"Dear Mr. Fairchild,"I and my wife, and my sister Miss Crosbie, and my daughter Betsy, have been taking a journey for our health this summer. We left London three months ago, and have been down as far as Yorkshire. We are now returning home, and have turned a little out of our way to see you, as it is as much as twelve years since we met; so you may look for us, no accident happening, to-morrow, a little before two. We hope to dine with you, and to go onin the evening to the next town, for our time is short. I have sent a fine haunch of venison which I bought yesterday from the innkeeper where we slept; it will be just fit for dressing to-morrow; so I shall be obliged to Mrs. Fairchild to order her cook to roast it by two o'clock, which is my dinner-hour. My man Thomas, who brings this letter, will tell the cook how I like to have my venison dressed; and he brings a pot of currant jelly, to make sauce, in case you should have none by you; though I dare say this precaution is not necessary, as Mrs. Fairchild, no doubt, has all these things by her. I am not particular about my eating; but I should be obliged to you if you would have the venison ready by two o'clock, and let Thomas direct your cook. My wife and sister and daughter Betsy send best compliments to our old friend, Mrs. Fairchild, and hoping we shall meet in health to-morrow,"I remain, dear Mr. Fairchild,Your old friend,"Obadiah Crosbie."P.S.—You will find the haunch excellent; we dined upon the neck yesterday, and it was the best I ever tasted."
"Dear Mr. Fairchild,
"I and my wife, and my sister Miss Crosbie, and my daughter Betsy, have been taking a journey for our health this summer. We left London three months ago, and have been down as far as Yorkshire. We are now returning home, and have turned a little out of our way to see you, as it is as much as twelve years since we met; so you may look for us, no accident happening, to-morrow, a little before two. We hope to dine with you, and to go onin the evening to the next town, for our time is short. I have sent a fine haunch of venison which I bought yesterday from the innkeeper where we slept; it will be just fit for dressing to-morrow; so I shall be obliged to Mrs. Fairchild to order her cook to roast it by two o'clock, which is my dinner-hour. My man Thomas, who brings this letter, will tell the cook how I like to have my venison dressed; and he brings a pot of currant jelly, to make sauce, in case you should have none by you; though I dare say this precaution is not necessary, as Mrs. Fairchild, no doubt, has all these things by her. I am not particular about my eating; but I should be obliged to you if you would have the venison ready by two o'clock, and let Thomas direct your cook. My wife and sister and daughter Betsy send best compliments to our old friend, Mrs. Fairchild, and hoping we shall meet in health to-morrow,
"I remain, dear Mr. Fairchild,Your old friend,"Obadiah Crosbie.
"P.S.—You will find the haunch excellent; we dined upon the neck yesterday, and it was the best I ever tasted."
When Mr. Fairchild had finished the letter, he smiled, and said:
"I shall be very glad to see our old friends, but I am sorry poor Mr. Crosbie still thinks so much about eating. It always was his besetting sin, and it seems to have grown stronger upon him as he has got older."
"Who is Mr. Crosbie, papa?" said Lucy.
"Mr. Crosbie, my dear," said Mr. Fairchild, "lives in London. He has a large fortune which he got in trade. He has given up business some years, and now lives upon his fortune. When your mamma and I were in London, twelve years ago, we were at Mr. Crosbie's house, wherewe were very kindly treated; therefore we must do the best we can to receive Mr. and Mrs. Crosbie kindly, and to make them as comfortable as possible."
When John went to church that same evening, Mr. Fairchild desired him to tell nurse to come the next day to help Betty, for nurse was a very good cook; and the next morning Mrs. Fairchild prepared everything to receive Mr. and Mrs. Crosbie; and Mr. Fairchild invited Mr. Somers, the clergyman of the parish, to meet them at dinner. When the clock struck one, Mrs. Fairchild dressed herself and the children, and then went into a little tea-room, the window of which opened upon a small grass plot, surrounded by rose-bushes and other flowering shrubs. Mr. Somers came in a little before two, and sat with Mrs. Fairchild.
When the clock struck two, Mr. Crosbie's family were not come, and Mr. Fairchild sent Henry to the garden gate to look if he could see the carriage at a distance. When Henry returned he said that he could see the carriage, but it was still a good way off.
"I am afraid the venison will be over-roasted," said Mrs. Fairchild, smiling.
Henry soon after went to the gate, and got there just in time to open it wide for Mr. Crosbie's carriage. Mr. and Mrs. Fairchild ran out to receive their friends.
"I am glad to see you once again," said Mr. Crosbie, as he stepped out of the coach, followed by Mrs. Crosbie, Miss Crosbie, Miss Betsy, and Mrs. Crosbie's maid.
Mr. Crosbie was a very fat man, with a red face, yet he looked good-humoured, and had, in his younger days, been handsome. Mrs. Crosbie was a little thin woman, and there was nothing in her appearance which pleased Emily and Lucy, though she spoke civilly to them. Miss Crosbie was as old as her brother, but she did not look so, for herface was painted red and white; and she and Miss Betsy had sky-blue hats and tippets, with white feathers, which Lucy and Emily thought very beautiful.
"Have you any company, Mrs. Fairchild?" said Miss Crosbie, as Mrs. Fairchild was leading them into the parlour.
"Only one gentleman, Mr. Somers, our rector," said Mrs. Fairchild.
"Oh! then I must not appear in this gown! and my hair, too, is all rough," said Miss Crosbie; "I must put on another gown; I am quite frightful to look at!"
"Indeed," said Mrs. Fairchild, "your dress is very nice; there is no need to trouble yourself to alter it."
"Oh, sister," said Mrs. Crosbie, "don't think of changing your dress; Mrs. Fairchild's dinner is ready, I dare say."
Miss Crosbie would not be persuaded, but, calling the maid to attend her, ran upstairs to change her dress: and Mrs. Fairchild sent Lucy after her. The rest of the company then went into the tea-room, where they sat round the window, and Mr. Crosbie said:
"What a pretty place you have here, Mr. Fairchild; and a good wife, as I well know—and these pretty children! You ought to be a happy man."
"And so I am, thank God," said Mr. Fairchild, "as happy as any man in the world."
"I should have been with you an hour ago," said Mr. Crosbie, "that I might have walked over your garden before dinner, but for my wife there."
"What of your wife there?" said Mrs. Crosbie, turning sharply towards him. "Now mind, Mr. Crosbie, if the venison is over-roasted, don't say it is my fault."
Mr. Crosbie took out his watch.
"It is now twenty-five minutes past two," said he; "thevenison has been down at the fire twenty-five minutes longer than it should have been. And did you not keep us an hour waiting this morning, at the inn where we slept, whilst you quarrelled with the innkeeper and his wife?"
Mrs. Crosbie answered:
"You are always giving people to understand that I am ill-tempered, Mr. Crosbie; which I think is very unhandsome of you, Mr. Crosbie. There is not another person in the world who thinks me ill-tempered but you. Ask Thomas, or my maid, what they know of my temper, and ask your sister, who has lived with me long enough."
"Why don't you askmewhat I think of it, mamma?" said Miss Betsy, pertly.
"Hold your tongue, miss!" said Mrs. Crosbie.
"Must I not speak?" said Miss Betsy in a low voice, but loud enough for her mamma to hear her.
WhenMiss Betsy first came in, Emily admired her very much; for, besides the sky-blue hat and feather, she had blue satin shoes, and a very large pair of gold earrings; but when she heard her speak so boldly to her mother she did not like her so much. By this time John came to tell the company that dinner was on the table; and Mr. Crosbie got up, saying:
"The venison smells well—exceedingly well."
"But where is Miss Crosbie?" asked Mr. Fairchild.
"Oh, my aunt thought herself not smart enough to show herself before Mr. Somers," said Miss Betsy pertly.
"Be silent, miss," said Mrs. Crosbie.
"Don't wait for her, then," said Mr. Crosbie; "let us go in to dinner. My sister loves a little finery; she would rather lose her dinner than not be dressed smart; I never wait for her at any meal. Come, come! Ladies lead the way; I am very hungry."
So Mrs. Fairchild sent Emily to tell Miss Crosbie thatdinner was ready, and the rest of the company sat down to table.
"Mrs. Crosbie," said Mr. Crosbie, looking at the venison, then at his wife, "the venison is too much roasted; I told you it would be so."
"What! finding fault with me again, Mr. Crosbie?" said Mrs. Crosbie. "Do you hear Mr. Fairchild finding fault with his wife in this manner?"
"Perhaps the venison is better than you think, Mr. Crosbie," said Mr. Somers; "let me help you to some. Mr. Fairchild, I know, is not fond of carving."
Mr. Crosbie thanked Mr. Somers; and Mr. Somers had just begun to cut the venison, when Mr. Crosbie called out, as if in agony:
"Oh, Mr. Somers, you will spoil the venison! You must not cut it that way upon any account. Do put the haunch by me, and let me help myself."
"What confusion you are making at the table, Mr. Crosbie!" said Mrs. Crosbie. "You are putting every dish out of its place! Surely Mr. Somers knows how to carve as well as you do."
"But papa is afraid Mr. Somers won't give him all the nice bits," said Miss Betsy.
"Learn to be silent, miss!" said Mr. Crosbie.
Miss Betsy was going to answer her father, when Miss Crosbie came into the room, newly dressed in a very elegant manner. She came smiling in, followed by Lucy and Emily, who went to sit at a small table with Henry.
"Sister," said Mrs. Crosbie, "where was the need of your dressing again? If we had waited for you, the dinner would have been spoiled."
"But we did not wait for Miss Crosbie, so there was no harm done," said Mr. Fairchild, smiling.
"My aunt would not lose an opportunity of showing her new-fashioned gown for the world!" said Miss Betsy.
"Indeed, niece," answered Miss Crosbie, "I do not know why you should say that I am fond of showing my clothes. I wish to be neat and clean, but no person cares less than I do about fashions and finery."
"La!" says Miss Betsy, whispering to Mrs. Fairchild "hear my aunt! she says she does not care about finery! That's like mamma saying how good-natured she is!"
"Fie, fie, Miss Betsy!" said Mrs. Fairchild, speaking low; "you forget your respect to your elders."
Miss Betsy coloured, and stared at Mrs. Fairchild. She had not been used to be found fault with; for she was spoiled by both her parents; and she felt quite angry.
"Indeed!" she said, "I never was thought disrespectful to anyone before. Can't I see people's faults? Can't I see that mamma is cross, and my aunt fond of fine clothes, and that papa loves eating?"
"Hush! hush!" said Mrs. Fairchild, in a low voice; "your papa and mamma will hear you."
"And I don't care if they do," said Miss Betsy: "they know what I think."
"What's that you are saying there, Miss Betsy?" said Mr. Crosbie.
"Oh, don't ask, brother," said Miss Crosbie; "I know it is something saucy, by my niece's looks."
"And why should you suppose I am saying anything saucy, aunt?" said Miss Betsy; "I am sure you are not accustomed to hear me say saucy things."
"Miss! Miss! be quiet!" said Mrs. Crosbie; for she was afraid Mr. and Mrs. Fairchild would think her daughter ill-behaved.
"What, mamma!" answered Miss Betsy, "am I to sit quietly and hear my aunt find fault with me before company—and for being impertinent, too, to my elders—as if I were a mere child?"
"Well, well—enough!" said Mr. Crosbie. "What is that pie, Mrs. Fairchild, in the middle of the table? I must have some, if you please."
Mr. and Mrs. Fairchild were not sorry when dinner was over, and Mrs. Crosbie proposed that Mrs. Fairchild should show her the garden. Accordingly, the ladies and children got up, and left the gentlemen together; for Mr. Crosbie never stirred for some time after dinner. When Mrs. Crosbie had got into the garden, and had looked about her, she said:
"Ah, Mrs. Fairchild, how happy you are! Such a pretty house and garden!—such a kind husband!—such good children!" Then she sighed, and gave Mrs. Fairchild to understand that she was not so happy herself.
After tea, Mr. Crosbie and his family took their leave, and went off to the next inn upon the London road, where they were to sleep; for Mr. Crosbie was in haste to be at home, and would not stay, although Mr. and Mrs. Fairchild begged that they would—at least till the next day. When they were gone, Mr. Fairchild and Henry took a walk towards the village with Mr. Somers, whilst the little girls remained at home with their mother.
"Dear Lucy," said Mrs. Fairchild, as soon as she was alone with her little girls, "do you remember what we were speaking about yesterday, before Mr. Crosbie's letter came?"
"Yes, mamma," said Lucy; "we were speaking of besetting sins, and you said that everybody has a besetting sin, and you told me what you believed mine to be."
"True, my dear," answered Mrs. Fairchild: "I told youthat, without the help of the Holy Spirit of God, very few people know what their own besetting sins are. You had an opportunity to-day of observing this: every individual of our friend Mr. Crosbie's family has a very strong besetting sin; Mr. Crosbie loves eating; Mrs. Crosbie is ill-tempered; Miss Crosbie is vain, and fond of finery; and Miss Betsy is very pert and forward. We can see these faults in them, and they can see them in each other; but it is plain they do not see them in themselves. Mr. Crosbie said several times that he was not particular about what he ate or drank; Mrs. Crosbie said that there was not a person in the world who thought her ill-tempered but her husband; Miss Crosbie said that nobody in the world cared less for finery than she did; and Miss Betsy was quite offended when she was told she was not respectful in her manners to her elders."
"Oh, yes!" said Emily; "she said, 'I am not saucy; of all faults, sauciness is not one of my faults, I am sure;' and I thought all the time she looked as saucy and impertinent as possible."
"And how Mr. Crosbie did eat!" said Lucy; "he ate half the haunch of venison! And then he was helped twice to pigeon-pie; and then he ate apple-tart and custard; and then——"
"Well, well! you have said enough, Lucy," said Mrs. Fairchild, interrupting her. "I do not speak of our poor friends' faults out of malice, or for the sake of making a mockery of them; but to show you how people may live in the constant practice of one particular sin without being at all conscious of it, and perhaps thinking themselves very good all the time. We are all quick enough, my dear Emily and Lucy, in finding out other people's faults; but, as I said before, we are often very blind to our own."
"Mamma," said Lucy, "do you know any prayer about besetting sins?"
"Yes, my dear," answered Mrs. Fairchild; "I have one in my own book of prayers; and I will copy it out for you to-morrow morning."
So Mrs. Fairchild broke off her conversation with her little girls, and bade them go and play a little before bedtime.
"Miss Betsy."—Page 137.
"Miss Betsy."—Page 137.
The children looked at the kittens
Notvery long after the death of poor Miss Augusta Noble, a note came from Sir Charles and Lady Noble, inviting Mr. and Mrs. Fairchild to dinner the next day; but not mentioning the children, as they used to do when they sent their invitations.
"Poor Lady Noble!" said Mr. Fairchild; "I wish we could give her any comfort! but we will certainly go."
The next day, when Sir Charles's carriage came for Mr. and Mrs. Fairchild, they kissed the children, and told them when they had dined, they might, if they pleased, go with Betty to see old Mary Bush. Mary Bush was one of the old women who lived at the end of the coppice; and, being a good woman, Mr. and Mrs. Fairchild were not afraid of trusting their children with her. The children were very much pleased, and made haste to get their dinner; after which Lucy packed up a little tea and sugar, which her mamma had given her, in a basket;and the little girls, having put on their bonnets and tippets, went into the kitchen to see if Betty was ready. Betty was tying up a small loaf and a pot of butter in a clean napkin; and she had put some nice cream into a small bottle, for which John was cutting a cork.
"Betty, are you ready?" said Henry; "Lucy has got the tea and sugar, and Emily has got Miss Dolly, and I have got my hat and stick. So come, Betty, come!"
"But who is to milk the cow?" said John, pretending to look grave; "Betty must stay to milk the cow at five o'clock."
"No, John!" said the children, all gathering round him; "good John, will you be so kind as to milk the cow, and let Betty go?"
"Well, I will see about it," said John, putting the cork into the cream bottle.
"There's a good John!" said Emily.
"I love you, John!" said Henry. "And now, Betty, come, make haste away."
So the children set out; and they went out across the garden to a little wicket-gate which Mr. Fairchild had opened towards the coppice, and came into Henry's favourite Sunday walk. The green trees arched over their heads; and on each side the pathway was a mossy bank, out of which sprang such kind of flowers as love shady places—such as the wood anemone and wild vetch: thrushes and blackbirds were singing sweetly amongst the branches of the trees.
"This is my walk," said Henry; "and I say it is the prettiest in the country."
"No, Henry," said Emily; "it is not so pretty as the walk to the hut at the top of the hill: for there you can look all over the coppice, and see the birds flying over the tops of the trees."
"Sister," said Lucy, "now you shall carry my basket, and I will have the doll a little."
"With all my heart," said Emily.
"Why don't you give Miss to me?" said Henry.
"Oh, yes!" said Emily. "Did I not give her to you one day; and did you not hang her upon a tree in the garden, with a bit of string round her neck, and say she was a thief?"
"Lucy," said Henry, "let us have a race to that tree which has fallen down over the path."
So away they ran; and when they got to the tree they sat down upon the trunk until Betty came up with Emily. On one side of the fallen tree was a place where the wood had been cut away, and the woodmen had made themselves a little hut, which they had now left empty. Round this hut were scattered many dry sticks and chips.
"Master Henry," said Betty, "here are some nice sticks: let us gather a few together; they will do to make a fire to boil Mary Bush's kettle."
"Oh, yes, Betty," answered the children: and they set to work, and soon gathered a great many sticks; and Betty tied them together with a piece of packthread which Henry pulled out of his pocket; then Betty took off her bonnet, and placed the bundle upon her head. They went on to Mary Bush's. The children wanted to help to carry the sticks, but Betty would not let them, saying they were too heavy for them.
"But we can carry the bread and butter," said Lucy; so Betty allowed them to do it.
When they had walked a little farther, they came in sight of Mary Bush's house, down in a kind of little valley or dingle, deeply shaded by trees. In the very deepest part of the dingle was a stream of water falling from a rock. The light from above fell upon the water as itflowed, and made it glitter and shine very beautifully among the shady trees. This was the same which took its course through the Primrose Meadow, and on towards the village, and so to Brookside Cottage, where nurse lived—a clear and beautiful stream as could be.
Mary Bush's cottage was so large, that, after the death of her husband, she had let half of it to one Goodman Grey, who lived in it, with his old wife Margery, and cultivated the garden, which was a very good one. John Trueman's wife was Mary Bush's eldest daughter; and Joan, nurse's son's wife, her youngest; and it was said of them that there were not two better wives and mothers in the parish: so Mary Bush was very happy in her children.
When the children and Betty came up to the cottage, they found Mary Bush spinning at the door.
"We are come to drink tea with you, Mary," said Lucy.
"And we have brought bread and butter, and tea and cream with us," said Emily.
"And a bundle of sticks," said Henry, "to boil the kettle."
"Welcome, welcome, my little loves," said old Mary, as she got up and set her spinning-wheel on one side. "Come in, little dears."
Mary had but one room, and a little pantry, but it was a very neat room; there was a bed in one corner, covered with a clean linen quilt; there were also a nice oaken dresser, a clock, two arm-chairs, two three-legged stools, a small round table, a corner cupboard, and some shelves for plates and dishes. The fireplace and all about it were always very neat and clean, and in winter you would probably see a small bright fire on the hearth.
"How does the cat do?" said Henry, looking about for Mary Bush's cat.
"Oh, here she is, Henry!" said Emily, screaming with joy, "in this basket under the dresser, with two such beautiful tortoiseshell kittens! Do look, Lucy—do look, Henry!"
"Miss Lucy," said old Mary, "would you like to have one of the kittens when it is big enough to leave its mother?"
"Oh, yes, yes! and thank you, Mary," answered Lucy, "if mamma pleases."
When the children had looked at the kittens and kissed them, they went to visit Margery Grey, and to talk to old Goodman Grey, who was working in the garden, whilst Betty, in the meantime, and old Mary Bush, set out the tea-cups, and set the kettle to boil for tea. When the tea was ready, Betty called the children, and they would make Margery Grey come and drink tea with them. Henry would have the old man come too.
"No, master," said the old man: "I know my place better."
"Well, then," said Lucy, "I will send you a nice cup of tea, and some bread-and-butter, into the garden."
I wish you could have seen them alldrinking tea at the door of the cottage, round the little table, the two old women sitting in the arm-chairs, for Lucy would have them do so, Betty making tea, and the three children sitting on stools—and how pleased and happy they were.
"Drinking tea at the door of the cottage, round the little table."—Page 149.
"Drinking tea at the door of the cottage, round the little table."—Page 149.
Miss Crosbie spoke kindly to her
Wewill begin this history again, by telling what had happened since the first part was concluded.
Sir Charles and Lady Noble had left their fine place soon after the funeral of their daughter, and it was supposed would never return; for the house and park were advertised to be let. After a few months it was taken by a family of the name of Darwell, said to be immensely rich: this family had an only daughter.
No other changes had taken place; everybody else lived where they did in the last part of our history, which is very pleasant, as we may hope to see our old friends all again.
Mr. Fairchild had had a few hundred pounds left him by a friend, from whom he had expected nothing; on the strength of which he bought a plain roomy carriage, which would hold himself and Mrs. Fairchild in the front seat, with a child between them, and two children behind.The pillion was put aside, and the old horse put in the shafts: and though, to be sure, he went but slowly, and not very far at a time, yet the whole family found great pleasure in the change.
The winter was past, and the sweet spring was beginning to show itself, when that happened which shall be related without delay.
One morning when Henry was with his father in the study, and Lucy and Emily were busy with their needles, seated in the parlour window together, and alone, they saw a gentleman's carriage stop at the gate, and a lady get out. A great number of bandboxes were taken from different parts of the carriage by a servant who was attending the carriage; and before the little girls could make anything of all these wonders, they saw their father first, and then their mother, run out and shake hands with the lady, and seem to invite her to come in. Henry, too, had gone out after his papa, and had been sent back, as they thought, to fetch Betty; for Betty soon appeared, and began, with the help of Henry, who seemed to be delighted at this interruption of his lessons, to carry the boxes into the house.
Lucy and Emily soon discovered that this lady was the elder Miss Crosbie; but they wondered how she had happened to come that day. Miss Crosbie had come from London, where she had been for some time, and was now so far on her way to visit a friend in the country.
She had come to Mr. Fairchild's door in another friend's carriage, and she was come to ask Mr. Fairchild to take her in until the Monday morning.
Mr. and Mrs. Fairchild both assured her that they were most glad to see her; expressed a hope that she would stay longer than Monday, and showed themselves so kind and hospitable, that Miss Crosbie was quite at her ease, andeverything was settled about her staying, before Mr. Fairchild brought her into the parlour. But there was quite time enough, before Miss Crosbie came in, for Lucy and Emily to say many things, for which, I am happy to add, they were afterwards very sorry. Lucy spoke first.
"What a quantity of boxes she has brought!" she said; "some finery, I dare say, in all of them; how silly for such an old person to be fond of dress!"
"It is very silly," replied Emily, "and particularly for one so ugly. Don't you think Miss Crosbie uncommonly ugly?"
"To be sure I do," she answered; "everybody must: with her little nose, and her gray eyes, and her wide mouth."
"And to be so fond of finery after all!" said Emily. "I am sure if I was like Miss Crosbie, instead of dressing myself out, I would wear a veil and hide my face."
In this way the two little girls kept on chattering; and I fear my reader will say that they are not improved since last she heard anything of them.
When Miss Crosbie came into the parlour, she kissed them both, and made some remarks upon their looks, which showed that she was quite pleased with their appearance. Mrs. Fairchild employed them a little time in going backwards and forwards to Betty, and helping in many things; for when people keep but one maidservant, they must occasionally assist her.
When the room was ready for Miss Crosbie, and a fire lighted, and all the boxes and packages carried up, Mrs. Fairchild showed the lady to her room; and Miss Crosbie, having asked when dinner would be ready, said:
"Well, I shall just have time to change my dress."
"Oh, pray do not trouble yourself to dress," said Mrs. Fairchild; "you are very nice now, and we are plain people."
"You are very good," answered Miss Crosbie, "but I shall not be comfortable in the dress in which I travelled."
Mrs. Fairchild said no more; but having told her little girls, who had gone up with her to the visitor's room, to go and make themselves neat in their Sunday frocks, she hastened to give some orders, and perhaps some help, in the kitchen.
We will not repeat what Lucy and Emily said to each other whilst they were in their little room: all that passed was of the same kind, if not worse than what they had said in the parlour; one encouraging the other, and carrying their ridicule of their mother's visitor farther than either of them intended when they began. When the little girls were dressed, they went into the best parlour, or tea-room, as their mother called it in the old-fashioned way; and there they found a fire burning, and everything in order. John was laying the cloth in the next room, and Henry soon came to them in his Sunday dress, and soon afterwards their father and mother; but Miss Crosbie did not appear till dinner was being served up. She came dressed in a muslin gown, with a long train, and large full sleeves, tied in several places with crimson ribbons; she had her hair frizzed and powdered, and a turban of crimson satin on her head. Her dress was quite out of place; but persons who are always used to be rather over-dressed are not judges of the times and places in which to put on their finery. At the sight of her, Lucy and Emily gave each other a look, which seemed to say, "How very silly!"
The dinner-time passed off very well. Miss Crosbie had a great deal to tell about London and her journey down into the country; and soon after dinner the children had leave to go to their play-room. They were not in the humour to do much good there: they began with talkingnonsense, and finished off with getting pettish with each other. Henry said that he did not want to hear any more of Miss Crosbie and her finery. Lucy called him cross; and Emily said that he was not to hinder them talking of what they pleased. They were called to tea about six o'clock, and when the tea-things were removed, Miss Crosbie said:
"Now, Mrs. Fairchild, you shall see some of the things which I have brought from London; will you come to my room, or shall I send for the bandbox down here?"
"Oh, pray," said Mr. Fairchild, "let us have the box down here, that Henry and I may see the fine sights also."
"You don't mean to say," answered Miss Crosbie, laughing, "that a sensible man like you, Mr. Fairchild, can be amused by the sight of specimens of the fashions?"
"I am amused with anything," said Mr. Fairchild, "which entertains my family. I make a point of enjoying everything which they do, as far as I can."
"Well, then," said Miss Crosbie, "if I had my bandbox here——"
The children all at once offered to fetch it—she explained which they were to bring out of the many which had come with her, and in a very few minutes they had brought it down and set it on the table. Miss Crosbie sent them up again to look in her workbag for her keys, and to bring down a small parcel wrapped in brown paper, which was to be found in the same bag.
The parcel and the keys soon appeared. Miss Crosbie opened the parcel and presented Henry with a neat pocket-book, inside of which were a pencil, a leaf of ass's-skin, a penknife, and a pair of scissors.
"Oh, thank you, thank you, ma'am," said Henry, "how good you are!"
And his father and mother joined in the boy's thanks. There was nothing on Henry's mind particularly to render that gift bitter to him; he had not joined in the ridicule of Miss Crosbie.
She next opened the bandbox, and took out of it two bonnets and two tippets of grass-green silk, lined with pale pink satin. There were also two neatly plaited lace caps to wear under the bonnets, and waist ribbons to suit.
"These, I hope, will please you, my dear Miss Lucy and Miss Emily," she said; "I brought them for you, and I trust you will like them."
It was well at the moment that Emily was not struck by this kindness in the way that Lucy was. She was one full year younger than her sister, and could hardly be supposed to be able to reflect so deeply: she thereforecouldlook joyful,couldrun forwards to kiss Miss Crosbie, and was ready almost to dance with delight, when she looked at the beautiful things on the table.
Had she not, as it were, pushed herself first, Miss Crosbie must have been struck, as Mrs. Fairchild was, with the manner of Lucy: the little girl first flushed up to her brow, and all over her neck. She came forward to Miss Crosbie but slowly, and with her eyes cast down. She stood one moment, and then, throwing her arms round her neck and pressing her face against her shoulder, she sobbed deeply.
Miss Crosbie was certainly surprised; she did not expect that her present could have made the little girl feel so much. She spoke very kindly to her, put her arms round her, kissed her several times, and said:
"But, my dear, a bonnet and a tippet are not worthy of such deep gratitude; you make me ashamed that I have done so little for you."
"But you are so good, ma'am, so very good!" sobbed Lucy.
Miss Crosbie continued to soothe the little girl, and say kind things to her, which only made her seem to feel the more. Mr. and Mrs. Fairchild were certainly surprised, but they took no notice; and after a little while Lucy became calm, and the affair passed off, Miss Crosbie appearing to be rather pleased at the manner in which her present had been received.
Lucy became quite calm after her fit of crying, but her mother observed that she sighed deeply once or twice. When eight o'clock came, the children, at a hint from their mother, were wishing their friends good-night, when Miss Crosbie asked leave for their staying to supper. Mrs. Fairchild said:
"Not to-night, if you please, Miss Crosbie, but to-morrow night—we will all sup together to-morrow."
Miss Crosbie kissed Lucy affectionately before she left the room, and Mrs. Fairchild again saw the tears in the eyes of her little girl, but she did not appear to take notice of it.
When Lucy and Emily had got into their own room, Lucy at once gave way to her feelings.
"Oh, Emily, Emily!" she said, as she laid her new bonnet and tippet on the drawers, "I am so unhappy; I have been so wicked! to think how kind Miss Crosbie was to bring those beautiful things for us, and to know how I laughed at her, and said cruel things about her, and called her ugly! I have been naughtier than you, because I am older, and because, at the time I did it, I knew I was wrong; and when I saw those beautiful bonnets, I felt as if there had been a thorn put into my heart."
"It is odd," said Emily, "that I did not think of it, even when I saw you crying."
"If Miss Crosbie had not been so kind," replied Lucy, "I should not have cared. I can't forgive myself—I can't forget it!"
Then Lucy cried again, and Emily with her; and they were still weeping when sleep came over them. They were leaning back on their pillow; Emily had her arm over Lucy, and their cheeks were still wet with tears, when their mother came in before she went to bed to look at them.
She was again surprised to see their tears, and stood a while looking at them, being uneasy to think what could have caused them. They did not wake, and she did not like to disturb them; but she went to bed rather uneasy, though she hoped that there was no great cause for being so; and in the morning all her fears were soon removed, for she heard the voices of her little girls before she had quite finished dressing. They were knocking at her door, and asking to speak to her. She went to them immediately, and Lucy told her at once all that had made them unhappy the last evening, telling how they had prayed to be kept from such naughtiness again, and saying what pain Miss Crosbie's kindness had given them.
Mrs. Fairchild heard all they had to say without interrupting them, but her face looked kind and full of pity. When the story was told she put her arms round both of them, and kissed them tenderly, and then talked to them for some time of the want of kindness and good feeling they had shown towards their guest.
"Oh, mamma," said Lucy, "the more you talk the more vexed I am with myself. What am I to do? Shall I go and beg Miss Crosbie's pardon?"
"Shall we, mamma?" added Emily.
"No, no, my children," answered Mrs. Fairchild, half smiling. "What! would you give the poor lady pain by telling her wherefore you come to beg her pardon?"
"No," replied Lucy, thoughtfully, "that will not do, I see."
"But we will not wear our bonnets to-day, mamma," said Emily, "though it is so fine."
"She wishes to see you in them," answered their mother; "she must not be disappointed."
"Now wipe away your tears, my little girls," she added. "We must try to make this day as pleasant as possible to poor Miss Crosbie."
And all went most pleasantly from the time that they met at breakfast till they parted after supper; and Miss Crosbie said:
"Well, Mrs. Fairchild, I have certainly had a most delightful day, and I wish that I could spend all my Sundays with you as I have done this; for, in general, I must confess I do find the Sunday the dullest day of all theseven."
"Then, ma'am," said Lucy, "I hope you will come often again;" and Mrs. Fairchild joined in the invitation.
In the summer parlour
Nothinghappened for some weeks after Miss Crosbie went away which could be put down in this history, because almost every day was like another, unless we were to say what lessons the children did, and what the doll was dressed in, and what walks were taken. The spring came on, and a very fine spring it was; and Henry found a place among the trees where he thought a very beautiful arbour might be made, and he got leave to make it, and John helped, and Lucy and Emily were very busy about it, and a most pleasant place it was. The hut in the wood was too far off for the children to run to when they had but little time; but Henry's arbour could be reached in three minutes by the shortest way. Mr. Fairchild was so good as to pay John Trueman to make a thatched roof and sides to it, and the man-servant John found some old boards for seats; but he could not find time to finish the seats as soon as Henry wished.
During this time Mrs. Goodriche came over to visitMrs. Fairchild, and she then invited all the family to come and spend a whole day with her in the summer, and she promised that on that day, if all was well, she would tell them another story about old Mrs. Howard.
But the happiest times of people's lives are often those in which there is least to write and talk about; so we must pass over the spring, and go on to the month of June, the very first day of which was that fixed for the visit to Mrs. Goodriche.
It was a bright morning when the party set out in the carriage which Mr. Fairchild had bought. The dew was not off the ground, for they were to breakfast at Mrs. Goodriche's; but, as Henry said, the day would be too short anyhow, for these happy children thought many days too short.
What a curious old house Mrs. Goodriche's was! it was the very house in which Mrs. Howard had lived, and it had been scarcely altered for Mrs. Goodriche. There was what the old lady had called her summer parlour, because she never sat in it in cold weather; it was low and large, and had double glass doors, which opened upon the old-fashioned garden; and there was a short walk which went from the door to the old arbour. The walls of the room were painted blue, the windows were casements, and had seats in them, and there was a step up from the floor into the garden.
The visitors found Mrs. Goodriche in this summer parlour.
After breakfast the two elder ladies took out their work. Mr. Fairchild walked away somewhere with a book, and the children went into the arbour. Lucy and Emily had their doll's work, and Henry had his knife and some bits of wood; it was very hot, so that they could not run about.
"I love this arbour," said Henry.
Lucy."So do I; don't you remember, Henry, that we were sitting here once, thinking of poor Emily when she had the fever, when Mrs. Goodriche came to us and told us that Emily was so much better and the fever gone, and how glad we were, and how we jumped and screamed? Oh! that was a dreadful time."
"To me it was not dreadful," replied Emily; "I think I may say it was a happy time, Lucy, for I had thoughts put into my mind in that illness which make everything seem different to me ever since. You know what I mean, Lucy, I can't explain it."
Lucy."I know what you mean, Emily."
Emily."I never felt anything like that till I had the fever, so I call the fever a happy time."
"I wish you would not talk about it," said Henry; "Lucy and I were miserable then; were not we, Lucy?"
Mrs. Goodriche dined very early, and after dinner she and Mrs. Fairchild came into the arbour, and there she told the story which she had promised.
When Betty returned, Mrs. Howard was well satisfied
"Itwas about half a year after the things had happened which are related in the last story of Mrs. Howard, that Betty, one evening when she returned from market upon Crop, came into the parlour to her mistress and said:
"'Ma'am, I have heard a bit of news; Mr. Bennet is going to leave the country.'
"'Indeed, Betty,' said Mrs. Howard: 'how has that happened?'
"'Some relation towards London has left him a property, and our county is glad of anything that takes off the family.'
"'Well, well, Betty,' said Mrs. Howard, and Betty knew that when her mistress said, 'Well, well,' it was a hint to her to say no more on the subject. Mrs. Howard soon heard from other quarters that the Bennets were going, but they were not to be off till the Lady Day next.
"A week or two before that time, Betty had occasion to go again to town. Many things were wanted, and on such occasions Crop did not object to carry panniers.
"When Betty was quite ready, and Crop at the door, and the woman in the house who always came to take care of things on such occasions, she came to ask her mistress if there was anything more not yet mentioned.
"Betty never travelled in cold weather without a long blue cloak, and a black felt hat tied over her mob.
"'Yes, Betty,' replied Mrs. Howard, 'but you must be very particular—you must get me two small neat Bibles with gilt edges, bound in morocco, scarlet or green; I should wish them alike, and a clear print; besides which you must bring a young gentleman's pocket-book, all complete and handsome, with a silver clasp; and lastly, you must bring me a genteel equipage in chased silver, the furniture quite complete and as it should be, and mind it is well wrapped in paper.'
"'Oh, ma'am,' said Betty, 'how shall I be able to choose one that will exactly suit for what you want? I am quite afraid to undertake the bringing of a genteel equipage, there is such a difference of opinion about so tasty a thing.'
"'Betty,' replied Mrs. Howard, 'you know I am always pleased with your taste; and if anyone in the world knows what I like, it is you, my good girl.'
"Mrs. Howard often called Betty a good girl, though she was too old to be so called; but it was a habit in those days in which the old lady lived.
"'I should know your taste, ma'am,' said Betty, smiling, 'by this time, I should think—me who has lived in yours and your lady mother's service four-and-forty years next Candlemas;' and so saying Betty set out."
"Pray, ma'am," asked Lucy, "what is an equipage?"
"A fine carriage and horses, to be sure, Lucy," said Henry. "Lady Noble had an equipage. I heard Johnonce say, 'That's a fine equipage,' when he saw Lady Noble riding by."
"Oh, Henry," said Emily, "surely what Betty was to bring with her could not be a carriage and horses wrapped in paper."
Mrs. Goodriche smiled, and explained to the children what Mrs. Howard meant: she told them that an equipage was a little case which held a thimble, scissors, a pencil, or other such little matters, and, being either of gold or silver, was hung to the girdle to balance the great watches worn by the grandmothers and great-grandmothers of people now living.
"Thank you, ma'am," said Lucy; "and now please to go on, and tell us what Mrs. Howard meant to do with this equipage."
"When Betty returned," continued Mrs. Goodriche, "Mrs. Howard was well satisfied with what she had done; and the very next Sunday evening she took occasion, after service, to speak to Master and Miss Bennet, and to invite them to tea for the next evening.
"'I wonder,' said Master Jacky to Miss Polly, as they walked home together by their mother, 'what she can want with us. I promise you I shan't go.'
"'What's that you are saying, Jacky?' said Mrs. Bennet.
"Miss Polly then told her mother of the invitation and what her brother had said.
"'You had best go,' said Mrs. Bennet, 'and you may, perhaps, get some pretty present. I was told by one who was told by another, that Betty was in town last week, and laying out money at the silversmith's, and at Mr. Bates the bookseller's, so I would have you go: you don't know but that the old lady may have some keepsakes to give you.'
"'Well then,' said Jacky, 'if Polly goes, I will; for I don't see why she is to have the presents, and me nothing—but as to anything that Mrs. Howard ever gave me yet,' added the rude boy, 'I might put it into my eye and see none the worse.'
"'And whose fault is that?' said Miss Polly.
"'It don't become you to talk, Miss,' replied Jacky; 'for if I have had nothing, you have had no more—so there is half a dozen for one and six for another.'
"By this discourse we may see," said Mrs. Goodriche, "that no great change for the better had yet passed on these rude children.
"But they had got a notion that, as Jacky said, there were presents in the wind, and they set out for Mrs. Howard's determining to behave their best, though they did not tell their thoughts to each other, for Jacky hoped that Polly would disgrace herself and get nothing, and Polly had the same kind wishes for Jacky.
"Mrs. Howard received them in the summer parlour, and they both behaved themselves very well, but more out of spite for each other than from love of what is right in itself; but you shall hear by-and-by how I came to the knowledge of these their thoughts.
"Betty had made a cake, and there was a roast fowl and hot apple-tart for supper; and between tea and supper Mrs. Howard showed them many curious things, pictures, and dolls dressed in the fashions of her youth, and a number of other things which she kept in a Japan cabinet, which always stood in the summer parlour while she lived in this house.
"It was not till after supper that she brought out the two Bibles and the pocket-book and equipage. She then laid them before her on the table, and she spoke to the two children:
"She began by saying that as they were going out of the country and she was far in years, she might, perhaps, never see them again in this world. She then spoke, in her own sweet warm way, of what our dear Saviour has done for us, and when she had said as much as she thought the children could bear, she presented each a Bible, having written their names in them. She next took the other presents in her hands:
"'And these, my dears,' she said, 'I ask you to accept. I am sorry if on former occasions I may have seemed harsh to you, but these little gifts are to prove that I am truly sorry if ever I gave you pain; when you look at them you will think of me, and know that nothing would ever give me more delight than to hear that you were both walking in the ways of holiness.'
"She then put the pocket-book into Jacky's hand, and the equipage into Miss Polly's; but she hardly expected what followed. The two children burst into tears; Jacky rubbed his eyes to hide his; but Miss Polly sprang from her chair, and fell weeping into Mrs. Howard's arms.
"'We will, we will try to do better, ma'am,' she said; 'we will indeed.'
"As the children walked home they said not one word to each other; and a very few days afterwards the family left the country, Mr. Bennet not having had even the decency to call and say good-bye to the old lady.
"Mrs. Howard was half-way between sixty and seventy when the Bennets left the country, and was supposed by many to be older, for she had dressed like an old woman for many years; her hair had long been gray, and she had always been a weakly person, very small and very pale.
"She, however, continued to live in this house as many as seventeen years after the Bennets were gone, and every year till the last had her children's party; but a changewas coming on her household—Crop had died years before, and Betty afterwards always went to town in the market-cart; but what was the loss of Crop to the loss of Betty?
"Betty was younger than Mrs. Howard, but she was called away before her; she had lived forty years with Mrs. Howard in this very house, and the loss could not be made up to her in this world.
"Mrs. Howard had a great-nephew, a surgeon, of the name of Johnson, who lived in a fair village, called Pangbourne, in Berkshire; and when he heard of the death of Betty, and how low his aunt was, he came to her, and persuaded her to leave the country, and go and reside near to him. She was at first unwilling to go, but was at last persuaded; she took nothing with her but her favourite chair, her old round table, her books, and her cabinet. Her nephew got her some very pleasant rooms in a house called the Wood House, about half a mile from the village, towards the hills which are near the place. That side of Pangbourne was in those days almost a continued wood coppice, with occasional tall trees towards the hills, and there was a narrow road and raised path through the wood to the town.
"Mrs. Howard's parlour had an old-fashioned bow-window in it, looking to the road, though somewhat raised above it; andMrs. Howard, as old people do, loved in fine weather to sit in the bow, and see the few people who passed.
"Every day her kind nephew came to see her, and now and then she returned his visit; but she was getting very infirm, though she had lost neither sight nor hearing, could read and work as in her younger days, and having got over the first shock of losing Betty, and the fatigue of the change, her faith in God's love was making her as happyas she had been before; she liked the people also who kept the house, and made herself very pleasant to them. Though she went to Pangbourne in the autumn, she did not, until the month of April, find the pleasure of sitting in the bow-window.
"It was then that she first noticed two little girls passing and returning every day at certain hours to and from the village.
"They were so near of a size that she thought they must be twins. They were very fair, and very pretty, and very neat. They wore light green stuff frocks, with lawn aprons and tippets, and little tight neat silk bonnets of the colour of their frocks. They both always carried a sort of satchel, as if they were going and coming from school; and there was often with them, when they went to the village, either a man or woman servant, such as might be supposed to belong to a farmhouse. They often, however,passed by the window in the evening without a servant, and sometimes were met by a servant near the house. These little ones could not, from their appearance, have been more than seven years of age.
"As Mrs. Howard watched them from day to day, she thought them the pleasantest little people she had seen for a long time; and all her ancient love for children, which age and weakness had almost made her fancy was nipped and blighted, began to spring up again and blossom as flowers in May. She wished to get acquainted with these fair ones, but she took her own way to do so.
"She began one morning, when her window was open, by giving them a kind smile as they were walking gravely by, with a man in a smock-frock behind them. On seeing this smile they both stopped short and dropped formal curtseys.
"From that time, for a week or more, these smiles andthese curtseys passed between the old lady and the twins twice every day regularly. Before the end of the week the children had left off looking grave at the lady, and gave smile for smile. You may be sure that Mrs. Howard, though she had not poor Betty and Crop to send on her errands, did manage to get some pretty toys ready to give these little girls whenever the time should come when she should think it right to make herself better acquainted with them; but she thought that she would observe their ways first, and in doing so she saw several things which pleased her. Once she saw them give a poor beggar some of what had been put in their satchels for their dinners; and she saw them another time pick up something which a very old man had dropped, and give it him as politely as they would have done to my lord judge, though it was only a potato which he had dropped from a basket. Seeing this it reminded her of the old man and his bundle of sticks, and of the ill-behaviour of Master Bennet; and then all those old days came fresh to her mind. Mrs. Howard had sent to a friend in London to get the toys—two dolls exactly alike, and the histories of Miss Jemima Meek and Peter Pippin were the things she sent for; and they had not arrived a week when Mrs. Howard found a use for them. It was the beginning of July, and a very hot close day; Mrs. Howard sat at her window, and saw the little ones go as usual towards the village; it was Saturday, and she knew that they would be back again about one, for it was a half-holiday. The heat became greater and greater towards noon; there was not a breath of air, and the sun was hidden by a red glaring mist.
"'We shall have a tempest,' said Mrs. Howard to a maid who had been hired to wait upon her; 'I hope the little girls will get home before it comes on—have they far to go?'
"When Mrs. Howard had explained what little girls she meant, the maid told her that they were the children of a farmer of the name of Symonds, and that the house was not a half-mile distant up the lane.
"Whilst Mrs. Howard was talking with the servant, the heavens had grown black, the clouds hung low; there was a creaking, groaning sort of sound among the trees, and the larger birds arose and flew heavily over the woods, uttering harsh cryings.
"'It's coming,' said the servant; and at the same instant the two little ones appeared walking from the village.
"'There they are,' cried Mrs. Howard; and at the same moment a tremendous flash of lightning covered the whole heavens, followed by a peal of awful thunder. Mrs. Howard put her head out of the window, and called the little girls, who, from very fright, were standing still.
"They gladly obeyed the call, the maid went down to meet them, and the next minute they stood curtseying within the parlour-door. The maid had seen a boy who had been sent to meet them, and sent him back to tell his mistress that the Misses were with the lady, and that she would keep them till the storm was over.
"'What lady am I to say?' asked the boy.
"'Our lady,' replied the maid; 'Surgeon Johnson's aunt.'
"The boy ran home, and told Mrs. Symonds not to be uneasy, for the little Misses were safe with Madam Johnson, who lodged at the Wood House; so Mrs. Symonds was made easy about her pretty daughters.
"'Well, my dears,' said Mrs. Howard, putting her hands out to the little people, 'I am glad to see you in my parlour.'
"'Thank you, ma'am,' said one of them; and the other repeated the same words.
"As they spoke they came near, and put each a hand into Mrs. Howard's.
"'Let me look at you, my children,' said the old lady in her pleasant smiling way; 'you are like two lilies growing out of one root; I cannot tell one from the other; what are your names?'
"'I am Mary, ma'am,' said the eldest.
"'And I am Amelia,' added the other.
"'Amelia,' said Mrs. Howard, 'why, that is my name: but which is the oldest?'
"'We came to our mother the same day,' replied Mary; 'but I came first, only a very little while though.'
"'Indeed!' said Mrs. Howard.
"Mrs. Baynes had come into the parlour after the children, to see and hear what was going forward; and now she thought it time to put in a word.
"'Yes, ma'am,' she said, 'they are twins; they are the only ones their mother ever had, and they are two pretty Misses, and very good children. Are not you very good, my precious dears?'
"The two little ones turned to her; and answered both together:
"'No, ma'am.'
"Mrs. Howard rather wondered at this answer, and said:
"'Not good, my dears, how is that?'
"'We wish to be good, ma'am,' said one of the little girls, 'but we are not.'
"'Well to be sure!' remarked Mrs. Baynes; 'but you have a very good mamma, my little dears.'
"'Mamma is good to us,' said Mary.
"'But God is the only real good person,' added Amelia.
"Mrs. Howard was rather surprised, but as the storm was still getting more frightful, she moved her chair, shut the window, and sat in the middle of the room; the two little ones in their fear clinging to her, whilst she put an arm round each of them.
"Mrs. Baynes went out to close the windows, and they were left together.
"Peal came after peal, and flash after flash; and the old lady and children trembled.
"'We ought not to fear,' said Mrs. Howard; 'it is wrong; is not the lightning in the hands of God?'
"'We will try not to be afraid,' said the little ones; and they clung closer to Mrs. Howard.
"And now there came a fearful hailstorm, patter, patter, against the window; and when the hail ceased the rain came pouring down.
"'Now, my loves, let us thank God,' said Mrs. Howard, 'the danger is past.'
"The little ones, with that quick obedience which we see in children only who are well brought up, joined their hands and said, 'Thank God!' but they expressed some fear lest their mother should be frightened about them.
"'We will see about that,' said Mrs. Howard; and she rang the hand-bell which always stood on the table, for bells were not then fixed on cranks and wires in every room as they are now.
"Up came Mrs. Baynes again, and told the little ones that their mother knew where they were, for she had sent her a message by the boy.
"'Then we can stay, ma'am,' said the children, quite pleased: and Mrs. Howard asked to have the dinner sent up, requesting Mrs. Baynes to make up a little more from her own pantry, if she could.
"'That shall be done, ma'am,' she answered; and sheadded some eggs and bacon and a currant tart to Mrs. Howard's four bones of roast lamb.
"'We should like to dine with you, ma'am,' said one of the little girls, 'and to drink tea with you sometimes.'
"Mrs. Howard did not yet know one from the other, but she felt that all her old love for children was burning up again in her heart.
"'I am old, my dears,' she answered, 'and cannot bear noise and bustle; if you can be quiet, I shall be glad to see you often, but if you tire me I cannot have you.'
"'I hope we shall be quiet,' they answered; and then they asked her if she wasvery, veryold.
"She told them she was eighty-two; and they said to each other, 'Then wemustbe very quiet.'
"The maid came in to lay the cloth, and they seemed quite amused by looking at her. The table was very small, but they said there would be quite room; and by Mrs. Howard's direction they went to her bedroom, took off their bonnets, and the maid combed their pretty curling hair.
"They behaved as well as children could possibly do at table, though they prattled a little, and told Mrs. Howard of the animals they had at home, their kittens and the old cat, and an owl in the garden called Ralph, and many other things. When the dinner was removed, Mrs. Howard said she had a great treat for them.
"'What is it, ma'am?' they said.
"'Something very nice,' replied the old lady; and going to the corner cupboard, she brought out a doll's cradle, and a small trunk full of doll's clothes, and the two new dolls both wrapped in the paper in which they had come from London.
"'Now,' she said, 'these are dolls which I keep for my visitors, and when you are here you may play with them.I do not call them yours, only when you are here; but you may choose which you will call your own in this house. Their names are Mary and Amelia.'
"'Oh, ma'am! Oh, ma'am!' cried the children; they were too glad to say another word.
"'You may take out the clothes from the trunk and dress them; but, before you go, you must put on their night-dresses, and put them to bed in the cradle, and restore all the other clothes to the trunk.' The little ones quite trembled with joy; they were past speaking. 'Now,' said Mrs. Howard, 'go into the bow-window. The lightning is past. I must keep in my chair, and you must not disturb me. If the day was finer I should let you go into the garden to play, but to-day you cannot.'