"What is it, dear? Did you call me?"
"What is it, dear? Did you call me?"
"No, mamma. But why aren't you in bed, and why is there a light in the room? Aren't you going to bed?"
"Yes, in an hour or two Flowers will come and take my place. You see we thought you might be thirsty in the night, and the doctor said you mustn't move."
"Iamthirsty," said Ferdy. "I'd like a drink of water."
"Better than lemonade? There is some nice fresh lemonade here."
Ferdy's eyes brightened.
"Oh, Iwouldlike that best, but I didn't know there was any."
Mamma poured some out into such a funny cup—it had a pipe, so Ferdy called it, at one side. He didn't need to sit up, or even to lift his head, to drink quite comfortably.
"And I think," Mrs. Ross went on, "I think I will give you another spoonful of the medicine. It is not disagreeable to take, and it will help you to go to sleep again."
Yes, it did; very, very soon he was asleep again. This time he dreamt something, though when he awoke he could not clearly remember what. He only knew that it was something about birds. He lay with his eyes shut thinking about it for a few minutes, till a sound close to him made him open them and look round. It was morning, quite morning and daylight, and from the window came the gentle twittering of some swallows, who had evidently taken up their summer quarters in some corner hard by.
"That must have been what made me dream about birds," said Ferdy to himself, though hespoke aloud without knowing it. "I must have heard them in my sleep."
"You have had a nice sleep," said a voice from the other side of his bed, and, looking towards her, Ferdy saw Flowers, already dressed and with a pleasant smile on her face. "Are you feeling better, Master Ferdy, dear?"
The little boy waited a moment or two before he replied.
"My head isn't so sore, and I'm not so tired, but I don't think I want to get up even if I might. I want Chrissie to come and sit beside me. What o'clock is it, Flowers?"
"Just six o'clock, sir. You will have to wait a little before Miss Christine can come. I daresay she's tired, poor dear, and she may sleep late this morning; perhaps you will be able to sleep a little more yourself, Master Ferdy. Would you like a drink of milk?"
"Yes," said Ferdy, "I would like some milk, but I can't go to sleep again; I've too much on my mind," with a deep sigh.
He spoke in such an "old-fashioned" way that, sorry as the maid was for him, she could scarcelyhelp smiling a little. She gave him the milk and lifted him very, very gently a little farther on to the pillows.
"Does it hurt you, Master Ferdy?" she asked anxiously.
"N—no, I don't think so," he replied; "but I feel all queer. I believe all my bones have got put wrong, and p'r'aps they'll never grow right again."
"Never's a long word, my dear," said Flowers cheerfully. The truth was she scarcely knew what to say, and she was glad to turn away and busy herself with some little tidying up at the other side of the room.
Ferdy lay still, almost forgetting he was not alone in the room, for Flowers was very quiet. His eyes strayed to the window, where another lovely sunshiny morning was gilding again the world of trees, and grass, and blossom with renewed beauty. It was all so very like yesterday morning, all "except me," thought Ferdy, so terribly like his birthday morning, when he had been so happy, oh! so happy, that it had been difficult to believe in unhappiness anywhere. And yet even thenhe had thought of unhappiness. It was queer that he had. What had put it into his head? He remembered it all—wondering how very poor, or very old, or very suffering people, cripples, for instance, could be happy. And yet he had seen some that really seemed so.
"Cripples"—that word had never come into his mind in the same way before. He had never thought what it really meant. Supposinghewere to be a cripple? Was it for fear of that that the doctor would not let him get up? Ferdy moved his legs about a very little; they did not hurt him, only they felt weak and heavy, and he had a kind of shrinking from the idea of standing, or even of sitting up in bed.
Was that how cripples felt? He wished somebody would tell him, but it was no use asking Flowers—most likely she did not know. And he didn't think he would like to ask his mother; she looked so pale and tired, and it might make her cry if he spoke about being a cripple. He thought he might ask Chrissie, perhaps. She was only a little girl, but she was very sensible, and he could speak to her without being so afraidof making her cry as if it was mamma—or rather, if she did cry, he wouldn't mind quite so much.
He wished Chrissie would come. Only six o'clock Flowers had said, not so very long ago. It couldn't be more than half-past six yet. What a pity it was that people, boys and girls any way, can't get up like the birds, just when it gets nice and light! What a chatter and twitter those birds outside were making—he had never noticed them so much before. But then, to be sure, he had never slept in the oriel room before. He wondered if they were the same swallows that were there last year, and every year.
"If they are," thought Ferdy, "I should think they must have got to know us. I wish they could talk to us and tell us stories of all the places they see when they are travelling. What fun it would be! I'll ask Chrissie if she's ever thought about it. I wonder if we couldn't ever get to—under—stand—"
But here the thread of his wonderings was suddenly snapped. Ferdy had fallen asleep again.
A minute or two after, Flowers stepped softlyacross the room and stood beside the bed looking down at him.
"Poor dear," she said to herself, "he does look sweet lying there asleep. And to see him as he is now, no one would think there was anything the matter with him. Oh dear, I do hope it won't turn out so bad as the doctors fear."
Thanks to the extra sleep which had come to Ferdy after all, he had not long to wait for Chrissie once he had wakened up "for good." She was not allowed to see him till he had had his breakfast, for it was very important to keep up his strength with nourishing food, and "if you begin talking together, you know," said mamma, "Ferdy would get interested and excited, and very likely not feel inclined to eat anything. That is even the way sometimes when you are both quite well."
She was speaking to Chrissie about how careful she must be, if she were to be trusted to be with her brother, not to seem sad or dull, and yet to be very quiet—"quietly cheerful, dear," she went on, "and if Ferdy is at all cross or peevish, you must just not mind."
Chrissie looked up in surprise. Ferdy cross or peevish seemed impossible.
"He never is, mamma dear," she said. "If ever we have little quarrels, it is almost always more my fault than his," which was quite true.
"Yes," her mother replied, "but you don't know, Chrissie, how illness changes people. Ferdy never has been seriously ill in his life, and—and this sad accident is sure to tell on his nerves." She had been doing her best to speak cheerfully, but now her voice broke, and the tears came into her eyes, already worn and tired-looking with the long hours of anxiety.
Chrissie stroked her hand gently. Then she said, though hesitating a little, "Mamma darling, won't you tell me more about Ferdy—about what the doctors think, I mean. I promise you I will not let him find out anything you don't want him to know. I will be very brave and—and cheerful, but I would so like to know. It isn't that he's not going to get better—that he's going to getworse?"
"No, dear, not that," said Mrs. Ross, drying her eyes as she spoke. "He is a strong child,and his general health is good, but his back is injured badly. That is the reason we are so anxious. He may getbetter. The doctors think that in a few weeks he will be able to be up and dressed and to lie on a couch, but they cannot say if he will ever bequiteright again. I am afraid they do not think he ever will."
"Oh, mamma," said Chrissie.
Mrs. Ross looked at her anxiously; she wondered if she had done wrong in telling her so much. And the little girl guessed what she was thinking.
"I would much rather know, mamma," she said, "much rather. It will make me more careful when I am with dear Ferdy, and if he ever is the least cross, I won't mind. I will try to amuse him nicely. Are you going to tell Miss Lilly, mamma?"
"Oh yes, I am hoping that she will be a great help. I will see her this morning as soon as she comes."
"Are we to do any lessons to-day?" asked Chrissie. "Is Ferdy to do lessons in bed?"
"In a few days perhaps he may," said Mrs. Ross. "He will seem better in a few days, for hehas had a great shock besides the hurt to his back, and he must have time to get over it; but I think you had better dosomelessons, Chrissie—those that you have separately from Ferdy. Flowers or I will sit beside him a good part of the day, and I hope he will sleep a good deal. If he does not seem much better in a day or two we shall have to get a nurse."
"Oh, I hope not," said Chrissie. "Ferdy wouldn't like a stranger."
"Well, we shall see," said Mrs. Ross. "Now you may go to Ferdy, dear."
And Chrissie ran off. She was startled, but still notverysad. She was so delighted to be with her brother again after a whole day's separation, and proud too of being trusted to take care of him. But it was going to be more difficult for her than she knew, for, as you will remember, Ferdy had made up his mind to ask Christine if she could tell him what the doctors really thought of him.
He looked so much better than the day before that she could scarcely believe there was much the matter, and he looked still better when hecaught sight of her—his whole face lighted up with smiles.
"Oh, Chrissie," he called out, "how glad I am you've come! It seems such a long time since I saw you. You do look so nice this morning."
So she did—she was a very pretty little girl, especially when her cheeks were rosy and her eyes bright, as they were just now.
"Youlook much better too, Ferdy," she said, "quite different from yesterday. Have you had a good night?"
"Prettygood," said Ferdy in rather a melancholy tone. "I am getting tired of staying in bed."
Chrissie's heart sank—"tired of staying in bed," and this scarcely the second day of it! What would he do if it went on for weeks—perhaps months? She felt glad, however, that she knew the truth; it would make her be very careful in what she said.
"I wouldn't mind so much," he went on, "if I knew how long it'd be. And I don't like to ask mamma for fear of making her sad,in caseit was to be for a long while. Chrissie," and here he fixed his blue eyes—so like his mother's—on his sister'sface, "doyou think it'll be a very long while? Do you think," and his voice grew still more solemn, "that p'r'aps I'll never be able to stand or walk again?"
Chrissie's heart was beating fast. She was so glad to be able with truth to answer cheerfully.
"Oh no, Ferdy dear. I really do think you'll be able to get up and be dressed before very long. But I should think the quieter you keep just now the quicker you'll get better. And it's so nice in this room, and you can see so nicely out of the window. You don't want to get up just yet, do you—not till you feel stronger? Mamma says you'll feel much stronger in a few days."
"Does she?" said Ferdy, brightening; "then the doctors must have told her. I'm so glad. No, I don't really want to get up—at least I don't feel as if Icould—that's what bothers me. I am not sorry in my body to stay in bed, but in my mind I'm all in a fidget. I keep fancying things," and he hesitated.
"What sort of things?" asked Chrissie. She had a feeling that it was better for him to tell her all that was on his mind.
He tried to do so. He told her how the day before, when he was quite well and so very happy, his thoughts had somehow wandered to people whose lives were very different from his, and how this morning these thoughts had come back again, the same yet different.
"Chrissie," he said, "I don't think I could bear it if I was never to get well again."
It was very hard for the little sister to keep her self-control. If Mrs. Ross had known how Ferdy was going to talk to Chrissie, very probably she would not have told her all she had done. But Chrissie seemed to have grown years older in a few hours.
"And yet there must be lots of people who do bear it—just what you were saying yourself," said Chrissie thoughtfully. "I suppose they get accustomed to it."
"I think it must be more than getting accustomed to make them really seem happy," said Ferdy. "P'r'aps it's something to do with not being selfish."
"Yes," said Chrissie, "I'm sure it has. You see they'd know that if they always seemed unhappyit would make their friends unhappy too. And then—"
"What?" said Ferdy.
"I was only thinking that mamma says people can always dosomethingfor other people. And that makes you happier yourself than anything, you know, Ferdy."
Ferdy lay still, thinking.
"That was partly what was in my mind," he said at last. "Such lots of thinkings have come since yesterday, Chrissie—you'd hardly believe. I was thinking thatsupposingI could never run about, or do things like other boys, what a trouble I'd be to everybody, and no good."
"I don't think you need think of things that way," said his sister. "Papa and mamma love you too much ever to think you a trouble, and I'm sure youcouldbe of good somehow. But I don't think you should begin puzzling about things when you're really not better yet; you'll make your head ache, and then they might think it was my fault. Oh, Ferdy," suddenly, "I had such a funny dream last night."
"I dreamt something too," said Ferdy, "but Icouldn't remember what it was. It was something about—"
"Mine was about birds," interrupted Christine, "about the swallows who have a nest just over the oriel window. I thought—"
"Howveryfunny!" exclaimed Ferdy, interrupting in his turn, his eyes sparkling with excitement. "I do believe mine was too. I knew it was about birds, but I couldn't get hold of the rest of it. And now I seem to remember more, and I know I was thinking about those swallows when I fell asleep. I was wishing I could understand what they mean when they twitter and chirp. Tell me your dream, Chris; perhaps it'll make me remember mine."
Christine was delighted to see that Ferdy's thoughts were turned from melancholy things—only—there was something about him in her dream. She hoped it wouldn't make him sad again.
"I dreamt I was walking in the garden," she said, "down there on the path just below this window. I was alone, and somehow even in my dream I knew there was something the matter. Itseemed to be either late in the evening or very early in the morning, I'm not sure which, but it wasn't quite light, and there was a funny, dreamy sort of look in the sky—"
"What colour?" asked Ferdy.
"All shaded," said Chrissie, "something like mother-of-pearl. I've seen it in a picture, but neverquitelike that in the real sky, though the real sky is so very beautiful."
"That's just because it was a dream," said Ferdy sagely. "You never see thingsreallythe same as you do in dreams. That's what makes dreams so nice, I suppose,—nice dreams I mean,—but I've sometimes felt more unhappy in dreams than ever I did awake."
"So have I," said Chrissie.
"Well, go on," said Ferdy, "it sounds rather nice. You were walking along and the sky was so wonderful?"
"Yes," continued Chrissie, "I was looking up at it, and not thinking a bit about you being ill, and then all of a sudden I heard something rustling up over my head, and then a twittering and chirping, and I knew it was the swallows comeback, and then I got the feeling still more that there was something the matter, and I began wondering if the swallows knew and were talking about it—their chirping got to sound so like talking. And at last, standing quite still and almost holding my breath to listen, I began to make out what they were saying. The first thing I heard was, 'It's rather sad to have come back to this,' and then another voice said, 'I don't like peacocks; vain, silly birds; they have no hearts; not like us; everybody knows how much we mind what happens to our friends.' And when I heard that, Ferdy, it made me think of the poetry we were learning last week, about the swallows coming back, you know, and the changes they found."
"I daresay it was that made you dream it," said Ferdy.
Christine looked rather disappointed.
"No, we won't think that, then," said he, correcting himself as he noticed his sister's face, "it's really very interesting—'specially as I know I dreamt something like it that I've forgotten. What more did the swallows say?"
"The other voice said something I couldn't hear. It sounded as if one was inside the nest, and the other outside. And then the first one said, 'Well, we'll do our best to cheer him up. He needn't be dull if he uses his eyes; it's a cheerful corner.' And by this time, Ferdy, I had remembered all about you being hurt, and it came into my mind how nice it would be if the swallows would tell us stories of all the things they see at the other side of the world when they go away for the winter."
"I don't think it's quite the other side of the world," said Ferdy doubtfully, "not as far as that."
"Well, never mind," said Chrissie, with a little impatience, "you know what I mean. If you keep interrupting me so, I can't tell it rightly."
"I won't, then," said Ferdy.
"There isn't much more to tell," continued Chrissie. "I looked up, thinking I might see the swallows or martins, whichever they are, and I called out, 'Oh, won't you come down and speak to me? It would be so nice for you to tell Ferdy stories about your adventures, now that I can understand what you say.' And I feltsopleased. But Icouldn't see them, and all I heard was twittering again,—twittering and chirping,—and then somehow I awoke, and there reallywastwittering and chirping to be heard, for my window was a little open. It was a funny dream, Ferdy, wasn't it?"
"Yes, very," said Ferdy. "I wish you'd go on with it to-night and make them tell you stories."
Chrissie shook her head.
"I don't think any one could dream regular stories like that," she said. "But it is rather nice to fancy that the swallows know about us, and that it's the same ones who come back every year. It makes them seem like friends."
"Yes," said Ferdy, "it is nice. I wonder," he went on, "what sort of things they meant me to look at out of the window. It did rather sound, Chrissie, as if they thought I'd have to stay a long time here in bed, didn't it?"
Chrissie laughed, though a little nervously.
"How funny you are, Ferdy," she said. "How could theswallowsknow, even if it had been real and not a dream? Still, we may a little fancy it is true. We could almost make a story of the window—of all the things to be seen, and all the people passing.When you are able to be on the sofa, Ferdy, it might stand so that you would see all ways—it would really be like a watch tower."
Ferdy raised himself averylittle on one elbow.
"Yes," he said eagerly, "I see how you mean. I do hope I may soon be on the sofa. I think I would make a plan of looking out of one side part of the day, and then out of the other side. I don't think it would be so bad to be ill if you could make plans. It's the lying all day just the same that must get so dreadfully dull."
"Well, you need never do that," said his sister, "not even now. When Miss Lilly comes I'm to do a little lessons first, and then I daresay she'll come in here and read aloud to us, and when I go a walk mamma will sit with you. Things will soon get into plans."
"If I could do some of my work," said Ferdy, "cutting out or painting things for my scrapbook."
"I daresay you soon can," said Chrissie hopefully. She was pleased that he had not questioned her more closely as to what the doctors had said, for fortunately her cheerful talking had made him partly forgetthat he had made up his mind the night before to find out exactly everything she could tell him.
Suddenly Chrissie, who was standing in the window, gave a little cry.
"There is Miss Lilly," she exclaimed. "I am so glad. Now she has stopped to talk to somebody. Who can it be? Oh, I see, it's that naughty Jesse Piggot! I wonder why he isn't at school? She seems talking to him quite nicely. Now she's coming on again and Jesse is touching his cap. Hecanbe very polite when he likes. Shall I run and meet Miss Lilly, and bring her straight up here? No, I can't, for there's mamma going down the drive towards her. She must have seen her coming from the drawing-room window."
"Go on," said Ferdy. "Tell me what they are doing. Are they shaking hands and talking to each other? I daresay they're talking aboutme. Does Miss Lilly look sorry? P'r'aps mamma is explaining that I can't have any lessons to-day."
"N—no," said Chrissie, "she's talking quite—like always, but—she's holding mamma's hand."
"Oh," said Ferdy with satisfaction, "that does mean she's sorry, I'm sure. It would be nice, Chrissie,if I was lying more in the window. I could see all those int'resting things myself. I could see a good deal now if I was sitting up more," and for a moment he startled his sister by moving as if he were going to try to raise himself in bed.
"Oh, Ferdy, you mustn't," she cried, darting towards him.
But poor Ferdy was already quite flat on his pillow again.
"Ican't," he said with a sigh, "I can't sit up the least little bit," and tears came into his eyes.
"Well, don't look so unhappy," said Chrissie, returning to her post at the window, "for they are coming in now, and mamma won't be pleased if she thinks I've let you get dull. There now, I hear them coming upstairs."
"All right," said Ferdy manfully, "I'm not going to look unhappy."
And it was quite a cheerful little face which met his mother's anxious glance as she opened the door to usher in Miss Lilly.
Miss Lilly's face was cheerful too. At least so it seemed to Ferdy, for she was smiling, and immediately began speaking in a bright, quick way.
But Chrissie looked at her once or twice and "understood." She saw faint traces of tears having been very lately in her governess's kind eyes, and she heard a little tremble in the voice below the cheeriness. "My dear Ferdy," Miss Lilly was saying, "see what comes of holidays! Much better have lessons than accidents, but it's an ill wind that blows no good. We shall have famous time now for yourfavouritelessons—sums and—"
"Now, Miss Lilly, you're joking—you know you are," said Ferdy, looking up in her face with his sweet blue eyes—eyes that to the young girl's fancy looked very wistful that morning. He had stretched out his arms, and was clasping them round her neck. Ferdy was very fond of MissLilly. "Aren'tyou joking?" He wasn't quite, quite sure if she was, for sums were one of the few crooks in Ferdy's lot, and rather a sore subject.
Something in the tone of his voice made Miss Lilly kiss him again as she replied, "Of course I'm joking, my dear little matter-of-fact. No, your mamma says you are only to do yourreallyfavourite lessons for a week or two, and not those if they tire you. We are all going to spoil you, I'm afraid, my boy."
"I don't want to be spoilt," said Ferdy. "Chrissie and I have been talking. I want to make plans and be—be useful or some good to somebody, even if I have to stay in bed a good bit. What I most want to get out of bed for is to lie on the sofa and have the end of it pulled into the window, so that I can see along the roads all ways. Oh, Chrissie, you must tell Miss Lilly about the swallows, and—and—what was it I wanted to ask you?" He looked round, as if he were rather puzzled.
"Are you not talking too much?" said Miss Lilly, for the little fellow's eyes were very bright—too bright, she feared. "Chrissie dear, perhapsyou can remember what Ferdy wanted to ask me about."
"Oh, I know," said Ferdy; "it was about Jesse Piggot. Chrissie, you ask."
"We saw you talking to him—at least I did—out of the window, and we wondered what it was about. They all say he's a very naughty boy, Miss Lilly."
"I know," Miss Lilly replied. "He's a Draymoor boy"—Draymoor was the name of the mining village that Ferdy had been thinking about on his birthday morning—"or rather he used to be, till his uncle there died."
"And now he lives at Farmer Meare's, where he works, but he's still naughty," said Chrissie, as if it was rather surprising that the having left off living at the black village had not made Jesse good at once.
Miss Lilly smiled.
"I don't think everybody at Draymoor is naughty," she said. "I think Jesse would have been a difficult boy to manage anywhere, though Draymoor isn't a place with much in the way of good example certainly. But I hope it's getting alittle better. If one could get hold of the children." She sat silent for a moment or two, her eyes looking as if they saw scenes not there. "I know several of the miners' families who live nearer us than Draymoor—at Bollins, and there are some such nice children among them."
Bollins was a small hamlet on the Draymoor road, and the little house where Miss Lilly lived with her grandfather, an elderly man who had once been a doctor, was just at the Evercombe side of Bollins.
"But you haven't told us what you were saying to Jesse," said Chrissie.
"Oh no," said Miss Lilly. "Poor boy, it was nice of him. He was asking how Master Ferdy was."
Ferdy looked pleased.
"Did you tell him I was better?" he asked.
"I said I hoped so, but that I had not seen you yet. And then he asked if he might send you his 'respexs' and 'Was there any birds' eggs you'd a fancy for?'"
"Poor Jesse," said Ferdy. "But birds' eggs are one of the things he's been so naughty about—takingthem all and selling them to somebody at Freston. Papa's almost sure—at least Ferguson is—that he took some thrushes' eggs out of our garden. Fancy, Miss Lilly!"
"And then for him to offer to get Ferdy any," said Chrissie.
"He knows I c'lect them," said Ferdy; "but papa told me long ago, when I was quite little, never to take all the eggs, andI'venever taken more than one. If you see Jesse again will you tell him he must never take more than one, Miss Lilly?"
"I think in this case," she replied, "it is better to tell him not to take any at all—the temptation would be too great if he knows he can always sell them. I told him I would give you his message, but that I did not think you wanted any eggs that he could get you, and I advised him to leave bird's-nesting alone, as it had already got him into trouble."
"What did he say?" asked Christine.
"He looked rather foolish and said he 'had nought to do of an evening, that was what got him into mischief; it wasn't as if he had a homeof his own,' though as far as that goes, I see plenty of boys whohavehomes of their own idling about in the evenings. It doesn't matter in the summer, but in the winter grandfather and I often feel sorry for them, and wish we could do something to amuse them. But now, Chrissie dear, we had better go to the schoolroom; your mamma is coming to sit with Ferdy for an hour or so."
"Good-bye, darling," said Chrissie, as she stooped to kiss Ferdy's pale little face—it had grown very pale again since the excitement of seeing Miss Lilly had faded away. "We shall be back soon—won't we, Miss Lilly?" she went on, turning to her governess as they left the room together.
"It depends on how he is," was the reply. "Mrs. Ross hopes that he will have a little sleep now, but if he is awake and not too tired when you have finished your lessons, I will read aloud to you both in his room."
"Miss Lilly," began Chrissie again, looking up very sadly when they were seated at the schoolroom table, "I don't want to be silly, but I really don't feel as if I could do any lessons. It is so—so dreadful to be without Ferdy, when youthink that only the day before yesterday we were both here together and so happy, looking forward to his birthday," and the child put her head down on her arms and broke into deep though quiet sobs.
In an instant Miss Lilly had left her place and was kneeling on the floor beside her.
"My poor little Chrissie, my dear little Chrissie," she said, "I am so sorry for you," and the tone of her voice showed that it was difficult for her to keep back her own tears,—"so very sorry; but remember, dear, that we can do much better for Ferdy by controlling our grief than by giving way to it. A great deal depends on keeping him cheerful and happily employed and interested. When I got your mother's note yesterday afternoon—oh dear, what a shock it was to me!—I spoke to my grandfather about Ferdy a great deal, and he said in such cases much depends on not letting the nervous system give way. Do you understand at all what I mean?"
"Yes, I think so," said Chrissie, drying her eyes and listening eagerly. "You mean if poor Ferdy was to lie there all day alone, like some poorchildren have to do, I daresay, he'd get to feel as if he would never get well again."
"Just so," said Miss Lilly, pleased to see how sensible Chrissie was. "Of course, he must not be tired or allowed to excite himself, and for a few days he is sure to be restless and fidgety from weakness; but as he gradually gets stronger again in himself, we must do all we can not only to amuse him, but to keep up his interest in things and people outside himself."
"I know," said Chrissie, "if he can feel he's of any good to anybody, that would make him happier than anything. Ferdy has never been selfish, has he, Miss Lilly?"
"No, he certainly has never seemed so, and I do not think suffering and trial such as he may have to bear will make him so."
Chrissie's face fell again at the two sad words.
Miss Lilly saw it, and went on speaking quietly. "I don't mean anything very dreadful, dear, but he may have to stay in bed or on a couch for a long time, and of course that cannot but be a great trial to an active boy. Let us get on withyour lessons now, Chrissie, in case Ferdy is awake when they are over."
He was not awake. He slept a good part of the morning, which Mrs. Ross, sitting beside him, was very glad of; and when at last he opened his eyes and looked about him, it was not long before a smile came to his face, and he cheered his mother by saying he felt "so nicely rested."
"May Chris and Miss Lilly come back now?" he asked. "Miss Lilly said she would read aloud."
Yes, Chris and Miss Lilly would be only too happy to come, but first Ferdy must be "good" and drink some beef-tea, which was standing all ready.
It was rather an effort to do so. Ferdy did not like beef-tea, and he was not at all hungry, and he just wanted to lie still and not be bothered. But "To please me" from his mother was enough, and when she kissed him and said hewas"a good boy," he told her, laughing, that he felt as if he were a little baby again.
Chrissie's face brightened when she heard the sound of her brother's laugh.
"Are you feeling better, Ferdy dear?" she said. "Iamso glad, and Miss Lilly has brought a story-book of her own that we have never read."
"Oh, how nice!" said Ferdy. "Do tell me the name of the book, Miss Lilly."
"It is short stories," she replied. "I will read you the names of some of them, and you shall choose which you would like best."
The titles were all very tempting, but Ferdy made a good hit, and fixed upon one of the most interesting in the book, so said Miss Lilly. It was about a family of children in Iceland, and though it was rather long, they wished there was more of it when it came to an end. Then Miss Lilly looked at her watch.
"There is still a quarter of an hour," she said, as she turned over the leaves. "Yes, here is a short story, which will just about fill up the time."
Ferdy and Chrissie looked very pleased, but they did not say anything. They were so afraid of losing any of the precious fifteen minutes.
"The name of the story," said Miss Lilly, "is 'A Fairy House,'" and then she went on to read it.
"Once upon a time there was a fairy who had done something wrong, and for this reason had to be punished. I do not know exactly what it was that she had done, perhaps only something that we should scarcely think wrong at all, such as jumping on a mushroom before it was full grown, or drinking too much dew out of a lily-cup, and thereby leaving the poor flower thirsty through the hot noontide. Most likely it was nothing worse than something of this kind, but still it was a fault that had to be corrected; so the little culprit was banished to a desert part of fairyland, a bleak and barren spot, which you would scarcely have thought could be found in the magic country which we always think of as so bright and beautiful.
"There she stayed with nothing to do for sometime, which is about the worst punishment a fairy can have to endure. So she felt very pleased when one morning there came a messenger direct from the queen, charged to tell the little exile that she should be forgiven and released from her banishment as soon as she should have fulfilled a task which was to be set her. This task was to build a house, which to us may sound almost impossible without masons and carpenters and all manner of workmen. But fairy houses are not like ours, as you will hear.
"The messenger led the fairy to a spot on the moor where there was a heap of stones.
"'These are what you are to build with,' he said. 'As soon as the house is completed you may send a butterfly to tell the queen, and she will then come to test it. If it is quite perfect, you shall return at once with her to the court,' and so saying he fled away.
"The fairy set to work in good spirits. She had no need of mortar, or scaffolding, or tools, or anything, indeed, but her own little hands and the stones. Nor were the stones cut evenly and regularly, as you might have expected. They were ofall sizes and shapes, but each only required a touch from the fairy's fingers at once to fit itself into the place which she saw it was intended for. So for some time the work went on merrily. It was not till the house was very nearly completed that the fairy began to fear something was wrong. It lopped a little—averylittle—to one side. But there was nothing to be done that she could see. So she finished it in hopes that the queen would not notice the tiny imperfection, and despatched the butterfly to announce her readiness for her royal lady's visit.
"The queen arrived promptly,—fairy queens are never unpunctual,—and at first sight she smiled amiably.
"'You have worked hard,' she said to the poor fairy, who stood there half hopeful and half trembling. Then her Majesty stepped out of her chariot, patting her winged steeds as she passed them, and entered the new building, followed by the little architect.
"All seemed right till they got to the second floor, when the queen stopped and looked round her sharply.
"'Something is wrong here,' she said. 'The left-hand wall is out of level. I suspected it downstairs, but waited to see.'
"The fairy builder looked very distressed.
"'Did you know there was anything wrong?' said the queen, more coldly than she had yet spoken.
"'I—I was afraid it was a little crooked,' the little fairy replied, 'but I hoped perhaps your Majesty would not mind it.'
"'My messenger told you that the building must beperfect,' replied the queen. 'You had all the stones, every one ready for its place. If you have left one out, even the smallest, the building cannot be perfect. Ah, well, you must try again,' and so saying she left the house, followed by the builder. As soon as she stepped outside she waved her wand, and in an instant the walls had fallen apart, and there was nothing to be seen but the heap of stones as before.
"The poor little fairy sat down and cried as she saw the queen's chariot disappear in the air.
"'I don't know what to do,' she thought. 'It would be just the same thing if I set to work tobuild it up again. I am sure I used every stone, down to some quite tiny ones; but still it is no good crying about it,' and she started up, determined to try afresh.
"As she did so, a very slight sound caught her ears. Out of her pocket had rolled a very small stone, a tiny, insignificant pebble, probably smaller than any she had used in the building.
"'That's the very pebble I found in my shoe the other day,' she exclaimed. 'I must have picked it up with my handkerchief,' and she was just about to fling it away when a new idea struck her. Was it possible that this little atom of a stone—or rather its absence—was what had spoilt the whole piece of work? It might be so, for had not the queen said that the slightest little scrap of material wanting would spoil the perfection of the building.
"And, full of fresh hope, she carefully placed the little stone on the top of the heap and began again. All went well. Deep down in the foundations, unseen but far from unneeded, the tiny pebble found its own place, and before the sun set, the magic edifice stood perfect, gleamingwhite and fair in the radiance of the evening sky.
Took her back to court in her own chariot.
"It was without fear or misgiving this time that the fairy sent off her butterfly messenger the next morning; and her joy was complete when the queen not only took her back to court in her own chariot, but as a proof of her perfect restoration to favour, transported the pretty white house by a wave of her wand to the centre of a lovely garden near her own palace, and gave it to the fairy as her home."
Miss Lilly stopped reading. The children looked up, pleased but a little puzzled.
"What a funny story," said Ferdy; "it's nice, but isn't it more what you call a—I forget the word."
"Allegory, do you mean?" said Miss Lilly. "Well yes, perhaps. Many fairy stories have a kind of meaning behind them, but I don't think this one is difficult to guess."
"It means, I suppose," said Chrissie, "that everything is of use, if you can find the right place for it."
"A little more than that," said Miss Lilly. "We might put it this way—thateverybody, even the smallest and weakest, has his or her own place in the house of—" and she hesitated.
"In the house of the world?" said Ferdy.
"In the house of life," said Miss Lilly after thinking a little. "That says it better."
Then, seeing that Ferdy was looking rather tired, she told Chrissie to run off and get dressed for going a walk.
"I will send Flowers to sit with you," she said, as she stooped to kiss the little invalid, "and in the afternoon Chrissie and I will come back again for an hour or so if you are not asleep."
"I won't be asleep," said Ferdy; "I have slept quite enough to last me all day. Miss Lilly—"
"What, dear?" for the boy's eyes looked as if he wanted to ask her something. "Would you like us to bring you in some flowers?—not garden ones, but wild ones. There are still primroses—and violets, of course—in the woods."
"Yes," Ferdy replied, "I should like themverymuch. And could you get some moss, Miss Lilly? I would like to arrange them with moss, in that sort of birds'-nesty-looking way."
"I know how you mean," the young lady said. "Yes, we will bring you some moss. And, by the bye, Ferdy, if I had some wire I could show you how to make moss baskets that last for ever so long to put flowers in. You put a little tin or cup to hold water in the middle of the basket—the moss quite hides it,—and then you can always freshen up the moss by sousing it in water."
"What a nice word 'sousing' is," said Ferdy, in his quaint old-fashioned way. "It makes you think of bathing in the sea. Miss Lilly, do you think I'll ever be able to bathe in the sea again? I do so love it. And then there's skating and cricket, and when I go to school there'll be football. Papa was so good at football when he was at school. I wonder—" he stopped short. "I wonder," he went on again, "if I'll ever be able for any of those things. Boys who are all right,wellboys, don't think of the difference being like me makes."
"No, they don't," his governess agreed. "But there is still a good long while before you would be going to school, Ferdy dear."
"I know," he said, though he could not keep back a little sigh. "I've only been two days in bed, but I have thought such a lot. Miss Lilly, there was something I wanted to ask you. It's about that boy, Jesse Piggot. I was thinking about him when I was awake in the night. If you meet him, please thank him for asking if I was better, and do you think mamma would let him come in one day to see me? It's partly that story, too."
Miss Lilly did not at first understand.
"The 'nallegory," said Ferdy, "about all the stones being some good."
Miss Lilly's face cleared; she looked pleased and interested.
"Oh yes," she said.
"I haven't got it straight in my head yet," said Ferdy. "I want to think a lot more. It's partly about me myself, and partly about Jesse and boys like him. Oh, I do wish I could be on the sofa in the window," he added suddenly. "I'd like to see the children going to school and coming back."
"I hope you will be on the sofa in a very fewdays, dear," said Miss Lilly. "But I must go—Chrissie will be waiting for me. I hope we shall get some nice flowers and moss, and to-morrow I will bring some wire and green thread that I have at home on purpose for such things."
When she had gone Flowers made her appearance. She sat down with her work, and Ferdy lay so still, that she thought he must have fallen asleep again. But no, Ferdy was not asleep, only thinking; and to judge by the look on his face, his thoughts were interesting.
The moss baskets proved a great success as well as a great amusement. Ferdy's nimble fingers seemed to have grown even more nimble and delicate in touch now that he was forced to lie still. They twisted the wire into all sorts of new shapes, some quaint, some graceful, that Miss Lilly had never even thought of, and when some little old cups without handles or tiny jelly pots or tins were found to fit in, so that the flowers could have plenty of water to keep them fresh, you cannot think how pretty the moss baskets looked. The children's mother was quite delighted with one that was presented to her, andshe smiled more cheerfully than she had yet done since Ferdy's accident, to see him so busy and happy.
And time went on. It is very curious how quickly we get accustomed to things—even to great overwhelming changes, which seem at first as if they must utterly upset and make an end of everything. It is a great blessing that wedoget used to whatis. When I was a little girl I remember reading a story about the old proverb which in those days was to be found as one of the model lines in a copy-book. This one stood for the letter "C," and it was, "Custom commonly makes things easy."
Somehow the words fixed themselves in my memory. You don't know how often and in what very far differing circumstances I have said them over to myself; sometimes in hopefulness, sometimes when I had to face sorrows that made me feel as if Icouldnot face them, "Custom commonly" seemed to be whispered into my ear, as if by a gentle little fairy voice. And I found it came true, thank God! It is one of the ways in which He helps us to bear our sorrows andmaster our difficulties, above all,realsorrows andrealdifficulties. Fanciful ones, or foolish ones that we make for ourselves, are often in the end the hardest to bear and to overcome.
It was so with little Ferdy and his friends. One month after that sad birthday that had begun so brightly, no stranger suddenly visiting the Watch House would have guessed from the faces and voices of its inmates how lately and how terribly the blow had fallen upon them. All seemed bright and cheerful, and even the boy's own countenance, though pale and thin, had a happy and peaceful expression. More than that indeed. He was often so merry that you could hear his laugh ringing through the house if you were only passing up or down stairs, or standing in the hall below.
By this time things had settled themselves down into a regular plan. The oriel room was now Ferdy's "drawing-room"—or drawing-room and dining-room in one, as he said himself. It was his day room, and every night and morning his father or Thomas, the footman, carried him most carefully and gently from and to the invalidcouch in his favourite window to bed, orfrombed in his own little room.
This was a delightful change. Ferdy declared he felt "almost quite well again" when the day came on which he was allowed "to go to bed properly," and be attired nicely the next morning in a little dressing-gown made to look as like a sailor suit as possible.
His general health was good, thanks to the excellent care that was taken of him, and thanks too to his own cheerful character. There were times, of course, when hedidfind it difficult to be bright—lovely summer afternoons when a sharp pang pierced his little heart at the sight of the school children racing home in their careless healthfulness, or fresh sweet mornings when he longed with a sort of thirstiness to be able to go for a walk in the woods with Christine and Miss Lilly. But these sad feelings did not last long, though the days went on, and still the doctor shook his head at the idea even of his being carried down to the lawn and laid there, as Ferdy had begun to hope might be allowed.
The oriel window was his greatest comfort. Itreally was a delightful window. On one side or other there was sure to besomethingto look at, and Ferdy was quick to find interest in everything. He loved to see the school children, some of whom were already known to him, some whom he learnt to know by sight from watching them pass.
But one boyish figure he missed. All this time Jesse Piggot had never been seen. Miss Lilly had looked out for him, as Ferdy had asked her to do, but in vain. And it was not till within a day or two of a month since the accident that she heard from some of the Draymoor people that the boy had been taken off "on a job" by one of his rough cousins at the colliery village.
"And no good will it do him neither," added the woman. "That's a lad as needs putting up to no manner o' mischief, as my master says."
"Wasn't it a pity to take him away from Farmer Meare's?" Miss Lilly added.
"They hadn't really room for him there," said the woman. "But Farmer Meare is a good man. He says he'll take the poor lad back again after a bit when there'll be more work that he can do."
Miss Lilly told this over to the children the next day. Ferdy looked up with interest in his eyes.
"I hope he will come back again soon," he said. "You know, Miss Lilly, I never finished talking about him to you. I was thinking of him again a lot yesterday; it was the birds, theywerechattering so when I was alone in the afternoon. I was half asleep, I think, and hearing them reminded me in a dreamy way of birds' nests and eggs, and then, through that, of Jesse Piggot and what the fairy story put in my head about him."
"What was it?" asked Miss Lilly.
"It's rather difficult to explain," Ferdy replied. "I was thinking, you see, that if I never get well and strong again I wouldn't seem any use to anybody. Itdoesseem as if some people were no use. And Jesse Piggot seems always in everybody's way, as if there was no place for him, though quite different from me, of course, for everybody's so kind to me. And then I thought of the stones, and how they all fitted in, and I wondered what I could get to do, and I thought perhaps I might help Jesse some way."
Miss Lilly looked at Ferdy. There was a very kind light in her eyes.
"Yes, Ferdy dear," she said. "I think I understand. When Jesse comes back we must talk more about it, and perhaps we shall find out some way of fitting him into his place. Stop dear, I think I had better look at your knitting; you are getting it a little too tight on the needles."
Ferdy handed it to her with a little sigh. He did not care very much for knitting, and he had also a feeling that it was girls' work. But it had been very difficult to find any occupation for him, as he could not go on making moss baskets always, and knitting seemed the best thing for the moment. He was now making a sofa blanket for his mother, in stripes of different colours, and Miss Lilly and Christine were helping him with it, as it would otherwise have been too long a piece of work.
"I'm rather tired of knitting," he said, "now that I know how to do it. I liked it better at first, but there's no planning about it now."
"We must think of a change of work for you before long," said Miss Lilly, as she quickly finisheda row so as to get the stitches rather looser again. "Don't do any more this morning, Ferdy. Lie still and talk. Tell me about the birds chattering."
"They are so sweet and funny," said Ferdy. "Sometimes I fancy I'm getting to know their different voices. And there's one that stands just at the corner of the window-sill outside, that I really think I could draw. I know the look of him so well. Or I'll tell you what," he went on. "I couldfigurehim, I'm sure I could, better than draw him."
"Figurehim! what do you mean?" said Chrissie. "What funny words you say, Ferdy."
"Do you mean modelling it?" asked Miss Lilly. "Have you ever seen any modelling?"
"No," said Ferdy, "I don't understand."
"I mean using some soft stuff, like clay or wax, and shaping it, partly with your fingers and partly with tools," replied Miss Lilly. "I don't know much about it, but I remember one of my brothers doing something of the kind."
Ferdy reflected.
"It does sound rather fun," he said, "but Ididn't mean that. I meant cutting—with a nice sharp knife and soft wood. I am sure I could figure things that way. I know what made me think of it. It was a story about the village boys in Switzerland, who cut out things in the winter evenings."
"You mean carving," said Christine; "you shouldn't call it cutting. Yes, I've always thought it must be lovely work, but you would need to be awfully clever to do it."
"I'd like to try," said the boy. "When my sofa's put up a little higher at the back, the way Mr. Stern lets it be now, I can use my hands quite well. You needn't be afraid I'd cut myself. Oh, itwouldbe jolly to cut out birds, and stags' heads, and things like that!"
"Stags' heads would be awfully difficult," said Christine, "because of the sticking-out horns—they're just like branches with lots of twigs on them. What is it you call them, Miss Lilly?"
"Antlers, isn't that what you mean?" Miss Lilly replied. "Yes, they would be very difficult. You would have to begin with something much simpler, Ferdy."
"I suppose I thought of stags because the Swiss boys in the story cut out stags' heads," said Ferdy. "I think I'd try a swallow's head. When I shut my eyes I can see one quite plain. Miss Lilly, don't you think I might try todrawone? If I had a piece of paper and a nice pencil—"
Just then the door opened and his mother came in. Her face brightened up as soon as she caught sight of Ferdy's cheerful expression and heard his eager tone—it was always so now. Since the accident Mrs. Ross seemed a kind of mirror of her boy; if he was happy and comfortable her anxious face grew smooth and peaceful; if he had had a bad night, or was tired, or in pain, she looked ten years older.
And Miss Lilly, who, though still quite young herself, was very thoughtful and sensible, saw this with anxiety.
"It will never do for things to go on like this," she said to herself, "the strain will break down poor Mrs. Ross. And if Ferdy is never to be quite well again, or even if it takes a long time for him to recover, it will get worse and worse. We must try to find something for him to do that will takehim out of himself, as people say,—something that will make him feel himself of use, poor dear, as he would like to be. I wonder if my grandfather could speak to Mrs. Ross and make her see that she should try not to be always so terribly anxious."
For old Dr. Lilly was a very wise man. In his long life he had acquired a great deal of knowledge besides "book-learning"; he had learnt to read human beings too.
But just now Miss Lilly's thoughtful face brightened up also as Ferdy's mother came in.
"We are talking about wood-carving," she said. "I am going to ask my grandfather about it. And Ferdy would like to prepare for it by drawing a little again—he was getting on nicely just before he was ill."
"I'd like a slate," said Ferdy, "because I could rub out so easily; only drawings on a slate never look pretty—white on black isn't right."
"Iknow what," exclaimed Christine. "Mamma, do let us get Ferdy one of those beautiful white china slates—a big one, the same as your little one that lies on the hall table for messages."
Ferdy's eyes sparkled with pleasure.
"That would do lovelily," he said.
So it was arranged that Christine should drive with her mother that afternoon to the nearest town—not Whittingham, but a smaller town in another direction, called Freston, in quest of a good-sized white china slate.