Part 11

"Why, I think he is as well off as a dog can be. He looks very comfortable there with his head in your lap."

"But he hasn't any soul to be saved," said the child.

"He does not know that," said the colonel, carelessly; "it does not trouble him."

"But," said Bessie, "if he had a soul, and knew Jesus died to save it, he would be a great deal happier. It makes us feel so happy to think about that. Isn't that the yeason people are so much better and happier than dogs, grandpa?"

"That's the reason they should be happier and better, dear."

"There are some people who know they have souls to be saved, who don't think about it, and don't care if Jesus did come to die for them; are there not, grandpa?" said Maggie.

"Yes, Maggie, there are very many such people."

"Then they can't be happy," said Bessie,--"not as happy as Toby, for he don't know."

"I don't believe Joe thinks much about his soul," said Maggie.

"I am afraid not," answered Mr. Duncan.

"Grandpa," said Bessie, "if people know about their souls, and don't care, I don't think they are much better than Toby."

"But, grandpa," said Maggie, "Toby behaves just as if he knew some things are naughty, and other things right. How can he tell if he has no soul? How did he know it was naughty for Joe to steal the pocket-book; and what is the reason he knows Susie must not go near the fire nor the cellar stairs?"

"It is instinct which teaches him that," said grandpa.

"What is that?"

"We cannot tell exactly. It is something which God has given to animals to teach them what is best for themselves and their young. It is not reason, for they have no soul nor mind as men, women, and children have; but by it some animals, such as dogs and horses, often seem to know what is right and wrong. It is instinct which teaches the bird to build her nest. I am an old man, and I suppose you think I know a great deal, but if I wanted to build a house for my children, I would not know how to do it unless I were shown. But little birdie, untaught by any one,--led only by the instinct which God has given her,--makes her nest soft and comfortable for her young. It is instinct which teaches Toby to know a man or a boy who is to be trusted from one who is not; which makes him keep Susie from creeping into danger when he is told to take care of her."

"And, grandpa," said Bessie, "Toby had an instinct about our baby, too. The other day, when nurse left her asleep in the cradle, and went down stairs for a few minutes, she woke up and fretted. Toby heard her, and went down stairs, and pulled nurse's dress, and made her come up after him to baby."

"Yes, that was his instinct," said Mr. Duncan. "He knew that baby wanted to be taken up, and that nurse should come to her."

"He did such a funny thing the other day," said Maggie, "when Fred played him a trick. You know he brings Mr. Jones' old slippers every evening, and puts them by the kitchen door, so Mr. Jones can have them all ready when he comes from his work. You tell it, Bessie, it hurts my face to speak so much."

"Well," said Bessie, who was always ready to talk, "Fred took the slippers, and hid them in his trunk, 'cause he wanted to see what Toby would do. Toby looked and looked all over, but the poor fellow could not find them. So at last he brought an old pair of yubber over-shoes, and put them by the kitchen door. Then he went away and lay down behind the door, and he looked so 'shamed, and so uncomf'able, Maggie and I felt yeal sorry for him, and we wanted to show him where the slippers were, but we didn't know ourselves, and Fred wouldn't tell us. Then Fred called him ever so many times, but he was very cross, and growled, and would not go at all till Fred said, 'Come, old dog, come, get the slippers.' Then he came out and yan after Fred, and we all yan, and it was so funny to see him. He was so glad, and he pulled out the slippers and put them in their place, and then he took the old yubbers and put them in the closet, and lay down with his paws on the slippers, as if he thought somebody would take them away again. And now Mrs. Jones says that every morning he hides them in a place of his own, where no one can find them but his own self. I think that is very smart; don't you, grandpa?"

"Very smart," said Mr. Duncan; "Toby is a wise dog."

"But, grandpa, don't Toby have conscience, too, when he knows what's good and what's naughty? Mamma says it's conscience that tells us when we're good, and when we're naughty."

"No, dear; Toby has no conscience. If he knows the difference between right and wrong in some things, it is partly instinct, partly because he has been taught. Conscience is that which makes us afraid of displeasing God, and breaking his holy laws, but Toby feels nothing of this. He is only afraid of displeasing his master; he has neither love nor fear of One greater than that master, for he does not know there is such a wise and holy being. If Toby should steal, or do anything wrong, God would not call him to account for it, because he has given to the dog no soul, no conscience, no feeling of duty to his Maker."

"Grandpa," said Bessie, "don't you mean that if Toby is naughty, God will not punish him when he dies, 'cause he didn't know about him?"

"Yes, dear; for Toby there is neither reward nor punishment in another world. For him, there is no life to come."

"Grandpa," said Maggie, "where will Toby's instinct go when he dies?"

"It will die with the dog. It is mortal; that is, it must die; but our souls are immortal; they will go on living for ever and ever, either loving and praising God through all eternity, or sinking down to endless woe and suffering. Toby is a good, wise, faithful dog, and knows a great deal, but the weakest, the most ignorant boy or girl--that poor idiot you saw the other day--is far better, of far more value in the sight of God, for he has a soul; and to save that precious soul, our Lord left his heavenly home, and died upon the cross. Think what a soul is worth when it needed that such a price be paid for its salvation!"

"I can't help being sorry for Toby, 'cause he has no soul," said Bessie; "but I'm a great deal sorrier for those people that don't think about their souls, and go to Jesus to be saved. How can they help it, when they know he wants them to come? Grandpa, don't they feel ungrateful all the time?"

"I am afraid not, Bessie. If they do not feel their need of a Saviour, they do not feel their ingratitude."

Bessie was silent for a minute or two, and sat gazing for a while far away over the water, with the thoughtful look she so often had in her eyes, and then she said slowly, as if speaking to herself,--

"I wonder if they think about for ever and ever and ever."

No one answered her. Not a word had the colonel said since Bessie had said that she thought those who did not care for their souls were no better than Toby; but he sat with his eyes sometimes on her, sometimes on the dog, and his face, which was turned from his wife and Mr. Duncan, had a vexed, troubled look. Mrs. Rush had often seen that look during the last few days, and now she guessed it was there, even though she did not see it. But, presently, when the carriage was seen coming back with Mrs. Bradford and Mrs. Duncan, he drove it away, and was soon laughing and talking as usual.

XX.

_NURSE TAKEN BY SURPRISE._

Nurse and Jane had taken all the children for a long walk. About a mile up the shore lived the woman who took in Mrs. Bradford's washing. Mrs. Bradford wished to send her a message, and told Jane to go with it. There were two ways by which this house could be reached: one by the shore, the other by a road which ran farther back, part of the way through the woods. About a quarter of a mile this side of the washer-woman's, it turned off nearer to the shore; and here it was crossed by the brook, which also crossed the road to the station. It was wider here, and deeper, and ran faster towards the sea. Over it was built a rough bridge. Two beams were laid from bank to bank; on these were placed large round logs, a foot or two apart, and above these were the planks, with a miserable broken rail. It was a pretty place though, and the walk to it was shady and pleasant,--pleasanter than the beach on a warm day.

Nurse said she would walk to the bridge with the children, and rest there, while Jane went the rest of the way. When Harry and Fred heard this, they said they would go too, for the brook was a capital place to fish for minnows. So they all set off, the boys carrying their fishing-rods and tin pails.

But when they reached the bridge, they found there would be no fishing. The rains of the great storm a few days ago had swollen the brook very much, and there had been several heavy showers since, which had kept it full, so it was now quite a little river, with a muddy current running swiftly down to the sea. The tiny fish were all hidden away in some snug hole, and the boys knew it was of no use to put out their lines.

"Oh, bother!" said Harry. "I thought the water would be lower by this time. Never mind, we'll have some fun yet, Fred. Let's go in and have a wade!"

"I don't believe father would let us," said Fred. "He said we must not the day before yesterday, and the water is as high now as it was then."

"Let's go back, then," said Harry. "I don't want to stay here doing nothing."

"No," said Fred. "Let's go on with Jane to the washer-woman's. She has a pair of guinea-fowls, with a whole brood of young ones. Bessie and I saw them the other day, when Mr. Jones took us up there in his wagon. We'll go and see them again."

Maggie and Bessie asked if they might go too, but nurse said it was too far. Bessie did not care much, as she had seen the birds once, but Maggie was very much disappointed, for she had heard so much of the guinea-fowls, that she was very anxious to have a look at them. So Jane said, if nurse would let her go, she would carry her part of the way. So at last nurse said she might. Then Franky said he wanted to go too, but he was pacified by having a stick with a line on the end of it given to him, with which he thought he was fishing.

A tree which had been blown down by the gale lay near the bridge, and on this nurse sat down with baby on her knee, and Bessie and Franky beside her. Franky sat on the end of the log, toward the water, where he was quite safe, if he sat still, and nurse meant to keep a close eye on him. But something happened which made her forget him for a moment or two.

"And I'll tell you Cinderella," said nurse to Bessie, as the others went off.

"I'd yather hear about when you were a little girl on your father's farm," said Bessie.

Nurse liked to talk of this, so she began to tell Bessie of the time when she was young, and lived at home in far-off England. Bessie had heard it all very often, but she liked it none the less for that. Franky sat still, now and then pulling up his line, and saying, "Not one fis!" and then throwing it out again.

Suddenly the sound of wheels was heard, and looking round, they saw Miss Adams' pony carriage, with the lady driving, and the little groom behind.

Several times since the day when Miss Adams had teased Bessie, and Bessie had called her a kitchen lady, she had shown a wish to speak to the little girl; but she could never persuade her to come near her. Once or twice, as Bessie was passing through the hall of the hotel, Miss Adams had opened her door and called to her in a coaxing voice; but Bessie always ran off as fast as possible, without waiting to answer. As Miss Adams passed, she nodded, drove on a little way, and then turned back. She pulled in her horses close to nurse and Bessie. Baby crowed and shook her little hands at the carriage. It was a pretty affair, the low basket, softly cushioned, the black ponies with their bright, glittering harness, and the jaunty groom in his neat livery; but Bessie had no wish to get in it when Miss Adams said, "Come, Bessie, jump in and take a ride."

"No, thank you, ma'am," said Bessie, drawing closer to nurse.

"Yes, come," said Miss Adams, coaxingly. "I'll give you a nice ride, and bring you back quite safe to your nurse, or take you home, as you like."

"I'd yather not," said Bessie, taking hold of nurse's dress, as if she feared Miss Adams might take her off by force.

"You don't know how pleasant it is," said Miss Adams,--"come."

"I don't want to yide," said Bessie.

All this time nurse had been looking very grim. She was quite an old woman, and had lived in the family a great many years, for she had taken care of Mrs. Bradford herself when she was a little girl. She loved her and her children dearly, and would have done anything in the world for them, and if any one brought harm or trouble to her nurslings, she ruffled up her feathers like an old hen, and thought herself at liberty to do or say anything she pleased.

"And she wouldn't be let, if she did want to," she said sharply to Miss Adams.

The young lady looked at the old woman with a sparkle in her eye.

"I'll take the baby, too, if you like," she said, mischievously; "I can drive quite well with her on my lap, and Bessie can sit beside me."

"My baby!" said nurse, who seemed to think the baby her own special property,--"my baby! Do you think I'd risk her neck in a gimcrack like that? There isn't one of them I'd trust a hand's breadth with ye, not if ye was to go down on your bended knees."

"I'm not likely to do that," said Miss Adams, turning round and driving off once more, "Well, good-by, Bessie, since you wont come."

She had gone but a short distance, when she drew in the ponies again, jumped out, tossed the reins to the groom, and ran back to the bridge. "Bessie," she said, "I want to speak to you; will you come over on the other side of the road?"

Bessie looked as shy as Maggie might have done. "No, ma'am," she answered.

"But I have something very particular to say to you, and I shall not tease or trouble you at all. Come, dear, that is a good child. If you do not, I shall think you are angry with me still."

"No, I'm not," said Bessie. "Well, I'll go."

"Not with my leave," said nurse. "If you have anything to say, just say it here, miss. You can't have anything to tell this child her old nurse can't hear."

"Yes, I have," said Miss Adams. "Come, Bessie. I shall not pull your hair. I want to speak to you very much. Don't you wish to do as you would be done by?"

"I think I'd better go; bett'n't I?" said Bessie. "I don't want her to think I'm angry yet."

"Sit ye still," said nurse, without looking at Miss Adams. "I sha'n't let ye go to have I know not what notions put into your head."

Miss Adams looked vexed, and bit her lip, then she laughed. "Now, don't be cross, nurse. I am not going to say anything to Bessie which you or her mother would not approve."

"Maybe," said nurse, dryly.

"And if Mrs. Bradford were here, I am sure she would let Bessie come."

"Maybe," said nurse again, beginning to trot baby rather harder than she liked.

Miss Adams stood tapping the toe of her gaiter with her riding whip. "I promise you," she said, "that I will let her come back to you in a moment or two, and that I will not do the least thing which could trouble or tease her."

"Promises and fair words cost nothing," said nurse.

"How dare you say that to me?" she said, losing her temper at last. "Whatever else I may have done, I have never yet broken my word! Bessie,"--she said this in a softer tone,--"don't think that of me, dear. I would not say what was not true, or break a promise, for the world." Then to nurse again: "You're an obstinate old woman, and--Look at that child!"

These last words were said in a startled tone and with a frightened look.

Nurse turned her head, started up, and then stood still with fear and amazement. Finding himself unnoticed, Master Franky had concluded that he had sat quiet long enough, and slipping off his stone, he had scrambled up the bank and walked upon the bridge. About the centre of this he found a broken place in the railing through which he put the stick and line with which he was playing to fish. Putting his head through after it, he saw that it did not touch the water and that just in front of him was the projecting end of one of the logs. Here, he thought, he could fish better, and slipping through, he was now where Miss Adams told nurse to look at him, stooping over, with one fat hand grasping the railing and with the other trying to make his line touch the water. The bridge was four or five feet above the stream, and although a fall from it might not have been very dangerous for a grown person, a little child like Franky might easily have been swept away by the current, which was deepest and swiftest where he was standing.

"Don't speak," said Miss Adams, hastily, and darting round to the other side of the bridge, she walked directly into the water, and stooping down, passed under the bridge and came out under the spot where Franky stood. As she had expected, the moment he saw her, he started and fell, but Miss Adams was ready for him. She caught him in her arms, waded through the water, and placed him safe and dry on the grass.

"Oh, you naughty boy!" said nurse, the moment she had done so, "what am I to do with you now?"

"Nosin' at all; Franky dood boy. Didn't fall in water."

"And whose fault is that I should like to know," said Miss Adams, laughing and shaking her dripping skirts, "you little monkey? I do not know but I should have done better to let you fall into the water and be well frightened before I pulled you out."

"Franky not frightened; Franky brave soldier," said the child.

"You're a mischievous monkey, sir," said the young lady.

"That he is," said nurse, speaking in a very different way from that in which she had spoken before. "And where would he have been now but for you and the kind Providence which brought you here, miss? What would I have done, with the baby in my arms and he standing there? I'd never have thought of catching him that way. It was right cute of you, miss."

"I saw it was the only way," said Miss Adams. "I knew he would be off that slippery log if he was startled."

"I thank you again and again, miss," said the nurse, "and so will his mother; there's your beautiful dress all spoiled."

"Oh! that's nothing," said Miss Adams, giving her dress another shake; "it was good fun. But now, when I have saved one of your chickens from a ducking, you cannot think I would hurt the other if you let me have her for a moment."

"Surely I will," said nurse; "but you are not going to stand and talk in such a pickle as that? You'll catch your death of cold."

"No fear," said Miss Adams, "I am tough. Come now, Bessie." She held out her hand to the little girl, and now that she had saved her brother, she went with her willingly. She was not afraid of her any more, though she wondered very much what the lady could have to say to her which nurse might not hear.

"You'll excuse me for speaking as I did before, miss, but I'm an old woman, and cross sometimes, and then you see--" Nurse hesitated.

"Yes, I see. I know I deserved it all," said Miss Adams, and then she led Bessie to the other side of the road. "Suppose I lift you up here, Bessie; I can talk to you better." She lifted her up and seated her on the stone wall which ran along the road.

"Now," she said, leaning her arms upon the wall, "I want to ask you something."

"I know what you want to ask me," said Bessie, coloring.

"What is it, then?"

"You want me to say I'm sorry 'cause I said that to you the other day, and I am sorry. Mamma said it was saucy. But I didn't mean to be saucy. I didn't know how to help it, you asked me so much."

"You need not be sorry, Bessie. I deserved it, and it was not that I was going to speak about. I wanted to ask you to forgive me for being so unkind to you. Will you?"

"Oh, yes, ma'am! I did forgave you that day, and mamma told me something which made me very sorry for you."

"What was it? Would she like you to repeat it?"

"I guess she wont care. She said your father and mother died when you were a little baby, and you had a great deal of money, more than was good for you, and you had no one to tell you how to take care of it; so if you did things you ought not to, we ought to be sorry for you, and not talk much about them."

Miss Adams stood silent a moment, and then she said, slowly,--

"Yes, if my mother had lived, Bessie, I might have been different. I suppose I do many things I should not do if I had a mother to care about it; but there is no one to care, and I don't know why I should myself. I may as well take my fun."

"Miss Adams," said Bessie, "hasn't your mother gone to heaven?"

"Yes, I suppose so," said the young lady, looking a little startled,--"yes, I am sure of it. They say she was a good woman."

"Then don't she care up there?"

"I don't know. They say heaven is a happy place. I should not think my mother could be very happy even there, if she cared about me and saw me now."

"Do you mean she wouldn't like to see you do those things you say you ought not to do?"

"Yes."

"Then why don't you do things that will make her happy? I would try to, if my mother went to heaven."

"What would you do?"

"I don't know," said Bessie.

"I suppose you would not pull little girls' hair, or tease them, or behave like a kitchen lady."

"Please don't speak of that any more," said Bessie, coloring.

"And your mother thinks I have too much money; does she? Well, I do not know but I have, if having more than I know what to do with is having too much."

"Why don't you give some away?" Bessie asked.

"I do, and then am scolded for it. I drove down the other day to take some to those shipwrecked people, and the next day Mr. Howard came to me with his long face and told me I had done more harm than good; for some of them had been drinking with the money I gave them, and had a fight and no end of trouble. That is always the way. I am tired of myself, of my money, and everything else."

Bessie did not know what to make of this odd young lady, who was talking in such a strange way to her, but she could not help feeling sorry for her as she stood leaning on the wall with a tired, disappointed look on her face, and said these words in a troubled voice.

"Miss Adams," she said, "why don't you ask our Father in heaven to give you some one to take care of you and your money, and to make you--" Bessie stopped short.

"Well," said Miss Adams, smiling, "to make me what?"

"I am afraid you would not like me to say it," said Bessie, fidgeting on her hard seat. "I think I had better go to nurse."

"You shall go, but I would like to hear what you were going to say. To make me what?"

"To make you behave yourself," said Bessie, gravely, not quite sure she was doing right to say it.

But Miss Adams laughed outright, then looked grave again.

"There are plenty of people would like to take care of my money, Bessie, and there are some people who try, or think they try, to make me behave myself; but not because they care for me, only because they are shocked by the things I do. So I try to shock them more than ever."

Bessie was sure this was not right, but she did not like to tell Miss Adams so.

"But I am sorry I shocked you, Bessie, and made you think me no lady. Now tell me that you forgive me, and shake hands with me. I am going away to-morrow, and may never see you again."

Bessie put her little hand in Miss Adams', and lifted up her face to her.

"I'll kiss you now," she said, "and I'm sorry I wouldn't that day."

The young lady looked pleased, and stooping, she kissed her two or three times, then took her hand to lead her back to nurse. Nurse was just rising from her seat and looking anxiously up at the sky.

"There's a cloud coming over the sun," she said; "I'm afraid it is going to rain."