"Christ is risen! Christ is risen!He hath burst His bonds in twain:Christ is risen! Christ is risen!Alleluia! swell the strain!"
"Christ is risen! Christ is risen!He hath burst His bonds in twain:Christ is risen! Christ is risen!Alleluia! swell the strain!"
"Christ is risen! Christ is risen!He hath burst His bonds in twain:Christ is risen! Christ is risen!Alleluia! swell the strain!"
"Christ is risen! Christ is risen!
He hath burst His bonds in twain:
Christ is risen! Christ is risen!
Alleluia! swell the strain!"
Mousey's countenance was lit up with a bright smile. She softly hummed the tune under her breath, and glanced longingly, towards the church door; but she raised no objection when her companion gruffly bade her, "Come along!"
"Am I to go to church with Maria to-night, Cousin Robert?" she inquired, with a wistful tone in her voice.
"Yes, if you wish it. I suppose you're accustomed to church on Sundays, eh?"
"Yes. Sometimes, if mother had lodgers and could not go in the mornings, she used to send me alone, and then in the evenings we generally went together. Mother used to say that Easter Sunday was the brightest, happiest day of all the year."
"Why?" he asked curiously.
"Because on Easter Sunday we think of Christ's rising from the dead, and it comes in the spring when—"
Mousey paused abruptly, overcome with a sudden shyness, and mindful of Maria's warning not to speak of religion to her companion; but the old man bade her go on and tell him what she had been about to say.
"Easter comes when everything is springing into life after the winter," Mousey proceeded in a low voice. "Mother said the sight of the trees budding and the flowers blooming ought to remind us that there is no such thing as death."
"No such thing as death!" he echoed in amazement. "Why, child, it was only a month ago that your mother died, and yet you say there is no such thing as death!"
"I'm afraid I can't quite explain what I mean," the little girl answered in slightly troubled tones; "but I know, I know! When Jesus died they put a great stone in front of His grave, but on the third day He rose from the dead; and we shall all rise from the dead, too, Mother told me that death is only the gate of life."
"And you believe that?"
"Why, of course I do, Cousin Robert."
They had now come to a park tastefully laid out, with winding paths passing between flower-beds gay with spring blossoms. They sat down on a seat, for it was warm and pleasant in the sunshine, and they had walked a good way.
"How lovely it is here!" Mousey exclaimed. "And, oh, Cousin Robert, is everyone allowed to walk in this beautiful place?"
"Yes, child; it is a public park. You may look at the shrubs and flowers, but you must not touch them."
"Oh, no, I should not think of doing such a thing!"
After they had rested awhile they strolled around the park and then turned homewards, arriving at their destination in good time for dinner.
During the meal it transpired that John Monday had been for a walk too. He confessed that he had robbed some birds' nests of their eggs, of which he was making a collection, and looked scornful when Mousey, who owned a tender heart, expressed her sympathy for the bereaved mother-birds.
Mr. Harding slept through the afternoon, and John Monday disappeared again, whilst Mousey spent the time with Maria in the kitchen, giving her an account of the morning's walk.
In the evening Mousey and Maria went to church together. It was a small, iron church, the first of its kind that the little girl had ever seen: Maria called it a mission chapel. The congregation seemed to be mostly poor people, but the edifice was full, and the worshippers were reverent and well-behaved, joining in the glad Easter hymns with evident appreciation. The sermon was preached by a young man, whose voice, though not loud, was powerful and distinct. Mousey listened with great attention whilst he recounted the story of Christ's resurrection, and was pleased to find that she understood every word he said. Afterwards, she told Maria how much she had liked the sermon.
"Yes," Maria responded, "Mr. Bradley preaches so simply that everyone can follow him. He's very popular in the parish, and no wonder! For he's always ready to give a helping hand to anyone in trouble. He's been a curate here for the last two years; and he generally preaches at the mission chapel on Sunday evenings."
"What a funny little church it is, Maria! Do you always go there?"
"Yes. You see the seats are all free, and one can sit where one likes, and follow the service without difficulty, and join in the hymns—they have such easy tunes."
"May I go with you again next Sunday?" Mousey asked eagerly.
"Certainly, if Mr. Harding agrees to let you."
"I suppose he doesn't know the clergyman who preached to-night?"
"Oh, yes, I believe he's one of master's customers. I heard he'd been in with his watch to be mended the other day; and I know he wanted John Monday to join his Bible class for boys; but no, that wouldn't suit John at all! He prefers to spend his evenings idling about the streets, or in reading some trash or other, and master doesn't care what the lad does in his spare hours."
By that time they had arrived at home, and Mousey, after taking off her hat and jacket, joined Mr. Harding in the parlour. A little later John Monday appeared, and Maria brought in the supper, after partaking of which Mousey said good-night, and went upstairs to bed.
So ended her first Sunday at Haughton. As the little girl laid her head upon the pillow she reflected that the day had ended better than it had commenced; and she fell asleep with the refrain of the Easter hymn ringing in her ears—
"Christ is risen! Christ is risen!"
"Christ is risen! Christ is risen!"
"Christ is risen! Christ is risen!"
"Christ is risen! Christ is risen!"
EASTER MONDAY dawned with wind and rain. The sky was heavy, making the aspect out-of-doors dismal and cheerless in the extreme.
Mousey found that she was to breakfast alone with John Monday, as Mr. Harding, who had risen early, had left home on private business, with the intention of remaining away till the evening.
John was apparently in high spirits at the prospect of a day's holiday, and though he grumbled at the weather, it was evident it did not depress him in the least.
"To think that we should have such a downpour after a beautiful day like yesterday!" he remarked to Mousey. "A bank holiday, too! I had intended going for an excursion somewhere, but I should be drenched to the skin in a few minutes if I was out in this weather."
"Cousin Robert will get very wet, I'm afraid," Mousey said, with concern in her tones.
"Oh, he's tough—tough as leather," the boy replied, laughing; "nothing hurts him! You know what they say about what's no good never coming to any harm."
"Do you mean that Cousin Robert is no good?" she questioned, flushing with indignation. "What a bad boy you must be to speak of your master like that!"
"Oh, come now, don't get cross," said the lad, amused at the angry glance she shot at him.
"Well, then, you mustn't speak against Cousin Robert! I think he is really kind. See how good he is to me. Perhaps you do not know that I have no money of my own, and he is going to send me to school, and—"
"Oh, I know all that!" John interrupted. "I can't imagine what made him bring you here. It was an extraordinary thing for him to do, and so you'd think if you knew him better. I suppose you believe he makes his money in that poky little shop, don't you?" he asked, jerking his thumb in the direction of the glass door.
"Yes," she answered.
"Well, you're wrong! He doesn't."
Mousey looked considerably surprised, and not a little curious. John watched her with secret delight, enjoying her bewilderment.
"He earns a little as a working jeweller," the boy proceeded, "but everyone in Haughton knows he makes most of his money in other ways than that. He lends money to people."
"Does he? How very kind of him!" Mousey exclaimed.
"Oh, very!" John responded, mimicking her tone; then he burst into a fit of loud laughter, and called her a "simpleton."
The little girl felt indignant and insulted. Her companion proceeded—
"He lends money to folks, and makes them pay large interest for it; and if they don't pay, he takes their furniture, or anything he can lay his hands on. Oh, he's a hard one, he is! He owns a row of houses that are let out in tenements, and he collects the rents every Saturday night. It's no good making excuses if the money isn't ready, I can tell you!"
"What are tenements?" Mousey asked, impelled to put the question from curiosity, though the minute before she had decided not to prolong the conversation.
"If you had a house, and let a part to one person, and a part to another, and so on, the different sets of rooms would be tenements," he explained. "Do you see?"
Mousey nodded. John's round, green eyes were watching every change of her face.
"I say," he said suddenly, "you don't like me, do you?"
"I—I don't know," she answered truthfully; "I don't like you when you speak against Cousin Robert, because it's so deceitful of you. You are very polite to him when he's here, but when he's away—"
"We won't talk of him any more," the lad interposed hastily. "What are you going to do all day?"
"I expect I shall help Maria."
"Do you like reading?"
"Yes," Mousey answered, rather astonished at the question; "I like reading the Bible, and—"
"Oh, the Bible!" her companion exclaimed, not allowing her to finish the sentence. "I like something more exciting than that. Stories of wars, and—"
"There are plenty of stories about wars in the Bible," Mousey informed him quickly, interrupting him in her turn. "Haven't you read about the wars in the Old Testament?"
"Never heard of them," he assured her, appearing interested; then added, a look of suspicion crossing his face, "Are you having me on?"
"I don't know what you mean."
"Are you trying to take me in—making game of me?"
"No, no! Did you never hear of Gideon, and how God delivered Midian and all the host into his hands?"
"Never. I haven't got a Bible. Is it an interesting story?"
"Very. I'll lend you my Bible to read, if you like," Mousey said good-naturedly.
"Thank you. As it's a wet day, and I can't go out, I shall be glad of something to read; but I'd no idea there were stories of that sort in the Bible." He drew a crushed, dirty-looking paper from his pocket, and held it up. "This is the kind of tale I like," he said; "it's about highway robbers and burglars."
At that moment Maria entered the room. As she caught sight of the paper in the boy's hand, she shook her head at him; but he only laughed, and leaning back in his chair, commenced to read.
After Mousey had assisted Maria to make the beds, and put the bedrooms in order, she returned to the parlour with the intention of writing to Aunt Eliza. Maria had kindly supplied her with pen, ink, and paper, so, drawing a chair to the table, she commenced her letter.
"MY DEAR AUNT ELIZA,"I hope you and dear Uncle Dick and my cousins are well.I am very well, but I miss you so much. It is wet weather,and Cousin Robert has gone away. He has a little shop,not a big one. I like Maria, she is the servant, and isvery kind to me. There is a boy here; he is—"
"MY DEAR AUNT ELIZA,"I hope you and dear Uncle Dick and my cousins are well.I am very well, but I miss you so much. It is wet weather,and Cousin Robert has gone away. He has a little shop,not a big one. I like Maria, she is the servant, and isvery kind to me. There is a boy here; he is—"
"MY DEAR AUNT ELIZA,"I hope you and dear Uncle Dick and my cousins are well.I am very well, but I miss you so much. It is wet weather,and Cousin Robert has gone away. He has a little shop,not a big one. I like Maria, she is the servant, and isvery kind to me. There is a boy here; he is—"
"MY DEAR AUNT ELIZA,
"I hope you and dear Uncle Dick and my cousins are well.
I am very well, but I miss you so much. It is wet weather,
and Cousin Robert has gone away. He has a little shop,
not a big one. I like Maria, she is the servant, and is
very kind to me. There is a boy here; he is—"
At this point John Monday interrupted her by saying—
"You're writing about me, I know you are!"
"Yes," Mousey confessed, considerably taken aback, "I am telling Aunt Eliza about you. How did you know?"
"Because you kept on looking at me, and I guessed what you were up to. What are you saying?"
But Mousey declined to tell, and proceeded with her letter, taking care not to glance at her companion again. At last she wanted to use a word she could not spell, and had to turn to John for assistance. He was most obliging, and told her how to spell the difficult word, and, after that, several others as well. The letter was finished in due course, and the envelope directed in Mousey's round, childish handwriting.
"I shall have to ask Cousin Robert for a stamp," the little girl remarked.
"Take one from his secretaire," John Monday suggested; "he won't miss it."
"But that would be stealing," Mousey objected, looking at him with reproachful eyes. "You don't mean it, really, do you?"
The boy had the grace to look ashamed of himself. He grew red, and fidgeted uneasily in his chair.
"Where's that Bible of yours?" he inquired, glad to change the subject. "I want to read about that soldier you were speaking of— Gid—what was his name?"
"Gideon," Mousey replied. "I'll run upstairs and fetch my Bible."
This she accordingly did, and finding the sixth chapter of the book of Judges, told him he could read about Gideon in the concluding verses, and in the following chapter.
"I never thought there was anything half so interesting in the Bible," he told her later on; "and to think it's all true, too! Can't you let me keep your book for a few days?"
Mousey hesitated, for this Bible had been her mother's gift to her when she had first learnt to read; but remembering that John Monday had no Bible of his own, she agreed to lend it to him.
"Not if you would rather not," he said, looking disappointed, she thought.
"I would like to lend it to you," she replied; "I would indeed. I have mother's Bible upstairs in my box, so I can read hers."
"Thank you," he responded gratefully; "it's very good of you."
Maria expressed astonishment when she heard Mousey had lent her Bible to John Monday, and said she hoped he would take care of it, and be more careful of Mousey's property than he was of his own.
The rain continued during the whole day, and towards evening the river could be distinctly heard as it rushed beneath the house. It was a dismal sound, and the little girl grew depressed as she sat listening to it. All sorts of imaginary horrors entered her mind and refused to be dispelled. Suppose the floor gave way, or worse still, suppose the river continued to rise and flooded the house? Then she remembered that Mr. Harding had told her the house was strongly built; but she still felt nervous, and was not sorry when bed-time came. In her own room there was no sound of the rushing river, and though the wind shook the window-pane, and the rain pattered against the glass, long before Mr. Harding had returned Mousey was in the land of dreams.
MR. HARDING supplied Mousey with a postage stamp for her letter; and in the course of a few days she had an answer from Aunt Eliza, enclosing sixpence—in stamps—from Uncle Dick. It was the first letter she had ever received, and she was so pleased that she showed it to each member of the household. Maria said she was sure Mrs. Dawson was a good woman, and she did not wonder her niece loved her so much. John Monday remarked that he wished he had an aunt to write a letter to him, and an uncle to send him a present, and wanted to know how Mousey was going to spend her money; whilst Mr. Harding appeared gratified at being offered the epistle to read, and expressed his approval of its contents.
"Your aunt is a sensible woman," he told the little girl; "she has written you some good advice, which I hope you mean to follow."
"Oh, yes," Mousey answered earnestly, "indeed I do."
"Shall I purchase your stamps from you?" he asked.
"Thank you, Cousin Robert. Will you please take four, and let me keep two? because I shall want to write to Aunt Eliza again."
"Very well," he agreed. "I've no objection to your writing letters now and then; but, remember, each letter costs a penny. If you mind your pence the shillings will take care of themselves."
"Yes, Cousin Robert," she replied.
"You must learn to be economical, child," he continued gravely, as he gave her fourpence in exchange for four stamps; "take care of your money—take care of it. Your uncle is very generous, very!"
"Oh, yes," she cried; "there's no one so kind as dear Uncle Dick!"
"He'll never die a rich man," he responded, as he turned away.
By this time the little girl was overcoming her first dislike to her new home. Cousin Robert, when he took any notice of her, which was not often, spoke to her kindly; Maria was her very good friend; and John Monday seemed to enjoy a chat with her if Mr. Harding was not near to put a check on his speech. Mousey was perfectly satisfied with the plain food which was provided for the household, for she had not been accustomed to luxuries; in fact, she could remember certain occasions when she and her mother had scarcely had enough money to get the necessaries of life; so she never grumbled as John Monday did—though not in his master's hearing—if the dinner was not to his liking.
One day Mousey was informed that she was to go to school on the following Monday.
"I hope you'll be a good girl," Mr. Harding said, "and learn all you possibly can. Remember that most probably you will have your own living to get one of these days, and it's to your advantage to get as much knowledge as you can."
"Yes, Cousin Robert," she replied earnestly; "you will see how hard I shall try to get on."
"And remember, too, that schooling costs money. If you don't make use of the advantages I give you, you might just as well put your hand into my pocket and rob me. Do you understand that, eh?"
Mousey looked somewhat alarmed, for Mr. Harding's sharp eyes seemed to be piercing her through and through. She longed to say that she was not a thief, and hoped she never would be, but a choking sensation in her throat made her incapable of speech.
"You will not have far to go every day," Mr. Harding proceeded, "only about ten minutes' walk. The person who keeps the school is called Mrs. Downing. She is a lady—oh, yes, quite a lady! Her husband was a doctor, who died about six months ago, leaving her unprovided for, so she has commenced a school in hopes of being able to make a living out of it. She has not many pupils at present, but doubtless the school will increase. Mrs. Downing is under obligations to me—great obligations."
He paused for a minute, then continued—
"I was able to be of service to Mrs. Downing's late husband, and she is not unmindful of the fact. This is an ungrateful world, as a rule, and folks get little thanks for lending others a helping hand, but—"
He paused, seeing, by the look of utter bewilderment on the child's face, that she failed to follow him.
They were in the parlour, whilst John Monday was in charge of the shop. As Mr. Harding broke off in the midst of his sentence, the bell suspended to the shop door rang, and Mousey saw that a customer had arrived. She recognised the clergyman she had heard preach at the mission chapel on Easter Sunday.
Mr. Harding stepped quietly into the shop, leaving the glass door ajar, so that Mousey could hear every word that passed.
"I have called to see if my watch is ready," Mr. Bradley said in his clear, pleasant voice, as he turned to address Mr. Harding.
"Yes, sir," was the response; "I have cleaned it and put it in order. John, where is Mr. Bradley's watch?"
John Monday produced it from a drawer under the counter and handed it to its owner.
"Thank you," Mr. Bradley said. "What have I to pay?"
"Three shillings, if you please, sir."
The clergyman paid the money, but lingered still. "Anything else I can do for you to-day, sir?" inquired Mr. Harding.
"No, thank you. They tell me that you have adopted a little girl, Mr. Harding. Is that a fact?"
"I suppose it is," the old man admitted. "At any rate, I am making a home for a little girl, the daughter of a cousin of mine who is dead. The poor child has no friends to do anything for her except myself and an aunt and uncle—very good people in their way, no doubt, but, to my mind, utterly improvident! They have quite enough to do to look after their own children, I should say. I've taken the little girl, and mean to be a friend to her if she behaves herself. Here, Mousey, a gentleman's inquiring about you! Come here."
At the sound of Mr. Harding's voice calling to her the child started, and her face flushed rosy red. She stepped into the shop, however, where Mr. Bradley greeted her with a pleasant smile, at the same time holding out his hand. Mousey slipped her fingers into his with a feeling of confidence and trust.
"What is your name, my dear?" he asked, after he had shaken hands with her.
"Arabella Abbot, sir," she answered, "but everyone calls me Mousey."
He smiled and looked at her curiously, with a puzzled air, as he inquired—
"Surely I have seen you before, have I not? Why, of course, I remember. You were at the mission chapel with Mr. Harding's servant, who is a regular attendant on Sunday evenings. I thought I knew your face."
"Fancy your noticing her!" Mr. Harding exclaimed. "You must have a wonderfully good memory for faces, sir."
"Yes, I believe I have," was the response; "but you must remember I have been here for two years, and the countenances of most of the members of my congregation are familiar to me. I generally notice a stranger."
He did not say that he had been struck by Mousey's face because it had been so earnest and attentive, but he looked at the little girl very kindly, noting her mourning dress, and the wistful expression in the soft brown eyes.
"The child lost her mother a little more than a month ago," Mr. Harding explained, "and she's not in her usual spirits—or, at any rate, she's much quieter than most children. However, I'm sending her to school on Monday, and that will be a change for her, and give her plenty to occupy her mind with. Perhaps you know that Dr. Downing's widow has opened a school, sir?"
"Yes," Mr. Bradley answered; "I hope she will make it a success."
"My little cousin is to be one of her pupils this coming term," Mr. Harding went on. "I wish the child to have a good education, and I am informed that Mrs. Downing was a governess before she married, and a clever, competent teacher. It is fortunate for her she can work for her living."
Mr. Bradley agreed that it was very fortunate, and after a little further conversation proceeded on his way, whilst Mousey retired to the kitchen to tell Maria that she was to go to school on the following Monday, and that she had made the acquaintance of the clergyman who preached at the mission chapel.
"I think Mr. Bradley is one of the nicest gentlemen I ever met," said Mousey, whose experience had not been large. "There was a look in his face that reminded me of Uncle Dick, though I don't know how that could be, because Mr. Bradley is rather pale and thin, and Uncle Dick is big, and his cheeks are quite rosy."
"Then they can't be in the least alike," exclaimed Maria, laughing.
"Oh, but they are!" the little girl persisted.
Maria was engaged in peeling potatoes. Mousey watched her in silence for a few minutes, wondering at the puzzled expression on the woman's face.
"What are you thinking about, Maria?" she asked at length.
"I was thinking how apt one is to misjudge others, my dear. Now, it never occurred to me that master would send you to Mrs. Downing's school; I thought he'd send you to some place cheaper. It appears that though I've lived with him so many years, I don't understand him yet. Well, all I can say is, I hope you'll learn all you possibly can, and then he won't feel his money is wasted."
"I mean to try to get on," Mousey answered soberly. "I promise you I won't waste Cousin Robert's money if I can help it."
THE house where Mrs. Downing lived was in one of the busiest thoroughfares of Haughton. It had been a good position for a doctor's house, but the late master had not lived long enough to work up a flourishing practice, having died just as people had begun to understand that he was a clever medical practitioner.
"If only I was dying free from debt," he had said to his wife a few days before his death; "but there is still a considerable amount owing to Mr. Harding."
"Do not trouble about that," she had answered soothingly. "Mr. Harding shall be paid. He will give me time. He must!"
"When he offered to lend me the money I thought I should have soon been able to pay it off," he had continued, "but, instead, I have done little more than keep up the interest. I ought never to have gone to him, but you know how sorely I was pressed."
"Yes, yes," she had replied. "You must not worry about it. I will see it is paid."
She had spoken bravely, though her heart had been torn with grief; but her one idea had been to comfort him. A few days later he had died, leaving his wife and children utterly unprovided for, and owing Mr. Harding a considerable sum of money.
Mr. Harding had thought he had made a bad debt, for although the doctor had mortgaged his household furniture to him, the old man knew that would not cover the liability; but the day after her husband's funeral Mrs. Downing had sought him, and had informed him of her intention of opening a school.
"I hope to make it pay before long, and then I will endeavour to wipe off the debt; but, meanwhile, I will keep up the interest. I make myself responsible for the debt, but you must give me time."
Mr. Harding had agreed to do so. He could not but admire Mrs. Downing for her straightforward behaviour; and when, after Mousey's arrival, he had to consider the question of the child's education, he had gone to the doctor's widow with a proposition, which was that she should admit Mousey into her school.
"Instead of paying you the usual fees," he had said, "I shall deduct the amount from your husband's debt. I consider I am making you a generous offer. Do you accept it?"
Mrs. Downing had hesitated but a moment, during which she had looked searchingly into her companion's withered face; then she had given her answer, "Yes."
So it was that on the arrival of the Monday that was to mark a new epoch in Mousey's life, after breakfast she started in company with Mr. Harding to go to school for the first time. A neat, quiet little girl she looked as she walked soberly along by the old man's side, her heart beating a trifle unevenly—for she was nervous at the thought of meeting strangers—and her eyes bright with expectancy.
They soon arrived at their destination—a tall house with a door in the centre, before which was a flight of stone steps, and windows on either side curtained with pretty, though inexpensive, muslins. Mr. Harding and Mousey mounted the steps, and in response to the former's knock, a servant opened the door, and showed them into a small sitting-room.
In a few minutes a lady entered whom Mousey knew must be Mrs. Downing, for she wore a widow's cap. She was much younger and prettier than Mousey had expected; but she had a resolute way of speaking, combined with a manner that, gentle though it was, inspired respect as well as confidence. She shook hands with Mr. Harding, and then turned her attention to Mousey.
"This is my little cousin," the old man explained, "and I'm sure I hope you'll find her a promising pupil, ma'am. I've told her she must work hard, and do her best."
"As I believe she will," Mrs. Downing replied, her fine grey eyes resting encouragingly on the child's downcast face. "Yes," she added, as Mousey looked up quickly and smiled, "I am sure she will."
"It is to be hoped so," Mr. Harding remarked dryly, "for she will have her own way to make in the world. She is an orphan. In short, she has no one to look to but me."
"And her Father in Heaven," Mrs. Downing concluded gravely.
The old man glanced at her sharply, drawing down the corners of his mouth and puckering his brow; but Mrs. Downing met his look with perfect serenity, and his eyes fell beneath the light in hers.
"Having delivered my little cousin into your hands, ma'am, I'll say good-day," he said stiffly. "Good-bye, Mousey; be a good girl."
After he had gone Mrs. Downing put a few questions to the child concerning her name, age, and former abode. Mousey was shy at first, but encouraged by the look of interest on the other's face, she told her about her old home with her mother. Mrs. Downing listened attentively, and though she made only an occasional remark, the little girl felt she was talking to one who sympathised with, and understood her.
"Now, I will show you the schoolroom, and introduce you to your school-fellows, and to my sister, Miss Longley, who assists me in the teaching," Mrs. Downing said at length, and taking Mousey by the hand she led her out of the room in the direction of a baize-covered door which the child had noticed on entering the house.
"Muvver! Muv-ver!"
Mousey started at the sound of the lisping voice, and turning quickly, saw two little dots of about three years old at the top of the stairs peeping through the banisters.
"Go back to the nursery directly," Mrs. Downing told them; "I will come to you when school hours are over."
The curly heads disappeared obediently, and there was a sound of retreating footsteps.
"Those are my children," Mrs. Downing explained, with a smile lighting up her grave face. "They are twins—almost babies still."
She pushed open the baize-covered door, and led Mousey into a large room, in which about a dozen girls were chatting and laughing. A sudden hush fell upon the little assembly as Mrs. Downing introduced the new pupil. One of the girls volunteered to show her where to hang her hat and jacket in a small adjoining room; and after that Mrs. Downing's sister entered the schoolroom, and Mousey was given into her charge. Miss Longley was very much like Mrs. Downing, but fairer and smaller. She told the little girl where to sit, and the bell ringing at that moment for the commencement of the morning's duties, the other girls hastened to take their places, and the work of the day began.
It was rather a trying experience for Mousey when Miss Longley questioned her as to her knowledge of different subjects, and she was obliged to confess that she knew but little of geography and English history, and that grammar was a mystery to her.
"Never mind," Miss Longley said kindly, "you read and write very well, and spell fairly correctly—a good groundwork to build upon."
Mousey gave a sigh of relief; but she was not sorry when twelve o'clock came, and work was over for the morning. Outside the house, much to her astonishment, she found John Monday waiting for her. She was anything but pleased, for she saw a couple of her school-fellows looking at him, and evidently laughing at his shabby, ungainly appearance. As usual, he was dressed in a slovenly manner, and wore his cap stuck on the back of his head in what he doubtless considered a jaunty fashion, with a clump of red hair showing above his forehead.
"Mr. Harding sent me because he thought you might not know the way home," he informed her. "Well, how did you get on?"
"Pretty well," she answered evasively. "It was all strange, of course."
"How do you like the other girls? Are they stuck-up?"
"I have only spoken to a few of them, so I can't tell yet. You need not have come to fetch me, John. I remember the way quite well."
Perhaps Mousey's tone sounded somewhat ungracious, for her companion glanced at her curiously, and seemed puzzled.
"Mr. Harding made me come," he said in an aggrieved tone. "I should have considered you were old enough to look after yourself."
"So I am," she replied promptly; then she thought how ungrateful he must think her, and added, "But it was very kind of you to come."
"Oh, as to that, I'd as soon be here as in the shop. I say, when do you want your Bible again?"
"Not until you've quite finished with it."
"Then I can keep it a little longer?"
"Yes, if you like."
"I haven't much time for reading during the day," he proceeded; "Mr. Harding's always at me about one thing or another, and I don't care to read the Bible in the parlour of an evening."
"Why not?"
The lad hesitated and looked embarrassed, flushing to the roots of his hair.
"I am ashamed," he acknowledged. "I am afraid Mr. Harding will laugh at me."
"Oh, John! As though he would! I never heard of anyone being ashamed to read the Bible before. How strange!"
"You don't know Mr. Harding. If he saw me reading the Bible, he'd think me a hypocrite. I'm not that."
"Of course you're not!" she agreed, although she had a very hazy idea what a hypocrite was, but knew it was a term of reproach.
They had now reached home, so there was no further opportunity for conversation. John Monday did not come to meet Mousey in the afternoon, as she had satisfied Mr. Harding that she now knew the way. When the little girl was learning her lessons that evening she looked up from her books and saw the boy poring over one of his favourite stories, which Maria declared did him a great deal of harm, and marvelled that he should be ashamed to read the Bible in his master's presence when he made no attempt to hide the papers which, by all accounts, contained no good but much that was evil.
MOUSEY quickly grew accustomed to school life, and made friends with the other pupils, who soon found out the little there was to know about the quiet, dark-eyed child who lived with the queer old jeweller, whom everyone agreed in considering the most miserly man in the town.
"I pity you," said Nellie Thomas, a bright-faced girl about Mousey's own age, as she and Mousey stood talking in the playground at the back of the house during the quarter of an hour's respite from work in the middle of the morning. "I wouldn't be in your shoes for anything! It must be dreadful to have to live in that wretched side street."
Nellie's father was a flourishing draper in Haughton, who possessed a private residence on the outskirts of the town, so it was small wonder his daughter looked with disfavour on Mr. Harding's dingy abode.
"Cousin Robert's house is rather dull," Mousey acknowledged, "but I don't notice it as much as I did at first; and I have a beautiful view from my bedroom window."
"Is Mr. Harding kind to you?" Nellie inquired.
"Oh, yes!"
"And that odd-looking boy who came to fetch you the first day of the term—who is he?"
"He is Cousin Robert's assistant," Mousey explained. "He is learning to be a jeweller. Cousin Robert took him from the workhouse, and is bringing him up to his trade."
"From the workhouse!" Nellie exclaimed. "And do you mean to say he lives in your cousin's house?"
Mousey assented, and proceeded to tell all she knew about John Monday, whilst her companion listened with deepening amazement.
"I never heard anything so extraordinary in my life!" Nellie commented. "A workhouse boy!" and there was a world of scorn in her voice.
"He can't help having been born in a workhouse," Mousey said, looking troubled.
"No, no, of course not," the other replied; "but what a strange person your cousin must be to have a common boy like that living in his house as though he was one of the family."
"I don't think John Monday is common," Mousey was beginning, when she paused abruptly at the sight of the half-smile that crossed her companion's face.
"Mr. Harding is very rich, isn't he?" Nellie asked.
"I don't know," Mousey answered. "I thought he was, but—"
"Oh, yes, I know he is. I heard father say so. Father said he expected he was one of the richest men in Haughton. Fancy! And his is such a poky shop, isn't it? Do you know, I could hardly believe, at first, that you lived there? I tell you what, I'll get my mother to ask you to tea on Saturday. You'd like that, wouldn't you?"
"Yes," Mousey assented, with a beaming smile, her eyes sparkling at the thought of such a pleasure. "How very kind of you, Nellie!"
"Oh, not at all!" Nellie answered brightly; "I like you very much, and I shall call you Mousey, as you say you are generally called that. It's a much prettier name than Arabella. Look, there are the twins!"
Mousey turned quickly, and saw Mrs. Downing's children entering the playground with their nurse. They were a dear little pair—Dolly and Dick by name—and they loved to be allowed a few minutes in the playground when the girls were there to make much of them. To-day they had just returned from a walk with their nurse, and each child held a bunch of daisies, gathered with very short stems. Dolly trotted up to Mousey and held up her chubby baby face for a kiss; after which she solemnly presented her nosegay to her new acquaintance.
"For 'ou," she lisped, "all for 'ou!"
"Oh, you dear little soul!" Mousey cried, her face wreathed with smiles as she accepted the gift. "Thank you, Dolly. Did you pick them yourself?"
"All mine self!" Dolly said, nodding her curly head with an air of great satisfaction.
Meanwhile Dick was declining to part with his daisies. They were for his mother, he explained; he would not let the girls have them, but ran into the house shouting, "Muvver! Muvver!" at the top of his voice.
Shortly after that the bell rang for the school to reassemble, and there was no further opportunity that day for Mousey and Nellie Thomas to resume their conversation.
Mousey carried home the daisies which Dolly had given to her, and put them in water in her bedroom, where they revived, lifting their drooping heads and unfolding their pink-tipped petals. The little girl wondered how long it would take before the daisies grew on her mother's grave, and thought she would write to Aunt Eliza and ask if the grass was springing over the spot beneath which both her parents lay at rest.
It had always been Mrs. Abbot's desire to place a headstone over her husband's grave, but she had never been in the position to provide even the simplest stone. She had been buried in the same grave as her husband, and it was very unlikely, Mousey thought, that there would ever be a headstone to mark the place. On the evening of that same day, whilst Mr. Harding was allowing himself a few minutes in which to peruse the newspaper, he was somewhat astonished to hear his little cousin and his assistant conversing together in lowered tones, as they sat one on each side of the table in the parlour. Mousey had her lesson books in front of her, but she had finished her work, and was telling John Monday about Dolly and the bunch of daisies.
"She is the sweetest, dearest little girl I ever saw!" Mousey was saying; "and Dick's a darling, too."
"Who's Dick?" Mr. Harding asked sharply.
"He's Mrs. Downing's little boy," Mousey said; "he and Dolly are twins—only just three years old."
"I knew Mrs. Downing had children; but I didn't know how many," Mr. Harding remarked. "Twins, eh?"
"Yes, Cousin Robert. Oh, you'd love them," she proceeded enthusiastically; "sometimes they come into the playground, and they have such pretty ways."
"Humph!" Mr. Harding grunted. "Have you finished preparing your lessons for to-morrow, child?"
"Yes, Cousin Robert. John helped me with my sums."
Mr. Harding glanced at his assistant, and smiled sarcastically. He had never had a very high opinion of John Monday's abilities, and it amused him that the boy should assist Mousey with her work.
"Let me see," he said, holding out his hand; and the little girl obediently gave him the paper on which she had worked her sums. He glanced through the figures, and nodded his head.
"Yes, they are perfectly correct," he admitted. "Are you happy at school?" he asked.
"Oh, yes," she replied readily. "I like Mrs. Downing and Miss Longley so much, and the girls are kind—generally," she added truthfully, remembering that one or two of them had teased her by laughing at Mr. Harding, at his dingy shop, and his shabby clothes.
"Generally?" he echoed. "What do you mean by generally, eh?"
She seemed distressed. He repeated his question, but Mousey remained silent. At length, however, she said hesitatingly—
"I'm afraid I can't tell you what I mean, Cousin Robert."
"Don't you find the girls friendly?" he questioned.
"Oh, yes!" she answered quickly. "Oh, yes, indeed! There is one girl I like very much—Nellie Thomas."
"Is she a daughter of Thomas the draper?"
"Yes, Cousin Robert. She is going to ask me to her house to tea one Saturday."
"Is she, indeed. And do you propose asking her here in return?"
Mousey glanced round the parlour, and looked doubtful. Somehow she could not picture her bright-faced, well-dressed school-fellow in that shabby room. Mr. Harding smiled in what Mousey thought was a very disagreeable manner.
"I suppose you think your friend's father must be a very rich man, eh?" he questioned. "You think because he has a fine shop, and a private house for his family, that he is wealthy, eh? Don't judge by appearances. I am richer by far than he is—oh, yes."
There was a ring of triumph in the old man's tone, and his eyes sparkled brightly. Mousey was greatly impressed by his words, though not in the way he imagined.
"It must be nice to be rich," she said softly. "I know what I would do if I had plenty of money," she continued; "I would put a beautiful, white marble tombstone over mother and father's grave; and I would send a lot of lovely presents to Aunt Eliza, and Uncle Dick, and the children."
"Oh, indeed! And would you give me anything?" Mr. Harding asked in his most caustic tones.
"You don't want anything," Mousey answered simply. "I mean, not anything money could buy."
"That's true. I want nothing from anyone."
"Does it make you happy to be rich, Cousin Robert?" she asked. "Mother used to say money did not often make people happy. She and I had very little money, but we were very happy."
"Your mother had a contented disposition," he replied, not answering her question.
"Yes," she agreed, smiling; "she used to say her treasures were in heaven, where neither moth nor rust doth corrupt, and where thieves do not break through nor steal."
"That's in the Bible, isn't it?" Mr. Harding said. "Well, on Sunday you shall read the chapter to me with that bit in it."
He took up his newspaper again; but though he tried to feel an interest in what he was reading, he found he could not; and at last, throwing it aside, he went to his secretaire, and soon forgot Mousey and the disquieting thoughts which his conversation with her had evoked, as he became absorbed in his account books.
EVERY Sunday morning Mr. Harding took Mousey for a walk in the park, as he had done on that first Sunday she had spent at Haughton. It pleased the little girl to mark the difference in the foliage of the trees from one week to another; and she watched the spring give place to summer with keen delight.
"How warm it is, Cousin Robert," she remarked one beautiful Sunday in May as they strolled along the smooth, winding paths. "It will soon be summer now."
"Aye," he answered, "that it will."
"See, the flower-beds have been freshly planted," the little girl continued. "There are some geraniums, and there are some heliotropes, and a lot of plants I don't know."
"Stocks," Mr. Harding informed her, pausing to look at the seedlings. "I'm very fond of stocks—I remember we always had them in our garden at home."
"At home?" Mousey questioned wonderingly.
"I mean my boyhood's home—where I lived when my parents were alive."
"It wasn't in Haughton, I suppose?"
"No. I was born and bred in a small village. I never had sister or brother, so when my parents died I came to Haughton to try to make a fortune—and succeeded."
The old man's eyes glistened proudly for a moment then softened as he continued—
"My mother used to be fond of stocks. She was a good woman, was my mother."
"Did you feel very lonely after she died?" Mousey asked gently.
"I dare say I did," he responded; "but she died so long ago that I really forget."
The little girl looked at him curiously, wondering if she lived to be an old woman whether she would forget her anguish of grief at her mother's death. She could not think it possible; but the bare thought hurt her, and she sighed unconsciously.
"Well, child, what now?" Mr. Harding asked. "I should have thought you would have felt as blithe as a bird on a lovely morning like this."
Mousey smiled, but made no answer. She walked sedately and silently by his side, deep in thought.
"By the way," said Mr. Harding presently, "how did John Monday become possessed of your Bible, eh?"
"I lent it to him," she replied in some surprise; "but how did you know he had it, Cousin Robert?"
"I caught him reading it yesterday, but could get no explanation from him. So you lent it to him, eh?"
"Yes. He has no Bible of his own, and I have mother's, so I let him have mine. I couldn't give it to him, because, you see, mother gave it to me."
"But how did he come to borrow it? The idea of John Monday wanting to read the Bible!"
Mousey explained the matter, whilst Mr. Harding listened with a scornful expression on his countenance, which gave place to astonishment when the little girl informed him how John was afraid of being laughed at and considered a hypocrite.
"You don't think him a hypocrite, do you?" she inquired anxiously. "I'm sure he's a nice boy. See how kind he is helping me with my lessons of an evening; and he's very good-natured. He'll fetch coal for Maria, and clean the knives, and—"
"So he ought!" Mr. Harding interrupted briskly. "That's what I keep him for, to make him generally useful about the place. You don't think I took him out of the workhouse for any other reason, I suppose?"
"I thought you took him because you wanted to be kind to him," Mousey responded simply, "just as you took me, Cousin Robert, because he had no mother or father, or anyone to care for him."
"Humph!" said Mr. Harding, frowning, "then you thought wrong! I have no interest in John Monday beyond getting the work out of him to pay me for his bed and board. He suits me well enough. As to you—"
He paused abruptly, his keen eyes softening as they rested on the child's face.
"As for you," he continued, "I offered you a home because I always respected your mother, and you are like her in appearance."
"Do you really think so?" Mousey asked joyfully. "I want so much to be like her, but I am afraid I shall never, never be so good as she was."
"You are like her in appearance," Mr. Harding repeated, "or I should say, like what she was at your age. I knew her as a child when she used to be very fond of her Cousin Robert. Did she ever mention me to you?"
"Yes, sometimes," the little girl responded; "once she told me you were very rich."
A shade of disappointment crossed the old man's countenance, although it was usually a pleasure to him to know he was considered wealthy. He remarked that it was quite time for them to turn homewards, so they left the park for the streets, meeting many people coming from the different places of worship.
Mousey smiled brightly as she caught sight of Mrs. Downing and Miss Longley on the opposite side of the road. The latter saw Mr. Harding and his little cousin, and drew her sister's attention to them. Mr. Harding lifted his hat to the ladies in response to their polite salutations, and hurried Mousey on. Next they met Nellie Thomas, walking with her father, her mother and two brothers following behind. Mr. Harding and Mr. Thomas nodded to each other, and said "Good-morning," whilst Nellie smiled at her school-fellow, and then glanced at the old man in his threadbare coat and rusty hat in what Mousey considered a scornful manner. An indignant flush rose to Mousey's face, and tears of vexation rushed to her eyes. She was conscious that Nellie and her relations looked well-dressed, well-to-do people, and that the contrast between them and Cousin Robert and herself was very great. She wished they had not met, for she was certain Nellie would make fun of Mr. Harding next day at school. Mousey had told the girls again and again how dependent she was upon her cousin, but they had never seemed in the least impressed by his kindness in giving her a home; on the contrary, they had appeared to think he did no more than he ought, and never scrupled to call him mean and miserly. The worst of it was, she could not contradict them, for it had not taken her long to discover the great failing in his character.
The day that had commenced with brilliant sunshine ended in storm. When evening came; it rained so heavily that it was out of the question for Maria and Mousey to go to church. Both were disappointed, but the latter especially so, for she had grown to look forward to the Sunday evening service at the mission chapel as a great pleasure, which she was regretful to miss. She stood at the parlour window, gazing at the rain with a doleful countenance, whilst Mr. Harding sat at his secretaire writing, and John Monday, with his hands in his pockets, lolled back in his chair, and grumbled at the weather under his breath.
"What do you think about reading that chapter of the Bible you were speaking of the other night, child?" Mr. Harding asked abruptly, as he shut up the front of his secretaire.
"Oh!" Mousey cried in surprise, whilst John Monday sat upright on his chair and stared at his master in wide-eyed astonishment. "Do you really mean it, Cousin Robert?"
"Certainly!"
"Please let me have my Bible, John," said the little girl, turning to John Monday.
The boy flushed, glanced deprecatingly at his master, and drawing the sacred volume from the breast-pocket of his coat, handed it to her in silence.
Mousey found the sixth chapter of St. Matthew's Gospel; and began to read. The old man watched her earnestly, whilst he listened to words which he had certainly never heard since his boyhood's days.
"'Lay not up for yourselves treasures upon earth, where moth and rust doth corrupt, and where thieves break through and steal:'"
"'But lay up for yourselves treasures in heaven, where neither moth nor rust doth corrupt, and where thieves do not break through nor steal:'"
"'For where your treasure is, there will your heart be also.'"
Mr. Harding moved uneasily. He heard nothing of the remainder of the chapter, and he started when Mousey asked—
"Shall I read some more, Cousin Robert?"
"No, that will do for to-night," he answered.
She was about to return her Bible to John Monday when the old man stopped her. Going to his secretaire, he unlocked one of the under drawers and drew therefrom a small leather-covered volume, the pages yellow with age, which he placed in John Monday's hands.
"You can keep it, if you like," he said; "I've had it lying there for many a long year, and you may as well have it."
"Thank you—thank you—sir!" the boy said, stammering with astonishment.
"You've no reason to thank me," Mr. Harding responded curtly. "The Bible was mine when I was a boy, but I've no use for it nowadays."
The words were ungracious enough to chill anyone; but John Monday and Mousey exchanged pleased glances notwithstanding. The former was glad to possess a Bible of his own, and the latter was delighted to have hers back again.
MOUSEY had been perfectly correct in her surmise that Nellie Thomas would make fun of Mr. Harding. This she did on the following day, when all the girls were assembled in the playground.
"I wish you could have seen Mousey's cousin yesterday," she said, laughing merrily. "Such a funny old man he looked, and, oh, so shabby! Mousey, I wonder you were not ashamed to be seen with him!"
"Ashamed!" Mousey cried, her cheeks burning, her heart swelling with anger; "why should I be ashamed of Cousin Robert?"
"Because he's such a miser, and dresses so shabbily," Nellie retorted. "I declare it's positively wicked of him to be so mean! My father says Mr. Harding could afford to live in a nice house, and keep several servants; but he prefers that dirty little shop of his. He won't give money to anything, or anybody—not even to the hospital. And he never goes to church, does he, Mousey?"
"No," Mousey acknowledged reluctantly, in a troubled voice, feeling ready to cry. It was very trying for her to be obliged to stand by and listen to all this; but she could not prevent the girls discussing Mr. Harding if they were inclined to do so. "I wish you wouldn't run out against Cousin Robert," she added, looking appealingly at Nellie: "I can't bear to hear it."
"Very well," Nellie responded good-humouredly; "but why should you mind?"
"He is very good to me," Mousey said earnestly.
"So he ought to be! Mother said yesterday that you looked a nice little girl, and she was glad we were friends. And, oh, Mousey, she said I might ask you to tea next Saturday! Do you think Mr. Harding will let you come?"
"Yes, I think he will. How kind of your mother, Nellie!"
Much to Mousey's delight she had no difficulty in obtaining Mr. Harding's permission to spend the following Saturday afternoon at Halcyon Villa, which was the name of Nellie's home. She thought of little else but the pleasure in store for her during the days which followed; and when Saturday afternoon arrived, her excitement seemed, in a lesser degree, to affect the whole household. Maria combed and brushed her glossy brown hair, giving her well-meant instructions all the while as to how she was to behave.
"Mind you thank Mrs. Thomas for her kindness in inviting you," she said as she accompanied Mousey downstairs when the little girl was at last ready to start.
"I will be sure to do that," Mousey answered.
Mr. Harding was in the parlour. He looked the child up and down critically as she entered the room, and nodded his approval as he told her—
"John Monday shall go with you to show you the way, and I will send him to fetch you this evening. I hope you will have a pleasant time. Good-bye, child."
"Good-bye, Cousin Robert," she replied, putting her arms about his neck and kissing his cheek.
He followed her into the shop, where the assistant was waiting, cap in hand, to escort her to Halcyon Villa, and afterwards stood on the doorstep watching the young folks out of sight.
In about half an hour's time John Monday returned, and informed his master that he had delivered Mousey in safety into the keeping of her friend.
"The little Thomas girl was at the garden gate waiting," he said. "What a pretty house Halcyon Villa is—all covered with roses and creepers. Shouldn't I like to live in a place like that!"
"I dare say you would," Mr. Harding replied sarcastically. "It must cost a fine penny to keep up."
"Mr. Thomas does a good trade," the lad remarked. "I don't see the use of money if one can't spend it."
"Eh? What?" the old man almost shouted. "Who asked your opinion? What do you know about it, pray?"
"They say Mr. Thomas gives away a lot of money," John Monday continued. "Don't you remember, sir, he gave fifty pounds to the hospital last Christmas?"
"What of that? I could give ten times fifty pounds and not feel the want of it! I wonder which of us will leave most money behind him— Thomas or I?"
Mr. Harding rubbed his hands and chuckled, whilst his assistant gazed at him with interest. The boy knew his master's greatest ambition was to die a wealthy man. A question he had longed to ask often before trembled on his lips, but he hesitated to put it.
"Well!" the old man cried testily; "why are you staring at me like that?"
"I was wondering why you wanted to die a rich man," the boy responded bluntly. "Money is no good to folks after they're dead."
For a minute Mr. Harding seemed about to make an angry reply, for he darted a furious glance at his companion; but, apparently changing his mind, he told him to take charge of the shop, and retired to the parlour, perhaps to think over the question, and answer it to himself.
Meanwhile, Mousey had been introduced to Mrs. Thomas, and to Nellie's little brothers, who were a few years her junior. Soon the children were playing games in the garden, and thoroughly enjoying the beautiful May afternoon. The time passed all too quickly, so that Mousey was greatly surprised when Mrs. Thomas came out and called them into the house for tea.
Mrs. Thomas was a kind-hearted, motherly woman, whose sympathies had been aroused by the account Nellie had given her of the old jeweller's lonely little cousin.
"I am sure you must be dull sometimes, my dear, living in a house without other children," she said, turning to Mousey when they were all seated at the tea-table; "you must come and see us as often as you like. We shall always be glad to see you."
Mousey thanked her gratefully, and acknowledged she was often dull on the Saturday holiday, because she had no one to talk to but Maria, her cousin and John Monday being always busy in the shop. Mrs. Thomas had not heard of John Monday before, so Mousey had to explain who he was, and was relieved to find that Nellie's mother did not appear shocked and astonished, as Nelly had seemed, on hearing the boy had been born and bred in the workhouse, and in consequence her heart warmed towards her kind hostess. Shortly before the time arrived for Mousey to leave, Mr. Thomas returned from business, and gathered a big bunch of flowers for her. He invited her to come again when the strawberries would be ripe, and pointed out that the berries were already set.
Presently John Monday was discovered lurking outside the garden gate, too shy to walk boldly up to the front door and announce his presence; and then Mousey said good-bye to her new friends, after thanking them gratefully for their kindness to her.
"I've had a lovely time," she told John Monday as they walked home together. "I've not been so happy since mother died as I've been to day. You shall have some of my flowers. Aren't they beauties? Look at these lilies of the valley, and smell how sweet they are."
She lifted the nosegay to his face whilst he sniffed at it, and smiled his appreciation.
"Why didn't you come up to the door and ring the bell?" she asked.
"I hadn't been waiting very long," he answered evasively; "not more than a quarter of an hour."
"Oh, but that was a long time! I would have come before if I had known you were there. Mr. Thomas gave me these flowers, and he asked me to come again when the strawberries are ripe. That will be soon, won't it?"
"In a week or so, I suppose. I say, doesn't it seem horrid going back to Mr. Harding's dull old place after having been there?" the lad asked, jerking his thumb backwards in the direction from which they had come.
"Yes, perhaps it does a little."
"Wouldn't you like to live in a pretty house with fine gardens?"
Mousey nodded. She was in capital spirits, and at that moment the thought of her cousin's home did not depress her; on the contrary, she felt eager to return to tell Mr. Harding and Maria what a pleasant afternoon she had spent.
After that, Mousey became a constant visitor at Halcyon Villa. Her friendship with Nellie Thomas strengthened day by day, and was the source of much happiness to both children; but Nellie was never asked to visit Mousey's home, although Mousey was always made welcome and greeted kindly and affectionately by each member of the Thomas household.