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Mrs. Overtheway's Remembrances

by Juliana Horatia Ewing · English · Gutenberg #17772 · 320,509 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: Mrs. Overtheway's Remembrances

Author: Juliana Horatia Ewing


        
Release date: February 16, 2006 [eBook #17772]
                Most recently updated: January 11, 2020

Language: English

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        Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MRS. OVERTHEWAY'S REMEMBRANCES ***




Produced by Juliet Sutherland, Sankar Viswanathan, and the
Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net









                          MRS. OVERTHEWAY'S
                            REMEMBRANCES.


                                 BY
                       JULIANA HORATIA EWING.




                               LONDON:
              SOCIETY FOR PROMOTING CHRISTIAN KNOWLEDGE,
                     NORTHUMBERLAND AVENUE, W.C.
                   NEW YORK: E. & J.B. YOUNG & CO.





 [Published under the direction of the General Literature Committee.]




                            TO MY HUSBAND
                                 A.E.
                          IN REMEMBRANCE OF
                            1866 AND 1867
                                       J.H.E.




CONTENTS.

IDA

MRS. MOSS

THE SNORING GHOST

REKA DOM

KERGUELEN'S LAND




IDA.

... "Thou shall not lack
    The flower that's like thy face, pale Primrose."

_Cymbeline._


The little old lady lived over the way, through a green gate that
shut with a click, and up three white steps. Every morning at eight
o'clock the church bell chimed for Morning Prayer--chim! chime! chim!
chime!--and every morning at eight o'clock the little old lady came
down the white steps, and opened the gate with a click, and went where
the bells were calling.

About this time also little Ida would kneel on a chair at her nursery
window in the opposite house to watch the old lady come out and go.
The old lady was one of those people who look always the same. Every
morning her cheeks looked like faded rose-leaves, and her white hair
like a snow-wreath in a garden laughing at the last tea-rose. Every
morning she wore the same black satin bonnet, and the same white
shawl; had delicate gloves on the smallest of hands, and gathered her
skirt daintily up from the smallest of feet. Every morning she carried
a clean pocket-handkerchief, and a fresh rose in the same hand with
her Prayer-book; and as the Prayer-book, being bound up with the
Bible, was very thick, she seemed to have some difficulty in so doing.
Every morning, whatever the weather might be, she stood outside the
green gate, and looked up at the sky to see if this were clear, and
down at the ground to see if that were dry; and so went where the
bells were calling.

Ida knew the little old lady quite well by sight, but she did not know
her name. Perhaps Ida's great-uncle knew it; but he was a grave,
unsociable man, who saw very little of his neighbours, so perhaps he
did not; and Ida stood too much in awe of him to trouble him with idle
questions. She had once asked Nurse, but Nurse did not know; so the
quiet orphan child asked no more. She made up a name for the little
old lady herself, however, after the manner of Mr. John Bunyan, and
called her Mrs. Overtheway; and morning after morning, though the
bread-and-milk breakfast smoked upon the table, she would linger at
the window, beseeching--

"One minute more, dear Nurse! Please let me wait till Mrs. Overtheway
has gone to church."

And when the little old lady had come out and gone, Ida would creep
from her perch, and begin her breakfast. Then, if the chimes went on
till half the basinful was eaten, little Ida would nod her head
contentedly, and whisper--

"Mrs. Overtheway was in time."

Little Ida's history was a sad one. Her troubles began when she was
but a year old, with the greatest of earthly losses--for then her
mother died, leaving a sailor husband and their infant child. The
sea-captain could face danger, but not an empty home; so he went back
to the winds and the waves, leaving his little daughter with
relations. Six long years had he been away, and Ida had had many
homes, and yet, somehow, no home, when one day the postman brought her
a large letter, with her own name written upon it in a large hand.
This was no old envelope sealed up again--no make-believe epistle to
be put into the post through the nursery door: it was a real letter,
with a real seal, real stamps, and a great many post-marks; and when
Ida opened it there were two sheets written by the Captain's very own
hand, in round fat characters, easy to read, with a sketch of the
Captain's very own ship at the top, and--most welcome above all!--the
news that the Captain's very own self was coming home.

"I shall have a papa all to myself very soon, Nurse," said Ida. "He
has written a letter to me, and made me a picture of his ship; it is
the 'Bonne Esperance,' which he says means Good Hope. I love this
letter better than anything he has ever sent me."

Nevertheless, Ida took out the carved fans and workboxes, the beads,
and handkerchiefs, and feathers, the dainty foreign treasures the
sailor-father had sent to her from time to time; dusted them, kissed
them, and told them that the Captain was coming home. But the letter
she wore in her pocket by day, and kept under her pillow by night.

"Why don't you put your letter into one of your boxes, like a tidy
young lady, Miss Ida?" said Nurse. "You'll wear it all to bits doing
as you do."

"It will last till the ship comes home," said Miss Ida.

It had need then to have been written on the rock, graven with an iron
pen for ever; for the "Bonne Esperance" (like other earthly hopes) had
perished to return no more. She foundered on her homeward voyage, and
went down into the great waters, whilst Ida slept through the stormy
night, with the Captain's letter beneath her pillow.

Alas! Alas! Alas!

       *       *       *       *       *

Two or three months had now passed away since Ida became an orphan.
She had become accustomed to the crape-hung frock; she had learnt to
read the Captain's letter as the memorial of a good hope which it had
pleased God to disappoint; she was fairly happy again. It was in the
midst of that new desolation in her lonely life that she had come to
stay with her great-uncle, and had begun to watch the doings of the
little old lady who lived over the way. When dolls seemed vanity, and
Noah's Ark a burden, it had been a quiet amusement, demanding no
exertion, to see what little she could see of the old lady's life, and
to speculate about what she could not; to wonder and fancy what Mrs.
Overtheway looked like without her bonnet, and what she did with
herself when she was not at church. Ida's imagination did not carry
her far. She believed her friend to be old, immeasurably old,
indefinitely old; and had a secret faith that she had never been
otherwise. She felt sure that she wore a cap indoors, and that it was
a nicer one than Nurse's; that she had real tea, with sugar and cream,
instead of milk-and-water, and hot toast rather than bread-and-treacle
for tea; that she helped herself at meals, and went to bed according
to her own pleasure and convenience; was--perhaps on these very
grounds--utterly happy, and had always been so.

"I am only a little girl," said Ida, as she pressed her face sadly to
the cold window-pane. "I am only a little girl, and very sad, you
know, because Papa was drowned at sea; but Mrs. Overtheway is very
old, and always happy, and so I love her."

And in this there was both philosophy and truth.

It is a mistake to suppose that the happiness of others is always a
distasteful sight to the sad at heart. There are times in which life
seems shorn of interests and bereaved of pleasure, when it is a
relief, almost amounting to consolation, to believe that any one is
happy. It is some feeling of this nature, perhaps, which makes the
young so attractive to the old. It soothes like the sound of
harmonious music, the sight of harmonious beauty. It witnesses to a
conviction lying deep even in the most afflicted souls that (come what
may), all things were created good, and man made to be blessed; before
which sorrow and sighing flee away.

This was one of many things which formed the attraction for Ida in the
little old lady who lived over the way. That green gate shut in a life
of which the child knew nothing, and which might be one of mysterious
delights; to believe that such things could be was consoling, and to
imagine them was real entertainment. Ida would sometimes draw a chair
quietly to the table beside her own, and fancy that Mrs. Overtheway
was having tea with her. She would ask the old lady if she had been in
time for church that morning, beg her to take off her bonnet, and
apologise politely for the want of hot tea and toast. So far all was
well, for Ida could answer any of these remarks on Mrs. Overtheway's
behalf; but it may be believed that after a certain point this
one-sided conversation flagged. One day Nurse overheard Ida's low
murmurs.

"What are you talking about, Miss Ida?" said she.

"I am pretending to have Mrs. Overtheway to tea," said Ida.

"Little girls shouldn't pretend what's not true," replied Nurse, in
whose philosophy fancy and falsehood were not distinguished. "Play
with your dolls, my dear, and don't move the chairs out of their
places."

With which Nurse carried off the chair into a corner as if it had been
a naughty child, and Ida gave up her day-dream with a sigh; since to
have prolonged the fancy that Mrs. Overtheway was present, she must
have imagined her borne off at the crisis of the meal after a fashion
not altogether consistent with an old lady's dignity.

Summer passed, and winter came on. There were days when the white
steps looked whiter than usual; when the snowdrift came halfway up the
little green gate, and the snowflakes came softly down with a
persistency which threatened to bury the whole town. Ida knew that on
such days Mrs. Overtheway could not go out; but whenever it was
tolerably fine the old lady appeared as usual, came daintily down the
steps, and went where the bells were calling. Chim! chime! chim!
chime! They sounded so near through the frosty air, that Ida could
almost have fancied that the church was coming round through the snowy
streets to pick up the congregation.

Mrs. Overtheway looked much the same in winter as in summer. She
seemed as fresh and lively as ever, carried her Prayer-book and
handkerchief in the same hand, was only more warmly wrapped up, and
wore fur-lined boots, which were charming. There was one change,
however, which went to Ida's heart. The little old lady had no longer
a flower to take to church with her. At Christmas she took a sprig of
holly, and after that a spray of myrtle, but Ida felt that these were
poor substitutes for a rose. She knew that Mrs. Overtheway had flowers
somewhere, it is true, for certain pots of forced hyacinths had passed
through the little green gate to the Christmas church decorations; but
one's winter garden is too precious to be cropped as recklessly as
summer rose-bushes, and the old lady went flowerless to church and
enjoyed her bulbs at home. But the change went to Ida's heart.

Spring was early that year. At the beginning of February there was a
good deal of snow on the ground, it is true, but the air became milder
and milder, and towards the end of the month there came a real spring
day, and all the snow was gone.

"You may go and play in the garden, Miss Ida," said Nurse, and Ida
went.

She had been kept indoors for a long time by the weather and by a
cold, and it was very pleasant to get out again, even when the only
amusement was to run up and down the shingly walks and wonder how soon
she might begin to garden, and whether the gardener could be induced
to give her a piece of ground sufficiently extensive to grow a crop of
mustard-and-cress in the form of a capital I. It was the kitchen
garden into which Ida had been sent. At the far end it was cut off
from the world by an overgrown hedge with large gaps at the bottom,
through which Ida could see the high road, a trough for watering
horses, and beyond this a wood. The hedge was very thin in February,
and Ida had a good view in consequence, and sitting on a stump in the
sunshine she peered through the gap to see if any horses came to
drink. It was as good as a peep-show, and indeed much better.

"The snow has melted," gurgled the water, "here I am." It was
everywhere. The sunshine made the rich green mosses look dry, but in
reality they were wet, and so was everything else. Slish! slosh! Put
your feet where you would, the water was everywhere. It filled the
stone trough, which, being old and grey and steady, kept it still, and
bade it reflect the blue sky and the gorgeous mosses; but the trough
soon overflowed, and then the water slipped over the side, and ran off
in a wayside stream. "Winter is gone!" it spluttered as it ran.
"Winter is gone, winter-is-gone, winterisgone!" And, on the principle
that a good thing cannot be said too often, it went on with this all
through the summer, till the next winter came and stopped its mouth
with icicles. As the stream chattered, so the birds in the wood
sang--Tweet! tweet! chirrup! throstle! Spring! Spring! Spring!--and
they twittered from tree to tree, and shook the bare twigs with
melody; whilst a single blackbird sitting still upon a bough below,
sang "Life!" "Life!" "Life!" with the loudest pipe of his throat,
because on such a day it was happiness only to be alive.

It was like a wonderful fairy-tale, to which Ida listened with clasped
hands.

Presently another song came from the wood: it was a hymn sung by
children's voices, such as one often hears carolled by a troop of
little urchins coming home from school. The words fell familiarly on
Ida's ears:

    "Quite through the streets with silver sound,
      The flood of life doth flow;
    Upon whose banks on every side
      The wood of life doth grow.

    "Thy gardens and thy gallant walks
      Continually are green;
    There grow such sweet and pleasant flowers
      As nowhere else are seen.

    "There trees for evermore bear fruit,
      And evermore do spring;
    There evermore the Angels sit,
      And evermore do sing."

Here the little chorus broke off, and the children came pouring out of
the wood with chattering and laughter. Only one lingered, playing
under a tree, and finishing the song. The child's voice rose shrill
and clear like that of the blackbird above him. He also sang of
Life--Eternal life--knowing little more than the bird of the meaning
of his song, and having little less of that devotion of innocence in
which happiness is praise.

But Ida had ceased to listen to the singing. Her whole attention was
given to the children as they scampered past the hedge, dropping bits
of moss and fungi and such like woodland spoil. For, tightly held in
the grubby hands of each--plucked with reckless indifference to bud
and stalk, and fading fast in their hot prisons--were primroses. Ida
started to her feet, a sudden idea filling her brain. The birds were
right, Spring had come, and there were flowers--_flowers for Mrs.
Overtheway_.

Ida was a very quiet, obedient little girl, as a general rule; indeed,
in her lonely life she had small temptation to pranks or mischief of
any kind. She had often been sent to play in the back garden before,
and had never thought of straying beyond its limits; but to-day a
strong new feeling had been awakened by the sight of the primroses.

"The hole is very large," said Ida, looking at the gap in the hedge;
"if that dead root in the middle were pulled up, it would be
wonderfully large."

She pulled the root up, and, though wonderful is a strong term, the
hole was certainly larger.

"It is big enough to put one's head through," said Ida, and, stooping
down, she exemplified the truth of her observation.

"Where the head goes, the body will follow," they say, and Ida's
little body was soon on the other side of the hedge; the adage says
nothing about clothes, however, and part of Ida's dress was left
behind. It had caught on the stump as she scrambled through. But
accidents will happen, and she was in the road, which was something.

"It is like going into the world to seek one's fortune," she thought;
"thus Gerda went to look for little Kay, and so Joringel sought for
the enchanted flower. One always comes to a wood."

And into the wood she came. Dame Nature had laid down her new green
carpets, and everything looked lovely; but, as has been before said,
it certainly was damp. The little singer under the tree cared no more
for this, however, than the blackbird above him.

"Will you tell me, please, where you got your primroses?" asked Ida.

The child made a quaint, half-military salute; and smiled.

"Yonder," he said laconically, and, pointing up the wood, he went on
with the song that he could not understand:

    "Ah, my sweet home, Jerusalem,
      Would God I were in thee!
     Would God my woes were at an end,
      Thy joys that I might see!"

Ida went on and on, looking about her as she ran. Presently the wood
sloped downwards, and pretty steeply, so that it was somewhat of a
scramble; yet still she kept a sharp look-out, but no primroses did
she see, except a few here and there upon the ground, which had been
plucked too close to their poor heads to be held in anybody's hands.
These showed the way, however, and Ida picked them up in sheer pity
and carried them with her.

"This is how Hop-o'-my-Thumb found his way home," she thought.

At the bottom of the hill ran a little brook, and on the opposite side
of the brook was a bank, and on the top of the bank was a hedge, and
under the hedge were the primroses. But the brook was between!

Ida looked and hesitated. It was too wide to jump across, and here, as
elsewhere, there was more water than usual. To turn back, however, was
out of the question. Gerda would not have been daunted in her search
by coming to a stream, nor would any one else that ever was read of in
fairy tales. It is true that in Fairy-land there are advantages which
cannot always be reckoned upon by commonplace children in this
commonplace world. When the straw, the coal, and the bean came to a
rivulet in their travels, the straw laid himself across as a bridge
for the others, and had not the coal been a degree too hot on that
unlucky occasion, they might (for anything Ida knew to the contrary)
still have been pursuing their journey in these favourable
circumstances. But a travelling-companion who expands into a bridge on
an emergency is not to be met with every day; and as to poor Ida--she
was alone. She stood first on one leg, and then on the other, she
looked at the water, and then at the primroses, and then at the water
again, and at last perceived that in one place there was a large,
flat, moss-covered stone in the middle of the stream, which stood well
out of the water, and from which--could she but reach it--she might
scramble to the opposite bank. But how to reach it? that nice, large,
secure, comfortable-looking stone.

"I must put some more stones," thought Ida. There were plenty in the
stream, and Ida dragged them up, and began to make a ford by piling
them together. It was chilly work, for a cloud had come over the sun;
and Ida was just a little bit frightened by the fresh-water shrimps,
and some queer, many-legged beasts, who shot off the stones as she
lifted them. At last the ford was complete. Ida stepped daintily over
the bridge she had made, and jumped triumphantly on to the big stone.
Alas! for trusting to appearances. The stone that looked so firm, was
insecurely balanced below, and at the first shock one side went down
with a splash, and Ida went with it. What a triumph for the shrimps!
She scrambled to the bank, however, made up a charming bunch of
primroses, and turned to go home. Never mind how she got back across
the brook. We have all waded streams before now, and very good fun it
is in June, but rather chilly work in February; and, in spite of
running home, Ida trembled as much with cold as with excitement when
she stood at last before Mrs. Overtheway's green gate.

Click! Ida went up the white steps, marking them sadly with her wet
feet, and gave a valiant rap. The door was opened, and a tall, rather
severe-looking housekeeper asked:

"What do you want, my dear?"

A shyness, amounting to terror, had seized upon Ida, and she could
hardly find voice to answer.

"If you please, I have brought these for--"

For whom? Ida's pale face burnt crimson as she remembered that after
all she did not know the little old lady's name. Perhaps the severe
housekeeper was touched by the sight of the black frock, torn as it
was, for she said kindly:

"Don't be frightened, my dear. What do you want?"

"These primroses," said Ida, who was almost choking. "They are for
Mrs. Overtheway to take to church with her. I am very sorry, if you
please, but I don't know her name, and I call her Mrs. Overtheway
because, you know, she lives over the way. At least--" Ida added,
looking back across the road with a sudden confusion in her ideas,
"at least--I mean--you know--_we_ live over the way." And overwhelmed
with shame at her own stupidity, Ida stuffed the flowers into the
woman's hand, and ran home as if a lion were at her heels.

"Well! Miss Ida," began Nurse, as Ida opened the nursery door
(and there was something terrible in her "well"); "if I ever--" and
Nurse seized Ida by the arm, which was generally premonitory of her
favourite method of punishment--"a good shaking." But Ida clung close
and flung her arms round Nurse's neck.

"Don't shake me, Nursey, dear," she begged, "my head aches so. I have
been very naughty, I know. I've done everything you can think of; I've
crept through the hedge, and been right through the wood, and made a
ford, and tumbled into the brook, and waded back, and run all the way
home, and been round by the town for fear you should see me. And I've
done something you could never, never think of if you tried till next
Christmas, I've got some flowers for Mrs. Overtheway, only I did it so
stupidly; she will think me a perfect goose, and perhaps be angry,"
and the tears came into Ida's eyes.

"She'll think you a naughty, troublesome child, as you are," said
Nurse, who seldom hesitated to assume the responsibility of any
statement that appeared to be desirable; "you're mad on that old lady,
I think. Just look at that dress!"

Ida looked, but her tears were falling much too fast for her to have a
clear view of anything, and the torn edges of the rent seemed fringed
with prismatic colours.

To crown all she was sent to bed. In reality, this was to save the
necessity of wearing her best frock till the other was mended, and
also to keep her warm in case she should have caught cold; but Nurse
spoke of it as a punishment, and Ida wept accordingly. And this was a
triumph of that not uncommon line of nursery policy which consists in
elaborately misleading the infant mind for good.

Chim! chime! went the bells next morning, and Mrs. Overtheway came
down the white steps and through the green gate with a bunch of
primroses in her hand. She looked up as usual, but not to the sky. She
looked to the windows of the houses over the way, as if she expected
some one to be looking for her. There was no face to be seen, however;
and in the house directly opposite, one of the upper blinds was drawn
down. Ida was ill.

How long she was ill, and of what was the matter with her, Ida had no
very clear idea. She had visions of toiling through the wood over and
over again, looking vainly for something that could never be found; of
being suddenly surrounded and cut off by swollen streams; and of
crawling, unclean beasts with preternatural feelers who got into her
boots. Then these heavy dreams cleared away in part, and the stream
seemed to ripple like the sound of church bells, and these chimed out
the old tune

    "Quite through the streets, with silver sound," &c.

And then, at last, she awoke one fine morning to hear the sweet
chim-chiming of the church bells, and to see Nurse sitting by her
bedside. She lay still for a few moments to make quite sure, and then
asked in a voice so faint that it surprised herself:

"Has Mrs. Overtheway gone to church?"

On which, to her great astonishment, Nurse burst into tears. For this
was the first reasonable sentence that poor Ida had spoken for several
days.

To be very ill is not pleasant; but the slow process of getting back
strength is often less pleasant still. One afternoon Ida knelt in her
old place at the window. She was up, but might not go out, and this
was a great grief. The day had been provokingly fine, and even now,
though the sun was setting, it seemed inclined to make a fresh start,
so bright was the rejuvenated glow with which it shone upon the
opposite houses, and threw a mystic glory over Mrs. Overtheway's white
steps and green railings. Oh! how Ida had wished to go out that
afternoon! How long and clear the shadows were! It seemed to Ida that
whoever was free to go into the open air could have nothing more to
desire. "Out of doors" looked like Paradise to the drooping little
maid, and the passers-by seemed to go up and down the sunny street in
a golden dream. Ida gazed till the shadows lengthened, and crept over
the street and up the houses; till the sunlight died upon the
railings, and then upon the steps, and at last lingered for half an
hour in bright patches among the chimney-stacks, and then went out
altogether, and left the world in shade.

Twilight came on and Ida sat by the fire, which rose into importance
now that the sunshine was gone; and, moreover, spring evenings are
cold.

Ida felt desolate, and, on the whole, rather ill-used. Nurse had not
been upstairs for hours, and though she had promised real tea and
toast this evening, there were no signs of either as yet. The poor
child felt too weak to play, and reading made her eyes ache. If only
there were some one to tell her a story.

It grew dark, and then steps came outside the door, and a fumbling
with the lock which made Ida nervous.

"Do come in, Nursey!" she cried.

The door opened, and someone spoke; but the voice was not the voice of
Nurse. It was a sweet, clear, gentle voice; musical, though no longer
young; such a voice as one seldom hears and never forgets, which came
out of the darkness, saying:

"It is not Nurse, my dear; she is making the tea, and gave me leave
to come up alone. I am Mrs. Overtheway."

And there in the firelight stood the little old lady, as she has been
before described, except that instead of her Prayer-book she carried a
large pot hyacinth in her two hands.

"I have brought you one of my pets, my dear," said she. "I think we
both love flowers."

The little old lady had come to tea. This was charming. She took off
her bonnet, and her cap more than fulfilled Ida's expectations,
although it was nothing smarter than a soft mass of tulle, tied with
white satin strings. But what a face looked out of it! Mrs.
Overtheway's features were almost perfect. The beauty of her eyes was
rather enhanced by the blue shadows that Time had painted round them,
and they were those good eyes which remind one of a clear well, at the
bottom of which he might see truth. When young she must have been
exquisitely beautiful, Ida thought. She was lovely still.

In due time Nurse brought up tea, and Ida could hardly believe that
her fancies were realized at last; indeed more than realized--for no
bread and treacle diminished the dignity of the entertainment; and
Nurse would as soon have thought of carrying off the Great Mogul on
his cushions, as of putting Mrs. Overtheway and her chair into the
corner.

But there is a limit even to the space of time for which one can
enjoy tea and buttered toast. The tray was carried off, the hyacinth
put in its place, and Ida curled herself up in an easy chair on one
side of the fire, Mrs. Overtheway being opposite.

"You see I am over the way still," laughed the little old lady. "Now,
tell me all about the primroses." So Ida told everything, and
apologized for her awkward speeches to the housekeeper.

"I don't know your name yet," said she.

"Call me Mrs. Overtheway still, my dear, if you please," said the
little old lady. "I like it."

So Ida was no wiser on this score.

"I was so sorry to hear that you had been made ill on my account,"
said Mrs. Overtheway. "I have been many times to ask after you, and
to-night I asked leave to come to tea. I wish I could do something to
amuse you, you poor little invalid. I know you must feel dull."

Ida's cheeks flushed.

"If you would only tell me a story," she said, "I do so like hearing
Nurse's stories. At least she has only one, but I like it. It isn't
exactly a story either, but it is about what happened in her last
place. But I am rather tired of it. There's Master Henry--I like him
very much, he was always in mischief; and there's Miss Adelaide, whose
hair curled naturally--at least with a damp brush--I like her; but I
don't have much of them; for Nurse generally goes off about a quarrel
she had with the cook, and I never could tell what they quarrelled
about, but Nurse said cook was full of malice and deceitfulness, so
she left. I'm rather tired of it."

"What sort of a story shall I tell you?" asked Mrs. Overtheway.

"A true one, I think," said Ida. "Something that happened to you
yourself, if you please. You must remember a great many things, being
so old."

And Ida said this in simple good-faith, believing it to be a
compliment.

"It is quite true," said Mrs. Overtheway, "that one remembers many
things at the end of a long life, and that they are often those things
which happened a long while ago, and which are sometimes so slight in
themselves that it is wonderful that they should not have been
forgotten. I remember, for instance, when I was about your age, an
incident that occurred which gave me an intense dislike to a special
shade of brown satin. I hated it then, and at the end of more than
half a century, I hate it still. The thing in itself was a mere folly;
the people concerned in it have been dead for many years, and yet at
the present time I should find considerable difficulty in seeing the
merits of a person who should dress in satin of that peculiar hue.

"What was it?" asked Ida.

"It was not amber satin, and it was not snuff-coloured satin; it was
one of the shades of brown known by the name of feuille-morte, or
dead-leaf colour. It is pretty in itself, and yet I dislike it."

"How funny," said Ida, wriggling in the arm-chair with satisfaction.
"Do tell me about it."

"But it is not funny in the least, unfortunately," said Mrs.
Overtheway, laughing. "It isn't really a story, either. It is not even
like Nurse's experiences. It is only a strong remembrance of my
childhood, that isn't worth repeating, and could hardly amuse you."

"Indeed, indeed, it would," said Ida. "I like the sound of it. Satin
is so different from cooks."

Mrs. Overtheway laughed.

"Still, I wish I could think of something more entertaining," said
she.

"Please tell me that," said Ida, earnestly; "I would rather hear
something about you than anything else."

There was no resisting this loving argument. Ida felt she had gained
her point, and curled herself up into a listening attitude
accordingly. The hyacinth stood in solemn sweetness as if it were
listening also; and Mrs. Overtheway, putting her little feet upon the
fender to warm, began the story of ----




MRS. MOSS.

    "It did not move my grief, to see
      The trace of human step departed,
      Because the garden was deserted,
     The blither place for me!

    "Friends, blame me not! a narrow ken
      Hath childhood 'twixt the sun and sward:
      We draw the moral afterward--
     We feel the gladness then."

E. BARRETT BROWNING.


"I remember," said Mrs. Overtheway, "old as I am, I remember
distinctly many of the unrecognized vexations, longings, and
disappointments of childhood. By unrecognized, I mean those vexations,
longings, and disappointments which could not be understood by nurses,
are not confided even to mothers, and through which, even in our
cradles, we become subject to that law of humanity which gives to
every heart its own secret bitterness to be endured alone. These are
they which sometimes outlive weightier memories, and produce life-long
impressions disproportionate to their value; but oftener, perhaps, are
washed away by the advancing tide of time--the vexations, longings,
and disappointments of the next period of our lives. These are they
which are apt to be forgotten too soon to benefit our children, and
which in the forgetting make childhood all bright to look back upon,
and foster that happy fancy that there is one division of mortal life
in which greedy desire, unfulfilled purpose, envy, sorrow, weariness
and satiety, have no part, by which every man believes himself at
least to have been happy as a child.

"My childhood, on the whole, was a very happy one. The story that I am
about to relate is only a fragment of it.

"As I look into the fire, and the hot coals shape themselves into a
thousand memories of the past, I seem to be staring with childish eyes
at a board that stares back at me out of a larch plantation, and gives
notice that 'This House is to Let.' Then, again, I seem to peep
through rusty iron gates at the house itself--an old red house, with
large windows, through which one could see the white shutters that
were always closed. To look at this house, though only with my mind's
eye, recalls the feeling of mysterious interest with which I looked at
it fifty years ago, and brings back the almost oppressive happiness of
a certain day, when Sarah, having business with the couple who kept
the empty manor, took me with her, and left me to explore the grounds
whilst she visited her friends.

"Next to a companion with that rare sympathy of mind to mind, that
exceptional coincidence of tastes, which binds some few friendships in
a chain of mesmeric links, supplanting all the complacencies of love
by intuition, is a companion whose desires and occupations are in
harmony, if not in unison, with one's own. That friend whom the long
patience of the angler does not chafe, the protracted pleasures of the
sketcher do not weary, because time flies as swiftly with him whilst
he pores over his book, or devoutly seeks botanical specimens through
the artist's middle distance; that friend, in short--that valuable
friend--who is blessed with the great and good quality of riding a
hobby of his own, and the greater and better quality of allowing other
people to ride theirs.

"I did not think out all this fifty years ago, neither were the tastes
of that excellent housemaid, Sarah, quite on a level with those of
which I have spoken; but I remember feeling the full comfort of the
fact that Sarah's love for friendly gossip was quite as ardent as mine
for romantic discovery; that she was disposed to linger quite as long
to chat as I to explore; and that she no more expected me to sit
wearily through her kitchen confidences, than I imagined that she
would give a long afternoon to sharing my day-dreams in the gardens of
the deserted manor.

"We had ridden our respective hobbies till nearly tea-time before she
appeared.

"'I'm afraid you must be tired of waiting, Miss Mary,' said she.

"'Tired!' I exclaimed, 'not in the least. I have been so happy, and I
am so much obliged to you, Sarah.'

"Need I say why I was so happy that afternoon? Surely most people have
felt--at least in childhood--the fascination of deserted gardens,
uninhabited houses, ruined churches. They have that advantage over
what is familiar and in use that undiscovered regions have over the
comfortable one that the traveller leaves to explore them, that the
secret which does not concern me has over the facts which do, that
what we wish for has over what we possess.

"If you, my dear, were to open one of those drawers, and find Nurse's
Sunday dress folded up in the corner, it would hardly amuse you; but
if, instead thereof, you found a dress with a long stiff bodice,
square at the neck, and ruffled round the sleeves, such as you have
seen in old pictures, no matter how old or useless it might be, it
would shed round it an atmosphere of delightful and mysterious
speculations. This curiosity, these fancies, roused by the ancient
dress, whose wearer has passed away, are awakened equally by empty
houses where someone must once have lived, though his place knows him
no more. It was so with the manor. How often had I peeped through the
gates, catching sight of garden walks, and wondering whither they led,
and who had walked in them; seeing that the shutters behind one window
were partly open, and longing to look in.

"To-day I had been in the walks and peeped through the window. This
was the happiness.

"Through the window I had seen a large hall with a marble floor and
broad stone stairs winding upwards into unknown regions. By the walks
I had arrived at the locked door of the kitchen garden, at a small
wood or wilderness of endless delights (including a broken swing), and
at a dilapidated summer-house. I had wandered over the spongy lawn,
which was cut into a long green promenade by high clipt yew-hedges,
walking between which, in olden times, the ladies grew erect and
stately, as plants among brushwood stretch up to air and light.

"Finally, I had brought away such relics as it seemed to me that
honesty would allow. I had found half a rusty pair of scissors in the
summer-house. Perhaps some fair lady of former days had lost them
here, and swept distractedly up and down the long walks seeking them.
Perhaps they were a present, and she had given a luck-penny for them,
lest they should cut love. Sarah said the housekeeper might have
dropped them there; but Sarah was not a person of sentiment. I did not
show her the marble I found by the hedge, the acorn I picked up in the
park, nor a puny pansy which, half way back to a wild heartsease, had
touched me as a pathetic memorial of better days. When I got home, I
put the scissors, the marble, and the pansy into a box. The acorn I
hung in a bottle of water--it was to be an oak tree.

"Properly speaking, I was not at home just then, but on a visit to my
grandmother and a married aunt without children who lived with her. A
fever had broken out in my own home, and my visit here had been
prolonged to keep me out of the way of infection. I was very happy and
comfortable except for one single vexation, which was this:

"I slept on a little bed in what had once been the nursery, a large
room which was now used as a workroom. A great deal of sewing was done
in my grandmother's house, and the sewing-maid and at least one other
of the servants sat there every evening. A red silk screen was put
before my bed to shield me from the candlelight, and I was supposed
to be asleep when they came upstairs. But I never remember to have
been otherwise than wide awake, nervously awake, wearily awake. This
was the vexation. I was not a strong child, and had a very excitable
brain; and the torture that it was to hear those maids gossiping on
the other side of the dim red light of my screen I cannot well
describe, but I do most distinctly remember. I tossed till the clothes
got hot, and threw them off till I got cold, and stopped my ears, and
pulled the sheet over my face, and tried not to listen, and listened
in spite of all. They told long stories, and made many jokes that I
couldn't understand; sometimes I heard names that I knew, and fancied
I had learnt some wonderful secret. Sometimes, on the contrary, I made
noises to intimate that I was awake, when one of them would rearrange
my glaring screen, and advise me to go to sleep; and then they talked
in whispers, which was more distracting still.

"One evening--some months after my ramble round the manor--the maids
went out to tea, and I lay in peaceful silence watching the shadows
which crept noiselessly about the room as the fire blazed, and wishing
Sarah and her colleagues nothing less than a month of uninterrupted
tea-parties. I was almost asleep when Aunt Harriet came into the room.
She brought a candle, put up my screen (the red screen again!), and
went to the work-table. She had not been rustling with the work things
for many minutes when my grandmother followed her, and shut the door
with an air which seemed to promise a long stay. She also gave a
shove to my screen, and then the following conversation began:

"'I have been to Lady Sutfield's to-day, Harriet.'

"'Indeed, ma'am.' But my aunt respectfully continued her work, as I
could hear by the scraping of the scissors along the table.

"'I heard some news there. The manor is let.'

"I almost jumped in my bed, and Aunt Harriet's scissors paused.

"'Let, ma'am! To whom!'

"'To a Mrs. Moss. You must have heard me speak of her. I knew her
years ago, when we were both young women. Anastatia Eden, she was
then.'

"I could hear my aunt move to the fire, and sit down.

"'The beautiful Miss Eden? Whom did she marry at last? Was there not
some love-affair of hers that you knew about?'

"'Her love-affairs were endless. But you mean Mr. Sandford. She
treated him very ill--very ill.'

"There was a pause, while the fire crackled in the silence; and then,
to the infinite satisfaction of my curiosity, Aunt Harriet said:

"'I've forgotten the story, ma'am. He was poor, was he not?'

"'He had quite enough to marry on,' my grandmother answered,
energetically; 'but he was not a great match. It was an old story, my
dear. The world! The world! The world! I remember sitting up with
Anastatia after a ball, where he had been at her side all the evening.
We sipped hot posset, and talked of our partners. Ah, dear!' and here
my grandmother heaved a sigh; partly, perhaps, because of the follies
of youth, and partly, perhaps, because youth had gone, and could come
back no more.

"'Anastatia talked of him,' she continued. 'I remember her asking me
if "her man" were not a pretty fellow, and if he had not sweet blue
eyes and the greatest simplicity I ever knew but in a child. It was
true enough; and he was a great deal more than that--a great deal more
than she ever understood. Poor Anastatia! I advised her to marry him,
but she seemed to look on that as impossible. I remember her saying
that it would be different if she were not an acknowledged beauty; but
it was expected that she would marry well, and he was comparatively
poor, and not even singular. He was accomplished, and the soul of
honour, but simple, provokingly simple, with no pretensions to carry
off the toast of a county. My dear, if he had been notorious in any
way--for dissipation, for brawling, for extravagance--I believe it
would have satisfied the gaping world, and he would have had a chance.
But there was nothing to talk about, and Anastatia had not the courage
to take him for himself. She had the world at her feet, and paid for
it by being bound by its opinion.'

"Here my grandmother, who was apt to moralize, especially when
relating biographies of young ladies, gave another sigh.

"'Then why did she encourage him?' inquired Aunt Harriet; who also
moralized, but with more of indignation and less of philosophy.

"'I believe she loved him in spite of herself; but at the last, when
he offered, she turned prudent and refused him.'

"'Poor man! Did he ever marry?'

"'Yes, and very happily--a charming woman. But the strange part of the
story is, that he came quite unexpectedly into a large property that
was in his family.'

"'Did he? Then he would have been as good a match as most of her
admirers?'

"'Better. It was a fine estate. Poor Anastatia!'

"'Serve her right,' said my aunt, shortly.

"'She was very beautiful,' my grandmother gently recommenced. She said
this, not precisely as an excuse, but with something of the sort in
her tone. 'Very beautiful! How stately she did look that night, to be
sure! She did not paint, and her complexion (a shade too high by day)
was perfection by candlelight. I can see her now, my dear, as she
stood up for a minuet with him. We wore hoops, then; and she had a
white brocade petticoat, embroidered with pink rosebuds, and a train
and bodice of pea-green satin, and green satin shoes with pink heels.
You never saw anything more lovely than that brocade. A rich old aunt
had given it to her. The shades of the rosebuds were exquisite. I
embroidered the rosebuds on that salmon-coloured cushion downstairs
from a piece that Anastatia gave me as a pattern. Dear me! What a
dress it was, and how lovely she looked in it! Her eyes were black, a
thing you rarely see, and they shone and glittered under her powdered
hair. She had a delicately curved nose; splendid teeth, too, and
showed them when she smiled. Then such a lovely throat, and
beautifully-shaped arms! I don't know how it is, my dear Harriet,'
added my grandmother, thoughtfully, 'but you don't see the splendid
women now-a-days that there were when I was young. There are plenty of
pretty, lively girls (rather too lively, in my old-fashioned
judgment), but not the real stately beauty that it was worth a twenty
miles' drive there and back, just to see, at one of the old county
balls.'

"My aunt sniffed, partly from a depressing consciousness of being one
of a degenerate generation, and of a limited experience in the matter
of county balls; partly also to express her conviction that principle
is above beauty. She said:

"'Then Miss Eden married, ma'am?'

"'Yes, rather late, Mr. Moss; a wealthy Indian merchant, I believe.
She lost all her children, I know, one after another, and then he
died. Poor Anastatia! It seems like yesterday. And to think she should
be coming here!'

"My grandmother sighed again, and I held my breath, hoping for some
further particulars of the lovely heroine of this romance. But I was
disappointed. My uncle's voice at this moment called loudly from
below, and Aunt Harriet hurried off with a conscious meritoriousness
about her, becoming a lady who had married the right man, and took
great care of him.

"'Supper, ma'am. I think,' she said, as she left the room.

"My grandmother sat still by the fire, sighing gently now and then,
and I lay making up my mind to brave all and tell her that I was
awake. In the first place (although I was not intentionally
eavesdropping, and my being awake was certainly not my fault), I felt
rather uneasy at having overheard what I knew was not intended for my
hearing. Besides this, I wanted to hear some more stories of the
lovely Mrs. Moss, and to ask how soon she would come to the manor.
After a few seconds my grandmother rose and toddled across the room.
I made an effort, and spoke just above my breath:

"'Granny!'

"But my grandmother was rather deaf. Moreover, my voice may have been
drowned in the heavy sigh with which she closed the nursery door.

"The room was empty again; the glare of the red screen was tenderly
subdued in the firelight; but for all this I did not go to sleep. I
took advantage of my freedom to sit up in bed, toss my hair from my
forehead, and clasping my knees with my arms, to rock myself and
think. My thoughts had one object; my whole mind was filled with one
image--Mrs. Moss. The future inhabitant of my dear deserted manor
would, in any circumstances, have been an interesting subject for my
fancies. The favoured individual whose daily walk might be between the
yew-hedges on that elastic lawn; who should eat, drink, and sleep
through the commonplace hours of this present time behind those
mystical white shutters! But when the individual added to this
felicitous dispensation of fortune the personal attributes of
unparalleled beauty and pea-green satin; of having worn hoops, high
heels, and powder; of countless lovers, and white brocade with pink
rosebuds--well might I sit, my brain whirling with anticipation, as I
thought: 'She is coming here: I shall see her!' For though, of
course, I knew that having lived in those (so to speak) pre-historic
times when my grandmother was young, Mrs. Moss must now be an old
woman; yet, strange as it may seem, my dear, I do assure you that I
never realized the fact. I thought of her as I had heard of her--young
and beautiful--and modelled my hopes accordingly.

"Most people's day-dreams take, sooner or later, a selfish turn. I
seemed to identify myself with the beautiful Anastatia. I thought of
the ball as one looks back to the past. I fancied myself moving
through the _minuet de la cour_, whose stately paces scarcely made the
silken rosebuds rustle. I rejected _en masse_ countless suitors of
fabulous wealth and nobility; but when it came to Mr. Sandford, I
could feel with Miss Eden no more. My grandmother had said that she
loved him, that she encouraged him, and that she gave him up for
money. It was a mystery! In her place, I thought, I would have danced
every dance with him! I would have knitted for him in winter, and
gathered flowers for him in the summer hedges. To whom should one be
most kind, if not to those whom one most loves? To love, and take
pleasure in giving pain--to balance a true heart and clear blue eyes
against money, and prefer money--was not at that time comprehensible
by me. I pondered, and (so to speak) spread out the subject before my
mind, and sat in judgment upon it.

"Money--that is, golden guineas (my grandmother had given me one on
my birthday), crowns, shillings, sixpences, pennies, halfpennies,
farthings; and when you come to consider how many things a guinea
judiciously expended in a toy-shop will procure, you see that money is
a great thing, especially if you have the full control of it, and are
not obliged to spend it on anything useful.

"On the other hand, those whom you love and who love you--not in
childhood, thank God, the smallest part of one's acquaintance.

"I made a list on my own account. It began with my mother, and ended
with my yellow cat. (It included a crusty old gardener, who was at
times, especially in the spring, so particularly cross that I _might_
have been tempted to exchange _him_ for the undisputed possession of
that stock of seeds, tools, and flower-pots which formed our chief
subject of dispute. But this is a digression.) I took the lowest.
Could I part with Sandy Tom for any money, or for anything that money
could buy? I thought of a speaking doll, a miniature piano, a tiny
carriage drawn by four yellow mastiffs, of a fairy purse that should
never be empty, with all that might thereby be given to others or kept
for oneself: and then I thought of Sandy Tom--of his large, round,
soft head; his fine eyes (they were yellow, not blue, and glared with
infinite tenderness); his melodious purr; his expressive whiskers; his
incomparable tail.

"Love rose up as an impulse, an instinct; it would not be doubted, it
utterly refused to be spread out to question.

"'Oh, Puss?' I thought, 'if you could but leap on to the bed at this
moment I would explain it all to our mutual comprehension and
satisfaction. 'My dear Sandy,' I would say, 'with you to lie on the
cushioned seat, a nice little carriage, and four yellow mastiffs,
would be perfection; but as to comparing what I love--to wit, you,
Sandy!--with what I want--to wit, four yellow mastiffs and a great
many other things besides--I should as soon think of cutting off your
tail to dust the dolls' house with.' Alas! Sandy Tom was at home; I
could only imagine the gentle rub of the head with which he would have
assented. Meanwhile, I made up my mind firmly on one point. My
grandmother was wrong. Miss Anastatia Eden had not loved Mr. Sandford.

"Smash! The fire, which had been gradually becoming hollow, fell in at
this moment, and I started to find myself chilly and cramped, and so
lay down. Then my thoughts took another turn. I wondered if I should
grow up beautiful, like Mrs. Moss. It was a serious question. I had
often looked at myself in the glass, but I had a general idea that I
looked much like other little girls of my age. I began gravely to
examine myself in detail, beginning from the top of my head. My hair
was light, and cropped on a level with the lobes of my ears; this,
however, would amend itself with time; and I had long intended that my
hair should be of raven blackness, and touch the ground at least; 'but
that will not be till I am grown up,' thought I. Then my eyes: they
were large; in fact, the undue proportions they assumed when I looked
ill or tired formed a family joke. If size were all that one requires
in eyes, mine would certainly pass muster. Moreover, they had long
curly lashes. I fingered these slowly, and thought of Sandy's
whiskers. At this point I nearly fell asleep, but roused myself to
examine my nose. My grandmother had said that Mrs. Moss's nose was
delicately curved. Now, it is certainly true that a curve may be
either concave or convex; but I had heard of the bridge of a nose, and
knew well enough which way the curve should go; and I had a shrewd
suspicion that if so very short a nose as mine, with so much and so
round a tip, could be said to be curved at all, the curve went the
wrong way; at the same time I could not feel sure. For I must tell you
that to lie in a comfortable bed, at an hour long beyond the time when
one ought naturally to be asleep, and to stroke one's nose, is a
proceeding not favourable to forming a clear judgment on so important
a point as one's personal appearance. The very shadows were still as
well as silent, the fire had ceased to flicker, a delicious quietude
pervaded the room, as I stroked my nose and dozed, and dozed and
stroked my nose, and lost all sense of its shape, and fancied it a
huge lump growing under my fingers. The extreme unpleasantness of this
idea just prevented my falling asleep; and I roused myself and sat up
again.

"'It's no use feeling,' I thought, 'I'll look in the glass.'

"There was one mirror in the room. It hung above the mantelpiece. It
was old, deeply framed in dark wood, and was so hung as to slope
forwards into the room.

"In front of the fire stood an old-fashioned, cushioned arm-chair,
with a very high back, and a many-frilled chintz cover. A footstool
lay near it. It was here that my grandmother had been sitting. I
jumped out of bed, put the footstool into the chair that I might get
to a level with the glass, and climbed on to it. Thanks to the slope
of the mirror, I could now see my reflection as well as the dim
firelight would permit.

"'What a silly child!' you will say, Ida. Very silly, indeed, my dear.
And how one remembers one's follies! At the end of half a century, I
recall my reflection in that old nursery mirror more clearly than I
remember how I looked in the glass before which I put on my bonnet
this evening to come to tea with you: the weird, startled glance of my
eyes, which, in their most prominent stage of weariness, gazed at me
out of the shadows of the looking glass, the tumbled tufts of hair,
the ghostly effect of my white night-dress. As to my nose, I could
absolutely see nothing of its shape; the firelight just caught the
round tip, which shone like a little white toadstool from the gloom,
and this was all.

"'One can't see the shape, full face,' I thought. 'If I had only
another looking-glass.'

"But there was not another. I knew it, and yet involuntarily looked
round the room. Suddenly I exclaimed aloud, 'Mr. Joseph will do!'

"Who was Mr. Joseph?--you will ask. My dear Ida, I really do not know.
I have not the least idea. I had heard him called Mr. Joseph, and I
fancy he was a connection of the family. All I knew of him was his
portrait, a _silhouette_, elegantly glazed and framed in black wood,
which hung against the nursery wall. I was ignorant of his surname and
history. I had never examined his features. But I knew that happily he
had been very stout, since his ample coat and waistcoat, cut out in
black paper, converted the glass which covered them into an excellent
mirror for my dolls.

"Worthy Mr. Joseph! Here he was coming in useful again. How much we
owe to our forefathers! I soon unhooked him, and climbing back into
the chair, commenced an examination of my profile by the process of
double reflection. But all in vain! Whether owing to the dusty state
of the mirror, or to the dim light, or to the unobliging shapeliness
of Mr. Joseph's person, I cannot say, but, turn and twist as I would,
I could not get a view of my profile sufficiently clear and complete
to form a correct judgment upon. I held Mr. Joseph, now high, now low;
I stooped, I stood on tiptoe, I moved forward, I leant backward. It
was this latest manoeuvre that aggravated the natural topheaviness
of the chair, and endangered its balance. The fore-legs rose, my
spasmodic struggle was made in the wrong direction, and I, the
arm-chair, and Mr. Joseph fell backwards together.

"Two of us were light enough, and happily escaped unhurt. It was the
arm-chair which fell with such an appalling crash, and whether it were
any the worse or no, I could not tell as it lay. As soon as I had a
little recovered from the shock, therefore, I struggled to raise it,
whilst Mr. Joseph lay helplessly upon the ground, with his waistcoat
turned up to the ceiling.

"It was thus that my aunt found us.

"If only Mr. Joseph and I had fallen together, no one need have been
the wiser; but that lumbering arm-chair had come down with a bump that
startled the sober trio at supper in the dining-room below.

"'What _is_ the matter?' said Aunt Harriet.

"I was speechless.

"'What have you been doing?'

"I couldn't speak; but accumulating misfortune was gradually
overpowering me, and I began to cry.

"'Get into bed,' said Aunt Harriet.

"I willingly obeyed, and Aunt Harriet seated herself at the foot.

"'Now, think before you speak, Mary,' she said quietly, 'and then tell
me the truth. What have you been doing?'

"One large tear rolled over my nose and off the tip as I feebly
began--

"'I got into the chair--'

"'Well?' said Aunt Harriet.

"'--to look in the glass.'

"'What for?' said Aunt Harriet.

"Tears flowed unrestrainedly over my face as I howled in self-abasement--

"'To look at the shape of my nose.'

"At this point Aunt Harriet rose, and, turning her back rather
abruptly, crossed the room, and picked up Mr. Joseph. (I have since
had reason to believe that she was with difficulty concealing a fit of
laughter.)

"'What have you had this picture down for?' she inquired, still with
her back to me.

"'I couldn't see,' I sobbed, 'and I got Mr. Joseph to help me.'

"My aunt made no reply, and, still carefully concealing her face,
restored Mr. Joseph to his brass nail with great deliberation.

"There is nothing like full confession. I broke the silence.

"'Aunt Harriet, I was awake when you and Granny were here, and heard
what you said.'

"'You are a very silly, naughty child,' my aunt severely returned.
'Why don't you go to sleep when you are sent to bed?'

"'I can't,' I sobbed, 'with talking and candles.'

"'You've got the screen,' said Aunt Harriet; and I cannot tell why,
but somehow I lacked courage to say that the red screen was the chief
instrument of torture!

"'Well, go to sleep now,' she concluded, 'and be thankful you're not
hurt. You might have killed yourself.'

"Encouraged by the gracious manner in which she tucked me up, I took a
short cut to the information which I had failed to attain through Mr.
Joseph.

"'Aunt Harriet,' I said, 'do you think I shall ever be as beautiful as
Mrs. Moss?'

"'I'm ashamed of you,' said Aunt Harriet.

"I climbed no more into the treacherous arm-chair. I eschewed the
mirror. I left Mr. Joseph in peace upon the wall. I took no further
trouble about the future prospects of my nose. But night and day I
thought of Mrs. Moss. I found the old cushion, and sat by it, gazing
at the faded tints of the rosebuds, till I imagined the stiff brocade
in all its beauty and freshness. I took a vigorous drawing fit; but it
was only to fill my little book with innumerable sketches of Mrs.
Moss. My uncle lent me his paint-box, as he was wont; and if the fancy
portraits that I made were not satisfactory even to myself, they
failed in spite of cheeks blushing with vermilion, in spite of eyes as
large and brilliant as lamp-black could make them, and in spite of the
most accurately curved noses that my pencil could produce. The amount
of gamboge and Prussian blue that I wasted in vain efforts to produce
a satisfactory pea-green, leaves me at this day an astonished admirer
of my uncle's patience. At this time I wished to walk along no other
road than that which led to my dear manor, where the iron gates were
being painted, the garden made tidy, and the shutters opened; but,
above all, the chief object of my desires was to accompany my
grandmother and aunt in their first visit to Mrs. Moss.

"Once I petitioned Aunt Harriet on this subject. Her answer was--

"'My dear, there would be nothing to amuse you; Mrs. Moss is an old
woman.'

"'Granny said she was so beautiful,' I suggested.

"'So she was, my dear, when your grandmother was young.'

"These and similar remarks I heard and heeded not. They did not add
one wrinkle to my ideal of Mrs. Moss: they in no way whatever lessened
my desire of seeing her. I had never seen my grandmother young, and
her having ever been so seemed to me at the most a matter of
tradition; on the other hand, Mrs. Moss had been presented to my
imagination in the bloom of youth and beauty, and, say what they
would, in the bloom of youth and beauty I expected to see her still.

"One afternoon, about a week after the arrival of Mrs. Moss, I was
busy in the garden, where I had been working for an hour or more, when
I heard carriage wheels drive up and stop at our door. Could it be
Mrs. Moss? I stole gently round to a position where I could see
without being seen, and discovered that the carriage was not that of
any caller, but my uncle's. Then Granny and Aunt Harriet were going
out. I rushed up to the coachman, and asked where they were going. He
seemed in no way overpowered by having to reply--'To the manor, Miss.'

"That was to Mrs. Moss, and I was to be left behind! I stood
speechless in bitter disappointment, as my grandmother rustled out in
her best silk dress, followed by Aunt Harriet and my uncle, who, when
he saw me, exclaimed:

"'Why, there's my little Mary! Why don't you take her? I'll be bound
she wants to go.'

"'I do, indeed!' I exclaimed, in Cinderella-like tones.

"'But Mrs. Moss is such an old lady,' said Aunt Harriet, whose ideas
upon children were purely theoretical, and who could imagine no
interests for them apart from other children, from toys or definite
amusements--'What could the child do with herself?'

"'Do!' said my uncle, who took a rough and cheery view of life, 'why,
look about her, to be sure. And if Mrs. M. is an old lady, there'll be
all the more Indian cabinets and screens, and japanned tables, and
knick-knacks, and lap-dogs. Keep your eyes open, Miss Mary. I've never
seen the good lady or her belongings, but I'll stake my best hat on
the japan ware and the lap-dog. Now, how soon can you be dressed?'

"Later in life the selfish element mixes more largely with our
admirations. A few years thence, and in a first interview with the
object of so many fancies, I should have thought as much of my own
appearance on the occasion, as of what I was myself to see. I should
have taken some pains with my toilette. At that time, the desire to
see Mrs. Moss was too absorbing to admit of any purely personal
considerations. I dashed into the nursery, scrubbed my hands and face
to a raw red complexion, brushed my hair in three strokes, and secured
my things with one sweep. I hastily pocketed a pincushion of red
cloth, worked with yellow silk spots, in the likeness of a strawberry.
It was a pet treasure of mine, and I intended it as an offering to
Mrs. Moss. I tied my hood at the top of the stairs, fastened my tippet
in the hall, and reached the family coach by about three of those
bounds common to all young animals.

"'Halloa!' said my uncle, with his face through the carriage door.
'You've not thanked me yet.'

"I flung my arms round his starched neck-cloth.

"'You're a darling!' I exclaimed, with an emphatic squeeze.

"'You're another,' he replied, returning the embrace upon my hood.

"With this mutual understanding we parted, and I thought that if Mrs.
Moss were not certain to fulfil my ideal, I should have wished her to
be as nearly like Uncle James as the circumstances of the case would
permit. I watched his yellow waistcoat and waving hands till they
could be seen no longer, and then I settled myself primly upon the
back seat, and ventured upon a shy conciliating promise to be 'very
good.'

"'You're quite welcome to come, child,' said Aunt Harriet; 'but as I
said, there are neither children nor playthings for you.'

"Children or playthings! What did I want with either? I put my arm
through the loop by the window and watched the fields as they came and
vanished, with vacant eyes, and thought of Mrs. Moss. A dozen times
had I gone through the whole scene in my mind before we drove through
the iron gates. I fancied myself in the bare, spacious hall, at which
I had peeped; I seemed to hear a light laugh, and to see the beautiful
face of Mrs. Moss look over the banisters; to hear a rustle, and the
scraping of the stiff brocade, as the pink rosebuds shimmered, and the
green satin shoes peeped out, and tap, tap, tap, the high pink heels
resounded from the shallow stairs.

"I had dreamed this day-dream many times over before the carriage
stopped with a shake, and Aunt Harriet roused me, asking if I were
asleep. In another minute or so we were in the hall, and here I met
with my first disappointment.

"To begin with, I had seen the hall unfurnished, and had not imagined
it otherwise. I had pictured Mrs. Moss in her beauty and rose brocade,
the sole ornament of its cold emptiness. Then (though I knew that my
grandmother and aunt must both be present) I had really fancied myself
the chief character in this interview with Mrs. Moss. I had thought of
myself as rushing up the stairs to meet her, and laying the pincushion
at her green satin feet. And now that at last I was really in the
hall, I should not have known it again. It was carpeted from end to
end. Fragrant orange-trees stood in tubs, large hunting-pictures hung
upon the walls, below which stood cases of stuffed birds, and over all
presided a footman in livery, who himself looked like a stuffed
specimen of the human race with unusually bright plumage.

"No face peeped over the banisters, and when we went upstairs, the
footman went first (as seemed due to him), then my grandmother,
followed by my aunt, and lastly I, in the humblest insignificance,
behind them. My feet sank into the soft stair-carpets, I vacantly
admired the elegant luxury around me, with an odd sensation of
heartache. Everything was beautiful, but I had wanted nothing to be
beautiful but Mrs. Moss.

"Already the vision began to fade. That full-fed footman troubled my
fancies. His scarlet plush killed the tender tints of the rosebuds in
my thoughts, and the streaky powder upon his hair seemed a mockery of
the _toupee_ I hoped to see, whose whiteness should enhance the lustre
of rare black eyes. He opened the drawing-room door and announced my
grandmother and aunt. I followed, and (so far as one may be said to
face anything when one stands behind the skirts of two intervening
elders) I was face to face with Mrs. Moss.

"That is, I was face to face with a tall, dark, old woman, with
stooping shoulders, a hooked nose, black eyes that smouldered in their
sunken sockets, and a distinct growth of beard upon her chin. Mr. Moss
had been dead many years, and his widow had laid aside her weeds. She
wore a dress of _feuille-morte_ satin, and a black lace shawl. She had
a rather elaborate cap, with a tendency to get on one side, perhaps
because it would not fit comfortably on the brown front with bunchy
curls which was fastened into its place by a band of broad black
velvet.

"And this was Mrs. Moss! This was the end of all my fancies! There was
nothing astonishing in the disappointment; the only marvel was that I
should have indulged in so foolish a fancy for so long. I had been
told more than once that Mrs. Moss was nearly as old as my
grandmother. As it was, she looked older. Why--I could not tell then,
though I know now.

"My grandmother, though never a beauty, had a sweet smile of her own,
and a certain occasional kindling of the eyes, the outward signs of a
character full of sentiment and intelligence; and these had outlasted
youth. She had always been what is called 'pleasing,' and she was
pleasing still. But in Mrs. Moss no strength, no sentiment, no
intellect filled the place of the beauty that was gone. Features that
were powerful without character, and eyes that glowed without
expression, formed a wreck with little to recall the loveliness that
had bewildered Mr. Sandford--and me.

"There is not much more to tell, Ida. This was the disappointment.
This is the cause of my dislike for a certain shade of _feuille-morte_
satin. It disappointed me of that rose brocade which I was never to
see. You shall hear how I got through the visit, however. This
meeting, which (like so many meetings) had proved the very reverse of
what was hoped.

"Through an angle of Aunt Harriet's pelisse, I watched the meeting
between my grandmother and Mrs. Moss. They kissed and then drew back
and looked at each other, still holding hands. I wondered if my
grandmother felt as I felt. I could not tell. With one of her smiles,
she bent forward, and, kissing Mrs. Moss again, said:

"'God bless you, Anastatia.'

"'God bless you, Elizabeth.'

"It was the first time Mrs. Moss had spoken, and her voice was rather
gruff. Then both ladies sat down, and my grandmother drew out her
pocket-handkerchief and wiped her eyes. Mrs. Moss began (as I thought)
to look for hers, and, not finding it, called,

"'Metcalfe!'

on which a faded little woman, with a forefinger in a faded-looking
book, came out from behind some window-curtains, and, rummaging Mrs.
Moss's chair with a practised hand, produced a large silver
snuff-box, from which Mrs. Moss took a pinch, and then offered it to
Granny, who shook her head. Mrs. Moss took another and a larger pinch.
It was evident what made her voice so gruff.

"Aunt Harriet was introduced as 'My daughter Harriet,' and made a
stiff curtsey as Mrs. Moss smiled, and nodded, and bade her 'sit down,
my dear.' Throughout the whole interview she seemed to be looked upon
by both ladies as a child, and played the part so well, sitting prim
and silent on her chair, that I could hardly help humming as I looked
at her:

    'Hold up your head,
    Turn out your toes,
    Speak when you're spoken to,
    Mend your clothes.'

I was introduced, too, as 'a grandchild,' made a curtsey the shadow of
Aunt Harriet's, received a nod, the shadow of that bestowed upon her,
and got out of the way as soon as I could, behind my aunt's chair,
where, coming unexpectedly upon three fat pug-dogs on a mat, I sat
down among them and felt quite at home.

"The sight of the pugs brought Uncle James to my mind, and when I
looked round the room, it seemed to me that he must be a conjuror at
least, so true was everything he had said. A large Indian screen hid
the door; japanned boxes stood on a little table to correspond in
front of it, and there were two cabinets having shallow drawers with
decorated handles, and a great deal of glass, through which odd
teacups, green dragons, Indian gods, and Dresden shepherdesses were
visible upon the shelves. The room was filled with knick-knacks, and
here were the pug-dogs, no less than three of them! They were very
fat, and had little beauty except as to their round heads and black
wrinkled snouts, which I kissed over and over again.

"'Do you mind Mrs. Moss's being old, and dressing in that hideous
brown dress?' I asked in a whisper at the ear of one of these round
heads. 'Think of the rosebuds on the brocade, and the pea-green satin,
and the high-heeled shoes. Ah!' I added, 'you are only a pug, and pugs
don't think.' Nevertheless, I pulled out the pincushion, and showed it
to each dog in turn, and the sight of it so forcibly reminded me of my
vain hopes, that I could not help crying. A hot tear fell upon the
nose of the oldest and fattest pug, which so offended him that he
moved away to another mat at some distance, and as both the others
fell fast asleep, I took refuge in my own thoughts.

"The question arose why should not Mrs. Moss have the pincushion
after all? I had expected her to be young and beautiful, and she had
proved old and ugly, it is true; but there is no reason why old and
ugly people should not have cushions to keep their pins in. It was a
struggle to part with my dear strawberry pincushion in the
circumstances, but I had fairly resolved to do so, when the rustle of
leave-taking began, and I had to come out of my corner.

"'Bid Mrs. Moss good-day, Mary,' said my grandmother; and added, 'the
child has been wild to come and see you, Anastatia.'

"Mrs. Moss held out her hand good-naturedly. 'So you wanted to see me,
my dear?' said she.

"I took my hand out of my pocket, where I had been holding the
pincushion, and put both into Mrs. Moss's palm.

"'I brought this for you ma'am,' I said. 'It is not a real strawberry;
it is emery; I made it myself.'

"And the fact of having sacrificed something for Mrs. Moss made me
almost fond of her. Moreover, there was an expression in her eyes at
that moment which gave them beauty. She looked at my grandmother and
laid her hand on my head.

"'I lost all mine, Elizabeth.'

"I thought she was speaking of her pincushions, and being in a
generous mood, said hastily,

"When that is worn out, ma'am, I will make you another.'

"But she was speaking of her children. Poor Mrs. Moss! She took
another huge pinch of snuff, and called, 'Metcalfe.'

"The faded little woman appeared once more.

"'I must give you a keepsake in return, my dear,' said Mrs. Moss. 'The
china pug, Metcalfe!'

"Metcalfe (whose face always wore a smile that looked as if it were
just about to disappear, and who, indeed, for that matter, always
looked as if she were just about to disappear herself) opened one of
the cabinets, and brought out a little toy pug in china, very
delicately coloured, and looking just like one of my friends on the
mat. I fell in love with it at once, and it was certainly a handsome
exchange for the strawberry pincushion.

"'You will send the child to see me now and then, Elizabeth?' said
Mrs. Moss as we retired.

"In the end Mrs. Moss and I became great friends. I put aside my dream
among the 'vain fancies' of life, and took very kindly to the manor in
its new aspect. Even the stuffed footman became familiar, and learnt
to welcome me with a smile. The real Mrs. Moss was a more agreeable
person than I have, I fear, represented her. She had failed to grasp
solid happiness in life, because she had chosen with the cowardice of
an inferior mind; but she had borne disappointment with dignity, and
submitted to heavy sorrows with patience; and a greater nature could
not have done more. She was the soul of good humour, and the love of
small chat, which contrasted so oddly with her fierce appearance, was
a fund of entertainment for me, as I fed my imagination and stored my
memory with anecdotes of the good old times in the many quiet evenings
we spent together. I learnt to love her more heartily, I confess, when
she bought a new gown and gave the _feuille-morte_ satin to Mrs.
Metcalfe.

"Mrs. Metcalfe was 'humble companion' to Mrs. Moss. She was in reality
single, but she exacted the married title as a point of respect. At
the beginning of our acquaintance I called her 'Miss Metcalfe,' and
this occasioned the only check our friendship ever received. Now I
would, with the greatest pleasure, have addressed her as 'My Lord
Archbishop,' or in any other style to which she was not entitled, it
being a matter of profound indifference to me. But the question was a
serious one to her, and very serious she made it, till I almost
despaired of our ever coming to an understanding on the subject.

"On every other point she was unassuming almost to non-entity. She was
weak-minded to the verge of mental palsy. She was more benevolent in
deed, and more wandering in conversation, than any one I have met with
since. That is, in ordinary life. In the greenhouse or garden (with
which she and the head-gardener alone had any real acquaintance) her
accurate and profound knowledge would put to shame many professed
garden botanists I have met with since. From her I learnt what little
I know of the science of horticulture, and with her I spent many happy
hours over the fine botanical works in the manor library, which she
alone ever opened.

"And so I became reconciled to things as they were, though to this day
I connect with that shade of _feuille-morte_ satin a disappointment
not to be forgotten."

       *       *       *       *       *

"It is a dull story, is it not, Ida?" said the little old lady,
pausing here. She had not told it in precisely these words, but this
was the sum and substance of it.

Ida nodded. Not that she had thought the story dull, so far as she had
heard it, and whilst she was awake; but she had fallen asleep, and so
she nodded.

Mrs. Overtheway looked back at the fire, to which, indeed, she had
been talking for some time past.

"A child's story?" she thought. "A tale of the blind, wilful folly of
childhood? Ah, my soul! Alas, my grown-up friends! Does the moral
belong to childhood alone? Have manhood and womanhood no passionate,
foolish longings, for which we blind ourselves to obvious truth, and
of which the vanity does not lessen the disappointment? Do we not
still toil after rosebuds, to find _feuilles-mortes_?"

No voice answered Mrs. Overtheway's fanciful questions. The hyacinth
nodded fragrantly on its stalk, and Ida nodded in her chair. She was
fast asleep--happily asleep--with a smile upon her face.

The shadows nodded gently on the walls, and like a shadow the little
old lady stole quietly away.

When Ida awoke, she found herself lying partly in the arm-chair, and
partly in the arms of Nurse, who was lifting her up. A candle flared
upon the table, by the fire stood an empty chair, and the heavy scent
that filled the room was as sweet as the remembrance of past
happiness. The little old lady had vanished, and, but for the
hyacinth, Ida would almost have doubted whether her visit had not been
a dream.

"Has Mrs. Overtheway been long gone, Nursey?" she asked, keeping her
eyes upon the flowerpot.

"Ever so long!" said Nurse, "and here you've been snoring away, and
the old lady's been downstairs, telling me how comfortably you were
asleep, and she's coming again to-morrow evening, if you're good."

It was precisely twelve minutes since Mrs. Overtheway left the house,
but Nurse was of a slightly exaggerative turn of mind, and few people
speak exactly on the subject of time, especially when there is an
opportunity of triumphing over someone who has been asleep before
bed-time. The condition of Ida's being good was also the work of
Nurse's own instructive fancy, but Ida caught eagerly at the welcome
news of another visit.

"Then she is not angry with me for falling asleep, Nursey? I was so
comfortable, and she has such a nice voice, I couldn't help it; I
think I left off about the pugs. I wish I had a pug with a wrinkled
black snout, don't you, Nursey?"

"I'm sure I don't, Miss Ida. My father kept all sorts of pigs, and we
used to have one with a black snout and black spots, but it was as
ugly as ugly could be; and I never could fancy the bacon would be fit
to eat. You must have been dreaming, I'm sure; the old lady would
never tell you about such rubbish, I know."

"It's pugs, not pigs, Nursey; and they're dogs, you know," said Ida,
laughing. "How funny you are! And indeed she did tell me, I couldn't
have dreamt it; I never dreamt anything so nice in my life."

"And never will, most likely," said Nurse, who was very skilful in
concluding a subject which she did not want to discuss, and who was
apt to do so by a rapid twist in the line of argument, which Ida would
find somewhat bewildering. "But, dear Miss Ida," she continued, "do
leave off clutching at that chair-arm, when I'm lifting you up; and
your eyes 'll drop out of your head, if you go on staring like that."

Ida relaxed the nervous grasp, to which she had been impelled by her
energy on the subject of the pugs, let down her eyebrows, and
submitted to be undressed. The least pleasant part of this ceremony
may be comprised in the word curl-papers. Ida's hair was dark, and
soft, and smooth, but other little girls wore ringlets, and so this
little girl must wear ringlets too. To that end her hair was every
night put into curl-papers, with much tight twisting and sharp
jerking, and Ida slept upon an irregular layer of small paper parcels,
which made pillows a mockery. With all this, however, a damp day, or a
good romp, would sometimes undo the night's work, to the great disgust
of Nurse. In her last place, the young lady's hair had curled with a
damp brush, as Ida well knew, and Nurse made so much of her own
grievance, in having to use the curl-papers, that no place was left
for Ida's grievance in having to sleep upon them. She submitted this
night therefore, as other nights, in patience, and sat swinging her
feet and accommodating her head to the sharp tugs, which always seemed
to come from unexpected quarters. Perhaps, however, her mind may have
been running a little upon grievances, which made her say:

"You know, Nursey, how you are always telling me I ought to be
thankful for having things, and not having things, and--"

"I wish you'd talk sense, and not give way with your head so when I
pull, Miss Ida," retorted Nurse, "having things, and not having
things; I don't know what you mean."

"Well, you know, Nursey, the other day when I said I didn't like
bread-and-treacle treacled so long before, and soaked in, and you said
I ought to be thankful that I had bread-and-treacle at all, and that I
hadn't a wooden leg, and to eat anything I could get, like the old
sailor man at the corner; well, do you know, I've thought of something
I _am_ so thankful for, and that is that I haven't a red screen to my
bed."

"I really do think, Miss Ida," said Nurse, "that you'll go out of your
mind some day, with your outlandish fancies. And where you get them, I
can't think. I'm sure _I_ never put such things into your head."

Ida laughed again.

"Never mind, Nursey, it all belongs to the pug story. Am I done now?
And when you've tucked me up, please, would you mind remembering to
put the flower where I can see it when I wake?"

Nurse did as she was asked, and Ida watched the hyacinth till she fell
asleep; and she slept well.

In the morning she took her old post at the window. The little old
lady had never seemed so long in making her appearance, nor the bells
so slow to begin. Chim! chime! chim! chime! There they were at last,
and there was Mrs. Overtheway. She looked up, waved a bunch of
snowdrops, and went after the bells. Ida kissed her hand, and waved it
over and over again, long after the little old lady was out of sight.

"There's a kiss for you, dear Mrs. Overtheway," she cried, "and kisses
for your flowers, and your house, and everything belonging to you, and
for the bells and the church, and everybody in it this morning, and--"

But, at this point of universal benevolence, Nurse carried her off to
breakfast.

The little old lady came to tea as before. She looked as well as ever,
and Nurse was equally generous in the matter of tea and toast. Mrs.
Overtheway told over again what Ida had missed in the story of Mrs.
Moss, and Ida apologized, with earnest distress, for her uncivil
conduct in falling asleep.

"There I was snoring away, when you were telling me such a delightful
story!" she exclaimed, penitently.

"Not snoring exactly, my dear," smiled the little old lady, "but you
looked very happy."

"I thought Nursey said so," said Ida. "Well, I'm very glad. It would
have been too rude. And you know I don't know how it was, for I _am_
so fond of stories; I like nothing so well."

"Well, shall I try again?" said Mrs. Overtheway. "Perhaps I may find a
more amusing one, and if it does put you to sleep, it won't do any
harm. Indeed, I think the doctor will say I'm very good company for
you."

"You are very good! That _I_ can tell him," said Ida, fervently, "and
please let it be about yourself again, if you can remember anything. I
like true stories."

"Talking of snoring," said Mrs. Overtheway, "reminds me of something
that happened in my youth, and it is true, though, do you know, it is
a ghost story."

Ida danced in her chair.

"That is just what I should like!" she exclaimed. "Nurse has a ghost
story, belonging to a farm-house, which she tells the housemaid, but
she says she can't tell me till I am older, and I should so like to
hear a ghost story, if it isn't too horrid."

"This ghost story isn't too horrid, I think," laughed the little old
lady, "and if you will let me think a few minutes, and then forgive my
prosy way of telling it, you shall have it at once."

There was a pause. The little old lady sat silent, and so sat Ida
also, with her eyes intently fixed on Mrs. Overtheway's face, over
which an occasional smile was passing.

"It's about a ghost who snored," said the little old lady, doubtfully.

"Delicious!" responded Ida. The two friends settled themselves
comfortably, and in some such words as these was told the following
story:--




THE SNORING GHOST.

     _Clown._ Madman, thou errest: I say there is no darkness but
     Ignorance, in which thou art more puzzled than the Egyptians
     in their fog.... What is the opinion of Pythagoras
     concerning wild fowl?

     _Malvolio._ That the soul of our grandam might haply inhabit
     a bird.

     _Clown._ What thinkest thou of his opinion?

     _Malvolio_. I think nobly of the soul, and in no way approve
     his opinion.

     _Twelfth Night_, iv. 2.


"I remember," said Mrs. Overtheway, "I remember my first visit. That
is, I remember the occasion when I and my sister Fatima did, for the
first time in our lives, go out visiting without our mother, or any
grown-up person to take care of us."

"Do you remember your mother?" asked Ida.

"Quite well, my dear, I am thankful to say. The best and kindest of
mothers!"

"Was your father alive, too?" Ida asked, with a sigh.

The old lady paused, pitying the anxious little face opposite, but
Ida went on eagerly:

"Please tell me what _he_ was like."

"He was a good deal older than my mother, who had married very early.
He was a very learned man. His tastes and accomplishments were many
and various, and he was very young-hearted and enthusiastic in the
pursuit of them all his life. He was apt to take up one subject of
interest after another, and to be for the time completely absorbed in
it. And, I must tell you, that whatever the subject might be, so long
as his head was full of it, the house seemed full of it too. It
influenced the conversation at meals, the habits of the household, the
names of the pet animals, and even of the children. I was called Mary,
in a fever of chivalrous enthusiasm for the fair and luckless Queen of
Scotland, and Fatima received her name when the study of Arabic had
brought about an eastern mania. My father had wished to call her
Shahrazad, after the renowned sultana of the 'Arabian Nights' but when
he called upon the curate to arrange for the baptism, that worthy man
flatly rebelled. A long discussion ended in my father's making a list
of eastern names, from which the curate selected that of Fatima as
being least repugnant to the sobriety of the parish registers. So
Fatima she was called, and as she grew up pale, and moon-faced, and
dark-eyed, the name became her very well."

"Was it this Fatima who went out visiting with you?" asked Ida.

"Yes, my dear; and now as to the visit. The invitation came on my
thirteenth birthday.

"One's birthday is generally a day of some importance. A very notable
day whilst one is young, but less so when one is old, when one is
being carried quickly through the last stages of life, and when it
seems hardly worth while to count time so near the end of the journey.
Even in youth, however some birthdays are more important than others.
I remember looking forward to my tenth birthday as to a high point of
dignity and advancement; and the just pride of the occasion on which I
first wrote my age with more figures than one. With similar feelings,
I longed to be thirteen. The being able to write my age with two
figures had not, after all, shed any special lustre upon life; but
when I was 'in my teens' it must 'feel different somehow.' So I
thought. Moreover, this birthday was really to bring with it solid
advantages. I was now to be allowed to read certain books of a more
grown-up character than I had read hitherto, and to sit up till nine
o'clock. I was to wear sandals to my shoes. My hair was henceforth to
grow as long as I and the Fates would permit, and the skirts of my
frocks were to take an inch in the same direction. 'In four more
years,' I said to Fatima, as we sat on the eve of my birthday,
discussing its manifold advantages, 'in four more years I shall be
grown up. Miss Ansted was introduced at seventeen.' The prospect was
illimitable.

"'Do people always grow much on their birthdays?' asked one of the
little ones. I had boasted in the nursery, that when I was thirteen I
should be 'nearly grown up,' and I myself had hardly outlived the idea
that on one's birthday one was a year older than on the previous day,
and might naturally expect to have made a year's growth during the
night.

"This birthday, however, produced no such striking change. As usual,
the presents were charming; the wreath as lovely as Fatima's deft
fingers could make it, the general holiday and pleasure-making almost
too much of a good thing. Otherwise, there was little to mark it from
other days in the year.

"Towards evening we were all sitting on the grass, the boys with their
heads on the sisters' laps, and there had been an outcry for a story,
to which no one had responded; partly, perhaps, because the exquisite
air of evening seemed a sufficient delight, the stillness too profound
to be lightly disturbed. We had remained for some time without
speaking, and the idea was becoming general among the girls that the
boys were napping, when the summer silence was broken by the distant
footfalls of a horse upon the high road.

"'Trotting!' observed one of the supposed sleepers. We were not, as a
family, given to explanations, and we drew a few more breaths of the
evening air in silence. Then someone said:

"'We might make a story out of _that_, and fancy all sorts of things.
Who is it? Where does he come from, and where is he going to?'

"'It is a messenger from the seat of war,' drawled the boy in my lap,
without moving. Then, lifting his curly head for a moment, he cried,
'To horse! gentlemen, to horse! The enemy will be at Carter's Mill by
midnight!'

"There was a pause; the solitary footfalls came nearer through the
evening mists, and a small brother, of a quaint turn of mind, much
given to the study of the historical portions of the Old Testament,
sat up and said, slowly:

"'It is one of Job's messengers. _The Chaldeans made out three bands,
and fell upon the camels, and have carried them away, yea, and slain
the servants with the edge of the sword; and I only am escaped alone
to tell thee._'

"The others boys laughed, but he lay down again, as solemnly as he had
risen.

"'That was a foot-messenger,' said my boy, contemptuously.

"'It doesn't say so,' retorted the small brother.

"'Well, any way, the camels had been carried off--so what did he ride
upon?'

"A squabble was imminent. I covered my boy's face with a handkerchief,
to keep him quiet.

"'Listen!' I said. 'It's the post. The mail from the north was stopped
on the highway, but he has saved the bags, and is riding hard for
London.'

"'It's--'

"But the new suggestion was drowned in a general shout of--

"'It's coming up the lane!'

"The footfalls had diverged from the main road, and were coming up the
sandy lane that skirted our wall. The boys lifted their heads, and we
sat expectant. There was a pause, and a familiar gate-click, and then
the footfalls broke upon the carriage-road, close by us. A man in
livery, upon a well-groomed horse--nothing more, but rather an
uncommon sight with us. Moreover, the man and his livery were strange,
and the horse looked tired.

"This event broke up the sitting, and we were strolling up to the
house, when a maid met us, saying that my mother wished to see me and
Fatima.

"We found my mother sewing, with an opened letter beside her. It was
written on one of the large quarto sheets then in use, and it was
covered and crossed, at every available corner, in a vague, scratchy
hand.

"'I have heard from an old friend of mine, Mary,' said my mother.
'She has come to live about twelve miles from here. There is
something in the letter about you and Fatima, and you may read that
part aloud, if you can. The top of the last page.'

"I found the place, and, with some difficulty, deciphered: 'The dear
Major was all delicacy and consideration--'

"'No, no!' said my mother, 'the next sentence.'

"'Dear Cecilia was all sweetness. The dress was--'

"My mother took the letter, and found the right place herself, and
then I read:

"'If you cannot come yourself, at least let us renew acquaintance in
our children. I think you have two girls about thirteen? My Lucy, a
dear child just fifteen, feels keenly the loss of her only sister, and
some young companions would be a boon, as all our company will be
_elders_. Pray send them. They can come by the coach, and shall be met
at Durnford, at the Elephant and Castle.'

"'Is the other sister dead?' asked Fatima, pityingly, when we had
discussed our personal interest in the subject.

"'Oh, no! only married,' said my mother.

"It was decided that we should go. This decision was not arrived at at
once, or without some ups and downs. My mother could not go herself,
and had some doubts as to our being old enough, as yet, to go out
visiting alone. It will be believed that I made much of being able to
say--'But you know, I am thirteen, now.'

"Next day, in the evening, my father was busy in his study, and my
mother sat at the open window, with Fatima and me at her feet. The
letter of acceptance had been duly sent by the messenger, but she had
yet a good deal of advice to give, and some doubts to express. She was
one of those people who cannot sit with idle fingers, and as she
talked she knitted. We found it easy enough to sit idle upon two
little footstools, listening to the dear kind voice, and watching two
little clouds, fragments of a larger group, which had detached
themselves, and were sailing slowly and alone across the heavens.

"'They are like us two,' Fatima had whispered to me; 'perhaps they are
going to see some other clouds.'

"'I have observed two things which are apt to befall young people who
go out visiting,' said my mother, as she turned a row in her knitting,
'one is, that they neglect little good habits while they are away, and
the other is, that they make themselves very disagreeable when they
come back.'

"The clouds drifted on, and my mother continued her knitting, arming
us with many wise counsels on small matters connected with this great
event; to which Fatima and I gratefully gave half our minds, whilst
with the other half we made rosy pictures of unparalleled excellence
under trying circumstances, by which, hereafter, we should prove these
warnings and counsels to have been, in our case, unnecessary and
superfluous.

"'Most families and most people,' said my mother, 'have little good
habits and customs of their own which they feel bound to keep,
although they are not among the great general duties which bind every
one. So long as young people are at home, these matters are often
simple enough, but when they go away certain difficulties arise. They
go amongst people whose little habits are not the same as those to
which they have been accustomed. Sometimes they come to very
uncharitable conclusions upon their friends' characters in
consequence. And, I must say, that I have never met with any one who
could be more severe than young people of your age are apt to be. I
remember it of myself, and I have seen it in so many other girls. Home
is naturally the standard, and whatever is different seems wrong. As
life goes on, these young critics learn (or should learn) to
distinguish between general and particular duties; and also coming to
know a larger number of people, they find that all good persons are
not cut to the same pattern, and that one's friends' little ways are
not therefore absurd, because one does not happen to be used to them.
On the other hand, if going amongst other people may tempt you to be
critical of their little habits, it is also apt to make you neglect
your own. Perhaps you think this cannot much matter, as they are not
the great duties, and as other people seem to get on quite well
without them. But one learns in the end, that no character of any
value is formed without the discipline of individual rules, and that
rules are of no use that are not held to against circumstances.
"Charitable to others, severe to himself," seems a maxim for grown-up
people in grown-up things; but, I believe, my little daughters, that
the doubts and difficulties of life begin very early, earlier than
they are commonly provided against; I think that innumerable girls
struggle miserably in the practice of duty, from a radical ignorance
of its principles, and that the earlier these are learnt, the smaller
is the burden of regret one heaps together to oppress the future, and
the sooner one finds that peace of mind which is not common even
amongst the young, and should-be light-hearted.'

"In these, or words to this effect, my dear mother prepared us for our
first plunge into society. We discussed the little good habits we were
to maintain, and, amongst others, certain little Sunday customs--for
we were to be away for a week.

"'We can't take all our good habits with us, if you won't come,' I
said. 'What is to become of the Sunday readings?'

"For my mother used to read to us every Sunday evening, and we were
just in the middle of that book of wondrous fascination--'The
Pilgrim's Progress.'

"'If it were not for the others, and if you would trust us with it,'
said Fatima, thoughtfully, 'we might take the book with us, and Mary
might read to me, if she would--I like her reading.'

"My mother consented. There was another copy in the house, and though
this volume was a favourite, she said it was time we learnt to take
care of valuable books. So it was settled. We talked no more that
evening; and the clouds drifted out of sight.

"'They have gone to bed in a big dark cloud on the other side' said
Fatima, yawning; and we went to bed also.

"My story wanders, Ida; this is because it is an old woman's tale. Old
people of my age become prosy, my dear. They love to linger over
little remembrances of youth, and to recall the good counsels of kind
voices long silent. But I must not put you to sleep a second time, so
I will not describe the lists of good habits which Fatima and I drew
up in fine Roman characters, and which were to be kept as good
resolutions had never been kept before. We borrowed the red ink, to
make them the more impressive to the eye, and, unfortunately, spilt
it. A bad beginning, as many of our rules had reference to tidiness.
Neither will I give you the full account of how we packed. How our
preparations began at once, and were only stopped by the necessity of
setting off when the day arrived. How we emptied all our drawers and
cupboards, and disarranged both our bookshelves; and, in making ready
for the life of order and tidiness we were to live abroad, passed that
week at home with our room in such chaos as it had never been before.
How we prepared against an amount of spare time, that experience
eventually teaches one is not to be found out visiting; and, with this
object, took more sewing than we should have performed in a month at
home; books, that we had not touched for years; drawings, that were
fated to be once touched, and no more.

"I will not describe the big box, which my father lent to us, nor the
joys of packing it. How Fatima's workbox dove-tailed with my desk. How
the books (not having been chosen with reference to this great event)
were of awkward sizes, and did not make comfortable paving for the
bottom of the trunk; whilst folded stockings may be called the
packer's delight, from their usefulness to fill up corners. How,
having packed the whole week long, we were barely ready, and a good
deal flurried at the last moment; and how we took all our available
property with us, and left the key of the trunk behind. Fancy for
yourself, how the green coach picked us up at the toll-bar, and how,
as it jingled on, we felt the first qualm of home-sickness, and,
stretching our heads and hands out of the window, waved adieux and
kisses innumerable to Home, regardless of our fellow-traveller in the
corner, an old gentleman, with a yellow silk handkerchief on his head,
who proved in the end a very pleasant companion. I remember that we
told him our family history, with minutest particulars, and conjugated
four regular Latin verbs by his orders; and that he rewarded our
confidences and learning with the most clear, the most sweet, the most
amber-coloured sticks of barley-sugar I have ever had the good fortune
to meet with. I remember also how, in the warmth of our new
friendship, Fatima unveiled to him the future, which, through some
joke of my father's, we had laid out for ourselves.

"I am to marry a Sultan, for I am moon-faced; but Mary is to be a
linguist, for she has large eyes.'

"'Then Miss Mary is not to marry?' said the old gentleman, with a grim
smile.

"I shook my head in sage disdain. 'When I am sixteen, I shall be an
Amazon.'

"Precisely what I meant by this I don't think I knew myself, but my
dreams were an odd compound of heroic and fairy lore, with a love and
ambition for learning that were simply an inheritance. Many a night
did I fancy myself master of all the languages of the world, hunting
up and down the windy hills in a dress of Lincoln green. I had a
mighty contempt for men, and a high respect for myself, that was the
greatest of my many follies.

"After these interesting revelations we had barley-sugar all round,
and the coach rattled into Durnford.

"Shall I tell you how we were met at the Elephant and Castle by a
footman of most gentlemanlike appearance (his livery excepted), who,
with a sagacity which somewhat puzzled us, discovered that we were
'the young ladies that were expected,' and led us to the carriage,
firmly opposing my efforts to fulfil the last home orders I had
received, to 'look after the box?' How in the carriage we found a lady
handsomely dressed in black, who came out to meet us, and seemed so
anxious for our comfort, and so much interested in our arrival, that
we naturally supposed her to be the lady who had invited us, till we
discovered that she was a lady's maid; and on arriving found our
hostess quite another sort of person, with no appearance at all of
being particularly interested in our arrival, which I have since found
to be the case with the heads of some other country houses.

"It was a large house, reminding me of the Manor within, but prettier
outside; old and irregularly built, with mullioned windows, and odd
wings and corners. A glowing, well-kept garden contrasted prettily
with the grey stone, and the grounds seemed magnificent to our eyes.

"We were shown into the drawing-room, where the real lady of the house
sat at a dainty writing-table, scratching away at a letter that was no
doubt as affectionate as the one which my mother had received. She was
shortsighted, which seemed to be the case also with most of the other
ladies in the room; this, perhaps, was why they stared so hard at us,
and then went on with the elaborate pieces of needlework on which all
of them were engaged. It seemed to take our hostess a second or two to
see us, and another second or two to recall who we were; then she came
forward very kindly, showed us where to sit, and asked after my
mother. Whilst I was replying, she crossed to the fire-place, and rang
the bell; and I felt slightly surprised by her seeming to wish for no
further news of her old friend. She asked if we had had a pleasant
journey, and Fatima had hardly pronounced a modest yes, before she
begged we would allow her to finish her letter, and went back to the
spindle-legged table. Whilst she scratched we looked around us. Three
or four ladies were in the room, more or less young, more or less
pretty, more or less elegantly dressed, and all with more or less
elaborate pieces of needlework. There was one gentleman, young and
dark, with large brown eyes, who seemed to be employed in making paper
pellets of an old letter, chatting the while in a low voice to a young
lady with a good deal of red hair. We afterwards found out that he was
an Irishman, familiarly called 'Pat' by some of the young ladies, who
seemed to be related to him. We had seen all this when the man-servant
appeared at the door.

"'Where is Miss Lucy, Thompson?' our hostess asked, sharply.

"'I will inquire, ma'am,' Thompson replied, with the utmost softness,
and vanished.

"The scratching began again, the Irishman went on gently chatting, and
it all felt very like a horrid dream. Then Thompson reappeared.

"'Miss Lucy is out, ma'am.'

"'Did she know what time these young ladies were to arrive?'

"'Miss Lucy knew that the carriage had gone to meet them, ma'am.'

"'Very thoughtless! Very thoughtless indeed!' said the lady. Thompson
paused respectfully, as if to receive the full weight of the remark,
and then vanished noiselessly as before.

"There was an awkward pause. Our hostess left off scratching, and
looked very cross; the Irishman fired one of his pellets across the
room, and left off chatting, and the red-haired young lady got up, and
rustled across to us. I remember her so well, Ida, for we fell deeply
in love with her and her kindness. I remember her green and white
dress. She had a fair round face, more pleasant than really pretty, a
white starlike forehead, almost too firm a mouth, but a very gentle
voice, at least, so we thought, when she said:

"'As Lucy is out, may I take these young ladies to their room?'

"Our hostess hesitated, and murmured something about Bedford, who was
the lady's maid. The starlike forehead contracted, and the red-haired
young lady said, rather emphatically:

"'As Lucy is not in to receive her friends, I thought I might perhaps
supply her place.'

"'Well, my dear Kate, if you will be so kind,' said our hostess, 'I
must finish these letters.'

"'The yellow room?' said the young lady, abruptly, and swept us off
without further parley. The Irish gentleman opened the door for us,
staring with a half-puzzled, half-amused look at the lofty air with
which the young lady passed out. He followed us into the hall, where
we left him discharging his remaining pellets at the furniture, and
whistling 'Kathleen Mavourneen,' as clearly as a bird.

"The yellow room was a large airy one, with white painted wainscoting,
a huge four-post bed with yellow curtains, and a pretty view from the
windows. In the middle of the floor we saw our box standing in all its
dignity, uncorded, and ready. Then it was the terrible fact broke upon
our minds that the key was left behind. My sufferings during the few
seconds before I found courage to confide this misfortune to our new
friend were considerable. When I did tell her, the calmness and good
nature with which she received the confession were both surprising and
delightful.

"'The lock doesn't look a very uncommon one, she said, as she opened
the door. 'I dare say I may find a key to fit it.'

"'What's the matter?' said a voice outside. It was the Irish
gentleman. She explained.

"'Keys?' said the Irish gentleman; 'got lots in my pocket, besides
their being totally unnecessary, as I'm a capital hand at
lock-picking. Let me see.'

"With which he slipped in, seeming quite as much at his ease as in the
drawing-room, and in another second had squatted upon the floor before
our box, where he seemed to be quite as comfortable as in the
arm-chair he had left. Here he poked, and fitted, and whistled, and
chatted without a pause.

"'I've locks and keys to everything I possess' he cheerfully remarked;
'and as I never lock up anything, there's no damage done if the keys
are left behind, which is a good thing, you see, as I always leave
everything everywhere.'

"'Do you make a principle of it?' asked the young lady, coldly.

"'I'm afraid I make a practice of it.' He had opened the box, and was
leaning against the bed-post, with a roguish twinkle in his brown
eyes, which faded, however, under the silent severity of the
red-haired young lady, and gave place to a look of melancholy that
might have melted granite, as he added:

"'I'm all alone, you see, that's what does it. I believe I'm the
neatest creature breathing, if I'd only somebody to keep me up to it.'

"Neither his hardened untidiness nor his lonely lot seemed, however,
to weigh heavily on his mind; for he withdrew whistling, and his notes
were heard about the passages for some little time. When they had died
away in a distant part of the house, the red-haired young lady left us
also.

"I shall not give you a lengthened account of our unpacking, dear Ida;
though it was as enjoyable, but less protracted than the packing-up
had been. How we revelled in the spacious drawers and cupboards, over
which we were queens, and how strictly we followed one of our mother's
wise counsels--'unpack to the bottom of your box at once, however
short your visit may be; it saves time in the end.' We did unpack to
the lowest book (an artificial system of memory, which I had long been
purposing to study, which I thought to find spare moments to get up
here, and which, I may as well confess, I did not look at during the
visit, and have not learnt to this day). We divided shelves and pegs
with all fairness, and as a final triumph found a use for the
elaborate watch-pockets that hung above our pillows. They were rich
with an unlimited expenditure of quilled ribbon, and must have given a
great deal of trouble to someone who had not very many serious
occupations in this life. Fatima and I wished that we had watches to
put in them, till the happy thought suddenly struck one of us, that we
could keep in them our respective papers of good habits.

"Bedford came in whilst we were in the midst of our labours, and
warmly begged us to leave everything to her, as she would put our
things away for us. The red-haired young lady had sent her, and she
became a mainstay of practical comfort to us during our visit. She
seemed a haven of humanity after the conventions of the drawing-room.
From her we got incidental meals when we were hungry, spirits of wine
when Fatima's tooth ached, warnings when we were near to being late
for breakfast, little modern and fashionable turns to our hair and
clothes, and familiar anecdotes of this household and of others in
which she had lived. I remember her with gratitude.

"Miss Lucy came home before our putting away was fairly finished, and
we had tea with her in the schoolroom. She was a slight, sharp, lively
young lady, looking older than fifteen to us, rather pretty, and very
self-possessed. She scanned us from head to foot when we first met,
and I felt as if her eyes had found defects innumerable, which seemed
the less likely, as she also was shortsighted. As her governess was
away visiting a sick relative, Miss Lucy did the honours of the
schoolroom. She was cold and inattentive at first, became patronizing
at tea, and ended by being gracious. In her gracious mood she was both
affectionate and confidential. She called us 'my dear girls,' put her
arms round us as we sat in the dark, and chattered without a pause
about herself, her governesses, her sister, and her sister's husband.

"'A wedding in the house,' she observed, 'is very good fun,
particularly if you take a principal part in it. I was chief
bride's-maid, you know, my dear girls. But I'll tell you the whole
affair from the first. You know I had never been bride's-maid before,
and I couldn't make up my mind about how I should like the dresses,'
etc., etc. And we had got no further in the story than Miss Lucy's own
costume, when we were called to dress and go downstairs.

"'What are you going to put on?' she asked, balancing herself at our
door and peering in.

"'White muslin!' we said with some pride, for they were new frocks,
and splendid in our eyes.

"'I have had so many muslins, I am tired of them,' she said; 'I shall
wear a pink silk to-night. The trimming came from London. Perhaps I
may wear a muslin to-morrow; I have an Indian one. But you shall see
my dresses to-morrow, my dear girls.'

"With which she left us, and we put on our new frocks (which were to
be _the_ evening dresses of our visit) in depressed spirits. This was
owing to the thought of the pink silk, and of the possibility of a
surfeit of white muslin.

"During the evening we learnt another of Miss Lucy's peculiarities.
Affectionate as she had been when we were alone together, she was no
sooner among the grown-up young ladies downstairs than she kept with
them as much as she was permitted, and seemed to forget us altogether.
Perhaps a fit of particularly short sight attacked her; for she seemed
to look over us, away from us, on each side of us, anywhere but at us,
and to be quite unconscious of our existence. The red-haired young
lady had made her fetch us a large scrap-book, and we sat with this
before our eyes, and the soft monotonous chit-chat of our hostess in
our ears, as she talked and worked with some elder ladies on the sofa.
It seemed a long gossip, with no particular end or beginning, in which
tatting, trimmings, military distinction, linens, servants, honourable
conduct, sentiment, settlements, expectations, and Bath waters, were
finely blended. From the constant mention of Cecilia and the dear
major, it was evident that the late wedding was the subject of
discourse; indeed, for that matter, it remained the prime topic of
conversation during our stay.

"Cecilia and the dear major were at Bath, and their letters were read
aloud at the breakfast-table. I remember wondering at the deep
interest that all the ladies seemed to take in the bride's pretty flow
of words about the fashions, the drives, and the pump-room, and the
long lists of visitors' names; this, too, without any connection
between the hearers and the people and places mentioned. When anybody
did recognize a name, however, about which she knew anything, it
seemed like the finding of a treasure. All the ladies bore down upon
it at once, dug up the family history to its farthest known point, and
divided the subject among them. Miss Lucy followed these letters
closely, and remembered them wonderfully, though (as I afterwards
found) she had never seen Bath, and knew no more of the people
mentioned than the little hearsay facts she had gathered from former
letters.

"It is a very useful art, my dear Ida, and one in which I have sadly
failed all my life, to be able to remember who is related to whom,
what watering-place such a family went to the summer before last, and
which common friends they met there, etc. But, like other arts, it
demands close attention, forbids day-dreaming, and takes up a good
deal of time.

"'_Wasn't_ it odd,' said Miss Lucy, one morning after breakfast, 'that
Cecilia and the major should meet those Hicksons!'

"'Who are the Hicksons?' I asked.

"'Oh! my dear girl, don't you remember, in Cecilia's last letter, her
telling us about the lady she met in that shop when they were in town,
buying a shawl the counterpart of her own? and it seems so odd they
should turn up in Bath, and be such nice people! Don't you remember
mamma said it must be the same family as that Colonel Hickson who was
engaged to a girl with one eye, and she caught the small-pox and got
so much marked, and he broke it off?'

"'Small-pox and one eye would look very ugly,' Fatima languidly
observed; and this subject drifted after the rest.

"One afternoon, I remember, it chanced that we were left alone with
our hostess in the drawing-room. No one else happened to be in the way
to talk to, and the good lady talked to us. We were clever girls for
our age, I fancy, and we had been used to talk a good deal with our
mother; at any rate we were attentive listeners, and I do not think
our hostess required much more of us. I think she was glad of anybody
who had not heard the whole affair from beginning to end, and so she
put up her feet on the sofa, and started afresh with the complete
history of her dear Cecilia from the cradle; and had gone on to the
major, his military exploits abroad, his genteel connections at home,
and the tendency to gout in the family which troubled him at times,
and was a sad anxiety to her dear child, when visitors were announced.

"Our intelligent attention had gained favour for us; and we were
introduced to these ladies as 'daughters of a very dear friend of
mine, whom I have not seen for years,' on which one lady gave a sweet
glance and a tight smile and murmured:

"'So pleasant to renew acquaintance in the children;' and the other
ladies gave sweet glances, and tight smiles also, and echoed:

"'So pleasant!'

"'Such sensible girls!' said our hostess, as if we were not there;
'like women of fifty. So like their dear mother! Such treasures to my
little Lucy! You know she has lost her dear sister,' etc., etc.

"For then the ladies drew together, and our hostess having got a fresh
audience, we retired to distant arm-chairs, a good deal bewildered.

"But to return to our first evening.

"Miss Lucy and we retired together, and no sooner had the drawing-room
door closed behind us, than she wound her arms round our waists, and
became as devoted as if we had been side by side the whole evening.

"'I'll tell you what I'll do, my dear girls,' she said when we
reached our room; 'I'll come and sleep with you (there's lots of room
for three), and then I can go on about Cecilia's affair, and if we
don't finish to-night we can go on to-morrow morning before we get up.
I always wake early, so I can call you. I'll come back when I'm ready
for bed.'

"And she vanished.

"We were in bed when she returned. Her hair had been undergoing some
wonderful process, and was now stowed away under a large and elaborate
night-cap.

"'Bedford was so slow,' said she; 'and then, you know, I got into bed,
and let her tidy the room, and then when she was fairly gone, out I
got, and here I am. We shall be as comfortable as possible; I'll be in
the middle, and then I can have you on each side of me, my dear
girls;' and in she sprang.

"'Did you notice this?' she asked, holding up her hand, and pointing
out the edging on the sleeve of her night-dress; 'it's a new pattern;
do you know it? Oh! my dears, the yards and yards of tatting that
Cecilia had for her trousseau!'

"Fatima and I were not rich in tatting edges, and rejoiced when the
conversation took another turn.

"'About the proposal,' she rambled on; 'do you know I don't really
know whereabouts Henry (that is the major, my brother-in-law,' she
added, with one of the little attacks of dignity to which she was
subject) 'proposed or what he said. I asked Cecy, but she wouldn't
tell me. She was very cross, often; I'm very glad she's married. I
think sisters ought to marry off as fast as they can; they never get
on well in a house together, you know.'

"I fairly gasped at this idea, and Fatima said bluntly:

"'There are lots of us, and we get on.'

"'Ah!' said Miss Lucy, in tones of wisdom; 'wait till you're a little
older, and you'll see. Cecy was at school with two sisters who hated
each other like poison, and they were obliged to dress alike, and the
younger wore out her things much faster than the other one, but she
was obliged to wear them till her sister's were done. She used to wish
so her sister would marry, Cecy said, and the best fun is, now they're
both in love with the same man. He's the curate of the church they go
to.'

"'Which of them is he in love with?' I asked.

"'Oh, neither that I know of,' said Miss Lucy, composedly. 'They don't
know him, you know; but they sit close under the pulpit, and they have
such struggles about which shall get into the corner of the pew that's
nearest. Cecy and I weren't like that; but still I'm very glad she's
married. Now wasn't it stupid of her not to tell me? I should never
have told anybody, you know. And don't you wonder what gentlemen do
say, and how they say it? He couldn't propose sitting, and I think
standing would be very awkward. I suppose he knelt. Aunt Maria doesn't
approve of gentlemen kneeling; she says it's idolatry. I think they
must look very silly. Cecy wouldn't even tell me what he said. She
said he spoke to mamma, and mamma said his conduct was highly
honourable; but I think it was very stupid. Do you know, my dears, I
have a cousin who was really married at Gretna Green? She married an
officer. He was splendidly handsome; but people said things against
him, and her parents objected. So they eloped, and then went to Wales,
to such a lovely place! Wasn't it romantic? They quarrelled afterwards
though; he lives abroad now. People ought to be careful. I shall be
very careful myself; I mean to refuse the first few offers I get.'

"And so Miss Lucy rambled on, perfectly unconscious of the melancholy
and yet ludicrous way in which she degraded serious subjects, which
she was not old enough to understand, or wise enough to reverence. We
were too young then to see it fully, but her frivolity jarred upon us,
though she amused us, and excited our curiosity. She was not worse
than many other girls, with plenty of inquisitiveness and sharp sense,
and not too much refinement and feeling; whose accomplishments are
learnt from the 'first masters,' and whose principles are left to be
picked up from gossip, servants, and second-rate books; digested by
ignorant, inquisitive, and undisciplined minds.

"I won't try to recall any more of it, dear Ida. I remember it was a
continuous stream of unedifying gossip, varied by small boastings
about her own family. We've so many connections, was a favourite
phrase of Miss Lucy's, and it seemed to mean a great deal. 'Do you
like making trees?' she asked. I was getting sleepy, and without much
thought replied, 'I love trees beyond anything, and I like growing oak
trees in bottles.' Miss Lucy's, 'My dear girl, I mean family trees,
genealogical trees,' was patronizing to scorn. 'Ours is in the spring
drawer of the big oak cabinet in the drawing-room,' she added. 'We are
descended from King Stephen.'

"I believe I was the first to fall asleep that night. The last words I
remember hearing were: 'We've so many connections.'

"The next day's post brought news from Bath of more general interest
to the household. The plans of Cecilia and the major were changed;
they were coming to her mother's on the following Monday.

"'My dear girls, I _am_ so glad!' said Miss Lucy; 'you'll see them.
But you will have to move out of your room, I'm sorry to say.'

"And for the next twelve hours Miss Lucy was more descriptive of her
family glories in general, and of the glories of her sister and
brother-in-law in particular, than ever.

"Sunday was a day of mixed experiences to us; some pleasant and some
the reverse. Miss Lucy in her best clothes was almost intolerably
patronizing, and a general stiffness seemed to pervade everything, the
ladies' silk dresses included. After breakfast we dawdled about till
it was time to dress for church, and as most of the ladies took about
five minutes more than they had allowed for, it seemed likely that we
should be late. At the last moment, Miss Lucy lost her Prayer Book,
and it was not till another five minutes had gone in the search that
she remembered having left it in church the Sunday before. This being
settled we all stowed away in the carriages and drove off. It was only
a short drive; but when we came in sight of the quaint little church
there was no sound of bells, and it became evident that we were late.
In the porch we shook out our dresses, the Irishman divided the burden
of Prayer Books he had been gallantly bearing, our hostess turned back
from the half-open door to say in a loud and encouraging whisper,
'It's only the Confession;' and we swept up the little church into a
huge square pew.

"My dear Ida, I must tell you that we had been brought up to have a
just horror of being late for service, this being a point on which my
father was what is called 'very particular.' Fatima and I therefore
felt greatly discomposed by our late and disturbing entrance, though
we were in no way to blame. We had also been taught to kneel during
the prayers, and it was with a most uncomfortable sensation of doubt
and shame-facedness that we saw one lady after another sit down and
bend her bonnet over her lap, and hesitated ourselves to follow our
own customs in the face of such a majority. But the red-haired young
lady seemed fated to help us out of our difficulties. She sank at once
on her knees in a corner of the pew, her green silk falling round her;
we knelt by her side, and the question was settled. The little
Irishman cast a doubtful glance at her for a moment, and then sat
down, bending his head deeply into his hat. We went through a similar
process about responding, which did not seem to be the fashion with
our hostess and her friends. The red-haired young lady held to her own
customs, however, and we held with her. Our responses were the less
conspicuous, as they were a good deal drowned by the voice of an old
gentleman in the next pew. Diversity seemed to prevail in the manners
of the congregation. This gentleman stood during prayers, balancing a
huge Prayer Book on the corner of the pew, and responding in a loud
voice, more devout than tuneful, keeping exact time with the parson
also, as if he had a grudge against the clerk and felt it due to
himself to keep in advance of him. I remember, Ida, that as we came
in, he was just saying, 'those things which we ought _not_ to have
done,' and he said it in so terrible a voice, and took such a glance
at us over his gold-rimmed spectacles, that I wished the massive
pulpit-hangings would fall and bury my confusion. When the text of
the sermon had been given out, our hostess rustled up, and drew the
curtains well round our pew. Opposite to me, however, there was a gap
through which I could see the old gentleman. He had settled himself
facing the pulpit, and sat there gazing at the preacher with a rigid
attention which seemed to say--'Sound doctrine, if you please; I have
my eye on you.'

"We returned as we came.

"'Is there afternoon service?' I asked Miss Lucy.

"'Oh, yes!' was the reply, 'the servants go in the afternoon.'

"'Don't you?' I asked.

"'Oh, no!' said Miss Lucy, 'once is enough. You can go with the maids,
if you want to, my dears,' she added, with one of the occasional
touches of insolence in which she indulged.

"Afternoon arrived, and I held consultation with Fatima as to what we
were to do.

"When once roused, Fatima was more resolute than I.

"'Of course we'll go,' said she; 'what's the use of having written out
all our good rules and sticking at this? We always go twice at home.
Let's look for Bedford.'

"On which mission I set forth, but when I reached the top of the
stairs I caught sight of the red-haired young lady, in her bonnet and
shawl, standing at the open door, a Prayer Book in her hand. I dashed
downstairs, and entered the hall just as the Irishman came into it by
another door. In his hand was a Prayer Book also, and he picked up his
hat, and went smiling towards her. But as he approached the young
lady, she looked so much annoyed--not to say cross--that I hesitated
to go forwards.

"'Are you going to church?' said the little Irishman, with a pleased
look.

"'I don't know,' said the young lady, briefly, 'are you?'

"'I was--' he began, and stopped short, looking puzzled and vexed.

"'Is no else going?' he asked, after a moment's pause.

"'No one else ever does go,' she said, impatiently, and moved into the
hall.

"The Irishman coloured.

"'I am in the habit of going twice myself, though you may not think
it,' he said, quietly; 'my poor mother always did. But I do not
pretend to go to such good purpose as she did, or as you would, so if
it is to lie between us--' and, without finishing his sentence, he
threw his book (not too gently) on to the table, and, just lifting his
hat as he passed her, dashed out into the garden.

"I did not at all understand this little scene, but, as soon as he was
gone, I ran up to ask our friend if she were going to church, and
would take us. She consented, and I went back in triumph to Fatima. As
there was no time to lose, we dressed quickly enough; so that I was
rather surprised, when we went down, to find the Irish gentleman, with
his face restored to its usual good humour, standing by our friend,
and holding her Prayer Book as well as his own. The young lady did not
speak, but, cheerfully remarking that we had plenty of time before us,
he took our books also, and we all set forth.

"I remember that walk so well, Ida! The hot, sweet summer
afternoon--the dusty plants by the pathway--the clematis in the hedges
(I put a bit into my Prayer Book, which was there for years)--the
grasshoppers and flies that our dresses caught up from the long grass,
and which reappeared as we sat during the sermon.

"The old gentleman was in his pew, but his glance was almost
benevolent, as, in good time, we took our places. We (literally)
_followed_ his example with much heartiness in the responses; and, if
he looked over into our pew during prayers (and from his position he
could hardly avoid it), he must have seen that even the Irishman had
rejected compromises, and that we all knelt together.

"There was one other feature of that service not to be forgotten. When
the sermon was ended, and I had lost sight of the last grasshopper in
my hasty rising, we found that there was to be a hymn. It was the old
custom of this church so to conclude Evening Prayer. No one seemed to
use a book--it was Bishop Ken's evening hymn, which everyone knew,
and, I think, everyone sang. But the feature of it to us was when the
Irishman began to sing. From her startled glance, I think not even the
red-haired young lady had known that he possessed so beautiful a
voice. It had a clearness without effort, a tone, a truth, a pathos,
such as I have not often heard. It sounded strangely above the nasal
tones of the school-children, and the scraping of a solitary fiddle.
Even our neighbour, who had lustily followed the rhythm of the tune,
though without much varying from the note on which he responded,
softened his own sounds and turned to look at the Irishman, who sang
on without noticing it, till, in the last verse, he seemed disturbed
to discover how many eyes were on him. Happily, self-consciousness had
come too late. The hymn was ended.

"We knelt again for the Benediction, and then went back through the
summer fields.

"The red-haired young lady talked very little. Once she said:

"'How is it we have never heard you sing?'

"To which the Irishman replied:

"'I don't understand music, I sing by ear; and I hate 'company'
performances. I will sing to you whenever you like.'

"'Mary,' said Fatima, when we were in our room again, 'I believe those
two will marry each other some day.'

"'So do I,' I answered; 'but don't say anything about it to Lucy.'

"'No, indeed!' said Fatima, warmly. So we kept this idea sacred from
Miss Lucy's comments--why, I do not think either of us could have told
in words.

'Pity, that pleasant impressions--pity, that most impressions--pass
away so soon!

       *       *       *       *       *

"The evening was not altogether so satisfactory as the afternoon had
been. First, Miss Lucy took us to see her sister's wedding-presents,
most of which were still here in her mother's keeping. They were
splendid, and Miss Lucy was eloquent. From them we dawdled on into her
room, where she displayed her own treasures, with a running commentary
on matters of taste and fashion, which lasted till it was time to
dress for the evening, when she made the usual inquiry, 'What shall
you put on to-night, my dear girls?' and we blushed to own that there
was nothing further of our limited toilettes to reveal.

"In the drawing-room, similar subjects of conversation awaited us. Our
hostess and her friends did not seem to care much for reading, and, as
they did not work on Sunday evening, they talked the more. The chatter
ran chiefly upon the Bath fashions, and upon some ball which had been
held somewhere, where somebody had been dressed after a manner that it
appeared needful to protest against; whilst somebody else (a cousin of
our hostess) was at all points so perfectly attired, that it seemed as
if she should have afforded ample consolation for the other lady's
defects.

"Upon the beauty of this cousin, her father's wealth, and her
superabundant opportunities of matrimony, Miss Lucy enlarged to us, as
we sat in a corner. Another of her peculiarities, by-the-by, was this.
By her own account, all her relatives and friends were in some sense
beautiful. The men were generally 'splendidly handsome;' the ladies,
'the loveliest creatures.' If not 'lovely,' they were 'stylish;' if
nothing else, they were 'charming.' For those who were beyond the
magic circle, this process was reversed. If pretty, they 'wanted
style.' If the dress was beyond criticism, the nose, the complexion,
the hand was at fault. I have met with this _trait_ in other cliques,
since then.

"My dear Ida, I wish to encourage no young lady of the hoydenish age
of thirteen, in despising nice dressing and pretty looks and manners;
or in neglecting to pick up any little hints which she may glean in
such things from older friends. But there are people to whom these
questions seem of such first importance, that to be with them when you
are young and impressionable, is to feel every defect in your own
personal appearance to be a crime, and to believe that there is
neither worth, nor love, nor happiness (no life, in fact, worth living
for) connected with much less than ten thousand a year, and
'connections.' Through some such ordeal we passed that evening, in
seeing and hearing of all the expensive luxuries without which it
seemed impossible to feed, dress, sleep, go out--in fact, exist; and
all the equally expensive items of adornment, without which it
appeared to be impossible to have (or at any rate retain) the respect
and affection of your friends.

"Meanwhile, the evening slipped by, and our Sunday reading had not
been accomplished. We had found little good habits less easy to
maintain in a strange household than we had thought, and this one
seemed likely to follow some others that had been allowed to slip.
The red-haired young lady had been absent for about half an hour, and
the Irishman had been prowling restlessly round the room, performing
murderous-looking fidgets with the paper-knives, when she returned
with a book in her hand, which she settled herself resolutely to read.
The Irishman gave a comical glance at the serious-looking volume, and
then, seating himself on a chair just behind her, found apparent peace
in the effort to sharpen a flat ruler on his knees. The young lady
read on. It was evident that her Sunday customs were not apt to be
disturbed by circumstances.

"I began to feel uncomfortable. Fatima was crouched down near Lucy,
listening to the history of a piece of lace. I waited some little time
to catch her eye, and then beckoned her to me.

"'We haven't read,' I whispered.

"'Dare you go?' asked Fatima.

"'We ought,' I said.

"It required more daring than may appear. To such little people as
ourselves it _was_ rather an undertaking to cross the big
drawing-room, stealing together over the soft carpet; to attack the
large, smooth handle, open the heavy door, and leave the room in the
face of the company. We did it, however, our confusion being much
increased by the Irish gentleman, who jumped up to open the door for
us. We were utterly unable to thank him, and, stumbling over each
other in the passage, flew up to our own room like caged birds set
free.

"Fatima drew out the pillows from the bed, and made herself easy on
the floor. I found the book, and climbed into the window-seat. The sun
was setting, the light would not last much longer; yet I turned over
the pages slowly, to find the place, which was in the second part,
thinking of the conversation downstairs. Fatima heaved a deep sigh
among her cushions, and said: 'I wish we were rich.'

"'I wish we were at home,' I answered.

"'When one's at home,' Fatima continued, in doleful tones, 'one
doesn't feel it, because one sees nobody; but when one goes among
other people, it _is_ wretched not to have plenty of money and things.
And it's no good saying it isn't,' she added, hurriedly, as if to
close the subject.

"'It's getting dark,' I said.

"'I beg your pardon: go on,' sighed Fatima.

"I lifted up my voice, and read till I could see no longer. It was
about the Valley of Humiliation through which Mr. Greatheart led
Christiana and her children. The 'green valley, beautified with
lilies,' in whose meadows the air was pleasant; where 'a man shall be
free from the noise and from the hurryings of this life;' and where
'in former times men have met with angels.'

"The last streaks of crimson were fading in the sky when I read the
concluding lines of the shepherd-boy's song--

    'Fulness to such a burden is,
    That go on pilgrimage,
    Here little, and hereafter bliss,
    Is best from age to age.'

"'Here little, and hereafter bliss!'

"It is not always easy to realize what one believes. One needs
sometimes to get away from the world around, 'from the noise and from
the hurryings of this life,' and to hear, read, see, or do something
to remind one that there is a standard which is not of drawing-rooms;
that petty troubles are the pilgrimage of the soul; that great and
happy lives have been lived here by those who have had but little; and
that satisfying bliss is not here, but hereafter.

"We went downstairs slowly, hand in hand.

"'I wonder what mother is doing?' said Fatima.

       *       *       *       *       *

"The next day Miss Lucy very good-naturedly helped us to move our
belongings into the smaller room we were now to occupy. It was in
another part of the house, and we rather enjoyed the running to and
fro, especially as Miss Lucy was gracious and communicative in the
extreme.

"'This is the oldest part of the house,' she said, as we sat on the
bed resting from our labours, for the day was sultry; 'and it breaks
off here in an odd way. There are no rooms beyond this. There were
some that matched the other side of the house, but they were pulled
down.'

"'Why?' we asked.

"'Well, there's a story about it, in the family,' said Miss Lucy,
mysteriously. 'But it's a ghost story. I'll tell you, if you like. But
some people are afraid of ghost stories. I'm not; but if you are, I
won't tell it.'

"Of course we declared we were not afraid. Sitting there together, on
a sunny summer's afternoon, perhaps we were not.

"'It's years and years ago,' began Miss Lucy; 'you know the place has
belonged to another branch of our family for generations. Well, at
last it came down to an old Mr. Bartlett, who had one daughter, who,
of course, was to be the heiress. Well, she fell in love with a man
whose name I forget, but he was of inferior family, and very queer
character; and her father would not hear of it, and swore that if she
married him he would disinherit her. She would have married the man in
spite of this, though; but what he wanted was her money; so, when he
found that the old man was quite resolute, and that there was no
chance of his dying soon, he murdered him.'

"We both exclaimed; for this sudden catastrophe fairly took away our
breath. Miss Lucy's nerves were not sensitive, however, and she
rattled on.

"'He smothered him in bed, and, as he was a very old man, and might
easily have died in the night some other way, and as nothing could be
proved, he got off. Well, he married the daughter, and got the
property; but the very first evening after he took possession, as he
was passing the door of the old man's room, he heard somebody
breathing heavily inside, and when he looked in, there was the old
father asleep in his bed.'

"'Not really?' we said.

"'Of course not really,' said Miss Lucy, 'but so it was said. That's
the ghost part of it. Well, do what he would, he never could get rid
of the old man, who was always there asleep; so he pulled the rooms
down, and at last he went abroad, and there both he and his wife died,
and the property went to a cousin, who took the name of Bartlett.'

"'How awful!' we murmured. But Miss Lucy laughed, and told us other
family anecdotes, and the ghost story somewhat passed from our minds,
especially as a little later we heard wheels, and, peeping from the
landing window, beheld a post-chaise drive up.

"'It's Cecilia!' screamed Miss Lucy, and left us at once.

"I may as well say here, my dear Ida, that Cecilia and the major
proved altogether different from our expectations. Cecilia, in
travelling gear, taking off an old bonnet, begging for a cup of tea,
and complaining in soft accents that butter was a halfpenny a pound
dearer in Bath than at home, seemed to have no connection with that
Cecilia into the trimmings of whose dresses bank-notes had recklessly
dissolved. The major, an almost middle-aged man, of roughish exterior,
in plain clothes, pulling his moustache over a letter that had arrived
for him, dispelled our visions of manly beauty and military pomp even
more effectually. Later on, we discovered that Cecilia was really
pretty, soft, and gentle, a good deal lectured by her mother, and
herself more critical of Miss Lucy's dress and appearance than that
young lady had been of ours. The major proved kind and sensible. He
was well-to-do and had 'expectations,' which facts shed round him a
glory invisible to us. They seemed a happy couple; more like the rest
of the world than we had been led to suppose.

"The new-comers completely absorbed our attention during the evening,
and it was not till we were fairly entering the older part on the
house on our way to bed, that the story of the old man's ghost
recurred to my mind. It was a relief to meet Bedford at this point, to
hear her cheerful good-night, and to see her turn into a room only two
doors from ours. Once while we were undressing I said:

"'What a horrid story that was that Lucy told us.'

"To which sensible Fatima made answer: 'Don't talk about it.'

"We dismissed the subject by consent, got into bed, and I fell asleep.
I do not quite know how far on it was into the night when I was roused
by Fatima's voice repeating my name over and over again, in tones of
subdued terror. I know nothing more irritatingly alarming, when one is
young and nervous, than to be roused thus by a voice in which the
terror is evident and the cause unknown.

"'What's the matter?' I asked.

"'Don't you hear?' gasped Fatima, in a whisper.

"If she had said at once that there was a robber under the bed, a
burglar at the window, or a ghost in the wardrobe, I should have
prepared for the worst, and it would have been less alarming than this
unknown evil.

"'I hear nothing,' I said, pettishly. 'I wish you'd go to sleep,
Fatima.'

"'There!--now!' said Fatima.

"I held my breath, and in the silence heard distinctly the sound of
some one snoring in an adjoining apartment.

"'It's only some one snoring,' I said.

"'Where?' asked Fatima, with all the tragedy in her voice unabated.

"'In the room behind us, of course,' I said, impatiently. 'Can't you
hear?'

"Fatima's voice might have been the voice of a shadow as she answered:
'_There is no room there._'

"And then a cold chill crept over me also; for I remembered that the
wall from behind which the snoring unmistakably proceeded was an outer
wall. There had been the room of old Mr. Bartlett, which his
son-in-law and murderer had pulled down. There he had been heard
'breathing heavily,' and had been seen asleep upon his bed, long after
he was smothered in his own pillows, and his body shut up in the
family vault. At least, so it was said, and at that particular moment
we felt no comfort from the fact that Miss Lucy had said that 'of
course it wasn't true.' I said something, to which Fatima made no
reply, and I could feel her trembling, and hear a half-choked sob. I
think fear for her overpowered my other alarm, and gave me a sort of
strength.

"'Don't, dear,' I begged. 'Let's be brave. It must be something else.
And there's nothing in the room. Let's go to Bedford. She's next door
but one.'

"Fatima could speak no more. By the moonlight through the blind, I
jumped up, and half dragged, half helped her out of bed and across the
room. Opening the door was the worst. To touch anything at such a
moment is a trial. We groped down the passage; I felt the handle of
the first door, and turned that of the second, and in we went. The
window-blind of this room was drawn up, and the moonlight streamed
over everything. A nest of white drapery covered one chair, a muslin
dress lay like a sick ghost over a second, some little black satin
shoes and web-like stockings were on the floor, a gold watch and one
or two feminine ornaments lay on the table; and in the bed
reposed--not Bedford, but our friend Kate, fast asleep, with one arm
over the bed-clothes, and her long red hair in a pigtail streaming
over the pillow. I climbed up and treated her as Fatima had treated
me, calling her in low, frightened tones over and over again. She woke
at last, and sat up.

"'You sprites! What is the matter?' she exclaimed.

"I stumbled through an account of our misfortunes, in the middle of
which the young lady lay down, and before it was ended I believe she
was asleep again. Poor Fatima, who saw nothing before us but to return
to our room with all its terrors, here began to sob violently, which
roused our friend once more, and she became full of pity.

"'You poor children!' she said, 'I'm so sleepy. I cannot get up and
go after the ghost now; besides, one might meet somebody. But you may
get into bed if you like; there's plenty of room, and nothing to
frighten you.'

"In we both crept, most willingly. She gave us the long tail of her
hair, and said, 'If you want me, pull. But go to sleep, if you
can!'--and, before she had well finished the sentence, her eyes closed
once more. In such good company a snoring ghost seemed a thing hardly
to be realized. We held the long plait between us, and, clinging to it
as drowning men to a rope, we soon slept also.

"When we returned to our room next day, there was no snoring to be
heard, and in the full sunshine of a summer morning our fright seemed
so completely a thing of the past, that I persuaded myself to suggest
that it might have been 'fancy' (Kate had already expressed her
deliberate opinion to this effect), to which Fatima, whose convictions
were of a more resolute type than mine, replied, 'What's the use of
trying to believe what's not true? I heard it; and shall know that I
heard it, if I live till I'm a hundred.'

"In all correct ghost stories, when the hero comes down in the
morning, valiant, but exhausted from the terrors of the night, to
breakfast, his host invariably asks him how he slept. When we came
down, we found Kate and the Irishman alone together in the
breakfast-room. Now it certainly was in keeping with our adventure
when he stepped forward, and, bowing profoundly, asked how we had
passed the night; but, in spite of the gravity of his face, there was
a twinkle in the big brown eyes which showed us that we were being
made fun of; and I felt slightly indignant with our friend, who had
faithfully promised not to betray us to Miss Lucy, and might, I
thought, have saved us from the ridicule of the Irishman. The rest of
the company began to assemble, however, and to our relief the subject
was dropped. But though the Irishman kept our secret, we had every
reason to suspect that he did not forget it; he looked terribly
roguish through breakfast, and was only kept in order by Kate's severe
glances.

"'Always breathe through the nose,' he suddenly began. 'It moderates
the severity of the air, is less trying to the lungs, and prevents
snoring.'

"'Very true,' said the major, who was sensible, and liked instructive
observations.

"'It may be laid down as an axiom,' continued the Irishman, gravely,
'that the man who snores is sure to disturb somebody; and also that
the man who doesn't snore till he dies, is not likely to live to be a
snoring ghost when he is dead.'

"Kate looked daggers. The major laughed, and said, 'Let me give you
some beef.' When he didn't understand a remark he always laughed, and
generally turned the conversation to eatables, in which he was pretty
safe; for food is common ground, and a slight laugh answers most
remarks, unless at a serious meeting or a visit of condolence. A
little later the Irishman asked: 'What's the origin of the expression
to stir up with a long pole?' which turned the conversation to wild
beasts. But he presently inquired: 'What's the meaning of putting a
thing up the spout?'

"'Pawning it,' said the major, promptly.

"'People pawn their family jewels sometimes,' said Pat. 'Did you ever
hear of anybody pawning the family ghosts?' he asked, suddenly turning
to me. I gave a distressed 'No,' and he continued in a whisper, 'You
never saw a ghost up the spout?'

"But, before I could answer, he caught Kate's eye, and, making a
penitent face, became silent.

"We were in the drawing-room after breakfast, when the Irishman passed
the window outside, whistling 'Kathleen Mavourneen.' We were sitting
at Kate's feet, and she got up, and whispering, 'He's got something to
show you, but he wouldn't let me tell,' went out into the garden, we
following her.

"There we found the Irishman, with a long pole, which he was waving
triumphantly in the air. He bowed as we approached.

"'This, young ladies,' he said, 'is the original long pole spoken of
at the breakfast-table. With this I am about to stir up and bring
forth for your inspection the living and identical ghost whose snoring
disturbed your repose last night.'

"The little Irishman's jokes reassured me. I guessed that he had
found some clue to our mysterious noise; but with Fatima it was
otherwise. She had been too deeply frightened to recover so easily.
She clung tremblingly to me, as I was following him, and whispered
'I'd rather not.'

"On her behalf I summoned courage to remonstrate.

"'If you please, sir,' I said, 'Fatima would rather not; and, if you
please, don't tease us any more.'

"The young lady added her entreaties, but they were not needed. The
good-natured little gentleman no sooner saw Fatima's real distress
than he lowered his pole, and sank upon his knees on the grass, with a
face of genuine penitence.

"'I _am_ so sorry I've been tormenting you so!' he exclaimed. 'I
forgot you were really frightened, and you see I knew it wasn't a
ghost.'

"'I heard it,' murmured Fatima resolutely, with her eyes half shut.

"'So did I,' said the Irishman, gaily; 'I've heard it dozens of times.
It's the owls.'

"We both exclaimed.

"'Ah!' he said, comically, 'I see you don't believe me! That's what
comes of telling so many small fibs. But it's true, I assure you. (And
the brown eyes did look particularly truthful.) Barn-door owls do make
a noise that is very like the snoring of an old man. And there are
some young ones who live in the spout at the corner of the wall of
your room. They're snoring and scrambling in and out of that spout all
night.'

"It was quite true, Ida, as we found, when Fatima was at last
persuaded to visit the corner where the rooms had been pulled down,
and where, decorated with ivy, the old spout formed a home for the
snoring owls. By the aid of the long pole he brought out a young one
to our view--a shy, soft, lovely, shadow-tinted creature, ghostly
enough to behold, who felt like an impalpable mass of fluff, utterly
refused to be kissed, and went savagely blinking back into his spout
at the earliest possible opportunity. His snoring alarmed us no more."

"And the noise really was that?" said Ida.

"It really was, my dear."

"It's a splendid story," said Ida; "you see, I didn't go to sleep
_this_ time. And what became of everybody, please? Did the red-haired
young lady marry the Irishman?"

"Very soon afterwards, my dear," said Mrs. Overtheway. "We kept up
our friendship, too, in after life; and I have many times amused their
children with the story of the Snoring Ghost."




REKA DOM.

    "What is home, and where, but with the loving?"

FELICIA HEMANS.


At last Ida was allowed to go out. She was well wrapped up, and
escorted by Nurse in a short walk for the good of her health. It was
not very amusing, but the air was fresh and the change pleasant,
although the street did not prove quite that happy region it had
looked from the nursery windows. Moreover, however strong one may
fancy one has become indoors, the convalescent's first efforts out of
doors are apt to be as feeble as those of a white moth that has just
crept from the shelter of its cocoon, giddy with daylight, and
trembling in the open air. By-and-by this feeling passed away, and one
afternoon Ida was allowed to go by herself into the garden, "just for
a run."

The expression was metaphorical, for she was far from being able to
run; but she crept quietly up and down the walks, and gathered some
polyanthuses, putting them to her face with that pleasure which the
touch of fresh flowers gives to an invalid. Then she saw that the
hedge was budding, and that the gap through which she had scrambled
was filled up. Ida thought of the expedition and smiled. It had
certainly made her very ill, but--it had led to Mrs. Overtheway.

The little old lady did not come that day, and in the evening Ida was
sent for by her uncle. She had not been downstairs in the evenings
since her illness. These interviews with the reserved old gentleman
were always formal, uncomfortable affairs, from which Ida escaped with
a sense of relief, and that evening--being weak with illness and
disappointed by Mrs. Overtheway's absence--her nervousness almost
amounted to terror.

Nurse did her best in the way of encouragement. It was true that Ida's
uncle was not a merry gentleman, but there was such a nice dessert!
What could a well-behaved young lady desire more than to wear her best
frock, and eat almonds and raisins in the dining-room, as if she were
the lady of the house?

"Though I am sorry for the child," Nurse confided to the butler when
she had left Ida with her uncle, "for his looks are enough to frighten
a grown person, let alone a little girl. And do you go in presently,
like a good soul, if you can find an excuse, and let her see a
cheerful face."

But before the kind-hearted old man-servant could find a plausible
pretext for intruding into the dining-room, and giving an encouraging
smile from behind his master's chair, Ida was in the nursery once
more.

She had honestly endeavoured to be good. She had made her curtsey at
the door without a falter--weak as she was. She had taken her place at
the head of the table with all dignity, and had accepted the almonds
and raisins with sufficiently audible thanks. She had replied prettily
enough to her uncle's inquiries after her health; and, anxious to keep
up the conversation, had told him that the hedge was budding.

"_What's_ the matter with the hedge?" he had asked rather sharply; and
when Ida repeated her bit of spring news, he had not seemed to be
interested. It was no part of the gardener's work.

Ida relapsed into silence, and so did her uncle. But this was not all.
He had sharp eyes, and fierce bushy eyebrows, from under which he was
apt to scrutinize Ida in a way that seemed to scatter all her presence
of mind. This night of all nights she found his eyes upon her oftener
than usual. Whenever she looked up he was watching her, and her
discomfort increased accordingly. At last he broke the silence
abruptly by saying:

"You were very sorry, child, were you not, when the news came of your
father's death?"

The sudden introduction of this sacred subject made Ida's head reel.

"What?" she cried, and could get no further.

"Have you forgotten already?" the old gentleman said, almost
reprovingly. "You did not know him, it is true; but you must remember
hearing that your poor father had been drowned at sea?"

Ida's only reply was such a passionate outburst of weeping that her
uncle rang the bell in helpless dismay, and was thankful when the old
butler lifted the child tenderly in his arms and carried her back to
Nurse. The old gentleman's feelings were more kindly than his looks,
and he was really as much concerned as puzzled by the effect of his
remarks. When the butler returned with the report that Ida was going
quietly to bed, he sent her his "love" (the word seemed to struggle
with some difficulty from behind his neck-cloth), and all the
remaining almonds and raisins.

"I can't eat them," said Ida, smiling feebly, for her head was aching,
"but it is very kind of him; and please tell Brown to tell him that I
am very sorry, and please put the almonds and raisins into my box. I
will make a dolls feast with them, if ever I make dolls' feasts
again."

With which the weary little maid turned upon her pillow, and at last
forgot her troubles in sleep.

The next morning Brown delivered a similar message from the old
gentleman. He had gone away by an early train on business, but had
left Ida his love.

"It's very kind of him," said Ida, again. But she went sadly on with
some paper she was cutting into shapes. She was in low spirits this
morning.

Comfort was at hand, however. In the course of the day there came a
message from Mrs. Overtheway, asking Nurse to allow Ida to go to tea
with her that evening. And Nurse consented.

Ida could hardly believe her senses when she found herself by the
little old lady's own fireside. How dainty her room was! How full the
bookshelves were! How many pictures hung upon the walls!

Above a little table, on which were innumerable pretty things, hung
two pictures. One of these was a portrait of a man who, from his
apparent age, might have been the old lady's son, but that he was not
at all like her. He might have been good-looking, though, Ida thought,
and he had a kind, intelligent face, full of energy and
understanding, and that is better still. Close under his portrait hung
a little sketch. It was of a road running by a river. Opposite to the
river was a house and some trees. It was a pretty sketch, Ida thought,
and the road looked interesting, as some roads do in pictures--making
one wish to get into the frame and walk down them to see whither they
lead. Below the sketch were some curious-looking characters written in
ink, and of these Ida could make nothing.

Tea was soon ready. It was spread out on a little table by itself. The
white cloth seemed to Ida the whitest she had ever seen, the silver
and glass glittered, the china was covered with a rosebud pattern, and
a reading-lamp threw a clear soft light over all. The tea, the cream,
the brown bread and butter, the fresh eggs, and the honey--all were of
the very best--even the waiting-maid was pretty, and had something of
the old lady's smile.

When she had finished her duties by taking away the things, and
putting the tea-table into a corner, the two friends drew up to the
fire.

"You look better for tea, my child," said the little old lady. "Do you
eat enough at home?"

"As much as I can," said Ida, "but I am more hungry when somebody
else has tea with me. There very seldom was anybody till you came
though. Only once or twice Lady Cheetham's housekeeper has been to
tea. She is Nurse's father's first cousin, and 'quite the lady,' Nurse
says. So she won't let her have tea in the kitchen, so both she and
Nurse have tea in the nursery, and we have lots of tea-cakes and jam,
and Nurse keeps saying, 'Help yourself, Miss Ida! Make yourself at
home, Mrs. Savory!' And, you know, at other times, she's always
telling me not to be all night over my tea. So I generally eat a good
deal then, and I often laugh, for Nurse and Mrs. Savory are so funny
together. But Mrs. Savory's very kind, and last time she came she
brought me a pincushion, and the time before she gave me a Spa mug and
two apples."

Mrs. Overtheway laughed, too, at Ida's rambling account, and the two
were in high good-humour.

"What shall I do to amuse you?" asked the little old lady.

"You couldn't tell me another story?" said Ida, with an accent that
meant, "I hope you can!"

"I would, gladly, my dear, but I don't know what to tell you about;"
and she looked round the room as if there were stories in the
furniture which perhaps there were. Ida's eyes followed her, and then
she remembered the picture, and said:

"Oh! would you please tell me what the writing means under that pretty
little sketch?"

The little old lady smiled rather sadly, and looked at the sketch in
silence for a few moments. Then she said:

"It is Russian, my dear. Their letters are different from ours. The
words are 'Reka Dom' and they mean 'River House.'"

Ida gazed at the drawing with increased interest.

"Oh, do you remember anything about it? If you would tell me about
_that_!" she cried.

But Mrs. Overtheway was silent again. She was looking down, and
twisting some of the rings upon her little hand, and Ida felt ashamed
of having asked.

"I beg your pardon," she said, imploringly. "I was very rude, dear
Mrs. Overtheway; tell me what you like, please."

"You are a good child," said the little old lady, "a very good child,
my dear. I _do_ remember so much about that house, that I fall into
day-dreams when I look at it. It brings back the memories of a great
deal of pleasure and a great deal of pain. But it is one advantage of
being old, little Ida, that Time softens the painful remembrances, and
leaves us the happy ones, which grow clearer every day."

"Is it about yourself?" Ida asked, timidly. She had not quite
understood the little old lady's speech; indeed, she did not
understand many things that Mrs. Overtheway said, but they were very
satisfactory companions for all that.

"Yes, it is about myself. And since there is a dear child who cares
about old Mrs. Overtheway, and her prosy stories, and all that befell
her long ago," said the little old lady, smiling affectionately at
Ida, "I will tell her the story--my story--the story of Reka Dom."

"Oh, how good of you!" cried Ida.

"There is not much merit in it," said the little old lady. "The story
is as much for myself as you. I tell myself bits of it every evening
after tea, more so now than I used to do. I look far back, and I
endeavour to look far forward. I try to picture a greater happiness,
and companionship more perfect than any I have known; and when I shall
be able to realize them, I shall have found a better Home than Reka
Dom."

Ida crept to the little old lady's feet, and softly stroked the
slipper that rested on the fender. Then, while the March wind howled
beyond the curtains, she made herself a cosy corner by the fire, and
composed herself to hear the story.

"I remember," said Mrs. Overtheway. "I remember Reka Dom. It was our
new home.

"Circumstances had made it necessary that we should change our
residence, and the new home was to be in a certain quiet little town,
not much bigger than some big villages--a town of pebble streets and
small shops, silent, sunny, and rather dull--on the banks of a river.

"My health at this time was far from robust; but there is compensation
even for being delicate in that spring-time of youth, when the want of
physical strength is most irksome. If evening parties are forbidden,
and long walks impossible, the fragile member of the family is, on the
other hand, the first to be considered in the matter of small
comforts, or when there is an opportunity for 'change of air.' I
experienced this on the occasion when our new home was chosen. It had
been announced to us that our father and mother were going away for
one night, and that we were to be very good in the absence of those
authorized keepers of the peace. We had not failed ourselves to
enlarge this information by the discovery that they were going to the
little town by the river, to choose the house that was to be our home;
but it was not till the night before their departure that I was told
that I was to go with them. I had been unusually drooping, and it was
supposed that the expedition would revive me. My own joy was
unbounded, and that of my brothers and sisters was hardly less. They
were generously glad for my sake, and they were glad, also, that one
of the nursery conclave should be on the spot when the great choice
was made. We had a shrewd suspicion that in the selection of a house
our elders would be mainly influenced by questions of healthy
situation, due drainage, good water supply, moderate rent, and so
forth; to the neglect of more important considerations, such as odd
corners for hide-and-seek, deep window-seats, plenty of cupboards, and
a garden adapted to the construction of bowers rather than to the
cultivation of vegetables. I do not think my hopes of influencing the
parental decision were great; but still we all felt that it was well
that I should be there, and my importance swelled with every piece of
advice I received from the rest of the party.

"'It must be a big house, but, of course, that adds to the expense,'
said one of the older boys, who prided himself upon being more
grown-up in his views than the rest, and considering the question from
an elderly point of view. 'But if you don't take it out one way, you
have it another,' he continued. A manly-sounding sentence, which
impressed us all. 'Don't think about smartness, Mary,' he went on,
with a grand air of renouncing vanities; 'fine entrance, you know, and
front door. But a good back yard, if possible, and some empty
outhouses for carpenters' shops; and if you could meet with a place
with a few old boxes and barrels lying about, for rafts on the river
and so forth, it would be a good thing.'

"'I want a tidy box for a new baby-house, _dreadfully_,' added a
sister.

"'I hope there'll be deep window-places,' sighed the luxurious Fatima,
'with print patchwork cushions, like those at the farm. And I hope
some of them will face west, for the sunsets.'

"'Above all'--and it was the final and most impressive charge I
received--'whatever else is wanting, let us have two tall trees for a
swing.'

"Laden with responsibility, but otherwise light-hearted enough, I set
out with my parents by the early coach, which was to put us down about
mid-day in the little town by the river.

"I liked travelling with my father. What a father he was! But, indeed,
he was an object of such special devotion to me, and his character
exercised so strong an influence over my young days, that I think, my
dear Ida, that I must take the old woman's privilege of
discursiveness, and tell you something about him.

"I remember that he was a somewhat mysterious personage in our young
eyes. We knew little of his early life, and what we did know only
enhanced the romantic mystery which we imagined to hang round it. We
knew that he had seen many foreign lands, and in those days much
travelling was rare. This accounted for the fact that, absent and
somewhat unpractical as he was at home, he was invaluable on a
journey, making arrangements, and managing officials with the
precision of old habit. Where he had learnt his peculiar courtesy and
helpfulness with those under his charge was less obvious. My mother
said he had been accustomed to 'good society' in his youth, though we
lived quietly enough now. We knew that, as a lad, he had been at sea,
and sailors are supposed to be a handy and gentle-mannered race with
the weak and dependent. Where else he had been, and what he had done,
we did not exactly know; but I think we vaguely believed him to have
been concerned in not a few battles by land and sea; to be deep in
secrets of state, and to have lived on terms of intimacy with several
kings and queens. His appearance was sufficiently striking to favour
our dreams on his behalf. He had a tall, ungainly figure, made more
ungainly by his odd, absent ways; but withal he was an unmistakable
gentleman. I have heard it said of him that he was a man from whom no
errors in taste could be feared, and with whom no liberties could ever
be taken. He had thick hair of that yellow over which age seems to
have no power, and a rugged face, wonderfully lighted up by eyes of
rare germander blue. His hair sometimes seemed to me typical of his
mind and tastes, which Time never robbed of their enthusiasm.

"With age and knowledge the foolish fancies I wove about my father
melted away, but the peculiar affection I felt for him, over and above
my natural love as a daughter, only increased as I grew up. Our tastes
were harmonious, and we always understood each other; whereas Fatima
was apt to be awed by his stateliness, puzzled by his jokes, and at
times provoked by his eccentricities. Then I was never very robust in
my youth; and the refined and considerate politeness which he made a
point of displaying in his own family were peculiarly grateful to me.
That good manners (like charity) should begin at home, was a pet
principle with him, and one which he often insisted upon to us.

"'If you will take my advice, young people,' he would say, 'you will
be careful never to let your sisters find other young gentlemen more
ready and courteous, nor your brothers find other young ladies more
gentle and obliging than those at home.'

"My father certainly practised what he preached, and it would not have
been easy to find a more kind and helpful travelling companion than
the one with whom my mother and I set forth that early morning in
search of our new abode.

"I was just becoming too much tired to care to look any longer out of
the window, when the coach rumbled over the pebbly street into the
courtyard of the 'Saracen's Head.'

"I had never stayed at an inn before. What a palace of delights it
seemed to me! It is true that the meals were neither better nor better
cooked than those at home, and that the little room devoted to my use
was far from being as dainty as that which Fatima and I habitually
shared; but the keen zest of novelty pervaded everything, and the
faded chintz and wavy looking-glass of No. 25 are pleasant memories
still. Moreover, it had one real advantage over my own bedroom. High
up, at the back of the house, it looked out and down upon the river.
How the water glittered and sparkled! The sun was reflected from its
ripples as if countless hosts of tiny naiads each held a mirror to
catch his rays. My home had been inland, and at some distance from a
river, and the sight of water was new and charming to me. I could see
people strolling along the banks; and then a boat carrying sails of a
rich warm brown came into view and passed slowly under my eye, with a
stately grace and a fair wind. I was watching her with keen interest,
when I was summoned to dinner.

"Here, again, novelty exercised its charm. At home I think I may say
that the nursery party without exception regarded dinner in the light
of a troublesome necessity of existence. We were apt to grudge the
length and formalities of the meal; to want to go out, or not to want
to come in; or possibly the dining-room had been in use as a kite
manufactory, or a juvenile artist's studio, or a doll's dressmaker's
establishment, and we objected to make way for the roast meat and
pudding. But on this occasion I took an interest in the dignities of
the dinner-table, and examined the plates and dishes, and admired the
old-fashioned forks and spoons, and puzzled over the entwined initials
on their handles.

"After dinner we went out into the town, and looked through several
houses which were to let. My high hopes and eager interest in the
matter were soon quenched by fatigue; but faithful to my promise, I
examined each house in turn. None of them proved satisfactory to my
parents, and they were even less so to me. They were all new, all
commonplace, and all equally destitute of swing-trees, interesting
corners, deep window-seats, or superannuated boxes. Heat, fatigue, and
disappointment at last so overpowered me that my pale face attracted
notice, and my father brought me back to the inn. He carried me
upstairs to the sofa, and, pointing out a bookshelf for my amusement,
and telling me to order tea if I wished for it, went back to my
mother.

"It was a shabby little collection of volumes, that parlour library in
the 'Saracen's Head.' There was an old family Bible, a torn copy of
'Culpepper's 'Herbal,' the Homilies in inexpressibly greasy black
calf, a book of songs, a volume called 'Evelina,' which seemed chiefly
remarkable for dashes and notes of admiration, and--the book I chose.

"The book I chose would look very dull in your eyes, I dare say, my
dear Ida; you who live in an age of bright, smart story-books, with
clear type, coloured pictures, and gorgeous outsides. You don't know
what small, mean, inartistic 'cuts' enlivened your grandmother's
nursery library, that is, when the books were illustrated at all. You
have no idea how very little amusement was blended with the
instruction, and how much instruction with the amusement in our
playbooks then, and how few there were of them, and how precious those
few were! You can hardly imagine what a treasure I seemed to have
found in a volume which contained several engravings the size of the
page, besides many small wood-cuts scattered through the letter-press.
I lost sight alike of fatigue and disappointment, as I pored over the
pictures, and read bits here and there.

"And such charming pictures there were! With quaint anglers in
steeple-crowned hats, setting forth to fish, or breakfasting under a
tree (untrammelled by the formalities of a nursery meal), or bringing
their spoils to a wayside inn with a painted fish upon the sign-board,
and a hostess in a high hat and a stiff-bustled dress at the door.
Then there were small wood-cuts which one might have framed for a
doll's house; portraits of fish of all kinds, not easily
distinguishable by the unpractised eye; and nicer wood-cuts still of
country scenes, and country towns, and almost all of these with a
river in them. By the time that my father and mother returned, I had
come to the conclusion that the bank of a river was, of all
situations, the most desirable for one's home, and had built endless
bowers in the air like that in which the anglers are seated in the
picture entitled 'The Farewell;' and had imagined myself in a tall hat
and a stiff-bustled dress cooking fish for my favourite brothers after
the recipes in Walton and Cotton's 'Complete Angler.'

"They came back with disappointment on their faces. They had not got
a house, but my mother had got a headache, and we sat down to tea a
dispirited party.

"It is sometimes fortunate as well as remarkable, how soon everybody
knows everything about everybody else, especially in a small town. As
the tea-things went downstairs, our landlord came up to help us in our
difficulty. Had the gentleman succeeded in obtaining a house? If none
of the new lot suited him, the landlord believed that one or more of
older date were to let near the river. It was not the fashionable
quarter, but there had been well-to-do people and some good
substantial residences there.

"Our hopes rose again, and the idea of an old and substantial
residence in an unfashionable quarter was so much more favourable to
nursery interests than the smart gimcrack houses at which we had been
looking, that I should have been anxious to explore that part of the
town to which he directed us, even if it had not possessed a charm
that was now pre-eminent in my eyes. It was near the river.

"My mother was too much tired to attempt further investigations, but I
had completely recovered from my fatigues, and was allowed to go with
my father on the new search. He and I were very good company, despite
the difference in age between us. We were never in each other's way,
and whether we chatted or did not speak, we were happy together, and
enjoyed ourselves in our respective fashions.

"It was a lovely evening. Hand in hand we turned out of the 'Saracen's
Head' into the shingly street, took the turning which led to the
unfashionable quarter, and strolled on and on, in what Scott calls
'social silence.' I was very happy. It was not only a lovely
evening--it was one of these when the sunlight seems no longer mere
sunlight, but has a kind of magical glow, as if a fairy spell had been
cast over everything; when all houses look interesting--all country
lanes inviting--when each hedge, or ditch, or field seems a place made
to play in at some wonderful game that should go on for years.

"As we wandered on, we passed a line of small bright-looking houses,
which strongly caught my fancy. Each had its gay little garden, its
shrubbery of lilac, holly, or laurustinus, and its creeper-covered
porch. They looked so compact and cosy, so easy to keep tidy, so snug
and sunny, that one fancied the people who lived in them must be
happy, and wondered who they were.

"'Oh, father!' I exclaimed, 'what delightful houses!'

"'They are very pretty, my dear,' he answered; 'but they are much too
small for us; besides which, they are all occupied.'

"I sighed, and we were passing on, when I held him back with another
exclamation.

"'Oh! _look_ at the carnations!' For in one of the gardens large
clumps of splendid scarlet cloves caught my eye.

"My father humoured me, and we drew near to the laurustinus hedge, and
looked over into the gay little garden. As we looked, we became
conscious of what appeared like a heap or bundle of clothing near one
of the beds, which, on lifting itself up, proved to be a tall slender
lady of middle age, who, with her dress tucked neatly round her, a big
print hood on her head, and a trowel in her hand, was busily
administering such tender little attentions as mothers will lavish on
their children, and garden lovers on their flowers. She was not alone
in the garden, as we soon perceived. A shorter and stouter and younger
lady sat knitting by the side of a gentleman in a garden-chair, who
from some defect in his sight, wore a large green shade, which hid the
greater part of his face. The shade was made of covered pasteboard,
and was large and round, and so very like a lamp shade, that I hardly
ever look at one of those modern round globe lamps, my dear, if it
has a green shade, without being reminded of old Mr. Brooke.

"'Was that his name?' Ida asked.

"'Yes, my dear; but that we did not know till afterwards. When the
good lady lifted herself up, she saw us, and seemed startled. My
father raised his hat, and apologized politely. 'My little girl was so
much taken with your carnations, madam,' he said, 'that we made bold
to come near enough to look at them, not knowing that any one was in
the garden.'

"She seemed rather flustered, but pushed back her hood, and made a
stiff little curtsey in answer to my father's bow, and murmured
something about our being welcome.

"'Would you care to have some, my dear?' she added, looking at me. I
gave a delighted assent, and she had gathered two lovely carnations,
when we heard a quavering voice from under the green shade inquire--

"'What is it?'

"Our friend was at the old gentleman's side in a moment, speaking very
distinctly into his ear, as if he were deaf, whereby we heard her
answer,

"'It's a gentleman and his little daughter, James, admiring our
carnations, and I am gathering a few for the young lady, dear James.'

"'Quite right, quite right,' he croaked. 'Anything that we have.
Anything that we have.'

"It was a great satisfaction to me afterwards to remember that my
father had thanked these good people 'properly,' as I considered. As
for myself, I had only been able to blush and stammer out something
that was far from expressing my delight with the lovely nosegay I
received. Then the slender lady went back to her gardening. Her sister
took up the knitting which she had laid down, the old gentleman nodded
his lamp-shade in the direction where he supposed us to be and said,
'Good evening, sir, Good evening, miss;' and we went our way.

"The road wound on and on, and down and down, until we found ourselves
on the edge of the river. A log lay conveniently on the bank, and
there we seated ourselves. The tide was out, and the river bed was a
bed of mud except for a narrow stream of water that ran down the
middle. But, ah! how the mud glistened in the evening sunshine which
was reflected on it in prismatic colours. Little figures were dotted
here and there over its surface, and seawards the masts of some
vessels loomed large through the shining haze.

"'How beautiful everything looks this evening!' I exclaimed.

"'I see them walking in an air of glory,' murmured my father,
dreamily.

"He was quoting from a favourite old poem, which begins--

    'They are all gone into a world of light,
    And I alone sit lingering here.'

"This 'air of glory,' indeed, was over everything. The mud and the
tide pools, the dark human figures, the black and white seagulls that
sat like onyx pebbles on the river bed, the stream that spread
seawards like a silver scroll, the swans that came sailing, sailing
down the stream with just such a slow and stately pace as white-winged
ships might have come down the river with the tide, to pass (as the
swans did pass) into that 'world of light,' that shining seaward haze,
where your eye could not follow them unless shaded by your hand.

"I do not quite know how long we sat gazing before us in silent
enjoyment. Neither do I know what my father's thoughts were, as he sat
with his hands clasped on his knees and his blue eyes on the river.
For my own part, I fancied myself established in one of the little
houses as 'hostess,' with a sign-board having a fish painted upon it
hanging outside the door, and a bower of woodbine, sweet-briar,
jessamine, and myrtle commanding a view of the river. The day dream
was broken by my father's voice.

"'Mary, my dear, we must go about our business, or what will your
mother say to us? We must see after these houses. We can't live on the
river's bank.'

"'I wish we could,' I sighed; and though he had risen and turned away,
I lingered still. At this moment my father exclaimed--

"'Bless my soul!' and I jumped up and turned round.

"He was staring at a wall with a gateway in it, enclosing a house and
garden on the other side of the road. On the two gateposts were
printed in black Roman letters two words that I could not
understand--_Reka Dom_.

"'What does it mean?' I asked.

"'Reka Dom?' said my father thoughtfully (and he pronounced it _Rayka
Dome_). 'It is Russian. It means River House. Very curious! I suppose
the people who live here are Russians. It's a nice situation--a lovely
view--_lovely_!' and he had turned round to the river, but I caught
his arm.

"'Father, dear, no one lives here. Look!' and I pointed to a board
beyond the gateway, which stated in plain English that the house was
to let.

       *       *       *       *       *

"By the time that we returned to my mother, Reka Dom was to all
intents and purposes our home.

"It is true that the house was old, rambling, and out of repair, and
that what we heard of the landlord was not encouraging. He was rich,
we were told, but miserly; and 'a very queer old gentleman,' whose
oddness almost amounted to insanity. He had 'made himself so
unpleasant' to various people who had thought of taking the house,
that they drew back, and Reka Dom had been untenanted for some time.
The old woman who took care of it, and from whom we got this
information, prophesied further that he would 'do nothing to the old
place. He'd let it fall about his ears first.'

"It is also true that standing in the garden (which in its rambling,
disorderly way was charming, and commanded a lovely view), my father
rubbed his head ruefully, and said:

"'You know, Mary, your mother's chief objection to our latest home
was that the grounds were so much too large for our means of keeping
them in order; and this garden is the larger of the two, I fear.'

"And he did not seem to derive proportionate comfort from my reply.

"'But, father dear, you know you needn't keep it in order, and then we
can have it to play in.'

"And yet we took Reka Dom.

"The fact is that my father and I took a fancy to the place. On my
side this is easily to be accounted for. If all the other houses at
which we had looked had proved the direct reverse of what I (on behalf
of myself and my brothers and sisters) was in search of, Reka Dom in a
remarkable degree answered our requirements. To explore the garden was
like a tour in fairy land. It was oddly laid out. Three grass-plots or
lawns, one behind another, were divided by hedges of honeysuckle and
sweet-briar. The grass was long, the flower-borders were borders of
desolation, where crimson paeonies and some other hardy perennials made
the best of it, but the odour of the honeysuckle was luxuriously sweet
in the evening air. And what a place for bowers! The second lawn had
greater things in store for me. There, between two tall elm trees hung
a swing. With a cry of delight I seated myself, seized the ropes, and
gave a vigorous push. But the impetus was strong, and the ropes were
rotten, and I and the swing came to the ground together. This did not
deter me, however, from exploring the third lawn, where I made a
discovery to which that of the swing was as nothing.

"It was not merely that a small path through the shrubbery led me into
a little enclosed piece of ground devoted to those many-shaped,
box-edged little flower-beds characteristic of 'children's
gardens,'--it was not alone that the beds were shaped like letters,
and that there was indisputably an M among them--but they were six in
number. Just one apiece for myself and my brothers and sisters! And
though families of six children are not so very uncommon as to make it
improbable that my father's predecessor should have had the same
number of young ones as himself, the coincidence appeared to my mind
almost supernatural. It really seemed as if some kind old fairy had
conjured up the whole place for our benefit. And--bless the good
godmother!--to crown all, there were two old tea-chests and a
bottomless barrel in the yard.

"Doubtless many causes influenced my father in _his_ leaning towards
Reka Dom, and he did not confide them to me. But I do truly believe
that first and foremost of the attractions was its name. To a real
hearty lover of languages there is a charm in the sight of a strange
character, new words, a yet unknown tongue, which cannot be explained
to those who do not share the taste. And perhaps next to the mystic
attraction of words whose meaning is yet hidden, is to discover traces
of a foreign language in some unexpected and unlikely place. Russian
is not extensively cultivated; my father's knowledge of it was but
slight, and this quiet little water-side town an unlikely place for an
inscription in that language. It was curious, and then interesting,
and then the quaint simple title of the house took his fancy. Besides
this, though he could not but allow that there was reason in my
mother's views on the subject of large grounds in combination with one
man-of-all-work, he liked plenty of space and shrubbery where he could
wander about--his hands behind his back--without being disturbed; and
for his own part he had undoubtedly felt more pleasure in the
possession of large grounds than annoyance at seeing them neglected.
So the garden tempted him. Finally, there was a room opening upon a
laurel walk, which had at one time been a library. The shelves--old,
common, dirty and broken--were still there, and on the most secure of
them the housekeeper kept her cheese and candles, and an old shawl and
bonnet.

"'The place is made for us!' I exclaimed on my return from discovering
the old barrel and tea-chests. My father was standing in the library
looking out upon the garden, and he did not say No.

"From the old woman we learnt something of the former tenants. She was
a good-natured old soul, with an aggrieved tone of voice, due probably
to the depressing effects of keeping an empty house for a cantankerous
landlord. The former tenant's name was Smith, she said (unmistakably
English this!). But his lady was a _Roosian_, she believed. They had
lived in _Roosia_, and some of the children, having been born there,
were little _Roosians_, and had _Roosian_ names. She could not speak
herself, having no knowledge of the country, but she had heard that
the _Roosians_ were heathens, though Mr. Smith and his family went
regularly to church. They had lived by a river, she believed, and
their old home was called by the same outlandish name they had given
to this. She had heard that it meant a house by the water-side, but
could not say, knowing no language but her own, and having (she was
thankful to say) found it sufficient for all purposes. She knew that
before Mr. Smith's time the house was called Montague Mount, and there
was some sense in that name. Though what the sense was, she did not
offer to explain.

"'Please, please take it!' I whispered in a pause of the conversation!
'there are six little gardens, and--'

"My father broke in with mock horror on his face: 'Don't speak of six
gardens!' he exclaimed. 'The one will condemn the place, I fear, but
we must go home and consult your mother.'

"I suppose we did consult her.

"I know we described all the charms of the house and garden, and
passed rather a poor examination as to their condition, and what might
be expected from the landlord. That my father endeavoured to conceal
his personal bias, and that I made no secret of mine. At last my
mother interrupted some elaborately practical details by saying in
her gentle voice--

"'I think choosing a home is something like choosing a companion for
life. It is chiefly important to like it. There must be faults
everywhere. Do you take to the place, my dear?'

"'I like it certainly,' said my father. 'But the question is not what
I like, but what you like.'

"Then I knew it was settled, and breathed freely. For though my father
always consulted my mother's wishes, she generally contrived to choose
what she knew he would prefer. And she chose Reka Dom.

       *       *       *       *       *

"Henceforward good luck seemed to follow our new home.

"First, as to the landlord. The old woman had certainly not
exaggerated his oddity. But one of his peculiarities was a most
fortunate one for us. He was a bibliomaniac--a lover and collector of
valuable and curious books. When my father called on him to arrange
about the house, he found him sitting almost in rags, apparently
dining upon some cheese-parings, and surrounded by a library, the
value of which would have fed and clothed him with comfort for an
almost indefinite period. Upon the chair behind him sat a large black
cat with yellow eyes.

"When my father was ushered in, he gazed for a moment in silent
astonishment at the unexpected sight. Books in shelf after shelf up to
the ceiling, and piled in heaps upon the floor. As he stood
speechless, the little old man put down the plate, gathered his ragged
dressing-gown about him, and, followed by the cat, scrambled across
the floor and touched his arm.

"'You look at books as if you loved them?' he said.

"My father sighed as if a spell had been broken.

"'I am nearly half a century old,' he said, 'and I do not remember the
day when I did not love them.'

"He confessed afterwards to my mother that not less than two hours
elapsed before Reka Dom was so much as spoken of. Then his new
acquaintance was as anxious to secure him for a tenant as he had been
to take the house.

"'Put down on paper what you think wants doing, and it shall be done,'
was the old gentleman's liberal order on the subject of repairs.
'Lord! Lord!' he went on, 'it's one thing to have you, and another
thing to put the house right for men who don't know an Elzevir from an
annual in red silk. One fellow came here who would have given me five
pounds more than I wanted for the place; but he put his vile hat upon
my books. Lord! Lord!'

"The old man's strongest effort in my father's favour, however, was
the proposal of a glass of wine. He seemed to have screwed himself up
to the offer, and to be proportionately relieved when it was declined.

"'You're quite right,' he said, frankly; 'my wine is not so good as my
books. Come and see them, whenever you like.'

"'The bookshelves shall be repaired, sir,' was his final promise in
answer to a hint from my father, who (it being successful, and he
being a very straight-forward man) was ever afterwards ashamed of this
piece of diplomacy. 'And the fire-place must be seen to. Lord! Lord! A
man can live anywhere, but valuable books must be taken care of. Would
you believe it? I have a fire in this room three times a week in bad
weather. And fuel is terribly dear, terribly dear. And that slut in
the kitchen burns as much as if she had the care of the Vatican
Library. She said she couldn't roast the meat without. "Then give me
cold meat!" I said; but she roasts and boils all the same. So last
week I forbade the butcher the house, and we've lived on cheese ever
since, and _that's_ eightpence a pound. Food is terribly dear here,
sir; everything is dear. It's enough to ruin a man. And you've got a
family. Lord! Lord! How a man can keep a family and books together, I
can't imagine. However, I suppose children live chiefly on porridge.'

"Which supposition served for long as a household joke against my
brothers, whose appetite for roast meat was not less than that of
other healthy boys of the period.

"It was a happy moment when my father came back from this interview,
and Reka Dom was fairly ours. But a more delightful one was that in
which I told the successful result of my embassy to the nursery
conclave. I certainly had not the remotest claim to credit in the
matter, but I received an ovation proportionate to the good news I
brought. I told my story skilfully, and made the six gardens the
crowning point; at which climax my brother and sisters raised a shout
that so far exceeded the average of even nursery noises, that my
mother hurried to the spot, where our little sister Phil flung herself
into her arms, and almost sobbing with excitement, cried--

"'Oh, Mother dear! we're _hooraying_ for Reka Dom!'

       *       *       *       *       *

"It was sagely prophesied by our nurse and others that we should soon
be tired of our new fancy, and find 'plenty to complain of' in Reka
Dom as elsewhere. (It is nursery wisdom to chasten juvenile enthusiasm
by such depressing truths.) And undoubtedly both people and places are
apt to disappoint one's expectations on intimate acquaintance; but
there are people and places who keep love always, and such an one was
Reka Dom.

"I hardly know what to tell you of it, Ida. The happy years we spent
there were marked by no wonderful occurrences, and were not enlivened
by any particular gaiety. Beyond our own home our principal treat was
to take tea in the snug little house where we made our first
acquaintances. Those good ladies proved kind friends to us. Their buns
were not to be surpassed, and they had pale albums, and faded
treasures of the preceding generation, which it was our delight to
overhaul. The two sisters lived with their invalid brother, and that
was the household. Their names were Martha and Mary, and they
cherished a touching bit of sentiment in reference to the similarity
between their circumstances and those of the Family of Bethany.

"'I think it reminds us of what we ought to be, my dear,' Miss Mary
said to me one day. 'Only it is I who should have been called Martha,
for Martha is far more spiritually minded.' Humility was the most
prominent virtue in the character of these good ladies, and they
carried it almost to excess.

"I remember, as a child, thinking that even the holy sisters of
Bethany could hardly have been more good than the Misses Brooke, but I
was quite unable to connect any sentiment with the invalid brother. He
spoke little and did less, and yet his sisters continually quoted his
sayings and criticisms, and spoke of his fine taste and judgment; but
of all that he was supposed to say, only a few croaking common-places
ever met our ears.

"'Dear James was so much pleased with that little translation you
showed me,' or 'Dear James hopes that his young friends keep up their
practising. He considers music such a resource,' etc., etc.

"I believe they did hold conversations with him in which he probably
assented to their propositions, and they persuaded themselves that he
was very good company. And, indeed, he may have been all that they
believed; I can only say that to me dear James's remarks never
exceeded, 'Good-day, Miss. How are your excellent parents?' or some
similar civility. I really was afraid of him. There is something
appalling in a hoarse voice coming from under a green shade, and
connected with eyes you cannot meet, and features that are always
hidden. Beyond that shade we never saw to the day of his death.

"This occurred about four years after we first knew them. I well
remember the visit of condolence on which I accompanied my mother, the
bitter grief of the sisters, and the slow dropping of Miss Mary's
tears on to her black dress. Wonderful indeed is love! The most
talented and charming companion in the world could not have filled to
them the place of the helpless, uninteresting invalid who had passed
away.

"The Misses Brooke caused a commotion in the gossiping world of our
little town by going to the funeral. It was not the custom for ladies
to go to funerals, and, as a general rule, the timid sisters would not
have ventured to act against public opinion; but on this occasion they
were resolute. To hear the voice of authority meet them with the very
words wherewith Divine lips had comforted those other sisters, would
comfort them, as nothing else could. I remember how from a windo

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