"He is gentil that doth gentil dedes."—Chaucer.
he birds have been awake, chirping
and twittering for more than an
hour, and the sun has stolen the
first cool freshness from the clear dewdrops, as
a pair of small feet come scudding across the
lawn and down the gravel path.
Phil is up betimes to-day. He had opened
his eyes as he heard cook's heavy, deliberate
tread on the stairs—she is stout and old, and
he knows her step well—and then he knew that
it must be quite early, about half-past five.
Very gaily he tumbled out of his bed, and
struggled into his white summer suit.
He grew rather mixed over the buttons.
There seemed so many along the top of his
small knickerbockers! What could be the use
of them all? One was quite enough to hold
the things together, and he made up his mind
to ask nurse to cut off all the others.
Not now, though! Oh no! He only peeped
into her room through the half-open door, with
a mischievous smile on his sweet bonny face,
and looked at her still sleeping figure, until she
stirred a little. Then he promptly drew back
his head, and snatching up his garden shoes,
ran noiselessly down the stairs.
He watched from behind the hall curtain until
cook had opened the garden door, and gone to
fetch her pail.
Now came his opportunity! Pulling on his
shoes, he was quickly scuttling over the grass,
looking very like a small white rabbit, as he
disappeared among the trees and shrubs.
I don't think that my little motherless,
six-year-old friend knew that he was doing anything
naughty when he escaped in this way from
the vigilance of his lawful guardians.
There was an honest, unselfish desire in his
heart which had prompted this deeply laid plan,
and he had been waiting for several days, with
a patience rarely seen in a child his age, for an
opportunity to carry it into effect.
As he trotted past his own strip of garden,
at the further end of the Rose Walk, he was
thinking to himself—
"Of course, nobody must see me do it.
Gentlemen never do things because they want
to be thanked. I should hate it so if she said
'thank you,' even once."
And away went the fat legs down the kitchen
garden, and across the paddock, towards Farmer
Greeson's corn field, where the golden grain stood
helplessly in closely packed shocks.
Poor Farmer Greeson thought it very hard
that Club Day should come just in the middle
of his "harvesting;" that his precious wheat
must stand a whole day waiting to be carried;
and that another field must wait uncut while
the club enjoyed itself. But, then, the old man
was obliged to remind himself that the harvest
was much later than usual this year. Unsettled
weather and frequent storms had upset so many
farming operations.
Ah! But what was a lost day to Farmer
Greeson was Phil's golden opportunity.
He had listened to the servants' talk about
their holiday, and though he did not quite
understand what "Club Day" meant, he was
quite sure that he need not be afraid of
intruders upon his darling scheme at this early
hour, and so he climbed the farmer's gate, and
dropped with a merry "hurrah" on to the
stubbly ground.
An hour later still finds Phil alone in the field,
stooping over the ground and moving slowly
along. He looks like a tiny old man, with his bent
form and his hat pushed to the back of his head.
Phil is gleaning.
Steadily and laboriously he gathers up the
scattered ears of corn.
He finds it harder work than he thought, and
he stops now and then to take out his handkerchief
and wipe his hot face, with a quaint
imitation of the labourers he has so often
watched. Then he stands with his arms
akimbo, to rest before setting to work again
with determined energy.
There is quite a large bundle of gleanings
lying on his outspread handkerchief. He has
brought his best and largest to hold his gains;
and now the heap of corn almost eclipses the
border of kittens and puppies, with arched backs
and bristling tails, that Phil thinks "so jolly."
Hark! What a delicious peal of laughter.
The little gleaner has stopped again to
straighten his back, and is watching the merry
gambols of two brown baby rabbits that, quite
unconscious of Phil's nearness, are playing
round one of the shocks, as if they thought it
had been put there solely for their amusement.
Round and round, in and out, they scamper,
until Phil's laughter breaks into a shout, and
he claps his hands in keen delight.
This brings the entertainment to an abrupt
end.
Off fly the terrified animals—their fun and
frolic turned to fear by that very human and
boyish cry; and the child's merriment dies too.
He begins his labours again, saying to himself,
"Well, you bunnies are awfully easily
scared! It's a good thing gentlemen can be
braver than that."
And so the sturdy legs trudge backwards and
forwards across the field.
The sun shines warmly, and Phil's face grows
hot and red. Phil begins to feel hungry too.
"If I was a big man, I think I should have
a nice lot of bread and cheese! I wish I was
a man. But I can be a gentleman now, father
says so."
He stands with his head on one side and his
hands in his pockets, looking down thoughtfully
at his gleanings. He is sure that he has
got enough now; but he is not quite so sure
that he can carry them all at once. However,
he boldly grasps the corner of his gay
handkerchief lifts the bundle, and staggers under
its weight across the uneven ground.
Through the little gate on the other side of
the corn field, with his back turned to his own
home, Phil pushes his way, and passes into the
cool shadows of the lane, just as a servant-maid
enters the field by the other gate.
If you wanted to escape observation, you did
not enter the lane a minute too soon, little Phil.
Look at the earnest purpose in his blue eyes,
and the brave determination with which he sets
his teeth and struggles on with his load. A
little further and he reaches an old broken gate,
standing open and leading to a neglected
garden.
Phil stops for a moment and listens. He
hears nothing.
Yes; an old hen is clucking with motherly
satisfaction over two long-legged chickens that
are racing for a fat green caterpillar. That
is all.
So Phil is satisfied, and plods up the narrow
garden footway until he comes to a standstill
at an old cottage door. He has to put his
precious bundle on the ground while he stands
on tiptoe and raises the latch.
"Who's there? Is any one there?" says a
quavering old voice, and the child nods his curly
head and smiles, but says nothing.
Pushing the door open very softly, he enters
the one room of which the cottage consists.
On a bed in a corner lies a very old woman;
her thin hands clasped patiently on the counterpane,
and her sightless eyes covered with a
broad white bandage.
"Ah, daughter, I've had a long, long night;
and I'll be glad of my cup of tea. But you're
main early, ain't you, dearie? I don't feel the
sun upon my face yet!"
How difficult it is for Phil to hold his tongue,
as he crosses the cottage floor and stands for
a moment by Dame Christy's bedside, looking
at her with a whole world of pity in his bonny
eyes.
This is by no means the first time that he
has been in this humble home; but never has
he come as the silent smiling visitor he is to-day.
He puts his bundle on the bed by the old
woman's side, looks wistfully at the bandaged
eyes, and then creeps slowly and softly across
the room and runs out into the sunlight—down
the lane.
With tired arms swinging from a sense of
relief, with bright curls tossing, and dusty feet
plodding over the ground, Phil enters the corn
field, and runs—into the outstretched arms of
Jane, the housemaid.
And this is the greeting she gives him—
"Well, you are a naughty boy, Master Phil!
Nurse is in a rare taking, thinking you've gone
and drownded yourself or got a sunstroke or
something. You deserve to be kept in bed all
day, you bad child! And I wish your pa was
at home to whip you as well."
Poor little Phil trudges back by the side of
the scolding maid, feeling sobered and crestfallen.
It has come upon him like a rough
awakening from a sweet sleep that what he has
done may look like naughtiness in the eyes
of others.
Would they understand if he told them all
about it?
But, then, if he told, it would spoil it all—for
"gentlemen did kind things, but never
talked about them." Those were the very
words father had said. Father must know.
He had been a gentleman all his life.
Choking down a rebellious sob of disappointment,
the child faces nurse's wrath with a brave
heart. He says, "I'm very, very sorry, nursie,"
so humbly, when her half-angry, half-tearful
scolding is over, and his winsome face looks so
sweet in its unusual gravity, that her loving old
heart melts at once.
She hugs and kisses "her boy" again and
again; telling him "not to go and get into
mischief like this, and never to give her such
another scare."
Three days later Phil's father comes home.
Nurse finds an early opportunity for telling
him the story of his little son's escapade, adding,
however, a sequel of which Phil knows
nothing. For on the previous day, Dame
Christy's daughter had sent up a message to the
nursery, "Might she trouble Mrs. Nurse to step
downstairs for a minute?"
And on her entering the housekeeper's room,
she had displayed a large handkerchief, having
an artistic and warlike border of quarrelsome
cats and dogs. With tears in her eyes the
young woman spoke of the dear little master's
gift and the hard labour it must have cost him.
"And we should never have knowed who did
it, but for this, which told the tale. For he
came and went so quiet, that mother she
thought it must have been a dog as had got into
her room, never speaking a word, and coming
right away without any one knowing! His
handkercher I knowed directly, 'cause he showed
it to me only the other day. He's a rale little
gentleman, isn't he now?"
Nurse had wisely begged Dame Christy's
daughter not to mention, or let her mother
speak of the gift, but to leave the child in
happy ignorance that his good deed had been
discovered. She instinctively felt that "her
boy" who would "do good by stealth" would
"blush to find it fame."
But now she tells her master all about it,
dwelling with pardonable pride on the "sweet
nature of the bairn."
That same evening Phil's father stands by
his boy's crib and looks down at the bonny face
as it lies on the pillow, while he strokes the
curly crop with a loving hand.
The blue eyes are just a little bit sleepy.
Nurse has tucked him up for the night, and
drawn down the blind. But they are not too
sleepy to shine with love and admiration as they
look up into the kind face bending over him.
"So, my little son gave nurse a fright the
other day?"
"Please, father, I'm very sorry."
The child's lips quiver, but the soft eyes
still look trustingly upwards. "I was really
trying to be a gentleman—and—and you said
gentlemen didn't tell when they tried to be
kind, didn't you?"
And now father quite understands the
motive which has closed his child's lips—the
tender sense of manly honour, which, even in
its early growth, is strong enough to influence
the heart of his boy.
That Phil is already "learning the luxury of
doing good," and beginning a chain of those
"little, nameless, unremembered acts of kindness
and of love," which form "the best portion
of a good man's life," fills his heart with a glow
of thankfulness.
He stoops, and kissing the pleading, wistful
face, says—
"Yes, Phil. Yes, dear little lad, I did say
so. You need not tell me any more unless
you like. I quite trust you. Remember
always that you are a gentleman—or better
still, try and follow in the steps of that Perfect
Example of a loving and gentle Man—and you
will make father very happy."
| "The poor dog, in life the firmest friend— |
| The first to welcome, foremost to defend— |
| Whose honest heart is still his master's own, |
| Who labours, fights, lives, breathes for him alone." |
| Byron. |
he electric-bell in the guard's van
suddenly began to tinkle. Something
was wrong with one of the
passengers. The train slackened speed, and
then stopped altogether.
One by one the passengers' heads appeared
at the windows. Such a variety of heads, too!
Some wrapped in handkerchiefs, some with
hats all awry, some wearing neither hat nor
cap, and all looking ruffled and rubbed up, as if
a minute before their owners had been snoring
in peaceful forgetfulness that they were not in
their own quiet beds at home.
This, very likely, was the case, for it was five
o'clock on a warm summer morning, and the
train from the North had been tearing along
with its burden of drowsy passengers ever since
nine o'clock the evening before.
Was it any wonder that this abrupt stoppage—here,
where there was not even a platform in
sight—somewhat disturbed and irritated the
travellers?
"A most irregular proceeding!" cried one
indignant gentleman who, in his anxiety to see
what was wrong, had pulled the blue window-blind
over his bald head.
"It's always the way," cried another fretfully.
"Just my luck! Delaying the train, just when
I particularly wished to be in town early."
"Perhaps the train is on fire! Oh, guard!
guard!" screamed a frightened old lady a few
doors further down. "Help me out! This is
dreadful!"
But the guard, a kindly, warm-hearted Scotchman,
was far too busy to attend to any one but
the poor heart-broken young mother, who was
clinging to him in her first paroxysm of grief
and fear.
"Noo! noo!" he was saying. "Dinna be
greeting sae sairly, mem! We'll all be doing
our best to find the bit bairn. Jack has gone
to tak' a look along the line. But the train's
o'erdue, and we maun get to yonder station
before we can have asseestance."
Then the news was carried the length of the
Scotch express.
A little child had fallen out of the train while
his mother was asleep. The lady's dog had
gone too!
All the heads disappeared, with different
expressions of sorrow for the poor young
mother, and that was all.
Not quite, though!
One bright face reappeared. A girlish hand
unfastened the carriage door, and in another
moment a young lady had scrambled down to
the six-foot way and, with her handbag and a
bundle of wraps, was making her way to an
open door, from which came the sound of bitter,
hysterical weeping.
"Guard, I have come to see if I can help in
any way. What are you going to do?"
"There is but one way, mem. Yonder comes
Jack. He's seen nothing, I'm fearing. We must
put the gude leddie down at the next station,
and she maun get an engine there and go seek
the puir bit bairn."
"Very well, guard. Then I will stay with this
lady until we stop." And as the old man thankfully
returned to his duties and the train was
quickly put in motion, she sat down and put a
pair of sisterly arms round the distracted stranger.
"Let us think what we will do," she said in
her kind cheery voice, "and let us remember that
the angels have been about your little one all
this time. It may not be as bad as we think."
"We? Who are you?" asked the dazed,
bewildered mother. "I don't know you."
"I am Hetty Saunders. I am going to
London to spend the last days of my holiday
with my brother. But I can spare the time to
help you a little, you know. Let us forget that
I am a stranger."
And with true womanly capableness she
took the management of affairs into her own
hands, drawing Mrs. Hayling on to tell her
all she would about her little Willie—and
something, too, of Boxer, the gentle, clever
Scotch collie.
Half an hour ago they had both been with
her. Where were they now?
Let us go back and look at the other side
of this little story—Willie and Boxer's side.
They were both of an inquiring turn of
mind. This was only their second railway
journey; and it was not, therefore, very wonderful
that Willie's fingers and Boxer's sharp,
inquisitive nose, seemed determined to examine
everything.
You can guess that it was with no small relief
that Mrs. Hayling saw her little son's round
blue eyes grow dim with sleep, as she tucked
him up—for the sixth time at least—in the
thick railway rug, and told Boxer to lie down
beside him.
But it was quite a long time after Willie's
mouth opened, to let out some not unmusical
snores, that Mrs. Hayling's thoughts were
hushed into quiet dreams.
Mothers have so many things to think about
and puzzle over!
About four o'clock her little son suddenly
opened his eyes, and as suddenly remembered
where he was.
He was wide awake!
Boxer did not like the vigorous shake that
his little master gave him. He roused himself,
it is true; but when Willie climbed on to the
seat and looked out of the window, he curled
himself round for another nap. Why did not
his little master do the same?
"Boxer, I'm 'samed of you! How lazy you
are! Come and play wid me."
And the fat arms dragged the dog up again
and held him in a tight embrace, from which
there seemed no escaping.
"Mother is fast as'eep! We'll play widout
her, dis time," and Willie fixed his eyes
longingly upon the window-strap. Then he looked
back again at his mother's white tired face.
He was thinking to himself, "Mother said,
Willie mustn't play wid dat fing—and—and
me wants to."
Poor mother! why do you not wake? See!
your little child is getting nearer and nearer to
that forbidden plaything.
He leant against the door and held the
window-strap in one hand, while his little face
grew grave and ashamed. It was not quite so
nice to be disobedient as Willie thought it
would be.
Mother, mother! why do you not wake?
There is something wrong with the fastening
of the door, and even the child's light weight
has made it shift a little.
He was peeping down with eager eyes into
the depths out of which the window-sash had
been drawn.
"I'll send dis strap down dere, and fis' somefing
up. S'all I, Boxer?"
The dog stood close beside him, wagging his
bushy tail and looking up with two bright
loving eyes.
And then the train gave a sudden lurch, the
door flew open, and as the child fell forward
with a little cry, Boxer sprang after him and
seized him by his sailor-collar. Powerless to
save his little master from falling, he yet dragged
him sideways to the ground, and received the
full force of the fall, as they rolled over and
over down the long green bank.
And yet mother did not wake! No! not
until that motionless bundle—the child and the
dog—had been left many miles away.
"Boxer! wake up! It's time for bekfust."
Boxer did not move.
"I said I was 'samed of you. Now I'm
'sameder. You are a lazy dog!"
And then Willie's eyes opened wider, and
he turned over on his bed. His bed? Why!
it was soft green grass! and that was not a
bed-curtain up there. It was a tree, and
branches of whispering leaves.
Slowly the truth crept into the child's mind, and
very slowly it drove two large tears into his blue
eyes. Where was mother—dear, dear mother?
He sat up and looked round him. "Mother!
mother! I'm very, very sorry!" he cried; the
remembrance of his disobedience being full
upon him. But his voice ended in sobs, as
he buried his face in the grass again. "Oh,
mother! Willie does want you so!"
Mother was coming. Her strained, anxious
eyes had already discovered the little figure
lying stretched upon the ground.
In another moment the pilot-engine had
stopped, and she had clasped her darling in her
arms—alive—unhurt—and was covering him
with kisses, while thankful tears ran down her
cheeks.
It was left to Hetty Saunders to stoop down
and stroke Boxer's motionless figure, and in
that touch to learn how the dear doggie had
lost his life for his little master.
heard Dick—he's my biggest
brother—learning his "Rep" the
other day. I don't quite know
what "Rep" is; but he was saying some words
over and over again, and some of them stuck
in my head. I can remember them now.
I don't often remember things; but that is
because I've got a head like a sieve—nurse
says so.
"What's in a name?" he read out of the
book—and then something about a rose smelling
sweet. That part doesn't matter.
If Dick had asked me "What's in a name?"
I could have told him quite well. But Dick
didn't ask me, and so I will tell you instead.
I think there's a great deal in a name—at least,
in a nickname. There are all kinds of spiteful
little prickles that hurt ever so much more than
others, because they stick in our feelings.
I think I must have got a whole lot of that
kind of thorn in me just now, for I do feel sore.
Every one has begun to call me Matty, and
I can't bear it!
Did you say Matty was rather a pretty
name?
Perhaps it is, if it is the proper short for your
name; I mean, if you were christened Matilda.
But my name's Ginevra!
Now, do you understand that they all call
me Matty just to tease me, and I hate it.
I do.
I've got as far as adjectives in grammar, so
I know that the long horrid word which they
put before Matty sometimes is an adjective.
I'm not going to write it down here—no, not
for any one—because it is such a nasty, unkind
word. But it begins with an M. The next
letter is an E, and then comes D, and there are
seven more letters, I think.
And this is all because the other day it
was raining very fast, and there was nothing
to do!
There never is anything to do on a wet day;
I mean, nothing interesting. Dick plays with
me sometimes; but he was reading a story, with
dreadful fighting pictures to it, in the Boy's Own
Paper, so I knew he wouldn't want to come.
And Teddie had gone to sleep in the armchair.
Wasn't that a stupid thing to do?
Well! I was obliged to get something to do—wasn't
I? And it wasn't my fault that Ann
left the dear little drawing-room bellows behind
her, when she came to make up the fire, was it?
You can do nice, funny things with bellows.
I've tried.
But Dick didn't like me to blow down his
neck; and Teddie got quite cross when I sent
a puff of wind into his ear and woke him up.
He needn't have thrown the footstool at me,
need he?
I went out of the schoolroom after that, and
such a nice thought came into my head.
I would be a wind-fairy.
I would be a naughty wind-fairy first, and go
and blow everything out of its place—all untidy
and crooked; and then I could change, and be
a good wind-fairy, and go and blow all the
things straight again.
So I went into all the rooms.
It was funny!
I blew the antimacassars on to the floor, and
the visiting-cards out of the china-plate.
That was in the drawing-room.
The best fun was in the nursery, where all
the clean handkerchiefs and collars and cuffs
were on the table. They went puff, puff, all
over the floor, just like big snowflakes, and I
could hardly help stepping on them.
The bedrooms were not so much fun. So I
finished by going to the dining-room, as soon
as Ann had gone away, after setting the tea.
Nobody will believe me when I say that I
really was going to put everything tidy again!
But I never got so far as being the good wind-fairy.
Everything always goes just the wrong
way!
First of all, the servants finished their tea
sooner than they generally do, and nurse went
straight back to the nursery. She might have
waited—mightn't she?
And wasn't it unkind of Mrs. Rose to come
and call, and to have to be shown into the
drawing-room? She is our doctor's sister, and
she is so stiff and white that we call her Mrs.
Primrose. That's her nickname. But it never
pricks her, because she never hears it.
I wonder if nurse is right when she says, "It
is going against the Catechism to make nicknames
for grown-up people"?
Well! I didn't know that if you blew a
flame with the bellows it would make it run
about everywhere. Did you?
I was only trying to make the spirit-lamp
burn faster under the kettle.
I was just beginning to be the good wind-fairy
then. And the silly flame ran all over
the table-cloth, and there was such a flare-up!
I was frightened.
The tea-cosy was burnt. So was the table-cloth.
Ann had 'stericks. I think that is what
nurse called them. Mrs. Primrose came running
in with mother from the drawing-room, and she
fainted.
That was all!
At least, I was sent to bed, and now they
call me Matty. Don't you think it is unkind
of them? Ginevra is such a pretty name too!
I didn't mean to be naughty. And I do wish
mother would make me understand all about
it; but Teddie is ill, and, of course, she can't
leave him until he's better. I shall have to
wait, I suppose. But I can't be happy again
until I have had a nice talk with mother. She
makes everything so understand-ible.
What did nurse mean when she said, the
other day, "There's one comfort; Miss Ginevra's
character is still unformed"?
| "Children of wealth or want, to each is given |
| One spot of green, and all the blue of heaven!" |
ind! mind! I say, Tom, you're
frizzing that 'erring black!"
"I ain't."
"My eyes! don't it smell fine? Oh! I do
wish father'd come. He's allus a long time
when the supper's 'ot;" and Bob, as he spoke,
heaved a sigh of such prodigious depth that it
might have come from his boots—if he had
possessed any, poor little man!
These two small boys, Tom and Bob Gull,
were six years old.
"We is only twinses," Bob would say.
Perhaps he said "only" to make us
understand that they were just alike in the matter of
age, but that there the likeness ended.
Bob, the merry and talkative, was the one
who led Tom, the quiet and silent. Bob's
twinkling, puppy-like eyes—which peeped at
you through a tangled fringe of brown hair—were
the exact contrast to Tom's shy blue eyes,
shaded by long, fair, girlish lashes. And Bob's
jolly little round figure seemed to say, "Anything,
be it meagre soup or even dry bread,
fattens me;" while Tom's thin little limbs gave
one a thought of unconscious cravings for appetising
food.
The room where they were watching for father
was a third floor front in Pleasant Court, not
far from Waterloo Junction. Like many such
"living-rooms," it can be best described by
telling you that everything in it which should
be large was small, and the other way about.
For instance, the fireplace was small and the
crack under the door very large. The cupboard
was very roomy, but the things kept in it
very much too small and scarce. The bed was
wide, but the blanket and counterpane sadly
narrow.
Was there nothing that was as big as it
should be?
Yes, indeed! In spite of these unsatisfactory
surroundings, there was as large-hearted a love
to be found in the small family which these
four walls sheltered from the cold outside world,
as any one could wish to see.
"I don't believe father's never coming;" and
Bob sighed again.
By this time the herring had found a cindery
resting-place on a plate before the fire, and
the twins were sitting side by side, with their
bare toes on the fender and their eyes fixed
upon the door, watching eagerly, like two little
terriers.
But the sigh was answered by a distant sound,
the plod—plod—plodding of weary feet up the
two flights of uncarpeted stairs.
Then there was a grand commotion! The
cushionless armchair was dragged nearer the
fire; the old slippers dropped sole uppermost
into the fender. And then Bob and Tom clung
with a vice-like embrace each to an arm of the
tall, gaunt, kindly eyed man who had opened
the door.
"Father, father! the 'erring's done just lubly.
I am glad you're come at last!" This from Bob.
The father's hard, rough hand rested upon his
tangled crop, but his eyes were looking into
Tom's upturned face.
"And Tom, eh?" he asked.
"Jolly glad," answered the child readily.
Then the three sat down to their evening meal.
Would you like to know what it consisted of?
Tea, of a watery description, but hot (Bob
took care of that) and sweet—at least, father's
cup, owing to Tom's kindly attentions with a
grimy thumb and finger. The herring. This,
of course, was the chief dish. Several tit-bits,
trembling upon father's fork, find their way into
the "twinses'" mouths.
Lastly, bread and dripping.
Gull had tried to teach his motherless lads
"to do as mother used." So there followed a
systematic cleaning and arranging of the small
supply of crockery.
Tom was the first to find a seat upon father's
knee as he sat by the fire; but Bob soon
climbed opposite to him, and together they
looked with expectant eyes into father's face.
And father rubbed his head ruefully as he
said, "Eh! I've got to tell the little lads summat
to-night, have I? But there's nothing new been
done, as far as I knows. It's the old dull story,
bairnies. The fewest tips when the weather's
the bitterest."
Gull was an outside porter at Waterloo
Junction; and a slight lameness, caused by rheumatism,
often cost him dearly. If his step could
have been quicker, it would many times have
taken him in the front of the younger porters,
who darted forward and seemed to get all the
jobs. The sixpences came very slowly into his
pocket.
To-night he felt more than usually down, as
he expressed it; and when he felt Tom's little
bare toes slipping for warmth under his strong
brown hand, tears crept into his eyes, and had
to be rubbed away with the back of his sleeve.
Bob was very quick to notice this.
"I say," he cried, "you've been and gone and
got something in your eye!"
"Smuts," suggested Tom.
"Oh, let me get them out, father! Do! I'll be
ever so gentle." And Bob suited the action to
the word by raising himself on his knees to a
level with Gull's face, and thrusting a screw of
his old jacket into the corner of the suffering eye.
The operation ended in merry laughter, and
the boys never knew that the smuts were really
tears forced to the surface by an overburdened
heart.
"Father was just real funny," that evening, as
Bob whispered to Tom, when half the blanket
covered them, later on—"just real funny, wasn't
he?"
And Tom answered sleepily, but happily,
"Yes, jolly."
Meanwhile, the tired bread-winner sat alone
by the fire, with all the fun faded from his face
as he wondered "how long bad times lasted
with most folks?" It was not until, with the
childlike simplicity that was part of his nature,
he had knelt and repeated the short and
perfect prayer with which his little lads had
made him so familiar, that any look of comfort
or hope returned to his care-lined face.
A little anxiety, but a very pressing one just
now, came with the thought that the four dear
little feet, which had been treading the world
for the past weeks chilled and barefooted, would
very probably have to curl up piteously on the
cold pavement for some time longer. To get
two pairs of small boots, and hope for money to
pay for them by-and-by, never entered Gull's
head. He had always paid his way without
owing any man anything, as his father had
before him.
Poor father! and poor little twins!
Yet wishes are sometimes carried quickly to
their fulfilment; for a divine Lord changes them
into prayers as they go upward.
The following evening, just at the hour when
his boys were again straining their ears for the
first sound of his footsteps, Gull was standing
against one of the lamp posts outside Waterloo
Station. He was peering anxiously into the
face of every passenger who entered the station,
every traveller who drove up from the busy
streets, every business man who hurried in from
the City.
Gull's lips were hard set. His eyes had a
strained, anxious look; his expression was
that of a warrior who was fighting a battle
against heavy odds.
All day long there had been an inward
struggle. Hour by hour the fight had been
prolonged. Would honesty win the day? Was
Gull leaning upon a strength mightier than his
own?
He kept one hand buried in his pocket, always
fingering there a something which was the cause
of all this mental disturbance. His other hand
buttoned and unbuttoned his overcoat with
nervous restlessness.
And as he watched, two gentlemen came
towards him under the gas lamps. They were
walking arm-in-arm, and talking earnestly about
shares and stocks, and all those mysterious and
fascinating things, that a certain Mr. Weller said
"always went up and down in the city."
When Gull saw them he started forward, and
looked searchingly into the face of the elder of
the two. Then he followed them closely into
the station—shuffling along lamely but resolutely.
Twice he put out his hand to touch this
gentleman's sleeves, but something stronger
than his will seemed to hold him back.
At the platform gate the ticket collector
spoke to him.
"What! are you going by the 6.5, Gull?"
"No," he answered; "but I'm bound to have
a word with yon gent before he goes."
"If it's a tip you're after, you're on the wrong
tack, mate. I know yon gentleman too well."
But he let Gull through the gate.
Mr. Kingsley, the elder traveller, was settling
himself in a first-class carriage, and leisurely
enjoying the delightful employment of lighting
his first cigar after a long day's work, when Gull
opened the door and looked in.
"Beg pardon, sir," he began, "but did I
carry a box for you this morning to the South
Eastern, sir?"
Mr. Kingsley looked him well over before he
answered, with a twinkle of amusement in his
little bright eyes—
"What if you did, man? Wasn't the sixpence
heavy enough?"
Gull knew now that he had found the man he
wanted. He drew his hand from his pocket
and held a bright half-sovereign towards Mr.
Kingsley.
"That's what you give me, in mistake, sir," he
said huskily, adding, "I'm glad I remembered
who 'twas as give it to me."
Again Mr. Kingsley looked the porter well
over. Then he turned his eyes to the further
end of the railway carriage, and was relieved to
see that his fellow-passenger was, to all
appearance, deeply interested in his evening paper. I
say, to all appearance, for the truth is that he
was listening to all that passed; and it is from
him that I heard this story, which is no fiction.
Still, though satisfied that he was unnoticed,
Mr. Kingsley did not take the proffered coin.
After a moment's pause he said—
"How did you find out that I was coming
back this way to-night?"
"I seemed to know as you was a 'season,'
sir," Gull answered, "and I watched for you."
"Well, well, man! and now, as to that half-sovereign.
I expect it will be of more use to
you than to me—eh? Keep it, man; keep it."
Gull's pale cheeks flushed.
He stammered out, "You'd—you'd best take
it back, sir." It seemed to him as if this was
some new form of that terrible temptation which
had been assailing him all that long day; and
he thrust the half-sovereign forward again.
"No, no! Keep it, man!" repeated Mr. Kingsley.
"I'm not going to say a word about your
honesty. You are just as much a man as I am;
and a true man is always honest. But keep it,
because the Christmas bells will ring to-night."
"Thank you, sir."
Written, the words appear cold; but said, as
Gull said them, they carried an amount of
warmth and gratitude which quite satisfied Mr.
Kingsley without the half-involuntary speech
that followed, "So there will be boots for the
little lads, after all!"
"Bless the man! How jolly you look! Did
you get your tanner, then?"
This was the ticket collector's greeting as
Gull passed.
"Yon gent's a trump, and no mistake!"
answered the other as he hurried along, eager
for the delight which such a story would bring
to the little ears now listening for his coming in
that third floor front in Pleasant Court.
I wonder what it was that moved Mr. Kingsley
to a wider generosity that evening than was
at all usual in the money-wise, business man?
Could it have been that he was led to it partly
by the fact—though he was quite unconscious
of it—that there was something similar in the
home relations of these two men?
For Mr. Kingsley was also a widower; and
it was his little only daughter who was pressing
her tiny nose against the window-pane, and
trying to guess how many people would go by
the gate before daddy set it swinging and came
up the drive.
Patsy's greeting was quite as loving and
vigorous as the one the "twinses" gave their
father every day. The slippers warming at the
fire were elegant braided ones, bound round
with velvet. Well! what of that? It was the
love that thought of putting them there which
made them so comfortable; and so, in that
respect, Gull's were quite as good to wear as
Mr. Kingsley's.
When the two were comfortably settled, Patsy
began to rummage in all daddy's pockets.
"It's Christmas present night!" she cried.
"Where's my little yellow money?"
Mr. Kingsley felt in his pockets with a musing
air.
"I don't know what my little maid will say,"
he said at last, producing four half-crowns;
"but I have no nice half-sovereign for her
to-night—only these big ugly white things. It
is true they will buy quite as many toys. And
I might have had 'the yellow money,' only now,
I expect, it is turned into shoeleather."
At the opening of this speech Patsy's face
had borne an expression of disgust and disappointment;
but before it was finished, it changed
to one of undisguised interest.
"Oh! I'm sure you've been in a fairy tale to-day,
daddy! You know I just love fairy stories.
Do begin at once, before nurse comes. Tell me
about it quickly—do, please."
And so, out of the materials that Gull had
given him, Mr. Kingsley pleased his little
daughter by weaving a wonderful modern fairy
story. He had rather a talent that way, and
had learnt by experience the kind of stories that
the little ones like best. This time his
narrative was "truer" than he knew; and Patsy
acknowledged, when it was done, that it was
"the nicest and beautifullest that she had heard
for a long time."
And while Patsy's father was telling the story
in his way, another version of it was being
repeated again and again to the twins, high up
in that old London house.
They were never tired of hearing it, never
tired of asking questions; and all the time the
feeling of gratitude in their father's heart—which
had been like a little seed, planted there by the
kind words and gift of Mr. Kingsley—grew and
grew until he longed to do something. He had
only as yet said, "Thank you, sir;" but now he
longed to show his gratitude in a more fitting
way. So thought the "twinses," too, for Bob
said presently—
"Father, shouldn't I just like to do something
nice for that gentleman! I wonder whether
you're like to see him again?"
"In course, lad. I shall often see him pass,
I'll never forget him; but it's not so likely as
he'll remember me. Got summat better to do,
I reckon. Yes; he'll come most days, seeing as
he's a 'season.' But, there—you're right! I
don't feel as if I shall be able to rest until I've
done 'summat nice for him,' as you says, if it's
only to carry his bag for nothing. But summat
bigger nor that would ease me more. What a
rale gent he is, to be sure!"
There was no disguising the tears that stood
in Gull's eyes now; and strange to say, he did
not try to hide from his "little lads" that they
were there.
He made the boys put their feet, now so
stoutly booted, in a row upon the fender. How
the brass tips shone in the firelight! And there
was such a jolly noise when the heels knocked
against the floor! Bob made the grand discovery
that he could dance a hornpipe. And his sturdy
feet careered over the floor, clattering, tapping,
and jumping, until the quiet Tom was roused
into clapping and "hurrahing" with delight.
His "act of irregular charity," as he called it,
quickly faded from Mr. Kingsley's mind—so
quickly, too, that when one of the outside
porters occasionally helped him more readily
than usual, or seemed less eager for the accustomed
"tip," he never thought that it might
have any connection with that Christmas Eve
adventure. He was short-sighted, too, and not
very quick to recognize faces. He did not know
that as he passed out of the station every morning,
Gull's eyes followed him with a pleasant
remembering look, that Gull's hand was always
ready to throw back the doors of the hansom
if the day was wet and he drove, and that Gull's
feet were swift to carry their owner away before
the accustomed "coppers" could be offered.
The first question that always greeted Gull
when he got home to his boys in the evening
was, from Bob—
"Did you see our gentleman to-day, father?"
echoed by Tom's eager—
"Did you, father?"
A year had nearly passed away. Christmas
was coming again, this time dressed in a mantle
of thick, choking fog and biting frost. The
days seemed to be turned into night. People
and things looked queerly distorted and unnaturally
large. The street lamps tried to pierce
the gloom all day with foolish, blinking eyes;
and every one took his full measure of grumbling.
One evening Mr. Kingsley hurried up the
steps to Waterloo Junction with a feeling of
relief that the unknown perils of the gloomy
streets were safely past. He pushed his way
through a little group of idlers near one of the
doors, and was turning towards the booking-office,
when he was startled by a violent commotion
close behind him. He turned to find
two men—both tall, but one powerful and
thick-set, the other meagre and ill-clad—engaged
in a hand-to-hand struggle.
His first impulse was to continue his way and
leave them to fight it out.
"It is some wretched, drunken tramp," he
said to himself. But a second look showed him
that there was too much desperate method on
the part of both for this to be the case; and he
was looking round for a policeman to interpose
the "stern arm of the law," when the struggle
was ended as abruptly as it had begun.
The stronger man of the two suddenly flung
his antagonist from him with an angry oath, and
then disappeared in the fog. He left the other
lying almost at Mr. Kingsley's feet—flung there
upon his back, with one hand hidden beneath
him. He lay motionless as death, silenced by
the force with which his head had struck the
ground. His white face and closed eyes sent a
quick fear to Mr. Kingsley's kindly heart as
he bent over him, and he turned to the two
porters who hurried up, to say—
"The man's terribly hurt, I'm afraid. There
was a quarrel, and he was thrown down."
While one of the men answered him the other
stooped down to look at the prostrate figure,
and then started to his feet again, crying—
"Mate—it's Gull! It's Gull, I tell you!
What does it mean?"
With the help of the policeman, who appeared
at this moment, and watched by the
usual curious crowd of onlookers, they bathed
Gull's face with cold water, forced brandy
between his lips, and chafed his cold hands.
Then it was that they discovered, tightly
clasped in the hand upon which he had been
lying, a folded leather case. The policeman
unbent the convulsive fingers, and examined
this with careful eyes.
"However did Gull get hold of this, I
wonder?" was his exclamation.
Mr. Kingsley looked at it with a puzzled
expression. It had a strange resemblance to
his own pocket-book! Thrusting his hand
hurriedly into his various pockets proved to
him, without a doubt, that his it was indeed.
And a few words were sufficient to convince
the policeman of his right to claim it.
But here a sudden movement from Gull
turned all eyes towards him once more.
He raised himself to a sitting position, and
with one hand to his poor dazed head, gazed
with dim, half-unconscious eyes at the other
held before him—wide open and empty!
As he gazed, a bitter cry escaped his lips.
"Then the brute has made off with it,
after all!"
This, you see, was the way in which Gull
"eased himself," as he expressed it, and satisfied
the demands that gratitude made upon his
honest heart.
I have very little more to tell you, and that
you could almost guess for yourself.
Gull spent a few quiet days on his bed,
attended devotedly by his little lads, who were
much over-awed at father's "bein' took bad,"
and filled with wide-eyed wonder when "our
gentleman" climbed the old staircase more
than once, to see how father was, and to
provide for him some new comfort.
Once again, two versions of a true story were
told in two separate homes. It was the version
that the "twinses" heard which was the shortest
in the telling.
"Tell us all about it, father," said Bob, when
Gull was "rested" enough to talk to his boys.
"Nay, lad, there ain't much to tell. I just
collared the thief as he was making off with
Mr. Kingsley's pocket-book, and he didn't
like it somehow, and threw me down. But
that's all about it."
"Oh! but you got the pocket-book from him
first, you know, father."
"Ay! I did that," Gull answered, with a
smile; and there the telling of the story ended.
I don't know when the acting of it will be
finished, for there was a difference in the lives
of Gull and his "twinses" from that day
forward—"all along of Mr. Kingsley's kindness,"
as they would tell you; but "because
I have found an honest man," as Mr. Kingsley
himself would say to little Patsy.
he Bill had passed the House of
Commons [I mean, you know, that
nurse had approved of it], and
much anxiety was felt among the little pleaders
as to its first reading in the Upper House—i. e.
would mother say "Yes!"
They all knew that mother had a clear
judgment; but it was just her far-seeing
power that made them tremble. She might
see breakers ahead which they knew nothing
about.
And perhaps mother did see a few objections
to this new plan. However that may be, as the
little ones presented their petition, she smiled.
This was, indeed, a good sign, and more than
that, the smile was followed by a ready consent
as the plan was unfolded.
The Bill was passed. Hurrah!
The B. D. Society was allowed; and mother
had actually agreed to be patroness and prize-giver.
"What a dear, jolly mother she is!"
"She's a duck, and no mistake!"
Rather unbusinesslike language, but very
expressive!
Well, but what did it mean, this B. D. S.?
It was only a Bedroom Decorating Society.
But it seemed a very beautiful idea to the four
curly headed little girls who sat squeezed up
together in the large nursery armchair.
Pattie, Mollie, Kitty, and Norah. Four little
Irish maidens, with this lovely plan to talk
over and make perfect, while a snowstorm kept
them indoors to-day.
Pattie. "Don't let's tell each other how we'll
do our rooms until afterwards."
Norah. "You'll never keep your plans to
yourself. You never could keep anything in."
Mollie (up in arms for her sister). "Don't
be nasty, Norah, or something bad will happen
to you!"
Norah (looking a little ashamed of herself
and wisely changing the subject). "Let's begin
now. We'll take all the things out of our
rooms first, and then put them back in new
places—shall us?"
As you may guess, the B. D. S. was intended
to promote a general taste for artistic style in
the children's bedrooms, or as Kitty expressed
it, simply and to the point, "It is to make
us put our things illigantly."
Mother determined to let this new idea have
a fair trial; though she could not help feeling a
little nervous as she heard the scrimmaging of
the furniture, and thought of possible breakages.
She sat at her needlework, and listened to the
distant sounds which reached her faintly from
the rooms above. Then she began to wonder
whether the excitement and interest would last
out the fortnight, at the end of which she had
been asked to present a prize.
Suddenly her motherly heart gave a terrible
throb.
There was a thud—thud—thud, and that
horrid bumping sound, as something soft tumbled
over and over down the stairs.
With a white face she rushed out of the
dining-room, to see little Norah and a large
bolster roll on to the floor at her feet!
A breathless scream escaped from the terrified
child.
The three other curly heads were peeping
through the banisters, and three pairs of Irish
blue eyes were looking horribly scared and
unhappy.
But mother did not see them.
She picked up the screaming Norah, and
carried her into the dining-room, while nurse
came running from the kitchen and her
ironing.
All the time that the sobbing little victim of
the B. D. S. was being soothed into calmness,
and the big swelling wheal on her forehead
bathed and tended, Pattie, Mollie, and Kitty—upstairs—looked
at one another in frightened
silence. Then Mollie said sadly—
"I knew something would happen to Norah.
It always does if she says nasty things."
"Rubbish, Mollie! That's nonsense! She
fell down because her bolster was so big, and
she couldn't see where the stairs came!" cried
Pattie.
"I'm going to see where she's hurted herself,"
announced little Kitty; and she trudged
off, leaving Pattie and Mollie to sort the heap of
odds and ends that lay on the landing.
They went about it in doleful silence at
first.
Then Mollie said, "This is my counterpane—isn't
it, Pattie?"
"No; that's Norah's. Don't you see the
corner all crumpled up which she holds in her
hand when she goes to sleep?"
"Oh dear! oh dear! I don't think, after all,
that it's easy having a B. D. S. It seemed just
to spoil it all when Norah went thumping down—down,
like a big ball."
Pattie gave a little sigh, too, and was putting
down the chair she was carrying that she might
rest her arms and have room for another deeper
sigh, when mother's voice was heard calling—
"Mollie! Pattie! I want you down here!"
Off they ran, feeling down in their little
hearts that mother must know how to put things
happy again.
First of all they looked with interested and
pitying eyes at Norah, whose head had become
an odd shape, and whose face was white and
patchy. Then they stood side by side with
Kitty, watching mother's face, and waiting.
"The B. D. S. has had a bad beginning,
dears," she said. "I don't think it was a good
plan to pull everything out of your rooms to
start with. But never mind that now."
As mother spoke she kept one hand behind
her chair, and she smiled.
She was sorry for her little girls.
"I am going to propose," she went on, "that
you should alter your society a little bit. The
letters will be the same. It will still be the
B. D. S.; but the work will be different and
easier."
The little faces all brightened as she continued—
"I like my little girls to be tidy and neat in
their rooms; but I think mother knows best
how the furniture should stand, and where the
things look nicest. So I suggest that we call
our society the Bedroom Dusting Society. I
will give you each a little cloth, and you shall
dust your rooms every morning after nurse has
made the beds. And once a week I will award
a prize."
Then mother drew her hand forward and held
before their eyes a Japanese fan, with a long
handle, to which was tied a dainty bow of blue
ribbon.
"This," she said, "shall be given next Saturday
to the tidiest of the four members of your
society. Now, what do you think of my
plan?"
"It's just splendid, mother darling!" was the
unanimous cry of the listeners; and a tangle
of soft loving arms nearly throttled her in a
sudden embrace.
"And you know," came in a plaintive voice
from Norah, "if you always give us a pretty
thing like that for a prize, it will be the Bedroom
Decorating Society, too!"
PRINTED BY WILLIAM CLOWES AND SONS, LIMITED, LONDON AND BECCLES.
OF THE
