Part 8

In less time than it would have been thought possible, the colonel had been helped out, and was within the room. Bessie almost sprang out of the policeman's arms, and clung about the colonel's neck, while he, dropping one crutch, steadied himself on the other, and held her fast with the arm that was free. It was touching to see, as, half laughing, half crying, she poured out broken words of love and joy, now covering his face with kisses, now burying her own on his shoulder, then lifting it again to lay her soft cheek to his and pat it with her tiny hand. Colonel Rush was almost as much overjoyed as she, but he was in haste to carry the recovered treasure to her anxious mother. Nor was Bessie in less haste to be at home; but for all that, she did not forget to speak her thanks to those who had been kind to her, going from one to another, and shaking hands with them in her own polite little way. The sergeant carried her out and put her in the carriage.

"Good-by," she said, giving him her hand, "I am very much obliged to you for letting me come in your nice station-house, and for speaking so kind to me."

"Bless your heart," said the man, "if it wasn't for your own sake, I'd be sorry enough to part with you. Now don't you go and lose yourself again."

"I did not lose myself," said Bessie; "I just came lost, I did not mean to do it."

"I don't believe you did," said the man; "good-by to you."

Then the colonel put something into his hand, and they drove home as fast as possible. Oh, what joy there was over the little darling who had been so long away! Mamma held her fast and cried over her; it seemed as if she could never let her go out of her arms again; Maggie jumped about and clapped her hands, and kissed Bessie's face, hands, dress, and even her feet; Franky did as he saw Maggie do, saying, "Bessie tome, all nice now." Grandmamma, Aunt Annie, and Mrs. Rush were quite as much rejoiced, and the very servants had to take part in the welcome. Even the new cook, whom the children scarcely knew, had to come in for a peep at the dear little cause of all this excitement. Then papa, who had been sent for, that he might help in the search for his lost daughter, came home to find the sorrowing changed into rejoicing, and Bessie running to the front-door to meet him, saying,--

"I am quite found papa. I asked our Father to let you find me, and he sent the colonel instead, but that was just as good when he brought me home; wasn't it?"

"Quite as good, perhaps even better, darling, since dear mamma was spared another hour of anxiety, and you one of waiting. Our heavenly Father often does better for us than we ask, although we may not always know it."

"And you don't think I was naughty; do you, papa? Mamma does not."

"I must hear the story first; but now let me thank our good, kind colonel, who has put himself to some trouble I am sure, to find you."

When Mr. Bradford had heard Bessie's story, which she told in her own straightforward way, he satisfied her by saying that he did not think her in the least naughty, since he was sure she had not meant to disobey. He would not consent that grandmamma and Aunt Annie, and Colonel and Mrs. Rush should go home to dinner; they must all stay and have a great jubilee over the happy ending to Bessie's adventures. And oh, such a pleasure! The children were allowed to take dinner with the grown people, a treat which was only granted on great occasions.

"It's just like the man in the Bible, who lost his sheep and found it, and called all his friends to come and be glad, and have a nice time with him," said Maggie, "only we're a great deal more glad than that man, because our Bessie is a great deal better than the sheep, and we don't have ninety and nine, either."

"No," said papa, "we have only one Bessie and one Maggie, and a very good Maggie and Bessie they are of their kind. I would not change them for any others that could be offered to me. How is the ear, Maggie?"

"Oh, it's 'most well, papa. When I felt so bad about Bessie, I forgot about it, and when I was so glad, the pain just went away before I knew it."

"So the greater trouble cured the lesser, eh?"

"But, papa," said Bessie, "we have a great, great trouble with all our happiness. You know Flossy is quite lost, and we'll never have him to play with again."

"I am not sure about that," said Mr. Bradford; "I shall go to-morrow and see what I can do to find him. Still I have not much hope, and you must not think too much about it."

"You mean you will do all you can, papa," said Bessie, sorrowfully, "but probaly we will never see our dear Flossy again."

"Never mind, Bessie," said Maggie, tenderly; "it is not very much matter if we don't. We have you back again, so we've no reason to complain."

Dear, generous-hearted little Maggie! She would not say how badly she felt about Flossy, lest Bessie should think she blamed her for his loss, but it was a great trial to her, as her father knew. She was more fond of him than Bessie was, and Flossy cared more for her than he did for any one else. Never were two merrier playfellows, and their droll antics and frolics were a source of great amusement to the whole family. And now he was gone, perhaps never to come back; and Maggie's little heart was very sore, though she said nothing of her grief. Thoughtless she often was, but never where Bessie was concerned; she never forgot her little sister's happiness or comfort, and would bear anything herself if so she might keep harm or trouble from Bessie. Her father knew this, and why she spoke as if she did not care much about Flossy, and he loved her the better for it, for he saw that it was hard work for her to keep back the tears. He put his arm about her, and kissed her tenderly, as he began to talk of other things.

Quite late that night, when Mrs. Bradford went up-stairs, she heard a low sobbing from the room opening out of her own, where Maggie and Bessie slept, each in her own pretty little bed.

"What is it, my darling?" she asked, going in. "Is your ear feeling badly again?"

"Not so very, mamma," said Maggie, "but--please put your head down close, mamma, so Bessie wont wake up--I do feel so very, very badly about Flossy. If I knew somebody had him who would be kind to him, I think I could try to bear it, but I know they will hurt him and tease him, and he'll have such a hard time. I know he'll be homesick, too--oh, dear--and I can't go to sleep, 'cause I think so much about him, and I don't want Bessie to know it."

Mamma sat down on the bed and comforted Maggie, and then, holding her hand, began to tell her a story which she took care not to make too interesting, until presently the little hand which held her own loosened its grasp, and Maggie's regular breathing showed that she had forgotten her trouble.

All this made Mr. Bradford resolve that he would spare no pains to recover Flossy, and the next morning he went to the police-station, and asking the name and beat of the man who had brought in his little daughter, went in search of him. He was soon found, and told where he had met Bessie; but he had been able to learn nothing of the lost dog. Mr. Bradford inquired all about the neighborhood in vain; the boys whom he met either could not or would not answer his questions. He offered a reward to whoever could tell anything that would lead to the recovery of the dog, and when he went down town, put an advertisement in the papers saying the same thing.

But three days passed, and still no word came of Flossy. On the fourth morning, the family were all at breakfast, when Patrick, who was passing through the hall, heard a scratching and whining at the front-door. He hurried to open it, and Flossy rushed in, ran through the hall into the breakfast-room, and before any one had recovered from their first surprise, scrambled into Maggie's lap, buried his face under her arm, and lay trembling and whimpering with joy. Poor little fellow! he was in a sad state. His glossy silken coat was all matted and dirty; he looked thin and half-starved; his pretty red collar, with its brass lettering, was gone, and around his neck the hair was rubbed off, as if it had been worn by a rope, and his mouth was cut and bleeding. Papa said he thought he had been tied up, and in his struggles to free himself, had worn the hair from his neck, and cut his mouth with gnawing at the rope.

The children cried and laughed over him by turns, hugged and kissed him, and although it was against mamma's rules to feed him in the dining-room, begged that they might do it for this once. Permission was given, and then they wanted to stuff him with everything that was on the table; but mamma said they must be careful, or he would be sick, so a saucer of warm bread and milk was brought and put on the hearth, and glad enough the poor puppy was to have it. But he would not eat unless Maggie's hand was on him, and every now and then he would stop to look up in her face with a low whine, as if he wanted to tell her his pitiful story. Afterwards he was well washed, and then, wrapped in his blanket, went to sleep in Maggie's lap. He woke up quite refreshed, but for a day or two, did not care to play much, content to lie most of the time in Maggie's or Bessie's arms, or curled up in a ball in some comfortable corner. But after this long rest, and several good meals, to say nothing of a great amount of petting, he began to bark and act like himself, and was once more the bright, merry, affectionate plaything he had been before.

Where he had been, or how he had escaped from those who had treated him so cruelly, was never known, but every one thought it quite wonderful that so young a dog, and one who had been such a short time in the house, could have found his way home alone.

XI.

_NEW PLANS._

THINGS went very smoothly and pleasantly after this for several weeks. Maggie finished the whole number of towels, and she had taken so much pains, and they were so well done for a little girl of seven, that mamma said she thought she must give her six cents apiece instead of five. Bessie's small patient fingers were learning to do nicely, too, and Mrs. Bradford said she should soon have two neat young seamstresses. There were now more than four dollars in the box. They had each had one new pair of gloves bought for them, and it was not likely, if these were not lost, that more would be wanted before New Year. Maggie had improved surprisingly in the matter of boot-laces, and now did not wear them out much faster than Bessie, who did not put on her own shoes. Growing daily more careful in this one thing, she became so in others. Fewer buttons and strings were dragged from her clothes, her aprons and dresses were not so soon soiled, and her hat, instead of being tossed down in any spot where she happened to be when she took it off, was always carried to the nursery and given to Jane, that she might put it away.

Quite often the children had small presents of money. Grandmamma Duncan or Uncle John, papa or grandpapa, would give them a new five or ten cent piece,--once Uncle John had given them each twenty-five,--but they never spent it for their own pleasure. As soon as they received any such little gift, away they ran for the library-box, and popped the money in. One day Maggie found ten cents in the street, and came rushing in to her mother's room with it.

"See here, mamma," she said, "what I have found! It was lying right down by our stoop, and there was no one near it, and I don't know whose it is."

"Well, if you do not find the owner, we may think you have a right to it, I suppose," said Mrs. Bradford.

"But, mamma, ought we not to put it in the paper first, and see if any one comes for it?"

"No, dear, that would not be worth while for such a small sum."

"But, mamma, when papa found that pocket-book with money in it, he put a piece in the paper, so the person who lost it would know where it was."

"There were more than a hundred dollars in that pocket-book, Maggie. It was only right that papa should let the owner know where it was to be found. But ten cents is a very small sum, and if he put half a dozen advertisements in the paper, it is not at all likely that any person would come for it."

"And no one came for the money in the pocket-book," said Maggie, "though papa kept it a great while. But, mamma, he said it did not belong to him; and since he could find no owner, he should think it belonged to the Lord. So he gave it to the Sunday-school. Well now, if I do not know who lost this ten cents, do you not think it belongs to the Lord, and I ought to return it to him?"

"Perhaps you ought, my darling," said Mrs. Bradford, well pleased to find her little girl so strictly honest, and so unwilling to keep that which she could not quite surely feel was her own. "Suppose you put it with your library money?"

"Would that be quite fair, mamma? Would it be giving to the Lord that which belonged to him to put it with that money which we are to earn?"

"Quite fair and right, I think, dearest. That money you have certainly devoted to the Lord's work; and you may put this with it with a clear conscience."

So the ten cents were added to the sum in the box, which, in one way and another, was fast growing to the desired amount.

Each Sunday Maggie and Bessie went over to the hotel to Mrs. Rush's class. Not one had they missed, for they counted so much upon it that their mother could not bear to keep them at home, even in bad weather. Two or three Sabbaths had been very rainy, but papa had wrapped Bessie in mamma's water-proof cloak, and carried her over to the hotel, while Maggie, in her own cloak and high india-rubber boots, trotted along by his side holding the large parasol, which made a capital umbrella for the small figure beneath it. Two bright little faces they were which peeped forth from the hoods of these water-proofs when they appeared in Mrs. Rush's parlor, and dearly did she and the colonel love to see them. Then the wrappings were pulled off, and there were the two darlings as warm and dry as if they had never stirred from their own nursery fire.

Mrs. Rush still did all the teaching herself, but since that first Sunday, she had quite given up the office of story-teller to her husband. She never could invent such stories as he did, she said, and since he had begun with it, he had better go on! So each Sunday he had one ready for them, and when the lessons were over, teacher and scholars were alike eager to listen. He had to repeat "Benito" more than once, so fond were they all of it, and the children, especially Bessie, would stop him if he told it in any way different from that in which they had first heard it, and tell him he was wrong. They remembered it, he said, better than he did.

Maggie and Bessie were very busy just now. Christmas was drawing near, and they were each working a book-mark which were to be presented to Colonel and Mrs. Rush. Bessie's was for "her soldier," and Maggie's for his wife. Aunt Annie had promised to show them how they were to be worked, and one afternoon took them out to buy the materials. They came home each with a piece of cardboard, a skein of silk, and half a yard of ribbon; and no lady who had spent hundreds of dollars that day took half the pleasure in her shopping that our little girls did in theirs.

Aunt Annie had offered to give them what they needed from her stock of pretty things. But no, they must buy all with their own money, or it would not be quite their own presents. As soon as their walking dresses were taken off, Aunt Annie was coaxed to show them at once how the book-marks were to be made. She told them they must first decide what mottoes they would work, and proposed several. Maggie chose, "Remember me;" and Bessie, "I love you, Sir." Annie said it was not the fashion to put "Sir" on a book-mark; but Bessie thought it would not be at all the thing for little girls to give "unpolite presents."

"We ought to make our book-marks just as proper as our own speaking," she insisted.

Maggie was a little doubtful; but at last she said she would do as Bessie did, since it was "better to be too polite than not polite enough." So Aunt Annie let them have their way, and greatly to her own amusement, cut the card long enough for "I love you, Sir," and "Remember me, ma'am." They did not think it any the less their own work that their aunt put the points of the needles into the holes where they were to go. Did they not pull them through with their own fingers and draw the silk to its proper place? Of course, it was their own work; Aunt Annie would not have said it was hers on any account. After two or three letters were made, Maggie learned to find the right hole for herself with a good deal of direction.

Before bed-time that night, Maggie had worked "Remem," and Bessie, "I lo;" and they looked at what they had done with great satisfaction. Besides these book-marks, they were each to work one for papa or mamma, so that they had enough to keep them busy until Christmas.

Meanwhile the picture which Aunt Helen was painting was nearly finished. She had never allowed Maggie to see it, which the little girl thought very strange; but she had kept the secret well. Sometimes they went to Riverside, and sometimes Aunt Helen came to grandmamma's house, when they would be sent for; and if mamma was not there, their aunt would paint very industriously. Bessie wondered why she would not let them see what she was painting, and why Maggie should always be so full of glee at such times, and shake her head so very wisely. But after she had been once told that it was a secret, she asked no more questions.

On the morning after the book-marks were commenced, Mrs. Bradford, who was not very well, was lying on the sofa, while her little daughters were playing quietly on the other side of the room, and she heard them talking together.

"Bessie," said Maggie, "I am so glad that I have all my towels done, so I can have leisure to make my Christmas presents."

"What does leisure mean?" asked Bessie.

"It means not to be busy."

"Oh, I am glad, too, Maggie! You was very industrious, and had a great deal of per-se-were."

"Ance," said Maggie.

"Ance what, Maggie?"

"Per-se-ve-rance. That's what you must say," said Maggie.

"No. This morning Fred was mad 'cause he couldn't do his sum, and be asked papa to help him, and papa said he must persewere, and he could do it himself."

"Yes, I know it," said Maggie; "but it is persevere to do it, and perseverance to have it."

Bessie did not quite understand, but she thought it must be right, since Maggie said so.

"We'll ask mamma about it when she feels better," said Maggie. "Isn't she good to us, Bessie, to help us so much to get our library?"

"Yes," said Bessie, "she's such a precious mamma. I do think every one is so kind to us, Maggie."

"Yes," said Maggie, "when I think about my friends, I feel as if I could not say 'God bless them' enough."

"Yes," said Bessie, thoughtfully; "and when everybody is so good to us, and Our Father is so good to us, and we have such pleasant times, I suppose we ought to be the best children that ever lived."

"But we're not," said Maggie; "least, I'm not. I think you are almost as good as any one that ever lived, Bessie."

"No, I'm not, Maggie. Sometimes I feel very naughty, and just like being in a passion, and I have to ask Jesus very much to help me."

"It's a great deal better to feel naughty, and not be naughty, than to feel naughty, and be naughty, too, Bessie. Anyhow, you're just good enough for me."

"But we ought to be good enough for Jesus," said Bessie. "I wish I was as good as that boy named Nathan Something, that Harry yead to us about on Sunday."

"Oh, yes," said Maggie, "it's all very well to read about these wonderful children, but when one comes to do it, it's a different thing. I don't believe that any one could be so good as never to do or to think a wrong thing. But, Bessie, you know, I will be quite sorry when mamma don't give us glove-money any more. I think this plan has been of service to me in my carelessness. Don't you think I'm pretty tol-able now?"

"Not pretty," said Bessie; "I think you are very tol'able now. Why, Maggie, don't you know papa said he could trust you to take a message or do an errand now as soon as any of his children?"

"Yes, and it was very nice to hear him say that, Bessie. I didn't mind for all the trouble I took to be careful, when he said it. When we have our glove-money, it will make more than six dollars in our box, if mamma don't have to spend any of it for us. We only want five for the library, so what shall we do with the rest of it, Bessie. Mamma said we must only spend that money in doing good."

"Perhaps mamma will tell us something," said Bessie.

"But I'd like to think of something ourselves, and I did think of a nice thing, Bessie, if you would like to do it."

"I guess I would. Tell me, Maggie."

"Yesterday, when Mary Bent came here, she had on only a thin little cape, that did not keep her warm at all, and she looked so cold, nurse asked her if that was the warmest thing she had, and she said yes. So nurse brought an old piece of flannel, and basted it all inside the cape to make it warmer; but she said the child ought to have a thick cloak or shawl, and if mamma was home, she knew she would do something for her. Mary said her mother had a warm shawl, but when the weather was cold, they had to keep it to put over Jemmy, 'cause he shivered so if he was not covered up warm. I felt so sorry for her, and last night, I thought maybe we could take the rest of our money and buy her a warm thing to wear. Would you like that, dear Bessie?"

"'Deed, I would," said Bessie. "You do make such nice plans, Maggie. If we can do it, I shall just tell Mary you made it up. I don't believe anybody has such a smart Maggie as I have."

Maggie kissed her sister, for dearly as she loved praise, none was sweeter to her than that which Bessie was always so ready to give.

"I'm afraid we wont have enough to buy anything _very_ warm," she said, "'cause that would cost a good deal, and we have not time to earn any, we are so very busy."

"Yes," said Bessie, "we have our hands full; but we will ask mamma."

Later in the day they did ask her, and she said that, if they pleased, they might use what they did not need for the library for this purpose.

"But you will not have enough to buy a warm sack for Mary, such as she should have, my darlings," she said. "Nurse told me how poorly Mary was clothed for this cold weather, and I had intended, the next time I should go out, to buy some gray flannel, and let Jane make a sack thickly lined and quilted. This will cost more than you can spare."

"Well, mamma," said Bessie, "if you will wait till after Christmas, perhaps we might earn enough to buy a sack for Mary, and we would like to do it ourselves."

"But in the mean while, the poor child would be suffering with the cold," said Mrs Bradford. "Suppose I give Mary the cloak, and you buy for Jemmy a comfortable, so that he will not need his mother's shawl."

The children agreed, though they did not look very well satisfied, for they had set their hearts on giving the warm garment to Mary themselves. Suddenly Maggie looked up at her mother as if a bright thought had come into her mind, and said, eagerly,--

"Mamma, Mary said she used to wear her mother's shawl when Jemmy did not need it. Suppose you were to buy the comfortable, and then the shawl will be at liberty for Mary, and by and by, when we have enough, _we_ can buy the sack."