the little pond."
Hecla glanced at Miss Anne Storey for leave, and then, as he released her, she scampered cheerfully off, through the open front door, and down the side path of which the Vicar had spoken. This being Chris' half-holiday, she had been in great hopes of coming across him.
And, indeed, no sooner had she passed through a mass of bushes than she saw her friend. The path opened out upon a minute pond, and by its side stood a boy, hands in pockets, surveying a large frog. The frog sat motionless, apparently surveying him with no less interest. Christie, or Chris, as he was commonly called, had a merry, freckled face, and reddish hair.
"Chris!" she cried. "Only think—only think, Chris!"
"Well?" questioned Chris, not changing his attitude.
"Chris, it's going to be so lovely!"
"What is?"
Chris showed no overwhelming interest: A girl's news was not likely to be important.
Hecla whirled round like a little dancing Dervish as a relief to her spirits, and dropped down on the grass, only to spring up and whirl again.
"Hallo—I say, you're frightening my frog."
Hecla came to a standstill.
"Is he yours? How did you get him?"