Title: Mousey
or, Cousin Robert's treasure
Author: Eleanora H. Stooke
Release date: May 4, 2023 [eBook #70697]
Language: English
Original publication: United Kingdom: S. W. Partridge & Co., Ltd, 1903
Transcriber's note: Unusual and inconsistent spelling is as printed.
CHAPTER
CHAPTER I. A FAMILY CONFERENCE
CHAPTER II. WITH AUNT ELIZA AND UNCLE DICK
CHAPTER III. THE ARRIVAL AT HAUGHTON
CHAPTER IV. THE FIRST EVENING IN THE NEW HOME
CHAPTER V. MOUSEY MAKES A FRIEND
CHAPTER VI. EASTER SUNDAY AT HAUGHTON
CHAPTER VII. CONCERNING JOHN MONDAY
CHAPTER VIII. MOUSEY LEARNS SHE IS TO GO TO SCHOOL; AND MAKES A NEW ACQUAINTANCE
CHAPTER IX. MOUSEY GOES TO SCHOOL
CHAPTER X. MOUSEY'S RICH COUSIN
CHAPTER XI. MR. HARDING'S GIFT
CHAPTER XII. MOUSEY GOES OUT TO TEA
CHAPTER XIII. JOHN MONDAY IS CONFIDENTIAL
CHAPTER XIV. MOUSEY AND UNCLE DICK
CHAPTER XV. CONCERNING AN OLD SUIT OF CLOTHES AND A NEW ONE
CHAPTER XVI. HOW JOHN MONDAY SPENT HIS HALF-CROWN
CHAPTER XVII. JOHN MONDAY DETERMINES TO TURN OVER A NEW LEAF
CHAPTER XVIII. JOHN MONDAY IN TROUBLE
CHAPTER XIX. THE COMMENCEMENT OF THE SUMMER HOLIDAYS
CHAPTER XX. PREPARING FOR MOUSEY'S VISIT
CHAPTER XXI. HOW MOUSEY WAS WELCOMED BY HER RELATIONS
CHAPTER XXII. COUSIN ROBERT'S LETTER
CHAPTER XXIII. JOHN MONDAY REAPPEARS UPON THE SCENE
CHAPTER XXIV. MR. HARDING WASHES HIS HANDS OF JOHN MONDAY
CHAPTER XXVI. COUSIN ROBERT'S ILLNESS
CHAPTER XXVII. SUNSHINE AND HAPPINESS
THE funeral was over, and the mourners had returned to the small villa which had been the abode of Mrs. Abbot and her little daughter to discuss what was to be done with the few bits of poor furniture, and to decide where Mousey was to make her future home. Mousey, whose real name was Arabella, but who had always been called Mousey on account of her quiet ways and soft brown eyes, was beginning to awaken from the dream-like feeling which had mercifully dulled her senses since her mother's death four days before, and to realise her loss, which was indeed great, for her father had died when she had been a baby, and she had neither sister nor brother to share her grief.
Poor little girl! When she had stood by the open grave that afternoon, and had heard the earth fall upon her mother's coffin, she had felt as though her heart must break; but she had bravely choked down her sobs, and restrained her tears as much as possible, so that her Aunt Eliza, her mother's sister, who had held her hand, had thought her a strange child not to show more signs of emotion.
Now, as Mousey sat by her aunt's side on the horse-hair sofa in the sitting-room, she looked timidly around on the faces which were turned towards her full of pity, conscious that this was a crisis in her life. Opposite to her, in the one easy-chair the room possessed, was Uncle Dick, Aunt Eliza's husband, who smiled at the little girl encouragingly whenever his eyes met hers. There were also present a few other relatives, including an elderly man whom Mousey knew must be her mother's cousin, Robert Harding, a watchmaker and jeweller, living in a neighbouring town. Mrs. Abbot had often spoken of her Cousin Robert to Mousey, telling her how he was a bachelor who lived a penurious life, and was supposed to have saved a lot of money. He had a reputation for being very mean, and had never been known to spend twopence when a single penny would do. In appearance he was tall and thin and shrivelled, with a face like a dried apple, and a pair of twinkling beady eyes which had an uncommonly sharp way of looking at one.
"I suppose my poor sister's furniture will have to be sold by auction," remarked Aunt Eliza, casting a glance around the room, and shaking her head. "The things won't make much—there'll be little enough for the child!"
"Was my lamented cousin entirely without means?" inquired Mr. Harding in a gruff voice. "I am aware her husband was a poor man, but she was a careful, hard-working woman. Did she save nothing?"
"It was as much as she could do to support herself and Mousey," Uncle Dick responded; "she let lodgings, and took in plain sewing, and slaved from morning to night, but folks don't make fortunes that way!"
Mousey's eyes filled with tears, and her slight frame shook with sobs. All day she had been endeavouring to restrain her sorrow, but now it was overcoming her.
"Come, my dear, you mustn't cry like that!" exclaimed Uncle Dick, looking much distressed.
"You mustn't grieve for her, Mousey," said Aunt Eliza; "you must remember she's far better off now than she was here on earth."
Mousey knew that right well; but she thought of Him who wept when he heard of the death of Lazarus, and the remembrance was like balm to her aching heart, for it brought the consciousness of the presence of the Divine consoler, and she was comforted.
"Come here, child," said Mr. Harding. "I want to have a good look at you."
Mousey obeyed, and the old man held her in front of him whilst he regarded her gravely.
"So they call you Mousey, do they?" he said. "Well, I think the name suits you. How old are you, eh?"
"Ten years old, sir."
"You can call me Cousin Robert. You know your poor mother was a cousin of mine. Are you a good girl, eh?"
"I—I try to be good," she answered falteringly.
"That's well. You've lost the best friend you ever had! It's very sad to be left alone and unprovided for."
Mousey thought so too, and to be reminded of the fact was almost more than she could bear. At this point Uncle Dick interposed in his kindly way—
"Never mind, child! You've always one friend in the world so long as I'm alive, remember. What do you say, Eliza; shall we take this little maid home with us to-night, and let her share with our young ones?"
"I—I suppose that will be the best plan," responded his wife doubtfully, as she thought how difficult she and her good-natured husband found it to make both ends meet, and feed and clothe their own children. "Yes," she continued more cordially, "Mousey shall make her home with us; she's my own sister's child, and it shall never be said I begrudged her aught I had."
Mousey ran to her aunt's side, and kissed her with passionate gratitude and affection; after which she turned to Uncle Dick, and hugged and kissed him too.
"Oh, how I love you!" she cried. "Oh, how good you are!"
Mr. Harding, who had been looking on in silence, now interposed again.
"Cousin Eliza," he said dryly, "I should have thought you and your husband would have had enough on your hands already without burdening yourselves with another person's child, even though she is near akin to you. However, you know your own business best, of course! No doubt you are in a position to educate and provide for the little girl, eh?"
There was a touch of sarcasm in the old man's voice, which brought an indignant flush to Uncle Dick's face, and caused him to glance uneasily at his wife, who answered—
"You well know, Cousin Robert, that my husband is only a struggling man in a small way of business, and not able to promise much for Mousey; but she shall share with our children, if there is nothing better in store for her."
"And if there is something better in store for her, eh?"
Aunt Eliza glanced at the old man questioningly, but made no reply.
"What if I offer Mousey a home?" he proceeded. "What if I promise to board, feed, clothe, and educate the child?"
"Do you really mean that?" Aunt Eliza asked in astonishment.
"I do. It is not an ungenerous offer, I take it!" and Mr. Harding looked around at his relations as though courting their approval, which he received with a gratified smile that deepened the wrinkles on his withered countenance.
Mousey, who had seated herself on the horse-hair sofa, clung to her aunt in great agitation, and whispered pleadingly—
"Oh, I would so much rather live with you and Uncle Dick, and I will share with my cousins—only, they shall have the best of everything, and I will always do what you tell me—and—and—"
The little girl broke down completely, and hid her tear-stained face against her aunt's shoulder.
"The last few days have been too much for her," remarked Uncle Dick, glancing apprehensively at Mr. Harding, who nodded, and tapped one foot impatiently on the floor.
When Mousey's distress had abated somewhat, the old man called her to him again, and addressed her as follows—
"Listen to me, child! You are left alone in the world, and unprovided for. Your aunt and her husband— very foolish people in my estimation— are willing to undertake the charge of you. If you become a member of their household, you cannot be anything but a burden to them for many a year to come."
"No, no!" interposed Uncle Dick.
The old man proceeded as though he had not heard the interruption.
"I don't think you should take advantage of your aunt and uncle's kindness. I'm a man of my word, and when I say a thing I mean it. I'll provide for you, and you shall have a comfortable home. Come now, what do you say?" Mousey lifted her eyes timidly, and answered in a voice which trembled pitifully—
"I—I don't know what to say. You are very kind, but—but— Please, Aunt Eliza, will you speak for me?"
"Let Mousey return with us to-night, Cousin Robert," Aunt Eliza said, after a few moments' consideration, "and, with your permission, we'll take a little time to think the matter over. In the course of a few days I will write to you, if you will keep your kind offer open so long."
"Very well," Mr. Harding replied. "I stick to what I've said, remember. If I can be of any use in settling your sister's affairs, I'm at your service. It's no good my staying here any longer, so I'll say good-bye. Have you a kiss to spare for your cousin, Mousey?"
The little girl smiled through her tears as she lifted her pale face and kissed the old man's withered cheek.
"Think over what I've said, my dear," he whispered; "and mind! You're to call me Cousin Robert."
He shook hands with the rest of his relations in a brisk, business-like way, gave a parting nod to Mousey and took his departure.
MR. DAWSON, Mousey's Uncle Dick, was a market gardener. His house was about half a mile from the town where Mousey had spent her short life. It had been the little girl's greatest pleasure to visit Aunt Eliza and Uncle Dick, when she had delighted in the gardens, and nurseries full of seedlings and plants.
Mr. and Mrs. Dawson had six children—the eldest twelve years old, and the youngest barely nine months—so there were many mouths to feed. It must not be imagined that Mrs. Dawson was in the least unkind, or unsympathetic because she was somewhat dismayed at the idea of adding Mousey to her family; she was fond of her dead sister's child, and would have shared her last crust with the little orphan, but she felt that Mr. Harding's offer ought not to be set aside without due consideration. She wished to do the best she could for her niece, and was by no means certain it would be right to keep her from her well-to-do cousin. On talking the matter over with her husband, they both came to the conclusion that Mousey's prospects in life would be decidedly more promising if she went to live with Mr. Harding than if she remained to share the home which was already so full of young folks. So it was, that one afternoon, a few days after her mother's funeral, Mrs. Dawson spoke to the little girl seriously about her future.
"Mousey, I want to have a talk with you," she said kindly. "You know that your mother's furniture has been sold?"
"Yes, Aunt Eliza," the little girl answered, the tears rising to her eyes as she thought of the familiar things in the possession of strangers.
"The furniture has not turned in much money, I'm sorry to say," Mrs. Dawson continued, "and unfortunately you've nothing besides. This morning your uncle had a letter from Cousin Robert, in which he asks when he may expect you."
"Oh, Aunt Eliza!"
Mrs. Dawson was seated in an easy-chair with the baby upon her lap. Mousey crept to her side, and looked up into her face with pleading eyes.
"I wish I could keep you here!" Mrs. Dawson exclaimed, as she put one arm around her little niece affectionately; "but Cousin Robert can do much more for you than we can."
"Oh, Aunt Eliza, please don't think of that!"
"But that is what I do think of, my dear. You see, Mousey, we are not well off, and it would make us miserable if we stood in your way. We think you ought to accept Cousin Robert's offer—it is really a most generous and kind one. You will not be far away from us, and you can always depend upon our love. Besides, you know, even if you had no Aunt Eliza and Uncle Dick, you would have one Friend on whom to rely."
Mousey looked at her aunt questioningly, her lips quivering, her brown eyes full of tears.
"I mean that Friend who said, 'Lo, I am with you alway, even unto the end of the world,'" Mrs. Dawson proceeded; "the Friend in whom your dear mother trusted above all others, and Who, we are certain, was with her through the valley of the shadow of death."
There was a brief silence, during which Mousey struggled to overcome her emotion, and succeeded so far as to presently ask in a resigned tone—
"When is Uncle Dick going to write to Cousin Robert? Soon?"
"He thinks of doing so to-morrow," Mrs. Dawson responded. "Cousin Robert is an old man, and I should think he must be very lonely. He never married, and he has no near relations. His must be a quiet home; perhaps you will make it brighter. Oh, my dear!" she exclaimed, as Mousey shook her head, "you must try to be happy there; it seems to me that there your duty lies. Don't you think that God may have a good purpose in sending you to Cousin Robert? I do. You don't wish to go? No, I can understand that, because you cannot see your path marked plainly for you; yet, there is a Hand stretched out to lead you, a Hand that will guide you in the right way, in the path of duty, which, though it may be dark and rugged at first, grows brighter and smoother the further you tread it."
"Do you really think I ought to go to live with Cousin Robert?" Mousey inquired wistfully.
"Yes, my dear, I do."
"Then I will go, Aunt Eliza. I—I want to do what is right, but I love you all so much. I don't know Cousin Robert like I know you and dear Uncle Dick, and I don't think I like the look of him much."
"You must not judge him by his appearance, child. Be sure he means to be kind to you, or he would not offer you a home."
"Yes; but he has such a gruff way of speaking, and his eyes are so bright and sharp that I feel rather afraid of him. Has he a very big shop, Aunt Eliza?"
"I don't know, but I expect he has, for I have always been given to understand that he does a large business. You are fond of pretty things, so you will be interested to see the goods he has for sale."
"Is he very rich, Aunt Eliza?"
"I believe he is. He has never had many expenses, and has lived a saving life. If he had a wife and children to provide for, like my husband has, he would not be so well-to-do. What message are you going to send to Cousin Robert?"
"Please ask Uncle Dick to thank him for being so kind as to want me to live with him," Mousey responded, after a little consideration, "and say I will try to please him all I can."
"Yes?"
"And if I go to live with him I hope he will let me come to see you all sometimes."
"I have no doubt he will. You will only be about thirty miles distant from us, and that's a very short journey by train. Ah, here is your uncle!"
Mr. Dawson came in, glancing anxiously from his wife to his niece, for he knew what had been the subject under discussion. Mousey ran to him and led him to a chair, after which she perched herself upon his knees.
"Well, child?" he said questioningly.
"It is decided she is to go to Cousin Robert," his wife answered. "We have had a long talk, and I think Mousey agrees with us which way her duty lies."
Uncle Dick's kind blue eyes rested regretfully on the little girl's face, and he heaved a deep sigh.
"If only I was a richer man, my dear," he said, stroking her hair with his big, tender hand, "there should be no question of your leaving us. But I could not afford to spend the money on your education that your Cousin Robert can, and as you will have to get your own living some day, I suppose that is a great matter for consideration. I am glad you see things in their right light; and I believe we're acting as your poor mother would wish. You'll write to us, and tell us how you're getting on, and—who knows?—perhaps your aunt and I may find time to pay you a visit one of these days."
"Oh, I hope you will!" Mousey cried excitedly; "that will be something to look forward to."
"Be very sure we shall not lose sight of you, my dear child," Mrs. Dawson said, with an affectionate smile at her little niece.
"It makes me so unhappy to think of parting from you all," Mousey told them; "but I should like to do what is right. I wish I knew Cousin Robert better, because then I should know how to please him. Do you think he will want to take me away soon?"
"We will ask him to let you remain with us till the end of the month," Mrs. Dawson said, whilst her husband nodded approval of her suggestion; "it is only the third of March now, so if he agrees, we shall have you with us several weeks longer."
Cousin Robert, when consulted, willingly fell in with this arrangement; but the time passed all too quickly for Mousey, and one day, when the wild March winds were giving place to the milder air of April, came a letter informing the little girl that Cousin Robert was coming himself, with the intention of taking her home with him, and would expect to find her in readiness at the time he mentioned.
ONE rainy spring afternoon found Mousey seated opposite to her Cousin Robert in a third-class railway compartment on her way to Haughton, which was the name of the town where Mr. Harding lived. Only ten minutes before she had bidden a tearful farewell to Aunt Eliza, who had come to the station to see the last of her, and to wish her God-speed. Now, the little girl sat staring blankly at the newspaper which Mr. Harding held open in front of his face, feeling thankful that he was paying no attention to her, so that he did not see the tears she was struggling to suppress.
Mousey held a bunch of spring flowers—Uncle Dick's farewell offering— which scented the carriage with the perfumes of narcissi and hyacinths; and in her pocket was a packet of sweets, which her cousins had given her with strict injunctions to eat them all herself.
Presently Mr. Harding peeped at his companion over the top of his newspaper. Mousey was conscious that his sharp eyes glanced at her keenly for a moment before they disappeared behind the newspaper again.
"Humph! All alone in the world!" she heard him mutter to himself.
After a while Mousey dried her eyes, and sniffed at her nosegay with an air of appreciation; then she drew the sweets from her pocket, and put one into her mouth: it tasted very good, and she wondered if Mr. Harding would like one also. She hardly cared to disturb him, for he appeared so interested in his newspaper, but it scarcely seemed good manners not to offer him a share of her cousins' present; so she touched him lightly on the knee, whereupon he put down the newspaper, and looked at her inquiringly.
"Will you have a sweet, Cousin Robert?" she asked timidly, shy blushes rising to her face.
"No, thank you," he answered; "I don't care for sweets."
"These are very nice. Do have one!"
He shook his head, a smile softening the hard lines of his withered countenance and twinkling in his eyes.
"Eat them yourself," he said; "it's many a long year since I had an appetite for sweetmeats. Did your uncle grow those flowers?"
"Yes," she replied. "Wasn't it good of him to cut them for me? Are we far from Haughton, Cousin Robert?"
"No; we shall soon be there. My place is only about five minutes' walk from the station. You have never been to Haughton?"
"No, never."
"It lies in a valley, and the river runs right through the town; in fact, some of the houses are built over the river—mine, for instance. Sometimes, when the tide is high, and there is a quantity of land water, you can hear the water rushing beneath the houses. The fresh water rushes down from the hills and meets the incoming tide, and that causes part of the town to be flooded at certain seasons."
Mousey did not quite comprehend this explanation; and the thought of living in a house built over a river was rather horrifying to her. She looked, as she felt, considerably alarmed. Mr. Harding noted the fact, and hastened to reassure her.
"The floods seldom do much damage," he said. "There's nothing to fear, for my house, though one of the oldest in the town, is one of the strongest. Are you timid, child?"
"I don't know. Yes, I'm afraid I am, but I try not to be. Of course, I know God will take care of me."
A curious expression flickered across the old man's face. He drew down the corners of his mouth, puckered up his forehead, and regarded Mousey gravely.
"How do you know that?" he asked. "How do you know that God will take care of you—eh?"
"Why, because He has said so, Cousin Robert! Don't you remember He said, 'Fear thou not, for I am with thee'?"
"I suppose that's in the Bible," he remarked, after a moment's reflection. "Your mother was religious, and I conclude she has brought you up the same. I've nothing to say against that, so long as you're happy and cheerful; but I can't stand folks who pull long faces, and set up for being better than their neighbours. I'm as honest as I can afford to be!" and he threw back his head and laughed, as though he had said something witty. Mousey looked at him seriously; she thought his face was particularly unattractive at that moment.
A few minutes later the train began to slacken speed, and the journey was soon at an end. Mr. Harding lifted Mousey and her nosegay out of the carriage on to the platform of Haughton Station. He told her to stay where she was until he had seen to her luggage, and went off to claim her modest box. He quickly returned, and taking her by the hand led her out of the station.
"I've told the town porter to bring round your luggage," he informed her; "the man will do it for fourpence. Sixpence is his usual charge, but I bargained with him to knock off twopence as the journey is a short one. 'A penny saved is a penny got,' remember that!"
"Yes, Cousin Robert," she answered meekly.
"Economy is the order of the day in my house," he proceeded. "I've saved money by economy and thrift —doing without things that other people consider necessaries; and so I've got on. Ah, here we are!"
Mousey glanced around her hurriedly. They had turned into a side street, narrow, and not very clean, and had drawn up before a shop window, behind which a few watches and articles of jewellery were exposed to view. Where was the beautiful shop with the sparkling gems and valuable ornaments which Mousey had expected? It had existed but in her own imagination; the reality was before her eyes.
Mr. Harding opened the door, dragging Mousey in behind him, the doorway being too narrow to admit of two people entering side by side.
The little girl now found herself in a small, dingy shop. Behind the counter stood a big boy, apparently about sixteen years of age, who stared at her with a pair of round, green eyes which seemed utterly expressionless.
Mr. Harding spoke to him curtly, bidding him hold himself in readiness to carry Mousey's box upstairs on its arrival, and placed four coppers on the counter, the fee for the town porter.
"He'll want sixpence, sir," remarked the lad.
"I've arranged to pay him fourpence," Mr. Harding explained, "and he'll be amply paid for his labour. Anyone in particular called during my absence, Monday?"
"No, sir," was the response; "only a few brooches left for new pins, and a couple of watches to be cleaned."
"Very well. This is my cousin, who is to make her home here. Mousey, this is my assistant, John Monday."
Mousey held out her hand shyly. John Monday glanced at her doubtfully for a moment, then shook hands vigorously, and hoped she was well.
She thought he was quite the ugliest boy she had ever seen; and indeed he was very plain, being tall and lanky, with irregular features. His wide, straight mouth seemed almost to reach from ear to ear; his eyebrows and eyelashes were red; and his head was covered with a crop of thick, matted, red hair. He was clad in a threadbare suit of clothes which he had evidently outgrown, for his bony wrists were bare, and his trousers were inches above his shabby boots.
Mr. Harding next led Mousey into a little parlour at the back of the shop, from which it was separated by a glass door. A lace curtain hung in front of the door, but one could easily see through it what was going on in the shop. It was the dullest room Mousey had ever been in, the outlook from the window being a yard, across which a clothes-line laden with linen was suspended between two poles.
The child's heart beat almost painfully as she looked around the cheerless apartment, noting the shabby Brussels carpet, the common wooden chairs ranged stiffly against the walls, and the crumpled cloth covering the table, on which were spread the tea-things, a loaf of bread, a pat of butter, and a jar of jam.
A middle-aged woman now entered the room, whom Mr. Harding introduced as Maria. Mousey knew she must be the servant, although she wore no cap. She was a small, spare woman with pinched features and a colourless complexion. She greeted Mousey kindly, and after the town porter had arrived, and John Monday had carried the little girl's box upstairs, she asked her if she would not like to remove her outdoor garments.
Mousey assented, and still grasping her bunch of flowers followed Maria upstairs to the little chamber which had been prepared for her reception. When she was alone she burst into a flood of tears telling herself that she never could be happy in such a miserable place, and if Aunt Eliza and Uncle Dick had known what Cousin Robert's house was like, they certainly would not have wished her to live in so dreary a home.
MOUSEY'S tears did not last long, for she reflected that if she made her eyes red Mr. Harding would, in all probability, want to know what was amiss; so she soon ceased crying, and after bathing her face in cold water was relieved to find that the traces of tears were gone. Then she unpacked her box, and laid its contents in the set of drawers awaiting her belongings; after which she brushed and combed her hair, and turned towards the door, with the intention of going downstairs. As she passed the window she glanced out, and paused in sudden admiration, for in the distance she caught a glimpse of high hills, half enveloped in mist.
The rain, which had been incessant during the day, was clearing now, and from Mousey's window, which faced the west, she could see the sun as it set. A rush of tender memories filled the little girl's heart at the sight—memories of her mother, and the teaching she had learnt from her lips. She could hear her dear voice speaking of Jesus, her never-failing Friend, and she remembered how she and her mother, when the work of the day had been ended, had often sung together an evening hymn—
"Abide with me: fast falls the eventide; The darkness deepens; Lord, with me abide; When other helpers fail, and comforts flee, Help of the helpless, oh, abide with me."
The familiar words rang in her ears like an angel's message, full of hope and consolation, and as she looked at the setting sun, and noted the shadows of evening creeping over the town, a feeling of peace stole into her desolate heart.
Whilst she still stood at the window, she felt a touch on her shoulder, and turned with a start to find herself face to face with Maria.
"Are you ready for tea?" the woman asked. "Mr. Harding is waiting in the parlour."
"I am quite ready," Mousey responded, adding in explanation of her delay, "I have been looking at the beautiful view from the window."
"Shall I put your flowers in water for you?"
Mousey assented gratefully, for her cherished blossoms were commencing to droop.
Maria lifted the nosegay, and smiled as she remarked, "I'm very fond of flowers, but we don't often see any in this house. Master says they're an expensive luxury."
Downstairs Mousey found Mr. Harding already seated at the tea-table. He looked at her sharply as she entered the room, and pointed to a chair opposite to his own.
"Sit down, child," he said; and, as she obeyed, he went on to explain: "I always have my tea at five o'clock prompt, and you had better join me. John Monday has his afterwards."
He poured out a cup of weak tea, which he passed to her, telling her to help herself to milk. Then he remarked that he supposed she did not care for sugar, it was an unnecessary expense, adding, with a chuckle, that he understood it was not fashionable nowadays to take sugar in tea. Mousey did not like to confess that she was accustomed to sugar in her tea, so she drank the lukewarm beverage he offered her, unsweetened.
At that point Maria entered, bearing a large bowl, in which she had arranged Mousey's flowers with considerable taste. The little girl smiled as the woman placed the bowl in the centre of the table, casting a deprecating glance at her master as she did so; but he made no remark until she had left the room; then he turned to his companion and said—
"I have no objection to flowers as long as they don't cost me anything. I suppose if your uncle had sold those they would have turned in some money, eh?"
"Yes," she assented; "the hyacinth blooms are sixpence a dozen."
"Ah! no wonder my friend Dawson remains a poor man," Mr. Harding exclaimed.
Mousey looked at him in surprise, not grasping his meaning. Her mind flew to the home she had just left. She fancied she could hear Uncle Dick saying, "I wish we could have a peep at Mousey, to see how she's getting on!" A glow of warmth crept into her heart as she thought of him, and her face shone with a happy smile.
From his seat at the table Mr. Harding could look into the shop. At last, a customer entering, he rose to interview the newcomer, saying as he left the parlour that he would send Monday to have his tea now.
The next minute the lanky youth took his master's place. He helped himself to a cup of tea, and buttered a slice of bread in silence, watching Mousey the while. She grew red and uncomfortable under his gaze, and wondered how long he was going to stare at her without speaking.
"Think you'll like it here?" he asked at length.
"I—I don't know," she answered hesitatingly.
"Mother dead?" was his next question, put for the sake of making conversation; he had been previously informed of Mrs. Abbot's death.
"Yes; she died a month ago," Mousey answered in trembling accents.
"I never knew my mother," the boy told her, "nor my father either. I was born in the workhouse."
"Indeed!" said Mousey, looking at him with such evident interest that he was encouraged to proceed.
"Mother died when I was born," he went on; "the folks at the workhouse didn't know her name, or anything about her, so they called me Monday because I was born on a Monday, and John after the workhouse master."
He laughed, showing as he did so a row of strong, white teeth. He was evidently by no means depressed by the thought of his friendless position.
"Mr. Harding took me from the workhouse," he continued, "and he's bringing me up to his trade. I live here, you know."
"Do you?" cried the little girl. "It was very kind of Cousin Robert to take you from the workhouse, wasn't it?"
"Oh, as to that, he doesn't lose by me," he replied frankly. "I run his errands, look after his shop, and do heaps of odd jobs about the place. Oh, he gets the work out of me, I can tell you!"
Mousey thought he was not as grateful as he should have been under the circumstances; but, of course, she did not tell him so. He was peeping through the glass door, and apparently satisfied with the sight of his master still in conversation with the customer, drew the jam-pot towards him, and spread his bread and butter thickly with raspberry preserve.
"The old man doesn't allow me to eat jam with bread and butter," he explained; "he says it's extravagant. It must be either bread and butter, or bread and jam, so if he's out of the way I help myself. Won't you have some?"
"No, thank you; I've finished," Mousey replied. There was silence for a few minutes, during which John Monday disposed of his forbidden luxury with evident enjoyment, whilst his companion wondered what would happen if by any chance Mr. Harding returned to the parlour and caught him.
"They call you Mousey, don't they?" he asked presently. "But that's not your real name, I suppose?"
"No. My real name is Arabella Abbot, but everyone calls me Mousey."
"Shall I?" he inquired; then as Mousey nodded, he said, "All right, I will. And you can call me John."
After that they grew quite friendly. She told him about her uncle, and aunt, and six cousins, and gave him a glowing account of the nursery gardens. He listened, much interested.
"You'll find it a change here," he remarked; "there's no garden to this house, and you have to walk a good step before you get into the country."
At that moment Mr. Harding's voice broke in upon their conversation.
"Monday! Are you going to sit over your tea all night? Come and take charge of the shop whilst I go to the post office."
John Monday rose, and pushed back his chair, contorting his face into a hideous grimace.
"Coming, sir!" he made answer, and hurriedly joined his master.
When Maria came in to fetch away the tea-things Mousey timidly asked if she could help, but was told there was no necessity.
"You can come and see my kitchen," Maria said kindly, noticing a shade of disappointment on the child's face.
This Mousey was very glad to do, and she was delighted to find the kitchen a much pleasanter room than the parlour. The tins on the mantelshelf shone like silver, and a copper warming-pan, hanging from a nail against the wall, was so bright that you could see your reflection in it, whilst a tall clock with a brass face ticked in a companionable way.
Mousey did not see Mr. Harding again that night, for, after spending an hour with Maria, she complained of being very tired, and, Maria suggesting the advisability of her going to bed, she fell in with the idea at once.
So she crept upstairs, and after saying her prayers undressed quickly, and lay down to rest. Ten minutes later, when Maria looked in upon her, she found her sleeping peacefully.
"Poor little thing!" the woman murmured softly; "I almost wish she had not come."
WHEN Mousey awoke the following morning she found the weather had cleared, and the sun was shining brightly in a sky of cloudless blue.
Jumping out of bed she proceeded to dress; then, after pulling up the blind, and opening the window to admit the fresh spring air, she said her prayers and read a few verses from her Bible, as she was accustomed to do. She lingered for a few minutes to look at the beautiful hills in the distance, which were now bathed in bright sunshine; after which she went downstairs into the parlour, where she found John Monday and Maria, who was laying the cloth for breakfast.
"Good-morning," said the little girl, glancing, with a smile, from one to the other.
They returned her greeting, Maria adding pleasantly—
"Why, you look as fresh as a daisy this morning. Did you sleep well?"
"Yes, thank you," Mousey answered. "I went to sleep the minute after I was in bed, and I never woke up till about half an hour ago. I was afraid I was late."
"Master has breakfast at eight," Maria responded; "it's ten minutes to that, so you are in plenty of time."
"You'd hear enough about it if you did happen to be late," John Monday remarked. "Mr. Harding likes everyone to be punctual. He'll be down himself at the tick of eight o'clock, you'll see. You haven't known him long, have you?"
"No. I saw him for the first time on the day when mother was buried," Mousey replied.
"What did you think of him?" he asked curiously.
Mousey hesitated in confusion, but Maria came to her assistance by reproving the lad for putting such a question.
"There's no harm in it," he said in an aggrieved tone. "I know what I thought when I saw him go off in his old suit of black that's green with age, and that tall hat of his that no one else in the town would wear. I thought he looked a real old miser, and so he did!"
"Hush!" cried Maria, glancing anxiously towards the doorway; "you know how softly he treads. Don't you let him overhear you! You mustn't pay any attention to what John says," she continued, turning to Mousey; "he lets his tongue run away with him. Ah, here comes master!"
She slipped out of the room, and a few seconds later Mr. Harding entered. He nodded to John Monday, who civilly wished him good-morning, and then turned his attention to Mousey.
"Well, little maid, and how is it with you?" he questioned.
She coloured beneath his keen scrutiny, but replied that she was very well, and hoped he was, too. He sat down at the table with his eyes fixed on the clock on the mantelshelf; and in the course of a few minutes Maria re-entered, bearing three basins of porridge on a tray. The old man motioned to the young people to take their seat which they accordingly did, and Maria placed a basin of porridge before each.
Mr. Harding and John Monday commenced eating at once, but Mousey waited to silently say the grace which the others apparently omitted.
"Why don't you begin your breakfast?" Mr. Harding asked, with a touch of severity in his tone. "Don't you like porridge, eh? It's wholesome food, and not to be despised, let me tell you, miss!"
"Oh, yes, yes!" Mousey cried, growing suddenly crimson and seizing her spoon in great haste. "I—I was only saying grace, Cousin Robert."
John Monday began to laugh, but ceased abruptly as his master turned upon him with a frown.
"What are you making that noise for, eh?" Mr. Harding demanded, his small eyes sparkling angrily. "Because you're ungrateful yourself for the good things provided for you is no reason why others should be."
The lad looked so abashed that Mousey's heart was touched at the sight.
"Oh, please don't be angry with him, Cousin Robert," she pleaded. "I—I don't think he meant to be rude."
"Well, well, get on with your breakfast, child," Mr. Harding answered in more pacific tones; "and do you mind your manners another time, Monday, or you and I shall fall out."
The meal was finished with thick bread and butter and weak tea, but Mousey found the porridge so satisfying that she wanted nothing else. She was glad when Mr. Harding rose from the table and told his assistant to take down the shutters and open the shop door.
When Maria came in to clear away the breakfast-things the old man requested her to find some employment about the house for Mousey.
"I intend sending the child to school after Easter," he said, "but till then she can help you, Maria. I suppose you can dust a room, can't you, Mousey?"
"Oh, yes, Cousin Robert," the little girl replied eagerly. "And I can light fires, and clean boots, and knives and forks, and trim lamps."
Mr. Harding nodded approvingly, and remarked—
"I am glad your mother brought you up to be useful. Be a good girl, and you'll do."
So Mousey spent the day with Maria, the time passing happily enough. She found the pale-faced woman very ready to listen to her chatter, and told her all about her mother's illness and death.
"So you dreaded the thought of coming here?" Maria said, after Mousey had given her a lengthy account of Aunt Eliza, Uncle Dick, and the cousins, and explained how she had hoped to make her home with them.
"Yes," Mousey acknowledged, "I did not want to come, but Aunt Eliza thought I ought. It's dreadful to be poor, isn't it?"
"I think it is sometimes; but there are worse things than poverty to be met with in this world."
"Mother was poor," Mousey said musingly, "but we were happy, although she had to work hard; and the lodgers were often dreadfully particular. Have you lived long with Cousin Robert, Maria?"
"A good while," Maria replied; "nigh upon twenty years. I never cared for changing places, or I don't think I should have stayed here longer than the first month—after that, I got accustomed to it."
"Got accustomed to it?" Mousey repeated questioningly.
"To the place, I mean, and to master's ways. His ways wouldn't suit everyone."
Mousey longed to inquire what his ways were like, but refrained from doing so, fearing, if she asked, Maria would consider her very curious.
"I don't think I like John Monday much," she said a little later; "it wasn't nice of him to speak of Cousin Robert as he did this morning. Of course, I know what a miser is—a mean person who loves money better than anything else. John called Cousin Robert a miser. And at breakfast he laughed because I said grace."
"Did master laugh too?" Maria asked quickly.
"Oh, no! He was very angry with John Monday."
"Was he? Ah, well, you know folks are not all brought up alike, and you must not be surprised if master and John are different to the people you've been accustomed to—people like your mother, and aunt, and that good uncle you've been telling me about. Master's whole heart is in his business, and he thinks of little else. He's not religious."
"Doesn't he go to church?" Mousey asked.
"No, nor to chapel, nor to any place of worship; at least, he never has since I've known him. He spends his Sunday—there! you'll see for yourself!"
"But doesn't he feel lonely without God for his friend?"
"That I can't say. I don't suppose he ever gives God a second thought. There, now, don't look so serious! I only told you because I thought I'd better warn you not to speak about religion to master. He doesn't like to hear about it."
Mousey's heart was filled with dismay, for she had never before contemplated a life lived apart from God. Maria saw she was distressed, and tried to comfort her.
"Master has his good points," she said consolingly, "and if he's not religious himself, he doesn't interfere with the religion of other people. I dare say he'll let you go to church with me on Sunday evenings. I don't go mornings because there's the housework to do."
"Oh, Maria," cried the little girl earnestly, "I do not think I shall ever be happy in this miserable place!"
"Nonsense!" Maria responded briskly; "you'll soon grow accustomed to it, and one of these days, I dare say, you'll see it was all for the best your coming here. Can't you believe that God sent you?"
Maria put a kindly arm around Mousey and kissed her gently. That kiss was the seal of a friendship which was to deepen and strengthen in the days to come.
MOUSEY never forgot the first Sunday she spent at Haughton. It was Easter Day, and whilst the churches were ringing out their invitation to all to come and worship the risen Lord, Mousey was standing by her open window sorrowfully comparing this Sunday with others during her mother's lifetime, which had been so full of joy and happiness that her heart swelled at the remembrance, and regretful tears rose to her soft, brown eyes. Downstairs, in the parlour, Mr. Harding was seated in front of an old oak secretaire, which occupied a corner of the room, engaged in casting up accounts, and looking over business papers. To see him thus occupied this morning had been a shock to Mousey, who had been taught to remember the Sabbath day to keep it holy; and so she had quietly slipped out of the parlour unobserved, and in the safe retreat of her own room had read St. Matthew's account of Christ's resurrection from the dead.
Presently the bells ceased their ringing, and a calm settled over the town. The air was so still that the little girl could hear the sheep bleating and the cattle lowing in the distant fields.
"Mousey!"
She started at the sound of Mr. Harding's voice calling to her. He was evidently at the foot of the stairs, and she hastened to open the door and respond to his summons.
"Yes, Cousin Robert," she answered, wondering what he could want, for he had not taken much notice of her during the few days since her arrival.
"Put on your hat and jacket, child; I am going to take you for a walk before dinner."
She quickly did his bidding, and joined him clown-stairs with a glow of pleasurable anticipation on her face. He had changed the drab coat he usually wore for the equally shabby black one in which Mousey had first seen him, and in his hand he held the high hat which John Monday had declared no one else in the town would wear. It had certainly seen its best days long before, and was now rough and rusty with age.
The old man glanced kindly at Mousey as she came running downstairs, and asked if she was pleased at the idea of going out with him. He appeared gratified when she assured him that she was.
They sallied forth together, a rather odd-looking couple Maria thought, as she watched them out of sight. Very soon they had reached one of the main thoroughfares of the town, and were crossing a broad stone bridge under which the river flowed.
"Is it the same river that runs under your house, Cousin Robert?" Mousey inquired.
"The same," he responded. "It looks quiet enough to-day, but often in the winter it's a raging torrent."
The sunshine was dancing on the gently rippling water, whilst every now and again there was the flutter of white wings as one seagull, then another, swooped down and rested on the surface of the river.
"How pretty they are!" Mousey cried, her voice full of delight. "Oh, how pretty they are!"
"There are always a lot of them about here," Mr. Harding told her. "Haughton is only six miles from the coast, and the river flows straight to the sea. In stormy weather the gulls go much further inland than this."
They turned their backs on the river, and a few steps further on were passing a church when Mousey caught hold of Mr. Harding's hand, begging him to pause and listen for a moment. He complied, though somewhat unwillingly. The congregation was singing a hymn, and the refrain was a familiar one to the child.
Mousey's countenance was lit up with a bright smile. She softly hummed the tune under her breath, and glanced longingly, towards the church door; but she raised no objection when her companion gruffly bade her, "Come along!"
"Am I to go to church with Maria to-night, Cousin Robert?" she inquired, with a wistful tone in her voice.
"Yes, if you wish it. I suppose you're accustomed to church on Sundays, eh?"
"Yes. Sometimes, if mother had lodgers and could not go in the mornings, she used to send me alone, and then in the evenings we generally went together. Mother used to say that Easter Sunday was the brightest, happiest day of all the year."
"Why?" he asked curiously.
"Because on Easter Sunday we think of Christ's rising from the dead, and it comes in the spring when—"
Mousey paused abruptly, overcome with a sudden shyness, and mindful of Maria's warning not to speak of religion to her companion; but the old man bade her go on and tell him what she had been about to say.
"Easter comes when everything is springing into life after the winter," Mousey proceeded in a low voice. "Mother said the sight of the trees budding and the flowers blooming ought to remind us that there is no such thing as death."
"No such thing as death!" he echoed in amazement. "Why, child, it was only a month ago that your mother died, and yet you say there is no such thing as death!"
"I'm afraid I can't quite explain what I mean," the little girl answered in slightly troubled tones; "but I know, I know! When Jesus died they put a great stone in front of His grave, but on the third day He rose from the dead; and we shall all rise from the dead, too, Mother told me that death is only the gate of life."
"And you believe that?"
"Why, of course I do, Cousin Robert."
They had now come to a park tastefully laid out, with winding paths passing between flower-beds gay with spring blossoms. They sat down on a seat, for it was warm and pleasant in the sunshine, and they had walked a good way.
"How lovely it is here!" Mousey exclaimed. "And, oh, Cousin Robert, is everyone allowed to walk in this beautiful place?"
"Yes, child; it is a public park. You may look at the shrubs and flowers, but you must not touch them."
"Oh, no, I should not think of doing such a thing!"
After they had rested awhile they strolled around the park and then turned homewards, arriving at their destination in good time for dinner.
During the meal it transpired that John Monday had been for a walk too. He confessed that he had robbed some birds' nests of their eggs, of which he was making a collection, and looked scornful when Mousey, who owned a tender heart, expressed her sympathy for the bereaved mother-birds.
Mr. Harding slept through the afternoon, and John Monday disappeared again, whilst Mousey spent the time with Maria in the kitchen, giving her an account of the morning's walk.
In the evening Mousey and Maria went to church together. It was a small, iron church, the first of its kind that the little girl had ever seen: Maria called it a mission chapel. The congregation seemed to be mostly poor people, but the edifice was full, and the worshippers were reverent and well-behaved, joining in the glad Easter hymns with evident appreciation. The sermon was preached by a young man, whose voice, though not loud, was powerful and distinct. Mousey listened with great attention whilst he recounted the story of Christ's resurrection, and was pleased to find that she understood every word he said. Afterwards, she told Maria how much she had liked the sermon.
"Yes," Maria responded, "Mr. Bradley preaches so simply that everyone can follow him. He's very popular in the parish, and no wonder! For he's always ready to give a helping hand to anyone in trouble. He's been a curate here for the last two years; and he generally preaches at the mission chapel on Sunday evenings."
"What a funny little church it is, Maria! Do you always go there?"
"Yes. You see the seats are all free, and one can sit where one likes, and follow the service without difficulty, and join in the hymns—they have such easy tunes."
"May I go with you again next Sunday?" Mousey asked eagerly.
"Certainly, if Mr. Harding agrees to let you."
"I suppose he doesn't know the clergyman who preached to-night?"
"Oh, yes, I believe he's one of master's customers. I heard he'd been in with his watch to be mended the other day; and I know he wanted John Monday to join his Bible class for boys; but no, that wouldn't suit John at all! He prefers to spend his evenings idling about the streets, or in reading some trash or other, and master doesn't care what the lad does in his spare hours."
By that time they had arrived at home, and Mousey, after taking off her hat and jacket, joined Mr. Harding in the parlour. A little later John Monday appeared, and Maria brought in the supper, after partaking of which Mousey said good-night, and went upstairs to bed.
So ended her first Sunday at Haughton. As the little girl laid her head upon the pillow she reflected that the day had ended better than it had commenced; and she fell asleep with the refrain of the Easter hymn ringing in her ears—
EASTER MONDAY dawned with wind and rain. The sky was heavy, making the aspect out-of-doors dismal and cheerless in the extreme.
Mousey found that she was to breakfast alone with John Monday, as Mr. Harding, who had risen early, had left home on private business, with the intention of remaining away till the evening.
John was apparently in high spirits at the prospect of a day's holiday, and though he grumbled at the weather, it was evident it did not depress him in the least.
"To think that we should have such a downpour after a beautiful day like yesterday!" he remarked to Mousey. "A bank holiday, too! I had intended going for an excursion somewhere, but I should be drenched to the skin in a few minutes if I was out in this weather."
"Cousin Robert will get very wet, I'm afraid," Mousey said, with concern in her tones.
"Oh, he's tough—tough as leather," the boy replied, laughing; "nothing hurts him! You know what they say about what's no good never coming to any harm."
"Do you mean that Cousin Robert is no good?" she questioned, flushing with indignation. "What a bad boy you must be to speak of your master like that!"
"Oh, come now, don't get cross," said the lad, amused at the angry glance she shot at him.
"Well, then, you mustn't speak against Cousin Robert! I think he is really kind. See how good he is to me. Perhaps you do not know that I have no money of my own, and he is going to send me to school, and—"
"Oh, I know all that!" John interrupted. "I can't imagine what made him bring you here. It was an extraordinary thing for him to do, and so you'd think if you knew him better. I suppose you believe he makes his money in that poky little shop, don't you?" he asked, jerking his thumb in the direction of the glass door.
"Yes," she answered.
"Well, you're wrong! He doesn't."
Mousey looked considerably surprised, and not a little curious. John watched her with secret delight, enjoying her bewilderment.
"He earns a little as a working jeweller," the boy proceeded, "but everyone in Haughton knows he makes most of his money in other ways than that. He lends money to people."
"Does he? How very kind of him!" Mousey exclaimed.
"Oh, very!" John responded, mimicking her tone; then he burst into a fit of loud laughter, and called her a "simpleton."
The little girl felt indignant and insulted. Her companion proceeded—
"He lends money to folks, and makes them pay large interest for it; and if they don't pay, he takes their furniture, or anything he can lay his hands on. Oh, he's a hard one, he is! He owns a row of houses that are let out in tenements, and he collects the rents every Saturday night. It's no good making excuses if the money isn't ready, I can tell you!"
"What are tenements?" Mousey asked, impelled to put the question from curiosity, though the minute before she had decided not to prolong the conversation.
"If you had a house, and let a part to one person, and a part to another, and so on, the different sets of rooms would be tenements," he explained. "Do you see?"
Mousey nodded. John's round, green eyes were watching every change of her face.
"I say," he said suddenly, "you don't like me, do you?"
"I—I don't know," she answered truthfully; "I don't like you when you speak against Cousin Robert, because it's so deceitful of you. You are very polite to him when he's here, but when he's away—"
"We won't talk of him any more," the lad interposed hastily. "What are you going to do all day?"
"I expect I shall help Maria."
"Do you like reading?"
"Yes," Mousey answered, rather astonished at the question; "I like reading the Bible, and—"
"Oh, the Bible!" her companion exclaimed, not allowing her to finish the sentence. "I like something more exciting than that. Stories of wars, and—"
"There are plenty of stories about wars in the Bible," Mousey informed him quickly, interrupting him in her turn. "Haven't you read about the wars in the Old Testament?"
"Never heard of them," he assured her, appearing interested; then added, a look of suspicion crossing his face, "Are you having me on?"
"I don't know what you mean."
"Are you trying to take me in—making game of me?"
"No, no! Did you never hear of Gideon, and how God delivered Midian and all the host into his hands?"
"Never. I haven't got a Bible. Is it an interesting story?"
"Very. I'll lend you my Bible to read, if you like," Mousey said good-naturedly.
"Thank you. As it's a wet day, and I can't go out, I shall be glad of something to read; but I'd no idea there were stories of that sort in the Bible." He drew a crushed, dirty-looking paper from his pocket, and held it up. "This is the kind of tale I like," he said; "it's about highway robbers and burglars."
At that moment Maria entered the room. As she caught sight of the paper in the boy's hand, she shook her head at him; but he only laughed, and leaning back in his chair, commenced to read.
After Mousey had assisted Maria to make the beds, and put the bedrooms in order, she returned to the parlour with the intention of writing to Aunt Eliza. Maria had kindly supplied her with pen, ink, and paper, so, drawing a chair to the table, she commenced her letter.
At this point John Monday interrupted her by saying—
"You're writing about me, I know you are!"
"Yes," Mousey confessed, considerably taken aback, "I am telling Aunt Eliza about you. How did you know?"
"Because you kept on looking at me, and I guessed what you were up to. What are you saying?"
But Mousey declined to tell, and proceeded with her letter, taking care not to glance at her companion again. At last she wanted to use a word she could not spell, and had to turn to John for assistance. He was most obliging, and told her how to spell the difficult word, and, after that, several others as well. The letter was finished in due course, and the envelope directed in Mousey's round, childish handwriting.
"I shall have to ask Cousin Robert for a stamp," the little girl remarked.
"Take one from his secretaire," John Monday suggested; "he won't miss it."
"But that would be stealing," Mousey objected, looking at him with reproachful eyes. "You don't mean it, really, do you?"
The boy had the grace to look ashamed of himself. He grew red, and fidgeted uneasily in his chair.
"Where's that Bible of yours?" he inquired, glad to change the subject. "I want to read about that soldier you were speaking of— Gid—what was his name?"
"Gideon," Mousey replied. "I'll run upstairs and fetch my Bible."
This she accordingly did, and finding the sixth chapter of the book of Judges, told him he could read about Gideon in the concluding verses, and in the following chapter.
"I never thought there was anything half so interesting in the Bible," he told her later on; "and to think it's all true, too! Can't you let me keep your book for a few days?"
Mousey hesitated, for this Bible had been her mother's gift to her when she had first learnt to read; but remembering that John Monday had no Bible of his own, she agreed to lend it to him.
"Not if you would rather not," he said, looking disappointed, she thought.
"I would like to lend it to you," she replied; "I would indeed. I have mother's Bible upstairs in my box, so I can read hers."
"Thank you," he responded gratefully; "it's very good of you."
Maria expressed astonishment when she heard Mousey had lent her Bible to John Monday, and said she hoped he would take care of it, and be more careful of Mousey's property than he was of his own.
The rain continued during the whole day, and towards evening the river could be distinctly heard as it rushed beneath the house. It was a dismal sound, and the little girl grew depressed as she sat listening to it. All sorts of imaginary horrors entered her mind and refused to be dispelled. Suppose the floor gave way, or worse still, suppose the river continued to rise and flooded the house? Then she remembered that Mr. Harding had told her the house was strongly built; but she still felt nervous, and was not sorry when bed-time came. In her own room there was no sound of the rushing river, and though the wind shook the window-pane, and the rain pattered against the glass, long before Mr. Harding had returned Mousey was in the land of dreams.
MR. HARDING supplied Mousey with a postage stamp for her letter; and in the course of a few days she had an answer from Aunt Eliza, enclosing sixpence—in stamps—from Uncle Dick. It was the first letter she had ever received, and she was so pleased that she showed it to each member of the household. Maria said she was sure Mrs. Dawson was a good woman, and she did not wonder her niece loved her so much. John Monday remarked that he wished he had an aunt to write a letter to him, and an uncle to send him a present, and wanted to know how Mousey was going to spend her money; whilst Mr. Harding appeared gratified at being offered the epistle to read, and expressed his approval of its contents.
"Your aunt is a sensible woman," he told the little girl; "she has written you some good advice, which I hope you mean to follow."
"Oh, yes," Mousey answered earnestly, "indeed I do."
"Shall I purchase your stamps from you?" he asked.
"Thank you, Cousin Robert. Will you please take four, and let me keep two? because I shall want to write to Aunt Eliza again."
"Very well," he agreed. "I've no objection to your writing letters now and then; but, remember, each letter costs a penny. If you mind your pence the shillings will take care of themselves."
"Yes, Cousin Robert," she replied.
"You must learn to be economical, child," he continued gravely, as he gave her fourpence in exchange for four stamps; "take care of your money—take care of it. Your uncle is very generous, very!"
"Oh, yes," she cried; "there's no one so kind as dear Uncle Dick!"
"He'll never die a rich man," he responded, as he turned away.
By this time the little girl was overcoming her first dislike to her new home. Cousin Robert, when he took any notice of her, which was not often, spoke to her kindly; Maria was her very good friend; and John Monday seemed to enjoy a chat with her if Mr. Harding was not near to put a check on his speech. Mousey was perfectly satisfied with the plain food which was provided for the household, for she had not been accustomed to luxuries; in fact, she could remember certain occasions when she and her mother had scarcely had enough money to get the necessaries of life; so she never grumbled as John Monday did—though not in his master's hearing—if the dinner was not to his liking.
One day Mousey was informed that she was to go to school on the following Monday.
"I hope you'll be a good girl," Mr. Harding said, "and learn all you possibly can. Remember that most probably you will have your own living to get one of these days, and it's to your advantage to get as much knowledge as you can."
"Yes, Cousin Robert," she replied earnestly; "you will see how hard I shall try to get on."
"And remember, too, that schooling costs money. If you don't make use of the advantages I give you, you might just as well put your hand into my pocket and rob me. Do you understand that, eh?"
Mousey looked somewhat alarmed, for Mr. Harding's sharp eyes seemed to be piercing her through and through. She longed to say that she was not a thief, and hoped she never would be, but a choking sensation in her throat made her incapable of speech.
"You will not have far to go every day," Mr. Harding proceeded, "only about ten minutes' walk. The person who keeps the school is called Mrs. Downing. She is a lady—oh, yes, quite a lady! Her husband was a doctor, who died about six months ago, leaving her unprovided for, so she has commenced a school in hopes of being able to make a living out of it. She has not many pupils at present, but doubtless the school will increase. Mrs. Downing is under obligations to me—great obligations."
He paused for a minute, then continued—
"I was able to be of service to Mrs. Downing's late husband, and she is not unmindful of the fact. This is an ungrateful world, as a rule, and folks get little thanks for lending others a helping hand, but—"
He paused, seeing, by the look of utter bewilderment on the child's face, that she failed to follow him.
They were in the parlour, whilst John Monday was in charge of the shop. As Mr. Harding broke off in the midst of his sentence, the bell suspended to the shop door rang, and Mousey saw that a customer had arrived. She recognised the clergyman she had heard preach at the mission chapel on Easter Sunday.
Mr. Harding stepped quietly into the shop, leaving the glass door ajar, so that Mousey could hear every word that passed.
"I have called to see if my watch is ready," Mr. Bradley said in his clear, pleasant voice, as he turned to address Mr. Harding.
"Yes, sir," was the response; "I have cleaned it and put it in order. John, where is Mr. Bradley's watch?"
John Monday produced it from a drawer under the counter and handed it to its owner.
"Thank you," Mr. Bradley said. "What have I to pay?"
"Three shillings, if you please, sir."
The clergyman paid the money, but lingered still. "Anything else I can do for you to-day, sir?" inquired Mr. Harding.
"No, thank you. They tell me that you have adopted a little girl, Mr. Harding. Is that a fact?"
"I suppose it is," the old man admitted. "At any rate, I am making a home for a little girl, the daughter of a cousin of mine who is dead. The poor child has no friends to do anything for her except myself and an aunt and uncle—very good people in their way, no doubt, but, to my mind, utterly improvident! They have quite enough to do to look after their own children, I should say. I've taken the little girl, and mean to be a friend to her if she behaves herself. Here, Mousey, a gentleman's inquiring about you! Come here."
At the sound of Mr. Harding's voice calling to her the child started, and her face flushed rosy red. She stepped into the shop, however, where Mr. Bradley greeted her with a pleasant smile, at the same time holding out his hand. Mousey slipped her fingers into his with a feeling of confidence and trust.
"What is your name, my dear?" he asked, after he had shaken hands with her.
"Arabella Abbot, sir," she answered, "but everyone calls me Mousey."
He smiled and looked at her curiously, with a puzzled air, as he inquired—
"Surely I have seen you before, have I not? Why, of course, I remember. You were at the mission chapel with Mr. Harding's servant, who is a regular attendant on Sunday evenings. I thought I knew your face."
"Fancy your noticing her!" Mr. Harding exclaimed. "You must have a wonderfully good memory for faces, sir."
"Yes, I believe I have," was the response; "but you must remember I have been here for two years, and the countenances of most of the members of my congregation are familiar to me. I generally notice a stranger."
He did not say that he had been struck by Mousey's face because it had been so earnest and attentive, but he looked at the little girl very kindly, noting her mourning dress, and the wistful expression in the soft brown eyes.
"The child lost her mother a little more than a month ago," Mr. Harding explained, "and she's not in her usual spirits—or, at any rate, she's much quieter than most children. However, I'm sending her to school on Monday, and that will be a change for her, and give her plenty to occupy her mind with. Perhaps you know that Dr. Downing's widow has opened a school, sir?"
"Yes," Mr. Bradley answered; "I hope she will make it a success."
"My little cousin is to be one of her pupils this coming term," Mr. Harding went on. "I wish the child to have a good education, and I am informed that Mrs. Downing was a governess before she married, and a clever, competent teacher. It is fortunate for her she can work for her living."
Mr. Bradley agreed that it was very fortunate, and after a little further conversation proceeded on his way, whilst Mousey retired to the kitchen to tell Maria that she was to go to school on the following Monday, and that she had made the acquaintance of the clergyman who preached at the mission chapel.
"I think Mr. Bradley is one of the nicest gentlemen I ever met," said Mousey, whose experience had not been large. "There was a look in his face that reminded me of Uncle Dick, though I don't know how that could be, because Mr. Bradley is rather pale and thin, and Uncle Dick is big, and his cheeks are quite rosy."
"Then they can't be in the least alike," exclaimed Maria, laughing.
"Oh, but they are!" the little girl persisted.
Maria was engaged in peeling potatoes. Mousey watched her in silence for a few minutes, wondering at the puzzled expression on the woman's face.
"What are you thinking about, Maria?" she asked at length.
"I was thinking how apt one is to misjudge others, my dear. Now, it never occurred to me that master would send you to Mrs. Downing's school; I thought he'd send you to some place cheaper. It appears that though I've lived with him so many years, I don't understand him yet. Well, all I can say is, I hope you'll learn all you possibly can, and then he won't feel his money is wasted."
"I mean to try to get on," Mousey answered soberly. "I promise you I won't waste Cousin Robert's money if I can help it."
THE house where Mrs. Downing lived was in one of the busiest thoroughfares of Haughton. It had been a good position for a doctor's house, but the late master had not lived long enough to work up a flourishing practice, having died just as people had begun to understand that he was a clever medical practitioner.
"If only I was dying free from debt," he had said to his wife a few days before his death; "but there is still a considerable amount owing to Mr. Harding."
"Do not trouble about that," she had answered soothingly. "Mr. Harding shall be paid. He will give me time. He must!"
"When he offered to lend me the money I thought I should have soon been able to pay it off," he had continued, "but, instead, I have done little more than keep up the interest. I ought never to have gone to him, but you know how sorely I was pressed."
"Yes, yes," she had replied. "You must not worry about it. I will see it is paid."
She had spoken bravely, though her heart had been torn with grief; but her one idea had been to comfort him. A few days later he had died, leaving his wife and children utterly unprovided for, and owing Mr. Harding a considerable sum of money.
Mr. Harding had thought he had made a bad debt, for although the doctor had mortgaged his household furniture to him, the old man knew that would not cover the liability; but the day after her husband's funeral Mrs. Downing had sought him, and had informed him of her intention of opening a school.
"I hope to make it pay before long, and then I will endeavour to wipe off the debt; but, meanwhile, I will keep up the interest. I make myself responsible for the debt, but you must give me time."
Mr. Harding had agreed to do so. He could not but admire Mrs. Downing for her straightforward behaviour; and when, after Mousey's arrival, he had to consider the question of the child's education, he had gone to the doctor's widow with a proposition, which was that she should admit Mousey into her school.
"Instead of paying you the usual fees," he had said, "I shall deduct the amount from your husband's debt. I consider I am making you a generous offer. Do you accept it?"
Mrs. Downing had hesitated but a moment, during which she had looked searchingly into her companion's withered face; then she had given her answer, "Yes."
So it was that on the arrival of the Monday that was to mark a new epoch in Mousey's life, after breakfast she started in company with Mr. Harding to go to school for the first time. A neat, quiet little girl she looked as she walked soberly along by the old man's side, her heart beating a trifle unevenly—for she was nervous at the thought of meeting strangers—and her eyes bright with expectancy.
They soon arrived at their destination—a tall house with a door in the centre, before which was a flight of stone steps, and windows on either side curtained with pretty, though inexpensive, muslins. Mr. Harding and Mousey mounted the steps, and in response to the former's knock, a servant opened the door, and showed them into a small sitting-room.
In a few minutes a lady entered whom Mousey knew must be Mrs. Downing, for she wore a widow's cap. She was much younger and prettier than Mousey had expected; but she had a resolute way of speaking, combined with a manner that, gentle though it was, inspired respect as well as confidence. She shook hands with Mr. Harding, and then turned her attention to Mousey.
"This is my little cousin," the old man explained, "and I'm sure I hope you'll find her a promising pupil, ma'am. I've told her she must work hard, and do her best."
"As I believe she will," Mrs. Downing replied, her fine grey eyes resting encouragingly on the child's downcast face. "Yes," she added, as Mousey looked up quickly and smiled, "I am sure she will."
"It is to be hoped so," Mr. Harding remarked dryly, "for she will have her own way to make in the world. She is an orphan. In short, she has no one to look to but me."
"And her Father in Heaven," Mrs. Downing concluded gravely.
The old man glanced at her sharply, drawing down the corners of his mouth and puckering his brow; but Mrs. Downing met his look with perfect serenity, and his eyes fell beneath the light in hers.
"Having delivered my little cousin into your hands, ma'am, I'll say good-day," he said stiffly. "Good-bye, Mousey; be a good girl."
After he had gone Mrs. Downing put a few questions to the child concerning her name, age, and former abode. Mousey was shy at first, but encouraged by the look of interest on the other's face, she told her about her old home with her mother. Mrs. Downing listened attentively, and though she made only an occasional remark, the little girl felt she was talking to one who sympathised with, and understood her.
"Now, I will show you the schoolroom, and introduce you to your school-fellows, and to my sister, Miss Longley, who assists me in the teaching," Mrs. Downing said at length, and taking Mousey by the hand she led her out of the room in the direction of a baize-covered door which the child had noticed on entering the house.
"Muvver! Muv-ver!"
Mousey started at the sound of the lisping voice, and turning quickly, saw two little dots of about three years old at the top of the stairs peeping through the banisters.
"Go back to the nursery directly," Mrs. Downing told them; "I will come to you when school hours are over."
The curly heads disappeared obediently, and there was a sound of retreating footsteps.
"Those are my children," Mrs. Downing explained, with a smile lighting up her grave face. "They are twins—almost babies still."
She pushed open the baize-covered door, and led Mousey into a large room, in which about a dozen girls were chatting and laughing. A sudden hush fell upon the little assembly as Mrs. Downing introduced the new pupil. One of the girls volunteered to show her where to hang her hat and jacket in a small adjoining room; and after that Mrs. Downing's sister entered the schoolroom, and Mousey was given into her charge. Miss Longley was very much like Mrs. Downing, but fairer and smaller. She told the little girl where to sit, and the bell ringing at that moment for the commencement of the morning's duties, the other girls hastened to take their places, and the work of the day began.
It was rather a trying experience for Mousey when Miss Longley questioned her as to her knowledge of different subjects, and she was obliged to confess that she knew but little of geography and English history, and that grammar was a mystery to her.
"Never mind," Miss Longley said kindly, "you read and write very well, and spell fairly correctly—a good groundwork to build upon."
Mousey gave a sigh of relief; but she was not sorry when twelve o'clock came, and work was over for the morning. Outside the house, much to her astonishment, she found John Monday waiting for her. She was anything but pleased, for she saw a couple of her school-fellows looking at him, and evidently laughing at his shabby, ungainly appearance. As usual, he was dressed in a slovenly manner, and wore his cap stuck on the back of his head in what he doubtless considered a jaunty fashion, with a clump of red hair showing above his forehead.
"Mr. Harding sent me because he thought you might not know the way home," he informed her. "Well, how did you get on?"
"Pretty well," she answered evasively. "It was all strange, of course."
"How do you like the other girls? Are they stuck-up?"
"I have only spoken to a few of them, so I can't tell yet. You need not have come to fetch me, John. I remember the way quite well."
Perhaps Mousey's tone sounded somewhat ungracious, for her companion glanced at her curiously, and seemed puzzled.
"Mr. Harding made me come," he said in an aggrieved tone. "I should have considered you were old enough to look after yourself."
"So I am," she replied promptly; then she thought how ungrateful he must think her, and added, "But it was very kind of you to come."
"Oh, as to that, I'd as soon be here as in the shop. I say, when do you want your Bible again?"
"Not until you've quite finished with it."
"Then I can keep it a little longer?"
"Yes, if you like."
"I haven't much time for reading during the day," he proceeded; "Mr. Harding's always at me about one thing or another, and I don't care to read the Bible in the parlour of an evening."
"Why not?"
The lad hesitated and looked embarrassed, flushing to the roots of his hair.
"I am ashamed," he acknowledged. "I am afraid Mr. Harding will laugh at me."
"Oh, John! As though he would! I never heard of anyone being ashamed to read the Bible before. How strange!"
"You don't know Mr. Harding. If he saw me reading the Bible, he'd think me a hypocrite. I'm not that."
"Of course you're not!" she agreed, although she had a very hazy idea what a hypocrite was, but knew it was a term of reproach.
They had now reached home, so there was no further opportunity for conversation. John Monday did not come to meet Mousey in the afternoon, as she had satisfied Mr. Harding that she now knew the way. When the little girl was learning her lessons that evening she looked up from her books and saw the boy poring over one of his favourite stories, which Maria declared did him a great deal of harm, and marvelled that he should be ashamed to read the Bible in his master's presence when he made no attempt to hide the papers which, by all accounts, contained no good but much that was evil.
MOUSEY quickly grew accustomed to school life, and made friends with the other pupils, who soon found out the little there was to know about the quiet, dark-eyed child who lived with the queer old jeweller, whom everyone agreed in considering the most miserly man in the town.
"I pity you," said Nellie Thomas, a bright-faced girl about Mousey's own age, as she and Mousey stood talking in the playground at the back of the house during the quarter of an hour's respite from work in the middle of the morning. "I wouldn't be in your shoes for anything! It must be dreadful to have to live in that wretched side street."
Nellie's father was a flourishing draper in Haughton, who possessed a private residence on the outskirts of the town, so it was small wonder his daughter looked with disfavour on Mr. Harding's dingy abode.
"Cousin Robert's house is rather dull," Mousey acknowledged, "but I don't notice it as much as I did at first; and I have a beautiful view from my bedroom window."
"Is Mr. Harding kind to you?" Nellie inquired.
"Oh, yes!"
"And that odd-looking boy who came to fetch you the first day of the term—who is he?"
"He is Cousin Robert's assistant," Mousey explained. "He is learning to be a jeweller. Cousin Robert took him from the workhouse, and is bringing him up to his trade."
"From the workhouse!" Nellie exclaimed. "And do you mean to say he lives in your cousin's house?"
Mousey assented, and proceeded to tell all she knew about John Monday, whilst her companion listened with deepening amazement.
"I never heard anything so extraordinary in my life!" Nellie commented. "A workhouse boy!" and there was a world of scorn in her voice.
"He can't help having been born in a workhouse," Mousey said, looking troubled.
"No, no, of course not," the other replied; "but what a strange person your cousin must be to have a common boy like that living in his house as though he was one of the family."
"I don't think John Monday is common," Mousey was beginning, when she paused abruptly at the sight of the half-smile that crossed her companion's face.
"Mr. Harding is very rich, isn't he?" Nellie asked.
"I don't know," Mousey answered. "I thought he was, but—"
"Oh, yes, I know he is. I heard father say so. Father said he expected he was one of the richest men in Haughton. Fancy! And his is such a poky shop, isn't it? Do you know, I could hardly believe, at first, that you lived there? I tell you what, I'll get my mother to ask you to tea on Saturday. You'd like that, wouldn't you?"
"Yes," Mousey assented, with a beaming smile, her eyes sparkling at the thought of such a pleasure. "How very kind of you, Nellie!"
"Oh, not at all!" Nellie answered brightly; "I like you very much, and I shall call you Mousey, as you say you are generally called that. It's a much prettier name than Arabella. Look, there are the twins!"
Mousey turned quickly, and saw Mrs. Downing's children entering the playground with their nurse. They were a dear little pair—Dolly and Dick by name—and they loved to be allowed a few minutes in the playground when the girls were there to make much of them. To-day they had just returned from a walk with their nurse, and each child held a bunch of daisies, gathered with very short stems. Dolly trotted up to Mousey and held up her chubby baby face for a kiss; after which she solemnly presented her nosegay to her new acquaintance.
"For 'ou," she lisped, "all for 'ou!"
"Oh, you dear little soul!" Mousey cried, her face wreathed with smiles as she accepted the gift. "Thank you, Dolly. Did you pick them yourself?"
"All mine self!" Dolly said, nodding her curly head with an air of great satisfaction.
Meanwhile Dick was declining to part with his daisies. They were for his mother, he explained; he would not let the girls have them, but ran into the house shouting, "Muvver! Muvver!" at the top of his voice.
Shortly after that the bell rang for the school to reassemble, and there was no further opportunity that day for Mousey and Nellie Thomas to resume their conversation.
Mousey carried home the daisies which Dolly had given to her, and put them in water in her bedroom, where they revived, lifting their drooping heads and unfolding their pink-tipped petals. The little girl wondered how long it would take before the daisies grew on her mother's grave, and thought she would write to Aunt Eliza and ask if the grass was springing over the spot beneath which both her parents lay at rest.
It had always been Mrs. Abbot's desire to place a headstone over her husband's grave, but she had never been in the position to provide even the simplest stone. She had been buried in the same grave as her husband, and it was very unlikely, Mousey thought, that there would ever be a headstone to mark the place. On the evening of that same day, whilst Mr. Harding was allowing himself a few minutes in which to peruse the newspaper, he was somewhat astonished to hear his little cousin and his assistant conversing together in lowered tones, as they sat one on each side of the table in the parlour. Mousey had her lesson books in front of her, but she had finished her work, and was telling John Monday about Dolly and the bunch of daisies.
"She is the sweetest, dearest little girl I ever saw!" Mousey was saying; "and Dick's a darling, too."
"Who's Dick?" Mr. Harding asked sharply.
"He's Mrs. Downing's little boy," Mousey said; "he and Dolly are twins—only just three years old."
"I knew Mrs. Downing had children; but I didn't know how many," Mr. Harding remarked. "Twins, eh?"
"Yes, Cousin Robert. Oh, you'd love them," she proceeded enthusiastically; "sometimes they come into the playground, and they have such pretty ways."
"Humph!" Mr. Harding grunted. "Have you finished preparing your lessons for to-morrow, child?"
"Yes, Cousin Robert. John helped me with my sums."
Mr. Harding glanced at his assistant, and smiled sarcastically. He had never had a very high opinion of John Monday's abilities, and it amused him that the boy should assist Mousey with her work.
"Let me see," he said, holding out his hand; and the little girl obediently gave him the paper on which she had worked her sums. He glanced through the figures, and nodded his head.
"Yes, they are perfectly correct," he admitted. "Are you happy at school?" he asked.
"Oh, yes," she replied readily. "I like Mrs. Downing and Miss Longley so much, and the girls are kind—generally," she added truthfully, remembering that one or two of them had teased her by laughing at Mr. Harding, at his dingy shop, and his shabby clothes.
"Generally?" he echoed. "What do you mean by generally, eh?"
She seemed distressed. He repeated his question, but Mousey remained silent. At length, however, she said hesitatingly—
"I'm afraid I can't tell you what I mean, Cousin Robert."
"Don't you find the girls friendly?" he questioned.
"Oh, yes!" she answered quickly. "Oh, yes, indeed! There is one girl I like very much—Nellie Thomas."
"Is she a daughter of Thomas the draper?"
"Yes, Cousin Robert. She is going to ask me to her house to tea one Saturday."
"Is she, indeed. And do you propose asking her here in return?"
Mousey glanced round the parlour, and looked doubtful. Somehow she could not picture her bright-faced, well-dressed school-fellow in that shabby room. Mr. Harding smiled in what Mousey thought was a very disagreeable manner.
"I suppose you think your friend's father must be a very rich man, eh?" he questioned. "You think because he has a fine shop, and a private house for his family, that he is wealthy, eh? Don't judge by appearances. I am richer by far than he is—oh, yes."
There was a ring of triumph in the old man's tone, and his eyes sparkled brightly. Mousey was greatly impressed by his words, though not in the way he imagined.
"It must be nice to be rich," she said softly. "I know what I would do if I had plenty of money," she continued; "I would put a beautiful, white marble tombstone over mother and father's grave; and I would send a lot of lovely presents to Aunt Eliza, and Uncle Dick, and the children."
"Oh, indeed! And would you give me anything?" Mr. Harding asked in his most caustic tones.
"You don't want anything," Mousey answered simply. "I mean, not anything money could buy."
"That's true. I want nothing from anyone."
"Does it make you happy to be rich, Cousin Robert?" she asked. "Mother used to say money did not often make people happy. She and I had very little money, but we were very happy."
"Your mother had a contented disposition," he replied, not answering her question.
"Yes," she agreed, smiling; "she used to say her treasures were in heaven, where neither moth nor rust doth corrupt, and where thieves do not break through nor steal."
"That's in the Bible, isn't it?" Mr. Harding said. "Well, on Sunday you shall read the chapter to me with that bit in it."
He took up his newspaper again; but though he tried to feel an interest in what he was reading, he found he could not; and at last, throwing it aside, he went to his secretaire, and soon forgot Mousey and the disquieting thoughts which his conversation with her had evoked, as he became absorbed in his account books.
EVERY Sunday morning Mr. Harding took Mousey for a walk in the park, as he had done on that first Sunday she had spent at Haughton. It pleased the little girl to mark the difference in the foliage of the trees from one week to another; and she watched the spring give place to summer with keen delight.
"How warm it is, Cousin Robert," she remarked one beautiful Sunday in May as they strolled along the smooth, winding paths. "It will soon be summer now."
"Aye," he answered, "that it will."
"See, the flower-beds have been freshly planted," the little girl continued. "There are some geraniums, and there are some heliotropes, and a lot of plants I don't know."
"Stocks," Mr. Harding informed her, pausing to look at the seedlings. "I'm very fond of stocks—I remember we always had them in our garden at home."
"At home?" Mousey questioned wonderingly.
"I mean my boyhood's home—where I lived when my parents were alive."
"It wasn't in Haughton, I suppose?"
"No. I was born and bred in a small village. I never had sister or brother, so when my parents died I came to Haughton to try to make a fortune—and succeeded."
The old man's eyes glistened proudly for a moment then softened as he continued—
"My mother used to be fond of stocks. She was a good woman, was my mother."
"Did you feel very lonely after she died?" Mousey asked gently.
"I dare say I did," he responded; "but she died so long ago that I really forget."
The little girl looked at him curiously, wondering if she lived to be an old woman whether she would forget her anguish of grief at her mother's death. She could not think it possible; but the bare thought hurt her, and she sighed unconsciously.
"Well, child, what now?" Mr. Harding asked. "I should have thought you would have felt as blithe as a bird on a lovely morning like this."
Mousey smiled, but made no answer. She walked sedately and silently by his side, deep in thought.
"By the way," said Mr. Harding presently, "how did John Monday become possessed of your Bible, eh?"
"I lent it to him," she replied in some surprise; "but how did you know he had it, Cousin Robert?"
"I caught him reading it yesterday, but could get no explanation from him. So you lent it to him, eh?"
"Yes. He has no Bible of his own, and I have mother's, so I let him have mine. I couldn't give it to him, because, you see, mother gave it to me."
"But how did he come to borrow it? The idea of John Monday wanting to read the Bible!"
Mousey explained the matter, whilst Mr. Harding listened with a scornful expression on his countenance, which gave place to astonishment when the little girl informed him how John was afraid of being laughed at and considered a hypocrite.
"You don't think him a hypocrite, do you?" she inquired anxiously. "I'm sure he's a nice boy. See how kind he is helping me with my lessons of an evening; and he's very good-natured. He'll fetch coal for Maria, and clean the knives, and—"
"So he ought!" Mr. Harding interrupted briskly. "That's what I keep him for, to make him generally useful about the place. You don't think I took him out of the workhouse for any other reason, I suppose?"
"I thought you took him because you wanted to be kind to him," Mousey responded simply, "just as you took me, Cousin Robert, because he had no mother or father, or anyone to care for him."
"Humph!" said Mr. Harding, frowning, "then you thought wrong! I have no interest in John Monday beyond getting the work out of him to pay me for his bed and board. He suits me well enough. As to you—"
He paused abruptly, his keen eyes softening as they rested on the child's face.
"As for you," he continued, "I offered you a home because I always respected your mother, and you are like her in appearance."
"Do you really think so?" Mousey asked joyfully. "I want so much to be like her, but I am afraid I shall never, never be so good as she was."
"You are like her in appearance," Mr. Harding repeated, "or I should say, like what she was at your age. I knew her as a child when she used to be very fond of her Cousin Robert. Did she ever mention me to you?"
"Yes, sometimes," the little girl responded; "once she told me you were very rich."
A shade of disappointment crossed the old man's countenance, although it was usually a pleasure to him to know he was considered wealthy. He remarked that it was quite time for them to turn homewards, so they left the park for the streets, meeting many people coming from the different places of worship.
Mousey smiled brightly as she caught sight of Mrs. Downing and Miss Longley on the opposite side of the road. The latter saw Mr. Harding and his little cousin, and drew her sister's attention to them. Mr. Harding lifted his hat to the ladies in response to their polite salutations, and hurried Mousey on. Next they met Nellie Thomas, walking with her father, her mother and two brothers following behind. Mr. Harding and Mr. Thomas nodded to each other, and said "Good-morning," whilst Nellie smiled at her school-fellow, and then glanced at the old man in his threadbare coat and rusty hat in what Mousey considered a scornful manner. An indignant flush rose to Mousey's face, and tears of vexation rushed to her eyes. She was conscious that Nellie and her relations looked well-dressed, well-to-do people, and that the contrast between them and Cousin Robert and herself was very great. She wished they had not met, for she was certain Nellie would make fun of Mr. Harding next day at school. Mousey had told the girls again and again how dependent she was upon her cousin, but they had never seemed in the least impressed by his kindness in giving her a home; on the contrary, they had appeared to think he did no more than he ought, and never scrupled to call him mean and miserly. The worst of it was, she could not contradict them, for it had not taken her long to discover the great failing in his character.
The day that had commenced with brilliant sunshine ended in storm. When evening came; it rained so heavily that it was out of the question for Maria and Mousey to go to church. Both were disappointed, but the latter especially so, for she had grown to look forward to the Sunday evening service at the mission chapel as a great pleasure, which she was regretful to miss. She stood at the parlour window, gazing at the rain with a doleful countenance, whilst Mr. Harding sat at his secretaire writing, and John Monday, with his hands in his pockets, lolled back in his chair, and grumbled at the weather under his breath.
"What do you think about reading that chapter of the Bible you were speaking of the other night, child?" Mr. Harding asked abruptly, as he shut up the front of his secretaire.
"Oh!" Mousey cried in surprise, whilst John Monday sat upright on his chair and stared at his master in wide-eyed astonishment. "Do you really mean it, Cousin Robert?"
"Certainly!"
"Please let me have my Bible, John," said the little girl, turning to John Monday.
The boy flushed, glanced deprecatingly at his master, and drawing the sacred volume from the breast-pocket of his coat, handed it to her in silence.
Mousey found the sixth chapter of St. Matthew's Gospel; and began to read. The old man watched her earnestly, whilst he listened to words which he had certainly never heard since his boyhood's days.
"'Lay not up for yourselves treasures upon earth, where moth and rust doth corrupt, and where thieves break through and steal:'"
"'But lay up for yourselves treasures in heaven, where neither moth nor rust doth corrupt, and where thieves do not break through nor steal:'"
"'For where your treasure is, there will your heart be also.'"
Mr. Harding moved uneasily. He heard nothing of the remainder of the chapter, and he started when Mousey asked—
"Shall I read some more, Cousin Robert?"
"No, that will do for to-night," he answered.
She was about to return her Bible to John Monday when the old man stopped her. Going to his secretaire, he unlocked one of the under drawers and drew therefrom a small leather-covered volume, the pages yellow with age, which he placed in John Monday's hands.
"You can keep it, if you like," he said; "I've had it lying there for many a long year, and you may as well have it."
"Thank you—thank you—sir!" the boy said, stammering with astonishment.
"You've no reason to thank me," Mr. Harding responded curtly. "The Bible was mine when I was a boy, but I've no use for it nowadays."
The words were ungracious enough to chill anyone; but John Monday and Mousey exchanged pleased glances notwithstanding. The former was glad to possess a Bible of his own, and the latter was delighted to have hers back again.
MOUSEY had been perfectly correct in her surmise that Nellie Thomas would make fun of Mr. Harding. This she did on the following day, when all the girls were assembled in the playground.
"I wish you could have seen Mousey's cousin yesterday," she said, laughing merrily. "Such a funny old man he looked, and, oh, so shabby! Mousey, I wonder you were not ashamed to be seen with him!"
"Ashamed!" Mousey cried, her cheeks burning, her heart swelling with anger; "why should I be ashamed of Cousin Robert?"
"Because he's such a miser, and dresses so shabbily," Nellie retorted. "I declare it's positively wicked of him to be so mean! My father says Mr. Harding could afford to live in a nice house, and keep several servants; but he prefers that dirty little shop of his. He won't give money to anything, or anybody—not even to the hospital. And he never goes to church, does he, Mousey?"
"No," Mousey acknowledged reluctantly, in a troubled voice, feeling ready to cry. It was very trying for her to be obliged to stand by and listen to all this; but she could not prevent the girls discussing Mr. Harding if they were inclined to do so. "I wish you wouldn't run out against Cousin Robert," she added, looking appealingly at Nellie: "I can't bear to hear it."
"Very well," Nellie responded good-humouredly; "but why should you mind?"
"He is very good to me," Mousey said earnestly.
"So he ought to be! Mother said yesterday that you looked a nice little girl, and she was glad we were friends. And, oh, Mousey, she said I might ask you to tea next Saturday! Do you think Mr. Harding will let you come?"
"Yes, I think he will. How kind of your mother, Nellie!"
Much to Mousey's delight she had no difficulty in obtaining Mr. Harding's permission to spend the following Saturday afternoon at Halcyon Villa, which was the name of Nellie's home. She thought of little else but the pleasure in store for her during the days which followed; and when Saturday afternoon arrived, her excitement seemed, in a lesser degree, to affect the whole household. Maria combed and brushed her glossy brown hair, giving her well-meant instructions all the while as to how she was to behave.
"Mind you thank Mrs. Thomas for her kindness in inviting you," she said as she accompanied Mousey downstairs when the little girl was at last ready to start.
"I will be sure to do that," Mousey answered.
Mr. Harding was in the parlour. He looked the child up and down critically as she entered the room, and nodded his approval as he told her—
"John Monday shall go with you to show you the way, and I will send him to fetch you this evening. I hope you will have a pleasant time. Good-bye, child."
"Good-bye, Cousin Robert," she replied, putting her arms about his neck and kissing his cheek.
He followed her into the shop, where the assistant was waiting, cap in hand, to escort her to Halcyon Villa, and afterwards stood on the doorstep watching the young folks out of sight.
In about half an hour's time John Monday returned, and informed his master that he had delivered Mousey in safety into the keeping of her friend.
"The little Thomas girl was at the garden gate waiting," he said. "What a pretty house Halcyon Villa is—all covered with roses and creepers. Shouldn't I like to live in a place like that!"
"I dare say you would," Mr. Harding replied sarcastically. "It must cost a fine penny to keep up."
"Mr. Thomas does a good trade," the lad remarked. "I don't see the use of money if one can't spend it."
"Eh? What?" the old man almost shouted. "Who asked your opinion? What do you know about it, pray?"
"They say Mr. Thomas gives away a lot of money," John Monday continued. "Don't you remember, sir, he gave fifty pounds to the hospital last Christmas?"
"What of that? I could give ten times fifty pounds and not feel the want of it! I wonder which of us will leave most money behind him— Thomas or I?"
Mr. Harding rubbed his hands and chuckled, whilst his assistant gazed at him with interest. The boy knew his master's greatest ambition was to die a wealthy man. A question he had longed to ask often before trembled on his lips, but he hesitated to put it.
"Well!" the old man cried testily; "why are you staring at me like that?"
"I was wondering why you wanted to die a rich man," the boy responded bluntly. "Money is no good to folks after they're dead."
For a minute Mr. Harding seemed about to make an angry reply, for he darted a furious glance at his companion; but, apparently changing his mind, he told him to take charge of the shop, and retired to the parlour, perhaps to think over the question, and answer it to himself.
Meanwhile, Mousey had been introduced to Mrs. Thomas, and to Nellie's little brothers, who were a few years her junior. Soon the children were playing games in the garden, and thoroughly enjoying the beautiful May afternoon. The time passed all too quickly, so that Mousey was greatly surprised when Mrs. Thomas came out and called them into the house for tea.
Mrs. Thomas was a kind-hearted, motherly woman, whose sympathies had been aroused by the account Nellie had given her of the old jeweller's lonely little cousin.
"I am sure you must be dull sometimes, my dear, living in a house without other children," she said, turning to Mousey when they were all seated at the tea-table; "you must come and see us as often as you like. We shall always be glad to see you."
Mousey thanked her gratefully, and acknowledged she was often dull on the Saturday holiday, because she had no one to talk to but Maria, her cousin and John Monday being always busy in the shop. Mrs. Thomas had not heard of John Monday before, so Mousey had to explain who he was, and was relieved to find that Nellie's mother did not appear shocked and astonished, as Nelly had seemed, on hearing the boy had been born and bred in the workhouse, and in consequence her heart warmed towards her kind hostess. Shortly before the time arrived for Mousey to leave, Mr. Thomas returned from business, and gathered a big bunch of flowers for her. He invited her to come again when the strawberries would be ripe, and pointed out that the berries were already set.
Presently John Monday was discovered lurking outside the garden gate, too shy to walk boldly up to the front door and announce his presence; and then Mousey said good-bye to her new friends, after thanking them gratefully for their kindness to her.
"I've had a lovely time," she told John Monday as they walked home together. "I've not been so happy since mother died as I've been to day. You shall have some of my flowers. Aren't they beauties? Look at these lilies of the valley, and smell how sweet they are."
She lifted the nosegay to his face whilst he sniffed at it, and smiled his appreciation.
"Why didn't you come up to the door and ring the bell?" she asked.
"I hadn't been waiting very long," he answered evasively; "not more than a quarter of an hour."
"Oh, but that was a long time! I would have come before if I had known you were there. Mr. Thomas gave me these flowers, and he asked me to come again when the strawberries are ripe. That will be soon, won't it?"
"In a week or so, I suppose. I say, doesn't it seem horrid going back to Mr. Harding's dull old place after having been there?" the lad asked, jerking his thumb backwards in the direction from which they had come.
"Yes, perhaps it does a little."
"Wouldn't you like to live in a pretty house with fine gardens?"
Mousey nodded. She was in capital spirits, and at that moment the thought of her cousin's home did not depress her; on the contrary, she felt eager to return to tell Mr. Harding and Maria what a pleasant afternoon she had spent.
After that, Mousey became a constant visitor at Halcyon Villa. Her friendship with Nellie Thomas strengthened day by day, and was the source of much happiness to both children; but Nellie was never asked to visit Mousey's home, although Mousey was always made welcome and greeted kindly and affectionately by each member of the Thomas household.
IT was a hot afternoon at the beginning of July. The air was sultry, as though a thunderstorm was not far off; and the sky was enveloped in a haze of grey mist, which, though it hid the sun, made the atmosphere not one whit less oppressive.
John Monday, in charge of his master's shop, was seated on a high stool behind the counter, idly swinging his long legs, and yawning occasionally as though weary of the day. Peering through the dusty window, he saw the street was unusually quiet, for few folks were about, and the children were not yet let loose from the board schools. A couple of babies, old enough to toddle, were playing in the gutter on the opposite side of the way. John Monday watched them with some amusement, and laughed to himself when one put a handful of dust on the other's head. This ill-treatment brought about a quarrel, which was settled by a blow from a small fist that, however, hit sufficiently hard to evoke a yell of mingled wrath and pain from the first offender. The next minute a slatternly woman appeared upon the scene, and after administering a shower of smart slaps on the bare arms of each child, dragged them into a doorway near by, and thus left the street free from any human presence.
John Monday sighed, and wished someone would come into the shop. He slipped off his stool, and going to the door stood on the step gazing up and down the street. At first there was not a living being within sight, but presently a figure appeared around the corner—a big man, clad in a tweed suit, bearing a large market-basket covered with a snowy linen cloth. He was evidently a countryman, judging from his healthy, ruddy countenance, and a stranger in Haughton, the boy decided, as he noted how the big man stared about him.
When the stranger caught sight of John Monday, he quickened his footsteps, and advanced towards him with a good-humoured smile on his face.
"Can you tell me where Mr. Harding lives?" he asked politely. "Mr. Harding, the watchmaker and jeweller?"
"Yes, I can," was the reply; "he lives here."
"Here!"
The stranger was evidently greatly astonished, for he took a step backwards, and gazed at the house with such a look of blank dismay on his countenance that John Monday almost laughed. Then he read Mr. Harding's name on the sign-board above the shop window, and exclaimed—
"Well, I never! To think that this should be the place! Well, I am surprised!"
"Do you want to see Mr. Harding?" the boy inquired.
"Yes—at least, I wanted to see his little cousin. Is she in?"
"No; she isn't home from school yet, but she'll be back by-and-by. Will you call again, or perhaps you'd like to come inside and wait?"
"I think I'd better wait. I've carried this basket from the station, and it's rather heavy."
John Monday led the way into the shop, and gave the newcomer a chair. The big man sat down, and, after placing his basket on the floor, took from his pocket a red handkerchief, with which he wiped his heated face.
"It's uncommonly warm," he remarked. He looked at the boy, who had perched himself on the high stool behind the counter, and a kindly twinkle came into his eyes. "I think you must be John Monday," he said; "my little niece has spoken of you in her letters."
"Then you are Uncle Dick—Mr. Dawson?"
"Yes. I thought I'd give Mousey a surprise."
"She will be pleased! She's for ever talking of you and her aunt."
"Bless her little heart!" Mr. Dawson exclaimed. "How is the dear child?"
"Quite well. She goes to school every day, you know, and is growing uncommonly sharp."
Mr. Dawson's face beamed with pleasure on hearing this; but it clouded as he glanced around him.
"This is a dull place," he said thoughtfully. "Eliza would be surprised if she saw her cousin's house—and he supposed to be so well-to-do, too."
"So he is," John Monday responded; "but he's that saving and mean he won't spend a penny more than he can possibly help."
"And yet he has behaved most generously to Mousey."
"I suppose so. He's sent her to a good school, and he minds what she says, though he'd hate to think anyone noticed it. I hardly ever open my mouth before him without he snaps out something sharp and nasty—sometimes I feel I'd a deal rather be in the workhouse than here."
"Dear! dear!" said Mr. Dawson; "I'm afraid you're discontented with your lot in life. Are you learning to be a jeweller?"
"Yes; but I hate the work. I should like to be a market gardener."
"I suppose Mousey has told you that's my trade?"
John Monday nodded. He was greatly attracted by Mr. Dawson's kind face, which seemed to express his goodwill towards the world in general.
"I love the country," the boy said earnestly; "when I've a holiday I go for a long walk to where the air's fresh, and the birds sing, and I feel as though I'd give anything to live where I could learn all about the trees and flowers; but what's the good of talking like this when it's my fate to be in this miserable hole all day long?"
He broke off, growing crimson, as though ashamed of having spoken so freely to a stranger.
Mr. Dawson regarded him with sympathetic eyes as he inquired—
"What do you mean by fate, young man? What I call Providence, I suppose. You take my word for it, when God has work for you in the country He will send you there, and till He does I reckon your duty's here, and I'd try to do it cheerfully, if I were you. Who is supposed to clean this shop?"
"I am," John Monday answered, surprised at the question. He was secretly much gratified at being called a young man.
"Well, then, if I were you, I'd, get soap and water, and a duster, and set to work to clean that dirty window," Mr. Dawson advised. "It strikes me your duty lies close at hand for the present, even staring you in the face."
The lad looked abashed, but his companion had spoken so kindly that he could not be offended. Before anything more could be said, Mr. Harding was seen in the street, and in another moment he entered the shop. He shook hands cordially with Mr. Dawson, and said he was delighted to see him; but why had that stupid boy kept him in the shop instead of showing him into the parlour?
Mr. Dawson replied that he had quite enjoyed a talk with John Monday, and they had spent a very pleasant time together. Then he picked up his big market-basket from the floor, and followed Mr. Harding into the parlour, where he placed his burden upon the table.
"It holds a pair of chickens, and a few vegetables and flowers, which I've brought as a present, if you'll kindly accept it," he explained. "My wife reared the chickens herself, so she knows their age to a day, and can answer for their being tender; and, of course, I grew the other things in my gardens."
Mr. Harding was profuse in thanks, and called Maria to carry the basket into the kitchen and empty it there. Afterwards, he insisted on Mr. Dawson taking the easiest chair in the room, and seating himself near by, prepared to entertain his guest.
"Mousey'll be home directly," he said; "you know she goes to school? She's getting on very well, I'm pleased to say—very well; in fact, I've no fault to find with her, for she's a good, obedient child."
"I'm sure she is," Mr. Dawson responded. He thought the parlour was even duller than the shop, and he added hesitatingly, "Do you think she is happy?"
"Yes, I believe she is," Mr. Harding answered; "she has made friends at school, and one in particular, the daughter of a fellow townsman. I cannot have children running in and out here, but I raise no objection to Mousey visiting at her friend's home. Really, I see very little of the child. My whole time, nearly, is devoted to business."
"It must make a great difference having Mousey in the house—I mean, it must be much brighter and more cheerful. That assistant of yours seems an open-spoken lad."
"John Monday? Oh, he's well enough in his way, but he's very slow-witted. He suits my purpose, though. Ah, here comes Mousey!"
The glass door was thrown open, and the little girl rushed into the parlour with her face aglow with excitement, having been informed by John Monday that a visitor awaited her within. She flung herself into Mr. Dawson's arms, and, much to his dismay, burst into a flood of tears, hiding her face against his breast. He soon discovered, however, that she was crying from excessive joy, for presently she looked up and smiled at him, whispering that she was as glad as glad could be, and there was no one like him, so kind, so dear, in the whole wide world!
THERE was a jealous feeling in Mr. Harding's heart as he watched Mousey and her uncle; still, he could but acknowledge that Mr. Dawson had a way with him which was certainly very attractive. He seemed capable of bringing his mind on a level with the child's, and looking at people and things from her point of view. As the old man listened to the conversation between uncle and niece, he heard more about Mousey's school life than he had ever heard before; and he realised that his quiet little cousin could be a great chatterbox. She was in high spirits, asking dozens of questions about her aunt and cousins. At last Mr. Harding suggested that she should take off her hat, and go and see what her uncle had brought them for a present.
"And tell Maria to get us an early cup of tea," he added, as she was leaving the room; "ask her to put the ham on the table, and boil some eggs."
Maria was struck by the unusual munificence of her master's orders, but she obeyed him without making a remark. Mousey arranged the great bunch of flowers Mr. Dawson had brought, in a big bowl, and placed it in the centre of the table. Mr. Dawson smiled upon her lovingly, glad to see her face so full of happiness; whilst Mr. Harding nodded his approval, and declared the flowers brightened the room wonderfully. Rarely had the little girl seen her cousin so amiable as he was during tea-time. He exerted himself to talk upon topics of interest to his visitor, and really proved a capital host. After the meal was over, he asked Mousey if she did not think her uncle would like her to take him for a walk.
"It's much cooler now," he said, "and I dare say Mr. Dawson would be pleased to see something of Haughton. Why not show him the park, eh?"
Mousey was delighted with the idea, and flew upstairs to fetch her hat, whilst her uncle explained to Mr. Harding that it was his intention to go home by a train leaving Haughton at eight o'clock.
"I'll have a stroll with Mousey, and then return here to say good-bye," he said.
"Very well," Mr. Harding replied; "I know you will be glad to have a quiet chat with the child."
So uncle and niece started off together, the latter eager to point out every object of interest. As they stood on the bridge above the river she told him how Mr. Harding's house was built over the water.
"It used to frighten me to think about it," she confessed, "but now I don't mind so much. We can't always hear the river—only when the tide is high, and the weather is very bad. I have to cross this bridge every day on my way to school."
"And you are happy, my dear?" he asked tenderly.
"Much happier than I was at first," she answered, "because everyone is very kind to me. But first of all I was dreadfully miserable—it was all so different from what I thought it would be like."
"It is different from what I expected, too," he acknowledged. "I'm sure if Eliza had guessed what her cousin's home was like she would never have consented to your being taken away from us. I am sure I thought—"
Mr. Dawson paused abruptly, doubtful if he ought to tell what he thought; instead, he said—
"Does Mr. Harding give you everything you want, my dear? Plenty of good food, and—"
"Oh, yes!" Mousey broke in; "although we don't always have such a nice tea as we had to-day," she added, with simple honesty.
"And your cousin is kind to you?"
"Very kind. I used to be afraid of him, but I'm not a bit now. But he is not like you, Uncle Dick; he never goes to church, and—" dropping her voice to a mysterious whisper— "a great many people call him a miser. John Monday says he's the meanest man he ever knew."
"John Monday is a rather dissatisfied sort of a boy, isn't he?" Mr. Dawson asked, by way of turning the conversation into another channel.
"He does grumble a lot," Mousey replied, "and sometimes he talks of running away, but I don't think he will, really."
They had now reached the park. After walking around, and looking at the flowers, they sat down on a seat to rest. A group of nursemaids and children were standing near, amongst whom were Mrs. Downing's little ones and their nurse. Mousey pointed them out to her uncle; and at that moment the twins caught sight of Mousey and ran up to her, casting shy, curious glances at her companion the while.
"Won't you speak to me?" Mr. Dawson asked, smiling.
They looked at the big man silently for a minute, then each shook hands with him in turn, afterwards sitting on the seat between him and Mousey till their nurse, having finished her gossip with her friends, came up and led them off, saying it would soon be their bed-time, and she must take them home.
"I'm so glad you've seen them, for now you'll be able to tell Aunt Eliza what they're like," Mousey said to her uncle. "It is nice going to school, Uncle Dick. I wish you could see Nellie Thomas, but I'll explain her to you, and then you'll be able to picture her, won't you? She has blue eyes and brown hair and a turn-up nose."
"I think I can picture her from your description," Mr. Dawson said gravely, "though I won't say I should recognise her if I met her in the street," he added; at which Mousey laughed.
"Do you know, child, I don't think you'd like to leave Haughton now," he remarked presently. "What would you say if I took you home with me to-night never to return here again?"
"I should love to see Aunt Eliza," she replied, "but I should not like to leave Mrs. Downing's school and the girls; and then there's Maria, and I think Cousin Robert would miss me a little. But you don't mean it, do you, Uncle Dick?"
"No, my dear, I do not. I am beginning to see that you are happier than I thought possible. I hope, Mousey, you read your Bible every day, and remember your dear mother's teaching?"
"Oh, Uncle Dick, indeed I do!"
"That's right, my dear. 'Remember now thy Creator in the days of thy youth.' If you do that, you won't be likely to forget Him as you grow older. And now, don't you think it's about time we turned homewards?"
"Perhaps it is," she agreed regretfully. "What a nice talk we've had together, haven't we? You'll be able to tell Aunt Eliza everything when you get home."
"You may depend upon that. Your aunt will ask me dozens of questions," Mr. Dawson answered. "I should like to give you a little present, my dear. Here's half a crown for you to spend in any way you please," and he slipped the coin into her hand.
"Oh, thank you, thank you!" she cried earnestly: "Half a crown! Why, I never had so much money in my life before! Oh, how good of you, Uncle Dick!"
"Nonsense, nonsense! It's little enough I can do for you. What, you have no purse?"
"No; but it will be perfectly safe tied up in the corner of my pocket-handkerchief."
"Come in here."
Mr. Dawson drew her into a fancy shop, and purchased a scarlet leather purse, which he presented to her. Her pleasure was delightful to witness, and she could hardly find words in which to thank him, so deeply was she touched by his generosity and kindness.
John Monday was closing the shop as they returned, and in another half-hour it was time for Mr. Dawson to start for the station. Mousey could not help shedding a few tears as she said good-bye to him, and she kept on giving him "one more message for Aunt Eliza" till he laughingly declared she would make him miss his train.
She let him go at last, but stood on the doorstep watching his large figure, with the empty basket slung on one arm, and the shrunken form of Mr. Harding, who was accompanying his visitor to the station, until they were out of sight.
Mousey turned slowly into the house, entering the parlour with misty eyes and quivering lips. John Monday, who was evidently waiting to speak to her, glanced at her with some concern.
"I say, don't cry," he said kindly; "but I don't wonder you're sorry he's gone. He's a proper sort of man, he is!"
"See what he's given me. Such a beautiful purse, and a half-crown as well."
Mousey drew the scarlet purse from her pocket and handed it to her companion, who examined it with evident admiration, and declared it to be real leather.
"Oh, ain't he good-natured!" he exclaimed. "Look here," and opening his hand he exposed to view another half-crown. "He gave it to me when he said good-bye," he explained, "and I'd no time to thank him."
Mousey was delighted that Mr. Dawson had extended his kindness to John Monday too. She asked him what he meant to do with the money.
"I haven't decided. How shall you spend yours?" he inquired as he returned her purse to her keeping.
"I think I shall keep mine till I see something I really want," she said thoughtfully. "Oh, dear!" she continued, with a sudden change of tone, "I have not done one of my lessons for to-morrow. I must hurry, or I shan't get them learnt to-night," and she fetched her books and set to work at once.
MR. HARDING made no remark when told of Mr. Dawson's presents to Mousey and John Monday beyond advising them, in a few curt words, to take care of their money.
"I don't know how I shall spend my half-crown, because there are so many things I should like to do with it, and I can't make up my mind which would be best," Mousey confided to Maria the day following her uncle's visit. "I should like to give something towards the hospital. Mrs. Thomas says she will take Nellie and me to see the sick children one Saturday afternoon."
"What's that?" asked Mr. Harding, entering the room at that minute, and catching only the last part of the foregoing sentence. "What sick children are you speaking about, eh?"
"The ones at the hospital, Cousin Robert. They have a ward to themselves—a ward is a large room with a lot of beds in it, Mrs. Thomas says—and you won't mind my going to see them, will you?"
"Not in the least," he replied.
"Those who are well enough sit up in bed, and wear scarlet flannel jackets," Mousey proceeded, "and they have boards to fit across the beds like little tables, where they can keep their toys. There is a hand-organ in the ward, and a musical-box, too."
"Toys and such-like things don't make them suffer less," said Mr. Harding gruffly, as he took up the newspaper from the table and commenced to read.
Maria, having finished her business of dusting the room, went away, but only to return with the shabby suit of clothes which Mr. Harding usually wore on Sundays. Standing in front of her master, she held the garments up before him.
"I want you to look at these," she said, with a sound of indignation in her tones. "You told me to give them a good cleaning, and I've done so. I've brushed them, and sponged them, and tried to make them look decent, but I might as well have remained idle for all the good I've done!"
"What is it you're saying?" cried the old man irritably. "I'm well aware you cannot turn old garments into new; but there's a deal of wear left in those clothes yet."
"Look at them!" Maria exclaimed. "Do look at them, sir! The silk's all worn off the buttons of the coat, the sleeves are frayed at the wrist, and the lining's in holes."
"Pooh, nonsense! And even supposing the clothes are in the condition you say, what does it matter? I'm ashamed to hear you talk in such a manner, Maria! I thought you a sensible woman—not one to set store on fine clothes."
"Fine clothes!" Maria echoed. "Well, I was never accused of a love for fine clothes before; but I own I like to see folks dressed respectably. Fine clothes, indeed!"
As though fearing she would be led to say too much, she turned hastily away and left the room, after laying her master's garments on the table.
"Maria is in a bad temper," Mr. Harding remarked; "something must have put her out."
"Does it cost much to buy a suit of clothes, Cousin Robert?" Mousey questioned.
"Several pounds," he replied; "that is, a good suit."
"So much money as that? Look at these buttons. They are shabby, aren't they?"
The little girl had approached the table, and was examining the garments of which Maria had spoken so disparagingly.
"Y—es," Mr. Harding allowed; "perhaps they could be recovered."
"And the coat is so faded across the shoulders," Mousey continued; "it really is very shabby. Why don't you have a new one, Cousin Robert?" she plucked up courage to ask.
"Because a new one would cost money," he replied sharply, "and I've no intention of squandering on fine clothes what I've worked hard to gain."
"I thought you had plenty of money," Mousey said, looking at him with a puzzled expression on her face. "Oh, forgive me, Cousin Robert!" she pleaded, as he darted a fierce glance at her. "Do forgive me if I ought not to have said that, but, indeed, I meant no harm!"
"Is it your place to question me?" he demanded. "What does it matter to you what clothes I choose to wear?"
"I'm very sorry to have made you so angry," Mousey said, the tears flooding her eyes; "but I—I can't bear to hear unkind things said about you, Cousin Robert, just because you dress differently from other people. And what can I say when they laugh at your shabby hat and green coat? I don't like you any the less because your clothes are old, for you're always good to me—but others don't understand."
"What do folks say about me?" he asked curiously. "Come, child, don't cry like that! You can't say? Humph! That means you don't like to say, I suppose. Very well, I'm not going to press you for an answer. Good gracious! To think that all this fuss is about an old suit of clothes."
"Are you angry with me?" she asked timidly, drying her eyes and glancing at him anxiously.
"No, no," he responded impatiently. "Here, let me fold up those garments of mine, and you can carry them upstairs to my room."
Perhaps Mr. Harding had not realised before how disgracefully shabby his best Sunday suit had become; but he certainly did so now as he examined the clothes with critical eyes. He had grown so into the way of saving that it had become habitual to him never to spend a penny upon himself if he could possibly help it. It was a new experience to know that there was someone who actually cared enough about him to be hurt because his clothes were old and worn; and Mousey's tears, and evident distress at people's remarks upon his personal appearance, had moved him more than he cared to acknowledge, even to himself. After all, why should he begrudge himself a new suit of clothes? He had plenty of money, as the child had told him.
"There, my dear," he said, as he handed her his despised old suit, neatly folded, "you can inform Maria that I'll pay a visit to a tailor, and order a fine new suit to be sent home by Sunday. Tell her she can give those old things to the next beggar that comes to the door."
Mousey ran off to the kitchen, where she found Maria still indignant at having been accused of a love for fine clothes, and delivered Mr. Harding's message word for word. Maria looked as though she could hardly believe she had heard aright.
"What shall I hear next, I wonder?" she questioned sarcastically. "What made him change his mind? There, put those things down anywhere! I'm to give them to a beggar, am I? It strikes me there are few beggars who would thank me for such a gift."
Mr. Harding proved as good as his word, for late on Saturday night a large parcel arrived, which Maria silently placed before her master on the parlour table. Mousey and John Monday were present; the latter offered a penknife to cut the knots in the cord which fastened the parcel, but it was promptly declined.
"I never cut a string in my life," Mr. Harding said impressively, "and, consequently, I have never had to purchase any. You should learn to be careful over small matters."
"Yes, Cousin Robert," Mousey answered, as the boy made no response.
The knots were untied at last. Then came another paper, with another cord, and, finally, the new suit of clothes was uncovered. After examining it carefully, Mr. Harding allowed the others to see his purchase.
"It's very like Uncle Dick's best suit," Mousey said, after she had felt the material. "You'll wear it to-morrow, won't you, Cousin Robert?"
"I suppose so," he replied; "but I shan't be nearly so comfortable as I should be in my old suit."
"Oh, but you'll soon get accustomed to this," she assured him brightly.
"Well, well, perhaps I shall. Here, Maria, take the things upstairs, and put them away—carefully, mind! You won't have occasion to grumble any more."
"I don't think I grumbled without a cause," Maria responded; "you must know that well enough, sir."
"Perhaps I do," he acknowledged, "perhaps I do. What's that you're saying, Mousey?—that you hope it won't rain to-morrow? I suppose you're looking forward to seeing me in my fine clothes, eh?" and he rubbed his hands together in a way habitual to him when he was in a particularly good humour.
Whilst this conversation had been going on, John Monday had remained perfectly silent, watching his master curiously.
"I thought I knew him pretty well," the boy told himself, "but I was wrong. I don't know him yet."
THE following morning was beautifully fine and bright. The feeling of oppression which had been in the air for several days had cleared away, and the heat of the sun was tempered by a fresh breeze.
Mousey looked at Mr. Harding with satisfaction as she joined him in the parlour preparatory to starting on their usual Sunday morning walk, and found him attired in his new suit of clothes. In his hand he held a new hat in place of the old one. He glanced at the little girl with a humorous twinkle in his eyes as she entered the room.
"One expense brings another," he remarked in his usual gruff tone. "I was worried into buying a new suit of clothes, and I thought I must have a new hat, too."
"I am very glad," Mousey replied quickly. "How nice you look, Cousin Robert!"
The old man shrugged his shoulders, but appeared pleased, nevertheless, though he merely said that "fine feathers made fine birds."
Contrary to his custom, John Monday spent that Sunday morning at home. He sat in the parlour, evidently in low spirits; and when Maria entered the room to lay the cloth for dinner, she was much surprised to find him there.
"What! Haven't you been out this beautiful morning?" she exclaimed.
"No," was the brief reply.
"You ought to go for a walk," she proceeded; "shut up in the shop as you are most of the week, I don't think you should stay indoors on Sunday. Do you know what I'd do if I were you? I'd start early, and walk to one of the villages around here, and attend the service in the village church. That would give you an object for a walk, wouldn't it?"
"Yes," the boy agreed listlessly; "but you know I never go to church."
"That's no argument in favour of your staying away for ever," she replied quickly.
"But my clothes are shabby," he objected.
"So are the clothes of a good many who attend the same church as I do. I'm sure I've seen people actually in rags at the mission chapel before now. I do wish you had joined Mr. Bradley's Bible class when he asked you!"
"I wish I had," he acknowledged. "I've half a mind to tell him I'd like to join, but perhaps he won't have me now."
"Oh, I'm sure he will!" Maria assured him, with conviction in her tones.
John Monday shook his head doubtfully, and heaved a deep sigh. Maria glanced at him keenly, struck by the hopeless expression on his countenance. She had always felt sympathy for the lonely workhouse boy who rarely received anything but sharp words from his master; but she would have liked him better if he had not possessed bad qualities, which caused her to look on him with suspicion. When he had first become an inmate of Mr. Harding's house she had pitied him exceedingly, but soon discovering that he deceived his master if it suited his purpose to do so, and told lies without the least compunction, she had set him down as an incorrigible character. Latterly, however, she had slightly modified her opinion of him, and was inclined to look on him with more tolerant eyes.
"What makes you think Mr. Bradley might not admit you into his Bible class?" she asked, after a short pause.
"Because he told me his boys were all steady and respectable," he replied gloomily; "and I don't believe if he knew what I was really like he'd have anything more to do with me."
This was a great deal for John Monday to acknowledge. As a rule, he was on excellent terms with himself.
"I am sure there is something on your mind," she said earnestly; "can't you tell me what it is? If I could help you in any way, I gladly would."
"It's very good of you to say so," he answered, with a ring of real gratitude in his voice; "but I don't see that you can help me. However, I'll tell you what I've done. You remember that Mr. Dawson gave me a half-crown when he was here the other day, don't you?"
"Yes, certainly."
"Well, I've lost it."
"Lost it!" Maria exclaimed. "Oh, what a pity! I am so sorry! How did it happen?"
"I lost it over a horse," John Monday informed her.
"Lost it over a horse!" she repeated wonderingly. "I don't understand what you mean." Then a sudden light flashed across her mind, and she cried in accents of mingled reproach and dismay, "You don't mean to tell me that you've been betting!"
"Yes, I do. A young man I know very well told me if I put my money on a certain horse I should make a good bit, but the horse didn't win the race after all, and so I lost my half-crown."
"You foolish lad! That young man who advised you, whoever he is, is no fitting acquaintance for a boy like you. I think it's a very good job you did lose your money. Now, perhaps, you won't be tempted to bet again."
"I might win next time," he said rather sulkily, half regretful that he had confided in her.
"You might," she agreed, "and then, no doubt, you'd bet again. I do hope you'll stop at once. You don't know what a curse betting and gambling becomes, but I do, from sad experience. I had a brother who commenced making small bets when he was but a little older than you, and the habit of betting took such hold of him that it brought him to beggary. There! I've told you what I've never told a living soul besides, and I hope you'll take warning by my poor brother's unhappy fate."
"What became of him?" John Monday asked, deeply impressed.
"He died in a workhouse," Maria responded, her pale face flushing with shame, "after leading the life of a common tramp for years. Oh, the disgrace of it all! Not that there's any disgrace to come to the workhouse at last if a person's lived a respectable life, and been driven there through misfortune; but when a man's been made a pauper by his own folly and wickedness, as my poor brother was, that's very different. Many a good man's been born in a workhouse, and if I were you, I'd make up my mind to lead an upright, honest life, so that if I ever went back to the workhouse it should be by no fault of my own. There's an old proverb which says, 'God helps those who help themselves,' and I believe it's quite true. God doesn't help folks who bet and gamble, but He does those who try to be good, and He'll help you if you ask Him."
John Monday shook his head in a mournful way; then said anxiously—
"You won't tell Mr. Harding, will you, Maria?"
"About your half-crown? No. I hope you will never, never bet again; and take my advice, and have no more to do with that young man who tempted you to do wrong."
"I wish I'd never seen him!"
John Monday was in better spirits after his talk with Maria, although the loss of his money still weighed upon his mind. Maria felt troubled about him, and during the remainder of the day she was haunted by the look of despondency on his face which had first attracted her attention in the morning. As she and Mousey were leaving the mission chapel after the evening service, the little girl said in an excited whisper—
"Maria, did you see John Monday?"
"No," Maria answered.
When they were outside the building Mousey continued—
"He was sitting behind a pillar; but he left the minute the service was over. Look, there he is in front of us."
At that moment John Monday glanced back, and, seeing them, waited till they came up.
"I saw you in church, John," Mousey told him. "Did you like the sermon? I was glad Mr. Bradley preached."
"So was I," he responded. "I saw Mr. Bradley before the service, and he's going to let me join his Bible class."
"Oh, I am glad!" Maria exclaimed heartily.
"Shall you tell Cousin Robert?" Mousey inquired, after a minute's thought.
"I suppose he'll have to know," he replied uneasily, "though I hate the thought of telling him. I know how he'll look at me with his eyes as sharp as gimlets, and his mouth drawn down at the corners."
Neither Maria nor Mousey could help smiling at this description of Mr. Harding's countenance. John Monday stood in much awe of his master, and was almost as afraid of his satirical glances as he was of his sharp tongue. Unfortunately for his assistant, Mr. Harding had always had a bad opinion of him, and finding he was not expected to be straightforward and honest, John Monday never endeavoured to be either. As his master had always suspected his actions and motives, he had, in consequence, not treated him openly; indeed, until quite lately, he had thought it a fine act if he could deceive him in any way. Lately, however, a gradual change had been taking place in the boy's views of life. Mr. Bradley had sought more than once to bring good influences to bear upon him; and then Mousey had come to live in the house, and had astonished him not a little by her fearless truthfulness, and her honest endeavours to do right. A feeling of great dissatisfaction had crept into his heart, a sense of inferiority, and a longing to be better—a longing of which he was, strangely enough, ashamed.
WHEN Mr. Harding joined Mousey and John Monday at the supper-table that same Sunday night his countenance was so expressive of displeasure that the young folks wondered what could have happened during the evening to put him out. He had had a neighbour in to spend an hour with him—a naval pensioner, who lodged over a baker's shop on the opposite side of the street, and whose sole business, nowadays, appeared to be watching the doings of other people. As a rule, Mr. Harding found him an agreeable companion, but to-night the old busy-body had given him information which had greatly displeased him.
The supper proceeded almost in silence at first; but presently Mr. Harding turned sharply upon his assistant, and asked—
"What have you been doing this evening?"
John Monday, taken by surprise at the question, grew very red, and looked as guilty as though he had been caught in the act of doing something wrong.
"I—I—I've been to church," he stammered.
Mr. Harding scrutinised him severely, and came to the conclusion that he had told an untruth.
"I don't believe you," he said; adding, with a sneer, "You must think of a more likely tale than that if you want me to believe it."
"It's true!" the boy declared, with rising passion. "I'm not telling a lie! I'm not!"
"Oh, Cousin Robert, how can you think John has not spoken the truth?" Mousey interposed quickly, turning her eyes reproachfully upon the old man. "Indeed, he was at church to-night—at the mission chapel. I saw him there; and he walked home with Maria and me afterwards."
Mr. Harding appeared considerably taken aback on hearing this; but he darted a suspicious glance at his assistant, as he demanded—
"What made you grow so red, and look so embarrassed, when I questioned you as to where you had been? If you were always so harmlessly employed as you were to-night it would be better for you."
"John is going to join Mr. Bradley's Bible class, too," Mousey put in; "he saw Mr. Bradley before church this evening."
"Are you going to become a reformed character?" inquired the old man, satirically, of John Monday. "What is the meaning of this sudden change, eh?"
The boy muttered something under his breath—what, Mousey did not hear, but his face was so full of mortification that the little girl's heart was touched with pity for him, and she immediately took up arms in his defence. Surely Cousin Robert could not mind John's going to church, or joining Mr. Bradley's Bible class?
"You know nothing about it, child," he told her, not unkindly. "I respect Mr. Bradley, but, unless I am much mistaken, he is deceived in John Monday's character." He turned to the boy again. "Is it true, or not, that you have learnt to bet and gamble? I have been hearing stories of you to-night which have annoyed me greatly. Who's the young man whom you have been making your boon companion lately?"
"I—I don't know," John Monday began; then, meeting his master's stern gaze, he added, "I know his name, but not where he came from, or anything else about him. He is called Herbert Hambly."
"Indeed!"
"I am not going to have anything more to do with him."
"Since when have you come to that determination?"
"Since yesterday, sir."
"I am informed that whilst you were in this young man's company you made a bet on a horse-race. Did you win or lose?"
"I lost."
"Where did you get the money you lost?"
"It was the half-crown Mr. Dawson gave me," John Monday answered in a low, shamed voice, whilst Mousey looked shocked and frightened; "I don't know what he would think of me if he knew."
"Nor do I," Mr. Harding agreed; "but I know what I think. Of all the ungrateful, worthless boys that have come in my way, you are the worst! What is this Herbert Hambly's business?"
"I don't know. He has lodgings in the town; but I don't fancy he does any work."
"Humph! An idle young ne'er-do-well! How did you make his acquaintance?"
"He came into the shop one day and asked me to regulate his watch."
"And stuck about talking to you, I suppose? And after that he came again and again, but always when I was out of the way? Yes, I thought so!"
There was a short silence, then Mr. Harding spoke again.
"Listen to me, John Monday," he said impressively. "I forbid you to have anything to do with this Herbert Hambly for the future. Do you understand, or, what is more to the point, do you mean to obey me?"
"Yes, sir."
"And now I'll give you a few words of advice, though perhaps I might as well hold my tongue for all the heed you'll take of what I say. I have no doubt this young man induced you to bet; but if you follow in the way you have commenced, you will come to a bad end. No good ever came of betting. How you could have gone to Mr. Bradley and suggested joining his Bible class when you know he'd never countenance such behaviour as yours, I cannot imagine!"
"I never mean to bet any more," John Monday declared, "and I told Mr. Bradley what I had done, and he—he was very kind. He said what I don't think I shall ever forget, and he's going to be my friend. I don't intend to tell lies or deceive you any longer," he continued, looking his master full in the face. "I mean what I say, sir; I don't suppose you'll believe it, but you'll see I'll keep my word!"
For a minute Mr. Harding was too astounded to make any reply. He stared at his assistant as though he imagined the lad had taken leave of his senses.
"What am I to understand by this outburst?" he asked at length in his most disagreeable tone.
John Monday became suddenly abashed; and it was Mousey who, noticing his confusion, made haste to answer for him.
"He means that he is sorry for having behaved badly," she said in her simple, direct way, "and that he is going to turn over a new leaf. Isn't that what you mean, John?"
"Yes," he answered in a low voice, "that's it."
"Then I hope for the future you will not waste your time—my time, rather—in gossiping with that idle young man," Mr. Harding told his assistant severely. "I should be very glad to find I could trust you, for when I'm away, and you're in charge of the shop, I always have a feeling that you may be neglecting your duty."
"I never will again, sir," the boy responded earnestly.
"Don't make rash promises."
"But you forgive him, don't you, Cousin Robert?" Mousey pleaded.
"Oh, yes," he answered, "I forgive him.'
"Thank you, sir," John Monday exclaimed gratefully, whilst Mousey left her chair, and going to the old man's side, put her arms around his neck, and kissed his withered cheek with real affection.
He returned the caress, and asked if she was going to read to him, to which she replied she would willingly. So after Maria had cleared away the supper-things, the little girl fetched her Bible, and commenced the fourth chapter of St. Paul's Epistle to the Ephesians.
John Monday sat with bowed head listening attentively, whilst the old man watched Mousey as though it was a pleasure to him to look on her gentle, earnest face.
"'Let all bitterness, and wrath, and anger, and clamour, and evil speaking, be put away from you, with all malice:'"
"'And be ye kind one to another, tenderhearted, forgiving one another, even as God for Christ's sake hath forgiven you.'" The child's sweet voice ceased, and there was silence for many minutes; at last Mr. Harding spoke in a strangely gentle tone for him.
"Thank you, my dear; it is a treat to hear you read. Now, don't you think it's time for you to go to bed?"
She agreed, and, after bidding him and John Monday good-night, left the room. The old man turned to his assistant.
"John," he said, "you and I have lived under the same roof for a good while now, but I don't believe we've learnt to understand each other for all that. Do you really mean that from this day you intend to serve me better?"
"Yes, sir," the boy responded earnestly.
"That being the case, we'll let bygones be bygones. I'm glad you have joined Mr. Bradley's Bible class, and I'm pleased to think he takes an interest in you. I fear you've been in bad company lately. What do you imagine made this Herbert Hambly seek your society, eh?"
"I really don't know, sir."
"He must have had a motive. He seems to be rather a mysterious personage."
John Monday made no reply. Herbert Hambly's conversation had been mostly about Mr. Harding—his miserly ways, and reputed wealth. The boy did not dare tell that he had given a good bit of information about his master, so he held his peace, though he felt terribly uneasy in his mind.
"Well, well," Mr. Harding said, seeing his assistant's evident embarrassment. "Understand, you are to have nothing more to do with the young man; and never let me hear of your betting again. Now, it's time for you to go to bed, too. Good-night."
"Good-night, sir," the boy answered; and, as he turned to leave the room, he added the assurance, "I really do mean to turn over a new leaf!"
JOHN MONDAY soon found that his resolution to turn over a new leaf was not an easy one to keep; but he persevered against difficulties which he had never for one moment anticipated. It did not take him long to discover that the path of duty, honestly followed, is often thorny and full of stumbling-blocks for steps unaccustomed to the road, and that bad habits are not easily shaken off. Then, too, Herbert Hambly, the acquaintance who had seemed so desirable in every way only a short while since, could not be made to understand all at once that John Monday no longer desired to know him; and on one occasion the young man waylaid the boy in the street, and demanded why he persisted in avoiding him.
"Because my master says I'm to have no more to do with you," John Monday answered, thinking it best to speak plainly; "and so you mustn't come to the shop to see me again."
"But we can meet elsewhere," the other suggested craftily. "Don't you want to win back that half-crown you lost last week?"
"I'm not going to bet again."
"Oh, indeed! Why not, pray?"
"Because it's wrong," was the blunt reply.
Herbert Hambly glanced at the boy shrewdly, then shrugged his shoulders with would-be carelessness, and broke into a scornful laugh.
"Come now, that's rich!" he cried. "What a funny chap you are, to be sure! The other day you were all for making your fortune, and now— Hulloa! Why is that little girl staring at us?"
It was Mousey on her way home from school. She had recognised Herbert Hambly as the young man of whom Mr. Harding disapproved, for she had seen him with John Monday on several occasions; but she was not prepared to find them apparently in deep conversation together, knowing the acquaintance had been forbidden, and in her astonishment paused on the opposite side of the street to look at them.
"It's Mr. Harding's little cousin," the boy said hastily. "Please understand you must not come to the shop again on any account, and I'm not going to meet you anywhere else. Good-afternoon," and he crossed to Mousey's side, whilst Herbert Hambly stared after him with a look of blank astonishment.
"I've been doing an errand for Mr. Harding," the lad explained as he turned homewards with Mousey. "I suppose you wondered to see me talking to Herbert Hambly? I was trying to make him understand that I can't be friends with him any longer."
"I did wonder when I saw you," Mousey acknowledged. "I was afraid you had forgotten what Cousin Robert said on Sunday."
"Oh, no!"
"Do you know we break up for the summer holidays next week?" she said presently. "Nellie Thomas is going to the seaside for a month with her mother and brothers. Won't that be nice for them? Mrs. Downing and Miss Longley will remain at home, and they say they hope I'll come and see them sometimes. Do you think Cousin Robert will let me?"
"I dare say he will; but I shouldn't have thought you would want to see your school teachers in the holidays."
"What a funny idea! Oh, John, I have spent part of the half-crown Uncle Dick gave me! What do you think I have bought? An India-rubber ball for the twins. They were so delighted. The rest of the money I gave to Mrs. Thomas to spend for the sick children at the hospital."
John Monday sighed regretfully as he thought of the fate of his own half-crown. Mousey guessed his thoughts, and hastened to offer all the consolation within her power to give.
"Never mind," she said, and the boy understood that she referred to his bet; "you won't do it again."
"I don't know," he replied gloomily. "I don't intend to, but things seem going against me. I can't get properly quit of Herbert Hambly, and—" dropping his voice to a confidential whisper— "I'm afraid of what he'll do if he cuts up rusty."
"I don't understand what you mean."
"He might tell Mr. Harding things about me. He was always asking me questions about Mr. Harding, and I know I told him a lot I ought not to have told. And once I let him look through the glass door into the parlour to see the old secretaire where Mr. Harding keeps his account books and some of his money. I must have been mad, I think, but I hadn't found out what he was really like then."
"How did you find out what he was really like?" Mousey asked wonderingly.
"It was after I had lost the half-crown. I told him I hadn't any more money, and he advised me to help myself to some."
"What did he mean?"
"He meant I should steal from Mr. Harding."
"Oh, John!"
"Yes, he meant I should steal from Mr. Harding," he repeated. "He said if I took it from the secretaire Mr. Harding would never be able to prove it was I who had done it; and if I won the next bet I made I could replace the money, and no one would be any the wiser."
"What did you say? Did you tell him how wicked he was?"
"No; I was frightened. That was the real reason why I made up my mind to have no more to do with him. You won't tell anyone what I've told you, will you?"
"No," Mousey replied, looking at him with eyes full of distress. "Oh, what a wicked, wicked man he must be! Don't you think it would be better to tell Cousin Robert?"
"No, no, not for worlds!" he cried hastily. "Mind, you have promised, and if you break your word, I'll never trust you with a secret again!"
"I won't tell," Mousey hastened to assure him, forgiving the almost fierce manner in which he had turned upon her on account of the wretchedness she read in his face. "No wonder you have looked so unhappy lately," she added sympathetically.
"Unhappy!" he exclaimed bitterly. "I have been miserable—miserable!"
When they arrived at home Mr. Harding chid his assistant for having been absent so long, and asked him where he had been. John Monday made an evasive answer, which raised the old man's suspicions, and he proceeded to question him further. Then the boy, in desperation, explained how he had met Herbert Hambly, and the difficulty he found in dropping his acquaintance. Mr. Harding appeared less annoyed when he learned the truth, and said he should look-out for an opportunity of speaking to the irrepressible young man; on hearing which, John Monday turned white to the lips. During the evening Mousey informed her cousin of the ways in which she had disposed of her uncle's half-crown.
"Did you not buy anything for yourself?" he inquired in surprise.
"No; there was nothing I really wanted. Dolly and Dick were so pleased with their ball! You'll let me go to see them sometimes in the holidays, won't you, Cousin Robert?" she asked coaxingly.
"Yes, if Mrs. Downing wishes it. So she is not going away herself? Humph! I suppose she can't afford it. I can't think why folks are constantly wanting to be running from one place to another for change of air. When I was young things were different, and people put away their money against rainy days. And young people used not to have such long holidays when I was a child, let me tell you. I went to the village school, and that was all the schooling I ever had. I had none of the advantages of education that you are having. You ought to consider yourself a very fortunate little girl."
"I do; indeed, I do!" she replied gratefully; "and I know it's all owing to you, Cousin Robert. You must not think I don't remember how much money you have to pay for me."
"Never mind that," he told her hastily, whilst a queer expression crossed his face as he reflected in what manner her school bill was being paid.
"I wish I could help John in some way," Mousey thought as she laid her head on the pillow that night; "but I'm afraid there is nothing I can do."
Then she remembered how her mother had impressed upon her that she could always pray for those who seemed beyond her help, so she earnestly commended the orphan boy to the care of his Father in heaven, and never doubted but that God would befriend him in his time of need.
MOUSEY could not help feeling a little low-spirited when the end of the term arrived, and she said good-bye to her school-fellows. They were full of plans for spending the holidays in various enjoyable ways, and condoled with Mousey because she was to remain at home.
"I wish you were coming with us to the seaside," Nellie Thomas said, as she and Mousey lingered over their farewells. "I can't bear to think you will be shut up in that dull old house whilst the boys and I will most likely be building castles in the sand, and fishing and boating, and having such a good time!"
"Never mind," Mousey responded, trying to speak cheerfully. "I hope you will enjoy the holidays as much as ever you can; and I shall not be shut up in the house. Cousin Robert doesn't mind my going out by myself now I know my way about."
"But I'm sure you'll be dreadfully dull! How shall you amuse yourself all day?"
"Oh, in different ways. You know I never had sisters or brothers, so I don't mind being alone as much as you would. I suppose we must say good-bye now. You'll give my love to Mrs. Thomas, won't you?"
"Yes, I will. Mind, you must come to see us as soon as ever we return. Good-bye, Mousey."
"Good-bye," Mousey answered.
So they parted. Mousey pursued her homeward road with a very sober face, thinking how much she would miss her kind little friend, and wishing that it was the end instead of the commencement of the holidays.
However, the time did not hang so heavily on her hands as she had anticipated, for the morning following the one on which Mrs. Downing's school had broken up, Mr. Harding informed Mousey he wished her to go out every day, and suggested that she might go to the park, where she would be perfectly safe. In the park she found Miss Longley with the twins, and spent a very happy hour in playing with the children. The next day Mrs. Downing was there in place of her sister, and seemed very pleased with Mousey's company. She encouraged the little girl to talk to her whilst the twins amused themselves. The two, thus drawn together, found they had much in common; and, though Mousey liked Miss Longley too, there was little doubt but that the elder sister held the first place in her heart, perhaps on account of a look which often crossed Mrs. Downing's face which reminded the child of her dead mother.
One afternoon when Mousey was in the kitchen with Maria she heard Mr. Harding call to her, and running into the parlour, found Mrs. Downing there. Mr. Harding was rubbing his hands, and was evidently in his most amiable frame of mind.
"Mrs. Downing has been giving me a first-rate report of your progress at school, my dear," he said. "I am pleased and gratified to hear you have been a good girl, and have done your best."
Not only had Mrs. Downing given Mr. Harding an excellent report of his little cousin, but she had paid him several pounds on account of her husband's debt, thus reducing it more than the old man had expected, and strengthening the favourable opinion he had formed of her; and as nothing pleased him better than to receive money, he was accordingly in high good humour.
"Mrs. Downing is so kind as to wish to take you back to her house to tea," he continued; "I need scarcely ask if you would like to go!"
Mousey's glowing face answered for her; and when Mr. Harding told her to run away and fetch her hat, she obeyed him with alacrity. Before going upstairs, however, she returned to the kitchen, and informed Maria that she had been invited out to tea. Maria good-naturedly followed her to her bedroom, brushed her hair, and assisted her with her hasty toilette.
Mrs. Downing and Mr. Harding seemed to be getting on capitally together, for when Mousey returned to the parlour she heard her cousin saying—
"I am sure you will make your school pay. I consider you have done wonders already. There was a crying need for a middle-class school such as you have started in Haughton."
"I am glad to hear you think so," Mrs. Downing answered. "I shall do my best, and I hope my efforts may be crowned with success."
She rose as Mousey came into the room, and held out her hand to the old man in farewell, a pleasant smile lighting up her face. His manner to her was most courteous, and he thanked her heartily for her kindness to his little cousin.
Mousey thoroughly enjoyed the short walk which followed, during which she talked unreservedly to her companion. Arrived at their destination, the little girl was seized upon by the twins, who bore her off to their nursery, where they showed her all their toys, and soon persuaded her to join them in a good romping game. Then followed tea, which was a pleasant meal made merry by Dolly and Dick, who insisted on sitting one on each side of their visitor, whom they appeared to regard as especially their own. About seven o'clock John Monday arrived to take Mousey home, and she said good-bye to her friends with many expressions of grateful thanks, which touched Mrs. Downing's kind heart, and prompted her to give the little girl a motherly kiss, and a promise that she should come again.
Mousey tried to amuse her companion with an account of the happy time she had spent, as she tripped lightly homewards by his side; but the boy appeared moody, and disinclined for conversation. He only made one remark all the way, and that was: "Mr. Harding had a long letter from your Aunt Eliza by the evening's post."
"I wonder why she has written to Cousin Robert, and not to me, as she usually does," she thought. "I hope nothing is wrong!"
Nothing was wrong, as Mousey was soon to learn. She found Mr. Harding in the parlour on her return, reading the newspaper. He turned to her as she entered, and inquired how she had got on at Mrs. Downing's. She was too curious to know the contents of her aunt's letter to give him a lengthy account of her visit, but she curbed her impatience as much as she could, and replied that she had spent a most enjoyable time.
"I've had a letter from Cousin Eliza," he next remarked. "She enclosed a note for you. Here it is."
"Oh!" Mousey exclaimed joyfully. "John Monday said you had heard from Aunt Eliza. Thank you, Cousin Robert," she said, as she took the note from his hand.
She read it at once, her face alternately flushing and paling as she grasped its meaning. It ran as follows:—
Mousey looked up from her letter to find Mr. Harding's eyes fixed upon her face.
"Well, child?" he questioned.
"Oh, Cousin Robert!" was all she could say.
"Do you wish to go?" he inquired.
Her animated countenance, flushed with excitement, gave the answer to his question. The old man sighed a trifle sadly.
"Perhaps you won't want to come back again?" he said, watching her intently.
"Oh, yes, I shall!" she replied. "Why, Cousin Robert, what makes you think that?"
There was such evident surprise in her face that his fear was disarmed, and he said kindly, almost tenderly—
"I don't want to lose you altogether. Of course, it's quite natural you should wish to visit your aunt and uncle, and I shall be very glad for you to do so."
"Do you mean I am to go?" Mousey cried.
"Certainly. I will write to your aunt to-morrow, and tell her when she may expect you."
"Oh, Cousin Robert, thank you, thank you! Oh, how good you are to me!" and the little girl threw herself impulsively into the old man's arms, and covered his face with kisses.
"There, there, child, that will do! You're half smothering me! Why, what have I done to be treated like this? There, run away, and tell Maria she must overlook your wardrobe to-morrow, and see what you want in the way of new clothes."
So Mousey rushed off to pour into Maria's ears the wonderful news that she was going to pay Aunt Eliza and Uncle Dick a visit. The holidays were not proving so dull and uneventful, after all.
"IT is Wednesday now; suppose we write and tell your I aunt to expect you next Monday?" suggested Mr. Harding to Mousey the following morning as he rose from the breakfast-table. "Will that give time in which to get the few new things she requires?" he added, turning to Maria, who had been summoned to clear the table.
"Yes, sir," she answered, "quite time, I should think. Being in black, she will not want many new garments—a couple of washing blouses and a new hat perhaps."
"Very well," the old man said; "you had better see about making the purchases at once. Cannot you go this morning? I shall be at home, and will keep house in your absence."
"I think I can spare the time this morning, sir. There is no dinner to cook, as I suppose we shall have the cold meat left from yesterday."
Mr. Harding nodded, and sitting down at his secretaire, took up his pen and commenced a letter to Mrs. Dawson, whilst Mousey went to help Maria about the housework.
The old man had not written many words before his attention was attracted by voices in the shop. Rising quickly, he glanced through the glass door, and perceived a dissipated-looking young man, whom he rightly guessed was Herbert Hambly, in conversation with John Monday, whose face was full of distress, whilst he appeared from his gestures to be trying to get rid of his companion. Mr. Harding turned the handle of the door very softly and entered the shop.
"You must go away," John Monday was saying; "if Mr. Harding catches you here there'll be no end of a row! He is in, I tell you!"
"Hulloa!" cried the old man, "what is the meaning of this? Who are you, eh?" he inquired sharply, fixing his piercing gaze on the young man, who shrank back abashed. "Are you here to help my assistant in wasting his time, pray?"
Herbert Hambly had not believed it when John Monday had told him that his master was within; he had thought the boy had merely made the statement to get rid of him; but though taken aback by Mr. Harding's sudden appearance, he quickly regained his self-command, and answered with great assurance—
"Not at all, sir! I called purely on a business matter. I wish to have a look at some tie-pins."
Mr. Harding brought forward a tray covered with an assortment of the ornaments mentioned, and laid it on the counter. Motioning to John Monday to stand aside, he took his place behind the counter. The young man turned over the pins in silence for a while, pretending to examine them carefully; then said he could not see one exactly like what he wanted.
"No, I imagined you would not," Mr. Harding remarked quietly, putting the tray on one side, and leaning across the counter to stare into the other's face as though he wished to remember his features. "Take my word for it, there's nothing in this shop that's likely to suit you— and, don't come again!"
"What do you mean?" began Herbert Hambly, assuming a blustering manner.
"I mean that I won't have you here, nor shall you have anything to do with my assistant. I know quite enough about you to be aware that your company is most undesirable; in fact, I think my best plan will be to ask the police to keep an eye on your movements."
Though this was only said in a threat, it had the desired effect of completely subduing the young man and knocking all the bravado out of him; casting a vindictive glance at John Monday, he beat a speedy retreat, and in another moment had slipped out of the shop and was hurrying down the street.
John Monday heaved a sigh of relief, whilst his master noted with surprise how white and shaken he appeared.
"What is wrong with you?" Mr. Harding asked. "What are you afraid of?"
"I told him to go, sir, and he wouldn't," John Monday muttered, ignoring his master's question. "It wasn't my fault," he added.
"Who said it was your fault?" demanded the old man in a snappish tone. "I never did!"
He returned to the parlour, and took up his pen again, feeling irritated at the boy's manner, which had seemed to him sulky. It was some minutes before he could collect his thoughts; but, finally, the letter accepting Mrs. Dawson's kind invitation was written, and he called to Mousey to come and hear what he had said to her Aunt Eliza.
"Will that do?" he inquired, after he had read the letter aloud.
"Yes, beautifully," she replied; "but please, Cousin Robert, will you tell her how much I am looking forward to see them all?"
So Mr. Harding added a postscript to that effect, and having sealed the envelope, gave her the letter to post herself.
The little girl was looking very bright. Her cheeks were rosy and her eyes shone with happiness. The old man sighed, though he reflected that Aunt Eliza would not be able to say Haughton did not suit the child, for she had certainly greatly improved in appearance lately. "I wish your poor mother could see you, my dear," he exclaimed involuntarily.
"And I wish she could know how kind you are to me," Mousey cried, her eyes filling with tears, as they always did when she thought of her mother. "Perhaps she does know," she added quickly; "she always said God would take care of me when she was gone, and He has. I thought it very strange that you should want me to come and live with you, Cousin Robert, but I suppose God put it into your heart to be kind to me."
"I don't know that He did," Mr. Harding responded.
"Oh, but He must have! I'm afraid I'm very expensive," Mousey said, thinking of the new things she was to have. "I don't believe Aunt Eliza would mind a bit if I had no new clothes."
"Nonsense! What makes you say that? Have I ever begrudged you anything?" he demanded, frowning.
"No, no," she replied hurriedly. "I only thought—oh, Cousin Robert, you do so much for me, and there isn't anything I can do for you. I wish there was."
"Well, there is," he said, a smile softening his face. "You can spare me a corner of your heart, eh? You'll try to be glad to come back here because you like me a little, and not only on account of Mrs. Downing, of whom you're so fond, and the friends you've made at school, eh?"
"Of course I shall!" she answered promptly. "I do like you very much, Cousin Robert," she added earnestly.
"I shall miss you, child," he told her. "Here comes Maria, ready to start. Don't forget to post my letter."
As if it was in the least likely she would forget that! She laughed at the idea as she tripped along by Maria's side, and slipped the precious letter into the first pillar-box they passed on their way.
During the days which followed the little girl talked of nothing but her coming visit. She went to say good-bye to Mrs. Downing, Miss Longley, and the twins; and told them all about the delightful time she expected to have with Aunt Eliza, and Uncle Dick, and her cousins. John Monday was the only one who attempted to put a damper on her happiness by remarking that some people got the best of everything.
"Oh, John," cried Mousey regretfully, "I am so sorry you are not going to have a holiday too! It does seem hard," and she looked so sympathetic that he regretted his grumbling speech, and felt ashamed of himself.
At last the much-looked-forward-to Monday arrived. The town porter fetched away Mousey's box, and after saying good-bye to Maria and John Monday, the little girl started to walk to the station with Mr. Harding. On the way he asked her if she had her purse in her pocket ready to receive her ticket.
"Oh, yes," she replied, wondering what she would have done without Uncle Dick's present on this occasion.
"Mind you don't lose it; and remember not to put your head out of the carriage window when the train is in motion. Promise that."
She promised readily. The old man was rather nervous at the thought of her travelling alone, though the journey was only a short one; but she had no fears, and was full of importance at the idea. They had not long to wait at the station, for by the time Mr. Harding had seen Mousey's box labelled, and obtained her ticket, the train was on the point of starting. He found a corner seat for her in a comfortable compartment, and placed her under the care of the guard.
"Let me put your ticket in your purse for you," he said, after he had kissed her and had warned her not to lean against the door.
She gave him her little scarlet purse, and when he returned it, she slipped it into her pocket without glancing at its contents. A minute later the train started. The old man watched it out of sight, then left the station, and walked slowly homewards with a sense of loneliness so strong that he was surprised at himself, for he had not calculated how dear his little cousin had become to him.
Meanwhile, Mousey had taken her purse out of her pocket again, and on opening it had found that, besides her ticket, it held a shilling, two sixpenny-pieces, and several coppers. She was greatly touched at this fresh proof of Mr. Harding's affection and consideration for her; and during the whole of the journey, she was thinking how she would write and thank him, and what words she could use which would best express the feelings of gratitude swelling in her heart.
THE short journey seemed quite a long one to the little girl, so impatient was she to reach the end of it. As the train slowed into the familiar station she scanned the figures on the platform with eager, expectant eyes. After all, it was not Aunt Eliza but Uncle Dick who had come to meet her. There he was, a broad smile of welcome on his jovial countenance, and with a crimson carnation in the buttonhole of his coat, placed there in order to smarten himself up for the occasion.
"Well, Mousey, here you are at last! The train is three minutes late. How well you look, my dear! Eliza couldn't spare the time to come because it's Monday—washing day, as usual. We thought we wouldn't let the children know you were coming, so they've gone for a ramble in the woods; and won't they be surprised when they return and find you there! If they'd known, they'd all have wanted to be here to meet you."
Whilst he was entering into these explanations, he lifted Mousey from the carriage and kissed her again and again.
"Is everyone well, Uncle Dick?" she asked when he gave her an opportunity to speak.
"Quite well, and longing to see you, my dear. What luggage have you? One box? Very well. Come along."
Mr. Dawson led the way to the luggage van at the back of the train, Mousey following. She pointed out her box, which he raised to his shoulder without any effort; and having given up her ticket, they left the station.
"I suppose we shall walk, Uncle Dick?" Mousey said; "but you can't carry my box all the way."
"No, my dear; certainly not. And we're not going to walk. What do you say to that?" indicating a market-cart, with a little brown pony between the shafts. "A new purchase of mine," he proceeded, as he stowed away her box in the body of the cart; "you didn't know I possessed a carriage, did you?"
"Is it really yours, Uncle Dick?"
"Yes, really. I bought the whole turn-out only a few weeks since, as I had the opportunity of getting a good bargain; and I believe I shall make it pay by driving around to the better-class houses in the town, and selling vegetables at the doors. Now then."
He lifted Mousey up in front of the cart, and taking his place by her side, gathered up the reins, and chirruped to the pony, which immediately started off at a trot. The little girl's face was beaming with happiness, for a drive was a pleasure she had not expected.
"What is the pony called?" she inquired.
"Billy," was the response. "He's very quiet and good-tempered, and he goes well, doesn't he?"
"He does, indeed," Mousey answered; "but I'm afraid we must be rather a heavy weight for him."
"Well, I dare say I am a good weight," her uncle replied, laughing, "but I don't suppose you are very heavy. However, Billy is not overburdened. Did you leave your cousin well, Mousey?"
"Yes, Uncle Dick; but he says he will miss me very much."
"I have no doubt he will. How is the dissatisfied youth—John Monday, I mean?"
Mousey sighed, scarcely knowing what answer to make. The bright face clouded over, and she shook her head sorrowfully.
"Poor John Monday is very unhappy," she said, "and Cousin Robert has been very angry with him."
"Perhaps Mr. Harding is rather a difficult master to serve; but what has the boy done to arouse his anger?"
Mousey explained, whilst her uncle looked exceedingly grave. It hurt the good man to think that his gift to the boy had brought him trouble; he almost felt as though he had put temptation in his way; but then, he reflected, perhaps what had happened might prove a wholesome lesson to him.
"I sincerely trust the poor lad may be given strength to follow the new path he has chosen," he said, as Mousey finished her tale. "I am glad to hear he has found a friend in that Mr. Bradley."
They had left the town behind them by this time, and were in the country road which led direct to Mr. Dawson's home. Billy, trotting along at a fine pace, soon brought them to their journey's end.
A mist rose to Mousey's eyes as she caught sight of her aunt's figure in the doorway of the house, and she gave a little sob of delight as a pair of motherly arms lifted her down from her seat by Uncle Dick's side, and a tender kiss of welcome was pressed on her trembling lips.
"My dear child, how good it is to see you again!" cried Aunt Eliza, as she led her niece into the sitting-room, and, holding her at arm's length, looked at her with a kindly, critical glance. "Why, how you've grown! What, tears!"
"I can't help crying because I'm so happy," Mousey explained, with a little laugh, which, in spite of all her efforts, ended in a sob, "so very happy! Oh, you can't think how much I have missed you, and longed for a sight of you all these months!"
"But Cousin Robert has been kind to you, hasn't he?" Mrs. Dawson asked somewhat anxiously. "You have had everything you could possibly want at Haughton, haven't you?"
"Oh, yes!" Mousey returned; "but it's so nice to see you again, and to think that I am to stay here for a while."
"You shall remain with us till the end of the holidays if Cousin Robert is willing. I shall want you to tell me all about yourself, and your school life, and your friends by-and-by; but now, come and take off your hat before the children return."
Mousey followed her aunt upstairs. First, she begged to be allowed to take a peep at baby, who was having his afternoon nap in his little crib in his mother's bedroom, and pressed a gentle kiss on his rosy cheek; then her aunt led the way into the room which Mousey was to share with Lily, the eldest of her cousins, where her box was awaiting her, having been carried upstairs by Uncle Dick. After Mousey had bathed her face in cold water, and removed the traces of tears and dust, she unpacked her box, and showed her new clothes to her aunt, explaining how Maria had gone with her to purchase them, and how very kind she always was.
"It strikes me you have made many friends at Haughton already, my dear," her aunt said smilingly.
"Oh, yes, indeed!" the little girl agreed earnestly. "But Maria was my first friend there; she takes me to church with her on Sunday evenings. You know, Cousin Robert never goes."
"I was sorry to hear it," Mrs. Dawson said gravely. "It would have made me very unhappy if I had known that when you first went there; but it hasn't made any difference to you, has it, my dear? You remember your mother's teaching, do you not?"
"Yes, Aunt Eliza. Sometimes I read the Bible to Cousin Robert—that is, when he asks me."
Mrs. Dawson looked surprised at hearing this, but she asked no more questions then, and suggested that they should go downstairs.
Very shortly afterwards the children returned in hot haste, their father having met them and told them who had arrived. There followed o much kissing, and talking, and laughing, that Mousey felt quite bewildered; and the noise awakening baby, he began to cry, refusing to be comforted until his mother brought him down into the sitting-room.
"I don't suppose he remembers me," Mousey said after she had talked to him, and coaxed him to smile as he sat on Mrs. Dawson's lap, "for it's quite five months since he saw me, and that must seem a long time to a baby, I'm sure."
Whether baby remembered her or not, he was evidently pleased with his cousin's appearance, for he stretched out his chubby arms, and was supremely happy when Mousey shifted him from his mother's knees to her own.
Everyone made so much of Mousey that she felt almost glad of the parting which had brought about such a happy reunion. There were so many questions for her to answer that at last her aunt declared she was beginning to look quite weary, and begged the children to give her a little peace.
"I am not in the least tired," Mousey declared; and she spoke the truth, for she was far too excited to feel fatigued just then.
"I want Mousey to come around the gardens with me to see the improvements I've made since she was here," Uncle Dick said later on.
She was running to fetch her hat, when a sudden memory flashed across her mind, and she exclaimed repentantly—
"I had very nearly forgotten. Cousin Robert told me to be sure and ask you to send him a postcard to say I had arrived safely, Uncle Dick."
"I have already written to him, my dear," Mr. Dawson returned; "I thought he would expect to hear in the morning. You need not look so grave; no harm has been done by your forgetfulness."
"No, but I am sorry I forgot," Mousey responded in a somewhat subdued tone.
She fetched her hat, and made a tour of the gardens, noting every alteration which had been made. Then they paid a visit to Billy in the stable, and the little girl made friends with him, and patted his mealy nose.
At last the happy day came to an end, and the children all retired to rest. Mousey was really very tired, though she had not realised the fact until now. The minute after she had laid herself down by Lily's side her weariness overcame her; and when Mrs. Dawson looked into the room a short while later she found that both little girls were sleeping peacefully.
THE first letter Mousey wrote to Mr. Harding caused her a great deal of trouble. She was anxious that there should be no mistakes in the spelling, and that the writing should be particularly legible, for she had often heard her cousin say that children were not taught to write plainly nowadays as they had been when he was young, and she was fearful lest he should think her education had been neglected in that respect. So she spoilt many sheets of notepaper before she succeeded in inditing a letter which she thought would do; but at last one was satisfactorily finished. Mousey wondered if Mr. Harding would write in reply; but when several days passed without her getting an answer, she came to the conclusion that she was not going to hear from him, and was greatly disappointed.
Meanwhile, the little girl was having a most enjoyable time. Mr. Dawson was not particularly busy in his gardens, for during the days of early autumn there is not much outdoor work for nurserymen to do, except taking cuttings from summer plants, and collecting seeds for sowing the following year; so he often went with the children for long walks through the woods and meadows, where they gathered ferns and flowers, returning laden with their spoils. Sometimes Mr. Dawson would take Mousey for a drive in the market-cart, and allow her to have the place of honour, and hold the reins, whereupon Billy—the sly creature— would slacken his pace, knowing at once he was no longer in his master's capable hands.
One morning a letter arrived from Mr. Harding at last. Mousey's face lit up with pleasure as she scanned the opening lines; but she paled as she read what followed. This was Mr. Harding's communication:—
"What is amiss, child?" Mrs. Dawson asked anxiously, noting Mousey's shocked face.
"Oh, it is dreadful!" gasped the little girl. "Oh, dear! Oh, dear!"
"Shall I read this?" inquired Mr. Dawson, picking up the letter which Mousey had allowed to flutter to the floor.
"Please read it aloud, Uncle Dick," she requested, "then Aunt Eliza will understand too."
He complied immediately. There was a minute's silence when he had finished, broken by an indignant exclamation from his wife.
"What a wicked boy!" she cried. "The idea of his serving his master like that!"
"I am disappointed in him," Mr. Dawson remarked, shaking his head sorrowfully. "I knew from the short conversation he and I had together that he was dissatisfied with his lot in life, but he appeared an outspoken lad, not in the least underhand or shifty. Dear me, I am very sorry!"
"Oh, you don't understand, either of you!" Mousey exclaimed. "He is not as bad as you think."
"I don't want to misjudge anyone," Mr. Dawson said gently, "least of all a poor boy who has never had the advantages of a good home training, but you must agree with me, my dear little girl, that he has acted very badly."
Mousey reflected for a moment. She wondered if it would be wrong for her to tell how John Monday had been led to speak of his master's business; how bitterly he had repented of having done so; and how the remembrance had been a continual terror to him. She thought, as he had himself confessed the truth to Mr. Harding, it would be no betrayal of confidence if she told the whole story to her uncle and aunt as the boy had told it to her. This she accordingly did, and was relieved to find afterwards that they were not so inclined to think badly of John Monday as they had been at first, though still seeing, of course, that he was greatly to blame.
"I should say it is extremely unlikely he has joined that Herbert Hambly," Mr. Dawson remarked thoughtfully; "from what you have told us, Mousey, it seems he was really horrified when he discovered the young man's true character."
Mousey assented eagerly, adding that she expected he had run away from fear of Mr. Harding.
"Dear, dear, I'm afraid it's a bad business. But don't you worry about it!" Mr. Dawson advised. "It will all come right in the end—things always do if we have faith to leave them in wiser hands than our own."
"Yes," his wife agreed, "that's very true. No good comes of worrying, but we can ask God to help those who seem powerless to help themselves."
"Mother used to say that," the little girl said, a smile lighting up her countenance. "I do hope John Monday has not gone away with that wicked young man. No, I don't believe he has!"
"I don't believe it either," Aunt Eliza said warmly. "I can't bear to think of the boy homeless and friendless, and perhaps wanting a meal's meat," she added, sighing.
"That's looking on the dark side, indeed," her husband told her. "John Monday struck me as being a strong, able-bodied lad, well fitted to earn his living in ways more arduous than in mending watches and jewellery. I dare say he'll find a niche to fit him somewhere or other."
THE thought of John Monday was the one unhappiness which clouded Mousey's otherwise happy visit. The day after she had received her cousin's letter, she wrote and tried to explain to him how troubled she was at the boy's disappearance; and begged Mr. Harding not to believe that he had left him to join Herbert Hambly. To this letter she received no reply, as Mr. Harding was anything but pleased that she did not accept his theory concerning John Monday, and was, besides, annoyed that she had not condoled with him on the loss of his money. The truth was, Mousey had thought very little of the burglary in comparison with its result as affecting her cousin's assistant.
The little girl had been to see her parents' grave several times, and the day before her visit was to come to an end she went with her aunt to take a parting look at the spot.
"Oh, Aunt Eliza," she cried, as she stood by the green mound, "if only she had not died!"
"God knows best, child," Mrs. Dawson answered softly, much touched by the wistful sadness of Mousey's face.
"It's so kind of Uncle Dick to keep the grave tidy. I wish I could put up a tombstone with their names, and a verse from the Bible; but I expect that would cost a lot of money, and it's no good thinking about it."
They lingered a while longer in the churchyard, and then turned slowly away. Both were disinclined for conversation, so that they had nearly reached home, and were actually within sight of the house, before either spoke. It was Mrs. Dawson who broke the silence by exclaiming—
"Look! What is that boy gazing at, I wonder?"
Mousey raised her eyes, which had been fixed meditatively on the ground, and saw, peering through the thorn hedge which divided her uncle's gardens from the road, a shabbily clad boy. He had his back towards them, so she could not get a glimpse of his face; but there was something familiar in the attitude of the figure, and the way the tweed cap was worn on the back of the head.
"Why, Aunt Eliza, I do believe it is John Monday!" the little girl cried excitedly.
"John Monday!" Mrs. Dawson repeated in astonishment. "Surely you must be mistaken, my dear! What should bring him here?"
"It is John!" Mousey insisted, running forward impetuously, whilst her aunt followed at a quieter pace.
"John, how did you come here? What are you doing?"
At the sound of her voice the boy turned hastily. It was indeed John Monday, but looking so thin and haggard that the little girl uttered a cry of dismay at his changed appearance. His clothes were covered in dust, and his feet were almost on the ground, his boots being nearly without soles. When he saw Mousey and her aunt, his face flushed painfully, and he appeared inclined at first to run away, but seemed to think better of it.
"I'm not doing any harm," he said half apologetically; "I was only watching the men at work in the garden, and wondering if they could find a job for me."
"It is my uncle's garden," Mousey said; "I suppose you know that?"
"Yes," he assented briefly. "Do you think your uncle could find me some work?" he questioned, a gleam of hope passing over his countenance. "I'd do anything! I've been wandering about the country for weeks, but I haven't been able to get regular employment. I suppose you knew I had left Mr. Harding's?"
"Yes. Why did you go, John? I'm sure Cousin Robert would have forgiven you if you had stayed."
The boy shook his head. There was a weary expression on his face which Mrs. Dawson noticed with a thrill of sympathy.
"Are you hungry?" she asked abruptly.
"I haven't had a morsel of food inside my lips since yesterday morning," he replied; "but I didn't come to beg," he added hastily, whilst Mousey uttered an exclamation of mingled horror and pity. "I thought perhaps Mr. Dawson might be able to find me some work."
"Come inside," said Mrs. Dawson.
She led the way into the house, and seating the boy at the kitchen table, gave him a plate of bread and meat. He thanked her gratefully, and began to eat, whilst Mousey watched him with sympathetic eyes; and Mrs. Dawson turned to the fireplace to see if the kettle was nearly on the boil. It was, and in a few minutes she set before her visitor a strong cup of tea, which refreshed him even more than the food.
"John, you didn't go away with Herbert Hambly, did you?" Mousey questioned anxiously when he had finished his meal.
"No, no! What makes you ask that?"
"Because Cousin Robert thinks you did."
"But I told Mr. Harding I never saw Herbert Hambly after he got rid of him when he called to see me the last time at the shop. How could he believe I had gone away with him?"
"I suppose he thought you hadn't told the truth."
"I did tell him the truth," the boy declared with such earnestness that neither of his hearers doubted his words. "He had a perfect right to be angry, but I couldn't stand the hard, bitter things he said to me, although I may have deserved them. I'd rather go hungry, and sleep by the side of a hedge, than go back to him, that I would!"
"Mousey, run and tell your uncle I want him in here," Mrs. Dawson said quietly; "and do you remain where you are," she added, turning to John Monday, who had risen to his feet.
"Thank you, ma'am," he replied, as he sat down again. "I'm afraid I'm very dusty and dirty, not fit to be seen, and that makes it all the kinder of you to treat me like this."
Mousey soon found her uncle, and he accompanied her to the kitchen. John Monday, fully conscious of his disreputable appearance, rose, and stood bashfully before the master of the house, whose usually good-humoured countenance was now very grave and stern.
"Well, young man, what has brought you here?" he commenced; then, as the boy made no answer, only hung his head in confusion, he motioned to his wife to go away, and take Mousey with her.
Half an hour later Mr. Dawson came into the sitting-room, where the family was assembled, and met his wife's anxious, inquiring countenance with a smile.
"Well, my dear," he said, "I suppose you want to know what I'm going to do with John Monday? I've had a long, serious talk with him, and the result is, he has promised me that if Mr. Harding wishes him to return he will do so; on the other hand, if Mr. Harding does not wish to have him back, I am going to give him a trial myself. You know I've been wanting a lad to look after the pony, and go around to the houses in the town with the cart sometimes; in short, one who will make himself generally useful about the place."
"But do you think he is to be trusted?" Mrs. Dawson asked dubiously.
"That will have to be proved, my dear. Anyway, I mean to see what he is made of, if Mr. Harding does not want him again. I think my best plan will be to go to Haughton with Mousey to-morrow, and have a personal interview with your cousin."
"Yes, perhaps that would be best," his wife agreed.
"You see, I should not like to employ the lad without first coming to a thorough understanding with Mr. Harding."
"No, of course not. Where is the boy now?"
"In the yard, having a wash at the pump. Poor lad! He has roughed it lately without a doubt. He'll have to sleep in the loft to-night. If it is decided he's to remain, I dare say I can find him a lodging with one of the men. I hope you think I have acted rightly, Eliza? I could not send the boy away."
"No, no!" Mrs. Dawson exclaimed, meeting her husband's glance with a tender smile which lent real beauty to her homely countenance. "You mustn't imagine I disapprove of what you've done; and you can see by Mousey's face what she thinks about it."
Mr. Dawson turned an inquiring look upon the little girl. She ran to him and kissed him again and again, calling him the dearest, kindest of uncles, till he laughingly pushed her away from him, and went to look after the lad he had taken under his protection.
MUCH was Mr. Harding's surprise when, on going to the railway station to meet Mousey, he found her in company with her Uncle Dick. The little girl's face was wreathed with smiles as her cousin assisted her to alight from the carriage, and she looked really delighted at the sight of him.
"Glad to see you, my dear," he said, as he kissed her affectionately. "So you've brought your uncle with you, eh? Glad to see you, too, sir!" he declared, as he shook hands with Mr. Dawson, wondering at the same time what brought him there. "How are Cousin Eliza and the children, eh?"
"Capital!" Mr. Dawson answered. "How do you think your little maid is looking?"
Mr. Harding was pleased to hear Mousey spoken of as his possession, and he made a cordial reply—
"She does credit to the care you and Cousin Eliza have taken of her. I thank you most gratefully for your goodness to the child."
"Oh, as to that, we're all very fond of Mousey," Mr. Dawson replied, with a smiling glance at the little girl's animated face, "and it's been a great pleasure to have her with us, I assure you."
"You will come home with us and have some tea, I trust?" Mr. Harding said politely. "Maria will have it ready by the time we arrive."
"Thank you. I have a matter of business to discuss with you; in fact, that is the reason of my being here now," Mr. Dawson explained.
"Does the business affect Mousey?" the old man asked sharply.
"No, it has nothing whatever to do with her."
They had left the station, and in a few minutes reached Mr. Harding's home. The shop looked as dingy and dismal as ever; but a new assistant stood behind the counter—a spruce, well-dressed young man, who stared at Mousey and Mr. Dawson very hard. Mr. Harding took no notice of him, but led the way into the parlour, whilst Mousey rushed off to the kitchen in quest of Maria.
"Good gracious, child!" Maria exclaimed, as the child flung herself into her arms; "you don't mean to say you're actually pleased to be back again!"
"Yes, I'm really glad!" Mousey answered, hugging Maria tightly. "Of course, I was very sorry to leave Aunt Eliza and my cousins; but I wanted to see you badly, and Cousin Robert, too."
"Well, that's good hearing, anyway. I thought you'd never want to return, and I believe master had his doubts about it. We've missed you, my dear, more than I can tell."
"Guess who's in the parlour, Maria. Oh, you can't! Why, Uncle Dick!"
"You don't say so! Then he'll be here to tea, I suppose? There's the town porter with your box, I hear. I must go, and help take it upstairs—we've no John Monday now."
But it was Uncle Dick who insisted on carrying Mousey's box to her room, though Mr. Harding assured him there was no necessity for him to do so.
"How considerate your uncle is," Maria remarked to the little girl, as Mr. Dawson rejoined Mr. Harding in the parlour. "I do like to see a man helpful—I'll say that for John Monday, with all his faults, he was always willing to put a hand to anything. Ah, dear, master made a mistake when he drove the boy away."
"Did Cousin Robert really drive him away?" Mousey asked in a low tone. "Oh, do tell me what happened!"
"After the burglary there was a terrible scene," Maria responded. "I don't like to think of it, much more talk about it. Of course, master had great cause for anger, but he wouldn't listen to a word the poor lad had to say—wouldn't let him explain anything. Ah, poor John! I wonder what has become of him."
Then Mousey, who had with difficulty refrained from telling her the news before, burst forth with the whole story of how the boy had come to her uncle's house, and what Mr. Dawson's business was with Mr. Harding.
Maria listened in profound astonishment, her face expressing decided relief.
"Thank God, he has fallen into good hands!" she exclaimed. "For my part, I hope master won't have him back, for I feel he would have a chance of leading a better life if he were away from here. Not that master means to do him harm, but they don't seem able to understand each other."
"Who is Cousin Robert's new assistant, Maria?" Mousey asked.
"A young man called Jones. He's learnt his trade already, and talks of buying Mr. Harding's business, I believe. Nothing's settled yet, but Mr. Harding told me soon after John Monday ran away that he thought he should retire before long, and take a house in one of the suburbs of the town. That's a piece of news you didn't expect. Mr. Jones is here to see for himself what the business is like."
"Does he live in the house, Maria?" Mousey inquired in great astonishment.
"No, indeed I don't fancy our way of living would suit him. If he buys the business, I expect he'll change this place so that we shall hardly know it. You wouldn't be sorry to leave this house for another, would you?"
"No," the little girl answered frankly. "I should be very glad, because even now I don't quite like the thought of the river underneath."
Mousey found on her return to the parlour that her uncle had informed Mr. Harding what his business was, for the old man was talking excitedly about John Monday and his misdeeds. During tea-time the subject of conversation was the same; but Mousey could not find out what her Cousin's real sentiments were regarding his late assistant. One thing was evident, that he was relieved to find the boy was safe, for he frankly admitted that he had troubled a great deal about him.
"To think that he should have found his way to your doors!" Mr. Harding exclaimed to Mr. Dawson. "I must say I wonder at you for taking him in."
"Do you? I felt responsible for him, you see."
"Responsible! You! My dear sir," Mr. Harding said, with his most sarcastic smile, "you cannot imagine that I should have blamed you if you had declined to have anything to do with him?"
"Such an idea never crossed my mind," Mr. Dawson acknowledged. "No. My responsibility was to the poor boy's Father in Heaven. I could not have knelt down in prayer to God, Mr. Harding, if I had turned away the stranger He had sent to my gate."
The old man's eyes drooped; the sarcastic smile faded from his countenance, and he seemed unable to make a reply.
"The question is, whether you wish him to return to you or not," Mr. Dawson proceeded. "I had a long, serious talk with him yesterday, and pointed out to him what I considered was his duty; and he promised me faithfully, if you had him back, to do his utmost to please you. He truly repents of his ill-conduct, which, if you will excuse my saying so, appears to me to have been more the result of indiscretion than intentional wrong-doing."
"I do not wish John Monday to return. I wash my hands of him," Mr. Harding responded in a cold tone. "Yes, I wash my hands of him," he repeated. "I am thinking of selling my business shortly to the young man you saw in the shop. I mean to retire. You can keep the boy, since you are evidently greatly interested in him."
"I am indeed interested in him," Mr. Dawson said quietly, ignoring the other's sneer. "I trust you agree with me that he has not been in the company of Herbert Hambly since he left here?"
"Ye—es," Mr. Harding acknowledged; "I believe I misjudged him in that. Am I to understand that you actually intend to employ him?"
"Yes, that is my intention. I have hopes that he will make a good, honest man yet."
"And suppose he disappoints you? You will lose patience with him as I have done, for I tell you he is enough to tire the patience of anyone."
Mr. Dawson was silent. He glanced from the eager face of his little niece to the wrinkled visage of the old man, and hesitated.
"Well?" said Mr. Harding impatiently.
"Who am I that I should lose patience with a fellow creature?" was the reply in low, moved tones. "What hope would there be for any of us if God lost patience with us? What if our fellow-creatures do disappoint us? I wonder how often we disappoint the Almighty God? If John Monday disappoints me, I'll try to bear with him, and pray God to show me how to influence him for good. I should like, sir, to be able to tell the boy that you forgive him, and bear him no ill-will."
"I bear him no ill-will," Mr. Harding responded; "indeed, I hope he may repay you for your kindness to him by endeavouring to do his duty, and studying your interests—he never studied mine. As to forgiving him—well, yes, you may tell him I forgive him, if you like."
Mousey looked at the old man with a brilliant smile of pleasure illuminating her face, and running round to his side, put her arms round his neck as she said—
"Cousin Robert, why do you pretend to be so cross when you're nothing of the kind? You know you want poor John to get on and please Uncle Dick."
"Did you ever hear such a saucy child?" Mr. Harding inquired, appealing to Mr. Dawson, who was astonished to see that the old man was pleased at Mousey's coaxing tone. "She never minds what she says to me. And she evidently thinks nothing of the loss John Monday has caused me."
"Do you mean the money the burglar stole?" Mousey asked. "Was it much? I thought it was only a little."
"It was three pounds sixteen shillings and sixpence," he replied, with a regretful sigh.
"The police have no clue to the thief, I suppose?" Mr. Dawson questioned.
"No, and are not likely to get one. They agree with me it was doubtless Herbert Hambly—I don't suppose that is his real name, by the way—because he has disappeared from the neighbourhood altogether. I think most likely we shall never hear of him again; I am sure I hope not."
Shortly after tea Mr. Dawson took his departure. He was perfectly satisfied with the results of his visit, for he had left his little niece looking bright and contented; and he knew John Monday would consider the news that his late master did not want him again the best he could hear; besides which, the good man was delighted that he had obtained forgiveness for the boy, so that altogether he returned home in excellent spirits.
THE day following Mousey's return to her cousin's home was the first of the winter term, and she went back to school with a light heart to compare her experiences of the holidays with those of the other girls. Even Nellie Thomas had not had a brighter or happier time than Mousey.
Engrossed with her work, interested in her teachers and school-fellows, it was natural that the little girl should not miss John Monday much, except perhaps when she had a difficult sum to master and lacked his willing help. She had enough home work now to keep her occupied nearly all the evenings, so that she had no spare time on her hands except on the weekly holiday.
"They are not working you too hard at school, are they?" said Mr. Harding one night a trifle anxiously, as Mousey at last closed her books and laid them aside.
"Oh, no, Cousin Robert," she answered brightly. "You know I want to get on so as to be raised into a higher class next term."
"I've tired myself to-day," he presently remarked; "I've been house-hunting. Jones has decided to buy the business, and take it on at Christmas, so we shall have to turn-out of here then."
"Oh, I am glad!" she exclaimed involuntarily.
"I don't think I'm sorry myself. The fact is, I'm getting past work, and things worry me now that I used to take as matters of course. By the way, you heard from Cousin Eliza this morning. Did she tell you how John Monday was behaving?"
"Yes. She says he is doing well."
"I am glad to hear it. Mr. Bradley must be told that, for he takes an interest in the boy."
"Does he know John is with Uncle Dick?" Mousey inquired.
"Yes. I gave him the information one day when he called to ask if I had had any news of 'the poor, misguided lad,' as he called him."
The little girl was surprised to hear this, but she asked no further questions.
"I saw a small house to-day that I thought might suit us," Mr. Harding informed her. "It is not far from where the Thomas' live. I dare say you may have noticed it—it stands in its own grounds, and has a pretty summer-house in one corner of the front garden."
"You don't mean Homeleigh, do you?" Mousey said, feeling quite astounded at the idea of such a possibility, for she knew the little dwelling well by sight, and had admired it often. "Oh, Cousin Robert, you can't mean Homeleigh!"
"Why not, eh?" Mr. Harding questioned gruffly, with a sharp glance.
"It is such a lovely place!" she cried, her checks flushing with excitement. "I never dreamt you would think of living in a house like that!"
"Well, I do think of living there," he said, smiling, "and I'm pleased to see you like the idea. On Saturday we'll go and look over the place. Perhaps we'd better take Maria with us to make sure the kitchen arrangements are all right."
"I do hope someone else won't take the house before then!"
"Not very likely," he replied, laughing; "but I've spoken to the agent who has the letting of it, and he has promised me the refusal of it, anyway."
Accordingly, the following Saturday found Mr. Harding, with Mousey and Maria, going carefully over the pretty villa which was to be their new abode. They found everything to their satisfaction, and Mousey could not repress a cry of mingled relief and joy when Mr. Harding said decidedly—
"Yes, I like the place, and shall take it."
Whilst they were going around the gardens, Mousey saw Mrs. Thomas and Nellie in the road outside; they both paused in astonishment at sight of the little girl and her companions.
"Oh, do let me ask Nellie to come in and go over the house," Mousey said coaxingly to Mr. Harding.
"You cannot do that without asking her mother as well," he reminded her.
"Perhaps Mrs. Thomas would like to come too. I'll go and ask her." And before he could raise an objection she had darted from his side, and was running towards the gate.
Mr. Harding looked put out for a moment, whilst Maria drew back, inwardly much amused, wondering how her master would act. After a short hesitation, however, he went to the garden gate, and invited Mrs. Thomas and Nellie to enter.
"My little cousin is anxious you should see the house we intend making our new home," he commenced; then added quickly, "I hope shortly we shall move in here, and then we may be able to show your little daughter some hospitality in return for your great kindness to Mousey."
"We shall be neighbours," Mrs. Thomas remarked genially. "I always thought Homeleigh a very pretty house, and I am so glad you are going to take it, Mr. Harding."
The old man smiled, and escorted her through the house and around the gardens. He made himself most agreeable, so that when they parted they had become quite friendly, and Mrs. Thomas and Nellie had come to the conclusion that Mousey's cousin was a much nicer person than he was usually represented.
"Mrs. Thomas seems a very pleasant woman, child," Mr. Harding said to Mousey that night, "and your friend is a pretty little girl, with pleasing manners."
"I knew you'd like them," Mousey responded warmly. "Am I really to ask Nellie to come and see us when we are living at Homeleigh?"
Her cousin nodded, and Mousey clapped her hands with delight.
"How busy we shall be when Christmas comes!" she cried. "Won't it be fun changing houses? And won't John Monday be surprised when he hears we're going to leave here?"
"I don't believe I should have thought of leaving if he had remained," Mr. Harding said thoughtfully; "but that burglary upset me. It wasn't the loss of the money exactly, though, of course, three pounds sixteen shillings and sixpence is a good bit to lose, but I had become accustomed to John Monday, and he knew my customers. Certainly he worried me sometimes, but still, he had his good points—I must own that."
This was a great deal for Mr. Harding to acknowledge; but the truth was, he missed his late assistant more than he cared to say; and when one morning he received a letter from him, enclosing a postal order for half a crown, "towards repaying you for the loss you made through me," as John Monday explained, he knew not what to think.
"I shall not keep the money," he declared, after he had told Mousey about it. "The idea of his sending it to me—the first money he has been able to save, he says, and he hopes to pay me the full amount if I will take it in instalments."
"I think it's very nice of him, don't you, Cousin Robert?" the little girl inquired. "It shows he wants to make up to you what you lost."
"But I don't want him to do that," the old man protested; "I never dreamt he would think of doing it. No, I can't take it. I shall send it back to him."
This he accordingly did, writing at the same time a stiff little note, which nevertheless breathed such evident goodwill that it touched the heart of John Monday when he received it.
That was the first money Mr. Harding had ever refused in his life; and it astonished Maria greatly that he should have done so now.
"I can't think what's come to master," she told Mousey in confidence; "he seems to me to have altered lately. I was amazed when he told me he meant to retire from business, and since then I've seen things that have set me thinking—little things, perhaps, but they show there's a change somewhere. I date it from the time you came here, my dear; since then master's been slowly but surely changing his ways. I'm sure he doesn't set such store by his money as he did; perhaps he's found out the folly of hoarding it."
"Perhaps he has," Mousey answered thoughtfully.
She was reminded of Maria's words when, on the next Sunday afternoon, her cousin asked her to read the Bible to him, and instead of letting her choose a portion where she pleased, requested her to read the chapter with the verse in it which commenced, "Lay not up for yourselves treasures upon earth." She complied, and when she had finished told him that it had been her mother's favourite chapter.
"She said it was so comforting, for it tells how God knows what things we have need of," she explained "and that He will give us all we want. Only we must seek first the kingdom of God and His righteousness everything else comes after!"
Everything else comes after! The old man pondered over the child's words, and thought of the many years he had toiled to make money until the lust for gain had eaten into his heart, and he had had few scruples as to the ways in which he had added to that earthly treasure, which had assuredly stood between him and the kingdom of God. Truly had he proved the truth of Christ's words—
"For where your treasure is, there will your heart be also."
IT was dull November weather. For days Haughton had been enveloped in a thick fog, so that when one afternoon, on returning from school, Mousey nearly ran against Maria, who was issuing from the house apparently in a great hurry, she caught hold of the woman by the arm before she was recognised in the gloom.
"Why, Maria," the little girl cried gaily, "don't you see who it is? Where are you going?"
"Oh, is it you, my dear?" Maria responded, with an accent of decided relief in her voice. "I want you to run and ask Dr. James, who lives in High Street, to come and see master as soon as he possibly can."
"Cousin Robert? Is he ill?" Mousey exclaimed in concerned tones. "He was quite well at dinnertime."
"No, I don't think he was quite well, though I dare say he said nothing to let you guess the contrary. I've noticed he had a cold, and seemed depressed, and half an hour ago he was taken very poorly. He's a bit better now, and has gone to bed, but I feel he ought to have advice; so do you go and ask Dr. James to call, there's a good child!"
"I'll run as fast as I can," Mousey replied, thoroughly alarmed.
"You need not do that, for I don't apprehend master's seriously ill, but I shall be more satisfied if he has a doctor."
Mousey gave her lesson books to Maria, and went to do her bidding. An hour later Dr. James called, and pronounced Mr. Harding to be ill with pneumonia.
"He will want careful nursing," he told Maria; "you had better have a hospital nurse at once."
"I don't know if master will agree to that," she returned doubtfully.
"Oh, nonsense!" was the reply, for the doctor knew his patient's position. "I will speak to Mr. Harding myself," he said; "perhaps that will be best."
Accordingly, he returned to the old man's room, and presently came downstairs and informed Maria that he had promised her master to send him a good nurse, and that she might expect her within an hour.
"He must be very ill!" Maria exclaimed, after Dr. James had' taken his departure.
Mousey nodded. She stole upstairs to her cousin's room, and paused on the threshold to listen to his painful breathing; then softly spoke his name.
"Come in, child," he said, glancing towards the doorway with a slight smile on his face.
"Do you feel very ill, Cousin Robert?" she inquired, as she went to his side and kissed him gently.
"The doctor says I'm in for a bad illness," he answered; "he's going to send someone to nurse me. Remember, if I'm very ill, likely to die— tell Maria this—that I won't have any of my relations sent for except Cousin Eliza. Do you understand? Send for Cousin Eliza!"
"Yes, Cousin Robert," the little girl replied; "but I hope you will soon be better. Oh, you must be well by the time Christmas comes!"
"I may not live till then, my dear. I've been thinking lately that I've made a great mistake in my life; I've been so taken up with money-making that I've forgotten all about God Almighty; and now, when I'm an old man, sick unto death perhaps, it's too late to undo the past."
Mousey did not know what answer to make, but she pressed her quivering lips to his, and sobbed out that she would ask God to make him well. Then Maria came in, and fearing the little girl's emotion would trouble her master, led her gently out of the room.
The days which followed were full of anxiety and suspense, for Mr. Harding was dangerously ill. Mindful of her promise, Mousey wrote to Mrs. Dawson and told her how the old man had expressed a wish for her presence; and the next afternoon, when she was sitting in the parlour, forlorn and heart-sick, the door opened, and a well-known voice called her by name. In another moment she was in Aunt Eliza's arms, and weeping all her pent-up sorrow upon Aunt Eliza's breast.
"There, there, my dear," Mrs. Dawson said at length, "don't cry any more—now don't!"
"I thought you wouldn't be able to come."
"It was a little inconvenient," the good woman acknowledged, "but I happened to know a reliable person capable of managing the house, so I am at liberty to stay as long as I'm wanted."
Later, when she saw how ill Mr. Harding was, Mrs. Dawson felt glad she had come, more especially as he appeared grateful and pleased that she was there. He was quite conscious, and able to speak to her; and the first time he saw her alone, told her he had provided for Mousey in case of his death, and had not forgotten her or her children. Then he directed her where to find a sealed letter he had written at the commencement of his illness, and asked her if she would herself deliver it to the person to whom it was addressed at once. Glancing at the superscription Mrs. Dawson read the name—"Mrs. Downing."
"Is the letter for Mousey's school-mistress?" she inquired.
The old man replied in the affirmative, explaining in a few words the terms on which Mousey had been admitted as a pupil to Mrs. Downing's school. Mrs. Dawson listened in pained surprise, for her generous soul revolted from the thought of her cousin's meanness. How far from knowing the truth she and her husband had been when they had told each other that Mr. Harding was acting generously in giving the little girl such a good education!
"And this letter?" she questioned, when he had ceased speaking.
"It is a receipt for her husband's debt—for the full amount," he answered in his weak, gasping voice, which scarcely rose above a whisper.
Her face cleared, and she pressed his hand in token of her pleasure.
"Ah, Eliza," he said, "I have laid up a treasure upon earth, and it has brought me no happiness. I fear it is too late in the day to seek the kingdom of God and His righteousness."
"No, no!" she returned, deeply touched by his tone of wistful sadness; "it is never too late, Robert. If you have forgotten God He has never forgotten you."
There was a brief pause, which Mrs. Dawson was the first to break.
"I will deliver your letter to Mrs. Downing myself this very day," she said earnestly. "But tell me one thing—does Mousey know of this debt?"
"No, no!" he answered, with visible excitement; "I would not have her hear of it for anything!"
"She shall not through me. Is there nothing else I can do for you, Cousin Robert?"
"No, thank you. Please tell Maria if Mr. Bradley calls again I should like to see him."
When Mr. Bradley called next day he found Mr. Harding hovering between life and death. He knelt by the sick man's bedside and prayed for him. A look of peace came to the wan face of the sufferer as he listened; and after the clergyman had left, Mrs. Dawson and the nurse noticed that his lips moved as though he was praying too.
All that night there was no alteration in the patient's condition; but when the doctor paid his morning visit he found Mr. Harding had rallied a little.
Mousey alternately sickened with a sense of despair, and allowed herself to hope as time wore on. She had not been to school for days, so she was not surprised when Maria ushered Mrs. Downing into the parlour.
"I have come to inquire for Mr. Harding," the visitor explained, her tone full of real concern as she kissed Mousey tenderly. "How is he now, my dear?"
"He is still very ill," the little girl replied mournfully.
"God grant he may recover," Mrs. Downing said earnestly. "Your cousin has been very good and generous to me," she added, with a tremulous note in her usually serene voice.
Mousey saw her eyes were full of unshed tears, and though she did not understand the cause of her emotion, she felt comforted by her evident sympathy.
The following morning the doctor pronounced Mr. Harding slightly stronger. Before many days had passed, after the first change for the better, the old man's life was out of danger, and though weak and helpless as a baby, he was slowly but surely progressing towards recovery.
"I thank God that He has spared me a little longer," he said to Mrs. Dawson. "With His help I hope to spend my future very differently from the way in which I have lived in the past. Ah, Cousin Eliza, it is a terrible thing to have no share in the kingdom of heaven—no treasure beyond the grave!"
WINTER was giving place to early spring. It was a mild day towards the end of February, and the sun shone with genial warmth into the pleasant sitting-room window of Homeleigh, where Mr. Harding stood gazing out into the garden, waiting for Mousey's return from school.
Nearly three months had passed since the old man's severe illness. The doctor had advocated change of scene as soon as possible; so Homeleigh had been put in readiness to receive its new inmates; and a fortnight before Christmas, Mrs. Dawson had superintended the removal of her cousin's furniture to the new abode, and then had gone home to her family, who had become clamorous for her return.
Mr. Harding had soon made a recovery, though his shoulders were more bent than they had been; and he seemed better satisfied to take life quietly. Although he had given up his shop he found plenty to do still, as he had considerable property in the town, the management of which gave him sufficient employment. He had not altered much in his general appearance; but those who knew him well, found that since his illness he was much changed, for he now evinced a desire to spend some of his hoarded money when he saw it would do good. Then, too, he grew more sociable, and allowed Mousey to invite her school-fellows to tea, and appeared really pleased to see them—Nellie Thomas, in particular.
"Mousey will be here soon," he thought, as he stood at the window. "Ah, there she is; lingering to say good-bye to Nellie Thomas, as usual."
In another minute the little girl came running up the garden path, her bright, happy face turned towards him, He smiled and nodded at her, for she had so crept into his heart as to become the sunshine of his life.
"Oh, what a lovely day!" she cried, as she entered the room a moment later. "I hope you have been out, Cousin Robert?"
"Yes, my dear," he responded; "I've been for a stroll in the park, where I made the acquaintance of two friends of yours."
"The twins? Dolly and Dick? I know they go to play in the park every morning. Did you really speak to them, Cousin Robert?"
"Yes, and found them most entertaining little people. We must get their mother to allow you to have them here to tea one day; they would like playing in the garden, I am sure. By the way, I've been thinking, my dear, it's time we had the garden tilled up for the spring; it is a perfect wilderness as it is. I must see about getting a gardener to-morrow."
This Mr. Harding accordingly did, and during the week which followed he was busily employed in superintending the laying out of the flower-beds to the best advantage.
"It's quite a pleasure to see master nowadays," Maria said to Mousey on one occasion; "he seems to have thrown off his old life with the old house. This morning he had Mr. Bradley here with him for more than an hour, and a little later I looked into the garden, and there were master and Mr. Thomas talking in as friendly a manner as possible. I don't believe John Monday would know master, I really don't!"
"I expect he would," Mousey replied, laughing; "but I shall soon see, because Cousin Robert says one Saturday he means to take me to see Aunt Eliza and Uncle Dick."
So it happened that one fine afternoon Mr. Harding and Mousey arrived unexpectedly in the midst of the Dawson family, and received a hearty welcome from all. Mousey was anxious to see the meeting between John Monday and her cousin; and her heart beat unevenly when Mr. Dawson was taking them round his gardens and she caught sight of the familiar form of Mr. Harding's late assistant.
"There is John Monday," Mr. Dawson said. "I am pleased to say he is doing well and giving me great satisfaction."
John Monday lifted his cap as his old master approached, and glanced at him a trifle shyly.
"I am glad to hear a good account of you, John," Mr. Harding said, as he held out his hand. "Do you like your work here?"
"Yes, sir," the lad answered promptly; "it just suits me, for I love being out-of-doors all day."
"Ah!" exclaimed the old man; "you were like a round peg in a square hole when you were with me. Well—well—I hope you're in your right place now."
John Monday blushed deeply, but his eyes did not falter beneath the other's scrutinising gaze. In a low tone he commenced to explain how sorry he was he had not tried more to please Mr. Harding in the past. Mousey moved on with her aunt and uncle, so that what followed between her cousin and his late assistant she never knew. When Mr. Harding joined them again she overheard him say to Mr. Dawson—
"I never saw anyone so much altered in a short while as John Monday. He has grown such a manly lad, and his manners are wonderfully improved."
Mousey could not perceive that John Monday had changed to such an extent as her cousin said. He certainly looked better and happier, and there was an air of contentment about him which was pleasant to see; but when she found an opportunity for a few moments' conversation with him, she found him the same outspoken boy as of old. He inquired for Maria, and listened with interest to the little girl's account of the new home.
"I say, what's come to him?" he asked, jerking his thumb in the old familiar way in the direction of Mr. Harding. "What makes him so different? He spoke to me as nicely as anyone could, and asked me to come and see him some day. It's a fact! He did."
"And I hope you will come, John," she replied earnestly. "Yes, Cousin Robert is altered, isn't he? I think it's God's doing."
John Monday stared at her in silence for a moment, then he said—
"I shouldn't be surprised. Maybe you're right. I don't believe anyone but God could have brought about such a change in him. Well, I'm glad, that I am!"
Mr. Harding and his little cousin spent a few pleasant hours with Mr. and Mrs. Dawson and their family, and when they parted it was with the understanding that the visit should be repeated very soon.
During the short journey in the railway train, Mousey's thoughts reverted to that other occasion when she had first travelled with Mr. Harding. But how different was the feeling in her heart towards her companion now from what it had been when he had been taking her— sorrowful and unhappy—to the shelter of his home, a year before.
"My dear," he said presently, "I have been speaking to Cousin Eliza about putting a tombstone over the grave of your parents, and it will be done very shortly—such a one as you once told me you would like."
"Oh, Cousin Robert," she cried, "how good of you! But won't it cost a lot of money?"
"Never mind that," he replied, smiling a little sadly, she thought; then, suddenly changing the conversation, he remarked: "Mousey, I should like to hear Mr. Bradley preach. I always respected him, and lately I have grown to like him. Will you take me to the mission chapel with you next Sunday morning?"
"Indeed I will!" she responded earnestly.
The train was running into Haughton Station, so there was no time for further conversation; but the little girl's heart was so glad it seemed to be singing with joy. She slipped her fingers into Mr. Harding's hand as they passed from the station into the street. It was a beautifully clear night, and as she lifted her eyes to the starlit sky she whispered softly—
"Doesn't it make one think of heaven, Cousin Robert?"
"Yes," he agreed, following her thoughts; then, more to himself than to his companion, he repeated in a low tone—
"'Lay up for yourselves treasures in heaven, where neither moth nor rust doth corrupt, and where thieves do not break through nor steal.'"
"'For where your treasure is, there will your heart be also.'"
The pressure of her slight fingers upon his hand tightened, and thus they returned to Homeleigh, where Maria was on the look-out for them.
A few more words and the story is ended.
John Monday continued with Mr. Dawson, becoming in time his employer's right hand in the business, proving himself trustworthy in every respect. Mr. Dawson flourished as he deserved, and found, as his family grew older, that he was better able to supply their needs; whilst his wife had not to work so hard as she had formerly done.
Maria continued in Mr. Harding's service, and was delighted to find that the change for the better in her master's character continued, doubtless because the love of God had entered his heart, and was teaching him the lessons he had refused to learn before. The sharp eyes looked kindly now; the sarcastic smile had given place to one which brightened the withered face; and the tongue, which had so seldom scrupled to wound, rarely spoke otherwise than gently and courteously. Certainly the genial old man, who was such a favourite with Mrs. Downing's children and Mousey's school-fellows, was very unlike the dreaded Cousin Robert the little girl had first known.
Between Mrs. Downing and Mr. Harding was an understanding which ripened into a firm friendship. He was wont to declare that he had always prophesied the success of her school, which had become a flourishing establishment in reality.
The old shop over the river, in new hands, soon wore quite a different appearance. The windows were made attractive by showy modern jewellery, thus rendering the alteration from the outside view greater still, so that Mr. Harding passing with Mousey one day remarked that he hardly knew the place, and doubted if his successor would make as much money there as he had done. But the old man's earthly treasure was not his first consideration now, as his little cousin knew well, though she did not realise that she had been an instrument in God's hands to open his eyes to the truth. Late in life though it was, he was laying up a treasure in heaven for all eternity.
W. Brendan and Son, Limited, Plymouth