Transcriber's note: Unusual and inconsistent spelling is as printed.



              MOUSEY
                OR
      COUSIN ROBERT'S TREASURE

                BY
        ELEANORA H. STOOKE

AUTHOR OF "LITTLE GEM;" "A LITTLE TOWN MOUSE;"
      "THE HERMIT'S CAVE;" ETC.



         THIRD IMPRESSION



              LONDON
     S. W. PARTRIDGE & CO., LTD.
            OLD BAILEY



CONTENTS

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 XXV. CHANGES

CHAPTER XXVI. COUSIN ROBERT'S ILLNESS

CHAPTER XXVII. SUNSHINE AND HAPPINESS



MOUSEY

CHAPTER I

A FAMILY CONFERENCE

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.



CHAPTER II

WITH AUNT ELIZA AND UNCLE DICK

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.



CHAPTER III

THE ARRIVAL AT HAUGHTON

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.



CHAPTER IV

THE FIRST EVENING IN THE NEW 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."



CHAPTER V

MOUSEY MAKES A FRIEND

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.



CHAPTER VI

EASTER SUNDAY AT HAUGHTON

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.

     "Christ is risen! Christ is risen!
      He hath burst His bonds in twain:
      Christ is risen! Christ is risen!
      Alleluia! swell the strain!"

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—

   "Christ is risen! Christ is risen!"



CHAPTER VII

CONCERNING JOHN MONDAY

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.

"MY DEAR AUNT ELIZA,

"I hope you and dear Uncle Dick and my cousins are well.
I am very well, but I miss you so much. It is wet weather,
and Cousin Robert has gone away. He has a little shop,
not a big one. I like Maria, she is the servant, and is
very kind to me. There is a boy here; he is—"

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.



CHAPTER VIII

MOUSEY LEARNS SHE IS TO GO TO SCHOOL; AND MAKES A NEW ACQUAINTANCE

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.

[Illustration: "HERE, MOUSEY, A GENTLEMAN'S INQUIRING ABOUT YOU."]

"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."



CHAPTER IX

MOUSEY GOES TO SCHOOL

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.



CHAPTER X

MOUSEY'S RICH COUSIN

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.



CHAPTER XI

MR. HARDING'S GIFT

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.



CHAPTER XII

MOUSEY GOES OUT TO TEA

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.



CHAPTER XIII

JOHN MONDAY IS CONFIDENTIAL

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!



CHAPTER XIV

MOUSEY AND UNCLE DICK

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.



CHAPTER XV

CONCERNING AN OLD SUIT OF CLOTHES AND A NEW ONE

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."



CHAPTER XVI

HOW JOHN MONDAY SPENT HIS HALF-CROWN

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.



CHAPTER XVII

JOHN MONDAY DETERMINES TO TURN OVER A NEW LEAF

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?"

[Illustration: "OF ALL THE UNGRATEFUL, WORTHLESS BOYS THAT HAVE COME
IN MY WAY, YOU ARE THE WORST!"]

"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!"



CHAPTER XVIII

JOHN MONDAY IN TROUBLE

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.



CHAPTER XIX

THE COMMENCEMENT OF THE SUMMER HOLIDAYS

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:—

"MY DEAR MOUSEY,"

"I have been writing to Cousin Robert to ask him to allow you
to pay us a visit for a few weeks, as it is your holidays now,
and your uncle and I both think it would do you good to have
a change of air and scene. I need not tell you how glad we shall
be if Cousin Robert permits you to come, and how we are all
longing to see you once more. Dear Mousey, I went to look at your
mother and father's grave yesterday, and you will like to know
that the grass is growing nicely on it, and that your uncle keeps
it tidy."

"I can picture you at Haughton better since your uncle was there,
for he gave me a full account of everything on his return; but I
want to see for myself how you are looking, and then I shall feel
more satisfied. The children send their love and say: 'Tell Mousey
to come as soon as ever she can!' Good-bye, my dear. Hoping to see
you very shortly,"

"I remain,"
"Your affectionate aunt,"
"ELIZA DAWSON."

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.



CHAPTER XX

PREPARING FOR MOUSEY'S VISIT

"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.



CHAPTER XXI

HOW MOUSEY WAS WELCOMED BY HER RELATIONS

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?"

[Illustration: A PAIR OF MOTHERLY ARMS LIFTED HER DOWN FROM THE SEAT.]

"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.



CHAPTER XXII

COUSIN ROBERT'S LETTER

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:—

"MY DEAR MOUSEY,"

"I was glad to get your letter, more especially as I did not
know you meant to write, and it came as a surprise and an
unexpected pleasure. It was most gratifying to me to note
how correctly you have learnt to spell, and how nicely you
express what you have to say. Your writing, too, is most
legible—a fact I was glad to note, for, as I dare say you
have often heard me remark, I have a great objection to an
ugly, scrawling handwriting."

"Maria is very well. She sends her love and desires me
to say she trusts you are spending an enjoyable time with
your relations."

"I should have written to you before, but something has happened
which has upset me more than I can express. A few nights after
you left, the house was burgled, the thief gaining admission
by climbing over the back wall and dropping into the yard;
after which he cut a pane of glass with a diamond out of the
parlour window, thus enabling himself to put in his arm,
undo the fastening of the window, and effect an entrance
easily enough. He forced the lock of my secretaire, and
ransacked all the drawers. Fortunately, I had only a
few pounds there, so the burglar had not a very large haul,
and I have no doubt was greatly disappointed. When Maria got
down in the morning she found my books and papers strewed all
over the place, but nothing had been taken except the money.
I only wish I had caught the thief at work; but what he did
must have been done very quietly, as no one heard a sound
in the night."

"There is little doubt in my mind but that the burglar was that
young man, Herbert Hambly, who, it appears, induced John Monday
to tell him where I was in the habit of keeping my money;
but though John Monday confessed his share of the business
as soon as ever the robbery was discovered, the police have been
quite unable, up to the present, to find a clue to Herbert
Hambly's whereabouts. He has disappeared from Haughton, and
seems to have left no trace behind him."

"You will realise, my dear Mousey, how much this affair has
upset me, especially when I tell you that John Monday has
left me. I do not think I am to be blamed for reproaching
him with his faithless conduct; in fact, he himself acknowledged
the justice of my words, and appeared extremely penitent,
begging me to forgive him. I felt that was not the time to talk
of forgiveness, and so I told him, saying that he could not
expect to obtain my pardon until he had proved to me the
sincerity of his repentance. Well, to cut a long story short,
when, later in the day, I sent the boy out to post a letter,
he failed to return, nor have I seen or heard of him since,
though that was more than a week ago. I do not believe he is
in Haughton—my private opinion being that he has joined Herbert
Hambly."

"I am much disappointed in John Monday, and confess I should
like to know what has become of him. Do not let this unfortunate
business trouble you, my dear child. I am thankful you were
absent at the time of the burglary, and during the unpleasant
scene which followed between that wretched boy and me."

"Pray give my kind regards to Cousin Eliza and her good husband;
I am grateful to them both for giving you such a happy holiday,
and if they desire to keep you until the commencement of your
next school term, I shall be perfectly willing to let you stay.
I shall be glad to hear from you again, and remain, with
much love,"

"Your affectionate cousin,"
"ROBERT HARDING."

"P.S.—I had a call from Mr. Bradley yesterday. He came
to ascertain the reason why John Monday had absented himself
from the Bible class, and seemed greatly distressed at the
account I was forced to give him of the boy's conduct, and
the fact that I had no knowledge of his whereabouts."

"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."



CHAPTER XXIII

JOHN MONDAY REAPPEARS UPON THE SCENE

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.



CHAPTER XXIV

MR. HARDING WASHES HIS HANDS OF JOHN MONDAY

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.



CHAPTER XXV

CHANGES

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."



CHAPTER XXVI

COUSIN ROBERT'S ILLNESS

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!"



CHAPTER XXVII

SUNSHINE AND HAPPINESS

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