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THE TROUBLES AND TRIUMPHS OF LITTLE TIM. A City Story. By Grecson Gow. ‘Strong in character and full of incident, and the narrative all through is in. teresting and touching. Superintendents of Sunday Schools and others who are now making their selections should include Little Tim.”—Edinburgh Daily Review. ‘*Mr. Gow sketches life in London with a swift flowing felicity that shows him to be at home in our Modern Babylon, and there is a Dickens-like humour in his delineations that helps to carry the reader rapidly as well as pleasantly along.”— Christian Leader. INTO THE HAVEN. By Annis 8. Swan. “There is a simple dignity and pathos about this story that raises it far above the level of most tales of the kind.”—School Guardian. “No story more attractive . . . by reason of its breezy freshness and unforced pathos, as well as for the wholesome practical lessons it conveys.”—Christian Leader, THE HAPPY LAD. A Story of Peasant Life in Norway. From the Norwegian of Bjornstjerne Bjérnson. “This pretty story has a freshness and natural eloquence about it such as are seldom met with in our home-made tales. It seems to carry us back to some of the love stories of the Bible.” —Aberdeen Free Press, BOX OF STORIES. Packed for Young Folk by Horacz Happyman. ‘*A score of fine old legends, fables, and stories retold in a manner adapted to the taste and imagination of young readers of this generation.”—School Board Chronicle. The Patriot Martyr: And other Narratives of Female Heroism in Peace and War. LONDON: BLACKIE & SON, 49 & 50 OLD BAILEY, E.C.; GLASGOW, EDINBURGH, AND DUBLIN. MADGE’S MISTAKE. = MADGE’S MISTAKE: A RECOLLECTION OF GIRLHOOD. BY ANNIE E. ARMSTRONG, Author of ‘“‘Ethel’s Journey to Strange Lands,” “ Prince Narcissus,” &c. &, ILLUSTRATED. LONDON: BLACKIE & SON, 49 & 50 OLD BAILEY, E.C.; GLASGOW, EDINBURGH, AND DUBLIN. 1884, CONTENTS. Chap. Page I. Cur Rosss, - - : 7 - - - 9 II. A SxetcH of our Famity, - - - - 26 III. An Earty Mornine’s Drive, - — - ‘ - 42 IV. BREAKFAST WITH FATHER, - - - - 59 V. Tue Missine Key, - - - - - - 7 VI. BREAKFAST WITHOUT FATHER, - « . - 91 VII. Tur Rosz-sHow, - - - - - - 113 VIII. Trvy’s ADMIRER, - . - - - - 127 IX. Taz Resutt oF tHE RoszE-sHow, : - - 146 MADGE’S MISTAKE. CHAPTER I. CUT ROSES. { HE fact is, it is quite time Madge | went to school. She was twelve SH, years old yesterday, and her sisters, ZZ or at all events some of them, were sent when younger than she is.” So says my aunt. The state of the case is this. I have been distinguishing myself as usual, and am now standing beside Mother's sofa, looking down ruefully at a large bunch of roses (many of them newly blown) which I have just been cutting in the hot-house with a slashing pair of scissors (Aunt’s cutting-out scis- 10 MADGE’S MISTAKE, sors), without thinking of their probable des- tiny. “Your father will be nicely upset when he hears of it,” continues my aunt, as she gives an angry little shake to her work and takes up her needle again; “however, you'd better tell him yourself when he comes in, for I’m tired of begging you off, as I am constantly doing, and perhaps it will be a lesson for you.” Two great tears which have been blinding me for the last minute or so now fall flop on the carpet, and after shining there for an instant sink into the soft pile. “Come here, Madge, dear!” says Mother, as she holds out her poor, thin hand to- wards me; “did you not know that your father had been rearing these particular flowers for the great rose-show at M week 2” “No!” I say abruptly. “I knew he was bothering and fussing about them; but I thought they were for you, of course, and I know you like to have them before they are next I LEARN MY MISTAKE. 11 quite blown, so that you can watch them open, and as Williams wasn’t there I just cut them myself.” “ Like a troublesome interfering child that you are,” puts in my aunt, with another im- patient flourish of her work. “ Never mind, Joan,” sighs Mother, as she sinks back wearily among her cushions; “Madge meant only to please me, poor child, by bringing the flowers, and she could not know without being told that these roses were not to be touched.” “Of course not,” 1 say with much alacrity, on receiving this small grain of comfort. “Of course he ought to have told me, or told Williams to tell me, or locked up the hot- house— or—” . My next suggestion dies on my lips, for, on the gravel-walk outside, I hear the unmis- takable crunch of Father’s boots, and before I have time to rush out of the drawing-room door, which faces our private side entrance to the garden, there are loud footsteps in the hall, and a determined voice demanding to 12 MADGE’S MISTAKE. know the cause of the disappearance of a certain riding-whip. An awful idea strikes me! Can he have started on his ride (I know he was going to M about some meeting or other), and can he have seen me in the hot-house from over the hedge, and can he have come back with—? The door is thrown open; but before the person behind it can step into the room I have rushed across to the door of the con- servatory, which stands invitingly open, Ar- rived there, I look round to see if I have escaped observation, and am just in time to see Father stalk up to Mother’s sofa, evi- dently with the intention of asking where I am. So I wisely stop to see no more, and without turning my head rush blindly on re- gardless of all obstacles. Unfortunately a large watering-can stands in my way, and before I have time to pull up, my dress has caught the long spout and toppled it over. A stream of water along the stone floor is A NARROW ESCAPE. 13 the result, and I stand still for a minute in order to watch its progress. Horror of horrors! it is pursuing a remorse- less course towards the drawing-room door, and I hear Father coming across to that end of the room. I am just meditating hiding behind one of the large rhododendrons which are close behind me, when there is a light thud near the open window. I turn hastily and see my great Tabby Tom standing on three legs in the midst of the water shaking the drops from his fourth paw. I conclude that Father has seen him, too; for, after looking with disgust at the rapidly spreading stream, he goes back to my aunt and says, “That cat is always upsetting some- thing, and it shall be drowned. I’ve said so before, but this time I'll see it done myself.” I hear a mild remonstrance from Mother, and manage to catch the words, “ Madge’s Cat—had him for years’—but Father im- mediately shuts her up by saying, “Nonsense! if Madge doesn’t like it she can do the other thing;” and the next thing I hear is the slam 14 MADGE’S MISTAKE, of the drawing-room door, and once more I breathe freely. My first move is to emerge from my hiding-place, and seeing Tom lick- ing the wet paw I go up to him and say, “You’ve saved me this time, Tom, and if Father means what he says I'll lock you up in the barn. You'd be safe there, for he’d never trouble to look for you if you happened to be out of his way.” Tom purrs gratefully, and after waiting for the sound of the hoofs of Father's horse dying in the distance I con- sider it safe to venture forth once more. I do not choose the drawing-room, however, for the garden strikes me as being the safest haven of refuge; that is, if I can get into my favourite tree without meeting Jack, who is the most accomplished of teazes. The fact is, 1 must think over this affair seriously, for if the roses are not forthcoming for the show there will be what Jack would call “a nice shindy” (1 like Jack’s way of expressing him- self—it’s short and to the point). Having arrived at this conclusion I find I have also arrived at the bottom of the con- 4 I HAVE AN IDEA. 15 servatory steps, and after glancing round to see if there is any one to observe me I fly down the path, across the lawn, and leaping on to the seat which is just beneath I raise myself into the tree and settle there com- fortably, with the intention of having a good think, I never can think among a lot of people. I am not naturally disposed to be quiet my- self, and occasionally throw in remarks and suggestions which are not always received with delight if there happens to be a discus- sion going on; but when I want to get out of a scrape I cannot brook interruption, and there- forealways make a point of avoiding the whole family. One thing is evident,some roses must be obtained somehow! Where from, and by whom, have not the slightest idea. The thing is, if I can replace those I have taken by others will Father know the difference? I hardly think so, and I immediately begin to con- sider how I can set about it. Tonly attacked two pots, that I know; but I must find out how many blossoms there 16 MADGE’S MISTAKE. were on the bunch I took Mother, and what colour they are. Then I shall know what I am about—for suddenly a wild idea has come into my head. I have some money—really a fair amount for a girl of my age—for Aunt Lydia, my godmother, sent me a pound on my birth-day, the day before. There must also be five shil- lings in my money-box, and I have a bright half-crown which Mr. Featherstone, our vicar, gave me for catching and driving home his favourite cow, Moll, one day when she slipped her cord and ran away; and also the five shillings Father gave me yésterday for my birth-day present. I go through a mental calculation—five and five are ten, and two and six are twelve and six. One pound twelve and six in all! I have not the least idea what flowers cost, but I have a vague remembrance of some one saying that they are most expensive things to buy; but surely one pound twelve and six is enough, and, if not—why, I suppose I shall have to let Jack into my secret, and (220) JACK FINDS ME ON MY PERCH. 17 get him to lend me some, though, of course, in that case I shall bid adieu to peace of mind for evermore. However, I must not let my thoughts drift away in this fashion. Although I have a plan in my head it will re- quire a good deal of maturing and manage- ment to carry out, for the risk will be awful and great I fear. There is a large market- garden at M——,, and it is my intention to pay it a visit early the next morning. I believe it is a long distance; but I must manage to do it and get back by half-past eight, which is our breakfast hour. If this can be accom- plished I shall be safe; for Father never sets foot in the garden before breakfast, the hour from 7°30 being taken up in tramping over the farm, stables, &c. Then, after breakfast, he retires to the library and answers his letters, and after that he takes a stroll round the garden and gives a bird’s-eye view to things in general. If, therefore, I can get the pots in, and then steal the key for a short time, all will be well; and at eleven o’clock Father leaves home, not to return until the (220) B 18 MADGE’S MISTAKE. morning of the day fixed for the rose-show, so, as the specimens are to be sent in that very morning, they will not be seen again till properly arranged at the gardens. I have just completed all these arrange- ments to my satisfaction, when I hear a loud whooping and barking in the distance, and, in another instant, up rushes Jack, surrounded by a troop of dogs, which, as usual, have flown from the stables on hearing his cheery voice, I give a sharp “ Hullo!” as he nears the tree on which I am perched, and without looking up, he says, “Oh! it’s you, is it?” and throws himself down on the grass, while all the dogs stand and bark hoarsely at me, evidently under the impression that I have secreted myself in the tree for some unlaw- ful purpose. I pelt them with twigs, how- ever, and after reprimanding them severely, they all lie down beside Jack with their tongues hanging out of their mouths. “ Father in?” I ask briefly, as I commence tearing a leaf into tiny bits. WE DISCUSS FATHER’S RIVAL. 19 “No, thank goodness!” answers Jack, “and, what is better, he won’t be in till just before dinner—why, though?” he suddenly asks, raising himself on his elbow. “Oh! nothing,” I answer with great un- concern,—then, after a pause,— “ Jack, how far is it to M “Between five and six miles, I believe; but what do you want to know for, pray; are you going on an excursion there?” I feel myself growing red, but I answer with great dignity, “I should have thought that Father having gone there was sufficient reason for my asking anything.” Q” “Hum, yes; perhaps so,” says Jack; “but I advise you not to be up to any larks,” he adds, with brotherly interest. “ Father’s not in the best of tempers just now, and I don’t think it would be well to trifle with him.” “Why?” I ask, anxiously. “Well, you know,” returns Jack, “he has the rose-show on his mind for one thing; you know there’s a report that old Monckton will get the prize—and certainly there seems 20 MADGE’S MISTAKE, every likelihood of it—for the other day when I had to take that note from Father to him, he showed me the whole concern; the roses I mean, little thinking how Father would rave if he heard how fine they were; Father says he’s bent on getting the prize, if it’s only to spite old Mr. M.” I grow perfectly cold, and if I did not know to the contrary, I should say that some one was standing above me pouring cold water down my back. I make one effort to shake this feeling off, however, and in order to change the conversation I ask: “Are you not glad Father is going away?” Jack stares at me for a minute, and then says with great contempt, “Are you glad when the fog clears off? Are you glad when the winter is over? Are you glad when it ceases to rain and the sun comes out? Allow me to tell you that the sun will come out at eleven o’clock to-morrow morning, for the first time during these holidays.” I feel suppressed, sat upon, but wisely say MY ASTHETIC SISTER. 21 nothing; and just at that instant I hear Miss Montgomery’s voice calling us in to tea, As Jack rises from the ground I hastily slide down from my seat in order to avoid his delicate attentions in helping me, which generally consist in seizing my two feet and dragging me down. We now march on together in silence, followed by the dogs, who have calmed down considerably. I see my eldest sister, Elfreda, walking towards the house with Miss Montgomery, our governess. This sister of mine goes in for intensity, and wears dresses very much gathered and puckered up, and has awfully long tails to them, which are always tripping us up, and herself too, sometimes; she wears large flowers, too, tucked up right under her neck, and thinks it a dreadful thing to walk any- way but very slowly. It was fun to see her the other day though, when Jack went up to her and said, “ Freda, 22 MADGE’S MISTAKE, there is an earwig just about to step off the leaf of that lily on to your neck!” Oh! how she screamed and rushed about, and at last she took the lily off and threw it on the ground. Jack immediately picked it up again, and going up to her, presented it with a low bow, and said, “‘ There was no earwig at all, my dear Freda; but don’t you think it was consummate nonsense to show such intense dislike to a harmless insect, and with such an utter disregard to its feelings?” » Freda was very angry, though she could - not help laughing, but she’s been a little careful before Jack ever since! As we turn a corner of the path I see Netty, our Baby, trudging along a few yards before me, hugging a large doll, the weight of which is almost too much for her: I am seized with a wicked desire to frighten her; I leave Jack, and running on before him, catch Netty up and whisper over her shoul- der in an awe-stricken voice, “ Run, Netty, Father’s coming.” Poor Netty is instantly inspired with NETTY TUMBLES INTO A TUB. 23 terror, and does run to some purpose. Un- luckily the goldfish have been fished out of their globe to-day, and in order to facilitate the washing thereof have been put into a large tub of water which now stands at the bottom of the conservatory steps, straight in Netty’s path. On she rushes heedlessly, and before I can catch her up, into the tub she flounders, doll. and all, with a splash which scatters the goldfish far and wide. A suc- cession of shrieks follows, and at last Netty, after much splashing and gasping, is dragged out by Miss Montgomery and Freda, and once more set upon her legs. She does not appear to be much damaged, however, though her pretty hair now hangs in hopeless rat-tails, and she is in a general state of limpness altogether; no! it is the unfortunate Juliana who is to be most pitied, for the brilliant colour in which she gloried has disappeared, and left her as white as the garments in which she is attired; and, sad to tell, there is a bright red stream trickling slowly down into the 24 MADGE’S MISTAKE, said garments, looking very suggestive of a dreadful wound. Netty does not look at the case from this point of view however, for, seizing the in- jured young lady from the gravel walk where she fell, she marches up to me, and saying, “Youre a nasty Madge, and I don’t love you,” she throws her treasure deliberately in my face, and with a burst of tears rushes to Miss Montgomery and hides her head in her dress. With some governesses this would have been a case of dry bread for tea, no doubt; but, thank goodness, ours is not this sort of person, for I must say that, notwith- standing our being such an unruly set, she manages us to perfection with her gentle firmness and kindness, and the consequence is we all dote on her, and what is more, we all obey her like—like—one o’clock!— (Jack’s usual simile). Even he says she’s a regular brick, which is a great concession on his ‘part, as he professes to hate ladies. But to return,— Miss Montgomery after soothing and con- AND I AM REPROVED. 25 soling the afflicted Netty, merely looks up at me and says,— Madge, what would your mother say?” She knows that that short simple question will shame me more than a hundred lectures or scoldings, and I turn and follow her and my: sisters into the house, with an uncomfortable sensation in my throat, and sitting down to tea, wonder if ever I shall be like other girls, and whether school would really be the best place for me. . « . . = : 3 oe 3 @ . CHAPTER IL A SKETCH OF OUR FAMILY, a HAVE two more sisters, Tiny and © Gip. They have been out in the te pony - carriage under the escort of James, the under-groom, and have come home laden with parcels from M. They come into the school-room now, hot, dusty, and tired, and throwing their parcels in a heap on to the sofa, and themselves into chairs, they both cry simultaneously: “ We met Father on the road.” “No! did you?” we gasp all together. “Yes,” says Gip, who is always spokes- woman, ‘“Wasn’t it a mercy we had James with us?” “What did he say?” asks Freda, as she busies herself with the bread and butter. TINY AND GIP. 27 “Oh! of course something was wrong! he asked me first if I thought James was sufh- cient chaperon for two young ladies. I said, Mother thought so, and then, after finding fault with Tiny as to her manner of holding the reins, he took off his hat and passed on.” “ Bah!” says Freda, “I wish Father would be as kind as he is polite.” “Well,” continues Gip, “we met young Mr. Greenway just after, and I thought Father would turn and come after us again, -but he only waited to see if we stopped: of course we only bowed; we couldn’t do any- thing else under the circumstances, you know, so he was satisfied and rode on.” Jack enters here (thank goodness he branched off to the stables before the episode of the tub took place, so he knows nothing of it), “Tea ready?” he asks; and without waiting for an answer he seats himself, and attacks the bread and butter. “Come, girls,” says Miss Montgomery, as she commences pouring out the tea. “Tiny 28 MADGE’S MISTAKE. and Gip can put their hats down here for the present as they seem tired; I want to get tea over,” she went on, “then you can all go and play tennis if you like, for I have pro- mised to go and read to your mother till dinner-time.” We all fall to, therefore, with healthy appetites, for even Freda does not carry her intensity to the extent of starving herself. She sits opposite our governess, ‘Tiny and Gip are on one side, Jack and I on the other. I think we are a nice-looking family, taking us all in all. Freda is the best looking, of course, but Tiny almost comes up to her, in my opinion, if not quite, for she is the neatest little figure in the world, though very small, but her golden brown hair and bright hazel eyes are a fortune in themselves, and if I am not much mistaken several people I could men- tion think so also. Freda has bright blue eyes, which look well with her light fuzzy hair; and although her beauty is not much to my taste, I believe OUR PORTRAITS. 29 she did make a sensation when she came out . at the county ball last year. Gip seems to have struck out in a style of her own, for her hair is almost black, and curls and waves about her head in a fashion peculiar to itself, tumbling into her eyes and over her ears on the smallest provocation. Her eyes, though, are splendid; the Irish dark gray, which as often as not look black, finished off with lashes so long that Jack suggests that they shall be used for brooms for the sake of economy. If she had more figure to speak of she would really be very handsome, but at present she is rather awkward and’ angu- lar, being only fifteen and a half; but Mother, Aunt, and Miss Montgomery all agree that she will grow into a very fine woman; and, indeed, she cannot help being fairly good- looking with such a pair of eyes, whatever happens. The fact is, she has Father’s eyes to a T, for it must be acknowledged that his are extremely good; and another undeniable fact is that she has a spice of his temper too. The consequence is, when their wills clash, 30 MADGE’S MISTAKE. which they do not unfrequently, there is generally a nice scene. Jack comes next, and, as he and I are considered very much alike, in giving his portrait you will get mine too. We both have gray eyes, but not so dark as Gip’s, and we both have light chestnut hair, which has a decided talent for being everything but tidy. Mine has been kept short too, so that really were it not for my petticoats we might each be taken for the other sometimes. Netty, who has retired to the nursery, is like the general run of babies of four,—a rough, light head, round blue eyes, and rosy cheeks. I must make a sweeping assertion in con- clusion, to the effect that we all have mouths like Mother, and hers is a good one, at least so people say. Tiny and Gip have just re- turned home from a finishing school, Tiny to stay and Gip most likely to return for an- other term. Jack, too, has returned from Marlborough, so we make a goodly party when we meet round the table at luncheon and dinner. Father, Mother, Aunt, three; JACK INVITES ME TO GO FISHING. 31 Miss Montgomery, four; and we five, nine; for Netty is not promoted to dining down- stairs yet. Jack constantly groans over the prevalence of girls in our family, his only comfort being, he says, that I am more like a boy than 4 girl, which compliment I appre- ciate immensely. However, it has taken me longer to give this description of our family than it has taken us to dispose of our tea, and once more we are all on the move. Tiny and Gip are off to some private haunts, Miss Montgomery goes into the drawing-room to Mother, and Freda sits down to complete a sketch of a lily and some sun-flowers, thrown together in a most inartistic manner as I think, though she thinks quite differently. Jack comes up to me and says mysteri- ously, though not without patronage, “I’m going to fish; will you come?” “Oh, Jack!” I exclaim breathlessly, “what would Father say?” “He won't say anything about it as it happens,” Jack returns contemptuously. 82 MADGE’S MISTAKE, “You don’t suppose, do you, that I am going to announce my intention publicly; if you do, you're a greater goose than I took you for.” My dignity rises at these unhandsome remarks, and I say with great coolness: “Oh! well, do as you like; I am going to work, or read, or something; so good-bye for the present,” and I turned towards the door with my head in the air. . “Whe—w—!” whistles Jack; “now, don’t be a donkey, Madge; will you come, or will you not?” I have remorse instantly for showing my temper, and, going back to the window, I say, “All right—I’ll come soon; but I’ve got something to do first.” Jack is satisfied and retires, and I stand considering what will be my best move. Having made up my mind, I bound out of the room, down the stairs, and into the drawing-room. Miss Montgomery is stand- ing looking at the unfortunate roses, which are now in water, but well out of sight SILENCE PROMISED. 33 behind a lamp on a side-table, thanks to Aunt, who I find has been recounting the history thereof. Finding all three together, I take the bull by the horns and say hastily: “T want you all, please, not to say any- thing to Father about the roses until I do; will you promise me? because I think I can make it all right.” And I stand nervously plaiting and unplaiting my handkerchief, awaiting my doom. My aunt is just opening her mouth to speak when once more I hear Mother’s gentle voice saying: “Madge, dear! come here;” and I rush over to the sofa, narrowly escaping turning over Aunt’s work-basket on my way. Arrived there, Mother takes my hand and Says: “Tf you can say truly, Madge, that your plan, whatever it is, will not lead you into further trouble and disgrace, I am sure your aunt and Miss Montgomery will agree with me in deciding that it will be wise to let you alone in the matter, and, as your (220) — c ot MADGE’S MISTAKE. aunt says, perhaps it will be a lesson’ for you.” Of course Aunt and Miss Montgomery agree with Mother, who, after drawing me down and kissing me, says: ’ “Now, run away, dear, for Miss Mont- gomery has kindly promised to read to me for an hour before dinner.” I crossover to theside-table first,and hastily count the roses—four red and three tea— and, saying this over and over to myself as I retrace my steps, 1 open the door and van- ish. I am bound for the garden now, for an interview with Williams, but this does not give me much anxiety, for I know just how to manage him. ‘The one I do dread is with Simmons, our coachman, for he rules us all, from Father downwards, witha rod of iron, and evidently looks upon it as a great indulgence on his part to allow us to have the carriage out at all sometimes. With the pony car- riage it is a different matter, for he doesn’t trouble to prepare it himself, and of course we SIMMONS, TUE DESPOT! 85 always drive ourselves; so, unless we happen to be going to balls, garden-parties, or to make a round of duty calls, he does not approve of our ordering out the carriage and pair; but it is a sight to see him on these specified occasions, for he looks importance and dignity from the soles of his boots to the crown of his hat. I think he is the only person that Father stands in any awe of, but he will not of course allow it for an instant, and always, therefore, sides’ with Simmons, no matter against whom. Simmons will come in, perhaps, and say, as he stands and twirls his hat in his hands, “The brown mare seems a bit lame this morning, sir, so may be it ’ud be best if Miss Freda didn’t ride out to-day.” “Yes, certainly,” says Father; and although he knows that he never enjoyed a better canter than that of yesterday on this identi- cal animal, he follows up his first remark by saying: “T thought she went a little lame yester- 36 MADGES MISTAKE. day, so you'd better see that she has a good rest for a day or so.” Simmons retires triumphant, having got his own way, and Father on his side into the bargain. The fact is, it is Simmons who has gone a bit lame this morning, for I had overheard him remark to James that he felt a twinge of rheumatiz in his knees, and I knew at once that he would not care to follow Freda in one of her sweeping gallops across country; and as Father never allows us to go out with anyone but Simmons, poor Freda has to stay at home. Freda is very wrathful, but having once got Father on his side, her wrath falls on Simmons like water on a duck’s back. I wend my way towards the hot-houses, but Williams is not there, so I turn to the kitchen-garden, and there I see him stooping over a strawberry bed. I go up to him and say, “Well, Wil- hams!” “ Well, Miss Madge!” he returns without looking up. I wonder what I can say next, A TALK WITH OUR GARDENER. 37 and hazard the remark that the day has been hot. “Well,” he replied, “for the matter 0’ that, ’ve known many an ’otter.” I, mentally regret not having been pre- sented with the skins of some of these ac- quaintances, Williams goes on, however. “Tt’sjust the right sort o’ weather this ’ere for the strawberries, and, in fact, all the fruits are coming on beautiful.” T remark that I am glad to hear it, but, feeling that I am not getting any nearer my object, I rush into the subject at once and say: “Williams, I wish you'd lend me the key of the hot-house for a few minutes, I want to see the roses Father has set aside for the show.” Williams stops in his work and leaning on his rake looks up at me, “Now I wonder, Miss Madge, that ye comes to me with such a question as that, it’s a likely thing that I should let you, nor any one in by them- selves; and now, let me tell you this,” he goes on slowly and emphatically, “the key 38 MADGE’S MISTAKE, of that hot-house is safe in my cottage, and there it will stay till such time as I hands it over to Robert, afore 1 goes away. Your father knows it,” he continues, “and as he never looks at them hisself after dinner, ‘taint quite likely I should give the key to you, Miss Madge. No, no!” he says, as he turns once more to his strawberry bed, “the roses are doing well, and they sha’n’t be touched by no one else but me, while I’m at home.” Although I am delighted at the success of my plan, I still manage to get a crest- fallen expression on my face, and as I turn to leave him, I grumble, “ Well, you might have lent it to me for a few minutes, I think; you know I shouldn’t have hurt any- thing.” But by this time 1 am too far away to hear anything he may be saying, and can only see him shaking his head as he watches my departure. My next business is with Simmons, and I tremble when I think of it; but, stay! a A VISIT TO OUR LIVE STOCK. 39 bright idea occurs to me. Simmons’ wife has been suffering from a low fever for some time, and has no appetite Pve heard. I will visit my own special fowls and see if “there are any eges to be had, and if so I'll take them to Simmons as an offering and then make my request. Accordingly, I branch off to the end of the kitchen-garden, where our live stock, which is plentiful but varied in style, is kept. My presence is duly acknowledged by a loud cackling, and fluttering of wings, while from the top of a beam to my right I hear a deep voice saying, “ Maggie,” followed by a hoarse cough. I am quickly surrounded by animals of all descriptions, rabbits, guinea-pigs, tame rats, and kittens, while from a heap of straw in the corner a litter of pups set up a squeaky bark at me; finding, however, that I have come with empty hands, they quickly leave me again with grunts of dissatisfac- tion. 40 MADGE’S MISTAKE, On looking down, however, I find I am not quite deserted, for standing close to my left foot is Tuft, so called from the little knot of feathers on top of his head. Tuft is a crow of great age and antiquity; he is also blind in one eye, and, as the defec- tive eye is towards me, the poor deluded creature still stands beside me, in hopes of getting a piece of biscuit, or cherry, or some- thing of the sort. On examination of the nests I find three fine eggs, and depart therewith rejoicing. On the way, unfortunately, one of the kittens gets under my feet, and with that stupidity which is peculiar to cats, I believe, refuses to move. Down I go of course, and smash! goes one of the eggs, which is annoying in the extreme. It is an ill wind that blows no one good, however, for instantly there is a general rush, and before I can recover myself, the egg, shell and all, has disappeared. Never mind, though, two new-laid eggs are not to be despised, and comforting my- INTRODUCED TO THE NEW FOAL. 41 self thus, I free myself from the noisy group and start for the stables. ' Simmons is walking round, taking a sur- vey of the horses, and seems for him to be in a fairly good temper. Hi CHAPTER III. AN EARLY MORNING’S DRIVE. \{{ OOD evening, Miss Madge,” says ( he, as he touches his hat and puts down his pipe,—‘ I suppose KU mS you've come to have a look at the new foal?” “Well, I didn’t come on purpose,” I say confusedly, “but I should like to see it awfully, of course.” “Come along then, Miss,” he says, and leads the way to a box at the far end of the stable. “Here he is,” says Simmons, and he throws open the door with pride, and looks as if he expected me to go in. I have no intention of doing so however, for Pve no fancy for being kicked, and the foal is rushing round the box in such an I CONFIDE IN SIMMONS. 43 alarming manner that it scems as if this would be the probable result. I retreat behind Simmons, therefore, in rather a cowardly manner T’m afraid, and feeling bound to make a remark, say: “ Hasn’t he rather long legs?” “Long legs!” repeats Simmons, ‘aghast. “They're beautiful legs, that’s what they are; why, that foal will grow up to be one of the best horses in this county, unless I be much mistaken;” and, apparently very much hurt at the indifference I show to this wonderful creature, Simmons closes the door and moves back to where we first met. Arrived there I hold out the two eggs to Simmons and say,—‘ I’ve brought you two egos for your wife, Simmons. I thought she might fancy them, perhaps.” “Thank you, Miss Madge. I’m sure Mrs. Simmons will be much pleased and honoured by your thinking of her, and she will enjoy the eggs too, Miss.” This is satisfactory so far, so I make up my mind that it will be my safest plan to 44 MADGE’S MISTAKE, confide in Simmons, as without doing so, I feel sure he will never consent to my having the pony carriage. I begin at once by saying,—“ I’m afraid I’ve got into a scrape with Father to-day.” “No! have you, Miss?” says Simmons with much interest. “Yes,” I continue, “and I want you to help me out of it.” “Me help you, Miss Madge!” cries Sim- mons, with astonishment. “Yes,” I say calmly; “and if you'll really promise to do what I want Pll tell you all about it.” Here I glance round to sce if there is any- thing in shape of a seat, and seeing a wheel- barrow handy, I perch myself thereon and resume: . “Yes, Simmons, do promise, and [ll tell you.” Simmons evidently thinks I am mad, for, after staring at me for a few seconds, he says: “Surely you are joking now, Miss.” NEGOTIATIONS. 45 “ Not at all,” I say briskly, “ the thing is, now, will you promise me?” and I lean forward on the barrow and wait anxiously for his answer. After some consideration Simmons goes up to the nearest horse, and while stroking his glossy neck he says, slowly: “ Well, Miss Madge, of course you know that Pd be glad to do anything I could to help you out of your difficulty, but I can’t do nothing that would be against master’s wishes, you know; so if you'll just let me know what it is you want I'll think it over a bit.” I stop a moment before replying, to won- der if it will be safe to divulge my secret before ascertaining if Simmons means to help me. I decide not, and make up my mind to make my request first boldly. Having settled thus I come to the point at once and say: ‘‘ Well, the fact is, I want you to let me have the pony-carriage out to-morrow.” 46 MADGE’S MISTAKE. Simmons considers once more, and then says: “What time would you be wanting it, Miss Madge?” “Oh! very early,” I reply, “very early, indeed—in fact, you see, I want to get to M— and back again before breakfast.” Simmons evidently thinks my madness a hopeless case, and after another lengthened stare, says: * Well, we'll see what can be done, Miss Madge; but now you must let me know what it is all about, as I shouldn’t like to enter into all this without there being a good reason for it.” “Oh, but there 7s a very good reason for it,” I reply promptly, “and I’m sure you'll think so too when I tell you;” and I settle myself comfortably in the wheel-barrow preparatory to holding forth. “You know,” I commence, “that Father is going to send roses to the show this year? Well, I wanted to get some flowers for Mother this morning, and as I didn’t know SIMMONS BROUGHT OVER. 47 which were the show roses, of course I went and cut them;” and at the recollection of the catastrophe a sob rises to my throat which nearly chokes me, but I force it back, as I feel it will not be dignified to give way before Simmons; and clearing my voice I go on, “ Well, I've made up my mind to get more in their place, and I have arranged everything excepting how I am to get to M—,, so if you'll only be kind and help me I expect I shall pull through all right; of course,” I add, “this is in strict confidence, you know.” “Yes, of course, Miss Madge,” says Sim- mons, and he does not look quite so alarmed as he did. Then he takes up his pipe, and after knocking it out, slowly begins to refill it, while I sit on the edge of the barrow and watch his movements with anxiety. After weighing the subject and looking at it from all points of view, he puts his pipe down again and says, “ 1 understand what it is now, and I think I can manage it for you and keep it quiet too; so if you tell me what time you 48 MADGE’S MISTAKE, want to be off Tl have the pony-carriage ready for you myself, agin’ you are.” “Oh! thanks, Simmons,” I cry, starting up; “you are a regular brick, and I won't forget it: but let me sec,” I continue, coming to the point at once, “what time do you think I'll want to start?” “Well, to get back by half-past eight,” replics Simmons, “‘ you ought to leave by six, I should say, it takes pretty nigh an hour to get to M—; and then youll want a little time to choose your flowers, but I should say two hours and a half would do you nicely.” Having settled everything satisfactorily I scramble out of my seat, and after bidding Simmons good-bye quite affectionately, leave the stable. I go and join Jack then, and we have a pleasant hour's fishing together in our favourite quiet nook, where the tops of the trees meet over the water. We return to the house laden with one small fish, but, as Jack says, one is better than nothing. As we pass the open drawing- room windows we see Father asleep behind I COMPLETE MY ARRANGEMENTS. 49 the Zimes, Aunt nodding opposite, and Mother quietly reading on her sofa, for it is about nine o’clock now, and dinner has been over some little time. Freda makes the fourth at dinner always, but directly she sees her way to it she escapes from the drawing-room to join the conclave in the school-room. I find them all there now engaged in working, reading, &c., on my entering, but not feeling in- clined for conversation, I retire to the win- dow and hang therefrom. I should like to go out in the garden again, but dare not, for I should be certain to run against Father, and no matter what time it were he would order me off to bed instantly, and do it as if it were a punish- ment too. It’s not long, however, before Miss Mont- gomery looks up and says cheerfully, “ ‘Time for bed, Madge,” and I rise without a mur- mur, and after saying good-night all round, depart. I am not sorry to go at all, for I shall have to be up with the lark in the (220) D 50 MADGE’S MISTAKE. morning, and, moreover, I have to get my money together. Fortunately mine is not one of those insane boxes which are intended (apparently) never to be opened: mine has a lock and key, and not only that, the key is in my own possession, for it is considered a point of honour in our family not to open our money-boxes unless there’s some dire necessity for so doing. I have a dear little room leading out of Freda’s, Tiny and Gip having two on the same principle; and after throwing open my window to the top, I make my preparations before getting ready for bed. Hirst of all I collect all my money together and put it into my purse, next I get out my driving-gloves and put them on a chair ready. I shall have to chance waking in time, as there is no watch or clock in my room; but I am sure to be in time, I think, as I am in the habit of getting up very early and prowl- ing about among the animals before break- fast; and if not, I daresay I shall hear the TOILET PERFORMED UNDER DIFFICULTIES. 51 great clock outside on the landing; besides I can easily slip into Freda’s room and peep at her watch, Comforting myself thus, I hop into bed, and am soon in a deep sleep. The sun streaming into my bed-room win- dow in the morning wakes me, and I fly out of bed in alarm and rush out into the passage to ascertain what time it is. I return with a sigh of relief, for it is only just half-past five, and I feel I shall just have time to dress and get off comfortably. I perform my toilet as nolselessly as possible, but of course I drop my brush, and clatter the soap-dish, and then the frill on my wrist catches a pin on the cushion and away it goes off the table, carrying with it an empty scent- bottle. I do not stop to pick them up though, for fear Freda should have heard the noise and get up to see the meaning of it. So I open the door hastily, but just as I step across the threshold, my umbrella, which has a peculiar talent for tumbling down on the slightest 52 MADGE’S MISTAKE, provocation, commences slipping on the boards. I am too late to stop it, so shut the door hurriedly, and with agony of mind I hear it go whack on to the floor. Down-stairs I rush and undo the bolts of the door: directly I get on to the steps my spirits rise, however, for I fecl that no one will dream of looking for me out of doors at that time of the morning. The morning is simply lovely, and each soft breath of wind comes up laden with the scent of new-mown hay from the fields where it is lying waiting to be carted away. The birds, too, were surely never so happy and joyous as they are this morning, for the whole garden and the woods beyond resound with their thrilling notes. On arriving at the stable I find Simmons, faithful to his promise, standing by the pony- carriage, which is all ready. Directly he sees me he goes back into one _of the stalls and re-appears with a glass of milk and a large slice of bread and butter. “T thought maybe you'd start off without I START ON MY TRAVELS. 53 thinking of your breakfast, Miss Madge,” he says, after saying “Good morning” to me, “so I made bold to cut you some bread and butter, and bring you a glass of milk.” “Oh, thanks, Simmons,” I cry, “it was very good of you to think of it, for if you hadn’t I should have been starving before I got home.” Having disposed of the milk I hop into the carriage, and throwing the bread and butter on the opposite seat preparatory to eating it as I go along, I gather up the reins, and nodding gratefully to Simmons, turn Frisk’s head towards the gate. The animals, one and all, evince a strong desire to accompany me, but with Simmons’ assistance and a few flourishes of my whip I at length make them understand that such is not my intention. Tuft, as usual, shows most obstinacy, and looking back I see him dodging Simmons in a manner that does him eredit, considering his blindness. I call out something to this effect, but 54 MADGE’S MISTAKE. Simmons would not laugh for the world, and after shutting Tuft in again, stands perfectly unmoved, touching his hat with the utmost deference and respect, as if he were seeing Father himself off, as I tell Jack afterwards. Frisk appears to be in rather a trying frame of mind this morning; whether he thinks his breakfast was cut short or not I don’t know, but he goes along in anything but a satisfactory manner, and keeps branch- ing off to the hedge on either side in a way which is most provoking, considering the hurried and anxious state of my feelings. I remonstrate at first, and make munificent offers of sugar and bread to be received on arrival home; but this making no impression, IT am at last compelled to stand up and administer a cut over his ears. This having the desired effect, he starts off into a fast trot, which carries me along in splendid style until we meet an unfortunate drove of small pigs being driven to market. For some reason or other Frisk entertains a mortal hatred of pigs, and evinces his diseust FRISK IS FRISKY! 55 now by suddenly standing still, impatiently shaking his head, and refusing to stir another step. Of course the stupid creatures swarm round Frisk’s legs, and I am in perfect terror for fear he should become really frightened and make a bolt with me. Without stopping to think, therefore, I throw down the reins and jump out with the intention of holding his head. At the very moment of my putting my foot to the ground, however, one of the largest pigs makes a rush at my legs, and with a cry of mingled rage and disgust down I go sprawling in the dust. I recover myself before the pig does, though, and administer some hard slaps, which send him howling and squeaking after his brethren. It is not till then that [ am conscious of a rough but kindly voice saying: “Murther an’ Irish! but that’s a nasty baste of a pig. But come now, it’s not kilt intirely ye are, so git up and be aisy a minit 56 MADGE’S MISTAKE. till I clare the dirt from off ye;” and before I can say yea or nay my arm is grasped firmly and I am once more on my feet. On looking up I find my friend is nothing more nor less than an Irish drover, and he certainly looks my beau-ideal of an Irishman, with his crownless hat, drover’s stick, and ragged coat. I am perfectly delighted at this unex- pected opportunity of a chat with a real “Pat,” for, as Father hates Irishmen one and all, we never have any to work about our place; so with a beaming smile I thank him warmly for his timely aid. He receives my thanks with the most deferential politeness ; and if it were not for the natural anxiety I feel for the welfare of his hat, I should con- sider myself a person of much importance. This article of apparel, however, has been taken off and put on again so many times during our conversation that I fear the one side of the brim to which it is attached may follow the example of the other and take its departure altogether. This little defect in his “PAT” TO THE RESCUE, 57 wearing apparel does not appear to occasion him the same amount of anxiety, though, for he smiles and bows and looks in the highest spirits as he helps me into the carriage. Before settling myself again I feel in my pocket for a stray sixpence which I remem- ber having put there yesterday, and drawing it forth with my handkerchief amidst a shower of crumbs, cherry-stones, slate-pencils, pens, &c., I tender it to my companion and say, “ Please take this; and can you tell me any shorter road than this to M—?” “Och and begorra, now!” he says, after pocketing the sixpence with alacrity, “but that’s a puzzling question that your axing me, for sure it’s only one road at all that there is; but it’s not disappointing ye that Td be after all, so [ll tell ye this, that the further ye goes on that the nearer ye'll be to the end of it.” Having thanked him for this piece of information, I fecl that I am wasting valu- able time; so, after wishing him “Good morning!” and receiving another shower of 58 MADGE’S MISTAKE, thanks for the sixpence, I shake the reins, and once more Frisk and I are off on our travels. . We do not meet with any further adven- tures on our way; and as I drive over the noisy stones with which M— is paved, I am thankful to see from the Town Hall clock that it is only just seven. I have an hour and a half, therefore, in which to make my purchases and get home.. CHAPTER IV. BREAKFAST WITH FATHER. “Ro WatN{( HE nursery-grounds lie at the other side of the town, however, just on SH the outskirts, so I whip up Frisk e ey in order that he shall understand that I mean business, and we pass quickly through the streets. We do not meet many people, but those we do meet stare as if they had never seen anything resembling either myself, Frisk, or the car- riage before. I pass them all, however, with great unconcern as they stand open-mouthed on the pavement, and very soon we turn off into a lane and stop before a little gate, over which a large board is fixed, with a notice to the effect that James Mullins, gardener and florist, undertakes to lay out gardens 60 MADGE’S MISTAKE, and supply his customers with choice cut flowers. . Having beckoned to a small boy who has watched my approach with great awe and interest, I place Frisk in his charge, and, after giving him strict injunctions not to hold his head, as he has an awkward habit of biting anyone who takes this liberty, I open the gate, and, after walking down one of the paths a little way, stand and look about me. I see Mr. James Mullins in the distance, busy with his raspberry canes, so I bend my steps thither and somewhat astonish him by suddenly saying close to his ear: “Good morning, Mr. Mullins! it’s a fine day, isn’t it?” “Why, bless my heart alive! if ’tain’t Miss Erickson,” says the little man, and he stands up; and, after pushing his hat further off his head, continues: “Why, you don’t mean to tell me, Miss, that you've come all the way from the Oaks this morning.” AN AWFUL PREDICAMENT. 61 “Yes, I have,” I answer briskly; “and I’ve come on very important business too. I want to look at your roses, and choose some to take back with me.” “Lors, now! you don’t mean it, Miss Erickson,” says Mullins with great astonish- ment; “you as has the finest roses for miles round in your garden.” “Yes,” I say impatiently; “but I want a particular kind, you see—some, in fact, that we haven’t got; and please show me some quickly,’ I add desperately, “for Pm in a ereat hurry, and I must be very particular in choosing them.” “Well, then, come along this way and I'll show you what we’ve got;” and the fat little man leads the way to a greenhouse a few yards distant. I am lost in wonder and admiration of his nether garments while walking behind him, for, besides the prodigious width thereof, they reach beyond the middle of his back; and I am just wondering how many yards of stuff can possibly have been put into them, 62 MADGE’S MISTAKE. when he startles me by suddenly stopping, and, throwing open the door, he says: “Step in, please, Miss, and take a look round,” I narrowly escape falling on his back, as I have been dreaming on behind him fully taken up for the time with the subject of the trousers; but I pull myself up in time, and, stepping past him, see a splendid collection of roses of every description before me. I proceed to explain that I want red and tea roses, and that I must have four of one and three of the other; but I find to my horror that I have utterly forgotten whether it was three tea and four red, or vice versa. I say it over a few times, first one way and then the other, to see which sounds best, and finally decide that three red and four tea are the correct numbers. Accordingly I set to work, with Mr. Mul- lins’ assistance, and select two beauties. “Ts it for the show you're wanting them, Miss?” he says, as he takes the pots and stands them on the gravel outside. I SELECT SOME FINE ROSES. 63 “Yes—no,” I say confusedly; “that is, they may go among others, you know. I believe we are going to send some; are you?” I add hastily. “Well, no; I ain’t a-going to send none this year. It don’t pay, you see, Miss, and it’s a deal of bother too; but may be I shall go and take a look round. Ive heard that your pas and Mr. Monckton’s is the best; what say you, Miss?” “Yes, I believe they're considered very good,” I say, feeling myself growing crim- son; “but now, how much are these? and will you have them done up carefully with sticks, so that they don’t break, you know?” “Yes, yes, I'll see to that; and now about the price, as you say, Miss; I don’t wish to charge you too much, you see. Here, Tom,” he calls, on seeing a youth approaching us, “take these ’ere roses and tie them up with sticks, and then take them to the young lady’s carriage yonder.” Then turning again to me he continues, 64 MADGE’S MISTAKE, “Well, as to the price, suppose we says fifteen shillings for the two?” This is really a relief to my mind, for I have been tormented with ideas that the flowers, so fine as they are, might possibly come to more than I had in my possession, though I hardly thought it likely; so without the smallest hesitation I pull out my purse and present him with the amount. He then escorts me to the gate with great ceremony, and after seeing me into the carriage and propping the pots up beside me, stands leaning on the gate watching me as I drive “off. I glance at the clock as once more we pass down the High Street, and find that it is already a quarter past seven. There is no occasion to inform Frisk of this fact, however, for his head once being turned towards home, he makes good use of his legs, and we get home in about half the time that we were coming. [ am just proceeding to con- gratulate myself on having arrived without being seen, when I descry a figure strolling JACK APPEARS ON THE SCENE. 65 along the road before me. This figure has a * basket slung across his back and something long in his hand, and as I gain on him what is my surprise and alarm to recognize my brother Jack! My heart gives a great jump and I feel that I am done for; but in another second I have made up my mind to put a bold face on the matter, and if necessary make a con- fidant of Jack. By the time I have come to this conclusion I am close upon him, and turning round in astonishment at the sight of a pony-carriage at that early hour of the day, he is evidently greatly relieved on finding it is only I, and accordingly greets me with his usual remark of: “Qh! it’s you, is it?” I pull up Frisk on hearing this, and say severely: “Why, where on earth have you been, and what have you got in that basket?” Jack returns my look with an equally severe one, and fixing his eyes remorselessly (220) E 66 MADGE’S MISTAKE, on the flowers, which are quivering and shaking by my side, says, “I should think it’s for me to ask that question; pray for whom are those flowers intended? They look uncommonly like some of Father's.” This news raises my spirits, and feeling certain that it will be best to take Jack into my confidence, I as usual dash into the sub- ject at once, and commence with, ‘ Look here, Jack, I’ve got into an awful scrape, at least I should have if any one knew—but— but I think I shall get on all right if you won't tell?” “Well,” answers Jack, “of course I can’t promise, you know; but let’s hear what it is and we'll see.” Whereupon I tell him the whole history without reserve, and then proceed to question Jack as to his mornine’s work, as to the law- fulness of which I have some doubts. Also I do not see why I should be “confessing” to him, when in all probability he has been up to far more mischief than I have, which is soon proved to be the case. SIMMONS ON THE LOOK-OUT. 67 “Well,” he replies, “if you must know, I’ve been fishing.” “Fishing!” I exclaim, aghast. ‘Oh, Jack!” “Well, and what if I have?” replies he with much nonchalance. “I suppose if you say nothing about it no one will be any the wiser. So as you ask the same thing of me, why not ery ‘quits’ and have done with it?” “Well, if you promise me, of course you know J sha’n’t tell,’ I say with dignity; “and now you may as well hop in and let me take you the rest of the way, only look sharp, for if we stand talking here we shall both run a good chance of meeting Father.” Jack takes my advice and off we go at a sharp trot. Having dropped him a few yards back, I turn into the stable and find Simmons on the look-out for me. “All right, Miss Madge?” he asks as he takes Frisk and commences unfastening the harness. “Oh, yes, thanks,” I say, “and I’ve got two beauties of pots. I’d show them to you 68 MADGE’S MISTAKE, if I could, but I must make haste and hide them, so if you wouldn’t just mind taking them out of the carriage carefully, Pll be off at once.” “Maybe I shall get a chance of seeing them at the show, Miss Madge,” Simmons remarks, as, having got a pot tucked comfort- ably under each arm, I am on the point of departing, feeling that it is dangerous to stay talking there. I shake my head doubtfully at this suggestion, and make a rush of it through the back gate to the barn. I am only just in time, for as I step in I hear Simmons in the distance, saying: “Yes, sir, I found that we was getting short of beans, sir, so as I thought the pony could best be spared, I sent James out along with him.” I tremble to think what a narrow escape I’ve had, for it is evident that I have only just missed meeting Father face to face, and as I place my two treasures safe behind an old wheel-barrow, which has been placed there as “unloadworthy,” I feel eternally grateful MY WHISTLING IS CUT SHORT. 69 to Simmons for his happy thought, and it is with a thankful heart, for having got through my complication of troubles so far safely, that I turn to leave the barn. I go sauntering on towards the house with my hands clasped behind me, and—the truth must be told—whistling as blithely as any bird, for whistling is my only musical accomplishment, with the exception of a fairly decent voice, perhaps, which is made generally useful by the family for glees, quartcttes, &c., for if the soprano be absent, the cry is, “Where’s Madge? put her in, she can scream to any height;” or if Father’s bass is missing —for on occasions of music in the drawing- room he actually joins us and makes himself agreeable, being really proud of our musical powers—there is a general cry for Madge, somebody being certain to add that “Madge’s voice will reach the depths of the ocean.” But though Father is tolerant of my variable voice in part singing, he will never allow me to perform a solo, for Freda has a clear, ring- ing soprano voice, Gip a fine deep contralto, 70 " -MADGE’S MISTAKE, which will be finer still when she is older, and Tiny a delightfully sweet mezzo, which charms all who hear her. It is hardly surprising, therefore, that he looks upon my vocal performances as merely a necessary evil! Having arrived in sight of the verandah, which runs all along the front of the house, I am suddenly startled by a voice therefrom, which demands in no gentle voice, “‘ Who is that whistling?” “Me,” I reply, as with a flushed counte- nance I present myself before my enraged parent. “Oh! you, is it?” he replies, as he fixes his piercing eyes on mine; “ well, ’'d advise you to try ‘I’ next time; now go in to your breakfast, and don’t let me hear you whist- ling again, do you hear?” I do hear, but I do not stop to say so, ‘and in a twinkling I am seated at the breakfast- table, at which I find the whole family as- sembled, with the exception of Mother and Netty. There is a Babel of voices as I enter the A GLOOMY BREAKFAST. 71 room, which is hushed, however, on the sound of heavy footsteps approaching the open window, and as Father seats himself at the table and glances round at us, we one and all appear to be deeply engaged with our break- fasts, “Tea or coffee?” says my aunt, as she reaches over for a cup. “Coffee,” replies Father, and then he tears open a letter and frowns over the contents. Aunt has filled the cup, and is just m the act of adding the milk, when Father looks up again and startles her by saying, “No; give me some tea; I’ve got a confounded headache this morning, and if it’s not better after my breakfast I shall put off going away till to-morrow.” A wild terror falls on all of us, but on me particularly, and my hand shakes so at hear- ing this awful announcement that the risole which Freda has just telegraphed for, and which I am fishing from the dish, trembles on the fork and falls on to the cloth, break- ing into several pieces with the shock. I 72 MADGE’S MISTAKE. get contemptuous glances from both Father and Jack, and the former mutters “Clumsy ;” but Miss Montgomery, to the fore as usual, seizes a spoon and quietly pops the ruins into Jack’s plate, that being the nearest re- ceptacle, and then, leaning across me, helps Freda to another; and once more there is unbroken silence for a few minutes. Pres- ently Father looks up suddenly and asks, “Who is going to the flower-show next week?” We all look first at Father and then at each other, and remain dumb, for we know well enough that we shall have no voice in the matter; and that whoever he chooses himself will be obliged to go with a cheerful ~ countenance. Aunt evidently fears that our obstinate silence may provoke Father, so she looks up and says quietly: “T suppose Freda, being the eldest, will go, and perhaps Tiny; but, of course, I don’t know how many of them you wish to take. “Well, so be it, then,” replies Father, rising from the table and throwing down the WHO WILL ACCOMPANY FATHER? 73 table-napkin. “Freda and Tiny go with me, and perhaps Miss Montgomery will take any of the younger ones she thinks proper.” “Certainly,” says Miss M.; and Freda and Tiny utter “Yes, Father,’ meekly, trying, poor things, to look pleased at the honour awarded them, while Father continues to Aunt, “Just see for me, Joan, that the car- riage is ordered to be at the door, and that there is no nonsense with the girls not being ready. I shall only get home again just in time to start for the gardens, so pray have everything ready.” “JT think you'd better speak to Simmons yourself about the carriage, perhaps,” says Aunt, looking alarmed; “but Ill look after the girls and see that they’re ready in time.” “Very well; do as you like;” and off stalks Father into his study. Freda’s and Tiny’s faces instantly fall, and the former with a very decided pout says, “ What a bore! I thought we should all go with Miss M. (our common mode of addressing her) or Aunt, and really enjoy ourselves. It’s a regular o 74 MADGE’S MISTAKE, sell, isn’t it, Tiny? But I do believe (stop- ping short and looking at her,) I do believe she does not care. “Well, where’s the use,” replies Tiny, swinging her feet; “ besides, we shall be able to talk to more people that way.” “Only old frumps,” say Freda contemptu- ously. “Father will take good care we don’t talk to any gentlemen, excepting old Monck- ton or Mr. Featherstone, perhaps.” “Nonsense!” chimes in Tiny; “he can’t prevent our speaking to people we know, and everyone we do know about here is sure to be there; and, as they are certain to come and speak to us, we sha’n’t do badly, I daresay.” “Tiny’s a sensible young woman,” says Jack suddenly, throwing himself into the argument. “If you play your cards well and don’t appear to mind being with him, he’s certain to introduce you right and left, especially if you dress yourselves properly. Why, I heard him telling old Monckton the other day that there was not a girl that could GENERAL DISSATISFACTION. 75 hold a candle to his eldest daughter at the last county ball.” “No! did he?” cries Freda, brightening ~ up. “Oh! well, we must make the best of it, I suppose, Tiny.” “Best of it indeed!” cries Gip rather snappishly ; it will be a best, 1 expect. You two will go in the carriage, while we unfor- tunate creatures will be toiling along the hot dusty road; and by the time we get there we shall not be fit to be seen, much less talked to.” “You can’t expect to go in the carriage when you have two sisters older than your- self,” puts in Aunt; “ but if Miss Montgomery would not mind driving, you can have the pony-carriage. There will be no need of walking at all.” “Oh, Pll drive!” cries Gip; but at a look from Aunt she stops short and_ blushes scarlet. “You forget, my dear,” she says, “ that Miss Montgomery i8 going with you.” “Yes; I beg pardon,” says Gip, turning > 76 MADGE’S MISTAKE. towards Miss M.; and Jack (who is really good-natured when occasion requires) comes to the rescue by attacking Freda once more. “T suppose you and Tiny won’t condescend to know the younger members of your fam- ily,” he says. “Of course not,” they both cry; and peace being restored once more, off we all troop to our different pursuits. (Did I mention that we were in the midst of our summer holi- days?) I seize my opportunity now and rush out of doors, straight to the kitchen-garden. aE he CHAPTER V. THE MISSING KEY, LTHOUGH my tongue was silent at es breakfast, my brain has been busy, joy and I have arranged a bold plan “ca which (though I tremble at the thought of it) must be carried out. “In for a penny, in for a pound,” I think, as, looking round cautiously first, I take a knife from my pocket and hastily cut some of the strings which bind one of our finest pear-trees to the wall. Down drops a heavy branch, not broken as yet, though it most assuredly will be if it is left long. Returning the knife to my pocket, I rush blindly into the front garden towards the hot-houses. I am only just in time, for Williams is 78 MADGE’S MISTAKE. there just putting the key into the door of the one in which the roses ought to be. “Williams!” I cry; “Williams! there’s a pear branch fallen on the south wall, and the weight of the pears will break it off if it is not looked to; I couldn’t do it by myself, [-~” Williams waits to hear no more, but rushes off, and my plan has succeeded. I instantly rush off to the barn, and run blindly against someone who is coming out. I look up terrified and sce Jack with my flowers, a pot under each arm. “Hush!” he says. “Come along; I thought I'd help you, and have been on the look-out; run and open the door—quick!” Without a word I fly, and in a trice the new pots are lodged safely in the places of the original ones; and while I carefully lock the door, Jack, armed with the old ones, clambers into the hay-loft, whither, after looking round to see if we have been observed, I follow him. “There!” says Jack, as he leans against the wall and fans himself, I’ve done you a WILLIAMS GETS INTO A SCRAPE. 79 good turn for once. Whe—w! how hot I am!” “Yes, Jack!” I cry enthusiastically; “you're a perfect duck;” and, carried away by my feelings of gratitude, I fly at him and give him a hug. “All right! don’t bother,” says Jack, who does not appreciate this burst of sisterly affection, “I thought I might do something for you, as you didn’t behave altogether badly about the fishing.” Having hidden the key safely under a loose board we once more descend from the loft, and turning into the dining-room from the verandah, hear Father storming and stamping about in the next room. We pretty well know what is amiss, but nevertheless think it advisable to ask, and follow Aunt out for that purpose. In the halk we find Williams standing twirling his hat round and round, and looking the picture of misery. “T’m sure, sir, I don’t know how it could a happened. I was just fixing up a branch 80 MADGE’S MISTAKE, on the south wall, and didn’t Icave the hot- house more nor two minutes, leastways five at the most, and when I came back, there was the door, sir, as tight as wax, sir, and the key nowheres as I could see.” I here pull Jack’s sleeve, and whisper, “Come along, don’t let us stay any longer; ” and as we creep quietly out of the front door we hear Father say, “More confounded care- lessness; it will ruin the tree for this year.” “Oh, Jack!” I say, when we are out of sight and hearing, “I’m afraid we have got poor Williams into an awful scrape. I wish I hadn’t done it. “Oh, well, never mind, cheer up,” says Jack consolingly; “it will be all right in the end.” “Vm not so sure of that,” I say dejectedly. “Oh dear! I wonder if I shall ever be like other girls, and not always getting into scrapes, as I am.” “T sincerely hope you won't;” and as Jack speaks he tucks my arm under his, adding, “Come, cheer up, old girl; PI take FATHER’S DEPARTURE. 81 you fishing by and by when Father's gone, and I'll go out with you all for your morn- ine’s walk with Miss M. if you like; then if you stick to me we can talk things over a bit.” This last is a great condescension on Jack’s part, forif any one is ever rash enough to suggest his going out with us, his reply is, “No, thanks, you don’t catch me going out with such a troop of girls; why, if any one met us, they would think I had joined an ‘Establishment for Young Ladies.’ No, no, you needn’t ask me.” ‘I thank him gratefully, therefore, for his munificent offer, and just as I am telling him how good Mother, Aunt, and Miss M. were about keeping silence on the subject, we hear wheels coming from the direction of the stable, and peeping over the low hedge, we see to our delight that it is the dog-cart evi- dently going round for Father. At the same moment we see Miss M. rushing wildly about the garden, apparently in search of somebody or Something. Sure enough she flies towards us directly we emerge from the sheltered (220) F 82 MADGE’S MISTAKE, path along which we have been walking, and beckoning energetically, cries, “Oh, Madge, where have you been all this time? First your mother wanted you, and now your father is waiting to say good-bye to you and Jack. Pray, make haste; he will be so angry if you keep him standing there.” We need no second bidding, and rush off helter-skelter, nearly tripping each other up in our haste and anxiety. Father is stand- ing on the steps looking from right to left impatiently. The cloud is just clearing from his face as he sees us, when an unkind scraper takes hold of and detains a small piece of braid on my dress, which I have been desired to sew on times out of number: on I go, however, unconscious of the fact until I feel a sharp pull, lose my footing, and fall with great violence against Father’s legs, It is Jack who helps me up and presents me rather a soiled handkerchief, which I -press to my poor bleeding chin; but Father does say as he goes slowly down the steps: THE ANIMALS OFFER CONSOLATION. 83 “I hope you are not hurt: you should learn to walk properly like a young lady, and not go rushing about like a wild creature;” and Miss M., who has just come up, says, “Madge, how many times have I desired you to sew that piece of braid on your dress?” I don’t answer, for if I open my lips to speak I know I shall cry, and I dare not ery before Father, for I know from bitter experi- ence that to shed one tear before him is to be banished from society for the rest of the day; so I gulp down my emotion, and having handed Jack’s handkerchief to him, with a smothered sob follow Father down the steps, and hold up my injured countenance for his farewell kiss. This being given, I turn away and walk quietly by myself down one of the paths until I am out of sight, then I rush into the kitchen-garden, and making straight for the menagerie, throw myself down in the midst of the animals and howl to my heart’s content. The animals all gather round me, and offer consolation in various voices; and Jock, my dear old collie, comes and stands 84 MADGE’S MISTAKE. beside me, and pushing his velvet nose into my hand, looks up pityingly with his soft brown eyes into my face. The attentions of all these affectionate animals tend to raise my spirits, till, with Tuft perched on my shoulder, a kitten in my lap, and Jock’s glossy head resting on my arm, I really feel moderately happy again, Tam stroking Kitty and wondering what my next move had better be, when, hearing a footstep, I look up and see Jack strolling towards me. “T thought I should find you here,” he says when he gets within hearing; then coming up amongst us all and seating him- self on the rabbit-hutch, he continues, “I’ve brought you the last news, thinking you might like to hear it.” “Well?” I say, without looking up. “Oh, you need not hear it if you don’t wish!” says Jack majestically, and he turns and begins to march towards the gate. “Come back!” I ery, jumping up with JACK BRINGS THE LATEST NEWS. 85 alacrity, “come back; you know I want to hear it.” “Why couldn’t you say so, then,” grumbles Jack, as once more he seats himself. “Well, for the first thing, Father’s gone; secondly, Williams has just had a telegram to say he must leave at once—his sister is much worse; and thirdly, he gave orders to Robert before leaving to sweep all round the hothouse to see if the key has fallen down anywhere near; so your best plan would be to get the key at once and pop it under some leaves near the door.” “Then has Williams really gone?” I ery, starting up. “Yes,” replies Jack; “he was quite ready, and had just time to catch the twelve up- train, so he spoke to Mother and she said he’d better go off at once. I must say,” he adds, “ that everything seems to be going in your favour. I only wish I could get out of all m¥ scrapes as easily.” “Qh, it’s not as easy as you think,” I say, feeling rather offended; “I’m sure I’ve thought 86 MADGE’S MISTAKE, and thought so hard during the last two days that I shouldn’t wonder if I find my hair has turned quite gray when it is all finished;” and with that I get up and march off. “Well, don’t be cross,” says Jack, follow- ing me; “you really have arranged every- thing so well that it has all seemed to go as smooth as silk; but come along now or you may lose your opportunity. I will keep on the look-out, if you like, while you do the work.” “All right!” I cry, and rushing off I scram- ble up into the hay-loft and lift the board, secure the key, and hastily descend again — too hastily, however, for when I arrive at the fourth rung of the rickety ladder, my foot slips, and clutching at it wildly to save my- self, down we both come to the ground. I get my feet clear of the ladder, however, before we are both levelled with the dust, and jumping up find that I am no worse for my fall, with the exception of a little super- fluous dust, which is soon shaken off. J am GIP LOSES HER HAT. 87 quite accustomed to falls of all descriptions, so one more or less does not make much difference to me, and I run off after restoring the ladder to its original position, and getting a nod of encouragement from Jack, who stands as sentry, I carefully place the key near the door under some leaves. No sooner is this done than I hear Miss M. calling me once more, and Jack joining ime, we both hasten towards the house. Miss M. is standing on the steps ready dressed for walking, and as I make my appearance, flushed and heated with anxiety, she says: “I do wish you would give up running and tearing about this hot weather; you will certainly throw yourself into a fever if you do not. Now go and get dressed for your walk. We have all been waiting some minutes.” I hear a hot dispute going on as I cross the hall, between Freda, Tiny, and Gip, the last of whom is dressed for walking, all but her hat. There is a general rummage going on among the cloaks and hats on the stand, and as I approach the group Freda 88 MADGE’S MISTAKE. says, “I know I put it here when I came in from the garden last night;” and Tiny Says: “Depend upon it, I’m right; she is always running away with something or other of somebody’s.” Then as I appear on the scene she cries triumphantly, “There, didn’t I say so!” and Gip, turning quickly, makes a snatch at the hat I am wearing, and pulling it off without ceremony, tosses mine towards me, and turn- ing to the glass completes her toilette. “Well, how should I know it was not mine?” I ask, as I stoop and raise my own hat from the floor; “they are all alike, though I do remember now that it was always falling off my head this morning.” “How should you know!” repeats Gip; “why, by looking for your name in it, I suppose; they are all marked though they are alike.” “Oh, fancy stopping to look when one is in a hurry!” I exclaim, laughing at the bare idea of such a thing. “You have often MY GLOVES? 89 taken mine when you have been late and it happened to come first.” Having adorned myself with my hat and necktie—of course my gloves are nowhere to be found, and having tumbled over all the articles in my drawers I leave them in a state of wild con- fusion, and look hopelessly round the room, “Come, we can’t wait for ever for you,” cries Freda up at my window. At this I turn again to the drawers, for surely they must be there, and saying to myself, “More haste, less speed,” which is the proverb of all others I most believe in, I institute a careful search. I have just found one glove, and am hope- fully looking for the other, when there is a gradual crescendo of voices outside, which is suppressed, however, by Miss M., who coming under my window says: “ We will walk on slowly, Madge, and you can follow;” and Jack says: “TIl wait for you, only do look shafp;” so it is evident that he has made his magnificent intention known to the party. “All right!” I say, “coming;” and catching 90 MADGE’S MISTAKE, sight of the missing glove at last, I pounce on it, and arrive in the hall (where I find Jack, true to his word) in two or three bounds, and in a few seconds we catch the others up. CHAPTER VI. BREAKFAST WITHOUT FATHER. ii do not go tearing along as if our lives depended on it, as At OP SSR ep x some girls are made to do, but 4 /) ie AS we all stroll along leisurely, walking first with one, then with another, and. plucking the lovely wild roses as we go, not without a few shrill screams at the sharp pricks we get in so doing. Presently we come to a field in which there are numberless grassy hillocks, and for which there are various names; we girls generally speaking of it as the ‘ Knoll,” while Jack calls it the amateur graveyard. Having arrived here we one and all throw ourselvés down on the inviting - looking mounds to rest. 92 MADGE’S MISTAKE, “ Whe—w!” remarks Jack, as he takes off his hat and throws it down; “it is hot and no mistake. I suppose it’s this wretched comet upsetting the weather so,” “Not so much the comet,” replies Miss M., “as the spots on the sun; the comet does affect it too, no doubt, but we may put it down much more to the sun.” “Wow so; what do you mean?” inquires Jack, looking interested. “Have not you heard?” continues Miss M., “that the sun this summer has several spots on it, and that it is generally supposed that these are little holes in the envelope or outer covering of the sun, and in consequence of this it is supposed that the rays of heat we get through these are much more in- tense (“or as Freda would say,” interrupts Jack, “more intensely utterly too too!”). “Nonsense!” says Miss M. smiling; “don’t be ridiculous, Jack,— Iwas about to say that the rays from the gun are much more intense than usual.” “Oh! I see,” remarks Jack. “Then the JACK’S PRESCRIPTION. 93 fact of it is the sun is in an unnatural state of heat—is feverish, in fact.” “Yes, if you like to have it so,” replies Miss M. smiling; “or more correctly speak- ing, this is the effect it has on the earth, I do not say that the sun itself has more heat than usual.” “Well, I suppose the best thing would be for it to take some cooling doses,” says Jack, seriously; “I think Tl send up a box of seidlitz-powders—let me see, how should I direct them, I wonder?— —— Son, Esq., With Jack Erickson’s compliments. Directions.—The powders: one to be taken every other morning before breakfast, Py ! for a week A shout of laughter follows this sugges- tion, and Miss M. again requests Jack not to be nonsensical. “Well, I don’t see anything nonsensical in that; do you, now, Madge?” he says, pre- 94 MADGE’S MISTAKE, tending to be deeply offended. “That’s just what Dr. Randall ordered me when I ap- peared at breakfast one morning at school, with two ornaments on my face, consisting of a spot on my chin and another on my nose! The doctor said they were heat-spots. So if this treatment cleared my complexion, why shouldn’t it do the same for the sun?” Another burst of merriment, in the midst of which, however, Miss M. rises and declares it to be time we retraced our steps. The first thing we hear on our arrival home is that the key has been found and peace and happiness are once more restored. My spirits also being restored to a more equable state I begin to consider what will be the most pleasant way of spending the afternoon. Really I need some rest after all my anxiety, and if I can combine it with pleasure it will be all the better. I wonder what Jack is going to do!—if I thought it would be of any use I’d ask him to go on the river with me, but I dare- A PROPOSAL 95 say he will be off on one of his everlasting fishing expeditions: anyway there can be no harm in asking him, so I start off at once and soon discover him lounging in the ham- mock. I come to the point at once and say, “Jack, I have something to propose to you.” “Well, out with it,” answers Jack; “only I hope it’s nothing more about those precious roses 2” “O no!” I ery hastily; “thank goodness they are finished with for the present, so pray don’t remind me of them: no, I was wondering if you would care to come on the river this afternoon? it’s awfully hot to play tennis or anything, and I thought if you were not going fishing that it would be rather jolly.” “Well, so it would, of course,’ answers Jack; “but I must say it’s rather a good joke . your proposing such a thing, when you pre- tend to be so tremendously shocked when- ever I go out fishing; pray, what would Father say if he heard we had been on the river alone?” 96 MADGE’S MISTAKE, “Nothing,” I reply promptly. “Why, I thought you knew that we had permission, all of us, to go out in the boat any time before sunset, as long as we never go beyond the Hull Farm gate, which you know one can’t very well pass without seeing, as it is half sunk in the water, and no easy matter to steer round, even when one wants to—no, don’t you be afraid, Jack,” I say confidently, “Father knew what he was about, depend upon it; he knows there are few people handle a scull better than Gip and J, and what is more, he knows that we can both swim.” “Well, £ never knew anything about it,” remarks Jack, after this long explanation; “but, then, I don’t think I’ve heard the boat mentioned since I came home this term; besides, I don’t care for rowing much myself, you know, so it’s natural I shouldn’t trouble my head about the matter.” “Yes, of course,” I reply; “and as to your hearing nothing about the boat, that’s not surprising either, for it only came back from DLOATING. 97 the boat-builder’s last Saturday—been to be done up and painted, you know.” “Done up and painted!” exclaims Jack; “why, I thought it was only built last year!” “Why, yes, so it was,” I answer; “but Capt. Morris and Mr, Greenway took Freda and Tiny out one day early this summer, and they went and gave it a great bang against that willow about two miles up, you know, where there are a whole lot of small trees half in and half out of the water: well, at all events it requires some management to pass that spot comfortably, and they weren't up to it, I suppose; anyway Freda screamed, Capt. Morris broke the boat-hook, and between them all they managed to scrape a good part of the paint off one side. Great simpletons! didn’t they all look small when they came back to dinner, and you should have seen Father’s face as he handed the girls out! he didn’t say much, but I ‘suppose, like the parrot, he thought all the more!” (220) G 98 MADGE’S MISTAKE, “Well,” remarks Jack, “if you're sure it’s safe, done, [ll go,” with which brief remark he drops gracefully out of the hammock. Lunch over, we start for the boat-house and find the Betsy (named after Mother) looking spick and span in her new coat of paint, and the water looks so inviting that Jack is quite enthusiastic on the subject. He appears to be in a lazy mood to-day, for nothing will induce him to take a scull, and as he graciously offers to take the ropes I give way to him, and as I seat myself in the middle of the boat I feel very thankful that I have my boating dress on, consisting of a loose white serge laced up with dark blue, and a sailor hat to match. I cannot help looking at Jack with some contempt, for before we have gone a mile up the river he has slipped down amongst the cushions and looks as luxurious as Freda herself might. After a delightfully lazy afternoon, at all events for Jack, we arrive home just in time for tea, Jack having been inspired to remark JACK’S CONDESCENSION, 99 on our way to the house, that he shouldn’t mind a similar excursion some afternoon soon, by which I am led to understand that the expedition has not been altogether a failure. He is also condescending enough to compliment me on my rowing powers, which he says are not at all bad for a girl! However I do not intend to weary my readers with an unnecessary account of all we did in Father’s absence, so I shall go straight on to the day of the show; suffice it to say that the change of the roses had not been de- tected, and that all who saw them thought them exceedingly fine and far superior to Mr. Monckton’s! Aunt and Miss M. of course were the only people who knew of the affair at all besides Mother, and they evidently told her, as not one word on the subject was ever said to me by any of them. The morning of the eventful day rose cloudless and hot as ever, and we literally gasped with horror as we sat at breakfast, at the thought of what was 100 MADGE’S MISTAKE, before us. “If only there had been a shower in the night,” says Aunt to Miss M., “it would have cleared ¢he air and laid the dust,’— dust was Aunt’s bitterest foe. “Tt is really dreadful,” groans Freda, as she pushes her plate from before her and leans back in her chair, “I am sure it is, hotter than ever this morning.” “Tl see what the thermometer says,” I ery, and jumping up I go into the hall. We have become quite accustomed to ways and manners, in Father’s short absence, which would be considered quite treasonable could he see us. I am really glad to sce that the figure is no less than 97 degrecs, and carry this news into the dining-room, quite triumphantly. Jack and Gip take my view of the case and seem pleased to hear that it is really as hot as it seems. Freda and Tiny, however, grumble more than ever. “Just think what it will be,” they cry in a breath, “baking in those glaring gardens,” NO ICKS:! 101 “ Anyway,” replies Gip, “you will get a little air going along in the carriage, while we shall have ample time to get scorched and burnt, if Frisk does not choose to go quickly, which is sure to be the case, so hot as 1b is,” “Ah! yes, it’s very well to talk,” replies Tiny testily. ‘When you are once there you can do as you like, and sit where you like— whereas Freda and I shall have to walk about with Father in the broiling sun listen- ing to all the compliments paid to him about his roses.” “And shall not have the satisfaction of an ice even,” chimes in Freda. “ Warm claret-cup will be the most we shall get.” “Tees are very injurious in such extreme heat,” observes Aunt, “and your Father will do quite right in not allowing you to take any. Iam sure Miss Montgomery would not allow it either.” We exchange glances of dismay at this remark; for, if the truth must be told, we had been buoying ourselves up with thoughts 102 MADGE’S MISTAKE, of unlimited ices, and had had more than one talk on the subject. Miss M. makes a diver- sion by asking Jack if he intends going, adding that she could manage to drive with a fourth in the carriage for once. “No, thanks!” replies Jack not over graciously. “No; you don’t catch me going six miles on a day like this to look at what I can see at home any day. Many thanks for the offer, though,” he adds, catching a reproving glance from Aunt; “but I really couldn't do it. It’s all very well for girls, but I haven’t any finery to show off.” Breakfast over, we disperse in different directions; and, after having prowled about the poultry-yard, stables, menagerie, &c., I wander at last into Mother’s boudoir, where I find her lying on the sofa alone. Mother puts her book down as I seat myself beside her, and, taking my hand in hers, says: “And how is my Madge to-day?” “Oh, all right!” I reply cheerfully ; “it’s as hot as ever, I think, Mother.” A CHAT WITH MOTHER. 103 “Yes, dear; in fact your aunt says the thermometer is higher this morning than it has been yet. It will be a lovely day for the show in some respects, but the heat will he very trying.” “Yes,” I say with an exhausted sigh; “if only we could have a large umbrella put up over the whole ground it wouldn’t be so bad; but fancy walking about in the full glare of the sun at that time of the day. I’ve got no sun-shade now, either,” I add ruefully after a moment’s reflection. “No sun-shade, dear?” inquires Mother; “how’s that? I thought you all had new ones only a few weeks ago.” “Yes; so we had,” I answer dismally, “but I smashed the handle of mine last week, Auntand I went to M shopping, and I left it on the seat of the carriage when we got out last, and when I got in again | forgot all about it and sat down on it.” “Careless girl,” says Mother smiling. “Well, you must get a new handle put on, and I will lend you mine this afternoon. 104 MADGE’S MISTAKE, This reminds me,” adds Mother suddenly; “JT have wanted to know several times how you had managed about the roses; but I did not like to ask you. Your aunt and Miss M. said they fancied your plans had been suc- cessful, but this is all I have heard, and I thought, perhaps, you might like to tell me all about it now.” This announcement is wholly unexpected, and I am puzzled as to what I shall say in answer. Having carefully plaited and un- plaited the fringe of the anti-macassar on Mother’s sofa, however, I say: “Td rather tell you when the show is over, Mother dear; I shall be in such a state of mind until I know whether Father has the prize or not; but to-morrow I'll tell you all about it.” “Very well, dear,’ Py replies Mother. “As long as you can assure me that all you have done is honourable and right, you have my best wishes for your success, dear. Of course you will tell your father afterwards?” “Oh, yes! of course,” I answer briskly, ROBERT INTRODUCES ME TO THE ROSES. 105 but the bare idea fills me with dismay; and giving Mother a hasty kiss, I run out of the room and up into my own.” “Good gracious!” I think to myself, as I lean my arms on the window-sill, “I never thought of that. Shall I have to tell Father? I suppose I shall. It will be only right, of course. Oh, dear! oh, dear! what a deal of misery those few wretched roses have led to!” At this juncture I hear a wheel-barrow being trundled along underneath my win- dow, and, disregarding the possible danger of falling into it, I lean half out in order to ascertain what is going forward. It is Robert wheeling the two identical pots of roses, with some others, towards the gate, beyond which I can just descry a small covered cart waiting. “Robert!” I cry, “are you sending off the flowers now?” “Yes, Miss,” he replies, looking up rather startled; “why? would you like a peep at them afore they goes?” 106 MADGE’S MISTAKE, “Yes, yes!” I ery; “wait a moment and Tl come down.” In another instant I am standing beside the barrow, while Robert introduces me to each flower in turn, expatiating on the varied beauties of each as he does so. “These ’ere is the best of the lot, though, to my thinking,” he remarks, pointing out my two purchases; “ they certainly has grown wonderful these last few days. Williams did give me a peep at them a fortnight ago, and he says: ‘Robert, says he, ‘you won't see them again till you sees em at the show maybe’ (for Master’s promised us each a ticket, Miss Madge) ; ‘but when you sees ’em there I reckon youll hardly know them again. And faith he was right, Miss, for, as I said before, they certainly has improved wonderful, and I can’t help feeling that Master will be right pleased when he sees “em.” I stand and listen to this long speech with ereat interest, throwing in an appropriate remark now and then; and then, having CACHMERE VERSUS STARCH. 107 nothing better to do, 1 walk down to the gate after the barrow and see the pots (six in all) stowed away comfortably in the cart. By this time it only wants half an hour to luncheon, so I stroll in and up to my room again to see what Nurse has put out for me to wear. On my bed is spread out a white piqué, handsomely trimmed with embroidery, and looking delightfully cool and inviting. About this, however, I have strong doubts, and I instantly make up my mind, that, should it be as I suspect, I will not wear it. No; I would sooner go in the dark blue cotton frock I have on, torn as it is, and, it must be confessed, dirty and tumbled too. I march up to the bed and take up my dress. Yes; it is as I thought. It will actually stand alone on the floor in its hope- less stiffness! I toss it back on to the bed and rush up straight to the nursery. “Nurse!” I cry as I enter breathless, “I cannot wear that dreadful dress; I might just 108 MADGE’S MISTAKE. as well have one made of buckram. Lucy ought to be made to wear it herself. Just fancy this hot weather having one’s arms and neck scratched as that would scratch them; and anyone could hear me coming, too, a mile off with the horrible stiff rustle it makes. I declare if I were Aunt I wouldn’t let a scrap of starch go into the laundry at all this sort of weather.” “Gently, gently, Miss Madge,” says Nurse, quite frightened at this sudden outburst. “Why, you quite take my breath away. There’s no need for you to wear the dress at all, dearie. Come along with me and you can choose for yourself. J thought the white looked cool and nice.” “Yes; so it does look cool,” I reply; “but you should just feel it: it makes me hot now to think of it.” Nurse and I dive into the recesses of a deep drawer, and after a careful search among more piqués, muslins, and linens, all equally starched, I finally pounce upon a white cachmere and drag it out in triumph. FATHER’S ARRIVAL, 109 “That, dear,” says Nurse, “is hardly clean enough for you to go anywhere in, is it?” “Yes; plenty,” I answer promptly; “it’s just the thing—so soft and cool, you know. Besides,” I add, “I'm not going with Father. Gip and I are going with Miss M. in the pony-carriage. Oh! it will look lovely with my hat and the feathers, I’m sure; before Nurse can say another word I’m off with my treasure, and in another ten minutes oy) and I am arrayed therein; and even Nurse con- fesses that it looks wonderfully fresh on. We get through lunch before Father re- turns, which is a lucky thing for Jack, as he does not put in an appearance at that meal, having gone, I conclude, on a fishing expedi- tion. Freda and Tiny have retired to their rooms to adorn themselves; but as our party is to start first, Miss M., Gip, and I are all ready with the exception of hats and bonnets, so after adding these we all three repair to Mother’s room to have a final chat while waiting for the carriage. 110 MADGE’S MISTAKE, We are just saying, “ How late Father is!” when we hear the wheels of the dog-cart coming down the drive. Aunt jumps up instantly, and running to the foot of the stairs cries out in an agony of mind: “Girls, girls, are you ready? Your father is just coming down the drive.” A tremendous scuffle upstairs is the result of this information, and as Aunt returns to _ the boudoir we hear frantic cries through the open door of: “Oh! Nurse, have you seen my long black gloves;” then, “Susan, Susan, what have you done with my clean lace ruffs ?” Aunt having shut the door I hear no more, but we all exchange glances of dismay as the dog-cart stops at the door, and in a twinkling Father is amongst us. Ile strides straight up to the sofa, and saying, “ Well, how is my Betsy to-day?” takes Mother’s hand and gives her an affec- tionate embrace. Although Father is so severe with us, there is not the least doubt that he is perfectly devoted to Mother, and . TINY JUST SAVES HERSELF. lil we forgive many a slight and many an unnecessary punishment when we witness a scene like this, for we know that when Father is in one of his bitter and hard moods a few words from Mother will soften him. Ah, yes! often and often when we have been under sentence of going to bed, per- haps, in desperation we have flown to Mother with an agonized cry of, “Oh, Mother, do speak to Father; he says I’m to go to bed;” and after a time he will come to us and say, “It is your Mother’s wish that I shall forgive you and not punish you this time: you had better go to her now—she wishes to speak to you.” After his greeting to Mother he gives Aunt a kiss, shakes hands with Miss AL, and makes a peck at each of our cheeks in turn, commencing with Tiny, who has just saved herself, having entered the room quietly at Father’s heels, and now stands drawing on one of the missing gloves as if she had been - there all the time. 112 MADGE’S MISTAKE, It ig evident that Fathor’s business, what- ever it was, has gone well, for he appears to be in a most happy frame of mind, and look- ing round at us, says, “So you are all ready like good girls. It’s very hot, Joan—I should like a sherry and soda before we go. I hope the drive in the sun will not be too much for you, Miss Montgomery.” In the midst of these remarks Freda enters. eS ee Awe ape fe Ed CHAPTER VII. THE ROSE-SHOW. a as i eg % E all gasp and look at one another, for if ever she was zesthetic be- fore, she is most intensely so AK OF AN CD “RS 7 now, for she is arrayed in a long flowing sort of gown (more the shape of a night-gown than any other) deeply and highly embroidered with sunflowers about the size, on an average, of a small tea plate. She wears also a natural one at her neck, and has several painted on her sun- shade, and on the large fan which hangs at her side. Tiny raises her eyebrows, and stepping behind Miss M. whispers to me, “Isn’t it absurd? I begged her not to do it, but she would; it’s such a pity, too, for Father seemed in such a good temper.” (220) prs 114 MADGE’S MISTAKE. Tiny says “seemed” advisedly, for Father's countenance has suddenly changed, and as he looks upon Freda it seems to grow darker and darker. Freda appears not to notice this, however, and walks straight up to him for his kiss; but Father does not offer to bestow it on her, and after standing looking down at her a minute, says: “What possessed you to put on that ridi- culous dress? I am going to a flower-garden, and therefore do not wish to take one with me. Go and take it off immediately, and never let me see it again. You needn't trouble to put on your bonnet again, as one of your younger sisters will take your place.” Poor Freda quits the room leoking rather erest-fallen, but on the whole we are all rather relieved that it has been no worse, for we expected a regular storm. The question now is—who will be the chosen one? “ Gip, of course,” I whisper to Tiny, and she nods her acquiescence; but Father is not of I HAVE TO TAKE FREDA’S PLACE, 115 the same opinion apparently, for after look- ing round at us all he says, “ Madge appears to me to be the most sensibly dressed, and the one most likely to be taken for Tiny’s sister. I do not wish to be set on fire on my way to the show any more than I wish to be accompanied by a flower-garden.” This is meant for Gip, who, true to her name, is fond of bright colours, and has pre- sented herself among us to-day, notwith- standing the heat, in a costume in which red predominates. Very pretty and picturesque, no doubt, and undeniably very becoming to Gip, but a little fatiguing to the eye on a day like this. Father leaves the room accompanied by Aunt to obtain his sherry and soda. The instant the door is closed Tiny ex- claims: “There’s a pretty compliment for you, Madge; I hcpe you feel flattered at being considered worthy to be my sister.” “ Nonsense!” says Miss M.; “it is only because Madge happens to be more quietly dressed this afternoon than Gip, and like all 116 MADGE’S MISTAKE. gentlemen, your father dislikes anything showy or gay.” “Yes, I must say,” says Mother’s gentle voice, “that Tiny is always quietly and well dressed, and I have heard Mr. Erickson speak of it more than once. It was a great pity Freda was so foolish. I cannot think why she takes up these silly notions.” “Tt is just a little freak, dear Mrs. Erick- son,” replies Miss M.; “she will very soon leave it off when she sees how ridiculous it looks in others; this little contretemps of to- day will make some impression, I have no doubt.” “TfI had known that I should be chosen when I put on this dress, I'd have dressed myself in all the colours of the rainbow instead,” I grumble aside to Gip; “you and Miss M. will have the best of it after all.” “T don’t sce that altogether,” replies Gip; “TI shall only be one of the school-room girls, but you will be one of the Miss Ericksons to-day.” “Well, I shall not find very much pleasure WE START FOR THE ROSE-SHOW. 117 in that,” I say, “for I shall be certain to do or say something wrong, and shall very likely offend Father, or Tiny, or both.” At this moment the pony-carriage comes up to the door, and Tiny and I stroll out to see Miss M. and Gip start. Father is standing on the steps, and hands them in with much ceremony and politeness. Frisk does not seem in the sweetest of tempers this afternoon, and evidently thinks it a pity to stir out of the delightful piece of shade which is now slanting across the front of the house. Miss M. shakes the reins and Frisk shakes his head. Miss M. says, “ Come, Frisk,” in a persuasive tone of voice; but Frisk is not to be persuaded, and only puts down his head and examines with much interest the polish of his shoes. “Come, Frisk, this won't do,” says Miss M. with more firmness, and she gives him a slight touch over the ears with her whip. Off they go instantly, and though Frisk evinces a strong desire to patronize the lawn in lieu of the carriage-drive Miss M. has her 118 MADGE’S MISTAKE, own way in the matter, and away they go through the gate and round the corner in orand style. The carriage drives up just as they disap- pear round the corner, and Tiny and I are soon seated waiting for Father, who has dis- covered a few leaves on the steps, and is sending a little message through Rivington the butler to Robert, to the effect that he does not wish to see them there on his return home. Directly we start I find I have forgotten mother’s sun-shade after all, but I dare not ask to go back for it, so ] have to sit oppo- site Tiny, in the full glare of the sun, and try to look happy, though I know, to my sorrow, that I shall arrive at the gardens with a red nose and scorched eyeballs. If I were with any one but Father [ should tilt my hat over my nose regardless of appearances, but as the case stands it is out of the question. It may be imagined too that my thoughts are not very pleasant as I sit listening to AN UNCOMFORTABLE DRIVE. 119 Father's remarks respecting the hoped-for result of the show, and I feel in a fever of anxiety as to whether he will detect any difference or not. I quite envy Tiny as she sits there with a clear conscience, and looks cool into the bargain, in her soft white dress, and neat little white bonnet, the only colour about her being that of a lovely damask rose at her throat. Father notices this too, for turning suddenly round, he says: “That’s a lovely rose, Tiny, it does not look unlike one of my show ones! have you been helping yourself to one?” Tiny laughs, and says: “Yes, of course, Father,” and he laughs too! How can they laugh on such a terrible subject! I have grown so crimson that Father is moved to pity at my heated appearance, and Says: “You do look hot, Madge; couldn’t you lend her your sun-shade, Tiny, you have not the sun on you now, and she has it full in her face.” 120 MADGE’S MISTAKE, Tiny hands it over to me, and I accept it gratefully, hiding my guilty face under it immediately. There are crowds of people on the ground when we arrive, and Tiny, notwithstanding her pretended aversion to going, looks as bright as a star, as she bows and smiles to our various acquaintances. The man who has had the placing and arranging of the specimens now bustles forward, and with many shuffling bows, says: “Good-day, sir; if you could step this way with me, sir, I will show you where I have placed your roses, sir; I’ve given them the very best position I could, sir, right opposite Mr. Monckton’s.” I think father will be vexed at hearing this; but no! he is delighted, feeling certain, I suppose, of the superiority of his roses. At this instant a cheerful hearty voice be- hind us says: “Ah! Mr. Erickson, delighted to see you sir,—a hotter day than ever, I really think;” and turning round quickly I see Mr. Green- way flourishing his hat in the air with one MR. GREENWAY ARRIVES ON THE SCENE. 121 hand while the other is held out to Father. Tiny blushes in a manner which astonishes me, as she puts her small hand in his for a second, and then instantly steps back to my side with the original remark, “How hot it is!” My attention is once more arrested, how- ever, by hearing Mr. Greenway say: “Now, Mr. Erickson, I know you are anxious to see if your roses are properly placed; allow me to take one of your daugh- ters off your hands for a time. I shall have the greatest pleasure in doing the honours of the gardens, I assure you. I have made the round myself twice, so I ought to know some- thing about them.” There is not very much doubt as to which of the two daughters he means, for as he speaks he steps forward and with a little smile and a bow places himself by Tiny’s side in a most confident manner. I expect Father to fly into a passion, and if he doesn’t actually box Mr. Greenway’s ears, to give him one of his contemptuous looks, 122 MADGE’S MISTAKE, commencing at the culprit’s boots and travel- ling slowly up to his eyes, varied by some little observations in reference to his consum- mate impudence; but no! wonders will never cease, he looks quite pleased, and to Tiny’s astonishment, as much as my own, says, “Thank you, Mr. Greenway, I shall be very glad if you will; we shall meet again somewhere, I suppose.” So Tiny and her cavalier move off, and 1 stand, quite regardless of appearances, gaping and staring after them; is the world coming to an end, or, what? I cannot help feeling amused, though, as I watch the retreating figures of my sister and Mr. Greenway,—for he is six feet in his stockings, while Tiny measures four feet eight in high heels. In fact, she does not nearly reach his shoul- der, and I cannot help feeling sorry for him when I think how tired he will be stooping to catch her remarks. He does not find it so irksome as one would imagine, however, and as they disappear round the corner I see Tiny craning her neck, and trying to look as DISMAL REFLECTIONS. 123 if she were taller, while he is stooping his handsome head and talking to her as if he did not find it the least trouble in the world. Heigh, ho! I groan to myself as I lose sight of them, I do hope that man won’t want to marry Tiny and take her away. Whatever should we do without her?—in fact, the bare idea of losing any of my sisters is terrible to me, but Tiny more than all, and I stand buried in reflections which are not of the liveliest, until I am startled by a voice saying, “Come, Madge, are you going to stand there dreaming by yourself all the afternoon?” I turn quickly, and heaving a deep sigh follow Father and the man who is with him down the centre walk. When we reach the end of this we come upon a miniature fairy- land, or more minutely speaking, a large portion of the ground over which is stretched a white awning. To get out of the fearful glare of the sun is an immense relief, and the subdued light and the sweet scent of 124 MADGE’S MISTAKE, the many flowers are most grateful to our senses. We all three wander up the principal path until we come to about the middle thereof, and here Mr. Simpkins (which I afterwards learn is the name of our guide) stops. “There they be, Mr. Erickson, sir,” he says with pride, as he takes off his hat and flourishes his red handkerchief round his bald head; “I don’t really think they could a had a better position.” “No, no,” says Father. “Very well placed! very well placed indeed; and thus saying he puts his arms behind him, and stands silently gazing at his treasures, while I stand tremb- ling at his side. “P’raps you won't mind excusing me now, sir,” adds little Mr. Simpkins, evidently in a fluster of anxiety to be off ‘ You'll always find me somewhere about the gardens if you should be wanting me;” and without waiting for a reply off he bustles. I take one anxious glance at Father and try to read his thoughts in his face, but he is still looking attentively I GET FAINT WITH TERROR. 125 at the roses, and I cannot tell whether his expression is one of satisfaction or otherwise. “Wem! strange, very strange!” I hear him mutter to himself presently. “I certainly thought there were four red; and if 1 remem- ber rightly, only three of the tea,’—then after a minute’s reflection, “ however, I sup- pose I was mistaken; what say you, Madge?” I turn hot and cold and tremble so violently that I begin to fear I shall fall to the ground, and after opening my lips twice to speak, and no sound coming therefrom, I stammer, “ Yes, no, that is I didn’t see them, at least I didn’t know that they were the show ones”—and as Father turns round sud- denly and looks at me, I stop confusedly. “Why, bless the child, what ails you?” he cries; “you look ready to faint. 1 suppose it was the heat of the drive that upset you. Come along and [ll get you something,” and as he speaks Father tucks my arm under his, and away we go towards the tent over which is written in huge red letters, “Re freshments.” 126 MADGE’S MISTAKE, What with the miserable state of my mind, and the intense heat, I really do feel ill and faint, and am very thankful when Father finds a chair in a comparatively cool corner, and ensconces me therein. I must be looking pale too, for he hurries off to the counter and gives an order. Be- fore he returns to me, however, I see some- thing which revives me completely, and causes me to sit up straight in my chair. CHAPTER VIII TINY’S ADMIRER. IGHT opposite to me, in another || i secluded corner, are my sister and Oe ’ Mr. Greenway, the former eating Ste ices ad lib,—the latter with an untasted soda and sherry before him, fanning her assiduously. I can hardly believe my eyes—has Father seen them, I wonder, and whatever will he say to them? He must have seen them, though, I argue to myself, because at present there are so few people in the tent! “Will he order them out, or at least Tiny, or will he—” “Drink this up, Madge, it will do you good;” and looking up with a start I see Father holding a glass of something before me. 128 MADGE’S MISTAKE, Really, wonders will never cease to-day! As I take the glass into my hand I see a delicious knob of ice bobbing about on the top of the beverage, which on tasting I actually find to be champagne and seltzer. After my first sip I look up incredulous towards Father—surely he must have made a mistake and given me what he intended for himself. | No! he evidently notices my look of as- tonishment, for he smiles and says: “I thought the champagne would do you good, and the ice really cannot hurt you to-day, for the drinks are all perfectly warm without, they manage things so badly at these sort of places; why cannot they put the bottles in ice, I wonder?—at anyrate,” he adds, turning and looking at Tiny, “it’s better than eating ice!” He has seen them then, I think to myself, will he blow up Tiny in front of her admirer, I wonder? but I have not long to wonder, for Father, taking my empty glass from me, says: “You are better now, ar’n’t you? you MRS. FEATHERSTONE SEIZES UPON ME! 129 look so. I want to speak to some people before they leave, but you can come back presently and have some strawberries if you like;” so I get up and follow him from the tent. As we pass the corner where my sister and Mr. Greenway are sitting Father turns and gives her one of his long contemptuous stares. ‘Tiny crimsons to the roots of her hair, and I feel 1 am doing the same; but on the whole I am certainly relieved, as I did not think we should have escaped without a storm. I know well, though, as does Tiny, that it is only a question of waiting till we are alone in the carriage with him again. The first people we meet are the Feather- stones, our vicar and his wife. Mrs. F. is arrayed in a bright blue silk and a bonnet which is wonderful to behold, at least to strangers, but I am hardened to the sight of them, for have I not seen them twenty times before? At the flower-show last year, on every fine Sunday this summer, at the Con- (220) I 130 MADGE’S MISTAKE, ways’ and Richardsons’ garden parties, and lastly at our own only a fortnight ago? To my horror she ranges up alongside of me, while her husband walks beside Father in front. Now this good lady is deaf, very deaf, but there is not a greater talker than she for miles round, and as she cannot hear a syllable one says she seems quite satisfied and content if one lets her run on and only nods and smiles in reply. “A very hot day, my dear, is it not?” remarks Mrs, F. as a commencement. “Yes,” I reply, “it is hotter than ever to-day.” “ My dear, how can you say such a thing?” remonstrates Mrs. Featherstone; “the ther- mometer is higher to-day than it has been for sixty years!” I simply nod to this, as my last remark was such a failure, and wait patiently for her next observation, “How is your dear mother to-day, my dear?” she inquires at length. A GRAND MISUNDERSTANDING. 131 “She is a little better to-day, thank you,” I shout in her ear. “Ah! [’m sorry to hear it, very sorry,” says my companion, shaking her head sadly; “poor dear, how she does suffer, to be sure!” “No, no,” I cry desperately, “she is better to-day, Mrs. Featherstone.” But she still shakes her head and mur- murs, “Yes, yes; it’s the heat, to be sure; it’s trying to those who are strong, so what must it be to her, poor thing!” I feel very angry, but it is no use trying to make her understand, so I give the matter up as hopeless. After some little time Mrs. Featherstone lays her hand on my arm and says: “My dear, I want you and your sister, your neat sister, I mean, to come and drink tea with me next Saturday: one of my nieces comes to spend a few days with me, and I should like you to know each other.” “Thank you very much, Mis, Feather- stone,’ I reply, trying to speak very slowly 132 MADGE’S MISTAKE, and distinctly, “ but I am very sorry we are going out that afternoon—” “That's right, that’s right,” says the dear old lady, brightening up. “I want you to know Edith; she is a dear good girl, and I am sure you will like her.” “Whatever shall Ido? I shall never make her understand,” I groan to myself. Father and Mr. Featherstone are deep in some botan- ical discussion, so it is no use appealing to them. I must try and get out of it by myself, I suppose, so turning towards her again I say, “T am very sorry, Mrs. Featherstone, but Gip and I are going to the Raynors to play tennis on Saturday, so we should not be able to go to you that day, as we shall not leave there until late—” “Late! who talks of being late?” asks Mrs. Featherstone, catching up the last word; “besides, Mr. Featherstone will take you home again, of course, and I should not think of your being late in any case—” I get perfectly desperate on finding that my last explanation has made no impression WE MEET MISS M. AND GIP. 133 whatever on my companion, and stepping to Father’s side, 1 touch his arm and whisper my difficulty to him, finishing up with, “ Do, pray, make Mr. Featherstone explain to her—” which he soon does, in a shout which must surely be heard at the other end of the gar- dens. Old Mrs. Featherstone shakes her head till the white feather on top of it trembles again on hearing the rights of the case; but I beg Mr. Featherstone to tell her that no doubt we can go to tea with her on Monday, if that will do as well, and Father will let us, and finally the good old lady goes smiling and nodding away on her husband’s arm, appa- rently quite pacified, her last words as she moves off being, “ Tell your mother, my dear, I’m sorry she’s not so well; dear, dear, how sad it is, to be sure!” and once more thank goodness we are left in peace again. We meet the Dickensons and the Raynors and lots of people after that, and I have to stand and listen to all the different remarks on Father's roses. 134 MADGE'S MISTAKE, Presently we see Miss M. and Gip, the latter looking fearfully scorched and dusty. Father actually goes up to them and makes a few remarks to Miss M., while Gip and I stare in astonishment at each other; for, as a rule, when some of us are out with Father and others with Miss M., it is an understood thing that the two parties are quite distinct, and it is a rare thing for him to take the smallest notice of the opposition party; but the fact is he is so delighted with the pro- bable success of his roses that he is at peace with all men to-day, and acts accordingly. After making the round of the gardens several times, always, of course, stopping before those detestable roses to admire them once more, we again repair to the tent, and as we enter we run right up against Mr. Greenway and Tiny, who are apparently only just leaving it. This is more than Father can stand, even though he is so pleasant to-day, so stepping up to them at once, he lays a detaining hand on my sister’s arm, and looking at her com- TINY IS RECOVERED FROM THE ENEMY. 185 panion, says, “ Many thanks, Mr. Greenway, for your kind care of my daughter, which I will now relieve you of, however, as we shall be leaving the ground in a minute or so.” Mr. Greenway says something about “hay- ing been charmed, &c.,” of which I have not the smallest doubt; but he is not to be sup- pressed and dismissed in this summary manner, and follows us as we go in, with the greatest coolness, taking good care, of course, to talk to Father this time. Having found us chairs, they repair to the counter, and Mr. Greenway remains standing there while Father brings me my plate of strawberries and cream, and something in a glass, which turns out to be warm lemonade this time. “ T suppose you have had sufficient refresh- ment,” he says, turning suddenly to Tiny and frowning down at her; “if not,” he continues, “you have sadly wasted your time!” and without waiting for her answer he turns on his heel and leaves us again. Tiny is very wrathful, and looks so, for bags not Mr. 136 MADGE'S MISTAKE, Greenway noticed this little scene, though he pretends to be intent on another sherry and soda? Presently Father discovers Miss M. and Gip struggling wildly with the numbers who have now flocked into the tent, and vainly trying to obtain some refreshmertt; he instantly goes to the rescue, and having made a clear passage for them, orders what they wish and retires, leaving them standing in comparative ease and comfort. Father is evidently in a hurry to be gone now, and intimates as much to Tiny and me immediately on his return to us. We girls are not sorry either, especially after the uncom- fortable turn things have taken, so rising with alacrity we join him and commence a slow progress towards the door. Mr. Greenway sees the move, and hastily putting down his glass, makes the best of his way towards us. Father is too quick for him, however, this time, and before the enemy can reach us has Tiny safely tucked under his arm: there is nothing left for the discom- MR. GREENWAY AND I DO NOT AGREE, 137 fited admirer, therefore, but to take charge of me, which he does at once, I must say, with a very good grace. “Fairly warm, Miss Madge,” he says as I take his offered arm (I am taller than Tiny, and can do so with less difficulty), “we shall all be glad to get out of these stifling gardens, I think.” “Yes,” I answer with my usual brusque- ness, “it’s simply scorching here; I can’t imagine how Tiny can manage to look so and I give {” cool; it’s very provoking of her a great sigh, which appears to amuse my companion much, for he laughs and says: “Yes, your sister does look charming, and even cool; she is about the only person who does, though,” he adds, looking round con- temptuously on the heated crowd of faces. “JT didn’t say anything about her looking charming,” I answer rather crossly, for I feel that Mr. Greenway should not be encouraged, and moreover I am angry at his last sweep- ing assertion; “and as for her being the only person who looks cool, you're wrong there,” 138 MADGE’S MISTAKE, I continue, “quite wrong, for I saw Miss Montgomery just now, looking as cool as any- thing; a perfect contrast to Gip with her red face!” “ Ah! well, [ daresay I am wrong,” replies Mr. Greenway with provoking good humour; “T haven’t had the pleasure of seeing or speaking to Miss Montgomery to-day, but I was particularly struck with your sister's appearance,” “T know that as wellas you do,’ I think to myself, as, having reached the entrance of the gardens, I take my hand from my com- panion’s arm, and stand in silent dignity. “Mr. Erickson’s carriage,” is being lustily shouted for by half a dozen different link- men, and I am very glad when I see the same drawn up alongside of the gates, and Father waiting by the side to hand me In. Tiny is already seated in the furthest corner, looking very cross and glum; she brightens up, however, on seeing Mr. Green- way behind me, for it appears she thought TINY LOSES HER ROSE! 139 he had departed without bidding her adieu, which would naturally have hurt her feel- ings; but he comes up to the carriage door and stands there beside Father talking a minute, until someone else’s carriage being called for, Father steps in, and Mr, Greenway, leaning across him, gives Tiny’s hand a squeeze which brings the colour back to her face. I notice, as he shakes hands with me, that he has a lovely red rose in his button-hole which I do not remember seeing there be- fore. I glance at Tiny’s dress—yes! it is as I thought; the rose she wore but half an hour ago is no longer there, and Mr. Green- way is evidently the happy possessor of it. “How can she be so silly!” I think to myself; “Father is certain to notice it, and whatever will he say to her!” Sure enough, he turns towards her the instant we have started, and says: “Tiny, what has become of your rose?” “T lost it in the gardens, Father,” replies Tiny, promptly; but her face flushes scarlet 140 MADGE’S MISTAKE. as she puts up her parasol, naughty little story-teller that she is! ““Hem!—so I thought,” mutters Father, and I think, “Now for a storm!” but no, Iam mistaken once more, and we arrive home in complete silence, all feeling about equally uncomfortable, I suspect: there is one thing in my favour, however; Father’s mind is so completely taken up with my sister’s dis- graceful conduct, that the show, and even the hateful roses, have evidently slipped en- tirely out of it for the present; so I lean back in my seat less ruffled in mind and spirits than I have been for some days past, and give myself up to enjoying the little ghost of a breeze which is now trying to spring up. In this manner we arrive home, and as Father hands Tiny out of the carriage with elaborate politeness I catch sight of the look he bestows upon her, and I know full well that we have not heard the last of the Green- way escapade, and that he is treasuring up some little plan which will be a more effectual punishment to poor Tiny than a mere scolding. A COLLISION. 141 Mother and Aunt are all anxiety to hear the account of the show, and Father recovers sufficiently to satisfy their curiosity, and as I leave the room I overhear him saying: “Oh, yes, I am certain to get it; it is the general opinion, and I must say I was sur- prised myself even at the beauty of the flowers: they have improved, wonderfully even in my short absence.” Mother and Aunt look in a scared, bewil- dered sort of manner towards me, but I take not the smallest notice of either of them, and hastening out of the room, bound up- stairs to my own, and tearing off my hat and gloves, fling them on to the bed and rush down again, out into the garden in search of Jack. I have not turned the corner of the path, however, when clang goes the gong, and as I am to be promoted to the dinner-table this evening, in consequence of having missed the school-room tea, I fly back again in hot haste for fear of being late. I enter the hall in such a flurry that I 142 MADGE’S MISTAKE, knock up against Rivington’s broad back: which is the first object I come across, and stepping back again hurriedly, I see that he is helping Father to wheel Mother’s sofa into the dining-room, so anxious is she to hear every detail of the eventful afternoon. Finding there is plenty of time, therefore, I leisurely follow and seat myself at the table, quietly enough even to please Father. The dinner-table is quite lively this even- ing, though the conversation is chiefly carried on between Father, Mother, and Aunt: Freda occasionally makes a remark too, for Father has been pleased to notice her, her offences, no doubt, appearing small beside Tiny’s. After a small lull in the conversation Father looks up suddenly, and addressing Mother, says: “Who is asked to dinner next Tuesday ?” “Sir John and Lady Bennet,” replies Mother. “Mr. and Mrs. and Gerty Raynor, the Teatherstones, Hugh Campbell, Mr. Greenway, and Capt. Morris.” “Hem!”—mutters Father, “ fourteen with MR. GREENWAY’S NAME IS cUT ouT! 148 ourselves; too many!—can’t you strike some out?” “Oh! I don’t know,” replies Mother, look- ing alarmed, “they are most of them asked, © and some have accepted even; the Raynors and the Featherstones have, and I am only waiting for the Bennets; the three young men I haven’t asked yet, as they are less likely to be engaged.” “Well,” says Father, taking a pear and examining it minutely, “couldn’t you dis- pense with one or two of them?” “ My dear Charles,” remonstrates Mother, “you forget that I have only arranged for the proper number of gentlemen we really require; if I left any of them out, Freda or Tiny would have to go in to dinner alone!” “Well, and why not?” inquires Father, leaning over to put a quarter of the pear on Mother’s plate; “it wouldn’t hurt them for once, I suppose! or if you object to that, strike Mr. Greenway out of your list, and if Tiny does not like going in alone she can stop out altogether!” 144 MADGE’S MISTAKE, Mother says, “ Very well, dear, so be it, then,” and with a gentle sigh leans back amongst her cushions. I glance across at Tiny—she evidently sees, as I do, that the whole thing is a ruse, for at our dinner-parties they seldom sit down less than twelve or fourteen, and more often sixteen is the number: she raises her head suddenly, and with an angry flush upon her face says: “I have not the smallest wish to dine at all that evening, so, pray, don’t consider me: I shall enjoy my usual tea and a walk with Miss Montgomery and the girls far more, only (turning towards Mother) I thought it was Father’s par- ' ticular wish that I should appear on this occasion,’—and Tiny returns to her dinner with a slight tremble about her lips which Father notices and chuckles over. Mother gives the sign for our departure soon after this, and my sisters and I gladly escape, and take our way to the school- room, I shall pass over the stormy scene which AN ANXIOUS TIME. 145 ensues upon our arrival there, for after all it has nothing to do with my story, and I fear my readers will begin wishing that I would come to the end of this, one of my early recollections. CHAPTER IX. THE RESULT OF THE ROSE-SHOW. AM down early next morning, in order to ascertain if possible how matters stand regarding the show; Rivington has been before me, how- ever, and has taken up the newspaper to Father’s dressing-room, so I have to dance (metaphorically speaking) upon hot bricks until he appears with it in his hand at the breakfast-table. Dear old Aunt sees my anxious face, I believe, as I take my seat at the table, and looking up from the cups immediately says: “Well, Charles, what about the show, is it all right?” “Yes, all serene!” replies Father, looking awfully pleased: and shaking out the paper he reads: SUCCESS! 147 “*The Annual Flower-show at the Horti- cultural Gardens, M-——, took place yester- day, and was honoured by a large and fashionable attendance of all the nobility and gentry around, &c &c.,’”” said Father. “Tl leave you to read all that for your- selves after; this is the paragraph which chiefly concerns me. ““*Amongst the best specimens were some unusually fine roses, the respective properties of Charles Erickson, Esq., of the Oaks, and Edward Monckton, Esq., of the Manor House. The blossoms of each were so especially beautiful that it appeared somewhat difficult to decide in preference of either; we hear, however, that the first prize will be awarded to Mr. Erickson, on account of the difficulties generally encountered in rearing the rose (a deep damask), which is comparatively 29) rare in these parts. Jack gives me such a kick under the table that I drop my cup, which I was just about to carry to my lips, with a mighty crash, most of the contents going splash into Gip’s plate. 148 MADGE’S MISTAKE. “ Horrid creature!” cries she, as she pushes her chair back, thereby letting the stream down upon the floor: “will you ever learn to behave decently, I wonder?” The catastrophe does not trouble me much, however, and for a wonder I am not ordered out of the room. I finish my breakfast in peace, therefore, and as soon as we rise from the table I rush out of the room and into the garden, followed by Jack. “Isn't it splendid?” I cry, as he comes up with me; “really I am happier now than I have been for days, now it’s all over: oh! Jack, you really can’t tell what the anxiety has been.” “T havea very fair idea, notwithstanding,” answers Jack, as we saunter down the path: “T must say, though,” he adds, “ you have been most precious lucky to get out of all the scrapes that you have: just look now what a heap you got into trying to get out of the first one!” “Yes,” I answer, with a deep sigh, “so I AN AWFUL SOUND FALLS ON MY EAR! 149 did ;—but, for goodness sake, Jack, don’t you take to lecturing, it doesn’t become you either,” I say with dignity. “Charity begins at home, you know!—now I’m going in to - get my hat; and then I think I shall go for a walk, now my mind is easy: will you come?” “Yes, I don’t mind,” replies Jack, with immense condescension; and he follows me leisurely while I rush into the hall and begin a wild rummage amongst the many hats hanging there. I have just pounced upon the right one, and am dragging it out by the string in triumph, when I hear a sound which causes me to stand still with the hat suspended in mid-air. The library door is a little open, and I hear a warm argument going on between Father and some one whose voice I have surely heard before. I creep a little nearer to the door, trembling and shivering from head to foot, for a terrible thought suddenly springs up, though as yet I will hardly acknowledge it to myself even. Yes, I know 150 MADGE’S MISTAKE, that husky little voice, I am sure I do, and gathering courage from sheer desperation I go close to the door and listen. “‘ You see, sir, directly as I see’d the paper this morning, and read as how you had won first prize, I says to myself, says I, ‘Mr. Erickson of the Oaks is not the sort of gentleman to let a poor man lose nothing, so I'll go straight off and see if maybe he won’t go shares in the prize, or anyways give me something handsome, after.obliging him as I have.’” “QObliging me!” cries Father, perfectly aghast; “my good man, I don’t know really what you are talking about, you must be labouring under some extraordinary mis- take!” “ ixtraordinary or no extraordinary,” says the man, with slow emphasis, “it’s no mis- take at all, sir; ask the young lady if it’s a mistake.” “Young lady!” cries Father, fairly startled, “what young lady, in the name of good- y7 ness?” “Why, one of your young ladies, sir, one I AM PANIC-STRICKEN. 151 of the young ones I think it was; I don’t think as I knows her name,—no, no, sir,” he adds suddenly, “it’s no mistake, take my word for it; James Mullins is not the man to go and make such a mistake!” It is then as I feared, and I sink down upon the soft mat in a shivering heap, doubled up with silent fear and misery. “So this is the end of all my success!” I eroan; “oh dear, oh dear, Pl never touch another rose as long as I live; if only the earth would open and swallow—” The door is suddenly thrown open, and before I can move an inch Father strides literally over me, and only saves himself from measuring his length along the floor by catching wildly at the hat-stand. I am too wretched to scream (although he trod upon my foot unmercifully), or make any sound at all, so Father stands and looks down upon me with silent wonder. I believe he thinks I have lost my senses. “Well, this is ladylike behaviour,” he says at length; ‘“‘pray, have you been to sleep here?” 152 MADGE’S MISTAKE. I shake my head dismally, and at last it seems to strike him that my manner is curious, to say the least of it, for he suddenly goes back into the room, saying: “Come in here, I want you.” I limp in after him (oh, he has hurt my foot), and stand before Mr. Mullins, who looks aghast and somewhat uncomfortable, for it seems to dawn upon him suddenly that he has got me into dire trouble. “Pray, is this the young lady?” asks Father, taking me by the shoulder, and turning my terror-stricken face towards the man. “Yes, sir,” he replies, looking in amaze- ment from one to the other. “Yes, that’s the young lady, sir, but I don’t wish, sir, to get her noways into trouble; I wouldn’t ha’ called if Pd knowed there’d be any harm done, indeed I wouldn’t, and I hope the young lady ’Il believe me, for it’s true, every word on’t.” “Whether she gets into trouble or not is my affair, not yours,’ says Father. Perhaps I GIVE AN ACCOUNT OF MY WICKEDNESS. 153 you will both be good enough to give me a clear account of what has happened, that I may not be acting quite in the dark: it is very evident that I have been grossly de- ceived and misled by some one: sit down there, Madge, and hear for yourself what this man has to say;” and Mr. Mullins, with many preparatory coughs, at last gives the whole account of my early visit to him that un- lucky morning, adding that as the roses went to the show, and he let me have them cheap, he thought there would be no harm in his asking for a trifle more than the price I gave, Father having listened in silence to his long account, turns to me and asks, “if it is all correct.” I simply nod my answer, for it is as much as I can do to keep from bursting into tears, and I think I have men- tioned before that Father objects to these little displays of feeling. -I am then and there commanded to give an account of all my wickedness from begin- ning to end, and Mr. Mullins stands and 154 MADGE'S MISTAKE. listens to the story with much astonishment, evidently pitying me from the bottom of his good old heart. “Then I am to understand,” says Father, “that you picked these particular roses quite ignorant of what they were?” “Oh, yes, Father,” I cry, my spirits reviv- ing a shade, “I had no idea that they were intended for the show, and I wanted to take Mother a nice bunch, she was so poorly that day, and she loves roses so.” “Yes, yes, I understand all that,” says Father, rather impatiently, “and it was care- less of Williams, very, to leave the place open; but the fault lies here, Madge, that you did not come straight to me and say what had happened, directly you found out what you had done unconsciously. I stare at Father in complete astonishment at this awful suggestion! What can he be thinking about? as if he did not know as well as I do myself, that not one of us would dare do such a thing. “Tf you had done this,” continues Father, MR. MULLINS PLEADS FOR ME. 155 “everything would have been perfectly easy, for if that was all I could have withdrawn from sending any specimens to the show, but as the case stands I don’t really see what can be done now; you see” (turning to Mullins), “the names of the successful com- petitors are even published, so I don’t really see how I can withdraw now—” “No, sir,” replies Mullins, “I don’t really see as how you can; if I was you I should just let the matter drop now, sir.” “T don’t see what else can be done,” says Father reflectively: “and as to the matter of the price of the flowers, I suppose a couple of guineas will set that right, now that you really understand how the case stands?” “Why, yes, sir, certainly it will,” replies Mullins, looking pleased that matters have turned out no worse, “and I hope, sir, if I may make bold to say such a thing, I hope the young lady won't get into no more trouble.” “O no, I'll see to that,” says Father, with 156 MADGE'S MISTAKE. wonderful good nature, as, having received the two guineas into his great fat palm, Mr. Mullins shuffles towards the door and departs with many low bows. “ And now, Madge,” says Father, standing before me, “what do you think of all this business yourself ?” “T don’t know, Father,’ is my meek reply. “Tam very sorry, but it was the only thing I could think of, and I thought you would be so angry if old—if Mr. Monckton got the prize after all.” A slight smile passes over Father's face: I have hit the mark, that is plain, and if I am forgiven at all it will be simply because I have been the unconscious means of gaining the first prize for Father. I think it wise to follow up the subject, therefore, so drying my eyes (which are wet notwithstanding my frantic efforts to com- mand myself) I look up again and say: “I hope you'll forgive me this time, Father, I'll never do such a dreadful thing again, and the state of my mind has been awful,—I’ve I AM GRACIOUSLY FORGIVEN, 157 spent a heap of money too!” I add dole- fully. “Well,” says Father, evidently amused, though he tries hard not to show it, “1 must talk to your mother, and hear what she says about it all; I had certainly made up my mind to send you to school, and indeed that is quite possible still; but I believe you have fairly punished yourself this time, so we shall see; I am glad at any rate that you have confessed all now,—I suppose it 7s all?” “Oh! yes,” I ery, jumping up, “I’ve told you everything now: and, Father—” “Well?” “ Please don’t tell any one else; of course 1 don’t mind Mother and Aunt, nor Miss Montgomery if you like, but please don’t tell the girls: I should never have any more peace; and Williams too, Father, don’t tell him, for he’d never forgive me for getting him into trouble.” “Well, well, Dll see,’ returned Father. “Run away now, and try to be a better and wiser girl in future.” 158 MADGE’S MISTAKE. I am so overwhelmed with this unusual kindness that I am inspired suddenly to lift up my face for a kiss, which Father instantly gives; not the usual peck, but actually a kiss on my forehead, and as he gives it he says, “ There, never mind, little girl, you've punished yourself enough this time, I think!” Away I rush out into the garden in search of Jack, who by this time is tired of waiting for me, I expect. I find him before very long in the mena- gerie, feeding the pups, so I rush in, and, throwing myself down upon some hay ex- claim: “O Jack! Father knows all about it, and he hasn’t killed me!!!” “Gracious me!” cries Jack, “you don’t surely mean it?” “ True,—true as I’m here,” I say, nodding seriously. “That wretched old Mullins, the gardener, you know, came this morning, and wanted to go shares in the prize! Father thought he was mad at first; then he came and fell over me, for I was listening in a JACK CONSOLES ME. 159 heap on the mat, and I think he saw from my looks that I knew something, so he took me into the room and I had to make a clean sweep of it all before the man.” “Whe—w!” whistles Jack. “My stars! and what did he say?” “Why,” I reply, lowering my voice to a confidential whisper, “the fact is he is so charmed at having outdone old Monckton, that it is in consideration of that he has forgiven me: I believe he is secretly glad it didn’t come out before, as he would have been obliged to withdraw, you know, and now that the verdict is given, and it is all published, there’s nothing that can be done excepting for us all to hold our tongues.” “What about Mullins, though?” inquires Jack; “won't he let it out?” “O no!” I answer briskly. “Father's made it worth his while to keep silent—given him tivo guineas!” Jack whistles again, while I add in rather a woebegone manner, “I shall very likely 160 MADGE’S MISTAKE, have to go to school, though! Father’s going to talk to Mother about it.” “Never mind, old girl,” says Jack consol- ingly, “I don’t suppose you will go; but even if you do, why, we can have lots of larks when you come home for the holidays: oh, bless you, youll get into lots more scrapes yet, see if you don’t!” “OQ no!” I say, shaking my head sadly. “JT mean to turn over a new leaf now: the recollection of this one will last me some time, though, as you say,” I add with a sigh, “T daresay I shall have plenty more to tell about by and by. THE END. “Tt is due to Messrs. Blackie to say that no firm of publishers turns out this class of literature with more finish. We refer not only to the novel tinting of the illustrations and the richness of the cover, but more particularly to the solidity of the binding, a matter of great importance in boys’ books.”—The Academy. BLACKIE & SON’S BOOKS FOR YOUNG PEOPLE. New Series for Season 1885. By G. A. HENTY. TRUE TO THE OLD Fuac: A TALE OF THE AMERICAN WAR OF INDEPENDENCE. In Freepom’s Cause: A STORY OF WALLACE AND BRUCE. St. GzeorGE FoR ENGLAND: A TALE OF CRESSY AND POITIERS. ‘By G. MANVILLE FENN. Bunyip Lanp: THE STORY OF A WILD JOURNEY IN NEW GUINEA. MENHARDOC: A STORY OF CORNISH NETS AND MINES. A NEW EDITION OF ROBINSON CRUSOE. WITH OVER 100 ILLUSTRATIONS BY GORDON BROWNE. By HARRY COLLINGWOOD. Tue Pirate Isianp: A STORY OF THE SOUTH PACIFIC, bo Blackie & Son's New Publications. By JOHN C. HUTCHESON. Tur Wreck oF THE Nancy BELL: OR CAST AWAY ON KERGUELEN LAND, By MARY C. ROWSELL. TRAITOR oR Patriot? A TALE OF THE RYE-HOUSE PLOT. By KATE WOOD. WINNIE’S SECRET: A STORY OF FAITH AND PATIENCE. By ESME STUART. Miss FENWICK’s FAILuREs: OR ‘‘PEGGY PEPPER-PoT.” A STORY OF FAMILY INTEREST. By F. BAYFORD HARRISON. Brotuers in ARMs: A TALE OF THE CRUSADES. STORIES OF THE SEA IN FORMER DAYS: NARRATIVES OF WRECK AND RESCUE. ADVENTURES IN FIELD, FLOOD, AND FOREST: STORIES OF DANGER AND DARING. By ANNIE S. SWAN. * WaRNER’S CHASE: OR THE GENTLE HEART. By GREGSON GOW. Down anp Up AGAIN: BEING SOME ACCOUNT OF THE FELTON FAMILY, AND THE ODD PEOPLE THEY MET. By ARTHUR GILMAN, A.M, Maewna CHaArta STorizs: OR STRUGGLES FOR FREEDOM IN THE OLDEN TIME, Blackie & Sows New Publications. 3 BOOKS BY G. A. HENTY. “Surely Mr. Henty should understand boys’ tastes better than any man living.” —The Times. TRUE TO THE OLD FLAG: A Tale of the American War of Independence. By G. A. Henry, author of “ With Clive in India,” “By Sheer Pluck,” “Facing Death,” “Under Drake’s Flag,” &c. With 12 full- page Illustrations by Gorpon Browyz in black and tint. Crown 8vo, cloth elegant, bevelled boards, olivine edges, 6s. Owing to the unsuccessful termination of the war between Great Britain and her American colonies, the subject is one which English writers have for the most part avoided, and our histories have been generally drawn from American sources. In the present volume the author has gone to the accounts of English officers who took part in the conflict, and lads will find that in no war in which British soldiers have been engaged did they behave with greater courage and good conduct, than in the long struggle with the American colonists. Older people will read with surprise and interest this accurately written narrative of the war. The historical portion of the book being accompanied with numerous thrilling adventures with the red- skins on the shores of Lake Huron, in which the hero of the tale, the son of a British officer settled in the States, and who joins the Royal army as a scout, takes part, a story of exciting interest is interwoven with the general narrative and carried through the book. IN FREEDOM'S CAUSE: A Story of Wallace and Bruce. By G. A. Henry, author of “ With Clive in India,” “By Sheer Pluck,” “Facing Death,” “Under Drake’s Flag,” &. ‘With 12 full-page Illustrations by Gorpoy Browne in black and tint. Crown 8vo, cloth elegant, bevelled boards, olivine edges, 6s. In this story the author relates the stirring tale of the Scottish War of Independence and of the exploits of Wallace and Bruce. The extraordinary valour and personal prowess of these historical characters rival the deeds of the mythical heroes of chivalry Roland and Arthur, and indeed at one time Wallace was ranked with these legendary personages. The researches of modern historians have shown, however, that he was a living, breathing man, and that in spite of the fact that the contemporary writers were, for the most part, his bitter enemies, there can be no doubt that he was a great man as well as a valiant champion. The hero of the tale fought under both Wallace and Bruce, and while the strictest historical accuracy has been maintained with respect to public events, the work is full of ‘‘ hair- breadth ’scapes” and wild adventure. 4 Blackie & Son's New Publications. BOOKS BY G. A. HENTY. WITH CLIVE IN INDIA: Or the Beginnings of an Empire. By G. A. Henry, author of “Facing Death,” “Under Drake’s Flag,” “By Sheer Pluck,” &. With 12 full-page Illustrations by Gorpon Brownz. Crown 8vo, cloth elegant, bevelled boards, olivine edges, 6s. The period between the landing of Clive as a young writer in India and the close of his career was critical and eventful in the extreme. At its commencement the English were traders existing on sufferance of the native princes. At its close they were masters of Bengal and of the greater part of Southern India. The Author has given a full and accurate account of the historical events of that stirring time, and battles and sieges follow each other in rapid succession, while he combines with his narrative a tale of daring and adventure, which gives a lifelike interest to the volume, “In this book Mr. Henty has contrived to exceed himself in stirring adventures and thrilling situations, while the realities are preserved. 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A story of the days when England and Spain struggled for the supre- macy of the sea, and England carried off the palm. The heroes sail as lads with Drake in the expedition in which the Pacific Ocean was first seen by an Englishman from a tree-top on the Isthmus of Panama, and in his great voyage of circumnavigation. The historical portion of the story is abso- lutely to be relied upon, but this, although very useful to lads, will perhaps be less attractive than the great variety of exciting adventure through which the young adventurers pass in the course of their voyages. “A stirring book of Drake’s time, and just such a book as the youth of this mari- time country are likely to prize highly.”—Daily Tclegraph. “Ned in the coils of the boa-constrictor is a wonderful picture. A boy must be hard to please if he wishes for anything more exciting.” —Pall Mall Gazette, “It is well illustrated, and is a real good story really well told.” —Punch. “*A book of adventure, where the hero meets with experience enough one would think to turn his hair gray.”—Harper’s Monthly Magazine. Blackie & Son’s New, Publications. 5 BOOKS BY G. A. HENTY. ST. GEORGE FOR ENGLAND: A Tale of Cressy and Poitiers. By G. A. Henry, author of “With Clive in India,” “By Sheer Pluck,” “ Facing Death,” “Under Drake’s Flag,” &c. With 8 full-page Illustrations by Gorpon Brownz in black and tint. Crown 8vo, cloth elegant, 5s. No portion of English history is more crowded with great events than that of the reign of Edward III. Cressy and Poitiers laid France prostrate at the feet of England. The Spanish fleet was dispersed and destroyed by a naval battle as remarkable in its incidents as was that which broke up the Armada in the time of Elizabeth. Europe was ravaged by the dreadful plague known as the Black Death, and France was the scene of the terrible peasant rising called the Jacquerie. All these stirring events are treated by the author in St. George for England. The hero of the story, although of good family, begins life as a London apprentice, but after countless adventures and perils, becomes by valour and good conduct the squire, and at last the trusted friend and companion of the Black Prince. BY SHEER PLUCK: A Tale of the Ashanti War. By G. A. Henry, author of “ With Clive in India,” “ Under Drake’s Flag,” &. With 8 full-page Illustrations by Gorpon Browne in black and tint. Crown 8vo, cloth elegant, 5s. The Ashanti Campaign seems but an event of yesterday, but it happened when the generation now rising up were too young to have made them- selves acquainted with its incidents. The author has woven, in a tale of thrilling interest, all the details of the campaign, of which he was himself a witness. His hero, after many exciting adventures in the interior, finds himself at Coomassie just before the outbreak of the war, is detained a prisoner by the king, is sent down with the army which invaded the British Protectorate, escapes, and accompanies the English expedition on their march to Coomassie. “Mr. Henty keeps up his reputation as a writer of boys’ stories. ‘By Sheer Pluck’ will be eagerly read. The author's personal knowledge of the west coast has been turned to good advantage.” —A theneum. ““No one could have done the work better than he has done it. The lad must be very difficult to satisfy who is not satisfied with this.”—Scotsman. “The book is one which will not only sustain, but add to Mr. Henty’s reputation. The illustrations are particularly good.”—Standard. “Of all the new books for boys which the season has produced, there is not one better fitted to win their suffrages than ‘ By Sheer Pluck,’ It is written with a simple directness, force, and purity of style worthy of Defoe. Morally, the book is every- thing that could be desired, setting before the boys a bright and bracing ideal of the English gentleman.”—Christian Leader. 6 Blackie & Son's New Publications. BY G. A. HENTY. FACING DEATH: Or the Hero of the Vaughan Pit. A Tale of the Coal Mines. By G. A. Henry, author of “By Sheer Pluck,” “ With Clive in India,” &c. With 8 full-page Ilustrations by Gorpon Brownz in black and tint. Crown 8vo, cloth elegant, 5s. “Facing Death” is a story with a purpose. It is intended to show that a lad who makes up his mind firmly and resolutely that he will rise in life, and who is prepared to face toil and ridicule and hardship to carry out his determination, is sure to succeed. The hero of the story, though only a colliery lad, is a character that boys will delight in. He isa typical British boy, dogged, earnest, generous, and though ‘‘ shamefaced ” to a degree, is ready to face death in the discharge of duty. His is a character for imita- tion by boys in every station, who will assuredly be intensely interested in the narrative. “The tale is well written and well illustrated, and there is much reality in the characters.” —A thenceum. “Tf any father, godfather, clergyman, or schoolmaster is on the look-out for a good book to give as a present this season to a boy who is worth his salt, this is the book we would recommend.” —Standard, : BY PROFESSOR POUCHET. THE UNIVERSE: Or Tne InFINITELY GREAT AND THE InFiniTELY Litriz. A Sketch of Contrasts in Creation, and Marvels revealed and explained by Natural Science. By F. A. Poucuer, mp. Illustrated by 273 Engravings on wood, of which 56 are full-page size. 8th Edition, medium 8vo, cloth elegant, gilt edges, 7s. 6d.; also full morocco, blind tooled, 16s. The object of this Work is to inspire and extend a taste for natural science. It isnotalearned treatise, but a simple study. The title adopted indicates that the author has gathered from creation at large, often con- trasting the smallest of its productions with the mightiest. “We can honestly commend this work, which is admirably, as it is copiously illustrated.”—Times. “ As interesting as the most exciting romance, and a great deal more likely to be remembered to good purpose.”—Standard. “Scarcely any book in French or in English is so likely to stimulate in the young an interest in the physical phenomena.”—Fortnightly Review. “The volume, and it is a splendid one, will serve as a good pioneer to more exact studies.”—Saturday Review. “Among the most attractive of the treatises on science there is not one more suggestive and impressive than Pouchet’s Universe. The work brings so forcibly before the thoughtful reader the infinite variety of the universe that he must be dull indeed who is not awed by the impressive lesson.”—Knowledge. Blackie d&: Sons New Publications. . Leeprinted from the Author's Edition 1719. THE LIFE-AND SURPRISING ADVENTURES OF ROBINSON CRUSOE. BY DANIEL DEFOE. Beautifully Printed, and Illustrated by above 100 Pictures Designed by Gordon Browne. Crown 8vo, cloth elegant, olivine edges, 6s. SSS SS SS SS ANS — There have been countless editions of ‘‘ Robinson Crusoe,” and they have mostly been imperfect, inasmuch as they have been so largely altered from the original text that the language in many instances has not been that of Defoe but of his revisers. The present volume has been carefully printed from the original edition, and all obsolete or little known terms and obscure The ‘ Editing ” is not a corrup- phrases are explained in brief foot notes. tion or pretended improvement of Defoe’s great work, 8 Blackie & Son’s New Publications. BOOKS BY GEORGE MANVILLE FENN. BUNYIP LAND: The Story of a Wild Journey in New Guinea. By G. Man- VILLE Fenn, author of “The Golden Magnet,” “In the King’s Name,” “Nat the Naturalist,” &. With 12 full-page Illus- trations by Gorpon Browyz in black and tint. Crown 8vo, cloth elegant, bevelled boards, olivine edges, 6s. “Bunyip Land” is the story of Joseph Carstairs, son of an eminent botanist, who, in his search for new plants for the London nurserymen, ventures into the interior of New Guinea. Years pass away, and Professor Carstairs does not return ; and though he is supposed to be dead, his young wife and son, who live at a station in Australia, refuse to believe this to be the case; and as soon as he is old enough, young Joe declares his intention of going in search of his father. To his surprise and delight his mother is willing that he should go, and their friend the young doctor offers to be Joe’s companion. Jimmy, a native black, insists upon bearing them company; and a passage is taken to New Guinea in a cruising schooner. They land, are made prisoners, get free, and finally journey into the interior of that terra incognita, New Guinea, which Jimmy believes to be full of the native demons or bunyips, as he calls them, hence the title Bunyip Land. Their adventures are many and exciting, but after numerous perils they dis- cover the professor a prisoner among the blacks, and bring him home in triumph to his anxious wife, THE GOLDEN MAGNET: A Tale of the Land of the Incas. By Gro. ManviLue FEny, author of “In the King’s Name,” “Nat the Naturalist,” &c. With 12 full-page pictures by Gorpon Browne. Crown 8vo, cloth elegant, bevelled boards, olivine edges, 6s. The tale is of a romantic lad, who leaves, home where his father conducts a failing business, to seek his fortune in South America by endeavouring to discover some of that treasure which legends declare was ages ago hidden by the Peruvian rulers and the priests of that mysterious country, to pre- serve it from the Spanish invaders. The hero of the story is accompanied by a faithful companion, who, in the capacity both of comrade and hench- man, does true service, and shows the dogged courage of the English lad during the strange adventures which befall them. The plot of the story is simple, but the movement is rapid and full of strange excitement. “Tt forms a handsome volume, and clearly a rival to ‘Robinson Crusoe’ as a gift- book.”—Edinburgh Daily Review. “‘Told with admirable force and strength. Few men other than Mr. Fenn have the capacity for telling such stories as this, and we do not remember to have seen one of his productions which has exceeded it in merit.”—Scotsman.’ “There could be no more welcome Christmas present for a boy. There is not a dull page in the book, and many will be read with breathless interest. ‘The Golden Magnet’ is, of course, the same one that attracted Raleigh and the heroes of ‘ West- ward Ho!’”—Journal of Education. Blackie & Son's New Publications. 9 BOOKS BY GEORGE MANVILLE FENN. IN THE KING’S NAME: Or the Cruise of the Kestrel. By G. Manvitie Ferny, author of “The Golden Magnet,” “Nat the Naturalist,” &c, Illus- trated by 12 full-page Pictures by Gorpoy Brownz. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, bevelled boards, olivine edges, 6s. “In the King’s Name” is a spirited story of the Jacobite times, con- cerning the adventures of Hilary Leigh, a young naval officer in the preventive service off the coast of Sussex, on board the Hestrel. Leigh is taken prisoner by the adherents of the Pretender, amongst whom is an early friend and patron who desires to spare the lad’s life, but will not release ‘him. The narrative is full of exciting and often humorous incident. “Mr. Manville Fenn has already won a foremost place among writers of stories for boys. ‘In the King’s Name,’ is, we are inclined to think, the best of all his pro- ductions in this field. It has the great quality of always ‘moving on’—adventure following adventure in constant succession.” —Daily News, “Told with the freshness and verve which characterize all Mr. Fenn’s writings and put him in the front rank of writers for boys.”—Standard. ‘A book in which boys will delight. Just the sort which can be given to a healthy- minded youngster with the certainty that he will enjoy it.”—Scotsman. ** A capital boy’s story, full of incident and adventure, and told in the lively style in which Mr. Fenn is such an adept.”—Globe. MENHARDOC: ° A Story of Cornish Nets and Mines. By G. Manvitir Ferny, author of “The Golden Magnet,” “Nat the Naturalist,” &e. With 8 full-page Illustrations by C. J. Sraymuanp in black and tint. Crown 8vo, cloth elegant, 5s. The scene of this story of boyish aspiration and adventure is laid among the granite piles and tors of Cornwall, where the huge Atlantic waves, clear as crystal, come flowing in to break in glittering cascades upon the barriers of rock. Here amongst the hardy, honest fishermen and miners the two sons of Mr. Temple meet with Will Marion, the nephew of a retired purser of the Royal Navy and owner of several fishing-boats. The lads, in spite of their differences of temperament, fraternize, and the London boys, whose father is a mining engineer in search of profitable lodes or veins, are inducted into the secrets of fishing in the great bay. They learn how to catch mackerel, pollack, and conger with the line, and are present at the hauling of the nets, but not without incurring many serious risks. Adven- tures are pretty plentiful, but the story has for its strong base the develop- ment of character of the three boys, who are wonderfully dissimilar. There is a good deal of quaint character throughout, and the sketches of Cornish life and local colouring are based upon experience in the bay, whose fishing village is called here Menhardoc. The search for valuable mineral proves successful in an unexpected manner, through the knowledge of the London boys’ Cornish companion, and with good result. This is a thoroughly English story of phases of life but little touched upon in boys’ literature up to the present time. Az2 10 Blackie & Son’s New Publications. BY GEORGE MANVILLE FENN. NAT THE NATURALIST: Or a Boy’s Adventures in the Eastern Seas. By G. Manvin.e Fenn, author of “The Golden Magnet,” “In the Kino’s Name,” &c. Illustrated by 8 full-page Pictures by Gorpon Browne in black and tint. Crown 8vo, cloth elegant, 5s. This is a pleasant story of a lad who, though he is brought up in a strictly quiet fashion by an aunt, has a great desire to go abroad to seek speci- mens in natural history, and has that desire gratified by an uncle who comes home from distant lands, whence he brings a beautiful collection. The boy Nat and his uncle Dick go on a voyage to the remoter islands of the Eastern seas, and their adventures there are told in a truthful and vastly interesting fashion, which will at once attract and maintain the earnest attention of young readers. The descriptions of Mr. Ebony, their black comrade, and of the scenes of savage life, are full of genuine humour. “Mr. Fenn has hit upon a capital idea. This is among the best of the boys’ books of the season.”—-The Times. “We can conceive of no more attractive present for a young naturalist.”—Land and Water. “This sort of book encourages independence of character, develops resource, and teaches a boy to keep his eyes open.”—Saturday Review. “The late Lord Palmerston used to say that one use of war was to teach geography: such books as this teach it in a more harmless and cheaper way.”—Athencum. BY HARRY COLLINGWOOD. THE PIRATE ISLAND: ~ A Story of the South Pacific. By Harry Continewoop, author of “The Secret of the Sands,” “Under the Meteor Flag,” &c. Illustrated by 8 full-page Pictures by C. J. Sraninanp and J. R. Wetts in black and tint. Crown 8vo, cloth elegant, 5s. This story details the adventures of a lad who was found in his infancy on board a wreck, and is adopted by, and brought up as, a fisherman. By a deed of true gallantry his whole destiny is changed, and, going to sea, he forms one of a party who, after being burned out of their ship in the South Pacific, and experiencing great hardship and suffering in their boats, are picked up by a pirate brig and taken to the ‘Pirate Island.” After many thrilling adventures, they ultimately succeed in effecting their es- cape. The story depicts both the Christian and the manly virtues in such colowrs as will cause them to be admired—and therefore imitated. There is not a single objectionable expression or suggestion throughout the book; and it abounds in adventures of just the kind that are most eagerly devoured by juvenile readers, Blackie & Sons New Publications. 11 BY ASCOTT R. HOPE. STORIES OF OLD RENOWN. Tales of Knights and Heroes. By Ascorr R. Horr, Author of “The Wigwam and the War-path,” &. With nearly 100 Illustrations by Gorpon BrownE. Crown 8vo, cloth elegant, bevelled boards, olivine edges, 5s. A Series of the best of the Stories of Noble Knighthood and Old Romance, told in refined and simple language, and adapted to young readers. A book possessing remarkable attractions, especially for boys who love to hear of great deeds and enterprises of high renown. “Ascott R. Hope here breaks new ground, and he deserves as much credit for his choice of subject as for his mode of treatment.”—Academy. “ Ogier the Dane, Robert of Sicily, and other old-world heroes find their deeds embedded in beautiful type, and garnished with animated sketches by Gordon Browne. It is a charming gift-book.”—Land and Water. “Mr. Hope’s style is quite in accord with his theme, and the simplicity with which he recounts these ‘Stories of Old Renown’ is by no means the least part of their attractiveness. Mr. Gordon Browne has furnished some excellent drawings to illustrate the text.”—Pictorial World. “The stories are admirably chosen. It is a book to be coveted by all young readers.” —Scotsman. “