Chapter Five.

Chapter Five.With Papa.The children’s father came back late that night, but too late for them to see him. And the next morning he had to be off again, this time for two whole days together, so there was no chance of asking him about the dog. Leigh and Mary spoke of it to their mother, but dogs are things that papas have most to do with, and she could only say, “You must ask papa.”It was rather trying to have to wait so long to know about it, or at least it would have been so if Mary had not had so many other interesting things to think about just then. There were all her birthday presents, her “regular” birthday presents, as the boys called them, which were still of course quite new, not to speak of the baby, which seemed to Mary more wonderful every time she saw her.Unless you really live with a baby, and that, as you know, had never happened to Mary before, you can have no idea how very interesting babies are, even when they are so tiny that they can do nothing but go to sleep and wake again, and cry when they are hungry, and stretch themselves and yawn, and make oh! such funny faces! Why, that is quite a long list of things to do already, and there are ever so many more queer little ways about a baby when you come to notice them. Even its little pink toes seemed to Mary the prettiest and funniest things she had ever seen in her life.Leigh and she fixed together that, till they had asked their father about the dog, they would not go past the smithy.“It only makes us fink about it,” said Mary.And nurse, who, to tell the truth, was not very eager for them to get the puppy, was not sorry when the children asked her not to pass that way.“Miss Mary is still frightened of Yakeman’s dogs,” she thought to herself, “and it’s just as well. I don’t know whatever we’d do if we had to take a puppy out walks with us as well as Miss Baby.”For of course nurse knew that before long, when the baby grew a little bigger, she would come to live in the nursery altogether and go out walks with the others. Just at first nurse would carry her, but after awhile she would go in the new perambulator which nurse had set her heart upon getting.That reminds me of Mary’s present from her father and mother, which, as I told you, was a doll’s perambulator. It was a great amusement to them all, not only to Mary. You have no idea what a lot of fun you can get out of a doll’s perambulator. It was not only the dolls that went drives in it; the children tried several other things which did not succeed very well. The kitten for one did not like it at all. Leigh caught it one day, when there was no one else to take a drive, for the dolls had all got very bad colds, and Doctor Artie had said that they must on no account go out. Mary looked very grave at this, but of course the doctor’s orders had to be obeyed.“What shall we do?” she said sadly. “It will be so dull to go out a walk wifout the perambulator,” for till now the dolls had had a drive every day.“Leave it to me,” said Leigh, “you’ll find some one all ready waiting when you come down to go out.”And sure enough when nurse and Mary arrived at the door, there was the perambulator, and seated in the doll’s place, or rather tied into it, was a very queer figure indeed—the kitten, as I told you, looking and feeling perfectly miserable.Leigh had done his best to make it comfortable. He had tied it in with a large soft handkerchief very cleverly, but it was mewing piteously all the same.“Come along quick, Mary,” he said, “Kitty’s in a great hurry to be off; she doesn’t like being kept waiting, that’s what she’s saying.”Mary looked as if she was not quite sure if that was what Kitty’s mews really meant, but of course, as Leigh was so much bigger and older, she thought he must know best. So she began pushing the perambulator, very gently at first, for fear of frightening poor pussy, who was so much astonished at feeling herself moving that for a moment or two she left off mewing.“There now,” said Leigh, “you see how she likes it. Go faster, Mary.”Mary set off running as fast as she could, which was not very fast, however, for at four years old, one’s legs are still very short, but she did her best, as she wanted to please Leigh and the kitten too. The garden path was smooth and it was a little down hill. Leigh scampered on in front, Mary coming after him rather faster than she meant. Indeed she began to have a queer feeling that her legs were running away with her, when all of a sudden there came a grand upset. Mary found herself on the ground, on the top of the perambulator, and even before she had time to pick herself up her little voice was heard crying out:“Oh poor Kitty! I’se felled on the top of poor Kitty!”But no, Kitty was not as much to be pitied as Mary herself, for the poor little girl’s knees were sadly scratched by the gravel and one of her hands was really bleeding. While, there was Kitty, galloping home in great glee—Leigh’s handkerchief spreading out behind her like a lady’s train.Mary scarcely knew whether to laugh orcry. I think she did a little of both. Leigh wanted to catch pussy again, but nurse would not hear of it, and proposed instead that they should use the perambulator to bring home a beautiful lot of primroses for their mother, from the woods.After this adventure with the kitten, Leigh tried one or two other “tricks,” as nurse called them. He wanted to make a coachman of one of his guinea-pigs, who sat quite still as long as he had a leaf of lettuce to munch, but when that was done let himself roll out like a ball over and over again, till even Leigh got tired of catching him and putting him back. Artie’s pet rabbit did no better, and then it was decided that when the dolls were ill it would be best to use the perambulator as a cart, for fetching flowers and fir-cones and all sorts of things. This was such fun that the dolls were often obliged to stay at home, even when their colds were not very bad.And for nearly a week the children kept away from the smithy. Papa had been home during that week, of course, and they had tried to ask about the puppy. But he was very busy and hurried; all he could say was that he must see the dog first, and that of course he had had no time for.At last there came a morning on which, when the children went down to see their father after the nursery breakfast, they found him sitting comfortably at the table pouring himself out a second cup of nice hot coffee and reading the newspaper, as if he was not in a hurry at all.“Oh papa,” said Leigh, “how jolly it is to see you like that, instead of gobbling up your breakfast as if the train was at the door.”“If the train came as near as that I shouldn’t be so hurried,” said his father laughing, but Mary did not look quite pleased.“Papa doesn’t gobble,” she said. “Leigh shouldn’t speak that way, it’s like gooses and turkeys.”“I didn’t mean that kind of gobbling,” said Leigh. “Turkeys gobble-wobble—it’s their way of talking. I didn’t meanthatof papa.”Mary still looked rather doubtful, but her father caught her up and set her on his knee with a kiss.“Thank you, my princess,” he said, “for standing up for your poor old father. Now, what can I do for you? I’ve got a nice long holiday before me, all to-day and all to-morrow at home, so I’m quite at your service.”Mary looked up. She did not quite understand what “quite at your service” meant, and it was her way when she did not understand anything to think it over for a moment or two before she asked to have it explained. It is not a bad way to do, because there are often things a child can get to understand by a little thinking, and some children have a silly way of never using their own minds if they can help it.“Why don’t you answer, Mary?” said Leigh. “I know whatI’dsay, if papa offered to do anything I wanted, and I think you might remember what we’re all wanting so much.”Mary’s face cleared.“I didn’t understand,” she said. “But I do now. O papa dear, will you come and see the sweet little doggie at the smiffy? We’ve been waiting and waiting.”“Oh dear,” said her father, “I’d forgotten all about it. Yes, of course I’ll take a look at it. Let’s see: they’re retriever pups, aren’t they?” Leigh did not answer for a moment. To tell the truth, he was not quite sure what kind of dogs Yakeman’s were, though he did not like to say so. “They are brown and curly,” he said at last. “And the top of our one’s head is nearly as soft as—as baby,” added Mary.“Baby would be flattered,” said her father. “We’re going to call it Fuzzy,” Mary went on. “It are so very soft.”“And oh, by the by,” said papa, “you’ve never chosen a name for your little sister, so mamma and I have had to fix on one. What do you think of Dorothea?”The children looked at their father doubtfully.“Dorothea,” said Leigh.“Doro—” began Artie, stopping in the middle, as he forgot the rest.“Dodo—” said Mary, stopping too. “It’s a difficult name, papa.”“And I don’t think it’s very pretty,” said Leigh.“Wait a minute,” said papa. “You’ll like it when I explain about it. You know that baby came on Mary’s birthday?”“Yes,” said Mary. “She were my best birfday present.”“That’s just it,” her father went on. ”‘Dorothea’ means a present—a present from God, which must mean the best kind of present.”“Oh,” said Mary, “that’s very nice! Please say it again, papa, and I’ll try to learn it. Dodo—”“No,” said Artie, looking very superior. “Doro—not Dodo.”“You needn’t look down upon Mary,” said Leigh, “if you can’t get any further than that. It’s Dorothea. I can say it well enough of course, but I do think it’s a very long name, papa, for such a very little baby.”“She’ll grow up to be a big girl some day, I hope,” said their father. “But you’re all in such a hurry you won’t let me finish explaining. Besides having a nice meaning, we like Dorothea because there’s such a pretty way of shortening it. We’re going to call your little sister ‘Dolly.’”“That’s not difficult,” said Mary. “Only it seems as if she was a dolly.”“No it doesn’t,” said Leigh. “Your dolls have all got their own names. I like Dolly very much, papa, and I think we’ll better call her it now. ‘Baby’ is so common, there’s such lots of babies.”“There’s a baby at the baker’s shop,” said Artie, who did not like being left out of the conversation. “It’s a lot bigger than our baby, it goes in a sitting-up perambulator all alone.”“Dear me,” said his father. “How very curious! I should like to see it! We shall be having babies riding tricycles next.”Artie stared, he did not understand, but Leigh began to laugh.“How funny you are, papa,” he said. “Of course, Artie doesn’t mean that it pushes itself along, thoughIthink that pushing a perambulator is very stupid. If I had a baby I know what I’d do.”“On the whole, I’d rather not be your baby, I think, Leigh. But if we’re going to the smithy this morning, we’d better set off. Run and get ready, boys.”Leigh and Artie scampered off, and their father was following them, when a sudden sound made him stop short. It was a wail from Mary.“What is the matter, my darling?” he said, turning back to her.“I does so want to come too,” said Mary through her tears. “’Cos the little dog were for me.”“You shall come, dear,” said her father; “but why didn’t you ask me without beginning to cry? That’s not being a sensible girl.”Mary’s face was very like an April day. She smiled up at her father in a minute.“I won’t cry,” she said, “I’ll be very good. Will you wait for me if nurse dresses me very quick, papa?” and she set off after her brothers, mounting upstairs as fast as she could, though “could” was not very fast, as right leg was obliged to wait on each step till left leg made up to it.

The children’s father came back late that night, but too late for them to see him. And the next morning he had to be off again, this time for two whole days together, so there was no chance of asking him about the dog. Leigh and Mary spoke of it to their mother, but dogs are things that papas have most to do with, and she could only say, “You must ask papa.”

It was rather trying to have to wait so long to know about it, or at least it would have been so if Mary had not had so many other interesting things to think about just then. There were all her birthday presents, her “regular” birthday presents, as the boys called them, which were still of course quite new, not to speak of the baby, which seemed to Mary more wonderful every time she saw her.

Unless you really live with a baby, and that, as you know, had never happened to Mary before, you can have no idea how very interesting babies are, even when they are so tiny that they can do nothing but go to sleep and wake again, and cry when they are hungry, and stretch themselves and yawn, and make oh! such funny faces! Why, that is quite a long list of things to do already, and there are ever so many more queer little ways about a baby when you come to notice them. Even its little pink toes seemed to Mary the prettiest and funniest things she had ever seen in her life.

Leigh and she fixed together that, till they had asked their father about the dog, they would not go past the smithy.

“It only makes us fink about it,” said Mary.

And nurse, who, to tell the truth, was not very eager for them to get the puppy, was not sorry when the children asked her not to pass that way.

“Miss Mary is still frightened of Yakeman’s dogs,” she thought to herself, “and it’s just as well. I don’t know whatever we’d do if we had to take a puppy out walks with us as well as Miss Baby.”

For of course nurse knew that before long, when the baby grew a little bigger, she would come to live in the nursery altogether and go out walks with the others. Just at first nurse would carry her, but after awhile she would go in the new perambulator which nurse had set her heart upon getting.

That reminds me of Mary’s present from her father and mother, which, as I told you, was a doll’s perambulator. It was a great amusement to them all, not only to Mary. You have no idea what a lot of fun you can get out of a doll’s perambulator. It was not only the dolls that went drives in it; the children tried several other things which did not succeed very well. The kitten for one did not like it at all. Leigh caught it one day, when there was no one else to take a drive, for the dolls had all got very bad colds, and Doctor Artie had said that they must on no account go out. Mary looked very grave at this, but of course the doctor’s orders had to be obeyed.

“What shall we do?” she said sadly. “It will be so dull to go out a walk wifout the perambulator,” for till now the dolls had had a drive every day.

“Leave it to me,” said Leigh, “you’ll find some one all ready waiting when you come down to go out.”

And sure enough when nurse and Mary arrived at the door, there was the perambulator, and seated in the doll’s place, or rather tied into it, was a very queer figure indeed—the kitten, as I told you, looking and feeling perfectly miserable.

Leigh had done his best to make it comfortable. He had tied it in with a large soft handkerchief very cleverly, but it was mewing piteously all the same.

“Come along quick, Mary,” he said, “Kitty’s in a great hurry to be off; she doesn’t like being kept waiting, that’s what she’s saying.”

Mary looked as if she was not quite sure if that was what Kitty’s mews really meant, but of course, as Leigh was so much bigger and older, she thought he must know best. So she began pushing the perambulator, very gently at first, for fear of frightening poor pussy, who was so much astonished at feeling herself moving that for a moment or two she left off mewing.

“There now,” said Leigh, “you see how she likes it. Go faster, Mary.”

Mary set off running as fast as she could, which was not very fast, however, for at four years old, one’s legs are still very short, but she did her best, as she wanted to please Leigh and the kitten too. The garden path was smooth and it was a little down hill. Leigh scampered on in front, Mary coming after him rather faster than she meant. Indeed she began to have a queer feeling that her legs were running away with her, when all of a sudden there came a grand upset. Mary found herself on the ground, on the top of the perambulator, and even before she had time to pick herself up her little voice was heard crying out:

“Oh poor Kitty! I’se felled on the top of poor Kitty!”

But no, Kitty was not as much to be pitied as Mary herself, for the poor little girl’s knees were sadly scratched by the gravel and one of her hands was really bleeding. While, there was Kitty, galloping home in great glee—Leigh’s handkerchief spreading out behind her like a lady’s train.

Mary scarcely knew whether to laugh orcry. I think she did a little of both. Leigh wanted to catch pussy again, but nurse would not hear of it, and proposed instead that they should use the perambulator to bring home a beautiful lot of primroses for their mother, from the woods.

After this adventure with the kitten, Leigh tried one or two other “tricks,” as nurse called them. He wanted to make a coachman of one of his guinea-pigs, who sat quite still as long as he had a leaf of lettuce to munch, but when that was done let himself roll out like a ball over and over again, till even Leigh got tired of catching him and putting him back. Artie’s pet rabbit did no better, and then it was decided that when the dolls were ill it would be best to use the perambulator as a cart, for fetching flowers and fir-cones and all sorts of things. This was such fun that the dolls were often obliged to stay at home, even when their colds were not very bad.

And for nearly a week the children kept away from the smithy. Papa had been home during that week, of course, and they had tried to ask about the puppy. But he was very busy and hurried; all he could say was that he must see the dog first, and that of course he had had no time for.

At last there came a morning on which, when the children went down to see their father after the nursery breakfast, they found him sitting comfortably at the table pouring himself out a second cup of nice hot coffee and reading the newspaper, as if he was not in a hurry at all.

“Oh papa,” said Leigh, “how jolly it is to see you like that, instead of gobbling up your breakfast as if the train was at the door.”

“If the train came as near as that I shouldn’t be so hurried,” said his father laughing, but Mary did not look quite pleased.

“Papa doesn’t gobble,” she said. “Leigh shouldn’t speak that way, it’s like gooses and turkeys.”

“I didn’t mean that kind of gobbling,” said Leigh. “Turkeys gobble-wobble—it’s their way of talking. I didn’t meanthatof papa.”

Mary still looked rather doubtful, but her father caught her up and set her on his knee with a kiss.

“Thank you, my princess,” he said, “for standing up for your poor old father. Now, what can I do for you? I’ve got a nice long holiday before me, all to-day and all to-morrow at home, so I’m quite at your service.”

Mary looked up. She did not quite understand what “quite at your service” meant, and it was her way when she did not understand anything to think it over for a moment or two before she asked to have it explained. It is not a bad way to do, because there are often things a child can get to understand by a little thinking, and some children have a silly way of never using their own minds if they can help it.

“Why don’t you answer, Mary?” said Leigh. “I know whatI’dsay, if papa offered to do anything I wanted, and I think you might remember what we’re all wanting so much.”

Mary’s face cleared.

“I didn’t understand,” she said. “But I do now. O papa dear, will you come and see the sweet little doggie at the smiffy? We’ve been waiting and waiting.”

“Oh dear,” said her father, “I’d forgotten all about it. Yes, of course I’ll take a look at it. Let’s see: they’re retriever pups, aren’t they?” Leigh did not answer for a moment. To tell the truth, he was not quite sure what kind of dogs Yakeman’s were, though he did not like to say so. “They are brown and curly,” he said at last. “And the top of our one’s head is nearly as soft as—as baby,” added Mary.

“Baby would be flattered,” said her father. “We’re going to call it Fuzzy,” Mary went on. “It are so very soft.”

“And oh, by the by,” said papa, “you’ve never chosen a name for your little sister, so mamma and I have had to fix on one. What do you think of Dorothea?”

The children looked at their father doubtfully.

“Dorothea,” said Leigh.

“Doro—” began Artie, stopping in the middle, as he forgot the rest.

“Dodo—” said Mary, stopping too. “It’s a difficult name, papa.”

“And I don’t think it’s very pretty,” said Leigh.

“Wait a minute,” said papa. “You’ll like it when I explain about it. You know that baby came on Mary’s birthday?”

“Yes,” said Mary. “She were my best birfday present.”

“That’s just it,” her father went on. ”‘Dorothea’ means a present—a present from God, which must mean the best kind of present.”

“Oh,” said Mary, “that’s very nice! Please say it again, papa, and I’ll try to learn it. Dodo—”

“No,” said Artie, looking very superior. “Doro—not Dodo.”

“You needn’t look down upon Mary,” said Leigh, “if you can’t get any further than that. It’s Dorothea. I can say it well enough of course, but I do think it’s a very long name, papa, for such a very little baby.”

“She’ll grow up to be a big girl some day, I hope,” said their father. “But you’re all in such a hurry you won’t let me finish explaining. Besides having a nice meaning, we like Dorothea because there’s such a pretty way of shortening it. We’re going to call your little sister ‘Dolly.’”

“That’s not difficult,” said Mary. “Only it seems as if she was a dolly.”

“No it doesn’t,” said Leigh. “Your dolls have all got their own names. I like Dolly very much, papa, and I think we’ll better call her it now. ‘Baby’ is so common, there’s such lots of babies.”

“There’s a baby at the baker’s shop,” said Artie, who did not like being left out of the conversation. “It’s a lot bigger than our baby, it goes in a sitting-up perambulator all alone.”

“Dear me,” said his father. “How very curious! I should like to see it! We shall be having babies riding tricycles next.”

Artie stared, he did not understand, but Leigh began to laugh.

“How funny you are, papa,” he said. “Of course, Artie doesn’t mean that it pushes itself along, thoughIthink that pushing a perambulator is very stupid. If I had a baby I know what I’d do.”

“On the whole, I’d rather not be your baby, I think, Leigh. But if we’re going to the smithy this morning, we’d better set off. Run and get ready, boys.”

Leigh and Artie scampered off, and their father was following them, when a sudden sound made him stop short. It was a wail from Mary.

“What is the matter, my darling?” he said, turning back to her.

“I does so want to come too,” said Mary through her tears. “’Cos the little dog were for me.”

“You shall come, dear,” said her father; “but why didn’t you ask me without beginning to cry? That’s not being a sensible girl.”

Mary’s face was very like an April day. She smiled up at her father in a minute.

“I won’t cry,” she said, “I’ll be very good. Will you wait for me if nurse dresses me very quick, papa?” and she set off after her brothers, mounting upstairs as fast as she could, though “could” was not very fast, as right leg was obliged to wait on each step till left leg made up to it.

Chapter Six.“Fuzzy.”Yakeman at the smithy looked very pleased to see his visitors, especially as their father was with the children.“The puppies are getting on finely,” he said. “Two of them are going to their new masters to-morrow. But I’ve held on to the one as Miss Mary fancied, thinking you’d be looking in some day soon.”“We’ve wanted to come ever so often,” said Leigh.“We was waiting for papa,” added Mary. “And we didn’t come round this way ’cos it made us want the dear little dog so much.”Yakeman listened gravely.“I thought I hadn’t seen you passing the last few days,” he said. “But I wouldn’t have let the dog go, not without sending up to ask you.”“Oh, we knowed you’d keep him,” said Mary, and then Yakeman led the way round to the side of the house again, where the four puppies were rolling and tumbling about in perfect content, their mother watching their gambols with great pride.Suddenly a new thought struck Mary.“Won’t her be very unhappy when them all goes away?” she asked Yakeman anxiously. “And won’t them cry for their mamma?”The smith smiled.“They’re getting old enough to do without her now,” he said. “But she’ll miss them, no doubt, will poor old Beauty,” and he patted the retriever’s head as he spoke. “It’s the way of the world, bain’t it, sir?” turning to the children’s father. “Dogs and humans. The young ones leave the old ones cheery enough. It’s the old ones as it’s hard on!”Mary did not quite understand what he meant, but something made her catch hold of her father’s hand.“You won’t never let me go away, will you, papa?” she whispered. “Notnever, will you?”“Not unless you want to go, certainly,” said her father, smiling down at her. “But now show me which is the puppy you’d like to have.”Mary looked rather puzzled, and so, though they would not have owned it, were the boys.“I think,” began Leigh, not at all sure of what he was going to say, but just then, luckily, Yakeman came to their help by picking up one of the puppies.“This here is Miss Mary’s one. We’ve called it hers—the missis and I, ever since the last time you was here.”He gave a little laugh, though he did not say what he was laughing at. To tell the truth, Mrs Yakeman and he had called the puppy “Miss Mary!”Mary rubbed her nose, as she had done before, on the puppy’s soft curly head.“It are so sweet,” she said. “We’re going to call him ‘Fuzzy.’ But, oh papa!” and her voice began to tremble. “Oh Leigh and Artie, I don’t think we should have him if it would make his poor mother unhappy to be leaved all alone.”“It won’t be so bad as that, Miss Mary,” said the smith, who, though he was such a big man, had a very tender heart, and could not bear to see the little girl’s face clouded. “We’re going to keep Number 4 for ourselves, and after a day or two Beauty will be quite content with him. You can look in and see for yourselves when you’re passing.”“Of course,” said Leigh, in his wise tone. “It’ll be all right, Mary. And we can bring Fuzzy to see his mother sometimes, to pay her a visit, you know.”Mary’s face cleared. Yakeman and Leigh must know best, and papa would not let them have the dog if it was unkind. It was not whatshe’dlike—to live in a house across the fields from mamma, only to pay her a morning call now and then. But still, dogs were different, she supposed.All this time papa had been looking at Fuzzy, as I think we may now begin to call him.“He’s a nice puppy,” he said, “a very nice little fellow. Of course, he’ll want to be properly taken care of, and careful training. But I can trust Mellor—you know Mellor, of course, the coachman?” he went on to the smith. “He’s not bad with dogs.”“No, sir, I should say he’s very good with ’em,” Yakeman replied. “Feedin’s a deal to do with it—there’s a many young dogs spoilt with over feedin’.”“I’ll see to that,” said Mr Bertram. “Now, children, we must be moving on, I think.”But the three stood there looking rather strange.“I thought—” began Leigh.“Won’t we—” began Artie.“Oh, papa,” began Mary.“What in the world is the matter?” said their father in surprise. “Aren’t you pleased about the puppy? I’ll send Mellor to fetch him to-morrow.”“It’s just that,” said Leigh.“Yes,” said Artie.“We thought he’d be ours, our very own,” said Mary, at last explaining what they were in trouble about. For though the three had said nothing to each other, each knew that the others were thinking and feeling the same.“We meant to fetch him ourselves,” said Leigh again.“We was going to give him his breakfast and dinner and tea in the nursery,” chimed in Artie.“I was p’annin’,” added Mary, “that he’d sleep in our beds in turns. I didn’t tell Leigh and Artie. I were going to ’apprise them. But I meaned to let it be in turns.”Papa began to laugh. So did Yakeman. They could not help it.“Sleep in your cots,” said papa. “There wouldn’t be much left of the cots or you by the morning.”“He wouldn’teatus,” said Leigh, looking rather startled.“Not exactly,” said his father. “But if he took to rolling on the top of you and making hay of the bedclothes—just look at him now tumbling about in the straw with his brothers—you would not be likely to have a very good night.”“And if he had three meals a day in the nursery, there’d not be much left ofhein a week or less,” said Yakeman.The children looked very surprised.“Wealways have breakfast and dinner and tea,” said Artie, “and little dogs is hungry too.”“Ah! yes,” said the smith; “but they couldn’t do with as much as that. And it’d never do neither for the puppy to eat all as you eats, Master Artie. Puppies isn’t little young gentlemen and ladies, and every creature has its own ways. He’ll be all right in the stable, never you fear, and Mr Mellor’ll see as he has all he should.”But still the three faces did not clear. Leigh moved away as if he were going to the gate, flicking his boots with a little whip he had in his hand, to seem as if he did not care, though in reality he was very nearly crying. And Artie’s and Mary’s faces grew longer and longer.“I don’t think I want to have him,” she said at last. “Zank you, Mr Yakeman, and zank you, papa; but him wouldn’t benours—him’d be Mellor’s,” and then there came a little choke in Mary’s voice and a misty look in her eyes, and in a moment Artie’s pocket-handkerchief was out of his pocket and he was rubbing her cheeks with all his might.“Don’tcry, Mary,” he said; “please, don’t cry. P’raps papa won’t—”I am not quite sure what he was going to say. I am not sure that he knew himself. But whatever it was, he was interrupted. For before Mary’s tears had had time to begin their journey down her face, papa had picked her up in his arms and was busy comforting her. He could not bear to see her cry! Really, it was rather a wonder that she was not spoilt.“My pet,” he said, “there is truly nothing to cry about. The puppy—what is it you call him, Fudge or Fuss—”Mary could not help laughing a little. Fancy calling a puppy “Fudge.”“No, papa dear;Fuzzy—that’s what we was going to call him.”“Well, darling, Fuzzy shall be your very own. You shall go to see him in the stables whenever you like; I’ll tell Mellor. And he will go out walks with you—the puppy, I mean, not Mellor—as soon as ever he has learnt to follow.” This made Mary laugh again. The idea of Mellor going out a walk with them all, following behind like a well-behaved dog. For Mellor was not very young, and he had a broad red face and was rather fat.Papa was pleased to hear Mary laughing, even though it was rather a shaky little laugh, and he went on to explain more.“You see he’s not the sort of dog that you can have in the house, particularly not in the nursery,” he said. “Indeed, I hardly think that any dog except a very old and tried one is safe in a nursery, above all, where there’s such a little baby as—”“Dolly,” said Mary quietly, to show that she had not forgotten what baby was to be called.“Yes, as Dolly,” her father went on. “They would be two babies together, and they might hurt each other without meaning it. Dolly might pull Fuddle’s hair—”At this all three children burst out laughing, quite a hearty laugh this time.“Oh, papa dear,” said Mary, “what a very bad mem’ry you’ve got! It isn’tFuddle! Can’t you sayFuzzy?”“Fuzzy,Fuzzy, Fuzzy,” said papa, speaking like the three bears turned the wrong way. “There, now, I think I’ve got it into my stupid old head at last. Well, as I was saying, Miss Dolly might pull Master Fuzzy’s hair, without meaning to hurt him of course, and he might turn round and snap at her, not exactly meaning to hurt her either, but still—it might be rather bad, you see.” Mary’s face grew very grave.“I never thought of that,” she said solemnly. “It would be dedful for dear little baby Dolly to be hurted, though I’m kite sure Fuzzy wouldn’t mean it.”“But when Dolly’s a good bit bigger, and when Fuzzy is quite a trained dog, he may come into the house sometimes, mayn’t he?” said Leigh.“At Auntie Maud’s,” said Artie, “there’sfreedogs always lying in the hall. They get up and come and sniff you when you go in. When I was a little boy I was frightened of them, but they never bit me.”“Ah! well,” said his father, “when Dolly’s a big girl and Fuzzy’s a big dog, we’ll see. Some dogs are very good indeed with little children; I hope he’ll be. I remember seeing a great Newfoundland that let his master’s children ride on his back, just as if he was a little pony. He stalked along as steadily as possible.”“And in some countries,” said Leigh eagerly, “dogs are taught to draw little carriages, aren’t they? I’ve seen pictures of them, up where there’s such lots of snow near the top of the world. Squim—something, those people are called.”“Esquimaux, you mean, I suppose,” said his father laughing. He had put down Mary by this time, and they were walking on slowly up the hill towards the Lavender Cottages. “Yes, and in other countries not so far off I’ve seen dogs drawing little carts as soberly as possible.”“Iwouldlike to see that!” said Artie, his eyes sparkling.“And so would I!” said Mary.And Leigh, though he said nothing, took the idea into his mind more than either of the others.By this time they were close to the top of the little hill where stood the cottages of which we have spoken so often—the Lavender Cottages as they were called; because once, a good many years ago, an old man lived there, whose lavender was famed all about that part of the country. He had a garden, almost like a little field, quite full of it. This garden belonged to one of the end cottages, and it was now a regular cottage kitchen-garden, with potatoes and cabbages and other vegetables growing in it, though in one corner there was still a nice little stock of the old lavender bushes. Here lived an old woman and her son, named Sweeting. Mrs Sweeting had once been cook at the hall when the children’s father was a little boy, and she was always pleased to have a visit from any of them.“I hear poor old Mrs Sweeting has been ill,” said papa; “I’ll just go in for a minute or two to see her. You children can wait outside for me.”The boys and Mary were not sorry to do so. They were always fond of coming to the Lavender Cottages, not only to see Mrs Sweeting who was very kind to them, but because they were much interested in the family of children who lived next door. There were such a lot of them! The cottage would never have held them all; but luckily, in the third cottage, at the other end again, lived the grandfather and grandmother of the large family, and some of the bigger boys had a room in their house. Still there were plenty left in the middle cottage, as you will hear.

Yakeman at the smithy looked very pleased to see his visitors, especially as their father was with the children.

“The puppies are getting on finely,” he said. “Two of them are going to their new masters to-morrow. But I’ve held on to the one as Miss Mary fancied, thinking you’d be looking in some day soon.”

“We’ve wanted to come ever so often,” said Leigh.

“We was waiting for papa,” added Mary. “And we didn’t come round this way ’cos it made us want the dear little dog so much.”

Yakeman listened gravely.

“I thought I hadn’t seen you passing the last few days,” he said. “But I wouldn’t have let the dog go, not without sending up to ask you.”

“Oh, we knowed you’d keep him,” said Mary, and then Yakeman led the way round to the side of the house again, where the four puppies were rolling and tumbling about in perfect content, their mother watching their gambols with great pride.

Suddenly a new thought struck Mary.

“Won’t her be very unhappy when them all goes away?” she asked Yakeman anxiously. “And won’t them cry for their mamma?”

The smith smiled.

“They’re getting old enough to do without her now,” he said. “But she’ll miss them, no doubt, will poor old Beauty,” and he patted the retriever’s head as he spoke. “It’s the way of the world, bain’t it, sir?” turning to the children’s father. “Dogs and humans. The young ones leave the old ones cheery enough. It’s the old ones as it’s hard on!”

Mary did not quite understand what he meant, but something made her catch hold of her father’s hand.

“You won’t never let me go away, will you, papa?” she whispered. “Notnever, will you?”

“Not unless you want to go, certainly,” said her father, smiling down at her. “But now show me which is the puppy you’d like to have.”

Mary looked rather puzzled, and so, though they would not have owned it, were the boys.

“I think,” began Leigh, not at all sure of what he was going to say, but just then, luckily, Yakeman came to their help by picking up one of the puppies.

“This here is Miss Mary’s one. We’ve called it hers—the missis and I, ever since the last time you was here.”

He gave a little laugh, though he did not say what he was laughing at. To tell the truth, Mrs Yakeman and he had called the puppy “Miss Mary!”

Mary rubbed her nose, as she had done before, on the puppy’s soft curly head.

“It are so sweet,” she said. “We’re going to call him ‘Fuzzy.’ But, oh papa!” and her voice began to tremble. “Oh Leigh and Artie, I don’t think we should have him if it would make his poor mother unhappy to be leaved all alone.”

“It won’t be so bad as that, Miss Mary,” said the smith, who, though he was such a big man, had a very tender heart, and could not bear to see the little girl’s face clouded. “We’re going to keep Number 4 for ourselves, and after a day or two Beauty will be quite content with him. You can look in and see for yourselves when you’re passing.”

“Of course,” said Leigh, in his wise tone. “It’ll be all right, Mary. And we can bring Fuzzy to see his mother sometimes, to pay her a visit, you know.”

Mary’s face cleared. Yakeman and Leigh must know best, and papa would not let them have the dog if it was unkind. It was not whatshe’dlike—to live in a house across the fields from mamma, only to pay her a morning call now and then. But still, dogs were different, she supposed.

All this time papa had been looking at Fuzzy, as I think we may now begin to call him.

“He’s a nice puppy,” he said, “a very nice little fellow. Of course, he’ll want to be properly taken care of, and careful training. But I can trust Mellor—you know Mellor, of course, the coachman?” he went on to the smith. “He’s not bad with dogs.”

“No, sir, I should say he’s very good with ’em,” Yakeman replied. “Feedin’s a deal to do with it—there’s a many young dogs spoilt with over feedin’.”

“I’ll see to that,” said Mr Bertram. “Now, children, we must be moving on, I think.”

But the three stood there looking rather strange.

“I thought—” began Leigh.

“Won’t we—” began Artie.

“Oh, papa,” began Mary.

“What in the world is the matter?” said their father in surprise. “Aren’t you pleased about the puppy? I’ll send Mellor to fetch him to-morrow.”

“It’s just that,” said Leigh.

“Yes,” said Artie.

“We thought he’d be ours, our very own,” said Mary, at last explaining what they were in trouble about. For though the three had said nothing to each other, each knew that the others were thinking and feeling the same.

“We meant to fetch him ourselves,” said Leigh again.

“We was going to give him his breakfast and dinner and tea in the nursery,” chimed in Artie.

“I was p’annin’,” added Mary, “that he’d sleep in our beds in turns. I didn’t tell Leigh and Artie. I were going to ’apprise them. But I meaned to let it be in turns.”

Papa began to laugh. So did Yakeman. They could not help it.

“Sleep in your cots,” said papa. “There wouldn’t be much left of the cots or you by the morning.”

“He wouldn’teatus,” said Leigh, looking rather startled.

“Not exactly,” said his father. “But if he took to rolling on the top of you and making hay of the bedclothes—just look at him now tumbling about in the straw with his brothers—you would not be likely to have a very good night.”

“And if he had three meals a day in the nursery, there’d not be much left ofhein a week or less,” said Yakeman.

The children looked very surprised.

“Wealways have breakfast and dinner and tea,” said Artie, “and little dogs is hungry too.”

“Ah! yes,” said the smith; “but they couldn’t do with as much as that. And it’d never do neither for the puppy to eat all as you eats, Master Artie. Puppies isn’t little young gentlemen and ladies, and every creature has its own ways. He’ll be all right in the stable, never you fear, and Mr Mellor’ll see as he has all he should.”

But still the three faces did not clear. Leigh moved away as if he were going to the gate, flicking his boots with a little whip he had in his hand, to seem as if he did not care, though in reality he was very nearly crying. And Artie’s and Mary’s faces grew longer and longer.

“I don’t think I want to have him,” she said at last. “Zank you, Mr Yakeman, and zank you, papa; but him wouldn’t benours—him’d be Mellor’s,” and then there came a little choke in Mary’s voice and a misty look in her eyes, and in a moment Artie’s pocket-handkerchief was out of his pocket and he was rubbing her cheeks with all his might.

“Don’tcry, Mary,” he said; “please, don’t cry. P’raps papa won’t—”

I am not quite sure what he was going to say. I am not sure that he knew himself. But whatever it was, he was interrupted. For before Mary’s tears had had time to begin their journey down her face, papa had picked her up in his arms and was busy comforting her. He could not bear to see her cry! Really, it was rather a wonder that she was not spoilt.

“My pet,” he said, “there is truly nothing to cry about. The puppy—what is it you call him, Fudge or Fuss—”

Mary could not help laughing a little. Fancy calling a puppy “Fudge.”

“No, papa dear;Fuzzy—that’s what we was going to call him.”

“Well, darling, Fuzzy shall be your very own. You shall go to see him in the stables whenever you like; I’ll tell Mellor. And he will go out walks with you—the puppy, I mean, not Mellor—as soon as ever he has learnt to follow.” This made Mary laugh again. The idea of Mellor going out a walk with them all, following behind like a well-behaved dog. For Mellor was not very young, and he had a broad red face and was rather fat.

Papa was pleased to hear Mary laughing, even though it was rather a shaky little laugh, and he went on to explain more.

“You see he’s not the sort of dog that you can have in the house, particularly not in the nursery,” he said. “Indeed, I hardly think that any dog except a very old and tried one is safe in a nursery, above all, where there’s such a little baby as—”

“Dolly,” said Mary quietly, to show that she had not forgotten what baby was to be called.

“Yes, as Dolly,” her father went on. “They would be two babies together, and they might hurt each other without meaning it. Dolly might pull Fuddle’s hair—”

At this all three children burst out laughing, quite a hearty laugh this time.

“Oh, papa dear,” said Mary, “what a very bad mem’ry you’ve got! It isn’tFuddle! Can’t you sayFuzzy?”

“Fuzzy,Fuzzy, Fuzzy,” said papa, speaking like the three bears turned the wrong way. “There, now, I think I’ve got it into my stupid old head at last. Well, as I was saying, Miss Dolly might pull Master Fuzzy’s hair, without meaning to hurt him of course, and he might turn round and snap at her, not exactly meaning to hurt her either, but still—it might be rather bad, you see.” Mary’s face grew very grave.

“I never thought of that,” she said solemnly. “It would be dedful for dear little baby Dolly to be hurted, though I’m kite sure Fuzzy wouldn’t mean it.”

“But when Dolly’s a good bit bigger, and when Fuzzy is quite a trained dog, he may come into the house sometimes, mayn’t he?” said Leigh.

“At Auntie Maud’s,” said Artie, “there’sfreedogs always lying in the hall. They get up and come and sniff you when you go in. When I was a little boy I was frightened of them, but they never bit me.”

“Ah! well,” said his father, “when Dolly’s a big girl and Fuzzy’s a big dog, we’ll see. Some dogs are very good indeed with little children; I hope he’ll be. I remember seeing a great Newfoundland that let his master’s children ride on his back, just as if he was a little pony. He stalked along as steadily as possible.”

“And in some countries,” said Leigh eagerly, “dogs are taught to draw little carriages, aren’t they? I’ve seen pictures of them, up where there’s such lots of snow near the top of the world. Squim—something, those people are called.”

“Esquimaux, you mean, I suppose,” said his father laughing. He had put down Mary by this time, and they were walking on slowly up the hill towards the Lavender Cottages. “Yes, and in other countries not so far off I’ve seen dogs drawing little carts as soberly as possible.”

“Iwouldlike to see that!” said Artie, his eyes sparkling.

“And so would I!” said Mary.

And Leigh, though he said nothing, took the idea into his mind more than either of the others.

By this time they were close to the top of the little hill where stood the cottages of which we have spoken so often—the Lavender Cottages as they were called; because once, a good many years ago, an old man lived there, whose lavender was famed all about that part of the country. He had a garden, almost like a little field, quite full of it. This garden belonged to one of the end cottages, and it was now a regular cottage kitchen-garden, with potatoes and cabbages and other vegetables growing in it, though in one corner there was still a nice little stock of the old lavender bushes. Here lived an old woman and her son, named Sweeting. Mrs Sweeting had once been cook at the hall when the children’s father was a little boy, and she was always pleased to have a visit from any of them.

“I hear poor old Mrs Sweeting has been ill,” said papa; “I’ll just go in for a minute or two to see her. You children can wait outside for me.”

The boys and Mary were not sorry to do so. They were always fond of coming to the Lavender Cottages, not only to see Mrs Sweeting who was very kind to them, but because they were much interested in the family of children who lived next door. There were such a lot of them! The cottage would never have held them all; but luckily, in the third cottage, at the other end again, lived the grandfather and grandmother of the large family, and some of the bigger boys had a room in their house. Still there were plenty left in the middle cottage, as you will hear.

Chapter Seven.The Perry Family and Papa’s Story.Besides the three big boys, the children had counted six more young Perrys in the middle one of the Lavender Cottages, and by degrees they had found out most of their names. The eldest girl was about twelve, and her name was a very funny one—it was Comfort.“How tired she must be of people saying to her that they hope she’s a comfort to her father and mother,” said Leigh, when he first heard her name. I think nurse told it him, for she knew something of the Perrys, and the odd name had taken her fancy.Comfort was rather a tall girl for her age, and she was clever at school, where she often got prizes. But the next to her, a short, rosy-faced child called Janie, who was generally seen carrying about the baby, a very motherly little girl, seemed as if her elder sister’s name would have suited her better. After Janie came Ned, and after Ned three little creatures so near each other that they all looked like babies together, and it was difficult to tell whether they were boys or girls. The quite youngest—the one that all the rest of them called “baby”—spent most of its life seemingly in Janie’s arms. IsupposeJanie went to school sometimes, but, anyway, the Bertram children never passed the cottages or met the little Perrys in the lanes without seeing the baby in its usual resting-place. The other two babies seemed to spend their lives in a queer old-fashioned kind of double perambulator. It was made of wicker; and in fine weather, and indeed sometimes in weather that was not so very fine, was almost always to be seen standing at the cottage-door or just outside the gate leading into the little garden, with the two small people tied into it, one at each side.To-day they were there as usual. There, too, was Janie with number three baby in her arms, while Comfort was strolling about with a book in her hand, out of which she seemed to be learning something.“Good-morning,” said Leigh, by way of opening the conversation. “Where’s Ned? He can’t be at school; it’s a half-holiday, isn’t it?”“Please, sir—no, sir, if Ned was at school, Comfort and me would be at school too,” said Janie.And Comfort, hearing the talking, came up to where they were standing. They were all in the lane just outside the little garden.“Ned’s run in just to get a bit of cord,” said the elder girl. “We’re goin’ a walk in the woods. We must take the little ones, ’cos mother’s washing’s got late this week, and she wants them out of the way.”It was rather curious that Mrs Perry’s washing often did get late. She was a kind, good-natured woman, but “folks said,” according to nurse, not the best of good managers.“What’s Ned going to do with the cord?” asked Leigh, Artie and Mary standing by, listening with the greatest interest, and holding each other’s hands tightly, as they felt just a little shy.“Oh, it’s a notion of Ned’s,” said Janie, rather scornfully. “It’s just his nonsense: he don’t like pushing p’ram, ’cos he says it’s girls’ work, and Comfort don’t hold with pushing it neither, ’cos she wants to be reading her book.”Here Comfort broke in.“’Tisn’t that I’m so taken up with my book,” she said,—“leastways not to please myself; but I want to get moved up after next holidays. When I’m big enough I’m to be a pupil teacher.”“That would be very nice,” said Leigh. “And then, when you’re quite big, you’ll get to be a schoolmistress, I suppose.”Comfort murmured something and got very red. To be a schoolmistress was the greatest wish she had.“But I don’t see,” Leigh went on, “what Ned and the cord’s got to do with it.”“Bless you, sir,” said Janie, “he’s going to make hisself into a pony to draw the p’ram, so as Comfort need do nothing but walk behind pushing with one hand and a-holding of the book with the other, and no need to look out where they’re going.”“Oh, I see,” said Leigh slowly. He could not help admiring the idea. Then, as Ned at that moment ran out of the cottage, the three little visitors stood in a row watching with the greatest interest while Ned harnessed himself to the front of the wicker carriage. It was a little difficult to manage, but luckily the Perry family were very good-natured, and the two babies in the perambulator only laughed when they got jogged about. And at last, with Leigh’s help, the two-legged pony was ready for the start.Off they set, Comfort holding on behind. She was so interested in it all, by this time that her book was given to one of the babies to hold.This was lucky, as the first start was rather a queer one. Ned was not tied in quite evenly, so when he set off at a trot the perambulator ran to one side, as if a crab instead of a boy were drawing it. And but for Comfort behind, no doubt, in another minute it would have turned over.“Stop, Ned, stop!” shouted his sisters, Leigh and Artie and Mary joining in, and the babies too.Then they all burst out laughing; it did seem so funny, and it took a minute or two before they could set to work to put things right. When Ned’s harness was made quite even, he set off again more slowly. This time it was a great success, or it seemed so anyway, though perhaps it was as much thanks to Comfort’s pushing behind as to Ned’s pulling in front.Mary and her brothers stood watching the little party as they made their way along the smooth path leading to the wood.“It’s a good thing,” said Leigh, “they’re not going the smithy way, for if they went down hill, I believe the carriage would tumble over; it’s such a shaky old thing.”“When our baby gets a perambulator it’ll not be like that ugly old thing, will it?” said Artie. “It will be a reg’lar nice one.”“Of course it will,” said Mary. “I’d like it to be the same as the one in my animal book. ‘G’ for goats, with little goats drawing it.”“We can’t have a goat,” said Leigh; “but we might have something. Of course it’s rubbish to harness a boy into a carriage, but—I’ve got something in my head.”There was no time for Artie and Mary to ask him what he meant, for just then they saw their father coming out of the gate.“I’ve kept you waiting a long time, I’m afraid,” he said. “Poor old Sweeting was so glad to see me, and when she begins talking, it goes on for a good while.”“We didn’t mind, papa dear,” said Mary, slipping her hand into her father’s. “We’ve been speaking to the children in the next cottage. There’s such lotses of them. When you was a little boy, papa, did you have lotses of brothers and sisters—did you?”“No, my pet, I hadn’t any at all,” papa answered. “That was rather sad, wasn’t it? But I had a very kind father and mother. Your grandfather died many years ago, but you know for yourselves how kind grandmother is.”“Grandmother,” said Artie and Mary together, looking rather puzzled.“I don’t understand,” said Mary, and Artie did not understand either, though he would not say so.“How silly you are!” said Leigh; “of course grandmother is papa’s mother.”“Oh,” said Mary, with a little laugh, “I never thought of that! I understand now. Then grandmother used to be a mamma!”“Yes, indeed, and a very sweet one,” said papa. “I’m afraid, perhaps, she spoilt me a very little. When I was a child the rules for small people were much stricter than they are now. But I was never at all afraid of my mother.”“Were you afraid of your father?” asked Leigh with great interest.“Well, just a little perhaps. I had to be a very obedient boy, I can tell you. That reminds me of a story—”“Oh, papa, do tell it us!” said all three at once, while Mary, who was holding his hand, began giving little jumps up and down in her eagerness.“It was ever so long ago, almost thirty years! I was only six at the time. My father had to go up to London for a few days, and as my mother was away from home—nursing her mother who was ill—”“What wassheto us?” interrupted Leigh, who liked to get things straight in his head.“Great-grandmother,” answered his father; “oneof your great-grandmothers, not the one that we have a picture of, though.”“I thought we had pictures of all our grand—I don’t know what you call them—for hundreds of years,” said Leigh.“Ancestors, you mean,” said his father, “but mostly the Bertram ones of course. But if I begin explaining about that now, we’ll never get on with my story. Where was I? Oh, yes! I was telling you that my father took me up to London with him, rather than leave me alone at home. I was very pleased to go, for I’d never been in a town before, and I thought myself quite a great man, going off travelling alone with my father. We stayed at an hotel—I’m not sure where it was, but that doesn’t matter; I only know it was in a quiet street running out of another large wide street, where there were lots of shops of all kinds, and carriages and omnibuses and carts always passing by. My father took me out with him as much as he could; sometimes he would leave me waiting for him in a cab at the door of the houses where he had to see people on business, and once or twice he found me fast asleep when he came out. He didn’t think that good for me; so after that, he sometimes left me in the hotel in the care of the landlady who had a nice little girl just about my age, with whom I used to play very happily.“One day—the day before we were to leave—my father took me out shopping with him. He had to buy some presents, for it was near Christmas-time, to take home for the little cousins who were coming to stay with us. We went off to a large toy-shop in the big street I told you of. It was a very large shop, with a door at each end—one out of the big street, and the other opening on to a smaller back street nearer our hotel. And besides the toy-shop there was another part where they sold dressing-cases and travelling-bags and things of that kind.“We were a good while choosing the toys; among them, I remember, was a fine rocking-horse which my father was very anxious to hear what I thought of, for though I didn’t know it at the time, he meant it for me myself.”“Likeourold rocking-horse in the nursery?” asked Leigh.Papa smiled.“More than like it,” he said; “it is that very horse. I’ve kept it ever since, and I had it done up with a new mane and tail when you got big enough to ride it, Leigh.”“Oh, how nice,” said Mary, “to think it’s papa’s own horse! But, please, go on with the story, papa.”“Well, when we had chosen the horse and all the other things, my father had something else to buy that he thought I wouldn’t care about in the other part of the shop. And I think he wanted to tell them where to send the horse to without my hearing. He looked at his watch and seemed vexed to find it so late. He asked me if I should be afraid to run back to the hotel alone, and turned towards the door opening on to the back street, from which we could see the hotel as it faced the end of that small street. But I think he must have fancied that I looked a little frightened, for then he changed and pointed to the front door of the shop, telling me to stay there till he came back. He said it would amuse me to stand just outside in the entrance where I could both see the shop window and watch the carriages passing.”‘But whatever you do, Charlie,’ he said, ‘don’t move from there till I come back for you!’”

Besides the three big boys, the children had counted six more young Perrys in the middle one of the Lavender Cottages, and by degrees they had found out most of their names. The eldest girl was about twelve, and her name was a very funny one—it was Comfort.

“How tired she must be of people saying to her that they hope she’s a comfort to her father and mother,” said Leigh, when he first heard her name. I think nurse told it him, for she knew something of the Perrys, and the odd name had taken her fancy.

Comfort was rather a tall girl for her age, and she was clever at school, where she often got prizes. But the next to her, a short, rosy-faced child called Janie, who was generally seen carrying about the baby, a very motherly little girl, seemed as if her elder sister’s name would have suited her better. After Janie came Ned, and after Ned three little creatures so near each other that they all looked like babies together, and it was difficult to tell whether they were boys or girls. The quite youngest—the one that all the rest of them called “baby”—spent most of its life seemingly in Janie’s arms. IsupposeJanie went to school sometimes, but, anyway, the Bertram children never passed the cottages or met the little Perrys in the lanes without seeing the baby in its usual resting-place. The other two babies seemed to spend their lives in a queer old-fashioned kind of double perambulator. It was made of wicker; and in fine weather, and indeed sometimes in weather that was not so very fine, was almost always to be seen standing at the cottage-door or just outside the gate leading into the little garden, with the two small people tied into it, one at each side.

To-day they were there as usual. There, too, was Janie with number three baby in her arms, while Comfort was strolling about with a book in her hand, out of which she seemed to be learning something.

“Good-morning,” said Leigh, by way of opening the conversation. “Where’s Ned? He can’t be at school; it’s a half-holiday, isn’t it?”

“Please, sir—no, sir, if Ned was at school, Comfort and me would be at school too,” said Janie.

And Comfort, hearing the talking, came up to where they were standing. They were all in the lane just outside the little garden.

“Ned’s run in just to get a bit of cord,” said the elder girl. “We’re goin’ a walk in the woods. We must take the little ones, ’cos mother’s washing’s got late this week, and she wants them out of the way.”

It was rather curious that Mrs Perry’s washing often did get late. She was a kind, good-natured woman, but “folks said,” according to nurse, not the best of good managers.

“What’s Ned going to do with the cord?” asked Leigh, Artie and Mary standing by, listening with the greatest interest, and holding each other’s hands tightly, as they felt just a little shy.

“Oh, it’s a notion of Ned’s,” said Janie, rather scornfully. “It’s just his nonsense: he don’t like pushing p’ram, ’cos he says it’s girls’ work, and Comfort don’t hold with pushing it neither, ’cos she wants to be reading her book.”

Here Comfort broke in.

“’Tisn’t that I’m so taken up with my book,” she said,—“leastways not to please myself; but I want to get moved up after next holidays. When I’m big enough I’m to be a pupil teacher.”

“That would be very nice,” said Leigh. “And then, when you’re quite big, you’ll get to be a schoolmistress, I suppose.”

Comfort murmured something and got very red. To be a schoolmistress was the greatest wish she had.

“But I don’t see,” Leigh went on, “what Ned and the cord’s got to do with it.”

“Bless you, sir,” said Janie, “he’s going to make hisself into a pony to draw the p’ram, so as Comfort need do nothing but walk behind pushing with one hand and a-holding of the book with the other, and no need to look out where they’re going.”

“Oh, I see,” said Leigh slowly. He could not help admiring the idea. Then, as Ned at that moment ran out of the cottage, the three little visitors stood in a row watching with the greatest interest while Ned harnessed himself to the front of the wicker carriage. It was a little difficult to manage, but luckily the Perry family were very good-natured, and the two babies in the perambulator only laughed when they got jogged about. And at last, with Leigh’s help, the two-legged pony was ready for the start.

Off they set, Comfort holding on behind. She was so interested in it all, by this time that her book was given to one of the babies to hold.

This was lucky, as the first start was rather a queer one. Ned was not tied in quite evenly, so when he set off at a trot the perambulator ran to one side, as if a crab instead of a boy were drawing it. And but for Comfort behind, no doubt, in another minute it would have turned over.

“Stop, Ned, stop!” shouted his sisters, Leigh and Artie and Mary joining in, and the babies too.

Then they all burst out laughing; it did seem so funny, and it took a minute or two before they could set to work to put things right. When Ned’s harness was made quite even, he set off again more slowly. This time it was a great success, or it seemed so anyway, though perhaps it was as much thanks to Comfort’s pushing behind as to Ned’s pulling in front.

Mary and her brothers stood watching the little party as they made their way along the smooth path leading to the wood.

“It’s a good thing,” said Leigh, “they’re not going the smithy way, for if they went down hill, I believe the carriage would tumble over; it’s such a shaky old thing.”

“When our baby gets a perambulator it’ll not be like that ugly old thing, will it?” said Artie. “It will be a reg’lar nice one.”

“Of course it will,” said Mary. “I’d like it to be the same as the one in my animal book. ‘G’ for goats, with little goats drawing it.”

“We can’t have a goat,” said Leigh; “but we might have something. Of course it’s rubbish to harness a boy into a carriage, but—I’ve got something in my head.”

There was no time for Artie and Mary to ask him what he meant, for just then they saw their father coming out of the gate.

“I’ve kept you waiting a long time, I’m afraid,” he said. “Poor old Sweeting was so glad to see me, and when she begins talking, it goes on for a good while.”

“We didn’t mind, papa dear,” said Mary, slipping her hand into her father’s. “We’ve been speaking to the children in the next cottage. There’s such lotses of them. When you was a little boy, papa, did you have lotses of brothers and sisters—did you?”

“No, my pet, I hadn’t any at all,” papa answered. “That was rather sad, wasn’t it? But I had a very kind father and mother. Your grandfather died many years ago, but you know for yourselves how kind grandmother is.”

“Grandmother,” said Artie and Mary together, looking rather puzzled.

“I don’t understand,” said Mary, and Artie did not understand either, though he would not say so.

“How silly you are!” said Leigh; “of course grandmother is papa’s mother.”

“Oh,” said Mary, with a little laugh, “I never thought of that! I understand now. Then grandmother used to be a mamma!”

“Yes, indeed, and a very sweet one,” said papa. “I’m afraid, perhaps, she spoilt me a very little. When I was a child the rules for small people were much stricter than they are now. But I was never at all afraid of my mother.”

“Were you afraid of your father?” asked Leigh with great interest.

“Well, just a little perhaps. I had to be a very obedient boy, I can tell you. That reminds me of a story—”

“Oh, papa, do tell it us!” said all three at once, while Mary, who was holding his hand, began giving little jumps up and down in her eagerness.

“It was ever so long ago, almost thirty years! I was only six at the time. My father had to go up to London for a few days, and as my mother was away from home—nursing her mother who was ill—”

“What wassheto us?” interrupted Leigh, who liked to get things straight in his head.

“Great-grandmother,” answered his father; “oneof your great-grandmothers, not the one that we have a picture of, though.”

“I thought we had pictures of all our grand—I don’t know what you call them—for hundreds of years,” said Leigh.

“Ancestors, you mean,” said his father, “but mostly the Bertram ones of course. But if I begin explaining about that now, we’ll never get on with my story. Where was I? Oh, yes! I was telling you that my father took me up to London with him, rather than leave me alone at home. I was very pleased to go, for I’d never been in a town before, and I thought myself quite a great man, going off travelling alone with my father. We stayed at an hotel—I’m not sure where it was, but that doesn’t matter; I only know it was in a quiet street running out of another large wide street, where there were lots of shops of all kinds, and carriages and omnibuses and carts always passing by. My father took me out with him as much as he could; sometimes he would leave me waiting for him in a cab at the door of the houses where he had to see people on business, and once or twice he found me fast asleep when he came out. He didn’t think that good for me; so after that, he sometimes left me in the hotel in the care of the landlady who had a nice little girl just about my age, with whom I used to play very happily.

“One day—the day before we were to leave—my father took me out shopping with him. He had to buy some presents, for it was near Christmas-time, to take home for the little cousins who were coming to stay with us. We went off to a large toy-shop in the big street I told you of. It was a very large shop, with a door at each end—one out of the big street, and the other opening on to a smaller back street nearer our hotel. And besides the toy-shop there was another part where they sold dressing-cases and travelling-bags and things of that kind.

“We were a good while choosing the toys; among them, I remember, was a fine rocking-horse which my father was very anxious to hear what I thought of, for though I didn’t know it at the time, he meant it for me myself.”

“Likeourold rocking-horse in the nursery?” asked Leigh.

Papa smiled.

“More than like it,” he said; “it is that very horse. I’ve kept it ever since, and I had it done up with a new mane and tail when you got big enough to ride it, Leigh.”

“Oh, how nice,” said Mary, “to think it’s papa’s own horse! But, please, go on with the story, papa.”

“Well, when we had chosen the horse and all the other things, my father had something else to buy that he thought I wouldn’t care about in the other part of the shop. And I think he wanted to tell them where to send the horse to without my hearing. He looked at his watch and seemed vexed to find it so late. He asked me if I should be afraid to run back to the hotel alone, and turned towards the door opening on to the back street, from which we could see the hotel as it faced the end of that small street. But I think he must have fancied that I looked a little frightened, for then he changed and pointed to the front door of the shop, telling me to stay there till he came back. He said it would amuse me to stand just outside in the entrance where I could both see the shop window and watch the carriages passing.

”‘But whatever you do, Charlie,’ he said, ‘don’t move from there till I come back for you!’”

Chapter Eight.Papa’s Story Continued.“For some time, a quarter of an hour or so, I dare say, I stood at the shop door very contentedly. It was very amusing, as my father had said, to watch the bustle in the street. I don’t think I looked much at the things in the shop window; I’d seen so many of the toys inside. But after awhile I began to wish that my father would be quick. He did seem to be a very long time. I peeped in through the glass door, but I couldn’t see him anywhere near. I even opened it a tiny bit to listen if I could hear his voice, but I couldn’t. People often passed me to go into the shop and to come out, but nobody specially noticed me; they were all too busy about their own affairs; besides, there’s nothing uncommon in a little boy standing at a toy-shop window.“It seemed to grow colder too. I should have liked to run up and down on the pavement in front to warm myself a little; but I dared not move from where I was. At last some one belonging to the shop happened to come to the door to reach down some large toys hanging in the entrance, and this shopman noticed me. By this time, though I scarcely knew it, the tears were running down my face; I was growing so very tired with waiting. He said to me—”‘Is there anything the matter? Have you hurt yourself?’“I answered No, I was only waiting for my father who was in the shop. ‘But I don’t know why he’s such a long time,’ I said; ‘I am so tired of waiting,’ and somehow the saying it out made me begin to cry much more.“The young man was very kind and seemed sorry for me. He wanted me to come inside where it would be warmer, while he went to look for my father; but I shook my head and told him that papa had said I must stay just there where I was. I wouldn’t even come the least bit inside the door. I remembered papa’s words so well—”‘Whatever you do, Charlie, don’t move from there till I come back for you!’“In a few minutes the shopman came back again. He was shaking his head now; there was no one in the shop with a little boy belonging to them. There were one or two ladies whom he had asked, which I thought very ridiculous, as if I could have mistaken papa for a lady, but there was no gentleman at all, and he tried again to persuade me to come inside. He said there must be some mistake; my father had most likely gone on somewhere else; perhaps he’d be back in a little while; he’d never want me to stay out there in the cold. But there was no getting me to move. I can remember, even now, the sort of fixed feeling in my mind that Iwouldn’tdo the least differently from what he had told me.“Then the young man went off to fetch some one else—the owner of the shop most likely. I remember two or three people coming up and all talking to me and trying to get me to come inside. But I wouldn’t—even though by this time I couldn’t leave off crying—I just went on shaking my head and saying—“He said I was to stay here.”“I dare say they thought me a very tiresome little boy, but they were very kind. The young man, my first friend, brought me out a chair, and then I heard them talking about what was to be done. They had asked me my name, which I told them, but I couldn’t tell them the name of the hotel where we were staying, for I didn’t know it, and Iwouldn’ttell them that it was in a street close by, because I was afraid they would carry me off there. I think I was getting rather confused by this time; I could only remember that I must stay where I was if ever I was to see papa again. I heard them saying that the gentleman had only given his country address, as the toys were to be sent straight home.“After awhile, in spite of the cold and my unhappiness, I think I must have fallen asleep a little. I was almost too young to be anxious about my father and to fear that some accident must have happened to him, but yet I can quite remember that I had really very dreadful feelings. As the evening went on and the street grew darker and darker, and there began to be fewer passers-by, it seemed worse and worse. Once I remember bursting out into fresh crying at seeing, by the light of the gas-lamp, a little boy passing along chattering merrily to the gentleman whose hand he was holding. I felt like a poor shipwrecked mariner on a desert island—all the lonelier that I was in the middle of a great town.“No doubt the shop people must have been getting uncomfortable and wondering what was to come of it. It must have seemed very strange to them; and, at last, the head man came out again and spoke to me—this time rather sharply, perhaps he thought it the best thing to do—”‘Young gentleman,’ he said, ‘this really can’t go on! You must see you can’t sit there the whole night. Try and think again of the name of the place you’re staying at.’”‘I don’t know it,’ I said, and I dare say I seemed rather sulky, for he grew crosser.”‘Well, if you can’t or won’t tell us, something’ll have to be done,’ he answered. ‘It’s the police’s business, not ours, to look after strayed children, or children that won’t say where they come from. Here, Smith,’ he called out to the young shopman, ‘just look up and down the street if there’s a policeman to be seen.’“He didn’t really mean to do anything unkind, but he thought it the best way to frighten me into coming inside the shop, or into telling where I lived, for I don’t think they quite believed that I didn’t know. But the word ‘policeman’ terrified me out of my wits; I suppose I was already half-stupefied with tiredness and crying. If I had dared, I would have rushed out into the street and run off anywhere as fast as I could. But, through all, the feeling never left me that I must stay where I was, and I burst into loud screams.”‘Oh, papa, papa!’ I cried, ‘why won’t you come back? The police are coming to take me; oh, papa, papa!’“I was crying so that for a moment or two I didn’t hear a bustle at the other end of the shop. Then, all at once, I saw some one hurrying to me from the door leading into the other street, and as soon as I saw who it was, I rushed to meet him and threw myself into his arms, for of course it was my father. I don’t think, in all my life, I have ever felt greater happiness than I did then.”‘Oh, Charlie,’ he said, ‘my poor little boy! Have you been waiting here all these hours—my good, obedient, little son?’“Then he turned to the shopman who was now a little ashamed of himself—I dare say the poor man had been getting really afraid that I was to be left on his hands altogether—and explained the whole mistake. He had gone straight on to the city after finishing his orders in the other part of the shop, forgetting that thelastthing he had said to me was to wait for him at the front door of the shop; for his thoughts were very much taken up that morning with some very serious business, and it was actually not till he got back to the hotel, late in the afternoon, and found I wasn’t there, that he remembered that the plan of my running back alone had been given up.“Then he was terribly frightened and rushed off to the shop, hardly daring to hope he would find me still there. He kept saying he could scarcely forgive himself, and even years after, I often heard him say that he couldn’t understand what had come over his memory that day.“When the shop people saw how troubled he was about it, they began telling him how they had tried to make me come inside, but that it had been no use, and all the way home papa kept saying to me—”‘My faithful little Charlie’—which pleased me very much.“He carried me to the hotel, and I felt so weak and tired that I didn’t mind, even though I was a big boy of six years old. And I remember, even now, how delightful it was to get well warmed at the fire, and what a nice tea papa ordered for me.“And the next day I was none the worse; luckily I hadn’t caught cold, which papa was very glad of, as my mother came up to London that day to meet us, and we all three travelled home together.”The children had been listening with all their ears to papa’s story. When he stopped Mary gave a deep sigh.“That’s a bee-yu-tiful story, papa,” she said. “But it nearly made me cry for the poor little boy.”“You shouldn’t say that, Mary,” said Leigh. “The poor little boy was papa himself! Don’t you understand?”“Yes, in course I do,” said Mary. “But papawerea little boy then, so I might call him the poor little boy.”“That’s right, Mary,” said her father. “Stick up for yourself when you know what you mean to say. Yes, indeed, I did feel a very poor little boy that day: the thought of it has always made me so sorry for children who are lost, or think they’re lost. It’s a dreadful feeling.”“Papa,” said Mary—she was trotting beside her father, holding his hand very tight,—“I think, please, I don’t want never to go to London, for fear I should get losted; and, please, never take Leigh or Artie either—not to London—’cos, you see, it was when you was a little boy your papa nearly losted you, and Leigh and Artie are little boys.”“Rubbish, Mary,” said Leigh. “I’m eight, and papa was only six, not much bigger than you are now. IfIwas with papa in London at a shop I could find my way home ever so far; there’s always people in the street you can ask. It’s not like getting lost when there’s nobody to tell you the way.”“The worst kind of getting lost,” said Artie, “is in the snow. Up on those mountains, you know, where the snow comes down so thick that you can’t see, and then it gets so deep that you are buried in it.”“Oh, how dedful!” said Mary; “you won’t ever take us to that place, will you, papa? I’d be more f’ightened than in London! Where is that country, papa?”“I suppose Artie means Switzerland,” said their father.“I mean the picture in my book,” said Artie; “where there’s dogs, you know, snuffing to find the poor people under the snow.”“Oh, the great Saint Bernard mountain you mean!” said papa; “it’s sure to be that. You often see pictures of it in children’s books; there are such pretty stories about the good dogs and the kind monks who live there.”“Can you teach any dogs to do things like that?” asked Leigh.“No; they have to be a particular kind,” answered papa; “but a dog like your puppy can be taught to fetch anything out of the water, from a bit of stick to a baby. He’s what you call a retriever: that means fetching or finding something. You can teach a good retriever almost anything.”“I thought so,” said Leigh, nodding his head wisely. “I’ll see what I can’t teach Fuzzy.”They were back in the park by this time. It was a beautiful May day, almost as warm as summer. The children’s father stood still and looked round with pleasure.“It is nice to have a holiday sometimes,” he said. “What a lovely colour the grass is in the sunshine!”“And how happy the little lambs are; aren’t they, papa?” said Mary. “I wish I had one of my very own—like Mary and the lamb in my nursery book.”“You couldn’t have a lambanda dog,” said Artie. “Fuzzy would soon knock the lamb over.”“I never thought of that,” said Mary. “Oh, papa dear,” she went on, “I do so want baby Dolly to get big quick! There’s such lotses of pretty things to show her in the world. The grass and the trees and the lambs”—and while she spoke her blue eyes wandered all round her,—“and the birds and the sky and—and—oh! the daisies, and”—as at that moment she caught sight of the old woman at the lodge crossing the drive with her red cloak on—“and old Mrs Crutch and her pussy-cat, and—”“You’re getting to talk nonsense, Mary,” said Leigh. “Old Mrs Crutch isn’t a pretty thing!”“Hercloak’svery pretty,” said Mary, “and she does make such nice ginger-b’ead cake.”

“For some time, a quarter of an hour or so, I dare say, I stood at the shop door very contentedly. It was very amusing, as my father had said, to watch the bustle in the street. I don’t think I looked much at the things in the shop window; I’d seen so many of the toys inside. But after awhile I began to wish that my father would be quick. He did seem to be a very long time. I peeped in through the glass door, but I couldn’t see him anywhere near. I even opened it a tiny bit to listen if I could hear his voice, but I couldn’t. People often passed me to go into the shop and to come out, but nobody specially noticed me; they were all too busy about their own affairs; besides, there’s nothing uncommon in a little boy standing at a toy-shop window.

“It seemed to grow colder too. I should have liked to run up and down on the pavement in front to warm myself a little; but I dared not move from where I was. At last some one belonging to the shop happened to come to the door to reach down some large toys hanging in the entrance, and this shopman noticed me. By this time, though I scarcely knew it, the tears were running down my face; I was growing so very tired with waiting. He said to me—

”‘Is there anything the matter? Have you hurt yourself?’

“I answered No, I was only waiting for my father who was in the shop. ‘But I don’t know why he’s such a long time,’ I said; ‘I am so tired of waiting,’ and somehow the saying it out made me begin to cry much more.

“The young man was very kind and seemed sorry for me. He wanted me to come inside where it would be warmer, while he went to look for my father; but I shook my head and told him that papa had said I must stay just there where I was. I wouldn’t even come the least bit inside the door. I remembered papa’s words so well—

”‘Whatever you do, Charlie, don’t move from there till I come back for you!’

“In a few minutes the shopman came back again. He was shaking his head now; there was no one in the shop with a little boy belonging to them. There were one or two ladies whom he had asked, which I thought very ridiculous, as if I could have mistaken papa for a lady, but there was no gentleman at all, and he tried again to persuade me to come inside. He said there must be some mistake; my father had most likely gone on somewhere else; perhaps he’d be back in a little while; he’d never want me to stay out there in the cold. But there was no getting me to move. I can remember, even now, the sort of fixed feeling in my mind that Iwouldn’tdo the least differently from what he had told me.

“Then the young man went off to fetch some one else—the owner of the shop most likely. I remember two or three people coming up and all talking to me and trying to get me to come inside. But I wouldn’t—even though by this time I couldn’t leave off crying—I just went on shaking my head and saying—

“He said I was to stay here.”

“I dare say they thought me a very tiresome little boy, but they were very kind. The young man, my first friend, brought me out a chair, and then I heard them talking about what was to be done. They had asked me my name, which I told them, but I couldn’t tell them the name of the hotel where we were staying, for I didn’t know it, and Iwouldn’ttell them that it was in a street close by, because I was afraid they would carry me off there. I think I was getting rather confused by this time; I could only remember that I must stay where I was if ever I was to see papa again. I heard them saying that the gentleman had only given his country address, as the toys were to be sent straight home.

“After awhile, in spite of the cold and my unhappiness, I think I must have fallen asleep a little. I was almost too young to be anxious about my father and to fear that some accident must have happened to him, but yet I can quite remember that I had really very dreadful feelings. As the evening went on and the street grew darker and darker, and there began to be fewer passers-by, it seemed worse and worse. Once I remember bursting out into fresh crying at seeing, by the light of the gas-lamp, a little boy passing along chattering merrily to the gentleman whose hand he was holding. I felt like a poor shipwrecked mariner on a desert island—all the lonelier that I was in the middle of a great town.

“No doubt the shop people must have been getting uncomfortable and wondering what was to come of it. It must have seemed very strange to them; and, at last, the head man came out again and spoke to me—this time rather sharply, perhaps he thought it the best thing to do—

”‘Young gentleman,’ he said, ‘this really can’t go on! You must see you can’t sit there the whole night. Try and think again of the name of the place you’re staying at.’

”‘I don’t know it,’ I said, and I dare say I seemed rather sulky, for he grew crosser.

”‘Well, if you can’t or won’t tell us, something’ll have to be done,’ he answered. ‘It’s the police’s business, not ours, to look after strayed children, or children that won’t say where they come from. Here, Smith,’ he called out to the young shopman, ‘just look up and down the street if there’s a policeman to be seen.’

“He didn’t really mean to do anything unkind, but he thought it the best way to frighten me into coming inside the shop, or into telling where I lived, for I don’t think they quite believed that I didn’t know. But the word ‘policeman’ terrified me out of my wits; I suppose I was already half-stupefied with tiredness and crying. If I had dared, I would have rushed out into the street and run off anywhere as fast as I could. But, through all, the feeling never left me that I must stay where I was, and I burst into loud screams.

”‘Oh, papa, papa!’ I cried, ‘why won’t you come back? The police are coming to take me; oh, papa, papa!’

“I was crying so that for a moment or two I didn’t hear a bustle at the other end of the shop. Then, all at once, I saw some one hurrying to me from the door leading into the other street, and as soon as I saw who it was, I rushed to meet him and threw myself into his arms, for of course it was my father. I don’t think, in all my life, I have ever felt greater happiness than I did then.

”‘Oh, Charlie,’ he said, ‘my poor little boy! Have you been waiting here all these hours—my good, obedient, little son?’

“Then he turned to the shopman who was now a little ashamed of himself—I dare say the poor man had been getting really afraid that I was to be left on his hands altogether—and explained the whole mistake. He had gone straight on to the city after finishing his orders in the other part of the shop, forgetting that thelastthing he had said to me was to wait for him at the front door of the shop; for his thoughts were very much taken up that morning with some very serious business, and it was actually not till he got back to the hotel, late in the afternoon, and found I wasn’t there, that he remembered that the plan of my running back alone had been given up.

“Then he was terribly frightened and rushed off to the shop, hardly daring to hope he would find me still there. He kept saying he could scarcely forgive himself, and even years after, I often heard him say that he couldn’t understand what had come over his memory that day.

“When the shop people saw how troubled he was about it, they began telling him how they had tried to make me come inside, but that it had been no use, and all the way home papa kept saying to me—

”‘My faithful little Charlie’—which pleased me very much.

“He carried me to the hotel, and I felt so weak and tired that I didn’t mind, even though I was a big boy of six years old. And I remember, even now, how delightful it was to get well warmed at the fire, and what a nice tea papa ordered for me.

“And the next day I was none the worse; luckily I hadn’t caught cold, which papa was very glad of, as my mother came up to London that day to meet us, and we all three travelled home together.”

The children had been listening with all their ears to papa’s story. When he stopped Mary gave a deep sigh.

“That’s a bee-yu-tiful story, papa,” she said. “But it nearly made me cry for the poor little boy.”

“You shouldn’t say that, Mary,” said Leigh. “The poor little boy was papa himself! Don’t you understand?”

“Yes, in course I do,” said Mary. “But papawerea little boy then, so I might call him the poor little boy.”

“That’s right, Mary,” said her father. “Stick up for yourself when you know what you mean to say. Yes, indeed, I did feel a very poor little boy that day: the thought of it has always made me so sorry for children who are lost, or think they’re lost. It’s a dreadful feeling.”

“Papa,” said Mary—she was trotting beside her father, holding his hand very tight,—“I think, please, I don’t want never to go to London, for fear I should get losted; and, please, never take Leigh or Artie either—not to London—’cos, you see, it was when you was a little boy your papa nearly losted you, and Leigh and Artie are little boys.”

“Rubbish, Mary,” said Leigh. “I’m eight, and papa was only six, not much bigger than you are now. IfIwas with papa in London at a shop I could find my way home ever so far; there’s always people in the street you can ask. It’s not like getting lost when there’s nobody to tell you the way.”

“The worst kind of getting lost,” said Artie, “is in the snow. Up on those mountains, you know, where the snow comes down so thick that you can’t see, and then it gets so deep that you are buried in it.”

“Oh, how dedful!” said Mary; “you won’t ever take us to that place, will you, papa? I’d be more f’ightened than in London! Where is that country, papa?”

“I suppose Artie means Switzerland,” said their father.

“I mean the picture in my book,” said Artie; “where there’s dogs, you know, snuffing to find the poor people under the snow.”

“Oh, the great Saint Bernard mountain you mean!” said papa; “it’s sure to be that. You often see pictures of it in children’s books; there are such pretty stories about the good dogs and the kind monks who live there.”

“Can you teach any dogs to do things like that?” asked Leigh.

“No; they have to be a particular kind,” answered papa; “but a dog like your puppy can be taught to fetch anything out of the water, from a bit of stick to a baby. He’s what you call a retriever: that means fetching or finding something. You can teach a good retriever almost anything.”

“I thought so,” said Leigh, nodding his head wisely. “I’ll see what I can’t teach Fuzzy.”

They were back in the park by this time. It was a beautiful May day, almost as warm as summer. The children’s father stood still and looked round with pleasure.

“It is nice to have a holiday sometimes,” he said. “What a lovely colour the grass is in the sunshine!”

“And how happy the little lambs are; aren’t they, papa?” said Mary. “I wish I had one of my very own—like Mary and the lamb in my nursery book.”

“You couldn’t have a lambanda dog,” said Artie. “Fuzzy would soon knock the lamb over.”

“I never thought of that,” said Mary. “Oh, papa dear,” she went on, “I do so want baby Dolly to get big quick! There’s such lotses of pretty things to show her in the world. The grass and the trees and the lambs”—and while she spoke her blue eyes wandered all round her,—“and the birds and the sky and—and—oh! the daisies, and”—as at that moment she caught sight of the old woman at the lodge crossing the drive with her red cloak on—“and old Mrs Crutch and her pussy-cat, and—”

“You’re getting to talk nonsense, Mary,” said Leigh. “Old Mrs Crutch isn’t a pretty thing!”

“Hercloak’svery pretty,” said Mary, “and she does make such nice ginger-b’ead cake.”

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