The Project Gutenberg eBook ofMouseyThis ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.Title: Mouseyor, Cousin Robert's treasureAuthor: Eleanora H. StookeRelease date: May 4, 2023 [eBook #70697]Language: EnglishOriginal publication: United Kingdom: S. W. Partridge & Co., Ltd, 1903*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MOUSEY ***
This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.
Title: Mouseyor, Cousin Robert's treasureAuthor: Eleanora H. StookeRelease date: May 4, 2023 [eBook #70697]Language: EnglishOriginal publication: United Kingdom: S. W. Partridge & Co., Ltd, 1903
Title: Mousey
or, Cousin Robert's treasure
Author: Eleanora H. Stooke
Author: Eleanora H. Stooke
Release date: May 4, 2023 [eBook #70697]
Language: English
Original publication: United Kingdom: S. W. Partridge & Co., Ltd, 1903
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MOUSEY ***
Transcriber's note: Unusual and inconsistent spelling is as printed.
CHAPTER
CHAPTER I. A FAMILY CONFERENCE
CHAPTER II. WITH AUNT ELIZA AND UNCLE DICK
CHAPTER III. THE ARRIVAL AT HAUGHTON
CHAPTER IV. THE FIRST EVENING IN THE NEW HOME
CHAPTER V. MOUSEY MAKES A FRIEND
CHAPTER VI. EASTER SUNDAY AT HAUGHTON
CHAPTER VII. CONCERNING JOHN MONDAY
CHAPTER VIII. MOUSEY LEARNS SHE IS TO GO TO SCHOOL; AND MAKES A NEW ACQUAINTANCE
CHAPTER IX. MOUSEY GOES TO SCHOOL
CHAPTER X. MOUSEY'S RICH COUSIN
CHAPTER XI. MR. HARDING'S GIFT
CHAPTER XII. MOUSEY GOES OUT TO TEA
CHAPTER XIII. JOHN MONDAY IS CONFIDENTIAL
CHAPTER XIV. MOUSEY AND UNCLE DICK
CHAPTER XV. CONCERNING AN OLD SUIT OF CLOTHES AND A NEW ONE
CHAPTER XVI. HOW JOHN MONDAY SPENT HIS HALF-CROWN
CHAPTER XVII. JOHN MONDAY DETERMINES TO TURN OVER A NEW LEAF
CHAPTER XVIII. JOHN MONDAY IN TROUBLE
CHAPTER XIX. THE COMMENCEMENT OF THE SUMMER HOLIDAYS
CHAPTER XX. PREPARING FOR MOUSEY'S VISIT
CHAPTER XXI. HOW MOUSEY WAS WELCOMED BY HER RELATIONS
CHAPTER XXII. COUSIN ROBERT'S LETTER
CHAPTER XXIII. JOHN MONDAY REAPPEARS UPON THE SCENE
CHAPTER XXIV. MR. HARDING WASHES HIS HANDS OF JOHN MONDAY
CHAPTER XXV. CHANGES
CHAPTER XXVI. COUSIN ROBERT'S ILLNESS
CHAPTER XXVII. SUNSHINE AND HAPPINESS
THE funeral was over, and the mourners had returned to the small villa which had been the abode of Mrs. Abbot and her little daughter to discuss what was to be done with the few bits of poor furniture, and to decide where Mousey was to make her future home. Mousey, whose real name was Arabella, but who had always been called Mousey on account of her quiet ways and soft brown eyes, was beginning to awaken from the dream-like feeling which had mercifully dulled her senses since her mother's death four days before, and to realise her loss, which was indeed great, for her father had died when she had been a baby, and she had neither sister nor brother to share her grief.
Poor little girl! When she had stood by the open grave that afternoon, and had heard the earth fall upon her mother's coffin, she had felt as though her heart must break; but she had bravely choked down her sobs, and restrained her tears as much as possible, so that her Aunt Eliza, her mother's sister, who had held her hand, had thought her a strange child not to show more signs of emotion.
Now, as Mousey sat by her aunt's side on the horse-hair sofa in the sitting-room, she looked timidly around on the faces which were turned towards her full of pity, conscious that this was a crisis in her life. Opposite to her, in the one easy-chair the room possessed, was Uncle Dick, Aunt Eliza's husband, who smiled at the little girl encouragingly whenever his eyes met hers. There were also present a few other relatives, including an elderly man whom Mousey knew must be her mother's cousin, Robert Harding, a watchmaker and jeweller, living in a neighbouring town. Mrs. Abbot had often spoken of her Cousin Robert to Mousey, telling her how he was a bachelor who lived a penurious life, and was supposed to have saved a lot of money. He had a reputation for being very mean, and had never been known to spend twopence when a single penny would do. In appearance he was tall and thin and shrivelled, with a face like a dried apple, and a pair of twinkling beady eyes which had an uncommonly sharp way of looking at one.
"I suppose my poor sister's furniture will have to be sold by auction," remarked Aunt Eliza, casting a glance around the room, and shaking her head. "The things won't make much—there'll be little enough for the child!"
"Was my lamented cousin entirely without means?" inquired Mr. Harding in a gruff voice. "I am aware her husband was a poor man, but she was a careful, hard-working woman. Did she save nothing?"
"It was as much as she could do to support herself and Mousey," Uncle Dick responded; "she let lodgings, and took in plain sewing, and slaved from morning to night, but folks don't make fortunes that way!"
Mousey's eyes filled with tears, and her slight frame shook with sobs. All day she had been endeavouring to restrain her sorrow, but now it was overcoming her.
"Come, my dear, you mustn't cry like that!" exclaimed Uncle Dick, looking much distressed.
"You mustn't grieve for her, Mousey," said Aunt Eliza; "you must remember she's far better off now than she was here on earth."
Mousey knew that right well; but she thought of Him who wept when he heard of the death of Lazarus, and the remembrance was like balm to her aching heart, for it brought the consciousness of the presence of the Divine consoler, and she was comforted.
"Come here, child," said Mr. Harding. "I want to have a good look at you."
Mousey obeyed, and the old man held her in front of him whilst he regarded her gravely.
"So they call you Mousey, do they?" he said. "Well, I think the name suits you. How old are you, eh?"
"Ten years old, sir."
"You can call me Cousin Robert. You know your poor mother was a cousin of mine. Are you a good girl, eh?"
"I—I try to be good," she answered falteringly.
"That's well. You've lost the best friend you ever had! It's very sad to be left alone and unprovided for."
Mousey thought so too, and to be reminded of the fact was almost more than she could bear. At this point Uncle Dick interposed in his kindly way—
"Never mind, child! You've always one friend in the world so long as I'm alive, remember. What do you say, Eliza; shall we take this little maid home with us to-night, and let her share with our young ones?"
"I—I suppose that will be the best plan," responded his wife doubtfully, as she thought how difficult she and her good-natured husband found it to make both ends meet, and feed and clothe their own children. "Yes," she continued more cordially, "Mousey shall make her home with us; she's my own sister's child, and it shall never be said I begrudged her aught I had."
Mousey ran to her aunt's side, and kissed her with passionate gratitude and affection; after which she turned to Uncle Dick, and hugged and kissed him too.
"Oh, how I love you!" she cried. "Oh, how good you are!"
Mr. Harding, who had been looking on in silence, now interposed again.
"Cousin Eliza," he said dryly, "I should have thought you and your husband would have had enough on your hands already without burdening yourselves with another person's child, even though she is near akin to you. However, you know your own business best, of course! No doubt you are in a position to educate and provide for the little girl, eh?"
There was a touch of sarcasm in the old man's voice, which brought an indignant flush to Uncle Dick's face, and caused him to glance uneasily at his wife, who answered—
"You well know, Cousin Robert, that my husband is only a struggling man in a small way of business, and not able to promise much for Mousey; but she shall share with our children, if there is nothing better in store for her."
"And if there is something better in store for her, eh?"
Aunt Eliza glanced at the old man questioningly, but made no reply.
"What if I offer Mousey a home?" he proceeded. "What if I promise to board, feed, clothe, and educate the child?"
"Do you really mean that?" Aunt Eliza asked in astonishment.
"I do. It is not an ungenerous offer, I take it!" and Mr. Harding looked around at his relations as though courting their approval, which he received with a gratified smile that deepened the wrinkles on his withered countenance.
Mousey, who had seated herself on the horse-hair sofa, clung to her aunt in great agitation, and whispered pleadingly—
"Oh, I would so much rather live with you and Uncle Dick, and I will share with my cousins—only, they shall have the best of everything, and I will always do what you tell me—and—and—"
The little girl broke down completely, and hid her tear-stained face against her aunt's shoulder.
"The last few days have been too much for her," remarked Uncle Dick, glancing apprehensively at Mr. Harding, who nodded, and tapped one foot impatiently on the floor.
When Mousey's distress had abated somewhat, the old man called her to him again, and addressed her as follows—
"Listen to me, child! You are left alone in the world, and unprovided for. Your aunt and her husband— very foolish people in my estimation— are willing to undertake the charge of you. If you become a member of their household, you cannot be anything but a burden to them for many a year to come."
"No, no!" interposed Uncle Dick.
The old man proceeded as though he had not heard the interruption.
"I don't think you should take advantage of your aunt and uncle's kindness. I'm a man of my word, and when I say a thing I mean it. I'll provide for you, and you shall have a comfortable home. Come now, what do you say?" Mousey lifted her eyes timidly, and answered in a voice which trembled pitifully—
"I—I don't know what to say. You are very kind, but—but— Please, Aunt Eliza, will you speak for me?"
"Let Mousey return with us to-night, Cousin Robert," Aunt Eliza said, after a few moments' consideration, "and, with your permission, we'll take a little time to think the matter over. In the course of a few days I will write to you, if you will keep your kind offer open so long."
"Very well," Mr. Harding replied. "I stick to what I've said, remember. If I can be of any use in settling your sister's affairs, I'm at your service. It's no good my staying here any longer, so I'll say good-bye. Have you a kiss to spare for your cousin, Mousey?"
The little girl smiled through her tears as she lifted her pale face and kissed the old man's withered cheek.
"Think over what I've said, my dear," he whispered; "and mind! You're to call me Cousin Robert."
He shook hands with the rest of his relations in a brisk, business-like way, gave a parting nod to Mousey and took his departure.
MR. DAWSON, Mousey's Uncle Dick, was a market gardener. His house was about half a mile from the town where Mousey had spent her short life. It had been the little girl's greatest pleasure to visit Aunt Eliza and Uncle Dick, when she had delighted in the gardens, and nurseries full of seedlings and plants.
Mr. and Mrs. Dawson had six children—the eldest twelve years old, and the youngest barely nine months—so there were many mouths to feed. It must not be imagined that Mrs. Dawson was in the least unkind, or unsympathetic because she was somewhat dismayed at the idea of adding Mousey to her family; she was fond of her dead sister's child, and would have shared her last crust with the little orphan, but she felt that Mr. Harding's offer ought not to be set aside without due consideration. She wished to do the best she could for her niece, and was by no means certain it would be right to keep her from her well-to-do cousin. On talking the matter over with her husband, they both came to the conclusion that Mousey's prospects in life would be decidedly more promising if she went to live with Mr. Harding than if she remained to share the home which was already so full of young folks. So it was, that one afternoon, a few days after her mother's funeral, Mrs. Dawson spoke to the little girl seriously about her future.
"Mousey, I want to have a talk with you," she said kindly. "You know that your mother's furniture has been sold?"
"Yes, Aunt Eliza," the little girl answered, the tears rising to her eyes as she thought of the familiar things in the possession of strangers.
"The furniture has not turned in much money, I'm sorry to say," Mrs. Dawson continued, "and unfortunately you've nothing besides. This morning your uncle had a letter from Cousin Robert, in which he asks when he may expect you."
"Oh, Aunt Eliza!"
Mrs. Dawson was seated in an easy-chair with the baby upon her lap. Mousey crept to her side, and looked up into her face with pleading eyes.
"I wish I could keep you here!" Mrs. Dawson exclaimed, as she put one arm around her little niece affectionately; "but Cousin Robert can do much more for you than we can."
"Oh, Aunt Eliza, please don't think of that!"
"But that is what I do think of, my dear. You see, Mousey, we are not well off, and it would make us miserable if we stood in your way. We think you ought to accept Cousin Robert's offer—it is really a most generous and kind one. You will not be far away from us, and you can always depend upon our love. Besides, you know, even if you had no Aunt Eliza and Uncle Dick, you would have one Friend on whom to rely."
Mousey looked at her aunt questioningly, her lips quivering, her brown eyes full of tears.
"I mean that Friend who said, 'Lo, I am with you alway, even unto the end of the world,'" Mrs. Dawson proceeded; "the Friend in whom your dear mother trusted above all others, and Who, we are certain, was with her through the valley of the shadow of death."
There was a brief silence, during which Mousey struggled to overcome her emotion, and succeeded so far as to presently ask in a resigned tone—
"When is Uncle Dick going to write to Cousin Robert? Soon?"
"He thinks of doing so to-morrow," Mrs. Dawson responded. "Cousin Robert is an old man, and I should think he must be very lonely. He never married, and he has no near relations. His must be a quiet home; perhaps you will make it brighter. Oh, my dear!" she exclaimed, as Mousey shook her head, "you must try to be happy there; it seems to me that there your duty lies. Don't you think that God may have a good purpose in sending you to Cousin Robert? I do. You don't wish to go? No, I can understand that, because you cannot see your path marked plainly for you; yet, there is a Hand stretched out to lead you, a Hand that will guide you in the right way, in the path of duty, which, though it may be dark and rugged at first, grows brighter and smoother the further you tread it."
"Do you really think I ought to go to live with Cousin Robert?" Mousey inquired wistfully.
"Yes, my dear, I do."
"Then I will go, Aunt Eliza. I—I want to do what is right, but I love you all so much. I don't know Cousin Robert like I know you and dear Uncle Dick, and I don't think I like the look of him much."
"You must not judge him by his appearance, child. Be sure he means to be kind to you, or he would not offer you a home."
"Yes; but he has such a gruff way of speaking, and his eyes are so bright and sharp that I feel rather afraid of him. Has he a very big shop, Aunt Eliza?"
"I don't know, but I expect he has, for I have always been given to understand that he does a large business. You are fond of pretty things, so you will be interested to see the goods he has for sale."
"Is he very rich, Aunt Eliza?"
"I believe he is. He has never had many expenses, and has lived a saving life. If he had a wife and children to provide for, like my husband has, he would not be so well-to-do. What message are you going to send to Cousin Robert?"
"Please ask Uncle Dick to thank him for being so kind as to want me to live with him," Mousey responded, after a little consideration, "and say I will try to please him all I can."
"Yes?"
"And if I go to live with him I hope he will let me come to see you all sometimes."
"I have no doubt he will. You will only be about thirty miles distant from us, and that's a very short journey by train. Ah, here is your uncle!"
Mr. Dawson came in, glancing anxiously from his wife to his niece, for he knew what had been the subject under discussion. Mousey ran to him and led him to a chair, after which she perched herself upon his knees.
"Well, child?" he said questioningly.
"It is decided she is to go to Cousin Robert," his wife answered. "We have had a long talk, and I think Mousey agrees with us which way her duty lies."
Uncle Dick's kind blue eyes rested regretfully on the little girl's face, and he heaved a deep sigh.
"If only I was a richer man, my dear," he said, stroking her hair with his big, tender hand, "there should be no question of your leaving us. But I could not afford to spend the money on your education that your Cousin Robert can, and as you will have to get your own living some day, I suppose that is a great matter for consideration. I am glad you see things in their right light; and I believe we're acting as your poor mother would wish. You'll write to us, and tell us how you're getting on, and—who knows?—perhaps your aunt and I may find time to pay you a visit one of these days."
"Oh, I hope you will!" Mousey cried excitedly; "that will be something to look forward to."
"Be very sure we shall not lose sight of you, my dear child," Mrs. Dawson said, with an affectionate smile at her little niece.
"It makes me so unhappy to think of parting from you all," Mousey told them; "but I should like to do what is right. I wish I knew Cousin Robert better, because then I should know how to please him. Do you think he will want to take me away soon?"
"We will ask him to let you remain with us till the end of the month," Mrs. Dawson said, whilst her husband nodded approval of her suggestion; "it is only the third of March now, so if he agrees, we shall have you with us several weeks longer."
Cousin Robert, when consulted, willingly fell in with this arrangement; but the time passed all too quickly for Mousey, and one day, when the wild March winds were giving place to the milder air of April, came a letter informing the little girl that Cousin Robert was coming himself, with the intention of taking her home with him, and would expect to find her in readiness at the time he mentioned.
ONE rainy spring afternoon found Mousey seated opposite to her Cousin Robert in a third-class railway compartment on her way to Haughton, which was the name of the town where Mr. Harding lived. Only ten minutes before she had bidden a tearful farewell to Aunt Eliza, who had come to the station to see the last of her, and to wish her God-speed. Now, the little girl sat staring blankly at the newspaper which Mr. Harding held open in front of his face, feeling thankful that he was paying no attention to her, so that he did not see the tears she was struggling to suppress.
Mousey held a bunch of spring flowers—Uncle Dick's farewell offering— which scented the carriage with the perfumes of narcissi and hyacinths; and in her pocket was a packet of sweets, which her cousins had given her with strict injunctions to eat them all herself.
Presently Mr. Harding peeped at his companion over the top of his newspaper. Mousey was conscious that his sharp eyes glanced at her keenly for a moment before they disappeared behind the newspaper again.
"Humph! All alone in the world!" she heard him mutter to himself.
After a while Mousey dried her eyes, and sniffed at her nosegay with an air of appreciation; then she drew the sweets from her pocket, and put one into her mouth: it tasted very good, and she wondered if Mr. Harding would like one also. She hardly cared to disturb him, for he appeared so interested in his newspaper, but it scarcely seemed good manners not to offer him a share of her cousins' present; so she touched him lightly on the knee, whereupon he put down the newspaper, and looked at her inquiringly.
"Will you have a sweet, Cousin Robert?" she asked timidly, shy blushes rising to her face.
"No, thank you," he answered; "I don't care for sweets."
"These are very nice. Do have one!"
He shook his head, a smile softening the hard lines of his withered countenance and twinkling in his eyes.
"Eat them yourself," he said; "it's many a long year since I had an appetite for sweetmeats. Did your uncle grow those flowers?"
"Yes," she replied. "Wasn't it good of him to cut them for me? Are we far from Haughton, Cousin Robert?"
"No; we shall soon be there. My place is only about five minutes' walk from the station. You have never been to Haughton?"
"No, never."
"It lies in a valley, and the river runs right through the town; in fact, some of the houses are built over the river—mine, for instance. Sometimes, when the tide is high, and there is a quantity of land water, you can hear the water rushing beneath the houses. The fresh water rushes down from the hills and meets the incoming tide, and that causes part of the town to be flooded at certain seasons."
Mousey did not quite comprehend this explanation; and the thought of living in a house built over a river was rather horrifying to her. She looked, as she felt, considerably alarmed. Mr. Harding noted the fact, and hastened to reassure her.
"The floods seldom do much damage," he said. "There's nothing to fear, for my house, though one of the oldest in the town, is one of the strongest. Are you timid, child?"
"I don't know. Yes, I'm afraid I am, but I try not to be. Of course, I know God will take care of me."
A curious expression flickered across the old man's face. He drew down the corners of his mouth, puckered up his forehead, and regarded Mousey gravely.
"How do you know that?" he asked. "How do you know that God will take care of you—eh?"
"Why, because He has said so, Cousin Robert! Don't you remember He said, 'Fear thou not, for I am with thee'?"
"I suppose that's in the Bible," he remarked, after a moment's reflection. "Your mother was religious, and I conclude she has brought you up the same. I've nothing to say against that, so long as you're happy and cheerful; but I can't stand folks who pull long faces, and set up for being better than their neighbours. I'm as honest as I can afford to be!" and he threw back his head and laughed, as though he had said something witty. Mousey looked at him seriously; she thought his face was particularly unattractive at that moment.
A few minutes later the train began to slacken speed, and the journey was soon at an end. Mr. Harding lifted Mousey and her nosegay out of the carriage on to the platform of Haughton Station. He told her to stay where she was until he had seen to her luggage, and went off to claim her modest box. He quickly returned, and taking her by the hand led her out of the station.
"I've told the town porter to bring round your luggage," he informed her; "the man will do it for fourpence. Sixpence is his usual charge, but I bargained with him to knock off twopence as the journey is a short one. 'A penny saved is a penny got,' remember that!"
"Yes, Cousin Robert," she answered meekly.
"Economy is the order of the day in my house," he proceeded. "I've saved money by economy and thrift —doing without things that other people consider necessaries; and so I've got on. Ah, here we are!"
Mousey glanced around her hurriedly. They had turned into a side street, narrow, and not very clean, and had drawn up before a shop window, behind which a few watches and articles of jewellery were exposed to view. Where was the beautiful shop with the sparkling gems and valuable ornaments which Mousey had expected? It had existed but in her own imagination; the reality was before her eyes.
Mr. Harding opened the door, dragging Mousey in behind him, the doorway being too narrow to admit of two people entering side by side.
The little girl now found herself in a small, dingy shop. Behind the counter stood a big boy, apparently about sixteen years of age, who stared at her with a pair of round, green eyes which seemed utterly expressionless.
Mr. Harding spoke to him curtly, bidding him hold himself in readiness to carry Mousey's box upstairs on its arrival, and placed four coppers on the counter, the fee for the town porter.
"He'll want sixpence, sir," remarked the lad.
"I've arranged to pay him fourpence," Mr. Harding explained, "and he'll be amply paid for his labour. Anyone in particular called during my absence, Monday?"
"No, sir," was the response; "only a few brooches left for new pins, and a couple of watches to be cleaned."
"Very well. This is my cousin, who is to make her home here. Mousey, this is my assistant, John Monday."
Mousey held out her hand shyly. John Monday glanced at her doubtfully for a moment, then shook hands vigorously, and hoped she was well.
She thought he was quite the ugliest boy she had ever seen; and indeed he was very plain, being tall and lanky, with irregular features. His wide, straight mouth seemed almost to reach from ear to ear; his eyebrows and eyelashes were red; and his head was covered with a crop of thick, matted, red hair. He was clad in a threadbare suit of clothes which he had evidently outgrown, for his bony wrists were bare, and his trousers were inches above his shabby boots.
Mr. Harding next led Mousey into a little parlour at the back of the shop, from which it was separated by a glass door. A lace curtain hung in front of the door, but one could easily see through it what was going on in the shop. It was the dullest room Mousey had ever been in, the outlook from the window being a yard, across which a clothes-line laden with linen was suspended between two poles.
The child's heart beat almost painfully as she looked around the cheerless apartment, noting the shabby Brussels carpet, the common wooden chairs ranged stiffly against the walls, and the crumpled cloth covering the table, on which were spread the tea-things, a loaf of bread, a pat of butter, and a jar of jam.
A middle-aged woman now entered the room, whom Mr. Harding introduced as Maria. Mousey knew she must be the servant, although she wore no cap. She was a small, spare woman with pinched features and a colourless complexion. She greeted Mousey kindly, and after the town porter had arrived, and John Monday had carried the little girl's box upstairs, she asked her if she would not like to remove her outdoor garments.
Mousey assented, and still grasping her bunch of flowers followed Maria upstairs to the little chamber which had been prepared for her reception. When she was alone she burst into a flood of tears telling herself that she never could be happy in such a miserable place, and if Aunt Eliza and Uncle Dick had known what Cousin Robert's house was like, they certainly would not have wished her to live in so dreary a home.
MOUSEY'S tears did not last long, for she reflected that if she made her eyes red Mr. Harding would, in all probability, want to know what was amiss; so she soon ceased crying, and after bathing her face in cold water was relieved to find that the traces of tears were gone. Then she unpacked her box, and laid its contents in the set of drawers awaiting her belongings; after which she brushed and combed her hair, and turned towards the door, with the intention of going downstairs. As she passed the window she glanced out, and paused in sudden admiration, for in the distance she caught a glimpse of high hills, half enveloped in mist.
The rain, which had been incessant during the day, was clearing now, and from Mousey's window, which faced the west, she could see the sun as it set. A rush of tender memories filled the little girl's heart at the sight—memories of her mother, and the teaching she had learnt from her lips. She could hear her dear voice speaking of Jesus, her never-failing Friend, and she remembered how she and her mother, when the work of the day had been ended, had often sung together an evening hymn—
"Abide with me: fast falls the eventide; The darkness deepens; Lord, with me abide; When other helpers fail, and comforts flee, Help of the helpless, oh, abide with me."
The familiar words rang in her ears like an angel's message, full of hope and consolation, and as she looked at the setting sun, and noted the shadows of evening creeping over the town, a feeling of peace stole into her desolate heart.
Whilst she still stood at the window, she felt a touch on her shoulder, and turned with a start to find herself face to face with Maria.
"Are you ready for tea?" the woman asked. "Mr. Harding is waiting in the parlour."
"I am quite ready," Mousey responded, adding in explanation of her delay, "I have been looking at the beautiful view from the window."
"Shall I put your flowers in water for you?"
Mousey assented gratefully, for her cherished blossoms were commencing to droop.
Maria lifted the nosegay, and smiled as she remarked, "I'm very fond of flowers, but we don't often see any in this house. Master says they're an expensive luxury."
Downstairs Mousey found Mr. Harding already seated at the tea-table. He looked at her sharply as she entered the room, and pointed to a chair opposite to his own.
"Sit down, child," he said; and, as she obeyed, he went on to explain: "I always have my tea at five o'clock prompt, and you had better join me. John Monday has his afterwards."
He poured out a cup of weak tea, which he passed to her, telling her to help herself to milk. Then he remarked that he supposed she did not care for sugar, it was an unnecessary expense, adding, with a chuckle, that he understood it was not fashionable nowadays to take sugar in tea. Mousey did not like to confess that she was accustomed to sugar in her tea, so she drank the lukewarm beverage he offered her, unsweetened.
At that point Maria entered, bearing a large bowl, in which she had arranged Mousey's flowers with considerable taste. The little girl smiled as the woman placed the bowl in the centre of the table, casting a deprecating glance at her master as she did so; but he made no remark until she had left the room; then he turned to his companion and said—
"I have no objection to flowers as long as they don't cost me anything. I suppose if your uncle had sold those they would have turned in some money, eh?"
"Yes," she assented; "the hyacinth blooms are sixpence a dozen."
"Ah! no wonder my friend Dawson remains a poor man," Mr. Harding exclaimed.
Mousey looked at him in surprise, not grasping his meaning. Her mind flew to the home she had just left. She fancied she could hear Uncle Dick saying, "I wish we could have a peep at Mousey, to see how she's getting on!" A glow of warmth crept into her heart as she thought of him, and her face shone with a happy smile.
From his seat at the table Mr. Harding could look into the shop. At last, a customer entering, he rose to interview the newcomer, saying as he left the parlour that he would send Monday to have his tea now.
The next minute the lanky youth took his master's place. He helped himself to a cup of tea, and buttered a slice of bread in silence, watching Mousey the while. She grew red and uncomfortable under his gaze, and wondered how long he was going to stare at her without speaking.
"Think you'll like it here?" he asked at length.
"I—I don't know," she answered hesitatingly.
"Mother dead?" was his next question, put for the sake of making conversation; he had been previously informed of Mrs. Abbot's death.
"Yes; she died a month ago," Mousey answered in trembling accents.
"I never knew my mother," the boy told her, "nor my father either. I was born in the workhouse."
"Indeed!" said Mousey, looking at him with such evident interest that he was encouraged to proceed.
"Mother died when I was born," he went on; "the folks at the workhouse didn't know her name, or anything about her, so they called me Monday because I was born on a Monday, and John after the workhouse master."
He laughed, showing as he did so a row of strong, white teeth. He was evidently by no means depressed by the thought of his friendless position.
"Mr. Harding took me from the workhouse," he continued, "and he's bringing me up to his trade. I live here, you know."
"Do you?" cried the little girl. "It was very kind of Cousin Robert to take you from the workhouse, wasn't it?"
"Oh, as to that, he doesn't lose by me," he replied frankly. "I run his errands, look after his shop, and do heaps of odd jobs about the place. Oh, he gets the work out of me, I can tell you!"
Mousey thought he was not as grateful as he should have been under the circumstances; but, of course, she did not tell him so. He was peeping through the glass door, and apparently satisfied with the sight of his master still in conversation with the customer, drew the jam-pot towards him, and spread his bread and butter thickly with raspberry preserve.
"The old man doesn't allow me to eat jam with bread and butter," he explained; "he says it's extravagant. It must be either bread and butter, or bread and jam, so if he's out of the way I help myself. Won't you have some?"
"No, thank you; I've finished," Mousey replied. There was silence for a few minutes, during which John Monday disposed of his forbidden luxury with evident enjoyment, whilst his companion wondered what would happen if by any chance Mr. Harding returned to the parlour and caught him.
"They call you Mousey, don't they?" he asked presently. "But that's not your real name, I suppose?"
"No. My real name is Arabella Abbot, but everyone calls me Mousey."
"Shall I?" he inquired; then as Mousey nodded, he said, "All right, I will. And you can call me John."
After that they grew quite friendly. She told him about her uncle, and aunt, and six cousins, and gave him a glowing account of the nursery gardens. He listened, much interested.
"You'll find it a change here," he remarked; "there's no garden to this house, and you have to walk a good step before you get into the country."
At that moment Mr. Harding's voice broke in upon their conversation.
"Monday! Are you going to sit over your tea all night? Come and take charge of the shop whilst I go to the post office."
John Monday rose, and pushed back his chair, contorting his face into a hideous grimace.
"Coming, sir!" he made answer, and hurriedly joined his master.
When Maria came in to fetch away the tea-things Mousey timidly asked if she could help, but was told there was no necessity.
"You can come and see my kitchen," Maria said kindly, noticing a shade of disappointment on the child's face.
This Mousey was very glad to do, and she was delighted to find the kitchen a much pleasanter room than the parlour. The tins on the mantelshelf shone like silver, and a copper warming-pan, hanging from a nail against the wall, was so bright that you could see your reflection in it, whilst a tall clock with a brass face ticked in a companionable way.
Mousey did not see Mr. Harding again that night, for, after spending an hour with Maria, she complained of being very tired, and, Maria suggesting the advisability of her going to bed, she fell in with the idea at once.
So she crept upstairs, and after saying her prayers undressed quickly, and lay down to rest. Ten minutes later, when Maria looked in upon her, she found her sleeping peacefully.
"Poor little thing!" the woman murmured softly; "I almost wish she had not come."
WHEN Mousey awoke the following morning she found the weather had cleared, and the sun was shining brightly in a sky of cloudless blue.
Jumping out of bed she proceeded to dress; then, after pulling up the blind, and opening the window to admit the fresh spring air, she said her prayers and read a few verses from her Bible, as she was accustomed to do. She lingered for a few minutes to look at the beautiful hills in the distance, which were now bathed in bright sunshine; after which she went downstairs into the parlour, where she found John Monday and Maria, who was laying the cloth for breakfast.
"Good-morning," said the little girl, glancing, with a smile, from one to the other.
They returned her greeting, Maria adding pleasantly—
"Why, you look as fresh as a daisy this morning. Did you sleep well?"
"Yes, thank you," Mousey answered. "I went to sleep the minute after I was in bed, and I never woke up till about half an hour ago. I was afraid I was late."
"Master has breakfast at eight," Maria responded; "it's ten minutes to that, so you are in plenty of time."
"You'd hear enough about it if you did happen to be late," John Monday remarked. "Mr. Harding likes everyone to be punctual. He'll be down himself at the tick of eight o'clock, you'll see. You haven't known him long, have you?"
"No. I saw him for the first time on the day when mother was buried," Mousey replied.
"What did you think of him?" he asked curiously.
Mousey hesitated in confusion, but Maria came to her assistance by reproving the lad for putting such a question.
"There's no harm in it," he said in an aggrieved tone. "I know what I thought when I saw him go off in his old suit of black that's green with age, and that tall hat of his that no one else in the town would wear. I thought he looked a real old miser, and so he did!"
"Hush!" cried Maria, glancing anxiously towards the doorway; "you know how softly he treads. Don't you let him overhear you! You mustn't pay any attention to what John says," she continued, turning to Mousey; "he lets his tongue run away with him. Ah, here comes master!"
She slipped out of the room, and a few seconds later Mr. Harding entered. He nodded to John Monday, who civilly wished him good-morning, and then turned his attention to Mousey.
"Well, little maid, and how is it with you?" he questioned.
She coloured beneath his keen scrutiny, but replied that she was very well, and hoped he was, too. He sat down at the table with his eyes fixed on the clock on the mantelshelf; and in the course of a few minutes Maria re-entered, bearing three basins of porridge on a tray. The old man motioned to the young people to take their seat which they accordingly did, and Maria placed a basin of porridge before each.
Mr. Harding and John Monday commenced eating at once, but Mousey waited to silently say the grace which the others apparently omitted.
"Why don't you begin your breakfast?" Mr. Harding asked, with a touch of severity in his tone. "Don't you like porridge, eh? It's wholesome food, and not to be despised, let me tell you, miss!"
"Oh, yes, yes!" Mousey cried, growing suddenly crimson and seizing her spoon in great haste. "I—I was only saying grace, Cousin Robert."
John Monday began to laugh, but ceased abruptly as his master turned upon him with a frown.
"What are you making that noise for, eh?" Mr. Harding demanded, his small eyes sparkling angrily. "Because you're ungrateful yourself for the good things provided for you is no reason why others should be."
The lad looked so abashed that Mousey's heart was touched at the sight.
"Oh, please don't be angry with him, Cousin Robert," she pleaded. "I—I don't think he meant to be rude."
"Well, well, get on with your breakfast, child," Mr. Harding answered in more pacific tones; "and do you mind your manners another time, Monday, or you and I shall fall out."
The meal was finished with thick bread and butter and weak tea, but Mousey found the porridge so satisfying that she wanted nothing else. She was glad when Mr. Harding rose from the table and told his assistant to take down the shutters and open the shop door.
When Maria came in to clear away the breakfast-things the old man requested her to find some employment about the house for Mousey.
"I intend sending the child to school after Easter," he said, "but till then she can help you, Maria. I suppose you can dust a room, can't you, Mousey?"
"Oh, yes, Cousin Robert," the little girl replied eagerly. "And I can light fires, and clean boots, and knives and forks, and trim lamps."
Mr. Harding nodded approvingly, and remarked—
"I am glad your mother brought you up to be useful. Be a good girl, and you'll do."
So Mousey spent the day with Maria, the time passing happily enough. She found the pale-faced woman very ready to listen to her chatter, and told her all about her mother's illness and death.
"So you dreaded the thought of coming here?" Maria said, after Mousey had given her a lengthy account of Aunt Eliza, Uncle Dick, and the cousins, and explained how she had hoped to make her home with them.
"Yes," Mousey acknowledged, "I did not want to come, but Aunt Eliza thought I ought. It's dreadful to be poor, isn't it?"
"I think it is sometimes; but there are worse things than poverty to be met with in this world."
"Mother was poor," Mousey said musingly, "but we were happy, although she had to work hard; and the lodgers were often dreadfully particular. Have you lived long with Cousin Robert, Maria?"
"A good while," Maria replied; "nigh upon twenty years. I never cared for changing places, or I don't think I should have stayed here longer than the first month—after that, I got accustomed to it."
"Got accustomed to it?" Mousey repeated questioningly.
"To the place, I mean, and to master's ways. His ways wouldn't suit everyone."
Mousey longed to inquire what his ways were like, but refrained from doing so, fearing, if she asked, Maria would consider her very curious.
"I don't think I like John Monday much," she said a little later; "it wasn't nice of him to speak of Cousin Robert as he did this morning. Of course, I know what a miser is—a mean person who loves money better than anything else. John called Cousin Robert a miser. And at breakfast he laughed because I said grace."
"Did master laugh too?" Maria asked quickly.
"Oh, no! He was very angry with John Monday."
"Was he? Ah, well, you know folks are not all brought up alike, and you must not be surprised if master and John are different to the people you've been accustomed to—people like your mother, and aunt, and that good uncle you've been telling me about. Master's whole heart is in his business, and he thinks of little else. He's not religious."
"Doesn't he go to church?" Mousey asked.
"No, nor to chapel, nor to any place of worship; at least, he never has since I've known him. He spends his Sunday—there! you'll see for yourself!"
"But doesn't he feel lonely without God for his friend?"
"That I can't say. I don't suppose he ever gives God a second thought. There, now, don't look so serious! I only told you because I thought I'd better warn you not to speak about religion to master. He doesn't like to hear about it."
Mousey's heart was filled with dismay, for she had never before contemplated a life lived apart from God. Maria saw she was distressed, and tried to comfort her.
"Master has his good points," she said consolingly, "and if he's not religious himself, he doesn't interfere with the religion of other people. I dare say he'll let you go to church with me on Sunday evenings. I don't go mornings because there's the housework to do."
"Oh, Maria," cried the little girl earnestly, "I do not think I shall ever be happy in this miserable place!"
"Nonsense!" Maria responded briskly; "you'll soon grow accustomed to it, and one of these days, I dare say, you'll see it was all for the best your coming here. Can't you believe that God sent you?"
Maria put a kindly arm around Mousey and kissed her gently. That kiss was the seal of a friendship which was to deepen and strengthen in the days to come.
MOUSEY never forgot the first Sunday she spent at Haughton. It was Easter Day, and whilst the churches were ringing out their invitation to all to come and worship the risen Lord, Mousey was standing by her open window sorrowfully comparing this Sunday with others during her mother's lifetime, which had been so full of joy and happiness that her heart swelled at the remembrance, and regretful tears rose to her soft, brown eyes. Downstairs, in the parlour, Mr. Harding was seated in front of an old oak secretaire, which occupied a corner of the room, engaged in casting up accounts, and looking over business papers. To see him thus occupied this morning had been a shock to Mousey, who had been taught to remember the Sabbath day to keep it holy; and so she had quietly slipped out of the parlour unobserved, and in the safe retreat of her own room had read St. Matthew's account of Christ's resurrection from the dead.
Presently the bells ceased their ringing, and a calm settled over the town. The air was so still that the little girl could hear the sheep bleating and the cattle lowing in the distant fields.
"Mousey!"
She started at the sound of Mr. Harding's voice calling to her. He was evidently at the foot of the stairs, and she hastened to open the door and respond to his summons.
"Yes, Cousin Robert," she answered, wondering what he could want, for he had not taken much notice of her during the few days since her arrival.
"Put on your hat and jacket, child; I am going to take you for a walk before dinner."
She quickly did his bidding, and joined him clown-stairs with a glow of pleasurable anticipation on her face. He had changed the drab coat he usually wore for the equally shabby black one in which Mousey had first seen him, and in his hand he held the high hat which John Monday had declared no one else in the town would wear. It had certainly seen its best days long before, and was now rough and rusty with age.
The old man glanced kindly at Mousey as she came running downstairs, and asked if she was pleased at the idea of going out with him. He appeared gratified when she assured him that she was.
They sallied forth together, a rather odd-looking couple Maria thought, as she watched them out of sight. Very soon they had reached one of the main thoroughfares of the town, and were crossing a broad stone bridge under which the river flowed.
"Is it the same river that runs under your house, Cousin Robert?" Mousey inquired.
"The same," he responded. "It looks quiet enough to-day, but often in the winter it's a raging torrent."
The sunshine was dancing on the gently rippling water, whilst every now and again there was the flutter of white wings as one seagull, then another, swooped down and rested on the surface of the river.
"How pretty they are!" Mousey cried, her voice full of delight. "Oh, how pretty they are!"
"There are always a lot of them about here," Mr. Harding told her. "Haughton is only six miles from the coast, and the river flows straight to the sea. In stormy weather the gulls go much further inland than this."
They turned their backs on the river, and a few steps further on were passing a church when Mousey caught hold of Mr. Harding's hand, begging him to pause and listen for a moment. He complied, though somewhat unwillingly. The congregation was singing a hymn, and the refrain was a familiar one to the child.