Such a Happy Day

————

"GOOD morning, Father!"

"Good morning, my little son! Where have you been? Your face is as fresh and cool as my cucumbers, though your cheeks are not green, but are as rosy as apples."

"I've been out with my mother!"

"With 'your mother,' have you?"

Cyril smiled. "We've been picking flowers, but you don't know what for—"

"Do I not? Shall I guess?"

"No, don't guess, Father, 'cause I like secrets!"

"Very well. And what did my 'early birds' find when they were out?"

Cyril's mother came in at the window with her basket of flowers in her hand. She looked down upon them with her gentle eyes, but left her little son to speak.

"We saw—we saw lots of dew!"

"Oh, so you did. I love dew; that shows how early you were up."

"And we saw Eddie and Effie out picking flowers too. And then—What else do you suppose we saw?"

"You have a great many 'saws' in your yard," said his father, laughing at him. "But go on."

Cyril looked puzzled for a moment, and then meeting his mother's eyes, went on—

"We did see a very funny thing! One of our hens wasn't satisfied with the hen-house for her nest, and has made one for herself under a hedge. Mother called it—"

"Stolen a nest?" suggested Cyril's father.

"Yes, but I do not see that. When Eddie and Effie went on, I sat down on a bank to think about it. I call it 'made a nest' not 'stolen.' The poor hen thought she could make it much better out there in the sweet air, than in that stuffy hen-house."

"Did you see which hen it was?" asked his father.

"Yes. While I was waiting and watching a frog that was jumping about, she came up through the hedge all wet and draggled, and got right on to the nice eggs: I thought she would spoil them."

"That's what they do," said his father; "and they say it is what makes the eggs hatch so well."

"Do they?" asked Cyril, opening his blue eyes very wide. "Anyway, she frightened away the frog that had come to have a look at me. It did hop so, Father."

"I should think we had better hop in to breakfast, Cyril," said Mr. Forde, "for we have plenty to do before ten o'clock, early as we are."

"Eddie and Effie are going by train at the same time as we are," nodded Cyril, getting off his perch and taking his father's hand. "'I' don't think they're old enough, but they said they were going to walk to the station and sit there till uncle and aunt came."

"They won't hurt," said Mr. Forde. "If your sweet mother did not coddle you, Cyril, you could go to London by yourself! Boys always turn up right-side-up!"

"Yes," said Cyril eagerly, "that's what I say. I'm six, and I should turn up all right, I know."

Mrs. Forde did not answer her husband's quizzical look. As she moved towards the door, she was gazing on the little darling, who was the very light of her eyes.

That day was to be a wonderful day to some people, for Cyril's grandfather and grandmother were to celebrate their fiftieth wedding-day, while all the children and grandchildren were to meet at the pretty house near London, to spend the happy day together.

Plenty of people got up early that morning! Some of them, like Cyril and his cousins, Effie and Eddie, knew all about the Golden Wedding-day, and some knew nothing about it, and yet were preparing for it all the same.

Far away in the country two boys were busy picking the sweet flowers for the London market. And when they had gathered a large basket full, one of them hastened to the station so as to catch the earliest train which steamed away to the great city.

By-and-by, in one of the courts in that great city, a little girl raised her head from her couch, and said in a sleepy voice, "Good morning, sir!"

"Why, child!" said her mother. "Do ye think ye're out in the street already! But get up, do; it's late, and if you're not there, somebody else will have the best flowers, that they will!"

The child roused herself then, and with many a yawn, put on her little dress and apron, and after but a slight breakfast, hurried off to the market with her few pence, making as clever a bargain as any other little girl of her age.

Then she went out into the streets, and made her way to the spot near the Bank where she always took her stand.

Many were the "Good morning, sirs," which passed her rosy lips. But some were too busy to turn towards her, and some not inclined to buy, so that her basket did not get empty very fast.

But Bella stood patiently enough. She did not thrust her flowers into people's faces, nor did she whine or beg.

Well she knew that her brothers and sisters needed all she could earn for them; well she knew that her ailing father needed food and medicine, and that her mother "could" not work harder than she did already. But Bella had found out the best way to empty her basket was to keep a cheerful face and a sharp look-out. And among the many who passed her each day to their business near, there were some who made a point of buying of her rather than any one else.

One young lady, who had just come from a visit to the happy country near Reigate, and had there picked flowers with her cousins, turned as she passed Bella's tasteful bunches, and paused for an instant.

"I wish—" she said, and stopped.

"Only a penny, miss!" said Bella eagerly. "The whole bunch, miss, just as it is. I don't cheat, miss!"

"I was thinking," said the young lady slowly, "I wish I had brought one of my bunches with me from home."

Bella looked inquiringly; she wondered why the young lady hesitated to buy. Such a sweet young lady, with such a bright, calm look, that somehow reminded the little flower-girl of a clear, cloudless sky on a summer day.

"I think I will have one," was her final decision. Then her eyes met Bella's: "I was going to see a little sick boy on my way home, and I wished I had brought one of my own bunches of flowers. But I think yours will please him just as much."

She did not add that the penny which she paid for it would have to come out of the money which had been set apart for her dinners; for her little income had to go a long way. When she took Bella's pretty flowers in her hand, she looked into the clear childish eyes with a soft expression, as she said,—

"I shall give these to a little boy who is going to heaven very soon. Have you ever heard of heaven?"

Bella nodded.

"Do you know how we can get there?"

Bella shook her head, then added quickly, "Ain't it by being honest?"

It was the young lady's turn to shake her head.

"It's just because the Lord Jesus died—instead of us,—bore our sins, and all the punishment of them, so that we can go free."

Bella sat down and looked at her earnestly. "I never heard that afore," she said slowly.

"Shall you be here on Monday?" asked the young schoolmistress, preparing to hasten on.

"Yes, I shall."

"I'll come earlier, and tell you," she said; "I must not stop now. But you can think of this: 'Jesus' is the only way to heaven!"

She hurried away, while Bella's eyes followed her curiously.

It was no wonder that the young schoolmistress was loved so much.

As she sat in her dull schoolroom that morning, with her flowers placed in a glass of water, she noticed one of her little pupils in the oldest class looking dull and listless.

The rest were busy over sums, when the teacher's voice was heard calling,—

"Nellie, my dear, come here!"

The child looked up startled, and then hastened to her side.

"Is anything wrong, Nellie? Are you not well?"

"Yes, I'm quite well, Miss Archer."

"Cannot you do your lesson?"

"Yes, Miss Archer."

"Then what is it, dear?"

Now what it was, was this. The night before, when Nellie had been going to bed, her sister Mary had said,—

"Miss Archer makes a favourite of you, so of course you get on with your lessons."

"She doesn't!" Nellie had answered indignantly. "She never makes the least difference."

"I know she does, for the other girls have noticed it," Mary had said.

And then poor Nellie had knelt down to pray. But instead of being able to speak to God, all her sister's words had come over her again, and at last, she had crept into bed full of sorrow and resentment.

So when Miss Archer asked her what was the matter, and looked so lovingly in her face, she remembered all this, and knew that the other girls would make up their minds more than ever that she was a favourite.

"Cannot you tell me?" her teacher was saying.

And then Nellie gave one shy glance at her and whispered,—

"I don't think I can; but—it was my fault—being angry with Mary! I ought to have helped that."

Miss Archer kissed her in silence, and then, as it was just the end of school, she asked Nellie to walk with her as far as their roads went together.

Before Nellie had quite got through her story of her fear of being a favourite, Miss Archer came to the house where she was to take the bunch of flowers she had bought of Bella.

So she wished the little schoolgirl good-bye, and ran up to the invalid, only waiting for one whispered word, before she flew down again; for to-day was a great day for her, and to her joy a half-holiday. For this was her grandparents' Golden Wedding-day, and like Eddie and Effie in the country, or like Cyril and his parents, her heart was full of plans and thoughts as to how the large party would go off.

Only yesterday a man had come to the dining-room window of her London home, and had held up a pretty pot of flowers for her to buy. Then she had thought, "That will do for my present. It isn't much, but they all know I am not rich."

For Miss Archer was an orphan, and she boarded with some friends, and kept herself by her teaching. Many a home had been offered her, but she always shook her head.

To-day, her friend's little girl ran to greet her with her picture book.

And as she took her on her knee, she said,—

"Do you remember, Mabel, that, poor man who came to the window yesterday?"

"I know," nodded Mabel.

"Well, he said he had a little girl almost as young as you, who stands all day with a basket of flowers. He said that in the cold spring weather, when the palm first comes out, the poor parents make most of their living by what she sells."

"Poor little girl!" said Mabel softly. "I'd like to give her my pudding!"

But Miss Archer had not time to tell her the whole story just then, so she carried her up all the long flights of stairs to her little room at the top of the house, to watch her change her dress for her grandmamma's Golden Wedding-day.

Meanwhile, some of the other grandchildren had been busy on this auspicious morning. Already the train was bringing Eddie, Effie, and Cyril, those happy children, towards London. While nearer the pretty house where the grandparents lived, there were other boys and girls who were up early too, and long before their elders were awake had picked baskets of fruit as a present from their father's orchard.

Then what a grand changing of clothes there was, and combing and brushing, and tying and fastening!

How the girls had to be arrayed in all their prettiest things! And how the boys were anxious about certain neckties, and took quite as long as the girls to turn themselves out as "spic and span" as they did!

"How many will there be of us?" had been a frequent question in all the families. But there were so many to count, and so many to be counted, that one never seemed to come at the right number.

"Well, there's Cousin Lily Archer—she's one at any rate," the boys said, and everybody was glad of that; for wherever she went, Lily was a great favourite.

"Then there's all the boys from Reigate," said some one, regardless of his good English in his excitement; "and there's that fellow whose father is in India, who's staying with them, Claude Champion—he's invited. And there's—"

But nobody would wait to hear. There were, all were agreed, seven families to bring their different members to the gathering, and their numbers varied from poor Lily Archer, who was the sole representative of her dead parents, down to the blooming twelve children of the eldest son and daughter.

Many a "Good morning!" sounded that day as the parties began to arrive. And their dear grandmother had her cheeks kissed into a pretty pink, as one and another came up to her, bringing tokens of love and greeting.

When the first excitement was over, there was a general assent to the proposal of the elders that as many as liked should go to meet the train by which the next party was expected.

The girls ran for their hats, the boys sauntered out on to the lawn to wait for them, while the little ones eagerly said they should not be tired, and that the cool lanes would be better than the gardens.

Though the elders smiled at this little fiction, it was allowed to go uncontradicted, and the troop set off in the best of spirits.

"May I come too?" asked Claude, who was living with the Reigate family.

"Of course you may!" said some one.

Now their friend from India remembered the pleasant summer holiday he had just spent, and thought of the weeks when Lily Archer had been among them, and he considered the greatest attraction of the Golden Wedding-day was that he should see her sweet, quiet face. So he gladly availed himself of the boy's permission to go and meet her, and made himself so bright and interesting that he was the centre of attraction all the way to the station.

When they returned with a fresh accession to their numbers, there were more greetings and more presents. Flowers, from far and near, seemed the order of the day.

"Who is this?" said grandpapa roguishly, as one of his darlings came up to him with her frock filled with fruit and flowers. "Do I know this little girl?"

"Please, I'm Effie," said a little voice, "and Eddie is here too—at least, he was in the conservatory just now; he's too shy to come in."

"Shy, is he?" said her grandfather. "Then we must go and fetch him. Nobody must be shy on Golden Wedding-days, must they, Effie?"

"I'm not shy at all," said Effie, at which everybody laughed.

And then Effie turned shy in good earnest, and hung her head.

But everybody was too busy and too happy to notice her, and in another moment, she found herself being led through the window at the end of the room into the pretty conservatory, where the profusion of the flowers nearly took away her breath. But her hand was in her grandfather's, and who could be as dear, as interesting, as loving as he?

There they found Eddie gazing at a rose-coloured camellia which had grown far above his head.

"Eddie, Eddie!" exclaimed his little sister. "Grandpa says you mustn't be shy on Golden days—'cause—I don't know why—but—here's grandpa come to find you. It's awfully nice in here, isn't it, Eddie?"

"Yes," said Eddie shortly, looking as he would very much have preferred that they should have kept away. "Yes, it's nice when—when I can see all the flowers."

"Can't you see?" asked Effie, opening her eyes.

But the children soon found out where their grandfather was, and flocked round him begging for a story.

"Hey-dey!" he said. "I can't make stories like I used when I was younger; I haven't the imagination now."

"But you can tell us real ones, sir," said Claude Champion, who stood behind the rest arranging some flowers into a little posy.

"Eh?" said the old gentleman.

"Yes, something true, Grandfather," exclaimed one of the Reigate boys.

So he sat down on a green iron seat and the rest crowded round; till the story-telling getting wind, everybody gathered near, filling in the doorways and drawing-room windows; such an audience as moved the old man to see.

"All my own," he murmured, his observant eyes going round from one to another; "all my own, except Claude Champion,—and he's the son of a dear friend. Almost as good as my own anyway."

A smile passed over his face, which no one understood, unless it were grandmamma, who understood most things!

"Are you goin' to begin, Grandfather?" asked Cyril, who was seated on the knee of one of his cousins.

The old gentleman hemmed and cleared his throat, and then began in good earnest:—

   "Once upon a time—"

"That's the way," murmured one of the Reigate boys, and got a punch in the ribs from another of them as a stopper.

   "Once upon a time, not very far from here, in a great smoky city, there lived a happy young mother.

   "Every day, when she had sent her little girl off to school, and had dressed her baby boy, she would take him to the window where she kept her flowers, and would water them and attend to them while she sang a bright, cheerful hymn.

   "Presently, if her boy were very good, she would reward him with a bunch for his very own. Oh, what infinite joy it gave that mother's heart to do anything for her baby, to deny herself that he might have pleasure!

   "When her little girl, whom we will call Minnie, came back from school, she would take her little brother for a walk or play with him in the court, where she chose the only corner on which the sun shone down; for like her mother, and the flowers and the canary (and like all of us!), she loved sunshine!

   "But dark, sad days came upon those happy children.

   "All at once Minnie discovered that her mother was sick. It came upon her with a blank despair she had never even dreamed of before. One morning when she got up, she found her mother was unable to rise from her bed.

   "'Minnie!' said the panting voice of the fever-stricken woman. 'I'd thought we would all have met your father when he came home from his voyage—so happy—but—it's not to be. Minnie, we'll meet in the Home above; and God 'll take care of you somehow, though I can't see how. Minnie, take care of baby, and write to your grandfather and grandmother.'

   "The poor mother paused there.

   "'Minnie, you'll tell your father as I did my best for you, and always loved him, at home or away, just the same; and write—mind you write—to your grandmother.'

   "Soon after that, she got too ill to arrange anything, and Minnie could only sit by and whisper what she had learned of the Home above, and say over and over again to her dying mother, the words which seemed to quiet her more than any others, 'I will never leave thee nor forsake thee.'

   "Soon after that, she had need to remember those words for herself, for she was left alone in the world, with only her little brother and far-away father who had not been heard of for many a long day.

   "She wrote, as her mother had told her, to her grandparents, and the poor old couple knew not what to say. They had hard work to keep a fire on their own hearth. While they were thinking it over, their son's wife came in, and she listened to all they had to say without any remark. But when she got home, she told her husband all about it, and how she had been watching her hen gathering its chickens under its wings, and how she had thought she should like to gather the little orphans under her wings till a home could be found for them.

   "Her husband was a very bluff man, and he did not answer many words, but as he went off to his work, he gave her a rarely tender kiss as he said shortly, 'You may ask 'em for a bit—anyway—Pollie.'

   "So Pollie wrote the letter of welcome, and poor little Minnie received it the next morning, just as she had come to her very last halfpenny after paying her week's rent.

   "The letter contained an order for enough money to bring the two children into the country, and there were plenty of kind neighbours to pack up their few clothes and get them off.

   "As one motherly woman took her leave of them, she said to Minnie,—

   "'Well—anyways, my dear—you've cared for yer brother pretty near as well as his mother, and that's sayin' a great deal.'

   "Almost as soon as Minnie's answer could get to Pollie, the two children had started, and were on their way.

   "But Pollie was not surprised. She liked things done quickly. And when she had read the letter which the postman had brought, she just ran into her cottage and 'spun round,' as she called it, putting her little plans into execution which she had just formed while she sat thinking about them yesterday.

   "Yes! She would keep some more hens, and Minnie should help her in the care of them. And the child should take the eggs round to some houses she knew, where the gentlefolks would have as many as she could spare them. And Minnie should sleep in the little attic with her baby brother, and should be made welcome till her father came home to see about her. And if he never came home—why, there was another Almighty Father who would help the orphans and find food and clothes for them in His wonderful way!

   "That was what Pollie thought, while all the time she was 'spinning round' making her neat cottage neater still.

   "So the children came. Minnie with her mournful eyes and thin, sorrowful face, and the baby with that pathetic, motherless look which went to Pollie's heart.

   "But Pollie thought the best plan would be to take the baby into her heart instead of letting him make it ache. So the little fellow sat on her knee, was fed by her hand, and delighted her by growing stronger every day. She taught Minnie to make a frock for him, and out of her own pocket bought some new boots in which he could run about.

   "After a few weeks of country sunshine had passed over their heads, the woebegone look went away from Minnie's face, and though she never forgot her mother—never, never,—she forgot her sorrow, and began to be the light of her uncle's home.

   "How the baby learned to walk and play and dig! How he laughed all day long and gambolled with the dog! How he, by-and-by, trotted into his grandfather's cottage and lisped out 'Dood-mornin',' like all of you have done to-day!

   "But Minnie did not get to be a selfish little girl, only anxious to enjoy herself. Of that you may be sure!

   "When the Lord Jesus reigns in anybody's heart, He drives selfishness out, as surely as sunshine drives out darkness!

   "By-and-by Minnie and her little brother sent up some country flowers to the neighbours who had been so kind to her. And then she saved up some eggs which Pollie gave her for her own, and sent them to another poor little girl, named Rose, who had no mother. And in a letter, she told her how nice it was to learn to grow flowers, and advised her to try to get a geranium for her window, and take care of it till there should be a flower-show for poor people.

   "And Rose took her advice, and spent the next penny she had on a little plant, and so made a beginning.

   "Then she took her baby-sister to a certain place where she knew some flowers were to be seen, and stood long and watched them, and then went home with fresh heart to save up for another larger pot, which in due time she obtained.

   "Minnie's old grandparents thought there were never two such children as these loving ones who had dropped from the skies, as it were, at their feet. But they told their son that it was a good day that ever his young wife thought of such a thing, and they blessed her for it.

   "As to Pollie, the blessing came to her, too; for her little poultry farm throve wonderfully, and as to the people that came far and near for her eggs, she said it was quite surprising!

   "Then Minnie and Bobbie were so loving! They seemed to fill up her hungry heart, and she only wondered how she had ever got on without them.

   "At last, their father did come back to London, but when he found his home broken up, his sorrow was very great.

   "But the neighbours directed him to where his children were being sheltered, and he hastened down to Bickley."

"Bickley!" interrupted a half-a-dozen voices. "Why, that's here!"

"Does anything prevent it's being here?" said their grandfather smiling.

"Well, don't interrupt," said the girl who held Cyril on her knee. "Do go on, Grandfather!"

   "I've just done. When he came down to Bickley and found how happy the children were, and how Tom and Pollie did not want to part with them, he shed tears of joy, and went on his next voyage with less sorrow in his heart than he had had for many a long day."

*******

The old gentleman paused.

"Is that all?" asked some one.

"Yes, all—except that the eggs which you will eat at tea to-night were laid by Minnie's hens!"

"Oh!"

There was a general move, and a general "Thank you, Grandfather—very much!" from at least twenty voices.

Claude Champion had been making and remaking his bouquet all this time, and when the story was finished, he passed it to Lily with a smile.

"Not for me?" she asked.

"Yes—certainly; for whom else did you suppose?"

"I'll have just one flower," she answered.

It was almost dinner time. But all were waiting for one more train to bring the rest of the party from a distance.

So once more, the garden was the scene of merry groups of bright colours flitting about among the trees. Some of the younger ones playing hide-and-seek, while some wheeled their aunt's dolls, where they could pace up and down undisturbed.

The grandparents sat down under the great elm watching all with happy faces, their own children—the fathers and mothers of the party—gathering round them, enjoying and entering into it all in their different ways.

"Who would have thought, my dear—fifty years ago—that we should have such a party as this?" said the grandfather, taking his wife's hand in his.

She only shook her head, smiling peacefully. Whatever storms life had brought, sunshine had come at the end—the sunshine "which shineth more and more unto the perfect day."

In the half-hour before the rest had arrived, Lily had been persuaded to accept the offer of a home, by some one who had set his heart very much upon it. So that grandfather was right, and Claude Champion did bid fair to be one of his own after all, on this Golden Wedding-day.

————

IT was the afternoon of the Golden Wedding-day. All the seven families of children, and grandchildren, and great-grandchildren had arrived at Bickley, the great dinner-table had been set, and the great dinner eaten. The grandfather had tried to count the numbers, and had failed, and half-a-dozen at least of his grandsons had tried to help him, always with the same result, that everybody clamoured so, and had so many suggestions to make, that nobody ever got to the end.

Grandmamma sat smiling and silent at the top of the table. It would have been useless for her to try to get a word in, and she certainly did not try. At last, when everybody had spent all the breath there was, it occurred to somebody to say to her,—

"Perhaps you can tell us, Grandma! You look very knowing!"

"I wrote all the names," she answered demurely.

"Oh, aye! So you did," said grandfather; for there was a lull, and his voice could reach the top of the long, long table. "Pity we did not think of that before."

"Why, Grandfather?" asked some one.

"Saved a lot of breath," answered the old gentleman with a twinkle.

"Then how many are there?" asked Claude Champion, who was seated by Mrs. Forde's side, as the greatest stranger. "Can you tell us now?"

"I wrote fifty names," said Mrs. Forde, smiling.

"And there are fifty here?"

"Yes; all have come."

She glanced down the long lines of faces, to where even her tiny great-granddaughter sat in her mother's lap, looking as happy as all the rest.

"Let us go into the garden," she said, rising. "There will be shade under the elms, and I have promised my baby of babies to see her namesake, Daisy."

She stretched out her arms to the youngest of the party, receiving her from her pretty young mother, and led the way to the lawn, where the shadows had already begun to lengthen enough to afford a delightful shade for those who felt inclined to rest there.

She herself, however, took her great-grandchild to the iron fence which separated the smooth lawn from the little meadow, and called, "Daisy, Daisy, where are you?"

How the baby turned her head, looking this way and that, when she heard her own name.

But there was another gentle creature, who understood even better than the baby. At the sound of her mistress's voice, the Alderney cow turned her head from the sweet grass and walked towards them, followed by her calf, till she drew up at the fence and put her head over the top expectantly.

"Give baby to me, Grandmamma," said the baby's mother, "while you see to 'your' Daisy; she seems to expect something."

Mrs. Forde acknowledged that the cow did expect something. When her hand was free, she put it into a little bag she carried, and produced from a soft piece of paper three or four small carrots!

"There, Daisy!" she said. "You must have your treat as well as the rest of us!"

Then turning to the little boy who sat on the stile watching them, she added,—

"Georgie, go into cook, and ask her for that cake I looked out for you. This is my Golden Wedding-day, you know."

Just then the troop of grandchildren came down the path close to them, on their way to the farmyard, that wonderful attraction which had been saved "till after dinner" by everybody.

Margaret gave her baby to the nurse and accepted the offer of a rest in the hammock; for proud young mothers find that, however delightful it is to show off their treasures, it is very fatiguing!

As she rested there, listening to the voices going farther and farther away, the cawing of the rooks in the elms overhead soothed her into a sort of dreamy reverie. She fell to musing about the leafless trees in which they built their nests in the spring, and how she had heard that the same rooks came back to the same trees—year after year. Then she thought,—

"And is there any place like home, winter or summer, for any of us? I do not wonder the rooks come back again to their old haunts."

After that, Margaret's moralizing ended in dreams for about a minute, and when she opened her eyes again, the light wind was stirring the chestnut leaves all round her, and her husband's voice was saying,—

"Why, Margaret, I had quite lost you! The rest are all off to the farmyard, feeding the donkeys and chickens and ducks and drakes, as if it were the business of life! Will you come too? It is no fun without you, and to-day we must have all the fun we can!"

"All gone, are they?" she asked, springing out of her hiding-place, well pleased to be wanted.

"I think so. I interrupted one of the Reigate boys begging his mother to let him climb or something. And I passed Dorothy tying on her hat in a great hurry; she was nearly crying, because she said the rest had gone without her."

"Poor little girl! But I daresay she will catch them. Do you know, Harry, even to this day I cannot bear to be left behind. Perhaps you do not know that feeling?"

Harry looked at her with a comical glance of mingled love and admiration, and they sauntered back to ask what the more sedate members of the party were going to do. But nobody would acknowledge to being sedate to-day. And in spite of the heat, they all decided to follow the fortunes of the young ones; for whatever interested them, would interest those whose hearts were always young.

"Where's Jack?" asked that young gentleman's mother, perhaps somewhat doubtfully.

She had not confessed to any one that up in a certain bag she had actually brought a second suit of clothes for her son, in case the first should by any misfortune come to grief.

Now what Jack was doing was this. He had reached the farmyard the first of any one. And just reserving enough wits to turn up his trousers, he gave a great jump into the soft, springy straw which he saw in the middle of the enclosure, deciding while he was in mid-air that it was like jumping on the best spare room bed while the maids were making it!

"Ugh! Oh!" But Jack had not counted on its being so very—very—soft, and springy, and warm—and ugh—wet!

He plunged in and out with more speed than generally fell to the share of the best spare room bed; and his only hope was that no one had seen his disaster. He rushed into the doorway of a friendly cow-house, while he recovered his breath and could have time to decide what to do.

He peeped out; the rest were coming in at the gate of the yard, and were already calling the hens to be fed. Then no one "had" seen him, that was his greatest hope.

But what to do? He looked down at his clothes. Surely they were not so very bad! And yet—what was this constantly increasing impression of damp and cold behind him, and this odour which met his olfactory nerves whenever he turned his head down to his own shoulder?

"I'll go right away home to Reigate," he said; "there's nothing else for it. It serves me right, for being so careless. I always 'do' get into a scrape, try as hard as I will. It's because I'm so thoughtless, mother says, but then—ugh! I wish they'd have done with those everlasting chickens; I shall be kept here all day. As if I'd never seen a farmyard before! I suppose they'd put some clean straw over there, to make it look nice for the Golden Wedding-day—ugh!"

He was quite right about the party bidding fair to stay there all day. There were so many things to see, dear to the hearts of suburban children!

There was Gipsy, the beautiful dog, with her puppies, who resented the chickens drinking her dish of milk. There was the favourite cock, who looked as if he were just going to accept the corn from Eddie's hand, and then walked off with a supercilious kind of air, which seemed to say, "Don't you wish you may catch me, young sir?"

All this Jack saw through a peep-hole in the cow-house, but he was very weary of his situation. He was too impatient to be philosophical, or he would have considered that they must get tired some time, and then he could slip out. Instead of that, his busy brain was planning some brave, wonderful way of escape. If only he could devise something splendid to do!

He looked up and down and around. If he could once get to the station, he shouldn't mind anything or anybody there, he thought; he would just get into an empty carriage and—

But when his plans had matured as far as that, he thought of his mother, and of her anxiety at his disappearance; he thought of the party, which would be utterly spoilt should one be missing, and his heart misgave him.

Then the thought of his disaster swept over him afresh. No, he could not face the jeers of his boy cousins, nor the pitying looks of his girl cousins, nor the raised eyebrows of some of his aunts and uncles. No, he must risk the anxiety of other people, and save himself the inevitable disgrace.

Again he looked up. All around the cow-house were apertures for ventilation; he thought he could squeeze through one of these, and so away.

He sprang on the manger, and in another moment, his lithe form was holding on to the rafters, and he was already half-way through.

"Safe!" he muttered as he let himself lightly to the ground, but there he stopped.

"I'm doing a cowardly thing, I do believe," he said, half aloud. "I'm actually running away from what I ought to bear, and leaving other folks to the annoyance of my fault! That's what I should call cowardly in any one else. Well—"

He stood still and looked round. Close to him a goose and her goslings were sporting in and out of a favourite gutter, beyond them some country children were driving home a goat from the common.

Jack had made up his mind.

He gave a flying leap across the gutter and brought up in front of the cottage girl.

"I say—" he began.

"Yes, sir," she answered, looking somewhat slyly at his hot, bashful face.

"I say; I've got into a mess,—see here," he added, turning round.

"Oh my!" said the girl expressively.

"Could you just go into the farmyard and ask 'em to tell you which is my mother?"

The girl looked doubtful.

"She's a nice sort of woman, with grey stuff in her bonnet, and a grey dress,—anybody 'ull tell you!"

"What am I to say?" asked the little girl, still doubtfully.

"Tell her Jack wants her! He's gone indoors. He's got into trouble—as usual. Tell her that."

He turned off, and hurried to the house, while the cottage girl did his bidding as well as she could. Among the forty or more people who stood about watching the cows or feeding the chickens, she had great difficulty in finding which was the "nice" woman whom Jack had described. But she was a straightforward little girl, and she felt very sorry for the poor young gentleman's trouble; so she waited till she saw a lady who suited her ideas, and then she spoke,—

"Please, mum, are you 'Jack's' mother?"

"Yes, that I am!" said the lady in the grey bonnet.

"Then he's tumbled down somewhere, and he wants you, ma'am; he's gone indoors."

"Not hurt?" asked his mother with a sinking at her heart.

"Oh dear no, ma'am!—Only in a mess," said the country girl, and moved off towards home.

"Thank you, very much," said Jack's mother gratefully. And as she hastened back, that extra suit flashed across her with intense relief.

"You 'are' a dear mother!" said her boy as, clean and fresh, he stood dressed, all but his socks and boots which were ready for him. "I do think you 'are' kind, never to even reproach a fellow. Well, it's like mothers—that's all I can say!"

"I am glad you came to me, my boy," she said, putting her arm round him. "Mothers are generally the best friends to go to!"

Meanwhile, the rest had left the farmyard and were making a call at the Dairy Cottage, that picturesque spot which in winter seemed the most snowy of any spot round, and in summer the most leafy.

It was cool and leafy now, but while the elders looked at the butter and cream, and admired the cleanliness of everything, the young people sought the outhouses behind, where a certain donkey was known to reside.

Here Jack, who had but just joined the party, and was in front of the others, recognised his friend of just now, the little girl who had helped him so kindly.

"Good afternoon!" he said, unconcernedly, with his ready wit, always knowing the best thing to do at the moment, though he did get into scrapes so often,—"Good afternoon!"

"Good afternoon, sir," she answered, blushing, on seeing who it was, and inwardly wondering at the transformation.

"I'm much obliged to you for carrying that message," he said frankly. "I couldn't thank you then—but I wanted to afterwards, and didn't know where you lived."

"Oh, I live here," said the girl, surprised.

As the rest crowded out after the donkey and her foal, he added, "I wanted you to have this. Mother said I might, if I saw you. I haven't anything else!"

He put into her hand his cherished four-bladed knife, which he had had for a whole month in his possession, without its being either broken or lost.

"Ah no, sir," said the little girl; "I'd—"

But Jack was half across the meadow, and the only wonder was he did not fall into a wide ditch full of water in his eagerness to escape her thanks.

When he put his hand in his pocket that night to get his knife to cut something, he made a wry face at the thought that it was gone. But after an instant, he said to himself,—

"Well, that was a brave little girl, and I'm glad she's got it! When I think that I sent her among fifty gentlefolks, with only a grey dress and her own kindness to guide her, I think I may say she was a very brave little girl,—considering all things!"

Those who did not care for the donkey, or who had had their turn on his back, amused themselves with the turkeys, which were the especial charge of the dairy-woman.

Her little children were at the very moment feeding them with some bread.

At last, the children began to think that there were other pleasures to be found nearer home.

Something had been hinted about some surprise at four o'clock, and as that time drew on, all the party began to collect on the lawn again.

When the clock on the stable rang forth its four strokes, two labourers, looking very shy, came over the soft grass, and touching their caps to the grandfather said,—

"Please sir, the hay's ready for the young ladies and gentlemen."

"Hay!" shouted the boys. "Where, where?"

"I have had a field reserved on purpose for this day," said their grandfather. "I thought there could not be a greater pleasure—"

"Where?" asked everybody, for they had not noticed any grass cut on their way to the farmyard.

"It is a field I rent on the other side of the lane. You can reach it in a moment through the garden gate."

"Grandfather, you will come and show us," said Lily Archer, putting her arm through his, and leading him down the garden.

"You don't want 'me,'" said the old gentleman, smiling.

"Indeed we do," she answered earnestly. "You and Grandmamma seem the nearest I have to-day."

Tears glittered in her eyes, which had been so bright and happy but a moment before. She was thinking of her own loneliness, without father or mother, the sole representative of those who were gone before.

Claude, who was walking by her, guessed just a little of this from her words. And when her grandfather only squeezed her arm sympathisingly, he said,—

"You would like them to be here, and I am sure I should too. You must miss them more than ever to-day!"

That little speech was the most comforting thing, Lily thought, which had been said to her for many a long day.

And yet was she selfish, that it was not only that her parents missed the Golden Wedding-day, but she so wanted them to share in her happiness, and to give their blessing to the step she had taken only this very morning?

Almost the whole party collected in the hay-field, with the exception of an aunt and three children who were left behind. Even grandmamma was enticed to accept a very carefully prepared hay seat, and her husband came and sat down by her side, drawing Lily to another seat near.

"How lovely it is!" she said.

"I think it is," answered the old gentleman.

"It is the happiest day I ever spent," said Claude.

"The haymakers were up almost before it was light, turning the hay over, as we had a shower yesterday, and I was afraid it would be damp. But it is not in the least."

"No, indeed," said Claude; "I never saw a nicer hay-field. I'm going to help those boys build a gigantic house. Will you come and visit us presently, and give your approval?" he added, turning to Lily.

"'If' I approve," she answered, smiling archly.

"Of course; we do not want you to be insincere! But we really are going to build a magnificent castle."

He went off, and Lily sat with her grandparents under the shady elms by the hedge, well content.

By-and-by one and another of the uncles and aunts gathered round, while their own boys and girls, or their nephews and nieces, made fresh hay seats for them, till there was quite a circle.

"Are all here?" asked the grandmamma. "For I cannot count my fifty."

"All but two or three of the little girls who have some project or other. I left them sitting demurely on a seat in the garden, only anxious for us to leave them, I fancy," said one of Mr. Forde's home-daughters.

"Oh yes, so they were! I remember now, and they had got hold of their Aunt Rachel, and were whispering to her earnestly. What could they be wanting?"

"Oh, if Rachel was there," said Miss Forde, "it will be all right." (Rachel was the other home-daughter.)

So they forgot for a while about the little girls who were with Aunt Rachel, and gave themselves up to the pleasures of the hay, watching Claude and the boys rearing up the highest hay-castle that ever had been seen, or the younger children copying them in their smaller measure.

When the grand erection was finished, Claude and his friends, the Reigate boys, came to fetch Lily Archer, and any of the others who could be persuaded to move, to see it.

"I 'do' approve," smiled Lily.

"Of course you do," said one of her cousins. "You'd have been a girl of egregious taste if you hadn't."

"What a long word!" answered Lily. "Are you sure you said it right? I have heard of egregious blunders, but not so often of egregious taste! Perhaps you are thinking of the blunder I should have made if I had dared to disapprove?"

The boys laughed; anything that Lily said or did was always right in their eyes.

Meanwhile, Aunt Rachel had been taken to a certain very private verandah, and there had had a very private request made her—

"May we go and see Cook?"

"Is that so very particular," she asked, "that all those preparations of secrecy should have to be made?"

"Oh, hush, Auntie!"

"There is no one near; the rest are so far-away in the hay-field, that if you were to shout, they could not hear."

"But if any one guessed, it would spoil our fun!"

"Guessed that you were going to pay Cook a visit?"

"Well—yes, Auntie, because, in the first place, we're her favourites—Elsie and I."

"Oh, are you? But even then—"

"And in the second place," interrupted Ethel eagerly, "we want Cook to let us do something—"

"Oh, I see now. But do you not think that Cook is busy?"

"If she is, we'll not ask her—there, Auntie, we promise you. We can soon tell whether Cook is busy, because if she is, she's so snappy!"

"Is she?"

"Yes; she's very fond of us, but if she's snappy, she's not at all nice."

"I should think not," said Aunt Rachel, laughing. "I don't know anything that's nice to be snappy except gingerbread."

"Oh, Auntie!"

"What?"

"You've guessed!"

"Guessed what?" she asked, looking puzzled.

"Hush!" whispered Frank. "It was only an accidental coincidence. If you don't say any more, girls, auntie will be quite in the dark."

Having thus gained the permission that if cook were not busy, they might visit her, the little girls ran off, followed closely by Frank, who promised faithfully to be very quiet and only sit and watch them, did cook permit them to carry out their plans.

"Bless your little hearts!" was her greeting, by which the children understood that she was not snappy.

"We've come to see you," announced Frank boldly, while Ethel and Elsie wished he had said that they had come for something else too.

"That's very kind of you," said cook. "I thought some of the young ladies and gentlemen would pay me a visit to-day!"

"Did you?" asked Elsie. "Well, we wanted to see you, and we wanted—if you weren't busy—to ask you a 'great' favour."

Cook looked so far from being snappy that they ventured to whisper in her ear.

"Gingerbread!" she echoed. "Why, my dears, they've got heaps and heaps for tea!"

The little girls' countenances fell.

"But there," added cook, "it ain't the stuff, but the fun of making it in my kitchen that you want! I see that. Here, Jane, come along (to her little daughter, the kitchen maid), just you get out the flour, and the treacle, and the spice, and the butter. Oh! Deary me, to think of beginning cooking again in my clean kitchen!"

"It 'is' clean," said Frank. "I like this kitchen the best of any I go into. It's the cleanest."

Jane giggled, but cook accepted the compliment quite calmly.

"You should ha' seen it this morning, when some one tore her dress on a nail, and came slopping the milk all over my floor."

Jane bent her head, colouring, and Frank could not help smiling. Cook pretended to be so very unconscious of who it could have been.

But the girls were by this time deep in the gingerbread, and Frank began to tire of what was to be seen inside, so he sauntered into the yard, and burst out laughing so loud that cook ran out to see what the fun was.

"Here's a new kind of puppy!" said Frank.

But by the time the gingerbread snaps were baked, cook was getting very busy indeed over the tea, and Frank, who had come back again from the yard, decided that it would be wiser for them all to disappear, as cook was now getting decidedly snappy.

So the little girls, with many grateful thanks, and with many instructions to the maids to put what they had made on the tea-table without any remark, hurried off to the hay-field, where already long tables were groaning beneath the weight of tea, coffee, cakes, fruit, ham, chickens, eggs, and dainties too many to be counted.

Everybody was moving to the table, and they were only just in time before the grace was said by their dear grandfather, standing bareheaded under the blue sky.

The two little girls watched those four plates of gingerbread snaps with anxious eyes. Yes—people did take some, and took some a second time! But, what spoilt their fun most was, that Frank kept on begging people to try them, and pressed them so earnestly upon Aunt Rachel, with such knowing winks, that they were afraid their secret would be out, and they covered with confusion.

But people were too busy to notice any two little girls of the party, and just then a diversion occurred in some one asking their grandmother whether those were not swallows wheeling about overhead?

"Yes," she answered; "we have a great many of them. And as we have finished tea, if you will draw round a little nearer to me, I will tell you something very curious that happened under our own eaves. It taught 'me' a great lesson."

"You, Grandmamma?" echoed several voices.

"Yes. You all know, I daresay, that swallows come to live here in summer, and then on a day near the middle of September they all fly back again to warmer climes. No matter what they are doing, when the call comes,—that mysterious call which only they understand,—off they go, and we see them no more till the next April.

"You know how the swallows make nests for themselves up under the eaves, and I have heard they sometimes bring up two broods in the same year.

"Now it so happened that a year or so ago, one pair had their second brood rather late in the season. And before the poor little nestlings were able to fly, the call came to the swallows to go south.

"What do you think the little father and mother did? They left their little nestlings to starve, and flew away themselves to the warm countries! When the blacksmith came to mend the gutter the next spring, he found the little dead things huddled together in the forsaken nest. And when I heard it, I underlined that text in my Bible which I have always loved, that speaks of God's love as contrasted with a mother's love, great as that is—'Yea, they "may" forget, yet will I not forget thee.'"

There was a moment's pause in the large circle, and then Margaret looked up from hugging her baby, and said softly,—

"That is a very sad story, Grandmamma."

"Yes, it is," answered Mrs. Forde, taking her great-granddaughter's tiny hand, and smoothing it up and down tenderly, "but it is well for us to be reminded sometimes!"

"Reminded?" asked Margaret.

"That God says, '"I" have loved thee with an "everlasting" love!'"

Then there was a stir in the circle. Claude and the Reigate boys went back to their castle, while the bare mention of the blacksmith had been quite enough for some of the children. It was still light, so ever so many of them asked permission to pay a visit to the forge before going home.

"Good afternoon, Grandfather!" said Jack, roguishly. "It will be almost evening before we come back!"

The little ones ran to the wall to watch the party on its way to the village, only wishing they had been fortunate enough to be allowed to go with them; for after all, what is so entrancing to the childish mind as an unhindered peep into a forge?

————

"AUNTIE, Auntie! The dew is falling," called Frank, coming round the corner of the house to discover his Aunt Rachel taking a few minutes' rest with her favourite nephew by her side, amusing him with a picture book, and telling him such thrilling stories that he sat entranced.

She had found him just now in great tribulation, for her dog Frisky, unused to children, had taken a particular fancy to the darling of one of the families assembled to celebrate the Golden Wedding-day, and had, true to his name, frisked round him in the most friendly manner.

Little Kenneth, who had no dog at home, did not take these attentions at all in a friendly spirit. He felt sure Frisky was bent on doing him some serious mischief, and would end up with demolishing him! Poor little Kenneth!

His mournful cry brought Aunt Rachel to his side very quickly. All day she had done little else than hover round among the little ones, making straight all that might have gone crooked, making smooth anything that might have been rough.

She had said that morning to her parents, as they sat at breakfast talking over the arrangements for the grand day—"Mother! I shall leave all the food to Charlotte's care. 'I' shall devote myself to the little ones."

Charlotte was Mr. Forde's other home-daughter. She laughed now a little, and said to her sister,—

"Pray, who is to attend to the elder guests, as you have told me off to the 'food' all day. I hope you do not put me down as specially greedy?"

"Not at all. I consider myself rather greedy to 'bag' the children,—they are the best share by half! But I thought the older people suited you best, Charlotte?"

"Oh! I don't mind," she said. "But as to the food, with all our elaborate preparations, and so many maids to carry all out, I do not think I need concern myself about that. I'll amuse the older folks."

Thus, it was settled. Happily for everybody, the preparations had been most complete, and the carrying out of them perfect; so that Charlotte had quite a free mind to give to the entertainment of her sisters and brothers.

Aunt Rachel had been helping some of the little ones to dig in a corner of the pretty garden, where Mr. Forde had ordered a load of sand to be deposited. Here, after tea, she enticed those who seemed a little tired of the hay.

"The big boys are so rough," she had heard one of them say, as she smoothed the hay out of her hair, and straightened her rumpled dress. "I don't like playing with big cousins at all."

The sand had proved a most delightful exchange from the rather overpowering play of the older children, and while some of them dug with great energy, the rest of the little ones wandered a little further on in the garden, to a plane which was called by Aunt Rachel "the wilderness,"—a corner where things were left to grow as they liked, with only such cutting and training as was judiciously invisible to ordinary eyes.

What a happy time it was for all of them, and not least for Aunt Rachel, who often declared it was impossible for her to have too much of children! Margaret, one of her elder nieces, married but a short year and a half ago, with a precious treasure of her own, quite agreed with her aunt that at any rate, she could never have too much of her little Daisy!

While the sun was still bright, this indefatigable little mother was sure that her baby was sleepy, and leaving the happy party in the hay-field, she made her way across the lawns and carried her darling into the house.

As she passed through the drawing-room, she met one of her cousins, a little girl named Mildred, who was always known as one of the greatest baby-lovers ever seen.

"Oh, Margaret!" she exclaimed, springing forward. "'May' I take care of Daisy?"

"If you like," answered Margaret, feeling that she was conferring a great boon. "Just hold her while I run up to find Mary. I wonder if she has her bed ready for her!"

The cot was ready in the spare room, for Margaret was to sleep at Bickley that night. So Mildred was allowed to carry the baby up the broad easy stairs, and to superintend its undressing.

Daisy had just learned to crawl, and was placed on the floor to show Mildred the new performance, when the door was pushed open a very little, and Master Frisky walked in to see what was going on.

He did not quite like that any other four-footed animal, as he considered it, should be allowed to walk about in "his" spare room, so he laid himself down rather sulkily and considered the matter before he decided on any course of action.

Margaret and Mildred and the nurse were very much entertained, especially as Daisy had no idea of fear, and made her way steadily towards the occupant of the mat, intent on a game if possible. Frisky, however, was almost too awed at the new quadruped to move. He hung his tail as if afraid.

"Do you think he will snap at her?" said Mildred, shrinking.

"Oh, no!" answered Margaret.

But she would not risk it, so caught up her darling and placed her out of harm's way in the cot, where she was tenderly watched over by Mildred and the nurse, till she fell asleep.

"That's the first 'Good-night!'" whispered Mildred, bending over her. "Little Daisy, you are the first to say good-bye to the Golden Wedding-day!"

Then she noiselessly left the room, and went out into the still evening, listening for sounds that might guide her to some place of interest.

Merry voices came from all sides, ringing laughter; so after an instant's pause, she decided on making a visit to the hay-loft, where she found three of her cousins having a grand frolic.

On her way, she passed some of the neighbours' cottages. And there in the warm western sun, outside the door under shelter of the wall, lay the baby of the family, all clean and rosy, ready for her good-night.

By the side of her watched her little sister, amusing herself meanwhile with feeding some tame sparrows, puss looking on, but restrained from touching them by the little girl's hand; while opposite stood the eldest boy, stripping a brier of its leaves to make a stick for himself.

"How happy you look," said Mildred, and passed on towards the hay-loft.

Soon she was in the thick of the fun, hiding in the dusky corners, or climbing up and down the ladder which led to the ground,—a pastime which all found particularly delightful, because there was just a little danger of slipping!

Meanwhile, two more of the cousins were having another frolic somewhere else. Aunt Charlotte had been coaxed to let them into her studio, and in consideration of the interest of the day, to actually allow one of her brushes to be used on one of her canvases!

"You've been a mighty long time!" remarked Eddie, who was standing patiently on the mat, acting as a model for one of his cousins.

"Well, you can go!" she answered condescendingly. "I've got your hair exactly now, and your nose! I've made you quite handsome, Eddie!"

"Do you call that like me?" asked Eddie.

"Exactly! Don't you?"

But Eddie did not wait to argue the point. Finding himself let off, he bounded away; for however pleasant it may be to paint, it is not such an enviable thing to be painted, especially when there are such attractions elsewhere as are to be found on Golden Wedding-days.

Jack, finding nothing particular to do of an exciting nature, determined to amuse himself by climbing one of the high trees near the wall which separated his grandfather's grounds from the gardens of some cottages.

He had been as far as he thought prudent, and for once had really kept within reasonable bounds, and now was descending (as he could not indulge himself by going higher!) when he saw a woman come out of the nearest cottage door, look quickly about, wring her hands, and call out in a very despairing tone, "Baby! Baby!"

"What's the matter?" called Jack's blunt voice from the midst of his leafy shade.

The woman stopped short, looked about in every direction, and then burst into tears.

"What's the matter?" called Jack again. "I'm up here in the tree."

He shook the branches, and she looked up.

"What ails you?" asked Jack, for the woman's face was woebegone.

"Why, the baby! Oh, do, my dear young master, come down and help me find her. She's all I have now, and my heart will break!"

Jack could not make it out, but he descended to the wall, and then in a manner best known to himself, let himself down on the other side, and stood by the woman, again asking, "But 'what' have you lost? You can't lose a baby like that. She must be somewhere."

His steady courageous tone quieted the mother's nervous apprehension a little. To her mind, nothing was easier than to lose her baby.

"Where was she?" asked Jack.

"Why, here," exclaimed the woman eagerly. "I'd been leading her about the kitchen; she's just begun to walk a bit, and we was as happy as could be. And then I put on her bonnet to take her out for a bit, and I ran upstairs to get my own things. I wasn't a minute, I do assure you, sir. And when I came down, the door was open and she was gone!"

"She isn't far, I'll be bound," said Jack reassuringly. "I'll just run round and have a look about."

"But you see it's getting dark," said the mother despairingly, "and if I lose her—"

She threw her apron over her head and sobbed aloud.

"Oh, come," said Jack, "you're wasting the time. You go that way, and I'll go this. She can't be far, and we'll call her."

He ran off as he spoke, turning up the leafy lane with its shade of overhanging trees. While the child's mother, wiping her eyes, which were still almost blinded with tears, went in the direction Jack had pointed out, glad to have any advice to follow.

The fact was the baby, a little independent morsel of humanity, finding that she was arrayed in outdoor garments, thought the most natural thing was to take a walk. It did not occur to her that she should wait for her mother, it rather occurred to her that it would be a fine thing to go without her mother.

The door was fortunately ajar, and a touch of her tiny fingers pushed it open sufficiently to let her small form through. She trotted down the little garden, went out into the lane, looked this way and that, and finally turned in at the little gate which led into Aunt Rachel's wilderness.

A lonely wilderness now, for the children had left the dewy grass, and were collecting indoors preparatory to going home.

So Jack ran past the little wanderer and overshot the mark, as so many people do in this life. His fleet legs carried him over so far down the lane, till his good sense told him that no baby feet could have trotted as far as that in the few moments which must have elapsed between the child having gone out and his beginning to search.

As he slowly retraced his steps, alternately calling "Baby!" and listening attentively, he heard a very mournful little voice wailing dolefully, somewhere very near.

To his renewed calls of "Baby," no answer was made, but to his joy, the crying stopped.

Then he was sorry it had stopped, for now he had no guide to the baby's whereabouts.

He looked up at the fence and recognised the particular pattern of his grandfather's palings. He gave a spring over the little ditch, clambered up the flowery bank, no matter how many nettles and thorns were in his way, and grasping the top of the tall fence, peeped over.

There, in the midst of Aunt Rachel's wilderness, sat the little lost wanderer!

It did not take Jack a moment to clamber over the palings and to run up to the little sorrowful baby.

His most gentle soothing, however, availed nothing to assuage her grief. So Jack lifted her up, took her by the hand, and led her toddling steps out at the door by which she had entered.

Here they almost ran up against her mother.

"Oh, sir!" she said, gratefully, but no more, for such a hugging and kissing as went on completely stopped her flow of eloquence, for which Jack was not sorry.

At any rate, the baby had left off crying,—that was one good thing.

"Come in, do, sir!" exclaimed the woman, throwing open the cottage door. "I feel I can never thank you enough."

"Oh! I did not do much," said Jack. "You'd have found her right enough yourself, if you hadn't been so frightened. She was close by all the time."

"Ah! Well, young sir, I daresay you are right, but I've had such trials that I'm afraid I ain't always as sensible as I might be."

She seemed to expect Jack to inquire about her trials.

And though he was longing to get back to his cousins, with ready good humour, he asked,—

"Have you had such trials then?"

"Me, sir?" she asked, astonished, as if any one could not have heard her story.

Jack nodded.

"Why, sir, I married a widower, that's his boy as minds your grandfather's cows, and I had one child of my own—such a beautiful boy! One day he was taken ill, I don't know how it was, the doctor said it must have been croup. Anyway, I saw he was poorly, and I took him down to the doctor's, but he was out, and it was a bitter day, that it was. So I went home again, and for all I could do, the baby got worse. George went and tried everywhere to find the doctor, but he'd been sent for somewheres at a distance, and wasn't expected home till morning. Long before that the life had gone out of my baby, and he lay cold and stiff. If only the doctor had been at home, I shouldn't have lost him!"

She spoke bitterly, and Jack stood still, wondering what to say, for he did not like to leave the woman uncomforted, and yet he hardly knew how to comfort her.

"You have this one now," he ventured at last, but the woman flashed almost angrily upon him,—

"'That' don't make up," she said, though she hugged her little girl tighter at the thought.

"I beg your pardon," said Jack, "and perhaps you wouldn't like me to say any more?"

"My nerves is so bad," apologised the woman, looking into his open face, which had flushed a deep red.

Though Jack had been brave once before that day, he was braver now.

"I don't think I gave you the true comfort," he said. "I heard my mother telling some one, that the Lord Jesus when He was on earth loved people even when He had to stay away sometimes. Perhaps He lets us have troubles that we may trust Him better."

The woman gave him a glance of surprise, and Jack, thinking he had leave to go, sped towards the house, little dreaming that after all with "that" Name, he "had" comforted the woman!

*******

"We have been looking at the swans," said Eddie. "And mother says they are going home to bed, and that we must too!"

"Oh!" said Effie. "I wish we could stay here always,—don't you, Eddie?"

"For some things," answered Eddie candidly, "but we should want mother, you know."

"Of course we should; she'd have to stay here."

"But the servants could not do without her," remarked Eddie, as if that were conclusive.

And Effie saw it was, and did not argue the point further.

"We must put on our things," said their mother regretfully; "the fly is at the door, and the train will not wait for us."

"No, that it won't," said Jack. "I can't bear saying 'Good-bye,' I'd rather say 'Good-night,' then you have the hope of meeting the next day. I wish we had!"

"We must not make a regret out of our great happiness," said their grandmamma's voice behind them. "I never spent such a happy day! Let us say 'Good-night,' as Jack suggests, instead of 'Good-bye.'"

So everybody took up the idea that there were to be no regrets, but only the loving word, "Good-night" was to be spoken, as each party had to leave.

Eddie and Effie, with their parents, accompanied by Cyril and his parents, were nearly the first to go, and very very sleepy were the little people before they got to the end of the journey.

In fact, there was some suspicion that the three little pairs of eyes had forty winks in the train.

However that might have been, Eddie and Effie were quite awake enough to give their mother a great hug, and to whisper that they had had a very, very, "very" happy day.

"If those cousins hadn't been so rough—" began Effie, but her mother stopped her with a kiss.

"We will not remember one tiresome thing to-day," she said brightly. "It has been the best and loveliest day possible."

"But then," said Eddie archly, "perhaps nothing tiresome 'did' happen to you, mother dear!"

"I tore my dress," she answered, in a mock doleful tone; "I shall never get over 'that'—"

"What?" asked their father, entering.

"—that stile again, I was going to say," she answered, laughing, "only I wanted to shock Effie just a very little bit."

So another "Good-night" was said, and the two pairs of eyes closed wearily, and Eddie and Effie left the Golden Wedding-day behind.

Not two fields off, at that very moment, Cyril sat on his mother's knee, telling her all about his day. Not that she did not know all about it before, but she did not mind hearing it afresh from his lips.

He was even wider awake than Eddie and Effie, for he had had more than forty winks in the train. His mother's knee had been a pillow for his curls all the time of his journey, and now he had reached home and had partaken of supper with his parents, he felt ready for anything, and chatted away as if sleep were a thing quite unheard of.

"Tell me a story, mother," he pleaded; "then when you've told me one, I'll promise to go to sleep."

"Say instead, that you will promise to lie still, and shut your eyes. I do not think you can make yourself go to sleep, Cyril."

"Can't I?" he asked, his innocent eyes meeting hers with a surprised look.

"I do not think so. There are some things we can do, and some things we can't."

"Tell me a story about that!"

"About what, Cyril?"

"About what we can't do, and we can."

His mother smiled.

"I knew a little boy once who was left in a room by himself, and was told not to touch anything on the table."

"Not me?" interrupted Cyril.

"Not you, dearest; oh! no. Some other little boy. Well, he promised his mother, and when she was gone, he stood a long time listening to his mother's footsteps dying away in the distance. And then he turned to look at the table. He had not thought before anything about it. But now, just because he was told not, his mind went back to it, and his eyes felt as if they must turn that way and no other."

"What a silly little boy," remarked Cyril sagely; "he should have shut them up tight."

"Well, he didn't. He thought he would just walk over to the table and have a look. So he did, and as we often find, looking was not enough. There was a basin of something standing within reach.

"'Mother meant this bread and milk for me, I am sure,' he said to himself, 'she always gives me some at bedtime. I wonder if there's sugar in it? Mother always puts sugar in it, if I'm good: I have been good all day, to-day. It's been a good day, I'm sure.'

"He drew nearer; he would have peeped in it or even tasted it, but the table was too high. Having thus played with temptation, he put out both his hands and tipped the basin just a very little. The basin was slippery, and just as the little boy had a full view of its contents, over it tipped, pouring a stream of milk right down his chest."

"Was he burned?" asked Cyril, horrified.

"You may well ask that, Cyril. Fortunately, indeed, the milk had only been placed there ready for boiling, and was quite cold; or else that little boy would have been terribly scalded, and might have died! Now, Cyril, tell me—was what he did, one of the things he might have helped? Did he make a promise to his mother that he could have kept?"

Cyril considered the matter soberly for ever so long, and then ended by flinging his arms tightly round his mother's neck.

"Oh, you dear mother!" he exclaimed. "I s'pose it was! I 'am' so glad he wasn't scalded, but only nasty and wet! But now, mother, say my prayers, and then I'll promise!"

So Cyril laid his head on his pillow, promising only to shut his eyes and lie very quiet, and his mother said "Good-night" with a happy heart, and ran downstairs to talk over the Golden Wedding-day with her husband.

Meanwhile, another party had reached home, a large and rather tired party. For there had been too much talking and laughing in the train for the regulation "forty winks." And when they arrived at their house, the little ones were very sleepy, and it must be confessed a wee bit cross.

But nurse and mother and elder sisters each took a tired child in charge, and went off with them to their respective rooms.

One little boy was so fatigued that he threw himself on his bed and begged to be allowed to stay as he was! But a little management soon divested the tired young gentleman of his visiting apparel, and almost before they could tuck him up, he was in dreamland.

"Nursie dear!" called Ethel from her bed in the night nursery. "I'm not a bit sleepy; can't you let me hold baby while you see to the others?"

"Wait till I've undressed him then," answered nurse, "and we'll see about it. I declare I never saw such a lot of you to get to bed at once!"

"No, because we don't generally go out all at once, and Golden Wedding-days don't happen very often."

"I should hope not," remarked nurse, good-humouredly, remembering the bustle it had been to get them off in the morning, and how very early everybody had been awake, and what an array of garments had been laid out on a certain spare bed for days, so that not one thing should be forgotten or missing when the grand morning arrived. Oh, yes, she remembered it all, and was glad Golden Wedding-days did not happen every week.

"But you liked going, didn't you, nursie?"

"Oh! Yes, miss, it was very nice indeed. I'm sure, to see such a number of young ladies and gentlemen together, with all their papas and mammas, except poor Miss Archer's, of course, was a treat worth going fifty miles to see, that it was!"

So the baby was undressed and given to Ethel to amuse, and then nurse turned to another of her charges, who was leaning on the table not making any attempt to prepare for the night.

"What is the matter, Miss Elsie?" she asked.

"I'm thinking," said Elsie, without looking up.

"You're tired, I expect," said Nurse.

"No, I'm not,—not in the least tired. I was thinking about that gingerbread that we made. I wish it had had some lemon peel in it!"

"Is that all?" said nurse. "I thought it was something very serious."

"That's all," said Elsie.

But she said it with such a sleepy yawn, that nurse came gently behind her and unfastened her dress without any further remark. And though Elsie had a slight suspicion that she was being managed, it was so delightful to feel herself nearing her bed without any effort on her part that she yielded herself to the soothing touch, and said "Good-night" quite gratefully when nurse bent over her at last with a kiss.

But before this, the last good-nights were being said at Bickley.

"Lily is going home with us," said Frank, one of the Reigate boys. "Mother's asked her to stay till Monday."

"I am glad of that," said her grandfather, laying his hand on Lily Archer's shoulder. "I was wondering where my little lonely bird would rest to-night?"

"Were you?" asked Lily, looking up gratefully.

"I thought they had asked you to stay here?"

"So grandmamma did, but I thought I ought to go back to be ready for my school children on Monday."

"And now?" asked her grandfather.

"Now," interrupted Jack, "'we' want her. Some of us would be dreadfully disappointed if she went back to London to-night. We are going to telegraph to her home to say she'll be up by the first train on Monday."

Every one seemed to think this a capital plan, and soon the Reigate party were on their way to the station, Claude Champion thinking that quiet walk under the stars the very pleasantest thing in that eventful day.

By-and-by, they reached home, where they found a bright fire blazing, lighted by the maid to greet their arrival.

Sitting round in a circle, they all compared notes of their experiences of the day's doings, each telling his or her view of the great event. Dorothy, the only girl, standing close to Lily's side, while Jack looked thoughtfully into the fire.

Presently he told them the story of his cottager's trouble and relief, and ended up with a funny look as he said,—

"I never can see why it is people are so immensely fond of their babies! Babies seem to me to grow on every hedge!"

His mother, who was sitting opposite him, shook her head, smiling, however, to herself.

"Eh, mother?" he asked. "Did you ever value us in that frantic sort of way?"

"Not frantic at all," she answered; "but—Jack, I think I have had to learn that it is only as long as God keeps my dear ones for me that I can hold them."

"I suppose it is," said Jack seriously, "but—"

"It is the safest keeping of all—" said his mother.

And then their eyes wandered to two pictures on the wall, at which they looked, often unconsciously, every day of their lives, and of which their mother had told them the story, which flashed on Jack now as she spoke.

"Say us that lullaby, mother," he said.

So his mother repeated,—

"Lying at rest, softly at rest,
   Thus lies my child to-day;
 Safe from fear, far or near,
   Safe from the world's dismay.
 Sailing at rest, sweetly at rest,
   Thus sails my love to-day;
 Safe from fear, God is near,
   Safe from the heart's dismay.
 Only at rest, always at rest,
   In Thee, my Lord, to-day;
 Safe from fear, Thou art near;
   Safe in Thy care we stay."

Then she told them if they did not say "Good-night" soon, the Golden Wedding-day would be gone, and they would have to wish each other good morning, which would not be at all nice!

But before twelve o'clock strikes, indeed, an hour before that, the last of Mr. and Mrs. Forde's children were arriving at their home in London.

It was late, and a hansom was the only vehicle which could be obtained at the station. But the two children thought this all the more fun, for to squeeze into it and to drive along with the cool night air blowing in their faces with the moonlight making everything almost as bright as day, was a treat such as they had never before enjoyed, and was a fit close to the day, to their thinking.

Mildred sat on her father's knee, while her little sister Dolly stood up behind, and leaned over her mother's shoulder, kissing her softly every few minutes, and whispering happy nothings.

At last, they drew up close to home, and their father hurried to the door to get it opened as soon as possible.

But the servants were on the look-out, and so was Vixen, in her kennel. He had hardly touched the bell before the lighted hall was in full view.

Mildred led her little sister in. And while her mother was putting aside her bonnet, she kept her amused, though she could not help yawning privately.

She was not sorry to go straight upstairs when her mother came back, but was too much of a child-lover not to be interested in their little darling's sayings and doings while she was being undressed.

"I've got a secret!" exclaimed Dolly suddenly. "Where's father?"

"He is downstairs," said her mother.

"He mus' 'tum up," said Dolly, decidedly.

"Oh, Dolly, he's tired," said Mildred, who stood in her little pink dressing-gown ready for bed, but obliged to stay to hear what their pet had to say.

"He isn't," said Dolly. "I've got what Grandma said, to say to him. Call him, Mildred!"

"He will not mind, for once," said their mother; "he is such a dear father! But, Dolly, after that, you must lie down and go to sleep, for you were never up so late in your life before!"

Dolly nodded, and Mildred ran out to the stairs and called, "Father, Father, Dolly has something very particular to toll you!"

"Hey day! Has she? Then I must come, I suppose. What is it, Dolly? You do not want any more biscuits, I hope?"

"I'se 'sick' of biscuits," said Dolly, shaking her curls.

"Then what is it? Have you enjoyed yourself?"

"She did," said Mildred, "and so did I. That's not what she wants to say."

"Is it that you want to go to bed, like the stag in the picture downstairs, who knows that his time for rest has come?"

"Well," began Dolly, with a bright look in her eyes, "I fink it is."

"Or is it that you have blown away all your teeth with those bubbles of Lily Archer's?"

Dolly laughed gleefully, while two rows of pearls, perfect and even, came into view.

"Make haste and tell me then," said her father, smiling. "I'm going off to sleep."

Dolly peeped up in his face to see if he were in earnest.

"'Tum 'tose to me."

"Don't strangle me then."

"Shall I say it?"

"Why, yes, Dolly, be quick,—that's what I'm waiting for."

She put her soft little arms quite round his neck and her rosy lips touched his ear.

"Grandma told us—" she said, and paused.

"I'm quite ready for it—"

"It's only 'Good-night,' father dear! Good-night!"

THE END.